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2021-09-13
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2024-03-15
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Frying Pan to Fire

Summary:

Sansa escapes King's Landing during the bread riots but ends up captured and brought to Harrenhal where she is reunited with Arya. She catches the eye of first Ser Gregor then Lord Lannister. Through a misunderstanding, Tywin believes Sansa is a whore. To protect her real identity, she goes along with it. Show canon Arya/Tywin cupbearer relationship and lots of Arya being the younger but wilier sister helping Sansa to survive.

Status of the fic: the remainder of this fic is completely outlined and some of it has been written. I know where it's going. I know what needs to happen to get there. But is is a rather complicated plot (for me) so please bear with me.

Chapter 1: What’s your name, girl?

Notes:

I've aged up Sansa to be freshly turned 16 at the start of this fic which makes Arya 13. Tywin is his book canon age of mid fifties. So yah... underage tag still applies but hopefully this will make it more palatable for most people.

I had to play with the timeline a bit in that, in canon, the bread riots took place after Tywin departed Harrenhal (I think?) but in my fic they happen before he's even arrived there. Beyond that I've tried to stick with the timeline of events regarding the war in the Riverlands, the actions of the various players Robb, Stannis, and Renly, etc.

Anyway, thanks in advance to all who read / comment / kudos!

Chapter Text

Sansa

Sansa was certain the sound of screams would never leave her ears.

The screams of men.

The screams of women.

The screams of little boys.

The screams of little old ladies.

Funny how they all sounded alike when the Mountain’s Men plucked one from the enclosed portion of the muddy courtyard that was their makeshift prison. Only one each day, because these men knew that fear could be as motivating as pain.

One each day was sat on a stool, tied to a post, and had his or her chest shredded open by a rat trying to escape the heat at the bottom of the bucket that was pressed flush their chest. It was sickening how creative men could be in their depravity. Never before had Sansa realized how right the Hound had been – the world really was awful.

Each day when neither she nor Arya was chosen, she breathed a sigh of relief. She tried to feel sorry for the person who was chosen. And she did, truly. But her sympathy was overshadowed by the bone-deep relief that she and her sister would live to see another day.

Her little sister was perhaps the only reason Sansa was still alive. Upon being thrown in with the other prisoners at Harrenhal, the sisters recognized each other immediately. While Sansa had wanted to pull Arya into a hug, Arya had gathered up handfuls of mud while the guards weren’t looking and smeared it all over Sansa’s hair and face. Sansa hadn’t understood, and at first thought Arya was still angry about their fight at the Inn at the Crossroads, what felt like a lifetime ago, but Arya had scoffed at her and whispered, “How long do you think a pretty maiden will last with these men?”

Today’s victim was still warm when there was a commotion in the main courtyard of Harrenhal. The guards and servants were running around like frightened hens, scurrying to busy themselves with some task or another, or at least look busy.

The prisoners who were well enough to stand moved to the far side of their makeshift prison and struggled against one another to get a good look at whatever was going on. Arya was among them. Sansa stood back. She didn’t want to call attention to herself.

A few minutes later from the direction of the south gate came a procession of mounted men, one who sat a head and shoulders above all the other men.

The Mountain, Sansa thought with a shiver. He was perhaps the cruelest man in all of Westeros, not to mention the largest. He had burned his own baby brother, Sandor Clegane, when he was only a child, and rumor was his penchant for violence had only waxed since then.

A few of the guards hurried to meet him and motioned for him to join them near the prison. She couldn’t make out their voices but imagined they were relaying to him all the information they had extracted from their prisoners.

And that was a joke. These prisoners were farmers. They didn’t know anything about war. They didn’t have valuables hidden. They didn’t know about this Brotherhood without Banners. They probably didn’t even care which side won, so long as their lands remained unscathed (they didn’t).

The Mountain – Gregor Clegane – looked bored and irritable but listened, nonetheless. His eyes scanned over everything – all of this crumbling fortress he was supposedly responsible for holding under the Lannister banner.

His eyes landed on Sansa and she immediately froze in place, hoping he didn’t recognize her. Idiot! You were both at the Hand’s Tourney, he might remember you! Why didn’t you turn around or crouch down?!

His eyes moved off of her and for the second time today she let out a sigh of relief as her knees nearly buckled.

Of course, it had always been her and Arya’s plan that, should one of them be chosen for torture, they would tell their captors who they really were. The plan was not without risks, though. Most likely, the men would not believe them, and might even be extra cruel as punishment for their lie. Less likely, they would be believed and would be sent back to King’s Landing, where they would become hostages of the Crown. Their treatment might be relatively fair, or it might not be. If Joffrey was willing to have her beaten before, what would he do to her after her escape? The thought gave her shivers. And of course Arya would be treated even worse; Joffrey no doubt hated her because of the business with the wolves and the butcher’s son near the Inn at the Crossroads.

Even more importantly – regardless of how they were treated, their being returned to King’s Landing would be a crippling blow to Robb’s cause. The Lannisters could threaten to kill both of his sisters if he did not bend the knee. Then again, they had not done that before… was it because they only had one of the sisters? Or – and Sansa shivered to think of it – had they made such a threat, but Robb did not cede to their demands? Had he been willing to risk his sisters’ lives? She did recall Joffrey once taunting her that she was “worth even less than the Kingslayer”. Had there been an attempt to trade her for Ser Jaime and Robb declined?

Sansa was so lost in thought that she didn’t notice the gate had been unlatched until she saw the crowd of prisoners parting like a river around a rock. The Mountain was slicing through them at a frighteningly calm pace. What bravery and confidence must this man have to put himself in a cage with dozens of men and women who hated him?

Yet none so much as spit at him; they lowered their heads and stepped back in absolute submission, not even watching what Ser Gregor did.

He stopped in front of Sansa, and she was sure her heart would explode. She wondered if this was how the rat in the bucket felt, because right now if there was nothing but a boy’s scrawny chest cavity between her and freedom, she would claw through it, too.

He pinched her chin roughly, nothing like the oddly gentle touch of his younger brother. He forced her head to tilt up until their eyes were meeting. It was only now that she fully appreciated how tall he was. Her neck could not crane back any further. Her chin was level with his sternum, putting all of his head and shoulders above her.

“You’re a pretty one under all that muck, aren’t you?”

Her bottom lip trembled, and his eyes didn’t miss it.

“Need a pretty little maid to help with my bath,” he growled in a tone that was as amused as it was threatening.

Without warning he pulled her by the wrist, and he was so strong that her body didn’t bother resisting. He could drag her all the way to his chambers even if she dug her heels into the mud, and he wouldn’t even break a sweat.

But suddenly her wrist was dropped and Gregor had turned toward the crowd of prisoners, his fist reared back and pointed in the direction of someone who barely came up to his waist.

“No, don’t!” Sansa shrieked.

Gregor turned his head so slowly that Sansa had plenty of time to realize how stupid she was, but she couldn’t let Gregor hit Arya. He could kill her with one blow.

“What did you say?” he growled. Sansa swore every single person in Harrenhal, not to mention the mice in the haunted halls, became silent.

“I… apologies, my lord, but that is my brother Arnold. He didn’t mean to disrespect you, only to protect me. You see, our father made him swear to protect me and—”

“Shut the fuck up, girl. Don’t need to hear your whole fucking life story.”

“Right. Apologies,” she curtsied.

Gregor was appraising her, “Best remember your little brother is here, girl. You do everything I tell you, might be I’ll tell Polliver not to feed him to the rats.”

Sansa nodded meekly and was once again pulled along behind Ser Gregor. She mouthed “Behave!” at Arya as she walked past.

It wasn’t that she didn’t fear Ser Gregor and what he would do to her, but they’d been in the prison for a fortnight with no success in escaping. Perhaps if she did what Ser Gregor said, she’d be allowed some freedom to walk around the castle. Perhaps someone would get careless. Perhaps Sansa would be in a position to free the prisoners and herself.

It was a very small hope, but even that was better than the no hope they’d been living on.

“You’re even fucking filthier than me, and I’ve been fighting a war,” Gregor spoke as he sat heavily on a chair in his chambers.

“Apologies, my lord.”

“You ever take a man’s armor off, girl?”

She shook her head.

He snorted, “Of course you haven’t. Well you’re about to learn. Come get me out of this so you can scrub a moon’s worth of mud and shit and blood off of me.”

She swallowed and nodded and reached for what seemed like the logical place to start – his forearm. With trembling fingers she found the buckle and worked it loose while he watched her with a lazy smile on his face as if she were the court’s fool.

It seemed to take an eternity to remove it all, with some occasional guidance from her new master. She would have appreciated how much time and effort went into the process if she was capable of feeling anything other than abject terror.

Once he was down to his clothes, he disappeared into the hallway for a few moments. Then some small boys came scurrying in like busy chipmunks and began gathering all the pieces, presumably to take them somewhere they’d be cleaned and polished.

When they were gone Gregor pulled her by the wrist again to an adjoining antechamber where two steaming baths awaited them. One was larger than the other, but she still doubted it would accommodate Ser Gregor.

“Me first, girl. I need the warm water after being in the bloody saddle for days on end.”

She nodded, once again submitting to the relief that she would not be made to strip down and bathe in front of him. Yet.

He apparently had no shame in his body, for he divested of his tunic, breeches, and smallclothes, then turned to face her with a proud smile on his face. She quickly averted her eyes which garnered a loud chuckle, “Don’t think you’ll insult me, girl. You’ll see it sooner or later… Well, you’ll do more than see it.”

She heard the surface of the water break as he stepped into the larger tub, then a relieved groan when he sat down.

“Don’t just stand there, girl. Bring that soap and the ladle. Wash me down. Or should I bring your little brother up instead? At least the little shit had some initiative.”

Sansa nodded and did as told, kneeling beside the tub and using the wooden ladle to pour the hot water over Gregor’s shoulders while he slouched forward and sighed in relief. As the water sluiced away the dirt and dried blood, she was surprised to find very few bruises or wounds.

Everyone’s afraid of him… no man wants to face him in battle. Or perhaps they face him but never last long enough to do any damage.

She lathered the soap in a bit of rough linen after dropping it twice from her trembling fingers. Gregor found her fearful clumsiness quite amusing. “You’re as shy as a fucking maiden, girl.”

She didn’t respond – just proceeded in running the soapy cloth over his arms, even as she could feel his heavy gaze on her.

“Look at me,” he spoke curtly.

Her eyes responded to the command before her brain could even process it. His eyes were narrowed, “You are a fucking maiden, aren’t you?”

Sansa’s mouth went dry as she pondered her response. If she told him she was a maiden, would it make him want her more, knowing she had never been claimed by another man? Conversely, if she told him she was not a maiden, would he want her because he would assume she was experienced in the ways of the marriage bed? It seemed either choice could either inflame or diminish his lust. Taking a gamble that Ser Gregor was not like highborn lords who cared about things like maidenheads, she told the truth, “Y-yes… my lord.”

She knew it was the wrong answer when his face split into that ugly grin again. His wet fingers came up to stroke her lips. “Imagine my luck,” he chuckled, “I’ve won Lord Tywin’s favor, and I get to fuck a nice, tight virgin cunt.”

The whimper that sounded in her throat was not intentional, but luckily it didn’t anger him and only amused him more. He snorted, “Might have to savor you. Once that maidenhead’s gone, there’s no getting it back, is there?”

She shook her head, feeling a glimmer of hope. If he couldn’t take her maidenhead, it would buy her time to devise a plan to get herself and Arya out of here. She could endure his lecherous glares. She could endure the indignity of being made to bathe him. She could endure sleeping next to him. Even if he made her touch him with her hand, as Jeyne Poole had once seen a kitchen maid doing to one of Winterfell’s household guards, she could endure it. She was a wolf. The humiliation would not kill her, and she might just get to leave here with her virtue intact.

I can do this.

I am a wolf.

I can do this.

I am a Stark of Winterfell.

Just survive – that’s what Arya and I promised each other. We’ll do whatever we need to do to survive.

Once again her emotions must have been transparent to Gregor, for he laughed again, a harsh sound, empty of genuine warmth, reflecting only sadistic amusement, “Don’t get too excited, girl. There are other ways I can take you. Your pretty little mouth. Your tight little arse.”

Sansa’s mouth dropped open. Jeyne had also hinted about women using their mouths to pleasure men, but… but an arse?! Is that even possible?!

Gregor’s head dropped back over the ledge of the tub and he laughed again. He laughed so loudly she was certain it could be heard for leagues around, echoing off stone walls in every direction. Arya was probably listening to it and pacing like a caged wolf. Which, at the moment, is precisely what she is.

Sansa could barely remember completing the rest of her task. Her eyes became unfocused and her movements mechanical as she washed Ser Gregor from head to toe. He made sure she didn’t miss a single spot. She washed his gigantic feet. She washed his gigantic manhood and bollocks, even the crack between his buttocks. It was the most degrading thing she’d ever done. She was a daughter of the Warden of the North! She had the blood of the Kings of Winter in her veins! She was beautiful and refined enough to have been betrothed to the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, yet Ser Gregor was making her kneel on the hardwood floor and wash his backside! Even the king didn’t have the right to demand this of his maids, yet this up jumped knight thought he was entitled to such treatment?!

When every disgusting inch of his oversized body was clean, she slapped the wet cloth in the water and stood to walk away, but he grabbed her by the wrist then wrapped his hand around the back of her neck. He pulled her face so close to his that all she could see were his eyes and the bridge of his nose, “Watch yourself, girl,” he growled between gritted teeth, “I like a little fire in my women… but don’t forget who you belong to.”

I don’t belong to youThe words were on the tip of her tongue, begging to be released through the lips she kept pursed as a matter of self-preservation. Her tongue was the rat, the back of her throat was the torch held to the bottom of the bucket. Her lips were the flesh and bone that needed to be ripped apart in order to secure an escape.

Only she knew in this case there was no escape for the rat. She ground her teeth together and nodded. Gregor released her so roughly she fell back on her rump.

He stepped out of the tub and grabbed a drying sheet, running it over his head as he walked toward the bedchamber, the water on his massive muscles catching the afternoon sun. “Wash the stink off yourself.”

She watched through the doorway as he made the barest effort at drying his skin before plopping face first in the large bed that, apparently, she would be made to share with him.

The bathwater was as cold as an autumn rain by the time she forced herself to get out and face whatever may come next.

To her horror, a lad she assumed to be Ser Gregor’s squire had come into the antechamber moments after she’d sunk into the water. He mumbled a halfhearted apology for the intrusion, retrieved her and Gregor’s dirty clothing from the floor, and left. She heard him doing something in the bedchamber briefly, though not loud enough to awaken Gregor who continued to snore away in the large bed.

With nothing to wear but the drying sheet, Sansa tied it above her breasts and quietly sat before the fire, praying that Gregor would sleep through the night and awaken the next morning with duties to attend to that would keep him away from her.

Only as she sat, a new terror arose in her. Now that weeks’ worth of dirt was washed out of her hair and off her skin, might Ser Gregor recognize her as Sansa Stark? It would prevent him from abusing her maiden body, certainly, but would it lead to her being shipped back to the Red Keep where Joffrey would treat her even worse than he had before, because now she was not just a traitor, but also an escapee?

If there was one hope to cling to, it was that no one knew for certain that she was alive. She had fled during the King’s Landing riots, when chaos distracted Joffrey, his family, and all his guards. It was quite possible that the Lannisters assumed she was killed by the riotous smallfolk. As stupid as they thought she was, they’d find it easier to believe she got herself killed than that she’d managed to escape and survive on her own.

Truly, she didn’t believe it either. At first, she’d just been running for her life, trying to escape the angry mob. She had ducked into an abandoned rowhouse – or what she thought was abandoned. Instead she found a young mother nursing an infant, blinking at Sansa as Sansa blinked at her.

For the first time in her life, and only because desperation inspired her, she wove a convincing yarn. She was a lady of court trying to escape her abusive husband, a lower lord from the Stormlands. She took advantage of the riots to slip from her husband’s clutches. She asked the woman to give her a plain frock and in exchange she could keep Sansa’s fancy silk gown. She could sell the dress or deconstruct it and sell the components. The pearl beadwork alone would fetch a very nice price, as would the silk panels.

And desperation served her well two ways that day. The woman nodded and briefly explained that her own husband had left to fight in the war, and the Crown wasn’t sending his wages to her. The woman spit on her dusty floor, cursed the “bastard king”, and emerged from another room with a plain brown rough spun frock and tattered cloak with hood. In the end she thanked Sansa, saying the pearls and silk would feed her for six moons. She handed Sansa a small knife, one used to peel carrots or dice potatoes, and suggested that if any of the rioters caught her, she use the knife on her own throat.

By the grace of the Seven, or perhaps her father’s Old Gods, Sansa made her way back to the docks unmolested by the rioters and unnoticed by the City Watch. Certainly no one was expecting Lady Sansa Stark to already be shrouded in rags. She had never booked passage on a ship, but she stood and watched for one that was being loaded rather than unloaded. Only one fit the bill, so she approached cautiously and asked one of the laborers where she could find the captain. Without casting a glance her way, the man pointed toward an older man with a large belly and pointed beard. The man was bellowing out drunken orders that none of his men seemed to be heeding. She summoned her courage and approached.

“Excuse me, captain. I’d like to procure passage on your ship.”

The man looked at her with unfocused eyes, “You didn’t ask where it’s going.”

“Well… where is it going?”

“Maidenpool.”

Maidenpool… the Riverlands… Tully territory!

“Please, my lord, might I procure passage?”

“That depends… how much coin have you got?”

“I have no coin, but I have this…” she held out the amethyst bracelet that Joffrey had gifted her. It was one of the few fine things she owned anymore. He only gave it to her to wear today as they saw Myrcella off at the docks. Apparently, Joffrey thought it was a good idea to flaunt his affluence in front of the smallfolk, and since Sansa was merely an extension of him, that meant draping her in fine silks and jewels.

She hoped the captain would say it was enough. The matching ring and necklace were tucked into her bodice, but she would need them to barter for food and transportation from Maidenpool to Riverrun, as had been her quickly devised plan.

The captain eyed the bracelet skeptically. She tried not to sound nervous, “They are real amethysts, I assure you.”

“And how would a peasant like you come to have such finery?”

She blushed, not having expected this question, and not having a ready answer.

The older man grinned, “Stole it off one of the ladies during the riot, did ya? Think it’s your ticket out of this city, do ya?”

She shrugged, “Yes?”

The man laughed, “Alright, lass. Truth be told it’ll more than cover your fare. Enough to buy you a nice fancy cabin…”

Sansa smiled.

“…if this were a passenger vessel. We’re a merchant vessel, but I’ll give you a crewman’s cabin. Since it’s a short voyage, I don’t have a full crew.”

Sansa had breathed a sigh of relief. It all seemed so easy she wondered why she hadn’t tried to escape months ago. Then again, this was the first time she’d been outside the Red Keep in months…

While on the ship she did something that made her cry, which made her feel like a stupid child. She used the paring knife to crop her hair. Only ladies who had servants to wash and brush their hair would grow it to their waist. Sansa thought to crop it to her shoulders but in the end, she cut it two finger widths below her collar bone. She told herself it was so that she could easily tie it back, but she knew it was vanity. She really was a stupid little bird.

The sense of relief she felt getting out of the city lasted only until she stepped off the ship at Maidenpool and began making her way inland. She had no idea who was friend or foe in these parts. Allegiances seemed flimsy in the Riverlands, from the little she had heard in passing from gossipy courtiers.

She made it two days before being captured by a group of men in mismatched armor, bearing no sigil. She was not alone. It seemed they were rounding up men, women, and children – though for what purpose she did not know.

They were brought to a castle so large and ruined that it could only be Harrenhal. Lannister banners waved proudly, and she realized she might as well not have fled at all.

Only there were no Lannister men in their rich crimson and gold to be found.

She and the other captives were thrown into the makeshift prison, and that’s when she saw Arya. She almost didn’t recognize her with her close-cropped hair and boy’s clothing. She smiled at her little sister, though knew better than to call out her name.

And Arya greeted her by slapping mud on her face and combing it through her hair.

Now, as Sansa sat by the fire in Ser Gregor’s room, watching the light reflecting off of her copper tresses, she realized Arya hadn’t been just making her look undesirable, she had been covering up her Tully red hair.

But there was no more disguise. No mud-stained hair. No peasant’s frock. All that was left was Sansa Stark, and the slim hope that Gregor would not recognize her from the Hand’s Tourney.

It crossed her mind, then, to try to leave this room. Only with nothing but a white drying sheet, she would stick out like a sore thumb. She wouldn’t make it down the stairs, much less out of the keep. And it might be worth the attempt if she didn’t know that Gregor was not the type of man who took defiance lightly.

So she would bide her time, cross each bridge as she came to it, and endure whatever he would inflict upon her until the time was right to make an escape. She took deep breaths to steel herself.

I am a wolf.

I am a Stark of Winterfell.

She repeated these affirmations inside her head for so long that the sun began to set.

Gregor was still snoring, and she wondered if indeed he would sleep the whole night through.

Some hours later a knock on the door startled her so much she gasped. Gregor was out of the bed in a flash, passing her not a glance as he shouted for whoever it was to hold on a bloody buggering moment. He rifled through a saddlebag and retrieved a pair of trousers, pulling them on hastily and lacing them as he walked toward the door and yanked it open.

“I told you I was not to be disturbed.”

A shaky young voice responded, “Apologies, m’lord, but Lord Tywin Lannister has arrived.”

No!

“Fucking hells; he was supposed to arrive three days hence!”

“I understand, my lord. He is early.”

“No shit, you dumb cunt. See him to a fucking dining hall and tell him I’ll be there shortly.”

“He… eh… ehm… after speaking to some of our men in the courtyard, he asked to be taken to the Lord’s Chambers immediately. Meaning these chambers. I ran ahead, my lord, so—”

“Fuck…” Gregor mumbled something inaudible over the sound of the door slamming shut. He ignored Sansa once again as he pulled on a tunic, then socks and boots not a moment too soon, as once again someone knocked. The same trembly voice announced Lord Tywin Lannister.

Sansa had never met the Lannister patriarch, but that gave her little comfort as she sat all but forgotten in what were Ser Gregor’s – or perhaps now Lord Tywin’s – chambers.

The door swung open and in strode a man bedecked in red and gold armor, a silk sash draped over one shoulder. His eyes took in Gregor without a hint of fear, flicked to Sansa, widened briefly, then flicked back to Gregor, “Ser Gregor… were you not informed of my impending arrival?”

“I was, Lord Lannister. Only I expected you in a few days’ time.”

Tywin Lannister cocked an eyebrow and looked back to Sansa for a fleeting moment, “Clearly. Well I’m here now and I’m ready to retire. Tomorrow we will break our fasts together so you can update me on the situation here and so I can inform you of your next assignment.”

Gregor groaned, “I’m being dispatched again? I only arrived today. My lord.”

“Then I suggest you get a good night’s sleep.”

Though she had no allegiance toward either man, Sansa’s heart was racing at the thought that the palpable tension would escalate to a physical fight, which she would have a front row seat to.

Gregor turned, picked up his saddle bag, and reached for Sansa’s arm.

“Leave the whore, Ser Gregor, unless you’ve ruined her beyond usefulness.”

He thinks I’m a whore?!

Gregor ground his teeth, “Didn’t even get a chance to touch her, my lord.”

“Pity,” Tywin Lannister spoke, though he clearly did not pity Ser Gregor his unfulfilled desires.

Sansa was once again ignored by her second new captor of the day. Tywin Lannister ordered a bath and a meal. Immediately, servants began draining the tub and scurrying about the antechamber, probably cleaning the floor that was covered in dirty footprints from her and Gregor’s shoes.

While the Great Lion poured and drank a cup of water, Sansa again pondered what this situation meant for her, and what her best course of action would be.

Lord Tywin didn’t recognize her – yet. And unlike Ser Gregor, Tywin Lannister had never seen Sansa Stark in the flesh, but he might know that she had red hair and blue eyes, which was distinct enough of a look to make him question Ser Gregor’s whore – but only if he knew Sansa Stark had fled from the capital.

He would either suspect her in that regard, or he wouldn’t. She could only be ready to use the lie she and Arya concocted and hope it stood up. If it didn’t, then she’d have to tell the truth and be shipped back to the capital.

In regards the threat to her person, she certainly felt safer in Lord Tywin’s hands than Gregor’s. Gregor had a reputation for personal brutality, including violence against his own family and his own wives. To her knowledge, Lord Tywin was only known for brutality against his enemies.

It horrified her that he thought she was a whore. He would expect certain services from her that she did not know how to render. However, presumably a whore would be given certain privileges that a prisoner plucked from the cage would not. When she wasn’t warming Lord Tywin’s bed, she would probably have free rein of the keep. She could study the gates and the guard posts. She could memorize the best route to get out of here and the number of men they would encounter along the way. If she was then able to free the prisoners, she could lead them along that route. The able-bodied male prisoners might outnumber the guards. The issue would be doing it without raising any alarms, but perhaps—

“Where are your clothes?”

Sansa snapped her head toward the Great Lion and suddenly her mouth was dry. She shook her head, and the man rolled his eyes.

Tywin was beginning to remove parts of his attire that he could handle unassisted. His sash, his sword belt, his gloves. He sat down and began unbuckling his greaves and his boots, then leaned back in his chair with a wince.

Courtesy is a lady’s armor. Her mother’s advice came back to her, though surely Catelyn Stark wasn’t referring to such a situation as this – was she?

Gain his favor. That was Sansa’s advice to herself. If she pleased him, he’d be less likely to treat her cruelly. If she defied him, he’d have all the more reason to suspect she wasn’t just some random prisoner or whore.

Sansa cleared her throat, “Shall I assist you, my lord?”

Tywin looked at her incredulously, “You know how to remove a suit of armor?”

She nodded, “A recently acquired skill, my lord.”

“Very well.” He stood up and Sansa approached him tentatively. She worked on his vambraces, pauldrons, breast plate, and other pieces she knew not the names of. It seemed he had worn a full set of armor here, and that surprised her. Was the Great Lion, the Warden of the West, really in the thick of the battle? Or did he wear this armor as something of a status symbol? Judging by the dents and nicks she found, she suspected it was the former.

It was when she was working on the gorget, trying to remember what Ser Gregor had told her, that she had to lift her arms. Her drying sheet fell away and she quickly crouched to pick it up before Lord Tywin could see her nude.

“Leave it,” he spoke, and while his voice was soft there was no mistaking it for a command.

Cheeks aflame she continued with his armor until every piece was placed carefully on the bureau or floor. She could feel the man staring at her, but she did not meet his eyes. She was mortified and terrified in equal measure.

“How old are you?”

In her present state his voice made her flinch. She shouldn’t be letting him see her trepidation, certainly a whore would have more gumption, but it couldn’t be helped.

She didn’t want to give him her real age – Sansa’s real age; the fewer dots she gave him to connect, the better. She thought to claim she was younger than her real age so he might not touch her, but she knew she looked older than she was. Claiming to be four and ten would not be believable. Sansa had turned six and ten during the voyage to Maidenpool.

She looked up at his surprisingly patient eyes, “Seven and ten, my lord.”

The Great Lion snorted, “So nine and ten, more like.”

Sansa’s eyes widened and the Great Lion seemed to take it as confirmation that he had caught her in a lie, “Do I strike you as a fool?” he asked with one eyebrow arched.

She shook her head.

“Right answer. Women always say they’re younger than they are, since most men like to pretend they’re with a maiden. Let me be clear: I’m not like most men. I don’t like to submit myself to delusions for the sake of bolstering my male pride. Do you understand?”

She didn’t, fully, but she nodded again.

“Good. Now what’s your name, girl?”

“Sarina,” she answered quickly but calmly. Good thing that was a question she had been prepared for.

He hummed then flicked his wrist, effectively dismissing her from his immediate presence. She picked up the sheet and tied it again over her breasts, then sat at one of the chairs. She had to remind herself to lean back. Whores didn’t have perfect posture, did they? Arya used to slouch at the table and Mother told her that only lowborn women slouch. (It hadn’t been the riveting motivation Arya needed.)

Tywin went back to ignoring her, rifling through a trunk that his servants had brought up while he was barking out orders for food and bath. He retrieved a corked inkwell, a wooden case she assumed held a quill, and several sheets of parchment.

There was a knock on the door. Tywin didn’t lift his head from where he set the items out on his desk, “Enter.”

Sansa almost gasped when Arya came in carrying a tray of food, and the feeling was apparently mutual.

“Wha—” Sansa started to speak, then clamped her mouth shut.

Arya was much better at staying in character. She ignored Sansa and placed the tray down on the small dining table.

“What’s your name, girl?” Tywin asked Arya, same as he’d asked Sansa, and – wait, did he say ‘girl’?!

“Lisbeth, my lord.”

Why did she let him know she’s a girl?!

“Lisbeth, go find clothing for my companion. At least two sets of undergarments and two dresses.”

“I thought I was to be your cupbearer, not a maid for your lady.”

No, Arya! What are you thinking?!

But Lord Tywin only glared at her with an eyebrow raised in amusement, “You will be whatever I need, you will do whatever I say. Or would you prefer I send you back to that muddy cage? Before you answer, keep in mind the guards may take more of an interest in you now that some of them know what’s between your legs… and what isn’t.”

He freed her from the prison because he knew she was a girl? But why would he care?

Arya did her best impression of a curtsy, all with a scowl on her face, and left.

“Eat your fill, Sarina.” Tywin spoke, once again without lifting his eyes from his continued effort to arrange his desk.

She glanced at the table and instantly the hunger that should have been bothering her all day was there, and with a vengeance for having been forgotten about. The guards were barely feeding the prisoners. They would toss food at them twice a day. If not for Gendry, Sansa and Arya might have starved. He was the strongest of the men in the prison, so he made sure whoever caught the bread, mealy apples, and shriveled carrots shared them. He rationed it fairly among the group, and though he was a large young man, he always gave a bit more to the growing children then he took for himself. That included Arya. Sansa sincerely hoped she herself was done growing. She was as tall as most men and her breasts already caught enough glances even though she did nothing to accentuate them, as some ladies of court used to do.

The meal spread out on the tray was fit for a lord during wartime, she supposed. Nothing fancy, but plenty of sustentive food: a browned steak of what was probably venison, three small, boiled potatoes, and two thick slices of brown bread, already buttered!

It was a good thing she was trying to convince him she wasn’t a lady, because she mauled the food, stabbing a potato with the fork and putting it whole into her mouth. Beneath the skin it was still hot, but she couldn’t bring herself to spit it out. While her teeth worked at the potato, she cut the venison steak into manageable bites. She washed the potato down with red wine, not even bothering to grimace at the bitter taste. Then she shoved pieces of steak into her mouth two at a time, wondering why she had bothered to cut them so small.

Buttered bread was one of her favorites, so she had saved that for last, only her tummy was suddenly aching. It felt like someone had stabbed her right in the gut.

She thought she might vomit and, as every turn of event today had done, wondered whether it would be good or bad for her. Perhaps Tywin would be disgusted and leave her alone for the night. Or perhaps he would be so disgusted that he would cast her out of his bedchamber, where the castle guards would either take her for themselves or toss her back into the prison. Ser Gregor would likely not have been thwarted by a bit of regurgitated food, but Tywin Lannister seemed like the type who just might be. So she used all her willpower not to gag, even as every inch of her skin began sweating.

She was so focused on not losing her meal that she didn’t notice the Great Lion approach until he snorted, “Ate too much, too fast. Have they been feeding you?”

The correct answer was ‘not much’ but she didn’t trust her mouth right now, so she shook her head slightly, afraid of attempting any more motion as she felt sweat rolling down her neck.

“Bloody fools,” Tywin walked to the window, and she wasn’t sure if he was speaking to himself or her, but she was glad for the words which gave her a distraction from the overwhelming need to retch. “Could have been repairing the defenses, making weapons, planting gardens… Instead they let perfectly capable young bodies wither away to uselessness.”

“Why feed bodies just to kill them?” she asked rhetorically now that deep breathing and time had settled her stomach somewhat.

"I'm sorry?" he turned to face her but remained near the window, hands clasped behind his back.

“They feed the prisoners just enough to not starve, so they can torture them for information. But they aren’t soldiers or even squires. They’re just farmers and peasants. They don’t know anything.”

Tywin snorted again, “Fools indeed.”

There was a knock on the door, and it was Arya once again. Her eyes went to Sansa but quickly settled on the remaining food on her plate, licking her lips at what she obviously saw as leftovers that the Lord wasn’t going to eat.

Tywin huffed, “Oh bloody hells, girl. Finish it then,” he flicked a wrist, “and bring me another meal… and some cheese or whatever the kitchen has, for later.”

Arya nodded and was already throwing a pile of clothing on a chair then shoving an entire piece of bread into her mouth. Sansa grabbed her wrist, “No, don’t! Uh… Lisbeth, was it? Eat slowly or you’ll get a dreadful belly ache.”

Arya rolled her eyes but thoroughly chewed the bread before swallowing.

Tywin huffed again, “Oh for Gods’ sakes! I didn’t mean finish it here! Do you think these are your chambers, girl?”

Arya shrugged, holding the sole remaining potato between her teeth like an apple. She picked up the tray and left without so much as a dip of her head in gratitude, which reminded Sansa that she, too, had forgotten her manners. 

Gain his favor.

“Thank you, my lord, for letting me eat your food. And for letting Lisbeth eat. And for the clothes.”

A boy peeked his head through the door that led into the antechamber, “Your bath is ready, m’lord.”

Tywin nodded at the boy who then scurried away. He glanced at Sansa, “A starving man is a dangerous man. Remember that, girl.”

He walked into the antechamber and Sansa followed, assuming he’d want her to bathe him as Gregor had. When he turned to close the door and she was behind him, he startled, “What are you doing?”

“Aren’t I to help you with your bath?”

He arched an eyebrow, “Do you find me so old and feeble that I cannot bathe myself?”

She felt her cheeks flush, “Not at all, my lord, but Ser Gregor—”

“Fuck whatever Ser Gregor told you. Do not assume he and I have anything in common. If I wanted your help, I’d have told you.”

She nodded.

He jerked his head toward the bed, “Go to sleep, Sarina.”

She nodded again and walked into the bedchamber, once again analyzing his words. Did he mean for her to literally go to sleep? Or was it a less crude way of telling her to get in the bed and wait for him to come claim her body?

He had told her not to assume he was like Ser Gregor, yet he himself had referred to her as a whore and had wanted to see her naked. This wasn’t helpful…

She also wondered whether to put on the smallclothes Arya had brought. If he meant to claim her, he would want her nude. But if he had literally meant for her to go to sleep, he wouldn’t blame her for donning undergarments, would he?

With a sigh she decided to take his command literally. He hadn’t told her to “dress and get in bed”. He had told her to “go to sleep”. So she wouldn’t dress, and she would (try to) go to sleep.

Chapter 2: Just Survive

Summary:

Arya teaches sex-ed.

Notes:

My heart grew three sizes reading all your lovely comments and seeing that kudos count inching toward 100 less than 48 hours after posting Chapter 1. You guys!!!!!!! :) Love to all of you for your support!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Sansa

Sansa hadn’t expected to fall asleep, or to sleep through the night, so she was quite surprised to wake and see the sky turning a pinkish gray outside.

She was also surprised to be alone in the bed. There was no sign of Lord Tywin other than an indentation in the pillow next to hers.

She quickly dressed, not wanting to be naked when he returned. He obviously had no need of her last night, so she felt certain her virtue would be safe at least until the sun went down tonight.

She waited until two hours past dawn to venture out of the room, thinking it might be suspicious if she was found creeping around very early. But as soon as she pulled the door open, she nearly leapt out of her skin in surprise.

“Ar—Are you trying to scare me to death, Lisbeth?”

Arya let out a deep breath and strolled into the room, “Thank the Gods.”

“What ever for?” Sansa spoke as she closed the door.

“They put me to work in the kitchens when I’m not waiting on the lion. I just heard that The Mountain and some of his men are preparing to ride out. I was afraid he was going to take you with him, but since you’re still here in the lion’s chambers…”

Sansa shook her head, “I think… well I don’t really understand, but I suppose Lord Tywin used his position to… claim me.” She lowered her voice to a whisper, “He thought I was Ser Gregor’s… whore.”

Arya’s eyes closed and she let a sigh out through her nose, “So… both of them, then?”

“What?”

“Both of them… you know… made you…”

“No! No, neither of them! Though I’m not fool enough to think Lord Tywin will leave me alone forever.”

“Has he asked you any questions?” Arya raised her eyebrows meaningfully.

“Nothing like that. Just my name and age. He thinks I’m nine and ten, so that’s promising…”

Arya sighed again, “Alright, well, here,” she held out a small earthenware jar with a wooden lid. “I was going to give you this to use with the Mountain, but I suppose you might need it with the lion,”

Sansa’s eyes went wide when she opened it and saw some type of murky liquid within, “Ar—Lisbeth, is this… poison?” she dared not speak a breath above a whisper.

Arya rolled her eyes, “No, stupid, where would I get poison? It’s some kind of oil they use in the kitchens.”

“So why are you giving it to me?”

“Yesterday I heard the kitchen maids talking about the poor wench claimed by the Mountain. They said they hoped the man would at least use oil on the poor lass.”

“I don’t understand…”

Arya rolled her eyes… again, “You put it between your legs before laying with a man, to make things go more smoothly.”

“What?! How would you know such a thing?!”

This time Arya didn’t roll her eyes but did let out a loud huff, “I’ve been traveling with a bunch of men who didn’t know I was a girl. Plus I heard the guards talk all the time. One of them complained about how the girl he’d been with the prior night never stopped shrieking. He said it wasn’t his fault her cunt was dry.”

Sansa couldn’t put into words the many ways her sister’s comment horrified her, so instead she focused on the implications of the situation they’d found themselves in.

“Lisbeth, I think we have bigger issues to worry over than… that!

Her little sister, still dressed in boy’s clothing, nodded, “Way ahead of you.” She lowered her voice until Sansa had to lean close to hear it, “I mean to scout the place, figure out the guard postings and schedules, but unfortunately they keep giving me jobs to do. Cooking, heating water, scrubbing pots and dishes… I guess it’s better than being cooped up in that cage all day, though.”

Sansa nodded, “Right. I think I’ll have more liberties to walk about. After all, Lord Lannister hasn’t said anything about giving me any chores around the keep. And he didn’t tell me to stay in this room, so…”

“Just be careful… you’re all clean and pretty again. If any of the men here has been in King’s Landing recently, they may recognize you. Even if they don’t recognize you, you might not be safe. I’ve been out of the cage less than a day and twice already I’ve seen one of the guards come to steal away one of the kitchen maids for a bit.”

“You mean to… have relations with them?

“No, to read them poetry. Gods, how have you survived this long?”

Old Sansa would have been mad at her sister’s implication that she was naïve. But new Sansa was just as surprised to have survived not just her time as the Crown’s hostage, but everything that happened since then – most notably bath time with Gregor Clegane and an entire night sleeping next to the Great Lion.

Sansa shook her head. She had no explanation to offer other than luck or the blessing of the Gods though she wouldn’t exactly describe her life the past year lucky or blessed.

“Right, well I can’t stay longer or else they’ll notice me missing. I’ll try to be the one who brings the meals here so we can share what we know. Shouldn’t be too hard; no one else likes climbing all these bloody stairs.”

“Wait – I thought you were to be Lord Tywin’s cupbearer?”

Arya shrugged, “I am, but he had no need of me this morning. I’m supposed to stay in or around the kitchens so a page can send for me if I’m needed.”

Sansa nodded, “Alright. Just be careful, please. And don’t do anything to anger the man.”

Arya shrugged, clearly not taking the warning to heart. But when she got to the door she stopped and turned, and Sansa could see something that strangely resembled pity in her eyes, “Just survive, Sarina. Just… don’t worry about anything else. We’ll figure something out.”

Her little sister was gone, and Sansa was glad for it. Sansa was supposed to be the older, smarter, stronger one, but apparently her ‘smarts’ were only good for times of peace, when ladies gathered around to swap stories and sing songs and blush over the mention of handsome young knights. When it came to the world both Stark sisters had been thrust into, Arya was much better suited.

 

Tywin

Tywin dismissed an obviously annoyed Ser Gregor. The man had never minded being sent anywhere with orders to kill, though Tywin supposed even animals like Gregor Clegane needed an occasional respite. Or it could have nothing to do with rest, and everything to do with not having a chance to fuck and maim the pretty little whore he’d picked up somewhere along the way.

Tywin had never thought to admire the man’s taste, but the girl was indeed a beauty. If Tywin hadn’t been so thoroughly exhausted last night, he’d have let her ease his troubles for an hour or two. Though truthfully, after seeing the way she inhaled the meal like she hadn’t eaten anything in a moon… well, pity didn’t exactly inspire lust.

It had enraged Tywin to see the blatant wastefulness here, though he couldn’t put all the fault on Ser Gregor. The man had claimed Harrenhal with bloodshed then moved onto his next assignment, leaving his subordinates to hold the ruined castle. Gregor had a good military mind, but Tywin doubted it would have occurred to him that he would need to tell his men not to waste the free labor. Letting strapping young men wither away in their own filth when they could be hauling stones, pouring mortar, or tilling the gardens was a supreme example of stupidity. Then again, why should Tywin expect anything else? Within two minutes of arriving last night, with only torches to illuminate the space, he spotted the little girl dressed as a boy, who had managed to fool all the guards. Striking, wide set eyes were the cornerstone of a pretty face, if one bothered looking past the hideously uneven and short haircut. And though her clothes were overly baggy – probably stolen from an older boy – it was clear to Tywin that her shoulders were narrow and that her hips were on the cusp of a growth spurt.

Tywin respected people who were clever and resourceful. The girl – Lisbeth – seemed to be both.

The whore was more difficult to read, though he suspected she had half a brain, at least. She didn’t chatter at him mindlessly like some whores are wont to do – thinking somehow that men want and are willing to pay extra for their opinions. She’d survived this long among men who would have no qualms against raping her to death; clearly the girl had done some things right.

Tywin sighed and rubbed his already aching forehead. He’d sent Gregor out to deal with Beric Dondarrion and his band of outlaws, who had proven to be as tenacious as they were self-righteous. Tywin couldn’t be bothered dealing with their little group now, when battles that could turn the tide of the war were on the horizon. After too much time fighting, traveling, and camping, he was ready to spend several weeks at Harrenhal where he could do what he did best: devise the strategies that would lead to victory. From here he would have more reliable communication with his commanders, family, and vassals.

And that was the task he was about to set upon, only he didn’t care to do it here in the drafty meeting room of the Kingspyre tower. He would head up to his apartments and work at the desk in the lord’s chamber. Perhaps the whore would still be there, but more likely she’d gone off to pursue other paying customers. Then again, she had looked as frightened as a day-old bunny yesterday evening, no doubt due to whatever Ser Gregor had done or threatened to do. She likely didn’t know that Gregor was leaving. If she indeed had half a brain, she’d stay in the safety of Tywin Lannister’s chambers.

He groaned at the stiffness in his back as he stood, gathered all the scrolls that had been waiting for his arrival, and headed up the stairs.

 

Sansa

Sansa sat on the window ledge from where she could see Ser Gregor and a dozen of his men near the stables, preparing to ride out. From this high point in the tower she could see much of the activity around the keep, including some guard posts. She could do of her spying from right here, and she suspected that no one else occupied this floor. When Lord Tywin wasn’t here, she could sneak to a room across the hall and spy from there, as well, to have a different perspective.

She was smiling to herself when the door swung in. Lord Tywin was there, pausing as he spotted her.

“You’re still here,” he said, with a hint of a question in his tone.

“I…” it only now occurred to her that he might not have meant to keep her company for more than one night, though she felt foolish for her assumption in hindsight. Was she overstaying her welcome? Was she being presumptuous by assuming she was permitted to spend the whole day in his chambers? She knew little of the arrangements between whores and their customers, except in the case of men visiting brothels, but that didn’t quite apply to this scenario. “I wasn’t sure what you expected of me, my lord,” she finally finished.

“An oversight on my part,” he walked in and dropped several rolled scrolls on his desk, “For the duration of my stay you will see no other men. I expect you to be in this bedchamber every night unless I tell you otherwise. In exchange, you’ll be generously compensated before I depart. Understood?”

She nodded, “I understand, with one exception: am I to be here only during the night?”

He let out an amused snort, “I’d prefer to have access to you day and night, though during the day you may move about the keep if it helps to ward off boredom. If anyone – man or woman – tries to embroil you in a job, simply inform them that you answer to Lord Lannister, and Lord Lannister only.”

“I understand, my lord. Is there… anything you’d have of me now?” she met his eyes. A real whore wouldn’t be afraid of offering her company or her… affection.

“I’d have you tell me how you came to be here, and how you haven’t been fucked to death a hundred times over, knowing the Mountain’s Men as well as I do…”

Sansa felt her cheeks blush, and it was only partly due to Lord Tywin’s crude language. She wasn’t comfortable lying, particularly not to someone who seemed to see everything with his piercing green eyes. Her best bet was to employ brevity and stick with the details she and Arya had devised when they had opportunity to whisper in each other’s ears at night. The only alteration to that story was that now she would have been a whore, not a merchant’s daughter…

“I was working in Maidenpool, my lord, but…” Why would a whore need to leave one town to go to another?

Why did Sansa Stark leave one town to go to another?

Joffrey.

A man.

“Well, there was a man who was cruel to me there. I suppose you could say he was obsessed with me, and I feared for my life. I had no family to turn to, so I headed inland, hoping to find work at an inn or tavern. I barely traveled two days before some of Ser Gregor’s men found me. They had been out rounding up smallfolk, my lord, to bring here for… questioning.”

Tywin arched a brow.

Oh no… he doesn’t believe me!

“How long have you been here?”

“Eh, about a fortnight.”

“And in that time, you were treated as a prisoner, not a whore?”

“Correct, my lord.”

“And why do you think that is?”

“Oh, well, it was no coincidence my lord. You know the girl… well I thought she was a boy… Lisbeth, but I called her Arnold. She- He- She covered me with muck as soon as I arrived. My hair and face and dress.”

Tywin Lannister made a sound that might have been a chuckle, “A clever young woman. In fact you’re both clever, though I suspect in very different ways. Though perhaps not as clever as you think…”

“I… I beg your pardon, my lord?”

Milord,” he spoke through overly expressive lips.

“I don’t understand…”

“You and Lisbeth both say ‘my lord’ instead of ‘milord’. That is the way nobles speak. Yet I would assume based on your profession that you are not a noble.”

“Oh… I… well, you see, I’m not completely uneducated, my lord. My father was a merchant. My mother died when I was very young. I don’t remember her at all, really. I traveled with my father rather extensively throughout my childhood. Some of his clients were quite wealthy, so he ensured I had proper manners and enough education that I could converse intelligently with them.” Sansa tried not to show how fearful she was that he wouldn’t believe her altered version of the story she and Arya had concocted. She held his eyes and used all the facial control she’d mastered in King’s Landing.

Tywin’s nostrils flared somewhat, “Your father is dead, I take it?”

Sansa nodded, trying to make herself look remorseful. It was easy enough to think about her real father and summon a few tears to her eyes.

“If your father was a successful merchant, why did you not have an inheritance?”

“I would have, only…”

Think, think!!

“Only what?”

“Only he remarried when I was four and ten. Even I knew the woman was no good, but my father was won over by her… feminine charms.”

Tywin snorted bitterly, “He wouldn’t be the first man to be lured by a pretty face. So this woman took his money and did not give any to you?”

She nodded her head and tried to figure out how to connect this to the rest of her story. Father dead, stepmother is unkind, I end up in Maidenpool as a whore…

“She didn’t abandon me entirely, my lord. She introduced me to a man in Maidenpool with whom I could find work.”

Tywin’s eyebrows rose, “How generous of her to turn her gooddaughter over to a brothel owner.”

Sansa bit her lip to hide her elation. He was believing her story! More than that, he seemed to have some pity for her plight. Er, her fake plight.

Without any indication that the conversation was finished, Tywin sat in his desk chair with a sigh and began unsealing parchments one at a time before laying them in a neat pile after briefly rolling each in the opposite direction so that they’d lay flat.

Sansa had no idea what to do, and only felt certain that she should remain quiet so the man could read. With a soft sigh she leaned against the window again, watching the goings-on down below.

Occasionally Lord Tywin would huff loudly or snort. It seemed the news he was receiving did not bode well.

Good, maybe he’s learning that Robb is winning the war. Maybe he’ll return to Casterly Rock with his tail between his legs.

Every so often the man would rub at the back of his neck, and Sansa saw an opportunity presenting itself. She walked quietly to stand beside him. He looked up at her suspiciously. Reminding herself that she was a whore and not Sansa Stark, she placed her hand lightly on his shoulder, “May I?”

He arched an eyebrow, seemingly contemplating the decision, then nodded. She moved to stand behind him and began kneading his neck and the tops of his shoulders with both hands as she’d sometimes seen her mother do for her father. While she worked, she tried to peer over his shoulder to read the messages, but he kept them close to his chest. He is afraid I might be a spy!

Well, I suppose I am a spy, at the moment.

She was sure if she leaned forward she’d have visibility of the letters, but she knew it would seem suspicious.

“Fucking bloody fools!” he growled, and Sansa jumped back, wondering if he could somehow be referring to her and Arya.

He shook his head, “I didn’t tell you to stop, girl.”

Quickly she resumed her task, using more strength now that the man’s shoulders seemed even more tense.

“It seems I need to duplicate myself a hundred times so that I can lead every battalion in every battle and rule the realm and manage the prisoners.”

Sansa wasn’t sure what to say, or even if she should speak at all, though the man was verbalizing his woes and obviously knew she could hear. She took a chance, “I imagine if your enemy knew there were a hundred Tywin Lannisters, they would surrender, and there would be no battalions to lead nor prisoners to guard.”

Tywin snorted, “Indeed. It doesn’t matter how much they fear you if you’re only one man.” He crumpled up the parchment angrily and tossed it on his desk, then he surprised Sansa by leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes. He was doing nothing but submitting himself to her touches and it sent a thrill through her. She was doing it – she was gaining his favor! And in such an innocent way! Perhaps he wouldn’t even use her as men typically used whores. Perhaps he only wanted a companion to speak with and dine with… or perhaps he was keeping her in his service to protect her, as he’d done for Arya upon learning she was a girl!

She was so giddy at the possibility that she didn’t even mind performing this task that was beneath a noble lady, except when done for her lord husband. With fingers on the top of his shoulders she worked her thumbs into the flesh between his shoulder blades and spine, finding little lumps of knotted muscle. She let her mind drift as she made it a mission to banish all the knots. She found more at the tops of his shoulders – the muscle that connected to his neck. She found more in his neck, working them with her thumbs and when they needed a break, her knuckles.

His large hand came up and covered hers, stilling her movement and halting her joy and determination.

“Have I—” her question was interrupted by him pulling her by the wrist with one hand and the waist with the other until she was sitting in his lap as if she were side saddling a horse, her bottom directly over his groin. She was unable to stop herself from blushing even as she internally cursed her blood vessels. Whores didn’t blush, did they?

The hand that had been on her wrist traveled up her arm and caressed her cheek as delicately as she’d only ever been touched by her mother, “Fucking war… it’s a sad state of affairs when a man spends an entire night in bed with a beautiful woman without touching her.” The hand retraced its path then went further – over her hip and thigh, his callouses snagging on the rough material, “Surely there is something silken to be found in this ruin of a castle. I’ll send the girl on a search… Seems a crime to see you in something so drab.”

Sansa was vaguely aware that his words were a compliment. She was acutely aware that he was becoming aroused by having her bum pressed against his groin, or perhaps from stroking his hand up and down her body.

The hand continued to traverse her topography while its mate stayed firm yet gentle against her lower back, supporting her weight. Her heart was beating frantically and she feared he would soon notice that her trembling was out of fear, not desire. What kind of whore would fear a man’s touch?

He cannot believe I’m not who I say... If he knows that Sansa Stark is missing, he will suspect me. Red hair, blue eyes, fair skin, tall… how many women look like me? I must convince him I’m a whore, not a lady.

I’m a wolf.

I’m a Stark of Winterfell.

Just survive. Don’t worry about anything else.

I am a wolf.

Just survive.

Gain his favor.

I am a wolf.

Convince him.

I am going to survive this. I am going to fool the Great Lion. Lions are extinct. Wolves are alive.

Mother, Robb, Arya, Bran, Rickon, me… the pack survives. The pack will thrive again, but only if we all make it through the trials to come.

She turned to face him, a faint smile on her lips that she suspected could be described as wolfish. She brought her right hand up to brush softly against his whiskers. He looked at her the way Arya eyed the food last night. It was hungry, lustful, but not harsh. It wasn’t the way Gregor had looked at her. It wasn’t the way Ser Meryn and Ser Boros used to look at her.

She closed her eyes at the same moment she brought her lips to his. It seemed to take him by surprise which made her fear he didn’t appreciate her boldness, but when she pulled away his mouth followed. His hand came up to her neck and held her there, pressing his lips against hers and tilting his head so he could open his mouth and then use his tongue to coax hers open, too.

She had always thought her first kiss with tongue would be clumsy on her part, but she found it surprisingly natural. Instinctive, even. She’d seen men and women kissing, of course. It had always seemed like an artform, something that took lots of practice. But now she knew it was natural. It was even… nice. Though she wasn’t sure why. It didn’t feel particularly good, not like having her scalp massaged during a bath, or having maids rub her feet when they ached. And yet it made something in her belly feel warm and contented, but also longing. Like it was too much and not enough at the same time.

She wasn’t sure what to do next but even more so the worry about what to do was evaporating. Her brain wasn’t thinking as it had been mere minutes ago. Which was silly. She really ought to be figuring out what he might want and—

“Oh…” Sansa gasped. Lord Tywin had used his hands to push her down hard against his manhood. The feeling of something so hard and hot against her woman’s place had felt… like a pleasant tickle. She became instantly aware of the inside of her body. Her tunnel, to be precise. A part of her that had no feeling at all except when she had her moon tide. Now she was as aware of it as she was her hands and lips and—

“Oh!” she squealed again when she was suddenly being lifted and carried. Albeit not very far. Tywin sat her on his desk and immediately put himself between her thighs, though he hadn’t stopped kissing her for more than a heartbeat. He once again pulled her hips until her center was pressed against his rod, except now that her legs were spread, she could really feel him.

She looked down and it was like stepping out of a fog. Her legs were exposed as her dress was bunched up at hip level. She still had on her smallclothes, of course, and Lord Tywin was still dressed, but it was probably only three layers of fabric that separated his manhood from her womanhood. The sight of the bulge in the front of his trousers being rubbed against her made her long for something. Her body knew what, but her brain refused to acknowledge it. She couldn’t want that from him. That was something ladies were only supposed to want and only supposed to take from their lawful husbands.

But I’m not a lady. I’m a whore. I’m Sarina, not Sansa. I’m a wolf, not a bird.

She watched Tywin’s hands reach up under her skirts to find the waistband of her smallclothes and just as he began tugging them down, there were three raps on the door.

“What?!” the Old Lion bellowed so loudly that Sansa flinched and pressed her legs together as much as she could with his thighs still blocking her.

Whoever was on the other side must have been frightened, for it took them a few heartbeats to respond, “You wished to be informed immediately of all communication, milord. There’s been a raven received, milord. Bearing the Baratheon stag.”

Tywin groaned and uttered a string of curses under his breath. All her lust was instantly replaced by fear as the veins in the man’s neck and forehead bulged and his eyes became narrowed. Didn’t some men use whores to vent their frustrations on? Would he hit her? Would he treat her roughly? Would he—

“Be naked in that bed when I return,” he spoke in a voice that was somehow both soft and commanding.

She nodded and watched as he straightened his clothes and left.

Only when he left did she realize that her first reaction upon hearing the knock on the door had been disappointment.

It was hardly ten minutes after Lord Tywin left that there was another knock on the door. Sansa opened it and found her sister on the other side holding a tray with a teapot, teacup, a covered soup crock, and what looked like bread wrapped in linen napkins.

Arya waltzed right in, “You know how hard it is to carry this up so many stairs without spilling your damned tea?”

“I didn’t ask for tea.”

“I know, but I had to bring it so I could bring the honey dipper.”

“Why did you need to bring a honey dipper?”

Arya’s cheeks went pink – a rare sight, “Sit down at the table, alright? I’ll sit with you.”

“Ar- Lisbeth… has something happened?”

She shook her head, “Just sit, Sarina.”

She complied and watched as Arya took the seat next to her and spoke in a whisper, “Has the Old Lion… you know…”

Sansa shook her head and refrained from telling Arya how he had almost done that, because then Arya might ask questions and Sansa would either have to lie and say it had been horrible or tell the truth and admit that the man her family was at war with had stoked a fire in her loins simply by swirling his tongue around hers.

“Oh thank the Gods!” Arya sighed, “It occurred to me after I left you this morning – you say he thinks you’re a whore?”

“Yes. He told me so and I did not deny it since it’s better than—”

“I know, I know. As long as he thinks you’re a whore he’ll never suspect you of being… anyone else. But listen… won’t he be suspicious if he beds you and you bleed?”

Sansa’s eyes went wide. How could she have been so stupid!? She nearly let the man claim her which would mean breaking her maidenhead and discovering that she was no whore! He’d also doubt she was a commoner, since commoners didn’t, as a rule, save themselves for marriage.

“Oh Gods… we came so close…”

“What does that mean?” Arya’s brows pulled together.

Sansa could feel her cheeks burning, “He was going to take me, but a page interrupted us.”

“Fucking hells! Why am I the one who has to think of all this?” Arya spoke as angrily as a whisper allowed.

Sansa clenched her jaw, “What do I do?”

“I’ll get to that in a moment. I just thought I’d tell you some good news first. They have Gendry working as a smithy and Hot Pie in the kitchens. The place is heavily guarded, but the guards don’t seem all that diligent. They probably assume we’re all just glad to be spared the Tickler. It’s war time. Here we get shelter and food for our work. If we left, we’d just have to worry about bandits and reavers and deserters…”

Sansa nodded. In a strange way, this place did feel like a sanctuary. A dreary sanctuary. Of course, the first fortnight had been terrifying, but after being spared that horrendous fate, her current situation felt almost like paradise, though perhaps it shouldn’t…

“Do you have a plan yet?” she asked instead of voicing her confused thoughts.

Arya shook her head, “We will spend the next days and weeks figuring out how we can meet to talk without raising any suspicions. We’ll each observe as much as we can. Gendry is older; he’s going to try to drink with the guards at night and hope they say something useful – something we might be able to use to escape. But I don’t think it’s smart to leave here while the Great Lion is here. The guards who are diligent are probably only so it because they’re all afraid of him.”

“But… what if he does not leave for many moons?”

Arya sighed, “I know Sa--rina. I’d almost rather take my chances with the Tickler than have to let that dirty old lion fuck me, but just remember—”

“I know… just survive.”

Arya nodded, “Right… anyway, now onto the less pleasant topics. I’ve been keeping my ears open for anything that could be helpful for you...”

Sansa felt hopeful enough to smile, “And?”

“And this morning one of the kitchen maids was bragging about how she has this one guard wrapped around her finger and he keeps giving her gifts. That got my attention. I know the guard she was talking about, and he seems as mean as a badger, so I asked how she managed it. She laughed at me and asked why I wanted to know – if I was going to think about it while I touch my pecker. Oh – the women in the kitchens all still think I’m a boy. Anyway, I just shrugged and she laughed and decided there was no harm in my curiosity. She told me that she sucks on his cock like it’s the biggest, juiciest, most delicious strawberry…”

Sansa gasped in horror while Arya continued, “…and rides his cock like it’s an unruly colt she’s trying to break.”

“Rides… I… What?”

Arya stood and rounded the table then straddled Sansa’s lap, “Like this. On a chair or on a bed. Then put his cock inside you and bounce up and down.”

“Arya!” Sansa hissed and shoved, forgetting to use her sister’s made-up name in her state of mortification. She looked around the room as if expecting one of Lord Varys’ little birds to appear, but they were alone. Arya hopped off of her lap and Sansa groaned, “How do you know that?”

Arya shrugged, “I saw a wench doing it to Theon once.”

“Ugh! I don’t think I can… do that.”

“Well, the third thing is to let the man take you like the animals do. On your hands and knees.”

“My hands and knees?”

Arya rolled her eyes, “As if you were going to crawl on the ground because you dropped your sewing needle under the table. Only don’t actually crawl. Just hold still and let him put it in you from behind.”

“I thought lords only bedded women when they are lying on their backs?”

Arya smacked her forehead, “You really are daft, you know that? Haven’t you ever heard there’s more than one way to skin a cat?”

Sansa sighed, “What good will this do me? No matter how much he… enjoys himself with me, when he notices my maiden’s blood, he will know I’m not a whore. Then what?”

Arya nodded assuredly, “I know, that’s why I brought you the honey dipper.”

Sansa looked down at the wooden utensil and was at a loss as to what this had to do with anything… until she noted the long handle, smooth and rounded.

She shook her head, “No. No… You mean for me to break my own barrier?”

“Either you do it or he does it.”

“Or perhaps I can avoid having relations with him.”

Arya snorted, “For how long?”

“I can… I can deny him! I do not think he enjoys taking women against their will. All the time in the capital I never heard that said about him. All anyone said was that he loved his first wife so much that he cursed the Imp for killing her and refused to take another wife after all these decades.”

“So you deny him, fine, maybe he won’t force you. But he won’t keep you around if you’re of no benefit to him. He’ll cast you out of his rooms. What do you think the other soldiers will do? You’re not covered in mud and shit anymore, Sarina. You won’t make it out of the keep before being grabbed, trust me. The guards here do what they want to the servant women. The only women who are safe are those that have been claimed by one of the men. The girl in the kitchens that I spoke to this morning, for instance. Me, because most don’t know I’m a girl and those who do know that Lord Tywin took me under his protection. And you. You’re off limits to them because you’re his whore.”

“But if he casts me out, can’t you protect me? You and Gendry?”

Arya closed her eyes and let out a frustrated sigh, “You really don’t get it, do you? Gendry has no weapon but a hammer, and if he uses that to defend you against the guards, they will kill him. Slowly. You’d have him meet that fate to spare you from losing your precious fucking maidenhead?”

Sansa felt her cheeks burn again, “No… I understand. I just thought…”

“I guess you’re learning that being pretty isn’t always a gift,” Arya spoke in a bitter tone.

Sansa snorted, shaking her head and facing the window as she spoke, “Oh I’ve learned that lesson before, believe me. You can mock me and call me daft all you want, Lisbeth, but I have learned some things. And while we’re on the topic of how daft I am, it seems to me that I got myself out of the capital. You had help. You had a man of the Night’s Watch. You had Gendry. You had the benefit of being young enough to pass for a boy. I had none of that.”

She knew Arya was staring at her, and she let her. Sansa had deferred to Arya’s judgment on everything since arriving in Harrenhal. The only time Sansa took the initiative was in telling Ser Gregor that Arya was Arnold, her protective younger brother, and Arya ought to thank her for that because Gregor could have killed her with a single blow to the head with his mailed fist. Sansa knew how much a mailed fist hurt versus a bare fist; she knew them both quite intimately.

“So your looks have done you no favors,” Arya spoke in an odd voice, as if she was making a royal proclamation, “and they won’t if you’re cast out by the lion. But in this room, Sarina, you can use your looks as a weapon. You’re one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. If some gap-toothed kitchen wench with pockmarks can wrap a man around her finger, just think what you could do. So just pretend he’s your fairy knight from Highgarden if you must. Or that ward of Lord Glover who danced with you at the one feast. Or some man of your own creation. Do what you need to do in here, while I do what I need to do out there. And when the time comes, we’ll leave together. Do you understand? The lone wolf dies…”

Sansa couldn’t help but smile, even if it was a weak one, “But the pack survives.”

Arya smiled back then gestured toward the honey dipper, “Use the handle side.”

Sansa rolled her eyes, “Even I know that much.”

Notes:

While I tend to think of Arya as somewhat sexually stunted, that doesn't mean she isn't savvy. All her life she's been sneaking around; of course she's seen/heard some shit.

Also - I hope I'm achieving the right balance of fear/curiosity/doubt/interest with Sansa. I don't want this to be a noncon, but also don't want her to be OOC hot for Tywin. I have written her with the following rationales:
1. She's seen scarier/meaner dudes than Tywin, even if he's intimidating AF. (Joffrey. Meryn. Boros. Ilyn. Gregor.)
2. While Arya and Sansa know that Tywin is their family's enemy, they have no personal animosity toward him like they have toward other Lannisters. It's possible Sansa even has some positive associations of him; after all he was the one to send Tyrion to the capital and Tyrion put a stop to Joffrey's abuse as best he could.
3. Sansa's been through some pretty traumatic emotional and physical abuse in the capital and seen some very disturbing things happen at Harrenhal, a veritable torture chamber. So while she is understandably nervous about the idea of losing her virginity, she doesn't think sex is the worst thing that can happen to a woman. Certainly not sex with Tywin when the alternative was sex with Gregor.
4. Hormones. Whether 14 or 16 those things are potent and I don't buy into Septas being able to train sexual desire out of girls. Make them feel ashamed of them? Sure, but not put a stop to them altogether.

Chapter 3: Sing my name

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Arya

She watched the Old Lion every day, trying to understand him, trying to learn things about him or about his armies that could someday be used against him when Arya and Sansa were finally reunited with Robb and Mother.

Arya knew she’d have an easier time getting her family to accept her than Sansa would. Running around in boy’s clothes with short hair would be nothing compared to sleeping with the enemy. Poor Sansa… if Mother learned that she survived Harrenhal by becoming Lord Tywin’s whore… well, Arya didn’t know what Mother might do. She couldn’t believe she’d turn Sansa away, but what if she didn’t accept her back into the family, either? What if she forced Sansa to marry some unsavory man – someone who wasn’t in a position to refuse a highborn wife, no matter her past?

As she poured Lord Tywin a cup of wine and mixed in some water, Arya decided it didn’t matter. She had to take her own advice: just survive. They would survive this, and then meet the next problem head-on. And the next. And the next. And by the time they were reunited with family Arya would have had plenty of time to concoct a story that would spare Sansa any shame.

Funny how time and circumstance changed things. She had hated Sansa when they were in King’s Landing. Sansa was so preoccupied with impressing Joffrey and the Queen, even after they had Lady killed all because Joffrey had a short temper and Sansa was so afraid of displeasing him that she lied for him.

Now? None of that mattered. As soon as Sansa showed up in Harrenhal all wrongs were forgiven. The sisters instantly became partners in their shared objective of survival.

Arya placed the man’s cup in front of him then moved to stand along the wall, at the ready. The maester had come in to discuss the letter that apparently arrived just in time to stop the Old Lion from fucking Sansa. Arya didn’t like to think about that. He was old and grouchy and at war with their family. Though she couldn’t deny she and Sansa were safer with him here than not. It was confusing to feel anger toward someone you also felt indebted to, dependent on. She decided for now, so as not to raise his suspicions, she should just feel indebted. She could save her anger for after she and Sansa got back to their family.

Whatever the contents of the letter, it did not appear to be good news for the Old Lion. The veins in his neck were bulging. Arya bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. It seemed every day he received bad news. She was just dying to get a peek at his letters, but he burned some of them instantly. Others he tucked into his pocket, presumably to re-read or reply to later. Never did he leave them laying around. Though perhaps he left them laying around in his bedchamber? She’d have to tell Sansa to search for them.

Lord Tywin had long since finished reading the missive and had been sitting in silence when Arya entered after delivering Sansa’s lunch. The maester wasn’t speaking and Arya was trying to make no sound whatsoever. She hadn’t eaten her own lunch yet and feared her stomach might grumble. By the look on the Old Lion’s face he might consider that an offense punishable by death.

Then, without saying a word, he crumpled the scroll in his fist and threw it carelessly toward the hearth. When it landed just far enough from the flames to not be singed, the maester hastened over and kicked it in.

“I assume this letter has been sent to every corner of Westeros, perhaps even Essos?”

The maester nodded, “That would be my guess based on the way it is addressed, Lord Lannister.”

Tywin made a noise in his throat that sounded like a growl, “Bad enough half the kingdoms hate him for executing Lord Stark, now as many or more will assume he is a bastard and not the heir.”

Arya didn’t so much as blink for fear of betraying her allegiance.

Father’s words decrying Joffrey as a bastard… they didn’t die in the capital!

“Rumors propagated by a man who has every incentive to lie, my lord.”

“And yet a man who has a reputation for an unimpeachable sense of honor and duty. Stannis Baratheon is not a man well-liked, but he is a man well-trusted. Ned Stark was liked and trusted. By contrast, who has ever liked or trusted a Lannister since I retired as Hand?” Tywin shook his head in displeasure.

“Wars are not won and lost based on public opinion, my lord.”

“Aren’t they? Lords ally with those they can trust, among other factors. Lords bring men and horses and supplies and weapons. And those things win wars.”

“The land is divided. No one side seems to trust another. At least, that is my humble perspective.”

“Divided for how long? How long until Stannis Baratheon and Robb Stark realize their cause is one and the same? Stannis wants the throne. Robb wants Joffrey off the throne, but to my knowledge has no aspirations for it himself.”

“There may have been trust between Lord Eddard and Lord Stannis. That does not mean the son shares his father’s views.”

“By all accounts he does. Besides, Robb Stark is unmarried. Shireen Baratheon is unmarried.”

“Robb Stark is promised to a daughter of House Frey. And Lady Shireen is not of age.”

Robb is going to marry a Frey? But Mother always spoke of the Freys as if they were the shame of the Riverlands…

“Shireen will be of age by the time the war is over.”

“Robb Stark may yet fall in battle before he and Stannis have a chance to treat.”

Arya wanted to roll her eyes. She supposed nothing this maester said was wrong, but he certainly seemed to be telling the Old Lion everything he wanted to hear. Only the Old Lion argued against every point, so maybe it wasn’t what he wanted to hear. Maybe he wanted someone to tell him that his cause was fucked. And wouldn’t I like to be that person!

Tywin snorted, “There are no shortage of Starks. Two other sons, Ned’s bastard, and the daughters.”

“The daughters are wards of the crown. The bastard is sworn to the Night’s Watch.”

Tywin had no visible reaction to the maester’s comment. Does that mean he doesn’t know we’ve escaped?! Not for the first time, Arya bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.

Eventually, Tywin sighed, “If Stannis and Robb merge their forces, we’re fucked.”

“Lord Stannis only commands half of the Stormlands army, though. The younger brother has the rest, plus now Highgarden.”

“It matters not. It would still be enough to spell our doom. All the North and Riverlands and half the Stormlands? They can surround the capital from all sides.”

“That would mean taking the Westerlands first. The Northern forces can’t be in two places at once. They would abandon the Riverlands to invade your homelands, my lord?”

Tywin shrugged, “Likely not. If they move into the West, then the Young Wolf is not as clever as he thinks. Controlling the Riverlands is the only way to guarantee his forces have a safe retreat, should things not go his way. Still, even if it’s only three sides…”

The maester tipped his head, “I understand, Lord Lannister. What would you have of me? Do you wish to answer Lord Stannis’ claims with your own letter to the kingdoms?”

Tywin waved a hand, “That will only give merit to the man’s lies. Hopefully the Baratheon brothers will exhaust or eliminate each other, and I’ll have one fewer headache. Er, two.”

With a bow, the maester was gone.

It was too tempting to get more out of the Old Lion, and Arya knew she could simply by playing dumb (but not too dumb).

“I don’t understand, my lord. Why are the Baratheon brothers fighting each other?”

Tywin looked up and snorted, “You must be an only child if you don’t understand sibling rivalry.”

She rolled her eyes, “Aye, over stupid stuff. But this is life and death; the right to the throne.”

“Indeed. But few men in this world have the self-discipline to set aside their pride to promote the greater good.”

She shrugged, “Seems stupid. Even I know the older brother gets everything. Just the way it is.”

“And yet in this case the older brother was already wed, the younger was not. So Renly has a better chance to get everything because he was able to broker his hand in marriage in exchange for an army.”

“Must be some man if someone is willing to trade an army for his hand.”

Tywin scoffed, “Someone isn’t giving their army for his hand; they’re giving their army for the right to share the throne if he succeeds in claiming it. Have you never realized the lengths men would go to to sit the throne?”

“It’s just a chair.”

The Old Lion’s lips curved into an almost-smile, “On that, we agree.”

“Yet you’re going to war over it.”

“Am I?” he raised his eyebrows.

She shrugged, “Yes?”

He snorted, “No wonder history tomes are so often inaccurate.”

“Well, if not the throne, then why?”

“None of your concern, that’s why.”

She shrugged.

His eyes narrowed, “You realize nothing I say in your presence is a secret, don’t you?”

She shrugged again, “Figured as much, or else you wouldn’t say it in front of me.”

He snorted, “Indeed. Nonetheless, if I find out you’ve told anyone about anything you’ve seen or heard in this room…”

“Aye, you’ll cut my tongue out or tan my hide or mayhap just lop off my head. I’m not a gossip, my lord. My father used to say I was too curious for my own good, but that doesn’t mean I can’t keep a secret.”

Perhaps it was just the flickering of the candlelight, but his eyes looked almost amused for a moment. Then they hardened again, “I’ve work to do beyond this room. Go make yourself useful in the kitchens. Wait – scour the castle starting with the old family and guest keeps; see if you can find anything more feminine than the frocks you gave to Sarina.”

“More feminine?”

“Are you daft, girl? Silk or lace or chiffon.”

“Oh, right. Well, I guess it’ll be like a treasure hunt!”

She ran out of the room, passing the Old Lion’s guards who paid her no mind.

 

Tywin

He cursed this war and his own family for their part in it as he dragged himself up the steps. He had wanted to be back here hours ago so he could think in peace, and so he could finish what he’d started with the girl.

Age was not his friend of late. Working and worrying all day left him with little energy to fuck, but he felt like it was a waste not to take advantage of his situation. In a matter of days or weeks he would be out on the battlefield. Or he might be on the march. Or he might be dead. Regardless, he wouldn’t be in a feather bed with a beautiful woman, and he would curse his past self for not taking advantage of the situation while he could.

He’d never been partial to whores but this one was different. Perhaps because she was still young. Perhaps because she’d been raised in relative wealth rather than the squalor that made whores out of desperate girls. Beyond that she was beautiful. Stunning, really. She might not realize what her father had been doing, but Tywin did. By introducing her to his wealthy clients, he was hoping to one day sell her hand. Perhaps not with an outright exchange of gold – that was crass, after all – but in exchange for advantageous terms on a business deal. Or a contract to be the sole supplier. Or perhaps he’d even get a modest castle for his daughter’s hand.

But her father died, which meant instead of becoming a rich man’s bride she became every man’s whore. A cruel twist of fate, but such was life. At least she could count herself lucky for having been spared the Mountain, at least for now. The man would be back and eventually Tywin would leave and the poor girl would know just what Tywin had spared her of. 

Ah well, not his problem. Certainly not a problem he’d take on during wartime when so many other matters were vying for his focus.

He found the girl asleep in bed, under the covers and on her side facing the center of the bed. He ought to have told her to be naked and awake when he returned, but he supposed he couldn’t blame her for dozing off at this hour.

He didn’t bother calling a servant to help him undress; his outfit was hardly elaborate and he wore no armor. His cold body was under the coverlets within minutes and he pressed himself against the girl. For such a slender thing with skin the color of snow and eyes the color of ice, she was surprisingly warm. Her hair, he supposed. Some said redheads had fire in their veins, and he was starting to believe.

His contact woke her, but just barely. He watched her face startle for a moment before her eyes blinked shut again and he heard her mumble, “My lord is as cold as the Wall.”

He chuckled, “You’re as warm as the Dornish desert.”

“Uh oh… then I might melt you,” she spoke in a sleepy voice. He realized this playfulness was a byproduct of her being half-asleep. By day she was much more guarded, as if afraid the wrong word would make him strike her. He had the right, of course, but he’d never taken pleasure in inflicting pain as other men did. He thought it might be a matter of pride. Tywin had nothing to prove; he didn’t need to make himself feel powerful by smacking some helpless woman around for no cause.

No… he preferred his women wet and willing. Eager even. So he didn’t thrust his semi-hard cock against her semi-conscious body. He leaned forward and put a kiss on her neck, close to her collarbone. Then another. And another. And another. He peppered them all over her swanlike neck one slow, delicate kiss at a time until he felt and heard her breathing accelerate. He continued to lave her neck and shoulders with kisses for a few more minutes before venturing south, taking a small pink nipple between his lips while flicking his tongue across it gently.

The girl gasped and bucked under him… Oh, she was a sensitive one. He could tell the little twitches and jerks of her body were no act. Nor were the quiet whimpers she seemed to be trying to stifle. A typical whore would be moaning and telling him to fuck her by now, making it sound like she’d die without his cock. This girl seemed more like an Essosi bed slave than a Westerosi whore as she laid back and let him pay his dues to her magnificent young body. He watched with satisfaction as her belly quivered where his fingers trailed down it. He didn’t stop until one of them was pressed just to the side of her nub. She sucked in a breath.

While his finger worked around her nub in lazy circles he nuzzled against her neck, “You’ll sing my name when you peak.”

“Your name, my lord?” she asked timidly.

He chuckled, “Tywin. Or lion. Your choice.”

“When I peak?” she asked, her voice adorably confused.

“Mm… I suppose most of your patrons don’t care about your pleasure. I’m not most men, Sarina. I love the feeling of a woman’s cunt trying to strangle my cock. There are few things better. So you’ll peak for me now, so it’ll be all the easier to peak when I’m inside you.”

She was quiet then and he marveled at how pliant she was. Someone had taught her well how to act chaste while her cunt dripped with arousal. Perhaps he was just like every other man who liked to pretend he was plucking some innocent girl’s flower. He just never knew because no whore had ever played the part so convincingly, using the subtle mannerisms and movements of her body rather than theatrical noises and obviously constructed phrases.

He quickened the pace of his finger and was rewarded by the sound of her panting becoming louder and louder, faster and faster. When he returned his mouth to her nipple, he moved his hand fast enough that he’d get a cramp soon, but her panting had turned to staccato moans of “Oh, oh, oh” and even as her climax was barreling toward her, she maintained the titillating ruse of innocence and delicate sensibilities.

“Peak for me… say my name,” he spoke against her breast after he felt her entire body become as rigid as a drawn bow string.

And peak she did. Her hips bore down, her back arched, and as the pressure built, she gave a few more breathy “Ohs” before shrieking his name… Tywin.

After stroking her through the afterglow he wasted not a moment in yanking off his smallclothes and rolling on top of her. He thrust into her, and Gods was she tight and wet. He could feel her cunt still throbbing around his cock, which was throbbing right back. She whimpered at the abruptness of the penetration, probably due to being overstimulated after her peak, but he didn’t care. It would feel like too much for now but soon, riding the wave of her first climax, she would crest another. And he needed her to, because it had been weeks since he released himself and probably a good year since he’d indulged in a whore. (If there was a benefit to aging other than wisdom, it was not being a slave to your cock.)

He worked back and worth slower than he’d have liked because he didn’t want to completely embarrass himself. It seemed her sensitivity was fading; she was no longer whimpering and had started panting again as soon as he pressed his thumb against her pearl.

He lifted her legs just enough to put the angle of her tunnel in better alignment with his shaft and began grinding against her instead of sliding in and out. He knew just the right angle to target both the internal and external places where a woman’s pleasure was concentrated, and once he found it, he rocked against her. He could finish at any moment, but he wanted to feel her clamp down on him first.

This time, there were no “Ohs”. Just his name repeated over and over again in that bewitching voice that betrayed both ecstasy and innocence. He worked faster against her. Her chest and belly went up and down with impossibly quick and shallow breaths until she shrieked his name in two long notes and he couldn’t resist any longer when she gripped him from the inside like she was holding on for dear life. He put his body over hers, hands on either side of her neck, elbows locked, and then pounded into her as many times as he could until he felt his balls pulling taut.

“Sarina,” he managed to croak before gushing inside her and losing all of his strength and all his woes.

Notes:

Posting the next chapter right away because I have a feeling you'll all go crazy without reading Sansa's POV...

Chapter 4: No man trusts a whore

Notes:

Chapter starts the night AFTER Ch. 3 ended, with Tywin POV, but then you'll see Sansa's thoughts on her first time.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Tywin

Yet another long and tiring day had come and gone. Reading and sending correspondence. Ordering the useless fucks of this castle around since they didn’t seem to appreciate the fact that this could very well become a battle site in the coming weeks. Tywin had chosen this place as the base of his operation for the ongoing war in the Riverlands, but his mere presence here made it a target. If the Young Wolf was bold, he would try to lay siege. Success would mean adding Tywin Lannister to his list of hostages. They already had Jaime – a fact that still rankled Tywin whenever he gave it thought. To the Young Wolf, it would look like a relatively easy way to win the war – capture the Warden of the West, King Joffrey’s grandfather and primary benefactor, then demand a surrender of the throne in exchange for the release of his very valuable hostages which would include both the old and young lion.

Of course, it was a calculated risk on Tywin’s part, because while the Northern forces were focused on him in the Riverlands, they would not march on the capital or the Westerlands. No one even knew which would be their target. Raid the wealthy Westerlands in retribution for Tywin’s men raiding the Riverlands? Or try to storm the capital to kill the boy king who’d executed Ned Stark? Both were plausible, though Robb Stark hadn’t declared for the Iron Throne yet, so in Tywin’s guess he was more likely to turn his armies west than due south.

But for now it appeared the Young Wolf was demonstrating patience atypical for men his age. He was biding his time at Riverrun. Perhaps in hopes that Stannis or Renly would do the hard work for him and take the capital. Only the boy didn’t understand the Baratheon brothers like Tywin did. They would fight amongst each other first. Stannis would likely try to take Storm’s End and eliminate his younger brother in the process, then all of Renly’s loyalists would more than likely kneel to Stannis for lack of a more palatable option. That may mean Stannis gaining Highgarden as well.

That thought grated on Tywin… he could offer the Tyrells much more than Stannis ever could. Among other things, the throne. Sansa Stark could easily be set aside so that Joffrey would be free to take another, such as Margaery Tyrell. Then, when the Young Wolf saw how impossible it would be to face the combined forces of the Reach and the West, he would sue for peace. Tywin would grant it, of course, but at a price. Sansa Stark for a Lannister man and the middle Stark boy for a Lannister woman – Kevan’s Janei, perhaps. But the fucking Tyrells would expect him to share the spoils. Fucking Tyrells.

Tywin rubbed at his taut forehead, not certain why he was doing this to himself. That line of thinking had too many ‘ifs’…

If Stannis wins, if Renly dies, if the Tyrells don’t flee back to Highgarden to wait out the war that they weren’t the ones who started to begin with.

Tywin liked to consider all possibilities, but that didn’t mean he put stock in any of them. Wars were inherently unpredictable. And anyway, he could do nothing now… it wasn’t like he could send a Lannister man to treat with Mace Tyrell and preemptively gain his promise to support King Joffrey and the Lannister forces should Renly fall.

Unless of course they’d be willing to assist with said fall…

But no… the Tyrells were untrustworthy enough. How could Tywin ever get in bed with them if they agreed to kill Renly? How would he ever be able to trust them not to do the same to Joffrey?

“My lord is troubled,” Sarina spoke sleepily into his shoulder.

He didn’t turn to face her. He’d taken her rather forcefully after receiving yet another plea from Cersei for him to march to the capital. Tywin knew his children enough to read between the lines. It wasn’t just his forces she wanted, it was him, because she’d prefer his presence over Tyrion’s. He couldn’t blame her for that, but he could blame her for continuously whining about his absence like this war was inconveniencing no one but her and her brat. Did she not realize that if the Riverlands were allowed to be Stark territory that Tywin’s leverage would be severely weakened? The Riverlands were the passageway between North and South. They were not a particularly desirable region – nothing like the Vale with its impossible to siege castles in the mountains, or the Reach with its abundance of crops, or the Westerlands with its abundance of gold – but they were the artery between head and heart. And they held the ancestral home of the Young Wolf’s mother. A threat to his mother’s lands would always be a distraction for Robb Stark. But all Cersei saw was that her father was playing war in the Riverlands instead of running to her side to coddle her.

She wrote of the fear that Renly and the Tyrells would attack King’s Landing, clearly not realizing that Stannis was her indirect ally in that matter – he wouldn’t let his younger brother claim the throne; it would be even more of an insult to his pride than having what he believed was a bastard non-nephew on the throne. Cersei wrote of her fears that Joffrey would be incensed by Renly’s betrayal and would rashly ride out to meet his uncle in open field battle. If Cersei couldn’t keep her child from doing something that idiotic, then she hardly deserved Tywin’s support. And if Cersei and Tyrion together couldn’t convince the boy that was suicide, then Tywin’s children were beyond redemption altogether.

Jaime gets himself captured… A seasoned battle commander outwitted by a boy and his pet wolf.

Cersei is unable to rule over her own son, yet I’m supposed to have faith in her ability to guide him in his reign going forward?

Tyrion unable to get his sister and nephew to fall in line. He may be a dwarf, but he is also the highest-ranking Lannister man in the capital. And still he cannot control a petulant boy king?

He felt his blood threaten to boil. Was it too much to ask for one of his children to have inherited some of his talents or intellect? He hadn’t raised them to be fools. He hadn’t spoiled them, either, beyond the way all highborn youths were spoiled. Yet current events would lead anyone to believe they were a bunch of whiny children needing daddy to chase away the imaginary monsters under their beds.

Sarina’s hand, which had been resting on his chest, began drawing soothing little patterns. If he liked to live in a fantasy world he could close his eyes and pretend she was Joanna.

He didn’t, but even if he had the illusion would have been broken when her next words reminded him just what she was.

“Would… would you like another release, my lord?”

He snorted at the timid way she asked. Clearly, she didn’t want him to accept that offer. Girl was probably sore; his anger had made him ungentle earlier. He wasn’t proud of it but he was certain she’d had worse.

Even still, it was tempting to agree. If her cunt was raw, she could use her mouth. But he wasn’t a man who could instantly forget his troubles through sex. If he was then he’d not be so troubled now after peaking less than a half an hour ago.

So instead he sighed, “I’d like a family that doesn’t seem to be competing for the title of Most Disappointing.”

Her hand stilled and she peered up at him, “My lord?”

“I wasn’t exaggerating when I said I’d like to be able to duplicate myself a hundred times. Apparently, I’m needed everywhere at once.”

Her lips pursed in thought, “You’ve delegated responsibilities to your family members… and they’re not meeting your expectations?”

He snorted, “That’s an understatement.”

She bit her lower lip, something she did whenever she was carefully choosing her words.

“Say what’s on your mind,” he prodded a bit harshly.

“I… It just seems that perhaps you should delegate to others who are more capable.”

“And whom might I trust?”

“You trust your family even after they continue to disappoint you?”

He sighed, “I trust their interests are my interests. I trust them not to betray me.”

“But you can’t trust them not to make mistakes. I see,” she nodded.

He rolled his eyes, “Mistakes? Despite my reputation, I can forgive mistakes. I cannot forgive willful defiance.”

“And yet you do forgive it by allowing them to continue in these important roles.”

“Careful, girl… it sounds as if you are suggesting I replace my loyal family with men whose loyalty can be bought by a higher bidder. I might think you a Stark sympathizer…”

Her cheeks went red with fear. He was glad to know she feared him. Nothing he shared with her were great secrets, but he’d prefer his private thoughts not become fodder for gossipmongers.

“I merely meant perhaps you could look to your men and see if there are some that you trust not to betray you and also trust not to make mistakes… er, to willfully defy you.”

He hummed at that. The girl had a point. He could name a dozen loyal vassals and Lannister relations that he would trust to run things in the capital better than Cersei and Tyrion, only they were needed for the war effort. But the girl didn’t know it was his own children in the capital that he was talking about, and though he didn’t mind making vague statements about his family disappointing him, he could hardly slander his daughter/queen or his grandson/king, even to a whore.

“But if I may offer a word of caution, my lord?”

He looked at her and nodded for her to proceed. She took a deep breath, “Mistakes and willful defiance can be just as damaging as blatant betrayal. I know this.”

“And how did you learn such a lesson? You were blatantly betrayed by your father’s wife.”

She smiled sadly, “I was referring to my own actions. I made a mistake that had grave consequences. I made the mistake because I was being defiant.”

He didn’t probe for details, but he felt an odd sensation as he listened to the girl’s emotionless recounting of something that was, clearly, emotionally upsetting to her.

He hardly put stock in the wisdom of whores, but he couldn’t help but wonder if her words were a sort of premonition. Would one of his children or grandchildren’s petty actions have dire effects on the future of his house?

Who was he fooling? They already had, and there was no reason to think history couldn’t repeat itself.

 

Sansa

Arya nearly frightened her to death when she barged into the bedchamber unannounced.

“Here, found these in trunks. Took me five days of searching. Most of the fine stuff has been raided already.”

Sansa frowned at the wrinkled pile of garments that Arya carelessly tossed on the bed. She had no faith that Arya had given any thought to whether these would fit, but Sansa supposed she could send her for more, or at least request some needle and thread; whoever was mending the guars’ clothing must have some.

“Thanks,” Sansa sighed.

“Hey… you alright?”

Sansa nodded even though it didn’t feel like the truth.

Yes, she was alright. Her body wasn’t bruised even if the entrance to her woman’s place was sore. Lord Tywin treated her fairly. She had three meals a day, as Arya well knew. She had warmth and protection.

And no, she was not alright. Because she was sleeping with the enemy. Tywin Lannister was Joffrey’s grandfather, Cersei’s father. He was leading armies whose sole mission was to kill her brother’s men.

But even that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst was that sleeping with him was… not unenjoyable.

Half the time she convinced herself that was for the best. She had to imagine that whores enjoyed the physical intimacies they engaged in, or at least pretended to. Men didn’t go to whores because they wanted to feel like they were raping a woman. They went to whores as a substitute for wives and lovers. So it was good that she enjoyed laying with Lord Tywin, because she wasn’t sure she could fake that.

But it was bad that she enjoyed it, because it was wrong. Because he was her family’s enemy.

The shame came to her immediately after their first encounter. Her first ever encounter with a man. She had to lay very still beside the snoring lion for fear any movement would make her retch.

She had peaked. Twice! The few times she had touched herself in the past, it had never occurred to her it could happen twice in a row.

The second one felt different; less powerful but more fulfilling, like getting her mother’s sharp nails to scratch a spot on her back that had been itching all day. And that was even with her being sore! Lord Tywin’s rod was much thicker than the honey dipper handle. It didn’t hurt her on the inside where her maidenhead had been, but it hurt on the outside, as if he’d battered through her doors roughly but once inside, her castle yielded to him.

Despite the strangeness of peaking with something inside her tunnel, she forgave herself that sin, knowing that she was laying with him for her own survival and her family’s cause.

It was that damned first peak that made her cringe now to think back on it! It hadn’t come about while letting Lord Tywin use her body for his pleasure. It came about because he wanted to see to her pleasure. His lips on her breast turned her stomach even as they made her lower belly tighten. His words had the same effect. Peak for me… say my name

Oh Gods! It had sounded like sweet poetry at the time. Now those words echoed in her ears and mocked her as some type of harlot, making her skin feel warm all over with shame.

The next day she couldn’t even look at him. Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise that he came in late, his face red and angry, and eagerly tore away her clothes then his own. He took her in the same position, but it felt nothing like the first night. It hurt, on the outside and the inside, and she almost smiled. That was the way it was supposed to be. A chore. A sacrifice. A burden.

It hadn’t lasted as long and most of his anger seemed drained by the time he was done. That’s when he pulled her against his side, which confused her. Why did he wish to cuddle after such a violent coupling? Or had it not been violent? Was that the way men and women normally laid together and the first night was the anomaly? Perhaps it was, because he talked to her afterwards, like she imagined man and wife lying in bed at night, sharing their worries with the other.

She felt better the next day, feeling things were as they should be. She took comfort in her tender flesh, sore to the touch. She smiled even as she winced when she dabbed herself dry after making water. It was tangible evidence that she was enduring something, not enjoying something. It made her feel like a real wolf.

Then last night happened…

After leaving her alone two nights, Lord Tywin wanted her last night. And it was just like that first night that had filled her with so much shame. She tried not to enjoy it, but she did. His hands on her body and his lips against her neck and breasts… His tongue dancing with hers… His thumb gently circling her nub while his rod filled her but didn’t move much, just a shallow back and forth motion. He’d been propped on one forearm, his nose and lips finding places on her neck that made her shiver, and the shiver made her woman’s place pulse. And he’d said her name. Sarina. He’d said it like it was a luxury to say it. Like it was a holy word that had to be whispered in a breathy voice. His voice and touch brought her right to the edge, and she could no longer force her traitorous mouth to be quiet. She knew it was wrong, but she said his name, too, because he liked to hear it and it felt good to say it. Hearing his name excited him and his words became more lecherous. Like the feeling of his tongue flicking against her nipple, his raunchy words made her stomach sick but made her woman’s place thrum.

My beautiful girl…

Find your pleasure on my cock…

Milk me off with that pretty little cunt of yours.   

Her body betrayed her; it was that simple. Those dirty words were some kind of spell and her body did just what he asked. On command. Instantly. It felt so good she grunted his name and he grunted hers back while moving quickly inside her in a way that made her peak seem to last an eternity.

But her body did not have its own free will. Meaning she betrayed herself. Her people. Her family.

How would she ever face Mother and Robb? She used to think the greatest way a woman could be shamed was by being raped. Now she knew there was something even worse – to enjoy what was tantamount to rape. Perhaps not from Lord Tywin’s point of view, but from hers. It should hurt. It should feel degrading.

But the opposite was true. In place of pain she felt pleasure. In place of degradation she felt pride. Yes, pride. When Tywin’s shaft became hard, when he moaned her name, when he reached his completion, she felt powerful. She had done that. Well, he had done it, using her body as the tool, but still. Her kisses and caresses and words must have something to do with it.

She didn’t realize she was crying until Arya’s arms were around her shoulders. When had they both sat down on the bed?

“I’m a traitor. I’m a horrible person,” she wept against her sister’s shoulder.

“Why would you say that?”

“I should hate this, Ar—Lisbeth. And I do… I hate being here instead of with Mother and Robb or Bran and Rickon, but… But the thing I should hate most I don’t.”

“What thing?”

Her cheeks must surely be on fire, “When Lord Tywin… When he… When we… Why don’t I hate it?”

Arya put space between them and grabbed her chin roughly, “You listen to me, Sarina. Your body can enjoy it all it wants. You can enjoy the physical aspect all you want. You’re supposed to, remember? Or else he will wonder.”

“It should repulse me. I should have to pretend to like it. Gods, I know that would be hard but so is this! This feeling like I’m betraying everyone!”

“You’re not. You’re playing the hand you were dealt, just as I am. Just as Robb is. Just as Bran is. Just as Jon is. That’s all anyone is doing, ever.”

Arya didn’t get it. It wasn’t what Sansa was doing that shamed her (well, not entirely) it was that she was enjoying it.

“It should repulse me,” she repeated, trying to inject her voice with even more force.

Arya sighed, “Maybe… maybe not.”

“Oh, that isn’t helpful!”

“Look, I don’t have experience in this but let’s think about it… That kitchen girl who has the one guard wrapped around her finger? She doesn’t love the fucker. She doesn’t even like the fucker. She does what she does so he’ll protect her from the other guards and so he’ll give her extra wine rations and what-not. And I’ve seen them go at it. She’s either a really good mummer, or she’s enjoying it. Okay?”

Sansa shrugged, not sure she wanted to have anything in common with a kitchen wench.

“And also…” Arya continued, her cheeks suddenly pink, “Look, I hate him for being a Lannister, pure and simple, but… he’s not that bad. He talks to me and listens to me. Every other grown-up I’ve ever known treated me like I must be stupid because I was a child. Or because I like to do boyish things. But he doesn’t. I want all of the lions dead at the end of this war. I want Joffrey and Cersei to die screaming in agony, but I’d be okay if for the Old Lion they just chop his head off right quick.”

“What are you saying?”

Arya shrugged, “I dunno… I just mean I know how you feel. I kind of felt like a traitor for wanting to hear what he has to say. He’s really smart, you know. And he told me about how hard he worked to teach his son Jaime how to read. It was kind of sweet… like something Father would’ve done. So while we’re here, and while he’s here, if I like talking to him and you like… the other stuff… well, maybe it doesn’t mean we’re traitors. It just means we’re playing the hands we were dealt.”

“So you don’t hate me for it?” Sansa sniffled, her tears finally drying.

“Nah, there are way better reasons to hate you.”

Sansa threw her arms around her sister, “Oh! I love you so much!”

Arya awkwardly patted her back, “Um… thanks. But listen, I need to borrow your brain. There’s this man here. A lord, or at least dressed in lord’s clothes. He’s fat and bald and has a huge mustache. He’s… I dunno, maybe a little younger than the Old Lion? But anyway, he has a mermaid on his vest. That’s White Harbor, right?”

Sansa nodded, “Yes – the Manderlys. If he is younger than Tywin then he must be Lord Wylis. His father is Lord Wyman.”

“They’re loyal to us, right?”

“Oh yes! Among our most loyal bannerman! But… I don’t know… might that have changed during the war? If he’s here with Lord Tywin—”

“He’s a prisoner, not a visitor. But even so I worry about whether his allegiance may have swayed during the war. I heard some of the lion’s commanders saying they have spies in Robb’s army and that they’ve heard of dissension in the ranks. But the Old Lion said there’s probably dissension in his ranks, too, because nobody likes war,” Arya shrugged, “So that doesn’t really help me.”

“Were you thinking of revealing yourself to him? Is that why you’re asking?”

“Well, yes. Maybe he’s plotting an escape. If he is loyal to Robb than he would certainly take us with him if he does, right? But this is my fear: if I reveal myself to him, even if he’s loyal, he may view it as an opportunity to get himself out. He can tell the Old Lion that he knows where Arya Stark is, get an agreement for his release, then point me out.”

Sansa nodded, “It would be better to gauge the strength of his affinity to our house before revealing yourself.”

Arya rolled her eyes, “Yeah… fancy way of saying I need to figure out what he’s about. I’m going to see if Gendry or Hotpie can strike up a conversation with him… Maybe say something in passing about how it’s a shame Ned Stark was executed, see how he reacts.”

“But he will suspect it of being a trap.”

“Why? He’s already their captive here, they obviously know he isn’t loyal to Joffrey.”

“True. I guess I’m used to being baited with things like that all the time. Them trying to get me to slip up and say something treasonous so Joffrey could punish me.”

“Punish you?”

Sansa nodded, “He would have his Kingsguard strike me with their fists and swords.”

Arya’s face became red, “Fucking cunt bastard! I hope he dies really slowly. And shits himself while doing it.”

Sansa chuckled, “Me too. Anyway, do what you think best with Lord Wylis, but just make sure you’re absolutely certain about his loyalty before revealing anything.”

“Will do. I gotta run… the lion’s got a meeting with some of his commanders soon and I have to serve the wine!”

As quickly as she’d arrived, Arya was gone.

The sky had gone full dark at least an hour ago. Sansa sat in one of the cushioned chairs in front of the hearth, taking in the waist of the only dress Arya had brought that was long enough to almost reach her ankles. At least the smallclothes fit, even if they fell too high on her thigh. And there was a robe of wool that she was currently snuggled into. It had been in a trunk with lady’s garments, according to Arya, but Sansa wondered if it had been made for a man. It was a dark green color, which either a man or woman could wear, but it was big enough to envelop her twice and long enough to dust the floor. She smiled thinking that it might be a man’s robe that his lady wife was fond of and took for herself. Perhaps the husband pretended to be annoyed but actually liked seeing his wife in his clothing. Sansa had always wanted to have a husband who might wrap her in his cloak on a chilly day or give up his own robe on a chilly night. It would be so romantic. The only time a man had covered her in his own garb was when the Hound used his cloak to hide her partial nudity in the throne room. It hadn’t been romantic exactly, but she would call it gallant (the man himself would deny it).

“What’s so amusing?”

Sansa snapped her head up to meet Tywin’s gaze. He’d been at his desk writing letters but apparently had caught her smiling. She hadn’t even realized she’d been smiling.

She shrugged, “Nothing you would find amusing, my lord.”

“Try me.”

Damn! I can’t tell him I was thinking of the Hound and how he hated to be accused of gallantry!

“I was just thinking of… of how silly I used to be.”

“How so?” he stood from his desk and circled to the front side, leaning against it and crossing his arms. It was intimidating, but she had learned that he couldn’t help but look intimidating. No more than the Hound could.

She knew her cheeks were turning pink, “I used to have a silly girlish fantasy about having a loving husband who would wrap me in his robe on cold nights. This robe reminded me of it.”

He nodded, “It wasn’t silly to have that fantasy.”

She smiled up at him, “No?”

He shook his head, “No. It would only be silly to maintain it now. No man takes a whore for his wife. No man trusts a whore to do anything more than warm his bed. At least, no man with half a brain.”

Her smile fell away. It was insulting to be called a whore because she wasn’t, even though she knew he thought she was, and that her very safety depended on him continuing to think so.

“You look disappointed, Sarina, yet this could hardly be a truth you were unaware of.”

She knew her cheeks would be glowing red but could not hide her shame, “I am quite aware of what I am and what it means about how men view me. That doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“No, I suppose not…” he stroked his chin, “Tell me, were you expecting to become the mistress of a wealthy man? Did you think you could catch yourself a lion?”

She blinked at him, not understanding what she was being accused of, “I beg your pardon, my lord?”

He moved to stand right in front of her chair, then crouched down, his eyes never dropping hers. Even in a crouch he cut a daunting figure, “You think you’re the first whore who tried to get a Lannister man wrapped around her finger? One tried it with my father… I made her take a walk of atonement naked through Lannisport. One tried it with my son. Do you want to know what I did to her?”

Sansa shook her head slowly. He was acting strangely tonight. In hindsight, she realized he’d been quiet since entering the bedchamber. He hadn’t shown any warmth toward her. Then again, he rarely was warm except when they were coupling. Well, sometimes he touched her lower back when he walked past her. Sometimes when they dined together his eyes would soften as he listened to her speak. Tonight he’d done none of that. And now he was being cruel to her, which was certainly new. He was never cruel to her; he sometimes teased but rarely mocked, but his words tonight seemed to be chosen for no reason other than to provoke her. And over what? What had she done wrong?

Nothing. She had been perfect. Quiet and unobtrusive when he was toiling; friendly when he needed to talk through some problem; affectionate when he needed soothing. And of course, she never rejected his advances when he needed a different kind of soothing. She was the eldest daughter of the Warden of the North. She shared blood with the Kings of Winter. She was of the oldest and purest lineage in all of Westeros, yet he dared to accuse her of being some mercenary woman trying to take advantage of him? If anyone was being taken advantage of, it was her!

“I make a comment about a night robe, my lord – a comment you insisted I share – and you think that means I’m trying to take advantage of you?” she snapped. Stupidly, she knew, but her blood was ripping through her veins and if she didn’t say something she’d do something, and that would be really stupid. It was like that day that Joffrey made her look at Father’s head. She knew she’d pay for the words, but she could not stop herself from uttering them. Joffrey said he’d give her Robb’s head as a wedding present. Or perhaps he’ll give me yours, was her response. It felt so damned good to say it. It felt better than Ser Meryn’s fist felt painful.

“I think every woman I meet is trying to take advantage of me… not to mention every other Lannister man. Why should you be different?” the lion snapped back, his voice dripping with arrogance. Joffrey always took that tone. I am the king!

She couldn’t help it, she snorted, “Not only do you shit gold, you’re every woman’s fantasy, is that it?”

He grasped her chin roughly, “Who are you?”

“What?”

“You don’t speak like any whore I’ve ever met. You don’t act like any whore I’ve ever met. Most whores can’t be shut up… they fill every second with words intended to seduce. They stroke a man’s pride as surely as they stroke his cock.”

She jerked her chin away, “Then I suppose I’m bad at my job.”

“Did the Brotherhood without Banners send you? Did they plant you here to spy? Surely they could guess a woman as beautiful as you would be snatched up by the highest-ranking commander or lord.”

Her heart began to race. Gone was the defiance, in its place only fear. No, he wasn’t accusing her of being Sansa Stark, but this was just as bad, perhaps worse. He was accusing her of being a spy for the enemy. If he became convinced of that he would likely kill her after having her tortured for information. At least Sansa Stark would be protected by virtue of her station.

“Tell me, do they have a way to get you out of here? Some contingency plan? Or are you disposable to them? If I brought you out in front of the gate and ordered every guard and servant here to rape you, would they appear out of the woods to save you? Or would they leave you to die?”

Her eyes welled with tears and the Old Lion gave her a strange smile. She rose to her feet, angry that he would threaten any woman with such a fate. Angry that he would threaten her with such a fate after he had treated her so tenderly. After he had wrung hours of pleasure out of her body.

The defiance was back, for better or worse, “If I don’t seem like a whore, it’s because I’m not one. I wasn’t supposed to be one! I was raised by a good and kind father. He provided for me. He cared for me. He educated me. He wanted my happiness. And then he was taken away from me and I was thrust alone into a terrifying place where no one cared about me. Where men only wished to hurt and use me. A place where I had to guard my tongue because they were only waiting for the chance to punish me. And I escaped that place only to be captured by more men who wanted to hurt me. Ser Gregor was going to… to… Oh you know what he was going to do! And then you took me under your protection and have been kind and generous to me only to now accuse me of betraying you? I want nothing from you, Lord Lannister. I don’t want your gold or even your favor. All I wanted was a place where I could be safe for a change. All I wanted was to be free of my cage, but I flew right from one into another, didn’t I?”

She didn’t know what force propelled her feet, much less her tongue, but she found herself racing out of the room and down the many stairs. Only the heated blood in her veins wasn’t enough to make her impervious to the cold, which reminded her that she was wearing nothing but a shift and robe. Not even with socks or slippers.

She must be a stupid little bird indeed because the idea of continuing down the stairs in nothing but bedroom clothes was less frightening than the idea of returning to Lord Tywin’s bedchamber was insulting. Some part of her brain may have even said ‘serves him right’ at the idea that another man might see her in this state of undress and be unable to resist the temptation. The Old Lion didn’t like to share, she had gathered as much.

Yes, she knew it was foolish and a decision she may later regret but she was so angry, so hurt, so…

But why am I hurt? Because he accused me of spying? The reality is much worse… I’m a fugitive and traitor to the King – his grandson. And I will gladly tell Robb and Mother everything I’ve seen and heard here, not that it will help them much.

She couldn’t put her finger on why, but the accusation stung. It felt the way it had when Joffrey yelled at her after Nymeria bit him. It hadn’t been Sansa’s fault, but he yelled at her all the same. She had thought he loved her but in that moment he looked like he hated her, and she felt so…

Betrayed.

But Tywin cannot betray me because I am nothing to him… he owes me nothing…

Sansa gasped and nearly lost her footing when a hand clamped around her upper arm.

Her body was spun around, and she looked up to find Tywin staring down at her. Even in the dimly lit stairway she could tell his pupils were blown wide. He looked absolutely livid. He looked like he wanted to murder her. He—

He was kissing her. He didn’t scold her for running away from him. He didn’t accuse her of spying. He didn’t tell her she was stupid to run from the safety of his presence wearing nothing but a shift and robe. He just kissed her. It was rough and possessive and instantly she felt wet and ready for him even though she shouldn’t be… he didn’t deserve it, but… oh…

His lips and teeth nipped at the skin on her neck, then down to her shoulder and back again, pushing aside the thick robe. He made tiny little love bites, not quite painful, but almost. Then he nipped at her earlobe and his breath tickled the inside of her ear. She shuddered and her woman’s place throbbed as he nuzzled that place right below her ear that was so sensitive.

She heard her name come out of his lips on a whisper. Well, not her name…

And then she was pressed against the wall and her legs were wrapped around his waist and he was thrusting up into her and she realized that Arya was right – there was more than one way to skin a cat.

It was a rough coupling, each thrust bumping her against the cold stone wall. No part of his shaft was touching any part of her in a pleasurable way. And yet it felt so fulfilling, the way his strong arms held her up. The way he repeated her name like a chant. The way he seemed to be a slave to his desire for her. For the first time, she felt like she was the one in control, though she couldn’t possibly be. He was taking her. He was using her body for his pleasure and not worrying if she found her own. And yet she felt an unexpected surge of pride when he grunted in her ear, when he desperately clutched her backside in his hands, when he pinned her to the wall and found his completion, his body rigid and suddenly unmoving except for the twitches of his manhood inside her. Her belly buzzed with pride that bordered on arrogance. She’d been imbued with some power, perhaps by her father’s old gods.

But how to tap it? It was like she woke up in Ser Gregor’s body but with no knowledge of the techniques involved in swordplay.

Arya wouldn’t be able to help her in this regard. She almost wanted to ask Tywin, but he’d never give her such valuable information.

Cersei

She had a vague notion that Cersei would tell her just how to channel this, though the longer she stayed perched there on Tywin’s forearms, the less certain she was that she’d been given any power, that she’d ever had any control. His manhood slipped from her, his seed with it, and the swell within her shriveled up like an old grape. It had been an illusion. A fantasy. Another betrayal of self. Her mind convinced her she was the puppet master, not the one on the strings.

After catching his breath, he let her slide down the wall until her feet were on the steps, but he didn’t move to return to their room right away. His forehead rested against hers. That was odd.

Before she could ponder it much, he tucked himself in and then she was airborne. He had lifted her and was carrying her up the stairs as if she weighed nothing… and had she not fantasized about this, too? About a husband so strapping he could carry her all the way from their wedding feast to their bedchamber even if it was on the other side of the keep? Sure, this wasn’t a wedding, but…

Well, perhaps Arya was right. It was okay to enjoy what she could, while she could.

Notes:

The great thing about POV style writing is you don't know both character's thoughts/motives in any given scene. It allows readers to wonder, to form theories - which is what I love about reading, personally. However, read ahead if you want to know my rationale for the last scene (Sansa POV / Tywin accusation)...

My thinking for what motivated Tywin's sudden suspicion was that he got word from Ser Gregor or one of his other commanders out hunting the Brotherhood w/o Banners that they continued to evade them, continued to grow in numbers. That pisses him off cause he's all big armies and fancy armor and BwoB are using guerilla tactics he can't match.
Also, I imagine Tywin as paranoid when it comes to women. He enjoys being with Sarina more than he thinks is appropriate, which makes him worry she is trying to bend him to her will, which makes him get all growly to prove to her (and himself) that he can't be manipulated.
But then Sarina growls back... and you see what THAT did to him. :)

Chapter 5: You live up to your reputation

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Sansa

The days went by in a monotonous pattern. Lord Tywin was busy by day. Sansa was not. Arya would visit with her for a few minutes whenever she delivered a meal. A few times they read his scrolls, but they were all coded, apparently. It sounded like the people writing the letters were speaking in nursery rhymes, but not in any obvious patterns. Surely even Sansa would know what it meant if something like ‘the wolf follows the setting sun’ was written. But these words were very abstract. Arya said he likely used books to decode them, but unless they knew which books and had access to them, the scrolls were useless to them.

It was just as well. During the few minutes they had read the scrolls Sansa had been terrified that Lord Tywin would walk in. She knew how implausible it was. Arya would have just come from the ground floor, stopping to see if he needed anything before she delivered Sarina’s lunch. Or she would know he was behind closed doors speaking to a commander or a visiting lord or the maester. They’d leave the door open a crack so if anyone came up the stairs and down the hall, they would hear them coming.

Yet still, she was terrified. She had become comfortable with her routine, and comfortable with her cage. She felt rather like a domesticated dog. The wild she belonged to frightened her; she’d rather keep her life small and simple. She rarely left the room except to use the privy or the antechamber. Though her original plan had been to spend her free time wandering around the castle, it seemed too risky. Arya said various lords and commanders were always coming and going. Any number of them could have seen Sansa in King’s Landing.

Arya had not yet approached Lord Wylis Manderly. Apparently, he was somewhat reclusive, usually only spotted at night by Hotpie when he was cleaning in the kitchens and Lord Wylis came to steal some sweetbread. Hotpie had said he was a kind man, but lots of men seemed kind until they had the opportunity to be rotten – Arya and Sansa had both learned that lesson.

So her days were boring, though she didn’t mind. After living in King’s Landing, boring was perfectly fine.

Nights on the other hand… nights were something else.

After the night of their argument (if it could be called that), Tywin hadn’t accused her of anything again, and she was grateful. He perhaps seemed more sympathetic toward her, more affectionate. She suspected that reminding him she had been a merchant’s daughter made him realize that she was a victim, not a potential bad actor.

They didn’t lay together every night, but most, and she was done trying to convince herself it shouldn’t feel good. Tywin seemed to thoroughly enjoy kissing her lips and her body. He’d even kissed between her legs a couple times, to her absolute horror and pleasure. And she’d yet to have to put his manhood in her mouth or get on her hands and knees, so perhaps that kitchen wench didn’t know what she was talking about, after all. She did sometimes climb on top of him though, usually when he was at his desk chair. They didn’t even remove any clothes during those encounters. When he was angry because of news he’d received, he’d pull her into his lap, kiss her aggressively, then lift her skirts while lowering his breeches.

She supposed it was a bit like riding a horse, but even with her on top Tywin liked doing a lot of the work, thrusting up into her while holding her hips still. He didn’t seem to like when she was too much in control, though sometimes he let her move in a way that brought her pleasure, which was more back and forth than up and down. When she sat on him and worked back and forth, her nub rubbed against the golden hair at the base of his shaft and tickled her in a very nice way.

When both were satisfied for the night, he would lay on his back and she’d cuddle against him. He would lose himself in thought or he would complain to her of the day’s frustrations. He didn’t go into specifics about the war but in combination with what Arya overheard they could piece together a pretty good picture.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to that picture. Robb was still at Riverrun. Tywin was, obviously, still at Harrenhal. Renly and Stannis were in something of a stalemate, neither wanting to be the first to draw steel against the other, and being in no particular rush since every day that passed was a day the current king was weakened. With the Baratheons and Tyrells cutting off the normal supply routes, the situation in the Crownlands was worsening. Riots continued. Merchants were wary of sailing into the harbor, fearing they’d be caught in the midst of the strife if Stannis decided to choose that day to sail his fleet in for an attack.

Sansa worried for the people, of course, but hoped that Joffrey and Cersei would starve. She worried about Sandor Clegane. She even worried about Tyrion – he had protected her as best he could, after all. But everyone else in the Red Keep could starve, for all she cared. The courtiers never tried to help her. They shunned her even though she’d never publicly given anyone a reason to question her loyalty. They shunned her because they were afraid of Joffrey’s volatile temperament.

She and Arya were antsy, of course. They wanted to be reunited with their family members, but both were also somewhat content to not be in any immediate danger.

Everything was going better than could be rightly expected.

And then all at once, everything fell apart…

Arya was huffing and puffing as she ran into the bedchamber.

“What in the Seven—” Sansa gasped upon seeing her sister.

Arya held up a hand, “Quickly… the Mountain’s back…”

“What? Well… what does that mean? Lord Tywin isn’t leaving, is he? Is he leaving the Mountain in charge again? Oh gods!”

Arya shook her head, “He came back because while he was out reaving he encountered a man who claimed to be a messenger sent by the Imp with information too sensitive to put in writing, even coded.”

“Did you hear what it was?”

“He told me to leave but I stayed outside the door. I couldn’t hear what the messenger said but I could hear the Great Lion throwing things and shouting. I think… I think he knows about Arya and Sansa Stark…”

 

Tywin

The last time he’d been this livid was the day Aerys II named Jaime to his Kingsguard. Tywin left the capital after that, vowing never to return to the filthy city. He broke that promise two years later when he finally joined the cause spearheaded by Jon Arryn, Ned Stark, and Robert Baratheon. He stayed long enough to put his daughter on the throne then left, once again vowing never to return. It was this vow that partially motivated his refusal to answer Cersei’s plea for his presence in King’s Landing, though he’d never admit so to anyone.

Now he realized that his family in the capital were beyond incompetent. He’d already let them know it had been stupid to execute Ned Stark. Cersei blamed Joffrey. Indeed, from what Tywin could tell from a distance, the boy was an impulsive and short-sighted buffoon, but what did that make his mother?

But at least with the two Stark daughters as hostages, the crown had leverage. Robb Stark could only do so much without risking his sisters’ lives. Which meant Jaime was safe as Robb’s prisoner. As safe a prisoner during war time could be, at least.

But apparently Tywin’s idiotic family lost not one but both daughters. The messenger, who was so intimidated in Tywin’s presence that his body literally shook with fear, told Tywin that the younger daughter, Arya, hadn’t been seen since the day of Ned Stark’s execution. Cersei had been assuming her dead. The capital was filled with rapers and thieves and a small girl wouldn’t stand a chance. Tywin wasn’t sure why this news had never been relayed to him, but it didn’t matter now.

One would assume that, given their leverage had been reduced by half with Arya Stark’s disappearance, they would keep the remaining daughter under heavy guard. She ought to have been as protected as Joffrey himself, but apparently there was a riot the day that Myrcella was shipped off to Dorne. A violent riot during which noblewomen like Lollys Stokeworth were raped, guards and City Watch members were maimed and killed, and Joffrey himself was assaulted. In the panic and confusion Lady Sansa became separated from the rest of the royal procession. Later, Tyrion sent Sandor Clegane to look for the girl, but she was nowhere to be found and the mayhem made it impossible for a thorough search to be performed until the next day.

No body was recovered, meaning the girl could still be alive. Except that a few days later a common woman was caught selling silks and pearls that Cersei later identified as having belonged to a dress of Lady Sansa’s. The woman claimed to have found a bloodied dress in the street after the riots. She removed the beading and pearls and cut out the parts that were blood-stained. The rest she deconstructed and sold. The woman was questioned and led the City Watch to the place where she’d found the dress but there was no sign of Lady Sansa there, either.

More than likely, both Arya and Sansa Stark were dead. That would be a problem preventing this war from ending diplomatically. The slim chance either girl could have survived didn’t help Tywin. If word of this traveled to the Stark camp, Tywin doubted his son would be spared.

Tywin managed to compose himself after realizing he’d been punching the table and swiping books and cups and bowls and everything in sight to the floor.

He looked at the messenger who was still shaking, “Is there more?” Tywin asked, thinking he was being facetious until the boy nodded.

“Your nephew, my lord. Tyrek. He is among the missing.”

Tygett’s only child.

Tywin had never been close to his late brother Tygett, nor any of his siblings but Kevan, but he was still a Lannister. He had served his house well in the War of the Ninepenny Kings and later helped to squash the Tarbecks and Reynes. Tyrek was all that was left of Tygett, and he too might be gone now. If the rioters hated Joffrey enough to kill anyone of relation to him, then Tyrek was likely dead. It was possible, however, that Tyrek had become the victim of an opportunistic kidnapping scheme. That he’d later be ransomed back to Cersei and Tyrion.

Or, and Tywin didn’t like to think of this, young Tyrek may have been used just as the rioters had used Lollys Stokeworth and likely Sansa Stark.

“Your son, the Lord Hand, has men searching for Lord Tyrek and Lady Sansa as we speak.”

Tywin clenched and unclenched his fists, “It’s been weeks. If they haven’t been found yet, they won’t be. They’re either dead or they’re far from the city.”

The messenger tipped his head in what could either be agreement or submission.

“Who knows about Ladies Arya and Sansa?”

“Beg pardon, my lord?”

Tywin rolled his eyes, “Who knows that the Stark daughters are no longer wards of the crown?”

The man shrugged, “I’m not sure I can answer that, my lord. Presumably everyone in court would have noticed Lady Arya’s absence by now, though with all the commotion surrounding the… eh, execution of the Stark patriarch and household, some may not have wondered about the girl’s fate. As for the elder sister, I would imagine her absence will be immediately noted. She was quite present at court, being as she was – er, is – King Joffrey’s betrothed.”

“Had the ports been checked to see if either girl boarded a ship? They may have tried for White Harbor or even sought asylum in Dorne, if they had any brains.”

The man shrugged again, “I do not know, my lord.”

“Of course you don’t. Tell me what you do know about the girls.”

“Eh…” the man hesitated to answer, “I know the City Watch doubts that Lady Sansa could have escaped. A young lady walking about without a dress? Even if she’d survived the initial assault that led to her being… eh, undressed, it is doubtful she’d survive a second assault. Or a third. She… Apologies, my lord, but King Joffrey is not popular among the people, and she is his betrothed…”

Tywin rubbed his eyebrows where a headache was starting to form, “Enough about the bloody attack. Tell me what you know about the girls themselves. Meaning before they disappeared.”

“I know next to nothing about the younger daughter, my lord. I know the elder is said to be quite beautiful and mild mannered. Red of hair and blue of eye. King Joffrey is very disturbed by her disappearance, my lord. Given her beauty he fears what men would do to her.”

“A woman doesn’t need to be a beauty to be raped. Ask Lollys Stokeworth.”

The man tipped his head again, “Of course, my lord, I was only sharing the king’s comment on the matter. He is offering a generous reward for her safe return, but only if she…”

“If she what?”

The man blushed, “If she has not been soiled, my lord.”

Tywin was ready to pound his fists into the table again. Of course, the sniveling cretin that was his grandson would put such a clause in place. Tywin would think that Cersei and Tyrion would talk him out of it, knowing that Sansa Stark would be valuable to her family with or without her maidenhead, but apparently they didn’t even have that much control over the boy.

Tywin was tempted to send the messenger back to King’s Landing with word that he’d be withdrawing his troops back to Casterly Rock. Let Renly or Stannis take the bloody throne, Tywin had yet to benefit from having a daughter on the throne, then a grandson. In fact, he was probably worse off. The Crown owed him significant debts, and he’d yet to receive a repayment. He’d received word from Tyrion shortly after dispatching the dwarf to the capital that the Crown was near bankrupt. Tywin’s only way to collect what was owed to him would be to take the Crown from his own grandson, and what good would that do him? Then he’d be the one waiting for Renly, Stannis, and/or Robb Stark to come for him.

But how could he back out of the war now, while Jaime was still a prisoner of the Young Wolf? How could he abandon the capital when his daughter, son, and grandsons lived there? Him exiting this war wouldn’t just paint him as a coward, it would eliminate all the people who might someday be his heirs (not that any of them were qualified to replace him). Now even Tyrek was gone. His nephews Martyn, Willem, and Tion were hostages of Robb Stark. It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that all three of them could perish before the war was over, along with Jaime. If Robb Stark found out that both his sisters were dead, Jaime, Willem, Martyn, and Tion might be killed in an act of vengeance. If Tywin abandoned the capital for Stannis or Renly to take, then Cersei, Tyrion, Joffrey, Tommen, and Lancel would more than likely perish. Tywin’s entire legacy could be destroyed in the blink of an eye.

He threw a ceramic pitcher and hated that when it shattered his troubles didn’t shatter with it.

“Out,” he growled, and the man scurried like a rat.

Trying to work was futile. Too much heat was flowing through his veins. He felt like he would explode.

The training yard was his intended destination, but his feet had other ideas. They carried him up, up, up, until he barged through the door of his bedchamber. Sarina was there, sitting in the chair sewing something. He must have looked a fright because her blue eyes went impossibly wide when she saw him, then she was sucking her finger where she must have jabbed it with the needle.

“My lord…?” she spoke meekly. Most well-mannered whore he’d ever met, only he didn’t need her sweetness today; he wanted that fire she showed the night he had accused her of spying. He wanted—

Well-mannered…

Blue eyes…

Red hair…

If he was in a different state, he would have handled things differently. Laid a cunning trap she’d walk right into, perhaps by casually asking her a question about the capital, or about Winterfell, neither of which she should know much about. But the rage was still making it hard for him to think. And as much as he felt like a fool for potentially being tricked by this girl, he still wanted her, and that made him angrier still.

Her sewing dropped to the floor as he pulled her up by the arms. She shrieked as his fingers dug into her tender flesh.

“Who are you?” he leaned in and spoke in a snarl.

“This again!?” she cried, “I told you, I’m—”

He moved one hand to the back of her head, yanking down on her braid until her face was pointed to the ceiling. Her now free arm tried to push him back, but he’d known toddlers to have more strength.

“Lying to me would be most unwise, girl. I know you’re not a whore, or even a merchant’s daughter. But you are someone’s daughter, aren’t you? And your father is dead, isn’t he?”

“My lord, please, I don’t under—”

“You lying bitch! You’ve been hiding under my nose all this time!”

“Please! I don’t know what I’ve done—”

“How did you get here? Tell me the fucking truth!”

“I told you!” she cried, tears streaming down her cheeks, “The Mountain’s Men found me after I left Maidenpool!”

“And how did you get to Maidenpool?”

“I told you, I lived there! I was working—”

“Stop lying! You sailed to Maidenpool, didn’t you? You sailed there from King’s Landing! I want to know how! How the fuck did you manage it?! Did someone help you?!”

Her eyes widened and it was all the confirmation Tywin needed that she was hiding something. Still grasping her by the braid he pulled her out of the room and down the stairs, all the while she feebly tried pulling at his wrists and sputtering defenses that whatever he thought she’d done, she didn’t; whoever he thought she was, she wasn’t.

He led her all the way to Lord Manderly’s chambers in one of the other towers, one that was heavily guarded. Everyone in the courtyard saw the spectacle he made, but he didn’t care.

The guards stepped aside, and Tywin almost broke the door off its hinges, finding Lord Manderly inside, occupying himself with a book as he lazed on a settee. Tywin threw the girl in front of him, and she landed on the floor, a red-faced, snotty mess.

“Who is this girl, Lord Manderly?” Tywin asked the wide-eyed and wide-bellied man.

The lord of White Harbor looked down at the girl, studied her, but Tywin saw no evidence of recognition. He looked back to Tywin and shrugged, “Am I supposed to know, Lord Lannister?”

“Guard!” Tywin shouted, and the man was by his side, looking nearly as terrified as the girl.

“Your sword,” Tywin stated as calmly as he could. It took the guard a few heartbeats to draw his sword and hand it to his lord.

Tywin held the edge of the steel to the man’s fat neck, “Give me her name or lose your ugly head.”

The lump in the man’s throat moved up and down. The fear in his eyes was plain to see, but the lord didn’t give Tywin what he needed, “I’m sorry, Lord Lannister, but I don’t know her name. I know the servants have said you’re keeping a redhaired whore up in the tower. I’m guessing this is she.”

Tywin handed the sword back. Not all men were afraid of a clean death, but this Manderly was said to be not just a loyal vassal, but a dear friend to the Starks. Tywin would need a different approach.

“Dagger,” he said, holding his hand in front of the guard without taking his eyes off of Manderly.

With dagger in his hand he crouched so he was hovering over the girl who had stopped pleading and looked to be in shock, her eyes stuck unfocused on some spot near the guard’s feet.

“Open your mouth,” he commanded in a steady voice.

The daze in her eyes was blinked away as she looked from his eyes to the dagger and shook her head.

“Then I’ll open it myself,” with one hand on the back of her head, he put the tip of the dagger to her sealed lips and pushed slowly, leaving her no choice but to open her mouth to avoid her lips being cut open. Her lips trembled as they parted just enough for him to slide the dagger into her mouth then slowly angle it until the tip of the blade was pressed against the inside of her cheek.

He looked at Wylis Manderly and found the man had sweat rolling down his pale face. His eyes went from the girl to Tywin.

“Tell me who she is, or I will widen her smile, then toss her to the Mountain to share amongst his men.”

He watched the fat man’s fear turn to disdain, “Then you live up to your reputation, Lord Lannister.” He jerked his sweaty head toward the girl, “I still don’t know who she is. Soon to be another victim of the Mountain, I suppose. Another victim of the war. If I knew her name, I don’t see how it would matter… no one will remember it anyway.”

With an angry growl Tywin pulled his dagger back, snatched the girl up again and led her back toward the tower he occupied. The girl was silent but for sniffles and panting. He passed Lisbeth standing outside the kitchens with a chubby boy next to her. The boy looked shocked; Lisbeth just looked angry, perhaps judgmental. Girl was too much of an idealist, Tywin knew from their few conversations. Hopefully this war would scare some sense into her before it was through. That was, if she survived.

It didn’t feel right that the girl hadn’t revealed herself when he threatened to take Lord Wylis’ head and, even more, when he held a dagger in her mouth. No highborn girl would let her face be carved open from the inside if it was within her power to stop it, and surely Sansa Stark would know her name alone would keep her safe.

Nonetheless, it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that the Stark girl had more mettle than she ought. And he needed to be sure. If she was Sansa Stark, he’d have to put her under heavy guard – as she should have been in the capital. And he’d…

He’d have to stop fucking her.

Fuck… Have I been fucking Robb Stark’s little sister?

Shame was not a familiar emotion to the Great Lion. As handy as it would be to have found the missing hostage, he found himself praying that his suspicion was wrong. Was red hair not more common in the Riverlands? And he knew plenty of people with blue eyes. The Baratheons, namely. Hells, perhaps this girl was one of Robert Baratheon’s many bastards. Every Baratheon going back generations was known to have blue eyes.

Except Joffrey.

Except Myrcella.

Except Tommen.

Fuck… don’t think about that now.

Despite his inner turmoil he never wavered as he dragged Sarina up the stairs and into the bedchamber, shoving her down into a chair. He’d get to the bottom of this now; he wasn’t one to shy from the truth.

“Tell me the name of the brothel where you worked.”

He watched the color drain from her face. She had no answer.

His doubts evaporated instantly to have confirmation of her lies. He was so angry he wanted to kill something. Unfortunately, if the girl was Sansa Stark, he couldn’t kill her. Perhaps he’d find some old man that had been brought here as a prisoner and kill him, make the girl watch. Perhaps he’d do it slowly and if the girl had a conscience, she would confess her real identity to spare the man some pain.

He shook his head slowly, “You’ve got balls, girl, I’ll give you that.”

Her face had gone eerily still. Tears still stained her skin, her eyes and nose were still red, but otherwise she showed no emotion. No fear. No anger. No defeat. No anything…

“I want the truth and I want it now.”

She shook her head ever so slightly, “I lied about working at a brothel but I’m not lying about anything else. Whoever you think I am, I am not. I am Sarina Parsons. My father was Cedrick Parsons. My mother was Salna Mudd. Not to be confused with the Mudds of Oldstones; my mother’s father was a sellsword. My mother and father never actually married but my father gave me his name because he loved me, and he loved my mother.”

“So you’re not a whore?” he arched an eyebrow skeptically.

She shook her head.

“Then I suppose it would be quite traumatic if I took you like a whore right now, wouldn’t it?”

Her eyebrows pulled together, “I don’t understand…”

He snatched the girl up for the third time and spun her until she was facing the table. He shoved her down by the neck until her torso was flush with the surface, bent over, just as whores are used to taking it. Perhaps a dagger in the mouth wasn’t enough. Perhaps she knew he’d never risk maiming Sansa Stark in such a way, nor would he maim Sarina in such a way. But perhaps if he began to shove his cock in her tight little arsehole, he’d get the truth. Pain motivated more than threats of pain, that he knew well.

With her head pinned to the table he used his dagger to cut straight down the back of her dress from collar to skirt. He then stabbed the dagger into the surface of the table right next to her head, making her flinch but not scream.

Using his thighs to keep her hips pressed to the table, he spread apart the torn ends of her dress, only what he found underneath made him question everything he’d felt so sure about only moments ago. Across her back were thin, pink lines. Scars. Straight scars. Scars no highborn maiden who’d lived her entire life in Winterfell then King’s Landing would carry. Nor were they fresh enough to have been acquired since her escape, if she was indeed Sansa Stark.

The girl was quiet still though her back rose up and down with each frantic breath.

“How did you get these scars?”

For a few moments the girl was silent, most likely in shock by his sudden turn.

“I told you I fled because of a man who was cruel to me. This was no lie. After my father died, I was given to him by my stepmother. He was sick. He enjoyed seeing me in pain. He… he had a sword and he would strike my bare back with the flat side of it. Sometimes it cut me.”

Tywin felt like he might be sick. This girl had been no whore. She had been someone’s daughter, then she lost the only man who ever protected her and was sold to a sadistic cunt who abused her for a thrill. But she was no whore.

Just as Tyrion’s little wife had been no whore…

“Why did you tell me you were a whore?” he pulled her up and spun her around so she was facing him.

“I didn’t. You assumed I was a whore when you found me with Ser Gregor…”

Ser Gregor… He was in King's Landing... he’d have known if she was Sansa Stark. How did I not think of that before dragging her across half the bloody keep?!

She continued, “I went along with it because I thought that you might… that you would keep me if you thought I could… be of service to you.” Her cheeks were bright red. How had he not noticed before that she was too timid to be a whore? He’d attributed it to the fact that she was young and likely new to her trade, but in hindsight it shouldn’t take more than one turn of the moon for a whore to be cured of blushing. Women who swallowed cocks for a living had little need for modesty.

“Where did you think you would go when you left Maidenpool?”

The girl shrugged, “I didn’t have much of a plan. I had heard the war was bad in the Riverlands and that the people in the Crownlands are starving, so I thought I’d head north to the Vale and try to find work as a maid in a castle if I was lucky… or a tavern wench if I wasn’t.”

Tywin nodded before her words caught up with him, “You heard the Crownlands are starving?”

She nodded, “Maidenpool is a port town; it gets news from all over.”

“And what do the fine people of Maidenpool say about King Joffrey?”

Her cheeks flushed again.

“Tell me, girl. I’m asking because I want to know. Public opinion matters.”

It took her a long time to respond. When she did, it was in a whisper, “They hate him, my lord.”

“Hate?”

She nodded, “They say he is too stupid to rule and that he doesn’t care about the smallfolk. And that he…” her cheeks flushed again, “that he is not the true heir. They call him a bastard.”

“Is that all?”

She shook her head but held her tongue.

He sighed, “Continue, Sarina. Do not censor yourself on my account.”

She took a deep breath, “I’m not saying I believe this, my lord, but they say the traitor Robb Stark can turn into a wolf and kill his enemies. They hope it’s true because they think King Joffrey deserves to be feasted on, since he has lavish feasts while the people around him starve.”

Tywin nodded numbly. It was even worse than he feared and not for the first time he hated that his fate was being tied to his grandson’s. If only Robert had drowned the boy at birth.

“My lord… may I ask who you thought I was?”

He sighed again, feeling suddenly too defeated to lie, “I thought you were Lady Sansa Stark.”

Her eyes narrowed in confusion, “But… is she not the future queen?”

Tywin nodded, “She was to be queen.”

“Was?”

“She’s gone missing from the capital. More likely, dead. She is red of hair and blue of eye, like you.”

The girl smoothed a hand over her hair self-consciously and must have realized how disheveled it was due to Tywin’s rough handling of her. She blushed yet again. More like a maiden than a whore.

“But in hindsight I don’t know what I was thinking…” he sighed long and low.

Her eyes snapped up to him, “My lord?”

He almost chuckled, “A lady like Sansa Stark wouldn’t last a minute without guards during a riot in King’s Landing. And beyond that, they say the girl is beautiful, but I doubt she holds a candle to you. How can she? She was sired by Eddard Stark, a rugged looking man if there ever was one. And her mother Lady Catelyn? Well, I haven’t seen her in decades, but she was no great beauty. Pretty, yes, but not beautiful. But you? You’re not pretty. You’re not even beautiful. You’re magnificent. A work of art. Your stepmother was a spiteful fool. Any number of lower lords would have paid a small fortune for you, and they would have treated you like a queen instead of marring your perfect skin.”

Her hands were laced tightly in front of her, “It doesn’t matter, my lord. I just want to survive.”

He snorted, “I know the feeling.”

Her eyes raised, “Do you?”

“Sarina, what do you know of the war?”

She shrugged, “Not much, my lord. Only that the Northerners have won a few battles but don’t yet control the Riverlands, thanks to you. Oh and that both brothers of King Robert are making a bid for the throne. So I heard.”

“My son and nephews are prisoners of the Young Wolf. My other children, grandchildren, and nephew are in King’s Landing, a city that may be sacked any day now by either of the Baratheon brothers as you said. My entire line other than distant cousins could be wiped out within the next weeks. I got involved in this war because the Young Wolf’s mother arrested my son without cause. Now I’m stuck in this war on the side of a king no one likes because without my aid my family will perish. My line will end. It will be up to me and my only living brother, if we manage to survive this war, to repopulate House Lannister. A prospect I do not look forward to at my age.”

He turned to face the girl, uncertain why he told her all that, though he supposed it was information that wouldn’t benefit his enemies should it make its way to their ears. Anyone with half a brain could see that House Lannister was more vulnerable now than it had been since he put down the Reynes and Tarbecks when he was just a boy.

“Beg pardon, my lord, but why not try to negotiate a peaceful end to the conflict? Get the Young Wolf to release your son and at least one of your nephews.”

“And what might I give him? My other son already offered to return his sisters in exchange for Ser Jaime. The offer was not accepted or even countered,” he peered down at his hands. The callouses showed that he was a swordsman; the spots showed he was getting too fucking old.

She cleared her throat and he looked back up, “You might offer him neutrality. Promise to withdraw your armies to the Westerlands. Bring your son and nephews with you. Sons are more important than daughters, anyway,” her voice became bitter at the end. Though Tywin figured she was an only child and couldn’t appreciate what it felt like to have a brother, the girl must know that if she’d been born with a cock instead of a cunt, she’d never have been sold like chattel to some unworthy man who took pleasure in her pain.

He sighed. Her suggestion was a nice fantasy, but she didn’t understand all the angles, “Lions aren’t known for tucking their tails and retreating. I will find a way to win this war, even if not on the battlefield.”

She nodded, “As you say, my lord. May I return to my sewing?”

He hummed, “I suppose I owe you a new dress.”

“All the dresses I have are due to your generosity, my lord. I wouldn’t ask for another. I’m sure I can mend this.”

Tywin nodded even though he felt uncomfortably ashamed of his behavior. He’d never apologize, it wasn’t his way, but in what he hoped she would know was a conciliatory gesture he moved to the chair she’d been in earlier and retrieved the garment she’d been sewing from the floor. He realized it was a tunic. His tunic.

She reached for the garment, “Thank you, my lord. I hope you don’t mind. I noticed a hole in the shoulder seam.”

For some reason, he couldn’t meet her eyes just then.

He sat at his desk staring at a map but couldn’t stop thinking about the girl’s words. Nothing she’d said was profound, but it led to an epiphany of sorts, nonetheless.

There was only one thing – one person – he was unwilling to risk losing in this war. If everything else must be sacrificed, so be it – but he would not sacrifice his eldest son. The throne mattered little to him. Joffrey mattered not. Tyrion mattered not. Cersei… he did not want to lose his daughter, no matter her many flaws, but the person whose death would ruin him was Jaime. Jaime who was imprisoned in the Stark camp.

Perhaps the girl wasn’t completely wrong. Perhaps something could be offered to the Young Wolf to encourage him to release Jaime, even if not Martyn, Willem, and Tion.

He considered every correspondence he’d had with Tyrion and before that Cersei. He knew all of the Stark household was dead, thanks to the idiocy of his daughter and grandson. He knew that the Stark great sword was in Cersei’s possession. He knew the Stark daughters were not.

He of course had Lord Manderly, but no one had made any offers for him yet, and his father Wyman had denied Tywin’s own trade attempts. Still, the eldest son of the Lord of White Harbor was not worthless. Nor was a Valyrian steel great sword. But more would need to be offered.

He put himself in Robb Stark’s position. The young man had plenty of loyal men, though hardly enough to make a real move against the West or the Crownlands, unless he gained more men through an alliance. That was unlikely unless Stannis Baratheon could set aside his pride. Renly Baratheon had taken the Reach off the board. The Vale was unlikely to answer the North’s call if they had not yet. Apparently, Catelyn and Lysa weren’t as close as other sisters tended to be. Still, Tywin could not rule out the possibility entirely.

What the Starks were undoubtedly lacking was coin and provisions. Reaving the Westerlands could fix that problem, but only if they were willing to partially abandon their hold on the Riverlands.

Tywin leaned back in his chair and watched Sarina sew quietly in front of the hearth. The sight comforted him, though he knew not why.

He picked up his quill and began to write.

Notes:

So this Tywin confronts Sarina scene was one of the first I dreamed up.

As I said before, if you prefer not to know my inner thoughts/rationale, don't read the rest of this note...

I hope it's realistic that he would suspect her and then UN-suspect her. The scars are compelling (he knows Joffrey is stupid and impulsive but does not yet know how sadistic he is). Lord Wylis not identifying her. Ser Gregor not identifying her (in my head canon Ser Gregor just wasn't focused on the pretty little girl in the stands during the whole Ser Loras rides a mare in heat thing... but Tywin doesn't know that). Also Tywin has prejudices towards women of court. They're soft and weak. When Sansa doesn't confess and turns kind of stony during his interrogation, he interprets that as her being tough and worldly, like no highborn maiden would be. In reality, he doesn't know Sansa Stark has had to learn how to stem her tears, how to wear a mask, how to swallow her emotions. Oh, and there is one other factor: on a subconscious level he doesn't WANT her to be Sansa Stark because it will force him to make difficult choices and re-evaluate his passionate nights with Sarina.

Anyway, hope it was realistic enough. LMK what you think! Should Sansa have given up the jig? Do you hate Tywin now?
(J/K, it's impossible to hate Tywin, duh!)

Chapter 6: What are you doing to me?

Summary:

A new POV and new characters!!

Notes:

Guess what? It's TWOFER TUESDAY!! Yes, two chapters. To say THANK YOU for being the bestest, most awesomest people ever. Kudos and comments galore are what I awake to every morning. You make my day!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Wylis

It took longer than he expected to get an audience with Robb Stark and Lady Catelyn, partly owing to how long it took to be permitted entry to Riverrun at all. But now he was back among familiar faces. He was among friends. He breathed deeply for the first time in moons.

He didn’t bother to tarry once he had his audience, “I bring a proposal from Lord Tywin Lannister.”

Robb snorted, “I bet you do.”

Wylis tipped his head, “He will see the Stark ancestral sword, Ice, returned to you at his earliest opportunity.”

“How generous,” Catelyn mumbled.

“He has released me as a show of good faith, though asks you to consider my release as part of his proposal.”

“I know they call the man cruel, but I never thought him to be stupid,” Catelyn added drily.

Wylis ignored her comment, “He has offered a rather large sum of gold. Enough so that the North will be well provisioned for the coming winter,” Wylis slid the parchment across the table and saw both mother and son’s eyes go wide. He continued, “He will not withdraw his support of the Crown in the current conflict, but he encourages you to return home and in return he vows to leave Riverrun alone and to never bring his armies north of the Neck, even at the Crown’s behest, unless you make a direct threat against House Lannister. He also will put an immediate end to all reaving parties in the Riverlands.”

“That’s it?” Robb snorted, “He wants us to just abandon our cause? Return home with our tail between our legs?”

Catelyn tsked, “Robb, there is no shame in considering this. No amount of fighting will bring back your father. But with the promise of Lord Lannister to never invade our lands, the Crown would have an impossible time of trying to get us to kneel. We will have our independence. With any luck, Stannis or Renly will take the throne and we can make peace with them. Your father endorsed Stannis as the rightful king, or have you forgotten?”

Robb shook his head but relented, “I’ll consider it. What does he want in return, other than our retreat?”

“He wishes for his son, Ser Jaime, to be returned to him, along with Martyn Lannister. Willem and Tion may be kept as wards of House Stark or a vassal of your choice, so long as they are not harmed.”

“And he’ll return Arya and Sansa to us?” Catelyn didn’t bother trying to hide the hope from her voice.

Wylis smiled blithely, “No, but I know something the Old Lion does not…”

Catelyn and Robb exchanged a puzzled look.

“Lady Sansa is in Harrenhal—”

“WHAT?!” Catelyn screeched.

Wylis nodded, “As is Lady Arya.”

“WHAT?!”

“Lady Arya has been there some time. I’m not sure when Lady Sansa arrived. But the important thing is the Lannister men do not know who they are, though Lord Tywin had suspicions of Lady Sansa. Both girls are believed to be mere servants.” Wylis couldn’t bring himself to tell Catelyn that only Arya was acting as a servant… that Sansa was warming Lord Tywin’s bed. It would only aggrieve Catelyn and shame Sansa.

Catelyn’s face went pale, “Servants? At Harrenhal? This cannot be safe.”

“No, but it is necessary for their survival. And Lord Tywin is unwittingly protecting the North’s princesses.” Wylis wasn’t sure how accurate that was in Sansa’s case, but he knew from the kitchen boy that Tywin had recognized Arya as a girl and assigned her to be his personal cupbearer to spare her from the guards who had no scruples whatsoever.

“Protecting them?” Robb asked, bewildered.

“The guards at Harrenhal are not the most honorable of characters. By making both Arya and Sansa serve him personally, he brought them under his protection.”

Robb’s face became red, “And what was done to my sisters before he brought them under his protection?”

Wylis shrugged, “That I cannot tell you, though they look healthy and hearty enough.”

“How did they get to Harrenhal in the first place?” Robb asked.

“Lady Arya was brought in with a group of prisoners. How she got to the Riverlands, I cannot say. I did not see Lady Sansa’s arrival. I couldn’t even speculate as to how either girl departed the capital. I have not sought out either of your sisters for fear of raising the suspicions of Lord Tywin or any of the other men.”

“And you’re sure he doesn’t recognize them?” Catelyn asked desperately

“I imagine he’s never met either of them and would only know general descriptions of their looks. As I said, he likely suspects Sansa is not a mere… servant. He held a sword to my throat and demanded I tell him her real name.”

“And you didn’t?” Catelyn asked fearfully.

“I did not, my lady. And in the subsequent days I’ve heard nothing that makes me think he discovered the truth. The suspicions were likely just that – suspicions. Perhaps because of your daughter’s coloring and nothing more. Perhaps he suspected her of being a Tully relation. The men holding Harrenhal have been… questioning the prisoners they bring in. Trying to gain information about the Brotherhood without Banners. Trying to root out Stark and Tully sympathizers. Trying to find out where the villagers may have gold or other valuables hidden.” Wylis clenched his jaw to keep himself from shouting. He could feel his skin heating with rage that was difficult to suppress. Innocent men, women, and children had been tortured and killed. And Wylis knew the guards got nothing for it because all he ever heard the victims scream was ‘I don’t know’… Over and over and over again until the screaming stopped for good. At least Tywin Lannister was more inclined to see them put to use as laborers. No matter what the man’s sins, waste was not one of them.

Catelyn reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze while offering a watery smile, “You are indeed a friend of House Stark. I wish you never had to step foot in that place, my lord.”

Wylis dipped his head, “A house worthy of my friendship. They did not treat me harshly, my lady, and if I’d never been there then I wouldn’t be able to tell you what I know of your daughters. But I must warn you that if you intend to take action, time is of the essence. Only Lord Tywin’s fondness for your daughters is protecting them. When he leaves, the men who are left behind will have no such scruples.”

“The Mountain’s Men…” Robb growled, looking every bit like the sigil of his house.

“Indeed.”

“You say the lion is fond of them?” Catelyn asked.

Wylis nodded, "It appears that way."

“But why? He does not know their value,” Catelyn demanded.

Wylis shrugged, “I do not know, my lady. I can only tell you that the prisoners and hostages are being treated more humanely since Lord Lannister arrived. I have no love for the man, but he is… not the worst man I’ve ever met. Nor is he dumb. Rumor has it when he learned of your husband’s execution, he cursed so long his voice went hoarse.”

“None of this matters now,” Robb snapped, “How might we get Arya and Sansa out of Harrenhal? Lord Wylis, if we sent you back with a group of capable men, could you infiltrate the castle and retrieve them without being seen?”

Wylis shook his head, “I’m afraid not. Even if I were a stealthier man, the place is locked down since he arrived, and I had yet to discover any weak spots.” Wylis patted his belly, “As I said, I’m not a stealthy man. I could only wander around so much, under the guise of stretching my legs.”

“Can it be sacked?”

“It’s possible, my king. Lord Lannister has men working day and night to reinforce it, but the place is not what it once was. It would take less than dragonfire to sack it, for sure, but that doesn’t mean the task will be easy.”

“Sacks and sieges are risky, Robb,” Catelyn warned, “We will lose many men and for the days or weeks it takes to get a surrender, our forces will be spread too thin. Besides, reinforcements from the West can be here shortly; we could find ourselves trapped between Harrenhal and an army. Lord Tywin has probably been hoping we would do just that.”

Robb nodded, “What of approaching him with a counter-offer – we give him two of the hostages and the truce he seeks in exchange for Sansa and Arya, the sword, and the gold?”

“You are willing to accept a truce?” Catelyn asked in a disbelieving but not disapproving voice.

“I’ll need to talk it over with my bannerman, but if I divvy the gold amongst all the houses, perhaps they can be convinced to return home. Some don’t even need to be convinced,” Robb groaned, “Some are eager to prepare for winter. The others? Perhaps they will agree to wait and see who sits the throne when spring comes.”

Catelyn looked surprised by Robb’s apparent willingness to yield but her words addressed a different matter, “Robb, once you acknowledge that Sansa and Arya are there, it cannot be undone. Lord Lannister will know who he has in his possession. He may feel less desperate to make a deal. Right now our greatest asset is his ignorance.”

Robb clenched his fists against the table, “Then what would you have me do, Mother? Let Arya and Sansa fall victim to the Mountain’s Men when the lion departs?”

Catelyn put a firm hand on her son’s shoulder, “I’d have you agree to the deal but insist that he surrenders Harrenhal and all its inhabitants – the men and women of the Riverlands who are being held there as prisoners.”

Robb’s lips curved, “Mother, that’s genius!”

Wylis cleared his throat, “Might I ask, my king, what your plan would have been had I not arrived with this news?”

Robb looked as if he’d almost forgotten Wylis’ presence, though he couldn’t blame the lad. “My mother was going to travel south to treat with Lord Renly about an alliance, and I’ve sent Theon Greyjoy to treat with his father.”

Wylis almost choked on his own saliva, “Balon Greyjoy?”

Robb sighed loudly, “I know, but—”

“No buts, lad! Your father isn’t here to guide you, so I will. You cannot trust a squid! The North humiliated the Iron Islands during and after their rebellion. That old man would like nothing more than to return the favor. Even if he agrees to support your cause, he cannot be trusted.”

“Theon is convinced—”

“Theon hasn’t seen his father since he was a tyke! Theon is a stranger to Balon as Balon is to Theon. I implore you to be highly skeptical of any offer Balon is willing to make.”

He watched as Robb blushed and Catelyn glared at her son with an expression that said, ‘I told you so’.

“If it comes to that, I will consider it closely,” Robb spoke defensively.

“Nothing to consider, lad. I’d trust a lion of Lannister before I trusted a squid. Hells, I’d trust that bastard boy on the throne before I trusted a squid.”

Robb nodded in surrender, “Fine. But my mother could still go south. If Renly ends up with the throne it cannot hurt to be on his good side.”

“Aye, I suppose not… except that he’ll ask you to join his cause. Which means fighting against the Lannisters, which would go against the agreement you hope to forge with Lord Lannister. So which is it, boy? Do you want to keep fighting for a southern throne? Or do you want to get your sisters back, your family’s sword back, and return to Winterfell where you wolves belong? Reign as King in the North, and I pity the southern army who thinks they can beat you in your own lands.”

Catelyn nodded, “And we hold the Moat again now, and we have an alliance with the Freys.”

Robb snorted, “Only if we pay up. Lord Frey is expecting me to marry one of his daughters and Arya one of his sons.”

“It is a small price to pay,” Catelyn soothed.

“Easy for you to say,” Robb muttered before casting an apologetic glance at his mother.

Wylis shook his head, “Walder Frey… I trust him almost as little as I trust the Greyjoy, but a deal is a deal.”

Catelyn’s eyes narrowed, “Then again, we can hardly be expected to uphold all aspects of the deal… particularly those that are beyond our control.”

“Mother?”

“No one knows we have – or we will have – recovered Arya and Sansa. They can travel with the supply train. You’re already making one of his daughters your queen. Why must he take one of your sisters, too?”

“And when word reaches him that Arya is alive and well in Winterfell?”

“Then we try to negotiate an alternative. Or worst case, we give him what he wants. At least Arya will be a little older. She’ll have had a chance to visit home before being married. Or perhaps we can convince him to let the couple spend half of each year in Winterfell.”

Robb was silent as he considered the matter. Then, his face became as solemn as his father’s and he turned to face Wylis directly, “Lord Wylis – would you act as liaison? Bring word to Lord Lannister that I am willing to discuss an exchange and a truce. I and a small host will depart toward Harrenhal in three days’ time. Tell him to meet me a day’s ride northwest of Harrenhal.”

Wylis bowed, “It will be my honor.”

Robb let a small smirk play on his lips, “And remind him that four men with Lannister blood are prisoners of my uncle. Should anything happen to me during our meeting, my men will execute them – slowly – starting with the Kingslayer.”

Wylis couldn’t help but smile back.

 

Sansa

After the close call with Lord Tywin, Sansa felt she was walking on eggshells. One wrong word, one wrong look, and he would know who she really was. She’d assuaged his doubts, but for how long could she maintain it?

Though she couldn’t exactly look forward to his departure, either. Other than threats meant to extract a confession – twice now – he’d not hurt her. But once he left would she be able to say the same of the other men here? Would Ser Gregor pick up where he’d left off? Even she wasn’t naïve enough to think he wouldn’t.

To make matters even more confusing, Lord Tywin hadn’t bedded her since the incident. He hadn’t sent her away, either. He ate the evening meal with her when he didn’t work through it. He slept beside her. But he made no attempt at affection. He fell asleep with an arm’s length between them, though often she’d awaken in the middle of the night to find him curled around her body, a perfect fit. It never lasted past his waking, though.

She had no idea what to make of his sudden distance. Had he been repulsed by the scars on her back and no longer desired her? That notion bothered her (though she wasn’t sure why) but didn’t seem likely. What concerned her more greatly was the possibility that he still harbored suspicions that she was Sansa Stark. Such would explain him refraining from intimate activities. That notion frightened yet thrilled her, because it implied that Tywin cared – unlike Joffrey who hurt her even though he knew full well her value.

Except she shouldn’t care whether Tywin cared. But she did. Hence, it was doubly confusing.

Despite all these fears, most of the time she felt confident that her identity was safe. If Tywin believed with any degree of certainty that she was Sansa Stark, he’d have assigned guards to her, would he not? Except Joffrey and Cersei had never assigned guards to her… Was Tywin simply confident that she’d never make it out of Harrenhal? But no – he was more pragmatic than Joffrey and Cersei combined. He would not take any chances. He’d have a guard assigned or he would lock her in a room.

So he didn’t know… yet he had put a wall up between them anyway. Why?

Arya was no help in this matter; she only cared that Tywin still believed Sansa was Sarina, and that he hadn’t injured Sansa during his interrogation of her. Arya shrugged off Sansa’s lingering concerns, assuring her that if Tywin suspected either girl was a Stark, they would know.

Sansa told herself it was out of self-preservation that she decided to ask Tywin what had been troubling him these weeks so she could appease him and return to their amorous encounters. Naturally, the more he enjoyed her company, the more likely he would continue his protection of her. Maybe he’d even come to be fond of her and would let her go free once he departed. That was beginning to look like their best chance of getting out of Harrenhal. Perhaps when he offered her however much gold he planned to give her, she’d ask for freedom instead. She would insist he let Lisbeth go as well. And Gendry.

Of course, that would only work if she earned enough of his favor. Really, it felt like being back at the beginning again.

She heard the door hinges creaking but by now knew to expect Arya at this time of day. An hour after sunrise, an hour after high noon, and an hour after dusk she’d arrive with food. Morning and afternoon they’d spend a few minutes chatting and while they were careful not to prolong the encounters unnecessarily, they both had reached the conclusion that Lord Tywin allowed Lisbeth to dally because she was Sarina’s only other companion.

Only today she didn’t hear Arya’s light footsteps coming in. The door swung in, but no one immediately entered. Sansa lowered the handkerchief she was embroidering to her lap and twisted in the chair, only to gasp at the sight of Ser Gregor’s hulking frame filling the doorway.

She stood up and began backing up just as Ser Gregor finally began entering the room, one loud and frighteningly calm step at a time. His brother Sandor always walked with a purpose, like a soldier on the march. Gregor sauntered in a way that called to mind a wolf circling its prey.

Only I’m supposed to be the wolf.

But I’m not… not when he’s in the room.

His forward steps continued – one for each of her two backward steps. Then she was backed up to the desk and too scared to move around the desk even though surely she’d find something on the desk to use as an weapon. A quill. A letter opener. The bit of heavy marble Tywin used to keep scrolls from blowing about. Anything was better than her bare hands, still so soft even after all she’d endured since moving to and subsequently leaving King’s Landing.

“Heard you lost the Old Lion’s favor…” Ser Gregor spoke to her hair as he twirled a lock of it around two thick fingers. She’d forgotten how enormous the man was.

“I- I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“For now. I’d say he has a lack of better options. Any day now they’re bound to drag in another pretty little maid. Not as pretty as you, mind, but good enough for him to cast you aside.”

Sansa swallowed though her mouth and throat had gone dry, “As is his right.”

Gregor hummed at that, bringing her hair up and his head down so he could smell it. He closed his eyes and if she’d been prepared for this situation, it would have been a perfect opportunity to stab him in the neck with some rudimentary weapon. But she wasn’t. Arya would have been. Would Sansa ever learn that sometimes it took more than smiles and sugared lies to defend yourself?!

He leaned forward, planting a hand on the desk on either side of her hips. He brought his lips to her ear but for several terrifying moments only breathed in and out through his nose. He was smelling her, she realized, and she couldn’t help but smell him back. He smelled of wine and air and a sweat that reminded her of the Hound. She supposed siblings would have similar scents, and with the pragmatism that she’d had to develop in the past months she thought that if Ser Gregor took her here and now, she’d close her eyes and pretend it was the Hound. He was decent, even if crude. He had protected her even as he swore he was no knight.

“I’m patient, but I also hate sharing…” Ser Gregor whispered.

She thought of the toy Sandor had been playing with just before Gregor burned him. A little wooden knight. He burned his own baby brother over a wooden toy… Gregor himself was still a child yet had no fear for his father’s punishment or any other consequence. Would he fear Lord Lannister’s wrath now if he took the man’s toy? Sansa doubted it.

Her entire body trembled and grew cold and hot at the same time. He was going to take her, she was sure. Maybe it would be just that – a rough coupling she wouldn’t enjoy but would survive. Or maybe he’d kill her as he supposedly killed countless women, including his own wives, and find some place to dispose of her body in secret. Lord Tywin wouldn’t know who’d killed her. Or maybe she’d never be found at all, and Lord Tywin would assume she had run away, and that thought bothered her for reasons she didn’t understand.

“That maidenhead was mine,” the beastly man continued, “but there’s no getting it back now. So tell me… has he plucked your other flower yet?”

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut. She knew the “flower” he was referring to based on his comments to her during his bath. Had that been only weeks ago? It felt like an eternity. She was a different girl then. She was a maiden, traumatized by the act of washing his hairy body when such worse fates awaited her. She felt a warm shame in her now. That night she’d been ready to endure this, to endure anything he had planned for her, if only because it got her out of the prison and constant threat of torture and gave her an opportunity to escape. Now she was trembling like a scared kitten.

But I’m not a kitten. I’m a wolf. And he’s nothing but a dog looking for a master to follow.

“No,” she answered calmly, projecting her voice, “Nor will you ever get the chance. I’ll kill myself before I let you have me.”

Though it was an empty threat, it felt so powerful coming out. She opened her eyes and looked directly into his, thinking she’d find fear.

The man only grinned, then threw his head back in laughter, “Makes no matter to me, girl. Then I’ll fuck your corpse instead.”

“Ser Gregor,” a sharp voice cut through the palpable terror in the room, making Sansa’s knees almost buckle in relief.

Gregor all but leapt away from her and spun around at hearing Tywin’s regal voice from the doorway.

“My lord,” he eventually managed to say.

“Is there a reason you’re in my chambers?”

Gregor shrugged. Sansa could tell he was indeed intimidated by his lord but wouldn’t make it obvious. He was a beast, but a proud one.

“Just saying hello to my old friend,” Gregor began walking toward the door with his casual stride that belied the taut rage that laid beneath his skin.

As the two men met at the threshold Tywin held a hand up to Gregor’s chest, “If I find you here again, or anywhere within twenty paces of your friend, I’ll have you executed as a traitor to your liege lord.”

She could tell Gregor wanted to make a retort. Probably something about how Tywin would have to catch him before executing him. Or maybe to ask whether it was wise to lose a loyal vassal over a whore. But all he did was nod one time and walk out, expressing his defiance with heavy footsteps that echoed throughout the old stone tower. He must have crept up here, Sansa realized, that she hadn’t heard his approach. It was a disturbing thought.

Tywin approached her carefully, his eyes not quite meeting hers. He wasn’t stalking like Ser Gregor but taking care not to spook her. Little did he know her heart was still thrumming in her chest but now for a different reason. He had threatened one of his most loyal vassals with execution. Ser Gregor, a particularly handy weapon to have during war and probably even during peace. He would execute him for her. For his mistress. His lover. Not for Sansa Stark because of her potential claim on the North and her relation to the Young Wolf, but for her. Just her. The girl she was beneath the name.

When he was within an arm’s length he addressed her, “Did he hurt you?”

Her response was to throw herself at him in the most unladylike manner. She pressed her lips to his and she felt his body go rigid for several heartbeats before melting against her. Then his arms wrapped her waist and helped raise her up, not off the ground but just enough so that they could kiss at a more natural angle.

And kiss they did. Actually, it was more like devouring. She felt hungry for him – she knew not how else to put it into words. She wanted to taste his body the way he had tasted hers. Of course, she had tasted his lips and neck already, and his shoulders and chest, but now she wanted to taste the epicenter of his manliness.

She broke the kiss to fumble with the laces of his breeches and he took the same opportunity to pull down the bodice of her dress and the underlying shift to expose her breasts. She knew he meant to take her, but she had other plans and for once, she wanted to be the one controlling their encounter.

Once his cock was free, she dropped to her knees, trying to ignore the fear that threatened to ruin her lust spell. She’d never done this, and her inexperience would be apparent.

She reminded herself she was no longer Sarina the whore, but Sarina the educated and proper merchant’s daughter sold to a man who abused her. Her mind briefly flicked to Joffrey – the last person she wanted to think about during such an encounter – and how he would have her beaten yet had never actually assaulted her in an intimate capacity. Surely there were other men who shared such predilections. So she didn’t worry about how a whore or even an experienced lover would do this. She turned off her ever-present fear of displeasing someone and did what felt natural. First, she nuzzled the coarse blond and silver hairs that surrounded his cock and bollocks. It smelled like sweat and musk and wasn’t remotely pleasant and yet she felt her tunnel already beginning to slicken and dilate just as it did when he licked at her nipples or kissed her neck.

She used her lips to explore the texture of the shaft – the softness of the skin even though the underlying flesh seemed hard as bone. The bumps where veins ran. The knob at the end, covered by seemingly thin skin that wanted to move with her lips as she stroked them against his length from root to stem.

She’d smelled and felt him; now it was time to taste him. She brought her tongue along the underside, though there wasn’t much to his taste. The aroma was certainly more potent. He just tasted like skin. Perhaps a bit salty, but nothing horrible, nor overly pleasant. Yet it had the same result on her as smelling him – it made her woman’s place ache and swell.

Her inspection was done but now she’d be expected to deliver pleasure to him as he delivered to her with his mouth. She remembered the words of the kitchen wench delivered by Arya – suck on his cock like it’s a juicy, delicious strawberry. It had sounded scandalous all those weeks ago, but now it seemed natural. She was to use her mouth as a substitute for her tunnel.

She set to work, taking the tip and then more of him into her mouth and bobbing her head back and forth to stroke him with her lips. It seemed she was doing something right for when she looked up Tywin was staring down at her, his jaw slack with pleasure, his eyes glazy with lust, his breaths coming fast and shallow. His left hand moved to the back of her head, guiding her movements but not commanding them. His right hand rested against her jaw and neck in the gentlest fashion. It sent yet another surge through her to know that he could easily overpower her but was choosing not to. She’d made herself as vulnerable as possible – on her knees, her breasts hanging out in the cool air, her mouth on his cock, his hands on her head. Yet he did not hurt her.

She didn’t try to, didn’t want to, but being in this position called to mind the day he put the dagger in her mouth. Her brow instantly beaded with sweat as shame washed over her. She was sucking this man’s cock; this man who threatened to slice her cheek open. Would he have gone through with it? She had assumed he didn’t truly want to; that it was an interrogation tactic. Despite scaring the life out of her that day, nothing he’d done left lasting damage. No clump of hair was missing. No blood filled her mouth. No bruise colored her wrist. Certainly no gaping wound on her cheek.

But still – he had held a dagger inside her mouth. He had cut open her dress, just like Ser Meryn had…

She gagged and pulled her mouth away before she could retch.

She thought the moment was ruined; he would ask what was wrong, and what could she say? But he didn’t seem to notice her shift in mood. He was hoisting her into the air then setting her on the desk rather frantically. Her smallclothes were ripped away and he was inside her with one violent thrust. He was holding her head again, but this time it was done to keep her eyes locked to his. The intensity in his stare was heady. This man spent his days commanding men, sending ravens and messengers here and there and everywhere. Planning a war. Fighting a war. Probably counseling his family in the capital on how to defend against an attack from either Renly or Stannis Baratheon. Proposing alliances. Making decisions. Who knew what else? But in this moment, she felt like she was his singular locus of attention. Like his world revolved around her.

Which was only fair, because hers revolved around him, and she was tired of wondering what that said about her. Daggers and accusations were distant memories. Green eyes were all she knew. Green eyes that must have seen the tears in her eyes, because they squinted in confusion even as the movement of his hips never stopped.

His thumbs moved as mirror images as they traced the lines of her jaw, then her cheekbones, then her lips, then just beneath her eyes where tears clung but didn’t fall. He made them disappear and she thought perhaps he could make all her tears disappear – all the ones that would fall throughout the rest of her life, he would wipe them away. Or maybe he’d dry them before they could form.

Then he kissed her; a kiss unlike any he’d ever given her. And long moments later when the kiss was done, he kept his lips so temptingly close to hers as he said, “What are you doing to me?” in a voice that sounded almost childlike in its innocent curiosity but for the pain that was mixed in.

“I could ask the same of you,” she responded without thinking. His pace accelerated then, and she felt her pleasure building to a coda but found she’d not be able to climax while holding her body upright. She leaned back and once again marveled at the man’s gentleness as he took over the act of lowering her down until her shoulders were against the desk’s hard surface.

He licked his lips as he stared down at her breasts, jiggling back and forth in time with his thrusts.

“Tywin,” she mewled, because it felt decadent to say his given name with no title before it.

His hands slid to the tops of her thighs as he leaned forward, penetrating her at a slightly different angle as he forced her legs closer to her torso.

“Gods, Tywin!” she cried out as her eyes squeezed shut. How could so much pleasure come from this simple act?

“Sarina… Sarina, my beautiful girl… peak for me… scream for me… So bloody beautiful…”

She indeed screamed, not on command but because she had to scream through the intense peak she had. His name was on her lips as hers was on his and she never wanted the moment to end while she watched his face take on that look that was an odd combination of concentration and relaxation.

“Fuck, Sarina,” he breathed, and she felt him swelling inside her and it tickled her entire body with pride and pleasure.

“Yes, Tywin. Yes, my lion. Please…please…” she hissed.

His thrusts became erratic and the only sounds he made were grunts of her name as he desperately jabbed at her insides with his cock over and over and finally groaned as he poured himself into her, her name the only thing he seemed capable of saying as his body curled to put his forehead on her chest.  

Then there was a crash at the doorway and Tywin ripped himself away from her as she sat up so fast her forward momentum almost brought her off the desk.

On the floor was a tray and around it was food and broken dishes.

Sansa realized that Arya must have come to deliver her lunch and instead had found her older sister being fucked on the desk.

Yes, Tywin.

Yes, my lion.

She felt like she could be sick. Yes, she’d confessed to Arya that her couplings with Lord Lannister were not unpleasant – but now Arya had seen for herself just how wanton her sister was. Wanton for the lion. The enemy. The man who held a dagger in her mouth. Who bent her over and ripped away her dress. The man who wanted to kill her brother. The man who used Ser Gregor to plunder the Riverlands. The man who sired Cersei.

Tywin only looked at the mess and snorted in amusement, “I suppose I can’t scold her for this. She’s the one who alerted me to Ser Gregor coming for you.”

Sansa looked up into his eyes, which seemed more gold than green now, “What?”

“She’d been bringing your lunch when she noticed him ahead of her on the stairs and knew he could only be coming here. She came back down to notify me, out of fear for your safety.”

Sansa had no response to that. Her little sister protected her – again – and was rewarded by seeing her sister in the throes of passion with their family’s enemy.

Yes, Tywin. Yes, my lion. Please…

Please…

Please, please, please.

She’d been begging for it, begging for him to release because she loved his releases as much as she loved hers. Why? Why should she love the sight of him in that state of pure bliss? Why should she love the way his grip on her tightened in that moment? Why should she love the way his voice sounded as he rasped her name?

Tywin continued, oblivious to the fact that she was dying on the inside, “She must have waited until she saw him come down before beginning her ascent again. Ah well, I have work to return to. I’ll tell her to get over it and bring you another meal.”

“I’m not hungry,” she responded automatically, vacantly.

Tywin stared at her, but she did not lift her eyes to match his.

Tongue in my mouth. Dagger in my mouth. Cock in my mouth.

She brought a hand to her mouth. Her dirty, defiled mouth. All but one of those things she had willingly taken into it.

The tears returned. What a fool had she been to think Tywin could prevent them? He was the cause of them!

He stepped close to her, and she stepped to the side. Without looking she knew he was confused. She didn’t care.

“He will not trouble you again, Sarina. I’m sending him out again tomorrow.”

She nodded, “Right… better he rape the innocent women of the Riverlands than your favorite pet.”

She should regret the words, but she didn’t. What in all seven hells had she been thinking, enjoying her time with the Great Lion?! He used the Mountain’s Men to terrorize her mother’s homeland. He sired Cersei and Jaime who made Joffrey. He waged war against her beloved North – the North she didn’t know she loved until she’d found herself stuck in the stinking capital.

He held a dagger in my mouth. He ripped my dress down the middle. He would have raped me if he hadn’t seen the scars. Scars put there by another man who ripped my dress, on orders of Tywin’s grandson.

He rapes the Riverlands, using other men to do the deed, but they are his orders. Ser Gregor is the whip, but he is the master.

“Excuse me?” Tywin snorted after his surprise from her defiance wore off.

“Have you forgotten that I’m just another woman of the Riverlands? What right do I have to be worthy of your protection?”

“Sarina… you’re upset because of the altercation—”

“I’m not upset, I’m angry.”

If she thought the Lion of Lannister would respond to her anger with placation, she was wrong. He hastily straightened his clothes, his own anger now radiating off him. But she didn’t cower.

“I don’t know what you have to be angry about,” he grumbled, “Do you not realize how lucky you are?”

“Lucky!?” she shouted, “As a matter of fact I do realize I’m lucky. But am I not entitled to sympathize with all those women who aren’t so lucky as to have the protection of a powerful lord? Moreover, am I not entitled to worry about what will happen when that luck runs out? You say you’ll pay me generously when you leave, but what good will that do me? Men will steal it from me like they steal everything else from me. They’ll steal that and more.”

She walked to the window, so angry she couldn’t look at him for fear she would strike him. Her words might already be enough to make him toss her aside for good; she couldn’t risk further jeopardizing her safety even as she resented the man who provided it.

She hated that the tears that didn’t fall while Ser Gregor was hovering over her decided to come now. More than ever before in her life she didn’t want to look weak in front of a man. He was so damned rigid. So in control of himself. Even his rage was controlled. He never lost his temper and did something irrevocable, even when he was livid at the idea that Sansa Stark had gotten one over on him.

Worst of all, she admired that about him. Never showing weakness. Never exposing himself. Even when he got on his knees and licked her between the legs as if in an act of worship, she never felt like she held the reins. He pleasured her because he wanted to, because it stoked his pride and built up his own arousal.

All at once the affection he poured on her was exposed for what it really was – just another way to control. To make her body a slave to his touch. To make her want the pleasure only he could give her, pleasure she never even knew was possible for a woman. To confuse her mind. She blushed to think of the pride he’d feel to know he had done this not to Sarina the whore, not even to Sarina the merchant’s daughter, but to Sansa, the sister of his enemy.

She heard his footsteps and she wanted to jump out of her skin when the warmth of him was at her back.

“What do you want from me?” he asked quietly, and she couldn’t tell if it was rhetorical or earnest.

What do I want from him? To be released from Harrenhal into a war zone? For him to send me somewhere safe? But where is safe unless he ships me to Dorne or Essos? For him to retreat from this war? For a truce between he and Robb?

For his affection to be genuine? But to what end? To confuse me even more?

She realized she had only an abstract idea of what she wanted, and it was nothing that he or any other man could deliver. She wanted all of this to be real, but not in this world in which loving a man like Tywin Lannister would mean betraying her people – her brother’s cause, her father’s memory, her mother’s people. She wanted everything to be different. She wished King Robert had lived and war never broke out. She wished Father hadn’t died. She wished she’d never been betrothed to the cretin that was Joffrey.

In that other life might the Old Lion have sought out the eldest daughter of the Warden of the North as his bride? Perhaps with one son a dwarf and the other committed to the Kingsguard he would have eventually decided he needed new sons.

Then again, Sansa would never have been attracted to a man like Tywin Lannister if she’d never gone through the trials and tribulations she’d faced in this life. Seeing Joffrey impulsively take her father’s head. Tywin would never do that – not because he was a good man, but because he would know the action would start a war. Joffrey having her abused. Tywin would never do that – not because he cared about her, but because he appreciated her value and because he wasn’t sadistic. Ser Gregor making her wash his every gigantic nook and cranny while threatening the ways he would enjoy her virginal body. Tywin would never do that, because he could use his masculine appeal to entice women – he didn’t need to force himself on them.

But in that other life Sansa wouldn’t have known Joffrey or Ser Gregor. She’d see Tywin as only a stern old man who spoke curtly and thought he was better than everyone else.

And maybe that was the way she should have been seeing him all along. For that other life was no more real than this one. Perhaps the man’s worst tendencies were only revealed in times of war, but that didn’t mean those tendencies weren’t there all the time, dormant powers he was ready to unleash on those he deemed his enemies.

What do I want? I want this, with him. I want to love him. But only if he is worthy of my love. Which he will never be. A leopard never changes its spots.

“I want nothing from you,” she belatedly responded, “because what I want is not in your power to give.”

He didn’t seem to be moving a muscle behind her. They stood that way for what felt like hours, her facing the window, him facing her back. Then she felt his hand, feather light and lacking confidence, as it caressed her arm.

Then he was gone.

 

Tywin

What I want is not in your power to give…

He sat in the office he’d claimed the day after his arrival, but his brain refused to focus on any of the numerous tasks he ought to be seeing to. All because of a girl young enough to be his granddaughter. She had bewitched him, and he was beyond denying it.

He’d told himself he’d keep away from her upon learning she was no whore. He broke that vow today, but it wasn’t in his power to resist her embrace, especially when his blood was up from rapidly ascending the stairs and finding Ser Gregor trapping the girl against the desk. The girl brazenly telling Gregor she would end her life before giving herself to him. Gregor laughing and telling her he’d simply fuck her corpse. It had taken all of Tywin’s self-restraint to not draw his sword. Clashing steel with the Mountain was never advisable, but in that moment, Tywin had no doubt he could best the beast – and arrogance in a fight was not advisable, either.

It would seem her blood was up, too, judging by the way she dropped to her knees and loved his cock with her lips. Whores got right to business, sucking for all their worth in the hopes it would be over within a minute. But Sarina’s lips had explored him, tasted him, felt him… Like he was some exotic delicacy she wanted to savor. Then they’d fucked with unbridled passion and the words he’d been feeling for weeks came pouring out.

“What are you doing to me?”

And her response made his heart sing to know his feelings were not unreciprocated…

“I could ask the same of you.”

They found their pleasure together and he might have stayed within her forever if not for Lisbeth dropping the tray.

The brief fantasy he’d let himself step into was shattered along with the ceramic soup crock.

He didn’t even mind Sarina’s critical words afterwards – trying to shame him over his use of the Mountain’s Men to wreak havoc on the smallfolk. Few women would ever appreciate the true ugliness of war. And he had no regrets, even if he didn’t bask in the knowledge of the pain being meted out under his command. He didn’t start wars. He didn’t even join wars unless he had no other option. But nor did he back down or roll over.

No, what bothered him was how she refused to meet his eyes, as if he wasn’t worthy of her gaze.

For as long as he’d known her, despite the inconvenient feelings she stirred in him, he never lost sight of the fact that she could just be another conniving woman, like the wet nurse who’d seduced Tywin’s father then bent him to her will. Like the peasant girl who’d seduced Tyrion and would have bent him to her will. Sarina could be just another woman using her cunt because she had no other weapons at her disposal. He had even baited her – asked her what she wanted from him. He was certain she’d admit to wanting him to give her his name and cloak, or at minimum to keep her as his mistress. She’d probably been conjuring images of Casterly Rock and all its luxuries. Or of herself, draped in cloth of gold dresses with rubies and diamonds dripping off her fingers and wrapping around her neck and wrists like pet snakes.

But instead she sighed, tiredly, as if exhausted from explaining herself to a halfwit.

“What I want is not in your power to give…”

When had Tywin Lannister ever heard those words? The entire realm knew of his wealth. What couldn’t be bought with gold?

What is it she wants then? What motivates a merchant’s daughter?

Does she want her father back? I cannot do that, but I can protect her and provide for her the way a father does.

Does she want vengeance against the man who abused her? Does she not know that if she gave me his name, he’d be dead before the next turn of the moon? Even if she named the Prince of Dorne, I’d see it done.

What does she want?

He was yanked from his unproductive thoughts by the entrance of a blushing Lisbeth. She did not meet his eyes as she set down his lunch and went to the sideboard to pour him a goblet of water. Nor as she placed it in front of him and then took her post along the wall.

Tywin couldn’t help but smile though he tried to keep it minimal, “Have you never seen a man and a woman together?”

Her cheeks, still round with youth, turned scarlet, “I’ve seen it plenty, but not like that.”

“Like what?”

She was quiet and he thought perhaps he’d pushed her too far, but just as he began reading one of the many scrolls that awaited him, she spoke, “Like you love each other.”

Her voice was barely above a whisper, and it seemed to frighten her to even speak those words, but it frightened Tywin more to hear them.

“We don’t,” he asserted quickly.

She nodded, but he couldn’t quite tell whether she was pleased or disappointed by his response.

“Did the Mountain…?”

“No,” Tywin shook his head.

This time the girl’s relief was obvious. Her shoulders sagged. A sigh was released.

“You did right by telling me.”

She nodded.

“You feel some kinship toward Sarina, don’t you?”

Her face flushed again. He wondered if this girl who, even during puberty, easily passed for a boy was enchanted by the beautiful and feminine Sarina. Sarina could dress in a suit of armor and crop her hair to her scalp, and Tywin didn’t think anyone would mistake her for a man.

“She helped protect me. Before you got here.”

Tywin raised a brow, “I heard that it was you who protected her. By covering her in mud so she’d stand out less to the guards.”

Lisbeth nodded, “Aye, I did that, but… well, did she tell you about the day the Mountain came for her?”

Tywin couldn’t help the clenching in his jaw. He barely managed to shake his head.

“He spotted her and knew she was pretty under the muck. We had fooled the guards but not him. Or maybe we hadn’t fooled the guards – maybe they were just more interested in torturing the prisoners than raping them. Anyway, Gregor said he needed help with his bath and dragged her out of the cell. I know what they say about how he treats women, and I got so afraid for her that I hit him in the arm.”

Tywin snorted, “And lived to tell the tale? I’m finding this difficult to believe.”

Lisbeth stared down at her feet, the toe of her right boot rubbing against the floor in a nervous gesture, “He was about to hit me, but Sarina yelled at him to stop.”

Now Tywin was more astounded than amused. How the hell had these girls survived the Mountain? The man had zero tolerance for defiance. He lived his life looking for reasons to hurt and kill.

Lisbeth glanced up at him nervously, “He spun around and Sarina lied quickly. Telling him not to hurt me because I was her little brother and our father made me promise to take care of her. The Mountain thought that was good for him. He told her if she obeyed, he’d tell the men not to feed me to the rat. She was going to endure whatever horrors he had in mind for her, all to protect me… A stranger.”

Now Tywin was the one who couldn’t hold her gaze. He didn’t like the feeling these girls stirred in him. This desire to protect them. They were nothing to him. They were peasants, not even pawns. They had no value and yet they had wisdom and bravery in their young hearts that was uncommon even in men grown and seasoned by war.

He admitted as much to Lisbeth, though kept his tone light, “If all of my soldiers had half the brains and courage that you and Sarina possess, I’d win this war quickly and be back at home where I belong.”

He turned back to gauge her reaction. He saw no pride though, only confusion, “You want to go home?”

He snorted, “Do I want to be in sunny Casterly Rock instead of dreary Harrenhal with its crumbling walls and dragon-charred stone?”

She shrugged, “I thought men like you lived for war.”

“Men like me? There are no men like me, girl.”

She rolled her eyes. He sneered, “Name another man who has never started a war but who has finished several.”

“I don’t know all about every war.”

“Then allow me to educate you: there isn’t another. Tell me, girl, who started Robert’s Rebellion?”

She rolled her eyes again, “Obviously Robert Baratheon. He rebelled because the crown prince stole his betrothed.”

“Wrong. The king started that war by killing the Warden of the North and the Warden’s heir. Lord Jon Arryn countered by refusing to hand over his wards – Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark – to the king after that. Robert joined, and Eddard joined, and the people romanticized it. Brave Robert Baratheon, waging war against the crown because the crown prince kidnapped his lady love. Makes for a nicer song than one about the Mad King burning alive his subjects, don’t you think?”

He watched her face pale, “Nor was I responsible for the Reynes and Tarbecks who tried to ruin my house. I gave them opportunities to prove their fealty, but they rather tried to make a laughingstock of my name. So I ended them, as was my right. Prior to that I helped to squash the band of mercenaries from Essos who wanted to claim the throne because some men can’t help but want power for power’s sake. And in this current war? I didn’t start it. I joined it when it began to affect my family. And I will end it like I’ve ended every other war. I will end it as quickly as I can and with as little waste as I can, so I can return home and live in peace.”

The girl momentarily looked moved by his speech. He hadn’t intended on making a speech, truly, but Sarina’s words from earlier had him feeling defensive.

Then something shifted in her, “I take it you don’t like men who start wars.”

“As I’ve been saying. War is a waste of everyone’s time and resource.”

“Yet you fight on the side of the man who started this war. By your own logic, just as the Mad King started the last war by killing the Warden of the North, your grandson started this war by killing the Warden of the North.”

“You expect me to go against my blood?” he spit back at her.

“I think you want to make me think you’re some noble hero. Ending wars that you had no hand in starting. Perhaps you should ask yourself why you join them to begin with. I’ve heard all about the boy king. Sounds to me like you’re fighting on the side of a monster. And using monsters to do it.”

Tywin stood from his desk, “How dare—”

“How dare I what? Speak the truth? I’m not scared of you!”

“Then you’re a fool!”

“And you’re a hypocrite!”

Tywin pointed at the door, “Get out of here before I skin your hide!”

“Like I want to be around you anyway!” she shouted before running for the door, but just as she yanked it open a page was standing there, about to knock. Behind him stood Wylis Manderly.

Lisbeth ran past them, bumping against the White Harbor lord’s round belly as she did, “Watch where you’re going, lad!” he scolded.

Tywin sneered at the man, “If you’re here to deliver bad news, I suggest you bite your tongue.”

“Rough day, Lord Lannister?” the man asked, unable to disguise the hope in his voice that indeed it had been a rough day for Tywin.

“What answer from the Stark camp?”

Wylis smiled, “The Young Wolf is willing to treat with you…”

Despite himself, Tywin smiled.

Notes:

Maybe I'm just as sadistic as Joffrey and Gregor, because I am torturing our poor girl. (Mental torture.) I've crafted her emotional swings based on my assumptions of someone raised in a very sexually repressed society. Or at least a society which sexually represses women. Her natural instincts would take over before and during the act of sex, making her able to lose herself in the physical pleasure, but afterwards she would feel shame and fear. I know it's super angsty, but I think it is the most realistic. Sansa's character, IMHO, always had a strong self-punishment tendency, more so than Arya.
Reminder: these characters are not perfect. Flawed characters are just more fun. Not all knowing. Not immune from making mistakes.

What else is there to say? Oh yeah, so Wylis DID recognize the girls. Hope this isn't too much of a stretch, but I imagine he's been at some feast or another at Winterfell over the years. Arya would've been busy bitching about having to wear a dress and trying to find ways to torment Sansa. Sansa would be giving moon eyes to the handsome visiting lords. Wylis would see and remember them even if they didn't see and remember him. Plus he'd be intimately familiar with the "Tully look" and the "Stark look".

Anyway, take a break, have a glass of wine or smoke a cigarette or eat a pastry - do whatever makes you happy - Chapter 7 is ready when you are!

Chapter 7: Do we have a deal?

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Sansa

She had not slept well the past several nights since her argument with Tywin. He had not tried to speak to her again, nor had he cast her out. Then again, he’d been working from before sunrise to well into the night, collapsing into the bed and snoring within seconds.

But Sansa had other problems to worry about. First, she feared the day Lord Tywin would leave. She had meant to earn his favor so that he’d allow her to leave when he and his men eventually rode out, but had ruined it with her damned feelings and her damned mouth. She had had him within her clutches – What are you doing to me – and instead threw him away. It was stupid and impulsive, more like something Arya would do. When had Sansa become so defiant? When had she lost the ability to guard her tongue?

Secondly, she was in a constant state of frayed nerves since Arya told her several days ago about a way they might be able to escape, but they’d have to wait for the time to be right. Arya had discovered a hole in the exterior wall that was hidden from view by some shrubs. Someone had filled it in with stones but never mortared it. Not surprising given how lazy the men around here had been before the Great Lion arrived. Guards patrolled the perimeters. They wouldn’t have eyes on that spot at all times, but Arya estimated it would take a quarter hour for Gendry to remove the rocks so they could slip through, then replace the rocks so it would be some time before their escape was noticed. Their best bet would be to leave at night, when Gendry and Arya would not be missed and when the guards slacked in their duties or got drunk to pass the time. The problem was a night escape would require Sansa to leave the lord’s chambers without waking up the lord.

Sansa feared they’d never get a good opportunity to escape before Lord Tywin left. But she was somehow more fearful that they would have an opportunity. The idea of running away, just her and Arya and Gendry and Hotpie, was terrifying. What if they ran right into the arms of Ser Gregor’s reaving party? Arya had assured her that a group of four could travel with stealth through the woods, that they’d hear Ser Gregor’s giant warhorse’s clomping hooves from a half league away and have time to hide. Sansa trusted her sister, but that didn’t make her feel any less terrified about leaving.

Thirdly, each morning Arya delivered a bitter tea with her breakfast – something Lord Tywin had specifically instructed be part of her morning meal, according to the kitchen girl who readied the tray. Sansa had taken one sip and gagged, so Arya disposed of it in the privy, certain it was poisoned. Sansa could not believe Tywin would do that. If he wanted her dead, he could easily have her executed without holding a trial, just as so many prisoners had been.

Arya suspected it was the kitchen girl’s doing. She was prettier than average and perhaps thought with Sarina out of the way, she would be taken into Lord Tywin’s bed and enjoy the privileges which came with it. Sansa remembered what Ser Gregor had said. “Heard you lost the Old Lion’s favor… Any day now they’re bound to drag in another pretty little maid. Not as pretty as you, mind, but good enough for him to cast you aside.” No doubt everyone in Harrenhal had seen or by now heard of Lord Tywin dragging his whore across the keep in a fit of rage. Perhaps they also heard that he had threatened her. The kitchen girl probably thought it was a good time to make a play for the wealthy lord of Casterly Rock.

Arya had said she would kill her; Sansa forbade it. Arya had said she’d tell Lord Tywin; Sansa forbade that, too. She knew Arya thought her soft, but she couldn’t fault the kitchen girl for taking action to try to advance her own position in this horrible place. Sansa was upset that someone would wish her dead, but she was more upset about what Lord Tywin would do to the girl if he found she’d tried to kill his bedwarmer. The man didn’t seem to enjoy inflicting pain with his own hands but clearly he had no qualms about ordering it done on his behalf. Arya’s next solution was to threaten the girl. Sansa had been tempted to agree but then the girl would know she’d been caught and might do something spiteful. Make up lies about Sarina. Or worse, find a better medium in which to hide whatever poison she’d been using.

The sound of much activity outside finally drew Sansa from bed, where she’d been resting but not sleeping. Lord Tywin had departed some time ago, while she pretended to sleep because interactions with him felt awkward these past several days. Or had it already been a fortnight? Time felt somewhat meaningless when one’s life was spent in a room, staring out a window or embroidering a handkerchief, only seeing two other people on a regular basis. So she had pretended to sleep through him rising, groaning as he stretched, and even when he seemed to do nothing but stand near the bed, perhaps waking himself up. She heard him take a deep breath then leave, closing the door quietly and exchanging words with his squire in the hallway. She didn’t know what happened next, only that he never came back to bed.

She wrapped herself in the green robe and sat on the window ledge. It was still dark but there were enough torches for her to see that many of the men were preparing to ride out. Her heart thumped forcefully in her chest. Were they marching to battle? Had he left without telling her? Without saying goodbye?

It stung, and she hated that it stung.

She was still sitting on the window ledge when the door flung open. Arya ran straight to her, “Today’s the day,” she whispered with urgency.

“What?”

“Half the men are leaving. I don’t know why, or for how long, but today’s the day we can leave.”

Sansa felt her eyes go wide, “You’re certain?”

Arya nodded rapidly, “Remember I told you about the place in the outer wall?”

Sansa nodded, “What should I do?” she instantly felt panicked, like that tamed dog afraid to return to the wild.

“Dress plain. Wear that gray cloak I found and keep the hood up.”

“That’s it?”

Arya nodded, “Do it now. I already stole food and hid it behind the kitchens. Gendry is watching. As soon as the procession is out of the gate, he’ll come get us. Then we leave.”

Sansa hurried to dress as Arya instructed, her fingers trembling at the knowledge that they were finally leaving. The day she had feared happening and not happening was here.  

She didn’t stop trembling until Gendry appeared, then all her instincts told her it was time to cast off her anxiety and focus on the task at hand. They were only a fortnight walk from Riverrun, or so Arya had estimated based on comments she’d overheard the guards making when they speculated about whether Lord Tywin would lead them on yet another siege of Riverrun.

They just needed their luck to last a fortnight. They had to keep their wits about them, look out for one another, and they would make it.

They had to.

“Ready?” Gendry whispered, “We should go now before the sky is fully light.”

“We shouldn’t all three walk down together. Gendry you go first, then I’ll come, then Sansa. Meet behind the kitchens.”

Gendry nodded and without any ceremony turned to head back down the stairs.

Arya turned to her, “Here,” she held out a small knife, much like the one the young mother in King’s Landing had given her. “Keep it up your sleeve. If anyone stops you, stick ‘em with the pointy end.”

Sansa took the paring knife and nodded, not wanting to waste time by asking silly questions that Arya would mock. Like, should I stab them in the neck or the eye? What if I can’t do either?

Arya waited another minute or so before leaving, only telling Sansa to count to two hundred before following.

Sansa got to seventy-five when thoughts of the past weeks invaded her. The pleasure. The simple comfort and safety of sleeping next to a man. The anger. The close calls. The ecstasy. The arguments. The affection. The fear. The thrill.

She felt nostalgic even though nostalgia shouldn’t come until looking back at a certain time from the distant future. But she couldn’t help but think that she owed something to Tywin Lannister. He was not a good man. He was probably a bad man. Yet he had treated her kindly. Whatever his motives had been, he’d treated her kindly.

With thirty seconds left she grabbed the quill and scribbled out a note, blew on it, and stuck it under his pillow along with a small token of her appreciation – one she had never intended on giving him or even letting him see. But she was still a lady, and ladies thanked their hosts with words and with gifts.

Then, she left her cage.

 

Tywin

A day’s ride west and north of Harrenhal, Tywin entered the temporary Stark camp. He estimated two hundred mounted men had accompanied the Young Wolf to this meeting. It boded well that Robb Stark trusted Tywin enough to believe he would honor terms of parley. Then again, with Tywin’s eldest son and three of his nephews as Robb’s prisoners, why wouldn’t the boy be confident?

Tywin was promptly led into a tent that perfectly epitomized the difference between North and South. It was spacious but utilitarian. Nothing like Tywin’s tent which had more amenities than the cottages that smallfolk lived in.

Tywin was more surprised by the audience that received him. Aside from Wylis Manderly, he’d only met one of them in person, and that was decades in the past, but he assumed he was looking at Robb Stark, Catelyn Tully Stark, and Maege Mormont. There was another man who bore the sigil of House Flint of Widow’s Watch – blue eyes over blue waves. Lord Robin, Tywin thought.

Tywin himself was only accompanied by personal guards. Robb Stark’s reign, it would seem, was something of a meritocracy. It was wise of the young man to seek the counsel of older, battle-wise advisors, but Tywin did not need to embrace a similar approach. He had absolute authority over the Westerlands and knew as much about war as anyone.

“Lord Stark,” Tywin bowed, but refused to refer to the boy as a king.

“Lord Lannister,” Robb mirrored the gesture then returned to his seat. Tywin took the chair clearly intended for him after tipping his head at the other guests.

“I suppose I should express my gratitude for the release of Lord Manderly,” Robb spoke, though he clearly didn’t enjoy the taste of the words.

“I wish I could claim to be altruistic, Lord Stark. I released Lord Manderly as a demonstration of good faith. I don’t believe either of us wants to be fighting this war when there are more pressing matters to see to. For you, preparations for winter. Surely, I’m not the only one who has noticed the nights are getting longer and colder. For me, the enemy to the south.”

“Yet we both have an enemy to the south. For you it is Stannis and Renly Baratheon. For me it is the false king Joffrey.”

“You do not have the numbers to storm the Red Keep. Unless you plan on abandoning the Riverlands. At most you can send out reaving parties to my homeland,” Tywin sighed, “It will be a nuisance, I admit, but it will take you even further from your home. Make it even harder to retreat.”

“You seem to think I’m planning for a retreat. You also seem to underestimate what men of the North and the Trident are capable of. At every battle I’ve been told by my counselors that our side was at a disadvantage. In numbers or in position or both. Yet we keep winning. Perhaps we do not have the numbers to storm the Red Keep. Or perhaps we do. Or perhaps we will, in time.”

Tywin snorted, “If you mean to make peace with Stannis, know that the price of that union will be your kingdom. Are you ready to bend the knee again so soon after straightening it? Are you ready to give up being King in the North? If so, you must know something about Stannis’ qualifications as a ruler that I don’t.”

“Your assumption is our fealty will be the cost of Stannis’ support. But perhaps we are the ones supporting Stannis… Perhaps our independence will be the price he must pay. But regardless, I wasn’t talking about Stannis. Lord Wylis has told me how little love the people of King’s Landing have for your grandson. They are starving because of the wars he is waging. My father always said a hungry man is a dangerous man… eager to bite the hand that isn’t feeding him.”

Tywin snorted, “A lesson I recently taught to another. Though I wonder how you plan to feed them. Or pay them. But I will not pretend you haven’t made a good point… Perhaps you and I are more alike than you think, Lord Stark. For instance, I believe you do not want war, but you felt you had no choice but to wage war against the king who executed your father. Just like I did not want war but felt compelled to act when my son was arrested without cause.”

He flicked his eyes to Lady Catelyn and watched for the intended result. She didn’t disappoint, the anger making her ice blue eyes look inexplicably hot in a way that was vaguely familiar…

“Most men do not want war, Lord Lannister. But that doesn’t mean we want to surrender, either.”

“If your intent is to continue the fight, then why agree to this meeting?”

“Because my first duty is to the North. The North which, as you said, will see winter – later if not sooner.”

“Then I assume you are willing to accept my terms but there is something you wish for that wasn’t in my original offer.”

The young man nodded one time, “You assume correct.”

“Then allow us to get to the matter at hand.”

Robb nodded, “You propose to return Ice to my family. Is it in your possession?”

“No, but it is in the capital – where I plan to be very soon. Returning it to you will be among my first priorities.”

The boy looked like he wanted to argue but held his tongue on that matter, “And the sum of gold? When could we expect that?”

“I need only send a raven to the Castellan of Casterly Rock. He can arrange to have it delivered to Riverrun. Or Winterfell via Deepwood Motte if you choose to return north at the earliest opportunity.”

Robb nodded somewhat absently, still not looking entirely convinced, nor entirely skeptical, “You want Jaime and Martyn Lannister. I will not return you the two eldest sons. You may choose: Martyn and Willem Lannister, or Jaime Lannister and Tion Frey.”

Tywin arched an eyebrow, “Jaime and Willem.”

Robb’s mouth quirked into a faint smirk, “How about Willem and Tion?”

Tywin felt his nostrils flare. He hated that his weakness was apparent. Jaime was heir to nothing given his lifetime commitment to the Kingsguard, yet Tywin would have him back even if it meant letting Robb keep all three of his nephews, including Kevan’s two boys who could inherit.

“Jaime and Tion,” Tywin sighed.

Robb nodded, “Onto the more important matter. You said you will vow to never bring Lannister forces against the North. I want you to vow to never bring them north of the Crownlands. The Riverlands will no longer be a war zone.”

Tywin nodded, “If the Tullys and Freys in turn vow to never take up arms against the West or the Crown.”

“About that,” Robb leaned back in his chair, “You ask us to return north. I’m inclined to. However you cannot expect me to keep the peace indefinitely. Your grandson’s continued reign, his mere existence, is an insult to my people, as far as I’m concerned. This peace accord will have an expiration date.”

“Of?”

“A year. In a year’s time, if Joffrey still sits the throne, I reserve the right to call our banners once again. It is not a guarantee, but it is an option. I will not sit back, duty-bound, if he torments the realm with impunity because he is sure that the North and Riverlands will never raise arms against him.”

“And if anyone but Joffrey sits the throne?”

Robb snorted, “I have no interest in taking the throne from a true heir of Robert Baratheon. Frankly, I have no interest in taking the throne from any capable and just ruler. Joffrey is not capable, nor is he just, nor is he a rightful heir.”

“I will not argue the former points.”

Robb lifted an eyebrow in apparent surprise, “But the latter?”

“Anyone who claims that Joffrey is not Robert Baratheon’s son is slandering my daughter – the Queen.”

“It isn’t slander if it’s true,” Catelyn Stark spoke coolly.

Tywin looked up at her, surprised she looked so certain of something that only two people could know for sure.

One of whom has been in their custody…

He glared at her, hoping the truth would be revealed in her blue eyes. They were shadowed with the weight of war, but she was more striking than he recalled her being at roughly six and ten when he last met her. Like wine, some women improved with age, though he was beginning to think it was his recollection, not her looks, that had been flawed. Admittedly he’d paid more mind to the younger sister, Lysa, who he was trying to secure in betrothal to Jaime. He distinctly remembered finding her too plain for his handsome son. Perhaps over the years he had conflated the two sisters, because seeing Catelyn now? Her bone structure was near flawless. Her cheekbones high and defined. Her skin clear and unblemished even if dull at the moment. Her lips full even if dry from the cold. Her eyes bright even if dark circles surrounded them. She was not a great beauty, like Cersei, but attractive in how distinctive she was, in how defined her features were.

But he didn’t come here to admire a fair face. He turned back to Robb with a sigh, “I’m not here as a representative of the Crown, nor am I here to argue the line of succession to the throne. You vacate the Riverlands. I do the same. You promise not to move against the current king for at least a year’s time, if ever. I give you Ice and the sum of five hundred thousand gold dragons. You give me Ser Jaime and Tion Frey. Do we have a deal?”

“You will vacate Harrenhal immediately after our agreement is executed. And you will take only your men. The men, women, and children you keep there as prisoners will be left – alive and unharmed – so that we can help return them to their homes.”

Tywin had no interest in lowborn prisoners, and he could easily sneak Sarina out with the supply train.

Wait… when did I decide to do that?

Robb Stark was eying him warily. Tywin gave him nothing but a nod, “Do we have a deal?”

“Not yet, Lord Lannister. What of my daughters in the capital?” Catelyn interjected, “If we allow Willem to return to you, would you return one of my daughters?”

Tywin shook his head, “I told you – I am not here as a delegate of the Crown but as the Warden of the West. I have no authority to demand the release of your daughters. However, when I arrive in the capital, I will encourage King Joffrey to release Lady Arya, if you agree to release Willem. I imagine each of us will feel better about our temporary accord if we retain some… collateral.”

He watched Robb and Catelyn exchange a look. The former was first to turn back to Tywin, “What news of my sisters, then? Are they well?”

Tywin shrugged, “Believe it or not I have more pressing matters to communicate with my son and daughter in the capital, but last I heard your sisters were fine.”

He watched them stew over that false news, both with narrowed eyes as if trying to determine if he was lying.

Eventually Robb leaned forward, “This is an armistice between House Lannister and House Stark. How can I be assured that the Crown won’t wreak havoc on the Riverlands once we leave?”

“The Crown is my grandson. That means blood of Martyn and Willem. Besides, why would he pull his forces away from the capital he is trying to protect? Might as well hand it over to Stannis or Renly.”

Robb glanced at Maege Mormont who nodded stoically, then repeated the gesture and got the same response from both Lords Manderly and Flint.

He turned back to face Tywin, his temples bulging as he ground his jaw, “If the Crown attacks the Riverlands or the North, you can consider our agreement void. So I suggest you keep your grandson in line.”

Tywin growled, “I intend to. Now – do we have a deal?”

With a final look to each of the faces in the tent, Robb Stark extended his hand. Tywin shook it.

 

Sansa

The sun was at its apex before any of them spoke. It seemed they were all in similar states of shock that they hadn’t been discovered trying to escape or spotted by guards or archers on the battlements. The blurry light of dawn had been their friend. Or perhaps no one remaining in the castle thought to insist on thorough guard patrols while the lion was not there to supervise.

Regardless, they were free and walking as quietly as they could in the direction of northwest.

They walked all day, and it was Gendry who eventually realized they were walking parallel to fresh horse tracks – likely from the procession that had departed that morning. It was frightening to think they were so close to the Lannister’s own route to wherever they’d been headed. So they walked due north for half an hour before returning to their northwesterly route.

They barely spoke. Actually, the only time they spoke other than Gendry pointing out the tracks was when Sansa realized, quite belatedly, that Hotpie wasn’t with them. When she asked why, Gendry’s eyes widened in silent warning, but it was too late. Arya was all sulky because he chose to stay at Harrenhal. Apparently, he was the best cook they had and so the men treated him well. He would take his chances staying there, knowing he had a skill that would always be sought after, rather than risking his life running with them. Arya quite rudely implied he really was just afraid of walking such a distance because he was fat. Sansa ignored that, and also did not voice the question that lived on the tip of her tongue: Why did Gendry come with us, then, since he too has a skill that will keep him employed and thus protected?

They rested every few hours but did not sleep. Sansa doubted any of them could. They sipped from waterskins. They chewed on dried meats that Arya had stolen from the kitchens but were careful to ration it so it would last for most of their journey. Sansa’s feet were already blistered but she didn’t dare complain. Gendry had scars on his hands and forearms from his work as a smithy. And if her feet hurt so badly, it was only because she’d been lazing around for weeks – weeks during which Gendry labored in the forge and Arya labored in the kitchens and ran up and down the tower stairs with Sansa’s meals.

It was well into the night when they heard what was either distant thunder or horse hooves to the south of them. They sat still and quiet even though they were well out of visual range of what Gendry assumed was the Lannister party returning to Harrehnal. Wherever they went, it had been a day trip. There and back within one turn of the sun. So he didn’t leave for good without saying goodbye…

Sansa pictured Tywin returning to their – his – bedchamber. Finding the note. Would he be angry? Worried? Insulted?

Would he send someone to find her?

Would he wonder as to her real identity now? Or Arya’s? If so, he would surely send search parties and be sure that at least one headed toward Riverrun. Ahorse, his men would quickly overtake their little threesome moseying through the woods.

“They’re past us now,” Gendry spoke quietly as the sound of distant hooves faded to nothingness, “We can sleep now. I’ll take first watch.”

Sansa shook her head, “No. We must put as much distance between us and Harrenhal as possible.”

“Why?” Arya asked impertinently.

“Why do you think? If they send someone to look for us, they can easily catch up with us within a day traveling by horse. But even horses need to rest, especially when carrying armored men. Let us put two days between us and them before we rest for longer than a few minutes.

Gendry looked weary but ultimately relented. They continued their quiet march, Gendry clutching his hammer, Arya doing the same to the dagger she claimed to have stolen a fortnight ago off a sleeping guard. It seemed that while both of them knew the journey would be dangerous, neither had thought that someone from Harrenhal might come looking for them. But Sansa had a strong feeling that they should not underestimate the Great Lion. They had both fooled him, though he was no fool. Whether Sarina the whore or Sansa the princess, he would not take kindly to having been deceived, and she hated that she felt sick with guilt even if the nausea was better than the pain of a mostly empty belly.

The longer they walked, the more she shivered… and it had nothing to do with the weather.

 

Tywin

He felt pleased as he rode back into Harrenhal, even if over-tired. It was after midnight, meaning he’d been awake for almost a full day and night.

He wanted nothing more than to collapse into his bed and intended to do just that, only by the time he climbed all the bloody stairs he wasn’t even sure if he’d be able to take off his armor without Sarina’s assistance. He should have thought to beckon his squire. He’d had little use of the lad the past weeks while he was at Harrenhal since he didn’t wear armor unless he left the castle, and since Sarina was capable of helping him with that task. This morning, of course, he’d summoned the lad. Sarina hadn’t said a word to him since their argument, if it could be called that, and the last thing he wanted to do was ask for her help.

Fuck it, he thought. Too tired to care. He would tell Sarina she was coming with him when the Lannister host departed Harrenhal. He’d make no promises, not even to make her his mistress, but he’d assure her she’d have a better life with him then she’d be able to find anywhere else. He’d find a job for her in the kitchens or as a handmaiden or whatever she might like. The tricky part would be making sure the men of the castle knew she was spoken for without making it widely known that the Lord of Lannister had taken a young lover. The last thing he could tolerate was people whispering that he was following in his father’s footsteps. Getting soft in his old age. Letting a woman lead him around by the cock. No, Sarina would earn her keep in and beyond his bedroom, unlike that nurse turned whore who had seduced his father.

He opened the door to find the room dark. Sarina usually had the hearth going, and he smelled no smoke that would indicate it had merely burned out after she fell asleep.

He placed the torch he’d brought from the ground floor into the sconce and walked to the bed. But there was no one there. Nor even any indentation in the mattress or pillow that would indicate Sarina had left moments ago, such as to use the privy. There was no sign of her whatsoever.

He called her name and checked all the connecting rooms, but she was nowhere to be found.

Despite his body’s protests he began running down the stairs, his brain telling him no woman was worth a broken neck while his heart screamed for him to find her before she could get hurt. Perhaps with so many men gone today she had felt safe walking around the castle, but surely she’d be back in their rooms by midnight, if not much sooner, unless something had happened to her. The only comfort he could find was in knowing that Ser Gregor was still not returned from hunting the damned Brotherhood, but Ser Gregor was not the only man in this place with deviant tendencies.

He shouted at the first guard he found to begin searching for Sarina. When the man only blinked at him, he growled, “The pretty redhead.”

The man took off without another word. Tywin went to the kitchen and found the chubby lad who sometimes delivered his lunch was there baking the next day’s bread. He seemed to be friendly with Lisbeth, so Tywin asked, “Have you seen Sarina?”

The boy’s eyes went wide and his cheeks went pink and it was not from the heat of the ovens.

“Boy, what do you know?”

He swallowed, “I… I heard some g-guards say that… that… that…”

“Spit it out!”

“That Lisbeth is missing! Never showed up at the kitchens and no one in the women’s barracks seen her.”

“What? I asked about Sarina, the redhead.”

The boy shook his head, “I dunno nothing about that!”

Tywin growled and began turning over the possibilities in his mind. Had a group of guards taken advantage of Tywin’s absence to attack both of the girls who were ordinarily under his protection? If so, he’d skin the men alive and hang their bodies from the parapets for all to see.

He went to seek out the captain of the guards and had to ask a dozen others before finding the man he sought asleep in the guards’ barracks. Tywin kicked his cot hard enough to tip it over.

The man woke up reaching for a sword that wasn’t in his belt.

“Anything to report, Ser?” Tywin growled.

The man swallowed, “Uh… Lord Lannister… I thought it could wait until morning, knowing you had a long day of travel, but—”

“But what?”

“But the blacksmith is gone. The dark-haired lad? And… and your cupbearer.”

“And what of Sarina?”

“Your whore?”

Tywin growled, “What of her?”

The man shook his head anxiously, “Don’t know, m’lord. You yourself have made sure no guards bother with her. I’d assume she’s in your rooms. If she’s not, I have no idea where she might be.”

A picture was being pieced together in Tywin’s mind. Sarina and Lisbeth leaving, with the help of the blacksmith. Tywin recalled meeting the man the same day he met Lisbeth. He pulled him out of the muck and put him to work in the forge, for which the boy seemed grateful. He was a handsome lad, ans strong, with dark hair and bright blue eyes and chiseled features. He and Sarina would make a handsome pair. Had she seduced him in exchange for his help getting her and Lisbeth out? Had she been fucking him this whole time? Did she love the boy and have secret rendezvous with him while they laughed at Tywin’s expense?

What are you doing to me?

I could ask the same of you.

Tywin worked his jaw back and forth, wondering if she’d shared those words with her blacksmith. The Old Lion, wrapped around her finger, powerless to resist her spell.

But then some of her other words came to him…

You say you’ll pay me generously when you leave, but what good will that do me? Men will steal it from me like they steal everything else from me.

Why had he not thought about those words until now? She had told him, in so many words, that she was afraid of what would happen when his protection ran out. And he had offered her no reassurance. She was just a girl surviving the best way she knew how, asking him for nothing but safety. Never once had she asked how much he would pay her. She never found an opportunity to interject her favorite color or gemstone into a conversation in the hopes of inspiring him to give her a gift. She never even requested a different meal from the kitchen, or white wine instead of red, or milk instead of water. She wanted only safety from the likes of the man her stepmother had sold her to, from the likes of Gregor Clegane.

Why had he not told her right then, right there that he would keep her?

Because of my pride.   

Tywin felt his vision going red, but he couldn’t tell if he was mad at himself, Sarina, or the blacksmith. He sneered at the captain, “How did not one but three prisoners escape?”

The man shook his head in ignorance.

“So you’ve done nothing to ascertain how they might have gotten out of the castle which is being used as a military base and prison?”

The man shook his head again.

In one fluid motion Tywin drew his sword and severed the man’s neck, earning gasps from most around him as the blood-spurting body hit the ground a fraction of a heartbeat before the head.

He pointed at the first man he saw, “You – you’re the new Captain of the Guard. Your first job is to find the three escaped prisoners. Go!”

The man scurried around looking for his clothes while Tywin stormed out. Foolish girl, he might just take a riding crop to her bottom if he ever got his hands on her again. Did she truly think she’d be safer out there than in here? Her red hair like a beacon to any roving bandits. Her big blue eyes just the type of innocence that men wanted to rip out root and stem. Her full lips that men wanted wrapped around their cocks. Her high cheekbones and perfect bone structure that made her almost painfully beautiful – more than the average man could resist. Her—

Red hair.

Blue eyes.

Full lips.

High cheekbones.

Perfect bone structure.

Beautiful.

Much like someone else he’d recently seen for the first time in twenty years. A woman whose striking appearance had been diminished in his mind over the passage of time. A woman not as beautiful as Sarina due to the ineffable, but with equally flawless features. Equally beautiful parts, only the sum of Sarina’s beauty was greater than that of Lady Catelyn’s.

He threw his head back and, for the first time in his life, the Great Lion laughed. A true laugh – no snort or chuckle. He laughed so loudly that every man within hearing distance stilled.

He laughed until he doubled over with an aching belly.

Sansa Stark, northern princess, fugitive of the Crown, outwits the Old Lion.

Worse, he had even suspected her! He had been certain she was Sansa Stark but let her convince him he was wrong. And why?

Because of my pride.   

He desperately wanted to share the humor with someone but couldn’t risk his reputation.

By the time he composed himself he had to wipe tears from his eyes. He found the man he’d recently appointed as Captain of the Guards and gripped his shoulder tightly, “The girls are to be returned unharmed. Bind them if you must but do not raise a hand to them. And it should go without saying that none of your men should take any liberties with them.”

The man nodded shakily, “Of course, m’lord. What of the blacksmith?”

Tywin waved a hand, “Kill him if he tries to fight. Otherwise, bring him to me.”

After watching the guards ride out, the sky was beginning to lighten. For the second time in as many hours Tywin climbed the steps to his chambers. He tore apart the room looking for some hint of her real identity. A dress with the direwolf sigil embroidered on it, or her initials perhaps.

He found nothing.

He growled at himself thinking of the parchments he had left lying around, but at least they were all coded if their contents were at all sensitive.

Knowing there was nothing more to be done, he finally had his squire help him remove every bit of armor and told the boy to wake him in four hours and to have a bath ready at that time.

He lifted the bedsheets and was assaulted by the sweet smell of her. The girl he was now 99% certain had been Sansa Stark. His grandson’s betrothed. The enemy of his house.

What did it say about him that he didn’t care what she was, he only missed her warmth, her quiet breathing, the soft whimpers she’d occasionally make while sleeping?

What did it say about him that he was more curious to learn how she’d come to have scars on her back then how she’d escaped Harrenal?

He was too tired to ponder it. He rolled to his side, burying his face in his pillow because he refused to be so pathetic as to bury his face in hers.

When he slid his hand under his pillow, he felt something flat and stiff. He pulled it out and held what he now knew to be a handkerchief wrapped around a scrap of parchment near his candle.

He inspected the handkerchief first. Two opposite corners bore identical sheafs of wheat – a major export of the Westerlands. In the center was a lion’s head, mouth open and fangs bared. Beneath the lion were the words ‘Hear me snore’.

The words confused him. Was she making a mockery of his house sigil? Or was it meant to be something of an inside joke between two people who had shared a bed for weeks?

And did he snore?

His too-tired brain couldn’t make sense of it. He slowly unfolded the square of parchment, hoping it would be less vague than her embroidered words.

My lord,

Thank you for protecting Lisbeth and me. I’d offer to repay the debt someday, but that’s your line. Besides, I think we both know I’d never be able to repay you.

For what it’s worth, I hope you survive the battles to come.

-S

For the second time that night (or day?) Tywin found himself laughing. He pressed the parchment to his lips, kissing the letter ‘S’, even knowing it meant he was delirious.

“Oh, you’ll repay me. A Lannister always pays his debts. And a Lannister always collects his dues…”

Notes:

Too many things to say. As always, feel free to ignore my post-chapter ramblings.

1) Perhaps Tywin was a bit slow on the uptake and should have recognized Catelyn as "Sarina's" mother instantly, but it was a rather busy moment in the tent, and it wouldn't have really impacted anything, anyway. Tywin was already away from Harrenhal and it's not like he could pause the negotiations to tell a guard to ride like the wind for Harrenhal to get eyes on Sansa, certainly not without raising the Starks' suspicion.
2) Think of it what you will, but I imagine Sansa was feeling a little stir crazy the day she sewed 'Hear me snore' on a handkerchief that would never see the light of day. I will someday look back on that part and say "WTF?"
3) Spoiler alert? The bitter tea was moon tea, not poison. Finally I addressed the moon tea question many of you had been asking. Perhaps it's unrealistic that neither Arya nor Sansa knew such a thing exists, but here's my logic: I don't think parents and septas would let such a thing become common knowledge to their daughters, by the rationale that if they think there's an easy way to prevent pregnancy then they are more likely to engage in sex out of wedlock. Also, Arya has heard plenty about sex, but mainly from men who don't have enough honor to worry about knocking up some girl. Or from kitchen maids who think she is a boy. As for Tywin not thinking about it until now? Again, I'm assuming pregnancy prevention in Westeros is the woman's domain, especially in the case of whores. He would expect a whore to have it handled. When he realized she wasn't a whore he got nervous and that's when he would have requested the stuff, probs from the maester. In lost of fanfics maesters have the stuff laying around in abundance. I find that unlikely for the maester at Harrenhal. More likely it took him some time to gather all the ingredients. Per awoiaf.westeros.org: tansy, mint, wormwood, a spoon of honey, and a drop of pennyroyal. The only women in Harrenhal right now are prisoners and prisoner-equivalents / servants. I doubt the maester is catering to them by making big batches of moon tea.
4) Yup, so Sansa's gone now that Tywin realizes he wants to keep her. Feel free to hate me.

Chapter 8: I hope I am wrong

Notes:

I meant to say this about the previous chapter. In case anyone is wondering why Robb would agree to Tywin's proposal even if in canon he wouldn't agree to Tyrion's proposal? 1) Tyrion demanded Robb bend the knee to Joffrey. As in enemy #1, even well ahead of Tywin. 2) Probably less of a factor, but Tywin offered a boatload of gold.

Chapter Text

Sansa

All three of them were stumbling. The sun had risen, meaning they’d been walking for more than a day and night with only brief rests of no more than a quarter hour at a time, and Sansa still wanted to walk through today and only sleep tonight when darkness would give them cover.

She doubted they would make it that long without collapsing. She also doubted that whoever took first watch would be able to keep his or her eyes open.

For one of the few times in recent memory, the Gods seemed to answer the prayers she hadn’t even thought to voice. The sun was inching toward its apex when a camp came into view in a valley. They were nowhere near Riverrun, yet it was the Tully trout and Stark direwolf that they spotted, proudly billowing in the autumn breeze coming down off the hillside.

Sansa felt tears in her eyes as she wondered if it was a dream. Had she fallen asleep walking?

But Arya too was crying. And Gendry was squinting, “It looks like they’re breaking down camp. We have to hurry.”

Another new development – it was hope, not fear, that propelled their steps. Hope gave them a second wind. Hope had the three of them running toward the camp with smiles on their faces. Some of the Stark men might recognize she or Arya from a past visit to Winterfell. At minimum, the Tully men ought to recognize Sansa’s coloring. If need be, Sansa and Arya could prove they grew up in Winterfell by sharing details only a Northerner would know. Yes – yes! They would find refuge here with people who would take her to Robb. Robb and Mother.

 

Catelyn

She was speaking with Lady Maege when a guard approached, bowing his head and directing his eyes at her, “My lady Stark, three travelers have approached seeking asylum. They claim to be your daughters. And a blacksmith they befriended. At Harrenhal.”

The man looked almost embarrassed to deliver such news, likely believing it was a ruse, but he didn’t know what Catelyn did – that Arya and Sansa were indeed at Harrenhal, if Lord Wylis was correct.

Or had been… now they’re here!

Catelyn couldn’t stop herself from running in the most unladylike way, forcing the guard to run with her, then just ahead of her to lead the way to a tent on the outskirts of their camp. She entered right behind the guard and found faces she hadn’t seen in years. Faces that now belonged to young women when last Catelyn saw them, they’d been girls.

She fell to her knees and her daughters joined her there, wrapping their arms around her as she put one around each of her girls. They all sobbed and Catelyn held on for dear life, for fear this was a dream she would wake from.

“Send for your king!” she called to the guard who was staring down at them in shock. The man took a few heartbeats to register her words, then he was running out of the tent.

Minutes later Robb was there and now it was four Starks kneeling on the ground, hugging and crying and stroking each other’s hair and cheeks and laughing and smiling and it was as if no war was being fought around them. It was as if none of the events of the past years had occurred. None of it mattered. Her daughters were here, safe in her embrace. Soon all four of them would be safe in Winterfell, along with Bran and Rickon. The war that took her husband and scattered her children like autumn leaves after a storm was no concern to her. They were together, and if it were within her power, they’d never part again. The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.

They stuck with their plan to head for Riverrun before midday even though all Catelyn wanted to do was sit in Robb’s tent holding her daughters. While they had a truce in place with Lord Lannister, that didn’t mean word had reached all the different reaving parties in the Riverlands. Robb wasn’t keen on sitting like ducks a day’s ride from Harrenhal with only two hundred soldiers in their host, not now that their party included three of Ned Stark’s children. They rode until well after dark even though both of her daughters were falling asleep in the saddle they shared.

It wasn’t until the second night that her daughters were rested enough to talk. Of course they could have spoken while riding but Catelyn did not want anyone overhearing what was said.

Her daughters, now rested, sat with her at the table in Robb’s tent. They held each other’s hand and the sight brought fresh tears to Catelyn’s cheeks. Her daughters never got along, but through adversity they had clearly bonded. A bond that looked unbreakable.

The pack survives.

Arya spoke so quickly and excitedly that Robb and Catelyn could barely keep up. She told them of fleeing the capital the day of Ned’s execution with Yoren of the Night’s Watch, who was later attacked and killed. Arya, who’d been traveling as a boy named Arry, was captured by the Mountain’s Men and brought to Harrenhal. Some days later Sansa arrived there.

That was where Sansa took up the mantle – describing the riots of King’s Landing and her unplanned escape via ship to Maidenpool and then her short-lived journey west in the direction of Riverrun, where she too was captured and brought to Harrenhal.

At this point the adventure turned to tragedy, and both girls were less forthcoming about whatever they’d seen. Arya only alluded to prisoners being tortured and killed, the Mountain returning and taking Sansa away from the other prisoners, but shortly thereafter Lord Tywin arrived and both girls were spared whatever fate had been awaiting them.

“He knew I was a girl even though the guards didn’t. But he kept my secret and made me his cupbearer. And he made Sansa… he made her work as a washerwoman and help around the kitchens, scrubbing pots and the like. So she and I had plenty of time to talk and plan our escape.”

Robb smiled broadly for the first time in what felt like years, “My clever and brave little sisters.”

Arya beamed though Sansa took his praise more modestly.

Catelyn leaned forward, clasping Sansa’s hand, “My darling, Lord Wylis was here. He told us of your presence at Harrenhal and—”

“What?!” both girls shouted.

Catelyn shook her head, “We’ll get to that, but first, Sansa my dear – Lord Wylis thought that Lord Tywin may have suspected you of being not who you said. Perhaps of being a Tully relation.”

Sansa nodded meekly, her eyes darting to Arya then back to Catelyn, “He did. He suspected I was Sansa Stark. Because of my red hair and blue eyes, I believe.”

Arya nodded, “I was outside his office when a messenger delivered the news to him that we had disappeared from the capital.”

Catelyn winced, “Then he knows who you are?”

Sansa shook her head, “I convinced him I am not Sansa Stark.”

Robb’s face had gone red, “Arya, you are sure he knew that Sansa and Arya Stark had fled the capital? He wasn’t merely suspicious because of Sansa having the Tully look?”

Arya shook her head passionately, “No. I couldn’t hear the whole conversation, but I heard some of what the Old Lion said because he was shouting. I heard him ask the messenger what he knew about the Stark girls. I heard him say we were probably dead, that two young girls couldn’t get out of a city of rapers unscathed.”

Sansa nodded, “Perhaps that is partly why he believed me when I told him I wasn’t Sansa Stark, because he couldn’t see how I would possibly have survived the riots and gotten to Maidenpool safely.”

Robb’s hand resting on the table clenched into a fist, “So he did know… and he lied right to our faces when he said they were fine.”

“My son, the important thing is that he does not know who they are. Thus he has no reason to believe we are harboring them. He will assume they were just ordinary prisoners who took the opportunity to escape Harrenhal.”

Robb shook his head, “We’ve just made a truce with a man who lied to us. He is willing to accept two of his kin back even knowing – or at least believing – that he’d never be able to return either of ours.”

“What do you mean a truce?” Sansa asked quietly.

While Robb stewed in his anger, Catelyn told her daughters about the agreement made between House Lannister and House Stark.

Arya and Sansa both grinned widely. Sansa sounded on the verge of tears as she spoke “So we will be returning home? The war is over for the North?”

Catelyn nodded vigorously, “Yes. We will have to stop at the Twins to pay a debt to Lord Walder Frey, then we will be in our land. We will be safe.”

“He lied,” Robb repeated.

“It doesn’t matter, we have Sansa and Arya back!”

“It does matter!” Robb slammed his fists against the table, “How am I to trust a man who lied to our faces? Will he return Ice? Will he send the gold? Will he surrender Harrenhal? Will he leave the Riverlands and stay out once the Northern forces retreat?”

“I don’t understand… Why wouldn’t he uphold his side of the deal?” Sansa asked with childlike innocence, “It benefits him to end the war with the North, does it not? He cannot hold the Riverlands while also protecting the throne.”

Robb shook his head, “And what is to stop him from going to the capital long enough to end the threat posed by Stannis and Renly, then marching back here with an even larger force?”

“Robb, he will not have an easy time sieging a fully manned Riverrun. Nor the Twins. They’re both all but impenetrable. You know this,” Catelyn pleaded.

“Aye, I know it. I also know he doesn’t need to siege those two strongholds. He can let his men loose on the lands – again. Rape and kill the smallfolk who sustain Houses Tully and Frey. He can then siege both fortresses for years if that’s what it takes.”

“We won’t let that happen. If he rescinds then we will, too. We will march south.”

“And if it’s winter? It would take us well over a moon to reach Riverrun and that’s after the bannermen respond to our call and we ready our collective armies. So really more like four moons. That’s assuming the snow isn’t deep enough to make the Kingsroad completely untraversable.”

Catelyn shook her head, “Robb… what are you saying?”

A wolfish grin formed on her son’s mouth, “I am saying, Mother, that I will not enter into a truce with a man I cannot trust. Moreover, you seem to forget we only agreed to treat with him because Lord Wylis told us that both Arya and Sansa were at Harrenhal. We agreed with his plan so we could get my sisters back before they’d be left unprotected for the Mountain’s Men to do with as they pleased. But we have them now. And he doesn’t even know we have them. And I plan to keep it that way.”

Catelyn didn’t realize until that moment how relieved she had been to think that an end to the war was in sight. Now she could retch at the realization that her dream was over before it even began.

Robb continued, “We will continue as planned, Mother. We will proceed to the Twins but afterward we will not all continue north. I will marry a Frey girl. We will arrange Arya’s betrothal…”

“What?!” Arya screeched.

Robb ignored her, “The girls will continue north to Winterfell with a guard regiment. You, Mother, will go to Storm’s End as planned to treat with Renly. We will demand Lord Frey lend more of his men and we will proceed with our original plan to move west. The Old Lion cannot be in the Riverlands and the capital at the same time. Nor can he be in the Westerlands and the capital at the same time. He will choose to defend his homeland – his goldmines. That will be how you entice Renly and his Tyrell goodfamily. Renly will have no trouble taking the capital if the entire Lannister force is spread between the Westerlands and the Riverlands.”

“We are already keeping much of the Lannister force busy in the Riverlands. Renly or Stannis could easily take the capital now if they would only stop posturing with one another.”

“Then negotiate, Mother! Offer an alliance. Lady Margaery has brothers, hasn’t she? Offer Sansa’s hand to Lord Willas. Or to one of Renly’s vassals.”

Catelyn looked to her daughters who were staring at Robb with equally dumbstruck expressions. “Robb, this merits further consideration. Lives will be lost meeting the Lannisters in their territory. I know it was your original plan, but Lord Tywin has offered—”

“I don’t care!” Robb bellowed, “You tell me not to trust Theon, who was raised with me as a brother. You tell me not to trust Lord Balon, who hates the Lannisters as much as we do. Now you are telling me that I should trust the word of a man who lied to us without blinking an eye? A man who fights for the bastard who killed Father?”

Catelyn shook her head, “So then what is your plan? Meet with him in a fortnight as planned and pretend to go through with it? Take Harrenhal from him then make it look like we’re returning north while he goes south? Robb, as soon as he hears that our forces have remained, he will know you broke your word. The whole realm will hear of it, including Renly and Stannis and any we might wish to ally ourselves with before this war is through.”

“I won’t break my word. Nothing has been signed. I will treat him with more honor than he’s shown me. Let that news spread throughout Westeros.”

“What is to stop him from killing you right then and there? You may not have signed anything yet, but you shook the man’s hand! He’d arguably be within his rights to break the rules of parley.”

“He LIED to my face! What part of this are you not understanding?! I will let it be known in front of all he brings that that is my cause for rescinding my offer. That we have heard from a credible source that neither Arya nor Sansa is in the capital.”

“Robb,” she clasped her son’s hand, “I understand your hesitance to trust him. I am not even telling you to trust him. In fact, leave a garrison at Moat Cailin. A garrison that can be in the Riverlands within days if you even suspect him of going back on his word. We could even leave a part of our army here at Riverrun.”

“You don’t understand, Mother! All I’ve been hearing since we met with him is that we’re taking the coward’s way. The men want to know why we have fought this much, lost so many good Northern men, if only to turn around and retreat without getting what we went to war for in the first place. It’s not as if we’ve been losing, Mother! We have every opportunity to win, yet we should give up? For what? A sword and a bunch of gold?!”

“You are their king, Robb. They named you King and that means accepting your decisions, even when they don’t like them. And they may not like those decisions now but come winter they will thank you for your foresight. They will thank you for putting their lives ahead of your vengeance.”

My vengeance? It is all our vengeance! You did not tell me to abandon this war a fortnight ago, Mother, and we are in a better position today than we were then! Do you not see? We have Arya and Sansa back. The Lannisters do not have the leverage we thought they did. And they know it.”

Catelyn crossed her arms with a huff, “Speaking of leverage, what do you intend to do with our four Lannister hostages?”

Robb pondered it for several moments, “I will give him two of the four. That will be consolation for choosing not to move forward with our tentative agreement and in thanks for him releasing Lord Wylis.”

At this pause in their conversation Arya interjected, “I’m to marry a Frey? I heard they all look like weasels.”

Catelyn sighed, “Elmar is of an age with you and is said to favor his mother – a Farring.”

“I don’t care! I don’t want to marry any of them! I escaped the capital and escaped Harrenhal just for you to send me to another prison?!”

Catelyn chewed her lip, “My darling, it will only be a betrothal for now. You will not wed until you turn six and ten.”

“I don’t want to wed ever!”

Robb scoffed, “Every noble lady marries, Arya. Do you think I want to marry a Frey woman? Make her my queen? It was the price of using the Crossing and gaining their support in the war.”

“So you bartered me without even consulting me?”

Robb rolled his eyes, “How were we to consult you?”

Arya stood up in a huff and ran out of the tent, despite Robb and Catelyn calling after her. Robb growled at a guard to follow her.

“You’re going to betroth both of us to men we’ve never met?” Sansa asked in a dull voice.

Catelyn looked to her eldest daughter. Her normally bright eyes were vacant.

“We will make sure to ascertain the character of both men, my darling. This will not be like Joffrey.”

“You don’t know that. For months I thought Joffrey was so kind and gallant until his true colors were revealed. Lord Willas could be every bit the monster that Joffrey is. I heard the reason the people of the Crownlands are starving is because the Tyrells are refusing to send supplies and are blocking some of the trade routes. How kind can the Tyrells be if they are letting people starve?”

Robb sighed, “This is war, Sansa. And it is the Crown’s responsibility for feeding the people of King’s Landing. You yourself said Joffrey and Cersei continued to live lavishly while the smallfolk starved. Beyond that, Lord Willas isn’t the king – you will be his equal – the eldest son and eldest daughter of Wardens. Hopefully by the time you wed him, Renly will be on the throne, and he’ll remember who helped him get it. He will be indebted to us as well as the Tyrells.”

“Stannis is the rightful heir,” Sansa stated assertively.

“Yet Renly has the greater chance of winning the throne now that he’s married into the Tyrells.”

“Ah, I see,” Sansa snorted, “Father died for a cause – the cause of proclaiming Stannis the true heir to the Iron Throne. So you are not fighting for Father’s cause, you’re fighting for who you deem to be the winning side.”

“Sansa, I know you don’t understand war, but difficult choices—”

I don’t understand war?” the vacancy was gone, now her eyes were burning like blue flames, “I have lived in the capital with lions and spiders and snakes you can’t even imagine. I have lived with Tywin Lannister, who was winning wars before our father could walk. I understand that you are determined to continue fighting instead of returning to the North where we belong, where we are safe. Where our old gods protect us just as our vast forests and deep snows do. And what are you sacrificing that for? To see Renly Baratheon on the throne when it belongs to his older brother? This is the cause you’re going to lose more men for? This is the cause you’re going to sell your sisters for? This is the cause you will risk your own mother’s life for?”

Robb’s face flushed with shame, “Sansa, nothing will be done until after the war is won. You will have time, sister. Months, at least.”

“Months go by too quickly when you want time to slow down… and too slowly when you’re looking forward to the future. A month can feel like a week or like a year.”

“Sansa, darling…” Catelyn pleaded.

Sansa smiled weakly at her, “It’s alright, Mother. I will do my duty. But I am stating here and now that this is a mistake. We belong in the North. Any of Robb’s men who don’t know that aren’t worthy of his trust.” She turned to Robb then, “Brother – for all our sakes, I hope I am wrong.” With that another of Catelyn’s daughters left.

The silence was heavy between mother and son. Eventually it was Robb to break it, “Mother, I appreciate your concerns. I appreciate Sansa’s concerns. But Sansa and Arya will be in the North until the war is done; until Joffrey and the Lannisters are nothing but a page in the history tomes. You, too, will be in the North. After treating with Renly you may return home after sending word of the outcome. I fought this war when Arya and Sansa were hostages of the Crown. I will not abandon it now that we have them safe by our side. You may all hate me because I’m not marching our men home, but what kind of King will I be if I surrender now that all the cards are stacked in our favor? Besides, I will be the one fighting. You, Sansa, Arya, Bran, and Rickon? You’ll be safe. The Stark legacy will live on.”

Catelyn nodded, knowing her son was immoveable, “I understand, my son. And I will support you until my dying breath – you know that. But do not speak of your life as if it’s nothing. The girls want their big brother. I want my son. Winterfell will not be the same without your father. Nor would it be the same without you.”

With that she left to find her daughters, eager to talk to them about anything but kings and wars and betrothals. She wanted to have at least one night to pretend that everything would be as it had been before, because in her heart of hearts she couldn’t believe the worst was behind them.

 

Tywin

The captain stood in Tywin’s office, trembling from fear. Tywin knew that meant nothing good.

“Speak,” he commanded.

The man nodded shakily, “My lord… we tracked them to… I mean to say we found their tracks easily, headed northwest. But we couldn’t follow—”

“Why not?!”

The man swallowed loudly, “Their tracks led straight to… to the Stark camp.”

Tywin nodded mechanically and watched the man eagerly leave even though he hadn’t been dismissed.

He pulled the scrap of parchment from his pocket.

My lord,

Thank you for protecting Lisbeth and me. I’d offer to repay the debt someday, but that’s your line. Besides, I think we both know I’d never be able to repay you.

For what it’s worth, I hope you survive the battles to come.

-S

He crumpled it into a ball but couldn’t bring himself to chuck it into the flame. Instead, he made kindling out of every chair in his office until he was surrounded by nothing but wreckage.

It was tempting to gather four hundred men and pursue the Stark host, but they already had a two-day head start and would move faster than him all the way to Riverrun.

No… he could do nothing but meet with Robb Stark in a fortnight as planned. Would the boy bring his sister? No, he couldn’t possibly. He would leave her at Riverrun. Because if he was stupid enough to bring her to the parley, Tywin would not be leaving without her. If he had to slaughter all the Stark men, he’d do it. It wasn’t like he’d be punished for breaking the rules of war – not when his own grandson sat the throne.

She would not be there for Tywin to steal, so he’d have to make Robb Stark an offer for the girl. More gold was unlikely to suffice.

Unless of course Robb Stark knew just how much his sister’s value had depreciated in recent weeks…

Chapter 9: Angry men make brash decisions

Summary:

Desperate men do desperate things.

Notes:

I cannot possibly respond to all the comments I received over the weekend, but WOW! You guys are so invested in this story that it makes me feel super proud but also super pressured to deliver something that doesn't fizzle out. I can only say I think everyone will be surprised by things that happen in this fic. Predictability bores me. Everything working out perfectly for everyone bores me.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Tywin

His eyes scanned the Stark camp which was at least four times larger than during their prior meeting. The boy was no fool – Tywin brought twice as many men, leaving only a skeleton crew at Harrenhal in case the Brotherhood showed up – but Robb had still doubled him.

He was outnumbered but doubted Robb Stark intended to attack. He would have brought an even larger host if that were the case. Besides, what would be the gain for the Young Wolf? This was parley; if he spilled blood here and now, he’d have a hard time retaining his reputation as honorable Ned Stark’s honorable son. He had agreed to Tywin’s proposal, which meant he wanted to go home, not to continue fighting through autumn and into winter.

But Tywin knew something was wrong when he was not led into Robb’s tent but left waiting near the center of the large camp. It put him on edge, but he refused to show it. He was on edge enough over the matter related to Sansa and how he must proceed if he was to get her back and keep the rest of the deal intact. With one of his sisters returned (and no doubt Sansa would tell Robb that Arya was no longer in the capital) the Young Wolf might feel he now had the upper hand. He may try to renegotiate. No matter that the sisters were not part of the deal they had struck, Sansa being reunited with her brother did change things.

Finally, Robb Stark approached from his tent, this time with Jon Umber at his back. Lady Catelyn was probably at Riverrun with her daughter. Lord Wylis may be around here somewhere, or he too may be at Riverrun.

Or perhaps they sent him north to negotiate more support from Frey, or south to negotiate with Stannis…

Tywin took a breath to clear the paranoid thought. Sansa’s return didn’t mean Robb Stark wouldn’t see the merits of their truce. ‘Winter is coming’ were the North’s words, not Tywin’s, but even he appreciated the warning within them.

He watched the boy approach, his blue eyes hard.

“Lord Lannister,” Robb started, “I’m giving you the courtesy of this meeting even though I’m well within my rights to deny it.”

Tywin glared at the angry Northern faces all around. They all glared back. They knew something he didn’t, and he didn’t like it.

Tywin cleared his throat, “When we parted ways it was after a handshake and a promise of truce. I’ve done nothing since nor before then to merit your discourtesy, Lord Stark, so you’ll need to educate me.”

The young man crossed his hands behind his back, “Word has reached my camp that my sisters are in fact not residing in the capital. I have learned that both fled the capital and are considered missing or more likely dead.”

He wasn’t prepared for that, though in hindsight he ought to have been, “I was unaware.”

“Were you?” Robb asked, his voice dripping with skepticism.

“What does it matter? Your sisters were not part of our agreement. I am giving you Ice. I am giving you gold. I am giving you peace.”

“No – you are promising Ice, you are promising gold, you are promising peace.”

“And a Lannister always pays his debts.”

“How can I trust the word of a man who lied to my face? Who lied to a mother by saying her daughters were safe and well when knowing they were more likely dead?!”

“Again – your accusation has no impact on our agreement. My son and my nephew should have been handed over by now. You and I should be sitting down to sign the armistice that was previously negotiated. I should be on my way south while you turn north.”

“Your grandson executed my father after promising that he’d be sent to the Wall. You promise me peace, yet I’m beginning to believe that to a Lannister that means war.

Tywin snorted, “How would you know what my grandson promised your father?”

Robb’s face reddened. Tywin did not relent, “You know, you could have sent a messenger to let me know that you had no intention of honoring our agreement. Did you bring me out here simply for the spectacle? Or is it to try to make yourself look justified in breaking our accord?”

“I brought you here to tell you in person why I will not put my stock in the word of a Lannister. I owe you nothing, given your blatant deception, but I am choosing to offer you a consolation nonetheless – in recognition of the fact that I did shake your hand, even if no ink was put to parchment, and of the fact that you returned Lord Wylis Manderly.” Robb jutted his chin toward a pair of guards who bowed their heads before disappearing within a tent, returning a few moments later with Jaime and Tion. Tywin had to bite back his emotions when he saw his bedraggled son who had lost weight but looked reasonably well otherwise.

Robb continued, “My inclination was to kill two of the prisoners as retribution against your daughter and grandson who clearly put no effort into keeping my sisters safe. Do you know I’ve had to hear that Sansa was likely raped to death during the riots of King’s Landing, while the bastard king was swept away to safety?”

Tywin shook his head, “You want to play games, boy? Fine, we’ll play games. You say you are revoking your agreement because I lied? Grow up, boy. Everyone lies. Even you. You’re lying right now.”

Robb’s cheeks darkened, “I am showing you—”

“More courtesy than I deserve. Right. I must say, King Stark… it would seem you are more trout than wolf. Clearly you favor your mother’s words – family before duty and honor. I won’t pretend not to admire that. I too have always put family before such flimsy concepts honor. Perhaps we’re more alike than either of us would have guessed.”

Robb stepped up to him and Tywin’s guards stepped forward, but with a simple wave of his hand they fell behind him again. He wasn’t afraid of this boy playing at war. Playing at politics now, too. Having this discussion in the midst of his camp instead of in the privacy of his tent? Robb Stark knew what he was doing...

“We are nothing alike,” the boy spoke around clenched teeth, “You use rapers like Ser Gregor to terrorize smallfolk who have no part in this war. You endorse a king we all know is a bastard. And I believe it is clear to everyone around us that I place as much value on duty and honor as I do on family.”

“Do you? Yet you break an agreement that was all but ironclad. I wonder how easily you’ll make allies when word of this spreads… Assuming you plan on continuing your fight even though peace was on the table for your people. Peace during winter – do they know what you are walking away from?”

“They know, and you won’t turn them against me. They are willing to fight and die to avenge my father - their lord. They are willing to fight to see a fit ruler on the Iron Throne.”

Several men nearest to the exchange nodded vigorously. Perhaps they weren’t as war weary as Tywin had hoped.

Tywin let his eyes land on all of them before settling back on Robb , “Fighting for ghosts now? Or for a man who will take the throne you plan to remain independent from? Have you nothing better to do? The North must be even more boring than I have been led to believe.”

Robb shook his head angrily, “We’re done. I’ve explained my reasoning. I’ve returned your son and one of your nephews. Go back to Harrenhal, Lord Lannister. I’ll meet you on the battlefield.”

“Perhaps you’ve never heard The Rains of Castamere… You think the battlefield is the only place I can end you? I’ve never lost a war, boy, and I don’t plan on starting now – not when this farce of a meeting has given me such strong incentive.”

“I’m not afraid of you, Lord Lannister.”

“Then you’re a fool. But I cannot pretend not to admire your confidence. You’d have been a good Warden. You might have been a good King. But you’ll be nothing if we leave here today as enemies. So I suggest you take a minute to think this decision through.”

A few of the faces wavered. At least some still remembered that Tywin Lannister was not a man to be trifled with, but it wasn’t enough. And none were speaking out against their king.

“I’ve done nothing but think it through for weeks – since our last meeting.”

“Then allow me to make a new proposal…”

Robb let out a humorless chuckle, “One that involves trusting your word? I think not.”

Tywin ignored him, “You have something that belongs to me. Return it, and I will forgive this slight. We’ll pick up where we left off before you and I ever sat across a table from one another.”

The boy looked confused – the first expression Tywin had witnessed on him today that wasn’t pure arrogance.

Robb shook his head, “Your nephews will not be released.”

Tywin shook his head but had to pause while his stomach roiled at the thought of what he was about to do. He did not wish to have this conversation here, in front of Stark men and his own, in hearing distance of many of them.

He lowered his voice so only those closest could hear, “Not Martyn and Willem. I happen to have it on good authority that a particular redhead entered your camp shortly after our last meeting… She was likely traveling with a blacksmith and a runt of girl dressed as a boy.”

He let the words hang in the air. He watched the widening eyes and darting glances with delight before continuing, “I had grown rather fond of her… companionship. She was inexperienced but took quite naturally to any task I gave her. I’d even say eagerly.

Robb’s face went red, “You go too far with your insinuations. You prove just how dishonorable you are that you would resort to slandering a… a woman who isn’t here to defend herself.”

Tywin stepped to be within arm’s reach and pulled from his pocket the parchment that he’d read and crumpled then smoothed out more times than he would ever admit. He held it between two fingers and extended it toward Robb Stark, who took it warily. Afraid of what he’ll find…

Robb quickly read the brief missive and Tywin could see the boy recognized his sister’s penmanship. He thrust his hand back out, but Tywin refused to take the parchment that was probably burning the young man’s fingers and thumb.

“This proves nothing,” Robb spat, “Only that you gave this woman your protection.”

Tywin let out a light chuckle, “Oh I gave her more than my protection... Curious how she signed the note with 'S'... instead of 'Sarina'... one might think she wanted her real identity to become known to me. One might think she hopes to be reunited with me someday...”

The young man’s face could only get redder if it were covered in blood. “You lie. About everything,” he hissed angrily.

“I am not lying. Ask her yourself,” Tywin took a step closer, ever aware of Robb’s hand inching toward his sword hilt. Tywin’s hand hovered near the handle of his own dagger, better for a close confrontation.

He had to steady himself with a deep breath before continuing. No matter how mad he was at the girl for her deception, he understood her motive.

But he also understood that he was a drug in her veins just as she was in his.

What are you doing to me?

I could ask the same of you.

These and so many of her words had been haunting his every waking moment, depriving him of concentration by day and sleep by night. He had relived every one of their interactions through a new perception – the perception of Sansa Stark with Tywin Lannister.

I was raised by a good and kind father… he was taken away from me and I was thrust alone into a terrifying place... Where men only wished to hurt and use me.

He pictured the thin scars on her back.

I fled because of a man who was cruel to me. After my father died, I was given to him by my stepmother. He was sick. He enjoyed seeing me in pain. He had a sword and he would strike my bare back with the flat side of it.

Bile had risen in his throat upon realizing she must have acquired the scars in King’s Landing.

The girl probably didn’t even realize how closely her story aligned with the truth; then again, the best lies always did. She was so guileless she couldn’t bring herself to fully lie to him – and that only made him want her more.

And no wonder her own want of him was conflicted. She looked at him and saw Joffrey, who Tywin was fairly certain was the inspiration for this man who abused her. She probably also saw Cersei, the inspiration for her “stepmother” - a woman who may not have been explicitly cruel but who certainly failed to protect her.

He was sick. He enjoyed seeing me in pain.

He had retched the first day he pondered her tales and found Joffrey at the center of so many of them.

He was sick...

Just like Aerys II had been sick.

Just as the Mad King started the last war by killing the Warden of the North, your grandson started this war by killing the Warden of the North.

Those fucking girls. If only he’d never stepped foot into Harrenhal. He ought to raze the whole bloody place when this war was over; finish what the dragons started. It was cursed. He didn’t even believe in curses, yet he believed that place was cursed.

All I wanted was to be free of my cage, but I flew right from one into another, didn’t I?

Perhaps the girl didn’t realize it yet, but history had repeated itself for her yet again. For her brother would find a new cage for her. It might be a comfortable one, with a gaoler who was a kind and handsome man, or it might be a true cage, a true prison. Perhaps the Twins. Frey men treated their own women abhorrently, how well would they treat a pretty little princess given to them as payment for their bridges and their armies?

Tywin sighed, knowing what he must do to make it harder for Robb to barter the girl, but hating that it had to happen this way.

He was looking over the shorter man’s shoulder and spoke quietly enough that only Robb and those immediately near them could hear, “Ask your sister how she earned my protection at Harrenhal. I’ll give you a hint: it involved being on her back, or occasionally on her kn—"

Robb didn’t draw his sword; he swung his fist, and Tywin let him. He took the punch to his cheekbone, because it proved something for all of those around to see it. Robb Stark’s anger was not from believing Tywin’s words were lies but from fearing they were truths.

Tywin swiped at his lip and this time allowed his guards to step forward. He hadn’t lived this long by assuming all others would always fight fair. “I am making known my intention to have your sister as my bride, and though you obviously have no faith in my promises, I assure you that I’ll treat her better than whoever you plan on trading her to. You needn’t abandon our truce. It can be even stronger – sealed by my marriage to your sister.”

Robb tried to lunge but this time it was his own men holding him back when Tywin’s guards drew their swords and made it quite clear they’d kill the King in the North if he attacked their liege again.

Tywin smiled, “Shall I sweeten the offer? Fifty-thousand gold dragons for her.”

“You fucking bastard!”

“A hundred thousand?”

“Shut your fucking mouth or the next time you see my sister it’ll be when she’s watching my wolf tear you apart!” the young man all but screamed, spit flying from his lips.

Tywin answered the threat with one of his own, “Give me what is mine and, as I said, I will forgive this slight. Refuse me and the minstrels will be singing a new song – The Rains of Riverrun. Or perhaps What Lions do to Wolves.”

Robb tried ineffectively to shake off the hands that held him for his own good, “You motherfucker!”

Tywin rolled his eyes and resisted the strong desire to point out that it was Robb’s sister, not his mother, that Tywin had fucked.

“Since you don’t seem to be listening very well at the moment, I will repeat myself: Sansa is mine. Send her to Harrenhal within a fortnight. It’s only fair after you went back on your word. Besides, you still have two of my kin, I could demand two of yours!”

“You think you’re clever?! I’ll never give my sisters to you!”

Sisters?

Both girls?

But how…?

Lisbeth!

Tywin didn’t let his surprise show. He merely watched as, with whatever dignity he could muster, Robb Stark finally shook off the arms restraining him (or rather, they finally let him go). He turned and stomped back toward his tent, shouting “I’ll see you in battle!” over his shoulder.

Tywin growled to himself, “No… you won’t.”

He dined alone with Jaime the following evening. It was the first time since the girl left that he had a welcome distraction during his idle hours.

“You fell for the Young Wolf’s trap,” Tywin spoke to break the silence that reigned while both men ate. Jaime had a healthy appetite but didn’t devour the food the way the girl had that first night, so at least Tywin knew they hadn’t been starving him.

Jaime’s face flushed and his jowls bulged as he put down his fork with a clank as if to make a point. He leaned back, arms crossed, and matched his eyes to his father’s in challenge.

Tywin held up both hands and sighed, “What’s done is done. Today I sent messengers to call some of our bannermen to Golden Tooth to await your command.”

Jaime shrugged, “What’s at Golden Tooth?”

“At the moment, Ser Forley Prester with four thousand Lannister men Albeit rather green men. After yesterday’s events at the Stark camp, I believe Robb Stark will return to Riverrun then plan an attack on our homelands. I’ve been trying to bait him; to get him to meet me for battle at Harrenhal, but apparently he’s too smart for that. Or one of his advisors is. He’d be pinched between me at Harrenhal and your uncle’s army just to the southwest.”

“He has tarried too long at Riverrun. I dare say they named him King and he decided that meant he could put his feet up…” Jaime swirled the wine in his goblet. His hair had been trimmed, his beard shorn off entirely. Aside from being thinner than he'd been anytime since the age of eight and ten, he looked every bit the arrogant Young Lion. Captivity hadn't humbled him, it would seem. 

Tywin tipped his head, “Robb Stark squanders time while winter draws near, though I cannot fault him for carefully considering his options. Meet us in battle here? Push southeast – the long journey to King’s Landing and the king he wishes to see relieved of his head? Or push southwest – the short journey to the border of the Westerlands. Plunder the lands of said king’s mother. That is, if he thinks he can pass through Golden Tooth.”

“I’d say he doesn’t stand a chance to be successful in any of those endeavors. Except that…”

Tywin nodded, “Except that he keeps finding ways to win. Trickery will only work so long, though. He and the river lords have an impressive army, one that has done well in open field battle, but he doesn’t have the numbers to sack a major stronghold – assuming it’s adequately garrisoned.”

“What makes you confident he will choose to march on Golden Tooth? I don’t suppose it would have anything to do with the…” Jaime pursed his lips, “very interesting exchange between you and the Young Wolf yesterday… Would it?”

Tywin sighed, “Angry men make brash decisions.”

Jaime snorted, “Oh he’s been plenty angry… and plenty brash… and he’s kicking our arse all the same.”

“As I said, luck runs out. He beat us because we were expecting him to fight fair. Now we know he won’t.”

“We can be wary of traps and diversions; that doesn’t mean we won’t fall for them. He still has Willem and Martyn. Other hostages, I’m assuming. At the Whispering Wood I was far from the only notable figure captured.”

Tywin nodded, “Lord Gawen Westerling, Lord Quenten Banefort, Ser Tytos Brax… a few others, all scattered about various keeps. But you’re forgetting we have some of theirs, too. Three dozen prisoners from Green Fork.”

Jaime nodded, “I understand. When shall I depart for Golden Tooth?”

“Within four days. With Ser Forley’s four thousand men already there and those that are being called in, you ought to have plenty to hold the river road and keep the wolves from having free rein of our lands.”

“If they meet a strong blockade at Golden Tooth, why wouldn’t they turn east and head for the Crownlands instead?”

“They may, but there are only so many fords where they can cross the Red Fork. At the first whisper of them marching east, I can march south and be in the capital well before them via the Kingsroad.”

“Any chance the Starks will get to Golden Tooth before me?”

Tywin lifted his shoulder, “Doubtful. Robb Stark had less than a thousand men at our parley. He’ll need to reconvene at Riverrun with his bannermen. Resupply. You will move light and swift from here. We do not hold the keeps – the Starks recovered Pinkmaiden, Stone Hedge, and Raventree at the same time they lifted the siege on Riverrun. But the lands? The lands belong to us. I had your uncle set reaving parties loose all throughout the southern half of the Riverlands. Ser Amory. Ser Gregor. Vargo Hoat and his bloody mummers…”

Jaime smiled facetiously, “Ah the songs they’ll sing of our valor…”

Tywin snorted, “Let them sing. Let them remember we are a house to be feared.”

“I’ve already heard this speech. I’m content for the entire realm to fear us, Father. Fear us in battle. Fear our wrath. Fine. But I’d rather not be known as the house that won the war by raping the smallfolk.”

“I’d rather not be known as the house that lost the war, period. Besides, do you think no women of the Trident have been raped by men with the Stark direwolf or Umber giant etched in their armor? And what do you think Stark’s men will do to the women of the West should they get through Golden Tooth?”

Jaime let out a rough laugh, “After you just confessed to dishonoring their princess, I imagine they will consider themselves justified in exacting similar crimes on our women. Well played, Father.”

Tywin sneered, “If you’re so worried about our women, do not let the wolves pass Golden Tooth.”

Jaime glared at him, “That’s it? You’re not going to tell me what all that business about Sansa Stark was? That is the sister you were referring to, is it not?”

Tywin tugged at the bottom hem of his jacket, “It would seem both Arya and Sansa Stark are in Riverrun.”

“Why would Cersei let them leave?”

“They let themselves leave because your sister is as incompetent as your nephew and your brother.”

He watched Jaime’s cheeks darken with either anger or shame, but his son's only defense was, “Not too long ago, they told me that Tyrion was offering Robb Stark both girls for me and the other Lannister prisoners. Well, and for the bending of his knee.”

“It was a bluff. Arya has been missing from the capital since the day your idiot nephew executed Ned Stark.”

Jaime shook his head, “Right. I’m an idiot for arresting Ned Stark. Joffrey is an idiot for killing him. Is anyone ever going to admit that the man was an idiot for leveling an accusation against the Queen? For conspiring to have her children declared bastards?”

“Of course he was an idiot,” Tywin scoffed, “An idiot that Joffrey and Cersei turned into a martyr. Now his son’s war is justified. Every act the Starks and their allies commit against the Westerlands or the Crownlands is justified. We call it rebellion. We call it treason. But if somehow one of our enemies ends up on the throne, history will call it righteous conquest. If they win, they tell the story. The story of Cersei, the queen who cuckolded the King with her own twin brother. Joffrey, the bastard king who let his people starve. House Lannister may survive, but if it does it will be the laughingstock of the kingdoms.”

Veins were throbbing in his son’s neck and face. Tywin almost wanted to put all the blame at his feet, but that would mean acknowledging certain rumors might be more than rumor…

Jaime eventually spoke, his tone jagged, “Do you care if they laugh at us? I thought they were but sheep.”

Tywin rubbed his forehead, “I’m tired of explaining this to you.”

Jaime sighed loudly, “Fine. What of Stark’s sisters?”

“It matters not. Rest. Eat. Train. And prepare to leave for Golden Tooth.”

He saw his son fight the desire to question him further, but Tywin was growing weary.

Eventually Jaime stood, “As you command, Father. Anything else?”

Tywin nodded one time, “Hold Golden Tooth at all costs… but if there is opportunity to make them think they have a chance…”

“Keep them engaged, you mean?”

“Yes. I have business to see to here in the Riverlands. Business that will be easier to see to if Robb Stark and his commanders are busy elsewhere.”

“Do I want to know?”

Tywin shook his head.

Notes:

The key theme in most of the comments was Robb hatred, which surprised me. I really pity Robb, in canon. He was ~15 when Ned was killed. The success and survival of the North and Riverlands was thrust onto him. He did pretty damned good, winning battles and retaking Riverrun and all the other Riverlands castles that the Lannisters had claimed. If he didn't go and marry Jeyne W. he'd probably be the most beloved character in ASOIAF.
As for the choices he's making in my fic? I don't consider them totally right, nor totally wrong (ditto every other character I write). I want all characters to have the wisdom that peace is always the best choice. But he's a young man winning battles, pissed that the brat that killed his father still sits on the throne. Pissed that Tywin Lannister used reaving parties to attack the smallfolk and individual castles rather than having it all be army v. army in the battlefield.
But let's talk about Tywin... I think the phrase that best sums him up is "the ends justify the means". Period. That applies to the way he deals with enemies and the way he tries to solve the problem of getting Sansa. And the poor dude doesn't even realize how bad he wants her, even as he says and does things to try to get her. 'Willful ignorance' is another term that can describe Tywin. Though, he's starting to see some truths he has denied for a long time.

Chapter 10: War is messy

Notes:

Sorry it's been a week since I posted! RL has been busy, I'm still sick though feeling much better, and my brain got all sidetracked. With what, you ask? :)
-a modern SanSan in which Sandor is an incubus, because, well, DUH!
-a canon Jaimsa I've been brainstorming with Jonsaonly (who cheats on Jonsa with Jaimsa) :)
-a modernish Christmas Carol in which Sansa is a single mom (Bob Cratchett) and Tywin is her boss (Ebenezer Scrooge). Seriously, how has no one written HIM as Scrooge yet? Maybe someone has, but I certainly haven't come across it.

Chapter Text

Sansa

She and Mother and Arya sat restlessly in what had been her mother’s childhood bedchamber. Riverrun was a dank place that smelled like mildew and wet dirt and fishy water, but Sansa did not complain. She had become accustomed to living without comforts. Rather, she had come to know that comforts were nothing. At least here she didn’t feel like she was living with a knife to her throat. It was an odd sensation after years existing as some type of prisoner. She couldn’t fully enjoy it, except when Mother smiled at her – then all was forgotten for a few blissful moments.

They tried playing cards. Well, she and Mother did. Arya had barely spoken since weeks ago when she learned that her hand had been promised to Elmar Frey. Sansa tried to soothe her by pointing out how much could happen between now and her sixteenth nameday. Arya was mildly grateful for the effort but did not look assuaged. But already Sansa was considering a plan, one she was carefully weighing before suggesting it to either Mother or Robb. If Robb truly was committed to continuing this war and needed as much of Lord Frey’s support as possible, then Sansa knew it was important not to insult the Lord of the Crossing. Which Arya would certainly do. Purposefully. Because she couldn’t help herself. Sansa smiled to think of how free-spirited Arya was. It used to annoy the older sister, but now she feared the day when Arya stopped being her vivacious little sister, running around in boy’s clothing.

So Sansa would suggest Robb offer her to Lord Frey in place of Arya. The elder sister, prettier and more ladylike, ought to be a greater prize, and if they thought to inspect her for a maidenhead it would be easy enough to suggest she lost it while riding astride the horse with Arya on the journey to Riverrun. The Freys would lend more money, then. More men. More supplies. More of whatever Robb would need to win this war.

(She didn’t let herself dwell on the fact that thinking about marrying even some faceless Frey man made her feel like she was being disloyal to… someone.)

She decided today would be the day she broached the subject with Mother and Robb. Robb’s host had been spotted this morning and any minute now he should be back within the castle walls. Despite her nervousness, Sansa couldn’t wait to see him. Though she disagreed with her brother’s choices, Sansa understood the position he was in as king. Moreover, she just wanted to see him again, to feel his strong embrace and smell his distinctive scent – sweat and leather and fur and cold air, just like father.

They were supposed to be notified once Robb was back and settled, but it was no page that knocked on their door sometime after midday. It was Robb himself, entering without giving them time to answer.

Robb’s eyes passed over Sansa to Arya, “Leave us, Arya.”

Arya looked to Sansa and then mother, “What…?”

“Leave. Now,” Robb responded curtly.

“But—”

“Leave!” Robb bellowed. Arya scurried out looking equal parts shocked and angry.

“Robb,” Catelyn rose, “Are you unwell? You look dreadful and you’re shouting at your sister for no—”

“I am unwell, Mother, indeed. I’ve spent the journey back to Riverrun plagued by nightmares. Nightmares of my little sister being ruined by the Lion of Lannister. Our enemy,” the last word came out like a curse.

Sansa couldn’t stop her hand from going to her lips. All she could think was he knows, he knows, he knows. But which he? Robb knowing she had lain with Lord Tywin? Or Tywin knowing he had lain with Sansa Stark? It made her feel suddenly exposed. There was safety in his thinking she was just another lowborn prisoner. But now? Now she felt like a rabbit who’d caught the nose of a wolf. Except it was not just any wolf, it was a wolf big enough to completely surround the rabbit. To see it from all angles; to block any path of escape.

And it wasn’t a wolf; it was a lion.  

“Robb…” she began to speak, not knowing how to finish her plea.

Robb’s face was redder than his hair, “Is it true?”

“Robb—” Catelyn tried, but Robb raised a hand to silence her, his frenzied eyes never leaving Sansa’s.

Sansa opened her mouth, but no words came out. Lying to Joffrey and Cersei and Tywin had become almost easy. Lying to family was not a skill she possessed, nor ever wanted to develop.

Robb’s eyes closed then opened again, very slowly, “Tell me he forced himself on you, Sansa. Tell me you didn’t whore yourself to our enemy.”

“Robb! Do not speak to your sister that way!”

Robb ignored their mother, leaning over the table until he and Sansa were almost eye level, “Lord Lannister told me my sister was his bedwarmer. That he fucked you. That—”

He was cut off by a hard slap from their mother, “You do not speak to her this way!”

Robb snorted, his cheek smarting though he didn’t seem to notice the pain, “I was a fool for not realizing it. Arya survived because she cut her hair and wore boy’s clothes. But a pretty girl like you? No, they wouldn’t assign you to the kitchens or the laundry. Why did you not tell me, Sansa? Why did you make it so I had to hear it from that devil's mouth!?”

Sansa could take no more, “I was ashamed to tell you! I did what I had to do to survive! My choices were to make myself useful to Lord Tywin or be cast out of his room so people like the Mountain and the Tickler could do with me as they pleased!”

“Those weren’t your only choices! You could have told him your name, Sansa! He’d not have sullied you if he knew who you were!”

She stood up, anger making her feel fierce, “No, but he’d have sent me back to King’s Landing!”

“So you’d rather lay with Tywin Lannister than live in the Red Keep!?”

“Joffrey would—”

“Would what?! Would have raped you? If he didn’t before you fled, why would he afterwards? For fuck’s sake, Sansa! Within a few moons everyone in the realm will hear of this. No high lord will want a spoiled bride and no Northman will want a woman whose allegiance can’t be trusted! I’ll be lucky if I can find a first son of a minor house to take you!”

“What would you have had me do?!” she cried, “You don’t know what it was like, Robb!”

He snorted and pinched the bridge of his nose, “I don’t know what it was like? You lived in the capital with your silk gowns and your pretty knights and feasts and minstrels. I’m the one who’s been fighting a war! Sleeping in tents. Living on stale bread and charred game. Spilling my blood! Watching good men die all around me! You mean to tell me it was worse for you as Cersei’s ward? A protected trade piece!”

Tears rolled down her cheeks and she didn’t even know where to begin. Watching Father’s head being lopped off? Seeing his tarred head on a spike next to those of Jory Cassel and Septa Mordane? Being slapped by Ser Meryn? Being stripped and beaten for Joffrey’s entertainment? Almost being raped by angry peasants? Wondering when it would be her turn to have her chest chewed open by a rat? Being hours or perhaps only minutes away from being raped by Ser Gregor in the filthiest manner?

Before she could even organize the words to describe her experience, Robb was continuing. His voice now quiet, defeated, “You laid with the enemy, Sansa. The man who set loose Ser Gregor. He sanctions rape and murder of the smallfolk. That is who you shared a bed with. I hope it was worth it.” He tossed a crumpled-up piece of parchment on the table, and Sansa knew what it was.

‘For what it’s worth, I hope you survive the battles to come.’

She dissolved into tears and couldn’t meet her brother’s eyes. Did she not have enough of her own shame to carry to know she wouldn’t go to the marriage bed a maiden? Now her brother had to imply she was a traitor to their house?!

And worse, she was a traitor, if for no other reason than that she didn’t want Lord Tywin to die.

Joffrey said I was a traitor to the throne. Now Robb says I’m a traitor to my family. Is there truly nowhere left for me?

Robb left and Mother’s arms were around her, “Hush, Sansa. Hush now.”

“I didn’t want to!”

“I know, my girl. I know. Robb was hurt and angered, so he overreacted. He will realize he was too harsh.”

“He said everyone will know! Does that mean his men heard?! They’ll think I’m a whore!”

“No, my dear. They will know you did what you had to do to survive.”

“But Robb is right – I could have told Lord Tywin my real name. I traded my maidenhood for my freedom, but for what? Now I’ll be forced to marry whatever man is low enough to take me! I’ll be stuck with another Joffrey!”

“No, my darling. Mother will fix this, I promise. You are still a Stark. You are still a princess. With or without a bit of flesh.”

She rubbed her nose against her mother’s dress, “Robb hates me.”

“He doesn’t hate you.”

“He does. He thinks he can win the war by bartering me to the Tyrells and gaining Lord Renly as his ally. I lost him that. And I was going to offer to take Arya’s place with Elmar Frey so Lord Walder would have to give more – then maybe Robb wouldn’t even need Lord Renly.”

“Hush, sweet girl. Enough about Robb and marriages, alright? We need to discuss something far more important, and I know it will be uncomfortable, but we must discuss it now.”

She allowed her mother to push her away enough to make eye contact though they both remained sitting on Catelyn’s bed. Mother took her hands gently, “Sweetling, when you laid with Lord Lannister, did he…” Mother blushed and looked away.

Sansa felt her own cheeks tingle with an unpleasant warmth, “Did he what?”

Mother took a deep breath as if to fortify herself, “Did he reach his completion inside your body?”

Sansa cringed to speak of such things, “Yes… where else would he have done it?”

“He didn’t withdraw himself and let his seed spill on your belly? Or on the sheets?”

Now Sansa’s cheeks were on fire, “No!”

Catelyn’s jaw tensed, “Did he give you a tea to drink?”

“I drank tea every morning when I broke my fast.”

“Not chamomile or rose hips or ginger tea… this would be a bitter brew, with a subtle taste of mint.”

Sansa’s eyebrows rose, “Yes! Shortly after he learned that I wasn’t a whore he began sending a very bitter tea. Arya and I threw it away because we thought it was poisoned by a girl from the kitchens.”

“Whore? He… What?”

Sansa blushed again but knew nothing she had yet to say was worse than what had already been uncovered, “Ser Gregor made me bathe him. He was going to… to lay with me. But he fell asleep and when Lord Tywin found us, he assumed I was a whore. I let him believe it because I was so afraid that he’d recognize me as a Tully.”

Mother’s face all at once went lax but it looked more like defeat than peace, “Sansa… I’m so sorry, child. We never should have let you go to the capital. I’ve done nothing but make mistakes ever since King Robert came north, and it is my family who have paid the price.”

“We’ve all made mistakes, Mother. Me most of all.”

“No, child. You were too young to have any of this thrust on you. You were alone and without guidance. You did what you had to do.”

Sansa nodded, only because she was feeling too tired to argue, “Why did you ask about tea?”

“It was moon tea. It brings about a woman’s moon tide so that no seed can lay roots in her womb.”

Sansa gasped, “You fear I’m with child?!”

“Do you feel sick in the mornings? Like you might retch?”

Sansa worried her lip, “My tummy does feel rather… queasy at times. But I haven’t been ill. I think it is just nerves.”

Catelyn nodded, “Indeed, I’d expect you to have a nervous tummy considering… everything. What about your courses, when have you last bled?”

Sansa had to think about it and was appalled to realize that it was on the journey by ship from King’s Landing to Maidenpool. Her tide had started the last day she was on the ship, and she had to rip off a strip of fabric from the bottom of her cloak to use as rags. She told her mother and Catelyn’s face became stone.

“Mother… can we not do anything?”

Catelyn shook her head, “I fear if you are with child, too much time has passed. It’s been what now, over two moons since you bled? Desperate women may drink moon tea after seed has taken root in hopes of miscarrying, but it’s not always effective and there is great risk involved. The woman may bleed uncontrollably and die. Or the babe may die but not be expelled.”

“No! Then… then I’m going to have his child?”

Catelyn refortified herself before Sansa’s eyes, “No, my dear. Nothing is certain. From the travel and the stress and fear you might have simply missed your courses. It is not yet time to fret.”

She heard the attempt to soothe in Mother’s voice. She saw the forced smile. But Sansa just knew that nothing was going to go her way. The price of her ambition to marry the prince had been her father’s head. The price of her freedom from King’s Landing had been her virtue.

And the price of her freedom from Harrenhal would be her ruin.

Mother was right – they never should have left Winterfell.

 

Robb

“Leave me alone, Arya.” Robb didn’t even have to look up from where he laid sprawled out on his bed, still fully clothed and even wearing light armor.

“Sansa told me about your fight.”

Robb sat up with a groan, “It wasn’t right of her to tell you. You are too young to know about such things.”

Arya rolled her eyes, “I knew all along. I told Sansa to break her maidenhead so the Old Lion wouldn’t be suspicious of her being a maiden. Why would a… a pretty lowborn girl her age be a maiden? I told her what the kitchen girls did with guards so Sansa would know what to do. I told her to do what was needed to survive. So if you’re going to be mad, be mad at me.”

Robb stared at his sister, stunned, “Arya, why didn’t you tell her to spare herself all of that indignity and simply reveal herself?”

“And be returned to King’s Landing?”

“I know Joffrey is our enemy, but so is Tywin Lannister! At least Sansa would be protected in the capital from men like Gregor Clegane and she would not have to debase herself to do so!”

Arya snorted, “Do you know that every time you won a battle, Sansa was brought before court and beaten? The Kingsguard punched her with their mailed fists. They slapped her. They struck her bare skin with their swords after stripping her half-naked. They called her a traitor. The courtiers shunned her, laughed at her. The king’s men abandoned her to the mob during the riots. You’d tell Sansa to return to that instead of sleeping with Tywin Lannister? I don’t like the lions anymore than you do, but at least the Old Lion didn’t hurt her. He…” Arya trailed off, her cheeks turning pink, and Robb was glad she looked away, because he didn’t want her seeing him right now, as he had the realization that he had just berated his poor, sweet Sansa; an insult added to injury. She was not to blame. She was not his enemy. Joffrey was his enemy. Cersei and Jaime with their disgusting affair were his enemies. Gregor Clegane was his enemy, no matter that the brute was only acting under orders; there were things a man simply didn’t do.

And Tywin Lannister was his enemy. Perhaps it was not his fault for bedding Sansa when he thought she was someone else. But it was his fault for trying to shame and disgrace her in front of Robb’s men and his own. Did he think Robb would give Sansa to him? Some men would. Fathers had been known to wed daughters to their rapers to “spare them shame”.

He ground his jaw. He would not be that kind of brother, nor king. He would win this war. He would not let Joffrey or Tywin be in a position to make demands of the North, demands like his sister as a wife or his little brothers as wards. No – he’d be the one in a position to make demands. And he’d demand nothing less than their heads. He would win. He would win or die trying.

Arya spoke again without looking at him, “I didn’t tell you everything about my escape from the capital. I didn’t tell you that there was a boy who caught me and was going to call for the City Watch. So I stabbed him. I killed him. He wasn’t my enemy, but he stood between me and freedom, so I killed him.”

She turned away from him, picking at her cuticles.

Robb knew what she was trying to do. She was trying to make him forget about Sansa’s actions by confessing what she perceived to be worse crimes.

Only it no longer mattered. All Robb’s anger seemed to evaporate at once. Since learning his sisters were at Harrenhal, he’d never taken the time to truly think about what that meant about their lives and all they’d endured since leaving Winterfell. He only thought about the implications on the war effort of having both sisters back while the Lannisters lost their most valuable hostages.

But now he realized he wasn’t the only one who’d suffered in the past years, nor was he the only one who’d had to make impossible choices. He instantly forgave anything either of his sisters had done. War made men do heinous things. Women too, apparently. Even young women. Girls. They’re girls.

He put an arm around Arya’s shoulders and smiled sadly. While Sansa had grown to be taller than Mother, Arya still was a little shit; it was no wonder people mistook her for a boy.

“You did what you had to do, Arya. You survived. That’s all that matters.”

She nodded slowly, “I know. So did you. And Mother. And Sansa.”

Robb sighed, “I know.”

“So then why did you yell at her?” Arya whined.

Robb ran a hand through his russet hair, “Damnit, Arya, it’s just… I shouldn’t have yelled, but every time I turn around there’s another complication. When I heard about Father…” He sighed loudly, “When we heard Father was arrested, I called the banners. Not to march to war but to prepare for the possibility. And right from the start everyone wanted something from me. Or wanted to give me something so I’d be indebted to them. Lady Maege and Lord Cerwyn offered me their daughters. Lord Hornwood gave me gifts and asked for lands. Lords Bolton and Glover wanted to be appointed to lead battalions in a war that hadn’t even started yet. Lord Umber wanted my place – he didn’t think I was fit to lead men at my age. In hindsight, he might’ve been right. Then we marched down to protect the Riverlands after the Lannisters attacked. Ever since then it’s been one decision after another. One battle after another. And I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“But they say you’ve won every battle, so why are you beating yourself up?”

Robb rubbed at his brow, “Because it’s all for nothing! All I care about is that Father was executed; that Joffrey is unworthy of his crown and not just because he isn’t trueborn. But we’re getting nowhere because of this bloody war against the Lannisters! And for what?”

Arya shrugged, “I don’t know… to protect Riverrun? Mother’s lands?”

Robb nodded, “Aye, but why should we need to protect them? Why should the Lannisters attack them to begin with?”

Arya chewed her lip, “Lord Tywin said he got into the war because his family was threatened. But if you didn’t march south until after he marched north, then he was lying?”

Robb shook his head, “Mother arrested Tyrion Lannister – that’s what he was referring to. It was foolish, but she was convinced that he had tried to kill Bran.”

“Did he?!”

Robb leaned until his elbows were on his knees, “Not according to the Gods. Mother took him to Aunt Lysa in the Eyrie where he had a trial by combat. His champion won. He was released.”

“But the Old Lion had already begun reaving the Riverlands?”

“Aye. And if you ask me, that was foolish, too. He could have sent a delegate to speak on Tyrion’s behalf. He could have threatened war but not actually gone through with it.”

Arya shook her head, “He says he doesn’t start wars, he just finishes them.”

“I suppose that’s debatable. He would say we started this war. Father, with his accusations against Cersei. Mother, by arresting his son. Me, by calling my banners as soon as Father was arrested instead of seeking a diplomatic option first.”

“Joffrey, by killing Father.”

Robb looked at his sister, “The war had already started in some regards…”

“Lord Tywin said that’s what really started the war. His idiot grandson.”

Robb snorted, “He called him an idiot?”

“Oh, he’s called him worse than that. Whenever he got a raven or messenger. And don’t even get me started on what he called the Imp!”

Robb let out a long sigh, “Well it’s good to know the man isn’t oblivious to his family’s faults.” Upon having a realization, Robb snorted, “Perhaps he was right – we are more alike than I’d care to admit. I readied for war when Father was arrested and went to war when the Lannisters invaded the Riverlands. Now I can’t stop because what will it have all been for? Conversely, Lord Lannister went to war when Mother arrested his son and felt he couldn’t stop even after Tyrion was released unharmed because by then Joffrey had killed father, giving us every incentive to push south and storm the capital.”

“You sound like you wish the war could be over. Why didn’t you take the deal then? What was there to lose, Robb? If the Old Lion betrayed your agreement you could pick up where you left off. At least your men would be rested and would have had time to harvest before winter.”

Robb rubbed at his eyes, “Arya, I cannot explain it.”

“Try.”

“Arya – Lord Lannister went to war because mother arrested his son and held a trial to determine his innocence or guilt.”

“Aye, you already said.”

“He went to war to make a point, Arya. That the West is not to be trifled with. That Lannister is still a name to be feared. That if you attack one lion, you have to deal with the whole pride.”

“So?”

“Well they killed my father, sieged my mother’s homeland, and now I learn that Joffrey abused my sister and that Tywin Lannister disgraced her? What will be said about me if I retreat? That Starks aren’t wolves but puppies? We will look weak to the other kingdoms, and I will look weak to my men.”

He watched Arya’s eyes as she processed this information. He expected her to make another argument, but instead her mouth curved into a hesitant smile, “He respects you, you know.”

“Who does?”

“The Old Lion. His commanders were getting lazy. Lord Tywin said they were waiting for you to fail but that you wouldn’t. That you were smart. That they’d underestimated you.”

Robb smiled despite his petulant mood, “Did he say anything I can use? All those weeks you spent with him as his cupbearer, seeing his war councils, apparently. All those weeks Sansa spent…” Robb looked down at the floor.

Arya shook her head, sparing Robb from having to finish that sentence, “All his scrolls were coded. Many he burned immediately after reading. I only know he isn’t happy with his family in the capital. He wants to get there so he can fix all of Joffrey and Cersei and Tyrion’s mistakes.”

Robb snorted, “Then he’ll be rather angry about me continuing this war in the Riverlands, eh? If nothing else, we’re keeping him from getting to his family. They say he’s a good ruler, if nothing else. If he returns to the capital, he may appease the smallfolk. And of course he’ll reinforce the Crown’s armies. Neither Stannis nor Renly will have an easy time sieging it, then. Joffrey will keep his throne, and with his grandfather’s direct support it won’t easily be taken from him. So tell me – would you have me retreat north? Would you have me let Joffrey keep his head and the crown that lies upon it?”

Arya smiled at him, “I’d have you take his head and serve it on a big platter with an apple in his mouth.”

Robb laughed, something he felt he hadn’t done in an eternity.

Arya’s grin widened, “You know they say you ride into battle on a giant direwolf.”

Robb tsked in mock scolding, “I ride on a horse. The giant direwolf merely rides by my side, killing my enemies.”

“Sansa and I visited him, you know. In the kennels. Why did you not take him to treat with Lord Tywin? He might have scared the man into retreating.”

Robb chuckled, “He can be volatile when someone threatens me. Even if that someone is a friend. Ask the Greatjon how he lost the tips of two fingers.”

“I don’t see the problem.”

Robb threw his head back and laughed, “You haven’t changed a bit, Arya! Still a vengeful little shit, aren’t you?”

She nodded proudly, “Aye, and I won’t apologize for it either, your grace.”

Robb rolled his eyes, “Don’t do that with me. I finally have family around me again and it feels good. I’m half tempted to put you in my war council.”

Arya laughed, “Lord Tywin said the same thing.”

Robb felt his smile straighten, “That you should be in my war council? But he didn’t know you to be Arya Stark…”

“Not in your war council; in his. One of his men sent a letter to the wrong house. One of your houses. And it wasn’t even coded! He dismissed him and told me he ought to have me plan his next battle!” Arya’s face was bright and proud, and all at once Robb realized what it meant.

“You’re fond of him, aren’t you?”

Now it was Arya’s smile that fell, “Fond of who?”

“Don’t play dumb, Arya. Lord Tywin.”

“He’s our enemy and I want him dead.”

“But…?”

Arya’s cheeks flushed, “He wasn’t so bad. He talked to me and didn’t make me feel stupid. He protected me from the guards. He listened to me. I told him I was Lisbeth from Barrowtown when he didn’t believe I was from Maidenpool. He didn’t have me killed or tortured just because I was a Northerner.”

Robb nodded and suddenly felt so very tired.

“Robb?”

“I’m alright, Arya,” he forced himself to smile.

“No… I mean to say something else. He’s smart, Robb. He’s smart and he wants the war to be over in the Riverlands so he can protect his family in the capital and then go home. He wants to go home more than anything, that’s what he told me.”

“Well he won’t get what he wants. This is war. I don’t blame you for thinking somewhat fondly of him, Arya, but—”

“No! Please Robb, listen. He wanted this part of the war to be over. And you took that from him.”

“So? We’re enemies.”

“He’s never lost, Robb. He told me. He flooded a mine to drown an entire family that betrayed his. Not just soldiers, but women and servants, too.”

“Fine, I won’t take shelter in any mines.”

“I just mean… If you’re going to fight him, don’t assume he’ll fight fair.”

Robb nodded slowly, “I understand, Arya. I’ll be careful.”

Arya beamed at him, and it warmed his heart all over again. It was a sight he wanted to see as much as he could before they parted ways again.

Robb was dead on his feet but knew he had to fix this and not let it fester overnight or else he wouldn’t sleep a wink. He knocked lightly on his mother’s door and this time waited until she called back for him to enter.

He found Mother sitting on the bed, a teary-eyed Sansa’s head in her lap. Mother was stroking her hair, which was a shade lighter than Robb and Catelyn’s.

His sister left Winterfell a pretty girl with smiling eyes. She came back to him a beautiful woman with haunted eyes, and in that moment it seemed the worst crime of this entire Gods-forsaken war. He hated his past self for not savoring every one of her childhood smiles; for groaning while he played along with her knights-and-maidens game instead of letting her unbridled happiness infect him. He should have let himself be silly, because when would any of them get to be silly again?

He wasn’t sure Sansa was ready for his apology, so instead he kneeled on the floor and let Mother pull his head down to her lap, too. The top of his head brushed against Sansa’s. He closed his eyes and breathed in the familiar scents of the women he cherished, and it felt like dying, just a little bit.

He had nearly drifted to sleep when he heard Sansa’s voice, clogged with tears, “He said he would gift me your head.”

Robb tilted his head up, “Lord Tywin?”

“No. Joffrey. He showed me Father’s head on a spike. He told me he’d give me yours as a wedding present. I told him perhaps you’d give me his.”

“Sansa…”

She pushed up on her hands and he did the same until they were mirror images of each other. Dark auburn curls against light auburn waves. Weather-tanned skin against skin as pure as snow. But when he looked in his sister’s eyes, he saw the same ones that greeted him in the looking glass. Blue eyes that could look as cold as ice or as hot as a flame depending on their mood. Or as calm as the sky, though that seemed so uncommon these days.

“What did Joffrey do?” he asked, fearing the answer.

Her voice was flat as she responded, “He had Ser Meryn hit me on the mouth.”

“Sansa, I’m so—”

“No. It doesn’t matter. He had my body abused because he wanted to send a message to you. I wanted you to get it, so you’d come save me. But I also feared you getting it because I was afraid you’d do something brash.”

“I would have,” Robb growled.

“You might yet bring me his head.”

“Would that please you sister?”

“I have fantasized about seeing his head on a spike many times. I’ve fantasized about the crows picking out his evil eyes and feasting on his wormy lips.”

Robb smiled.

“But what would please me most is having my family whole. Or as whole as possible.”

“You’ll all be in Winterfell while I finish this. Even Mother.”

Sansa nodded, “I tried to kill him, you know.”

“Lord Tywin?”

Sansa rolled her eyes, “Joffrey. That day. We were standing on a walkway five floors up. While he taunted me, I walked toward him. I was going to push him over even if it meant going over with him. But the Hound stopped me.”

Robb groaned, “Always the loyal dog.”

She shook her head, “He stopped me to save me, not Joffrey. He saved me when he could. So did Lord Tyrion. If it comes down to it, Robb… if you take the capital, remember that not everyone who serves Joffrey loves Joffrey. In fact, I think you’d be hard pressed to find anyone in or around that city that loves him. Use that to your advantage. Joffrey is cruel. The smallfolk hate him; courtiers are afraid of him. His own family, other than Cersei, hates him.”

Robb ground his jaw, “Yet they fight for him.”

“Family is complicated. We can hate each other but feel duty-bound to protect each other. Or we can love and hate each other at the same time.”

“Like you and Arya?” Robb grinned impishly.

Sansa rolled her eyes again, “We just love each other now. I survived the capital on my own, but I wouldn’t have survived Harrenhal without her.”

Robb nodded, “She told me.”

“I’m sure she did,” Sansa groaned.

“I hope you two keep that love, sister,” Robb clasped her hand and smiled, “Even if distance someday separates you.”

Sansa nodded though didn’t look particularly confident. It would have to be enough for now.

With a kiss to his sister’s forehead Robb was ready for bed, but his mother followed him into the corridor and to his room.

“Mother, I’m exhausted. Can it wait?”

She shook her head, “No, Robb. We must return to Winterfell as soon as possible.”

“We will, Mother.”

“No… I mean immediately, Robb. Send word to Lord Frey to expect us within a fortnight.”

“A fortnight? That would mean leaving on the morrow… the day after at the latest.”

“Do it, Robb.”

He huffed, “Give me a reason, Mother.”

She rubbed her neck and looked toward the ceiling, exhaling loudly before facing him again, “I fear Sansa is with child.”

“Oh Gods,” Robb felt like the room was spinning. He braced himself against a bureau.

My little sister…

Pregnant…

With my enemy’s child…

Perfect little Sansa…

Ruined…

By the Lion of Lannister…

“Listen to me, Robb,” Catelyn spoke in a hushed but hurried tone, “If my fear is confirmed, she could be showing within the next two moons. Cold weather clothing can hide it only for so long. We must get her to Winterfell before anyone knows. There we have servants loyal to us. Maester Luwin will not reveal Sansa’s shame. We can pay a local woman to claim the babe as her own. Or I can ask Lady Maege to quietly take the babe to Bear Island and foster it there without telling anyone its parentage.”

Robb collapsed on the mattress, “How did everything get so fucking messy?”

“War is messy, my son. I hate to say I told you so…”

“No you don’t,” Robb laughed, but there was no real humor in it, “And what of Arya?”

“She will refuse to marry Elmar Frey. She has already told me she will kill him if he tries to put a cloak around her shoulders.”

“Then we stick with our original plan. We do not tell him that we have Arya and Sansa but promise to uphold our deal if either resurfaces. We make sure all our men that will be in contact with the Freys know to maintain the lie. They will do it, to protect their princesses.”

“He is a man whose allegiance shifts easily, Robb. I know we said we could do that, but that was when I thought all we’d be doing was using his Crossing to go home and thanking him for the few thousand men he lent so far. But to ask for more men? More supplies? To ask him to join you in marching on the West? He will demand more than your hand for one of his daughters, Robb.”

“What else can I offer? Do we dare offer Arya knowing she may insult the man or his son? Do we dare offer Sansa knowing by the time we get there they may very well have heard the rumors of her… time with Lord Tywin? Knowing she could be carrying his child?!” he stood up and began pacing. All he wanted to do was sleep after riding hard for days. He wanted to sleep for a sennight, in fact, but he’d be lucky if he could sleep past the first light of the morning. Such was his life now.

His mother took a deep breath, “We could offer him Bran or Rickon, only…”

“I know,” he nodded as he leaned against the bureau, “Two of the three Stark heirs is too much. Better a brother and a sister than two brothers.”

“We could ask Edmure to take a Frey daughter. To spare his nieces he may be open to a marriage.”

Robb glared at her, “He’s seen thirty namedays and has yet to marry. Besides, do you really want to see Walder Frey’s grandsons rule the North and the Riverlands someday?”

“They’ll be of his blood but not of his name. And he’ll be dead by then.”

“How much do we truly want to give the Freys, anyway? We may need something to promise Renly. That might be Arya for one of his men, if your fears about Sansa are true,” Robb rubbed his forehead. ‘Mess’ did not even begin to describe the situation they were in. He loved his sisters and was glad they were safe, but somehow having them back was creating more problems than solutions.

His mother had begun to respond when a knock was heard on Robb’s door. Uncle Edmure announced himself.

Upon entering, Edmure offered a terse smile. He was wearing plain garb and likely had been roused from sleep. “Nephew, sister,” he tipped his head, “A page just woke me with word from the Maester… a message was received not more than an hour ago.”

“What news, Uncle?”

“Stannis Baratheon has laid siege to Storm’s End. Renly rode out to meet him in open field battle, only the morning before battle was to commence Renly was found slain in his tent.”

Catelyn gasped, “By the Gods… had Stannis sent an assassin?”

Edmure only shrugged.

Robb let out a loud, exasperated sigh, “What of Renly’s armies? Will they join Stannis?”

“I could not tell you, nephew. Some may, others may return to their homes. Your guess is as good as mine.”

“And the Tyrells?” Catelyn asked, “Will they side with Stannis even though he cannot make Margaery his Queen?”

Edmure only shrugged, but already Robb’s gears were turning, “Lady Margaery… she is my age, is she not?”

Catelyn glared at him, “Robb…”

“After the Lannisters, it is said that the Tyrells have the largest host and the deepest coffers. Not to mention the Reach farms the grains and produce that support half the realm – foods that they’ve been refusing to send to the capital to try to starve out Joffrey and his lackeys.”

“Robb…”

“Mother, do you not see? This is how we can guarantee victory! Stannis cannot make Margaery a queen, but I can. Queen in the North immediately. Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, potentially.”

“Robb, have you lost your mind?! You said you had no interest in the Iron Throne!”

“I don’t, but with the Tyrells on our side and potentially those loyal to Renly who do not side with Stannis, not to mention the forces of the Riverlands, our host will be able to decimate the Lannisters and those in the capital who fight for Joffrey. Then we can make peace with Stannis by giving him Storm’s End and letting him keep Dragonstone, too.”

“You’re promised to a Frey bride, Robb! How do you expect to keep Walder Frey’s support when you refuse to give him what is promised!”

“Listen to me, Mother,” Robb grasped her hands, “I will name Bran Warden of the North. He will wed a Frey girl. We will also offer Frey a position on the King’s council for one of his sons or grandsons of his choosing.”

“Robb… this all sounds good in theory, but what if the Tyrells decline? They may choose to back Stannis’ bid for the throne. Or they may return to Highgarden and let the rest of us kill each other off. It’s what I would do if I were them,” Mother lifted her brows.

Edmure snorted, “Or they may support the current king, who’s also of an age with Margaery and whose betrothal was recently broken when his intended ran away…”

Robb and Catelyn blinked at him. It was one of the more astute comments Edmure had ever made.

“Robb,” Catelyn turned back to her son, “There is no guarantee the Tyrells will accept. All that is guaranteed is that you delay our departure north. Lord Walder will not let us through until you go there to fulfill your promise.”

“So be it. You and the girls will be safe at Riverrun while I’m gone,” Robb glared at her meaningfully. He knew she was concerned about Sansa’s possible state, but Robb had faith that if it came to that, the servants of House Tully could be trusted just as the servants of Winterfell could be.

Mother sighed loudly, “And what do we tell Lord Walder?”

“We tell him nothing.”

“He has men in our army. They will report back to him.”

“Which is why no one must know that we are going to treat with the Tyrells.”

“And how will I travel there without him finding out?”

“You won’t travel there, Mother. I will. I will travel with a small host.”

“That is dangerous,” Edmure cautioned.

“This is war; everything is dangerous.”

Catelyn huffed, “And if Lord Walder catches wind of it anyway? We still rely on his support and someday will rely on him letting us pass through the Crossing.”

“Only if the Lannisters continue to hold the area around Harrenhal. If we gain that territory, then we are free to move east of here and take the Kingsroad through the Neck and straight to Winterfell.”

Edmure folded his arms over his chest, “You mean to take Harrenhal before leaving? Every day you tarry is a day the Tyrells may choose another side.”

“Who’s side? If we assume the kingdom that includes Oldtown would never endorse Balon Greyjoy, then they have three choices. Stannis is the most likely, given that he could match his daughter Shireen with one of Lord Mace’s sons. However, Stannis hates the Tyrells, does he not? Did the Tyrells not nearly starve him during Robert’s Rebellion then side with Renly against him in this rebellion?”

Edmure and Catelyn exchanged a glance before nodding.

“And even if the Tyrells join with Stannis, that doesn’t preclude us from allying with them both. With the North, Riverlands, Reach, and Stannis’ army united? The Lannisters would probably flee the capital without us needing to fire a single arrow.”

Edmure shrugged, “Makes sense…”

“The second option for the Tyrells is to try to ally themselves with the Lannisters by marrying Margaery to Joffrey, but how open will Tyrion and Cersei be to such a match? The Tyrells are the ones who’ve cut off their supply routes. They are the reason the masses around the capital are starving, which is the reason the people are rioting and calling for Joffrey’s head. Besides that, the Tyrells must have some inkling of Joffrey’s true nature. And if they don’t, I will bring them Sansa’s signed testimony.”

Mother glared at him with an eyebrow raised, “And their third option?”

Robb smiled, “That’s easy. Robb Stark, who is fighting for the noble cause of vengeance for his honorable father. Robb Stark who has won every battle. Robb Stark who is heir to Winterfell, nephew to the heir of the Riverlands and first cousin to the heir of the Vale.”

Edmure snorted, “When you put it like that, I might just marry you myself.”

Robb chuckled, “If they want more than to see Margaery as my queen, I can offer Arya or Sansa to one of Lord Mace Tyrell’s sons. And yes, Mother, I know that is… complicated.”

Catelyn looked to Edmure, “Arya has promised to reject any betrothal even if it means killing her intended. And Sansa…”

Edmure put a hand to Catelyn’s arm, “I know, Cat. I heard.”

“You already heard? Robb’s been back less than a day!”

“Word of the most hated man in the realm raping your princess? That’s word that travels like wildfire.”

Robb and Catelyn exchanged a puzzled look, “That is what they’re saying?”

Edmure nodded, his face becoming red, “I heard that Tywin tried to taunt Robb by sharing vulgar details about his time with Sansa. I heard he tried to paint her as wanton, but who would believe that of the daughter of Ned Stark and Catelyn Tully? The men are livid – they’re out for lion blood, now.”

Robb felt a flicker of hope in his chest – a spark from a flint, with the potential to turn dry kindling into a roaring fire.

“Perhaps the Tyrells should hear about this, as well,” he pondered out loud.

Catelyn frowned, “Robb, you cannot reveal your sister’s shame!”

“My sister’s shame, or Lord Tywin’s? Let the Tyrells know that Joffrey is a sadist who has young girls beaten by the so-called knights who serve him. Let them know Lord Tywin rapes highborn prisoners of war. Better they hear from my own mouth that Lord Tywin forced himself on my sister than to hear the echoes of the man’s lies that my sister went to his bed willingly.”

His mother’s face turned red. He knew how it sounded, but he wasn’t just doing this for himself, for his chances with the Tyrells. He was doing it for Sansa. Better the realm believe she was a victim than a whore. He and Mother and Arya may understand now why she did what she did, but how many others would give her the same benefit of the doubt?

In reality, it wasn’t far from the truth… Sansa chose the lesser of two evils. There may not have been a literal dagger to her throat, but certainly a proverbial one. She chose not to give herself back to the Lannisters to once again become Joffrey’s whipping post and Cersei’s hostage. Her decision undoubtedly helped the North’s cause, too – for how could Robb have sided with the Tyrells or Stannis to attack the capital knowing his sister was there, knowing Joffrey or Cersei might kill her if their cause became bleak?

“What is your plan then, my king?” Edmure asked with a wry smile.

“We will proceed as planned. The majority of our host will move southwest and begin our plunder of Tywin Lannister’s homeland, just as he plundered my mother’s homeland and my sweet sister. A smaller force led by Lord Bolton will take Harrenhal should the lion move south to defend the bastard king. A small host will stay here at Riverrun to defend against a potential siege, though the moat will do most of the work for you.”

“And during the mayhem you will travel to Bitterbridge to seek audience with the Tyrells?” Catelyn asked.

“Aye. A small group, really just me and a few guards, will break off from the larger hosts reaving the Westerlands. Moving quickly, we can be at the border of the Reach within a sennight. If we are stopped before reaching Bitterbridge we will reveal ourselves and request parley with Ser Loras or Lord Mace. I will leave Grey Wind here with you and the girls. No need to alert everyone that the King in the North is headed toward the Reach.”

“And if word gets back to Lord Frey despite our best efforts, what would you have me tell him?” Catelyn asked.

“Tell him that I’m discussing an alliance with the Tyrells, but make no mention of a potential marriage between me and Lady Margaery. If you must, tell him we have found Sansa and are offering her to Lord Willas.”

“And what would you have of me, nephew?” Edmure asked.

“As I said, protect Riverrun and the women I love. And defend our rear once our host departs. Perhaps Uncle Brynden would do the honors.”

Catelyn nodded, “When will you leave?”

“As soon as we are able. On the morrow I will inform the men of our plans. Only a select few will know about my personal mission. We will begin preparations immediately.”

He watched his mother’s face pale, but there was nothing to be done. This was war, and he was playing to win.

Chapter 11: Allow me to make your sister a queen

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Robb

“Your father endorsed Stannis as Robert’s rightful heir. Yet now you wish to endear yourself to those of us who called Renly king.”

The Knight of Flowers was nothing like Robb had expected. Yes, his armor was overly adorned and indeed rather floral in motif, but the man himself was tall, poised, and self-assured. He was close in age to Robb yet carried himself with the air of a much older man. He was a third son but spoke like a first. Though slender in build, Robb suspected he had and could cut through much more formidable looking opponents.

Robb couldn’t decide whether to hate or admire him.

He cleared his throat, “Ser Loras, surely you can admit that Robert did the realm no favors in regards making his succession clear, even before Cersei Lannister birthed what Robert believed were his sons. By all laws, Stannis, as the elder brother, should be his heir. But Robert gave Storm’s End to Renly, which could be interpreted to mean he viewed Renly as his heir. My father was a man who made decisions based on fact. It is an indisputable fact that Stannis is older than Renly. It is not an indisputable fact that Robert considered Renly his heir.”

“Fair enough,” Loras crossed his arms, “But it seems convenient that you show up only after Renly’s death. You could have called him your king and combined your forces. Instead you wait until Renly is dead and now you want our support in taking the throne for yourself?”

“I never wanted the throne, I only wished to see Joffrey lose his crown – and his head along with it. With Renly and Stannis both alive the odds of that happening were good, so there was no reason for me to abandon my mother’s lands to push my own bid for the throne.”

Loras cocked an eyebrow skeptically, “Yet you’ve done that now.”

“Things have changed. And for the record, I had planned to send my mother here to treat with Renly. She was delayed, with very valid reason.”

“And what reason might that be?”

“Her lord father, Hoster Tully, is not long for the world. I did not wish to deprive my mother of being there for his final days. Moreover, we received reliable testimony that both of my sisters – believed to be in the Crown’s possession – were hiding at Harrenhal. Naturally, my mother did not wish to leave the region until she knew the fate of her daughters. And now that they have been returned to us, I could not bring myself to part my mother from her daughters, and vice versa.” Robb didn’t bother telling him that he also had to prepare his men to march on Golden Tooth and accompany them on that march so that it wouldn’t be immediately obvious to the Lannisters that he wasn’t with his men once he departed south for Bitterbridge.

Loras looked perplexed, “How in all seven hells did your sisters end up at Harrenhal? Did the Lannisters send them there?”

“They each escaped King’s Landing on separate occasions.”

“Escaped?” Loras laughed, and Robb couldn’t tell whether it was because he didn’t believe two little girls were capable of such a feat, or whether he didn’t believe King’s Landing was a place worthy of escaping from.

Robb kept his voice neutral, “Arya evaded the King’s men on the day my father was arrested and his entire household killed. She fled the city the day he was executed. Sansa fled on the day the smallfolk rioted and attacked Joffrey Waters.”

“Joffrey Waters?” Loras smirked, “so you believe that he’s a bastard?”

“Wholeheartedly. My father would not have put forth such an accusation unless he was certain of it.”

“As Renly agreed. He respected your father. As did Robert.”

Robb tipped his head, “Thank you, Ser. Now what do you think of my proposal?”

Loras sighed, “If it were up to me, I’d rather see a Stark on the throne than Stannis. I’d also rather see my sister married to you than to the bastard king, as I fear my father will attempt now that Margaery’s husband and, apparently, Joffrey’s betrothed are off the board, so to speak.”

“But it is not up to you…” Robb half-stated, half-asked.

“My father is Lord of Highgarden as you well know. After that would be my brother Willas, then my brother Garlan. I command our military but what you speak of is politics.”

“Yet you have heard my offer.”

“Why would I let a wolf into the rose garden without vetting you first?”

“Fair enough. May I assume I’ve passed your initial review?” Robb asked with a generous smile.

“Well you’re shorter than I expected, and I had rather hoped to meet the wolf you supposedly ride into battle, but I suppose you look kingly enough.”

Robb felt himself blush. He wasn’t oblivious to the rumors about Ser Loras and the extent of his affection for the late Renly Baratheon.

Robb cleared his throat, “I suppose looking right is half the battle. I’ve come to learn that southerners are much more… aesthetically inclined.”

Loras chuckled, “That’s an understatement. My sister would be in her element giving you what she calls a ‘new look’. She’ll want to shave your beard, trim your hair, and gift you a new wardrobe comprised of blues and greens and golds and tans before any betrothal talks get too far.”

Robb ran his hand through his beard; he’d been starting to like it. It was darker than the hair on his head and coarser than the beards of men twice his age. He felt it was proof he was a Stark when otherwise most people only saw Tully in him.

Loras rolled his eyes, “Tell me again what is on the table. Allow me to sleep on it and tomorrow I will either give you escort to Highgarden to meet with my father, or I’ll send you on your way and pray we both survive long enough to meet each other again.”

Robb nodded, “Marriage between your sister and me, which will make her Queen in the North and Trident immediately, and – Gods willing – Queen of the Seven Kingdoms very soon.”

Loras nodded for Robb to continue.

“Nearly twenty thousand Northmen and another six thousand Rivermen to be combined with your army, minus those needed to defend the castles. Together we’d have more than enough to take the throne. Stannis will either give up his pursuit or we will end it for him. Personally, I’d rather see him as Warden of the Stormlands to keep the region stable…” Robb knew an opportunity to plant seeds, “I know since Renly perished, many rumors have abounded, included naming Stannis as the culprit. In my humble opinion it was just as likely the Lannisters – behind the murder and the rumors.”

Loras’ jaw clenched, “I fear that we may never know the truth unless we’re in a position to extract a confession…” His eyes glazed for a moment as he stared at nothing in particular. Robb didn’t dare speak.

Eventually he took in a deep breath through his nose, “Despite what everyone things, Renly didn’t hate his brother. He acknowledged that he was a fair lord, even if not a beloved one. I suppose he would want a Baratheon to hold Storm’s End – and not one of those blond twats passing as stags in the capital.”

“Indeed,” Robb tipped his head and tried not to smirk at the colorful language. Ser Loras and the Blackfish would probably enjoy sharing an ale. “Lastly, the pick of my sisters for you, Ser, or your brother Lord Willas.” Robb fought to keep his face straight. It felt like lying to not disclose Sansa’s potential state, but Mother had assured him that nothing was certain. Missing one or two moontides was not uncommon, particularly in young women relatively new to their courses, and any woman living under emotional and physical stress.

“Our pick of your sisters? You make them sound like horses at auction,” Loras teased.

Robb smiled politely, “Not at all, only that Arya and Sansa are night and day. Both clever, both brave, but in very different ways. Arya has the Stark look and Sansa – well she favors the Tully side, as I do.”

“Lady Arya favors your late aunt? The one Robert went to war over?”

Robb didn’t bother correcting Loras on the fact that the war was waged for many reasons – the death of two good Stark men among them, “Yes; it is said Arya bears striking resemblance to my late Aunt Lyanna, who was kidnapped by Prince Rhaegar – the son of the man Highgarden supported to the bitter end even though the whole realm knew he was mad.”

Loras shook his head in light admonishment, “If you mean to make me feel indebted to you, Stark, try harder. I was on the teat when Robert took the throne. Though, for what it’s worth, sons don’t always have to agree with the choices of their fathers. Anyway, I mention your aunt because Renly thought our Margaery looked just like her.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Robb said deferentially.

“Your father disagreed with him.”

Robb smiled, “He would know. No offense to the late Lord Renly.”

Loras’ face hardened only for a moment before he pressed his lips together in a tight smile, “Indeed. Now, tell me more of your sisters. I’ve been telling my brother to take a bride for years now, only my grandmother and father prefer to keep him available for the right woman. I cannot imagine a sister of a king – whether it be the North or the whole continent – wouldn’t fit their requirements.”

“I must be honest with you, Ser Loras. The younger, Arya, is willful. Fearless. She prefers swordplay to sewing.”

Loras smiled and Robb was relieved to see he didn’t seem to be judging Arya harshly. Perhaps given his own experience in straying from tradition he could sympathize with a girl who would rather play the knight than maiden. “And the elder?”

“Sansa is… Sansa was destined to be a queen. She is a proper lady, through and through. She is as beautiful as the sunrise. She is dutiful and obedient, but she is no wilted flower, Ser. Only, as I said, I must be honest with you. Sansa is… she is no longer a maiden.”

Robb knew it was a gamble. Loras may turn him down here and now if he found neither sister suitable either for himself or his brother Willas. But if Robb wasn’t honest and the Tyrells later heard rumors about Sansa’s time at Harrenhal… Well, Robb preferred to control the narrative.

But to his surprise, Loras only smiled, “Neither is my brother. I don’t believe in blaming young people for having natural desires.”

“It isn’t that, Ser Loras. My sister was… misused. By Tywin Lannister.”

He watched the Flower Knight’s smile fall away and saw the cheer in his eyes replaced by anger. Loras had a younger sister; he understood well the insult.

In that moment, Robb felt he had a kindred spirit. He continued, not needing to fake anger of his own. His fists clenched whenever he thought of the way so-called knights and lords had treated his sweet sister, “Sansa was emotionally and physically abused by Joffrey in King’s Landing, managed to escape, only to find herself a victim of Lord Tywin’s. Granted, he believed she was a peasant, but—”

“It matters not! In Highgarden, we don’t believe nobles have the right to abuse the smallfolk. It would seem the Lannisters truly do subscribe to the belief that we are all lambs existing only for them to feast upon. I wish to see it end.”

Robb stepped forward hopefully, “Then accept my proposal and send me to Highgarden. Write a letter endorsing me to your father. United we have nothing stopping us from taking the throne. The Lannisters will be nothing. As far as I’m concerned, we ought to seize their goldmines and distribute the funds to the smallfolk who are starving on their watch.”

Loras smiled, “A fine fantasy. That is a battle I’ll gladly ride into with you, Stark; though I imagine the Old Lion guards his mines better than he’ll guard the throne his grandson sits.”

Robb nodded, “Very likely. Either way, it’s a matter for another day.”

“Right you are. I have only one major concern with your proposal.”

Robb swallowed. He thought they’d all but struck a deal. “What’s that, Ser?”

“Before you and my father can even shake hands, Stannis may siege the capital. If he is successful, will you still fight with us to take the throne from him? Or will you be happy enough to see a trueborn Baratheon – one your father endorsed – crowned?”

Robb hadn’t even anticipated this question. He’d been so preoccupied with getting to Bitterbridge, getting an audience with Ser Loras, and choosing his words carefully.

But ultimately, there was only one answer, “If there were no alliance between House Stark and House Tyrell, I would be inclined to return north, and hope Stannis would make a better king than the last. But if I commit my armies to you, your goals become mine, Ser. Since your goal is to see me and Margaery on the throne instead of Stannis, then I will fight for that. Lannisters may pay their debts, but Starks are known for our honor and loyalty. My father died for his, so I hope that gives you faith in mine.”

Loras nodded, his face much more serious than it had been through most of their impromptu meeting, “Aye. If my father agrees to your proposal, it will be because it puts Margaery on the throne. Nothing short of that will suffice for him.”

Robb held out his hand, “Then allow me to make your sister a queen.”

Loras eyed his hand as if it might bite him, but ultimately he clasped forearms with Robb, “I do not speak for House Tyrell, but I will do everything in my power to sway my father to your side. I wish to see my sister start fresh with a kingdom ready to love her and a husband who will treat her well. But I fear if my father doesn’t have sense talked into him, he may promise her to an inbred bastard whose claim is disputed and who is hated by half the realm.”

“I’d call it three-quarters.”

Loras grinned, “Let’s not split hairs, Stark.”

 

Petyr

Thank the Gods he had patience in abundance. He’d been waiting hours for his opportunity to speak with Ser Loras, on authority of Tywin Lannister and Joffrey Baratheon (well, the latter was too dumb to be worth consulting on such matters).

Finally he saw Ser Loras, a broad smile on his face, lead someone out of his tent… someone who had Brandon Stark’s rugged bone structure and Catelyn Tully’s coloring…

If Petyr was the type to express his emotions kinetically, he’d be clenching his fists or stomping away. The Young Wolf could only be here for one reason, and it was the same reason Petyr was here: seeking an alliance with the Tyrells and what remained of Renly’s army that chose not to switch loyalties to Stannis.

But what was Robb Stark offering to bind the agreement?

Petyr knew from Lord Tywin that both Stark daughters were at Riverrun… but would Sansa’s hand for Willas be enough to cement an agreement? No… not when the Lannisters could offer Margaery the queenship.

Unless…

Oh this was too good to be true! Robb Stark was going back on his promise to Walder Frey. Tywin could use this to his advantage, easily. And Petyr could use it to his advantage right now…

“Lord Baelish?”

Petyr smiled at the guard who led him in to see Ser Loras. He bowed deeper than he bowed for anyone but royalty, “Ser Loras, it is a joy and honor to meet with you.”

“I wish I could say the same. King Renly didn’t have the most favorable things to say about you – whoremaster turned coinmaster. Or was it coinmaster turned whoremaster?”

“Do you resent me for profiting in a high-demand market?”

“I resent you mismanaging the finances of the Kingdom.”

Petyr hadn’t expected to have to defend his own character. He’d been prepared to defend Tywin Lannister’s character, Joffrey Baratheon’s character, but not his own. Still, it was easy enough to speak the truth, “Everything I did was with King Robert’s blessing. It is hardly my fault he wanted a feast every fortnight, nor that he had Jon Arryn supporting his dozen bastards throughout the city.”

“Perhaps,” Loras waved a hand impatiently, “Why have you sought me?”

Petyr didn’t care for this. The Flower Knight looked jovial when seeing out Robb Stark, as if they were a pair of old chums, but he had only a scowl for Petyr.

Nonetheless, Petyr pressed on, “I imagine for the same reason the Young Wolf did. Only unlike him, my offer is legitimate. Robb Stark is already promised to another – did he tell you that?”

“A Frey daughter. His intent is to offer his brother in his place.”

Petyr winced, “That will be tricky… and is unlikely to appease a man like Walder Frey.”

“Enough, Littlefinger. Frey isn’t my problem but Robb Stark’s. I assume you have something to offer me beyond a clearly self-serving attempt to discredit the heir to Winterfell?”

“I do, indeed, Ser Loras. An offer I know will be most appealing to your lord father, not to mention your lady grandmother…” Petyr let the last word hang in the air, a subtle hint that he knew who really held the power in the Reach. It wasn’t Mace, the fat dolt. Yes, he had some authority, mainly around military matters and ruling within his realm. But when it came to politics and profit, Lady Olenna was the real player.

Loras crossed his arms, looking only slightly disarmed, “I’m listening.”

“You are a people without a king since dear Renly’s untimely death.”

“But isn’t Joffrey Baratheon king of us all?” Loras arched a brow, not bothering to disguise his facetiousness.

“Of course. A king already in possession of the throne. Unlike Robb Stark. Unlike Stannis Baratheon.”

“Save your breath, Lord Baelish. You want Highgarden to help defend the throne, and in exchange Joffrey will take Margaery as his wife, since his betrothed is missing.”

“Missing? Your intelligence is a bit stale, Ser Loras, not that I can blame you. The girl is quite well, in fact. Waiting the end of the war at Riverrun with her mother.”

Loras didn’t look nearly surprised enough. So Robb Stark told him that Sansa was alive and at Riverrun… had he offered the girl for Willas? Petyr felt his heart drumming a bit too quickly in his chest. Things could easily spiral out of control, and he had assured Lord Tywin that he was capable of representing the man’s best interests to the Tyrells.

“You’re sure she’s quite well?” Loras asked with heavy skepticism.

Petyr knew Loras was making a point, but he didn’t know what, “Last I heard. So what will it be, Ser Loras? A crown for your sister within weeks? Fighting within the walls of the city instead of trying to siege it? I am no battle strategist but even I know four times as many men are lost sieging a castle as would be lost defending it.”

Loras nodded, though his face bore a bitter smile, “Do you know what is said about House Tyrell, Lord Baelish?”

“Many wonderful things, but I suspect you are alluding to something in particular…”

“Unlike the other great families, we cannot trace our lineage back to the First Men. Unlike Robb Stark, I cannot claim to have the blood of kings in my veins. No, our house came into its so-called greatness when a cowardly steward surrendered Highgarden to the Targaryen conqueror. A couple centuries later when a descendant of that conqueror went mad and began burning alive his subjects, the Tyrells continued to support that man because we were afraid. It ended up being that we chose the losing side but managed to keep our station thanks to the mercy of Robert Baratheon. A couple decades pass, Robert Baratheon dies, and we do not support his rightful heir but the brother we believe is better suited to ruling – a man arguably a traitor to his own blood. And now? We have denounced the boy who currently sits the throne as a bastard born of incest, another mad king in the making, and you ask me to bend the knee to him? To give my beloved sister to him? When there are not one but two men more worthy?”

“Neither of those two men you claim are worthy have the throne, do they?”

“Not yet, but that doesn’t mean that Joffrey deserves to keep it.”

“But Stannis does? I’ve heard the whispers, you know… that Stannis used dark magic to kill Renly on the dawn of battle.”

Loras’ jaw bulged, “If Stannis killed Renly, it was by sending an assassin. Yet no one was seen entering or leaving his tent.”

“Who else? Who had more incentive to kill Stannis?”

Loras snorted, “Perhaps the boy clinging to the throne Renly sought? Or the woman whose adultery caused all this mess to begin with? But it matters not, and I’ll not let you distract me, Lord Baelish. Regardless of who killed Renly, Joffrey is a bastard. He is cruel. He is weak. He has no honor. He abuses young women because he’s too pathetic to face real men in battle.”

“Ser—”

Loras held up a hand, “And Lord Tywin, who we’d be throwing in with if we accept this proposal, is a raper who cares only for his own interests, his own blood, his own gold.”

“A raper? You’re mistaken. You’ve probably heard overblown rumors about the war in the Riverlands. Horrible deeds are committed on both sides of a war, as you know. And is a man not entitled to look out for his family? To protect his wealth? I should think a son of Highgarden would appreciate this.”

“We’re done, Lord Baelish. I’d rather have no friends than friends like you and the men you represent. Our parley expires at dawn. Be gone before then.”

“Your father makes the decisions, not you.”

“This is one decision I will not allow him to make. Be gone, Lord Baelish. And be sure to leave the way you came – to the north and east.”

Loras jerked his head toward the tent flap. Petyr knew when more words might gain ground, and when they wouldn’t. Words would be wind with Ser Loras, but Petyr may still be able to salvage this opportunity. He was nothing if not adaptable…

 

Robb

“Robb,” someone called in a hushed voice from a short distance behind him. Robb turned around and found a man with dark hair, an off-center smile, and a salt and pepper beard that came to a point. He was no soldier, dressed in fine leathers and silks with a long green sash looped over his shoulder and hanging down to mid-thigh on the opposite side.

Robb’s men looked to him, waiting to follow his lead.

No one here but Loras Tyrell ought to know Robb’s identity. To anyone who asked they were a group of men from the Crownlands who were tired of seeing their people starve and had begun their journey south to swear to Renly Baratheon – only arriving too late and deciding to swear to Ser Loras, instead.

“I believe you are mistaking me for someone else, my lord.”

The man shook his head lightly and stepped closer. He was seemingly unarmed and thus Robb didn’t signal for his men to detain him.

“My king, you do not know me, but believe me when I say I think of you often – as an uncle thinks of his nephew.”

“Who are you and who do you think I am?”

The man chuckled lightly, then shut his mouth into a tight smile as a group of Tyrell men walked by. He came even closer so no one could hear their whispered words, then fixed his eyes back on Robb, “I am Petyr Baelish – dear friend to your mother, Lady Catelyn. I also briefly knew your father Ned and sister Sansa during our overlapping periods in the capital.”

Robb knew Petyr Baelish by name. Yes, Mother thought of him as a friend, but war made friendships brittle and the name ‘Littlefinger’ had been spoken with derision more than a few times in Robb’s presence.

Still, there was no denying his identity at this point, “Well met, Lord Baelish.”

“Likewise. You are as strapping as I’d expect a Stark lad to be, and may I congratulate you on your many recent victories, and also offer my condolences.”

“Thank you. My father did not deserve that fate. I know you serve Joffrey Waters, but surely even you can agree.”

The man’s face became pinched though his smile remained, “I agree whole-heartedly, however I was referring to more recent tragedies…”

Could he know about Sansa’s time with Lord Tywin? Has the rumor spread so quickly?

“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Lord Baelish.”

Baelish’s smile turned into a bitter lemon look, “Oh dear. You must have been on the road some time, traveling incognito and with no way to receive news – is that correct?”

Robb nodded.

Baelish sucked in a breath of air, making a serpent-like hiss between his teeth, “Robb, son, I am surely not adequate to be the bearer of such personal news, but I feel I owe it to you, out of my kinship for your mother, to tell you the truth.”

Robb’s heart started beating wildly but his brain tried to tell him this was a trap. Petyr Baelish was on the small council in King’s Landing. Yes, men’s loyalties were shifty, but all the more reason Robb shouldn’t trust him.

Then again, it was true by Mother’s own admission that Petyr grew up with her and Aunt Lysa at Riverrun. That he cared for them like a brother.

“What truth, my lord?”

Baelish offered a sad smile, “I am afraid your beloved Winterfell was sacked.”

“Sacked?! By whom?!”

“A group of Ironborn soldiers led by Theon Greyjoy.”

Robb felt as he had so many times in the past moons – dizzy with knowledge that he did not wish to possess, words echoing in his ears that he wished he could unhear.

Theon… betrayed me… betrayed the Stark name…

At worst, Robb believed Theon may never return from the Iron Islands or that he’d be manipulated by his father to deliver false promises to Robb. It had never occurred to him that Theon would use the absence of most of Winterfell’s guard force to sack the place in which he was raised. The place that was more home to him than the Iron Islands ever were.

“Robb, there is more,” Baelish put a steadying hand on his shoulder, “Your brothers managed to escape but the turncloak scum tracked them down and… and he killed them.”

“No!” Robb shook his head, “No – Theon would not do that! Taking the castle is one thing, but to kill the boys he looked at as little brothers? No! I refuse to believe that!”

Baelish winced, “As you wish, my king. Though I don’t see why the Ironborn would have any motive to lie. If anything, they’d want you and your family to believe they had the boys as hostages even if they did not. At least one of them. Apparently, though, they made quite a spectacle of displaying their bodies. Again, I hate to be the one to—”

Baelish’s words faded out, or rather were subsumed by a dull hum that sounded from within Robb’s ears. He heard his men calling to him, but he waved them away and shouted for them to leave him alone. He took advantage of the fact that they were near the outskirts of camp to walk into the woods where he would have privacy.

Bran dead? Rickon dead? They are but children! How could Theon do this?

Mother’s voice taunted him, “You cannot trust an Ironborn. You think of him as your brother, but the truth is he is a hostage of our house. He will never forget it; nor should you.”

Lord Wylis had said something similar. Said he would trust a Frey or a Lion over a Squid.

Why didn’t I listen to Mother? Why did I think I knew better? I am nothing but a boy… a boy playing a man’s game.

Suddenly the effort to stand was too much. Robb collapsed to his knees and then sprawled on the damp forest floor. Late afternoon sunlight filtered through trees. Birds sang their melodies. Dirt and grass and wildflowers filled the air all around him with the sweet aroma of childhood and peace.

He hated all of it.

How dare the world be beautiful and bright when his heart was heavy and dark?

Jon sworn to the Night’s Watch.

Father dead.

Sansa abused and defiled.

Bran dead.

Rickon dead.

His cheeks were wet though he didn’t remember crying. More than half his family, gone. Had the Gods not been cruel enough to the prior generation of Starks? Taking Rickard, Brandon, and Lyanna? Benjen at the Wall? Father the sole remaining Stark?

How lonely must Father have felt?

And why had Robb never pondered it?

Perhaps because it didn’t matter. Robb had already lost as much as his father, at about the same age. Now if Robb fell, the Stark line might end. All that was left were two sisters who could only pass on the Stark name if they married beneath their station, taking consorts instead of Lord Husbands.

Or worse, the Stark line might already be continuing through Sansa’s womb… a bastard of Tywin Lannister’s. A bastard that Joffrey would eagerly legitimize if Robb died. Or it would be no bastard at all if Tywin Lannister got his hands on Sansa, made her his wife. His prisoner.

He could neither laugh nor scream, though he wanted to do both. He also wanted to kill something. But for now, he would just cry. Cry and sleep. He would give himself this night to mourn all those he’d already lost and all that he might yet lose. He’d mourn his own dreams. To be a lord like his father – respected; loved. To marry a pretty northern girl and become the Lord of Winterfell, with both his parents there to guide him. With one of his siblings there to help him rule.

Yes, tonight he would mourn. Tonight he would just be Robb Stark. Son, brother, nephew.

Tomorrow he would wake and be the King in the North. He would meet with Ser Loras. He would go to Highgarden. He wouldn’t leave without an ironclad agreement in place. He would take the throne from Joffrey or Stannis or whoever sat his worthless arse in it. He’d take the throne and his first official act would be to see that the names Lannister and Greyjoy were banished to the annals of history. Winter would come for them all.

He didn’t feel happy, exactly, but something close to it when he closed his eyes, ready to let grief flow out of him unchecked, with a promise to start fresh on the morrow.

He’d almost succeeded in crying himself to sleep when he heard a branch snap not very far away. He sprung up to his feet and drew his sword, opening his mouth to call for his guards when he felt something bite the side of his neck, and suddenly his throat didn’t work.

He slapped his hand against his neck but where he expected to find a swollen knob of bug-bitten skin, he found a piece of thin, smooth wood.

His hands realized what had happened before his brain did. His left hand went to the other side of his neck and found something sharp and pointy and wet.

An arrow! He finally realized.

Once again, he wanted to laugh, but this time he was physically incapable.

He heard footsteps coming from his right but when he spun to look, he didn’t recognize the three men approaching. They bore no sigils; their armor was plain. Two had swords, one had a crossbow.

Robb thought to go out fighting but while his mind was willing, his body wasn’t able. He felt the night closing in on him, the darkness a blanket that someone was wrapping around his head. He no longer heard crickets or nightbirds. He no longer heard the breeze in the trees or the crunching under the feet of his assassins.

He heard nothing.

Then he saw nothing, and he knew what was happening. And in that moment, there was only one thought worth having…

I should have just gone home.

Notes:

Sorry to the 16% of you that will be sad about Robb. Was it a shock? I wanted it to be shocking. Like remember when you read GOT (or watched S1) and you were like, "No way they kill Ned, he's the main character... wait, why is Joffrey telling Ilyn to kill him? He must just be messing around. Wait, why are they putting his head on the block? This is a really sick joke. Someone's going to stop it, right? Cersei's going to do more than politely ask Joffrey to stop, right? Wait, why is Ilyn swinging the sword?..." (Well, not THAT shocking, but I wanted it to be unexpected).

As for the Loras/Robb then Loras/Petyr scenes... This is part of my self-indulgence. In canon, Petyr had to meet Loras at Bitterbridge before being allowed to meet with Mace at Highgarden. While Mace and Olenna would be like, "Joffrey for Margaery? Yes please!" I feel like Loras, particularly after losing Renly, wouldn't want to see his sister marry Joffrey. Even if Joffrey's sadism isn't widely known, enough IS known about him that he doesn't look like a catch. I suppose an argument could be made for Loras choosing to side with Joffrey to go against Stannis, but not if Contestant 3 in the dating game is Robb Stark. :) Anyway, hope it doesn't seem unrealistic.

Oh, BTW - did you know that before Renly's death, Renly+Tyrells had 80-100K soldiers to Stannis' 5K? How the HELL did Stannis think he had a chance? (oh, and he turned down an offer to side with Robb whose Dad lost his head by proclaiming Stannis the rightful heir to the throne. He didn't even counter offer with "bend the knee to me after I take the throne from Joffrey". He was just pissed that Robb was KitN even though that had nothing to do with Stannis and everything to do with Joffrey.

The award for LEAST politically savvy player in the game of thrones? [Drumroll] Stannis Baratheon! [Raucous applause]. If it weren't for Stephen Dillane being cute and perfect grammar being sexy AF then I'd probably hate him. But I can't because, sigh, grammar... And decades of repressed sexual drive. Which was wasted on cray-cray Melisandre. (In modern day she'd be that hot chick that tears male friendships apart and swindles hard-working but sheltered men out of their money and pokes a hole in the condom and then slashes their tires when they have the nerve to break up with her).

Oh and then there's Stannis' super-rigid "I'm the rightful king so people should be lining up to support me". Really, I want Tywin to give him his famous advice "Any man who must say 'I am the king' is no true king." And then they make out and you're like, "Why is this hot?"

Guys... I think I drank too much coffee.

Chapter 12: You know who I am

Notes:

Thank you all for the lovely comments! I apologize for not responding to the majority of them but since many were you guys talking amongst yourselves :) I figure you won't mind. Know that I do READ every comment and each warms my heart.

Hope you enjoy. Things are complicated in the story now and I apologies for any inconsistencies. I put a lot of effort into making things make sense given the characters' tendencies, but I'm sure it's not perfect.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Tywin

The time had come to make a decision.

He’d received yet another plea from the capital, this one penned by the king himself and replete with lofty claims of how together the two lions could beat back the usurper, send him to a watery grave, or force a surrender and get the man to proclaim that Joffrey was indeed the true king.

Then take his head, like you took Ned Stark’s…

Tywin could not wait for word on the Tyrells from Littlefinger. The Tyrells would either defend the capital from Stannis, or they wouldn’t.

He had to decide now whether to travel south on the Kingsroad to King’s Landing, to stay in the Riverlands, or to move southwest where Jaime was defending their homeland from Robb Stark’s attack.

His gut told him to go southwest. He was the Shield of Lannisport, not the Protector of King’s Landing. His first duty was to all who called the Westerlands home.

His brain told him to go south. His family was there. His daughter. His son. Two grandsons. A nephew.

His heart told him to stay here and resume plundering the Riverlands. Better yet, to march his entire army to Riverrun, demand the girl be released.

But that would be a long proposition. Riverrun’s moat meant it couldn’t be easily sacked, even when vastly outnumbered, only sieged. Were they provisioned to withstand siege for weeks? Months? Years? If Lord Edmure had any of his father’s pragmatism, it would be the latter.

“What of the Boltons?” he asked his war council at Harrenhal. They’d been patiently waiting for him to speak, and he’d been doing nothing but quietly contemplating a choice that he alone could make, because he alone knew what was at risk.

It was Ser Addam who cleared his voice to respond, “Still camped a nearly a day’s ride northwest of here. Nearly five thousand horse.”

Kevan nodded, “Posturing. They want us to know that if we leave, Harrenhal is theirs.”

Ser Amory nodded, “They want us to think long and hard about marching south or southwest. They want us to sit here while Stannis takes the throne and the Young Wolf takes the West.”

“Golden Tooth is holding,” Addam asserted, “Ser Jaime will not let the West fall to the wolves.”

Tywin pursed his lips in thought. Everyone around him could hep when it came to battle formations, but he was thinking about schemes and intrigues. It was the only way to compensate for that fact that he could not be in three places at once. Nor could his army unless he was willing to spread it too thin. He almost let a smile take hold when he thought about complaining to Sarina about the fact that he couldn’t duplicate himself a hundred times.

He hated that while he considered the options, it all kept coming back to her. A girl of six and ten. He was war planning based on the action most likely to get her in his arms, safe from any men who might wish to harm her, and he didn’t know why. She was just a girl. A beautiful girl, but beauty was skin-deep.

And yet she was still coursing through his veins like a poison. A poison she put there, and that only she could draw out. A poison that would be expelled with his seed when he joined with her, but never completely. She was the poison and the antidote, and he would need a lifetime supply of her.

What are you doing to me?

I could ask the same of you.

Labored breaths, flushed cheeks, mussed hair, eyes that can’t lie.

He shifted in his chair. All around him were still silent, waiting his decision.

What do you want from me?

It’s not in your power to give.

Tears gone dry, face like stone, dagger in her mouth, silent as a crypt.

I was thrust into a terrifying place… a man who was cruel to me… he was sick… he enjoyed seeing me in pain.

He was sick.

He was sick.

He was sick.

Tywin only realized his fists were clenched when Kevan coughed – a forced cough meant to pull Tywin out of his own mind.

Tywin nodded at his brother then looked at all the faces around the table, “We head for the Kingsroad. Ser Gregor, you’ll stay here with a garrison to the castle. Sup with me tonight so I can give you your orders. Everyone else prepare for a march.”

He rose and headed for the door when Kevan called out, “Where are you going, my lord?”

“For a ride.”

An entire army moved with the stealth of shadowcats. Well, relatively speaking.

He had waited until the last possible moment so that Stannis would think the capital was ripe for the plucking. He moved his host only after Stannis left Storm’s End by sea. It was a trade-off – Tywin would maintain the element of surprise, but Stannis would have had several hours to attack the city before Tywin arrived to reinforce the Crown’s forces.

Unfortunately, hours might be all it took, and then Tywin had better pray that Littlefinger had been able to strike an agreement with the Tyrells, because starving Stannis out would be the only way to dislodge his self-righteous arse from the throne. The man had about twenty thousand under his command since Renly died. Tywin couldn’t successfully sack the Red Keep with twenty thousand men holding it unless he had four times that many, at minimum. No – more like six times as many, because he’d have to assume Robb Stark and Edmure Tully would be bearing down on him from the west and north.

Fucking war. Fucking Ned Stark. Fucking Joffrey. Fucking Cersei. Fucking Robb Stark. Fucking Stannis Baratheon. Fucking everyone.  

To calm his rising ire he forced himself to collect his thoughts and ruminate on the past weeks.

It had all seemed to happen so quickly. Renly dead, with rumors of fratricide, faceless men, and dark magic abounding. Winterfell sacked, Bran and Rickon Stark dead. Littlefinger showing up at Harrenhal rather fortuitously with an offer to act as intermediary between Tywin and the Tyrells. Shortly after that, Ser Cortnay Penrose died at Storm’s End under mysterious circumstances. His second in command yielded to Stannis almost immediately. It was the last piece Stannis needed to put in place.

And now Stannis was attacking the capital by sea and Tywin was marching from the opposite direction. He saw no signs of the Tyrells and had to believe that meant Littlefinger had failed. If both parties were converging on the capital, a messenger would have gotten to him by now.

Unless of course they’re fighting for Stannis now… or for their own bid for the throne…

He couldn’t think about that now.

The Crown’s forces combined with those that Tywin brought with him may still not be enough to fend off Stannis, but Tywin could not let Stannis claim the capital. Not when the man might yet be able to earn the support of the North, Riverlands, or Reach. Not when Cersei, Tyrion, Joffrey, Tommen, and Lancel were in the Red Keep. Not when Jaime was fighting the Northern army in the Westerlands. Golden Tooth had held admirably, but smaller bands of soldiers were able to follow goat paths through the mountainous terrain and had begun reaving Tywin’s homeland.

Though now that he was coming into sight of the Blackwater, he realized all his fears had been for naught. The very air and sky was tinged green and the odor of sulfur and smoke assaulted his nostrils even from a distance.

There in the river was an entire fleet of warships, most engulfed in green flame that could only be wildfire. The flames danced on the water’s surface, too, unable to be quenched. None who’d been in those waters on either the Crown’s side or the usurper’s side would survive.

Still, Tywin’s scouts reported eight ships that made it under the city walls, the men of which were attacking the King’s Gate presently. More soldiers were crossing the river where some unburned galleys had smashed into each other and were attacking at the Mud Gate.

Tywin knew how many men each of those eight war galleys carried. Though the majority of Stannis’ force and fleet had been lost, apparently, those who remained still outnumbered the city guards, based on Tyrion’s latest report.

“We attack the rear of Stannis’ force before they can cross the river. Keep them focused on us instead of that damned gate,” Tywin gave Ser Addam the command. With a curt nod Addam closed his visor and rode for the front lines.

“What of the attack on the King’s Gate, Ty?” Kevan asked.

“If my son has any wits, he will move all forces to reinforce the King’s Gate when he sees us occupying those of Stannis’ men bearing down on the Mud Gate.”

“As you say, brother.”

Tywin lowered his own visor. It was time to kill, and for a change, he thirsted for it. Every step brought him closer to what he wanted, even if no one but him understood the trajectory.

 

Sansa

It wasn’t yet light when she woke, yet already the day felt ominous, just like every day in recent memory.

She and Mother and Arya had fallen asleep huddled together in Mother’s bed last night, as they’d done each night since learning that Theon Greyjoy had sacked Winterfell and killed poor little Bran and Rickon. Arya had to be subdued numerous times or else she’d have run off and tried to take on the Greyjoys herself. Mother had broken down and sobbed into her own skirts while mumbling about her babies and the Gods and why, why, why.

Sansa had watched with detachment while Uncle Edmure held Mother, while Uncle Brynden tried to soothe Arya’s rage and promise that revenge must not be rushed. Sansa had almost wanted to laugh at the situation and their own shock, because why shouldn’t they expect everything that could go wrong to go wrong? She herself was living proof of her family’s ill luck. She kept flying her cages only to land in new ones.

Mother was understandably still grief-stricken when news of Robb’s death was received from Bitterbridge. Uncles Edmure and Brynden didn’t believe it but that it was written by one of Robb’s trusted men, a knight of House Glover, along with testimony of Ser Loras Tyrell, who offered sincere condolences and a promise that Robb’s body would be tended by the Silent Sisters then brought to Stoney Sept by Robb’s men.

Arya had been convinced that Ser Loras was behind Robb’s death, but then days passed without word of Highgarden siding with either the Lannisters or Stannis – which would have been their only motive for killing the King in the North. Beyond that, Robb’s man wrote that they’d been granted parley in Bitterbridge and that Robb and Loras seemed on the cusp of an agreement and even a friendship. Killing Robb during a period of protection would greatly displease the Gods (and the North and Riverlands), and the Tyrells were said to be devout followers of the Faith.

Yet apparently Robb had received word of Bran and Rickon’s deaths from Mother’s childhood friend Lord Baelish and became distraught, venturing into the woods and refusing the company of his men, who tried to follow. His men left him alone to his mourning but less than an hour later when they went to check on him, he was dead.

A single arrow, likely a quick and painless death.

That’s what was written, and it was small consolation.

After deciding Ser Loras likely wasn’t behind the craven attack, Arya convinced herself it was one of the lions. That someone in the army of Westermen noticed Robb’s small party traveling south and followed them. But why expose themselves to danger by entering Tyrell territory in the hopes that the King in the North would end up alone and vulnerable? That didn’t make sense to Sansa, though it occurred to her that she was quite possibly deluding herself. Because admitting the possibility that Robb had been killed by a Westerman was admitting the possibility that Tywin was behind the attack.

Her stomach became sick just thinking about it.

Before Robb left for Bitterbridge, he told Sansa what Tywin had said at their second and last meeting – that he would forgive Robb’s slight if Sansa was returned to him. Returned – as if he’d ever owned her to begin with. Robb told Sansa only because he made a promise that she’d never have to go back to the Old Lion. That she’d be safe at Riverrun no matter Robb’s fate (or hers, he’d spoken to her still-flat belly). She could tell in that moment that Robb truly hated Tywin Lannister.

It had confused her to learn. Why did Lord Tywin want her back so badly? He wouldn’t have known she might be carrying his child. Nor did Sansa have any claim at the time, with three living brothers set to inherit before her.

And yet Tywin wanted her enough to say in front of witnesses that he would take her as his bride. Him! He hadn’t remarried in the three decades since his lady wife died, why would he do so now?

She hadn’t meant to, but when she conjured an image of Tywin, regal and brave, standing in the middle of Robb’s camp, demanding her hand, her tummy fluttered the way it used to when he kissed her neck. It seemed so terribly romantic, and she had blushed because Arya would call her a lovesick fool, and the Hound would call her a silly little bird who still believed that life was a song, and Mother would call her a poor child who didn’t know any better, and Robb would call her a traitor.

And now she wondered if that man who’d made her feel light and tickly on the inside had a hand in killing her brother.

It was all too much to process right now. It seemed that overnight she went from being one of five siblings to one of two. Ned Stark and Catelyn Tully made three healthy sons; now all that remained of their union were two daughters. One ladylike but tainted and probably ruined (she’d yet to get her moonblood and it may just be her imagination, but her belly was slight rounded); the other a far cry from anything ladylike.

Sansa wiped the sleep from her eyes and reached her hand out for Mother, but she only felt Arya’s short, silky hair.

She hastily rose and opened the curtains, letting in dim gray light, but it was enough to see that her mother was not in the room.

She did not want to wake Arya with the concern that was nibbling on Sansa’s belly. Perhaps Mother had gone to the privy or down to the kitchens or to visit Uncle Edmure.

Only Sansa somehow knew she hadn’t done any of those things. Mother had barely gotten out of bed since learning about Rickon and Bran, and it only worsened after learning of Robb’s death. Last night she cried herself to sleep while holding Sansa and Arya. Sansa doubted she’d be recovered enough to be up and about the castle only hours later.

Sansa made her way to Uncle Edmure’s chambers. His steward let her enter, knowing he had already dressed for the day.

“Sansa, what is it?”

“Uncle Edmure, have you seen my mother?”

Edmure frowned, “I’ve only been awake less than half an hour. How would I have—”

“She wasn’t in bed when I woke up. The dress and cloak she wore yesterday are gone.”

“She must be somewhere. Perhaps she went to the Godswood to pray? She’d been doing that a lot since learning of the death of your father.”

Sansa nodded, daring to hope he was right.

Only hours later, there was no sign of Lady Catelyn. A stable boy admitted to having readied her mount. Guards admitted to seeing her cross the bridge but not stopping her. She was no prisoner, after all, but the Lady of Riverrun, as far as they were concerned.

She had just left. Their mother. With whom they’d only just been reunited. She left. She just left…

Father was dead.

Robb was dead.

Bran was dead.

Rickon was dead.

And Mother just left…

 

Arya

She had never seen her sister like this. Even after Lady was killed, Sansa’s tears were pathetic. But now her older sister, who had born so much hardship with grace, was screaming and pounding her fists into the feather mattress. Over and over and over again.

She cursed their mother for leaving them. She cursed Robb for leaving them. She cursed Father for going south all those years ago. She cursed Jon for being at the Wall instead of at Winterfell. She cursed herself for betraying Father’s plans to Cersei, and for not seeing the truth of Joffrey and Cersei from the beginning. She cursed Joffrey and Cersei, too. She cursed Tywin Lannister. She cursed Renly Baratheon for dying. She cursed Theon Greyjoy for betraying their family. She cursed and cursed and screamed and cursed and cried.

Then she collapsed onto the mattress and fell asleep.

Arya ran to find someone – anyone – who could help, though she had no idea what help would look like. For the first time in years she truly felt like a child. She wanted someone to tell her what to do. Pluck chicken feathers. Clean out chamber pots. Ride out in search of her mother. Ride north and kill the Ironborn. She just needed to be given a command and she’d do it.

Great Uncle Brynden was the first familiar face she found. He was in the Lord’s Solar.

When she ran into the room, he gave her a weak but genuine smile, “What’s the matter, lass?”

“What’s being done to find my mother?”

He shook his head lightly, “Edmure found a note that Cat had slipped under his door. He hadn’t noticed it this morning when Sansa went to fetch him.”

“And?”

Brynden looked so tired as he sighed as if he hadn’t slept for weeks, “Your mother could not stay, child. She is riding east to meet with the Boltons near Harrenhal.”

“Why is she going to Harrenhal?”

“To order Lord Bolton to give her a thousand men to take north. She means to take Winterfell and find out for true whether your brothers live.”

“But… but why? Why not ask for men from Riverrun?”

“She knew neither I nor Edmure would have let her leave. I suspect she also didn’t want to take any of the men who stayed here – men who will keep you and your sister safe.”

Arya plopped onto the nearest chair, “Why didn’t she say goodbye?”

Brynden’s sad smile returned, “Lass, you’d have tried to stop her, too. As would your sister.”

“So that’s it? You’re not going after her?”

“Aye; Edmure sent a dozen men to catch up with her and act as her escort to Roose Bolton’s camp.”

“Not to bring her back here?”

Brynden shook his head, “I’m not her warden. And besides… if she wants to leave badly enough to sneak out in the middle of the night, alone and unguarded, then I will not stop her from doing what she must.”

“But… but it’s dangerous out there!”

“Not so much anymore. Scouts sent word that most of the Lannister army marched south some days back. Bolton may already hold Harrenhal.”

“But it will be dangerous for her to go north! What if a thousand men aren’t enough?”

“Your mother may be grief-stricken, but Bolton isn’t. If it’s a fight they can’t win he won’t attempt it. They’ll shelter at Castle Cerwyn, I imagine, and await reinforcements. When word of Robb’s death reaches our men at Golden Tooth… well, I imagine most will want to return home. If Stannis succeeds and the golden twerp is put to death, they’ll consider that justice enough and they’ll be more interested in getting home for the autumn harvest than fighting a war without a mission.”

Arya didn’t care about the war in the west. “Why didn’t she bring me and Sansa with her?” she pouted. She couldn’t believe her mother would pull apart their pack again after everything.

“Once Winterfell is back in Stark hands, she will send for you, child. Your mother is no fool. You and Sansa are all that is left of the Stark bloodline, assuming the rumors about Bran and Rickon are true. You are not safe on the road right now, not even from Northmen, do you understand?”

Arya nodded. She understood what he was saying. Once it became common knowledge that Sansa was the heir to Winterfell (or was she Queen in the North and Queen of the Trident?) everyone from commoners up to highborn lords would want her.

Brynden sighed, “Conversely, your mother is heir to nothing as long as Edmure and I live. She will risk her own life, but not yours.”

“I thought she wasn’t risking her life. You said it’s safe now that the Lannisters moved south.”

“There are still bandits, lass. There could be smaller groups of Lannister men scattered about the area. Not to mention the bloody Freys... Without Robb to make one of their daughters a queen, they’ll kneel to the bastard king first chance they get.”

Arya growled, “And to think, they wanted me to marry one of them.”

Brynden chuckled, “Keep that fighting spirit, she-wolf. It’ll serve you well. When this war is over, it may just be you and your sister ruling the North.”

“If that’s the case I’ll let Sansa do all the ruling, I’ll handle all the killing.”

Brynden’s smile widened, “Fair enough, she-wolf.”

It was easy enough to find Gendry in the forge. The head blacksmith at Riverrun had recognized his talent and eagerly put him to work shortly after their arrival here.

She felt a bit shy approaching him now. Her first weeks in Riverrun she had seen him almost every day. But since learning of the deaths of her brothers she’d done little but cry and hold Mother and Sansa.

Gendry did a double take when she approached. He was about to drop what he was doing but she waved a hand so that he’d continue. No need to be wasteful.

“M’lady, I heard about your brothers. I’m so sorry.”

“Did you also hear my mother left?”

He frowned, “Is that what all the commotion in the courtyard was about this morning?”

“Aye. She rode east to meet up with our bannermen, the Boltons, so they could escort her North to reclaim Winterfell and search for my brothers. She thinks they’re alive.”

“And you don’t?”

“I don’t know. I don’t see why it would benefit Theon to lie.”

“I suppose not. So are you angry your mother left?”

“Of course I’m angry! Sansa and I are the only ones who seem to realize the importance of sticking together. The lone wolf dies but the pack survives!”

“Right,” Gendry rolled his eyes, “No offense, but I’ve been alone all my life, and I’m just fine.”

“But you’re not a wolf.”

“What good is it being a wolf if you need an entire pack to protect you?”

Arya shrugged, “I don’t know! Ugh! Why are you always so stubborn?”

Gendry chuckled, “I’m just speaking my mind. Unless you’d prefer that I bite my tongue, m’lady. Wouldn’t want to upset your delicate sensibilities, m’lady.”

Arya wanted to shove him, but he was holding something sharp and hot. Instead she crossed her arms and decided to be the bigger person even if she was quite literally the smaller person, “Anyway, I’m tired of just sitting around. I’m going to try to be optimistic and plan for the future. Let’s say my mother and the Boltons do take Winterfell back. Either one of my brothers, if they’re alive, will be King, or Sansa will be queen. Either way, I’m sure I can put in a word to get you a place there at the forge. If not in Winterfell, then in Winter Town. What do you say?”

Gendry’s brows pinched together, “You’d want me to come north with you?”

She shrugged, “Aye, why not?”

“I just… I mean… Why?”

“Because you’re a good smithy and because you’re my friend. And you helped us get out of Harrenhal and you always kept my secret.”

Gendry shrugged, “I don’t know. I don’t think the North would suit me.”

“You can wear furs, idiot.”

He rolled his eyes, “Not the weather... I just mean… I don’t know. I think I’ll ask the Castellan if I can stay on here.”

Arya wouldn’t have been more hurt if he’d slapped her. She had invited him to be a part of her pack and he refused. She thought he cared about her. Why else would he risk his neck to help her and Sansa escape? He’d had it relatively easy at Harrenhal once they realized how good he was at his trade. Why had he left with her and Sansa, knowing they might have been caught? Why risk punishment or death if he didn’t care about her?

Unless…

“You fancy my sister, is that it?” she asked, trying to keep her tone even.

Gendry’s eyes widened, “What? No!”

“You do. Every man does. Even crusty old Tywin Lannister wanted her. You think she’s beautiful, but you know she’ll never be yours because she’s now the heir to the North. She’ll have to marry someone that betters our house. Someone with a lot of gold or a big army or a claim to another kingdom.”

“I don’t fancy your sister!”

“You’re lying. Your cheeks are red.”

“That’s because it’s hot in here,” he groaned.

“No, it’s because you’re lying. Your cheeks weren’t red two minutes ago. Why don’t you just tell me the truth?!”

He bit his lip and cast his eyes to the ground. Now that he’d hung up the sword he’d been working on, she did what she had wanted to do earlier. She shoved him. But the fucker was built like a bull and didn’t budge, so she had to resort to words again, “You won’t come to Winterfell because you don’t want to watch Sansa marry some fancy lord. Just admit it.”

“That’s not why, Arry.”

“Then why? And… Wait… you haven’t called me Arry since you found out my real name.”

He shrugged.

“Why don’t you want to come to Winterfell?”

He shrugged again. She shoved him again. He refused to budge, again.

“Why?”

“Drop it, Arya.”

“No! Tell me!”

“Please drop it,” he whined.

She shoved him harder. This time he stumbled a step and when he regained his footing he looked as angry as the bull he was built like, “It’s not Lady Sansa, it’s YOU!”

“What’s me?”

“She’s not the one I want. You’re the one I want! And you may not be Queen in the North but you’re still a princess. You’re still the most highborn person I know. So there is no chance for us to be anything more than friends. Really, we shouldn’t even be that and once the war is over your family will remind you of it. I’m nothing, Arya!” He turned around so she could no longer see his face. When she tugged on his arm he refused to turn.

“Gendry…”

He was as still as a statue.

She waited until she counted to forty. He still didn’t look at her. So she left. She ran straight to the bedchamber she’d been sharing with Sansa and Mother, tears filling her eyes though she didn’t know why. Gendry was a stupid, stubborn boy and his words shouldn’t have made her cry. She’d endured much worse than sharp words without crying.

Yet she was crying. And she ran to the only person who might be able to tell her why.

Only Sansa was perched on the edge of the bed staring at the floor with vacant eyes, her entire body unmoving. She didn’t even seem to be breathing or blinking.

When Arya slammed the door, Sansa didn’t so much as flinch. She just kept staring at a nothing spot on the floor.

Worrying that they’d received more bad news, Arya immediately forgot her own troubles, “What’s wrong?”

It took Sansa many suspenseful moments to respond, and when she did her voice sounded like it didn’t belong to her, “I met with the Maester… I’m with child.”

 

Tywin

He could not be less impressed with what was awaiting him within the walls of the Red Keep. Nearly every guard and soldier fighting on the king’s side was a sellsword. Only a few small houses like Rosby and Stokeworth lent their men. Meaning Joffrey had next to no support.

Why am I surprised?

Some random guard recognized Tywin and told him that his son Tyrion had been injured and that Maester Pycelle was seeing to him.

Why am I surprised?

He found Cersei well protected within Maegor’s Holdfast, and she wasn’t alone. She was surrounded by screeching women and girls who dropped to their knees and sobbed fat tears of relief upon seeing it was the Great Lion, not Stannis Baratheon, who had come upon them.

And there, among the ladies of court and servant girls, was Joffrey. His armor still shiny. Not a single drop of splattered blood. Not a single dent or nick. 

Why am I surprised?

Cersei cried out for her father and flew to embrace him, but Tywin gently pushed her away and paced toward Joffrey.

“Grandfather! You answered my call!” Joffrey beamed.

“Why the fuck are you in here?”

Joffrey stared at him with eyes wide and confused and just scared enough that Tywin wouldn’t need to beat some fear into him, “I… Mother required my presence.”

“Did she? And what could she possibly require from you?

“Father,” Cersei clung to his vambrace, “Joffrey is the king. When Lancel told me the city might fall I had to call him in!”

“Did you?” Tywin spat, “And why was that? So Stannis would find him in here, cowering amongst a group of hysterical women instead of leading the defense of this city he has the audacity to call his?”

“Father, what are you saying?”

Tywin waved a hand, “I’m saying that you’ve coddled this boy for too long, Cersei. I’ve heard nothing but tales of his cruelty and cowardice and ineptitude. That is, when I’m not hearing echoes of King Joffrey’s grand posturing. How he would personally ride out to meet his Uncle Renly in battle. How he would spill Stannis’ blood on the steps of the Iron Throne if he was the last line of defense. How he would serve Robb Stark’s head to his bride during their wedding feast. Tell me, grandson, how would you do any of that if you’ve never swung your sword? Say what you will about the traitors – they are man enough to fight their own battles.”

“Fight and die in their own battles, Father,” Cersei stated defiantly, “Would you have preferred me risk our king’s life?”

“I’d prefer not to worry that our king could be bested in the yard by a ten-year-old girl with a stick!”

The women around all gasped but Tywin didn’t care. He’d dressed down his own blood before and it was time to do it again. Let word of this altercation spread. Let everyone know that Joffrey hid behind his mother’s skirts while Tywin saved the city.

“Father, what of Stannis? Is he dead?” Cersei asked in an obvious bid to change the subject.

“I don’t know, and it matters not. If he lives, it is with but a small fraction of the men and ships he possessed this morning. I’m tired, daughter. I will find chambers and rest. In two days, I depart for the Riverlands.”

“Already?! You are abandoning us?”

“I will leave more than enough Lannister men to protect the throne, under your uncle Kevan’s command.”

“But what is so important in the Riverlands? We can deal with the traitors after the dust settles.”

“I have a war to finish, Cersei. And it’s my business what is so important in the Riverlands. And in case you care, I’ve managed to secure your brother’s release from Riverrun. He is in charge of keeping the border between Westerlands and Riverlands secure, and dealing with any Northern soldiers who manage to straggle in.”

Her eyes were as wide as moons, “What?! Jaime was released?! Is he well?! When will he return?!”

Tywin said nothing. He gave a half bow to his queen but didn’t spare another look at the king. The boy wasn’t even worthy of that minimal effort.

He’d have liked to leave the next day but knew well the toll that hard riding and hours of swinging a sword would take on his body and besides, the dawn was already on the horizon.

As he fell asleep pondering how much pain he’d wake with the next day, it was no surprise that among his many dreams was one of Sansa.

He made his way into Maegor’s after the battle was won, only to find a beautiful redhaired servant pouring wine for Cersei and Joffrey. Rather than scolding the craven boy king for hiding out during the battle, Tywin sat and drank with him, reminiscing about more peaceful times, though Joffrey didn’t share his grandfather’s desire for such times to find them again. Instead, while wildfire burned the river and men bled and died in his name, Joffrey harassed the shy redhead who was acting as his cupbearer.

Tywin watched as if paralyzed, uncertain why he cared about the girl, other than disapproving of his grandson’s idea of etiquette. It wasn’t until Joffrey told the girl to take off her dress so the king could honor her by kissing her skin with his sword that Tywin intervened, claiming the girl as his whore.

As he dragged her through twisting corridors that turned into green-lit labyrinths he realized that he knew the girl – Sarina. She had even journeyed with his men to the capital, though that didn’t explain how she ended up serving Joffrey his wine.

Giving up on ever finding a chamber with a bed he pressed the girl against the wall and kissed her, ignoring bloodied soldiers who walked behind them and goaded on the old lion.

“He doesn’t know who I am…” she whispered against his lips when they separated for air.

“Who?” he asked, without truly caring.

“King Joffrey. He doesn’t know who I am.”

A blurry memory tried to batter its way into Tywin’s mind like a woodpecker, but it never got through. He only knew the girl was important and that she belonged to him.

You know who I am, though…” she smiled.

He nodded though it wasn’t entirely true. He knew she was important. He knew she was special. He knew she was a woman with few equals. But he didn’t know her name. He only now knew it wasn’t really Sarina.

He pushed through the nearest door that seemed to appear out of thin air and found a steaming bathtub awaiting him, which was convenient since he and the girl were suddenly naked. His body was covered in blood and bruises, hers was as pristine as newly fallen snow or the clouds over the Sunset Sea at high noon.

She sat behind him as he bathed, rubbing his shoulders and neck and casting a spell on him with words he could and yet couldn’t discern. It was a love spell. She was making him love her, and the emotion grew by the second until his chest and belly felt so full that he expected to look down and find himself barrel chested.

He felt sleepy and heavy and happy, and his lips hurt from being curved upward for so long when he asked, “What are you doing to me?”

“Anything you want,” she whispered seductively against his wet skin.

He nodded, wondering what the price of this euphoria would be, “What do you want from me?”

“Everything.”

The warmth of her hands and the bathwater were all around him when he woke, but he now knew they’d never been there at all based on how he was stiff from head to toe – and he did mean that literally. Worse, his sword arm was too sore to handle his male affliction, and his shield arm wasn’t much better. He managed to send for a bath. He didn’t care if the entire castle was busy tending to the wounded. He didn’t care that those with flesh wounds needed boiling water more than he did. But nor did he yell when it took them three hours to bring the tub and water. He didn’t complain that it was warm when he’d specifically asked for scalding. He soaked in the water until it became cool then hastily scrubbed himself clean, feeling only very slightly alleviated.

He wasn’t expecting Joffrey or Cersei to seek him out. They ought to be busy the day after battle, but Tywin couldn’t help but speculate that they were busy with all the wrong things. Thus when his guards alerted him to a visitor seeking an audience while he was supping that evening, Tywin was surprised. Kevan or Addam would’ve been announced then let right in.

He internally commended the guards’ judgment when he saw it was a messenger claiming to serve Lord Baelish. He let the young man watch him eat for a few minutes before telling him to state his business.

This must have been one of Baelish’s little birds based on the way the man seemed perfectly capable of standing still and motionless, almost blending in with the walls, and the way he spoke in a low voice, the kind accustomed to whispering cryptic messages in underground tunnels and unused corridors.

“Yours wasn’t the only case being made in the Tyrell camp,” the man started.

Tywin beckoned him to sit so he could hear him better. The man complied and his eyes darted around before continuing, “The Young Wolf was also there…”

Robb Stark in Bitterbridge? No doubt he was there for the same reason as Baelish – to win the Tyrell’s support in the war. If not Renly, who better to give their allegiance to than Robb Stark? Of course, Tywin had hoped the answer to that question would be Tywin Lannister (via Joffrey Baratheon) but clearly such had not come to pass.

Tywin’s brain scrambled to think through the implications. If the Tyrells had been swayed to declare for Robb Stark, even if neither force had been involved in yesterday’s battle, it didn’t mean they couldn’t still make a bid for the throne. Now, while the city was still recovering, would be a perfect time to strike. In fact, it would be good strategy – let Joffrey’s army and Stannis’ army face off, then take the throne from whichever sat on it come morning.

Tywin steeled himself for the worst possible news, “An alliance between Stark and Tyrell then?”

The messenger shook his head, “There would have been, but disaster was averted. The wolf is no longer.”

Tywin scoffed, “No longer what?”

“No longer breathing. He was assassinated in the forest near the camp at Bitterbridge.”

Tywin was unaccustomed to being surprised. He’d seen, heard, and done everything in this eventful life of his. Yet he could only stare at the man waiting for this to be revealed as a jape, or a dream.

The man only held his eyes. Tywin knew better than to ask who was behind the assassination, and he had a good enough idea.

“Why didn’t your lord deliver this news himself?”

The man leaned back, “He is traveling. Carefully. He sent me ahead since this news will no doubt impact your decisions in the days and weeks to come, before he can tell you himself.”

Tywin nodded, “What of the Tyrells?”

The man shrugged, “A people without a king. If they make a bid for the throne, it could only be to install one of their own. And with the number of lions now in the capital that is a risky proposition.”

“What of the Northerners?”

“I’m speculating now, my lord. Riverrun would have been notified at once, I imagine. As for the rest? I imagine the news is spreading like a vine. But they too are a people without a king.”

But with a queen…

Tywin nodded and dismissed the man impatiently. Now he really wished he had started the sennight-long ride back to Harrenhal this morning, even if it meant sleeping in the saddle and needing two squires to help him mount and dismount.

He summoned Kevan and delivered the news but swore him to secrecy. He tasked his brother with holding the city in the event the Tyrells thought to insert a new contender into this war for the kingship. He had Pycelle dispatch a raven to Casterly Rock. Another to Riverrun. Another to Golden Tooth. He sent messengers to Casterly Rock and Golden Tooth in case the ravens failed. Time was of the essence.

Then he left, with only enough men to protect him from bandits and brotherhoods.

Roose Bolton had better be a man of his word, or else a new war would be waged in the lands around Riverrun. It wouldn’t be called the War of the Five Kings, but the War for One Queen.

Notes:

I know this was a monster chapter, I just couldn't break it up anywhere without throwing off the next chapter.
Re: Sansa/maester knowing she's pregnant - unless my timeline is totally fucked it's been ~4 months since she met Tywin, so hasn't necessarily quickened (felt a kick) yet. As a first time mother she won't be showing too much either (especially not under the dresses worn in those days). But a little bit, and she'll have enough other "symptoms" that it'll be pretty obvious at this point. Why did she go to the maester? Well, I think Sansa is tired of living in limbo. With her mother gone she wants to take control of her fate in whatever limited way she can, and she can't do that without knowing whether she's pregers or not.
Re: Catelyn leaving? Yeah, you guys probably hate her or hate me for making her do it, lol. But imagine losing three of your sons within a matter of weeks. Yeah, you're going to make some emotional decisions. I didn't write Catelyn's POV but in my head she drove herself a bit mad wondering whether Bran and Rick might actually be alive, since it's only rumors that have reached them. It's not like Theon would've written a "Dear Catelyn and Robb, I killed Bran and Rickon. Sincerely, Theon". Oh, and plot!
Oh and Tywin dressing down Joffrey in front of witnesses? Totally in character. He does it to his cousin in Harrenhal and does it to Joffrey (the famous Papa-Lion-sends-cranky-grandson-to-bed scene).

Chapter 13: I'm counting on it

Notes:

Guess what today is? TWOFER TUESDAY!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Sansa

It was over.

Joffrey got to keep his throne and his head. The Great Lion rode in in the eleventh hour to save his grandson. Stannis’ fleet had burned in the Blackwater, most of his men with it.

The letter, addressed to Uncle Edmure from Tywin Lannister himself, did not say whether Stannis himself survived. She supposed it mattered not. Even if the Tyrells decided to back him now, it might not be enough. Nor could Sansa offer much military support. The Northmen who had stayed at Riverrun were getting restless, she knew. Without the distraction of fighting and surviving, they just wanted to go home. And Lord Roose Bolton might hold Harrenhal, but it was small consolation. If Tywin Lannister wanted it back, he could take it with little effort. The Frey soldiers had already departed to the Twins, telling the men at Riverrun they should do the same – return to their keeps rather than fight for a lost cause like a chicken still running around after losing its head.

As for the rest of the Northmen, word had arrived that Ser Forley had surrendered Golden Tooth. The men were reaving the smaller keeps with no idea that they were fighting for no one. They probably didn’t know that Stannis had failed. They probably didn’t know that Robb had fallen. Most probably didn’t even know that Bran and Rickon had been killed.

Sansa knew she was the only person who they might fight for, but to what end? She just wanted the war to be over. She wanted their men to return to the Riverlands then begin the journey home. The armies would be able to avoid the Twins if indeed Roose Bolton held Harrenhal. And if he’d sent men north with Mother, they’d have had to retake Moat Cailin from the Ironborn who claimed it from the North at the same time that Theon Greyjoy claimed Winterfell. The Northern hosts could go home and reap their fields. What else could she ask them to do? Continue fighting for the Iron Throne? They didn’t have the numbers to take it unless they gained a powerful ally, and there was only one to be had: House Tyrell. They with the North and the Riverlands forces could probably take the throne. But what could Sansa offer to gain their allegiance? She was the heir to the North and a potential heir to Riverrun, but would Willas Tyrell take her with another man’s babe in her belly? A Lannister babe, no less? Perhaps she could relinquish her claim on Winterfell, make Arya the rightful heir and let her offer herself to Willas Tyrell.

Sansa decided to put a pin in that for now. Arya was still angry about mother and dealing with her own annoyance that Gendry apparently fancied her. What Arya didn’t understand was that she fancied him back. Sansa could tell because she insisted on calling him stupid and stubborn and found ways to talk about him whenever the sisters were alone together. Someone doesn’t occupy that much of your thoughts unless your feelings for them are deep. Sansa knew that from firsthand experience.

She absently pushed needle through linen while Arya sat in irritation, trying to see how deep a hole she could make in the night table by spinning the tip of her dagger into it.

Sansa had no idea what to do. Uncle Brynden and Uncle Edmure suggested that she not call back their armies from the West. Let them take some of the holdfasts and hostages, they would likely need them to trade to the Lannisters to save their own people or to buy their continued independence. As if Joffrey would allow it.

It made Sansa fear for the future. If Mother failed in getting Roose Bolton to give her enough men to reclaim Winterfell, then what option did they have? What other houses would fight for them with winter bearing down? How many would it take? No one knew precisely how many men Theon Greyjoy had under his command.

Great Uncle Brynden assured her the Northmen would be loyal to her when the time came, but not loyal enough to follow her into battle against a capital now reinforced with thousands of Lannister soldiers. Perhaps not even loyal enough to sack Winterfell before the next Spring. Without a king to order them to fight, most Northmen would prefer to go home. To see their wives and children. To build up their stores for winter.

She couldn’t blame them. Brynden said she could eventually barter her hand to the man willing to help her retake Winterfell, but she had to assume that would only be the case if her pregnancy never became common knowledge. Would any man dare take the woman and child who “belonged” to the Great Lion?

She felt like a lady without a castle. A queen without a kingdom. An heiress without an inheritance.

A sister without a brother…

A daughter without a mother or father…

A wife without a husband…

Uncle Edmure was inclined to stay put for now – to let the dust settle and see what the throne would do before taking any preemptive action. To wait on news from Mother and the Boltons before attempting to move Sansa north. He and Brynden didn’t agree on much, generally, but they agreed that staying in Riverrun was their best course of action. The Riverlands’ topography was vulnerable, but Riverrun itself was virtually impenetrable and currently provisioned to withstand a siege of two years if they rationed carefully.

Until Winterfell was retaken, Arya and Sansa were mere guests of Riverrun. They had no authority here. They weren’t prisoners, of course. Not like at the Red Keep and Harrenhal, but they were not free to leave. Their Tully kin felt their greatest priority was preserving the legacy of Ned Stark. Brynden was particularly adamant.

It was the same day the raven arrived from the capital declaring King Joffrey and House Lannister’s victory in the “Battle of the Blackwater” that Hoster Tully took his last breath. Sansa had visited her grandfather on several occasions, but it only made her sad because he called her Cat (even before Mother left). He had mumbled about betrothals and duty and moontea, and no matter that his words were not intended for Sansa Stark, she didn’t want to hear about those things right now.

It made Sansa cry anew to think that her mother had now lost three sons and a father in such a short span of time. She didn’t even know about the latter, though word had been sent to Harrenhal.

Sansa wondered if she was alone in waiting to learn her fate, or if the entire realm could sympathize with her. So much seemed undecided, unresolved. Would the war continue even with Renly and Robb dead and Stannis either dead or crippled? Would Joffrey accept the fealty of houses who had acted against him, who had called him a bastard? If not, would Tywin Lannister make his powerful armies available for his grandson’s revenge plots? Would people like Sansa Stark, Edmure Tully, Mace Tyrell, Ser Loras, and others be summoned to the capital to face judgment? Would her uncles turn her over to the king if such was the case? Would Lord Mace turn over one of his children? That’s what happened to the losers of war – their children were given as wards (hostages) to the winners. Having hostages of their own at Riverrun – including Ser Kevan’s sons – would only protect them for so long.

If Sansa was turned over, would it be to face trial, or would Tywin once again protect her?

Would he be pleased or angry to learn of the babe in her belly? Would he marry her so that the babe would be trueborn, or would he have the babe killed to protect the claims of his grown children, then sell Sansa to the highest bidder?

Sansa only knew she was not built for this. Waiting was a special kind of torture. She just wanted it over, whether that be with her head on a spike or with her sitting at the high table in Winterfell. The only fate she would not accept would be to return to a King’s Landing still ruled by Joffrey. She’d kill herself before letting him have dominion over her life again.

She knew part of her melancholy was due to the babe. The maester had explained as much. Only he and Arya knew of her pregnancy, but Sansa wondered if his loyalty to House Tully meant he had told Edmure, Brynden, or both. If he had, neither said anything to her nor treated her any differently.

She supposed that didn’t matter either. She estimated herself at just over four moons. Her belly had started to show but billowy skirts with high waistlines hid it easily. No wisewoman or maester would dare try to expel the babe at this point, and she wasn’t sure she wanted them to. This child would be a Stark, no matter its sire. This child would be another wolf in the pack. She had stopped caring, for the most part, that she was a ruined woman. That no man would want to marry her and that if someone did marry her, she’d always have to fear for her firstborn child, at least if it was a boy. In that event her best bet would be to send the boy to foster at another house and as soon as he came of age, send him to the Wall. Jon would protect him, she knew. Jon wouldn’t judge him for being a bastard.

That thought also made Sansa cry. Poor Jon. She had treated him coldly, even if not rudely, because she was so desperate to please Mother. Now Mother had gone North, perhaps to meet her end. Sansa tried to remain hopeful, but she couldn’t. The Gods already took Father, Robb, Bran, and Rickon. Why stop there? Why not eradicate the Starks once and for all?

She ought to write to Jon. He probably only had rumors as far north as the Wall. He ought to learn from family. Though in that case, Arya should be the one to pen the letter.

Someone tore her from her despondency and halfhearted attempts at needlepoint by knocking urgently on the door. It was Arya who ran to open it, dagger in her hand as if expecting (and hoping) to find an enemy on the other side of the door.

It was only a Tully guard. A breathless man sent to escort them to their uncle’s side along the eastern battlements.

Ten minutes later they were delivered to not just Edmure but also Brynden. Edmure looked at them dolefully. Brynden was busy glaring into the distance using a bronzed spyglass.

“What news, uncle?” Sansa asked.

“The Boltons,” Brynden answered in his roughest voice.

“But how could they have taken Harrenhal after the Lannisters left and already made it back here?”

“They couldn’t. Bloody bastards.”

“What? The Boltons are our bannermen.”

“They are in battle formation.”

Sansa’s eyes widened, “But you said Riverrun cannot be sacked!”

“They’re not here to sack us. They’re here for something else, buy they’ve brought enough men to make it unwise for us to send our own men out to attack.”

“Attack them? I… I don’t understand. Is Mother with them? Can you see her?”

Edmure laid a hand on her shoulder and one on Arya’s, “We’ll know soon enough, sweetlings.”

 

Brynden

“Skinner,” he greeted Roose Bolton with all the cold indifference the man was due.

“Blackfish.”

Brynden tried to remain as casual as possible even though he couldn’t help but think Catelyn’s midnight ride toward Harrenhal had something to do with Roose Bolton standing here on the drawbridge with thousands of men at his back.

“Why do I get the impression this isn’t a friendly visit?”

Roose answered drily, “Because you’re as astute as ever. But regardless; our visit may not be friendly, but it needn’t be bloody.”

“I thought you liked blood.”

“I could say the same of you,” Roose cocked a dark eyebrow over one of his moon-white eyes. The man had always given Brynden the creeps. Speaking in a quiet, ghostly voice. Never drinking enough to get drunk. Seeming to enjoy nothing – not ale, not women, not song nor dance nor jape – but the thrill of fighting and killing. The only time the man’s pale eyes looked even remotely pleased was when talking about battle. The only time his face was anything but a blank mask was when fighting in battle.

“Shall we cut the shit?” Brynden asked when Roose went too long without making his intentions known.

“Very well. We have given our allegiance to Lord Tywin Lannister.”

Brynden nodded, surprised but also not, “And what did that cost the Old Lion?”

“Less than you might think.”

“Fine. So you signed your soul over to the Stranger. What does that have to do with me?”

“You have something that Lord Tywin is eager to have returned to him.”

Brynden felt his skin prickle with a warm flush, “And what might that be?”

Whom might that be. Lady Sansa.”

Brynden crossed his arms, “Bolton – you and I both know you can’t take Riverrun. Not you. Not you and the Freys. Not you and the Freys and the Lannisters.”

“No, not quickly anyway. And I have no desire to camp beyond your moats and starve you out for two years. Not with winter coming and not with all the men who will be returning from the West once they realize they are fighting for a ghost.”

Brynden had not wanted to hear that. He wasn’t sure how word had reached Bolton of Robb’s death, but obviously it had.

“Not all Starks are ghosts. The men will return and fight for her, especially when they hear of your betrayal.”

“I’m not here for a fight, as I’ve said.”

“Then why are you here?”

“To propose a trade. You give me your grandniece and I give you your niece.”

It was as Brynden feared but still he kept his face impassive, “You think I’d trust you with pretty little Sansa? The girl’s been through enough.”

“You have my word that no harm will befall her. In fact, if any harm befalls her on my watch, Lord Lannister will have my head.”

“What does he want with her? Don’t tell me it’s because he enjoyed raping her that much. He and his twisted little cunt of a grandson have an entire population of peasants to rape to their hearts’ content, don’t they?”

“Blackfish, you are no fool. You know what he wants, and you know he has no motive to hurt her if he’s to get what he wants. Lady Catelyn on the other hand… she is quite expendable.”

Brynden looked over Roose’s shoulder, “Yet I don’t see my niece. You wouldn’t be bluffing, would you Skinner?”

Roose lifted his left fist into the air and the crowd of soldiers behind him parted as a cloaked figure bound at the wrists was led through by two guards. Roose pulled back the cowl and there she was – the only niece that Brynden had, since he didn’t care to count that loon perched up in the Eyrie as his blood anymore.

“Cat…” he sighed, “What a mess you’ve made.”

She shook her head, “There is no mess. I am of no benefit to them, alive or dead. I have claim to nothing. Don’t you dare give them my daughter!”

“I won’t, Cat. But I fear the Boltons aren’t ones to make idle threats… and I fear I’m about to be receiving one.”

Roose nodded, “Indeed. You have until dawn the day after tomorrow to hand over Lady Sansa. That’s a day and a half to convince your nephew it’s the right thing to do. Or perhaps for him to convince you it’s the right thing to do.”

Brynden groaned, “Or else?”

“Or else I will do what I do best,” Roose lifted his fist again and this time the crowd parted for something low and bulky being carried by several men. Once it came into view Brynden recognized the wooden cross the Boltons strapped their victims to when flaying them alive. He squeezed his eyes shut and only opened them when his niece began to speak.

“I fear nothing, Uncle,” Cat spoke in a breathy but assured voice, “I have lost my husband and all three of my sons. There is no pain of the flesh that can hurt me worse than that.”

Roose made a bored expression, “Respectfully, my lady, we’ve heard that before.” He turned to Bryden, “Day after tomorrow, dawn, she gets strapped to this in the middle of our host. We have four thousand men. I recall you have eleven hundred within the walls of the castle. And if you think of trying to rally others, know that you’re not the only one with friends… and our friends are closer than yours.”

It was more than tempting to cut through Roose and the guards, and Brynden was more than capable. But they’d just pull Catelyn back within the throng of Bolton men, and Brynden would lose his head.

So instead he clenched his fists.

He hated feeling useless. Hated feeling trapped. He hated losing.

“Cat…” he spoke, not knowing what to say.

“You owe me nothing, Uncle, except the continued protection of my daughters. It was my risk to take, and I will be the only one to pay for it.”

“The lion will not hurt Sansa,” Brynden responded, though he wasn’t sure it was true.

“Won’t he? A man can hurt a woman quite a bit while keeping her womb intact. That is all he wants of her.”

Brynden sucked in a shaky breath, “What would you have me tell them?”

“The pack survives. Family. Duty.”

Brynden frowned, “Forgetting something?”

She shook her head, shooting a frosty sneer at her captor, “Honor will not serve them well in this world so long as men like Tywin Lannister and Roose Bolton are in it.”

Brynden tried to reach for her face to stroke her cheek like he’d done when she was a child, but the guards yanked her back. She shed not a tear as she was pulled back into the crowd and, not for the first time in his life, Brynden thought the world would be a better place if women ruled it.

 

Sansa

Uncle Brynden had to subdue Arya himself after he and Edmure broke the news to them. Brynden seemed resigned though certainly not happy about what would happen to their mother in less than two days’ time. Edmure was silently (and sometimes loudly) fuming. If he kept himself in check at all it was probably for his nieces’ sakes.

In less than two days, their mother would be executed if Sansa was not delivered to the Boltons, who would deliver her to Tywin Lannister.

What are you doing to me?

Before, she had wondered why he wanted her so badly; she’d even been flattered by it. Now it was obvious his motives. She was the key to the North. She wondered anew whether Tywin was behind Robb’s death. She even wondered if he could have been in league with Theon.

What if the reason he wanted me so badly was to wed me to him or one of his vassals then kill my brothers? Only Robb didn’t surrender me, so he had to kill my brothers first, and now try to take my claim…

She curled her fingers into fists but realized none of it mattered. She would find no answers here within the walls of Riverrun. Nor would the answers help with the current dilemma.

By Brynden’s recount, Mother had no fear of death nor bodily pain. Her wish was to see her daughters remain safe at Riverrun even at the price of her own life.

But Mother was not thinking it through. For how long would they be safe at Riverrun now that the throne had been secured by House Lannister? Now that the Tyrells had seemingly taken themselves out of the game (or worse, what if Tywin had secured an alliance by tying Lad Margaery to Joffrey as Robb had feared?) Now that the Northmen were scattered about the Westerlands. Sansa supposed that if Riverrun was sieged the Northmen would return, but Roose Bolton had the largest host after Winterfell and he was now their enemy. As was Walder Frey, Uncle Brynden suspected. The way his men were the first to leave Riverrun, almost as if they had information the others did not…

Riverrun, sieged by the armies of Bolton, Frey, Westerlands, and Crownlands… Even if the Northern banners came to our aid, would it be enough? Even if I could offer the Tyrells something to earn their support, would it be enough? They’d have to march through either the Westerlands or Crownlands to avoid the mountains between them and Riverrun. Or sail through Lannister and Greyjoy territory.

No… if Tywin wanted her, he would have her. It was only a matter of how long he was willing to wait and how much blood would be spilt in the interim. Blood that would spill starting less than two days from now with Mother.

What are you doing to me?

He had sounded like a man confounded by the effects a woman had on him. She thought back on that encounter, on the table, after he told Ser Gregor he’d kill him if he ever came near her again.

She thought of that night in the stairwell. She’d defied him, insulted him, fled from him. His response? To take her against the wall with a desperation that made her feel powerful. The reins had been hers if only she knew how to use them. Tears aren’t a woman’s only weapon. The best one’s between your legs.

Sarina…

You’re magnificent. A work of art.

My beautiful girl…

She had fed him well those weeks they spent together in Harrenhal. She who knew so little had given him pleasure. Had shared her beauty and affection. She had wrapped him around her finger, just as Arya told her to, only she didn’t realize it until now.

My lion…

And then she ran away from him, stayed away from him. She had fed him love and then all at once taken away the trough. A starving man is a dangerous man.

Robb refused to hand her over and now Robb was dead.

Sansa looked at her family – what was left of it – gathered in the Lord’s Solar. Arya had stopped railing and was sitting petulantly in a chair. Edmure stood with his arms crossed over his belly, the knuckles of one hand pressed to his lips. Brynden sat with his elbows on his knees, fingertips pressed together, eyes glazed over.

“You cannot protect me forever,” Sansa spoke in a voice that was hoarse from this morning’s crying. And yesterday’s crying. And the prior day’s crying...

Brynden lifted his eyes to her, “Riverrun can—”

“Withstand a two-year siege, I know. And then what?”

“You think he won’t give up before two years?”

“To get his hands on the woman with the claim to the largest of the seven kingdoms? The kingdom that may very well try to revolt again come Spring? The kingdom that has some of the most impenetrable keeps? Winterfell. Greywater Watch. Bear Island. Last Hearth, where the snows barely ever melt. The North can maintain its independence and the south can do little to stop it. The Manderlys may pay, of course, what with their coastal keep. Or in being made to pay they will seek out friendships with others who hate the name Lannister. Dorne. The Reach. Stannis Baratheon.”

“What are you saying?” Edmure asked.

“I’m saying that Lord Tywin Lannister will have Riverrun sieged for two years, if not longer, but that doesn’t mean he wants to.”

Arya narrowed her eyes, “Aye; he wants to end the war. He wants to stop the waste and go home.”

“I gave your mother my word,” Brynden asserted, quicker to catch on to her point than Edmure was.

“My mother is not in the right state of mind. As evidenced by the fact that she rode out unguarded with the goal of leading an army north to Winterfell.”

Brynden and Edmure exchanged a glance.

Sansa huffed, “Lord Tywin wants my claim. He is not trying to eradicate the Starks or else he’d have demanded Arya’s release as well.”

“Not yet. But if we hand over one of you, it makes him that much more powerful.”

“And how will he use that power?”

Edmure snorted, “To conquer the North, of course.”

“No,” Sansa shook her head, “To rule the North. To make the North kneel again. The Crown’s finances are deplorable. I heard Lord Tyrion complaining about it; cursing Littlefinger and King Robert for putting the Crown in massive debt to House Lannister and even the Iron Bank.”

Edmure nodded slowly, “And dead men don’t pay taxes.”

“Indeed not, Uncle.”

Brynden grimaced, “Sansa, lass, do you realize you are suggesting we give you – the heir to Winterfell – to Tywin Lannister, so that we might save your mother, who is heir to nothing?”

“I do. Because I will not sit in this tower and listen to my mother’s screams while it is in my power to prevent it. My mother wanted to bring us home to Winterfell, only Robb wasn’t done playing the game of thrones. Our return to the North might have dissuaded the Ironborn attack. Tywin Lannister might still have wanted me, but soon enough the snows would’ve protected me, not to mention Winterfell itself. Father said Winterfell is built to hold off 10,000 men with only five hundred.”

Brynden shook his head, “You are asking us to betray your mother. She is ready to die, lass. Besides, the Boltons may be bluffing. Once she is dead, she has no value to them.”

Arya snorted, “Why bluff? Aye, they might prefer to have a living hostage, but if they don’t go through with their threat, you’ll have no reason to believe any future ones they make. They can easily get other people we care about and repeat the action. There are still Northern prisoners at Harrenhal, or had you forgotten? Or Joffrey can demand the Night’s Watch send Jon south. The Boltons may stand out there and flay our last living brother in a month’s time. They may begin rounding up your smallfolk and do the same. The Old Lion might release the Mountain’s Men again on your lands. Will you see our mother killed in such a heinous way knowing it won’t be the end but the beginning?”

Brynden sighed, “We can send word to our men in the Westerlands.”

“How quickly can they cross back into your lands?” Arya asked pointedly, “And you seem to forget we’ll be without the Boltons and Freys on our side. Robb won battles, aye, when he had all those men. Will we win battles without them?”

Brynden held both hands out in a pleading pose, “You want to see your sister – your queen – handed over to her raper?”

“He did not rape me, Uncle.”

Brynden turned his head slowly to look at her, “Sansa, lass, you needn’t lie to me about this. I heard it from your brother’s own mouth.”

Sansa felt her cheeks flush. Would she ever stop feeling shamed by her survival choices? “I laid with the Lion of Lannister by choice. He was the lesser of three evils. And he… he was never cruel to me. He was… gentle with me, even believing I was nothing but a peasant girl turned whore.”

She watched Edmure and Brynden exchange an uncomfortable glance. Perhaps they thought she was mad. Perhaps they thought she was wanton. Perhaps they thought she was lying.

“Think what you will of me,” Sansa continued, “I care not anymore. All I care about is the fact that I have so little family left and the opportunity to save one of them.”

“By taking her place,” Brynden growled.

“They will hurt her; they will not hurt me.”

“They might.”

“He won’t let them.”

“You don’t know that. Once he gets a child from you, his true colors may come out.”

“He is already getting a child from me, so we’ll know soon enough,” Sansa snapped. She resented this situation, everything about it. She resented that Brynden and to a lesser degree Edmure were arguing with her. She resented that Arya wasn’t, even though she knew that was for the best.

That silenced both men for a long time. Sansa composed herself and continued, “Moreover, he wants more than a child from me. He wants me to help him get and keep peace with the North. Likely he wants the same from the Riverlands. I will be his obedient wife and he will treat me well because if he doesn’t, he risks word getting to back to the men of the North and Riverlands. Perhaps even the Vale? Mother told me her sister is unreliable, but perhaps my cousin will grow up to have some of his father’s honor.”

Brynden sighed, “This is what you want? To go to the lion?”

Yes, I want him.

“I want to save my mother. I want to bring peace to the North. And I am done talking about it now. Uncle Edmure, you are the head of House Tully. You are the Lord Paramount of the Trident. You alone have say in the release of hostages and wards, if that is how you see me. If that is not how you see me, then you acknowledge me as your equal or your better – the Head of House Stark at minimum, Queen in the North and Queen of the Trident, at maximum. If that is the case, then I am free to come and go as I please.”

Probably realizing how close Sansa was to getting her way, Arya finally chimed in, “Sansa, is this really what you want?”

“As I said – this is the way to getting what I want – what we all want.”

“And what about me? Am I to just stay here with Mother? Do nothing while someone that Lord Tywin or – worse yet – Joffrey names to rule the North in your place? You know this won’t end with you in Winterfell, don’t you? Even if your husband sees the benefit in taking it back from the squids, it won’t be to put you there to rule. He will want you by his side at Casterly Rock. The hostage known as his wife.”

“Indeed. But if I play my cards right, it will get you there. You and Mother. Perhaps Mother was right; perhaps Bran or Rickon lives. In which case Lord Tywin’s hostage will not be so valuable anymore.”

Arya shook her head, “You would do this for me and Mother?”

“I would do it for Winterfell. I would do it for our pack. My duty is to House Stark, and it always will be.”

Arya took a deep breath, “If you leave, I may never see you again.”

Those were perhaps the only words in the common tongue that could make Sansa rethink this entire plan. She looked to the ceiling to keep the tears from falling, “Let’s worry about that another day.”

Arya nodded, “Aye. In the meantime, just survive.”

“Just survive,” Sansa smiled as generously as she could manage.

She turned her eyes to Brynden and Edmure. Brynden nodded, resigned. Edmure smiled in a way that was both remorseful and proud. Sansa rose and took Arya’s hand, “Now help me pack a trunk and find a few dresses I can alter quickly. I intend on looking like a queen when Lord Tywin sees me next.”

Arya grinned mischievously. It had become one of Sansa’s favorite sights even though as a child she hated it. Arya shook her head but the smile never lost its grip, “Fool doesn’t even know he’s letting a wolf into the lion’s den.”

Sansa smiled back, “Speaking of, Grey Wind is yours now, you know.”

Arya’s smile turned wistful, “Aye. Perhaps when this is all over, I’ll take him hunting near Saltpans.”

Sansa sighed longingly. It was nice to think about Arya and Grey Wind finding Nymeria. It would be like going back in time and righting at least one wrong. Perhaps it would be the first step toward retribution for their house.

Sansa could live with that.

 

Catelyn

If not for the Bolton guards holding each of her elbows, Catelyn would have collapsed onto the stone when Brynden himself led Sansa down the drawbridge.

Sansa’s chin was high; her eyes were hard. She wore a velvet dress of blue so dark it was almost black, with a wide stripe of brown suede at the bottom hem. Cat knew it was done to lengthen a dress that Lysa had worn many years ago, yet it looked to have been done as a fashion statement. Brown suede had also been added at the end of each bell sleeve and as a hood that Sansa wore pulled up over her hair until she stopped ten paces in front of Catelyn, who was held behind and to Roose Bolton’s left.

“You promised me,” Cat growled through gritted teeth.

Her uncle at least looked shamed, “Your daughter can be quite convincing.”

“My daughter is a child!”

“Not anymore,” Brynden sighed.

Sansa had yet to make eye contact with her, instead staring at Roose Bolton with narrowed eyes that reflected the torchlight.

“Sansa, you don’t have to do this. I am ready.”

Sansa’s eyes finally snapped to her, “Enough, Mother. This is not a decision I’ve made lightly. You may be ready to die but that doesn’t mean every man and woman who would be a victim of the Lannisters and Boltons if we don’t make peace is ready for the same fate.”

Peace? You think this will bring peace? Oh my foolish girl.”

“I think this will bring peace, yes. Have such alliances not ended wars since the dawn of civilization?”

“The Boltons are turncloaks and Lannisters care only for their own kin.”

“I’m counting on it, Mother. Now enough of this spectacle. I am the Lady of House Stark now, not you. You will stay at Riverrun and you will stop worrying about me and instead focus on what remains of our pack. That is a command.”

Cat’s jaw fell, “Sansa…”

“Don’t, Mother. I love you. And I forgive you, just as you were gracious enough to forgive me. Your duty is to Houses Stark and Tully now. Go serve them; and do everything in your power to keep our pack together while I do everything in my power to protect that pack.” Sansa’s eyes went back to Roose Bolton, “I am ready, Lord Bolton.”

Roose tipped his head and at a hand gesture, the guards pulled Catelyn forward despite her planting her heels. Brynden grabbed her and quickly pushed her behind the Tully guards just as Roose Bolton took Sansa’s arm less roughly and turned, putting his body between Sansa and the Tully men.

She wanted to scream her daughter’s name, but a thick lump clogged her throat.

Once they were behind the portcullis Catelyn felt numb. She had many sharp words for Brynden but they would have to wait, as she had no energy to express them. She felt nothing; not even the regret that had been plaguing her since the Boltons killed the Tully guards who’d caught up with her on her way to Harrenhal and escorted her for the remainder of her journey. Not even fear for her sweet daughter. Not even the paralyzing sorrow of losing all of her sons within the span of a moon.

Brynden was quiet as he led her to her bedchamber. Arya was there and ran to hug her. She ought to take comfort in having her youngest daughter with her. Arya who looked and acted more like a Stark than all of Cat’s other children combined.

Perhaps it meant she was a horrible mother, because it wasn’t enough to smooth her hand over Arya’s tangled silk; she only wanted to feel Sansa’s softer, thicker waves.

“It’s going to be alright, Mother. You’ll see. Sansa’s a wolf.”

Catelyn nodded numbly. Perhaps, just for today, she would believe it was that simple.

Notes:

Yah, so... apologies to all who wanted to see a siege of Riverrun. Then again, maybe you should be thanking me because sieges are by definition long, and that would delay the REUNION you've all been waiting for. Which may or may not happen in the next chapter...
Hope you're still enjoying this! and THANK YOU for your lovely comments which truly overwhelm me in the best possible way! You guys are awesome!!
Now what did I say last Tuesday? Smoke a cigarette, drink some wine, eat a pastry, whatever it takes to get nice and relaxed and then click 'next chapter'

Chapter 14: Freedom. Respect. Love.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Tywin

“My lord, I had hoped to meet with you sooner, but by the time I made it to the capital you had already departed north. I must say, Lord Lannister, one might accuse you of growing fond of this old hovel,” Littlefinger offered his signature crooked smile as he held his hands up, gesturing to the room and, more generally, the castle around them.

“I had business with the Boltons.”

“Ah yes. I do wonder how the other Northerners will receive the Boltons once they try to return to the Dreadfort…”

“Given the size of the Bolton host, I imagine they’ll be allowed to pass unmolested and left in peace.”

“Peace; such a fragile thing of late. But I’ll have to ponder that on my own time, I know yours is quite precious. Though I would humbly ask you to satisfy my curiosity – what promises did you give Roose Bolton to get him to betray his liege so thoroughly?”

“I will humbly decline to answer.”

Baelish tipped his head, “As is your right, of course. Now, allow me to report on my recent assignment.”

“Save it. I know all I need to know from your messenger. I agreed with your proposal to go to Bitterbridge to treat with the Tyrells on my behalf. You failed in securing an alliance.”

Baelish made a small noise – something like the start of a snort, “My lord, someone had already poisoned the Tyrell lad with lies about you and King Joffrey. He would not permit me to continue on to Highgarden, where I’m certain I would have been able to strike a deal with the more pragmatic queen of thorns.”

“You mean lies about me and truths about Joffrey?” Tywin lifted an eyebrow.

“Let’s not argue moot points. Ser Loras was unwilling to listen to what would have been a very compelling argument, yet my travels were not in vain. I dare say I accomplished something much more beneficial than an alliance with the shifty Tyrells.”

“Something you had no permission to do.”

Baelish blinked at him, “Does one need permission to kill an enemy during times of war?”

“Let’s not argue moot points,” Tywin parroted, “What’s done is done. You killed the Young Wolf, which ruined the plans I had for the Starks. Nonetheless, plans are not guarantees, and I won’t pretend your actions did not benefit me. I assume you’re here to ask for some recompense?”

Baelish adopted a coy façade, “Serving my king is recompense enough.”

Tywin snorted, “I’ll remember that. But you know I prefer not to owe any debts. I know you want something. What is it?”

“I wish to continue serving you and King Joffrey, my lord, by offering my assistance with a… delicate situation.”

“Go on.”

“I am not foolish, my lord. I know why you are in the Riverlands, or rather, for whom. It is only a matter of time before one or both daughters of Ned Stark are in your claws. To keep the North in line, I imagine you’ll want to return one but not both of them to Winterfell. Lady Sansa is the obvious candidate, being the rightful heir and the more… pliant of the two girls.” The man spoke in such a cloying tone that Tywin was strongly tempted to remove his sugared tongue, but Baelish had a tendency to come in handy from time to time.

“What does any of this have to do with you?”

“Clearly the young Lady Stark cannot be trusted to rule the north while remaining loyal to you – I mean, to King Joffrey. You will need to wed her to a man who you can trust to always keep the Crown’s best interests in mind.”

So you killed the Young Wolf and thought I’d pay for your service with Sansa’s hand. Always scheming, Littlefinger.

“And you think this man is you?” Tywin snorted glibly.

“I think my loyalty to the Crown and House Lannister has been proven many times over. However, that is not the only benefit. I believe the girl will trust me and accept me as her husband. After all, she knows I have been a dear friend to her mother. That same knowledge is the reason I was able to get close to her brother, after all. Is there any other man in the realm who she will trust and that you also trust?”

I don’t trust you, and if she trusts you then I’ve given her too much credit.

He didn’t say that out loud.

“So you are asking to be named Warden of the North?”

Hearing it put in those simple terms, Baelish averted his eyes.

Tywin sighed, “A brothel owner born to a house only two generations old is not a suitable consort for Lady Stark. But I believe in rewarding loyalty. I am prepared to grant you Harrenhal, with funding to continue repairs and fortifications. With the Freys’ allegiance going the way the wind blows, and House Tully in open rebellion to the Crown for the time being, we need a strong base in the Riverlands.”

Baelish did a less than stellar job of hiding his disappointment, but he was in no position to demand more than one of the largest keeps in the realm, no matter its current state. And there was no way Tywin would send him to Winterfell where the man could plot and scheme far away from the eyes and ears that reported to Tywin. Not to mention that would mean giving Sansa to him, and the idea of her laying with a slimy snake like Petyr Baelish, who’d probably try to fuck her mother for good measure, was enough to make his skin crawl.

“This is most generous, my lord. I will serve King Joffrey proudly.”

“I’m sure you will,” Tywin nodded toward the door to let the whoremaster know he was dismissed. The man bowed deeply and was gone not a moment too soon, for a page arrived half an hour later to inform Tywin that the Bolton procession had come into view.

If he was the type to smile, he would have.

Roose Bolton himself led her by the arm, looking as dour as always. Unwittingly, the man made a perfect contrast to her graceful beauty. Dark gray chest armor over a brown leather doublet that had become blackened at the elbow and wrist. His pale skin and pale eyes blended seamlessly so that from a distance one might think he was walking with his eyes closed. His hair, close cropped unlike most Northmen, was more gray than black even though the man had only seen about forty namedays. His skin, on the other hand, was not nearly as weathered as it should be considering how much the man was said to favor hunting and warfare.

While Roose looked completely unremarkable, the woman on his arm was remarkable in every sense of the word. She wore a silk dress the color of an eggplant’s rind with light gray rabbit fur at the bottom hem creating a striking contrast. A thin black cord circled her body just below the bust line, below which the skirts billowed out. Long bell sleeves hung to her knees while her gloved hands were clasped together in front of her, resting on Roose Bolton’s forearm.

Her skin was clear and bright, healthier looking than she’d been at Harrenhal even though the past months had not been kind to her and her family. Her hair was braided into a fishtail that hung over her left shoulder and ended about breast-level. Those breasts were covered by pinched silk fabric but no less desirable to Tywin, not that he would let his baser urges show. A plain ribbon of black silk wrapped around her neck like a collar, and that stirred desires in the Old Lion as well. He’d like to see her in nothing but that choker, on her knees, staring up at him with those big, innocent yet alluring eyes. Perhaps he’d slap his hard cock on her cheek, and she’d never break eye contact even as she turned her head to lay feather-light kisses to his shaft.

What are you doing to me?

Despite the thrumming in his chest and groin he stood solemnly as she approached on a lesser man’s arm, her chin high, her eyes fixed on him but with no hint of fear or happiness, defiance or submission; only something bordering on derision – not unlike the way Cersei looked at her subjects. One eyebrow slightly raised but face otherwise relaxed as if the recipient of her glare was unworthy of the muscle effort needed to smile. Or frown.

She’d get good use out of that look soon enough, but he wasn’t so stupid as to think that beneath the vacancy wasn’t some very human emotion. She hated him, or wanted him, or both. Regardless, she was not as indifferent to Tywin Lannister as she pretended to be. And really, that was good enough.

When she was but two paces in front of him, she and Roose stopped.

“Lady Stark,” Tywin bowed while failing to fight a smirk.

“Lord Lannister,” she dropped Roose’s arm to curtsy and had no trouble keeping her face impassive.

As they straightened in unison, she gingerly pulled off her right glove and he met her eyes, wondering if she was going to give him her hand to kiss, make him look like the lesser of the pair in front of a good number of Lannister and Bolton men.

She didn’t offer her hand. She slapped him on the left cheek hard enough to make a crack echo off the surrounding stone walls though it was quickly drowned out by the gasps of every man in sight, all waiting without breathing to see his response.

If she were literally any other woman in the realm, he would return the favor unflinchingly.

As it was, he refused to react to her passionate greeting.

“Are you done?” he asked in a firm but unaffected tone.

“For now,” she answered without delay.

Tywin snorted in amusement, “I appreciate an honest answer.”

Tywin turned to face Ser Addam, “Escort Lady Stark to the small dining hall and see to it that she is comfortable.”

Addam nodded over another guard and together they led Sansa in the direction of the main tower. As she walked by, some of the braver (or dumber) men made wolf howls that were somehow suggestive in tone. The Mountain’s Men. He clenched his jaw. Useful for certain jobs but not the kind of company that Tywin favored.

He waited for Sansa and Addam to be out of view before gesturing for Roose Bolton to follow.

Tywin dined with the lord of the Dreadfort, though the man ate and drank little. The chest packed with 150,000 gold dragons sat on the table like a centerpiece. The scroll legitimizing Ramsay Snow as Ramsay Bolton was tucked neatly inside Roose’s vest pocket, as was its mate – a decree of royal pardon for House Bolton of its crimes against the Crown.

Not put in writing but agreed via handshake was that, should houses like Hornwood or Last Hearth or Cerwyn or Karhold fail to bend the knee to the king on the Iron Throne within a suitable period, Roose Bolton would be the Crown’s weapon in making them kneel – and for his efforts he would receive more lands or gold or both depending on the effort expended. Tywin suspected the man was praying for such resistance, if he was one to pray at all.

When their agreement was struck just days before Tywin’s host rode south, Tywin was leery of trusting the man but had few other options. Tywin couldn’t siege Riverrun without significant loss of resources. But Roose Bolton could presumably send men into the Tully home to extract Sansa. Of course, that was no guarantee of success. With only one bridge in and out while the moats were flooded, they’d hardly have an easy time of escaping, but Roose Bolton was willing to accept the risk to put himself in the lion’s good graces (and make himself a vastly wealthy man).

As it turned out, no such covert actions were needed. Catelyn Stark, near crazed with grief, rode right into the man’s arms as he was leading his host back toward Riverrun after meeting with Tywin.

Tywin could respect Bolton’s ingenuity and resourcefulness but didn’t feel entirely comfortable in his presence, knowing the man’s penchant for torture. Tywin wasn’t sure he had the stomach to skin anyone alive. He was no stranger to inflicting pain, but every man had his limit. Even Gregor Clegane’s victims only endured so much. A few minutes of defilement, a few minutes of beating, then a swiftly snapped neck or sword to the belly. But Roose Bolton? Apparently, he had no limit.

But at least if he was a monster, it was only to his enemies. Despite feeling unsettled by the man’s spectral mien, Tywin suspected he could trust Roose Bolton as long as their interests were relatively in line. If they continued to serve mutual benefit, he didn’t expect Roose Bolton to be a problem. He was an opportunist, not unlike Petyr Baelish.

Tywin sipped the last of his wine and had to stop himself from holding out his goblet for Lisbeth to refill.

He wondered what she – Arya Stark – thought of this. Did she think her sister was a traitor for turning herself over, or a hero? Then he remembered that it didn’t matter what she thought.

While Tywin sized up Roose Bolton he realized the man was not returning the favor. It wasn’t due to lack of interest, but an attempt to look subservient, Tywin suspected.

But looking and being were two different things.

“Did you know Robb Stark was dead when you arrived at Riverrun?”

Bolton met his eyes to answer, “Only because one of the Riverrun guards who had accompanied Lady Stark told us. Reluctantly. Lady Stark herself was not very talkative at all after we killed or restrained all the men in her guard.”

“So you knew that Lady Sansa was the heir to Winterfell, yet you did not flee north with her. Why?”

“You mean why didn’t I betray you, Lord Lannister? There are some men in this world one does not cross. War is one thing, but in personal matters? No, I think not…”

“Still…”

“You prefer a more logical rationale? Well, the Ironborn hold Moat Cailin now. I have the men to take it back but not without loss and not without risk that your men from Harrenhal would have pursued us and trapped us at the Moat. And if you think I would bring Sansa Stark through Walder Frey’s crossing then you grossly miscalculate my intelligence.”

“So you’ll go through the Crossing without her?”

“I’ll take a daughter or granddaughter off his hands to make it worth his trouble. Two if he agrees to gives the youngest Walda to my son Ramsay.”

“The youngest Walda is second in line for the Twins.”

Roose tipped his head, “The only woman named Frey worth more than a womb. Meaning no offense to your sister. Everyone knows Lady Genna is a Lannister.”

Tywin hummed and watched while Roose Bolton waited patiently for his next words.

“You say I’m not a man to be betrayed. Do you believe your king betrayed me?”

Roose didn’t give a direct answer, but close enough, “You offered him gold and peace and weren’t going to make him kneel for either. I’m good at war, Lord Lannister. But I’m a Northerner before anything else, and it’s a long journey to the Dreadfort.”

“And winter is coming.”

“The Starks are right about some things.”

Tywin lifted an eyebrow, “But wrong about others?”

“The girl belonged to you. You claimed her and stated your intent to wed her. He could have made the wealthiest man in Westeros his goodbrother. Instead he lost his life. And for what? Pride?” Roose shook his head, “Stark men have a habit of dying for their daughters and sisters instead of exploiting them for their full potential. Lyanna Stark could have been Rhaegar’s second queen if Rickard Stark went to the capital and demanded a marriage instead of vengeance.”

Tywin couldn’t entirely agree with Bolton’s logic though it was good to know the way the man’s mind worked.

When Tywin finally was alone with Sansa, who he had to keep reminding himself was not named Sarina now that he was seeing her in the flesh, he was suddenly at a loss for words.

She was not.

“Did you have Robb killed?” she asked, her blue eyes burning like the base of a flame.

“No,” he answered honestly, “I was exploring ways to end him, but someone beat me to it.”

“Who?”

“A man we will deal with in time.”

“We?” she arched a perfect brow and Tywin was tempted to drop to his knees before her.

“Yes,” he answered simply. It was too soon to reveal his full plan.

“Were you involved in the sack of Winterfell? In the deaths of my innocent brothers?”

Tywin was surprised by that one, “No. Nor was I planning to be. Believe me or don’t, but I prefer living Starks to dead ones. Except, of course, those who are leading armies against me. With one of your brothers a cripple and the other not even old enough to have a wet dream, I certainly expected no opposition from them.”

“They opposed you by merely existing. You wanted me as soon as you found out who I was. Why want me if three brothers had a better claim to Winterfell than I did?”

Now he was the one to arch an eyebrow, “You believe that’s the only reason a man might want you?”

Her cheeks tinted pink, “I’m referring to my hand, not any… other parts.”

It was too easy to provoke her. Indeed, beneath that cool façade she was all venom and he wanted to draw it out, even if just for her to spit it in his face, “Ah, so you think I intend to marry you?” he asked calmly, allowing a small smirk to show.

Her mask slipped for a moment, “There are only two reasons you might want me. One is to wed me for my claim. The other is to execute me and thus reduce the Stark line to one girl.”

“Lisbeth is Arya?”

Her eyes narrowed. He snorted, “I figured as much when Robb let slip that he had both his sisters in his possession. I suppose you had fun telling your kin how two girls got the better of the Great Lion.”

“Arya did. I didn’t have to, since you announced it in the middle of my brother’s camp.”

“Ah, yes. Apologies for that. I had to make it difficult for your brother to marry you off, otherwise he’d have traded you before a turn of the moon.”

Her lips pressed together in an angry line.

“You doubt me?”

“My brother would not have done that.”

“No? Why was he in Bitterbridge, then?”

Her cheeks flushed again and he capitalized, rounding the table and perching himself at the edge so they were almost eye level. He hadn’t noticed before how tall she was, or perhaps she had grown in the roughly two months they’d been apart. She was perfect for him as he still had half a head over her, but she would tower over many men. Notably, Petyr Baelish.

“I don’t know why he was in Bitterbridge,” she answered with too much delay and too much nonchalance.

Tywin snorted, “Don’t play dumb, it doesn’t suit you. He was there to marry Lady Margaery before Joffrey could do the same. And I’m guessing he was going to offer either you or your sister to Margaery’s brother.”

“And how would you know that unless you did have someone in Bitterbridge? Yet you deny being involved in Robb’s death?”

“It was war! There are only so many reasons why a king on one side travels to meet with a commander on another side during war. It is not as complicated as everyone thinks.”

“Then what does that say for your legacy, since all you take pride in is the battles you’ve won; the wars you’ve ended?”

Tywin ignored the barb, “Tell me, do you think Ser Loras or Lord Willas would have been enough for you?”

She blinked at him, “Enough for me?”

“Loras would have to close his eyes and conjure images of Renly Baratheon in order to bed you. And Willas? Well, I doubt he would live up to the expectations of a woman born of two houses who place such a high value on honor. Tyrell men are rose petals on the wind.”

“What would you know about honor?”

“That it matters to you.”

She rolled her eyes, “But it is not all that matters.”

“Ah, so you’d have enjoyed being the Lady of the Flowers? Wolves don’t belong in rose gardens.”

She huffed loudly, “You deny your intent is to marry me, yet you sound almost jealous of these flower lords.”

He snorted, “You think I’m jealous? What cause do I have to be jealous? I’m—”

“The Great Lion of Lannister, yes. Indeed you have no cause to be jealous, thus there is no reason for me to tell you which of the Bolton men frequently sought my company during this past sennight”

He sneered, “You call it jealousy yet what you speak of is principle.”

“Fine. You’re not jealous. You’re not spiteful, either. Nor possessive,” she spoke dismissively. “Tell me what you want from me, then, Lord Lannister.”

“Why the rush?”

With a sigh she sat in the nearest chair and began piling cheese and dried meats onto the plate in front of her.

“Fine,” Tywin exhaled, moving to sit perpendicular to her at the head of the table, “I want an end to this war. You will help get the Riverlands and North in line.”

“They will not bow to Joffrey.”

“Let me worry about that.”

She snorted, “You want a hostage of two kingdoms then, as I suspected. Will my new cage be your bedchamber, Lord Lannister?”

“I told you not to play dumb. A marriage between Stark and Lannister will go further than any type of ward and warden situation, and you know it.”

“And what will I get for allowing a crimson cloak to be draped on my shoulders by… some Lannister man?”

Tywin rolled his eyes, “Allowing it? Do you believe you have a choice?”

“A marriage requires vows spoken in front of witnesses. If this arrangement will not benefit my house and my people, then I’ll bite my tongue off before speaking those vows. If you plan to use me to hurt my house, I’ll put a dagger into my heart.”

“Stop posturing, girl.”

“I’m not posturing. Have you forgotten I was ready to let you carve open my face before uttering words that would hurt my house?”

He felt his neck flush. Her strength that day had been arousing but thinking of his own behavior had the opposite effect.

She continued in her calm and confident tone, “I think you’ll find if you try to beat me into compliance that I have quite a high tolerance for bodily pain. Blame your grandson,” she popped a cube of cheese into her mouth as if she had not a care in the world.

He narrowed his eyes, hating that he still didn’t know the extent of her abuse at Joffrey’s hands. For now, he decided to ignore the comment altogether, “Fine. For the sake of argument, let’s say this is a negotiation. What are your demands?”

“Simple, really. Remove all your forces from the Riverlands with promise that neither the Crownlands or Westerlands will take up arms against the people of the North or Trident.”

“And?”

“And my sister and mother will be allowed to return to Winterfell unmolested and you will not interfere with them retaking Winterfell for House Stark – nor will your Bolton friends. Martyn Lannister will remain in Riverrun as a ward. Willem Lannister will travel to Winterfell then remain there as a ward.”

“And in exchange they will bend the knee to the Iron Throne?”

“I told you; they’ll never kneel to Joffrey.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

A bit of hard sausage stopped halfway to her mouth and Tywin couldn’t help but grin. He had finally shut her up, not that he wasn’t loving every word that came out of her pretty mouth. So self-assured. So unemotional. So regal. What Sarina had only revealed in flashes Sansa was maintaining for an entire conversation.

“You mean to install a new king?” she finally summoned the voice to ask.

“I’ve had my fill of Mad Kings.”

“You mean to put Tommen in his place?”

“My plans are inconsequential to you at this juncture. Tell me if the North and Riverlands would bow to the right king and queen.”

“You mean a king and queen that I endorse?”

“Yes.”

She took a deep breath in and out, “Yes. If you name my sister as Wardeness of the North and do not interfere with her and my mother’s ruling.”

Tywin nodded, “She will be Wardeness until a legitimate male of your loins comes of age. I’ll even allow him to wear the Stark name. But a concession will be made. Your sister and her husband will hold the North until said heir is ready to take up the mantle.”

“Arya will not marry.”

“If it is the only way I will permit her return to Winterfell?”

“You will choose this husband for her, I assume?”

“I’m thinking of Willem Lannister.”

She stood so abruptly he flinched, “You would make a Lannister the Warden of the North?!”

“I would make a Lannister consort to the Wardeness of the North.”

“Arya will refuse no matter if I support this plan!”

“Fine. Then she and your mother can stay at Riverrun. I’ll make Roose Bolton Warden of the North.”

“He betrayed my family!”

“Indeed,” Tywin nodded calmly.

“You would trust such a man?”

“Not ideally, but who else might I trust? An Umber?” he snorted, “A Mormont? A Manderly? I tasked Roose Bolton with delivering you to me by any means necessary. He did, no matter how tempting it must have been to take you to the nearest Sept or Godswood.”

Her face was flushed and her jaw tense, “He was going to flay my mother alive.”

“You wouldn’t have let him.”

“Uncle Edmure and Uncle Brynden could have stopped me!”

“They didn’t.”

Her chest was heaving with anger but all he saw were breasts straining against fabric. She must have been eating well at Riverrun and he was glad of it. Perhaps he’d show her a new way to be fucked, though it would be a shame to waste his seed on her neck instead of in her tight little cunt, no matter how pretty she’d look painted with his spill.

“And what if he had taken me as his bride? What if he and his four thousand plus men claimed me and Winterfell?”

“Then I’d have shown up there with an army of a hundred thousand.”

She rolled her eyes, “Do you have such an army?”

“I’d buy one.”

“Even you cannot afford that.”

“Then I’d give the Tyrells the throne in exchange for use of their army.”

She shook her head lightly, but he could tell she was pondering his words, which sounded too much like a love confession after he repeated them in his mind. Whatever they were, they were the truth. If another man dared to take what belonged to him, they’d have to start calling him the Mad Lion. He’d burn whatever stood in his way, nothing short of the entire realm.

He didn’t know why.

“Is there no other option you would consider?” she asked with a quiet but proud voice.

“Yes. If your sister refuses to marry Willem and accept the presence of her goodfather Kevan and a small retinue of Lannister guards, then I will instead send an entire host of Lannister soldiers to occupy Winterfell until our heir comes of age.”

He saw her eyes widen at the words ‘our heir’ but she did not address it, “So turn Winterfell into a Lannister army camp?”

“Or, as I said, Bolton gets the Wardenship. He will likely also want to see a future granddaughter of his promised to the future heir of House Stark. Not an unreasonable demand.”

“You are trying to frighten me.”

“Is it working?” he teased.

Her jaw moved back and forth impertinently, “Yes.”

He snorted lightly and tipped his head in thanks for her candor.

“But not enough to sell out my sister, who is the only reason I’m still alive.”

He blinked at her. Did she truly dare to argue this point with him?

She did, and he respected her all the more for it.

“You fear Arya remaining unwed because then she is a prize that can be bartered for an alliance… such as to Willas Tyrell or our cousin in the Vale or the prince of Dorne… Or an Umber… Or a Manderly…”

“Do you have a solution or are you merely stating the obvious?”

“You do not want Arya to gain power independent of Winterfell, which owes its fealty to me. Fine. Let her marry someone with claim to nothing. A lowborn knight or even a commoner. But a man of her choosing.”

“You seem to think you are in the position to make demands.”

“Do you want peace with the North? Then don’t make Arya your enemy. She is mildly fond of you now. Indebted even, given your protection of her at Harrenhal. Give her freedom from a forced marriage – the idea she’s railed against since she was old enough to know what marriage means.”

Fucking hells…

“Fine, but I will approve of the husband and the marriage will take place before she is sent north.”

Sansa nodded, “And what of Riverrun?”

“As I said, if Edmure Tully swears fealty to the king on the Iron Throne, he will be pardoned and left to rule the Riverlands in peace.”

“Is this some kind of a trick? You mean to have him assassinated so a son of my loins has a claim on Riverrun, too?”

“No tricks. Though I will highly recommend a marriage between House Frey and House Tully. For too long there has been animosity simmering between the two largest houses in the Riverlands. I’d rather not let it come to a boil.”

“What have you promised the Freys?”

That stilled him; his brief correspondence with the Freys had been conducted with the utmost secrecy. He thought he’d need them to help with the Robb Stark problem at the time and to ensure that Sansa Stark never made it to the border of the North.

“What makes you think I have any dealing with the Freys?”

She only stared at him, lips pursed.

He sighed, “A royal pardon and a seat on the small council.”

“That’s it?”

“No one ever accused the Freys of being brave. They buckle under the lightest pressure. And they need no gold – Walder Frey collects enough of the stuff every time some peasant with an ox cart crosses his bridges. Besides, one of his many sons is already married to my sister Genna. He sided with your brother because he wanted to be able to call one of his daughters the Queen of the North. He never cared about your brother’s cause. He never cared about anything but his own interests.”

Sansa rose again and moved to stand near the window. He allowed her quiet contemplation for long minutes before approaching and placing a hand on her shoulder.

“I knew you’d look like a queen in the right dress.”

She shrugged off his touch, “Stop it; I am not your whore anymore.”

“Was it so unbearable? If so, you’re an even better mummer than I thought,” he bent to whisper against the skin just below her ear.

She shrugged again, bringing her shoulder up to force his lips away, “I said stop.”

“Because you don’t want this, or because you think you shouldn’t?”

“Both.”

“Hmm… Sarina was a better liar than Sansa.”

“Sarina is Sansa.”

“Is she?” he pinned her arms to her sides and planted a kiss at the place where neck met shoulder.

“Stop!” she spoke in a voice equal parts excited and angry.

“No. I wasn’t lying when I told your brother you belonged to me. Whether you are a whore, a merchant’s daughter, an heiress, a queen, or a hostage, you belong to me.” He turned her around quickly and reestablished his grip of her upper arms, “And do you know what I think?”

She squeezed her eyes shut. He leaned in and spoke in a whisper against her smooth forehead, “I think you love it.”

He backed away and watched her eyes creak open. “Do you know what I think?” she parroted.

A smile was his response. She matched it, but while his felt playful, hers looked victorious, perhaps even dangerous. Her tongue absently rubbed against her top right canine tooth. He wanted to know if it was sharper than his.

“I think…” she spoke slowly, purposefully, “that you love it, too. More importantly, I think you wouldn’t love it if I didn’t.”

There was no defense to that, short of lies. “Are you complaining?” he asked archly.

“I’m negotiating,” she answered smugly.

“Well go on and finish your demands so I can fuck you.”

“I want peace. I want my family to be safe. I want the North to be ruled by Starks. If you betray me, if you betray House Stark or House Tully, I’ll never take you willingly. You can find your pleasure in whores, or you can make peace with raping your wife.”

He gripped her cheeks and pushed her back against the wall, “What lies did your brother spread about me?”

The lump in her throat bobbed up and down. He could see her color drain. He swore he could hear the spit in her mouth evaporate, “His men believed you raped me. He let them.”

He spoke through gritted teeth, “Is that what you told him?”

She shook her head, eyes downcast, “He wanted to protect me.”

“He wanted to protect himself.”

“Don’t! Don’t speak of him like that!” her eyes snapped up to him, pupils now dilated with anger where seconds ago it was fear and seconds before that excitement. “You got what you wanted.”

“Not yet,” he pulled her face to his, holding her still as he kissed her. She kept her lips sealed and pushed her fists against his chest, but he did not relent. He kept his mouth pressed bruisingly hard to hers until minutes passed and her fists were no longer striking him but gripping into his vest.

His mouth opened and hers mimicked a heartbeat later. He lifted her by the backside until she sat on the window ledge. He fumbled through her layers of skirts until he found her warm thighs. He trailed both hands to meet in the middle and growled into her mouth when he felt a moist heat.

In a daze her smallclothes were nothing but rags and his cock was free of its confinement only to find a new one – a trap it willingly surrendered itself to.

As he pumped in and out, he managed to breathe out a question, “What do you want, Sansa? Forget about your people; forget about your homelands; forget about your family. What do you want?”

In that lust-fueled moment he wasn’t thinking about the last time he’d asked her this question, in very different context. Yet her answer was unchanged. “Nothing you can give me,” she panted.

“Try me.”

The words were not spoken so much as kissed into his cheek, “Freedom. Respect. Love.”

He laughed, “Is that all?” He realized it sounded sarcastic, but he didn’t mean it to be. She already had his respect – more respect than most people he knew – a wolf feeding herself to the lions, time and again, to spare the rest of her pack.

And he would set her free – as free as any person can truly be.

And love?

Well… all in due time.

“What do you want, Tywin?” she asked. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone asked him that. It was just assumed he had everything a man could desire, but what did they know? Gold was cold. It could buy enough firewood to turn his bedchamber into a kiln, but that kind of dry heat would never compare to the warmth to be found within the cocoon of a woman’s limbs.

“My lord is as cold as the Wall.”

“You’re as warm as the Dornish desert.”

“Uh oh… then I might melt you.”

Gods, did she have any idea how right she was that first night he took her?

He brought his lips to her temple without stopping his thrusts. What he wanted was to make her peak but didn’t think it would happen in this position and he was too fucking thrilled by the idea that half the men of Harrenhal would see her red hair against the window and know that she belonged to the lion.

“I want you to admit that you love this.”

“I love it,” she answered without pause. His balls pulled just a bit tighter.

“Is that all?” she teased.

He pulled her hips roughly against him and held himself deep, unmoving, “I want to know what other men you’ve fucked. The blacksmith? One of the Mountain’s men? Some handsome Bolton guard who offered to keep your tent warm?”

Her cheeks flushed an even darker shade of pink, “Only you. I broke my own barrier with the handle of a honey stirrer so you wouldn’t be suspicious of a maiden whore. And I’ve known no man since.”

He wanted to call it a lie but her eyes, though lust-glazed, were sincere. Now his balls were so tight it bordered on pain, his cock was so hard it burned. She was his, all his. It explained all the blushing, all the uncertainty, all the timidness, all the confusion over the pleasure he forced upon her.

“Anything else?” she asked, perhaps disappointed that she asked for three noble things and he only expressed a concern for things related to carnal relations.

But she’d be disappointed again because there was only one other thing he could think of in that moment as his cock twitched inside her, begging him to resume moving.

He listened to his cock but kept his motions slow and smooth, “I want to fuck a cub into your belly.” He stared into her eyes as he spoke the words, wanting her to know how much he meant them. But she only stared back at him, appalled, as if he’d just admitted to wanting to stick his dick in a hornet nest.

Then she swallowed and her voice trembled when she said, “You already have.”

He stopped moving again, not being able to align her response with his question, “What?”

Her eyes went down to the place they were joined. No, to her belly.

“You’ve already put a cub in my belly.”

His cock swelled and twitched within her and all it took was sliding himself in a bit further to spill, the peak rolling from his mind to his balls and making him jerk forward with a lurch until he collapsed against her, bracing one hand against the wall so their combined weight wouldn’t break a windowpane six stories high.

“Tywin?” she whispered when he began to drift back down to solid ground.

“Yes, my sweet girl?” he pulled back and stroked her hair. Whatever she was about to ask for, he would give. The key to the largest vault at Casterly Rock. A dragon egg. His heart, carved out and still pumping for his she-wolf to feast on.

“Don’t make me regret walking out of Riverrun.”

Her request surprised him, though it shouldn’t have. He supposed it was in her tone more than anything. It was an agreement. A handshake.

Still joined with her body and at no risk of softening enough to slip loose, he worked her skirts and shift higher until her lower belly was exposed to him. Her rounded belly. Protruding enough that the babe was easily a few months old, meaning conceived while she was at Harrenhal. Meaning unless Sansa Stark risked discovery by sneaking around the castle to see another man, the child was his.

He kissed her, and it was a promise.

She blushed at her next words, “I… I didn’t know what moontea was. Arya thought it was poisoned and put it down the privy.”

Tywin chuckled against her forehead as he planted another kiss there, “Looks like I owe her.”

Notes:

Sooo.... whatdya think?
In case you're wondering why Sansa didn't reveal her pregnancy right out the gate, I have my reasons. You could say she was testing Tywin. Looking for evidence of him being willing to compromise, looking for evidence of genuine affection. If she'd led with 'I'm having your baby' how would it have biased him? Would she be able to trust anything he promised or would she have thought she was being placated in a 'don't upset the pregnant lady' way, or an 'I'll drop the ugly truth bomb on her after she delivers my child so she won't do something crazy like shove a wire hanger up in there' way.

Chapter 15: No

Notes:

New POV!!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Tyrion

Tyrion had only been up and about for three days and was still adjusting to being sober. Sober of dreamwine and milk of the poppy, at least. He wasn’t stupid enough to give up his arbor red during times like these. Meaning times he was in the presence of his sister and nephew and other people who would find it easier to stab him in the back than to say ‘good day’.

His once-aching muscles had recovered from the battle, but there was no getting back the bit of skin and cartilage that used to be the right half of his nose, and that, too, was easier to accept if he wasn’t entirely sober.

The only comfort he had upon waking to find himself even less attractive than before was to learn that his father was not in the capital. Podrick said the Great Lion showed up just in time to get credit for saving the city then left for Harrenhal.

Unfortunately, that comfort wouldn’t last. At yesterday’s small council meeting, the first Tyrion had been physically able (or emotionally motivated) to attend since his injury, there’d been a report that Lord Tywin and his small host was approaching the capital.

Cersei had been particularly nice to Tyrion during and after the meeting, even inquiring as to his health and comfort. That had him instantly suspicious. Cersei was only nice to anyone when she wanted something. With Father nearly back, he couldn’t imagine what it would be. Whatever she wanted she’d get from father, not son, and she had known that from a very young age.

Despite hoping his father would be able to straighten out both Joffrey and Cersei, Tyrion could not say he was looking forward to the tongue-lashing Tywin would give him.

You couldn’t defend the capital. It would have fallen to Stannis if not for me.

You didn’t rein in Joffrey. Perhaps if you’d spent more time working and less time whoring, you’d have been successful.

You lost Sansa Stark – our sole hostage of the North – while her brother had four Lannisters imprisoned.

You’re still worthless. Still a dwarf. Still unworthy of sharing my name.

Tyrion would ordinarily drink himself silly on such an occasion, but that would only give Tywin another flaw to mock. So Tyrion stood at the base of the stairs, several steps safely away from the swords (and the Kingsguard) that buffered the steps. Joffrey was perched up above, ready to receive his grandfather, a smug grin on his wormy lips. Down at ground level was Cersei, present at court for a change, two steps away from Tyrion, as if she wasn’t sure whether proximity to him would help or hurt her when their father arrived. It was interesting, but Tyrion’s money was on hurt. There was no way his father would be pleased to see him, nor be inclined to pretend otherwise.

Perhaps Father will banish me. I have enough gold to live comfortably in the Free Cities. I’ll bring Shae with me. I’ll fuck her until my cock stops rising to the occasion, then drink myself into an early grave.

He cast a nervous glance at Uncle Kevan who nodded solemnly from where he stood among a sea of crimson and gold. In fact, the whole city was crawling with Lannister men and retainers. Which was just fine by Tyrion; until a few weeks ago the Red Keep’s guard roster was comprised of sellswords and disgraced men of lesser houses trying to redeem themselves.

As a sign of the times, even the Hound had left. Driven mad by the fire, but Tyrion knew that wasn’t all. Ask a man to face his greatest fear to defend a worthy king? He may just summon his courage. Ask him to face the same fear to defend a turd like Joffrey? Tyrion was surprised the man lasted for three whole sorties before running.

Distant cheers alerted Tyrion to the fact that the lion was stalking ever closer to the throne room. Joffrey shifted in his throne then hissed at the sharp edge that tore his velvet doublet. Cersei coughed. Kevan’s back straightened, as did all the Kingsguard. But the entire crowd of courtiers was quiet. If a mouse farted in the walls Tyrion would’ve been able to hear it.

Tyrion flinched when the doors swung open as if pushed by an angry giant. Ser Addam and Ser Eryk led the way. Over Ser Eryk’s head Tyrion could make out the thinning blond hair of his father. But someone in night blue skirts with a brown suede hem was walking beside him, her face obstructed by Ser Addam’s body from Tyrion’s vantage point. Four more red cloaks took up the rear, their heavy steps in perfect cadence.

As Tywin and his companion walked down the long aisle leading to the steps, gasps were heard among the courtiers.

Addam and Eryk came to a stop four paces from him, close enough for Tyrion to smell one or both of their sweat.

Then, they stepped aside. Tyrion gasped himself. Beside him Cersei did the same. Far above them, Joffrey sat in stunned silence for a few moments before filling the large space with his cackle.

“Well look what the lion dragged in! Grandfather, as pleased as I am to see the traitor returned to where she belongs, you’ve already done quite enough for the Crown in the past moon. This goes above and beyond!”

Sansa’s face showed nothing. She neither paled nor blushed. Tywin, on the other hand, let everything show. His cheeks reddened, his eyes widened, his jaw worked back and forth.

“Get. Down.”

Joffrey only gawked at his grandfather, and Tyrion could hear the gears turning as the boy’s pea-sized brain tried to make sense of the man’s unexpected ire and – more importantly – how to respond to it.

Eventually Joffrey settled on diplomatically – a courtesy he apparently only extended to the Great Lion, “Of course, Grandfather. How rude of me. After all you’ve done, the least I can do is greet you more familiarly. We are family after all!” Joffrey began his descent though stopped at the lowest step so that he was a finger’s width taller than the Old Lion, who had approached the stairs as Joffrey descended them.

Down,” Tywin spoke in a cold voice. How was it possible for one syllable to make Tyrion feel like he might wet himself?

Joffrey swallowed loudly and took the final step, putting himself more than half a head shorter than the Old Lion, “I suppose…” Joffrey’s voice squeaked on the third syllable. Ser Balon coughed but it was clearly an attempt to disguise a chuckle. Joffrey restarted, “I suppose you are eager for me to render judgment on this traitor.”

“Out of curiosity, grandson, what punishment would you see as fitting? Ten lashes? A dozen blows to the belly?”

“I… I might consult the small council on this matter.”

“Hmm… so you’ve learned something at least, though I doubt you’d think to consult them if I weren’t standing here.”

Cersei – in perhaps the bravest act she’d ever committed, stepped forward, putting herself next to Joffrey, facing Tywin, “Father. Perhaps private quarters—”

“I am curious, grandson, why I need to do everything for you.”

Joffrey glanced at his mother then turned back to Tywin, “I beg your pardon?”

I needed to pay to reinforce your castle guard and city watchmen. I needed to send provisions so you and the other members of court wouldn’t starve along with the smallfolk. I needed to abandon my grip on the Riverlands to come save the city from Stannis. I needed to find the wards of the Crown who went missing on your watch. Apparently, I also should have been here to explain to you why physically abusing a sister of Robb Stark was unwise, seeing as Robb Stark held not one but four members of House Lannister. I also should have been here to tell you that a king’s place during battle is with his men, not at his mother’s teat.”

This time more than a few chuckles-disguised-as-coughs could be heard.

“Grandfather, I—”

“Save it. I have no desire to hear the excuses you might concoct. I am hereby calling due all debts owed by the Crown to House Lannister.”

Joffrey opened and closed his mouth then turned to Tyrion. Tyrion knew where this was going. Joffrey wasn’t so quick on the uptake.

Tyrion took a breath, “Your grace, I know the approximate sum Lord Tywin refers to. The Crown’s coffers cannot repay it at this time.”

Joffrey nodded shakily, “Grandfather, I must ask for the right to repay in installments.”

“No. These are debts already years or even decades old. Loans given to Robert Baratheon then you, Joffrey Baratheon, at extremely reasonable interest rates. I’ve yet to receive a payment.”

“Once my Master of Coin returns, we will negotiate a repayment schedule with you.”

“No. It is my right to demand payment now, per the terms of the loans.”

Cersei put a hand on Joffrey’s forearm and stepped even closer to her father, “My lord father, surely we can work out some—”

“No.”

“Grandfather, allow—”

“No.”

“Father, will you please—”

“No.”

Now Tyrion was the one laughing. Rather, the effort to suppress his laughter may have done internal damage to his windpipe, and he was biting his lips so hard he could taste copper.

“Father, perhaps we should retire to—”

“No. Maester Pycelle,” Tywin turned to look at the hunched over old man, “Remind your king the laws regarding the recovery of debts incurred by the Crown.”

“Of course, Lord Lannister,” Pycelle shuffled forward with tiny steps, “Your grace, in short, if the Crown cannot repay debts when they are called due by the lender, the lender may seize assets of the Crown up to the value of the debt owed.”

“Including?” Tywin asked with one eyebrow raised.

“Yes, I was getting there. Including, eh, hypothetically, the throne itself.”

A collective gasp went through the crowd.

“Father, surely you don’t—”

“Surely I do. I, Tywin of House Lannister, Warden of the West and Shield of Lannisport, hereby seize the Iron Throne and all its rights in lieu of monetary payment.” He turned to face the members of court, “Does anyone object to the manner in which we are settling this debt? If so, it should be easy enough for me to claim the throne by right of conquest instead, considering I have near twenty thousand men within the city gates.”

No one dared speak a word. Quite a few heads shook – heads belonging to those already trying to endear themselves with the new king.

“Very well,” Tywin turned back around and went to reach for Joffrey’s crown, but Joffrey jumped back, nearly tripping as he climbed the first several steps backwards.

“This is unlawful! Guards, detain my grandfather! Clearly he is weary from war and travel and is not thinking straight.”

Tywin cast a bored expression in the direction of the Kingsguard flanking the aisle that led to the stairs.

When not a single guard moved to act on Joffrey’s command the boy continued screeching, “Someone summon the City Watch! This is a command from your king!”

Tywin snorted, “Lannister men outnumber the mercenaries you call watchmen eight to one in this city. By all means, call the City Watch. My guards will kill them, then I won’t have to pay them for their most recent week of service.”

“You can’t!” Joffrey had skittered up to the throne and seemed to get some empowerment out of sitting in it, for he graduated from ordering his grandfather be detained, “I said arrest him! And arrest her! The bitch has corrupted my grandfather!”

Tywin’s head snapped toward Joffrey, “What did you say?”

“She has poisoned your mind with lies about me. She probably told lies about all the members of court! Guards! Arrest the traitor and arrest my grandfather!”

“The Kingsguard answer to me now, their king,” Tywin sneered at Joffrey in such a way that Tyrion half expected his jaw to dislocate so he could bite the twerp’s head off. But Tyrion was deprived of such a spectacle as his father merely nodded toward the Grand Maester, “Maester Pycelle, please document today’s events in the Royal Record…” then toward some of the Kingsguard, “Ser Meryn, please remove my grandson from the throne which only the King, the Hand, or a Regent have the right to occupy.”

Meryn’s jaw bulged but he nodded to his new king then motioned over Ser Osmund. Together they pursued Joffrey who clung to his throne, forcing them to literally pry him off and half-drag, half-carry him down the steps. White cloaks were ripped on the swords, and Joffrey cried out at least three times when steel managed to cut through velvet to reach his delicate skin.

“You bitch!” Joffrey screeched as he was dragged past Tywin and Sansa, “I should have taken your head along with your father’s! I should have put an arrow through your heart! I should have used your skin to decorate my—”

“Enough!” Tywin bellowed. Everyone stilled and quieted, Joffrey included. Tywin was all but foaming at the mouth when he stepped up to Joffrey with less than a hand’s width between their faces, “The next time you address Lady Stark by anything other than her proper title, I will have you thrown in the Black Cells for a fortnight.”

“You can’t! I am the king!”

“No,” Tywin took a step back and shook his head, “You’re not.” He jerked his chin toward the double doors and Meryn and Osmund continued their march until Joffrey’s frantic words were reduced to incomprehensible echoes.

“Court is concluded for the day. Maester Pycelle, Lady Cersei, Lord Tyrion, Lord Varys, Ser Kevan. Small council meeting. Immediately.”

His crimson cloak billowed as he spun on his heels and escorted Lady Sansa out by the arm, six men in matching shades of crimson creating a perimeter around them.

Tyrion had thought Joffrey’s small council meetings had been interesting (in a maddening sort of way) – but had a feeling this one was going to break every precedent.

Cersei had, surprisingly, not been reduced to hysterics, though perhaps only because she was in shock. She was too stunned to even sip her wine – and that was saying something.

Father had seemingly delivered Sansa somewhere that wasn’t here while everyone else waited in very tense and awkward silence.

Now he took the seat reserved for the king (a chair that hadn’t seen much use in the past twenty years) and opened the meeting with, “What news of Stannis?”

That’s what we’re going to start with?” Tyrion couldn’t help but retort.

He was ignored.

Varys cleared his throat, “Alive, my lord. Apologies – your grace. Alive but hiding at Dragonstone with a fleet of about two dozen small ships – those of the Lyseni pirate Sallador Saan.”

“How many men?”

“With no way to monitor Dragonstone, no one knows for certain. Judging by the capacity of the ships, it cannot have been more than about two thousand.”

Kevan nodded, “Given the number of men captured or killed, plus the number we can safely assume were killed on the ships that went aflame, it could be far less than that, but we should assume the worst until we know otherwise.”

“Very well. What of the Tyrells?”

Kevan answered, “No military movement whatsoever. Most have returned to Highgarden or whichever castle they hail from. Though a raven was received from Lady Olenna requesting a parley in the capital. We’ve yet to respond.”

Tywin nodded one time, “I’ll respond personally. What of Storm’s End?”

“Held by a very small garrison. Two hundred, perhaps? Clearly Stannis was expecting to take the throne, thus Storm’s End falling was not a concern. We could easily besiege it, but Renly’s remaining loyal men likely won’t let us march right up to the castle gates. And who knows what the Tyrells will do.”

Tywin rubbed at his brow, “With news of Robb Stark’s death and Stannis Baratheon’s failure, many of the Northern lords are retreating from the West, which will free up significant portions of the Lannister army. After the Tyrells bend the knee, they can help us take Storm’s End.”

“Help us take Storm’s End? You mean in Joffrey’s name? You’ll let him be Warden of the Stormlands even after witnessing his spectacular performance as king?” Tyrion asked.

“He’ll be warden in name alone. A Castellan who reports directly to me will be installed.”

Tyrion mumbled, “Not it.”

Tywin ignored him again, “When the time comes Joffrey will travel with the land battalion. It’s time he learns what it means to earn something.”

That finally got a reaction from Cersei, “That is too dangerous! He’ll be too exposed! No, take Storm’s End and then Joffrey can travel there to rule.”

Tywin blinked at her, “You do not give the commands, daughter. Joffrey has the respect of precisely no one and it’s time that changed.”

Cersei’s face was red and Tyrion imagined she was biting a trench into her tongue.

“Any other news?” Tywin let his eyes land on each of his companions. No one spoke.

“Very well. Harrenhal has been awarded to Lord Baelish, though effective immediately he is no longer Master of Coin. Tyrion, you will fulfill that role for the time being until a delegate from House Frey arrives to fill the position. You will also be named as my Hand.”

“I’m honored, Father.”

He wasn’t quite sure whether his words were genuine or not, but either way they were ignored, “I am considering Ser Addam Marbrand for Commander of the City Watch. I am keeping Lawsmaster and Shipmaster open in the event appointments to the small council are necessary to gain the allegiance of Highgarden and the Storm Lords. Ser Kevan can fulfill both sets of duties on an interim basis.” His father glared at everyone around the table. Perhaps expecting someone to disagree. No one did.

He took a breath and continued, “My wedding will take place—”

Cersei rose quicker than a lightning bolt, “Your wedding?!”

“Yes. Coronation on the morrow. Wedding in a sennight.”

Cersei shook her head, “Don’t tell me the little—”

“Watch your tongue, Cersei,” Tywin spat, “I shouldn’t need to remind you that a fortnight in the Black Cells is on offer for any who slander their future queen.”

“That traitor isn’t worthy of being queen!”

Tywin leaned back and steepled his fingers, “And why is that, daughter?”

“She abandoned her betrothed. Her king. If you hadn’t found her, she’d be in the North now, plotting against us.”

“At least she’s smart enough to plot. And why would she not abandon her betrothed? The betrothal may have started out genuine, but it became a farce the moment you let Joffrey lob off Ned Stark’s head like a child pulling the wings off a fly.”

Cersei’s cheeks darkened, “I tried to stop—”

“Next time don’t try. Because you were afraid to discipline your temperamental brat, you let him start a war that claimed tens of thousands of lives. Lannister lives. Stark lives. Baratheon lives. Tully lives. While families like Tyrell and Martell lost nothing and thus became only stronger. Your young cousins Martyn and Willem remain wards of House Stark and House Tully. Jaime and Tion are only back with us because of me. And what did killing Ned Stark accomplish, anyway? You gave merit to his accusation by killing him. After all, why silence a man whose words are false?”

Cersei returned to her seat, clearly forcing herself to look and sound calm, “Joffrey’s faults do not make the Stark girl a suitable queen for you.”

“She is a suitable queen because she understands the game we are playing better than most. She is suitable because she understands the concept of compromise, the need to make difficult choices. She is suitable because through marriage to her I will be able to influence the North and Riverlands to kneel and to never take up arms against us so long as we give them no reason to. She is suitable because the second son she bears me will have the sole claim to the largest kingdom in Westeros.”

“Second son?” Cersei took a deep sip of wine, her defeated look giving way to one of derision, “So your first son with the traitor will inherit Casterly Rock over Tyrion?”

Tyrion snorted, “Why, Cersei! I had no idea you cared so much for me!”

Tywin’s jaw worked back and forth, “I have not yet named an heir to Casterly Rock, as you know. My first son through Lady Sansa will be heir to the throne. My second son through Sansa will be heir to Winterfell unless I decide none of my living kin are worthy of inheriting the West. Now, as I was saying, Sansa and I will make peace with Winterfell and Riverrun. I will offer acting Wardenship to her sister Arya if—”

“Arya Stark lives?!” Tyrion shouted.

“She does,” Tywin nodded curtly.

“So they’ve both been at Riverrun all this time?!”

Tywin growled, “No. As I was saying, I will offer Lady Arya the Acting Wardenship if she agrees to the terms that I have negotiated with Lady Sansa. She will take a lowborn husband with claim to nothing – effectively taking her pawn off the board. Kevan will live at Winterfell, along with Catelyn Stark, to teach them how to rule the North so one day they along with Sansa can pass that knowledge to my and Sansa’s son. There will always be a Lannister there until Kevan feels confident that no Northerners are conspiring against the throne. Similarly, Riverrun will be offered a full pardon if they bend the knee to me. With Sansa by my side, I cannot imagine they won’t.”

“Can you not get them to release my sons? One of them at least?” Kevan asked.

“I will try. Perhaps in time when there is more trust and less animosity between North and South. For now you’ll have to be happy that Sansa has sent letter to her Uncle to see that the lads are treated as wards, not hostages.” Tywin looked to Cersei with a sneer, “And take heart, because unlike us, the Tullys will not abuse their wards.”

Kevan nodded soberly while Cersei pointedly ignored her father’s eyes.

Tywin took a breath and continued, “Obviously, the glaring uncertainty is Highgarden. They have enough money, men, and horses to make our lives difficult, particularly if they manage to tie up with Stannis Baratheon. We must bind House Tyrell to House Lannister through marriage, after they bend the knee to me.”

Cersei chuckled, “You think Lady Margaery, the little rose, will want a dwarf?”

Already back to hating me, as it should be.

“I will offer Lord Mace his pick of my available children and grandchildren for one of his children. He may choose you, Cersei, for Willas or Loras; or Tyrion or Joffrey or Tommen for Margaery.”

“What?!” Cersei hissed, standing once again.

Varys clicked his tongue against his teeth, “I highly doubt he will choose Joffrey, your grace. My little birds tell me that word has spread through the Reach like wildfire that Joffrey is… well, either sadistic or mad, depending on who you ask.”

“Lies no doubt spread by the Stark girl!” Cersei slammed her palms onto the table.

“Not lies, Cersei. By the way, where were you when Joffrey was having the girl stripped bare and abused in front of court? She has since told me only Tyrion and the Hound ever intervened on her behalf.”

Cersei’s cheeks flushed, “A queen’s schedule is jam-packed.”

As is her cunt…

“Ah, yes. You were busy seeing to the needs of the smallfolk. Or was it planning the defense of the city? Or mustering support for Joffrey? Wait – it was none of those things,” Tywin shook his head, “And you dare to question whether Sansa will be a capable queen?”

“Capable or not, we can never trust her.”

“Did Robert trust us? Did the Targaryens trust the Martells? Political marriages are by definition designed to bring opposing sides together. The North and Riverlands and perhaps even the Vale will be loyal to the Crown because of who the Queen is. The Westerlands and Stormlands will be loyal because of who the King is. Assuming the Martell boy is satisfied with Myrcella, we should also have Dorne’s loyalty, even if it is fragile. And through marriage we can gain the loyalty of the Reach.”

Cersei shook her head, “I will not marry the Tyrell boy. I have done my duty and given you three grandchildren.”

“One who belongs to Dorne and one who is hated throughout the realm. Do better next time. This meeting is dismissed.”

Cersei was all too eager to leave, no doubt to seek out Joffrey.

Or Ser Osmund.

Or cousin Lancel.

Or an entire vat of wine.

Tyrion wondered what Jaime would think when he heard all this. Would he view Father as a traitor to their house for taking the throne away from Joffrey? Jaime, like everyone else with eyes, saw Joffrey for the spoiled little shit he was, but hadn’t been here to see Joffrey at his worst... Watching with an unregulated smile and licking his lips while Sansa Stark was beaten, for instance.

What else did Jaime miss? Ah yes, there was also Joffrey’s complete lack of interest in the planning of the city’s defenses against his uncles. There was his lack of compassion for the starving masses. There was his lack of valor during the Battle of the Blackwater. There was his insistence on spending lavishly within the Red Keep even though Tyrion explained how each dragon spent made them more indebted to Tywin Lannister and the Iron Bank and less able to pay the men they hired to guard the city. Tyrion knew Jaime would approve of none of these things, but Jaime might be loyal to Joffrey because of Cersei’s influence. Cersei, the woman who’d kept the company of at least two other men during Jaime’s imprisonment.

Tyrion feared he was looking at a rift within House Lannister. Would Jaime choose the side that had Cersei and Joffrey or the side that had Tywin and Tyrion?

“Is there a reason you’re still here?”

Tyrion looked up and realized with much disappointment that only he and his father remained in the council room. Even Uncle Kevan was gone.

He nodded, even though it hadn’t been his intent to remain behind, “You seize the throne in lieu of the monies owed to you, but the throne is bankrupt.”

“Bankrupt because of mismanagement and over-spending. In my reign, neither will be tolerated. Tighten the purse strings. Bring the Crown back to profitability so we can repay the debts.”

“So the Royal Wedding…?”

“I have no use for gaiety and Sansa has no interest in being made a spectacle. Her suggestion was to take some of the money that would have been spent on an extravagant feast and use it to send bread to the poor. Since I’d rather not have a riot on my wedding day, I do not disagree.”

Tyrion knew his jaw was hanging open, but he couldn’t help it, “You allowed her to make a suggestion? And you listened to it?”

His father’s lip tugged up into a sneer, “Did you have anything of significance to say, or are you just here to waste my time?”

Tyrion snorted. Oh, I have things to say… “Are you the one who killed Robb Stark?” he asked pointedly.

His father’s jaw moved back and forth, “No.”

“Why did you give Harrenhal to Littlefinger?”

“I owed him a debt. Or at least he would see it that way.”

“I don’t trust him.”

“No one trusts him. At least no one who has met him.”

“Yet you gave him a—”

“For fuck’s sake, Tyrion, would you have preferred I left Gregor Clegane in charge of Harrenhal? Or Roose Bolton? Do you think the Tullys would abide that?”

“I thought the Boltons and Tullys were allies via their mutual connection to House Stark?”

“They were.”

“And now?”

His father rolled his eyes, “Roose Bolton was not happy with Robb Stark. He was dawdling too long at Riverrun instead of capitalizing on the momentum they’d gained to push west or south. When our reaving parties were sent out, Bolton wanted to respond by nailing one of the Lannister prisoners to a cross on the drawbridge of Riverrun and flaying him alive. In short, he didn’t think Robb Stark was playing to win. Still, he did not betray the Starks until I gave him an offer of peace.”

“And you knew all of this how?”

“Come off it, Tyrion. We have little birds in their camp just as they have in ours.”

“Fine. So you made peace with the man who wanted to skin your son or one of your nephews alive?”

“I made peace with the man who commanded the largest host after Robb Stark himself… a man who chose the winning side.

“And what did the peace cost us?”

“Less than it earned us. By far.”

“And where do Sansa and Arya Stark come into all this?”

“It matters not. Arya Stark is at Riverrun with her mother. Sansa Stark is here, where she should have been all along.”

Tyrion shook his head, “I suppose you blame me for that, even though I imagine she’d not be your betrothed if she’d never left the capital… Speaking of, isn’t her betrothal to Joffrey still valid?”

Tyrion may have gone too far with that one; his father looked like he was trying to murder Tyrion using only his eyeballs.

He stopped expecting a response thus he flinched a bit when his father’s commanding voice broke the silence, “You think I give a fuck about a betrothal? Anyone who still considered that betrothal valid after watching Joffrey have the girl publicly abused for no reason can come to me directly with their complaints. And as for your other comment, as a matter of fact I do blame you. As I blame Joffrey. And Cersei. And every other person of authority in this bloody city. It would seem I’ll have to clean house.”

Tyrion shook his head, feeling already defeated, “Fine. Fair enough. But for the record, Father, the boy cannot be controlled. Perhaps if he had even the slightest sense of forethought, but he doesn’t. He is impulsive and lacks good instincts – a bad combination. He is cruel and stupid – another bad combination.”

“Nothing I can influence at this point. He’s a lost cause. Eventually he’ll be sent away to Storm’s End.”

“I just hope you know he is more dangerous than you might think. Not because he is particularly cunning but because he has no moral threshold and cares only for himself.”

“Why tell me this? What would you have me do with him? He will go to Storm’s End, but he will have no power there. Every man and woman who serves him will know they are only accountable to me. If he orders a guard to beat a maid, it won’t be done because that guard will know that I would not give such an order without valid reason. Do you understand?”

“I do. I hope you are right.”

“I am. Now, tell me, who thought to use wildfire to defend the river?”

“Joint credit – or blame – is due. It was brought to my attention that a few hundred jars were found under the dragon pits. Then Cersei had the alchemists make more of the stuff. Ten thousand jars she commissioned. By the way, if you’re wondering how she paid for that – or for the sellswords she hired to expand the City Watch – it was a tax levied by Littlefinger on everyone entering the city. Meaning every hungry peasant and motherless child who sought protection within our walls had to pay for it even though the King’s job, allegedly, is to protect his people. I wonder if Edmure Tully charged a toll to those smallfolk using the drawbridge to escape Ser Gregor’s raping party. Ah, but I digress…”

Tywin sneered, “Spare me your personal notions; we were at war. Littlefinger was as cunning as he was cruel. So were you; the wildfire could have spread to the Red Keep or even the city sheltering all those motherless children.”

Tyrion snorted, “Indeed, as it could have combusted where it has been sitting for decades, according to the alchemists’ estimates, becoming less stable with each passing day. I used up a cache that I did not make. Cersei is the one who made new stuff for the express purpose of defending the city. Though I have a vague fear that what she meant by that was burning the city, should it fall, so that Stannis would rule over nothing but bone and ash. Since I took that option from her, she did the next best thing – had Ser Ilyn with her in Maegor’s, not as a guard but as an efficient executioner. Cersei subscribes to the belief that you either win or you die – there is no losing. You might want to keep that in mind.”

He watched his father mull that over. He could see the man’s temptation to scold Tyrion for speaking ill of his sister, even if only in speculation, but he could also see Tywin wondering whether Tyrion might be right. Wondering if perhaps the cruel and spiteful streak in Joffrey didn’t manifest out of thin air but was inherited from his mother.

Tyrion of course knew the answer to that – he’d known it for years. If not for Jaime’s interference, Cersei would have seen to it that Tyrion took an unfortunate tumble down the stairs or over the cliff wall of Casterly Rock. And when she looked upon Tyrion’s stunted and broken body, she would have smiled the same smile that Joffrey had on his lips whenever he’d been caught maiming a cat or having a noblewoman smacked around.

For a while, neither the Great Lion nor the little lion said anything, both lost in their respective reflections, it would seem. Then Tywin let his eyes linger on the wine goblet he had been spinning on its base though had yet to sip from, “The chain across the mouth of Blackwater Rush was a good idea.”

Tyrion looked at his father without moving his head, “Thank you.”

“They must have noticed the new towers, yet they sailed right into the trap.”

“They had tens of thousands of men to our tens of hundreds. No doubt they were willing to lose some men and ships. Moreover, they thought the chain was there to keep them out, so it never occurred to them that I wanted them to pass.”

“Mmm… Like Golden Tooth.”

“Pardon?”

Tywin shook his head, “Tell me of the current Kingsguard.”

“It’s missing a few members…”

“Clearly. Who and why?”

Tyrion sighed, “The Hound turned craven during the battle. May have had something to do with the wildfire. Or the blood loss. Regardless, he refused my command to lead a fourth sortie and a good half the men agreed with him.”

“This was at the King’s Gate?”

Tyrion nodded, “He left, and more were about to follow except that there is one thing men fear more than death, I found…”

“And what might that be?”

“Being shamed by a dwarf.”

Tywin pinched his nose, “Fine. The Hound is gone. Selmy is also gone – another one of Joffrey and Cersei’s follies.”

“As we’ve already discussed.”

“Ser Arys is with Myrcella in Dorne?”

Tyrion nodded.

“Tell me of the rest.”

“Ser Balon Swann was appointed a few months ago to replace Ser Preston, who was killed in the riots. Ser Mandon was killed during the battle after coming this close,” Tyrion pointed to his maimed nose, “to killing a son of Tywin Lannister. He’s yet to be replaced.”

Tywin frowned, “An accident?”

“Oh no,” Tyrion chuckled, “He was offering his assistance to me, so obviously he knew it was me, and when I took his hand to be pulled up, he swiped at my face with his sword. My squire witnessed it all… including Ser Mandon falling into the river when he lost his footing after his sword met my insubstantial nose instead of my very thick skull.” (Tyrion decided not to tell his father that Podrick may have helped Ser Mandon fall.)

“Why? Why would a member of the Kingsguard try to kill the king’s uncle and Hand?”

“I have my theories, but you told me to keep my personal notions out of our discussion.”

Tywin rolled his eyes, “Fine, tell me your fucking theories.”

“One – it was purely personal, since I had berated Ser Mandon for abandoning Lady Sansa during the riots.”

“A justified complaint given her value.”

“Except that he left her behind to protect Joffrey, supposedly, so Cersei all but lauded him the greatest knight who’s ever lived.”

Tywin jutted his chin, “I’m assuming there is a ‘two’?”

“Indeed. That someone paid him to kill me.”

“Someone such as…?”                       

“That is one personal notion I will keep to myself. Believe it or not, I value my life.”

His father’s eyes narrowed but he did not further probe, “Very well. Who is the tall fellow? I nearly mistook him for the Hound.”

“Ser Osmund, one of Cersei’s pets. A sellsword with no moral compass so far as I can detect. Appointed, no doubt, to spite me for my part in Ser Boros’ dismissal.”

“And why the fuck would you dismiss Ser Boros?”

“I didn’t dismiss him, Cersei did. And it’s a long story.”

Tywin lifted an eyebrow.

Tyrion widened his eyes and took a sip of the wine he’d mostly been ignoring, “Very well. Shortly after the riots, Cersei went behind my back to send Tommen to Rosby with Lord Gyles and Ser Boros. I was angry when I found out. I did not think Lord Gyles was trustworthy with such precious cargo during times of war, not to mention Cersei should have sought the Hand’s permission. It was a power play, pure and simple. So I dispatched Ser Jacelyn Bywater, who I do trust, to go there and defend Tommen after expelling but not harming Gyles’ garrison. Ser Jacelyn’s gold cloaks caught up with Gyles on the road and, apparently, Ser Boros handed Tommen over with no resistance. Hence, Cersei dismissed him.”

“So a petty squabble between you and your sister – when both of you had much more pressing concerns – led to the dismissal of one of the few Kingsguard left who served Joffrey’s father?”

Tyrion winced, “Dismissal and… imprisonment.”

“Fucking hells,” his father groaned, “I sent you here to rein in Cersei and Joffrey, not play into their worst tendencies.”

Tyrion felt the blood pumping to his head; it didn’t make the cuts on his face feel any better. He slammed both fists down, “And I have failed. I admit it. I have failed because Joffrey and Cersei are un-fucking-reinable! Truly, Father, I would have had an easier time and probably incurred fewer threats to my person if you’d sent me into the woods with a butter knife and told me to come back with a shadowcat pelt! If you wish to shame me for it, fine. If you wish to disown me for it, fine! But allow me to impart some caution before you send me away – and believe me I do it for Lady Sansa’s sake, not yours! Sansa will not be safe in this city so long as Cersei or Joffrey are here. You took the kingship from Joffrey. Sansa took the queenship from Cersei. Your daughter has done nothing but scheme since Robert Baratheon went to Winterfell. Schemes that are behind every event which started this fucking war. Schemes that have weakened, not strengthened, our house. Out of protection for other parties I will not give you details, but trust me, Father – even if you’ve never trusted me in anything else – trust me when I say that Cersei will sabotage your rule and your marriage. And until Joffrey is in Storm’s End, I’d make sure Sansa is surrounded by guards you trust. And a royal taster.”

Feeling more self-righteous than ever before, Tyrion stood and began to walk out.

“I didn’t dismiss you. Nor disown you. So sit down; we aren’t done.”

Tyrion turned around and blinked at his father. Cautiously, because part of him suspected a trap had been set to snare and humiliate him, he returned to the table.

As if Tyrion hadn’t just gone a little batty, Tywin continued in his measured tone, “So we have Jaime, Ser Meryn, Ser Balon, Ser Osmund. Ser Arys, but he is unlikely to return from Dorne. Five members, only four of whom are present. We need two more members. Reinstate Ser Boros immediately. I will choose the final member based on Ser Addam’s recommendation, because he will be Sansa’s personal guard.”

Tyrion sighed loudly, “Not to complicate an already complicated situation, Father, but if it were up to me, I’d have dismissed Ser Meryn and Ser Boros long ago.”

His father groaned, “Why is that?”

“Has Sansa not told you?”

His father’s blond brows knit together, “They were the two who abused Sansa on Joffrey’s orders?”

Tyrion nodded, “And Ser Mandon, though the river already took care of him.”

His father rubbed his temple, “We cannot continue the precedent of dismissing Kingsguard. It makes the position look rather flimsy, for something that’s supposed to be a lifetime appointment and an honor second only to the kingship itself.”

“Agree. Yet the coronation of a new king is an opportunity to repopulate the Kingsguard without technically dismissing those members who were sworn to the previous king.” Tyrion felt he was walking a tightrope. He wanted to plant the seed that his father could quietly remove the undesirable knights but didn’t want his father to realize he could apply the same convenience to Jaime.

Tywin nodded one time, “I’ll think on it.”

Tyrion sipped his wine, “Then I suppose we’ve discussed all there is to discuss.”

“Not quite…”

“Oh?”

His father shifted in his seat, “I didn’t take the throne for the glory but because there is no one else I trust with it. But if I’m going to rule, I intend to right the wrongs of the previous three kings.”

“Makes sense,” Tyrion shrugged.

“The smallfolk have come to mistrust the name Lannister. I realize some may also mistrust the name Stark, but I suspect Sansa will have an easier time earning their favor than I will.”

Tyrion pursed his lips together to keep from laughing at the monumentality of that understatement. The smallfolk cursed Tyrion’s name. They cursed Joffrey’s name. Why wouldn’t they curse Tywin’s name?

Then again…

“You saved the city, Father. Stannis Baratheon betrayed his nephews and thus his late brother’s legacy. Stannis Baratheon’s warmongering is what caused the people of this great city to go hungry for so long. Stannis Baratheon is probably a kinslayer – and not a ‘killed his brother in battle’ kinslayer, but a ‘sent an assassin in the pre-dawn hour’ kinslayer. Stannis Baratheon’s men would have maimed and raped their way through the city, had the Great Lion not arrived just in time to save us all.”

Tywin snorted, “You believe any of that?”

“No, but it is the narrative we will sell. Along with you making peace with the North and the Riverlands, meaning everyone in Westeros who was involved in the war gets to go home before winter. The people want full bellies. They want their husbands and sons not to have to go fight and die in the wars that we nobles wage. They want their wives and daughters not to be raped in the streets. That’s all. Give them that, Father, and show them how you’ve already begun to give it to them. They will love you.”

“I don’t need their love; I need their respect.”

“Would it be so terrible?”

Tywin drummed his fingers on the table, “Regardless, we’ve gotten off subject. Sansa will be queen. It is important that the North and Riverlands see that she is indeed a queen and not the royal womb.”

Tyrion shrugged, “Then make her the face of the Crown’s benevolent acts with the smallfolk in and around the city. Invite her to your small council meetings. Invite some lords or ladies of the North or Riverlands to join court. When the time is right – after she’s given you an heir, of course, allow her to visit her kin at Winterfell or Riverrun.”

“That may be very soon…”

“What will be soon?”

For perhaps the first time ever, Tyrion watched his father’s face color with shame, not fury or contempt. Tyrion sipped his wine only to hide his smirk.

Tywin clearly did not wish to say whatever was on his mind, but eventually he blurted it out while looking at anything but Tyrion, “Sansa is with child. Between the fourth and fifth moon.”

Tyrion coughed on his wine, “What are you going to do with it?!”

Tywin huffed, “It’s my child, you dimwit!”

“But… but… five months ago would have been just after her escape. She would have been traveling to Riverrun, no? And you’d have been at Harrenhal.”

Tywin groaned, “We were both at Harrenhal five months ago. Just.”

“Why didn’t you send word of her arrival?! I had men sent out – good men – to find her, some of whom did not return!”

His father bared his teeth and leaned forward, “That was your own fault for losing her to begin with. Besides, I didn’t know who she was. I’d never met the girl.” He waved a hand irritably, “It matters not. We must decide—”

Tyrion threw his head back and laughed, “You fucked Sansa Stark without knowing it was Sansa Stark and now you have to marry her because you got her with child! Oh, Father, hasn’t anyone ever warned you of the dangers of thinking with your cock? Wait, someone must have, since you’ve beaten that lesson into my ugly head many times over. You forbid me from bringing a particularly skilled whore to the capital. Meanwhile you were fucking the enemy! Oh Gods, this is too rich!”

When Tyrion finally composed himself and met his father’s eyes, he realized he had pushed things too far. The Old Lion’s face was as red as his cape. His eyes looked like two matching flames of wildfire. He may have been clutching the hilt of his sword under the table.

Tyrion swallowed, “Apologies… I just needed to get that out of my system.”

Tywin jabbed a calloused finger into the table, “For your information, I am marrying her because she is heiress to the North and has blood relations with the heirs of the Riverlands and Vale. I am marrying her because, unlike Margaery Tyrell, I trust her not to poison me after she births my son. I am marrying her to end a war that we were losing, while making it look like we won. To the realm it will look like after Robb Stark died the North gave up their princess as a sacrificial gift to the lion so they could be allowed to return home in peace.”

“A princess who will give birth to said lion’s child a mere four months after their nuptials…”

“Hence the dilemma,” his father spit through gritted teeth.

“Fine…” Tyrion clasped his hands together and pressed them to his lips. Lord Varys was better at concocting propaganda, but likely Tywin didn’t trust Varys with the full truth of this particularly delicate situation.

Still, Tyrion understood the human mind better than most…

People had been quick to blame Tyrion for their empty bellies even though he’d done nothing to cause the war that led to the Tyrells cutting off the capital’s food supply. They blamed him because they saw what they wanted to see: an ugly imp who looked the part of a villain. Better him than the beautiful golden queen. Yes, Joffrey shared in the blame but that was his own doing – or rather his undoing – he did nothing to make himself even remotely likeable within court or when he stepped beyond the walls of the Red Keep.

So what would people want to believe of the Great Lion? Those older than thirty namedays would have positive memories of the days when Tywin was Aerys’ Hand. They would be eager to see the good in him and reluctant to see the bad (no one liked being wrong). Those younger than thirty? Well, Tyrion supposed it could go either way.

So what could be whispered about Tywin and Sansa that wouldn’t make it look like either A) he’d been duped by a girl young enough to be his granddaughter or B) that he’d raped a highborn hostage, his grandson’s betrothed, and got her with child?

Tyrion saw only one answer. He cleared his throat and spoke in the most ceremonial voice he could manage, hoping his father wouldn’t laugh in his face (if the Great Lion was prone to laughing), “Sansa Stark, having seen the deplorable conditions in the capital for herself, decided something must be done. She fled the capital – let’s not call it ‘escaped’ – and sought out the most powerful man in the realm. Intent on ending the war that was hurting the people of both kingdoms she called home, she suggested that you treat with her brother and uncle and that when the war was over you take the throne for yourself to spare the people from Joffrey’s incompetent rule. Being a wise person yourself, you saw the wisdom in her proposal. While collaborating with Lady Sansa – who, for her own protection, you passed off as a lowborn mistress – you each fell in love with the other…”

His father scoffed. Tyrion felt his cheeks blush but pressed on, “…and as people in love often do, you made a baby. You wanted to make peace with Sansa’s brother, but the stubborn boy refused and his continued efforts at war led to his unfortunate death. With one of your major enemies eliminated you could have rescinded the promises you made to Sansa but out of both love and duty you decided to make her your queen instead. Your union will bring peace to the realm. Your experience ruling will bring prosperity to the realm. Your lovechild will bring stability to the throne, ensuring the line of succession is clear. A son who can trace his lineage back to the First Men on both the paternal and maternal side. A son born to the Warden of the wealthiest kingdom and the Wardeness of the largest kingdom.”

“This is your suggestion?” Tywin snorted, “A fairy tale?”

“People love fairy tales. Tywin Lannister and Sansa Stark – the saviors of the realm, the enders of war! And as a bonus, a match not borne from politics alone but also love – as evidenced by the future queen’s current state. Perhaps you can suggest that you proposed marriage to her before… you know.”

Tywin shook his head slightly then sighed, “Sansa will like that. When she was young, she wanted to live a fairy tale of her own. To have stories written about her; songs sung about her. Hence her brief infatuation with Joffrey.” At the last words the man’s jaw bulged. Tyrion wondered if perhaps Tywin claimed the throne not just because Joffrey was unfit, but also out of… well, vengeance for his bride.

But that was hardly the only shocking revelation. His father had spoken of young Sansa’s desire to live a fairy tale and hadn’t mocked it. It almost sounded like he wanted to give her that fairy tale…

Tywin sighed loudly and all traces of emotion were gone from his tone, “Your story aligns fairly well with our respective actions and… things I said in front of a group of Northmen. Though it would seem Robb Stark tried to spread the rumor that I raped his sister. No doubt to spare the girl some shame, but…” Tywin waved a hand, “It matters not. As you said, the people want full bellies and an end to war. If I deliver that, they will quickly forget that my child was conceived out of wedlock.”

Tyrion nodded, “Is that all then?”

His father looked suddenly tired. Tyrion supposed the day was catching up with him. Whatever complaints one could make about his father, idleness wasn’t one of them.

“Find Ser Addam. He’ll be outside of Sansa’s quarters. Ask him to compile a list of ten names – men he deems suitable for Kingsguard appointments. You can weigh in as well if you have thoughts.”

“So you’ll replace all of the Kingsguard? Even Ser Arys and…”

Tywin rubbed his forehead, “I have to think on it. If I replace some but not all it will be an insult to those who are dismissed. If I replace all it simply means that with a new king comes a new Kingsguard.”

Tyrion felt his stomach drop. Jaime defined himself as Kingsguard. He’d never wanted anything else. Certainly not to be Father’s heir for Casterly Rock.

Then again, did Jaime only want to be Kingsguard so long as Cersei was queen? Would he want to be bound to King’s Landing for life if Cersei was somewhere else, perhaps Highgarden?

Tyrion was the last person who could sway his father to keep Jaime in the Kingsguard – Tywin would assume his motive was to keep open the possibility to become the next Warden of the West himself.

And besides, he wasn’t sure he wanted to sway him. This was one decision he didn’t want to make.

“If you truly want to sell this being an amicable marriage and genuine alliance, I suggest you appoint at least one Northerner and one Riverlander to the Kingsguard. Let them see that their queen is not merely a well-dressed hostage.”

His father nodded curtly, “I’ll consider it.” He tilted his head toward the door and Tyrion knew it was a dismissal.

And for the first time in his life, a conversation between father and son had not been a special form of torture for Tyrion Lannister.

 

Tywin

Tyrion had been gone hardly a quarter hour before one of the guards pushed the door to the council chambers open, “My—Your grace, your, eh, Lady Stark is requesting your attention.”

Tywin nodded and watched his betrothed walk in with a smile that gradually fell as she took in whatever was painted on his own face.

“My lord, are you… Is this a bad time?”

He shook his head and stood, inviting her closer.

“I will not keep you long,” she blushed, “It is only that, well, your lion cub has been kicking me all afternoon. I recall my mother said that…” her head bowed and her cheeks darkened, “never mind.”

“What did you wish to say, Sansa?”

“It’s alright, my lord. You probably do not want to hear anything that pertains to my father.”

“Say what you were going to say.”

She chewed at her lip, “Well, my father liked to feel it, when his pups were kicking inside my mother’s belly.”

Tywin nodded slowly and brought his knuckles to her lower belly. With skirts that billowed out above her natural waistline, her bump was well hidden when she was dressed, thus he still felt a bit surprised when he saw her naked belly or felt it, like this, and re-realized that she was indeed with child.

“I don’t feel anything…” he stated after a few moments had passed.

“Hmm…” she took his hand and spread it open then held his palm flat against the lower curve of her belly, then closed her eyes, “Little lion, have you gone to sleep? Did you tire yourself out from kicking your mama all day?”

Little lion…

When several heartbeats passed with nothing happening, she opened her eyes and tsked in annoyance, “I’m sorry, my lord. He was still kicking so much when Tyrion came to my chambers to speak with Ser Addam that I thought certainly he’d keep going, but I suppose by the time I got to you he had tired himself out.”

“He?”

She blushed, “Oh. Or she. I suppose I assigned him a male persona because he was kicking so hard. Though perhaps all babes kick hard. And I’m certain girl babes like my sister kick really hard.”

Tywin lowered himself into the chair and pulled Sansa to his lap, not realizing his hand had begun to stroke circles against her belly until he heard Sansa make a ladylike ‘oh’ sound.

“What?”

“Here!” she maneuvered his hand to the left lower side of her bump and a moment later he felt a dull thud against his fingertips.

Little lion…

He tried not to smile but failed. Sansa kissed his curved lips.

Notes:

I was/am so nervous to post this one. It was dialogue intensive and 90% Tyrion POV, so you don't get to know just yet what Tywin and Sansa think of all this. That's by design. Just as it was by design that last chapter was all Tywin POV so you'd only see the fierce she-wolf Sansa projected and not the ball of nerves she was on the inside. Sansa's had lots of experience projecting the opposite of what she feels, hasn't she?

Anyway, remember I said this would be another self-indulgent fic? THIS convo between Tyrion and Tywin is a big part of that. In canon it seemed like Tywin never thought to ask Tyrion, the son he sent to act as Hand in his stead, about the goings-on in the capital. No, instead he went along with the attempt to frame him for murder (after marrying him to Sansa, the then-most eligible bachelorette in the realm who flew away and would be free to remarry only if Tyrion died/went to the wall, and before that going to WAR for him). GRRRRRR... There is only one possible explanation for why Tywin MIGHT have been okay with Tyrion being executed or sent to the wall: that TYWIN was the 3rd player involved in Joffrey's murder plot and wanted to keep suspicion off himself. Even then it's a stretch because he could've found another scapegoat. (And Tywin would totally murder Joffrey. If you've read my other fics you know I subscribe to that belief and will never be swayed from it).

But, anyway, before I give myself a heart attack, thanks again for all the lovely comments after the last two chapters. Sorry for not responding to most of them. RL is crazy, working 7 days a week.

Now you can all tell me whether you HATE or LOVE Tywin claiming the throne by simply walking through the gate with his army. Déjà vu much? He's like a vampire, he will totally destroy you, but only if you let him in. (And I mean that both literally and figuratively, yes.)

Chapter 16: As my king commands (deleted scene)

Summary:

Baleriontheblackcat and I talked about how funny a Tywin/Kevan scene would be.
This borders on crack, or at least my version of crack, and I'm not sure how realistic this dynamic is between the brothers, so I'm calling this chapter a "deleted scene".
But, I think you'll enjoy. Tywin needs a come to Jesus moment, and only Kevan can make him have it without losing his head. :)
Sorry for not posting in over a week. Work has been insane, I am posting this in the 10 minutes my calendar isn't full this week.

Chapter Text

Tywin

Kevan’s lips were pursed in a tight line, the effort to keep from smiling contorting his entire face. His eyes flicked up to his older brother and he nodded casually, “So… Sansa Stark…”

“Heir to Winterfell,” Tywin replied tersely, automatically.

Kevan kept nodding, “Rather young for you…”

Tywin scoffed, “Old enough.”

“Oh I bet!” Kevan lost the battle against his own lips, a bemused smile forming instantly that Tywin wanted to smack off.

“Do you have a point to make?”

“You spend months in the Riverlands, months at Harrenhal. You come back just barely long enough to save the capital from being sacked, then return to the Riverlands, then come back to take the crown from your own grandson… with a bride by your side.”

Tywin growled, “Would you prefer to call Joffrey your king?”

“I’d prefer to call a muskrat my king than Joffrey.”

“So again I ask, do you have a point?”

“How does your bride fit into all this?”

“That wasn’t a point.”

Kevan rolled his eyes, “It was a question. One I think I’m entitled to. You ask me to reave the Riverlands, make me little better than Gregor Clegane, I do it. You ask me to come defend the capital, I do it. You ask me to go to Winterfell, I’ll do it. Does that not entitle me to know how all of this came to pass? Will I be the only person in Winterfell who doesn’t know how their lady became married to the Great Lion?”

Tywin let out a long sigh. He did not, as a rule, explain himself. But Kevan was the exception to that rule. And Kevan wasn’t wrong – he always did what Tywin asked, with nary a complaint. If the price of his unwavering loyalty and support was the truth, then so be it.

“Ladies Sansa and Arya were hiding at Harrenhal. As fate would have it, they both escaped the capital on separate occasions and yet ended up at the same place at the same time. As prisoners.”

All humor left Kevan’s face, “They were prisoners… at Harrenhal?”

Tywin nodded, “Spared the worst of the brutality thanks to my arrival. If I hadn’t arrived a few days earlier than expected, Sansa might have been nothing but a corpse when I got there. A corpse covered in bruises the size of Gregor Clegane’s hands.”

Kevan rubbed his forehead, “Fuck, Ty… I’m sorry, I didn’t…”

“You have nothing to be sorry for. Joffrey, Cersei, Tyrion… they’re the ones who ought to be sorry.”

“Yes, well… Tyrion tries his best.”

Tywin snorted, “But not Cersei? Not Joffrey?”

Kevan shook his head, “Perhaps Cersei tries her best. Only her best is…”

“Best for her, not best for us…

Kevan jutted his chin toward his older brother, “So you held the Ladies Stark as hostages? Then betrothed yourself to the elder when you learned her brothers had been killed?”

Tywin ground his jaw, “No.”

“So…?” Kevan held his hands up and shrugged with his lips.

“Fuck…” Tywin growled, “I didn’t know who either girl was. I unknowingly protected Robb Stark’s sisters. The day I went to treat with the Young Wolf, both girls escaped.”

“But your men recovered them?”

Tywin shook his head.

“So they…”

“For fuck’s sake! They met up with their brother’s host then were spirited away to Riverrun.”

Kevan took a deep breath, “Do I understand this? Robb, Brandon, and Rickon Stark die, and the Blackfish hands his eldest niece over to you? And Catelyn Stark lets him?”

“Fucking hells,” Tywin groaned, “When Robb Stark ended our truce before it could even start, and then I realized he had both his sisters in his possession, I began… planning.”

“Planning for?”

Tywin huffed, “Ways to end the war. Efficiently. While making sure the girls were not caught in the middle. I had begun to communicate covertly with Walder Frey. The plan was to get his men to betray Robb Stark in exchange for rights to Riverrun, which we would help him siege. Unfortunately things got chaotic. I had to decide whether to ride for the capital or not. Obviously, I did. But before I left, I met with Roose Bolton whose host was preparing to sack Harrenhal. I incentivized him to get Sansa out of Riverrun and deliver her back to Harrenhal. Coincidentally, Catelyn Stark sought out Roose Bolton around the same time in the hopes he’d lend her the men to take back her home from the squids.”

Kevan shook his head, “Do I want to know how you incentivized him?”

“An expiring opportunity to get back in the Crown’s good graces. Also legitimization for his baseborn son and the promise to name him Warden of the North should the Stark women prove… uncooperative.”

“That’s it?”

“And gold. A lot less of it than peace with Robb Stark would have cost me.”

“Why didn’t Roose Bolton demand one of the Stark daughters?”

“He wasn’t in the position to be demanding.”

“None of this explains why the Blackfish would hand over… Wait, you said Catelyn Stark was with Bolton?”

Tywin felt his cheeks heat, though he should have no reason for shame. He had ended a war. With virtually no bloodshed.

“Why the fuck would he trade Lady Sansa for Lady Catelyn? The Blackfish is harder than most men; he understands the sacrifices needed to win wars.”

“Roose Bolton is a persuasive man. And as a matter of fact, Lady Sansa handed herself over.”

“Ah… and neither Brynden nor Edmure Tully could stop her?”

“What do you want to hear, Kevan?” Tywin had the uncomfortable desire to yank at his stock tie. He didn’t like being made to sweat. He was the one who made others sweat.

“How old is the girl? Eight and ten?”

Tywin growled, “Six and ten. And the girl will be your queen soon.”

Kevan’s eyes widened, “Six and ten?! Were there no other women, perhaps one who doesn’t hate us? Do I need to point out to you that there is a very strong possibly she will be Queen Regnant if you die before any son she gives you comes of age?”

Tywin snorted, “And what do you fear she’ll do? Make the destruction of Casterly Rock her first royal decree? I trust, should it come to that, that you, Jaime, Tyrion, Stafford, or any other man named Lannister would put a stop to it. The Crown’s strength is House Lannister’s strength – and if she invites her Northmen south to back her, she will find the Boltons and Freys have something to say about it.”

“Still, why not a woman from the Westerlands? Someone you can trust.”

“As a matter of fact, I do trust her.”

Kevan’s eyes squinted as if Tywin’s face was a particularly illegible letter, “How well do you know her?”

Tywin didn’t – couldn’t – immediately respond. It was one thing to tell Tyrion, whose two favorite pastimes were drinking and whoring. It would be quite another to confess this to Kevan, who was hopelessly devoted to Dorna, who was as honorable as bloody Ned Stark had been.

“Ty…?”

“What?” he snapped.

Kevan was annoyingly unintimidated, “How well do you know her?”

Tywin rubbed his brow, deciding to rip the bandage off – clotted skin be damned, “She was my companion at Harrenhal.”

Apparently, not enough wounded flesh came off, because Kevan only stared at him.

“Oh bloody hells! I fucked her; are you happy?”

“You fucked Sansa Stark?! The girl who has lost half her family in the blink of an eye?! A girl of six and ten?! A hostage?! She turns herself over to you to spare her mother and that’s how you show your gratitude for her cooperation? By fucking her?!”

Tywin rose, “I fucked her before I knew she was Sansa Stark! I fucked her at Harrenhal, first thinking she was a whore, then believing she was a merchant’s daughter. I didn’t know she was a noble girl! Certainly not the sister of our enemy! She is with child – has been since sometime in the first fortnight that we were intimate. So yes, I will marry her. She’s already giving me a child, which is a guarantee not every other eligible maiden or even widow can give. Now, have I adequately explained myself to you!? Is your curiosity sufficiently satisfied?!”

Kevan only blinked at him, “So she tricked you into believing she was a commoner? The girl might as well have the Tully sigil carved into her forehead!”

Tywin ground his teeth, “Is Ser Addam not red of hair and blue of eye? Shall I accuse him of being a Tully?”

Kevan threw his hands up, “You’ve known Addam since he was on the teat! You mean to tell me a red haired, blue eyed, uncommonly beautiful young woman warms your bed at Harrenhal, you find out Sansa Stark, a red haired, blue eyed, uncommonly beautiful young woman was either missing or abducted from the capital, and you didn’t put two and two together?!”

“I did,” Tywin sighed, “She… presented strong evidence to the contrary.”

Kevan grinned facetiously, “Oh now it’s really getting rich! You even suspected she was Sansa Stark! This girl must be the greatest mummer who ever lived; her skills are wasted as a queen! So she escaped Harrenhal because instead of assuming she might be Sansa Stark, you treated her like any other whore.”

Tywin clenched his fists, “I didn’t treat her like a whore.”

Kevan’s smile straightened and he stared at Tywin as if Tywin had just confessed to fucking his wife. It was enough to make Tywin feel a shiver of fear. Kevan wasn’t one to lose his temper, or even become cold. He was at times jovial to an annoying degree.

Then a snort came from Kevan’s nose. Then another. And another. Until the snorts morphed into cackles. Belly laughs. Kevan was bending backwards and howling at the ceiling, then bowling over and laughing into the floor.

“What is so bloody amusing?” Tywin grumbled.

He got no response. Kevan was, apparently, incapable of speech. Tywin wouldn’t be entirely surprised to find a dark spot down one leg of his breeches.

When Kevan finally straightened himself, his cheeks were tracked with tears, his entire face and neck were red, and he still couldn’t straighten his lips out of that stupid grin.

“I think I shall go introduce myself to my future goodsister. I must get to know this woman who has performed a miracle!”

Tywin waved a hand, “I’ve been known to make mistakes, Kevan. You think her fooling me is a miracle?”

“Not her fooling you,” Kevan shook his head, “Getting you to fall in love with her.”

Tywin scoffed, “I’m not in love with her!”

“No?”

“No!”

Kevan’s face finally became serious, though Tywin still found some mirth in his eyes, “Fine. Then I must advise you as your brother: choose a different wife. One who will never be tempted to stab you in the back. One who brings a financial benefit, since the Crown is deeply in debt. Margaery Tyrell, perhaps? Lysa Arryn? Pay one of your men to take Lady Sansa as wife and claim the babe as his. One who’d been at Harrenhal at some point while she was there. Addam would be my recommendation. He is noble enough. Or Ser Tybolt Crakehall, heir to a house descended from the First Men.”

Tywin pressed his lips together and glared at his younger brother.

Kevan glared back, “Addam would be kind to her and the child, if that’s your concern. They might even grow to love one another…”

Tywin clenched and unclenched his jaw – over and over again.

“Perhaps the girl would prefer a younger husband, anyway…”

Tywin clenched and unclenched his fists – over and over again.

“You haven’t made your betrothal public, it isn’t too late, Ty. Shall I summon Ser Addam to find out whether he would be willing to… take the burden out of your hands?”

Tywin clenched his entire body. Something was going to pop. A blood vessel, a tooth, his vertebrae…

Kevan snorted, “What am I saying? What man wouldn’t want to take that burden? Even with the extra cargo, she’s a rather lovely prize…”

“Fuck off…” Tywin growled.

Kevan – the fucking know-it-all – grinned and cupped a hand around his ear, “What was that?”

“Fuck off!” Tywin roared.

“What did I do?” Kevan pressed a hand to his chest with false innocence, “I’m merely helping you solve a delicate problem! Certainly you don’t want to marry a traitor to the Crown… unless of course you feel some affection for—”

“Get out! Get out or I’ll send you to the fucking Wall instead of Winterfell!”

Kevan arched an eyebrow and then offered a dramatic bow, “As my king commands…”

Chapter 17: A powerful name

Notes:

Sorry I've been gone so long (relatively)! RL is crazy and I haven't had time to write. Forced myself to proofread this monster chapter and post it, though later I'll want that hour back.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Arya

 

Dearest Mother and Sister,

Greetings from the capital! I hope this letter finds you both well.

By now you will have heard that Tywin of House Lannister, first of his name, was crowned as King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, on the 5th day of the 12th moon of the 299th year A.C. On the 12th day of the 12th moon, I took his name and his cloak and became Queen Sansa of House Lannister. Our vows were exchanged before the High Septon in the Great Sept of Baelor. In lieu of a wedding feast, my husband and I helped distribute bread to the city’s impoverished residents. For those in the direst of situations we handed out copper stars and even some silver stags! (I suspect my husband will begin phasing out the gold dragon in place of the gold lion, but after he described the process by which metal coins are restamped, I’m not sure it’s worth the effort.)

I missed both of you during my wedding but I’m sure you understand the impracticality of delaying our nuptials until you could attend. You may hear rumors, but the reality is a king needs a queen and so no matter the circumstances of our meeting, King Tywin and I would have been wed as soon as possible after his coronation.

You’ll be interested to know, I’m sure, that my dear husband has reclaimed our family’s great sword and it will remain in my possession for the time being though eventually I’d like to see it moved to Winterfell when Winterfell is once again in Stark hands as it should be.

I suppose now I should get to the more official reason for my correspondence:

You, Arya, are formally invited to journey to King’s Landing to swear fealty to your new king and queen. The same invitation has been sent to Uncle Edmure, though he may send Uncle Brynden as his delegate at his prerogative just as Mother may act as Arya’s delegate. My husband has asked me to remind you that the remaining pockets of Northern fighters in the Westerlands are being dealt with as diplomatically and mercifully as possible, and that the castle of Harrenhal has been granted to a man who is friend to both Houses Tully and Lannister, as yet another demonstration of neutrality.

In anticipation of your allegiance, King Tywin is prepared to send five thousand well-provisioned soldiers north to retake Winterfell so it can be held for my second son, who will wear the Stark name. He will also lend the funds for repairs to the castle, assuming any are needed. Arya will be named interim Wardeness only on the condition that she take as consort a man of low or even common birth and host my goodbrother, Ser Kevan Lannister, and a small contingent of his personal guards, indefinitely.

I am sure you will both see the obvious benefits of agreeing to this proposal. House Stark will not have ended with the loss of Robb, Bran, and Rickon. Our name will continue. Our legacy will continue.

If you choose not to acknowledge Tywin Lannister as the one true king of the Seven Kingdoms, the wardenship will be granted to another. Roose Bolton is a likely candidate. Or Winterfell will be occupied by a Lannister force until my second son comes of age – a son who will wear the Lannister name. (You may be interested to know that the Boltons have already sworn fealty to King Tywin and are monitoring Winterfell to ensure that no other military activity takes place. Siege after siege is not what my husband wants for his wife’s home, the home of his future son.)

I hope to see one or both of you in King’s Landing as soon as possible. I know Starks have not fared well in the capital, but Tywin’s reign is uncontested and unchallenged, and he is highly incentivized to ensure the safety of his wife’s family, for political and personal reasons.

If you have questions or concerns about the proposal mentioned herein, it would be ideal to discuss them in person. The sooner we establish peace, the sooner we can combine our forces to retake Winterfell and see justice done to those who wronged us most.

Until then, know that you are both in my thoughts and prayers daily.

With love,

Sansa Lannister

Queen Consort to Tywin I Lannister, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm

Arya let the parchment fall to the table, “Unbelievable! He wants me to marry in order to go home?!”

Catelyn shook her head, “Arya, this offer is more than fair. I’d have expected him to force you to marry one of his vassals through which he could rule over our home. But in this proposal, you will be responsible for ruling Winterfell until Sansa’s heir comes of age.”

“We don’t need to do any of this. Nothing is stopping us from going home! Uncle Edmure will give us the men needed to take Winterfell, plus the soldiers returning from the West…”

“Do you not see the warning hidden in Sansa’s letter?” Catelyn traced a finger over one of the last paragraphs, “The Boltons are in bed with the Lannisters, as we already knew. The Boltons have nearly five thousand men. If their scouts see another army encroaching on Winterfell they will take it from the Ironborn first and hold it under the Lannister banner. Or even worse, I wouldn’t put it past Roose Bolton to hold it under his own banner. Even Tywin Lannister will have no easy time retaking it when it’s held by a force of a few thousand men, nor would he be able to take the Dreadfort if similarly garrisoned.”

Arya threw her hands up, “Robb’s entire army was twenty-thousand strong before the Boltons betrayed us! How can we not take Winterfell and fend off the Boltons with fifteen thousand against five thousand?!”

“We cannot assume all of Robb’s men will fight for us, Arya. Many of the other lords fear the skinner. Moreover, do you know how long it will take to gather those fifteen thousand men and the supplies needed for the march to Winterfell and possible siege? Some are still in the West. Some are here in the Riverlands. Some will not answer the call. Others will take their time rallying to us. And with the Mountain’s Men holding Moat Cailin for the Lannisters now, and the Freys loyal to the Lannisters, how would we even move north without sustaining considerable loss?”

Arya frowned, “So that’s it? We’re really and truly stuck here?”

Mother shook her head, “Nothing in this letter says we cannot go north, Arya. A small traveling party might go unnoticed through Harrenhal lands, and we could ask members of House Reed to guide us through the swamps of the Neck, but to what end? For us to seek refuge with House Dustin or House Flint? We still wouldn’t have Winterfell and we’d be with our people yes, but not our family.”

“We have more than enough Northmen to take Moat Cailin. Then we just have to wait at one of the other houses until we rally enough men to take Winterfell.”

“Until we succeed in taking Winterfell. And our vassals are good, loyal men, but they will want something in exchange for being asked to fight for us, especially if winter has fallen by then. What will they want, Arya?”

Arya sighed, “My hand? In the hopes that if Sansa dies before producing a son, I will have the best claim to Winterfell?”

Catelyn smiled sadly, “Indeed. A man who may force his name upon you rather than take yours. We’ll be asking them to fight for us against the Ironborn and Boltons and possibly others. We are asking them to keep the new King as their enemy instead of making peace. If we ask much, they will want much in return.” 

Arya chewed her lip for a few minutes, feeling rather defeated yet seeing the glimmer of hope now that she was reading between the lines of Sansa’s letter, “Father used to say that there should always be a Stark at Winterfell.”

“Your father was right. The North has survived winters colder and bleaker and longer than anything seen south of the Neck, and it has always been through Stark stewardship. Now, if we agree to this proposal, in another generation or two, no Northman will care that his liege has some Lannister blood in him. The Great Lion may be dead by the time his heir comes of age and then it will be Sansa who arranges his marriage. Perhaps to a good, loyal daughter of House Mormont or House Manderly?” Catelyn arched her eyebrow conspiratorially.

Arya grinned.

“And,” Mother continued, “Unlike my new goodson, I am not convinced that Bran and Rickon are dead. No matter his betrayal, I do not see why Theon would kill them.”

“If one of them is alive then Sansa’s son won’t inherit Winterfell…” Arya wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Obviously, she didn’t like the idea of lions in her home, but Sansa was the one who had sacrificed. It seemed fitting that someday she’d get to return north to install her son as Warden.

Mother sighed, her eyes watering as they did whenever Bran or Rickon or Robb were mentioned, “I will not give up hope until I see for myself, but do not make your decision based on that hope, my darling.”

“You’re asking me what to do?”

Mother’s glassy eyes became stern, “Every time I make a choice on behalf of one of my children, it proves to be the wrong one. Sansa’s betrothal to Joffrey. Arresting Lord Tyrion. I even wonder if the betrothal that I negotiated for Robb was a mistake. It was the price of using the Crossing, but… but there were more worthy families and more powerful families that Robb could have joined. So no, I will not force you into anything, Arya. If we accept the proposal, the North gives up its independence, but we will get to go home that much sooner, we guarantee a Stark will inherit Winterfell, and we will have a hand in guiding that young man someday. Perhaps we can even arrange to have him fostered at Winterfell after his eighth birthday. It’s only logical if he is to someday rule it.”

“And if we don’t accept, we have to ask the houses to rally behind me and fight against the Ironborn, Boltons, and potentially Lannisters. If we are victorious, Winterfell will be in Stark hands, and we will maintain our independence, but likely at the price of my hand to someone who will insist on being King, not consort.”

Mother nodded, “I cannot predict the future, but that is how I foresee events unfolding.”

“Beyond the name, the key difference is our independence, right? I don’t know enough about the kingdoms to understand why that matters. Is it better to be independent?”

“Independence merely means we pay no taxes to a central ruler in King’s Landing. As a result, that ruler can never demand we fight on his side, but he also won’t fight on our side – such as lending ships when Ironborn pillage our coastlines.”

“That’s it?”

Mother teetered her hand, “It means we cannot rely on donated provisions from the capital if we have a particularly harsh winter, but we can still buy from or trade with other kingdoms.”

“So why did Robb declare independence? To avoid paying taxes?”

“It didn’t happen like that, Arya. Your brother called the banners when your father was arrested. When Robb marched to the Riverlands in support of House Tully, he was still just Robb Stark, son of Eddard. Only after your father was executed did the men name him King in the North and the Trident. Calling oneself king is considered an act of rebellion against the Crown, hence our independence from the Crown was borne out of desire to not call Joffrey king.”

Arya nodded slowly, “But Joffrey isn’t king anymore…”

“No, he isn’t.”

“Tell me true, Mother. Forget about the war. Lannisters killed some of us, we killed some of them. If when King Robert died Tywin Lannister had seized the throne because he didn’t think Joffrey was fit to rule, would you and Father have supported him?”

Catelyn sighed deeply, “That is complicated, Arya. It depends how he went about it. Within the confines of the law or with trickery and dishonorable tactics?”

“Well he just claimed it within the confines of the law. So let’s say that happened.”

Mother took a deep breath, “Your father would still have petitioned for Stannis to inherit the throne. He was the rightful heir if not Joffrey.”

“And you? What would you have wanted?”

“I would have supported your father, but if it meant war? I cannot say I would have been happy.”

“So you would have preferred peace even if Tywin sat the throne instead of Stannis?”

“Then? Perhaps not. But I now have the benefit of hindsight. War cost me my betrothed twenty years ago, Arya, and cost me my husband not two years ago. It cost me all my sons within the past half year. It almost cost me my daughters. Perhaps the honorable thing would be to support Stannis, but I would choose peace because I can keep my family safe in times of peace. Clearly I cannot do so in times of war.”

Arya watched regret make her mother’s face pale and didn’t want to see that again. Mother had been distraught after learning of Bran and Rickon’s deaths. Distraught after learning of Robb’s death. Distraught after watching Sansa leave with the Boltons. She’d vacillated between eerie numbness and raging sorrow. Arya had been the one to try to soothe her most recently, though it had hardly been successful. Mother had been convinced that Lord Lannister would punish Sansa and use her as a weapon against House Stark. She had been certain he would get a son off of Sansa then hand her over as some sort of gift to his sadistic grandson. Mother had sobbed at the idea of what cruelties Cersei and Joffrey would dream up for the girl who’d dared to escape their clutches. She had sobbed at the idea of what cruelties the Old Lion would dream up for the girl who’d tricked him for weeks.

Arya couldn’t believe Lord Tywin would do all that, but her mother’s certainty had frightened her to the point that she had gone days without eating much of anything because the idea of what pains might be inflicted on Sansa made her feel physically ill.

Then, the raven came from the capital. A new king. A new queen.

He had taken the throne from his vile grandson without spilling a drop of blood. Then he made Sansa his queen. Mother had cried then, but for a very different reason, and with a prayer and a smile on her lips.

Arya still had concerns of course. Would the Great Lion be able to keep Sansa safe from Joffrey? Of course he could, but would he?

Arya wouldn’t be assuaged until she saw for herself that Sansa was being treated like the lady and queen she was, not like a hostage wearing a meaningless crown.

She made her decision, “I think I should go to King’s Landing to discuss things in person. But we can’t be stupid about it. You and Uncle Edmure will stay here. If this is all some kind of trap or trick… Well, I know you’re only a Stark by name, but maybe the Northmen will help you anyway. You can look for Bran and Rickon. So let’s me and Uncle Brynden go to the capital. He will counsel me in your absence, right?”

Catelyn smiled faintly, “Always, my child.”

“Besides, someone needs to make sure the Old Lion is treating Sansa right!”

Feeling more hopeful than she should, Arya skipped out of the main keep hoping to find Gendry. Things had been strained between them since he confessed that he had feelings for her. She was angry that he would let such feelings stop him from going with her to Winterfell when the time came, only the more she’d thought about it, the more she understood that he might not want to be around her, especially since he would assume that she’d eventually marry another. In hindsight, when she had briefly thought that he fancied Sansa, she felt something that was an awful lot like jealousy.

Which was stupid. She and Gendry were just friends. He was free to think other girls were pretty. He was free to fall in love with another girl. Marry her, even.

That’s what she told herself, at least. But then Mother’s words from many weeks ago came back to her. Arya had finally gotten around to explaining who Gendry was, how she had met him, and how he helped her and Sansa at Harrenhal and later helped them escape. Mother had pursed her lips, nodding compulsively for long moments before saying, “So he was safe at Harrenhal after it became known he was a capable blacksmith, yet he risked his life to help you and Sansa flee…”

Arya had shrugged, wondering why her mother was stating the obvious.

“What did you promise him, Arya?”

“What do you mean?”

“A man doesn’t risk his life unless he gains something for it. What did he ask for? What did you offer?”

It took Arya a long time to convince her mother that Gendry wanted nothing, not even recognition. That he did it because he was a good person. But that had only seemed to irritate Mother, and now Arya knew why. Mother knew what Arya hadn’t at the time. Gendry had helped them escape because he cared for Arya, and not just the way friends care for one another. He cared for her the way a man cares for a woman he’s in love with. Which was stupid. How could Gendry love her when she’d spent most of their time together acting and looking like a boy? Was that what he liked? Eww…

Nonetheless, she owed him for helping her and Sansa escape and for keeping them from starving by preventing the bigger, stronger prisoners from taking all the food the guards used to throw into the cell twice a day. She was going to tell him about Sansa’s offer (Tywin’s offer) and find out his thoughts. She was going to tell him that she’d take some lowborn as her husband and lay with him only the one time so he couldn’t tell the Lannisters that she hadn’t consummated the marriage. Then they’d live as husband and wife in name alone. She would focus on winning the respect of the retainers and vassals while quietly plotting her revenge against those who had most hurt her and her family.

Joffrey.

Cersei.

Ser Ilyn Payne.

Ser Meryn Trant.

Roose Bolton.

She’d once had Tywin on the list, but she took him off after he took the throne from Joffrey. The rumors that drifted to Riverrun said he embarrassed the brat, too, which Arya would’ve paid in gold to see. But she would put him back on her list if she found out that he wasn’t treating Sansa well. She might put the Hound back on her list, too. Sansa had made her take him off because supposedly he had protected her in King’s Landing. To placate her sister, Arya said she’d taken him off, but really she just moved him to the very bottom. After Ser Gregor, Polliver, the Tickler, Chiswyck, and Raff.

But there was one person on her list who didn’t have a name, and that maddened her on a daily basis. Whoever killed her brother in Bitterbridge was right near the top of her list, battling Joffrey for top honors. She had thought it might have been someone in the Tyrell camp who didn’t want to see Robb on the throne. She had also wondered if it was Tywin Lannister, but how could he have known Robb was going to Bitterbridge unless one of the few trusted men Robb brought with him on his secret journey had betrayed her brother?

Alas, she could do nothing about any of it from Riverrun. So she would go to King’s Landing, speak with Sansa, and decide whether to take this deal they offered. If she didn’t take the deal, she’d sneak away just like she’d done last time, and start working on crossing names off her list. Though that would be time spent on the run, moving from victim to victim. Time not spent rallying the Northmen to her cause to retake Winterfell. Or to search for Bran and Rickon.

She growled in frustration. She was only four and ten, but it already seemed like life wouldn’t be long enough to accomplish everything she aspired to.

Rounding a corner she smacked right into some guard in dark chainmail and fish scale armor.

“Watch where you’re going,” she mumbled irritably without looking up, continuing to her destination.

“A girl is hard to find,” a familiar voice spoke behind her.

She stopped midstride and turned slowly until she saw him. He looked back at her with the same half-smile she recalled from his time in the caged wagon with Rorge and Biter. It was off-putting, as if he knew what she was thinking and found it amusing.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, not sure how alarmed she should be by his presence, not to mention his wearing Tully armor.

“A man looked for this girl in the crumbling castle, only to find out a girl and her friends had run away.”

“Why? Why look for me? I saved you. I don’t owe you anything.”

“It is not the man who is owed, but the Red God. This girl took three deaths that were his. This girl must give three in their places. Speak the names, and a man will do the rest.”

“What the bloody hells does that mean? Can’t you just speak normal!?”

“Three deaths are owed to the Red God. A girl is to decide.”

She crossed her arms, “Are you saying I can choose three people and you’ll kill them?”

He tipped his head humbly, “A girl understands.”

“A girl understands that a man is mad,” she began walking away but he was at her side much quicker than he ought to be.

“A man cannot leave until three names are given. The Red God’s patience is finite, as is the man’s time.”

“Fine. Go kill Joffrey Baratheon. Or Lannister. Or Hill. Joffrey the bastard who sat on the throne.”

“Two more names.”

“I’m not ready yet.”

“Joffrey the bastard is far away. It will take the man a long time.”

Arya rolled her eyes, “Fine, then kill Cersei Lannister while you’re at it.”

“One more name.”

“Whoever killed my brother, Robb Stark.”

“A man needs a name.”

“I don’t have one!”

“I still need one.”

Arya started walking again, “You’re getting on my nerves.”

“A girl is bold.”

“A girl is annoyed.”

“The third name?”

“No. You go kill Joffrey and Cersei. By the time you’re done and you come back to me, I’ll have the third name. And if I don’t, I’ll give you another name, I promise.”

“How will a man find the girl?”

“I’ll be either here, King’s Landing, or Winterfell depending on how long it takes you. Just ask after Arya Stark.”

“A girl has a powerful name, but she could be even more powerful with no name at all.”

“What does that mean?”

His only response was another knowing smile. Then, he walked away. He fell seamlessly in line with a group of Tully guards walking to or from their afternoon posts. The men didn’t even seem to notice the addition to their numbers.

Arya felt a glimmer of hope at thinking he might actually kill Joffrey and Cersei, though an equal part of her figured the man was crazy. Either way, she shook away the strange reunion and headed for the forge to deal with a stubborn bull. She’d have to convince him it wouldn’t be weird for him to come north to Winterfell. That whatever lowborn or common man she married was just the means to an end, the price to pay for her—

Lowborn…

Common…

She didn’t mean to smile, but she couldn’t help it.

 

Sansa

She swirled her ginger tea absently, seeing it without really seeing it. It felt like perhaps the first time she was doing nothing since she left Riverrun – certainly since she stepped foot in the capital.

Being here wasn’t easy, though so far Tywin had kept true to his word to protect her.

She could easily summon the all-over chills she felt when Tywin set their traveling party almost due south on the Kingsroad, informing Sansa that he had business in King’s Landing. Naïve as it was, she had not even considered that they wouldn’t go to Casterly Rock, even if by a circuitous route. She had felt herself floating away even as her body swayed to the rhythm of her courser’s gait. She must have gone pale because Tywin reached over and grasped her chin while their horses walked in step. He pulled her closer just as he leaned in, like a face and its mirror image. “I would sooner kill him then let him hurt you again.”

She had shaken her head, because no one could stop a king from doing as he wished – certainly not a spoiled, self-worshipping king like Joffrey, “I don’t believe you.”

Tywin had snorted and dropped his hand, facing straight ahead even as he kept his horse close enough so they could speak quietly. “A Lannister always pays his debts,” had been his next words.

“But it’s my debt, not yours… and I have no more power in the capital than the court’s fool does. Actually, when last I was there I had quite a bit less power.”

“You’re the most powerful woman in the realm, yet you don’t even know it. But I will not complain – nothing more maddening than someone who thinks too highly of themselves.”

At the time Sansa had been confused about his meaning. Later, when he took the throne (shocking her along with everyone else) she thought perhaps he had meant she was the most powerful woman in the realm because she would be queen.

Now, once again, she wondered… Is it being queen that makes me powerful? Or is it being the one woman who has Tywin Lannister’s ear?

More and more she thought it was the latter. After all, what power had Cersei ever truly had? Her power started and ended with her ability to influence men to do her bidding. And Sansa was now married to the most powerful man of all… and was he not already doing her bidding? Had he not agreed to hand out bread and coins to the poor? Had he not granted her request to send Addam and a few other men out to find the young mother who had helped Sansa escape the city? She gave the woman a job as her maid even though she was far from qualified. Sansa had brought no maids with her to the capital, obviously, and neither she nor Tywin trusted any of the women who’d been employed in the Red Keep to not have been bought by Cersei (or any number of others).

As if her very thoughts had summoned the woman, Eryk knocked and stepped into the queen’s sitting room. “Lady Cersei Lannister is requesting an audience, your grace,” he called solemnly from just within the doorway.

She and Tywin had spent their first few days and nights in the capital in guest quarters of the Tower of the Hand while Cersei and Joffrey’s possessions were relocated, but now they were officially living in the King and Queen’s Apartments of Maegor’s Holdfast. What used to be Cersei and Joffrey’s apartments.

The problem was that, as family of the king, Cersei and Joffrey technically had a right to live in Maegor’s. But Tywin didn’t want Sansa under the same roof as Joffrey any more than she wanted to be, no matter how many guards she was surrounded by. Thus the Maidenvault had temporarily been repurposed as a guest keep of the royal family. That was where Cersei and Joffrey lived at the moment. It was a relatively small but luxurious space, more than comfortable for only two people, but apparently both had made quite a fuss about the “insult”.

The part of Sansa that had grown claws since the day she walked out of Riverrun (well, she largely had to fake it at first) had wanted to be there to hear those complaints so she could ask them what they knew about insult.

Being made to stand with Joffrey and Cersei during what turned out to be her father’s execution?

Being made to apologize for her brother’s actions as if they were her own?

Being stripped naked to the waist, berated and beaten?

Those were insults. Comfortable apartments and being waited on hand and foot? Not even close. She wondered if Cersei or Joffrey would survive one day in a place like Harrenhal, or trudging through the woods for more than a day with barely a rest. Would Cersei have survived losing her father and both her siblings? Perhaps, but that was only a testament to her cold heart.

Perhaps not all of Sansa’s hardships could be blamed on Cersei, but with the time Sansa had to reflect in the sennight since her wedding, she knew there was at least one crime that was entirely the former queen’s fault.

Lady… she’s the reason Lady is dead.

“See her in, Ser Eryk,” Sansa responded with a small smile. Eryk’s lips curved in response. She knew the guards, well accustomed to Tywin’s dour countenance and curt speech, were finding her outgoing nature refreshing.

She didn’t need to tell Eryk to stand sentry in the room instead of without. All the guards knew that there were only three people with whom she should ever be left alone: Tywin, Ser Kevan, and Lord Tyrion. Well, and her new handmaid, Cheryse.

Given her visitor, Ser Addam stepped in and took up position a few feet from Eryk. It was beneath Ser Addam, one of Tywin’s most distinguished commanders, to be Sansa’s personal guard, but until Tywin filled out his new Kingsguard roster he was taking no chances.

Sansa stood and clasped her hands in front of her regally, “Lady Cersei, I had just sat down to tea. Would you care to join me?”

Cersei stepped forward only to pause and gesture behind her, “Aren’t you going to have your men search me for weapons? Clearly you think I’m here on some type of assassination mission.”

Sansa sat and refreshed her tea, then poured a cup for Cersei, “If you want me dead, I highly doubt you’ll do it yourself.”

Cersei took the opposite seat, “Why ever would I want you dead, little dove?”

Sansa forced herself not to snort, “How about we enjoy each other’s company without the lies?”

Cersei lifted an eyebrow, “You’ve grown up, little dove.”

“I’ve had to.”

“Of course you did. My father, for all his faults, would not have enjoyed fucking an empty-headed little girl-child. Well played.”

Sansa felt her face heat, but it was not in shame. She took a sip of her tea and glanced at Ser Addam long enough to assure him she needed no intervention.

“Did you come here for some purpose other than to deliver back-handed compliments, daughter?”

Now Cersei’s cheeks were the ones to redden – also not in shame, “I came to congratulate you, of course. Quite an accomplishment – you’ll be giving the king his prince or princess in, what, four months instead of nine?”

“I’m an overachiever.”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Eryk fighting a smirk. She had to fight not to join him.

Cersei let out a ladylike snort, “Hardly! Your brother won every battle. A few short weeks after he dies, you’re already giving yourself to your family’s enemy.”

“I suppose you think I should have prolonged the war instead, no matter the price paid in blood.”

“Blood is near infinite in this world.”

Sansa nodded, “And to you that makes it worthless. I’m curious – is your suggestion that I should have opted to be Queen in the North during war instead of Queen of the Seven Kingdoms during peace?”

Cersei sipped her tea and sighed, “Allow me to give you some advice. You’re not the queen. You’re the king’s wife.”

“Then I suppose you were never the queen.”

Cersei’s lips curled into a sneer, but Sansa sensed it wasn’t directed at her, “No, I was never the queen. The only real queen is the one without a king.”

“Unlike you, I have no problem with that. I will support my husband in every way I can, but I have no desire to bear the full weight of ruling the entire kingdom. Few men are capable of shouldering that burden. Look what it did to your late husband – and his shoulders were as broad as they get.”

“Indeed. My father will need all the help he can get. As will you. From people who are not likely to turn on you. Consider that another piece of advice.”

“Why do I sense you are suggesting yourself?”

Cersei smiled faintly, “I’ve been in the capital for the past twenty years. I know the players as well as anyone.”

“Do you?”

Cersei’s brows pulled together, “Of course I do.”

“Yet I rarely saw you at court. Before or after your husband’s death.”

“I had other matters to attend.”

“Nor did you host the ladies of court for luncheons or tea or… anything, really.”

“You think those are the only ways to gain information? Then you need my guidance even more than I feared.”

“No, I suppose information can also be gained through pillow talk.”

Cersei’s eyes narrowed.

Sansa sighed, “Let’s get to the real reason you’re here, Lady Cersei. You do not wish to be made to marry again. Believe it or not, I can respect that. You hope that I can sway your father against offering you to Willas Tyrell – or any other man. I’m inclined to support your cause.”

Cersei smiled more genuinely, “This city has become my home. Besides, Tommen will be here. He is young and still needs his mother.”

Sansa nodded, “Boys need their mothers, indeed. My own mother confided in me that among her greatest regrets was leaving Winterfell and my two younger brothers. She was in a difficult position but nonetheless she wishes desperately that she had stayed with Bran and Rickon.”

“A tragedy, your grace, what happened to your brothers.”

“It was. Thank you, Lady Cersei.”

Cersei tipped her head, “I think we can help each other. I will teach you all I know about court life and politics. I will teach you who you can trust, who you can trust to a degree, and who you should never, ever trust.”

“And I will petition for you to stay in King’s Landing. My husband is… generally agreeable to my suggestions.”

Cersei smiled as if they shared a secret joke, “I’m sure he is. Didn’t I tell you that tears aren’t a woman’s only weapon?”

“You did; and I am forever grateful for your guidance.”

“There is plenty more where that came from,” Cersei’s smile widened even more, and while Sansa knew it was genuine – she was pleased to have manipulated Sansa (or so she thought) it was not a friendly smile. How did Sansa ever believe that woman possessed the capacity for true friendliness?

But Sansa would ponder that at another time, “I’m sure. Now, between you and I, and I do not mean to get your hopes up, I am near certain that my dear husband will be amenable to your staying here to help guide both me and Tommen.”

Cersei’s emerald eyes practically shimmered with warmth though she kept her tone level, “Why is that?” she sipped her tea, clearly trying to downplay her curiosity.

“Because your father has decided to release all members of the former Kingsguard…”

Cersei’s brows furrowed in confusion, “I don’t…”

Sansa had to use every ounce of her self-control (and every tiny little facial muscle) to keep from smiling, “Ser Jaime will once again be the heir to Casterly Rock. It is only practical, of course. Given my husband’s age, we cannot assume he will father three more sons and see them reach their majority.”

Cersei’s face became uncharacteristically pale, “But… Jaime… my brother has no desire to become a lord.”

“Time changes men, my lady. After his time as a prisoner of war, I would guess Ser Jaime’s priorities have changed. I’ve suggested to the king that he find a match for Ser Jaime in the Vale if not with one of the more influential families of the Westerlands, who will help to support Jaime as he becomes acclimated to being Warden of the West and Lord of Casterly Rock.”

Cersei leaned back and scoffed, “Jaime will not take a wife. Nor will be become lord of anything.”

“On this we disagree, my lady. Regardless, will he truly disobey a command from his father, lord, and king?” Sansa lifted an eyebrow as innocently as possible.

Cersei forced her lips into a smile, “Of course he won’t. Now,” she placed her unused napkin on her untouched plate, “If you’ll excuse me, I have some matters to see to. I’m sure I’ve taken up enough of your time.”

Sansa stood, “Thank you for visiting. I’m sure we’ll see each other again soon.”

Cersei didn’t bother curtsying, but Sansa knew that, at least in this particular case, it wasn’t done as a slight. Cersei was unaccustomed to curtsying for anyone.

And she’d been rather distracted…

As her hurried steps faded down the corridor Sansa noticed her two guards hadn’t moved a muscle. They each looked rather dumbstruck.

Eventually Eryk shook his head, “Now I know what they mean about words cutting deeper than the sword…” he directed at Addam before bowing deeply and stepping back into the hallway.

Ser Addam hesitated to follow.

“Yes, Ser Addam?” Sansa asked, knowing he had something on his mind.

“Respectfully, your grace, if you play with fire, you’re going to get burned.”

Sansa lifted an eyebrow, “I always get burned, so it’s high time I play first.”

Addam shrugged, “As you say, your grace.” He bowed deeply and left, shutting the door behind him.

 

Tywin

He rubbed his brow, “What was it that couldn’t wait, Cersei?”

“I came to ask what your plans are for Jaime… I understand he is being dismissed from the Kingsguard?”

Tywin sighed, “Not dismissed, exactly. I have relieved all present Kingsguard of their duties as I’m appointing a completely new guard. Something I wouldn’t need to do if you had appointed suitable replacements for the one’s who’d fallen or… been dismissed… nor if you hadn’t let Joffrey corrupt those who had once served Robert loyally.”

“Joffrey corrupted no one!”

“No, how silly of me. Ser Meryn and Ser Boros and Ser Mandon all took it upon themselves to beat the king’s betrothed…”

“The girl is exaggerating to gain your pity. And apparently, she’s succeeded.”

“Is Tyrion also exaggerating? What about Pycelle? What about Varys?”

Her eyes squinted in betrayal, “You’ve questioned them about Joffrey’s treatment of your wife?”

“I’ve questioned them about Joffrey’s rule, period. And let me tell you, I’ve not been impressed by what I’ve learned. Literally, he did not a single thing right. By pure accident he should’ve done some things right!”

Cersei shook her head, “Fine. What are your plans for Jaime then?”

“They’re immaterial to you is what they are.”

“He’s my twin, Father; have I no right to feel invested in his fate, his happiness?”

Tywin sighed, “Fine. I’ve called him back to the capital. My intent is to name him as my heir for Casterly Rock only.”

Cersei’s lips pursed together, “I assume he’ll be made to take a bride, then.”

“Be made to? After the year he’s had, not to mention twenty years of celibacy, I should think a woman’s comfort is something he’ll look forward to.”

Cersei’s eyes were ice cold, “Is that what happened to you, Father? After the year you’ve had you sought the little dove’s comfort? No matter that she was your son’s betrothed, no matter that she was your enemy’s sister, no matter that she’s young enough to be your granddaughter? Was the comfort worth making a fool of yourself?”

Tywin shook his head lightly, “How have I made a fool of myself, Cersei?”

“So desperate for power that you’d take your grandson’s throne and his betrothed. Not being able to keep your hands off the girl, nor having the sense to spill outside her womb. You speak of the legacy of our house, yet you’ve done something so pathetic.”

Tywin growled, “Do you think anyone cares who I’ve fucked? I’m bringing the realm peace! And on my watch the people won’t starve! Tell me, Cersei, what would the realm look like after another year of Joffrey’s reign? Hells, what would the realm look like today if not for all I’ve done to fix Joffrey’s acts of idiocy!?”

“You could have come here to help him!” Cersei all but screamed, “You could have come here to be his Hand! You could have taught him, guided him!”

Tywin rose, “You think lessons could have changed him, Cersei?! The boy ought to be sent to the Citadel for research!”

“You could have tried,” she hissed.

Tywin shook his head, “Owen Merryweather. Jon Connington. Qarlton Chelsted. Wisdom Rossart. Jon Arryn. Ned Stark. Hand of the King may be the most dangerous profession in the realm, daughter. Hells, Tyrion was only Acting Hand and he nearly perished in the battle.”

Cersei looked away, “Fine, Father. You win. You’re the king. You have your pretty little bride who is either too stupid or too soft to care that she’s playing right into the hands of her family’s enemy—”

“I was her family’s enemy,” he interrupted, “Tell me the merit of allowing animosity to continue between me and the North when someday one of my sons will rule there. Do you think he’ll survive one sennight as Lord of Winterfell if all of the North see me as some evil tyrant?”

She shook her head, “It matters not. As I said, you’ve won, but I will not let you tear my family apart. Myrcella already in Dorne. Joffrey soon to be at Storm’s End. Jaime at the Rock with some woman we don’t know. Tommen here in King’s Landing. Me in Highgarden or wherever you can get the most for my womb.”

“So what do you propose? As you said, Myrcella is already in Dorne. Storm’s End belongs to your son and must be claimed for him sooner rather than later. Shall I send you to Dorne to be with Myrcella? Shall I send Jaime and Tommen to Storm’s End to be with Joffrey?”

She shook her head, “Allow me to stay here, Father, with Tommen. Allow Jaime to stay here as Commander of the City Watch or… or Master of Laws. You’ve not yet appointed Ser Addam.”

“Jaime is needed at Casterly Rock more than he is here. With me in the capital, Kevan soon to be in Winterfell, Martyn and Willem still hostages… either Damon or Stafford will be Castellan for Joffrey in Storm’s End… there aren’t enough lions in the lion’s den.”

Cersei’s cheeks darkened again but she left her lips pursed tight.

Tywin studied his daughter. The desperation in her eyes. The insult. The anger. She seemed more upset by the prospect of Jaime leaving the city than she’d been about Tywin taking the throne from her son.

Blond hair.

Green eyes.

“It isn’t slander if it’s true,” Catelyn Stark had said, with the same self-righteous fire in her eyes that Sansa had whenever she knew the truth was on her side.

Tywin sighed, “I’ll consider your request. Lady Olenna will be arriving soon to discuss ways the Tyrells can get back in the Crown’s good graces. Then again, with their wealth and armies, they’re not exactly low on leverage. I can make no promises, daughter.”

Cersei nodded and for a moment he was foolish enough to think it was acquiescence. Then she stared at him in a way he’d seen her direct at everyone else, but never him. Half smirk, half sneer; part disdain, part amusement. “I wonder how sweet Sansa would feel to learn you conspired with the Ironborn to have her brothers murdered…”

Tywin’s stomach dropped, “That’s a lie.”

Cersei shrugged, “Is it? What about Robb Stark’s death?”

“Sansa already knows that wasn’t me. She also knows that I would have killed him if I had the chance. We were at war, Cersei.”

“If the girl is as smart as you say she is, she will have doubts, at minimum… Especially when someone reminds her of your penchant for lying.”

Tywin snorted, “I’ve never claimed to be a bloody Septon – to her or anyone else.”

“You lied to get the Mad King to open the city gates.”

“No, I lied to end a war.”

She ignored him, “You lied to Tyrion when you said his little wife was a whore…”

“What did you say?” he asked, like a true halfwit.

“I said you had a little girl fucked by an entire barracks of guards for making a foolish decision – a mistake of impulsive youth. Truly, were there no more merciful ways to silence her?”

Tywin worked his jaw back and forth, “No different than any other night for a whore.”

Cersei shrugged, “As you say, Father.”

“Is this supposed to be a threat, Cersei? You’re threatening your king?”

“Not at all! I merely wish to make it clear that we are on common footing.”

“And how is that?”

Cersei’s eye narrowed, “If you tear apart my family, I might just decide to return the favor. Good day, Father.”

Tywin was relieved to find Addam and Eryk outside the royal apartments that evening as he arrived to sup with his wife.

“Under no circumstances is Cersei or Joffrey to ever be in the queen’s presence, guarded or no. Is that clear?” he ordered.

“Even if the queen permits it, your grace?” Addam asked.

“Even then. My wife is a forgiving sort. I’d rather not see harm befall her as a result.”

“Aye, your grace… she’s very forgiving,” Eryk nodded, only his voice sounded almost sarcastic.

Addam turned his head and pursed his lips together.

Tywin stared at them both and was tempted to ask what was so funny but he doubted he’d get a straight answer, and it would only make it look like he cared about harmless sniggering when he had much more pressing matters to contend with.

With a hum and a nod he let himself into the private dining room, met by the aroma of roasted quail and the sight of Sansa’s smile.

Much had to be dealt with, and all sooner rather than later, but Tywin decided for one of the few times in his life to postpone his worries for one night and his wife seemed to be of a similar mind. She was ravenous in a way she’d never been in their previous encounters… except perhaps the first time she had gotten on her knees for him.

By the time they got around to eating, the quail was cold.

Notes:

You know how hard it was to NOT spill the beans every time someone asked me about Jaqen? So, in my fic Arya (and Sansa) left Harrenhal earlier than in canon. In canon, Jaqen had arrived at Harrenhal after Tywin left to march southwest, and I chose to honor that timeline b/c I didn't want Arya wasting her 3 names. :)

Other thing to address is Catelyn reaction to letter. Might seem like a 180 turn but Tywin just usurped his own grandson and made Sansa a queen. Suffice to say Catelyn's a bit euphoric because she had been imagining Sansa in all kinds of cruel scenarios, assuming Tywin only wanted her as a fuck toy or at best, womb.

Thank you all for your supportive comments!

Chapter 18: I feel very impatient lately.

Notes:

I'll never be 100% happy with this chapter, so it's time to just put on my big girl panties and post it and hope you don't all throw virtual rotten tomatoes at me.

Chapter Text

Jaime

It wasn’t the first time in his life that he felt equal parts enraged and pleased by a single event.

His father had claimed the Iron Throne, snatched it from Joffrey like boys fighting over a toy. Jaime and everyone else in the realm had heard; the news spread like wildfire even among the smallfolk, as Jaime understood. The ‘bastard king’ was out – the ‘false stag’ had been stripped of his crown. In was the lion, with a particularly pretty she-wolf by his side. From the common folk’s point of view, the war was over in a blink. From Jaime’s point of view, it was almost as swift.

Once the Northern forces ravaging the Westerlands learned of the death of Robb Stark (and Bran and Rickon Stark) they became disorganized, some hastily abandoning their assignments because what were they fighting for if the Stark line had ended? Their eyes were suddenly opened to what they really were – sheep grazing too close to the lion’s den, with no wolf to watch over them like a shepherd.

When, later, word spread that the much-hated Joffrey was usurped by said lion, and that said lion took a wolf for his queen, most of the Northmen were smart enough to hightail it back to the Riverlands, presumably on an eventual route even further north to see their wives and children again. A Stark sat the throne (or, at least, would if there was room at the top of the stairs for two) – that was good enough for them to consider their mission accomplished. The North got to say they won – after all, vengeance for Ned Stark had been their cause, and what better way to hurt Joffrey than by seeing him stripped of his power? The Lannisters also got to say they won – their patriarch sat the throne and to much of the realm Sansa Stark looked like a sacrificial offering from his former enemies, as if the Northmen had handed over their princess as part of a peace negotiation.

Jaime and some others, of course, knew it wasn’t so straightforward. Jaime had been there when his father demanded Robb Stark hand over Sansa to him. He had been there when his father strongly insinuated that he had already sullied the girl, though Jaime knew his father wasn’t one to rape. At least, not using his own cock as the weapon. Ser Gregor’s cock? Sure. Ser Amory? Probably. A dozen guards at Casterly Rock? For a fact.

Jaime wasn’t even sure he cared about how precisely events had unfolded in the past few months. He was too busy feeling enraged… and then pleased.

He’d kicked a few inanimate objects when he got the news that there was a new king. That throne was Joffrey’s, by right (well, it wasn’t, but only Jaime and Cersei knew that for a fact). The way Jaime saw it, Tywin Lannister had betrayed his own kin – not even the deformed dwarf he loved to hate, but the perfect golden grandson who looked every bit a lion.

The pleasure came when Jaime realized that Cersei would be free from the throne. Free to go wherever she chose. Presumably Father would try to take Storm’s End for Joffrey and Tommen; Cersei could go there, and Jaime could go with her. His father would dismiss him in a heartbeat from the Kingsguard, he would bet his sword hand on that.

Or perhaps he and Cersei and the boys could go to Casterly Rock. Jaime imagined he and his sister, his other half, making love to the sound of waves crashing against stone, their skin warm and slightly tacky from the sea air that smelled like salt instead of human filth.

Of course, that would mean Jaime becoming Lord of Casterly Rock, but perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad with Cersei by his side. She could rule; she always had a better mind for that sort of thing than he did. No one would think twice of them sleeping in the family keep, after all they were both Lannisters. Jaime could name Tommen his heir and then Father would never pressure Jaime to take a bride.

When he saw that likely future, Jaime smiled and kicked his horse to a canter. He would arrive at King’s Landing, congratulate his father and new goodmother (wasn’t that a laugh?), and tell his father that he was ready to give up the white and don the crimson. As an afterthought he would suggest that Cersei and Tommen be allowed to accompany him to the Rock; that it would be good for both of them to be away from the capital for a while. No doubt Father would agree and would never really care that a holiday turned into forever.

The hope that almost made him loopy enough to sing and laugh for most of his journey to the capital disappeared like morning fog when he rode through the gates of the Red Keep and was greeted by only three Lannisters – all dressed in black.

 

Tywin

He knew Jaime had the right to his grief and his shock, but that didn’t mean Tywin had to enjoy seeing it, or even share it.

He had tried to summon remorse for Joffrey. Tried and failed. For Cersei it was easier but still not clean. He grieved for the loss of his beautiful daughter – Joanna’s daughter. But tempering his grief was no small amount of relief. Cersei had effectively been blackmailing him – threatening to tell both truths and lies to Sansa that would no doubt put an end to his wife’s affection for him.

Tywin shouldn’t care about having a wife’s affection. Affection wasn’t needed to make heirs. Affection wasn’t needed for her to be on his arm or seated next to him during public events.

But he did care. And so Cersei’s death held a certain silver lining.

Moreover, he realized after the first few days that the woman he mourned was no woman at all. It was the girl he took to the capital so many years ago, first in attempt to have her promised to Prince Rhaegar. Later to give her to King Robert – the pig who apparently never appreciated the lovely golden lioness because he was too busy chasing after anything with teats. Truly, Tywin was surprised the former king had never been found in a compromising position with a dairy cow.

Ruling the kingdoms served as a distraction from the bit of grief he did harbor. It also justified Tywin’s lack of even more grief to any who might wonder why the Great Lion’s eyes weren’t redder, or why they never saw him with tear stains on his cheeks.

“How?” Jaime asked, making Tywin jump in his seat. It was the first word his son had spoken since he took Jaime to his solar and delivered the news that both Joffrey and Cersei were dead.

Tywin sighed, “Joffrey broke his neck on the serpentine stairs. Not the first victim of the serpentine, and more than likely won’t be the last.”

Jaime’s eyes narrowed to slits, “Were there witnesses? How do you know he wasn’t pushed?”

“The whore who had been his companion was the sole witness, though nearby guards heard her screaming and arrived at the scene within moments.”

“Has she been questioned? She could have been paid by someone to assassinate him.”

“By whom? Joffrey is no longer king. Why would he be assassinated after losing his crown?”

Jaime’s jaw bulged, “You know he had plenty of enemies. One of whom…”

Tywin rose, staring down at his son who remained seated. “Say it,” he growled.

Jaime shook his head, “One of whom you made the most powerful woman in the realm just as you stripped away Joffrey and Cersei’s power.”

“Sansa did not do this. You think she’s dumb enough to pay someone to kill Joffrey? Catspaws have been known to talk.”

“She’s young and may not have thought it through.”

Tywin snorted, “She is young, but she is no fool.”

“Was the whore questioned?” Jaime abruptly changed the subject, which was just as well. If Jaime continued to make accusations about Sansa, Tywin may just have lost his temper and admitted that he would consider Sansa well within her rights to have the menace killed. No, Tywin wouldn’t approve of her taking such actions, but he wouldn’t blame her for wanting to.

Tywin nodded, “She was. She was clearly upset, traumatized even. Joffrey was very drunk – she and others had witnessed that. If the woman was some paid assassin, she’d have simply fled the area and no one would even know she’d been there. If she had something to hide, she wouldn’t have alerted the guards and subjected herself to questioning.”

“What of Cersei?” Jaime asked, his voice breaking.

This one was harder to discuss, but Tywin would not withhold the truth, “She was grief-stricken and threw herself from her balcony three nights later.”

Jaime crumpled forward, covering his face with his hands and sobbing. Tywin told himself it was just because they were twins. That any loving brother would react in such a way, though a part of him noted that he couldn’t imagine ever breaking down over Genna’s death.

He moved around his desk to put a hand on Jaime’s shoulder, squeezing tightly as his son wept. It made Tywin feel more sorrow than he’d felt yet, because if Jaime, who had a sense of honor and decency that most people did not see, could love Cersei, then certainly some parts of her were lovable. Why was Tywin unable to see them? Why was the extent of his love for her that paternal bond that was born the same day Cersei was, but that hadn’t actually grown or deepened over the years? Why could he not think of a time he felt affection for his daughter since she became a woman?

He took a deep breath, “It’s alright, son. Take some time to mourn. Go be with your brother or your… nephew. We can talk again in a few days.”

Jaime nodded though his face remained in his hands, “I suppose there is no need for me to return west. The Northerners are all gone from our borders. I’ll resume my duties as Kingsguard on the morrow. If I am idle, I fear… Well, it won’t be good.”

Tywin winced. He did not want to deliver yet another blow, but nor did he want to lie when the truth would quickly come out, such as when Jaime noticed that none of the men milling about in white cloaks had been part of Joffrey’s guard roster.

“You don’t need to do that. I had need to replace the entire Kingsguard. I… It was not your doing, you were away fighting the war, but Joffrey and Cersei appointed too many unsavory characters. Men I wouldn’t trust not to betray me. Men I wouldn’t trust to… protect my wife.”

Jaime looked up, his face like wet autumn leaves, “But I’m still the commander, am I not?”

Tywin shook his head, “I am the king now, Jaime. Meaning my priority must be in securing an heir for the throne. I cannot count on living long enough to produce three sons.”

Jaime stood, “What are you saying?”

“You are my heir. For Casterly Rock and the West. You must be.” He attempted to soften what Jaime would consider a blow by adding, “I assumed you had no interest in the throne, but that you would be happy to return home.”

“Home? Home? This has been my home! And yes, perhaps I could have come to see the Rock as my home if my family were there. But Cersei is…” he shook his head, “No… I will not be a lord. I didn’t want it as a boy, and I do not want it now.”

“Why? You will not be able to fight forever, Jaime.”

“No, but I’ll be able to command. To train others. For fuck’s sake, Selmy was twice my age and I’d have still put him against any three other men!”

Tywin closed his eyes and took a calming breath before meeting his son’s eyes again, “Jaime, you just received shocking news. I had not intended to tell you of the changes in the Kingsguard until you’d had sufficient time to grieve. I think when you are feeling better you will—”

Jaime snorted, “You think grief is blinding me, Father? Then you don’t know me at all. I made vows – lifetime vows.”

“When you were five and ten!” Tywin nearly shouted.

Jaime shook his head, but he had a faint smirk on his lips, “If you don’t give merit to the vows of young people then I wonder why you believe Sansa Stark will honor her marriage vows. What you said to Robb Stark was true, wasn’t it? Was spreading her legs all it took for you to trust her to be your queen?”

Tywin’s capacity for sympathy had been taxed. He pinned his son with narrowed eyes, “Was her spreading her legs all it took for you to put aside your own future, your own birthright?”

Jaime blinked at him, momentarily silenced.

Tywin sneered, “Don’t lecture me on the power that a woman can have over a man. I’m not my father, letting myself become some Florian for a whore dressed as Jonquil. And at least if I were letting a woman hold the whip, I could at least say that she’s worthy. You gave up your birthright for what? Something vile and unholy. Something that would need to forever be a dirty little secret. Something amoral and illegal. Someone that you had to share with another man. Actually – a few men, from the rumors I’ve heard… So, did it make you happy? Sneaking around? Stealing a few minutes here and there while praying you’d never be caught? Siring children you couldn’t claim? Was all that really better than having a legitimate wife and children, a family you could love openly, a kingdom to call your own?”

By the time he was finished with his tirade, Tywin was certain his son was going to strike him. Jaime’s eyes betrayed rage and hurt, only it didn’t make Tywin feel as victorious as he had hoped it would.

Then, Jaime laughed. It was a harsh, bitter sound, “Better? No, Father. But we cannot help who we love. You know that better than most. You married your cousin, a marriage that brought zero benefit to your house, because you loved her. Does Sansa know that she’ll always be competing with a ghost? Or will she?” Jaime shrugged, “By the size of her waist I wonder if perhaps she hasn’t done the unimaginable. Did you fall in love with her, Father? With a little girl? With our enemy? Is that who you finally set my mother aside for?” Jaime snorted, “Perhaps you are just like your father. Perhaps I’m just like my father. Perhaps Lannister men are cursed to be weak for a pretty face, to be led around by our cocks. Perhaps we should change our words to ‘hear me purr’.” Jaime laughed lightly at his own humor, then bowed, “Goodbye, Father.”

“Where are you going?” Tywin called out as Jaime headed toward the door.

“Wherever you’re not.”

“Jaime do not take another step!”

His son did indeed pause, but did not turn as he called over his shoulder, “Or what, Father?”

Tywin realized that Jaime had him there. Jaime did not care about titles or wealth. He had cared about two things all his life, and they were both just taken from him. Now he was a man who had nothing to lose. Meaning there was no leverage for Tywin to wield against him.

“Think this over,” he offered instead, “If you’re not ready to be Lord of the Rock, then fine. You can remain here. Then later you can go with Tommen to Storm’s End. Help guide him. Only if and when you are ready will you assume the role as Lord of Casterly Rock.”

His son was quiet for a long time, then shook his head very subtly, “When the time comes, I may go with Tommen, but until then, I don’t want to be in this city with you… you fucking hypocrite.”

“Jaime!” Tywin called, but his son had already disappeared behind the door, slamming it for good measure.

 

Sansa

She heard male voices outside her sitting room and put down the tunic she was embroidering for Arya, who would be arriving here any day now. She recognized one of the voices as Ser Eryk, recently appointed to the Kingsguard and serving as the Queen’s personal shield until the day when a man from either Winterfell or Riverrun could be offered the last outstanding appointment. The other voice belonged to Ser Addam, who’d been named as the Commander of the City Watch but who would often stop by to visit with Ser Eryk after his other duties were finished for the day.

Sure enough a few moments later Ser Addam knocked before pushing open the door with a smile on his face, saying that Ser Jaime had come to offer his congratulations to his new goodmother.

Sansa was perplexed… By now Tywin must have told Ser Jaime that both Cersei and Joffrey were dead, but he looked almost mad with giddiness as he stepped into the room. She stood up, a bit ungracefully as she was now nearly eight moons with child.

She did not know how to feel about Ser Jaime, how to categorize him. Did he belong with Cersei and Joffrey in the ‘completely irredeemable’ category? Or with Tommen and Myrcella and Kevan in the ‘absolutely darling’ category? Or with Tyrion (and probably all the Lannisters she’d yet to meet) in the ‘I can trust him as long as our interests remain aligned’ category? Of course, Jaime couldn’t be in a category with Tywin, who was a category unto himself. A category that Sansa couldn’t even label.

“Your grace,” Jaime offered with a bow, “I had to come at my first convenience to tell you how happy I am for you, and how proud I am to have you in our family.”

She was stunned speechless and felt herself blushing. Was Jaime truly this kind and open-minded? Or was this like Cersei’s early affection and friendliness – subsequently proven to be a façade?

Regardless, she would respond graciously and avoid offering condolences – perhaps Tywin hadn’t yet delivered the news to Jaime, and she certainly did not wish to be the one to do so, “Thank you, Ser Jaime. It warms my heart that you would welcome me into your family so readily.”

“Why wouldn’t I? We’re a bunch of murderers and liars and manipulators – I’m sure you’ll fit right in.”

In her peripheral she saw Addam’s smile fade and be replaced by a look of shock she was no doubt reflecting back. But Jaime Lannister only stood before her, a saccharine smile on his handsome lips.

She straightened her back and dropped her own smile, “Pray tell which one you think I am.”

“All three, of course, though I have no proof of the first. And truly, if I’m right, I can’t even hold it against you. After all, it’s not like I haven’t been guilty of the same. I’ve killed more men than I can count.”

“You’re a knight, it’s expected of you.”

“Indeed,” he nodded, his lips pursing a bit, “But I’ve also killed a king…”

For a moment her entire body flushed. Obviously he was known throughout the realm for killing Aerys II Targaryen, his charge, but was he now implying that he had killed another king? The King in the North, perhaps?

But no, that timeline was all wrong. And how would Ser Jaime have gone undetected in Bitterbridge? He was perhaps the most noticeably beautiful man she’d ever seen, with flaxen hair and feline green eyes, standing a hand’s width taller than most other men.   

“A Mad King,” Sansa spoke, though wasn’t sure why she was defending Jaime except perhaps to prove him wrong, “A man who deserved much worse than the fate you delivered.”

Jaime’s smile straightened and then widened before her eyes, “Oh you are good! Is this why my father has fallen for you? You soothe his weary soul? You absolve his sins? Tell him all the atrocities he’s committed were completely justified? Did all the Reynes and Tarbecks deserve to drown alongside their lords? Did all the poor smallfolk of your mother’s homeland deserve to be raped by the Mountain’s Men?”

“Jaime…” Addam came closer, putting a hand on Jaime’s left bicep, “I think you’ve said enough.”

“Not even close. So, do you?”

Sansa ground her teeth and shook her head.

“I could, of course, list more of my father’s evil deeds, but that wasn’t what I came here for. I came here to tell you I know what you are, even if everyone else is blinded by your big blue eyes and girlish smiles. How that,” Jaime pointed at her belly, “isn’t a dead giveaway is beyond me.”

“Enough, Jaime!” Ser Addam scolded loudly, and Sansa realized the men must know each other well for Addam to speak to the Kingslayer so boldly.

Jaime continued despite Ser Addam yanking on his arm, trying to pull him back toward the corridor, “Again, I do not judge. In fact, I rather hope you slip some poison into his wine.”

“That’s enough!” an even louder voice bellowed from the doorway, and all heads snapped up and around to find Tywin standing there, his eyes spinning with anger and trained on Jaime, “You said you were leaving the city. Are you truly so pathetic that you’d delay your departure to come harass a pregnant woman? A pregnant woman carrying your brother or sister?”

Jaime snorted, “Of course I’m that pathetic, Father. You know it better than anyone. I’m useless because I don’t want to follow in your footsteps as Warden of the West.”

Sansa laughed, perhaps emboldened now that her husband was here and she knew Jaime would not be allowed to hurt her, “Poor Jaime Lannister… Born heir to the richest kingdom. Handsome. Greatest swordsman who ever lived… Why don’t you take your woes to the people of Flea Bottom who starved on your nephew and sister’s watch?”

Jaime, surprisingly, only smiled, “See, I knew you had claws.”

“I do indeed. One for every time I was brought before court to be abused for Joffrey’s entertainment, while your sister was always conveniently indisposed with… company.

Jaime’s cocky smile was wiped away while Sansa’s only widened, but apparently the knight was not yet surrendered, “Do you think you can wound me with such words? Nothing can hurt anymore. But I can still hurt you—”

“Jaime!” Tywin stepped between them and literally shoved his son in the direction of the door, Addam and Eryk reacting instantly – the latter to stand in front of Sansa, hand on his sword pommel, the former to help Tywin physically remove Jaime from the room, though Jaime was struggling against them. He was larger than Addam and younger than Tywin.

“I was the one!” Jaime shouted, trying to angle his head to see Sansa, “I was the one who pushed your little brother out the window. And I’d do it again. That’s what you married into. Men who have no qualms about killing children.”

Sansa tried to run toward him, not thinking about how she would be able to hurt him with two much larger men in her way. She only saw Bran, not even ten years of age, lying in bed, unconscious and immobile. Bran, the sweetest of her siblings, never one to mock or tease.

She felt blinded by rage as she futilely pushed against Eryk, such that she neither heard nor saw anything going on with Ser Jaime until Tywin was at her side, wrapping his arms around her while Eryk hurried from the room. She didn’t realize she was crying for several more minutes, and only then because she wondered why Tywin was shhing her and stroking her hair like she was a child.

Sometime later she felt as if waking from a deep slumber, her awareness suddenly so acute that she realized just how out of her mind she had been. It hadn’t just been because of Ser Jaime’s admission in regards Bran, it felt like much more than that had come to the surface.

She sat up slowly from a reclined position on one of the divans and immediately noticed that Tywin was sitting at the table designed for a small gathering for afternoon tea, and not much else. He had ledgers and letters before him and was toiling as he’d toiled before her so many times at Harrenhal.

Her husband’s eyes flicked to her as she righted herself, though his hand never stopped scribing.

Using the armrest she pushed herself up and walked to her husband. She could see that he was hyper-aware of her approach yet never paused his work, though perhaps was less invested in it than he was portraying.

He’s afraid… Afraid of how I will react to Jaime’s words… Afraid of how I will now feel about the man I married. The cold, calculating man I married.

When she did nothing but stand in front of him and stare down at him, he finally looked up, though his eyes didn’t quite stay fixed on hers, “Maester Pycelle said there was no need to check for bleeding this far along, but if you feel any pain or cramping whatsoever you should summon him immediately.”

“Did you tell the grand maester what prompted your wife’s upset?”

Tywin’s hand paused, “What do you think?”

“I think I’d be foolish to expect justice for my brother. Your goodbrother. Am I wrong?”

Tywin took a deep breath and put down his quill, leaning back and adopting the air she’d seen on him so often, “You mean posthumous justice? For what purpose? Your brother is dead, as he’d be regardless of… previous events.”

Sansa nodded and took one of the chairs, “It’s funny… the realm shames him by calling him Kingslayer, but that really is the least of his crimes, isn’t it?”

Tywin shook his head lightly, “Stop, Sansa. You are emotional, and understandably so, but don’t say something you’ll regret.”

“Why would I regret calling him a sisterfucker or a childkiller? They’re both true.”

Tywin’s jaw worked back and forth, “You have no proof of the former. And he didn’t kill any children.”

“No, he just tried to. Once at least; perhaps twice.”

“For all we know, Jaime just said that to anger you, it might not even be true. He was rather irate after learning of his dismissal from the Kingsguard not to mention in a bit of shock over the deaths of his sister and nephew.”

She stared at her husband, taking too much satisfaction at seeing how his eyes couldn’t stay on her for more than a moment at a time before flitting to something else. Like that night he followed her to the stairwell and couldn’t resist his desires, she felt a flutter inside her chest. An awakening of sorts. A dawning of insight.

He cares what I think of him.

She added it to the tally of what she had already divined about her guarded husband.

He desires me.

He respects my opinions on matters of state.

He cares about my wellbeing, and not just because I’m the vessel for his heirs.

He cares what I think about him.

She leaned back in the chair and rested her hands on her belly, “So the answer is ‘no’, then. You will do nothing to investigate the admission of crime against a noble child?”

He put down his quill to pinch the space between his brows, “Sansa…”

“I know. He is your son. And as you said, it would do nothing to bring back Bran.”

Tywin nodded hesitantly, “So we are in agreement?”

She smiled, “Nice try. You owe me, husband.”

“I already made you queen.”

“I’m giving you a child, something you’re suddenly in short supply of.”

Tywin lifted an eyebrow, “Rather cold of you to point out.”

“Ser Jaime will never be your heir to anything.”

Tywin sighed loudly, though she knew his aggravation was not her doing, “Is it so horrible a fate?”

“For some men, it is.” She rubbed her belly, “If this child is not a boy, you need to name heirs for the Throne and the West. You need not reveal it to anyone. Write it on a scrap of parchment and put it in your safe.”

“Expecting me to die, wife?” he asked with a wry grin.

Sansa shrugged, “Every man I’ve ever cared about did. Why should you break the trend?”

It was only after Tywin made no response that Sansa realized what she had inadvertently admitted.

It ought to have been obvious that she cared about him, and not just because it was a wife’s duty. Hadn’t she admitted that she loved being intimate with him? Hadn’t she run to him so he could feel the kicks of their unborn child? Hadn’t she slept every night in his arms instead of in the queen’s private bedchamber?

Though those were all physical indicators, not words spoken. She herself put little stock in words after learning just how sweet lies could be made to sound, but perhaps to Tywin Lannister, hearing her admit to caring about him was something he put more stock in.

And perhaps he was right to, because upon hearing those words come out of her mouth Sansa realized just how much she cared about him. But why? Ser Jaime’s words, while driven by anger and grief, hadn’t been untrue. Tywin Lannister had killed all the Reynes and Tarbecks, not just the lords and ladies who directly defied him. He had Princess Elia and her children killed by Ser Gregor, or so it was said. He had set the Mountain’s Men loose on the Riverlands’ smallfolk.

What else had this man done that Sansa wasn’t privy to? All those years hiding away at the Rock… what lengths had he gone to in order to keep his people in line, or to punish those who failed or defied him?

The silence began to feel uncomfortable, and Sansa decided she would retire to her bedchamber for a nap. Growing a child was exhausting work, she had found. And standing or even sitting for too long was torture on her back.

As she stood, Tywin stood with her, as gentlemen were supposed to do. But as she turned toward the door his regal voice stopped her tracks, “You’ll let me know when I’ve paid off the debt?”

She turned to face him, “It is not an insignificant debt.”

“I am aware,” he nodded.

“Though perhaps the principal owed can be… adjusted. Depending on how the talks with my sister and great uncle go.”

Tywin snorted, “Sounds an awful lot like extortion.”

She frowned, “I will not hold it against you for refusing any unreasonable requests.”

“But reasonable ones?”

A stare was answer enough. Tywin nodded, “You will not repeat Jaime’s words. To anyone.”

“I’m not the only one who heard those words…”

“Ser Eryk and Ser Addam value their heads and the gold in their pockets.”

“Fair enough. Though it occurs to me that if you’re denying me the chance to have justice done for one brother, the least you can do is tell me who it is I can hate for killing the other brother.”

Tywin shook his head, “He still serves a purpose. I gave you my word that we will take care of him. Eventually.”

“I feel very impatient lately.”

“Patience is a skill every man and woman should possess. Consider this practice. I’ve acknowledged that I owe you a debt and I will pay it. But not this way.”

Sansa nodded and reached for the handle of the door, “You’re right, husband. I apologize if that sounded too much like an ultimatum.”

He tipped his head, “Apology accepted. And in light of the day you’ve had – unnecessary to begin with.”

She smiled at him, “You are a good husband, Tywin. Much more compassionate than anyone gives you credit for.”

“For those worthy of my compassion,” he smirked back – or as close as he ever came to smirking.

“I am flattered, then. And also relieved to know you’ll understand that after the day I’ve had, I intend to sleep in the queen’s chambers tonight.”

She watched his face fall to a look of disbelief, though he clearly doubted his own initial perception of her words, “Of course, my lady. You probably wish to retire immediately, and I would hate to wake you when I come to bed later.”

She smiled even more widely and traveled the very short distance to her husband, standing on tiptoes to put a kiss on the corner of his mouth, “I am truly a lucky woman,” she praised him, “And I’m sure that if I’m feeling similarly inclined tomorrow night, and the night after, and the night after, and the night after, you will understand and continue to respect my wishes… After all, you’re certainly not lacking for patience.”

She turned but he caught her by the wrist and pulled her against him, as close as her belly allowed them to be, “Watch yourself, she-wolf. Did I not tell you how I put an end to my father’s mistress, who was trying to wrap my father around her finger just as you’re now trying to do to me? Quite transparently, I might add,” his lip curled up in the corner.

“But I’m not a mistress, am I?”

He snorted, “For a time you were.”

“No. I was merely what you wanted me to be.”

His head retracted, almost imperceptibly. Perhaps she didn’t have the most world experience. Perhaps she had little experience in the dynamics between men and women. But she’d had plenty of time to reflect in the past few months, laying with her feet propped up on a stack of pillows, or doing needlepoint to distract from the fact that she felt like a sausage in too-tight casing. She’d spent much of that time thinking about her husband. Wondering why he so easily believed her story of being a merchant’s daughter. Wondering why he ignored the very strong possibility that she was Sansa Stark when the safest thing to do would have been to find someone who could confirm her identity.

She had reached the conclusion that he wanted to continue enjoying her company, so he allowed himself to be convinced that she was simply a lowborn woman, a perfectly acceptable mistress for a lord in a war camp. Not a highborn noble and hostage who the rules of decency would require him to leave alone.

Her husband had yet to respond to her assertion, which seemed evidence of the fact that he was reaching the same conclusion, perhaps wondering what was wrong with him that he let himself become so attached to a lowborn lover in the first place.

“Regardless,” she added, “I’m no mistress now, I’m a queen. I’m also the key to continued peace with at least two kingdoms. So no, I don’t think I will watch myself.”

She tried to pull her wrist away, but Tywin brought it against his chest as he leaned to put his lips almost directly against her earlobe, “My cub is making you bold.”

The feeling of his breath on the skin of her ear and neck made her shiver on the inside, but she refused to let it show on the outside, “Or perhaps I’ve learned a few things from his sire.”

Tywin chuckled lightly against her neck, pressing his lips there and brushing them back and forth, “Like?”

“Like to never give up an advantage,” she took a step back and quirked an eyebrow, “Unless, of course, it’s to lay a trap.”

She kept pulling until Tywin let go of his grip on her wrist, “May the best man win.”

She tipped her head, “May the best woman win.”

Chapter 19: You’ve put me in a generous mood

Notes:

Someone commented that it would be interesting to see the interaction between Gendry and Arya when she asked him to marry her. So I included it as another "deleted scene" at the start of this chapter.

Chapter Text

Arya (Deleted Scene)

“I’ve decided whether you like it or not, you’re coming to Winterfell when we go home.”

Gendry finished putting away his tools, though she didn’t know why he bothered, he’d just use them all tomorrow. Sansa would likely admire the habit. She put her needlepoint away in a chest each night even though she knew damned well she’d use it the next day.

He lifted the lower hem of his tunic to wipe sweat off his face and neck and she truly didn’t mean to but she caught sight of his lower belly and his pants must have slid down because she saw a trail of hair that led from his navel to the top of a wider plot of hair and she saw these muscles that seemed to command her eyes to look at his groin.

She swallowed and averted her eyes, pretending to be fascinated by the products of his labor but that line of hair and those twin muscles were stuck in her eyes like the glow of the sun long after you’ve looked away from it.

“S’pose if m’lady commands it, I’ve no choice.”

She rolled her eyes, “Listen. Soon I’ll leave for the capital to negotiate with the Old Lion. But I’ve already received his offer from Sansa. He’ll help take back Winterfell from the squids, and he’ll let me and my mother live there, but we have to do some stuff for him.”

“Bend the knee?” Gendry asked in a bored voice.

“No shite. But other stuff, too.”

Gendry sighed, “Like?”

“Like let one of the lions live with us there. So he can report back to the Old Lion if we have any treasonous ideas, I’m sure.”

Gendry shrugged, “And?” He was picking at a scab on his knuckle, and she didn’t like the sight. Sure, she picked at her own scabs, and usually before they were ripe for the picking, but she didn’t like seeing other people do it.

“And I’m to marry.”

Gendry nodded, “Makes sense.” His eyes had gone unfocused, no longer staring at the scab, nor looking at her or anything else.

She began to lose all the confidence she’d had as she darted over here. Perhaps she hadn’t thought this through. She and Gendry had never even kissed. He’d confessed feelings toward her but maybe they weren’t ‘let’s get married’ feelings. Perhaps they were ‘let’s tumble in the hayloft’ feelings.

Still, there was only one way to find out. And she would spill it all at once and then run away and never talk to him again if his reaction wasn’t what she hoped for.  

“But I have to marry someone lowborn. I can pick whoever I want, as long as he has claim to nothing. And I pick you. So yes, you have to come to Winterfell and be my husband but you can still be a blacksmith, too. Anyone who has a problem can take it up with me. I’ll be the Wardeness until Sansa pops out a son or three. Actually, they can take it up with Grey Wind. So, waddaya say?”

Gendry only blinked at her, and it wasn’t helpful because she couldn’t tell if it was pleasantly surprised blinking or ‘I think she’s taken leave of her senses’ blinking.

She ground her teeth, “Will you answer me?”

He shook his head, “Your mother won’t allow it.”

“Mother has no say. Sansa is the Lady of House Stark now. And anyway, my mother is so happy that Sansa’s queen and that the Old Lion is going to let me and her go home that she didn’t even say anything about me getting married.”

“She’ll come to her senses.”

“Maybe she already did. Do you want me to bring you to talk to her so you can see for yourself?”

His eyes widened and he grabbed her shoulders, “NO!”

She smirked at him, “Afraid of my mother?”

He closed his eyes and opened them slowly, “I’m afraid of all Stark women. Your mother with her eyes… I think she knows all my inner thoughts. Your sister with her smiles, I think she could hypnotize a man to make him do her bidding. And you with your…”

She watched as he blushed and took a step back. “Me with my what?” she asked.

He took a deep breath and held it for several heartbeats before letting it out along with his words, “You with your… Everything. The way you walk. The way you used to wear your sword on your hip. The way you look at me like I’m stupid but sometimes I think you mean it as a compliment. The way you speak your mind. The way you’re not afraid of anyone. The way you love your family. The way you get so fiery when someone threatens them. The way you look when your mother makes you wear a dress. The way you look when you wear those… suede breeches.” His eyes moved down to her legs, and she felt a tingle like she had when he lifted his shirt.

He abruptly turned around and began sorting through his tools, but even she knew it was a diversion.

“Well… Does that mean you’ll marry me?”

He whipped back around, “Arya, I’m a bastard!”

“So is my brother Jon. He’s also my favorite person in the world.”

“I’m lowborn.”

“Aye, that’s the idea; weren’t you listening?

“You’re a princess.”

“No, a wardeness. Acting wardeness. Really, I’m just a placeholder for Sansa’s son.”

He threw his hands up, “Your sister is the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms!”

She dropped her head back and laughed, “My sister once pissed the bed because me and Bran snuck into her room pretending to be ogres.”

Gendry sighed, “I’m sure she was much younger.”

“She was old enough not to piss the bed!”

“Arya, stop changing the subject!”

“You’re the one changing the subject!”

“You can’t marry me. I can’t marry you.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not worthy of you. You can find a lowborn lord, you know. Or a decorated knight. You don’t have to scrape the bottom of the barrel to find a husband!”

“I don’t want a stupid knight or a stupid lord!” she shoved him hard in the chest, “I want you!”

As sturdy as he was, she must’ve hit him just right, for she watched his arms flail as he went backwards before landing on his arse and elbows on the dirt floor. He didn’t seem hurt, but he just laid there, propped up on his forearms, staring up at her in shock, as if she hadn’t shoved him a few dozen times by now.

“What in all seven hells is all the racket!?” the old blacksmith hobbled into view and once his eyes landed on Arya he swallowed, “Oh, ‘pologies milady… Gendry get your arse off the floor, boy! Der’s a lady present.”

Gendry scrambled up and the old man approached her, “Did he do somethin’ milady? Does I need to beat ‘im wit da birch?”

Arya nodded, “Aye, if you please. I asked him to marry me, and he refused because he thinks he's not good enough.”

The old man looked between the two of them, his head pivoting back and forth like a wind vane on a barn, “Beg pardon, milady, but he ain’t good enough fer ya.”

She rolled her eyes while Gendry grinned victoriously. She turned to the old man, “I’m to take a lowborn husband with no claims to any lands or armies in order for the Old Lion to help us take Winterfell and let me rule there.”

The old man blinked like Gendry had done just moments ago, “Why dintcha say so, milady? I gots a nephew ‘bout yer age. Better lookin den dis’un,” he flicked a calloused finger so close to Gendry’s face that Gendry had to jump back.

Arya lifted a brow, “Better looking, you say?” She eyed Gendry from head to toe while his cheeks went from pink to crimson.

“Aye, milady. Don’t pout s’much. Eyes green like pine. Broad’n da shoulder. Taller den dis’un, too.”

“I’m tall!” Gendry squeaked.

“What does he do?”

“One’a da guards ‘ere, milady. Kerith’s ‘is name. Trainin’ under da Blackfish fer knighthood.”

“Oh anyone can be a guard!” Gendry hollered, “This,” he gestured at the forge around them, “Takes special talent, years of learning and practice.”

Arya ignored him, “So will you introduce me to this Kerith?”

“Aye,” the old man nodded, “Tink he’s done ‘is post ‘round supper time.”

“Wait!” Gendry held his hands between the two of them, then turned to glare at Arya, “You’re just going to marry some guard you don’t even know because he’s got green eyes and might be a knight someday?”

She crossed her arms, “I need to marry someone. The Old Lion will want to see me married before he sends thousands of men to Winterfell.”

Gendry’s jaw bulged, “Then… Ugh! Did you mean what you said?”

“Which part?”

“When you shoved me down?”

The old man sniggered and turned his back. Arya pinched her lips between her teeth to avoid sniggering along with him, “Aye, I meant it. I want you. And you already said you want me. Question is, did you just mean for a tumble or… or for something more… permanent?”

He shook his head, “Arry…”

“Gendry…”

He reached for her hands. She always felt strong and tough until she saw her hands next to Gendry’s or Uncle Brynden’s.

“If it’s really what you want. And if your mother won’t kill me… Then aye, I’ll marry you.”

She smiled, “I’m still going to wear breeches, though.”

Gendry’s smile straightened, “And gods, I want you to.”

“And I’m going to get Needle back and wear a sword again.”

“In the meantime, I’ll make you something else. And when you get Needle back, you’ll have two swords.”

“I’d rather a nice long dirk.”

Gendry pulled her by the back of the neck until her forehead was against his lips, “Gods, have I got one for you.”

The old man was laughing to himself as he smacked Gendry on the shoulder and went back out the way he came.

Gendry pulled Arya against his side. It felt hot and solid and… and rather like it was made for her.

“I best not see your nephew sniffing around Lady Arya,” Gendry spoke in the most authoritative voice she’d ever heard him use. She didn’t know whether she felt aroused or amused.

The old blacksmith turned around, “Boy, yer as dumb as ya look.” The man continued his laughter as he walked away.

Gendry frowned at Arya, “What did I do?”

She smiled, “I’m pretty certain there is no nephew.”

She felt Gendry stiffen a bit, probably in embarrassment. For once, she wouldn’t capitalize on it.

“Oh…” he eventually said.

Arya shrugged, “But I can find one if you ever act stupid and bullheaded again.”

He sighed loudly, “As you say, milady…”

 

Sansa

She had been giddily anticipating this day since she received the message that Arya and Uncle Brynden would be coming to the capital to formally negotiate peace terms. Sansa needed her sister more than ever. Or perhaps want was the better word. She had needed Arya in King’s Landing after Father was executed and Sansa was all alone, a certain grumpy Hound the closest thing she had to a friend (and that was a far cry). She had needed Arya in Harrenhal, and Arya had been there. She had needed Arya in Riverrun after realizing the child of their enemy was growing within her body and their mother had left them alone.

Now she wanted Arya here, because since Joffrey and Cersei’s untimely deaths, Sansa had to play the part of a woman in mourning when really all she wanted to do was sing and dance and smile. If Sansa weren’t so heavy with child she would take Arya to the very place on the serpentine where Joffrey had fallen, then the ground below Cersei’s window that had broken her fall and her neck. When no one was looking, the Stark sisters would kiss the stairs on which Joffrey twisted his ankle. They’d kiss the ground where Cersei twisted her neck.

Of course, there were more innocent reasons for Sansa to long for her sister’s company. In another turn of the moon she’d be laboring to bring a child into the world and doing so without any family or friends other than her maidservant Cheryse. Well, and Genna Lannister who had arrived a few days ago as a show of support to her brother and to pay her respects at the tombs that held Cersei and Joffrey. (Sansa might take Arya there, too, if only so Sansa could laugh after seeing Arya spit on each tomb).

Ideally, Catelyn would be here when Sansa’s time came, but she knew that was unlikely. Until the alliance between North and South was official, it made no sense to have the few remaining people of Stark and/or Tully blood in the same place at the same time. Hence, Arya and Brynden had made the trek to the capital while Catelyn and Edmure remained behind the moats of Riverrun.

From her balcony in Maegar’s holdfast, atop Aegon’s High Hill, Sansa peered to the north, waiting to see a procession waving wolf and trout banners come into sight. It was a futile effort given the distance, but she had little to do as ladies were expected to confine themselves mostly to their quarters in the last moon of a pregnancy. She had never quite understood why, though Septa Mordane implied that it had to do with the possibility of losing the womb water in front of men who were not family. Two years ago Sansa would have agreed that prospect was mortifying. After her stay at Harrenhal, she wondered why any man would be disgusted by the sight of a little water when there were such worse things to bear witness to.

Sansa felt herself becoming antsy. Now that her sister and uncle were so close, these final hours felt like torture. She knew Tywin had given instruction to the City Watch that the party from Riverrun were to be escorted to the Red Keep without delay, but some part of Sansa worried there would be a riot. She worried that the people who would have hurt Sansa because of her association with Joffrey would now try to hurt Arya and Brynden because of their association with the Young Wolf whose rebellion could be blamed for the poor quality of their lives in recent years.

And why should she not expect the worst to happen? Lady. Father. Bran. Rickon. Robb. The Stark name had felt cursed since King Robert traveled to Winterfell.

“Will your sister accept the proposal?”

Sansa turned, not having heard Tywin enter the queen’s bedchamber.

She folded her arms, “I will do everything in my power to convince her to accept.”

He strode from the doorway that joined their chambers to the balcony where she still stood. He looked out over the dry moat toward the Godswood which wasn’t truly a Godswood.

“Lord Varys’ spies have turned up no evidence of conspiracy in Joffrey’s death. Or so he says.”

Sansa nodded, “There were more with motive to see him dead while he still wore the crown.”

Tywin seemed to ignore her words, “Varys also reported some rumors that the Old Lion was behind it… done to avenge his wolf queen,” he turned to face her, studying her eyes for a reaction.

Sansa had nothing but genuine surprise, and she didn’t bother to hide it, “Does that bother you, husband?”

“Perhaps it bothers me that it isn’t true,” he turned again to face the window.

She sighed, “I did not ask that of you, nor would I have.”

“Because you’re too bloody nice,” he spit out, each syllable a sword jab.

She looked down at her very round belly, though she wasn’t sure why.

“You gave yourself – the key to the North – to your family’s enemy, to spare your mother. You came back here, willing to live among the people who tormented and abused you. It is fine for the smallfolk to see you as benevolent, Sansa. In fact, I prefer it that way. But your enemies? The people at court? They cannot think you’re a lioness without claws.”

She wrung her hands together, not in the mood for whatever this was. Punishment, perhaps. He was trying to make her feel small and weak since she had stood up to him after Jaime’s outburst. “As you say, my lord,” she responded coolly, because while she didn’t want to lose the battle, she also didn’t feel like battling, period.

He turned to look at her again, “Don’t. Don’t ‘as you say’ me… Tell me what you really think.”

“It matters not,” she held his eyes, hoping he’d see that she was not in the mood for this. Why was he doing this now? This punishment or lesson or lecture or whatever it was. Didn’t he know she wanted to do nothing but stare at the city until she saw the banners of her people approach?

“It does matter. It matters to me how your mind works. You’re the queen of the Seven Kingdoms. And when I’m gone, it will be you who teaches our sons whatever I didn’t get a chance to impart before taking my last breath. So tell me what you really think.”

She snorted and ow it was her looking out over the capital while in her periphery she saw his eyes were locked on her. So he wanted to know her every secret thought?

Well, who was she to deny her husband and king?

“What I think? I think you should be careful what you wish for, because if I sought vengeance against all those who have wronged me or my family, I’d have to include you on that list, wouldn’t I?”

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling when her husband remained silent for several heartbeats.

Then, he said, “Go on.”

She took a deep breath as if about to submerge herself in the tub, “I want to kiss the serpentine steps he died on, even as I think they were too merciful an executioner. I didn’t want his neck to be snapped like a twig – an instant death. I wanted him to spend the last days of his life in the Black Cells, cold and hungry and alone, like my father did. I wanted to watch his head roll. I wanted to see my brother Robb be the one to do it, with Ice. Or perhaps I wanted to watch Grey Wind feast on him, a nibble each day until there was nothing left of him but his ugly head, which I would personally put on a spike to decorate the battlements of this city. Perhaps I’d bring Cersei there, tell her to stare at it. Maybe while she stared at it, I’d tell her that, next time, it would be her twin’s head. That I’d tie a bow around it and present it to her at her next nameday, maggots and all. Maybe I’d remind her that her cuckolding the king led to every death that transpired in this war since my father was arrested. Maybe I’d remind her how she manipulated me. How she betrayed me. How she failed to protect me. How she failed to protect the realm she ought to have been grateful to rule. She was no true Queen just as Joffrey was no true King, just as the men who served both of them were no true knights. You want to know how my mind works, husband? That’s how.”

When she paused to take a breath and collect her many competing thoughts, Tywin started to speak. She held up a hand, “And before you question whether I had something to do with Joffrey’s death, heed what I just said. If I was going to pay someone to kill him, I would have paid them extra to do it slowly. And if the opportunity for that didn’t present itself for many more months or years, I’d have bided my time. Contrary to what you think, husband, I do have patience.”

Tywin nodded slightly, his chin almost touching his chest as he stood completely relaxed and casual. “Clearly; as you’ve proven the past sennight.”

She shrugged, “Has it been a sennight? I hadn’t noticed.”

Tywin offered a half grin, “Liar.”

She snorted lightly, “Was that what all this was about? Get me to confess my traitorous thoughts since I’ve stayed away from your bed for seven nights?”

“I told you what it was about. You’ll raise my sons, Sansa. I’d rather you not raise them to be sheep.”

She put her hands on her hips, “You think me weak because I surrendered myself to you?”

“I think you brave because you surrendered yourself to me. But one of our sons will have the thing that all other men want. He will have enemies lurking in every corner, some in the shadows, some in the light, disguised as friends. And when one of them tests our son’s defenses, or perhaps tests his leniency, he cannot respond with mercy or forgiveness.”

She shook her head, “Well as I said – now you know how my mind works. Satisfied?”

He nodded as his eyes moved over her in no apparent hurry, seemingly taking in everything from her slipper covered feet up to her hair, which she hadn’t bothered to braid since she would be bathed and trussed up later in anticipation of dining with her sister and uncle this evening.

“More than you can imagine,” Tywin answered belatedly, his gaze still dawdling, scorching a trail of heat everywhere it landed.

His right hand came up to her neck, his fingers threading into the hair at the base of her neck as he gently led her into her room. His face approached hers then passed it, and she felt his lips at the corner of her jaw. He had not tried to tempt her in the past sennight, and she had interpreted that as a victory for her – he did not have faith in his ability to seduce her and would rather not risk his pride by trying. Or perhaps he did not wish to do something that would torture him as well as her. If he kissed her and she turned him away he’d have to settle for his hand and… and she shouldn’t think about that. The image of his big, strong hand wrapped around his big, hard cock…

As she realized how quickly she would yield, she thought perhaps it hadn’t been victory on her part but mercy on his. Perhaps he knew just how much she needed this and wanted to let his young wife have a taste of victory even if it were only an illusion.

“Littlefinger…” Tywin whispered.

Her eyes snapped open. In the context of the situation she didn’t immediately associate the moniker with the man, nor the man with any reason why Tywin would be saying his name now.

But some wisdom that resided outside her whispered the answer into her mind. “He… he is the one?” she replied in a breathy voice.

Tywin only nodded though had pulled away so she could see the sincerity in his eyes.

She frowned, “But I have heard he was a close friend of my mother. That he still is a close friend to my mother!”

“He is a close friend only to himself.”

“Yet you say he serves a purpose – meaning he serves a purpose to you.”

“His loyalty is to me, at least for the time being. Which means Harrenhal is being held by someone I can trust.”

“And how will you know when his loyalty shifts; when it’s no longer safe to trust him?”

Tywin tipped his head to the side, “I might not. He’s better at keeping secrets than most. He is cleverer than most.”

She shook her head, “What motive did he have?”

“He was in Bitterbridge at the same time as your brother, there on my behalf to negotiate an alliance with the Tyrells.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Tywin sighed, “Your brother beat Littlefinger to it. Ser Loras was unwilling to hear Littlefinger’s proposal, much less consider it. Littlefinger took it upon himself to… eliminate the competition.”

Her cheeks became flames, “He killed a king.”

“Not my king.”

“And you rewarded him for it. That’s why you gave him Harrenhal!”

“I gave him Harrenhal as a compromise. The price he wanted was not something I was willing to pay.”

“What was it?”

Tywin’s brow lifted, “You. He wanted your hand.”

She threw her hands up in skepticism, “I barely know the man! I only spoke to him briefly, two or three times, while I lived here in the capital.”

“You barely knew him, but he knew you. He knew you were even more beautiful than your mother – the woman he’s been hopelessly in love with since his youth. He knew you were – are – the key to the North. He knew you had an uncle ruling Riverrun and a cousin soon to be ruling the Vale.”

She took a deep breath, “How can I trust that you did not give him orders to kill Robb?”

“I didn’t even know your brother would be there!” Tywin threw his hands up, a delayed mirroring of her own movement, “Nor did Littlefinger – or so he claims. He acted opportunistically. Eliminate the only living king with a hope to gain the Tyrell’s support. In doing so, prove his value to me. Gain my favor.”

Sansa crossed her arms, “Gain your favor only to be rewarded with a ruined castle…”

Tywin held a hand up theatrically as if to commend her observation, “Indeed.”

“How long will his loyalty last if he thinks he deserves Winterfell and me but was instead given Harrenhal and… no me?”

“Again – it is difficult to say. He is a careful man. He will not make a move until he knows it has a high likelihood of success. In the meantime he will help me because it helps him – he knows unlike some others I always pay my debts. And Harrenhal may be in disrepair, but it is still a prize. Still one of the largest keeps in the realm and, when in its proper state, vulnerable to nothing but dragonfire.”

Sansa sighed, “You are a king, but your situation is precarious. Dorne hates you. The Tyrells are at best neutral, same for most of those in Storm’s End. The Riverlands hates you. The North hates you. You have the largest army, the deepest coffers, the love of the people of the Crownlands. But you need more.”

“Hence the reason your sister is so valuable. Let the Northmen see I’m not some tyrant trying to eliminate any who have ever opposed me, but a fair king who values the benefits of having a Stark as Warden of the North.”

“What of the Tyrells?”

“The correspondence is finally done. Lady Margaery will be here within a moon with her grandmother. Ser Loras will accompany her. She will pick either Tommen or Tyrion.”

“Tommen is not yet of age.”

“He is two and ten, soon to be three and ten. Old enough to wed and likely old enough to consummate a marriage. And he is the Lord of Storm’s End now that Joffrey is dead.”

“Lord of a castle he does not hold.”

“With the might of the Tyrell army supporting us, we can take it without spilling a drop of blood. Renly’s remaining men will surrender. Many of them remember what belt leather tastes like and have no desire to relive the experience.”

“What of Tyrion? Why bother offering him at all? Unless you name him heir of Casterly Rock, she has no incentive to choose him.”

“Tyrion is Hand to the King, a role he may very likely fulfill not just during my reign but during my son’s reign. And I may not have named him my heir, but if I pass before you give me sons, Olenna is smart enough to know that the Rock will go to Tyrion regardless. Unless of course Jaime has a change of heart,” Tywin rolled his eyes. 

“Still…” Sansa shrugged.

“I would also offer to match their firstborn daughter with our firstborn son.”

She narrowed her eyes, “You’d make Margaery and Tyrion’s daughter the queen?”

Tywin nodded.

Sansa hummed. It was clever. But it was more advantageous to Tywin’s interest to install Margaery and Tommen in Storm’s End. She told him as much, “You sweeten that deal too much, husband. Better we put beloved Renly’s beloved widow in Storm’s End. It will smooth the transition for Tommen, make it less likely that the people turn against him. If they give him a chance, I’m sure they will love him – the people who loved kind-hearted Renly will love sweet-natured Tommen.”

Tywin smiled ever so slightly, “Clever, wife.”

She frowned at him, “You were testing me. Again.

He shrugged, “You are the queen, Sansa. Someday you will be Queen Regent unless I manage to outlive you. Do you resent me for making sure you are capable?”

She sighed, “No, though it’s rather humiliating. Will every conversation be a test?”

He shook his head slowly and tipped her chin up with his thumb and forefinger, “There are better ways to spend our time together.”

“My sister will be arriving soon.”

He pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth, “I can be quick.”

She rolled her eyes even as warmth was already spreading through her body at his gentlest of touches, “Just what every woman wants to hear…”

He chuckled against her skin as he planted the lightest kisses all along her neck and jaw. Her husband was a sly man, steering them toward the bed without her realizing it because she was too preoccupied with the feel of his lips on her neck, his trimmed beard scratching in the most delectable way while his calloused thumbs dipped into her dress bodice and lightly grazed her over-sensitive nipples.

She only became aware of the distance they’d covered when he turned her around and began rifling through the layers of her skirts until he found the innermost one and lifted the whole pile to rest on her lower back while he untied the silk ribbons at the sides of her smallclothes and let them fall to the ground. This position used to embarrass her. To know he was seeing her loins on full display, not to mention her arse, but she eventually learned that whatever Tywin saw from his vantage point, he liked. She could feel when he penetrated her that he was harder than steel – just like after he had licked her between the legs or had her take him in her mouth.

Today was no different, and Sansa had given up on wondering why the feeling of his hand reaching around to cradle her round belly while he forcefully pumped in and out of her made her peak faster than ever before. It was an odd juxtaposition – a seemingly impersonal rutting, like a pair of animals, combined with the very tender and loving gesture of a man soon to become a father again.

Sansa let her hands crawl forward on the bed until she was bent at a steep angle, her forearms supporting her weight. She heard Tywin groan behind her and felt his cock hitting her more deeply than was possible in any other position.

She surrendered to the bliss that only this man ever gave her – that perhaps only this man was capable of giving her. He followed her over the precipice, holding himself deeply inside her when his seed spilled, which always made her smile in lightheaded amusement – the idea that men couldn’t snuff out the primal desire to plant their seed – even in a field whose vegetation had already moved beyond budding to ripening to ready for harvest

When his euphoria faded the primal man once again yielded to the caring husband. He pulled himself out of her and quickly had his handkerchief there to catch his leaking spend. He did this (also to her initial mortification) whenever he took her in the middle of the day, fully clothed. He knew how horrified she’d feel if her maids found the stains of his release inside her smallclothes or on the inside of her skirts. The bedsheets were one thing – men and women were supposed to couple in their bed – but she could not let anyone know she was so wanton that she let her husband take her whenever he pleased. There had been days he held court with the scent of her woman’s place still on his mustache. There had been days when she entertained ladies in the garden even though her voice was hoarse from screaming his name only minutes earlier. (She would claim to have a throat irritation from whatever flower was currently in bloom.) Similarly she’d once had to claim an irritation to the fabric of her shawl when someone politely commented on her reddened neck. The real culprit had been her husband’s beard.

It was only now that she wondered if Tywin was as embarrassed about his steward finding crusted handkerchiefs as she was about her maids finding crusted smallclothes. That line of thinking led her to blush in thinking that she’d rather her maids knew than the middle-aged steward named Edgarth who reminded Sansa of Uncle Edmure, not just because of his name but because he had reddish hair and blue eyes (he was a distant cousin of Ser Addam, apparently) and because he was kind to her, in a paternal sort of way.

After straightening their clothes, Tywin pressed a kiss to her forehead, “I shall ride to the meet them at the Gate of the Gods.”

Sansa’s eyes widened, “I thought we would meet them at the barbican?”

“Let the people of King’s Landing see your sister and great uncle are honored guests, worthy of being escorted by the king himself.”

Sansa blinked at him in shock. Tywin shrugged, “What can I say? You’ve put me in a generous mood.”

“I can’t wait to explore the depths of your generosity, husband.”

He grinned at her then, and she counted it as only number six since they married. He was not a man who readily expressed joy. Irritation? Yes. Anger? Yes. Superiority? Oh, yes. But joy? Few knew the Old Lion was capable of feeling it, much less showing it.

“It may just be limitless, wife, but there is only one way to find out.”

She saw her husband out with a giggle and a kiss then decided to lay down so that she’d be refreshed for this evening’s reunion. Despite her excitement over Arya’s impending arrival and her mind’s racing over the Littlefinger revelation, she was able to drift off easily.

So easily that she didn’t hear the man who somehow crept into her chamber until he was hovered over her in bed, one hand cupped tightly over her mouth and the other holding a single finger against his own lips in silent warning.

Chapter 20: Choose your battles wisely

Notes:

I promised I wouldn't keep you hanging too long. Hope this chapter satisfies.

Chapter Text

Sansa

“No chirping, little bird.”

She felt simultaneously relieved and terrified to know that, of all the men in the realm, it was the Hound hovering over her while she laid in nothing but her shift and smallclothes. He had never hurt her, and he had even helped her in the limited ways he was able, but he was also a turncloak – no longer loyal to the Lannisters and thus her being Tywin’s wife offered no protection in this instance. And given his size, if he was here with nefarious motives, she stood not a chance. 

“I’m not here to hurt you, girl. I’ve come to offer a way out, if it should be needed. So I’m going to remove my hand, and we’re going to talk nice and quiet like this. And you’re not going to yell, are you?”

She shook her head and watched his large, scarred hand slowly retreat as his body unfolded itself so that he was standing upright beside her rather than curved over her.

She pulled the blankets up to her collarbone. All the bluster she had been practicing on her husband fled her. The Hound always made her feel small and childlike, naïve and perhaps even stupid. She was the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms yet as he stood there with hands on his hips, staring at her belly which was too large to be hidden by bedcovers, she braced for his mockery. That she had gone from one lion to another, one cage to another. She had hopped out of the frying pan only to land in the fire because she was a stupid little bird always putting her faith in the wrong men.

She gathered her defense – that Tywin was nothing like his grandson. That their marriage effectively ended the hostilities between North and West. That Tywin, unlike Joffrey, cared about her. That he would never hurt her or order others to hurt her.

The defense was ready, but the attack never came. Instead, the Hound collapsed into the chair a few steps away from her bed. “So it’s true then…” he said on an exhale.

“What’s true?”

“He forced himself on you. While you were his hostage at Harrenhal. You escaped but surrendered yourself back to him when you realized you’d been ruined,” he spoke the words like an accusation against her, though through the wisdom she’d gained in her time away from the capital she knew he did not blame her. His harsh tone was constructed to hide a compassionate heart.

Still, his assumption was wrong, and once again Sansa felt the need to defend her husband by shaming herself. She squeezed her eyes shut, “He did not force anything. And I… I surrendered after Robb died. To save my mother. To end the war.”

The Hound snorted bitterly and removed a wineskin from his belt, “Aye, he seduced you with his boyish good looks, huh? His sweet words? Did he write you a love poem? Sing to you about Jonquil and her hapless fool?” He sipped deeply of the skin but didn’t meet her eyes.

The bluster was back, “No. He saved me from your brother.”

That got his attention. Mid sip he turned to look at her squarely, a rivulet of wine dripping down his whisker-covered chin.

“And he saved Arya from your brother’s men. And then I did what I had to do to survive and protect my identity, and I don’t believe I owe those details to you. Now tell me why you are here. No – first tell me how you are here. Did you hurt Ser Eryk?”

He shrugged, “Have you forgotten these used to be Cersei’s chambers? That I used to be Cersei’s guard dog? Was my job to know how to get her out of the city should it ever be sacked.”

“There are secret tunnels leading out of this room?”

“Or into it, in this case,” he sipped his wine.

She looked around the room but saw no sign of a hidden door. Then again, it wouldn’t rightly be a hidden door if she could spot it. And it didn’t matter; she’d see soon enough when her visitor left.

“Fine. Then why are you here?”

He shook his head, “Met your sister at the Inn at the Crossroads. You remember the place? Where you learned your sweet prince wasn’t so sweet. Where you lost your sweet wolf pup.”

“Why are you here?” she repeated.

“Might have been a bit too drunk. Didn’t leave in time to avoid your kin. Your sister said she’d take my head there and then but that you told her I protected you. Why would you tell her that, girl? I didn’t protect you. I watched him torment you for months and months.”

“I asked why you’re here!” she whisper-shouted, “You abandoned your king, your duty. If you are found here, they’ll kill you.”

“Why would you care?” he snapped.

She closed her eyes. How had he ever made her feel like a child when it was he who was always so petulant?

“I’d care because, whether you admit it or not, you did protect me when you could. Perhaps it made little difference but… Well, perhaps I didn’t appreciate enough at the time how having one person in this place who didn’t want to hurt me was enough to help me hold onto my hope. And Lord Tyrion has told me that during the riots you were the only man willing to risk his life to go look for me. That he hardly had to ask or order it of you.”

The Hound averted his eyes once more, this time studying some stain on the knee of his pants, “Aye, well, I needed to find my horse before some cunt made stew out of him.”

Sansa let out a giggle and the man turned to blink at her before his mouth twitched, “But I suppose if in the process of looking for my horse I came across a little bird who needed saving, I wouldn’t have minded killing a few more of those shit-reeking scum.”

She knew that was as close as Sandor Clegane would get to admitting valor of any sort. “Well, you’d have a large horse and a little bird forever in your debt.”

“Hmpf… Tell that to my horse.”

“You found him?”

“Followed the trail of bodies, aye. I think he was mad that I put an end to his fun. Likes killing, that one.”

“And of course you can’t relate.”

He snorted and looked at her with another twitch of his lips, “The little bird has gotten cheeky. Then again, I already knew that.”

She frowned in confusion before realizing he was alluding to her earlier conversation with Tywin. The conversation that preceded… Oh Gods!

He chuckled lightly at what must have been an expression of utter mortification on her face but mercifully changed the subject, “Aye, well, I came here to see if you needed to be saved. Your sister told me they’re coming to negotiate terms, but that she’s also coming to make sure you’re being treated well and that if you’re not she plans to sneak you out of the city.”

“And she asked you to do it?”

He shrugged, “Like I said, she said you trust me, the Gods only know why. Said she’d take me off her list if I did this. If I snuck in here, found out how the lion’s been treating you, and if you aren’t happy with him then sneak you back out – take you to your uncle’s men.”

She shook her head, “I don’t need to be saved.”

“Clearly. The only one need’s saving is that husband of yours.”

She felt herself grinning proudly. Perhaps arrogantly. Sandor rolled his eyes, “Word of advice: careful how far you push it. Choose your battles wisely.”

She nodded, “Where will you go now?”

Sandor rose and shrugged, “Got enough gold to go across the Narrow Sea, buy a little house, a lifetime supply of wine.”

“But?”

He shrugged again, and she seemed to think he had never done so much of it before. Or maybe he did but she hadn’t noticed because she tried not to look at him. The angry dog, always barking, but never biting. At least, never biting her.

“Don’t think I want to be somewhere it’s always summer. I hear the whole continent smells like an armpit.”

Sansa smiled, “He doesn’t blame you, you know. For leaving. He knows how Joffrey was.”

Sandor shook his head, “Not blaming me and not feeling duty-bound to punish me are two different things. Besides, this place smells even worse than an armpit. I forgot about it until I spent the past few months north.”

“You were in the North?” she gasped.

“North of here… Thought I might hang around in the Riverlands and see if my brother ever wandered away from his flock.”

“I take it he didn’t?”

“Don’t know. Ended up spending most of my time drinking and staying out of sight.”

“Celebrating your freedom?” she smiled mischievously.

He didn’t return the sentiment, “Not that kind of drinking, little bird.”

She knew the kind of drinking he was referring to. Drinking to dull some pain, but she didn’t know what pain it might be. What would trouble him more than memories of his youth – torment at his brother’s hands?

“I suppose you’re lucky the men were all too afraid to go look for you… Only the Hound was brave enough to face the crowd a second time. Stomped away as soon as I asked where Lady Sansa was,” Tyrion had told her, just after she and Tywin returned to the capital.

He was worried about me… He tried to find me that day but couldn’t.

He thought I was dead.

“My sister,” Sansa blurted out.

Sandor Clegane eyed her, “What about her?”

“If all goes well in the next few days, she will be going to Winterfell. Robb’s army lost some men; surely they’ll need reinforcements. Go with Arya. I will vouch for you if she still has concerns, though I doubt she will after you did this.”

He shook his head, “You may be a queen but I’m a free dog now. Don’t take orders from you.”

She rolled her eyes, “Not orders. A suggestion. It never gets hot enough at Winterfell for the smells to get too pungent.”

“Your people won’t want the Lannister Hound sniffing about. I’ll have to sleep in my armor with one eye open. Fuck that.”

“They’ll give you private quarters. Be my sister’s shield.”

“Didn’t look like she needs or wants a shield…” he rolled his eyes.

“I’d sleep better knowing you’re there to watch out for her.”

He shrugged again, “I’ll consider it. Talk to the wolf bitch. I’ll be around.”

He stood up abruptly and Sansa flinched. He always looked like someone who would lumber about like those mammoths Maester Luwin had taught her about, but instead he moved with the grace of a wild stag, even if he probably also had the weight of one.

“Wait,” she called out in a low hiss as he began walking toward the hearth wall, “How will Arya get in touch with you?”

“I’ll come back to you in a few days’ time. You can let me know what she’s said, and I’ll let you know if I’ve decided whether to go north or east.”

She thought to ask him to promise not to spy on her anymore, but she suspected he didn’t want to see her with Tywin any more than she wanted to be seen during such moments.

He let her watch him twist the sconce that was secretly a lever that pushed open a door, the seams of which were in the mortar between stones and met the hearth edge on one side and a bookcase on the other. She thought to offer him food or wine, because certainly he couldn’t wander into a tavern in King’s Landing, but she had to trust he came prepared.

As the door shut, she realized he had done more than offer her a way out today… he was showing her a way out she could use in the future if for some reason she had to disappear without a trace.

She prayed she never had to use it.

 

Brynden

The energy in the small dining room was tense, and he was at least partly to blame for that.

Yes, the fighting was over. The men and the women of the Riverlands could focus on recovering and preparing for winter. Same could be said for the people of the North who were allowed to pass through either the Twins or Moat Cailin if they swore fealty to King Tywin Lannister – vows of allegiance that were not just spoken but also recorded and signed in a ledger book.

And in the grand scheme of things, House Tully was relatively unscathed. He lived. Catelyn and Edmure lived. Two of Catelyn’s children lived. And of the three Stark children who perished, two could hardly be blamed on the man Brynden sat across from. Tywin Lannister had no connection to Theon Greyjoy. Blame for Bran and Rickon’s untimely deaths could be placed squarely at the feet of the Ironborn scum. And perhaps just a bit at Robb’s feet – for his naivety in trusting a hostage to act as if a brother, but Brynden knew well the mistakes of youth were ones every man was entitled to.

As for Robb’s death, Brynden still had his suspicions. Certainly Tywin Lannister hadn’t killed Sansa’s brother with his own hands, but he might have sent an assassin. He might have even conspired with the Tyrells to do it, but it was hard to imagine what the Tyrell’s motive in doing so might have been. Robb could have made Margaery a queen; Tywin already had his heart set on a different queen.

But this meeting, Brynden reminded himself, wasn’t about vengeance for Robb. It wasn’t even about vengeance for Ned – as far as Brynden was concerned someone had avenged his goodnephew by killing Joffrey Baratheon and his bitch mother.

No, this was about moving forward. Brynden had seen enough wars to know that resolutions were never completely satisfying, even for the winning side.

Funny thing was, he didn’t know whether he was on the winning or losing side this time around.

So Brynden set aside his personal opinions of Tywin Lannister. He set aside the nausea that swelled when he thought of a man his own age wanting to lay with a girl of six and ten; after all, he was in no position to judge a man’s sexual proclivities.

“Have you given any thought to our proposal?” Tywin broke the silence that had swelled like a raincloud after terse niceties had been exchanged.

Brynden looked to his niece – the one who looked like a Stark – and waited for her signal. After she nodded, he proceeded, “House Tully is willing to kneel to King Tywin and Queen Sansa pending Lady Arya’s decision to do the same. But my nephew demands restitution for the damages done to the lands and keeps throughout our region.”

“Monetary restitution?” Tywin asked.

Brynden shook his head, “Livestock and grain. Your men burnt our fields; butchered animals and left them to rot. My grandniece has told me you claim to hate waste. What’s more wasteful than goats and dairy cows being gifted to the buzzards?”

He watched the king shift in his chair, “Very well. We can negotiate the exact amounts, but let’s assume neither of us will be unreasonable.”

“Fine. Then as I said – you’ll have Riverrun’s fealty when you have Winterfell’s,” he turned to face Arya, whose eyes had never left Tywin’s.

His defiant little grandniece jutted her chin, “Why did you want my sister?”

Tywin’s stoic face looked momentarily baffled before stiffening into something more like affront, “What does it matter?”

“It matters.”

Tywin’s chest rose and fell slowly before he answered, “I wanted to end the war peacefully. Marriages between opposing sides have been used to end wars for millennia, since before steel armor and trebuchets existed.”

“That’s it?”

Tywin huffed, “I thought your sister would make a good queen.”

“Why?”

“Because she is intelligent. Because she understands diplomacy. Because she understands sacrifice.”

“The North won’t follow a Southron,” Arya abruptly changed the subject.

Tywin shrugged, “Are you referring to me or to my future son with your sister?”

“Your son. You cannot raise him in the capital or even the West, have him grow up a spoiled brat who wears silks instead of leathers, then expect men like the Umbers and Glovers and Reeds and Karstarks to call him their liege.”

Tywin’s left eyebrow became a mountain peak, “Your solution to this problem?”

“The son who is to inherit Winterfell will foster at Winterfell from the age of eight onward. And you’ll allow Sansa to visit him.”

“Assuming your sister has given me another heir by that time, fine. But you’ll also allow him to visit us. You will not warp his mind until he forgets where he came from.”

“And you’ll not warp his mind until he forgets who he is. The North is different. Our ways are different. You want your son to succeed as Warden of the North? Then he must understand the North. Its people, its lands, its crops. Its winters. Its summers.”

Tywin took a deep breath and Brynden thought he was formulating an argument until the lion said, “I do not object.”

Arya looked just as surprised as Brynden felt but she played it off with a shrug, “Now what about this marriage; you’ll force me to marry to return to my home?”

Tywin snorted, “I would have forced you to marry either Martyn or Willem Lannister. You ought to know them both since they’re presently prisoners of Riverrun. Your sister did not think you’d be amenable. As a compromise, I agreed that you could marry your choice of men.”

“Of lowborn men,” she pressed her lips together and raised her eyebrows.

“Would you prefer a noble husband? I’m sure I can find some lordling willing to marry the queen’s sister. You may have to accept that he’ll be partial to silk and velvet over leather and fur, however.”

Arya let out a long-suffering sigh, “I’m not opposed to marrying a man of humble birth. But if I ever have children, they’re mine. You have no right to them. No right to demand they foster in the South. No say in who they marry.”

If you have children? You know if your sister never bears sons it will fall to you to ensure your line continues.”

Arya rolled her eyes, “I’m not stupid.”

“Fine,” Tywin sighed loudly yet again, “Is that your only condition? That the Crown will have no wardenship over your children?”

“No. I also want to be there when you take Winterfell back from the squids.”

“You know how to swing a sword?”

“Might be I do, but my uncles and mother say I’m too valuable to risk. I just mean that me or my mother should be there. To make sure the prisoners are dealt with fairly. They may serve the turncloak because they must; that doesn’t mean they aren’t loyal to House Stark. One of us must be there to oversee the way the servants and prisoners are treated.”

Tywin nodded, “Anything else?”

She shrugged, “How do I know I can trust you?”

“How do I know I can trust you?”

“Because I didn’t kill you when I was your cupbearer even though I could have.”

“Nor did I kill you when you were a churlish little shit.”

Brynden snorted though he’d prefer not to give the Old Lion the satisfaction. But Arya could be a little shit, and churlish was just the beginning. For the most part, Brynden respected her all the more for it, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t trying and that she couldn’t stand to learn some lessons from her elders.

A silence fell during which Arya was clearly trying to come up with either a defense or a retort.

She didn’t get the chance. Sansa spoke for the first time in many minutes, “Sister, is there anything you might request for Winterfell in terms of supplies?”

Arya nodded toward Tywin, “My mother says there are rumors that parts of Winterfell have been destroyed or burned. We aren’t sure, but…”

Tywin nodded, “Ser Kevan will have the right to request funds or supplies from Casterly Rock should they be needed. I assure you, I do not want my future son ruling over a ruin any more than you want to live in one. Do we have an agreement?”

“Almost. I’m not making any official agreements until I’ve spoken with my sister alone. But I thought I should tell you here and now that if anything happens to Sansa – anything – you’ll have another war on your hands. But it won’t be the North and Riverlands marching south. It’ll be me coming for you. And I won’t stop at you. I’ll kill your sons. I’ll kill your nephews. I’ll kill your grandson. I’ll go to Dorne and kill your granddaughter. I’ll end your entire line if it’s the last thing I do.”

Tywin looked more amused than intimidated, though Brynden doubted he took the threat seriously, “A lofty promise… are you certain you can deliver?”

“Are you certain I can’t?”

“Fair enough. I have no interest in harming your sister, nor seeing her harmed by anyone else.”

“No, I don’t suppose you’d harm her in any obvious way, but if she should, say, die of fever after giving you a son… I will assume foul play.”

Tywin frowned, “I am not a God; I do not control when a person’s time comes. Moreover, I’d prefer to have at least two sons with your sister, and a daughter. Do you truly think I will kill a woman who will, by then, have been my wife for a decade? And for what?”

“So that she won’t be queen after you die.”

“She’ll never be the Queen Regnant unless you succeed in killing any man who could possibly be named my heir – your future nephews included. She’ll be a queen regent. A queen mother.”

“A Stark as Queen Regent?” Arya arched a brow and scrunched her lips in skepticism, “You expect me to believe you’d be pleased with that?”

“Enough of this,” Sansa calmly cut through the sound of threats bouncing back and forth, “Please both of you stop talking as if I’m not here. Arya, I trust my husband means me no harm. Moreover, he has no reason to eliminate me in the future. I appreciate that you feel protective of me, and I am grateful that I have not lost your favor, but if two sides cannot show some faith in one another, all wars would be never-ending. His grace will always have me and whatever children I bear him to keep you in line. And you’ll have his nephews and, for the foreseeable future, his brother to keep him in line.”

Arya seemed to consider her sister’s words and while she did, Brynden asked a question of his own, “You have the Boltons on your side in the North. The Freys and Baelish in the Riverlands.”

“Not on my side, on the Crown’s side. And might I point out that your nephew and niece have known Petyr Baelish since they were children?”

“The Crown’s side…” Brynden repeated the words at molasses speed, “Roose Bolton was eager to march on the West and the Crownlands – meaning against the crown. Then he was eager to turn against the people of his homeland, to threaten a gruesome death to Lady Stark. Has it occurred to you that you cannot trust him any more than I or Lady Arya can?”

“There are few men I trust. But again – in the next generation the Warden of the North will be brother to the King of the Seven Kingdoms. Roose Bolton would be a fool to go against either because it would mean going against both.”

“Fair enough; I imagine you feel similarly about Walder Frey…”

“Walder Frey is my sister’s goodfather. If you worry about the Freys, I would suggest either you or your nephew take one of them for a wife.”

Brynden snorted, “I’ll consider your suggestion.”

Tywin nodded as if he didn’t recognize the obvious sarcasm, “There is another matter. As my wife just pointed out, you have two of my nephews and other Westerman among your prisoners.”

“As you still have prisoners at Harrenhal.”

“Indeed. The war will not feel like it’s over if we’re each holding dozens of hostages. I do not see my wife as a hostage, though I can understand why you do, so I don’t expect you to give up everyone. But I would like to see Martyn returned to his mother in Casterly Rock, and Willem moved to Winterfell so he can at least be with his father while Ser Kevan is there. Perhaps long term a marriage can be arranged between Willem and a Northern lady. I’ve made your sister a queen, Lady Arya – the least you can do is make my nephew a lord rather than a prisoner.”

Arya’s eyes narrowed then relaxed, “I’ll never be the type to force anyone into a marriage, but perhaps in time one of the ladies who visits Winterfell will take a shining to him.” She rolled her eyes, “Some Northern girls like that Southron look… Gods know why.”

Tywin snorted in either amusement or chastisement, “And Martyn – you agree to release him?”

She looked to Brynden. He nodded, “When the direwolf banner hangs from the ramparts of Winterfell. When my niece and grandniece are there, and the Lannister armies have returned home. Then your goodsister will get her boy back.”

He’d hardly call it happiness, but the lion’s face softened ever so slightly as he looked to his wife, who gave him a nod. He stood and Brynden and Arya followed suit, only Sansa, who looked ready to burst, did not rise. He shook Brynden’s hand and bowed for Arya, who bowed back instead of curtsying. The lion smirked, “I don’t know whether to pity or congratulate whatever man you will choose as consort.”

“I already chose him.”

Tywin looked stunned, “May I inquire as to this lucky-or-unlucky man’s name?”

“Gendry. Gendry Waters.”

Tywin turned to look down at Sansa, “You knew…”

She batted her eyes in confusion, “I had no idea, your grace.”

Tywin made something of a growling noise and turned back to his guests, “In two days’ time you’ll swear fealty before the court.”

Arya’s face paled a bit, “Will we have to kneel before you?”

Tywin shrugged his chin, “That’s how it usually works, yes.”

Arya’s lips curled until she was somehow the image of both contempt and resignation. She turned toward Brynden, “I forgot about that part… Yech…”

Chapter 21: Choose wisely, sister

Notes:

I hope you enjoy!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Sansa

The Stark sisters sat on a bench in the Royal Gardens surrounded by new blooms – those plants that preferred the crisper, cooler air of autumn. The afternoons were still warm and sometimes even hot here in the capital, but when the sun went to sleep there was enough of a chill that the household servants had brought out the thicker blankets and even furs – a real luxury south of the Neck.

Ser Eryk and Ser Colton, a Tully man who Uncle Brynden brought from Riverrun and highly recommended as a suitable guard for his niece and queen, were far on the other side of the hedges. Within shouting distance but giving the sisters plenty of privacy.

Ser Colton was a handsome man, probably having seen about thirty namedays. He stood nearly as tall as Tywin. When he smiled, he had dimples. His eyes were a warm hazel that looked moss green in certain light, and his hair was the color of maple but looked more like honey in the sun.

She was 90% certain that Uncle Brynden chose him to spite her husband.

She was 90% certain that Tywin knew it.

She was 95% certain that the way Tywin took her the evening after they were introduced to Ser Colton was meant to send a message.

She was 100% certain that she would pretend not to have received the message, so he’d have to deliver it again. And again. And again.

“Have any unexpected visitors, lately?” Arya asked while twirling a blade of grass between her thumb and forefinger.

“Run into any old friends at an inn lately?” Sansa answered with an eyebrow raised.

Arya snorted, “Don’t call him my friend.” She shrugged, “I didn’t think he’d do it. And you’re still here. Meaning…”

Sansa nodded wistfully, “Meaning I’m happy here, Arya. Or something close to it,” she stroked a hand over her belly. She had been having mild cramps intermittently the past few days. Maester Pycelle said it wasn’t abnormal anytime during the eighth moon as the womb and birth canal prepared for labor, but nor was it entirely typical to have cramps this early in the eighth moon. She and Arya had made this trip to the gardens to speak where they’d not be overheard, because starting tomorrow Pycelle wanted Sansa on bed rest to prevent the babe from coming too early.

It was times like these that Sansa desperately wanted her mother here because she didn’t think being vertical was all it took to bring a babe, but who was she to argue against the Grand Maester in such a matter? Tywin’s sister Lady Genna agreed with Sansa, but she seemed to distrust Maester Pycelle (and old men, in general), so Sansa didn’t consider her an objective party.

Arya nodded, “And I hope you’re… I mean… Are you just surviving, or…” Her sister trailed off, letting her words hang like a question and observation at once.

Sansa smiled, “I am doing more than just surviving, sister. My husband listens to my opinions. He is teaching me. He wants to empower me, not weaken me. And he… Behind closed doors he is not an unaffectionate man.” She internally chided herself for speaking in double negatives, but even more for being afraid to tell of Tywin’s warmth toward her. However, she didn’t think Arya wanted to know that Tywin slept with his arms wrapped around her, one under her neck, the other hand cradling her belly. Or how he had rubbed her lower back without her prompting. Or how his vigor in bed was increasing proportionately to her waist- and bust-line.

Or how when he nuzzled into her hair and breathed deeply, she felt certain that she was loved and – more importantly – cherished. She had known love all her life. Her father and mother had loved her, but that love did not protect her from the queen’s backstabbing or Joffrey’s maniacal tendencies. Her brother Robb had loved her, but that didn’t get her out of the capital that became her prison. But to feel cherished was something else entirely, she thought. A man might love dozens of people – his wife, children, his kin, his friends, his mistress… But how many of those people did does the man truly cherish? How many would he go to war over? How many would he die for? How many would he wish to spoil and pamper because their happiness was his happiness?

She suspected that Tywin Lannister loved all his children and grandchildren, his brother and his sister. He seemed fond and sometimes fatherly toward Ser Addam, so he might love him as well (they were kin, after all). He had loved his first wife, Joanna – that was a widely known fact. He had loved his mother and, whether he admitted it or not, his father. But Sansa was certain that he had only ever cherished the late Lady Joanna….

And me.

Arya shook her head lightly, “I can’t believe you did it.”

Sansa frowned, “Did what?”

“Tamed the Great Lion.”

She clicked her tongue, “I did not tame anyone.”

“Mmhmm…”

“Arya, I did not.”

“Soooo… You convincing him it was in his best interest to have me marry a lowborn man instead of a Lannister man…?”

“I only told him that you would refuse to marry a Lannister so he might as well not bother trying.”

“And that worked? Sansa, do you realize that he had all the leverage?”

Sansa shook her head, “We had his nephews and other lords of the West.”

Arya huffed, “He had the Northern army trapped in the Riverlands. Moat Cailin held by the Mountain’s Men. The Freys turned against us. The Boltons turned against us.”

“I’m aware. What is your point?”

“He could have demanded I marry the bloody Imp and we’d be in no position to argue! He could have hidden you away – you, his pregnant mistress – while he took the throne. He could have offered that Tyrell girl the queenship to get his hands on the Reach’s wealth. He could have had you locked in some tower as a hostage, legitimized your – his – child and used it to rule the North. Whether girl or boy, wouldn’t matter.”

“Do you truly think he would do that? Did you think he might do that when you agreed with my plan at Riverrun?” Sansa felt a small stab of betrayal. Arya had seemed so confident in Sansa’s plan. Now she acted as if she had been certain she was sending her sister off to some ominous fate as a hostage.

Arya shook her head, “I didn’t think he would do it to you. But if you were any other woman in the realm? I’m not so sure…”

Sansa pressed her hands to her belly. The babe had been moving a lot since Arya arrived, and she thought perhaps it recognized her sister’s voice from their time together in Riverrun, sharing a bed, comforting each other. Since Arya arrived, Sansa mused that it was a squid inside her, not a babe. Or a babe that was using all four limbs plus headbutting its mother for good measure.

“I still don’t know your point,” she whispered after the mild pain had passed.

Arya shrugged, “Just that you’re more powerful than you think. Figure out how you want to use that power.”

Sansa nodded, “I already know. I want to be a good queen. I want to be a queen the people love not because I’m beautiful or speak sweet words but because I do good things for the city… for all of the kingdoms. And I want to raise my children to be strong and honorable both. To have a mind like Tywin Lannister and a heart like Ned Stark.” She felt her cheeks flush and glanced at Arya, “Do you think that’s foolish of me to expect? Do you think men are only one or the other?”

Her sister ran her teeth over her bottom lip, “I don’t know. Robb was clever but he also had a heart. I know he did some things we didn’t approve of, but… But, fuck, Sansa. He was just a kid. As were we. As are we.”

Sansa nodded. Hearing Robb’s name made her feel desperate to tell Arya that she knew the identity of his murderer. It also made her want to tell Arya what Ser Jaime confessed except… Except she wasn’t sure that was wise. He was her husband’s son. He was now Sansa’s family by law. Perhaps she didn’t want Arya to hate him, at least until Sansa knew whether she hated him. At the surface, she did. He had crippled her younger brother. He had sired the bastard king who was at the center of this war. But… But the man lost his lover and his eldest son; he had been stripped of his position as Commander of the Kingsguard; he had been a prisoner of Robb’s for a long time, and she doubted the Kingslayer would’ve been treated with any kind regard. And now he had fled the city in which his other son and his brother and uncle currently resided. He was wandering aimlessly and alone, or so it seemed.

So perhaps it wasn’t that she wondered whether Ser Jaime deserved her hatred. Perhaps she just knew that the Father was already rendering his judgment and delivering his punishment.

While Sansa was momentarily lost in thought, Arya had been continuing to chew her lip, looking very deep in thought. Eventually Arya looked around them in all directions while speaking in a murmur, “I need to tell you something. I need to tell it now when no one is around to hear.”

Sansa felt her eyes widen and she leaned so her sister could speak right into her ear.

“Remember the prisoners I told you about? The ones Yoren was taking to the Wall while I traveled with him?”

Sansa nodded.

“Remember I told you I saved three of them from burning alive?”

She nodded again, though had no clue what her sister could possibly be leading to.

“One of them is… he’s some kind of assassin.”

“Alright…” Sansa blinked.

“He came for me at Riverrun after you left. He had sought me out at Harrenhal, but it was just after we escaped.”

Sansa gasped, “He tried to kill you?”

“No, listen. He said the Red God – I think that’s like his equivalent of the Stranger – is owed three lives since I took those three lives from him by saving the men.”

“What kind of nonsense—”

“Listen!” Arya hissed. “He asked for three names, but I could only give him two.”

Sansa felt all the blood in her body surge to her skin like the pricks of a million dull pins. She felt hot and cold from head to toe as she had when Ser Gregor plucked her out of the makeshift prison.

“Your list… You gave him Joffrey and Cersei’s names…” Sansa spoke in little more than a breath.

Arya nodded, “Sansa I didn’t half believe him. But now… Now I do. And I owe him one more name. He’s probably around here somewhere and any day now he’s going to come to me and demand another name. I wanted to be able to tell him the name of whoever killed Robb, but I don’t know it. I thought maybe you could see if the Old Lion knows.”

Sansa’s heart was racing with yet a new discovery of power. If Arya was to be believed – and Sansa had come to trust her sister’s judgment better than anyone else’s – this man was a powerful assassin.

And Sansa was a wealthy woman.

“I already know,” she answered quietly, “And I will give you – and him – that name. But I wish to meet this man.”

“A woman has fire in her heart.”

Sansa jumped in her seat and would have screamed for Ser Eryk, but that Arya’s hand was pressed to her mouth, the other behind her head so Sansa’s couldn’t rear back and scream to her guards.

Her eyes darted to the man who crouched on the ground behind their bench, his chin rested on his folded hands, a half-smile on his lips.

“Sansa, be quiet,” Arya whispered, “This is him. This is Jaqen H’ghar. He won’t hurt us.”

Sansa nodded slowly and her sister released her. She eyed the man whose hair was two different colors just as his face was simultaneously handsome and not. He was wearing the crimson armor of Tywin’s Red Cloaks, and as she studied him warily, he studied her with amusement, as if her face was not new to him but perhaps still novel.

“How did you do it?” she whispered breathlessly.

“Does a man ask a woman how she commands the man who commands the realm?” he flicked his eyes down to her cleavage and though it was a crude and utterly disrespectful gesture, it felt somehow sterile – an objective appraisal rather than a man’s lustful gaze.

“Eww!” Arya hissed, “Stop it! She’s my sister!”

“A girl’s sister is a beautiful woman with many names on her tongue. The Red God approves.”

Arya tsked but turned back to face Sansa, “Well. Who was it? Who killed Robb?”

Sansa ignored her sister, “You won’t get the name – the third name – until you tell me who you are.”

“A man serves the Red God.”

“Only the Red God?”

The man’s smile became knowing, “A woman wishes a man would serve her.”

“Perhaps,” she sniffed, “it would be convenient to be able to engage such a service… from time to time.”

“The service a woman speaks of comes at a steep price.”

“Yet you have given three for free.”

“Free? Three lives was the price.”

“So that is your fee? A life for a life?”

“The fee is proportionate to the life given to the Red God.”

Sansa snorted, “So the two rapers my sister saved were counterweights to… you know who.”

The man only blinked at her, and Sansa thought she understood. Cersei and Joffrey’s souls were worth no more than the vile criminals Arya had saved. It almost made her smile to hope that Cersei knew that her golden hair and jade eyes and feigned smiles couldn’t fool the Gods. At least, they couldn’t fool this man’s God.

“Nonetheless,” she continued, wincing at the pressure on her bladder. (Gods forbid she spend a half an hour away from the privy these days.) “I’d like to know how to contact you.”

The man passed an amused look at Arya and produced an old metal coin seemingly out of thin air, “Show this to any Braavosi. Now a man has said enough. A man needs a name.”

Sansa chewed her lip and looked between the man and her sister, “May I have a few more moments to confer with my sister?”

The man rolled his eyes but seemed more entertained than annoyed, “A girl and a woman have too many names.” Nonetheless, he stood and took two large and completely silent steps backwards.

Sansa leaned in and whispered in Arya’s ear, “Petyr Baelish killed Robb. Well, his sellswords did on his command—”

“What?! Why?!”

“He was in Bitterbridge to negotiate an alliance between Houses Tyrell and Lannister. Robb beat him to it, so he killed him instead and confessed it to Tywin because he thought his action meant he deserved to be given Winterfell. And its heir.”

Arya pulled back and widened her eyes, and while Sansa feared she would question whether Tywin was being truthful, she instead looked surprisingly accepting.

Then, Sansa knew why. After darting her eyes toward the hedge to make sure Ser Eryk and Ser Colton were still far away, Arya brought her mouth to Sansa’s ear again, “The Hound told me something. He was drunk so I didn’t give it much stock, but…”

“What? What did he tell you?”

“He said Starks should stay out of Harrenhal lands. That Littlefinger’s only interest in Starks is to kill the men and fuck the women.”

Sansa’s heart was racing, “How could he have known about Robb?”

Arya shook her head, moving so they were face to face, three hand-widths between Tully blue and Stark grey, “He said Littlefinger betrayed Father. The Hound was there in the throne room when they all turned on Father. I didn’t believe the Hound though. Mother always said Littlefinger was her friend. But now…?”

Sansa grasped her sister’s shoulders, “A dog will die for you but never lie to you. Sandor Clegane drinks too much, curses too much, and fights too much… But if he told you that, it was no lie.”

Arya nodded and took a deep breath, which Sansa echoed though for very different reasons. The pain in her back and belly was becoming unbearable, but she didn’t want to speak of such things around this man Jaqen who was staring at them from a reasonable distance away as if he was simultaneously bored and entertained – yet another of his dichotomous traits.

“Choose wisely, sister,” Sansa kissed Arya on the cheek and pushed herself from the bench, slipping the coin into the crevice between her breasts which earned a cocked eyebrow from the mysterious man.

“Wait – don’t you want to—”

Sansa shook her head and squeezed Arya’s shoulder, “I trust you, but if I don’t get to the privy, I’m going to have a very unqueenly incident. We’ll sup together tonight?”

“Aye, a girl will sup with a woman,” Arya spoke in a deep voice while rolling her eyes.

Sansa tipped her head at the man who bowed deeply and – by the look of it – sarcastically.

 

Arya

So many names…

Ser Ilyn. Ser Meryn. Ser Boros. Roose Bolton. Ser Gregor. Polliver. The Tickler. Chiswyck. Raff.

And now Petyr Baelish.

Arya couldn’t even put order to it, anymore. By level of pure evil, Ser Gregor and the Tickler were top of the list. There was no method to their madness. They hurt and killed because they enjoyed it.

But Ser Meryn and Ser Boros had beat Sansa – and seemed to enjoy it, from what Sansa had told her.

But Petyr Baelish killed Robb and betrayed their father which led to his death.

But Ser Ilyn had been the one to take Father’s head.

But Polliver had Needle.

But Roose Bolton had betrayed her family. And he’d have skinned her mother alive.

With a groan, Arya took Raff and Chiswyck out of the running. Gods willing, they’d mess with the wrong men someday and get what they had coming.

She thought the same of Ser Boros and Ser Meryn. If the Old Lion really did care about Sansa, he ought to have them both gelded.

And Polliver? He wasn’t the worst on the list by far. He had no apparent lust for torture the way the Tickler did, and though she was dying to get her sword back, she could not base this decision on a purely selfish motive.

Alright, let’s run through this again…

Petyr Baelish. Roose Bolton. Ser Gregor. The Tickler. Ser Ilyn.

Ser Ilyn had killed Father. Had used Ice to do it, too – the ultimate insult. But… But he was acting under orders. Just like the bloody Hound had been when he ran down Mycah. And Sansa was afraid of the man but he had never hurt her nor done anything but kill under the King’s orders, as far as either of them knew.

Petyr Baelish. Roose Bolton. Ser Gregor. The Tickler.

Alright… Perhaps the Hound would finally sober up and take care of his brother. He had told her when she found him at the Inn that he was waiting for his brother to meander by so he could kill him. And perhaps he’d take care of the Tickler, too, since he was one of Ser Gregor’s lackeys.

Petyr Baelish. Roose Bolton.

“A man grows impatient.”

“A man can give a girl a minute!”

Jaqen took a seat next to her, “How many names?”

“I’ve narrowed it down to two. But…”

“Flip a coin,” he shrugged.

“Can’t I give you two more names? Then I’ll owe you one.”

“The Red God is not the Iron Bank.”

“Please? I’ll save someone’s life. Actually, I already did save someone’s life. Ser Gregor would’ve killed Sansa, so I ran and got the old lion. Actually, that’s two lives because Sansa was probably already with child by then!”

“One name or else a man will decide for a girl.”

Arya groaned and buried her face in her hands. On the one hand, Petyr Baelish killed Robb and perhaps contributed to Father’s death. Roose hadn’t killed anyone she loved, but he would have. And that offense would have been worse – torturing their mother over the course of hours, all while the Boltons were supposed to be their sworn bannermen… Bannermen she’d never be able to trust in the future. Bannermen who’d always resented being ruled over by House Stark.

And while Arya had heard that Petyr Baelish owned brothels, she had heard worse things about Roose Bolton. Uncle Brynden told her that Roose’s son Ramsay was conceived when Roose raped a woman after killing her husband in front of her. He also said that Roose bragged about his son being as cold and calculating as he was – that he had offered to send Ramsay to Winterfell after the news had travelled that Theon had sacked their home. That Roose had said Ramsay would be happy to deal with them “the Bolton way”.

Fuck, I forgot about Theon! He definitely deserves to die!

“Urgh!” she growled. Damn Sansa for leaving her to make the decision! She was probably in her chambers eating and propping her swollen feet up.

Alright… She could make sure Theon was dealt with when they took Winterfell, so it made little sense to waste Jaqen’s priceless favor on him.

So it’s Petyr Baelish or Roose Bolton.

Petyr Baelish or Roose Bolton.

Petyr Baelish or Roose Bolton.

“Lady Arya!”

She literally jumped off of the bench and found Sansa’s new guard catching his breath from several paces away. She looked to her left and right, but Jaqen was nowhere to be seen.

“Well, what is it?”

The man panted, “Your sister, the queen, bids you come. Her labor has started.”

“What?! No, it’s too early!”

The man’s face, already flushed from running, became redder than his armor, “Her… eh, water… It came out while we were escorting her back to the royal apartments.”

“Fuck! I’m coming!” she ran after the guard who turned to run behind her and the two of them darted out of the Godswood and through courtyards, around ladies with their oversized skirts and fat lords who moved slower than donkeys hauling rocks.

People blurred by her, and she only knew she hadn’t lost Sansa’s guard by the clink of his sword against his thigh armor with every step. They bounded across the bridge into Maegor’s, running past red cloaks and maids as Arya huffed and puffed up the many stairs until Sansa’s bedchamber came into view.

She entered to find the bony old maester, the very un-bony Lady Genna, and the king himself gathered around Sansa’s bed. Sansa looked pale but smiled when Arya came in, which seemed like a good sign.

Arya ignored Lady Genna who seemed to be telling the maester how to do his job in a very angry whisper. She sat on the bed beside her sister, and it was only then that she got a good look at the Old Lion’s face. He somehow looked paler than Sansa, and he was sitting as still as a statue, his eyes not looking at anyone. Arya was certain if she waved a hand in front of his face, he wouldn’t see that, either.

Sansa turned to Arya, her expression pointed, “Would you ask Ser Eryk to send someone to fetch Ser Kevan, please?” She had used her calm, queenly voice, and Arya wasn’t sure what to make of it. Genna snapped her head toward the sisters and, after a heartbeat, nodded in approval.

Arya walked toward the door and spoke the words though they didn’t sound right coming out of her mouth. Then she walked numbly back. She didn’t know why there was so much tension in the room, she only knew it was disconcerting. Didn’t babes sometimes come early? Mother said Rickon came a fortnight early, Arya a sennight early, Bran a sennight late. It wasn’t precise, like counting on the sun to rise each morning and set each night; each babe took a different among of time to fully bake.

And then she realized… If the babe was almost a moon early, they all doubted it was the king’s babe. Maybe they wondered if something didn’t happen to Sansa during the riots, after all. Maybe they wondered if something happened to her at Harrenhal before the Old Lion rode in.

What if this babe came out looking like a Stark instead of a Tully or a Lannister? Dark hair and grey eyes… like Gregor Clegane. Arya knew her sister was a maiden when she laid with the Old Lion, but… But he didn’t know because Arya told her to break her own maidenhead. Oh gods, what had she been thinking?!

Sansa grimaced and curled forward but Arya couldn’t even begin to think of comforting her. All she could think about was how she might be able to save her sister if the babe came out looking like anything other than a Lannister or Tully. Or if it came out bigger than a babe of eight moons ought to be.

Maybe she could find the Hound. Maybe she could find Jaqen. They and her and Uncle Brynden and the two dozen guards from Riverrun… Maybe they could spirit Sansa away and…

The Old Lion pounced forward and grabbed Sansa but not to hurt her. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her forehead against his.

“I’m sorry…” he whispered. Arya wasn’t sure the others could hear, but she could.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry… I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…”

Oh… He doesn’t think she’s bringing another man’s child into the world.

He thinks she’s going to die.

 

Tywin

What the hell had he been thinking, spilling his seed in someone so young?

Jaime had been right. He was just like Tytos, thinking with his cock instead of his brain.

And why had he not objected when she told him she would walk the gardens with her sister, knowing that she’d been having cramping the past few days?

And why had he fucked her like a horny fucking dog last night?! He had done this. He had made the babe come too soon!

He knew what Genna’s look meant. And Pycelle’s, that crusty old cunt. They were doing the math to determine where Sansa had been approximately nine moons ago, before Tywin had arrived at Harrenhal, and who she’d been with…

With Ser Gregor’s men, whose predilections were widely known.

On a ship from King’s Landing to Maidenpool… with a bunch of sailors.

In King’s Landing, where by now it was known amongst his family that she had been the subject of Joffrey’s malice.

It made no matter that they weren’t thinking her wanton. All that mattered was that they thought she had lied to Tywin – claimed to be untouched before laying with him, when now they believed she hadn’t been.

But he believed her. Sansa had impressed him with many skills in their short marriage but lying was not one of them.

Genna and Pycelle were probably wondering what to tell everyone if Sansa birthed a babe that looked like Gregor Clegane or Meryn Trant or some nameless swarthy sailor.

He was wondering what he would do if she died because her young body wasn’t ready for this.

And maybe wondering if age had nothing to do with it. Maybe this was the way the Gods chose to punish Tywin Lannister for his many crimes – that he’d never have a child willing and worthy of carrying on his name; that he’d lose any woman he ever let into his heart.

Which he had. He knew it now, watching Sansa wince when a pain came (Pycelle said she still had many hours or perhaps days yet). It wasn’t fear of losing his hold on the North and Riverlands. It wasn’t fear of losing the child that was trying to come into the world a moon too early. It was fear of losing her. She was no diamond in the rough that he needed to hone and polish. She was a masterpiece just as she was, plucked out of the mine and ready to be dropped into the prongs of a Casterly gold ring. Her instincts were perfect, and it was only a matter of him encouraging her to listen to them.

And in his excitement over all they could accomplish together in the future, he hadn’t stopped to worry about whether they would even have a future.

Was this his lesson in humility? Or was this his punishment for more sins than he could count?

He only knew that if the Gods took yet another wife and left behind yet another dwarf, he’d know they had a sick sense of humor. 

He didn’t remember being steered into the king’s solar, nor being handed a goblet of wine. He didn’t remember Tyrion entering, or the Blackfish, but both were here, drinking his wine. Kevan didn’t drink though, just stood with arms crossed over his belly.

Sansa’s bedchamber was a floor below, and still they could hear her occasional screams and grunts. Tywin knew that meant it wouldn’t be long now, one way or another. He heard Genna’s voice – the loudest roarer of them all – ordering Sansa to push. She ought to be leading battle rallies; probably half the city heard her.

When whatever noises were being made became too low to hear from this distance, Tywin watched his three companions become alert. Silence was more terrifying than screams.

Then there were more sounds, and Tywin didn’t think his heart could take it.

Then there was more silence, and he knew he couldn’t take it.

Then, eventually, footsteps.

Then Sansa’s maid Cheryse, panting at the threshold of the solar, “Your grace, ‘tis done.”

“She…?” that was as much as he could utter but it was enough for Cheryse’s lips to fracture into a smile.

He ran like a child down the stairs and almost barreled over Pycelle to run to the bed where he found his former cupbearer holding his former mistress’ cheeks and whispering to her. The midwife was massaging Sansa’s belly. They all as one looked up to Tywin and Sansa smiled weakly at him, and then he was the one holding her cheeks.

“Sansa,” he whispered, because what could he say that would adequately express his relief and gratitude in that moment?

She nodded then grinned mischievously even if sleepily, “I’m never doing that again.”

He chuckled.

“Ty… Care to meet them?”

He turned around but Genna wasn’t facing him. She was leaning over the table tending to his child or… children?

His sister turned around with two tiny bundles tucked against her right arm, her left hand flat against their bellies to steady them, her fingers almost spanning the combined width of them.

Twins… Not one babe born early. Two babes born right on time.

He approached timidly and saw that Genna had left the blankets loose on each of his children, so that they could hold hands, which they were doing even though they seemed to be asleep.

“They’re girls,” Genna spoke in a careful voice.

He vaguely realized she was speaking that way to soften some sort of blow, but how could he complain about having two healthy babes and a healthy wife?

He scooped up both bundles and brought them to his wife and goodsister who cooed and cried and fawned over the babes.

Then Arya threw her head back and flopped to her back, cackling and rolling around while her sister watched on in perplexed amusement.

“What is so funny?” Tywin finally asked, using his kingliest voice.

“Two girls! Three kingdoms to pass down, and she gave you two girls!”

Tywin rolled his eyes, “That isn’t what is important. It isn’t her fault.”

“I know! That wasn’t the funniest part.”

Sansa sighed, “What, dare I ask, is the funniest part?”

“I was just thinking what you should name them!”

“And what might that be?” Tywin scoffed, preparing himself for something either juvenile or crude.

“Sarina and Lisbeth!”

For a moment it sounded like a good idea.

Then Tywin realized that he would forever associate the name ‘Lisbeth’ with an irksome, defiant little twit. And ‘Sarina’ with… Well, with nothing he’d want to think of when looking upon one of his daughters.

He was about to open his mouth to protest when he heard the bells ringing. A few heartbeats later, the ringing was drowned out by the sound of cheers.

It took them two days to settle on the names of the princesses, who appeared to be identical though it was hard to say definitively at this age. The firstborn, who was ever so slightly bigger, was named Jeyne after Tywin’s mother. The second, who was the smaller and quieter of the pair, was named Jocelyn after a great-aunt of Sansa’s on the Stark side.

 

Arya

Watching someone give birth was exhausting, and as Arya made her way out of Maegor’s, she felt half-dead. Perhaps even more tired than the day and night that she and Sansa and Gendry had run then walked then stumbled through the Riverlands.

Arya had sat with Sansa for a while afterwards, even though it was odd to watch her sister nurse the babes. Sansa had been half asleep, but the midwife said it was important that a mother nurse her babes in the first few days because the early milk was special, something wetnurses wouldn’t produce.

Arya had asked Sansa what it felt like to be a mother. She wasn’t sure why she wanted to know.

Sansa had shrugged, “It feels like nothing else will ever matter. It feels like I don’t even matter… not as a woman or queen, at least. I feel like I only matter because of them.”

“Oh. That’s…”

Sansa had smiled, “It’s a good feeling, Arya. Freeing. A part of me lives in them. If I were to leave this world tomorrow, there would be a bit of me left in it. Perhaps, somehow, I’d live on through them. Perhaps somehow Father lives on through you and me, and now through my children. And someday he’ll live on through your children.”

Sansa would never know, but her words had inspired Arya in the most unexpected of ways, and so she found herself sitting on the bench in the Godswood, her head occasionally bobbing down and back up as she would fall asleep and instantly awaken from the sensation of falling.

“A girl is an aunt.”

“A girl is tired.”

“Then a girl must give a man a name so she can go back to her bed.”

“I have a name.”

“Speak it.”

Arya couldn’t help but smile, “Jaqen H’ghar.”

He froze beside her, perhaps the first time she’d managed to shock him into silence. He spoke often, even if he never used enough words. Seemed almost hypocritical now that she thought about it.

“A girl japes.”

“A girl wouldn’t dare.”

“Un-speak this name,” his voice became uncharacteristically demanding.

“Why should I?”

He sighed loudly, “Un-speak it.” She could hear the annoyance and perhaps even anger in his tone.

“Or what? You won’t kill me. The Red God didn’t order you to.”

“A girl thinks she is clever.”

She turned to face him, “A girl is clever. But a girl is also shrewd. If you wish to make me un-speak your name, make it worth my while.”

“The Red God cannot be bargained with.”

“No, but I bet his servants can.”

Jaqen’s lip curled like a suspicious dog. Arya grinned, “Go on then, do your duty. Jaqen H’ghar sits right here. He’s not even defending himself. Take your kill.”

In the moonlight she could see his eyes squeeze shut. When they opened again his eyes looked like the moon itself, “What is the girl’s price to un-speak this name?”

“I suppose I could order you to serve me for the rest of your life. To do my bidding.”

“A man would sooner drive a dagger into his heart. The price is too steep.”

“I know. I’m not unreasonable no matter what anyone says.”

He rolled his eyes, “A man thinks anyone is right…”

“Two names. Two deaths promised and I will un-speak your name.”

He shook his head, “The Red God will not approve. Is out of balance.”

She stood and crossed her arms, “Then tell your Red God he’s not very good at his numbers and should maybe take some lessons! What counts and what doesn’t, hmm? Because it seems to me that he just picks and chooses without rhyme or reason! Three deaths owed because I saved three men? Then I suppose you owe my sister a few hundred deaths for ending the war. Maybe a few thousand. Maybe tens of thousands. You owe her one at the very least – she saved our mother from being skinned alive by Roose Bolton! So, are you going to give us two deaths or am I walking away with Jaqen H’ghar’s name on my tongue?”

The look he gave her was almost enough to frighten her. Perhaps she had pushed too far…

He stood and extended his hand, “Un-speak a man’s man and a girl gets an extra name.”

She shook his hand vigorously, “I un-speak the name Jaqen H’ghar.”

“The names?”

She took a deep breath, “Roose Bolton.”

“And?”

“And… Ramsay Bolton.”

Jaqen’s eyebrow moved halfway up his forehead, “A line ended.”

“Aye. Only a few thousand years overdue.”

“A man dislikes the cold.”

“Not a girl’s problem,” she smirked.

He turned without ceremony and began walking away, still wearing the armor of a Red Cloak, and she wondered whether it was borrowed from someone who’d never need it back.

Then she heard a small tinkling sound and watched something glint in the moonlight as it came toward her, flipping over itself until she reached out and caught it in her left palm.

She smiled down at the coin that matched the one Sansa had been given… Was that yesterday or two days ago? Fuck, I need sleep.

“A girl could be more powerful without a name,” he repeated what he had told her a couple months ago at Riverrun. It made no more sense now than it did then.

“A girl likes her name,” she called to his back, no longer caring that someone might overhear them. She was no one’s ward. She was the queen’s sister, and she could come and go as she pleased and have a conversation with a Red Cloak if she wanted to.

She was surprised when he turned around and smiled, “A man likes it, too.”

Notes:

Satisfied? Hate me? Love me?

Chapter 22: We lied

Notes:

Remember when I said this would be about 80K words? Oh what a silly girl I was back then!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Sansa

A year ago, Sansa would have idolized Margaery Tyrell to the point of worship. She would have perhaps aspired to be her – all coy smiles and clever words and tight dresses and big brown eyes that made her look innocent and beguiling at the same time.

But a lot had changed in a year, and if there was a Tyrell woman worth emulating it was the grandmother, not the granddaughter. Lady Olenna suffered no fools. Lady Olenna minced no words. Lady Olenna offered no empty niceties.

The old woman and matriarch of the Tyrell family (officially her son and gooddaughter ruled; unofficially nothing happened without the old lady’s consent) arrived in the capital with her back straight (or as straight as it could be, at her age), her chin high, and her eyes cloudy but still piercing. She showed no shame and no remorse that a few months ago her kingdom had been in open rebellion against King Joffrey and, by extension, House Lannister. No guilt that House Tyrell had once again resorted to starving out their enemy to try to win a war. 

While Sansa didn’t exactly admire the woman’s seeming lack of compassion, Sansa was tempted to bring a scrap of parchment and quill to any meeting with the woman so she could record her clever turns of phrase and take notes on being a woman in complete control of a situation. Of course, Sansa would never refer to her personal guards as ‘right’ and ‘left’, but in other ways she found herself thinking ‘I want to be just like her when I grow up!’… Then she’d remember she was nearly seven and ten and a mother, to boot. Oh, and a queen.

Lady Olenna’s unfiltered demeanor came at a perfect time, as Arya and Uncle Brynden had left for Riverrun a sennight past. In another moon Ser Kevan would meet them there after a stop at Harrenhal with a battalion of Lannister soldiers. Together the Lannisters, under Ser Kevan’s command, along with Riverlanders and Northerners under Ser Brynden’s and Lord Umber’s command, would march to Winterfell and reclaim what Theon Greyjoy had taken. Sansa didn’t know whether she was excited or frightened.

She had to push her thoughts aside to focus on the conversation around her. Tywin, Sansa, Tyrion, Genna, Tommen, Olenna, Margaery, and Loras were having their first private dinner together. Of course, there had been a feast to welcome their Tyrell ‘friends’, but feasts were hardly conducive to alliance discussions. Then Lady Olenna had spent a sennight sequestered in their guest apartments, recuperating from the journey. More likely, she was receiving reports from spies she had in the capital and giving her grandchildren a chance to observe Tywin during court. Tywin also mumbled about how, by making him wait, Olenna was trying to set the tone of the upcoming negotiations in her favor – as if she was here as a favor to the King, not to beg the king’s mercy.  

To foster an impression of cordiality between the houses recently at odds, Sansa sat at one end of the table with Ser Loras to her right. To his right was Lady Genna, then Tyrion, who sat next to his father at the other end of the table. Across from Tyrion was Lady Margaery. To Margaery’s right was Tommen. To Tommen’s right and Sansa’s left, Lady Olenna. It put Lady Margaery next to one potential husband and across from the other.

So far, Tyrion was behaving – only on his third goblet of wine. Tommen was regaling Margaery with tales of his kittens, making Tywin work his jaw back and forth, which made Sansa press her lips together to keep from smirking. When she made the mistake of meeting Tyrion’s eyes, she had to pass off her snort as a sneeze, even going so far as to beg for pardons.

“Your grace, I understand there is no one better qualified to give a tour of the Godswood than you.”

Sansa turned and blinked at Ser Loras, who’d been perfectly polite but rather quiet all evening, but was now looking at her as if his very life depended on her response.

It took her a moment to reorient her distracted brain, “Are you complimenting me on my tour-guiding abilities or inviting me on a stroll, Ser?”

He smiled at her playful retort, “The latter, if it would please her grace.”

She tipped her head, “It would indeed. Winter is coming; one must enjoy the blooms before they’re gone.”

Ser Loras looked pleased, and Sansa dared to glance at her husband. The man missed nothing. Though his eyes were fixed politely on Lady Margaery as she told the Lannister men about her favorite features of Highgarden, they turned to capture Sansa’s gaze as soon as it was cast his direction. His look was not suspicious, exactly – after all, Loras Tyrell was the last man in the Seven Kingdoms who might have designs on Tywin Lannister’s wife – but she saw a flare of something for a moment.

She sipped her watered wine without breaking eye contact, even deciding to up the ante by arching one brow, then taking her time licking her lips of the red wine before gingerly placing the goblet back down.

In truth, she enjoyed having his eyes on her, no matter the reason. When his eyes were on her, they weren’t on lithe and petite Margaery Tyrell, who made Sansa feel positively ungainly by contrast. Being at least half a head taller than the other young woman would have been bad enough, but Sansa felt as round as a dairy cow as well. She knew she wasn’t, of course, but being slender-bordering-on-skinny her entire life made the extra weight she carried a month after birthing twins feel like the difference between Arya and Ser Gregor.

Tywin was the first to peel his eyes away, and Sansa couldn’t help the small smile that formed, knowing she’d won that round. She wouldn’t call it a game, exactly, but whenever she and her husband were at odds over a subject he would try to glare her into submission. Clearly, the power worked on everyone else on the realm, but Sansa was too proud and perhaps too stubborn (and here she thought Arya inherited all the stubborn in their family) to yield. More often than not, Tywin’s intimidating mien would eventually morph into something appreciative, even lustful. It was harder to keep his eyes then, with her cheeks blazing like a hot poker.

Lady Olenna hummed beside her even as she brought a spoonful of soup to her lips, “Such a shame about your brother, child. If he had half your brains and your spirit, I’d have been honored to call him my grandson.”

Sansa’s mouth fell open at hearing the words that were blunt even by Lady Olenna’s standards. Looking around the table she could see she wasn’t alone.

Eventually she shook away her shock, “I can assure you that Lords Tommen and Tyrion each have plenty of brains and spirit.”

Olenna lifted one shoulder, “Perhaps. Time will tell. What about your sister? Your brother told Loras she’s a feisty one.”

Sansa nodded, “She is indeed, though I must tell you that if you’re inquiring after hand, she is betrothed to another.”

“Hmpf. To someone more worthy than the heir to Highgarden?”

Sansa bit her lower lip and looked to Tywin for guidance. He only raised his eyebrow and she felt rather like a child being tossed in a pond to either sink or learn how to swim. She took a deep breath and made sure her face revealed nothing, “To someone who helped protect her even when he knew her only as a peasant and not a daughter of Ned Stark.”

Lady Olenna frowned, “A knight?”

Sansa smiled lightly, “A blacksmith.”

A sound much like that of a cat coughing up a hairball came from the lady’s throat, “A what?”

“A blacksmith. A distinguished one at that. Learned from Tobho Mott.”

Lady Olenna’s mouth kept opening and closing, and Sansa wondered if the woman had ever been speechless before this moment.

Feeling wicked, reckless, or both, Sansa sipped her wine and continued, “I know the match is unorthodox, but if you ever get the chance to lay your eyes on my soon-to-be goodbrother, I’m sure you’ll understand the appeal.”

While Lady Genna laughed uproariously, Sansa looked at her husband. You tossed me into the water, husband. See? I can swim just fine, though perhaps not as gracefully as you’d like…

Lady Olenna had finally recovered, “Well, I’ve always advised my granddaughter and nieces – you can’t go wrong by marrying a man who’s dumb and handsome.”

Down the table Tyrion made an exaggerated wince, “I suppose I should just bow out now…”

Lady Margaery let a giggle rip out of her demure mouth.

“Speaking of dumb and handsome,” Lady Olenna continued, “Where’s the young lion?”

Now Tyrion and Genna were the ones sniggering while Sansa resisted the urge. Tywin moved his jaw back and forth, “He is traveling. Taking a sabbatical, if you will, which he has more than earned.”

Lady Olenna lifted her brows, “Indeed. Well, your grace, how about we call an end to the small talk and get down to business?”

Tywin tipped his head, “As you wish, my lady.”

“We’re here to unite our houses in marriage. Only I have no idea which house you mean for us to unite with. This little one,” she pointed her thumb toward Tommen, “would be Storm’s End – assuming we help you take it…”

Tywin nodded one time.

“And that little one?” Olenna gestured at Tyrion, “What is he heir to?”

“He is Hand to the King.”

Olenna sighed, “Lot of good that will do my granddaughter. She was born to be the lady of a great keep.”

“And I’m offering to make her just that,” Tywin jutted his chin toward Tommen, who sat looking not entirely certain what was going on, “Storm’s End would have been Lady Margaery’s birthright if Lord Renly hadn’t perished. If Lady of Storm’s End – wife of the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands – was good enough then, it should be good enough now.”

Olenna sucked her teeth, “Perhaps… Though what of Stannis?”

“We have war galleys beyond Shipbreaker Bay. He cannot sail to Storm’s End.”

“I meant what of those people who think Stannis, not Tommen, is the rightful heir of the Baratheon birthright?”

Tywin held his hands out, palms up, “Do you see any of those people here? Did you encounter any of them on your journey to the capital?”

Olenna turned her cloudy but alert eyes on Sansa, “And you, dear? Your father lost his poor honorable life declaring for Stannis. Have you no thoughts on the matter, your grace?”

Sansa tapped her fingernails on the table lightly, nodding as she thought through her answer, “As my brother lost his poor honorable life while treating with your grandson… This war took good men no matter what side they were on. I imagine the Stormlords and the lords of the Mander were clamoring for Lord Renly to take the throne, because they all had vested interest in his success. Just as the people of Dragonstone and parts of the Crownlands were clamoring for Lord Stannis. Just as the people of the North and Riverlands were clamoring for my brother. But it seems to me that as the war dragged on, the only thing anyone was clamoring for was peace… and bread, of course. I understand Lord Stannis is considered to be a fair and dutiful man, but not a revered one. If Lord Tommen and Lady Margaery hold Storm’s End peacefully and Tommen’s uncle wages war to try to take it, how many war-weary people do you think will back him?” Sansa shrugged her lips, “So my thoughts on the matter, Lady Tyrell, are that Lady Margaery should be honored to have the heir of Storm’s End offer his hand in marriage after you so recently tried to starve his family out of the capital. As for Lord Tyrion, whether he inherits the throne, Casterly Rock, or nothing should mean little to the woman whose children will have direct blood ties to the two wealthiest kingdoms in the realm. The Hand’s lady wife is a revered figure, a lady of court second only to the Queen in authority.”

Olenna snorted, “And yet Margaery almost was the queen. If Stannis hadn’t sent some assassin to murder Renly, it might be Margaery wearing that crown, and you begging for one of my grandsons to save you from becoming the spinster who was almost Joffrey Baratheon’s queen…”

Sansa felt her hackles rising, “And yet Margaery isn’t wearing the crown, and I haven’t heard anything that sounds like begging coming out of your mouth. So if there was a point to be found in your statement, my lady, I’ll kindly ask you to repeat it.”

For a moment Sansa wondered if she’d need to defend herself bodily from the feisty old woman. Lady Olenna looked like someone had just rubbed her nose in dogshit.

And then – she smiled, “Keep those fangs sharp, she-wolf… you’ll need them around here. This isn’t your Northlands.”

Sansa allowed herself to let out an amused snort, “You have a knack for understatement, my lady.”

“Hmpf,” Olenna turned back to face Tywin, “Storm’s End, lion. We can work out the minutiae tomorrow while your grandson occupies my granddaughter, and my grandson occupies your wife. Deal?”

Tywin’s green eyes flicked to Tommen, who might be just a tad too young to appreciate what his grandfather was doing for him. Margaery Tyrell was a beautiful woman, and with none of her older brothers yet to sire children of his own, she may yet give birth to both the heir to Storm’s End and the heir to Highgarden. At minimum, Tommen’s heir would be first cousin to the heir of Highgarden, and a close blood relation to the heir of Casterly Rock and the Iron Throne, the latter two also being blood relations to the heirs of Riverrun, Winterfell, and the Eyrie. Wait, and Tommen’s heir would also be cousin to the heir of Dorne through Myrcella…

Sansa almost gasped at realizing what her clever husband had done. In another generation, the heir to every kingdom but the Riverlands and Vale would be a descendant of Tywin Lannister – they’d have his blood even if not his name.

That night, as she nursed Jeyne, she casually raised the subject with Tywin. His response was a scoff, “You’ve just realized that?”

She rolled her eyes, “It’s been a chaotic few months, milord.”

He snorted, “I suppose it has…”

“Well, stop slacking and send a raven to Uncle Edmure demanding a match between his future son and our firstborn daughter! And my cousin Robert Arryn is only ten – we could promise him Jocelyn’s hand!” she glared at her husband, only half-facetiously as it became clear he was mixing Lannister blood into the lines of every great house.

Tywin stroked Jeyne’s head, “I’ll not be so hasty with our daughter’s hand. She may end up sitting the Iron Throne, and the man who is her consort must be intelligent, politically-savvy, and loyal beyond doubt.”

Sansa frowned, “I don’t understand…”

Tywin spoke to her but stared at their daughter, “You told me if this child was a girl, I should write a will, making clear my heirs.”

“I… You’re giving the throne to our daughter?”

Tywin shrugged, “Until you birth me a son, she will be the heir to the throne, yes.”

“But you have two sons already! No one will back Jeyne as Queen Regnant while she has not one but two older half-brothers.”

“And what if those half-brothers back her?”

Sansa shook her head, “Ser Jaime—”

“Has no interest in the throne. As much as he may hate me right now, I know my son. He would not take the throne he doesn’t want just to spite my ghost. And Jaime’s anger will burn out; it always does. I intend to make right with my son before I leave this world.”

“And Tyrion? He has more political aspirations than Ser Jaime – even I know that.”

“We’ve already discussed it. He knows better than most how heavy the crown is. He does not want the throne; he wants the Rock. He will be my heir as Warden of the West and Lord of Casterly Rock. Another title that Jaime has no interest in. The only condition being that Tyrion must take a highborn bride and that if he sires no trueborn child of his own then one of my children through you will inherit from him.”

Sansa rubbed her forehead, “Funny you didn’t mention that at supper.”

Tywin rolled his eyes, “You know I don’t want a Tyrell in my home. Let Lady Margaery and her grandmother play their games at Storm’s End, not the Rock.”

Sansa sighed, “Oh, I don’t really care about that. I worry that you set our daughter up for adversity should she ever be in the position to inherit the throne.”

“No, because we’re going to set her up for success… We are going to teach her, Sansa. She will understand ruling. She will understand commerce and trade. She will understand diplomacy. She will understand war. And as you just pointed out, she will have a cousin or other close relation in every great house in the continent. Who would go against her?”

“There is always someone. You know this. It needn’t be a lord with an army at his back. It can be one schemer. One Littlefinger.

“Then I trust her mother will teach her all about enemies disguised as friends.”

Sansa sighed deeply, “And what about friends disguised as enemies?”

The corner of her husband’s mouth ticked up, ever so slightly, “Sounds like you have a particular lesson in mind.”

“A lesson that won’t be fit for our daughter’s ears for another fifteen years – if ever!”

Tywin leaned over and kissed Sansa’s temple, “Don’t fret, wife. If nothing else, she’ll always have her sister.”

“Then I had better teach them both to never turn their back on their sister, no matter how annoying sisters can be.”

She had a suspicion that Ser Loras’ request of her company had something to do with his meeting with Robb, and she was right. They strolled through the gardens, Ser Eryk and Cheryse following at a distance – she doubted Ser Loras meant her physical harm, but she wouldn’t put it past Lady Olenna to plot something that might cast Sansa in an unfavorable light.

“You might have been my sister,” Loras spoke wistfully after they’d exchanged pleasantries about the weather, the blooms, their respective health.

Sansa sighed, “I might have been Tommen’s sister. I might have been sister to dozens of Freys. I might have been just about any man’s sister. War has a funny way of doing that.”

Ser Loras nodded, “Her grace is astute. War is funny, indeed. Pits brother against brother. Uncle against nephew. Lord against liege.”

Her walking companion seemed contemplative, and Sansa chose to give him some time, but eventually she spoke, “I do not believe you wished to speak with me about how war reshapes the branches of the noble families…”

He shook his head and looked at her dolefully, “I do not know how to breach the real reason I have sought the queen’s ear.”

“But it has something to do with my brother, no?”

He nodded, “He seemed a good man in the limited time I knew him. Though I dare say you inherited all the height in your family.”

Sansa smiled while waiting for him to go on. Indeed, she was now nearly of a height with Ser Loras. She must gave grown quite a bit since she saw him at the Hand’s Tourney and fancied herself in love with the knight of Highgarden. What a fool I was back then, not looking beyond a person’s face.

Loras continued, “I seemed to think he was an honest man, too, which is what concerns me now. My grandmother and sister are here to join our families, your grace. I am here to protect them while they do, but I’m sure you’ve noticed we brought not shortage of guards… No, the real reason I am here is because I feel a debt is owed.”

“To whom?” Sansa frowned.

“Your brother. He died while a guest in my camp. I have racked my brain to determine who might have wanted him dead when none but my most trusted man knew his identity.”

Sansa felt color rise to her cheeks, “And?”

“And I have a theory. A suspicion, really. Too unsubstantiated to warrant a trial or,” Ser Loras waved a hand, “any form of justice. But perhaps if I tell you, you will know to be wary of this individual.”

Sansa already knew who killed Robb, yet her heart beat rapidly at the idea of having it confirmed by someone who’d actually been there in Bitterbridge.

Or perhaps it was in fear of hearing a different name and being left to wonder whether her husband had lied to her.

And perhaps in fear that at this very moment Jaqen H’ghar might be taking the wrong man’s life…

“I would be glad to hear your thoughts on the matter, Ser. And whatever name you speak shall not be repeated by me.”

Ser Loras stopped them and turned to face Sansa, eyes flicking to make sure Eryk and Cheryse were out of earshot. He leaned in close, putting his lips close to Sansa’s ear and making her flush with embarrassment at the idea that a year ago her knees would’ve gone weak at the gesture.

“The former Master of Coin. Petyr Baelish,” he whispered.

He took a breath as if to speak more but Sansa backed up and held up a hand, “Say no more, Ser. I believe you, and I admit to having held the same suspicion due to opportunity and potential motive.”

Ser Loras closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them there was a hint of steel in his gaze, “He was there on behalf of someone you are now quite close to.”

She nodded, “I know.”

The knight’s brows furrowed together most comically, “You do?”

“I do. It is no surprise; you know his allegiance was to the Crown at the time.”

Ser Loras licked his dry lips, “Then you have given me a bridge to the real topic I wished to raise, though it shames me to have to have such a discussion with a lady – a queen, no less.”

“Proceed, ser. Do not fear offending my delicate sensibilities; you’ll find they are not so delicate these days.”

He smiled wanly, “Your brother suggested that Lord Lannister had… that you’d been…”

Sansa’s cheeks burned, “Ill-used? Mistreated? Defiled?”

Ser Loras’ cheeks matched hers as he closed his eyes and nodded.

Sansa nodded absently in response, buying herself time to consider her answer. She knew the realm at large was being led to believe (via “rumors” perpetuated at every winesink and marketplace in the city) that Sansa had sought out the Great Lion in a bid to end the war and get the cruel boy king off the throne. That she quickly fell in love with the irascible but capable man – a love that yielded two princesses eight moons later. But Ser Loras would know enough of the truth from Robb’s own lips to doubt Sansa if she repeated that tale of unexpected love. He would assume she was afraid of her husband, and what would that mean for this marriage between the two houses?

So, Sansa decided on something close to the truth that she hoped would not shame her husband – the man who had the fugitive Sansa Stark under his nose for many weeks without knowing it – nor her brother, who knew by Sansa’s own admission that no rape occurred yet had still wove such a tale to Ser Loras. She knew Robb acted to spare her shame, and she would not have that action now taint his memory by casting him as a liar.

She took a deep breath, “My brother would have drawn that conclusion, Ser. If you don’t mind my saying so, men tend to see the world as black or white, but this truth is a shade of grey. The truth is Lord Lannister has always been gentle with me. He has never bodily forced himself on me. That will have to be good enough, Ser, as I am already at the limit of what I am comfortable sharing with a mere acquaintance.”

Ser Loras nodded and turned to put them back on a forward path, “You have more than an acquaintance in me, your grace. You have an ally. If you told me that he had hurt you, I would have found a way to… to help you leave.”

Sansa sighed, “Thank you, Ser, but I assure you it isn’t necessary.”

“Might I be mercenary and ask for more assurance, your grace?”

She smiled, “Let me guess; you wish to know of Lord Tommen’s character.”

Loras rolled his eyes self-deprecatingly, “I hate to think I’m so transparent.”

“You have a pure heart, Ser, which means it’s easy to guess that you wish to protect the sister you love. This assurance is easy to give. Tommen is a sweet boy; nothing like Joffrey way. I dare say if I fear for either party in that union it would be him, as I suspect your sister is lovely enough to manipulate a man quite thoroughly, if she should choose to.”

“Margaery isn’t—”

“I am not accusing her of anything, Ser. She seems a sweet lady and I rather hope to count her as a friend. But perhaps you should know that a lioness protects her pride just as a she-wolf protects her pack… As I am both, I would fear for the person who tried to hurt one of my own.”

Loras stopped again and turned to face her, “I offer my aid and you respond with a threat?”

“No threat, Ser. Only a statement of fact. With all due respect, you and yours have not seen the full ugliness of war. I was in the Riverlands, Ser. I have seen things that would make you lose your lunch if I described them now. My husband and I are highly incentivized to keep the peace for as long as we both live… and hopefully a long time after that. But that doesn’t mean we will roll over to any who oppose us.”

Ser Loras snorted, “Your husband took the throne from his own grandson. If you think anyone doubts what the man is capable of…”

Sansa nodded, “If you had ever met Joffrey, you would be kissing the king’s feet to thank him.”

“So that much your brother did not exaggerate…”

“It is not possible to exaggerate the late king’s cruelty or utter ineptitude.”

“Ren—Lord Renly spoke of it, though while King Robert lived, I doubt Joffrey’s true nature was fully revealed. But Lord Renly did see something was not quite right in his nephew.”

“Many people saw what Lord Renly saw. Few did anything about it,” she spoke bitterly, “And for what it’s worth, you have my condolences, Ser. In my few interactions with your late king I found him to be a kindly man. And… rather easy on the eyes.”

Ser Loras cleared his throat, “I hardly knew him well enough or long enough to mourn, but I thank you anyway.”

Sansa nodded, “Some people we know only a short time, yet their loss wounds us deeply.”

Ser Loras nodded, but she did not wish to continue on this somber topic, “Tell me, Ser, what does the future hold for you?”

He shrugged and held his elbow out to her to resume their stroll, “I expect a match will be made for me. Grandmother has suggested one of Lord Tarly’s daughters, though I think she may explore a lady from a different kingdom. Dorne or the Vale, perhaps.”

Sansa chewed the inside of her cheek, wondering if she could be so bold…

It had been Uncle Brynden who had planted the seed in her mind, promising to return to the capital after Stark direwolves once again adorned Winterfell’s walls. It was a promise made to honor another promise made to Lady Catelyn – to protect her daughter and granddaughters. Ser Colton was a Riverlander but he was but one man. Uncle Brynden would make two. After Winterfell was taken, Arya promised to send a distinguished Northman, perhaps a third son or a bastard of a vassal lord who had proven loyal beyond doubt.

She took a deep breath and addressed her companion without turning to face him, “If that would please you, Ser, I can suggest names of lords in the North who would be willing to match you to their daughters. However, I would be remiss in not offering you an alternative – a position of high honor, though one that requires a certain sacrifice…”

Ser Loras turned to her and frowned, “I do not follow, your grace.”

Sansa tightened her grip on his forearm, “My husband and I have spoken at length about the Kingsguard, and how many kings have used their power to corrupt it. You see, the Kingsguard is only sworn to protect the king unless the king extends such protection to his family. Yet such a dictate is challenged when one member of the royal family needs protection from another member of the royal family. When a king hurts his queen, the Kingsguard are honor-bound to not intervene.”

Ser Loras pulled his arm (and thus her hand) closer to his body. She interpreted it as a reflection of his tentative excitement and continued on, “Given the war between West and North is still so fresh, my husband recognizes the importance of making sure all the kingdoms with which I have blood ties see that I am being treated as a queen should. That I am not what Rhaella Targaryen was to the Mad King, or even what Cersei Lannister was to King Robert…”

“You wish to have your own Queensguard,” he spoke with awe in his voice.

“Indeed. Seven men who will have identical armor and uniforms as the Kingsguard, but silver accents in place of the gold to show that, while they protect the entire royal household, including the king, they answer first and foremost to the queen. Ser Colton, a man sworn to House Tully, has already agreed. Ser Eryk will transfer from the Kingsguard to the Queensguard. My uncle, Ser Brynden Tully, will be another member. My sister will select a Winterfell man. This leaves me with three positions to fill.”

Once again Ser Loras halted their progress and turned to face her, “Are you… Your grace, are you offering me a place on your Queensguard?”

Offering, yes. You are under no obligation to accept. I understand not every man wishes to give up the chance to hold lands and take a wife.”

His eyes lit up and the corner of his mouth curved, but just as quickly the smile was banished, “My grandmother…”

Sansa arched an eyebrow, “Would insult the queen and the gods by trying to interfere?”

Ser Loras shook his head, “If she catches wind of this…”

“Then let’s make sure she doesn’t until you’ve had the chance to deliberate.”

He took a deep breath, “My brothers and sister. I had thought… I had hoped to remain in close proximity to them.”

“There will be fourteen men protecting the royal family instead of seven. Surely that means we can spare a man or two at a time so that he may visit his kin in, say, the Reach or the Stormlands. And perhaps his kin will find reason to visit the capital from time to time.”

Ser Loras bit his plump bottom lip, “Will your husband approve, your grace?”

“Haven’t you been listening, Ser? This is the Queensguard, not the Kingsguard.”

Ser Loras glared at her until Sansa rolled her eyes, “Fine. Yes, my husband will approve. He is sincere in his desire to see our houses joined and to see that bond as strong as can be. He seeks only peace and prosperity, which the realm will never have if the two kingdoms with the deepest coffers and largest armies are perpetually at odds.”

Ser Loras nodded, then his lips curved into a wry grin, “I understand that a Kingsguard may make his pledge in the throne room or even in the Great Sept before the High Septon.”

“He may,” Sansa nodded.

“But I also understand such formality is not necessary. So long as the pledge is made before the King – or in this case the Queen – and at least one witness, it is a binding oath.”

Sansa frowned, “There is no rush, Ser.”

“See, you think that because you’re not a grandson of Olenna Tyrell,” Ser Loras smiled.

Sansa chuckled, “I will say no more.”

The knight twisted his body to face their distant chaperones, “Ser, madam… Would you lend us your eyes and ears for a moment?”

Cheryse and Eryk approached with matching expressions of confusion. Ser Loras seemed amused by it but straightened his face as he dropped to one knee, leaning on his sword which was stuck into the ground. He bowed his head and made his vows, swearing before the gods he would be Queen Sansa’s sword and shield; that he would offer his counsel when requested and keep it when not; that he would keep her secrets; that he would defend her name and honor; that he would forsake all titles, take no wife, and father no children; that he would lay down his life before letting harm befall her; and that if she gave the command he would extend his duty to her children, her husband, or any other member of her family.

Sansa knew, roughly, what to say in return – she had seen it done a few times – but she did not know what words were appropriate for a Queensguard – quite different than a sworn shield.

So, she used her judgment and amended where she saw fit, given her silent understanding of Ser Loras’ primary motive in accepting the appointment, “And I vow that you, Ser Loras of House Tyrell, shall always have a place by my hearth and meat and mead at my table. I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring dishonor upon you. I pledge to hear your counsel and keep your secrets as you keep mine. I swear it under witness of the old gods and the new. Arise Ser Loras, knight of the Queensguard.”

It was only in saying the final words that Sansa realized the magnitude of what had just transpired. When Ser Loras rose with shimmering eyes and a tight smile, she knew he shared the sentiment. He brought her hand to his lips for a kiss, mouthed a ‘thank you’, and then accepted Ser Eryk’s slaps to the back with grace. Sansa rolled her eyes and looped arms with Cheryse to return to the keep while the first two members of her Queensguard got to know one another.

 

A fortnight later…

Arya

She was fairly certain she had walked past this very spot with Gendry and Sansa back in that other lifetime when they were prisoners on the run. When they were the sisters to three brothers. When Sansa was neither a mother nor a queen.

“I don’t think he’s coming,” she whispered to her mother.

“He will come. Have faith.”

She shook her head and spoke more loudly, like a petulant child might, “What if he doesn’t? Who else can help us?”

“He will come, Arya. He is my oldest friend.”

“He serves the Lannisters! He’ll never help Sansa!” she all but shouted.

Just as expected, after another minute, shadowed figures came into view, though still some distance away. She watched them move as one. Six that walked like soldiers and one who walked like someone whose cock was too big for his body, though she highly doubted that such was the case.

“Petyr!” her mother hissed, “Is that you?”

The figure’s hand went up, halting the men around him as he continued and eventually came into view by pulling back a cowl. He was already smiling at her mother with false sympathy, “Cat,” he held open his arms, “I was not expecting you to contact me, but I am glad that you did.”

Mother all but collapsed into his embrace, “Petyr, please tell me I still have your friendship, because if not, we are out of hope.”

Petyr stroked his hands through Catelyn’s hair a few times before pushing her away gently and plastering on that same disgusting smile, “Cat, you will always have a special place in my heart. I wanted to come to you so many times in these past years, but you understand why I couldn’t.”

Catelyn shook her head, “You once told me you love my children as if they were your nieces and nephews. If this is true, then you must help us.”

For the first time Petyr let his gaze travel to Arya, though he said nothing to her, instead turning back to her mother, “My dear Cat… when I learned of the deaths of your boys it felt as if I’d lost a piece of myself.”

“Then help us. Help us save Sansa.”

“Save her?” he asked innocently, almost dumbly. Fucking weasel…

“From the Old Lion,” Arya spat, “I’ve just been to the capital. I’ve spoken to my sister. She is miserable and she lives in fear. The only reason she is still alive is because she gave him daughters instead of sons.”

Petyr winced, “I have heard theirs is a love match. Moreover, I have heard she chose the lion.”

Arya stomped her foot, “She chose him only to save our mother. And she doesn’t love him! He makes her act that way, and she does because she’s terrified of him! And now that she has Jeyne and Jocelyn, she is even more afraid. He has threatened to not let her see them if she doesn’t act and speak just as he tells her to.”

Petyr shook his head, “You ask me to go against the king? This is more than even I’m capable of.”

“No,” Catelyn held up a hand, “We have a way to get Sansa out. Arya had discovered secret tunnels while she lived in the capital with Ned. She showed one to Sansa’s sworn shield – he is a Tully man, loyal to us, not the lions. But after just giving birth Sansa was in no shape to travel. But soon…”

“Then what do you need of me?” Petyr asked, his tone suddenly sharp. He wants us desperate…

“Because right now Lannisters hold the Moat, and men loyal to the Lannisters hold the Twins.”

Petyr stroked his goatee, “You need help taking one of the passageways to the North.”

Catelyn nodded lightly, “We cannot sneak an army through the Neck undetected.”

Petyr shook his head, “You have to do more than get through the Neck. You need to be able to retake Winterfell and then hold the North.”

Arya nodded, “Aye, that’s why, as we speak, we have someone taking care of the Boltons.”

Petyr turned to face her, this time looking genuinely confused, “Who?”

“None of your business until I know which side you’re on.”

Petyr scoffed, “Does my decades’ long friendship with your mother not prove where my loyalty lays?”

Arya pointed in the general direction of southeast, “Who gave you that castle?”

Petyr shook his head, “I did not ask for it. The place is cursed. It is crumbling. And I may rule but some of the Mountain’s Men are still there, with a metaphorical blade at my throat. Giving me Harrenhal was a slap to the face disguised as a gift.”

“Which of the Mountain’s Men?” Arya asked.

Petyr shrugged, “No one worth knowing by name. I only know the leader is called Polliver, and another they call the Tickler. My guests for as long as the lion wants to have his military base in the Riverlands… Which I’m starting to think will be forever, no matter what he’s told you.”

Catelyn reached forward and took his hands, “Petyr, you could come with us to the North. My daughters have lost their father and their brothers. They will need allies. Smart allies who know politics. There is no man I would trust to guide my daughters.”

He shook his head, “Cat… If you steal Tywin Lannister’s wife – and I’m assuming also his daughters – he will not simply leave you in peace. No matter how defensible Winterfell is, you do not know what shape it is in now. If your stores have been consumed or destroyed, he can simply siege you out. You need armies, Cat. I am just one man. No matter the depth of my love for you and your sweet girls, I am still just one man,” he pursed his lips apologetically. It made Arya impatient (and a little nauseated).

“I know, Petyr,” Catelyn said, “Which is why we’ve been in communication with the Tyrells.”

Petyr blinked, “The Tyrells? Rumor has it they have been negotiating a betrothal between the Lady Margaery and Lord Tommen.”

Mother flicked her eyes at Arya for but a moment, “It is a decoy. A diversion.”

Petyr took a step back as if an ocean wave had hit him, “They mean to take the throne…”

Arya knew they were well into improvisation territory now, so she’d let Mother do all the talking.

Catelyn nodded, “They do. By right of conquest. Lord Mace and Lady Alerie will be king and queen, with Willas as their heir.”

Arya bit her lip hard. Where the fuck are the others?

“Willas will need a queen…” Petyr spoke in an almost whisper.

Mother nodded and gestured toward Arya, “My daughter. While her sister rules the North.”

“With?”

Catelyn shook her head angrily, “My Sansa has been forced to lay with that cold and heartless man since before he made her his queen. I will not force her to marry again unless it is someone I and she trust.”

Petyr nodded, “I agree, Cat. And I will support you and Sansa in that.”

Her mother smiled, “Petyr… Will you truly?”

“Of course. And it will not just be me… I’ve been in correspondence with Lysa.”

Catelyn frowned, “My sister?”

Petyr smiled coyly, “Only Lysa I know. She has agreed to my suit. We will have the Knights of the Vale behind us, Cat. The North, the Vale, the Riverlands… all united through your Tully blood that does not run in my veins but that I have always thought of as part of me.” He turned to smile at Arya, “And on the Iron Throne…”

He was moving to plant his thin lips on Mother’s cheek when a twig snapped.

Fucking Hound with his gigantic feet!

Petyr spun around, which perhaps worked out for the best, because he was not facing Mother when the blade was pressed to his throat. Standing of a height with the petite man, Mother hissed into his ear, “Order them to lower their weapons and they’ll meet neither our arrows nor blades.”

Our? How many are you?”

The figures appeared from opposite sides.

The Hound, his longsword drawn but not yet raised.

Uncle Brynden, his shorter and less ugly mirror image.

Gendry, war hammer resting on a shoulder that Arya had found was particularly fun to nibble on.

“We only have questions for you, Petyr. Now tell them to throw their weapons to the dirt and our men will not harm them,” Catelyn spoke calmly. Arya was seeing her mother in a new light. Tonight she wasn’t the woman hysterical by the loss of her sons or the prospect of losing her daughter. Tonight, she was carved out of ice and scorn. She was hellbent, and Arya wondered if there was any man in the realm who could look into her eyes and not shiver.

Petyr nodded nervously, “Do as she says.”

The sellswords reluctantly comply. Arya was the one to gather up the swords and daggers they threw down while her three men kept the six sellswords at sword- and hammer-point. She knew they’d recognize the Hound and the Blackfish, and those two alone were probably enough that they didn’t like their odds, even if Catelyn Stark didn’t hold their source of income at knifepoint.

“The dagger I hold at your neck,” Catelyn spoke in a voice Arya had never heard from her mother, “You told me it most recently belonged to Tyrion Lannister. Was that true?”

“Yes!” Petyr insisted, his voice on the precipice of panic.

Arya brought one of the sellswords’ daggers to Petyr’s crotch, “The truth this time. Or I’ll take you apart one appendage at a time.”

As she slowly pressed the edge of the blade more firmly against the laces of his breeches, he stuttered, “Alright! It wasn’t Tyrion Lannister’s blade.”

“Then to whom did it belong?” Catelyn growled.

“I don’t know. I swear that’s the truth!”

“Why tell me it was Lord Tyrion’s if not to cover for the real culprit?”

“I… I don’t know. I just wanted to give you answers. To give you peace! I could see you were wrecked with sorrow and anger, my love.”

Arya buried the dagger point into his hip, deciding once he lost his cock, he wouldn’t have much incentive to live. Petyr screamed and tried to crumple forward but Mother was holding the dagger as tightly as possible to his neck without killing him.

“The truth, Littlepecker!” Arya hissed.

“Alright! It was Tywin Lannister! He paid me… He… He wanted to eliminate his son without the murder coming back on him.”

“Really?” Arya asked, twisting the dagger and watching Petyr’s face twist with it, “He wanted his son dead so badly that he went to war for him? He wanted his son dead so badly that he sent him to King’s Landing where he’d be safe during the war? He wanted his son dead so badly that he made him his Hand?”

She pushed deeper until she felt the blade being stopped by bone. Petyr screamed and Arya used her free hand to cover his mouth while she pushed and twisted. It nauseated her but she held the vision of Father being forced to kneel next to Ser Ilyn. Of Roose Bolton standing calm and cocky on the bridge to Riverrun, Mother bound at his side as his men brought forth the giant torture device.

Of Robb, filled with arrows, dying alone in the woods. Not old and grey, with grandchildren surrounding his bed. Not in a blaze of glory on the battlefield, Grey Wind by his side, a few dozen slain enemies at his feet. He died alone… Killed by a sellsword or group of sellswords who probably wouldn’t have stood a chance against the King in the North if they fought with any honor.

She didn’t turn to look at the men; they’d have time enough to find out which of those cockless fuckers killed her brother. For now, all that mattered was the man who gave the command, not because Robb was his enemy, but because he wanted to endear himself with the Old Lion so that he could have Sansa and Winterfell for himself.

Something cold settled over her, and she wondered if she resembled her mother in that moment. She felt numb, as if nothing could hurt her. She peered up into Petyr’s eyes, unmoved by his grimace of pain, “Fuck this. I know you killed my brother Robb because you wanted my sister and our home. I know you betrayed my father – the Hound saw you hold a dagger to his throat, and dogs don’t lie. So I’m going to get to the point: you’re dying tonight. The only thing you can affect is how you die. A quick swipe across the neck? Or I’ll have the Hound hold you down while I use Gendry’s hammer to break every bone in your body. Then I’ll roll you over and bugger you with this dagger you’re so fond of.”

Clegane snorted, “That last part was my idea, Littlefucker.”

She pulled her hand away from his mouth, disgusted by the sound of his whimpers, “Why did you lie to my mother? Why did you betray my father? Why did you kill my brother?”

“I did it all for you!” he sobbed out and let his head collapse backward on Mother’s shoulder, “Catelyn, I swear I love you more than life itself! I did it for you! He didn’t deserve you. He never did. Nor did his brother, that mindless brute! I tried to help him, I swear it, but he didn’t take my advice, and I couldn’t let myself go down with him! Please, my love. I never thought your children would suffer. I swear! I was going to get Sansa and Arya out of the city. I would not have left them to the lions. They are the enemy! You need me! Only I can help you if you mean to protect your daughters. You cannot take on a king on your own!”

Mother pulled the dagger away and shoved Petyr down to the ground. He landed on hands and knees but quickly rolled to his back and held his hands up, “Please, Catelyn. You know I’ve always loved you. It’s always been you. Everything I did, I did for you.”

Mother let out a single high-pitched whistle and for the third time this night Arya watched a distant figure bloom out of the darkness.

Petyr rolled onto his hands and knees and watched his doom approaching.

“You said… You said…” he sputtered.

Catelyn shrugged, “We lied.”

Arya watched Petyr rise on trembling knees, favoring the side with the injured hip. He pulled a dagger from his boot and tried to lunge toward Arya, but Grey Wind lunged faster.

She kept watching even as she retched in the snow, because it was her duty to watch. She watched for Robb. She watched for Father. She watched for Bran and Rickon. She watched for Sansa. She watched for every Stark who had been hurt because of this man’s schemes.

But mostly, she watched for herself.

Gendry groaned for the umpteenth time as he pulled stone after stone away, carefully and quietly. “I never thought I’d want to sneak in to this place.”

“I’m not going to fit,” Clegane grumbled for the umpteenth time.

Arya rolled her eyes, “Fine, then I’ll go on my own. You two auroxes will only slow me down, anyway.”

She stared into the nearby copse of trees and waited for Brynden’s signal. He was staring up at the battlements, his hand held up straight like a wave frozen in time.

When the palm curled into a fist Arya went through with ease, not turning to see whether her whinging comrades followed. She had a few names to cross off her list… and a sword to retrieve.

Notes:

So...
If I intended for this to be another Ascension or Unlikely Saviors, I'd have given Loras and Sansa more time to get to know one another, but as it was, I hope his agreement to be her QG didn't seem rushed or OOC. Why would Tywin approve of Loras guarding his wife? Perhaps he knows any lingering animosity is between Tyrell and Lannister, not Tyrell and Stark. That's A. B? Hmm... Tywin knows better than anyone that a KG can be a hostage, doesn't he? Mace's son will be in the Red Keep for life. Might keep old Mace in line. Might keep Margaery in line. Just sayin'...
Now, onto the final scene... I know Petyr's head on a platter would be a really nice anniversary present for Tywin to give Sansa but I'm sorry - that kill belonged to someone named Stark. Specifically, it belonged to Catelyn who was the one directly manipulated by Petyr. I know she's a divisive character and I've been as critical of her as anyone, but making mistakes doesn't make her evil, it makes her human. Ditto Ned, Robb, Sansa... SO... Hope it satisfied that Catelyn, Arya, and Grey Wind all got a chance to avenge the family they lost in no small part due to Littlefinger's scheming (and no, I'm not absolving Tywin of sin).
Next chapter might be a little bit but to give you a little teaser, you can bet that a certain lion will wonder if a certain wolf had anything to do with the death of a certain mockingbird.

Chapter 23: Lions and wolves are enemies

Summary:

Tywin has doubts. And then more doubts.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Sansa

“What the fuck did you do?”

Sansa’s eyes widened as she took in her husband’s appearance. The only other time he looked thusly was when he had suspected Sarina of being Sansa – when he dragged her across Harrenhal and threw her down at Lord Manderly’s feet. When he held a dagger inside my mouth.

Sansa could not be more vulnerable as she sat nursing Jeyne, who was not yet finished. And if Sansa had to pull her away from her breast before she was full, she’d cry loudly enough to make sure all of King’s Landing knew her woes.

“Kevan has arrived at Harrenhal,” Tywin tossed a parchment into Sansa’s lap. It looked like a crimped bow from how tightly Tywin had been squeezing it in his fist.

She immediately went clammy with nervous perspiration as she felt she had been caught all over again. The jig was up, he knew who she was. No, wait… he already knows…

Or did he? Why in that moment did she feel that he had discovered some hidden part of her, some dirty secret?

She closed her eyes and saw the coin she had hidden in a drawer when she returned to her chambers two moons ago, legs wet and belly aching while her guards scurried to find Tywin, find Arya, summon the maester... Later she sewed the coin into the underside of her mattress after wrapping spare fabric around it so a maid flipping the mattress wouldn’t feel something hard and metal.

Valar morghulis

Valar dohaeris

Jeyne started fussing, making the choked sound that preceded her tears. Sansa tucked her breast in and began to rise but Tywin came and took the babe, burping her against him after laying a handkerchief over his shoulder in case of spit-up. By then she was full crying and Tywin laid her down beside her sister, which soothed almost instantly in a way that Sansa didn’t like to admit she was jealous of. 

Tywin turned to face Sansa, some of his anger having diminished but his eyes still burning with accusation, “Are you going to read that?”

She nodded, using shaky hands to uncoil the letter.

Brother,

We arrived at Harrenhal when and as planned but found the castle in a state of disarray.

Two of Ser Gregor’s men had been murdered. You may recall Polliver Plumm and Duncas Hill. The former was Clegane’s second in command. The latter his enforcer of a sort. You may have only known him by his ridiculous nickname, the Tickler.

This is not the most significant news I must relay, however. That would be the death of Lord Petyr Baelish. So far, the account I’ve been able to piece together is that he left the castle late one night, presumably to converse with one of his spies as was a frequent enough occurrence. He had six guards with him (former sellswords, since that may be relevant) – none of whom have been found yet, alive or otherwise. Baelish’s corpse was found, mauled by a wild animal, likely a wolf, as a mountain lion or shadowcat would have left deeper and cleaner cuts with its razor-sharp claws.

Maester Tothmure sent you a raven over a fortnight ago, when these crimes occurred, but since he said you have not yet responded we must assume that the raven was lost.

Knowing time is of the essence, I will proceed as planned, resting my men here only two days then marching north after converging with the Stark force camped near Riverrun. If the events at Harrenhal necessitate a change of plan I trust you will send a messenger with haste. I tasked Lord Lydden to act as Castellan until you make a permanent appointment. With Baelish having no heirs, I suppose Harrenhal will once again change hands. Despite its rich lands, I pity the man you give it to. (If I were you, I’d let Edmure Tully deal with disposing of it).

Kisses to Jeyne and Jocelyn; my best to Sansa.

Your brother,

Kevan

Sansa shrugged, “An unfortunate tragedy.”

Tywin snorted and kneeled before her, but it was no act of submission. Something about this man was somehow just as intimidating on his knees as when standing fully upright. Perhaps because being level with his penetrating green gaze made it all the easier for him to read a person’s thoughts. Perhaps because lions were most deadly when about to pounce.

She held his eyes as best she could, but she already felt defeated and hurried her brain to come up with an escape plan. Not to escape his presence in this moment, but to escape the judgment or disdain he would otherwise have for her.

“Your sister and uncle. You told them.”

“Told them what?” she responded too quickly, or perhaps too eagerly.

Tywin’s upper lip curled into a sneer, “You’re a terrible liar.”

“You think Arya and Uncle Brynden infiltrated Harrenhal to kill two men? Why not all of them?”

“You forget that I saw with my own eyes what happened there before my arrival.”

“Then you know neither of those men are worth your concern. Whoever killed them did the realm a favor.”

For a moment her husband almost looked amused, “You know damned well who killed them – the same people who killed Lord Baelish.”

“A wolf killed Lord Baelish, according to your own brother.”

Tywin arched a brow, “A wolf large enough to scare off six guards? I can think of only one. One that belonged to your brother. One that now belongs to your sister.”

Sansa shook her head quickly, finally finding a possible escape route, “You forget there is another. Arya’s wolf Nymeria was released into the woods near the Inn at the Crossroads. What is that, two days ride northeast of Harrenhal?”

“So you didn’t tell your sister about Baelish?”

Damn.

She decided to alter course and stood up, forcing her husband to stand up while taking a step back.

“So what if I did?” she asked in her best imitation of a haughty queen.

Tywin shook his head, “A man should be able to confide in his wife without fear of his words being repeated to anyone – including his goodsister.”

“And you can.”

“Apparently not.”

She placed both hands on his chest, “I do not believe it was Arya who killed these men. Do you find it impossible to believe that men of their character wouldn’t make enemies? Perhaps they said the wrong thing to one of Lord Baelish’s sellswords. As for the lord himself, he wouldn’t be the first man to die by an animal attack, nor will he be the last.”

Sansa couldn’t tell whether she believed her own words. It was so something Arya would do – killing those men, letting Grey Wind be the one to avenge his master. But Sansa gave her Littlefinger’s name to give to Jaqen. Did the assassin have an army of wolves at his command? And why would he kill two additional men when the cost of his services was apparently so steep?

Tywin pinched her chin and angled her head up, “There have been plenty of corpses in the Riverlands to keep the wolves’ bellies full. Do you expect me to believe there was one or even an entire pack hungry enough to attack a group of seven men?”

Sansa shrugged, though even that felt weak.

Her husband studied her for a few long moments, his eyes narrowing, “Did you know of your sister’s plans?”

She shook her head, “I knew of no plans, and I still am not convinced my sister had any involvement. Why risk infiltrating Harrenhal? Why risk doing it now when it could have jeopardized the Crown’s support against the Ironborn?”

She saw her husband contemplate this, but it mattered little. Her husband knew that Arya acted first and thought her actions through second. And perhaps (just perhaps) Sansa couldn’t even blame her sister for killing the man who betrayed their father and killed their brother – whether she did it through Grey Wind or Jaqen or with her own nails and teeth.

“But when you told her about Baelish you did so in the hope of having your revenge,” Tywin stated, not asked.   

She almost groaned aloud in annoyance. It would seem her husband was going to condemn her based on her motives even if the crime had nothing to do with her. So, once again, she altered course and responded with a nod as she thought quickly, “Revenge we’re entitled to. Beyond that, you owed me a debt, husband, or have you forgotten?”

He snorted and his hands went to her shoulders, squeezing almost but not quite painfully, “I would have delivered you revenge in time, as I promised. As for the other debt, I will assume it’s been paid now.”

“No,” she whispered; this was her opportunity to flip this entire situation until she had the upper hand, “Because I did you another favor.” She held his eyes even as a scene played out in her mind. Her, sitting in the gardens, giving one name to Arya, when she’d been tempted to give her two.

Tywin snorted, “I don’t recall asking for one.”

She narrowed her eyes, “I gave her Baelish’s name, but not your son’s.”

His entire countenance froze. She capitalized, “Robb was a man grown. A fighter, a soldier, a king. He was technically Lord Baelish’s enemy, since Baelish was acting on your orders at the time and Robb was your enemy. If you truly believe my sister fed Lord Baelish to Grey Wind, then what do you think she would do to the man who tried to kill our baby brother? A true innocent. A little boy who could have done nothing to deserve such a punishment. A little boy who was no enemy to your son. No threat to your son.”

His fingers curled until they were digging into her arms, “You plan on holding this over my head for the rest of my life? Don’t overplay your hand, girl. If I even suspect your sister would have motive to go after my son, what do you think I’d do?”

“Well, you went to war the last time a Stark woman went after one of your sons, and it wasn’t even the son you like. So no, husband, I am not foolish or reckless enough to hold this over your head. But if you think I cannot keep your secrets, then I would advise you to think again. Besides,” she sniffed, “you told me not to repeat Jaime’s words to anyone. You made no such demand in regards Petyr Baelish.”

Her husband glared at her for long moments before shaking his head lightly and leaning down until his lips were to her neck, “I have become too accustomed to dealing with simpletons. You’re going to keep me on my toes, aren’t you?” 

“I’ve been on my toes since you walked into the lord’s chambers at Harrenhal. Fair is fair.”

While her husband searched for a witty retort, she brought her hands to his chest then ran them down his flat belly to his groin. If he had found words, he lost them just as quickly as she cupped his stones through the fabric, bouncing them lightly to feel their weight. They were perhaps the least attractive part of a man’s body, but they were fun to play with, she had found. And when she licked them, her husband’s cock became as hard as iron.

She lowered herself to the ground and sat back on her heels to be eye level with her husband’s laces, “I assume you prefer me on my knees rather than on my toes?”

Tywin groaned as she slowly unlaced him, his rapidly hardening cock pushing forward as if to aid her.

“Do you think every time you misbehave you can make amends by sucking my cock?”

She blushed, “I don’t believe I’ve misbehaved.”

“That makes it even worse.”

She pulled the fabric down to his upper thighs then looked up at him again, “I take it you want me to stop, then?”

“I want you to unlace your dress.”

She blushed again. She did not care for the way her breasts looked these days. Swollen and veiny, with engorged nipples that were dark pink where once they’d been as faint as a blush. Yet Tywin seemed at times mesmerized by them. And this was about his pleasure, not hers, so she undid the laces on the dress, which was designed specifically for nursing mothers. While she pulled her dress down to her waist Tywin pumped his cock. The sight never failed to arouse her, and she wondered if they really had to wait another fortnight to couple, as Maester Pycelle had said. She had not felt any desires since her labor, but she was feeling them now. Not the odd tingle she felt when nursing, but a deep thrumming within her body. The slickening of her channel. If her body reacted this way, then perhaps it was ready.

Her husband’s left hand reached for the back of her braid and pulled down, effectively tilting Sansa’s chin up. He brought his manhood close to her lips, which parted of their own accord. He tightened his grip in her hair enough to cause minor pain and rubbed the tip of his cock against her dry lips. Somehow she knew she wasn’t meant to move, so she did nothing but kneel there, lips parted, while Tywin traced his cock lightly over her lips, then the line of her jaw, then the column of her throat. She was wondering whether he was marking her with his musky scent when suddenly his cock slapped hard against her left cheek with a whap, making her flinch.

“So fucking pretty…” he mumbled, more to himself than her. His eyes, which hadn’t left his own manhood, finally met hers, “Perhaps so pretty that most men would let you do as you please. I am not most men, which I’d have thought you knew by now.” He began moving his cock back and forth ever so slightly, though she doubted her dry cheek could be giving him much pleasure. “I have given you every liberty that most lady wives consider a privilege, not a right. I know you’re smart enough to know the difference between something spoken in confidence and something which is free to become common knowledge. The next time you betray my confidence, there will be consequences. Am I understood?” his eyes shifted to hers again as he awaited her answer.

The wolf in her wanted to defy him, to remind him that he needed her more than she needed him, but the woman in her found something thrilling in his words. Perhaps the woman also felt some guilt. Her husband had entrusted her with very sensitive information and a promise to eventually deliver justice. Instead of trusting him in return she gave the information to her sister without pause. She had not considered the ramifications – that Harrenhal would once again be without a lord, and that without another man like Petyr Baelish who at least appeared to be someone neutral to both parties, it would stay that way for some time.

Choose your battles wisely, the Hound had advised. She understood then what he meant, but now she understood even better. Tywin had let her win in many regards because he didn’t want a contentious marriage, and perhaps because he indulged her need to maintain her dignity and pride. But if she never let him win one, then she would be no better than Cersei Lannister – unable to admit her own faults. And the aura of command and control that attracted her to her husband in the first place would disappear. She liked this Tywin, she decided, though briefly wondered what Mother or Arya would think if they could see her now (besides disgust). Would they see a domineering, unyielding man? Or would they understand that Sansa wanted to lose this battle? That, judging by the dampness in her underclothes, she even enjoyed her husband’s unorthodox battle tactics?

She turned her head and pressed a kiss to the side of her husband’s shaft, “I put my thirst for vengeance ahead of my duty as your wife and queen.” Kiss. “I didn’t consider it a betrayal because I didn’t stop to consider it at all.” Kiss. “I seek your trust, yet I’ve been unwilling to give you mine – at least not fully.” Kiss. “I do not want this to be the way of our marriage. I’m sorry, husband.” Kiss.

She returned her gaze to him and found his lips parted, his body trembling. She smiled and rubbed her curved lips against his length but apparently he could tolerate no more waiting. With his grip in her braid, he guided her mouth to the tip of his cock. He’d had enough teasing, she decided; she took as much of him into her mouth as she could. He let out a long-held breath and began pumping back and forth, the pressure making her gag, but she wouldn’t pull away nor complain. He wanted to take, not receive. Perhaps she wanted to be taken rather than give.

Luckily for her throat he did not last long and all too abruptly he was yanking himself away and stroking himself in front of her, her head pulled back again as his hot seed landed on her neck and teats. It satisfied something primal in her, and in him, apparently, as he stared at her chest and let his eyelids become heavy.

She watched her husband watching her, and the sight made her woman’s place ache even more as she imagined his thoughts and the source of his obsession. Her teats, twice their normal size because they were filled with the milk that nourished his heirs, now splattered with the very seed that had created those heirs.

He eventually came back to himself and handed her a handkerchief which she used to wipe away the sticky fluid. She tucked herself in, laced herself up, and stood with the aid of her husband who had done some tucking and lacing of his own. She had hoped his release would have also released his ire, but he still seemed distracted. Perhaps he didn’t put much stock in an apology issued while her lips were on his manhood. Perhaps the betrayal of confidence was a deeper fissure than any apology could mortar over.

A knock on the door saved her from needing to formulate more words that likely wouldn’t suffice.

“The Lord Hand to see you, your grace,” Tywin’s page called through the door.

Tywin’s eyes roved over her from head to toe, and when he called out, “Enter,” she knew it meant she looked fine, but still she walked to the crib to check on her little ones.

“Father, goodmother.”

She turned and smiled at Tyrion who forced a smile back, which confirmed to her that there was indeed a tension in the room, emanating from her husband.

Tyrion cleared his throat and looked at his father while holding out his hand which held yet another scroll, “Pycelle delivered this but given the sender, I thought you’d wish to be the first to read it.”

Sansa couldn’t see the sigil pressed into the wax seal from where she stood, only that it was red.

 

Tywin

A distraction was most welcome, but perhaps not in the form of a letter from Lord Bolton. He needed a mindless pursuit at the moment, because there was too much on his mind.

Like why he wasn’t furious at his wife for her betrayal, and for having the audacity to speak of sparing Jaime as if his son’s fate was entirely in her hands. He understood her anger toward the man who claimed to have pushed her little brother out a tower window, but Tywin could still not fathom why Jaime would do such a thing. His son was brash, Tywin knew. Impulsive. But he had never been one to hurt women or children. Ever. He was, however, quite skilled in doing everything in his power to make people resent or despise him. To Tywin, it was more likely that in Jaime’s fit of rage and anguish, he lashed out against Sansa with the most effective weapon he could think of. No matter that he was cutting off his nose to spite his face, if Jaime wanted to hurt someone with words, he wouldn’t let anything stand in his way.

Tywin had walked to the nursery this afternoon wondering if he’d be able to resist the temptation to wring his wife’s neck. A few minutes later his cock was in her mouth, and what had felt like victory as he fucked her throat was revealed as defeat as soon as his sack had been emptied. Because in looking at her, kneeling on the floor, tits out and marked as his, he felt no power. The only thing he felt was an almost overwhelming desire to lay her down and put his head under her skirts. And perhaps to put his mouth on those swollen breasts he’d been salivating over for moons now. Tywin Lannister, King of the Seven Kingdoms, wanted to drink from his wife’s teats while she cradled his head like he was a babe.

(In his mind’s eye, his father’s lowborn mistress paraded herself around Casterly Rock in Lady Jeyne’s jewels and silks.)

He felt the rage he’d felt those many years ago, only now it was directed at himself, and perhaps at his wife. Did she know what she was doing to him? How soft he was for her? How she and the daughters she had whelped had already supplanted everyone else in his family in importance?

Had this been her plan all along? Her seduction so innocent and subtle that he never considered it was seduction at all? Now she was queen, and after he died, she would rule the realm through one of her children. No matter that Tywin had sired them, they would be hers. Had he not loved his mother more than he ever cared for his father? Had Jaime and Cersei not loved Joanna while fearing Tywin?

And now one of them would be on the throne someday after Tywin left this world. What would the Northern wolf do then if she was already willing to conspire to kill a man who’d been loyal to Tywin? A wolf on the throne, a wolf in Winterfell, her kin in Riverrun and the Eyrie. As if that weren’t enough, Tywin had already proclaimed that one of his children with Sansa would be Tyrion’s heir, as he doubted his deformed son could sire. And the dandy from Highgarden was clearly fond of Sansa if he was willing to swear his life to her. What words might Sansa whisper in his ear so that he might whisper them in his brother’s ear in the Reach, or his sister’s ear in Storm’s End?

Through his marriage to Sansa, he had meant to put lions in every seat house in the realm, only he realized now that they wouldn’t be purebred lions. They’d be lion-wolves, and perhaps in time they’d just be wolves.

“Father?”

Tywin looked up and realized that both Tyrion and Sansa were staring at him, one with confusion and concern, the other with fear and concern.

He shook his head and snatched the scroll from his son’s hand, breaking the flayed man seal and unfurling it.

He had half expected to find a warning from Roose Bolton that some Northern forces had moved to take Winterfell without waiting for the Lannister/Stark host to arrive from the Riverlands. But this was even worse, for it was not addressed from Roose Bolton at all, nor even his legitimized son. It was sent by the Dreadfort’s maester to inform the king that both father and son were dead. Mauled in the kennels by the son’s hounds, which the maester admitted were kept half-starved and would have no qualms about biting the hand that wasn’t feeding them. The maester included more details than Tywin cared to read, such as that the flesh had been so thoroughly picked off of Ramsay Bolton’s face that from the neck up, he was but skeleton. No foul play was suspected, because Ramsay had minutes earlier been seen looking for his father, citing an issue at the kennels that needed the lord’s attention.

And yet, could it be coincidence that since Sansa became queen her family’s enemies were being picked off like rabbits in a vegetable garden? And all conveniently dying in manners that could be written off as unfortunate accidents, tragedies, even, but not murder?

Joffrey

Cersei

Petyr Baelish

Roose Bolton and his only child

He knew Sansa had no opportunity to commit these crimes herself, but someone was doing them on behalf of House Stark, he was sure. The only question was whether his wife was the one pulling the strings, or if it were someone else. Someone like her mother or sister, or perhaps some loyal bannerman hoping to earn the favor of the she-wolves.

“With me,” Tywin nodded toward his son, who almost jumped at having been spoken to after what must have been a long period of silence. Tywin cast not a glance at his wife and almost instructed the guards outside the royal apartments not to allow her to leave until he remembered that half of them answered to her and only her. The Queensguard. He wanted to laugh at himself – it had been his idea, but why? Because he wanted to make sure her bloody Northmen and Rivermen knew the queen was safe and well cared for? Since when did he care what anyone thought? Since when did he care about the opinions of the sheep? Tywin had made her the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms; had that not been enough?

Tywin knew he was walking too quickly for his son to keep up but couldn’t stop himself as he ascended the stairs to his solar.

It wasn’t like him to drink to calm his nerves, but he did then, which amused his son until Tywin snapped his eyes to him in a silent dare to comment. Tyrion kept his mouth shut except to sip from his own goblet, and Tywin welcomed the additional time to think, to collect evidence of his wife’s innocence or guilt. Not evidence he could use to try her of course – no, that was not a possibility – but evidence so that he could be sure he knew the woman he married, one way or another. If she had been conspiring against him and killing his family and allies all this time, he would lock her in the bloody apartments. He would treat her as the broodmare everyone expected her to be given her marriage to a man – a king – who was thrice her age. He’d minimize her involvement with their children so they’d grow to be lions, not wolves.

Except how can I lock her away? At minimum her Queensguard will defy it. And could I even do that to the woman I—

“Father?” Tyrion finally spoke, but his eyes were fixed on Tywin’s hands, which were shaking.

Tywin shook his head. He wasn’t ready yet. He was too angry at himself for letting it get this far. She was supposed to be a good lay at Harrenhal, nothing more. A pretty thing to fuck; to keep his blood warm in that dreadful place. Where along the way did it get so far off course?

He was frightened and shamed to admit it was very early in their unorthodox relationship. He had gone to his knees and worshipped between her legs when he thought she was nothing but a Maidenpool whore. He was ready to chase the girl halfway across the realm when he thought she was nothing but a merchant’s daughter that he could turn into his secret mistress. And when he realized she was Sansa Stark, he was ready to kill for her, to go to war for her, to claim the fucking throne for her because she’d never agree to come to the capital with him so long as Joffrey ruled. He was ready to send his meddlesome daughter and sadistic grandson away for her.

He let her slap him in front of half the men of Harrenhal. He had given in to demand after demand when she had no leverage from which to even make demands. And why was that? Because she threatened to keep her legs closed if he ever betrayed her? He wasn’t as bad as Tytos – he was worse, because he knew better. He had a perfect model of what not to become, and he became it all the same.

He kept shaking his head in self-scolding, thinking of that day at Harrenhal. She was so fiery that his cock had been half-hard during the entire negotiation. She was so angry that he had entrusted her capture to Roose Bolton, who could have easily absconded with her, bringing her to the Dreadfort or Winterfell to be his bride, where the staunch fortress and thousands of seasoned soldiers would keep them both out of Tywin’s reach, out of her family’s reach…

“And what if he had taken me as his bride? What if he and his four thousand plus men claimed me and Winterfell?”

“Then I’d have shown up there with an army of a hundred thousand.”

“Do you have such an army?”

“I’d buy one.”

What a fool he’d been then. What a fool he’d been before then and since then, because had he not been warned by his own kin not to trust her?

“The bitch has corrupted my grandfather.”

“That traitor isn’t worthy of being queen! If you hadn’t found her, she’d be in the North now, plotting against us.”

“This girl must be the greatest mummer who ever lived!”

“Was spreading her legs all it took for you to trust her to be your queen? Did you fall in love with her, Father? With a little girl? With our enemy? Is that who you finally set my mother aside for?”

Tywin downed the rest of his wine and tossed the scroll to his son, who stared at him in shock for several moments before reading the missive, grimacing occasionally, and finally looking back to his father.

“Pardon my confusion, father, but your reaction to this news seems disproportionate to your fondness for the subjects of this news.”

Tywin reached across the desk and grabbed the scroll back, “I’m not mourning for the Bolton lord and lordling. But they were allies of the Crown and someone has killed them.”

Tyrion arched an eyebrow, “Very well. Shall I ask the maester to have the dogs sent here to face trial?”

Tywin scoffed, “I’m in no mood for your japes. We have no idea how the men died. They could have been stabbed then thrown into the kennels to make it look like an accident. Or the entire letter could be a fabrication.”

“Who would be brave and stupid enough to attack Roose Bolton in his own castle? You know, the one decorated by the skins and bones of his enemies.”

Tywin wanted to answer with ‘Arya Stark’, but the timing was not right for that. If she was behind this attack, it was by paying someone; someone already in the far North where the Dreadfort was situated. Someone who would risk a death painful beyond measure for a bit of coin.

Suddenly Tywin felt like a fool for a very different reason, but he would not let it show. Instead, he grumbled, “Even if it was a true accident, it creates a complication.”

Tyrion frowned, “How so?”

“The Boltons were our eyes and ears in the North. They were loyal to us. Now the Dreadfort has no lord.”

Tyrion had the audacity to laugh, “Loyal to us? Father, you told me yourself Roose Bolton was a means to an end for you, as you were for him. And perhaps with any other man that would be enough to trust him to a degree, but am I the only one of us who remembers my history lessons? About how every few decades the Boltons rebel against the Starks, just for shits and giggles, because apparently they think they can do better than the family that has ruled the North for eight thousand years? It seems to me these hungry hounds did you a favor. The North is once again under the jurisdiction of the Crown, which means you can give the Dreadfort to someone who is actually capable of loyalty. And yes, I understand that for political reasons you’ll need to consult your goodsister or goodmother on the matter, but I’m sure a compromise can be reached.”

Tywin shook his head, “Just as I’ll need to find someone loyal to give fucking Harrenhal to while consulting my gooduncle, the halfwit.”

“I’d say he’s a five-eighths wit, though you’d know better than me. But again, I cannot imagine you won’t be able to find someone you trust more than Littlefinger, the man who had designs on your wife.”

“Littlefinger would remain loyal as long as our interests aligned.”

Tyrion shrugged, “Funny thing about that – men tend not to tell you when your interests have stopped aligning. They merely stab you in the back before you get the chance to realize you’re out of alignment. Ask Ned Stark.”

Tywin frowned, “Pardon?”

Tyrion sipped his wine, “Ned Stark. Thought Littlefinger was his friend. No – thought Littlefinger and he were on the same side. Meaning the opposite side of Cersei. Thought it right up until Littlefinger held a dagger to his neck.”

“How do you know?” Tywin asked. Tyrion would have been in the Vale or returning from it when Ned Stark was arrested.

“Pycelle, Varys, the Kingsguard, Cersei, Joffrey… There were no shortage of witnesses, most of whom were proud to recount the moment the Quiet Wolf learned just how beneficial it was to stay quiet.”

Tywin sighed, “We’ve gotten off topic.”

“Have we? My point is Littlefinger couldn’t be trusted. He was a liar and a manipulator, as I know from direct experience. Seems to me the wolf who ate him for a midnight snack did you a favor. Hmm… Canines are serving you quite well, I dare say. You should have married one of their ilk ages ago.”

“Spare me your humor or I’ll task you with deciding what to do with Harrenhal and the Dreadfort.”

Tyrion shrugged, “Easy. Give Harrenhal to Gregor Clegane. If Edmure Tully has any wits he’ll see it for the death sentence it is and you’ll earn more of the trout’s loyalty without having to execute one of your own bannerman.”

“Gregor Clegane has served me loyally. What makes you think I want him dead?”

Tyrion glared at him, “You’re right. In fact, perhaps he ought to take one of the open positions on Sansa’s Queensguard. Why not have the strongest, most fearsome man in all the realm protecting the most important woman – sorry, women – in the realm?”

Tywin ground his teeth, “No one likes a smart ass.”

“Thank you for recognizing my intelligence, Father.”

Tywin rolled his eyes, “As I said.”

Tyrion held his hands up, “Fine. Forget about Harrenhal going to Clegane. You want my advice? Let the Tullys decide; is it not their land? Earn some of their gratitude and save yourself from being cursed by whatever unlucky soul you’d have granted it to. As for the Dreadfort, I suggest the same approach. Allow the Ladies Stark to present a list of candidates, you remove any you find disagreeable and let them choose from the shortlist. In exchange for letting them make the choice, perhaps you’ll suggest that whatever lord gets the Dreadfort sends a son to foster at Casterly Rock? Or if it’s an unmarried lord, suggest he take a Western bride.”

Tywin didn’t like to admit when he’d been out-thought, but he just had been. He offered a terse nod, “Fine. Write to your uncle Kevan. We’ll need his opinion when the time comes, since I know little of the Northern lords. Make sure he knows to observe and make notes.”

Tyrion nodded, “Shall I draft something for Lord Edmure as well?”

Tywin shook his head, “I’ll handle that.”

“Very well, then,” Tyrion finished his wine in one swig and hopped down from the chair. He paused at the threshold but said no more, leaving Tywin once again alone with his thoughts. It was starting to feel like a dangerous place to be.

It was full dark outside when Tywin finally ventured into his bedchamber, but his wife had left a few candles burning, likely for his benefit. They gave off enough light for him to know Sansa was asleep in bed where she’d been every night of their marriage but for that one sennight of stubbornness on her part.

They also gave off enough light for him to know the tiny dress she had been working on this evening (she sewed every night after supping and feeding the twins) was made of a deep red velvet with gold trim and threading. He could guess that as soon as this tiny dress was complete, she would make another identical to the first.

By the time he was finished with his nightly ablutions Tywin found himself lying in bed, staring at the canopy above him and thinking on his son’s words. Someone had done him a favor. Or two favors. Or two someones had each done him a favor. At least from Tyrion’s point of view, and after spending many hours thinking on it, Tywin reluctantly agreed.

Actually, perhaps it was more than two favors. If Joffrey’s death was indeed no accident, had Tywin not also been a beneficiary of the crime? Joffrey would never accept a lowly life as Warden of the Stormlands when he felt the throne was his birthright. Tywin would always have to keep the boy closely watched. And his daughter, too, who resented Sansa and would certainly resent Sansa’s children no matter that they had Lannister blood in their veins.

It was almost as if someone, or perhaps some higher power, was eliminating the people that Tywin would have liked to eliminate himself but couldn’t. Had his own private thoughts somehow caught the ears of the gods? The Gods who hadn’t listened when he begged for Joanna to be saved even if they had to take his wretched soul in his place. The Gods who had taken his mother and brothers too young. The Gods who gave him children who could have reached such great heights if they hadn’t had too much spite in their hearts.

Then again, the Gods did heed his wishes when he asked to be reunited with Sansa, when he hoped she would accept his proposal for reasons that went beyond obligation to her family. When he prayed that she’d survive the birthing bed with a healthy babe to show for it.

He chuckled to himself. It would seem the Gods only began giving a shite about Tywin Lannister after he met Sansa Stark. Perhaps, then, it was his wife’s old gods who were now intervening on his behalf even if in ways he had not explicitly asked for. Perhaps they, in their eternal wisdom, knew what was best for him and delivered it because he had helped to protect two of their daughters.

Or perhaps these very thoughts signaled that he had gone senile, like his father before him.

His wife began stirring beside him and, without fully waking, rolled over until she was pressed against his side, her head on his chest because he lifted his arm to make room for her, as he always did.

“You’re cold,” she mumbled.

Tywin snorted, “As the wall?”

It took a few moments for her to let out a small giggle, “Mmhmm… Am I as warm as the desert?”

Yes, and you’ve already melted me.

“Mmhmm.”

She sighed and seemed to already be dozing back to sleep when Tywin heard a whimper from the far side of the bed, then another, and another. Then one whimper became two. Then whimpering became crying became screaming.

“Why are they in here?” Tywin asked as Sansa blearily sat up and scooted out of bed to rock the bassinette on her side of the bed.

“Rayna is sick with a cold.”

“And there are no other wetnurses in King’s Landing?”

He heard his wife sigh as she opened the nightdress that laced down to the navel, “Babes don’t latch onto just anything, husband. They must have a certain level of comfort with whoever is trying to nurse them.” She scooted herself back against the headboard with a babe in the crook of each arm. In the dark he couldn’t distinguish his daughters who wore identical swaddling clothes and caps, but he could very well guess that the one already calmly searching for a nipple was Jocelyn. Jeyne generally had the greater appetite of the two but once she was crying it took more than a teat to soothe her. She rather liked to let her anger be known for a few minutes, for the sake of her pride.

Luckily, Jeyne also was easily influenced by her sister’s temperament. When Jocelyn was calm, Jeyne was calm. When Jocelyn was upset, Jeyne was upset. He supposed that meant Jeyne was attuned to the emotions of others, which wasn’t the worst thing. She’d be good at reading people someday, a skill that couldn’t be taught.

Tywin shifted over to rub Jeyne’s back, but she was already quieting and took her sister’s lead, latching onto a breast with some guidance from Sansa. The sudden silence was bliss and Tywin watched his wife sigh and relax against the headboard after the initial grimace of discomfort as her milk began to flow.

He wanted to be angry that he was back at the beginning, salivating and hardening at the sight of those glorious breasts which were meant to be pure utility for his children, not visual pleasure for him. But it couldn’t be helped. Clearly, he was no better than every other man who could be hypnotized by a pair of round teats, but his pleasure went beyond that. There was something profoundly beautiful about seeing how naturally his young wife took to motherhood, how she juggled two babes with such ease. He watched her shimmy a pillow under each arm, and he finally snapped out of his daze to assist with the task so that she could rest some of the twins’ weight, though he still saw how she had to hold each one to her chest.

Deciding he could do more than shameless spectating, he moved until he was against Sansa’s left side, angled almost to face her, and worked his hand under Jocelyn’s body until it was cradling her head. Realizing his arms were more than long enough to hold both babes, he pushed gently on Sansa’s back with his free hand until Sansa sat forward. Then he scooted behind her, letting her lean against him while he held both babes. He smiled proudly and was glad that no one could see it because truly, it was such a small accomplishment.

Or rather, it might have been to anyone else, but when Sansa sighed contentedly and turned so her forehead was against his neck, he was quite certain he’d never done anything of greater import than this.

“It’s about time the lion helped feed his hungry cubs.”

Tywin chuckled as he tilted his head down to kiss his wife’s hair, “The lion pays a nurse to help with that.”

“Nurses get sick. Lionesses don’t have the luxury.”

“Hmm. And that’s what you are? A lioness?”

She tilted her head to look at him, “Did I dream up our wedding?”

He shrugged, “Perhaps you’d rather stay a she-wolf.”

“Why be only one when I can be both?”

He knew he was about to dig his own grave but for some reason he couldn’t stop himself. No matter that he felt somewhat assuaged over the deaths of Baelish and the Boltons, he could not abide anyone, even his queen, taking such actions without his permission.

He sighed after a while, “Because lions and wolves are enemies.”

He felt her stiffen and wanted to curse himself.

“I’m your enemy then?” she asked.

“Only you can answer that.” Fucking idiot! Shut your mouth!

He closed his eyes and waited for her to fly out of bed, even if it was with two tiny humans dangling from her body, but she didn’t. Instead, in a frighteningly calm voice, she asked, “If Petyr Baelish had killed Ser Kevan, would he be alive now?”

“Kevan is my brother. Robb was my enemy.”

“As Robb was my brother, and Kevan was my enemy. Yet do you think after all we have shared, if you found out that Petyr Baelish had Kevan put down in the woods like a rabid fox, I’d have told you to spare the man’s life? Would I have even told you to wait to do it?”

Tywin shook his head, “You wouldn’t be in the position to forbid me from doing anything, nor even to suggest it.”

She tried to lean forward but Tywin tightened his arms that were boxing her in even if only to hold his children in place, “Don’t get up or the girls will get fussy, and I’d rather not hear any more screaming this night.”

She huffed loudly but didn’t budge, “Good to know your wife isn’t even qualified to offer suggestions. I’ll save my breath from now on.”

“Bloody hells, you know that isn’t what I mean.”

“You went to war, Tywin, over the son I know you have little love for. A son who was offered trial and released when the gods found him innocent. You went to war. A war that cost how many of your men? How many of mine? How many of my uncle’s? You didn’t wait or seek a diplomatic solution. You could have asked my mother to apologize and rescind her accusation against Tyrion. Were you not the one who lectured me about patience? Well perhaps you should teach by example.” Her tone became more agitated with every word uttered, but he was not one to roll over in the face of another person’s ire.

“You are comparing apples and oranges. Your mother’s accusation was baseless. Petyr Baelish acted against an enemy during war. That is no crime, but slander is.”

“Slander? Baseless?” her angry whisper sounded like a hiss, “You believe my mother would have arrested the son of the richest man in the realm, whose borders abut her own homelands, if she had no evidence?”

“What evidence?!”

“That I do not know. There were more pressing matters to be discussed during my brief stay at Riverrun with my mother. Matters like my being pregnant with the Lord of Casterly Rock’s bastard!”

Jocelyn had drunk her fill and pulled away, looking ready to drift back into slumber. Sansa twisted around to hand her fully to Tywin then rose only a bit clumsily out of the bed, Jeyne obliviously latched to her right breast.

“I hope she vomits on you,” Sansa hissed.

Tywin gritted his teeth as he bounced his daughter against his bare shoulder while getting out of the other side of the bed to fetch a rag. He would not give his wife the satisfaction of getting spit or vomit on his bare skin.

“How very mature of you,” he retorted, keeping his voice unaffected.

“Well, I am only a child, or have you forgotten?”

“Hmpf. Perhaps that’s what you want me and everyone else to think. You’re just a naïve girl, innocent of the ways of the world.”

“I suppose the jig is up,” she replied coolly.

Tywin ignored her cheek, “I don’t see what you’re so angry about. Is a person not allowed to have doubts? Tell me, did your mother never doubt your father’s loyalty after he came home with a bastard?”

Sansa shifted Jeyne onto her shoulder while trying to lace up her dress – an effort in futility. Tywin walked to her and took his daughter long enough for Sansa to right herself. He didn’t want to have to stare at those breasts while trying to win an argument.

“I’m sure she did,” Sansa huffed out but managed to keep her volume low so as not to disturb the girls, who were no longer distracted by feeding, “But my father gave her good reason for her doubts. What have I done to make you doubt? And anything that happened while I was Sarina doesn’t count.”

Tywin handed her Jeyne and snorted, “And why shouldn’t it count?”

“I lied for survival, which should be perfectly permissible.”

“Fine! No, wife, perhaps you haven’t done anything, but I find it suspicious that Lannisters and Lannister loyalists are dropping like flies since I returned to the capital with a wolf by my side!”

She smirked at him, “I don’t believe wolves are known to eat flies.”

“If I wanted japes, I’d have spent the night drinking with Tyrion.”

“Well it isn’t too late. Please do give him my regards. Oh, and while you’re at it, ask him what evidence my mother presented against him. Just make sure to bring your appetite since you’ll have to eat your own words.”

“Don’t change the subject! I want answers. Did you have anything to do with Joffrey’s death? Or Cersei’s? Or Roose Bolton’s?”

She stopped patting Jeyne’s back and blinked at him, “Roose Bolton is dead?”

Unlike her pathetic attempt earlier today, there was nothing but genuine surprise to be heard in her voice. She had no idea Roose Bolton was dead, which meant she wasn’t expecting his death. Which meant she had nothing to do with causing it.

Fuck.

Tywin sighed, “He and his son.”

“How?”

“Same as Petyr Baelish.”

Her brows pulled together, “A wolf attack?”

“Dogs.”

“Dogs?”

Tywin shifted Jocelyn and the rag to his other shoulder, “Hunting hounds. Starved and no doubt abused hunting hounds.”

Sansa was silent for a few moments though had resumed burping Jeyne, “So let me be sure I understand. Roose and Ramsay Bolton were attacked by dogs. Their own dogs, was it? And you ask if I had anything to do with that. As if somehow, from hundreds of leagues away, I could have… What? Snuck marrow bones into their pockets and set loose their dogs?”

Damn… She doesn’t even know it happened in the kennels.

“And how would I have killed Joffrey? Or Cersei?”

Tywin groaned, “Clearly by paying someone, just as you could have with the Boltons.”

“I suspect you’d have noticed the missing funds! It can’t be cheap to have a former king and queen assassinated. Nor to send someone all the way to the Dreadfort to kill the Bolton men!”

Tywin wiped the little bit of dribble off of Jocelyn’s mouth and put her in the bassinette. Sansa did the same with Jeyne.

“Perhaps you didn’t pay them in coin.”

He only knew how it sounded after his wife went eerily still and quiet.

“Wait – I didn’t mean that.”

She angrily grabbed her favorite pillow off the bed.

“Sansa, I meant you might have paid in favors.”

She stomped around the bed and he didn’t dare reach for her, as furious as she looked.

“Wait – I didn’t mean those kinds of favors. I meant—”

But she had already gone through the door to the adjoining queen’s bedchamber. The only small mercy was that she didn’t slam it.

Irritated but too prideful to follow her, Tywin went to get back in bed when he heard the door open. He looked up to find Sansa in the threshold.

“Good. Enough with the tantrum. Come back to bed.”

“Tantrum?” she raised an eyebrow.

He ran a hand down his face, “I’m rather tired and perhaps not choosing my words well.” He had chosen perfectly well, but he was ready to concede. He was tired and would need his energy for whatever act of defiance Sansa would use to punish him in the coming days.

She opened the door wide, “On the contrary, I think you chose the perfect word.” She pulled the heavy door closed so fast that the sound of wood hitting wood actually hurt his ears and rattled the sconces on the wall.  

He counted to three before he heard a whimper. Then another whimper. Then two whimpers. Then screaming.

Notes:

Reminder: Sansa is 17. She's allowed to be a little immature sometimes.

I wasn't entirely happy with the tone of this chapter which at times was very serious and other times irreverent. Hope it didn't make for choppy reading. Now, what was intentionally choppy was Tywin's emotions. He wants Sansa and is maybe starting to L-O-V-E her, but that doesn't mean he isn't a suspicious person by default. Sorry not sorry for the Tywin internal angst. The son of Tytos Lannister, who was easily led around by not one but two mistresses, could not possibly go the rest of his life without wondering if he is doing the same thing. Granted Sansa isn't lowborn, but still. Tywin's had a lot on his plate since marching to war and thus hasn't spent a ton of time pondering his feelings toward Sansa or her inner motives. Had to happen eventually.

Also: on the long list of things that I scratch my head about and say 'Why didn't Tyrion tell his dad about that?' is Catelyn's accusation during his trial in the Eyrie. Catelyn told Tyrion she was arresting him because she believed he gave a dagger and money to the catspaw who attacked Bran. Her evidence being Baelish's testimony about the dagger. I can get Tyrion not confronting Littlefinger - better not to let your enemy know you're onto them. But why didn't he tell his father when he arrived back at his war camp?! After all, Littlefinger was still the master of coin and was later given all kinds of titles. I mean, Tywin trusted Littlefinger to negotiate with the Tyrells on his behalf. Would he have done that if he knew that Littlefinger effectively started the war? The only explanation I have is that Tyrion hated his father so much he didn't care, but that's really weak. Because Tyrion is dutiful to his house, if nothing else, and Littlefinger had clearly attacked his house by attacking Tyrion.
Soo... minor spoiler alert... Expect me to remedy this canon headscratcher.

Chapter 24: You've conquered me

Notes:

Uh! I've been afraid to post this chapter because as much as I love it, there are aspects I'm not 100% happy with. But every time I go to tweak it, it feels like I'm pulling a thread that will unravel the entire sweater. So, here it is. Hope you enjoy this super long chapter!

On a separate note, I wanted to say that this chapter could be considered the end of the fic, as it's a good, satisfying stopping point. The remainder of the story gets very plotty, with politics and angst and dark times, new character POVs and storylines. Please consider yourself warned.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Tywin

“You look like shit, Father. Which is really saying something, since I see this in the looking glass every day,” Tyrion circled a finger around his own face. Those were his first words when arriving at the king’s solar that morning, precisely five days after Tywin’s argument with Sansa. She’d been ice toward Tywin since then, though no one else knew it since the Queen wasn’t expected to attend court or any other public functions in the half-year after giving birth. Tywin gave her space, but still she stewed in her anger. Stubborn woman. He understood the arrogance of youth, but this was downright petulant and reminded him of their last days together at Harrenhal, the first time around. She had closed herself off and he didn’t know why. This time he knew why but thought her response was disproportionate to his offense. Could she not see how things looked from his point of view?

Tywin ignored Tyrion’s words, though not effectively enough as evidenced by the smirk Tyrion made in reaction to something he found in Tywin’s countenance.

“I’m fine. Merely tired,” he finally replied.

“Hmm… Having a young wife will do that to a man.”

Not in the way you’d think…

“Pardon?”

Fuck… Did I say that out loud? I’m over-tired. Need to watch my tongue.

“Nevermind. Any messages?”

Tyrion’s mismatched eyes moved from side to side in confusion, “Is that what you summoned me to ask?”

“Nevermind,” Tywin repeated. “I’m curious… Since Lady Catelyn is now our family by law, will there be any issues between you two in the future? Say, when she comes to visit her daughter and granddaughters?”

Tyrion’s brows rose, “Not from my end.”

Tywin hummed, “But from hers?”

Tyrion leaned back, “What are you really asking, Father?”

Clearly an oblique approach was not working, “You know damned well what I’m asking. Why did Catelyn Stark arrest you?”

Tyrion snorted and moved to the sideboard only to find the wine had not yet been refreshed. He turned back around with a scowl, “You mean to ask if I tried to kill her son.”

Tywin blinked at him, “She thought you tried to kill Robb Stark?”

Tyrion rolled his eyes, “Bran Stark.”

“Did you?” Tywin hissed.

He watched his son take a deep breath before responding in an impertinent tone, “No, Father, I did not try to kill a child. Perhaps you’ve mistaken me for one of the other men whose company you typically keep.”

Tywin sneered, again choosing to ignore his son’s barb, “What led her to believe you pushed her son out a window?”

Tyrion huffed, “She thought I was the one who paid a catspaw to try to kill the boy some weeks later.”

Tywin rubbed his brow, “On what basis?”

“A weak one.”

“Elaborate,” Tywin growled.

Tyrion pulled himself up into one of the chairs across from Tywin’s own, “The dagger said catspaw used. Apparently, she believed that I would give a lowborn assassin a Valyrian steel dagger from my personal collection. Because, apparently, I wouldn’t think ordinary steel capable of slicing the tender skin of an unconscious child.”

“Since when do you own a Valyrian blade?”

Tyrion scoffed, “That’s the part you don’t believe? I thought you gave me more credit than that, Father.”

Tywin waved I hand, “I only mean what proof did she have that the dagger was yours? You’ve never had a Valyrian blade and thus no one, including Lady Stark, could have ever seen you with one.”

“Precisely my defense. But Lady Stark apparently puts more stock in the words of a slimy whoremaster than an ugly dwarf. Well, in fairness, it was probably my name, not my appearance or stature, which she found incriminating.”

“Whoremaster? You mean Littlefinger?”

“The one and only.”

“Why have you never told me?”

Tyrion glared at him, “When was I to tell you, Father?”

Tywin flung a hand in the air, “How about anytime in the months I’ve been back at the capital? How about when we met after you were released from the Eyrie? How about last week when we received word of his death?!”

Tyrion snorted, “After I was released from the Eyrie? Well, I would have, Father, but you were rather busy desecrating the lands of the Rivermen. You barely paused to humiliate me in front of your commanders, which meant you truly had a lot on your plate.”

Tywin rolled his eyes.

“And since you’ve returned to the capital? It’s been a bit hectic, Father. And forgive me, but with you I’ve learned to choose my battles carefully. Joffrey and Cersei were here, ready to undermine anything you and I would hope to accomplish. They seemed the greater threat than Littlefinger away at Harrenhal. Beyond that, you’ve kept me plenty busy now that we’re finally in a position to clean up this rotten city. And during that time there’s been a coronation, a wedding, two funerals, my brother’s arrival and immediate departure, planning for a military campaign in the North, negotiations with several lords and ladies, the birth of the princesses, now arranging for Tommen’s wedding…”

“You’ve made your point. Though it seems that if you can take the time to tell me how tired I look or to speculate about my marital activities you could have warned me about Littlefinger.”

“What can I say? I know how to prioritize.” Tyrion shook his head lightly, “You told me on your first day back that you didn’t trust him. I knew you would not be leaving him to his own devices unmonitored. Besides, would you have believed me? If I came down from the Eyrie and told you that Littlefinger’s lies were the cause of my arrest, would you have believed me then? Or would you have wondered if Lady Stark and the king’s Master of Coin weren’t in the right?”

Tywin stared at his son, struggling to find the truth within his own mind. He had never trusted his youngest son completely. He was certain the feeling was mutual. Lady Stark’s actions hadn’t warranted Tywin’s violent response because he feared for his son’s life, but because he feared for his entire family if Lannisters could be taken captive without said captors meeting retribution.

In fact, it hadn’t occurred to Tywin to worry that Tyrion might die. It had even crossed his mind that Lady Stark might be doing him a favor. But fair was fair; Tywin didn’t doubt that if Tyrion had the opportunity to kill his own father and get away with it, there were many times in his life that he would have.

So no, he probably would not have trusted his son then. Not fully. But now? Now that his other children had disappointed and failed him so thoroughly, he was seeing Tyrion in a new light. He still didn’t particularly enjoy seeing him at all, but he could appreciate his son’s ingenuity and loyalty to their house. And he couldn’t help but feel indebted to his son for being one of two men willing to stick his neck out to protect Sansa from the king.

“I suppose I have my answer,” Tyrion spoke in an emotionless voice. “No, you wouldn’t have believed me. At least, you’d have had your doubts. Because let’s be honest, Father, you and I both know the only people at Winterfell with motive to kill Bran Stark were not the wolves, not even the stags… but the lions.”

Tywin could feel his face freeze and could well imagine he looked dumbfounded by the way Tyrion stared back at him with a wrinkled brow.

Jaime was not lying. He told the truth about pushing Bran out the window. But then why would Littlefinger accuse Tyrion and not Jaime? Unless…

Tywin yanked at the lower hem of his doublet, “Your brother pushed the boy… And when he didn’t die you paid an assassin to finish the job. You did it to protect your brother.”

Tyrion shook his head very slowly, “You’re at least half wrong, though maybe also half right.”

“What does that mean?”

Tyrion sighed, “I suspect that Cersei or Jaime tried to kill the lad initially, but I find it difficult to believe either of them would have been so clumsy in the second attempt. They’ve had plenty of opportunity to practice subtlety over the years, and by Lady Stark’s account, the attack was about as subtle as Robert Baratheon in a brothel.”

Tywin continued his strategy of ignorance, this time to Tyrion’s allusion to his siblings’ incestuous affair. “Fine,” he spoke curtly, “this may come as a surprise, but I do believe you. But that only means that Littlefinger lied. Why pin it on you?”

“Why indeed, Father. But a wise man once told me that with such problems, when you cannot make sense of the beginning, it’s best to work backwards from the end.”

Tywin snorted, “You listen, after all.”

Tyrion shrugged, “Occasionally. Now, since we don’t know the motive for Littlefinger’s actions, let’s start with the eventual outcome of his actions. He spins his yarn to Lady Stark and—”

“And I march to war as a result of her arresting my son unlawfully.”

Tyrion nodded, “Littlefinger waged war on House Stark using House Lannister’s armies.”

“Or waged war on House Lannister using House Stark and House Tully’s armies…”

Tyrion held his hands up, “Or both. Maybe the victor didn’t even matter to him, because he was playing both sides. If the Stark forces won, he’d have leveraged his friendship with Lady Catelyn to better his position, reminding her how valuable his counsel had been – how if it weren’t for him, she’d never know that the Lannister Imp had been behind the attack on her son. If the Lannister forces won, he'd have… Oh wait, we did win. And he got Harrenhal for it. Cursed as it may be, it is one of the largest keeps in all the kingdoms, with some of the richest lands.”

Tywin felt a chill go through him. He had never thought highly of the whoremaster, including the day he gave him Harrenhal. But now to think that Littlefinger was the reason Tyrion had been arrested, the reason thousands of men had died… Tywin felt as if he’d been thoroughly duped. And if the man was that cunning, then he must have known that Tywin gave him Harrenhal not as a true honor and reward but because Tywin didn’t trust him enough to give him what he really wanted: a Stark bride and the kingdom that came with it.

And if Littlefinger knew that Tywin didn’t trust him, had he also known his days were numbered?

Foxes had been known to chew off their own feet to free themselves from the traps that mean certain death. What would Littlefinger, the sly fox, have done to save himself? Would he have spread more lies to Catelyn Stark, who might then convince the Northmen and Rivermen to pick up arms again come spring (or perhaps even before winter)? Would he have used his knowledge of the secret places within the capital to kill Tywin? Or abduct Sansa?

Or kill Tywin then step in to help Sansa rule, at the endorsement of her mother? Gain Sansa’s trust, gain her favor, gain her… affection.

Tywin squeezed his eyes shut to ward off the images of Littlefinger’s little fingers stroking Sansa’s cheek, but the images lived inside his mind.

“He wanted Sansa,” Tywin blurted out, the words a fire on his tongue that only speaking could extinguish.

Tyrion peered at him with a perplexed expression, “Littlefinger? You mentioned as much upon your return to the capital.”

Tywin nodded, “He wanted her as his bride. Her and Winterfell. Perhaps he was putting himself in a position to get both. And if a brothel owner from a nothing house wasn’t satisfied to be Lord of Harrenhal, would he even have been satisfied with Winterfell?”

Tyrion shook his head in disdain that turned into amusement as he lifted an imaginary goblet, “To the wolf that made a meal out of Petyr Baelish.”

Tywin rolled his eyes, but when Tyrion only stared at him expectantly, he sighed and lifted an imaginary goblet of his own, “Here, here.”

He couldn’t reveal his annoyance that he was likely toasting Robb Stark’s wolf, which he had hoped to have as a rug not so very long ago.

And possibly his own exasperating cupbearer-turned-goodsister.

Nor that he would have to seek out his wife so she could serve him a slice of humble pie. He’d never tried it before, but he could imagine it would go down about as easy as over-cooked boar.

He avoided their apartments more than long enough to ensure Sansa’s breakfast with Ladies Olenna and Margaery would be long over. He had no desire to make small talk with those magpies. Lady Margaery was wilier than she let on. And Lady Olenna let on too much. Lady Margaery subscribed to the belief that one could catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. Lady Olenna didn’t have the patience for laying sweet traps; she used her lizard tongue to snatch flies right out of the air.

Having any Tyrells at court was not ideal, but he couldn’t rightly turn them away when they were soon to be family and Mace Tyrell had been appointed Master of Ships.

With Ser Aenys Frey arriving a few months back to fill the position of Master of Coin, that left only Master of Laws open. While Tywin was tempted to appoint a trusted Westerman and be done with it, he could not afford to waste the favor he could curry by offering the position to a man of the Vale or North. Since Sansa was already his bridge to the North, he supposed the Vale was the more ideal of the two. With the Lord Arryn far too young, the best candidate would be one of the Royce men. Lord Nestor had admirably ruled the Vale as High Steward during Jon Arryn’s time in King’s Landing. Tywin would need to confer with Tyrion, who may have encountered the man during his trial. If nothing else, making the offer to some Vale lord would earn Tywin some goodwill even if in the end a Westerman took the position.

He put the thought aside as he approached the main door to the royal apartments, nodding at Ser Loras and Ser Colton, “Is the queen within?”

“The Godswood, your grace,” Ser Colton responded, “The princesses are within, in the care of Lady Cheryse, with your Ser Paxton on sentry outside the nursery.”

Tywin nodded and made the long walk to the Godswood, cursing each step of the Serpentine. How he’d like to be home at Casterly Rock. His home may be thrice as large as the Red Keep, but he rarely had to go beyond the main keep where he ate, slept, worked, and ruled. When he did, it was usually to depart the castle entirely in which case he traveled by horseback.

At least the walk three days out of each week from Maegor’s to the throne room would keep his body fit. Either that or it would lead to him keeling over with a seized heart or tumbling down the stairs to a twisted death.

Finally, he found his wife, alone but for Ser Eryk and Ser Darrin – her two Westermen, he was pleased to note. The guards bowed when Tywin entered the small clearing where the ancient oak stood in for a heart tree. Sansa was sitting on the bench a short distance away from the massive trunk, her hair and dress dappled in shadow.

“Leave us,” Tywin spoke to the guards, but they didn’t budge.

He turned to peer at them, and it was Ser Darrin, the newest addition to Sansa’s Queensguard, who nervously replied, “Per your own instruction, your grace, we take orders from the queen.”

“It’s alright, Ser Darrin,” Sansa called without turning to face the men, “Your diligence is appreciated and noted. When I am present, you may assume I agree with the king’s commands unless I indicate otherwise.”

The men bowed again and made themselves scarce.

Tywin approached his wife but did not sit. He stood beside the bench staring up at the live oak, which he supposed was a good likeness for a weirwood, what with its gnarled limbs that created a wide and low canopy. The grey-brown branches twisted like the fingers of a crone who’d seen too many winters, or a carpenter who’d hammered his knuckles too many times.

“Winter is coming,” his wife spoke.

He looked down at her, “The leaves are green and lush.”

She nodded, “But sunlight is filtering through. It used to be all shade. See?” she looked down at the ground where a red ground cover was spread like a blanket in all directions.

“What of it?”

“Dragon’s breath. It prefers shade, hence it thrived below this tree. Now parts of it are turning brown. The sun’s rays kill it.”

“Hmpf. Then poorly named.”

She shrugged, “Dragon’s breath emanates from deep in the belly of the beast, where I would assume it is as dark as pitch, so perhaps it is aptly named.”

“You know much about horticulture. A hobby?” He didn’t particularly care to talk about plants and trees, but he was looking for a way to ease into his intended topic.

“I know little about southern vegetation, and perhaps no more about northern vegetation than the average castle-raised lady. I know about this particular place because I spent so much time here.”

“Is it not blasphemous for a Northerner to pray before an imposter?” he flicked his hand toward the oak. An impressive tree, but nothing at all like a weirwood with its white bark and unnaturally red leaves. There was a small one at Casterly Rock, nothing like the ones found in the North, but even so it was impressive.

Sansa snorted lightly, “If it is, then I would have fit right in with the knights who swore to the Seven to protect the innocent, then abused the innocent instead.”

With a slight groan Tywin sat down next to his wife and for a few minutes neither spoke.

“I was wrong to get angry with you the other night,” Sansa volunteered, shocking her husband. Before he could voice his surprise, she continued, “I do not trust you, so I cannot fault you for not trusting me. And I was not lying when I said that I want your trust, but I’m afraid I’ll never be able to give you mine.”

His skin prickled with insult, “And what have I done to you to earn your distrust?”

“To me? Nothing. It is who you are.”

“I see. Guilty because I’m a Lannister,” he scoffed.

“Guilty because you’re Tywin Lannister.”

He pivoted to face her fully, “A man who protects his family, which you are now a part of.”

“A man who uses the protection of his family as a justification to commit heinous deeds.”

He worked his jaw back and forth, “Someday the people’s fear for your husband may just be the difference between your life and death.”

“And an eternal holiday in the Seven Hells should be the price you pay for that? Or that I pay for that?”

He snorted, “As far as I’m concerned the Hells are right here,” he jabbed a finger against the stone bench. “Your grandfather got a taste of that when he had the nerve to demand justice for his daughter. You got a taste of it when you watched your beloved father lose his head, being powerless to stop it. I got a taste of it when I watched my wife bleed and die, also powerless to stop it. If you think I’m cruel, wife, then what must you think of the Gods?”

“All the more reason to fear their wrath.”

“Worry about your own soul; mine is none of your concern,” he growled, turning back toward the trunk of the oak.

“Indeed. I did not mean to digress into a religious debate.”

“Then what did you mean?” he huffed impatiently.

“The lions of your sigil… Your family once kept them as pets, did they not?”

He rolled his eyes, “Now we’re talking about animals?”

“Answer the question.”

“Why? You already know the answer. Yes, there once were lions at Casterly Rock. I don’t know that I’d call them pets, though.”

“Indeed. They were kept in cages. Caves. Because?”

He sighed loudly, “Because they could not be trusted not to attack, and an attack from a lion is almost always deadly. At minimum you can expect to be maimed.”

His wife nodded, “Dogs can be domesticated. Dogs can bond with their master to the point that they would die for him or her. Same goes for wolves, as my family has proven. Even bears can be trained and domesticated. And birds, like the falcon or eagle or raven. But no matter how well you treat a lion, you can never let your guard down around it, can you? A lion will not be tamed because it does not wish to be tamed. Does your own son Ser Jaime not prove this? Did Cersei not prove this? Or Joffrey? Or you?”

He shook his head, “A sigil is symbolic; or should I assume that because your mother is a trout, she can breathe under water? I may have a lion stitched into my clothing, but that does not make me a lion.”

“No,” she sighed, “You’re not a lion in the literal sense. You’re just the man who drowned hundreds of people rather than giving them swift deaths or exiles. You’re just the man who had Ser Gregor rape and kill the woman who posed no threat to the next king’s rule – after he killed her helpless babes. You’re just the man who burned and pillaged the Riverlands, had the innocent smallfolk maimed and raped and killed all because your son was put on trial.” She shook her head, “Marching to war is one thing. Meeting other soldiers in open battle? I won’t call it civil, but it assumes both sides are equally culpable and equally willing. But did the smallfolk willingly let the Mountain’s Men kill their livestock, burn their fields, and rape their women and children?” she turned to look him square in the eye, “So tell me husband: would you trust you?”

He pulled his eyes away and settled them on the dragon’s breath sprayed all around them, “So that’s it then? We’ll each sleep with one eye open because we do not trust the other?”

She shook her head, “I made vows to you, husband, and I mean to uphold them. I am not the one who will betray you. You need never worry about me stabbing you in the back. Perhaps I should, but it is not in my nature. Nor do I believe you will betray me. Not directly, anyway. I do not expect you to poison me after I birth you a son because, as you said, you are a man who protects your family, your pride, which I am now a part of. But tell me true, husband. If Ser Kevan arrives at Winterfell to find that one or both of my brothers are, in fact, not dead, have you given him instructions to quietly dispose of them before my mother or sister or any other Northerner learns the truth?”

He ground his teeth, “I gave no such instruction because I have no reason to think your brothers are alive. Do you know something I don’t?”

“But you would have if you did have reason?”

“You think I would kill my wife’s little brothers?”

“Why not? You killed Prince Rhaegar’s children who were but babes. Why not kill boys old enough to rally a Northern opposition?”

“Prince Rhaegar’s babes were nothing to me!” he rose.

“Bran and Rickon Stark are nothing to you!” she stood and moved to be face to face with him, her blue eyes blazing and fearless. “Nothing but the boys who can take what you thought you had secured for yourself through marriage!”

“They’re my goodbrothers!”

“They’re wolves! You told me just the other night that wolves and lions are enemies; must I remind you now? You would put them down and tell yourself it’s justified because it protects your bloody legacy! Tell me why I should believe you won’t ever hurt my family!”

He grabbed her upper arms, squeezing tightly and lifting until she was on tiptoes. Then, he roared, “Because I love you, that’s why! I wouldn’t harm them because it would pain you and I’d rather cut out my own heart than see you cry!” He shoved her against the tree trunk, “You say you don’t trust the lion not to swipe at you, but you forget you’re his mate. You forget that he’d die for you, that he’d kill for you. I should have killed Petyr Baelish the moment he confessed he wanted what’s mine.” At some point his hands had traveled to her face, his palms on her cheeks, his fingertips buried in her hair. He knew he was squeezing but he couldn’t help it. He pressed his lips to her forehead and even that was too forceful, but he couldn’t help that, either, “Tell me what to do to prove my allegiance. Who must I kill? Who must I absolve? Do you want me on my knees? Do you wish to see the king groveling at your feet? Tell me, Sansa!”

She gripped his wrists and he let her shove him away, “I don’t know!” she screamed. “How am I supposed to live with myself if I love you? Marrying you, bearing your children, offering counsel… Those are duties. And I’ve always been dutiful. But… But…”

“But walking out of Riverrun didn’t feel like a duty, did it?” he finished her thought while burying his left hand in her hair again, more gently this time, “At least not only like a duty. Giving yourself to me – you wanted to.”

Her eyes were stubbornly pointed to the left of him, “I shouldn’t want you.”

“And yet you do.”

“You’re a monster,” she hissed.

“Perhaps. But there are worse monsters than me. Have I not brought the realm peace?”

Her eyes whipped to his, “First you destroyed it. Is that what you do? Destroy something so you can later take credit for rebuilding it? You might as well be a Targaryen burning the realm so you can rule it.”

He sneered and dropped his hand, “I didn’t destroy the peace. Your mother arrested my son.”

“She did not harm him!”

“And how was I to know that!?” he threw his hands up, “All I knew was that she captured him at an inn and abducted him!”

“And instead of seeking a diplomatic resolution you sent Ser Gregor and his awful men to pillage the smallfolk of the Riverlands!”

“How was I to seek a diplomatic resolution when I had no idea where your mother had gone with my son?! Nor did I know for how long she would keep him alive. I needed to take decisive action, and I did. My apologies if you do not approve, wife, but war is ugly. And what your mother did was an act of war. It’s not my fault I’m better at it than she is.”

She gasped at the insult, “You- That’s- Oh, nevermind! Tell me, how did you expect to protect your son by attacking smallfolk? You were more likely to provoke my mother into doing something rash!”

Tywin sighed and took a step back. He was not in the habit of explaining himself, and yet he’d been doing more of it in the past year than in his entire life up to this point. Explaining himself to his son, to his brother, to his wife, even to his fucking goodsister.

“My intent was to provoke your father into a response. He would feel honor-bound to respond to the attack on his wife’s homelands. When he and his men left the capital where he had Robert’s protection, we would capture him and eventually trade him for Tyrion. Your mother would not harm a hair on my son’s head once she knew her beloved husband was no longer in the safety of the Red Keep with his friend, the king, to shield him.”

Sansa blinked at him, “But Ser Jaime maimed him, so he had to send others out in his stead. Then the King died. Then Father was arrested…”

“And your brother immediately called his banners and soon began the march south. Tyrion was still in your mother’s custody; how could I have departed the Riverlands then, knowing that terrain was all that separated an army of angry Northmen from the capital where my children and grandchildren resided?”

“Perhaps you ought to have gone to the capital to tell your grandson not to execute the Warden of the North. Having my father as a living hostage would have protected the capital and your son more than having a hold on the Riverlands.”

Tywin snorted and rubbed at his brow, “Do you think I don’t know that? You have the benefit of hindsight, wife; I didn’t. I had no reason to believe Joffrey or any of his advisors, including his mother, would be stupid enough to kill a highborn hostage. A highborn hostage whose son was already leading an army toward the capital.”

He watched as his wife crossed her arms over her chest as if she had a chill, but he knew she was shivering for a different reason. Her eyes were off him again as she spoke in a dull voice, “He made me call my father a traitor in front of all of court. He said if I did that, he would let my father live. Let him take the black. So I did. On my knees I begged and pleaded for mercy on my father’s behalf. I said he had acted treasonously because he was injured and not in his right mind. And Joffrey promised mercy. And my father kneeled on the steps of Baelor and denounced himself as a traitor. I know he didn’t do it for himself. Ned Stark would rather die as an honorable man than live as a dishonorable one. He did it for me and my sister, hoping to earn Joffrey’s mercy for us.” Sansa licked at tears that had streamed down to her lips and it made Tywin realize how few times he had seen her cry, and how very true his earlier words were. The sight was worse pain than a dagger to the gut. “Joffrey killed him anyway,” she concluded, “and he showed me no mercy. Nor did your daughter.”

Her eyes flicked back to him, angry and cold, “That’s what a Lannister does. And here I once loved them both. Or at least I thought I did. But oh, how quickly that love turned to hate. So how can I allow myself to love you, husband, when someday I may need to hate you?”

He could not believe it was that simple, that she could suppress love. That would be as futile as putting one’s finger in a dyke to hold back the river’s rage.

And for what, anyway? What had changed? She was fine even after he confronted her about Littlefinger. More than fine, judging by the gusto with which she had sucked his cock. He knew they got into a row that night, but he had held his temper in check, hadn’t insulted her, hadn’t struck her or even raised his voice. He had sought her out today to tell her he was wrong about Littlefinger and that… Well, he still didn’t like the idea that she would confide certain things in her sister, but he understood now why she did, and why they wanted revenge so badly. And though he didn’t appreciate the subterfuge, he knew now, thanks to his conversation with Tyrion, that Baelish was more dangerous than Tywin had known. Baelish was dead and Tywin’s hands were clean; for what more could he ask?

“Why, Sansa?” he asked. “A sennight ago when I came to bed everything was fine. I know I gave you some grief, but enough for you to decide… to decide what? That the rest of our marriage will be nothing but duty and cold civility? Is that what you want? You told me you want respect, freedom, and love. Have I not given it to you?”

More tears had formed, and she took a shuddery breath as she shook her head.

“What does that mean? That I haven’t? For fuck’s sake, I gave you a Queensguard so you’d never feel like a prisoner here. Is that not freedom? I listen to you. I confide in you. I’m entrusting you to someday rule the entire bloody kingdom as Regent when I’m gone. Is that not respect? And I…” he rubbed his forehead, annoyed by the deep ruts he found there, “And I just told you I love you. I haven’t spoken those words aloud… I haven’t spoken those words since I was a child in my mother’s embrace.”

Her eyes widened and he knew why. He knew quite well what was said about his late wife: that while he ruled the realm, Joanna ruled his heart. And that when Joanna died, his heart died with her. As was often the case, the truth behind the songs was more bitter than sweet. The truth was, he was ten years old when he was sent to King’s Landing as a page and cupbearer. He was too young to be in love then, and he didn’t see Joanna again until he was seven and ten, when the slightly younger girl came to court herself. They might have gotten to know one another well if not that war broke out – what would become known as the War of the Ninepenny Kings. Once that mess was resolved Tywin returned to Casterly Rock to deal with the Reynes and Castameres, thus earning himself a fearsome reputation. In ‘62 King Jaehaerys II died, Aerys II ascended, and Tywin returned to the capital to act as Hand. Only when he got there, he was met by rumors that Joanna had been in Aerys’ bed. Willingly. And more than once.

After reviving House Lannister from the laughingstock Tytos had let it become, Tywin could not risk such a rumor growing legs. To prevent that from happening, it had been easy enough to act as if Joanna and Tywin had been in love for years; no matter that they were apart since childhood, they did have interactions here and there and could have maintained a relationship via correspondence for all anyone knew. So that was the story they sold: a bond so deep and true that Joanna would never stray from her beloved, even with a prince-turned-king. It was no great sacrifice for Tywin. Joanna was beautiful and sweet, and after seeing his own father be led astray by conniving mistresses, Tywin was more interested in marrying a woman whose loyalty to House Lannister was indisputable than in marrying for political gain. What better way to punish all those houses who failed to stand up for their liege during the business with the Reynes and Tarbecks then by spurning their daughters as matches for the heir of Casterly Rock?

They married about three moons later – enough time that no one would speculate on parentage if Joanna bore a child nine moons after their wedding night. But the king that Tywin thought was his friend was over-eager in his touches during the bedding, and Tywin didn’t appreciate it.

They were still newlyweds when Queen Rhaella dismissed Joanna from her service, which only dusted off those rumors about Joanna and Aerys. Joanna returned to Casterly Rock at once, meaning once again Tywin was separated from the cousin who he had only just started getting to know.

And that was their marriage. Occasional visits to try for heirs, which she gave him three years into their marriage. But they were apart much more than they were together. Until ‘67. Aerys had ordered Tywin to bring his wife and children to court (a most peculiar command), but Tytos died and thus Tywin’s place – as well as his wife’s – was at the Rock. Aerys invited himself and half of court then overstayed his welcome by many months. Tywin had been no fool; he knew Aerys was obsessed with Joanna. He knew Joanna did not enjoy the attention. The only thing he didn’t know, because he never dared ask, was whether Joanna had ever lain with Aerys. Tywin knew her character enough to know she would not have done such a thing after their wedding, but before? Aerys was a handsome prince who’d resented his marriage to his younger sister when they were but children. And Joanna was a beautiful lady with a sympathetic heart.

That was the first time since childhood that Joanna and Tywin Lannister were in the same place for more than a few months. They got to know one another, but he’d hardly say their bond deepened – how could it with Aerys’ shadow looming over both of them? Tywin was ruling the West and the realm from Casterly Rock while keeping one eye on Aerys to ensure Joanna was not harmed or humiliated. Joanna was exhausted from nursing twins while running a household that had doubled in population.

Then it was back to the capital for Tywin when the king’s party departed. He saw his wife only intermittently for the next four years. Her longest stay in the capital was in ‘72 for the Anniversary Tourney. In front of an entire crowd Aerys had made a lewd comment about Joanna’s breasts and Tywin had finally had enough. He tried to resign the very next day, but Aerys refused. To this day, Tywin wondered whether it was because the idea of Tywin and Joanna living together year-round was too much for Aerys to bear. Or perhaps because if Tywin resigned, there would be no reason for Joanna to ever come to the capital where Aerys could lay eyes on her.

It didn’t matter, anyway. Joanna was dead less than a year later. Tywin was deeply saddened by the loss of both a wife and a cousin. He had cared about Joanna, truly, but in hindsight he couldn’t say it was love. How could it have been when they spent so little time together, and those instances were always marred by stress and doubt?

She rules him, the rumors said. When did she have the chance? And if his heart died with Joanna, it wasn’t because his heart beat only for her in the first place, it was because he could not stand the guilt. Married a decade and how much of that time had they spent together? The equivalent of 2-3 years in total, he supposed, most of that tainted by the presence of the lascivious king. She was a good wife, but he could not say with any certainty that she loved him. She cared about him, yes. She loved their children, most certainly. She loved their House and shared his aspirations for it. She deserved a better husband, a better married life. She certainly did not deserve to die bringing Tywin’s son into the world.

And if it wasn’t his son… If Tyrion’s white-blond hair was the result of Targaryen white mixing with Lannister blond… Then she most certainly didn’t deserve that, and it meant that Tywin had failed her in the most unforgiveable of ways.

Married to protect her from rumors… But I couldn’t protect her when it really mattered.

Now he had made vows of protection to another woman after swearing he’d never do so again. But he hadn’t protected her from the mad king who had tormented her even worse than Aerys had tormented Joanna. Nor even had he acted against the whoremaster for whom Sansa was the object of obsession. Someone else, or no one at all, could take credit.

Had he really been willing to let Joffrey live as Lord of the Stormlands after all he’d done to Sansa? My Sansa?

I should have been the one to turn my blade on Aerys. The day he refused my resignation I should have slit his throat. I knew by then he was on a path toward madness. I had seen he could be cruel, and not just toward his enemies. How much pain and death would have been avoided? Joanna might have lived. Lyanna Stark. Brandon Stark. Rickon Stark. Elia Martell. I’d have been executed but Kevan would have taken over the Rock and ruled until Jaime came of age... Jaime who would never be called Kingslayer. Rhaegar would have ascended the throne, and he couldn’t possibly have been worse than Aerys ended up. Perhaps Joffrey would never have been born. Perhaps Cersei would have been happy. Perhaps… Perhaps…

“Shh…”

Tywin blinked as his vision came back into focus. He was staring at his hand, pressed hard against the trunk of the tree to support his weight. His other arm was being hugged against Sansa’s body quite firmly, as if she feared he would fall.

“Have you never told anyone?” Sansa asked softly.

“Told anyone what?” he looked at her and found tears still lingered in her sky blue eyes.

She bit her lip, “About your first wife. About why you married her. About how the Mad King treated you and her. About how you think you failed her. Have you been carrying this guilt all these years?”

He was embarrassed to find he had told his wife everything, but there was no taking it back, “I didn’t carry it, I buried it.”

She shook her head, “That doesn’t lessen the weight. Sooner or later, it will bend you. And a thing or person can only bend so much until it breaks.”

He didn’t know what to say, so he kept his lips shut while his body recovered from its daze. When he opened his eyes a few moments ago, it felt like waking up after a dreamwine-induced slumber. His brain felt groggy, his vision fuzzy. He really needed to catch up on sleep.

“Do you recall, husband, that what I asked of you did not include protection?”

He looked down at her. She moved herself between him and the tree and spoke to his throat, “As you just mentioned, I asked for freedom and respect and love. I didn’t ask for protection.”

“I am your husband. It is my duty.”

“Indeed. Which is why I didn’t ask for it. Most husbands protect their wives. Some respect their wives. Fewer still love their wives. And even fewer give their wives true freedom. You respected Lady Joanna?”

He scoffed, “Without question. She was not just beautiful and kind. She was an intelligent woman. A capable lady and mother.”

“And clearly you gave her freedom. You let her live at Casterly Rock even though you were bound to the capital. Most husbands would not permit that – at least not until an heir had been born. She was unhappy here. Perhaps frightened. So, you set her free.”

He nodded slowly, “Next you’ll ask if I loved her. I simply don’t know, Sansa. Everything I felt then… it was so… it was all…”

“Tangled up? Confusing? You resented your father. You were disillusioned by your friend and king. You were proud of your children. You were angry about the betrayals of your house. You cared about your wife, yet she was another thing you had to wonder over, worry over. You felt too many things. Too many conflicting things.”

He felt his brows pulling together, “How do you know?”

She smiled sadly, “I’ve felt sorrow, shame, blinding anger, relief, desire, fear, love… These are the emotions I’ve lived on for years now. So how can I say that what I think is love is not merely physical attraction, or gratitude? How can I say it is you I fear hurting me, when perhaps I’ve simply become jaded by too many betrayals? But when you held me and the girls that night, I felt so sure that I loved you and you loved me. Then you voiced your doubts about my loyalty, and I realized I was wrong. Just like I’d been wrong about Cersei and Joffrey. But perhaps… Perhaps I wasn’t wrong. Perhaps you did feel the love but it made you afraid and so you said hurtful words. Perhaps you are afraid to love me because you are afraid of the pain that will come if you lose me. Just as I am afraid to love you because of the pain that will come if you betray me.”

He tucked an errant lock of hair behind her ear, “And what are we to do about that? You cannot guarantee I won’t lose you. The birthing bed. A fever. A fall down the stairs.”

She looked down at her feet while nodding, “Indeed. But perhaps you will take comfort in knowing that, should I meet such a fate, it will not be an entire lifetime you have to live without me.”

“And you? How will you ever trust that I won’t betray you?”

“I will trust you because you trust me. You just trusted me with something you’ve never told anyone. Tell me another truth now, husband. Tell me a secret, and I’ll tell you one of mine.”

How was it her words sounded like nothing but pure logic?

How was it the truth spilled from him so freely, this time with full cognizance?

“I’ve loved you since before you left Harrenhal, though I’m not sure I knew until I realized you were gone. The fear I felt that someone had hurt you… It was like a giant’s hand had clamped around my chest and I wouldn’t be able to breathe until I found you safe. My pride had been wounded and I told myself that was why I was so desperate to get you back, but the reason my pride had been so deeply wounded to begin with was because I felt a connection with you… and I thought you felt it with me. I had intended to keep you as my secret mistress.”

Sansa let out a small snort, “I’m sorry. That’s quite sweet, but… Well, a little humorous, isn’t it? Instead of your secret mistress you march me into the capital as your future queen?”

He smiled faintly, “I suppose it is humorous, Sarina.”

She swatted his chest.

“Your turn.”

Her face became solemn but she nodded, clearly combing through her memories and finally landing on one, “When I realized I was with child, of course I was concerned, but in time I was also happy. Like you, I tried to trick myself into thinking I was happy only because it meant another wolf for my pack, but I was also happy that I would have something… something of you. A piece of you. A piece of us.”

He leaned forward and kissed her forehead, “Why did you slap me at Harrenhal?”

She sighed, “I needed to know if you would ever hurt me. Physically, I mean. And I needed to find out before you knew I carried your child. What did you think when I slapped you?”

“I thought that you were the only person in the realm who could get away with doing such a thing… And I thought that I had never wanted you more.”

Her cheeks darkened, “Oh…”

Tywin chuckled lightly, “This doesn’t constitute a secret, but I thought you should know: I spoke to Tyrion. He told me the reason your mother arrested him.”

Her brows went comically high, “Oh?”

“It would seem that the late Petyr Baelish told her that Tyrion was behind the attack on your brother’s life.”

Sansa frowned, “How would Lord Baelish have known if that were the case?”

“The dagger the assassin used was a distinctive Valyrian blade. Your mother brought it to her friend Petyr, and he claimed it had once been his, but that he lost it to Tyrion in a bet.”

Her cheeks became red again, “And she believed him?”

“Apparently.”

“She believed that Lord Tyrion would give a rare and presumably priceless blade to a catspaw? A blade that could be easily traced to him?”

“Apparently,” he repeated.

Sansa pressed a hand to her forehead, “Oh, Mother… what foolishness.” Her eyes sprung wide, “But wait… Arya said that Lord Baelish betrayed our father just before the arrest. He had led Father to believe he supported him, then it was Lord Baelish himself who disarmed my father and held a dagger to his neck!”

“How would your sister know this?”

Sansa’s blush darkened.

“Sansa…?”

“Are we still exchanging secrets?”

Tywin crossed his arms over his chest and waited.

“Oh, fine! The Hound told her.”

“When? I thought your sister disappeared from the capital that very same day.”

Sansa exhaled loudly, “He told her… more recently.”

“When would your sister have been in the Hound’s company? Where is he?”

“It was near Saltpans. At an inn.”

Tywin groaned, “The dolt. He ought to have gone to Essos.”

Sansa squinted her eyes shut, “I suppose now would be a good time to tell you that he is in my sister’s service.”

Tywin squeezed the bridge of his nose, “How did that come to pass?”

She dropped her head back and groaned, “At my suggestion.”

He arched an eyebrow and waited.

“Urgh… he came to me here. Offered to take me away if you were… treating me unkindly. I told him I did not need to be rescued and assured him you have never harmed me. He did not further press, you should know. I also suggested that if he felt the need to atone, he could do so by protecting my sister.”

Tywin’s head was spinning but he managed to ask, “Atone for what?”

“He feels guilty for not protecting me from Joffrey. Though in honestly, he’s the only one who ever did, until Lord Tyrion arrived.”

Tywin blinked at her, “Guilty? The Hound? The Hound feels guilty?”

She scoffed, “He is a man, not a dog. Even the hardest men have feelings, do they not?” she glared at him meaningfully.

“So the Hound – a man wanted by the Crown – approached you here in the Red Keep? And you didn’t think to tell me?”

“I owed him that much! He protected me when he could. He even saved my life once! I do not think you truly wish to punish him for abandoning Joffrey during the battle, but if his presence in the capital was known, you would feel obligated to, wouldn’t you?”

Tywin sighed, “Fine. You let the Hound go without raising an alarm. But you could have told me after the fact. How long ago was this?”

She shrugged too casually, “Around the time Arya and Uncle Brynden were here.”

Tywin scrubbed a hand down his face, “No more secrets, Sansa. If he’d been seen sneaking around the keep, he’d have been killed on sight, do you realize that? If I had known that he was here and that you wished to extend him mercy I could have helped him leave.”

“He did not need help! He used a secret tunnel to enter and leave my bedchamber!”

Tywin stared at her. She shrank, “It wasn’t like that! For Gods’ sakes, he was in and out in less than five minutes! I mean… in and out of my bedchamber.” She stomped her foot, “I did nothing wrong!”

Tywin clenched his teeth and tried very hard not to lose his temper, “The next time a man sneaks into your bedchamber, wife, kindly tell me about it.”

She nodded rapidly.

“Now, are there any more secrets I should know about?”

She bit her lip.

“Sansa…?”

“I’m thinking…”

 

Sansa

She must have lost time, because how did they get here from there?

She must have also lost her wits.

Who was this man who she should not trust and yet looking in his eyes made her want to confess everything?

Who was this man who was nothing like the heroic, honorable knight she had always dreamed of and yet she melted under his touch and found herself wanting nothing more than his approval and love?

It was magic. That was the only explanation. He was a warlock and he’d cast a spell on her. Maester Luwin said magic didn’t exist and warlocks were frauds and swindlers, but even wise Maester Luwin could be wrong sometimes, couldn’t he?

And yet Tywin seemed so very human minutes ago when speaking of his youth and young adulthood.

It had never occurred to Sansa when thinking of her own traumas at Joffrey’s court that Tywin had endured his own under the Mad King. How could she have not pitied him in that moment? How could she have not loved him, for was he not a kindred spirit?

And she was still a stupid little bird, because his confessions made her want him even more, made her trust him. And she told him everything (well, almost everything) because she didn’t want to lie to the man she loved. She’d never been a good liar – Sandor Clegane was right about that, too – but she’d been doing so much of it in the past year that it was becoming easy to do but still not easy to live with.

She told Tywin about Sandor coming to her bedchamber (Gods, could she not have lied about that detail at least?!) and offering her a way out.

She told him about Jaqen, the Faceless Man who seemed quite fond of Sansa and gave her a coin which she could use to engage the services of his guild in the future.

She told him it was Jaqen who killed Joffrey. Gods, Arya would kill me. And worse, I’d deserve it! At least she didn’t add that he killed Cersei, too. Tywin had no love for his grandson and was nothing but relieved by his “unfortunate” passing. Cersei’s death, however, stirred contradictory feelings in Tywin. Better to let him believe Cersei had killed herself in a moment of grief after Joffrey’s death. Just before blurting it out, Sansa remembered the letter from Ser Kevan and said the second name given to Jaqen by Arya had been the torture-master at Harrenhal known as the Tickler.

She told Tywin that when she gave Lord Baelish’s name to Arya, it was so that she would give the name to Jaqen, but Sansa now doubted he had committed the crime. He seemed so obsessed with the specific number of lives taken, so why would he have also killed Baelish’s sellswords? Why kill Polliver in addition to the Tickler?

And she told him that she had no knowledge of Lord Bolton’s death, but she was glad for it. The man betrayed her family, proving that Boltons were incapable of loyalty, as their history already supported. And she did not like the way Roose Bolton looked at her when they dined together in his tent each night of the journey from Riverrun to Harrenhal. Oh, he spoke mildly and his manners were impeccable – she could not even criticize the man’s posture or table etiquette – but he looked at her in a way that made her skin crawl from the inside out. He looked at her like he both hated and wanted her. Wanted her because he hated her. Wanted to own a Stark the way other men want to mount a buck’s head over their hearth – because they believe it reflects their wealth or their virility. She had even dreamed on the fourth night of the journey of being in a crypt, her wrists and ankles somehow fused to a hard stone chair in a dark tunnel. Lord Bolton and a group of men came to look upon her, each holding a torch. He told his companions in that eerily quiet monotone that she was his latest and greatest accomplishment. She tried to curse him and plead for the others’ aid, but her lips were fused shut. The men left, taking the light with them, but as they ventured out at a lazy pace their torches illuminated the fact that Sansa wasn’t alone in the crypt. Yet the company offered no reassurance. There were others, like her, bound to stone chairs. Some were mere skeletons. Others were nothing but skin and bone, but they still lived, and they looked at her and struggled against their binds. They hated her for her very fat and muscle and sinew. She screamed but the sound was dull since her lips couldn’t part. She screamed and their muted screams were like a hundred echoes. She had opened her eyes to find herself still screaming and still it was muffled – then by the calloused hand of the guard who stood sentry outside her tent for at least part of each night. His hand smelled like bollocks, and she had gagged against it.

Tywin wrapped her in his arms then and she didn’t know why he wasn’t angry – not about her final admission but everything that came before it.

“I won’t let you hurt my sister,” she spoke into his wet collar. When did I start crying? “I don’t know how but I swear, Tywin, if you try to punish her, I will make sure you come to regret it.”

He pulled himself back and smoothed strands of her hair that had become stuck to her tear-streaked face. His eyes were smiling, which seemed suspicious, “Why would I punish her?”

She narrowed her eyes, “Don’t play dumb.”

He scoffed, “You know that’s one thing I’ve never been accused of.”

“This isn’t a jape,” she stepped to the side, needing to not look at those damned green eyes.

“Indeed not. But again, I ask, why would I think she deserves to be punished?”

Sansa put her hands on her hips, “Why wouldn’t you?”

“You say this man gave your sister the right to select three names. Why did she not give him Joffrey Baratheon, Cersei Lannister, and Tywin Lannister?”

Sansa could only stare at him in response. His lip crooked up, “I imagine this Faceless Man could do it without making anyone think you were involved. In a fit of rage after I took his throne, Joffrey attacked me. I fought him off and killed him, but not before he had delivered a lethal injury. In a fit of grief over losing her father and son in one night, or perhaps out of guilt that she did not see the menace her son had become, Cersei took her own life.”

“But…”

Tywin shrugged and lowered himself to the bench, “But you would not be Queen Regent because I had not yet named Jeyne as my heir. Which means it would go to one of my sons, and we all know that Jaime would refuse the appointment, or at most he would be King in name alone while letting Kevan or Tyrion rule. Either way, I assume your sister knows now and knew then that Tyrion is found of you? That he protected you from Joffrey?”

Sansa nodded slowly.

“Perhaps with my reign being so short, and my crown being obtained in a rather unorthodox matter, the council would elect to put Tommen on the throne instead of one of my sons. I’m sure Arya knows that Tommen wouldn’t hurt a fly. Certainly, that he wouldn’t hurt you.”

Sansa took a deep breath, “What are you saying?”

“Am I happy that your sister went rogue? Hardly,” he snorted, “but a great power was put in her hands, and she chose not to wield it against House Lannister. She chose not to use it against me even knowing Widow’s Law and the affection that both Tyrion and Tommen hold for you would protect you if she had.”

Sansa felt her cheeks become warm, “I may have told my sister that I’m… happy. That you… treat me well. That you teach me and listen to me. If I hadn’t, there is a very good chance yours would have been the third name she spoke.”

To her astonishment, her husband smiled, “I don’t doubt it. Did you not recently list the brutal things I’ve done in the name of family? What kind of hypocrite would I be if I blamed your sister for having the same instinct to protect? She’s an impudent little chit, but not without some virtues.”

Sansa wanted to join her husband in his apparent amusement but couldn’t. She had just told Tywin Lannister, the Great Lion of Casterly Rock, the King of the Seven Kingdoms, that she had conspired with her sister in a plan to kill Petyr Baelish. She had told him that Arya, through an assassin, had killed his grandson. How could he not want vengeance? No, he didn’t care particularly much for Joffrey, but nor did he care much for Tyrion went he went to war for him.

She wanted to but couldn’t trust the smile on his lips that was gradually fading as she remained mute. What if it was a decoy? What if he merely wanted to prevent Sansa’s suspicions should something dire befall her sister?

Tywin shook his head lightly, “So some months ago you told your sister that you’re happy here. Happy with me. For the last week you’ve been quite unhappy. A few minutes ago, you seemed happy. Now you look unhappy again. You are making my head spin, Sansa.”

She nodded meekly, “Every time I feel myself becoming content I… I panic. It isn’t safe to let one’s guard down. Not in this city. Not around…”

“Lions?”

She sighed and felt fresh tears filling her eyes, “I wish someone would tell me how I should feel. I wish someone would tell me that it’s okay…” She rubbed her forehead and stepped away from him, not for the first time, “I fear my own mind betrays me. One moment it is confident, the next it doubts. One moment it wants you, the next moment it fears you.”

“Perhaps you should rely less on your mind and more on your gut. You told me you could trust me if I showed that I trust you. You were speaking from the heart then; speaking with the wisdom one your age has no right to possess. Now your mind has once again convinced you I’m a threat. And why? Because you confessed your sister’s doings and now your brain tells you I will seek retribution? Yet I am telling you I won’t for all the reasons I just shared. There’s nothing more I can say. I’ve already repeated myself more than I’m in the habit of doing…” He sighed tiredly, “I have neither the time nor energy nor desire to fight with you.” He rose and looked at her, but the piercing gaze wasn’t there. The lively and perceptive green eyes looked hard, as she had seen many times when he looked upon others, but never her.

Without another word, he left.

She knew she was being unfair, fickle. She kept vacillating between warmth and coldness, between logic and emotion, between pleasant and unpleasant emotions.

It was worse since the twins were born because their presence seemed to exacerbate both extremes. When Tywin looked upon them proudly, when he held one or both of them, Sansa felt like she could cry from loving him so much. But sometimes she imagined some not overly distant future when her daughters would hear the Rains of Castamere and ask her to explain its meaning. Or when the maester would teach them recent history. Like the reign of King Joffrey. Like the death of the Warden of the North. Like the War of the Five Kings and all the blood spilled in the Riverlands.  

Mama, if you were betrothed to King Joffrey, why did you marry his grandfather instead?

Wasn’t the Warden of the North your father?

Isn’t our grandmother of the Riverlands? The maester says father had his men pillage and burn those lands…

Would Ser Gregor ever come to court? Would her daughters ask questions about the giant man? Would it fall to Sansa to explain that he was a monster who was allowed to live because he served their father?

Were her sweet little daughters born with blood on their hands because of their sire?

Would they grow up hating their father because they had too much Stark in them to abide atrocity?

Do I want them to hate him?

If I love him, are all his sins mine? If they love him, are all his sins theirs?

“My queen.”

Sansa spun around and found Ser Eryk standing at the hedge line.

“What is it, Ser?”

He took two steps but was still some distance away, “I have sworn to give you my counsel. Will you ask it of me?”

She turned and sat on the bench, facing the oak tree. For the second time that day she listened to a man’s footfalls coming nearer, only this time her heart didn’t thrum in time with them. “You heard all of it?” she asked when he stopped to the side of the bench, just where Tywin had stood initially.

“Not even most of it. Just when you were shouting. Just when he was shouting.”

Sansa let out a mirthless chuckle, “It would seem the King and Queen need lessons in decorum.”

He snorted, “King Aerys II. King Robert. King Joffrey. If you think a raised voice would even register with anyone in this city as a breach of decorum, then I fear your sense of propriety is too rigid.”

She sighed, “And the entire realm knows such is not the case…”

“The entire realm can bugger off.”

She smiled faintly, “I needed that, Ser. Thank you.”

“So will you?”

She turned to look at him, “Will I what?”

“Will you ask for my counsel?”

She felt her cheeks flush, “I welcome your counsel always, Ser. You may offer it even when I haven’t asked. Though I fear this matter is not one a lady should discuss with her guard.”

He nodded humbly, “Indeed. Then I suppose I’ll have to disregard my lady’s wishes and say my piece anyway. I do so knowing she may choose to punish me for this lapse, and knowing that with the lady in question being both wolf and lion, that punishment may be rather painful.”

She couldn’t help but smile again, though she rolled her eyes for good measure, “I’d prefer not to punish a man so soon after accepting his oaths, so you have my permission to proceed, Ser.”

His own lips quirked, “You guard yourself for good reason. But in worrying over what may happen if you open your heart, you fail to consider what may happen if you don’t.”

She frowned, “I fear your wisdom exceeds my comprehension.”

He sighed, “Perhaps the entire realm – and I’m including your homeland – has much to gain by being ruled by a king who has a woman’s love. What did your mother teach you of a wife’s duty?”

Sansa felt exposed for a fool. For how long did she rely on her mother and septa’s words about a lady’s place, a wife’s role? Now that she was finally a wife, she had forgotten them, but Ser Eryk was right.

“A lady wife helps her husband, such as in the running of his household and, if needed, the ruling of his lands.”

“And?” Eryk grinned.

“She gives him heirs.”

“And?”

She blushed, “And she loves him, no matter his flaws.”

“And why do you suppose they taught you that? Heirs? The running of households? Those are practical matters. Love is,” he made a feigned look of disdain, “superfluent. Inconvenient. The stuff of songs and fables. So why have you and every other young lady been trained to love their lord husbands?”

She nodded, “Because a woman’s love tempers a man’s worst impulses. A man who receives love knows how to give love. To his children, his family, his people…”

“So do your duty, my queen. And be grateful.”

“For?”

“For the fact that your duty does not seem particularly… onerous.”

Sansa chuckled even as her cheeks burned again, “I hope I don’t need to remind you of your duty to keep that fact in confidence.”

“No reminder needed. And for the record, knowing the man loves his wife does not make me fear him any less.”

She lifted a brow, “No?”

Eryk shook his head, “I fear what the lion would do should I ever fail his lioness.”

Sansa’s eyes widened before she schooled her features into an exaggerated look of smugness, “As it should be.”

 

Tywin

He paused at the threshold, not expecting to find his wife in their private dining chamber. Certainly not tonight when she had still seemed so conflicted when he left her company earlier today.

“My lady,” he greeted curtly.

“Husband. I just arrived myself. I dismissed Lew. We can plate our own food, no?”

He nodded. It wasn’t news to her that he rarely kept a servant at hand during private meals. The last time he made a habit of being waited on was at Harrenhal, and then only to give Lisbeth a safe place and a protected position.

He pulled out Sansa’s usual chair and wasn’t sure whether to feel pleased or suspicious when she smiled at the small gesture of chivalry.  

They ate in silence that was tense for him but seemingly not for her. In fact her countenance was shrouded in a peace that he had never seen. It seemed an ill omen for him; evidence that she had come to terms with a marriage of duty and politic – nothing more.

He took his annoyance out on his dinner in a way that would leave him with an ache in the temples on the morrow. What a fool he had been to reveal all and hold back nothing. For five and fifty years he had protected his secret, kept it in the shadows where it belonged, where no sunlight could turn blood red into dull brown. And in just under a year a young she-wolf with no weapon but her instincts had coaxed him into revealing his own weakness.

And wasn’t that the irony of it? No enemy peeled back his skin while he was tied to a cross. He had done it to himself, sacrificed his secret to try to spare the she-wolf some pain. Then she took one look at what he had thought was a treasure and snubbed her nose, dismissing it as not enough. And fool that he was he simply peeled back another layer, the last layer, and for a few beautiful moments she seemed to like what she saw. But the moment ended as quickly as a trunk lid slammed shut.

All of his sins she had enumerated boldly (the first person to try to hold Tywin Lannister accountable) - he could deny none of them. Yet as he forced the last bite of supper down his gullet, he was certain his cruelty was no match for hers. No man could shame another man as well as a woman could do the job. Men ruled. Men fought. Men raped. Men killed. By all indications they were the dominant sex. But no man who’d ever given his heart to a woman only to have her hand it back with a shrug would ever agree. Men ruled each other, but they were all ruled by women.

Tywin Lannister ruled the Seven Kingdoms but was ruled at home by his lady wife.

Perhaps there had been some truth to it then, but he suspected there was more premonition in those words than anything else.

And it was little comfort that he wasn’t alone. Kevan was ruled by his love of Dorna, that was clear to any who saw the man and wife together. Jaime had been ruled by his love of Cersei. Robert had been ruled by his love of Lyanna Stark, as had Rhaegar Targaryen. Tyrion had been ruled by a peasant and would be to this day if not for Tywin’s intervention. Tytos had certainly been ruled by women. First Tywin’s lady mother, then back-to-back mistresses.

Even righteous Ned Stark had been ruled by a woman. Had he not told Jaime that Tyrion had been arrested on his orders, when now Tywin knew that was a lie? He had a sword pointed to his chest and still the honorable fool lied to protect his wife from her own impulsiveness and gullibility. He condemned himself, the sole protector of two young girls, to protect a woman leagues away from the lion’s reach.

Perhaps even men like Gregor Clegane were ruled by women, for what did Clegane live for if not the constant pursuit of unwilling cunt? Same for Aerys, who was ruled by his infatuation with Tywin’s wife more than Tywin ever was.

Now Tywin could officially be added to those ranks. Because no matter that Sansa had rejected his heart, she still owned it. It lingered outside his body, hoping to be claimed, destined to continue in a state of limbo until it stopped beating and put an end to its own misery.

He tossed his napkin onto his plate, “So this is how it will be, then? Entire meals without a single word spoken? I’ll have your courtesy when there are witnesses to it, otherwise I’ll get nothing but your frost? Then I tell you now: don’t bother. I’d rather eat alone then with a brooding child. I’d rather sleep alone then next to an iceberg. I’d rather fuck my hand then a bone-dry hole in a body as yielding as a boulder.”

He stood and pushed in his chair, refusing to slam it against the table no matter the temptation.

“Why did you claim the throne?” she spoke levelly as he neared the door.

If he turned around, he’d walk right back into her web. They’d have another war of words, another argument that he would lose even if he won.

He turned.

“You know damned well.”

“Why did you claim the throne?” her tone was unchanged.

He sighed, “Joffrey was unfit to rule.”

“Why did you claim the throne?”

He flung up a hand, “The rebellions against him wouldn’t have stopped. You know as well as I do!”

“Why did you claim the throne?”

He walked to the table and leaned on his knuckles, taking shallow satisfaction in looking down on her, “It was my right. I’d lent Robert and Joffrey enough gold to own the bloody thing thrice over.”

“Why did you claim the throne?”

He had no more words but the ultimate truth, so he kept his mouth shut but for a sneer.

“Would it be easier if I said it, husband? Spare your pride?”

He sat in his chair with a defeated huff, “My pride? I believe I threw it all away this morning in the Godswood. So what more do I have to lose? I claimed the throne because I’m a greedy man. Not greedy for the illusion of power the Crown gives to those who wear it, but for a stubborn redhead who happens to have more pride than is good for her. With Joffrey ruling, Sansa Stark would never be free. So, my choices were marry a traitor to the Crown or take the Crown so I’d be the one to decide who is a traitor and who is not.”

A subtle lift of her right eyebrow was her only visible reaction until her lips parted to speak, “Was the Great Lion truly afraid that the boy king would lead his army of a thousand sellswords to Casterly Rock to demand you turn over the redhead traitor?”

He rolled his eyes, “I seem to recall the traitor wanted peace and reparations for her people, for her mother’s people. I happen to know Joffrey would never have granted either. And it was only a matter of time before Olenna Tyrell threw her granddaughter at Joffrey, no matter Ser Loras’ opinion on the matter. Then the sadistic twerp would have an army as big as his brain was small. That would not be good for the North and the Riverlands. Nor me, if I had married into them.”

She stood and rounded the table slowly, leaning against the edge to Tywin’s right.

“You didn’t ask me where the coin is,” she stated quietly.

The subject change was so abrupt that it took Tywin many moments to realize the coin she was referring to. “I did not,” he eventually replied.

“Are you going to?”

“Will you think me a fool if I don’t?”

She shook her head, “I’ll think you’re lovely.”

“Then you’ll be the fool,” he snorted.

She shrugged but a smile formed on her perfect lips, “I’m willing to be a fool for you.”

Tywin’s heart danced, “By now this probably goes without saying, but the feeling is mutual.”

She slunk down to his lap and nuzzled beneath his ear, “This is new to me, Tywin. I am still learning. Will you be patient with me?”

“Only if you’ll return the favor,” he turned his face and she didn’t hesitate to bring her lips to his. The novelty that had worn off over months of marriage was back and perhaps even increased. It felt like their first kiss, like his first kiss. All nervous excitement, desire to please, promise of things to come. Sansa shifted to straddle him so they could kiss at a more natural angle and when Tywin ran both hands under her skirts and up her thighs, he noticed a bareness that confused and thrilled.

“My queen seems to have misplaced her stockings and smallclothes.”

“As a matter of fact, I know exactly where I placed them.”

His cock twitched against the confines of too many layers of fabric. “Sansa…” he growled a warning when she bore down and grinded against him. “Is this still your idea of punishment? Teasing me with something I cannot have?”

She brushed her lips against his, “No tease. No punishment. I miss you.”

“The maester—”

“Said all is healed when he examined me today. He also seemed quite amused to learn that we were actually waiting the full ten weeks. He confessed he tells new mothers that because if he says ten, they’ll wait eight, and really six is more than enough. An old maester’s trick, he called it.” As she spoke, she moved her skirts out of the way and slowly unlaced him. Methodically she worked toward revealing him, as if to savor the moment.

“Sansa…” he repeated, this time simply because he liked to say it. Liked to hear himself say it.

Her lips were flush to his as she maneuvered the tip of him into her quim and eased down. She moved excruciatingly slowly, perhaps expecting pain from the act they hadn’t committed in over two moons. His fingers itched to grab her hips and rut away, so he curled them into fists. His pretty little wife, the mother of his children, his queen, rocked against him, lips firm but body dawdling. He decided this was punishment after all. The sweetest punishment ever devised by the most cunning mind, as kind as it was cruel – a combination he found himself admiring more than he ought.

She let her pelvis drop back, stretching his cock and intensifying his sensitivity. Her hips rolled, back and forth, rubbing her pleasure points inside and out against his shaft. Getting herself off on him – a glorious notion that would swell his head.

Yet his teeth still clenched for more. His fingers still itched. His hips were a horse being kept at a trot when it yearned to gallop.

He could take no more. He brought his hands to her hips under her skirts, fuller and somehow more exquisite than the first time he’d seen her naked in his bed at Harrenhal. His fingers dug into her backside, his thumbs on her hip bones, and he worked her back and forth while working his hips up and down.

Slender hands with a strong grip wrapped his wrists as best they could.

“I’m hurting you?” he asked, cursing himself for having forgotten that she birthed twins only four and a half fortnights ago.

He let her guide his unruly hands down to his sides. “Quite the opposite,” she whispered in his ear. Her hands came up to his neck as she kissed him, resuming her steady rocking without ever separating her mouth from his. As his focus shifted away from the slow pleasure on his cock to the feel of her lips on his… then on his jaw… then on his neck… then on his earlobe… he finally understood. She was loving him with her body. He’d deflected it unintentionally by thinking about his eventual completion, but what was this act if not completion? Two halves fitting together to make a whole. Two mere mortals working together to create pleasure even the heavens couldn’t offer. Man and woman. Alpha and omega. Before there were kings and their subjects, lords and their vassals, master and student, parent and child… Before any other partnership there was simply man and woman. Equal even if different. Perfect complements, designed to walk this life together. Any man and woman could make pleasure. Could make children. But what was pulsing between he and Sansa like lightning stretching from clouds to land was something else entirely. Rarer than gold. More elite than royalty. More elusive than the fabled sea dragon. He had it. They had it.

Her breath was stuttering, her skin dewy and flushed, her eyes closed as she pulled her mouth away from him. He slid his left hand into the thick hair at the base of her neck and his right hand under her skirts again, this time not to intervene but merely to observe.

“Tywin…” she panted.

Yes.

“Tywin…”

Take your pleasure, my love.

“Tywin…”

Take everything. It’s yours.

“Tywin…”

I’m exposed, don’t you see? Take it. It beats harder now than ever before.

“Tywin!”

Do with it what you will, but I pray you will keep it; treasure it. It’s yours.

“Tywin!” Head dropped back, fingers in flesh, chest heaving, hips stammering, muscles taut. She screamed his name toward the ceiling, or perhaps the heavens. Then through teeth clamped in pleasure she groaned out six syllables in time with the jerking of her hips, “I love this… I love you.”

She drooped like a once proud candle set to flame, and he caught her against him, before lifting her to carry her the very short distance to the bearskin rug in front of the hearth that had only recently been lit after years of summer. She stared up at him – lazily, sleepily, sweetly – as he unbuttoned his doublet and removed it. Then his tunic. Then his blasted boots. Then his breeches. Then his smallclothes. For the first time in their marriage, she was clothed and he was bare.

He remedied that injustice very quickly after helping Sansa to sit up. Gods bless these nursing dresses; they laced in the front and were designed for quick and easy unfastening. A heavily lined fabric bosom was all that stood between him and the swollen teats he’d been wanting to devour for weeks now.

When moments later she was bare to him he laid her back down and took the opportunity to sit back on his ankles and take her in. If there was a sight worthy of a grown man’s tears, it was this. Skin as fine as ivory. Curves worth recreating in clay. Wavy hair like a silken blanket beneath her head.

With a light finger he traced one of the squiggly lines that radiated downward from her navel.

“Don’t,” she grasped his finger.

He looked up at her and found she looked nervous. No, embarrassed.

“Sansa—”

“Cheryse said they will fade in time, especially with my pale complexion. And the skin will tighten. I promise.”

Tywin closed his eyes and sighed, “And I promise that my skin will never be any tighter than it is now. Nor will my scars fade. Nor the spots that seem to exist only to mark the years of a man’s life – as if he needs a reminder.”

She frowned, “But I’ll still think you’re handsome.”

It was embarrassing how her praise made him feel giddy. He did not think he was an ugly man, but if he was ever a match for her in looks it was a good three decades ago. To know she found him handsome made his chest feel like a hummingbird was inhabiting it.

“Then you’ll understand that I’ll still think you’re beautiful even if this never fades,” he stroked the back of his knuckles over those shimmery lines on her lower belly, “or even if you whelp me so many babes that you become as fat as Lord Manderly. I have no fear that anything could make me stop wanting you but my encroaching old age. I’m greedy indeed to claim the most beautiful woman in all the realm only to waste her best years on an old man.”

Her lips curved wickedly, and she brought her hand to his half-hard cock, which instantly began swelling again just from her touch.

“Are all old men so virile? Truly, someone must tell all the young maidens pining for their young knights: they’re missing out.”

He chuckled lightly, “Few young men have mastered the use of their swords.”

“I believe it,” she smiled and used a hand on his neck to pull him closer. He had no desire to resist, lowering himself to one elbow and using his free hand to hold her soft cheek while he kissed her, his cock pressed against her drenched center. He let the tip rest against her, no matter how much he wanted to push in, preferring to watch her squirm. She wasn’t the only one who could be cruel.

And squirm she did, rubbing herself against his shaft as their kisses became more heated. Tongues licking, teeth nibbling, lips sucking. He broke away to give her neck the same treatment while his hand drifted down to her breast, swollen and tight. No power in all the land could have stopped him from squeezing the flesh just to know how it felt, and while he thought he was being gentle he looked down to find her breast squished in a pinching grip. Startled by his own roughness he pulled his hand away only for Sansa to mewl and guide it back to her chest while rubbing herself against his cock.

More than a little encouraged, he flicked his tongue against the turgid nipple - a pink rosebud the day before bloom. His wife cried out like he’d only heard her do when peaking. It was no shriek of pain, he knew, and he couldn’t help but push himself into her even if he didn’t dare stroke back and forth yet. He held himself deep while squeezing and kneading and licking. He tasted it then, finally… Sweet cream. His tongue and cock must have a connection for he felt himself swell and twitch inside her.

A starving man would ravage a pair of working teats with less enthusiasm. He squeezed and licked, and Sansa moaned and whimpered while her insides constricted, milking him as he milked her.

Everything thus far had been normal, he rationalized. Men loved squeezing breasts for reasons he couldn’t explain. Men loved licking breasts and particularly nipples, and there was no surer way to make a woman drip between the legs.

But what he wanted to do, now that he’d had a taste, was inexplicable. Humiliating. Infantile (literally). Yet his wife’s steady pull on the back of his neck told him that it was also… alright. His mustached lips locked onto her nipple as he’d done dozens of times. He sucked lightly and his wife’s voice sounded pained even as she told him, “Harder.” Another twitch of his cock, another pulse of her walls around him. The pleasure of his wife riding him was a distant memory from another lifetime.

With a bit of experimentation, he found there was a difference between sucking with your lips and sucking with your entire mouth. When he did the latter, the goodness flowed, and he had to remind himself to swallow. Sansa curled herself up to kiss the top of his forehead, one hand clawing into his shoulder, the other holding his head with a grip that he wouldn’t have been able to shake out of if he tried.

He fucked soft and sucked hard while his wife came undone, her muscles trembling as she held herself up against him and cried a release. Literally cried. Tears filled her voice as she told him it was so good, that she wanted him inside her forever, that she loved him, that she loved his mouth and his cock.

It was the last one that did him in and he had to stop drinking so he could breathe through his mouth and speak his own piece, words whispered against her cheek, “Never shut me out again, Sansa, please. Hit me if you must. Make me crawl on my hands and knees. Curse at me. Scream at me. But never take this away from me.” He thrust deep, irrationally thinking he could drive his words into her brain through her cunt.

And maybe he could. She pulled his face to hers and spoke into his mouth, “I swear it. I only hurt myself by hurting you. I’m tired of fighting this. I’m weak for you and I don’t want to care.”

He pushed up onto his right palm, wrapping his other arm around her thigh and opening her to him more completely, “No weaker than I am for you. You’ve conquered me, she-wolf. I’m yours… I’m… yours,” he groaned as he reached the apex and plummeted down the other side. Now he was the one to melt, but his wife was a hardy little thing and could take his weight.

She smoothed his hair, making him wish he had more of it, but that was a waste of a wish if ever there was one. Instead, he prayed that his heart would fail him before his arms or his cock, because the day he couldn’t love this woman properly was the last day he wanted to live. It may be shallow, but no one had ever accused him of being virtuous.  

“I’m curious, husband. Is conquering the same as taming?”

He chuckled into her hair, “Are you sure you want a tame lion?” he pushed his still tumescent manhood further into her.

“Mmm… You seem to conflate taming with gelding, husband. I’ll keep my warhorse intact, though I’d prefer he didn’t nip my fingers.”

Tywin turned his head quickly and chomped in the direction of her hand, eliciting a gasp then a giggle from his wife before he raised himself up again without disengaging from her sheath.

“I cannot change who I am or what I’ve done, Sansa. I don’t ask you to love me for my deeds, but I ask that you accept them. All you have to love is the man I am here in our bedchamber.”

She bit her lip and looked up at him, “I think I can love a bit more than that.” She lifted her legs and wrapped them around his hips. They were of the same mind, and while he was perhaps not a truly old man yet, nor was he a young one. She’d be waiting a while, but he’d see to it that she didn’t get bored in the meantime.

Notes:

Soo... I have to take a minute (or ten) to talk about my take on Joanna/Tywin in this fic...
Sorry to all the Joanna lovers out there (I’m one of you). In my other TySans I subscribe to the popular belief that Tywin indeed loved his first wife whole-heartedly, but I felt like doing something different here and I don’t believe it is farfetched. Really, when did Tywin and Joanna even have opportunity to get to know one another unless they fell in love when they were little children and time apart never diminished their love (obviously, there is precedent for this: Jaimsei)? But if that lightning didn’t strike twice in House Lannister, then Tywin and Joanna would have to have fallen in love during one of the few times they were in the same city together for a couple weeks, then maintain that love when they spent the following months apart. Certainly possible – love at first sight, soulmates, all that jazz. But I do think it’s odd that Tywin would marry the chick who was rumored to be Aerys’ paramour unless he and Joanna were close enough that her word would be enough for Tywin. Again, it could have been, but how well would Tywin have trusted Joanna when they spent so little time together? I think it’s more likely that Tywin married her to prevent more shame for House Lannister.
Allow me to dive into Joanna/Tywin, just for shits and giggles.
Everyone points to three things as proof that Tywin genuinely loved his first wife.
1) “He smiled at their wedding.” But, if there is a time when a stern man is going to smile or fake a smile, would it not be his wedding?
2) “He ruled the realm while Joanna ruled him.” But with them living in two separate cities for virtually all of their marriage, how was she ruling or even influencing him? It’s not modern times with phones and email.
3) “He was deeply sad when Joanna died.” She was still his cousin, still the mother of his children. And perhaps it was guilt more than sadness. Such as guilt for her dying to bring his child into the world. Or guilt that he didn’t protect her from Aerys. (Don’t tell me he didn’t wonder when Tyrion had white and black hair. Do not fucking tell me.)
4) “He didn’t remarry after her death.” See aforementioned guilt. Plus, the fact that he has two sons and a daughter (no matter that he hates one of the sons, he has never actually disowned him) and three healthy nephews through Kevan. There’s also the possibility that he had suspicions about Joanna and Aerys having a consensual relationship. (What alpha male wouldn’t wonder WHY Aerys maintained his interest in Joanna over more than a decade?) If he had suspicions, it could make him leery of trusting another woman. If he didn’t have suspicions, he could still be leery because of the whole ‘I didn’t protect her’ thing. He is all about protecting his family as evidenced by what he does in response to Catelyn arresting Tyrion. But what is one thing that no man can protect his wife from in that time period? Death by “natural” causes which for women, childbirth was #1.
While I’m rambling (are you still reading this?), let’s take a moment to feel for Joanna Lannister. She either A) spent 10+ years having to fend off the increasingly forceful advances of a mad king in the making whenever they were in the same city, or B) made the mistake of sleeping with Aerys when she was a teenager and got herself trapped in a possessive, abusive relationship. Maybe she was in love with young Aerys but did not want to be his 2nd wife, so she marries her powerful cousin instead and Aerys resents her for that and starts making creepy comments. Or he threatens to tell Tywin about their past if she doesn’t continue sleeping with him. Seems to me he began hating on Tywin only after Joanna gave birth to the twins. Aerys must not have liked that if he loved Joanna (and by love I mean warped love). Aerys openly mocks Tywin and Joanna, both seemingly out of jealousy. Tywin has accomplished so much by then, most of it benefiting his so-called BFF Aerys, and the thanks he gets is for Aerys to mock Tywin in front of court. Poor Tywin. Poor Joanna. Seriously, they were to Aerys what Sansa was to Joffrey. And that is a big part of what makes Jaimsa and TySan fics work for me: both Jaime and Tywin ought to be able to sympathize with Sansa’s experiences with a MAD KING.
Oy, now I want to write an Aerys/Tywin/Joanna fic. OH THE DRAMA! And of course we’ll have Queen Rhaella who is even more pitiable than Joanna but is also jealous of Aerys’ obsession with blondie and maybe mean toward Joanna? I wonder if Rhaella ever came onto Tywin in an act of vindictiveness? Maybe lonely Tywin even went for it. Maybe that contributed to his guilt when Joanna died. Oh so many avenues to explore… HBO, are you reading this? THAT is the story I want to see depicted on screen.

Ok, I'm done now.

Chapter 25: I did something really stupid

Notes:

Sorry this isn't longer (heh, that's what he said), but I had to split it apart from what will become chapter 26 or else it was going to be too long and it just wouldn't fit. ;)

Thank you if you're still reading this.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 25

Arya

“You summoned me, Lord Tully?”

Arya rolled her eyes at the sight of the Hound filling the doorframe, even hunched as he was. More specifically, the at way his expression went from bored and mildly peeved to wide eyed and alert when he took in their visitor.

Ser Kevan rose, “At ease, Clegane. Our camp received a message – actually a few. One is addressed to me, commanding me to hand-deliver this to you. And yes, his grace knows you are in service to his goodsister.”

Clegane turned to Arya and scowled, “Your sister always was a shite liar. How she fooled the Old Lion all those months is beyond me.”

“Must have something to do with her—”

“Arya!” Catelyn hissed.

Arya shrugged, “I was going to say her delightful personality.”

That earned her a snort from two trout, a dog, and a lion, but Catelyn was unamused. Gendry, never willing to smile when his goodmother wasn’t, began picking invisible lint off his vest.

“Here you are, Clegane,” Ser Kevan extended an arm at the end of which a sealed scroll was gingerly held between two fingers.

Clegane eyed it and eventually snatched it quickly like a dog not sure whether the bone on offer was a genuine reward or a bait. Arya rolled her eyes. Again.

His oversized fingers cracked the seal gracelessly and the parchment tore a bit. He was such a bloody aurochs. Sansa truly must have been desperate in the capital if this was her idea of some knight in shining armor. Then again, Sansa enjoyed fucking a Lannister – and a bloody old one at that – so her taste in men could not be trusted.

Everyone, even Mother, watched Sandor’s eyes travel back and forth along the scroll.

“Well, what’s it say, or don’t you know your letters?” Arya asked.

Clegane ignored her. He was getting pretty good at that, much to her annoyance.

“It’s a royal pardon in light of character testimonies provided by Queen Sansa Lannister; Hand of the King Tyrion Lannister; and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, Tommen Baratheon.”

Arya grinned, “I always said Sansa was a bad judge of character.”

“Arya,” Catelyn hissed again then looked at Clegane, “Lord Sandor, this is wonderful news.”

He didn’t correct Catelyn, who refused to call him Clegane or Hound like the rest of them did. He used to correct her until the night she held Littlefinger at knifepoint then watched Grey Wind devour him without so much as blinking. Now he cringed but didn’t protest when she called him ‘Lord’ or – even worse – ‘Ser’. Since that night he looked at Arya’s mother with something like admiration and it was such a disturbing sight that Arya felt justified in threatening to castrate him if he tried to fuck her mother. The big fucker only laughed and said, “The thought hadn’t occurred to me, but now that I know how much it would bother you, I might just try my luck.”

Really, calling him the Hound was an insult to dogs. There was nothing he wouldn’t say or do to annoy her. Gendry claimed that she did the same, but what did he know?

“Is that all?” Uncle Brynden asked.

Clegane shook his head, “An invitation to return to King’s Landing to reestablish my fealty to Tywin Lannister, King of the Andals, blah-blah-blah… And a surprisingly polite reminder that if I pledge myself to the North, I relinquish any future claims on Clegane’s Keep.”

Mother pursed her lips, “That is not a small consideration, Lord Sandor. Your keep may be small, but it sits on rich, fertile lands, does it not?”

Clegane nodded, “It does, Lady Stark. But until my brother is in the Seven Hells where he belongs, I’ve no claim on it. Not sure I want to claim that accursed place, anyway.”

Ser Kevan looked awkwardly about the room before clearing his throat, “Does our king demand a decision be made within a certain timeframe?”

Clegane shook his head slowly.

Ser Kevan closed the distance between them and slapped a hand on the larger man’s shoulder, “Then the problem will keep for a few moons. Tomorrow we march north to toss the squids back to sea.”

Uncle Brynden harumphed, “I prefer to bury them in the dirt, let them fertilize Winterfell’s crops. Remind those savages what happens when they step foot on dry land.”

Ser Kevan tipped his head and smirked, “As you say, Ser.” He turned to face Arya and Mother, then bowed deeply, “Ladies Stark, I thank you for the hospitality.” He faced Gendry, “Lord Gendry…”

Gendry blushed, “Just Gendry, please. I mean, if it please you.”

Ser Kevan rose, “Congratulations on your recent nuptials. I hope you are as happy with your Stark bride as my brother is with his.”

“Doubtful,” Clegane muttered. Arya stuck her tongue out at him. Well, she started to, but Mother glared at her.

“Lord Tully,” Kevan bowed again before Edmure who tipped his head in response even if it clearly pained him to do so.

“Ser Brynden.” A half bow. Another smack on Clegane’s shoulder, and the lion saw himself out.

Riverrun had been hosting Ser Kevan and a few other noble commanders in the guest tower. Edmure found it particularly insulting but understood that they were allies now and so minded his tongue. The rest of the Lannister army was camped beyond the moat.

“Well, boy, no more hiding,” Uncle Brynden directed at Clegane.

Clegane shook his head, “Suppose I’ll be marching with you now. If you’ll allow it.”

Arya wasn’t quite sure if it was her place to respond as Acting Wardeness of the North, Edmure’s as Lord of Riverrun, Brynden’s as the commander of the Riverrun army, or Mother’s, as their unofficial matriarch. But it was Brynden who answered, “Sacking Winterfell will be no picnic. You’ve seen the place. Those walls are thick, and we have no definitive estimate of the Ironborn’s numbers. We’ve heard everything from a few dozen to a few hundred. So aye, boy, you’ll march with us.”

Arya wondered why he let Brynden call him ‘boy’, but it occurred to her it was the same reason he let Mother call him ‘lord’: he respected them. Perhaps even liked them.

She wasn’t sure why, but she didn’t want him to go back to the capital. Not permanently, anyway.

Ugh… It’s so much easier to hate people.

They began the march north the next morning, as planned. Stark grey and white. Tully blue and red. Lannister red and gold. Those were the majority. Other northern and western houses were represented in smaller numbers, though no less proudly.

It was a long march, colder every day. The blades of wild grass were rimed with frost north of Greywater Watch. Frost became snow north of Moat Cailin, though it wasn’t deep.

Two days’ ride south of Winterfell the snow came to just below the horses’ fetlock joints.  

When, a half day’s ride south of Winterfell they were afforded a view of the castle from the wooded ridge, Arya’s blood turned cold, and it had nothing to do with the weather.

She couldn’t make out the sigil of the banners waving from Winterfell’s ramparts, but she knew of only one that was pink.

She almost was sick in the snow as some voice from within told her that this was all her fault…

 

Brynden

Ser Rodrik had been a stout man not so very long ago. Now he could almost be called gaunt. He and a dozen Stark men under his command had made their way to the camp that the armies of wolf, trout, and lion had set up south of Winterfell in Cerwyn lands. Arya and Catelyn had greeted him affably, but he did not return their warmth and familiarity, instead dropping to his knees and confessing his perceived failure in protecting Winterfell and the lads. He asked if it were true about Robb’s death. He asked if it were true about Sansa becoming queen and already birthing two princesses. When the ladies nodded, his eyes welled with tears that did not fall.

Now several of them stood inside Greatjon Umber’s tent to hear Ser Rodrik’s report. Arranged in a circle were Catelyn, Arya, Clegane, the Greatjon, Lady Maege, Lord Glover, Lord Cerwyn, Ser Kevan Lannister, and Brynden himself.

Rodrik began with a long sigh and Brynden took it as an ill omen, “We’ve been at Castle Cerwyn for months now. Months prior to that, about six hundred men under my command rode to Torrhen’s square, which the turncloak was besieging.”

“Theon?” Arya asked, her eyes big as saucers.

“Aye, my lady,” Rodrik nodded, “Only it was a ruse. A diversion. While we were gone, Greyjoy took Winterfell with only a dozen men. Did it the Ironborn way. Scale the walls by night. Kill the guards, open the gate to let more in.”

Cat nodded stiffly, “That was when Maester Luwin was able to send a raven to White Harbor. It was the first we heard of Theon’s betrayal and the last we’ve heard from Maester Luwin directly.”

“Aye, my lady. When the business at Torrhen’s Square was finished, we marched north to Castle Cerwyn. That’s where we heard the news about the young lords Bran and Rickon,” Rodrik’s head bowed.

“Then you did not see the bodies yourself?” Cat asked desperately, hopefully.

Ser Rodrik’s face was hard, “I did not. But I did not wish to withhold such news, knowing how their deaths might impact Lord Robb’s decisions, especially with both his sisters as hostages, or so I thought.”

Cat nodded, “I understand, Ser,” she clasped the older man’s hands, “Please go on. How is it the Flayed Man banner hangs from the parapets of my husband’s home?”

“Right. Thinking the young lords were already lost we were in no hurry to try to take Winterfell back from the squids. We let our wounded heal at Cerwyn. I recruited more men. You know how stout Winterfell is, my lady. With Greyjoy’s few dozen, plus the remaining Stark guard might have no choice but to fight for him or lose their heads, I wanted to have a thousand at minimum. Between us and Lords Cerwyn and Tallhart, we managed to gather that – a thousand good men. But by the time we returned to Winterfell the Bolton force was there. Not to attack, but to keep anyone else from claiming the castle. Led by the lord’s bastard,” Rodrik spat, “Who claimed to have orders from his father, on behalf of Tywin Lannister…” his eyes went to Ser Kevan who Brynden almost felt sorry for.

Catelyn nodded lightly, “Ser Rodrik, I doubt you’ve had reliable news these months, even at Castle Cerwyn. The alliance between Stark and Lannister…” she glanced at Ser Kevan, her lips pursed but her eyes earnest, “…is strong.” She reached for Arya and her daughter stepped closer though she’d been looking pale all day. “One of my grandsons through Sansa will indeed inherit Winterfell, and he will wear the name Stark. Until he is of age, Arya will rule, with my guidance and Ser Kevan’s. Much has happened, and I will fill you in on everything, but for now,” Cat took a deep breath, “Know that I trust in my goodson. My king. Just as I trust in my daughter and queen.”

Rodrik’s eyes narrowed, likely looking for hidden meaning. Eventually he nodded, “Aye. Not my place to question my lady’s choices. But to answer your question, the Boltons outnumbered us. Even if they didn’t, we’d take losses in fighting them in open field and then how would we take Winterfell back? We weren’t provisioned to camp outside of Winterfell indefinitely, so we returned to Castle Cerwyn, only leaving behind some scouts.”

“That’s when they took Winterfell?” Arya asked.

“No, my lady,” Rodrik smiled sadly, “Roose Bolton called back his bastard – smart, if you ask me – and left old Steelshanks in charge of a smaller party… just big enough to deter anyone else fixin’ to claim the heart of the North. But two moons past, word came that both Roose Bolton and Ramsay Snow – I refuse to call him Bolton; even that bloody name is too good for him – were both dead. Eaten alive by their own hounds. Eh, pardon, my ladies, I hope my words haven’t disturbed you.”

Arya, Cat, and Brynden exchanged a glance and Brynden barely kept himself from smirking.

“Continue, Ser,” Cat smiled faintly as if slightly put out by the images that Ser Rodrik’s words conveyed. More likely she was smiling on the inside and wishing it was possible to reward the man-eaters.

“Well, pardon my saying, but it was a fitting death for men such as them…” You can say that again. “…only it left the Dreadfort up for grabs. They say Steelshanks tried to keep the men in line, and for his trouble they ripped him apart. The rabble got it in their heads that if they held Winterfell, the Dreadfort, and Karhold that they’d be able to hold the North against a foe of any size. And I fear they may be right, at least during winter. Word is they even killed Roose Bolton’s Frey bride just in case she were with child.”

Clegane piped up, “So if some went to claim the Dreadfort, how many hold Winterfell now?”

Rodrik sneered at him, “Does this Lannister dog speak for House Stark?”

“Aye he does,” Arya spat, “When it comes to fighting, you tell him anything you’d tell me or Mother or Uncle Brynden. And best not get in the habit of calling him ‘dog’, lest my sister finds out.”

This time Brynden did smirk – at the look of blush on Clegane’s face and the look of shock then chagrin on old Rodrik’s face.

Eventually the old knight shrugged, “Fair enough, my lady” he turned to face Clegane, “Five hundred, give or take.”

“And how many hold the Dreadfort?” the Greatjon asked in his bellowing voice that couldn’t be tamped down even when everyone stood barely four paces apart. No doubt he was worried about his own lands which bordered those of the Dreadfort and Karhold.

“That’s just it. Those brainless cu—” Rodrik’s eyes flicked to Cat, “Those brainless cowards are fighting amongst themselves at the Dreadfort, so we hear. Can’t say for sure – we have no scouts on their land, too dangerous – but we hear rumors from those who leave the place looking for greener pasture. Everyone there wants to be in charge. Everyone wants to be the next Lord of the Dreadfort,” Ser Rodrik stopped himself short of spitting this time, but not by much, “Ask me, I say we raze the place when all is said and done.”

“But they’re not fighting amongst themselves for Winterfell?” Cat asked, ignoring his opinions on the Dreadfort for now.

“No,” Rodrik shook his head, “Lord Damon Snow, who has styled himself the King in the North, has complete authority over his men. Or so it seems. He was one of the bastard’s closest lackeys. As sick as his master, I hear.”

“And Karhold?” Lady Maege asked, “Has it fallen?”

“There’s the only good news I can share, my lady. It took the Bolton men some time to fracture into their little groups after they sacked Winterfell. The group heading for Karhold is about four hundred, led by another of the bastard’s lackeys, this one they call Skinner. Damon Snow sent him with provisions from Winterfell’s own stores. And they just departed two days past.”

Cat nodded absently, “Meaning nearly a moon from Karhold. Meaning a part of our army can overtake them, but…”

“But what?” Clegane crossed his arms.

The Greatjon worked his bearded jaw back and forth, “But it’s only half that much time to the Dreadfort’s border.”

Brynden wouldn’t waste another moment. He turned to face Ser Kevan, “Three hundred of yours, three hundred of ours. Move light and fast and catch them unawares before they can cross into Bolton lands.”

Ser Kevan licked his lips, “And Winterfell?”

“Five hundred men can’t hold it against twenty thousand,” Lady Maege spoke vehemently, “They’d need twice as many. We strike now. We don’t give them any time to mount a defense.”

Cat nodded, “Let’s hope they’ve spent the past two months warm in Winterfell’s walls and drunk on our mead. This bastard that Ser Rodrik speaks of may know fighting, but I doubt he knows siege defense unless he was castle-raised.”

“And the Dreadfort?” Ser Kevan asked, a hint of excitement in his voice that Brynden could appreciate. Ser Kevan may not look the part, carrying extra weight around his midsection and smiling more than any grown man should, but battle planning and the prospect of a good fight got his blood pumping just as it did for every other man in this tent (and the women too, Brynden would wager).

The Greatjon waved a hand, “Let the rabid fucks kill each other. As Lady Stark said, what discipline will these men have? Enough to ration whatever food stores the Skinner had squirreled away? Doubtful. Come Spring, if there’s anything left but skeletons and rats, we deal with them then.”

Ser Kevan frowned, “Will they not raid Karhold lands? Or your lands, Lord Umber?”

The Greatjon pulled his enormous greatsword from its sheath and planted the tip in the ground. Brynden wondered if even Clegane could swing the thing with any precision. “They can try,” the giant of a man grinned widely.

Ser Kevan snorted his amusement, “Point taken. I suppose you’ll also tell me they’d all freeze to death if they tried.”

“You’re learning, Ser,” Cat smiled teasingly. Brynden’s chest fluttered to see his niece smiling again. He knew she was invigorated by hearing from Ser Rodrik’s own mouth that he could not swear that Bran and Rickon were dead. Not only that, but Grey Wind had been increasingly restless as Winterfell drew near. Meaning perhaps his brothers lived. Meaning perhaps Arya’s brothers lived…

“But the Bolton men will pose a threat to Karhold lands, will they not?” Ser Kevan asked after his amusement waned.

It was Cat who answered, “We must send word to White Harbor and ask Lord Manderly to reinforce Lord Karstark’s garrison. He can reach them quickly via ship. And while Karhold is small, it is a stoutly built castle. Not much easier to sack than Winterfell and the Dreadfort.”

Maege and the Greatjon nodded their agreement and Lord Cerwyn promised to have the raven sent to White Harbor with haste.

Ser Kevan sighed, “Aye. Let’s move while we still have the element of surprise on our side.”

Clegane spoke up again, “With your permission, I will go with the eastward party. I’m a better asset in open field than in storming a castle. Lest you plan to use me as a ladder.”

When no one immediately responded he nudged Arya with his elbow, “I was asking you, pup. I mean, Lady Pup.”

She nodded slowly, “As long as Uncle Brynden and Lady Maege stay with the main host.”

Brynden tipped his head, “Nowhere else I’d be.” He turned to Cat, “I’ll start spreading the word.” He looked to his grandniece, “Come with me lass,” he jerked his head away from their motley group. A few footsteps delayed, Arya followed, Grey Wind on her heels.

“Spill it, lass,” he spoke as they walked side-by-side through the camp.

“Spill what?” she asked after too many heartbeats passed.

“Whatever’s got you looking like someone stuck your nose in a barrel of fish. You got a pup of your own on the way?”

“Huh?”

Brynden rolled his eyes, “You with child, girl? Tell me that fool boy didn’t knock you up knowing we had a long, cold march ahead of us.”

“Oh,” she blushed, “No, I’m not… with child.”

“Then what’s troubling you?”

She sighed loudly, “I did something really stupid.”

“Well, there’s a first,” he chuckled.

She huffed irritably, “I’ve done stupid things before.”

“Aye, I’m sure. But never fessed to any of them, I’d wager.”

She clicked her tongue, “They were rarely this stupid.”

Brynden stopped walking and turned to face her, “Do I even want to know?”

“Probably not,” she winced without looking at him straight-on.

“That’s what I feared. Well, lay it on me anyway.”

She looked around to make sure they were alone, then squeezed her eyes shut, “I sent an assassin to kill Roose Bolton and his son.”

Brynden blinked at her, “Come again?”

She kicked at the snow, “You heard me.”

“What assassin? And how do you know any bloody assassins, anyway?”

She sighed loudly, “I’ll explain another time. Can you just yell at me now?”

Brynden knew that feeling well, but all he could do was laugh.

She crossed her arms, “You don’t believe me?”

He nodded, “I do, lass. I do. Only I don’t see how it’s a bad thing. Or a stupid thing. Might be the best thing you’ve ever done.”

“Why? Now five hundred Bolton men hold Winterfell instead of a couple dozen squids.”

“Aye, but come Spring, there won’t be a single Bolton-loyal man drawing breath. You won’t be neighbors to that snow-eyed cunt who threatened to skin my niece alive.”

Her lips turned into a hesitant smile, “You mean that?”

“I do. And King Tywin will see just how loyal Bolton men are. Do you think Stark or Tully men would ever start sacking other castles just because their liege was dead?”

She shook her head.

“Right. Let Ser Kevan tell his brother all about the quality of men he was putting his faith in. Man’s not nearly humbled enough yet.”

Slowly but surely a grin formed on his niece’s lips. Brynden felt himself grinning back

Notes:

Sooo.... I always felt like Sandor needed a mother and father figure. In the TV show he gets Septon Ray and I think that works because Ray himself is a capable man, kind but no nonsense (in the brief time we see him). But I've always believed that if Sandor was going to respect another man in an almost fatherly way it would be Brynden Tully who is, as I've said before, DA BOMB. (Oh, and W&C fans, yes, Sansa would add Clive Russell to her "list" in the inexplicable attraction category. Nate would disagree until Sansa pointed out that Clive is 6'6" then Nate would shrug and be like, 'sure, I'll climb that mountain at least once'.)
And it might be premature to say that Sandor looks at Catelyn as a mother figure, not just because she's only ~7 years older than him (because that doesn't matter) but because she likely is still very proper around him -- but I think it's safe to say he would respect her. She looks like an aged-up version of his little bird, for one, but with more life wisdom and less chirping. Also I just think she's one of those moms who just gives you THE LOOK and you're like 'yes, mom. sorry, mom. i'll just go to my room now, mom.'

And in this chapter Arya learned that actions have consequences and that those consequences can be bad or good or a bit of both but either way, after this lesson she will be a bit less impulsive (though no less vengeful).

Chapter 26: Clever, wicked woman

Notes:

Did I say 2-3 more chapters sometime around 2-3 chapters ago?
New plan: ignore every estimate I give you, ever, because my mind is full of possibilities for this fic and it is easily going to take several more chapters (note the ambiguity of that statement?)
Not sure whether I should say 'sorry' or 'you're welcome' for deciding to expand this one.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Tywin

It was during the evening meal when the raven arrived from Winterfell. Pycelle barely gave the guard time to announce him outside the royal apartments before he was near shouting to his king and queen that word had finally arrived from the northern delegation. Tywin was surprised when Sansa didn’t run to tear the rolled parchment out of the old man’s hands, but when he looked at his wife he knew why. She sat at the table as pale as limestone and just as rigid.

Tywin placed his napkin on his plate – knowing that whether the news was good or bad he would lack the appetite to finish his meal. He rose and closed the distance between the table and the maester and took the scroll, jerking his head toward the door so the old man would know to see himself out.

The Stark direwolf was pressed into the wax seal, but that meant little to Tywin. He looked back to Sansa – his wife hadn’t said a word as her eyes focused on the candelabra sitting at the center of the table.

Tywin cracked the seal and unrolled the scroll, his eyes moving immediately to the bottom where he recognized Kevan’s signature beneath that of Lady Catelyn, meaning the former penned the message but the latter corroborated her words.

He glanced up to find his wife had still not moved. He knew she was expecting bad news, and why shouldn’t she? She had lost a father, three brothers, and beloved pet wolf in the past few years. For a time, she thought she had lost her sister, too. Her poor young brain was expecting loss at every turn, and so it attempted to shield itself against such a fate.

“Your mother and my brother live,” he offered what little reassurance he could without yet reading the entire missive.

Her nod was barely noticeable, but her words came out sharp, almost painful to a man expecting continued silence, “Will you read aloud, husband?”

He nodded even though she was not looking to him, “It is addressed to both of us, scribed by your mother but attested to by Kevan.” He looked down at the letter, reading then paraphrasing without censoring, “They arrived in Cerwyn lands, southwest of Winterfell, and were met by a party that included Lord Cerwyn and Ser Rodrik Cassel. Do you know the name?”

Sansa finally turned to look at him, frowning in a confusion that threatened to betray hope, “He was our Master at Arms at Winterfell. Trusted and respected by both of my parents. He was tasked with defending Winterfell while my mother and brother were in the Riverlands. I had assumed… Well, I suppose I would have assumed him dead by Ironborn hands, if I had thought about him at all. I only thought to care about my brothers’ fates – a fact which shames me now.”

Tywin nodded and continued scanning and voicing the ink-bound words, “He and the bulk of Winterfell’s guard roster had been called to protect Torrhen’s Square from an Ironborn raid, but it was a trap. That was when your father’s ward, Theon Greyjoy, took the castle and opened the gates to others of his ilk. More recently, however, Winterfell was stormed yet again, this time by… by the men sworn to House Bolton who had been charged by me with policing Winterfell lands…” Tywin felt warmth rush to his cheeks, though he knew not why, precisely. He had always known that Bolton men, whether by blood or allegiance, had shifty loyalties. Getting in bed with them recently had hardly been ideal, but war made strange bedfellows. But now to see just how quickly those men betrayed their king and queen after the death of Roose Bolton, Tywin felt as if he’d been somehow duped. He’d never admit so, but the feeling of having been outsmarted or used or tricked was perhaps Tywin’s least favorite sensation.

He ignored his own emotions and continued reading aloud, “The Bolton men had thought to take Winterfell and Karhold after Roose and Ramsay Bolton perished, knowing that holding those two fortresses, along with the Dreadfort, would make them intractable to any other Northern army…” But a Northern and Western army...

“A small cavalry led by Lords Glover and Clegane pursued the Karhold-bound regiment and desecrated them easily. The rest of the host sacked Winterfell, putting nearly five hundred Bolton men down. The castle itself is largely intact but… but many of the original Stark guard and household had been killed, based on confessions of men kept alive for interrogation. The self-proclaimed Bolton leader, one Damon Snow, apparently instilled some order after the initial chaos of his men’s attack and bloodlust. He spared those servants who offered some value, including cooks and stable hands and Winterfell’s maester.”

“Maester Luwin?” Sansa practically shouted as she shot out of her chair.

Tywin nodded as he read on, his eyes catching up to words that made him smile even though perhaps they should not, “Yes, Maester Luwin. He had served and counseled the Ironborn just as the Starks before them. He had then served and counseled the Bolton leader. He had given aid to their injured but kept them ignorant of the fact that a raven arrived some months ago announcing the coronation of King Tywin Lannister and his wife, Queen Sansa Lannister, nee Stark.”

A small smile crept onto her face, and Tywin couldn’t help but return it as he continued, “Word of our marriage eventually spread to the Bolton men, of course, but the maester’s immediate possession of such knowledge was fortuitous, because it meant that he aborted a plan he had devised with the help of a… a wildling woman who had come into the service of House Stark?” Tywin looked to his wife, but she only shrugged, “And a stable hand named Hodor—”

“Hodor lives?!”

Now Tywin was the one to shrug, “It would appear that way, as there is no mention of his subsequent death. Regardless, the maester’s plan had been to have this woman named Osha and this fellow named Hodor sneak out two particularly valuable residents who had been hiding in the crypts and never venturing further than the lichyard since the Ironborn’s initial sack…”

He couldn’t say whether his wife’s eyes or mouth were wider as her brain processed his meaning, “Bran and Rickon? They live?”

Tywin felt his lips threatening to smile, “According to your mother, yes. Malnourished from living on what little food the maester could sneak from the kitchens and game the wildling woman hunted in the Godswood – it would seem neither the Ironborn nor Boltons were particularly devout – and pale and sickly from spending days on end in the dark of the crypts.”

Sansa’s hands went to her mouth, “No! Oh, my poor brothers! Here I thought I’ve had it bad, being tormented by Joffrey and his Kingsguard. But I’d take a beating every day before I’d give up fresh air and sunshine. Oh Tywin, will they be alright?”

He stretched out the arm that wasn’t holding the parchment and Sansa put herself beneath it, her hands clinging to the fabric of his jerkin, “They live, Sansa. They are young, which means they are resilient. Time will tell whether they bear mental or physical scars as a result of these many moons in hiding, but for now just be happy that they live.” Tywin left it at that because there was no purpose in frightening his wife, but he had seen grown men go mad after only a few days in the Black Cells. He had also seen how bodies and constitutions withered after a mere sennight without sunshine, though he would never understand how or why the human body fed off of sunlight just as a plant does.

He certainly didn’t tell her that he already had concerns about these boys – one of whom ought to be Warden of the North someday. How would such a trauma during childhood mold them? Would they grow to be paranoid men? Crazed men? Violent men? Would they develop eccentricities like old Aerys had, refusing to trim his fingernails such that they resembled tree roots when Tywin looked upon his corpse?

He decided he could not worry about that now. He had to trust that Arya and Catelyn Stark, with the support of the maester, and the example of strong and level-headed men like Kevan could help heal whatever traumas the young boys had endured.

Though he didn’t like what it said about him as a husband, he was more worried about all the Northmen who would eagerly rally around either Stark boy, no matter whether that boy was fit to bear the mantle of Warden, merely because it reduced the North’s dependence on the Crown. With the Stark heir being a boy raised in King’s Landing and with the blood of both wolf and lion, the Northern lords had to keep themselves in line. With the Stark heir sitting at Winterfell, backed by the thousands of soldiers recently returned from the war in the Riverlands? Tywin didn’t like to admit how much leverage it gave them, should they decide to continue Robb Stark’s legacy of Northern independence.

“The North remembers, Tywin,” Sansa mumbled against his chest before craning her neck to look him in the eye.

He peered down at her, “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

She shook her head, “The North will remember that it was Joffrey who killed Ned Stark. They will remember that it was your son Jaime, acting on your orders, who allowed them peaceful retreat back to the Riverlands after Robb’s death. They will remember that you made their princess of the North the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms; that you made their other princess the acting Wardeness of the North; that it was you who put an end to the reign of Joffrey the Cruel.”

“I thought they called him Joffrey the Fool?”

She rolled her eyes, “They called him many things, some which I cannot repeat without blushing.”

Tywin snorted, “Will they not also remember the war I waged against them in the Riverlands? Will they not remember what my men did in the ancestral lands of your mother, their late lord’s beloved wife – their late king’s beloved mother?”

“You have done more good than harm, Tywin.”

He snorted again, “You are biased.”

“Perhaps, but they will also remember that it was Lannister men who fought alongside Stark and Tully men to take back Winterfell, to kill the Boltons – the Boltons who betrayed them. One expects to face enemies during war. One doesn’t expect to face so-called friends. If they hate the name Lannister, it is not as much as they hate the name Bolton.”

He looked back to the letter, “Yet they are exercising some restraint; they are leaving the Bolton men at the Dreadfort alone. Smart. Without a firm hand like Roose Bolton, the men will be eating each other the moment their food stores run out – and I fear I am not exaggerating.”

Sansa winced, “I fear you are not, either. My father respected Roose Bolton even if he did not like him. The man ruled his lands well. It is further north of Winterfell, you know. The snows are even deeper there, the winds harsher, the air colder. The Weeping Water will freeze during winter, meaning the men will not be able to send for provisions from the south, nor flee by ship if survival at the Dreadfort becomes unlikely. Ice fishing may be their only source of sustenance if they do not ration wisely.”

Tywin hummed, “Regardless of what they think of the Boltons, it does not seem to me that the Northmen will think fondly enough of me to forgive what they undoubtedly perceive as crimes against them – crimes perpetrated by my kin when not myself.”

“Have faith, husband. Perhaps they have no love for Tywin Lannister, but does that mean they will want to be your enemy? Do you think they will not be satisfied that a person with Stark blood will sit the Iron Throne, not to mention Casterly Rock, not to mention Winterfell? Give them no cause to rebel and I promise they will not rebel. Ned Stark’s murderer is dead. Robb’s murderer is dead. Ned Stark’s widow and three of his children are alive and at Winterfell, as they should be. One of his children is Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Provisions from the West and the Reach and the Crownlands will sustain them whether this winter lasts one year or ten. The North got a better outcome than they could have expected when Robb raised the banners.”

Tywin shook his head lightly. Could it be that simple? Could the men he was at war with a year ago simply go back to their lives and never try to move against him? Could they embrace one of the Stark lords without using the boy as a figurehead to resume their rebellion against the Iron Throne? Could they accept if neither boy was ever fit to rule, and it indeed fell to Arya Stark and, later, one of Sansa’s children, to be the steward of the North?

Tywin’s eyes scanned the remainder of the letter, which he had to hold embarrassingly close as his eyesight wasn’t what it used to be.

“My uncle Brynden?” Sansa asked.

Tywin nodded, “He is not among the notable deaths listed.”

“Does the letter mention whether my brothers’ wolves live?”

Tywin took a deep breath and moved on to one of the last paragraphs, “They live indeed. Wonderful – more wolves,” he added drily, earning a chuckle from Sansa. “The last paragraph is a personal missive from your mother, promising to hug Bran and Rickon for you and asking you to do the same on her behalf to Jeyne and Jocelyn.”

He could hear the tears in his wife’s voice even though her face was buried in his chest again, “How long before I will hug my brothers myself? How long before the girls will hug their only grandmother? What if this winter does last ten years?”

He shook his head, “I don’t know, Sansa.” It was far from reassuring, but he truly had no answer. What if Kevan was stuck in Winterfell for that long, with chest-deep snows blocking the Kings Road? What if Tywin never saw him again? What if Dorna and Janei never saw him again?

What if Tywin’s wife never saw her family again? The North, as resilient as its people were, was a merciless place. Cold and hunger took smallfolk and even sometimes nobles. And fevers took anyone, indiscriminately. As Tywin and Sansa spoke, provisions were being shipped to every Northern port and coastal keep, Tywin’s way of paying his debt (partially funded by the Tyrells). Willem may also be on a northbound journey, if Lady Catelyn had sent word to Riverrun to transfer the boy to Winterfell where he would live with his father as a ward of House Stark. In that case, Martyn was likely on his way southwest to Dorna at Casterly Rock, or soon to be at least.

Having absorbed every word his wife spoke, Tywin supposed he had little reason to fear any Northern uprising – certainly not until the next Spring. But now he had a new fear: the longer and harsher the winter, the less likely that he would see his brother and nephew before he himself was an old man – if I live to be an old man, he thought bitterly. He did not want to go that long without seeing his loyal brother, the only man he considered a friend and confidante. Nor did he did want Sansa to go that long without seeing the brothers she had already gone years without seeing.

“The White Knife will not have frozen yet, will it?” he asked as his brain began racing with ideas.

Sansa pulled away to peer at him, “You cannot expect my family to come here now! There is much to do to prepare for winter. And Bran and Rickon—”

“Listen, woman,” he huffed, “I do not expect them to come here. I expect us to go there.”

She swallowed, “Us?”

“Yes, us.”

“Meaning… You and I?”

He sighed loudly, “I believe that is what ‘us’ means, yes.”

“And… the girls?”

“Of course. Do you think I would leave my children in this city with neither myself nor their mother?”

“But… but you only recently took the throne. Is it safe to leave so soon?”

Tywin snorted, “I’ve already spent more time with my arse in that throne than Robert spent in the blasted chair during his entire reign. Tyrion will rule in my absence and will have command of the Lannister army in the capital.”

He saw the moment his wife realized that this was no jape or flight of fancy. Her shock morphed into a smile.

Tywin rolled his eyes, “Now will you tell me whether the White Knife will be frozen?”

She shook her head gladly, “When it freezes, it does so only at the northernmost points – the tributary where it ends north of the Dreadfort and the other tributary where it ends north and west of Winterfell.”

“Good. I shall send word to Winterfell and White Harbor. You inform the household staff and guard. Let us aim to leave in a fortnight. Another fortnight for the voyage, a fortnight at Winterfell, and a fortnight return. We shall be gone less than two moons.”

Sansa nodded eagerly, “Please send the raven with haste so Uncle Brynden does not begin his journey to the capital. He might as well join us on the return voyage, no?”

Tywin hummed his agreement and was about to turn for the door, feeling giddy like he hadn’t felt since childhood, when he was mauled by his wife who channeled her own giddiness into a rather enjoyable pursuit that involved his breeches around his ankles and her skirts around her waist and – a few minutes later – matching smirks on the faces of the two Kingsguard who were stationed outside the apartment’s main entryway, which was very close to the private dining room they had used that evening.

Ah well, Tywin felt no shame in enjoying his wife while she enjoyed him back. The screams that had come from Queen Rhaella didn’t come from pleasure, and the only screams that Robert Baratheon ever coaxed out from a woman came from no queen at all. As for Joffrey? Tywin didn’t like to think on that ever since Tyrion admitted to gifting the boy a whore in the hopes Joffrey would release his anger along with his seed. The next morning Joffrey was still his usual hate-filled self and the whore needed to be discreetly carried out of Maegor’s Holdfast.

So, Tywin supposed, if he was going to have a reputation anyway (and all men did), he didn’t mind that it was as a man who knew his way around a woman’s body and exercised that knowledge on his queen. He knew men talked about Sansa’s good looks, and unless he wished to be like Joffrey or Aerys he wasn’t going to collect the wagging tongues unless their wagging was meant to harm. He saw the way men looked at her, followed her figure with their eyes. So, perhaps it was devious of him, but Tywin wanted them to know that his wife was thoroughly satisfied and had no need to pursue some affair with a bumbling young knight who’d spill in his smallclothes if he ever got to so much as look upon Sansa’s perfect naked form.

He saw to the letters quickly before conversing with Tyrion, who had sought him out for valid reason. He was back in their personal refuge before two hours had passed. He knew to look for Sansa in the nursery where she spent the hours before bedtime every evening. Seamlessly, he took Jocelyn from her arms when the babe was full.

“Our guest has arrived,” he informed his wife.

Sansa narrowed her eyes, “He’s early.”

“Favorable winds, I suppose. We will break our fast with him on the morrow. I want this over and done with, with time to spare before our departure.”

“We?” Sansa asked archly.

Tywin nodded, not needing to point out that this was a perfect opportunity for Sansa to learn more about negotiations and diplomacy. She was a natural at both, skills he attributed to her compassion and desire to please – she could suss out a person’s motives and desires and offer them what they wanted. Tywin ought to know; she had cut her teeth on him, after all.

But no one was perfect, and additional practice never hurt.

“Did he come alone?”

Tywin patted Jocelyn’s back, “His advisor traveled with him. No one else.”

Sansa nodded, “Are you including me for the learning experience or so that I might charm him?”

Tywin snorted. It ought not be a completely ludicrous question – her sweet smiles and gentle words were weapons he had used to his advantage on occasion – only she had never met their guest. Charm was wasted on the man.

With a smirk, Tywin kissed his wife’s head, “If you can charm him, then I will have officially witnessed a miracle.”

Sansa pursed her lips, “Hmm… Do I get some kind of prize if I do?”

Tywin shrugged as he put a sleepy Jocelyn in her bassinet, “Bragging rights?”

Sansa nodded her head as a mischievous smile formed on her lips, “You know, some people would say that charming Tywin Lannister was a miracle…” She brought a full Jeyne away and covered herself as she positioned the babe to be burped.

Tywin arched an eyebrow at his wife’s cheekiness, “And that makes you think you’ll be successful in tomorrow’s endeavor?”

She rose and shrugged, “Not quite. Just realizing I could have been bragging all this time.”

Tywin snorted, “You’re a Lannister; you don’t need a reason to brag.”

Sansa turned away but he was certain her eyes were rolling.

To call it a tense meeting would have been an understatement. There was far too much pride in the air even if, by definition, one of the men had come here as an act of humility and submission.

But it simply wasn’t in Stannis Baratheon’s nature to yield, and certainly not to look glad while doing so. No wonder the stubborn bugger held Storm’s End even when the Tyrells pushed him to the brink of starvation. Perhaps Tywin even admired him for that – Tywin would eat dogs and rats and the leather of his boots before handing Casterly Rock over to another. Casterly Rock was the birthright of a Lannister and only a Lannister. Just as Storm’s End was the birthright of a Baratheon and only a Baratheon.

Hence the dilemma…

Tywin waited patiently while the servant poured tea for their guest, who showed up at this meeting alone even though he’d been accompanied to the capital from Dragonstone by the smuggler-turned-knight-turned-Hand. When the servant went to plate his food, Stannis held out a large, scarred hand to still him. With only a quick glance to Sansa the servant scurried out, leaving the teapot behind.

Stannis had not kneeled or bowed upon entering – not to Tywin and not to Sansa. He had greeted them only with a mumbled ‘Lord Lannister’ and ‘Lady Lannister’ and a graceless, jerky tilt of his head. Tywin had always thought a boar would be a better sigil for the Baratheon clan, hence when a wild boar killed Robert, Tywin had thought it ironic, though in hindsight he ought to have not been so amused by the man’s death, knowing it would mean the crown passing to Joffrey’s swelled head.

Tywin looked to his wife, wondering whether the tension between the two men was spilling into her own composition. She looked calm on the surface, but she often wore that mask. Tywin hated being the recipient of it – her feigned ambivalence – but he also admired her ability to appear unaffected and appreciated the survival value. It disarmed others, even if she only crafted the mask initially to shield herself. Shield had turned to sword at some point, probably after her escape from King’s Landing. Tywin knew because when she wore that mask at Harrenhal, it had poked at him, weakened his own defenses.

But as Sansa idly sipped her honeyed tea and Stannis’ jaw bulged with the same force with which his dark blue eyes were glaring at Tywin, Tywin decided enough was enough, “You requested this meeting, Lord Baratheon. You send notice of your intent to travel here and bend the knee, put the blasted war to bed for good. I approve and promise peaceful passage. Now, instead of kneeling before me in the Throne Room, you are glowering at me across my dining table. If you have something to say, say it.”

The man shifted as he seemed to be either gathering his thoughts or choosing his words. Tywin resented being made to wait, but he’d rather have Stannis Baratheon as a friend than foe. He’d rather not have to keep an eye in the back of his head for the rest of his life, nor condemn a future child of his, or Tommen, for that matter, to the same fate. Dragonstone was a self-sufficient and well-defended island. The thousand or two thousand men that Stannis presumably still had under his command were enough to defend the island indefinitely, meaning Tywin’s enemy could perch there and wait for the perfect time to swoop down and attack.

Except, of course, that those men might wish to go home. Dragonstone was a bleak place. Always misty, never quite sunny. Cold and damp in parts and warm and muggy in other parts. Tywin had only been there once, when he was Hand to King Aerys II.

While Stannis continued glowering and grinding, Tywin appraised him, for what else was there to do? He refused to be the first to look away. This dance was one every man knew from the ge his first chin hair came in: never be the first to break the gaze, the one to avert his eyes.

Stannis looked much aged since the last time Tywin had seen him, perhaps seven years past when Tywin had visited his family in the capital and had a few brief encounters with the then-Master of Ships. Today, Stannis was still a relatively young man, only two years older than Jaime, but where Jaime still had a thick head of wavy hair, Stannis had lost most of his. What was left was half black, half silver. He had deep frown lines between his eyes and around his mouth. From the neck up he could almost be a contemporary of Tywin. From the neck down he had maintained the classic Baratheon form; he could be his father Steffon reincarnate.

Back in the days when Tywin had friends, he counted Steffon Baratheon among the best of them, even more so than Aerys. The Targaryens were always apart from other noble families. There was an arrogance and entitlement to them that even a Lannister couldn’t match. They fancied themselves God-like; it was only a matter of whether they aspired to be one of the kind, benevolent Gods who watches over her flock like a gentle shepherd, or one of the violent Gods who thinks his duty is to punish those in his flock who have gone astray.

Now Tywin’s late friend’s only surviving son sat across from him, looking like said friend but also not. Steffon was more likely to smile than frown. Stannis? Well, Tywin wasn’t certain Stannis had ever smiled. Steffon had once told Tywin that he worried for his second son, then aged four-and-ten, because he was always miserable, always frowning, never frolicking with other children, and showing no interest in girls.

It had been one of the last conversations the friends had before Steffon left for Volantis and his eventual demise.

“I believe I understand your hesitance to speak, Lord Baratheon…”

The stare-down was broken as both men turned to face Sansa at hearing her calmly delivered words. Tywin wondered if she had spoken explicitly for that purpose or if she was merely finding the prolonged silence unbearable.

She continued with only a few moments’ delay to make sure she had their guest’s attention, “You raised an army and waged a war against one king, seeking the throne out of a sense of duty to your late brother, but that king is no longer alive, and his replacement is a man you admire – as a ruler, if nothing else. So, do you continue your pursuit of the throne, knowing your chance for success is quite slim? Or do you kneel to this new king, even though he is not a Baratheon, and allow yourself, your wife, your daughter, and your men to enjoy peace for the first time in years?”

Stannis shook his head as his eyes narrowed, “It is no longer about the throne. If I approved of Robert taking the throne from the Mad King, I must approve of your husband taking the throne from… another Mad King.” His eyes flicked to Tywin in challenge, probably expecting a retort, or at least evidence of insult, but he would get neither.

“Then what is it about?” Tywin asked, “What do you seek?”

“Storm’s End,” the man answered curtly, “It belongs to a Baratheon. It is not my place to object that you continue to provide for your late daughter’s bastard. It is my place to object to you putting said bastard in Storm’s End as its lord. Then, to add insult to injury, you put a bloody Tyrell there with him. The Tyrells! They supported the Mad King until the bitter end, yet my fool brother let them keep their name and lands and didn’t even demand they send him reparations or even a ward! Then after Robert’s death they side with Renly instead of Robert’s true heir. Then after Renly’s death they were ready to endorse the so-called King in the North – don’t think I don’t know about that,” he narrowed his eyes at Sansa, “and after his death they scamper back to the Reach with their tails between their legs only to kneel for you the first opportunity they have! And instead of holding them accountable for their constant treachery, you give them Storm’s End through the Lady Margaery!” Stannis flung his hands in the air, his anger plainly apparent.

Tywin shrugged his lips, “I suppose you think I should have threatened them instead. They, who have an army that rivals my own. They, who supply sixty percent of the continent’s grain and produce. They, who at the time had two unwed sons and one unwed daughter to barter for alliances with practically anyone.”

“It is the principle,” Stannis growled.

“Says the man who killed his own brother…” Tywin retorted.

Stannis’ face went lax but for a few heartbeats before hardening once more, “I did not kill my brother.”

“No?” Tywin steepled his fingers, “We hear differently. Mind you, I would not fault you if you did. If my younger brother tried to usurp my authority? If he willingly married into the family that nearly starved me – and him? I might just become a kinslayer, too.”

Stannis’ jaw worked back and forth, “I am no kinslayer,” he spat. Tywin thought he was either an exceptionally good liar or was telling the truth. Then again, just because Stannis thought something was true didn’t mean it was.

Tywin rose from the table, watching Stannis grip the armrests, preparing to push himself up, but Tywin was already walking to the door and opening it, inviting in the aurochs of a woman bedecked in proud armor that perfectly matched the only part of her that was even remotely attractive – her eyes, the color of turquoise. She stood taller than Tywin and equally broad.

She hastily bowed before stepping into the room.

Then, Stannis did rise, “I recognize you… You were one of Renly’s guards.”

The woman nodded curtly, her pug nose upturned with either pride or disdain that Tywin hadn’t seen in her during their prior meetings.

Sansa rose and beckoned the woman closer with a smile. The woman bowed (more deeply than she had for Tywin) then straightened back to her full, impressive height.

Sansa addressed Stannis while keeping a light hand on the woman’s arm, “Lord Baratheon, this is Lady Brienne, who hails from the Isle of Tarth. She is the sole heir of Lord Selwyn of Evenfall—”

“I know this, Lady Lannister,” Stannis was back to grinding his teeth.

Sansa nodded, “Lady Brienne traveled to the capital from Storm’s End after Lord Renly’s death. A treacherous journey for one to undertake alone during wartime, even a swordswoman as distinguished as Lady Brienne. She came here at risk of her own life and freedom, fearing she would be punished for her previous allegiance to Renly Baratheon, who sought to take the throne from his own nephew.”

Stannis sneered, “That bastard was no nephew of Renly’s, nor of mine.”

Tywin shrugged, “We shall have to agree to disagree. My queen’s point is that Lady Brienne was putting herself at great risk – both in her journey and during her petition; a risk she would not have taken to come here and spread untruths. Lady Brienne is a soldier, not a spy.”

Sansa nodded, “Which is why we fully believe her testimony that the shadowy figure who killed your younger brother on the dawn of battle possessed your face.”

Stannis went pale, “Shadowy?” he asked in a mere whisper as his knuckles planted on the table.

Sansa nodded and gently touched Brienne’s forearm, “Have we accurately expressed your testimony, Lady Brienne?”

The young woman nodded, “You have, your grace. I thank you.” Her eyes were boring into Stannis, who continued to look shocked, “I promised the king and queen that I would bring no harm to their guest, but I think it is only fair to warn you… Should you ever not be under their protection, I will avenge my fallen king, even if it’s the last thing I do.” Her booted feet slid together with a clack, then she turned, bending at the hip to bow to Tywin, then Sansa, before seeing herself out.

Stannis looked as if he had seen a ghost as he lowered himself back into his chair. Tywin gave him a few moments to shake off whatever spell he was under, but as he gave the other man time to think he did some thinking of his own. For instance, he thought Stannis’ reaction of shock was genuine – that he did not know that he had a part in his brother’s death. So, out of respect for the son of his once best friend, Tywin spoke as neutrally as possible, “I know you brought a shadowbinder from Asshai.”

He let that statement dangle in the air between them, waiting to see whether Stannis would confirm or deny the rumor that Tywin had learned from Varys at the outset of the war. Tywin then thought the rumor signaled that Stannis was going mad; Tywin wasn’t one to believe in things like sorcery and dark magic. Then again, no one could explain how Renly was killed, nor later Cortnay Penrose. It was either an exceptionally talented assassin, who as far as Tywin was concerned would still be seen entering Renly’s guarded tent, or there was some merit to Brienne’s claim. Tywin liked to think he had survived this long by knowing when he was being lied to. Not only did he believe Lady Brienne was speaking the truth, but he also believed the young woman incapable of deception. Moreover, as he’d told Stannis, there was no reason for her to journey to the capital where she faced persecution from multiple angles: 1) Tywin could have executed her as a traitor due to her past association with Renly. 2) She could have been tried for Renly’s death, given she was the only person in the tent with him when he died. The latter fact had come to be common knowledge in the Baratheon and Tyrell camps, and meant that Ser Loras almost risked his own head to attack the woman. Ultimately it had been Loras’ own recollection of how pathetically devoted she had been to Renly that made him end up advocating on her behalf after calling for her head minutes earlier.  

“Lady Melisandre,” Stannis eventually stated, and Tywin wasn’t sure whether the man spoke her name like a curse or a cure.

“She is the Red Priestess who has become your counselor?” Sansa asked, like Tywin, leaving the judgment out of her tone.

“Counselor to my wife,” Stannis spat before softening his tone to continue, “though yes, she has… counseled me, as well.”

“Yet you did not bring her here to counsel you on the terms of your allegiance to King Tywin,” Sansa half-asked, half-stated.

Stannis shook his head, “All her visions… She saw Renly dying, and it happened. She saw Storm’s End surrendering to me, and it happened. She has seen other things in her flames only to have them prove true some days or weeks later. I am not a man who believes in such… such powers. But how can I not believe what my eyes see?” There was a desperation tinging his voice that Tywin was surprised to hear. The man could best be described as stoic, immoveable, intractable, yet this Red Priestess had somehow gotten under his skin, become an itch he couldn’t scratch. Or perhaps a pleasant tickle that he didn’t want to rid with his blunted fingernails.

“Because our eyes can be fooled, Lord Baratheon,” Sansa spoke in a gentle, sympathetic tone. The Stormlord lifted his eyes and held her gaze for the first time all morning.

Sansa smiled faintly, “I’ve been fooled by smiles and honeyed words. My eyes and ears have been fooled, as have my heart and my mind. My father was fooled by his own misconceptions – that honor is a trait possessed by all men and women. My brother was fooled by the same assumption. Our eyes see what we want to be there. And those who wish to trick us know how to capitalize on that fact.”

Stannis’ eyes narrowed as if suspicious that her words, which weren’t honeyed but were certainly compassionate, were a trick. Sansa only continued, “My father respected you greatly, I thought you should know.”

Tywin almost bit his lip with excitement. He and Sansa had strategized for this meeting. Rather, he had told Sansa all he knew of Stannis Baratheon knowing that she would take that knowledge and craft an appropriate strategy for conversing with the man. Among other details, he had told her that Stannis always felt that Robert did not appreciate him and was jealous of Ned Stark – the man who had Robert’s undying love and respect; the brother Robert chose while Stannis was the brother Robert was stuck with.

“He spoke of you being a man like himself. A dutiful man. A man of honor and discipline. A man who would die for his family, even if his family would not do the same…”

Stannis eyes flashed and his cheeks darkened.

“…So I do not think you would knowingly kill your own kin, no matter his betrayal. And I do believe that your pursuit of the throne was done out of a sense of duty, not because you are a man who craves power just so that he can wield it over those who have less. Because of all this, you are a man I want to count among my allies, among my friends. Just as my husband does. My husband respects you. He has told me so. He respects that you did not let Storm’s End fall during Robert’s Rebellion. He respects all you did since then to keep the peace for your brother – an often thankless job.”

She looked to Tywin. He nodded, “My wife speaks the truth, I will not deny it. But nor will I ignore reality. You come here demanding Storm’s End, but the reality is, before the Battle of the Blackwater, you left Storm’s End to chase the throne. We recently retook Storm’s End with ease because you left a skeleton crew there, no doubt assured of your impending victory. You could have held Storm’s End and Dragonstone and all the waters east of the capital, but you sacrificed it all for a throne that – let’s face it – you did not want then and do not want now.”

“For if you did want the throne,” Sansa took up, “you would not have destroyed statues of the Seven. You would not have burned the Godswood at Storm’s End. Did you truly expect Westeros to kneel to you when it would mean giving up their gods? Would you and this Lady Melisandre have sacrificed Septas and Septons to appease her false god? Even the Targaryen invaders knew better than that! One of their first acts after conquering this land was to adopt the Faith of the Seven.”

Shame was apparent but for a fleeting moment before the stubborn stag dug his heels in, “It makes no matter. We are not here to discuss the throne. We are not here to debate whether or not I would have made a good king. We are here because you have given Storm’s End to a Lannister bastard and a Tyrell.” His eyes shot to Tywin, “You know Dragonstone is nigh impenetrable as it is currently manned. You know you would lose much of your fleet in trying to take it – the fleet your family burned half of already. You speak as if I have no leverage, but I know you are too smart to believe that. The leverage I have is my mere existence, my survival. I represent the other option for any who do not wish to be ruled over by an elitist Lannister.” He held out his fist, pulling back the sleeve of his leather surcoat to expose the greenish-blue veins of his wrist, “How many living people can claim to have the blood of both Baratheon and Targaryen in their veins? Not including Robert’s bastards, the answer is two. Myself and my daughter, Shireen.”

“Out of curiosity, what did you hope to accomplish?” Tywin asked casually when Stannis’ rant was concluded.

Stannis looked at him curiously, “I told you; I want Storm’s—”

“Yes, yes. You want Storm’s End. The Baratheon legacy. Tell me, do you have proof that Tommen is not the rightful heir of Storm’s End?”

Stannis’ upper lip curled, “For how many generations, every Baratheon was born with black hair.”

“Do you think I do not know the history of the kingdoms I rule? Your predecessors continually married into the Targaryen line, with their silver-blond hair. Your very mother had light brown hair. Your grandmother had bright blonde hair. Your—”

“My mother was an Estermont. My grandmother a Targaryen. Everyone born a Baratheon has had black hair since—”

“And yet the potential for blond hair is in your blood, as I just pointed out!” Tywin flung a hand toward his wife, “Going back eight thousand years every Stark has been born with dark hair, so should I doubt my wife and three of her four siblings are Starks because they are red of hair!?”

Stannis’ eyes darkened, “Perhaps you should. Perhaps Lady Catelyn never forgave her husband for bringing home a bastard son for her to raise and thought to return the favor.”

Tywin’s eyes snapped to Sansa, expecting her to unleash her fury on Stannis for insinuating that her mother had cuckolded her father man times over. But she only stared blankly at the furious lord.

Then, she took a breath, “Lord Baratheon, do you acknowledge that it is possible for a man of black hair and a woman of blond hair to birth a child with blond hair?”

His jaw moved back and forth as he turned to look at Sansa. It seemed to pain him to admit, “Yes, I do.”

“Then you acknowledge that you cannot prove that Tommen is not your nephew?”

He sneered, “Bring me the Kingslayer. An hour in a room with him, and I will have the truth from his own lips.”

“My son is not in the capital…”

“Convenient,” Stannis snorted.

“…nor would I allow you to torture him any more than you’d allow me to torture your daughter.”

“Lord Baratheon,” Sansa started gently, pulling the man’s attention and gaze back to her, “We cannot give you or your daughter Storm’s End. Not since the betrothal between Lord Tommen and Lady Margaery. Perhaps, if you were unmarried and willing to take Margaery as your—”

Stannis snorted again – an uncommon noise from the serious man, “I’d sooner sleep with a venomous snake beneath my bedcovers.”

Can’t exactly disagree with that…

Sansa continued with a sigh, “Then I can envision only one option that will be suitable to all parties…”

Stannis shook his head faintly, “Out of curiosity alone, please do tell, Lady Lannister.”

“You do not believe Tommen is a Baratheon, yet you cannot prove your claim. But what if we ensure that within two generations, a guaranteed Baratheon holds Storm’s End?”

Stannis’ eyes narrowed, “You mean to troth one of Tommen’s future children with one of Shireen’s?”

“I do,” Sansa turned to face Tywin, “We do.”

Tywin nodded, “Tommen’s first son with Shireen’s first daughter. I will also permit your daughter to live at Storm’s End, to be one of Lady Margaery’s companions, if it would suit her.”

“Alternatively,” Sansa added quickly, “Lady Shireen would be welcome here at court. I would gladly take her under my wing.”

“As your hostage, you mean?” Stannis growled.

Sansa snorted, “I know what it is like to be a hostage, Lord Baratheon. I know what it is like to be a prisoner. I would wish neither fate on a sweet girl like your Shireen is purported to be. However, know that you and your wife would be welcome to accompany her. In fact…” she turned to Tywin.

Tywin nodded one time, “My wife did not lie or exaggerate when she said that I wish to count you as my ally. Your father and I fought side by side, and I fear there may come a day when you and I must do the same. Surely you have heard of the self-proclaimed Mother of Dragons?”

“Robert had sent a spy to monitor her and her brother. I found out shortly before Robert left to retrieve Ned to be his Hand,” the resentment in Stannis’ voice was clear and Tywin wondered how a man of Stannis’ military accomplishments could so resemble a petulant child. Stannis was well-suited to the role of Master of Ships. Ned Stark, for all the man’s missteps, was well-suited to govern as Hand in Robert’s frequent absence. Yet Stannis only saw Robert’s choice as an insult rather than one of the few examples of sound decision-making on Robert’s part. He might as well be a little boy envious of his siblings’ toys simply because they belong to them, not him.

Once more, Tywin refused to express his annoyance, instead drumming his fingers on the table, “The fact is, this Daenerys Targaryen will threaten any man who sits on the throne, anyone who allies with the man on the throne, and anyone whose blood gives them a claim to the throne that others might rally around. The latter category includes you, your daughter, that bastard of Robert’s who is in your service… It also includes Tommen and Myrcella. It will include any child birthed of either’s loins. Any child birthed of Lady Shireen’s loins.”

Stannis nodded, “I am not ignorant of this fact. Do you think I am here, prepared to bend the knee to a Lannister, because I am eager to call you my king? No. It is because I’d rather call you king than this foreign invader – no matter if her and I share blood. The Targaryen reign ended because there was too much madness in them. Madness that drove Rhaegar to abandon his wife and children to kidnap a noble girl connected to two great houses – one by blood, the other by promise. Madness that drove Aerys II to paranoia and cruelty. That drove him to… to burn alive those who… those who dared to question him.”

Tywin looked to Sansa, who looked back, as Stannis’ gaze became distant.

A prolonged silence inflamed the tension in the room. Eventually Tywin cleared his throat, “As I was saying. If this Targaryen girl means to take King’s Landing, she’ll have to get past Dragonstone first. I would have you continue to rule there as lord. I would reinforce the Dragonstone fleet as I reinforce the royal fleet. I would see you named Master of Ships once again – there is no man better for the job. Lord Mace Tyrell – and you can spare me your opinions of the man – agrees that he would be better suited to Master of Laws. He would see you accept Tommen as your nephew, as he is to be his goodfather.”

Sansa nodded, “And you have the option of sending Ladies Selyse and Shireen here if you do not wish for them to remain at Dragonstone. My husband says it is a rather… dreary place. I would welcome your wife and daughter at court and—”

“My wife is dead,” Stannis spat out.

Sansa turned to Tywin and blinked before stuttering out condolences. Stannis waved them off, “I need none of your sympathy, Lady Lannister. It is no secret that Lady Selyse and I… That our marriage was one of politics and nothing more.”

Tywin laced his fingers and rested his hands on the table, noting the teacup that had gone ignored all morning and was now, no doubt, cold. Only Sansa had sipped at hers.

“May we inquire as to how the Lady Selyse perished?” Tywin asked.

Stannis shook his head lightly but Tywin realized it was no refusal as words came unbridled from the man’s thin lips, “After the battle I returned to Dragonstone, as you know. Defeated. Crippled. My cause damaged to the point of hopelessness. Only to find out that Lady Selyse and Lady Melisandre had… had killed four men once unfailingly loyal to me. Men I had arrested before leaving for battle, but with no intent of executing them. The women claimed their actions were done to guarantee my victory in the sacking of King’s Landing. Clearly that hadn’t worked. They went against my wishes, usurping my authority. They had the men… they had them burned alive.” Stannis sighed, “I could tell by the way my men looked at me upon my return that they did not approve. They thought our loss was the gods’ way of punishing my house for the crimes of my wife and my… advisor. I asked the Lady Melisandre how she had failed to see the wildfire in her visions. How she had failed to see our defeat. How she sacrificed four good men to her Lord of Light and still it wasn’t enough. She only tried feeding me more nonsense about prophecy. About how my loss didn’t matter because her Lord of Light would eliminate the false kings. A few weeks later word reached us that Robb Stark had fallen, slain by an unknown assassin. And I thought perhaps I’d judged her too harshly. But at the same time, we received the raven announcing a new king – Tywin Lannister.” Stannis shook his head, “Joffrey… Renly… Robb Stark… Boys playing at war. Boys who wish to call themselves king but have no concept of sacrifice and duty. I had never feared losing to them. But you are no greenboy, Lord Lannister. With you on the throne, allied to half the bloody kingdoms, I knew whatever support I could have hoped to gain was no longer available to me.”

Stannis waved a hand flippantly, “I banished Lady Melisandre from Dragonstone. I put her on a boat myself. My wife Selyse was distraught. She and Lady Melisandre had developed a… close relationship. I told Selyse that I planned to surrender myself for your judgment if you promised to allow my daughter to live and to inherit Storm’s End. I said I would take the black or let you take my head. Some time later a commotion was heard as Selyse dragged my daughter to the roof of the Stone Drum tower, a mere floor above our family quarters. She stood at the edge, trying to push Shireen over, but Shireen fought, clinging to the crenelations to push herself back. Selyse meant to kill my only heir – her own daughter – to stop me from surrendering myself because she still believed Melisandre’s bloody prophecy about me being destined for greatness. Azor Ahai reborn.” Stannis his shook his head, “My Hand and I approached and when Selyse saw she could not stop us from saving Shireen, she threw herself from the tower instead.”

Silence reigned again as both Tywin and Sansa were processing the man’s frightening tale. Eventually it was Sansa to speak next, “My lord, that is quite traumatic. I hope Lady Shireen fares well after that horrible incident.”

Stannis frowned at her, “I told you my daughter lives.”

Sansa’s brows pinched together, “I understand she is alive. I meant that after her own mother tried to kill her, the poor child must be despondent.”

Stannis seemed confused by her words, as if it hadn’t occurred to him that Shireen faced more than physical pain that day. But Tywin would not lecture him on parenting when it felt they were on the cusp of agreeing to terms. Once Stannis agreed and bent the knee, Tywin would sleep easily. The man was nothing if not loyal, his word as resolute as Valyrian steel. Though Tywin could not say he was pleased to know that this red-haired priestess had so easily swayed the man to her odd religion.

Then again, promising greatness to Stannis Baratheon – who lived in the shadow of his brother all his life? The woman was crafty, if nothing else. As Sansa had said earlier, she understood how to tell people what they wanted to hear, how to show them what they wanted to see. She was a swindler like those who could be found in every crowded city and bustling port in the known world. Perhaps she had some dark powers, Tywin entertained the possibility, for what were dragons if not dark forces, but he doubted her encouragement of Stannis’ bid for the throne was anything other than a manipulation to gain something for herself. What, Tywin didn’t know and didn’t care.

“Shireen is a resilient girl,” Stannis responded, “one of few known cases of a person surviving Greyscale. She is fine.”

Sansa nodded, “As you say. Still, she is welcome here to learn the ways of court, or even if you simply wish for her to have female companionship.”

Stannis once again stared at Tywin’s wife as if she had said something completely absurd. Tywin thanked the Gods he didn’t fully believe in that the man never did manage to claim the throne. When it came to military matters, Tywin knew of no better leader than Stannis Baratheon. But how could the man possibly understand politics if he didn’t even realize that his daughter – his sole heir – might benefit from being exposed to people other than Stannis’ men and his crazed late wife?

“I… thank you for the offer, Lady Lannister,” Stannis managed in his best impression of courtesy.

“Have we come to an understanding?” Tywin asked after he counted five heartbeats.

Stannis nodded even as he looked resigned, “It would seem I have no leverage with which to demand Storm’s End be given to my daughter immediately. I can return to Dragonstone and be a thorn in your side, but I imagine it takes more than a thorn to get the Great Lion to yield. However, I will agree with one additional condition: until Tommen produces a legitimate heir, Shireen shall be his heir.”

Sansa frowned, “Why not yourself?”

Stannis frowned back, or, more precisely, his perpetual frown deepened, “Shireen is my heir, my only child.”

Sansa cleared her throat softly, “If you will pardon my familiarity, you appear to be a virile man…”

Tywin rolled his eyes, realizing he’d forgotten that Sansa had intended to try to charm the uncharmable Stannis Baratheon.

“…I would assume you want more heirs. Dragonstone is yours, and once we make this agreement official you know that Shireen’s daughter will be the future Lady of Storm’s End. If Shireen only has one child—”

Stannis shook his head, “I have no desire to marry again. I will not take a wife solely to produce heirs.”

“Then for what purpose would you take a wife?”

Tywin fought the desire to cringe as Stannis looked at Sansa, aghast, his cheeks flushed.

“Oh, pardon me for prying, Lord Baratheon,” Sansa patted his forearm (the man looked at her hand as if it was a poisonous spider he needed to slowly and carefully extricate from his person), “I only thought I might keep an ear open about any available ladies at court. I imagine you have high standards, not the type to suffer simpering maids who care naught for anything but ribbons and afternoon tea. Surely you would seek a strong, level-headed, handsome woman – so that she might be your equal.”

“My equal?” Stannis swallowed.

Sansa nodded, “Most assuredly. The Baratheon name still commands much respect. You would have your choice of ladies to court, should you ever wish to do so.”

His jaw bulged, “I have no desire for courtship.”

Sansa clicked her tongue, “Pity…” she frowned.

“Why is that a pity?” Stannis asked, his tone genuinely ignorant. Tywin looked to the side so he could roll his eyes or else risk exploding. If a beautiful woman laid herself naked across Stannis Baratheon’s desk, the man would draft his letters on her flat tummy and use her bellybutton as an inkwell. Probably while complaining that her heaving chest caused him to smear his letters.

Sansa smiled lightly, “A pity for the ladies of court. So many fine lords and warriors lost in this war, and now one of the few remaining who is worthy of a lady’s admiration willingly takes himself off the market, if you’ll forgive my use of such a phrase.”

“Worthy of… What foolishness are you—” Stannis eyes flicked to Tywin, realizing he was about to insult the king’s wife, “Never mind that, your grace,” he directed at Sansa – for the first time using her proper title, “This is not a dialogue I care to have and frankly, it matters not. Let us adjourn so I may discuss the terms you’ve proposed with my Hand.”

Sansa sighed, “Of course, Lord Baratheon.” Her eyes were angry and almost accusatory when she looked at Tywin. He knew she didn’t like to lose, and he felt just a bit mercenary that he enjoyed bearing witness to the rare occurrence.

They all rose in tandem, though this time Stannis managed to bow for each of them, no matter how much he clearly disliked the display. They promised to reconvene at the same time on the morrow.

Once the door was shut behind the imposing man, Tywin collapsed back into his chair as Sansa began tearing at the raisin bread on her plate.

“Oh, be quiet,” she snapped at him.

Tywin raised his hands up, “I said nothing.”

She narrowed her eyes, “Clearly, he was on the defensive today. And I could hardly have put a full effort into charming a man who just lost his wife. That would be tactless!”

Tywin sighed, “Don’t make excuses, it’s unbecoming.”

“They’re facts!”

“The facts are that Stannis Baratheon wouldn’t know a woman was seducing him even as she choked on his cock...”

Sansa tsked, “Do not speak so crudely over breakfast.”

“…And that if I was married to that bore, I’d throw myself from a roof, too.”

“Tywin!” she gasped.

He rolled his eyes, “Oh please, don’t tell me you enjoyed his company.”

Her look of affront turned into a wicked smile, “It wasn’t a lie, you know.”

He frowned in confusion, “What wasn’t a lie?”

“He is the most handsome of the Baratheon brothers. Renly was a pretty man but… well, a girl appreciates a pretty man. A woman appreciates a rugged, strong man…”

Tywin sighed loudly, “This is pathetic. Trying to make me feel jealous because your own pride was wounded?”

“And Robert?” she tapped her chin, “Well perhaps if I’d seen him in his prime, before he let himself get so… soft. There is no part of Stannis that I would dare call soft.”

Tywin sighed even more loudly, “This will not work.”

Sansa gazed out the window airily, “Broad shoulders. So very tall. And of course, his hands! So large! Makes me wonder—”

“Do not finish that sentence,” Tywin reached for the armrest of her chair and dragged it across the floor toward him, making his wife squeak in surprise, “And don’t be mad at me because you finally met a man who doesn’t think the sun shines out of Queen Sansa’s royal arse.”

She pouted, “You're right. I’m sorry, my love. I’m just in a state. I suppose this is why men seek out female company after battle. There is something about a heated negotiation that I find so… stimulating,” her eyes flicked to his groin.

Tywin pulled her into his lap without delay, “You clever, wicked woman. I think the Gods made you for me.”

Notes:

Ah! I was so nervous to post this one because I just fear Stannis' surrender will not be believable given his stubbornness in canon. My logic is as follows, for those of you who care to get a glimpse into the inner workings of my crazy mind:
1) It's common in Westeros history for the losers to surrender and be given little more than a slap on the wrist. In fact, if Stannis surrendered and Tywin refused him or had him executed, it would be considered an act of cruelty and dishonor on Tywin's part, probably akin to Frey's stunt at the Red Wedding.
2) If you were Stannis post-BoB, you might keep up your pursuit if the realm remained divided and sweet little inbred Tommen sat the throne. But would you keep up your pursuit if the realm was united under BAMF Tywin Lannister with his Stark/Tully bride and soon-to-be in-laws the Tyrells? As much as Stannis is blind to the odds being stacked against him in canon, I can't imagine him being THAT blind.

I said early on this would be another self-indulgent fic, and part of that is me having Stannis kick Melisandre to the curb. In my defense, I have written her as a good character before (Ascension), but I honestly just can't stand her and I fully admit to letting this bias me in fics I write. Perhaps it was merely the show's portrayal that ruined her character for me. I will admit that has happened with other characters like Jon Snow and Brienne. Until/unless GRRM finishes the series, I suppose the jury is out on whether Melisandre is net good or net bad, but I just can't bring myself to get on board with her.

Chapter 27: Am I your friend or your enemy?

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Jaime

“Kneel before Daenerys Targaryen, first of her name, Queen of Mereen, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men. Lady Regent of the Seven—”

“Your grace!”

Jaime rolled his eyes, thanking the bloody gods that someone interrupted that before he could die of boredom or old age.

Then he looked up and saw who the “someone” was and decided he shouldn’t have been too hasty in his gratitude…

“Your grace,” a red-faced Ser Barristan repeated, huffing as if he’d just run a half league in his armor, “this man is the son of the false king Tywin and the father to the former false king, the bastard Joffrey. He is also the man who slayed your father in an act of—”

“Treachery and cowardice. Yes, yes, Ser Barristan. I have already told the guards as much,” Jaime jerked his head toward the frowning men in leathers who might be twins, “that pair who seem to have lost their humor along with their bollocks, though I can hardly blame them for such. I told them I am Jaime Lannister, come to seek an audience with Queen Daenerys Targaryen. I also laid down my sword and let myself be restrained, though it seems overkill that a single, unarmed man should be chained when he is surrounded by an entire army who would gladly see him relieved of his head. Oh, and as rumors have it, three dragons which—”

“Your reputation is remarkably accurate, Ser Jaime Lannister,” the silver-haired young woman spoke without letting any emotion show through her level voice or her violet eyes. She was a few steps above where Jaime had been made to kneel, though rather than the throne he had expected to see, she was perched on a white bench which he might have called plain but that he was fairly certain it was made of ebony, or perhaps dragonbone.

“How so, your grace?” he belatedly answered as he let his eyes flick to the Unsullied guards (he’d argue they had been quite sullied) standing against each of the marble pillars that supported the high ceilings and, presumably, the tip of the pyramid which rested above them.

“I have heard you give new meaning to the phrase ‘Lannister arrogance’.”

Jaime shrugged, “I would expect Ser Barristan to sum me up in such a way. I won’t even deny it, but I would point out that Ser Barristan himself has been known to display some arrogance from time to time. Though perhaps condescension is the better word? Mind you, he also possesses the skills to back up any arrogance, and enough integrity to make it hard to fault him for looking down his nose at others. Shame my nephew couldn’t appreciate the value of having a true knight in his service.” Jaime turned to face Barristan, who was still as red-faced as he’d been upon his entry into the vacuous hall, “You should have seen the rabble he had on his Kingsguard by the end. Men I wouldn’t trust to clean my chamber pot.”

“Do you think I am a fool, Ser Jaime?” Daenerys asked, one pale eyebrow arched even as her eyes continued to communicate willful ambivalence. He hadn’t seen that look on a woman’s face since… Cersei.

Jaime ground his jaw, “I have yet to form an opinion, your grace.”

She ignored his cheek, “Men who talk as much as you do so to compensate for some other shortcoming, or to distract from the fact that they truly have nothing of consequence to say.”

Jaime snorted, “You probably won’t like to hear this, but you sound like my father.”

“Your father, the false king,” finally she showed some emotion: anger. “I know my history, Ser. I have been educated in all the events leading to my father’s death, and all the events since.”

“Oh, I doubt that very much,” Jaime chuckled, before adding, “respectfully.”

“Silence when the queen is addressing you!” the other Westerosi guard called out. He looked as mad as Ser Barristan, though Jaime was certain he’d never met him. Then again, one didn’t need to meet the Kingslayer to hate the Kingslayer, as he knew quite well.

“Apologies, your grace. Do please continue.”

“The man who sits on the throne forged by my ancestors—”

“Through conquest and violence, fire and blood, yes. Please, continue.”

She sneered down at him, “The man who dares to sit on the Iron Throne was once considered a close friend, servant, and confidante to my father, only to later betray him by pretending to come to the city to aid my father’s cause only to side with the usurper instead. Then he ordered his henchman to kill my goodsister, Lady Elia Martell, and the children who would be my niece and nephew. Innocent babes. He was rewarded for his cowardly deed by having his daughter betrothed to the usurper, the false king. Now, decades later, he claims the throne for himself – a claim he was able to make because of his wealth, and nothing more. The entire realm hates him. Most of the realm fears him. But I do not fear him,” she lifted her upper lip, “I fear no man.”

“I too, feared no man. I feared no man right up until the moment Robb Stark set his wolf upon me.”

The young woman snorted drily, “A wolf? I fear no wolves, either. A snack for my children.”

“Your children? Meaning your dragons?”

Daenerys lifted her shoulder in what might have been a shrug, “Why are you here, Ser Jaime? We have heard nothing that indicates you have been banished from Westeros, which means you are in Essos by choice. Have you come to deliver some message from your father?”

Jaime shook his head, “Quite the opposite. I left my father when it became clear that he has been corrupted by our enemy.”

“Your enemy?”

“The Starks. The family we were at war with – a war we would have won – until my father noticed that Lady Sansa Stark has a particularly comely face and – if you pardon my bluntness – particularly shapely teats.”

Daenerys looked bored, “I highly doubt a man with your father’s reputation would be swayed by a pair of teats, no matter how good those teats look when swaying back and forth…”

Jaime grinned. Oh, I like this girl!

“…but if you are right and she has manipulated your father for some motive that is not in alignment with House Lannister’s ambition, then perhaps I should count this Sansa Stark as my ally,” she grinned as if she had won a battle.

“Perhaps you should, though I doubt she’ll return the sentiment. You see, your father roasted her grandfather alive when he dared to seek justice for his daughter who had been kidnapped by your brother and his son who had been arrested by your father when he sought justice for said daughter.”

Her smile fell away, “I see your real motive in coming here is beginning to reveal itself. You mean to poison the love I have for the family I never had the honor of knowing. You will be disappointed then, to know that you are too late. Ser Barristan has told me that my father was… erratic in his final years. I know he was not a perfect man, nor a perfect king, yet he had no shortage of children who could have inherited his crown, as it should have been. Instead, the usurper drove us all away or had us killed so he could seize power for himself. If you have come here to convince me that my cause is unfounded, you will waste your breath.”

Jaime shook his head, “Not at all. Your father was a mad dog. Mad dogs need to be put down. But when a dog goes mad, you don’t put down every pup that’s ever been sired by that dog or whelped by that bitch.”

“An odd analogy, but perhaps an appropriate one. So, you agree that my brother Rhaegar ought to have been coronated? And if not him, Viserys. And if not Viserys, me. And if not me, either of Rhaegar’s trueborn children.”

Jaime shrugged, “Truthfully? I couldn’t care less who sits the throne. Frankly, I’d like to see the thing melted down. But that won’t happen. The men – and women – who seek power will always seek the throne because they view it as the key to obtaining ultimate power.”

Her jaw bulged, “Then I ask again, Ser Jaime – why have you come here?”

“Simple, really. Because while I don’t care who sits the throne, in general, I do care that it’s my father… That he took the throne from my nephew. That my nephew died under mysterious circumstances. That my sister is said to have thrown herself from her balcony in grief. Only I know my sister better than anyone. She’d never have killed herself. Not over the death of one child. Not over the death of all her children. Not over the death of her entire family. Not if every man, woman, and child in the known realm perished in the blink of an eye and Cersei had been sentenced to walk the realm alone for the rest of her days… No, not even then, your grace. Rather, she’d have been grateful to finally have adequate company – she always was her favorite person.”

Ser Barristan snorted, “If I may interject, your grace, about this much the Kingslayer speaks true.”

Daenerys nodded faintly, “You believe your own father had your sister and possibly your nephew killed?”

Jaime shook his head, “More likely, his wife did. He makes her a queen and within weeks my nephew and sister are dead. And frankly, I can’t even blame her if she did, no more than you can blame Robert Baratheon and Ned Stark for avenging the deaths of three Starks. But that’s the funny thing about vengeance, isn’t it? You may logically know they were within their rights to raise their banners and seek their vengeance and yet you still want your vengeance against them, don’t you? They were key players in the war that saw your entire line wiped out, but for yourself.”

For long moments, Daenerys only stared at him, measuring him. He knew what it was like to be measured up. It was standard practice for soldiers to inspect each other from top to bottom and side to side. But she was doing it differently. She wasn’t wondering how strong he was, how well he could wield a sword; she was wondering whether he had an ulterior motive.  

And, if he was reading her right, maybe wondering how well he could wield his other sword…

“That’s it, then? I’m to believe you came to me because you seek vengeance against your father’s wife, and you believe I’m the one who can deliver it? I would think you would have ample opportunity to get that vengeance fairly easily.”

Jaime let his head drop back and laughed, “I see the source of your confusion. I didn’t explain myself… it is not hatred for my goodmother who has driven me across the Narrow Sea. No, no, no… I wish to see my father not just stripped of his throne, not just stripped of his very life… No, I want him to watch while the legacy of his great house, which is the only thing he has ever cared about, crumbles into the sea.”

Her eyebrow lifted again, and Jaime knew he had piqued her interest. She studied him for some more time, and he let her. He held her eyes though the cutout in her dress was beckoning him to let his eyes drift south to her petite but perfectly shaped bosom.

“Then you have come to offer your assistance in what is, apparently, our shared goal?” she asked with a heavy dose of skepticism.

“I have, and good thing, too. Because someone is leading you to believe that Westeros is ripe for the plucking. That they hate my father and are clamoring for a Targaryen savior!” he threw his hands up dramatically. “They’re not. Your father cured them of that. You think any of the nobles – meaning the people who pay the soldiers’ wages – will support your bid for the throne? They might have when Joffrey was the alternative. Hells, they might have when Robert was the alternative. But it seems that your history lessons left out some key facts. Like that my father was the best king Westeros never had. While your father held feasts and tourneys and harassed his wife and courtiers, my father ruled, and rule well. The realm had peace. Nobles and commons alike prospered. When your father lost all semblance of his humanity, it was my father’s betrayal that truly turned the table for the rebellion. And when Joffrey proved to be an abysmal failure of a king, my father once again saved the realm from the fate it would meet if it had to endure another day under Joffrey’s rule. And as if all that weren’t enough, my father has created ironclad alliances with nearly every kingdom. The North and the Riverlands will back him unfailingly because of his wife and daughters. The—”

“Your father has sired daughters on the Lady Sansa?” for the first time Daenerys’ face showed something other than ambivalence or anger. Jaime didn’t know what to call it other than curiosity. Or perhaps excitement.

He nodded. Daenerys nodded back, “Continue, Ser.”

He swallowed thickly though wasn’t sure why, “Right. Eh, the Crownlands will back him because he brought an end to the war and their starvation. The Westerlands will back him not just because they have sworn to, but because they respect him, and because they remember what he did to the last vassals who defied his house. The Stormlands are or will soon be controlled by his grandson, my nephew Tommen, who is or will soon be wed to Lady Margaery of the Reach, whose father is on the Small Council. The Vale will remain neutral, but if they must pick a side, it will likely be the one that House Tully of Riverrun is on, since Lysa Arryn is a Tully by birth. You may be able to find an ally in Dorne, but you should be aware that my niece – Tywin Lannister’s granddaughter – is betrothed to Prince Trystane Martell.”

Daenerys shook her head, anger returning to her visage, “So in fact you have come to dissuade me from claiming what is rightfully mine. How convenient for your father.”

“Not at all, your grace. I only wish to see you succeed, which you will not do if you are either ignorant of or willfully blind to the obstacles you face. One of those obstacles is the fact that no one actually cares about bloodlines. If the wealthy and powerful families of Westeros could get more wealthy and more powerful by backing a swineherd born on the wrong side of the bed for the Kingship, they would.”

“You seem to forget that I have an army of Unsullied and Dothraki warriors and three dragons at my disposal.”

“Ah, so you wish to claim the throne by bloodshed rather than being embraced as the savior of the realm, the rightful heir returned. Why didn’t you say so?”

Her pale cheeks pinkened, “Those who acknowledge me as the true queen will not suffer, Ser. And by your own admission, people would support a swineherd if it promoted their agenda. Since staying alive is most certainly on everyone’s agenda, I would think they will back me quite readily.”

“Perhaps that is true for some, but not all. But alas, I cannot divulge everything I know about the inter-kingdom relations of Westeros. After all, I came here to offer my knowledge and counsel, because if I have nothing to offer then you have no reason not to take my head to avenge your father.” He jerked his chin toward Ser Barristan, “If you can accept the loyalty of a man who served two of the false kings you so despise, then perhaps you can accept that, at minimum, I deserve to keep my head a little longer.” He held up his iron-bound wrists, “So, your grace, are we to be friends or enemies?”

Her eyes narrowed, not that he could blame her for her suspicion, but eventually she looked to Ser Barristan who made a gesture with his entire body that fell somewhere between a caution and a shrug.

She turned back to Jaime, “Perhaps I should consider you neither. Perhaps I should treat you as a hostage. Demand your father surrender the throne and endorse my rule unless he wishes to see you burnt alive.”

Jaime swallowed again, remembering the smell that used to linger in the Red Keep when he was a youth.

The smell of charred man flesh.

He shook away the thought, confident that his face had revealed none of the terror he had just felt, “Perhaps you didn’t hear me, your grace. Though I’ve been told I use too many words, so the fault is clearly with me. My father cares about legacy more than anything. Right now, his legacy is the West, the North, the Stormlands, possibly the Riverlands. Oh, and as the sprinkle of sugar on top of an already delectable strawberry, the Iron Throne. His children or grandchildren, by blood or name or both, will rule more than half the kingdoms. So, your grace, if you ask Tywin Lannister to give that up or watch his firstborn son cooked alive, he won’t even pretend to deliberate.”

Her eyes flashed to Ser Barristan again but whatever communication the two were able to relay to each other was lost on Jaime.

“So I ask again, do I get to keep my head, your grace? Am I your friend or your enemy?”

She shook her head slightly, though her eyes seemed unfocused. Understandable – he had thrown a lot at her and probably shredded more than a few of her dreams.

“I cannot answer that question now, Ser, but I agree that no harm will come to you here until we’ve gotten a chance to know one another. As my current companions prove, I reward those who are loyal to me, no matter their past transgressions.”

He tipped his head, “An admirable trait.”

“But know that I also punish those who betray me, no matter the good deeds they may have done for me in the past. If you truly intend to become an ally and councilor – which I have not yet agreed to accept – know that at the first sign that you serve another master, I will feed you to my children.”

Jaime nodded a bit shakily, “I understand. Your grace.”

“Good,” she rose and primly rubbed her small hands against the silken skirt of her fitted dress, “You shall have a meal, a bath, and a rest. In the near future, we shall dine privately, and I expect to learn about the precise circumstances around your killing of my father.”

She gave him no opportunity to object before letting her aged but capable Westerosi guards see her out, while the Unsullied continued holding up the pillars. Eventually he heard two of them approach from the direction of the main door leading into this space that was, apparently, Daenerys’ Targaryen’s throne room, minus a throne. Jaime turned to watch them march toward him. There was little he could do if they should choose to cut him down, but he wanted to at least know it was coming so he could call them cockless fucks and ask why they didn’t cut themselves down instead.

At the same time a third pair of feet approached, these ones near silent because they wore only silk slippers. He turned back and saw it was the girl who had begun announcing Daenerys’ many pompous and self-proclaimed titles before Ser Barristan conveniently interrupted her. She had quite seamlessly disappeared while Jaime and Daenerys spoke, and Jaime made a note to be wary of her lurking in the shadows. Not that he had anyone in this place to conspire with or sneak off for a romp with, but he supposed old habits die hard.

“Ser Jaime,” the girl smiled at him. She had the most unique appearance in that her eyes, a warm amber, were lighter than her skin.

“Yes?” he replied when it was clear she was waiting for some type of acknowledgement.

“I am Missandei, herald to Queen Daenerys. Since I speak the common tongue, she has asked me to see to your needs during your time here. I have sent servants ahead with instructions to prepare your chambers and bath, and to find you suitable clothing.”

He withheld a jape about whether she would see to all his needs, being as she looked to be of an age with Jaime’s niece, for one, and looked to be the type on whom humor was wasted, for two.

“I trust my horse hasn’t been butchered for stew meat yet? Well, either way, I have all the clothing I need in my saddle bags.”

Missandei frowned as she looked at the attire he presently wore, “Respectfully, Ser, you will be over-warm in such clothes.”

Jaime shrugged, “And is this the most important matter for Queen Daenerys’ herald to be seeing to?”

The girl looked confused for only a moment, “Suit yourself, Ser Jaime. If you will,” she gestured toward the doorway that Daenerys and her guards had exited through some minutes ago.

With a smile thrown in her direction, Jaime walked past, and let Missandei lead him from behind, the guards flanking her.

It was down two long flights of stairs and inside a large and airy room where the guards finally used a key to release his manacles.

Missandei spoke, “Your quarters will be guarded at all times, and your weapons will not be returned to you unless and until Queen Daenerys commands it. But otherwise, you will be treated as a guest, not a prisoner.”

Jaime looked around and nodded, even though he was still overwhelmed that he made it this far without being filled with arrows, cut in half by the second greatest swordsman who’d ever lived, or burnt alive by dragonfire.

And to think – honesty was all it took to get him in this position: soon to be dining with the beautiful and ambitious Daenerys Targaryen.

He’d yet to form any definitive opinions about her, but then again, he’d yet to decide what he was doing here. It had been on a whim that he boarded a ship to Essos, propelled by only a vague notion that if he didn’t get far away from Tywin Lannister, he’d have killed his own father.

Distance served him well, as it gave him the opportunity to see that his father was entirely justified in ending Joffrey’s reign. He’d heard enough by then to know that the boy was primed to become another Mad King, and perhaps Jaime had always suspected he might. Then again, Jaime would have had to pay closer attention to the lad to truly reach that conclusion, and most of his attention was spent finding time and locales for secret rendezvous with Cersei.

It was Cersei’s ghost who drove him here, to seek out a woman who would have every reason to kill him on the spot without even giving him a chance to speak his piece. He came with some vague notion that revenge for Cersei could be most easily found here in Meereen, but at this point it felt like he was simply passing the time. Life had been unbearably dull for him these past years since he arrested Ned Stark and fled the capital. There had been no Cersei, for one. Prior to that she was the primary form of joy and entertainment in Jaime’s life, not just in the treasure trove between her legs, but in the thrill of sneaking around; taking her hard and fast against a wall while his hand muffled her mouth and her shoulder muffled his; discovering abandoned parts of the Red Keep where they could convene to have a less quiet encounter.

When he rode off to join his father’s force in the Riverlands it meant goodbye to Cersei but hello to a different sort of thrill: war. Only it had been like going to a twelve-course feast on an empty belly, but only having time to eat half of one dish. Robb Stark and his pet wolf captured him before he’d gotten to kill more than a dozen men or so.

Jaime Lannister learned that he was not built for captivity. More broadly, he wasn’t built for idleness. He had nearly gone mad from the monotony of it all. There was little threat of death, valuable as he was, unless he died from infection after spending weeks sitting in his own foulness. There was no threat of being discovered with Cersei because Cersei wasn’t there.

That was when he realized that he wasn’t built for comfort, either. To live with a proverbial or literal knife to one’s throat – that’s living.

Being released from captivity was bittersweet. Sweet because it meant he could return to activity, to war. Bitter because he was assigned to hold Golden Tooth, which turned out to be more monotony. Then eventually to abandon Golden Tooth as part of his father’s plan to distract the Northmen while he dealt with Roose Bolton near Harrenhal.

Then it was finally back to the capital only to learn that the love of his life – the only woman he’d ever loved and one of the few women he’d ever even been with – was dead. And that no one cared. Not his father, not his brother, not his goodmother. Not even Uncle Kevan. Even Tommen seemed to have accepted and moved on by the time Jaime arrived back.

Worse, no one found it strange that Cersei threw herself to her death even though they all knew Cersei to be tenacious and willful. No… If Cersei was going to kill herself, she’d have taken someone down with her – most likely the girl who took what had been hers or the father who took what had been Joffrey’s.

So Jaime found himself in Meereen because of Cersei, but perhaps also because he needed the thrill that only Daenerys Targaryen could provide. No one in Westeros would dare hold a dagger to the neck of the eldest son of King Tywin Lannister. But Daenerys Targaryen would. He’d be living with one for as long as she kept him here as her “guest”.

And maybe he was here because part of him wondered if he could truly betray his father.

Maybe part of him wanted to be in a position to save the few people he cared about – Tyrion, Tommen, Myrcella – should Daenerys succeed in invading Westeros and claiming the throne. He’d even petition that his father’s daughters be spared, they were his half-sisters after all, and he’d had enough of babes dying because of their parents’ ambitions, or the ambitions of their parents’ enemies.

Maybe part of him wanted to kill her, lest she become as mad as her father. Only she didn’t need to find and pay pyromancers to make her wildfire. She had three living, breathing beasts who created fire – and in endless supply.

Maybe he wanted to fuck her, because she was beautiful and reminded him of Cersei in that she worshipped herself. (Only perhaps in Daenerys’ case she didn’t realize it.) Because she was unapologetic – another of Cersei’s traits. This wasn’t a girl who would let anything stop her from taking the throne, and perhaps he found such tenacity arousing. What would Cersei have done to keep her crown? Jaime would never know, because someone killed her before she’d had a chance to make her plans and plots. No doubt she’d have embroiled him in them, and he’d have resented her for it then, but now he would do anything to have her here.

“Ser Jaime?”

A less seasoned soldier might have flinched to have been so abruptly yanked from his musings, “Yes, Lady Missandei?”

The herald smiled knowingly, “Your bath, Ser. I shall leave you to it. Should you need me, the guards outside your door will summon me.”

He looked to the tub, wondering how he could have been so oblivious to the fact that two servant girls were filling it with steaming water that smelled like some herb Jaime couldn’t name – no doubt native to the area.

The guards left with Missandei, but the girls lingered, chatting to each other in their slave tongue as one poured some type of oil into the bathwater and the other pulled over a chair and draped a drying sheet over it.

“Uh…” he began, before realizing they wouldn’t understand anything he said.

They were still chattering as one approached him with a smile then began unbuttoning his jerkin.

He grabbed her wrist, “I am capable of undressing myself, thank you.”

She spoke some gibberish and pointed at the tub with her free hand, not even remotely unnerved to have been grabbed by a man who towered over her by a full head.

“I’m capable of washing myself too, thank you,” he released her wrist and took a step back.

The girl took a step forward, grabbing his wrist as he had done her, and tugging him to the side of the tub. He let her drag him over. Then he let both girls undress him with assertiveness that he’d not have expected to find in two people who barely came up to his chin. They weren’t overly young, perhaps eight and ten, but they were tiny. Then again, Missandei had been tiny. Hells, Daenerys Targaryen had been tiny. Come to think of it, the Unsullied he saw were shorter than average, and lean of build even if well-muscled.

Suddenly he felt like a beast, but if he was reading the girls’ tones and blushes right, he was an exotic, impressive beast.

He was down to his smallclothes when next the pair giggled, and he hoped it was because they were having so much fun, not because they found something comical about his big, comparatively pale body.

As if reading his mind, the slightly older looking of the pair pointed to his head, then his chest, then to an urn that sat on a side table. A bronze urn. Gold…

Then she pointed at his crotch and laughed uproariously while the other girl sniggered behind her hand.

They want to know if I’m golden everywhere…

With a shrug he decided he had no cause for shame and unlaced the front closure of his smallclothes, letting them fall to the floor.

The younger girl squealed while the older one suddenly found good reason to be serious, staring at his cock and then his face with a hungry look.

He lowered himself into the tub and leaned back against the wall. It wasn’t near deep enough for a man of his height, but it was still the best thing he’d felt since riding out of the Red Keep with no destination in mind.

He let out a loud sigh, content with the uncertain future he faced, or more likely because of the uncertainty of his future.

Maybe he’d fuck a queen.

Maybe he’d help lead the second Targaryen invasion.

Maybe he’d kill a queen.

But until any of those events transpired, he’d let himself be pampered and primped and dressed up in linens and silks, because why not?

Notes:

FYI - without a truly accurate timeline from GRRM, and the fact that what little milestone dates he give us don't make sense given the size of Westeros and lack of modern transportation (I'm sorry, all of GOT book events could not have occurred in a year!) I decided not to go crazy worrying about where Daenerys would be and what she'd be up to at this point in time. I think it's safe to assume she'd be in Meereen, but beyond that please forgive me if things don't seem to line up, timeline-wise.

Oh and please keep in mind that Jaime in my fic was released by Robb Stark. He still has his hand, never met innocent, honorable Brienne. Nor has he seen Cersei since Robert was still alive. While Robert lived, Cersei didn't consider herself in power and thus her darker traits had to be hidden. Jaime's image of Cersei isn't her getting drunk in her chambers while Joffrey is having tongues cut out at court, his image of Cersei is coy smiles that say 'Robert's drunk off his ass, let's find a dark alcove to fuck in'.

So, suffice to say, Jaime left for war as Cersei's secret lover, comes back from war to Joffrey dead, Cersei dead, dad on the throne with a new heir on the way, no one giving a f*** about Cersei and Joffrey being dead, everyone being all sunshine and rainbows because war is over, a war Jaime barely got to fight. So yeah, in line with that I think Jaime is feeling a bit suicidal, or more accurately, not really caring if he lives or dies. Act first, think later. He is very much S1 Jaime, attacking Ned Stark in the street, killing his household, instead of stopping to think "hmm... this might just start a war".

Chapter 28: Come on out, Whispering Wolf

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Arya

For the second time in her life, Arya watched a royal procession ride through the gates of Winterfell, but that was where the similarities ended. She didn’t gasp with delight upon taking in the sight of the feared Hound, his snarling helm hanging from his saddle, because the Hound was somewhere behind her. Another big difference? She stood not with two parents and four siblings but with one parent, one sibling, one husband (still weird), and one grand-uncle. Rounding out the welcoming party were Kevan Lannister, Martyn Lannister, Maester Luwin, Ser Rodrik, and Hodor, who was only there to push Bran’s cushioned chair with oversized wooden wheels. (If guests weren’t arriving, Hodor would simply carry Bran; the blasted wheeled chair was constantly tipping over or getting stuck in the mud and snow and really only rolled smoothly on planked surfaces. And of course, it was another thing that needed to be carried down or up any stairs, which meant Bran needed to be accompanied by Hodor and an additional servant – a strong one – to use the chair with any efficiency.)

However, Bran refused to be held today. Going on three and ten, he was developing a man’s sense of pride. Being crippled was bad enough; being held and carried by another man was beyond humiliating. Arya was a girl and even she understood.

There were many other differences, of course. There was no Ser Jaime riding in with his hair and teeth and armor greedily catching every ray of sunlight only to blind people with his disgusting beauty. There were Kingsguard, of course – and Queensguard – though none who had belonged to King Robert.

Arya recognized some of Sansa’s guards. The handsome one that Uncle Brynden had recommended, and the friendly Westerman who even Arya had a hard time not smiling at. There was another, perfectly nondescript after he took his helm off, of shorter stature than the others, and one whose armor was blue instead of white and who stood half a head taller than the next tallest of his comrades.

“Hells, that one’s bigger than you, Hound!” Arya gushed.

“Shht!” Mother scolded sharply without turning her head.

Arya rolled her eyes but turned to face Sandor and indeed his eyes were on the tall knight who was dismounting in the courtyard along with all the other guards. Then his eyes found something else, and his lips parted in a cocky grin, “Hah! The little bird took that nance from Highgarden into her service? At least the old lion won’t have to worry about—”

“Shht!” This time Catelyn did turn, her face red as she hissed out the hushing noise in a way that was somehow more threatening than any curse word. The laughter that had started to come from Ser Kevan and Ser Rodrik after the Hound’s comment evaporated instantly, and the man himself lowered his eyes and muttered, “'pologies, my lady’.”

The enclosed carriage that the Queensguard had been buffering rolled to a stop once it was slightly past the place where the welcoming party stood. It was decorated with the banners of Houses Lannister and Stark even though it had been painted grey and black – the carriage on loan from House Cerwyn who had greeted the royal procession from where their ship docked after its journey up the White Knife to here – a two days’ ride with a slow-moving carriage or a half day’s ride with all ahorse.

Behind the carriage rode the Kingsguard, seven men in white enameled armor who flanked the king, Arya’s goodbrother who was old enough to be her grandfather. The thought still made her feel queasy, but even more so now that she was a woman wedded and – as of a month ago at her mother’s insistence that prior to that she’d been too young – bedded. Knowing what it felt like when Gendry touched her in certain places and – even better – when he moved inside her… Thinking upon it could bring dampness to her small clothes at any time of day, but to think that Sansa did the same things with the Old Lion brought bile to her throat anytime she thought of it.

She was lightly elbowed by Gendry and realized it was time to kneel even though it felt stupid to kneel for someone who was family, not to mention who she had once seen fucking her sister on a table and… Ugh!

Tywin surprised her by approaching Mother first. He held his hand out not for Catelyn to kiss his ring but to help her rise. “Lady Stark,” he greeted with a tip of his head as everyone else rose just a few moments after Mother had. After Mother stood, Tywin’s hands were clasped behind his back and he gave only brief nods at everyone else before approaching the carriage with a page who put down wooden steps. The king himself opened the carriage door and out stepped Sansa with neither delay nor flourish, only a babe on her right hip and a wide grin on her face already pointed at her family. The smiling Queensguard – Ser Eryk if Arya’s memory served – stepped up to help Sansa’s maid out of the carriage next. She had the other babe in her arms, and handed her down to Tywin before turning to pick up her own babe – a toddler, really. Arya recognized Cheryse’s son and felt somehow indebted to the little thing. If not for that babe, would Cheryse have been desperate enough to help Sansa that day during the riots? Perhaps, but perhaps not. Arya knew from her own mother that women would do dangerous or shameful things for the sake of their children that they wouldn’t otherwise do for themselves.

Sansa approached Mother first, though smiled at all those who had gathered to be among the first greeting party.

“Mother, may I introduce you to your granddaughters. Jeyne,” Sansa gestured to the babe in Tywin’s arms, “and Jocelyn Lannister.”

Arya’s own eyes watered when she saw her mother’s eyes water. It seemed to be a chain reaction as Uncle Brynden was suddenly fascinated with the fluffy clouds overhead, Ser Kevan was squeezing his son’s shoulder while pressing his lips together so hard they went white, and Ser Rodrik suddenly had to turn away to cough. Arya turned and noticed Gendry beside her, wearing that big, dumb smile on his face that he wore the night they were married in Riverrun’s godswood. His eyes were shimmery and when he noticed Arya staring at him, he blushed and shrugged.

Arya remembered how Mother looked like a statue when she greeted Queen Cersei upon her arrival at Winterfell, what felt like a lifetime ago. But for all she still scolded Arya (and the Hound, and occasionally Gendry) when proper manners weren’t being employed, Catelyn Stark easily lost composure now. She eagerly took Jocelyn from Sansa then wrapped one arm around Sansa’s shoulders, stroking her hair and whispering words none of them could make out but all of them could guess.

It broke the formality of the event and soon Tywin had split off to speak with his brother and nephew, who immediately began fawning over baby Jeyne, while Sansa bent to kiss Bran on the head, her own tears spilling free. Arya moved to join her siblings, Gendry following like a stray pup, and was surprised when Sansa threw her arms around both of their waists, “My fellow escapees!” she whispered gleefully. Gendry and Arya laughed as Sansa eventually pulled away, “I wish I could have been there when you wed; I’m sure it was lovely,” she spoke earnestly while clasping both their hands.

Arya shrugged. She wasn’t in the habit of thinking things were ‘lovely’ and would have a tooth pulled before saying the word out loud.

Next to get his queenly hug was Uncle Brynden, who went a step further by lifting Sansa off the ground a bit, “My favorite grandniece!” he cried out while winking at Arya over Sansa’s shoulders. Arya simply rolled her eyes, though the truth was she felt a wave of bone-deep relief wash through her. The lion had come to wolf territory, and he did so without leaving his wife or either of his daughters in lion territory, ready to be used as leverage.

Sansa had wanted to see her family before the worst of winter set in, so the lion brought her north.

(She’d never tell the man, nor anyone, but Arya was grateful.)

Though they had arrived mid-afternoon, and the journey had hardly been strenuous, Tywin and Sansa wished to retire for a few hours after their initial reunion. Apparently, Sansa was still easily fatigued six months after giving birth.

Mother had been shocked when they received the raven from the capital telling that Sansa and Tywin would be visiting them in Winterfell, but knowing that 95% of their voyage would be in the comfort of a ship, Arya didn’t think it was so strange. Mother seemed to forget that three days after giving birth to Rickon she was up and about, running the household and giving orders, checking in on her other children. It was the same with dogs and horses and pigs, Arya knew. They didn’t spend the months after giving birth sleeping.

The following evening would be the feast to formally celebrate the royal family, but the night of their arrival anyone who could be considered family or family-by-law congregated in the smaller dining hall that could comfortably accommodate thirty.

Though Arya had much to talk to her sister about, she’d get little chance. Mother and Bran took all Sansa’s time. Tywin was busy talking with Kevan and Martyn. That left Arya, Gendry, and Brynden to talk amongst themselves which would have ordinarily been ideal, but she had things to tell Sansa and things to ask Sansa, damnit!

“Oh, how wonderful!” Sansa suddenly cried out. Tywin, who sat to her right, stopped mid-sentence in whatever he was saying to Ser Kevan and turned to face his wife.

“The Northern lords have all been notified of our visit and some will be arriving tomorrow in time for the feast! Lord Cerwyn and Lord Leobald Tallhart. And Lord Donnel Locke will join Lord Wylis. Isn’t that wonderful, husband?”

Arya held back a snigger as the lion muttered a very unconvincing, “Indeed.”

“It would be more, I’m certain, but any residing at further castles would not have made it in time, since we did not give much advance notice. And I imagine the snows are quite deep for Last Hearth and Karhold and even Deepwood Motte,” Sansa continued, “they must be hunkering down by now.”

“Indeed,” the Old Lion repeated.

“Speaking of snow,” Sansa turned her eyes on Arya and any lingering conversation stopped to hear what the queen had to say, “Has there been any communication from Jon at the Wall?”

Arya stiffened at the mention of their half-brother. She had wanted to talk to Sansa about it privately.

“I’ve sent and received correspondence with the Night’s Watch. We can talk about it later.”

Sansa’s eyes moved around the table and Arya knew she was wondering who it was Arya didn’t trust. That wasn’t the issue, though. It simply wasn’t happy news and Arya didn’t want to say anything that might upset Sansa in front of men she hardly knew, like Kevan and Martyn Lannister.

Sansa took a deep breath, “Tell me, sister, or I will imagine the worst.”

Arya looked to Mother, who tipped her chin one time.

“It isn’t… well…” Arya couldn’t hold her sister’s big blue eyes, so she instead looked at the king, “I sent a raven to Castle Black to let them know that Winterfell is once again in Stark hands. I included a personal missive to Jon, telling him that Bran and Rickon are alive, that I’m alive and married, that Sansa is alive and… and is a mother and queen. I don’t know how much news they get up there. Anyway, they responded with a plea for aid, as Castle Black has been under frequent attack from Wildlings who are fixated on scaling the Wall or breaking down the gates. Jon had been missing for months and returned to Castle Black after apparently escaping a group of Wildlings he had infiltrated. He warned of a massive attack – the largest in perhaps hundreds of years. He led the defense of Castle Black with the skill of a man twice his age, the Maester Aemon wrote. Well, it was scribed by his steward, Samwell Tarly. Regardless, Jon was a hero and as thanks some of the senior men of the Watch sent him on a mission to return north of the Wall, claiming parley, but instead assassinating the Wildling leader, Mance Rayder. Only he – Jon – hasn’t returned and it’s been a couple months now. We don’t know if he’s alive or dead. I’m… I’m sorry, Sansa.” Arya turned back to see her sister’s eyes had gone unfocused, though she nodded her head in acknowledgement of all Arya had said. Arya knew Sansa and Jon were hardly close during childhood, but without Father and Robb, Arya suspected that Sansa would cling to Jon – who looked like Father and acted like Robb. Of course, with Jon committed to the Watch, they’d hardly have many opportunities to visit, but at least Sansa could have seen him at some point. And they could have corresponded through letters, just as Arya had hoped to do.

Now neither sister may get that chance again. Arya’s eyes stung just thinking about it, so she looked to the ceiling.

Ser Kevan cleared his throat, “We’ve received letters from Lords Umber and Glover. The number of Wildling raids on their lands has increased.”

“Not just raids,” Arya added, welcoming a distraction, “They’ve found Wildlings camped in the Wolfswood, making their settlements there. The Wildlings speak of a great army of—”

“Enough, Arya,” Mother scolded.

“But they’re the king and queen, Mother! Shouldn’t they hear?”

“Hear fables and tales told to scare children into good behavior? I think not.”

“What great army?” Sansa asked.

“An army of wights, led by the Others,” Arya answered quickly.

“By the gods,” Catelyn sighed, shaking her head.

Ser Kevan cleared his throat, “The desperate will say anything to try to save their heads. If but one man in the Umber or Glover ranging parties was superstitious, their captives might just be brought in for questioning rather than killed on sight. It is strategy on the part of the Wildlings – nothing more.”

“Perhaps,” Bran spoke, drawing all eyes, “But the Wall was built for a reason. It must have been, given the expenditure of resources. How many men and animals would have died of cold and fever, lost fingers and toes and ears and noses to frostbite? Why would my namesake go to that trouble if not to keep a mighty foe from crossing into his lands?”

“The mighty foe were the Wildlings, Lord Stark,” Tywin responded in a neutral tone.

“A seven-hundred-foot-high wall, a hundred leagues long? To keep out a human foe that can be killed with arrows and pitch and simple steel daggers?”

“Bran…” Mother glared at him.

“It’s quite alright, Lady Stark. Let the young lord argue his case. Good practice for politicking,” Twin countered.

Bran tipped his head at the king, “Thank you, your grace. I was thinking to share a memory I have. One of my last clear memories of our father since King Robert’s party returned soon after and I… fell out of a window…”

A strange look passed between her brother and the king. Arya didn’t know what to make of it.

“…The memory is of joining my father, older brothers, and our family’s ward, Theon, as the lord of Winterfell ventured out to pass judgment on a man who had deserted his duty in the Night’s Watch. Father was not one to kill a man before giving him a chance to defend himself, even if desertion of the Watch is punishable by death under any circumstances. But the man didn’t respond to Father’s questions; he didn’t even seem to hear them. He had the most haunted look in his eyes as he repeated only the words ‘They’re dead’ over and over again.”

Brynden sighed, “Lots of things north of the Wall can make a man lose his senses, Bran. Hells, the snow alone can do the trick. Lots of things can scare a man half to death. Wolves. Snow leopards. Bears…”

“Others. Wights,” Arya finished. Brynden rolled his eyes.

Bran ignored her and Brynden’s interruption, “Regardless, I have reviewed Father’s journals since we received the letter from Maester Aemon. The number of reported Wildling attacks on the Wall has increased steadily over the past decade. Prior to that it was steady. In fact, the Watch would go years without reporting an attack to the Lord of Winterfell. Father would sometimes go years without hearing from Lords Umber, Glover, Karstark, and Mormont about Wildling raids.”

“Something is driving the Wildlings south,” Arya stated what she hoped was obvious.

“Aye. Snow, ice, cold. Harsher conditions. Less game,” Ser Kevan supplied.

“Hmpf,” a snort came from along the wall near the doorway. Everyone turned to see Osha, the woman who’d been a caretaker to Rickon and Bran since Robb left for war. Arya hadn’t been sure what to make of the woman, but as she was one of few who Rickon trusted they had no choice but to accept her presence. So far, she’d yet to make them regret it. 

“Snow, ice, cold, sparse game… Tis every day north-uh the Wall, and my kind has survived there for millennia. The lil lord speaks true. We don’t want to live in the south any more’n you want us here, but if the alternative is to become oneuhtha dead?”

“Become one of the dead?” Sansa scoffed, “Surely you are not claiming to have seen these creatures, Lady…?”

“Just Osha, m’lady.”

Sansa’s eyes narrowed, “Osha? You are to thank for keeping my brothers safe while Winterfell was occupied by the Ironborn and then the Boltons. Am I correct?”

“I only did what was right. The lil lords woonta been safe with either-a those lots.”

“Nonetheless, you have my gratitude.”

“Hmpf. If’n that’s the case, then you can repay me by lis’nin to the lil Lord Bran. Don’t matter what these ol’ men say,” Osha jerked her chin toward Ser Kevan then Brynden, “Yer the queen, arntcha? Send some yer men north the Wall. Let ‘em see the dead for ‘emselves, then you let Mance’n his people on through.”

“Let Wildlings through?” Sansa gasped, “Forgive me, Lady Osha; I recognize that, as you prove, not all Wildlings are untrustworthy, but for millennia they have raided our lands, stolen our livestock, stolen daughters and wives. We would have a rebellion on our hands if we even considered letting them pass south of the Wall.”

Osha only shrugged, “Suit yerself. Though I don’t see the harm in findin’ out, do you? Don’t you wanna know if your Old Nan’s stories were true?”

“Enough, Osha,” Catelyn spoke, “Why are you here? Is Rickon calling for me?”

Osha shook her head, “For Lord Bran, m’lady.”

Catelyn looked disappointed and Arya felt a stab of pity for her mother. She had come home to the joyous news that her sons were alive, only to be greeted coolly by one and suspiciously by the other. Bran had warmed over the weeks but initially showed his resentment for what he felt had been abandonment by his mother. Rickon didn’t understand why a woman other than Osha was suddenly trying to do all the things only Osha had done for him for so long. He remembered Catelyn and Arya, but those memories seemed to be fuzzy. It made sense that his memories of the more recent years would be more vivid, since he was only a small boy when all of them left, but it did not make his detachment toward them sting any less.

Those memories that were fresh in Rickon’s mind included watching Father, Sansa, Arya, and Jon then later Robb and Mother leave Winterfell – and him – behind. Then many boring months in a Winterfell ruled by Bran before the Ironborn attacked and Rickon and Bran were forced to live underground in the crypts. Hodor was their only constant companion, and Hodor could only say one word – ‘Hodor’. Osha and Maester Luwin had to play their parts and couldn’t be gone for hours each day without raising suspicion. One of them tried to see the boys daily, but it wasn’t always possible or safe.

While Bran, fives years Rickon’s senior, understood the need to stay hidden, Rickon’s younger brain couldn’t process that Theon was a bad man. As a result, hiding underground felt like forced captivity – forced on him by Bran and Maester Luwin and Hodor. (For some reason, he never blamed Osha.) To try to get him to be more cooperative and less angry, Bran and Maester Luwin would tell him that it was a command sent all the way from Mother in Riverrun. But that only made Rickon wonder why Mother and Robb weren’t coming to save him and Bran from the bad men.

In short, there had been no words capable of soothing his resentment without shifting it onto a different person.

Brynden sighed and rose, “I’ll take Bran, Cat.”

Sansa began to rise then sat then half-rose again, “Would I be able to join you to visit Rickon?”

Brynden shrugged, “Don’t see why not.”

Arya watched Sansa turn to face Tywin, squeeze his forearm, then join Brynden who was pushing Bran’s wheeled chair.

When her eyes fell back on the king, his were already on her.

What the fuck did I do?

“What?” she asked him sharply. Down the table Martyn gasped and Kevan snorted.

“I was wondering if my former cupbearer might indulge me in a tour of her home.”

Arya rolled her eyes and pushed up, “Fine.”

Catelyn rose with a sigh that was more tired than annoyed, “Then I shall go spend time with my granddaughters. Perhaps, Ser Kevan and Lord Martyn, you’d join me? I’m sure your anxious to see your nieces and cousins.”

“Me, too,” Gendry shot out of his chair, “I love babies!”

Arya scoffed at him. She knew he was just trying to get out of walking the castle with her and the Old Lion, who Gendry was embarrassingly terrified of. Her husband truly was a wimp, no matter how strong he was and how well he could swing a hammer. He was terrified of, in order, Tywin Lannister, Greatjon Umber, Maege Mormont, Catelyn Stark, Uncle Brynden, Clegane, Arya, and Ser Kevan. Oh, and Sansa belonged somewhere in there, at least since Gendry learned that she was Sansa Stark not Sarina Parsons. Probably she belonged between Mother and Uncle Brynden. Or perhaps between Clegane and Arya?  

Arya stood up after downing the rest of her mead – no reason to be wasteful, “Let’s get on with it.”

Ser Kevan snorted again. Martyn Lannister stared at her as if she had a horn growing out of her forehead, but he’d been looking like that since he arrived last week.

“What do you want to see, anyway?” she asked the bloody king as he walked at her left side, “It’s dark and cold – no sense in going to the Godswood or the training yards. I suppose I could show you the great hall, it’s not too far a walk.”

“Take me somewhere private. We have much to discuss.”

She stopped walking, “Well why didn’t you just fucking say so? We could’ve just gone up to my office or your chambers.”

“Unlike you, I care about how I present myself. Inviting myself to a married woman’s room, or inviting her to mine, might be misconstrued.”

Arya snorted, “As if anyone would suspect me of doing that with you. Yech!”

The man huffed, “Please, continue, I don’t feel old enough as it is.”

“Don’t get sour, it has nothing to do with you being old. Well, actually, it has a little to do with you being old. It has more to do with you being a bloody Lannister.”

“You seem to forget I am your king. Most kings would have your tongue out for less.”

“Aye, well, good thing you’re not most kings. Come on then, we’ll go to my office. Shall I fetch someone to chaperone, or do you trust me with your virtue?”

He snorted and began following her, “Your Septa didn’t strike you enough when you were a child.”

“Oh, she struck me plenty. Can’t look at a birch twig without my arse feeling sore.”

“Then you’re living proof that corporal punishment is ineffective. Remind me never to spank my daughters.”

 

Tywin

He wanted to lecture her on everything from her manners and attire to the way she rolled her eyes once per minute on average, but he held his tongue. In truth – and he would admit this to no one – there was something refreshing about Arya Stark that he’d recognized before he knew her real identity. The girl was an open book – much more transparent in her emotions than she likely knew. And she wasted no time on flowery words or false sentiments. As a man who valued time more than most, he appreciated that. Words were weapons at court, but here in the snowy North, men judged each other by their actions rather than their speech.

The North’s men would respect Arya Stark, and if they didn’t, she’d tell them to bugger off. Perhaps ask whether they’d prefer to be taught their lesson by the Hound, the Blackfish, or herself.

At least, Tywin hoped so. He wouldn’t see her interact with her bannermen until the morrow, but Kevan’s early appraisals were positive. The Greatjon, Lord Glover, Lady Mormont – they seemed to respect and even enjoy the wolf girl.

Selfishly and perhaps faithlessly, he worried how his own wolf would fare under the North’s scrutiny. She admitted to being the most southron of all her siblings and Tywin could believe it. She could sip tea and smile at the lords and ladies of court. She could talk about the flowers in the godswood, the twins’ babbling attempts at speech, or the best methods to embroider certain fabrics with certain threads. Mundane topics all, but they served a purpose in King’s Landing, where every conversation was a battle, or at least a test. Putting your guests at ease meant loosening their lips. Making your guests think you simple-minded meant exposing their real motives like peeling back the shiny red skin of an apple only to find its flesh bruised and worm-eaten.

It still angered Tywin that Sansa learned her craft through pain and blood at his grandson’s hands, but perhaps people only ever learned through pain.

Suffice to say, he didn’t think his wife weak simply because she didn’t wear a dagger on her hip, like her sister. He didn’t think her weak because she preferred not to tell people to fuck off (well, she preferred to tell them to fuck off without using those two words; better to make the person wonder whether they’ve been told to fuck off or not, that was Sansa’s belief). Tywin knew Sansa had a spine of steel. She who sat prim and proper, naked but for a bath sheet, while waiting for the Mountain to wake up and ravage her. She, a girl as highborn as they come, who looked the Great Lion in the eye and told him she was a merchant’s daughter turned whore. She who turned to stone when Tywin threatened to slice clean through her cheek, dagger primed and ready. (He still clenched his fists to think of himself that day – a brute possessed not just by anger at believing he’d been lied to, but by fear of having to give up his sweet little bedwarmer and shame at the thought of what he might have been doing to Sansa bloody Stark.)

She who broke her own maidenhead to support her ruse because she knew how weakened her brother’s cause would be if she or her sister were returned to King’s Landing. Robb Stark had fought and bled on the soggy fields of the Trident then the dry, stony plains of the West. Sansa Stark’s battlefields were the throne room in King’s Landing and later the plush feather mattress in Tywin’s chambers at Harrenhal.

Robb had lost. Sansa had won. But would the Northmen see that Sansa was a fighter every bit as worthy of the Stark name as her older brother and younger sister? Or would they see a porcelain doll that could do nothing but sit on a shelf looking pretty? Without Tywin here, no doubt more than a few men would try to take her for their own. Hells, he wasn’t even certain his presence would stop them. He would make sure her guards never relaxed or got deep in their cups as they’d been allowed to do tonight after the long journey, since only family and trusted retainers were present at Winterfell.

“Well, what’d you want to talk about?”

Tywin felt himself being pulled from a dream of a thousand images ranging from Sansa spread out on his feather bed to Robb Stark giving his blood to the rich soil of Bitterbridge to some nameless Northern brute cornering Tywin’s unguarded wife.

He decided he would repay Arya Stark’s bluntness, “Was it you?”

“Was what me?” the girl only hesitated a heartbeat, but he was seasoned enough to notice it.

“You don’t play dumb with anyone else; don’t do it with me?”

She shrugged, “Then I guess I really am dumb, ‘cause I don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Who killed Petyr Baelish?”

Her eyes never faltered, “A wolf.”

“A wolf that is sleeping in the kennels as we speak?”

“Doubt he’s sleeping. He can smell a lion from a league away; he’ll be on alert until you’re on a ship back to the capital.”

“How reassuring. Now answer the question.”

“I think I’d rather ask a question of my own. Do you know who killed our brother?” she moved to face him but as she only came up to his breastbone, he was far from intimidated.

Tywin snorted, “You think you’re clever? Take lessons from your sister if you want to trick someone into spilling secrets. If that’s not your style, then I suggest you grow a few inches and learn how to use a sword so you can extract the truth a different way.”

She narrowed her eyes, “It wasn’t a trick, it was a test. I already know you knew who killed my brother. Sansa said you were going to take care of him eventually, but you’d need to be careful. I can appreciate that, you know.”

“Really? Can you?” he arched a brow, the back of his neck beginning to burn from tilting his head down. “Let’s sit,” he gestured to the desk in the office she’d led him to.

She huffed loudly – another of her irksome habits – but took the seat behind the desk while Tywin sat opposite her. The desk was bare but for a ledger book and a few raven scrolls. Tywin commented, “Not inclined to the duties of Wardenship?”

Her mouth dropped open in affront, “It’s called delegating. I spend my time being productive – checking on the status of the repairs to the buildings and defensive structures. Making sure our food stores and root cellars and glass gardens are always guarded. Maester Luwin can deal with counting every copper. At his age he’d rather spend his time behind a desk, anyway.”

Tywin hummed, “Fine. Something tells me your mother would not abide you shirking your responsibilities. So long as you are doing something productive and delegating what you don’t handle yourself… That is acceptable.”

“Glad I have your approval, Father.”

Tywin rolled his eyes. Fuck, the girl’s rubbing off on me.

He leaned back and steepled his fingers over his chest – a gesture much more like Tywin Lannister than Arya Stark, “Let me guess. Your mother sent him a message to lure him out of Harrenhal. You had the Blackfish threaten his life until he confessed. Then you set your brother’s wolf on him. Have I got it right?”

He could see the debate taking place behind her eyes, but ultimately the girl was too proud of her accomplishment to keep it a secret from everyone, “Close, but it was my mother and me who threatened him. Her with a knife to his throat, me with a knife to the hip. Best remember that, lion.”

He held his hands up and faked a shiver then rolled his eyes – fuck, it’s becoming a habit – “I am not your enemy, she-wolf. Nor do I wish to be. Is it so hard to believe that I’d rather reign during peace than war? Is it so hard to believe that I do not wish to constantly watch over my shoulder for a threat from any number of foes? I made peace with Stannis Baratheon, for fuck’s sake – so do you truly think I cannot keep peace with you – a girl I wasn’t even at war against?”

She let out something like a sigh of surrender, “I don’t think you want to be my enemy, it’s just a habit to assume the worst of people, I suppose.”

“Not the worst habit, though it can drive a person mad if not tempered. Case in point: Aerys the Second.”

“Aye, so I’ve heard. So now you know, lion. We killed your crony. We coulda been slower, but coulda been a lot quicker, too. He died with his neck in the jaws of a wolf.”

“Poetic.”

“And the next day, he was shitted out of a wolf. Even more poetic.”

Tywin couldn’t help but snort in amusement. Arya Stark offered a small but conspiratorial smile before her face straightened, “Before he knew it was a trap, before my mother put a dagger to his throat, he was ready to turn on you. Thought you should know just in case some part of you is passing fond of the fucker and thinks we deserve to be brought to justice. He said that you giving him Harrenhal was a slap in the face. Implied you’d never honor your word and call your men back from Harrenhal.”

Tywin nodded one time, “Tyrion and I have come to deduce that he was playing both sides against each other – Stark against Lannister; Lannister against Stark. Whoever won, he’d have already endeared himself to them or indebted them to him. He’d be in a can’t lose situation. An admirable manipulation, I can admit.”

Arya nodded slowly, “Probably was playing the Tyrells, too. We told him our plan – that Lord and Lady Tyrell would take the throne by conquest, with help from the North and Riverlands when I married Lord Willas.”

Tywin snorted, “So Baelish thought you’d be the next queen after Lady Alerie…”

“Mmhmm… and he’d spend much of his time in Winterfell helping Sansa and Mother. I want to kill him all over again when I think of how he would have helped them.”

Tywin’s eyes drifted to the oak desk’s surface, scratched and worn from the toils of many generations of Stark lords, “I want to do worse than kill him when I think of it. I’d like to cut off his cock and his legs, let him heal so I know he’ll get no mercy of death. Then toss him into one of his establishments. Not the ones on the Street of Silk… the ones he operated underground.”

“Fuck me, you are a heartless bastard.”

Tywin’s eyes flicked to his goodsister, who was grinning. He refused to let himself roll his eyes a third time, “To those who deserve it, yes. But if I was as heartless as you imply, I’d not be closing down such establishments wherever my men find them. I could have taken them over – they make better profit than the ones on the Street of Silk. But I’m shutting them down instead. Sending the women and children who were employed there to the poorhouses or the Faith.”

Arya’s smile straightened, “That’s hardly recompense enough for what they’d been through.”

“No, it isn’t,” Tywin shook his head, “Your sister will oversee charitable programs for the destitute of the city when we return, now that she is out of her nursing period. Funded by a generous grant from the estate of one Petyr Baelish.”

The grin returned, wider than before, “Generous indeed. Perhaps you can open a public home for women who’ve renounced their adultery. Name it after him.”

Tywin snorted, “A fine idea. You’ll be pleased to know the man amassed quite a fortune – one that even some lords would be envious of.”

“Fucking pig.”

Tywin shrugged, “Now he’s nothing more than ashes scattered about his rocky little homeland.”

“And a pile of wolf shit somewhere between Harrenhal and Riverrun.”

Tywin let out an actual chuckle this time, shaking his head as he thought about the boldness of this girl. Lisbeth and Arya were the same person, he was coming to realize. Just as Sarina and Sansa were.

Clever girls they were indeed, to fool the Great Lion by being themselves.

“And the Lords Bolton are piles of dog shit somewhere at the Dreadfort…” Tywin stated, letting his words hang in the air.

Arya scraped her thumbnail against the edge of the table, “Aye. Do you expect me to shed a tear for them?”

“Hardly. I only wonder whether hounds do your bidding the same as wolves do.”

She snorted, “And how would I have gotten to the Dreadfort? I was in Riverrun at the time. Your brother arrived a few days later. Do you think I killed the bloody Boltons and traveled back to Riverrun within a matter of days? That journey takes a moon, at least.”

“I never said I thought you were there.”

“Then what are you saying?”

He sighed, “I know about your Braavosi friend. I know about the favor he owed you. Three names. I know one of the names, and I won’t repeat it here…”

Arya rolled her eyes, “The Hound is right; my sister’s a shite liar.”

Tywin snorted, “She chooses not to lie to her husband. Now, as I was saying, while your sister believes the other two names were Polliver Plumm and Duncas Hill—”

“Who?” Arya’s face scrunched.

“Polliver and the Tickler. As I was saying,” he repeated, “Sansa believes you gave their names, but I can’t help but wonder if you didn’t give two different names. Two Northern names.”

Arya stood up and leaned over the table, the shift in emotion so quick that Tywin felt himself in a rare case of shock.

“So what if I did, hm? A Stark should have ended the Bolton line for good centuries ago. No – millennia ago. What did you do to the Reynes and Tarbecks for, what was it? Not paying their taxes?”

“For not paying debts. My father lent them gold – gold they never intended to pay back.”

“Right. So you killed them all.”

Tywin tugged on the hem of jerkin, “It wasn’t quite that simple, but yes, those are the broad strokes.”

“You know the histories of House Stark and House Bolton, your grace?”

“I do,” he dipped his chin, knowing where she was going with this and finding himself inexplicably proud of the vengeful little thing, so protective of her family.

Arya nodded, “And what would you have done if you were Harlon Stark, who had to siege the Dreadfort for over two years in order to put down yet another of their rebellions?”

“I’ve have seen them go the way of the Greystarks. And the Reynes. And the Tarbecks,” he responded with the truth.

Her upper lip twitched on one side, “And what would you have done if someone threatened to skin your mother alive if your sister Genna wasn’t handed over to be their hostage after they betrayed you, their liege lord?”

Tywin shook his head, “I had no idea they would use your mother as leverage.”

“Aye, I know you didn’t. That’s why you’re still alive.”

Tywin sighed, “You’re a cocky thing. Arrogance and over-confidence are dangerous.”

“Says the Lannister.”

“In my limited experience, I’ve found Starks to be guilty of the same. If you’re not cocky then I’ve forgotten the definition of the word. If your brother wasn’t over-confident, then I’m a Septa. Even the way your brother Bran spoke to me at supper – no sense of fear in that one. May have better manners than you, but he’s perhaps just as cocky.”

“And Sansa?”

“Sansa…” he had to pause to think, but found there was only one answer to give, “Sansa breaks all the moulds. She is every adjective I can think of, and yet none of them.”

Arya plopped back into the chair, another shift in emotion as she went from bluster to apparent relaxation – her eyes no longer blazing but going a bit unfocused, “Aye, she is. But I always thought she was so simple. That there was only one side to her. The truth was, I thought of her as my sister but never really as part of my pack until I saw the Mountain take her away.”

Tywin sighed, “Few of us appreciate our families until we realize that they’re all we have.”

She shook her head faintly and spoke to a knot in the desk, “It wasn’t that. I realized… I guess I realized that she was going to endure him because… because it would keep me safe. If she gave in and told him she was Sansa Stark, wouldn’t he maybe wonder about the boy she’d been so protective of? The boy with Ned Stark’s hair color and eye color? She wasn’t enduring it for her sake – what would Joffrey do that could be worse than what the Mountain would do?” She shook her head again, “And maybe she did it for Robb, too, hoping he’d eventually hear that the Lannisters didn’t have his sister anymore – that he could strategize without fear of his actions leading to harm against his sister. But regardless, she did it for us. She would endure him for us. Because the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives, and that’s when I realized that Sansa knew it as well as any of us… maybe knew it even better than some of us.”

Tywin didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. He really only wanted to go find his wife, who was perhaps more like the Old Lion than anyone looking at the pair would ever think. For what would he endure to see his family win a war? What would he endure to spare his brother Kevan some pain?

He felt his lips curling into a smile but couldn’t stop it.

Strong as steel on the inside, beautiful as a flower on the outside.

And she’s all mine…

And I’m all hers…

 

Sansa

The most noticeable thing about Rickon’s room was that it was completely dark but for moonlight coming in the window. With the snow magnifying said moonlight, Sansa could see around the room fairly well, and gasped when her eyes landed on a hulking figure in a chair in the corner. She froze in fear for a moment until she recognized the mottled skin on half the face.

“By the gods, you startled me,” she spoke on a loud exhale.

Clegane only hummed, “Nice to see you, too, your grace. Come to visit your little wolf brother?”

Sansa stepped aside as Brynden wheeled Bran into the room, Osha following them. “I have indeed,” Sansa began looking around, then projected her voice, “Is he hiding on me? Will he jump out and scare me? I hope not, I’m so easily frightened.”

Clegane snorted, “Clearly. Come on out, Whispering Wolf. Your Red Wolf sister is here.”

Sansa frowned as she continued looking around, “Rickon?”

“Come on, Rickon,” Bran called out, “Sansa came a long way just to see us. You don’t want to disappoint her, do you?”

When Rickon failed to appear, Sansa sighed over-dramatically, “I suppose I must find you myself.” She began looking in each corner, behind chairs, behind the window drapes. She even looked under the bed and tried not to let the others know that her heart raced as she did. She’d like to blame Bran and Arya’s talk of the Others and wights, but Sansa had always found looking under a bed, even during broad daylight, to be a frightening and suspenseful act.

But nothing was under there but dust and what looked like a handkerchief.

She was beginning to wonder whether she had been the subject of a practical joke when she checked the last place her brother might be: the wardrobe. She opened both doors and blinked into the darkness.

Two eyes blinked back.

“Ahh!” Sansa shrieked and stumbled over her feet as she hurried to back up before realizing her foolishness. Everyone was laughing except Bran and the boy who slowly stepped out of the wardrobe. He was taller than he’d been when Sansa left Winterfell but shorter than she’d expected an eight-year-old boy of Stark blood to be.

“Rickon?” she asked, tears welling in her eyes.

He nodded even as he eyed her warily.

“Rickon… I’m your eldest sister, Sansa.” She took a single step closer, “Do you remember me?”

He nodded again and beckoned her closer with a finger. She closed the distance between them until they were separated by the length of her forearm, then she kneeled to be at eye-level with him, “I’ve missed you, Rickon. I’m so happy to see you.”

He nodded again, but it looked more like acknowledgement of her words than a reciprocation of her sentiment. When he turned to walk to where Clegane was sitting near the window, sharpening his dagger, Sansa was stunned. She had prepared herself to meet a little brother who lashed out at her and felt betrayed by her and the rest of the family who had abandoned him. She had even imagined the angry words he would spit at her and how she would allow him to express himself before trying to explain or defend herself.

She had also allowed herself to harbor a minute hope that he would be overjoyed to see her, and that her family would be as it was, only a few years older, a few years wiser, and missing but not forgetting their beloved father and eldest brother.

She had not prepared for Rickon’s ambivalence.

To her even greater surprise he climbed onto Clegane’s lap and reached for the man’s dagger, but Clegane pulled it back, “Speak to your sister, boy, then I’ll let you sharpen the dagger. She came a long way to see you before winter sets in.”

Rickon crooked his finger and Sansa walked to him then bent at the hips to hear his words, “Shaggy misses Lady.”

Sansa snapped back up, trying not to let tears slip free, especially in view of Clegane who would probably tease her for it. “I miss Lady, too, Rickon. Might I visit with Shaggy on the morrow? Is he in the kennels?”

Rickon only shook his head. Osha spoke up, “The three wolves are hunting, m’lady. Should be back before you depart.”

Sansa nodded, “Well, perhaps I will take you to visit someone instead. Rickon, how would you like to meet your nieces?”

Rickon shrugged. Clegane sighed, “Use your voice, boy.”

Rickon crooked his finger again and Sansa leaned down to hear him say, “If you want me to.”

It wasn’t the excitement she had hoped for, but Sansa couldn’t expect an eight-year-old boy to be thrilled by the prospect of meeting two baby girls, even if they were of his blood.

“Thank you, Rickon. I’m so excited for you to get to know them, because I know you’ll be the best uncle in the world. And I think you’ll find it fascinating because you are close to the age that Arya was when you were born. You’ll see them and understand what it was like for me and Arya and Robb when you were born. Except my girls don’t cry as much as you did. You cried so loudly that they heard you from the guards’ barracks. Do you know the men said you howled louder than any wolf ever could?”

Rickon had his eyes on the blade in Clegane’s hands as he idly traced the hairs on the man’s knuckles, but Sansa saw his mouth curve up, ever so slightly.

“And my daughter Jeyne doesn’t cry as often as you did, but she does cry just as loudly, so the servants have said she roars louder than any real lion ever could. She must get that from you.”

He shook his head, “Lions are bad,” he whispered.

“Some, yes. But not all. Not most.”

He shrugged again and Sansa decided not to push him for more. She rose and bid her youngest brother goodnight, but he was already occupied with Clegane’s dagger, dragging it along the whetstone while the man’s raspy tone praised his technique.

Bran stayed in the room with his brother, Osha, and Clegane. Once in the corridor, Uncle Brynden let out a long sigh, “Could be worse,” he muttered as they began to walk toward the stairway that would lead them up to the quarters set aside for visiting royalty.

“I suppose… Does he never talk more than a whisper?”

“No. And only talks at all if Osha or Bran or Clegane tell him to.”

“Why Clegane?”

“Poor lad seems to think he’s Ned. Even though he knows Ned’s dead.”

“But—”

“I know,” Brynden nodded, “The scars, the height... But I suppose it makes some sense. Clegane’s got the northern look and remember, when Ned left, Rickon was, what, five years old? Little ones think adults are a bunch of giants. His beloved father who the boy idolized probably seemed to be eight feet tall. As for the scars, he thinks Ned got them during the war. Not implausible. He saw the Boltons burn parts of Winterfell. Probably heard about what the lions were doing in the Riverlands. Mayhap he even heard of what happened to your grandfather Rickard. Children hear a lot more than their parents realize.”

“I fear it is unwise to let Clegane feed into this… fantasy.”

“He doesn’t. He’s good with the boy but doesn’t let him call him Papa or none of that. Gods, Cat would keel over. I suppose it’s more like,” Brynden shrugged, “like Rickon knows Clegane isn’t Ned, but he’s latched onto him because he seems the closest thing. Tall and dark and quiet… the man’s presence probably reminds Rickon of his father. Or perhaps of that broody half-brother of yours, Gods have mercy on him, wherever he is.”

Sansa couldn’t speak about Jon yet, couldn’t acknowledge the possibility that just as she thought the Starks’ luck was changing that they would suffer another loss. So she kept the conversation focused on Rickon, “How is he with Mother?”

“He knows she’s his mother, but… Well, Osha’s been a mother to him almost as long and much more recently.”

“Mother must be devastated.”

“Disappointed, more like. Her sons live. They weren’t tortured or killed by Theon as some rumors said. They’re alive. Bran has his wits. The little one does, too, even if it may not seem like it.”

“The dark room, the whispering… It’s because of his time in the crypts, isn’t it?”

“Aye, lass. In the beginning, Osha had to almost gag the boy so he wouldn’t make a ruckus the squids would hear. Eventually they got him to understand the need for silence, and now—”

“Now everyone tells him it’s okay to speak, but he doesn’t believe it. Or doesn’t trust it.”

“Aye. At first, he couldn’t even stand hearing other people speak. He’d run away or damn near attack anyone who talked, thinking he was doing it for their own good. Maester Luwin said the best thing would be to all go about our lives, let the lad get acclimated to hearing voices. And he did.”

“It makes sense that he still doesn’t speak much, though. Imagine that for two years straight you were spanked every time you tried to eat a sweet off the table… then one day your father tells you it’s okay to eat sweets, but you can’t look at a bowl of jam without feeling the sting of the slap.”

“Aye, good analogy.”

“Does he keep his room dark at all times?” she asked as they ascended the stairs to the floor that held nothing but the royal apartments. A king’s bedchamber, a queen’s bedchamber, an antechamber, four rooms that could accommodate a total of twelve servants or guards, one nursery, three bedchambers for family or children of the king and queen, one receiving room, and one small dining room that could accommodate ten comfortably.

“He prefers it dark but will venture outdoors, mainly to the Godswood. He doesn’t linger in any of the busier places. Clegane’s working on it, and Osha. Clegane promised to teach him the sword but says it’s only fitting if they do it in the training yard or the great hall. Osha similarly promised to teach him the spear.”

Sansa nodded, “That’s good. I suppose it would be ungrateful to wish for more or faster progress.”

“Wish all you like, lass. Pray all you like…” Brynden halted their progress so they stood just behind the door that led to the royal apartments, “because if he’s never fit to rule, I don’t expect your husband will hand over the reins so easily.”

She frowned, “Would Bran not rule? He is the elder.”

Brynden rolled his eyes, “He says he has no desire to be the Warden of the North. That the men will not rally around a cripple, and that the North must be united for what he thinks is to come.”

“But that is foolishness! Many heirs have no inclination for military matters, and they still accept their lordships. Perhaps Rickon could become Master-at-Arms someday and serve his brother just as you served your brother and now serve your nephew. Rickon could lead men in the event of war while Bran rules during times of peace. Or if not Rickon, then perhaps Gendry can learn the art of—”

“You mistake me, lass. Bran doesn’t wish to yield to his younger brother but his older sister.”

“But why would Northmen follow a Stark-Lannister when there are two Stark sons for—”

“I meant Arya. Bran says that Arya will be the one to lead the men. Who inherits is of no matter to him, but he is certain that Winterfell will be threatened before Rickon comes of age, certainly before any son of yours comes of age, and that only the bravest of the Starks will be able to see your people through the dark times.”

“Threatened by the Others?” she scoffed, “We should decide the rule of the North based on folklore? And Bran seems to forget that many men would follow a crippled lord over an able-bodied lady.

“Aye. I’m just the messenger, niece. All I know is you’d best speak to your siblings and be ready to tell the lion what you think. He’ll listen to you.”

If Arya is the best to rule as Wardeness, even if only until Bran has a legitimate son, what will Bran be doing in the meantime? He must earn enough of the people’s respect that his someday heir will be accepted but can’t be so beloved that the vassals clamor for him to replace his own sister in the interim.”

Brynden grimaced, “What Bran wants to do is go to the Wall. Well, north of the Wall.”

“North of the Wall?! Is he mad?”

“He believes Osha and the captured Wildlings that there is a threat in the far North that is no human foe. He’s convinced of it. He feels his destiny is there – to see the situation for himself and report what he finds to you and your sister. Oh, and to find Jon Snow while he’s at it.”

Sansa shook her head, “I’m sorry to say this, but Jon is more than likely dead.”

“Aye, that’s what I said. But Bran is convinced otherwise.”

Despite her doubt, Bran’s conviction that Jon was alive put a drop of warmed hope into her veins. Unfortunately, the idea of her vulnerable younger brother going on such a dangerous mission threatened to nullify that hope and replace it with a dread she hadn’t felt since she sat within Riverrun’s walls while Uncle Brynden went out to treat with Roose Bolton.

“Bran is crippled, how would he even get to the far North?” she eventually asked.

“Well, he’s got answers for that, too. One, your goodson Tyrion Lannister gave him a design for a horse saddle that he would be able to use even in his state – it’s already being tested and one of the young garrons is being trained special for it. Two, Lord Howland Reed’s children arrived days after we retook Winterfell to offer their services to Bran Stark, specifically. Three, that simpleton Hodor can carry the boy or drag him in a sled if something should happen to the horse or the saddle. Four, his party would sail from White Harbor to Eastwatch and commence they journey from there to give them a head start versus riding up the snow-covered King’s Road. And five, eh… He has requested the company of one warrior. Someone strong enough to wield Ice. Someone he had predicted months ago would arrive in Winterfell serendipitously after serving another king…”

Sansa took a deep breath, “Sandor Clegane. Yet if he has such a positive effect on Rickon I wouldn’t want—”

Brynden shook his head, “Not Clegane.”

Sansa frowned, “You then? Robb being the other king you served? But, eh, pardon, great-uncle, but Ice probably weighs more than Arya…”

Brynden rolled his eyes, “And I’m just a feeble old man, eh? No, lass, not me.”

“Not my husband! Bran cannot expect the king to go on such a mission!”

Brynden’s eyes lifted to the ceiling, “Not the lion, either.”

She held up her hands in a whole-body shrug, “Then who?”

Notes:

Sorry it's been a minute but this chapter was long and sort of a transition chapter, which I find hard to write in a way that isn't boring. Well, that I hope isn't boring.

RL is getting busy again, so my updates on this (and other fics) may be slow-going. Though I do hope to post to 1-2 of the others today while it's still the calm before the storm.

So, can I just lament about how hard it is writing a Bran and Rickon who never left Winterfell? It's safe to assume that Rickon would become a little wild if he lived in Skaagos with Osha. It's safe to assume Bran would become the all-knowing, all-seeing three-eyed crow after learning from Brynden Rivers north of the wall. But without those experiences I think Bran would still be having visions, as his visions and his conversations with the crow started before he left Winterfell in canon, and he had a calling to go north since before he left with Hodor. (Right?) I imagined him spending more time in the crypts and that he sort of self-taught himself. Maybe saw glimpses of the past or future by going away inside his mind? Maybe warged into a crow north of the wall and saw the Others or saw Jon living among the Wildlings? As for Rickon, I think his younger mind would be more traumatized by the time spent underground. Those poor Stark brothers spent months in the crypts in canon, and even longer in my fic. They got to go out to the lichyard now and then for sunlight, which is probably the only reason they both weren't drooling all over themselves and throwing their turds and screaming about the voices in their heads. If anyone deserves pity, it's those two.

As for why Jon isn't at Castle Black as the LC, in canon Jon was sent to meet with Mance Rayder (and assassinate him?) when Stannis showed up and crashed the party, killed Mance, all that jazz. Without that happening, some other fate befell Jon.

Thanks for sticking with this fic.

Chapter 29: I was what you are

Notes:

If you're still reading this fic, thank you for your patience as I took FOUR MONTHS to post an update.
The good news: the remainder of the fic is clear in my head and mostly outlined. The bad news? It's only about 10% drafted. So... yeah.

Hope you enjoy this one.

Chapter Text

Jon

He tries to snap his maw at his brother – or is it his sister? – but a chain around his neck yanks him back with a lurch. A sniff in the air to find his master… but he smells nothing but stone and dirt and whatever game he just fed on. Except the lingering flavor is foreign to his palate. Mild, slightly sweet, but above all it tastes charred, so much that he is certain his mouth is filled with ash. He rubs his tongue against the roof of his mouth, but his tongue is strangely rough, and he panics. It’s never been natural for him to howl like his brothers and sisters used to do, so he whimpers instead, only it doesn’t come out sounding like a whimper at all, more like a—

“The boy… He is waking…” a voice like an echo on a breeze drifted into his ears.

Jon squeezed his eyes tightly, pain flooding in where there had been none moments ago. Moments ago, he had felt warmth like he’d never felt before, not even in the dead middle of summer, and he had felt strong and hale but also… wronged. Trapped. Irate.

Now there was only the smell of mold and dirt and decomposing leaves and something else he couldn’t name. It was cold, but not nearly so cold as the last thing he remembered before falling into slumber… Ice cold steel. Hip-deep snow. Relentless wind. Moonless night. Weak-sunned day. Walking. Trudging. Collapsing. The cold had been its own sort of pain even as it dulled all the other pains of his flesh. He was frozen down to the marrow, but he remembered a certain peace that came when he made the decision to walk until his dying breath.

“He stinks,” a different voice, higher pitched but just as airy, spoke.

“They all do,” the first voice responded without pause.

Jon wanted to go back to the place where it was dark and warm and where he had one of his siblings for company, but he supposed he had to figure out what had happened to him, where he was, what day it was, and a hundred other things that had been gloriously unimportant moments ago.

He cracked his eyes open and gasped to find a pair of large, oblong, amber cat eyes staring back at him. Though it seemed to tear flesh off his ribs, he dug his fingers into the earth beneath him and pushed himself back until he hit a wall or rock of the… of the cave he was in, he supposed. By the light of a modest fire, he could see that he was surrounded by dirt walls held together by twisted, ages-old tree roots.

The eyes he saw belonged to some small creature. Human-like yet decidedly not a man or woman. Its eyes seemed to take up half the surface area of its face, and the pupils were elongated rather than round. Its skin was a dun brown, perhaps a drab beige if there were sunlight to see by. Its hair resembled a bird’s nest in texture and composition, with large, pointed ears poking through, and it garbed itself in earthen robes of moss and leaf.

Jon squeezed his eyes shut then opened them again. The other creature was indistinguishable to him from the first, and he became increasingly certain that this was a hallucination or a fever dream. Or I’m dead – that seems the most likely.

A glance down at his still prone form revealed that he was nude but for some loin cloth made of vines and leaves, but that was the least concerning realization. Parts of him were covered in some type of pasty mud that smelled like day-old shite, and he knew that beneath it were wounds.

An arrow to the outer thigh… another to the shoulder. A dagger to the belly just above my right hip bone. And a gods-be-damned axe buried in the space where shoulder meets my chest… cracked my collarbone, I think, even if the mail kept it from cutting me open.

“Hairy, smelly man-child,” the slightly further of the two hissed in the odd voice that seemed to be constructed of wind and flint and rain.

“I… Who are you?” he asked, his voice hoarse from what he realized must’ve been days or weeks of disuse.

“They are… the children… of the forest,” a new voice, like dry leaves swirling in a courtyard, answered.

Jon tried to push himself up to standing, but his arms trembled and buckled. Instead, his eyes searched the parts of the cave he could see, but he saw no one other than the two strange creatures crouched above him.

“Who… who said that?” he rasped.

The voice seemed to come from all directions, “It matters not.”

“It matters to me,” Jon rebuffed.

“And that matters not.”

Jon squinted, turning his head in all directions, twisting his neck as much as he could in his state, which wasn’t much. “Where am I?” he eventually asked, deciding ‘where’ might be more important than ‘who’… How far was he from Castle Black? What were his odds of hobbling back there?

Not good, he decided. The Wildlings would find him and finish what they started. If not them then… he shivered just to think of it.

“Where are my clothes?” he asked when the second question went unanswered.

One of the… the creatures who were apparently Children of the Forest pointed to some place behind him.

He winced as he turned to look but was relieved to find his clothing draped behind him on the large rock. He knew it would be torn but perhaps these odd beings had some needle and thread. Surely sewing couldn’t be too difficult if Sansa had mastered it by the age of—

Sansa. He swallowed the lump in his throat as memories of all the fears that had plagued him before his near-death experience flooded back into his consciousness. Father dead. Winterfell sacked, Bran and Rickon among the dead. Robb dead. As much as he knew his millennia-old order needed fresh blood, he couldn’t stand the news that reached his ears every time there was a new arrival, or sometimes when word reached them from Mole’s Town or Queenscrown which got occasional news from Last Hearth via hunters or trappers or traders hardy enough to sell their wares in the far north. Or the south, as Tormund would say.

It seemed now all that was left of his family were his sisters and stepmother, though he was disinclined to count the latter even if he wished her no ill will and even pitied her for the pain she must feel. Losing a parent and sibling were horrible enough – he would know – but to lose a beloved spouse? The other half of one’s soul?

But thinking of that led to thinking about another redhead he did not wish to think about. They were all lost to him, even if he somehow managed to survive and get back to the relative safety of one of the castles on the Wall.

Unless I go to Winterfell. I know ways in and out… I can be patient, kill Theon Greyjoy and his Ironborn reavers one by one in the dead of night. The Ghost of Winterfell, that’ll be me…

Ghost!

“My wolf!” he blurted out, remembering what he had felt right before he woke… he was in Ghost, but it was dark and hot wherever he was. He was with one of his packmates, but which could it be? Probably either Shaggydog or Bran’s wolf, unnamed last he knew. But would either of those wolves have survived if Bran and Rickon were killed? He didn’t think so; the wolves would die before seeing their masters hurt. Though he supposed they might have been kenneled at the time the scum scaled the walls?

Regardless, one of Ghost’s littermates lived. Only, the more he thought on it, the sibling he felt present with him in the dark hot place didn’t smell like any of the wolves – they each had a scent Ghost would remember until his dying day.

“A white shadow stalks the cave,” one of the fey creatures answered.

“Ghost! He is my wolf! You must let him in the cave. There are creatures out there that even a direwolf is no match for!”

The everywhere voice snorted, “What would you know about the terrors of this realm that is news to us, wolfling?”

“I…” Jon tried to twist around again, “I am a brother of the Night’s Watch.”

“Indeed,” the voice sounded tired when it spoke, “and there are more of you in his army than watching on the walls.”

“Whose army?”

The voice sighed, “Tedious. Bring me the other wolfling, the one who’s also a crow.”

Jon frowned, “I am the only wolf who is also a crow.”

“Tedious…” it repeated in a tone of deep disappointment. One of the creatures snorted at that, but both had kept their eyes on Jon the entire time, studying him the way a child might study a toad upon seeing one for the first time. He brought his eyes back to them, giving up on finding the source of the voice and growing increasingly convinced that he was dreaming. Or dead.

And that’s when he saw it…

Near one of the cave walls where the tree roots were thickest, tangled over and over upon themselves, he saw movement. His eyes followed it and adjusted, finding a face amongst the roots. No carved face of a weirwood but—

“Fuck!” he gasped and once again tried to slide back and once again met the large rock that sat behind him. Pain shot through him in multiple places but none of it overrode the fear he felt upon seeing a man who… had become one with the cave itself, or at least the roots. Or perhaps the roots had birthed a man – he wasn’t sure the order of things.

The man’s sole eye – a glowing red orb – met Jon’s. Despite the terror he felt, Jon could not look away. He’d seen a corpse walking yet it was nothing on this thing that was as pale as bone and decrepit and yet emitted an aura not of frailty but of power. A great, ancient sort of power like that which Jon’s Stark ancestors had worshipped for millennia. A power that was behind every gust of wind, every flake of snow, every moonbeam, every sunray, every speck of soil and drop of rain and blade of grass.

He’d face ten wights gladly to be free of this thing’s presence.

And yet this thing had not hurt him. It, or at least the Children of the Forest who seemed to be its companions, had probably saved Jon’s life.

“Go now,” the thing spoke, seemingly knowing that Jon had reached a conclusion about it, “Two wolves approach the Nightfort, but they will not pass through without your aid. The ranger cannot enter to guide them.”

“Which ranger? Wait – two wolves? Do you mean my brothers, Bran and Rickon?”

The voice sighed, “Such time you waste, for a being that lives so few years…”

One of the matching creatures snorted again. Jon ignored it.

“Who are you?” Jon repeated.

It became as silent as a crypt but for a distant dripping that he hadn’t noticed before.

Then…

“I was what you are.”

“A… a brother of the watch?” Jon guessed.

The thing’s eye opened and closed, “That and more. Go now, before it’s too late.”

Going sounded like a good idea, only Jon wasn’t sure he could stand much less walk. “I…” he began, then trailed off, finding himself blushing at the thought of admitting to this terrific creature that he was too weak to travel to the Nightfort even if his last brothers were there and in need of his help. Perhaps they had somehow escaped Winterfell and traveled north toward Jon rather than southwest toward Robb and Lady Catelyn. In a way it made sense – southwest was a war zone and who knows how many enemies they would meet before arriving at Riverrun?

“Drink, smelly wolfling,” one of the creatures held out a wooden bowl that it seemed to have produced out of thin air. It held it to his lips and he caught a caustic whiff of that stuff that covered his wounds. He mused that it must smell like the land beneath a battle site: shit and mud and blood. He gagged, his painfully empty belly screaming at the injustice of being offered this as his first sustenance in what he was hoping were days, not weeks.

“You say I smell?” he glared at the two creatures. The one on the left snorted.

“Drink strength.”

He sighed loudly and cast another glance in the direction of the red-eyed thing, but it had disappeared among the tree roots once more and Jon shivered to realize the reason the voice had surrounded him was because it vibrated through the roots that formed the skeleton of this cave. Roots to his left, roots above him, roots to his right, roots below him… This creature surrounded him, and suddenly drinking this rancid-smelling concoction was the least of his fears.

He held his breath and gulped it down, glad it was thinner than shit or mud would be, even if thicker than blood. After the last sip he gagged three times but kept it down, his body’s need for nourishment seemingly overpowering his tongue’s repulsion at the taste.

And once the nausea subsided, he felt as if he was a boy again, springing from the bed with the sunrise because he couldn’t wait to watch Ser Rodrik or Jory in the training yard and maybe they’d finally let he and Robb spar with something sharper than wooden swords and maybe there would be strawberry preserves instead of apple jam served with his breakfast bread. No, perhaps there’d be biscuits or scones instead of bread!

He sprung to his feet feeling energized like he hadn’t in years, even if the pain of each wound still throbbed with the motion. His eyes were wide open, his vision clear, his lungs capable of bringing in deep, revitalizing breaths.

The loin cloth type article slipped off him and he realized it had never been secured around his hips all the way. The two Children gasped and giggled but he didn’t care; he covered his groin instinctively before remembering that he was a lad of eight-and-ten and they were… well, he didn’t know how old, but he guessed it to be in the triple digits at least.

He donned the clothes that one of his mystical companions had crudely mended, then let himself be led up and out of the deep cave. He felt bolstered not just by whatever medicinal he had just consumed but by the slim hope that the mysterious tree creature was right and there were wolves waiting for him at the Nightfort. He hoped that meant Bran and Rickon, but he supposed if the tree creature was being literal then he might find Shaggy and Bran’s wolf, and even that prospect pleased him. To be reunited with any of his packmates – those who stood on two legs or four – was a gift he would not pass up.

The moment he stepped out of the cave and adjusted his eyes to the dull sunlight, he gasped upon finding one of the packmates he was sure he’d never see again…

 

Tywin

A Lannister always pays his debts.

Sansa slept beside him like a log even as the ship swayed.

Tywin swayed with it, if not his body then his mind as he saw without closing his eyes his former cupbearer sneering at the few of her northern vassals that had journeyed to Winterfell. A Lannister always pays his debts, the she-wolf had sniped, and none dared to question her a second time.

Northmen were a prideful bunch, Tywin had learned – not for the first time. Prideful and guileless. They lacked the knowledge of intrigue, of manipulation, of deceit. They aired their grudges about the king, to the king. Certainly, being in Winterfell gave them some courage, but Tywin had been certain their attitude and words would have been the same even if they were standing on the marble floors of the throne room.

Lord Wylis was the exception. Apparently, he didn’t just inherit his father’s girth but also the man’s shrewdness. But Lords Cley Cerwyn, Donnel Locke, and Leobald Tallhart were absolute buffoons. The first two, particularly, who all but suggested that Lady Arya should have Tywin executed then and there. The young lord Cley was particularly adamant. He was of an age with Sansa and seemed convinced that, should Tywin be conveniently disposed of, he’d be among the men chosen to return with Queen Sansa to the capital where she would rule until Jeyne came of age. Not that the young fool said so, but Tywin knew how to hear what wasn’t being said.

Similarly, the middle-aged Leobald Tallhart seemed to be insulted that, after lending men to Ser Rodrik’s later abandoned cause, he wasn’t rewarded with the hand of Lady Arya, who had quietly married her blacksmith at Riverrun. Then again, the way the prematurely-greyed man stared at Catelyn Stark, Tywin would wager he’d settle for being stepfather of the Wardeness of the North and Queen Consort of the Seven Kingdoms.

Of course, the men hid their motives of personal insult behind accusations of injustice. That too much Northern blood had been spilled by Tywin Lannister himself for them to ever kneel again. That Tywin Lannister had been in league with the Boltons and probably also the Ironborn. He probably also paid an assassin to kill Robb Stark and definitely counseled his grandson to execute Ned Stark. No doubt the men were trying to drive a wedge between Tywin and his wife’s family, not to mention his wife, and felt this was the best chance to do so. After all, Sansa and both her daughters were here – there were no Northern hostages in King’s Landing.

Tywin used that very point to his defense, but his logic was pointedly ignored.

They demanded that virtually every man who fought in Tywin’s army in the Riverlands be brought to justice, though the names Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch were bandied about most often. Tywin asked if every Northern soldier who raped a woman of the West or Riverlands had been brought to justice. Of course, none had an answer to that. He asked if it meant nothing to them that he overthrew his own grandson – the only person who could be rightly blamed for Ned Stark’s death – and made their Northern princess his queen. He asked if it meant nothing that his armies fought alongside the North’s in ousting the savages that wore Bolton sigils. He asked if it meant nothing that his brother and nephew were staying at Winterfell indefinitely even with winter begun.

And the pattern continued – they had no defense other than introducing another grievance. Sansa attempted to defend him once or twice, but he had told her not to stick her neck out for him too far – he knew that some men would assume that meant that her simple feminine mind had been corrupted by the older, wilier lion. (She had rolled her eyes at that but understood his reasoning.)

At one point Tywin thought he made progress when Lord Donnel Locke couldn’t deny that he’d been treated fairly during his imprisonment at Harrenhal after Tywin arrived there, but the others discounted his testimony as only an indication that Tywin was smart enough to know a noble hostage’s worth.

He didn’t like to give merit to their arguments and generally didn’t believe in arguing with fools, but he knew that peace in the North meant winning over some of the lords. Spring would eventually come and trade and relations between Houses would resume. Lords would meet, they would talk, and the four lords of the North who could say they had met the king would no doubt spread their appraisals of the man. This was his chance to ensure those appraisals were positive.

Fuck him for caring, but he wouldn’t let the largest of his kingdoms split off. What would it say about his power if the kingdom that ought to be unfailingly loyal to him by virtue of his marriage abdicated from the Seven Kingdoms?

And ultimately, he was able to chip away their cases against him. For instance, if he was smart enough to appreciate the value of hostages like Wylis Manderly and Donnel Locke, then why in all seven hells would he fail to appreciate the value of one like Ned Stark?

But the sticking point that remained was his tactics during the war in the Riverlands. They wanted blood for blood, an eye for an eye. They wanted Amory Lorch, Gregor Clegane, and any others who led reaving parties to be strung up for all to see.

Without insulting the lords by denying that men like Lorch and Clegane were scum, he pointed out the dangers of executing men for crimes committed during war in support of their side’s cause. If he started down that road, where would it end? And if commanders of any kingdom’s army knew there was a precedent to be executed during times of peace for their actions during times of war, then how would Tywin or any other lord recruit capable men to lead his troops? How would Tywin have an army that could protect the capital where his Stark wife and half-Stark children lived, the throne that a half-Stark would someday inherit. How could he have an army that would protect the realm if and when the second Targaryen invasion came? “Are you so eager to kneel to another Aegon the Conqueror, or Maegor the Cruel, or Aerys the Mad, or Rhaegar the Raper?” he had asked.

And that was when his wife shocked him and everyone present, by suggesting a compromise. “My lords,” she spoke levelly, “To punish men like Ser Gregor for acts of war would make hypocrites of too many of us. Is that the precedent you wish to set? That a man may be judged by the things he does during war?” she glared at each of them then, and Tywin understood her meaning. Perhaps not young Cley Cerwyn, but the other men no doubt had seen battle. Would they want to be punished for deaths meted out when fighting under their liege lord’s command?

“But perhaps there is a way to satisfy your demands for justice without risking all of our safety by weakening the Crown’s authority…” Sansa continued.

The men cast furtive glances amongst themselves, all but Lord Wylis who stared at Sansa, waiting to hear her suggestion.

“Ser Gregor will not be punished for acts of war during war – nor will any man. However, I cannot be alone in having heard rumors of Ser Gregor’s crimes that were not sanctioned under rule of war. I myself was nearly the victim of one, if not for the timely intervention of Lord Lannister…”

Tywin shifted in his seat, his heart thudding with excitement to hear his wife’s idea and fear that he’d be loathed to carry it out.

“I will open an investigation myself – seeking out any who have been wronged by this man, or who have witnessed his violent crimes. If he is found guilty by the gods and the court, he will be punished accordingly.”

“Hmpf,” Brynden Tully piped up, “And I will gladly help my grandniece and queen with the investigation.”

“As will I,” Ser Loras Tyrell stepped forward from his place along the wall, “If not for the quick and brave intervention of his brother, Ser Sandor Clegane, I’d be among the Mountain’s victims.”

Tywin thought he heard the Hound mumble, “Not a bloody ser,” but couldn’t be sure. The man had yet to make a peep about his brother, though Tywin was unsurprised. There was no love between the Clegane brothers, but whatever silent feud simmered between them had never burdened Tywin, so he’d never bothered to inquire as to its source. Then again, it was safe to assume it had something to do with the deaths of Lord Abnor Clegane and his daughter – the Hound’s sister.

Ser Brynden nodded, his eyes locking on Ser Loras’ before moving to meet Tywin and Sansa’s, “And should the big bastard be tried and demand a trial by combat, I shall fight as the Crown’s champion.”

Tywin barely stopped himself from wincing. If all this played out as was being discussed, it might just end with Sansa screaming as she watched her beloved granduncle be cleaved in two.

As he had tried to find a way to backpedal on Sansa’s offer, the younger Clegane finally contributed to the conversation, standing up from the bench he sat at among the few Lannister guards who lived here with Kevan and a few of Winterfell’s own guards that seemed unafraid of the snarling dog.

“Like hell you will, old man. If anyone’s killing that giant cunt, it’s me,” Clegane emphasized his point by driving his dagger into the table’s surface, the only sound afterward the vibration of the steel blade and the crackling of the hearths in the Great Hall.

Silence reigned for a few long moments before Tywin heard his wife take a deep breath beside him, “Gentlemen, please save your pissing matches for outside…”

Tywin barely kept his jaw from dropping even as several of the lords chuckled at his wife’s crude speech. She never spoke like that in public.

Then again, this isn’t court in King’s Landing. She has read the room, studied her audience and now is giving them what they want.

Like she did with me in Harrenhal.

“…And let us not get ahead of ourselves. Depending on the severity of any crimes I uncover, I may just decide to take a page from the Mad King’s playbook, name fire as my champion. Fitting for the man who burned the lands of the Trident, no?”

She earned more chuckles for that, and Tywin thought finally they had everyone on their side when Lord Locke – drunker than the last time he spoke – stood up and addressed the crowd that seemed to have been swayed, “Is this all it takes to buy the North’s allegiance? One butcher maybe tried and maybe convicted? What of our late king, who died while in the land of the flowers who are now conveniently bound to the lions? Does no one else find it odd?” his bloodshot eyes focused on Tywin with the intensity of a starving man gazing at a roasted pig, “Let me share my theory… Lord Lannister promised the Tyrells that he would take the throne then marry one of their daughters to his heir and in exchange they had one of theirs kill our King in the North. I’m willing to bet he’s named the boy his heir. The boy our liege lord died for revealing as a bastard, same as his siblings.” His eyes moved to those around him again, “He tells you a son with Stark blood will sit in the throne? I say he’s selling you pigshit and calling it gold.”

A few murmurs rose up and Ser Loras stepped forward again, red-faced and clearly ready to refute the man’s accusations of his family’s role in Robb Stark’s death, but a much higher pitched voice rang out above all others.

“And I say you got pigshit between your ears, Locke.”

Arya Stark moved to stand in front of the high table on the far right side, “He didn’t say a “son” with Stark blood, did he? No, he said a child. You want to know who his heir is as of this moment?” She pointed to her right, toward the north, “She’s sleeping in the Great Keep right now under the care of two nurses, a handmaiden, and six guards. Along with her sister. And because the man you’re all trying to cut down isn’t stupid, I have this in writing: Jeyne Lannister is the heir to the Iron Throne until such a time as Tywin Lannister and Sansa Stark have a male child. Jocelyn Lannister is her heir. Not Tommen Baratheon. Not Tyrion Lannister. Not Jaime Lannister. And Sansa – my sister is to be her Regent until she comes of age. He put this in writing, signed it, and delivered it to me yesterday with my mother as witness. Why? Because he’s the king of the seven bloody kingdoms and he knows there are people who’d conspire to kill him just to throw the realm into chaos by starting a war over succession. He knows it isn’t enough to have his wishes recorded on a slip of parchment in his safe, where the same people who’d conspire against him might gain access so they can destroy the document that would put one of my nieces on the throne. That’s the king that I and my sister and mother and uncle have chosen to endorse – the kind who will protect his family even after he’s dead. The kind of king who will always pay his debts.”

The girl was panting as she paused her words to glance at Tywin, who was too flabbergasted to respond.

It became unnecessary as the she-wolf continued, “And since all of you seem to think it hasn’t occurred to us to avenge our brother, our son, our nephew, allow me to enlighten you. Robb has already been avenged. The man who killed him was Petyr Baelish…” she paused and allowed the name to sink in, “who has been playing Stark against Lannister and Lannister against Stark since before the war even started. We fed him to Grey Wind. Me, my mother, my uncle, my husband, and my… friend, Clegane. He confessed to plotting against my father on top of all else. But we wouldn’t have known to even suspect him if it weren’t that the lion told Sansa so Sansa could tell me. Because he owed our house a debt, and because he couldn’t think of a better wedding present for his wolf queen, whose respect couldn’t be bought with all the gold and silk in the world.” She turned to face Tywin again, “A Lannister always pays his debts. Good thing for us that’s a true statement.”

The girl was downright winded by the time she finished, and Tywin suspected that if it weren’t for the fact that she now had a position of respect to maintain she’d have spat and shouted the words right in Lord Donnel’s face.

“Now,” she concluded, “If between my words, and my sister’s words, and the lion’s own words you have not been convinced that he deserves your loyalty and respect, then you can fuck off back to your own lands and stop drinking my mead,” she flung her hand toward the double-doored entryway and glared at her audience.

It felt like a small eternity had passed before every single face in the room fractured into unbridled hysterics. Guffaws filled the space. Mouths were opened so wide in laughter that Tywin could see missing teeth even from several yards away. Tabletops and thighs were slapped. Several sets of lips whistled their praise for Arya, a few others howled like wolves, and a handful tried to start up a cheer for “House Stark and House Lannister” (in that order). The cheer eventually caught on and Tywin and Sansa graciously accepted the prostrate forms of the lords who’d challenged them over the course of the afternoon.

And now, three sennights later as he lay in his cabin, the memory of the entire affair had blood rushing to his cock, because even if it had been Arya’s words that moved them, and even if part of those words had been a lie, it was him they kneeled to, him they cheered. Along with his lovely wife, of course. His wife who told two of the most feared warriors in the realm to take their pissing match outside then promised to bring charges against the most feared warrior in the realm. His wife who gave him two perfect daughters and may yet give him perfect sons unlike the stunted creature that he could now begrudgingly appreciate even if his humor and love of wine still irritated Tywin to no end and the perfect specimen who could inherit Tywin’s position as wealthiest and most powerful man in Westeros if only he would get over his perverse obsession with his sister.

Tywin had still heard nothing from or about Jaime other than Varys’ report that after drinking dry every tavern and winesink in Maidenpool he boarded a Braavos-bound ship with the apparent intent to continue his drinking in a warmer clime. It was unlike Jaime to abandon his family and his post, but then again Tywin had relieved him of his post and Jaime had lost the member of his family that, apparently, had always held the majority of his love and devotion.

Tywin always knew his twins were close, as twins usually were, but knowing what he knew now of their relationship he began to examine his son’s actions and motives in a new light and realized that Cersei had been central to them all. He’d deduced that the only reason Jaime might have pushed Bran Stark out a tower window (if he truly did) was because his and Cersei’s secret had been witnessed by the curious boy. Would Tywin kill a boy to save his own life and Sansa’s? Without hesitation. Yet he wouldn’t need to because he and his wife had nothing to hide. Why in all seven hells did Cersei and Jaime maintain their affair when it could cost several heads of golden-blond hair? Cersei was the queen, for fuck’s sake. Robert went to war in part to avenge his 14-year-old betrothed; what would he do if he had ever learned that he was being cuckolded by his own Kingsguard, his own goodbrother? Not just cuckolded, but that said wife and goodbrother had planted their illegitimate children in his line of succession. Gods, was it fortuitous that Robert died before Ned Stark voiced his allegations. Robert would have trusted Ned Stark over anyone, his own wife included; hells, his own brothers included. And then—

Fuck…

Robert, dead before Ned Stark could tell him. Died drunk on a hunt… as he’d been dozens of times in his life without so much as injuring himself. Died while under the protection of Kingsguard, some of which I’ve since learned were always more loyal to Cersei…

Ned Stark injured by Jaime shortly before Robert left for that hunt. Bedridden, unable to flee the capital with his daughters, would he have chosen that time to reveal the shocking truth to Robert? No...

Up until that moment, Tywin hadn’t bothered to wonder about the nature of Robert’s death, and frankly had never cared. If anything, it benefited him to have a grandson he could (theoretically) control on the throne over the fat oaf of a goodson who no one could control. Robert was killed by a wound from a boar’s tusk. The incident was witnessed by Ser Barristan Selmy, a man whose honesty was unimpeachable even if his sense of honor was suspect. If Tywin learned that his daughter or son somehow managed to train a wild boar to kill the king, he couldn’t care less.

But Ned Stark? His being injured ruined all of Tywin’s plans to end the hostilities quickly and with minimal bloodshed. It was Eddard Stark, not Beric bloody Dondarrion, who was meant to ride out after the bait that was Gregor Clegane. Stark would be captured by Lannister men, traded for Tyrion, and if any wheels still needed to be greased, Tywin had been willing to let Gregor Clegane be held accountable for his crimes – crimes which, at the time, could not be officially tied to Tywin.

Tywin had since been told that Jaime’s foolishness in attacking Stark and his men was in defense of his brother – Lady Stark’s then prisoner. But now Tywin wondered whether Jaime’s motive wasn’t in defense of his adulterous sister. His lover. Did Cersei or Jaime or both realize that Ned Stark had discovered their dirty secret and instead of using weapons like their names and gold and power and intellect and influence, Jaime used his sword to try to hack away at the problem?

Tywin would never know unless his son resurfaced and confessed everything, and maybe Tywin didn’t want to know. Because if that one detail changed, how many ripples would have made in the surface of the lake that was recent history? Would Robert still be alive? Would the war have been avoided? Would Sansa have married Joffrey?

At that last thought his skin flushed with a cold fear, a sickening cognizance. Without the deaths of so many men – Lannister, Stark, Tully, Baratheon – would I ever have taken Sansa as my wife?

Without the war, I’d never have been in Harrenhal leading. She’d never have had to flee the Red Keep and end up in Harrenhal. Even Ser Gregor picking her out of the muck was part of the specific sequence of events that led to me bedding her, which is what led to me wanting to make her my wife. Would I have taken her into my bed as Ser Gregor attempted? A lowly, muck-covered peasant girl? No… because a lion must have his pride.

He realized all those answers were clear – without events playing out exactly as they had, Sansa Stark would never be anything more than his granddaughter-by-law. And in so many scenarios, she might have never even been that. She might have returned to the North with her self-righteous father, or died at the hands of any number of players or monsters or both.

So really, only one question remained: would I trade her to have back all the men who died, all the gold that was wasted, all the aggravation I went through, all the time spent away from my sunny home, all the time I will yet spend away from my sunny home, all the family members that I’ve lost – Tyrek, Cersei, Joffrey. Myrcella a veritable hostage of Dorne. Kevin and Martyn veritable hostages of Winterfell, even if not forever. Jaime possibly dead as I lay here, victim to the unpredictable weather as he journeyed to Braavos, or victim to the steel of some Braavosi that didn’t like the cocky way Jaime spoke to him.

It frightened him – terrified him, truth be told – that as he rolled to his side and looked upon his wife’s sleeping face he was certain that he’d never be able to trade her for anything.

He didn’t like what that said about him as a king, and even less what it said about him as the head of House Lannister. The good of the family as a whole should come before the desires of any of its individual members. And yet what had he done for the past year but give into his desires when they pertained to a certain redhead? And so far his family’s position had only been bolstered, but he feared there may come a day when he wouldn’t be so lucky. Because when that day came, he knew what he would choose…

Chapter 30: I rarely have a point

Notes:

I meant to include this with the previous chapter... as with the ASOIAF books, don't assume the events in a given chapter or from one chapter to the next are happening at the same time or even linearly. This chapter will have POVs across two continents so I figured I should point that out since up until the last chapter this was mostly Tywin and Sansa POV and very much told chronologically.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Brienne                             

Brienne had never been colder in her entire life.

When she agreed to this duty her queen asked of her, it had been with equal parts fear and excitement and pride. It was to be a quest, though one with a purpose Brienne couldn’t rightly buy into. Regardless, it was not her place to approve of the mission itself, only to refuse or accept to be a part of it.

To be a part of it meant being entrusted with an honor she did not feel worthy of, but one that she would aspire with every breath in her body to fulfill: protecting Queen Sansa’s middle brother, the crippled Lord Brandon, or Bran as his family and closest servants called him.

If only she knew that every one of those breaths would contain a million tiny needles this far north.

She missed sweating inside her steel armor. She missed being so hot that she would dump a ladle of water from the barrel over her head. She missed the feeling of the sun burning her freckled nose and forehead.

She missed the sun, period. Her rational brain told her the weakness of the sunlight and shortness of the days had everything to do with geographic position, yet a dull fear constantly flowed in her veins, weakening by the time it reached her numb toes and becoming concentrated again every time it passed through her thumping heart. The fear was oblique to her, supernatural perhaps, like a child fearing the fanged monster under the bed even though the child knows there is no monster under the bed.

And now they had reached the apparently deserted and dilapidated castle called the Nightfort, and she forgot what that early excitement had felt like. She forgot what that pride felt like when Arya and Sansa Stark presented her with Ice, their family’s ancestral great sword, and charged her with using it to keep their brother Bran safe and to find and also keep safe their half-brother Jon Snow. And, if possible, while she was already at the Wall, or North of it as Bran intended to be, to find evidence of the walking dead that were apparently scaring Wildlings over the Wall in droves. Sansa had blushed at that part; Arya hadn’t.

How the Stark sisters convinced Lady Catelyn to approve of the dangerous quest, Brienne couldn’t fathom. More likely it had been the lad’s doing. He was frighteningly convincing, especially with the flat way he spoke as if every word that came out of his mouth was an indisputable truth. Surely Lady Catelyn would not have permitted the trek if her son was the Lord of Winterfell, but apparently he refused the title that could be his, content to let his sister Arya rule in his stead and let his brother Rickon be the presumptive heir, or any of his future nephews. Bran’s injury meant he’d never sire children, or so Maester Luwin was convinced, but he did not even wish to carry the mantle of lord and warden during his own lifetime. It was the far North that called to him, and ultimately it was the far North that Brienne was tasked with delivering him to.

Well, she and the simpleton Hodor, who stood nearly a head taller than the Hound; Meera and Jojen Reed; and Bran’s loyal but half-wild direwolf, inaptly named Summer.

From about two hundred yards away, Brienne stared at the Nightfort that sat leagues west of Castle Black, almost due north of Queenscrown. Not a single window was illuminated by an amber glow. Then again, she couldn’t be sure there were many windows. As cold as it was here, she thought her ideal abode would have a hearth in each room but only two windows in the whole place.

There were several buildings that from this distance seemed stacked upon each other, much like parts of King’s Landing looked where the shops or homes were situated on steep hills.

Every one of her instincts told her to turn back for Winterfell. Unfortunately, that would mean the waste of a month’s long journey. Or had it been five sennights? Moon and a half? It might have been that, since their provisions ran out just as Queenscrown came into view when they had packed enough to last them all the way to the Wall – better over-prepared then under-prepared.

That had been another debate among the Stark family, one that Brienne was present for. After gaining his family’s reluctant agreement only by pointing out that technically he was the rightful Lord of Winterfell and Head of House Stark and could simply command stablehands and servants and guards to do his bidding, Bran informed his family that he would not be traveling by river then sea but by land. His reasoning was vague and seemingly personal, but the mother who was half trout seemed to think her wolfish children were meant to stay on dry land. Well, if one considers snow to be dry. Not letting her son sail past Skagos in the waters frequented by smugglers and poachers, most of whom did business not with the Night’s Watch but the Wildlings, seemed a good idea. And so the odd party, heavily garbed and heavily supplied, headed north on the King’s Road.

Brienne supposed she should just be grateful to have arrived at their destination at all. Of course, there was no way to miss the Wall itself by heading in any northerly direction, but there were several leagues between castles, so missing their mark would mean an additional sennight sleeping with nothing but a tent for cover. Which for her meant not sleeping at all. In fact, she mostly slept in the saddle when she knew the sharp eyes of Meera Reed of the Swamps and Summer the wolf were better lookouts than she’d ever make. No, by night she laid awake, listening to the wind batter the tent’s thin walls, watching snow bow in the sides, keeping as still as possible so that any Wildling approach would be heard. Then again, Wildlings probably knew how to walk without crunching the snow. Also, she doubted any Wildlings would risk a fight by attacking the people in the tents. They’d take the horses – sturdy garrons that were built for plodding through deep snow – which in these parts must be worth more than gold or silver or even dried meats and hard cheeses. Horses could be ridden or eaten or sold, though she had a strong suspicion which would be the Wilding preference.

And now they had reached their first shelter since Queenscrown. It should look like an oasis in a desert, but it only looked like the type of place that people enter but never leave, the setting for every eerie tale told by every nurse and grandparent in the entire realm.

As she turned her horse to face her odd set of traveling companions, it occurred to her that she should have brought at least one other adult. Sure, technically Meera Reed, aged twenty, qualified, but the girl was short and spritely and cheerful, which meant Brienne thought of her as a contemporary of her brother, seventeen-year-old Jojen, and even sometimes thirteen-year-old Bran.

And Hodor didn’t count even though he appeared to be middle-aged, because while he seemed to have thoughts on many different topics, he only ever expressed them with the same two syllables: Hodor.

She addressed Bran, who sat atop his specially-trained horse in his specially-made saddle, “I suppose you still wish to go forward, my lord?”

The corner of his mouth quirked up, “Our journey doesn’t end at the Nightfort, Lady Brienne. This much I know.”

Brienne groaned and resisted the temptation to ask whether it would end five paces on the other side of the Nightfort, but she supposed she did take a sort of shallow comfort in knowing this haunted-looking place would not be her gravesite. She would be able to say she stood north of the Wall, and that was something. Even just seeing the Wall from this relatively short distance felt like something. It felt like she belonged in some exclusive group.

A girl from the Sapphire Isle survives a journey of over a moon through deep winter snows and arrives at the Wall still in possession of ten fingers, ten toes, two ears, and one nose.

She frowned down at her right foot in the stirrup. She actually hadn’t taken her socks off in over a sennight, so she couldn’t actually swear that she had ten toes anymore.

It was an odd motivation, to get into the shelter of the abandoned keep so she could find a bedchamber with a brazier or hearth, make a fire, and take off her socks. She’d sit on a rug or blanket on the floor, she decided, and put her feet as cloth to the fire as she could stand.

She looked back to her young yet worldly charge, “Then I suppose there is no use delaying. I for one would like to sleep with four walls around me tonight.”

With a gentle kick of the heels, she led the way.

Three days into staying at the Nightfort, Brienne no longer feared any ghosts or imaginary monsters or even the bloody cold. All she feared was the prospect that they’d come this way for nothing.

Above ground, there was no way through the Wall. No gate or portal of any kind. A lift she wouldn’t risk a bag of oats in could, hypothetically, bring their party to the top of the Wall, but without climbing gear or knowledge of how to climb (more precisely, how to climb 800 feet down without falling), it was useless to her party. Oh, and since wolves didn’t climb, it was doubly worthless.

Bran Stark was sure there was a gate somewhere in this place. He had claimed to see the gate’s “face” in his dreams and seemed to think that offered comfort to Brienne.

She made the decision to stay here no more than a sennight total before she would lead them east to Castle Black whether the lordling approved or not. He may be the highest-ranking person in this expedition, but all the ladies Stark had assured her that keeping the lad safe was Brienne’s ultimate objective.

Every above-ground building had been inspected by the end of their first day here, and they found nothing but a half-full barrel of ale that smelled like a skunk’s arse, cobwebs, dust, a handful of rusted daggers in the armory, and various articles of black clothing that seemed to have been set aside for mending before the last men to occupy this place had to leave.

Wait… why did they have to leave?

Or is ‘flee’ the more fitting word?

Brienne ran a finger along the jagged stone wall of the small hall they had assembled in to eat their lunch today.

“The good Queen Alysanne convinced them to abandon this place.”

Brienne turned to face Jojen Reed, who was sitting at a table with his sister. Next to them on the floor Lord Bran was atop a couple furs, his legs splayed out uselessly and his back propped against the wall.

“Pardon?” Brienne responded after a spell.

“She visited the Wall. One of the few southern nobles who ever did, barring those who were sent in lieu of a death sentence.”

Brienne nodded, “Why would she have them abandon one of their fortresses on the Wall?”

“Oh, more like swap one for another. She encouraged them to build Deep Lake just to the east and move the men from here to there. She did not like this place.”

“Her and me both,” Brienne muttered.

“Hodor,” Hodor nodded from where he sat at the table next to the Reed siblings’ table. No one trusted to share a bench with a man of his mass.

Brienne looked back to her lunch, wondering how much they’d need to stretch their provisions to make it to Castle Black. Or Deep Lake, she supposed. She had been assuming the men of the Night’s Watch wouldn’t mind sharing their food but now was starting to wonder. This place seemed so bleak and barren that she wondered how well fed the men were. Sure, she had signed orders from Ladies Sansa and Arya, but none of these men would know the girls’ marks. Nor would they recognize Bran Stark. If Jon Snow had not returned to Castle Black by the time they arrived there, Brienne wasn’t sure how warm a welcome they could expect to receive. But she hoped that delivering the promise of Sansa Lannister nee Stark to send provisions from King’s Landing to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea would suffice.

With a sigh, Brienne stood. Lord Bran would certainly wish to explore some more and Brienne would oblige him even as she was sure they’d never find this gate with the face – nor any other gate. If the Watch had abandoned this place, why not seal or block the gate that could otherwise be used by Wildlings to come and go as they pleased?

Damn, why didn’t I think of that before? Why did I let this child who spent the better part of a year living in a crypt convince me that he knows best? Damn, damn, damn!

She shook her head and moved to the young lord, but halted her progress a few steps away.

“Lord Brandon?” she spoke in a low voice. The Reed siblings turned and followed her gaze, as did the giant.

“Hodor,” Hodor nodded while watching what they all watched – the crippled lord’s body twitching as if he was having a particularly active dream, while both eyes had rolled into the back of his head.

A few heartbeats delayed, Brienne sprung into action, dropping to her knees, “I’ve seen this in injured men. The maesters call it a seizing, I need to lay him flat.”

A soft hand landed on hers and she looked up to find Jojen Reed smiling at her wryly, “No need. He will not hurt himself. He is dreaming.”

“But his eyes—”

“A very special kind of dream.”

“You’re sure? You’ve seen him look like this before and he remained unharmed?”

“Hodor,” Hodor nodded.

Brienne sighed and leaned back on her haunches, and soon enough the boy’s body stilled and his eyelids closed. When he blinked them back open, his Tully blues were already locked on Brienne’s Tarth blues.

“I have seen the gate again. It is… it is not blocked. It is accessible to us but… But the place the gate sits is somewhere dark and close. A place that makes me feel… trapped.”

Brienne sighed yet again. Of course, the gate would be down some narrow passageway or underground cave when two in their party were regularly mocked for having giant’s blood in their veins.

“The underground tunnels we have not explored,” she stated the obvious. They had found the entrances to such tunnels. One was in the armory. Another in the kitchen’s pantry. Another at the ground floor of the sleeping barracks.

Bran gave a subtle nod, “I suppose. We must explore them, Lady Brienne. Hodor will carry me. Summer will accompany us – his senses may be of use to us. Jojen and Meera should remain here in case…”

“In case what?” Brienne crossed her arms and rose to her full height.

Bran shrugged, “Well, isn’t that just the way of things? You don’t send the entire army on a scouting mission.”

Brienne nodded, choosing not to think too hard about how little the petite Reed siblings would be able to help should a section of tunnel collapse upon her. Instead, she thought of a better argument. “Lord Bran, we will hardly be able to lead our garrons through some tight tunnel. Let us forget this folly and ride east for Deep Lake. It cannot be more than a day or two since it was built to replace this fortress, no?”

Bran Stark shook his head, “We must cross here.”

“But why?”

“I do not know; I only know we must.”

“But… No. We may end up lost in a maze of underground tunnels meant to ensure that any who passed through the gate would have no easy time making their way into the castle proper. We may set off traps that the Night’s Watch set for the same purpose. We may be buried under collapsed rock and soil. Hodor or I might get stuck. There are too many things that can go horribly wrong. I must insist we abandon this notion of underground gates and head east with the dawn on the morrow.”

“Hodor,” the giant nodded.

“No, Hodor. This is where we must pass. I have seen…”

“What have you seen?” Brienne demanded.

“I have seen the gate with the face. The voices that beckoned me north beckoned me here, they beckoned me to the gate. I cannot lose my trust in them.”

Brienne squeezed her eyes shut, “And you’re quite certain that these voices are correct?”

The young lord smiled faintly, “Quite certain, Lady Brienne. Did I not tell you? We do not meet our end here.”

With yet another sigh, Brienne turned to face the Reed siblings, “If we don’t come back, please tell her grace that I did try to talk him out of it…”

One hand gripped the torch, the other fisted over Ice’s handle, Brienne crouched and stepped through the wooden-framed doorway in the pantry’s far wall.

“Close” wasn’t the half of it. The air was so dark it felt thick. It was cool and drafty, but perhaps no more so than the dilapidated buildings around them. Or above them? Brienne was certain they were on a downhill gradient. All the better to become my crypt.

Behind her walked Hodor, with Bran Stark strapped to his massive back, and taking up the rear was Summer. Bran Stark thought the wolf should lead their merry procession, but Brienne would prefer the boy had a protector on each side.

The torch illuminated a good ten pace radius ahead of her and revealed the fact that the ceiling was high enough for her to stop bending at the hips. Her hair brushed the ceiling, meaning Hodor couldn’t walk fully upright, but at least neither of them would have to stay folded in half.

They passed tunnels that would lead them off to the right or left, but Brienne refused to follow any of them knowing how easy it would be to get lost. This afternoon was for going straight as far as possible and praying that at the end they would find a gate with a face on it. If such was not the case, they could try again tomorrow after unravelling enough tunics so that Brienne could carry a length of thread to mark their route.

She was surprised when after only a couple minutes of walking she saw that their passage ended at a wall. When she got there, however, she realized it was possible to go right – the tunnel ended at an ‘L’.

She turned to face Bran Stark, “My lord, I suppose we can go this way, as far straight as it takes us, since coming back we’ll be at no risk of making a wrong turn.”

Bran Stark nodded, his eyes fixed on Brienne’s though squinted due to the torch, “Aye, Lady Brienne. Let us go as far as we might before you fear for our return journey.”

Brienne squared her shoulders, gave a curt nod, and began walking down the connecting tunnel. They passed yet more turnoffs, and Brienne was disturbed to find that some were not passageways at all but empty rooms with iron bars across the entranceway. They were prison cells, she realized, and she couldn’t imagine a worse existence than to be confined down here alone but for darkness.

“Have you heard the tale of Arson Iceaxe, Lady Brienne?”

She didn’t turn to face her young charge, “Can’t say I have, my lord.”

He hummed gently but the sound seemed amplified in this space, “He was a Wildling, desperate to get south of the Wall. A brave one, too, for he dug a tunnel into the base of the Wall with a pickaxe and a small shovel. Imagine that, hmm? Scaling the Wall takes a certain kind of bravery, knowing that to fall will mean death. But a quick death, I would guess. But to burrow through the wall itself? To risk ice and snow collapsing on you? To work in utter darkness with not even enough space to turn around?”

Brienne did not like this story, not one bit. She hadn’t admitted to the others, but she had always been claustrophobic. Not just of small spaces, but of having her own body constricted. The first time her maid tried to put her in stays, Brienne had panicked and screamed. A few years later when her father consented for her to have a suit of armor, she had forgotten that girlhood experience and didn’t realize until she was being buckled into the metal that she might have a similar reaction. She hadn’t though, and she supposed it was because the metal of her armor didn’t sit directly against her skin. It was there to protect her, cocoon her, like a turtle’s shell rather than the stays which were designed to constrict her, even if the maid called them “supports”. She needed no support to keep her back straight, but she rather liked to be able to fully expand her belly and chest with each inhalation. Shallow breathing could make a person faint, this she knew from her arms training.

“They say he made it halfway through the Wall before he was discovered,” Bran continued, “It was rangers from the Nightfort who found him. Or rather, who found the tunnel’s entrance. None dared to crawl into it, and for that I cannot blame them…”

Me neither.

“But they listened. They heard the sound of his axe methodically chipping away at millennia-old ice.”

“So they waited for him to come out?” she asked.

“No. They sealed the entrance. Or, in Arson’s case, the exit.”

A warm flush spread over Brienne’s skin.

“Imagine that. He might have died of cold, if he were lucky, but that is doubtful. Ice can insulate as well as any stone walls. In fact, some Wildlings live in homes made of ice, shaped like domes. They can even have small fires in them.”

Brienne found that hard to believe, but said nothing.

“He might have died of thirst,” Bran continued, “but also unlikely. His body heat would have melted the ice around him. No, it is most likely that he starved…”

They came upon yet another wall, this one herding them left and only left. With a nod from her charge, Brienne led the way.

“Hence the brothers of the Nightfort could hear him yelling for weeks. Begging, screaming, cursing, crying…”

“Hodor,” Hodor spoke, his tone tinged with sympathy.

Brienne swallowed. No man deserved such a death. Nor did any man deserve to be a prisoner in this abyss they were wading through. Not even Stannis Baratheon who used some devilish magic to kill his brother, the good king Renly who didn’t treat Brienne like a freak. If Brienne were given leave to avenger her former king, she would challenge the dour lord to a duel. A fair duel. She would win, she would kill him, but she would make it quick.

Bran Stark didn’t seem like a cruel lad, yet when he took a breath and continued on, it occurred to Brienne that he knew how disturbing this tale was, even if Brienne hardly believed it. For one, how would anyone know this Arson fellow made it halfway through the wall if they sealed his tunnel?

“No surprise that Queen Alysanne found this place so… unsettling. They say each year on the anniversary of Arson’s death, a man’s screams can be heard from certain places within this keep. They last for three sennights and two days – so that must be how long it took him to die. The Queen must have visited here during that time period.”

Brienne took a deep breath, “An interesting tale, my lord. A frightening tale. A tale that would scare little boys and girls so much that they’d never venture places where they didn’t belong.”

She heard a faint chuckle come from the crippled lordling, “Indeed. I sometimes wonder if it isn’t why Sansa always wanted to go south. Arya too, though for different reasons. And myself, even. I wanted the chance at knighthood, Arya wanted to see great tourneys, and Sansa wanted to see the pageantry of southern court. I suppose that’s funny, too,” his voice ended on a wistful note.

“How so?”

“Sansa got to see more of southern court than she cared for, I should say. Arya got to spend months trudging through war zones, and isn’t a tourney a sort of small-scale mummery of war? And I am the last person who will become a knight. At minimum, a man must be able to stand if he is to fight.”

Brienne felt indignant on the boy’s behalf, “Knighthood is about honor and sacrifice, not just fighting and killing.”

“Indeed, yet so few seem to remember that.”

“Respectfully,” Brienne glimpsed down a side passageway but the torch illuminated nothing of note, “You seem to know much about the ways of the world for a lad who has never left Winterfell.”

“I have seen more of the world than you might think. I have seen more people than those who call Winterfell home.”

She knew that not to be true, but as so often the boy spoke with such cool confidence that Brienne was certain she believed him.

“Well, I suppose you—” she stopped speaking and stopped walking so abruptly the giant bumped into her, sending her forward a half step.

“Hodor?”

“Shh!” she hissed.

She had heard footsteps; she was sure of it. Footsteps ahead of her, in parts of the underground labyrinth they’d not yet traversed.

As she stood stock still, ears and eyes hyper-aware, she heard nothing.

She let out a burst of breath, “Apologies, my lord. I thought—”

“Shh!” this time it was Bran hushing her.

“Hodor…” the big man’s voice trembled.

“Quiet, Hodor,” Bran whispered.

The footsteps had resumed, slow, lazy, like Brienne imagined a ghost might amble through the afterlife.

Slower than cold molasses, she drew Ice with her right hand.

The footsteps stopped.

“Back up,” she breathed, “Hodor, turn around and walk back.”

The footsteps resumed.

“Hodor, RUN!” she shouted, and as if whatever was stalking them heeded the urgency of her call, the footsteps became rapid, and she could make out the fact that there were several of them. Did ghosts move in packs? Fuck, fuck!

“Hodor! Hodor!” the man cried out in fright even as he began running in the opposite direction with Bran on his back. He was running blind, she knew, yet she couldn’t afford to give him the torch. Eventually she would need to turn and fight to give the giant and the lordling a chance of escape, and she’d need the torch for that.

The footsteps echoing behind her made it difficult to judge the distance, but she was sure it was not yet time to turn and fight.

“Faster, Hodor!” she commanded, then ran into his massive back a heartbeat after hearing a vicious snarl and what sounded like a body smacking against another body.

“Summer!” Bran shouted, and Brienne reached around Hodor with the torch, casting enough light to see the gray wolf snarling and snapping at two men shrouded in black. Two men who kept reaching out only to lose bits of their hands and arms to the wolf’s maw. And when Brienne let her eyes drift up to see what kind of madmen would do such a thing, she heard a scream, and realized it was her own, for the men were no men at all but… but… but corpses! Pale, gaunt faces, one with bits of its skull peeking through its decaying skin. Both were death incarnate yet had the brightest blue eyes, like the hottest part of a flame. Two orbs that seemed to live and breathe stuck into a creature that looked deader than any corpse Brienne had ever seen even if it still moved and fought.

“Hodor!” the giant screamed and began backing up, nearly bowling Brienne over but that she dropped the torch and used all her might to push back.

“Stand your ground, Hodor!” she screeched, then turned upon realizing the pounding footsteps behind her had never ceased. She turned and swung without seeing, feeling her sword meet something soft and hard at the same time, hearing a hawk-like screech then a bump of body against packed dirt. Her and Hodor’s bodies were blocking much of the torch’s light, but the passageway was narrow – she knew the only attack could come from right in front of her. So she sliced back and forth through the air – left, right, left, right, changing the height in case these things were capable of thinking to duck below the arc of the great sword, and all she ever saw were blue orbs and occasionally a flash of a hand when the torch’s rays made their way around the big bodies that blocked it.

She finally understood why men would kill for the right to possess a Valyrian steel blade. She knew she was cutting through bodies, but the resistance offered was no more than a soft cheese would offer to a sharp kitchen knife.

“I think they’re afraid of the fire!” she heard Bran exclaim right behind her.

“Hodor, bend down and pick up the torch,” she shouted without stopping her swings. She still heard the direwolf snapping and snarling but she didn’t hear the thuds that would indicate the wolf was successfully bringing them down.

“Hodor, Hodor, Hodor!” the giant man-child protested.

“Pick it up or you’re going to die!” she roared.

“Hodor!” he sobbed, but she heard his knees crack and knew he’d obeyed.

She kept slicing through the air and would continue to do so until she heard no movement, but it would all be for naught if the wolf and the giant couldn’t hold back the deluge they seemed to be facing. She considered pivoting so she could make a dent in the ones the wolf was facing down, but she couldn’t say with certainty which side offered more of their undead foe.

“Bran, can you see how many?”

“I think—”

“BRAN!” a male voice sent ripples through Brienne’s sturdy frame, coming from behind her. It was too deep to be Jojen Reed, she thought, but who else would know they were down here?

She couldn’t turn to investigate, couldn’t form words to ask. The dead things she faced were smart enough to sometimes make a grab for her shield arm – which held no shield. She’d feel their bony fingers clawing into her gloves or vambraces and would hack as close to her own hand as she dared each time.

She now knew whoever had called out to them was engaging the wights on the other side. She heard the whistle and murmur of steel, the slicing of sinew and bone, the thudding of bodies. Even the wolf’s slathering seemed to have been multiplied.

It may have been seconds, or hours before she realized she was slicing through nothing but air and could hear no footsteps or other sounds of life. Er… reanimated death. It seemed just as she let her sword hang their mystery savior did the same. She heard a shaky inhale, an exhausted exhale, then, “Bran!” spoken like a cry of desperation and relief at once.

“Jon!”

Brienne swung around, careful to keep the sword behind her so she wouldn’t slice one of her companions. She squinted past the light, pushing down on Hodor’s forearm to lower the torch which was blocking her view. Held at the man’s hip level, her eyes adjusted until she could make out a man dressed in all blacks, panting from exertion and holding a longsword limp at his side. His hair was black and damp from either snow or sweat, and his eyes were black as tar in this light, not that eerie blue.

Bran’s exclamation came back to her. “You are Jon Snow? Half-brother to Queen Sansa?” she asked.

The man’s eyes moved off Bran and settled on Brienne. He was panting from exertion – as was Brienne – yet still managed to look absolutely flabbergasted.

“Queen Sansa?” he asked, “She has married the boy who killed our father?”

“No, Jon,” Bran spoke, “Joffrey is dead. Tywin Lannister took the throne from his grandson and married Sansa. The war is over.”

The man’s face became a storm, “Sansa was forced to marry that warmonger?!”

Brienne sighed, “Lord Snow, perhaps we should get above ground before catching you up. Until then, you’ll have to settle for this: your sisters are safe, as are your brothers. Your younger brothers. And your stepmother, the Lady Catelyn.”

She watched the young man’s face contort into a twist of pain, yet she knew it was relief. “Gods!” he squeezed his eyes shut and spoke on an exhale, then so quickly Brienne flinched, he threw one arm around Hodor, his hand landing on Bran’s back. “Let us get out of here, brother.”

 

Jon

“They could have been here for decades,” Jon answered the question Brienne posed to no one in particular after the entire group made their way to the small hall, along with Meera and Jojen Reed. “Centuries, even,” Jon continued in response to Brienne’s skeptical stare. “Wights don’t age or decompose. Well, at least not as quickly as a typical corpse.”

“I’m more worried about how they got in here to begin with,” Brienne, hand on her sword’s pommel, looked around the room, glaring particularly hard at any shadowed corners or sections of wall.

“They all wore the black of the Night’s Watch,” Jon answered, “They must have been a ranging party sent north that had to come here for shelter. I’m guessing because they were attacked by wights.”

“But only the dead turn into wights, Bran said,” Meera Reed offered in a leery voice, “They had to have been alive when they entered. Why didn’t they move onto Deep Lake?”

Jon nodded, thinking of the gate in the Wall he’d approached little more than an hour ago. He’d spoken the Night’s Watch vows at the Ranger’s insistence, and the gate opened to him as if pushed by the hands of the gods. Then he’d wandered down a tunnel that ended at a rusty but intact ladder he’d had to climb straight up through. He emerged in an old kitchen, his eyes on a boy sitting as calm as a fluffy cloud on a clear day, then turned his head to find a spear tip poking him in the jaw. Meera and Jojen Reed had heard the echoes of his ascent of the empty kitchen well that was no well at all, and had been ready. Well, Meera had been ready.

In their furs, Jon thought them both Wildlings, though young ones. But when he gave them his name and said he would do them no harm if they promised the same, Meera’s eyes had widened. Before the conversation could progress, all three of them had heard a terrified shout that seemed to vibrate the entire keep. And Meera had taken a step away from Jon then used the spear to point to an open pantry door, “Your brother Bran is down there along with Hodor, his wolf, and his guard.”

Wildlings were tricksy, Jon knew well, yet no Wildlings could know that Jon Snow had a brother named Bran unless they knew House Stark and knew Jon belonged to it. But no one could possibly know of Hodor, so Jon ran without fear that a pair of Wildling teenagers were going to bar the door behind him, only the fear that he could be so close to one of his kin for the first time in years and lose him to whatever threat had caused someone to scream out.

But the sight he eventually came upon filled him with a sense of pride that had his eyes swelling with tears even before he drew Longclaw – the backs of several cloaked men he instinctively knew were no men, and Hodor, terrified but brave as he waved a torch back and forth, head-level with the attackers while a wolf near the size of Ghost snapped at the hands and legs of those same attackers. A joint effort that was working but wouldn’t work forever, Jon knew, because fires went out, and the living tired, but the dead never stopped. So he sliced through them, may have shouted Bran’s name when he saw his brother’s face peering over Hodor’s shoulder. May have heard Bran shout his name back. Heard thuds and grunts and occasionally steel meeting the stone wall on the far side – Bran’s guard. With Hodor lighting his way and Longclaw sharper than a woman’s smile, Jon made short work of the wights, and finally got to hug one of his brothers – his blood brothers. And he would take any of his siblings in that moment – Hells, he’d probably have hugged Lady Catelyn or that Septa with the perpetually pursed lips that made sure Sansa stayed away from ‘lust-driven bastards’ – but he was particularly glad it was Bran. Jon had never said goodbye to Bran – thwarted by Bran’s unconsciousness and Lady Catelyn’s misguided sense of protectiveness. Jon had worried for Bran when he heard that Robb and Catelyn rode south. Jon had worried for Bran more than any of his siblings. Rickon was so young that Jon had little interaction with him before leaving for the Wall. Arya was crafty and clever. Sansa had her beauty – a sad proposition but Jon knew she could barter it for a man’s protection, if necessary. But Bran’s strength had always laid in his body; his limbs to be precise – two of which Maester Luwin had guessed would never work again.

But now Jon sat and looked upon his brother, aged from boy to young man, with a few pimples on his forehead to prove it. Bran was crippled but not weak, Jon realized. The way he spoke as he told Jon his story was calm and economical, not some child hiccupping over his tale of adventure.

Bran was here, with him. Arya and Rickon were at Winterfell. Sansa was in King’s Landing but safe.

Bran is here, with me, at the Wall.

“Well?”

Jon was startled by Meera’s voice and realized he’d never answered her question. He did then, with a shrug, “I’m guessing one of the rangers was injured in the fight against the wights. They entered the Nightfort through the secret gate, hunkered down, and the man later died. He would’ve turned at some point and attacked his once-brothers. That’s the best I can figure. But it doesn’t really matter. Suffice to say, they’ve been here for more than a few years. I’d have heard if such a large group was sent out of any of the castles on a ranging party and failed to return.”

Meera let out a sigh and nodded, “Aye. Is it safe to assume there are no others lurking about?”

Jon shook his head, “No others. Wights tend to… congregate. They move in herds.”

Meera nodded again and the nonstop talking that had commenced as soon as they came into the small hall from the kitchen finally ceased. Now there was no noise but the wind, battering against the ancient fortress that Jon suspected would still be standing another thousand years in the future.

He sipped at the water his hosts (or was he their host?) offered him. Well, they first offered to share their wine, but Jon suggested they save that for their upcoming journey.

Funny thing, he wasn’t sure where that journey would lead them.

To Castle Black, where Jon would resume his duties defending the Wall, assuming they once again didn’t try to punish him as a traitor and deserter?

To Winterfell, where he would find Arya and Rickon, Grey Wind and Shaggydog, Lady Catelyn and Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik?

Or to that cave knitted of tree roots? To that domain of the seer, as the ranger had called it. The ranger who only let himself be called that – ‘Ranger’ – and not the name Jon once knew him by.

“I am not him. I am not anyone,” the ranger with the purple-black hands had spoken when Jon had insisted.

“Then you were him. He is still part of you. Meaning you are still loyal to—”

“I am loyal to the living. Those with a beating heart. Whether Wildling or Watchman, Noble or Nobody – if he is breathing, he is my ally. If he isn’t…”

Jon shook away the thought. The ranger was waiting on the other side of the Wall, along with Ghost, and while it tore at Jon’s heart to think of letting them stay there, of guiding Bran and the others east or south instead of due north past what had been Craster’s Keep, over the frozen river, deep into the Haunted Forest… Well, he knew that was a perilous journey. And – perhaps more importantly – he wasn’t sure he trusted the red-eyed seer and the cat-eyed Children.

Jon glanced around at this motley group that had escorted his brother to the Nightfort because Bran was convinced his destiny was here. Or rather, that this was an important stop on the journey toward his ultimate destiny. The three-eyed crow, Bran had said. The last greenseer, Jojen Reed had supplied.

Greenseer. The word had echoed in Jon’s ears and he realized that if he told Bran that no, he would not be escorting him to the cave of the seer, he’d be getting objections from three, possibly four individuals. Bran and the Reed siblings could not be swayed from continuing. Lady Brienne – who Jon had thought was a man until they reached the kitchen – was duty-bound to follow Bran’s instructions and honor-bound to disobey him only if it meant saving his life. Honor-bound because she swore it to Arya, who was acting Wardeness of the North, and Sansa, who was Queen of the Seven bloody Kingdoms.

The only question that needed answering – and soon – was the question of their destination. And yet Jon couldn’t bring himself to ask. Perhaps because asking would lead to arguing within the group. Or perhaps because Jon already knew the answer and it was the option he most misliked.

“I assume the North and Trident kneeled to the new king when it became clear that Sansa would never be leaving the capital?” Jon asked after listening to Bran and Brienne describe the royal visit – king, queen and two princesses – to Winterfell.

Bran let out a small smile, “The way Arya tells it, the only one brought to his knees was the lion.”

Jon huffed, “She always had an active imagination.” There was no way Sansa got the Great Lion wrapped around her finger. Jon knew the man only by reputation but also from Tyrion Lannister’s accounting of his father. Suffice to say, if a fraction of Tyrion’s words were true then Tywin Lannister’s heart was made of stone, and even sweet little Sansa couldn’t melt a stone heart.

Bran shrugged, “Arya’s also always been a good judge of character. She saw the pureness in your heart even with my mother convincing her you were as devious as all baseborn children. She saw the vileness in Prince Joffrey even when Sansa was swept up in dreams of romance.”

Jon rubbed his brow, “Even leaving Winterfell knowing that Sansa was to marry the Crown Prince, I suppose I never actually expected her to be queen. It was like… I don’t know… No matter how much bad news reached my ears, I always thought that if I’d ever journey to Winterfell, I’d find everything and everyone just as it always was. Old Nan reading to baby Rickon. Sansa smiling and singing and picking wildflowers. Arya evading Lady Catelyn and Septa Mordane. Robb and… and Theon sparring, teasing me. You, climbing towers and giving us all attacks of the heart. Father… Father watching over it all. Glaring at Theon when his barbs would hit too close to home. Sighing in exasperation when he saw Arya’s latest act of mischief. Smiling when Lady Catelyn crossed his path with Rickon on her hip. Groaning and rubbing his forehead when he saw you dangling from a three-story trellis. Growling when some guard watched Sansa and Jeyne instead of the perimeter. Patting Robb on the back, calling him ‘son’. Dipping his head at me when he was proud.” Jon closed his lips, realizing he could go on forever; realizing he wanted to go on forever. Realizing that as much joy as it would give him to see Arya and Rickon at Winterfell, he was sure the pain of Robb’s absence, Father’s absence, the scars of Theon’s betrayal – would feel a hundredfold worse.

“Hodor,” the big man sympathized.

It was Jojen Reed who pulled Jon out of his melancholic musings, “Many of us will lose a parent or sibling before we’ve lived long enough to make a family of our own. Grandparents, uncles and aunts, friends, beloved servants… If you reach the age of twenty without knowing the bitter taste of loss, you can count yourself lucky.”

“I’m not ungrateful for those who I still—”

“Listen, Jon Snow. I know you’re not ungrateful. I know you are not complaining, or implying that your grief is worse than any other’s. I tell you this because I can feel your doubt. You must shed it, Jon Snow. You have not seen the Others, but I know you believe in them. You have seen the wights, you have fought and killed them. As have you,” Jojen turned to look at Brienne, who flinched then blushed at the sudden attention. Jojen held her gaze before letting his eyes drift back to Jon’s, “They must be stopped. We must meet with the three-eyed crow before it is too late, or else the entire world may become their dominion.”

Jon shook his head, “No. I have lived among the Free Folk. Wildlings. They know more than we ever will. They say the Wall repels the wights and their masters, that they can never cross it. All I mean to do is get the Night’s Watch to allow the Free Folk to pass. Gods, at least let the women and children pass!” Jon stood and began pacing when an idea struck him, “Wait,” he turned and split his gaze between Bran and Brienne, “Sansa and Arya… can they not pressure the Lord Commander to open the gates to the Wildlings? Or… Or order their ship captains to ferry the Wildlings from Hardhome to the lands of The Gift?”

“Jon,” Jojen continued in the same gentle tone, “Would the gods have sent me and Meera to Winterfell, sent Bran here, sent you here, put Lady Brienne into your sister’s service so she, too, would end up here, if not for a good reason?”

“Saving thousands of lives isn’t a good reason?” Jon replied tartly.

Jojen winced, “How many tens of thousands died in the recent war? How many tens of thousands died during Robert’s Rebellion? No, Jon Snow, the gods do not intervene in the trivial skirmishes between men and other men.”

“Trivial?”

“To the gods, aye. What are thousands of lives, when life as we know it has gone on for eons? Nothing. A drop in the ocean. So to intervene now? It is the fate of not just thousands, but perhaps every living creature on this continent. Or perhaps in the entire world.”

Jon sighed, “Fine. Perhaps… perhaps some part of me feels the… the enormity you speak of. The grand scale of life that is hanging in the balance. But my brother is crippled. If each of you is willing to risk your lives for this… this mission, then join me in returning to the cave. But Bran will first be left at Deep Lake.” Jon glared at Bran, trying to emulate their father and feeling fairly certain he failed. Bran gave him that same weak smile. Jon might almost describe it as patronizing.

“Jon, you are leading us to the cave. All of us.”

“Gods be damned, Bran…”

Bran’s smile widened, “If it proves to be the wrong decision, you nor I will be around for my mother to scold.”

Jon snorted, “She’d scold you. She’d kill me. Slowly, I fear. And damn me, but I’d deserve it.”

It seemed like everyone was decided in their next step until Lady Brienne piped up, “Wait, can we not bring this “seer” person to Deep Lake or Castle Black? Surely he will appreciate how far we’ve traveled already to meet him?”

Her big, guileless eyes ventured to each companion by turn while Jon winced, “He… does not seem able to travel.”

“If he is lame or cripped we can use the sled we dragged here for—”

“He is… not exactly in a human form,” Jon added.

The large woman blinked at him, “Well what form is he in, exactly?” she asked tartly.

“Eh…” Jon scratched at his neck, “A tree. Er, tree roots?”

Brienne once more looked at each one of her companions, clearly hoping one would reflect back her own disbelief.

None did, though Meera Reed made a sort of shrug that seemed to convey that she was taking all this with a pinch of salt.

Brienne’s eyes closed and she let out a deep breath, “If wights or the cold don’t kill me, your sister will.”

Jon couldn’t help but chuckle, “Which one?”

Brienne only glared at him.

 

Jaime

For not the first time in his life, Jaime wouldn’t mind trading his strong arms and sure feet for his brother’s brain.

It was not the first time he’d been invited to sup with the mother of dragons, the self-proclaimed queen of Westeros, breaker of chains, and a dozen other titles his brain wasn’t capable of remembering – proof that even the little herald Missandei was sharper than him.

The Harpy. Yunkai. Second Sons. Teenage dragons. Blah, blah, blah.

He was smart enough, at least, to understand the broad strokes: Daenerys Targaryen’s accomplishments in the slave cities of Essos were short-lived. She liberated cities from the whips of slave masters and broke the ruling parties who formed the spokes on the wheel of corruption she so despised, but once she moved onto her next target, the old ways were picked back up. Not necessarily by the aforementioned broken parties, but by others who had been empowered directly or inadvertently by Daenerys Targaryen. She thought she was delivering peace, but truly it was only ever chaos left in her wake. One cannot break down the structures of a society and expect the virtuous to rebuild something better from the rubble. Even Jaime Lannister, who thought with his sword – er, swords – knew that.

But Daenerys was learning; he’d give her credit for that. She understood now her actions had consequences. She understood that she couldn’t leave behind some flimsy substitute for a government and expect it to withstand human nature.

It was that human nature she still failed to grasp. Troubled as her young life might have been, she was still a dreamer. She still believed that it was within her power to give people that which they didn’t even want: peace.

Of course, most would claim to want peace, but few truly meant it. The world was run by men (and women, he supposed) who could not help but want more power for themselves, their families. And there was only so much power in the world, meaning mankind was destined to perpetually fight for that finite substance that manifested in land, golds, servants, armies… Few were ever happy with what they had. Most could do nothing to claim more, however – they were tenant farmers, blacksmiths, masons, carpenters, guards. Those who could do something to raise their station usually tried to, at least once in their lives.

Jaime had always thought his father was an anomaly to this pattern. For decades he sat in his office in Casterly Rock and kept the peace in the Westerlands. Sure, some would claim his destruction of two vassal families was a power grab, but Jaime knew that young Tywin Lannister was only grabbing that which rightly belonged to his family. His storied acts were a tale of repossession, not theft.

But now Jaime knew the Great Lion had been just as hungry as any other man, he was just smarter and more patient than the others. Over the course of Robert and then Joffrey’s reigns he lent money to the Crown, just like his father before him lent money to the Reynes and Tarbecks. Only unlike the father, the son would be sure to collect the debts with interest. So he took the throne itself, without spilling a drop of blood. He took the throne that belonged to his grandson, for fuck’s sake. And even if Jaime could admit that his firstborn was on trajectory not unlike that of Aerys II Targaryen, there had been another option: Tommen. Certainly instead of claiming the throne for himself he could have claimed it for Tommen. Or claimed it himself and made it clear that Tommen would be his heir.

But he didn’t. He claimed it for himself and the she-wolf and the first son she’d someday give him.

And sometimes Jaime didn’t wonder if he claimed it because of the she-wolf. The she-wolf who reappeared in the capital by his father’s side, pregnant out of wedlock after having duped the lion for months. The she-wolf who reappeared in the capital shortly before Joffrey and Cersei died.

It was an odd thing, to hate her even if Jaime knew she’d been a victim of the war as much as anyone. It was an odd thing to hate her for possessing what belonged to Cersei, even if Jaime had always wished Cersei would give up the damned throne and be happy with a simple life across the Narrow Sea with her husband the sellsword who would work like a dog to be sure she was pampered and spoiled and happy.

It was an even odder thing to hate his father, though Jaime supposed all of Tywin Lannister’s children had always hated their father, or at least parts of him. The hate was always balanced out by admiration and fear, though. And respect, Jaime supposed.

His eyes lifted off the half-finished meal in front of him when he realized the mother of dragons had spoken to him.

“Hmm? Pardon, your grace?”

She lifted a pale eyebrow as she did whenever she was intrigued, surprised, or critical.

Then she let out a long-suffering sigh, “I said you have been here a long time now. Months, has it been? You’ve told me everything you know of Westeros. You’ve been genuine, so far as I can tell. Your disdain for your father and his wife seem genuine, too. Yet whenever I speak of plans for reclaiming my birthright, you shoot down each of my ideas. You rattle off a half dozen reasons why they won’t work, while offering no alternatives. I’d almost think it’s some cunning strategy. That your father sent you here to gain my trust then tear down all of my plans.”

Jaime snorted, “If my father knew I was here, he’d be so angry his heart would seize up.”

“Then perhaps I should make sure word of your presence here reaches him.”

Jaime offered a half smile, “As you say.”

She took a deep breath, “You say I don’t have enough men to take Westeros.”

“You don’t. Not a united Westeros that is no longer fighting amongst itself.”

“Yet you forget the masses that will flock to me – the one ruler willing to give them a better way of life. I do not seek the throne for the enterprise associated with it. I have no need for gold nor fancy silks.”

Jaime let his eyes dart down to the lavender silk frock she wore. It was pale, a perfect match for her eyes, and accented with enough pearls to buy a manse in Pentos, he would wager.

She rolled her eyes, “Wearing silk doesn’t mean needing silk, Ser Jaime. All the silk and gold in the world would have done me no good when I was marching across the deserts with what was left of my khalasar. You cannot eat gold, nor drink silk.”

“But you can shit gold, or so my father has proven.”

She smiled faintly at that, “He has mined it from his homelands, just as any man would were the Westerlands his home. It is a finite substance, hence its value. And his will someday run out, as will his luck – also finite, I’ve found.”

“But the power he has amassed will not.”

“Won’t it?” she lifted an eyebrow again, “I told you the masses will flock to me, to my cause, and I believe that. And this is not some blind belief, but experience.”

Jaime frowned, “Pray tell.”

Her smile widened, “Have you not heard about Astapor? It was trickery that I used to topple the Good Masters; trickery I will never regret because those men were never worthy of my honor nor my honesty. But I used no trickery to convince the fourteen thousand Unsullied men and boys to fight by my side. I offered them freedom from their slavery and gave them the option to join me. The vast majority chose to. They chose me.”

Jaime snorted, “Men raised from infancy to know only fighting. Men that didn’t even have names. Men that didn’t even have… the parts one normally possesses to be called a man to begin with. No skills other than combat. Of course, they fight for you, what other choice do they have? Well, I suppose they could get jobs at pleasure houses assuming they like taking it up the arse. They could work at the docks carrying crates – make, what, a few coppers a sennight? Of course, that isn’t enough to support a family, but since they’ll never have that problem…”

“What’s your point?” her cheeks flushed.

Jaime shrugged, “I rarely have a point, your grace. Only you seem to think slaves following you because you whip them less than their old masters—”

“I do not have them whipped at all!”

“Well, technically that is ‘less’. Anyway, you seem to think their loyalty is some measure of your qualifications as a ruler. It isn’t. Nor is it an indication that free men and women will follow you just as readily.”

“In every conversation I notice this theme, Ser Jaime… the theme of you trying to convince me I’m unworthy of the throne.”

“Hmm. Then I suppose I was making a point after all, and you and I both missed it the first time around. No - I’m not trying to convince you that you’re unworthy. I’m trying to inspire you to be worthy. Look, I hardy paid attention to my history lessons and even I know that more Targaryens were mad than sane.” He held up a hand when she began to protest, “Your ancestors conquered Westeros on the assumption that they were entitled to it, worthy of it… that it was their destiny and purpose and that they would be worshipped with almost God-like reverence. And do you know what? They were just people. People with dragons, then not even that. People who sometimes ruled well enough but also people who often did an utter shit job of ruling. Robert’s Rebellion was not the first time the people of Westeros decided enough was enough. For three hundred years your predecessors ruled and for three hundred years there were people who opposed their rule. The Faith Militant. The Blackfyres—”

“Radicals. Frauds.”

He shrugged “Probably. I will only say it takes a lot to push men of the Faith into bearing arms… Ugh, I’ve lost my trail of thought.”

“That makes two of us.”

Jaime snorted, “See? A sense of humor – a good sign that you’re not mad.”

“Glad to have your approval,” she rolled her eyes.

Jaime sighed, “I suppose I just mean that… I don’t know… Just because you think you’re entitled to something, doesn’t mean you must take it. Doesn’t mean it will make you happy.” He wasn’t sure why he went down that avenue. He had never intended to convince her to not try to claim the throne she so desperately wanted. In fact, he came here in large part driven by the notion that he could help her take it and in so doing get his vengeance.  

“Hmm… Like Casterly Rock, Ser? You could be sipping sweet wine on a castle overlooking the Sunset Sea, a pretty wife by your side, a passel of children playing at your feet, and enough gold to buy anything a man might desire.”

“Ah, noticed that, did you? Some men don’t desire anything that can be bought with gold.”

The corner of her mouth twitched upward, “As I’ve already said. Water in a desert can’t be bought with gold. Nor food during a famine. But I’m curious what it is that you are thinking of. What can’t Jaime Lannister buy with gold?”

Jaime shook his head faintly, “The best things in life. The surge of pride that comes only from victory on a battlefield – and no, I’m not talking about a victory that comes from watching your armies defeat another’s armies. I’m talking about the thrill of being in the thick of it, swinging a sword, taking blows, sacrificing your own blood and skin and living to tell the tale. It’s a rush. It’s… an escape.”

“Hmm. Anything else?” she asked while swirling the wine in her goblet.

He shrugged, “The tingle down your spine when a beautiful woman looks your way, not because you’re a potential customer but because she sees in you a man that she wants...” And, best of all, the full feeling in your chest when you join with the other half of your soul.

“If I am hearing you correctly, the simple answer to my question would be victory and love. Though I’m afraid gold can buy both, Ser. After my men sacked Yunkai, do you know what happened?”

He shrugged his lips, “You felt the surge I described that comes with a victory?”

She shook her head, “The slaves and sellswords chose to open the gates to me, and they didn’t do so reticently. They did so gladly, while calling me “Mhysa”. That means Mother. I freed them and they loved me for it. So perhaps it wasn’t gold that bought their love, but it was what I was able to do with my power, which came from, among other things, gold.”

“Hmm. They love you, eh?”

“Do men not love their mothers?” she arched an eyebrow and gently pushed her plate away, then rose with the grace of someone not just with young joints, but with an inherent surety of her own convictions. She walked toward her small balcony with the same air. It annoyed him for some reason to see such calm confidence, and he didn’t know why until he heard Tyrion snort inside his mind, “Because you thought you’d cornered the market on it, Not-so-Young Lion.”

Jaime stood and followed, crossing his arms over his chest and looking out toward the sea rather than at his young queen, “I’ve known more than a few men who hated their mothers. Besides, I heard about the sack of Yunkai. Your men tricked the sellsword companies who were hired to defend the city. You gave them three days to consider your offer then attacked that night after getting them drunk on gifted wine.”

“You object to my methods of winning battles?”

“Not at all. Truthfully, it’s precisely what I like to think I’d have done, though I know my own weaknesses enough to know that I likely never would have. But it’s definitely what my father would have done. He believes there is no place for honor in war. Another lesson for you, in case you should ever find yourself facing off with him. He will not be so easily fooled as drunken sellswords or slave masters. The slavers have gotten fat and soft, knowing their slaves and their gold and their sellswords protect them. I’d say the best thing you’ve done so far is to remind those men they are hardly invincible.”

She huffed, “That’s the best thing I’ve done? Not freeing the slaves of Yunkai? The Unsullied of Astapor?”

“I already told you what I think of you freeing the Unsullied. As for Yunkai? As I said, I heard the stories. Your men took the city unawares and gave the slaves and sellswords a choice. What was it again?”

She turned to him head-on and scowled, her cheeks turning a lovely shade of pink, “Swear loyalty to me… or die.”

At least she answered with the truth and looked me in the eye while doing it.

He wasn’t sure why this point was so important for him to make. When had he ever cared about the methods by which men were made to kneel, other than his preference for the Cersei method – how she would push down on his shoulders until his golden head was level with her golden cunt? The Targaryens had brought the independent kingdoms to the knee using dragonfire. Fire and blood. Yet he’d grown up sure that serving them was his destiny. Then everyone kneeled to Robert Baratheon – the least capable man for the job – because they were tired of war and because Robert was a sight to behold and because he was at least better than the Mad King. Oh, and because my father betrayed the Mad King through trickery, then had Gregor Clegane kill two of his heirs while the others had already been forced into exile.

He had never cared about any of it – the things men (and women) would do for a throne. For him, the realm at war might as well be two men fighting over a particularly top-heavy wench at a tavern. Except unlike a wench, the throne would give herself to only one man at a time, but beyond that she was hardly selective. She’d let any man sit on her – whether he be as fat as Robert Baratheon or as rotten smelling as Aerys II Targaryen after his fifth straight month without a bath.

Perhaps it didn’t matter why Jaime suddenly cared, only that he did. He was tired of seeing worthless fuck after worthless fuck on the throne. Aerys II. Robert Baratheon. Joffrey Baratheon.

Tywin Lannister.

He clenched his teeth. He could admit his father would rule better than any man who’d come before him – better than even the best of the Targaryen kings – but it didn’t change the fact that his father didn’t deserve the thing. It might have been suicide, but he could have made a bid for the throne after helping to take it from the Mad King’s clutches. Hells, he could have sat Robert down, described to him all the bureaucratic and political horseshit a king had to wade through each day, and Robert would’ve handed him the crown and high-tailed it to Storm’s End with Lyanna Stark’s ghost.

But instead he let Robert turn himself and the Crown into a laughingstock, debt waxing and power waning with each year. He could abide that, abide knowing that Robert fucked whores and disrespected Cersei on a near daily basis, but he couldn’t abide another day of having a grandson on the throne, with himself effectively as Regent. For decades Tywin Lannister toiled away in his office, managing the kingdoms well, while Aerys II Targaryen fucked half the ladies of court then graduated to raping his sister-wife. And still, Tywin Lannister made the man look good, capable, sane… But he couldn’t do the same for his own blood?!

Jaime’s fists curled. It didn’t matter that Joffrey was unfit to rule – Tywin could have ruled in all but name as he’d done for the Mad King. Instead he took Joffrey’s birthright… he took what Cersei had endured nearly two decades of Robert Baratheon’s boorish behavior for. And he didn’t take it because he’d finally had enough of inept kings. No – he took it for a girl of six-and-ten.

What happened to ‘we’re the lions, they’re but sheep’, Father? I stood in your tent and watched you plan to destroy all of the Riverlands, no matter how many redheads would bleed. But one of them was simply too tempting, hmm? Gods, you’re just like Rhaegar Targaryen, lusting after a girl of four-and-ten… If my mother was still alive, would you have left her to chase after Sansa Stark?

Jaime was tired of it… Tired of the hypocrisy of the throne. Tired of kings who were either good or capable, never both.

He let his eyes move to the girl he’d sought out without any solid plan in mind. She was clever, did that mean she’d be capable? She was loved by her freed slaves, which was a start, Jaime supposed. He concluded that, yes, she had the potential to be capable and loved. To be just. To wake up a continent of sheep. But she was about to repeat the mistakes of her ancestors – use fire and blood to claim her birthright…

Jaime moved quickly, wrapping a hand around the girl’s almost comically tiny neck and pressing her back to the well next to the balcony. Ser Jorah had his dagger to Jaime’s throat a heartbeat later, as Jaime knew he would.

He held Daenerys’ neck not tightly enough to restrict her blood or breath, but just enough to make a point, “Let’s say I’m an assassin sent by a surviving slave master from Yunkai or Astapor. Or Tywin Lannister. If I release your neck, am I doing it because I want to, or because, if I don’t, your guard will kill me?”

Her cheeks darkened, her teeth clenched, “You know the answer to that, Ser.

Jaime smirked, “Right. But perhaps that’s not the best example, is it? Assassins are mercenaries by nature. They lack the principles of people like you and me, don’t they? So let’s say Ser Jorah isn’t here…”

It took a moment, but eventually Daenerys looked at the old knight and flicked her head as well as she could within Jaime’s grip. The man took another few moments to lower his dagger, and that’s when Jaime made his move. Just as the knight went to sheath the short blade Jaime reached back for the man’s long one. Before the girl even knew what was happening, Jaime was behind her, his left hand on her neck while his right held the longsword’s point at Ser Jorah’s hairy throat. The northman stared back in shock.

This time, Jaime squeezed. Daenerys struggled but she was like a child in his arms; he rather thought he could subdue her entire body with his pinkie. Both her hands pulled and scraped at his forearm, but he kept squeezing in the place he knew would cut off blood supply to her brain without damaging her windpipe.

“Do you love me, your grace?” he whispered in her ear, in the same husky voice that used to bring Cersei to her knees. She shook her head as best she was able, and Jaime could feel the defiance in her entire body.

He squeezed harder. She had mere seconds now before blacking out.

“Do. You. Love. Me?”

Another shake. Girl had balls; he’d give her that.

“Last chance… Ser Jorah can’t save you. Do you love me?”

Another heartbeat passed before she was nodding jerkily within his grip. He released her instantly and brought the hand to her waist so she wouldn’t fall hard on her knees, “There you go, your grace. It’s alright now.”

Ser Jorah’s face, which had looked pale with fright was now downright apoplectic, “You fucking fool! You could have killed her.”

Jaime rolled her eyes, “No, I could have made her pass out. At which point I would have released my hold and she’d have awoken within minutes, more likely seconds.”

Jaime lowered the sword and wasn’t surprised when the knight reached for Daenerys to pull her to his idea of safety, which meant behind his back.

“You would risk our queen’s life to prove a fucking point?” the man bellowed in Jaime’s face.

Jaime felt himself grinning, but only with his lips, “You’re risking her life by never telling her the harsh truth. I’ve heard all about the cities our queen liberated. The butcher who killed her council members in Astapor and has enslaved the nobles – and not just those who abused their slaves, but women and children whose only crime was being born with pure blood! Yunkai is raising a resistance, trying to form power blocks against her! The freed slaves right here in Meereen are asking her permission to enslave themselves again, for fuck’s sake! Is this how she intends to conquer Westeros? Go kingdom by kingdom with her slaves and savages and dragons, offering a choice to kneel or die? What happens as soon as she turns around to move onto the next kingdom, hm? The same people who kneeled and kissed her feet and called her queen and proclaimed their love for the one true ruler of Westeros will slip their daggers out of their belts and stab her in the back.”

“Like you stabbed her father in the back, Kingslayer?”

“I didn’t stab him in the back, I sliced him open in the front, slaver!”

“ENOUGH!” Daenerys yelled so loudly her voice cracked. She pushed herself away from Jorah, and he let her. Then she turned around and slapped Jaime hard on the cheek. Hard enough to twist his head. Gods, she reminded him so much of Cersei sometimes. He cursed himself for finally giving into Missandei’s insistence and letting himself be garbed in light linens and paper silks, because if Daenerys slapped him like that again the summer fabric would do nothing to hide his excitement.

The little queen stepped up to the much taller Kingslayer, her lips curled back in a snarl, “If you ever put your hands on me again, I will not care whether you do so to make a point, or even if it’s to swat a poisonous spider off my shoulder, I will have your golden head sent to your father in King’s Landing and feed your golden body to my children. Am I clear?”

He raised one finger, “Question.”

Her eyes narrowed, “What?” she spat.

“What if you ask me to put my hands on you?”

Ser Jorah scoffed and reached for the sword pommel, Jaime letting him take it.

Daenerys crossed her arms over her chest, but Jaime saw a smirk gradually forming on her lips, “If the day ever comes when I’m that desperate, I’ll help myself to what I want – and your hands will have nothing to do with it.”

She turned without even taking the time to gloat, like Jaime would’ve done. Ser Jorah fell in behind her after casting another scowl in Jaime’s direction, then they both were gone from the room and Jaime’s two minders stepped in to let him know it was time to return to his cage. A large, airy, luxuriously appointed room, but still a cage.

Notes:

I've decided that Jaime is my favorite character to write. I have always known he was in the top 3 but I'm ready to officially crown him as king of the characters. Credit to GRRM for creating such a nuanced character who is hateable and loveable, killable and fuckable. [Sighs dreamily].

Who are the other faves, you ask? Oh, you didn't ask? Well I'll tell you anyway: Tyrion and Sandor. I guess it's the cynicism, or the fact that those characters know their flaws but also their attributes. That self-deprecation paired with arrogance is so delicious. [Chef's kiss]. Lots of characters in ASOIAF are arrogant, few are self-deprecating (case in point: Cersei, Tywin, Petyr, Renly, Stannis, Loras, Lysa). Then you have the ones who aren't arrogant, per se, but are rigid in their convictions but also not self-deprecating (virtually all the Starks but especially Catelyn, Ned, Arya, Jon; Brienne; Selyse; Daenerys).

Then the shining star of characters is Davos - he is self-deprecating and humble but not spineless. Is there another character in ASOIAF who fits that bill? Maybe Willas but we don't know him well enough. He might be one of those hoity-toity intellectuals - the book geek who looks down on everyone who isn't as learned as him. I don't think he is, but it's possible. Maybe Beric but he gets on his high horse now and then.

Ah well... Hope you enjoyed the long chapter.

Chapter 31: Is this what you want?

Notes:

Hi everyone! Thanks for your patience. I worked on fleshing out some more of the outline. I now know what needs to happen in every chapter between here and the end (about 8 more after this?) and some of it is written, but not most.

This chapter is mainly a filler, but it's fluffy and smutty so I hope it won't bore you.

Hopefully there won't be months at a time between the rest of the chapters, but it all depends on my time and muse!

Chapter Text

Sansa

She took a deep breath, inhaling a smell that was both new and nostalgic to her: the scent of autumn. Flowers were blooming in the royal gardens that probably hadn’t bloomed in a decade, and the leaves on some trees were starting to show hints of an earthy red and warm orange. Sansa had been born during the end of a winter but could remember nothing but spring and summer. But spring and summer at Winterfell was much like autumn south of the Neck, as she was now learning. These hardy plants that were blooming white, scarlet, rust red, and vivid yellow were ones that could be found in the vast godswood forest of Winterfell.

“Is this when you say ‘winter is coming’, your grace?”

Sansa tore her eyes from the new blooms to find Margaery smiling at her playfully.

Sansa smiled back, “Not yet, I hope. I pray for a long autumn. The Riverlands and North are desperate to reap what they may of the cold weather vegetables before the ground freezes.” She didn’t add that the ground was already frozen for everything north of the Barrowlands. From House Cerwyn’s lands up, all effort was going into those crops that could be grown indoors or in glass gardens, not to mention hunting before deep snows made it harder to apprehend game.

“As do I, though my reasons are less noble,” Margaery made an exaggerated shiver and rubbed her upper arms.

“I think I should like to see a winter. Snow sounds so beautiful,” Shireen bashfully smiled at the older ladies as the three continued their stroll through the godswood.

Stannis Baratheon’s only child had been blessed with a sharp mind and generous heart, but the gods hadn’t smiled on her otherwise. At only one and ten she was of a height with Margaery due to a recent growth spurt that left her looking gangly rather than regal. Sansa herself was tall yet couldn’t recall ever looking so lanky, perhaps because her torso and legs were in proportion, or because her hips had come in before she sprouted upward, and her breasts quickly followed. At Shireen’s age, it was expected that she had neither hips nor teats, but Sansa suspected the girl would never have much of either. Her shoulders were broad, giving her a top-heavy look that wasn’t aided by her square chin or protruding ears. Of course, most who looked upon poor Shireen would notice her greyscale scars before her boyish figure. Sansa felt sorry for the girl, knowing few would look past the exterior. She wondered if perhaps Bran could sire children despite Maester Luwin’s near certainty that he never would. Bran would appreciate Shireen’s mind, her curiosity about the world and love for learning. Shireen wouldn’t be turned off by Bran’s crippled legs and he wouldn’t be turned off by her scaly, discolored cheek and neck.

Sansa banished the thoughts of her brother, though not without difficulty. There’d been no word received from the Wall that he and his guides had arrived there, to Sansa’s knowledge. It was bad enough to worry for Bran, gentle Hodor, loyal Jojen and Meera Reed. Sansa had given her blessing to Bran’s mission because she saw no way of stopping him, and because she felt Mother and Arya had more right to forbid him than she did. But to wonder if Sansa had sent good, honorable Brienne to her death was haunting Sansa daily unless she kept herself occupied. Brienne was principled but not rigid, compassionate but not soft, clever but not a braggard.

“Well,” Sansa began, cutting her musings short, “snow is beautiful indeed. It is white and soft, delicate such that a single flake or even a flurry of them melt the moment they touch your skin or even your clothes, but an entire storm of snow can be treacherous. I’ve only seen dustings of it during summer snowstorms, but when it coats the limbs of a tree or the fields of wild grass, it turns each leaf and blade into a sparkling diamond. And it is also fun to play in. Once when I was very young, while my brother Bran was just a newborn, we had enough snow on the ground to form it into tight balls and throw them at one another.”

Shireen’s eyes widened in awe while Margaery offered a more sedate but still genuine smile.

“Who did, your grace?” Shireen asked eagerly.

“Myself, my brothers Robb and Jon, and my sister Arya who was young but already quite rowdy. Oh, and Ser Rodrik joined in the fun but only after Arya hit his bare neck with a snowball. He pretended to be mad, but I still remember the way he bit his lip to keep from smiling.”

“He sounds like Maester Cressen. He’s a very warm man but always tried to look serious around father.”

“He sounds like my father, as well,” Margaery added, “he’s always been a jovial sort. At least when his children are around. Garlan is just like him in that regard.”

“What of Ser Loras, my lady?” Shireen asked in a low voice even though their only escorts today were Uncle Brynden and Ser Colton along with one of Margaery’s guards. Shireen obviously had an innocent attraction to Ser Loras, much like Sansa once had. The man’s face was certainly worthy of admiration, as was his sword arm, but a woman’s attention was utterly wasted on him.

Margaery shrugged her lips, “Loras was fun, always up for a laugh, but he tended to take things too seriously at times.”

“Serious isn’t bad…” Shireen spoke meekly.

“Of course, it isn’t,” Sansa agreed, but her mind was elsewhere. She was thinking of her siblings, how much fun and mischief they’d gotten into during childhood. Lady Margaery could share such memories, having three brothers. But Shireen had no one but the strange fool Patchface that made chills run down Sansa’s spine with simple but seemingly significant rhymes, like ‘In the cold the dead are dancing. In the dark a red eye’s glancing’.

Sansa thought of her daughters. Yes, they’d always have each other so long as both survived the winter to come. But she knew sisters, particularly ones close in age, could be at odds more often than not. She wanted her girls to have other siblings, preferably brothers.

And as quickly as the thought had arisen, it became a compulsion.

She cleared her throat, “Well, I think I’ve stretched my legs enough for today and it’s time I relieved the nurse. If you ladies will excuse me?”

Her companions smiled kindly as they nodded. Sansa felt no guilt to depart earlier than expected as she made a point to walk with Shireen and Margaery thrice a week. They were also both given prime seating when Sansa held her lady’s court in the small hall or in the gardens, weather permitting. It was important that Shireen not be ostracized and just as important that the Tyrell’s vanity was appeased. But Sansa was also selfish in keeping her friends close; it created a buffer between her and the ladies of court who had stood by while Joffrey turned Sansa into a whipping post. She knew better than to assume that meant they shared Joffrey’s malevolence, but Sansa couldn’t help but be distrustful of those lords and ladies who’d never taken a stand.

But it was another thought pushed away for now. Sansa was eager to see her girls, who’d recently celebrated their first nameday.

And she was even more eager to see her husband, because there was something she needed that only he could give.

 

Tywin

If it were up to Tywin, summer would be never-ending. Well, he supposed Spring and Autumn had their merits in terms of planting and reaping, but Winter served no purpose whatsoever. A man as busy as a king (well, a man as busy King Tywin Lannister) couldn’t afford to start yawning only a few hours after the midday meal because the sun was already sitting low in the sky, tricking his body into thinking it was nighttime. He’d been a young man when the last winter ended, and he was certain he’d be a dead man before the next one even peaked. He didn’t feel old most days, but the fact that his hands and feet easily became chilled told him that he was old. No, not Walder Frey old, but old enough.

The day he needed to sit with a pile of blankets over his lap was the day he’d do the world a favor and throw himself off the balcony, spare everyone from another feeble, lack-witted, needy old man.

He nodded curtly at Ser Colton and Ser Loras as they held open the doors to the royal apartments. He made his way to the dining hall only to frown upon finding it empty. Shutting the door he proceeded to the nursery. He found Rayna knitting in the rocking chair, the girls both sleeping in their cribs.

“Where is her grace?”

Rayna frowned, “I’m not certain, your grace. If not in the dining hall, perhaps she went to bed?”

“It’s… Never mind,” he shut the door quietly so as not to wake the girls and proceeded to the chambers husband and wife shared, feeling a mild panic that was only alleviated when he noticed a spread of food had been set out on a side bureau. Still, his wife was not in sight.

He was about to walk through to the adjoining queen’s bedchamber when he heard Sansa call out, “Ty, is that you?”

He sighed and approached the dressing screen from where his wife’s voice had come, “May I ask why we’re not eating in the dining hall?”

He heard fabric rustling as she answered, “I was in the mood for something more… casual.”

Tywin sighed again, “Fine. A messenger came from Dragonstone today.”

“Oh?”

“Mm,” Tywin turned and approached the bureau, finding a small platter of cheese tartes beneath a silver lid, “The first of many war galleys is complete. Not so large as the Fury had been, but I did advise Stannis to emphasize quantity over size.” He popped the pastry into his mouth.

“Oh? I thought all men were obsessed with the size of their… ships.”

He finished chewing and swallowing while rolling his eyes, “Funny. Perhaps men who must compensate for other shortcomings.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Sansa’s voice became clearer as she emerged from the screen just as Tywin was popping a grape into his mouth, “I’ve only ever known one man, and nothing about him is short.”

She strode to the bureau and poured herself a goblet of white wine, ignoring Tywin as she plucked off a few grapes and turned to walk to the settee. He was glad she didn’t look at him, because she’d see that he hadn’t gotten the grape past his front teeth, frozen as he was.

A few blinks and he was able to cross the room to join her, though he stood instead of sitting, looming over her as she daintily brought one bare leg and then the other under her body, leaning against the arm of the settee. He had a rather enjoyable vantage point of the top of her milky breasts, on display thanks to the fact that she wore naught but a silk corset under her gauzy pink robe, which was closed at the solar plexus with a single clasp. She had expertly arranged the flowing fabric when she sat down to hide everything between her thighs and the clasp, but Tywin had a strong hunch she wore no smallclothes.

Sansa sipped her wine then looked up at him, “Did he include a letter for Lady Shireen this time?”

“What? Eh, yes. I had Tyrion deliver it to her personally.”

“Good. I feared my hint may have been too subtle.”

Tywin couldn’t remember how precisely Sansa had worded the letter she sent to Stannis to update him on Shireen’s adjustment to life in the capital, which was done not just out of respect for Stannis but to tell him that he ought to send a letter to his daughter, only he thought his wife was too smart to think subtle hints would be noticed by Stannis Baratheon. Perhaps his second-in-command, Ser Davos, the wily old smuggler, had translated Sansa’s words into plain speech for his master, but Tywin didn’t rightly care at the moment. A mere half hour ago he was lamenting his weakened circulation, but he no longer harbored such concerns. Perhaps the journey from heart to toes was a strain on his nearly sixty-year-old ticker, but the journey from heart to cock was nothing it couldn’t handle.

Sansa leaned back, wine goblet in one hand, the other resting on the back of the settee, “Aren’t you going to sit down?”

“I like the view from here.”

She dropped her eyes to the part of his person about level with her face, “I know what you mean.”

He wanted to chuckled but couldn’t because he was still in a very pleasant state of shock. Sansa was rarely the one to initiate their marital encounters; no matter how much she enjoyed them, her lessons on propriety were too deeply engrained and their marriage was still relatively young. He looked forward to the day his wife mauled him within moments of his arriving in their chambers. Then again, the girls would be mobile soon, and as previously established he wasn’t getting any younger, so perhaps he ought to be careful what he wished for. He’d hate to be mauled only to have the moment interrupted by a toddler wanting to climb on Papa’s lap. And he’d definitely hate to be mauled only to find his cock couldn’t match Sansa’s enthusiasm.

But that day wasn’t here yet, and Sansa’s gaze was as good as any caress. He felt himself gradually stiffen before her eyes, slowly and steadily, until the bulge beneath his belt was noticeable.

He closed most of the space between them, putting himself in front of her, and brought his right hand to her hair, lacing his fingers into the loose strands that were straight near the scalp and wavy at the ends, no doubt of the result of the braid she’d worn all day. He preferred her hair this way, and she knew it. Wild, unkempt, unbrushed. It shamefully reminded him of the first time he’d laid eyes on her, sitting in the Lord’s Chamber of Harrenhal in nothing but a drying sheet, her hair loose and slightly curly from having been airdried and un-combed; not a speck of powder on her cheeks or a dab of rouge on her lips; no sapphires twined into her hair; no rubies on her fingers or gold around her neck; no adornment whatsoever, and all the more beautiful for it. If only she hadn’t been so terrified that night, so hungry, because that meant he couldn’t savor the memory as well as he’d like to.

He rubbed his thumb gently against her cheekbone, still sharp as ever even if she’d given birth only fourteen moon turns ago. She gazed up at him now, her eyes nothing but a pair of diamonds in the room lit only by the fire in the hearth and the candles on the bureau and on each of the tables that abutted the settee.

“Not that I’m complaining, but what’s the occasion?” he asked in his smoothest voice.

Her cheeks darkened noticeably, but her lack of practice in seduction was still refreshing and arousing to him, “I want another child, Tywin. I want our girls to have brothers and sisters. An entire pack. Or pride.”

Gods, but there was something wrong with the world if Sansa Stark, young and painfully beautiful, felt the need to wear a flimsy robe over nothing but a corset to encourage her husband, the bitter old lion, to fuck a child into her.

And there was something wrong with him, that it only further swelled his cock and his pride.

He nodded faintly, “Are you asking me to give you my seed tonight?”

Speaking the words made his cock twitch. Seeing Sansa swallow while her chest rose and fell almost made him explode.

“Yes,” she eventually answered, then her eyes went back to his groin, seemingly of their own accord.

When a delicate hand came up to grip his length through too many blasted layers of fabric, he couldn’t help but lean into it.

They had been careful once Sansa stopped nursing the twins. He spilled on her belly or backside, on one occasion in her mouth, but never inside her womb. He already hated himself for, even if unwittingly, impregnating her when she was barely a day past six and ten. He refused to further test her body’s strength by making her carry children back-to-back. She was no broodmare and, as far as he was concerned, he had his heir and three spares, no matter that one felt increasingly lost to him.

Yet there was no denying the fact that he wanted more children, and he wanted them soon so that he’d at least live long enough to be an influence in their lives even if not to guide them in adulthood. That would be Sansa’s job, with the support of all the men Tywin trusted to be loyal to his heirs. Tyrion. Addam Marbrand. Jaime, if he could set aside his self-righteousness and remember that family was everything in this world. Ser Brynden, should he outlive Tywin. Ser Daven, Tywin’s nephew-by-law and first-cousin-once-removed by blood. Stannis Baratheon, in times of war. Lord Antario Jast. Ser Lucion Lannister. Tommen, if Tywin could make a man out of him in the next decade or two.

After setting down the goblet, Sansa’s hands worked on his laces, separating the black suede to reveal the linen braies, which she lowered enough to reveal his engorged cock. A different kind of woman, one who enjoyed teasing a man until he was so desperate for pleasure that he’d promise her his name, his gold, the moon and the stars, would have prolonged the moment. But Sansa played no games – not with him, at least. One hand gripped him enough to pull his sheath back and then her lips were softly pressed against his tip, as lovingly as she might kiss him on the cheek.

As arousing as the sight was, he let his head drop back and closed his eyes, better to feel every whisper of a kiss, every swipe of a tongue, the encompassing warmth of her mouth when she sucked on the tip of him, so lightly it tickled in the best possible way. He enjoyed the attention for a few minutes, let her play with him in a way that straddled the line between pleasure and tease, but eventually decided to dispense with the self-indulgence.

With a gentle nudge he pushed her back and took a seat beside her, wasting not a moment to pull her onto his lap. Her quim was warm and slick where it rested on his cock, and Tywin found it hard not to smile.

While working the clasp of her robe open and parting the crushed silk fabric, Tywin kept his eyes on her breasts. He might become hypnotized by the sight of them rising and falling, threatening to spill over the top of the corset’s cups. His wife had returned nearly to the figure she’d had before carrying his children. Her waist wasn’t quite so tiny that he could almost wrap it with his hands, but her widened hips and fuller breasts made it appear slenderer. He’d not have faulted her for carrying an extra stone of weight, but wasn’t good enough a man to pretend he didn’t enjoy her maidenly figure. The fact that it was a long walk from Maegor’s to anywhere else in the Red Keep had helped whittle her down, and nursing not one babe but two probably didn’t hurt.

He realized he was staring only when Sansa’s hands came to his forearms, still covered in his quilted leather coat. They slid up his arms then together to meet at the buttons going down the middle, patiently loosening each until his tunic was exposed. Then her warm hands – how are her hands always warm? – went up under the bottom hem to stroke up his belly to his chest.

He let his own hands drift from where they’d been holding her waist to her hips, his long fingers resting on the curve of her backside, then squeezing as he pulled her down and forward to stroke along his length.

“Tywin,” Sansa breathed, breaking the silence that had blanketed them long minutes ago. His name on her lips never failed to make him swell, though he considered her slickness a contributing factor.

“Are you so ready because you were thinking about taking my seed? Or is it from tasting my cock?”

She blushed as she always did when he spoke so vulgarly, though he knew she loved it. Verbal foreplay was his domain, since Sansa was too shy to participate. He’d once tortured her mercilessly with his tongue, bringing her to the cusp of rapture but never letting her take that dive until she said the words he’d prompted her to say. Please keep licking my cunt. Suffice to say, after giving her what she was after he found his completion embarrassingly quickly – hence the one time he spilled his seed down her throat.

“Yes,” she answered after a few moments of thought.

Tywin chuckled, but the unevolved part of him wanted to bare his fangs and snarl at his she-wolf, his lioness. He wanted to snap and growl and nip at her flesh like a dog trying to subdue his desired mate. Only Sansa wouldn’t growl back and try to evade his advances like bitches did. No… No matter how ladylike she was, no matter how many blushes stained her cheeks, she was more like a cat in heat presenting her loins, though at least Sansa was far more discerning in who could mate her.

Tywin had no idea why these crude, primal thoughts were assailing him as he slowly worked her hips back and forth, stroking the underside of his shaft, dragging the foreskin to-and-fro. Though with a bit of thought he realized the answer was quite obvious. Though he’d sired children on her, he’d never intended to. This would be the first time in their nearly two years together that he tried to impregnate her. And fuck if he wasn’t just as bad as any animal because he damned sure wasn’t going to do it from the bottom.

He rose abruptly, one hand under Sansa’s bum, the other holding the back waistband of his pants. He strode out of the sitting area into the sleeping area and up the single step to the platform where his bed sat, dropping Sansa down inelegantly. She immediately brought her feet up to the mattress and went to her elbows, watching hungrily while Tywin ripped off his coat, tunic, boots, stockings, pants, and underpants. He lifted and tossed her up the bed as he climbed on, then wasted not a moment in devouring the top of each breast, sliding his tongue beneath the silk to caress each nipple. He then drew a wet trail from her breastbone up to her chin before biting gently, his lips curled back more than necessary because he felt downright feral.

Without abandoning his bite, he gripped his cock and began pumping it against her nub, stroking up and down as he did, making his wife cry out.

He let her flesh go and pushed up on his free hand, staring down at Sansa who looked as dazed as she normally did after peaking, not before.

“Is this what you want?” he asked, wondering when he’d become so cruel before remembering he’d always been cruel, just usually not toward Sansa.

She nodded as she pushed up on her elbows again, reaching for his lips with her own but he pulled away.

“Tell me. Say it.”

She growled at him, “Tywin.”

“Say it,” he repeated mercilessly, only now paired with a smirk.

Indignantly, with a note of challenge in her tone, she delivered his gift, “I want your cock, Tywin. I want your seed.”

With a satisfied groan he lined up with her entrance and was ready to surge forward but suddenly Sansa’s hand was there, wrapped around the head of his cock that wasn’t covered by his own hand as her thighs closed somewhat, squeezing his hips.

He met her eyes in confusion and found her grinning like a cat with a plump mouse between her teeth.

“Is this what you want?” she asked innocently yet oh so seductively as she swirled his cock, tickling the tip which was just barely pressed into her entrance.

“Sneaky little witch,” he grumbled, though he couldn’t help but smile to see his she-wolf had come out to play.

She rose up until her lips were close enough to kiss if he just tilted his chin forward, “I want your seed, Tywin,” she repeated, “I want you to fill me with it while I scream your name. I want you to fuck a cub into me.”

She concluded with a kiss to his jaw and he closed his eyes and shivered, wondering whether to surrender now, because he’d never win the battle of being wanted more than wanting. Not when he wanted his wife so badly it hurt. Not when his cock was leaking and his stones were so tight he felt the need to reach down and tug at them. Not when he would gladly die while buried to the hilt in his wife’s cunt. Not when he’d burn down the world for her, if it was the only way to keep her in his bed.

He felt himself throbbing and knew she felt it, too.

And yet he realized he could lose without surrendering. He opened his eyes and peered at her as she laid back, confident that she’d won and ready to enjoy the taste of victory and the feeling of being filled with her husband’s cock.

“You want to be bred like a bitch in heat?” he asked casually, then shrugged, “So be it.”

Before she could even suspect his intentions, he was lifting her shoulders and rolling her to her belly, straddling her plump little bottom, separating her cheeks just enough to nestle his cock between them.

“Tywin,” she growled, this time in irritation.

He widened his kneeling stance enough to make space to pull her hips up then immediately put his left hand on the back of her neck. She turned her head to the side, thus Tywin could see the look of rapture on her face when he slid all the way inside her with one sharp thrust. Mouth open wide and eyes shut tight, she sucked in a gulp of air and didn’t stop panting because he didn’t stop moving. He stayed deep and gave short, rapid thrusts – his wife’s favorite.

“Oh gods!” she shrieked into the blanket her hands were fisting. He suspected she’d peak tonight without either of them touching her nub, assuming he could maintain this pace and make it to the finish marker. When her panting turned into the repetition of his name in that tone that was pleading and warning and awe all rolled into one, he was sure of it, and grateful for it, because this was a pace even a sand steed couldn’t maintain for long.

When his name was replaced by the word ‘yes’, panted out in time with his rutting, he thanked the gods he didn’t believe in. Then she screamed out his name loudly enough to hurt her throat and his ears, the second syllable turning into a sob that faded into a deep mewl of satisfaction. He slowed his pace and lengthened his strokes and it took only a few before he was crashing her hips back hard against him and giving her what she wanted: his seed.

When he collapsed to his back beside her it was with a sheen of sweat covering him from head to toe, his tongue dry, his breaths short and shallow, and a buzzing in his ears.

Eventually his breathing evened out, the buzz dissipated, and his clammy skin felt chilled instead of over-warm. He sluggishly put one foot then the other onto the floor and made his way to the bureau, pouring and guzzling an entire goblet of water before pulling a long sleeping shirt from the wardrobe. He then inspected the supper his wife had ordered, filling a plate with a couple more cheese tarts, some cold ham, and a handful of grapes.

“Are you hungry?” he called over his shoulder but got no response.

He brought his plate to the bed, deciding that since they were eating in their bedchamber they might as well eat in their bed.

“Sansa?” he spoke again as he approached Sansa’s side, rolling his eyes at the ridiculous yet utterly decadent sight of his wife, robe-covered from waist up, bare ass naked below that, lying on her stomach with one leg sprawled out to the side. He watched her torso rise and fall heavily, listened to the sound of deep breathing, and had another realization…

I fucked her to sleep.

The smirk on his lips would be enough to make someone question his sanity if they were here to see it. He rounded the bed, got under the covers, ate his dinner, and decided he might just survive the winter, after all.

Chapter 32: You can keep your dignity

Notes:

I *may* end up doing only one POV per chapter, even if it means the chapters are shorter and the total # of chapters increases. Not sure yet.

Hope you enjoy this chapter that - spoiler alert - doesn't feature TySan.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Jon

Their group could not have been more motley if they were a troupe of mummers from one of the Free Cities.

A black ranger who rode an elk, who refused to show his face after initially revealing it to Jon and only Jon, whose hands were black with frostbite but still worked as if the tissue wasn’t long dead.

A simple-minded giant of a man who could only speak his own name: Hodor.

A she-knight who dwarfed all of them but Hodor.

A crippled boy who spoke with a wisdom and assurance that men of forty namedays rarely had.

A spry Crannog-woman who could spot and spear a snowshoe hare from twenty paces or toss her ringed net around it from the same distance as easily as the men of House Ryswell could lasso a colt.

A tiny Crannog-man who shared Bran’s uncanny wisdom but not Bran’s smiles. Rather, Jojen Reed offered suggestions that sounded more like commands.

A Night’s Watch deserter, or so the Watch would think after Jon had spent another stretch of who-knows-how-many months north of the Wall.

Oh, and two direwolves that came up to Jon’s armpits.

Back at the Nightfort, after reuniting with kin for the first time in ages, Jon had seen no way to get Summer, Bran’s wolf, down the kitchen well that led to the portal through the Wall. But unlike the horses they had no choice but to leave south of the Nightfort, Bran had refused to be parted from his pet, and told Jon he would warg into the wolf’s mind then let a rope be tied around his wolf chest so that Summer could be eased down by Hodor and Jon while Brienne descended the metal ladder built into the wall of the well, one hand on the rungs and the other around Summer’s hips so the weight wouldn’t have the wolf slipping through the rope. Jon had offered to be the one to guide Summer down but Brienne had looked at him with a pale, raised brow. Ygritte had once looked at him that way before offering a shrug that conveyed, “You’ll do, Crow.” In Brienne’s case it was a much less appreciative gaze. Jon was tall but rangy, and she seemed to be doing some math in her head to determine how much lighter he was than Summer when he rolled his eyes and told her that if she wanted to be that close to a wolf’s arse for a thirty-foot descent, she could be his guest.

But beast and woman made it down without a scratch. Jon went down with Bran strapped to his back because the well was hardly wide enough for Hodor to do the same. Jojen followed. Then Meera and Hodor lowered all their supplies, including Bran’s sled, by the same length of rope that was used for Summer. Meera had to come down above Hodor to keep him on his descent because the giant man was afraid of heights, apparently, and didn’t much care for the dark.

With a blush on his cheeks, Jon had spoken the Night’s Watch vow to the face in the portal, just as the ranger had told him when they approached from the north. Apparently, the face didn’t see him as a deserter. He hoped it wasn’t simply giving anyone with a black cloak the benefit of the doubt.

But that had been over a month ago. Now they spent their days in the cavern of the last greenseer, as Jojen referred to the red-eyed creature that Jon tried not to look at, north of Craster’s Keep and south of the Antler River. All but the ranger, who either couldn’t or chose not to enter the underground space. The wolves mostly kept him company; they didn’t like his smell, Jon knew from his time slipping into Ghost’s skin, but they preferred him over the greenseer, and Jon couldn’t blame them.

Rounding out their odd party were a few dozen, by Jon’s estimates, of the ones who called themselves singers but who Jon and his companions thought of as children of the forest. He couldn’t be sure their precise number, since they largely looked the same to him, and only two of them spoke the Common Tongue. Leaf and Ivy, those two called themselves. Leaf spoke well, using full sentences that consisted of subjects and verbs. Ivy spoke in clipped phrases, rarely of any import, and rarely anything remotely flattering. She continued to refer to Jon as “hairy, smelly man-child”, or “man-child” for brevity, much to his embarrassment, particularly when Meera was around to smirk at him over it. Brienne was “big woman”, Hodor was “giantsblood”, Jojen was “little man-child”, Meera was “rabbit skinner”, and Bran was “little crow”.  

It was an odd thing to spend every day both frightened and bored – the two sensations should not coexist – but that was precisely how Jon would describe himself. Being north of the Wall meant he was constantly wary – no matter that Leaf said the cave was protected from Others and their thralls through some ancient magic, the same kind that was woven into the Wall itself, purportedly. Being hosted by creatures who weren’t quite human and a man who wasn’t quite alive did nothing to ease his mind.

And yet, after the first few days of being hyper-alert, flinching at every sound, grabbing his sword’s grip at every flash of movement, Jon found himself bored. Boredom was a luxury he wasn’t accustomed to since leaving his boyhood home years ago, and he didn’t know how to handle it so instead he attempted to solve it by keeping busy.

Keeping busy often meant sparring with Lady Brienne. The woman made for a worthy opponent, her cumbersome-looking frame belying speed and dexterity. Her blows were as powerful as any man’s. Her instincts were sharp. It was apparent that she’d been trained well but her skills were more inherent than learned, he mused.

Brienne was also a good source of information on the goings-on south of the Wall. She told him how the war ended abruptly and largely peacefully after Stannis Baratheon was defeated in the Blackwater Bay and Tywin Lannister took Joffrey’s throne and his bride.

His bride being Sansa. Though Jon had never felt protective of Sansa the way he did Arya, he cringed to think of his softest sibling being made to marry that man. The man who waged war in the Riverlands – a war which ultimately led to Robb’s death. The man who sired the woman who sired the boy who killed Jon’s father. The man who, decades past, tricked the then-king into opening the city gates to his army, then proceeded to allow that army to rape and loot. The man who eliminated an entire house that had opposed his and did it so cruelly and efficiently that a song was written about the event.

That man was now the King of the Seven Kingdoms, and the sire of Jon’s nieces. Brienne told him about them, too. Jeyne and Jocelyn, Sansa’s twin daughters, born before Sansa’s seventeenth nameday.

Jon had been willing and perhaps even eager to hate Tywin Lannister for everything he might be doing to gentle Sansa, whose only weapons were smiles and courtesies. Hate-fueled fantasies of revenge would’ve kept Jon’s mind active as effectively as his fear of the Others and their wights, but Brienne stole them from Jon by admitting that Sansa’s marriage appeared to be a love match. While Tywin Lannister rules the realm, he is ruled at home by his lady wife. Those words once referred to the man’s first wife, Lady Joanna, but many in King’s Landing thought they fit Tywin’s second wife better. It was hard to believe, but Jon found it even harder to believe that Lady Brienne would lie. The woman was blunt to a fault, though never cruel or manipulative, so far as he could tell.

When Jon and Brienne weren’t sparring with one another, they trained Meera Reed in the use of the sword. She was an apt pupil since she was already proficient with a spear. Sure, she’d never tested her spear skills in combat, unless one counted frogs as a dangerous enemy, but it meant her arms were strong and her feet sure. Those were the fundamentals of sword fighting, thus Brienne and Jon could dive right in with stances, strikes, and defensive maneuvers. The lithe, agile woman was a quick study. It would take many months of training before Jon would trust her to guard his back, but if the Children were wrong and wights could venture into this strange sanctuary, he likely wouldn’t have much choice. He, Brienne, the Ranger, and the wolves would be all the protection that stood between an undead foe and Jon’s little brother. Losing Robb had been bad enough; if it was within his power to ensure Bran had a long and happy life ahead of him, Jon would see it done.

Then again, Jon wasn’t sure Bran was destined to have a happy life. His younger brother was much changed. Perhaps Bran was always destined to grow into a quiet, serious young man, but Jon couldn’t help but believe it was his time spent in the crypts with Rickon, evading the Ironborn then the Bolton men, that was to blame for the changes in him. Or perhaps it was his fall from the broken tower that left him a broken boy.

And now the greenseer was changing him even more. The red-eyed creature that seemed more god than man, and more demon than god, had yet to tell anyone (except perhaps Bran) why they must be here. Well, in fairness, he didn’t seem to care about any of their presences one way or another except Bran. For hours and sometimes days on end Bran would be holed up with the greenseer, honing his skill. The skill of sight, Bran called it. The ability to tap into the world’s collective awareness so that he could witness things happening around the realm, and things that had happened around the realm, years or even centuries past. Well, in theory. Bran admitted he couldn’t go too far back in the past yet, nor too far away in the present, distance-wise, unless he had a connection to the person he spied upon.

“Feel like exploring?”

Jon looked up from where he was sitting on the ground in the room he and his companions had claimed early on. It wasn’t truly a room, but Jon’s vocabulary lacked a better word for the part of the cavern they occupied. It was a largely closed-off space, as close to having four walls and a doorway as was possible underground. On their first night, Meera had woven together skinny branches with some twine-like rope the Children had in abundance. The finished product looked like a poor excuse for a raft, until Meera, Jon and Brienne positioned it vertically so it could serve as a partition within the room. Meera and Brienne slept on moss beds on one side, while Jon, Hodor, Jojen, and Bran (when he didn’t spend all night with the greenseer) slept on the other. Occasionally the wolves would join them, and since Summer didn’t like to be parted from Bran (or Hodor), Jon would force Ghost to lay with the ladies, who appreciated him as a heat source and occasional pillow. The only downside was that sometimes, when Jon dreamt, he found himself in Ghost’s skin while still possessing his human awareness. It was awkward to realize he was smooshed between two women and enjoying the warmth of their bodies, or the touch of their hands lazily petting him when they woke in the night and decided to give their literal bed-warmer some affection.

Meera was staring down at him, the green of her eyes indistinguishable in the dark of the cave.

“Aye, alright,” Jon spoke with a groan as he stood and stretched. It wouldn’t be the first time the pair explored the cavern, but they’d yet to summon the bravery to go very far for fear of getting lost.

It would seem, however, that Meera had a solution to that problem today, “Will your wolf be able to lead us back here if we lose our bearings?”

Jon frowned, disappointed that he hadn’t thought of that. Indeed, Ghost’s nose ought to be able to navigate back to the place where they all slept, or perhaps merely follow his own scent back along the invisible trail they’d left.

“I think so.”

Meera winced, “You think?

Jon nodded, “I think he can do it easily. I’m certain he can do it, period, even if it might take a few wrong turns to get there.”

“Good enough for me,” Meera nodded, “it’s too windy out to hunt today. The snow is whipping in my face, and I fear my nose will fall off if I stay out too long.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” Jon offered unnecessarily, throwing her a smile that might’ve looked forced. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Meera, but he’d never been comfortable making small talk, particularly with girls. When he and Meera spoke about practical matters, like their early discussions on whether they could trust the Children not to poison them, or when he instructed her on swordplay or she instructed him in hunting or trapping, it was easy. But without an explicit topic that needed to be addressed, Jon was at a loss.

He cleared his throat, “Shall we?”

Meera nodded, picking up her spear from where it had been sat against a wall. Jon did the same with Longclaw.

Side by side they walked until they reached the large space that Jon considered the main room, or at least the entryway to the cavernous underground world. The room was a hub to several spokes that led to other parts of the cavern, including the place where Bran had his greenseeing lessons – the place Jon had awoken naked and covered in smelly paste a couple moons past. Another passageway led up and out to the above-ground world. Another lead to the area where Jon most frequently saw the Children coming and going, where a natural spring could be found and where the Children had something of a primitive kitchen. No kilns, but a few pits dug into the earth above which meat could be cooked on spits made of wood, some iron. Parts of the wall there had been carved into, creating cubbies, and a small boulder that had a mostly flat surface served as their table or counter. There were yet more passages off of that space that Jon and Meera hadn’t explored, but he assumed they led to the Children’s versions of bedchambers and storage closets.

There were other ways out of that main entryway room, one of which ended rather abruptly only about fifty paces in where the tunnel had partially collapsed. To get past would require clearing away soil and rocks, and Jon wasn’t sure his curiosity was strong enough to risk disturbing the precarious structure and possibly getting himself buried alive.

Jon and Meera approached Brienne, who was running a whetstone over Ice. It gave Jon chills to see Brienne handling his father’s blade, though the woman always did so respectfully, perhaps even worshipfully. She didn’t train with Ice every day, so her care was likely driven out of need to keep her hands busy, or perhaps to ensure the priceless blade didn’t rust down here in the dank air.

“Hey,” he approached the woman who’d been Sansa’s guard and was now Bran’s, “Meera and I are going exploring. We’re bringing Ghost.”

At hearing his name Ghost looked up from where he’d been dozing with Summer at Hodor’s feet.

Brienne lifted a brow and seemed to have some sort of warning on her tongue but then her lips sealed shut and she nodded instead.

Jon nodded back then looked at Meera, who shook her head faintly. As they turned and set off toward one of the tunnels, Jon heard Brienne call to their backs, “If you get lost, don’t expect me to come looking for you.”

Jon turned around long enough to smile wryly and say, “Of course not. I’d hate to inconvenience you, my lady.” Perhaps it wasn’t fair to tease Brienne, but they all knew it wasn’t laziness or even self-preservation that would keep Brienne from leading a search party, it was claustrophobia. She didn’t panic in tight spaces, but that was only because she had self-restraint in abundance. She, more than any of them, hated living underground, and it was only when she was ready to close her eyes and sleep that she made her way to their small, shared “bedroom”.

Jon grabbed a torch, Meera a lantern, and they began their trek down the tunnel they knew from last time would soon reach a more open space that like the main room had several passages off-shooting it. Jon gladly letting Ghost lead the way, and he could feel his beast’s excitement to have a purpose today.

When they were well out of Brienne’s earshot, Jon voiced his curiosity, “What was that look Brienne gave us?”

Meera snorted lightly beside him, “It was a look that says, ‘there’s only one reason a young man and young woman would want to go exploring in this place, and you two better not be up to it’.”

Jon felt his cheeks flush, having not even considered how him and Meera wandering off might look to Brienne, not to mention Joje, “But there is another reason: we’re stuck in this place for the foreseeable future; why not know what all is down here?”

In his periphery he saw Meera shrug, “You forget that Brienne isn’t much for exploring. Nor is she particularly curious. She’s brave, aye, but not stupid.”

“And we are?”

“We’re curious, but some would say curiosity can get a person killed just as quickly as stupidity.”

“I suppose it can. When I was young, I sliced my finger on Ice even after my father told me that was precisely what would happen if I touched the blade’s edge.”

“But you needed to know how sharp it was. It was worth getting cut to find out.”

Jon laughed, “Those had been my exact thoughts. But still, it seems odd that Lady Brienne would even think to scold us for… I mean if that was what we were doing...” His cheeks warmed again, and it wasn’t just because the deeper into the cavern they walked, the warmer the air was.

“I doubt she cares what we do in that regard,” Meera shrugged again, “I think it was more like she wanted to threaten you so you wouldn’t take advantage of me.”

Jon snorted, “Has she not been paying attention when you spear a rabbit that the rest of us can’t even see?”

“Not that kind of taking advantage. Hey, want to try this way?” Meera stopped and gestured toward a passage that branched off the one they were walking.

“Aye; don’t see why not. And what do you mean, not that kind of taking advantage?”

Meera began walking down the side-tunnel that widened into yet another open space, but Ghost quickly overtook their pace so he could continue leading the way.

“I guess taking advantage of your station,” Meera answered after looking up and around.

“My station?” Jon was thoroughly perplexed.

“Aye, as a Stark.”

“I’m not a Stark, I’m a Snow. A bastard,” he clenched his teeth.

Meera looked at him long enough to roll her eyes, “You’ve got Stark blood. There’s as much of Ned Stark in you as there is in Bran and all your other siblings.”

“I’m a bastard,” he repeated.

“I’m not deaf, Jon Snow. But a Stark bastard is higher than a Reed trueborn, some would say.”

“Who’s ‘some’? I’d rather like to meet that person.”

She ignored his cheek, “Your sister’s the queen of the whole bloody Seven Kingdoms.”

“My half-sister, as Sansa was fond of pointing out,” Jon winced after he said that, thinking it shouldn’t bother him so much. Aye, Sansa had kept at arm’s length from him, at least once she was old enough to understand what the words ‘lustful’, ‘wanton’, and ‘devious’ meant. But years apart had made Jon realize that Sansa was only doing what she’d been explicitly taught. She’d never been free-thinking, like Arya, but how many young ladies were? In hindsight, for as easily as she drank down the preachings of the Faith delivered by her septa and her mother, it was a wonder she didn’t run screaming from Jon or get herself fitted for a chastity belt. The fact that she treated him civilly, even if coolly, meant she was kinder than most, certainly by the standards of the south, that she so desperately aspired to adopt.

Meera let out a long-suffering sigh, “Fine, your half-sister is the queen of the whole bloody Seven Kingdoms. And that means you’re of station. She’d have her husband legitimize you in a heartbeat.”

Jon stopped walking, “She wouldn’t.”

Meera stopped a few paces later and turned to face him, “She’s lost her father and her eldest brother. Bran is… Bran. Rickon is… well, time will tell whether he’ll ever be fit to rule House Stark. Your line isn’t exactly strong in the moment.”

“A man should be legitimized because he is worthy of his house’s name, not because his house is short on males.”

Meera groaned and turned, walking with more forceful steps, “Are you always like this?”

“Like what?” Jon took a few hurried strides until they were shoulder-to-shoulder again.

“Resentful of your bastard status while also resentful of anyone who dares to suggest your status could be improved.”

“Improved? Oh, so I’d be a better person simply by being legitimized?”

“Wow, you are always like this.”

“Am not,” Jon protested, then he sighed, “I’m not, truly. It’s been years since I’ve had the luxury of time to think about the circumstances of my birth or to feel sorry for myself. Rather, to feel sorry for myself for being a bastard. I’ve been focused on feeling sorry for myself when I can’t feel my toes, or when my belly is so hungry it feels like being stabbed in the gut, or when I’m being chased down by a mob of Wildlings, competing over who can land more arrows in my body.”

“Well, those are worthy enough reasons.”

Jon snorted, “Aye.”

At the natural lull in the conversation, Jon looked around more carefully than he had been previously. Not that there was much to see but stone walls and ceiling. They must be walking on a descent, because the ceiling was so high in some places that Jon couldn’t even see it when he lifted the torch, as if he was looking up into a starless sky and expecting to spot its far boundary.

After a few more minutes of walking through spaces that were sometimes vast, sometimes tight, Jon handed Meera the torch, “I need to take off my cloak. Is it just from all the walking or is it hot down here?”

“It’s hot down here,” she nodded as she held both lantern and torch. With both light sources held so close, he could see she was telling true, her hairline was damp with perspiration, the fine hairs there curling and frizzy in a way that reminded him of Ygritte.

It wasn’t the only way Meera reminded him of the woman who was his enemy but also his first love. Both women were capable of taking care of themselves. Both women were blunt and honest. But there was a defiance in Ygritte that Jon never spotted in Meera. Ygritte had a chip on her shoulder, not unlike Jon himself, but Meera seemed content with herself and her life. She didn’t complain, and she didn’t seem to hate anyone or anything, though nor was she naively trusting. Jon didn’t want to but found himself comparing the two women to his sisters. Ygritte was Arya, through and through – all righteous and brash and stubborn and willing to stand up for herself and others she loved. Meera was Arya if someone plucked out a few of her traits and replaced them with Sansa’s – a more even temperament, better self-control, and more natural subservience – a disinclination to make waves.

“Hey… do you hear that?”

Jon practically leapt out of his skin at Meera’s words after they’d been walking in silence for some minutes. His heart thumped and he almost dropped the lantern so he’d have a free hand to draw his sword. Meera was quick to reach for it as she clicked her tongue, “Stand down. It’s water I hear.”

“I hear dripping water every day,” Jon spoke a bit tartly even though he felt more relief than anything. He thought Meera was going to say she heard footsteps, and though Ghost seemed relaxed enough Jon trusted her eyes and ears.

“This is different…” Meera’s eyes narrowed and she began walking to the left, her steps more hurried than he’d ever seen as she extended the arm that held the lantern.

“Meera, wait,” Jon called out in a hiss, not knowing why he suddenly felt the need to whisper even as he was beginning to panic. He thought of Ygritte’s story of Gendel, the wildling king who found a way under the Wall through these caverns that began in the haunted forest. The king who tried leading his people back north, only instead led them deeper down into the bowels of the earth, forever lost but alive, living in the darkness. Making and giving birth to babes in the darkness. On still nights, Ygritte had said, if you wander deep enough into the caverns, you can still hear Gendel’s descendants running about.

Gendel’s children are always hungry...

“Meera,” Jon hissed again as he hurried to keep close, even reaching out a hand to grab at the back of her lambswool vest.

“Through here,” Meera finally responded, and Jon realized he, too, heard the noise that had drawn his companion. Indeed, it wasn’t the dripping noise he had grown accustomed to, that seemed to be the result of snowmelt seeping through the soil above them and permeating places there were cracks in the ceiling. No, this was running water. Not rushing like a river but something gentler, like a shallow, rock-bottom stream after a day of heavy rain.

“I think we can fit,” Meera spoke as she thrust the lantern into his hands.

“Fit? I don’t like the sound of that,” Jon set the lantern down near the wall where it ought not be disturbed then held the torch forward to have a look at whatever Meera had found. She stepped aside, letting him have his look.

Sure enough, he found that there was a narrow passage between two walls, and the sound of the running water along with a burst of moist heat was coming through from the other side.

He turned and realized that Meera had stripped off her vest and the doublet she wore underneath it, though still had on a tunic and perhaps another wool undershirt.

“Meera, I don’t think it’s wise—”

“I’ll go first, and if I think I’m even at risk of getting pinched in there, I’ll come back,” she reached for the torch.

Jon pulled it back, “If you get stuck—”

“I won’t get stuck. I won’t force it. Do you truly think I want to get stuck here any more than you want me to get stuck?” she lifted a brow.

Jon shrugged, “Fine.” He couldn’t order her not to go through; he had no dominion over her. And perhaps her assurance was enough. She may be brave like Arya and Ygritte, but she wasn’t stubborn or reckless.

“Thank you for your permission, Lord Snow of the Night’s Watch,” she grinned teasingly.

Jon rolled his eyes, “It’s nothing, Lady Reed of the Bogs.”

She let out an amused snort and began walking sideways through the narrow space, the torch held far to her right.

Torchlight only went so far, especially with no reflective surfaces, so Jon couldn’t tell how long the space extended. Nor could he say with certainty that it would lead to an open space. The sound of water could be coming from an underground stream. Meera might walk a hundred paces only to meet a dead end.

Yet it was only moments that passed before he heard Meera gasp, “Jon! You’ve got to see this!”

“What? What is it?”

“It’s beautiful!”

“What is?”

“The room… it’s like- Oh no...”

“What?!”

“I think I’m stuck.”

Jon groaned, “I told you!”

“Oh gods! Jon, help me!” her voice was high and panicked.

“Fucking hells…” he cursed Meera and cursed himself as he stripped off his outer layers until he was down to his undershirt. He looked at Ghost, able to see his wolf’s shiny red eyes from the lantern light, “Listen, boy. If I get stuck too, you have to go find Brienne and lead her here, okay?”

The wolf cocked his head and Jon knew that was good enough. He took a few nervous breaths before letting all the air out of his lungs to make his chest as compact as possible, then stepping into the passageway sideways as Meera had. He extended his right hand as he took slow, careful steps. He’d only go far enough to reach Meera’s hand so he could pull. If at any point it felt like the space was narrowing, he’d have to go back out and get Brienne and Jojen, perhaps Leaf and Ivy.

He turned his head to the right and could see Meera’s silhouette thanks to the torch. It seemed she was only a few steps away, though with the backlight casting her face in complete shadow he felt a sudden, abstract fear. Damn the Others and Ygritte’s tales and the damned wights in the damned Nightfort. He was too bloody jumpy.

He took a deep breath. “Reach for my hand,” he spoke as he took another step.

Her left hand found his near instantly, warmer than a wight’s hand would be and softer than some subterranean monster-child, he assumed. Her grip on his hand tightened. The poor girl, usually so brave, must be scared out of her wits.

“It’s alright, Meera. I’m going to pull gently. You should wriggle a bit as I do, hopefully dislodge yourself. Okay?”

He could see her nod. He nodded back and began to pull, ever so gently. It wouldn’t do to dislocate her shoulder.

But as he pulled gently, she pulled firmly, a sudden sharp tug.

“Hey! Don’t panic!” he spoke even as he began to panic because she was pulling with such strength that he realized he had taken two steps he didn’t plan. “Meera! Stop or you’ll—” The sound of her laughter filled his ears. He sighed loudly, “You weren’t stuck.”

“Nope,” she gave another firm tug and Jon realized he was no longer staring at a wall a mere hand’s width in front of his face. He put up little resistance in letting himself be pulled through the rest of the crevice which widened rather than narrowed.

Then, he looked around and gasped.

They were standing in some sort of vast grotto, stalactites hanging like fangs from the ceiling, boulders and rocks surrounding a large pond that was inky black except where the fire in Meera’s hand threw a rippled streak of amber on it. It was brighter in here than any other place in the underground cavern – the water and the shiny rock formations multiplying the fire’s light. The smell of boiled eggs surrounded them, and steam lazily floated up. Jon’s eyes scanned until he found a place where water was cascading down between two rocks – the sound they had heard that drew them here. Well, that drew Meera here, who drew Jon here.

It was a natural pool fed by a hot spring, much like those in Winterfell and other parts of the kingdom where Jon had grown up, though it was a different pool that he was thinking of now. One that was in a similar grotto, surrounded by similar rock boulders and columns, with similar stalactites overhead. That water hadn’t been steaming, in fact it had barely been above freezing, but at the time he hadn’t wished for anything different, and neither had she.

“Let’s not go back… Let’s go down inside and join up with Gendel’s children. I don’t ever want to leave this cave, Jon Snow. Not ever.”

He knew her words hadn’t been true because Gendel’s children were a myth and there was no food to be found in that cave to sustain them. But nor had it been a lie. She hadn’t wanted to leave, even if she knew they couldn’t stay. Nor had Jon wanted to leave, but he had known he must, to warn his brothers that the attack on Castle Black would come from the south, not the north – the side that had nothing to protect it, not the side that had a nearly 700-foot-high monstrosity of ice.

How many times would a man – or woman – feel such a way? Doing what they must, not what they wish. Doing their duty instead of pursuing their own happiness.

Had Father felt it when he rode out of Winterfell to go rule in King’s Landing on behalf of fat King Robert?

Had Robb felt it when he called the banners and marched on the South?

Had Lady Catelyn felt it when she left her youngest children in the care of the maester to join her eldest child at war?

Had Sansa felt it when she married Tywin Lannister?

Had Arya felt it when she wed her blacksmith? Jon still couldn’t believe that bit of news, delivered by Bran and the Reed siblings on the slow journey to the greenseer’s cave. Arya was four and ten and had never been enamored by tales of romance, as Sansa had. His companions’ assurances that Gendry was a good lad didn’t convince Jon that Arya loved him.

Then again, what did Jon Snow know about love? Nothing.

“You know nothing, Jon Snow.”

He felt himself smiling, though there was little humor behind the expression. He had thought he loved Ygritte, and still believed it most days. He’d felt things for her he’d not felt before nor since, but then again how many girls had he ever been around? Jeyne Poole, who was more snobbish than Sansa at her worst? Beth Cassel, who was several years younger than Jon and Robb but would stare at them as if she’d caught sight of a comet or lunar eclipse and couldn’t tear her eyes away from the wonder? The servant girls who, one by one, spread their legs for Theon Greyjoy before Jon was old enough to have his first wet dream?

Still, he could think of Ygritte now – her sly smile, her bright red hair, eternally frizzy and tangled, her skinny legs, her rose pink nipples – and the fluttering in his heart seemed best encapsulated by the word ‘love’. Yet did men leave a woman they loved to return to a life of celibacy and cold, thankless duty? How could it have been love when he’d been ever aware of potential escape routes he might take? How could it be love if Jon ran the moment they reached Queenscrown and he gained access to a horse… a horse that belonged to an old man that Ygritte killed to keep him silent?

She killed the old man and hadn’t even flinched.

And when Jon left that night, killing the two wildlings that stayed awake to guard their camp, stealing the dead man’s horse, Ygritte had put two arrows into him. One hit his calf, the other his shoulder.

And perhaps that was all he needed to know. He might have loved Ygritte, but she didn’t love him. Because when he had the chance to put an arrow into her flesh, he couldn’t, but she did it to him twice without even a breath of hesitation.

“Jon?”

He blinked up at Meera, who was standing on a rock to get a better glimpse of the space they occupied.

“Hmm? Did you say something?”

Her eyes narrowed, “Aye. I asked if you could turn around until I get in the water. Then I’ll do the same so you can come in.”

He looked away from her, toward the torch she had shimmied into the crevice between two large rocks, “I… It’s… I don’t need to… to bathe. I’ll, um, turn around and stand guard. Take your time.”

She raised an eyebrow, “Stand guard against what? Wait – more important question – do you truly think you don’t need a bath?”

He shrugged, pretending the steaming water wasn’t calling to him like a siren calls to a sailor who hasn’t seen a woman in years.

“The hairy, smelly man-child doesn’t need a bath?” she asked while barely fighting a smirk.

“I’m not hairy!” he defended.

“So you admit you’re smelly?”

Jon huffed, “As if you smell like a rose. None of us have had a proper bath in months, or had you forgotten?”

She pursed her lips, lifted her brows, and gestured at the pool as if to say ‘my point exactly’.

Jon frowned, “Oh. Right. I could come back here though, with Bran and Hodor and Jojen. You could come back with Brienne.”

“Suit yourself, but I’m taking a dip right now. As you so astutely observed, I haven’t had a bath in months, and I don’t want to wait another hour, or more like two, to return here with Brienne. For all we know we’re going to be eaten by ice spiders or ripped apart by wights on the way back.”

“And if that happens, your one regret will be not bathing when you had the chance?”

“It’ll be one of two regrets. Maybe three.”

“Dare I ask what the other ones are?”

Meera chuckled faintly, “Coming north, no matter how noble the cause and no matter how much faith I have in our brothers.”

“And?”

She shrugged, “Failing to convince a man to join me in a warm pool when the only other things we have to look forward to are cold, hunger, and likely eventual death.”

Jon felt his entire body freeze, from his toes up to his eyeballs.

“We should have stayed in that cave.”

No matter that Ygritte perhaps hadn’t loved him, those had been some of her last words, when impending death ought to have stolen her ability to be disingenuous. And Jon wondered, if he walked out of here right now, choosing to uphold the vows that he’d been rather careless with from the start, what would he regret in his dying moment?

Would he regret leaving that cave where he and Ygritte had each other three times (or was it four)?

Would he regret leaving Ygritte and the other wildlings, not fighting on their side against his sworn brothers so that they could let their people through the wall? He knew their cause was noble because he’d seen the walking dead, yet he remained loyal to those men who betrayed him after all he’d done to get back to them, after all he had sacrificed: his honor and his love.

Would he regret not getting in this warm pool with Meera Reed? He could not say he loved her, but then again he hadn’t felt anything close to love for Ygritte until she had climbed on top of him and rode his cock for the dozenth time or so. Prior to that she’d fascinated him, aye. She’d annoyed him, too. But she hadn’t pulled any feelings of love from him, not until he’d been inside her. Probably she hadn’t meant to coax such feelings from him at all. Probably she had used him to scratch an itch, and then found herself becoming fond of him, much as he had with her. It was time and pleasure that had built their love, not some instant attraction.

But Meera wasn’t Ygritte, crawling on top of him under the furs that covered them and a dozen other wildlings, or peeling off her layers one by one until Jon found himself staring at her jiggling breasts as she divested her boots and pants. Meera wasn’t trying to lure him with a touch below the belt or the vision of her feminine shape. Nor was he sure she was trying to lure him at all or if it was merely a jape, a sort of self-deprecating dig at herself for not being pretty enough for a man to want to swim with her, naked, in a pool.

She was more than pretty enough, Jon could admit. Dark brown hair that set off lively green eyes. A slender but not boyish frame. A sunny smile that came out when she was amused but not at the expense of another’s pride, except when they all teased each other good-naturedly. Jon didn’t mind that she had to bite back a smirk while watching him try to find rabbit tracks in the snow so that he’d know where to set the snares. He didn’t mind because when Meera watched him spar with Brienne he saw the awe in her face and heard the praise she bestowed on both warriors. It wasn’t in Meera’s nature to be critical just to knock others down, though nor was it in her nature not to laugh at a good ribbing, or to hide her true thoughts behind a veneer of impeccable manners.

There it was again – the way she reminded Jon of some amalgamation of his two little sisters. Sansa had impeccable manners; Arya had no manners. Meera was right in between – never going out of her way to appease nor to mock.

Jon took a breath, “You put me in a tough spot, my lady. Honor would dictate I never join a lady in a bath – no matter how large – unless she is my lawful wife… Yet it would be far from chivalrous to let you think the notion is unappealing, when that couldn’t be further from the truth.”

“I hope that wasn’t a proposal of marriage,” she lifted her brow again. Jon was certain he’d never get tired of it.

“I’d never be so forward. Recall you’re the one who invited me to take a dip with you, not the other way around.”

Meera stepped down off the rock and strode toward him, slowly but not hesitantly, stopping several paces away. Now that they were on even ground, she was once again much shorter than him, the top of her head about a finger’s width below his chin. She looked up at him, “Yet you’re the one who seems to have interpreted my invitation as a romantic overture. Do you think me so wanton?”

His eyes widened, “No! I… I just… I thought…”

Meera let out a burst of laughter, “You’re rather easy to rile.”

Jon huffed and rolled his eyes, “Is that a complaint? Because it seems to me you enjoy it.”

She shook her head, “It wasn’t a complaint. Now, will you please turn around so I can get in the water? I’d like to rid myself of a few months’ worth of dirt without losing my dignity along with it.”

Jon took a few steps back and then turned, “Only if you’ll return the favor after you’re in the water. I’m just as protective of my dignity.”

He heard fabric rustling behind him along with a snort, “I didn’t know men had dignity.”

Jon smiled, “You wound me, Lady Rabbit Skinner.”

“My apologies, Lord Man-Child.”

“An improvement over Lord Hairy Smelly Man-Child. I’ll take it and give you my thanks.”

He heard a thud as, presumably, one of Meera’s boots was tossed to the side.

“Well, soon you won’t be smelly, and you already told me you’re not hairy.”

“Thank you for accepting my word so readily.”

“I don’t, but I shall see for myself soon enough.”

Jon let out an exaggerated gasp, “What of my dignity?”

“You can keep your dignity, Snow. I only mean to relieve you of your maidenly sensibilities.”

Jon frowned, “Will you be terribly disappointed to know I have none left?”

There was a pause, and Jon wondered just how far he’d lodged his foot in his mouth until Meera started laughing.

“I’m a little disappointed, though also relieved. Since you have none to give, you ought not be disappointed to learn that I don’t, either.”

Jon was a bit shocked, though perhaps shouldn’t have been. She was nine and ten, the same age as him, he’d learned during the journey here when the only distraction they had from the bone-chilling wind was conversation. Jon doubted most women made it to that age with their maidenhood intact, unless they were of high enough station to expect they’d be given to a warden’s son or even a prince.

He frowned again, thinking that Robb might’ve been matched with Meera, given how close their fathers were purported to be in their youth. Then again, Greywater watch was lightly populated and had very little in the way of exports. No doubt Ned had been arranging to match Robb to Alys Karstark, or one of the Manderly girls. Perhaps even a Royce or Hunter or Redfort, in the Vale. Perhaps if King Robert never came to Winterfell, they’d have been feasting Robb’s marriage within the year – after all, he’d have been six and ten going on seven and ten.

But Robb hadn’t been matched to anyone. Well, Jon knew from Bran that Robb had been promised to a Frey and later aspired to get himself a summer rose, but neither came to fruition.

Instead, Robb’s life was cut short. Had Jon’s brother even known a woman before his death? Surely there were opportunities, but perhaps as a King he tried to keep himself above such casual encounters lest he be compared to King Robert with his penchant for pulling wenches into his lap, or Rhaegar Targaryen who started a war by abducting a fourteen-year-old girl, the aunt Jon would never get to meet thanks to the lust and greed of dragons.

Perhaps Robb had died without knowing a woman’s touch. Without knowing how it made a boy feel like a man to fall asleep with a woman’s head on his chest. The way the taste of a woman’s essence wasn’t particularly pleasant yet was as addictive as wine.

It wasn’t the first time Jon wished he could swap places with his brother, give Robb his life so that the rightful heir could fulfill whatever his purpose was to be.

But it was the first time that the compulsion didn’t result in a feeling of impotent rage and crippling unfairness. Rather, Jon felt like he had an obligation to live for his brother. To experience passion and love and heartbreak and pain and bliss and fatherhood and old age and a hundred other things, so that Robb might watch from the wind or the trees, or perhaps even through the eyes of Ghost or Summer.

The sound of gentle splashing reminded Jon he wasn’t alone, and he was unexpectedly glad for it. He might not love Meera Reed, and doubted she loved him, but he liked her. He felt a certain attachment toward the woman who’d volunteered to guide and protect his brother, no matter how ridiculous Bran’s quest ought to have sounded to her ears. Jon had seen the dead, so he no longer dismissed notions that would have sounded like old nursemaid’s tales to him in the past. He no longer doubted the existence of magic in the world, for what was magic if not the power that allowed the greenseer to live, speak, think, breathe, even as his body was more skeleton than man, even though tree roots grew around and through him? What was magic if not the ability for Jon to slip inside his wolf’s skin while he slept, and sometimes even when he was awake?

What was magic if not finding out that not only Arya and Sansa but also Bran and Rickon were alive?

What was magic if not the love between parent and child, husband and wife? What was magic if not Lady Catelyn’s ability to love Ned Stark even after he brought a bastard son home for her to raise? What was magic if not Ned Stark’s ability to love anyone after losing his father, brother, sister, and mother within a span of two years?

“Your turn,” Meera called out.

Jon nodded like a fool even though Meera must be looking away to give him privacy.

With a sigh he began undressing, starting with his sword belt then boots, realizing with each article he tossed aside that he was beyond eager to submerge himself in the warm water. In fact, he hoped to find the source so he could let himself be scalded. His armpits were beyond ripe, and his feet weren’t much better, nor his bollocks after he dropped his smallclothes. It occurred to him to return here tomorrow to wash his clothes, though he feared in the damp cavern it would take forever for the fabric to dry. Loath as he was to rely on them, perhaps the children had some—

Jon turned to approach the pool and froze. Meera was standing in knee-deep water, naked as her nameday. Her breasts were tiny, barely a handful, but pretty and high and not entirely disproportionate to her slim frame and modest height. Her hips compensated, proving her womanhood without being overlarge. Her thighs were thin and muscular, though looked slightly thicker than Ygritte’s had been despite how little any of them had been eating in the past few moons. Aye, with Meera’s hunting they weren’t exactly starving, but they had no fruit or vegetables or grains but whatever strange concoctions the Children gave them in exchange for a dead rabbit or elk or deer meat when Meera or the wolves got lucky. But Meera had grown up in a castle, eating square meals each day, whereas Ygritte had grown up in the wilderness, where the snow never melted. Ygritte had been all sinew, whereas Meera somehow maintained a thin layer of womanly fat in certain places even if the muscle underneath was hard and toned.

He knew it was wrong to stare. Knew it was wrong to compare her to Ygritte – not fair to either woman, that. But it couldn’t be helped. Jon had seen only one other woman in the nude in his entire life, and it had occurred in a cave much like this one, though without any steam rising off the water.

He found he was speechless. Not just because he was staring at a naked woman, nor just because that woman was beautiful and kind and tough and witty, but because he was alive.

He had defeated wights. He had infiltrated wildlings who had no reason to keep him alive. He had scaled the wall. Survived taking two arrows. Survived an attack on Castle Black by those same wildlings he had befriended then betrayed. Survived going beyond the Wall again in attempt to infiltrate and betray the wildlings again. Survived that situation only because Mance Rayder thought he saw something in Jon that was worth keeping around even if none of his people agreed. Survived the wights who swarmed the wildling war camp while Jon was there deciding whether he could truly assassinate the King Beyond the Wall as the Night’s Watch officers had commanded of him. Survived the wildlings who decided that since their cause was fucked anyway, they might as well kill one more crow.

Survived the cold, the blood loss, the hunger, the agony.

Survived the Nightfort and the wights who would have likely killed Bran, Hodor, Brienne, and Summer if not for Jon’s arrival.

And along the way, survived losing his father, thinking he’d lost his little brothers and possibly his little sisters, then losing his brother and the woman he loved.

He survived all that and now was here, in the place he may very well die, with a woman he wanted and who wanted him back.

He was alive, and Meera had the right of it. There was no joy to be found down here in the domain of the three-eyed crow, the last greenseer. The only joy to be found was in each other, and they’d be foolish to not experience it when there was no guarantee they’d survive this night, or the next, or the next.

“The little singers don’t know what they’re talking about,” Meera spoke to him, specifically to his lower abdomen or perhaps…

“Hm?” he asked, fighting the desire to hide his slowly-swelling manhood behind his hand. She wasn’t hiding her humble breasts, or the triangle of bushy hair between her legs.

“You’re not hairy, and there is nothing childish about you.”

Jon snorted, half in amusement, half in nervousness, “You’re not hairy either, nor do I see anything childish about you.”

He knew what to do once he was pressed against her, mouth to mouth and chest to chest, but closing the gap of about ten paces between them seemed… Well, he wasn’t sure what it seemed like. Not wrong. Not forbidden. Perhaps… final. Like he’d be crossing a line he could never un-cross. He was no maiden, and he’d already broken his vows more times than he could count, so he wasn’t sure what gave this event such magnitude. How many of his black brothers made regular trips to Mole’s Town to sate their needs?

No, it had nothing to do with his vows. Nor did he think it had anything to do with Meera being a lady, since she’d already confessed to not being a maiden and since Jon didn’t think such things mattered much at the end of the world, anyway.

Perhaps he feared that if he crossed that line, he’d find himself feeling for her what he felt for Ygritte: love, or something like it.

Perhaps he feared the pain that would come from losing her if he let those feelings develop. Perhaps he saw himself crouched over her, an arrow shaft sticking out of her breast.

Perhaps he feared that when he did, Meera would look up at him and say, “We should have stayed in that cave.”

Her left arm rose slowly, until her hand was reaching out, bridging part of the divide between them.

He feared much. Some part of him was screaming at the rest of him to see sense, to not let himself care again, not here in the wild North where mere survival was no small feat. Where everything was against him and his companions. The elements, the wildlife, the dead things and the mysterious cold gods who rule them. Perhaps even this greenseer and his army of Children – had Jon’s distant ancestors not massacred the Children? Might they be biding their time to exact their revenge?

Aye, he feared much. And yet that fear was but another reminder that he was alive.

His gaze lifted from Meera’s hand to her eyes.

He took a step.

In the dark he could see only hints of shapes, or perhaps he was imagining that. The dark was absolute, like he’d been buried underground, and he worried that the ceiling had collapsed on him and Meera and the others even as he knew he wasn’t with Meera and the others… wasn’t even in the cavern. He was somewhere hot but dry, a place that smelled of ash and salt and sand and the sister that was also a brother. But he had little time to wonder where he was, because his entire awareness was concentrated like a thread through a needle on a single emotion: betrayal.

Father had let him go to the Wall, knowing what kind of life he was condemning himself to. Aye, Jon had wanted it, but Jon wasn’t even a grown man then; what did he know of lifetime commitments? Even Uncle Benjen had warned him, yet his own father barely argued against Jon’s whim.

But as he thought on it, that wasn’t the betrayal he was stewing on now. Nor the betrayal that took the form of his Black Brothers’ glares. Nor the betrayal that stung like the bite of Ygritte’s arrows. Nor the betrayal of learning that Theon Greyjoy had sacked Winterfell. Nor the betrayal of learning that some assassin had slain Robb with a coward’s weapon.

No, this betrayal smelled like his mother, the one who didn’t want him, the one who sent him away. It felt like the weight around his neck, the ring of thorns he wore like a collar.

While he brooded on the inequity of it all, his sibling was more expressive in its ire. A lamenting screech. A chain rattling. A scraping, scratching sound. Movement. It was too dark to see but he knew what was being attempted… Had the impression it had been attempted before, perhaps many times.

Eventually he heard a different, new sound. Dirt shifting, stone hitting stone, his sibling’s screech. Dust and dirt he couldn’t see clouded the air and were breathed into his lungs. Something had collapsed, he realized. He didn’t panic though; his sibling wasn’t hurt and he didn’t feel particularly concerned about that anyway – odd, since he’d always worried about the brothers and sisters in his pack. But this brother-sister was different, more like the brothers who dressed like crows. The same blood flowed in their veins yet they regarded each other as allies moreso than kin. Their cause was the same – a cause he couldn’t recall just then – yet neither of them wanted to curl up around the other or nuzzle snout against neck.

He breathed more of the dusty air, sneezed, hacked out a cough. He still could see nothing, his mind’s eye filled in the blanks of what he knew had just happened. Either the ceiling or a section of wall had collapsed, though not entirely. The underground space that was their prison hadn’t caved in on them, only a section of it thanks to his sibling tugging on its chain.

He thought he could see the rubble until he realized he was remembering, not seeing.

“Jon…” a gentle voice called from the other side of the memory, the other side of the wall of dirt and stone that hid… something.

“Jon!” a second voice, less feminine, called to him.

“Wake up, Snow!”

Snow? Jon? The words were familiar and yet not. The tongues speaking them were familiar and yet not.

“Hodor! Hodor!”

The air was suddenly clear of dirt, and Jon sat up with a lurch only to curl forward and cough and sputter, certain his lungs were suffocating on gritty, dusty air that smelled like smoke and salt, only each cough proved such was not the case. The air was dank, refreshingly cool. It was too close but clear of any particles or overwhelming aromas. Breathing it felt like drinking from a clear running spring after going thirsty for a day.

A clear spring. He remembered earlier today, the warm water that smelled like eggs, Meera’s small breasts in his hands. Later, her small hand in his, as they let Ghost lead them back to the main space where Brienne was still sitting with Hodor, Summer, and Jojen. The torch had gone out by then but not the lantern. They told their three companions about the pool fed by a hot spring. Jojen had smiled, a ghostly thing. Hodor had nodded happily and exclaimed his own name. Brienne had curled a lip, no doubt noticing that Jon and Meera’s matching dark curls were also matching in dampness, before the word ‘hot spring’ must have clicked in her mind and her eyes blinked hopefully. Jon was certain Brienne could fit through the crevice that led to the grotto, though Hodor’s belly might prove a challenge. Well, Jon could always fill narrow cups or skins for the large man.

Jon ceased his forced coughing, straightened his spine, and found himself surrounded by those same familiar faces.  

Brienne was letting out a deep breath of relief even as she kept a strong, calloused grip on Jon’s left shoulder. Meera was sitting on the other side, one hand on his back the way a mother might comfort an ailing child. Jojen was a few paces away, sitting with a hand on Hodor’s forearm. Hodor’s eyes were wide.

On instinct Jon put a hand on his neck and rubbed. His neck wore the echo of a burning pain like a lady’s choker, yet he knew he’d find no wound the same as he always knew the coppery tang in his throat didn’t mean his human body had actually drunk blood after slipping free from Ghost’s skin.

“I’m fine, Hodor,” Jon spoke, surprised his voice didn’t sound croaky.

Speaking of Ghost, he looked around but found no sign of either direwolf.

“Bran is with the seer,” Meera guessed at what – or who – he was looking for, then frowned, “Ghost and Summer ran out when you started…”

“Started what?” Jon asked.

“Hodor.”

Meera shrugged, “It sounded like you were choking or coughing, your face was even going red. Brienne and I were shaking you for what felt like forever before you woke.”

Jon nodded, “I was… dreaming.” He let the word float out even though it was wrong. Dreams were strange things, nonsensical, and filled with clear sights that only became hazy after one woke. Where Jon just came from was as dark as it would be if he stuck his entire head into the tar-like mud of a bog.

He wasn’t sure why he let his gaze drift to Jojen Reed. He knew he’d find the boy’s green eyes on him as they often were, though he still flinched at the sight.

“He wants to see you.”

For a moment Jon was sure the words had been spoken by Jojen’s mouth even though he saw the boy’s lips hadn’t moved. Jon turned and tilted his head to find Leaf standing behind Brienne a couple paces back, the Child barely tall enough to be seen over the warrior woman even as Brienne was on one knee and hunched.

Jon didn’t know if “he” was his brother or their strange host, but either way he’d answer the summons, so he only nodded.

As he stood, the others rose with him, even Hodor and Jojen. While Jon was sure he was the only one Leaf had meant to address, the others seemed to interpret her words differently.

“All of you,” Leaf’s multi-dimensional voice drifted past Jon, proving the others were right.

No one objected, though all of them were happy to let Jon lead the procession, walking side-by-side with the fey creature who barely came up to his navel.

As they made their way to and then through the main space, Jon found his head turning toward the offshoot tunnel that he knew ended with a pile of dirt and stone and broken tree roots. He was overcome by the desire to slip into Ghost’s skin and go paw at the dirt until an opening was cleared, but he didn’t.

Though it did occur to him, as he walked to the cave of the three-eyed crow, that there was something about that dirt that he hadn’t noticed when he and Meera had first come upon it… Something he only recalled now, as he slipped into Ghost’s skin for the span of a heartbeat to know what his wolf thought of the tunnel. A heartbeat was all it took to put words to what was strange about the collapsed tunnel…

The dirt smelled fresh.

Notes:

So I've got to tell you guys that writing this chapter inspired me to start re-reading the series. (It's something I've considered doing many times but it always seemed like it would suck out months of my time until I looked at the word count and realized I've binged fanfics as long as ASOS in a week or less.)

Why, you ask? Because for the life of me I could not remember the Jon chapters, his thoughts, his emotions, the tone, his feelings toward the Watch, his feelings toward Ygritte.

But I didn't want to hold up this chapter while I read the series, so I listened to Jon chapters that involved Ygritte on Youtube, namely the cave chapter. Ultimately the way I wrote him now, however, is not supposed to reflect who he was when he was living among the wildlings. That was in his past and since then he's almost died (a few times) so I expect some development in him. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the Meera/Jon interactions. I always thought they'd make a good pairing because Meera is a softer, warmer, though no less capable version of Ygritte and I always thought Jon with his mommy issues would gravitate toward a warmer woman even if clearly he admires self-sufficiency. Arya was warm pre GOT events, always making friends, etc. and look how she and Jon got along. Conversely Catelyn was condescending and cold, so I don't think Ygritte's similarly dismissive, often condescending attitude would have kept Jon enchanted long-term. Sorry Jon/Ygritte shippers, I just don't see it. Theirs was a first love (for Jon, at least), and very much a product of their circumstances. Jon feels like he has to sleep with her so as not to raise suspicions about his loyalty. Not that he isn't willing - he's a teenage virgin expecting to die any day now...

Anyway, not sure why I'm over-explaining (Who, me?!) Except in case anyone thinks Jon's musings about Ygritte or comparing Meera to her are an offense to the Ygritte/Jon pairing, I want you to know that isn't my intent. I'm the last person who'd judge another person's ships. I've written a Gregor/Sansa. I've written a Stannis/Justin. I've written more than one Jaime/Sansa/Sandor. So, yah...

Chapter 33: Love is suffering

Notes:

an entire chapter inside Jaime's head... Sigh... I love it in there.

Chapter Text

Jaime

The first time he saw a dragon, Jaime’s bowels liquefied such that it was only by the strength of a certain ring of muscle one normally takes for granted that he didn’t soil himself.

He’d been on a terrace clearly designed for rich men and their wives to laze around until they were tender as veal, not for a knight to practice swordplay. Then again, the sword was dull, and Jaime hadn’t felt like a knight in a long time. A warrior, aye. A soldier, a commander, a killer. But he hadn’t actively thought of himself as a knight since a few months after he put on the white cloak for the first time. Oh, he’d remark on his own gallantry with sarcasm that most mistook for arrogance (to be fair, he was both), but he rather agreed with the occasional mumblings he’d hear from the Hound’s lopsided mouth – piss on vows, knighthood is for cunts, et cetera. Of course, since Clegane tended to mumble in a way that was meant to be overheard, Jaime had to pretend to be insulted and jab back with something along the lines of, “I thought dogs liked pissing on things?” or, “Yes, I have seen a good number of cunts since I was knighted. Funny how quickly skirts lift for a Ser”.

More to the point, Jaime had been sparring with one of Daenerys Targaryen’s many eunuchs on the terrace that day. Jaime couldn’t tell them apart, aside from the commander, Grey Worm, who was easily insulted by Jaime calling him Pink Worm even though he didn’t understand the implication.

The one who fought Jaime sharp-spear to blunt-sword (after receiving permission from Daenerys on the condition that two other eunuchs always be present) was young and somewhat shy. Missandei told Jaime that his name was Bronze Fist, though before being freed he’d been called Dung Beetle. Quite an improvement, Jaime would say, though Bronze Fist was a rather lofty name for one who seemed fairly green. Well, by Unsullied standards. Even the youngest of them would put the best squire in Westeros to shame. Then again, little lordlings in Westeros spent most of their days learning numbers and letters and histories, or playing with their peers, while the Unsullied did nothing but eat and train from the time they were old enough to stand. Allegedly. Jaime couldn’t imagine rows of toddlers holding practice spears the length of Jaime’s foot while some stern, whip-wielding instructor shouted out various stances and grips. Well, he could imagine it, which was why he didn’t believe it. He could also imagine the way Tyrion’s face would wrinkle in amusement if Jaime shared his ridiculous musings. Tyrion would make a self-deprecating jape about how he ought to be commanding that army of babes, using them to conquer the world for their Imp King, if only he knew how to properly tie a nappy.

Regardless of Jaime’s opinions on the Unsullied, Bronze Beetle (as Jaime had taken to calling him) was a good enough partner. Ser Barristan would’ve been better, but the old knight had never thawed to his once brother in white. Fine by Jaime. He could respect the man’s martial prowess and, begrudgingly, his unshakeable commitment to his vows, but the respect he’d grown up with for the famed white knights died along with Jaime’s own dreams sometime after hearing Aerys Targaryen rape his frail sister and before watching Rickard Stark being slow roasted in his steel armor.

Ser Jorah would’ve been even better a partner, though the aged Northman seemed to despise Jaime even more than old Barristan did. At least Barristan had come to accept that Jaime was honest about his motives, even if he didn’t like him as a person. Ser Jorah looked ever eager to cut Jaime down. In fact, Jaime suspected the man used such imagery to prepare his member for its nightly tug.

(Well, when he wasn’t imagining their pretty young queen in certain unseemly positions.)

Perhaps that was the root of the old bear’s contempt: jealousy. He and Ser Barristan had found themselves in Daenerys’ inner circle. Her two Westerosi knights seemed, to her, to represent her right to the throne; as if all Seven Kingdoms had nominated them – a dismissed Kingsguard who had served both Daenerys’ mad father and said father’s usurper, and the man who illegally sold poachers into slavery – to travel to Essos and guide her in her years-long quest to claim her birthright. Perhaps she merely had an affinity for those men who were born on the same continent as her, though as Jaime had thought on it, he wasn’t sure Dragonstone was technically part of the continent of Westeros. Tyrion would know. He was always the smartest of Tywin Lannister’s children, though Jaime had never told Cersei that; she’d had a vexing habit of kneeing him in the balls when he cast light on any of her imperfections, then spreading her legs and telling him to fuck her while the echo of pain still radiated in his lower belly, turning his climax into something more nauseating than blissful.

Either way, Ser Jorah didn’t like that Daenerys had added a third Westerosi knight to her retinue, and that she seemed to enjoy Jaime’s company in a way she didn’t enjoy Ser Jorah’s or Ser Barristan’s. No, Jaime wasn’t one of her trusted guards – he was most definitely still her prisoner – but she dined with him often enough, shared her woes, asked for his counsel. Once more, Tyrion would’ve been better qualified in such a task, but Jaime didn’t shy from giving his opinion, even when it was something Daenerys wouldn’t want to hear. Especially when it was something Daenerys wouldn’t want to hear – being contrary and provocative (and some would say annoying) had gotten him this far.

He’d been having such musings, about knights and vows and brothers and sisters and queens, when he landed a blow on Bronze Beetle far too easily. He frowned at the guard who’d completely let his guard down.

A moment later a chill traveled from his arse to his nape then back down.

Another moment later a dark cloud cast a shadow over the entire terrace, only it had rolled in so quickly that Jaime’s instincts knew it was no cloud even as his rational mind shouted at his instincts to shut the bloody hell up.

He mirrored Bronze Beetle in tilting his head back, and at that very moment a black body glided above them, no more than sixty feet up from the level of the pyramid they occupied. The sun shone red through the membranous, leathery wings, which must’ve spanned at least three horse lengths. A shriek sliced the sky in half; Jaime’s bowels liquefied; Bronze Beetle spun around, following the dragon’s shape as it flew south-southwest toward Slaver’s Bay.

“Drogon!”

Jaime turned and found the queen above and behind him on her own terrace. She was close enough that he could see her fingers gripping the stone railing, her face scrunched in a longing so painful Jaime felt it like a punch to the belly.

“Drogon!” she called out again, her voice pitchy and breaking as women’s voices tended to do when pushed to their limit.

Again and again, she shouted it, until the black belly passed overhead again, headed due east, never even slowing to greet or look upon its mother.

There was only one word to describe the tone of her voice as she kept shouting the name with mounting desperation: anguish.

Jaime heard a cacophony of similarly anguished disharmonious shouts within his mind. His father, calling out Joanna’s name. Brandon Stark, calling out his father’s name. Rickard Stark, calling out his son’s name.

Cersei, calling out Joffrey’s name. That last one Jaime hadn’t been there to hear, but he could imagine how it would sound, could picture Cersei screaming when Joffrey’s body was brought to her.

Another chill went through him.

One of the girls who attended the queen was suddenly on the terrace, grasping Daenerys by the elbow and gently turning her, leading her inside. In that moment Daenerys looked smaller than ever, though somehow also older and harder.

He wondered what it would feel like to have a child he poured all his love and hope into, only to have him or her reject him, deny him, leave him. He wondered if he’d ever feel whole again or if he’d walk around with a constant awareness of the void within himself. He wondered if anything else would ever matter to him or if he’d find all of life’s other pleasures suddenly dry and bland.

He didn’t see the queen for a fortnight after that, even in passing. Of course, that wasn’t entirely unusual. The queen was busy putting out fires in the various cities she’d liberated – fires of both the literal and figurative variety. Jaime only knew the so-called Harpy continued to be a nuisance since he’d heard from Ser Barristan that the queen’s Unsullied were being butchered in the streets, particularly if they dared to venture out in small numbers. More than a few of the attacks had occurred at brothels, which confounded Jaime such that he laughed. Ser Barristan, the old whitebeard, had been born without much in the way of a sense of humor, and had worked his jaw back and forth before telling Jaime that even a eunuch occasionally craved the comfort of a woman’s touch. Jaime’s response had been more laughter and the suggestion that if Barristan was referring to a woman touching the inside of a man’s arse, then sure.

Ser Barristan had ended their conversation rather rudely after that.

Now, Jaime let himself be led to the queen’s dining chamber by a pair of the pitiable creatures and wondered why it felt different than the previous times he’d been her guest for supper. Perhaps because, last he saw her, she’d been looking at the sky like a lady watching her lover ride off to certain death. Perhaps she was going to order Jaime executed for seeing her in such a vulnerable state. Cersei lived by the rule of showing no weakness. Well, those who knew her saw it clear as day, but Jaime could admire the stony countenance she maintained in public, or even small private gatherings if they included anyone who wasn’t in her trusted inner circle. Though could it be called a circle if it consisted of only one man? Probably not.

This entire floor was the queen’s apartments, Jaime knew from prior visits. Presumably one or more of her ladies had a bedchamber, but otherwise it was a largely open space, eternally breezy and yet over-warm, belonging entirely to the queen. Each of the three footfalls echoed on the shiny marble floor. When they rounded the wall that partially partitioned off the dining chamber, Jaime found the queen already seated at the table, a spread set before her that looked quite fine and quite untouched.

He bent into a deep, elegant bow and only straightened his back when the queen bid him to. He looked around then, wondering where the queen’s ugly shadow was.

“Is Ser Jorah indisposed this evening? Red fever? Greyscale? Intestinal parasites? I do hope it’s nothing serious,” Jaime spoke with his usual smirk as he climbed the three steps up to the platform the table sat at. It was an octagonal table that would sit eight, though he’d wager there was a larger dining hall not far from here, even if on another level.

He waited for the queen to gesture to a chair across the table from her own before pulling it out and settling in. As soon as he did, he felt a prick on his left side.

“What the—”

“Calm, Ser,” Daenerys answered, “I do not wish to be guarded from within tonight, but you must understand that I cannot have you entirely unrestrained.”

Jaime glared at the guard who held a spear tip against Jaime’s ribs. The other one was shackling each of Jaime’s ankles to one of the chair’s legs. It was tempting to bring a knee up into that one’s chin at the same moment his left forearm pushed the spear aside then spun under and up to grab it. The guard wouldn’t let go, so when Jaime gave a good tug the much slighter man would be brought within range of Jaime’s right fist.

But the desire to prove his prowess was outweighed by the desire to keep his relative freedom, so all he did was grumble, “A warning would’ve been appreciated.”

“Toad doesn’t speak the common tongue, Ser. Nor does Bald Rat.”

Jaime turned to face the queen, who was already rolling her eyes at him before he’d made a peep. He must be getting predictable – he’d have to work on that.

She spoke the slave gibberish and the two men marched away, their strides in perfect synchronicity.

“Well,” Jaime began, because he couldn’t not, “Rats are said to be intelligent little vermin, but toads?”

“My esteem for every manner of bug, vermin, reptile, and other creature only increases every time I meet another man.”

“I won’t disagree with you there; I’ve found people to be disappointing, more often than not. But I thought all the Unsullied names had two words. Is Toad so special that he gets to skirt the rules?”

Her cheeks flushed ever so faintly, “His full name is… Horny Toad.”

Jaime couldn’t hold in the laughter that squeezed out almost painfully through his nose, “Most apt for a eunuch. I’ve come to learn such men still have urges yet lack the equipment to satisfy them.”

She rolled her eyes again, “They are good men, all of them. Loyal. Brave. Strong.”

“And horny,” Jaime nodded.

Now she was the one who let out a reticent laugh though unlike him she was eager to move the conversation to less juvenile avenues, “As a matter of fact, the Unsullied didn’t have names at all, traditionally. Their masters had them pick tokens out of a bucket each day. Each token bore a name that would be theirs for that day only, and each name was meant to be demeaning. However, some of the men – in secret, of course – chose to embrace one of those names. A subtle act of defiance against the masters. Grey Worm was one. Horny Toad was another.”

“He couldn’t have embraced any other name?”

“In their language, the word doesn’t have the same meaning as in the common tongue.”

“Which word?”

She raised a pale eyebrow, “You just want me to say it again.”

“Are my tactics so obvious?”

“Somehow I think you want them to be,” she grinned slyly.

Now Jaime raised a brow, “Wise queen.”

“So, you admit it?”

“To you? Aye, why not? Do I not owe my queen my undying honesty?”

“Some would say you have no honesty to give.”

“And you’d find others who say I’m honest to a fault.”

“Was that your strategy? Be so brutally honest about most things that no one suspected you of lying about others?”

Jaime had never thought about it but could admit that she wasn’t entirely wrong.

Nor entirely right, “If it was a strategy, it was a poor one. Everyone assumes a kingslayer is incapable of honesty. For instance, no one stopped to notice that I could have fled the scene after killing the king, and they’d be none the wiser. No, that would require thinking, and most people prefer being told what to think.”

Daenerys had early on extracted the story of that day from his lips. Funny how he’d kept the truth so close all his life, never even telling Cersei or Tyrion or his father why he’d done what he’d done, but it had been easy to tell the daughter of the man he’d betrayed. He had wanted her, if no one else in this miserable world, to know just how far gone her sire was. That he’d seen barely forty namedays yet had the pallor of an old man on his deathbed. That he had fingernails the length of daggers but not nearly so pretty. That his hair was matted such that from a distance it looked like a head full of braids. That he smelled like a battleground latrine on a hot summer day.

And yet that had been the least of it, hadn’t it? The body odor; the nonexistent personal hygiene; the papery skin -- those things were offensive but not dangerous.

So Jaime told her just how dangerous he was. How he was as mentally stable as that wildfire he’d had made by the vat. How he raped his wife after having some unlucky soul burned alive. How he would’ve burned the entire city alive, not to mention the Red Keep and the surrounding lands outside the city gates, for was that not what wildfire did? It spread quickly and greedily, eating whatever was in its path like some pack of wild dogs that hasn’t caught any prey in a fortnight. Except the bellies of those dogs would eventually be filled whereas wildfire’s appetite was endless.

“And who told them what to think?”

Jaime realized his eyes had drifted to the open balcony only as they shot back to the queen. It took a few moments before he recalled the context of her question.

“That would be the unflinchingly honorable Eddard Stark.”

“Father of Lady Sansa – your goodmother.”

Jaime nodded, glad she was remembering. Her lack of knowledge of the great houses of Westeros had been a bit disturbing, though Jaime didn’t see how to remedy that other than by sharing bits and pieces whenever they dined together. Her days were rather busy dealing with rebellions, revolts, and riots – not to mention the appeals of the smallfolk, many of whom were once slaves.

“He’s the one whose sister was abducted by my brother,” she added, “Whose father and brother were executed by my father.”

“The very same, though last time we spoke on this subject you were adamant that your brother didn’t abduct anyone.”

She shrugged one shoulder and began using a pair of gold tongs to fill her plate. It was only then that Jaime realized he hadn’t even poured himself wine – an error he remedied immediately before following the queen’s lead and filling his plate.

“I suppose I realize that, whether Lyanna Stark went willingly or not, it would have looked unwilling to her family, and to her betrothed, if his esteem of himself was as you say it was.”

Jaime lifted his goblet, “You’re learning. The facts rarely matter. All that matters is what people believe.”

“Don’t patronize, Ser. You think I haven’t learned this lesson? I came to the Slave Cities to liberate, yet all the nobles see in me is a conqueror.”

“In fairness, to liberate slaves is to eradicate the masters’ way of life, their source of income. To them, that’s the same as being conquered. Perhaps worse. When your ancestor – Aegon the Conqueror – went to Westeros, he allowed those who bent the knee to keep their titles and lands, their riches, their enterprises.”

“And so have I.”

Jaime shrugged, “Their homes, aye. But not their enterprises. Well, not their most lucrative enterprise. Yes, some of the families have their wheat fields, their olive trees, their sheep and goats, their mines that still yield copper and salt. But what did they make the majority of their wealth on?”

She frowned, “Slave trade.”

“And what did you abolish?”

Her cheeks darkened, “Slavery! But—”

“But nothing. You don’t have to defend yourself to me. Slavery is an ugly business. A bloody one. But it was all they had, and you took it away. You wonder why they think you a conqueror and not a liberator? That’s why,” he leaned back.

She scoffed, “So what’s your suggestion? That I reinstate slavery?”

“I don’t have a suggestion! I’m not a bloody politician or diplomat, and last I checked I wasn’t your councilor, either!” he went to stand up before remembering he was bound to the chair. He slumped back and let out a sigh.

Daenerys’ voice was softer when next she spoke, “And yet you’ve given me counsel I find surprisingly apt.”

Jaime rolled his eyes, “Don’t try buttering me up now.”

Daenerys snorted, “I wonder if you could go an entire conversation without sarcasm.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it.”

“Nor I,” she smiled faintly.

Jaime realized he was smiling back, though it began to fade as he pondered her question – the one he didn’t feel qualified to answer. There was one story, however, that kept coming back to him.

“My grasp on long-ago histories is vague, at best. I recall the broad strokes, but not the names and dates, the details,” he offered.

“And you’re going to share a vague history now?”

He could hear the intrigue in her voice and wondered why it made his chest swell. The only part of him that ever swelled in response to a woman’s attention was the obvious. Cersei’s touch and taste made him swell until he’d feel ready to explode. But to have her ear? Had it had this effect on him?

That was when he realized he couldn’t say, because he’d never had it.

He licked his lips, “The Boltons are the largest house in all the vast Northland after the Starks. They have the largest landholdings after the Starks. I think,” he shrugged, “But they can definitely field the largest army. And for millennia before your great-great-whatever-he-is conquered the Seven Kingdoms, the Boltons were a thorn in House Stark’s side. They’d wage war against them every few hundred years. Rumor has it the Dreadfort – that’s House Bolton’s seat – has more than a few tapestries made from the skin of long-dead Starks.”

Daenerys winced.

Jaime continued, “My point is, for thousands of years the Starks and their allies had to fight the Boltons and their… well, I don’t remember if they ever had any allies. Broad strokes, remember? Seems to me the Starks could’ve avoided a number of headaches by—”

“Eradicating the enemy, instead of subduing it,” Daenerys answered, her lilac eyes settled on something on the table.

Jaime sighed, “I’m not saying you go round up every person of noble birth and kill them. Unless you do wish to be a conqueror instead of a liberator, but—”

“Half measures. That’s your lesson,” her eyes lifted, “The Starks never finished the job, no matter how many times these Boltons gave them good reason to.”

“Precisely. By contrast, when a pair of families supposedly loyal to my house skirted their liege’s demands then thought to raise arms against him… Well, there is no House Reyne anymore. Nor a House Tarbeck. I’m sure my father sleeps with one eye open regardless, but there are two fewer houses with the motive to stab him in the back.”

“And what of Houses Bolton and Stark now?” Daenerys asked, more interested in northern politics than western, it would seem.

“Now?” Jaime shrugged, “Roose Bolton turned against his liege. I never got the full account from someone who’d have known the full account, but it would seem he abducted Lady Catelyn Stark then traded her for Lady Sansa Stark.”

Daenerys frowned, “Traded? With all due respect to these ladies, why would one be worth any more than the other?”

Jaime snorted, “Because my father rather enjoyed fucking Lady Sansa.”

“He made her his wife. His queen,” Daenerys tucked her chin as she spoke, seemingly defending Tywin’s actions no matter how much she claimed to hate the man.

“My father is above fucking whores and mistresses, not wives and queens.”

“So Lady Sansa was… taken against her will?”

“It did not appear so,” he shrugged, “Why do you care?”

Daenerys’ silver-blond head shook back and forth gently, “My brother, who was known for his gentility and kindness, ran away with a girl nearly ten years his junior, and the realm called it rape. Your father, who’s known for his harshness and cruelty, uses dishonorable means to get a girl in his clutches – a girl, what, thirty years his junior?”

“Try forty.”

Daenerys rolled her eyes, “And the realm calls it marriage. A love match, even, if the rumors you heard were true. How can Lady Sansa love such a man?”

“I doubt she does. But what’s your point, your grace?”

“So much resentment I sense in you toward this woman. Hell, I don’t have to sense it. You’ve told me as much,” she leaned forward, her chin hovering over her largely untouched plate, “Yet does it occur to you that she’s as much a victim as her aunt before her?”

“Undoubtedly. Yet within a couple months of returning to the capital and being anointed as Queen Consort, my nephew and sister died suspiciously.”

“Why would she kill them, Ser?” Daenerys lifted a brow.

Jaime huffed, “I’ve told you Joffrey was no saint. My brother Tyrion says Joffrey openly abused the girl, but I find it hard to believe an entire court would allow—”

“Of course not; no more than they’d allow a noble lord to be burned alive for having the audacity to demand justice for his daughter.”

Jaime’s jaw bulged, “Arrogance isn’t a good look on you.”

She had the audacity to smile, “Nor is denial a good look on you.”

Jaime crossed his arms over his chest, his meal and wine officially ignored, “Fine. Here’s Sansa’s reason: Joffrey executed her father. An utterly foolish move, I admit. Then again, if he’d let the man live, sent him to the Wall or exiled him to Essos, I might be calling that foolish for an entirely different reason – perhaps the annihilation of my entire house.”

“Well, take comfort in knowing you’d have a sympathetic ear in me,” she raised her goblet.

“You’re welcome to start practicing that sympathy now, your grace.”

She smiled at him, a bright thing that seemed rather like the sun trying its darnedest to shine through thick gray clouds, “I fear we’ve gotten off topic.”

“Must have, because I don’t even recall the topic.”

“The dangers of half-measures. The Starks gave endless mercy and paid for it perhaps dozens of times throughout history.”

“Yet now that I hear you say that, they’ve also ruled longer than any other noble house in Westeros.”

“Then the real lesson is this - be merciful when I can, but be ruthless when I must.”

Jaime scrunched his chin, “Your grace, perhaps you’ve missed your calling as a maester. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard such wisdom distilled down into such simple words.”

She smiled and lifted her shoulders in feigned haughtiness, “Perhaps after I’ve claimed my crown I’ll acquire a different piece of jewelry.”

“With all due respect, the weight of a maester’s chain would ruin your posture.”

She chuckled faintly, “I’m sturdier than I look.”

They weren’t precisely suggestive words, yet the intonation as she spoke them sent a momentary rush of blood to his cock. He wanted to ask just how sturdy. He wanted to ask whether, if he took her as hard as he used to take Cersei, would she tell him to stop, or cry out in rapture?

He voiced neither curiosity and set upon finally eating his meal.

They ate mostly in silence, and Jaime figured, as he used a piece of flatbread to soak up the remaining sauce on his plate, that he’d be dismissed momentarily.

He was wrong.

“You were in love with her,” Daenerys stated as she leaned back in her chair, bringing the wine goblet with her and taking an indulgent sip while awaiting his answer.

For a moment he thought she was speaking about Sansa Stark – the only woman they’d spoken about today in any detail – perhaps wondering if Jaime’s resentment for his father didn’t stem from the man stealing Jaime’s secret paramour, or some other such nonsense.

But in the way Daenerys held his eyes, he knew she was referring to someone else: the woman whose death sent Jaime across the Narrow Sea.

He shook his head and relished the queen’s surprise for only a moment before explaining, “No, what was between us was stronger than love, but also uglier.”

She pondered that for a moment, then simply said, “Explain,” as she rested her chin on her fist.

Jaime took a deep breath, wondering why he was preparing an answer instead of telling her to fuck off or, less dangerously, expressing his desire not to discuss this topic, this person.

Yet when would he ever get another chance? Who but a Targaryen wouldn’t judge him as some type of pervert or deviant for lusting after his sister? Beyond that, who would ever care enough to listen, other than someone trying Jaime for treason perhaps, or a septon taking his last confession in the vain hope it might secure him a place in the heavens.

“We were the same person. One soul split into two bodies. I didn’t love Cersei, I was Cersei. Cersei was an extension of me, and I of her,” he held out his right arm, “I don’t love my arm. I don’t even think about my arm unless it’s injured or sore. But would I ever willingly part with it? Would I not scream and cry – and not just in physical pain – if I was ever relieved of it?”

“Yet your sister was not some limb. She had a mind, a tongue, a heart…”

Jaime snorted, “Her heart was cold as ice. Her tongue was wicked, though admittedly I do admire such a thing. Her mind?” he shook his head, “Cersei was impulsive and selfish and myopically focused on her own agendas. She wasn’t a big thinker. Then again, neither was I.”

“You are now.”

“No, I’m observant and I don’t lie about what I see and what I think.”

“Fine. So your sister was cold-hearted, wicked-tongued, and short-sighted…”

Jaime smiled, “And so am I. Thus, she is my duplicate. Was my duplicate. As I was hers.”

“Most people aren’t attracted to people like themselves but rather their opposites.”

“I’m not most people. Neither was she.”

“So you really didn’t love her?”

He lifted his hands in a gesture of puzzlement, “What’s love?”

She lifted her hands in response, as if it should be obvious, her shoulders scrunching up and in as she did, “It’s an ache in one’s heart. A hunger that’s never sated. A happiness that is constantly tempered by fear – the fear that that happiness can be taken away.”

“Then perhaps I did love her. I always thought love was…” he failed to settle on the right word.

Daenerys had no such issue, smiling wryly as she finished his thought, “All fluttering hearts and love poems and getting lost in the other’s eyes?”

“Well, I suppose that’s what I thought it was, yes.”

“No, Ser,” her smile was still in place, though now she pointed it toward the sunset. “Love is suffering. Love is pain. Love is a torture we subject ourselves to because it fills us with a feeling we cannot get elsewhere. Love is emotion devoid of logic. Love is… Love is knowing that to be parted from that person would cause you a great deal of pain, even if you spend part of each day wishing they’d leave you alone. Love is… being unable to hate them, even if you should.”

Jaime swallowed. His throat felt swollen, and he realized his nose was tingling.

How many times in his life had he wanted to hate Cersei but could never pull it off? How many times had he held her little skull between his big hands, thinking he ought to squeeze some sense into her, or perhaps squeeze the life out of her, only to find his fingers slipping into her hair instead, his lips pressing against her mouth, his groin pinning her against the wall?

Daenerys rose and strolled to the nearby balcony, but didn’t step out, perhaps in deference to the fact that Jaime couldn’t join her unless he dragged the chair with him, which would be far from graceful.

“And your children, Ser? Did you – do you – love them?” she asked into the sky.

Jaime clenched his teeth, “They aren’t my—”

She turned to face him, “Don’t lie. I—”

“They are my seed, but not my children. And no, I don’t love them.”

Her eyes narrowed, “How can that be, when they are born of your flesh and blood? When they are the product of the joining of you and your other half, as you put it?”

“I’m not saying I don’t care about them. Would I die for Tommen or Myrcella? In a heartbeat. Would I kill for them? Even quicker. But what you just described? No. I could live without them. I am living without them. Not once has it occurred to me to miss them. To wonder how they’re doing? Aye. But to wish to be near them? No. I spent years thinking only of how to get back to my sister.” And arriving only days too late.

She shook her head, “How can a man not love his children?”

Jaime snorted bitterly, “Did Aerys love you? He certainly didn’t love Rhaegar, that I can tell you. He didn’t love his little grandchildren, either. Might’ve loved Viserys, in his own way.”

Her face dropped, “Holding yourself to the standards of a mad man, Ser?”

“A villain. Am I not one of his ilk?”

She rolled her eyes before casting them back onto the sky, “Kingslayer. Turncloak. Oathbreaker. Villain. You wear these monikers willingly even though you clearly resent them.”

“Why shouldn’t I wear them? They’re not inaccurate. Even if they were, the entire realm thinks of me in those words and as I told you earlier—”

“The facts don’t matter; only what people believe.”

Jaime felt his lips curving, “Take heart, your grace. The people call you Daenerys Stormborn. Breaker of Chains. Mother of Dragons.”

“Conqueror. Beggar princess. Sacker of cities.”

“And who calls you those things?”

“You know who. The ruling families. The freeborn. Everyone who wasn’t a slave. Maybe even a few of the slaves, too.”

Jaime leaned back, allowing himself to slump as much as he could with his ankles bound to the chair legs, “Do you know in Westeros there is something like a thousand noble families?”

“What of it?” she returned to the table, picking up her goblet only to drain its contents and promptly refill it. She didn’t sit but remained standing, one hip leaned against the table, one palm on its surface. Even standing to his sitting she was hardly much taller.

“Some of those noble families have been reduced to a handful of members. The Starks were down to,” Jaime counted on his fingers, “three. Lady Sansa, Lady Arya, and their bastard brother. Of course, other families like Lannister and Tyrell have dozens that have their blood even if few are in the line of succession. So let’s see, if we average that out…” he frowned; he could count an army’s numbers through a far-eye from a half league away, but he’d never been great with arithmetic.

Daenerys lifted one shoulder, “Say twenty-five blood members of each noble house, on average.”

“Excellent! So that’s twenty-five thousand nobles in all of Westeros. Hells, even if we’re way off – even if it’s a hundred thousand, that’s a drop in the bucket of the total population.”

“Which is?”

“I haven’t the foggiest idea, other than that it’s in the millions. King’s Landing alone has five-hundred thousand. Granted, it’s crowded like no other city in the realm is, but if we assume each kingdom can at least double the population of the capital across all their holdfasts and towns and castles, that’s…” Damn, not again.

“Over seven million people.”

Jaime snapped his fingers, “Correct! So, your grace, if twenty-five thousand people call you a sacker, but four million call you a savior… Well, you’re doing pretty well.”

“Not all of the commoners call me a savior. You forget that though they might not have profited directly from the slave trade, their city’s economy certainly did! Merchants, sailors, guardsmen, beekeepers, farmers, tanners, clothiers, cheesemongers, bakers, barkeeps…”

“It doesn’t matter! If nothing else, the slaves respect you. And isn’t it something like four or five of them for every freeborn man and woman?”

It always went this way when they spoke. When Daenerys was in the mood to praise herself or her accomplishments, Jaime insisted on finding and pointing out the flaws in her logic. When she was down on herself, conversely, he tried to build her back up. He wasn’t sure why he did either, beyond his tendency to be contrary.

Daenerys took a deep breath and shook her head repeatedly before responding, “The slaves call me Mysa, yes. Mother…” her eyes suddenly became sharp and challenging, “Do you see my children, ser?”

So that’s what all this is about.

“I saw one. You know I did.”

She snorted dryly, “One, yes. If I even suspect you of repeating this to anyone, Ser Jaime, your new name will be the Cockless Lion, and it will be completely apt. So if you can’t keep a secret, tell me now.”

He swallowed, knowing it was no idle threat, “Well, I’ve always thought of myself as the Curious Lion, and believe me when I say that whatever the realm heard about Joffrey’s parentage did not come from my lips, so proceed your grace.”

“Very well,” she nodded stiffly, “the one you saw was Drogon, named for my late husband, Khal Drogo. I always felt most connected to him. When he was small, he’d gladly perch on my shoulder or sit on my lap, spit at any who approached me. He was barely the size of a small dog when he saved my life, in the House of the Undying. He is the reason I have the Unsullied soldiers. And yet since then… He left me, Ser. As my armies took Astapor, Yunkai, Meereen, he wasn’t there. He’d be spotted on occasion, but he never comes when I call to him.”

The pain of her admission was brutally clear. It was as Cersei would’ve sounded if one day Joffrey told her that he hated her then ran away from home. It would be small consolation that Myrcella and Tommen remained her dutiful, loving—

“You have two other dragons,” he blurted out.

Her chest shuddered with her next inhalation, “After Drogon… After he killed a little girl, I had to contain them. Viserion and Rhaegal are chained in the catacombs. But we never could catch Drogon.”

Jaime blinked at her, torn between relief at knowing that only one of those things was flying freely above the cities and a deep sadness that something as rare and magnificent as a dragon had been put in a place that was undoubtedly as dark as the Black Cells of King’s Landing. Men had been known to go mad after a mere sennight in those dungeons. After Jaime’s own stint as a prisoner of war, he could say with absolute certainty he’d take a swift death over indefinite imprisonment, ten times out of ten.

“You know the theory as to why your ancestors’ dragons became small and sickly was because of their eventual confinement in the Dragonpit.”

Her jaw bulged and Daenerys pushed off the table, her arms crossing defensively, “I know it isn’t ideal, but if it prevents the loss of innocent lives—”

“Fuck that,” once more Jaime went to stand and once more he couldn’t do it properly. He let out a growl, “For fuck’s sake, either you think I’m a threat in which case take the sharpest knife on this table and jab it right here,” he lifted his chin and pointed at the main vein on the right side, “or untie me from this fucking chair.”

“I’m not a fool, Ser. Trusting you blindly would be foolish, as would kill—”

Jaime snorted as he leaned his knuckles on the table, standing as best he could, “Oh you’re a fool, alright. The city around you is in chaos. Your enemies are no doubt planning your assassination as we speak. And if they fail they’ll plan another, and another, and another. Why wouldn’t they, when your rule of law is costing them not thousands but millions in gold coins. Meanwhile, you have not one but three dragons and you’re letting two of them wither underground in the dark! Hells, even if the confinement doesn’t hurt their bodies or stunt their growth, what do you think it’s doing to their temperament? Even the tamest of dragons were nasty beasts. You think you can keep them down there and that when you let them out they’ll just roll over and let you scratch their bellies?!”

Her teeth were bared, “And what would you recommend, since you’re apparently the authority on dragon-rearing?!”

“I recommend you either release them or kill them.”

“Kill them?!” her head reared back, her eyes widened.

“As a mercy, yes. A mercy you’d understand if you had to spend but one week in such a place.”

She scoffed, “Release them. Did you forget that I couldn’t control them, Ser?”

“And why should you? You call yourself their mother. Does a mother aim to control her children or to love them and guide them and then, one day, watch them make their own way in the world, even if it takes them far away from her?”

Her mouth dropped open, first looking like affront then turning into surprise and then…

Understanding.

Or so he thought.

She swallowed, brought her eyes away, looking more than a little shamed, “Drogon killed a child. Probably more that I don’t know about.”

“And so you imprisoned his siblings.”

Her eyes were back on him and blazing again, “I couldn’t risk them hurting anyone.”

“Quite noble of you, my queen, but what do you risk by imprisoning them?”

“What do you mean?” she asked impertinently.

“Do you not risk that they will turn completely wild? That after enough moons living in darkness, they’ll never be tamable?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“And what about the people being hurt right now? Your Unsullied soldiers. The commoners who have been brave enough to call you their queen. These Harpy’s sons are killing them every night. Might be if there were three dragons flying over the city, they’d not be so bold.”

“If I set Viserion and Rhaegal loose, they’re more likely to fly off like Drogon did.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. You were able to get them into the catacombs, unlike their black brother; perhaps they are more inherently obedient. Pliable.”

“And if they’re not?”

“Then you’re still doing the right thing. You want to truly be what your supporters call you? You really want to be Mhysa? Then start by being a mother to your own children. Otherwise, stop calling them your children because you haven’t earned the right.”

She huffed loudly and strolled around the table to stand but a foot in front of him, “What would you know of it? You admitted you don’t even love your children.”

“Aye, and yet I told you I’d still die for them and still kill for them. And if my word isn’t good enough then let me offer you this, your grace,” he almost brought a hand to her cheek before remembering her threat in that regard issued several weeks back. To make sure the temptation didn’t arise again, he dropped into the seat, hoping that when he wasn’t towering over her she might heed his words and feel less defensive, “My sister. I’ve already told you she was far from perfect. Not a particularly good queen. Definitely not a good wife. Tyrion would tell you she was positively abysmal as a sister, and I doubt my father considered her a particularly good daughter. Then again, he’s not exactly easy to please. But I digress. My sister was, all-in-all, a rather hateful woman. And yet if her son killed an innocent, she wouldn’t have thrown him in the dungeons for it. She certainly wouldn’t throw his siblings in the dungeons for it.”

“Perhaps she should have thrown him in the dungeons once or twice. It sounds to me like he might’ve benefited from the occasional punishment.”

Jaime snorted, “I don’t doubt it, but that was his father’s duty. A mother’s duty is to love and protect and forgive.” For the first time in a long time Jaime thought of Joanna as his mother, not as Tywin Lannister’s wife. He remembered when he and Cersei had been discovered in bed together. Truthfully it had been a harmless exploration of each other’s body. At six years of age neither of them had any true sexual desire. Still, it was one of many indications, Jaime supposed, that he and Cersei were unnaturally close. And yet Joanna didn’t take a birch to their backsides. She didn’t lock them in their rooms for a sennight or send them to bed with empty bellies. She certainly didn’t tell their father, who probably would’ve sent Jaime to foster with Lord Crakehall the very next day to nix that very Targaryen behavior. No, Joanna merely moved Cersei to a room far from Jaime’s. If she even offered an admonishing word, Jaime couldn’t recall. All he remembered of Joanna were smiles and songs and soft hands and a feeling of warmth that even the summer sun can’t rival.

He let out a breath and gentled his tone, “Perhaps Cersei isn’t the best example, you’re thinking. She’s hardly the woman you wish to emulate. But I can only imagine that any loving mother would agree, if she was willing to be honest: she’d sooner watch some stranger’s child be killed than to live with the knowledge that her own children were imprisoned in some dark undergrown cell for months. And I suspect you feel the same way, but you’ve convinced yourself that a queen’s first duty is to her people, not her own children. It’s noble, I acknowledge. It’d be even more noble if your people weren’t dying anyway and the key to their safety wasn’t the very children you’ve locked up.”

She shook her head, “What if they’re not the key to anything? What if I can’t ride them? What if I can’t tame them?”

“Are you Daenerys Targaryen, Tamer of Dragons? Rider of Dragons? I don’t recall hearing either of those among your many titles, your grace,” he teased.

The desired result was achieved. Daenerys rolled her eyes, “I am Daenerys Targaryen, Mother of Dragons, as you’ve pointed out several times this evening.”

“Have I?” he scrunched his lips and shrugged his shoulders.

She smiled at him then, her eyes beginning to look weary and he didn’t blame her; this had been a rather heavy conversation. But the longer she watched him, watching her, the more the look shifted to one of sudden appreciation.

Jaime had thought rather glibly that he might fuck this young queen if she was willing, but as the silence continued, he found himself wondering if he could. Well, he knew that he could. But should he? This girl was young enough to be his daughter. This girl was trying to juggle a hundred balls at once and hating herself over each one that fell to the ground. This girl was being torn in too many directions by too many people and as a result she lost track of her own objectives. She was compromising herself to pieces by trying to rule a people that didn’t want to be ruled. And knowing all that, it seemed that to sleep with her would be to become yet another person pulling yet another direction; he’d be yet another ball that she’d cry about dropping.

Perhaps he was thinking too highly of himself. The girl was no maiden and he doubted her late husband was the only man to have ever known her. Perhaps she could get herself off on Jaime’s cock without forming the slightest attachment to him, no more than if he’d given her a scratch between the shoulder blades.

All he’d ever wanted to give Cersei was his body, his cock and tongue and fingers, specifically. Not his ear. Not his mind. Not his heart. His soul was already hers, just as hers was his. And now he was staring up at another queen, one so very unlike Cersei, and he wanted to give her everything he had to give, short of the thing her sleepy eyes told him she wanted.

He broke the eye contact and looked back toward the balcony. The sun must be just about level with them, making the room as bright as it could possibly be even if in a few minutes it would be dark.

Every word spoken on instinct and borne of emotion this evening settled in a place within him that he’d never known existed until being a prisoner in Robb Stark’s war camp. The place where contemplation happened, deeper thinking, bigger thinking. Each word was a puzzle, and as that part of him put it together the picture became clear.

He brought his eyes back to hers, “What do you want, Daenerys Stormborn?”

She blinked away her soft, seductive gaze, clearly misinterpreting his words.

“One thing,” he added quickly, “You can have anything you want, but not everything you want. Do you want to rule these cities for the rest of your life? Do you want to conquer all of Essos? Do you want to ride one of your dragons toward the horizon until you find some untouched island where you can live as you wish for the rest of your life? Do you want to marry and have lots of children, even if only as the wife of some blacksmith or other poor sot? Do you want to make it your mission to protect every innocent lad and lass in the entire realm, or as many as you can at least? Do you want to burn every nobleman to ash and give their manses and pyramids to the freedmen? Tell me what you want, but more importantly, know what you want, because every decision you make from now on must be a decision that takes you closer to that want, whether by an inch or a league.”

“I… I can’t just… I cannot…”

Jaime snorted, “Why can’t you take what you want? No one is going to give it to you. Every man and woman in this world is born with the right to work toward what they want, even if most of us die without ever reaching it. And there’s no rule that it must be noble. The only thing I ever wanted was to fuck my sister. I sat in a cold, muddy war camp in my own filth for months and not once did I long to be on a featherbed in Casterly Rock. I didn’t even wish for a bath and no matter how much my stomach grumbled, it was a different hunger that plagued me. All I wanted was to be free so I could return to my sister. I got no chances but was ready to do whatever it took to get myself to her. If they threw a tiny babe into my cell and said I’d go free if I only snapped its neck, I would have.”

Her eyes widened, “That’s horrible!”

“That’s conviction. And it’s horrible, but it’s the truth. But, my beautiful young queen, I do not doubt the thing you want is nobler than that.”

She took a breath, and for half a moment Jaime thought she’d call for her guards to take him away. He was pressing her tonight, but he had a feeling no one had pressed her before. The honorable knights who followed her, Ser Barristan in particular, would only laud every good deed she ever did. They’d never tell her the ugly truth: that if goodness was her cause, she’d do better joining some motherhouse in Westeros or its equivalent in one of these various Essosi religions. Rulers were not meant to be good. They couldn’t be good and keep their position, because a truly good person would always look like prey to those willing to be bad.

But he had pushed as far as he was willing to go; he hardly wanted to break the girl, “If you don’t know—”

“Justice.”

Jaime narrowed his eyes, “Justice?”

“That’s what I want. Against this Harpy and whoever backs him or her. Against every house, every person who has smiled to my face while sharpening their knives behind my back. And against him.”

“Him?”

“Your father,” she lifted a brow, perhaps in challenge, but he only found it ridiculously arousing.

“Only him? You seemed to have a much longer list. Practically every house that either sided with Robert Baratheon or later kneeled to him.”

“Those that sided with him did so because of my brother’s foolishness and my father’s cruelty. Perhaps the former was no true crime. Perhaps the latter was not his fault, but a sickness. Still, neither of them would have looked like a particularly good option. ”

“And those who kneeled to Robert Baratheon?”

“Did so because he had Targaryen blood and they had no better candidates. Because your father didn’t merely remove the rotted beams, did he? No, he burned the entire building to the ground. My brother was dead. My father was dead. Could they not have rallied around my nephew, the son of Elia Martell? Or her slightly older daughter? What about my mother, a Targaryen through and through? What about my brother? What about me, after I’d been born? But wouldn’t do, would it? Your father sent men to kill my niece and nephew. Ser Barristan has told me all about it; all about the crimson cloaks that little Rhaenys and Aegon were shrouded in when laid at the new king’s feet.”

“The new king might’ve done the same.”

“No doubt, but we’ll never know. We do know he commanded his brother to take Dragonstone, though, and to kill any little dragons he found there. But we don’t know if the brother would have followed that command, do we? Nor do we know that if Robert Baratheon had been presented with a living Rhaenys and living Aegon that he’d have had the stomach to end them, or even to order it. All we do know—”

“Is that Tywin Lannister had the stomach,” Jaime stated the obvious. He didn’t like the way he felt after letting those words breathe. He’d always chosen to think that Ser Amory and Ser Gregor had gone rogue. Perhaps Tywin’s order had been to take the children into custody but those beastly men were too bloodthirsty to control their murderous urges. Perhaps Aegon was meant to be killed but not Rhaenys, not Elia. Perhaps Aegon and Rhaenys but not Elia. That was the easiest to believe, and enough for Jaime to accept his father’s actions, because as a commander he could understand the danger of letting the former king’s heirs live, but Tywin could only have bought a slightly better relationship with Dorne by letting Elia live. Would Jaime’s clever father have truly not seen the finality and wastefulness of killing a Dornish princess with no claim on the throne?

And yet he could not deny Daenerys’ choice to believe that if two sworn men of Tywin Lannister killed her kin, then they did so at the lion’s order. And perhaps that’s how a smarter Jaime would’ve seen things all along. Were Gregory Clegane and Amory Loch truly such mindless beasts that they’d lose their tempers and kill two babes they were supposed to take into custody? That they’d do so knowing Tywin Lannister may have their heads for insubordination?

No… those men didn’t go against Tywin Lannister’s orders. They executed his orders in the bloodiest way possible.

But had the bloodiness been ordered, too?

He felt his cheeks warming, his jaw bulging, every inch of his skin prickling. Princess Elia’s rape and murder had been the very thing that proved to Jaime that his father wasn’t entirely guilty of that death, at least, but who had he been fooling? Years later Tywin had the poor crofter’s daughter raped by over a dozen men, and not because she was a threat to House Lannister, or would be in time, but because she’d had the audacity to marry above her station. It was the foolish mistake of an uneducated fourteen-year-old girl, and that had been the lion’s response.

And Jaime realized now that this was the first time in years that he thought of the girl as what she was, and not as the whore his father ordered Jaime to brand her. He’d let himself believe the lion’s lie, even knowing it was a lie, because it was easier than acknowledging his father was that kind of man. That was something Aerys II Targaryen would do, except Aerys would’ve done the deed himself rather than order his men and his son to do it. For some reason, Jaime could respect him more for that. Or, rather, hate him less.

Jaime wondered if he could deliver Daenerys her justice simply by sending one raven to his brother and another to Sansa Stark. But to hear that the old lion had died in his sleep or been shunned by his wife wouldn’t satisfy either of them, would it?

“Ser Jaime?”

He looked up, realizing only then his vision was blurry. The queen’s small hands were cool on his cheeks.

“What is it?” she asked once he was looking at her.

He reached up and swiped at the tears that had pooled but not fallen. If he was a better man they’d be tears of remorse for lying to his brother all those years ago, or tears of compassion for the crofter’s daughter with the big blue eyes. But these were tears of rage.

Two families eradicated – children and servants included – all drowned to eliminate those few responsible for the defiance.

A city sacked, women and children raped in the streets when their deaths were completely unnecessary to the rebels’ cause.

A princess raped and killed. A toddler girl stabbed to death; her infant brother killed with blunt force.

A crofter’s daughter gang-raped, probably killed after, for marrying the little lordling who’d saved her life.

Countless men, women, and children butchered in the Riverlands. Farms and homes put to the torch.

A throne and bride stolen from a grandson by his grandfather.

A woman’s death swept under the rug by her own father.

A man’s purpose stripped from his hands by his own father.

All those crimes could be laid at the same man’s feet. A man Jaime had respected and loved even as he’d resented him.

And he had kept coming back to this: it was too coincidental that Sansa came into her power mere weeks before Joffrey died. Why was Joffrey walking unguarded? What made him suddenly clumsy on the stairs he’d walked up and down nearly every day of his life? The wine explained it, but it also was a convenient excuse for someone trying to disguise a murder as an accident.

But now, thanks to words Daenerys had spoken earlier, which Jaime had agreed to without truly pondering, he was considering a different angle. She’s as much a victim as her aunt before her.

How could it have even occurred to Jaime that Sansa Stark would have the balls to kill Joffrey unless it was done quite explicitly with her husband’s blessing?! She must be terrified of him; how could she not be? No matter if Tywin treated her gently – a ruined womb on his key to the North and Trident wouldn’t do, after all – she was still his prisoner. And those songs that had made Jaime downright homicidal before he got on an Essos-bound ship? The ones about the love between the lion and wolf? Tywin and his lackeys had probably commissioned them, for fuck’s sake! They were The Rains of Castamere all over again – romanticizing a figure at the center of an atrocity.

“Ser?” Daenerys asked again.

Jaime shook his head, “You want justice served to my father?”

She frowned, “Why do you seem surprised?”

“No, I mean,” he reached up, wrapped his fingers around the tiny wrists attached to the tiny hands that still touched him, grounded him, cooled him, “I mean that if you want to hurt him, then hurt him. Not my brother. Not his… Not my half-sisters. Spare them pain. Spare their lives. Even his wife, if you can.”

“I thought you hated her.”

“I… I’ve just realized that… That perhaps I was eager to throw blame her way. She was an easy target, a person with plenty of motive. But my father…” he shook his head as his words faded out.

Yet Daenerys, the wise even if occasionally naïve young woman, understood, “He is even worse than I think, isn’t he?”

Jaime nodded, wondering why he felt both frantic and numb, “Yes.”

She didn’t have far to go given her short height and Jaime’s long torso, but Daenerys bent forward until they were eye-to-eye, amethyst on emerald, her hands still on his cheeks and his hands still on her wrists, “I believe you, Ser. And I believe you’re nothing like him, no matter how much you might try to convince yourself otherwise. You might not be a good man. You’re quite possibly a bad man. But you’re still a man. But him? He’s a monster. They’re monsters, any who relish the deaths of children. Any who can kill with such cruelty instead of efficiency. Any who would build their house upon the bones of innocents. You ask what I want? Perhaps justice isn’t the end of it. Perhaps what I want is to hunt monsters.”

Jaime smiled easily, “That’s a form of hunting I might enjoy. Perhaps this old knight will redeem himself yet.”

She smiled back but was still quite serious about their plans, “It isn’t enough to kill him.”

Jaime frowned, “You mean to… torture him first?” he guessed.

“Not the torture you’re imagining. Something tells me a man like your father would rather have his body broken than his pride.”

Jaime snorted, “You know him quite well.”

“There is some of him in you, Ser, and I mean no offense. Pride is not a bad thing. Only an over-abundance of it.”

“No offense taken. But how do you mean to break his pride?”

Her grin widened, “I mean to take what he cares about most.”

“And what’s that?”

“You tell me.”

He didn’t even have to think about it, “His legacy.”

She nodded, “As I thought. I recall you talking a time or two about your father’s fixation on his family legacy.”

“But… but I told you, I don’t wish to see his children harmed. Not Tyrion. Not his daughters through Sansa.”

“And they won’t be. Well, your brother will be given every opportunity to cooperate. I trust you can convince him.”

“What are you planning?” he asked suspiciously.

“I’ll tell you soon enough, my curious lion.”

He wasn’t sure whether he was being mocked until she giggled in amusement at the look on his face.

As the laughter faded, her hands slipped down until they were resting on his shoulders, then she used that as a point of leverage to put space between them, “I had been close to agreeing to marry Hizdahr zo Loraq. What say you to that?”

Jaime shrugged, “Don’t know the man. Not even sure that’s a man’s name.”

She chuckled, “A Ghiscari nobleman. One who has leveraged his family’s wealth and station to gain even more wealth for himself through various trades.”

“Like the slave trade?”

“Possibly. Among others.”

“And you’d marry such a man and trust him not to kill you in your sleep? And here I was just thinking that you’re wise for your age…”

“I wouldn’t need to trust him, only trust that he knows that if he killed me, he’d never make it out of here alive.”

“You’d be amazed how crafty a man can be when his life is on the line.”

She rolled her eyes, “He’d be but a means to an end. He’s promised me ninety days of peace in this city. I’ve yet to agree, but if I do our wedding will only occur after those ninety days.”

Jaime shook his head, this time in absolute disappointment, “If he can give you peace, it means he’s the one breaking it now.”

The smile she’d been wearing for minutes faded, leaving two crescent-shaped creases framing her now straight mouth.

“It is more than one man wreaking all this havoc,” she countered.

“No doubt. So if one man can stop all the havoc, it means either he is the one pulling the strings or he knows who the puppet masters are and isn’t telling you.”

She took another step back from him, “Or he is confident his men can restore order.”

“Confident for good reason,” Jaime snorted, “He’ll buy peace off the ones who are breaking it. But how is he paying for that peace?”

Her eyes narrowed, “Not with gold… They have enough of that.”

“Correct.”

“He’s buying them with promises.”

“Of?”

Her cheeks darkened, “Of what he’ll give them after he is my husband. What he’ll be able to influence me to do.”

“Influence, manipulate… such a subtle difference.”

“He wants me to reopen the fighting pits,” she blurted out.

Jaime shrugged, “What about them?”

“I closed them all after taking the city. Hizdahr zo Loraq bought them at a steep discount and has repeatedly asked me to reopen them.”

“Clever man, buying an asset when it’s worthless, knowing it can only appreciate in value.”

“Such as when his wife lets them resume their very profitable operation?”

Jaime sighed, “You said you had been close to agreeing to a marriage. Please tell me I didn’t mishear.”

Daenerys shook her head, “If what I want is justice against the oppressors, then making one of their noblemen the most powerful man in Meereen isn’t exactly going in the right direction, is it?”

Jaime smirked, “Not exactly.”

“Perhaps it is time to take a page from your father’s playbook rather than House Stark’s histories.”

“How’s that?”

“Perhaps I’ve extended mercy too many times, considering how I get nothing in return for it but death threats and more violence.”

“Hm. The nobles of the slave cities are like the Boltons… too confident that their enemy will treat them honorably no matter their betrayals.”

“Perhaps it’s time to treat them like the Reynes were treated, instead.”

Jaime cocked his head, “You don’t have the numbers. You’ve told me so.”

“Don’t I? Then what was your point about how there are five slaves for every master in this city?”

“Ask any knight who’s had even a small taste of battle: he’d rather face five untrained, unarmored, unmounted opponents over one—”

“In battle, yes. But I see no battlefield here. If anything, I see an enemy that sneaks into our war camp every night, killing a few sleeping men and disappearing before their presence can be noticed.”

“You mean to use their own methods against them?”

“Each night these Sons of the Harpy are hunting in my streets. It’s time they learned what it feels like to be prey… and it’s time the masses were reminded that this city belongs to them.”

Jaime shook his head as a swell of emotion filled his chest, “You are no ruler. You are no queen. You are no conqueror… You, my stormborn queen, are a revolutionary.”

She smiled proudly at that, “Tomorrow I will speak to the man who thinks to make himself my husband. I’ll tell him I’ve changed my mind about the fighting pits thanks to his very persuasive argument. We will plan a grand re-opening ceremony.”

“And?”

“And I will know that every single person who comes is either a friend of his, or a beneficiary of the slave trade, or both.”

“I take it the festivities won’t be as fun as they’re anticipating…”

“I’ll have enough fun for all of them,” her smile was as satisfied as it was wicked.

Chapter 34: Cut you open

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Arya

For the first time in her life, Arya understood why Sansa had dreamed of marrying a southern lord when they were younger.

Arya would wear silk dresses, gossip with other ladies, embroider dainty little flowers on dainty squares of cotton… She’d curtsy… She’d wear silk gloves and hide her mouth behind them whenever she giggled... She’d give dreamy smiles to her blond-haired husband… She’d dance… She’d sing… She’d play a harp… She’d read about princesses and their knight lovers… She’d wear completely impractical silk slippers…

She’d do all of it, if only to be living somewhere warm right now.

Gendry was miserable. Clegane was miserable. Everyone was miserable. The Winter Town was full of residents. Winterfell’s stores were full of food, their barrels full of ale and mead and even wine. Their halls were filled with retainers, servants, men-at-arms, some essentially on loan from houses like Mormont, Glover, Cerwyn, Umber, and Manderly.

And yet the entire place was eternally cold.

The hot springs that were fed through the skeleton of the keep were not fed through the entire keep. The family chambers enjoyed some of the radiant warmth, but Winterfell was simply too large for the system to be employed everywhere. Thus, entire towers and entire wings or floors had been sealed off – not an issue since the population within the castle was a fraction of what it was before Father, Sansa, and Arya went south.

Foodstores and spirits had to be guarded by only men they trusted unfailingly; same for firewood and other winter necessities. Walkways had to be kept clear of snow and ice at all times except when the snow was coming down heavily and shoveling would have been a futile effort. Hunting parties had to be organized on relatively mild days. The horses and livestock needed to be kept warm. The firewood needed to be kept dry. Hearths and chimneys needed to be kept clean.

It all meant there was a tremendous amount of work to be done around Winterfell.

Except if you were the Lady of Winterfell.

For every task there was someone in charge, and it was someone who knew what he was doing. Unless there were issues or unforeseen complications, neither Arya nor her mother had to get involved. And since commerce in the North ground to a halt during winter, there was nothing to be done in that arena. No orders to place with merchants at White Harbor or Maidenpool. No ledgers to update with gold collected or spent – rents owed to Winterfell would be held by the lord overseeing that territory. It was House Stark’s right to go retrieve those rents at any time, but rent collection was typically delegated to a trusted family member or retainer, and Arya wouldn’t send Gendry or Ser Rodrik or even Clegane out in this cold. Storms could form too quickly this far north. Perhaps a trip that could be covered in a day, there and back, but there were so few of them.

So, Arya had to find other ways to occupy herself.

She wrote a letter to Sansa, but knew it was wasteful to send it, so she didn’t. The raven might get lost in a storm and then when they really needed to get in contact with King’s Landing, they wouldn’t have an efficient means to do so.

She wrote a letter for Bran and one for Jon, but knew it was even more foolish to attempt to send those. If the bird arrived at Castle Black, it would only alert the Night’s Watch that Bran, along with Meera and Jojen Reed, Hodor, and Lady Brienne, had gone north of the Wall on a journey the Watch had not been made aware of. Certainly, a Stark didn’t need their permission, but it would’ve been expected as a courtesy. Arya never sent a letter because she didn’t want them to know there was a mission underway that intended to, among other things, save Jon Snow if he was still alive. It sounded, in the last missive she’d received from the Lord Commander at the Wall, that Jon was assumed to be either dead or a deserter. If he was alive, and if he somehow returned with Bran to Winterfell someday, there was no way Arya would let him go back to the Watch which would very likely execute him. She’d keep her brother within arm’s reach at all times; anyone who wanted to get to him, to hold him accountable for breaking an oath, would have to get through Arya first. And if she needed to, she’d even throw around Tywin Lannister’s name – that’s how much she cared about Jon, that she’d ask the lion for a favor.

Letter-writing wasn’t exactly a time-consuming hobby except that she’d been trying to improve her penmanship. Funny how only in sending letters to her bannermen did she feel self-conscious about her lack of skill in a domain that had always seemed superfluous to her, just like embroidery. Once she could form letters, she saw little reason to make those letters flourished or fancy – it just made them less legible, if anything!

But she found herself practicing better, more regal-looking penmanship on those letters to her siblings that she’d never send.

At least she was better than Gendry. It had never occurred to her until after they married to ask if he knew his letters. He hadn’t, though could sign his own name and identify some words that he’d seen lots of times, like ‘king’ and ‘inn’ and ‘smith’, even if he didn’t know the letters they were comprised of. At least he knew addition and subtraction and fractions from his years apprenticing as a smithy – he was actually better at his numbers than Arya was!

So, Gendry and Rickon learned to read and write together, which was hilarious. Arya would spy on them, watching their lips move in silence, their brows pulled tight in concentration, as they read the same page of the same book. It actually warmed her heart and made her tummy feel fluttery, but Gendry always thought she was mocking him.

She also practiced her sword skills in the small hall, and even had Dacey Mormont, who was one of those guests who stayed on through winter, teach her the morningstar. Dacey was an odd sort. A spinster by all definitions of the word, yet still pretty, even though she had seen forty-one namedays. Arya was a bit jealous of her height, not to mention her fighting skills. She was as graceful sparring as she was dancing, as comfortable in a dress as she was in leather armor.

It had never occurred to Arya until the first time she saw Dacey in a dress of pale blue wool that a woman could be a lady and a warrior, and that both could be equally natural. No, Dacey didn’t embroider handkerchiefs, or play the harp, but nor did she scowl at any men who tipped their head at her or offered their arm when walking or asked for a dance on a night when everyone gathered in the great hall and someone broke out a fiddle.

It occurred to Arya now, as she headed to Rickon’s chambers to see if he wanted to go play in the snow with the wolves, that Dacey might teach Arya how to dance. It couldn’t hurt to know how, just in case.

Perhaps it was precisely that - spending time with her little brother - that made Arya wonder if she should adopt some more ladylike manners. They’d very gradually made Rickon start to come out of his room more often, and to be around more people when he did. They didn’t subject him to a full hall but would have Ser Rodrick there in addition to family, or some of the maids, or Dacey.

Rickon didn’t like even those small crowds, but eventually he got used to them enough to be present even if not engaged. He’d sit there between Arya and Mother, or Mother and Maester Luwin, or Arya and Gendry, and eat his food in silence, scarfing it down as if he’d never see another meal, then whisper that he wanted to be excused.

That wasn’t so bad. But one night, Mother decided it was time to try to push him just a little more. After he ate, Mother insisted he stay for just a few minutes longer and tell her about his lesson that day. Rickon picked up a fistful of turnips off Arya’s plate and threw them at Mother, then ran away yelling for Osha.

No, Arya had never behaved like that, and yes, she understood that Rickon was now letting out years’ worth of repressed anger and resentment and frustration, but in seeing how mortified Mother was as she wiped turnip off her cheek after the entire hall had grown silent, Arya remembered how she used to torment Sansa, always trying to embarrass her around their brothers, their Septa, Sansa’s friends Jeyne and Beth. And gods, Sansa was such an easy and tempting target, and sometimes she bloody well deserved it, but sometimes Arya tormented Sansa for no reason other than her own jealousy over her sister’s achievements in all the areas where Arya failed, not to mention Sansa’s very appearance – all bright and pretty like Mother.

Regardless, Arya now thought back to every time she ever committed some act of mischief against Sansa and felt embarrassed by her own behavior. Had people around the castle who’d witnessed the incidents rolled their eyes and thought Arya was a little hellion; a wild, rambunctious child who needed more discipline? At the time Arya had imagined everyone watching and finding her antics funny, or seeing Sansa for the empty-headed fool she was. Now she just wanted to take it all back.

(Well, most of it.)

“Wake up, sleepy head!” she called out as she let herself into Rickon’s bedchamber. No maids ever attended him, only Arya, Mother, and Osha, so Arya set about drawing open the window curtains and bed curtains and pouring some ice-cold water from the pitcher into his favorite cup.

“There’s fresh snow, Rickon,” she spoke as she picked up a fur that was lying at the end of the bed. He must have kicked it off in his sleep. “Let’s get Shaggy and Grey Wind and go play with them, hmm? I bet I can make a better snowball than you.” She lifted her eyes to the headboard but saw that the bed was empty. Rickon wasn’t there.

Arya frowned as she puzzled over who might’ve been successful this early in the morn in getting Rickon out of his room. It could only have been Osha or Clegane.

She turned to head to the hall where they all broke their fast most days when she felt something latch onto her ankle and pull hard.

“Son of a…” she knew to never land on her belly, so as she went down she pivoted on the foot that wasn’t being grabbed and ended up landing on her arse instead, her grabbed foot already kicking and shaking.

She wasn’t sure what sort of attacker her body had been preparing to fight off, but she still felt like a proper fool when she saw her brother’s eyes, big and blue and terrified, from where he peeked out at her from under the bed.

Letting out a loud breath, she let her head thunk back against the floor, “Why are you under the bed, Rickon?”

“I got scared,” he whispered.

“What scared you?”

“I saw the quiet brother.”

Arya sat up, “You saw Ghost?”

He shook his head, “Ghost’s boy.”

“Jon?! You saw Jon?!”

Over the many months they’d been home, Rickon spoke often of his wolf dreams. He was almost always dreaming of being in Shaggydog (the wild brother) or Grey Wind (the sad brother). Once he had mentioned the wild sister, but Arya couldn’t tell if he was describing a recent dream or one long past, nor if it even was a dream or memory of Nymeria from before the wolf went south with Arya. It was often that way – Rickon had spent too much time in the dark, with only Bran and Hodor and sometimes Osha or Maester Luwin for company. What would a young child do in a dark place to pass the time? Well, they would imagine. They might pretend they were a gull gliding on a sea breeze, a wolf hunting in the woods, a horse galloping across a meadow. Maybe they’d pretend to be a knight, or a prince, or a king, or a sailor, or a dancer, or a dragonrider.

Thus, Arya knew she ought not take anything Rickon said about his “dreams” too seriously – half the time she couldn’t make sense of them anyway – but to hear him say he’d dreamt of Jon? Well, Arya was desperate for any hint that her brother lived.

Rickon nodded, “He wears a cloak of ravens. I don’t like it. He’s sad.”

“Made of ravens? You mean raven feathers? Or do you mean a… a black cloak?”

“It’s made of ravens. They’re all dead.”

Arya nodded numbly, knowing that Rick had not had lessons in the Night’s Watch. Well, unless Osha had told him about the ancient order. Arya knew from Osha that Wildlings often called the members of the Night’s Watch ‘crows’ because of their black cloaks, but if Rickon had heard that from Osha, why would he be calling the birds ‘ravens’ and not crows? Osha would have taught him to call the Watchmen ‘crows’, not ravens.

Meaning Rickon had dreamt it, and yet once again Arya didn’t know whether he was dreaming of the past or present.

“Rickon, did Jon look like… like he looked when he left Winterfell?”

Rick began creeping back under the bed and Arya cursed at herself. Rickon didn’t like thinking about those days – when little by little his entire family left him and Bran.

“Nevermind that, Rick. Listen, tell me what Jon looked like in your dream.”

It took a few minutes of coaxing but eventually he crawled to the edge again, resting his chin on the dusty floor, “He’s hairy.”

“Hairy?”

Now she was back to thinking he saw Ghost, not Jon.

Rickon nodded, “Like the loud man and the uncle who left with Sansa.”

“The Greatjon? And Uncle Brynden? But… Oh!” Arya smoothed a hand down her cheek, “Jon has a beard?”

Rickon nodded.

“What else?”

Rick shrugged.

“Please, Rickon. I haven’t seen Jon in so long, I’m eager to hear how he’s doing!”

“You believe me?” Rickon asked, his eyes big and hopeful.

“Of course! I mean, not all dreams are real – I hope you know that. I once dreamed that I ate so much and so fast that when I went to walk back to my room, I couldn’t fit through the doorway! Clearly, that dream wasn’t real. But I do think some dreams are real.”

Rickon offered a toothy smile but then it faded, and his next words came out tentatively, “Last week I dreamt Sansa was under a man’s legs. He was wearing a skirt!”

Arya made an exaggerated face of disgust. At least she didn’t have to wonder that that dream might be real – what man wore a skirt? Certainly not Tywin Lannister, and Arya knew Sansa had been with no other man.

At her comical reaction Rickon shook his head, “She was scared. He was a giant. Made out of a mountain.”

She felt every muscle in her face go slack.

She knew of a man who could be compared to a giant, who was compared to a mountain. A man Sansa had been alone with in Harrenhal for an entire afternoon and evening. Who Sansa had been made to bathe.

After which he might’ve wrapped a drying sheet around his hips… which to a child might look like a skirt.

An image formed in her mind, very much against her will…

A ring of nausea moved from her belly up to her throat and Arya dashed out of the room, almost knocking Osha over. Her own room was just down the corridor and she ran in, slamming the door behind her and running to the bureau to vomit into the basin since she knew the chamber pot had both her and Gendry’s piss in it.

“Arya?” Gendry called to her from the bed where she’d left him sleeping not ten minutes earlier.

She ignored him as she heaved up last night’s supper.

“Oh no,” suddenly Gendry was right behind her, his warm hands pulling her hair back from her face, “You’re with child, aren’t you? But how?! I haven’t spilled—”

“I’m not with child,” she mumbled as she took the rag Gendry handed her to wipe her mouth.

“Well it sure looks like it! You need to go see Maester Luwin.”

“Dammit, Gendry, I’m not pregnant!”

He shook his head, “Fine, but if you throw up again tomorrow morning—”

“Ugh!” she waved a hand and left, stomping down the corridor, trying not to think about it but not being in control of her own thoughts and the emotions they brought about.

Rage, unlike any she’d ever known.

Guilt, so acute it felt like someone had wrapped a hand around her intestines.

Helplessness, so frightening she wanted to run into her mother’s arms.

Instead she walked as fast as she could to the training yard, or where men would be training if there wasn’t nearly a foot of snow on the ground that’d yet to be cleared.

She strode straight up to a post and smashed it with Needle, but the thin blade didn’t gouge out enough wood for her to pretend it was a man’s flesh.

She went to the small armory and retrieved one of the morningstars she used when training with Dacey. It had rounded nubs instead of spikes, and weighed less than the real thing, but it would do, because she didn’t actually want to hack a man to pieces – that would be too merciful – she wanted to bludgeon him to death over the course of an entire day while he begged for mercy and shit his breeches and cried for his mother.

Of course, the Mountain hadn’t left Sansa untouched! Bloody hells, but he was a soldier with his blood up and Sansa was a beautiful girl.

She saw Sansa, lying beneath that monster, trembling in fear, tears in her eyes; his tree-trunk like legs straddling her, pinning her down, making it impossible to escape.

She smashed metal against wood, reveling in the pain that shot back up her arm from the force of the impact.

Why hadn’t Sansa told Arya?! Why did Sansa say she was still a maiden when Arya visited her the next day? She had seemed so genuinely horrified by the idea that she might have bedded Lord Tywin and divulged her secret if not for Arya’s timely intervention with a honey dipper, of all things! It didn’t seem like she’d been lying, but could she have been?

Of course. She lied to Tywin fucking Lannister for months!

But why had she lied to her sister? Why hadn’t she told Arya? It’s not like Sansa had any reason to be ashamed – Arya was the one to tell her to do anything she needed to do to survive that place, those wretched men. Didn’t she know if anything Arya would’ve gutted that giant fucking—

That’s why she didn’t tell me. Because I’d have attacked him, and probably died in the process or succeeded and been hanged afterward.

She saw Sansa, standing in the muck, blue eyes terrified and resolved at the same time as she faced Ser Gregor who made even tall Sansa look like tiny, “That is my brother Arnold. He didn’t mean to disrespect you, only to protect me.”

She saw Gregor, eyeing Sansa with satisfaction, “You do everything I tell you, might be I’ll tell Polliver not to feed him to the rats.”

Sansa did what she did with him to keep me safe.

Then she hid the truth from me to keep me safe.

“What the hell did that post do to you?”

She didn’t realize she was crying until she heard those words, spoken by that voice, and tried to fix her eyes on the here-and-now instead of the past, only to find the here-and-now was blurry.

“Hey. What’s wrong with you, girl?”

She didn’t answer, because the answer was too big.

It wasn’t just Sansa. It was Father and Robb. It was Yoren. It was Lady and Nymeria. It was poor Beth Cassel who shook all the time ever since she showed up after escaping the Dreadfort where the Bolton men were starting to starve and had decided to eat their prisoners.

It was Old Nan, who had not been so lucky as Beth.

It was Jon, lost somewhere in the savage lands beyond the wall.

It was poor Rickon, who spent the years that ought to have been all about growing and learning underground in the dark.

It was Bran and Brienne and Meera and Jojen – all of whom could very likely be dead now.

It was for everyone who died due to the simple fact that the world wasn’t fair.

“What the fuck happened?” Clegane barked behind her again.

She dropped the morningstar and put both hands on the post, needing to or else she would collapse. She felt sweaty despite the cold all around her. She felt trembly. She felt like her lips were going numb but not from the cold.

She leaned forward until her forehead rested against the wood, hating that she wanted to do something but couldn’t. It felt like a fire inside her belly that could only be cooled by killing someone.

Or screaming.

She did the latter, screamed at the top of her lungs because she didn’t care who heard, or what they thought. They didn’t know

They didn’t know!

They didn’t know!

“What the fuck?! Arya, tell me what happened!”

Some part of her brain registered his use of her first name. It was rare for him to do so, just as it was rare for him to refer to Sansa as anything but “the little bird” or “the queen”.

Arya thought she understood why he did it. When you said someone’s given name, you felt close to them. Connected. Friendly.

She suddenly wondered what happened to Hot Pie. She hadn’t thought to look for him when she and Gendry and Clegane snuck into the castle long enough to cross a couple names off her list and retrieve her Needle.

Or maybe she had thought of him but was afraid of what she’d learn. Better to never know.

Or was it? Could she live with never seeing Bran again and never knowing what came of him? Could she live with never knowing what became of Jon, her big brother who loved her better than all the others combined? Who gave her Needle, which had kept her alive. It was the reason she got out of the Red Keep. Needle and Syrio Florel – another one dead, so that she could live. Another gift given, this time from Father.

She should have given Jon a gift before he left for the Wall. Even a silly handkerchief or scarf like Sansa might have embroidered and blessed with a kiss before giving to some pretty knight about to enter the lists. It might have given him a little bit of luck. It might have reminded him of home, of family, of all he had to live for.

Why hadn’t Arya tried even something like that, for Jon? Or for Father? Were they not worth it? Was Syrio not worth it? Yoren? Lommy? All the ones who’d screamed at Harrenhal - old and young, men and women.

She had heard a scream like that before… Sansa’s scream. While Yoren covered Arya’s eyes Sansa had seen it all. Her sister’s scream had sounded like agony, just like all the screams at Harrenhal. Arya had closed her eyes even though she wasn’t facing the steps of the sept. She had closed her eyes and let herself pretend it wasn’t really happening, that it was just a dream. That if she didn’t see it, it would never have been real.

She felt a rough, warm hand on the scruff of her neck, and only then realized she was shivering. Her sweating had stopped, and winter was blowing an icy breath all over her wet skin.

“Pup…” Clegane’s voice was low now, gentle but still rough. Like Father’s had been. Like Uncle Benjen’s had been. Like Uncle Brynden’s had been.

“Tell me what happened,” he implored, so softly, and Arya wondered if he used to speak to Sansa this way. If this was how Sansa knew he had good in him.

“Did… someone hurt you? Did your fucking blacksmith—”

Arya felt a dry laugh burst through her lips but felt no joy for it. By the rising anger in Clegane’s voice, she understood that he wasn’t just inquiring after her wellbeing, but trying to find out who he needed to kill. Who he needed to kill for her, because though he mocked her endlessly, and she antagonized him childishly, she knew he would.

It should be comforting, but it only made the rage return with a fresh round of warm sweat.

She didn’t want anyone protecting her anymore.

She didn’t want anyone dying for her anymore, or even because of her. Would Joffrey have hated Father so badly if it weren’t for Arya hitting him, embarrassing him, that day near the Trident? Did it all stem back to her mischief? Because it was mischief, she knew now; even if it shouldn’t be, it was. Septa Mordane would’ve boxed her ear to find her playfighting with Mycah, a boy she hardly knew and lowborn, to boot. She knew it when she asked him to play, and still she asked. Mycah died because Arya wanted to play with him. No matter that Joffrey and Cersei shouldn’t have reacted so severely over a little scratch, no matter that it was the Hound who hunted Mycah down, who killed him, none of it would have happened if Arya hadn’t wanted to play with Mycah.

Just like Lady wouldn’t have died if Arya hadn’t wanted to play with Mycah.

Just like Syrio wouldn’t have died if Arya hadn’t wanted to learn to fight with a sword.

Just like Yoren wouldn’t have died if he hadn’t rescued Arya.

Did Robb die because of her, too, even if indirectly? Would he have traveled to Bitterbridge if things had been different? If he didn’t have Arya to barter to the Tyrells? Or what if she hadn’t told him that she wouldn’t marry a weaselly Frey… would things have been different? Would Robb never have gotten it in his head to seek out the Tyrells?

She didn’t know. All she knew was that all she ever wanted was to protect her pack – her family, her friends – and all she ever did was get them killed, even if she never meant to.

Even Sansa was stronger than her. Her delicate, girly, soft-spoken sister.

She had once told Tywin Lannister that Sansa protected her at Harrenhal by going with Ser Gregor. That Sansa was willing to endure him to keep her safe. A stranger, she remembered adding, for fear the man would suspect them of being sisters if he thought too long about Sansa’s motives for helping the girl dressed like a boy.

Now she realized just how much Sansa had protected her, and it made Arya sick. It made her angry. It made her hate herself.

“What’s happened?” Clegane tried again.

“Gregor happened.”

That silenced him, as she’d known it would.

“Joffrey happened,” she added. “Cersei happened. Ilyn Payne happened. Tywin Lannister happened. Raff happened. Polliver. The tickler. Roose Bolton. Ramsay Bolton. Theon Greyjoy. Petyr Baelish. Winter happened. The rats happened.”

“Girl—”

I happened. Who have I helped? Who have I protected? All I’ve wanted is to do some good, and all I’ve done is survive, while people die for me.”

“What are you going on about?”

She twisted her neck without taking her forehead off the post, “Gregor hurt your little bird.”

Her intended result was achieved. His look of confusion and worry became shock, as if he couldn’t make sense of her words, and then his crooked mouth became a tight line but for the corner that couldn’t fully close. That corner ticked.

She smiled.

“That’s right,” she brought herself upright, stared at him squarely, “While I was safe in the mud, in our little cage, where none of the prisoners bothered me because they knew Gendry would kill them if they dared. I sat there all afternoon. Midday straight through to dusk, even a couple hours past. I sat there doing nothing while Sansa went off with him, like the good little lady she is, because if she did everything he asked, he wouldn’t hurt me.”

Clegane stared at her, unblinking.

“And do you think that’s the worst of it? At least your brother left her whole. Do you want to know what they looked like? The ones who fed the rats? Do you want to know how there was a bloody hole right here?” she tapped her fingers at the place where her ribs met in the middle of her upper belly, “Do you want to know what they sounded like? They sounded like Sansa sounded when they took our father’s head, only it went on and on and on and on… And do you know what I felt each and every day that I was there? I felt grateful that it was one of them, and not me.” She felt herself laughing, “They came in. They grabbed someone who wasn’t me or Sansa, and I let out a breath I’d been holding since the prior day. I smiled, even. Until the screaming started. Then I didn’t smile to the next day, when they didn’t take one of us.”

Still, he only stared, like she was making no sense.

So he needs more?

No problem, I can go on all day.

“How about Syrio Forel, my water dancing master? He died fighting off six men with nothing but a wooden sword! He took down five before Trant, that cunt, sliced his wooden sword in half. And what did I do? Did I pick up a sword off a fallen guard and stab Trant in the pack? Did I find a something to throw at him? No! I ran! Sansa paid for that one, too, didn’t she? Wasn’t Trant the one who enjoyed hitting her so much, while you stood there doing nothing?! Syrio died for it. Sansa wore scars for it. And I just ran. Just like I ran from the city when Yoren told me to. I ran from Yoren when he told me to. He died so that I could escape. Me and Gendry and Hot Pie. But I know it was all just for me. He knew who I was. Saved me because I was a Stark. Died for me because I was a Stark. Lady died because I was a stupid little girl. Mycah too. You remember Mycah, don’t you? Though might be you didn’t let him introduce himself before you cut him open. Might be I should cut you open for it,” she drew Needle and watched Clegane’s eyes widen.

She twirled the blade, watching his eyes follow it.

“Or might be you did him a favor. Might’ve been a quicker, cleaner death than if he’d made it to the capital with us, hm? And at least his head didn’t get tarred and put on a pike. Or maybe we’d have stayed friends, and he’d have escaped with me, only to die like Lommy did, or at Harrenhal like all those people did, clawed open by a rat.”

She snorted as she lifted her arms until her body looked like a T, Needle glinting in the sun just like the snow did, “And here I am! While Jon and Bran are cold, hungry, maybe dead. While Father is dead. While Robb is dead. While Sansa is in the south married to a bitter old man because I told her to do whatever she needed to do to survive. I told her to be Sarina Parsons. While Rick is under his bed, because he likes the dark more than the light. Because he spent half his life hiding in a crypt while I was living. While I was out there, traipsing around in oblivion to how many corpses I left in my wake. Just like the rat that doesn’t know it’s killed someone, only knows its rear-end is safe from the fire! That’s me!” she jabbed a finger into her chest. “The rat. The rat always survives, doesn’t it? It runs from the barn that’s burning, finds its way out while the horses die screaming. It gets off the sinking ship, swims all the way back to shore while all the people onboard drown. It makes its way out of the rubble of the collapsed building. Hell, I’ve seen rats fight their way out of the cat’s jaws, leave the cat a pretty scar for their trouble.” She snorted, “But a dog?”

His mouth twitched again.

She lowered her arms, released Needle – let it fall into the snow where it landed handle-first with a soft puh. “The rat may outrun the dog, sure. But not forever. And once the dog has the rat in its jaws, it never lets go, does it? It shakes its head until the rat’s nothing but a bag of tiny broken bones.”

She let her chin drop, stared at the snow that came up above her ankles, wondered why she wasn’t cold when for weeks now, perhaps months, she’d had a chill that only left her after a good hour of being under the bedsheets and furs with Gendry, who radiated heat like a forge.

“A fitting way for the rat to end, isn’t it?” she spoke quietly, having lost all her energy. Having forgotten why she’d been so worked up to begin with. Now she just felt tired.

Her arm was almost yanked out of the socket and her cheekbone would probably bruise from the force with which he pulled her against him, but there she was. He smelled like Father used to smell after he spent the morning in the godswood. Air and leather and sweat and metal and something she didn’t like to admit smelled like safety. His hug hurt, like Robb’s had when she and Sansa were reunited with him. It twisted her neck too hard to the side, pressed her cheek too hard into his sternum. His fingers were digging into her head and her neck.

It hurt so good that it squeezed tears out of her eyes, then air out of her chest in the form of sobs. Snot and tears soaked his cloak, but he never let go, and neither did she. For an eternity she held on, because if only the last time she’d hugged Robb she’d never let go, he couldn’t have gone to Bitterbridge. If she didn’t let go of Jon, he couldn’t have gone north. If she didn’t let got of Father, he couldn’t have gone to the throne room to accuse Cersei of her treason.

She was supposed to be the one swinging a sword and using her wits to protect those she loved. Sansa ought to be the one giving never-ending hugs because they were the only offense she could muster. Yet here she was. Her sword had only ever saved herself, and it was Sansa’s wits that saved them all. Sansa’s courage. Sansa’s spine. Sansa’s sacrifice.

“It’s going to be alright, pup,” she felt the warmth of the words on the part in her hair.

She didn’t know whether to believe that or not, but nodded anyway, because she wanted to believe and wanted things to be that simple again, wanted to be the little girl who need only look to her father or older brothers to know how things were. When they were relaxed, she could relax.

“Arya, come on inside before you and Lord Clegane catch a chill.”

She pushed herself away and swiped at tears with the very un-absorbent leather sleeve of her coat.

“Here, pup,” Clegane handed her a square of linen. Unadorned. Thin from many months of use. Stained but clean. It was just like the man himself, she thought with amusement as she walked the ten or so paces toward where Gendry and Mother were waiting. Gendry had her favorite cloak folded and held to his chest, and he opened it only when she got close enough to step into its warmth, which was his warmth.

“Let’s go back to sleep, hm?” Gendry asked, his hands holding tight to her shoulders after he fastened the top two ties on her cloak.

“But’s it’s late morn,” she looked around, embarrassed that some guards and servants were out and about, but also too tired to dwell on it.

“I have a bit of experience running this keep, believe it or not,” Mother spoke sternly, but her smile was gentle as she stroked hair back from Arya’s face.

“Are you sure?”

Catelyn Stark lifted a brow and Arya knew not to make another peep.

“Alright. Thank you, Mother.”

Hand in hand with Gendry, her mother leading the way, they walked back toward the family keep at a sedate pace, only stopping when Arya heard, “Hey, pup!” shouted at her back.

She turned around, half expecting Sandor Clegane to offer some words of wisdom or encouragement.

And in a way, he did.

“You only look like a rat.”

Arya snorted out a burst of laughter even as her mother clicked her tongue in admonishment.

“Aye? Well you look like a monkey’s arse!”

He threw his head back and laughed toward the sky, something that happened infrequently enough that it never failed to make Arya laugh, which made Gendry laugh. Even Mother had to purse her lips to keep from grinning.

Someone had lit a fire in their hearth, which was convenient because Arya’s teeth were chattering by the time they got back to their chambers. She stood there shaking and shivering while Gendry worked free all the clasps and buttons and laces until she was down to her smallclothes, hose, and under-tunic. He pulled a fur off the bed and spread it overtop of the rug that sat on the floor three paces from the hearth, then piled all their bed blankets over it.

Once they were snuggled under the blankets, Arya’s back to the fire, her shivering gradually ceased.

“You heard everything?” she asked quietly as Gendry rubbed his hand up and down her spine.

He shrugged, “Doubt it. I got up. Got dressed. Went to the kitchens for some bread and tea. Went to the hall thinking to find you there. Your mother asked where you were and I told her I didn’t know, figured you had gone off to find her. I told her… how you got sick this morning.”

Arya rolled her eyes, “Of course you did.”

Gendry rolled his eyes back, “I wouldn’t have but that you disappeared and I figured the information might be relevant. We checked Rick’s room and he said this morning you mentioned going to see the wolves. I got your cloak and we went to look for you in the godswood, but on our way we heard your… shouting.”

Arya sighed and burrowed her nose into his neck. His beard was coarse and scratchy, but it made him look older and more like a Northman, and Arya liked that.

“Did Rickon tell you what he told me?”

“No. He only said you looked strange when you left. Why? What did he say?”

“He saw Jon in a dream. Wearing a cloak made of dead ravens, though I’m guessing they were crows.”

“What does that mean?”

“I dunno. I just hope it means he’s alive. Maybe the crows are the members of the Watch? Osha said that’s what the Wildlings call the black brothers. Maybe it means he’s back with his brothers? That they’re protecting him, like a cloak protects from the cold?”

“Might be. Buy why’d that get you so upset?”

She took a deep breath, “It didn’t. He told me he saw my sister. He said he saw Sansa under a man, a mountain of a man. That she was scared.”

Gendry pushed up onto his elbow, “Then why didn’t you go to the maester’s turret and send a raven to the capital?!”

She pushed up to mirror him, “Waste a raven just to ask Sansa if Rick’s dream is true?”

“What?” he scrunched his face, “No, send a raven to warn Sansa about the Mountain!”

“Warn her?” she felt just as confused as Gendry looked, “Why would I… Oh… You think…?” she sprang up from the blankets and ran both hands through her hair, “You think his dream was a premonition?!”

Gendry pushed himself up and faced her, “You think it already happened?”

“Well, yeah. At Harrenhal!”

“But you said he didn’t get a chance to… do anything to her!”

“Or she told me that so I wouldn’t try to kill the fucker and get myself killed in the process. And no – he had plenty of chance. It was hours between him taking her to his room and Lord Lannister arriving, as you damned well know!”

“Arya,” Gendry scoffed, “you think that if the Mountain spent hours having his way with Sansa, that you wouldn’t be able to tell the next day? He isn’t exactly known for being a tender lover.”

She brought a hand to her mouth, unsure whether the dominant emotion in her heart was dread or relief, but knowing that Gendry was right. What were the odds the Mountain would leave behind no trace of his crime on Sansa’s body? A split lip, bruised neck or cheek or arms, a broken fingernail? Or that Sansa wouldn’t have been curled up in a ball, crying like a babe when Tywin came upon her?

“Shit!” she ran for the door.

“Arya!”

“What?” she spun around.

“Put pants on!”

“Oh!” she hurried over to her discarded clothes, pulled on the pants and the cloak then went back for the door.

“Arya, your boots!”

“Shit! Help me!”

Gendry grabbed her boots and almost slid across the floor to reach her. He put on the right one and laced it while she handled the left. Finally, she was ready to run all the way to the maester’s turret.

Or so she thought.

“Arya!”

“What now?!” she turned and shrieked.

Gendry smiled, “You’re a good sister.”

“Oh, shut up!” she ran through the door and three strides down the corridor before running back to the open doorway she’d just come through, “And thank you.”

Notes:

We will be back to TySan in chapter 36. In the meantime, rest assured they are still trying very hard to make that baby. Tywin comes home every day all stressed from running the kingdoms during winter, and Sansa has learned just how to relax and distract him to the point that he is in the best shape he's been in since he was forty. :) Now, as for the chapter you just read...

I hope it read well even though I purposely wrote Arya being a bit all over the place on purpose to reflect her emotional state in that moment.

One of the things that occurs to me in canon was that Arya's time in Harrenhal would have left her with PTSD even if she wasn't the direct victim of the violence. The prisoner torture, the rape of servant women, the constant fear for her own life... In my fic she had plenty to distract herself with after she left Harrenhal and as a result her processing of everything was kind of on hold until things were more settled down. Rickon's dream triggers her thinking of Harrenhal and that triggers all the other stuff she's suppressed.

I do not blame Arya for the men who died trying to save her in canon, she was a child and those men got to go down as heroes which is a feat in GRRM's world. Just like Sansa in many fanfics thinks her telling Cersei about Ned wanting to leave the city is to blame for EVERYTHING bad that happens after, I think Arya would also wonder at her own culpability. (She wasn't culpable, but with the exception of psychopaths, guilt and remorse and feelings of failure or fault are very normal human emotions). Arya thinking she's to blame or having survivor's guilt is normal, I do believe. I hope I pulled it off in the writing and didn't make it feel like Arya bashing.

Why Sandor the person I chose to have her unload it all to/on? Why not? If anyone would be able to recognize PTSD in someone else, it's him. Ditto self-loathing, misdirected anger, etc. He'd also be the one person who knows to just let her get it all out rather than trying to tell her she's wrong or offer words of comfort that she's not ready to hear.

Chapter 35: Done taking orders

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Jon

“I don’t like it.”

Meera groaned in rather exaggerated fashion, rolling to her side and pressing her forehead hard into his shoulder, “You don’t like anything.”

“That’s not true.”

“Name one thing you like.”

“My wolf.”

“Fine. Name two things.”

“Your lips.”

She snorted, “Three things.”

“My cock.”

She backed away from him and leaned up on an elbow, “I won’t bother asking you to go on.”

He tried to get them back on the right path, “So none of it bothers you?”

“Aye, all of it bothers me. But your brother is my charge and, as far as I’m concerned, my liege.”

“Yet he says he’s no one’s liege; that Rickon, Arya, Sansa, Sansa’s daughters… that any of them are welcome to his claim.”

“Well I don’t see any of those people here, do you? And until that changes, he’s my liege.”

“And what if he’s being misled?”

Meera reached behind her until she found her tunic then pulled it over her head, “I didn’t say we shouldn’t be wary, but they could have killed us a hundred times over if they meant us ill. They haven’t. Nor have they asked anything of us but what we’re willing to do anyway.”

“I know, but—”

“Jon – something called my brother to come north. Something called your brother to come north. Something called Bran to the Nightfort just as you were approaching it from the other side. I don’t want to even have to look at the creepy bugger, but perhaps… perhaps that’s all it is. A bad feeling. That burning red eye. That voice that sounds like a thousand voices. He’s more corpse than man. Who wouldn’t feel… unsettled in his presence?”

Jon nodded and set about finding his own clothes, but not because he was assuaged. Rather, he couldn’t describe the way the greenseer made him feel, other than… Seen. And not in a good way. Exposed – that was a better word for it. He felt naked, dissected, like some dog cut open by a maester for scientific purposes.

Yet Jon would assume that maester bore that dog no ill will; was doing it for the advancement of his knowledge and nothing more. Jon could not say the seer was similarly ambivalent. Perhaps toward the others, but not toward him. He felt the red eye on him, and yet when he dared look the creature in what served as its face, he couldn’t quite tell where the eye was pointed.

Explaining this to Brienne or Meera would make him sound like a madman, and it was bad enough he was starting to wonder if he wasn’t one… The snows had gotten deep, the wind brutal. None but the wolves had stepped outside in a sennight, and the wolves kept their excursions brief.

It would be so easy for a man to lose his wits here in this cavern without the sun to tell him when it was day or night. If not for his companions, Jon might have already.

Bran spent nearly every hour of every day with his mentor. Jojen seemed the type who’d be content anywhere, even if never happy. Hodor was too simple minded to commiserate with Jon’s fears. Still, they were other people to talk to, to sit near, to eat with, to simply hear as they breathed or snored or shifted on their feet or rolled over in the night.

But it was Meera and Brienne who truly kept Jon sane. Sparring in one of the caves. Exchanging stories of childhood. Ribbing each other.

And, of course, he and Meera had this grotto. Well, they all did, but Brienne and Jojen didn’t need to be told that when Meera and Jon wanted to go there together, they wanted to go alone together. Meera would also go there with Brienne so the woman didn’t have to bathe by herself – none of them wanted to be alone in this place except when moving their bowels – and Jon would go with Jojen and Hodor to protect them as they bathed. But just as often he and Meera came here alone and did a lot more than bathe.

Perhaps that was what was keeping him sane. His new favorite pastime was lying perpendicular to her body, putting his mouth between her legs. After their baths, of course. He loved the feel of her thighs – soft but strong – trembling in his hands when her pleasure approached the boiling point. He loved the sound of her heavy breathing that became panting that became whimpering that became cursing then shrieking out his name. His cock would leak each time, without fail. Sometimes Meera would lick him clean, then suck until a different mess was made. Sometimes she’d pull him by the head until he was face to face with her, this time parallel to her body, and guide his manhood straight to her center.

He never spilled inside her. If for nothing else, he owed Theon Greyjoy for introducing him to the phrase ‘pull out’ and the concept behind it.

It hadn’t been so with Ygritte, he was ashamed to think back on. Then again, she was always on top, under those furs. Her thighs were stronger than Meera’s and squeezed his hips as if she thought he was a horse that might buck her. He’d squeeze her thighs when he got close to his pleasure, but it only made her bear down even harder as she fervently whispered in his ear, “Yes. Yesss.”

The slapping sounds around them, the grunts and quivering breaths, would remind him that they weren’t alone. He’d blush, then. She’d smile. He’d chew his lip, wondering if he’d put a bastard in Ygritte’s belly before remembering that Wildlings didn’t care about whether a child was sired by its mother’s husband or some random man she’d spent a cold night with. There was no shame in bastardy north of the Wall. They didn’t even use the word – there was no need to distinguish between trueborn and baseborn children.

Then Jon would remember that he had no intention of staying with Ygritte. He was biding his time, going along with their plans, until he could escape and return to his brothers in black. If he put a child in Ygritte, it wouldn’t be a bastard, but it would be fatherless, just as Jon had been motherless.

Every night, he had fallen asleep nauseated with fear and shame about what he might’ve done, yet he always managed to enjoy the act.

But there was no shame with Meera after the deed was done. For one, he didn’t spill inside her. For two, she wasn’t his enemy. For three, they were almost on equal status – a fact she’d pointed out and he’d eventually come to accept. She was trueborn to a minor house that most in the realm couldn’t even name, a house that almost seemed like it shouldn’t belong in the Seven Kingdoms at all, given the strange ways of its bog-dwelling, frog-eating people. He was baseborn but of the oldest lineage in all the kingdoms, with king’s blood in his veins. Father could’ve offered Jon’s hand for Meera’s and Lord Howland would have had no cause for insult, especially if Jon was given a bit of land and the right to give his someday children a name other than Snow.

Which made him realize that he could still have that. Arya, Bran, Sansa, Rick… Whoever became the reigning Stark in Winterfell could bless his union with Meera and allow their children to grow up with a noble name, even if a newly created one.

Of course, he’d have to be relieved of his black cloak first. Somedays he didn’t feel worthy of it. Other days he didn’t want to be worthy of it. And yet how would Meera or any lady ever trust his vow of protection if he was an oathbreaker?

Then again, if the greenseer was right to have faith in them, there would be no need for a Night’s Watch, soon enough. Not to keep out wights and Others, at least. And without wights and Others, would the Wildlings ever dare to scale the Wall? Perhaps during a particularly harsh winter, but otherwise, no.

“You going to mope all day?”

Jon looked at Meera, who was fully dressed, leaning on her spear, the blunt end of buried in the dirt.

He had, apparently, only managed to get his smallclothes on before becoming entirely lost in thought.

He reached for his stockings, “I’m not moping. I’m thinking.”

“That’s dangerous, Snow.”

Jon rolled his eyes, “Aye. The most dangerous thing I’ve ever done,” he gestured around, hoping she understood he wasn’t indicating this grotto, or even this cavern, but being here, north of the Wall.

“What are you thinking about?”

“The future, I suppose.”

“You plan to have one?” she snorted.

He looked at her, “You don’t?”

She shrugged, “I suppose I don’t plan either way. If we survive this… if we succeed and survive this, I think I’ll have earned the right to do whatever I want for the rest of my natural days.”

“And who will know that we’ve earned that right?”

“We will.”

“And who will believe us?”

Meera huffed, “My father. Your sisters.”

“Will that be enough? I’m sworn to the Watch, Meera.”

She rolled her eyes, “Your sister is the queen. How many times am I going to have to remind you?”

Jon frowned, “A few dozen more, I think. Or, perhaps, don’t bother. Sansa may be Queen, but Tywin Lannister is King. Why would he pardon me for what the Watch sees as crimes? Why would he release me from vows that give him a damned good guarantee that I’ll never press a claim for Winterfell. Bran is crippled, Rickon is a child, and Arya and Sansa are women – I may be a bastard but I’m also a son. You’re a northerner, Meera. You know it’s different in the lands where the Seven hold no sway. They don’t look down on bastards quite so much as the other kingdoms do, and Tywin Lannister is smart enough to know that.”

“Haven’t you ever heard the saying, ‘happy wife, happy life’?”

Jon let out a loud sigh, “Do you truly think Tywin bloody Lannister makes decisions based on keeping his wife happy? Aye, Brienne might be right – he might care for Sansa. Why wouldn’t he, when she’s the one giving him children to replace all the heirs he’s lost? But that means nothing. He no doubt rules as he sees fit. And if perhaps Sansa has some pull, some leeway to influence her husband on occasion, do you think she’d waste it on me? I wasn’t close to Sansa as I was with Arya and Robb. It’s safe to say that, at the very best, she’s indifferent toward me.”

“But she’s not indifferent toward your siblings. Bran, Arya – would they not hate her if she let her husband eliminate you?”

“He doesn’t need to eliminate me, just let the Watch do it for him.”

“Urgh! You are the most stubborn man I’ve ever met! I don’t blame Lady Sansa for not being particularly fond of you!”

“Hey!”

“Hey nothing,” she snapped, “You know what your problem is?”

He groaned, “I’m sure I’m about to find out…”

“Your problem is you hold yourself to the very standards you resent. Guess what, Jon? You’re already free! No one knows you’re alive, just as no one knew you were alive when you left your Wildling lover to return to the Watch. Tens of thousands of Wildlings, just trying to get south of the Wall because they were being hunted by fucking corpses! Being turned into soldiers in his army! All you had to do was not run to Castle Black, to not warn the men who ended up interrogating you; who wanted to hang you. And now? You think when this is over you need the king’s permission to never go back to those men who thanked you by sending you on a suicide mission?! You can go anywhere, Jon. You can be anyone. We can sail to Dorne where the only winds are warm ones. I could be Myra Rivers. You could be Jareth Snow…”

He rolled his eyes, “I don’t like that name.”

She stepped closer to him, her eyes earnest and so very lovely, “We could sail to the Free Cities. You could entrust Bran to tell no one but your sister Arya of your survival, as I entrust no one but Jojen with mine. Hell,” she snorted, “you could go your own way, leave me to my own devices. Marry a pretty girl from the Summer Isles. Or a salty Dornishwoman with skin the color of honey... Your life is yours, Jon. You don’t owe the Watch anything.”

Jon reached for her hands with both of his, “I would take you with me, Myra Rivers, in a heartbeat. But you would leave Jojen? Leave your father? Perhaps never to see them again?”

She averted her gaze from his, “My entire life has been duty, Jon. To be my brother’s keeper. Jojen had the green dreams since he was a tot, but he’s never had an ounce of self-preservation. That’s where I came in. I could hunt, trap, survive. I was so proud of myself the first time I speared a frog, the first time I caught a lizard in a trap. But what Crannogman can’t?” she snorted, “My parents love me, I know, but not like they love Jojen.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Don’t I?” she faced him and lifted a dark brow, “did your father love you, Jon Snow?”

Jon shrugged, “Aye. Aye, I believe he did.”

“And did he love your brothers?”

“Of course.”

“And if he had to choose – if the Stranger was going to take one of you, either you or Robb, and it was up to Eddard Stark to choose…”

Jon nodded slowly, “He’d choose to spare Robb.”

“If Arya was the one to choose?”

Jon shifted on his feet, “I… I don’t know. She perhaps would choose me. Robb was Sansa’s, I was Arya’s.”

Meera smiled, “That’s adorable.”

Jon felt himself blushing, “It’s not.”

“It is. But you see my point?”

“Aye. If you say you know that… that your parents would choose Jojen over you, then I believe you.”

“Then you see? That I understand you, more than you know? This,” she held up her hands, fingers outspread, gesturing at everything around them, “has been my duty. This was, quite possibly, the reason I was born. But once I’ve done what needs to be done, once I’ve risked everything to see this through, I’ll have had enough of duty for one lifetime. How about you?”

He nodded, as the full weight of what she was saying settled on him.

He’d never expected anything of his life but duty. When he was a boy, he assumed someday he’d become a guard or even castellan for Robb when Robb became Lord of Winterfell – a life that would be all about servitude toward his brother, which didn’t even sound bad to him. It wasn’t until he was older that he realized that fantasy always assumed Lady Stark wouldn’t be there. She might have tolerated Jon’s presence when he was a child, but once he reached his majority he’d have been unwelcome at Winterfell, even if Father had never left for the capital. So, Jon sought a different duty – one that would take him far away from Lady Catelyn’s scornful eyes, which he used to think were so cold before he knew what true cold was.

But had he ever actually embraced that duty?

No.

And if he returned to that duty, what would be the purpose? What would he hope to achieve? To get a pat on the back for doing the right thing?

But they wouldn’t see it as the right thing, would they? No; the officers of the Watch were so myopically focused on the Wildlings that they made themselves blind to the bigger threat, the real threat. Jon had told them. He had warned them! Their response? “Go kill Mance Rayder. Prove your loyalty, Snow.”

Loyalty to who? Loyalty to what? Should his loyalty to the Watch supersede his loyalty to mankind? To the North? To the family that would be threatened if the Others and their wights managed to overpower the Watch?

He was tired of doing what someone else told him was the right thing. He didn’t want a man like Alliser Thorne setting the mold of morality that Jon must fit himself to. Nor did he want a man like Tywin Lannister doing it – deciding the rule of law – when the man was known to sanction violence against women and children.

He wondered if this was how Father felt when raising the Stark banners and marching to war to rid the realm of a mad king.

He wondered if this was how Robb felt when doing the same.

How many men throughout history had grown weary of doing what they were told instead of what they knew was right?

How many men ever did anything about it?

“You’re right,” he whispered, “I’m tired of it. I’m here, I’m doing this, I’m risking my life, not for the Watch. I’m doing this because it must be done, because the world I love and the people I love will perish if we don’t succeed. But I’m done taking orders from bitter men who refuse to… to change. To adapt. To compromise. To admit fault or simply ignorance. I don’t want to answer to anyone but myself and those I love, those I respect. The rest of the realm can bugger off.”

Meera smiled, “It’s hard to always do the right thing. It’s harder still to not do the right thing because we’re told we shouldn’t; because someone else thinks they know better.”

Jon nodded and brought his lips to Meera’s forehead, “Thank you, my lady.” He scooped up their weapons and cloaks, “I wish to make one stop on the way back…”

He stared at the treasure they’d just unearthed, not believing his eyes.

When Jon was young, before Theon became a complete shit, the ward would tell stories from his homeland, just like Old Nan would tell stories of the North.

There was a story of some old pirate king – Jon couldn’t remember the king’s name if his life depended on it – who was one of the finest reavers in all the world. He didn’t just raid along coastlines but would travel deep into the jungles of Sothoryos, of Essos, into uncharted lands where even the leaves on a tree could kill a man with their poison, but where ancient treasures lay forgotten and unclaimed for centuries.

This pirate king was well loved by his crew and his people because he always shared his bounty equally. “It was the thrill of the hunt that moved him, not the riches themselves,” Theon had said. But one day the pirate king came upon a chest, the contents of which were so rare, so beautiful, so fine, that they awoke in the pirate king a greed he’d never before possessed.

The chest was small even if its contents were priceless, so he snuck it onto his ship easily enough. But once they returned to whichever island the king ruled from – Pyke – he knew his treasure wouldn’t be safe from snooping servants and his rock wife, who enjoyed all things pretty.

So the king buried the chest somewhere on the island, somewhere no one would think to look for it.

But the chest – or whatever was inside it – called to the king. It was so fine, so beautiful, that he cried tears of bliss just to look upon. When the urge became too strong, he’d go unearth his treasure and spend the night staring at it.

His wife was suspicious of his dirtied hands and breeches and ask him where he’d been, what he’d been doing.

She was the first to go – tripped on her skirts and fell down the stone stairway of the castle, but the woman had always been so sure-footed in the past, her friends and maids noted…

Next was a guard that the king was convinced had followed him to the location of his buried treasure and intended to return the next night to steal it. The guard’s body washed up the next afternoon. Must have gone for a swim and gotten caught by the riptide, but he was always such a strong swimmer, the other guards wondered aloud…

And so it went for weeks, then months, until the king became so sloppy in his crimes that his own people rebelled against him. He was executed, a nephew named as his successor, a nephew the king had loved like a son…

And when they pushed him to his knees in front of the executioner’s block and asked if he had any last words, the king could have told them of the treasure so that his beloved nephew might inherit it. Or he could have even used the priceless object to buy himself their pardon.

He did neither. He spoke not a word until the axe was swung. Just before it cleaved his neck, the king was said to have whispered a single word. A beautiful word, though one none of the people knew. Must be the name of his true lady love, they speculated, perhaps some pretty thing he’d met on the far side of the world during his many travels.

In reality, it was the name he’d given his treasure – his one true love, indeed, though no lady at all. And that treasure remained buried on Pyke, and would remain so until the end of time, because as good as the pirate king was at finding treasures, he was even better at hiding them.

“What was inside the chest?!” Robb had asked.

Theon grinned and shrugged, “We’ll never know, unless you plan on sailing to Pyke and digging up the entire island.”

“Why has no one ever tried to do that?”

“They have. Many people. Many times. It’s never been found.”

“Why didn’t he want to share it with his wife?” had been Sansa’s question – no surprise.

“Because the treasure was worth more than all the love of every lady in the entire realm.”

The questions continued well into the night, until Septa Mordane arrived to remind a six-year-old Sansa that she did not share a bedchamber with her brother. Robb apologized and earned a tight-lipped smile from the woman. She offered Jon and Theon only scowls.

Jon couldn’t help but think of that story now, as he held in his hands something nearly priceless, something men would kill for, particularly if they knew all that Jon knew.

He set it down and turned to face Meera, using his cloak to wipe dirt off her cheek and forehead, then her hands, then brushed more dirt off her shoulders.

“Put your coat on. Go. Act casual if any Children are around,” Jon instructed her.

“I never act casual around them.”

“Fine, then act… un-casual. Just bring Brienne here. Subtly. Ghost will stay with me.”

It took a few minutes that felt like an eternity before one uncommonly tall woman and one uncommonly short woman returned. Brienne held a lantern out toward Jon, “What did you do?” she asked harshly.

Once certain no one had followed the pair, Jon removed from under his cloak the treasure Meera had unearthed at Jon’s prompting.

Brienne held the lantern close to it then gasped, “Where did you get that?”

Jon jerked his head behind him, toward the wall of dirt that had been bothering him for weeks, that he finally decided to investigate even at risk of being buried alive, because something was calling him to do so.

Brienne looked up, moving closer to the “collapsed” section of tunnel, holding the lantern this way and that and finally concluding, “There is no way you fit through that opening.”

“I didn’t,” Jon agreed.

Brienne turned around whip-fast and hissed, “You let Meera risk her life?!”

“I didn’t want to, but she was insistent.”

It felt like a lame excuse, but it wasn’t untrue. After hours of carefully removing the larger rocks that were mixed in with the dirt and gravel, each time pausing to make sure the entire earthen wall wouldn’t collapse on them, they were left with a hole the circumference of a fat pumpkin. Jon had stuck his arm through and gasped to realize his hand felt nothing but air on the other side, no soil; meaning the wall of debris was no deeper than the length of his arm from wrist to shoulder. It was likely deeper at the bottom than at the top, but still – Jon had imagined it would take days of digging to tunnel through, or that it couldn’t be done at all – that all of whatever that tunnel once led to had been buried by tons of soil and stone.

And while the discovery was a welcome one, an issue remained: a large rock stopped them from widening the opening without risking all or part of it collapsing, which would be loud. Jon was adamant that the Children and the greenseer not be made aware of what he and Meera were doing, because he did not trust them. If the seer’s magical eye landed on them, so be it, but Jon had to assume it couldn’t look everywhere at once, and it was occupied with Bran, at the moment.

When Meera eyed the opening and said, “I think I can fit,” Jon’s stomach dropped.

A quarter hour later, after whispered arguing, Meera went through while Jon held his breath.

He only breathed out when her hand came back through, and he gave her the lantern.

The next thing to come through, many minutes later, was the pommel of a sword with an oval ruby the size of Jon’s thumb centered in the bronze crossguard. He pulled it slowly and carefully lest he slice Meera’s fingers, then gasped to see his lantern light reveal ripples and whorls of color in the steel…

“You can yell at him later,” Meera rolled her eyes at Brienne, “Do you know anything about this sword?”

Brienne made an odd noise in her throat as she took the sword from Jon, holding it up so the point was toward the ceiling, rotating it back and forth as her eyes moved up and down its length.

“Any swordsman worth his chainmail would be able to identify this or any other Valyrian steel sword ever known to be in Westeros. It’s not like it’s a long list. Hells, a good percentage of it is right here in Ice and Longclaw.”

“And…?” Meera prompted.

Brienne did something she rarely did. She smiled, “Dark Sister. Wielded, most notably, by the conqueror’s sister wife Visenya, Baelon the Brave, and Prince Aemon the Dragonknight.”

Every hair on Jon’s body stood on end, “Aemon the Dragonknight lived during the second century. Who has carried it since then?”

Brienne shook her head absently, “I know not. I seem to recall hearing it was in the hands of one of the Blackfyres, but I’d sooner expect to find it in Essos than here.

Jon felt himself growling, “He says we are here for the Others… for the Night’s King. To end them. If that’s true, why would he be hiding a piece of Valyrian steel from us?”

He grabbed the sword back from Brienne and began stalking down the tunnel, no longer caring if he made any sound because he was ready to confront the very creature he normally strived to avoid; such was his fury.

As soon as he was back to the main cave though, he had a feeling he was doing precisely what his host not only expected him to do, but wanted him to do.

Ivy and Leaf were there, sitting casually with Jojen listening to one of his many tales. Both Reed siblings had a knack for storytelling, such that even beings as ancient and otherworldly as the Children would become entranced. But the moment Jon stepped into the space, Leaf turned, her big eyes nothing but reflections of light from the many torches they kept lit for the sake of their sanity.

And just like the time Jon was awoken from a dream of being crushed, she said, “He wants to see you… All of you.”

Jon was glad to find his brother awake even if he was too pale and too frail. Then again, they all were pale without even a northern winter sun to kiss their skin, and they were all thinner than they’d been when they were at the Nightfort. Bran simply had less mass to lose to start with.

“Hodor, bring Bran here,” Jon commanded, keeping his eyes pinned on the red orb, that stared back with knowing and impatience.

Bran looked confused then insulted as Hodor lifted and carried him to where Jon, Meera, Brienne, and Jojen were standing along with two wolves.  

Jon directed his words at the seer, “You’ll explain yourself, and you’ll use words that make sense, or we’re leaving.”

“Jon!” Bran protested.

“No,” Jon spoke sharply without looking at his little brother, “I do not trust this thing. I’d sooner take my chances out there – trekking back to the Wall in a blizzard – than staying here like sitting ducks.”

The seer made a noise that sounded like autumn leaves being crushed in a man’s fist, “You found Blackfyre’s sister, I take it.”

A shiver went through Jon again. The sword was presently hidden beneath his cloak. So this creature really could see everything going on everywhere.

Or he’s been watching me, specifically.

Yet if that’s so, why let me know he saw me? Why let me know he spies?

Jon decided not to let the thing distract him with its foul magic, “Why would you be hiding a Valyrian steel sword if you truly mean for us to help you defeat the Others? Dragonsteel kills them, as does dragonglass.”

“How was I to know you would all agree to stay? I could not risk you leaving, and taking with you our only means to defeat him. Men are greedy.”

Ivy nodded, “And smelly.”

Jon huffed, “Fine, but we’ve been here… well, I don’t know how long we’ve been here, yet still you kept it hidden!”

“I hid the sword to hide the story that goes with it. A story that might make you think me your enemy. Men are spiteful.”

“And hairy,” Ivy added.

“Why?” Brienne asked, “What does the sword have to do with us trusting you or not?”

“Because, Brienne of Tarth, that sword was last in the possession of Brynden Rivers.”

Brienne exchanged a look with Jon, “One of the Blackfyre pretenders?”

The same odd sound echoed around them, and Jon realized it was the seer’s laughter, “A Targaryen bastard, but no Blackfyre. I remained loyal to King Aerys I and later King Maekar I. I remained loyal to them even after both were dead.”

“I remember…” Jon whispered, recalling Sansa’s giddiness upon learning about Shiera Seastar, a woman so beautiful that two men loved her. Bloodraven and Bittersteel, her bastard brothers, though all three had different mothers, if Jon recalled.

It might have been the only time Septa Mordane’s lesson in the covetous and lustful nature of bastards hadn’t gotten through to Sansa, because all she heard was that Shiera Seastar was the most beautiful woman who ever lived, so beautiful that not one but two men wanted to marry her. She’d gone so far as to beg Robb and Theon to pretend to be Bloodraven and Bittersteel, respectively, so she could pretend to be Shiera. Theon had laughed and asked why she didn’t ask Jon – having a real bastard in her little play-acting would make it that much more authentic. He’d then fed off her resulting indignation by pondering aloud whether Robb and Sansa mightn’t be bastards too, since they looked nothing like Lord Eddard – then they could fight over Sansa for true and she’d get to be the Shiera Seastar of song and legend, and wouldn’t that make her so happy?

Theon had gone to bed without supper that night and had to spend the next sennight mucking the horse stalls. Jon recalled thinking that if he’d accused Lady Stark of infidelity, even in jest, he’d not live to tell the tale.

He realized the red eye was fixed on him, and he wondered if the seer was seeing Sansa as he was, ten years old, cheeks nearly as red as her hair while Theon cackled; or perhaps Robb, who’d chuckled along with Theon’s japing until his lady mother’s honor came into play, then he got even redder than Sansa.

He wondered if the seer saw Jon, a few days later, asking Maester Luwin about the Targaryen bastards who loved Shiera Seastar, because he wanted to learn that they were actually good men – that not every bastard was destined to become a liar or traitor or raper.

Jon snorted, “Bloodraven. Aye, you were loyal to your kings, alright. So loyal you broke guest right to kill your own kin just to keep him from inheriting the throne. You were sent to the Wall for it – a mercy – and rose to Lord Commander.”

“When I was Brynden Rivers, yes.”

“He isn’t that man anymore, Jon. Now he’s just the three-eyed crow!” Bran insisted.

“I don’t care what or who he is, I only care whether he can be trusted.”

“As I knew you would. You wolves are rather… predictable.”

“And from what I hear, you dragons are rather volatile. You told us we are here for a reason – not just Bran but all of us. That you have a plan…” Jon moved to where he knew from last time a large boulder made a seat of just the right height. He lowered himself onto it, drawing Longclaw and Dark Sister from beneath his cloak and laying them, crossed, over his lap, “Start telling it. Tell it all and tell it true, or we’ll take our chances out there with wights and wildlings. After I put one of these swords through the place your heart should be, and cut down any of your little singers that stand in my way.”

Ivy hissed, “Told you. Dangerous.”

Jon kept his eyes fixed on the red orb, refusing to allow himself to be frightened by the grotesque visage around it, “Well?”

There was a gust of air around them that could only be a sigh, “Tedious…”

Jon sat in what counted as their bedchamber, his mind trying to process all he’d been told, all the information that had been shared, and to determine how much of it he believed.

And, perhaps, whether it mattered whether he believed.

He was tired of the cold, tired of the cave, tired of never being completely full, of never being completely at ease.

He was tired of the dreams, of the betrayal and hurt and pain he found in them. For some reason, he was sure they would stop when he left this cave; after all, he’d never had such a dream until the Children had dragged him here.

And he couldn’t leave this cave until the Others and their wights were ended, once and for all.

Well, he could, but he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t leave this problem to the men of the Watch, half of whom wouldn’t believe in wights even as a hoard of ten of the undead things were tearing them limb from limb. He wouldn’t trust that the Wall would hold them back, because if the Wall was breached, all that would separate the dead army from Winterfell was a month-long journey. Perhaps even less, since the dead never slept.

So he wanted to leave this place but wouldn’t until this enemy was defeated for good. And he wasn’t so arrogant to think his party of human men and women and wolves could do it without the help of these magical creatures who were playing host to them. The Children and the seer. Jon didn’t want to trust the latter – even less so now that he knew he had been a Targaryen bastard sent to the Watch for high crimes – but couldn’t deny the creature had survived here, north of the Wall, for over a hundred years. Meaning he was resourceful and would know more about the Others than Jon ever could learn. Jon also knew that the greenseer had some otherworldly powers, that his gift of sight wasn’t some swindler’s trick, which meant he was a better asset than a hundred scouts.

He also knew the greenseer could have lied about part of the reason Bran was necessary to his plan to defeat the Others: Bran was tempting bait.

Jon knew all that, and yet still the creature made him uneasy. But perhaps Meera had the right of it – it was his ghastly appearance and nothing more. Had Jon not once looked upon the Hound’s face and thought the man must be some evil, remorseless killer, only to learn from Bran and Brienne that he had helped Sansa in King’s Landing and now served Arya most loyally? Had Jon not thought Tyrion Lannister was disgusting, only to gradually learn that there was honor and wisdom and unvarnished honesty in the twisted little man, and that he, too, had helped Sansa escape the worst of Joffrey’s cruelty?

“I saw Robb.”

Jon flinched at the sound of his brother’s voice, or perhaps the inflection in it… something equal parts sad and satisfied.

“In your… visions?” Jon asked, never sure he was using the right terms.

“Yes. I wanted to see him. I wanted to see him happy.”

“When was it?”

“In a tent. One arm around Arya, the other around Sansa. My mother with her arms around all three of them. They’d just been reunited, I think.”

Jon looked down at his fingernails, hating himself for not being there with Robb when he went to war. Hating himself for being jealous that Robb got to hold his sisters before his life ended, and Jon may never get the same chance. Hating himself for wondering whether, if the scene repeated now, if he arrived at Winterfell and for some reason Sansa was arriving at the same time, would his sisters run to his arms? Would even Lady Catelyn be glad to see him, now that they had both lost so much? She hadn’t always been horrible toward him. He even remembered a few times when he hurt himself playing and she’d been the one to dab at his cut hand or elbow or knee… didn’t that mean she didn’t completely despise him?

Then again, what did it matter? Why was he so easily tempted to wonder about the future and brood upon the past when, perhaps a few mere months from now, he’d be called upon to fight the only fight that would ever matter?

“And they were happy?” Jon asked, forcing himself to focus on the conversation with his brother, who so rarely initiated conversations these days.

“Aye. Crying tears of joy. Robb kissing their heads, holding their cheeks, thanking the gods. Mother weeping. Arya and Sansa weeping, while Robb held them and promised everything would be alright.”

“Then what?”

Bran shrugged, “I had to leave. He saw what I’d seen.”

Jon scrunched his brow, “Who?”

“The seer… Bloodraven.”

“So? Isn’t he the one… guiding you on these visions?”

“He doesn’t like when I look at our family. Only men have families, and the three-eyed-crow is no man.”

“Horseshit, Bran. If you want to look at our family, then do it. What’s he going to do?”

“I don’t like when he’s disappointed in me,” Bran spoke meekly, like he hadn’t since before Jon left for the Wall, since before Bran fell from that tower.

Jon felt his skin flush with rage, “Does he get mad at you, Bran? Does he—”

“No! He just… He just gets disappointed. Like Maester Luwin used to do. Or Ser Rodrik. Or sometimes Father.”

Jon snorted, anger vanishing as he recalled what it felt like to let down a man he respected, or feared, or both. A boy would rather get his ear boxed or his rear end spanked than have to suffer that look. And Bran, despite his nascent powers, was still more boy than man.

“Well, it’s still good practice. I’m sure you’re still honing your skill even if it’s in looking in on our family.”

Bran shook his head, “He said it isn’t enough. I need to look further. I need to form new connections.”

“Aye, because of him,” Jon shivered, thinking of the seer’s words… feeling as chilled now as he’d been by them an hour ago…

“I have spent decades erecting walls and mazes within my mind to keep him out, to keep him from finding this place, where the last of the singers and the last greenseer dwell, unguarded.”

“You said this place is guarded… that old magic protects it, like an invisible dome,” Brienne had countered, spitting the seer’s previous words back at him.

“The old magic works on dead things, but the Others are not dead. Far from it.”

“Wights? It will keep out the wights but not the Others?” Jon asked anxiously, not knowing whether he’d rather be vulnerable to thousands of wights or a handful of their masters.

“It will keep out the thralls, yes. But not their gods.”

Jon had never liked that the seer referred to the Others as gods. He never did so with reverence, but it grated, nonetheless. Gods should be benevolent, or at worst ambivalent, not violent and ruthless.

“But the little crow can reach him, call him to this place,” the seer added.

“Are these creatures not smart enough to suspect a trap?” Jon asked.

“Which is why the little crow needs practice… to know how show him what we want him to see, nothing more, and to make it seem an accident.”

“Make them confident they’re the predator, when really they’ll be the prey,” Meera summarized, with a solemn nodding of her head.

“He will let them see that I am here, and the singers, the simple man, and the siblings. And the Ranger. But not the wolves. Not the wolfling. Not the giantess. Not the swords.”

“And why will he come here even if it means coming without his foot soldiers?” Jon had countered, “Why risk it?”

“Because, wolfling, he hates us even more than he hates you smelly men,” Leaf said, almost proudly, “It will be years, perhaps centuries before he can end your kind. But all that’s left of ours is here in this cavern. He can end us now, once and for all, like he wishes he’d done a long time ago.”

“During the Long Night that Old Nan used to tell of,” Bran added, “the Children joined the First Men, both led by the last hero, and beat the Others back deep into the winter lands.”

“While our ancestors built the Wall,” Jon nodded.

“My namesake, in league with the Children.”

“Another Bran Stark, another ally to the Children,” the seer spoke, “He doesn’t like it. He will come, to end them all and in so doing to add our powers to his collective. You asked why he would risk it, wolfling? Because the risk is low – or he will be made to think so – and because the reward is great. There is not enough flesh and blood in this old body for him to claim it, but in the little crow’s? And imagine what he could do, with eyes that can see everyone, everything, everywhere.”

Jon had never encountered one of the Others, not like Sam had, but he had Old Nan’s stories about their terrible beauty, their incredible power, their glowing eyes, their merciless hearts that left neither warrior nor maiden nor babe in the crib unharmed. The seer’s words resonated in Jon… To give such creatures, who already commanded the world’s largest army – an army that never tired and never slept and never fell ill – the power of sight? No… No, Jon could not abide that while there was breath in his body to fight.

“Aye,” Bran responded with a sigh, “Because of him. I need to learn to reach out to people and places I have no connection to. And I need to practice closing off the places where my memories live. But it’s hard work. It’s so much easier to just… to go look and see what Arya is doing, or Sansa… to look at something that happened to one of our packmates, to make up for all I missed while I was in the crypts.”

Jon nodded numbly, “What else have you seen?”

Bran lowered his voice to a whisper, “I have seen Father. Handing a letter to one of his men and telling him to put it in the hands of Stannis Baratheon, and none other than Stannis Baratheon.”

“A truth that started a war.”

“Only after so many lies set the stage of battle.”

“What else?”

“I saw Sansa, in a fancy sept with colored glass windows, a cloak of crimson draped over her shoulders.”

Jon clenched his jaw, “I don’t want to hear about that.”

“I saw her husband holding our nieces, moments after they were born, while Arya lied on the bed with Sansa and laughed.”

Jon scrubbed a hand down his face. He’d never believe all he heard about Sansa and Arya’s apparent acceptance and even fondness for the lion of Casterly Rock, not until he saw it with his own eyes.

He snorted at himself then, for realizing that if he couldn’t believe a man like Tywin Lannister to be capable of warmth, then why was he surprised that the realm didn’t take seriously the Watch’s call for aid, their desperation for more men, more oil, more grain, because walking corpses were lurking about, scaring Wildings south in record numbers?

“I saw Rickon playing in the snow with Arya and Gendry, Grey Wind and Shaggy.”

Jon settled his eyes back on his brother, “You haven’t spoken much of Rickon, considering he was your only companion for years…”

“He was but a small boy when you left, I figured you’d want to hear about Arya and Sansa more.”

“I want to hear about all of them. You can even tell me of your mother, it won’t bother me. You probably miss her.”

At that, Bran cocked his head to the side, staring at Jon as if he was a particularly difficult riddle.

“What?”

“My mother… Why not your mother?”

Once again Jon’s skin prickled, this time with fear and possibility and doubt and hope.

“You’d… You’d be able to see her?”

“She shares your blood and she shared… at least a moment with our father,” Bran averted his eyes.

Jon felt himself smiling to think that his brother, who was at the age Jon was when he fully understood the act required to make a babe, would willingly sift through the world’s collective memories in search of one in which their father was shagging some random woman. It made even Jon want to cringe, yet the overwhelming emotion was fear… Fear that Bran would fail in finding the moment when Jon was conceived, and fear that he would, and Jon wouldn’t like what he heard.

Could he live with knowing his mother was some poxy whore who showed up to Ned Stark’s army camp nine moons after some transaction on the eve of battle, handing over a hungry babe and demanding a few coins for her trouble?

Could he live with knowing his mother was some noblewoman, beautiful and fair and perhaps even promised to another, who had fancied herself in love with Jon’s father, only to tearfully watch him ride away with her son and her heart, to return to the woman he was bound to?

He didn’t know which would be worse – to learn that he existed because some camp follower couldn’t get her hands on moon tea? Or that he was conceived in an act that dishonored not just Lady Catelyn but also Jon’s mother?  

Perhaps the most painful thing of all would be to find that his father loved his mother for true, but left her all the same because duty called him north, where Catelyn and Robb and an entire kingdom awaited him…

It occurred to Jon that there might not be any discovery that would not pain him.

“You do not wish to know?” Bran guessed, not entirely inaccurately.

Jon shook his head faintly, “I do, but I fear… I fear I’m not ready. Perhaps you can find out but not tell me yet? I just… if I don’t like what I learn, I do not wish to be distracted by it… Not with what we will have to face in a matter of weeks or months, or even years…”

Bran gave an understanding nod, “It is twenty years in the past, it will be a challenge, so perhaps Bloodraven won’t be too disappointed in me if he catches me searching.”

Jon snorted, “I don’t rightly care if you disappoint him. Our ally he may be, but he’s a pretentious old cunt.”

Bran grinned impishly, “He’ll know you think so.”

Jon grinned back, “Good.”

Notes:

Urgh, I hate writing the three eyed crow. Please don't tell me if it was totally lame.

Next chapter: Back in KL with TySan

Chapter 36: I’m cursed twice over

Chapter Text

Sansa

Sansa leaned her head back against the ledge of the in-ground tub she shared with Margaery in the bathhouse.

It felt strange coming here for the first time since her marriage, though Margaery said it was good for one’s health to occasionally spend an entire afternoon soaking in hot water. “It cleanses the blood,” Margaery had stated assuredly.

Sansa hadn’t pointed out that whatever was leeching out of their skin was certainly being replaced by the sweet wine they sipped, not to mention the platter of finger food that Margaery had ordered for them. Sugared figs. Crispy bread slathered with some paste made of chickpeas and Dornish spices. Mushrooms filled with sausage and fragrant herbs. Sweet apples with a sour yoghurt dip.

It was everything young Sansa had expected the life of a queen to entail on days she wasn’t in the throne room to witness her husband holding court, or traveling through the city with her retinue of ladies to hand out coins and well wishes to the poor, asking nothing but their undying devotion in return.

In reality, a queen’s days had much less time for leisure, not just because Sansa filled her agenda with tasks and outings but because everywhere she turned was someone who wanted something from her. Typically, they wanted her to grease her husband’s wheels. Tywin was considered a fair ruler and capable administrator, but he wasn’t precisely an approachable man, so lords and ladies of every station would happen upon Sansa while she was walking here or there around the keep, stop her with an overly-sweet compliment or an inquiry into the twins’ development, then, as an afterthought, recall that they had been meaning to speak with either her or the king about some topic or another. Requests were tiptoed around. Complaints were passed off as jests.

It took all of Sansa’s self-control not to smile and bat her eyes as she innocently suggested they seek her husband out in the throne room or request a private audience in his solar, then watch them squirm and stutter over some excuse as to why it wasn’t necessary to bother the king (only the queen, apparently).

It wasn’t that no one had legitimate concerns, but she reasoned that the majority who did took them directly to Tywin, knowing their cause was noble, their request justified. It was the ones who on some level seemed to know their complaint was petty or their petition unreasonable who tested the waters with Sansa because they perceived her as the safer target – the one less likely to bite their head off. Odd, since she’d had to blush through more than one song about the ability of wolves to subdue and conquer lions. It would seem the masses thought Tywin Lannister had been domesticated by his wife, and yet it didn’t make them feel any easier about sticking their fingers into his cage.

Only some learned that the wolf’s claws were as sharp as the lion’s, just better hidden. When someone was truly vexing her, or speaking down to her as if she were a child (or woman) she would give them precisely what they wanted…

“Oh, how dreadful your situation is, my lord. I shall bring your issue to my husband’s attention at once. I’ll be sure to stress how dire the need for his immediate intervention is.”

“Eh, well, your grace, perhaps it isn’t worth troubling his grace just yet…”

“Oh? But – forgive me for saying – you seemed quite agitated a moment ago.”

“I’d let my emotions get the better of me, shamed as I am to admit it. My sincerest apologies, your grace.”

“Well, if you’re sure…”

Margaery had burst out laughing after the first time witnessing such an exchange. She had arched an eyebrow and asked Sansa if she wasn’t a long-lost Tyrell cousin, after all.

Those types of comments made Margaery’s company particularly refreshing. She was neither deceitful nor apologetic. She mocked her family’s ambitions yet never claimed not to be a part of them. She rolled her eyes when her grandmother (before returning to the warmer clime of Highgarden) was being particularly blunt, but also admitted that she loved the old biddy and considered her as clever as any lord. She loved her brother Loras yet occasionally poked fun at his vanity. “Every time he sees a man wearing white, he whines that they’ve stolen his look.”

Tywin had warned Sansa to be wary of anyone named Tyrell (well, more wary than she was to be of everyone else), yet Sansa would be loathed to give up her friendship with Margaery. The girl was clever and generally sweet but could be wicked when it was called for.

Still, Sansa heeded Tywin’s advice. She discussed no matters of state with Margaery unless they were already common knowledge. And, once in a while, she would tell Margaery a bit of gossip that was salacious (and entirely fabricated). Then she would wait to see if she heard the same piece of gossip, or even some variation of it. It never happened, and Lord Varys had never brought up one of the fallacies to Tywin, so Sansa was certain that Margaery could keep a secret.

Of course, that didn’t mean she always would. It wasn’t distrust that made Sansa keep certain things from Margaery, but a savviness born of Sansa’s first stay in King’s Landing. She thought back to the few times she’d spoken to Lord Baelish. He’d always seemed so sincere in his offers to help her, should it ever be needed. Just as Cersei and Joffrey had seemed sincere in their early affections toward her. Of course, she doubted that the woman she was today would be tricked so easily by Cersei’s smiles, which never met her eyes, or by the toothache-sweet compliments Joffrey gave her. If Margaery was hiding an ulterior motive, she was doing a damned fine job. And if she wasn’t? Well, Sansa hoped someday to have a lady friend she could share everything with, but it was hardly a necessity. The things she kept from Margaery were matters of politics and statecraft, which weren’t exactly what she wanted to talk to a friend about while soaking in the bathhouse.

“Any progress in making a new cub?” Margaery asked on a sigh after spending several minutes venting about one of her many cousins letting herself be seduced by a knight. It didn’t seem marriage would be forced on the girl, but only because it had likely been the knight’s intent, so as to find an entryway into House Tyrell.

Sansa reached for her wine goblet as she gave Margaery a glare. Margaery only laughed.

With a sigh, Sansa answered honestly, “Not yet, though the maester says a woman’s fertility can be unpredictable up to two years after giving birth.”

“Hm. I suppose you might as well wait another year then. No need to suffer your husband’s advances for no purpose.”

Sansa slapped her hand on the water’s surface enough to send a sizeable splash into Margaery’s face. Margaery squinted as she giggled at her own humor, “Forgive me, I forgot that your husband’s attentions are not so burdensome as one might assume.”

Sansa snorted, “Forgot my rear end. Don’t pretend you couldn’t tell me about the quality of the bedroom activities of every couple in King’s Landing.”

Margaery lifted one shoulder in a practiced shrug, “And Highgarden.”

“Of course.”

“I can’t help what my gaggle of cousins overhear then relay to me. Though frankly it’s more instinct than anything. You can always tell a woman who is getting properly fucked.”

Sansa groaned, “I can’t believe I’m asking this – but how can you tell?”

“It’s a rather complicated formula but the variables consist of the pallor or lack thereof of her skin, the number of times in an average hour her eyes flock to some handsome man who isn’t her husband, the depth of the wrinkles between her brows, and how deeply her handmaidens blush when in her husband’s presence. The deeper the blush, the louder their lady is in the marital bed.”

“How very scientific.”

Margaery reached for her wine and took a sip as she shrugged again, “You asked.”

“And knew I’d regret it.”

“But I bet you’ll be watching every handmaiden’s cheeks a lot more closely from now on...”

Sansa shrugged, “I won’t bother denying it. But enough about that. How are things with Tommen?”

Margaery smiled and, once again, Sansa mused that it was either completely genuine or Margaery was an exceptional actress.

“He is turning into quite the gentleman. He’s such a sweet boy, but now that he’s getting a little older it’s taking the form of gallantry rather than…”

“Tales of his cat’s antics?”

Margaery chuckled faintly, “Well, I still hear about Ser Pounce on a regular basis, but I think Tommen is… Well, he’s starting to realize that a couple soon to be wed have plenty of other things to discuss.”

“Gods, Margaery. Please tell me you’re not corrupting the poor boy. He isn’t three and ten yet!”

It had been agreed that they would marry shortly after Tommen’s thirteenth nameday, assuming he’d be able to consummate the marriage by that point. The consummation was a formality the Tyrells insisted on, while Tywin insisted that Tommen should, thereafter, keep separate chambers and not lay with Margaery again until his fourteenth nameday. Tywin had confessed to Sansa that he wondered how much Aerys the Second’s deviance was borne of being made to bed his sister when he was only thirteen, she twelve. It was sweet, Sansa thought – for as much as Tywin was trying to turn Tommen into a man, that didn’t mean he wanted his grandson’s childhood to be cut short. The Tyrells harbored no such concerns – why would they when Margaery was practically an old maid? – and had been adamant that no one but Tommen and Margaery should decide how often they coupled after the wedding. Tywin’s response had been a suggestion that they wait until Tommen reached his majority. That would mean Margaery taking the name Baratheon and becoming the Lady of Storm’s End in three and a half years instead of six moons.

Suffice to say, a compromise was reached.

“I’m not corrupting anyone!” Margaery peeped, “Though if you ask me, a little corruption would be good for him. The poor boy asked me if he’ll be expected to kiss me on the lips when we wed.”

Sansa shrugged, “Perhaps it’s preferable to marry an innocent boy than a man with too much experience.”

Margaery waved a hand, “Oh, I know that. I know he will grow and mature as all boys do, and probably turn into a much better man and better husband than most others my grandmother might have thrown me at, but it is a bit off-putting, Sansa.”

“The idea of… of the wedding night?” Sansa guessed.

“Partly that but also in general. I mean, when Loras was three and ten he looked and acted like a man of two decades. A mere three years later he defeated the Kingslayer at the joust and went on to win the tourney’s champion’s purse.”

“Good. Your family could use the coin,” Sansa jibed.

Margaery splashed her, “That wasn’t my point. Oh, and says the wife of the man who shits gold.”

Sansa snorted, “I’ve been in the privy after my husband. Whatever he shits; it isn’t gold.”

Margaery laughed raucously and Sansa was glad, not for the first time, that they’d insisted the bathhouse be cleared out and kept clear, no matter that it felt rather greedy. They had no audience, no eavesdroppers, and it was easy enough to only speak of proper topics when the servant girls appeared with fresh buckets of hot water.

Eventually Margaery’s laughter faded, “Oh, I wish we’d met years ago! You’re more fun than all my cousins combined even if you threw in a troupe of jesters.”

Sansa rolled her eyes, “No one has ever accused me of being fun. If Arya could hear you now, she’d probably suggest you see a maester with haste.”

“Well compared to her you’re probably not fun…”

“Thank you.”

Margaery grinned, “But I’ve always preferred gossip and a good jape to the physical pursuits your sister enjoys.”

“So long as the wine is flowing?” Sansa lifted her goblet to her lips.

Margaery raised hers as if in toast as she tipped her head, “Well, the Redwynes are my kin. It’s my duty to support their livelihood.”

“In that case, you’re the most dutiful lady I’ve ever met.”

Margaery giggled, “You’re clever and funny, Sansa. As much as I think you’re exactly where you were meant to be – and with whom – I can’t help but feel cheated that we’re not sisters.”

“Not this again…” Sansa exaggerated a groan.

“This city stinks, Sansa – and I do mean that literally. Wouldn’t you prefer to be having this conversation at a bathhouse in Highgarden, surrounded by the smell of roses and grass and freshly pressed cider? Or in your natural pools in Winterfell? The water steaming in the cool air? Air which smells like pine and moss and cedar instead of fish and sweat and waste?”

“You’ll be at Storm’s End soon enough, Margaery. It might smell like fish, but it’ll be fresh fish. The air will smell like salt and seawater and the threat of an afternoon thunderstorm. You and Tommen will watch the lightning over the sea from the safety of the lord’s solar and pretend to be disappointed that you must spend the day indoors. Tommen may be young, but boys grow quickly once they start. In a matter of two or three years your cub will be every inch the lion.”

Every inch?” Margaery asked wickedly.

“Please don’t,” Sansa groaned.

Margaery chuckled, “Well, he is handsome now that his face has begun to thin out.”

Sansa nodded. Tommen had finally had a growth spurt that added to his height rather than his circumference. He was still shorter than Joffrey had been, though was now close in height to Margaery. Since he had more growing to do, Margaery was at no risk of being shorter than her husband. And in losing some of his baby fat, it was easier to see that he would be a handsome man someday.

“And he is kind,” Sansa added, “And generous. I know it must be strange, Margaery, to marry someone you might easily think of as a little cousin, but it is a good thing. He won’t get a chance to grow into some calloused man incapable or unwilling to give affection. In five years, your age difference won’t feel so vast. In ten years, you’ll forget about your age difference altogether.”

“In ten years, I’ll be an old woman!”

Sansa rolled her eyes, “Thirty isn’t old, Margaery. If it is, then I’m afraid to ask what you think of my husband.”

Margaery grinned wickedly, “I think he’s immortal and thus ageless.”

Sansa let out an overblown sigh.

Margaery chuckled and reached out her foot to shove Sansa’s thigh, “Oh come on. Don’t tell me his grace’s experience doesn’t more than compensate for the fact that you didn’t marry some handsome young prince straight out of a fairy tale.”

“That fact doesn’t need to be compensated for. I was set to marry a handsome young prince, Margaery. And believe me – if you’d met him, you’d know he was the stuff of nightmares, not fairy tales.”

“Good job avoiding the question.”

“You didn’t ask a question.”

Margaery rolled her eyes practically out of her head, “So… is an older man’s experience worth sacrificing a blinding white smile and crease-free face and full head of thick hair?”

Sansa felt herself blush and hoped that the warmth from the water would be blamed as the cause, “It would be unseemly to answer that.”

Margaery winked at her, “You just did.”

Sansa scoffed, which made Margaery let out a hearty laugh, “But you didn’t have to. Sound carried out of that tower in Harrenhal… or so I’ve heard!”

“Ugh!” Sansa took a deep sip of wine.

“And Kingsguard may be sworn to keep your secrets, but I don’t think the sounds coming out of the royal apartments and wafting down to whoever is guarding the drawbridge count as ‘secrets’.”

“Oh Gods!” Sansa threw her head back against the ledge and groaned.

“Yes, I believe that’s what’s been heard a time or two…”

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut, “My great-uncle is in the Kingsguard!”

“And Loras says he’s taken up drinking.”

Sansa opened her eyes so she could scowl at her friend, “Uncle Brynden always drank.”

“Oh, then he’s taken up heavy drinking.”

Sansa clicked her tongue, “This is what you and your brother speak about?”

Margaery shrugged, “Among other things. We’re Tyrells. Growing strong? Puh! Our real motto is ‘gossip all day long”.”

“You’ve convinced me.”

“Come on, Sansa,” Margaery rose and half walked half waded across the pool to sit next to Sansa, “I’m an old maid soon to marry a man who will be expecting me to teach him, not the other way around. You’ve got to give me something.”

“And if I were married to any other man but the king of the seven kingdoms, I gladly would.”

“You’ve already admitted his shit actually does stink…”

“Ugh! And I shouldn’t have!”

Margaery barked out a laugh, “Do you think it was news to me? Kings are just men. Men eat and shit and fuck. Their feet smell. Their armpits smell. I’m guessing other parts of them smell, too.”

“Well, there’s your advice: encourage Tommen to bathe twice each week and your marital duties will be much more enjoyable.”

“I remember the way Garlan and Loras smelled when they were Tommen’s age. Believe me, I’ll have that boy bathing every day!”

“I’m sure the Warden of the Stormlands can afford the expense.”

“You’re not going to tell me anything juicy, are you?”

“No,” Sansa answered flatly.

“I take back what I said about you being fun.”

“As you may recall, I didn’t agree with that assertion.”

“Perhaps I’ll send a letter to the fun Stark sister for some advice.”

“Just keep it to yourself. I’d rather not think of my sister and Gendry in that way,” Sansa shivered.

“You told me and Shireen that he’s awfully handsome. And I’ve noticed blacksmiths always have the most delectable arms. And don’t even get me started on their shoulders!”

“Please stop.”

“I wonder how well he uses his hammer…”

“Margaery…” Sansa growled.

“Hells, I wonder how big his hammer is...”

“Eww! Stop wondering that about my goodbrother! And my sister is… too petite to be hammered by anything of… significant mass.”

Margaery snorted loudly, “I’m petite, too, and that doesn’t stop me from hoping that my future husband has something of significant mass between the legs. Or at least not insignificant”

“Margaery!”

“I bet his hands are strong, too. Personally, I think I’d prefer a firm grip…”

“That’s it! As your queen I command you to desist with this or any other subject of an intimate nature!”

Margaery grinned sweetly, “But I thought in here you’re not the queen and I’m not your lady-in-waiting. We’re just a pair of young women eating figs and turning into prunes.”

Sansa narrowed her eyes, “Stop being spiteful, my lady. I’d almost think you’re jealous to know that my husband has had decades to master the use of his sword. Or should I say, his longsword.”

Margaery’s mouth dropped open and after a few moments of looking dumbstruck she squeezed her eyes shut and made a silent scream while slapping her hands against the water.

“Stop splashing me!”

Margaery theatrically dropped back against the ledge, “Oh, you made my day, sweetling. I can’t wait to tell Loras.”

Sansa groaned and dunked herself underwater.

Sansa returned from her visit to Tyrion’s chambers frustrated that she’d not accomplished her only objective of the day: decide on a gift for Tywin’s nameday. Tyrion suggested that, if she valued her life, she’d not acknowledge the occasion at all. But Tywin had given her a lovely necklace for her last nameday and she simply couldn’t not give him something, especially since his last nameday had gone completely unacknowledged since she didn’t know about it. Tywin never told her, and she’d never asked, or even thought to ask. She only knew it now because a few days ago at the bathhouse, Margaery had asked what she planned to give the king. Margaery knew because Tommen knew, though it would seem Tommen was of the same mind as Tyrion.

And that was fine. If Tywin didn’t want some fuss made over his nameday, and she knew he wouldn’t, then she’d not be throwing a feast or hiring musicians or any of the other pomp that he found not just wasteful but tedious. But she would be giving him something. She absolutely had to.

As soon as she could think of something…

Since having the twins she rarely felt childish anymore, but thinking about buying a gift for her much older husband was doing just that. She imagined herself handing him a doublet that she had personally embroidered with lion motifs, and she saw her father, patting her little head after she presented him with a handkerchief embroidered with the direwolf of House Stark kissing the trout of House Tully. Young Sansa had thought it so clever; Arya had asked why their father would eat their mother. (In hindsight, Arya had been right.)

Next she imagined herself gifting him a fine gold chain to wear around his neck like some men did, but it seemed so very silly to give gold to the man who controlled most of the continent’s goldmines. Plus, she didn’t think he was fond of wearing jewelry other than his signet ring.

Her next idea was to buy him some rare book, but Tywin had an entire library filled with rare books, plus access to the Red Keep’s library, not to mention the one in Casterly Rock. For that matter, as the king he could write to the Citadel or just about any house in all of Westeros and request to be lent a book they possessed that he didn’t. (Moreover, Sansa didn’t know enough about books to know the names of those tomes that weren’t in Tywin’s possession and that he might enjoy reading.)

The only idea she hadn’t completely abandoned was to make him a cloak of heavy red or gold velvet with fur over the shoulders, but that would take time and thanks to not even knowing when his nameday was until a few days ago, she didn’t have time. She could buy him such a cloak, perhaps – with winter coming there were probably merchants from White Harbor hocking their wares in King’s Landing – but he was a king and a Lannister, meaning everything he wore ought to have been custom-made to his height, at least. And for it to be a meaningful gift, Sansa needed the chance to embroider something on the bottom hem, at least, plus replace the standard closures or buttons with something gold or silver, whichever better matched the color of the fur.

Though it rankled her pride, she supposed she could gift him the cloak after his nameday, claiming to have only found out the date a few days prior. It was only a small stretch of the truth, and Sansa thought that neither Margaery nor Tommen was likely to expose her white lie.

She was ashamed to be distracted by her predicament all through her time spent with the girls that evening, though as they were teething, they weren’t exactly pleasant company. Their nurse, Rayna, didn’t have any ideas as for a gift for Tywin, though she did hint that certain favors could be given that Sansa might ordinarily refrain from giving. Sansa couldn’t rightly tell Rayna that she refused her husband nothing, so she’d just blushed and nodded and pretended to be considering it.

It took much coaxing by both her and Rayna to get the girls settled that night, and only when they finally were asleep did Sansa quietly creep to the king’s apartments. Tywin wasn’t there yet; she knew him to work until well into the evening, but she knew it wouldn’t be too much longer now. A servant was there lighting the fire in the dining room and the king’s bedchamber, so Sansa sent him to retrieve supper for two in anticipation of her husband’s imminent arrival.

It was perfectly timed as Tywin arrived only a few moments after the meal, looking quite uneasy as he entered the room with more haste than usual, only for his eyes to dart around before settling on her.

“Did something happen?” she asked fearfully. Tywin rarely looked anything but stern and in control. When he seemed riled or perturbed, the emotion was mirrored in Sansa, just as she took comfort when her husband was calm.

He shook his head faintly as something best classified as annoyance replaced the anxiousness previously painting his face, “I think your sister has gone mad,” Tywin extended his hand to present a scroll to her.

“Raven?” she asked.

Tywin nodded, “Arrived just as I was wrapping up, marked with urgency.”

Sansa took the parchment and frowned at her sister’s even sloppier than usual penmanship, but quickly enough it was the meaning of the words, not the appearance of them, that disturbed her…

Sansa, keep away from Gregor Clegane at all costs.

Lion, if you’re reading this, keep Gregor Clegane away from Sansa. Actually, perhaps you could just kill him? Why, you ask? Rickon recently had a dream of Sansa under a man in a skirt. But perhaps the “skirt” was a drying sheet or bedsheet? Regardless he said the man was a giant – a mountain! He used that word! And he said Sansa was scared!

You probably think it’s nonsense but Rickon has never heard of the Mountain, nor does he know that Sansa is acquainted with him, but you remember that day in Harrenhal, don’t you? He doesn’t like that you took what he wanted. Or maybe he’s found out that Sansa wants to investigate him?

Regardless, just keep her safe or I will kill you and it will not be quick.

Sansa – don’t do anything foolish, alright? Make sure you are always guarded. Oh, and don’t invite that big freak to the capital for any reason, including your investigation. I mean it!

Take care of yourself and my nieces or else I’ll come there and do it myself.

Arya

She looked up at her husband, “You haven’t summoned him, have you?”

Tywin snorted, “Do you truly think I want that man within a hundred leagues of you? He isn’t here, nor will he be coming here at any time, for any reason.”

“Then why would Rickon dream—”

“Exactly. A dream. A random dream based on no actual events. Or a dream based on rumors he’s heard. Do you truly think it’s impossible that he heard about your time in Harrenhal? Perhaps even from your sister herself, something she spoke in passing then forgot about? Or something his caretakers told him during the war?”

Sansa nodded, “It does seem a bit ridiculous… A skirt?”

Tywin snorted, “What’s ridiculous is that your sister believed it enough to write this,” Tywin gestured at the parchment, “She seems terrified. Does she have so little faith in me to keep you safe?”

“Don’t take it personally if she does. No one is every truly safe, and Arya knows that as well as anyone.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed at that, though Sansa hardly doubted a man like him could ever doubt how dangerous this world could be. She half expected him to continue discussing Arya’s letter but instead he jerked his head toward their dinner spread, “Let us eat. It’s been a long day.”

She nodded and moved to her chair, pausing to let Tywin pull it out for her as he always did. It was one of the many subtle ways her husband acted like a gentleman, even if few would guess he bothered being courteous to anyone, even his wife.

 She helped herself to the roast vegetables while Tywin gave her the smaller piece of whitefish. He wasn’t greedy, but knew that when it came to fish, a little went a long way for her. She enjoyed the light, flaky texture, but after several bites it was simply too… fishy. Having grown up in a landlocked keep during a spring and summer, it wasn’t like seafood was ever on the menu. Occasionally a visiting lord would bring some smoked salmon but that just tasted like firewood to Sansa. Tywin, living all his life in either Lannisport or King’s Landing, preferred fish and shellfish to any sort of meat, except perhaps a well-seasoned venison steak. Of course, she could have the cooks prepare something other than fish for her, but she was trying to acclimate her palate to it. Game might be scarce in the event of a severe and prolonged winter, just as livestock numbers might dwindle, but the ocean was teeming with fish in every season.

Yet it wasn’t winter or even her dinner on her mind as she ate. She was ashamed that she hadn’t yet delivered on her promise to the Northern lords to begin an investigation into Gregor Clegane. It wasn’t that she forgot, nor that she was unwilling, but that there were other priorities. The weather was getting colder, and the people had only recently begun to enjoy stability. During Joffrey’s reign, particularly toward the end of it, the people in many kingdoms had gone hungry as lords sent much of their food supplies with their armies. The people in the capital had been particularly poorly provided for since the trade routes into the city were cut off by the Tyrell and Baratheon armies. Not only that, but there were many orphans and widows of war, men who’d lost limbs or sight or hearing – in short, people who’d lost their source of income one way or another. Sansa was trying to fix the situation, with help from Margaery and Shireen and guidance from Tyrion or Tywin, though she tried to not trouble her husband unless it was absolutely necessary. The poor man was going to work himself into an early grave at this rate, yet what could be done? She wouldn’t tell him to care less, because that would be like asking a rooster to not crow. No, Tywin didn’t care about his subjects in a warm and compassionate way, but he cared about keeping the people content, meaning employed and fed, so they wouldn’t start rioting again. He cared about how his reign would be looked back on, decades in the future; would he be a king who led the realm into prosperity and maintained the peace? And while her husband could be rather arrogant, she knew it was his family name he cared about. If Tywin Lannister was a man feared, a man respected, a man admired, then perhaps his children and grandchildren would enjoy some residual benefits of his reputation.

It frightened her to think that it might be herself who most needed to borrow from her husband’s goodwill. If he didn’t outlive whichever of their children stood to inherit the throne, then Sansa would be Regent for a time. Aye, someone like Tyrion might be there to help her, or he might not. What if he died before her husband? He certainly didn’t seem very robust. Besides, did dwarves have the same life expectancy as other men? She didn’t know. Similarly, Ser Kevan may not be around to help her. He was only two years Tywin’s junior, and he seemed to carry an unhealthy amount of fat in his midsection.

Suddenly, Sansa felt so very frightened. She imagined herself, sitting on the throne, attempting to make her voice sound deep and authoritative as she made pronouncements on behalf of Jeyne, or perhaps some little son still years away from his majority. Who would be standing with her? Who would she be able to trust? Who would she be able to trust that would also understand governance and politics and who would be respected enough to keep the people’s loyalty, even if the child monarch he served was a girl, not a boy?

“That letter has you worried,” Tywin spoke.

Sansa lifted her eyes to him, realizing she’d yet to take a bite of the meal her husband had plated for her. She shook her head, “No… Not the letter. I just… realized something…”

Tywin lifted a brow, “Realized what?”

“That…” Sansa trailed off before she’d even decided what to say. It felt childish to admit to being afraid of having to rule someday, and it felt selfish and wrong to worry about something that would only come about due to his death. Weren’t wives supposed to feel like life wouldn’t even be worth living if their beloved husband died?

Oddly enough, she wanted to scoff at herself for thinking so, until she actually did think about it… She thought about the likelihood that someday she’d wake up next to… a corpse. Her husband’s corpse.

Some night I will fall asleep in his arms, warm and safe, only to awaken as a widow, with no Tywin there to comfort me.

Why did it hurt her chest so badly to think about it? Why did it feel like, when that day came, she wouldn’t be able to breathe? Why, when she had survived losing her wolf, her friend, her father, her brother, did she feel so certain that losing Tywin Lannister would kill her?

She naturally wondered if he felt similarly. If he did, perhaps it wasn’t so pathetic.

She was about to open her lips to ask when she remembered the way he looked, the way he held her face in his hands and apologized, with so much hurt and regret in his voice, when she’d gone into labor with the twins. He had thought she was delivering nearly a moon too soon and thus feared something was wrong with the babe, or with her womb.

She didn’t have to ask that question because the answer had been in his eyes that day, when he’d known her for less than eleven months… and for a couple of them he’d only thought of her as a common whore… and for a couple more of them they didn’t see each other as all – she the rebel’s sister, taking shelter in Riverrun and he the king’s grandfather, winning the king’s wars.

It struck her quite suddenly, how unfair it was that either he would feel that way someday, or she would, but she was too practical to deny it. She knew better than most that everyone died – it was the only thing that could be counted on in this world where trust and honor and decency were often transient – things that could be found in times of peace, though not universally, much less so in times of strife.

But death took everyone, indiscriminately. During war, during peace. During winter, during summer. In the North, in the South. The young, the old. The strong, the weak.

Mercy, judgment, wisdom, strength, virtue, bravery… She laughed internally to think of the dearth of those qualities, those characteristics that were said to depict the gods, at least the gods that Catelyn Tully had raised her to put her faith in.

She now knew that only one of them was even remotely reliable. The one who possessed no gender, no defining attributes; who claimed to offer neither protection nor absolution, only an end to one’s mortal journey – whether that journey be a happy one or a tortured one.

She could understand, rather easily, why to some there was only one god: Death.

“Valar morghulis,” she whispered, feeling the right corner of her mouth pulling.

“Pardon?” her husband asked.

She shot up from her chair and ran all the way to the queen’s bedroom, pulling the covers off and flipping up the bottom left corner of the mattress until she found the spot that she’d previously stitched.

“Sansa, what’s going on?” Tywin’s voice was close; he had followed at her heels.

“Your dagger, please,” she held out her hand expectantly.

With furrowed brows Tywin handed her the blade, handle-first.

She cut right through every stitch, handed the dagger back, and reached in with her fingers, fishing around until she found the smooth fabric that she had wrapped it in.

She pulled it out and impatiently unwound the cotton wrapping until the iron disc was revealed, then held it in her palm for Tywin to inspect.

His eyes only briefly rested on the coin then focused on hers, twitching as they narrowed, “This is it?”

She nodded, “Valar morghulis. You say that to any Braavosi and they will take you to him.”

“Valar morghulis,” he repeated, “Everyone dies?”

She smiled, “All men must die. You speak High Valyrian?”

Tywin lifted one shoulder, “Some. Recall I grew up alongside Aerys Targaryen. The Targaryens liked to do things to set themselves apart, such as learn obsolete languages. But why are you showing me this, Sansa? Are you suggesting I use it on Gregor Clegane?”

She was only a little embarrassed that she hadn’t thought of that yet knew she wouldn’t waste the coin on someone like him. If Tywin was willing to kill his half-rabid dog, he could find a way to do it himself, without fear of repercussion. Yes, Gregor was a vassal, but a lowly one, only two generations removed from the peasant class, and with no family to demand justice for him.

Well, no family that would want to demand justice for him. If Sandor Clegane would demand anything it would be Gregor’s corpse, so he could lift his leg on it.

She shook her head, “No. It’s a gift. I want you to have it. If something had happened to me… if I didn’t survive giving birth, you’d not have even known to look for it. Such a priceless treasure, I cannot risk it becoming lost.”

He stared at her as if she wasn’t making any sense, so she pressed the coin to his palm. “It’s yours, husband. Happy nameday.”

“It’s not my nameday,” he replied slowly, his voice blank and his face still confused.

“I’m a few days early. I didn’t want to wait.”

“Sansa,” Tywin shook his head back and forth slowly, “I don’t understand…”

She pushed his fingers over his palm, closing the coin in his fist, “It’s yours. Use it as you see fit, I know you won’t do so recklessly or needlessly.”

“Sansa…” he was still shaking his head, and she had no idea why he was still confused, until his free hand came to her head, gripping into her hair. She shrieked until she realized it wasn’t done in anger but in desire, which was when she realized her husband wasn’t confused, he was awed. He can’t believe that I’d entrust him with such a valuable and dangerous weapon.

She couldn’t believe it either, and pictured Arya smacking her own forehead if she knew what Sansa had just done.

That was a fleeting thought as her husband’s lips were everywhere, and they were hungry. Starved, perhaps. Desperate, demanding, and dangerous.

She heard the coin thud gently on the mattress where Tywin tossed it, then his hands were just as frantic, lifting skirts, yanking laces, tearing stockings… grabbing, pulling, ripping…

She cried out when he entered her with a sharp thrust, but she didn’t mind the pain. Rather, she reveled in it. It was furious, the way he claimed her; each thrust lurching her body back, scratching an itch deep inside her. It was a different type of ecstasy than that which preceded her peaks, yet she sobbed all the same, because it had never felt this passionate, this deep, this necessary… as if Tywin would have perished if he didn’t get inside her right then and there.

Like the fiercest storms, it didn’t last long. When it was over, Tywin moved off her, laced his trousers, and sat up, his feet on the floor, facing away from her. She straightened her skirts and rose to kneeling, cringing at the feeling of his seed leaking out of her body.

“Tywin?” she asked when he just sat there, shoulders hunched, catching his breath.

“What have you done to me?” he mumbled, and she wasn’t sure that she was supposed to hear, but she did.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re a curse,” he spat more loudly, with a sharp edge to his tone.

She was too confused to know whether to be offended, “A curse?”

He snorted drily, “Aye, a bloody curse. You make a man lose his wits. You make him weak.”

“Tywin, I haven’t—”

“Shut up, will you?” he turned to look at her over his shoulder, “I know you didn’t try, but the result is the same as if you were the world’s greatest swindler, or better yet, witch. Hmpf. I thought Stannis Baratheon a fool for keeping the counsel of that red witch, but am I any better? I’ve witnessed no acts of magic, no miracles that defy all logical explanation, and yet still I’ve been bewitched. Hypnotized. Still I find myself a puppet on your strings.”

She clicked her tongue, “This is ridicu—” she yelped for a second time, now because Tywin pounced so quickly, pressed her down into the bed by her shoulders, leaned over her, her chin in his hand.

He had all the leverage, and his words had hinted at anger, and his green eyes were frenzied, yet she felt no fear. Not even when he squeezed, his fingertips and thumb digging into her cheeks painfully. She saw his anger, and might even wear bruises for it, yet she was not afraid. How could she fear him when she knew that he couldn’t hurt her without hurting himself?

She knew it for a fact, because she felt the same.

His upper lip curled, and she couldn’t tell whether to call it a snarl or a smirk until his words came out drenched in dark amusement, “Look at you. You don’t fear me at all, do you? You never did. Not truly. Not even when you were as disposable as a war camp whore. Because you saw the part of me that’s soft, and you speared it, and you pulled it out of its hiding place so it could be your pet. The lion sleeping at your feet like a plump housecat, yet ready to kill in an instant – but only by your leave.”

“Tywin—” she tried again, though it sounded like “Ty-in” since she couldn’t close her lips to make the ‘w’ sound, not with the way he was squeezing.

“A curse indeed, to make a man forget all his plans, all his aspirations… all his wants and needs because you replace all of them…” he shook his head faintly, “I wanted to spend the rest of my days at Casterly Rock, not in this city of filth and iniquity. I didn’t want to be toiling from sunup to long after sundown. I didn’t want to be worried about feeding half the fucking continent, about the day this Targaryen tires of playing queen of the slaves and somehow gets her hands on a fleet and armies that could challenge mine. I didn’t want to have to raise another set of children and fear that they’ll be as fucked up as the last set, because perhaps it’s what I deserve. I didn’t want to have to worry over a pretty little wife, and all the men who want to fuck her. I didn’t want to have to care about anyone. To have to trust anyone. To have to worry about what would become of that person if I left his world… to have to worry about what would become of me if they left… And yet here I am, doing all of those things.”

She shook off his grip while yanking at his wrist, “I didn’t ask for any of it!”

“I know!” he gritted out through clenched teeth, “That’s why you’re so dangerous. That’s why I’m cursed twice over, a fool twice over.”

“Why are you mad at me?! All I did was give you a gift!”

He pulled her up by her shoulders, “A gift I’ll pay for!”

“What?! You’re not making any sense!”

“I’m already paying for it!” he hissed “The gift was your trust, and I earned your trust by doing all those things I didn’t want to do! And fuck me, but I can’t even hate you for it. I can’t even resent you for it! Because how can I hate what I love?”

“Tywin… I’m sorry… I don’t—”

He shook his head, “When your sister told me he was going up the tower stairs, I’ve never moved so quickly in my life outside of a battlefield. When I saw him standing there, threatening you, I couldn’t fucking breathe. And when I read that letter tonight, I thought… I came here in terror, knowing it was ridiculous and yet unable to silence the fear. I just pictured him, hovering over you, pinning you to the floor, and I felt sick. And I saw you, broken, lifeless… and I knew that if I’d arrived too late, I wouldn’t be spending the rest of my days avenging you, because I’d not live another day, nor even another heartbeat. I’d end it. I’d leave this world that has our beautiful girls in it; that has Tommen and Tyrion and Jaime and Kevan and Genna… I’d leave it and never look back.” He pushed himself away from her and scoffed, “So aye, you’re a curse. You’re a bloody poison. A festering wound. Right here,” he made a fist and slammed it against the center of his chest.

And how could she be insulted when she understood? When she felt the same for him? That she would choose to be miserable and in danger with Tywin Lannister rather than happy and safe without him. That she would make horrible decisions if ever her husband’s love or life was on the line. That she knew he didn’t deserve her love and yet couldn’t withhold it, no matter how hard she had tried. If there were gods beyond the one who brought death, it was one who brought love – they were the only two things unavoidable in this world, even for men like Tywin Lannister, who was said to have a heart of stone, and Sansa Stark, who had all her dreams and images of love stabbed a half hundred times and yet still found it, and still wanted it no matter how painful it was. That god was to blame, for surely there was no logical reason for her to love this man, nor for him to love her. It was beyond their control. It defied every law of human nature and yet was no less real…

“I understand,” she stated simply as tears rolled down her cheeks.

“You don’t,” Tywin shook his head, releasing her shoulders, turning away from her.

So, she spoke to his back, “I do. Why do you think I gave you that coin? I started thinking about how difficult life would be if you… if you died. How hard it would be for me to hold onto the throne, especially if I didn’t have someone like Tyrion or Kevan here to help me. And then I thought about how I would feel if I lost you. And it felt like the worst sort of pain,” she brought her fist to her chest as he had done, “right here.”

“No,” his hung head shook side-to-side, “You think you understand, but you don’t.”

“I do! Do you truly think you mean so little to me? You want to hate me, or to at least not love me, but you cannot. Well, I most definitely should hate you, but I cannot. I am as weak for you as you are for me, don’t you remember? I wasn’t lying that day, Tywin. That day Arya hinted at. That day Ser Gregor cornered me in your chambers. Do you remember?”

He nodded slowly. “What are you doing to me?” he asked, this time his voice holding no wonderment, only resignation.

She smiled through her tears, “I could ask the same of you.”

He finally turned enough to look at her, and his eyes studied her face as if he’d never seen it before.

Eventually, slowly, his right hand came up, the thumb wiping a tear from her cheek as his fingers curved under her ear around her neck, “Ñuha ābrazȳrys. Ñuha prūmia.”

She smiled faintly, “What does that mean?”

She got no answer but a faint smile, the kind made when a person is amusing his or her self with jokes not spoken aloud, humor never intended to be shared.

But it was enough. She already knew, because love sounded the same in all languages.

Chapter 37: Get on with it

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Sansa

“Gods,” Uncle Brynden rolled his eyes as Sansa approached the door that led into the royal family’s apartments, “The lungs on those two. Can hear ‘em from here.”

She smiled perhaps a bit patronizingly at her great-uncle, “They’re teething, Uncle. What do you expect?”

He ignored her, “That’s the lion in ‘em. Wolf and trout would never carry on like that.”

Now it was her turn to roll her eyes, “You say that because you weren’t around Rickon when he was a babe. And don’t even get me started on what Mother has said about Uncle Edmure!”

Brynden snorted, “At least I don’t have to hear it any longer. My shift is done and the quiet of the White Tower awaits!”

“An ale awaits,” Ser Darrin grinned wryly at his older colleague. He’d approached the drawbridge into Maegor’s just as Sansa was journeying in from her afternoon of queen’s court, relieving Ser Loras who’d been her white shadow today. (Loras had tried not to look too glad that he’d not have to ascend the stairs of Maegor’s only to descend them in a few minutes to start his trek back to the White Sword Tower.) Now Ser Darrin would take over Brynden’s place ‘holding up the walls’ outside the royal apartments. It made him a popular fellow for the moment.

“Only one ale?” Sansa teased.

Ser Darrin chuckled, “The queen is right, as always. A barrel awaits!”

Uncle Brynden raised an imaginary tankard, “I’ll drink one for the man who must spend the evening listening to those jackals screeching.”

Goodnight, nuncle,” Sansa spoke in a put-upon voice as she made her way into the apartments, giving Ser Darrin a grateful tip of the head just as she did.

Indeed, her girls sounded particularly unhappy as she ventured down the corridor. The poor little things already had tiny little front teeth – four on the top and four on the bottom, though not fully exposed. But now in their seventeenth month their canine teeth and molars were erupting, and it made them miserable. She hurried her strides, calling out, “Mama’s coming!” before she even stepped through the nursery door.

She frowned to find Rayna wasn’t there trying to calm the girls but supposed the woman went to use the privy or perhaps fetch something cool for the girls to suck on. She approached the side-by-side cribs, “Mama’s here, my girls,” she cooed.

She went to lift Jocelyn out, knowing that if Jocelyn calmed, Jeyne would follow, but never managed to get her hands around her daughter’s body. A thick cloth was pressed tightly over her mouth at the same time a strong arm banded around her waist, yanking her back against a solid body. She clawed at the hand holding the cloth but the assailant wore a leather glove and a long-sleeved leather coat. She tried flailing but he was so strong, too strong. She tried flinging her head back but met nothing but what was probably the air over the man’s shoulder. Still she didn’t stop screaming against the cloth, no matter how futile it was, because it couldn’t be helped.

In her periphery a figure came into view. She didn’t recognize the man, but Sansa knew a seasoned killer when she saw one. Hard eyes, irises a brown so dark it’s nearly black. Expression neutral; calm, despite the circumstances. Deep wrinkles in a sun-leathered face. Hair thinning atop his head but coarse on his cheeks and all the way down his neck. He raised a finger to his lips while holding her eyes, and she could see the muscles and callouses and swollen knuckles on each finger that indicated a man who’d spent all his life swinging either a hammer as a smithy or carpenter, or a sword as a soldier or guard.

And when that hand reached toward Jeyne in her crib, Sansa screamed, her knees buckling until only the arm around her waist kept her from folding.

But the man only lifted Jeyne up, bopping her on his left forearm and quietly shhing her to no avail, all while his right hand rested on the handle of a dirk in his belt. He faced Sansa, eyes stern, “When my companion lets you go, you will not scream or shout. You will not fight. You will not try any tricks. You will quiet them. I don’t want to kill a babe, but I will if I must.”

She screamed against the cloth, again, then hoped the man’s threat would not be in effect until after she was let go. The scream faded to a sob as she became overwhelmed by fear the likes of which she had never felt before. An all-consuming fear that made her limbs feel weightless even as she felt like she was sinking - her gut dropping, her bladder filling, her feet stuck as if she’d stepped into quicksand. This fear was as foreign as it was unpleasant. Never had she felt it in her whole life. Not when Father was in the dungeons, Arya missing, and Sansa all alone in a pit of lions and snakes. Not when rioters chased her down alleys and side-streets. Not when she slept every night on a ship wondering when the sailors’ desire for her would outweigh their obedience of the captain. Not when a group of soldiers caught her in the woods west of Maidenpool and bound her to a sorry-looking group of men, women and children. Not when she listened to some of those people scream in agony while a rat clawed through them. Not when Ser Gregor plucked her from the muck and made her undress him. Not when Tywin laid eyes on her that first time, naked and without any defenses but the made-up life of Sarina Parsons. Not when he held a dagger in her mouth and demanded the name that would mark her as his enemy. Not when Ser Gregor caught her alone in Tywin’s chambers, intent on raping her. Not when she fled through the forest with Arya and Gendry. Not when she walked down Riverrun’s drawbridge toward Roose Bolton, pretending she was a queen going to address her loyal subjects so that her body would stop trembling. Not when she walked back into Harrenhal, surrounded by bloodthirsty soldiers wearing sigils of flayed men, lions, dogs and countless others that all meant the same thing: danger. Not when she rode into King’s Landing at Tywin’s side, growing nearer to her former tormentor, the murderer of her father, with every breath.

No… That feeling that had clutched her heart and soured her belly in all those instances was nothing on this. She now was certain that the only people in the world who knew true fear were mothers seeing their children in danger. Had Catelyn felt this way when Bran dangled from trellises and window ledges? When Arya rode her mare too fast? When Robb and Jon began training with steel? Surely, she felt it when an assassin tried to kill Bran in his sickbed, then when Robb rode to war. Probably also in thinking about Sansa and Arya in the capital with the lions that she had believed were behind the attack on Bran.

Sansa immediately forgave her mother’s every mistake. That Catelyn could even function when all her children were at risk was a miracle, yet it was a different mother’s face that flashed in Sansa’s mind…

The more people you love, the weaker you are. You'll do things for them that you know you shouldn't do.

Cersei had told her that, cautioning Sansa to love only her children – and they only because a mother can’t help but love her children.

And if nothing else, Cersei had been right about that. Because Sansa knew that agreeing to anything this man told her to do was foolish; whoever he was, he was her enemy. She should nod, then as soon as she was released by his companion she should scream at the top of her lungs and throw herself at the man, try to get his dagger using speed and the element of surprise. Kick, punch, bite, shove, scratch… do anything to buy Ser Darrin the time to get here before either of her daughters could be harmed by these fiends, then keep fighting so Ser Darrin wouldn’t fall under two-on-one odds. Success for her and Darrin was no guarantee, but it had to be safer and smarter than giving this man what he wanted.

Yes, she knew all that, but all she could see was a blade within a hand’s length of Jeyne. All she could see was the arm that held Jeyne, the calloused hand that could kill her small daughter with a single blow to the head or a swift twist of her frail neck. Just as little Aegon Targaryen had been killed by either Ser Gregor or Ser Amory, as the rumors claimed. At the orders of my husband.

She could feel the blood draining from her face as she connected the dots. A wife and two babes, killed to pave the way for a new king.

You may never love the king, but you will love his children.

More of Cersei’s wisdom from years ago. Only Sansa did love the king. She loved him in spite of his many calloused deeds over the years.

Love no one but your children, Cersei had counseled.

I can’t. I love their sire. I love my husband.

And as she’d feared shortly after the twins were born, her love of Tywin Lannister was a sin. A sin she and her children would pay for, because the gods were as cruel as any man. Somehow, she knew that was what this was about. Vengeance. Vengeance against Tywin, from one of the many he’d wronged.

She nodded. The man’s brown eyes studied her then raised to give a silent order to whoever held Sansa.

Slowly the cloth came away. Then the arm around her waist. Scream and fight, her brain commanded, but neither her limbs nor her mouth complied, not while the man held her child. Her mother’s instinct roared louder than her own thoughts. All she did was slowly turn, then gasp at the sight of a man from her faded memories: Ser Barristan Selmy, his hair looking even whiter against skin that was tanned. The old knight was considered a man of honor, though some still mumbled that the realm would’ve been better off if he wasn’t. Regardless, he had been loyal to King Robert and Ned Stark – loyal enough for Joffrey and Cersei to dismiss him.

For a confusing moment she wondered if, like Sandor Clegane, Ser Barristan came here to offer her an escape from her marriage. But before she could explain for the umpteenth time that no, she didn’t need to be rescued from Tywin, the first man spoke again, “Hush them, my lady. Or I will.”

Sansa swallowed, “If this is about vengeance—”

“It isn’t,” the man took a step back, still bopping Jeyne on his arm to no effect, and jerked his chin toward the crib where Jocelyn cried.

Tears stung her eyes as she lifted her daughter up and held her against her chest, shhing her with a tremulous voice. She turned to face Ser Barristan, holding his eyes that were a rather drab shade of pale blue, “Give me your word, Ser, that no pain, no harm, no death will come to my daughters if I comply with your companion’s commands. Swear by the souls of every Targaryen you ever served, by the soul of Robert Baratheon, by the soul of your mother. By anyone you ever considered dear.”

Ser Barristan took a deep breath in and out through his nose, “I swear it. Our war is not with you, Lady Sansa. But I’d spill the blood of one babe or even two to keep the blood of thousands from spilling. So do not try us.”

She wanted to ask, ‘whose war?’ or ‘why does any blood need to be spilled?’ but it wouldn’t change anything. Her choices were to fight and hope one of her daughters didn’t pay the price, or to trust the vow of the man who’d yet to break an oath in over sixty years of life. She might call their bluff by assuming neither man would kill an innocent child, but what heinous deeds had Ser Barristan done in his service to the Mad King? His vows may be ironclad, but his conscience was questionable.

She took a deep breath… and nodded.

The room was pitch dark and Sansa was rocking in the chair where she sometimes held her daughters. Back and forth, back and forth…

But as she came into wakefulness, she realized she wasn’t rocking back and forth but side to side. And that she was not upright but lying on her left hip and arm.

Her heart began to race as she realized her hands were behind her, bound at the wrist. And her mouth was gagged, something stuffed in it that was big enough to stretch her jaw open painfully while something else was wrapped tightly around her head. And the reason it was black was because her face was buried in whatever fabric she was lying on, which was all that cushioned the hard surface on which she’d slept.

The recent events rushed back into her mind like an avalanche. Ser Barristan and another man threatening her girls if Sansa didn’t comply with their demands – to hush her children, to not scream for help, to not fight or run. Then to follow them into a secret passage accessible by a hidden panel in the nursery – yet another of Maegor the Cruel’s lasting gifts. She never got a good look at the man who led them down narrow stairs carved into the stone foundation of the keep, but she had a feeling it was Lord Varys, Tywin’s Master of Whispers, and the notion boiled her blood. If not for the fact that she carried both her daughters while Ser Barristan guided her with his hands to make sure she didn’t fall, she’d probably have thrown herself at Varys, taken him over the side of the stairs just like she wanted to do with Joffrey. Sandor had stopped her then. Ser Barristan would stop her now, but it gave her something to think about other than dread and claustrophobia.

Through the entire journey she made not a peep and doubted it would have mattered – thick stone walls were good sound insulators when there was no door or window for noise to escape through. But when they emerged outside on the beach of a small inlet where two rowboats were waiting, each with two oarsmen, she screamed. She’d have let these men traipse her across a hundred leagues of solid land, but to let them spirit her away by sea? The notion terrified her. How would Tywin ever find her and their daughters? The Stepstones. The Sisters. The Summer Isles. Essos. Skagos. Any number of port towns or upriver towns. These men might take her anywhere in the known realm and leave behind no footprints, nor any spottings by smallfolk or innkeepers who could point Tywin’s men in the right direction.

Perhaps they realized her scream was due to fright, not strategy, because they didn’t kill either of her girls. Rather, she felt a sharp pain on the right side of her head and then… and then she woke up to the feeling of rocking.

It would be easy to slip into panic, but she knew she had to keep her wits about her. She forced herself to sit up, not without effort. It was Ser Barristan who sat across from her. In the moonlight she saw he held what could only be her daughters, wrapped in a wool cloak or blanket to protect from the cool sea air.

“My daughters!” she tried to cry out as she went to move toward the threesome, but a pair of strong hands on her shoulders caught her from behind.

“They sleep now, lady. Do you truly want to risk waking them?”

Her nose burned and she tried to speak, to ask about her fate, but it was too muffled and garbled to be understood. All that was clear was that she was terrified, and she was glad of it. Perhaps one or both men had a conscience. Or one or both of the oarsmen who she knew were with them only because of the rhythmic sound of something dipping into the water.

“You will know all soon enough. Now please calm down or you’ll upset the babes,” the man who wasn’t Barristan spoke behind her, his hands still tight on her upper arms, holding her upright more than her own spine.

She tried to remember Ser Barristan’s vow that no harm would come to her children, but that moment felt like an eternity ago. She tried to puzzle out who would abduct Tywin Lannister’s wife and children, but the list almost seemed too long. Vengeance. Leverage. Both. How many followed Tywin but did not like him? How many thought he was a monster? How many might have been biding their time for years or even decades to have their revenge on the Lion of Lannister?

Two names kept coming back to her, rising above all the others: Targaryen and Martell. She only knew of the young Targaryen self-styled queen across the Narrow Sea what Tywin had shared: that she was throwing much of Essos’ southern coastal cities, particularly those around Slaver’s Bay, into chaos, claiming her cause was justice. She also was rumored to have three dragons and something like five to twenty thousand soldiers depending on the day. Many of her Essosi allies were likely enemies in disguise, but some of her enemies had the potential to become allies if the young queen could win them with her charm, her dragons, or her claim to the Westerosi throne.

As for the Martells, Sansa knew even less about them other than from her lessons about the region’s lengthy history of animosity toward House Targaryen and much of the Reach. They’d never truly kneeled to a Targaryen king but had married into the family on occasion as a more palatable option for the fiercely prideful Dornish. During Robert’s Rebellion, Prince Rhaegar had been the one to abandon his wife and children, Elia Martell, Princess Rhaenys and Prince Aegon, and his mad father had done much to sow the seeds of war in the first place, but it was Tywin who sacked King’s Landing, during which it was supposedly Lannister-loyal men who killed Elia Martell and her children. So yes, House Martell would want vengeance. It would be quite poetic of them to kill Tywin’s wife and young children then have their corpses delivered to the king. But were the Martells so cruel as to hurt innocent babes? Was the Targaryen queen in Essos, for that matter? By all accounts she was quite vicious, but always toward someone or a group of someones that she perceived as an enemy. Slavemasters, most notably. Her elder brother, who sold her to a warlord. That warlord husband. Perhaps Sansa, a woman grown who had chosen her husband would be deserving of Daenerys Targaryen’s scorn, but certainly not her children.

Yes… Whoever we are being taken to, they can have their vengeance on me, on my body. But I will beg and plead and grovel for my daughters’ lives if I must… Yes. Whatever these bastards want I will give them, but not my daughters. I will bargain and deal and sell my very soul to keep the girls safe.

And once the girls are safe? Well, they had better kill me or I will hunt them down. They will wish it was an actual direwolf stalking them instead of a mother scorned.

Damned right you will, Arya’s voice spoke proudly inside her mind, but for now, just survive.

Sansa sat in a chair in a cabin on some type of sea vessel bigger than a fishing boat and smaller than a cog. Her hands had been tied behind her back again after she was cut loose so that she could climb aboard the ship that was anchored somewhere, she was guessing, near the wide mouth of Blackwater Bay. She thought what she saw to the north must be the lights of Langward. To the south might be Massey’s Hook. The lights of King’s Landing behind them as they rowed were tiny by the time they boarded the ship, and perhaps only wishful thinking. The ship she’d been brought to had been nearly invisible until their rowboat bumped alongside it. It was a moonless night, and no lanterns were lit on deck.

She almost wished they had put a blindfold or hood over her eyes, because to see him here made it difficult to keep her calm and remember that all that mattered was staying alive so she could protect her daughters. It was tempting to risk it all to lunge at him, teeth first, aiming for the main vein in his neck.

“It truly isn’t personal, my lady,” he had the audacity to speak when it seemed he could no longer bear the weight of her gaze. And she didn’t miss the fact that he called her ‘my lady’ instead of ‘your grace’.

“It feels awfully personal,” she spat back.

He took a deep breath, “I have been ever loyal to House Targaryen and ever committed to its restoration. I could not have betrayed House Lannister, because I was never loyal to House Lannister.”

“Yet nor were you loyal to House Baratheon, apparently, and surely King Robert took your vows of fealty in exchange for letting you keep your head. Were your vows lies? If so, it takes some stones to hope this Targaryen trusts your word enough to keep you around…” She wasn’t sure how effective the insult was, and she was too enraged to care that it was a low blow. The bald man only pursed his lips and lifted a pale eyebrow like some kind of disappointed septa.

It was one of the other two people in the room who responded, “Robert Baratheon had no right to demand fealty because he had no right to the throne. The usurper was no king. Only a Targaryen by blood and name may sit the Iron Throne.”

Sansa looked to the woman who was, apparently, behind this abduction. She was annoyingly beautiful, and – even more annoying – the very personification of every famed Targaryen trait, “The realm said otherwise. The realm made Robert their king and saw a vast improvement over his predecessor. I would tell you to ask Brandon or Rickard Stark, but they are not alive to testify.”

The young woman was not easily provoked, “Indeed, I imagine Robert Baratheon was an improvement over my father, and yet that did not give him rights to the throne, nor make him worthy of it. Certainly not more worthy than the brother of mine he killed—”

“In battle. A battle your brother willingly engaged in after kidnapping Robert’s betrothed, my aunt.”

The silver-haired woman ignored Sansa’s logic, “Nor more worthy than myself, nor my nephew and niece, Aegon and Rhaenys. Probably not even more worthy than my brother Viserys, who became hardened only after our years of exile, and bitter about the betrayals toward our family.”

“Is your complaint that Robert Baratheon didn’t end your father’s reign and hand the crown to a child or grandchild that would immediately call for his head?”

Daenerys Targaryen took a deep breath, “I have come to learn that my brother Rhaegar was not ignorant of our father’s flaws. He would have made a fine ruler. He would have forgiven those who acted against the so-called Mad King.”

“Then instead of leading his house’s armies to war he should have led them to negotiations for peace.”

“I doubt Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark would have been receptive to peace talks.”

“Ah, of course. You are right. They’d never have entertained peace talks with the man who abducted and raped Lyanna Stark.”

The woman’s cheeks darkened but still she held her composure, “I cannot claim to know of events that I did not witness. Perhaps my brother did as you have been taught to believe. Or perhaps he didn’t. We’ll never know, I’m afraid.”

“She was four and ten to his four and twenty. And promised to another.”

Daenerys snorted lightly, “By that logic, I suppose your husband, the latest usurper, is a raper, too.”

Sansa felt her skin flush all over. Daenerys capitalized, “You were, what, six and ten to his six and fifty the first time he bedded you?”

“How would you know—”

“And also his grandson’s betrothed?”

“He didn’t know that.”

The self-styled queen lifted a pale brow, “You did.”

“Joffrey Baratheon was unworthy of my loyalty. He was unworthy of the very air he breathed,” Sansa growled, her heart pounding as the subject had moved to more personal territory.

Daenerys smiled, ever so faintly, “I believe you, Lady Lannister. But is it possible Robert Baratheon was also unworthy of Lyanna Stark’s loyalty? Perhaps he was unworthy of the throne, too. I have heard nothing to indicate he was a competent ruler, nor a loving husband.”

Sansa shook her head, “I will not argue with you there, but at least Robert Baratheon kept the peace. Would your brother have done the same, or become another madman with too much power? As you said – we’ll never know. But the fact is, it doesn’t matter which of us is right or even if both of us are. I am here, my daughters are here, because you want the throne, and we stand in your way. So, by all means, end us. Get your hands on my husband and his sons and end them, too. But know that claiming the throne by spilling blood – innocent blood – will only condemn you to an uneasy rule.”

“As Robert Baratheon’s reign began with the spilling of innocent blood! The blood of children. Babes. Blood spilled by your husband’s orders!” Daenerys’ cheeks had gone red, and the words came out as a shout that faded into a hiss.

And what could Sansa say to that? That she knew her husband had more blood on his hands than most, but loved him anyway? That yes, he let children be murdered, but he didn’t revel in such deaths, so it was permissible? She was a hypocrite, she knew, but it couldn’t be helped. Stronger women than her had fallen victim to the blindness plague that is love. Perhaps even Aunt Lyanna, if Daenerys’ suspicions were true. Perhaps she’d fallen in love with Prince Rhaegar and thus ignored the fact that he was married to another, that she was promised to another, that his father was an infamous madman.

Yet none of it mattered. It felt as if Tywin’s crimes would be the noose Daenerys Targaryen wrapped around her neck, and her love of Tywin would be the block kicked out from under her feet.

Shortly after the twins were born, Sansa wondered if the blood on Tywin’s hands was also on hers. But more alarmingly, she wondered if his blood was also on her daughters’ hands, a stain and a curse. And now she knew it was true, yet still she felt loyal to Tywin. Still, she loved him.

Still a stupid little bird.

She took a deep breath, “Whatever your plan for vengeance is, get on with it, but leave my daughters out of it. You hate Robert Baratheon? Fine; be better than him. It won’t be too hard.” It was posturing, and hopefully not obvious at that. She felt terrified for her daughters, herself, her husband, but she had to be practical. She could probably save Jeyne and Jocelyn – the woman sitting across from her did not seem heartless or cruel. She could possibly save herself, but it didn’t matter.

It felt like walking up to Tywin Lannister, curtsying, then smacking his cheek in front of dozens of his and his allies’ men. It was a feint. An attempt to look unaffected by any emotion but indignation when on the inside she was wilting, collapsing… And just like that day in Harrenhal, she did it knowing that it would only be failure if she didn’t save two women she loved.

She turned to look toward the porthole, weary of looking at the odd amethyst eyes of this Targaryen queen, or the beady eyes of the Spider, or even the sorrowful brown eyes of the guard who had held little Jeyne with one hand while the other rested on a dagger’s handle. Ser Barristan wasn’t here – Jeyne and Jocelyn had been taken to a different cabin by him and dark-skinned woman upon boarding the ship, once more under promise of no harm.

Sansa began thinking of how this all must have come about. Clearly the Spider had shown Daenerys’ men into Maegor’s Holdfast via secret passages. Sansa knew of their existence from Sandor and common rumor, and she had taken comfort in knowing there was a way of escape for her and her family should some enemy ever manage to get into the city and the Red Keep and even the walls around Maegor’s. There being only one way into a place meant there was only one way out, and that thought had made her leery of staying in the royal keep until Sandor showed her the hidden door.

If she knew then what she knew now she’d have ordered every hidden door to be found and sealed, every tunnel filled with dirt or stone even if it took years.

She felt warm, soft fingers on her chin and didn’t bother flinching or jerking away.

“You are so young,” Daenerys spoke wistfully, and Sansa couldn’t help but turn to look up at her. Daenerys offered an odd sort of half smile, half frown and dropped her fingers, taking a few steps and addressing her guard, “Leave us.” She turned to face the Spider, “Both of you.”

Both men left; Varys solemnly, the guard reluctantly and only after glaring at Sansa as if she could do anything with her hands tied behind her back.

With the men gone, Daenerys took her seat again, crossing one leg over the other. Her dress was silk but she must have packed for the clime in Westeros for she wore a velvet cloak over it, and what looked like warm slippers, though boots would’ve been more practical.

“You are so young, and yet much older than I was when my brother sold me to a Dothraki khal in exchange for the promise of an army. A beast of a man,” Daenerys smiled, “Yet gentle with me. Only with me, I suspect. I didn’t want the marriage, was terrified of it, truth be told, but I consented because…” she shrugged, “Because my brother told me to. Viserys wanted to return to Westeros, to claim our birthright, and knew that would take armies. Khal Drogo was not the man I would have chosen, yet I grew to love him.”

“Is this when you tell me how much we have in common?”

Daenerys smiled lightly, “Not quite. Though I have learned how your marriage came to be. You and your husband were enemies, your family at war against his. You hid your identity and seduced him, then later encouraged him to claim the throne, to usurp his own grandson.”

“I encouraged nothing of the sort.”

“So, approaching the twilight of his life, the old lion suddenly decided to take the throne?”

“My husband had never wanted the throne, but his grandson was a menace, not unlike your father.”

Daenerys shrugged, “It doesn’t matter. My point is that you chose the man when you were weak. But I do not look at you and see a weak woman.”

Sansa shook her head, “Do not try to turn me against my husband. I know of his sins, and I love him anyway. Just like surely you knew of your husband’s sins and grew to love him anyway.”

Daenerys frowned, “My husband’s sins?”

“Was he a monk?”

“Hardly,” Daenerys snorted, “but he was a man of his word. He was loyal to me. He fought for me.”

“I do not doubt it, but before you met him, was he innocent?”

“I just told you he was no monk—”

“Far from it, I’m sure. I know the Dothraki culture, Lady Targaryen. I know they keep and sell slaves. I know they are brutal against any they face in battle. I know they rape and enslave the daughters and sisters and wives of their fallen enemies. I know they turn the children of their enemies into their own slaves or sell them to the slave masters of Essos. Or will you tell me that your husband and the men under his command were the exception?”

Daenerys’ cheeks were red again, but to her credit she did not try to lie.

Sansa leaned forward, “You want vengeance against my husband? Fine. Take my head. But don’t dare call it justice unless you’d round up every man guilty of the same crimes and deliver to them the same punishment. And don’t you dare touch a hair on my daughters’ heads, or else you’ll have to deliver the same punishment to yourself. And if you don’t, my people will do it for you. The might of the North, the Riverlands, the West, the Vale, the Stormlands, the Reach. The might of people whose blood has come from Westerosi soil for millennia. They will see you for what you are.”

To her disappointment, the young woman didn’t look flustered or wounded. She rose again, as gracefully as a woman who wasn’t anchored in the middle of enemy waters, and approached Sansa. She offered that same odd smile, “My lady, I do not intend to hurt your daughters, nor you. You mistake me if you think this is about vengeance. This is about me taking what is mine without using fire and spilling blood. For I am not whatever you think of me. I could have used my dragons to burn the city until your husband surrendered, but I didn’t, because I will not have an entire continent kneel to me out of fear. One life – and far from an innocent one – will be the price of my throne. That is all.”

One life…

There was a knock on the door and Sansa knew… she just knew.

Her and the girls weren’t here to be slaughtered in a mad woman’s quest for revenge…

They were here as bait in a cunning woman’s quest for power.

Notes:

[Hides behind hands]

Chapter 38: You live for them now

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Tywin

“Is the queen within?” Tywin asked Ser Darrin as the knight opened the door to the apartments for him.

“She is, your grace,” the guard tipped his head.

Tywin strolled through, the letter that arrived just this evening from his cousin at Casterly Rock still in his hand, being read as he walked.

It was an ordinary update, nothing concerning noted, nothing needing Tywin’s approval, just the type of letter sent every three or four months so that the head of Casterly Rock could feel comfortable that he wasn’t neglecting his duty to his homeland in lieu of his duty to the realm.

He pushed open the door to the king’s apartments and tossed the letter on the side table in his receiving room so he could loosen his stock tie while heading toward the dining chamber.

But when he opened that door, he didn’t see his wife, nor even a servant laying out the night’s spread.

He saw his son.

The son he hadn’t seen in two years.

The son he had started to fear was lost to him.

Jaime sat in one of the dining chairs, right ankle resting on left knee, “Father.”

“Jaime,” he responded, at a loss for other words. He was too focused on not showing how elated he was to see his son, even though he also wanted to tear into Jaime for disappearing across the bloody ocean and not sending so much as a letter to let Tywin know he was well. Or alive, for that matter.

But then a different thought gripped him…

Why had Ser Darrin not told Tywin that his son was within?

And why wasn’t Sansa here, playing hostess?

It must have been the air that filled his lungs in preparation of shouting for the guards. Whatever it was, Jaime saw it, and held up a hand as he spoke rapidly, “If you want to see your daughters or wife ever again, don’t scream.”

Daughters…?

“What… What have…” Tywin mumbled, then bolted through doorways until he was in the nursery. Two cribs were alarmingly empty, and his wife was nowhere to be seen. Tywin’s ears throbbed and his eyes spun with his body as he looked all around the room for a clue or an explanation or a comforting sight – anything.

He saw nothing but heard a whimpering and followed it to the wardrobe, then to the space between the right side of the wardrobe and the corner of the room, little more than a foot wide.

He gasped and dropped into a crouch to pull the cloth gag out of the woman’s mouth, “Rayna? What has happened here? Where is my wife?!”

The wetnurse’s eyes were wide, wet, and red-rimmed, “They took her! Took her and the princesses!”

“Who?! Where?!”

“I don’t know!” she sobbed, “I went to get something cool for their teething, and when I came back someone grabbed me as I stepped into the room, tied me up, gagged me… Told me they’d kill me and the princesses if I screamed or tried to fight. I just did what they told!”

“Where’s Sansa?!” he shook the woman’s shoulders, then felt a hand clamp down on his own.

He spun and rose at the same time, and that wasn’t all. His dagger was pressed to Jaime’s throat, his left hand gripping the back of his son’s neck and pulling him tight against the blade’s edge.

Jaime looked entirely too calm.

“What the hell did—”

“Quiet!” Jaime hissed, “Your wife and daughters are out of your reach. You can kill me, you can call the guards, but it won’t help you. You can torture me and that won’t help you, either. You can try to stall and that won’t help – if I’m not returned to my companions by the hour of the nightingale, they’ll kill one of your daughters. Then Sansa two hours later if I’m still not back. Then the other daughter at midday...”

“You wouldn’t! They’re your sisters!”

I probably wouldn’t, no, but I’m not there, am I?”

“Where is there?” Tywin growled, his teeth gritted so hard he thought they might crack.

“A ship. Near the mouth of Blackwater Bay. A spry little sea vessel that will weigh anchor if any unusual activity is spotted at your docks… or if any ship appears to be in pursuit. Of course, that would be foolish on your part – you can’t attack without risking the lives of your wife and children.”

“No,” Tywin shook his head, “Do you take me for a fool? This is all some elaborate plan to get me to come with you. You wouldn’t be part of any plan that would involve harming my daughters.”

Jaime cocked his head, unbothered that it made the blade scrape against his skin, “No? Why’s that, Father? Because I’m so honorable? Honorable enough to push Bran Stark out a tower window because he caught me fucking my sister?”

The nurse gasped from where she must still be tucked between the wardrobe and the wall, too afraid to move.

“Or would it be because I’m honorable enough to attack Ned Stark and his men in the streets, out-armored and out-numbered as they were? Or maybe how I’m so honorable that I sliced open the neck of the king I was duty-bound to protect to my dying breath?”

“Jaime—”

“Or how I’m honorable enough to lie to my brother, to tell him his little wife was a little whore that I paid to give him an adventure in and beyond the bedroom, so that he’d join your men in raping the poor child?”

Tywin’s lips parted as he began losing his grip on his calm.

“So go ahead father. Test me,” Jaime bared his teeth, “bet your daughters’ lives on my honor. Bet your wife’s life on it – you know how fond I am of my teenage goodmother. Hmpf. Funny how she played you for a fool and got a crown for it. Tyrion’s wife played no one and… Well, how much exactly did she get for it, besides bruised thighs and a chafed cunt?”

His heart was pounding like it hadn’t since he arrived at Harrenhal after negotiations with the Starks to find his bedwarmer gone, his mind flooding with images of her beautiful body being used and discarded by the guards who, prior to Tywin’s arrival, had been given leave to rape and maim to their twisted hearts’ content.

His son’s eyes held no deception, no doubt, no fear – not of death, not of his father’s disdain, not of further tarnishing his name, his soul.

Tywin knew – he knew – that leaving with Jaime was the last thing he should do. He couldn’t help his wife or daughters if he became another captive or hostage, as they clearly already were. He should stay here in this city where he held the power, controlled the guards, controlled the armies, controlled what little of the fleet was here. He should never trade his life for his wife’s. He should never trade his life for his daughters’. A man could take a new wife, make new heirs. Hells, Tywin didn’t even need to; he still had three nephews, a brother, and a son – loathed as he was to think of Tyrion truly inheriting Casterly Rock and not just as a placeholder for some child of Tywin’s loins, but as the lion who’d sire the next heirs of House Lannister; the lion who’d pollute their good bloodline with his deformities and vices.

This wasn’t the first time Tywin had the uncomfortable experience of knowing a child of his was in the hands of an enemy. When Jaime donned the white cloak, which Aerys bloody well knew was against Tywin’s wishes for his heir, Tywin didn’t run back to that cesspool of the mad king’s sycophants and fellow sadists. No, he sat back and plotted, determined to be ready when opportunity next struck. When Catelyn Stark abducted Tyrion, Tywin didn’t ride out in the night, unguarded, to try to find the woman and reason with her. No, he raised an army and trampled her homeland. And that’s what he should do now. Find out who was behind this trickery, even if he had to torture his own son to do it, and respond in kind – by destroying whatever that person most loved.

And perhaps… perhaps if they only had Sansa, or one of the girls, he would do that. Because whoever orchestrated this trap was smart enough to not kill a hostage if it was their only hostage. But they had both his daughters, and his wife. They had delivered their threat: come to us, with Jaime, by the hour of the nightingale, or we will kill one of your daughters. And why would they hesitate if they had two other hostages? Why, when it would only show Tywin that they didn’t have the stomach to follow through on their threat? No… They wouldn’t hesitate.

Still he knew it shouldn’t matter. There was a hierarchy of importance within the royal family that every Kingsguard and castle guard learns: protect the king at all costs; only once the king is secured, protect the heir; only once the king and heir are secured, protect the queen consort; and only once all those three are secured, protect any other children or family members.

He knew he should protect himself at all costs. He knew it.

And yet the moment Rayna told him the princesses and Sansa had been taken, he already knew that he would do whatever he could that might save them, even if it meant walking into a trap, or into his own noose.

Because if it was a trap? If him going with Jaime wouldn’t spare his girls? If this was all about eliminating Tywin Lannister, Jeyne Lannister, Jocelyn Lannister, and Sansa Stark? It didn’t matter, because he would die with all his girls before he lived without them. And curse him for it, but he didn’t care what it meant for the realm. He only cared that he’d never have to live even one day without them.

Without her.

He lowered the dagger, “I am a fool for taking your word, but I don’t have much of a choice, do I? But still I appeal to any part of you that cares about those who share your blood – if not your father then your baby sisters, or perhaps your brother who loves them dearly – give me your word that if I come with you, my wife and daughters will not be killed. Will not be harmed. No tricks, Jaime. No tricks.”

Jaime’s eyes narrowed, “Were Joanna’s children so appalling that you had to make new ones? Cersei? Tyrion? What about Joffrey, Myrcella, Tommen? None of them were fit to inherit the West, nor even the throne – and yes I do know your priorities, Father. You’d burn six kingdoms to ash to save your precious Casterly Rock, your precious gold, but not the other way around. But I digress… You named a baby girl still in a nappy as your heir to the throne. Over Tommen. Over Tyrion. Over Myrcella.”

“Only until Sansa bares me a son, since the one standing before me has refused time and again to accept his birthright.”

Jaime snorted, “Cersei would’ve gladly taken the throne, or the Rock. You know that. You’ll give Tommen the Stormlands when he’s better entitled to the West, don’t you think?” Jaime grinned, “Tyrion would rule better than any of us, yourself included, and still you spurn him!”

Tywin wanted to shut Jaime up by telling him that, as a matter of fact, Tyrion was his heir for Casterly Rock. For now, at least. He’d rule the West after Tywin’s death, even if only to then pass it to one of his brothers or sisters through Sansa’s loins, but like hell would he let Jaime know the power Tywin had given Tyrion. Tyrion, Tywin hated to admit, might be his only hope at winning this war or battle or whatever the fuck it was. Tyrion might be the only one capable of holding the city together if Tywin got on that boat and… never came back.

“You’ve never cared for politics, so stop pretending to now,” Tywin sneered, “You never cared for the legacy of your nephews and niece, either. I doubt you even cared about her position, except when it was on hands and knees. So don’t throw your indignation at me now – you’ve no right to it. Tell me my family will be unharmed and I will go with you. I won’t even make a peep.”

Jaime seemed likely to protest only to shake his head as if in amusement, “You have my word. You can leave your weapons here.”

While Tywin followed his son’s orders, divesting of the only two weapons he wore when in the Red Keep, he watched Jaime move to where Rayna still sat. Jaime crouched down and held his dagger tip to her neck, “The smart thing for me to do would be to kill you. You know that, right?”

The woman fearfully nodded, perhaps in too much shock to bother trying to convince him otherwise.

“But we don’t wish to spill any innocent blood if we don’t have to. Not a drop of it. Now I know when we’re gone you’ll wriggle your way to the door, or find a way to work that gag out of your mouth and scream. I can stop the former by tying you to something good and heavy in this room, but I can’t stop the latter, not with 100% certainty, so why risk it?”

“Please, I won’t—”

“Yes, you will. Because anyone would. And even if you wouldn’t, a servant might come along and find you, and you’ll tell them where they can find the king. So here are your choices: I kill you, right here, right now. Or you come with us. You won’t be hurt unless you try to shout or fight or run, and you’ll be returned here when the matter at hand is sorted. Unharmed. So, which is it?”

The woman’s fright became a scowl in an instant, “Can I have some time to think it over?”

Jaime snorted, “I’ve always appreciated a woman with a sense of humor.”

“Truly? Then what did you see in your sister?”

Tywin almost winced at how reckless the woman was being with her life, but he admired her for it all the same. Jaime had abducted children and a mistress she cared about. If Sansa could inspire such loyalty in a nurse, then—

Then nothing. Nothing, if I don’t find a way out of this, for my wife and daughters even if not myself.

Jaime didn’t seem particularly amused, but nor did he punish the woman in any way. He merely reached for the gag and put it back in her mouth, “I’m choosing for you, since you don’t know what’s good for you.” With a jerk he pulled her to her feet but released her with a shove she couldn’t handle with her hands bound behind her back and her feet no doubt numb. Tywin reached out and caught her on instinct more than gallantry, absorbing her weight as she crashed against his chest.

“Selmy,” was whispered in his ear, the single word muted to Jaime by the sound of Tywin’s leathers creaking and Rayna’s skirts brushing against his legs.

He made no reaction but understood that she must be telling him who had taken Sansa. She didn’t know if it would influence his decision to go with Jaime instead of yelling for a guard. She didn’t know if it would help him in any way, but she was trying, and she was doing it without letting Jaime know.

He appreciated the effort, but having the name didn’t change anything.

It did, however, let him know precisely who was behind this. Ser Barristan Selmy wouldn’t be acting on his own. Unless the man went mad, he’d be the last to abduct a woman and two children unless it was for a cause he was sworn to. And there was only one cause Ser Barristan might have sworn to that would also be an enemy to either House Lannister or House Stark: Daenerys Targaryen.

Well, if the stiff wanted to die in service to yet another mad dragon, Tywin would be happy to assist him.

 

Sansa

She never knew that extreme anger could numb the same way extreme fear did.

Then again, she wasn’t sure it was anger or despair that had her sitting there, quiet and with dry cheeks, clinging to Rayna’s hand as her girls slept on the floor right in front of them, in a large trunk that had been lined with blankets to make a crib.

At a table sat Daenerys Targaryen, Varys the eunuch, and Sansa’s husband.

Standing at the ready were Ser Barristan Selmy, the man Daenerys had addressed as ‘Ser Jorah’, a dark-skinned man of compact but muscular build, and Jaime Lannister.

The look Jaime greeted her with upon entering behind Tywin and Rayna was one she couldn’t decipher. It was neither hateful nor pitying, but it was definitely something.

Sansa was surprised that Tywin didn’t roar the moment he stepped into the room. He only looked at her, eyes flicking up and down her form, then faced Daenerys with his signature look of ambivalence that leaned more toward disdain than fondness.

No word had yet been spoken, unless Sansa merely hadn’t heard it over the noise of her own thoughts as she had inconvenient realization after inconvenient realization…

The bait worked.

The trap has been sprung and caught a great lion.

The trap had been set by the young lion. The one who attacked my father in the streets of King’s Landing. The one who pushed Bran out a window. The one who fucked Cersei Lannister, of all the disgusting women, and sired Joffrey, of all the disgusting boys.

Sansa, who’d been relieved of her binds when Ser Jorah, Varys, and Ser Barristan returned to the room to await their next guest with her and Daenerys, had nearly flung herself at Ser Jaime upon seeing him. His skin darker, almost the color of caramel. His hair lighter, streaked with white-blond strands and silver at the temples as if by spending time with a Targaryen was turning him into one. His face lined more than she thought it had been, not that she’d spent much time intimately inspecting his features during their last brief meeting.

But she hadn’t flown at him like an angry crow, because her anger was dampened by the heartache she felt at seeing Tywin walk in, his back straight as ever, his face stern as ever, and yet with something like resignation in his eyes.

He came here for me and the girls.

He knows he won’t make it out of this alive, and he doesn’t care.

He only cares that we do.

“You’re not what I expected,” Daenerys began, her eyes fixed on Tywin, who sat across from her.

Tywin took a few heartbeats to reply with a dull, “How so?”

“Taller. Leaner. Men as rich as you are usually fat.”

“There are no men as rich as me.”

“Perhaps not in Westeros,” Daenerys lifted a shoulder, “but in Essos? The families who’ve been involved in the slave trade for generations upon generations would make you look like a pauper.”

“And I’ve heard theirs is the institution you wish to dismantle, so why are we here?”

The woman’s responding smile was more like a grimace, “I have done what I can there. I have broken the system of slavery. Eliminated the most powerful of those who wished to re-establish it. I have given power to the formerly powerless. Now it’s up to them.”

Tywin snorted, “They’ll be back in chains within the year.”

She shook her head faintly, “We are not here to talk about Essos, as you so astutely noted. We are here to talk about that which was stolen from me, from my family, while I was but a seed in my mother’s belly.”

“If only you’d been like most of the other seeds in her belly and been bled out.”

Daenerys’ face hardened at once, “I knew you to be a cruel man, but—”

“Cruel?” Tywin scoffed, “Merciful, more like. You want to know what ended your family’s line? What stole your birthright? It was inbreeding. Thousands of years of it, since before your ancestors fled to Dragonstone, only occasionally being cleansed when a son was born without a sister, or a daughter without a brother.”

Daenerys held out her hands, palms facing the ceiling, “Do I look like some freak of nature? Is my body deformed, my brain addled? Was my brother Viserys? Or Rhaegar?”

“Did you expect Robert Baratheon, Ned Stark, Jon Arryn, and me to topple your father only to hand all the power back to one of his children, praying that by some slim chance the child wouldn’t grow up to become as mad as Aerys?” Tywin continued through snarled lips, “Or perhaps a raper like Rhaeger? A zealot like Baelor the Blessed? A sadist like Maegor the Cruel? Would you like me to go on, girl? I could. All damned night, but I suspect I don’t have that much time, nor that you have the desire to hear about all the madness in your line.”

“You try to shame me with the crimes of some of my forebears? Fine,” she spat, “Fair enough if anyone in the realm but a man like Tywin Lannister wants to have that conversation. But are you not as cruel as those Targaryen kings you’ve named? I’m sure the lords of Houses Reyne and Tarbeck would say so, along with their wives and children and servants – if you hadn’t drowned them! I’m sure the people of King’s Landing would say so if they weren’t terrified of you – they can’t have forgotten how you sacked the city, let your men rape and maim as they went, rather than heading straight for the Red Keep and the madman you were so hell-bent on ending.” Daenerys rose, her hands flat on the table as she leaned toward Tywin, “I’m sure Princess Elia and her babes would say so, if they hadn’t been butchered by your men, on your orders…” She let the words hang there, her eyes locked on Tywin, his locked on her. Then Sansa watched her chest expand and then shrink as she straightened her spine and lifted her chin, “So, shall we still talk about the long-ago sins of dead kings? Or is it more pertinent to talk about the recent sins of a living one?”

Sansa wanted to defend, but every word she thought to utter was insufficient, because Tywin had done all those things.

Before she got a chance to say anything, Daenerys gestured at her, “How about your most recent sins? Using those same butchers and countless others to attack innocent, defenseless men and women and children. Burning their lands. Killing their animals. Raping their women. Looting what little wealth they had.” Daenerys turned and faced Sansa so abruptly that she flinched in her seat, and Rayna’s grip on her right hand tightened. “Do you have nothing to say, Lady Sansa? Were they not under the protection of House Tully? Were they not the people of the realm that you now rule?”

Daenerys approached slowly, stood at Sansa’s left, looking down at her earnestly, “You needn’t fear him anymore. He cannot hurt you here. Speak the truth. Aren’t you tired of swallowing it?”

The only thing she was swallowing at the moment was the fact that she loved her husband. If she was brave, she’d say it now, but the brave thing was often the stupid thing. Right now, Daenerys seemed to view Sansa as an innocent, and bore her and her daughters no ill will. If she bound her fate to Tywin, would that change? Would this woman be out for both their blood? And then who would protect her babes? Would Daenerys send them North? No, of course not. They’d be hostages, raised by Daenerys herself; raised to believe that their mother and father were horrid people, just as someone had raised Daenerys to think that she, or at least her brother, were entitled to the throne because of their name.

“I have said all I have to say to you, Lady Daenerys,” Sansa spoke, keeping her voice level and neutral. She might not bind herself to Tywin, but she’d not be the one to perjure him, either.

Daenerys stared at her in disbelief, perhaps disappointment, for excruciating seconds during which Sansa forced her eyes on the sleeping bundles at her feet. When next Sansa glanced at the dragon queen the woman offered her a sad twitch of a smile, “I understand, Lady Sansa. Though by the things I’ve heard of you, I thought you’d be strong enough to speak your mind. You did so earlier, when it was just you and me. Does he not let you speak when he’s here to speak for you? Do you feel like a wolf all but when in his presence, and then you must play the lamb?”

She bit her tongue, and bit her tongue, and bit her tongue…

And then, she rose. The queen took a step back, likely in instinct, and in a blink the dark-skinned guard had a spear tip pressed to her breast, but she ignored it, keeping her eyes locked on the Targaryen, “Who do you think you are?” She wanted her voice to sound bold, but it came out more like a shocked whisper. Too many competing instincts were running through her mind. To fight for her husband or to pander to the queen in hopes of saving herself and her children? To succumb to the despair already trying to set in, or to fan the flames of rage that were clamoring for the chance to kill this woman with her bare hands, even if she’d never leave here alive afterwards? To cry and beg for mercy, or to be as poised as a wolf?  

Daenerys blinked at her, “I beg your—”

“Shut up,” came another tear-laden whisper, and she could not discern whether they were tears of sadness or anger, “Are you so without sin that you feel entitled to go around persecuting others whom you know nothing about? Is this some sort of crusade?”

Daenerys’ cheeks darkened, “I know nothing about your husband’s crimes? The entire realm knows!”

“And if your husband yet lived, would you be putting him on trial? Would you be listing all the people he killed, all the women he raped, all the slaves he sold?”

“My husband was a product of his environment! Yours is a war criminal!”

Sansa let out a dry laugh, “Ah, of course. Such a distinction. To the victim, it hurts much less if their attacker is a product of his environment than if he is a war criminal.”

Daenerys shook her head, but it was Varys who spoke, for the first time since Tywin was brought in, “Then should all criminals go free, Lady Sansa, since none of us are without sin? Should those who cause pain on such a grand scale not be brought to justice, even if some lesser criminals slip between the cracks?”

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Sansa responded without taking her eyes off the shorter woman a spear length away from her. The rocking of the boat made her woozy when standing, but she refused to go green in the face, to wobble on her feet. She pinned the petite woman with her eyes, dared her to try to make an excuse.

To her credit, she didn’t, “The answer is no, Lady Sansa. I’d not have punished my husband, but I would have tried to influence change through him and other khals.”

Sansa forced a smile to her lips, innocent and knowing, “And would that make you a lamb?”

Daenerys smiled back, allowed a snort to escape her nostrils, “I like you, lady. If the realm were ruled by women like you and I instead of the men we sold ourselves to, I dare to think it would be a much nicer place.”

“And I don’t waste my time in fantasies. Now enough female bonding. Why are we here?”

Daenerys looked briefly disappointed, and it stung Sansa in the place inside her that knew the woman was right – or at least not wrong. In an ideal world, wisdom and compassion would rule, not gold and swords. In an ideal world, no woman would have to love a man like Tywin Lannister or Daenerys’ warlord husband because there’d be no men like Tywin Lannister and that warlord husband. In an ideal world, Daenerys Targaryen and Sansa Stark would be allies. Would claim power and share it with women like them. Margaery Tyrell. Arya Stark. Shireen Baratheon. Brienne of Tarth. They’d claim all the power, and force men to cease their bloodthirsty ways, and punish all those who didn’t.

But it would never work because men (and some women) would always be bloodthirsty. It was in their nature, as it was in the nature of every animal in this world. Did wolves not kill their own packmates to assert their dominance – claim the status as alpha the way a man might claim the throne? Did lions and stags and elk and even birds not fight over their desired mate, sometimes to the death? Did cats not torment the moles and mice caught by their deadly claws? Did sharks not hunt majestic dolphins and whales? Did hawks not hunt adorable bunnies? Did roosters not mount unwilling hens? Was a spider not cruel in the way its prey spent hours or even days stuck in its tacky web before being feasted upon?

The world is cruel, life is cruel. I’d change it if I could, but I can’t. So I do what little I can. I feed the poor. I love my husband, so he might be a more compassionate man. I love my children, so they will grow up to be just when one of them takes the throne. I do what I can.

And I also seek justice against those who’ve wronged me and mine. I prayed for the deaths of Roose Bolton, Ramsay Bolton, Petyr Baelish. I prayed for those deaths to be painful, even. Yet have those men caused more suffering than Tywin? Perhaps Petyr Baelish, but still…

“Fine,” Daenerys drew in a breath and returned to her seat. The spearman lowered his weapon, though eyed Sansa scorchingly, as if she had any means to kill the dragon queen without being slaughtered by any of these men first.

Daenerys took a breath as she faced Tywin once more, “You will return with me and my men to the capital. You will abdicate the throne to me, then bend the knee on behalf of the West, and encourage any other kingdoms and houses represented at court to do the same. You will then stand trial for war crimes, including the murder of Elia Martell, Rhaenys Targaryen, and Aegon Targaryen.”

“I didn’t kill them,” Tywin growled.

Daenerys rolled her eyes, “Not with your own two hands but—”

“I. Didn’t. Kill them,” Tywin repeated emphatically.

Daenerys frowned and Ser Jaime pushed himself away from the wall, looking more invested than he’d been for most of the conversation.

“Already practicing your defense? You know I will summon Amory Lorch and Gregor Clegane.”

Tywin sneered at her, “I hope you do. I hope they answer. Though I doubt they will. Though often compared to mindless brutes, neither is.”

“So they knew what they were doing, then. You cannot claim they were crazed by some… bloodlust. You cannot claim they were acting like rabid dogs rather than dogs doing their masters bidding.”

“I make no such claim, only that I was not their master.”

“Horseshit,” Ser Jaime came forward, turning to stare down at his father, “They have always answered to you, and you alone.”

The look Tywin sent back to his son might have chilled Sansa, if it were not coming from the man she loved and trusted, “Do you think I would order them to kill Elia Martell, who’d have made a perfectly good hostage against Dorne?”

“I think you didn’t care about Dorne when it was you, the Stormlands, the North, the Trident, and the Vale all in league together.”

“In league together?” Tywin snorted, “I wasn’t in league with anyone, or do you forget that I was quite late to Robert’s party?”

“All the more reason for you to kill the children who might grow up to—”

“Indeed. The children. Not the woman with claim to nothing. Not the woman who was as wronged by a Targaryen as any of us.”

Ser Jaime snorted, “Ah, so wronged by them that she would not seek vengeance against the man who killed her children? Women tend to get protective of their little ones, don’t they? Is that why you had to eliminate Cersei, Father? Because she squawked too loudly after you killed her son?”

Tywin’s eyes went wide, “You think I killed your sister? You think I killed Joffrey?”

Jaime pivoted, his left hand swinging in Sansa’s direction, “It was either you or her!”

“Or herself after her little one died,” Tywin shouted up at his son.

“Highly doubtful,” Jaime growled, “but even if it was, I still blame you, because you killed him. You couldn’t stand him, could you? You hated him so much that you took his crown, took his bride, and then took his life!”

Tywin rose, standing eye to eye with the kingslayer, “If I hated him, it would’ve been well deserved! You wish to join this woman’s crusade against war criminals? Have you told her what your nephew did, what he was? Have you told her how he made Sansa watch while her father was decapitated – the father he promised to send to the Wall? How about how he had her beaten by his Kingsguard? How about the whores who didn’t survive a night with him? How about the commoners who starved while he gorged himself on wine and delicacies. Take your self-righteous act elsewhere, it won’t fool me!”

Jaime shook his head, “And you deny you killed him? That you had him murdered? If it wasn’t him then it was your wife. Who else had the motive and the means?”

Tywin sat back into his chair, “I won’t waste my breath with you. If Joffrey was murdered, I don’t know who the culprit was. But I know precisely who you can blame for killing Princess Elia and her brats. I also know you won’t like to hear it.”

Jaime pinched the bridge of his nose, “Fine. Lay it on me, Father. It ought to be entertaining, if nothing else.”

Tywin looked far to proud for the situation when he leered up at Jaime, “Your sweet sister.”

Sansa felt her eyes widen, and she wasn’t alone. All around the room except the spearman looked stunned. Sansa even turned to face Rayna and found the nurse looking back at her, a question in her brown eyes that Sansa couldn’t answer. Is that true?

“You’re lying,” Jaime spoke, though by the time it took for the words to come out, he wasn’t convinced.

“Am I?” Tywin cocked up a brow, “Did I have any motive to kill Elia Martell?”

“More than Cersei did!”

“Oh? So all her pining over the prince, all her dreams of being his wife, his someday queen… All her rage when the mad king rejected her as Rhaegar’s bride? All her jealousy in seeing Elia wearing the prince’s cloak?”

“Cersei wouldn’t have—”

Tywin scoffed loudly, “She would and she did. I arrived on the scene while their corpses were still warm, thinking to take custody of the princess and the children and present them to Robert Baratheon when he arrived. There were few Lannister men in the Holdfast at that time; most were still in the city, putting down any resistors, or taking the swords of the castle guards and city watchmen who remained. When I discovered what had been done, I knew it could only be Gregor Clegane’s handiwork. Turns out I was only half right. I questioned Clegane, who confessed readily enough when I offered him pardon. He told me he and Ser Amory were approached by Cersei back in Casterly Rock before our army marched out. At the time the prince lived. Cersei thought the war would end with me taking the Red Keep, executing Aerys, and making peace with Rhaegar. And of course she thought so, because it was true. I didn’t join the war to end House Targaryen, only the mad king,” Tywin’s cheeks darkened, and Sansa could feel how much he still hated the man who had tormented him and his first wife. “The prince and I had been in agreement before my resignation that Aerys’ reign needed to end. Then Elia gave the prince an heir and, as thanks, he fucked off with Lyanna Stark. An utterly foolish move, but still I had every intention of letting the war play out as it would. Either with the Targaryens and their allies winning – in which case Rhaegar would take the throne, or with the rebels winning – in which case by then it was known that Robert Baratheon would take the throne.”

“And either way, you’d be on the winning side…” Varys spoke placidly.

“Do you expect an apology for it?” Tywin’s eyes flicked to the bald man then back to his son, “Your sister paid off Lorch and Clegane with cunt and coin to kill the princess and her children so that the prince would have no wife and no heirs after he won his war and returned to claim his throne. She even strongly insinuated to them that I was aware of her plot but would never admit so since it would be akin to admitting murder and high treason. She made no demands as to how the children would die, but insisted the princess suffer, because the Dornishwoman had had the audacity to marry the man Cersei was in love with.”

Sansa wasn’t sure who Jaime’s anger, evident by his crimson-stained cheeks and neck, was directed at – his father or his sister, or perhaps Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch – she only knew it was real.

“She wasn’t—” Ser Jaime spoke in a broken voice.

“In love with the prince?” Tywin spoke with far too much satisfaction, “Of course not. She was in love only with herself.”

Sansa heard what Tywin was really saying: Cersei wasn’t in love with Jaime, either.

“I don’t believe you,” Jaime said through a clenched jaw, “Why would you let people say it was you if it wasn’t?”

Tywin shook his head, his face showing nothing but disappointment, “Because unlike you, unlike your sister, unlike your nephew, I protect my family. A man can get away with things a woman can’t in this world. Better the realm believe I killed Elia and her children out of pragmatism than that Cersei killed them out of spite. At the time I didn’t know whether you were alive. I didn’t know whether Robert Baratheon would think me his enemy for not calling my banners from the get-go, like his friends Jon Arryn and Ned Stark did. I didn’t know if I’d leave the city alive, nor you. Meaning my legacy might rest solely in the hands of your sister.”

“Ah, and better your murderess of a daughter than your dwarf of a son, right?” Jaime spoke with obvious disbelief and no small amount of mockery.

Something sparked inside Sansa… Something that might just tip the scales in favor of forgiveness. For she had watched Daenerys’ face as Tywin spoke. She saw that the woman believed him, not because Tywin was a trustworthy man, but because his story made too much sense, and perhaps because there’d be little benefit in weaving such a tale when Daenerys had other crimes to lay at his feet.

“He isn’t his son,” Sansa blurted out, staring at Jaime until he turned and stared back at her. In her periphery she saw Tywin shift in his seat. She knew this was a secret he wanted to take to his grave. She knew it might not even be true, but she didn’t care if she won Daenerys’ sympathy with lies. Tywin wasn’t the only one who would protect his family.

“What?” Jaime asked, dumbfounded.

“Tyrion was born nine months after the anniversary tourney in King’s Landing.”

“Sansa—” Tywin growled.

“Tyrion is a Lannister, but not of your father’s line.”

“What does she speak of?” Daenerys directed at her Westerosi guardsmen, then at Jaime’s back.

Sansa held the kingslayer’s eyes, “Tell her.”

“No…” Jaime shook his head.

“She deserves to know she isn’t—”

“Sansa!” Tywin roared, rising to stand and immediately finding the same spear pressed to his chest.

But she wouldn’t be deferring to him this time, because this wasn’t just about revealing another crime of the mad king’s, or betting that Daenerys Targaryen was capable of finding compassion even for her enemies. This was about telling the last dragon that she was not alone. If Daenerys knew Tyrion to be her only kin, that might change how she treated his goodmother, his half-sisters, and the man who raised him.

Sansa ignored Jaime’s stunned stare, Daenerys’ confused stare, her husband’s scornful stare. She took a step so she could meet Ser Barristan’s eyes around Jaime’s frame, “Will you speak the truth, Ser? Tell your queen how her father threatened Lady Joanna at every opportunity?”

The aged knight swallowed. Slowly his pale eyes moved from Sansa to Daenerys, his tongue coming out to wet his lips, “It is within the realm of possibility, your grace.”

“What is?” Daenerys demanded.

“It isn’t just a possibility, it is a fact,” Sansa insisted, then faced the self-appointed queen, “Your father raped the Lady Joanna Lannister—”

“Sansa!”

“My goodson Tyrion is your half-brother, Lady Daenerys.”

“Khaleesi,” the word slithered off Ser Jorah’s tongue as he stepped toward his charge, “Do not let them distract you with these tales they cannot prove. Your father’s sins are a moot point, as they do not absolve this man. And even if he didn’t order the deaths of your family he still protected the woman who did, and pardoned the men who did the foul deed. And those are far from the extent of his crimes.”

“And what of your crimes, Ser Jorah Mormont?” Tywin spoke heatedly. It would seem the frustration he couldn’t unleash on his wife was being directed at… Wait, Mormont?

“Do you think I have not paid for my sins?” the guard huffed back, “Being sent from my home and family? Living in exile in a foreign land?”

“Mm. Is that to be my fate then? Exile?”

“Do you think Ser Jorah’s sins are proportionate to your own?” Daenerys asked. “Selling a pair of criminals into slavery? As much as I despise that filthy business, at least there are some slaves who live comfortably enough. Can the same be said for the innocents who had to meet your idea of justice?”

“Fuck justice,” Tywin spat, “This isn’t about justice. Nor is it even about vengeance. It’s about you wanting the throne. So I will not waste any more of my breath. Get on with your demands. You wish me to abdicate, then kneel, then face trial. And what will I get for my cooperation and fealty, hm?”

Daenerys looked like she might argue, perhaps Tywin’s point about her wanting the throne, but instead she let out a long breath and said, “To go to your death knowing your wife and children live – and live unharmed.”

A stone sunk in Sansa’s belly to realize that through all this talking, nothing had changed.

Conversely, her husband didn’t even flinch at the allusion to his imminent execution, “You mean to send them North in exchange for House Stark’s fealty?”

Daenerys laughed lightly, “Nice try. Do I look like a fool, Lord Lannister? In each of your daughters is the blood of the lion, the wolf, and the trout.”

“You will make them hostages, then?”

“Are they not already? Did you marry Lady Sansa for love, or because her and the children she’d give you would keep at least two kingdoms in line?”

“You mean to keep them with you at court, then? A reminder to all have you have not one but three kingdoms by the short-hairs?”

“Again,” Daenerys’ eyes hardened in annoyance, “Do I look like a fool? I’m sure court is comprised of nothing but your lackeys. Your wife and daughters will be far away from King’s Landing. But they will be safe. They will be comfortable. They will live, unless you do something stupid. You or one of your men. Same goes for Houses Stark and Tully – I hope they won’t give me any reason to make an example out of poor little Jeyne or Jocelyn.”

Sansa’s heart began thudding as the situation suddenly became so real. Too real. She and her girls would be taken away from Tywin, and not to be sent to Winterfell or Riverrun… But to be sent to some faraway place. Did the dragon queen have allies in Dorne? The Summer Isles? If not, then it would be Essos, a land so foreign Sansa could only fathom it as some eternally hot place where men and women had dark skin and spoke in languages that weren’t the common tongue.

Where she would know no one and nothing.

Where she and her daughters would live as collateral against her family’s good behavior – her family by blood and family by law.

Not collateral against her husband’s good behavior, because her husband would be executed.

It hadn’t been so long ago that Sansa contemplated the death of her husband. Old age, winter fever, the grippe, wet lung. Something that might happen ten years from now, or twenty.

She heard one of her daughters fussing, and looked down to find that Jeyne had stirred. Rayna took Jeyne out of the makeshift crib, turning to face the corner and trying to get the babe to nurse.

But it wasn’t hunger that had Sansa’s girl crying.

She wanted to take Jeyne from her nurse’s arms, to comfort herself as much as her daughter, but couldn’t bring herself to move. She only stared down at her other daughter, still asleep, but probably not for long.

“And if I don’t?” Tywin asked the only question that mattered to husband or wife, she knew, because it was the only aspect that Tywin could influence. His obedience would guarantee Sansa and their daughters lived safely even if in exile.

But what would be the levy for his disobedience?

Daenerys nodded slowly, making a soft clicking noise with her tongue, “I believe you know the answer by the fact that I’ve made this a family affair.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed, “I believe you want me to believe that you’ll kill my wife and daughters if I don’t comply. But I know a soft heart when I see one. You’re trying to bluff your way to a throne that your kind lost its right to sit long before your father’s throat was opened up by my son…”

It was the first time Sansa thought to wonder about the improbability of the Kingslayer coming into the service of the daughter of the king he’d slayed. Her eyes widened and moved to Ser Jaime, but the knight showed no fear. A look back at the dragon queen showed no anger.

At least, none for Ser Jaime…

With red cheeks and doll-hard eyes, she lifted her lip, baring pearly white teeth as if to remind that lions weren’t the only creature with fangs, “Then you refuse my very fair offer – the lives of your wife and daughters in exchange for your crown?”

“The only life on the line here is mine,” Tywin sneered back, “but that’s not quite accurate, is it? That would imply that I could walk out of this alive. But I can’t, can I? You’ve already condemned me. You want to punish me for my sins? You want to take my crown?” he lifted his arms out to his sides, palms up, “Have at it. But don’t expect me to make it easy for you. I’ve been playing this game since before you were born, girl.”

A smirk of feigned amusement played on the young woman’s face, then she was shouting some words in a language Sansa didn’t know.

The door swung open and a pair of dark-skinned men stepped in, eyes going to Daenerys who babbled some more in that foreign tongue.

It all happened so quickly that Sansa could only process the fact that she was screaming, that Rayna was cursing, that the girls were crying, that Tywin was shouting. She knew that she stood and moved to stand between the men and the makeshift crib, and Rayna and Jeyne behind her, but it was futile as she was outnumbered by armed men who had strength and abilities honed over decades of fighting. Her feeble attempt to swat and shove were absorbed or avoided and then her hair was yanked until she was walking behind the man attached to the hand she kept one of hers around, the other holding as much of her hair as she could to lessen the million stings she felt as her hair was nearly ripped out by the roots.

Down a corridor, then she was tossed over a shoulder and hefted up the ladder she’d descended some hours earlier.

There was no delay. No last chance to give them what they wanted. One moment there was only the sight of wooden decking beneath her dangling head and a toned arse she punched ineffectively, then she was flying…

No, falling.

And screaming.

Then having the wind knocked out of her not from the force of hitting the water, but from the cold sting of it all over her body including the inside of her ear canals.

She sputtered up to the surface and gasped for air as a gentle wave lifted her, but not enough that part of it didn’t smack into her face, filling her nose and throat unexpectedly. She coughed and kicked her legs and paddled her arms and yet she felt as if some force was pulling her down. My skirts she realized. My dress. She had swum as a child in Winterfell’s hot spring-fed pools, but only in under-clothes.

She couldn’t recall the warmth of those memories, nor any other. She only knew cold so fierce her entire body shivered, expending precious energy that she needed to keep herself afloat until…

Until what?

Was Tywin up there, negotiating that his wife be saved? Or was this not an exhibit of the queen’s willingness to commit violent acts but… but punishment for Tywin’s failure to agree to her terms instantly and whole-heartedly?

Another wave smacked her face, but she at least was prepared to not let it infiltrate her nose and mouth. But the downward pull was getting stronger, or her muscles weaker. Perhaps both.

And she realized this was the end. And she’d been prepared for it earlier, hadn’t she? She’d gone with Ser Barristan and Ser Jorah knowing it may be to her death and accepting it as a fair deal if it bought her daughters’ safety. Yet no peace came to her to know Tywin would save the girls, even if by giving the dragon queen his crown and his life. No peace came to her to know her mother, sister, and brother were safe at Winterfell. That Jeyne and Jocelyn would live. That Tyrion would likely live – Ser Jaime had always been fond of him, per Tywin. That Sansa had escaped the Stranger’s grasp too many times and thus this was long overdue and more than a little bit fair.

Valar morghulis, a voice called to her, and wasn’t that what Father’s voice sounded like? Or was it Robb’s? Uncle Brynden’s? No, it was Jon Snow’s. Or was it?

The next wave went over her head, and she didn’t think she had the strength to make it to the surface, not when she realized it was warmer underwater, and if she could just rest there for a few moments…

NO! Arya’s hand lashed her face, and Sansa kicked and kicked, until she was met by the gentler slap of the winter air. Just survive! Her sister’s eyes glimmered like Valyrian steel, gray and blue and silver and black, and their gaze sliced right through Sansa as she kept paddling, kept kicking. It occurred to her to rip off her underskirts, or ideally her dress, but she couldn’t keep her head above the water line unless all four of her limbs were working without pause. The surge of strength and conviction gifted her by her sister’s visage was already fading, and she realized she was too tired to care. Pride was keeping her from giving up, nothing more, but what was pride? It would be easier just to let herself sink down to the depths… There would be no more cold, no more pain, no more—

Something smacked the water to her right, sending small drops of water against her face. She turned and found a log of some sort floating several yards away, with a rope tied around the middle of its length that extended up toward the ship’s deck.

She swam, slower than if she was doing so through mud, and grabbed for the buoyant wood. She draped her arms over the log, which sunk only slightly under her weight. Immediately she felt the tired feeling return. Now she could drift to sleep… She wouldn’t drown…

But then she was being dragged through the water, and she had to wake up to focus on holding on tight as her wet clothes seemed to be pulling her away from the piece of floating wood that was saving her life.

Within seconds she was staring up close at the side of the ship, and she heard shouts from above, but she couldn’t make out their instruction. On instinct alone she looped one leg over the log, then the other, knowing her arms wouldn’t be strong enough to hold on as she was hoisted up. Not even certain she would be hoisted up, and not that this was some cruel trick to give her a few more moments of hope.

But then, with a sudden jerk, all of her body but her feet was out of the water. She hugged the rope like a too skinny lover, yet love it she did.

Up and up she went, one jerky foot at a time, until she was staring at the faces of the people she’d just been in a cabin with while the two men who had thrown her into the water were pulling the rope through a pulley and around some metal thing built into the floorboard. Tywin looked like she’d never seen him look before, an odd combination of nausea and fear and disbelief and relief. Daenerys looked neither proud nor sorry. Ser Jorah’s face was blank, though his eyes stayed on Tywin, who was being kept at the points of two spears.

Ser Jaime and Ser Barristan were there a heartbeat later, pulling the entire bundle of woman and log over the railing and then pulling her away from the rope she was afraid to let go of, that her frozen fingers refused to ungrasp.

She heard Rayna gasp in a sob of tenuous relief, then her daughters’ nurse was at her side, frantically tugging at the laces of Sansa’s outer dress.

Sansa knew there were things of import to be learned, but all she could do was listen to her teeth chattering as Rayna assured her it would be alright – a sweet lie.

Then she heard Daenerys’ voice, and it pierced through her exhausted state to re-light the fire that the frigid water had effectively doused. “Shiko, Addro. The next time Lord Lannister questions my conviction, or refuses one of my commands, throw one of his daughters in the water. I doubt they’ll last as long as the she-wolf.”

Valar morghulis, Daenerys Targaryen.

But for now, just survive.

She had felt not quite awake as Rayna stripped off the rest of her clothes in a cabin that the women had all to themselves. It hadn’t sounded like her voice asking Rayna where the girls were. With the dark-skinned girl again, was Rayna’s answer.

Now she felt not quite alive as Rayna wrapped her in a blanket and sat her in front of the cast iron pot-bellied stove that was filled with burning coals. The loyal nurse finger-combed Sansa’s long tresses when she wasn’t rubbing her arms or back rapidly.

Sansa closed her eyes but through sheer willpower did not let herself fall asleep.

Or at least not entirely. She felt the unmistakable sensation of emerging from twilight some minutes later. Her body warmer even if still too cold. Her shivers still there even if not so violent. Rayna’s hands still stroking her hair, then taking another detour to her arms.

“Thank you, Ray,” she forced herself to say, albeit numbly. She understood this ordeal must be terrifying for Rayna, as well, who had a husband and five-year-old daughter in King’s Landing. But surely she’d be returned to them, wouldn’t she? The entire city would soon be under Daenerys’ control, assuming the courtiers honored Tywin’s abdication. Rayna would be no more of a threat than any other.

Rayna’s deft hands stilled for a moment, then resumed, “Tis my pleasure, your grace.”

There was nothing else to be said. Sansa could offer an apology that Rayna got tangled up in this, but what would it matter? It wasn’t Sansa’s doing, but nor was she entirely innocent. I love a hated man. I love a sinner. And my love has endangered not just myself and my daughters but everyone in my service. And yet still I cannot abandon it, nor even pretend it isn’t there. I’ve forgotten how to wear this mask, how to push all the pain down deep, to bury it under layers of self-deception.

She swallowed, “I think… I think I’d like to get dressed now. In case…” Sansa trailed off and found none of the reasons she could offer would not bring tears to her eyes.

In case I am given the chance to say goodbye to my husband…

In case I am going to die, after all…

In case some horror I cannot even imagine is about to befall us…

No, she tried to joke with herself, in any of those events, she didn’t want to be naked but for a wool blanket.

The jape fell flat.

If love is a red dress, then hang me in rags.

She snorted, which hurt her sore throat, as she recalled those clever lyrics to the song she’d heard a female minstrel sing at Margaery’s nameday soiree only a few weeks back. It was clearly written from the perspective of a woman scorned.

You were my angel
Now you are real
So like a stranger
Colder than steel

The women had been thrilled by the wicked subject matter, particularly the fairly progressive Tyrells and Hightowers. Songs told stories about love or war, about heroic deeds or heroic men. They didn’t tell stories of heartbreak. Certainly not heartbreak caused not by a lover’s tragic death, but by a man’s promiscuous nature.

If we played even

I'd be your queen

But someone was cheatin'

And it wasn't me

Margaery had asked Sansa in a too-loud whisper if she thought the song was about Cersei Lannister and her famously philandering husband. It had made Sansa laugh in relief because she’d been sweating through her dress, worrying that the song might be about her… that someone in King’s Landing might know or suspect that Tywin was being disloyal.

She realized eventually that many women highborn and low could relate to the song, and as she looked around she saw more than a few ladies who seemed to be wondering what she’d just been wondering.

And now she wanted to laugh for an entirely different reason.

Because she’d give her soul to the Stranger right now to spare her husband, or perhaps to spare herself the pain of living in a world without him. She’d make the same bargain to ensure her daughters would live and live well. If her biggest problem right now was Tywin sticking his prick where it didn’t belong, she be as happy as a lark.

But it wasn’t.

These ties that bind us
Can't beat these chains

The irony of it… her husband loved her and their daughters so much that said love was a weapon wielded against him by a clever enemy.

A woman.

Perhaps on the advice of a heartless brute.

His son.

She had feared her love of Tywin would be the block kicked out from under her feet, after his crimes wound a noose round her neck.

Now she knew it was his love that would hang him. His love that had already lassoed and trapped him, because he arrived on the ship without looking the least bit mussed. He hadn’t fought and been subdued. Some number of Daenerys’ men hadn’t outdueled Tywin and some number of his guards. No, he came here as easily as Lady used to walk by Sansa’s side. And he did it because of love.

And he was doing it again now. Right now. He had called Daenerys’ bluff only to find it wasn’t a bluff. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

She knew the conversation taking place in that other cabin meant the end of her life as she knew it, the end of her husband’s life entirely. She could imagine the dragon queen throwing threats at Tywin, threats that were, unfortunately, facts… Like that this ship was far enough out into the bay that if Tywin betrayed Daenerys upon returning to the capital, any ships he sent after this one would be hours delayed and thus not know which direction to take. Or perhaps the dragon queen was telling him about the three dragons, though some reports said it was now only one, that were supposedly under her command. Sansa supposed it could be up above them right now, circling the ship as soundlessly as a hawk or eagle, its presence never being known until it swoops down to snatch up its prey.

She supposed it didn’t matter. She didn’t bother trying to think of a way out of this, because she knew there wasn’t one. At least, not one Tywin would try, because he would not bet Sansa’s life, nor Jeyne’s, nor Jocelyn’s. Not again.

Rayna helped ease Sansa’s shaking limbs through the appropriate holes in the smallclothes, stockings, underdress, skirts, vest, and coat that had been delivered to the room by one of the spearmen. It was a more difficult proposition than it should have been, but ultimately success. She sat once again in front of the stove, but not for long.

The door opened and she was upright but not daring to take a step.

Tywin’s eyes flicked to Rayna, who out of habit made a curtsy before dashing out.

Ser Jaime and a spearman stayed in the doorway as Tywin took one, then two steps into the room.

She understood Tywin’s presence meant an agreement had been struck, and this was goodbye.

She had to turn her head. If she met his eyes this numbness would leave her, and the numbness was all that was keeping her sane right now. She needed the numbness, because if she wasn’t numb she’d feel the way she felt after Father died – crippled with despair, so sad she’d want to die. And she couldn’t succumb to that darkness. Her daughters would need her to be strong going forward. And her husband needed her to be strong now. She suspected her tears would break him, and Tywin Lannister didn’t deserve to go to his… his… to go to whatever his fate looking anything but the proud, steel-spined Lion of Lannister.

He came close enough that she could smell his distinct smell. The one she had found comfort in since her days in Harrenhal, even as she still feared the man who existed beneath that sweat and piney-scented soap.

Will this be the last time I smell it?

“Listen to me, Sansa,” her husband’s voice spoke.

Will this be the last time I hear it?

“Listen,” his hand was on the back of her head, his forehead pressed to her forehead. She squeezed her eyes shut – the only defense she had.

“Just live, my lady. Keep our daughters safe. Raise them well. That is all. You don’t owe me any more than that. You don’t owe anyone more than that. Do you hear me?”

She didn’t nod because she couldn’t nod, because nodding would be to agree to live while he… didn’t.

Meaning her girls would grow up without their father.

Meaning she’d be lonely for the rest of her life.

A sob tried to work its way up from her tummy but died somewhere in her windpipe.

“Forget about me,” he continued, “Forget about the throne. Just do as they say, whoever she charges with your… protection.”

A tear escaped; she knew only by the coolness she felt in its wake.

“She isn’t lying when she says you will all be safe if I… if I do as she asks. She doesn’t want to kill innocents. But those who do her bidding might, and they will if you but give them reason. So don’t. Just live. Forget me. Forget Winterfell. Forget anyone and anything you might miss. You live for them now, Sansa, and no one else. All the tools at your disposal, however limited they may be, use them for yourself and for our girls – no one else? Do you understand?”

“Enough,” a thick voice called out, “It’s time to go.”

She felt her husband’s lips come to her forehead and at the same moment his hands squeezed her waist, and she knew he didn’t want to let go but he did. Too soon. But it would always be too soon unless it was an eternity.

Then he turned so abruptly that she almost fell over even though he hadn’t been supporting her. At least not physically.

And then he was through the door, and the spearman was goading him to the left, and her lion never turned around to look at her again. And she knew it was a mercy, because the tears could no longer be contained, nor the sobs. And Jaime Lannister was staring at her. And she wanted to kill him like she’d never wanted to kill anyone in her life. If Joffrey and Cersei and Petyr Baelish and Roose Bolton came back from the dead and stood on one side of the room, and Jaime Lannister stood on the other side, it would be him she’d lunge at with the last breath in her body, him she would take with her down to the seven hells.

If not for the girls she would kill him or die trying. Either would be better than doing nothing. Either would offer some relief, possibly some salvation.

But a chained wolf can do no more than growl.

“I hate you,” she whispered, with more conviction than any words she’d ever spoken. If asked in that moment, she would swear she hated him more than she loved any single person in her life – mother, sister, daughter, husband…

Ser Jaime winced, then tried to disguise it as a smile, “I don’t blame you, though if you stopped to think about it, there’d be only one lion worthy of your scorn. The one you’re crying over now.”

She barely heard his words, because her next ones were already lined up on her tongue, “Oathbreaker. Kingslayer. Sister-fucker. Child-killer. So eager to add kinslayer to the list?”

His smile widened, but she saw it for the deflection it was. It was suddenly so transparent that Jaime Lannister’s smiles were nothing more than smokescreens. Diversions. She wondered if he’d ever felt true happiness, even if fleetingly.

Is that how he could live with causing such sorrow, because his soul was as black as Cersei’s had been? His well of compassion empty since the day he was born?

His eyes left hers then came back, “You know, when my brother Tyrion was little younger than you, he met a girl. Fell in love with her, and she him. You see, he and I had been out riding when we heard a scream. I chased off the would-be rapers as he comforted the would-be victim. Sounds like one of those love stories they tell little girls, doesn’t it? And it could have been. ‘The highborn lordling who took a common girl as wife.’ And ‘the pretty girl who took a dwarf for her husband, because though short in stature he was bigger than any man she’d ever met’. Even them marrying before naught but farm animals for witnesses and living in a little cottage by the sea that the dwarf rented with the few coins he’d had in his saddlebag that day. A nice story, isn’t it? Until the dwarf’s father found out. He ordered his other son to lie to the dwarf – to claim the pretty girl he married was a whore who’d pulled the wool over his eyes, taken advantage of his desperation to be loved – while his men dragged the girl out of the cottage. Can you guess what happened next?”

Sansa knew she should listen to none of this but found herself waiting with bated breath for the conclusion. Regardless, she gave him none of her curiosity.

Ser Jaime needed none, apparently, “The couple were brought all the way to the father’s castle. Later that night, they were brought to a guards’ barracks. While her husband watched, every man there took his turn with the bride, all while she cried. Each man finished and left behind a silver coin. And, last but not least, the dwarf was made to take a turn, only difference being he cried as he took her, and left behind gold in place of silver.”

“You’re lying,” she whispered when it became clear Ser Jaime was done.

He shook his head, “I swear on my sister’s soul. On my own cock. On Tommen’s life. On whatever it is you think I hold most dear.”

“He wouldn’t—”

“He would,” Jaime stated with finality, “because he is a monster. It took me nearly four decades to realize it, but I suspect you’re a much faster learner. Hate me if you will, Lady Sansa, but I don’t hate you. Hence I gave you this gift of truth, because the sooner you realize who he is, the sooner you can stop crying over him. Believe me, he isn’t worth it.”

“You expect your words to make me stop loving him?” she spoke bitterly toward the ceiling, trying to stem the tears, hating herself now just as much as she hated this arrogant knight, “I cannot help loving him. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

When she looked back toward Jaime, the cocksure smile was gone.

And with not another word, so was the man.

Notes:

Song credit: Maria McKee, If Love is a Red Dress

Yeeeaaaahhhh... So that happened...

Shout out to impudentguttersnipe... Now you know my alt theory re: death of Princess Elia and her children. In regards what I've written, I do consider this a plausible theory, though TBH I do believe that the version that is considered canon, that Tywin had Gregor and Amory kill the princess and her children is true. But I LOVE playing with alternate theories. (There will be another one in a couple chapters.) I'm not trying to whitewash Tywin. There is enough of his heinous acts in undisputed canon - drowning the Reynes, torching the Riverlands - that he is not a character anyone can successfully argue is pure of heart or particularly compassionate. But that doesn't mean ALL the evil acts laid at his feet were his doing, or entirely his doing.

Chapter 39: Don't stop

Notes:

Monster dong of a chapter. 13K+ words. You've been warned.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Jaime

I cannot help loving him. Believe me, I’ve tried.

It shouldn’t be what kept him up at night, given all he’d seen in the past months, given all he’d seen throughout his entire life, but it was.

Those words, and the look on Sansa Stark’s face when she said them... Pain. Anguish. The kind of sorrow that squeezes your lungs such that you can’t ever take a deep enough breath. The kind of sorrow that squeezes your guts such that you never feel hungry, and only eat because you know you must, or because others are looking at you, and you don’t want them to know just how horrible you feel, how broken you are, because broken things are weak, and weak things are prey.

If Sansa Stark’s face was a window into her despair, Tywin Lannister’s was a wall. He looked at no one, spoke to no one, as they returned to the beach. As they made their way into the castle, Tywin might as well have been made of the same stone. He was hard and unemotional as he set about giving the right commands to the right people so that Daenerys and her loyal men wouldn’t be harmed and so their paltry fleet would be able to dock, their slightly less paltry army allowed to debark and enter the castle under the black and red flags of Dany’s house, to the shock and curiosity of all they passed. Selmy and Jaime had been sent out to lead them in, though Tywin had stridently ordered that no one so much as spit at any of the Unsullied, under penalty of imprisonment in the Black Cells or death depending on the severity of the offense. Suffice to say, it was confusing for all involved, but they’d get their answer soon enough.

The flags had come from Varys the spymaster, though Jaime didn’t know where the eunuch had obtained them, nor how he’d kept them hidden for what might have been days or decades. Much of Varys’ ways were a mystery to Jaime, and he didn’t like having to put his life in the hands of one such as him. Give him Robb Stark’s war camp – the mud, the piss, the taunts, the jeers – Jaime could handle enemies. He could handle friends. He couldn’t handle someone whose allegiance was unknown.

Though apparently only to Jaime. Daenerys trusted the Spider, who somehow knew of their departure from Meereen and destination of King’s Landing. One of Varys’ agents had been waiting to intercept them at Lys, where they stopped to refill their food and fresh water but didn’t dare disembark from their vessels other than Ser Jorah and a few guardsmen, who were tasked with ordering the provisions and listening for gossip. It was never their intent to idle long in Lys – or anywhere – so as to hopefully arrive at King’s Landing by surprise.

Daenerys hadn’t known to expect the spymaster’s agent, but nor did she seem surprised. Jaime was brought into the truth of the matter that had never been entrusted to anyone but Ser Jorah – that Varys had been committed to House Targaryen for all his life and had been committed to Daenerys, in particular, since the hatching of her dragons proved her to be worthy of the conqueror’s crown (though said crown was not among his dragon-themed possessions). More significantly, it proved her to be the promised one, whatever the hell that meant. Jaime didn’t care for talk of prophecies and fate, only the practical matter at hand.

And in that, he could find no fault in the spider’s efficacy. Safe passage through the Stepstones was promised and delivered, and soon after it was Varys himself who met Jaime, Ser Barristan, Ser Jorah, and Grey Worm on the beach, precisely where the agent had told them to land their rowboats.

In hindsight, it had all felt more than a little surreal. Perhaps that was as all highly anticipated events felt. The mind creates images and expectations, and reality can never quite match them, thus reality is made to feel like the dream. Being on that small ship, seeing the mad king’s daughter face off with the mad king’s nemesis, all felt somehow… unreal. Anticlimactic. There weren’t kings and queens in that cabin, only men and women, soldiers and servants, adults and babes, winners and losers… They weren’t fighting over the throne that gave one person ultimate power in Westeros, they were fighting over some pretty toy, like spoiled children. Perhaps because Jaime didn’t care about the throne, except to the extent that he cared for Daenerys and she cared about it. All he cared about was not letting a monster get away with his villainy. The Kingslayer had ended the life of the last powerful man with a penchant for bloodsport against innocents, he wouldn’t let the fact that this powerful man shared his blood stop him. Because what had Tywin ever done for him? For what should he be indebted to the man? His life? Men enjoy fucking and lords need heirs; bringing Jaime into the world was done for Tywin’s legacy, nothing more. For wanting for nothing throughout his childhood? Again, the same could be said for any nobly-born child, and a fair number of commons. Had Tywin gone without so his son would eat well and wear fine clothes? No, because he had more money than he could spend in fifty lifetimes.

No, Jaime owed his father nothing, and yet still he’d committed to keeping his promise to the man that no harm would come to his wife and children if he came with Jaime to the ship. Daenerys had already warned him that she might need to demonstrate her willingness to kill, and that he must trust that she would not. More pertinently, he had to trust her certainty that Tywin would yield before she had to.

About that, she was right.

Jaime was ten heartbeats from diving into the water, praying that Daenerys would give her men the command to go fishing for wolf-trout before he’d need to, knowing that if he did, he would explain his action as honoring a promise given in exchange for Tywin’s cooperation – nothing more.

He was down to three heartbeats when he heard, “ALRIGHT!” roared by the old lion, and Jaime realized that for the minute or ten that Sansa was in the water, he hadn’t moved and may not have breathed.

But it was done…

And a few hours later he found himself in Maegor’s Holdfast, where he used to stand guard outside Cersei’s apartments and, on occasion, be invited in to give his sister counsel (his cock).

The Red Keep had been Jaime’s home for decades – longer than Casterly Rock had been. He may have never loved the city or the people in it, but as long as his sister was there, it was home. Once she was gone, he’d wanted no part of the place – fleeing as quickly as he possibly could. He’d thought spending two years away would change things; that Cersei’s ghost would not be lurking in every corner when he returned, dogging his steps and haunting his thoughts.

He'd been half right. Haunted he was, but not by the specter of the golden queen.

His father, by contrast, did not look haunted; he looked like the ghost. Dead-eyed. Unfeeling. Uncaring. Tywin didn’t bother hiding that he was broken, which meant he was broken all the way through. Over being parted from his wife and daughters. A wife he’d known for little over two years, daughters he’d had for something like a year and a half. That was what finally broke the Great Lion of Casterly Rock! Not the death of Joanna, who the whole realm knew held his heart. Who was his family, his cousin, before she was his bride. No, Joanna’s death merely wounded him. And the deaths of his daughter and grandson barely did that. Cersei died and mere days later Tywin looked as implacable as always. Being separated by a body of water from his baby daughters broke him when being separated by a world from a daughter he’d raised, a daughter he’d known for nearly four decades, didn’t even dent.

Or did he not even care about the daughters? Was it being separated from Sansa Stark – his child bride, his once enemy – that had broken him when being separated from Joanna Lannister didn’t?

Jaime thought he knew the answer. Care for his daughters the great lion might. Be willing to kill for them and die for them the great lion might. But it was Sansa who Tywin’s eyes had inspected when he walked into that cabin. It was Sansa he insisted he be permitted to say goodbye to. It was Sansa he delivered his selfless words to, while Jaime listened and wanted to be sick. How very convenient for the man behind so many massacres to suddenly develop an altruistic streak upon meeting a girl with the honor of a Tully and the conscience of a Stark.

Perhaps that was at the root of all Jaime’s newfound disdain for his sire. Tywin Lannister had always been unapologetic about himself. He was no villain masquerading as a hero, no deviant hiding his perversions behind locked doors. If he hated a person, they damned well knew it – he didn’t hind behind masks of courtesy and feigned compassion. He did heinous things but claimed to do them to protect the family. And for years, Jaime drank that poison, tiny sips over the course of a lifetime, so gradual he never realized how sick he had become. For years, Jaime was even proud to be the son of the fearsome lion who had no qualms about getting his hands bloody. For years, Jaime wanted nothing but his father’s approval, even if he'd never earn it for the thing that mattered most to Tywin.

And all at once the veil was lifted from Jaime’s eyes even as Tywin lowered one over his own face. Tywin took Sansa Stark, the sweet little thing that not so long ago looked at Joffrey with moon eyes. Tywin claimed her like a prize and rather than calling it what it was he slapped a coat of lacquer over it. Made it look pure and clean. Made it sound like a fairy story. Made himself seem like someone worthy of a maiden’s love. The fearsome lion of Lannister was trying to turn over a new leaf without ever atoning, without ever repenting or paying reparations. All seven kingdoms seemed to grant him absolution overnight! All hail Tywin Lannister, infamous criminal whose crimes never catch up with him, whose name is never truly besmirched! Even those who hated Tywin seemed to venerate him. But where was Jaime’s veneration for killing the mad king? They all sneered and mocked the kingslayer, while knowing that at least there was justice in Jaime’s crimes. What was just about the great lion’s many sins? What was just about bringing a trebuchet to what is meant to be a fistfight?

And why did it seem that no one saw it but Jaime? Even Tyrion, before Jaime left the capital, had refused to slander their father. For the first time ever, Tyrion didn’t act like an orphan at a banquet when the topic of Tywin Lannister’s flaws was brought up. No, Tyrion shook his head and told Jaime that he didn’t understand! That the realm was better off with Tywin in charge. That Sansa Stark would make a better queen than Cersei. That Joffrey was the monster in their family, not Tywin.

Imagine the gall of a man who’d watched an entire barracks’ worth of men rape his wife try to paint Joffrey as some menace for… Well, Jaime didn’t like to ponder what Tyrion and later Tywin meant when they said Joffrey’s whores didn’t survive a night with him. He knew it had to be hyperbole – even a king couldn’t get away with murdering innocent women, unless it was wrapped up in the dressings of a trial. Even Aerys’ bedmates survived the night, worse for wear but still breathing. Was Jaime truly supposed to believe that Joffrey, who had Cersei and later Tyrion there to keep him in line, was murdering whores?! No. It had all been a plan – a rare case of collaboration between father and dwarf-son – to ensure Jaime kept drinking the poison that Tyrion had clearly acquired a taste for. They couldn’t risk Jaime looking under beds and around corners, finding out the truth.

Jaime didn’t blame Tyrion. He’d be a hypocrite for faulting Tyrion for holding Tywin in some high regard when for nearly forty years Jaime idolized the man. Just like he didn’t blame Sansa for falling under Tywin’s spell when an entire continent did, apparently. Men of the Trident and North, men who’d lost their children to Tywin’s game of war (an unfair one, at that) kneeled to the man, acknowledged him as the best king the realm could hope for.

Fuck that.  

He hated his father, and yet he only pitied Sansa. The poor thing was cursed to be in love with Tywin Lannister; such a man could bring no one happiness, only tragedy.

Jaime rolled to his left side, hoping he’d settle into a position in which sleep claimed him, yet knowing it wouldn’t. He kept seeing Sansa’s face, kept pondering how such a girl could love such a man, when there were so many others more worthy. So many men would easily love her, would die for her, as evidenced by that day…

The full assembly was invited to the throne room for a proclamation from the king. A full assembly of lickspittles, as courtiers would always be (even Daenerys’ radical notions would never change that), and Jaime’s brother, who was too shocked to offer a single word. He only stared at Jaime, as if he couldn’t believe his brother was there, in the flesh. Or perhaps he couldn’t believe that Tywin Lannister’s day of reckoning had come. Tyrion used to say that their father ought to adopt the personal sigil of the sea eel for as slippery as he was (not to mention how he preferred darkness to light, and for the fact that he made honey badgers, hornets, and vipers look gentle by comparison).

Let’s see you slip out of this one, Jaime had thought, ignoring his brother as he watched a numb-looking Tywin Lannister abdicate his throne. The only explanation offered was the throne being a Targaryen creation and a Targaryen right. In absence of a legitimate male Targaryen, the only claimant was Daenerys Targaryen.

Needless to say, everyone was shocked. For long moments no one spoke, perhaps expecting it all to be a jape even from a man known for never japing.

It was the Blackfish who caught on before anyone, the Queensguard stepping forward and demanding to know where his grandniece was. It was not Tywin but Daenerys who answered, as she moved a third of the way up the stairs to the throne, projecting her voice. She told her story. How Robert Baratheon and his allies were usurpers, not heroes of righteous conquest, because they meant to destroy all of House Targaryen, not just the two bad actors.

“Blood was the price the usurper paid for the right to sit this throne, and for what? Do you know that by the end of his reign the Crown was seven million gold dragons in debt? Lannister men entered the gates through trickery; looting, raping, and killing the good people of this city for no purpose but to sate their own bloodlust. Other Lannister men heinously butchered my niece and nephew who were but babes, and their mother whose only crime was trying to protect her children. Then Robert Baratheon sent his brother to Dragonstone to kill my mother, my brother, and myself – a newborn babe. Could any of you do that?” Daenerys had held out her hands as if she was holding an invisible ball between them, her voice and eyes earnest and imploring, “could any of you have taken an infant like my nephew Aegon and… and bashed his head against the stone wall?” Jaime saw many in the audience wince or avert their eyes, “The men who did that, along with the men who sacked this city never faced justice, because they were acting on behalf of House Lannister, for the cause of Robert Baratheon’s ascension. That is the foundation of this man’s reign,” she thrust a hand in Tywin’s direction, yet Jaime’s father didn’t so much as blink. There was no flush of shame on his cheeks, no eyes darting nervously or narrowing hatefully. He just watched, and listened, and having already accepted his fate.

Daenerys took a deep breath then, “I digress. I apologize that this topic is emotionally stirring for me, though I trust you understand why. But I told you this so you would understand the blood that has been spilt just so this throne could be ripped away from the family that forged it to unite the kingdoms. And yet I refuse to continue that trend. I refuse. This throne is mine by right, but I will not see innocent lives destroyed so that I may reign. Nor should I have to, when there is no other in this realm with a better claim on this throne than me. Would that my nephew lived, I’d be standing in this room still, but at the bottom of the stairs, smiling to see him ascend. But alas it is only me, so I proudly claim what is both my due and my duty. I intend to serve Westeros well. To bring prosperity to all. To bring basic rights to all. I ask for you to give me that chance and to appreciate the fact that I have spilt no blood in this city, nor will I unless you force my hand. This man asked about his grandniece,” she gestured to Brynden Tully, “I assume you are Ser Brynden? Your reputation for bravery and loyalty precedes you, Ser. You will be pleased to know that your grandniece, Lady Sansa Lannister nee Stark is safe and being well cared for, as are her daughters, the ladies Jeyne and Jocelyn Lannister.”

At that there were gasps and murmurs, and Jaime wasn’t sure whether the crowd understood that Sansa and her daughters were hostages or if they thought they were traitors to the (former) king.

Daenerys continued addressing her audience while the Blackfish only gaped at her like the creature of his sigil, “I should have to pay no price to claim what is mine by all rights, but I think everyone here is smart enough to know that if I had walked in here and politely asked Lord Lannister to kindly hand over my crown, I’d not have left here alive – and all the good I plan to bring to this realm would never be realized.”

“Where are they?!” Brynden Tully snapped, as he and the rest of the former Queensguard advanced toward where Jaime, Ser Barristan, and five Unsullied soldiers guarded the stairs that led to the new queen.

“Ser Brynden, they are safe, but their location will not be revealed to you – nor anyone – until I can be assured of your fealty to me.”

That hadn’t gone over well. The Blackfish demanded proof, demanded to be allowed to see his kin. Ser Barristan swore the queen’s words were true. The Blackfish spat on the ground in front of Barristan’s boots. Jaime’s sword was drawn and five spears were pointed at the increasingly incensed knights across from them. Until Tywin himself roared for silence. He hurriedly explained that Sansa and the girls were on a boat. That he had seen them with his own eyes and could attest that they were well and unharmed as of that early morn. That to pursue them would only put their safety at risk. He commanded that whatever loyalty all present used to owe to him and his wife be transferred to Daenerys Targaryen, Lady Protector of the Realm. He gave a speech Jaime knew he didn’t mean that echoed all of Daenerys’ points about the throne being her due. He commended her for claiming her due as peacefully as possible, given all the animosity she must feel toward not just Houses Baratheon and Lannister but also Houses Stark, Tully, Arryn, and many vassal houses of each.

The nobles that filled the room were no doubt perturbed but nodded along, some even shouting out, “All hail Daenerys Targaryen” or “Long live the queen” … And Jaime thought it was over. He watched the Blackfish turn to his fellow guards in white and nod.

Another moment later and it proved to be a feint. The men were well drilled, and Jaime knew the Blackfish was to thank. The charge came all at once, seven on seven, though it was all done so that one slippery fish could squeeze his way between two spearmen, slashing both in the back of their leathers as he spun, to get to Daenerys. The clashing guards stilled when the queen shrieked, even as swords and spears stayed aloft. The man across from Jaime was no longer fighting but not leaving himself exposed, either. Beneath the helm Jaime recognized Loras Tyrell, the brat who’d bested him at a tourney several years back, the pretty thing who sucked cock like a woman but fought like a man. Jaime only knew the latter firsthand.

The Blackfish’s grizzled voice called out, directed undoubtedly at one of Daenerys’ guards, “Send word to your men who have my nieces. They’ll be returned here, unharmed, or I’ll start taking pieces of their queen. They can’t be far out to sea.”

Ser Barristan didn’t lower his sword as he turned his head slightly, Jaime saw in his periphery, “We don’t know which way they sailed, Ser. You’ll only succeed in killing the woman whose mercy is keeping your nieces alive.”

Daenerys let out a whimper, and it took all Jaime’s willpower not to turn around and see what was being done.

“Shall I start with a finger or a tit?” Brynden shouted.

“Don’t!” Ser Barristan gasped loudly, “I swear to you, none of us knows their course, nor their ultimate destination. Harming Queen Daenerys will only harm your nieces.”

“But I bet the queen knows it all, doesn’t she?”

“Unhand me!” Daenerys shouted.

“You’re outnumbered in this city, girl. Where’s the army of savages I heard tell of? Where are the fire-breathing beasts you’re said to have? Naught but a few hundred cockless fucks!”

Jaime knew what the man was doing, beyond trying to intimidate the queen into giving into his demands. He was making sure everyone in the throne knew that the queen did not have the numbers to force their hands.

“I told you! My intent was to take the city – my birthright! – peacefully. Now unhand me!” Once more Jaime wanted to turn. Once more, he didn’t, resigned to watching the sword of the young knight across from him, lest it move.

“Tell me where they’re heading,” Ser Brynden growled.

“You cannot threaten me. If my men don’t hear from me, one of your nieces will die. Then another. Then the last.”

For a split second, Jaime’s eyes moved past the Tyrell boy to Tywin, who was watching all with an eerie stillness in all his features but his eyes, which were blazing.

“If my nieces aren’t returned here, unharmed, you’ll die.”

Jaime knew something had to be done. They were outnumbered here, as they’d known they’d be, but they’d been counting on having compliance because Tywin would order it into his men. Jaime had known the Blackfish was among those men and thought that would be all the better for their cause – the man would never risk his nieces’ lives. But they hadn’t counted on the man being so bold as to hold at blade-point the very woman whose word would determine whether those nieces lived or died.

It was an impasse now, but with every passing moment the favor would shift toward Ser Brynden, not Daenerys, as some in the crowd may be moved by the pain in the scorned uncle’s voice rather than the annoyance in the determined queen’s voice.

Jaime found his father’s face again, though the man’s eyes were still pointed upward at the scene Jaime still hadn’t spied himself.

Until Jaime spoke…

“Ser Brynden, there is a rather significant flaw in your plan...”

“Fuck off, Kingslayer.”

“How original. Don’t you want to hear me out before you do something so… irreversible?”

“I repeat: fuck off.”

Jaime clicked his tongue, “Suit yourself. I suppose Lady Sansa might enjoy life as a bedslave; with a little luck she’ll get to fuck someone her own age for a change.”

As expected, his father’s eyes burned into him.

Jaime grinned at his father while addressing Sansa’s granduncle, “Still want me to fuck off?”

Silence was the answer he got, but he’d expected no more.

Jaime took a breath and continued, “Do you recall why Ser Jorah Mormont fled the continent all those years ago?”

When he got nothing but more silence, he went on, “Selling poachers he’d found on his lands into slavery. That’s right; a few hungry peasants had the nerve to hunt deer on Mormont soil, so he sold them to slavers. Supposedly because he needed money to keep his lady love dressed in the latest fashion, but who can say he isn’t just an exceptionally greedy man? Point being, if you kill our rightful queen, you’ll take away the man’s source income. And how better for him to get his hands on a big bag of silver than by selling the beautiful young woman who otherwise will just be another mouth to feed? Perhaps whatever pillow house she ends up in will charge a premium – how often does a man get to fuck a queen? Though—”

“I dunno, Kingslayer, you tell me.”

Well, he may have walked right into that one, but it was a moot point. Cersei was dead and Daenerys was the last person who’d see children harmed because they were the products of incest. If anyone was going to suffer for his cuckolding Robert, it would be Jaime, and he accepted that. Then again, Daenerys’ priority was protecting and avenging innocents, and Robert Baratheon was far from innocent.

“Funny, Blackfish. As I was saying, might be that Ser Jorah will fetch more for the girls. Slavers love to get their assets started young. So, by all means, threaten our good queen some more. Start plucking parts off her in the hopes she’ll cave and send a message to Ser Jorah, bidding him to return here where there’s a bounty on his head, with the three people who are the only things of value the man has to his name. While you’re plucking, pray that Ser Jorah will obey such a command knowing that it would only be sent if things here didn’t go his queen’s way, meaning she’ll be in no position to protect him when he steps foot on Westerosi soil. Go on, Ser, put your faith in that man.”

It was only after he’d woven the lie that Jaime realized he might not be lying. It was all the more reason he needed to talk Brynden down. Jaime felt sure that Sansa and her daughters would be safe with Ser Jorah as long as things were going according to plan, but what would the man do if he found himself on the losing side and knew that there was nothing he could do to spare the queen he was in love with?

His father’s face was red with rage, and Jaime felt sick to know what Tywin was thinking: that Jaime had thought this way from the start, and went along with the plan anyway.  

(Perhaps he would have, and perhaps that was another of the reasons he couldn’t sleep tonight.)

Tywin’s lips had begun to part, and Jaime suspected that he was going to try, again, to command Ser Brynden to obey the queen.

He’d never know, because just as his father’s lips formed a word, an ear-splitting screech was heard. The hall erupted into frightened gasps and mumblings as dust drifted down from the high ceiling, because something rather heavy had landed on the roof.

“That would be one of my children,” Daenerys projected her voice over all the noise, “Likely Drogon, my largest. He is particularly protective of his mother. Kill me or even hurt me and I fear you’ll put him in a frenzy. I’d tell you to ask those slave masters in Meereen who tried to betray me, but they aren’t alive to testify.”

It would be no exaggeration to say that most were eager to kneel after that, and Jaime wondered if he didn’t hate all of them as much as he hated his father. At least the nobles of Meereen had stones. Slave-owning crud they may be, but even while Daenerys had a child of each great family as a hostage, they still defied her, still sent their assassins and harpy’s sons. (Jaime wouldn’t tell anyone present that those hostages yet lived, because Daenerys couldn’t bring herself to kill any of them.) And when faced with a dragon, they didn’t run away screaming but stood and commanded their men to fight.

Jaime still shivered to think about that day, and the days that came after…

As they had planned, Daenerys had a surprise planned for Hizdahr zo Loraq and all the old families who joined them in Daznak’s Pit to celebrate the reopening of the fighting pits (and – as they’d been led to believe – the announcement of Daenerys’ betrothal to Hizdahr).

Unfortunately, while focusing on pulling off their surprise, it hardly occurred to them that the masters might be planning something of their own.

In the end, both sides were surprised. And just as Jaime decided that his purpose all along must have been to die for his chosen queen, a shadow covered the arena.

The black dragon, the wayward son, landed with a roar and a burst of flame, presumably having sensed its mother’s distress, the danger she was in, or both. Or perhaps it only smelled the blood and didn’t want to miss out on the buffet. Regardless, the great masters’ men focused on attacking the dragon which left them vulnerable to Daenerys’ men. But the dragon became even more incensed when a spear landed in its neck – not a fatal wound but more than enough to piss off an already pissed off dragon. It became erratic, spraying out streams of fire that consumed as many friends as enemies even as Selmy and Mormont and Grey Worm shouted out commands for them to fall back.

Jaime was happy to follow such a command until Daenerys wriggled free from the arm he’d put around her for her own damned good.

And when he realized she was running toward the dragon, not away, and that he was running after her, he realized that it wasn’t a queen he’d die for, but his own stupidity.

Where she got the whip from Jaime didn’t know until he was yanking it from her hand after she succeeded in lashing the beast’s belly.

“Let go—” she screamed at him.

“If a horse doesn’t like being whipped, what makes you think a dragon does?!”

“But how else can—”

“By being his mother, not his master! A son obeys his mother not because she’ll smack him if he doesn’t, but because he loves her, respects her, owes his very life to her!”

Whatever precisely happened between woman and beast, Jaime didn’t see. He took a shield off a corpse and covered Daenerys’ back from any spears that might come their way. That was when he realized that just as Grey Worm and the Sers were commanding order into their ranks, so was the enemy. A curved shield wall of spearmen was advancing on the dragon, uncaring that soon they’d be walking into fire. They only needed one lucky shot, Jaime knew.

Fuck this had been his only thought. He wouldn’t let himself end this way, at the point of some slave or sellsword’s spear. He dropped shield and sword and spun, one arm wrapping Daenerys’ waist while the other reached in the direction he leapt, preparing to grab hold of whatever his hand might land on.

It was the dragon’s neck, he realized after opening his eyes that he hadn’t known were shut. His legs were straddling its spine, though akimbo. He pulled himself up with both hands as Daenerys had, quite wisely, wrapped her arms around his chest. A spear hit Jaime’s shoulder but bounced off the steel. A heartbeat later another hit the dragon, penetrating but not lodging fully in the flesh near its shoulder. Jaime yanked the spear out, shifted it to his right hand and sailed it through the air, knowing it would hit a shield but just trying to keep their encroaching attackers from getting too comfortable. All the while the dragon hollered and screeched and spat fire in all directions but its own back, thank the gods.

“Fly, you dumb cunt!” Jaime shouted.

And just like that, it flew. A couple more spears whipped past them, missing by inches, but eventually, after Daenerys kept repeating the same command in High Valyrian, they were out of the spearmen’s range.

Jaime wished he could say their troubles ended there. The beast was rather unreceptive to whatever Daenerys was commanding. It didn’t care that its mother wanted to be returned to the Great Pyramid. It flew northeast to what Daenerys called the Dothraki sea and landed at the base of a hill. Like a pair of fools, Jaime and Daenerys got off the dragon to stretch their legs. The fucker huffed what Jaime was certain was a curse, then crawled into a cave. Daenerys followed; Jaime didn’t. She emerged and told Jaime what was inside: the bones of a variety of animals. It was the beast’s lair, and Daenerys seemed bolstered to have found it, meaning she could ride here in the future when Drogon went weeks straight without being spotted.

Her optimism didn’t last. The dragon was agitated, licking its wounds and sleeping, refusing to obey Daenerys’ command to return her to Meereen. Refusing to let her get close enough to climb aboard. Refusing to let Jaime even come into the cave, which was fine by him.

With little choice in the matter given they only had the water in Jaime’s skin, they began walking southwest, estimating they couldn’t be more than two days from the border of Meereen based on the duration of their flight and the speed. Two days with little water, traipsing through a grassy desert that was known for being home to snakes, wild dogs, and even albino lions. Daenerys held the whip. Jaime held his dagger.

It turned out to be longer than two days, because the heat and dehydration meant they moved slowly and rested often. The only respite was that in some places the grass was higher than Jaime’s head, meaning at any hour but midday they had some shade from the brutal sun.

When they found a robust looking plant, Jaime used his dagger to cut around its base, ignoring the thorns scraping his hands. They ate the roots for the moisture that was in them, a trick Daenerys had learned during her time with the Dothraki, but never personally tried.

Two hours later they were both pissing out their arses while vomiting up the pulpy remains of the roots. Jaime collapsed in the grass, itchy arse the least of his troubles. He laid on his side, too exhausted and thirsty and achy to be ashamed of inviting death after only two days of strife. Had he not spent nearly a year as a prisoner of war? Filthy, hungry, cold, itchy; his skin sore where it was forever being chafed by his binds or pressed against the hard ground or the pole they tied him to?

He stared at Daenerys, who was lying a few feet away, curled up on her side just as he was, his daintier, prettier reflection.

And the longer he stared at her placid, feeling-too-crappy-to-care face, the more it began twisting to a different face. A face that didn’t care because to show caring was to reveal a chink in the armor.

Look how weak you are, the face mocked him. I was always the stronger one, and yet you live while I died.

They killed me, they killed your other half, and instead of doing something about it you’re shitting yourself in the desert. I would be crawling on my belly until my last breath.

“I can’t,” he heard himself saying.

“Me neither,” he heard Daenerys’ voice responding as Cersei’s lips moved.

Look at you… So quick to find a new queen to follow. Have you replaced me so quickly, brother? And for what? You don’t even fuck her. She can’t give you children. She conquers cities then loses her grip on them. Just like men conquer her and she loses her grip on herself. Hmpf. At least I never did that. I never let a man rule me. Not my husband. Not even you.

“What about your son?” he asked on a snort.

“My son?” Daenerys’ voice spoke back. He heard her shuffling around in the grass but couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer. He heard her gasp, then sob.

He managed to open his eyes halfway and saw Daenerys kneeling, her legs spread and her dress hiked up, her inner thighs painted a red so rich he wanted to lick it up. Anything to wet his parched throat and his tongue that felt like old cracked leather and his lips that burned like salt in an open wound.

He wondered why she looked so horrified to have gotten her moonblood. Cersei always welcomed it. It meant her moon tea had worked to expel Robert’s seed, or sometimes Jaime's if they had coupled when Robert was away and Cersei knew the timing of a pregnancy would be suspicious.

A handful of times he fucked her while she was bleeding. She’d never wanted to, claiming it was too messy, but he found something perversely arousing about putting his seed in her while Robert’s was being bled out of her body.

Thinking of it now made him feel even sicker than he already was.

“Daario…” Daenerys whimpered.

Jaime knew that name and would’ve growled if he’d had the energy. The man was a cocky sellsword who Daenerys had some history with, the captain of the Stormcrows. He had waltzed back into Daenerys’ life mere days after Jaime and Daenerys had begun making their plans for the Great Masters who would undoubtedly be present for the grand reopening of Daznak’s Pit. The man with violet-hued hair and beard and an eternal smirk had swirled wine while speaking in an unaffected tone about his recent accomplishments in Daenerys’ name, specifically his successful negotiations with the Lhazareen people to begin trading with Daenerys. As the harbor was still blockaded and a Yunkish host was marching up from the south, it was welcome news – Lhazar was accessible to Meereen by a pass in the sandstone mountains to the west of the city, not to mention some river with a name Jaime couldn’t remember much less pronounce.

It was clear when Daenerys dined with Jaime and Daario that the sellsword saw Jaime as a threat. Oddly enough, Jaime felt the same though for different reasons. It was only in watching Daenerys listen thoughtfully to blue beard that he realized he had come to enjoy the way the young queen turned to him for counsel and took said counsel to heart more than even that of men who’d served her for years.

On Daario’s part, he seemed to view Jaime as a threat in a much more primal sense, based on the way he glared at Daenerys’ feminine assets when the queen wasn’t looking, then flicked his eyes to Jaime as if to say, ‘what are you going to do about it?’

Also oddly, Jaime wanted to do something about it, though not the something he’d have expected. He didn’t want to grab Daenerys and pull her into his lap while smirking victoriously at the sellsword. He wanted to pull her behind him, shield her young body from lecherous eyes.

In the end he did neither, because to show that he cared was to show a chink in his armor.

No matter that the man didn’t seem to like Jaime, he did agree with their plan to attack the Great Masters when all were assembled in the fighting pit. In fact, the man proposed the very same before Daenerys finished telling him of Hizdahr’s offer and his suit. She’d enjoy his promised ninety days of peace while planning her attack.

And as already established, it didn’t go as planned. Aye, Daenerys’ men took out some of those wealthy and influential slave masters who were behind the assassination attempts on Daenerys, and no doubt the sneak attacks on her freedmen and Unsullied. But it wasn’t all of them, or even most of them, from what Jaime managed to see before commandeering an angry dragon. Because they’d been prepared to deliver their own betrayal, they were well protected that day. And even if only a small handful survived, they were each wealthy enough to continue funding the war against Daenerys Targaryen and her radical ideals for years.

Somehow, Jaime didn’t think he’d survive to find out, and was still too exhausted to care either way.

“Sometimes,” Daenerys whispered in a tear-clogged voice, which had Jaime opening his eyes again, “It feels like the very soil here hates me. That the very continent rejects me. Wishes me gone. Everything I do is undone. Every wheel I break is rebuilt. My own children reject me. Just like my body rejects my children.”

Jaime wanted to say something back but was at a loss.

“Is this a sign from the gods?” she continued, “And if so, which gods? Because I don’t really believe in any of them. Is this a sign that my cause is not just? That there is some… some… divine purpose behind all the world’s suffering? That there is a reason some men are born to be slaves while others are born to never know hunger or pain or want? Am I so wrong in wanting to end it that every fucking thing that can work against me, does?”

He shook his head weakly. It had been decades since he let his mind linger on others’ suffering, because the sadness he felt for all the people who were victimized by the king he served was suffocating, all-consuming. So he abandoned it.

But he could still remember the boy who wanted to do good. Who wanted to be a hero, a savior.

“Don’t stop,” he mumbled, “Don’t give up. I wanted to do good, to defend the defenseless, to protect the innocent, to champion the just… and I gave up after a year of serving your father, seeing the just and the innocent being beaten down, burned, killed, raped of their innocence. I gave up, because giving up is easy. I stopped caring, because caring is dangerous, not to mention painful. But you are stronger than I am, Daenerys Stormborn. You’re braver than I am. And you’re not wrong. All those people and things working against you? That is the evil in this world. The same evil that made your father hurt his own wife. The same evil that makes men hurt little children. The same evil that makes slaves of some of us, while others never know suffering.”

“And how can one woman defeat such a power?”

Jaime shrugged, “By increasing your own power. By making allies.”

As he thought back on that conversation that took place when both of them were certain they’d shit themselves to death within hours, he realized how Daenerys had interpreted his words: gain the might of all of Westeros, every kingdom, it is the easier conquest – then use that might to remake Essos in the same image. Not slave and master but subject and lord, with each beholden to the other: our toils, our wheat, and our swords, for your protection, your justice, your law and order.

He eventually pushed himself to his feet not for his sake but hers, “Come on. This isn’t where your story ends, Lady Breaker of Chains. If you keep walking, they’ll never win.”

It had been even more slow-going, each of them battling cramped calves and toes. They walked into the night to make up for the hours they had squandered during the day. Jaime remembered feeling so horrible that he feared neither death nor life, neither the hells with their fire nor the heavens with their dull company. He remembered thinking that if they just made it back to the pyramid or even a pond or lake or well, he would never complain again in his life, never worry about anything again.

(He’d been wrong.)

At some point they must’ve collapsed and succumbed to sleep. He only knew because he woke up to the sound of Daenerys whimpering her brother’s name. He shook her awake and half-carried her, uncertain he was still alive and not being tormented by some vengeful god in the afterlife.

When they came across a small rivulet Jaime knew from his time as a squire that they shouldn’t drink from it. The water wasn’t clear. But extreme thirst made a man desperate. They drank it greedily, gulping down handfuls of the murky water, laughing as they did, until their bellies cramped at almost the same time. They retched together, then collapsed again, exhausted by the effort of purging their stomachs.

Jaime woke some time later to the feeling of shitting himself to find Daenerys squatting several paces away doing the same. It was odd to think about, in hindsight, but there was a certain bonding to be found in having uncontrollable runs with a fellow human being. Delirium set in, and Jaime remembered saying something like, “How fearsome we must look – the last dragon and the kingslayer.” She must’ve been delirious too, because she laughed so hard that a particularly loud eruption came out of her. He didn’t judge, because that would take energy he didn’t have, and because it would make him a hypocrite since similarly frightening sounds had been emerging from him.

They walked some more after that, or more like stumbled. Daenerys started shivering, then dropped to her knees and screamed in what Jaime knew was frustration.

He knew she had no more steps in her, and he hardly did, either. He laid down and wondered if someone would find his body and send it to his father. If his father would have him interred in the Hall of Heroes. If the rest of the realm would get a kick out of the irony.

And the next time he woke it was because someone was draping a warm blanket over him. Or perhaps it was a warm breeze blowing in through one of the windows of Casterly Rock. Or perhaps his mother’s warm hands stroking from his head down to his lower back and up again. Or perhaps his sister’s warm body pressed against his. Or perhaps Tyrion had climbed into his bed because he had another of the nightmares about the witch who was always trying to convince him to throw himself out a window into the sea because it was better than living as a twisted little monster.

It turned out, it was none of the above; just a dragon sniffing him – or them – to see if they were dead.

A few bumbling attempts later, they were on the dragon’s back, Daenerys lying halfway up its neck so she could let her arms dangle down, Jaime lying over her back to keep her in place and keep her warm even though he had little warmth to give.

He later would vaguely remember flying over a city that had too many lights to be coming from the torches and lanterns and braziers lit by the residents each night, too much screaming to be coming from the pleasure houses, too much noise to be anything but a battlefield.

They were let off on the balcony that belonged to Daenerys, dragged inside by servants who mumbled in one of the languages that Jaime never bothered learning. Water was poured down his throat, too slowly to satisfy his thirst. He was put in a bath of lukewarm water. He was given more water, still not enough. He fell in and out of sleep, at first. Then into a sleep so deep he woke up disoriented as to not just what room he was in, but what continent he was on and what phase of his life he was living. Childhood? The brief but traumatic Mad King era? The long and largely carefree King Robert era? The prisoner of war era? The prisoner of Daenerys Targaryen era?

No - he was in the advisor to Daenerys Targaryen era.

And his advice, when next it was asked for, was to get the fuck out of Meereen, out of Slaver’s Bay entirely, because the city around them was in absolute chaos. The surviving Great Masters were holding nothing back. All of Meereen was a war zone. The Yunkish army was a fortnight away. Drogon, incensed by the bloodbath or perhaps understanding the threat to his mother, had gone completely rogue, burning whatever he felt like burning, eating whatever (or whomever) he felt like eating. If he was limiting his diet to only the enemy, it wouldn’t be the worst thing, but he wasn’t.

And he wasn’t alone. Apparently, in the first day of the conflict, some bravely stupid or stupidly brave group of men decided to storm the entrance to the catacombs where Daenerys’ two other dragons were kept – a situation Daenerys had planned to remedy after the Great Masters were dealt with.

No doubt their intent was to kill the pair of chained beasts so the dragon queen couldn’t use them as weapons to defend the Great Pyramid she’d claimed, but unbeknownst to the few men in the group who managed to make it through the guards and to the catacombs, the dragons had been known to occasionally tear the chains’ anchors out of the walls. On such occasions the dragons would be fed drugged meat or tainted meat so they’d be either unconscious or too sick and sluggish to put up a resistance as new chains were installed.

Well, the men walked into the catacombs rather brazenly with their torches, spears, and arrows, expecting the dragons to be subdued far below. Turns out, they didn’t make it halfway down the stairs before becoming kindling.

Rhaegal and Viserion had had their fun in the city, just as Drogon was doing, then flew northeast and due south, respectively.

The only good news was that, once he’d eaten his fill, Drogon returned to the pyramid, perching himself on one of the only terraces large enough to accommodate him and sunbathing like some fat housecat. Daenerys hastened there and excitedly shouted commands, thinking she had finally claimed the beast.

It was Jaime who took inventory of every occasion during which Drogon had come to his mother and found the commonality: Daenerys being in mortal peril.

It was a difficult feeling to fake, Daenerys found, as she wanted to use the dragon to incinerate the soldiers encroaching on the pyramid. Drogon seemed to know he’d find an easier meal in some poor sod out in the streets of the city than in the metal-covered soldiers who had a most irksome tendency to throw pointy sticks at him if he flew close enough. Still, his presence kept the enemy from getting too close. But the inconsistency of his presence kept them from abandoning what had become a siege.

It was about a week after Daenerys and Jaime had recovered from their ordeal in the Dothraki sea that a white flag of parley was waved. One Xaro Xhoan Daxos was the chosen delegate of the masters. Jaime found out the man was another that Daenerys had history with, though unlike Daario Naharis, Jaime doubted the sleazy, bejeweled merchant had any interest in what was under Daenerys’ gown (she decided, once and for all, to abandon the tokars she used to wear in a futile attempt to appease the Meereenese people).

Their history, Jaime learned, was a years-ago proposal of marriage that Daenerys had all but laughed off, and a more recent meeting in Meereen when the merchant offered Daenerys thirteen of his ships if she agreed to leave not just Slaver’s Bay but the continent of Essos. Daenerys admitted to having considered it until realizing she’d not be able to fit all her Unsullied and other loyal freedmen on the ships, meaning she’d not be sailing with enough men to take King’s Landing and that the men left behind would likely be slaughtered or re-enslaved. Daenerys refused his offer, and Xaro’s “slimy smile” disappeared, his true colors revealed. Jaime had known the Qartheen were one of the many people who considered Daenerys an enemy, but never knew the animosity started when Daenerys refused to let Meereen fall back into the thrall of Yunkai.

Now the same man had come with a similar offer: ten galleys, each of which could transport eighty to a hundred men while still leaving enough room for food and fresh water for that number of passengers. Xaro also promised that Daenerys would be free to stop and do business at any port in Essos for the next six months – more than enough time for them to sail south through the Gulf of Grief, round the ruins of Valyria, sail west along the Orange Coast, then (if they were lucky) make it through the oft-pirated Stepstones then due north and eventually slightly west to reach King’s Landing.

But Daenerys’ advisors counseled that it was a perilous journey. Her Unsullied could act as oarsmen, but experienced captains, sailors, and crew would be needed on each ship, which reduced the number of spots available for Daenerys’ men to more like fifty to eighty per vessel. Five to eight hundred spearmen would never take the Red Keep. Hells, they couldn’t even take Dragonstone with those numbers.

But Xaro sweetened the deal like he hadn’t the first time around: with a promise that the Great Masters and their allies would initiate no hostilities toward any freedmen, Unsullied, or others who’d been loyal to Daenerys for one year. Unsaid was that, after that period they would try to make things the way they were before Daenerys Targaryen came to Meereen.

During a recess from their negotiations, Daenerys spoke to her trusted advisors, which included Jaime, “Yunkai has fallen. Astapor has fallen. Meereen may not fall, but the Masters and the Yunkish army will block the trade route from Lhazar in time, just as they block the Bay. They will starve us out, until we are so weak and desperate that we’ll surrender no matter their terms. I may be lucky enough to fly away on Drogon, but where he will take me, I cannot guess. But before I consider agreeing to this offer: is there any way we can shift the tide in our favor? Do we have any tricks up our sleeves that can eliminate enough of their armies that they’ll never rise against us again?”

None could offer the hope she sought.

Selmy pointed out that even if Daenerys’ side had some victories in the short-term, the Masters would simply obtain more armies – they still had enough gold to do so. And when they ran out of gold, they’d buy armies with promises of the stuff, or by borrowing from others who had benefited from the slave trade, which may include any number of wealthy men in the Free Cities, Lys, or even Westeros.

Mormont described the size of the encroaching Yunkish host – it was enough to make bile rise in Jaime’s throat – and that it was only a matter of time before the people of Mantarys to the west – an infamously cruel lot – joined their declared allies, the Yunkai’i.

“Khaleesi,” Mormont had implored, “You have done all you can, cast off the chains of oppression. The freedmen have the numbers to continue the resistance or to protect their own retreat to the west and north, make way for Volantis or other of the Free Cities. Or, perhaps, without you here to protect and command them, they will find the motivation to do so. They will seek allies. They will recruit and train their own armies. If you stay here, it is not just the fall of Meereen that I fear, but that an assassin will finally succeed where others have failed. And then all you aspire to do on either continent will be unfulfilled.”

Daenerys had nodded tiredly, “I will negotiate with Xaro on the morn. Try to get more ships, a longer period of promised peace – though I realize his promises may be whispers on the wind. But if nothing else, it will buy us time to plan.”

“To plan for what, your majesty?” Daario asked, a sly smirk on his full lips.

Daenerys held the sellsword’s eyes as she answered to them all, “The claiming of my birthright.”

Jaime had snorted, “Respectfully, even if Xaro triples the number of ships, you won’t have enough men to take the capital. What needs to be considered is who might rally to your cause, and there are only two possibilities. Dorne – in retribution for Princess Elia and her babes – or the Reach – in hopes that you’ll make Willas Tyrell your prince consort, though if Olenna Tyrell yet lives, know that she’ll demand a co-rule. And know that allying with one means making the other your enemy, or at least a neutral party in the battles to come.”

Daenerys shook her head, “Who said anything about battles, Ser? And no, I will not indebt myself to the Tyrells. Nor will I land in Dorne, no matter how it will shorten our trip, because if word reaches your father it will give him too much time to prepare. No, I will not take on the Great Lion when he’s had months to scheme. History and you have taught me well not to underestimate the man.”

“Then I fear you’d be better off staying here. Eight hundred men or even two thousand won’t be able to take the city, even if my father’s men have only the time since spotting your ships to prepare.”

“They will not spot my ships.”

Jaime had lifted both hands plus his eyebrows, “Care to enlighten us, your grace?”

A faint smile played on her lips, “How did your father take the city, back during Robert Baratheon’s rebellion?”

“He didn’t. The city gates were opened to him.”

“Because…?”

Jaime huffed, “Because your father didn’t know if he was friend or foe, and my father had an inside man who convinced him it was the former.”

“And how did your father take the throne?”

Jaime frowned, “He… well, he was let in again – this time because he was a known friend of the king. He walked right up to the throne and claimed it by rule of law, from what I heard.”

Daenerys nodded, “I have heard a saying – imitation is the greatest form of flattery. Well, Ser Jaime, you ask how I will take the throne? I intend to flatter your father so well that I won’t have to take it – it will be handed to me gladly.”

He passed a look to Ser Barristan. The old knight wore a dubious expression, and Jaime knew he mirrored it.

“Have faith in your queen,” Daenerys directed at all the men in the room, “Not a drop of blood will be spilled, unless it is by Tywin Lannister’s doing.”

Five days later the deal was struck. Thirteen galleys, fully crewed. Safe port for six months throughout Essos. Two years of promised safety for Daenerys’ Freedmen.

And one spry little sea vessel that would go unnoticed as it approached Blackwater Bay, and would raise no alarms even if it was.

When they departed, it was with a shadow overhead. Drogon might not be at his mother’s beck-and-call, but it would seem he didn’t want to be left behind by her, like Daario the sellsword, who begrudgingly agreed to keep his Stormcrows in Meereen as an additional incentive for the Masters to keep their promise.

And when they rounded the southern tip of Valyria more than a fortnight after their departure, two winged creatures could be spotted flying in the distance, circling the ruins the way vultures circle a dying fox. Daenerys gave a watery smile and shrugged when she caught Jaime staring. “My children are free, but they aren’t actually mine.”

And they had done it. They had pulled it off.

Daenerys Targaryen, a good woman, a queen who genuinely cared about her people, sat the throne.

Tywin Lannister, a criminal, a king who cared only about his name (and his pretty little wife, apparently), was in the dungeons, awaiting trial.

And yet Jaime couldn’t sleep, because the face of another queen was haunting him, and it wasn’t Cersei…

I cannot help loving him. Believe me, I’ve tried.

Jaime threw off his bedcovers and stomped out of his room then out of the tower altogether. He, Ser Barristan, and the former Kingsguard and Queensguard who’d sworn loyalty to Daenerys slept in the White Sword Tower. It was the Unsullied who guarded Daenerys, day and night. Some of them slept in the lower levels of Maegor’s holdfast. Others slept in the guards barracks within the Red Keep. Others yet in the various barracks of the City Watch, which they’d been absorbed into to ensure it wasn’t merely Tyrell and Lannister men guarding the city and castle.

But tonight, or more accurately, this early morning, Jaime paced through the chilly air and straight to the Maidenvault. He was stopped and checked at the entrance by a pair of Unsullied, and again at each landing, and again outside his brother’s chamber door. Jaime didn’t knock, knowing Tyrion wouldn’t be entertaining any visitors aside from, perhaps, Tommen. At most, he’d disturb Tyrion’s sleep, and Tyrion had an abundance of time on his hands for that.

As it turned out, Tyrion was awake and alone. He was sat on a cushioned bench beneath the window, staring out toward the city, not turning until Jaime was three paces into the room, the door shut quietly behind him.

Even with only moonlight Jaime could see his brother’s mismatched eyes blinking at him. Then, Tyrion spoke, “A bit late for a visit, isn’t it brother?”

“Some would say it’s early.”

“I’ve always been more of an owl than a rooster.”

Jaime stepped further into the room. “Tyrion,” he spoke after a spell.

“Jaime,” his little brother responded.

He didn’t know what to say because he didn’t know how Tyrion saw him. Tyrion was capable of hating his family while being eternally loyal to them. Case in point: Cersei and Tywin. Jaime, apparently, was not. As soon as he realized that he hated his father, that his father was the very type of monster that young Jaime had dreamed of striking down, he couldn’t serve him. He couldn’t even look at him. He couldn’t even be in the same city as him. And Tywin had always been that monster, Jaime just hadn’t seen it.

Tyrion had, and yet it was Jaime, not Tyrion, who betrayed him.

He supposed his father might be laughing at this very moment. A bitter, humorless kind of laugh, to know it was the tall, handsome, golden son who had brought him down, not the deformed little creature that Tywin always suspected of villainy.

Jaime started with words he hoped would see to it that his brother was on his side, “I never would have supported her if it meant you or Tommen coming to harm. Nor Myrcella. Nor even Sansa and her daughters.”

“Don’t you mean their daughters, meaning our sisters?”

Perhaps mine, but not yours.

He didn’t say that.

“Yes. Their daughters. Daenerys does not kill little girls, nor innocent women.”

Tyrion snorted, “Are you so certain?”

“I am.” He didn’t add that he knew because Daenerys had taken hostages in Meereen but couldn’t bring herself to kill them when their families acted against her. It would do no good for Westeros to be at war with itself, which it would be if those who remained loyal to Tywin Lannister, or those who were leery of Targaryens, believed that Daenerys would never kill Tommen, Sansa, Jeyne, Jocelyn and any of her other hostages.

“Fine. Was that all?”

“Tyrion…”

“No,” Tyrion shook his head, “You support Daenerys Targaryen? Fine. But to the point that you’d unseat your own father? That you’d turn your own sisters into exiles!? You know Father will be executed, don’t you? You know there is no way she will let him be found innocent, nor that she’ll risk sending him to the Wall or exile.”

Jaime swallowed, “And does he not deserve such a punishment?”

Tyrion scoffed, “Now you’re some sort of champion for justice? Where was your desire to hold kings accountable when Joffrey was having the tongues cut out of minstrels’ mouths? Or having Sansa stripped and beaten in the middle of the courtyard?! Or executing highborn hostages?! Or inciting riots?!”

Jaime clenched his jaw, “I was sitting in my own shit in Robb Stark’s war camp.”

Tyrion let out a gusty laugh, “Ah, so vengeance against Robb Stark is your real cause! I wonder if the lad’s ghost knows how much his sister has suffered for his actions.”

“This isn’t about vengeance! And if it was, it wouldn’t be against Robb Stark. For fuck’s sake, Tyrion, do you think so little of me that I’d punish Sansa for her brother’s actions?”

“Your son did.”

Jaime shook his head, deciding to move on from that subject, though not entirely, “What did you think of Joffrey’s death, Tyrion? Tell me the truth.”

Tyrion sighed, long and low, “I neither rejoiced in it nor… nor mourned him. Not as an uncle should mourn a nephew.”

“And Cersei’s?”

Tyrion’s eyes were shining with moonlight as they pinned Jaime, “You know I never saw in her what you did. Still, I did not wish for her death. I even… Well, for all the times she tried to kill me when we were children, and that time she tried to kill me quite recently, I did not hate her. If anything, I pitied her for being so miserable. She had her crown. She had her beauty. She had her lover at her beck-and-call. She had all the reason to believe her father’s riches and lands would be passed down to one of her children. She had her… other lovers at her beck-and-call. And for all that, she was miserable.”

Jaime knew he was meant to take the bait, to ask about Cersei’s other lovers, but he wouldn’t. It hurt him, as it had years ago when his father alluded to the same, and yet it didn’t, because Jaime knew that those other men meant nothing to her. He knew because fucking anyone but Cersei was just that: fucking. It was only inside her body that he felt whole and… cleansed. Cersei had others scratch her back when Jaime wasn’t around to do it, but he knew it was a shallow relief, a stopgap measure. She had told him years ago, shortly before he joined the Kingsguard, that she only felt complete when he was inside her. The two halves being joined. He knew the feeling, and knew she’d never have found it elsewhere just like he never did and hardly even tried.

Nor would he take the bait about Cersei trying to kill Tyrion. His brother had always tried to make Cersei look like a monster. In fairness, Cersei did the same and did it first. And perhaps she had threatened Tyrion. Perhaps she’d played some practical jokes on him. Perhaps she’d even thought about it, but she never would have followed through. Not as a child, afraid of the wrath of their father, aunts, and uncles. And not as an adult who knew who dangerous it was. She wouldn’t risk putting her own neck on the block just to be rid of Tyrion.

“So you didn’t wish her dead, even if you and she didn’t get along. Nor did you wish Joffrey dead, even if you felt no sorrow over his death. I believe you, brother. I don’t even blame you. But did you not find it strange? Joffrey falling down the stairs he’d walked a few thousand times in his life? Cersei throwing herself from the window when she had two other children to live for?”

He was offered another snort, “When had Cersei ever lived for her children, other than Joffrey? And as for Joffrey, well, he was drinking quite heavily after…”

“After Father took his throne. I’m guessing Cersei was drinking heavily, too.”

“Cersei has been drinking heavily for as long as I can remember. Another of her tendencies you chose not to notice.”

Jaime threw his hands up, “Come off it, Tyrion! You’re going to criticize how much another person drinks?!”

“It wasn’t a criticism, merely a statement of fact. But why are we talking about Cersei and Joffrey, anyway?”

Jaime lowered himself onto Tyrion’s cushioned chair, “I know Father killed them. Or had them killed. Joffrey, at least. Cersei, indirectly if not explicitly.”

Tyrion cocked his head, “How precisely do you know that?”

“I can’t prove it, if that’s what you mean. But I know it. Down here,” Jaime made a fist and smacked it against his belly, “He meets Sansa Stark. He falls in love with her, or whatever his idea of love is. A few months later he takes the throne from the boy she is promised to. The boy who, according to you, victimized her. Another few months later the boy dies, with only some unknown whore there as witness. Why not a guard? Why not two? Was he not still the king’s grandson? Was he not the Warden of the Stormlands?”

Tyrion looked away, facing the window as he’d been when Jaime entered.

“Tell me you don’t believe Father killed Joffrey. Look me in the eye and tell me, Tyrion.”

Tyrion did look him in the eye, and he could see his brother struggling against the truth Jaime had thrown at him.

Or so he thought…

Tyrion shook his head, “If Father could never bring himself to kill me, then he could never bring himself to kill Joffrey. Menace or not, the boy was every inch the golden lion, while I’m every inch the shame of House Lannister. And frankly, Jaime, if I’m wrong? If Father did have Joffrey killed?” Tyrion let out a long breath, “Then I don’t hold it against him. Sansa would never be safe with Joffrey lurking about. Father knew as much. Hells, I told him as much. I told him that Sansa would never be safe with either Joffrey or…” Tyrion snapped his lips shut, but it was too late.

“Or Cersei. You warned Father about both of them. And not even two months later, both are dead.”

Tyrion closed his eyes slowly, then opened them with conviction, “If what you say is true, I still cannot wish our father dead for that. Because this is my truth, brother. If I could protect Sansa and our half-sisters, but only at the cost of Cersei and Joffrey? Well, I would.”

Jaime felt his temples bulging, “What will it take to make you see him for what he is? I thought you of all people… He has mocked you. He has treated you like a black sheep. He has shamed you. He has—”

“Gone to war for me. For all he hates me, he went to war for me.”

“Not for you,” Jaime spoke breathlessly, realizing that at some point tears had welled in his eyes, “For the family name. To protect all Lannisters by showing that no Lannister, even the least important one, can be harmed without retribution.”

Tyrion nodded slowly, “Perhaps. But if he’d hated me as badly as I have often believed, he’d have looked at it as an opportunity to be rid of me without dirtying his own hands. He’d have been sluggish in his response. He’d have let me become a martyr. A justification for his warmongering, which of course he’d make sure was a power grab. You want to make me hate him, Jaime? You want me to join you in… in whatever the fuck you’re doing? You want me to smile when our father’s head is mounted on a pike? You want me to consider it a blessing for Sansa that she’s rid of him, even if it means being a hostage for the rest of her life? Well, you’re a few years too late, brother.”

“Tyrion…” Jaime spoke, his voice rough and nasally.

“Jaime,” Tyrion sighed as if exasperated.

Jaime bit down on his lower lip, knowing that it was time to say what he’d come here to say, “Do you believe he loves her?”

Tyrion frowned, “Sansa?”

Jaime nodded.

Tyrion sighed again, this time in surrender, “I do, Jaime.”

“Do you believe he loved her before he knew who she was?”

Tyrion lifted his eyes toward the ceiling, “I believe all his behavior at the time indicated so, yes.”

“So he fell in love with a lowborn girl. A whore.”

Finally, understanding dawned. Tyrion’s eyes widened and fixed on Jaime without blinking.

He saw the knob in his brother’s throat rise and fall with his swallow, “But he didn’t marry her when she was a whore. He married her when she was Sansa Stark.”

“He fell in love with a lowborn girl, Tyrion. And she… she fell in love with him back.”

“It’s not the same,” Tyrion shook his head rapidly, “And how dare you bring—”

“It’s not the same because Sansa is highborn and Tysha wasn’t.”

“Tysha was a liar.”

“So was Sansa.”

Tyrion snorted, but Jaime could hear that it was unamused, “Sansa lied to make herself a whore to protect her identity as a traitor from the king’s grandfather! Tysha lied to make herself not a whore to manipulate me into marrying her!”

Jaime shook his head, “I’m sorry, Tyrion. I thought it would make it less painful for you, in the long run. I didn’t know… I didn’t know what he was going to do to her.”

Tyrion’s face became very still, and Jaime knew his clever brother understood his implication, but didn’t believe it.

So Jaime trudged on, “She was no whore, Tyrion. She was a crofter’s daughter, just as she told you. She loved you. But he didn’t believe that, because he couldn’t fathom anyone loving you. He believed she was another like Tytos’ mistresses, trying to wrap a high lord around her finger. Why else would someone so lowborn marry a Lannister? Why else would any woman deign to marry a dwarf? He told me to say she was a whore, so that you’d willingly leave that little cottage without making a scene. He told me to say it. And I did.”

Tyrion’s lower lip was quivering, and Jaime felt sick. He’d never wanted his brother to know the truth – not because an opportunistic peasant girl couldn’t take advantage of a young man as well as any whore could, but because of the implication of what Tyrion and the other men had done that night. A whore develops a certain tolerance to serving multiple customers a night. But a girl who was a virgin before meeting Tyrion a mere week earlier? Well…

“Why?” Tyrion whispered through tears, his head drooped forward in either sorrow or shame.

“Because I knew Father would make you set her aside anyway. I thought it would be less painful if you believed—”

“I mean why are you telling me this now, Jaime?”

“For the same reason I told Sansa. To give you peace with… with whatever is to come.”

Tyrion lifted his head, the moonlight immediately glinting off his wet cheeks, and he smiled. It was a smile Jaime had seen on Cersei quite often. A knowing smile. A self-satisfied smile. A smile that said, ‘I may have lost, but you lost more’.

Tyrion chuckled softly through his nose, as bitter a sound as Jaime had ever heard, “I think you told me to give yourself peace. I think – as usual – you did something impulsive and got in over your head. And only now that you’ve put our father up shit’s creek without a paddle do you realize what you did. And you can’t undo it without making yourself dragon food, so you have to convince yourself it was the right thing to do. You want me to tell you our father is a monster so you can go back to feeling vindicated. I wonder, Jaime, did you convince yourself it was the right thing to do after pushing Bran Stark out a window? Or did Cersei have to suck all the guilt out of you through your cock?”

“Tyrion… This isn’t about me.”

“Of course it isn’t,” Tyrion huffed, “It’s about our father. The monster. You know what, Jaime? At least he’s never claimed to be something he’s not. When Daenerys has his head on the block, he will not simper. He will not beg mercy. He will not pray to the Father to spare his black soul. Do you know what he’ll pray for?” Tyrion stood up and crossed the space between them, putting himself of a height with Jaime who didn’t dare rise, “He’ll pray for his family to survive, for his house to endure.”

“Tyrion, how can you speak as if that absolves him?! The Reynes. The Tarbecks. All the innocents in the capital. Elia Martell and her babes – deaths he tried to pin on Cersei, by the way! All the innocents in the Riverlands – all the women raped by Gregor Clegane and his mutts, all the children who starved, all the men who were cut down. Tysha – your wife, Tyrion!”

A small hand lashed his left cheek, leaving Jaime stunned.

The same hand joined its partner in gripping Jaime’s collar, and his brother’s asymmetrical face was a hand’s width from Jaime’s as his brother snarled, “Don’t you dare! Don’t speak as if I need to be educated in our father’s many sins, when I’ve been more aware of them, more bothered by them, than you ever were! Don’t you dare speak as if I’m being too soft on the man who is, indeed, a monster. Do you honestly think I don’t know that?! I’m the one who was made to rape his own wife, Jaime! But it seems to me our father’s crimes never bothered you one whit. Not until you got it in your fool head that he killed Joffrey – a monster if ever I met one! I hope he did fucking kill him! I hope he killed our bitch of a sister, too! Because those are the crimes for which you’re punishing him. Nothing else! And for as little love as I have for him, and for as much as I do hate him, I still respect him. I respect him enough that if he’s going to die for his crimes, I’d at least like to know he’s dying for crimes he actually committed.” Tyrion gave a shove and turned away, “Now get out of my sight, Kinslayer.”

Jaime swallowed all of his defenses – that it wasn’t Joffrey and Cersei’s deaths that made him want to see his father brought to justice, just that it was their deaths which opened his eyes to his father’s crimes, and – even worse – his hypocrisy. For all his horseshit about family and legacy he cast out Joffrey and Cersei when they became a nuisance for him, a threat to his new family – the girl who, so far as Tywin knew at the time, may someday wake up from her youthful infatuation and drive a dagger into his heart. For all Tywin was said to have loved Joanna, how could he, when he didn’t love her children? When they were never good enough because they were never him enough?

Jaime rose and tugged down his tunic, “I hadn’t intended to tell you this, but Sansa Stark seems to think you are not even his son, but the Mad King’s. I suggest you use that to your advantage when you meet with Daenerys. Good day, brother.”

With that, he left.

Notes:

Sooo... I admit that this is not the first time I've struggled with "will Daenerys ever get out of Meereen?" Basically, the situation I described through Jaime's POV is where canon left off. Yunkish army on the march from the south, allied with the Mantarys people to the west, bay blockaded by Daenerys' enemies and she has finally flown on Drogon but then he pretty much left her to die (I amended that part, because I think if Daenerys actually got to the brink of death Drogon would come to her since he seems to be protective even if not housebroken. Hmm... Drogon is to Daenerys as the Hound is to Sansa, lol.

But I digress. My point is that without something pretty significant happening, like Dany learning how to control Drogon and her other two dragons or some fleet sailing into the bay (Ironborn perhaps??) and destroying the Masters' ships, or some army coming from the direction of the Free Cities, Dany is pretty fucked. Whether GRRM intends to save her I don't know. At minimum I think he will save her dragons because then at least we know that Dany's destiny was to wake the dragons even if not to ride them, so someone else with Targ blood (or not?) like Jon or Stannis or Shireen will have their very own dragon.

Soo... Do I think it likely that Daenerys would abandon Meereen without all of her Unsullied? No. But if the situation became desperate enough AND she had someone like Jaime there stoking her vengeful desires? Then, maybe, yeah... yeah, I do.

'Nuff said. You may commence with the Jaime bashing now, because I know it's coming no matter how much we all love that handsome fool.

Chapter 40: We don't cower

Notes:

Not 100% happy with this chapter, NGL. Still, hope you enjoy it.

Chapter Text

Arya

“I know my brother’s way with words! There is no hidden meaning here!” Ser Kevan was red in the face as he repeated the same point he’d made a half dozen times by now, “No code! If he says he believes Sansa and the girls will be safe if you meet the dragon queen’s request, he means it. If he says they’ll be safe unless you act against her, he means it! And still your grand plan is to assassinate her?!”

Arya crossed her arms over her chest. Aye, that had been her grand plan, upon first reading the letter. Well, after reading it thrice because she did not believe her eyes the first two times.

Rightful heir, meaning Daenerys Targaryen.

Abdication, meaning Tywin Lannister.

Impending trial, also meaning Tywin Lannister.

Hostages, meaning Sansa, Jeyne, and Jocelyn. Great-uncle Brynden, too.

Dragons, meaning we’re all fucked.

Apparently, this woman named Daenerys Targaryen had come to King’s Landing with a group of disgraced knights that included Ser Barristan Selmy, Ser Jorah Mormont, and Ser Jaime Fucking Lannister. One of these days Arya would have to ask Ser Kevan if that was the Kingslayer’s middle name, because it really did roll off the tongue and fit the arrogant cunt like a finely tailored glove.

Oh, and Daenerys also brought with her three dragons, though only one was ever seen. People were already calling it Balerion the Black Dread Reborn. A bit of a mouthful, in Arya’s opinion. As were the many titles this woman from Essos affixed to the tail end of her given name.

The woman’s words were delivered personally by Ser Alix, one of two Northmen on Sansa’s Queensguard, who was dispatched with a handful of guards, whose sigils represented Reacher houses, per Mother, up the Narrow Sea then up the White Knife as far as the river was clear to travel, then on foot a day’s walk to Castle Cerwyn. Lord Cerwyn’s nephew personally escorted them via dog-drawn sled another day to Winterfell.

Along with the woman’s words were enclosed the testimony of Tywin Lannister, walking dead man, if Arya was reading between the lines right.

And there was something eerily calm about those words. Something very unlike the Great Lion that Arya had served in Harrenhal and conversed with in King’s Landing. Something… surrendered.

She didn’t like it.

Ser Alix was the one to report on the state of things in the capital. The lords and ladies of court bending the knee to Daenerys Targaryen with Lord Lannister’s blessing and at his behest. Lord Mace Tyrell being one of the first to kneel, most of his bannermen who were present following suit. Likewise, most of the lords representing the Crownlands and West, though a few of the latter chose imprisonment rather than fealty, claiming they couldn’t in good conscience obey a command given under extreme duress. (Short-sighted fools, Ser Kevan had growled). The duress meaning Sansa and her daughters being spirited away by sea to who-knows-where, promised to meet no harm and in fact live comfortably if Tywin Lannister and his men did the new queen’s bidding. Oh, and, perhaps more pertinently to some, a dragon perched on the roof of the throne room, arriving as if it knew that inside brave Uncle Brynden was holding her at blade-point.

“It often stays in the dragon pit. It seems to like it there. Other times it flies south, presumably to hunt game in the Kingswood. Or east, out over the sea. It hunts there, too. I’ve not seen it, but others claim to have seen it snatch dolphins and sharks and seals and even squid and whales out of the water,” Ser Alix had told them, going a bit green in the gills.

Mother took a deep breath before responding to Ser Kevan, since Arya hadn’t, “Whatever options we consider, directly acting against this queen will not be one of them. We must assume any hostilities against her will be reported to Ser Jorah, and whomever else she has entrusted with the safekeeping of my daughter and granddaughters.”

Arya watched Dacey shake her head faintly. She’d been doing a lot of that, since learning her uncle, who’d chosen self-exile over the Warden of the North’s judgment for enslaving poachers some years ago, was part of the complex scheme to steal Sansa and the girls from King’s Landing into the dragon queen’s thrall. Dacey had ranted and raved a few detailed descriptions of what she’d do the man’s and bollocks that made even Clegane wince.

Ser Kevan nodded slowly, “To not rally an army and march there, demand my brother and nephew and grandnephew be released? It grates on me, my ladies, my lords… But it is winter, and we would not make it there in time for the trial. Nor would a few of us be guaranteed to make it there before the trial if we returned the way Ser Axil came here and found some way to infiltrate the Red Keep and take this woman unawares…”

“The Blackfish tried as much, or have you forgotten?” Clegane scoffed from where he stood against the wall, his freakishly long arms crossed over his freakishly broad chest, “The dragon was there within minutes of him putting his dagger to the bitch’s throat. And not that I give a fuck for the half-man or the Tyrell twats or any other guests the bitch has as hostages, but you give a fuck about Tommen, at the very least.”

Ser Kevan ignored Clegane’s chastising tone and nodded soberly, “Aye. If we do not move against her, there is a chance all our kin will be safe. All but… my brother.”

Martyn moved to put a hand on his father’s forearm, “I’m sorry, Father.”

Ser Kevan shook his head, his eyes gone unfocused but pointed in the direction of the fire that was almost constantly lit in the lady’s solar, “Aye, son. I know.”

Mother was next to speak, “Then there is only one question to ask ourselves. Will the North bend the knee to this foreign invader? And if so, will we do so only on the condition that all our kin are returned to us? All but… Lord Lannister?”

Arya pursed her lips together so hard the pain made her tremble, then she took a step closer to the table she’d walked away from in a fit of rage minutes ago, “We bent the knee to the lion because he made my sister his queen, and because we trusted her word when she vouched for him. We bent the knee because he put that little fucker Joffrey in his place, and it was him we were rebelling against all along, in truth. We bent the knee because he agreed to send aid to the Riverlands. Because he helped us retake our home. Because just as he had my sister in the capital, he was willing to give us his brother,” she flicked a hand in Ser Kevan’s direction, “And because, for all everyone either hates him or fears him, it is known that he was the best man to ever sit the throne, even if he’d never worn the crown. But if we kneel to this woman because she has hostages in our kin, then Robb might as well have knelt to Joffrey because he had Sansa as hostage, and me for all he knew. If we kneel, we’re doing so out of fear, not respect. Not even compromise. We’re doing it because she has the North by the bollocks. But that isn’t our way. We don’t cower.”

“Torrhen Stark did,” Mother spoke a bit absently, and Arya knew the woman was using everything in her power to not collapse into a heaping pile of snot and sobs.

“Aye,” Maester Luwin, added, “Aegon Targaryen came to Westeros with three dragons. Torrhen Stark knelt so that none of the North would burn. Many of the southern kings didn’t, and much of their lands were burned. Most call Torrhen Stark a hero, not a craven.”

“Aye, well, perhaps Torrhen Stark figured the Targaryens would do some good. He couldn’t see the future, but we know the past. Aegon and his sisters conquered Westeros, and what good ever came of it?”

“Little good, my lady. And plenty of death and pain and war. But men have always warred, and death and pain are the only guarantees any man has in this life.”

Clegane snorted at that, but otherwise stayed mum.

Arya sighed, “I’m just saying that I don’t think it’s right. To kneel to her not because we think she’s worthy but because she stole my sister and nieces away from their home!”

Clegane shook his head, “And if kneeling is the only way to get your sister returned? Your nieces?” He looked straight at Arya, and she found, for some reason, it was hardest to hold his gaze. He’d yet to rage, to throw something, to curse and stomp, but she knew this news bothered him, perhaps even more than it bothered her, or at least differently. She knew what was going on behind those gray eyes of his. She knew he was picturing all manner of foul things being done to Sansa and regretting that he hadn’t somehow prevented it, such as by guarding the Red Wolf in King’s Landing instead of the Wolf Pup in Winterfell.

By contrast, Arya didn’t worry for her sister’s safety, not truly. Sansa was wily. Sansa was strong. Sansa was beautiful and sweet. Sansa knew how to survive and how to play a part. Perhaps this Ser Jorah would be as easily charmed as the lion had been. Sansa would do what was necessary to survive and to protect her daughters, of that Arya was sure. No, what Arya felt now wasn’t fear, it was anger. Pure, undiluted, untempered anger. She didn’t give a fig whether this Targaryen would be a good ruler, whether she deserved the throne, whether she was just like the warrior queens that Arya grew up idolizing. Arya hated her, because their family had finally found peace, and the bitch ruined it. Did they not deserve to all just be happy for a little while? Did Sansa not deserve it?

Dacey shook her head, “We don’t cower, no, but you need to decide if you’re willing to pay the price of our pride. If we tell the bitch to fuck off and she sends one of your niece’s heads in—”

“Dacey!” Mother scolded, but Arya knew it was her own ears she was trying to spare more than Arya’s.

“Let her speak, Mother.”

Dacey’s eyes flicked between mother and daughter, “Or if we tell her to fuck off and she flies here with her dragons to burn Winterfell?”

Arya felt her lips curling, “Then we fight. Men have killed dragons before. Actually, it was a woman, as I recall.”

“Aye, my lady. And a woman might kill a dragon yet again. But how many Northmen will pay for that death with their blood? I’m not telling you what to do, Arya. Only telling you to think long and hard before you do anything.”

“But what if…” Gendry started, then stopped.

“Go on,” Arya prompted, turning to look at her husband. Gendry never feared speaking his mind to those he considered his peers, his equals, but despite being wed to the Wardeness of the North, he couldn’t shake off old habits and lessons beaten into his skull. Like, don’t address a highborn unless they address you first. Like, no one cares about the opinion of a bastard. Like, if you say the wrong thing to someone with ‘lord’ or ‘lady’ before their name, they have every right to take your tongue.

Gendry shook his head faintly, “What if we could find out where this Jorah fellow took Sansa and the girls? What if we play loyal to this dragon lady to buy us time to find them?”

Clegane snorted, “She could be anywhere in the known world, boy, you realize that?”

Gendry snorted back, and even under the circumstances Arya found it highly arousing when Gendry stood his ground against Clegane, “Anywhere? So, she could be right here in Winterfell?”

“You know what I—”

“Or in the Red Keep?”

“Don’t be a smart—”

“Or in Riverrun?”

Clegane flicked one of his big hands, “You made your point, boy! I meant to say virtually anywhere. Happy now?”

Gendry shook his head, “Ser Alix mentioned no Dornish representation at court, so let’s assume it isn’t Dorne, either. It could be somewhere in the Reach, but that’s quite a gamble, hm? From all I’ve heard of the Tyrells, they wouldn’t risk being tangled up in such a conspiracy. I doubt she’s in the Vale for the same reason, nor the West for obvious reasons.”

“Fine,” Clegane surrendered, “She could be anywhere but Westeros. Still doesn’t help us.”

“Even Sothoryos?” Gendry grinned.

Clegane pushed himself away from the wall, “Whoever taught you geography is going to get my foot up their arse!”

Gendry continued, “Not the Stepstones or any other island, I imagine. The threat of storms and pirates makes them quite vulnerable, and Sansa and the girls are rather valuable, aren’t they?”

“And the Slave Cities are out of the question, too,” Ser Kevan added, his eyes looking excited for the first time since they received the dreadful news, “She has too many enemies there. Plus, they are mired in civil unrest and wars. It’s probably dangerous there even for the locals.”

“What does that leave?” Arya asked, “The Free Cities? That’s it?” She turned to face her mother.

Mother shook her head, “The Free Cities are as big as everything south of the Neck. And to their east is Dothrak, which is almost as large as all of Westeros. The Empire of Yi Ti and Plains of the Jogos Nai are as large again. Even if we could narrow her location down to a particular region…”

“It won’t be like searching for a needle in a haystack; it’ll be like searching for a needle in a hayfield,” Dacey added, needlessly.

“So… So that’s it?” Arya asked, feeling that brief hope already dying.

Mother’s eyes narrowed, “No… No that’s not it…”

“What are you thinking, Lady Catelyn?” Ser Kevan inquired.

It took Mother a few beats to respond, and Arya could see her eyes were seeing something… seeing a way…

“The queen has demanded the North to present at court and swear fealty. Without saying so outright, she implies that if we do not, my uncle or daughter or granddaughters will pay for our defiance.”

“Aye,” Arya shrugged, “With all due respect, Mother, you’re just repeating what we already know.”

Mother turned to face her, “I will appear at court as the delegate of House Stark, there to negotiate the terms of our fealty. I will put up all the expected protests, so she doesn’t suspect a trick. Then, when she feels I have no point of leverage, I will make one final attempt. One demand in exchange for the North’s fealty: that one of the girls be returned to us, and only once I hold either Jeyne or Jocelyn in my arms will I call Daenerys Targaryen my queen.”

Ser Kevan nodded, “She’ll see it as a fair deal, knowing she’ll still have two other hostages of similar value, not to mention those she has in King’s Landing.”

“Aye,” Mother smiled, “and when a ship departs the capital to retrieve my granddaughter, we will have men ready to see where it goes.”

“The bitch’s men will see if they’re being followed,” Clegane rasped, “If they outsmarted Tywin Lannister, they’ve got to be smart enough to notice a ship behind them on open sea.”

“Did they outsmart him, or simply know their enemy?” Mother lifted a brow, the earlier fear and anger and insult gone, replaced by a look of pure resolve, “But rest assured, Lord Sandor, they will not know they’re being followed. Not if we choose the right man for the job,” Mother turned to face Ser Kevan, “You know of whom I speak.”

It took a few moments before Ser Kevan nodded, “Aye, I believe I do.”

 

Jaime

“Well?” Daenerys asked, “What news have you brought from my wayward kingdom?”

(Jaime didn’t point out that it was one of several wayward kingdoms.)

Ser Alix straightened from his bow, “The Lady Stark – meaning Lady Catelyn – accepts your invitation. She sent me and your men back here straightaway while the weather was fair to deliver her message.”

“Beyond accepting my invitation, what message would that be?”

Ser Alix took a breath, “She requests that Lord Lannister not be executed – assuming he is found guilty in his trial – until she arrives here. She wishes to hear from her daughter’s husband directly.”

“I provided the man’s signed testimony.”

“Begging pardon, but Northerners are different, your grace. We do not trust in ink on parchment, but in the truth we see in a man’s eyes.”

Daenerys sighed loudly, “Very well. This shan’t be a problem. When can we expect her?”

“She intended to depart within two moons, pending the cooperation of the weather.”

“Two moons?! Pending the weather?!”

Ser Axil winced, “She wished to call her nearest banner lords for council and communicate by raven or messenger with the others. The North is… well, not a meritocracy, officially, but the Warden of the North has always heeded the council of his leal lords when major decisions are under consideration.”

Daenerys looked none too pleased, but she reaffixed her stoic mien, “Very well. You are dismissed, Ser.”

Jaime waited until the young guard bowed before facing the queen, “That means perhaps three moons my father spends in the dungeons. Or perhaps even longer.”

She lifted a pale eyebrow, “Do you fear it is too cruel for him?”

Jaime cast a glance at Ser Barristan before continuing, “I fear it is too merciful of you. You are the queen, and you have all but proclaimed my father your greatest enemy, not to mention the most destructive war criminal Westeros has seen since Aemond Kinslayer.”

Ser Barristan nodded, “Ser Jaime isn’t wrong…” how generous “…it will look like weakness, your grace. Until we find a way to bring the rest of your army here, you are relying on Tyrell swords and Lannister swords to keep you safe, and to not stab you in the back.”

“You seem to forget those Lannister swords have strong incentive to stay pointed in the right direction.”

Jaime shook his head, “The people of the West will forget Sansa Stark and her daughters soon enough. Out of sight, out of mind. And few of them but those who directly served my father even know her as anything but a name. And you’ve promised that Tommen and Tyrion will not live as hostages indefinitely.”

Daenerys’ eyes narrowed in thought before she nodded at him, “I will think on it. In the meantime, you both seem to also forget about Drogon…”

“It would help if people saw you riding him,” Jaime insisted, “him swooping in when you’re in danger is good. It would be better if he was thought of as the queen’s ever-obedient beast.”

Daenerys frowned, “I have no time to play dragon trainer. No word has been received from Sunspear or Starfall or any other part of Dorne. No word from Lord Tully at Riverrun. No word from Lady Arryn in the Vale. I knew to expect some reticence from Dorne, but I thought the North and Riverlands would be throwing themselves at my feet to ensure Sansa and her daughters’ safety, sers. I thought Lysa Arryn would do anything to avoid war, especially against someone whose flying beasts will negate the natural defenses of the Vale.”

Jaime knew she was parroting back her advisors’ words, and doing so with clear contempt, but he also realized that Daenerys had assumed the allegiance they foretold would be immediate. Did she still not realize how prideful men (and women) were? Did she not realize that even Aegon the Conqueror, whose dragon could eat Daenerys’ largest dragon as a snack, did not enjoy immediate fealty? Did she expect the descendants of the lords and ladies who’d looked upon Balerion the Black Dread and said, ‘do your worst’ to not put up at least some resistance?

It didn’t necessarily mean they rejected her rule, only that they were holding out so that they might get something out of the deal other than a new arse sitting in the throne none of them gave a fuck about. Edmure Tully, Lysa Arryn, Doran Martell – if they had one thing in common, it was a hatred of Tywin Lannister, and yet that didn’t mean they’d be tripping over their own feet in their haste to kneel to yet another royal.

But Daenerys was only looking at the negative. The positive was not a single soldier of any kingdom had moved against her. Varys reported no amassing of troops in any region, nor any other signs of protest to Daenerys’ rule. It probably helped that winter was coming (or was it already here? Jaime couldn’t rightly remember how cold it felt in King’s Landing last winter, as he was rather focused on dreams of valor, and later on not being the next one tied to a pyre).

He took a breath and faced Daenerys, “Lady Arryn is a kook, and a paranoid one at that. Edmure Tully is likely waiting on Lady Stark’s decision. He will not choose something that thwarts Winterfell’s plans, no matter that you hold his uncle hostage. And Doran Martell? He stayed out of the Five Kings’ War. He largely stayed out of Robert’s Rebellion. He is likely waiting for the dust to settle before throwing his support behind you.”

“What dust?!” Daenerys stood from her chair, “is it a battlefield you see out there?” she flung her hand toward the balcony doors, “smoke wafting up from burnt-out homes? Crows picking at corpses strewn about the streets? Blood staining the cobbles? No. I took this throne peacefully and lawfully! I took this throne from a man none in this realm love. Seven kingdoms should be eager to call me their queen, and instead all I get is two – and one of them quite reticently.”

Ser Barristan stepped closer, “And those two kingdoms have the wealth and numbers to stand up to all the others, my queen, should it be necessary. Besides, Prince Doran is likely just posturing. Hoping you will eventually be so eager for his support that you’ll wed one of his sons.”

“Wed one of his sons,” Daenerys grumbled, “Is this the only solution men can come up with? Is this the only way they will support a female monarch – by installing their son betwixt her thighs?”

Jaime exchanged a glance with Ser Barristan.

“What?” Daenerys asked, her voice teeming with understandable frustration.

Jaime cleared his throat, “The people don’t know you. The people don’t fear you. The people cannot say they respect you as a ruler. Not yet. Having hostages will only get you so far, now it’s time to prove yourself.”

“You think all I have is hostages?” Daenerys scoffed, “Am I not the last Targaryen? Do I not have dragons – those creatures the conqueror used to get every kingdom but Dorne to kneel? Am I not a vast improvement over men like Tywin Lannister and Joffrey Waters and Robert Baratheon and Aerys the Second?! Am I not the only person with a rightful claim to the iron throne?”

Jaime knew he had to tread carefully here. He understood Daenerys’ frustration, but he also understood the pride of men. It influenced not just how quickly they would give their fealty to another, but also who they would consider worthy of such fealty at all.

Most lords thought the world of themselves, Jaime had seen firsthand. Hells, most men thought the world of themselves. To kneel to a girl from a foreign land, dragon or no, went against every grain of their being. Men wanted to follow other men. Stronger men. Fearsome men. Or they wanted to be that man that others followed. They might offer words of allegiance to Daenerys because Tywin Lannister ordered them to, but it would be a flimsy alliance. The time to cement herself as the people’s ruler – a woman to be respected, feared, and loved, was now.

He told Daenerys as much, and her eyes narrowed again.

When she spoke next, it was in a voice so assured, so confident, so cold, that Jaime wondered if she’d decided to mimic the great lion. “Edmure Tully. Lysa Arryn. Doran Martell. Which of those is the least loved be their people?”

“Lysa Arryn,” Jaime and Ser Barristan answered in comically perfect harmony.

Daenerys nodded, “She is the sister of Lady Catelyn, is she not?”

Jaime nodded back, “Yes, though night and day in terms of… likability.” Jaime wouldn’t exactly call Catelyn Stark a peach, but her Northern husband’s people had come to respect her, and whatever faults the woman had, no one could claim she was a bad mother. But Lysa Arryn’s idea of good parenting was to let her son suckle her teats at age six, and to ply the boy with sweets whenever he threw a tantrum. That Jon Arryn could keep Robert Baratheon in line (mostly) but not his wife was a testament to how volatile and uncontrollable the woman was.

Ser Barristan snorted in amusement at Jaime’s understatement, “If I may, your grace, the woman is erratic, but I suspect there is some wiliness to her. I held my tongue of my suspicions at the time, for I had no proof and my accusation could only potentially lead to war over events that could not be undone, but…” the knight trailed off, casting his eyes down to his boots.

“But what?” Daenerys implored, her violet eyes flashing with tentative excitement.

Ser Barristan offered another quick glance to Ser Jaime, “The Lord Hand was her husband. I mean, Robert’s Hand. Jon Arryn, Lord Protector of the Vale. He was old but robust when he passed away, your grace. Of a strange affliction, the likes of which I’ve never seen.”

Daenerys’ head cocked to one side, “You suspected poison?”

“Aye,” Barristan nodded, “A mere few weeks before his death, Jon Arryn had decided to foster his son Robert in Dragonstone with Stannis Baratheon – a man known for being… firm. Cold even, but not unreasonable. The fight that commenced between husband and wife was heard beyond the windows of the Tower of the Hand, but Lord Arryn would not be swayed. His son was frail and… and delicate… and needed to be toughened up. Lady Arryn seemed to relent, but before Robert Arryn could be shipped off to Dragonstone, Jon Arryn became ill and died within days. The lady seemed to mourn, but who can say whether there were tears being shed behind the closed door of her apartments, or the black veil of her headdress.”

Jaime said nothing to Selmy’s theory. Jaime hardly thought about Jon Arryn’s death at the time, nor since, other than the fear that in his dying days Jon shared his suspicions of Cersei with Robert Baratheon. When days then weeks passed with nothing coming of it, Jaime let out a breath of relief and thanked the gods that whatever malady took Jon Arryn must’ve also taken his mental faculties before the end.

But now?

Jaime heard himself adding to Ser Barristan’s theory, “Not long after Jon Arryn’s death, King Robert told Lysa that he would send her son to Casterly Rock instead. Once more it was avoided: before it could be arranged, Lysa and young Robert left in the middle of the night. They went to the Vale and have never left since then. Not even when Lysa’s sister went to war. Not even when her homelands were trampled by my father’s men.”

Barristan nodded, “Aye. If the idea of fostering her son was so unappealing that she would refuse her king’s command and flee in the night like a criminal, then…”

“Then perhaps she’d be desperate enough to kill her elderly husband,” Daenerys nodded slowly.

“Varys ought to know,” Jaime added.

Not an hour later they had the truth from the eunuch’s own mouth…

Not only did Lysa Arryn administer poison to her husband, she penned a coded letter to her sister Catelyn, framing the lions for the crime.

“This was what started the war between North and South?” Daenerys asked.

“No, your grace,” Varys spoke levelly, “That would be Lady Catelyn’s abduction of Tyrion Lannister. Though her suspicion of Tyrion was no doubt influenced by her sister’s warning.”

“She abducted Tyrion Lannister because she thought he poisoned Jon Arryn?” Daenerys looked at each of her three companions.

Jaime began sweating, wondering if he should confess his role in that whole ugly business before Varys spilled the truth. But before he could decide, the eunuch continued, “She abducted Lord Tyrion and put him on trial because one Petyr Baelish convinced her that the dagger used in an attempt on her middle son’s life was last in Tyrion’s possession.”

Daenerys rubbed at her brow, “But it wasn’t?”

Varys shrugged, “I know not, your grace. I only know what Littlefinger – eh, the late lord Baelish – claimed. Though you may be interested to know that Lord Baelish was also the one to procure the Tears of Lys that was used to poison Lord Arryn.”

Daenerys snorted, “It would seem this Littlefinger would be a perfect man to make an example of. Too bad he’s dead. Who killed him?”

What killed him,” Varys corrected, tone still flat, “And the answer is wolves.”

“Men sworn to House Stark?”

“No. Literal wolves, it is believed.”

“Hmpf. Poetic, I’d say, if it was the Starks who this Baelish fellow duped into going against House Lannister.”

“Quite poetic,” Varys offered his version of a smile.

What do you know, Spider?

“And this Lysa Arryn was an accomplice in all this,” Daenerys summarized, “At minimum, she knowingly murdered her husband. At maximum, she incited a war even knowing it would be her own kin that paid the price.”

“How much she knew is anyone’s guess,” Jaime offered. He held little love for Lysa Arryn, but he didn’t like the look in Daenerys’ eyes as her brain worked through the revelations and her options.

Then, the queen stood. Rather abruptly.

“Ser Jaime, you will escort me to the dragon pit.”

He had no choice but to follow her surprisingly swift strides, but it was Ser Barristan that called to her back, “What would you have of me, your grace?”

“The city is under your command until I return, though I suggest you collaborate with Lord Tyrell.”

“Return?! Where are you going?!” Ser Barristan was now running behind them down the main corridor.

“To deliver justice. To gain respect. To become loved. To become feared. Any of the above, or all of them, Ser.”

“Khaleesi…” Selmy’s half-formed plea fell on deaf ears, and Jaime didn’t bother asking questions or encouraging patience. Not when he was finally being put to action for the first time in weeks.

With ten Unsullied flanking them, he and Daenerys rode side-by-side through the city. Many came out to call her name in adoration, but Jaime knew better than to call it love. They were sheep bleating because that was their nature, same as it was every dog’s nature to beg for scraps even from the hand that sometimes beats it.

When they arrived at the base of Rhaenys’ hill, Jaime glanced at his queen. She nodded, then ordered her guards to stay where they were.

Jaime and Daenerys began their ascent of the path that zigged and zagged up the hill to the massive main doors, their mounts winded from the uphill climb by then.

They dismounted and Jaime tethered the horses, noting with a startle that Daenerys was marching onward without waiting for him. He jogged to catch up, following the torch that Daenerys had taken from one of the sconces that she’d ordered be kept lit day and night when Drogon decided to make the place his home.  

Daenerys must have mapped the place on one of her previous visits, because she led them straight to a particular one of the manmade caves. They were said to be larger than the caves of Dragonmont on Dragonstone by something like three to five times, and Jaime believed it. He wondered how the entire hill hadn’t collapsed on itself; so much soil and stone must’ve been excavated to form the inner tunnels and caves.

When they reached their destination, Daenerys handed Jaime the torch rather brusquely and then marched with none of the trepidation he’d seen in her before when approaching her winged mount the size of an elephant.

Well, that was the last time Jaime saw it up close and personal. Now it was an elephant and a half. Nowhere near the scale of the legendary dragons Balerion and Vhagar, but large enough for a man to piss himself if he didn’t actively hold his bladder.  

There were no words exchanged, either. Just Daenerys, striding right up to her deadly pet with the fearlessness of that black cat that used to haunt the Red Keep, the one that had hounds and horses skittering because it strutted like a king and hissed and scratched like a cheated whore.

For its part, Drogon cracked open one eye and let out something like an unimpressed snort.

Until it realized that Daenerys meant to mount its back with or without its permission. The massive head came forward snake-quick to snap at its mother, ungrateful beast, but Jaime knew better than to draw his sword. He simply took a few quiet steps back toward the massive tunnel they’d come through.

And in response to the dragon’s bit of petulance, its mother bopped it on the snout with her palm.

The beast countered with an angry hiss, dagger-like teeth bared.

The woman countered with a baring of her own teeth, then a hand to the side of the beast’s head, to push it aside the way a man might swat away a hysterical woman who was no actual threat to him.

Another snap of the jaws and Jaime had to try even more actively not to lose his bladder. If the dragon was willing to eat Daenerys, there was no way it wouldn’t eat him. (At least he’d have a few moments inside the beast’s belly to tell Daenerys, ‘serves you right’.)

But Jaime soon realized the beast was making a display of its weapons without using any of them.

Posturing. It’s posturing.

And Daenerys knew it.

And the dragon knew it, by the way it got agitated. Frustrated to have had its bluff called. Its head trembled and its body reared back, looking much like that nasty old cat when it was preparing to pounce on some unsuspecting bird or rabbit (or dog, or man).

But as it compacted its body, room was made for Daenerys to approach, and she did. One step, then another, then another, until she was once more eye-to-eye with Drogon, no words being spoken aloud, but a silent battle for dominance being fought.

Another hiss, this time followed by jaws opening enough to show something glowing in its throat.

Another step. The beast was cornered, but only because it allowed itself to be. The submission was happening, the victor emerging.

A giant head lowered. Jaime swallowed a gasp.

A small hand pressed between large feline-like eyes, which closed in response.

A whispered word spoken. Jaime couldn’t make it out.

Then Daenerys was climbing up onto its back.

Jaime’s jaw dropped open in awe.

No verbal command was given, but the beast did its version of walking until Jaime was staring up at Daenerys from the side, just as she was staring down.

He was certain he’d found her regal-looking before, but it struck him that until this moment he never truly thought of her as a queen, meaning a woman worthy of veneration. He’d seen her lose her temper and lose her patience when the entire world seemed against her. He’d seen her tears, seen her look heartbroken when her “child” refused to come to her. He’d seen her afraid, when the Great Masters’ attack began in the fighting pit. He’d seen her delirious as they trudged through the desert toward Meereen. He’d seen her entirely surrendered, inviting death, as they retched and shat every drop of water out of their bodies. He'd seen her look hopeless when the pyramid and city became surrounded by enemies who had united against her. He’d seen her look pleased when she sat on the iron throne for the first time.

But now… Now she looked solemn but not cold, proud but not arrogant, powerful but not cruel. All those images she normally projected were gone, stripped away along with all the doubts that she shackled herself with.

Now she looked only like a queen. A warrior queen, to be precise. Visenya Targaryen would be proud. Hells, the conqueror himself would be proud.

As would Maegor I… As would the rogue prince… And Aegon V… And Aerys II…

He shook his head to clear out his thoughts, spoken in his father’s voice. For too long he had let a stern word or glare from his father shame him, or merely the conjuring of the word or glare he’d get, since for most of his life he didn’t occupy the same city as his father.

No more.

It occurred to him to drop to his knees, but Daenerys had other ideas.

A slender hand extended down toward him. His eyes traveled from his queen’s face to her hand then back again, to find a smirk had formed in that brief time.

He smiled back, then reached for the hand.

He didn’t expect the first time his brother conversed with the new queen to be when he was called forth as a witness to a trial, but it was.

He didn’t expect any trial to be taking place other than that of Tywin Lannister, but one did.

Lady Lysa Arryn looked quite the disheveled wreck when she was dragged, literally kicking and screaming, into the throne room.

Lord Mace Tyrell, the newly minted Lord of Rosby, Thedric, and Lord Gawen Westerling formed the jury.

Jaime, Varys, Maester Pycelle, and Ser Barristan comprised the most significant of the witnesses, along with Tyrion. There were also a handful of knights and servants and even a singer who attested to the fact that the Lord and Lady Arryn had a loveless marriage and bickered frequently.

Jaime didn’t have the energy or desire to try to figure out who was being honest and who was testifying in the way that would most benefit himself or herself. With Robert Arryn still young and sickly, many would look to be rid of the boy’s mother so they could be the one pulling the lordling’s strings. Perhaps Lord Yohn Royce or Lady Waynwood had paid the servants to pile the dung so high on Lady Lysa that she’d never be able to dig herself out from under it.

But the woman hardly helped her own case with her screeching and squawking her theories that the lions were conspiring to kill her son so they may rule the Vale (through what line of succession, she could not speculate, nor could she explain how Tywin Lannister was executing such a conspiracy from a dungeon cell).

Apparently, having been forced from her home under threat of dragonfire, with her late husband’s men gladly handing her over, was enough to have the woman’s precariously teetering brain finally tip squarely toward the side of insanity.

Varys testified all about the poison called Tears of Lys, administered by Lady Lysa to her husband, after having been procured by her childhood friend and later lover, Petyr Baelish. It was convenient that the one spymaster wasn’t there to defend himself against the other, though Jaime knew Petyr Baelish had been far from innocent. Slimy was a good word to describe Littlefinger. Besides, Jaime trusted the eunuch’s words were truthful, just not that they were the entire truth. Aye, Varys offered a convenient explanation for not coming forward sooner – that he didn’t know who else at court might have wanted the Hand dead, and thus feared his own neck would be on the block if he admitted his knowledge. (He didn’t say it outright, but it was strongly implied that the late Queen Cersei might be one of those who wanted Jon Arryn’s death to be quietly swept under the rug, though didn’t say why.) The jury and the court and the queen bought such an explanation, but Jaime had known Varys since the days of Aerys II Targaryen; if the eunuch withheld knowledge, it was because it benefited him or his cause to do so. Why let Lysa Arryn be punished for Jon Arryn’s death when pitting lion against wolf would create the chaos needed for Westeros to accept another Targaryen monarch? Well, that was Jaime’s opinion on the matter, not that anyone asked him.  

In the end, there was unanimous agreement that Lady Lysa Arryn was guilty of the murder of her lawful husband and conspiracy to incite violence by penning a letter to her sister, Catelyn Stark, decrying the Lannisters as being behind Jon Arryn’s death.

Jaime had counseled against something so irrevocable as an execution, being as the allegiance of Houses Tully and Stark to the new queen had not yet been demonstrated. But alas, the dragoness had to prove her claws were not just pretty but also sharp, and since Lysa’s scheming hurt her kin most of all, Daenerys was confident that the lawful execution wouldn’t be a sticking point in the upcoming negotiations with Lady Catelyn. If anything, she hoped to instill some fear in the woman who’d be arriving soon to parley. I’m not afraid of killing powerful lords and ladies, if they so deserve it.

Thus, at high noon the day after the verdict was read, Lysa Arryn lost her head in front of an audience of lords and commoners alike. Lord Yohn Royce was named Lord Protector of the Vale until Robert Arryn came of age, though Jaime noted his daughter Ysilla was invited to court, to serve as a lady in waiting to the new queen. Whether Royce truly was loyal to Daenerys or just using her to solve his Lysa Arryn problem would be revealed soon enough; it should take no more than a month for Ysilla to arrive in King’s Landing from the small port at Saltpans.

After Lysa Arryn’s head rolled, Daenerys gave a pretty speech about how it was her duty to bring to justice anyone guilty of a crime, but that she had a particular axe to grind against those whose crimes and schemes had wrought havoc on Westeros in the form of the recent civil wars.

Jaime wondered then, what she’d think of him pushing Bran Stark out a window. One could argue that act did more to start a war than any of Littlefinger’s schemes. Well, one could try to argue…

But he’d not be illuminating that sin to this woman. All he’d ever done, he’d done for love. He’d never claimed to be a hero, nor a particularly noble or honorable man. Daenerys knew that, and she accepted him by her side.

Besides, Daenerys had yet to meet his brother Tyrion, and knowing his brother’s big mouth and even bigger balls, Tyrion would talk himself into a situation that only Jaime’s goodwill with the queen could get him out of.

Chapter 41: On holiday

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Sansa

She stared into the looking glass, and a stranger stared back.

No, not a stranger. A ghost.

And not even some vengeful ghost, hellbent on haunting whoever had wronged her in life until the person went mad and flung themselves from a balcony or took a sharp knife to their wrist.

No, she was the ghost that had spent an eternity wandering the world in its spectral form, invisible to people and animals alike, until it was so despondent, so tired, that it wished it would just be allowed into the hells already.

It hadn’t been like this, at first. Defeated though she felt as her husband was taken away from her, as Jeyne and Jocelyn cried and screamed and called out for their papa and blabbered their snotty questions at her and Rayna, she still had her resolve.

Her children, they were her resolve. Her reason for being strong. Her reason for not crumpling.

“We are going on a holiday, my loves. We are going to sail on this boat to a beautiful land, and spend time there. Just us girls. Mama’s only sad because she’ll miss Papa, but we will see him soon.”

She prayed they would forget those words and the man himself, and hated that she prayed for it, and hated that Tywin didn’t deserve to be forgotten by his children but that Sansa needed such to happen, because she could not spend the rest of her life being asked when they’d go home, when they’d see Papa again.

‘Forget’ might not be the right word, but the strangeness of being at sea had certainly distracted her daughters. Or so Rayna had told her. Sansa herself was unconscious for the first half of the sea voyage. Rayna blamed it on Sansa being in the frigid water and the stress of the entire evening. Regardless of the cause, Sansa had fallen asleep that morning after the ship weighed anchor and didn’t wake up for longer than a few moments for five days. Fever had set in, and her moontide came shortly after. Sansa slept through most of it, only waking for hazy moments that were defined by violent shakes, or sweating like she hadn’t done since birthing the girls, and the worst cramps she’d ever had.

Sometimes when she woke Rayna was there, but more often it was Ser Jorah or one of the spearmen who plied honeyed water or broth or wine into her. Who dabbed at her forehead and neck. Who tried to get her to eat bread or dried fruit, but she could barely stomach the broth, sick as she felt. No doubt Rayna was needed to keep the girls occupied, not to mention fed.

When the fever broke Rayna helped her stand, strip, and use two pitchers of the precious freshwater Ser Jorah permitted to clean her body, which smelled like old sweat and copper.

Rayna reassured Sansa that none but her had tended her body, including the messes she made in her smallclothes, then on the cloths Rayna took to spreading under her body rather than letting what precious little clothing they’d been given be ruined.

Sansa’s lower belly had still ached, and dark dried blood had still coated her inner thighs when Rayna helped her clean her body from head to toe with a rag, a bar of ash soap, and that precious freshwater.

She didn’t ask Rayna if anything that had been cleaned away in the past days had looked like more than blood, and the woman was good enough not to tell her.

She only cried upon realizing that Rayna had been taken away from her daughter and husband in King’s Landing. Rayna shook her head and pursed her lips, “Let’s focus on getting you well, your grace. We have the rest of our lives to feel sorry for ourselves, hm?”

“I’ll ask them to send you back to the capital. Surely they can find a wetnurse in… in wherever they’re taking me. And the girls are old enough to eat porridge and mashed fruit. Soon they’ll be eating solid food and… and they won’t need you.” Not for nourishment. “I will make them take you back, Ray.”

Rayna gave her a tight smile, “Thank you, your grace. I know you’ll try.”

Unspoken was that the effort would be in vain. They wouldn’t let Rayna, with knowledge of where they were taking Sansa and the girls, return to the capital, nor any part of Westeros.

A useless apology was given, and Rayna made another attempt at smiling before pressing something into Sansa’s hand, “This had been in your coat pocket. I found it and… kept it safe. I suggest you hide it well, if it’s something of sentimental value.”

The warm thing pressed into Sansa’s hand was a coin. A coin she’d recently pressed into her husband’s hand. A gift given, not just in the coin’s power but in Sansa’s trust.

Tears filled her eyes as she thought back to the last time she saw her husband, when he kissed her forehead, told her to forget about him and everything she’d once cared about, save their daughters. When he’d told her to… how did he put it? Use the tools at her disposal to protect herself and her daughters?

It would’ve been easy (and tempting) to assume he meant her to use the coin to take the dragon queen’s life, hopefully before Tywin was tried and executed, but Sansa knew that wasn’t his intent. The dragon queen’s death wouldn’t bring her and the girls back to Westeros. And if Ser Jorah even suspected that Sansa commissioned that murder, she’d be the first victim of his vengeance.

No – Tywin gave her that coin to use if and only if it was necessary to saving her own life, or the lives of their daughters. He wasn’t giving her a chance for justice, or vengeance; he was giving her a weapon. He’d probably have slipped a dagger into her pocket if he’d been permitted to carry one onto that ship, but all he had on him was that coin.

Meaning he’s been carrying it around with him all these weeks… Not for safekeeping, for surely it’d be safer in his personal vault, but because it reminds him of my love, my trust. The coin must’ve seemed like a charm to him, or a talisman.

And he returned it to me, in fear I may someday need it to save my life.

She had cried anew, then tucked the coin into her bodice.

A sennight later, when her bleeding had fully stopped and she woke up to the sight of a massive harbor in the distance, she put the coin inside her cunt. If her captors searched her for some rudimentary weapon before debarking, she would not risk them finding the coin. The Unsullied spearmen probably knew High Valyrian, and Ser Jorah may as well. Or they may even know about this guild of faceless assassins and the coins they selectively gave out.

Indeed one of the spearmen patted her down just before she was led up the ladder and onto deck. There Rayna was already waiting with the girls, who greeted her eagerly. She forced herself to smile but had few answers to give to their many primitive questions like ‘What dat?’ and “Where we?’ She envied their excitement, for she felt only fear as she took in her surroundings. The docks were as busy as the ones in the capital, yet the people looked and dressed so different, crewmen and laborers shouting at each other in a foreign tongue, or perhaps multiple foreign tongues. Laughter came from some directions, and anger from others. In fact, most of it sounded angry, since she couldn’t make out the words and only the volume. She realized she was trembling and forced herself not to cry, not to whimper, not to let the girls see anything but their straight-spined mother, even though they were busy looking at anything but her. Ship sails, gulls, dark-skinned men wearing nothing but vests and puffy pants that came down to mid-calf. Some had scarves wrapped around their heads, others nothing but coal-black hair, or some pale blond hair. None red hair, and the few with something like light brown or dark blond hair seemed to be the ones coming or going by sea, not working permanently on the docks, given that they dressed in Westerosi styles. Meaning they were Westerosi. Meaning they might recognize her. Meaning they might report her whereabouts back to someone in King’s Landing or Winterfell or Riverrun!

Ser Jorah must not have been concerned, for he slung two bags over his shoulder and then took her elbow as she held a squirming Jeyne in her arms.

“Listen to me, girl,” the knight spoke, “we find an inn for a few nights before moving on. Two guards will take Rayna and Jocelyn to a different inn. You must be smart enough to know I won’t keep you all in the same place when there are so many Westerosi eyes on these docks. You’ll see Jocelyn soon enough, so no need to go hysterical, you hear me? It won’t change anything for you. You fight me, I’ll just hit you over the head and gag you, bind you, and throw you in that big trunk and drag you off this ship.”

Sansa nodded firmly. Though terrified at the notion of being separated from Jocelyn for a few nights, and the girls being separated from each other, she understood that fighting was pointless. She thought there were at least six guards on this ship, along with Ser Jorah, plus the crew. She and Ray would never be able to overpower them nor even outrun them and besides – what would be their destination? To some man here who looked like he was from Westeros? Who very likely would want nothing to do with the women and babes begging for his protection while at least a half dozen armed men ran after them?

No… She had to be smart. A time would come, but she could not force it. Besides, there was no rush. They’d been nearly a fortnight at sea, and it would take more than a fortnight for Sansa to return to Westeros and make her way to Winterfell or Riverrun. There’d be no rallying either’s armies in Winter, nor knowing if the West’s army would follow her command with Tywin and Tyrion and Tommen all captive of the dragon queen. Nor knowing if the Tyrell army would fight for her. For all Sansa knew, Daenerys Targaryen had already wed Lord Willas.

And for all Sansa knew, Tywin was already dead, or would be any day now… What would be the point of marching on the capital if not to save her husband? Otherwise it would just be vengeance – a perpetuation of the cycle the dragon queen didn’t mind continuing, but Sansa did. She had daughters who’d be put at risk if the realm went to war. She’d not risk her daughters for vengeance, though it terrified her to think she might risk them to save her husband, if she could…

It was another thought swallowed, though she knew Ser Jorah saw her eyes water as Sansa wondered if her husband was already dead, or merely a dead man walking. Part of her wanted to ask the knight if he knew what Daenerys Targaryen’s plans for Tywin had been. A speedy trial and immediate execution? Or would the trial be a drawn-out affair, intended to make an example of Tywin?

No, his death alone will make an example. The dragon queen cannot be stupid enough to let him live longer than necessary. Her advisers must’ve warned her that a lion is more dangerous alive, even if caged, than dead.

Dead… My husband is dead… The man I love despite knowing I shouldn’t. The man who saved me, who took a throne for me, who gave me children. Who would’ve done everything to make me and his daughters powerful so we could protect one another after he was gone.

And now he is gone, and I have no power. No power to protect myself or my girls. No family, no army, no loyal men, no noble name. I am back at Harrenhal, Sarina Parsons, just trying to survive. Except I don’t even have Arya. And no Tywin Lannister will ride in at any moment to stop the senseless cruelty, to take a pretty young whore under his protection.

I’ve jumped out of the frying pan only to land in the fire again. From one cage to another. Will it ever end? Will I ever land somewhere and stay there, safe and happy and loved?

Could this be that place? Should I give up on the idea of ever seeing my mother and sister and brothers again? Should I take this coin and throw it in a well so it doesn’t tempt me to do something that may cost my daughters’ lives?

Should I give up on being a lioness, a wolf, and just embrace being the stupid little bird? Why not, when it all leads back here every time? Back to me as a pawn, a hostage, a prisoner, a possession. Of my lord father, of Joffrey, of the Mountain’s men, of Tywin Lannister, and now of Ser Jorah Mormont. Perhaps Ser Jorah will like my bright feathers, my pretty chirping. If I let myself forget he is keeping me in a cage, can I finally be happy?

Why do I bother trying to do anything more than survive, when it never works? And yet why does it feel like a betrayal to too many people if I stop? Tywin. Father. Robb. Lady. Perhaps Bran. Perhaps Jon Snow.

“I won’t make a scene,” she promised the knight, forcing the tears back, slipping her old mask into place, though she noticed it now had some cracks, and she had no energy to repair them.

And she kept that promise, even as the girls cried to be separated. Sansa’s group left first, down the gangplank, weaving through the crowds of rushing bodies and rolling carts. She hated the man yet still found herself pressing against Ser Jorah’s side for protection. She doubted he was a lecher, but could not say the same for the strange men around her. His left arm came around her shoulders, but as they walked down a street that took them away from the harbor, it didn’t stop the leers of men. Even vendors shouting in their strange tongue did a double take. Men passing stared blatantly at her hair, then her chest, then her face. Some grinned, some licked their lips, one stuck his tongue out and flicked it up and down quickly, which made her gasp, tighten her hold on Jeyne, and turn further into Ser Jorah.

Jeyne asked ‘where papa?’, ‘where we?’, ‘where Joss?’, no doubt sensing her mother’s fear, but Sansa smiled down at her and said this was part of the adventure. She told Jeyne to look at all the bright colors. And the place was very colorful indeed, though she still didn’t know where they were. Pentos or Myr or Tyrosh, she assumed. Maybe the Summer Isles? She didn’t think any other cities would be less than a fortnight voyage from King’s Landing.

“Look Jeyne,” Sansa spoke after a man called something out to her that made the two men next to him laugh, “look up there…” she pointed in the opposite direction of the men.

Jeyne turned and followed her mother’s finger. They’d turned left and then right and were now on a wider street that was going uphill. In the distance, at the top of the hill, there was a tall building, like a manse, made out of a most brilliant red stone.

“Home?” Jeyne asked.

Sansa shook her head and swallowed her tears, “No, darling. We’re on holiday, remember?”

“Where Joss and Way?”

“They will join us in a few days, sweetling. I asked Rayna to do some shopping for me, and Jocelyn went with her because Mama only has two arms!”

Jeyne was distracted soon enough when their progress was halted by a short man who looked like a street jester. He bowed deeply and handed a painted swan made of some type of paper to Jeyne, while mumbling in a foreign tongue.

When he got no response other than Jeyne inelegantly grabbing the gift, the man smiled at Sansa, “Bute-ee-full chy-ul,” then at Ser Jorah, “Bute-ee-full wife.”

With a bop on Jeyne’s nose, the man spun away and disappeared into the crowd, and Sansa let herself be pulled along again. Ser Jorah hadn’t corrected the man, though she supposed it hardly mattered. She doubted this part of the city or island or whatever it was would be their permanent home. Why keep Sansa, with what she was learning was her remarkable hair color, in the midst of a place where men from Westeros were constantly coming and going.

It felt like hours that they walked, the streets gradually becoming less crowded, though she supposed it wasn’t hours. Could any city be that large? Eventually they reached an inn, or what Sansa assumed was an inn when Ser Jorah opened the door for her, his eyes darting up and down the street before he stepped in behind her, their one Unsullied guard bringing up the rear.

It was dark in the place after spending so long in the sun, and Sansa belatedly realized her skin felt hot. She’d left a cooler land during its coldest season. She’d probably be all freckles and a red forehead, but it hardly seemed worth caring about.

The innkeeper spoke the common tongue, though brokenly, and was happy to take Ser Jorah’s coin in exchange for two keys and a promise that lunch would be delivered promptly.

They all sat together in one room eating. Jeyne babbled her observations and questions to the best of her toddler abilities. The guard said nothing, though sometimes smiled at Jeyne. Ser Jorah said little but that he’d be leaving to purchase supplies soon, and that “Crawler” would stay with her. So this guard was named Crawler, in the common tongue. She’d heard one being referred to as Grey Worm by Daenerys Targaryen, though Sansa thought he left with the queen to head for King’s Landing. Another that accompanied them on this voyage was called Red Spider. There was also Black Mole and Bronze Fist and Slug. Why anyone would willingly go by the name ‘Slug’ was beyond Sansa. Did the dragon queen give her slave soldiers degrading names to keep them in line? It didn’t seem to fit with the woman who had allegedly freed all those slaves, but Sansa didn’t know what else to make of it.

Sansa nodded and fed Jeyne a bowl of the mushy cereal that contained some type of overly sweet-smelling fruit, the flesh of which was an ugly shade of beige and brown.

Jeyne loved it, which made Sansa smile. A genuine smile, for the first time since she walked into the nursery that fateful night. I should have fought, after all.

She and Jeyne shared the bed that night, her daughter falling asleep easily thanks to the day’s excitement. Crawler sat in the chair and spoke not a word, and even the presence of the foreign man couldn’t keep Sansa from drifting off. It had been quite a day for her, too.

The next day Ser Jorah handed her two skirts, two shirts, a pair of sandals that would bare her feet to the world, and two sets of undergarments. The shirts were loose-fitting with no fancy clasps, just fabric ties on the front so they could be cinched closed to the clavicle. The skirts were also loose, a rather dull mud brown color, the light linen fabric looking purposefully crinkled. The skirts must be designed to fit a variety of waist sizes, for each wrapped around Sansa a time and a half, then could be kept closed with strips of fabric that could be tied into the waistband wherever there was a set of eyelets, almost like a built-in belt. At least the linen was light and would cover her skin; Sansa had gotten enough leers without her shoulders or decolletage being exposed.

It was another day later that Ser Jorah left for several hours and came back with a few stoneware bottles, which he unpacked from his leather bag one at a time and sat on the table in a neat row.

After Jeyne fell asleep that night Ser Jorah produced a pair of scissors and told Sansa to sit. She did, though warily. He had her gather her hair all together and tie it with a ribbon. She did, knowing he meant to crop it and not caring. A few years ago, she had cut her own hair with a kitchen knife, while on a boat bound for Maidenpool, and couldn’t bring herself to crop it higher than her collarbones. What a difference a few years made. She sat there and wouldn’t have protested if Ser Jorah cut her hair to the scalp with a man’s shaving razor.

It wasn’t quite that short, being jaw-length when he was done, and puffing out too much, she could feel. The air here was dry and she’d need oil to keep the hair flatter and straighter, but she didn’t bother telling Ser Jorah that.

“This may tingle the scalp, and it will smell awful,” Ser Jorah explained as he picked up a bottle.

She had heard about but never seen anyone dye their hair, though she had noticed that some of the men at the docks in this place had blue or orange or yellow hair, and that it didn’t look like paint.

She wondered what color Ser Jorah had chosen for her and asked him.

“Black tints are hard to come by in a land where ninety percent are born with black hair,” he snorted in light amusement, “and I was told that red hair is too bright to take yellow or any other light color. Red always comes through the woman said. This,” he lifted the bottle, “is some acid that will strip the natural color from your hair.”

“Strip the color from my hair?” that didn’t sound possible.

“Aye. Don’t ask me how it works, but I’ve seen white suede that didn’t come from a white hide, so I know it can be done.”

She nodded, “So my hair will be… white?”

He shrugged, “It’ll be whatever red hair is when the red is removed.”

Tingle had been an understatement. The stuff burned like nothing she’d ever felt short of an actual flame. And awful was not adequate to describe the smell, even when Ser Jorah wrapped a dampened drying sheet around her head. Her nostrils burned, her eyes watered, her stomach recoiled. Good thing they had done this in the second room, or surely Jeyne would wake and be in tears.

She was hissing and wincing because of the sting, and almost cried in relief when, after the bells next tolled, Ser Jorah had her bend over the empty tub while he poured cool water over her hair and scalp while she held a rag over her face.

Her hairline was especially irritated, but it was finally done. And after letting her hair dry, she looked in the tiny looking glass to find she looked like a fucking Targaryen with her pale skin and white hair and blue eyes.

And it enraged her. And she turned on Ser Jorah so quickly he flinched, “Is this supposed to be some cruel trick? Make me look like the woman who took me from my home, who is going to kill my husband, if she hasn’t already?!”

Ser Jorah swallowed and shook his head, “No trick. I need you to blend in, Lady. The only people here with skin as fair as yours are those of Valyrian descent. Because the sun doesn’t burn or darken them. Nothing burns them. If I dyed your hair black, you’d only stand out even more, pale as you are.”

She had turned away from him, covered her mouth as a sob threatened to come loose.

It wasn’t the hair color or length.

It wasn’t the odd attire.

It was everything.

That night she cried silently while Jeyne slept, while Crawler pretended not to notice that her body shook and her hand stayed over her mouth to stifle her sobs.

She thought it couldn’t get worse, but she’d been so very wrong…

They left the next night when most of the city was sleeping, the only sounds of life coming from what must have been brothels or taverns.

She expected them to reunite with Rayna’s group and travel inland, but instead they returned to the dock, though boarded a different ship with crewmen Sansa didn’t recognize, though Ser Jorah hurried her below deck. Rayna and Jocelyn were waiting in a cabin, and the women wept silently into each other’s necks after putting the girls down to have their own reunion.

“Your hair!” Rayna eventually laughed through her tears.

Sansa burst out a watery laugh, “It’s hideous.”

Rayna shrugged, making a face that said, ‘it is hideous, but I won’t tell my lady that’.

They fell back into their routine over the passing days, trying to distract each other and the girls. Keeping their tears silent if not completely stifled.

In a way it was lovely, having all day to spend with her daughters. If Rayna wasn’t deprived of hers, Sansa might even convince herself that this was something to be cherished, to be grateful for, even if the price had been her husband’s life.

As the days at sea dragged on, Rayna wept more, Sansa less. The girls asked less about their papa, their home, and Sansa knew they would forget it all, in time.

She asked Ser Jorah their destination, and he answered with a cryptic, “You’ll know soon enough”.

Two of the Unsullied guards were friendlier than the others. Crawler had revealed the fact that he could speak some of the common tongue, though brokenly, and with a thick accent. As could the one called Bronze Fist. Flea knew a few words. Not enough to have anything resembling a conversation, but enough to tell Sansa and Rayna that it was time to eat, or that the sea would be choppy that day, or did they need more water. They three were the most likely to smile at Jeyne and Jocelyn or do something silly to make them giggle, which would make Rayna and Sansa giggle or at least smile, forgetting their troubles for a few moments.  

Ser Jorah was ever the diligent gaoler, never joining the merriment, though Sansa felt his eyes on her often. It was never a lecherous look, she was relieved to know, but something she could not name. At times she wondered if he resented her for being Ned Stark’s daughter or Tywin Lannister’s wife. At other times she wondered if he longed for her, or for what she represented: a woman capable of loving a terrible man.

And yet at other times she thought he judged her. Did he think she was a traitor to her husband and people for trying to make the best of her situation instead of fighting it tooth and nail?

And if he did, she couldn’t blame him. Because she was that traitor. The feeling was always there, even when she sang to her daughters or braided Rayna’s hair or giggled at the faces Crawler or Flea made for the girls. Her husband was dead, or perhaps dying right now, and she was trying to find some small joy. Her family were probably worried sick about her, and she was perfectly safe and unharmed, enjoying a sunny day at sea with her daughters. It was much like at Harrenhal, this guilt that nibbled on her conscience. There she’d been a traitor to her people for wanting Tywin Lannister. Here she was a traitor to Tywin Lannister for wanting to find happiness in a world he didn’t occupy.

And still she should have let herself enjoy it completely, without reservation, if she knew what was coming. If she knew she’d never be happy again…

They’d been on their second voyage for a fortnight when Sansa woke one morning, certain that the sounds of the sea were different from what she’d become accustomed to.

Leaving Jeyne and Jocelyn in their makeshift crib since Rayna was still sleeping in the cabin, she pulled on one her new outfits and climbed up to the deck.

And screamed as she saw that thing towering over their ship.

She turned to run – where, she knew not – but thudded into a burly shape that she knew belonged to Ser Jorah before she even took in the sight of his dark eyes, fixed not on hers but up at that thing that had frightened her so.

“It is the Titan,” he murmured, and Sansa instantly knew, and would’ve figured it out soon enough on her own.

She turned back around and was startled even though she now knew to expect it. Where two jagged rock ridges almost met, the giant warrior stood, one hand holding a short sword overhead, as if about to make a downward cut. The other rested on the nearest tip of the black mountain on his left. The part of each mountain closest to sea level formed the warrior’s base, not a pair of feet but a gradual shaping of the rock into male legs that only looked like legs from the knee up. The scale armor skirt and vest were both covered in some bluish-green film, probably the result of sea spray. The hair and helm were similarly discolored, but it didn’t make the titan look less fierce. Ahead of them a ship that must be bigger than their own approached the inlet between the two ridges, meaning soon to pass under the titan, and Sansa noted that the ship would have to be stacked on top of itself probably a dozen times to reach the titan’s groin.

A horrible sound rent the air and Sansa backed up only to step on Ser Jorah’s boot. The man’s hands held her shoulders to keep her in place as the blaring noise continued. It sounded as if a man was using a horn but instead of merely blowing into it, he roared into it.

Sansa shook off Ser Jorah’s hold and ran below deck, arriving to find a wide-eyed Rayna trying to calm two screaming toddlers.

Luckily the roaring horn had stopped, and eventually the girls’ crying began to slow.

Then the horn blared again, and the screaming re-commenced.

Then it stopped.

Then the cabin darkened as light was blotted out the way it did when gray clouds rolled in.

While bopping Jocelyn on her hip, Sansa went to the porthole and found black rock was all she saw, though she knew there was water beneath them for the sound of the waves crashing against stone, jostling their little vessel around and making Sansa’s stomach flip. They were passing under the titan, between his giant legs, and the idea terrified her.

The horn sounded again and Sansa squeezed her daughter, “It’s alright, my love. It is the Titan of Braavos greeting us. He is a fearsome man, but he only wants to protect us.”

“The Titan of Braavos?” Rayna asked breathlessly.

“Aye. And something tells me it won’t be a temporary stay.”

Ray squared her jaw and nodded.

Much like at the first port, which Sansa now assumed must’ve been Pentos, they were brought off the ship in separate groups, but not before Ser Jorah commanded Sansa to change into a dress she hadn’t seen before. A fine dress, based on the quality of the silk, but in a style she’d never seen before. It took Rayna half an hour to figure out the placement of the straps. The silk was a shade of pink that complemented Sansa’s skin but would’ve clashed with her red hair. Jeyne and Jocelyn were also dressed in finer dresses than they’d worn throughout this journey, with silk instead of linen headscarves protecting their delicate scalps and foreheads from the strong sun and cold breeze.

Ser Jorah, Crawler, Flea, Red Spider, and Bronze Fist were in Sansa’s party, and both of her daughters this time. Jeyne had gotten used to Ser Jorah, and happily let him carry her while Sansa carried Jocelyn. She didn’t ask why Ser Jorah would let all three hostages be in one place when he hadn’t permitted it in Pentos, because she dared not remind him that he ought to separate her from one or both of her girls.

Black Mole and Slug stayed behind with Rayna, and Sansa had to ask. “Ser Jorah, are you sending Rayna back to Westeros?”

“No,” the man curtly answered as they walked down the gangplank.

A lead weight sunk in Sansa’s belly, “You’re… No… You cannot hurt her. She hasn’t done any—”

“She won’t be hurt, lady. You have my word. We are moving on to our permanent accommodation and thought it best to keep you two separated until we get there. No need to tempt you into scheming.”

Sansa nodded and let herself be led once again through a foreign place, with strange looking men and women, though this harbor seemed much cleaner than the one she assumed was Pentos. From the docks they stepped onto cobbled streets, and Sansa found the homes and shops and inns and taverns nearby seemed cleaner, with fresh paint and proud décor on display. There were no horses or horse-led carts, but the entire place seemed to be built above water. Canals went in virtually every direction, and people in long, narrow rowboats passed under her party as they walked up ramps and stairways, across bridges made of stone. Like in Pentos, the people spoke in a foreign tongue, with vendors shouting and buyers haggling, with dark-skinned women leaning out of second story windows, children laughing and running through the streets, minstrels strumming lutes and smiling at those who threw coins into upside-down hats sitting at their feet.

Men and women alike looked at her, though not like they had in Pentos. More curiously, less lecherously. They looked at Ser Jorah, too, who she belatedly noticed was dressed in fine garb instead of his usual practical armor. He carried himself differently, too. His eyes weren’t darting around looking for some attacker or spy but kept straight ahead.

He looks like a lord, not a guard.

His beard had been trimmed, too, sometime in the couple hours between their sailing between the titan’s legs and docking the ship in what seemed like one of many harbors, though one much less crowded with ships than the others they sailed past.

The Unsullied were also garbed differently, not in the near identical uniforms she’d seen every day prior, but in tunics and breeches of various colors, with simple studded leather armor pieces over their chests, shoulders, and forearms, and worn leather boots that came to the knee. They were dressed like men who weren’t expecting to find enemies in this land, but who were prepared to, just in case.

The sun was on its descent, though still strong, when they stepped into a tavern. A man who reminded her of Kevan Lannister in build, though his dark hair was dyed purple at the tips, waved them to a table. Sansa was handed Jeyne and had to maneuver a bit as her not-so-small-anymore daughters were once again excited, and uninterested in sitting still.

“Your wife needs a maid,” the man spoke with a warm-honey voice, in the common tongue, though with an accent Sansa couldn’t identify. Is he a Braavosi? If I handed him the coin right now, would he take me to wherever the Faceless Men convene?

But he’d have to slay Ser Jorah and four guards. Does he have his own guards here?

The man seemed to be alone, so Sansa wouldn’t chance it. Not to mention she’d need to first find some public privy and fish the coin out of her cunt.

She promised herself to find a hidden but quickly accessible place for the coin once they reached their permanent abode. Then, she’d wait for the right moment…

“She has one, but the useless girl got sick during our travels. I left some of my men with her at an inn closer to the docks, but I did not wish to delay in meeting you. I’m tired of inns and ship cabins,” Ser Jorah responded. It wasn’t his normal voice he spoke in, but it wasn’t accented such as to attempt to sound like a local. Perhaps it was meant to sound Dornish? Or like a Summer Islander?

“Hmm. Eager for a bigger bed, eh?” the man winked at Sansa, who pursed her lips in response.

“Eager for a comfortable bed,” Ser Jorah snorted. It annoyed her, to see him pretending to be someone with a sense of humor, someone affable.

“Well, as agreed, I will see you to your new home. I don’t suppose I can tempt you to look at something bigger? Or grander? Don’t you want your lovely wife to feel like a queen?”

Despite the more important matters, Sansa found herself blushing. She doubted with her short, white hair, she could possibly look like a queen. Aye, she’d noticed some women in this place and the last place had short hair, but it was dark and curly, not fair and wavy, and probably still poofy.

Ser Jorah snorted again, “Whatever my man chose will suit. He knew my specifications.”

The man tipped his head, “As you say, Master Teague.” He looked up as a young woman approached with a tray of some beverages and light fare that included two small dishes of fresh berries cut into tiny pieces.

The girls were eager to dig in, and Sansa’s belly rumbled. They hadn’t eaten today, she realized.

The man smiled as he watched her girls inelegantly eat the berries with their grubby little fingers.

“How old?”

Sansa froze at having been addressed by him directly. Equally compelling voices were telling her to play along with Ser Jorah’s ruse so as not to not anger the man who held her life in his hands, and to quickly shout her entire story at this stranger and hope he would intercede, that he had the men to intercede, and that he would be willing to—

To what? Sail a strange woman back to Westeros then escort her across snowy leagues to Winterfell, on the promise of gold?

Perhaps if the man looked desperate for the stuff, it would be incentive enough. But he had to be wealthy. He was a broker of houses, she was starting to assume. He was no common man but one of some station even if he didn’t have a lordship, or whatever the Braavosi equivalent was.

“Eighteen moons,” Ser Jorah answered before she could.

The man gave another smile, “Your wife doesn’t speak the common tongue, hm? Is that what you like about her?”

“I do speak it!” she peeped, wondering why, of all the damned things she might say to this man, it was that.

“Ah! Westerosi, like you. Running from the dragon queen, hm? I heard she was making her way out of Slaver’s Bay, bound for King’s Landing. But if she made it there, I know not.”

“Nor I,” Ser Jorah shrugged, “Tis no queen we’re fleeing.”

“But you are fleeing, aren’t you?” the man smiled.

Ser Jorah returned it, only his might be better called a snarl, “You talk too much, Lazonno. Ask too much, too.”

The man held up both hands, “Forgive me, Master Teague. And fear not; Braavos is a free city. All are welcome here, so long as they honor our peaceful ways. There is a saying we have, though it sounds less elegant in the common tongue. Whatever your past, the titan’s roar rattles it loose from your soul. Or, a more colorful version, whoever you are, you’re someone else as soon as you pass under the titan’s bollocks. Isn’t that right, Mistress?” He looked at her again, and once again she found herself speechless. She merely nodded, more to get rid of his gaze than to express agreement.

After drinking the strange nectar and eating some strange salty and sour concoction that was wrapped in wet greens, they traveled with the man named Lazonno by small boat to yet another part of Braavos. One that seemed to be mostly residential, as finally she wasn’t being accosted by vendors and merchants at every step.

It was a large house, about the size of the smaller manses of Westeros, with a stone wall some six feet high all around, each corner bearing a statue of a woman, or perhaps a goddess. An iron gate was unlocked by Lazonno, and they all followed. Jeyne was once again in Ser Jorah’s arms and battling sleep, as they stepped through a double-door painted a vivid blue and into a spacious entryway. Sansa had to take Jeyne again when Crawler, at a nod from Ser Jorah, bid her to follow.

Lantern in hand, the guard led her up to the second floor while Ser Jorah seemed to be settling up with the broker. There she found a nursery with two cribs and two beds that the girls would soon be old enough to use. Apparently, this was their new home, she thought as she undressed her daughters and tucked them in. They were both twirling their hair with their fingers, as they did when nearly asleep.

“Goodnight, sweet Jeyne,” Sansa kissed her firstborn’s forehead, then stepped to the other crib and repeated the gesture, “Goodnight, sweet Jocelyn.”

She took the lantern with her, following Crawler out and down the long hall to what appeared to be the lady’s bedchamber. The guard entered long enough to check for other occupants, then left his own lantern on her bedside table, so she’d have plenty of light, and set her small leather satchel on a bedside chair.

“Goodnight, lady,” he spoke quietly, and then she was alone. Totally alone for the first time in at least a moon. No Rayna sharing a bed with her. No daughters in a blanket-lined trunk nearby. No Unsullied sitting in a chair. Probably one was stationed in the hall or in the nursery, but she finally had privacy.

She went to the balcony, noting that she probably could dangle from the floor of it and drop to the ground below without doing more than spraining an ankle. But she couldn’t do it with her babes strapped to her back or front without risk of landing on them if she stumbled on impact.

Plus, she had to assume the front gate would be guarded. She could scale the wall, aye, if she had the strength to hoist herself (plus the weight of her growing girls) over, but then she’d need to quickly get to someone who would and could help her, such as by fighting off the guards that would follow.

She was too damned tired to think of it and figured it would be better to do so with Rayna after the nurse and the other guards arrived here, which would hopefully be soon. She found she didn’t like being alone. It filled her with dread while also stripping away the mask she’d been doing her best to keep in place. It would be too easy to succumb, in the dark and quiet and loneliness of this room, to the dark and quiet and loneliness within her.

Her mind set itself to wondering about… everyone. Tywin, if her husband even lived yet. Was he in the black cells where her father had spent his final days? Was he afraid? Angry? Lonely?

Did he miss her?

Did he curse her?

She wondered about Arya. Had she learned of the events in the capital yet? Was she strapping a sword to her hip and racing toward the capital, impervious to the cold wind and deep snow because anger fueled a fire inside her?

Mother… Was she weeping right now? Was this what it would finally take to break the woman who lost so much? Who so often was helpless to protect any of her children?

Uncle Brynden… Tyrion… Tommen… Margaery… Did they worry for her and the girls? Had they kneeled to the dragon queen? Were they living as little more than prisoners, as Sansa had been for Joffrey and Cersei?

The Kingslayer. Was he strutting around wearing a grin, proud that he’d outmaneuvered his father, cast his young sisters into exile, secured himself a place beside a new queen?

Bran… Did he make it to the Wall? Did Brienne? Did they find what they were looking for? Did they find Jon Snow? Would the brothers at least have each other, even if they each met their end in that merciless land?

Rickon… Gods, poor young Rickon. Had Arya or Mother told him that Sansa was taken? Did he think she left Westeros just as they’d all left Winterfell once upon a time – in what he thought was abandonment? If she never saw him again, would he grow up hating her, or would he understand?

Painful as it was to contemplate all of them, she felt a renewed flare of hope to realize that she couldn’t forget them, that she didn’t want to forget them, and that her choice had been made. She would fight to get home. Tywin told her to forget everything and everyone but her daughters, but she couldn’t.

She fell asleep not feeling optimistic, exactly, but as if she had managed to find some tiny part of her life that she could control. She would bide her time, get Ser Jorah to let his guard down, plan her escape, and leave only when she was near certain of success. Perhaps when the girls were older, when they could walk and run on their own or would obey her command to be quiet. Years, it might be, but all the better because then Ser Jorah and the Unsullied would forget to be vigilant. They’d become comfortable and lazy. She’d let them think she liked it here. Liked their company, even. One big happy family comprised of a former queen, two little girls, a wetnurse, a disgraced knight, and a half dozen men who didn’t have one cock between them.

Aye, perhaps it was optimism that she felt as she fell asleep that night on the softest bed she’d felt since leaving King’s Landing.

But whatever it was, it was shattered the next morning when she donned her robe and went to the nursery, finding Ser Jorah in a chair, elbows on knees, fingers interlaced, and her girls gone from the cribs.

The knight stood slowly but didn’t meet her eyes, “You must know we couldn’t keep all three of you in the same place.”

“What…?” had been her confused response. Something was pecking at her brain, commanding her to see, but no… that something couldn’t be right.

“It is too risky. If someone found one of you, they’d find all of you. This is the way it must be.”

She shook her head, “No… That’s… No. What?”

“I am sorry, lady. I really am.”

“No… No…” she began looking around the room frantically, in places her girls could not possibly have been put, then ran to the hallway.

Room by room she checked under beds, in drawers and wardrobes, behind curtains. She ran downstairs and checked the sitting room, the dining room, the kitchen, where she found Flea. She checked pantries and cupboards and then ran out the rear door into the yard where a vegetable garden and a few fruit trees took up most of the space.

She ran back inside, checking every closet then finding a door to a cellar. She ran down without a light source, stumbling when her foot hit dirt instead of wood. Her hands scraped across stone and cobwebs, she bumped into what must be tables and storage chests, calling out for her daughters, praying that she’d hear ‘Mama’ cried back.

And as the truth slowly settled, she dropped to her knees and screamed out weeks’ worth of fear and anger and injustice and sorrow. She cried until she couldn’t breathe, until she was panting for air that wouldn’t come. She heard footsteps and saw the room become illuminated, but ignored it, and ignored the hand that tried to pull her up by the arm. She ignored it and cried like she hadn’t in… ever.

How could she protect her daughters if they weren’t here?

How could she live for them if they weren’t here?

And if she didn’t have them to live for, then why live at all?

She lashed her hands at whoever tried to pick her up.

She smacked in the direction of the mouth that said, “Lady, please lady, calm.”

She cried until she collapsed, uncaring that she could be lying in dead bugs and rat shit and was most definitely lying in dirt.

She cried until she couldn’t cry anymore, until she couldn’t fight when one arm went under her neck and the other under her legs and lifted.

She cried as Ser Jorah carried her up and up and up, then laid her down.

She cried until the sun was blinding her through the curtains that had never been pulled closed.

And now, four days later, she sat in front of the looking glass, staring at her own ghost, not bothering to wonder if she’d ever care about anything again.

Another face appeared in the glass, eyes avoiding those of the ghost.

“You need to eat,” Ser Jorah spoke, “whatever point you’re trying to make, it won’t make a difference.”

“You think I’m trying to make a point? I don’t eat because I can’t eat, because I don’t know where my daughters are. Because I don’t know if, at this very moment, they’re crying for me. Because I don’t know how long it will be before I see them again, and if they will remember me when I do. I don’t know if I will ever see them again!”

His eyes did not raise, “You need to eat,” he repeated.

She snorted in lieu of turning around and hitting the man, “I’m not hungry.”

“I don’t care,” a plate was placed on the vanity table in front of her, “Eat. You’ll feel better after you do.”

She snorted again, “I doubt that very much.”

He scoffed, “Do you think you have it so bad? Your children live. Your children will be well cared for. How many of the orphans of your husband’s wars could say the same?”

“They weren’t his wars.”

“He fought in them, that made them his.”

“I won’t debate this with you. You wouldn’t understand.”

“No?” he let out a dry chuckle, “I’ve seen thrice as many years as you. I’ve been on battlefields. I’ve seen towns and villages after an army passes through. I’ve seen slave children crucified to send a message. I have seen evil men, and I have seen good men, and everything in between. There is nothing I couldn’t understand, lady. Be grateful our queen is no Robert Baratheon or Tywin Lannister, or your girls would be dead for the simple fact that they could, someday, maybe, pose a threat to her.”

“Except that she needs us alive, because unlike Robert Baratheon and Tywin Lannister, she had no armies to take the throne with, nor to protect her reign. All she has is hostages and the never-ending threat of death. No, it wasn’t by mercy that she has not killed us, Ser, it was pragmatism. Strategy.”

She stood and turned in the opposite direction, but a calloused hand was quick to grip her upper arm.

“You must eat.”

“Why? Because you don’t have the stomach to watch a woman starve? Or because your queen would be so disappointed if you lost one of her hostages?”

She tried to shake off the hold but it tightened and spun her until she was peering into his sad brown eyes, “You may look like a trout, but you’re as stubborn as a wolf, with the same brand of fool’s courage. You say you fear for your daughters? Then eat. For them. Keep up your strength. For them.” He nodded toward the plate.

“For them because you will return them to me?”

Ser Jorah sighed deeply, “For a visit. In time. Perhaps. When I am convinced no one has eyes on us.”

“How long will that take?!”

He closed his eyes then opened them slowly, “Six months. You behave for six months. You eat what we cook you. You get up and walk around. You sit on the balcony and get some sunlight. You obey. You don’t try anything stupid. Do all that and in six months I’ll let you see them, if I think it’s safe.”

Tears welled in her eyes, “That’s too long. One month.”

He bared his teeth, “Now it’s seven.”

“No! You can’t!”

“Eight.”

She swallowed her next protest even as she was terrified of what eight months away from her would do to her children, and whether she could even survive eight months without them, “Fine.”

He nodded, “Good. Now eat.”

She took her seat without another word, watching the ghost put spoonful after spoonful of vegetables and some tiny grain into her mouth.

Ser Jorah watched until more than half was gone, then nodded and turned to leave.

But she had one more thing to say, and knew it was foolish, and knew it might turn eight months into nine, but the words were burning a hole in her tongue.

“Ser Jorah,” she called.

He paused near the door and turned, “What?”

She met his eyes in the mirror, and this time he met hers.

She felt no joy, no pride, and yet she knew her lips had curved themselves into a grin, “You escaped my father’s sword by running, like the coward you are, but you will not escape justice indefinitely. You will meet your end sooner rather than later, and it will be at the hand of Ned Stark’s heir.”

He looked either surprised or insulted for a moment before he gave an amused snort, “Fool’s courage indeed. Aye, lady, you may end me someday. But it’ll be the last day you live.”

“Perhaps,” she admitted, “and perhaps I won’t care.”

He snorted again, “Valar morghulis,” and walked out, shutting the door behind him.

“Valar dohaeris,” she whispered to a ghost. The ghost whispered it back.

Notes:

Don't look at me like that.

If you're wondering 'why Braavos?' I have a few reasons why Daenerys would've chosen it (or one of her advisors, perhaps even Ser Jorah if Dany herself doesn't know... 1) she and her brother lived there unmolested for many years, the Braavosi are largely peaceful, and it is a bit of a melting pot. 2) the people of a city founded by escaped slaves would probably be loyal to the slave-freer queen, if someone should realize who Sansa is. 3) it's a city of a hundred islands, meaning hard to search, easy to hide in.

And in case you worry that Jorah dyed Sansa's hair white b/c he wants to turn her into his own little captive Dany-lookalike (recall canon he went to Valyrian-looking whores?) it isn't that... The explanation he offered Sansa is his true reasoning. All the ASOIAF Essos-born characters I can think of have dark hair, so I imagine it is a continent where a very high % of the population have dark hair, dark eyes. The much smaller but not insignificant portion of the population would have the Valyrian look b/c they're descended from that area - that would be the white-blond or silver-blond hair and violet eyes. I recall once learning that hair actually could be "bleached" long before what we now call bleach was around. By ammonia and things like it. I logic that such existed in Essos b/c there are reference to men with hair dyed yellow, which, if you start out with dark hair, means stripping away the dark then adding the yellow. So why not do that to Sansa? Well, I think it is mainly MEN who dye their hair/beards in some parts of Essos, for one. For two, Ser Jorah isn't a beautician, alright? Likewise, I just don't think he'd be able to find brown/black hair dye in a place where almost everyone already has brown/black hair. Unless it's widely available for covering grays? But was that a thing until more recently? Whatever laborious process people had to go to back then to dye their hair, would they be doing it every 4-6 weeks to cover up gray roots? I don't know, TBH, but I do know, as a ginger, that dying red hair brown is not as easy as it sounds. Red is a very dominant color and finds its way through blond dye and brown dye alike.

BUT you probably don't give a shit about hair dye right now...

Chapter 42: Monsters don’t look like anything

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Tyrion

With each passing day, Tyrion was becoming less and less certain that he would ever awaken from this nightmare.

Then again, calling it a nightmare was neither fair nor accurate. The men who’d burned to a crisp even as they floated in the water of the bay would have some choice words for Tyrion if they heard him use such hyperbole. As would the good people of Flea Bottom who’d starved while Joffrey feasted. As would the good people of the Riverlands who lost their homes, their families, their limbs, their lives because the wolves and lions felt like playing at war.

And yet Tyrion was barely able to keep food down, nor fall asleep, nor sleep through the night. He was on edge every moment of every day, every day of the week. Buzzing bees had taken up residence in his belly, and he was – for perhaps the first time in his life – without any clever ideas as to how to get himself and his family out of this predicament.

The throne was occupied by a stranger for the first time since Tyrion could remember. He was about age seven when Robert Baratheon took the throne and promptly married his sister. His vague memories before that were of his father being spoken of as if he were the king, even though young Tyrion knew he wasn’t. This Daenerys person didn’t seem mad or cruel or stupid, but she wasn’t Tyrion’s blood, so how could he trust her?

Though according to Jaime, she might be his blood. Meaning he might be only half lion.

(It would explain why Tywin hated him but didn’t explain why Tywin hadn’t drowned him at birth.)

And yet even that revelation – if it were even true – seemed inconsequential in light of the fact that Daenerys Targaryen had taken his father’s throne and banished Sansa and her daughters, presumably to Essos where they’d spend the rest of their days unharmed but as hostages.

Tyrion had never bothered to pity people in such positions before. Losers of war gave their daughters and sons to the winners all the time – the former as brides, the latter as wards. Hells, most in the realm had already seen Sansa as such – the price that Houses Stark and Tully paid to buy their way into the new king’s good graces. Some might assume Sansa was better off as a hostage of Daenerys Targaryen than the wife of Tywin Lannister. Some might picture Sansa in some manse in Pentos, sipping sweet wine and eating exotic fruits served by some dark-skinned manservant wearing naught but a loincloth.

And perhaps that was Sansa’s fate. Perhaps she’d even come to enjoy it someday, if she didn’t already, but Tyrion doubted it. It wasn’t just his irascible father she’d been taken from but her sister, her mother, her brothers.

And it was Tyrion’s well-meaning but selfish and at times small-minded brother who’d done it.

That was the rub.

Actually, no – the rub was that Jaime had done it, or at least facilitated it, to avenge Cersei.

Cersei.

It was as if she was fucking with their lives from beyond the grave, Tyrion’s not-so-sweet sister. The least lovable woman who ever lived. (Well, it was neck-and-neck between Cersei and Lysa Tully, who were probably clawing each other to shreds in the seven hells right about now.) And to each their own; Tyrion never particularly liked his sister, but her beauty had been astounding, and presumably she revealed to Jaime the softer sides of herself (if there were any) that were hidden from all others. But Jaime wasn’t blind or deaf. He knew how Cersei was. He knew she was no paragon of grace, generosity, kindness, wisdom, honesty. He knew she was deeply flawed; cold-hearted. She was short-sighted and spiteful and a thousand other things, and yet her death broke Jaime.

So, Jaime broke their father, the one he blamed for all of it.

Tyrion never claimed to be humble when it came to his own smarts and his ability to read people, and he knew precisely what Jaime was doing: funneling all his regret and self-hatred and feelings of failure and pointing it at their father, an easy target at which to direct accusations of villainy. Jaime hadn’t thought through attacking Ned Stark, unprovoked, in the streets, which was what led to the need to make himself scarce from the city for a while, which led him to Tywin Lannister’s war camp, which led him to Tywin Lannister’s war, which led him to Robb Stark’s war camp, albeit in a much different role. Ergo, Jaime’s impulsive action led to him being away from the city when his sister needed him. No doubt, Jaime felt he was indirectly to blame for creating the circumstances that led to Joffrey’s death – murder or accident – which led to Cersei’s death. Ergo ergo, Jaime had to find someone to blame who wasn’t named Jaime.

And perhaps it went back even further; perhaps Jaime knew that the past four years’ worth of shit wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t fucked Cersei and sired her children. But the man he would conveniently blame for that – Robert Baratheon – was already dead. Or maybe it had nothing to do with Robert being dead and everything to do with Joffrey being a hundred times worse than the king Jaime and Cersei despised enough to cuckold and rob of his line.

Either way, Tyrion couldn’t stop trying to find the right words to convince Jaime that their father did not deserve his wrath – not for this. After Jaime’s admission that he and Tywin had both lied about Tysha’s occupation, Tyrion was sorely tempted to drive a dagger right through his father’s black heart. And he might, someday, if he ever got the chance. But not for this.

Yet such preoccupations were futile. Jaime changing his mind wouldn’t free their father nor bring back Sansa and the girls. It would only, potentially, pit Jaime against his latest charge, and Tyrion didn’t think Daenerys Targaryen was the type who’d suffer traitors. Her infamous father didn’t even suffer imaginary traitors; why would she suffer real ones?

So Tyrion found himself resigned to the fact that he could not spare his father his punishment, nor bring back Sansa and the girls. All he could do was protect his own, Tommen’s, and House Lannister’s interests. Because sure as shit, no one else would. Jaime might protect Tommen, but not their house, because protecting their house would be giving the Great Lion precisely what he wanted. Those at court who represented the houses of the Reach were eager to kneel to the dragon queen, even as they insisted they did so to “honor King Tywin’s wishes” – how very typical of those soft Reachers to keep a finger in each of the pies. Of course, they kissed Daenerys’ arse plenty, too; reminding her that Highgarden and its vassals had stood with House Targaryen until the bitter end of Robert’s Rebellion. In the same sentence they’d praise Tywin Lannister for recognizing the fairness in returning the throne to a “rightful claimant” and for his dedication to his family, the dear ladies Sansa, Jeyne, and Jocelyn. It made it such that the Reachers were friends with everyone, which Tyrion was smart enough to know meant they were true allies to no one.

The rest of court was mainly represented by lords and ladies from the Crownlands and the West. The latter would never go against the Great Lion’s explicit orders, which were, in short, to do nothing that might piss off the woman who need only send word to Ser Jorah and the hardened knight would do that which Daenerys probably would never do herself: kill an innocent child or woman.

And sometimes Tyrion wondered if Daenerys wasn’t smarter than she let on. If, when she passed Tywin’s sentence, it wasn’t because she knew that every man sworn to House Lannister would obey Tywin in a way they’d never obey Tyrion or Jaime or even Kevan, should he answer the queen’s summons. Tywin Lannister was feared in a way few other men had ever been. Most would rather face the Kingslayer’s sword than the Great Lion’s cunning. Even in chains or behind bars, a lion still had claws, and that was fine with Daenerys, because those claws wouldn’t be used against her but to keep the lion’s own men in line. Because she had found the lion’s heart and squeezed her talons around it. All the long, sharp claws he had couldn’t hurt her because he wouldn’t hurt her so long as she kept her hold on that which he loved.

Tyrion wondered if Daenerys ever stopped to ponder how fucked she’d have been if the lion didn’t have a heart, or if he had one but was willing to sacrifice it to keep his throne and his head. He wondered if Sansa knew just how special she was, that Tywin didn’t risk her and their daughters to defend his crown and his life. Would Daenerys truly have killed her innocent hostages? Probably not, though Ser Jorah might have, or any of her eunuchs, who’d been raised since birth to know only fighting, killing, and obeying their masters. Jaime even might have, sick as it made Tyrion to acknowledge. If he could push Bran Stark out a window to protect himself and Cersei, what might he do now to protect Daenerys and avenge Cersei? Tyrion didn’t know, and that was truly bothering him.

Then again, perhaps Daenerys would’ve done it herself. Daenerys had put herself in a situation where to show mercy would be to give up on the throne she so desperately wanted, and Tyrion suspected the woman was merciful only when the thing she wanted most wasn’t hanging in the balance.

Besides, she had a backup plan, even if Jaime didn’t realize it. If she couldn’t bring herself to kill Sansa’s wife and children, she’d have simply killed Tywin then let his eldest son take the throne only to abdicate it to her. Or if Tywin’s will was honored and Jeyne was named his heir with Sansa as Regent? Well, Daenerys would have one of her men keep a knife to Jocelyn’s little neck while Sansa abdicated on Jeyne’s behalf. In either scenario, Sansa and the girls would remain hostages, and after having seen her execute the Great Lion, few would test Daenerys’ leniency. Appoint Mace Tyrell as Hand or promise Daenerys’ firstborn to one of his grandchildren and Daenerys would still be precisely where she was now, with the only difference being the Great Lion would be dead, not rotting underground.

There was bitter humor to be found in that turn of events, in and of itself.

For all Tyrion had spent weeks dreading the trial, dreading the moment he’d hear the verdict of immediate execution, the actual verdict landed like a fist to the nut sack.

For murder…

For conspiracy to shelter not one but three individuals guilty of regicide…

For conspiracy to commit countless acts of rape…

For violating the rules of war by ordering your soldiers to attack unarmed civilians, including children under the age of sixteen…

I sentence you, Tywin Lannister, to lifetime imprisonment.

All present had gasped at the unprecedented punishment – for a noble, at least.

As if to assuage her new subjects that she wasn’t as cruel as they were all beginning to suspect, she’d added a condition – that Tywin’s sentence would be re-evaluated every three years by the queen and her small council, and that the sentence could be immuted, such as to a death penalty.

All of House Lannister was attainted and ordered to pay significant reparations not just for Tywin’s crimes, but for the other members’ shared culpability and failure to hold their patriarch accountable. Some other lords of the West, namely Marbrand, Crakehall, Payne, and Brax were also ordered to pay reparations to the Crown after swearing fealty to Daenerys of Many Titles. House Clegane was attainted – Ser Gregor considered a fugitive though painless execution was offered if he turned himself in. Likewise House Lorch; Ser Lorent was in King’s Landing and taken into custody. His nephew, Ser Amory, was also declared a fugitive, with orders to turn himself over for judgment. Until then his uncle, the head of their house, would remain a hostage.

Lorch and Clegane had bounties on their heads. Like sharks smelling blood, some courtiers (the kind confident in their tracking and killing skills) told Daenerys of Harrenhal becoming the world’s largest torture chamber under Ser Gregor’s direction. Knights who had served there were named, and bounties were issued for those not already in the capital. An Algood knight had been pointed out and ended up being killed by a eunuch’s spear when he refused to be taken alive. Twin brothers of House Serrett were lamed in a similar attempt to escape. Daenerys was at least smart enough to not harm anyone who hadn’t directly committed a war crime, and reined things in when it began to look like a witch hunt.

And all those bounties had an ancillary benefit for her, Tyrion mused. Dozens and dozens of knights and sellswords sworn to houses of the Reach rode out. While Mace Tyrell had been quick to obey Tywin Lannister by swearing to Daenerys Targaryen (double bootlicker), there was no way Daenerys could be confident that all of the Reach supported her. Randyll Tarly had made quite an example when he arrived in the capital, probably only responding to the summons because his son Dickon was there, a squire for some Tyrell knight who was part of Lord Mace’s household.

With uncharacteristic verbosity, Lord Tarly told the queen that the Targaryens had three hundred years to prove themselves capable of ruling Westeros, and their experiment failed.

“My blood and name date back to the Age of Heroes, millennia before your kind even thought to cross the Narrow Sea. House Tarly was among the mighty army of Reachmen and Westermen that fought the Conqueror’s army, that would’ve won if not for those unnatural beasts that have no place in the food chain. Still, when we were beat, when a steward handed over Highgarden and was rewarded for his cowardice with the wardenship, we gave our allegiance, as losers of war ought. And for nearly three hundred years we remained loyal and true; I alone can say I’ve bested Robert Baratheon in battle, all in the name of House Targaryen. But once more my side lost. My overlord surrendered, and thus I surrendered, and gave my fealty to the very man I battled, because his side won the war. And when that new king died and my overlord declared for the less qualified heir, all because it would make his daughter a queen, I did my duty to my overlord and fought for his proclaimed king, Renly Baratheon. And when Renly Baratheon died and my overlord came here and kneeled to yet another king, I did the same, being grateful that at least this time the man was qualified for the throne even if not entitled to it. And now yet another has taken the throne, this time due to entitlement only and not qualification. And I am tired, Daenerys Targaryen, of following my liege’s example. These knees can only straighten and bend so many times. Who knows how many more before they snap? So no, I do not think I’ll be kneeling to some chit who thinks that having a dragon and the name Targaryen qualifies her to rule seven kingdoms she knows nothing about. Nor will I kneel to someone who’d take the throne from the man she owes her very life to.”

“How precisely do I owe Tywin Lannister my life?” Daenerys had asked, her cheeks a violent shade of red after listening to Randyll Tarly use a few hundred words to tell her to fuck off.

“Because your father wouldn’t have lived long enough to squirt you into your mother’s belly, had Tywin Lannister not held the kingdoms together for him. Someone would’ve put him down long before then – it wouldn’t be the first time someone assassinated a mad dragon – if Tywin Lannister hadn’t ruled the realm well in his name. A thankless job, that.”

“You refuse to kneel, then?”

“Aye. My son has young knees, and a long life ahead of him. You’ll get your obeisance from him, not me.”

Poor Dickon Tarly, who couldn’t be more than a year or two older than Tommen, began to protest his father’s decision, but Randyll held up a hand, and not another word was said on the matter until the next day, when Randyll Tarly was beheaded.

“Lord Dickon Tarly of Horn Hill, do you swear your and your house’s allegiance to me, Daenerys Targaryen, rightful Lady Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, in perpetuity?”

No doubt she’d been expecting a rapid and nervous ‘aye’.

Instead, she got a surprisingly calm ‘no’. It shocked the court and seemed to enrage the young queen, though she composed herself well enough.

“You would follow your father’s lead and share his fate?”

“Aye, because my father was right. When one’s allegiance is easily bought, it will easily break. As I am now the Lord of Horn Hill, I will not be so careless with my oaths. Prove yourself a capable ruler, Daenerys Targaryen. Prove you took the throne because you can do better than the last king, not because of a personal vendetta against the man. Prove you do not share the madness and ineptitude that defined most of your predecessors. Prove that, and you will have my pledge of allegiance.”

No, Randyll Tarly was not much liked, but no one could deny that the man had balls the size of gourds, and apparently it ran in the family. Dickon Tarly kept his head because otherwise it would look like the dragon queen was afraid of rising to his challenge. Clever boy.

Conversely, whatever dangled between Mace Tyrell’s chubby thighs could probably be mistaken for a pair of walnuts, if that. It was a surprise the man managed to sire four children.

Ah, perhaps Tyrion was being too hard on Mace Tyrell. The man had a son and daughter in the capital with him. A son who’d worn a white cloak for Daenerys’ predecessor. A son who’d joined the Blackfish in going against Daenerys’ own guard force. Daenerys could have made an example of Loras and would still have Margaery as a pretty little hostage.

Funny thing was, the Tyrells – or at least Mace – had no love for Tywin and little for Sansa and the girls. The opportunity was there for them to get rid of Daenerys and take the throne for themselves, then eliminate the thousand or so soldiers the queen brought with her from Essos. Tyrion supposed the number of Lannister-loyal men they’d be facing was sufficient deterrent, but still it seemed like a wasted opportunity. That was, until Mace was not so subtly trying to shove Loras toward Daenerys while casually mentioning his two other sons, and would Daenerys wish to invite either to the capital, perhaps to serve on her small council? Garlan knew all there was to know about warfare, and Willas was an excellent administrator and well-loved by the people of Highgarden, blah blah blah.

The girl must have some experience having men thrown at her. She smiled graciously but suggested there was no need at present – she hoped Mace himself would continue serving on her small council which would be comprised of her Master of Laws – Ser Barristan – and her Master of Whispers – the fucking bald fucking eunuch that Tyrion knew never to fucking trust and yet was too fucking stupid to just kill. Apparently, she’d also be inviting Stannis Baratheon to bend the knee, pay reparations, and continue on as Master of Ships. And why wouldn’t he, Tyrion once again wanted to laugh, when his only child was here?! He’d walk into the trap, knowing he wouldn’t be coming out alive, to spare his child. Tyrion supposed there was one thing to be said for men like Tywin Lannister, Randyll Tarly, and Stannis Baratheon: they would protect their young, even at the cost of their own heads. And if that were true then Mace Tyrell was more cunning than the lot of them because he protected his young for free, or at the price of his honor, at most (if anyone named Tyrell had any honor to begin with).

Or – it was just possible – that Mace Tyrell was cunning in a different way. That he was only pretending to support the queen to buy himself the freedom to execute whatever his ultimate plan was. A Tyrell on the throne, perhaps. Or to finally earn some respect within the kingdoms by being the house that saved its king and queen and princesses. Who knew? Certainly not Tyrion, despite the number of hours he spent with Tommen and Margaery, since there was naught else to do.

Since Margaery moved to King’s Landing with a few dozen cousins and ladies-in-waiting and Mace later arrived to take his council seat, the Maidenvault had been occupied entirely by the Tyrell household, including enough guards to garrison the Red Keep.

Daenerys Targaryen did some rearranging upon her arrival. The Maidenvault was reallocated to serve as a well-appointed holding cell for all those considered hostages either permanently or until their house’s loyalty could be sworn and – more pertinently – proven beyond doubt. Margaery and Loras lived there. Tommen lived there. Shireen lived there. Now Dickon Tarly lived there. A handful of the more valuable Tyrell cousins lived there. Others not worth counting by name lived there.

Tyrion lived there.

Margaery and Dickon were free to come and go as they pleased, though no doubt the Spider’s eyes were always on them. In Margaery’s case, it was so that Daenerys could tell Mace Tyrell that his daughter was not a hostage, simply another resident of the Red Keep. In Dickon’s case it was to ensure that Daenerys was seen as fair – permitting the young Lord of Horn Hill to live in the Red Keep as an honored guest so he may observe the new queen’s style and efficacy of rule.

Ser Loras being there was probably something of a compromise. She’d throw him in the dungeons for being part of the Blackfish’s little stunt in the throne room, except that she appreciated Mace Tyrell’s loyalty and servitude too much to allow his beloved son to suffer.

Speaking of the Blackfish, he didn’t live there in the Maidenvault. He lived in the dungeon tower, allegedly in a room with a small, barred window that let in the afternoon sun, which was certainly better than Tywin’s accommodations.

In one of the brothers’ terse exchanges, Jaime assured Tyrion that their father wasn’t in the lowest levels of the Black Cells, but he certainly wasn’t in the above-ground tower, either. And in sharing that bit of information, his brother revealed something… a fissure had formed in his mask, and Tyrion was able to glimpse what was on the other side: regret.

Jaime wanted their father to suffer the loss of his legacy. Jaime wanted his father to die knowing everything had been stolen from him, just like Cersei did. But he didn’t hate the man quite enough to want him to spend the rest of his life in the dark.

In the dark…

Tyrion felt itchy when he thought on it. There was something so very wrong about the prospect of Tywin Lannister wasting away. Shriveling up. Going mad due to lack of sunlight, lack of companionship. Tyrion realized that he’d never imagined his father becoming a feeble old man. If anything, he imagined Tywin, hair still more gold than white, clutching his chest as he was mid-sentence in delivering a very colorful insult toward Tyrion. Or maybe being stabbed by someone who’d very much deserve to have their vengeance on him, so at least Tywin would have the opportunity to mumble some other colorful insults while bleeding out.

But to think of his father shivering in a jail cell, mumbling to himself, begging for more water, more broth, more bread, the sun itself… Watching the flicker of what little torchlight reached into his cell the way Ser Pounce used to chase the sunbeams scattered about Tommen’s bedchamber by the crystal lion that hung near the window… Crying, perhaps. Or going mad; pulling his hair out while laughing like a loon…

Did his father deserve such a fate?

At risk of being stricken down for trying to play the part of the Father, aye, he did.

Should Tywin Lannister end in such a way?

At risk of sounding as merciful as the Mother, no, he shouldn’t.

And yet the fact remained – Tyrion could do nothing to save him, and his father wouldn’t wish him to. If Tywin was able to deliver a message it would be for Tyrion to do what he could to protect their house, protect Tommen, and perhaps earn himself the dragon queen’s trust so that maybe, someday, Sansa would be allowed to return to Westeros, even if she’d only be allowed to visit her siblings or mother in the capital, with a dozen Unsullied soldiers for company.

That would be Tywin’s wish, and Tyrion would do all in his power to see it done. The Great Lion, no matter his other flaws, had always put the good of the family first, and the Little Lion was no different.

In deference to the man that Sansa Stark loved… the man who could have but never did kill his deformed son, or deformed non-son, Tyrion would take that mantle of responsibility for his house, his family, by blood and by law.

The majority of Tyrion, which hated his father with every breath he took, would be ignored for now, because Tyrion knew that much hate would consume him. And his family needed him.

“I have sent a letter to Prince Doran of Sunspear, the uncle of my late niece and nephew.”

Those were the words the queen started with during their private meeting. Well, private but for one of her eunuchs. Tyrion was mildly insulted that she didn’t feel the need to have two guards when sitting down with the demon monkey, the imp, the man who burned the Blackwater.

He decided to assume it was because Tommen was still in the Maidenvault, free to move about but heavily guarded, or because she assumed Tyrion would follow his big brother’s lead.

Tyrion responded with a nod, “Believe it or not, I know who Prince Doran is.”

Her lips quirked in an imitation of amusement, “Your brother said you are the lion with the sharpest wit and sharpest tongue.”

“But not the sharpest mind. That honor goes to our father.”

“His father, not yours, according to Sansa Stark. I assume he told you?” her tone was careful, courteous.

“He did. Do you believe her?”

“Do you?” she lifted a brow.

Tyrion shrugged, “I… I don’t know how she’d know to even wonder unless my father told her. But if you want the truth of the matter, I’d volunteer to speak to him. Demand he tell me who my sire is.”

Fuck, he realized too late. He’d come here hoping to help himself, Tommen, everyone named Lannister or of Lannister blood except Tywin, and here he was trying to come up with an excuse to visit the man, even if only to see for himself how he fared, or in the hopes that his companionship would buy the old lion another few days of sanity.

The slight smile she had held straightened, “If you wish to visit the prisoner, you need only ask.”

Tyrion felt his mouth fall open, “And you’d permit it?”

“I’d permit your asking, yes. The visit I would… consider. Just as I’d consider it if Ser Jaime or Tommen asked the same. Family is… family… after all.”

Tyrion nodded slowly, “Generous of you.”

She took a deep breath, “Your father may very well deserve to be sent to the deepest level of the dungeons—”

“Never denied it. Your grace.”

She shook her head faintly, “And yet how long would it take for him to go mad down there?”

“If he were the average man, a week. Fortnight, tops. But he’s not, so I’d put my money on a month and a half.”

She hummed, “A month and a half of suffering, then a lifetime of the relief that comes from losing one’s mind, one’s cares and concerns.”

Tyrion snorted, “What a clever queen you are. Keep him hopeless but don’t allow him to lose the part of himself that wants to hope. A fitting punishment, indeed.”

Her left eyebrow arched up again, “You approve?”

“It’s not my place to approve nor to disagree. You haven’t brought me here, Daenerys Targaryen, Lady Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, to talk about my father.”

The smile returned, albeit reluctantly, “Sharp, indeed. Very well. I’ve brought you here to talk about your loyalty. Your fealty.”

“Promising either would be insincere – and naïve of you to accept. If you believe any of the men who pledge to you, Daenerys Targaryen, then you are putting yourself in danger. However, I can, in good faith, pledge my fealty to the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, since – as a loyal subject of said ruler – it is my duty. But I will not, unless I receive assurances.”

She pursed her lips at that, “In regards?”

“You know damned well, your grace. In regards my nephew, Tommen. He is innocent. Moreover, he is good. He’s never hurt a fly, except indirectly the ones caught and consumed by one of his pet cats.”

“Before I ever left Meereen your brother took my promise that Tommen would not be harmed. Nor your niece in Dorne. I assume Prince Doran will offer to return her to me, as a show of fealty.” The latter part came out half-question, half-statement, and Tyrion realized she was asking for his counsel without asking for it.

“Only if he believes you’ll not hurt her. They don’t hurt little girls in Dorne, only everywhere else.”

She let out a dry snort, “Indeed. You want to know my intentions for them. Your niece and nephew.”

“Of course I do; I’m their uncle, and I love them. I may look like a monster, but I’m not.”

“Monsters don’t look like anything, Lord Tyrion. They come in all shapes and sizes and colors. I’ve met monsters who were men so handsome on the outside a girl might cry just from looking at them. I’ve met monsters who took the form of feeble old women.”

“And your intentions for Tommen and Myrcella?”

She took a deep breath before answering, “They will be stripped of their titles, but not otherwise punished. Tommen will remain here as part of Ser Jaime’s household…”

You mean a hostage.

“…Likewise your niece, if she is sent here by Prince Doran. If he instead chooses to keep her betrothal in force and someday see her wed to his son, so be it, but his son will be marrying Myrcella Waters, not Myrcella Baratheon, nor even Myrcella Lannister. They and any children they have will have no claim on the Stormlands, nor on Casterly Rock.

Clever queen, indeed. Father would throw himself in the deepest part of the dungeons right now if it got Tommen or Myrcella installed at Casterly Rock, instead of whatever lackey the queen will put there.

Tyrion nodded slowly, “And I suppose – if you believe Lady Sansa’s claim – that I will also be stripped of my name. Or will it be my head? A son of Aerys, even if baseborn, is surely a threat to your claim.”

Tyrion knew he should be winning her over even if it meant kissing what were probably very tiny and lovely feet, but he suspected the girl was too smart to fall for such transparent acts of mollification. No, it was better to know where he stood – her enemy or her potential ally – so he could negotiate from an informed position.

The queen gave another smile that seemed more like a wince, and Tyrion wasn’t sure whether it was the look of someone unpracticed in courtesy or someone battling her demons.

“I would welcome the discovery of any kin, Lord Tyrion. I did not lie when I said that if my nephew lived, I’d gladly see him on the throne. Contrary to what you’ve probably heard or assumed, I didn’t grow up with any aspirations to be queen. All I ever wanted was a home. It was my brother who wanted a crown. But as I came into my own, I realized precisely what had been stolen from me, and what kind of men did the stealing.”

“So you… I…” Tyrion was, for one of the few times in his life, at a loss, “What do you want from me, your grace?”

“Loyalty,” she answered instantly, “I will suffer no treachery, no backstabbing, no conspiracies against me. If you plan to take any freedom and trust I extend you and use it against me, tell me now and I’ll see you have a swift, painless death. Because once you pledge yourself to me – whether your loyalty is to Daenerys Targaryen or to the only rightful ruler, who happens to be Daenerys Targaryen – I will consider it a promise and an acknowledgment both. A promise that you will never act against me and an acknowledgement that, if you do, the death I grant you will not be painless.”

Tyrion swallowed, wondering how long it took for a man to be incinerated by dragonfire. It couldn’t be long, not like being burned at a stake.

Could it?

He nodded, “And this freedom you plan to extend in exchange for my fealty?”

She nodded back and stood, moving to look out the balcony of the solar that a mere two decades ago belonged to Aerys II Targaryen. Then Robert Baratheon, then Joffrey Waters, then Tywin Lannister. “For starters, I would ask you to serve me during this… transition period. To be on my council. To help me navigate the murky waters of Westerosi politics. To help me negotiate with those kingdoms and families who may be reticent to accept my rule, even if they have strong motive to not move against me.”

“Stark. Tully. Lannister. And all those banner houses that remain unyieldingly loyal to them,” Tyrion nodded, “Aye, you need those houses, your grace. Because houses whose loyalty is so steadfast are good allies to have. Better than those whose allegiance is ever shifting.”

She lifted a brow, “Your brother long ago warned me that the Tyrells are… ambitious.”

“Indeed. Which means they will be your friends for as long as they view you as the person in the best position to help advance their position. Appointing Mace Tyrell to your council was wise, but I suggest you at least pretend to be considering one of his sons for the ever-desirable role of consort. For what it’s worth, Lord Willas is of warm temperament, from what I have heard. Ser Garlan is wed, so I’m not sure why Mace bandied his name about, unless Lady Leonette is hiding some malady. Ser Loras, well, I’d only suggest you determine unequivocally that he is able to fulfill the most important duty of a queen’s consort. And to determine it before you marry him.”

She let out a small, amused snort, “I have no intention of taking a consort, nor any need to.”

Tyrion frowned, “Respectfully, I would suggest you do have a need. You are a queen without heirs.”

“Without blood heirs, this is true. And no amount of consorting will change that…”

Tyrion schooled his features. It shouldn’t shock him – there’d been speculation for years that the dragon queen was barren after losing a son in childbirth and not having another since – but it did. Perhaps because the girl looked plenty bountiful. Or perhaps because it seemed odd that anyone would take a crown that they’d have no one to pass down to. Then again, he was Tywin Lannister’s son – er, he’d been raised as Tywin Lannister’s son – the man for which nothing was done to benefit oneself, and only oneself. Tywin was all about extending his legacy, securing a dynasty for hundreds of lions to come.

“Though I consider that for the best, not just for the realm but for the security of my position,” Daenerys concluded.

“How so?”

“The crown will go to the man or woman who best deserves it. The one who has helped me rule, helped me give the people – all people – the safety and prosperity they deserve. The person who will carry on my legacy after I’m gone from this world.”

“And who is that person?”

Her smile this time looked more genuine, “I won’t know for a long time. Hence the security of my position. Any man or woman who comes into my circle may earn themselves the right to be my heir through hard-work, loyalty, and by demonstrating the principles I myself will uphold. Perhaps it will be your nephew, Tommen. Perhaps a grandchild of Lord Tyrell. Perhaps a child of yours, or Ser Jaime’s.”

It took a tremendous amount of self-restraint to not point out how much chaos that would create. She claimed the throne by right of her blood and name. If she left it to someone based on their qualifications as a ruler, their claim would constantly be questioned, challenged. After all, would dozens if not hundreds of other men and women not believe that they could rule better? And then what? To settle the matter, they’d let the rest of the noble class vote on the most qualified? Hah! The rich would simply pay for votes, and the powerful would scare the voters into choosing them. The throne would be in the hands of the next generation’s Mace Tyrell or Randyll Tarly or Tywin Lannister – someone rich or fearsome or both.

But he would not tell her that. He’d not give her an insight into the argument that someone might someday use to point out why her system and her ideals were doomed for failure, pretty as they might sound, because that argument couldn’t be had until after all the people Tyrion cared about were safe.  

He snorted faintly, “Or perhaps a child of Sansa Stark’s could inherit? But no, they’ll never come into your circle because you must keep your leverage over three kingdoms far, far away.”

Her eyes narrowed, “Again you ask without asking – this time not about visiting your father but your… half-sisters? Second cousins? Or is it your goodmother you miss? I have met her and know that beauty such as hers is uncommon. If this world was fair, she’d have been your bride, not your father’s. But alas…” She trailed off, and once more Tyrion bit his tongue, this time to keep from asking if Jaime had told her to say that. No doubt Jaime saw Tyrion as some insecure, eternally jealous little man. And he’d be right, half the days of the week, but not today. Not when Tyrion had come here knowing that his only objective was to leave this meeting in a position that would allow him to help his kin (and himself).  

He shook his head, “Fine. I suppose I’m asking if… if her exile… if their exile… is permanent, or if you will find it in your heart to be merciful.”

Daenerys pinched the bridge of her nose, “Merciful,” she snorted, “I take the throne without spilling a drop of blood. Can your former goodbrother claim the same? What about Aegon the Conqueror? If I’d flown into the capital on Drogon’s back, intent to burn the king and queen and princesses and subdue the people, you’d be begging me to find a more merciful way. You might propose I exile your family, and be grateful if I agreed.”

“Everything’s relative, I suppose.”

“I don’t owe you any answers, Lord Tyrion, but I will give you another one: Lady Sansa’s fate is in the hands of herself and her family. If they are loyal to me, if they earn my trust, then perhaps in a few years I will allow the girls and their mother to return. So if you wish to ever see your kin again, I suggest you help me bring Houses Stark and Tully into the fold.”

Tyrion didn’t believe that for a moment. After his father was dead? Perhaps. But while he lived, Daenerys Targaryen would not risk bringing Jeyne and Jocelyn and Sansa anywhere within reach of someone who may remain loyal to the lion. Someone who’d snatch the girls away to safety then rain hell on Daenerys and whatever of her allies proved to be true.

Then again, after Tywin died, she’d not bring them within reach of someone who may wish to avenge the lion. Someone like Tyrion, or Kevan, or Willem or Martyn, or Tommen. Or even Addam Marbrand and his father. Or Ser Lyle Crakehall. Or someone who may wish to avenge Sansa if her holiday hadn’t been as comfortable as the dragon queen kept insisting it would be. Someone like those same Lannister men, or any number of Northmen, or Edmure Tully, or whoever has the largest army at the time – because Sansa would no doubt offer her hand to whoever delivered Daenerys Targaryen’s head.

No. Sansa and Jeyne and Jocelyn had blood ties to too many powerful houses in Westeros and had the loyalty of too many powerful men in Westeros. As far as hostages went, they were rarer than dragon eggs.

Speaking of… This woman allegedly had three dragons at her disposal, but he only ever saw the one – the big black beast with red wings. But he knew better than to ask about that. “Fine,” Tyrion allowed, “You said for starters you’d seek my honest counsel. What else do you want of me?”

“In time,” she tipped her head, “assuming you counsel me fairly and prove to have some utility and some integrity, I might send you to the West.”

“To do what?”

“To rule. Permanently, pending your success in the task.”

That stunned him, “I beg your pardon?”

Her smile returned, small but noticeable, “To rule Casterly Rock and all the West, as Lord Paramount.”

He didn’t tell her that it would be giving Tywin Lannister exactly what he wanted. That the man would die in peace to know his line hadn’t been ended, that the Rock was still the domain of his family. Would he want it to be the domain of Tyrion, specifically? Gods no! But Tyrion was still a lion, and Tywin knew that. He might only be a lion on the mother’s side but—

And there it is…

If Tywin believes I am the Mad King’s get, he’d rather see Casterly Rock razed than in my hands.

He wouldn’t tell her that either, though he was certain she knew. That this was her act of revenge. And, perhaps, keeping Tywin Lannister alive wasn’t some bit of cunning on her part to ensure his men remained compliant because their lord was her prisoner. Perhaps she only wanted him to live so that he’d have to hear about the Imp being given the Rock. Hells, maybe she planned to bring Sansa back and give her to Tyrion, too, and though Tywin might love Sansa enough to be glad for her safe return, he also loved her enough that knowing she was sharing a bed with the deformed little demon monkey would be akin to torture to the man.

“You’d let a Lannister rule the West?” he asked – once again keeping all other thoughts to himself.

The queen nodded, “I would suggest forming a new house – a cadet house of both great houses Targaryen and Lannister.”

“Langaryen? Tarnister?”

She snorted, “Assuming I can feel assured that you are, indeed, a half-brother.”

“And how will you ever be assured? Only my father knows, and he may not know for certain. If both he and your father…” Tyrion trailed off, his blood simmering just to think about the subject matter, to think about Tywin bedding Joanna perhaps the night before the Mad King brutalized her.

No wonder his father hated the man. If Tyrion had a wife, and he even suspected another man – a supposed friend, a man who was as close to him as a brother—

He shifted in his seat, thinking on the things Jaime told him that he wanted to unhear...

I did have a wife. A wife whose only crime was being young and naïve and in love with me. And a man did rape her… Many men raped her… I raped her. Because of my father’s lies.

And my brother’s…

He lifted his eyes to meet Daenerys’. The queen had moved back from the window but hadn’t retaken her seat. The petite woman was hardly taller than him as he sat. Then again, he was taller sitting in a chair than standing on the floor.

“Perhaps I’ll send you there regardless,” Daenerys spoke softly.

“And let my fath—Let Tywin Lannister know, I’m sure. That the imp is running his kingdom. Sleeping in the Lord’s bed, spending the Lord’s gold…” his tone was bitter, but he was running out of energy to hide it.

Daenerys nodded faintly, “Your brother has spoken of your wit. Your good heart. Your courage. Your value. I am sorry that… that the man who raised you could never see it. I hear he named you heir of Casterly Rock, but you must be smart enough to know he’d not have let you have it. No – he just needed you to remain loyal to him and his beloved daughters, didn’t he? He was short on heirs after the deaths of your sister and nephew...”

Deaths Jaime thinks are on Tywin’s hands. Could they be?

“…He’d have dangled Casterly Rock in front of you until Lady Sansa gave him another son. Or perhaps until that son was grown. To keep you loyal to your house. To keep you in servitude to your king and his new family.”

Now Tyrion was the one to look toward the window, though he didn’t stand.

It hurt that he couldn’t deny her assumption. Tywin had largely ignored Tyrion for all of his life. What little attention he did give him was when the dwarf needed to be reminded just how useless he was, how pathetic he was, how disgusting he was. The first time Tyrion dared to think his father might value him was when he sent him to the capital to act as Joffrey’s Hand. Unless, of course, his father knew just how much of a nightmare that role would be, in which case perhaps he sent Tyrion knowing it was a win-win situation for the old lion. Either Tyrion would be successful and Tywin would arrive in the capital after all his battles were fought and find everything running like a well-oiled gear, or Tyrion would fail and Tywin would arrive to find the people clamoring for literally anyone but the bastard and the imp to take the throne. Anyone, such as, oh, perhaps the man who spent two decades ruling the realm better than any king who ever lived…

He wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or both. He wanted to hate the woman standing across from him for being right – or at least not wrong. Tyrion liked to think he was unfailingly loyal to family, only he now realized it was ‘family’ in the aggregate sense. He was loyal to House Lannister because he was a Lannister and because there were some people in that house that he was fond of, though fewer than there’d been when Uncles Tygett and Gerion lived, before Jaime became a traitor, and before Tyrion knew the full truth about his father.

So then, who was he loyal to?

No – who should I be loyal to?

Myself, the answer came instantly and startlingly, yet it made sense. Three decades as Tywin Lannister’s loyal son and he had nothing to show for it yet a job that gave him no shortage of constipation and the promise of Casterly Rock – a promise that indeed seemed rather dubious.

Daenerys was offering him that treasure, and he suspected that rescinding on promises wasn’t something she intended to do, lest her few Westerosi allies turn into enemies.

In that moment, he didn’t care whether she was a worthy queen, or whether his father deserved his bleak fate. He only knew that he came here with one goal: to put himself in the position to be able to help his family and his house and himself. And the woman was handing it to him – she was willing to give him the wealthiest kingdom (though he dared not think of what those forced reparations would do to their coffers) and listen to his counsel. Because… because Jaime told her he was clever. Or because she knew it would piss off Tywin Lannister. Or because she thought Tyrion was her half-brother. Or all three. Or something else entirely. It didn’t matter. It only mattered that she was offering him power, and he’d be a fool not to take it.

“Dorne is your best chance for an ally you can trust,” he blurted out.

She blinked at him, “I beg your pardon?”

“Dorne. House Martell, to be precise. As we speak, Prince Oberyn is probably out hunting for a mountain, and he’ll be grateful to the woman who made his vengeance not just legal but rewardable. Though he needs no gold. If he shows up here with Gregor Clegane’s head, offer him a seat on your council instead.”

She nodded slowly as her understanding increased, “And I’ve heard they dislike your father.”

Tyrion snorted, “They hate my father. Though, much of that was predicated on the belief that it was Tywin who had Elia Martell and her babes murdered.”

“He still protected their real killers and has confessed to the crime.”

Tyrion frowned, “You mean to give them my father for… so they may have their vengeance?”

“No. I only mean that they may feel indebted to the woman who put the lion in a cage.”

“Hmm. Yes. Perhaps. Though be ever wary. Despite marrying into the house of the dragon, the Dornish never truly bent the knee. They’re rather like those Wildlings beyond the Wall – they value their independence more than anything.”

“Yet they’re not independent. They pay taxes to the Crown.”

“While calling themselves princes and princesses. While letting daughters inherit before sons.”

Daenerys gasped in feigned fright. Tyrion rolled his eyes, “Fine, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Your counsel has been heard and noted, my lord. But right now it is the West’s loyalty I worry about.”

“You imprisoned their lord and exiled their lady.”

“Do they love him so much? Or her, for that matter? Was she not their enemy two years ago?”

“Love him? No. They respect him.”

“I hope so. That means they will respect his command – which was to give their fealty to me.”

Tyrion shrugged, “Most in the realm go all their lives without meeting the king – er, queen. What does it mean to show fealty to a person as seemingly elusive as a sea dragon? The peasants petition the vassals – or their bailiffs – who petition the lords, who petition the wardens, who petition the monarch. You’re the top rung of the latter, and it’s a long way to the bottom.”

Daenerys arched that eyebrow again, “And who might I trust to be my delegate in the West? To be the face of the Crown to the lords and vassals?”

“I’m assuming that’s a rhetorical question…”

Daenerys snorted lightly, “Give me your oath on behalf of House Lannister, and I may just send you to your homeland. I’d ask you to ensure your family there understands the situation—”

“Meaning that you’ve got their patriarch in the dungeons and an agent of yours has their matriarch and heirs as hostages?”

She let out a ladylike though exasperated sigh, “Very well. Make sure they understand their patriarch’s command. Invite all the lords who haven’t already sworn to me here to swear to you as my proxy. Record each’s pledge. Have each witnessed and signed. Is this agreeable to you?”

Tyrion took a breath, “I would have Tommen accompany me, if you permit. With Cersei gone, my father and goodmother were his only family aside from myself. With myself leaving for the West for however long—”

“It better not take long. I understand the West is a relatively small territory. No part of it is more than a fortnight’s ride from Casterly Rock. I will give you four moons, starting the day of your departure, to get every house of the West declared for me. Any who refuse will be instigating hostilities toward the Crown, and I will respond in kind.”

Tyrion nodded, “I will return within four moons, but might I leave Tommen there in the care of my aunts Genna and Dorna?”

The smile that looked like a wince reformed, “Tommen shall remain here. He is at the age when a boy needs his father.”

“Is that what his father wants?”

Daenerys lifted that brow again, this time in derision, not amusement, “Tommen will be well cared for unless you or one of your kin gives me cause to feel less generous.”

Tyrion understood there was no changing her mind. He had to trust his brother would not let anything happen to Tommen, but frankly Tyrion was troubled by the mere prospect of Tommen being under Jaime’s influence. Would Jaime poison Tommen against their house, against Tywin, against Sansa?

Then again, what did it matter? Daenerys would be stripping Tommen of his titles, and Tyrion had to focus on keeping the woman happy so she’d not be tempted to strip him of his head while she was at it.

Tyrion nodded, “I understand. Your grace.”

She tipped her chin, “You will bring no more than fifty men as your guard, ones who have been vetted by myself and Ser Jaime. Should you need reinforcements to get some house in line, you will let me know, and I will send more men.”

Unsaid was that they would be Tyrell men, or her slaves, not Lannister men. She would not risk Tyrion having a small army at his disposal, not when the Rock was all but unimpregnable by its sheer location and construction. She’d not risk Tyrion deciding he didn’t care about Tommen or Sansa or Jocelyn or Jeyne. She’d not risk the wealthiest kingdom slipping from her grasp.

She was cautious, this young queen, as only one who has been betrayed before can be.

He wanted to hate her for putting him in this bind, if only it wasn’t exactly how he would do things, and if only she wasn’t so bloody reasonable.

But many of the dragons who’d sat the Iron Throne were reasonable… at first. It was as they aged that they became less stable, less merciful, less flexible, more eccentric, more cruel, more paranoid. Or as they faced disloyalty, or the people’s displeasure.

Tyrion feared for the entire realm if this girl followed such a pattern.

He feared for Sansa and her daughters if she didn’t… If she was a capable ruler, a beloved queen, a respect-worthy figure, then all the realm would gradually forget the woman who had paid for the dragon queen’s crown.

And all the realm would forget the once-great lion rotting in the dungeons.

The latter shouldn’t bother Tyrion, of all people.

But it did.

Notes:

I will not write a Daenerys POV, at least I have none planned, so it'll be up to you to decide what her reasoning regards Tywin is. Pragmatism, for the reasons Tyrion pondered in this chapter? Cruelty, because she wants Tywin to suffer? Or could it even be mercy, because she sympathizes for Sansa who loves her husband despite his war crimes, just like Daenerys loved Drogo despite him being a slaver and rapist?

Next chapter will take us back to Sansa in Braavos, and then we'll be back in KL.

I know this is a bumpy road. If you're going to stick around for the ride, thank you, but if the angst is getting to be too much, I get it. :)

Oh, and I HAD to give Randyll Tarly his moment, even if only in a Tyrion retrospective. I lowkey crush on that hard ass, and would love to pick Melessa's brain about what kind of kinky shit he's into in the bedroom. They didn't have 5 kids in ~7 years by accident, and Melessa doesn't strike me as someone who's been regularly raped. Perhaps I'm being naive, but I think when that bedroom door was bolted Randyll was getting tied to the headboard and spanked HARD. LOL. BUT... I also think the show got one thing right - if anyone in Westeros would look down the barrel of a dragon's throat and be like, 'is that all you got bitch?!', it would be Randyll fuckin' Tarly.

Chapter 43: I’m just as bad

Notes:

Strap in for a long one...

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Sansa

Click, clank, ting.

She ran to the window and gasped to see a coating of shimmery white on the trees and grasses. A summer snowstorm had come through in the night!

She leapt onto Arya’s bed, but her sister wasn’t there. It was just like Arya to see the snow and leave to play outside without her. Arya always wanted to have Robb and Jon to herself, and Sansa was sick of it. Didn’t Arya know that Sansa had been here first? It used to be just her and Robb and Jon, when Arya was still in the nursery, too small to play outside.

Click, clank, ting.

Sansa hurried out the door of her bedroom and rushed down the hallway. Hopefully she was just a few minutes behind Arya and could intervene before Arya convinced the boys to play something silly and boyish, like Protect the Fort. That game was the same every time! At least Sansa’s scenes were all different. She had dozens of them – multiple versions of all the famous tales of knights or princes and their lady loves, overcoming their enemies and uniting their people with their love and grace!

Click, clank, ting.

She burst through the door to the outside and forced herself to slow down. Ladies didn’t run unless no one was around to see, and hardly even then.

But she heard no laughter, no shouting, no boasting… No evidence that her siblings were out here playing. They wouldn’t have ventured to the courtyard without her, would they?

No, she decided. She hurried across the inner castle, passing the empty sept and entering the Great Hall, but it was completely empty. That was strange, but perhaps everyone had wanted to spend the snowy day outside. She certainly did.

 Click, clank, ting.

Of course, she realized, finally paying attention to that annoyingly familiar sound. Her brothers were playing with their swords while Arya probably cheered them on, especially Jon. Arya always favored Jon, as if she didn’t realize that Robb would be their lord someday. Well, perhaps he’d not be Sansa’s lord because she would marry someone who lived south of the Neck. The Vale had the bravest knights, everyone knew, but the ones from the West and Reach were more handsome and chivalrous. She supposed the Riverlands would do in a pinch but none of their castles were anything fancy. Not like the Red Keep, which had floors made of solid gold and columns made of solid ivory. Not like Casterly Rock or the Eyrie, which sat higher than the clouds, or Highgarden, which had roses and other flowers not just in the gardens but hanging from every archway, wound around every column and railing. Though Sunspear had the Water Gardens – a literal oasis in the desert – but she knew she’d never get to go there because their people dressed in flimsy, see-through clothes and let daughters and bastards inherit.

Click, clank, ting.

She picked up her pace and walked through the gate unimpeded – why did no guards shout down to her? Why was the gate unattended if it had been left open?

She turned left to follow the noise to its source, realizing it wasn’t the clacking of dull swords from the further away training yard that she’d heard, but the sound of Mikken hammering away in his forge. And yet the sound called to her all the same, which was strange.

But when she stepped into the terrifying space – all hot and sharp things – she knew why.

“Gendry,” she spoke the name to the broad back, and he turned around with a smile.

“Mornin’, your grace. I just finished it.”

Click, clank, ting.

He was no longer working, yet she heard the sound still. She peered around, wondering where it could be coming from.

“Your grace?”

She looked at Gendry again, “Yes?”

“Here. It’s just as you requested.”

He held out – rather unceremoniously – a crown. It was gold, but beyond that no part of it was beautiful. She took it and found it far too heavy, as if it was meant to be a manacle for some giant’s wrist, not a crown for her perfectly normal head.

“I… Why…” it seemed right that she should be given a crown, but also wrong. Did queens wear crowns or only their kings? Why couldn’t she remember when, for all her life, she’d wanted to be queen? And wait, she wasn’t a queen… was she?

“He asked me to make it for you,” Gendry grinned, “paid in advance, so he don’t owe me no debts. Shame, that. Wouldn’t mind him owin’ me.”

“Who?” she asked, as the sound hit her ears again.

Click, clank, ting.

She didn’t wait for Gendry’s response. She walked slowly, knowing whatever or whoever she found in one of the other rooms of the smithy would not be so pleasant, and yet feeling just as compelled as she’d been moments ago to follow that strange noise.

Step by step she crept through a threshold, down a hallway, around a corner, and another, until she was so twisted she couldn’t tell up from down.

And then she reached the end, where a wooden door kept her away from whatever was clanging and clanking.

It didn’t occur to her to turn back, to do anything but open that door.  

She pushed it in, and noted with a fantastic sort of horror that the room was filled with bodies. Dead bodies. Someone had thrown them in here, into this room in the smithy, but why?

Click, clank, ting.

She should be afraid, some part of her knew, but she wasn’t. She followed a path, ignoring the bodies on either side, stacked to the ceiling. The path twisted and turned as the corridor leading in here had, but at the end there was no wooden door, just a man, hammering at something in front of him like Gendry’d been doing when Sansa first came in here.

But wait… how could Gendry be at Winterfell during summer? Why hadn’t she wondered that before?

Click, clank, ting.

She continued toward the man whose back was familiar, whose clothes were familiar.

Click, clank, ting.

She got close enough to touch him, and she did, reaching out and touching a dark brown tunic.

But the man didn’t stop hammering. Sansa looked down and saw he was bringing a hammer down on the links of a chain that connected a manacle about his left wrist to an iron loop in the wall.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I could ask the same of you,” he answered, still without looking.

“Why are you chained here?”

Click, clank, ting.

“Because a debt is owed.”

“To whom?”

“To them!” he shouted, while the hammer and the hand holding it gestured behind him, at all the bodies she’d walked through.

“But… But…”

Click, clank, ting.

“…But who put you here?”

You did,” he snarled.

“Me? No, I wouldn’t have ever—”

“You did!” he turned to face her, and Sansa felt her chin drop until her mouth was wide open.

“Trying to catch flies?” Theon cackled, pointing at Arya. Sansa knew she shouldn’t laugh, but Jeyne laughed, so she did, too.

Click, clank, ting.

“I didn’t,” she answered, uncertain how she formed any words when she was staring at a face that had… that had… just like… “NO!” she screamed and turned, but the hand holding the hammer came around her waist, and she looked down to find the forearm had maggots crawling out of it where the flesh had started to rot away.

Click, clank, ting.

“You did,” he spoke into her hair, and she gagged thinking about his lips, how rotten they were, barely there anymore since even tar couldn’t stop the birds from picking at a dead man’s tongue.

“I have fantasized about seeing his head on a spike many times. I’ve fantasized about the crows picking out his evil eyes and feasting on his wormy lips,” Sansa had told her brother, when they looked into each other’s eyes for one of the last times.

“No! I didn’t mean you. I meant Joffrey!”

Click, clank, ting.

“It matters not what you mean, what you want. I told you that you’re cursed, as is every man who is fool enough to want you.”

“I’m sorry!” she sobbed, her disgust vanishing as she realized there was no foul odor, and that she had been wanting this – for this man to hold her in his strong arms. Not like this, but she’d take what she could get because she needed him. Because she was weak without him. Because she loved him, monster that he may be.

Click, clank, ting.

You’re the curse,” she sobbed, “because I shouldn’t love you, but I do.”

“Still a silly little bird,” he laughed.

Click, clank, ting.

Click, clank, ting.

Click, clank, ting.

She sucked in a shuddering breath, realized she was crying. That she’d been crying. In her sleep.

It was daylight.

Click, clank, ting.

She rolled over. Getting out of bed was not easy these days. Hadn’t been for thirteen days. That was how long she’d awoken with the knowledge that her daughters weren’t in the same room, nor the same house. Possibly not in the same city. Possibly not on the same continent.

Click, clank, ting.

What propelled every movement of her body these days were fantasies of violence that she allowed herself to indulge in no matter how unrealistic they were. For instance, she didn’t let the presence of four Unsullied guards stop her from picturing herself peeling off parts of Ser Jorah until he told her where her daughters were. She didn’t let the presence of more guards at that place stop her from marching right up to the door, kicking it in, and finding her daughters. She and Rayna would each carry a girl and Sansa would walk right up to the first Braavosi-looking man she saw. She’d reveal the coin, say the magic words, and find herself sitting across from Jaqen H’ghar to negotiate payment for the services he would render. She’d offer all her husband’s gold, her beating heart, her wet cunt. Whatever he wanted he could have, if only he’d kill the dragon queen.

No… Help me kill the dragon queen. That’s where the fantasy always led. And Sansa knew there were worse people in the world. If the Targaryen woman had kept to her word and not spilt a drop of blood – except my husband’s – then she was probably the best monarch to sit the throne since its creation. And yet this hell Sansa was living in meant she had no room for compassion or diplomacy or peaceful resolution. She had more animosity in her heart for Daenerys Targaryen and Jorah Mormont keeping her from her daughters than she’d ever felt for… anyone. Tywin, when he was nothing but her family’s enemy. Joffrey. Petyr Baelish. Gregor Clegane. Roose Bolton. Somehow, men playing at war seemed like nothing more than unavoidable human nature. But a woman doing to another woman what Daenerys Targaryen had done to her? There was something particularly vile about it that Sansa wouldn’t have appreciated if not for being the one on the receiving end. How many in Westeros were cheering the dragon queen for her peaceful ascension, for bringing a widely hated man like Tywin Lannister to justice, for whatever good she was doing for the masses?

And here Sansa laid in bed wondering if she had the strength to strangle the smaller woman with her bare hands, one part of her brain balking that the woman didn’t deserve it while the other knew that nothing in the world could feel sweeter. Killing is the sweetest thing there is.

She forced herself to get out of bed and dress in one of her plain skirts and tunics, though she knew a more feminine style wouldn’t hurt if she planned to have a means to leave this place in seven and half months.

Can a man without a cock be seduced?

Can a man without a heart be seduced?

She didn’t know, but it was her only idea for now and she figured that, at minimum, having the favor of one or more of her gaolers couldn’t hurt, even if the best it got her was their hesitation, when the time came. A heartbeat’s delay in thrusting a spear or throwing a dagger or drawing a bow.

Though she hoped that, with the time at her disposal, she’d figure a way out that wouldn’t involve her facing any weapons. Drugging an entire household of men, if she knew anything about poisonous substances or had the funds to procure such things, would be a lovely option. Perhaps the infamous Red Viper of Dorne was on holiday here and would accept a promise of gold. Or her heart. Or her cunt. Or maybe he’d sympathize with her plight and do it freely and gladly.

Barring a potion master or Dornish prince strolling right in front of her window, she had no plans. But she would. Seven and a half months was plenty of time. Too much time, in fact, because it meant so many days without her daughters.

She followed the clanging sound that had woken her to the back yard, ignoring Crawler who stood sentry near the front door. Not to keep others out, but to keep her in, though they didn’t seem to worry as much as she expected. She wasn’t tied to her bed at night. She felt no hawk eyes on her by day. They hadn’t installed bars across her window. Because they knew she wouldn’t attempt an escape without knowing where her children were.

So perhaps having one always posted at the front, and one at the back, was to keep others out. Others who might come to save Sansa Stark without worrying about her Lannister children, or without realizing her Lannister children were not in her possession.

Flea, Red Spider, and Bronze Fist were sparring. It was a common enough occurrence – three or four men sparring out back while one kept eyes on the front entrance. She wondered why nearby residents wouldn’t think it odd, but figured Ser Jorah was smart enough to do nothing that would make them stick out like hounds in a henhouse. Perhaps if Sansa had ever explored parts of Westeros beyond a castle’s walls, she’d have found it to be common for merchants and other tradesmen to employ guards to protect their houses, their shops, their families, and that those guards had nowhere to train but their employer’s rear yard. Perhaps the wealthier districts of King’s Landing would’ve proved this true, but Sansa had never ventured there. During her brief time as queen, she had handed out bread and coins in places like Flea Bottom and the streets surrounding the Great Sept of Baelor, but had no cause to meet some minor nobleman or wealthy merchant in a manse beyond the Red Keep’s walls; any such men would come to the king, not the other way around.

The three Unsullied nodded at her at their next break, but only Flea added a “Morning, lady.”

It was an odd thing to find none of her anger and hatred directed at these former slaves who were her captors as much as Ser Jorah. Perhaps because she couldn’t understand their words, when they bothered speaking. Perhaps because there was something shy about them that reminded her of Jon Snow. It wasn’t self-consciousness, though certainly Jon had felt plenty of that when Mother was around. It was more like a… a desire to not be seen. To blend in. To be in a position to observe but not be observed.

She sat in one of the chairs facing the yard, as had become a near daily ritual. The Unsullied didn’t seem to mind having an audience, though they looked at her queerly from time to time as if wondering why she would care to watch.

In truth, it came down to strategy and boredom – the former in the hopes that by watching her captors she’d see something she could use to escape, when the time came.

All she’d learned was that Bronze Fist was the youngest – probably no more than her age. Flea might be Jon’s age, Red Spider a bit older. Crawler was the oldest, so far as she could tell; the only one with lines in his face, though she doubted he was more than Tyrion’s age of… was he thirty-one now?

Crawler and Flea were the most inclined to smile at her, just as they’d been with the girls. Bronze Fist seemed the shyest, perhaps because he was the youngest. Red Spider was the only one who ever looked angry, but Sansa never knew why because he spoke not a word of the common tongue except for ‘lady’ and ‘come’, so far as she knew. It wasn’t like the four of them conversed in anything but their bastardized version of High Valyrian. Sansa only knew because Ser Jorah had told her what the language was when they were still at sea. Back before she despised the sight of the man.

She still did, but since the day she told him that he could not escape justice forever, she tried not to make it obvious. Such an illusion was difficult to maintain though, she’d found. Ser Jorah was not Joffrey, hoping she’d step out of line so he could have his men beat her. He might add a month to the time she went without seeing her girls, but only if she disobeyed him, not if she merely gave him a dirty look. Sweet smiles and empty praise weren’t bandied about by her to appease the knight, because he was too clever to believe such farce. Thus, in the relative assurance of Ser Jorah having at least some sense of honor, Sansa was not thrust into a situation in which lies and placations were necessary to her physical safety, and she’d since realized something about herself: she’d always been a better mummer when her life was on the line. She needed to learn to channel her desperation to see her daughters into the same acute sense of self-desperation, because any escape plan would require lying and manipulation.

It was funny, or perhaps sad, how often she thought about just how stupid Joffrey was, and yet how much she’d feared him. She dared to think that if the girl she was today was thrown back into the capital the day after they took Ned Stark’s head, she’d end up disposing of Joffrey and Cersei and all their cronies. If she had to barter her body to a dozen different men while buying a dozen more with promises of future favor, she would – and Cersei’s sellswords wouldn’t stand a chance. Sansa would end up on the throne, even if only to keep it warm for her brother, who’d ride right in through gates she commanded be opened.

It was yet another fantasy, and perhaps delusion, that any of that would happen, she knew. Yet the fact remained that the boy who’d filled her with so much fear had been nothing but a cruel little idiot who didn’t even possess some low cunning.

Sansa shifted in place, catching Red Spider’s eye for the briefest of moments. The look he gave her was flat, as it always was.

She reminded herself – not for the first time – that she must stop ruminating on the past and start making plans for the future. She could ruminate when she was old and gray, if she lived that long.

Red Spider had already turned his attention back to the spar going on between Bronze Fist and Flea. Unlike any training yard in Westeros, there were no taunts being thrown back and forth. These slave soldiers were disciplined, she’d give them that.

Bronze Fist was the comeliest of the lot, Sansa supposed. Conversely, Flea fit the connotation of his name, looking rather vermin-like with his pointy chin and teeth that each pointed in a different direction from the one beside it. Crawler was not ugly, exactly, though plain. He had a broad, flat nose and a weak jaw, reminding her of an even swarthier version of Tyrion’s sellsword friend. Bronn was his name, as Sansa recalled. She hadn’t seen the man around the Red Keep after returning there with Tywin. Perhaps he’d died in the battle, or fled like Sandor Clegane did when their cause looked bleak.

Red Spider was the only one with the Valyrian look, as Ser Jorah had called it when talking at Sansa a few days ago. He said most of the the Unsullied, about two-thirds, had blood of the Dothraki in their veins, meaning they had dark hair and eyes and skin. The remainder were a mix of ethnicities, including Qartheen and Lyseni. The former were reedy folk with milk-white skin. The latter had the blood of Old Valyria – pale skin, though not as pale as the Qartheen, with silver-blond hair and lilac, violet, or blue eyes. Sometimes Sansa looked at Red Spider and thought he was quite handsome, though she’d since concluded that ‘striking’ was the better word. His nose was hooked but skinny, which gave him a hawkish look. His eyes were a dark violet. His hair was silver and always worn draped over the right side of his face, just like Sandor Clegane used to drape his hair over the left side. His cheekbones were well defined but not to the point of making him look gaunt.

He was also the only one of the four that didn’t seem boyish in build, even though he was certainly of trim build, with not particularly broad shoulders. The other three seemed downright petite compared to men Sansa had known. Her father was of burly build even if his belly was flat. Robb was similarly stocky, though shorter than Father. Jon Snow, when last she saw him, was taller than her and Robb, slim but with shoulders already broadened. Ser Rodrik was tall and stout, as were the Umber men who visited Winterfell often. Then in King’s Landing she’d seen the likes of Sandor Clegane, built much like Jon but a full head taller, at least. The other guards and soldiers that loitered about the place all looked healthy enough. Ser Boros certainly never missed a meal, same for Ser Dontos. Ser Meryn was doughy. Ser Preston short and thick. Ser Arys and Ser Mandon well-muscled in a way women appreciated. Then of course there was the freak of nature that was Gregor Clegane, who stood another head taller than his brother and had muscles on his muscles on his muscles, and a layer of fat over all of it for added protection.

And then there was Tywin. Tall, though not Baratheon or Clegane tall. Broad in the shoulder and slim in the waist. Long arms and legs well-muscled for his age, carrying very little fat. So robust, so striking, even at the age when most men begin to either wither away or carry too much fat in the belly. But not her Tywin…

Her nose tingled and she forced herself to cough as if something was tickling her throat so that any misting in her eyes wouldn’t be seen for what it was.

Red Spider looked her way again, on instinct of suspicion or protection she wasn’t sure, then his eyes were back on his comrades.

No, these Unsullied were not built like the men of Westeros, but it gave her no surge of confidence that she could fight off any one of them, much less all four of them plus Ser Jorah. Men, even slender men, had strength that women didn’t. At four years of age Rickon could struggle out of Sansa’s hugs easily, bounding away to run after Shaggy Dog with a force that nearly knocked Sansa to her arse.

“Few in Westeros would be intimidated by them.”

The words didn’t startle Sansa. She had heard the steps nearing and knew they belonged to Ser Jorah, not Crawler. One thing that was common among all the Unsullied was their gait.

Red Spider glanced their way again, ever so briefly, though this time his eyes went above her, no doubt to Ser Jorah standing behind her.

She didn’t reply to the knight. She didn’t like his habit of starting conversations with her that subtly tried to convince her that everything she knew was wrong. He spoke of Daenerys Targaryen’s conquest of the various slave cities, though it didn’t sound to Sansa that the dragon queen started out with the intent to free slaves. Oh, she pitied them – that much Ser Jorah conveyed when telling Sansa about Daenerys going to Astapor to see about buying something like ten thousand Unsullied soldiers. Still, she did end up championing the cause of individual freedom, and Sansa thought that if Arya were to hear about Daenerys Targaryen, Breaker of Chains, a hundred years from now, she’d probably want to be her. But Sansa could also recall Tywin speaking of Varys’ latest report that the last Targaryen was surrounded by too many enemies and too few friends in Meereen, living in luxury even though her pyramid was all but under siege. Sansa no longer knew if that had been true, though found it credible enough. Per Ser Jorah, Daenerys went city by city freeing slaves, or empowering them to free themselves, which was noble enough but that they immediately enslaved themselves to her. Willingly being the distinction. “Aye, as willingly as the farmers who let themselves be conscripted into their lord’s army for coppers a day,” had been Sansa’s cheeky response.

A couple years ago she wouldn’t have seen it – the similarities between the peasant class of Westeros and the slave class of Essos – but time in King’s Landing during the Tyrell blockades and time at Harrenhal as a prisoner with no rights because she had no noble name had taught her much.

“We are all slaves to something, Ser,” she had added. And it was only in speaking the words that she felt the profoundness of their truth. Her father had been a slave to his duty. Robb had been a slave to the same, plus the pressures put on him by men who ought to know better. Arya was a slave to the expectations of her gender and station. Jon a slave to his baseborn status and his stepmother’s disdain. Sandor a slave to his scars and the persona he crafted around them. Perhaps even Ser Gregor was a slave – to his own sick desires. Magaery was a slave to her family’s ambition, Tywin a slave to his own.

And it sounded like this Daenerys Targaryen was also a slave to her ambition, or perhaps her name. Did she truly want the Iron Throne, or did she feel obligated to take it, since she was the last of her kind who could? Sansa had asked Ser Jorah about that, too. He had no satisfying answer to give, and only ended up storming away from the conversation that he’d initiated to begin with.

“The cutting means they rarely grow to the same bulk and strength as the warriors you are used to seeing,” Ser Jorah continued, albeit he had waited to see if she’d engage this time. “But what kills men on a battlefield isn’t the failure of their arms or legs, but the failure of their courage. And Unsullied have no fear. Unsullied fear no pain. I doubt they even fear death. Thus they are considered one of the greatest fighting forces in all the known realm. A thousand of them could defeat four thousand Vale knights, assuming they had a positional advantage, at least.”

She watched as Flea stepped out of their makeshift training yard, Red Spider taking up his spear to practice against Bronze Fist.

“It would be easy to think them vulnerable or even weak. That’s what cutting a boy before he’s full grown will do,” Ser Jorah added.

Sansa kept her face placid and fixed on the sparring, watching the grace and focus with which the men fought. Spear fighting, more than sword fighting, sometimes looked like a dance.

“But to judge them thusly would be a mistake. They are the hardest men in all the realm, because they are brought up that way. Only a third of them make it through the training, which starts at the fifth nameday. For years they train beside and against boys just like them, and watch as two-thirds of those boys fall to… to any number of things. Heat exhaustion. Being struck with a live weapon during a spar. An angry master’s whip. Bad hearts. They see their companions fall every day, so by the time they are cut they have already stopped bothering to care. But just in case some small part of them still does, they are given a puppy the very same day they lose their manhood…”

The man paused there, and Sansa wondered at it enough to turn her head, just enough to see him a step behind where she sat, and to her left. His arms were crossed over his belly, and his eyes were on the spar, but also not.

His chest filled and deflated in her peripheral, “It is theirs to care for, to feed and protect, for one year. Then each boy is ordered to kill his dog by strangulation. If he refuses, he is killed instead, then chopped up and fed to any dogs who survive the day.”

Sansa turned back to fully face the yard and swallowed as she pictured Lady as a pup. Lady’s swift and painless death at Father’s blade still haunted Sansa. She did not think she’d be able to bring herself to kill Lady if that had been the queen’s cruel command. If Cersei had held a knife to Sansa’s throat and commanded her to strangle Lady? She wasn’t sure she would be able to.

But she knew that if someone held a knife to Jeyne or Jocelyn’s throat, she’d do it.

Cersei was right; having children had made her weak.

“You would think the masters would be satisfied with those who do as bid with the dogs, wouldn’t you?” Ser Jorah asked rhetorically, “But no. To win their spiked cap, to officially finish their training and become an Unsullied suitable for sale, they must pass one final test. They must go to the slave markets and buy a newborn babe. Meaning a newborn slave, and—”

“Stop!” Sansa spoke so loudly that Red Spider and Bronze Fist froze, spears crossed between them. Flea turned from where he was watching his comrades. All of them turned, and she realized they thought she was talking to them, giving a command. Not that they answered to her but… but in a way they did. If she said ‘water’ they brought water. They served her because there were no servants here, and because it was probably beneath Ser Jorah to do it. But Jorah was the one they answered to, probably because their queen commanded it. How strange, Sansa thought, that they would obey whoever they deemed their master. And if that master sold them to another, they’d obey the new master. It was true – they only knew fighting and killing and obeying.

The only question was, could they be made to obey her, instead? They were no longer slaves, meaning their fealty was up for grabs. For now, Daenerys Targaryen had it, but could Sansa coax them to shift their allegiance? And if so, how? With what? Her cunt was useless to men without cocks. Her words were meaningless to men who barely spoke the same language. Perhaps her beauty was just as meaningless – did castrated men stop desiring women altogether?

“As you wish,” Ser Jorah spoke lowly to her, then she saw a hand flick in her periphery, and the Unsullied nodded and resumed, picking up right where they left off. “I did not mean to—”

“Yes you did, Ser,” she hissed, “You meant to make sure I know that the men who guard me – like the men who guard my daughters, I presume – have killed babes before. You mean to make sure I know they’ll do it again, if merely given the command. Well, I say what I said to you days ago: then they are still slaves.” She said the last two words loudly, prompting Bronze Fist to turn his head in their direction.

She turned as well, and rose, facing Ser Jorah who was but two fingers’ width taller than her, “They are slaves still, even if they wear no chains and no one looms over them with a whip. They are slaves in here,” she tapped her temple, “because they have free will but don’t exercise it to do what is right. To decide what is right.”

Ser Jorah snorted, “You don’t see, do you? They have chosen. They have chosen Daenerys. No, they would no longer kill just to prove to some slave master that they are worthy, but they would kill for her.”

“And how would killing me or one of my daughters help her?”

Ser Jorah opened his mouth, but Sansa held up a hand.

“Perhaps they were right to choose to serve her, when she was killing slave masters. But now she is sitting on the iron throne. She left behind her freedmen to chase glory.”

“To chase justice!”

“To chase vengeance!” she stepped up to him.

“You don’t know her!” he snarled.

“Nor do you! You only know what you want to see of her. You see the parts of her that are pretty and kind and ignore the parts that are rotten!”

His hand sprung forward and grabbed her upper arm hard, and then she was being pulled into the house. In and up and in, until she was shoved so roughly toward the bed that she stumbled until she caught the footpost. The door slammed shut behind her and she knew… she knew she had pushed too far, and that she’d pay for it now, but she had had to know where the line was, because she would have to walk it perfectly over the next seven and a half months. And perhaps because the location of that line would tell her whether Ser Jorah could be turned into an ally, or if he’d only ever be an obstacle to overcome.

She knew now with crystal clarity: he was an obstacle.

And she knew why.

She kept her back to him, not wanting to see whatever punishment was coming. How very un-wolfish of her, but she’d always been a little bird more than a she-wolf, no matter what she sometimes fooled herself into believing. The wolf was a mask. Beneath the mask was the little bird with its delicate bones and its sweet but useless chirping. The little bird didn’t want to face trouble, it wanted to fly away from it. And the bird had flown so many times, only to keep landing in a new cage. But this one she couldn’t fly from, because to fly would be to leave behind her girls, to give up hope of seeing them again.

The bird couldn’t fly, but it could choose not to see.

But as her heart beat like a drum in her throat, in her ears, in her forehead, in her belly, in her fingers, she realized Ser Jorah had not taken a step. He was breathing heavily, she could hear. His blood must be pumping hard, too, but for a different reason, because he was the predator, not the prey.

“Do you take me for a fool?” he finally spoke, his voice low and harsh and yet somehow… tired.

“Not in the least,” she answered honestly, her voice quivering.

“Then you must know I’d see right through your pathetic little attempts to win them to your cause. Or to turn them against their queen’s.”

“That wasn’t my plan,” she dared to turn around and found Ser Jorah, fists on hips, already staring at her, “I had no plan. Only a desire to make you see the truth, because it’s sickening to be amongst someone so deluded.”

He snorted, his upper lip curling on the left side, “I’m deluded?” he let out a sigh while shaking his head, “I understand, lady. I understand why you feel as you do, which is why I’m being as patient as I am. You say I cannot see her for true, but it’s you who can’t see her, because your suffering is the price of her ascension. But have you stopped to think about how much suffering there could have been, if she was so rotten as you say?”

“Of course, I have! But have you stopped to think about how there didn’t need to be any suffering, if she just stayed in her pyramid, with her freed slaves who worship her like a goddess because she was the first person to give them some power over their fate, even if they chose to continue just as they always had, as soldiers for someone else’s wars?”

He shook his head again, “A righteous war, for a change.”

“And what was so righteous about her taking the throne from a capable ruler?”

“Capable?” he scoffed, “Perhaps. But don’t tell me he was worthy.”

“What is worthy if not capable?”

“He had no right to it,” Ser Jorah spoke through gritted teeth.

“Thousands of years of history say neither does your queen! She claims to look down on those of her ancestors who used fire to conquer Westeros, but without fire they never would have conquered it at all. There’d be no iron throne for Daenerys to take!”

“We don’t live in a fantasy or some… alternate reality!” he flung a calloused hand up in exasperation, “The throne exists. It is a Targaryen right. Daenerys is the last Targaryen. End of story!”

Sansa allowed herself a smile, though hardly felt any amusement, “You see the world as black and white, Ser. I don’t blame you for that. I suspect most men do. I suspect most warriors do.”

“Don’t patronize me, woman. You don’t know a damned thing about a damned thing.”

“I know I was right when I said we’re all slaves to something. In fact, you and I are slaves to the same thing, though I know you’ll deny it.”

Ser Jorah turned until she was facing him in profile, and Sansa knew she’d already struck a nerve, because the man knew what she would say next.

She found no desire to be merciful, “You and I are slaves to our love, Ser. Our love for others, and perhaps our want to be loved. My want to be loved by the lions turned me into their prisoner. Your want to be loved by—”

He turned so abruptly she staggered back a step, but he didn’t advance.

She realized, rather belatedly, that the punishment she’d been expecting when she was dragged up the stairs and thrown into a bedroom had never come. This man was a killer, but he was no raper. If he was, he probably would’ve raped the queen he was clearly in love with.

But the flip side of love was hate. The flip side of worship was resentment. This… His over-defensiveness of his queen wasn’t all for Sansa’s sake. Sansa was only a hostage; her opinions shouldn’t matter to him. But his own opinions mattered quite a lot, and he would fight tooth and nail to preserve them, because if not for his devotion, why live like this, in permanent hiding, so far away from the one he loved?

“Is that why you are so sullen?” she whispered, “You’ve been her loyal dog - since before she was even a woman, sounds like - and now she’s set you to guarding her prey instead of eating and sleeping and living at her feet.”

He let out a dry, nasal laugh, “Still trying your little tricks, lady? You realize you can’t turn them soldiers against me, so you try to turn me against her?” he snorted, “Then you’re not so smart as you think you are. What did you say to the Kingslayer on the ship? You can’t help loving him? Well perhaps you’re not the only one who knows that feeling.”

“Then you also heard me say that I’ve tried. Because I see him. Because I’ve seen his flaws. Because I know exactly who he is, and what he’s done. But do you see her, Ser? Do you see all of her? Because by the way you speak of her, you think the sun shines out her arse.”

He shook his head, “I don’t know why I’m talking to you about this. I don’t know why I’m still here.”

“Because you have no one else to talk to. Because you have nowhere else to be.”

“I’d have a better conversation with Red Spider – all two words I can get out of him. Talking to you is enough to turn a man mad. And to think – Tywin Lannister, of all the bloody cunts, gave up his life for you,” Jorah’s eyes flicked down and up her form, as if trying to find the part of her that was worthy of a man’s love, but she couldn’t wonder if he found it; she couldn’t think of anything at all but his words…

Gave up his life for you.

She’d known it was possible. Likely, even. Imminent. Yet… yet some part of her couldn’t believe Tywin was dead. He always seemed so… invincible. Worrying over his mortality some weeks past didn’t pave the way for her mind to accept that he was gone. That she’d never see him again. That he just… didn’t exist.

And damn him for peeling her mask off over the months of their marriage. Damn him for opening himself up, because it made her open herself up in return. It made her expose the soft parts that had been her undoing the first time she was in King’s Landing. The soft parts that she was a slave to, still. The soft parts that made her walk out of Riverrun, because the truth was, even without the threat to her mother, to her uncle’s home and people, she might have walked right out for nothing but the promise of peace and Tywin’s arms around her.

What are you doing to me?

Damn him for making her weak.

I could ask the same of you.

Damn him for giving her children that could be used against her.

You’re a curse.

Damn him for all of it! For not finding a way out of the dragon queen’s trap. For not being strong when she couldn’t be.

And damn him for dying!

Tywin Lannister gave up his life for you.

For what? For me to spend the rest of my life in this house, with this traitor and these foreign soldiers for company, living for the few days or perhaps only hours that HE will let me see my daughters?

“Lady…”

She flicked her eyes to the man, realizing they were filled with tears only by how blurry his face looked.

“Did he?” she heard herself ask, and counted it as the bravest thing she’d ever done.

“Did he…? Oh,” Ser Jorah’s cheeks darkened, “Well… I would assume so, yes. You knew that—”

“Yes, I knew that was the plan. Her plan. For justice.” She let out a humorless laugh, “Your queen is a clever woman, Ser. And crueler than any man I’ve ever met.”

He sighed, “Executing a criminal isn’t cruelty, lady. But think so if you will.”

“Not executing a criminal, Ser. No, that wasn’t the cruel part.”

She saw him hesitate before asking, “Then what was?”

She had to suck in snot to answer, for the mask was gone and she was all tears now, but she made sure her voice didn’t waver, “For taking a woman’s husband and children away from her, when she knows that pain herself.” She turned from him, “Would you leave me now, Ser Jorah?”

She waited until he was out the door and down the stairs before dropping to her knees and crying into her mattress.

You’re a curse.

She stared at the ceiling of the bedroom that was hers, in the house that would never feel like home.

She’d spent the past two days alternating between crying over him and hating him.

The sorrow she couldn’t help. She loved him, and he had loved her, and now he was dead. It didn’t matter if he deserved to die for his crimes. It didn’t matter whether he was a good man or a bad man or a good man who did bad things. It didn’t matter because she loved him, and so she cried for him, said his name into her pillow, calling out to him because if she did it enough times he would come to her – he would feel her anguish through some connection that transcended worlds and lives and time, and he’d follow it to her, and he’d know what to do. He’d know how to escape and how to find their daughters, and then the four of them would find a place where they’d be free to live the rest of their lives together. No court, no throne, no anything but four people who loved each other. They’d send a message to Mother and Arya and Rickon, to Tyrion and Tommen, that they were alive and well but wouldn’t be coming home. And they wouldn’t, because they’d make a new home. In a house like this one, or even a smaller one, in some city, anywhere in the world where they wouldn’t be found, and they would live.

She’d get so far into that fantasy that recalling the key reason it wasn’t possible landed like a fresh blow each time, and then she would hate him. She’d hate him for claiming a whore to save Sarina Parsons from Gregor Clegane. She’d hate him for claiming the throne to save Sansa Stark from Joffrey Baratheon. She’d hate him for being a sinner, because it gave Daenerys Targaryen the justification to execute him after scattering his family across the Narrow Sea. She’d hate him for ever being born. She’d hate him for ever looking at her, ever touching her, ever kissing her.

The hate was easier to deal with than the sorrow. Hate motivated a person to stand up, to plan and plot. Sorrow motivated nothing but a collapse.

So she tried to feed the hate by recounting all the sins she’d known her husband to commit. The Reynes and Tarbecks – yes, he should have been more merciful. He didn’t have to flood the mine. He could have left them down there a few days to send a message, then let them out. Couldn’t he have at least let the children and servants out, even if not their lords and ladies? Had he feared the fighting men would rush out and be able to threaten his own? But no, they’d be weak after a few days without food. Or had they brought food down with them? It didn’t matter, she huffed at herself. There were more merciful ways, surely. Mercy for the innocents in those mines, if nothing else.

She thought about the sacking of King’s Landing, how the Lannister soldiers had looted and raped the city. Tywin may not have been among them, but had he ordered the men to do it, or just failed to not order it? And if it was the latter, why not later punish any who’d done those vile things? No, she realized – Tywin Lannister didn’t care if the smallfolk suffered. Perhaps he even wanted them to suffer so they’d fear the name Lannister forevermore.

He hadn’t brought Cersei to justice over murdering the princess and her children, that was another of Tywin’s crimes. But how many fathers would? Even honorable Ned Stark would falter under such circumstances.

Until recently, she thought Tywin Lannister had no more sins until nearly two decades later when he sent those same men who killed the princess’ little babes to butcher the smallfolk of the Riverlands. She knew why he’d done it at first. He wanted to lure Ned Stark out of the capital so that Tywin could capture him and trade him for Tyrion. But when it became clear that Ned Stark would not be responding personally, could Tywin not have amended his strategy? From his point of view, no, he couldn’t, not without making his name look weak, and not without risking his homeland since by then Robb was marching south, but couldn’t some diplomatic solution have been reached? Couldn’t he have requested a parley with… No, Sansa realized. Father was dead by then, and Robb’s approaching army became that much more dangerous because it wasn’t just about making a threat, it was about revenge.

But there was one sin she could now insert into that 20-year period of peace… If Jaime Lannister was to be believed, Tywin had ordered a girl younger than Sansa to be… gang-raped. She didn’t even like thinking the phrase. And that girl’s only crime was marrying Tyrion. Out of love, per Jaime, but Sansa thought perhaps more likely out of gratitude. Tyrion and Jaime saved the girl from being raped, and the girl was so grateful that she gave herself to Tyrion in name then body, or perhaps in body then name.

Sounds familiar.

A conversation came back to her, then, from a cold night in Harrenhal, Sansa bundled in a too-big robe, still harboring her little bird dreams despite knowing better. Tywin was in a mood – to this day she didn’t know what had set him off – and suspected his bedwarmer of trying to use him.

“You think you’re the first whore who tried to get a Lannister man wrapped around her finger? One tried it with my father. I made her take a walk of atonement naked through Lannisport. One tried it with my son. Do you want to know what I did to her?”

Lying in bed in the manse in Braavos, Sansa nearly gasped to realize that Tywin’s own words confirmed Jaime’s tale, except that Jaime said the girl was no whore – that Tywin had lied about that and made Jaime lie, too. That added such a particularly vile element to it. Yet Tywin had said it to her so plainly, so factually. Had he lied to her face as easily as he’d once lied to Tyrion? And if so, for what purpose? And how could he lie so easily that she didn’t see through it? Tywin didn’t strike her as a liar. She wasn’t even sure she’d ever seen him lie, had she?

The answer struck her so swiftly that it must have been living somewhere in her mind already, just waiting for her to turn her attention in that direction: Tywin lied on the ship, straight to his son’s face, when he said he didn’t know who killed Joffrey, or if it was even murder. Tywin did know, because Sansa told him. An assassin killed Joffrey. An assassin sent by Arya.

My sister. Tywin lied to protect her from Jaime’s wrath. Or perhaps to protect me, because Jaime would not believe that my sister acted without my knowledge.

All Jaime’s hatred toward Tywin… It all began when Jaime learned of Cersei and Joffrey’s deaths. All his hatred toward Tywin stems back to him thinking that Tywin killed Joffrey, or that I did and Tywin covered for me. Jaime fled the continent because he hated his father, then returned with a queen who shared his desire for vengeance.

Would Daenerys have made it to Westeros without Jaime’s help? Perhaps. She had the Spider, after all. Or perhaps not. But would Tywin have walked out of our apartments with anyone else but Jaime?

If nothing else, Sansa thought Jaime was central to that aspect of the plot. She imagined Jaime entering Tywin’s chamber that night via some secret tunnel, or perhaps being there to await Tywin’s return from the day’s toils. Any other man in the known world, save perhaps Kevan or Ser Addam, discovered in Tywin’s chambers in such a way, would’ve been killed on sight. He’d have called for guards. He’d have fought. But not someone he trusted. Not someone he loved.

Tywin could have told the truth that night on the ship, perhaps gained Jaime’s help enough that he’d petition Daenerys not to kill him. To have him abdicate but then send him to the Wall, or exile him along with me and the girls, but not kill him. It may not have been successful, or it may have. I’ll never know, because Tywin never told the truth. He lied to his son, looked him square in the face and lied. Just like he once looked Tyrion square in the face and lied.

She abandoned her attempts to hate her husband, because a different anger was already propelling her out of the bed. Besides, those attempts had been futile. She couldn’t hate him enough to stop loving him. Not now, maybe not ever. She’d burn with him in the Seven Hells, but not today. She’d survive, just like Arya told her to do. Then she’d live, just like Tywin told her to do. She’d live for her daughters. And someday she’d die for them, but that was fair. Tywin had died for them and for her.

A debt was owed.

And a Lannister always pays her debts.

 

Jorah

He woke to the sound of shuffling feet, and his hand was on the handle of the small dagger beneath his pillow before his eyes had even opened, but it was too late. He cursed himself for sleeping heavily, but how could it be helped when he slept for so few hours each night?

But he realized the girl was making no attempt to harm him, only to get out of his room without rousing him.

“Halt,” he called to her back.

She stopped instantly, but didn’t turn, and he thought he knew why.

For a moment he just stared at her back and marveled that she looked like the opposite of a shadow. Pale from head to toe, the brightest thing in his dark room.

“Give it here,” he commanded as he rose from the bed, though gently. He was going to try to be gentler with her, because clearly the stern but fair approach had been getting him nowhere. This was a woman – no, a girl, he reminded himself – who would respond to kindness. She was a skittish mare who’d been treated ill, not a colt that needed a firm hand to break it in. It was easy to see her for the latter, when she spat her words at him, but that was a defense mechanism, he knew. An act. If she was as tough as she seemed in those moments she wouldn’t spend days on end crying, refusing food, not getting out of bed, not even getting dressed.

It confused the Unsullied, her melancholy. They’d encountered only whores and common women and later Daenerys and her Dothraki handmaidens – none of whom had the luxury to lie around feeling sorry for themselves.

“She weeps because that old man, that lion she was wed to, hurt her?” Bronze Fist asked the others, and Flea nodded beside him, showing his own curiosity on the subject.

“No, she weeps because her daughters aren’t here,” Crawler answered.

“Why? All children leave their mothers. Some mothers make babies just to sell them.”

Jorah hadn’t involved himself in the conversation because what would’ve been the point? How could he explain parental love to boys who never knew their parents? How could he explain the love between a man and woman when they lost their desire for women along with their bollocks?

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he warned, still gently.

“I wasn’t going to hurt anybody with it,” she answered, in a low and pitiful voice.

He approached slowly, keeping himself directly behind her so he’d have plenty of time if she turned around swinging from either direction.

But she didn’t turn, or swing. When he got near enough to feel the heat of her against his torso, he saw she was just cradling it against her belly, as if it was the dearest of her possessions.

He brought his right hand around her body to her right wrist, wrapped his fingers around it, and pulled it away from her body.

She didn’t protest, at first, but did tighten her fingers around the handle, then tested her strength by trying to yank back, but he was much stronger.

“Just yourself?” he asked rhetorically, for he knew the answer. If the girl was going to kill him, she’d have done it moments ago while he slept. She could perhaps think to use it against Flea, who guarded the door tonight, but she couldn’t expect to win that fight. Moreover, she didn’t know where her children were. She’d not kill one of her captors just to escape into an unknown city with no way of finding her daughters, much less a guarantee of being able to get to them and get them away from the men who guarded the nurse and the girls.

Nor was she taking the weapon as some piece of a future plot because she must know Jorah would find it missing in the morning.

No, she meant to take this weapon and use it tonight, but not to escape.

Well, actually… exactly to escape.

He pried the dagger out of her hand and tossed it carefully onto his bed a few paces behind him, then turned the girl around.

She looked a wreck, so much that it startled him. With only moonlight to see by, he could tell her eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed. Her nose raw, her lips swollen from hours of crying, or perhaps biting them to silence her cries. Pale, so pale. It had been a long time since he’d seen a girl with porcelain skin. He always thought of Daenerys as pale, but there was an undercurrent of warmth to his queen’s skin, as if beneath her fair skin, a golden fire glowed.

Beneath this one’s skin, ice flowed. It was inside her, hinted at through the almost translucent flesh, and revealed where her eyes served as windows to the inside. She had looked fiery when he first laid eyes on her, but since he stripped the fire from her hair, she was winter through and through.

It made him homesick for a place he hadn’t thought of as home in… a long time.

“I’ll just find another way,” she offered quietly. No threat, just a statement of fact.

“Perhaps by the time you do, you’ll have come to your senses.”

“I’ve already come to my senses.”

“You’d kill yourself?” he squeezed her upper arms, the bare flesh beneath the short sleeves of her sleeping dress. “You’d leave your children without a mother?”

“They’re already without their mother.”

“Only until—”

“Only until seven moons from now, when you allow me to see them. They might have forgotten me by then but seeing me, they’ll remember. They’ll remember me, and then they’ll be taken away again. It is too cruel. I won’t do it to them. I won’t do it to myself,” she turned away, eyes glistening.

“I cannot…” he began, not knowing how to finish.

“I know, Ser. You are… You are good and loyal to the woman you serve. I know this… this life can’t be pleasant for you, either. Playing nursemaid to a hysterical woman… Playing gaoler to the daughter of your once liege lord.”

Jorah lowered his eyes even though she wasn’t facing him, wasn’t looking at him at all. It was with no small amount of shame that he acknowledged – only to himself – that the opposite was true. He had spent much of the second half of his life hating Ned Stark, even though he knew he shouldn’t. Jorah broke the law, and Ned Stark was tasked with enforcing the law. It was that simple. And now, many years later, he could look back and wonder if Ned Stark resented that he had to deliver justice to one of his bannermen. He wondered if Ned Stark condemned him to death because it was the expected punishment but would’ve preferred to be more lenient. A pair of wildlings poaching on Mormont land – worthless cretins, they were. Barbarians, all of them; he knew from his own father’s letters. He knew how men like them thought – that there was nothing they weren’t entitled to take. Had they been happened upon by a pair of maids out searching for wildflowers instead of a pair of huntsmen, they’d have taken those maids. Fucked them and carried them back to their settlement or camp. Or fucked them and killed them. Jorah was within his rights to execute them, as the lord of those lands, and with all the authority of his liege and his king. But sell them into slavery? That was abhorrent. Too cruel a punishment even for a pair of degenerate cunts that had no business south of the Wall.

So for years he hated the mere sound of Ned Stark’s name. Thus, when this entire plan was laid out, he had no qualms about the aspects involving Ned Stark’s eldest girl. In fact, part of him may have even… embraced that aspect of it.

Yet time in exile, particularly after giving up Lynesse to that prince, had given him little to do but fight and think. He thought about the burning hatred he felt for Ned Stark, and wondered why the same fire didn’t burn for Lynesse. He wondered why he never hated her, the woman who drove him to ruin. Since the earliest days of their marriage, she made it clear what she thought of Bear Island – the keep, the climate, the people – and it wasn’t favorable. She turned her nose up at the hearty but simple fare that sustained them, namely fish and potato stews that lacked the exotic spices she’d grown up with. She didn’t appreciate that it was expensive to get anything in Bear Island unless it grew on the island or in the nearby Glover lands. Dornish merchants weren’t sailing that far north to trade their spices and dried peppers and fruits, peppercorns and salt. Not during spring, certainly, when there was zero demand for bear fur in the southern kingdoms.

To Lynesse, the food was boring, the people barbaric, the landscape bleak, the entertainment nonexistent. So Jorah bought a fine ship, and they sailed south to the port cities where culture could be found. He spent and spent and spent, each time being rewarded with her smiles, her kisses, her lips on his cock. It had gotten to the point where every time he handed over a coin to a merchant his cock went half-hard.

And like the fool he was, he never wondered why the smiles and kisses and other attentions disappeared when he went too long without spoiling her. He just kept spoiling, kept spending. Then borrowing so he could spend. Then selling poachers so he could pay back the loans so he could take new ones and spend some more…

Then fleeing the continent with Lynesse on that pretty ship he bought just for her, emptying his house’s coffers to do it. Braavos was their destination, but it was too cold for Lynesse. Aye, it was the northernmost part of Essos, but for some reason it never got as cold as the equally northern parts of Westeros, for reasons Jorah would never understand but that he’d heard more than once had to do with the directions of the seas. It wasn’t cold to Jorah, but it was frigid to Lynesse Hightower.

So Lys was next. Warm Lys. Sunny Lys. Beautiful Lys. Lys with its exotic fruits, its palm trees, its sweet wines, its beautiful people. Its merchant districts that sold the finest perfumes and tapestries and lace. Lynesse was happy again, her smiles and affections back with a vengeance, until the money ran out. So Jorah took a loan from a fighting company in exchange for three months of his service, after which he’d continue on with them at a weekly salary. The funds from the loan went to Lynesse, so she could pay the lease on their house and keep herself fed while Jorah was off earning that coin, maybe dying for that coin.

And while he sold his sword, she sold her cunt. To some merchant prince who made her one of his concubines. Lynesse Hightower would rather be a rich man’s whore than a poor man’s wife, and still Jorah didn’t hate her until recently, when he looked back on himself and felt nothing but humiliation for how he had acted. He’d spent thousands of dragons to make his wife happy so she’d give him her affection when it was her duty to do as much. He’d have been better off spending a small fraction of that on the services of whores, then he’d never have bankrupted his house, never have shamed his house.

He often wondered what Jeor would say to him, if he could see him now.

He hoped he never found out.

And the moment he had that thought, he realized he was as close to his father – or at least information about his father – as he’d been since he left Bear Island all those years ago. He was holding in his hands a Northern girl, a Stark. Didn’t she now have kin back in Winterfell?

He dropped her arms and moved to sit on the end of his bed, took a deep breath and then dove in, “Do you know, lady, why I left Bear Island?”

Her head snapped toward him. Perhaps the turn in conversation startled her, or the fact that he hadn’t punished her for stealing a dagger, or that he sat on his bed while a woman was in his room.

He didn’t know and didn’t care.

“I… You sold men into slavery?” she asked.

“Aye. Wildlings who were hunting on Mormont lands. I could kill them and get nothing out of it other than the satisfaction of enforcing the law, or I could sell them and… and earn a bit of coin.”

“You were a lord; did you need coin so badly?”

He shrugged, “Need? No. I wanted it badly, because my lady wife was… difficult to please.”

The girl hummed, or perhaps Jorah only imagined it. Some part of him felt compelled to explain Lynesse Hightower to Sansa Stark so that she’d know it wasn’t Jorah who was lacking, but the day he started caring what she thought of him was the day he started down a dangerous path.

“She must have been your second wife. The first died, did she not?”

Jorah blinked at the girl, wondering how on earth she could know. She’d have still been in nappies when Lena died. No, not even born. She was born after Robert’s Rebellion. It was her elder brother born during the war. At Riverrun, Jorah thought.

Jorah nodded, “I wed Lena Glover when I was nineteen, she sixteen. She died during the rebellion, while I was off fighting.”

“You fought alongside my father?”

He nodded again, “Aye. Will you sit?” he gestured toward the sole chair in the room, “never liked talking up to someone.”

She hesitated less than he expected, but he understood why. Whatever reservations she had about being alone in his room in the darkest part of night were less potent than her desire to hear about her father, from someone who knew the man.

“Your father was my commander, in a sense, for he commanded all the North’s forces, though he was smart enough to delegate. To men like Jon Umber, for instance.”

She nodded for him to go on, and he found himself shrugging, “I’d never seen battle before that. And if you want stories, lady, you’ve got the wrong man. All I remember is the smell of blood and shite, the screaming of men and horses, the constant fear that shut down everything I might have otherwise thought or observed. I cannot tell you what the battle formations were, whether I was in the left flank or center. I… The entire battle was a blur. And then the prince fell. And then Robert Baratheon fell. Only the latter would get back up again.”

“Were you injured?” she asked timidly.

“No more than most. I was one of the ones well enough to bolster the Stag’s vanguard, which your father led himself. Straight down the King’s Road to the capital, because we heard Tywin Lannister was marching there from the west with over ten thousand head, intent to claim the capital while the Mad King’s defenses were weak.”

“So you were there when… when the city fell?”

“The city didn’t fall; it was handed over on a silver platter. But aye, I was there for it. The aftermath, at least. It hadn’t been more than half a day since the lions were let into the place, but already there was evidence of their carnage everywhere. Bodies in the streets. Beaten and bloodied. Sometimes naked. Young, old. Men, women. Those peasants wouldn’t have done a thing to interfere, I know. They’d have locked themselves in their homes and shops, but the Lannister soldiers dragged them out all the same… You know, when my queen was shopping for her army, she didn’t like the idea of using the Unsullied, them being slaves and all. I told her to think about all the women and children, the innocents who would be spared, since the Unsullied don’t loot and don’t rape. When I told her that, it was King’s Landing after the sack that I was picturing…” Jorah often wished these memories would be forgotten like those from the battle. His mind had purged what must have been frightening images of his comrades with their limbs hacked off, their chests sliced open, their innards dangling out. Why couldn’t it purge the images of corpses naked from the waist down, and the children who crouched next to them, crying for help that would never come?

The girl shook her head faintly, “How could so many men be so vile, when the average man you meet is good? Or at least not evil.”

“It’s inevitable, lady. Men march to war with thousands of other men, and they’re miserable. It is either cold or hot. The food is stale, and bland, and there’s never enough of it. The water is often dirty. Intestinal maladies tear through the camps. Your socks are never dry. Your body is never clean. It is misery. So, thousands of men march into a city, angry as hornets from all the times they’ve been hungry or cold, hurt or sick. And at the center of that city lives the man who is the reason they had to go to war to begin with. And the people surrounding him don’t look like his subjects but like his… his buffer. His safety. And the soldiers get their blood up in order to kill the opposing soldiers and guards. But there aren’t enough of them to go around. Funny thing about soldiers: once they work themselves up for a kill, it takes more than one to satisfy. It takes more than two or three, even. So the watchmen go first, then all that’s left are the civilians. And maybe only one soldier out of every twenty will turn his blade on a civilian, but after he does, because he’s blinded by bloodlust or perhaps because he’s the sort of man who enjoys killing, what do you think happens? The other civilians realize they’re not safe, so they start to defend. That means picking up arms, even if only broomsticks or shovels or hammers. Now they look like the enemy to the soldiers, and not just the one in twenty. Now to the soldier it looks like the battlefield again… that place where to stop fighting is to die. So they swing and parry and advance. They kill a man who was nothing but a street sweeper or a cobbler, and the sweeper or cobbler’s wife screams at them, maybe flies at them like angry women are wont to do. Now she’s an enemy, too, but one without a weapon in her hands. She has something else though. Something the soldiers haven’t had for months. Something they maybe thought they’d never have again. And maybe they still won’t – maybe they’ll die as soon as they step into the next alley, and they don’t want to die with a dry cock. So they take. And the woman screams. So more people pick up arms. More women. More men. The woman’s children, perhaps, or her neighbor’s children, who don’t understand. Maybe they try to grab the soldier, try to tell him to stop hurting their mother or neighbor. The soldier turns around swinging, never waiting to see who’s hounding him. And it just keeps going on until… until all the bloodlust has burned out. It’s a wildfire, lady. Once it starts, it doesn’t stop until it damned well wants to.”

A silence fell, and Jorah felt rather sleepy. He could feel his body swaying slightly where he sat on the mattress, shoulders hunched like they rarely were.

Then…

“It was a bit like that during the riots.”

He glanced at the girl again, not recalling when he had cast his eyes down at his stockinged feet and let them go unfocused.

“What riots?” he asked.

“They called them the bread riots, afterwards. It was the day we saw Princess Myrcella off to Dorne. The people were hungry. The Tyrells had stopped sending grain and produce north, and blockaded the roads so no others could help.”

“You were in the city when it happened?”

She nodded, “Returning to the keep with the rest of the royal procession. The people looked so angry and… and then a woman was there, right as we were approaching Aegon’s High Hill and the safety of the keep. She was holding a baby and trying to get Joffrey to look at it. I told him to give her some money and he did. He threw a stag at her feet, but she didn’t even… she didn’t even look at it. But everyone else did. The men around her dove to the ground, fighting each other over that one coin. And I watched it spread – the panic and… and the anger and fighting. It bloomed outward in all directions, with that woman at the center of it. Wildfire, like you said.”

“Did you get back inside the keep?” he asked, not sure why it mattered. The girl obviously survived; it shouldn’t matter how.

She shook her head, “Cersei told Joffrey to move on and the woman started cursing at her. Calling her an abomination. An adulteress. A brother-fucker. Others took up the chants and Joffrey got so mad. Same as their anger, the chanting spread through the crowd until it seemed like it was all around us. Then someone threw shit at him. At Joffrey. It hit him square in the face,” the girl smiled at that, though it didn’t put any warmth into her eyes, which had settled on him in a way that made him feel like some specimen for a maester to study. “Things got out of control then. Joffrey ordered Sandor Clegane to cut through the crowd if he needed to, to find the culprit. The people didn’t like that. Someone gave the command for us to ride on to the gate, but people were surrounding us and attacking us and suddenly Ser Mandon was gone, and I realized I wasn’t part of the group. Men were pushing on my horse and grabbing at me, and she panicked and bolted. I was never a strong rider, truth be told. I held on and held on until I couldn’t, but by then I was away from the most incensed parts of the mob. I just ran in the direction that seemed quieter, but some men had seen me fall off the horse and they ran after me. I ran like I hadn’t run since I was a child. I suppose having long legs is good for some things…”

Jorah snorted at that. Only a woman who was blessed with such a figure wouldn’t appreciate it.

“I ran down alleys, this way and that, until I heard no more footsteps behind me, and I just pushed in the door of this rowhouse that seemed poorly tended to. I thought it was empty and I’d be able to shelter there until… Gods,” she snorted, “I don’t know what I thought to do, but the moment I saw the house was occupied – a woman and her infant son – I knew I didn’t want to go back to the Red Keep. Lord Tyrion had stopped the beatings, but I still—”

“Beatings?”

Her eyes narrowed, “I suppose Ser Jaime wouldn’t have told you. Aye. His son ordered me beaten whenever my brother bested the Lannister armies in battle. Or sometimes just because it pleased him.”

Jorah swallowed, “Ser Jaime’s son, eh?”

She lifted her hands, “Who is listening, Ser? And what does it matter?”

“Fine. So you were in a house with a mother and son…”

“Aye,” she nodded, “I lied, made up a story about how I was a noblewoman who wanted away from an abusive husband—”

“Wasn’t much of a lie, sounds like.”

She looked at him curiously, then laughed, “My husband says…” she swallowed, “Well, he used to say that I am a terrible liar, yet I lied to him well because my lies were close to the truth.”

“I heard that you lied about who you were. That you acted as some… lowborn mistress? How close could that have been to the truth?”

She shook her head, and moonlight glinted off the white strands. It seemed to want to shine red, like a blood moon. Funny, Jorah thought. In some parts of the world sailors believed a blood moon to mean smooth sailing, yet when Jorah first met the girl, her hair reminded him of a red sky at morning. Sailors take warning.

Either way, they’d need to strip it again, a prospect he didn’t look forward to in the least.

She had taken a deep breath while he pondered her hair, but continued then, “My sister and I had created a story for ourselves, while we were prisoners at Harrenhal. I was Sarina Parsons, merchant’s daughter, educated but lowborn. She was a boy. Arnold Humphreys. Stonemason’s son. Ser Gregor Clegane arrived one day and—Oh, do you know Ser Gregor? The Mountain that Rides?”

Jorah snorted, “Everyone knows the name. And aye, I’ve laid eyes on him. He was not even a man grown when I did, yet already stood a head and shoulders above any other man. But how did you get to Harrenhal, lady?”

She rolled her eyes, “Do you want to hear about how I fooled the Great Lion, or not?”

“Fine,” he grumbled, figuring they could talk about her journey from King’s Landing to Harrenhal tomorrow night, then reminding himself he shouldn’t allow these late-night confessionals to become a habit.

“Well, Ser Gregor claimed me from the yard that was the prison. Made me bathe him, then bathe myself, but before any more could happen, Tywin arrived. I’d never met him; he’d never met me. But I knew his reputation for being… stern. And fearsome. He told Gregor to leave his whore behind when he gave the lord’s chambers to Tywin. He assumed I was a whore and I… went along with it. He—”

Ser Jorah turned away, “I know what went along with it means. So the Great Lion was tamed by a young cunt, after all. The sons of a love strong enough to overcome war and age? Let me guess, your husband created those songs to hide the fact that he was a puppy at the she-wolf’s feet. Or should I say, between her legs.”

“Disappointed?” she lifted an eyebrow.

“Hardly.”

She snorted, “You’re a worse liar than me…”

He scoffed at that, sitting up straight, but deciding it looked too much like he cared, so he slouched down again, made as if he was just shifting around to get more comfortable as he brought one leg up, shoving the foot under his opposite thigh, “I’m not disappointed. Not disappointed to learn that Sansa Stark and Tywin bloody Lannister didn’t have some fairy tale romance, a story for the ages. Just disappointed that this man who everyone fears, or respects, or both, is just as susceptible as the rest of us.”

Us?”

“Men,” he rolled his eyes.

Sansa nodded, but he saw no look of victory in her face as she spoke, “So that second wife of yours… The one who was hard to please…?”

He waved a hand, “I’ve nothing to hide. Aye, I sent myself to ruin to try to placate her. But it is not a mistake I’ll make again. I’m not so easily led astray anymore. That’s a young man’s folly, and I’m no young man. Only perhaps in comparison to your husband, so he definitely should’ve known better.”

Her gaze left him, “Aye, he should’ve known better.”

Jorah let out a sigh, “Lady, I’m not saying you led him astray, nor that you led him to ruin.”

“Only that I led him to death,” she stated harshly.

Jorah winced, “He led himself there. He didn’t have to come to the ship. You—”

“Aye, he did have to come. He had to come for the same reason I had to come.”

“What reason is that, pray tell?”

“Isn’t it obvious? Love. I went along out of love for my daughters. He went along out of love for… for me.”

“He still made a choice, lady. It’s not on you.”

“No. There was no choice. That is what love does to a person, Ser. Want to talk about lies? The greatest lie in the history of mankind is that love is something good, something pure, something people should want to have. No… love is a curse, Ser. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. About this much, Cersei Lannister was right.”

He had nothing to say to that, though would be a hypocrite if he didn’t admit to himself that he understood. That he agreed, even.

The girl said to him recently that they were both slaves to their love. She wasn’t wrong. Would he be here for what might be the rest of his life – how did Sansa put it? playing nursemaid to a hysterical woman? – if not for his love for his queen? No, he wouldn’t. He’d rather be that dog lying at Daenerys’ feet, even if only to get fat and lazy, than to be serving her from across the ocean.

Funny thing about it, though… Sansa Stark seemed to resent being a slave to her love, but Jorah couldn’t sympathize. He could never regret loving his queen, no more than he could regret serving her, protecting her. Because Daenerys Targaryen was a good woman, with a good heart. She was no Lynesse Hightower, swooning at him while he held his tourney purse, then scowling the moment piney, dreary Bear Island came into view. Nor was she even a Lena Glover, batting her eyelashes at a strapping young man, giving him her maiden’s gift while they were both drunk on northern ale, binding themselves into what ended up being ten years of matrimony and miscarriages, all while trying and failing to give her husband any real love.

No, his love for Daenerys was nothing like what he felt for Lena then Lynesse. Daenerys was worthy of a man’s love. Perhaps too worthy. And perhaps that was his problem: he loved a woman who could have any man she wanted. Khal Drogo, whose physique would make the Warrior envious. Daario the sellsword, with that rakish grin that made women wet between the legs. Hizdahr zo Loraq, all long and lean muscle under skin the color of honey. Jaime Lannister, with his granite jaw and green eyes and broad back. A thousand other men, or a million. Any who’d ever laid eyes on her wanted her, though it was a much smaller percentage who had any interest in loving her, that was for sure. Some, like Hizdahr, wanted to be near her so they could be in a position to slip a blade between her ribs. Others, like Lannister, wanted to be near her so they could ride on her wings to reach their own heights, their own goals. A goal like wealth, for a cunt like Daario. Power, for that Xaro Xhoan Daxos. Revenge, for Lannister. Perhaps Daario and Lannister didn’t even realize they were using her, but they were. Though at least Lannister seemed principled enough – imagine that! – to not turn on Daenerys if she should ever become an obstacle to what he wanted instead of a stepping stone.

Aye, Jorah was a slave, and the more he thought on it, the more he realized he did want to be free… because it was a particularly sharp ache, a particularly desperate sort of loneliness, to know he was the only man in the world who would love her as she deserved to be loved, with no ulterior motives, but that she’d never be able to love him in return. It was one of her few flaws, he knew – she’d always be weak for a handsome man. And Jorah had never been a handsome man. In his youth it had been his muscles that the girls cooed over, not a particularly comely face. Now that face was weathered and creased like an old saddle bag, with some salt sprinkled into the pepper of his beard, which at some point had merged with the pelt on his chest. And for all the hair on his arms and chest and belly, it refused to grow on the top of his head anymore. He still had the muscles, but they couldn’t compensate for a wrinkled old face as they once could for a plain, young face.

“I just realized something…”

He looked to the girl again. She was not looking at him.

“What?” he asked.

“Your father and my brother served together at the Wall.”

“Served… past tense?”

She nodded slowly, “My brother disappeared in one of the wildling attacks. No… Not an attack. They – the Watch – sent him to scout the wildling army, and he didn’t return.”

Jorah snorted, “Wildlings have armies now?”

“As I heard it, a man named Mance Rayder is King beyond the Wall, and he united all the wildling tribes. My brother Bran believed it was because something worse was coming for them.”

“I thought all your brothers were dead?”

Her eyes flicked to his then back to the nothing she’d been staring at, “We thought so, too. But Bran survived when the Ironborn attacked Winterfell, and when the Boltons took it from the Ironborn. Though… He’s probably dead now. He went on a mission north of the Wall. We tried to talk him out of it but,” she shrugged, “But he could have named himself Lord Stark at any time, and by all laws of inheritance he’d be accepted as such. We couldn’t stop him from going, could only try to ensure his success.”

“His mission was to look for your other brother?”

“Partly. But also to learn the truth of the threat. The wildlings have been sailing around the Wall or climbing over it in record numbers. And there was a Night’s Watch deserter at Winterfell who claimed to have seen a… a wight.”

Jorah crossed his arms, “Tales told to scare naughty children, nothing more.”

But his father had believed those stories, hadn’t he? Something had called the old bear up to Castle Black. Something compelling enough for him to ignore the fact that his heir had yet to make an heir of his own. Aye, Maege and her brood of daughters ensured the Mormont bloodline was secure, but few lords would give up their lordship unless they had at least a couple sons or grandsons, or nephews at the least.

Jorah had never told anyone how much it stung when his father left him to rule their home, with no explanation for why he couldn’t wait until Jorah was just a bit older. Jorah was wed to Lena, and that was all the man needed in terms of assurance.

She ignored his comment, “There was a letter to Winterfell, in response to one my sister sent to inquire after our brother – he’s actually our half-brother – but anyway, the letter was quite official, penned by some Tarly steward on behalf of the Lord Commander.”

“My father?” Jorah’s eyebrows rose, along with his shoulders, “You know what the letter said?”

Sansa winced, “Apologies, Ser. Your father died some years ago. I do not know the details, only that it was… mutiny.”

Jorah slunk back, clenched his jaw, “My father did not deserve that.”

“No,” she shook her head, “I can’t imagine he did. My father spoke well of him. Not that I paid much attention to talk of the Watch, but Father used to say, ‘the old bear is a good man’. I do remember that. But anyway, this steward included a personal missive, my sister Arya showed me. It said that he couldn’t say whether Jon – that’s our brother – still lived, only that he believed if anyone could survive north of the Wall, it was him. But he said if he was wrong that we should be proud of our brother anyway. He distinguished himself early on, saving Lord Commander Mormont, at his own peril. The Lord Commander gave him his house sword as thanks.”

“Longclaw,” Jorah gasped, “I always wondered…”

“Wondered what?”

He looked intently at her then, “I left the sword behind when I fled to Essos.”

“But weren’t you wanting for coin?”

He snorted, “Aye. But even I have more honor than to sell our family’s sword. It is Valyrian steel, which is a thousand times rarer than gold.”

Sansa nodded solemnly, “It was good of you to leave it. Was it Lady Maege then, who sent it to your father at the Wall?”

“Must’ve been. I hoped she would. I had hoped…”  That he’d know it meant I wasn’t a complete piece of shit. That I wasn’t completely devoid of honor.

“I’m sure my brother – if he lives – will return the sword to your kin. Lady Dacey is in residence at Winterfell. She’s the eldest, no?”

Jorah felt his lips twitch, “Aye. Not much younger than me. Felt more like a cousin than a niece. But all the girls loved my father, and moreover they respected him. If Jeor gave the sword to your brother, they’d trust that it belongs in his hands.”

The girl smiled faintly, “Jon Snow is a good man. Or was a good man. I saw it too late, I fear. I should have told him before he left Winterfell for Castle Black.” She laughed, and he could hear the tears in it, “I hardly feel old enough to be wise, but if anyone ever asked me for advice, I’d tell them not to leave anything unsaid between them and the ones they love. My father… My brother… My other brothers,” she rolled her eyes, “My… husband.”

Jorah swallowed thickly, hating that he had learned the same lesson and learned it the hard way. Pride had kept him from ever reaching out to his father all these years. Pride and self-preservation. But now he’d risk both to speak to Jeor one last time, even if only by letter. What he’d say he knew damned well, but didn’t want to think about it.

Perhaps Maege and the girls would hear his words instead, but it was no longer just his own safety that hinged upon his ability to stay hidden.

Another silence fell, and Jorah realized that the sky was turning from black to a purplish gray. He yawned, then pondered how strange it was that this conversation started with him prying his own dagger out of her hands. A dagger she wanted so she could kill herself. He doubted she’d follow through. It took a profound degree of desperation or sorrow to slice open one’s veins. Still, he’d have to make sure they kept an eye on her. That they stayed vigilant about locking away the kitchen knives when not in use. That whoever was on guard would wake his replacement if he ever felt at risk of dozing off.

Still, he didn’t think she seemed suicidal now. Perhaps she’d only needed to feel in control of some aspect of her life, and he could not grudge her that. Or perhaps this conversation had been good for her. She didn’t seem so heartbroken now.

“I know he was a bad man…” she whispered.

Jorah brought his eyes from the window to her face. The lightening sky cast its early morning hues upon her, just as the moon had. The girl was a blank canvas, he almost laughed to think.

“I know you do,” he answered, because it was true.

“But I swear I loved him, even knowing I shouldn’t have.”

He nodded slowly, wondering why it hurt to hear, “I know you did.”

“And now I’m just as bad, because I killed him. I killed the man I love.” The tears rolled down, two sparkling trails, like the tracks of a sled that ice over while the snow stays soft and light.

“You didn’t kill him. He chose—”

“I killed him long before that night, Ser.”

Jorah stood up, then immediately wondered why he did. “How?” he asked.

The girl shrugged tiredly, “Ser Jaime wanted vengeance for his sister, his lover. That is why Ser Jaime betrayed his father, my husband.”

It felt like all the blood in his body stopped moving, froze in place, “You killed him. Joffrey. The boy king.”

She stood up, nodded slowly.

“And your husband… he knew?”

She shook her head, “I don’t think so. The crimes were… well concealed.”

Jorah stepped toward her too rapidly, knowing this didn’t matter and yet feeling like it was all that mattered, “Crimes? As in…” he shook his head, “How?”

“In Harrenhal, there two men. Boys, really. The guards were going to…” she shook her head, rubbing her hands on her upper arms, “I saved them. Both of them. It was the day Ser Gregor arrived. When he came for me, I told him… I said I’d do whatever he wished if they spared the boys. And they did. And Tywin arrived by nightfall, so the torturing came to an end. Anyway, I never thought much of it. But one of them came to me in King’s Landing, after I’d wed Tywin. He said two deaths were owed,” she shrugged, “it made no sense and frankly I thought he was a lunatic. But he wouldn’t let up; he kept asking me for two names, two lives to take. Finally, I… I just…”

“You named Cersei and Joffrey,” Jorah spoke breathlessly. He didn’t know the pair, only what rumors had come across the Narrow Sea, which was that they were vile. Ser Barristan shared such an opinion, calling Joffrey a brat and Cersei a cuckold, but it would seem he left Westeros before their more deviant traits were revealed. It wasn’t until Ser Jaime arrived that they learned that Joffrey wasn’t just spoiled but probably also cruel, but Ser Jaime himself didn’t seem entirely convinced. He’d call Joffrey inept, call his sister impulsive, but seemed to be saying it by rote, as if he knew it was futile to deny the reputations they’d each garnered but didn’t actually subscribe to those beliefs himself.

But that day on the ship, there was no denying that both Sansa and her husband painted a picture of much more despicable characters. Was it to justify taking the boy’s throne? Or was it all true?

“Why?” he asked.

The girl offered another shrug, “Because Joffrey was a monster, and his mother was worse. They lied to me. They killed my father after promising he could take the black. They manipulated me into betraying my own family, decrying my father a traitor. They neglected me. They abused me. They failed to protect me. And because, before all that, they killed my wolf.”

Jorah snorted, “So this boy somehow killed Joffrey, staged it to seem an accident, then infiltrated the family keep and did the same to his mother, only making it seem a suicide?”

Sansa shrugged, “I do not know how. They say it was only a whore with Joffrey that night, and Maegor’s Holdfast is impregnable. And I never got to ask. I never saw the boy again. Gods, half the time I convinced myself he was a ghost. My father or brother appearing as some harmless boy to avenge their deaths, or to ensure I was safe from those who wouldn’t have stopped until I was dead.”

Jorah swallowed and turned away from the girl, lest she see the surprise in his eyes. By all she was describing, it was the work of one of those Faceless Men, and she didn’t even know it. She’d saved two boys by bartering her obeisance to Gregor Clegane. Two lives stolen from the god of death, which meant two lives were owed. How the hell a Faceless Man (or two?) were at Harrenhal was beyond Jorah. If they’d been brought by someone in the Stark camp to kill Tywin Lannister or Gregor Clegane, they did a shite job of it. But regardless, the girl had the favor of those mysterious assassins and didn’t even know it. Of course, she didn’t; Jorah had never heard of the institution until he began swapping stories with other sellswords.

Part of him wanted to chuckle at the irony of it all. The girl killed Ser Jaime’s son and lover, which sent the man spiraling into grief and hatred so acute that he sought out Daenerys Targaryen to be his accomplice in ending his father’s reign and his life. It had never sat right with Ser Jorah. Not Tywin Lannister’s death – that cunt deserved to die if ever a man did – but Ser Jaime’s role in it all. Kinslaying was a vile thing. For all Jorah may have disappointed his father and in some ways betrayed his own family, he’d drive a dagger into his own heart before doing the same to one of his kin. His father may have the respect of people like Ned Stark and other Northern lords, not to mention Maege and all her brats, but he was far from an ideal father. He’d been a cold sonofabitch all of Jorah’s youth. Cold, hard, practical, stubborn. He was all about duty. Duty came before family, certainly came before any fun or pleasure. All Jorah wanted was to live a little. To eat and make merry, to dance with girls, to kiss girls. It was a mistake, taking Lena Glover’s maidenhead, but they’d both been tipsy, and the girl was downright ravenous. No child came of it, but Jeor couldn’t stand the idea of the stain that’d be on their name if anyone ever found out that his heir had deflowered another lord’s daughter. So without any concern for what Jorah wanted or even what Lena wanted, they were wed. And as soon as they were wed, Jeor was off to the Wall, leaving Jorah to rule. And Jorah always suspected it was more than Jeor believing all those old nursery tales, more than a proud Northman doing what he felt was his duty. Jorah still remembered his mother. He was ten when she succumbed to wet lung, and his father barely shed a tear. Eleven years Jeor and Rowena had been married, and only one son to show for it. A healthy son born in the first year of their marriage, proving his mother to be fertile and his father potent, and then nothing but drought for ten years. His mother was pretty enough, he knew from his own recollection and Maege’s, but it seemed rare that Jeor chose to be in her company. That was the crux of it: Jeor Mormont didn’t enjoy one particular duty of a lord, so he abandoned it all to take the black almost the moment Jorah was wed. That made Jeor a hypocrite and a craven. There’d been times in Jorah’s life that he would seethe with rage when thinking about his father, and yet not once did he think about plotting vengeance against him. Not once did he pray for Jeor’s death.

No, Jeor Mormont wasn’t the monster that Tywin Lannister was, but it still grated on Jorah right from the get-go that the Kingslayer was so eager to become a kinslayer, too. Jorah had warned Daenerys about it – that she couldn’t trust a man who’d go against his own kin, because what would stop him from going against her? She only told Jorah that family is complicated. Had her father still lived, might she not be the one trying to bring him to justice, especially if all the rest of Westeros was too scared to go against him?

He couldn’t argue with that logic, only sit back and watch while Jaime Lannister became all that Jorah had once been. Daenerys’ source of information on Westeros; on its lords and ladies and customs. Daenerys’ confidante, her companion, her friend, her protector, her advisor. Jaime Lannister had become her right-hand man such that she rarely sought Ser Jorah’s counsel.

It never occurred to him to stop serving Daenerys. She was the worthiest cause a man like him could hope to find before his time was done. She would be a good queen because she wasn’t afraid of change and because she didn’t care what anyone thought of her. She wouldn’t become some puppet to another lord’s whims, a tool for his agendas. No, she would stick to her principles. But that didn’t mean he liked being assigned this task of guarding Lady Sansa indefinitely. Why not Ser Barristan, instead? He knew why she wouldn’t choose Lannister – the girls were his blood, and he seemed to have a soft spot for his goodmother even as he also resented her.

At minimum, she could have tasked Jorah with getting the hostages set up in their permanent abodes with the Unsullied then returning to Westeros to be by her side like he’d been since she was nothing but a little girl afraid of her brother’s shadow and her husband’s cock. Did she fear the Lady Sansa or her nurse would be able to seduce the Unsullied into doing their bidding? He almost snorted to imagine what a pitiful attempt that would be. Aye, some of the Unsullied men had been to the pillow houses in Meereen, but Jorah knew it was only for feminine company, a change of scenery perhaps. Jorah had heard that there were ways for such men to have something like a peak, but it was nowhere near satisfying, and moreover they lost their desire to feel such things when they lost their bollocks. And even if he was wrong about their sexual desires, it didn’t matter because one thing that had been ingrained in each and every one of the eunuch soldiers was unflinching loyalty and obedience to the master. Daenerys became their master the moment she clasped the whip in her hand, but even more so when she told them they were free to follow her or to pursue some other life. Daenerys had given them freedom; what could Sansa offer that would be worth more than that?

Aye, the Unsullied would be more than enough to keep this girl in line. And they’d not be so soft as Jorah was being. If she wanted to kill herself, so be it. They’d still have the babes, who were worth more than the mother anyway.

All the plans Daenerys used to share with Jorah, he mourned them now. Going city by city with a simple offer: kneel or die. It sounded cold, of course it did, but the reality was the vast majority would kneel and then Daenerys would be queen and they would quickly see that they’d made the right choice, that unlike men like Robert Baratheon and Joffrey Waters and Tywin Lannister Daenerys was a capable rule but also had a heart.

Instead he was stuck here doing a whole lot of nothing while the bloody Kingslayer got to be by Daenerys’ side, witness every triumph, every success. And the Kingslayer was only by her side because he believed his father had killed his son and lover, when in fact his father hadn’t done it and hadn’t even known about it. No wonder Tywin hadn’t been able to prove it to be murder – the Faceless Men were unmatched in their trade and if they wanted to make a murder look like an accident, they could.

All that hatred that Jaime Lannister had for his father, the cunt probably was tenting his breeches when the Great Lion’s head rolled. If only he knew the truth, that cocky smile would be wiped off his too-handsome face for good. Oh, if only the self-righteous twat would learn the truth.

Yes… If only…

Notes:

Best believe Sansa thought through her playbook. Something like:
-Vanquish any thoughts that she could be dangerous
-Gain sympathy
-Give sympathy
-Show appreciation
-Gain respect
-Plant seeds of doubt about long-held beliefs
-Establish common interests
-Hand over ammo
And, really, only the very beginning and very end required lies.

Question is, what does Sansa hope to gain from Ser Jorah, and is he capable of giving it, given how unshakably loyal he is to Daenerys? Or is she just trying to toss a match on a gasoline-soaked carpet, knowing that, if she survives the inferno, the chaos will give her opportunity to escape? Or is none of it strategy, only vengeance against the man she views as Enemy #1, only the satisfaction of making Ser Jaime be like Oops... ?

Stay tuned to find out!

Chapter 44: A consistent cunt

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Tyrion

They kept his father in the second level of the dungeons, not the infamous black cells. For that, Tyrion exhaled loudly, though wasn’t certain if his relief was for his father, who’d be made to live here for the rest of his life, for himself for not having to travel down to those pitch-dark depths, or for the world at large, since it hinted that Daenerys wasn’t completely devoid of mercy.

Then again, Daenerys had told Tyrion she didn’t want his father to go mad, which even the strongest men would after only a few days or weeks in absolute darkness. She never wished for Tywin Lannister to feel the relief that comes when one’s brain becomes thoroughly addled, such that it forgets all its troubles, forgets the loss of freedom, the loss of loved ones, the loss of power.

On this level, unlike the one above, there were no windows, but there were torches in the halls that spilled warm light into the cells. Those cells were enclosed with bars spaced just close enough that even the slimmest prisoner couldn’t squeeze through. It was better than a heavy wooden door which would block all light and most sound, Tyrion thought.

The main gaoler had sworn to Daenerys and kept his position, but it mattered little since all the under-gaolers and guards had been replaced with the queen’s eunuchs. It wasn’t until one of said eunuchs outside Tywin’s cell was fumbling with a set of keys that Tyrion felt truly nervous. Approaching his father always had that effect on him, because the great lion could shame you with a glare and maim you with a sneer. But now the nervous feeling in his belly bordered on nausea as he wondered what his father would look like after months of captivity, and whether Tyrion’s eyes would be scarred by the sight.

As it turned out, his father looked much like he did the day he received his sentence. He wore the same clothes, though they were dirtier (and smellier). His thinning hair was unkempt. The parts of his cheeks and neck normally smooth-shaven were covered in long stubble that twinkled under the lantern’s light like the silver and gold veins in the mines. The parts ordinarily covered by a trimmed beard now had shaggy hair better suited (and more fashionable) in the North. But unkempt beard and filthy clothes couldn’t diminish the Great Lion’s presence, Tyrion learned.

Tywin was presently sitting on the stone ledge that served as both seat and bed. One foot was on the floor, the other planted on the bench, his left forearm draped over that knee. His father’s shoulders were relaxed, as was his jaw. His posture called to mind a majestic lion sitting upon a hill, watching over his pride in the valley below with a solemn duty that the lion is proud to serve.

His eyes called to mind something entirely different: nothing at all.

The eyes followed Tyrion as he stepped into the cell, forcing himself to ignore the bucket in the far corner, for his father’s dignity more than his own comfort. He’d been in war camps and he’d been in Flea Bottom; he’d smelled worse.

After receiving Daenerys’ permission, Tyrion had planned the points of this discussion to the point that he’d felt like a playwright writing a script – I’ll say this, Father will say that; I’ll snort and say this, and it’ll finally shut him up…

Now all the things he’d wanted to say spilled out of his mind like a tankard of ale being thrust about by the drunken hand of an off-duty guard.

So, he decided to start with the logical. The reason this visit was permitted.

But first he turned to face the guard, who was one step behind and to his left, spear tip in the air, blunt end in the stone.

“Queen Daenerys promised me an opportunity to speak to my father privily.”

The guard only blinked at him.

“Are your ears missing along with your bollocks? That means shove off.”

“He doesn’t speak a lick of the common tongue,” a graveled voice made Tyrion literally jump in place, even though he knew it was his father who’d spoken. He turned and found Tywin eying the guard, “And no, it isn’t an act.”

Tyrion turned to face the guard again and made a shooing motion with his stunted fingers. The guard made a displeased face but all the same he set the torch into a sconce then, without putting his back to either man, left the cell. The bars slammed closed and the lock clicked, and Tyrion flinched as the sound brought another ring of nausea to his throat. His father likely heard that noise a few times each day, and Tyrion wondered if that alone could drive a man mad.

He forced himself not to dwell on it. The spearman seemed to go far enough to give them the illusion of privacy, even if not secrecy. It didn’t really matter, anyway. Tyrion was here on official business and didn’t intend to say anything that might cost his ugly head. He only had some things to get off his chest, since this might be his only chance, that he didn’t want to become common knowledge.

But his father was the most cautious man Tyrion knew, and he trusted his word that the Unsullied guard could not understand or speak in the common tongue.

Tyrion faced his father again, whose posture hadn’t changed, “I leave in three days for Casterly Rock.”

There was no reaction to that for a long time.

Then, “She gave it to you?”

Tyrion shook his head, “No. Not yet at least. But she may, in time. She’s sending me there to collect the oaths of all the bannermen and vassals of the West on her behalf.”

“Why not send your brother?”

Tyrion shrugged, “Perhaps she figures Western lords will trust my word over his, given his recent… allegiance.”

“Fine. Have a safe trip.”

Tyrion snorted, “Captivity hasn’t humbled you, Father. Though I fear it has neutered you. Do you not care to ask about the city you ruled? Your men? Your grandson? Granddaughter? Me?

“What will I be able to do with the information?” his father asked curtly.

Tyrion shook his head and leaned his entire body against the wall perpendicular to Tywin’s seat, “Think on it. Enjoy the intellectual stimulation.”

“Oh, I have an abundance of that.”

“Planning your revenge from behind the bars of a cell?” he kept his tone wry, lest the Unsullied be able to hear and comprehend, though he still doubted it. Why give the infamous Tywin Lannister, man said to shit gold, who once took the city and once took the throne without anything but his words, a chance to sway his keeper? Perhaps the eunuchs were loyal to Daenerys to a fault, but out of a thousand men, there had to be at least one whose loyalty could be bought. Tywin could offer a man lordship of the West, if it was the only way to buy his freedom. Again, why chance it?

“Not exactly,” Tywin responded.

“Then what? How is the great lion keeping his mind as sharp as his once-claws?”

Now Tywin was the one shaking his head, “Nothing about my mind or claws has been sharp, of late.”

Tyrion frowned, “I don’t understand.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Tyrion!” his father flung a dirty hand in the air, and Tyrion once again startled. “I’m sitting in a fucking dungeon cell, not because someone outsmarted me or outfought me or sieged me out of my home but because I let myself be put here like a lamb letting itself be led to slaughter! I had my dagger to your brother’s neck! I had a guard within shouting distance! I had NO FUCKING REASON to follow him, to do his bidding. But I did. And here I am. Wasting away to protect a woman and two daughters when I still have another son, a grandson, a brother, and three fucking nephews!”

Tyrion swallowed hard, surprised by his father’s loss of control but even more so by the content of his words. Indeed, it should’ve struck Tyrion as odd, his father surrendering his freedom and his crown for a promise of safety for his wife and daughters, yet it hadn’t. Because Tyrion knew what few others could truly appreciate: that there was nothing the great lion wouldn’t do for his family.

“You protected your family,” Tyrion offered, uncertain why he was trying to soothe the man who he’d spent the past weeks fantasizing about strangling (and, if he was being honest, several other weeks throughout his life).

His father snorted even as he settled back into his position of what Tyrion suspected was feigned ambivalence, “I protected two lions at the risk of the entire pride, myself included.”

No – two lions and a wolf.

“It was an impossible decision.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Tywin snorted again, “It was an easy one.”

The words came out so bitter, and Tyrion didn’t say anything at first, because he didn’t know what his father was implying – that the right answer should have been easy to arrive at, yet he still chose wrong? Or that he made the decision easily, because he couldn’t bring himself to do the alternative?

“You wish you had never gone with Jaime…” Tyrion said instead.

It took a few heartbeats too many before Tywin answered with a haughty, “Obviously.”

And it was merciless, but Tyrion felt a fire building within him, the same one that had him imagining his hands around his father’s throat and nearly getting a cockstand over it, “Even if it meant letting the girls be butchered? Even if it meant finding their bodies washed up onshore? Little Jocelyn, pricked by a hundred stab wounds, Jeyne with her tiny skull bashed in?” Tyrion swallowed the nausea he felt from the images his own words called to mind, “Sansa, bruised and defiled, then… split in half?”

His father didn’t respond to that except with a stiffening of his face as his teeth clenched and his lips pursed.

Tyrion moved closer, knowing full well he was prodding a lion and not giving a fuck. He lowered his voice to a whisper, just in case his father was wrong about the guard, “It’s not too late, Father. The men of the West will follow your word even if it contradicts the words you made before knowing lifetime captivity would be your fate. Give me a command to give them. I will get Tommen out of the city. She has barely a thousand slave soldiers, and the black beast is away more than it’s here. I can get the Tyrells on our side; I know I can. Daenerys won’t marry one of Mace’s sons, but Tommen can marry Margaery. Name him your heir, making her the future queen consort and Lady of Casterly Rock. Or if you survive you can take her yourself. Just give me the command, Father.”

It was only in saying it all that he realized it wasn’t entirely horseshit. A promise of whichever lion lived and sat the throne for Margaery, since recovering Sansa and the girls would likely be impossible. A few whispered words to a few Lannister men and Tyrell men, and the Unsullied would be overpowered. The hostages in the Maidenvault would be at risk, of course – if the Unsullied decided to go and kill them for spite when the coup began. But with a bit of time, Tyrion could figure out a way to arm them. Ser Loras was worth three other men with a sword. Tyrion wasn’t entirely hopeless. Tommen had some martial training since his mother died. Hells, Margaery Tyrell seemed the type that wouldn’t go down without a fight, and Dickon Tarly must have solid skill, with Randyll Tarly as a father.

Yes, it would actually be quite easy to oust Daenerys and her small army of foreigners, but the sticking point was Sansa and her daughters.

Oh, and the black dragon, but would the beast arrive to avenge its mother the same way it arrived to protect her, that day Ser Brynden had a dagger to Daenerys’ neck? Shit, it just might. Worse, it might go into a complete frenzy if it sensed or saw her death, burning indiscriminately. And it’s not like they could prepare for that ahead of time. Building ballistae big enough to take down such a creature would be rather noticeable.

And where the fuck were the other two dragons?! Was Daenerys keeping them hidden away, a sort of army in reserve? Or were they sickly and small and thus she didn’t want people knowing that they were useless as weapons? Or were they dead? Or had they simply flown off to other lands, not feeling as bound to their mother as their big brother was?

Perhaps the plan was horseshit, Tyrion realized, but if there was one man who’d roll the dice and risk facing one or even three dragons, it was Tywin Lannister. Casterly Rock couldn’t be burned, and as long as one lion or lioness was there to hunker down then someday repopulate the pride - hells, even if it was Tyrion’s bastard cousin Joy Hill - the old lion would risk it before letting himself rot away.

“Forget it, Tyrion,” his father eventually said, “The queen trusts you enough to send you to Casterly Rock as her emissary. Utilize that trust to protect our family. Forget about me.”

Tyrion moved back to the wall with a sigh, crossing his arms over his chest, “You’d risk Casterly Rock going to me? The demon monkey? The shame of House Lannister? You’d risk me becoming the Lord of the West while you wither and die like a common criminal?”

Silence reigned for agonizingly suspenseful moments before his father sighed, letting his head thunk against the stone wall behind him, “Leave it be, Tyrion.”

“No. Tell me. I want to hear you say it.”

“Leave. It. Be!” his father gritted out.

Tyrion laughed drily, “No. I won’t. I want to hear it, Father. I want to hear that you – the Great Lion of Casterly Rock! – gave up everything over a woman. I want to hear that you risked all the men of your family, risked your castle, your legacy, your gold, your everything, for a woman.”

“Fuck off, Tyrion,” his father hissed, then like a willful child turned away from the side Tyrion stood on.

Tyrion laughed again, though this time he almost felt genuine amusement behind it, “I thought you should know that Jaime – your golden son, your pride and joy – told Sansa about Tysha.”

He watched carefully and thus saw the right side of his father’s jaw tick with interest.

“He told her all about Tysha, just as he told me. Do you think she could still love you after that?” Tyrion snorted loudly, “No. And maybe she never loved you at all. She’s probably fucking this Ser-Jorah-whoever-the-fuck-he-is as we speak. Probably has the girls calling him Papa. Probably hoping your head is rotting on a pike, like her father’s did. Probably holding that image in her head while Ser Jorah or, fuck, any strapping young lad she can find, licks the cunt that used to belong to you. So give me a command.”

He didn’t know why he needed to hear it – needed to hear his father abandon his stance on protecting Sansa and the girls at all costs. He’d not be following through on his father’s orders if Tywin told him to have his men prepare for a coup. Tyrion would not jeopardize his goodmother and sisters, certainly not while it seemed the rest of his family would stay safe so long as they minded their manners with the new queen. But he wanted to hear Tywin say he’d do just that. And he didn’t know why.

Actually… No… He did know why

Because Tywin Lannister didn’t deserve love. Didn’t deserve to receive it from anyone, and didn’t deserve to feel it in his heart. How much love had he ripped out of the world, starting with his own son’s first love? How many men of the Riverlands had held their wives’ corpses after Ser Gregor’s men passed through? How many children were deprived of parents? Parents deprived of children?

No, his father didn’t deserve to sit here, finding relief and vindication in knowing the woman he loved was safe even if he had to rot to enable it. He didn’t deserve to think of himself as the hero. Whatever horseshit he’d spouted earlier had been nothing but a lie he couldn’t even fool himself with, and Tyrion knew it because lying to oneself was an inherited trait in the Lannister family.

“Well?” he prodded.

Still the great lion said nothing.

A different tack was needed.

“Fine. If you don’t have the stones to do what needs to be done for our house, then I will…” Tyrion turned abruptly and paced toward the bars, made it but one step away, before his father called his name with a desperate sort of conviction.

Tyrion turned, grinning only on the inside. He walked, slowly this time, until he was staring at his father. They were eye-to-eye for perhaps the only time in Tyrion’s entire life, given the stone bench was lower than the average chair. He wasn’t the shortest dwarf, by far, but his father was uncommonly tall.

“Do you know how easy it would be, Father, to rip it out of you? To make all this – your great sacrifice – completely meaningless? The queen is but waiting for someone of Lannister, Stark, or Tully blood to cross her. Word will be sent to Ser Jorah. Sansa will be the first to go, let’s not pretend otherwise. She’s only got two old vintages in her veins, not three. Plus, it’s easier to control two babies than one grown woman. Unless, of course, Ser Jorah has grown fond of fucking her. Or raping her, I’m not sure. I’ve never quite understood where that line is. Oh, aye, I know that what Ser Gregor does to women before he snaps their necks is rape. And I know that what a pair of lovebirds do on their wedding night is not rape. But what of a woman doing it to buy herself protection, to hopefully keep herself and her children safe? She doesn’t want to but feels like she must. Does it feel like being violated? What about a whore, who fucks men because she needs to eat? It never occurred to me until recently, since I’ve had an abundance of time on my hands, but it probably doesn’t feel too good for a whore. So even if she was a whore, Tysha’s tears weren’t some clever act to try to convince me she truly loved me. But she wasn’t a whore. She was just a girl who was foolish enough to fall in love with me. The unlovable little imp. Isn’t that right? Even a mother wouldn’t love me, especially since I didn’t belong to her husband…”

At that, Tywin’s eyes flicked to his, but his shock was brief. He must have recalled the conversation on the boat and deduced that Jaime relayed it to Tyrion.

“You hated me, Father. Fine. I disgusted you. Fine. Perhaps you looked at me and saw a physically twisted little version of the mentally twisted man you served for years, who repaid you by raping your wife. Fine. But you didn’t punish me, you punished her. An innocent whose only crime was loving me! You punished her when it was me you—”

“Shut up!” his father snarled.

“No, I won’t—”

“SHUT UP!” his father roared, and Tyrion got no more chance to interject. “You think she loved you?! Was it your charm she fell in love with, or your good looks?”

“I saved her!”

“No! Your brother saved her. Your handsome brother, with his knighthood and his dimples and his smooth voice and golden hair! And you think she fell in love with you instead?” his father scoffed loudly, “Jaime wore a white cloak, meaning he could give her, at best, a bastard and a bag of coins. And that assuming she could successfully seduce him when he could have any woman he wanted. So she set her trap for the easier prey and snagged you.”

Tyrion shook his head, “Do you hate me so much that you can’t even fathom the possibility of someone loving me?”

“Love takes time, Tyrion. She gave you her maiden’s gift after knowing you less than a day.”

Tyrion hated that his neck and cheeks burned with what could only be embarrassment. His memories of his days with Tysha were of feeling deeply in love with her, though in hindsight, all she’d had to do to pry such emotions out of him was to be affectionate with him. To tell him she found him handsome, not grotesque. To tell him he was so kind as he took her to an inn and fed her a meal because she still felt a bit light-headed after her experience with the would-be rapers. To giggle and hiccup as they shared a bottle of wine, Tyrion having a little experience with the stuff before then, Tysha having none…

Tyrion felt his jaw muscles bulging, “Then she was fond of me. Maybe only out of gratitude. Maybe only because she was… drunk,” he admitted reticently, “but she was no whore. And even if she was, she didn’t deserve such a fate. No woman does.”

“You think it was done to punish her?” his father scoffed, “then you are as dumb as you look.”

Tyrion rolled his eyes, “That one doesn’t even sting anymore. Try harder.”

“Fine,” his father leaned forward, his hands at each side wrapped around the edge of the bench, “Perhaps no woman deserves such a punishment, but you certainly did for being fool enough to fall for her con.”

“It was no con. At worst it was—”

“It was,” his father sneered, “she confessed as much to me, when I offered her one chance – one chance – to tell the truth. The deal was if she was honest, she’d get to live after taking a punishment. If I even suspected her of lying – if there were even the slightest inconsistencies between her story and yours, or Jaime’s, or the septon’s, she’d be punished and executed. Suffice to say, your little wife sung like a bird.”

Tyrion shook his head, “You’re lying.”

“Am I?” Tywin raised a brow, leaning back against the wall once more, “She cried when you took her. You thought it was because she was a maiden. She wasn’t, but you were too drunk on wine to notice, or perhaps knew that not all maidens bleed. She cried because it disgusted her, especially after the day she’d had, actually the weeks she’d had, but she knew it was her best chance to improve her lot in life. See, her father had recently died. Her mother she never knew. After her father died she had no money and no skill, so she did what any woman in her situation would, began inviting local men to pay her visits. Was she a whore?” Tywin shrugged, “Not in a brothel, and not because she wanted to be, but does any woman? When a desperate woman fucks a man in exchange for coin, does she instantly become a whore? Or is it only after she learns how to smile and fake her pleasure, fake attraction to men she otherwise wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole? Or is it only when she decides to give up looking for any other form of employment? Who knows?”

Tyrion’s hands turned to fists, “She was no whore. She was an orphan. Hungry. Scared. Without any employable skill. Whether she was a maiden when I laid with her matters not.”

Only it did matter, though it shouldn’t. In the weeks since Jaime told Tyrion the truth – or at least his interpretation of the truth – Tyrion had felt both heartbroken and surprisingly warmed to think that there was one girl in this world who would see him as worthy of such a gift.

Perhaps that was where men got it wrong – calling it a gift to begin with. They made a woman’s virginity seem akin to godliness, and the gift of some bit of flesh to a man seem like some tribute to a god. The reality was that most young people were overcome with their desires and urges, not some profound sense of love.

Tywin made no reaction to his words, but Tyrion knew he’d been heard before the old lion continued, “She knew it was only a matter of time before the landlord came to boot her, so she thought to save up as much as she could, enough to travel to King’s Landing and rent a room there, find work at an inn. Only word quickly spread that there was a pretty, young woman a brief ride east of the city, selling herself for half what the Lannisport brothels charged. And living alone. The men who attacked her had been venturing to her late father’s home, thinking to take for free what other men were good enough to leave a handful of groats for, and to take any valuables they might find there while they were at it. It was pure coincidence that you and Jaime had been riding in the same area and heard the altercation. But the girl was clever – I’ll give her that – and opportunistic. She recognized the golden lion and the dwarf – who wouldn’t? And when the dwarf started spoiling her? Talking to her? Acting like he’s besotted?” Tywin shrugged, “In fairness, she wasn’t another of my father’s mistresses, hoping to bilk House Lannister of all its worth, maybe even get the fool to share his name. She wanted a bastard from you, and then would settle for enough coin to keep her and the babe housed and fed in Lannisport. She had no desire to become your mistress or even your lover. She wanted your family’s gold, nothing more. So she gave her body to you, cried the whole time, then sang to you. The Seasons of My Love, as I recall. When you proposed marriage, she realized that she could do better than her original plan. She could make herself the future Lady of Casterly Rock. Give her child a name. And all she’d have to do is get used to kissing and fucking you. Better than being a whore. That’s how she made her decision. She chose you over having to continue spreading her legs for every manure-smelling, toothless man that came by. She chose you over moving to a different city and making a few coppers a day for pouring ale while equally disgusting men groped her arse and teats, whether they were for sale or not.”

Each word was like having a nail hammered deeper and deeper into his gut, yet by the end Tyrion felt numb more than wounded. Because some part of him, even when thinking she was a whore paid for by Jaime to give Tyrion some rite of passage into manhood, always thought she might have been genuine in her affection. A whore could fall in love just like any other woman, right? Couldn’t Tysha have been trying to take advantage of his station while also being genuinely attracted to him?

But the ugly truth was there in the mirror every day – literally. Who would be attracted to him after knowing him but half a day? Tyrion knew his attributes, and all of them were… acquired tastes. Who would want him after watching brave, glorious, golden-haired, broad-backed Jaime chase off her attackers?

His father’s words made too much sense, and while years of instinct told him to deny, he couldn’t. Perhaps because the old lion had no reason to lie anymore. Or perhaps because Tyrion was old enough to know what he hadn’t known at thirteen. Or perhaps because he realized there was something merciful about his father’s original version of events, the lie Tywin had Jaime tell to convince Tyrion to leave that house and let Tysha be taken away by Lannister guardsmen. Making her some worldly whore, practiced in the arts of seduction and sex, made Tyrion feel less stupid about having been duped.

Revealing that she was just a desperate girl, new to her trade, who pulled the wool over his eyes by merely smiling and talking to him, revealed just how pathetic he was. He’d convinced himself he was in love with her because she was kind to him and because she gave him her body. That was it. He loved her, he married her, because she was kind and because she wanted him – or pretended to. By that logic, the dozens or perhaps hundreds of whores he’s known since then all loved him. The only difference being Tyrion was no longer that gullible fourteen-year-old, desperate for affection and a gentle touch.

And, finally, Tyrion saw the irony. He chuckled until tears formed in his eyes, all while his father stared at him with narrow-eyed suspicion.

“Perhaps if you and Cersei hadn’t let me grow up believing myself undesirable, unlikable, unlovable… Disgusting, pitiful, worthless… Perhaps I wouldn’t have fallen for the first girl to bat her eyelashes at me, Father. And yet still I say, maiden or not, conniver or not, opportunistic or not, she didn’t deserve to be raped by a few dozen men.”

“It was twenty. Including you.”

Tyrion sneered, “That wasn’t my point.”

“Ten lashes or twenty cocks. The punishment was non-negotiable, but I let her choose between those two options. Smart girl. Anyone who’s ever been lashed will tell you it’s a pain second only to burning.”

Tyrion blinked at his father, “Lashing? It’s barbaric. You’d have—”

“Yes. A punishment was necessary, and moreover the lesson contained in that punishment.”

Tyrion snorted, “You think she didn’t learn her lesson? She probably pissed herself just being in the same room as you.”

His father’s eyes focused on him and scrunched.

Tyrion huffed loudly, “Don’t pretend you don’t understand the feelings your presence inspires.”

“You still think it was her punishment? You think it was she that I cared to teach a lesson to?”

“Given she’s the one who took twenty cocks…”

His father pressed two fingers against each of his eyelids, “Why do I bother?”

“Bother with what?!” Tyrion threw his hands up, hating that his father had somehow emerged from this conversation acting like one who’d been inconvenienced or perhaps even wronged.

Tywin flung his hand in Tyrion’s direction, “The lesson was for you, not her!”

“Yet I wasn’t the one tossed into the guard barracks naked!”

His father rose, “You were made to watch it! You were made to do it!”

“Thanks for the reminder!” Tyrion spat up at his father, unafraid of the man for the first time ever, and not just because there was an Unsullied guard a mere few spear-lengths away.

“It was meant to hurt you so that you wouldn’t be so quick with your affection and our name going forward! It was meant to teach you that women cannot be trusted! That the sweetest lies are often the deadliest! I couldn’t count on living forever, Tyrion, and since Jaime put on that accursed cloak, I had to worry about what would become of our great house if someone as easily deceived as you was in charge. I had to worry about how easy it would be for some enemy of our house to dangle a pretty girl in front of you and turn you into a puppet! Lack of respect and fear of our name nearly ruined our house a mere two decades before because my father was more worried about keeping his mistresses in fine silks than in being the firm ruler that any kingdom needs! And you were going to be just like him, weren’t you?” his father closed the small distance between them, until his chin had to almost rest on his chest to keep hold of Tyrion’s gaze, “sniffing under skirts. Saying ‘yes’ to everything and everyone, because you’re some fool in love. Letting some woman or another lead you around by the cock, even if she was leading you straight to ruin. So forgive me if the punishment was too severe. Forgive me if your precious little wife had to take twenty men in one night instead of over the course of a week. Forgive me for caring enough to try to set you straight instead of finding some way to dispose of you, which – believe me – would’ve meant a lot less aggravation in my life!”

His father was panting by the end, then all at once he was turning away while scrubbing a hand over his mouth, while the other went to his hip.

There was an embarrassment of riches when it came to weapons Tyrion could lob back at his father. Most notably, that Tywin had let Sansa lead him by the cock right to the dungeons. That if he never let himself love the she-wolf, Daenerys Targaryen’s route to the throne would’ve been far less easy – perhaps even impossible.

But Tyrion had never been one for kicking a man when he was down. He knew by the way the man was standing now, the way he’d spoken moments ago, that Tywin was fully aware of the parallels one could draw between himself and his father.

So Tyrion decided not to beat that dead horse. Instead, he asked something he’d always been curious about, but never expected to get a straight answer about, either.

“Forget your motives,” Tyrion had to cough to clear away something that’d lodged in his throat, “Forget about a man’s duty to his house, to his family. Forget about legacy. I want to know, Father, and you will tell me the truth: did you ever lose sleep? Over any of it? Did you ever lay in bed and imagine you heard the Reynes screaming as the water inched higher and higher? Did you ever close your eyes and see her – Tysha – the look in her eyes when the fourth then fifth then sixth then seventh man climbed on top of her? Did you ever think about the children who went hungry after Ser Gregor burned their lands and butchered their parents? Does any part of you feel some… some guilt even if not regret?”

Tyrion waited patiently for his father to respond. It came only after Tywin turned and lowered himself back down to the bench, “What will I get for my honest answer?”

Tyrion held his hands up, empty palms open, “If you think me capable of breaking you out of here, you’ve picked the wrong son. Jaime’s at least able, even if not willing… at the moment,” the last part he mumbled, hoping to plant the seed that Jaime might not be completely irredeemable. Perhaps honesty could patch the cracks in the relationship between old lion and young lion. Honesty about Cersei and Joffrey, if his father did have anything to do with their deaths. Honesty about… about whatever secrets he had kept from Jaime. There had to be some.

“I don’t expect nor want you to do anything so openly defiant toward our new queen, Tyrion. I only hoped you would tell me… in exchange for my honesty… whatever you may know about… about Sansa and the girls.”

It was like a punch to the tip of the nose, to hear his father lose all poise when asking about his wife and daughters. The love-starved child that still lived inside Tyrion wanted to shout, “Why them and not me?!” but the man he’d grown into only thought that if Tywin Lannister could love Sansa Stark, there must be some parts of him that were good.

Tyrion had to sniffle before he could speak, as suddenly this all became too real. Sansa had been taken, the girls had been taken, his brother was a traitor, his father was in the dungeons, and Tyrion couldn’t help all of them. He couldn’t help some of them without hurting others.

He suddenly felt so very alone.

With a deep breath he answered, “I don’t know, Father. I only know that… well, I think Daenerys will keep her word. The girls… and Sansa… they’ll be safe as long as those who share their blood get in line and stay in line.”

“Where—”

Though Tyrion knew he couldn’t stay much longer, he found himself sighing as he put himself on the bench, a normal man’s arm length between father and son, “I don’t know. I’d only speculate somewhere in Essos. And not the Slave Cities. Er, former Slave Cities. I don’t think she’d send her man there.”

His father only nodded. The old lion seemed drained, and Tyrion thought perhaps this visit was good for Tywin. Shouting could take a lot out of a person; Tywin might get his first good sleep in weeks.

“So?” Tyrion asked, “I know it wasn’t a very helpful answer, but it was honest. Now it’s your turn.”

In his periphery, his father’s shoulders lifted in a shrug.

“The answer is no – I never felt any guilt. Still don’t, really. Doesn’t mean I think it was right, or not wrong, just means… I don’t know, Tyrion. I always supposed my punishment would come eventually. If not in this life, then in the next. So I might as well do as much good for my house as I could, with the little time each man has in this world. What is one man’s life, one man’s soul, against the wellbeing of his family?”

Tyrion snorted, “You really are consistent, Father.”

Tywin hummed, “Make sure they record that about me when I’m dead. He was a cunt, but a consistent cunt.”

Tyrion chuckled faintly. His father’s sense of humor was hard to appreciate when he was the butt of those jokes, but the man did have a wry wit, and Tyrion supposed it was alright to acknowledge it now.

“Who knows if she’ll ever let me see you again,” Tyrion found himself speaking.

His father took a breath in and out, “It’s alright. Just… just take care of your family. Whichever of them you can.”

Tyrion bit his lower lip, “Is she my family? Will you tell me the truth?”

It took several moments during which Tyrion didn’t breathe before the answer came, “The truth is I don’t know. I don’t even know if he… If Aerys…” Tywin shook his head in resignation, “But feel free to tell her whichever is more likely to keep you in her favor.”

“I’m not sure I am. She’s desperate for allies. Allies who know Westeros. Jaime sold her on my many fine qualities, apparently.”

“Many?”

Tyrion let out a burst of laughter, “One or two.”

His father only hummed, and another silence fell, broken only by the sound of the torch flickering in the sconce that had been brought into Tywin’s cell for his visitor’s benefit only.

Then, the great lion spoke, “She’d never have hated you. She wasn’t that sort of woman, to spite the son over the sins of the father.”

Tyrion knew which woman Tywin was talking about: Joanna, his mother.

He just wasn’t sure which father he was talking about…

“How do you know a woman loves you?” he found himself asking, “I mean… I know I was young with… with Tysha. Inexperienced. More than a little bit drunk. But how do you know… I won’t make you say it aloud, Father, but we both know that you wouldn’t be rotting down here for a woman for whom your feelings were unreciprocated. But that woman was your enemy not so long ago. She was your enemy when you decided to make her your queen. How do you know… I mean… How do you know she isn’t just saying all the right things? Spoiling you with affection to benefit her house, her people? Herself, for that matter? How do you know when she whispers a sweet nothing into your ear that it’s—”

His father snorted rather loudly and rather rudely, “Saying all the right things? Spoiling me with affection? Whispering sweet nothings in my ear? If that was her strategy, she executed it terribly, because she did none of those things. Is that how you think a woman in love acts? Hmpf. What am I saying, of course it is. That’s what that girl did, right? You’re so handsome. You’re so strong. You’re so brave. You’re so kind…”

Tysha had said all those things, as a matter of fact, but Tyrion would never admit so now, no matter that Tysha’s motives, well-justified or not, were finally out in the open.

“That isn’t love,” the old lion spat the word as if it was a curse, “that’s lust. Nothing more. Love is… A woman’s love isn’t her thinking the world of a man, of thinking him the finest man who ever lived. It’s seeing the worst of him and wanting him anyway. Of wanting to kill him but never actually doing it, because the only thing that exceeds her hatred of him is her need of him. A man may worship a woman – her beauty, her wit, her voice, her heart. But a woman’s love is no act of worship because there isn’t a man in this realm worthy of being worshipped. A woman’s love is… it’s more like an act of penance, though what they have to atone for, who knows? So no, son, I needn’t wonder about Sansa. There was nothing false about her. There was nothing conniving about her, or she’d have connived her way to Winterfell; for I assure you, her dreams of queenship were beaten out of her long before she met me.”

Tyrion swallowed, knowing he’d never had that, and wondering if he ever would. He knew it was unintentional, but Tywin had just described Jaime’s love of Cersei, or so it had always seemed to Tyrion.

But that twisted knot of a relationship would need to be untangled by someone with more patience than Tyrion.

“You’ve always hated me,” Tyrion said, not as an accusation but as a statement of fact to lead into what he had to say before he left this cell and this city.

“There is… nuance in hatred. But fair enough.”

Give the old lion credit where it was due: he was no arse-licker.

“You hated me, thought I was a stain in your otherwise pristine family. All those years you thought the sun shined out of Jaime’s arse while treating me like some rash that would go away if only you scratched at it enough. And look here! The golden son returns just to fuck you! That’s what this is about, Father. He doesn’t care whether Daenerys Targaryen sits the throne! He only cares that you don’t get to be king, that you don’t get to have your pretty wife and perfect daughters, the dynasty you’ve always wanted all but guaranteed. Because he thinks you stole his love. But me? I know you stole my love, even if it wasn’t a real one. Even if a week later, or a year, or a decade, I’d have found it all had been a ruse. Even if someday I hated the sight of her. For those few days I was happy, and you took that from me. I watched you do it! I fucking helped you do it because you lied to me! And yet not once did I turn against you. I never stabbed you in the back. I never turned away from my duty to this family. And here I am, still trying to do what’s best for House Lannister. For Tommen. For Myrcella. For Sansa and Jeyne and Jocelyn. For myself! And even for you! I should be dancing a jig to know you’re down here, eating stale bread and thin soup, shitting in a bucket, sleeping on a floor! I should be fucking thrilled!” Tyrion threw his arms up, “But I’m not. I’m fucking not. Because you’re still my father. Because you raised me when another man might have drowned me. Because you gave me your name, your protection, even if you weren’t certain I deserved either. I hate you and yet I cannot wish suffering upon you. Not this type of suffering. I might have killed you, Father. Hells, I might do it yet. But I’ll look you in the eye when I do it. And I will not draw it out, because I owe you that much if nothing else. But your golden son? No matter that he killed one king and cuckolded another, I never thought of him as the type to stab anyone in the back, and yet he has, because he hates you. Thoroughly hates you. And I’m jealous of that! I’d like to walk away from this cell grinning. I’d like to pass the guard a coin in exchange for his agreement to rough you up a bit or get occasional butterfingers and spill your soup on the floor right outside this cell. But I can’t. I don’t hate you enough. And I hate you for being someone I can’t hate enough. It’s a vicious cycle, truly.” He was panting by the end. Hells, by the middle. He was sweating and panting and could no longer tell if he was feeling angry or hopeless or vengeful or defeated. He only knew he felt. Gods, did he feel.

His father’s next words seemed to stick in his throat for the way they rumbled there like a growling dog before slipping past his lips, “You think that me not drowning you at birth means I must harbor some secret tenderness for you?” he snorted, “I didn’t drown you because your brother already loved you, and I couldn’t do that to him. Not after he’d just lost his mother.”

It hurt, just a little, and yet Tyrion knew that was the point. He pushed himself up to his bowed legs and didn’t turn to face Tywin Lannister as he said, “Nice try.”

Then, he turned to leave, this time for real.

“Tyrion… Wait,” the old lion called out with a pleading quality to his voice.

Tyrion wondered if his father had ever done that before, called out to someone walking away from him, and not to get the final insult in, but to ask for a favor, or for something. He wondered if Sansa ever walked out in the heat of an argument, and if Tywin had lowered himself to such a pitiable state to get her to bring her brightness back into his room. Somehow, he doubted it. His father would die for her, but not sacrifice his manliness for her.

Tyrion turned back around, “Yes?”

Tywin stood, walked, then sunk to one knee. For a crazy moment Tyrion thought his father would swear fealty to him as the new Lord Lannister, leader of their infamous yet proud house.

But the old lion only leaned in and whispered right into Tyrion’s left ear, first a phrase known to every Lannister and Lannister associate. Then a phrase that made such little sense that Tyrion wondered at the man’s sanity.

But he heard all, and wouldn’t forget it.

He backed away and nodded solemnly and was about to turn again when he heard footsteps approaching from the direction he’d been escorted into this space. No doubt someone with more sense and more authority than this eunuch guardsman thought the little lion and the old lion had had too much time together.

Tywin unbent his knees and stood, tall and imposing as ever, sneering down at Tyrion, “I hope I’m long dead before my home is ever in your grubby little hands.”

If Tyrion wasn’t as sharp as he was, it would take more than a heartbeat to know what his father was doing.

“I’m sure that can be arranged, Father.”

“If that bitch would trust you of all people to rule the West, then she’s as stupid as I suspected.”

“Or perhaps she sees in me something you’d cut your tongue out before acknowledging.”

“If she sees anything redeeming in you, then she’s not just stupid but mad. Then again, why should I be surprised?”

Tyrion snorted drily, “You never stop singing the same tune, do you?”

“What tune? The truth?”

He snorted again, “Well I’ll say this much about you: you’re consistent. A cunt, for sure, but a consistent cunt.”

“I believe I told you to get out of my sight.”

“With pleasure, Father.”

He turned.

He banged his hand against the bars.

The eunuch was there with the keys in an instant.  

It shouldn’t have been so hard to leave, but it was.

Nor should tears have sprung into his eyes when he heard the bars clink shut against the stone, but they did.

When he passed the white-haired knight a few paces down the corridor he didn’t meet the man’s eyes.

“Family, Selmy. Be glad you don’t have any.”

Notes:

I was very nervous to post this b/c it's another chapter that might make it seem like I'm white-washing Tywin, this time re: Tysha instead of Elia.

I'm not. Truly. And I hope that came through in the Tyrion dialogue. Especially considering her age, Tysha should've been given some slack, to put it mildly, whether she was trying to take advantage of Tyrion or not. HOWEVER it is yet another loosely-detailed pre-canon story that I like to think about! And what I think is that something just wasn't adding up. With Tysha being presumably in shock from being attacked, then getting drunk on wine, and Tyrion also being drunk, I just have a hard time buying that theirs was anything more than youthful fancy and probably one-sided at that. Canon Tyrion is no Peter Dinklage, and I think even the least shallow of us (which none of us is at ~14!!!!) would need time to feel more for him than passing appreciation. There, I said it. For all this I do believe that Tysha could've been opportunistic without being a quote-unquote whore by trade. Doesn't mean she was sinister, just desperate and with the sort of survival smarts that lowborn kids would have back then.

But as for her having been entertaining men after her father's death (according to Tywin) - I didn't include this to make it seem like Tywin's punishment was justified, just to show that back then there really was little social support systems to fall back on and a young woman with no skills had really only a couple options, none of them appealing.

This was NOT meant to be a redeeming moment for Tywin in this fic. If anything, it was meant to put light on the hypocrisy of thinking back then in regards "whores", on multiple levels. What has always bothered me about Tyrion was, while he believed Tysha was a whore he was relatively OK with his father's actions. For an intelligent man, it never occurred to him to wonder why a 14 YO would need to become a whore in the first place. To him it's black and white - if Tysha was a whore, she deserves what she got. If she wasn't then she didn't. And THAT is what is the sickest thing about the Tysha story, IMO.

I wanted to paint the shades of gray in the Tysha story, not to paint Tywin as innocent, or less guilty, but to just have a more complete story for something that was skimmed over in canon. Also ignored is the fact that the night after her attack Tyrion takes her to an inn where they both get drunk and have sex. Later he likes to use "I loved her" as his excuse for hating Tywin over it. How about hating Tywin because it was cruel and overkill, period? How about having the introspection to look back and see that drunken sex with a 14-YO girl who had just been victimized didn't make it love? I'm not saying Tyrion purposely took advantage of her, but I think there is a startling lack of guilt on his own part because even without a dad like Tywin, any father who found out a common girl had married his noble son would've made the girl go away. Maybe with 1-way passage to Essos where she'd end up in a brothel or worse. Maybe with quick, painless death. Maybe with roughing her up and giving her a warning to leave town OR ELSE. Tywin's reaction was definitely cruel - probably due to his own experiences with swindling women, like his father's mistresses then Ellyn Reyne. But I wanted Tyrion to have to think about the entire situation more completely, and this conversation forced him to have that philosophical "does it matter if she was a whore?" realization and more broadly "what makes a whore, anyway?" Both of those being the period-typical hypocrisy I mentioned above.

If there is anything "redeeming" about Tywin it is that, unlike 99% men of this time-period, he is equal opportunity with his cruelty. Whether Tysha was a quote-unquote whore or not, his reaction would've been the same. Was the choice he offered a choice? Nope, as seen in Tyrion's reaction to that part, I'm well aware of that. Tywin knows it, too, thus the "choice" was really no more than a show of his power and willingness to do horrible things to anyone he viewed as trying to take advantage of his family, even if in a relatively innocent way.

Chapter 45: An impressive display of masculinity

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Stannis

Being met at the docks by Ser Barristan Selmy made Stannis sneer, not that he had any personal animosity toward the old knight. Many thought there would’ve been more honor in Ser Barristan letting Aerys die at Duskendale than in saving the crazed, delusional, pyromaniac of a king. Stannis wasn’t one of them. Ser Barristan swore a vow and fulfilled it. When the throne was taken fair and square through righteous conquest, he transferred his allegiance to the new king, just as Kingsguard ought to. They were to be loyal to the position, not the man.

No, Stannis sneered because Ser Barristan’s role as escort only illuminated how few choices the dragon queen had, since so many of those in her “court” were people Stannis wouldn’t come within ten paces of, unless it was to strike them down with his sword.

Lord Tyrell, that fat fucking oaf, who, per the Targaryen girl’s letter, had given his fealty to Daenerys Targaryen, with the “encouragement and blessing of the previous king, Tywin Lannister”. That the Tyrells still had Highgarden astounded Stannis, but not as much as did the fact that anyone put faith in their vows anymore. If a turkey vulture flew into the throne room and happened to land on the throne, Mace Tyrell would be on his knees, grubby hand over heart, opining on the many fine qualities of his children – the girl or the boys depending on the gender and predilections of that particular vulture.

The letter also mentioned a few others, as if Stannis would step foot into the city that had a Targaryen and a dragon to have afternoon tea with any lord or lady. No, he stepped foot into the city because his only child was here. He cursed Sansa Stark for inviting his daughter to the capital all those months ago, though he tried to feel less hostile toward the girl since she was the last person who could’ve been in league with the dragon queen, if her banishment into exile was any indication.

He didn’t care that the Imp was here – as a free man, apparently (though Stannis highly suspected his freedom was conditional). He had no desire to swap war stories with the man who burned all of Stannis’ fleet and most of Stannis’ men in defense of that blond turd born of incest and cuckoldry. Nor did he want to luncheon with the bloody Kingslayer, who apparently had been “serving as advisor” to Daenerys Targaryen for more than a year. It wasn’t bad enough he killed his charge and king. It wasn’t bad enough he cuckolded his next king, siring little blond bastards that were passed off as heirs. It wasn’t bad enough that he always looked down at Stannis as if he was standing atop some moral high ground, or that he occasionally joked loud enough for Stannis to hear about how often Stannis visited his wife’s bed. Imagine the nerve it must take for a sister-fucker to try to shame another man over the frequency of his marital activities. No, all that wasn’t bad enough, apparently, so the man had to find a way to top all his other sins by betraying his own kin. His father. The man who gave him life. Stannis couldn’t imagine Steffon doing anything that would make him turn against his sire so thoroughly. Perhaps the gods, if there were any, were punishing Tywin Lannister and using his own children as their scourges. Stannis didn’t particularly believe in any gods, so he focused only on the indisputable fact of the matter: the world would be a better place if Tywin Lannister had drowned each of his children at birth.

Daenerys might have sent Lord Tarly to meet him, and that would’ve been like tossing a cat and a rat into a barrel and expecting them to work together to execute their escape, but apparently the dour lord of Horn Hill was dead. Good riddance, so far as Stannis was concerned. Perhaps without Tarly around to make his liege look good in war, the people of the Reach would realize they were letting the weakest of the herd lead them. Perhaps someone would finally put an end to the reign of House Tyrell.

All Stannis knew (or had been officially told) as he stepped off his ship to the sight of Ser Barristan, was that his daughter was alive and being cared for as befit her station, and that Tywin Lannister was in the dungeons, found guilty of multiple charges and punished to lifetime imprisonment, pending a change of the new queen’s heart. His wife and baby daughters were sent into exile of some sort, Mace Tyrell had kneeled to the Targaryen (to absolutely no one’s surprise), and there was once again a dragon in the dragon pits.

He also knew he was mad as hell that these people had so easily thrown themselves behind this foreign invader but not behind him when he made his own bid for the throne. Did they not realize that Robert had earned the throne fair and square through righteous conquest, and thus, as Robert’s eldest heir, the crown could only be passed to Stannis, not Renly? Did they not realize that the odds were heavily in favor of this girl turning into a madwoman? Did they expect her to know anything about ruling the Seven Kingdoms?

If he was the type to laugh, he would’ve at that thought. Of course they didn’t expect her to know anything about ruling. Of course that would mean she had to seek the wisdom of the lords and ladies of Westeros. That would mean those lords and ladies would be the real ones ruling the kingdoms. The dragon queen would be a mere figurehead. Stannis would’ve never had that problem, since he knew damned well how to rule, how to make war, how to make peace, how to make money, how to make trade. And say what one will about Tywin Lannister, but that man knew how to rule, too.

Stannis supposed he had arrived at his answer. Men like Stannis Baratheon and Tywin Lannister could not be bought nor easily manipulated. Women like Daenerys Targaryen could. Hence, she sat the throne in the end.

A set of horses were waiting for Stannis and his three guards, which was just as well – Stannis had no patience for a carriage nor desire to share one with any man who was reckless enough to bring a Targaryen – one who had a bloody dragon at her disposal – to Westeros.

Either to kiss his arse or because the girl never learned the importance of looking busier than one’s visitor, Stannis was led into the queen’s private dining room promptly upon his heavily guarded arrival.

He’d been here with Tywin Lannister and Sansa Stark not so long ago, offering his terms of surrender.

Now he’d be doing it all over again, and once again he knew the best he could bargain for would be for one of Shireen’s children to inherit Storm’s End. Well, he might could do one better. He might be able to get Shireen herself as Lady of Storm’s End, Wardeness of the Stormlands. As for his own fate… Well, he figured it might be the dungeons for a lifetime if the girl despised him as much as she despised Tywin Lannister. And she would. He’d been brother to who was, in her mind, the usurper. He’d been the one tasked with raising a fleet and claiming Dragonstone, along with the dragonspawn in it.

(A pesky voice inside his head that sounded like Renly’s told him he could do more than surrender his neck in exchange for his daughter’s birthright. It reminded him that he was a widower, the queen a widow. It reminded him to talk politics – how better to secure her claim than by marrying the usurper’s rightful heir? Or perhaps to remind her that if she wished for a brother to marry, he was as close as she was going to get. Let all who supported the dragons and all who supported the stags during the rebellion be satisfied.)

But the mere idea of speaking about himself like some horse being put out to stud, or someone who would bring his spouse a powerful name and nothing more, made him feel sick. To be reduced to a name and a set of sexual organs was rather demoralizing, and for a moment – a brief moment – he wondered how women managed it.

After being ushered in, offering a curt bow, and taking the seat she indicated with an extended hand, he sat across from the girl, wondering belatedly why he’d heard no dragon shrieking overhead but trusting the girl hadn’t taken the city with a pretend dragon, no matter how much leverage she had over Tywin Lannister.

“Lord Baratheon,” Daenerys Targaryen opened, her face neutral, like Cersei’s always was when eyes were on her, “I have been informed that we are kin. Distant cousins.”

“Not so distant. My paternal grandmother is your great-aunt. You are my second cousin.”

She hummed at that, “Had you been successful at Dragonstone all those years ago, you’d have been a kinslayer. Then again, some say you already are.”

Stannis clenched his teeth, “People may say what they will about me. They always have.”

“My, you are as prickly as foretold…” the girl had the audacity to smirk, even if she was clearly trying to fight it.

Stannis scoffed, “Unless you wish to avenge my brother, then this line of conversation is pointless. Let’s get down to it, shall we? You have my daughter here, which gives you leverage. But I have something you want, or else you’d not have invited me to the capital.”

Daenerys pursed her lips before responding, “I understand your brother – your elder brother – had a number of bastards. One Edric Storm at Dragonstone. One Mya Stone somewhere in the Vale. Presumably others. Any of which I could legitimize and install at Storm’s End. I imagine I’d have a fair deal of his or her loyalty for that. So no, Lord Baratheon, you have nothing I want. Certainly nothing I need…” she paused while a pair of servant girls – Westerosi by their fair hair, probably ones who’d served Sansa Stark – delivered their lunch.

Stannis didn’t decline the food that one of them piled onto his plate, though perhaps he should have. It could be poisoned, but he highly doubted the girl would stoop so low if she hoped to gain and keep the trust of other noblemen.

Eventually the servants were gone and Daenerys took a bite of sea scallop as if she had nothing more to say.

“Then why am I here?” Stannis asked in a huff.

“Because I’m more interested in making friends than enemies.”

Stannis snorted, recalling Lady Sansa – Queen Sansa – saying the same to him at this same table. Doubting she’d be flattered by the comparison, he didn’t tell her that, instead saying, “Then release my daughter to my custody, and we can be friends.”

Her cheeks rose with a smile even as her eyes didn’t crinkle, “I am rather tired of the demands. I took this throne without bloodshed. I have not been cruel, and have in fact been generous, with every one of my guests, no matter their past or current allegiance.”

“Guests meaning hostages. Is this how you mean to keep your throne? By having a hostage of every great family?”

“It is how I mean to keep my head. For now.”

“And again I ask – what have I got to do with any of it?”

She shook her head faintly, “I understand Lord Tyrell has a certain… reputation among his peers.”

Stannis snorted drily, “For flightiness? Cowardice? Idiocy? Indolence? Too many chins? Please, be more specific.”

She lifted her left brow, “The first. His fealty is appreciated and will be rewarded, but I do not delude myself into thinking that any of the other kingdoms will feel any loyalty toward me based on his precedent only.”

Stannis was tempted to smirk, “But for the unyielding, uncompromising, stubborn-as-a-stag Stannis Baratheon to kneel to you…”

She shrugged one shoulder, and Stannis didn’t like that his eyes noticed how very feminine she was. All soft slopes and graceful curves that her long-sleeved but fitted gown did not attempt to conceal. Her hair looked like it would be silky to the touch. Her eyes soft even if not particularly warm toward him. Her skin unmarred, delicate; pale yet glowing. Her lips full and wide but not pouty.

He wondered how many men would fall to their knees before such a woman.

He wondered how he’d escaped that curse, and if perhaps it was no curse. If perhaps the men who defined success by how many women they seduced, how many maidenheads they plucked, didn’t have a much easier life.

“You have no love for the Lannisters,” she went on after a sigh, “You kneeled to Tywin Lannister because your cause was hopeless in light of his ascension. Or hopeless enough that you weren’t willing to bet your daughter’s birthright on it.”

“Are you counting on me being similarly hopeless now?”

She did not answer that, “Nor do I suspect you have any warm feelings toward the Stark and Tully families. They refused to kneel to you, the rightful king before I decided to claim my birthright.”

Stannis sat forward, “The Kingslayer has confessed—”

“Ser Jaime keeps no secrets from me, nor has he ever. He has sinned much, but he doesn’t deny any of it. I find honesty refreshing, after spending so much of my life being served honey-coated lies by men who either wanted to use me or kill me.”

“Yet his honesty does not absolve him.”

She smiled at him, took another bite of her meal, and gestured at his plate for him to do the same. He did, though grudgingly. He ate precisely two small scallops and three bites of sweet potato, then washed it down with lemon water – how did she know that? – and leaned back, waiting for her to continue.

After a sip of what might be wine, she did, “I don’t disagree with your thinking – that a man’s good deeds do not nullify his crimes. However, if I punished everyone who wronged me, I’d have time for nothing else. You, for instance, sailed to Dragonstone, no doubt with intent to kill me and my brother. Whether you would have or not—”

“I wouldn’t have, but I’d have delivered you to the king – my brother – and the result would be the same.”

She lifted her brows in surprise, “Another honest man, though I fear you might be honest to your own detriment.”

“Better than being dishonest to my own detriment.”

“I suppose,” the small smile was back, “Regardless, we are not here to talk about Ser Jaime. He is serving me well, he has served me well.”

“Fine. You want the bloody Kingslayer shielding your back? Why should I care? Tell me your plans for Storm’s End. Do not tell me you’ll give it to his brat,” Stannis’ teeth clenched together, he could feel his cheeks glowing.

The queen sighed loudly, “Tommen has been stripped of his name and titles. He is Tommen Waters, honored guest of Ser Jaime Lannister, who serves the Crown.”

Stannis sat up straighter, “Then you acknowledge that only myself and thus my daughter Shireen has a claim on Storm’s End. You will not be legitimizing some bastard just to usurp me, because that’s a rather dangerous precedent, isn’t it? There could be a Blackfyre descendent lurking about, or some bastard of your father or brother, hm? Perhaps a male bastard?”

She shook her head as if in light reprimand, “Prove your loyalty to me, pledge your house to me and my heirs in perpetuity, and I will name you Master of Ships. I will allow you to go to Storm’s End, though I will expect you to spend most of your time here, serving on my council and defending my city.”

“Prove my loyalty how?” Stannis spoke; though it seemed like she would go on, he needed to understand the order of things.

Daenerys lifted her chin, “I did not have the fleet to ferry over all my loyal men when I left Meereen. I would have you sail your fleet there, under peace banner, and return here with any who choose to come serve me.”

Stannis rolled his eyes, “Will I be playing ferryman to slaves or savages?”

The queen didn’t like that. Her left brow lifted as her lip curled, “Former slaves, mostly. As for the savages – they are ones who served me loyally and abided by my rules.”

Stannis would believe that when he saw these men – if he saw these men.

Which he doubted he would.

“You say ‘fleet’ as if it’s more than a handful of freshly-built warships… How many of these former slaves are in need of transportation?”

“It could be as many as ten thousand, plus another two to four thousand sellswords under the command of a man named—”

“Fourteen thousand?” he asked, incredulous, “I haven’t the ships to bring a quarter that many, and it will be years before I do. In case you hadn’t noticed, it’s winter in Westeros, and every tree that’s being felled is becoming firewood, not lumber!”

Her cheeks darkened, and he knew it wasn’t anger but embarrassment over her own ignorance. But before he could decide whether to berate her some more or seal his lips, she fortified her countenance, “My men do not have years. I have come to understand you are resourceful, Lord Baratheon. I suggest you start demonstrating it. You will be en route to Meereen within six months with as many ships as you can build or commandeer.”

“Commandeer?” he snorted, “You wish me to act as a pirate?”

“I wish you to act as a captain, enforcing the orders of your queen.”

“Yet you won’t be my queen until after I’ve proven myself, which is an impossible task.”

“Nothing is impossible!” she hissed as she rose, her small hands flat against the table, “I woke three dragons from eggs that had turned to stone. I won the loyalty of the hardest, fiercest men in this world. I outwitted the Masters of Astapor, of Yunkai, of Meereen. I claimed my birthright, the Iron Throne of Westeros, without a single arrow being loosed, a single sword being swung. So, pardon me, Lord Baratheon, if sailing a few dozen ships to Meereen does not sound quite so onerous.”

Stannis worked his jaw back and forth. It was more than a little tempting to sail back to Dragonstone. This woman had no power to evict him from the place. Then he remembered the damned dragon that had been spotted by half the inhabitants of his island.

And, of course, it would all be predicated on Stannis’ willingness to bet that this dragon queen wouldn’t kill his only daughter to make an example of him, or punish him, or both.

He took a deep breath and calmed his voice, “Warships are not suited to long-distance travels, for multiple reasons. Ask anyone who knows the first thing about sailing or shipbuilding. Hells, even Mace Tyrell knows that much.”

The woman’s cheeks darkened, “I didn’t bring you here to educate me on problems but to offer solutions.”

“I’m not your counsel – go to them for solutions!” he flicked a hand to emphasize his point.

“As a matter of fact, I have. This was their solution. Well, one of the solutions.”

He snorted, “Then I assure you, they suggested it in the hopes that I’ll die while on this impossible mission. The last time a Baratheon sailed off on a task for a Targaryen, a good lord and lady died.” It was only as he spoke the words that he realized it would, indeed, be a deadly voyage. Particularly the return voyage, with so many men on each ship that supplies would need to be tightly rationed. Stannis rather had enough of living at the brink of starvation, though at least he knew he could endure it. He wondered if her slaves and savages would be so lucky.

He also wondered if a storm might catch them. Perhaps, if he miraculously came up with enough ships, he’d depart Mereen with fourteen thousand dragon-loyal soldiers. Perhaps he’d arrive in King’s Landing with only half as many. How unfortunate that would be.

Her eyes narrowed on him, “Funny my counsel didn’t mention such a relevant bit of history…”

He shrugged one shoulder, stalling to give himself time to shake off the murderous musings, lest his motives be transparent, “I doubt they recall the mission of the voyage on which Steffon and Cassana Baratheon drowned.”

“Which was?”

“To find a bride for your brother. In Volantis.”

“Rhaegar?” she asked quietly, her violet eyes twinkling with eagerness.

“Aye. Your brother Viserys was but a babe, and you weren’t even a swell in your mother’s belly.”

“But why… Why a Volantene?”

Stannis snorted again, “Because your father was a Targaryen, which meant none but another of Valyrian descent was good enough for his heir. That was before he decided that Rhaegar was the one who wasn’t good enough.”

“Not good…” she cut herself off, and the excitement he’d spied was gone like the morning mist, “I’m sure we can discuss such matters in the future.”

“If I have a future. Seems to me someone on your small council wants to be rid of Stannis Baratheon once and for all. I suppose I don’t blame them – I was rather a nuisance to all of them. Mace Tyrell couldn’t siege Me out of Storm’s End even after my brother left with over half our foodstores and nearly all our horses for his army. Jaime Lannister would still be happily fucking his sister, making more blond-haired bastards, if not for the truth I revealed to all in the Seven Kingdoms. And Tyrion Lannister… Well, even after he blew the entire bay, destroying most of his own ships and docks, I was still on the brink of capturing the city. Until his father came roaring in to save his family.”

“Or to save the throne he planned to take, since a mere month or two later, half that family was dead and a quarter of it alienated.”

“Forgive me if I don’t weep for Cersei Lannister and her brat. Nor for the alienation of a kingslayer who cuckolded my brother.”

She let out an airy laugh, “Prickly isn’t strong enough a word. I have been warned about the weight of carrying grudges, Lord Baratheon. Perhaps I should offer you the same advice?”

“While Tywin Lannister rots in a dungeon, I somehow doubt the warning stuck.”

Her smile faded quite gradually, “You call that a grudge. I call it justice.”

“Let us not argue over semantics. I have no love for the lion and I certainly am not stupid enough to make his exoneration my cause. Let him rot.”

She nodded slowly, “You may be interested to know that not all in my council are eager to send you on what you assume will be a suicide mission.”

“No, I suppose some think you ought to skip the pomp and behead me instead. Or do you kill with fire, as your father preferred?”

Her cheeks darkened considerably, “Twice now you’ve tried to provoke me. Both times over my father. You can save your breath. I have heard the kind of man he was, Lord Baratheon. I know that Ser Jaime was quite justified in killing him. I know any man alive at that time would’ve been justified – and any woman for that matter. But I am growing weary of all those who seem to be inferring that my father’s crimes are mine. I empower the people; I don’t torture them. I have a dragon at my command. What would my father have done with a dragon?”

He shook his head faintly, “He’d have burned every kingdom, every keep where he thought resided an enemy. And since he was paranoid enough to view nearly everyone as his enemy, that would’ve been nothing short of the entire continent, until someone stopped him.”

She nodded, “I am not proud of the behavior of some of my forebears, but I also see that there was a wasted opportunity for them to use their power to do good.”

Stannis was growing weary, too – of this conversation. It had been a long time since he felt that a conversation was a battle, or a dance, but this one was.

It was… exhausting.

“Fine. You’re not your father,” he admitted, not knowing if it was true, only that time would tell. “What other plans did your council come up with?”

The corner of her mouth lifted, “Lord Tyrell suggested that you cannot be trusted – that there is too much recent animosity between your house and mine. That you ought to be executed.”

Stannis scoffed, “On what charge?! On staking a claim for the throne that I was the only rightful heir to at the time?!”

She held up a hand, “Calm, Lord Baratheon. He admitted as such and suggested instead that you be sent into exile, or to the Wall.”

That fat fucking cunt…

“However, these punishments would also require a trial. I am told that in Westeros, the sovereign does not have the right to execute at whim. Well, they do, but to execute a noble man or woman without first affording them a trial in front of a jury of their peers is considered… poor taste. Hence Lord Stark’s execution, even after his confession, was… frowned upon.”

It troubled him that the girl had needed to be told as much, but was also grateful that someone was telling her. Probably righteous Ser Barristan. Maybe Varys, who was more snake than spider; the eunuch always did claim to serve the people, and if Daenerys thrust the realm back into war, the people would certainly be the first to suffer.

“That was Tyrell’s idea, hm? Kill me, and if you can’t kill me, send me away? To the Wall, where the cold will kill me? Or perhaps into exile with Sansa Stark and her babes? We can play the happy little family until one of your savages finds a way for me to have an accident?”

She let out an exasperated sigh, as if she had any reason to be exasperated!

“Lord Baratheon, I have already told you that I intend to reward House Baratheon, once you have proven your loyalty and utility.”

“Utility?!” he threw a hand in the air, unable to even think of a rebuke.

“And though Lord Mace Tyrell may have doubts about your ability to remain loyal to the rightful queen—”

“As I have doubts about his ability to remain loyal to anything but a pie!”

The young queen took a deep breath, “He has no animosity toward House Baratheon, overall.”

“No animosity toward House Baratheon. Hmpf,” Stannis grumbled, before a chilling idea struck him, “Do not tell me that oaf has designs on my daughter.”

“The Lady Shireen?” she looked at him, confused.

“The only daughter I have!” he gritted out.

“He does not. Not to my knowledge.”

“She is still my daughter!” Stannis stood up and leaned over the table, and a pair of guards were there in an instant, one poking his side with a spear tip, the other keeping his spear at the ready.

He would never know precisely what compelled him, but as he imagined fat Mace Tyrell whispering in the queen’s ear, kissing her arse then making his subtle suggestions, such as giving Shireen to that pillow biter Loras Tyrell… If the boy could manage to find inspiration in the fairer sex, all they’d need do was bide their time until Shireen gave birth to a son, then have Stannis’ girl succumb to some fever, or a fall down the stairs, and who’d be there to dissuade them? If Mace Tyrell got his wish, Stannis would be dead. Of course. He could consolidate all the power south of the Crownlands and North of Dorne. Might even use their common connection in the queen to get Margaery married to whomever would inherit the West – the Imp or the Kingslayer, Stannis couldn’t be sure and it was almost bad enough to make him feel sorry for the chit.

The entire sequence was displayed for his mind’s eye like some twisted mummer’s play, and it set him off. He tilted his hips back at the same moment his hand wrapped around the spear’s shaft, just below the steel tip. He jerked it across his body and then back, putting the blunt end into the man’s belly, knocking the wind out of him, and bringing it back in time to block the other guard’s spear. He knew he could’ve smashed the shaft against the guard’s, pushed him with such force that he’d topple, or at least stumble, but his senses returned to him. Killing this dragon queen would get him nothing. Shireen would still be holed up wherever she was, and Stannis and his small escort would be dead before making it out of the Red Keep. The Unsullied, to avenge their queen? The Tyrells, for spite? The Lannisters, for doing something that was bound to get their queen and princesses killed? Any number of enemies would keep him from getting out of here alive, with Shireen, to sail back to the safety of Dragonstone.

As if he’d only been making a point – and perhaps he was – he withdrew the spear and tossed it to the first guard, who’d managed to get some breath into his lungs. The man caught it with an ease that annoyed Stannis, but he kept his eyes on the girl and lowered himself back into his seat.

“I gave up my steel before stepping foot into this room. The next time I feel a spear tip against my coat because I had the nerve to stand up, I’ll be killing the man who put it there.”

The girl stared back at him, looking like someone replaced her wine with piss, and kept staring for long moments.

Then her lips twitched, “Am I supposed to be afraid or impressed, Lord Baratheon?”

He huffed, “Neither.”

“No?” she gave him a naïve expression, “I’m not supposed to be feeling like I lost the upper hand, after witnessing just how dangerous an opponent you are?”

“I don’t recall you having the upper hand to begin with.”

She snorted, “Or weak in the knees after witnessing such an impressive display of masculinity?”

He felt his cheeks warming, “Don’t patronize me; I know full well no woman has ever gone weak in the knees because of me.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

Now his cheeks felt aflame, “Why is it every time I sit in this room some woman tries to flatter me?”

She gave him a perplexed expression, “What other women have tried to flatter you in this… Oh…” she lifted both brows, “Hm. Yes, I suppose you’d be the Lady Sansa’s type.”

“What?!” he barked, which only amused the girl in front of him. He didn’t like that she seemed to be laughing at him.

“Well,” she shrugged, “If you’re prickly…”

“Then Tywin Lannister is a field of fucking cacti, yes! But I doubt she was with him for his disposition. Nor that I’m her type! Gods, what is it about this throne that addles a woman’s senses?! First Cersei Lannister, then Sansa Stark, now you.”

She rolled her eyes, “Fine, Lord Baratheon. No more teasing. I can see that if we don’t get down to business you may just explode where you sit.”

“Well it would be a bloody welcome relief!”

She took a deep breath, shot a glance at one of her spearmen, and began, “As we were discussing… I need a capable man with a fleet and naval experience to bring my men from Meereen to here before our truce with the Good Masters expires.”

“Ah, so I may be sailing into hostile waters. As if this wasn’t hopeless enough…”

And in exchange for your successful completion of this mission, I will name you Master of Ships and reinstate you as the Lord of Storm’s End, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands.”

That shut him up more effectively than twenty spear tips aimed at his cock would have.

“Pardon?” he asked, like a right fool.

She looked entirely too pleased with herself, “I believe Storm’s End is a Baratheon birthright since Aegon the First granted it to your ancestor, Orys Baratheon. Am I misinformed?”

He shook his head, his eyes narrowed suspiciously while waiting for the trap to be sprung.

“And I believe there are no other male Baratheons besides yourself. Am I misinformed in that?”

Another shake of the head.

“I understand the Redwyne fleet could round the southern coast and be in Meereen in several months, and that Lord Paxter would gladly retrieve my men…”

“But you do not wish to indebt yourself to the Tyrells anymore than you already have, and someone on your council was smart enough to tell you that Lady Olenna Tyrell, Mace’s dear mother, is a Redwyne.”

“I do not feel I’m indebted to the Tyrells at all.”

“They kneeled to you readily – they will assume you indebted even if you don’t recognize the debt.”

She let out a long sigh, “Fine. I hear you, Lord Baratheon. I will heed your words. Now, as to the arrangement between you and I, I am prepared to offer you Storm’s End and the Wardenship – conditionally. But only if you do as I ask. You have six moons to be en route to Meereen with enough ships to bring the rest of my men here. I don’t care if they are freshly built. If they are borrowed. If they are stolen. If they are crabbing boats or pleasure barges. If you succeed in this mission, I will name you Master of Ships and reinstate you as Lord of Storm’s End. Your daughter Shireen will be free to split her time between Storm’s End and court, if she chooses. Or she may stay at Storm’s End and rule in your absence – since I assume my Master of Ships will spend most of his time in the capital, offering his advice… Advice that will be most welcome if the lord can learn to be less… prickly.”

He rolled his eyes, “You said conditionally.”

“You miss nothing. The condition is that you marry Margaery Tyrell.”

“What?!” he shot out of his seat again, but this time her guards only moved into position without sticking their weapons into his side.

“Is the Lady Margaery not to your liking?”

“She’d a bloody Tyrell!”

The girl sighed again, “Was Lady Margaery the one who sieged Storm’s End?”

“If she was alive at the time and had a cock, I’m sure she would have! I wouldn’t trust a Tyrell as far as I could throw him. Or her.”

The young queen had the nerve to make a groan of exasperation, “If you find them so untrustworthy, all the more reason to marry one of them. Isn’t there a saying about keeping one’s enemies closer than one’s friends?”  

“Might be sound advice if I could trust the chit not to poison me…”

She pinched the bridge of her nose, “Do you realize that Mace Tyrell has three sons well above marriageable age yet has no grandson as of yet?”

“If your point is that his stock is not known for its fertility, then why would I want to—”

“My point is that Lady Margaery may yet birth the heir to Highgarden! Ser Loras is allegedly disinclined to… all that fatherhood entails. Lord Willas is thirty years of age yet unmarried, with nary a bastard from what I’ve heard. Ser Garlan has been wed for five unfruitful years.”

Stannis narrowed his eyes, “You mean to entice me by dangling Highgarden in front of me. Highgarden and Storm’s End both. Yet why would you give so much power to one family?”

“Because I intend to keep said family as my allies.”

“Sounds like buying loyalty instead of earning it.”

She held up both hands, “Did King Tywin Lannister earn your loyalty? From all I understand, you surrendered out of desperation and—”

“And nothing,” Stannis sat back down, sending a glare to both spearmen so they’d back up a step, which they eventually did. He faced the queen again, “I had no love for Tywin Lannister then, nor do I now, but the truth is that yes, he earned everyone’s loyalty back when he ruled the kingdoms on behalf of your father. He was a better king than any of the men who wore the title; that’s a fact. I gave him my fealty grudgingly, it’s true, because I hate the man and his entire accursed family. Not because I didn’t think he could do the job. In fact, I surrendered because I knew he’d do the job too well. That if I continued to go against him, it would be me against the entire realm. Well, you dangle Highgarden and Storm’s End in front of me to get me to do your bidding?” he leaned forward, knuckles on the table, “Storm’s End is mine by rights, you just admitted as such. Or is yours the only birthright that means anything to you?”

The girl’s cheeks had gone red, and Stannis could see the anger building in her, though he didn’t care. Stubborn Stag they may call him, and he never denied it. He was a man of principles. A man who feared no death, no dishonor, only living in a world where spineless cunts like Mace Tyrell were in charge.

“It is only your birthright because your brother won the rebellion, in no small part due to Lord Lannister’s treachery. Do you think Storm’s End would remain in the hands of a Baratheon if your brother had failed?”

“But he didn’t fail. Nor did I fail to hold our home.”

She snorted and stood, though he still towered over her. The table between them felt like a field of battle, and yet he knew it was more accurate to think of it as a cyvasse board.

“I have suffered your impudence long enough, Lord Baratheon. If you leave here as my enemy, it will be your daughter who suffers. If you leave here as my ally, agree to the proposed mission, I will consider your daughter under my protection. I will install her at Storm’s End, should you fail and perish. That is my vow to you. So let us pick up this argument after your mission has either succeeded or failed. By then I will know whether you’re the man worthy of being my Master of Ships, and you will see that I am the best ruler to have ever sat the throne. You will return and find a new realm, Lord Baratheon. A better realm.”

He worked his jaw back and forth, “Fine. I act as your ferryman and you promise Shireen’s protection and her place as Lady Paramount of the Stormlands. I want it in writing, but first, let me see my daughter. I will not enter a deal with you until I hear from her own mouth that she’s been treated well.”

Violet eyes narrowed before turning to face her closer guard and giving a command in some version of Valyrian. Stannis nodded one time and left.

“Father!”

His daughter had never been particularly effusive toward him, but she flew into his arms the moment he stepped into her room.

She wasn’t alone. Tommen Waters was staring up at him from the table where they’d been playing cards, perhaps wondering if the dragon queen had sent Stannis to act as her executioner. But the truth was, Stannis didn’t hold against Tommen what his parents had done. Didn’t mean he was fond of the boy, but nor did he hate him.

The other companion was Margaery Tyrell herself. Looking prim and proper and pretty, and more woman than girl despite her small bust. Not that he was looking.

Stannis glared at the Tyrell before bringing his daughter toward the window wall and holding her by the shoulders, “Shireen – have you been hurt at all?”

She shook her head rapidly, “No, Father. They’ve been so good to me.”

“Do not lie, Shireen. It is important.”

“I’m not lying. I promise.”

Stannis nodded. Indeed, she looked healthy enough. Not too skinny. Her hair clean, her dress well fitting and suitable for her age and stature.

He nodded again, “Very well. I am on the cusp of making a deal with the Tar—with Queen Daenerys. It would see you in Storm’s End, if I… retrieve some of her soldiers from Meereen…” he let his eyes move to Lady Margaery, and saw the pensive look on the girl’s face, though she schooled it quickly enough.

Was it because she didn’t like the idea of the queen having more of her men here? If so, then perhaps the Tyrells were only playing at loyalty. Then again, what’s the difference, with them? Or was it because the Tyrells were trying to get Storm’s End for themselves? Perhaps the queen had promised to put Tommen there after all, with Margaery as his wife?

“You won’t be staying here?” Shireen asked, tremulously.

He shook his head, “I cannot. I must do this thing to prove our house is not her enemy.”

“But… Well… But were you not sworn to King- Lord Lannister and Lady Lannister?”

Stannis sighed, “Lord Lannister abdicated the throne. Or is that not really the way of things?” He let his eyes focus on the Tyrell girl again.

“It is, Lord Baratheon,” Margaery spoke solemnly, “Lord Lannister abdicated the throne to its rightful ruler. How benevolent of her, Queen Daenerys, to take the throne so peacefully, don’t you think? Of course, it was not entirely painless. Those of us who had come to be fond of Queen Sansa and the princesses feel their absence quite acutely, but all-in-all, a better woman sits the throne now, don’t you think?”

Stannis narrowed his eyes at her for long moments, then switched his gaze to Tommen, who flinched.

“You. Have you visited with your grandfather?”

Tommen swallowed, “No, Unc—No, Lord Baratheon. Uncle Jaime doesn’t think I should see him like that. But Uncle Tyrion has seen him and swears he is well.”

Stannis hummed, suspecting something was afoot here, but uncertain what it was, precisely.

“Pray tell, Lord Baratheon,” Lady Margaery spoke, earning his attention again, “We’ve only had the privilege of seeing the black dragon. Perhaps at Dragonstone you’ve seen the others?” she lifted her eyebrows meaningfully.

Stannis shook his head slowly, “I had assumed the others were kept in the dragon pits.”

“Oh, I hadn’t thought of that… Perhaps…” the young woman trailed off.

“Father,” Shireen tugged on his sleeve, “Do you think Sansa and the girls are alright?”

Stannis scowled, “I don’t know and, frankly, they aren’t my problem. Nor yours.”

Shireen blushed fiercely, “I know. Only they were so nice and sweet… But I suppose it’s fair, isn’t it? The lion had hurt Queen Daenerys’ family first, after all.”

Stannis hummed again, wondering if once more there was meant to be more meaning behind the words he was being told.

Because did I not hurt her family, too? Driving them to flee Dragonstone, where the girl and her brother lived like paupers for most of their lives?

A guard knocked on the door and Stannis cursed under his breath, “Shireen, I must leave. Just… just be good. Listen to what Queen Daenerys says, and remember that you are a Baratheon. Do not let anyone make you feel you aren’t worthy of our name or our home.”

Her eyes glistened as she nodded solemnly, “I understand, Father. I… Thank you. Be careful.”

He nodded at her but couldn’t take more than two steps before Margaery Tyrell was standing in front of him, “I understand there is talk of us being wed, my lord. So I hope you don’t find me too bold…”

Before he could process it, her lips were against his cheek.

Then…

“A lion always pays his debts. Can the same be said of a dragon?” she whispered.

He balked and pulled back but the woman pulled herself close to him again, her lips dusting his ear, “Tell the she-wolf to remember the pup’s dream.”

With a coy smile she removed herself from his presence and moved to stand next to Shireen, putting one arm around his daughter’s shoulders.

Stannis curled his lip, but had to remove the confused look when he stepped into the corridor.

He continually thought on Lady Margaery’s words as he walked back toward the holdfast where he would resume his negotiations with the queen, assuming she hadn’t busied herself with some other task. He just wanted this over with, but was not yet certain he should agree to anything. Would the queen truly harm his daughter if he did not do her bidding? Should he return to Dragonstone and bide his time, see if another lord (ideally one with an army, since all Stannis had were twelve hundred men) stood up to this queen?

And when the hell would he see the she-wolf? That must be either Lady Stark or the younger daughter – he couldn’t think of her name. Were they due to arrive in the capital soon, summoned as he was? And what the hell was Margaery Tyrell playing at, making him deliver messages that must be coming from either Tyrion or Tywin Lannister to one of the Stark women? Was it a test? If he went along with it would some hidden spy pop out and moments later Stannis would be sharing a cell with Tywin bloody Lannister? And if it wasn’t a test – if Margaery Tyrell was trying to help her former king, with or without her father’s knowledge – did he want to be her accomplice?

He'd like to say ‘no’ and be done with it, but it wasn’t that simple. For all the man was known to be cruel to his enemies, Tywin Lannister was the devil Stannis knew. He was a known quantity – a man who had proven competency in administration and governance, in keeping the peace, in winning wars, in ending wars… Was he the man Stannis would have put on the throne, given his druthers? Obviously not, but nor would he be Stannis’ last choice.

The Targaryen was quite the opposite – an unknown. Perhaps she would be an exceptional queen. But if she was going to be another inept queen or even mad queen, the time to dispose of her was now, before she’d entrenched herself with alliances, with the people’s support – before she’d found a way to bring her 14,000 troops around the southwest corner of Essos and up and across the Narrow Sea; before her other two dragons, if they even existed, returned to her.

Stannis thought it might be best to look at it only in terms of which monarch would be the greater boon to House Baratheon. Unfortunately, that wasn’t a clear answer. Tywin Lannister had proposed that Shireen’s firstborn daughter marry Tommen and Margaery’s firstborn son. Well, that required both of them to have children, first. It also required Stannis to make peace with his grandchild being wed to the child of a bastard. A bastard born of incest. But he knew the way the world worked. In a few years, few would be thinking about whether Tommen Baratheon was a bastard, much less care. In the next generation, the lady of Storm’s End would be a trueblood Baratheon. In two generations, the lord of Strom’s End would be a trueblood Baratheon, with the name to match.

A trueblood Baratheon man would be lord of Storm’s End much sooner in the dragon queen’s plan. Stannis would be there, ruling, as he should. Unfortunately, it would be with a Tyrell by his side – one he’d never trust not to poison him after she whelped his son. Unless in that time he could make her fond of him but… Hah, he would not count on that!

So it came down to this: a Baratheon in Storm’s End now, with Tyrell blood in the next generation? Or a Baratheon in Storm’s End later, with bastard blood in the next generation?

He almost wished Mace Tyrell could be privy to his thoughts, because right now he was thinking that he’d rather a bastard in Storm’s End than a bloody Tyrell.

But if he didn’t support the dragon queen, could he count on Shireen’s safety indefinitely? Would the Targaryen hurt her out of spite? Would someone else? Someone named Tyrell, perhaps, who was angling for Storm’s End?

The time was drawing near to make a decision, and he wasn’t any closer to it. The guards were escorting him across the drawbridge that led into Maegor’s Holdfast.

That was when he saw a tall man with blond hair exiting the keep.

It took several paces each before they were a mere arm’s length apart, which is where they paused.

Stannis eyed him up and down. “Kingslayer,” he spat.

Failed Kingslayer,” Jaime retorted in a flat voice.

Stannis snorted, “I didn’t know bastards with not a drop of royal blood in their veins could be kings.”

Jaime offered a smile that Stannis knew was a very blatant, ‘Fuck you, too’.

“You know, Lannister, if there was one thing I could respect about you, it was your loyalty to family. Now? Now I wonder if any man has ever been a bigger waste of space.”

Jaime smiled faintly, bitterly, “Losing a war hasn’t humbled you in the least, Baratheon. Nor has it made you more interesting, unfortunately. I think I’ll just be on my way before you bore me to death.”

The knight brushed past him, and it wasn’t until he was several paces away that Stannis turned and spoke again, directing his words at the lion’s back, “If ever a king deserved to rot in the dungeons, it was the first one you served. I wonder how you sleep at night.”

The knight turned around with another cocky smile, “I sleep just fine, knowing I’m one of the few men who had the balls to go against the great Tywin Lannister.”

“Not so few. Robb Stark. Renly Baratheon. Stannis Baratheon. Except we had to go against the man and his armies.”

“Well pardon me for using my brain instead of my sword.”

“And all these years I thought you didn’t even have a brain…”

“Hilarious, Baratheon. Now good day.”

Stannis would never know what had gotten into him, but as he turned and strode back toward the keep, he found himself whistling The Rains of Castamere. He’d always hated the song and all that Lannisters used it to represent, but in that moment it seemed rather fitting.

And when he heard the Kingslayer’s steps miss a beat, he almost smiled…

Until he heard an odd noise, and turned toward the sea that was just on the other side of the wall, down a steep cliff. It sounded like sails snapping taut in the wind, then a heavy splash such as when a dinghy is dropped into the water.

He almost jumped back when he saw a dark shape suddenly appear over the wall that surrounded the holdfast, rising straight up into the bright afternoon sky like a phoenix, then leveling out to fly due west, right over Stannis’ head even if a good hundred feet up.

A drop of saltwater landed on his lips as he stared up at it, with the kind of awe and fear that could make a lesser man forget to hold his bowels.

It was the dragon – no doubt about it. And in its jaws was a long and narrow white bellied beast that any seaman would know was a shark.

A lion still has claws… but what good are they against a dragon?

For some reason – morbid curiosity? self-preservation? – he wanted to find out.

With a scowl for no one in particular, he stepped into the keep to get this over with. He decided that he’d give two women what they wanted. Or at least, it would seem that way.

Notes:

Credit to LastNightFanfictionSavedMyLife for being the one to get me into calling Stannis "prickly". It really is the perfect word for him, especially in fanfic since us fanfic writers tend to make him more sensitive than he is in canon b/c he's so darn fun to torture with his own misinterpretations of other's words and intentions. But he also has a sense of humor, just others don't realize it because it's dry AF and caustic AF.

Chapter 46: They’re all jealous of him

Notes:

Strap in for a long one. Nearly 12K words, this one is lengthy and girthy. Heh.

Oh, and I feel like Jorah Mormont is the least reliable narrator I've ever written (barring Cersei, of course), and that's because I always saw his character as a type capable of convincing himself of ANYTHING. I don't actually see him as a Bad Guy in canon, but a man who is prone to idiocy (and wearing blinders) when in love and who feels that he has been the victim a lot. Maybe he has, but I also see him as the type who sort of wants to be the victim so he can feel sorry for himself instead of having to look inward and analyze the parts of himself that are not so virtuous. Without having his POV, we'll never know how close or far I am from the mark, but that's just the way I see his character.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Sansa

Every face was a potential friend… and a potential enemy.

Cowl covering white hair that had grown to halfway down her neck, Sansa strolled the streets arm-in-arm with her husband. Red Spider walked with them, dressed casually with no weapon visible – in Braavos everyone kept the peace, but any man walking about with a sword was fair game to be challenged by another to a duel. With his coloring, he was the only one of their guards that could pass for a family relation rather than a paid guard, and despite him being quieter than the others he was also the one who could most easily ditch the telltale gait that marked the Unsullied.

Ser Jorah had said she needed to get out of the house and that she needed something to pass her time.

Both were true and yet this little outing didn’t feel like it was for her benefit so much as Ser Jorah’s conscience. Then again, Sansa had no interest in any of her former pastimes – they were all trivial to a woman who had lost her husband and might as well have lost her mother and siblings and daughters. She could think of nothing that would make her want to scream more than spending hours in a chair embroidering roses into a skirt or reading poetry about eternal love and other such useless notions.

Besides, she had started to keep herself busy helping in the kitchen. The Unsullied and Ser Jorah had all, somewhere along their travels, learned the basics of cooking. However, none of them seemed to know how to make food that went beyond nutritive to tasty, and Sansa had all the time in the world to try to remedy this.

She’d also taken on the job of laundress and didn’t care that it was beneath her. While scrubbing clothes in cold, soapy water, her mind could go empty in a way she knew it wouldn’t with needlepoint.

So, despite Ser Jorah suggesting they might head out to the merchant district to get Sansa some fabrics and threads, she had something else in mind…

The hempen twine was found first, one that was coated with some type of wax to make it more resistant to fraying even though it would of exposed to water, then dried out, over and over again. Next, she found a brush that was much coarser than the one she’d been using on their laundry – coarse enough to almost draw blood when she scraped the bristles against her palm. The same vendor sold a variety of soaps that she hoped were indeed for clothing and not skin, because Ser Jorah did not seem particularly keen when she asked him to translate her question to the stall’s attendant.

“This is not what I meant when I told you to find a way to keep busy,” Ser Jorah mumbled as he led her by the arm away from the vendor whose friendliness hadn’t been dissuaded by Sansa’s inability to speak his language.

“I see no good reason to spend my days stitching little flowers onto little handkerchiefs. If I find myself in the mood to sew, I’m sure there will always be a tunic that needs mending, given all the brothers I live with.”

“Still,” Ser Jorah ignored her cheekiness, “You needn’t be scrubbing their britches like some…”

“Slave?”

He sighed loudly, “Maid. Servant. Commoner.”

“Hmm. I only just now realized how it must make you feel, husband, to see your wife doing such demeaning work.”

He sighed again but said no more. It would seem he was in no mood to spar today. Not that he ever was, but there were certainly days when he bristled at everything, finding offense in her mere presence. She supposed those must be the days he was pining for his queen and thus found every other woman lacking by comparison. Or perhaps the opposite – perhaps those were the days he was stewing in his resentment of this most unenviable assignment and couldn’t remember what he liked about women in the first place.

She could easily remind him, of course. For all his self-righteousness and determination to support his championed cause of Daenerys Targaryen’s victory, he was just like other men. His eyes flicked down to Sansa’s teats of their own accord at least ten times a day and his strides always slowed when he sought her out only to find her bent over the laundry tub.

She wondered what it said about her that she made sure her back was arched alluringly, or that her hips and arse swayed with the motion of her scrubbing, or that sometimes she let her blouse get wet in strategic places. At least there was a large bathing chamber in the house with a brazier in it, so she didn’t risk catching a chill over her… exhibitionism. If anything, she was usually over-warm from the exertion, and perhaps she also didn’t mind that her neck and cheeks would be flushed when Ser Jorah found her.

Not that she wanted him – far from it. But it seemed that every plan she tried to make died on the vine because she couldn’t attempt any of them without having her daughters back first, or at least knowing of their whereabouts and having a means to get there. And many of her plans would need to be timed just perfectly, such as when at least two of the guards were gone from the house. If Ser Jorah permitted Jeyne and Jocelyn to visit only for a few hours, how could Sansa possibly pull off an escape in that time period? No doubt the wily old knight would be on high alert for those hours, with several sets of Unsullied eyes on Sansa and her girls and Rayna, if she was permitted to join. If she is even still alive.

Thus, the best Sansa could do was convince Jorah to let the girls live here all the time, and she could only do that by making him believe she had no desire to return to Westeros, or that any such desire was dwarfed by her desire to have her girls back under the same roof. Words would not convince him, only actions: she had to seem content in her life here. She had to seem as if her old life had lost its shine… that she was slowly shaking off the Great Lion’s influence and realizing that Daenerys had been right that night on the ship – Sansa was better off without him.

And, she figured, it would be most convincing if there was something making her want to stay here.

And what greater reason could there be, than love?

And she strongly suspected that for men, the precursor to love was desire.

Just survive. Arya used to say. She still did, but more often these days she said something else…

Just win.

Jars and pouches of spices she’d never heard of were bought and being safely toted in her husband’s leather satchel and Sansa told Jorah she was ready to return for the day. After months with such limited company, first on the ship and then in the manse, she had felt overwhelmed in such dense crowds. The foreign words, the foreign faces, the foreign foods and wares… Several times today Sansa was acutely aware of how sheltered she’d been all her life. Her father had never taken her to White Harbor when she was a girl, and both times she lived in the capital she stayed in the Red Keep with very few exceptions. Hells, she’d barely even gone to the winter town, since it was mostly empty through her entire childhood and adolescence, which spanned spring and summer when tenants had no need to shelter against Winterfell’s walls.

She’d been in Harrenhal, of course – a place of waking nightmares, violence, death, and hatred. She’d been in Robb’s war camp. She’d been in Riverrun with over four thousand Bolton soldiers encroaching. And prior to all that she’d been in the streets of King’s Landing during a riot which could have easily taken her life. Yet somehow, it all seemed easier than being in a foreign land’s merchant district.

Conversely, Daenerys Targaryen had grown up in Braavos then moved to Pentos to wed her horse lord. Then to Vaes Dothrak and beyond, into the plains called the “Dothraki Sea”. Then she went to Qarth, then Astapor, then Yunkai, then Meereen. In each place she would have encountered different people, different languages, different garb, different religion. And in each place, many of those people would be enemies to her, the woman they viewed as an invader.

It was impossible not to wonder if Sansa would’ve survived any of it, and wondering led to concluding that Sansa was not nearly as tough as she had believed herself to be when marching into the throne room beside Tywin, showing no fear of the boy who had tormented her so badly and the woman who had been the root cause of all the Starks’ suffering. What had Sansa ever had to physically endure, other than fistz punching and swords smacking, and those on only a few occasions?

Then again, what had Daenerys ever had to physically endure?

And why was she comparing herself to the woman? Was it because Daenerys now wore Sansa’s former title? Was it because Ser Jorah was clearly in love with Daenerys while thinking of Sansa as nothing but a spoiled girl he was shackled with? Was it because the men guarding Sansa were loyal to the woman, and Sansa wanted to know what such loyalty felt like?

A chorus of laughter jolted Sansa out of her own mind and her heart was thudding a moment later, expecting to look up and find all eyes on her.

Quite the opposite, she realized they were walking around an audience of people all facing the same direction. After their laughter faded, Sansa could hear a female voice being project loud, for all to hear, though it was some form of Valyrian and Sansa couldn’t make out the words.

Ser Jorah tried to tug her along, but curiosity had her squeezing through the crowd, needing to know who was talking and why it seemed everyone in this part of town was paying heed to her words. Head still covered even though the sun was warm enough to chase away the chill, Sansa made her way through the crowd until she was almost at the front. She stopped there, once she could see that it was no gifted orator but a mummers’ troupe. She was disappointed even though she didn’t know what she’d been hoping for, but soon enough she noticed that the scene playing out featured familiar characters. A woman with long white hair, perhaps stripped like Sansa’s, stood at the top of three wooden stairs built on the stage. Her dress was black with a red dragon sewn onto it, and on her head sat a crown made of some undoubtedly cheap metal painted gold. She was the one talking, lifting her arms loftily, making a speech to a group of six men – two shirtless and wearing black paint to resemble the Dothraki horse warriors, even wearing fake curved swords – arakhs – in their belts. Two were wearing outfits made to look like the Unsullied’s armor, complete with prop spears and shields. One of the men was fat but had long white hair, or perhaps a wig. And another wore a suit of tin armor painted gold, his hair dyed a rather garish yellow.

Sansa had to crane her neck to see two actors kneeling, looking angry but defeated as their hands were bound before them and what looked like prop whips were wrapped around their necks. Slave masters, Sansa figured.

The actress’ speech concluded, the audience gave a round of applause, then waited most quietly while a pair of boys ran out and held up two tall poles with a length of fabric between them to block the view of the stage being rearranged. The makeshift curtain was comprised of sewn-together scraps of fabric and the lads struggled to steady the poles that were about the height of two men stacked, as a breeze was blowing the fabric like a ship’s sail.

A few moments passed and Sansa turned to find Ser Jorah beside her, a chagrined look on his face. She didn’t care.

The boys brought the poles together then scurried off stage, and the new scene was meant to depict sea-travel. A flat piece of wood was cut and painted to look like a ship, with blue waves painted along the flat bottom of it. The woman did more talking, and the yellow-haired man pointed at something in the distance. Made of more wood was what looked like a hill, with a red castle atop it, made small so it seemed very far away from the ship. There was more talking and at times the audience laughed, at other times gasped in either surprise or delight.

At the next scene change the woman sat on the stairs again, this time with what was meant to be a black dragon at her feet. In reality, one of the male actors wore head-to-toe black clothing, including a mask that his entire head went into that had an open mouth, sharp white teeth, and orange paint at the back. More dialogue occurred between the woman who was playing Daenerys and the male actors, who were now dressed in clothing made to look fancy by having colored glass sewn into it. The men kneeled, hands clasped, and took turns saying things to the queen that made the audience hysterical with laughter. At some points the actress fanned herself, or sent a mischievous look toward the audience, especially if the man presently kneeling before her was handsome.

It rankled Sansa to hear the giggles and guffaws of the audience. It rankled her that the actors hadn’t depicted that night on the ship when Sansa was thrown into frigid waters, when Tywin agreed to abdicate and submit himself for trial out of fear for his wife and baby daughters. It rankled Sansa that Daenerys was being depicted as some sort of sex-obsessed monarch.

Sansa was ready to turn around and try her best to forget the farce when a new actor appeared on stage. Older than the others, though not as old as Tywin, he was dressed in red and gold finery but was chained at the ankle and wrist. He walked with a straight back, his nose lifted in the air. It seemed he was given the chance to defend himself, but still Sansa couldn’t make out any of the words. She only knew he looked nothing like Tywin, sounded nothing like Tywin, and yet she couldn’t take her eyes off him. And for the briefest of moments, and perhaps only an imagined one, his pale eyes landed on her as he gave what seemed like a monologue, sometimes gesturing at the actress who played Daenerys, or the one who played Jaime Lannister. Sometimes at the dragon, or at the audience.

And some in the audience threw rotted produce at him, and Sansa flinched. Had that happened in real life? Had the same courtiers who kissed his arse just weeks prior thrown curses and trash at him after he abdicated and named Daenerys queen?

Once again Sansa wanted to look away but couldn’t, as the queen stood from her stairs and walked down toward the man while proclaiming something…

A wooden block appeared out of nowhere and Sansa gasped. The Unsullied-dressed actors pushed the man playing Tywin down until his throat rested just over the block. The actress kept speaking, and the audience kept laughing.

“Let’s go, wife,” Ser Jorah spoke low beside her.

Sansa didn’t respond, didn’t move, couldn’t move… Like when Ser Ilyn took Father’s head, she wanted to look away but was frozen. Knowing that it was only a play, that she wouldn’t see anyone be decapitated this time, didn’t stop terror from filling every vein in her body. She wanted to run to the stage, to stop them, to…

The actress playing Daenerys dropped to her arse right in front of the condemned man’s head, hiked up her skirts, and scooted until her cunt was right underneath the actor’s face. Then she threw her skirts over his head and shoulders and made sounds of rapture while the audience laughed so loudly that some of them doubled over and clutched their bellies.

Sansa turned and shoved her way through the crowd more roughly than necessary. She ignored those who seemed to curse at her rude behavior and kept walking until she found Red Spider leaning against the railing of the bridge they’d been about to cross before Sansa was drawn away by the sound of a woman’s speech.

He straightened upon seeing whatever look was on her face, then his eyes went past her which she knew meant Ser Jorah had followed.

She didn’t wait for Ser Jorah and walked right past Red Spider, stomping across the bridge like Rickon used to when he was told he couldn’t participate in whatever game his older siblings were playing.

A hand grabbed her elbow, but she kept walking, forcing the hand’s owner to walk with her.

“It’s a farce,” Jorah murmured, “It is meant to be salacious. People enjoy laughing and will pay those who amuse them. You shouldn’t assume it’s true.”

Sansa stopped abruptly and turned to face Jorah, “You think I’m angry because I believe Daenerys would make my husband—”

A mouth was pressed to hers while calloused hands held her face in place. She’d have peeped in surprise if she could make a sound, but she couldn’t. She only racked her brain to come up with an explanation for his suddenly amorous behavior before it struck her: he’s silencing me without making it obvious.

After a few moments he pulled his lips away but kept his hands on her cheeks, “Watch your tongue,” he whispered in a low, grizzled threat.

She snorted, “Or what?”

“You know ‘or what’. You want to see your daughters before they’re old enough to have children of their own?”

She hated that he had this leverage over her. Perhaps more than any of the times she’d been stuck in a cage, that made this the worst. In King’s Landing she was on her own and should have relished it, in hindsight. She could have smacked Joffrey in the mouth in front of all of court, and the only one to pay for it would be her. Not who sister who’d long since run away. Not her father or her pet, both of whom were long dead. Not Jeyne Poole because Jeyne was also gone.

Gods, how weak she’d been to not take advantage of it then…

She let out a sigh, because it was either that or a scream. “Fine,” she gritted in a low voice, “I’m not upset because of what that actress did. I’m upset because… because none of that was the truth.”

Jorah snorted, “Again – people don’t pay for the truth.” His brown eyes flicked to the right, back in the direction of the stage, and his jaw bulged.

She realized she wasn’t the only one who was angry.

Now she was the one to snort, “It seems you need to take your own advice, Ser.”

He looked back at her, eyes narrowed, and seemed to belatedly realize he was still holding her face. His hands dropped and he took a step back.

“It’s just a farce,” she offered with a shrug, “You need not fear that your lady love is sullying herself with the Old Lion…”

Ser Jorah sneered, and she could see a rebuttal forming.

She beat him to it, “If anything, it’s the Young Lion.”

Her elbow was grabbed again, and their march continued back toward the house. She didn’t fight it, and she kept her lips shut.

It had been a low blow, but Sansa relished the way it satisfied.

 

Jorah

He fisted the front of his cloak, the brutal wind whipping it about his body below the lowest strap, which was just below his sternum.

He’d spent too bloody long in the southern cities of Essos and chided himself for his sensitivity to what he knew was nothing like what he used to live through on Bear Island. And at least Braavos was sunny most days, even when the air was biting and the wind whipping. Bear Island would never be described as anything but bleak.

He lowered his head and barreled onward, down the main street and over a bridge that led to another island. There were a hundred of them, spread out over a lagoon, that collectively comprised Braavos. It made this an ideal place for hiding the lady and her daughters. Anyone who somehow caught wind of them being in Braavos would need to search hundreds of streets across dozens of habitable islands, some large, some small. And they’d be thwarted by the very Braavosi culture, which was all about individual freedom and a person’s right to privacy. In any part of Braavos, it was assumed every new face belonged to someone running from some trouble – of their own making or not. That didn’t faze the locals, so long as that new face didn’t pick fights or otherwise disturb the peace. If some Lannister or Stark men from Westeros came here and started snooping around, asking after a red-haired woman, or a bearded Westerosi knight with a mostly bald head, or a pair of strawberry blond toddlers, they’d probably get sent on a wild goose chase.

Of course, Jorah was still careful. Her hair would stay white. She’d not be allowed to gallivant alone around the city or even the neighborhood. And, most importantly, she’d stay separated from the girls. If whoever might be looking for them got lucky, let them find one or two but not all three hostages.

Jorah just had to stick it out until his Khaleesi said they could come back.

He didn’t allow himself to think that it might never happen…

He didn’t allow himself to wonder what he’d do if it didn’t…

With a deep breath that came out in a puff of white he pulled open the door to the tavern with a red door and no name.

It was an ideal sort of place for his needs, neither run down enough to attract the desperate nor fancy enough that he’d look out of place in his dark, unfashionable garb. He nodded to the barkeep and held up two fingers. The man knew him from previous visits, which was strategy on Jorah’s part to ensure that when he came here for a meeting he wouldn’t stick out like a sore thumb. A nod was given back, and Jorah found himself a seat facing the door, uncertain who he was expecting, but knowing they’d recognize his mug.

Two ales were promptly delivered by the barkeep, who earned another nod and a scrunching of Jorah’s lips that was meant to be a smile. Jorah pulled out his small skin, uncorked it, and took a sip of the elixir he’d discovered as a young sellsword trying to earn coin for an ungrateful wife. Mezqal didn’t exist in Westeros, so far as he knew, which was a damned shame. He hadn’t cared for the stuff the first time a comrade bid him try it – too earthy – but it grew on him as he learned to detect the different flavors interplaying. Sweet. Smoky. Fruity. Herbal.

It could also make a man lose his wits – not exactly unwelcome after coming home to find his wife gone off to live with a prince, as if they weren’t a copper a dozen in these parts. Princes, that is. Not wives. Well, so were wives, but they had lost their shine to Jorah by then. Mezqal was a better mistress.

He took two more small sips – like the rare, good woman, mezqal deserved to be savored – and re-corked the skin. He waited until the flavors faded from his palate before taking a hearty gulp of the ale. It was nothing like the stuff brewed back home, but he ought not remember the stuff back home.

He rubbed coarse fingers over a coarse mustache and refused to let himself go down the dark path that would lead to him glugging the costly liquor until his guts churned and his head spun.

But it was getting harder not to stumble onto those trails. Idleness was to blame, he supposed. Idleness and living in a house with four other men and only one woman. One beautiful woman. He could admit that, objectively. It wasn’t like it was a secret. She’d been betrothed to a Crown Prince and married to a king. There were exceptions, of course, but highborns and royals didn’t take homely wives, no matter how wide the girl’s hips or how influential the girl’s father.

And he knew those four men, despite being younger and in all but one case better looking than him, were no rivals as mates – they simply lacked the equipment. But women needed more than that. Women liked to be held and kissed, to be gazed at longingly, to be called ‘love’ or ‘darling’. To have a man listen to her words, make her feel precious. Well, most women, anyway. All Lynesse ever wanted were things. Silks and jewels and trinkets and parfums and slippers and tapestries and lace tablecovers and…

Jorah took a long pull of the ale and set his eyes about the room. Ordinarily he’d have done little else but people-watch, but lately he hadn’t been particularly concerned about his safety. He reminded himself that worse could happen than getting accosted by some scoundrels in the alley when he left here. He could be spotted by someone who was looking for the former queen and princesses. They could follow him back to the house – though he wasn’t an easy man to stalk – and slaughter him and the guards and spirit away the precious cargo he’d hauled across the Narrow Sea. They wouldn’t have the daughters, but they’d have something. Maybe something they couldn’t even do anything with – Daenerys had to have gotten her hands on more hostages by now and the girls would still be counted as such – but it would still mean that Jorah had failed. And funny how that was the only thing that compelled him anymore. He’d come to terms with the fact that he’d never have any more of the queen’s affection than Grey Worm or Selmy did, but he’d never be able to live with the knowledge that he’d failed her.

He finished the rest of the ale in three pulls and snorted, wondering if he’d already failed by not doing what she really wanted. Because the more he thought about the circumstances he’d been living in for weeks now, the more it seemed suspicious that she would put him in a house with a beautiful woman – a fellow Northerner – and not expect something to happen. Well, on his part at least. Did she not care that Lady Sansa would never reciprocate the feelings Daenerys hoped would spring up in Jorah? Of course, she didn’t. She only wanted Jorah to pine for someone else for a change. Her skin felt itchy from the filth of his lustful gaze, and she needed to be cleansed of it.

He snorted as he pulled the ale intended for his eventual companion in front of him but didn’t sip it. It would take more than three sips of mezqal and two ales to make him lose his faculties, but he didn’t like how it would look for two empty mugs to be on the table when whoever-it-was arrived.

Perhaps he got it wrong, he admitted to himself. Perhaps Jorah really was the only one Daenerys trusted with this mission. Or perhaps it was both – she was relying on him for this important job but also hoped that in their exile, and with no other company but eunuchs, he and Lady Sansa would… bond. Then her majesty’s skin would no longer itch, and she’d also get to be proud that she’d helped her most loyal man find companionship, even if only out of lack of other options. Only that wounded his pride. He didn’t want Daenerys playing matchmaker, even if done out of genuine caring for him. It was patronizing; made him feel like some ogre that even whores wouldn’t look at for any less than triple their normal rate. Little does she know. To Essosi whores, he was as exotic as a Lyseni bed slave would be to a lad from the far north of Westeros (he would know). Well, it wasn’t quite the same because that Lyseni woman would be objectively beautiful, and Jorah had never been beautiful. But Jorah’s burly build wasn’t common in Essos where men were either strong but wiry from nonstop physical labor or fat and soft from nonstop oral indulgences. There were exceptions, of course. The sellsword companies like the Second Sons, the Golden Company, and the Company of the Rose were filled with brawny sorts, but they weren’t always around in any given city. And more than being thick and hard from head to toe, Jorah had a pelt the whores tutted over, giggling at the way it tickled their lips or breasts. They called him “my bear” when he bedded them. Issa gryves.

Dīnagon adere, Issa gryves.

Faster, my bear.

He didn’t realize he was smiling until he heard the main door open and found himself straightening his face. Without knowing who he was waiting for, he knew this was the person.

The man threw back a hood, revealing a tan head shaved bald, gave the barkeep a wave, then made a show of looking around the entire seating area and eventually setting his eyes on Jorah with a smile, as if he didn’t know where Jorah was the moment he stepped into the place.

The man approached and made another show – an exaggerated shiver – before extending his arm. Jorah stood upon his approach and grasped the man’s forearm, offering the smile of a man who gives them judiciously.

“Good to see you, old friend,” the man greeted amiably as he unfastened his cloak and took the seat that had his back to most of the room.

“Likewise, though it looks like you’re not happy to see the cold,” Jorah answered.  

“I think I will do like the birds and fly south!” the man spoke the common tongue fluently but with a Braavosi accent.

Jorah slid the ale toward him, but the man held up both hands, “Been dry for two years. If Orala smells that on me…” he made another shiver, this time one of fright.

Jorah shrugged, “It’s poor form to make a man drink alone, but since I know just how sharp a woman’s sting can be, I won’t push the matter.”

“Ah yes,” the man leaned forward, resting tan and age-spotted hands on the table, fingers interlaced, “How is Luciya?”

Jorah nodded, “She’s well. Settling in nicely.”

“Good. And the little ones?”

“Visiting their aunt for a couple weeks, but well, I’m sure. They’re very fond of her.”

“Good, good,” the man nodded, a wistful smile on his lips, “I still can’t believe you uprooted, though I understand why you did.”

Jorah nodded again, knowing the man was helping to ensure any eavesdroppers would assume he was some random man who left Westeros for damned good reason. Let them fill in the blanks as they would – that he was a criminal even if only in stealing the wrong man’s wife or—

He felt his neck prickle with hot sweat. He took a healthy sip of ale before leaning back, hoping he hadn’t looked affected and wondering why he was. Wondering why he was suddenly thinking of Tywin Lannister, all straight and haughty and self-assured, confident in his ability to weasel his way out of any situation, right up until the moment Sansa was tossed over the side of the ship…

He cleared his throat and forced his voice to come out casual, “He was a cunt.”

The man blinked at him in confusion, “Who?”

“Luciya’s first husband. A vicious sonofabitch, but not one to be trifled with. I had to get her away from him.”

The man nodded slowly, “Yes. Of course.”

Fuck, Jorah cursed himself his improvisation. Now the man probably thought Jorah was trying to convey something significant, perhaps information Daenerys ought to know about Tywin Lannister. And for all he knew Sansa’s love of that man must be as warped as could be, he didn’t think the man had ever actually been cruel to her. To everyone else, perhaps, but not her. So there was nothing on that front to report to his queen, yet it sounded like he just had, when in reality he wanted it to be clear that he was the one taking another man’s wife – not the other way around – and that he had damned good reason.

Gods, I’m fucking losing it. He took another sip of ale. Did he think Lynesse and her prince were in this outdated watering hole, eavesdropping on his conversation? Who the hell did he have to impress? What the hell did he have to prove.

“Not… Forget it,” he started then stopped his backtracking. What did it matter if one more crime was posthumously laid at Tywin Lannister’s feet?

His companion nodded, “Right. Anyway, I suppose you’ve heard the news from the West?”

Jorah shrugged, “Some of it. The mummers are already putting on a play about it. Though I highly doubt this so-called dragon queen makes men give her head before taking theirs,” he forced himself not to grit his teeth or curl his hands into fists.

The man flipped a hand, “Artistic liberties. Surely the audience threw plenty of coins after such a scene.”

Jorah rolled his eyes, “So what’s the truth of things? You’d hear more from the place than I would, given your business.”

“Being a humble wool importer does have its advantages.”

“Especially during winter. So?”

The man shrugged flippantly, “They’re saying the dragon outwitted the lion. Lion handed over his throne to keep his cubs safe.”

Jorah hummed, forcing himself to be patient, because a man who had escaped Westeros shouldn’t be overly concerned about the politics of the place.

The man continued, “Rumor is there were some who tried to oppose her – the dragon queen – but a great black beast arrived in time to remind them of their manners.”

“What fools would try to go against such a woman? Hadn’t they heard the stories from the slave cities?”

“Don’t know what they’ve heard. Only know they were loyal to the former queen. The men of her honor guard, one of them a relation of some sort.”

Brynden Tully, no doubt. Jorah hadn’t seen the man since the Trident, but he sure as hell made a name for himself during that and other battles. The man was a living legend, and Jorah felt compelled to ask if Daenerys had been merciful, but he shouldn’t care, so he didn’t.

“So… a Targaryen once again sits the Iron Throne,” he said instead, “May she rule better than her predecessors,” he lifted his ale in a half-formed toast before taking another sip. In truth, he had no doubt that she’d do better than her predecessors – those named Targaryen and the few others. But the people of Essos didn’t have warm and fuzzy feelings toward the name, many blaming the infighting of the old dragonlords for the doom of Valyria and all the destruction and bloodshed that followed. ‘Magical’ was how some people might describe dragons today, but the people of Essos had long memories. Just like old nurses and grandmothers in northern Westeros told tales of demons that’d been dead for millennia, Essosi crones still told tales of a time when dragons seemed nearly as common as gulls, and that meant they thought about the winged giants much as a livestock farmer might think of a fox or hawk. To Westerosi children, dragons were creatures of legend. To Essosi children, they were oversized vermin.

“I’d drink to that if I could drink at all,” the man responded, “But it’s no matter for me. Whoever’s arse is in the throne, whether it shits gold or fire, the people need wool.”

Jorah nodded, “So the people of Westeros… they accept her?”

The man shrugged again, “Don’t know. Heard the Reach does, and now the Vale. Not sure about the rest, but they’re said to be keeping the peace, if that’s what you mean.”

“Aye, I suppose. Suppose they don’t want to end up like the lion: short a head.”

“Hmpf. If only he were so lucky.”

Jorah’s neck began sweating again and all he could think was she burned him?

“What does that mean?” he asked in a low voice, trying not to let his fear seep through.

“Means he got worse than a beheading, in my opinion. Lifetime imprisonment.”

The scene from the mummer’s play flashed in Jorah’s mind, though he wasn’t sure why. Certainly, Daenerys didn’t keep the lion alive so she could use him for… No, Daenerys wasn’t like that. Nor would she do things to him or make him do things to her as some form of punishment. She didn’t weaponize her sex like some women might. No, that was artistic license indeed – the mummer troop’s way of adding a salacious element to their performance. Hells, it shouldn’t even have registered. Jorah once saw a play about the fall of the Targaryen dynasty that portrayed Robert Baratheon humping Rhaegar Targaryen’s corpse in the shallows of the Trident (the crowd had found it hilarious).

Still, Jorah found he wanted to ask the man why, but he already knew. No matter that Daenerys had of late made a point of using the word ‘justice’ in place of ‘vengeance’ whenever talking about bringing an end to those who had destroyed her family, it didn’t mean it wasn’t both. She might be a queen – and a forgiving queen, at that – but she was still a human. A human who’d grown up without family except for a poor excuse for a brother thanks to men like Robert Baratheon, Eddard Stark, Jon Arryn, Gregor Clegane, Tywin Lannister and countless others.

Jaime Lannister.

“Ah well,” the man concluded dismissively, “not my problem.”

Jorah lifted his brows and nodded, “Right. Glad to be gone from the place for two reasons now. In case war is on the horizon…” He didn’t phrase it as a question, but they both knew it was.

“Who can say? But they all kneeled to dragons before. Likely they’ll do the same, especially since there was little love for the lion. Or so I always heard.”

Jorah hummed, wondering if the man knew more than that but wouldn’t risk talking about it here – during what was meant to look like a casual conversation between old friends – or if he didn’t know because things remained unsettled.

Of course, they’re unsettled. He didn’t mention Dorne supporting Daenerys – the one kingdom she thought she could count on. Even the kingslayer told her as much! And all the others except the Reach and Vale have yet to declare for her? No doubt the North and Riverlands and West worry for Lady Sansa and her daughters, but all the more reason for them to swear fealty, so why the delay? Are they raising their armies? Would they do that during winter? Would they do that knowing the leverage Daenerys has against their houses?

Suddenly the ale sat heavy in his stomach. The conversation wasn’t over, and the worst might be yet to come, he realized. The man might tell Jorah that an example needed to be made. He might tell Jorah to meet him again on the morrow with the corpse of a baby girl. He might tell Jorah to bring him one of Lady Sansa’s hands, or eyes…

His heart thudded at the prospect of being commanded to do the thing he assumed he’d never need to do.

Oh, why hadn’t Daenerys made an example out of Tywin Lannister, after all?! Gods, she ought to have burned him alive for all of King’s Landing to see – let word of his dying screams spread to every kingdom. By keeping him alive, she was only nurturing a sliver of hope in any who were loyal to the man not out of fear but out of respect or family ties. Had not the Starks and Tullys sworn fealty to him, and not just because Sansa was his wife? Now their bloody honor would see them upholding those vows, especially if they didn’t believe Daenerys would hurt or kill an innocent mother or daughter. But if Tywin was dead, those vows would die with him. They’d have no reason to keep their knees stubbornly straight. Likewise the Westerlands, for surely Daenerys would know the value of making Jaime Lannister Warden of the West, given his loyalty to her.

His brain worked feverishly, thinking through words he could put on parchment and send to Daenerys via Varys’ network, of which this man would be the first link in the chain. But if he told Daenerys to make an example of Tywin Lannister, would she? After she already gave the verdict of lifetime imprisonment? Gods no; she’d fear it would make her look flighty or untrustworthy and damnit, she’d be right.

A letter sent directly to the Spider might do, but Jorah never fully trusted the man, and he doubted Varys trusted him. Selmy? Gods no. The man had stood by the Mad King until the bitter end – he’d counsel Daenerys against breaking her word because to him it would be a graver sin than abducting a woman and two children from their home!

Think, think, think!

“Ah, it really was good to see you, old friend,” the man said on a yawn, signaling he was ready to conclude their meeting.

Jorah snapped his eyes to the man, and he knew he must look rabid by the way the man looked back at him with confusion, perhaps even concern.

“Everything alright?” the man asked, forcing his tone into something casual.

Jorah nodded, “Aye. Just… I don’t suppose you’re heading back to the Landing anytime soon?”

The man nodded slowly, “Did you wish for me to deliver a message to someone for you?”

“Yes. If it’s no trouble. Two letters, actually. But…”

“But…?”

“But one isn’t finished. Our conversation made me realize I forgot a rather vital detail.”

For a fleeting moment Jorah saw the real man beneath the veil of joviality, and the real man looked annoyed as he said, “Orala will be waiting up for me.”

“Then meet me here in the morning.”

“We planned to leave in the morning…”

Jorah squeezed his eyes shut, “Please, old friend. It is important, and who knows how long before I’ll have another opportunity to send a letter back home with someone whom I trust to deliver it?” He let the man deduce what he would – that perhaps Jorah was desperate enough that he’d do something foolish, like address a letter to Queen Daenerys Targaryen and pay some King’s Landing-bound merchant boat captain to deliver it on the promise of further payment from the queen.

Slowly the man yielded, “I suppose I could stop here on our way tomorrow. Shall we say an hour after sunrise?”

Jorah let out a loud exhale, “Thank you.”

“It’s no bother. I just worry now, since there seems to be some… urgency… in your request.”

“Nothing like that,” Jorah held up his hands placatingly.

The man nodded, “As you say. Well, I suppose there’s no need for a long goodbye, since I’ll get to see you again before I’m off.”

Jorah forced himself to smile as he rose to bid his friend goodnight.

His eyes scanned over the original letter, and he could feel how pleased he’d been when writing it, the words almost boastful even if he recalled phrasing it in a way intended to sound factual and even a bit apologetic.

This letter would not be factual, though perhaps should also read a bit apologetic, even if Jorah wasn’t. No – that much about the process hadn’t changed. He was not sorry. Not at all. Even though the wound he’d inflict with this lie would be worse than what the truth would’ve done.

Finally, he tossed the original letter into the small stove in his bedchamber, watched it burn to nothing, then sat down and started anew.

Perhaps this was what he should have done the first time. Perhaps he would have, if he’d known the Old Lion still lived. Gods, he felt nauseated to think of what that letter might have led to. Regret for the cocky Kingslayer was all Jorah’d hoped to achieve, but the brash knight might have planned a rescue mission for his father. Might’ve succeeded, too. Might be, after several weeks in the dungeons, Tywin Lannister would be willing to risk his wife and daughters rather than being a good boy and staying behind bars. And that man was not the type of enemy Daenerys needed.

But potential disaster had been averted, and now a better option presented itself.

Jorah began to write.

L,

I won’t waste time on pleasantries that I won’t mean and you won’t believe. Rather, I write you with information that I feel you are entitled to. Information I would want to know, even if the messenger were someone I misliked.

The girl has begun adjusting to her new reality and casting off the illusions that she’d previously forced herself to see to preserve her sanity and conscience. One of those illusions pertained to the guilt of a certain man in regards a certain crime. A certain crime that touched you more closely than anyone.

I know that vengeance has already been delivered, but I thought you should be assured that it was vengeance much deserved and therefore you have no cause for even small regrets. You probably only regret that the vengeance cannot be repeated every day.

That is all I had to say. I’ve written to our mutual friend separately but did not share what I shared with you, not out of duplicity but because this is a personal matter, the information yours to disclose only if you wish.

-B

He sealed the letter with a dab of wax and hid it among his stockings in the bureau, then headed downstairs to where he knew the others were. He had smelled the meal when he entered the house – Sansa was already putting her new spices to use, it would seem. Hopefully there was some left because he was suddenly famished.

A few minutes later he was sitting at the table in the kitchen after ladling stew into a bowl. The table was meant for servants to work at or eat at, but they all dined here since it was more convenient than carrying their dishes to and from the dining room. If they had a servant to tend them, it would be a different story. Jorah didn’t mind letting Crawler or Flea cook and scrub pots, but he’d feel like a right cunt to ever sit at a table, napkin tucked into his collar, while one of them delivered food to his place setting like he was some type of pompous lord. He’d been a lord once, but he never would be again. Daenerys could offer him some keep seized from a family that refused to bend the knee; he wouldn’t take it. It wouldn’t bring him happiness or the love of a good woman or children of his own seed who’d wear his name with pride and someday erase the stain he’d put on it.

“Smells good,” he commented to Sansa, who had her sleeves rolled up and was scrubbing bowls and cooking pots in the sink that hopefully one of the men at least filled with warmed water for her.

She didn’t fully turn to him, but he could tell she’d heard as she called over her shoulder, “I hope you like it.”

He didn’t bother asking what was in it beyond the obvious potatoes and little green and yellow beans. He took a spoonful into his mouth and for a split second it tasted heavenly until it hit a certain part of his tongue and then—

“Hhhhaaaahhhh!!!!”

Eager to get it off his tongue he swallowed it – a mistake. The burn spread like fire down his throat then windpipe and all the way into his gut.

He realized the guards were laughing as he guzzled water right from the ewer that sat on the table. Then Crawler was handing him a small dish of some type of curdled cream and Jorah lapped it up like a dog. The burning sensation finally began to subside, so he lowered himself back into a chair, sweaty and exhausted and yet relieved that the worst was over.

Sansa approached, drying her hands on a linen cloth she had tucked into the belt of her skirt, and took the seat across from Jorah, “I reacted the same way.”

Jorah snorted, “Thanks for the warning.”

Flea looked at his mates and pointed at Jorah, “Jorah Andal go AAAAHHHHH!” he imitated, making the others chuckle; even Red Spider creaked a smile.

“Glad I could entertain you all with my agony,” he turned to face Sansa, “Care to explain?”

She shrugged, “I’ve never cooked before I had Crawler and Flea teach me the basics. Tonight, I tried doing it on my own but used the spices from the market. I let Bronze be my taster, and he kept telling me to add more of the red power. Apparently, they have a much higher tolerance for hot spices than us Andals.”

Bronze Fist couldn’t have understood much of what she said but nodded along anyway, “Lady cook good.”

Jorah slid the bowl toward him, “Then have at it.”

The lad didn’t need to be told twice, scarfing down his stew to the apparent jealousy of his comrades, all except Spider, who watched on with his usual passive interest.

Resigned to fend for himself, he was surprised when Sansa went to the counter and pulled a napkin off a plate, then brought it over to set in front of Jorah, almost as if it was a peace offering. It was only cheese and buttered bread, but there was plenty of it, and he dug in after lifting a hunk of bread to her in salute. Unbidden, an image came to his mind of Sansa, so proud of herself after her foray into the culinary arts, sitting down to eat with the four guards. Each had a bowl of stew and a plate of cheese and buttered bread as a side helping. While they all swallowed down the liquid fire with gusto, Sansa wiped the buttered side of her bread against her tongue, making ladylike squeals of pain until the pain subsided.

“Andalis eat much butter,” Flea scrunched his nose, his eyes focused on Jorah’s plate.

Sansa chuckled, “I suppose we do. Why don’t Essosi people eat a lot of butter?”

Flea circled a finger in the air, “Lady repeat.”

“Oh,” Sansa blushed, “Why do Essosi,” she gestured at all the men but Jorah, “not eat much butter?” she pointed at the butter dish.

“Ohhh…” Flea responded, then looked to Crawler to supply the answer in the common tongue.

“Too hot,” Crawler offered.

Sansa seemed confused initially then nodded, “Oh, the weather is too hot. Of course. You are all from the Southern parts of Essos, where it is hot even during winter. Butter would go rancid too quickly.” When all she got were blank stares, she turned to face Jorah, “Eh…”

He swallowed the current bite and repeated her words in slave Valyrian for the men, but something about it made him uneasy. He didn’t want her to be able to communicate with them for more than the most basic requests.

Luckily, she didn’t continue making him play translator. He ate quietly, listening to the men talk mostly in their native language, though occasionally repeating parts of the conversation in the common tongue as best they could. Sansa didn’t mind only understanding a fraction of what was said; she seemed to understand they weren’t talking about her. At the moment, they were exchanging their favorite foods in different categories, ribbing each other over some of it, like Crawler’s preference for mangoes over kiwis, which was preposterous, in Flea’s opinion.

“Where did you go this evening, Ser Jorah?” the lady asked after a spell.

The question, even posed as innocently as it was, made him freeze.

“Went to an alehouse,” he uttered. It wasn’t a lie, and it wasn’t the first time he’d gone out at night, and she knew it. But she’d never asked before, and it occurred to him she assumed he went to a brothel, which would’ve been a faulty assumption all but one of those nights.

“Yet you came back seeming rather agitated. I thought one went to an alehouse to make merry.”

He almost snorted at her; almost shook his head. She didn’t see him come in to know he was agitated. At most she’d have heard the pace with which he’d ascended the stairs, but he was certain that by the time he came back down he was, indeed, quite merry.

“Wasn’t agitated,” he said, then quickly stuffed a hunk of cheese into his mouth.

“Oh? My mistake…”

This time he did snort, “Yes. Your mistake.”

“Pardon?”

Jorah pushed the plate away roughly, though it was mostly empty by now. The gesture caught the attention of the Unsullied, and he hated that these men were trained to show no fear, because he would’ve liked to make someone at that table flinch. What good was it feeling like the old man – the father of the house – if not for the young ones to have a healthy fear of him? Even the girl didn’t, as if she couldn’t fathom him capable of hurting her, or didn’t particularly care if he would.

“Why don’t you ask what you want to ask, hm?” he turned to face her, “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re my nagging wife, hoping to trip me up with your innocent little questions so you can find out if I was really out with the fellas, or perhaps out with a lass.”

Sansa lifted an eyebrow, “Very well. What I want to ask is whether you heard any news while you drank in the alehouse. News from Westeros.”

He snorted, “You mean news about your dear, sweet husband?”

Her eyes went hard, “Unless you learned that he was acquitted in his trial, and that your queen was reasonable enough to uphold the jury’s verdict, then I can’t imagine there is any news about him. But my mother or sister perhaps? Or my uncles? My men? Tommen? Tyrion?”

The wind left his sails instantly, and he couldn’t remember why it had been there to begin with. Why was he so easily annoyed by her? She wasn’t that bad. She wasn’t hysterical, as she’d once claimed to be. She didn’t complain as he imagined most highborn girls would in her situation. She’d had her days of melancholy, which was to be expected, but since then she’d been trying to acclimate to her new life, even going so far as to do chores around the house and teach the guards her language.

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her everything he knew as of an hour ago. Her mother and sister hadn’t yet bent the knee, nor had her uncle in the Riverlands. The Vale and the Reach had. Her great uncle in the capital had tried to fight for her, as had her men. They probably all loved her and now felt that they’d failed her – if they were alive to feel anything at all.

And her husband hadn’t been acquitted, but he’d certainly not been executed and wouldn’t be executed anytime soon. But that didn’t mean he’d be long for the world, assuming Jorah’s letter got to its intended recipient. And telling her that the man was to be imprisoned for a lifetime would only give her false hope that she could possibly see him again one day – which she would only over Jorah’s dead body – or make her mourn for him again, for the torture that such a sentence must be.

In the end, Jorah said none of it. He didn’t owe it to her. She was a hostage, not his honored bloody guest and certainly not his lady.

When her eyes began to water he realized how she’d interpreted his silence, and he forgot that he owed her nothing, holding up his hands and almost leaping out of his chair as he hastened to say, “No, no! Your mother and sister – they live! I just have not heard any specific news of them. Your uncle in Riverrun lives as well – same thing. And your men? Your uncle, the Blackfish? I assume they live, though I cannot say for certain.” The last bit felt like a lie, but at least he wasn’t offering false hope.

First she’d read between the lines of his silence, now she read between the lines of his manic words, and he watched her eyes go hard again, the tears having never trickled, stuck there as if her skin was cold as ice when he knew it was quite the opposite.

“So my husband’s trial…”

Jorah closed his eyes, sighing deeply, “Lady, please…”

“My little joke didn’t have some hint of truth, then? He wasn’t acquitted or… or shown mercy? Sent to the Wall or… or… or…”

He swallowed thickly, for some reason casting his eyes to the guards, who only stared back at him with the same suspense, and he knew why. They didn’t give a fart whether Tywin Lannister died, but they liked Lady Sansa. As well as men like them could like anyone. They didn’t want to go back to those days when she didn’t leave her room, when they brought her food she never ate because it would mean getting out of the bed where she laid like a discarded doll, a broken thing none of them knew how to put back together because they were all men who only knew tearing things apart. Limbs, bodies, souls, families, armies, cities…

“He wasn’t…” Jorah’s voice came out so weak it was almost inaudible, so he cleared his throat and tried again, “He was not acquitted, no. Nor shown mercy.”

Not a lie, not a lie, not a lie.

She gave a jerky nod and he swore he could feel it shake through him. Then she was up and hastening toward the back door, throwing it open and dashing out. Not to escape, he knew, because there was no escaping what tormented her.

He cursed.

He told himself to wave Flea after her.

He ran.

She was standing, leaning one hand against the stone wall that surrounded the property, not saying a word.

He didn’t know what to say except, “You can hit me if you want. I will not… I won’t stop you and I won’t punish you after.”

She turned, tears no longer frozen.

She advanced.

She hit him, over and over, with the force he’d expect from someone of her slender build and spoiled life but fueled by the rage that extreme sorrow gives birth to.

He took it all. Mostly on the upper arms and chest, a few stinging slaps to his cheeks, a couple shoves that almost knocked him over.

And then she was gripping his collar with her fists, choking him.

No… kissing him. Kissing him with the lust that extreme hatred gives birth to.             

Then shoving him away with the same hands that had pulled him in, the change in force so abrupt that he fell to his backside and she didn’t even grace him with a glance as she stomped back inside.

 

Sansa

She knew it must be closer to dawn than dusk when she descended the stairs on slippered feet. Sleep was pointless to attempt, and she didn’t like lying in bed anymore. Bed had been the place where her husband transformed into a man capable of deep love and affection, soft words and gentle caresses. In bed, he was a man she didn’t have to feel guilty for loving. If only the jury had been able to see the way Tywin had treated her, treated their daughters…

She had thrown off the bedcovers after hours of tossing and turning, her tears long dry and her sorrow leaving a hole in the part of her that used to care about… anything.

I can’t keep living this way, she had felt, when she paced her room and pondered what to do to relieve the latest torment – the confirmation of her husband’s death. It was no longer something that might happen or would happen but something that had happened, irrefutably. Something she could not undo. Something she could not prevent.

She was self-aware enough to realize her life was not awful but for the continued separation from her children. She knew others had it worse. She had seen the skinny, hungry orphans of King’s Landing. She had seen the peasants of the Riverlands who were abused and tortured by the Mountain’s Men. Despite being a hostage, her life was still one of leisure – her few chores being self-imposed. Food and clothing and shelter were provided, and nothing was asked of her in return. There were millions of smallfolk in this world who’d trade their way of life for hers.

And yet it felt like worse torture than living in the capital had been after Joffrey had Father executed. All the pot scrubbing and vegetable chopping and clothes wringing in the world couldn’t alleviate this burning inside her – this desire to do something, even if it would be something she’d regret for the rest of her life. Even if would be something that led to her imminent demise.

She found Red Spider was the guard on duty on the first floor tonight. As the weeks had worn on, they no longer had a man by the front entrance and one by the rear entrance. From his spot sitting in the entryway, he’d hear any sound made by the backdoor.

His eyes lifted to hers, but he wasn’t Flea or Crawler, offering a friendly even if ill-practiced greeting. He wasn’t Bronze Fist, who would nod his head and sometimes blush. He just stared at her, his gaze neither sympathetic nor judging.

She responded in kind; then, without any rush, unbolted the heavy front door and stepped out into the cool night air, knowing he would follow.

There were wooden chairs on the front porch but she opted for the stairs instead, sitting down then pulling the bottom of her robe snuggly around both her legs, which she pressed together to make a place for her arms to rest, and her chin atop them.

It was quiet here, she’d noticed before. They were hardly in the middle of nowhere yet nor were they on the busy street of some city. She wondered if the residential sections of King’s Landing sounded this way in the dead of night, but somehow couldn’t imagine they did.

But she didn’t want silence tonight. She didn’t think she’d ever be able to stand silence any more than she could stand lying in an empty bed.

“Shortly after my daughters were born, I got in a… a disagreement with my husband. He suspected me of colluding to kill Petyr Baelish. Which I did. But that wasn’t even what we fought over. Actually, I’m not even sure it was a fight. More like me treating him coldly… I didn’t want to care about him. I didn’t want to love him. It seemed like a sin. A betrayal. It seemed like I’d be cursing my own soul and the souls of my children if I loved him. I wanted our marriage… no, I needed our marriage to be something that had been forced on me. A sacrifice; something I endured, not something I enjoyed. It would have been so much easier. But I did enjoy it. I enjoyed it since I was a maiden playing the part of whore to keep suspicion off herself and her little sister.”

She paused there, taking a breath and wondering who she was talking to. Red Spider couldn’t understand her. The gods wouldn’t listen or care.

The answer came quite suddenly and quite obviously… She was talking to him. To Tywin. She was going to say all the nonsense he’d have growled at her for uttering, because he deserved to hear it. Wherever he was, he deserved to know that someone saw the sides he normally kept hidden or disguised.

He deserved to know that someone loved those sides.

“Your queen would say he is a monster, because of the things he’s done. The people he’s ended. The way he ended them. But can monsters be generous with their men? Can monsters be kind and loving with their wives? Can monsters…” she sucked in a sob and tilted her head back, ostensibly to count the stars – in reality to reverse the flow of tears, “Can monsters bop little daughters on their knee? Can they risk a stain on their finely-made tunic to burp their daughter against their shoulder? Can they… Can monsters feel love? What makes a man a monster?” she pivoted on her rump to face Red Spider, who had not chosen to sit but hover behind and to her left. “Do you know?” she added, even knowing he could give no answer and hadn’t understood any of her words, anyway.

With a sigh she turned back toward the wall that surrounded the house, “It was not my husband that found the right words to tell me that it was alright to love him. It was one of my guards. Ser Eryk. He said that the world is a better place if men like Tywin Lannister know a woman’s love. And that was true. A woman can temper a man’s worst impulses. That is what he meant. He said it was my duty to love him, just as it was my duty to give him heirs, to help rule our household, to help rule our kingdoms. And I was glad for Ser Eryk’s counsel, because it gave me permission to do what I wanted to do anyway. He’s probably dead now, but I hope he died knowing that… that he did more than guard my back. He offered more than physical protection. But you know something?”

She stood and turned to face Red Spider fully again. His eyes were intently on her, and she wondered what he thought she was talking about. The weather. Tomorrow night’s supper. The mummery they saw. The size and shape of what she left in the privy. She could be talking about anything, and he wouldn’t know.

Talking to someone who couldn’t listen felt surprisingly like being free.

She stood face-to-face with him and watched his eyes dart back and forth between hers.

“After that day… after that night…” she spoke on a whisper, “I stopped thinking of him as a monster, as a bad man. I realize that now. Oh, I’d say the right things if asked. And I know that, objectively, society would call him a villain. But do you know what I think? I think they’re all jealous of him, because he isn’t afraid to do what they won’t dare… His conscience doesn’t suffer; he doesn’t toss and turn all night, wondering if he was too harsh that day, wondering if the choices he made were the right ones. He sleeps like the dead and snores like a lion. Because everything he does, he does for his family, for his house. So what if his reactions are disproportionate to the offenses? He doesn’t bother anyone who isn’t bothering him and his. But when someone does…” Sansa shook her head, feeling her lips curve into a proud smile. “Could I do half the things he’s done? Of course not. But I’m tired of pretending that the things he’s done were wrong. I’m tired of pretending that it didn’t thrill me, tickle me between the legs, to know that he was mine. To know that all those horrible things would be done for me for a change, instead of to me, if only someone was stupid enough to threaten the lion’s mate.”

She took another deep breath, in and out, and turned to gaze at the sky again, “So there you have it. So what if he was a monster? He was my monster. And so what if your queen is a savior, a hero? She killed my husband, tore my family apart. And when I finally get my chance for vengeance, I think I will do as my husband would have. There will be nothing proportionate about what I do to her. If she burned my husband, I’ll burn the whole damned realm, if that’s what it takes to smoke her out. And then I’ll kill her. Whether she deserves it or not. Because she hurt me. Because she hurt my house. Because she hurt my children.”

She turned back to face Red Spider, and briefly lamented the fact that he had no cock. She was in a state, much like a man is after battle.

“Goodnight, Red,” was all she ultimately said.

But as she moved past him his hand caught her wrist.

If she wasn’t in such an odd, dreamlike mood, she might have panicked, thinking that he could understand the common tongue perfectly and was about to tell Jorah that she had murderous designs on their little queen.

But he didn’t. His lips parted, but not a word came forth.

Then he lifted her hand, kissed the knuckles, and made a faint smile before releasing her hand.

She knew it was ridiculous, but she had the strangest feeling that he understood.

Even stranger, that he approved…

Early that morning she lay in bed, clenching the coin in her fist after retrieving it from its new hiding place. She thought back to the long nights at Harrenhal, back when they still slept in the mud. She recalled Arya reciting the names of all the people she wanted to kill. It was mostly comprised of the Harrenhal guards, various Lannisters, Ser Ilyn Payne, and Sandor Clegane – until Sansa made her remove the last one from her list, which Arya begrudgingly agreed to do on a trial basis.

“Barristan Selmy,” Sansa whispered into the gray air of her bedroom in the minutes before sunrise.

She smiled.

“Varys the Spider. Gregor Clegane. Jorah Mormont.”

She pressed her lips to the coin, “Daenerys Targaryen. Jaime Lannister.”

She tucked the coin under her pillow, turned to lie on her side, and closed her heavy eyelids.

“Barristan Selmy. Varys the Spider. Gregor Clegane. Jorah Mormont. Daenerys Targaryen. Jaime Lannister… Barristan Selmy. Varys the Spider. Gregor Clegane. Jorah Mormont. Daenerys Targaryen. Jaime Lannister…”

She opened her eyes and watched the sky lighten to violet for a few moments before closing them again.

“Barristan Selmy. Varys the Spider. Gregor Clegane. Jorah Mormont. Daenerys Targaryen. Jaime Lannister… Barristan Selmy. Varys the Spider. Gregor Clegane. Jorah Mormont. Daenerys Targaryen. Jaime Lannister.”

Valar morghulis.

Notes:

It's intentional that Sansa is floundering between smart and reckless, sweet and punchy. She's still a teenager, meaning not known for consistent emotions even in the best of circumstances, still grieving for her husband, and still depressed and worried about her daughters. I hope her vacillating is believable. It definitely is in my experience. Mania and depression are two sides of the same emotional coin, right?

But I will also admit to absolutely loving the final scene, her monologue about Tywin. Evolved we women may be, but I think a lot of us still can't help but get turned on by a man who can get shit done and go all alpha male, when necessary. Or I just have the emotional maturity of a cavewoman, which is quite the possibility.

Chapter 47: I only want to help

Notes:

A new POV.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Margaery

“Seven blessings to you, milady!” the old woman lisped cheerfully around the sole tooth in her mouth. It was longer than Margaery’s first knuckle, and surprisingly white considering the woman’s age and the fact that all her other teeth had long since rotted away.

Still Margaery smiled and gave the woman a wave as she departed her stall, tucking the small pouch of herbs into her belt. The trick to avoiding suspicion, she had learned as a child, was to not look guilty. Guilty people snuck around, eyes darting everywhere rather than walking with confidence and purpose. Guilty people hid things up sleeves or in hidden pockets of their clothing. Guilty people blushed when doing things they weren’t supposed to be doing. Well, those with a conscience did. She had met people who could lie and cheat and commit bloody high treason all with a placid smile on their face and nary a flicker of fear or guilt. (Most of them were named Tyrell or Hightower or Redwyne, and most of them were women.)

“Good morrow, Lady Margaery!” another woman called as Margaery made her way to her next stop, her four cockless (and perhaps tongueless?) minders never falling out of step.

While waving at her greeter, Margaery glanced left and right to make sure no carriages or wains or mounted men were barreling down the sloshy street. Picking her way around puddles, ice patches, and the occasional pile of dung, Margaery crossed.

“Good morrow, Lynda,” Margaery smiled as she approached the stall where the woman sold knitted socks and hats and scarves. Needless to say, business had been booming in the past months as the populace realized that winter was really here, and that it was in no rush to leave. Late 282 the last winter ended for good. In the Reach it was celebrated by seven days and seven nights of revelry (and, to those who’d been young and unwed at the time – purportedly – debauchery). Nine turns of the moon later, Margaery was born, so clearly the wedded had their fun as well, even if only with a spouse.

“Making the rounds, milady?” Lynda asked cheerfully after bobbing into a well-intended but poorly executed curtsy.

“Aye, I fear I must do all I can before it’s too cold to even step outside,” Margaery made an exaggerated shiver, though the theatrics weren’t necessary. It was bitterly cold, though when she said such a thing to Ser Brynden when she was last allowed to visit the knight, he had snorted and told her she didn’t know cold and – gods willing – never would. She had rolled her eyes, which amused the old man. He’d never liked being placated, Margaery knew from his days as Commander of Sansa’s Queensguard. Poor Loras used to visit with Margaery and grumble about how the Blackfish had yet to tell him about all his kills during Robert’s Rebellion no matter how nicely Loras asked. The man had also called Loras a spring flower, much to her brother’s annoyance. Loras was unaccustomed to being spoken to like a child, not since he’d bested Jaime Lannister at the joust and won a tourney purse at the age of seventeen. Probably not before then, either, except by his much older brothers and barely younger sister.

“Well, there is one good thing ‘bout this weather, other’n it bein’ good for me pocket,” Lynda spoke as she glanced up at the overcast sky.

The queen’s slaves can’t handle it?

“What’s that?” Margaery asked, infusing her tone with skepticism.

“Place don’t stink near so much.”

Margaery gave a ladylike snort, “Too true. I’m sure all the boys who clean out stables are grateful.”

“Nobody with’at job is ever grateful.”

Margaery giggled, “Everything is relative. Except cold, to a lass from Highgarden.” Margaery pointed her chin toward the rack where an assortment of scarves hung, “The blue and green is quite lovely.”

Lynda turned to face the scarf in question, “Milady is too kind.”

“Or you’re too modest. I’m afraid we’ll never know.”

Lynda made an amused sound then lifted the scarf off the rack, untangling it from its peers, “Made from the finest yarn money can buy, I tell it true.”

“I believe it. How much?”

Lynda named her price and Margaery made a show of haggling, as was expected. No one would see that she actually gave the full asking price to Lynda.

Transaction complete, Margaery opted to wrap the scarf around her neck rather than carry it – she hadn’t been exaggerating when she said it was nearly too cold for her to be outdoors. While she took care to tuck it fashionably into the front of her coat and bring her hair over top without mussing it, she asked Lynda for any news or gossip.

Lynda gave a half-hearted shrug, “Winter fever startin’ already. We been spoiled by summer too long, our bodies forgot what to do in the cold. The healers are makin’ good coin, and I hear the orphanages are damn near overrun.”

Margaery hummed, “I have heard the same. I just came from one of the shelters, as a matter of fact. I didn’t go inside in case any of it was catching, but I dropped off some satchels of tea and a few gold coins. Our queen is generous to her people.”

“Indeed. I seen she has yer father’s men handin’ out bread near the Keep’s gates. Some days she even stands up on the ramparts and waves at the people who come.”

Margaery smiled wistfully, “Isn’t it lovely of her? It would have been dreadful if we had to suffer another Cersei Lannister. Mother forgive me for speaking ill of the dead, but…”

Lynda snorted, “The Mother’ll be right there withya, milady. That one cared for naught but herself. Probably didn’t even love dem bastards. No more’n a cat loves her kittens.”

Margaery forced herself not to wince. Tommen was one of those bastards, and he was such a sweet and good boy. Still, a bastard was a bastard, so she would say nothing scathing to Lynda.

“Well, as I said – at least we have a good queen again. Generous with her people, she is, and to think - some have the audacity to slander her!” Margaery shook her head in disapproval.

“Oh?” Lynda lifted a dark eyebrow.

Margaery continued to shake her head as if in severe disappointment, “They say the extreme cold is her fault. The old gods’ way of punishing her and her summer army for… Well, I still can’t speak of it,” Margaery lowered her voice, “I love my queen, but I also loved the last one. To think that…” she shook her head again, “Never mind me. The cold can bring melancholy, or so the maesters say.”

“What, Lady Marg’ry? What were you gonta say?” Lynda implored.

Margaery cast her gaze furtively to the vendor who set his stall to Lynda’s right. He was haggling with a customer but clearly had one ear on their conversation, all while her minders stayed a proper six paces behind her, there to prevent harm coming to her, or blatant acts of treason on her part. The fools (and the ones who gave them their commands) didn’t realize that Margaery needn’t meet with some lord with a hundred men-at-arms at his command. There was power in the people – they knew this in Highgarden, where the Tyrells were loved but never took it for granted. A lowly steward had made House Tyrell the wardens of the Reach, thus – at least in theory – a lowly steward could unmake them, if incentivized to do so.

“Well,” Margaery made her voice sound whispery without actually lowering its volume, “They fear it means the new queen didn’t keep her word. That, perhaps, her hostages are not safe at all. The princesses, at least, for they have a claim to the throne. I know it’s nonsense, but people are superstitious and eager to point blame, even for occurrences as uncontrollable as the weather. Our poor queen doesn’t deserve to be doubted. Frankly, I think it’s the Kingslayer’s fault.”

Lynda spat on the ground, “Weren’t enough to kill ‘is king and lay ‘is sister; the bugger had to turn on his own father. I tell ya one thing: if the ol’ lion was still in charge—”

Margaery gasped, “You mustn’t say such things! I know you are loyal to the queen, but if her spies so much as hear you admit that the former king was capable… well, I fear what they’d do,” Margaery made another exaggerated shiver.

“Aye, milady. I’ll mind my tongue. Got no love for the lion, ya know. Just believe in givin’ credit where it’s due. But why’d ya say the Kingslayer’s the one t’blame for the slander against the queen?”

Margaery took a steadying breath, “Some of my father’s men take shifts in the prison tower. Never without the queen’s men, too, but… Well, this guard I know from childhood told me he overheard the Kingslayer taunting the Blackfish, saying that… that…” she pursed her lips together tightly, forced tears to her eyes, just like Grandmother taught her ages ago, “that those sweet girls are… gone. And that their mother was sold to some brothel-owner. That the queen wanted her enemy to know what it is like to be a slave instead of a spoiled lady.”

Lynda made the sign of the Seven over her chest, “Gods above…”

“Can you believe anyone would think that about our queen? The evidence of her mercy is right here in the freed men who now fight for her instead of… well, whoever they were fighting for before.”

Lynda snorted, “Fightin’s fightin’, some’d say.”

Margery made a noise of admonishment, “Certainly you understand the difference between doing a thing because a man with a whip is standing over you versus doing a thing because—”

“A woman with a dragon is standin’ over ya?”

Margaery widened her eyes in scandal, “Lynda! Our good queen would never use her dragon to intimidate anyone or force them into doing her bidding!” Unless it was Ser Brynden Tully… and all of court.

“Aye,” Lynda held up a hand, “I know it, milady; ‘pologies. Was riled up thinkin’ a’those poor princesses. I met ‘em once, remember?”

Margaery forced her expression to soften, “I do. The former queen and I had come shopping and brought the girls along. Gods, but the king sent half the castle garrison as escort, but he did love his girls so… But I do seem to recall a pair of tiny caps being presented to her grace.”

Lynda smiled proudly, “What good babes dey was. And what a fine lady, too.”

Margaery nodded wistfully, then rubbed her hands over her arms, “Indeed. Well, I must be getting back. The sun sets so early these days.” On a laugh, she added, “This better not be some Northern curse! I heard a Northerner can hold a grudge for decades!”

Lynda gave an amused snort, “I heard ‘em Starks ruled for almost ten thousand years. A few decades ain’t nothin’ for them!”

Margaery rolled her eyes but kept the smile on her face, “Enough gossip. Get back to work, you!”

Lynda gave another curtsy, “Yes, mistress!”

By the time they’d retrieved their horses from the town stables and made it back to the Maidenvault, Margaery’s nose and toes were numb. Her minders left her at the main entrance, knowing there were others stationed inside on each landing. She headed for the stairway, finding a maid coming down with a basket of linens.

“Alma, I’d like to have a bath this evening after supper. If it isn’t too much trouble.”

The maid dipped into a half-curtsy right there on the steps, “Of course, Lady Margaery.”

Margaery continued her journey up to the third floor, where some of the most valuable “guests” were housed. Lord Tyrion’s chambers were there, but the lord himself was still away in the West. Tommen was there. Two of Margaery’s cousins. Lord Lorch. Ser Andre. Ser Colton Vance, that lovely man. It was on the fourth floor where Shireen Baratheon slept. Also up there were Loras and another of their cousins, Dickon Tarly, Ser Rickard Ashwood, and Ser Perceval.

The lower floors held the less valuable nobles scattered in with some more of the former queensguard and kingsguard who’d refused to swear their allegiance to Daenerys but hadn’t otherwise done anything to earn themselves a stay in the prison tower or the dungeons, unlike brave Sers Brynden and Eryk.

The entire fifth floor held her father’s apartments – the dragon queen’s way of honoring her Master of Coin while keeping him within the walls of the Red Keep where her slave soldiers could keep an eye on him.

It was laughable, really, that they continued the pretense. Mace Tyrell had more men in the city than Daenerys Targaryen. The thing preventing him from attempting a coup wasn’t the presence of some petite, spear-wielding men. No – that honor went entirely to that black beast that flew overhead just often enough to make people piss themselves, going off to hunt in the Kingswood or at sea (and hopefully nowhere else) then returning to its lair in the dilapidated dragon pit. Well, it was dilapidated for now, but not for long. The queen insisted the symbol of her people’s greatness be returned to its former glory. What better way to remind people that a Targaryen once again sat the throne of a thousand swords than by having a grand, gigantic building greeting every newcomer from high atop Rhaenys’ Hill? And with plenty from the Riverlands pouring into the city every week, there was plenty of cheap labor.

But Margaery thought perhaps symbolism had nothing to do with it. Daenerys Targaryen must have heard the same rumors Margaery had, coming over on trade ships from the Free Cities – that her other two dragons were flying about, occasionally terrorizing a village but more often being seen flying above some hill or plain, searching for an easy meal. The most unbelievable rumor said one of the dragons had even been so close as the Stepstones before returning to the continent that was, as far as anyone knew, the birthplace of dragons. Regardless, Margaery would bet her favorite necklace that the queen hoped the dragons would come to her if only they had pleasant enough accommodations. Hence, the ongoing repairs to the dragon pit.

That big black dragon and the ambiguous threat its siblings posed kept Mace Tyrell loyal to the dragon queen. At least, as loyal as a Tyrell ever was to anybody other than another Tyrell. But he also knew that Margaery and Loras would never forgive him if he did something that might prompt the dragon queen to start killing off her hostages. And even if they could protect all the hostages that were here in the Red Keep, there were three that were out of their reach. For now, and hopefully not forever.

She arrived at Tommen’s door and knocked, then entered upon hearing him call back.

“Good afternoon, Tom. Look what I found at the market,” she handed him one of the linen pouches that had been tucked into her belt.

Tommen loosened the string and frowned into the small pouch, “Um… Basil?”

She giggled, but before she could explain, Ser Pounce had hopped up onto Tommen’s lap and was aggressively rubbing his head against the pouch, then pawing as if to knock it out of his master’s hand.

“They call it ‘catnip’. I recall Willas used it to get the cats to come to him and to be in a pleasant enough mood that he could carry them off to the barn where he did his breeding.”

“He bred cats, too? Whyever for?” Tommen scrunched his face in confusion.

“For the same reason he bred dogs and birds and rabbits: to try to make the best specimens possible by mating the healthiest or smartest or best-looking with each other.”

Tommen flushed, and Margaery realized her blunder. How could Tommen hear her talk about breeding animals without thinking about what everyone knew: the dangers of inbreeding, such as brother to sister.

“Anyway,” she continued, ignoring his defeated look, “It’s inexpensive and it won’t harm Ser Pounce at all. Can I show you?”

At Tommen’s nod she took the pouch and sprinkled a bit on the rug in front of the hearth. Ser Pounce immediately came over and flopped down, wiggling his entire body against the place where she’d sprinkled the herb. Tommen chuckled and joined her in sitting on the ground, wiggling his fingers which Ser Pounce, wide-eyed, swatted at playfully.

Another chuckle came from Tommen’s lips and Margaery wondered if there was a better sound in the world, after moons of his melancholy. The poor child had been devastated to learn that all the nasty rumors about his uncle and mother were true. Ser Jaime had tried to explain it to Tommen, to defend his sordid relationship with his twin, but Tommen had shown uncharacteristic bravado. Or so he told Margaery, and she knew the boy wasn’t a fibber. He had asked his uncle-father whether he realized that what he was doing was high treason and line-theft, and that if they’d been caught, King Robert would’ve taken their heads, and possibly also Tommen’s head along with Myrcella’s and Joffrey’s. Ser Jaime had insisted he wouldn’t have let that happen. Tommen had given his uncle-father a bitter laugh and asked how the Kingslayer would stop it when it would be him against the rest of the Kingsguard, not to mention Robert Baratheon and his strapping brothers and hundreds of other men who were in the city and eternally loyal to the Stag.

Ser Jaime had offered apologies and platitudes, but Tommen wanted none of it, instead switching the conversation to the freshest of the Kingslayer’s offenses: turning on his own father, goodmother, and half-sisters. Tommen loved the princesses in particular, Margaery knew. It made him feel important to be the elder for a change, the protector, and Margaery recalled seeing Tommen’s chest swell whenever Sansa had referred to him as ‘uncle Tommen’ to the girls, even if he wasn’t their uncle.

In an even less characteristic act, Tommen had quite wittily (and scathingly) remarked that Jaime apparently knew nothing of being a good brother, since all he ever did was fuck his sisters, literally or figuratively.

That had been enough for Ser Jaime, but the man still came around and Tommen wasn’t built to maintain anger over long stretches – unlike those stubborn Northerners that “remembered” everything, Tommen was quick to forgive, or to at least ignore offenses. Jaime being his only blood in the capital at present, other than an imprisoned grandfather who Tommen had not yet been given leave to visit, meant he had few options.

Margaery was doing all she could for Tommen and also for Shireen. Neither had grown up with an abundance of affection, so they were better prepared to live as veritable hostages than one might guess by looking at them, but still they were young people with no power, no autonomy, and no nearby family. Jaime had said that, after winter, Tommen would be permitted to move to Casterly Rock where he’d live with his great-aunts Genna and Dorna and his second-cousins Willem and Janei and Joy. Tommen hardly knew those people, but he still longed for them in a way that made Margaery’s heart ache on his behalf.

She took a breath and pushed herself up to standing, “I need to say a few more hello’s before I meet with my father for supper. Why don’t you eat with Megga tonight, hm? Give her my regards?”

Tommen blushed furiously and Margaery had to stifle a giggle. She’d twice now walked into Megga’s chambers to find her younger cousin using Tommen as a chair, and she was sure it was a very regular occurrence. There was naught to do and there was virtually no supervision here in the Maidenvault other than eunuch soldiers who couldn’t care less who was fucking whom, so long as none of them were plotting treason.

With a kiss to Tommen’s pimpled forehead, she swept out of the room and down the hall to the smaller quarters that hostages of lower birth or value occupied. She tapped lightly on the door, “It’s me.”

She heard the eagerness in his strides as he crossed the room, and she forced her smile to straighten so that she wouldn’t look like a lovesick fool. Which she wasn’t. Though she was, perhaps, a lust-struck fool.

He opened the door and peered both ways down the corridor as was his habit, then she was pulled in so fast she peeped in surprise. The door was shut and she was pressed against it, his hands on her waist, hers on his forearms.

“Happy to see me?” she asked wickedly.

Colton tilted his head down, “Actually I was expecting Ser Rickard, but I suppose you’ll do.”

She laughed and swatted at his chest which was just as annoyingly firm and muscular as his forearms. And his biceps. And his shoulders. And his arse, which was a damned work of art, the kind Grandmother would brazenly stare at before lamenting, “Oh, to be fifty years younger…”

“Funny,” Margaery replied, “I thought these were Ser Rickard’s chambers, but I supposed you’ll do…”

Colton rolled his eyes, “Ha, ha. Where’ve you been all day?”

Margaery shrugged and extricated herself from his gentle hold, heading to the sideboard to pour herself some of the watered wine that the well-behaved guests were permitted, “I was entertaining my many lovers, of course.”

“Hmm… All at once or one at a time?”

“All at once. Who says harems are only for men?”

Colton chuckled and approached her, taking the goblet and sipping before handing it back, “I’m insulted that I wasn’t included.”

“An oversight on my part,” she placed the goblet down and draped her wrists over his shoulders, “It shan’t happen again. If it does, I will submit myself for your punishment.”

“Then I sincerely hope it does happen again,” he smiled roguishly.

Margaery jerked forward and bit the tip of his chin, “Evil man. I have half a mind to punish you.”

“Sounds horrible,” he pretended to gasp, “I don’t think I could bear it if you bent me over your pretty little lap, or – even worse – tied me to the bed.”

She couldn’t help but laugh even as she swatted him again, “Well I suggest while you’re waiting for me tonight you do some repenting. Confess your sins, Ser, and may the Father judge you justly.”

All my sins? Yeesh… that might take more than one evening.”

She rolled her eyes and pushed herself away, moving to take another sip of his wine then twirling out of his reach when he went to grab it.

“I thought your family pissed wine, so why are you drinking all of mine?” Colton huffed.

“It’s my grandmother’s family that pisses wine, and she’s certainly not rushing the shipments Willas sends to the capital.”

Colton nodded, “Something tells me the escort probably drinks half of their haul…”

Margaery smiled, “I have no idea what you mean. Now I’m off to sup with Papa. Come to my room at midnight.”

“That’s past my bedtime.”

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

Colton came close to her again, taking the wine and bringing it to his lips before repeating the gesture with her right hand, “I suppose I can fit you into my schedule.”

“How generous, seeing as I can never fit all of you.

Colton snorted but she could see the proud grin on his face. She’d always known how to stroke a man’s pride and wasn’t ashamed to admit she’d used it to gain supporters who found reward enough in her smiles and praise – unlike Cersei Lannister, she’d never resorted to selling her cunt. Her family had, of course, though without knowing that Renly had no interest in her honeysuckle as he much preferred Loras’ rosebud. Still, Margaery had been bred for that – to marry to further her family’s position. In another lifetime, she might’ve been Robb Stark’s wife, moving to Winterfell at the tender young age of sixteen, gaining sisters in Sansa and Arya and a mentor in Catelyn. Or she might’ve welcomed Sansa into Highgarden as a sister, wed to Willas or Loras, while Margaery stayed there to help run things because it was preferable to living in Horn Hill with Samwell Tarly as her husband, which was but one of the many considerations for her before the chubby boy decided the Night’s Watch was his destiny and Stannis cried ‘bastard’ loud enough for the whole realm to hear.

Suffice to say, Margaery could make a man her pet without actually petting him, but she needn’t use lies on Ser Colton. She’d taken to calling him ‘colt’ since the first time they’d fooled around, when she realized that taking all his length into her mouth or cunt was quite literally impossible. She hadn’t been a maiden the first time he laid her, but it damned sure felt like it – more than it had when she lost her virginity to that handsome knight from Goldengrove. No one would expect a widow to be a maiden, so it had seemed a low-risk proposition. Grandmama and Father had been talking of matching her with the bastard king and Margaery had feared giving the cretin her maiden’s gift. Besides, there wasn’t much of a “gift” to it, given she’d been in the saddle since the age of five, when Willas would let her ride in his lap in his special saddle which compensated for the near uselessness of his left leg. No, she hadn’t bled when the newly knighted Ser Moryck took her virginity, nor the time Merry Crane frigged her senseless to teach her about the place on the inside of her tunnel that felt almost as good as her pearl when rubbed hard and fast. But she had bled when Ser Colt-cock took her for the first time. Gods, she had been the one to seduce him, lonely and sex deprived as she was, and yet she was the one crying ‘uncle’. But the walls of her tunnel had since adjusted to accommodate his girth, even if there was no elongating it to accommodate his length.

Colton’s cocky smile eventually faded to something like fondness, “You fit enough, m’lady. More than I’d expect given your height.”

She went to swat him again but this time he caught it, then brought her four fingers to his lips for a kiss, “Go on then, Margie. Enjoy supper with your Pa. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

She gave him a radiant smile that wasn’t even remotely feigned and moved up and on to Loras’ room, letting herself in – as always – and immediately regretting it. “Gods!” she spun around to stare at the door she’d just walked through, “Why didn’t you bar your door?!” she squeaked at her brother while trying to blink away the afterimage of him lying on his stomach, grimacing and sweaty, with Ser Perceval’s chest to his back, the older knight’s naked arse rising up then slamming down.

“Why didn’t you knock?!” Loras hissed back, then she heard a sound she didn’t want to analyze and then the rustling of clothing.

“Well I will from now on, you can be damned sure!”

Loras huffed, “You can turn around now.”

Slowly, eyes squinted, she turned. Loras was sitting on the bed with the sheets over his legs and groin. Ser Perceval had risen and got his breeches on but otherwise wasn’t hastening to dress, which Margaery took as a sign that they wanted her to leave quickly so they could finish.

“I just came to remind you that we’re supping with father in two hours. I suggest you finish this up quickly,” she gestured lazily at both men, “So you have time for a bath.”

Loras rolled his eyes, “Yes, Mother.”

Margaery gave him an overblown sigh, “Well, when you act like a teenager…”

Loras snorted and turned to face his companion, “There’s nothing juvenile about Cev, here…” Loras reached out toward his paramour.

Before his hand could reach its destination, Margaery hurried to and through the door, yanking it closed behind her and leaning against it to catch her breath. Ser Perceval had a common face, neither homely nor handsome, but by the way the man’s abdominals looked fit to serve as a washboard, she couldn’t fault her brother’s taste.

She still had time to kill before supper and it wouldn’t take her long to freshen up for a private family meal, so she decided to stop in and say hello to Shireen. Like Tommen, Margaery felt like something of a parental figure to the girl; even if Shireen was old enough to nearly be a contemporary, she was decidedly less worldly than Margaery and all her Tyrell cousins.

She did not let herself into Shireen’s room and was glad she didn’t as Shireen’s response to her knocking was many heartbeats delayed. Margaery finally let herself in and found Dickon Tarly sitting with a rather conspicuous pillow on his lap while Shireen stood looking out the window, far enough from Dickon to make it look like nothing had been going on, but close enough that she didn’t look like a hostess who’d been neglecting her teatime guest.

Margaery lifted her right brow at Dickon, who visibly wilted. The young man had shown real mettle, standing up to the dragon queen even after his father’s execution, but it was clear that he had three older sisters and was used to obeying them or facing the consequences. He averted his gaze, finding something quite fascinating in the green brocade window drapes.

“Gods, there was less action in the rabbit enclosure at Highgarden,” Margaery eventually groaned, letting her intimidating mien fracture.

“Whatever do you mean?” Shireen asked too innocently.

Margaery rolled her eyes, “Do you think I was born yesterday? I know you two were just up to something. I am going to assume it was just kissing, because I’d hate to find out that Lord Tarly has dishonored a young lady – a guest of her grace. I’d hate to have to tell the queen such news, not to mention my father, your liege lord.”

Dickon nodded rapidly, “I wouldn’t—”

Margaery held up a hand, “You would, because all boys your age would…” she turned to face Shireen, “and most girls your age, too. All I can say is have your fun without risking anyone’s virtue. There are plenty of ways to do so.”

“There are?” Shireen asked, then blushed crimson, some color even showing through the scarred, gray-tinged skin on her left cheek, “I mean… Thank you, Lady Margaery, but that won’t be necessary. Dick- Lord Tarly and I are merely friends and cyvasse partners.”

Dickon nodded eagerly. Margaery could only roll her eyes, having done so enough times in the past half hour to give herself a headache.

“Just talk to Megga, should you be curious as to the ways I mentioned.”

Shireen nodded, Dickon nodded, and Margaery rolled her eyes yet again before letting herself out.

It was an intimate affair as it was at least two nights out of every seven: just Mace, Loras, and Margaery in Mace’s private dining chamber.

Father had never been one for subterfuge, but he was still a Tyrell which meant saying things without actually saying them was second nature to him. Thus, the three Tyrells had hours-long conversations in which none of them voiced their real opinions but all of them gleaned what those opinions were.

“…It’s despicable, how eager some are to gossip, even if they know there isn’t a lick of truth to their words. But I suppose it’s the only sport for smallfolk,” Margaery sighed, concluding her recounting of all the things she’d heard while shopping in the city today, such as that many blamed the dragon queen’s presence in Westeros for the unusually bitter winter that was having King’s Landing see temperatures normally seen no further south than Seagard. Even the Tyrells’ far southerly home, per Willas, had experienced hard frosts even if not snowfalls. Even some cold-weather crops had been lost to shock and livestock numbers were dwindling as the animal population had gone through many consecutive generations without experiencing such cold. Like the Unsullied soldiers who largely originated from Dothrak, Qarth, Lys, and Lhazar, some livestock were also prone to cold-related illnesses, while even the healthy ones were less inclined to mate and the females less inclined to ripen – also per Margaery’s most academically-inclined brother.

Father shook his head, much like Margaery had done today when Lynda made disparaging remarks about Queen Daenerys, “Tis a shame indeed. Our good queen is doing all she can to keep the people fed and sheltered. And she’s listening to those of us who’ve lived through a winter or two.”

Loras gave Father a gasp, “And here I thought you were a spring chicken!”

Father snorted, “You think you’re smart, do ya?”

Margaery sighed indulgently, “Speaking of the winter… Is it true that the queen’s men are faring poorly?”

Mace nodded, “Aye. Winter fever. The grippe. Their constitutions are not well-suited to Westerosi climes and foods.”

Margaery nodded, curving her lips into a frown, “I shall offer my services to her grace. Perhaps I could cheer the sickly with song? Or I can help distribute soup and bread to the poor? I understand it’s straining the city’s resources – the influx of not just Queen Daenerys’ men but also all those needy arriving from the Riverlands.”

Father nodded, “Aye, but be careful you don’t get too close, sweetheart. The Grand Maester fears some of it is catching – namely whatever exotic maladies the Unsullied brought from their home countries.”

He would, Lannister lackey that he is.

Margaery nodded, “I understand. Though I suppose there is a silver lining to be found – even if the principal house of the Riverlands hasn’t declared fealty yet, many of their people have.”

“Moving to the city so they don’t starve? Aye, what a display of fealty that is,” Loras harrumphed. It always went this way when the three Tyrells were together. Loras played the cynical former Queensguard, still wary of the woman who banished his charges, and not afraid of sharing his opinion of her. Margaery was the guileless lady who tended to see the good in everyone – including Daenerys Targaryen and the strange men she brought to Westeros – and just wanted to see a peaceful and prosperous realm from the smallfolk up to royalty. Father was the loyal Master of Coin, a true supporter of House Targaryen but comfortable enough in his position to occasionally criticize the queen’s rulings, as was his right and duty as one of her advisors. Hopefully it was more believable than if all three of them sat around talking about the queen as if her smiles could illuminate a mine and her farts smelled like lilac petals. Let any mice in the walls report back to the queen that the Tyrell family were not acting like people with something to hide.

Which, in fairness, they didn’t, but Margaery did. The rumors she started beyond the walls of the Red Keep, for instance. Her passing messages from Lord Tywin to Lord Stannis, with Tyrion as another waypoint. Her making sure the morale of her fellow hostages didn’t drop. Her making sure the former queen was mentioned enough times that she wouldn’t be forgotten, though Margaery was smart enough to do so in a way that didn’t insult the current queen.

Her next order of business was to convince Queen Daenerys to let Tommen visit his grandfather. Despite being on friendly terms with Sansa, Margaery had never warmed to the former king, all austere and forever wearing a look of utter condescension, as if it was beneath him to occupy the same space as any other human in the realm. The exception, of course, was his wife. The old lion had certainly done more than occupy her space, and Margaery understood why. There was something about Sansa Stark that drew people in. Everyone had wanted to befriend her, protect her, impress her, or fuck her.

So, despite not feeling any kinship toward the man, for the love she bore for Sansa, Margaery would try to give him a reason to keep his spirits up. Tommen was the perfect cover – Queen Daenerys was not so cold-hearted that she’d deny a grandson the right to see his grandsire. Margaery would offer to act as escort to ensure no conspiracies were plotted between the lion and the cub, and to serve as emotional support for sensitive young Tommen. Of course, she’d let Tywin and Tommen have their time to visit, but she’d also see if there was anything she could do for the man.

Maybe she just wanted to tell him that she admired him. She assumed he’d brush it off, maybe even balk at her for being some head-in-the-clouds romantic, but he deserved to know that someone saw what he’d done, and thought it spoke volumes for who he was beneath the varnish of the fearsome Lord of Casterly Rock.

Maybe she wanted to ask what Sansa had done to secure such devotion, because Margaery wanted a man who’d love her that well – who’d give up a crown for her, who’d give up his life for her. To be fair, if Margaery found that man, she’d do the same for him, no matter if men were supposed to be the saviors and women the damsels in need of saving.

“The people shouldn’t suffer because their liege is selective in giving his pledge,” Loras spoke sharply, and Margaery realized she’d missed part of the conversation, but it wasn’t a topic she was in the dark about, thankfully. Edmure Tully had refused to express his fealty either in person or in writing, so Daenerys had stopped the shipments of provisions to the Riverlands that had been happening since early in Tywin Lannister’s reign. A condition of the Trident and North to accept Tywin as their king had been reparations to compensate for what Gregor Clegane and his men had wrought to their ordinarily bountiful lands: fire and despair.

“Well, you’re not very subtle, are you boy? I suppose you think I, too, should be more selective? I suppose you think your head, or your sister’s, or mine, would be a small price to pay to preserve our house’s pride?”

“Pride?” Loras snorted, “There is much our family has in abundance: roses, grain, wine, cousins, knights... But when have we ever had pride? Was it during my great-great-great-great-grandfather’s day, when he pissed himself and surrendered the castle to the conqueror while our neighbors to the south were proving that human ingenuity and bravery can beat even the largest beast? Or was it when you tried to starve the child lords out of Storm’s End because their older brother didn’t roll over when the dragons stole his bride and heinously butchered his best friend’s father and brother before calling for his own head? Or was it—”

“Enough!” Father growled, “You’ve sung this song enough times that I know it by heart. Be thankful you’re alive to think about all the world’s inequities, and that you have family around you to listen to your rants. It isn’t so for those who go against the current regime – any regime. Ask Ned Stark. Oh, wait, you can’t. House Tyrell is intact. We’ve lost not a single member, nor so much as a penny of our wealth. And we broke no vows to get where we are – the most powerful house in the realm. King Aerys’ death ended our allegiance to him. Robert’s death ended our allegiance to him. Renly’s death ended our allegiance to him. Tywin’s abdication ended our allegiance to him. We’re not turncloaks, Loras.”

Loras shook his head bitterly, “If we’re so powerful, then why isn’t a Tyrell on the throne?”

Father snorted, “When you’re at the top, the only way to go is down.”

“Have you cautioned our good queen about this law of nature?”

“As a matter of fact, I have. I also stressed the value of having allies – it’s the only way a person can maintain such a precarious position without falling. Or being pushed.”

Loras let out a long sigh but said no more. It was a debate that Loras and Father had too often these days. Personal honor versus familial duty. The smart choices versus the brave ones. Having versus earning. Entitled versus worthy.

Margaery took the silence as opportunity to refill all their wine cups, “Are you two done bickering?”

Father gave a roll of his brown eyes while Loras flicked a hand.

“Good,” Margaery picked up her fork, but mainly as a prop, “I admit I am surprised by the queen’s stance on the Riverlands. She has so far seemed so very generous, that I’m surprised she’d do anything that might hurt the people who have the greatest need and the fewest resources.”

Father shrugged one shoulder, “Her grace does not feel beholden to uphold her predecessor’s promises. And since said promise was given in exchange for fealty, she rightly states that only fealty can cause her to continue sending aid north of the Crownlands.”

“Oh, I know it’s all quite fair, and a perfect example of the sort of difficult decisions the ruling class must make all the time, I’m just surprised. She seems so soft-hearted.”

Loras snorted, “Soft-hearted? You haven’t heard much about her rise to power, have you, sister?”

Margaery frowned, “Whatever do you mean? I’ve heard all about how she abolished slavery in much of southern Essos. Is that not proof that she has a good heart?”

Loras leaned forward, grinning slightly, “When our queen was marching her army toward Meereen, the locals crucified something like a hundred-and-sixty slave children to mark the mileposts.”

Margaery felt like she’d be sick, “Crucified?” She had only a vague understanding of what that was. From the allusions to the depravity of it, she had never wanted to learn about it, she only knew it was a slow and awful way to die.

“Loras, this isn’t supper conversation,” Father admonished.

Her brother shrugged one shoulder, “Do you want to know what our good queen is capable of?”

Margaery nodded shakily.

“Loras—” Father tried again, but Margaery held up a hand.

Loras’ eyes went from Father back to her, “I’ll spare you the grizzliest details, but the broad strokes are: the victim is nailed to a post or a wooden cross—”

“Nailed?”

Loras nodded, “Nails hammered through their wrists and ankles.”

“Gods,” Margaery brought a hand to her mouth, feeling she might retch.

“Loras, that’s enough!”

Loras held up his hands, “I suppose that’s all there is to it, anyway. Nothing more to tell, other than that it can take many days for the person to die, especially since they’re often given water even if nothing else.”

“Enough, I said!” Father smacked a hand on the table.

Loras ignored him, “So after our queen took the city, she had one hundred and sixty of the Great Masters crucified.”

Margaery shook her head, “She wouldn’t. Even if every one of them was a devious, cruel man.”

“I’m sure many of them were. But every one? How long would it take you to round up one hundred and sixty men that devious, that cruel, as to deserve such a death?”

“No time at all, because I’d never do it!” Margaery blurted out, then knew she had to backtrack, “But I’m not a queen. A person in power cannot look weak. Rather, they must strike fear in the hearts of their enemies.”

“I’d say she accomplished that mission, and then some, and yet still they didn’t kneel to her, did they?” at that, Loras flicked his eyes to their father.

Margaery took a deep breath and turned to face their father as well, “Enough of that. Tell me, Father, has Sunspear sent word yet? Will they send a delegate?”

He responded with a tired shake of the head. It was no surprise to Margaery. The Martells and Dorne as a whole had not yet appeared in court, and it was clear to everyone that they didn’t plan to kneel to Daenerys Targaryen any more than they’d kneeled to Tywin Lannister. The difference being, Tywin Lannister hadn’t explicitly asked them to kneel. He was too smart for that. As long as he didn’t ask, Dorne technically could be considered implicitly loyal to the Crown. They paid their taxes, conducted trade with the other kingdoms, but otherwise kept their own ways and the Crown let them. But to ask (or worse yet, demand) they bend the knee only illuminated the fact that their implicit loyalty was no loyalty at all. Was Dorne raising an army to march on the capital? No. But the queen would have a decision to make soon: allow Dorne to maintain what looked and smelled like independence? Or take military action against the kingdom that not even Balerion the Black Dread, Meraxes, and Vhagar had brought to heel? Her choices were to look soft or look foolhardy, and Margaery didn’t envy the position the young queen found herself in; even if Margaery felt no allegiance to her, nor did she hate her.

And that was the crux of it, really. So far as Margaery knew, Daenerys Targaryen was no Aerys the Mad. Nor was she even a Joffrey or Robert Baratheon. When she got the hang of Westerosi politics and governance, she’d probably be a perfectly capable queen. She might even go down as something of a revolutionary, or at the very least a progressive.

But it didn’t sit right with Margaery, the way Daenerys had come into her crown. No – more fundamentally, it was that she even wanted the crown after her other experiences. Daenerys tried and failed to rule the Slave Cities of Essos. No matter that it was a lost cause for anyone to think they could eradicate an industry as old and lucrative as slavery in one lifetime, much less a handful of years, it was still an attempt and a failure. And yet the woman thought somehow that failure qualified her to rule all of Westeros, a land and people she didn’t know.

And the way she took the crown? Margaery would admit it was clever. She even admired Daenerys’ ingenuity and, well, balls. But Sansa hadn’t just been Margaery’s queen, she’d been her friend. Her daughters had felt like Margaery’s little nieces. And now they were gone to who knows where. Or maybe the rumor she’d started today was true – maybe they were dead. Maybe the queen was clever enough to want the realm at large to think Princesses Jeyne and Jocelyn were hostages but didn’t actually want to let any other potential claimants to the throne live.

Margaery hadn’t even entertained that possibility until hearing what Loras just told her about her cruel execution of the Great Masters of Meeren. Margaery remembered her lessons, and knew that the Great Masters were Meeren’s ruling class, same as the nobility in Westeros. She knew many of them were slave owners or people who profited from the slave trade, or both. But she also knew that slavers, like any other class of people, were a spectrum. Perhaps some of those men (or, gods, were women crucified too? Or children?) deserved to die a heinous death. But she couldn’t fathom all one hundred and sixty deserved it. Frankly, Margaery didn’t really think anyone should die that way – not the slaves, not the masters, not the worst criminals in the world. Executions were meant to be about justice and public safety, not revenge. Had those Great Masters even been given a trial? Had there been an effort on Daenerys’ part to kill only the worst of the lot? Margaery needed too many answers and knew better than to ask. Certainly, she knew better than to ask any of the people who might actually know, like the queen’s dark-skinned herald, or that duller-than-dirt Commander of the Unsullied, or Jaime Lannister, who couldn’t even be trusted by his own kin, or that sickeningly honorable Ser Barristan Selmy.

Her curiosity would remain largely unsatisfied, she knew, yet she also knew she wouldn’t discount the possibility that the dragon queen had a mean streak that Margaery didn’t want to have directed at herself.

Unfortunately, she’d come to realize that she was the same brand of brave fool as her brother Loras.

Once more she’d let her mind drift. When she focused again on the talk between her brother and father, she realized they’d moved on from Dorne to the subject of the reparations still being demanded by the queen, and which of the houses had refused to pay up. It wasn’t a huge group, but enough that the dragon queen couldn’t pretend to not notice and hope no one else would, either. Especially since such reparations were intended to fund the queen’s many philanthropic efforts. Father feared that without them, all houses would see raised taxes, which was the fastest way for a monarch to piss off his or her subjects. Nor would the Faith be pleased to see Daenerys Targaryen playing champion for the downtrodden. That was their job, after all, and being the ones to hand out bread and blessings, apples and absolutions, meant they could maintain a congregation that included virtually every living person south of the Neck. If the Faith were its own kingdom, it would dwarf all other kingdoms in populace. If the Faith were an army, it would be able to trample any other army into a fine dust. If the Faith were—

Wait…I might be onto something here…

“Pray that Lady Stark is willing to reason with the queen, for I’m not sure how much more rejection the young lady can handle.”

Margaery snapped her head up at her father’s words, the name ‘Stark’ drawing her attention better than Colton’s finely-honed backside ever could, “Lady Stark?” she asked, “Sansa’s mother? She’s coming here?”

Father nodded, “Aye. Sent word from White Harbor ahead of her departure. A fortnight of travel by ship, if the weather is favorable.”

Loras lifted his brows, wrinkling the skin of his forehead in a way he’d regret doing in a few more years, “You expect Lady Stark to be reasonable? The queen banished her daughters and granddaughters, imprisoned her goodson and uncle, and killed her sister.”

Father’s cheeks darkened, “All with good reason. Besides, the girls’ banishment works to our queen’s advantage. They are collateral, and Lady Stark is smart enough to know that she cannot save her goodson or her uncle. The best she can gain is a lifetime of peaceful sleep, to know her girls are safe and well.”

Loras looked at Margaery with a heavy helping of ‘does he even believe his own words?’ Margaery ignored it as her mind spun through all the possible moves she could make – cautiously – in the coming weeks. What she could whisper in the right ears… Dorne not even gracing her grace with a response – showing just how unconcerned they were by the dragon. Daenerys’ inhumane, mass-execution of nobles in Meereen. The reparations ordered and likely taxes coming. Her attempts to circumvent the Faith (or so it would seem when Margaery wove her “rumors”).

But now she’d also have an opportunity to speak to Lady Stark. Was she the she-wolf that must be prompted to remember the pup’s dream? Margaery had assumed those words were meant to reach Arya Stark – a she-wolf if there ever was one, based on Sansa’s descriptions. She had assumed that Lords Tywin and Tyrion guessed that Stannis would be returning to Dragonstone, from where he could easily dispatch a raven or sail a messenger to Winterfell.

Nevertheless, Margaery would find an opportunity to talk to Lady Stark. She’d do so transparently – formally requesting permission from Daenerys, under the guise of hoping that the woman might confess something to Margaery – Sansa’s once-friend – that she wouldn’t confess to Daenerys. That had certainly been the part Margaery played so far, though did so quite subtly so that Daenerys wouldn’t realize that Margaery’s powers of deception and persuasion could be used against not only the queen’s enemies, but also the queen. It hadn’t been too difficult – she had a reputation for being ambitious and that meant those in power could trust her friendship so long as they held that power and were willing to share some of it. Tyrells weren’t usurpers, after all. They weren’t backstabbers. As her father had pointed out earlier tonight, all the men they’d forsworn themselves to had died, and died still in possession of House Tyrell’s loyalty. No, the Tyrell’s were known for attaching themselves to powerful people, not trying to supplant them, because Father was right – when you’re at the top, there is no way to go but down.

“I could offer to help smooth things over between the two women, perhaps?” she mentioned innocently, casually, “you know – a friend of Sansa’s, who only wants what is best for my friend and her daughters – but also a loyal subject of the new queen. It makes me a rather neutral party. In fact, Lady Stark will likely assume me even more neutral than I am, and that will work in our good queen’s favor.” She sipped her wine and ignored Loras giving her his ‘do you really think that’s going to work?’ face.

Father ran a hand down his beard, thoughtfully, then his lips curved into a smile, “Excellent idea, Margie. I’ll suggest it to the queen myself!”

Margaery smiled and shrugged a shoulder, “I only want to help, Father.” She lifted the goblet to her lips again, meeting Loras’ eyes with a look that said, ‘just sit back and learn from the master’.

Notes:

If there is one thing in canon that makes me think Daenerys will end up following Aerys' path of sadism/madness in adulthood, other than GRRM's foreshadowing, it is her eye for an eye treatment of the great masters in Meereen. Whether they deserved to die and/or suffer you can debate all you want, but I feel like there are very few people who would have the stomach to punish anyone with such a horrible death, and there might be something wrong with anyone who could (Ramsay etc.) Hell, even Gregor Clegane kills efficiently by contrast.

Would it be "fair" if Sansa ordered Ramsay to endure months of the torture he put Theon and Jeyne through? Yes. But would I be seriously worried about her mental state if she ordered that, and even worse if she was able to watch it happening? Yes, I would. Having said that, things were very different in the ASOIAF world and people had a higher tolerance for death and suffering, so maybe I'm imposing my 21st century views on medieval characters. Regardless, I thought someone like Margaery would have a similar reaction as mine, since Margaery had a very sheltered upbringing and didn't see firsthand any of the world's ugliness. Even though she spent time in Renly's war camp, recall that those soldiers fought no actual war since Melisandre killed Renly right before what would've been the first battle for his and the Tyrell men. Margaery is also biased, as all humans are, so less forgiving of the person who banished her friend. Just like Daenerys is forgiving of Ser Jorah but not Tywin, etc.

Chapter 48: I hear her howling

Notes:

For the 10% percent of you that want to read any POV but Sansa's or Tywin's... Here's what's going on in the North.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Jon

“Better,” Jon nodded minutely, looking at the women and hoping they didn’t hear how crumby he felt.

“Better?! I disarmed her and got my blade to her throat!” Meera squeaked.

“Aye, but she was holding back,” Jon pointed out.

Meera’s eyes left him to glower up at Brienne, “I told you not to do that anymore.”

Brienne shrugged as she took a step back so the tip of Dark Sister was no longer kissing her neck, “You won’t learn by being knocked into the dirt over and over again. You need to continually practice the techniques until they become second nature.”

“Techniques that won’t be good enough to beat the Others if they can’t beat you!”

Brienne frowned, “Why do you assume they’ll be better fighters than me?”

Meera rolled her eyes, “I dunno – perhaps because they’ve had thousands of years of practice?”

Brienne sighed, “You are getting better, Meera. I’m not holding back by much.”

“Oh, stop patronizing me!” Meera hissed.

“Can we not do this today?” Jon whined while rubbing the space between his eyes.

Meera huffed as she slid the sword through the belt the Children had fashioned for her, “We’ve got nothing else to do. At least a good argument gets the blood pumping.” She looked over at him, “Hey… What’s wrong?”

“Just this damned headache.”

“Still?”

“Aye,” Jon nodded, then sighed when Meera came to press her hand to his forehead, “Don’t fuss over me. Just a cold. I’ll be fine in a few days.”

“You should drink the—”

“I’m not drinking that shite, and don’t ask me again!”

Meera rolled her eyes even as she smiled at him. “Can we not do this today?” she parroted.

Jon snorted, “If I don’t feel better in a few days, I’ll drink their bloody strength.” Jon wrinkled his nose just thinking about the stuff he’d consumed only one time, many moons ago (he thought), when he woke up in the Seer’s cave, naked and staring up at big almond-shaped eyes that were almost human. Weak and hungry as he was, he gulped down the “strength” as the Children had called it, swallowed it down and refused to let it back up, then sprung to his feet with the energy that Rickon used to have when he’d come jumping on Jon’s bed before the sun had fully risen.

Meera let her hand fall away and let out a long-suffering sigh, “Why are men so stubborn?”

Jon tsked, “All the stubbornest people I’ve ever met happened to be women, I’ll have you know.”

“And how many women have you met, Crow?”

“Enough.”

“How many that weren’t named ‘Stark’?”

“Lots!”

“And how many that weren’t Wildlings?” Meera grinned, all proud of herself.

“Oh, bugger off!” Jon turned and stomped away. A visit to the hot pool would help his aching head, he knew, and loosen whatever was clogging his nose and ears and putting pressure on his eyes and forehead and even cheekbones. He remembered having colds when he was a boy, running around the castle with snot dripping out his nose, sneezing and coughing and not letting any of it stop him from playtime with Robb and Theon and sometimes Sansa, then later Arya, too. Getting a cold as an adult was horrid, he was learning. He was dizzy if he rose too fast, he heard crackling in his ear canals whenever he swallowed, his head ached, and he could hardly breathe through his nose. On top of all that, he was tired. He only forced himself to get up because he felt like the group’s unofficial leader. It could be Brienne, for as capable and stoic as she was, but she was built to be a soldier, not a commander. It could be Meera for being noble and trueborn, but she, also, was more of a follower than a leader. Likewise Jojen, who was disinclined to speaking to anyone but Bran – and that on the rare occasion that Bran’s mentor released him from his studies. And for that reason, Bran couldn’t be their leader, even if he would be in any other place and time, given he was the highest trueborn male among them.

And perhaps Jon forced himself to get up because he feared giving into the temptation they all felt when hunkered down underground for sometimes days at a time. Sleep beckoned them all, as tempting a mistress as Jon could imagine. Darkness did that to a person, and if Ygritte’s stories about the old wildling king’s descendants still living deep in these caves was true… well, Jon didn’t want to know what kind of person could survive a lifetime in darkness without ending things.

It would help if it weren’t so bloody cold outside that they could only venture out there for a few minutes at a time. Mostly it was Meera and Jon and Brienne who would go out to check the snares or gather sticks for kindling; or just to see the sun, when it bothered making an appearance. They made a point to drag Jojen and Bran outside when they could, fearing what would become of the young men if they went weeks or months without sunshine and fresh air. Hodor would join on such occasions. And the wolves always joined. And the ranger was never far. Jon could feel him watching from a distance, their only scout other than the wolves. It still twisted Jon’s guts to think of his uncle’s existence, though he took peace in knowing that the creature that once had been Benjen Stark was impervious to cold, to hunger, to sadness. He had not cried nor even frowned when Jon informed him that Ned and Robb were both dead, along with Bran and Rickon (or so Jon believed at the time, even as he traveled to the Nightfort hoping to be wrong). Nor did the ranger look relieved when Jon returned from the Nightfort with Bran and the others at his side. He did not smile or look proud when Jon told him that Sansa was Queen Consort of the Seven Kingdoms, and a mother of twin girls. The price of feeling no sorrow was feeling no joy.

On his bad days, Jon thought it sounded like a fair trade. On his good days… Well, Jon was forgetting what a good day felt like. ‘Good’ was measured in smaller increments now – an hour tangled up with Meera, or sitting in the pool feeling warm and weightless, or a good vigorous spar with Brienne in which neither ever lost because they were matched so perfectly.

Or the rare occasion that Bran smiled.

These were his currency now. Gold would do him no good – the Others couldn’t be bargained with and there was no village nearby where he could buy a new cloak or boots or a loaf of raisin bed… raisin bread slathered with butter… with a cup of fresh, cold cream to wash it down. And an apple. A tart autumn apple, green and red and yellow, that would make a snapping noise when he bit into it. Or a roast chicken, the fat sizzling as it was turned on the spit. Or a strawberry pie, or fresh raspberries and blackberries soaked in honey and cream. Or—

“You alright?”

Jon jolted at the sound of Meera’s voice. He’d made it part way to the grotto and then stopped, apparently, as he now realized he was standing there, swaying on his feet, leaning one hand against the earthen wall.

“Aye, just… Was thinking about all the food I used to eat.”

Meera sighed, “Last sleep, I dreamt I was served a big platter of frog legs, coated in cornmeal and fried in fat. Just as I was about to take a bite, I woke up.”

“That why you were cursing this morning?” Jon started laughing, but it turned into a cough.

Meera snorted, “Aye. It was the cruelest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“I’d say you should consider yourself lucky, then, but that is really cruel.”

“You’re telling me! Anyway, I’m coming with you to your bath. You look like you might conk out as soon as you sit down, so I better be there to fish you out of the water.”

“Don’t bother; I can think of worse ways to die.”

“Aren’t we a cynical bunch?”

“Why shouldn’t we be?”

Meera shrugged, “To set an example for the younger ones.”

“Who’ll set an example for us?”

“Don’t get all whiney, Jon Snow.”

Jon stuck his lower lip out, “Take mercy, my lady. I feel like someone took out my brain and filled my skull with rocks.”

Meera smiled impishly, “That would explain a lot.”

“Bugger off,” he repeated his earlier curse, trusting Meera wouldn’t be insulted. She told him to piss off about five times a day (or what they thought were days) and he told her to bugger off, or to fuck off, just as often.

Sometimes, he thought it was the closest he’d ever get to saying or hearing ‘I love you’. He knew he did, and he knew she did, but he also knew neither of them felt like tempting fate to admit so out loud. There were enough forces that seemed to be working against them, as if their very vitality was an insult. If being alive was an insult, what would being in love be?

“Come on,” Meera gave him a small smile and tugged on his hand.

Jon nodded, wondering if it mattered anymore, his superstition-driven attempts to stack the cards in favor of the living. He wondered if he’d die in this cave, or in the cold beyond it, and regret not saying those three tiny words that held so much meaning.

But he was too sick to care right now. He let Meera lead him all the way to the grotto, then strip him down as he tried not to topple over, then help him step into the water and sit on a natural rock ledge that would submerge him up to his nipples. He breathed deeply the steamy air, letting his head droop forward to get closer to the source and because holding it up was a chore.

Meera cupped her hands and poured water over his head and the back of his neck, making him rattle with shivers even as the warmth melted away some of the rope-taut pain laced around his skull. One of her hands rested on the back of his neck then, the other brought water up to his face, gently pressing it to his closed eyelids or forehead. He moaned at how good it felt, yet the relief was not enough.

The warmth and moisture were truly therapeutic and yet as the minutes passed, Jon just felt sicker and sicker. His head felt like an overstuffed sausage and he wasn’t entirely sure whether he was awake or asleep.

“Meera…” he mumbled, hoping that was all he’d need to say.

“Alright,” she whispered, pressing her hand to his forehead, “Let’s get you to bed.”

It took all the dwindling strength in his body to walk out of the pool and pull on his breeches and tunic. The rest of his clothing and belongings Meera carried. They squeezed through the narrow pass that led out of the grotto, and Jon took three steps before the ground was suddenly the wall, and it smacked him so hard in the side of the head that everything went black.

Brightness reflected off snow-tipped mountains, blinding him when he dared to look at them. The same happened when the bright orb’s rays hit blue waters, or green waters, even black waters. When he flew to the hot place it was the grass itself that reflected the sun, and the occasional lake or stream.

He coasted over all of it, always high enough that the men’s pointy sticks couldn’t reach him. More often the little creatures scattered into their little caves whenever he flew overhead.

He was always looking, always searching. So was his sibling, he knew. The one that was brother and sister but not pack.

And yet he knew where he needed to go.

But he also didn’t.

There were two minds here, and they never became one. Not like with… with… white and red, soft and warm and strong. That one, with the simple name he could no longer remember, or perhaps had never known.

Of the two minds, the first could see into the second. The second could feel the presence of the first. But the second could not understand the first when it called out. Perhaps the first wasn’t calling out in the right language, the right words. Perhaps it wasn’t calling at all.

There were weaker voices here, too, calling from some great distance away, that seemed both outside and inside at once. He didn’t know if the other one could hear them. He didn’t think so, but he thought the other one knew how those voices made him want to scream and roar and kill everyone and everything until all that was left was him and the ones who owned those voices.

Trapped.

Helpless.

Scared.

One of the voices sang those feelings like a song, a melody it was familiar with. He was familiar with it, too. The other voice roared them out with a rage so loud it could shake the ice and snow off ancient mountains.

The voice that sang sometimes sang a different melody, and he hated that one. It could split entire worlds down the middle with its sorrow. It suffocated him to hear, made him think of how he felt when he lost… when he lost whomever he had lost. One was his God, another was his pack, and another was his freedom.

The singer’s song resonated to both minds, made both of them cry because they both knew loss. They knew the feeling of losing the blood of their blood.

And sometimes, when the singing faded to darkness, he knew there was even more that he’d lost. He felt himself lying in a river of blood, sometimes dying, sometimes being born; sometimes with the sound of a thousand men around him, sometimes with the sound of only one.

Both minds knew the feeling of being abandoned, but one felt only sadness and regret about that, while the other felt only rage.

“Jon.”

“Jon.”

“Jon.”

He turned around so fast his head spun, and he had to press both hands to his temples to stop the motion.

When the world around him stopped spinning, his eyes fixed on a familiar blue gaze.

“Robb!” he sobbed out the name of his brother, the one that was completely and irrevocably lost to him.

A head of auburn curls shook, and he remembered that when he’d last seen Robb, he’d been nearly a man, not a child that came up to Jon’s belly.

“Rick- Rickon?” he asked on a gasp that floated away on a winter wind.

The boy didn’t confirm, but pushed his little chin forward, “Why haven’t you come home?” he whispered.

Jon sunk down to one knee, so they’d be of a height, “I… I can’t. I’m a brother of the Night’s Watch.” As he said the words, they felt wrong. Not a lie, exactly, but like… like they weren’t the real reason he wasn’t back at the castle of his childhood. The place he’d had happiness that he didn’t appreciate until he left to go to the place where only bitterness could thrive.

“You’re my brother. You’re Arya’s brother. You’re Sansa’s brother.”

“And… and Bran’s brother,” Jon defended, beginning to remember the reason that evaded him moments ago, “Bran needs me here to protect him.” He put his hands on Rickon’s small shoulders, hoping to soften what might sound like rejection.

“But who will protect Sansa?” Rickon asked in yet another whisper, “She doesn’t have a Jon. Or a Sandor. She doesn’t have a Summer or a Grey Wind.”

Jon smiled despite feeling like he’d been struck by one of Ygritte’s arrows, this time square in his chest, “She is… she is the queen. I’m sure she has better protectors than I could ever be.”

Rickon shook his head, “But she looked so scared under the mountain’s legs. And I hear her howling at night. She’s stuck—”

“Jon!?”

Jon whipped his head around, searching for the voice that was calling him, frantic and excited, fearful and hopeful. But no one was there, and he realized for the first time that he was outside, and the scene was familiar. He was in the massive godswood forest of Winterfell, and a mere ten paces away the heart tree loomed, its eyes bleeding just as they had when he was a child. The sight used to frighten him. Now… now he didn’t know how it made him feel.

He turned to face Rickon again, but the face that sat above the small shoulders Jon still grasped was more terrifying than the heart tree’s bleeding eyes could ever be. A red eye glowed like a blood moon, the only living part of a face that was dead and decaying. The eye blinked one time and Jon flinched, crunching the snow beneath him as he fell on his backside and started to crab-walk away.

The eye glared for a moment, then rolled. “Tedious,” spoke the mouth, without moving.

“Fuck,” Jon rolled over and then pushed himself to his legs and started running, keeping his head turned to make sure that dead thing wasn’t giving chase.

He didn’t get far before slamming into something hard, his chest and temple hitting it at the same time, dazing him again. He fell backwards, and he felt it happening as if time was stretched out and slowed down. He braced himself for yet another painful and dizzying impact but the snow he landed in was warm and soft like desert sand.

Except when had he ever felt desert sand?

“Jon!” the distant voice called again.

He realized his eyes had closed during his fall only when he carefully cracked them open, only to find that horrible face hovered over him.

He screamed, and his right ear popped when he did.

“Jon!”

“Wake up, wolfling,” the face’s mouth said, once again without moving.

“No!” he cried out.

The red eye blinked, and then something smacked Jon between the eyes, and he felt his body jerking up and forward so fast that his neck made a cracking sound.

His head spun again, or his surroundings did, but immediately he knew he was awake this time. His body ached, his head ached, his throat felt raw, his left ear felt clogged. There was never pain in dreams, or even discomfort, but one never appreciated its absence until they awoke in the cruel world of reality.

“Jon!”

Arms wrapped around his waist from the right side, and Jon turned and looked down at a head of familiar brown curls twisted into a sloppy bun.

“Meera,” croaked out of his throat.

He looked around the torchlit space, finding Hodor and Brienne a couple paces to his left, the warrior woman with a hand on the simpleton’s shoulder, trying to sooth him, it seemed, as Hodor was rocking himself back and forth as he tended to do when frightened or worried. Bran was near them, sitting on the ground, leaning against the wall, with his broken legs stretched out in front of him beneath a fur blanket. When Jon turned to the right again, he noticed that Leaf and Ivy, or what he assumed were Leaf and Ivy, were watching the entire scene warily. The one that he thought was Leaf nodded at him, while Ivy only eyed him with her usual distrust.

It took only a few moments for him to get his bearings. He remembered training with Brienne and Meera even though he felt like death warmed over. He remembered heading to the pools with Meera hoping to melt the crud out of his nose and ears. Then… Well, he didn’t remember much after that.

“How long?” he asked no one in particular.

Meera put space between them to glare at him, one eyebrow cocked.

He nodded, “Right.” Except when the weather was (relatively) favorable, they lost track of days and nights. When a blizzard was raging outside, they’d spend what felt like days without returning to the exit to check. Blizzards north of the wall weren’t over in a matter of hours, but days, sometimes weeks.

Except they didn’t really know what marked a day if not the sun. How often they slept? They wanted to sleep all the time. How often they ate? They were always hungry, or at least rarely ever full.

And the Children were no help. After all these years living underground, they ought to have methods for recording the passage of time, but they didn’t. A day was nothing in the lifespan of a creature that lived for centuries. And a day was even less to a creature that could travel across eons the way a raven can fly from Winterfell to White Harbor.

Meera sighed, tucking her hand into his where it laid on his lap, “I think it’s been three days that you’ve slept.”

He nodded again, figuring that had to be right. At least, it couldn’t have been longer. It didn’t feel longer.

Or did it?                                     

“You collapsed,” Meera continued, her voice flat as it only was when she forced it to be, “I had to leave you to get Brienne and Hodor. Hodor carried you here. We treated the fever as best we could. Leaf made some teas and tonics to keep you nourished...” Meera trailed off, her eyes going to Brienne as if to borrow strength from the stoic woman. It made Jon feel strange, to detect how frightened Meera had been during his illness. He felt guilty to have caused her to fret. He could picture her, trying to rouse him after he’d collapsed far into the cavern near the pool. She must have been afraid to leave him alone but had no choice. Jon was slim but tall, and Meera was slim but short. There was no possible way she could have carried or even dragged him all the way back to the common room.

He gave her hand a squeeze, “It’s alright. I feel better now.”

It wasn’t quite the truth. He did feel better than he recalled feeling just before his “collapse” as Meera put it, but nowhere near fully recovered. In fact, all he really wanted to do was go back to sleep – as if he’d spent an entire day swinging his sword or hiking over rugged terrain. He supposed he was on the mend but didn’t like that he wasn’t back to his normal self.

Still, it seemed a debt was owed. He turned toward Leaf and Ivy, “Thank you for… for making whatever you made. Thank you.”

Leaf nodded. Ivy just scowled.

He turned to face Hodor, “Thank you, Hodor.”

“Hodor,” the big man nodded, his frame settled now that he saw Jon was awake and well.

“Bran,” Jon addressed his brother, but was startled by the way Bran was looking at him. He realized that Bran hadn’t said a word since Jon woke. He expressed neither relief nor concern, nor voiced an inquiry into Jon’s health. “Are you alright, brother?” Jon asked.

Bran nodded slowly, “Aye. Sorry. I was just… worried there, for a while. Meera knows much about healing, and she said she never saw a fever sleep that was so prolonged. That normally an ill person will doze in and out.”

Jon shrugged and forced himself to smile, “Well, I bet she’s never seen a fevered person sleep underground.” He gestured all around him, “All of us are sleeping more than normal. Or so it seems. It’s probably just that.”

Bran nodded, though he looked far from convinced. Jon would not press his brother here and now. He was bone-weary still, and despite quite possibly owing them his life, he didn’t entirely trust the Children who seemed as dedicated to the Seer as acolytes were to their septon, even if less outwardly reverent.

Jon cleared his throat and shifted his weight from right hip to left, only then noticing that someone was absent, and he sure as all hells wasn’t referring to the Seer.

“Where’s Jo?” he asked, directing it at Meera.

Her lips pressed together into a tight line, then she turned to her left. Jon followed her line of sight and had to look partially behind him to where he saw Jojen’s eyes peeping out from amongst mounds of blankets.

“Hello Jon,” Jojen greeted weakly, “I’m glad to see you’re on the mend.”

“Jo – what are you…” Jon tried to twist his body, with the ultimate goal of standing up, and immediately felt so lightheaded he needed to close his eyes and swallow a gag.

“Easy,” Meera pressed her hands to his shoulders, “You’ve been living only on liquids, and not as much as you should considering how much sweating you did.”

“Here.”

Jon looked up to find Brienne handing him a skin of water. He took it and gulped greedily, intent on drinking it dry until Meera grabbed it from him.

“Slow down,” his lover said, “You’ll get a bellyache.”

Jon rolled his eyes, “Well it’s my belly to risk.”

Meera flicked her eyes up at Brienne and seemed to have a humorous, nonverbal exchange, which Jon was most definitely the subject of.

He ignored them and turned back to face Jojen, “Are you ill, too?”

Jojen nodded, “I think I have what you have. I’m sure it’ll pass. The Singers have been tending to me, too. And Meera and Lady Brienne, of course.”

Jon hummed. It made sense that someone other than Jon would be sick – everyone knew that some fevers and other maladies were catching. One of his earliest memories was of having an itchy rash that put big red spots all over his skin. He got the rash just a couple days after Robb did, and at the same time as baby Sansa. Gods, he could remember how she wailed, the poor little tyke. Lady Catelyn and Old Nan and Father and Maester Luwin took turns trying to comfort her, but she only seemed to feel some relief when a mud paste was slathered on her little legs and arms and belly. Jon remembered that mud paste helping with his rash, too. It really was just mud, so far as he knew. Nice cool mud, too, so early in Spring. Nothing like the fetid concoction the children had given him when he first awoke in this cave. It had been spackled onto his wounds and then he’d been made to drink some of it. He recalled thinking it smelled like shit and blood and dirt, too thick to be a liquid and too thin to be a solid, and could gag just imagining it, though it certainly had made him spring up and feel like a new man after what must have been days or even weeks of inactivity.

“Wait – can’t you give Jojen that drink, er paste?” he eagerly directed at Leaf, “The foul-smelling one? You called it… um… strength! Yes, you told me to drink strength!”

Leaf shook her head, “None left. Used on you, wolfling.”

“None left…” Jon frowned, “Can you not make more?”

Leaf shook her head again, “Need things that only grow outside.”

“It’s a blizzard out there, Jon,” Meera supplied, “But Jojen is not so bad as you were. He’s just tired and achy. Not all fuzzy-headed and dizzy and feverish, like you were. The fever is the dangerous part.”

Jon felt horrible that he had been fed the last of the rejuvenating substance, but there was nothing he could do about it now.

He heard Brienne clear her throat then, and turned to look up at her, “It may not even be the same sickness. Lack of sunlight and fresh air have probably just sapped Jojen’s strength. I and Meera have suggested that he train just as we three do. Or do some exercises, at the least. Movement might help him regain his vigor. Perhaps you can try to convince him, since he didn’t listen to us.”

It wasn’t helping Jon’s headache to keep turning this way and that, but he did again, twisting to look at Jojen, “Brienne is right. Perhaps short walks? Or we can find something heavy but not too heavy for you to lift?”

Jojen gave him the smile Jon didn’t like – the one that was patronizing even if not mean-spirited, “I will be alright, Jon. I prefer exercising my mind than my body.”

“Is that your polite way of calling us three idiots?” Jon chuckled.

Jojen shook his head, “On the contrary, you are each brilliant in your own way. And you are each a warrior in your own way. But I am meant for a different destiny.”

Jon sighed, “I’m too tired to argue and it isn’t my place to. Do as you wish, but perhaps spend a few minutes moving your body around for every few hours of… exercising your mind.” Jon didn’t know what precisely Jojen did all day, other than sit and stare at the fire, or sit leaning against a wall while seemingly napping, or going off with Leaf or Ivy, presumably to learn about their ways. Jojen was the one in their party most interested in hearing the histories of the Children. Jon would’ve felt the same when he was a boy, but now he focused more on his training and… shameful as it may be, his private time with Meera. Being at the end of the world, constantly in the dark and ever aware that the next day could be their last had made them both desperate to wring whatever pleasure they could from this life.

And when not training or making love, he was eating, sleeping, or making himself busy with chores. There was much to do inside, including mending their clothes and bedding, and helping with the cooking and clean-up after their meals. He’d also carry bundles of kindling from the room where the Children stored and dried it to the various places where they had firepits. He’d wash his only set of clothes in the pool once or twice per what he thought was a fortnight, then lounge around naked with Meera while the clothes dried in the adjoining room on lines they had strung a few feet away and above a small firepit they’d dug.

On the days the wind and snowfall stopped, he and Meera would go check the snares for rabbits, or simply wander the nearby wood with the wolves, sometimes with Brienne, sometimes with the ranger. The highlights were the few times Meera or one of his companions took down a doe during one of their outdoor excursions. The Children had ways of curing and drying the meat, so none went to waste. The wolves always got some of the raw meat, too, since they needed it more than their two-legged counterparts. Jon worried for them, as they sometimes ventured out during those periods when none of the men or women or Children were willing to do the same, but through his connection to Ghost, Jon knew they were just fine. Ghost and Summer were now the kings of these woods, and Jon knew a few wild wolves had shown their fealty. They would hunt rabbits and deer and foxes – taking those lesser creatures down easily. Snow leopards and elk were opportunistic kills, or for times of desperation, as those beasts could easily take out one or two of the regular wolves before the pack overwhelmed them. Once, Jon had woken up gagging in disgust after seeing what an elk’s kick did to the spry little female that had thrown her lot in with Ghost and Summer. She was small but brave, and reminded Ghost of wild sister’s girl – who Jon knew as Nymeria. Ghost had thought about mounting her come Spring, but such would never happen thanks to the elk, and Jon, having at least a basic grasp of dog breeding, knew such a small bitch should never whelp a direwolf’s pups. At least she’d died quickly, and though wolves didn’t eat other wolves unless they were starving, Ghost and Summer had dragged her to the cave where their humans dwelled. Jon couldn’t bring himself to eat the meat, nor Bran, though didn’t fault the others who could, and actually felt it was fitting that the fur would keep someone warm through this long winter.

“Alright, Jon. I will,” Jojen promised.

With a nod and a sigh, Jon laid back on his furs. Meera fussed over him a bit, and a memory assaulted Jon of Lady Catelyn doing the same to him when he was ill as a child. Or at least when it was a serious illness as opposed to a minor head cold or stomach upset. He still wondered if it was a dream, a fever dream, the time he opened his eyes, feeling as cruddy as he’d been feeling before collapsing during his walk with Meera, to find Catelyn Stark dabbing his forehead, her lips moving without making a sound, as they sometimes did when she prayed at the supper table.

Thinking of Lady Catelyn didn’t inspire many warm and tender emotions in Jon, though time and distance had him feeling less resentment toward the woman. He could recognize and respect that she was a good woman – a good wife and a good mother – while wishing she’d been less cold toward him. He wondered if Sansa ended up just like her. Sansa certainly dreamed of becoming a wife and mother – and anything that Sansa would do, she would strive to do well. He wondered if she fussed over her daughters the way Catelyn fussed over all her children.

He wondered if those girls – those abstract creatures that were Jon’s nieces – had Sansa’s Tully looks or Tywin Lannister’s Lannister looks. Jon didn’t actually know what the man looked like, aside from the assumption that his hair was golden blond like the queen’s and Ser Jaime’s had been. Though perhaps it was silver or white now – how old was the man anyway? Sixty? Seventy? Ugh. Jon had only considered the match between Sansa and the lion egregious because the man had been an enemy to House Stark, a blood relative to the boy-king who mercilessly killed their father. But now he felt his stomach turning to think of his pretty little sister kissing some shriveled up greybeard. He didn’t really want to think of either of his sisters kissing any man, but for their sake he’d wish for them to have husbands who were young, handsome, and kind. It seemed almost criminal that Sansa, with her bright red hair and glittering blue eyes, should have to—

Jon felt his body freeze as a memory flashed within his mind – there and gone but leaving a residue of remembrance.

He was suddenly aware of what felt like a lifetime’s worth of dreams that must have occurred in the days during which he slumbered with fever, but the one he was in before shooting up and awake minutes ago was different from the others. Instead of floating amongst the clouds, taking in the world with a bird’s eye view while searching for something that he could not name, or trekking through the snowy landscape on four massive paws, smelling and hearing everything, he’d been on two feet, on solid ground, and in a familiar place: Winterfell’s godswood. And with a familiar person: Rickon. Rickon who looked like Robb did when Jon and Robb were boys just picking up a wooden sword to learn the fundamentals of swordplay. And Rickon had… had seemed to want Jon to go to Winterfell. Or… no. He had wanted Jon to go protect Sansa in King’s Landing… hadn’t he? He’d said Sansa was sad or scared or both.

Jon’s skin instantly prickled as it had done when the Lord Commander told him about his father’s death and his brother’s war march. He couldn’t stand the idea of staying at Castle Black, going through drills in the yard that the other recruits needed, but not him. He’d almost thought he could ride south, help Robb end the Lannisters, then return to the Watch and all would be forgiven, because he’d have Robb’s pardon as Warden of the North.

And this feeling was somehow worse because he did not know if dream-Rickon spoke true. Rickon was described by Bran as a fearful and yet willful child, who understood things almost at a toddler-level of comprehension because his development had been severely stunted – and at such a critical age.

Then again, why was Jon assuming that Rickon had spoken to him through a dream? Wasn’t it more likely that Jon’s own fears had manifested that ominous vision? He certainly felt useless here, waiting for the attack of some supernatural creatures that had all the time in the world to toy with their prey. He also felt antsy, being isolated from all news of his family and the entire realm. And of course he worried about those of his pack who remained. He was now the eldest person with Stark blood, if one didn’t count the undead ranger. He should be there to help lead his house during winter, Lady Catelyn’s opinions of him be damned. He should be there to protect his younger and more delicate siblings. He should be there to teach Rickon to regain his confidence. He should be there to threaten this blacksmith Arya married, lest the boy turned out to be some brute. He should be there as a living warning to Tywin Lannister that should any harm ever befall Sansa, the man would learn just what a direwolf could do to a lion.

But the only one he was helping was Bran, and he wasn’t even sure of that. He’d yet to have to raise a fist much less his sword in defense of his crippled brother. Frankly, if that was even necessary then Brienne was just as qualified as he was, and Meera would be good enough in a pinch, not to mention the ever-loyal Summer.

“Hey… what’s wrong?” Meera asked, her head lowered so she could peer up into his eyes.

He shook his head, “What are we doing here, Meer?”

Her gaze softened and she nodded knowingly before taking a deep breath, letting it out slowly, “We’re saving the world. Or dying for the trying.”

He shook his head again, “What if we’re not?”

She reached for his chin and grasped it in a firm hold, “What if we are – but you leave here because of whatever you dreamt, and those dead things win?”

“How do you know what I dreamt?” he spoke in a voice almost accusing if it weren’t so drained.

“I don’t know what you dreamt, but I know you dreamt because I heard you mumbling in your sleep. Not to mention, I have some experience with such things…” she jerked her chin toward where Jojen was sleeping. “But for you to wake up, barely ask about what you missed while you were out cold, but ask what we’re doing here… Well, it doesn’t take a maester to figure you saw something that makes you want to leave.”

Jon nodded, “I saw Rickon. Telling me I should be with my family. Sansa in particular, I think. Though I’m not sure. It’s… fading.”

Meera nodded, and Jon desperately wished she’d say, ‘it was just a dream’. Instead, she said, “And what would you be able to do to help Sansa – or any of them – if you left here? You’d die in this weather, Jon. If the wildlings or wights or a hungry predator didn’t get you first. You show up at any castle on the Wall you’ll be hung for desertion, most like. You can cross at the Nightfort, of course, but will you be able to get yourself and Ghost up that well? Because I won’t be leaving my brother, and Brienne won’t be leaving yours, nor will she let you take Hodor when, after her, he’s the only one strong enough to carry Bran for any stretch of time. Well, maybe you’ll leave Ghost here. So, assuming you survive the journey on this side of the Wall, and arrive at the Nightfort, and still have some food left, you’ll need to travel another week, at least, before you hit Queenscrown. Which might be deserted if the weather’s as bad there as it is here. Might be not a single oat there to be had. Might be without Ghost you won’t be able to hunt, since you’re utter shite at hunting. So still you might starve, or freeze to death, or die of a fever like you just nearly did, because it’ll be another month, minimum, until you’re at Winterfell. I’d say two, given you have no mount and the snows must be deeper than when we all came here. And if you miraculously survive the journey and make it to Winterfell, and then find out something did happen to your sister, you won’t be able to get to the capital quickly enough to do anything about it. By horse or by ship it’ll take weeks, maybe months.”

She made so much damned sense he wanted to curse at her. Unlike his friends who persuaded him to stay at Castle Black rather than running after his brother’s army, it was all logic. Honor didn’t play into it. Vows didn’t play into it. And he’d have laughed if she’d tried either route, because he was done putting his personal honor over the good of his family or the good of mankind.

So he nodded, trying to resign himself to the fact that he’d be worried sick, even more than normal, for the rest of his days here.

Unless…

“Bran!” Jon called to his brother as he started crawling to the edge of the furs, “Can you go into your… visions… and look for Sansa? See if she is safe?”

Bran smiled softly, “I have already, Jon. I told you I was going to try looking at our family… further back…”

Our father, lying with some woman and making me.

“…but it was too tempting to check in on our pack. Sansa is fine, Jon. As is Arya. As are my nieces, Jocelyn and Jeyne.”

Jon practically collapsed back against the furs, “Thank the gods. And Rickon?”

“Also well.”

The emotions he’d just waded through left him feeling even more tired than he’d been before, and Jon allowed himself to close his eyes and breathe out a long sigh of relief, “Thank you, Bran.”

If his brother said more after that, Jon didn’t hear it. He was already asleep.

Notes:

Two chapters ahead - Ch 50 if I don't reorder things - is one of my FAVORITE chapters in the fic, and I just want to write it and forget about everything else, but what's the point of having several distinct plotlines if I'm going to abandon some, or ignore those characters until the very end to that point that you read that ending and are like, 'wait, Jon was in this story? Oh, yeah... I think I vaguely remember him being in a cave or something'. You know what I mean? Anyway, I hope the Jon chapters are compelling enough to you guys even though you came to this story for TySan. I will say when I read the ASOIAF books I was most interested in the Stark centric ones and I'd be all like "UGH, a Daenerys chapter?! BOAR-ING." Then I'd read it and get into it and by the end of the chapter I'd be like, "No! It's over already?!"

Of course, I'm not GRRM, so all I ask is your patience if the Margaery or Jon chapters, etc. are boring you. I hope they're not, and I try to always include a mention of Sansa or Tywin, just a little thread to dangle since I'm assuming most who ventured to this fic are Tywin/Sansa fans, of the couple or the characters or both.

Chapter 49: Pretty lies

Notes:

Not entirely happy with this one, but there are some aspects that I love.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Jaime

I’m not qualified for this.

Jaime wanted to scream those words a dozen times each day.

He was no politician. No administrator. No strategist. Hells, Robb Stark, at not even twenty years of age and with no prior battle experience, had been a better strategist than Jaime.

Never had he considered any of it a deficit on his part, but never had anyone asked him to be those things that he wasn’t.

Until Daenerys Targaryen.

It had felt good, flattering really, when she invited him to private meals, back in the pyramid in Meereen, and picked his brain about matters ranging from history to war to love to human nature.

It had since lost its luster.

He did not know what Daenerys should do about the High Septon, or more broadly the Faith that had initially embraced her but more recently seemed critical of her reign and her very presence in Westeros. Letters exchanged with Tyrion weren’t all that helpful on the matter. Tyrion had appointed the current High Septon after the previous one got himself killed during the same riots during which the masses attacked Joffrey and Cersei and Sansa Stark fled the city. Tyrion thought the man he appointed was genuine in his piety but shrewd enough to understand the way the world worked.

In short, Tyrion believed the man could be bought.

Unfortunately, Dany didn’t believe in buying loyalty, and thus she was only annoyed when Jaime suggested she pay the man to start praising her as the greatest ruler the realm had ever known, and to strongly encourage his flock to sing the same tune.

Dany had met with the man several times now, which seemed to be an exercise in patience for the young queen. The High Septon never outright said so, but Jaime would guess that the man would never truly accept any female monarch. The fact that no one else seemed to realize how blatantly misogynistic the Faith was reinforced Jaime’s longstanding opinion that more honor could be found in the average whorehouse than in the average sept. The High Septon, in a flat voice that was meant to indicate he did not judge Daenerys (because that’s the Father’s job), wondered if a woman who’d lived among Dothraki war lords, and even married one, could possibly be pious enough to represent all of Westeros, and to wear the crown that existed only by the blessing of the Faith. The words ‘heathen’ and ‘barbaric’ might have been bandied about – never directed at Daenerys personally, though. Her harsh retribution against the Great Masters of Meereen was also noted as “an affront” to the Faith. For even men and women accused of the vilest crimes must be given a chance to defend their innocence or repent before a cleric of the Faith, or whatever false religion they may ascribe to, even if all prayers ultimately go to the true Gods, meaning the Seven That Are One, and blah, blah, blah.

It sure as all seven hells – which was what an hour with the man felt like – seemed like a shakedown to Jaime. He told Dany as much, then learned that she’d rather have no loyalty than bought loyalty. He’d told her that was a refreshing concept but wouldn’t keep the masses from coming after her with broomsticks and pitchforks.

“No, but Drogon will. As will thousands of soldiers and guards.”

The topic was abandoned before it could go off course. For instance, to the matter of the loyalty of said soldiers and guards. Particularly the ones who wore red and gold and spat on the ground in front of Jaime’s boots on a daily basis but wouldn’t spit on him if he were on fire. They also mumbled ‘turncoat’ in his wake. How creative. Others used a bit more brain power – they called him ‘cunt sniffer’, ‘queen fucker’, and ‘the dragon’s bitch’.

There was also a pretty humorous joke making the rounds…

“What’s the difference between a king and a queen?”

“What?”

“The Kingslayer stabs kings in the back. He stabs queens in the cunt.”

Hilarious.

Then there was the rampant speculation that, given his supposed proclivity for bedding queens, the real reason he’d been gone from Westeros all that time was because his father banished him for making advances on his goodmother, Queen Sansa. “The lion wouldn’t let him fuck the queen, so he came back and fucked ‘em both.”

Even more hilarious.

Regardless of what all those fine Westermen felt for Jaime, he knew their only loyalty to Daenerys was of the “or else” variety.

Swear your sword to Daenerys of a Hundred Titles, or else…

Defend the queen, or else…

Don’t attack the queen’s men, or else…

Jaime just wasn’t sure which “else” the men feared. Was it the threat to Sansa and her Lannister daughters? Or was it the threat to Tywin, Tommen, and in some ways Tyrion?

Jaime hated that the answer was, most likely, Tywin. Sansa and her daughters were out of sight, out of mind; besides, how many of those men saw women as anything but a set of fuckable holes? Tyrion was not in the capital, presently. Tommen, as an innocent boy, would be assumed to be low on the list of hostages that Daenerys could bring herself to execute, if necessary to send a message. Likewise, Sansa’s daughters, for the same reason.

That meant the person most likely to pay for any Westerman’s treachery to Daenerys was Tywin. He was not some hostage sleeping on a feather mattress and wearing a leash so long he could forget it was there. No – he was disposable enough to be banished to the depths and left to rot.

On the days Jaime felt like caring, he wanted to ask each one of those men what Tywin Lannister had ever done to earn their loyalty. He knew how his father had earned their obedience – through abject fear of the consequences of disobedience – but how could his father have inspired such loyalty that men who once fought beside Jaime would now spit at and curse him?

He never asked, because he didn’t want to know the answer.

As he crossed under the portcullis between the outer and middle yards, Jaime lifted the collar of his sheepskin coat and spied a figure in a rich green cloak heading from the Sept toward the Maidenvault.

Jaime groaned as the figure’s head turned and spotted him.

Margaery Tyrell was…disconcerting. She was the antithesis of Cersei. The antithesis of Daenerys, for that matter. She was congenial, talkative, prone to giggling. She wore her emotions on her sleeve. The girl wasn’t as vapid as many young ladies were, but she was so damned optimistic it made Jaime sick. He was also fairly certain she wanted to fuck him, though felt no pride over the Rose of Highgarden lusting for him since he was certain she wanted neither his cock nor his wit but his name. No doubt most assumed Jaime would be given Casterly Rock in time – he wore no white cloak here, and while the High Septon had inquired as to how exactly Jaime had been relieved of lifetime vows, most courtiers didn’t give a fig about promises sworn before kings or holy men or both.

“Ah, good morrow, my lord!” Lady Margaery beamed at him as she turned to stride directly toward him.

He plastered a smile on his face, “Good day, my lady. Coming from the sept, I see. You must be truly devout to make even a small trek in this weather just to pray.”

Margaery smiled, “I like to think I’m quite devout, Ser.” She leaned in and lowered her voice, though her smile remained in place, “Though I’m also bored out of my skull.”

He offered a conciliatory laugh, “If you found relief from your boredom in a sept, please tell me what I’ve been doing wrong all these years.”

“Well,” she straightened her back and shrugged, “I imagine the Warrior casts off his stone skin and comes to life, then flings me over his shoulder and… well, I’m sure you can imagine.”

Jaime snorted, this time in true amusement, “I don’t think that will work for me, but I appreciate the advice.”

“Of course, you can substitute the Maiden for the Warrior. Or the Mother. I wouldn’t presume to know your preferences.”

“The Crone,” he answered drily, “but let’s keep that between us.”

Margaery Tyrell’s laughter sounded like bells tinkling. He supposed other men might write poems about such a sound, but Jaime found it oddly grating.

“Your secret is safe with me, Ser,” Lady Margaery emphasized her promise with a pat on his arm that was brief enough for him to be certain that if she was trying to proposition him, she was not quite ready to commit. “But I did stop you for a reason. I hope you might relay something to our queen?”

“You could relay it yourself, you know. She would welcome your visit.” As you damned well know.

“I do like to think so,” Margaery nodded, “only this seems potentially urgent, and I had promised Shireen – she gets quite lonely, you know – to luncheon with her.”

“Fine. What is it?” Jaime asked, not bothering to hide his annoyance at being turned into a page boy.

“Well, I dared to venture out yesterday to do some shopping. It was after midday, in case that’s relevant. The only time it’s warm enough to be outside for more than a few minutes, you ask me. Oh, I don’t know how those guards manage it!” her eyes flicked up to the parapets, “I’d like to deliver each of them a steaming cup of cider, but it wouldn’t be steaming by the time it reached them, would it?” Her gaze shifted back to Jaime, and he must’ve succeeded in conveying his impatience, because her eyes widened, “Oh! My apologies, Ser. Anyway, I was bored enough to face the elements, and I did. And I… Well, I was accosted by a man. Well, not accosted, exactly. I was approached by a man – you can ask the guards who accompanied me; surely you have some way of communicating with them? Anyway, the man did look worse for wear – his clothes rather threadbare and his cheeks rather sallow. Naturally, I was quite frightened. But then the man looked straight at me and said, ‘winter is coming’.” Margaery’s lips closed and she stared up at Jaime expectantly and intently.

He held up both hands and shrugged, “Alright. I’ll, uh… tell the queen.” He gave a firm nod and was ready to step around Margaery when her hand landed on his vambrace for the second time.

“Ser Jaime, those are House Stark’s words.”

“Right. And also a very common phrase that one person might say to another person when the temperature begins to drop.”

Margaery gave a sigh as if he was exasperating, “The man made me feel nervous, but I tried to laugh it off, making some comment about how winter isn’t coming, it’s here. I handed the man two groats and hurried to move on, but he ran after me, looking suddenly quite… frantic. The guards didn’t let him get close, but he was a tall man and he looked right over them, his eyes never dropping mine, as he went on and on about how this winter is unnatural. How the gods themselves sent the cold to punish us for our sins. For turning our backs on a true believer only to embrace a… a…” she lowered her voice to a whisper, “a heretic.”

Jaime didn’t let his concern show, but it was there. Questioning the extent of Dany’s commitment to the Faith was one thing; calling her a heretic was quite another. And while he couldn’t care less what the hypocrites that were men of the cloth had to say about him, or anyone, or anything, he knew that the majority of the population very much did.

“That’s slander,” he found himself saying.

Margaery gave a faint eyeroll, “The man was not in his right mind, Ser. Did you expect me to order the guards to arrest him for having let cold and hunger drive him to latch onto an explanation for his suffering, even if you and I know it to be preposterous?”

“Fine. Was that all?” Jaime asked, eager to get to Maegor’s where the queen awaited him to break their fast together.

Margaery gave a shrug, “That was all I heard. The guards ushered me away and kept the man from following, though he continued shouting. But unfortunately there are other rumors I hear about. I would assume the Master of Whispers is well aware, but if you think the queen might want to know what I’ve heard, just to be sure, I will tell you.”

Jaime nodded, “Tell me what you know, Lady Margaery.”

Daenerys’ buffed fingernails drummed the table’s surface, repetitively but not frantically. Four fingers hitting in a cascade. Pinky, ring finger, middle finger, forefinger. Over and over, with enough time for Jaime to count to two before the sequence repeated.

Ser Barristan stood, as was his wont. Though serving as Daenerys’ Master of Laws, he’d likely never feel like anything but a guard. Varys sat, his face completely impassive, with no sign that he felt even remotely impatient. Pycelle looked to be nodding off, though occasionally he would cough or clear his throat. Jaime knew Pycelle to be his father’s creature, but also knew that Pycelle was first and foremost his own creature. Men who’d do anything to keep their heads were predictable and thus reliable, even trustworthy to a degree.

Missandei stood – also a habit – a step behind and to Daenerys’ right. Grey Worm flanked Daenerys’ other side.

It was after the council meeting, so Mace Tyrell was no longer present – gone off to sup with his darling children. His absence didn’t make for an unfamiliar setting; Daenerys often supped with just those who had been loyal to her before she stepped foot on Westeros soil. Varys counted, apparently, but Jaime still didn’t know what to make of the eunuch. He had certainly helped Daenerys claim her throne, and make it to Westeros to begin with, but Jaime couldn’t help but think that if the man was such a proponent of Targaryen restoration, he might’ve done a whole lot more. What was he doing for all those years Daenerys and Viserys lived as beggars? What was he doing while Daenerys and her motley group of followers trekked across the desert with neither enough food nor water? What was he doing while Daenerys’ enemies encircled her in Meereen? Varys would likely say he didn’t have the resources to help Daenerys directly – his child spies were made for watching, not doing – but it seemed to Jaime that he could’ve sent a bag of gold to the beggar children, at the least. Instead, he sent Daenerys dragon eggs that, so far as he knew, were naught but pretty rocks.

Or maybe he knew full well they were more than that.

Or maybe he knew full well that they were more than that, but only in the right person’s hands.

Regardless, Daenerys trusted Varys. Jaime wanted to trust Varys, but had never found it easy to trust a person whose motives were unknown to him.

“There must be something we can do,” Daenerys spoke at last. Her voice was strangely flat, her eyes uncharacteristically empty, and Jaime knew why.

Edmure Tully had still sent no word to Daenerys in regards his fealty. Some of his vassals had – namely, Lord Frey – but not the paramount himself. Tully’s people were war-weary, it was known, and he may merely be delaying contact until he knew which way his sister Catelyn would go, but it was frustrating to Daenerys that she held Edmure’s uncle, niece, and grandnieces hostage, yet couldn’t force the man’s knees to bend. She had hoped that by letting his people into the city – people who moved to King’s Landing to escape the famine afflicting the Riverlands – she would earn his respect and loyalty. Per Varys, she had some of the people’s loyalty – those smart enough to know there wouldn’t be famine if so many acres of their fertile land hadn’t been put to the torch by men like Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch on the orders of men like Tywin Lannister. But they also knew Tywin Lannister had been paying his debts – sending shipments of grain and livestock and salted meats and dried fruits to feed those people his war had devastated. Take any random person from the Riverlands and give them the choice to kill either Tywin Lannister or Daenerys Targaryen, 90% would choose the former, with the 10% being comprised of stubborn old cunts who grew up on their grandparents’ stories of Aemond One-Eye burning the Riverlands more thoroughly than Tywin Lannister ever could.

But ask those same people whether they’d like to stay in their homes, on their farms, and have full bellies, or to travel to a crowded, stinking city to have full bellies? 100% would choose the former.

Still, Edmure Tully was the least of her concerns, especially since they all held out hope that after Catelyn Stark bent the knee, her little brother would follow suit.

Dorne on the other hand? Prince Doran continued to offer nothing but silence. His lack of obeisance wasn’t the worst thing, but his fealty would’ve been nice. Fealty that wouldn’t have been given begrudgingly, unlike most of the others who’d sworn for Daenerys. Fealty that might bring with it a couple thousand men who’d be the last people in all the realm to support any betrayal that the Lannister men or Tyrell men might someday plan. Jaime supposed that made the Dornish a double-edged sword – their loyalty to Daenerys ought to be absolute, but such loyalty would only piss of Mace Tyrell who was Daenerys greatest ally right now, and the only reason more people weren’t dying of various winter ailments.

Which led to the news worse than the lack of unanimous support of the lords paramount: winter truly was here. The people of King’s Landing suffered, as was inevitable every winter, but Daenerys’ Unsullied were suffering twice as badly. The thousand she’d brought to Westeros was now just around 800, with as many falling ill each day as there were others finally on the mend. And as if that wasn’t enough, per Margaery Tyrell – and as verified by Varys – the people were blaming it all on Daenerys. Winter had only just started when Daenerys arrived – they beat the white raven to the capital by a mere sennight. Apparently, the people found that too coincidental. Daenerys Targaryen had brought a fire-breathing beast to Westeros, banishing the former queen and imprisoning the former king. But the king was known as a man who always paid his debts, and the queen was from a house whose words boasted no family strength or defining trait, but an ominous warning: winter is coming. Winter itself was avenging the wronged queen, some said. Others believed the former queen, or her family, could somehow control the elements… that ‘winter is coming’ was not actually a warning, but a threat. When Daenerys’ men were falling ill and dying even more readily than the average citizen, it all but confirmed the ridiculous theories. The people weren’t intelligent enough to realize that the Unsullied were afflicted at a higher rate because they’d never been exposed to the maladies common in Westeros. Superstition took over, driven by the fear that festered whenever people found themselves dependent on others for survival. When their little backyard or rooftop gardens stopped yielding vegetables, and their chickens stopped laying eggs, and their apple trees became bare of fruit and leaves alike, people grew uneasy. They realized that if they didn’t have coin, they wouldn’t eat. They realized that if they didn’t have enough coin, they wouldn’t eat. And with it being twenty years since the last winter ended, the people found themselves woefully unprepared. They needed warmer clothes and blankets, insulated boots, and more firewood each week than they used to go through in two moons. Then one of their tots would get sick and they’d need to buy herbs from a healer. Or they’d get sick and miss work for a few days, which meant even fewer coins to pay for food and firewood. And thanks to those twenty years of spring and summer, it was all completely foreign to something like a third of the population – those under the age of three and twenty who didn’t remember what cold felt like, what snow looked like. They only knew from tales told by their parents that the last winter ended when the last Targaryen monarch was put down, and this winter started when another Targaryen monarch claimed the throne. Too much of a coincidence for simple minds to handle with logic instead of suspicion.

And as if all that weren’t enough, Tyrion had reported that the lords of the Westerlands were reticent to give their oaths of fealty. They reasoned that Tywin Lannister took the throne legally and without bloodshed, and without making captives and hostages of any nobles. They argued that Daenerys no longer had a claim on the throne – that House Targaryen was beaten and banished by righteous conquest. Daenerys hadn’t seen it that way – calling Tywin’s method of entering the city during Robert’s Rebellion anything but righteous. Dany’s reaction to Tyrion’s news was to storm out of the room, intent on flying Drogon west, but all her advisors agreed that fealty offered under threat of dragonfire was no fealty at all. At least, not one they could trust in the future. It would simply take time for Daenerys to earn the people’s respect – that was Varys’ and Ser Barristan’s point of view, and Mace Tyrell agreed. If Daenerys saw her people through this winter, made allies where she could, she would have the love of the people come Spring.

Dany had finally come around to them being right when more bad news reached them, this time from Meereen. And now they all feared that it would undo all their progress – put the young queen in such a distraught state that she’d do something rash.

“There is nothing we can do, your grace,” Varys responded to Daenerys’ pitiful declaration, bringing Jaime’s attention back to the forum.

“There is always something we can do,” Dany stated more firmly, “I cannot just sit here while my men die by the droves.”

“Your enemies are also dying by the droves,” Jaime interjected, “Assume it will cancel out.”

Dany’s eyes flicked to him, expressing all kinds of betrayal, “I don’t care if ten of my enemies die for every one of my men. I need to do something! I cannot leave them to die!”

Jaime pinched the bridge of his nose, “What could you do against a plague? We can’t even do anything about the cases of grippe and wet lung here in the city, and they’re not half as deadly as the bloody flux.”

Dany shook her head defeatedly, “I could send shipments of food.”

Jaime snorted, “They’ve got more food there than we have here. All you’ll do is start a riot when people at the docks see crates of food being loaded onto ships instead of off of them. Oh, and risk bringing the plague back here when those sailors return from Meereen’s port.”

“Fine. I can send word to Daario, have the sick isolated from the healthy, send some of Lord Redwyne’s ships and Lord Baratheon’s ships to bring—”

“You can’t be serious!” Jaime threw his arms up, “Once more you would risk bringing the plague back to Westerosi shores. You won’t have to worry about Starks or Tullys or Martells, nor any of the damned stubborn fools in the West, because the people of this city will rise up against you.”

“Then what would you have me do?!” Dany stood up only to slam both palms onto the table.

Jaime took a deep breath, “I’d have you do nothing. I’d have you forget about everyone you left in Meereen. If the plague doesn’t do for them, then the Masters will. Or they’ll try, at least. But the people have the numbers, as you know. It is up to them to fight for their freedom. You cannot fight all their battles, your grace. No more than you can fight a plague.”

She shook her head again and lowered herself into her chair, then brought her goblet to her lips and took a long draught of wine.

After a deep breath, Daenerys continued onto the next topic, “Lady Stark will be here within a fortnight. I expect, given all the leverage I have over her, that she will be quite reasonable. If she swears fealty, the shipments of supplies to the North will recommence. If she doesn’t… Well, I won’t get ahead of myself there. The North poses no threat to us, certainly not during winter. My more immediate concern is the houses of the West. You’ve all advised me to take no retribution, but that makes me look weak.”

Jaime snorted, “And going there and burning their lands makes you look like a tyrant.”

Dany’s eyes snapped to him again, “Who said anything about burning? I think it’s time they saw Drogon. Perhaps your brother’s descriptions do not do him justice. Or perhaps your brother is playing me.”

Jaime shook his head, “He wouldn’t. Not with Tommen here, and not with the opportunity to have Casterly Rock for himself.”

Dany nodded, “Fine. I will trust him – for now – but still I think a reminder of the might of House Targaryen would be good for the lords of the West.”

Ser Barristan cleared his throat, “It’s all well and good to scare your enemies, your grace. But it would be better yet to make allies.”

Dany held up her hands, “I’m all ears.”

Ser Barristan shuffled on his feet, “The lords of the Vale swore to you – reward that. Take one of the more influential men as your consort. One who commands a few thousand men. One who—”

“That’s a card she can’t play twice,” Jaime interrupted, “and she’d be better to spend it on Dorne. Then she might find herself with a husband who commands ten thousand spearmen. And, even more practically, thousands of acres of land that will keep producing crops while the rest of Westeros does not.”

Ser Barristan looked at Daenerys expectantly. Daenerys turned to gaze out the window, not meeting either man’s eyes, “I will consider it.”

They spoke of issues closer to home for the rest of the meeting, but Jaime could sense the queen was distracted. Perhaps worried sick for her men in Meereen, with none but a smarmy sellsword to see them through the harsh times. Perhaps fantasizing about turning everything west and north of the Crownlands to ash. Perhaps lamenting the fact that, sooner or later, she’d have to marry.

Perhaps wishing she’d never stepped foot in Westeros.

Perhaps wishing she’d never been kicked out of that house in Braavos, the one with the red door and the lemon tree…

Perhaps wishing she’d been born to any man but Aerys Targaryen.

When she bid all the others to leave but Jaime, he figured he’d find out from the horse’s own mouth within moments.

He’d also find out it was worse than any scenario he had imagined…

“You need to stop suggesting I form an alliance with House Martell – through marriage or any other means,” Daenerys spoke with her chin tilted up, her eyes showing no hint of her underlying feelings.

Jaime knew the look well; it was the one she wore whenever trying to convince herself of her own righteousness. Cersei wore the same look whenever she and Jaime got in a row and Cersei knew she was to blame, but figured if she threw enough unrelated complaints at Jaime, he’d be too busy deflecting them to break through her defenses and reach the place where she hid away the knowledge of her own imperfection.

“Alriiiight,” Jaime drew out the word, “And why is that?”

Daenerys rose just enough to pour herself another goblet of wine, then sunk back into her chair with less grace than she displayed in front of the others. It was flattering to know she was comfortable in his presence. Unless it meant she just didn’t care about the Kingslayer’s opinion or judgment.

She set the goblet down with utmost care, and Jaime saw that she was trying to distract herself with the simple act, as evidenced by the fact that it took her another minute to begin, “Not long after you came to me in Meereen… while you were still a captive… I received another visitor.”

Jaime crossed his arms over his chest, his heart thudding though he wasn’t sure why. “Alright,” he said again.

Daenerys took a deep breath before continuing, “His name was Quentyn Martell. He—”

“Doran Martell’s eldest son,” Jaime whispered. The story could go a hundred different ways, yet somehow Jaime knew how it would end…

Daenerys gave a small nod, “He and his companions had infiltrated the Windblown – a company of mercenaries. Their reason for being in Essos to begin with was to offer to bring me to Westeros. He would marry me, and then Dorne’s full might would help me take the capital. I believe the plan was put in motion while your… while Joffrey still reigned. Actually, it might have been put in motion while Robert Baratheon reigned, as the pact presented to me by Prince Quentyn proposed that my brother Viserys wed his sister Arianne. Odd then, that Doran Martell did not send his proposal to Viserys years ago.” Daenerys shrugged one shoulder, “Viserys was of an age. Arianne was of an age. Why wait?”

Jaime narrowed his eyes, “Dany – what happened to Quentyn Martell?”

She had to take another sip of wine, “I declined his proposal, though without offering insult. I told him I wasn’t ready to leave Meereen, but that I would look forward to being his ally when I did. I was entertaining Hizdahr’s proposal, and entering into a betrothal pact with another man would have tipped my hand to him, wouldn’t it?” she looked at Jaime, offering a forced smile, then settled her eyes back on her wine, “I told him – Quentyn – to go home. He was… he had three years on me, Jaime, yet blushed and stuttered every time my gaze landed on him. The truth was, even if I was ready to leave Meereen that day, I’d not have wanted him as my husband. He had shown some fighting skill, it is true, but he was as meek as a fawn. Such men inspire no lust in me, if I may be blunt. But more importantly, such a man is not suitable as a consort. I need someone strong by my side. Strong and true. And how could I ever trust the Martells? They may blame your father for the deaths of my goodsister and niece and nephew, but was my father not just as much to blame? My brother? They started the war which led to the circumstances surrounding those deaths. For all I know, sending Quentyn to me was all some elaborate ruse to get me under Prince Doran’s thumb so he might eradicate my line once and for all.”

“Dany,” Jaime repeated curtly, “What happened to Quentyn? And why did I never meet him?”

She looked at him long enough to roll her eyes, “Ah yes, introduce my honored guest, Quentyn Martell, to my other honored guest, Jaime Lannister.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about him?”

“I had planned to,” her cheeks darkened and her jaw bulged, “after he departed.”

“And he… didn’t?”

She shook her head, “I was kind to him. I told him I could not wed him, that I had unfinished business in Essos before I could turn toward Westeros. I offered to resume our dialogue someday in the future. I implored him to leave while there were still ways for him to slip through the blockades… But he refused.”

“The fighting,” Jaime guessed at the most logical explanation, “when you and I were… missing. He was a casualty?”

Her eyes squeezed shut, “Jaime, I… It’s worse than that.”

Now his jaw was the one bulging, “Tell me what happened.”

Her chest rose and fell but her eyes never opened as she concluded the grisly tale, “When the fighting broke out in the pits… and later as it spread through the city… He got it in his head that he could earn my regard if only he could prove useful.”

“Prove useful how?”

“By… claiming one of my dragons.”

“Fucking hells,” Jaime ran a hand through his hair, “You told me the Masters sent a group of men to the catacombs to put the beasts down.”

“I lied,” she opened her eyes and practically spat the words at him, “One of my Unsullied saw Quentyn enter the catacombs while his companions kept watch outside. Many of the other guards were distracted by what was going on beyond the pyramid, but still my man feared that Quentyn was going down there to try to kill my children. He raised the alarm, but it wasn’t necessary. Mere seconds after entering the catacombs, Viserion flew out. A few more seconds later Rhaegal did the same. But not before…” Daenerys took a long, defeated breath, “they killed him. His bones and what little belongings he had here came to Westeros with us, in a trunk. I had them sent to Prince Doran with a letter, explaining everything. I told him everything, made sure he would know it was not my fault—”

“Except it was, in a sense.”

Daenerys frowned at him, looking utterly betrayed and more than a little perplexed.

Jaime shook his head, “You couldn’t have predicted what happened, and the only one responsible for Quentyn Martell’s death is Quentyn Martell. But to a grieving father with naught but bones to bury, do you think that’s how it looks? Or do you think all he sees is that if you’d accepted his offer, fled Meereen with shy little Quentyn, you’d still be on the throne, only with his son alive and well, by your side?”

Dany snorted, reaffixing her mask of imperviousness, “If we’d survived getting out of Meereen, I’d not be on the throne. Not yet, anyway. Do you think the might of Dorne would be enough to beat Tywin Lannister, who’d have the West, the Reach, the Stormlands, the Trident, the North, and possibly the Vale on his side? No, it would not be enough. Even if I used Drogon the way Aegon the First used Balerion, Drogon is a fraction the size of the Black Dread, and he is only one dragon. His siblings abandoned me, and why wouldn’t they? It’s precisely what I deserve for abandoning my people.”

As always happened when Daenerys started picking at herself, Jaime switched tack in an instant. No longer was he the one challenging her, he was the one assuaging her, “Daenerys – you did not abandon them. You saved as many as you could. Would staying in Meereen and dying have helped anyone?”

“It would have helped everyone, apparently,” she flung her hand toward the window, outside of which the sun was already nearing the horizon, “I’m a curse on Westeros. A blight. A plague. A disease. I wear a crown that means nothing, when not even half the seven kingdoms endorse me! I came here to change things. To break the wheel! Yet how can I, when I need to play friendly with the same men who keep that wheel rolling! How can I, when it takes all my time just figuring out how to feed the people of this one city? Mace Tyrell could force my hand at any point – do you not realize that? Most of the food being distributed comes from his lands. He could threaten to cut it off if I don’t wed one of his sons!”

“And you could threaten to burn his precious rose gardens.”

She snorted and rose, only long enough to move to the sideboard and refill her wine, then sunk back into the chair, “You mean burn the fields that produce the food for two-thirds of the population north of Dorne?”

“If it came to that, you could focus your attack on Highgarden only.”

“And yet you and everyone else counsels me against using violence to secure loyalty.”

“I’m talking about using violence to punish disloyalty. There’s a big difference. Did my father kill the Reynes and Tarbecks to ensure all his other vassals stayed in line? Or did he do it because the Reynes and Tarbecks fell out of line?”

Daenerys turned to face him, her pale eyes narrow, “You’re suggesting I emulate your father?”

Jaime let out a humorless laugh, because if he stopped to think about it, he was suggesting she emulate his father – at least in her response to any who moved against her, any who betrayed her.

“No,” he stated with finality.

He couldn’t tell if she believed him – couldn’t tell if he believed himself – but with a hum she seemed content to let the matter drop.

Until…

“You haven’t spoken about him. Not since… the trial.”

Jaime crossed his arms, “What’s there to say?”

“You haven’t gone to visit him. Do you think I won’t allow it?”

He shrugged, “Don’t care if you do or don’t. I have no desire to speak to him. Nor do I want to talk about him – he doesn’t deserve to be the subject of my thoughts.”

But in truth, his father was very much on Jaime’s mind. Whenever he wasn’t otherwise occupied, at least. And Daenerys did keep him busy, but there were always voids in the day. The minutes before sleep and the ones after waking. While he ate. While he bathed. While he sparred.

While he slept…

Daenerys nodded, but he could tell there were a hundred things she wanted to say. She settled on, “Tommen has requested the chance to visit with him.”

Jaime’s heart was thudding again, but he knew not why.

“Alright,” he responded, “what’s that got to do with me?”

“Nothing,” she shook her head, “Lady Margaery will accompany him, but I will have Grey Worm escort them. I will not risk your father manipulating Tommen into doing… anything.”

“I doubt he’d embroil Tommen,” Jaime responded honestly, “Assuming he’s written me off, and that he never saw Tyrion as his true son, then Tommen and Myrcella are—” Jaime stopped there, or rather he was stopped by the feeling of a hand reaching into his chest and squeezing his heart like a vice.

“Jaime?”

“What of Myrcella? If Doran Martell does blame you for his son’s death, might he…? Would he…?”

Daenerys moved to him quickly, placing both her hands on his left forearm, “I am most assured by Lord Varys that the Martells are not ones to punish children for the sins of their fathers.”

“Then why hasn’t he sent word of Myrcella? What if…” Jaime stepped away from the queen and ran a hand through his hair, “Gods… what if in a fit of despair, he… If he knew that I was your ally, would he…”

“Jaime!” Daenerys stepped in front of him again, pressing her little hands to his cheeks, trying to force him to look at her, but all Jaime could see was Myrcella, golden curls bouncing as she chased a toddling Tommen around Cersei’s receiving room, going around and around the same invisible perimeter around the wingback chairs that the grown-ups congregated in. He could still hear the precise lilt of her girlish giggles. He could hear Tommen, around bursts of laughter, asking his uncle to come save him. When next the kids passed within arm’s reach, Jaime snapped his arm out, snaring Myrcella who screamed in surprise and delight when Jaime tossed her over his shoulder and tickled her stocking-covered feet.

For a moment, it had felt righter than anything ever had. Jaime laughing, Myrcella laughing, Tommen damned near hysterical.

Until Cersei ordered him to put her daughter down, using the excuse that it wasn’t proper for a four-year-old lady to be thrown over any man’s shoulder, her underclothes visible where her dress had ridden up. As if some creeper had been crouched in a corner hoping to have a peek. Joffrey, who had never cared for childish pursuits, had grinned at Myrcella when Jaime put her down, “You shouldn’t be playing stupid baby games, anyway.”

The giggling stopped then, and Jaime couldn’t remember the next time he’d heard it. Perhaps because he was rarely welcome during family time. Or perhaps because Tommen and Myrcella didn’t have many giggles after that, not when their elder brother was forever picking on them for enjoying anything he deemed juvenile: Myrcella’s love of fairy tales, Tommen’s love of kittens. Jaime didn’t approve of Joffrey’s constant criticism, but he also knew that his soft-hearted niece and nephew wouldn’t do well in the cold, cruel world that Jaime had been intimately familiar with since before his seventeenth birthday. Besides, he remembered being at that awkward age that Joffrey was at when he began picking on his siblings. At that age boys (and girls) are far too eager to reach adulthood and all the privileges and pleasures they expect will come with it.

If only they all knew that life only got harder. That the years of a man’s life were marked by loss, betrayal, pain, illness, fear, and ultimately death. If they knew, perhaps they’d all spend more time being kids. Playing silly games. Not worrying about a thing. Just… being.

He wasn’t sure why Sansa Stark’s face suddenly came to his mind.

He wasn’t sure why Bran Stark’s face suddenly came to his mind.

He wasn’t sure why the faces of his half-sisters, who’d never felt like anything but strangers, came to his mind. They were blurry conjurings, since he hadn’t taken the time to inspect them up close. He only really saw a pair of pale babes with copper-blond hair…

“Jaime,” Daenerys said… perhaps not for the first time.

He forced himself to focus on her eyes. They were so damned childlike, even when she was trying to give him a sultry gaze, or a withering one.

He pulled away and turned, wondering why his face was tingling and his hands felt cramped. Wondering why it felt like he wasn’t there, in Daenerys’ solar, or anywhere. Wondering why it felt like he was dreaming, except he didn’t think his chest would hurt and his hands would be cramped in a dream.

Why was it he tried to imagine Myrcella sitting in some tropical garden right now, safe and unharmed, with her intended by her side making her laugh and smile, but instead he saw the look of shock on Bran Stark’s face when Jaime pushed? Why was it he tried to imagine Joffrey, as he might’ve been if someone had only taken the time to teach him, but all he saw was Aerys, drumming his fingertips on his thigh while waiting for the next accused traitor to be brought before him? Why was it he tried to picture Cersei, young and beautiful and uncorrupted by the world, but all he saw was Sansa Stark, tears streaming down her ruddy cheeks as she told Jaime that she could not stop herself from loving his father?

We cannot help who we love…

The things we do for love…

He didn’t remember deciding to leave.

He didn’t remember deciding where to go.

He was only vaguely aware of Daenerys hissing his name all the way down the corridor. Then he was going down. Then he was crossing the drawbridge and continuing straight across the lower bailey to the dungeon tower. He stormed past the guards, then down to the first underground level, walking until he found the cell that had a lone torch and a lone spear-wielding guard outside it.

“Open it,” Jaime’s voice commanded from somewhere beyond his body.

The guard looked past him, and part of Jaime knew that Daenerys had followed, and that part of him loved her for it, but too much of him was spinning out of control.

The key was put in the lock and turned. It clicked. The guard swung the gate out with his left hand while keeping his right on his spear.

Jaime stepped into the cell and didn’t even take a moment to appraise his father before his hands were fisted in the man’s tunic, lifting him up off the bench where he’d been sitting, and slamming him against the wall. Tywin’s hands went to Jaime’s wrists, but there was no chance of him shaking off Jaime’s hold.

“Why?” he growled, his nose almost pressed to his father’s.

“Why what?” his father instantly replied.

“Why…” a hundred questions formed on his tongue only to dissolve like a single grain of sugar.

And as each disappeared, the real question – the real reason for his being here – was revealed, one letter at a time, and they didn’t dance around just to fuck with him. Letters stopped doing that sometime after this man spent night after night after night – for months – teaching Jaime how to make the letters stay put long enough to see the words they made, and the sentences those words made.

And he’d done it all without once making Jaime feel like a dullard, though he must’ve feared it was so.

Or did he know that Jaime wasn’t the lackwit the maesters believed him to be?

His sister, on the other hand, used to mock and tease him for being so far behind her in their studies. She was reading history tomes while Jaime was trying to spell the word ‘dog’.

“Why,” he repeated, then released those words that were all he could see, “Why do we love, when all love brings us is pain? Why do men like us, men who know better, willingly walk around with such a gaping hole in our shield, such an obvious chink in our armor? I fucked the wife of the man I swore vows to honor and serve. I conspired to steal his legacy, after helping my sister bleed his from her body. I fathered children I could never claim, that I could barely even spend time with. I pushed a child out a tower window! I would have killed anyone if it meant getting back to her! And to avenge her? I turned against my own blood. My sire. Why? Why?! Why do we give into it, when all it does is make us weak? It makes us become monsters. So why?”

They were still nose-to-nose, Jaime’s hands still gripping his father’s tunic, his father’s hands still gripping his wrists, yet Jaime could no longer tell whether he was threatening his father, or holding him.

“You ask why?” Tywin eventually drawled, “Because if it’s real… if it’s pure… if it’s truly love, it doesn’t turn a man into a monster. It turns a monster into a man.”

Jaime released his father with a shove, hating that he flinched when Tywin hit the wall again.

Jaime appraised him finally, as Tywin righted himself and tried to look dignified rather than defeated. But he was most definitely the latter. His face was gaunt and, perhaps as a result, carried more and deeper wrinkles. His beard was long, as were the fine hairs on his head – what was left of them. His clothes were rumpled and dirty, and the entire cell smelt of sweat and dirt and shit and piss – the latter two hopefully from the pisspot and not wafting off his father’s person. Tywin Lannister still cut a daunting figure, however. His legs long, his back straight, his chest broad, his chin high, his gaze piercing.

He hated him.

He hated that his father still knew how to prod at Jaime, how to wound him so effectively. By insinuating that Jaime’s love for Cersei was not real, not pure.

He hated his father, because he could not deny the accusation. He’d told Daenerys once that he didn’t love Cersei, that he was Cersei. And that Cersei was him. And perhaps that’s where they went wrong. They were a monster, alright – one cut straight down the middle. And only in coming together were they truly horrible. Apart, they could almost pass for decent people. But together? Together they were a liar, a manipulator, a backstabber, a traitor, a murderer…

Jaime turned and left the cell, stepping past Daenerys who had stood at the threshold, not making a single peep.

She did not turn with him, instead staring into the shadowy cell. One might believe she was a little girl standing outside the bear cage of a traveling fair – equal parts fascinated and terrified. Terrified of a beast that couldn’t hurt her, but that the prey within her knew had every right to.

Jaime didn’t like to see that. He turned and took three steps down the corridor then halted, waiting.

For long moments he heard nothing. Then, he heard his father ask, “So – how are things going up there?”

Daenerys made no verbal response, and that was all a man like Tywin Lannister needed.

“Hm. Not so well, then. Let me make a wild guess: you haven’t been showered with the unanimous love you naively thought your name deserved. Short of their love, you’d take their fealty, but you haven’t got that, either. And now you realize that dragon of yours is a lose-lose proposition. If you don’t use it to conquer your enemies, you’ll look weak. But if you do use it to conquer your enemies, you’ll look like a tyrant. Another mad Targaryen.”

To her credit, fiercer men than her would have wilted after a dressing-down by Tywin Lannister. Daenerys only let out a snort and said, “Has it occurred to you I don’t want to conquer enemies but rather to make friends? That I don’t want to use fear to instill loyalty? No. I suppose that’s a foreign concept to you.”

“What pretty lies you tell. I wonder if you still believe them.”

“It’s the truth! Just because you can’t relate—”

“What other troubles do you face? Are the people going hungry? Dying from winter-borne afflictions? Are you spending half your day turning down marriage proposals, because you know that picking one will give you one more ally and a few dozen more enemies?”

“I need no man to rule by my side.”

Tywin hummed, “Perhaps not. But perhaps it would help. Perhaps he could convince you to do all those things you want to do, but are afraid to.”

“I’m not afraid of anything,” Dany hissed.

Now it was Tywin who snorted, “No, you’re not afraid to do it. You’re afraid of how it will make you look. And therein lay your problem. The same as every Targaryen who ruled before you: vanity,” he spat the word like a curse, “Some wanted to be seen as benevolent, others devout, others powerful, others merciful, others wise, others fearsome. But you may be the first who wants to be seen as all those things. And if you try to juggle so many balls, you’ll end up dropping all of them.”

“Is this your advice?” Dany spoke glibly, “And why should I take advice from you, anyway? You probably pray that I will snap. That I’ll become as mad as my father so the realm will unite against me, and you’ll somehow end up back on top.”

“I care naught for being at the top. It’s a long fall from there to the ground.”

“A pretty lie. Do you still believe it?” she parroted.

“It’s no lie.”

“I find that hard to believe, but I won’t argue. You’re not worth my time.”

“I’m the only one who should be worth your time, because I’m the only one who could help you untie all the knots you’ve made.”

“Am I a juggler or some type of ropemaker?”

“You’re an orphan from Essos playing at being queen. And I’ll make another wild guess that you surround yourself with those you deem trustworthy – none of whom have any experience ruling.”

“Oh, this is rich. You’re trying to bargain for your freedom, aren’t you? By offering your aid to me, as if I would trust it!”

“Not bargaining for my freedom. I know that won’t be granted until I meet my end – or you meet yours.”

“Is that a threat?”

“It’s a fact. Or do you prefer being spoon-fed honey-covered turds?”

Dany snorted, “Out of curiosity, what would you want in return for your unparalleled counsel?”

“Sunlight. An hour each day. A bath. And… reassurance.”

“I would insist on the bath before spending any length of time with you. Sunlight every day, you do not deserve. Perhaps once each sennight. And what sort of reassurance?”

“That my wife and daughters live, and live unharmed. Those were the terms of my surrender and my abdication. But instead of having to live with my choice for as long as it would take to walk to the executioner’s block, I have to live with it for the rest of my natural life. That wasn’t part of our deal. So yes, I’d like reassurance, written by my wife’s hand.”

It was silent then, and Jaime’s heart was pounding once again. He did not trust his father not to manipulate Daenerys if she took him up on his offer of counsel. And yet he desperately wanted to see such a letter himself. To know that all the ugly things he’d done for Cersei, for Cersei’s memory, hadn’t included the death of three innocent girls, two of whom shared his blood.

“I find it humorous that you think I need or want your counsel, Lord Lannister. But I can sympathize with your… concern. For your wife and children. Knowing it may bode well for my visit with Lady Stark, I shall have Lady Sansa send a letter, addressed to you and her mother both. But do not mistake my mercy for softness, Lord Lannister.”

“I wouldn’t dare, your grace. And my other requests?”

“As I’m not accepting your assistance, I believe I owe you nothing. Good evening.”

With that, Daenerys stepped out of the cell, nodded at the guard, and walked straight past Jaime toward the stairwell.

Neither said a word, but it wasn’t necessary.

Jaime knew that what she had just promised the father was actually a gift for the son.

Notes:

For the record, I'm trying to replicate Daenerys' struggles in Essos in Westeros and to show what I think would be likely if another Targaryen came to conquer Westeros, even if by much kinder methods than Aegon did. Also trying to show what I think is reality for that time period (and many others): a lone woman in charge is unsettling to the masses - male and female alike since the latter have been indoctrinated into the belief that women cannot do the things that men can. They're comfortable having that belief too, because otherwise they have to wonder what excuse they have for not making better of their situation. Not going to go on a feminist rant. Just want to say this chapter wasn't intended to bash Daenerys but to paint a picture of what I think she'd be met with if she took the throne. In short, there'd be people who wanted to test her before kneeling - particularly those who aren't in the city where Drogon sleeps.

I didn't introduce the Quentyn plotline earlier b/c I honestly didn't know if I'd want to go there. I decided to address it b/c that's one aspect of canon that wouldn't have changed due to the changes in my fic (a la, Tywin taking the throne). Quentyn was en route to Daenerys pretty early in canon, and met his share of obstacles before getting to her. Also, I included since it will be related to some other threads I plan to include. This tapestry is getting complicated, guys!

Finally, if Jaime's little episode seems out of nowhere, that's by design. I see his character in my fic and in canon as the type to repress his feelings, spackle over his guilt/fear/trauma/remorse with his feigned apathy and cockiness, and keep adding another layer of spackle until the patch job is so shitty that it cracks. Ergo, relatively benign things can set Jaime off because they're really just the straw that broke the camels back.

Chapter 50: I will not give up

Notes:

When I decided to extend this fic past Tywin taking the throne, it was THIS chapter that wrote itself in my mind. Hope you enjoy another non-Sansa POV.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Catelyn

Catelyn sat in the small dining chamber of the apartments they’d been given, appreciating the ingenuity of Winterfell’s radiant heating system like she never had before.

Dragonstone was a cold place, and dreary. The sea air was damp and frigid; the wind was the type that seemed like it was trying to cut a person in half. It was bad enough that it smelled of rotten eggs so badly that she had to keep reminding herself not to defend her personal hygiene or bodily functions to her companions, but did it have to be so damned cold, too? The fire in the large hearth seemed to be losing a battle to the draft blowing in through the shuttered window.

From what little she’d seen of this place upon her approach and the subsequent journey to these rooms, the Targaryens had been entirely concerned with vanity and not even remotely concerned with comfort when building this place. Dragons were incorporated into every aspect of the architecture and décor. Gods, even Lannisters weren’t so proud and vain as to shape their buildings like lions, nor to have their sharp-fanged sigils growling down at their guests from every corner. But if the keep at Dragonstone had been constructed with at least some consideration for human comfort, Catelyn might forgive the Targaryens their eccentricity and self-adoration. But no, the place was entirely too open to the elements. The corridors and stairways had large open windows without glass panes. And the shutters – like the ones in this room – were clearly added as an afterthought. Perhaps by the current owner, who Catelyn had heard was practical to a fault.

No wonder the lord of this place was said to hate it so. No wonder he was said to be such a humorless, joyless sort. If Catelyn had spent the past twenty years here, she’d have… Well, she’d have made use of one of the numerous windows or balconies and thrown herself into the sea.

Though perhaps if her world hadn’t fallen apart for the third time – or was it the fourth? Fiftyh? – she’d not feel so morbid. But mothers could not be happy while their children were suffering – she learned that while spending weeks at Bran’s bedside, when it took an assassin nearly killing mother and son both to tear her out of her melancholy and imbue her with an anger that propelled her return to activity. She only wished she’d chosen a different activity, but she’d long made peace with her past. The Father would judge her someday, as was His right and duty, but until then it would do no one any good for her to wallow in her failures.

During the war she learned that nor could a mother be happy when her children’s fates were unknown to her. Wondering about how her sweet girls – feisty Arya who only wanted to be friends with the whole world, and delicate Sansa who only wanted to be loved – had fared after Ned’s execution had been a special kind of torture. Worrying about how her little Bran would come to terms with his disability while needing to present himself as worthy of respect as Winterfell’s acting lord had made her stomach burn constantly. Fearing that Rickon would not remember her by the time she returned to Winterfell had made her skin itch to mount her mare and ride like the wind for her cold, imposing home.

Later, hearing that Rickon and Bran were dead had brought her to her knees, teaching her that there was, indeed, a pain worse than losing the man she loved. Losing one’s children was… Well, she would not wish that pain on the most vile woman in all the realm, whoever she may be now that Cersei Lannister was dead. She had clung to the slim hope that it had all been a mistake – that her littlest ones lived – because otherwise she might have found a length of rope and done the unforgivable.

When word came of Robb’s death, it proved that losing children was a nuanced sort of experience. Bran and Rickon had been so young that the idea of their demise made her want to scream the injustice to the world. She had wanted to hunt down the Stranger and give him a taste of his own brew. She had wanted to kill Theon Greyjoy with her fists and nails and teeth, then do it a thousand times over. But losing Robb had broken her down. She had remembered holding him, her firstborn, and feeling for the first time a love that was unshakeable and unconditional. If he had grown up to be Gregor Clegane or Joffrey Waters, she’d still have loved him. If he had been the one to kill Ned, she’d still have loved him. She might have put him down herself, but she’d have done it out of love – to prevent him from staining his soul with any more sins that the Father would hold him accountable for.

Robb’s death was a pain she still carried. Like a rheumy joint it would flare up on occasion, and at other times be hardly noticeable. But she had learned to take comfort in having four of her five children alive and well. Relatively well. She knew it was more than she deserved and also knew that some women had lost all their children in the war, or to any number of causes.

For a few months there, things had been as good as they could ever be after losing Ned and Robb.

Then Bran left, and while she worried for him every day, she took comfort in knowing that whatever his fate, it would be his choice. No Greyjoy or Bolton had taken his life. And beyond that, there was something oddly comforting in the confidence the Reed children – both older and seemingly worldlier than Bran – had expressed. Catelyn convinced herself that Bran going beyond the Wall was indeed fated. She only knew that if he met his end there, it would be another gaping wound in her that she’d have to patiently wait to scab and eventually heal in its own sweet time.

Besides, Catelyn had her hands full with Rickon, even with the unorthodox support of Osha the Wildling and Clegane the Hound.

She snorted – not having intended to do it aloud – and both her companions tore their gaze away from the fire they’d all taken a chair in front of to look at her.

Gendry, her goodson, seemed mildly confused to see her looking so… carefree. She was most definitely not without cares, but perhaps those burdensome things had piled up so high that they had broken her at last. And so be it. Did the mad suffer? She did not think so.

Ser Kevan had a more curious look about him, his green eyes asking if she was well, or if the source of her amusement was something he had the right to know.

Ser Kevan Lannister. Who led reaving parties across the Riverlands. Across my homelands. Who did so on the orders of Lord Tywin Lannister, the man old enough to be my father who became my goodson. Who proved to have a heart, even if it only beat for the rare woman who could thaw it. My daughter.

And Gendry Waters, my other goodson. A bastard. A blacksmith’s apprentice. An illiterate. Yet a kind soul, who would die for Arya in a heartbeat.

She had swallowed her opinion on the boy early on, out of gratitude for his protection of her daughters and a knowledge that to question his relationship with Arya would only drive Catelyn out of Arya’s confidences. She’d also had bigger fish to fry – being traded for her daughter when she had been more than ready to meet her end. To return to a Riverrun absent Hoster Tully. To know that, once again, her foolish, grief-driven actions had hurt her house. Gendry Waters having an innocent crush on her daughter, and Arya returning the favor, hardly seemed like an issue worth Catelyn’s fretting.

And then her fretting proved to be for naught. Sansa had not been made into the Lion of Lannister’s hostage, she had been made his queen. The queen. Queen to a man who would protect her with the same ferocity that Brandon Stark possessed while trying to avenge his sister. With the same selflessness with which Catelyn Stark had protected her son from an assassin. With the same wildness with which Shaggy protected Rickon. With the same violence with which Sandor Clegane would protect anyone placed in his care.

With the same love with which Gendry would protect Arya, or Arya would protect Gendry.

She met the lad’s eyes and offered a small smile, which prompted his cheeks to darken even as he returned the gesture.

She snorted again. If two years ago someone had told her she’d be sitting in a room with her bastard goodson and a bloody Lannister, and that both would be not just her allies but her… family… she’d have suggested that person see a maester with haste.

Kevan looked on the cusp of inquiring as to the source of her good spirits when there were two knocks on the door. None in the trio took the initiative to respond, so after a few heartbeats the door slowly opened.

Ser Davos Seaworth, who looked as unassuming as he spoke, tipped his head, “My lords, my lady – Lord Baratheon will see you now, if you’ll come with me?”

She did not like having been kept waiting, especially considering she did not think Stannis Baratheon was busy overseeing his island of fishermen and goat herders, but she did not hold it against Ser Davos. Nor would she express any displeasure to the man. After all, he was the reason she was here, though she’d have to get Lord Baratheon’s permission to borrow his smuggler-knight, just as someone would need her or Arya’s permission to borrow Ser Rodrik.

They were led down the drafty corridor, up two flights of stairs, and across an open bridge. Catelyn pulled her hood up and accepted Ser Kevan’s elbow, wondering whether he was stealing the warmth off her left side or she the warmth off his right side. She decided to think of it as an equitable exchange.

The tower they were led into was taller than the one they’d been put up in some hours ago – before the sun had even threatened to touch the horizon. Ser Davos nodded at a pair of guards who protected the entrance from the bridge, greeting each of them in a voice that was gruff but warm. Catelyn nodded at the men as she passed, a subtle show of gratitude for their protection – a reminder that her party were guests here, not a potential threat.

Up two more flights of stairs Catelyn felt winded but refused to show it. She was in great shape for her age, but fear of being refused, piled on top of the constant fear she had for her daughter and granddaughters, made her heart race and her breaths quicken.

They finally arrived at their apparent destination. Ser Davos approached double doors intricately carved with dragon motifs – shocking – and told the guard on the right side that he had returned with the dowager Lady Stark, Lord Gendry Stark, and Lord Kevan Lannister. The formality seemed an annoyance to the man, and Catelyn imagined that Dragonstone was a less formal place when absent highborn visitors – which was probably 99% of the time.

The guards pushed the doors open and held them that way while Ser Davos ushered Catelyn and her companions into the room. Ser Kevan and Gendry had relinquished their weapons upon arrival, so Catelyn was unsurprised when the guards ducked back into the hall instead of standing sentry within.

It proved to be a vast space, and so impressive that Catelyn had to stifle a gasp. It must be a hundred paces square, with thick stone columns supporting the ceiling, which was covered in intricate façade. Each section of wall between the supports had a different scene or theme carved into the stone. There were two large hearths – one on what she thought was the east wall and one on the west, and four tall, skinny windows which were currently shuttered, judging by the slight movement of the gray drapes in front of them.

Catelyn took this in within moments, then fixed her eyes on the famed Painted Table, from which Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wives planned their invasion of Westeros. Shivers crawled up Catelyn’s spine and all her limbs to think that history was repeating itself. Only this time, instead of the North being spared the dragon’s cruelty due to the pragmatism (or cowardice) of Torrhen Stark, it was House Stark itself that had been directly attacked, whose suffering was the price of the new invader’s ascension.

And that’s what Targaryens were to Catelyn – invaders. Worse, they were parasites. A pestilence. A blight. No matter their claims of greatness, or piety, or humanity, they brought only suffering. In their self-righteousness they used brute force (traditionally that of their dragons) to wrench others into submission, but once they had that submission their violence didn’t end. Catelyn could recite dozens of cases of Targaryen violence, cruelty, warmongering, or – at best – mistakes that proved to have disastrous consequences. Her lord father had made sure she knew there was not just sickness but pure evil in the blood of the dragon, and she had tasted it for herself when her betrothed rode to the capital seeking justice only to be delivered a heinous death. She had also felt it through the man who ended up giving her his cloak – her betrothed’s younger brother. How lost poor Ned had been after coming home from a war that had seen him lose two siblings and one parent, which in turn drove his other sibling to pledge himself to the Night’s Watch because he could not stay in Winterfell with the ghosts of those he’d loved and lost.

She forced herself to take a deep breath and not become awestruck at the sight of the massive table. It had to be about fifty feet long and six feet at its widest point. She knew it depicted Westeros – from Sunspear up to the Wall – as it had appeared before Aegon’s conquest.

She counted ten candelabras spaced equally along its length, painting the painted table in splotches of light and shadow.

And at the far end of the table, barely visible due to the distance and the flickering light, sat a single man.

“My lord, I present Lord Kevan Lannister, Lady Catelyn Stark and Lord Gendry Stark.”

Kevan and Gendry bowed deeply while Catelyn curtsied – using muscles she hadn’t used in years.

“See them in, Ser Davos,” a deep and graveled voice called out. Catelyn wasn’t sure if it was the resonance in the man’s tone, or the absolute authority said tone conveyed, but she had shivers for the second time in under a minute, by her reckoning.

They were bid to follow Ser Davos into then across the room to where he gestured to the three chairs closest to the Lord of Dragonstone.

Gendry was pulling out one of said chairs when said lord jumped out of his seat, his heavy chair scraping harshly against the stone floor as he threw himself a step back from the table in sheer terror.

With the sound of wind beating the tower and waves breaking against it some ten stories down, Catelyn almost didn’t hear the word Stannis whispered in awe.

Renly…”

Stannis’ eyes were locked on Gendry. Sers Kevan and Davos gazed between Stannis and Gendry, then finally both turned to Catelyn as if expecting her to have an explanation. She could offer only a shrug.

Then, in the span of a heartbeat, Stannis’ gaze went from astonished to outraged. Gods, but his jaw was as square as a block. Catelyn hadn’t seen him since he and she were both teenagers, and she’d hardly paid him much mind when Brandon Stark had been there with his rugged good looks and roguish smile, but all she could think was that if Stannis’ head had been so square as a child, she wondered how Lady Cassana had managed to pass him.

“Whatever you came here to ask of me,” Stannis managed to speak without separating his upper teeth from the lower ones, “or to propose to me, or to beg of me, or to try to demand of me… Do not think that I will be endeared to your cause simply because we’re now bound through blood.”

He had directed the words to Catelyn, though his eyes frequently flitted to Gendry’s, as if he was insulted by his very presence.

But as much as he was insulted, Catelyn was more confused.

“I beg pardon, Lord Baratheon?” she asked, keeping her voice steady.

He flicked long fingers with hairy knuckles in Gendry’s direction, “Do you think I feel indebted to you for giving my nephew legitimacy?”

“Your what?!” Catelyn, Gendry, and Kevan peeped in chorus.

“Because as I heard it,” Stannis continued, “Tywin Lannister gave your daughter no choice but to marry a nobody.”

“Who the fu—I mean, who exactly do you think I am?!” Gendry barked out, looking as shocked as Catelyn felt. She eyed her goodson, wondering what Stannis could be implying – and wondering if the lord might’ve lost his marbles – but found herself gasping instead.

All at once, what ought to have been obvious to her from the get-go was plain as day: Gendry possessed all the defining characteristics of a Baratheon male. Above-average height, broad shoulders, sturdy build, pitch-black hair, and sea-blue eyes. Beyond that, if Catelyn thought back to those blurry memories of that same tourney where she saw Stannis Baratheon for the first and last time, she could faintly recall Robert Baratheon’s appearance. Suffice to say, a young lady could dampen her smallclothes just by looking at him. His reputation as a lecher, not to mention as the betrothed to her betrothed’s younger sister, was enough to keep Catelyn from featuring him in any fantasies, but she certainly wouldn’t be surprised if many a girl had hugged their pillows those nights while wishing Robert’s slab-like muscles would replace the feather filling.

But a resemblance to Robert did not mean Gendry was his get. Anyone who saw Arya next to Sandor Clegane might assume she was his daughter, and Catelyn was certain she’d remember laying with such a man.

“That’s a Flea Bottom accent,” Ser Davos spoke, seemingly directing his words at his lord even as his gaze never left Gendry.

Gendry looked at the man and shrugged, “What of it?”

“You might notice I have the same.”

“Right. And about half a million other people.”

“Lord Baratheon suspects you are the illegitimate son of his late brother – King Robert,” Catelyn explained to the confused lad.

“What?!” Gendry squawked, at the same moment Stannis scoffed, “Suspect? He looks more like bloody Robert than Robert did!”

“Children don’t always resemble their parents, Lord Bara—”

Stannis turned to face her, flinging his hand again, “I know my brother’s get when I see one!”

Catelyn widened her eyes at his rudeness, but the man didn’t keep his gaze on her long enough to be shamed. He turned back to Gendry, “You were a blacksmith’s apprentice on the Street of Steel, were you not?”

Gendry’s mouth opened and closed, emitting not a sound, before he nodded.

“As I thought,” Stannis spoke haughtily. “You must be the one Jon Arryn was going to bring me to, before he was murdered.”

Catelyn gasped, “You mean Jon Arryn knew Gendry to be… to be…”

“Robert’s get, yes!” Stannis barked, “Arryn was finding all of Robert’s bastards so as to have proof that Cersei’s brats were, in fact, not sired by Robert.”

“Is that why the lord hand came to see me?” Gendry asked, looking absolutely flabbergasted.

“Aye,” Stannis nodded, “Arryn had—”

“Not Lord Arryn but…” Gendry gave a quick glance to Catelyn, “Well, that one, too, but I was talking about Lord Stark. My… the man who’d be my goodfather now.”

“What?!” Catelyn screeched, “When did Ned visit you?!”

Gendry blushed, “I dunno, exactly. Not long before he was arrested, I think. He only talked to me a little. Complimented my work. I never said noth- I never said anything to Arya because talking about her pa always made her angry.”

Stannis scoffed, “So not one but two Hands of the King visited you and you didn’t find that strange?”

Gendry straightened his spine, and Catelyn realized he was not more than two finger-widths shorter than Stannis, “I thought they wanted some armor. High lords were always comin’ in. Master Mott was the best armorer in the city, maybe the world. He was one of few men who could work Valyrian steel.”

Stannis narrowed his eyes at Gendry before facing Catelyn again, “You expect me to believe you had no idea he was Robert’s when you arranged his marriage to your daughter? It would’ve been clever, I admit. Meet the lion’s requirements by giving your daughter’s hand to some commoner, then take your time plotting a way to put him,” he once again flicked a hand toward Gendy, “on the throne.”

Catelyn scoffed, “You mean usurp my own daughter and her husband?! Steal my granddaughter’s birthright?!”

The impudent man scoffed back, “Why not? You mean to tell me it sat well with you, seeing Tywin Lannister wear the crown? You mean to tell me your daughter wasn’t dead to you the moment she chose her lover over her—”

She watched her hand as if it belonged to someone else, and didn’t feel the sting in her scarred palm until three heartbeats after it had collided with the man’s bearded cheek.

Her entire body was vibrating with rage. Like a kettle on the brink of whistling, her blood was boiling, her eyes leaking tears, her hands shaking.

The square jaw bulged, then thin lips parted to say, “Are you done? I’ve had quite my fill of hysterical women in my—”

Shut up,” she breathed, her voice nothing more than a whisper, and just as shaky as the rest of her, “My daughter will not be dead to me until I have seen her corpse, and even then I will keep fighting – for vengeance, or for my granddaughters’ wellbeing, or for both. She and her lover ended a war that too many of us were complicit in starting. While you sat in the safety of this place,” Catelyn gestured around them, “sending your little letters, my daughter was living in a muddy cage in Harrenhal, with no friends but a sister whose head barely came up to her chest, and this young man,” she pointed at Gendry without taking her eyes off Stannis, who was staring back at her in something like shock. “While you sat on your warhorse, wearing your fancy armor and your fancy sword, surrounded by guards, my daughter was dragging her blistered feet through the woods around Harrenhal, knowing that to be caught would be to die at the hands of someone like Gregor Clegane. While you sailed toward the Blackwater Bay with every surety of your impending victory and ascension, my daughter was mourning not one but three brothers while realizing she carried the child of the man who was her family’s enemy. And while you were back here after finally tasting some humility, my daughter was negotiating with that same enemy – a man widely considered to be the most cunning and dangerous in all of Westeros. In one afternoon, she turned our greatest enemy into our most powerful ally, and since then has done nothing but earn the love of her people while doing her duty as wife and queen. And instead of being rewarded with a lifetime of peace and happiness – or even a few bloody years of it! – she is stolen from her home by Aegon the Conqueror reborn. My daughter may very well be dead, Lord Baratheon. My granddaughters may very well be dead,” Catelyn jutted her chin, choosing to feel no shame about the tears blurring her vision, “Unlike you, I cannot go to the capital to see them, to know they are well. Unlike you, I cannot bend the knee and expect it will mean a reunion with all of them, or even some of them. But I will not give up on them. I won’t trust the word of a dragon. But I am humble enough to know I alone cannot help my daughter. So, I am here to appeal to a man who I know values duty and honor as much as any Tully does. I would appeal to the man who would have starved to death before relinquishing his family home to the mad dragons’ allies – before turning himself and his little brother into hostages who would be used against his elder brother.”

Though her words had spewed out without much thought or strategy, she was aware of enough of them to feel she had made a riveting speech. The three men in the room other than Stannis Baratheon had lowered their heads, whether to pray for Sansa and her daughters, or in a show of respect to a grieving mother, or in a show of unity, she did not know.

And for long moments she held Stannis’ gaze and was certain he would hold out a hand for her to shake, or perhaps drop to one knee and reaffirm his allegiance to Sansa and Tywin Lannister through their proxy, Catelyn Stark.

Instead, he let out a breath that smelled of lemons, and turned his head toward the hearth on his right side, “I am not unsympathetic to your plight, but my daughter is in the dragon queen’s clutches. If Daenerys Targaryen even knows that you and I are meeting like this, Shireen may suffer.”

Catelyn would have preferred he return her slap than to utter those words.

She could not accept them.

“You swore your allegiance to Tywin Lannister,” she stated.

“He abdicated his rule to Daenerys Targaryen.”

“Abdicated under extreme duress! Under what was effectively blackmail of the worst kind! His wife and daughters’ lives hung on his choice.”

“It was still a choice.”

Catelyn gasped, taking a step back from the man, “Was it?”

“It was. He handed her the city. He could have denied her demands, even if it cost him his head, and the heads of his wife and daughters. Had he not a son and grandson still in the city? A brother safe at Winterfell? A sister, and countless cousins and second cousins, and nephews and nieces safe in Lannisport?”

“And did she not have a dragon?”

“One that didn’t make an appearance until after your goodson surrendered.”

“What difference does that make?” Kevan finally entered the discussion, “If my brother had chosen to resist, the only difference would be that now there’d be four more casualties. No, likely thousands more casualties, because Daenerys Targaryen would’ve had to take her crown as her ancestor did – with fire and blood. I wonder if your precious daughter would’ve survived.”

Stannis’ jaw bulged again, “It matters not. Tywin Lannister made his choice, and now I’m making mine. The only favor I will do you is to extend my hospitality so you need not set sail on this windy night, and to deliver to you a message. As it is, it is enough for the queen to consider me a traitor, and you may think me craven if you will, but it is not my own neck I fear for, but my daughter’s!”

Catelyn shook her head in disappointment and perhaps disbelief, but had to trudge on, “I will accept both, but demand you give me another courtesy: hear what I am asking of you before declining.”

Stannis turned away from her again, bodily this time, while rubbing his deeply creased forehead with his fingers. It so reminded her of Ned – the creases and the rubbing – that she felt a wave of nostalgia.

“You are a particularly stubborn woman,” Stannis said, and despite the words being insulting, he said them with more resignation than condescension – a first for the night.

While Catelyn was considering her response, Ser Davos let out a chuckle, “Well ain’t that the pot calling the kettle black.”

Kevan snorted in amusement, and even Gendry smiled at the old smuggler, “If you think she’s stubborn, you should meet Arya.” His smile straightened as he realized his words and looked at Catelyn in utter fear, “I mean – Lady Arya. I mean, Lady Stark. The younger Lady Stark. Oh! Not that you’re the old lady Stark, but… And I didn’t mean stubborn as a bad thing!” Finally, he shut his mouth, realizing he was only digging himself a deeper hole.

Catelyn only rolled her eyes. Gendry’s casual ways would have been appalling to her, back before the war, but the past few years had redefined the word ‘appalling’ and made her aware that her priorities had been grossly out of order. She ought to have worried about protecting her husband and children instead of seeking justice for her estranged sister’s elderly husband. She ought to have taught Sansa how to put a needle into a man’s eye rather than how to put one through thread. And she ought to have embraced Jon Snow, because despite all the fears she used to have regarding the bastard’s dark potential, she knew he’d never do what Theon Greyjoy did, nor what Roose Bolton did. He might have stayed at Winterfell and been there for Rickon and Bran. Or he might’ve joined Robb on the march, been there for Robb every day of the damned war. Been there to convince him to go home instead of chasing vengeance for a ghost and a cure to his own wounded pride.

He might’ve been there in the woods, when Petyr’s sellswords stole Catelyn’s firstborn…

“Well,” Davos took a deep breath, “You might be the spitting image of Robert and Renly, lad, but you certainly didn’t inherit their gift of gab.”

A loud sigh followed Davos’ jest, and Stannis finally turned back around, “Proceed, Lady Stark – but do not give yourself false hope over my willingness to listen.”

Catelyn nodded, “Very well, and I thank you, Lord Baratheon. Now, I do not ask for you to go against the dragon queen. I am not asking you to lead a naval assault on the capital, nor to muster an army—”

“As if I could,” he mumbled sourly.

Catelyn took a deep breath, “I had merely hoped you might lend the North the services of your… right hand man.”

All eyes went to Davos, who lifted his eyebrows comically, “Me?”

Catelyn nodded and even gave the man a small smile, “Aye, Ser. I will travel to King’s Landing from here, to treat with this Targaryen girl, as she is expecting. My intention is to demand that at least one of my granddaughters be returned to me, in exchange for the North’s fealty.”

Davos held up a hand on which all four fingers were short by a knuckle, “Save your breath, my lady. You want this old smuggler to follow whatever vessel the queen dispatches – without being seen, of course – and then tell you where your girls are being held.”

Kevan snorted in amusement, “Well you are infinitely easier to converse with than your lord, Ser.”

Stannis let out an annoyed huff, “Is this all you ask? Will it be enough? Ser Davos can easily spy on some sea vessel and tell you where it makes port, but that won’t do you much good, will it? No – you need him to follow the queen’s men straight to where your daughter and granddaughters are – or do you plan to comb all of Pentos, or Braavos, or the deserts of Dorne or the Great Dothraki Sea looking for them?!”

“That’s where we come in,” Gendry cut in, “Ser Kevan and me. We don’t ask your man to take the risk of following men on foot.” Gendry turned to Ser Davos, “Meaning no offense, Ser, but we’ve heard tell of your stealth on the water, not on dry land.”

Ser Davos shrugged, “Truth be told I’m good at both, but aye, the sea is where I’m the greater asset – or threat.”

Gendry nodded and turned back to Stannis, “Me and Ser Kevan will—”

“Ser Kevan and I will,” Stannis rolled his eyes.

Gendry blinked in confusion, “You and Ser Kevan will find Lady Sansa and the girls? You agree to—”

Stannis waved a hand, “I’m not volunteering for anything! I was merely correcting your grammar.”

Gendry cast a confused look to Catelyn. She just closed her eyes and shook her head.

Gendry cleared his throat, “Right. I and Ser Kevan—”

“Ser Kevan and…” Stannis huffed, “Nevermind.”

“Um… anyway, us two will follow the men and figure out how to take care of whoever’s guarding ‘em. Then we’ll see ‘em back to wherever Ser Davos tells us to meet him. Or if he’s not willing to stick around and wait for us then we’ll find our own way back. We got gold.”

Stannis lifted his eyebrows, deepening the creases that spanned his large forehead, “You two will take out all the guards? You know for three hostages there will be at least twice that many guards, don’t you?” he asked skeptically.

Gendry jutted his chin, “We figure for tracking them, the less men we are, the better.”

Stannis opened his mouth to say something, but Davos held up a hand. The lord’s face went red with indignation at that, but he expelled the irritation with a huff. With arms crossed over his broad chest, he glared at Gendry again, “I suggest you bring enough gold to buy some sellswords, after you find your goodsister’s location. Ser Davos can tell you which are more trustworthy. Eh, not that I’m agreeing to lend him.”

“Stop being stubborn, Baratheon,” Kevan drawled, “You want to live under the thumb of another dragon? You want to dance to her tune?”

“I’m dancing to no one’s tune,” Stannis spat.

“No? So you’re alive – you, the usurper’s brother – because she doesn’t want anything from you?”

Stannis shook his head, “She wants to not gain a reputation as a tyrant who kills any who might oppose her. She is willing to forget about the past.”

“Of course, she is!” Kevan all but shouted, startling Catelyn enough that she flinched, “She wants everyone to forget the past, because that’ll benefit her more than anyone else! It’s her ancestors that have a history of madness, of cruelty, of depravity, of causing death on a massive scale! Oh, how kind of her to forget that you share Robert’s blood. I suppose that means we should forget that she shares the blood of the Mad King, and Rhaegar the Raper, and Maegor the Cruel, and Aemond Kinslayer, and Aegon the Conqueror, and Maelys the Monstrous, and Aegon the Unworthy, and—”

“You’ve made your bloody point!” Stannis interrupted, “and yet still I say, she has a dragon, a big black thing that ate a shark as a midday snack before my very eyes! And she has my daughter in her custody!”

“I never thought you of all people were one to roll over, Baratheon,” Kevan accused as he moved to put himself eyes to nose with Stannis.

“Do not think you’ll shame me into agreeing with this harebrained scheme, Lannister! What do I owe you, or her, anyway?” he jerked his head toward Catelyn, “It seems to me we were all at war not so long ago. Perhaps I prefer to see a Targaryen on the throne than a Lannister or even a Stark.”

Kevan snorted, “And if the Lannister in question was Joffrey, or Cersei, or Jaime, I would believe you. But it seems to me that after the war, you met with my brother. Swore fealty to him and by extension his wife.”

“He abdicated—”

Ser Kevan interrupted him, “You’d have killed yourself and your brother during Robert’s Rebellion before yielding, and Lady Catelyn is kind in assuming it was honor or duty or love of family that motivated you. But I know it was that damned Baratheon pride,” Kevan moved even closer, until Catelyn couldn’t squeeze between the two men even if she didn’t have the teats and thighs of a woman who’d birthed five children. “The same pride that made you and Renly stomp and snort, instead of uniting to face your real enemy. Well, where’s that pride, now? You swore yourself to my brother, and he demanded nothing of you. He didn’t even gloat. Nor did he make you speak some horseshit in front of all of court.”

“No, he only gave Storm’s End – my birthright – to his daughter’s bastard!”

Kevan let out a bark of sarcastic laughter, “Right, he ought to have declared Tommen – a complete innocent – a bastard, with neither Cersei nor Jaime there to confirm.”

“The Kingslayer has confessed to Queen Daenerys, or haven’t you noticed the boy’s name is no longer ‘Baratheon’?!”

Kevan’s eyes narrowed, “And that only proves that Jaime… that my nephew is a hundred times worse than his father. And yet you’ll be in league with him if you endorse his foreign queen.”

Stannis’ jaw bulged yet again, and Catelyn was starting to think the man was unaware of the habit.

Long moments passed, during which Kevan eased his physical posture without letting his eyes leave Stannis.

Catelyn knew a pissing match when she saw one, and she would’ve rolled her eyes if not that all her hope rested on Stannis Baratheon’s broad shoulders.

The stag relented first, though it didn’t look like submission so much as reticent agreement. He dropped himself rather gracelessly into the chair he’d been in when they all entered, and his eyes settled on some part of the map, though she knew his thoughts were elsewhere as he spoke, “She wants me to marry a Tyrell. Lady Margaery. She also wants me to build, borrow, or steal the ships needed to bring something like fourteen thousand of her Unsullied and Dothraki soldiers here. From Slaver’s Bay. During winter. I would almost admire her determination if she wasn’t so bloody ignorant. But she would give me Storm’s End. And I’d be Master of Ships.”

“If you survive that perilous mission,” Ser Kevan stated the obvious.

“And that perilous marriage,” Stannis added, a small smirk on his lips that disappeared as quickly as it had formed, “But speaking of the Rose of Highgarden, she told me to deliver a message to the she-wolf,” Stannis’ eyes moved lazily to Catelyn, “I assume that’s you. Or your daughter.”

“Deliver a message from whom?” Catelyn asked.

“I believe either Tywin or Tyrion Lannister. The message was: remember the pup’s dream.”

Catelyn frowned, “The pup? Is that some type of code?”

Gendry gasped of a sudden, “The pup? Might she mean Rickon? Clegane calls him pup all the time. As did your uncle, my lady. I mean, Ser Brynden.”

Catelyn’s heart began racing with a hope that was more tangible than any she’d felt since that messenger came to Winterfell with word of the dragon’s arrival and Sansa’s banishment, “Rickon dreams all the time, which one could—”

“The only one Arya wrote to Sansa about!” Gendry spoke hurriedly, an excited gleam in his eyes.

“Well, what is it? You’ve got us curious now, lad,” Ser Davos asked.

Gendry looked at all of them by turns, wetting his lips as he seemed to gain control of his emotions, “Right. Umm… Rickon dreamt that Sansa was… beneath a man. Or was it between his legs? Anyway, it was a man in a skirt, though Arya thought perhaps that meant a drying sheet. Rickon said Sansa was scared, and that the man was a mountain, or looked like a mountain? Regardless, Arya thought it meant that the Mountain – meanin’ Gregor Clegane – had hurt Sansa. But I thought it meant he would hurt Sansa. So Arya sent the letter to warn Sansa. I think she addressed it to the king, though.”

Catelyn nodded, remembering that morning. Rickon’s dream may have been the spark, but Arya had burned like Catelyn had never seen, spitting regret after regret at a stunned Clegane. It was the first time Catelyn fully appreciated how traumatic her daughters’ lives had been. When initially united with them, she was relieved to know neither had been physically harmed. It hadn’t occurred to her to think that seeing what went on in that veritable torture chamber would scar her daughters in a different way, or that Arya had felt so useless. No wonder, too. Of her two daughters, Arya was the one who had dreamed of being a hero. To be dependent on others for her survival, others who died to protect her… Well, that would be hard on a girl like Arya. Like it would be hard on a man, she supposed.

Catelyn shook her head, “If Tywin Lannister got a message to Lady Margaery about this dream, he must think it’s significant.”

“The Mountain has a bounty on his head,” Ser Kevan paled, “Might he have fled the continent? Might he somehow end up wherever Sansa is, and… and…”

Gendry shook his head, “What are the odds he goes to the same place she is, and then just happens to find her?”

“Might it not be Gregor Clegane at all?” Stannis asked, “Are there any house sigils that have a mountain, or perhaps a man in a skirt?”

“Or a house that sits at the base of a mountain?” Catelyn guessed, “That could be what he meant by Sansa being ‘beneath’ him. Isn’t Horn Hill at the base of a mountain?”

“Ahem,” Davos cleared his throat. Catelyn looked to him, but before the smuggler could speak, Stannis was continuing.

“Horn Hill is House Tarly. Daenerys Targaryen killed Lord Tarly because he refused to kneel. I doubt his widow would do her the favor of keeping her hostages hidden.”

Davos cleared his throat again.

Kevan jerked his chin toward Stannis, “Does the Targaryen have any of their kin as hostages in the capital? They might do her bidding for that reason alone.”

“Hmm,” Stannis scrunched his chin, “I heard Tarly’s heir… Well, the lord now… he is among Daenerys’ honored guests in the capital, along with my daughter.”

Davos coughed rather loudly. Truly, the man ought to sip some water.

“Does House Tarly’s sigil have a man in a skirt?” Gendry asked.

Catelyn’s eyes widened, “Yes! I mean, no… Well, Rickon might call it s a skirt – it’s a mail skirt. The hunter’s armor.”

“This is great, isn’t it?” Gendry beamed, “Here we thought Sansa must be in Essos!”

“AHEM!” Davos shouted, earning everyone’s attention.

“What?” Stannis barked at his man.

“This queen killed Lord Tarly after taking the throne. Why would he not kneel to her if he had some agreement in place with her? And why would she behead the man whose family held her most valuable hostages? Moreover, you’re forgetting that there is a man in a skirt, made quite literally out of mountain, that even seasoned sailors tremble to stand between his legs.”

Gendry winced, “Sailors stand between his legs?”

Stannis spoke on a gasp of realization, “The Titan of Braavos…”

Davos threw his hands up as if to say ‘Finally!’

Catelyn felt chills go through her again, making every little hair on her body stand erect. She looked at Gendry and Kevan, and they looked back at her, and at each other. The three of them stood there in a triangle of disbelief, of daring to hope, of fear that the time to act was already upon them…

It was no choice to take lightly. To go after Sansa and the girls meant to risk the Targaryen’s wrath. It meant to risk dragonfire being pointed at Winterfell. Or perhaps a swift beheading of Catelyn, who would claim full responsibility for the crime. Though who could say whether the girl would be satisfied with that?

“I should be the one to go to Braavos,” she decided in her heart and aloud at the same time.

All eyes in the room locked on her as if she were mad.

She shook her head faintly, “I cannot ask you to risk your lives. If you’re caught by whoever this dragon queen has in Braavos… No, I will not allow it.”

They were seemingly mulling that over when Gendry stepped closer to her. A brave lad who easily stood up to other men – with a few very tall or very deadly exceptions – Gendry could be shy around women, and that included her. She knew it meant he wanted her approval as his goodmother. He already had it, for as well as clearly loved her daughter, but poor Gendry still didn’t realize that.

“They’re my kin, too, now. And Lady- Queen Sansa… she saved Arya, back at Harrenhal. And Arya saved her, too, but still… if I’d had to see that big fuck- that Mountain hurt Arya… Well, I don’t know that I’d have been able to do nothing, so then I’d be dead, too. And when we left to head to Riverrun, I said it was safe to sleep, but Sansa told us to keep going, and sure enough the next day we found your camp. If we’d stopped, whoever Lord Lannister sent after us probly would’ve caught up. Might be Arya and Sansa would be safe, but I doubt I’d be. So you see? I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Sansa. So I’m going to Braavos. And you’re going to King’s Landing to deal with this dragon queen. ‘Cause the gods know I’m not good at all that poly-tics.”

Catelyn kept her face straight but for an arched right brow, “Is that a command, Lord Stark?”

Gendry’s eyes widened so quickly and extremely that Catelyn couldn’t hold her composure. She let out a burst of laughter that was probably years in the making, then took Gendry by the cheeks and brought his forehead down to her lips, “You’re a good brother, Gendry. A good husband, too. And a very good son. And someday I know you’ll be a good father and lord, because you will protect and care for your family, and your people.”

The boy was blushing crimson when she released him with a smile on her face, which he returned shyly but genuinely. “Thanks, my la- Thanks, Mu- Mum,” he tried for the first time.

Ser Kevan cleared his throat, “Since we’re getting sentimental now, I suppose I’ll tell you that you’re not keeping me from this trip, either…”

Catelyn took a breath and faced the man who looked like Tywin Lannister with slightly rounder facial features and a much rounder belly. But she had learned that Kevan was a good man. He reminded her of Edmure, actually, if a bit more dutiful and strategy-minded than Catelyn’s bachelor brother.

“Tywin would skin me alive if he heard this, but that daughter of yours… she’s his heart. And those granddaughters of hers are my nieces, in case you’ve forgotten. I might barely know the tikes, but they’re my blood. And I might barely know your daughter, but I know that it would be pointless to try to free my brother without having brought back his wife. Instead of a ‘thank you’ I’d get the bloody tongue lashing to end all tongue lashings.”

Stannis made an annoyed sigh, “This is all quite sweet,” he said sarcastically, “but you two aren’t exactly going to blend in in Braavos. You’re swarthy enough,” he indicated Gendry before turning to face Kevan, “but you? You couldn’t look more like a pampered Westerosi lord if you tried.”

Kevan rolled his eyes, “Thank you. And as a matter of fact, I don’t intend to. Do Westerosi lords not do business in the Free Cities all the time? I’m just another of those lords, there sourcing a supplier of silks or opals or pearls or all of the above, with my trusted swornshield.”

Stannis looked to Gendry, “Can you use a sword?”

“Better with the hammer, but aye.”

“Of course, you are,” Stannis groaned, “and you’re just going to wander around the city of a hundred islands until you spot Lady Sansa? What if they don’t let her leave wherever they keep her and the girls?”

“You forget, Lord Baratheon,” Catelyn lifted her chin, “that they will be following the men sent to retrieve one of my granddaughters.”

Stannis snorted, “You mean if the girl agrees to lose a third of her leverage to Houses Tully and Stark?”

“If that is the price to gain the allegiance of Houses Tully and Stark?”

“Fine,” Stannis shook his head faintly, “Let’s say you succeed in getting Daenerys Targaryen to return one of your granddaughters to you. In return, you swear fealty to her. If your men here succeed, or even if they don’t, you will be honor-bound to—”

“Fuck honor,” Catelyn stated curtly. The men’s eyes widened, and Gendry literally gasped. He only heard the word a few dozen times a day from Arya and Clegane, among others, but Catelyn was certain she’d never said it in his presence. Actually, she wasn’t sure she’d ever said it aloud.

But it felt damned good.

“I will save my honor for those worthy of it, my lords,” she directed at all of them, daring them to shame her for it, “…and I will not pledge anything to this woman until said granddaughter is in my arms. And ideally, that won’t happen until Sansa and my other granddaughter are safe with Ser Kevan and Gendry. And frankly, the girl can keep the throne, if she thinks it will make her happy. All I care about is having my family back.”

“And when she finds out that your men killed her men in Braavos?” he asked with an eyebrow raised condescendingly, “when she realizes you stole back her prized hostages? You think she will not seek retribution? Winterfell will be a charred ruin. As will Dragonstone, if she realizes I had any involvement. I or Ser Davos.”

“Then I suggest you do as we’re doing,” Kevan jutted his chin, “begin constructing weapons that can take down dragons.”

That shut Stannis up. He blinked at Ser Kevan until Kevan nodded slowly, “Dorne used them. Giant crossbow-like weapons called scorpions.”

Stannis’ eyes narrowed, “I recall my history lessons, Ser Kevan. I recall Princess Meria Martell standing up to Rhaenys Targaryen, telling her something along the lines of ‘Dorne may burn, but it will never bend, break, or bow.’ But you forget that unlike the conqueror, Daenerys Targaryen has our people in the capital, with a proverbial blade to the throat. Your brother. Your grandnephew. Your nephew, if the imp has returned. Countless men of the west, no?” he faced Catelyn, “Your uncle. Other Northerners and Riverlanders, I’m sure. And my daughter, the last trueborn Baratheon after myself.” At his last words he sneered at Gendry, as if the boy might forget he was a bastard.

“I don’t want your stinkin’ name,” Gendry spoke defiantly, “I’d rather be a Stark.”

“I wasn’t offering it to you.”

“And I wouldn’t take it if you were. What have Baratheons done that’s so great? I remember seeing King Robert when I was a boy. He nearly ran me down with his courser, racing through the streets. He was fatter’n a barrel and drunker’n a skunk. And apparently, he fathered kids with no care for what came of ‘em, as I’m living proof. Then there’s you and the other brother, fightin’ each other instead o’ that cunt Joffrey who killed Arry’s father; who used to have Lady Sansa smacked around all ‘cause of her surname!”

Catelyn knew the boy was riled, and speaking from the heart, by the way he was reverting to the habit of casual speech that he’d spent many months trying to break. Probably for Catelyn’s benefit. She’d tried to hide it, but his diction and grammar used to hurt her ears like metal scraping stone. It was only later that she realized how Gendry spoke more like Lady Mormont and Lords Umber and Flint and Glover than she did. Really, it was only the Manderly lords and Roose Bolton who spoke with the eloquence that Catelyn had been taught by a septa and that she insisted Robb and her daughters learn as well. Robb and Sansa had mastered the language of the genteel by age ten. Arya… was a lost cause in that regard, but Catelyn no longer minded. Proper sentence structure and clear enunciation wouldn’t feed their people through winter.

And all the honor in the world wouldn’t get Sansa and the girls back where they belonged. Honor hadn’t spared Robb of Petyr’s treachery – but she couldn’t think of that now. Thinking of that made a ring of nausea grasp her throat and squeeze.

While her mind briefly wandered, Stannis had glared at Gendry with absolute loathing, his bottom jaw working back and forth in a way that made Catelyn’s temples hurt.

Then, he rose. Slowly, like a predator confident in his ability to kill, and leaned both fists on the table. His head was angled up to hold Gendry’s eyes, but he didn’t seem bothered by the position, “Don’t lecture me about war, boy. Nor family. Renly owed his allegiance to me, not himself. I am – I was – the elder!”

“Aye, so you sent some assassin after him. Even I know that’s the craven’s—”

“I didn’t!” Stannis roared, making all of them flinch back, even Ser Davos, whom Catelyn had been thinking was perpetually calm.

Stannis ignored all their reactions of surprise, even Kevan’s reaching for a weapon that wasn’t on his hip, “I didn’t kill my brother!” Stannis repeated, “I didn’t send an assassin! It was that fucking witch!” The man was panting, his forehead beaded with sweat, anger pulsing off him like an aura, “All that’s left of my family is one girl. Targaryen entitlement took my parents – because gods forbid Rhaegar marry a girl from the lands his people had the audacity to call theirs! Cersei’s whoring and treachery took Robert – I know that bitch had a heavy hand in his death – and took Renly by plummeting us all into war! I do not have three other children far away in one of the staunchest fortresses in the realm,” he directed at Catelyn, “I do not have cousins and nieces and nephews on the other side of the continent, where they can shelter in the most impenetrable fortress in the realm,” he directed at Kevan, then his eyes took turns traveling to each of them, “I have one daughter, trapped in King’s Landing as a hostage to a woman with at least one dragon at her disposal. And let’s face facts: if a lesson needs to be made, do you think Daenerys Targaryen will choose Tywin Lannister, or Brynden Tully, or Sansa Stark, or Loras Tyrell – each of whom have families who can rally tens of thousands of fighting men to make her life difficult? No,” he snorted bitterly, “No, she will choose Shireen Baratheon, whose father can amass an army of a few hundred foot-soldiers, at best. You ask for my help but do not realize that the price for me is much higher than it is for you!”

And how could Catelyn argue that? If all that was left of House Stark was Arya, would Catelyn not do anything in her power to protect her daughter, to keep her alive, even if meant kneeling to a foreign conqueror and setting aside her own personal pride?

She nodded slowly, feeling oddly numb. Their mission could proceed, she knew, just not with Ser Davos. Could they find another sea captain who would be able to follow a vessel from King’s Landing to Braavos without being seen? Could they find another man who could smuggle them in to that foreign land so they wouldn’t have to go through customs at the harbor – an office that very likely employed some of the eunuch spymaster’s “little birds” as Ser Kevan had called them?

And if so, could they trust such a man to not instead turn them in to the new queen?

But indeed, it was not Stannis Baratheon’s problem. She cleared her throat, “I under—” A strange sound cut her off, like a hawk’s call but much louder; so loud that it seemed to vibrate the room they were in. All eyes went up, as if they’d be able to see through the ceiling to the sky above.

“Was that… the wind howling?” Kevan guessed.

“Sounded more like a—” Gendry started, but another of the screeching sounds blotted out the rest of his words. It sounded louder than the first, or closer.

“I think—” Gendry started again, only this time the sound of rumbling thunder surrounded them as the candelabras shook on the table.

Or was it the entire table that shook, or the entire room?

Or the entire tower?

Dust drifted down from the high ceiling, and then Catelyn heard that awful sound again, and the room shook, and small bits of stone made ‘tink’ sounds as they landed on the table and floor and—

“Get down!” Stannis hissed, grabbing Catelyn’s arm and forcefully shoving her under the table. Kevan and Ser Davos joined her there moments later, each with a hand to the head as if that would do anything the table couldn’t.

“Gendry!” Catelyn hissed at her goodson’s boots, “Get down here!”

Another screech was heard, and more rumbling. Above her heard something thunked against the table heavily. One of the candelabras, she hoped, and not a piece of the ceiling.

“We should run for the stairs and get down and out!” Ser Kevan insisted. Catelyn and Davos nodded back. “Let’s go!” Kevan called out, sliding across the floor to Catelyn’s side. All three crawled out then rose, and Kevan immediately took her hand and ran for the door.

“Gendry!” she shouted, turning back to see her goodson staring up at the ceiling, dumbstruck.

He looked at her and snapped out of his shock, then ran to catch up with them.

Stannis Baratheon was ahead of them, she realized as they neared the door. His tall frame stepped through the door and hastened to the right. But hadn’t they come in from the left?

They turned to follow but Ser Davos stopped them with a shout, “You go back the way you came in!” He pointed to the left. “Guards,” Ser Davos addressed the men Catelyn hadn’t even noticed, who looked just as flabbergasted as she felt, “See them to their chambers.”

“Where is Lord Stannis going?” Catelyn asked.

Ser Davos was already running in the direction his liege had gone, “To the roof. That bloody, buggering…” his words became inaudible, but Catelyn got the idea.

She also got the idea that she had to know what had caused that sound, what had caused the entire chamber to rattle.

(Or maybe she already knew).

She darted after Ser Davos, her hand slipping free from Kevan’s hold.

“Lady Catelyn!” Kevan yelled.

She turned, “You and Gendry get to safety. If anything happens to me, proceed with the plan! That’s an order!”

She technically didn’t outrank Ser Kevan, certainly not by enough to order him around when they weren’t in the North, but she didn’t wait to see if they obeyed, instead following Ser Davos into a steep and narrow stairwell and up until they crashed through a door that took them to the roof. The wind almost knocked her over, and freezing raindrops pelted her cheeks as she fumbled to get her hood up.

“By the gods…”

She barely heard Ser Davos’ words over the wind but that she was standing so close to him out of genuine fear she’d be blown off the roof if she didn’t tether herself to the short but sturdy man.

After managing to tie the laces at the join of her hood, she followed Davos’ line of sight and would have screamed if she were just a tad less frightened. As it was, she sucked in a gasp of air so forcefully that it felt like her windpipe tore.

The wind, she realized, was not entirely a natural phenomenon. There, hovering twenty yards past the edge of the roof and another twenty yards up, two winged beasts were engaged in what looked like a fight. They snapped their jaws and blew bursts of red flame that lit up the night, rolling and tumbling around in midair like territorial cats might do on solid ground.

Catelyn was terrified and yet awed, and she found herself thinking about how envious Arya and Rickon would be that she got to see this. Assuming she lived to tell the tale. She focused on what she was seeing, so she’d be ready if that day came. And what she saw looked like a playfight between pups in more than one way. She could sense the beasts did not have any real desire to hurt the other – at least, not to hurt the other severely. This was posturing. A struggle for dominance, or a testing of the other’s strength, and their own.

The beast that appeared to be mostly green seemed to be the more assertive, the more aggressive, yet the one that looked white was not entirely outmatched. Both had something dark and tight around their necks, but she couldn’t tell from here what it was.

They were of a similar size, though Catelyn couldn’t measure it precisely as they moved and curled and flapped their wings. She could only say they were bigger than horses, by far, but not nearly so big as Balerion the Black Dread was said to be – so large that his shadow could cover most of King’s Landing depending on how high he flew. No, she supposed each of these things might be seven horse lengths if they extended their necks and tails straight. Their heads seemed large, but Catelyn didn’t think either could swallow a grown man in one bite like the infamous dragons Balerion, Vhagar, and Caraxes. Or Meraxes, who could swallow a horse whole, yet was still killed by mere men. An iron bolt from a scorpion, launched by someone, perhaps some guard like any other, at Hellholt.

She almost chuckled, wondering why she’d never seen the irony: the only House to ever kill a dragon was the one named for its founder’s cruel and fiery beginnings – inviting his enemies to feast in his new castle, only to lock them in a hall and burn them alive. That the conqueror and his sisters didn’t know they’d met their match showed how little they thought of the kingdoms they conquered.

It briefly occurred to Catelyn that the same history would continually repeat itself, and that there was no point in resisting. Did the First Men not look as terrifying to the Children of the Forest as these fire-breathing lizards looked to Catelyn? Did the Andals with their metal armor and swords, their ability to fight from horseback, not terrify the First Men?

As she watched the writhing, screeching, fire-blasting show in the sky, she wondered who could possibly come next… and would they conquer with brute force, or human ingenuity, or giant predators that did their bidding? She found it hard to imagine any predator more dangerous and ruthless than a dragon, and the dragons were back, apparently.

She was so focused on noting everything she could about the beasts’ size and behavior that she watched with a sort of detachment as the white dragon made a particularly sharp cry, then pushed off its sibling to glide through the air straight toward where Catelyn and Davos stood, though many yards up.

Or so she thought.

She heard a man yelling, then was knocked to the ground and looked up to see Stannis Baratheon hovered over her. Then the belly of the white beast passed above them, so close that Catelyn screamed, feeling the heat of its body brush her face. Her scream wasn’t finished when the green followed suit, and she squeezed her eyes shut and didn’t think to pray until it was already over.

“What the fuck are you doing up here?” Stannis scolded over the wind’s howls and the dragons’ screeching.

She let out a burst of relief and hysteria, “I followed you and Ser Davos.”

“That answer hardly satisfies,” he spoke drily as he pushed himself up and offered her a hand, “You need to head back inside. If you think I’m going to stand between you and a dragon, you have me mistaken for some storybook night.”

She didn’t point out that he had just, quite literally, put himself between her and two dragons. Instead, she asked, “Has this happened before?”

Stannis shook his head, “The bigger dragon – the black one – has been spotted by my people doing its version of fishing, or simply flying around. But those two… I had heard she had three total, but no one has seen these two. I imagine most – other than her supporters – have been hoping that meant they were dead.”

“They seem to be alive.”

Stannis snorted, his eyes going to the dragons now playfighting above the other side of the tower, once again a comfortable distance away, “Indeed. Let us go inside now, Lady Stark. I will send a letter to the queen, ask her to kindly keep her pets on leashes from now on.”

Catelyn nodded and turned until she spied the door they had come through. She hadn’t realized how far she and Ser Davos had walked in their daze, but it would be quite a trek back, and bring them closer to the bickering serpents. At least the dragons had taken their feud back up into the air.

“I suppose it’s true what is said about Dragonstone…” Stannis spoke in a growled sort of tone.

She turned to face Stannis, who was, like her, taking each step slowly so as not to gain the attention of the dragons.

“What is?” she asked, as she glanced over her shoulder to make sure Ser Davos hadn’t been left behind.

“That this place… calls to dragons. That the Targaryens weaved spells into the mortar. Spells that encouraged… magic. Some say dragons are magic incarnate.”

He was the last man she’d expect to speak of such things, and it gave her a sudden feeling of kinship toward him. Were all Northmen not equally prone to believing fanciful tales, including her children? They believed magic was woven into the Wall, and that their gods could see them through the eyes carved into the weirwood trees. They believed in grumkins and giants and mammoths and merlings and walking corpses. 

She knew better than to speak any of her thoughts aloud. She decided to say nothing. It was easy enough when a large green body plummeted to the roof, landing quite inconveniently between them and the door. Catelyn was shoved again, this time backwards instead of down, and found herself sandwiched between Lord Stannis and Ser Davos. She suspected the latter was behind her for his own protection more than anything, and she didn’t fault him. She was rather content to have a Baratheon body between her and a fire-breathing beast, though in her fascination she could not stop herself from looking around Stannis’ left shoulder to see the beast closer than it’d been yet tonight. From this distance she could see the thing around its neck was a manacle with a bit of chain dangling from it. It seemed so tight that it was impeding the outward growth of the flesh there. Its eyes shined with whatever moon and starlight made it through the cloud cover, and she stared into the oblong pupils, each of which was as big as her entire face. She was certain she wasn’t breathing, nor was the dragon, as they stayed locked in the other’s gaze. There was something intelligent in those eyes. Something that Catelyn recognized as… almost human.

Something that recognized her, too.

It looked like longing, she realized. This creature was searching for something. Perhaps its mother, Daenerys Targaryen. Perhaps its other sibling. Perhaps its home.

Perhaps its rider.

“It’s alright,” she heard herself whisper, not knowing what prompted her to do so, nor why there were tears in her voice, “Your strife is not with us. Whatever you’re looking for, go find it. Go.”

If her words would have worked, she’d never know. The white beast landed and there was a sort of face-off between the siblings. They stared, and stared, and stared. Then the white snapped its head forward so fast that all three humans jumped. The green screeched at the bite taken to its neck, though it seemed more insulted than harmed. Then, it leapt into the air and disappeared into the night sky, heading North, if Catelyn hadn’t entirely lost her bearings.

That left them with the white dragon between them and safety. It, too, wore a too-small iron collar, and Catelyn suspected the red stains on the neck’s scales were not from rust but blood. The dragon shook its head like a wet dog, splattering the already soaked trio, though some of the droplets that landed on Catelyn’s skin felt warm. As it kept shaking it let out a lonesome wail, and Catelyn’s heart ached. She had never liked seeing any living creature suffer. This beast might be a weapon that Daenerys Targaryen meant to use against Catelyn and her people; it might be a rabid dog that would kill indiscriminately; but in that moment, it was just an animal in pain, and she a person that wished to give comfort.

Or mercy.

The dragon stopped shaking and cast a gaze that was somehow accusatory and expectant at them – no, at Stannis, in particular. It was a look she knew well. Grey Wind used to give her that look, after Robb died. It seemed like his simple canid brain blamed Catelyn and yet thought she was the one who could make it better, too. He hated her and needed her. She wasn’t worthy of his undying loyalty, not like his master had been, and yet he knew she was part of his pack and therefore owed his protection. It wasn’t like it had been between Grey Wind and Robb. That wolf was born for Robb, just as Nymeria was born for Arya, and Summer was born for Bran, and Shaggy was born for Rickon. And poor Lady was born for Sansa yet taken away far too soon. Each wolf and human were a bonded pair of souls more so than dog and master.

But dragons were not dogs…

“All the famous dragonriders had to claim their mounts, didn’t they?” she spoke into the ear of the man in front of her, “It isn’t like training a dog, it’s like… breaking a horse.”

She hoped he would understand what she was suggesting – and that he wouldn’t throw her off the roof for suggesting it.

It was Ser Davos who responded, “Just so we’re all clear – are you suggesting he claim a dragon?”

Catelyn nodded.

Stannis didn’t move a muscle for long moments, staring at the white beast, which was staring back. A silent conversation seemed to be occurring, though Catelyn couldn’t tell what the stag was trying to convey. She only knew he’d made a decision when the muscles in his arms, which Catelyn didn’t even know she’d dug her fingers into, seemed to go lax.

He took a single step forward, and the dragon’s pupils grew then shrunk. It was a wary look.

“If this goes wrong,” Stannis spoke in a level voice to his human companions, “I suggest you throw yourselves from the roof. Less painful than burning.”

Two more steps were taken.

Then another.

Davos moved next to her – not brave enough to stand in front of her, but not so craven as to use her body as a shield. His gloved hand tapped hers, and she wrapped her fingers around his cropped ones and squeezed.

Stannis Baratheon kept walking forward at a slow but constant pace, then very slowly lifted his left hand until it was almost level with his shoulder.

The dragon seemed insulted, confused, scared, curious, and angry all at once.

Then, without even a courtesy warning, it blew a stream of fire to Stannis’ left, close enough that the hairs on the man’s knuckles might have been singed if he wasn’t drenched with rain.

Catelyn thought that when the fire dissipated Stannis might have uttered a curse in the same tone of relief that Ned used when collapsing in bed after a long day, or finishing inside her after an hour of lovemaking.

After a breath so deep she could hear it over the wind and rain, Stannis resumed walking, and didn’t stop until the dragon’s snout was just over an arm’s length in front of him.

“Calm now,” Stannis spoke in a commanding tone.

The dragon must not have liked that. It made a show of snapping at the lord’s hand, but Stannis pulled the appendage back just in time. Catelyn wasn’t entirely certain she hadn’t wet her smallclothes and wondered if Stannis had done worse. She certainly wouldn’t hold it against him.

Whatever courage flagged, the lord quickly recovered, “Enough!” he spoke curtly, yet without raising his voice to a yell, “Stop posturing. We both know you could have taken my arm off if you wanted to, but you didn’t, did you? Now hold still so I can take this thing off your neck!”

Catelyn couldn’t see everything from her vantage point but did see Stannis’ right elbow bend and knew he was reaching for something on his belt. She seemed to recall he’d been wearing a dagger in the hall.

She squinted her eyes as he drew the blade out of its sheath. Rightly so, for the dragon made another display of power, this time pointing its head toward the heavens and screeching enough to make Catelyn drop Davos’ hand to cover her ears, as the smuggler did the same.

“Enough!” Stannis roared over the sound, “Are you trying to deafen me? I said hold still.”

The dragon looked at him warily, but this time when its jaws went to part for another burst of fire-breath, or perhaps another ear-splitting screech, Stannis’ left fist bopped it on the nose. A whimper came out, just like a dog or wolf might when it got the same treatment for being too nervy in its demanding of scraps at the supper table.

Stannis capitalized on the creature’s surprise, stepping directly into its space and working quickly to pick the large lock with the tip of his dagger. He pried open the manacle with some effort, earning another screech – this one seeming to be part pain and part relief.

The moment the metal circle was hanging open, the dragon leapt into the air as its sibling had. It seemed to go straight up until it disappeared behind the clouds.

All three of them stared up, rather idiotically, in hindsight. A sound like a windchime seemed to drift down, then Ser Davos was shouting, “SHIT!” and Catelyn was thrown to the roof for the second time tonight. She landed on her left hip and elbow and grunted at the pain, but forgave Ser Davos, who was hovered over her as Stannis had been earlier, shielding her body with his. A split second later there was a crash barely a yard to her left – the manacle and bit of chain attached to it.

She let out a long-held breath, which had Ser Davos chuckling as he rose then helped her up. Stannis might’ve ducked, too, but he was already upright and walking toward them.

“Are you alright?” she asked the lord.

Stannis frowned in confusion, “I’m not the one nearly beheaded by a piece of metal that fell through the sky.”

Catelyn rolled her eyes, “I mean to ask if the dragon has caused you any harm.”

“Oh,” Stannis scrunched his chin, “Nothing a dry pair of breeches won’t fix.”

Catelyn snorted.

Then chuckled.

Then had to cover her mouth because she was laughing rather maniacally.

Stannis watched her, perplexed and perhaps concerned, until his lips curved and he let out a chuckle that sounded like relief as much as amusement.

Once again, Catelyn realized they had squandered precious time, because she heard and felt the dragon land behind them, just as Stannis’ eyes looked past her and Davos to take in the sight.

Stannis reached for her arm without taking his eyes off the beast, “This time I must insist you go inside, Lady Stark.”

“And miss you riding a dragon?”

His eyes snapped to her, “I’m more like to piss off a dragon.”

True enough.

But Catelyn could not fathom missing this. The thrill and fear meant she barely felt the cold – which was probably more likely to kill her than dragonfire, at this point.

“If curiosity is my downfall, Ser, then so be it. None will blame you.”

Stannis lifted a brow, and for the first time all night she thought the man looked impressed, “Sansa Stark fears no lions. Catelyn Stark fears no dragons. Perhaps it’s you ladies who ought to be knighted.”

Catelyn tipped her head, “When my daughter is safe in my arms, I’d be flattered if you’d do the honors.”

“And if I manage to not die by fire or fall this night, I gladly will.”

With that, the man who was as brave as he was stubborn began a brisk pace toward the dragon. Catelyn and Davos turned and clasped hands again, and Catelyn felt a stab of remorse that she may have encouraged Stannis to do something that would get him killed.

As I encouraged Ned to go to King’s Landing, to investigate Jon Arryn’s death. To investigate the Lannisters, right under the Lannisters’ noses…

As proof that it was people, not animals, that were the truly dangerous ones, Ned Stark did not survive his time in the capital, but Stannis Baratheon survived his time on dragonback.

It had not been elegant, and the lord had let out some rather high-pitched screams at some points, but eventually his hugging of the dragon’s neck looked less desperate, more strategic. And once or twice, she thought she heard his laughter.

It might have been a minute or an hour when the dragon landed. Stannis slid off without finesse, patted the beast’s neck where it wasn’t raw from the collar, and watched it jump down and coast away, presumably to find somewhere to lay its head and lick its wounds.

Stannis looked like he had just debarked a ship as he strolled to where Catelyn and Davos still stood.

“What was it like?” Davos asked.

“Incredible,” Stannis answered, his eyes looking like they were still seeing the world from a bird’s eye view.

It was not a particularly vivid description, but the man seemed to be in a bit of shock.

Davos sighed loudly, “Can we get inside now, milord, or would you prefer we all freeze to death?”

Stannis’ lax expression turned into a scowl, “I believe I told you to go inside.”

“No – it was the lady you told to go inside.”

“How about we all go inside!” Catelyn insisted.

And they did just that, all while Catelyn wondered why her heart was beating so fast when she hadn’t been the one riding a-dragon-back and when the immediate threat seemed to be over for the night.

But it was positively thudding as she listened to Stannis order Ser Davos to warm up then go do a walk about the castle to find out who had seen the spectacle and swear them to secrecy until Stannis could decide what to say to Daenerys, which would happen after he decided if one clumsy ride meant he was officially a dragonrider.

With a bow, Ser Davos was off, and Stannis said he would escort Catelyn to her chambers.

She heard it and yet didn’t, as she realized why her heart was thudding. She was feeling something that she hadn’t felt in years. Stannis’ deep voice was so measured, so calm, so in control, even as he was partly hoarse from his screams and shouts minutes ago. And he was not an unimpressive man, tall and broad as he was. A pretty face was all fine and good, but in the dark, a woman didn’t want to dig her claws into a man’s cheekbones but the hard slabs of muscle on his back.

She stopped walking.

Stannis stopped three steps later and turned, “What now? I would rather like to get out of these wet clothes and—”

“Me, too,” she mumbled, or thought she did, then she was grabbing his neck and kissing his lips.

She realized their near-death experience had put both of them in a state by the way the somber man yielded to her so quickly. Well, not yielded, exactly. Rather, he took control. She was steered into the place where she’d first met this man. The fires were in need of stoking – those in the hearths, at least. The one between her and Stannis was roaring, spitting, spreading…

Wet clothes were divested of with impatient fingers and in no logical order. If there was no risk of illness, Catelyn would’ve taken him with only her skirts lifted and her smallclothes shimmied down. As it was, without discussing it, they both knew they had to be rid of the wet fabric.

And when they finally were, they made their way to the nearer fire and the braided rug that sat before it. Shivering digits, pale and water-logged, seemed to be everywhere all at once. A coarse beard scraped her lips, her neck, her breasts. Wiry hair tickled her belly, which was quivering from arousal as smells and sensations and emotions she had never thought to feel again were bombarding her in the most delightful way. The thick, earthy scent of a man’s sweat. The tenacity of his fingers and lips. The heat of his embrace. The hardness of his body, so different from hers.

A calloused hand grabbed her thigh ungently, squeezing and releasing like a baker kneads dough and pushing it back and out so his hips could go where they wanted to go. It was more forceful than Ned had ever been, yet not in a way that made her feel ill-used, only wanted. Stannis Baratheon was not a gentle man and feigning it now would only ruin this for her.

She wasn’t in the mood for gentle.

A hot cock thrust roughly, warming her from the inside, and stretching her in a way that she had allowed herself to forget. Her physical pleasure had always come from her husband’s fingers or tongue; what his cock gave was… completion. Satisfaction. Pride.

Years-old chasms were filled as, for the first time since she learned of Ned’s death, Catelyn felt like a woman. A woman who was worth something as more than a mother. (Hells, at times she’d felt fairly useless as a mother, too.)

But by the grunts Stannis made, the desperation of his touch, the need of his kiss, she felt a swell of pride in herself – Catelyn the woman, not Catelyn the lady, the widow, the mother, the niece, the sister…

She used her thighs to roll them until Stannis was on his back.

“You had your ride tonight. Now it’s my turn,” she spoke wickedly, a tone she hadn’t used since… No; no more thinking about that.

She planted her hands on the floor above his shoulders. His came to her hips.

He grinned up at her and lifted his hips at the same time he growled, “Woman…”

Notes:

Oy, I'm so nervous to see your reactions. Do you love or hate Stannis riding Viserion? Do you love or hate Catelyn riding Stannis?

One thing I want to make clear - Catelyn was NOT using Stannis to get what she wants re Davos. Though TBH I wouldn't blame her if she did - a woman in this world only has so many weapons at her disposal. What Cat in 297 wouldn't have considered she would do now that she has experienced loss. Believe me, she'd fuck Stannis' horse if it got Sansa back, or even to buy herself another day with Robb, but that wasn't what she was doing. Let's just say her blood was up, and so was Stannis'. Not every day someone sees a dragon and lives to tell the tale! Also, I feel like Stannis would remind her of Ned, but also drive her crazy. He's the kind of guy you've got to either slap or fuck, and she already slapped him, so...

So... why Kevan going to Braavos? Originally I had it be Sandor but I quickly realized he would never be chosen for a covert-ish mission. As Kevan explains, whoever goes looking for Sansa doesn't have to look like a local (Braavos is a melting pot, after all, and a hub of trade) but they can't be clearly identifiable as someone who is pro-Stark or pro-Lannister. Super tall + unhealed facial burns make Sandor pretty damned recognizable.

Also, I think it would be impossible to convince Kevan NOT to be involved in what they hope will be a rescue mission of Jeyne and Jocelyn and Sansa LANNISTER. Plus, he's wilier than he lets on. As for Gendry, there are only so many people Arya would trust with a certain coin... Plus, Gendry can easily pass for a lord's sworn shield and is a nobody, meaning if they happen to cross paths with someone who'd been at court, for instance, they wouldn't recognize him. Nor Kevan, for that matter, who stayed at CR.

Speaking of Gendry - assume he spent some quality time with Edric Storm the next day. They stood across from each other and mimed being the other's reflection for like 5 minutes upon first meeting. P.S. - anyone else totally forget that Edric Storm is younger than Gendry and even Sansa in canon? I should remember, since he was famously conceived on Stannis' wedding night, but I never do. Ah well, they're both adults in my fic, since we're in something like 303 AC at this point, but Edric maybe has some growing left to do. I think if Sansa in my fic is now 18, Edric would be 17.

Other fun fact - Stannis was born in 264 AC per AWOIAF.org. Catelyn was born 264 or 265. So they are the same age, for anyone who cares about that stuff. (Then again, you came here for Tywin/Sansa so...)

Chapter 51: The Dornishman's wife

Summary:

More of the minefield that is Sansa's head at present, as she navigates the minefield that is Ser Jorah, only now with a new traveling companion.

Notes:

Reminder that Sansa's thoughts are not meant to be right, or wrong. If you want all-knowing characters who are never petty, you've come to the wrong place.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Sansa

She knew better than to look at him any more than she looked at the other Unsullied, but it was proving to be harder than it ever was to call Arya ‘Arnold’. She supposed it was because the blade against Sansa’s throat in Harrenhal had been quite literal and deadly sharp, and she now knew that fear would always be her greatest motivator. When in fear, she could tell a lie or spin a whole tapestry of them – they spilled out as readily as the truth would to a trusted party, and sometimes she wasn’t even sure they weren’t true. Had anything she’d said to Tywin in Harrenhal been a lie? Her description of the cruel man she was sold to, the cruel stepmother who enabled it… Had she not been talking about Joffrey and Cersei? Her tears over her deceased father – a good, kind man. Had she not been thinking about Ned Stark to summon those tears forth?

Ser Jorah was capable of hurting her, she knew, but he was no Polliver, no Tickler, no Gregor Clegane or even Meryn Trant or Boros Blount. Nor was he a Roose Bolton or Petyr Baelish . He was Daenerys Targaryen’s fist, and seemed to resent not being seen as the brain, though Sansa wasn’t sure he’d ever stopped to consider whether he was qualified.

But, in short, he was no menace. Sansa was nervous around him still, especially on days when she’d been harboring thoughts that were particularly uncharitable toward him or his Khaleesi, but she knew he was no wild beast who might be sent into a rage at the slightest provocation – or even at no provocation.

She almost wished he was, because then she’d be just desperate enough to be bold. She needed someone to set fire to the bucket she lived in, because otherwise she’d never claw her way out.

She’d become complacent, she knew. Her ideas for escape never graduated from fantasy to plausibility despite all the sorrow that had and still motivated her. She had become comfortable in this routine – the domesticated dog she’d been in King’s Landing until rioters with vile intentions snapped her awake. Same in Harrenhal, where Lord Lannister’s protection was a warm blanket around her that she never wanted to cast off, even if enduring the cold was a necessity of being reunited with her family. If not for Arya and Gendry figuring out how to leave and orchestrating the escape, Sansa would never have left. She’d have followed Tywin like his loyal pup and been glad enough for the protection and sustenance he provided. She knew that now. Rather, she could admit that now.

Would that have changed things, somehow? Or would she still be here – a widow of eight and ten, a former queen turned hostage, playing house with men who worked for her enemy, while her daughters were who-knows-where?

Was it wrong that she no longer sobbed, that she sometimes smiled? Her daughters were a thought that clung to her like nettles every moment of every day, yet no longer did such thoughts cripple her or possess her entirely, and she hated to think that meant she was a bad mother.

To assuage her own guilt, she reckoned it was human nature to move on, even if not completely. The race would have died off if everyone who experienced loss or trauma sunk into an abyss of melancholy and never resurfaced. None would raise the animals, sow and reap the fields, fish the seas and rivers, fell the trees, roll the dough, pick the cotton and pluck the vegetables. She was no different than anyone else. She was just… surviving.

And yet she knew it wasn’t enough. The hope of seeing her daughters was sustaining her, for now, but a lifetime of separation from them would cripple her, she knew.

If Ser Jorah would not be the fire to her rat, she wondered if he could be the Lisbeth to her Sarina. Because there were still too many moons between her and her daughters, and she still didn’t know if the visit would bring her anything but agony when it was inevitably cut short, whether after a day, or a sennight, or perhaps only an hour.

She had wondered how many hours she could buy with her cunt or mouth and hadn’t felt even the faintest heat of shame to think it, only disappointment that Ser Jorah was too smart to think a sudden show of attraction was genuine and too proud to settle for anything but the real thing.

He was the most dangerous sort of man, she realized. Smart enough to be nobody’s fool, yet not smart enough to take his fate into his own hands and find himself in a better position than a disgraced, exiled lord of a dreary island could ever hope for. If only he had even a drop of Lord Baelish’s ambition, or Roose Bolton’s, he’d be of use to her, even if that much more of a threat to her. As it were, Ser Jorah was too smart to be manipulated by Sansa, but not smart enough to think to go against the woman who had benefited from his strength and skills and never returned the favor with anything but a fair wage.

He on the other hand… Oh, he was clever. Clever enough to scheme. Clever enough to attach himself to people who could raise him during their own ascent. Clever enough to be of benefit to those people.

And clever enough to someday surpass them.

The only question was how he would pay the debt. Like a lion, or like a mockingbird?

Part of her didn’t care. The worst he could do was betray her, but it would come a long time from now. And she didn’t think it likely, because he didn’t have to stay here in Braavos, to reveal himself to Sansa, to promise his sword and his strength. He could have left at any time and returned to his home, protected by its terrain and people. Sansa doubted he’d ever be found out, and if he was… Well, he’d done nothing wrong, nothing to betray his queen, nothing Daenerys Targaryen could punish him for other than the initial subterfuge.

Until a fortnight ago…

She had awoken with a start yet had been unable to lurch up, as her muscles tried to do. Weight pinned her to the mattress at her hips and her head, the latter via a hand pressed firmly against her lips.

And then there’d been a finger to his own lips.

Then he’d lowered himself toward her, one hand still on her mouth, and whispered directly into her ear, “I am a friend, your grace.”

It didn’t immediately strike her as strange, that he spoke in the common tongue so perfectly, with none of the thick accent he normally had, which she’d been assuming was Lyseni due to his fair hair and eyes. It didn’t strike her at all that he must be a Westerosi, or a man who’d lived much of his life in Westeros, to have such good pronunciation and an accent that sounded mild to her ears. It wasn’t the accent of a man from the North, or the Riverlands, or the capital, or the West, or the Reach (if Margaery and Loras’ accents had been any indication), or the Stormlands (if King Robert’s accent had been any indication).

No – it was only in hindsight she realized all that. After all, she’d spent nearly two decades living amongst Westerosi, and less than a year among Essosi; the former was still the more natural sounding accent to her.

But two of his words did strike her: your grace. Not Khaleesi… No, he wasn’t some slave soldier who’d found a new queen to worship.

Your grace.

“I’m going to remove my hand now. You’ll hear me out before screaming, won’t you?”

A woman with no allies and no weapons couldn’t be fickle. She had nodded.

He moved off her gently, then stood beside her bed a few proper steps away, as if he hadn’t been straddling her moments earlier. It was only when she sat up and moved to the edge of the bed, uncertain whether to feel hopeful or fearful, that he lowered himself to one knee, holding his hands up as unthreateningly as possible.

“We must speak very quietly, your grace,” he whispered.

“Who are you?” she whispered back.

“A Westerosi,” he answered simply.

Reality had caught up with her by then, and she realized how improbable his claim was. She didn’t think the Valyrian look was all that common in Westeros. Nor could she imagine many knew either High Valyrian or the language’s bastard cousin. Some noble children learned the language, or so she had heard, but that was more common before the end of the Targaryen dynasty. Then again, Red Spider appeared to be at least a decade her senior. But still, she had too many doubts.

“Liar,” she had spoken – still in a whisper even though she was sure this was a test or trap devised by Ser Jorah to test Sansa’s willingness to conspire against her captors.

“No,” he shook his silver head.

Yes,” she hissed, “You are one of the Unsullied. You talk to them. You train with them. You walk like them. You fight with a spear with them. You were on the ship with Daenerys bloody Targaryen.”

She went to stand but he pushed her down by the shoulders, “Please, let me explain.”

“No. You’re trying to trick me. If I even listen to whatever you plan to say, Ser Jorah will punish me. Instead of four more months before I see my girls, it will be six, or ten!”

She rose again, feeling anger and indignation that Ser Jorah would be so duplicitous. He was probably looking for ways to justify revoking his promise. He probably didn’t want to go to the trouble of bringing the girls here, or perhaps he thought it was too much of a risk to move them, or to have them all in one place even if only temporarily.

Red Spider didn’t push her down again. In a frenzy, he grabbed her wrist and mashed her hand against his groin, where Sansa could feel that he was… intact.

She pulled her hand back as if his cock had burned it right through his pants’ fabric. He apologized for his crude means of convincing her, which she could hardly feel offended by as a thousand possibilities opened up to her in the span of an eyeblink…

He did not give a name, because it was too risky for her to know it – she might slip up and call him by that name within Ser Jorah’s hearing distance. He only said he was a friend of House Martell of Dorne, and noble though too lowborn for Sansa to associate with under ordinary circumstances. That made her think of Sandor Clegane, who had proved to have more honor and honesty about him than the highborns he seemed to despise so much.

He then told his story, whispered and highly abridged, as they sat side-by-side yet turned toward each other on the edge of her bed, with only moonlight to see by. Moonlight was enough, for his skin and hair were pale as snow and ice. She supposed hers were, too.

He’d been in Dorne through Myrcella’s arrival there – this Sansa had gasped soundlessly to learn. But sometime after Tywin’s ascension, he traveled to Slaver’s Bay in pursuit of a distant cousin – a Martell – who’d left on a mission to arrange an alliance with Daenerys Targaryen some years before. When Red (she decided to call him in her mind) made his way to Meereen, he did not know how his cousin had been received and was smart enough to not announce his presence. Instead, he found lodging in the city, listened and watched, trying to glean information about Daenerys Targaryen as a ruler.

His impression of her had not been favorable.

Hypocritical.

Self-righteous.

Arrogant.

Entitled.

Manipulative.

Temperamental.

Loose.

She had no followers but sellswords and freedmen – the latter beholden to Daenerys for their freedom, the former beholden to Daenerys for her cunt, and the gold she shared – gold stolen from the nobles of Meereen, Astapor, and Yunkai. Sansa knew that those noble classes were comprised of slave traders and found herself suggesting that they didn’t deserve their gold.

“Perhaps not,” Red had admitted, “but the cruelest of all on this continent are the Dothraki – and she had no qualms with them. Even loved one of them. Traded her womb and child so he might live – but the deal was poisoned, she later found out.”

Sansa knew little of Daenerys’ warlord husband, and less about the circumstances surrounding the death of him and the child, but Sansa did not press for more. Perhaps because she did not wish to hate Daenerys Targaryen more than she already did. Or perhaps because she did not wish to sympathize with Daenerys Targaryen more than she already did.

Red moved on, anyway. To the tale of a land terrified of the dragon queen – or her dragon, at least. Sansa was beginning to wonder if she was the only person in the world who hadn’t seen the thing, and considered herself both lucky and deprived.

“I needed to get closer, and it was easy enough to don the garb of an Unsullied soldier. They were dropping like flies then; attacked any time they wandered out to a brothel or winesink.”

“A brothel?” had been Sansa’s question – leave it to her to be curious about the least significant topic her new friend had brought up yet.

He smiled wryly, “Even a half-man craves a woman’s company. Her touch.”

She had blushed even as she wasn’t sure what kind of ‘touching’ he implied. She only knew she couldn’t hear ‘half-man’ without thinking of Tyrion. He was half a man in height, but not in courage or wit, and she had heard that he did plenty of touching of plenty of women.

“Regardless,” Red shrugged, “there were constantly new recruits joining the dragon queen’s cause. A slave or a handful at a time. Though swordfighting is my preference, I know the spear as any Dornishman should. I also learned High Valyrian, as a child, and the bastard version is easy enough to pick up, especially for one not expected to speak much. Unsullied are trained not to speak except when spoken to by their master – and then only to acknowledge a command. The ones newly freed of their collars barely ever uttered a word. So it was only a matter of acquiring some armor and adopting the signature Unsullied gait, not to mention their humorless expression, and practicing an accent that was some amalgamation of Lyseni and Yunkish.”

“And no one thought to… check?” she refused to drop her eyes to his lap, though the twitch of his mouth said he understood just fine. She didn’t like how his smiles and half-smiles brightened him. She had always found him more striking than handsome, too hawkish for a girl to moon over, but now she realized that his serious mien had done him a disservice. When smiling, he rivaled Ser Jaime in looks. And since she presently hated Ser Jaime with a passion, she’d give the advantage to Red.

“It wasn’t like I was set to guarding the queen’s bedchamber at night,” he shrugged, “I just fell in with those patrolling the perimeter. Told those who bothered asking that I was of Lyseni blood, born in Astapor and bought by the Good Masters; that after I passed the training, I’d been bought by a merchant prince who traveled all over Essos for business and pleasure. Said after the dragon queen freed Meereen’s slaves the merchant’s paramours had enough of him. They delivered death by a thousand cuts, and a fifth of those cuts were to his nether region,” Red smirked. Though Sansa knew it was a made-up story, she winced.

But the cousin he’d followed to Meereen, the cousin she’d all but forgotten about, resurfaced then. He’d joined Daenerys’ court, in a sense. Proposed marriage, and an alliance with Dorne that would see their armies at her disposal if she’d only come to Westeros with her dragons and take the Iron Throne from… Tywin.

Sansa didn’t ask whether Red had endorsed the plan. Nor did she ask what would have become of her and her daughters, should the dragons and Dorne have been victorious.

Alas, Daenerys was busy with other plots that didn’t involve Westeros in the immediate future. Plots that nearly got her and Ser Jaime killed and led to outright chaos in the streets of Meereen around and beyond the Great Pyramid. And while all the guards were focused on the outside threat, Red’s cousin got it in his head to earn Daenerys’ trust and ardor by claiming one of her dragons – one of two unruly beasts that’d been chained up underground for months or even years by that point.

The mission was unsuccessful – as Red had expected and warned his cousin it would be. But he described himself as nothing if not resourceful. He used the opportunity to distinguish himself in the eyes of Daenerys and her most trusted man – Ser Barristan. He reported it all to Daenerys, including his own valiant but sadly unsuccessful attempts to stop the young prince from doing something so foolish and dangerous, and to stop all the men in his cousin’s party from going into the off-limits catacombs to begin with. Of course, he didn’t report that the young man was a blood relative to him, nor that he was no Unsullied at all…

Perhaps because he was fresh in her mind, or because she pitied him for having a busted nose and cracked rib to show for his efforts (which he did, indeed, earn from fighting the men who accompanied his cousin), Daenerys chose him among the precious few who would depart Meereen on a long sea voyage to King’s Landing. Sansa didn’t recall seeing him on the little vessel that fateful night but supposed that Daenerys had more guards than those she brought to the meeting with Tywin.

“Suffice to say, my observation of the dragon queen proved to me that she is not worthy of my endorsement, much less my support. But at least it put me in a position to meet a queen who is worthy of both and more…” he had averted her gaze then, biting his full lower lip and looking shy for the first time since she’d met him. It was not a look she was used to inspiring, perhaps because she’d been around so few young men in her life. She knew invasive leers. She knew rakish winks. She knew being eyed like a stuffed goose at an orphanage. She knew pure desire and she knew pure loathing. But had a young man ever looked coy around her? Gendry perhaps, though she knew his shyness was driven largely by her station; he may have found her beautiful, but it was Arya for whom his candle burned.

She wondered if they were happy – her sister and unlikely goodbrother.

“And I would see you back where you belong. With your family. With your people. I’d see you ruling all of Westeros. If only you’d accept my service and my loyalty – both of which, I swear to you, will be undying.”

“Why?” had been the obvious question.

“Because I see your strength. Your resilience. Your wisdom. But also, your heart.”

Was it arrogant, to believe she had all those things, even if the quantities were relative?

Was it cynical, to think those things weren’t enough? That she’d trade them all for a giant monster that did her bidding, or the boldness, the nerve, to go against the power class of three wealthy cities and call herself queen of all of them based on no blood claim?

Tywin was wise, she knew. Probably strong and resilient, as proven by his endurance of the Mad King’s sick attentions and taunts. And gods, was he bold. Bold enough that as a boy he chased his enemies underground only to flood their haven. But he didn’t have a giant monster, unless Ser Gregor could count. He was, perhaps, his own monster…

So what if he was a monster? He was my monster.

“I said things to you…” Sansa remembered, far later than she should have, about her confessional the night she learned, without a doubt, that her husband was dead.

Her words had been driven by grief; her own darkness exposed under the moonbeams. In the cold light of the next morning, she hadn’t known what she’d meant, and what she only wished were true.

And so what if your queen is a savior, a hero? She killed my husband, tore my family apart. And when I finally get my chance for vengeance, I think I will do as my husband would have. There will be nothing proportionate about what I do to her...

Oh, why couldn’t she be that person, who didn’t agonize over wrong and right and all the shades of gray on that spectrum?! Why couldn’t she truly and completely embrace all facets of her husband? Why couldn’t she think of him as Jaime Lannister thought of Cersei?

Her love for Tywin was unconditional, aye, but her judgment of him wasn’t.

Nor was her judgment of herself.

Daenerys Targaryen, no matter what faults she may or may not have, was a champion for the oppressed.

Tywin Lannister was a champion for Tywin Lannister. His self and his house. Any good he did was by happenstance, or because it benefited him or his legacy, not because he had an altruistic bone in his body.

No, he was also a champion for me. For me and the girls. And it wasn’t only because we are his family, members of his house. He championed us because he loved us. Not altruism, perhaps, but… But does love not count for anything?

She had begun spiraling down a familiar rabbit hole of anger and self-blame, guilt and remorse, then feeble attempts at justification, until Red kneeled before her, taking both her hands with a familiarity that would be improper if they were in Westeros. And yet what was propriety if not another dull blade,  a flimsy shield?

“Think of me what you will, your grace, but my esteem for you only grew that night. There is no place for weakness in this world. Consideration? Of course. Compassion? Certainly. Forgiveness? Sometimes. But a queen who will roll over in the face of a threat will not last long on the throne. A queen who loses sleep over the things she must do to her enemies will never be rested enough to serve her kingdoms well. Your ruthlessness that night… the fire in your heart, and in your voice… Well,” he shrugged a shoulder and gave a crooked though endearing smirk, “let’s just say if I’d gone inside right then and been spotted by one of the others, my cover might’ve been blown.”

It took her a moment to realize what he meant, and her eyes flicked down unintentionally, which he mercifully pretended to not notice.

“Why not reveal yourself to me sooner? Knowing that I had a potential ally… it would have meant the world to me,” she asked.

His grip on her hands tightened, “Because I wished to see what kind of woman you are. What kind of queen you’ll be.”

“You wish to see me on the throne? Why?”

“Doesn’t every subject of the monarchy wish for a capable ruler; one he can gladly give his fealty and his devotion?”

Perhaps, but it’s not all you wish for.

No one was that selfless, she knew. Though trying to endear himself to a woman he thought would or should or simply could be queen again? Well, it didn’t mean he had nefarious intentions, just ambitious ones.

She hadn’t told him the throne meant nothing to her. In fact, she felt a deep loathing for anyone who wanted the thing, and all the people she could think of who wanted it were Targaryens or Blackfyres, and Joffrey. Perhaps Cersei, even if only for her son. By Father’s stories, Robert Baratheon had it thrust on him because of his dragonblood and his charisma, but all the man ever really wanted was revenge. That and a good fight. Tywin didn’t want the throne, because he knew that it was more burden than privilege. Sansa certainly didn’t want it, either. Not for herself, not for her daughters.

But she didn’t tell Red that, because she couldn’t assume his support for Lady Sansa would be as strong as his support for Queen Regent Sansa.

And thus, they had arrived at the only question that mattered. The one that might have come out of her mouth first, if not that his revelation had shocked her, and every detail of his story had fascinated her.

“Do you know where my daughters are?”

In the span of time it took for his response to come, Sansa couldn’t decide what would be worse – a ‘no’ that would leave her exactly where she’d been before Red revealed himself as a Westerosi and an ally, or a ‘yes’ that might prove to be a tempting bait. Could he be loyal to Daenerys, after all? Could he be trying to lead Sansa to try an escape? Or could he feel no obligation to Daenerys, and still dangle that lure? What if he only meant to get her out of this house, where Ser Jorah protected her as much as he imprisoned her? What if he cared naught for the throne, naught for Sansa, naught for Jeyne and Jocelyn? What if he only meant to sell her to the highest bidder – she, a woman with a claim on two kingdoms, and arguably all of them?

“No,” he answered, regret in his tone.

So it was no trick and no bait, only another stitch torn from her threadbare heart.

“Could you find out?” she asked, terrified of receiving the same answer.

“In time, perhaps. I can try to go with him when he goes to retrieve the girls, and memorize the route.”

“He won’t have them brought here?”

Red shrugged, “He might. If he trusts the guards there with the knowledge of your location – which is doubtful. If any of your people manage to find your daughters, they would torture the guards to give you up. An Unsullied man may be willing to die before betraying his master, but even the hardest man has a limit.”

And now, thanks to Red, she had the most concrete plan she’d ever devised, though it still contained too many variables. If Ser Jorah asked Red to join him to fetch Jeyne and Jocelyn. If Ser Jorah didn’t have the girls moved to a new location immediately after, just to be safe. If Red could remember the way. If Red and Sansa could successfully escape this house and make it to that one – could Red kill the other four men? She supposed he could, if they left at night while Red was the one on guard duty. He could kill the others in their sleep.

Did she want him to kill Bronze Fist? Flea? Crawler?

Damn my soft heart, but I don’t want them to die.

But to be reunited with Jeyne and Jocelyn? To have a chance of making it back to Westeros, to see Mother and Arya and Rickon and Bran and Uncle Edmure? To perhaps see Tyrion and Tommen and Margaery and Shireen and Uncle Brynden?

She still didn’t like it, and still would try to think of another way, but if none presented itself…

And there was still the problem that the girls’ location might be moved after the visit. Sansa and Red might make it out of this place, killing four men to do so, only to arrive at a recently abandoned house.

Then there was only one option: the girls, and Rayna, could not leave once they’d arrived. That either meant moving against the guards during the visit, at unlikely odds, or making the visit last at least a full day and night, so that some of the guards would have to sleep at some point.

Red agreed with the plan.

He bid her goodnight as the sky was just beginning to lighten, explaining that Crawler wasn’t one to sleep in. Not that he was in the habit of checking in on Red in the morning, but Red wouldn’t chance creeping back across the hall just as Crawler was emerging from his room.

When Sansa hurriedly expressed her concern that Ser Jorah was sometimes up before dawn, Red had grinned, “Give me enough credit to choose my moments, your grace. He drank too much of his mezcal last night. I wouldn’t expect to see him until the sun’s been up at least two hours.”

He bowed, kissed her hand, and was gone.

And now she’d made it through a fortnight of trying not to look at him any differently than she’d looked at Red Spider. It was hard, when she felt his eyes on her. He was allowed to look because it was his job to watch his charge. It was not her job to watch her captor, and it was especially dangerous now that her eyes had been opened to his good looks. She would not say she trusted him – no more than she trusted anyone who wasn’t her blood – but she thought he might be worthy of at least some of her confidence. He might be opportunistic. He might want to ride on her coattails. He might care about no more than her claims. But then, didn’t that imply that he’d continue to care as long as she had those claims? Only when she was safely back in Winterfell with her daughters might he realize she had no designs on the throne. And if he didn’t like it, perhaps she’d have Sandor Clegane, or Grey Wind, or Ser Kevan, or her feisty little sister rid her of the tool whose cost had exceeded its usefulness.

So these were her only jobs now: never let on that Red Spider was not, in fact, a freedman loyal to Daenerys Targaryen, and find a way to encourage Ser Jorah to make the girls’ visit here, if not permanent, then at least an overnight trip.

As for the former task, it was made easier by the fact that Ser Jorah was growing fond of sipping from his flask or having more than one ale or wine with supper. As for the latter task, she wasn’t sure that Ser Jorah would be an easier mark when drunk or sober. When sober he was more alert, more suspicious of her every word and intention. But when drunk… Well, when drunk he was a wild card. Sometimes merry, sometimes fatalistic. Sometimes talkative, sometimes morose. Sometimes pleasant, sometimes critical.

She mostly tried to avoid him when he drank, which was easy enough since she was usually yawning by the time the sun went down in the late afternoon, which was around the time he began sipping from his flask.

But tonight there was no avoiding him.

Because tonight was his nameday.

And he wanted to celebrate.

Sansa slammed her hand down over the dice when she saw the six red dots. Crawler’s hand slammed down on hers a half a breath later, and Ser Jorah’s atop them both.

She didn’t have to take a sip of the ale this time, which was good, but her palm hurt where the dice’s corners dug into it when two male hands slammed down on hers.

Crawler took a modest sip. Ser Jorah took a generous one, then stifled a belch.

Sansa was winning this game that involved Flea rolling five dice out of a wooden cup onto the table – a jute placemat, to be precise. The three players then had to cover up any sixes, and be the first to do so. It was made trickier because the six could be made from a combination of other dice. A four and two. A three and two and one. Each player then tried to pull the two or three dice under their hand.

Whoever didn’t have their hand directly touching one or more dice that totaled six had to drink. Someone drank every hand except when there was a draw – each with their hand touching one or more dice.

Sansa was comporting herself reasonably well, particularly after she stopped feeling self-conscious about her hands flying around and slamming down in a way that was far from ladylike.

Oh – and it was rare, but the dice thrower would drink if there were no sixes or ways to add up to six. It had happened only twice in this twenty-one-round game. First with two twos and three fives, then with four fours and one one.

‘One one’ sounds funny. Funnier than ‘two twos’. Definitely funnier than ‘four fours’.

Sansa almost giggled but instead hiccupped. She’d done that more tonight than in every day of her life thus far, she was sure. And every time she hiccupped, the men laughed.

“Last round,” Ser Jorah announced. He was by far the most inebriated. Probably because he’d been imbibing since well before the drinking games began. “You’re playing next game, Red. And you, too, Bronze. You can play against Crawler – he’s not near drunk enough.”

“What about me?” Sansa peeped in automatic defensiveness, before remembering she really didn’t want to get any tipsier than she already was. It was pleasant and yet not, and the frequent hiccups were getting annoying.

Ser Jorah snorted, “Four can play. Assuming you can get the mute to agree,” he hooked his thumb toward Red Spider, who was acting every bit his usual quiet self. Ser Jorah seemed to like that characteristic of the man, except when he was drunk. When he was drunk, he wanted everyone else to share his cheer. Until his cheer ran out. Then he had no patience for anyone else’s merriment.

Sansa hated him so much it was suffocating, yet like so many other of her emotions she wished it could be pure, uncorrupted by her doubts.

The sound of dice clanking in the cup brought Sansa’s attention back to the game, but her brain hadn’t quite caught up when two sixes rolled forth with two ones and a three.

She took a sip of ale while glaring at Ser Jorah, who looked proud of himself as his hand covered one of the sixes.

“I don’t think it would be wise to play against such sober companions,” she admitted, then hiccupped again.

Ser Jorah rose from the table, “If you’re making wise choices, you’re definitely not drunk enough. Come.”

She stood and joined him in the kitchen at his bidding. He poured her a cup of water then pulled his flask out of his pocket, uncorked it, and held it out for her to take.

She shook her head and crinkled her nose, “I didn’t like it.”

Ser Jorah snorted, “It’s an acquired taste. But you don’t drink it for the flavor, anyway.”

“I don’t want to get drunk.”

“Why not? Think if your head aches too much on the morrow to darn anyone’s socks or peel carrots or scrub pots, we’re going to give you the boot?”

If only.

“I don’t… I don’t like losing control.”

Ser Jorah smiled, “Everyone needs to let loose sometimes.”

You most of all.

“Come on, are you going to refuse a man on his nameday?”

She wondered if it even was his nameday. Probably, for as irritable as he had seemed today, to find himself a year older. He had been particularly touchy with Bronze Fist, as if the lad could help being as young as he was. But she wouldn’t put it past Ser Jorah to lie about the date. Or anything.

“Fine,” she sighed, “One sip.”

She held the last note of The Name Day Boy as long as she could. When she was done, she had to suck in a big gulp of air. She hadn’t sung anything but soft lullabies in years, and the muscles in her throat, not to mention her lungs, seemed to have gotten weak.

Still, her audience was forgiving (and drunk). Except Red. He’d suffered one game of Sixes, and to her knowledge hadn’t had to sip one time. She figured that meant he was good with his hands, and fast.

She wasn’t sure why that made her blush.

Yes, she was. It was because she wondered what his hands could make her feel.

Crawler smiled, “More, lady.”

Sansa dropped her head back against the settee and groaned, “But I’m exhausted. Sleepy,” she clarified – reminding herself the Unsullied needed simpler words. They knew the word ‘sleep’.

“Not sleep!” Bronze whined. He was much livelier since losing the game of Sixes and then joining Sansa in sipping some mezcal with Ser Jorah. It really was an acquired taste, and she was slowly acquiring it.

“Not sleep,” she agreed, “Sleep-ee. Like this,” she went to fake a yawn, which turned into a real yawn, which ended with a hiccup. Damn, but they kept coming back every time she thought they were done!

“Lady should dance,” Crawler stated assuredly.

Sansa shook her head, “Ugh! If I dance, I think I might…” she stopped herself from saying ‘retch’, “…be ill.”

“Then sing usss another ssong,” Jorah slurred.

She shook her head, “I told you I’d since a song as your present. That was three songs ago.”

“But the lads want to hear Bear and the Maiden Fair.

“No! That’s lewd!”

“That’s the idea!” Ser Jorah grinned dopily.

“I won’t sing that song!” she huffed.

“What this song about?” Crawler asked.

“An ugly man licking a pretty—”

“SER JORAH!” Sansa scolded, then hiccupped.

“What?” he laughed.

“Pretty what?” Bronze asked.

Flea said something to him in their native tongue, then waited while Bronze seemed to puzzle it out based on whatever clue he’d been given.

“Ohhh…” Bronze nodded, then his eyes widened, flicked to Sansa’s and away, and his brown cheeks managed to go pink.

The other men found that a riot, but all Sansa could do was wonder how the Unsullied knew about such an act. Was that what eunuchs did at brothels? If so, Sansa felt less sorry for the whores than she used to.

Still, she wasn’t quite drunk enough to let her curiosity be so transparent, so she rolled her eyes and pretended to be above any interest in such topics.

“Fine. Then sing Her Little Flower,” Ser Jorah suggested.

She glared at him.

He held his hands up, “What? It’s a sweet song, about a lad plucking a nice pink flower for his lass.”

“No! I won’t sing that song.”

Ser Jorah clicked his tongue, “The Lusty Lad?”

“No!”

When Willum's Wife Was Wet?”

“Gods no!”

“Fine, fine,” Ser Jorah lifted and dropped his hand, “Milady’s Supper?”

Sansa almost barked out her usual response but instead frowned, “I don’t know that song.”

Ser Jorah’s smile was too wicked, and Sansa could venture a guess about what the lady in the song had been… eating.

“No,” she added.

He let out a burst of laughter, “Fine. Sing what you will.”

“Why must I sing at all?” she whined.

“Sing, lady,” Flea implored.

Sansa clicked her tongue, “Oh, alright.”

While the men voiced their delight, Sansa scanned through a list in her mind.

Unbeknownst to her prior to that moment, all the songs she’d grown up singing were either sad or… well, allegories for sexual acts, as she realized only after becoming a married woman.

Well, she supposed she could sing The Rat Cook. Arya would be proud, at least. Though that would require knowing all the lyrics. The Seasons of My Love was too repetitive – and it would feel strange to sing ‘I loved a maid as red as autumn, with sunset in her hair’. As it would be strange to sing, ‘I loved a maid as white as winter, with moonglow in her hair’.

She supposed she could sing The Dance of the Dragons, but Ser Jorah would probably accuse her of trying to turn her keepers against Daenerys. He may condemn her for singing The Rains of Castamere, too – consider it a threat.

Finally, she settled on one that was not a somber tune, nor too crude, nor something Ser Jorah could claim was anti-Targaryen or pro-Lannister.

She took a breath and began the song, drunk enough to not care if she was in key, but not so drunk to slur or stumble over the words.

The Dornishman's wife was as fair as the sun,

and her kisses were warmer than spring.

But the Dornishman's blade was made of black steel,

and its kiss was a terrible thing.

 

The Dornishman's wife would sing as she bathed,

in a voice that was sweet as a peach,

But the Dornishman's blade had a song of its own,

and a bite sharp and cold as a leech.

 

As he lay on the ground with the darkness around,

and the taste of his blood on his tongue,

His brothers knelt by him and prayed him a prayer,

and he smiled and he laughed and he sung,

 

Brothers, oh brothers, my days here are done,

the Dornishman's taken my life,

But what does it matter, for all men must die,

and I've tasted the Dornishman's wife!

Crawler had the best grasp on the common tongue, and seemed to understand enough to be amused, though the upbeat melody alone seemed to have entertained all the men.

She dared to glance Red’s way and felt herself flinch to find his gaze on her, his expression soft, though nothing that would give him away.

In fear that the drink might be impairing her judgment, Sansa quickly turned away, ready to plaster a smile on for Ser Jorah.

It was clearly unnecessary, as the man wasn’t smiling at her.

Rather, he looked rather… strange. Angry, but not at anyone in particular. Bitter, but not about anything in particular.

She frantically examined her own recent behavior. Had her glance at Red lasted too long? Conveyed too much fondness? Had it been a lusty expression, or a familiar one?

Her heart thudded, and she cursed herself for being drunk – for letting Ser Jorah goad her into drinking more when she was already tipsy.

Tipsy! Yes! If he saw anything, I’ll blame it on the drink.

She gave a smile to her audience, “I think I must leave you now. I’m very sleepy. I fear I drank too much.” She pushed up from the settee, strategizing how best to appear drunk when the strategy presented itself as she wobbled on feet that didn’t seem to be following her commands.

Bronze shot up to steady her while Crawler and Flea chuckled at her expense.

Then Red was approaching, speaking a few short words in Valyrian, and taking her arm after Bronze nodded at him.

A few steps had her regaining her legs, but still she held his elbow to her as they crossed to the stairway and ascended, speaking not a word until they were in her room – together.

He moved to lock the door, but she stopped him, “If any should come here, you can say I was so drunk you feared I’d hurt myself while preparing for bed. It would look strange if you thought to lock the door, though.”

He nodded and stepped away from the door, “Then I suppose you should prepare for bed.”

An old familiar feeling pulsed through her at his subtle suggestion that she should undress right in front of him. But that feeling would lead her to think about other times she’d done so – peeled her clothing off one article at a time while a certain man watched.

She swallowed, “Let’s suppose I’m not ready to lie down.”

“You’re not,” he spoke with amusement, “lest you can fall asleep while the world is spinning and your tummy feels like a choppy ocean.”

Sansa groaned, “Not likely.”

“No,” he smiled faintly, “I will not risk any of them wondering. Even if Ser Jorah never doubts that I’m missing the necessary bits, he’d be jealous just to know I’ve held your hand and received your smiles.”

“Have I smiled at you?” she asked as he stepped closer to her. For some reason, she had stopped her inbound journey at the foot of her bed. Perhaps she’d intended to sit and unlace her boots. Or perhaps… perhaps… my featherbed is deep and soft…

He nodded slowly, “Once or twice. And no – not when anyone was looking, and not in a way that would rouse any suspicion. Only the old bear’s jealousy; for such a hard man, he’s surprisingly sensitive.”

“Ugh. If I had to sing The Bear and the Maiden Fair to him, I’d have lost my supper.”

Red let out a near silent snort, “Disaster was averted, it would—” She clamped a hand over his mouth as she heard distant footsteps, the kind she heard every time one of the men climbed the stairs. Specifically, the kind she heard when Ser Jorah climbed the stairs. He was probably two stone heavier than any of the others, even Red who was taller than Jorah but quite lean – lean enough to be passable as a man whose sex organs had been removed before he was done growing.

The footsteps neared, heavy and dragging, and Sansa’s heart thundered. It wasn’t that Ser Jorah frequently came into her room at night – in fact, unless he did it while she slumbered, it’d never happened – but something about this night felt different.

He paused in the hallway just outside her door, though that also happened to be outside his door, since his was the room straight across. Flea and Crawler had the adjoining rooms meant to be shared by husband and wife, Red and Bronze had the two smallest rooms, and no one slept in the spacious nursery.

Somehow, she knew it was coming before it did, yet she gave no signal to Red. She only stood there, frozen, like the rabbit that knew it’d been spotted by the wolf.

When his fist thudded against the door twice, Sansa jolted and gasped. Red had a more practical reaction: dropping as noiselessly as a cat and sliding under her bed.

“Who- Who is it?” she called out as she sat down on the bed, then brought her left ankle to her right knee to work on the bootlaces.

“It’s me,” the words came a heartbeat before the door swung in.

She froze her work on the laces, “Ser Jorah! You cannot barge in here.”

He snorted bitterly, “Why not? You’re my prisoner, aren’t you?”

She rose from the bed, feeling vulnerable even with Red in the room. Maybe even more so because of his presence – would he reveal himself to defend her honor if Ser Jorah attempted something? Did he know she’d rather let the hairy old bear fuck her than lose her chance of being permanently rejoined with her daughters?

Ser Jorah gave a cursory glance around the room then lifted his flask to his lips, “I half eh-spected to fine Red lickin’ the honey from your hair.”

Fear that his suspicion was founded in some proof shocked her rather conveniently, for Ser Jorah watched her eyes widen and gave a low chortle then a hum, “S’pose a pretty face does’n woman no good if the mouth’n’it is’n willin’.”

She lifted her chin, but haughtiness was hard to summon when she was still and now also scared. Still, she did her best, “Why you assume I want that from him – or any of them – is beyond me.”

Ser Jorah shook his head while staring at his flask. He took another sip then corked it, pocketed it, and kept shaking his head as he lifted his eyes to match hers, “Why wouldn’I think it? S-story of my life.”

“Ser Jorah, you’re drunk.”

“So’r you.”

“A little,” she admitted.

“You kissed me.”

Her mouth fell open in surprise. Had she at some point tonight been so drunk she kissed the man, then forgot about it? Why wouldn’t Red have told her?!

“When?” she asked.

His expression became crestfallen, and the bulb in his hairy neck rose and dropped before he answered, “In the yard. After…”

She took a deep breath of relief, “Oh… I… Yes.”

“Why?”

Because I was so angry, and hitting you wasn’t enough.

Because I wanted to make you want me, but never get to have me.

Because I don’t know what I’m doing, but if I do nothing then I am lost.

I don’t know.

It took her inebriated brain a few moments to realize she was facing one of the opportunities she’d been waiting for. Not to foist affection on a man too shrewd to take it at face value, but to dangle the possibility of her affection just out of his reach…

Out of his reach unless he was willing to step away from his duty, and toward his desire.

What do you want from me?

What I want is not in your power to give.

“I kissed you because I wanted to,” she finally answered. If her voice was a bit emotionless, she thought it worked, especially in light of her conclusion, “but I shouldn’t.”

I shouldn’t want you.

And yet you do.

You’re a monster.

There are worse monsters than me.

“Why?” he approached and gripped her right arm, but with knowledge that came only from direct experience, she knew it was desperation, not violence.

“Because… because even though you’re my enemy, I know you’re a good man.” Maybe. Or at least not a bad man. Then again, I’d probably like you better if you were.

He snorted, and the scent of the strange liquor mixed with ale was overwhelming, but she could not look disgusted now.

She continued, “I know you’re patient. And strong. And brave. And loy—”

His lips swallowed the final adjective while his calloused fingers, seemingly so short and thick compared to all the others she’d ever been touched by, held her neck in place.

It was graceless, sloppy, and rough. From another man it might be all it would take to prime her, but from him it only managed to turn her already touchy stomach.

And it seemed to go on forever. And she reciprocated. Her mouth made all the imitations of a woman succumbing to desire, while the act did nothing to coax her arousal. Open, close, peck, open, tongue swirling, lips sucking; back, forward, peck, peck, open, suck, twirl…

Her mind went blank as it sometimes did while she scrubbed laundry. She felt no fear of how he’d ravish her, but nor did she feel hope that this would be all it took to buy his loyalty. She couldn’t let herself hope. That hope would become the pillar of her existence, and if it failed, she’d collapse into an irreparable pile of rubble.

But the ravishing didn’t come.

He abruptly pushed himself away and then turned, panting and wiping his mouth on his sleeve, his other hand on his hip.

“You’don want me,” he spoke without malice. It rather sounded like he was having an epiphany.

“I—”

Before the lie could be spat out, he snorted again, “You wan’somethin from me. Every woman does. You don’t. Want. Me.

The hurt in his voice was so raw, yet she knew he’d rather have rejection than deception.

Unfortunately, she felt this opportunity was too rare.

“Fine,” she sighed, “Maybe I do want something from you. And maybe I want you, too.”

He shook his head, letting out a sound almost like laughter, even as his eyes narrowed to slits, “I know wha’you want. You want your daughters. You want them here. Are you so eager to sell your cunt for them?”

All the blood in her veins turned hot at once, this familiar surge of baseless bravado, her fool’s courage, the mockingbird that learned how to bark like a dog and was dumb enough to think anyone would be fooled. She knew it, and yet it still spewed up and out of her like lava from a volcano.

“As a matter of fact, I would. As any good mother would, for any of her children. I’d walk naked down the streets, letting any man who was so inclined take me right there, with an entire crowd watching, if that’s what it would take to have my daughters in my arms. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want you – why, don’t ask me! I must have a weakness for men who are too old for me, too bitter for me. Or maybe because you remind me of the North, where men are proud and principled, instead of fancy and flighty. Or maybe because I have no other choices,” she huffed and threw her hands up, “but there you have it.”

She wasn’t sure if it worked, though knew it was the best she could offer. Proclaiming him the handsomest, sweetest, most gallant man she’d ever met? Even swaying on his feet, three sheets to the wind, he’d see through that.

“Or maybe because you’re lonely,” he grumbled, as he leaned one hand against her vanity table and let his chin drop to his chest, “lonely ‘cause you miss him. Is’it ‘is green eyes? ‘is sharp jaw? Course not. Was all that gold he shat. And all the things he bought you with’it. Betchoo oohhed and aahhed over every li’l trinket. Betchoo got on your knees to show your thanks.”

Fuck you, she wanted to shout. Perhaps Sansa in a different life would’ve been that woman, but she didn’t have the chance in this one. It was her life and her family’s cause she sold herself for. And she did it on her back, not her knees. And that, too, was on the tip of her tongue, but she knew enough about this man to know he was lashing out at her for offenses delivered by other women.

“I’m not Lynesse Hightower, Ser.”

To her surprise, he chuckled at that, still hunched over her vanity. “Right. Then it were ‘is looks, after all. Wouldna had ‘em much longer, but I s’pose you din think-athat. Stupid child. Like a moth to a flame. You think men like that’d be loyal? No. You think they’d worship you? No. Die for you? No. Kill for you? Aye, ‘cause they like doin’it anyway.”

Except Tywin did die for me. He was loyal to me. He worshipped me, as much as a man like him was capable. And kill for me? He’d do it gladly.

But once again, her thoughts would go unvoiced.

Except…

Maybe…

Her mouth hung open for several heartbeats before she summoned the courage to try, “He did die for me, or have you forgotten?”

She let that linger in the air between them, gave it time to sink in.

And when Ser Jorah took another sip from his flask, she knew it had.

So, she advanced, “He’d have killed for me. Would’ve killed his own bannerman if his warning wasn’t heeded in regards that bannerman’s attentions on me. Loyal?” she scoffed, “He was up and working with the dawn straight through nightfall, then with me; I highly doubt he had time to entertain other women. And worship? He cherished me. He went to his knees for me. He sang my name like a hymn and voiced his love like a prayer.” She closed the gap he’d put between them, watched him straighten as if to ready himself to fight or flee, but he did neither when she laid her hand on his neck, “You ask why I want you? Because I see you. Because I know you’re the sort of man who would also do all those things… just not for me.” She gave him a sad smile she didn’t have to feign. This man’s love was his curse, and she pitied him. Love’s curse on him was to never have the women he wanted, not entirely. Love’s curse meant no woman would ever return his devotion. Without Lynesse Hightower and her never-ending want for more things, Lord Jorah Mormont would never have sold those trespassers into slavery. He’d never have fled Westeros. Never have met Daenerys Targaryen. Then Daenerys might not even be alive, for surely the man who’d been her shield for years had saved her life at some point.

Ser Eryk was right – there was a reason a wife’s duty was to love her husband.

But whatever path Lynesse led this man down, it was another woman who was his curse now. Sansa would not ordinarily fault Daenerys for not being able to love Ser Jorah, except that Sansa knew the queen’s reason was skin-deep. She could bring herself to love a true barbarian – a rapist, a slaver, a man who’d no doubt wrought more suffering and pain and sorrow than Tywin ever could, than Ser Gregor ever could, because his men battled by the hundred or thousand, not by the dozen. Dothraki warlords didn’t bother with little farmsteads – those bounties were too small. They went for entire tribes, killing and raping and enslaving their own people – other Dothraki.

And Daenerys had had other lovers since her husband’s passing, if Red was to be believed. Jaime Lannister might be one of them, no matter that he had killed Daenerys’ father and – worse – sired Queen Cersei’s bastards, whose mere existence was the catalyst for the War of Five Kings. Did Daenerys not realize how much that war had scarred the lands and people she now called her own? Would those people get justice against the Kingslayer, the Queenfucker? No, because Daenerys was fond of him.

And Ser Jaime was a handsome man, loathed as Sansa was to admit it. Ser Jorah was… not. And yet Sansa knew she’d have been able to love him, had circumstances been different; had he been her savior instead of her captor. Had he shown up at Harrenhal before Tywin did, a shamed lord trying to atone for his crimes by saving the daughters of the liege he had once defied. And for his valor, Sansa would have petitioned Robb to forgive Jorah’s crimes and might have even offered her hand as further reward. And perhaps she’d never love him like she loved Tywin, for reasons that only the gods knew. But she’d have been true to him. She’d have appreciated him. She’d have loved what parts she was able.

But that was another life. A fantasy, a fairy tale compared to the one she was in now.

And suddenly her final words to him struck her like a blow.

Just not for me.

Was she the delusional one? Was she the arrogant one? Was she nothing but a brat, jealous that the knight was in love with the petite queen with her hair like virgin snow on a sunny day, her skin like warm sand, and her eyes like a field of lavender in bloom?

Was there something she wasn’t seeing in the queen, something everyone else saw? Had they thrown themselves at her feet, praising her for ending the rule of the lion and wolf? To the rest of the realm, were lions and wolves nothing but warmongers whose strife had caused much recent suffering? Had lion and wolf been so hated that the people welcomed the return of the dragon?

Of course, they did. Sansa could remember the courtiers decrying Robb as an abomination for becoming one with his direwolf in battle. But at least men, with their swords and armor, had a chance of killing a direwolf. What chance did men have against a dragon?

Maybe that explained all of it. Dragons were so powerful as to seem otherworldly. Wolves, no matter how large, were just oversized dogs with no right to a place near the top of the foodchain.

Perhaps Sansa was a relic, along with all her kin. Perhaps the gods decided that eight thousand years was long enough for House Stark to reign. Perhaps the era of the dragon in Westeros was meant to last longer than the two-hundred-and-eighty-some years between Aegon I’s conquest and Aerys II’s death. Perhaps there had been a mistake that threw fate off course. Perhaps Rhaegar Targaryen had been destined to live, but the gods underestimated Robert Baratheon’s strength and will. Perhaps little Aegon Targaryen and his sister were destined to live, but the gods underestimated Cersei Lannister’s greed and malice.

Perhaps Sansa really was the ghost she’d seen in the looking glass during her early weeks in this house.

Perhaps she was dead, and didn’t even know it. Perhaps the girls weren’t in some other manse in this or any other city. Perhaps they had died. Perhaps they and Tywin were waiting for her. Perhaps Father was there, and Robb, and Lady. Perhaps Jon Snow. Perhaps Aunt Lyanna and Uncle Brandon and the grandparents she’d never met. Perhaps Bran would be arriving soon. Perhaps Arya and Mother, too – victims of winter fever or the grippe or a wasting sickness.

“Shhh… please don’t cry,” Ser Jorah was whispering as his rough thumbs stroked her cheeks. “Don’t cry,” he repeated, kissing it into to her cheekbone, then the other cheekbone, then her jaw, then her chin, then the corner of her mouth, then her lips. He slurred the two words with each peck of his lips.

She wasn’t sure if it was intentional, when he lowered them to the bed, or if he had tripped on her skirts or his own feet. She only knew she was on her back, horizontal across the bed, with Ser Jorah’s knees between her thighs, his lips wandering lazily down her neck, to her collar bone, to her chest.

“Don’t cry,” he mumbled again, “Too beautiful to cry. Too beautiful…”

She should care, but she didn’t. She should try to extract a promise now, but she couldn’t. She only laid there, wondering if this would relieve her pain or exacerbate it.

His hand, rough and warm, worked under her blouse to stroke her belly up to her ribs. She almost welcomed the touch, for the distraction it would be, the break in the banality of her existence. But she was too pensive to let herself become lost in this, because she didn’t know what this was, for him. Surrender? Love? Desire? Loneliness?

She wanted it to be surrender. She wanted him to use her then roll off, catch his breath, pull her against him and say, “I’ll bring the girls here on the morrow.”

And if there were contingencies, she would accept them. If he wanted her to take his name and wear his cloak, she would. If he wanted her to promise to love him every night, she would. If he wanted her promise to give him children, she would.

They’d all be empty, but he’d not live to find out, for all that would be the safe choice – to accept a life as the knight’s wife, the mother of his children. Accept a life without love, for how could she love someone who had helped kill her real love and who had taken her away from her baby girls? Smile proudly when Jocelyn and Jeyne called him ‘Pa’, even if she really wanted to retch. Moan and writhe with fake rapture when he bedded her. All of that would be no small chore, but it would mean safety for herself and her children, safety and togetherness. It would all but guarantee survival.

But damn her, she didn’t want to just survive anymore.

She wanted to win.

“So beautiful…” his nose nuzzled her hair, and slowly his weight became heavy… and heavier…

And then all of it was on her, pinning nearly her entire body but her right leg and arm.

And the sound of his breathing had changed. It was deep and steady, making an almost-snore sound in his nose.

“Ser Jorah?”

He gave no response.

“Ser Jorah?”

Nothing.

“Ser Jorah!”

Still nothing.

She pushed on his left shoulder and managed to flip him off, the knight landing heavily on his back, his right leg now sprawled over her left, but otherwise she was free.

As she considered whether a swift slap or a cup of cool water would be the more satisfying way to rouse him, she heard shuffling beneath the bed.

“Red?” she whispered.

There was a sliding sound, probably him grabbing the frame of the bed and pulling to drag himself out. A moment later a silver-white head came up slowly.

“Are you alright?”

Sansa exhaled loudly, though Ser Jorah’s snores drowned out the sound, “My pride is a bit wounded. Apparently, I’m a bore in the sack.” She said it like a joke, but for some reason she wanted to cry.

Red grinned as he slowly, with one hand on the mattress, pushed himself to standing, “I highly doubt it. The mezcal is to blame – it’s even more potent than a beautiful woman.”

She shook her head, “I thought if he…” she trailed off there, certain that Red was smart enough to understand.

I thought if he fucked me, he’d feel indebted to me, if not downright fond of me. Fond enough or indebted enough to bring my girls here.

“Seems to me,” Red frowned in thought while looking at Ser Jorah, who was dead to the world, “that something can be salvaged from this…”

 

Jorah

The pain lanced through and around his eyes, and he knew opening them would be a bitch. But the sooner he opened them, the sooner his stomach would stop churning like the sea during a storm.

Something was odd, though, before he even opened his eyes. The light source he was dreading to see without his eyelids as a screen was coming from his right, not his left.

And his entire right side felt warm and sweaty.

And his right arm was asleep.

And the texture caressing his cock and thighs and toes and ticking the hair on his chest was smoother than usual.

He lurched forward, and regretted it instantly.

“Too eaarrrly,” a female voice drawled to his right.

His vision was blurry, probably from drinking, or perhaps sleeping with his forearm over his eyes, and definitely from being too damned old. He rubbed his eyes and turned his head carefully, his stomach turning with it, and found a head of thick white hair attached to a long neck and even longer back, all smooth and pale but for a handful of thin pink lines, and further down a shapely bottom where the sheet had come away from her as he sat up.

The room was cold, but he wasn’t – thanks to having the sweats from too much drink – and she wasn’t – thanks to having ice in her veins to begin with.

Ice, not fire.

“Fuck,” he grumbled. It was all he could manage to utter without retching. He hadn’t drunk so much since finding out Lynesse had left him to be a prince’s whore. Or no – he drank like this when Daenerys took Daario Naharis into her bed. That arrogant, two-faced, twat-bearded mercenary who apparently threw his cock in to sweeten the deal any time he sold his sword.

He turned away from the sight that would’ve been lovely, under other circumstances and in a different life.

A warm hand came to his back.

“Let me fetch you some water,” she said, then he heard her scooting out of bed and padding across the floor.

He had to get out of there before she came back into his field of vision. Shame would make him hurl. She was his hostage. Young enough to be his daughter and then some, a girl taken from her home and her people and even from her daughters to a foreign land, where her only company were a bunch of remorseless killers trying to play at being real men.

He slid his feet over the side of the bed, only realizing he was fully bare at that point. Fuck, he didn’t even remember kissing her, much less undressing her and himself and… fuck!

Or maybe he did recall a kiss, though even as it was happening it had been blurry, as if he wasn’t sure he was there. Fucking mezcal! But he could swear he’d ended it… could swear he had said something cruel enough to make her cry… could swear he was planning to walk away and to never say more to the girl than what was absolutely necessary as part of their cohabitation.

He stood on shaky legs just as she was approaching with a cup of water, totally nude but for knitted stockings, one nearly ending at her knee, the other rolled in the night to be barely above her ankle.

He was took drunk and ashamed and bloody fuming to be aroused, but only a man without eyes wouldn’t know he was looking at something exquisite. Breasts full but still fairly high, with small, rose-pink areolas and nipples. A tapered waist even if her belly beneath her navel was more convex than flat. Flared hips – he’d always been a sucker for hips, even if the girl had anthills in place of teats. And long legs. Gods, was it just his drunk eyes, or did they go on forever? Were her thighs somehow doughy and toned at the same time? Perfect for squeezing and perfect for looking at when most women’s thighs were only one or the other. And a triangle of red hair between them. He was certain he’d never had a redhead before. Not a natural redhead, anyway.

He reached for his tunic on the floor and used it to hide his groin as he headed straight for the door, pushing past the girl and making the water splash the valley between her breasts. Fuck me.

“Where are you going?” she peeped.

“To my room,” he growled as his hand reached the door pull.

Quick as a cat she was there, her back to the door and her eyes nearly level with his own when he wasn’t wearing boots.

“Why do you seem angry?”

“Because I am,” he tried to pull the handle, but she stubbornly threw her weight back.

“Did I do something? Did you… not like it?” she blushed there, and cringed a bit.

He ground his teeth and swallowed his nausea while watching her expression become one of disappointment.

“You didn’t mean any of it, did you?” she asked in a small voice.

“Mean what?” he spat. His heart was pounding as only regret could make it.

“When you said you loved me.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

“I didn’t say that!”

“You did!” she screamed. He took a step back to get away from the sound that felt like a pickaxe to his ears.

“Then I didn’t mean it!”

“Of course, you didn’t!” she yelled, “you were just using me. Taking advantage of me. That’s all every man has ever done to me – all but one! And I thought you’d be different, knowing what it feels like to be used – to be used by your second wife and by your queen!”

He clenched his jaw, “Daenerys doesn’t use me.”

“That’s not what you said last night! You said she’s just like Lynesse – a whore for pretty things and pretty men and—”

He saw it happen but didn’t remember deciding to do it.

“I’m sorry, I—”

Sansa shook her head while clutching her cheek, her eyes still wet but now hard. How quickly water turned to ice. She was a witch, this one, bending the very elements to her will.

But nothing was colder than her voice when she said, “I suppose you didn’t mean it when you said you would bring my daughters here, either. That we could be a family.”

Fuck… fuck… FUCK!

“You know I can’t, lady. And you know I was drunk when I said it.”

“I see,” she said after a few heartbeats. Her hand dropped and he saw his fingerprints on her cheek, felt them like they were imprinted on his own. She moved away and found her robe draped over the vanity chair, pulling it on hastily then hugging herself.

He walked out, and hadn’t made it the three steps across the hall before Red Spider was emerging from his own room, his eyes immediately going down to the shirt that hid Jorah’s manhood, then up to Jorah’s eyes. The dead-eyed cunt didn’t frown or scowl, just looked at him.

And Jorah didn’t take another step, even with an aching head and an overwhelming need to purge his stomach then punch something until his knuckles looked like cranberry jelly.

“Well, fuck you!” Jorah yelled, “not my fault you don’t got what she’s looking for!”

He barreled into his room, slammed the door shut, then slammed himself against it. He felt more beaten up than the morning after a battle, sicker than if he’d drunk dirty water from a shallow stream, his head aching like it’d been used as the clapper in a giant bell.

He rubbed at his brow and began to laugh, because he didn’t know what else to do.

Notes:

Confession time. In every chapter I post of this fic (and any of my other plot-driven fics) my big fear isn't that readers won't like the plot or the characters as I've interpreted/written them. It's that the undercurrents, the deeper layers of the onion, so to speak, won't be apparent to anyone. I fear being too subtle even as I strive to not be too literal/blatant. So if you do see those deeper layers, the symbolic aspects, etc. please don't be shy about chatting with me in the comments. I suppose that sounds like a vain request, but the truth is I just LOVE talking about these characters. Their canon versions, my altered versions - either and both! But yes, I suppose I'm also looking for the feedback that my attempts to make this a multi-faceted, multi-dimensional "show it don't tell it" kind of fic aren't all complete failures.

Well, that's all. Hope you enjoyed the chapter!

Chapter 52: Any of us can become villains

Notes:

A double POV to check out what's going on in the North! Hope you enjoy.

More is going on in Winterfell, but I'm choosing to address in a later chapter retrospectively so I can put more focus into the Braavos and King's Landing storylines.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Arya

“For fuck’s sake!” Clegane jerked away from Luwin’s hands. The kindly old maester had only managed to put two fingers near the gash where shoulder met neck before getting a complaint from his giant patient.

“Don’t be whinging,” Arya rolled her eyes, “I know you’ve felt worse pain than that little scratch.”

“Fuck pain; his hands are bloody freezing,” Clegane eyed Luwin’s papery hands with contempt.

Dacey gave a snort, “Maesters always have cold hands ‘cause they’re all from way down south. If those Reachers were as generous as it’s said, they’d be sending us wine instead of old men.”

Luwin let out a long-suffering sigh, “My circulation may not be what it once was, but my hearing is still good.”

Dacey jutted her chin toward him, “Who’d you piss off down in Oldtown to get sent all the way to Winterfell, anyway?”

Luwin gave her a withering look, “Are you quite finished, Lady Dacey? Lord Clegane needs my atten—”

“Ah, for fuck’s sake!” Clegane bristled like a hedgehog, “I’d rather die of blood infection than be called a lord one more bloody time. Thought I’d have a break with the lady of the castle away.”

“Aye, Maester Luwin. Just call him ‘arseface’, like I do,” Arya grinned.

“Or ‘peaches’ – suits his personality,” Dacey added in all seriousness.

“Everyone’s a fucking jester,” Clegane rolled his eyes, “We gonna talk business or what?”

Arya nodded, “If you can talk while Luwin sews you up.”

With a resigned scowl from Clegane, Luwin reapproached – only to touch Clegane’s shoulder again and be met with a sharp hiss.

“Seriously, have you been holding your hands out a window, or are you just so old you’re already turning into a corpse?”

Ser Rodrik huffed, “Let’s see how you fare when you’re his age.”

“Though for the sake of the realm, I hope he doesn’t live that long,” Luwin added in a murmur.

Clegane snorted, “There you go, old man. Get mad. Might get your blood pumping – gods know you need it.”

With an eyeroll, Maester Luwin ignored Clegane’s squirming and set to work on the wound while Clegane began recounting his past few weeks to Arya, Dacey, and Ser Rodrik.

Since early in winter, they’d received reports of bandits and looters going after some of the smaller villages and holdfasts. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for the cold to drive men to thievery, but it certainly seemed worse this winter than in past winters, per Arya and Luwin’s review of the records. It was easy enough to know why. Previous winters saw men desperate enough to steal, but usually that was the extent of it. Occasionally a rape or death coincided with the crime, but more often the thieves aimed for stealth.

Not so now that those thieves weren’t just hungry men, but vile men. Clearly, the Dreadfort’s stores hadn’t been carefully rationed and there were too many inhabitants to pull enough fish out of the frozen river to sustain them all. Ser Rodrik guessed that for every man that made it to Winterfell lands, another two probably perished during the journey, but that was small consolation to the commoners who were losing not just their food but also their wives and daughters and sisters…

Arya still shivered to think of the child who’d made his way to Winterfell by what seemed like sheer luck or the will of the gods. Bolton men had come into his home, killed his pa, then spent an entire day and night making his older sisters scream. He heard it all from where he’d hidden under the floorboards, put there by his eldest sister after he swore on their dead mother’s soul that he wouldn’t come out until the bad men were gone, no matter what he heard.

Arya had cried that night for the first time in a long time, then introduced the boy to Rickon the next day. They were of an age, and the boy – Abe – wasn’t afraid of either Shaggy or Grey Wind. Arya watched them play on Rickon’s rug for a while, though with a stack of letters in her lap so the boys wouldn’t realize she was there to observe their interactions.

Rickon told the boy his father was dead too – he saw him being pushed down until his head was on a block of wood, then cut off entirely with a big sword. Rickon then told the boy he also had two sisters, and one of them was howling – which was what wolves did instead of screaming or crying – but that he’d seen her crying, too. Naked, like Abe’s sisters had been when he saw their bodies.

Arya cried again that night, then prayed for Father and Robb to find Sansa and her daughters. She prayed for them to then find Bran and Jon and Mother and bring them all home – to the place they’d never leave again while Arya had breath in her body.

She didn’t say anything to anyone, but figured Clegane had heard the same from Rickon, because he’d been angry as a badger for a couple days after Abe’s arrival.

Then again, all of them were. Each day continued to give new meaning to the word ‘cold’ while widening the gap of time since they’d last seen Mother and Sansa, yet without any guarantee that they were a day closer to seeing them again, because they might never see either of them.

Nor would she necessarily see Gendry again, and she didn’t like what it said about her as a wolf that that was the hardest blow to take.

“Was seven of ‘em,” Clegane grumbled, “All bony as crones, one missing the tip of his nose, two missing most of their teeth.”

“Boltons?” Ser Rodrik asked.

“Aye.”

Arya jerked her chin, “Was anyone in the family hurt?”

Clegane shook his head, “We took ‘em out quick. This,” he lifted his left shoulder, earning a mumbled reprimand from Luwin, “was from one of ‘em getting lucky. Seemed they figured to take out the Hound first by ganging up on me like dogs on a moose. Close quarters worked to their advantage – I couldn’t even stand up all the way in that hovel – but wasn’t enough for them, in the end.”

Arya nodded. In response to the attacks that were inching further and further into Winterfell lands, she’d come up with a plan. It wasn’t too hard to look at a map and mark the approximate locations of the previous attacks, then scout out a homestead in that area that hadn’t yet been targeted. A father lived there with three sons all under the age of ten, his wife dead of childbed fever from delivering the youngest. Clegane and three of Winterfell’s guards had gone there, setting up camp and effectively waiting to see if the bandits would strike.

They did.

“Did you interrogate any of them?” Ser Rodrik asked.

“Aye,” Clegane gave a small wince as Luwin dabbed at the wound he’d already rinsed with boiled wine, “That’s how we knew they were from the Dreadfort, cause they sure as all hells weren’t wearing that sigil. I asked how many are left, who’s in charge, if the food’s run out…”

“And?” Dacey asked.

“About twelve hundred remain as of a couple months ago, which was when they set out. Party of forty, intent on making it to Moat Cailin.”

“Forty down to seven?” Arya asked incredulously.

Clegane shrugged – this time with his right shoulder, “Fever. Grippe. Cold. Wolves. Hunger. Each other.”

“Right. But why Moat Cailin?”

“Don’t bloody know, girl. Might be they thought it’d be easy to take. From the north side, at least. How many men make up the garrison there? Sixty? Seventy?”

Arya let out a sigh, “Right. You think that’ll be the last of it?”

Clegane shook his head then tilted it to the right so Luwin could start his stitching, “Doubt it. Probably others out there. And we’re not even halfway through winter; more will come as they get more desperate.”

“You mean more will leave the Dreadfort,” Dacey interjected, “Doesn’t mean they’ll make it to Stark lands.”

“And what of the peasants on Bolton lands?” Arya snapped, “Do they matter less?”

“Nothing to be done for them, my lady,” Ser Rodrik spoke, “You can’t hunt a band of a few men here, a few men there. You can try to trap them, like Clegane’s men did, but that involves getting lucky in picking the right place and not losing none of your men for it.”

“I’m not going to keep sending men out,” Arya sighed, “They could get caught in a blizzard, get frostbite, get lost. Of course, that’s what I was hoping would happen to this lug, before he eats me out of house and home—”

“And chickens,” Dacey nodded.

Arya snorted, “Aye, and chickens. But with my luck, if I send out someone I actually like, he won’t make it back…”

Clegane rolled his eyes, “I’ll remember that when the snow’s so deep it comes up over your head. Don’t expect me to tote you around on my shoulders after the way you’re speaking to me now.”

“Didn’t realize you were so eager to have my legs around you.”

Clegane faked a shiver of revulsion, to which Arya rolled her eyes, Dacey chuckled, and Ser Rodrik scoffed and turned away. Since Mother and Ser Kevan left, he seemed to be taking up the role of ‘responsible adult’ which meant scolding, even if only with his eyeballs, the children of the castle, and the grown-ups who acted like children, at least in the way they teased one another and played pranks that involved snowballs down collars and – once – waistbands. (Arya wouldn’t go near Clegane’s arse unless the survival of mankind depended on it, but Rickon couldn’t back down from a dare, and Arya had capitalized.)   

Arya figured there was nothing more to discuss right now – winter sure had a way of slowing things down and making it so nothing was really urgent. How could it be, when to get anywhere within or beyond the castle took twice as long as it would in any other season? She thanked Luwin for stitching up the surly patient, admitting that he did come in handy from time to time and hoping Clegane knew it was her way of thanking him, too, then she was ready to leave. 

It would be supper time soon, so Arya asked Dacey to take her place in the hall and make apologies for her absence, though she doubted many were bothered to see Dacey in place of their lady. Dacey was more traditionally pretty, even if she had enough gray hair and wrinkles to show she was in her forties, and unlike Arya, she was unwed. It was winter in the North, and there were only so many ways for people to pass their time, so an unclaimed woman would always be more popular. While Dacey didn’t give out the goods, she was always good for a story or a jape, or to share a horn of ale or a dance, when the mood was jovial enough that someone broke out a fiddle. Certainly, the men who flocked to her side hoped for more, but they respected Dacey’s skills enough to not push their luck.

If they only knew Dacey was shagging Clegane, Arya bet they’d be much less friendly, but even she only had suspicions. The two had become friendly, often teasing each other, and Clegane wasn’t hardly as touchy as Arya would expect him to be after learning that Sansa and her daughters were exiled to who-knows-where. Then again, he wasn’t exactly the type to cry, and it was hard to tell when he was mopey, because he was always mopey.

But she didn’t care to wonder about that tonight, because Ser Rodrik’s final advice had planted a seed in her mind. You can’t hunt a band of a few men here, a few men there, Ser Rodrik had said, and Arya knew it was true and wise counsel. But she also knew things Ser Rodrik didn’t.

Arya made it to her destination, unsurprised to find Osha was entertaining Rickon with yet another tale from her seemingly endless cache of tales. Osha finished up, then offered to bring a meal up for the little lord and little lady. Arya agreed with a nod, and the former wildling was on her way.

Arya lowered herself to the floor, sitting cross-legged, like her brother’s bigger reflection.

There were many things she thought to tell him to justify this request, but after a minute of thought, she ended up with, “I know you hunt with Shaggy sometimes. I mean, in Shaggy…”

Rickon nodded, with not the slightest evidence of shame or surprise.

“Could you teach me?” she asked, “could you show me how to do it? With Grey Wind?”

Rickon smiled, as crooked as the teeth behind it.

It was yet another thing that made her want to cry.

“You wanna hunt with me?” Rickon asked, his voice low but no longer a whisper after months of everyone patiently and consistently working to break him of the fears and habits that had meant his survival for so long.

Arya nodded, “Yeah, Rickrack, I wanna hunt with you.”

 

Brienne

“The sun is strong today, my lord. We should go to the mouth of the cave.”

Jojen Reed gave her his enigmatic smile, “Perhaps on the morrow, Lady Brienne.”

She didn’t bother arguing, partly because it wasn’t her place and partly because she knew that when Meera was done tending to Bran, she’d drag her brother outside by his hair if that was what it took.

Instead, Brienne laid a hand on the simpleton’s shoulder, “Come, Hodor.”

Hodor eased his large body up with no complaint beyond a few grunts. He slid his arms into his fur-lined, sealskin coat that had journeyed with him from Winterfell, and fell in with Brienne. They walked in silence but for his assurance that he was well and not too hungry – all delivered in the precise inflection with which he said his own name in response to her inquiries.

Just beyond the mouth of the cave, the snow would come up to their knees, so Brienne had timed this diversion for late afternoon, when the place they stood would be thrown into dappled sunlight rather than complete shadow as it was when the sun was directly overhead or any time before that.

As the pair stood, letting the sun warm their faces even as the wind chilled them, Brienne couldn’t decide whether she hated or loved these sunny days.

If she hated it, it was because she couldn’t even keep her eyes open without being blinded by the light and the white, and because it made returning to the cave feel akin to climbing the stairs to the gallows. There’d been a few days when she felt possessed with a mad urge to run out of the cave and chase the sun as it sank toward the horizon. She pictured herself running full-speed, unimpeded by the cold or snow, unthreatened by hungry wolves or snow leopards or whatever else lurked in the woods. She saw herself reaching a shoreline and leaping with all her might only to land on the sun. Instead of a ball of fire that would incinerate her on contact, she found it to be a cloud of glowing warmth that would embrace her like a mother’s hug or a lover’s cloak – not that she knew much about either.

If she loved such days, it was because they enlivened her and reset her determination to not lose her wits. And that was ever important because she feared that she was the last one in their group who possessed any wits. Meera was holding up pretty well, but she was worrying herself silly over Jon and Jojen, and to a lesser extent Bran.

In Bran’s case, it was because he spent so long doing whatever he did with the Seer that he would return to them with pressure sores on his body that Meera would clean while Jon paced and cursed. The Children provided salves that must be doing their job, because the lad yet to have a wound fester, but it was alarming that the Seer cared so little for Bran’s mortal body to begin with. Yet Bran never complained and in fact seemed to share the Seer’s prioritization: expand his mental abilities even at the cost of his own skin.

In Jojen’s case, it was because he’d never really recovered from the illness he and Jon had, that had blessedly skipped the rest of them. While not feverish, his cough persisted and even Brienne, a summer child, knew it would never heal in this cool, damp place. He needed fresh, dry air to alleviate the moisture that clung to the inside of his lungs and windpipe, yet like Bran he had no desire to see the world beyond the cave and only did so when Meera insisted.

In Jon’s case, it was because he was… slipping. Brienne had no other word for it. The way he mumbled and thrashed during his fever dreams had been alarming enough but understandable – ill people often had vivid and sometimes frightening dreams. But in the weeks (or months; who could be bothered to keep track?) since he recovered, he still slept fitfully and woke mumbling about his pack or rubbing at his neck or demanding to know why he was back in the dark place. Much of it was no more than gibberish sputtered out in the moments before consciousness fully claimed him, and Brienne paid it little heed but that the dreams seemed to be affecting the young man in ways that made her uneasy. For instance, what she thought was several days ago, he had awoken from a dream crying out the name of his stepmother – the lady Catelyn – and skipped the next two of his meals due to a deep melancholy, only muttering about being unloved and unwanted and now parted from his pack. He only ate the third because Meera all but forced it down his throat after telling him she loved him, and wanted him, and that all of them in the cave were a pack, bound by fate and honor and a common cause. Hodor hodored his passionate agreement, and Brienne offered a solemn nod of comradery.

It was more disturbing to worry for Jon than for Bran and Jojen, because Brienne had come to think of him as their unofficial leader, the king of their dank castle, with Meera his queen and Brienne his Hand, and Jojen and Bran and Hodor their collective charges. She didn’t like worrying over her king’s mental wellbeing, but some days she did. Not just when he was blue, but also when he was irritable. Like when Jon stared unseeing into the flames of their pit fire, and said that if it got any colder, he’d set the world on fire. Because it wasn’t cold – not inside, at least. And she didn’t think someone of Stark blood ought to be bothered by the snow or cold beyond the cave that even Brienne – a daughter of the Sapphire Isle, for gods’ sakes! – could tolerate for brief excursions.

Nor did she like the dark circles under his eyes, the hollowness of his cheeks, or the way he sometimes snapped at Meera for trying to cheer him up or get him to do something other than mope about.

It wasn’t that that was all he did. Most days he was the stoic even if sullen man she had met back in the bowels of the Nightfort. Most days he sparred with her or Meera or both, helped with the cooking or other chores, went to the hot pools with Meera wearing a blush as if Brienne could be bothered to care about what they did there. Well, she cared enough to tell Meera that catching a babe would be most unwise at this juncture, to which Meera had laughed then reassured that Jon didn’t spill into her womb.

Brienne hadn’t meant to, but Meera’s words had made her picture Jon, naked and panting, fisting his cock until his seed spilled on a woman’s belly, just above a plot of golden hair.

It was natural, she reasoned, to harbor such thoughts, fleeting as they were. She was here in a cave with little to pass the time and a male companion who was rather easy on the eyes. Tall, though not so tall as Renly had been. Lean without looking delicate, perhaps because his shoulders were broad. Pouty lips and long eyelashes and dark, soulful eyes.

Though in truth, Brienne did not truly want him. She felt no ache of longing in her belly as she had with Renly, and a boy or two prior to that in her youth. She only felt the pain of inadequacy and the sting of unfairness, because she knew that not once had Jon felt any stirring toward her, even if only brief and unintentional. He didn’t wonder what she looked like beneath her tunic, or wonder what her kiss or her cunt tasted like. But might he have, if Meera wasn’t here to present a prettier alternative? If Jon had only Brienne for companionship, would he have found it in himself to look past her many external flaws and find some part of her appealing?

She wasn’t sure why she bothered caring, except that perhaps she didn’t want to die a maiden, and in this place it seemed like death was as likely a fate as any.

She sighed, opening her eyes to see the cloud of breath spread out before being spirited off by the wind. The sun was low enough that it was no longer blinding, merely painting what snow it touched a shade of orange that reminded Brienne of a peach.

Her stomach grumbled and her mouth watered, as it did whenever she thought of a juicy piece of fruit, or a flaky pie, or a mug of cider, or… just about any form of food. She sighed again, “Come. Let us return.”

“Hodor,” the man nodded and turned in time with her.

Their few minutes of fresh air and sunshine were over, and Brienne had nothing to look forward to but hours of darkness. Gods willing, Jon would sleep peacefully tonight and not be a pain in her arse tomorrow with his fatalistic proclamations or self-pity or blame directed at everyone and no one that he was stuck here at the end of the world – as if he hadn’t chosen to spend his entire life at the end of the world without any of their influence!

She was surprised to return to find that Meera and the Children had finished dealing with the most recent of Bran’s sores and that Jon wasn’t pacing a hole in the dirt floor. In fact, Jon wasn’t there at all, which Meera preemptively addressed by peering up at Brienne from where she crouched by Jojen, “He’s having words with the Seer. You know, since it worked so well the last time.”

Brienne nodded, knowing that nothing more needed to be said. Jon, as their alpha male apparent, needed to occasionally do something to feel useful, or in control. That it was berating their undead host, who probably wasn’t even capable of feeling shame, was almost laughable. As was the way Jon would return to them fuming, grumbling about the Seer and yet not suggesting they leave. At least, he hadn’t suggested that in a long time. Perhaps because it was colder, or because the snow was deeper, or because the Seer warned that the Others and their thralls were not far – having been at Hardhome the last time the moon was full. Jon told Brienne and the others that Hardhome was something like one month of travel time by foot from where their cave was, given the deep snows, not that the Seer reported the dead being on the move.

“Lady Brienne.”

Brienne nearly flinched to hear her name come from Bran Stark’s mouth – he so rarely initiated conversation with her anymore.

“Yes?” she replied with some delay as she approached where he was sitting against the wall.

“I had hoped you would sit with me this evening and talk.”

That was even more perplexing – so much so that she looked at Meera who clearly shared Brienne’s bafflement even as she shrugged and said, “I’ll see if the meat is tender enough.” Meera stood and set off to the fire pit above which their rabbit stew simmered. Brienne knew she would not return anytime soon, perhaps she’d go find Jon and take him to the hot pools to try to calm him down after what would no doubt be another frustrating discussion with the Seer.

Brienne lowered herself to the ground an arm’s length from Bran Stark and leaned her back against the wall, then waited for him to begin.

It didn’t take long.

“I had been wondering about Lord Stannis Baratheon of late. A most curious man.”

Brienne gritted her teeth, “If you say so.”

“He is strange. Very unlike other men. Rather abrasive. Perhaps it is his Targaryen blood – he doesn’t seem to understand why others view them as they do. He cannot fathom why his way is not the only way.”

“He sounds delightful,” Briene uttered.

Bran Stark snorted in amusement, “Yet he is not without virtues. He is stoic. Principled.”

“How principled can he be if he’d murder his own brother?”

“I thought you’d say that. Hence my desire to speak with you. Lord Stannis did not kill Lord Renly.”

Brienne turned abruptly to face him, “What? I saw it with—”

“You saw a shadow with Stannis Baratheon’s face. And indeed, the shadow resembled him. It was, after all, his offspring, of a sort.”

“How can… How could a person… How could a man sire a shadow? No, the shadow resembled him because Stannis wanted Renly to know who was responsible for his death. The shadow existed because Stannis willed it so, and had his witch create it using her dark sorcery.”

“The witch did create it using dark sorcery, this is true. She is an agent of darkness, though she does not know it. She thinks her purpose is to save the world, but it is not.”

“Then what is her purpose?”

“I don’t know,” Bran shrugged, “I only know… I saw her, with Lord Stannis. I had wondered about… well, it doesn’t matter. I had wondered what kind of man he is, and I have heard it said that the best way to know a man’s character is to know how he treats women when he is alone with them.”

Bran blushed, and Brienne almost smiled. Any time he revealed the fact that he was just a boy, even if one with some strange power, it restored some of her faith in… well, everything.

“You saw him being intimate with the witch?” Brienne offered to spare the boy from saying it.

“Aye,” he flicked his eyes to her then away again, still blushing, “she promised to give him a son. She also told him she saw in her flames the deaths of the pretender kings. He did not know that she would cause Lord Renly’s death, no more than he knew the shadows were fashioned from his…”

“Seed?” Brienne prompted, and now her cheeks were warm.

Bran grimaced, “Life essence? Soul? I can only observe events, not inhabit the minds of those who experienced them. I saw the witch soothing Stannis when he woke with a nightmare – a nightmare that he had killed his brother. The notion horrified him, and not because he thought that he had killed Renly.”

Brienne shook her head, “Or that’s precisely why it horrified him. You just admitted you can’t see into a man’s mind, so this is all your… no offense, but your interpretation of things.”

“Perhaps,” Bran conceded, “I only thought to tell you that… I do not believe he is as bad as you think…”

The boy trailed off and it occurred to Brienne that his voice sounded more childlike than it had in… Well, for as long as she’d known him. He seemed rather like a boy trying to convince himself that the world was the fun and wonderous place he’d always believed it to be, for to lose the illusion would be to leave behind his own childhood.

“I think most people are not as bad as any of us are led to believe,” Bran added more quietly. Now Brienne wondered if he was thinking of a particular person. Perhaps his goodbrother, the king. Brienne had grown up hearing stories that made him sound as great as he was terrible. A man worthy of veneration even if his legendary acts sounded like crimes to young Brienne. It was only later that she would understand why that was: wartime acts were forgivable, in men’s eyes, because war itself was inevitable. The maester at Evenfall Hall taught Brienne that, without saying it outright. The story of Westeros – what was known of it, at least – was filled with war. Sometimes kingdom against kingdom, sometimes disputes within a kingdom. Men would always covet what belonged to someone else, and some men would always be comfortable paying the price in blood for their chance to take it.

“While others,” Bran sighed, “are worse than you or I could ever fathom. Born without even the barest trace of compassion, of humanity. Reveling in pain the way other men might revel in arms training, or wine, or… the company of women. These are the true monsters.”

Brienne nodded blankly; she had heard of such men. Occasionally Father would dispense justice on some man that had maimed a young lady for no reason other than sport. The man might pretend at contrition or remorse after having been caught, but Brienne did not believe it. Such vile assaults were the work of evil, though occasionally the man’s associates or even a local authority figure would try to defend the criminal, claiming that he’d been drunk during the attack, or that the woman had wronged him, and the punishment was permissible even if done over-zealously.

There were also the men at Harrenhal, whom Queen Sansa had spoken of quite briefly and with scant details only after Brienne had asked why precisely Ser Gregor Clegane was so reviled. Suffice to say, that the young ladies Sansa and Arya had survived the place unscathed seemed a miracle, and the girls’ fondness for King Tywin was that much easier to understand.

“But from all I’ve seen…” Bran’s voice was a near whisper now, “the most widespread suffering, the most extensive scarring of the realm, is caused not by such monsters. It is caused by well-meaning people who do not ponder the consequences of their actions.”

She once again wondered what he could mean by that; what specific person or event he was imagining. Was it one of the players in the recent War of Five Kings? His elder brother, Robb, perhaps, who sought justice for their father and in doing so doomed tens of thousands of their countrymen – including himself – to injury or death? Was it Bran’s mother? Lady Catelyn had infamously, and no doubt unintentionally, sparked said war with her arrest of Lord Lannister’s son, also in pursuit of justice, though for her son, the young man Brienne spoke with now.

Perhaps it was no one so personally tied to young Bran. In his cryptic descriptions of his studies under the Seer, the boy spoke of traveling far in distance and time. Perhaps he saw something like the tragedy at Summerhall. The official history only documented the fact that there was a fire, along with the names of those who perished and those who survived. But throughout the Stormlands there was no shortage of tales meant to fill in the blanks. The most credible, given the documented last words of the maester of Summerhall, was that King Aegon V had started the fire in hopes of waking seven dragons from seven eggs. The fire spread, as wildfire notoriously does, but the deaths of the king, his son Duncan, his commander of the Kingsguard, the Summerhall maester, and others present were not the end of the tragedy. The black magic used in the king’s ritual, under guidance of some woodswitch, was said to have been a curse on the Targaryen line. And that was easy to believe, no matter that Brienne had put no stock in things like magic and sorcery until she saw a shadow-man kill her beloved king. Because the king’s heir, Prince Jaehaerys, survived the tragedy only to die less than three years later at the relatively young age of something like five and thirty. Queen Rhaella, one of the other survivors, gave birth to her first son, the prince Rhaegar, during the tragedy, then went nearly two decades without having another living child – only a string of miscarriages, stillbirths, and babes dying in the cradle of unknown causes. Another survivor of the tragedy – then Prince Aerys who would become King Aerys II – was perhaps the most infamous of the many mad kings, though Brienne would argue that Maegor the Cruel did more damage. Still, Aerys II and his heir, Rhaegar, would thrust the realm into a war that would see tens of thousands die.

So perhaps Bran was seeing Aegon the Fifth starting a fire to revive the beasts of his family’s fearsome sigil, and how he ended up cursing his own children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren in a way that the entire realm would bleed for.

“And that frightens me, Lady Brienne…” Bran whispered again, and Brienne turned to find his eyes were shimmery, his sorrow palpable.

She reached for his skinny forearm, “My lord?”

“It frightens me because any of us can become villains, if only in trying to be heroes.”

“Bran, it is not that simple,” she insisted, “a villain is not a good man who errs, a villain is—”

“A villain is the sum of his deeds, and the consequences of his actions. A man might follow his heart and in doing so break the hearts of thousands of mothers and wives and sisters.”

She frowned and pulled her hand away, since he seemed to be taking no comfort in either her touch or her assurances, and she knew why. Lord Bran wasn’t mourning all those who’d been hurt by the choices and actions of long-dead lords and kings; he was worrying about the repercussions of the choices and actions he would make in the coming weeks or months or however long they’d be in this gods-forsaken place. Perhaps this noble cause they were all willing to die for would have unexpected ripples in the pond of the realm. Perhaps in killing the Others and their thralls, they’d unwittingly unleash some even greater foe.

Still, to Brienne it was not such a difficult choice to make. She’d fought those dead things in the underground corridors of the Nightfort, and knew that they were warriors of darkness, of evil.

“Then a man shouldn’t follow his heart, but his conscience,” she responded stoically, “a man should live by the terms of his honor. If his choices have unexpectedly dour consequences, then so be it. At least he will die knowing he did the right thing; that he didn’t abandon his principles to pursue wealth or prestige or even romance.”

She watched and waited for Bran’s reaction, and was surprised to eventually see a small smile.

“You are an exceptionally simple woman, Brienne of Tarth.”

She scoffed, “I am no—”

“It is a compliment, my lady. If everyone in the realm were like you, there would be no suffering, no war. Unfortunately, I’m beginning to think you’re rarer than a sapphire. Did you know they’re rarer than diamonds and rubies?”

She didn’t know, despite her island home being named for them. Well, for the color of the waters of its coastlines, which happened to resemble the blue of a sapphire gemstone. It wasn’t quite true, though. A sapphire was a dark, cool blue. The seas around Tarth were a greenish blue, more like turquoise, though ‘the Turquoise Isle’ didn’t have the same ring to it as ‘the Sapphire Isle’.

“I did not. Where did you learn that?” she belatedly answered.

“My sister. Sansa. She loved learning about gemstones. She loved all things pretty.”

Brienne frowned, “She did not strike me as so… aesthetically motivated.”

Bran nodded, “She, like all of us, had to learn that beauty is the least substantial of virtues. And more than the rest of us, she learned that dark hearts often hide within pretty vessels…”

Brienne didn’t need to ask to know he referred to the former king – the one rumored to be a bastard. The one King Renly so despised, and that was without knowing how he’d treated his betrothed. Brienne did not like men who used their strength or authority to abuse women. She did not like them at all.

“…and that pure hearts can be hidden within vessels that few would call ‘pretty’,” Bran concluded.

She blushed then, wondering if he was thinking of her. She knew that she wasn’t pretty, though she also doubted her heart was pure. She spent much of her time resenting the fact that she wasn’t born in a different body. A man’s body would be ideal, because then no one would laugh at her for wearing armor and wielding a sword. But if she had to be a woman, she wouldn’t mind being an elegant woman, even if still a tall one. Queen Sansa was tall; far closer to six feet than five feet in height, unlike most ladies. But she was also beautiful and graceful – slender in the shoulder and waist, curvaceous in the bosom and hips. If Brienne only was shaped such a way, it wouldn’t matter that she stood taller than most men. And perhaps if her lips weren’t so large, like they’d been stung by an entire colony of bees. Or her teeth and nose so crooked. Or her hair so coarse. Or—

She sighed and leaned her head against the wall, reminding herself how little her looks mattered here at the edge of the world, the limen between life and death, between hope and gloom.

If she survived this place, perhaps she’d return to Tarth, by the queen’s leave. She missed her father. She missed the turquoise waters. She missed Ser Goodwin, but she wouldn’t be seeing him anytime soon unless she didn’t survive this place. She wondered if he’d be proud of her, for proving that her heart was not so soft as he’d once accused. She had killed men – both living and dead – and had not let it haunt her. She didn’t close her eyes and see their faces – those that she’d seen to begin with.

No, if Brienne feared anything, it was not the deaths she’d yet mete out before her time was through, nor the thought that her time might be coming on the morrow.

The only thing Brienne of Tarth feared was failure.

Notes:

Continued THANKS for every kudos and comment - they truly do mean so much to me!

Chapter 53: She has her priorities

Summary:

Daenerys audits a class.

Notes:

I love and hate this chapter. Just need to post it so I can read it on AO3 and figure out whether it's net hate or net love.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Jaime

They all waited patiently while Dany’s eyes scanned the last letter she’d opened, one sent from the rookery at Dragonstone, bearing the Baratheon stag in the wax. Jaime figured it was an acknowledgement from Stannis that he received Daenerys’ command – to continue building up a fleet but to not depart for Meereen. Dany had finally accepted that she could not save her people from the bloody flux – like all plagues, it must run its course. Pycelle had also warned Daenerys that introducing too many people from a different continent into a new one at one time into one city could introduce various maladies that Westerosi nationals had never faced. He had suggested a phased approach, or a distributed approach, or ideally both. For now, Daenerys didn’t have to decide; until she received word that there was not a single case of bloody flux in Meereen, she’d not send a single ship there.

“Your grace?”

Jaime looked up at Ser Barristan then back to Daenerys. She’d finished with the letter but seemed to be doing nothing but staring at it. Her eyes were glazed, her jaw set, her cheeks dark, her upper lip slightly curled.

It took a few heartbeats and Ser Barristan saying her honorific two more times before a smile sprung onto Daenerys’ face. She beamed up at Selmy, but Jaime had seen his share of smiles that lacked warmth, that didn’t reach the wearer’s eyes. Most of them he’d seen on Cersei, and they’d never disturbed him because whoever was receiving her feigned kindness didn’t deserve the real thing – Cersei was surrounded by bootlickers and backstabbers, and she knew it.

He was looking at one of those smiles now, but this was something else. Daenerys need play no parts with Ser Barristan, of all people. Once sworn to a person, Ser Barristan would peel all his skin off, starting with that on his cock, if that’s what it took to uphold his vow. It was one of Cersei’s most foolish moves, Jaime thought, letting Joffrey dismiss Ser Barristan. Perhaps he’d been too chummy with Ned Stark, but he was sworn to the king and until presented with undisputed proof that the king was, in fact, not the king, he’d have died for Joffrey and his family.

How would things be different if Ser Barristan hadn’t been dismissed? Would Joffrey yet live? Would Cersei? Would my father have succeeded in taking the throne? Would Stannis Baratheon have been killed in the battle?

A shiver went through Jaime as he figured that, at minimum, Daenerys might never have taken the throne so easily. With Ser Barristan protecting Tywin and his family instead of conspiring against them… Would Sansa Stark have left the royal apartments willingly with anyone but the ever-honorable Ser Barristan Selmy?

“Apologies,” Daenerys responded belatedly, “Just… glad tidings from Dragonstone. Apparently, my children have been spotted there. Rhaegal and Viserion. The former has since moved on, but the latter has taken up residence in one of the dragon caves. He even seems to… tolerate Lord Baratheon’s proximity.”

A few around the table made sounds of relief, or at least pretended to. Jaime doubted Mace Tyrell was actually relieved to know that a dragon tolerated Stannis Baratheon. How could he be? Tyrell couldn’t stand for the Stormlander to have something he didn’t. He’d probably go looking for Rhaegal and try to heft his fat arse onto the dragon if only to one-up his nemesis.

Still, Jaime supposed that it was good news. The dragons were accounted for – one of them, at least. And Stannis hadn’t withheld the news, showing he respected Daenerys (or feared her) at least a little. And if the dragon tolerated him? Well, that was a far cry from Stannis becoming a dragonrider, but even if that should come to pass, there were thousands of men Jaime would trust less with a fire-breathing weapon than Stannis Baratheon. Despite his brief connection to a fire-worshipping priestess and some completely asinine decisions to let her burn down septs and godswoods and – as rumor had it – people, Jaime didn’t think Stannis Baratheon was the type who’d go all Aemond One-Eye someday. The man was too principled and self-righteous to burn entire villages, cities, or castles. And he sure as shit wouldn’t be burning the city that contained his only heir.

Still, when Jaime let his eyes settle on the queen again, he found that not only was she less “glad” than she let on, but that something else was playing in those violet orbs…

Something more than a few Targaryens had been afflicted with – to the detriment of many.

He dared to glance at one of the other people in the room who would recognize the expression.

Ser Barristan was already staring back at him, his visage betraying not a single thought, but it didn’t need to.

Jaime looked away before the annoyingly observant Spider could notice the non-verbal exchange. He looked back at the queen, whose lips were still curved in some sort of imitation of a smile.

That night Jaime woke with a start, twisting to reach for a dagger when a small hand landed in the crook of his elbow.

He turned and saw Daenerys’ eyes and hair glowing in the moonlight.

He gasped and slid away, almost off the bed, “What are you doing in here?”

Her eyes rolled, “Not seducing you. I’m freezing.” She stretched her legs out and pressed cold feet against Jaime’s shins. Even through his sleeping breeches he flinched.

“Then bring Missandei or one of your handmaidens to your bed. You shouldn’t be here. People will talk.”

“Let them. They say worse things about me, anyway. Heretic. Barbarian. Invader. Plague. Oh, and of course there’s whore. I ate a horse’s heart as part of a ritual to ensure the health of my unborn babe; somehow, it’s been distorted such that I ate a baby’s heart while letting a horse mount me.”

Jaime let out a long breath, “I’m sorry. The timing is horrible, what with winter arriving at the same time you did, but you’ve faced worse than harsh words. You have faced assassins. You have faced warlocks. You have faced entire cities of powerful people that all wanted you dead. You faced a brother who’d have sold you to the Stranger if it would buy him a crown. And you have beat them all, just as you beat the desert. You will overcome this, and you will prove them all wrong.”

“Do you really believe that?” she asked skeptically.

I don’t know anymore. I don’t know if I ever did. I don’t remember why I even cared, though I know that I did. I know that as I lied across from Dany in the desert, sweating and shitting to death, I couldn’t stand the idea of her not prevailing.

And it had nothing to do with Cersei, or my father, or myself. It was the realm I feared for, if Daenerys should perish.

But since when have I ever cared about the realm? Not since I saved a hefty chunk of it from becoming fuel for the biggest bonfire in history, only to get a lifetime of scorn as thanks.

“Yes,” he said resolutely, because it wasn’t a lie. He did believe in her. She had faced terrible odds and won, and her cause was noble. Ordinarily, Jaime was sure that noble people were all fools or hypocrites; at minimum, they were destined to live short lives. But Daenerys was no fool; she was no more hypocritical than anyone else; and she had an aura of… of fate about her. Daenerys Targaryen was born for a reason, and Jaime had to believe it was to rule Westeros. No, to revolutionize Westeros.

Because it wasn’t, what have I done this all for?

She offered a sad smile and shimmied to press herself against him. He let her.

“I hate how cold it is here,” she mumbled sometime later, her tone one of surrender, or perhaps begrudging acceptance.

“Would you prefer to be back in the desert?” he asked with a chuckle as he repositioned himself at an angle so he could wrap both arms around her. He marveled at how small she was. Her personality made her seem to match the height of any man, but right now she seemed downright tiny. That she could cut men down with her sharp tongue, that she could ride a dragon, that she could put herself on the throne, it seemed to defy all logic.

But she didn’t put herself on the throne. We did. Me, Selmy, Mormont, Varys… We put her on the throne, but what did we hope to gain by it?

Vengeance, he reminded himself.

But Cersei’s ghost did not feel avenged, he knew. She was still restless, still frustrated. She hadn’t come to terms with her fate. And she didn’t like knowing that there was a queen who’d managed what she had only ever fantasized about: to sit the throne not at a man’s side, but on her own merit.

Nor did Cersei like the sentence their father was serving. That he deserved it, she had no doubt, but that didn’t mean she liked it. What does ‘deserve’ mean, anyway? she would ask. This world is filled with the powerful and the weak, and it is the right of the powerful to hold onto their power however they must. Does the lion feel guilt after supping on fawns and lambs?

No, Jaime thought, nor does the dragon feel guilt after supping on cubs and pups.

“I always thought with my dragon blood, I’d never really feel cold. That, like dragons, I have a fire inside me. My very own built-in forge. But I was wrong,” Daenerys ended with a small giggle.

Jaime nodded mechanically, “I know. But winter, like all things, will come to an end.”

Daenerys hummed against him and they fell into a silence during which he couldn’t tell if he was thinking of everything or nothing.

“I really hate the cold,” Daenerys emphasized on a yawn.

He really did know the feeling.

He hadn’t known what to expect from Catelyn Stark, though hoped that if she was willing to make peace with Tywin Lannister before he made her daughter the queen, then she was not as unyielding as some might assume her to be.

And yet, even without having any preconceived notions of how their discussions would unfold, Jaime found himself surprised.

She had eaten bread and salt, offered to her by Ser Barristan Selmy, who, along with Varys and Missandei and Lady Margaery, served as her welcoming party. Jaime hadn’t been there to see it, but Varys recounted Lady Catelyn’s insistence on seeing her uncle before being shown to guest quarters. Then she’d insisted on seeing her goodson, only to slap him hard on the cheek and lay all her grief at his feet, cursing him for his failure to protect her daughter and granddaughters, even after Arya had written to warn him that Sansa was in danger after she’d had some sort of prophetic dream. Jaime didn’t know what to make of that, only that it was complete horseshit, just as it was horseshit that Robb Stark shed his human skin and became a wolf during each battle. Jaime knew firsthand that they were two separate creatures – one terrifying, the other only vexing.

Now, on the third day of her visit, she finally deigned the queen worthy of her time. Jaime might avoid politics like the plague, but even he knew posturing when he saw it.

He also knew insecurity when he saw it – and he saw it then for one of the few times in Daenerys’ face, and he knew there were only two possible reasons for it.

One – Daenerys was ashamed of how she’d used Sansa and her daughters as leverage, but only realized it now that she was facing the unforgiving stare of Sansa’s mother.

Two – Daenerys didn’t know how to deal with a woman. The raised eyebrow, the condescending mien, the sugar-sweet barbs… Daenerys had learned, somewhere along her adventurous life, how to play men. But she was entirely untested when it came to women. Specifically, women older than her. Women who had been through the wringer. Daenerys was sitting across from a woman who lost her betrothed, a goodsister, and a goodfather to Targaryen depravity; a woman who lost her husband and son to a war none in her family asked for (at least, not intentionally); a woman who might never see her eldest daughter and only granddaughters again because of Daenerys’ quest for her birthright. Catelyn Stark was here as the mother scorned; Daenerys one of many who did the scorning.

And yet the fact remained that the throne was Daenerys’ right, and she’d taken it as peacefully as possible. Catelyn Stark may not like her methods, but she had to be smart enough to admit that they were not cruel by any stretch of the word and that any fault she could find in them was the result of her personal bias.

“Lady Stark,” Daenerys began, “I thank you for coming to the capital. I understand the journey from Winterfell is an arduous one.”

Catelyn Stark seemed to cycle through a hundred responses (ninety-nine of them being insults) before she took a deep breath through her nose and gave a single nod, “It was, your grace. Particularly the storm several nights ago. Luckily, we were able to dock at Dragonstone and take refuge until the weather calmed and minor repairs could be made to our vessel.”

Daenerys’ mouth twitched, “You were at Dragonstone? A few nights ago, you say?”

Catelyn gave another nod, “Yes. And yes, I was there to see the dragons. Lord Baratheon was… kind enough to sup with me when the pair of them alighted onto the roof.”

Daenerys nodded, doing her best to appear unaffected, and Jaime couldn’t slow his heart down for the life of him, though he wasn’t sure why.

“Mm. And what did you see then?” Daenerys asked calmly.

Catelyn gave a shrug with her eyebrows, “It happened rather quickly, and the weather made visibility poor, but the bea- the dragons seemed to fight over Lord Baratheon.”

“Fight over him?”

“In the air, then on the roof. The white one snapped at the green one until the latter flew off. Then the white one fairly prostrated itself before the lord, and gladly took him for a ride after he removed a heavy iron collar that was cutting into its neck. It would seem someone tried to imprison them, your grace. Someone particularly cruel, no doubt. I think you’d know it for a lie if I said I was glad that you and your allies have yet another dragon and dragonrider, but I offer you the truth because I hope to get the same from you.”

Jaime fought not to grimace. He doubted Catelyn had the means to know it was Daenerys that had chained up her dragons in Meereen, but he wanted to scream at her for so carelessly poking one of Daenerys’ soft spots.

Yet the queen did not focus on the inadvertent jab, “As I intend to give. Tell me, Lady Stark – you refer to Lord Baratheon as my ally. Is that how he described himself?”

Catelyn let out a bitter snort, “He said he has yet to swear oaths, but that you have promised him his birthright and his former position on the Small Council if he proves his loyalty. How, I didn’t ask. I only know it involves marrying Lady Margaery Tyrell because he went on a rather irate rant about that aspect. Then again, I found the man to be irate in just about everything.”

Daenerys let out a very small smile, “I find the word ‘prickly’ describes him quite well. For Lady Margaery’s sake, I hope his passions can be… diverted.”

Catelyn looked almost amused at that, “For Lady Margaery’s sake, I’d wish they disappear entirely. Though why should I care about a Tyrell? I understand they were eager to turn their coats once again. My daughter had written that Lady Margaery was a friend, though it’s clear to me she is a fraud.”

“That is harsh, Lady Stark. Lady Margaery is smart enough to know a good thing when she sees it. The throne was restored to a rightful claimant with barely a drop of blood as the price.”

“So far as I see it, there is nothing right about your claim. But I am glad to understand how little value you place on those lives you destroyed.”

Daenerys’ face darkened at that, but she did not let her temper get the best of her, “Your daughter and granddaughters have hardly been destroyed. I can assure you—”

Can you?” Catelyn arched an auburn brow, “Because unless you have lain eyes on them yourself, you cannot.”

Daenerys’ head reared back, “I trust the man I’ve charged with their protection.”

“And I don’t. Nor do I trust that any loyalty he seemed to have for you will extend to my daughter and granddaughters. Here is what I know of Ser Jorah Mormont: he was rumored to have ruined Lord Glover’s daughter, and only took her as his wife at his father’s dictate. When she died, he mourned her very briefly, and was soon enamored with Lady Lynesse Hightower for her beauty and only her beauty, because, as I’ve heard it, she had not a single other virtue. To appease her, he bankrupted his house and ruined his name, then sold a pair of peasant boys into slavery. Ser Jorah probably told you they were wildlings, or perhaps common rapers or thieves. The fact was, they were hungry. My husband – my late husband – had questioned all involved when he arrived at Bear Island to deliver justice only to find Ser Jorah gone with his wife. The men who’d been hunting with Ser Jorah when he happened upon the so-called poachers agreed the boys were not a day past fifteen. They were dressed shabbily, aye, as everyone on Bear Island dressed then and dresses now, but especially orphans who have been living off the land since their father’s death. But they were no wildlings, the men concurred. Still, it wasn’t their place to argue when Lord Mormont told them to take the boys into custody. Nor to ask questions when the lord took them out on his ship and came back without them.”

Daenerys’ cheeks were now cherry red, and Jaime didn’t know if it was with anger at their guest or anger at Ser Jorah. Jaime only knew that he felt sick. He didn’t like worrying about the fate of his father’s wife and daughters in Ser Jorah’s hands. He didn’t like it at all. Daenerys had said Ser Jorah would let no harm come to them, and Jaime knew she meant it, and he had put his faith in her faith. But what if that faith was ill-placed, on her part? He detected no lie in Catelyn Stark’s tone. Then again, none but Jaime could ever hear the lie in Cersei’s tone, either.

“It is your word against his, it would seem,” Daenerys offered eventually, and Jaime knew she was at the limit of her patience. He knew she wanted to snarl and snap and threaten Catelyn Stark if she didn’t show proper submission here and now.

And for all Jaime hated the self-righteous Starks (and Tullys), for all he had loathed their certainty that they maintained the moral high ground, and the resultant arrogance disguised as honor they possessed, he did not wish to see Lady Catelyn meet her sister’s fate. Lysa Arryn, Jaime knew from years living alongside her in the Red Keep, had no redeeming qualities whatsoever. Catelyn Stark, for all her missteps, was a loyal wife and a loving mother, and seemed to possess at least some wisdom thanks to her recently eventful life.

But trying to intervene on her behalf now would only inflame Daenerys’ anger, so he only sat back and listened to the dialogue continue, with a shaking of Catelyn’s head as she responded, “Not my word – the word of the witnesses. Men who had no reason to lie about their lord. Most would lie to protect the hand that pays them, not to break it.”

Daenerys held the older woman’s gaze, but Catelyn Stark’s blue eyes revealed nothing even as they seemed to hide nothing.

Ultimately, the queen did not push the argument about Ser Jorah, instead tilting her chin, “Lady Stark, we have gotten off topic. You are here, I must assume, to negotiate terms for the North’s fealty to myself. Let us proceed.”

A flame of optimism burst to life within Jaime, but Catelyn snuffed it out all too quickly.

“We will proceed with nothing,” Catelyn spat the word like a curse, “because we are not off topic. You will get the North’s fealty when its daughters are returned alive and unharmed. You will get the Trident’s fealty under the same condition along with Ser Brynden’s release. You will get the West’s fealty when you name Ser Kevan the Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West and release his brother and any other Westermen you have in the dungeons – send them north, to take vows as men of the Night’s Watch.”

Daenerys blinked at her for many moments, then cracked a smile, “You believe you have the leverage to demand all this? Your fealty is owed to the Iron Throne.”

“Is it? I don’t recall ever giving the Iron Throne my vow. Nor has my daughter, except to serve as its queen. Perhaps my uncle Brynden gave his word to Robert Baratheon, but you are not Robert Baratheon’s heir. The man had no legitimate heirs, thanks to him,” she pointed sharply at Jaime.

“The throne was not Robert Baratheon’s to take,” Daenerys ground out.

“Nor was Westeros Aegon Targaryen’s to take,” Catelyn replied instantly, “And yet I must assume his conquest is the basis for your claim to the throne.”

That one stumped Daenerys, but not for long, “Conquest is a part of mankind’s history. Is Aegon’s the only one that shouldn’t count?”

Catelyn snorted lightly, “Indeed – conquest is an unfortunate part of mankind’s history. I do not deny this. The strong conquer the weak, and the conquered become subjects.”

“Then you admit that Aegon did no wrong and thus acknowledge the iron throne as a Targaryen birthright.”

“Then you admit Robert Baratheon and his allies did no wrong in claiming the throne through conquest. You acknowledge the iron throne is now a Baratheon birthright.”

Daenerys’ cheeks had never been so dark, “Then you admit that I did no wrong when taking back the throne.”

“Except you didn’t conquer, did you?”

Daenerys stood up and slammed her palms down on the table, “For all you Westerosi claim to despise the traditional Targaryen approach to conquest, it seems none of you will respect me until I deliver fire and blood! Is this what you wish for? Must I burn Winterfell to the ground to get you to kneel?! What about Riverrun? Perhaps Casterly Rock, too.”

Catelyn leaned back and peered up at the younger woman, her gaze cold enough to freeze the ocean, “You couldn’t burn Winterfell if you tried.”

Daenerys reared back as if she’d been slapped, and when she summoned her next words, they came out almost whisper-quiet and yet no less severe, “What tall talk. I almost think you want me to try. Make me the villain you think I am. Burn one of the oldest castles in the realm – and presumably one of the oldest families in the realm. But why would I bother? I could merely have your daughter delivered to you in pieces and promise the same for your granddaughters if ever you defy me again.”

Jaime felt he could be sick, imagining how he’d feel if he had to look upon Myrcella’s corpse after such treatment. He became incensed just thinking about it, even as he told himself the Martells weren’t that type of family. Even as he told himself that Daenerys wasn’t that type of woman.

Daenerys’ words had effectively shut Catelyn up, but not for long. The woman blinked at Daenerys, as if looking for the queen’s tell, then settled on, “What were the terms of Tywin Lannister’s abdication?”

Point Stark.

Daenerys sustained her glare for a few more moments then lowered herself into her seat and took a sip of wine, “You wish to have your goodson and his loyal men given to the Night’s Watch. This I will not consider.”

“Then do not expect Ser Kevan’s cooperation.”

“I hadn’t been. Where is the good knight, anyway?”

“In Winterfell, with his son, as I’m sure you know well,” her eyes darted to Jaime, and he nearly flinched.

“Ser Brynden’s release I will consider,” Daenerys conceded, “I understand the man is no war criminal, no fiend, no raper. His actions against me were those of a concerned uncle and granduncle, and I can respect that. However, his release will come only after your brother bends the knee.”

Catelyn took a deep breath and nodded, “I will inform Edmure. It is his decision to make.”

“Indeed.”

“And my daughter? My granddaughters?”

“Given how little you seem to fear dragonfire, I’d be a fool to return them to you.”

“Even in exchange for our fealty?”

“What good will fealty do me?” Daenerys let out a snort, “As the North proved when supporting the usurper, then your own son, then Tywin Lannister, your knees straighten and bend quite easily of late. No, Lady Stark, your daughter will not be returned to you, nor will her daughters.”

Catelyn’s face flushed, “You would have them live their entire lives in exile?”

“As I would’ve lived my entire life, if not that fate had other plans for me.”

“You believe the tron throne is your fate?” Catelyn asked, laying the skepticism on thick.

“Waking dragons from stone was my fate. And why would that be my fate unless I was meant to do something with them? I was given the dragons to restore House Targaryen to its position of power, not so that I might become a tyrant, as some of my forebears were, but so that I might be a force of change.”

“What kind of change?”

Daenerys gave one of her loftier smiles, though she was obviously trying to temper it given her guest was rather uninterested in allowing any warm exchanges. It was the smile that never failed to renew Jaime’s faith in his queen as it showed that her heart was pure. The idea of fixing a backwards realm lit up Daenerys’ face like no other notion. The idea of being a truly beloved queen made her so happy she resembled a child waking up on the morning of her nameday celebration.

Catelyn Stark might be uninterested in making friends with Daenerys Targaryen, but Jaime hoped she saw the smile just as he did, and that it would convince her to not be as stubborn as her husband and son had been.

“All kinds,” Daenerys spoke airily, “The abolishment of slavery, most notably. More equality between men and women.”

Catelyn snorted, “Admirable causes, your grace. If only they weren’t lies.”

Daenerys’ smile fell away then became a clenching of teeth, “You call me a liar?”

“I point out the obvious fallacy of your words. If the abolishment of slavery is your greatest cause, you are on the wrong continent.”

“I freed the slaves of three cities. Their fate is now in their hands.”

“But you didn’t say you wished to free slaves. You said you wished to abolish slavery.”

“And I did,” Daenerys spoke once again through gritted teeth.

“If I wished to abolish…” Catelyn shrugged her lips, “the slaughter of goats. Would it be enough to go around opening all the paddocks? Untying all the bells from around the goats’ necks?”

“You compare goats to people—”

“Why not, when the result is the same? What happens to all those goats running free, with no fence around them?”

“I won’t engage in this discussion,” Daenerys stated firmly.

“Fine, then I’ll tell you. Those goats become victims to worse than the farmers who slaughter them. Instead of a swift, relatively painless death, they are hunted by wolves, shadowcats, and other predators – predators that eat their prey alive. Or some people find them and take them, build another paddock around them – another that you must open or destroy. Meanwhile, the family that had the goats to begin with goes hungry.”

“Yet a goat farmer is a noble vocation! Slave trade is not!”

“I agree wholeheartedly, yet the fact is the same: you cannot eliminate a problem permanently unless you eliminate it at the root.”

Daenerys scoffed, “Kill the slave owners and slave traders, you mean.”

Catelyn sighed wearily, “Perhaps a simpler example is warranted. If you wish to outlaw wine, is it enough to kill all the winemakers?”

Daenerys let out a long breath and shook her head, “No, Lady Stark, as some others would take their place.”

“Correct. Except they would do so much more secretly, so as not to meet the queen’s justice.”

Daenerys’ eyes twitched then narrowed, and Jaime had seen the look many times while he dined alone with the young queen back in Meereen. Catelyn Stark had her interested. What had seemed like a diversion, or a criticism, was turning out to be a lesson. A lesson that Daenerys had never received.

Nor had Jaime, truth be told, though more likely he merely didn’t remember it. Many of his father’s lessons went in one ear out the other, since Jaime knew from the age of one and ten that he didn’t want to be a lord, but a knight.

“Meaning that much harder to catch and eliminate,” Daenerys stated.

Catelyn tipped her head, ever so slightly, “And why do they risk it at all? Why make wine when they know it may very well cost them their life?”

“Because there is profit in it?”

“Indeed. More profit than ever, because thanks to your outlawing of wine, it has become scarce. Those who are willing to make it do so at great risk, and thus they demand a great payment.”

“So then how could I have successfully eliminated slavery, if not by killing all the slavemasters?”  

“By killing the demand. Build up an economy based on other commodities.”

“Like what? All they know is slavery.”

Catelyn lifted her brows and leaned forward, passion evident in her tone, “Because they’ve never needed anything else. I didn’t say they’d like it, Daenerys Targaryen, but no one likes change! But there is opportunity to change the source of wealth in those cities: most of Westeros depends on one kingdom for the bulk of its grain and warm-weather crops, and as I understand it, the lands around Slaver’s Bay are always warm, as are the grasses of the Dothraki Sea.”

“And the transportation of such goods all the way from Dothrak to Westeros?” Daenerys challenged.

“Infrastructure. Shipbuilding. Ports. All of which create wealth.”

Daenerys drummed her fingers on the table, “Easy for you to say. Harder for me to get it done when slave masters are sending assassins on a near daily basis.”

“Because you made them your enemies instead of your partners.”

“You’d have me go into business with such men? Such women? To make peace with them?!”

Catelyn snorted, “It’s that or forever be at war with them. What you chose speaks volumes about your priorities. You have not abolished slavery, your grace. All you’ve done is create chaos in Essos then claim the throne of Westeros. So, tell me again what your fate was…?”

Daenerys shook her head, “You are taking an extremely narrow-minded view of rather complex situations, Lady Stark.”

“And you’re taking a rather short-sighted view of a problem thousands of years in the making. But it doesn’t matter, your grace, because breaking chains is not your real objective. If it were, you’d still be in Meereen, seeing your work through, instead of coming here to claim a chair.”

Daenerys’ jaw bulged, “Or perhaps claiming the throne will enable me to return to Meereen with the power to make a lasting change.”

Catelyn Stark stilled at that, peering at Daenerys with narrow eyes, “You will send the sons and husbands of Westeros to fight your wars?”

Daenerys let out a slow breath, a venting of ire, “I have not yet decided, and it is no concern of yours at this juncture. Moreover, I’m growing weary of you dominating this discussion with your little criticisms and lessons. I may be the younger, but I have had a more eventful life than you, Lady Stark. I have lived as a street urchin, begging for coins and fruit. I have been sold like a broodmare. I have been betrayed. I have nearly died more times than I can count. I have outsmarted men thrice my age. I have empowered tens of thousands. I have toppled dynasties. I have awoken dragons from stone. I have had all my beliefs and dreams shattered and replaced by nightmares. Yet here I am,” she held out her arms, “I have proven to be no Aegon the Conqueror, no Maegor the Cruel, no Aerys the Mad. I am Queen Daenerys Targaryen, First of her Name, and I mean to rule this realm well. But I can only do that if this realm is united - if I am not spending all my time defending my very birthright!”

“I couldn’t care less about your birthright. What I care about is my family, my dau—”

Daenerys held up a hand, “I will not be handing over the ladies Lannister. Not at this time, and perhaps not ever. The latter depends on your cooperation and loyalty.”

Catelyn shook her head, and her next words were growled more than spoken, “By what right do you make hostages out of little girls? By what right do you take them away from their family?”

“By what right did Robert Baratheon send his brother to kill me and mine,” Daenerys growled back, “only to chase us into exile instead? Did you shed a tear, Lady Stark, to think about the innocent children turned into orphans?”

“You and your brother were the last of a dynasty near three-hundred years old. That might be nothing in the grand scheme of this land’s history, but it is certainly more than the paltry two-year reign of Tywin Lannister! You and your brother were a threat to Robert Baratheon that Jeyne and Jocelyn will never be to you!”

“You cannot know that, nor would I trust you if you offered to guarantee it.”

“And what of him?” Catelyn flicked a hand in Jaime’s direction, “A male heir of Tywin Lannister. If you wish to compare Jeyne and Jocelyn to you and your brother, then you must include Jaime Lannister. And Tyrion Lannister, for that matter.”

Daenerys lifted a brow again, “Ser Jaime is a man I trust.”

“Hah!” Catelyn let out an actual burst of laughter, “Tell me, do you exclusively trust men who have done despicable things? Jaime Lannister, Jorah Mormont, the gods know what your Dothraki and Unsullied followers have done.” Catelyn made a show of craning her neck around the room, “Do you have Gregor Clegane lurking somewhere around here?”

Daenerys shook her head, her annoyance palpable, “Ser Jaime has admitted his crimes to me, and he is atoning for them now through his service. Moreover, his actions might not be so despicable as you’ve been led to believe. Certainly, you took your husband’s word for it—”

“My husband had nothing to do with it. I believe I’m capable of forming my own opinions of the man who tried to kill my child.”

Jaime froze to the spot, instantly hating himself for forgetting what he had shouted at Sansa Stark the day he learned of Cersei’s death.

Hating himself more for forgetting about what he’d done years ago in the crumbling tower, to a boy who meant no wrong. A boy who only wished to explore the world.

And why did it shame him now when it never had before? Not even when Varys told them that both younger sons of Ned Stark were alive, in Winterfell. Or had been, until Bran went north with some giantess who’d briefly served Sansa. Perhaps Jaime thought that after months in a coma, the boy would have forgotten the circumstances surrounding his fall from the tower.

Perhaps Jaime hadn’t thought about it at all.

He looked down at his hands, wondering why they were trembling.

“I’m not sure what you’ve heard,” Daenerys spoke, “but Ser Jaime never hurt your daughter. He never laid a—”

“I’m referring to my son.” She turned and pinned Jaime with an ice-blue glare, “How did my son Bran come to fall?”

I flung him from a window.

Jaime shook his head faintly and ignored Daenerys’ penetrating gaze while he wilted under Catelyn Stark’s.

And just like that, the Stark matriarch turned to face the queen again, “If you refuse to return my family in exchange for the North’s fealty, then perhaps a compromise can be reached. Return Jocelyn – the younger of the girls. Allow me to see for myself that you have upheld your promise to their father.”

Daenerys cocked her head, “You would proceed with our discussions upon seeing such proof?”

Catelyn nodded, “Allow me to hold my grandbaby in my arms. Allow me to raise her in the North with her kin. Allow her to be the heir to Winterfell, as she was meant to be. Prove that you are better than the usurper.”

“I’m already better than the usurper! I’ve killed no children to take this throne! My men have not sacked the city, raped its women and slaughtered its children! Have I demanded your husband’s name be scourged from history? Hunted down everyone named Lannister? Everyone named Stark? Every bastard of Baratheon?”

Catelyn’s eyes slowly closed, “No, you haven’t. Because you haven’t needed to, when you have hostages with those names.” She opened her eyes and gave a very pinched smile, “Clever approach, I admit. Someone told you rightly that wolves and lions protect their own. Such would never have happened with dragons – or do you believe that your brother would have bent the knee to spare his niece and nephew?”

Daenerys reared back again, and Jaime almost wanted to commend Lady Stark for surprising the queen so many times in one conversation, but he couldn’t summon the energy, nor did he really care. He was feeling… something. Something unpleasant. Something that resided in his belly, making the organ burn and twist.

“My brother was but a child,” Daenerys eventually responded.

“True,” Catelyn conceded, “When he was older, then. Would he have kept his knees bent, maintained unwavering allegiance to Robert Baratheon, to ensure that his niece and nephew were unharmed?”

“You already know the answer, or you wouldn’t be asking,” Jaime spoke for the first time in… had he spoken yet in this discussion? This discussion he didn’t even want to be present for? What reason had Dany given? Ah yes, that because he was a blood relative to Catelyn’s daughters, Catelyn would accept his word as to their safety. Jaime had pointed out how little love there was between wolf and lion (with his father and Sansa being the sole exception), but Daenerys was adamant that he could convince Lady Stark to bend the knee.

“You convinced me not to kill you. You convinced me to keep your counsel. You convinced me to not give up. You convinced me to not abandon my principles. You’re more persuasive than you think, Ser. You have a way with words and a brutal honesty that is obvious to anyone who can set aside their biases. They may not like what you have to say, but they know it to be true.”

Odd that Jaime might’ve agreed with Daenerys a fortnight ago. Now… now he couldn’t say, because the truth didn’t seem so clearly defined. It was rather abstract. What the hell was ‘truth’, anyway? Who decided what was true, and what wasn’t? People, with their biases and opinions and self-interests? The gods, who were a creation of man, so far as Jaime could figure?

“You sit there and judge us,” Jaime continued, uncertain where the words were coming from, nor whose voice they were spoken in, “Yet the fact remains – you don’t like the situation because you’ve paid the price by being separated from your daughter and granddaughters. So, I suggest you pretend that they’ve all died of winter fever, so that you can mourn and move on. Because whatever leverage you think you have here – you don’t. Winter is here, and the North will need Daenerys Targaryen before Daenerys Targaryen needs the North, I can bloody well guarantee it. Or pretend you married your daughter off to some lordling down in Dorne – so far that you know you’ll likely never see your daughter again, but you take comfort in reading her letters, in knowing that she lives, that she has two beautiful daughters to dote on. Think whatever the hell you want, Lady Stark. Hate me all you want, too. Hate the queen all you want. Go back to your frozen home and stew in your bitterness. I don’t rightly care,” Jaime shrugged his lips, “but if you have no intention of bending the knee, then stop wasting our time.”

He stood up rather brusquely and turned to give a bow to Daenerys, pretending not to notice the wide-eyed stare she was giving him.

He was halfway to the door when he heard Catelyn Stark hastily cry, “A letter!”

He turned and frowned.

Catelyn wet her lips and looked at Daenerys, then back at Jaime, “That mother who sends her daughter all the way to Dorne, who takes comfort in her letters? I’ve been deprived of even that much. If you refuse to bring back one of my girls, then I want a letter written in my daughter’s hand. I want to see that she and her daughters are well. That they’re being cared for. That they are healthy and…” Catelyn’s eyes began to sparkle, “And as happy as can be, under the circumstances. Then and only then will I even think of bending the knee.”

Like Jaime before her, she pushed back her chair and rose, only instead of stomping away, she reached across the table, extending a pale, slender hand toward Daenerys.

Daenerys eyed the hand, eyed the woman, then joined her companions in standing.

Daenerys Targaryen and Catelyn Stark shook hands.

He knew it was coming the moment Catelyn Stark departed the queen’s solar.

Rather, he thought it was coming. An inquisition about the basis of Catelyn’s accusation: that he pushed Bran Stark out a tower window, with intent to kill.

Instead of suspicion, judgment, he was given praise.

“And you thought your presence couldn’t help.”

“It rarely does. I’m no diplomat. Quite the opposite. As I’ve told you.”

He knew his tone was sharp, but it couldn’t be helped. By what right did she continually see the best in him, and ignore the worst? At least Cersei saw all parts of him. All the filthy, depraved, violent, devious parts of him. In fact, those were her favorite parts. She’d never liked the parts of him that sought prestige, glory, and worst of all honor, even if only in fighting fair where more noble men would choose not fighting at all.

Odd, that he’d spent all his life with a woman who wanted only his darkness, and now found himself at the side of a woman who wanted only his virtue, no matter that it was irreparably stained.

He didn’t have to glance at Daenerys to know she was pondering his words, his obvious annoyance, and failing to find an explanation.

Still, she ventured a guess, “You have history as Lady Stark’s prisoner.”

“Her son’s prisoner,” he shrugged, “though I suppose it’s the same difference. Truth be told, I got more dirty looks from her than I ever did from Robb Stark. Perhaps she’s still sore that I snubbed her sister. Then again, she didn’t even ask about her sister.”

“Why would she?” Daenerys lifted a shoulder and tilted her head, a carefree manner having infiltrated her mien, “She cannot bring her sister back from the dead, but she can, at least in theory, bring her daughter back from exile. She has her priorities; the same ones any parent would.”

Not this one. I fled the continent to avenge Cersei, not Joffrey. I did so without even wondering or asking how Myrcella was doing in Dorne, without even going to visit Tommen.

Jaime had once heard that cats were one of the few species that would eat their young. A mother cat might eat her kittens if they were sickly, or if game was so scarce that they’d likely die anyway. A mercy, that was. But a father cat might eat his offspring just for the hell of it, because he didn’t like the idea of some of those kittens growing up to be other cats he’d have to contend with over territory or over a mate.

But who could say that was really the father cat’s reason? Who could say he didn’t just look at his kittens and see an easy meal?

“Still,” Daenerys continued when he made quiet too long, “you did well, Ser. She started off demanding all three ladies Lannister be given to her and left here feeling grateful that we’ll permit her a letter that she doesn’t know we’ve sent for anyway. She will see her daughter’s script, then be honor-bound to negotiate the North’s surrender. Perhaps the delay will prove fortuitous for us: the North will be that much weaker, further into winter. Who knows?” one corner of her mouth lifted, “Perhaps by the time Catelyn Stark kneels before me in the throne room, winter will be breaking, and all those who dared to blame me for the cold will know the actual culprit was Stark stubbornness.”

On any other day, Jaime would have grinned at that – the idea of Daenerys proving all those gullible, gods-fearing hypocrites wrong, all by using that same gullibility against them.

On this day, Jaime couldn’t find it in him to be even remotely amused. “And what will her daughter’s words say?” he asked.

Daenerys blinked at him, “Ser Jorah will have her tell the truth: that she and her daughters are well and being treated not as prisoners but as ladies of high station.”

Jaime hummed, “And are they?”

Daenerys let out a scoff, as if she couldn’t believe his nerve to ask such a question, “Why would they not be? Ser Jorah—”

“Fuck Ser Jorah,” Jaime spat.

Daenerys’ eyes widened, “Don’t you dare say—”

“I’ll say what I damned well please. That’s what you like about me, isn’t it? That I speak with the cold, hard truth? I gave it to Catelyn Stark, and she conceded after all your lofty speeches about waking dragons and breaking wheels had failed. She didn’t give a gods-damn about that, and why should she? Do you know what people care about? Themselves. Themselves and their kin, if they’re not completely heartless bastards. All the pretty stories you’ve heard about good, noble kings and benevolent queens? They were lies. Fairy tales. Made up and spread so the people would believe that someone cares about them. Someone in power. But no one does. Altruism doesn’t exist in this world except as an occasional byproduct of ambition. So when you talk about breaking the wheel, abolishing slavery, giving women more freedom? No one believes a damned word of that noble horseshit because they know that nobody is that noble. You want people to believe you? To join your side? Then be fucking honest!”

He didn’t realize he was leaning across the table, looming over Daenerys, until his rant was done and he found himself panting and sweating and feeling like he was going to explode and that he wanted to, because maybe it would bring relief to the burning in his gut and his chest.

He dropped back into his chair and waited, but she didn’t offer the destruction he craved, only her unique brand of narrow-eyed pity, “Are you so jaded that you can’t fathom any person having good intentions?”

He was exhausted in a way that even hours in the training yard couldn’t manage, so he only shook his head and didn’t bother wondering whether it was disagreement or dismissal.

“Or perhaps you don’t want to fathom it, because then you’d have to acknowledge that there is good and evil in this world, and that until recently you’ve willingly chosen to embrace only the latter.”

He lifted his gaze to meet hers, “You know nothing of evil, Daenerys. And I hope you never do.”

She had the audacity to snort at that, “And you do? Why? Because you’re the son of the great Tywin Lannister?”

He snorted back, “Because I was the shield of the mad Aerys Targaryen.”

Her smile dropped in an instant. It was true that she’d come to acknowledge her father for the monster he was, but the world was filled with monsters – they were as common as dairy cows, Jaime was convinced. But it was once in a very rare while that a man existed who embodied evil, who was evil. The Mad King did not have a speck of love or even affection in his heart for anyone. Not his sister-wife. Not his heir. Not his little grandchildren. Not his gooddaughter. Not his loyal men. Nor had he a speck of remorse for the heinous ways he killed so-called traitors. Even Tywin Lannister would have at least cringed to watch Ellyn Tarbeck roasted alive. At minimum, he wouldn’t have tented his breeches and run off to rape his pregnant wife after witnessing it.

“What, precisely, is your point?” Daenerys asked in a voice she forced calmness into.

Jaime shrugged, “I rarely have a point.”

“So you’ve told me.”

“Let me go to Essos,” he blurted out, not knowing when he decided to say those words, nor when he decided on the loosely formed plan behind them.

Daenerys blinked at him, “I don’t understand.”

“You trust Ser Jorah. I don’t. Nor does Lady Stark. Nor anyone else on this continent, I’d wager.”

Daenerys’ jaw squared, “Ser Jorah is completely devoted to me.”

“And that makes him dangerous…” Dangerous enough to kill a child for the woman he’s so devoted to. “…take my word for it.”

She side-stepped that one, “What makes you think they are in Essos?”

Jaime snorted, “Well I know they’re not in Dorne. I know they’re not in the North or the Riverlands or the West. Probably not in the Vale, since the Vale’s allegiance came well after you’d sent off the lady and her daughters. And the Reach? Why give the most powerful house in the realm a very powerful bargaining chip? Might as well put the crown on Mace’s bloated head yourself.”

Daenerys’ cheeks darkened, “You would go to Essos at the height of this plague?”

He rolled his eyes, “The worst of it is in the Slave Cities. Former Slave Cities. And I know damned well you wouldn’t have sent them there.”

She shook her head, “I need you here.”

“You don’t.”

“Fine,” she huffed, “Then I want you here.”

Jaime sighed loudly, “I will return. Let me lay eyes on them. Let me return here and swear on my sister’s soul that they are alive and well. It will mean more than a letter – the contents of which could be written under threat of violence for all Catelyn Stark knows.”

“And she will believe your word?”

You bet the success of this meeting that she would; now you’re not so certain?

“She will, because I’ll make sure of it.”

Daenerys seemed to be considering it, only to shake her head, “Lord Varys only just sent word through his network. A network that operates in utmost secrecy. You boarding a ship is not exactly subtle.”

“If Varys could get a king and queen and two princesses out of the Red Keep and onto a ship unseen, I’m sure he can handle one knight.”

Daenerys drummed her fingers on the table then sighed, “Tell me why it matters to you so, because it seems to me you’re liable to be struck by some bout of familial obligation. That you’ll try to stage some… some rescue mission,” she said the last part through clenched teeth.

“Do they need rescuing?” he raised a brow, “I thought you trusted Ser Jorah.”

She rolled her eyes, “You know what I mean.”

Jaime shook his head, “My loyalty is to you, Dany. I have no intention of rescuing Sansa and her daughters from a life of leisure in some Pentoshi manse. But if Ser Jorah has… if he…”

“Ser Jorah is not that kind of man.”

“Perhaps not,” Jaime admitted, “He’s just hopelessly devoted to you, and the primary caretaker for the children who are the greatest threat to your throne.”

Her gaze became scorching, and not in the good way, “He is no killer of children.”

“No, he just sells them into slavery.”

“So says Catelyn Stark.”

“The Starks are many things, but they are not liars. Not good liars, anyway. Besides, did Jorah not come into your service with every intention of assassinating you when you were, what, three and ten?”

Daenerys shook her head, “And yet he didn’t assassinate me, and in fact saved me.”

“And do you think it would be so if he hadn’t fallen in love with you the moment he laid eyes on you?”

“He did not—”

Jaime snorted, “He did. Because Catelyn Stark is right about that much: the man’s a sucker for a pretty face. Some Glover maiden, then Lynesse Hightower. I remember Lynesse, you know. Saw her at the Lannisport tourney in ‘89. She couldn’t have been a day over eighteen. Saw her favor tied around Ser Jorah’s arm, too. Couldn’t forget it, since it was the last thing I saw before Ser Jorah put me in the dirt. You want to know what else I noticed? That she was a gorgeous woman. Nearly as gorgeous as you. Nearly as gorgeous as Cersei. Ser Jorah was no great looker, but I can admit he was impressive. He was also a favorite to win the purse after he defeated Yohn Royce in the joust.” Jaime paused to take a deep breath, “admittedly, I paid little mind to anything that wasn’t the competition and anyone who wasn’t my sister, but I do recall Ser Jorah being a popular man at the time. A friend and loyal bannerman to the young Warden of the North, a soldier who distinguished himself during Robert’s rebellion then Greyjoy’s rebellion. He was a flame and Lynesse Hightower a moth. She no doubt imagined a life at court, with a storybook knight for a husband, not Bear Island, with a dour lord for a husband.”

Jaime knew he’d gotten off course – a well-known habit of his – when couldn’t recall whatever point he was trying to make.

Luckily, his queen had better focus and recollection, “Some presumably beautiful Glover girl, then beautiful Lynesse Hightower, then beautiful Daenerys Targaryen… and now beautiful Sansa Stark. You don’t fear that he will hurt them; you fear that he will betray me.”

The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind, but Jaime let her think that, even if he refused to make it a lie by offering her so much as a nod. In truth though, it would hardly be a lie. Ser Jorah might betray Daenerys if Sansa Stark was shrewd enough to give the man what he wanted. Jaime didn’t think she was the type, daughter of disgustingly dutiful Ned Stark and atrociously arrogant Catelyn Tully, until he remembered she’d also been the plumply pregnant wife of Tywin Lannister.

Wonderful… Now his head was running wild with visions of Ser Jorah forcing himself on innocent, wide-eyed Sansa Stark even as he saw Sansa Stark as a seductress, riding Ser Jorah’s cock while whispering in his hairy ear all the things he could do to make her happy so that she’d keep on riding. He saw Ser Jorah holding a pillow over one of the girl’s faces in retribution for some plotting of Sansa’s and also saw Ser Jorah holding said daughter on his hip while he promised her mother the world on a platter.

Fucking hells, but was it not enough to be confused about whether he felt pride or regret over all his past actions? Now even his fears were confused. 

While he spiraled like a duck struck with an arrow mid-flight, Daenerys’ fingers pressed to her lips and stayed there as she processed Jaime’s words and her own interpretation of them, “He might grow fond of her. He might lust for her. But it is me who he serves. Me who has his loyalty. Me who has his—” she cut herself off, but Jaime understood.

“Who has his heart. It’s no secret. And yet, how long can he go without seeing you, without speaking to you, before he seeks a new object for his affection?”

It was a truth of other men that Jaime had never understood. How could a man love one woman but fuck other women? How could a man’s heart ever recover after being ripped to shreds by his woman, or by life? Then again, Jaime supposed he was the anomaly. To other men, sex was naught but a physical release, a bit of pleasure stolen from a life that wanted to offer only pain. But to Jaime, sex was… reclamation. Repair. The righting of a wrong. He and Cersei weren’t meant to be two parts. Two bodies, two minds, two souls. They were meant to be one, and only when their bodies joined did they come close to claiming that destiny.

“It matters not what he seeks, what he wants, who he wants…” Daenerys spoke as if not entirely assured, “for Sansa Stark will not reciprocate his feelings. He would not betray me in favor of a woman who does not love him back.”

Jaime snorted, “He betrayed his liege lord and his own house for a woman who did not love him back. And later he betrayed his king for a woman who did not love him back,” he lifted an eyebrow meaningfully.

Daenerys held his gaze admirably, but her wine seemed particularly fascinating as she said, “You may go. Perhaps it would be best to leave no room for… doubt. Leave under cover of darkness, with the knowledge and aid of none but Lord Varys, at the earliest he can arrange it.”

Jaime bowed his head, “I would not jeopardize your—”

“See that you don’t,” Daenerys spoke as she rose, every inch of her a queen, “And see that your priorities and allegiances are not swayed. If you betray me, Ser Jaime, it is your son who will pay for your treason.”

He knew to let her have the last word, so he did nothing but tip his head again and leave, intent on searching all the dark corners until he found the Spider.

But as he stalked across the keep, he couldn’t stop the realization that he made a better father than a cat, after all.

He just didn’t know whether to feel relieved or inconvenienced by the discovery.

Notes:

I choose to believe that Catelyn at some in her life was given at least a rudimentary lesson in economics, or learned it by osmosis. It's actually pretty common sense stuff - you cannot destroy a city or country's primary source of income and NOT expect all hell to break loose. Nor can you proclaim something illegal without instantly creating a black market for it while not making so much as a dent in the consumption of that product. Slavery is a bit different because the "product" is a person with a will of their own, but the fact remains that all OUR world's modern day efforts have not even been 100% successful. Sex trafficking, forced labor, and forced marriage are still huge problems effecting hundreds of millions. HOWEVER, Catelyn doesn't have our modern day knowledge, so she is really just assuming that Daenerys' abolishment of slavery would've been successful if only Daenerys had helped create alternative means of wealth for the nobles in those cities. Catelyn is right in theory, but wrong in thinking her method would be successful. More successful than the Daenerys method? Sure, but perhaps not even by all that much - where there is demand, there is supply.

Also, in case you're wondering, yes, I do feel guilty for how difficult I'm making it for Daenerys. While I've made her as entitled and self-important as she was in the books (most who aspire for leadership are), I do believe she means well and has some progressive notions but unfortunately no idea how to make them a reality. Suffice to say, progress usually requires some revolution, and the old regime doesn't like that, so they fight tooth and nail to hold onto their ways. Anyway, more to my point, if it seems like I'm throwing a lot of shit at Dany, it's not because I'm a hater (though I've admitted many times I prefer the more dynamic characters) but because of PLOT. I'm about to let you in on a secret: Sansa isn't the only one who keeps escaping her frying pans only to land in the fire. In Daenerys' case, a game of whack-a-mole might be a better analogy, but the point is, both girls are like 'Can I get a friggin' break?!' The glaring difference is Daenerys, at least in theory, has some agency. Like, she could tell the world to fuck off and fly into the sunset, which Sansa has never had as an option. Without dragons to awe a set of people into becoming her followers, she's never had the luxury of picking her saviors.

Chapter 54: If it’s not dangerous, it’s boring

Summary:

The aftermath of Sansa and Red's attempt to manipulate Ser Jorah.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Sansa

If only her plan had been to make Ser Jorah positively loathe her, she’d be celebrating her victory right now.

The knight was the single most stubborn person she’d ever met. Truly, with men like him representing them, it was no surprise that people thought Northerners were unyielding and humorless. Gregor bloody Clegane was more liable to crack a joke, even if those jokes were dark and threatening to the recipient, only amusing to the man himself. Ser Jorah did not bother trying to amuse himself anymore, even at another’s expense.

The first two weeks after he awoke naked in her bed, she toed the line between sadness and resentment, hoping to guilt him into upholding the drunken promises he didn’t know he never made.

For her effort at appearing hurt by his spurning, she earned nothing but his apathy and eventually his annoyance. When she skipped a meal, claiming lack of appetite, he said nothing. When she skipped two meals with the same excuse, he said nothing, though she knew that he knew. Red told her that her behavior was reported to Jorah by one of the Unsullied, out of concern for her or obedience to their master, neither one of them was sure. Red had created a persona among his comrades as the one who was the most indifferent and the least compassionate; if he suddenly began probing to see whether they cared about Sansa as more than a charge to keep alive, it would be rather suspicious.

But if she skipped three meals, Jorah would throw a bowl of food in front of her and very curtly order her to eat or else he’d make her eat. He had yet to force-feed her, though, because he still held all the leverage. “Three and a half months until you see your daughters. Shall we make it five, instead?”

And just like that, he would have her where he wanted. The chink in her armor would always be her children, and he knew it.

She had laid in bed many a night wondering if Tywin would tell her to give up on ever seeing Jeyne and Jocelyn. To use Red’s spear and Jaqen’s coin to make a go at escaping all the way back to Westeros, where she could choose to pursue a life of family or a life of revenge. But it didn’t matter what Tywin would’ve said, because it was no choice at all. She could not bring herself to give up on her daughters, even if she trusted that they would live a good life, perhaps grow up not even knowing they were hostages. Perhaps they called Rayna ‘Mama’ now. Perhaps one of the guards felt like a father or brother to them, like Sansa suspected Bronze could if she put in the effort to nurture the young man who hadn’t lost all his humanity, as many of the Unsullied had. Well, it was less a matter of effort and more a matter of Ser Jorah’s presence. Without a master here for them to obey, she doubted any of them would continue to serve Daenerys Targaryen all the way across the sea. Betray or harm her they might never do, but Sansa found herself thinking it was hard to maintain indefinite loyalty to a person an ocean away.

Or a world away.

How was it she could spend her nights crying for one man but spend her days stealing glances at another?

How was it her heart could be true to her husband, while her body craved a different man’s touch?

It remained one of the many matters that confused her ceaselessly. In fact, everything confused her except that one unavoidable truth: that she would never give up on being reunited with her daughters. It made her a terrible person, a selfish person, but even if she found out with certainty that her daughters were happy and well, calling Rayna ‘Mama’ and Slug or Black Mole ‘Papa’, blissfully ignorant of the family and home they’d been stolen from, she could not give them up.

She’d confessed such feelings to Red one night, after Ser Jorah fell asleep downstairs on the settee after nursing his mezcal all evening. She’d lied on her right side, he on his left. No part of her body touched his, but the words she exhaled were more intimate than any sexual act could ever be.

In the dark, it was hard to tell if Red could sympathize, but it didn’t matter. She just needed him to hear her words and tell her that she was not terrible, just human. For a few minutes, she let herself believe him.

Sansa leaned back from the laundry tub onto her ankles, wet up to her elbows and feeling like her heart was going to explode with frustration. Two weeks of red eyes and sniffles and the cold shoulder, and Ser Jorah had not softened the slightest bit. If anything, her tears had driven him further away. Odd, since that night he came to her room he had kissed them, begged her not to let more fall as he laid her down, telling her how beautiful she was as he caressed her waist. Perhaps two fewer sips of mezcal or one fewer ale and he’d have been able to follow through. Perhaps right now she’d be wondering why her tide hadn’t come in over a moon’s time. Perhaps she’d be pulling his hand against her low belly, and the ice wall around his heart would finally crack. He’d not love her for her, but for the child she was fashioning for him of her own blood and bone. And for that, he’d finally be grateful enough to relent.

She let out a humorless chuckle as she wrung the water out of Crawler’s favorite tunic, and only realized when she saw a bright red spot on the beige fabric that her right palm was bleeding. She looked down at the place a blister had formed and burst without her cognizance. She’d been so lost in thinking about the failure of her plan that she’d scrubbed until her hand was raw and didn’t even realize it.

With the thumb of her left hand, she moved around the loose and now water-logged bit of skin that was already half detached. She swiped it one way and it covered the bloody spot. She swiped it the other way and it exposed the raw skin.

Then she pinched it and gave a firm yank until it ripped off entirely, leaving behind an unexpectedly intense burning.

She dipped the tunic back into the water, picked up the scrub brush, and got back to work.

An entire moon passed since her failed attempt to bring Ser Jorah to her side through either lust or affection or guilt. He was not thawing in the least, only… cracking. Stubborn man, he would break before bending.

She needed him to bend though. She needed him to bend his own resolve, his own rules. She needed him to give. To permit the girls to stay with her, here, and not with a dagger to her or their throats. It was still her only viable plan – to make a move when her girls were here in her arms, and most ideally when some of the Unsullied were asleep, even better if Ser Jorah drank himself into a stupor.

And all at once her own stupidity struck her. She’d been assuming Ser Jorah intended for the visit to be brief – perhaps only a few hours – and she’d dared not ask him to confirm for fear of betraying her thoughts and plans. But what would it betray, for a mother who’d been separated from her children for months to inquire about how long she’d be permitted to visit with them?

So she waited until the time was right. Dinner was over – having been eaten in tense silence as it had been since the night Ser Jorah came to her room, and she knew it was because Red happened to mention to Crawler, when the latter asked what was up the Andali’s arse, that Red saw him leaving the lady’s room naked early that morning, and that the lady had been crying and shouting.

Her own behavior and mood since then certainly filled in the blanks.

It was Bronze’s night to guard the front door and the others were eager to go up to the second floor, to their warm beds where there was no silent standoff taking place between their leader and their prisoner.

Ser Jorah was just as eager to get out of the kitchen and she knew he’d go to the sitting room and sip his ale or his mezcal and brood.

She waited for several minutes while rehearsing her words in her head, hoping the delay in approaching him would make her seem timid, not suspect.

When she finally stepped into the room, only casting a quick glance and small smile to Bronze, she did so with her hands clasped in front of her belly, wringing her fingers nervously.

Ser Jorah did not look up from where he sat in profile to her, his eyes on the flames in the hearth, his head leaned back, but far from relaxed.

She cleared her throat, “Ser?”

His head rolled halfway to the right, “What?”

She took two steps further into the room, trying to maintain the image of meek and helpless and fearful, but just brave enough to address the man who they both knew now, unequivocally, was her enemy.

“I had hoped to know… so I might have something to look forward to… When the girls come here, how long will I be permitted to visit with them?”

“For as long as I say,” he answered in an annoyed tone.

By the gods, it was hard to not slap this man. It was hard to not picture herself driving the cast iron poker into his gut or bashing him over the head with it. Hells, why not both?

“Please, Ser, I just want to know. I miss them so badly. Will it be a day? A sennight? An hour? Can you not show some compassion?”

He snorted drily, “Compassion?”

Annoyance was twisting inside her, becoming anger with every passing moment, but she kept her calm, because there was one card she could play, even if so far it had been ineffective against him, “It’s the least you owe me after—”

He stood up abruptly and she jolted back a half step.

“After what?” he spat as he approached her, and she refused to move further away, give him the impression of having the higher ground, “after you fucked me?”

She felt her mouth fall open in indignation that she had no right to and yet felt so acutely, “After you fucked me, as I seem to recall it.”

His face darkened in either anger or shame, “Yet I was so drunk I don’t even remember, and you were just tipsy from your dainty little sips.” Even those words came out sounding like criticism, another thing about her that he hated. Did his beloved queen swig back ale like a sailor? Was that one of the things he liked about her?

“What does that have to do with anything? I wasn’t the one who came into your room to seduce you!”

Seduce you!?” he barked, then threw his head back and let out an actual bark of laughter before tilting his head down to eye her, “Let’s call it what it was: you took advantage of me being drunk and extracted promises you knew I’d never make when sober in exchange for access to your cunt!”

Once more, she was gaping at him in affront, angry that he was so wrong even if he was so close to being right, but she’d ponder her own hypocrisy at another time, when it wouldn’t be so distracting from her goal. “I did no such thing! You… you came into my room and… and we spoke. That is all. Then you kissed me. You kissed me and led me to the bed and—”

“Shut up!” he growled, half a shout.

“No! If your behavior shames you so much, you can perhaps try to atone for it.”

He snorted, “By falling to my knees in front of you? By giving in to your demands? Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing! Moping around here, telling me with every step and every movement that I’m a fuck-up. You think I don’t recognize the cold shoulder when I see it?! You forgot I was married twice? You think I don’t know you’re trying to wear me down? Hope your sadness, your apathy, is enough to make me cave?” he turned away from her, making a tutting noise like Septa Mordane used to do when she was at her wit’s end with Arya.

And much like Arya would do, Sansa’s fingers curled into fists at her side. The anger, the frustration, the hatred of this man was its own presence inside her, a parasite feeding on what was left of her light and leaving behind something dark and bitter as ash.

A small part of her brain knew she was angry because he was right, even if he was wrong about what happened that night. But what he thought happened that night was all the more reason for him to be the first to yield. If he believed he used her body, why would he not feel guilty about it? Had she so grossly misjudged his conscience?

“Is that how it happened with Lannister?” he asked sharply, “Did you let him fuck you after he promised you gold and safety? Did your cunt turn to ice and your heart to stone when he wasn’t quick enough to deliver? How long did it take before he gave in, before he came crawling back, begging for your warmth?”

She heard herself sputtering out half-formed denials and protests because Ser Jorah was, once again, not wrong. He was, however, implying it had been strategy on Sansa’s part. In reality, she’d been too naïve to know how a man might act when the arms that used to hold him instead push him away. She was too self-conscious to realize that she could ever get the Great Lion to be so entranced with her. She was too inexperienced to realize that sexual intercourse could lead to caring. But regardless of it being unintentional, the result was the same: when her touch went cold, he became desperate for the warmth.

And now he was dead for it. For loving her. For claiming the throne he’d never wanted, for her. A thousand events, some big and others seemingly trivial, all leading him down that path.

I am a curse, she thought, not for the first time. If only I was a curse to the man standing before me now.

“What’s wrong?” Ser Jorah smirked condescendingly, “have I struck a nerve?”

She looked into his brown eyes. She used to think they were soulful, like Father’s and Jon’s had been, and Bran’s too. Now she knew it was a biproduct of the misery he wore like a cloak, the bitterness and resentment he clung to like rafts in the open sea.

The anger that had briefly yielded to guilt and shame was back. She didn’t care about any redeeming qualities this man might possess. She didn’t care if he was right about some things. She didn’t care that it was wrong to resent him for not falling for her trick.

She only cared about the fact that she hated him. No, she despised him. In that moment she could not think of a man whose company she’d less enjoy. She’d take Ser Gregor beating her and buggering her every night, because at least he wouldn’t pretend to be righteous while doing it. He wouldn’t claim to be doing it in service of some queen, only in pursuit of his own dark pleasures. She’d take Petyr Baelish, who would probably lie and manipulate her in ways Ser Jorah wasn’t capable of, but he would never delude himself into thinking his aspirations were noble, or of benefit to anyone but himself. She’d take Joffrey, the kingslayer, anyone over this man. It was irrational, and yet she’d make any of those swaps if given the choice in that moment.

“The cold shoulder?” she sneered at him, “An act to get you crawling on your knees to be back in my good graces?” she scoffed, “I want you nowhere near me or my good graces. You disgust me. I can’t stand the sight of you!”

“Finally, a bit of honesty.”

“Oh, fuck you!” she screamed in his face, “Stop acting like you’re some victim! I have news for you, Ser: you ran away from your home and family, while I was stolen from mine. You never had children; mine were taken from me! You stubbornly fell in love with women who’d never love you back, while I was given a taste of a great love only to have that stolen from me, too!”

“Do you plan to live the rest of your life like this? Feeling sorry for yourself?!

She threw her hands up, framing her face with them as she wondered if she could have possibly heard such a thing from this man.

“Me?” she eventually stuttered out, “Me? Me!? You’re the one who feels sorry for yourself! And why?! Nothing has been taken from you, not once! Everything you’ve lost was by your own choice or your own mistake. You’ve never been a victim of anything but your own stupidity!”

“Stupidity?!” he scoffed, a bitter smile revealing white teeth hidden within his dark beard, “If I’m stupid, then what are you? You pout around this place because for once in your life you’re not living like the spoiled princess you think you are!”

“For once in my life?!” she scoffed right back, “Sweet my childhood might’ve been, but I assure you, since then it’s been nothing but a nightmare, with but a brief reprieve I barely had time to savor before you were there to ruin my life!”

“Your life isn’t ruined. You barely know suffering. Hunger. Pain. Thirst. You’ve had but small tastes of each, yet you act like the ultimate victim. You’re so insulted that I don’t want you, that I don’t give into your every demand like you’re my spoiled little pet,” he pouted his bottom lip sarcastically, “How could I want you, pathetic as you are? Meanwhile, my queen,” he jabbed his chest with his thumb, “has known little but pain. She had no loving parents, no protective brothers. She only had hunger and want and fear, and she rose above it all! She didn’t let it corrupt her! She is fierce and brave and unafraid to take what she deserves, unlike you, who wants to be served it on a silver platter!”

Sansa’s jaw worked back and forth, “Must be difficult, too, with a dragon to do her bidding. Even when it was nothing more than a baby it got her an army of ten thousand that she didn’t have to pay a cent for.”

Ser Jorah shook his head, “You know nothing, even after all this time. Willfully ignorant, that’s what you are.”

She threw her head back and laughed toward the ceiling, “Oh, how rich! At least I have a mind of my own. You’re nothing but a puppet on your queen’s strings, living for the day you’ll reap the reward for your loyalty, too stupid to know that day will never come.”

“Shut your gods-be-damned mouth,” he grunted out through clenched teeth.

“Why? Have I struck a nerve?” she parroted.

He took a big step toward her, pointing his finger in her face, “I said shut it. I swear you’re a bloody witch, or perhaps some test of the gods to see how much I can bare before snapping.”

She took a step closer, putting them a hand’s length apart, “You don’t have the balls to snap. Want to prove you’re not her puppet? That you’re not the spoiled pet? Then do what you want, Ser. Strangle the life out of me,” she lifted her chin, “Here. Wrap those big, strong hands around this puny little neck.”

“You’re fucking mad,” he snarled.

“Might be I am. But at least I’m not a coward.”

He snorted drily, “Haven’t you ever heard of fool’s courage? All you Starks have it.”

“And us Starks have ruled for millennia. Your queen’s family couldn’t manage three centuries of it, and do you know what I think?”

He rolled his eyes, “Something ridiculous, I’m certain.”

She ignored that, “I think she won’t manage three years of it. I think even with a dragon – or three – and hostages from half the great houses in the realm, she will fail.”

He snorted, “More fool’s courage. Or was that a threat, hm? You think you’ll escape this place and go get your revenge? I’m tempted to let you go, just to watch you fail.”

For a moment, she almost took the deal he was only facetiously offering. For a moment, she saw the coin. It beckoned her like a poisoned promise, to let it serve its purpose. How she’d like to go to the Faceless Men, hand over the coin, and speak Daenerys Targaryen’s name, if only to see Ser Jorah’s face when he learned that his beloved queen was dead. Even better would be the look of shock when she later told him the truth: it was me. If his face was the last thing she’d see before he cleaved her in two with his longsword, she’d consider it worth it.

But the temptation was, as always, overshadowed by that which she coveted above all else: her daughters.

“I never said I’d be her end,” she spoke more calmly, “just that she will end – sooner rather than later. Everyone who sits in that throne is cursed, and yet men still want it, men will still kill over it. The entire realm might be kissing her feet for now, but she will never rest easy. And when someone finally gets to her, perhaps someone named Stark or Lannister or Tully – you’ll be here. A thousand leagues away. And I’ll be howling with laughter. I’ll howl so loud my pack will hear it from the other side of the sea. And you’ll have nothing but your regrets and the realization that you lived an entire life feeling sorry for yourself that the prettiest girls never could love you quite enough.”

Now she was the one to pout her lower lip, mocking the lovelorn knight who held onto his fantasies so tightly they all died in his crushing grip. She felt like the Hound, telling the little bird there were no true knights, that all the fairy tales were lies, or Littlefinger telling her life was not a song.

She learned that lesson at a cruelly young age, and she felt proud of that fact. The man standing across from her, anger and insult making his brown eyes turn red, chose to never learn that lesson. He still believed that if he was dutiful and loyal enough, the beautiful princess would someday choose him

“And do you know what else I think?” she stepped closer again, letting her voice become little more than a whisper, though it still had her one-man audience rapt, “I think if you ever did get what you wanted it would lose its luster. The real thing is never as good as the fantasy, Ser. Perhaps that’s why you never let yourself have it. Perhaps you’d rather lie in bed at night and imagine your queen, singing your name and loving your body and never wanting to leave your arms. But you’ve had just enough experience to know that that isn’t love. Love is not paradise; it is torment. So, it’s alright, Ser. Keep clinging to that beautiful illusion, even if it means passing up on the chance for something real, even if less shiny.”

She turned to head toward the stairs but he caught her wrist and for a heartbeat it felt like a dance, the way she spun into his arms, only there was no tenderness in his embrace. Strong hands squeezed her upper arms as they’d done more times than she could count, and his gaze was enough to freeze her. Hate or lust, loathing or desire. What were his eyes conveying, or was there no difference? Had she not hated Tywin for being someone she wanted? Had she not resented him for being her weakness? He certainly had.

Or…

No…

“A curse indeed, to make a man forget all his plans, all his aspirations… all his wants and needs because you replace all of them… I’m cursed twice over, and already paying for it. And I can’t even hate you for it. I can’t even resent you for it. Because how can I hate what I love?”

How can I hate what I love?

She pondered on that, and then the statement’s inverse. How can I love what I hate?

And that was the crux of it, of why this plan to win Ser Jorah’s love never stood a chance. He could not love her because he hated her. And he could not hate Daenerys because he loved her. And for all his faults, he was a one-woman man. His devotion was dangerously absolute, but only pointed at one woman at a time.

“And I suppose that’s you, hm? That’s what you’re offering? Something not as shiny, but at least genuine?” he asked in a low whisper.

Perhaps if he sounded more hopeful, less skeptical, she’d have continued with her strategy – send out one last sortie of her battered, bloodied troops, knowing that it would either be the key to her victory or the death blow to the last of her frayed hope. But as it was, she was exhausted by the ruse she’d been maintaining the past month. No, longer than that. The ruse that she didn’t hate him completely. Oh, there’d been moments, especially in the beginning, when she made it clear she despised him. But all their rows since then had a different energy to them: passion. Two people who care enough to argue, to fight. Two proud people, who were perhaps fighting themselves more than each other.

More recently she pretended to be crushed by his rejection, at times bitter over it, at times depressed. The bitterness was easy to give, since she was rather irritated that he hadn’t fallen for the trap. But to pretend to be heartbroken over him? It was harder than telling Joffrey he was gallant and generous and wise. She was a scared girl then, with no allies and hardly any wits to rely on. Now… now she was a wolf. She had pride. As Father ought to have done if it weren’t for his desire to protect her and Arya, she refused to meet her fate with a lie that last thing on her lips. And while this conversation wasn’t a precursor to her death… Well, she couldn’t say that with any certainty. Perhaps she was wrong, and Ser Jorah did have the stones to kill her, and would do so this very night in a mezcal-fueled rage. Perhaps this plague people in the markets were talking about would make its way to their part of Braavos, make her shit herself to death. Perhaps she’d be struck by a bad case of the grippe or wet lung, or a fever that could not be brought down. Perhaps she’d die of a broken heart. But regardless of whether she was long for the world or not, she’d not be pretending anymore, no matter the sensibility of it. She’d not be offering her love and her body in exchange for the right to see her children. It was this simple: no matter how the odds were stacked against them, she and Red would win. Maybe Bronze or Crawler would stand with them. Maybe Rayna was as feisty as Arya. Maybe the ghost of Ned Stark would lend his strength to Sansa’s arm. But whether the stars aligned in her favor or not, her plan would not change:  

When her children were finally brought here, she would kill Ser Jorah, and keep fighting anyone that came at her until they were dead, or she was.

Either way, her daughters would be safe.

Either way, her suffering would be over.

“No,” she whispered, then looked down when she realized Ser Jorah’s hands had slid down her arms and were gently pressed against the outside of each wrist. “No, not I. The only genuine feeling I’ll ever have for you is loathing. Goodnight, Ser Jorah. Enjoy your fantasies.”

She spun so quickly his hands had no chance to close around her wrists. She flew across the foyer and up the stairs, her feet never touching the ground.

She did not knock, nor ask for permission to enter a room she’d never been in.

He sat up in bed and had a dagger primed to be flung at his intruder so quickly that she mused their odds in a fight would never be too horrible. The glow from the hearth – these summer boys must wake up ten times each night to stoke their fires – was enough for her to see that he recognized her.

She locked the door behind her with a soft click, then wasted not a moment. As he’d once done to her, she straddled his blanket-covered legs. Beyond that, the situations held no similarities.

She gripped his cheeks, held him fiercely where she wanted him, eye to eye, the tips of their noses almost touching.

“I’m going to kill him,” she whispered.

“What did he do?” he whispered back, an edge of danger in his tone.

“Nothing. Nothing like what you’re thinking. He’s been living on borrowed time since he fled from my father’s justice.”

If Red was aware of all the history around Ser Jorah’s crimes, she’d be surprised, but she didn’t bother elaborating. Instead, she continued with what felt like another confession, “When my daughters are here. That’s when I am going to kill him. I don’t know which of the others might fight for me, or which will fight to avenge him and deliver their queen’s justice, but I don’t care. I will win, or I will die, and either option is acceptable.”

His head shook, ever so slightly, just enough to rub his nose against hers, “I will fight for you.”

“If the odds are against us, I don’t expect you to. Let them kill me. Live, so you might protect my daughters, if they need protection. Or go back to Dorne. Or bide your time and find a way out - for you and my daughters and Rayna, if she lives. Take them to Winterfell. Tell my family… tell them the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. Tell them you return the daughters of House Stark. They will reward you, I’m sure.”

“I seek not gold.”

“Then what do you seek?”

“Honor,” he answered quickly. Too quickly.

She chuckled faintly against his lips, “Liar. Speak true. I know you. Honor may be your motive, but it is not the only one.”

He let out a sigh, enough for her to smell the wine he drank before bed, a strong red that a Dornishman ought to favor.

“You know what I seek,” strong hands came to her hips and pulled her down and forward.

“There are far less dangerous means to get into a woman’s bed,” she teased.

“I’m a Dornishman; if it’s not dangerous, it’s boring.”

The smirk was plain in his voice, so she smirked back even as what she said was of utmost seriousness, “I’m offering you nothing. Not my hand. Not my heart. Not a place by my side in any capacity.”

He hummed, “And if what I want is all of that?”

“Then you may retract your vow, and I won’t hold it against you. Leniency is what I’m willing to pay in exchange for your honesty, but this deal will not be available to you again after this.”

It took him many moments to respond, which meant either he was searching his soul to make sure he knew what he wanted, or he was debating whether it was in his best interest to offer a truth or a lie.

She had no way of knowing what she received, but it didn’t matter. Her mind had been made up when she came in here, or perhaps many days ago. She would take what she wanted regardless, but only on the basis of transparency. She would not have him expecting some boon to come from his association with her. Rather, if he did expect that, it would be through no fault but his own.

“Fine,” he eventually spoke, “You want my honesty? I want to be there, with a prime viewing location, to watch a wolf face down a dragon. I always did like a good fight – as a participant or a spectator. I’m also an ambitious sort, so I wouldn’t pass up the chance to be a queen’s counselor, her Hand, her ally, her consort. But I am, above all else, proud. Meaning I’d sooner be by the side of, or in the bed of, a good woman than a poor queen.”

“So it is my goodness that appeals to you?” she asked skeptically, not bothering to point out that she wasn’t sure there was much goodness left in her.

“Among other things,” he dragged her groin against his again, and she could feel something more significant than what had been there a few moments ago.

She sucked in a breath at the sensation, and realized she had not had a peak since she left her home – not by a man’s touch and not even by her own.

“Fine,” she responded breathlessly, “you have many wants, many motives. But what do you want most of all?”

Her tone made it clear that it still wasn’t a promise, only an inquiry.

His response made it clear he understood, as his head tilted to the right and his lips pressed against the underside of her jaw, precisely one time. “To play with your kitty,” he answered mischievously.

She’d never heard the turn of phrase, but she liked it.

“We cannot be caught,” she stated the obvious.

He chuckled near silently, “I heard you two hollering from up here. He won’t be doing anything but drinking himself to sleep.”

“And if he gets drunk and goes to my room again?”

Red was amused by that, “Do you think he would ever make that mistake again?”

“If he’s drunk enough,” she offered, hating to let her worry ruin the first moment in many months that she felt almost like… a living person.

“We’ll hear him coming up the steps – the man’s as loud as a bloody aurochs. You can be out my door and through yours with time to spare.”

She knew it was true, yet also knew she’d not be able to enjoy anything if her body stayed primed to hop out of bed and run.

She swung her right leg over and was standing next to Red’s bed before he could pout. “Come to my room in a few minutes,” she whispered, “I want to be able to enjoy it.”

I want to remember.

I want to forget.

“That’s quite a bit of pressure,” he grinned.

She shrugged, feeling rather unlike herself in that she was the one leading, the one by all indications in control. It was strange and unfamiliar, to initiate something that she’d always simply waited for. Only twice could she recall having taken the reins – first because seeing Tywin deal with Gregor Clegane had put her in a state. The next time by wearing a flimsy robe with nothing underneath. Beyond those occasions she was entirely at her husband’s whim, just as she – and he – both liked it.

No, there was also the night after our fight. The first time we made love since the girls were born.

It tickled between her legs and ached behind her ribs to think of the way she had taken him that night, on the chair in their dining chamber, slow and deep and indulgent, knowing that every time she moaned his name she was really confessing her love. How he’d laid her down on the rug and drank the milk from her breast, and she’d never known such ecstasy. As the milk flowed warm into his mouth, her tunnel spasmed around his cock.

That night he’d begged her to never turn him out again. He’d asked her to love who he was in their bedroom, even if she’d never love who he was beyond it.

Did he know it was impossible to love only half a person? She might have only liked half of him, but she loved all of him, and cursed them both in doing so.

Those thoughts intruded her mind and evicted her good mood, the high she’d felt at accepting that in a few months she’d either win or die.

She knew there’d be no regaining what confidence and righteousness and desire she had felt moments ago.

As she considered how to tell Red that she changed her mind, perhaps using the risk of discovery as an excuse, he crawled from the bed and stood in front of her, taking her face in his hands and waiting until she matched her gaze to his.

It was slow, the approach of his lips, and they landed right on hers, a touch that was both soft and confident. His lips lingered there for a while, before moving to her cheekbone, the touch as soft as a butterfly landing on a flower.

I don’t want to remember.

I don’t want to forget.

She closed her eyes.

Notes:

Man it's tempting to write Jorah's POV. I've tried to depict a slow unraveling that is the result of him having too much time to stew over being left behind as Dany goes to claim her glory, over feeling like he's competing against Ser Jaime for Dany's affection, over a lifetime's worth of self-pity plus specific actions he has come to regret, and, finally, over cohabitating with a woman who just rubs him the wrong way. He's had his moments with Sansa, and her being pretty doesn't hurt, but ultimately I see them as incompatible people, and incompatible people don't do well in a relationship or even as roommates. Right now, that house in Braavos is a powder keg, and they're both giving off sparks.

I also didn't want to give Sansa some sort of superhuman sex appeal, er, whatever you'd call it. I didn't want the Braavos plotline to be "Jorah falls in love with Sansa and helps her get back to her family". His feelings for her are meant to be much more confused: he wants her even though he hates her. He sees parallels to Daenerys but doesn't want to, so he forces himself to focus on how he thinks she and Dany are different then uses those differences to convince himself he doesn't actually want Sansa. He at times wants to think Sansa cares about him but is far too jaded with women to believe it for very long.

Anyway, just felt like chatting about Jorah. I realize that the Jorah/Sansa chapters might be boring to you guys, so I suppose I felt some desire to illuminate a bit of the paradox that is Ser Jorah.

Oh, and please don't @ me over the final scene. Sansa's lonely, alright? And she thinks Tywin's dead and she is dealing with all kinds of grief and fear and depression and helplessness.

Chapter 55: Your brother sends his regards

Notes:

Three King's Landing POVs... One of which I think you've all been waiting for.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Margaery

In all her life, Margaery could count on one hand the number of times she’d seen her father well and truly furious.

As of today, she needed two hands to do so.

The queen had sent orders to Paxter Redwyne, Margaery’s uncle-by-law and first cousin once removed by blood – orders that Father was asked to co-sign as Lord Paramount of the Mander – to sail half his fleet all the way around the southern coast and up the Narrow Sea to Blackwater Bay, all to chase off some pirates who were making an unusually loud racket in the Stepstones, then protect the capital’s harbor, which was virtually undefended but for a handful of the Crown’s warships that had survived the burning of the Blackwater or been subsequently built.

She wasn’t sure whether Father was most angry about the risk that part of the Redwyne navy could be lost on the journey – to storms, pirate attacks, or winter-borne illnesses – or that the queen hadn’t listened to him when he explained that the Stepstones had always been and would always be rife with pirate activity and that it would be easier to rid Flea Bottom of rats than it would be to rid the disputed island chain of pirates. The queen had countered that she didn’t expect Lord Paxter to rid the Stepstones of piracy, only to serve as a threat to those unscrupulous fellows so they wouldn’t even think to target islands or coastal towns that were under her sovereignty, such as Tarth or Greenstone or Cape Wrath. Margaery noted that Father didn’t mention Wyl or Ghost Hill or Sunspear and wondered if it was because Daenerys didn’t consider Dorne to be under her sovereignty, or if it was because she wouldn’t mind the pirates attacking Dornish lands; if perhaps Daenerys hoped they would, and that the Dornish would come begging for the dragon queen’s aid.

And that was yet another point of irritation for Father. “She could threaten the pirates just fine with that black beast, but no! Why risk her precious pet when she can instead risk thousands of men and dozens of ships?!”

Margaery hardly thought any Redwyne ships or men would be in danger – half the Redwyne fleet was something like a hundred ships; could any pirate have more than a small fraction of that? – but was more surprised that her father was so flagrantly criticizing the queen’s decision when it was assumed that Varys’ spiders hid in the walls. Then again, his words were just that – criticisms – not treason. For Daenerys to punish Father would be to admit that her Master of Whispers was spying on her greatest ally. No doubt, all her other allies would then wonder what she’d be willing to do to them.

But as much as Margaery had spent part of her adolescence fantasizing about some roguishly handsome pirate sailing up the Mander and stealing her right out of her bed because he’d heard about her beauty and thought she’d be prettier than any jewel he’d ever stolen, she had little interest in them now.

No, Margaery found it much more interesting to ponder why, within days of Lady Catelyn arriving in the capital, the Kingslayer had seemingly disappeared. When his absence was first noticed and whispered about, Margaery had indulged in a selfish fantasy that Lady Catelyn had chopped him up into little bits. A waste of a fine-looking man it would be, if it weren’t that he was already wasted. Having three brothers of exceptional beauty and still finding the notion of bedding one of them to be enough to ruin her appetite, she could honestly say there was something very wrong with Jaime Lannister and his dead sister. And all she knew of Cersei Lannister said she was a bitter and cold woman, so what precisely had been so appealing to Ser Jaime? It was sickness; plain and simple. Vile sickness. And to think, the same Faith Margaery subscribed to would condemn Loras as an abomination for loving men more than women yet hadn’t demanded Daenerys hold Ser Jaime accountable. It was enough to boil Margaery’s blood even now in the depth of winter. It was enough that she felt no guilt for the gossip she spread, the rumors she started. She was as devout as any other when it came to worshipping the Seven Who Are One, but their mortal servants on the other hand… Well, she was half Hightower, after all, and Hightowers had always known how to use the Faith as the tool (and weapon) it was. So much so that if Catelyn Stark roamed the streets of King’s Landing, she might notice that some people looked at her with something like reverence in their cold-reddened eyes. Perhaps they’d recall their septon’s recent sermon about the eternal fires of the Seven Hells, and how when the people of the world weren’t devout enough, the fire might spill up into their mortal plane. Perhaps in the form of green flames, like the Mad King was famous for using against any who displeased him, and like Joffrey the Bastard used not so long ago to try to annihilate a rightful claimant’s fleet (the people hardly knew the specifics – that Cersei and Tyrion Lannister had allegedly concocted that plan – because peasants couldn’t fathom anything happening in the capital that wasn’t done at the king’s directive). Or perhaps the fire would come in the form of the orange and blue flames that spewed out through the maws of certain creatures.

But even a force so powerful as fire could be overcome, as everyone knew, by things like water… and snow…

And of course, everyone also knew that ice could not burn, not even with wildfire. It could melt, yes, but as it melted it quenched the fire that tried to destroy it, winning the battle even if it sacrificed some of its form in doing so.

And was there not a certain woman among them who had been born of water and wed to ice?

It was so easy it was laughable, and Margaery realized that even if she didn’t seek vengeance for her friend, she would do this just for the fun!

Though beyond that desire for vengeance, she wasn’t sure what her goal was. Well, she would of course be quite content with the queen throwing her hands up and leaving this continent on her dragon and being kind enough to return Sansa and the girls, too. But Margaery otherwise bore the woman no ill will. Perhaps because Daenerys was kind to Margaery, when the women supped together. Perhaps because she knew Daenerys wanted to do right by her kingdoms but just didn’t know what ‘right’ was, nor how to attain it. Perhaps because some part of Margaery wanted to see a Queen Regnant not just rule but rule well. Perhaps because it just wasn’t in Margaery to wish another dead or even harmed. She’d never liked bearing witness to pain. Not Willas’ rheumy knee, nor Mother’s aching head, nor a peasant’s empty belly…

Yet part of her wished it on Ser Jaime, and thus gladly allowed herself to imagine Lady Catelyn chopping off his sister-fucking cock and feeding him his bastard-making balls. Margaery would pray to the Mother for forgiveness, and pray to the Father to allow Ser Jaime to redeem himself, and to the Warrior to help the knight with said redemption, so she allowed herself those occasional morbid fantasies.

But alas, Ser Jaime’s unexpected absence was addressed by the queen during court one afternoon. He was away from the city on her orders, in service to the Crown and in support of the ongoing security of the realm. What a perfectly useless answer!

Come to think of it, perhaps Father had been most angered by Daenerys’ failure to offer the Small Council, even if not the entire court, a more comprehensive explanation. Father saw it as a sign that Daenerys mistrusted him. Margaery didn’t point out that Daenerys would be a fool to trust him, because Mace Tyrell was less self-aware than… well, than just about everyone. He knew his house’s reputation for erraticism yet didn’t agree that it was well-earned (and all during his lordship). He knew his house’s reputation for collective strength yet individual cowardice and considered it baseless, the lingering residue of slander committed by Stannis and Robert Baratheon during and after Robert’s Rebellion.

Regardless, Father was irritated by Daenerys’ lack of faith in his discretion and wisdom, and worried about the Redwyne fleet and men. Combined, it had the effect of sending the poor man to the privy three times in the hour or two spent dining with his children yestereve. (Yet he returned each time and dug back into his meal – Mother always said that he was a man who ate his fears and failures where other men drank them.)

Yet for all that Father wasn’t as dense as most assumed, he also wasn’t quick to look for conspiracies. Skepticism had skipped a generation in House Tyrell, or perhaps it tended to manifest in Tyrell ladies more than gents, because while Mace Tyrell stewed in all the insults he perceived, Margaery Tyrell focused on examining the paltry few facts she possessed and building out the story around it.

Catelyn Stark arrived in the capital.

Jaime Lannister left the capital.

The most plausible explanation was that Lady Catelyn was insulted by the Kingslayer’s mere presence, so the queen sent him away, temporarily, to appease her very important guest.

The less plausible but more significant explanation was that Lady Catelyn had made demands and the queen agreed to them and set Ser Jaime in charge of seeing them done.

And what would Lady Catelyn demand?

The return of her family, of course.

And if Sansa and the princesses were returned to the capital, it would change everything. Or, at least, it could change everything, so long as there were means to protect the rest of the dragon queen’s hostages. Margaery herself. Her brother, father, and cousins. Tommen, Shireen, Colton and Perceval and all the other sers; Dickon Tarly, Brynden Tully… All of them.

So, while Mace Tyrell ate and shat his worries away, Margaery Tyrell began to plan…

 

Tywin

“House Swyft, a principal house sworn to House Lannister of Casterly Rock,” Tywin grunted. His arms trembled behind him, but he forced them to push until they were mostly straight, supporting all his upper body weight while his feet, planted on the floor, supported the rest, “Current heir Joanna, daughter of Steffon – ruling lord and son of Harys, who was son of Harrold, second son and eventual heir of Humfrey…” he bent his arms, lowering his weight until his arse nearly hit the floor, then pushed up again, “first son of Jason, who was second son of Lanrik, who famously died of a burst heart while on the privy…” he lowered his weight again, his shoulders burning as they stretched too far, and he knew he was pushing himself too hard, but what did it matter? “Lanrik was first son of Harrold, only surviving son of Steffon, who was second son of… of…”

He let himself drop. Arse on the dirt floor, back to the foundation of the stone bench that was his bed, he rubbed a calloused palm over an overgrown mustache and beard. He didn’t understand why men’s beards never stopped growing but the hair on their heads did. He’d seen old men with long gray beards, ear- and eyebrow-hairs as long as Tywin’s thumb, and not a single strand poking out of their spotted domes.

He took in then let out a long breath, “Second son of Jocelyn… who was the only child of Allic, who was the only legitimate son of Humfrey. Humfrey’s bastard brother was Ser Addison Hill, chosen by Queen Visenya to be part of her brother’s Kingsguard, eventually rising to Lord Commander after the death of Ser Corlys Velaryon. Many in House Swyft know that Ser Addison was also Visenya’s lover. If only he’d sowed her field before the conqueror could, then we’d never have had Maegor the Cruel.”

“And if only Robert Baratheon had sowed your daughter’s field, we’d never have had Joffrey the Cruel.”

Tywin lifted his head so fast the bones in his neck crackled. For a fleeting moment the voice was Sansa’s, and in the next moment so was the silhouette, backlit by the flame of a torch which illuminated red hair but hid the visitor’s face.

When his heart could beat again Tywin pushed himself up, refusing to grimace or let his legs shake, though they certainly tried.

The time between the morning meal of bland frumenty and the midday meal of thin soup and bland bread he spent exercising his body and mind as best he could with the limited tools available to him and the ever-present temptation to lay down and let himself wither away. Surely the latter would mean death coming to him sooner, and that was no frightening prospect except for a tiny but persistent hope that he would be free of this cage someday, and Sansa and their daughters would be free of theirs.

“Come to slap me again?” Tywin asked rather than responding to Catelyn Stark’s comment about Cersei’s adultery.

She turned her head halfway, and after a few moments of defiant hesitation, the eunuch guard unlocked the cell’s gate and held it open while Lady Catelyn stepped through, then closed and locked it behind her.

Tywin snorted, “Fools. I could grab you and threaten to snap your neck if the queen didn’t give into my demands.”

“Do you think she’d care?”

“She wants you for an ally; and – more importantly – she doesn’t want your daughter and brother as enemies.”

Catelyn gave a dismissive nod, “She knows I’m here. I obtained her permission.”

It hardly addressed his point, though perhaps because she knew he’d not be using her to secure his escape or any other boon. He was not so naive as to think the first would work, or that the second would not be later punished, and figured Catelyn Stark must know this about him.

Tywin shrugged, “I know you’re not so fond of my company as to risk a treason charge.”

It was dim in the cell, since the guard hadn’t deigned to bring in the torch. The guard whose shift started sometime after the midday meal was more inclined to such acts of kindness, or pity. The morning guard was a particularly thorny fellow, and as humorless as Tywin would be if someone had lobbed off his cock and bollocks before he’d gotten a chance to enjoy them – or any time since, for that matter.

Still, even with Catelyn Stark’s face more shadow than detail, he could see her shaking her head and maybe rolling her eyes, “How a man in a dungeon cell can be impertinent is a mystery to me, but whatever the cause, it runs in the family.”

Tywin at first assumed she was speaking about Jaime’s time as a prisoner of war then realized this woman also had Tyrion in her custody, for a time.

“If you’re referring to one of my sons, you’ll need to be more specific, since you have a habit of capturing them.”

He watched closely and realized an almost-smile was curving her lips, “Indeed. I was thinking of the elder, but just as Ser Jaime was not humbled by being chained to a post in the muddy ground of a war camp, Lord Tyrion was not humbled by spending an evening in a sky cell at the Eyrie. Rather, I think they both returned to you brassier than ever.”

Tywin snorted faintly, “I daresay your younger daughter was not humbled by her stay in a muddy prison, either.”

“And what of my elder?” Catelyn’s eyes snapped up to his with such intensity that Tywin flinched. Was it anger that made her eyes burn, or sorrow?

He answered slowly, “I think she was humbled long before then. Or perhaps was born that way.”

Catelyn shook her head faintly, “I think she was. Born that way, I mean. She could be catty, and took certain things far too seriously – probably in an attempt to emulate me – but she had no malice in her heart. And for as much as everyone cooed over her beauty, she left Winterfell desperate for validation.”

Tywin hummed, “A dangerous preoccupation for a young lady.”

“Leaving at all was dangerous. I should never have let my daughters go south. Everything would be different now.”

Tywin was surprised by her candor, her admittance of culpability, but her sentiment was too familiar for comfort. If he hadn’t been so obsessed with Sansa… If he hadn’t provoked Robb Stark so personally… If he had just returned to war and forgotten about his bedwarmer… Would Sansa be safe at Winterfell now? Would the girls? Bastards they’d be, but perhaps after all that everyone in the North lost, bastardy would hardly be a concern. And Tywin wouldn’t even know of their existence, so he would not miss them, nor mourn their absence from his life and the end of all the possibilities he saw for them. To be as intrinsically clever as their mother but educated in politics and rulership by their father…

But it was not to be, no matter how persistent that speck of hope. Was it isolation or old age that made it hard to care about seeing his children become great and powerful; he only wanted to see them.

“Or perhaps nothing would be different,” he said belatedly, “or perhaps it would be worse. Sansa and Arya might have been at Winterfell when Greyjoy sacked it, when the Boltons held it. They might’ve been killed, or worse.”

Or Greyjoy would’ve married Sansa to secure his claim on Winterfell. Then he’d have made sure Bran and Rickon were dead instead of faking their deaths. No matter how kindly he treated her, would she ever welcome the touch of the man who killed her little brothers? Would her home ever feel like anything but a prison, her marriage anything but a lifetime sentence?

As his mood darkened, Catelyn’s did quite the opposite. Another reluctant smile formed on her lips, or perhaps it was a trick of the shadows, “Somehow I think if Sansa and Arya were there, Theon would not have been successful.”

“You are thinking of them as they are now, not as they would have been in such a scenario.”

Catelyn took a deep breath, “Indeed. It seems the precursor to wisdom is never anything but suffering and betrayal. Would the world not be a better place if at least some of us were born with it?”

“I’m assuming that’s a rhetorical question?”

She shrugged, then he watched her have a realization. “Oh,” she reached under her cloak, into a small purse that seemed to be attached to her belt. “Here,” she extended her hand which was clasped around something fabric-wrapped. It took only a moment for his nose to recognize the scent of raisins, and another moment after that for his stomach to grumble rather loudly.

Lady Catelyn was good enough to ignore the sound, “It’s just a heel of raisin bread. I did not know how well they are feed—”

“Why?” he asked suspiciously.

He did not need to elaborate his question, and Catelyn Stark did not bother playing ignorant.

The hand that held the bread lowered to hang at her side, “You are an uncommonly calloused man, Lord Lannister. Whether you revel in others’ suffering or just have no qualms with causing it, I cannot say, but to the victims it hardly matters. But whatever else you are, you are the father of my grandchildren. Whatever else you’ve done, you… you protected my daughters. It’s easy enough to deduce why you protected Sansa,” she spoke those words sharply, “but Arya… It gained you nothing to protect her, and yet you did. No matter that she wouldn’t have needed protection from those fiends in the first place if not for you setting them loose, giving them power…” she paused there to compose herself with a deep breath, “No matter. You protected her when it gained you nothing.”

Tywin swallowed, “She was… not the worst company. An entertaining little chit.”

Catelyn snorted softly at that.

“Though,” he continued, “I believe we’ve since deduced that it was your dear friend, Petyr Baelish, who was to blame for me setting those fiends loose.”

She shook her head, “Petyr… Lord Baelish… He only laid the traps; we’re the ones who sprung them. In my case because I was eager for answers and because I mistrusted everyone named Lannister. In your case, because you’re prone to… extreme reactions to offenses. I might have questioned many aspects of Petyr’s tale, namely the likelihood that a rare and expensive and easily identifiable weapon would be given to a catspaw. You might have questioned whether a noblewoman with no history of hysteria would have arrested your son without cause. You might have sent a letter to every house in the North and Trident, threatening retribution against any who were complicit in the harming of your son.”

Tywin lowered himself to sit on the bench, pushing the two thin blankets he was afforded to the corner as if he was a boy and his mother was going to punish him if his room was untidy. And Jeyne Marbrand certainly would do something like that. It didn’t matter how many servants were employed at Casterly Rock; Tywin was expected to show respect for his home and his belongings, which meant treating both with care.

“I don’t make threats,” he responded, “Not with words, anyway. Sending men to the Riverlands was the threat: return my son in one piece, or else.”

Catelyn let out another long sigh, “I am not here to rehash old fights, even if they’re not so old.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I thought you should know that the queen has agreed to satisfy a certain demand of mine: she will deliver to me a letter, written in Sansa’s hand, attesting to her treatment. And the girls’, of course.”

Tywin almost snorted. No wonder Daenerys had agreed to give him the same gift: she anticipated Catelyn Stark demanding it. Unlike Tywin’s, Catelyn’s trust and approval Daenerys needed to earn.

“Good,” he said, because he didn’t want to speak more on the matter. Didn’t want to talk about or even wonder about how his wife and daughters fared. He didn’t want to entertain the fear that he’d made the wrong choice by giving in to the dragon queen’s demands – not just for himself but also for his family. The part of his family that mattered the most.

He didn’t care if it made him a horrible person, that he would trade Tommen and Tyrion and Jaime – definitely Jaime – to know that Jeyne or Jocelyn or ideally both were safe at Casterly Rock, being raised as ladies rather than prisoners.

Nor did he care if it made him a horrible person, that he hated the idea of his daughters forgetting him more than he hated the idea of never seeing them again.

And his wife? The things he would do or give to be reunited with her, even if they had to live like paupers in some ramshackle cottage, frightened even his hardened heart.

What are you doing to me?

He was a man whose priorities had always been clear. Family mattered in the aggregate – no single lion could be more important than all the others. Reputation and legacy mattered even more than family. If the Lannister name made men and women, common and noble alike, tremble in fear, then House Lannister would never fall victim to scheming mistresses, to duplicitous vassals, to neighboring rivals, to servants paid off by said rivals to act as spies or saboteurs. And no matter what honorable people like Ned Stark and Catelyn Tully thought about that, his methods were far from unprecedented. Had the Targaryens conquered Westeros and established their ruling seat by asking nicely? No – fire and blood were delivered to any who did not immediately fall to their knees before Aegon why-fuck-one-sister-when-I-can-fuck-two Targaryen. And the Targaryens kept their throne through fear since then. Only by the time the dragons died off, there were none alive north of Dorne who remembered that they hadn’t always owed fealty to some faraway king they’d never lay eyes on. They only remembered the vows of fealty they or their fathers had made, and most weren’t willing to break those vows even when said king proved to be mad, cruel, or simply inept. The brave few willing to go against the house of the dragon were always outnumbered, until finally Aerys proved to be as bad as Maegor the Cruel, forgetting that he didn’t have any winged beasts to shield him from the justice that was his due.

Tywin supposed if he was Daenerys Targaryen’s councilor, he’d tell her to find the happy medium. She couldn’t be her father, but nor could she be Jahaerys the First – and not just because she didn’t have that man’s innate intelligence and wisdom and knack for forging rather than forcing allegiance. Her best bet at unifying the realm would be to emulate the founder of her house: offer mercy and prosperity to those who kneeled, fire and death to those who didn’t.

But he wasn’t her councilor and didn’t particularly care to help her have a long and successful reign. She was the reason he’d been separated from his wife and daughter, why his wife and daughter had been separated from everyone they considered family or friend or even trusted-bloody-servant. And she was the reason Tywin was down here in a dark, dank prison. No doubt she’d have wet her smallclothes watching him being drawn and quartered, but someone in her inner circle told her that physical torture of a criminal who’d confessed his crimes was considered beyond barbaric. So she was left with only one option to torment her nemesis: to put him in a cage and throw away the proverbial key.

“I just hope it won’t take months for this letter to arrive,” Catelyn’s voice tore him from his musings, and he considered that a mercy, “Seven know the winter has slowed everything to a snail’s pace. You wouldn’t believe how long it takes to transport a crate of onions to Cerwyn.”

Tywin refused to react visibly, though he wondered if his visitor could hear his heart thudding…

She’d already told him – on her first and only prior visit – that she had received his message, the one he whispered to Tyrion to relay to Stannis Baratheon. He had assumed that meant Stannis sent a raven or messenger to Winterfell, and Tywin made a mental note that he owed the man quite a debt. But Catelyn’s mention of onions… it could not be coincidence. She was telling him she had met with Stannis, most likely on her voyage to the capital, and enlisted his onion smuggler to… to what? To find Sansa and the girls? But Tywin’s message, the hint that Sansa had been taken to Braavos, was nothing more than a lead. She could have sailed between the Titan’s legs only to move inland to Norvos, or south to Pentos or Myr, or taken another ship to Lorath.

Then again, a smuggler as good as Ser Davos Seaworth would’ve made lots of connections while conducting his illicit trade. Would he have the means of tracking down Sansa and the girls?

But then what? Had Stannis or Catelyn sent Davos with men capable of extracting Sansa and the girls from their captivity?

What was born as excitement grew into dread. So many variables, so many opportunities for error. Errors that might lead to retribution against House Stark, House Lannister, or House Baratheon. Or all three.

Tywin knew he couldn’t sit in silence. If the guard had half a brain, he’d wonder why Tywin had gone mute after hearing about a cart of onions. So he spoke, “I hadn’t been looking forward to ruling during winter, for that very reason: too much of the populace never saw a winter. All the knowledge their parents and grandparents possessed about coping with the elements has been lost.”

“Like warming bricks in the hearth and laying them under the bedsheets?”

Tywin forced a sound that could almost be described as a chuckle, “Like using sand and gravel on outside stairways.”

“Like how to make snowshoes.”

Tywin nodded, “Indeed. And a thousand other things.”

“They don’t forget in the North. That much about them is true.”

Tywin snorted, “Because in the North it snows even in the bloody summer.”

“That isn’t snow.”

“Spoken like a truth Northerner.”

“I never felt like one,” she shrugged dismissively, “but I suppose I’ve been for some time now. Not in all ways, but enough, I like to think.”

Tywin nodded, “Any other news to relay? News that you won’t lose your head for relaying, of course.”

“Hardly anything of note. Except…” she trailed off.

“Except?” he prompted casually.

“Your son – Ser Jaime – hasn’t been seen in a sennight. The queen has only stated that he is seeing to official business of the Crown.”

Tywin hummed, once again refusing to reveal any of his thoughts or emotions, but he understood now what Catelyn Stark had orchestrated: in short, that Jaime would unknowingly lead Ser Davos straight to Sansa.

Could it be that in a matter of weeks, or perhaps only days, Sansa, Jeyne, and Jocelyn would be recovered by men loyal to Stannis or Catelyn or Tywin? Could it be that the greatest leverage the dragon queen possessed could be stolen from her?

But just as minutes before, a dark cloud drifted in front of his sunny thoughts…

Jaime was loyal to Daenerys…

Jaime was the best swordsman in the realm…

Tywin needed more information but knew he could not risk the mission to satisfy his curiosities and allay his fears. He had to hope Catelyn or Stannis or Davos or someone was smart enough to know what a threat Jaime was, not to mention Jorah Mormont, and prepare accordingly.

Then again, they wouldn’t need to make their move while Jaime was there. If his role was merely to travel to the hiding place and retrieve a letter, then surely Davos and his companions would wait until Jaime was on his way back to King’s Landing before striking. They could hire sellswords if Jorah’s guard outnumbered theirs. They could sneak in by night and catch the guards unawares, kill some of them in their sleep and secure Sansa and the girls so they couldn’t be used as living shields.

For months he had worn helplessness like a shirt of nettles, but this was the worst it had been since his earliest days in the dungeon. He should be the one planning and executing this mission, because only he would refuse to fail. Sansa and the girls were nothing to Ser Davos. They were nothing to Stannis Baratheon, to whom Davos owed his loyalty. Would Davos or any of his men die for Sansa? Tywin highly doubted it.

He knew he’d look like a madman and would probably end up being slapped again by his goodmother, who hit much harder than his wife, but he had to know. He could not live with the fear that by trying to save Sansa from exile they were instead dooming her to death. What the darkness had not yet accomplished, the fear would.

He rose quickly and pulled Catelyn Stark into an embrace, taking a moment to pity the woman for having to smell him.

“Who?” he whispered in her right ear while holding her tight against them. The embrace might be more suspicious than that one word would be, but he could play the part of the broken man, desperate for any human contact, if Daenerys heard of this and sent someone to question him.

The woman reacted just as she should, and eventually he let her succeed in shoving him off. She made a rather haughty show of smoothing her hair and taking a step back, as if to put herself closer to the bars and the guard on the other side and further from the dangerous (and smelly) lion.

“Do not mistake pity for fondness, Lord Lannister,” she spoke venomously, “No matter that honor demands me respect the father of my grandchildren, we both know that those babes came about due to nothing but your lust,” she spat the word like an accusation, “for my innocent little girl. Now, here,” she chucked the raisin bread he’d forgotten about entirely, and he managed to catch it only because it hit him square in the chest, “I owe you nothing more, but out of respect for him, not you, I will tell you that your brother sends his regards.” She turned around and slapped her hand against the bars and within a heartbeat the eunuch was there unlocking the gate while shooting a glare at Tywin, as if the fucker had any concept of what it meant to defend a lady’s honor.

At least he didn’t come in and take the bread away. Then again, the Unsullied were not cruel, Tywin had found. Remorseless, unfeeling, but not cruel. It was rather admirable, in fact. They served their masters, carrying out orders to the letter and not a step short nor beyond. And they were not moved by others’ suffering but nor did they seem to savor it. Any other gaoler would be a different story. It was widely known that at least half of them were deviants who delighted in adding to the suffering of their prisoners. A beating. A bucket of cold water dumped on the prisoner’s head. “Accidentally” spilling their soup (or, quite blatantly, spitting in it). Perhaps even a thorough buggering without so much as saliva to ease the process. That would’ve been Tywin’s fate if any but the Unsullied were charged with standing outside his cell. Of course, there was also a chance it would be the opposite: a man compassionate enough to be moved by Tywin’s pleas, or opportunistic enough to be enticed by his gold. The Unsullied we neither, and thus it was smart to have them guarding Tywin day and night. They’d not be swayed to his side, nor would they abuse Daenerys Targaryen’s very valuable hostage, which was what Tywin was.

Though that, in and of itself, had been a misstep on her part, because all lords of Westeros respected (or pretended to) the rules of war, of law and punishment, and she had broken them. An enemy could be killed on the battlefield or at the executioner’s block or just about anywhere, but once he surrendered, he was not to be harmed beyond a bit of roughing up. Wed his daughter or foster his son to keep him in line going forward, but treat that daughter or son well, even knowing you may someday need to kill her or him.

But lifetime imprisonment of a man who had surrendered, who had abdicated, was unheard of. The Targaryen bitch might call it a fitting and just punishment for a man like Tywin Lannister, who deserved worse than a swift death, but anyone with half a brain would know that it was vengeance, pure and simple. Beyond that, the girl probably thought she was clever, having Tywin as collateral against his people’s good behavior. Or had it been Varys to counsel her thusly? Must’ve been, because even Mace Tyrell wouldn’t stoop so low when his house’s honor was already a threadbare blanket. Unless he isn’t so loyal to her… Unless he is doing what he can to keep me alive because he expects to move against Daenerys at some point. Would that be because he expects to need me as an ally when that day comes, or a hostage to use against the Western houses when he puts his fat arse on the throne, or his son’s crippled arse, or his other son’s used arse?

Regardless, Tywin knew his being imprisoned instead of executed meant someone wanted him alive. The simplest explanation was that Daenerys had a cruel side, just like her father had even in his youth, nascent at first but gradually growing until it was the only side he had.

The other explanation was that Daenerys thought she could keep the West in line indefinitely with him as her prisoner. She must be smart enough to know that Jaime couldn’t be her hostage against the West, not when he was her ally, friend, lover – whatever the fuck he was to her. Nor could Tyrion, because Jaime had probably insisted he meet no harm. And Tommen… he was certainly a Lannister, and seemed to be living as a ward of House Targaryen, but it was now known that he was the get of the Kingslayer, the sisterfucker, the turncloak. Few in the West would give a fig whether Tommen lived or died – certainly they’d consider him more expendable than Tywin or Kevan or Tyrion – all of whom knew warring or ruling or both.

And Sansa, Jeyne, and Jocelyn? They were out of reach, so far as anyone knew. A lost cause. A futile mission. And they were women. Tywin didn’t doubt any of the lords sworn to him, any of the guards who’d served him, would sacrifice all three of them to free Tywin, if only they didn’t know he would have their heads for it.

Thus, short of getting her hands on Kevan, Tywin was the best leverage she could hope to have. Only, she didn’t seem to realize he was a double-edged sword, and he was happy to let her dig her own grave by showing all of Westeros that she was not one of them. Like most Targaryens before her, she had no desire to join the nobility of Westeros, to be the greatest of the great houses. No, she wanted to sit unreachably far above them all, perched safely on the back of her flying lizard, changing the rules they’d all have to live by with no consideration for whether those rules had been there for a reason. She fancied herself the good queen Alysanne, taking land from two Northern houses and gifting it to the Night’s Watch, not realizing that they’d never have the resources to maximize its potential nor protect it from bandits and Wildlings. The then-lord Stark had openly disagreed with Alysanne’s plan, but eventually yielded, as most men did when their opponent had a dragon camped just outside their walls. If Alysanne truly wanted to help the Watch, she’d not have gifted them a stolen parcel of land but would have helped broker an agreement that each Northern house would give an annual donation of grain or wool or livestock or men to the Watch. A nominal expense proportionate to the House’s annual income, payable in perpetuity, would have helped the Watch without insulting any of its lords.

But he’d spent enough time thinking about the dragon queen, fantasizing about how she’d be her own undoing. He had something much grander to think about now, as he sat on the bench and ate the raisin bread with gusto.

Kevan.

Kevan has never failed me, and he won’t start now.

For the first time in months, Tywin smiled.

 

The Iron King

Two dickless guards to kill and they were in – it was too easy to meet his definition for fun.

Then again, he knew this wasn’t a place anyone would think needed to be heavily guarded. Its sole resident was its own guard – a fierce one at that. Anyone stupid enough to try to enter its lair with intent to harm deserved their fate. No, the pair of eunuchs stood sentry not to keep out enemies but to keep out curious children the soft-hearted queen would mourn if they burned. It was said it was such a child that caused her to lock up her other beasts. What a disappointment that had been to learn, after thinking a woman had finally been born into the world that would share his aspirations and his values.

Alas, he ought to have known he’d never meet his match; he was a singular creature, and the cost of his greatness was… Well, loneliness, he supposed, though that implied he wanted for company, which he didn’t. He had all the company he needed, and he didn’t particularly enjoy other people to begin with. Kings needed no friends, only subjects and servants.

He glanced to his right as they walked. His companion, the last of his warlocks, trembled from head to toe. For all the darkness in this one’s soul, he’d had a soft spot for his comrades and didn’t like seeing the things Euron did to make them talk. No more than he liked hearing what they revealed of their guild’s magics, specifically the method for carrying out this very important ritual. He knew the first version they told him was horseshit just as their allegiance to him was. But it made no matter. He let them believe they had him in their claws until he had no more need for their guidance, except for this. And oh, were they eager to join him on this voyage. If anyone in this realm hated the dragon queen, it was them. She’d hurt their pride, not dying as she was supposed to and destroying their palace in the process of surviving. Oh, and having a cunt while doing it. Old farts like them had no use for women, except for the souls they fed on. Apparently, a woman’s soul was just as good as a man’s; go figure.

Euron could feel they were getting close. Magic called to magic, it was known.

“Please…” the warlock whimpered, though didn’t stop walking. 

Euron remained wary that the cretin could have some power left, could have been faking at frailty while watching Euron carve off chunks of his friends, saving his strength for one last offensive. He doubted it, but he would not rule it out.

“How many souls have you and yours trapped over the millennia, hm?” Euron asked, “You’ve lived as long as a god, and dare to complain about having to serve instead of benefit, for a change?”

“You know nothing about our—”

Euron backhanded the warlock. Only a light smack, really. The women he knew would’ve taken it in stride, but this hump of putrid flesh had the nerve to fall to his hands and knees.

“Get up,” Euron stated flatly.

“I won’t,” the warlock shook his bald head, “You cannot make me. No more than you can make me blow into the horn. Hours of your worst torture are better than years trapped in that beast, a slave to your command.”

Euron frowned and angled himself to face the warlock fully, though the man remained on his knees, “I suppose not. Though we could certainly find out,” he drew his dagger, “I’ll start peeling you like an orange, and we’ll see what happens first: you agree to do my bidding, to end your pain, or…” Euron shrugged, “Or you die, I suppose, and I find someone else to serve. Let someone else experience the glory of being the most powerful being in the world.”

“Powerful, yet without free will to use such power as I would choose.”

“And how would you use such power, hm?” Euron smirked.

The warlock sneered up at him where he had shifted to half sit, half lay on his right side, “To restore the House of the Undying. And to avenge all my brethren that she murdered.”

Euron nodded, “Then how about instead of peeling you like you’re a rotten, shriveled up orange, I present you an offer: do this without protest, and after I conquer the lands of the west, we will return to the lands of the east to see your wish fulfilled. Tens of thousands of slaves will labor on the building, then give their souls to the Undying.”

The feeble old main narrowed his eyes, but Euron knew intrigue when he saw it.

“And the heart that beats for all the Undying?” the warlock asked cautiously.

Euron shrugged, “Does it matter what kind of heart it is – a dark one or a pure one?”

The man shook his head, “So long as it beats strong.”

“Then I imagine we’ll have no shortage of options, though I for one am a lover of poetry, and what could be more poetic than using the dragon queen’s heart?”

The warlock’s blue mouth twitched, “Do you promise to see it done, Euron Greyjoy?”

“After I have conquered the kingdoms of the West. After I have brought the entire continent to its knees,” he extended his right hand.

The warlock eyed the limb contemplatively, then pushed himself up to standing. He shook Euron’s hand.

“To a fruitful partnership,” Euron grinned.

“To justice,” the warlock added.

“To our justice. Let’s not wish for anyone else to get theirs, or we’ll be fucked, hm?”

The warlock nodded, and without another word led the way to the massive cave within the massive building where slept the third member of their partnership. They walked quietly now that the warlock was on Euron’s side. So quietly that the beast didn’t open its eyes until it smelled Euron’s blood. By the time it realized its home had been intruded upon, Euron’s red hand was already wrapped around the horn’s neck, the warlock’s blue lips pressed to its bronze mouthpiece.

It was the most beautiful sound that Euron had ever heard, though the dragon strongly disagreed. One long note, deeper than the sound a horn this size should make. And when it was over, the warlock dropped to the ground, nothing but bones under skin that looked like the leather at the elbow joint of a well-worn jerkin, under a robe that was suddenly far too big for the frame it shrouded.

Euron’s arm was still held out to the right, the horn safe in his bloody grip.

And the dragon was alert, but not agitated. Euron approached it and rested his left hand on the snout. He didn’t need to ask for some signal to know the ritual had worked – dragons were not known for being so accepting of strangers.

“We are going to do wonderful things together, my friend. The world will never be the same.”

Notes:

The lineages of House Swyft that Tywin is reciting to keep his brain sharp is mostly made up by me. ASOIAF (and AWOIAF) provide few lineages that go back more than a couple generations, or that don't have gaps. So I basically created this one. Well, Addison Hill was Lord Commander of the KG during Aegon I's reign, but I made up the part about him being Visenya's lover. I just like putting those little tidbits in that would be known within a family but not documented in its history.

The other pieces of history he ponders are accurate, even if delivered via his biased perspective. One could argue that Alysanne had a good idea by giving more land to the Watch, but it certainly didn't prove to be helpful in the long run, beyond whatever meagre taxes the Watch collects from Queenscrown. Tywin has hindsight and a non-Targaryen POV while obviously Alysanne had neither. This fic has from the beginning been about (beyond Tywin/Sansa relationship) the biases of all the characters and the hypocrisy that each of them forgives themselves of things they'd never forgive in another, and the beliefs they cling to because they suit their sense of self. Tywin claims to be all about the good of the family, not the good of the individual son or daughter, but do any of us think he wouldn't trade all his nephews, nieces, sister, and maybe even brother to protect JAIME?

Catelyn believes she lives by Family, Duty, Honor, but is she honoring her husband by treating his son like dirt? Is she doing her duty as Ned's wife, Jon's stepmother? Is there not something very calloused about a woman who would feel no shred of remorse as her children's beloved brother, her husband's beloved son, rode off to the Night's Watch at age FOURTEEN because he didn't feel welcome around her? One could argue that for all Catelyn accuses Tywin of being calloused, Joy Hill had more love and acceptance from her family than Jon had from his, thanks in large part to the tone set by the patriarch and matriarch, respectively. Then we have Daenerys who claims to want peace for the downtrodden but will willingly go to war to claim the throne, knowing that in all wars it is the commoners who suffer most and worst (well, I toned that aspect of her down in my story, but still) and that must know her barren state means there will be yet another war when she dies, no matter who she names as her heir. We have Sansa loving a man who by all rights she should despise, and while that happens all the time in societies that use marriages to cement peace accords, it doesn't make it void of my point. But I digress...

Now we're in the final phase of the fic - a bunch of people who don't know who is enemy and who is friend, some of whom want power, some of whom want safety, some who want peace, some who want bloodshed. Some want power and peace, or safety and peace, or power and bloodshed... How will those conflicting desires play out? Which enemies will become friends, which friends will become enemies? Who will live and who will die? Who will win the game of thrones, and will it really be 'winning' since the throne is such a spiteful little bitch? Will Mace Tyrell get over his case of nervous diarrhea? Will Tywin develop super human mind control powers and become a super sexy Professor X type minus the moral compass? Will Catelyn take a day trip to Dragonstone, all while cursing herself for already being addicted to that big Baratheon d***? Will Jaime and Sansa and Red have a threesome in Braavos? <-- sorry, sometimes my dirty mind hijacks my fingers and makes them type stuff like that.

Oh, and Euron arrived, finding it quite thoughtful that Daenerys brought her dragon(s) all the way from Meereen to save him/Victarion a trip. [Off screen, Victarion arrives in Meereen a couple weeks too late, puts hands on hips and sighs, "Welp, might as well do some raiding because I did NOT come all this way for nothing". Of course, he might get more than he bargained for (stole)]

Chapter 56: What have I done?

Summary:

This feels like a too-short chapter, by this fic's standards, but it's actually 7K words.

As the plot becomes more complex, I find it easier to write one POV per chapter, though I may end up combining some if the two POVs are not super long or super intricate.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Catelyn

What she told Tywin Lannister had been no lie: she was a true Northerner now. In fact, it might just be that she’d always been one but didn’t know it until, at nearly forty years of age, she finally stepped foot in the capital. It became clear that Riverrun, her childhood home (and the people in it), had more in common with Winterfell than with King’s Landing

Fresh regret washed over her as she realized how ill-prepared her husband and daughters had been for this place, and how little she herself appreciated the difference between North and South.

When she attended court, because there was little else for her to do, she saw powdered and rouged faces, supposedly there to represent Westeros’ noble class, and she knew all of them that were kissing Daenerys’ arse had months ago done the same to Tywin Lannister, and months before that to Joffrey Baratheon (Waters), and months before that to Robert Baratheon. Hells, some were old enough to have done it to the Mad King and even the Mad King’s father and grandfather. Aegon the Fifth ruled into 259 AC, and many of the courtiers were easily in their sixth decade, some in their seventh.

Catelyn counted in her head – seven monarchs in less than five decades. The throne was a rather fickle chair, but the lords and ladies of court were quite the opposite. She doubted any of them cared who sat in the thing, except to the extent that it affected their house’s wealth and status.

And she had sent her naïve, sheltered daughters here along with the husband who should not have been so trusting of others, considering all he’d experienced in his youth.

Had it been her fault that Ned trusted Petyr? Had he heard Petyr’s name enough times when Catelyn recounted her youth that he felt a certain familiar comfort toward the man?

All she knew for certain was that her house would be in a better place today if she hadn’t begged Brandon Stark to show Petyr mercy. That single act showed Petyr that compassion was a woman’s weakness, just as honor was a Stark’s.

Other than observing the dragon queen’s court sessions, Catelyn spent most of her time in her allotted room in the Maidenvault, though made a point to visit Uncle Brynden every other day as the queen had permitted. She knew the Blackfish was restless and angry and frustrated, but at his age he knew better than to exhaust himself fighting the inevitable. When she visited him, it was to share her lunch and talk about better days. She’d leave the dungeon tower and say a few prayers in the castle’s sept before returning to her bedchamber.

Beyond those few places within the Red Keep, Catelyn saw very little of the city. After slipping out to do some shopping in the markets (in reality, to speak to the lad hand-chosen by Ser Davos to act as their intermediary), she had little desire to leave the walls of the castle, and not just because the populace at large was succumbing in droves to winterborn illnesses that she knew from girlhood were often catching, but because she didn’t know what to make of how that populace had treated her during her brief outing: with reverence.

While having her covert meeting with the messenger, she’d kept her hair covered by the hood of her plain cloak. While browsing through the merchant stalls and shops, she’d kept the hood down and the cloak right side out so the Stark sigil would be visible. It was strategy to allow herself to be seen shopping for supplies she’d need during her stay, but she hardly expected all the looks she’d garnered. So much so that she’d passed quizzical glances to her guards, Brant, Arren, and Armand, who could only offer shrugged lips and shoulders in return. They were summer children, the lot of them; only Brant old enough to remember vividly the winter that ended along with the reign of the dragon. Twins Arren and Armand were contemporaries of Robb, having been toddlers when the snows melted for good after the initial false thaw. To them, winter was but a hazy knowledge that in their earliest years of life they couldn’t go outdoors without being bundled up by their mother. Still, young as the three were, Dacey Mormont vouched for their loyalty to Robb, going so far as to say they’d been chums with their young king. Sandor Clegane vouched for their skills, claiming each of them could take on two southern knights with ease, “assuming those southern cunts are still as useless as when I lived in the capital”, to which Arya had adopted a confused expression and asked, “aren’t you one of those southern cunts?”

There was not enough lye soap in the world to cleanse her younger daughter’s mouth. Not after her time on the road to and from King’s Landing, her time in Harrenhal, her time spent with Brynden and Edmure, and now her time with Clegane and Dacey. Catelyn couldn’t believe that, among the lot of them, Gendry was the least inclined to curse. Well, he was the most likely to stop himself at the last moment, having grown up to be mindful of how he spoke to and around his betters.

If he and Ser Kevan succeeded in bringing home Catelyn’s daughter and granddaughters, she would tell Gendry that he need never mind his tongue around her – or anyone – again.

She tried not to think about the odds that they would fail. Ser Kevan’s loyalty and intelligence, Ser Davos’ sneakiness and cunning, Gendry’s bravery and strength… and of course the coin that would, as Catelyn understood, buy them an audience with some guild of highly trained assassins… she tried to be optimistic about their chances, and yet she couldn’t escape the niggling feeling that House Stark’s suffering was far from over. Was it because she was, once again, separated from her children? Last time she’d had only Robb but was able to take comfort in believing her two youngest were safe at Winterfell. Now she had none of them, only her belief that Rickon and Arya were safe at Winterfell, and the hope that Sansa and Bran yet lived. It was a hollow pain that never left her belly, except for those minutes during which the fear and exhilaration of seeing two dragons fighting a mere stone’s throw from where she stood had evicted all other emotions from her body.

(If she was being honest, she’d admit that the exhilaration remained in her blood for the rest of that night, as she and Lord Stannis took turns riding the other.)

Thanks to that constant sense of dread, she’d lost half a stone in weight since learning of her daughter’s banishment. She felt as if the gods themselves were toying with her family, and that they weren’t satisfied with taking Ned and Robb. She’d offer herself up in a heartbeat if she knew it would finally sate them, but she didn’t know that it would and thus she had to stay alive to protect her children as long as she possibly could.

As if that wasn’t already an uphill battle, she now felt honor-bound to protect his child, too. Damn her soft heart, but she hadn’t been able to help herself the day after… it happened. While Gendry spent time with his half-brother, Edric, and Kevan spent time with Ser Davos, plotting and planning, Catelyn and Stannis had the most awkward conversation in the history of conversations. She’d call it patronizing, the way he hardly met her eyes, the way he spoke as if they were strangers, calling her Lady Stark even though technically that title belonged to Sansa or even Arya before her. But she remembered the way she’d once thought Ned to be aloof, compassionless, and emotionally detached. Later she’d know to call it extreme shyness and a fear of being found lacking. Catelyn wondered, if she had met Stannis when he was eighteen, as she had Ned, would she more readily see that he was insecure, not condescending? Then she remembered that at eighteen, he was slowly starving to death, watching his little brother do the same.

She understood the rules of war, and that sieges were perfectly fair and often less bloody than sacks. But for the first time in her life, and she couldn’t exactly say why, she considered Mace Tyrell a crueler man than Tywin Lannister, even if she knew it was more likely cowardice that made the then-young flower lord camp outside Storm’s End instead of marching to the lands of the Trident.

It wasn’t her sudden pity for Stannis Baratheon though, that had the promise leave her lips.

“I will do all that I can to see that your daughter is well, and that she remains that way, even if…”

She hadn’t quite known what the ‘if’ was meant to encapsulate...

If all-out revolt broke out in and around the Red Keep, and men in Targaryen black or Tyrell green or Lannister crimson looked to satiate their bloodthirst on young women?

If Daenerys Targaryen proved to be as batty as her father and started burning her hostages like the Mad King had burned poor Lord Rickard despite the man’s political value?

If some winter ailment gripped the girl’s lungs or heart?

Catelyn didn’t know. She only knew that she had to be subtle in approaching Shireen Baratheon. She could not let Queen Daenerys believe that there was more between Catelyn and Stannis than a traveling lady seeking refuge from a storm and a dutiful lord granting it. So she had not yet sought out Shireen, though she knew from Lady Margaery, who had been there to greet Catelyn, that Shireen as well as other child hostages of the dragon queen were safe and well cared for.

But it was time to begin getting to know the girl. Casually, at first, but Cat’s hope was that over the weeks or months she remained in the capital, she would be able to gain Shireen’s complete trust. If, someday, she had to get the girl to come with her and her guards, in a last-ditch escape attempt, perhaps, it would be easier if Shireen complied.

Ultimately, though, all her careful consideration of what to say to Shireen when they crossed paths was unnecessary. When Catelyn, after initially keeping to her own room or Ser Brynden’s cell, finally ventured to the Maidenvault’s communal dining hall to break her fast one cold morning, she found that not only did Shireen think highly of her, the girl fairly worshipped her.

Catelyn practically felt like Old Nan, sitting at a table with youngsters all around, clamoring for stories. Aside from the fact that they were older than Nan’s typical audience, the key difference was they weren’t interested in tales of giants and snarks and grumkins, but of the “real” versions of recent history that Catelyn had lived through, but not them.

Was it true that the rebels won the battle of the Trident because Lord Tully harnessed his magical control of the elements? That the river itself rose to swallow the evil Prince Rhaegar and spare the brave Lord Robert?

Was it true that the reason the Mad King killed Lords Brandon and Rickard Stark, and that King Joffrey killed Lord Eddard Stark, was because the Starks had powerful magic in them that even dragons feared?

Was it true that King Robb could turn into a giant wolf during battle, and that was how he managed to capture the Kingslayer?

They then debated amongst themselves how it worked, precisely – how the Starks delivered winter to their enemies. Was it when one of them was unjustly killed? Because Lord Eddard had been executed, and then autumn began. King Robb was assassinated, and then winter began. Queen Sansa was exiled, and that’s when winter really set in.

But no, some of the others argued, because Lords Brandon and Rickard had been unjustly killed and then spring came. They concluded that it was a curse the Starks could make, but it only worked if the Northerner’s tree gods approved. Everyone knew that Lord Eddard’s last words, barely audible over the sound of Sansa’s screams and Cersei’s attempts to talk sense into her spoiled son, had been ‘winter is coming’ – and that it was no threat or warning but a promise and a curse. The youngsters by then were talking and debating so passionately that they didn’t realize how painful it was for Catelyn to imagine her husband’s last moments, witnessed by Sansa.

For not the first time, Catelyn marveled at her daughter’s resilience. Would Cat have survived seeing Hoster beheaded when she was but two and ten? Not without her mind being addled, she thought.

A small hand had taken hers, and Catelyn looked up from her lap to realize it was Shireen Baratheon, offering a timid look of concern.

Catelyn forced herself to smile, “I’m alright, child,” she whispered.

Shireen offered a smile back, though the thickened skin of her left cheek that resembled cracked mud didn’t move much, giving Shireen’s smile an endearing, lopsided look.

“They say that Lady Sansa prayed for a hero to rescue her from King Joffrey…”

Beside her, apparently unoffended, Tommen nodded eagerly.

“Instead, they gave her the strength to rescue herself, so she could go find her hero,” Shireen’s voice became low, nearly a whisper, “so he could rescue everyone else from the cruel king… just like he’d done once before…”

Margaery Tyrell rolled her eyes, “Yes, yes. Because only monsters can defeat other monsters.”

“And only maidens can rescue monsters!” one of Margaery’s cousins – Catelyn already forgot her name – spoke proudly.  

Margaery rolled her eyes again, though Catelyn would almost call the smile on her lips ‘indulgent’. She turned to face Catelyn head-on, “My lady, I assure you the children mean no offense. It’s just that, well, I made the mistake of telling them some of the tales I’ve heard on my ventures into the city. The smallfolk, bless their poor, ignorant souls, are eager to blame the cold and all the illness and misfortune it brings on someone. A noisy few believe our good queen is the likely culprit, given the banishment of your dear daughter and granddaughters. I suppose they would prefer if Daenerys had led tens of thousands of slaves and brutes to sack the city.”

“As if she could’ve,” the young man who was, apparently, Lord Dickon Tarly, mumbled into porridge that must be cold by now.

“Hush, Dickon,” Lady Margaery spoke in a placid voice, her eyes lifting ever-so-briefly to the doorway where Catelyn knew that some of the queen’s slave soldiers stood guard. It wasn’t many, and at first Catelyn had been surprised by what seemed like recklessness on the queen’s part. Now though, she saw that the queen had built a fortress out of cards. She had Tommen and Tywin, Jeyne and Jocelyn to keep the Lannister men in line. Jeyne, Jocelyn, Sansa, and Brynden to keep the Stark and Tully men (few as they were) in line. She had the Lannister men to keep the Tyrell men in line – no doubt all the Tyrells in the Maidenvault and other parts of the capital could be easily secured, but if Lord Tyrell then ordered a coup against Queen Daenerys, the Lannister-sworn men would fight them to protect the queen – their enemy – if only to ensure the continued safety of the queen’s Lannister hostages.

That fortress could stand for an eternity, but like any shoddily constructed building, it was vulnerable: a failure in any one of the supports would mean a complete collapse.

And the only thing keeping the supports from failing was a dragon. That was the queen’s trump card, and the only thing keeping everyone from bastard up to warden from fighting over the throne, now that a woman – a girl – with no backing other than a dwindling number of slaves sat the throne. Would Dickon Tarly conspire to move against the queen when the queen could easily fly to Horn Hill and douse the entire hillside keep in dragonflame? Would Mace Tyrell, when the same beast could decimate the Reach’s farmlands and grain silos? Would Lord Royce, when the Eyrie could be completely inaccessible to man and beast alike, except for those that could fly? The same could be said for Lord Tyrion Lannister, or one of his cousins, or even some treacherous steward who overthrew his liege – Casterly Rock was nigh impenetrable by sea and land, but stone could melt, as Lord Harren once learned.

Catelyn felt a shiver run through her, at the realization that Jeyne or Jocelyn would pay for any actions that a Western house took against the queen… and that the only thing stopping said men from taking action was the very creature Catelyn had spent every night praying would contract some fatal sickness.

Until Sansa, Jeyne, and Jocelyn were safe in Winterfell (or Dragonstone, as had been decided before Catelyn left for the capital), that creature was Catelyn’s greatest ally.

It made her feel particularly powerless, just as she had when walking among the merchant streets of King’s Landing, noting the way everyone looked at her. ‘Wary’ was the best word she could think of. She heard them whispering amongst themselves after she passed. Sometimes she heard her married name, sometimes her maiden name, sometimes her daughter’s name. She assumed they were merely noting that she was the former queen’s mother, perhaps expressing surprise that the dragon queen hadn’t fried her to a crisp. Maybe they were speculating that Catelyn was a traitor to her daughter. She only knew it was nothing purely innocent; they weren’t remarking on the resemblance between mother and daughter.

Now she knew, thanks to these young people, that both her names had become associated with some kind of modern lore. Tullys controlling the rivers, Starks controlling the cold? She had already heard the one about Robb turning into a wolf during battle, though it sounded like it had been invented by Cersei or Joffrey or someone in their circle to make Northerners sound like savages, putting the blame on Houses Stark and Tully and their allies for the people’s hungry bellies when the real blame could be placed squarely at the feet of people named Lannister, Baratheon, and Tyrell.

Yet Shireen and the others seemed to think these stories were marvelous. Was that because, at least in the case of Tommen and Shireen, they had been friends with Sansa? Or did the entire population of King’s Landing think there was some fearsome power in Stark and Tully blood, and curse the dragon queen for unleashing it when finally the realm had known peace for the first time since just before Robert Baratheon died?

Catelyn couldn’t ask. She had no idea whether Margaery was a true friend to Sansa or simply an opportunistic girl who’d be loyal to whomever wore the shiny crown. She had no idea how the other guests/hostages felt about Daenerys Targaryen. She had no idea which of the slaves could understand the Common Tongue and report Cat’s conversations back to the queen or her so-called spider.

She only knew that she could not let herself be suspected of spreading such tall tales. She’d be sure to stay within the walls of the keep and tell her few men to do the same. She didn’t doubt they were eager to be given leave to visit the Street of Silk, but they’d have to control their impulses lest they be accused of treason by the queen. It was just as well that they wouldn’t go out and risk contracting the grippe or wet lung.

Their best bet would be to leave the capital, truly. Catelyn wanted to be there at Dragonstone to receive her daughter and granddaughters if the mission was successful. She wanted to travel with them to Winterfell, to sleep each night between them and the door of their cabin, Petyr’s Valyrian dagger in her hand. She could lead and promise to return to begin negotiations once Sansa’s letter was in Daenerys’ possession. If the dragon queen was suspicious about her desire to depart, Catelyn would give an honest answer: she feared for her health in the densely populated city currently being ravaged by so many cases of winter ailments. She’d also admit to feeling more at ease staying in the presumably more neutral territory of Dragonstone than the Targaryen-controlled King’s Landing, since her family were currently considered disloyal to that regime. She’d play paranoid, if necessary (another of the reasons she’d kept herself mostly sequestered to her chamber); jaded by her time spent in a war host and by the various tragedies that had struck her family in the past few years.

She could, of course, claim to be going to White Harbor so that she’d be closer to home should she need to return there for some urgent reason or another. But the risk was that the queen might send a letter to her at White Harbor, expecting a response. With Dragonstone only a two-day sea voyage from the King’s Landing docks, Stannis could hardly cover for her by claiming the bird never made it – and more likely the queen would send a courier that short distance, anyway.

But she reminded herself it didn’t matter. She’d be staying in King’s Landing to see this through. Once she got word that Sansa and the girls were safe on Dragonstone, she would do what she could to spirit away Shireen Baratheon, maybe also Tommen. She’d try to free her uncle, and, begrudgingly, her goodson – both men would be handy should war be inevitable between the dragon queen and the North. The latter might be necessary to getting out of the city, period. He could command the Lannister men to slaughter the dragon queen’s slaves and Dothraki, and the Tyrells if they fought to stop the Starks and Tullys and Lannisters from leaving.

Or would her goodson wish to not just fight to escape, but fight to retake the throne?

Why did her skin prickle with fear to think about what a man like Tywin Lannister would do to Daenerys Targaryen if the girl was at his mercy?

It was a trial to not grind her teeth the way Lord Stannis did, when she realized she had no idea what to do when – if – Sansa and the girls were delivered to safety. She had no idea if the dragon queen would somehow hear of the rescue mission before Catelyn did. She had no idea if it were possible to sneak out of the city – just herself and her men, and Shireen if the girl agreed to come. She had no idea if her goodson and uncle would be happy fleeing to whatever fortress they could make it to – Winterfell, Casterly Rock, Dragonstone, White Harbor, Riverrun – or if they’d be hell-bent on revenge or justice or whatever they’d call it.

She only knew that it didn’t really matter if she made it. If her girls were safe, she’d die with nothing but gratitude in her heart.

She didn’t know what she’d do if her girls were lost to her, one way or another, forever. Negotiating the North’s allegiance to Daenerys Targaryen would be the smart thing to do, for her family and her people. But she simply didn’t know if she could, and it had nothing to do with Daenerys Targaryen’s lack of education in Westeros society, customs and politics. It had nothing to do with the distasteful notion of Westeros again being under the thumb of a dragon-riding monarch.

It had everything to do with knowing that, if Daenerys Targaryen was the reason Catelyn never saw her daughter again, she would sooner kill her than kneel to her.

Deciding it was wise to keep up the charade of a noblewoman determining whether the new monarch was worthy of her fealty, Catelyn forced herself to drink another cup of tea then give her farewell to the children who were sorely disappointed to have none of the wild tales confirmed by the lady of water and ice, or whatever nonsense title someone had given her.

She wasn’t entirely surprised when Lady Margaery invited herself to join Catelyn on her trek to the great hall that housed the throne room. Nor when Lady Margaery spoke under her breath, “I know you won’t take my word for it, but I am not your enemy, my lady.”

Catelyn made no remark, as there was nothing safe to say. Lady Margaery’s words may be honest, or they might not, but they were hers alone. Unless her father and brother died, she didn’t command the Tyrell men in the capital. She could be a spy or agent of the dragon queen, or of her lord father, or of some powerful man she hoped to secure in marriage.

Though she is the one who delivered Lord Lannister’s message to Lord Stannis…

A few years ago, that alone would’ve been enough for Catelyn to consider Margaery an ally. Today… today she realized that a sly person would gain another’s trust in the short term, even if their end goal was to betray them. Besides, how much of a favor was it to tell Lord Stannis to “remember the pup’s dream”? For all Margaery knew, the Lannisters were testing her loyalty; meanwhile, Margaery could be reporting it all to the dragon queen, laughing with the young woman about how gullible men were.

Their journey continued in silence, with neither woman passing the other so much as a glance, until both looked up and ahead and saw the black beast land in the upper courtyard – the one just outside the great hall.

Just before the dragon dropped out of view on the other side of the inner wall, Catelyn saw that the dragon wasn’t alone. A dark-garbed figure was atop its back, only no silver-blond hair glinted in the morning sun.

Finally, Margaery Tyrell and Catelyn Stark looked at each other. Then, they ran toward the stairs that led to the very wall that separated them from that dread creature, unhindered by the slave soldiers who had eyes for naught but that dragon, and the man who rode it.

Sitting atop the dragon’s back, the man was about ten feet off the ground, and his voice easily carried up to where Catelyn stood next to Margaery.

He introduced himself as King Euron Greyjoy when shouting toward the guards outside the great hall to summon their queen. Catelyn wondered if those nearest to her could hear the growl in her throat. If there was anything worse than a fire-breathing beast in the hands of a Targaryen, it was a fire-breathing beast in the hands of a Greyjoy. For all the Targaryens’ many faults, the purpose of their conquests had always been to gain subjects. Ironborn didn’t have subjects, only slaves. If Aegon and his sister-wives had been of the Iron Islands, they’d use their pets to bring the continent to its knees so they could more conveniently rape their victims; then steal their money and their possessions and their daughters for good measure.

Baffled as she was, that was Catelyn’s first thought. Her second was to wonder how this man with not a drop of Valyrian blood had managed to mount the queen’s dragon without turning himself into a pile of ash and melted steel. Of course, she knew her history – it wasn’t only Targaryens and other Valyrian families that could ride dragons, but it seemed so infrequent that she hadn’t quite trusted the tales. Now, though? Now she wondered if his Targaryen blood had nothing to do with Stannis’ ability to mount that white dragon. Had it everything to do with… assertiveness? Confidence? Bravery? A commanding voice and presence?

Her musings came to an end when the queen herself climbed the stairs that Margaery and Catelyn had just used, ignoring both women as her eyes became wide with disbelief then horror then rage at the sight of the man only slightly below them. She must have been on her way to the throne room to hold court, just as Catelyn and Margaery had been on their way there to observe court. Ser Barristan and the rest of the queen’s usual retinue joined them, each looking toward the courtyard, their eyes registering disbelief then horror; unlike the queen, the look never evolved into rage.

“Who dares to ride the queen’s dragon?” Daenerys eventually called out to the man.

“Is this your dragon?” the man called back innocently, “I was under the impression that dragons pick their riders, not the other way around.”

“A fallacy and an attempt at distraction. Now answer the question,” Daenerys sneered.

The man smiled widely, and Catelyn realized that Theon Grey had the same roguish good looks – something that made ordinarily smart girls give in to his seductions even if they knew his promises were as empty as a bellows. Dark hair, swarthy complexion, an eyepatch that promised an interesting tale, and a confident way of sitting in the strange saddle. Catelyn took a moment to appreciate the design – unlike a horse’s saddle it had two pommels, side-by-side, made of some type of metal that was akin to a sword’s handle. The stirrups were set back and high, so the rider’s feet would be near his or her backside, allowing the rider to crouch forward, positioned low against the dragon’s spine. It made sense; if sitting upright, the force of the wind would be a constant pressure on the rider. The metal pommels would give the rider something solid to hold onto, but Catelyn spied a length of leather rope that she assumed acted much like reins do for a horse.  

“I am Euron of House Greyjoy, King of the Iron Isles, of Salt and Rock; Lord Reaper of Pyke and soon to be Lord Protector of the Seven Kingdoms.”

At a whisper from one of her soldiers, Daenerys shook her head faintly, her eyes never leaving the man on the dragon, “Is that so?”

“Tis. The Iron Throne is mine. This beast is mine. The greatest fleet man has ever known is mine. Soon, the most beautiful woman in the realm will be mine.”

Daenerys’ lips lifted, her teeth bared in a snarl, “At risk of sounding vain, I assume you are referring to me?”

Euron’s grin somehow widened, “Aye. I count my blessings each night, your grace. I am an ambitious man, yet not a selfish one. I will share this seat with you,” he patted the saddle behind him, “if you share yours with me. No blood need spill. My strength will reinforce your reign, which will become our reign.”

Catelyn could not stay silent, “Your grace,” she spoke low, though knew Euron could likely hear some if not all her words, “Ironborn cannot be trusted. He promises to spill no blood if you accept, but men like him live for the spilling of blood. He will swear to you with one hand over his heart, while the other drives a dagger into yours.”

“Silence,” Daenerys spoke with authority. Catelyn’s lips snapped shut more in surprise than obeisance.

“I see no reason to share anything with a pillager,” Daenerys projected her voice, “I know the history of House Greyjoy; of all houses on the Iron Islands. You profit from thievery and slavery. You—”

“And you do not? So the Masters in Yunkai, Astapor, and Meereen gave you their gold?”

Daenerys’ teeth clenched, “I seized assets from criminals.”

“People who weren’t criminals until you named them so. More to the point, you seized those assets with the intention of funding your conquest of Westeros, not to distribute much-needed resources to your freedmen.”

“I needn’t explain myself to a man like you.”

“You need not, indeed, because I very much approve of your tactics, my queen. To steal is a fundamental right, given us by—”

“Enough!” Daenerys shouted, then quickly composed herself, “I tire of this conversation.” She lifted her right hand and every man on the parapets within view lifted his bow, if he had one. Catelyn watched Ser Barristan open his mouth and give the order to ‘draw’, but the word ‘loose’ never made it out before Euron Greyjoy held up a hand.

“Unless you mean to kill this fine beast,” Euron spoke quickly, his gloved fingers caressing the dragon’s neck, “you’d best not kill this fine beast,” he smiled yet again, caressing his own chest over his dark armor.

“My archers will not miss,” Daenerys replied confidently.

“Oh, I know they won’t,” Euron chuckled, “I see Unsullied, Dothraki, Reachers… all fine bowmen. But, you see, my beautiful queen, that if you kill me, you kill the dragon that is now bound to me.”

Catelyn looked back to the queen in time to see the confidence drain out of her. It took painfully long moments for her to reply with, “You lie.”

“Only one way to find out…” Euron goaded.

“Why should I believe you?”

“Why shouldn’t you? I am blood-bound to the dragon – or do you think Drogon lets just anyone ride him? If I die while we are connected, he will die – just as your body would die if your heart or brain was removed.”

“It is a lie. A trick,” Ser Barristan spoke. Beside him, the dark-skinned herald girl nodded.

“I agree with them, your grace,” Margaery Tyrell chimed in, “he is bluffing so that you’ll give in to his demands – and what he demands is the right to rule your kingdoms.”

Catelyn fought not to react but couldn’t help but think that Margaery Tyrell would be quite pleased if the queen called Greyjoy’s bluff only to find out it was no bluff. Indeed, for House Tyrell more than all the others involved, the dragon was the queen’s only leverage against them. Without the dragon, they’d have no reason to not move against the queen, take the throne for one of their own.

And, as Catelyn had realized earlier, if the Tyrells moved against Daenerys, all bets were off. The Lannisters might go either way, and it didn’t matter if Daenerys and all her supporters in King’s Landing were killed; her men holding the girls would kill them in a fit of rage or an act of vengeance. Or they’d realize their cause was dead and they’d sell the girls into slavery to fund their chosen lifestyle. Jorah Mormont had done precisely that once; why wouldn’t he do it again?

“I’m not sure he’s lying,” Catelyn hastily and breathlessly blurted out, then waited for the queen’s eyes to focus on her before continuing, “In the North there are skingchangers, your grace. They enter the mind of an animal, see through its eyes, smell through its nose, hear through its ears. But it is said that if the animal is killed while inhabited by a skinchanger, the skinchanger dies, too.”

That was something of a lie. Per Catelyn’s children, who cited Old Nan as their source, the skinchanger didn’t die, they just became… trapped. Their body an empty vessel while their consciousness floated somewhere in the ether, forever looking for but never finding that vessel.

“The Lady Stark speaks true,” Varys added, tipping his head at Catelyn.

“It matters not,” Ser Barristan stated solemnly, “Your grace. Khaleesi. If this man maintains possession of Drogon, he can kill thousands of innocents within a matter of minutes. He can kill all of us, your faithful servants. He can kill all of King’s Landing – those people you have vowed to protect with your life.”

The guard Catelyn had often seen in the queen’s presence nodded, “What if the man can use same power to take Rhaegal and Viserion? Can burn all of Seven. Must end him.”

Despite having no personal affection for the dragon, Catelyn saw in Daenerys’ eyes the same anguish she’d see if any of her children was told to put down their pet wolf. No matter if it was necessary to saving all the North, or all of mankind, it would still feel like too heavy a price.

“Your grace—” Varys started, but none would ever know if he’d continue expressing his agreement with Catelyn or if he’d been moved by what the knight and the slave had said. An arrow was loosed from the far right side of the wall, landing in Euron’s shoulder just where it met neck. Two finger-widths higher and it would likely have punctured an artery and killed the man within a minute. Instead, Euron grunted and slapped a hand on his neck, but the dragon beneath him let out a screech of pain so shrill that Catelyn had to cover her ears.

“HOLD!” Daenerys shouted.

Euron Greyjoy looked up, nothing but venom in his dark eyes, “I’ve never begged a woman and won’t start now. But I will be back, and when I am, it will be you begging for my mercy and ruing this day, when you refused my offer.”

With that he gave a command that Catelyn did not understand, and the black dragon took a few steps then leapt into the air, its tail whacking against a crenelation in the hall’s roof.

If anyone thought to order the archers to aim for the rider, they didn’t get it out quickly enough. Within moments, Euron Greyjoy was nothing but a black speck on a black blob that got smaller and smaller until it could’ve been a raven for all anyone on the ground knew.

The feeling of dread had once again disappeared in the presence of a fire-breathing beast, but it came back to Catelyn rather acutely as she realized that the keep and city were filled with Tyrell men, Lannister men, and dozens of other banners that were only loyal to Daenerys because her arse was the one presently warming the throne, a reality only made possible because of the creature that just flew away, under the control of a man who made Tywin Lannister seem as innocent as a kitten.

She didn’t know if all the eyes were on Daenerys, or if it just felt that way, but Catelyn could swear that every man here, no matter what color he wore, no matter if he was a lord or a hedge knight or a sellsword or a slave, became aware that a dragon queen without dragons was not even a queen.

Catelyn stepped in front of Daenerys, shielding her body and addressing the shocked girl who’d just lost her favorite pet, “We must get to Maegor’s, your grace.”

“You do not give the orders, Lady—”

Cat whipped her head up to Ser Barristan, “Look around you, ser. Tell me there is not a single man in this courtyard or upon these walls that would accidentally loose an arrow in this direction, now that the dragon queen is suddenly dragon-less.”

Ser Barristan’s lips pressed together into a tight line, then he nodded.

“Walk behind Ser Barristan, your grace,” Catelyn continued, “Very close behind him. And I will walk close behind you. Perhaps Lady Margaery will hold your arm, since you are understandably weak after this morning’s events, and perhaps your guard there will hold your other arm.”

Daenerys nodded then scrunched her eyes and licked her lips, “You and Lady Margaery are unarmored.”

“Our names are our armor. I cannot say the same for yours.”

Margaery stepped closer and smiled, “Come, your grace. Allow me to help you down the stairs.” She waited patiently while Daenerys turned around, then looped her left arm through the queen’s right, the slave soldier forming the other half of the queen’s human buffer. Ser Barristan led the way, head high as if nothing was amiss. Catelyn trailed behind, just far enough to not step on Daenerys’ heels.

When they made it into Maegor’s unharmed, Catelyn found herself, against all odds, an accepted member of the queen’s inner circle. It might not last past the hour, once shock yielded to common sense and the others realized a wolf was in their midst.

Ser Barristan and the slave soldier – whose name was Grey Worm, apparently – were already arguing over what counter-offensive to launch. Varys was reminding them that they did not know Euron’s destination nor intentions. A Dothraki whose name Catelyn could never quite catch was suggesting the queen give him twelve mounted men to follow the dragon sightings and lay ambush to Euron Greyjoy when he inevitably laid down to sleep.

Daenerys’ sole contribution other than occasional nods or shrugs was not particularly helpful, but quite sobering. “What have I done?” she whispered aloud to no one in particular, “Anyone he kills… Anyone he uses Drogon to kill… will be on my hands.”

Catelyn swallowed. In her fear that harm befalling the dragon or the queen would lead to harm befalling Sansa, Jeyne, and Jocelyn, she never once thought about the others who would be in harm’s way now that a reaver was in possession of a dragon.

Even now, while Daenerys – a Targaryen! – was worried about the innocents who might suffer, Catelyn still only worried that, as they spoke, the entire city was planning to overthrow the queen, in the name of some other they’d prefer to kneel to, or perhaps just because they could. Give one man (or woman) alone this symbol of absolute power, and others would instantly want it; would kill and die for a chance to have it, without ever stopping to think about whether they’d be happier for it.

Who could be happy with it, sleeping with one eye open? No wonder most of the Targaryen kings went mad. No wonder Robert Baratheon drank himself silly each day.

“What have I done?” Daenerys repeated her rhetorical question.

Yes, what have I done, indeed…

Notes:

I know I've gone very far away from the Tywin/Sansa relationship that I must assume you all came for. If you're still reading, I appreciate it.

Chapter 57: Alive

Notes:

This chapter is a brief interlude that stands alone because I felt it was a bit too heavy to incorporate in with any other part of the plot. I feel the need to warn that it thematically touches on death, violence, rape, grief and regret even if not depicting their occurrence in the present. You've made it this far, and you've read ASOIAF or watched GOT, so you can handle it, but just in case you were looking for some light/uplifting reading today, I would suggest you find it somewhere else. I recently posted a 10K word modern TySan that might do the trick! :)

Thank you for your continued support!! <3

Chapter Text

Tywin (Interlude)

“Tywin.”

“Too tired,” he drawled, nuzzling into Sansa’s hair, even as he cursed his young wife’s appetites that he was getting too old to fulfil. It seemed not so very long ago that if she pressed her backside against his groin, he’d gladly sacrifice his sleep to take her, slow and lazy. On those nights it seemed enough for her to feel him inside her; she chased no peak but seemed to find something like it in the moment his seed was delivered, only to then mourn the loss of him when he slipped out of her.

Now though… How long had it been, anyway, since he fucked his wife? How long had it been since his cock went hard because she reared her backside against it? Hells, a simple kiss used to get his blood pumping, but lately? Nothing.

He felt no loss – he couldn’t miss something his body no longer wanted – but he did fear she’d feel bereft. No – what he feared was that she’d seek comfort in another man’s arms if she felt bereft. One of her Queensguard, mayhaps. Or perhaps Ser Addam. Or the Hound – Sansa didn’t seem put out by his mangled face in the slightest.

But wasn’t he in Winterfell?

Wait… Why was the Hound in Winterfell?

Why did Sansa have a Queensguard?

“Sansa,” he spoke while shaking her shoulder. Hadn’t she just been pressing herself against him? How could she already be sound asleep? Hadn’t she said his name in that voice that begged so sweetly for him to take her?

Why did he already miss it? Why did he feel like he’d cut off his own hand to hear her say it again?

She didn’t respond even as he shook her more and more violently until he was wrenching her body back and forth, all while calling to her, hoping his voice would penetrate the dense fog of slumber.

He never did manage to wake her, only to roll her from her side to her back, so that he could see her face…

“No… No…” he shouted hoarsely, backing away from the terrible sight. Her face was bone white, her lips barely a shade darker, dry and tight; her eyes open but dull and unmoving, unseeing. The only nuance to her complexion were splotches of dark purple – bruises and lines of rust red – cuts.

He flung himself from their bed only to realize it wasn’t their bed. What his wife was sprawled on, naked and battered and dead, was nothing but a small cot in a row of a dozen or so other cots. On each of the others sat a man, staring at Tywin with dark, savage eyes that spoke of violence and depravity without reason. It frightened Tywin, who was comfortable with anything, so long as it was done with reason.

“A Lannister always pays his debts.”

Tywin whipped around, following the feminine voice to find… her. Daenerys Targaryen, skin pink and flawless, eyes bright, dressed in a sleeveless gown of red silk that glowed gold in the firelight of the lone torch in the room.

To see her, alive and well, while Sansa was dead…

Fury swelled within him like a raincloud, and he tried to charge her but was stuck; immobilized.

He looked down and found a pair of legs as skinny as reeds, and they folded as soon as he looked upon them. He was then sitting on the cold hard ground, unfeeling of anything from the waist down.

“Now you know how my brother feels since your son pushed him off the tower,” Daenerys spoke as she began pacing, hands laced behind her back.

“I don’t… Bran? You speak of young Bran Stark?”

“Aye. He wanted to be a knight, now he’ll only ever be a puppet, relying on others to move him to and fro.”

“I… It isn’t my fault.”

“No,” Daenerys’ eyebrows lifted, “I suppose not. But if you had given your goodbrother justice, your wife would be alive now, wouldn’t she?”

His gaze followed her finger as it pointed to the cot where the body lay, but he couldn’t look at it again.

“Is it not all you’ve prayed for? To see your wife and daughters again? Well – see her!” Daenerys hissed, her indignant voice reminding him of… something.

He squeezed his eyes shut before having a realization. He opened his eyes again, feeling hope that somehow, if only he could prove to be right, he could bring his wife back and return life to the way it should be, “You said Bran Stark is your brother, but he is not your brother.”

“Ah, how silly of me,” Daenerys touched her hairline with both hands, prying her fingertips under her own skin and pulling until he was looking at his once cupbearer, current goodsister.

“Lis- Arya?” he gasped. Surely she was on his side over the dragon queen. She would get him out of… Wait, where am I? I thought it was a dungeon, not a guards’ barracks…

“You don’t recognize this place?” Arya asked.

He looked around again, but all he saw were the dark-haired, dark-skinned men – the queen’s horse warriors, he now realized – and rows of cots. Hadn’t it been a dozen before? Now it seemed they stretched on for an eternity, lined up from here to the horizon, wherever that may be.

“No, I don’t,” he answered honestly.

Arya hummed, “I suppose you haven’t been in here since I was.”

“The only places you and I have ever been at the same time are Harrenhal, Winterfell, and the Red Keep. This is… none of those.”

She shook her head, “Sorry – I forgot.” She reached for her hairline again, only this time the face revealed under Arya Stark’s was… unfamiliar, yet terrifying. He knew he should remember, but didn’t.

“Don’t recognize your gooddaughter, m’lord?”

“Gooddaughter? I’ve never had a…” his face went lax, “Tyrion’s little wife. The commoner. The schemer.”

She smiled a crooked smile that revealed broken teeth, “And only you highborn can scheme, that it?”

He shook his head, “You had no right to marry him.”

“Nor did he have the right to marry me.”

“Indeed,” Tywin snorted.

The girl shook her head, “And yet we did. He was my husband in truth, no septon could undo a marriage consummated and gods-blessed.”

“And yet he did,” Tywin mocked.

“No,” her smile became soft, almost patronizing, “I am still Lady Lannister. Now the only Lady Lannister,” she gestured at Sansa’s body, but he still refused to look.

“I’ve paid my debt, m’lord.”

“What?” he barked, “Start making sense.”

“You gave me to a barracks of guards. Nineteen of ‘em. Now I’ve returned the favor. Lady Lannister paid her debt.”

He shook his head and finally turned to the body again, noting the bruises were clustered in a few places…

Her upper arms.

Her breasts.

Her thighs.

Her hips.

He covered his mouth and sobbed against it, no longer seeing his wife’s corpse but his own face, twisted in anguish and void of hope.

“IT WASN’T PERSONAL!” he shouted at the girl – Tysha, yes, that’s her name. “I had to teach my son a lesson he wouldn’t soon forget!”

Tysha only nodded, unfazed by his rage, and said, “Nor was this personal,” she pointed again at Sansa’s body, “But you needed to be taught a lesson, m’lord. If only you’d learned sooner, hm? Then your lady love might yet live.”

He shook his head rapidly, “That isn’t fair!”

“No,” Tysha smiled, “Tisn’t. I took twenty cocks, in all. She only took nineteen.”

She reached toward him, holding out her hand and beckoning him. All at once his legs worked, yet they weren’t under his command as he knee-walked toward Tysha and reached for what she held in his hand.

“You’re a Lannister. You’re worth more,” Tysha explained as she placed a coin in his hand.

Valar morghulis.

“Go on, m’lord,” she jerked her head toward the cot, “She needs your coin, but needs to earn it, don’t she?”

He trembled as his body, now inconveniently naked, moved toward his wife’s corpse. Hot tears splattered her cold skin as his body did as it was commanded by some force that was beyond him, and he felt none of it, watched it all from beyond. He watched Tywin Lannister rape his own wife, as he’d once watched Tyrion Lannister do the same. The key difference was that one wife felt no pain, no degradation, no shame; the other felt nothing but. The other difference? Tywin had looked away the first time, pretending it was the sight of his son’s twisted body that disgusted him. This time, he was not allowed to turn his head nor to close his eyes.

“You should’ve killed me,” Tysha spoke after it was done, when Tywin’s consciousness fused back with his body, trembling and aching and even colder than the woman he lied next to.

“Aye,” he agreed.

“Why didn’t you?”

Yes, why didn’t I? Because she gave me the truth about her intentions for Tyrion? No… that wasn’t it.

He shrugged even as he realized he knew the answer, had known all along, “Everyone deserves a second chance,” he offered.

With a soft smile, Tysha reached for her face and pulled it off, and he knew instantly that the face he was looking at was the last one he’d see.

“Sansa?” he sobbed, falling to the floor then crawling like a dog until he had wrapped her legs with his arms, his face buried in the soft swell of her belly. “You’re… giving me another child?” he asked, tilting his head back to peer up at her. An orb of gentle light surrounded her, making her hair look like fire that snaked down her body, burning yet never harming.

She nodded, “But only if you come with us, my love.”

He nodded rapidly, “Anywhere.”

She reached around herself to pry off his hands and let them drift gently down to his sides, “Good. We’ve been waiting for so long.”

“Who?”

She stroked a hand over her belly, “Me and your son.”

“But… where are our… daughters?”

She shrugged as if it was entirely inconsequential, “They are still where you are.”

“In… the dungeons?” he asked.

“Alive,” she answered.

“But you… you’re… not?”

She shook her head, “I never was. I was only ever what you wanted me to be: real.”

He closed his eyes, “Can you not stay here? We can find them, Sansa.”

He opened his eyes to find hers, blue as anything he’d ever seen, shimmering. “We can’t,” she said, breaking his heart, “Not for a long time. You can, perhaps, but not us,” she stroked her belly again.

“But… But will you stay?”

“No, Tywin. I’m not even here. I never was.”

He nodded, understanding that he had to make a choice:

Death, and immediate reunion with his Sansa and the son he’d never known, maybe also with his mother, his lost brothers, his grandfather, his cousin, his firstborn child...

Or life, and the possible reunion with his daughters and whoever else still resided in that cruel world that he had dominion over, for so long.

An easy decision.

He reached his hand out toward his love, and only after Sansa looked at it and began to weep did he know that, not only had he chosen wrong, but he’d made the choice countless times now; each time knowing it was the wrong one but being unable to do any differently.

He opened his eyes to an aching body and flickering torchlight, both so familiar he wanted to scream.

He knew the dream would come to him again, and that he’d choose wrong – again – because he’d come to learn an indisputable truth of the world and the gods who ruled it: only those who want to live are permitted the right to die.

Chapter 58: Pure evil

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Arya

The place between waking and dreaming, between thought and instinct, was darker than the inside of a tomb.

She lingered there too long, and yet not long at all. Osha and Rickon would later tell her it had been but seconds. To her it felt like eons.

And yet she never made it past the gloaming between her world and theirs.

Wolves owned the night and they ruled this place of blurred existences. There was a reason there was a special name for the skinchangers who could slip into the mind of a wolf – wargs. Because it was extremely rare. Eagles, falcons, deer, rabbits, crows, cats… No matter how prideful or obstinate some of those creatures were, their minds were easily entered, their perceptions easily claimed.

Only with wolves was it no matter of conquering but of… being granted entry. Bread and salt must be offered in good conscience and accepted in the same manner.

Meaning, Grey Wind did not want her in his mind. He refused her entry, and every time she awoke from the gloaming it felt like she had lost Robb all over again. Because in the gloaming she could feel Grey Wind. A million other creatures big and small were there, but only he was stained with the scent of safety. Robb had left a stain on Grey Wind’s soul, and Arya feared that meant he couldn’t invite her in, even if he wanted to. Not unlike the way Gendry had imprinted on her. If the most handsome man in the world snuck into her chambers, offered her a ride on his gorgeous cock, with no strings attached, she did not think she’d be able to let him into her body.

For most of her life she had feared the day she’d be owned by a man. Now she only feared losing the man who owned her. I am his and he is mine.

Perhaps that was how Grey Wind felt – he’d never bond with any but Robb.

Or perhaps she was just as good at warging as she was at needlepoint.

She was ready to give up and yet too stubborn to have accomplished nothing, so she turned away from Grey Wind’s essence, thought to set her sights on some stupid bird or fox. Well, maybe a bird wouldn’t be too bad – flying could come in handy for what she wanted to do. In fact, it was probably ideal.

Maybe she’d have realized that all along, if only she hadn’t desperately wanted to join with Grey Wind because… because I thought I’d find Robb there… some trace of him… and maybe through him I’d be able to feel Ghost or Summer.

But Arya Stark had learned that dreams and wishes were like nipples on a man: nice to look at and fun to play with but serving no practical purpose whatsoever. So, she turned her back on her brother’s wolf, sad as it was to walk away from him, and reached out for a more willing host.

When it happened, it was just as Rickon had described with his limited vocabulary. She’d call it a riptide to her soul, a pull she could not resist any more than a calf fallen into a river’s rapids.

The rapids delivered her to a foreign place in every possible meaning of the word. No color to be found, only shadows of gray that melded together to create the impression of shapes. Trees, for instance. Bushes. Fallen logs. She knew what she was surrounded by, but could make out none of its nuance, only its size and approximate shape. Likewise, it seemed she could smell a hundred different things and beings, yet certain aromas dominated her sense and told her something very important: there were men nearby. Four of them. And they were eating something: dead, burnt squirrel.

Carefully, she crept closer to the scent and looked for the shapes to take form. When they did, she knew the men were too far away to see her unless they were looking for her, but more than close enough for her to smell and hear them.

Arya Stark was aware that she was inside an animal that walked on four legs and feared no predators except for the two-legged men who were wily and crafty, who could sting an animal with barbs that could fly a great distance, unlike those of the spiky rodents. She’d lost packmates to those barbs, and to the long, sharp sticks that reflected moonlight.

Arya Stark was aware that she now had the senses of an animal paired with the mind of a human.

Arya Stark was aware that whatever creature she inhabited had once thought the two-leggers to be friendly, to be pack, even, but learned the hard way they could never be trusted.

And yet here she was in a place she could only enter if she was invited.

Did her host not know it shared its skin with a two-legger?

Or…

“How’d you know we’re wanted? How’d you know the big fucker won’t fill us wit arrows before we get the chance to say howdy-do?” one of the men’s voices drifted to her sharp ears.

“Aye. Might think us some bounty hunters,” a second voice.

“Oh, aye. We’re a real threatnin’ bunch, ain’t we? Gods, I swear you got shite where your brain’s s’posed’t be,” a third voice.

“Feck off,” the second voice, “Fur-get ‘bout us bein’ bounty hunters. What if they got ‘nuff men by now and ain’t lookin’ to take on any more mouths t’feed but can’t chance lettin’ us leave.”

“You got a better plan, I’m all ears.”

“Nah, yer all nose, Wyle. Hah!”

“And yer all gut, Sulvan. This is the first meat we had in a fortnight and yer still a fat fuck.”

“Better’n bein a skinny little bitch like you lot! A feckin’ breeze could blow ya over.”

“Enough, all-a-yous. Think the Mountain needs a bunch of whingin’ cunts? He needs fuckin’ soldiers!”

The Mountain?

The Mountain.

The Mountain.

The Mountain.

The Mountain…

“Fat lot of good that’ll do ‘im. They say the new queen’s got a dragon. Some says even more’n one—”

“Aye, and I’ve got a two-foot pecker.”

The men laughed at that. Her host hated the sound of men laughing. To Arya, it was a frightening reminder of a time and place she’d rather forget.

“Anyway! Seems to me what dragons burned once they can burn twice.”h

“Ain’t she got bigger fish to fry? Besides, who’n’ all seven hells would sell Clegane out? Someone wit a death wish, dat’s who.”

“So? We in agreement? We make for Clegane’s lot and hope the offer’s true – warm food and warm cunt for any man can use a bow or sword? Or we keep goin’ as we been until the snow’s s’deep we get frostbite on our sacks?”

The men grumbled a bit, before the one who might be called Sulvan let out a loud sigh, “You win, Wyle. Sumpin’ tells me it’s a trap, and that we’ll be the food – after we’re the cunt! – but least while they’re roastin’ me on a spit, I’ll be warm.”

“Aye, and you’ll be warm while the Mountain’s men spitroast you, too. Hah!”

“Feck off, Bernie! They’ll be after yer pretty lit’l mouth first.”

“Sounds like you been thinkin’ a lot about—”

“Arya.”

The four-legged version of herself whipped her head around, and Arya realized that both versions of her recognized the name, though to one of them it was naught but a distant memory, as blurry as a dream hours after waking.

“Shh! Shh! Did’ya hear that?” one of the two-leggers spoke in a nervous whisper.

Her four-legged self dropped low, flattening her entire body into the snow and using the underbrush that poked through it to hide herself.

“Probably snow fell from a tree branch, ya nervous Nelly.”

“Arya!”

“No, I thought I saw suttin, too…”

She heard some of the men moving, and knew they stood up from the logs they’d been using as chairs.

“Come on, then. Might be a big fat turkey.”

“Arya!”

“I’d settle for a skinny chicken.”

“Oi, no one asked about your sex life.”

“Fuck off!”

“Hold up! What if it’s dem wolves folks were talkin’ of back in—”

“It’s daylight, ya dumb shit! Wolves hunt at night.”

“Not always…”

“All the better, then. We’ll have meat and fur!”

Arya began panicking. The men might have bows and arrows or throwing daggers. She thought it was best to run away now, before they were within close range, but also feared moving and giving away her precise position.

The four-legged version of her would know what to do, but that version wasn’t in control. She needed to leave this skin before she endangered the creature that owned it, not to mention herself. If an animal dies while inhabited by a skinchanger, the skinchanger is forever stuck, floating around as a consciousness with no physical body to inhabit.

“Arya! Come back!”

“How?”

“Reach for my voice, m’lady. Look for it. Search for it. Find it.”

It was less of a conscious effort and more of a desperate leap, but she was back in the darkness for a moment and then… then she was in her room, so colorful and bright that her eyes squinted in pain, so she closed them.

“That’s alright, m’lady. You made it back.”

She recognized Osha’s voice.

“Arya?” Rickon spoke, voice still quiet even though he’d broken the habit of whispering some months back.

She felt warm little fingers pry her right eye open, then saw her brother flinch back to find her iris pointed right at him.

Arya sat forward – she was sitting in a chair. She looked at Osha, then Rickon, then back to Osha. Then she shook her head, and her stomach sloshed around inside her.

“Ugh,” she moaned in discomfort.

“It gets better,” Rickon assured.

Arya nodded. It wasn’t the worst sensation, but she really hated feeling queasy. Yet another of the reasons she was in no rush to get with child.

“Were you in Grey Wind?” Rickon asked.

Arya shook her head, “No, I was… not in Winterfell.”

“Where were you?”

“I don’t know. The snow wasn’t so deep though. Few inches. South of here a good ways, must’ve been.”

“What were you in?” Osha asked.

“I was…” Arya swallowed, realizing the implications of all she could only feel and observe in the four-legged form. “I was in… Nymeria.”

Rickon seemed confused by a moment, before his lips split into a grin of too-big teeth, “Wild sister?”

Arya nodded even as a strange melancholy settled over her.

For so many years she’d wondered what came of Nymeria. Most of the time, she figured that Nymeria had died either by the jaws of another predator or the steel of a man. And yet, she’d found a certain comfort eventually, after some months had passed, to realize that if Nymeria had met such a fate, it would’ve been when she was a pup, not yet full grown and not yet wise to the ways of the wild she’d been spared of by her upbringing in Winterfell. Eventually, Arya figured either Nymeria was long dead and thus her suffering over, or she was alive and well, a queen amongst wolves and so fierce that few would trouble her or her pack.

(The latter often felt like more fantasy than hope.)

But to now have confirmation that Nymeria lived, Arya missed the wolf she’d stopped longing for years back. It felt like a fresh wound, as horrid as she felt in the days after Lady had been put down and Nymeria chased off. Her wolf was alive, out there, in the cold hard world.

Her wolf knew her only as a memory so faint it might as well have been a dream all along.

Her wolf was far away. In the Neck or even further south, she reckoned.

Her wolf had been moments away from being come upon by four men. Surely Nymeria had escaped worse odds, but what if she was disoriented after hosting Arya within her skin?

Arya finally understood why Mother could not stay in Winterfell while Sansa’s fate was unknown beyond the word of a foreign queen and the honor of an honor-less man: wondering was worse than knowing.

“Was she hunting?” Rickon asked.

Arya rubbed at her forehead, trying to ease the tight cords that her head seemed to be comprised of, of a sudden.

“No. She was… spying on some men. They were travelers heading…” a shiver ran through Arya’s entire body, making the hair raise from her calves up to her scalp, “heading to wherever the Mountain is.”

Arya hadn’t really thought of the man who had loomed so large and imposing over her time in Harrenhal without even being present but for a handful of days. She thought of him quite a bit after Rickon shared his dream – for weeks she worried that the beastly man would make his way into the Red Keep and hurt Sansa – but then the messenger came with the queen’s summons and news of Sansa’s banishment. Arya wasn’t sure she’d thought of the Mountain at all since then, writing off Rickon’s dream as simply that – an everyday, completely nonsensical and not even remotely prophetic conjuring of the sleeping imagination.

But now… to think that the Mountain was somewhere in either the Riverlands, Vale, or North – she highly doubted Nymeria would’ve moved to the warmer, more populous areas to the south or west – she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d been too quick in dismissing the dream.

Had Sansa never left the continent?

Was the Mountain her real gaoler, and Ser Jorah was naught but a diversion?

No… The Mountain killed the queen’s kin, and supposedly she has a bounty on his head for that and other crimes.

And even if she’s the dumbest woman who ever lived – which I doubt – she can’t think it wise to entrust Ser Gregor Clegane with the protection of a woman and small children.

Can she?

No… No. Of that much I’m certain. Sansa is too valuable a hostage, as are my nieces.

Still, Arya need to scratch the itch in her brain, “Rickon… do you remember that dream you had? About Sansa being afraid of a man in a skirt.? A man who you compared to a mountain?”

Rickon shrugged, “I have lots of dreams. That one was a long time ago.”

“Yes, but… do you remember anything else about that dream? What the man looked like, perhaps?”

“I told you – a mountain.”

Arya sighed, “Right. Meaning he was very big?”

Rickon nodded vigorously, “Biggest man I’ve ever seen.”

“And you said he wore a skirt, wasn’t it?”

“Aye. Don’t know why. Everyone who passes under can see his privates then.”

Arya blinked at her brother, “Everyone who passes under what?”

“The man’s skirt.”

“What? I mean… What?”

Rickon sighed, “The people on the water who pass under him. They go between his legs.”

Arya leaned back in her chair, frowning. Her brother had quite the imagination, and more fool her for even trying to put stock in his dreams. Might Ghost and Summer really be hunting game with an entire pack of smaller wolves somewhere so cold that the sun never rose? Or might it just be a case of wishful dreaming? Might Bran be flying on some dragon with a single red eye in the middle of its forehead? Arya highly doubted it, but Rickon – like everyone – had heard of Daenerys Targaryen’s dragon, and Ghost’s eyes were red, and Bran had been gone so long Rickon likely felt like his brother had flown off toward the horizon. And she knew damned well that Jon hadn’t been in Winterfell’s godswood forest, talking to Rickon, until the red-eyed dragon screamed so loud that Rickon had to leave, to wake up.

“Osha said some people’s hair goes all white because they have such a bad scare,” Rickon informed her matter-of-factly.

Arya looked at her brother and shrugged, “What of it?”

Rickon shrugged, “Maybe floating under the big mountain man scared Sansa so bad, that’s why her hair is white.”

“Huh?” Arya scrunched up her face, beginning to lose her patience with Rickon’s infantile ways even as she pitied the child whose only friends were a hound, a wildling, and an orphan.

“Maybe the man who’s with her saw it and got scared, too. He got white hair, too.”

“Who?”

“Dunno,” Rickon, bored with the conversation, moved to the braided rug where his wooden toys were scattered. He ought to be too old for them, but Arya supposed she shouldn’t complain so long as he wasn’t bringing them all under his bed or into his wardrobe to play. Nor did he whine when she opened the curtains, as she’d done today, to let the bright sunlight come in through the small window.

Arya pushed herself up and turned to look at Osha, who had moved away at some point, giving the siblings their space as she was wont to do.

The wilding-turned-nursemaid was staring at Arya, her shrewd eyes narrow.

“What?” Arya huffed, wondering if more silliness was going to be spouted at her.

Osha shook her head faintly, as if casting off a spell, “Clegane’s tol’ me ‘bout ‘is brother.”

Arya sighed loudly. If Clegane was shagging Osha and Dacey, Arya severely worried about the state of the world.

“Oh yeah? What did he tell you?”

Osha’s eyes went to the window. “In s’many words? That he’s evil. Pure evil, stuffed in a man’s body.”

“Aye, well, he’s not exaggerating.”

“So? You gun tell ‘im your wolf found ‘is brother?”

Arya closed her eyes in resignation and opened them in resolve, “I might, if I knew where she was. So far as I can guess, it’s anywhere north of the capital. Which means more than half the bloody continent, by area. I won’t tell him ‘cause I won’t see him go on a wild goose chase when there’s a foot of snow on the ground. Rickon needs him.”

I need him, because what if Mother never comes back?

What if Gendry never comes back?

What if Bran never comes back?

What if I never see Sansa again?

What if I never see Uncle Brynden again?

What if Jon’s been dead all this time?

Arya shook her head. It didn’t matter. She had a job to do – take care of the North and try to raise Rickon so someday he’d be able to do the same – and she wouldn’t let herself be distracted by hearing some piss-smelling men say a name that used to be on a list that she’d recite every night while trying to sleep, a habit that fell away when she started sleeping with the warmth of a man’s arms after the same man did things to her that made her very sleepy.

“…warm food and warm cunt for any man can use a bow or sword…”

Osha’s face disappeared, and all Arya saw was Sansa, her head tilted all the way back to stare up at Gregor Clegane…

“You’re a pretty one under all that muck, aren’t you?”

She rubbed at her forehead. Truly, could she not have a headache today? Could she just fucking not?

“Need a pretty little maid to help with my bath…”

Arya ignored Osha’s knowing glare and left the room, heading just across and down the hall to her own bedchamber.

“Best remember your little brother is here, girl. You do everything I tell you, might be I’ll tell Polliver not to feed him to the rats.”

Her hand reached for the door pull and got stuck there, unable to push down on the latch, unable to let go of it.

“Warm cunt…”

“Pretty little maid…”

“Feed him to the rats…”

“Son of a bitch,” Arya growled, then turned on her heels and headed for the stairwell.

Before she got there, she muttered the same curse and turned back for her bedchamber. She had to be smarter than she’d been before. Her desire to have vengeance against Roose Bolton had led to Winterfell falling into Bolton hands. What if the Bolton men had thought to explore the crypts? What if they had found Rickon and Bran, Shaggy and Summer?

And yet…

They hadn’t found her brothers, and the North and its allies had hardly lost a man in vanquishing the Boltons from Winterfell, outnumbered as the scum were.

And the Bolton bloodline was gone, unless Roose or his son had a bastard floating around somewhere…

“Son of a bitch,” she repeated a third time.

 

Jon

“He needs. Fucking. Sunlight,” Meera spoke with uncharacteristic irritation, her teeth clenched together so tightly it looked painful.

“I know,” Jon nodded. As do we all.

It had happened so gradually that none of them thought to panic until today… or tonight… or however the fuck their existence should be measured during these dark times.

Jojen never did recover from whatever had ailed him and Jon, but in the cave of the Seer, at the height of a winter that may prove to be never-ending, with an army of supernatural beings and their corpse soldiers was closing in on their sanctuary, Jojen’s rattling cough was the least of anyone’s concerns.

Which wasn’t to say it hadn’t been a concern at all. Meera was the typical protective older sibling, forcing Jojen to eat more of whatever they called sustenance on any given day. When they were lucky, that was some kind of meat that the wolves dragged to the cave, but Jon knew they could spare no more than they already were – Ghost and Summer had a responsibility to their pack, who would starve without meat. Jon’s group wouldn’t, thanks to the resourcefulness of the Children who each had centuries’ worth of experience making meals out of things that Men would never think to eat. Nor would Men want to eat it, Jon could attest. It was all either bitter, bland, or about as tender as gravel.

But when the alternative was starvation? Well, not a difficult choice.

Meera also forced Jojen to walk about the caverns to get his blood pumping and his muscles stretching. She had forced him to walk to the cave’s mouth with the rest of them, to let the sun kiss his skin for the few minutes it slanted in at just the right angle – back when the sun rose at all. She talked to him about their parents, their home, their friends, their favorite meals, all in the hopes of motivating him to care more about his health.

But over the weeks or months or years – they used to be able to tally weeks by the ladies’ bleeding, which came at the same time every two fortnights, or so both women estimated, but had at some point stopped altogether for both of them due to too much cold and darkness and too little food – Jojen gradually put up more resistance, claiming fatigue, or a need to sit with Bran during his lessons with the Seer, or a desire to sleep so he could have green dreams of his own. If he’d had any, he shared them with no one, except for vague allusions to all of them being where they were supposed to be.

And Meera and Jon and Brienne were eventually tired of debating with the young man – it took energy they didn’t have. Waking periods, however long they lasted, were reserved for the myriad chores that their survival necessitated, plus training with swords so they’d keep their fighting skills sharp, plus eating, plus relieving themselves (the only upside to the Children’s diet, which was comprised of plants, roots, bark, and bugs, was that Jon was never constipated anymore, and his shits hardly left anything behind that needed to be wiped from his arsehole).

Suffice to say, all that needed doing was enough to exhaust their undernourished bodies, and when all was done, they’d wish only for sleep, not to argue with stubborn teenage boys. Had Robb and I ever been like this? Thinking we knew better?

Jojen’s wet cough and lethargy eventually became complete fatigue. He’d wake only at their prompting and drift off again immediately after having some food or drink plied into him. Leaf and Ivy tried their concoctions, and sometimes took him off to chant around him with the other Singers, but for the time Jon and Meera and Brienne and Hodor were awake, Jojen spent more and more of it asleep.

And today (no, tonight – it was always night now even if elsewhere in the world it was day, Jon decided) he did not wake at all. Meera had shaken him, slapped him, pressed a handful of snow against his cheek, and the only thing to happen was the fluttering of his eyes behind closed lids.

“Perhaps he just needs more sleep. His body will wake when it’s ready,” Brienne offered what might be the last of her optimism – it was a well Jon knew would run dry one of these nights.

And like the ingrates they were, Jon and Meera only glared at her before the latter barked out, “More sleep?! All he does is sleep! What he needs is… is… is daylight! He needs meat and… and apples and milk and honey and…”

Jon pulled Meera against him, tucking her riotous hair under his bearded chin, after he saw her lip begin to wobble and her eyes shine.

“Shhh,” he cooed, but he could not summon real empathy, because that, too, took energy he didn’t have.

And maybe because he envied Jojen’s ability to sleep his life away, when, for Jon, sleep only brought fear and cold.

And maybe because if Jojen never woke up, Jon would consider his fate the kindest of their lot’s.

How much longer would they all live in the dark, eating enough to survive but not enough to feel full? Would they wake and sleep and wake and sleep a hundred more times before the end? A thousand? Five thousand?

And if they didn’t accomplish their mission – ending the Others – then why the fuck were they spending the rest of their lives this way?

Truly, if a day or a year from now some wight drove its rusty blade through Jon’s heart, he would die with only one regret: spending even one minute in the Seer’s cave. He would not regret failure. He would not regret his death, nor the deaths of his companions – each of whom was worth a hundred of him. He would not regret not seeing Arya or Rickon or Sansa one more time. He would not regret joining the Night’s Watch, nor betraying the Free Folk and his lover.

He would regret nothing but the time spent here; he would regret not surviving the Others and their minions so that he could make it to some warm place, even if only to keel over and die under the gentle caress of the sun’s rays.

That was the reason he remained hell-bent on winning: not because all of Westeros very likely depended on it, but so that he could feel the sun’s warmth, one more time.

He no longer told the others when he woke up shivering. He shouldn’t be cold when he slept, curled around Ghost as he was, with Meera pressed to his back. Brienne and Hodor now slept on the other side of the screen with Jojen and Hodor, sharing nothing but warmth (Jon wasn’t sure Hodor could share anything but warmth, and Jojen was uninterested in romantic or even carnal relations), all so that Meera and Jon could sleep in each other’s arms. When Bran was with them – a rarer and rarer occurrence – he’d sleep between Hodor and Jojen, with Summer sometimes coming over to Jon’s side to cuddle with Ghost, sometimes sprawling out across four pairs of human feet.

The dirt and stone of the cave proved insulating. In summer, a cave such as this would be cooler than the air without. In winter, it was warmer. In the cave, their breath didn’t fog in front of their faces except in the places that were close to the cave’s entrance. And yet Jon would wake up not sweating, as he did when bunking with Robb even if the chambers felt chilly when the boys fell asleep, but so cold he was trembling. He’d have vague recollections of dreams in which he searched but never found, felt betrayed by a mother he never knew, and experienced it all while being pelted by snow or ice. In the dreams his skin was cold, his core warm. When he woke, the cold reached the marrow of his bones even if his skin, especially where Ghost or Meera was pressed against him, was hot enough to melt butter. When Meera felt his tremors she blamed them on sadness or fear or frustration, as evidenced by the way she’d wrap him tighter in her embrace. He let her think she was right.

Though he didn’t always have the cold dreams. Other times he dreamed that he was… dead, he supposed. Dead but aware of his state, so perhaps not truly dead but in some type of illness-induced coma. There was no sight or sound or smell, no taste or touch, but there was a… an awareness of others present with him and yet not, as if each was in the same crypt, but in separate tombs. There was a familiarity to whatever or whomever was in each tomb, yet not one he couldn’t name upon waking beyond primitive emotions. Anger. Frustration. Sorrow. Longing.

Jon stroked his hand up and down Meera’s back as she wept against his neck, all the while meeting Brienne’s eyes over Meera’s curls. The stoic woman only stared back, and Jon would swear that she knew that he only cared about Jojen because the boy’s passing would hurt Meera. Brienne’s blue eyes were surprisingly guileless, and what he saw in them was something like suspicion, or perhaps fear that Jon was slipping away, just like Jojen and Bran had, though each of the three in very different ways. Jojen was slipping away from life, Bran from his own self, and Jon from… from his conscience.

There was an emptiness consuming him, shutting down his cares one by one to preserve his ability to care about what truly mattered. It wasn’t that he wished harm on Jojen or Hodor or Brienne, but that he had no energy to worry about their fates when Meera’s was so much more important to him. He hardly even worried about Bran, anymore… because the Bran he visited with on occasion seemed less like his brother and more like the Seer’s creature – a once conscientious boy who, like Jon, had abandoned all but his highest priority: honing his supernatural skills.

Nor did he worry about Arya beyond a passing ponderance. She was surrounded by the warm walls of Winterfell, with her strapping husband, her little brother, her mother, and their people. He hardly worried about Rickon; whatever the boy had endured living in the crypts of Winterfell was long over, while Jon’s dark imprisonment might just be a lifetime sentence. He hardly worried about Sansa, either; she was in the capital, where even the longest winters were never too harsh, married to a man who could afford to keep her hearth fire blazing all day and night, her body covered in the warmest wools and softest furs.

And yet, for a few minutes after waking from one of his dark dreams, he felt a gaping wound in his upper belly that could only be called longing, and a twisting lower down in his gut that could only be called failure. When he pondered what he longed for and who he’d failed, the answer that came from the deepest crevices of his conscious was always the same: family.

“I was wrong,” Meera sniffled, her voice croaky like the frogs her people liked to snack on.

“About what?” Jon asked, eyes still locked with Brienne’s, because he resented her scrutiny and her judgment and wanted her to know that he didn’t care what she thought of him. Jon and all the other sinners in this world weren’t the anomalies; Brienne with her never-ending faith, her unyielding sense of duty and honor, and the naivety that underpinned all of it – she was the anomaly.

“When you woke from your fever,” Meera’s voice trembled, “You wanted to go south. You wanted to leave this place because you feared for your kin. And I was so afraid of what we’d meet out there that I never stopped to wonder if we’d meet worse in here.”

“We haven’t,” he assured, though he hardly meant it. At this point, it only felt like a matter of time.

“Jon, I’ve been around the terminally ill before. Jojen… his heart is giving up and his body is shutting down. And I’ve watched it happen and just… I thought there would be time. That the Others would show themselves sooner than later, and either they’d end us, in which case all our worries would be for naught, or we’d end them. And if we ended them, we’d leave. The sun would shine in a blue sky. The snow would melt. Rabbits and deer and foxes would prance out of their winter homes and straight into our snares and spears. And when that happened, we’d all leave, and Jojen would recover before we even made it to the Wall. Crisp air, bright sun, fresh meat. But now… if we leave here now, it will be too late. Being out in the cold and the dark will kill him before we make it a day’s walk from here; I know it.”

Jon knew it, too. Their chance to leave had been a long time ago – probably not long after they arrived here. Well, their chance to leave with any hope to make it to some outpost on the Wall. And that hope was only factoring in the weather and the Others. The Free Folk had no doubt made some last-ditch attempt to get past the Wall, and Jon’s party would’ve walked right into them. If the Free Folk were clever, they’d try to barter Bran, Meera, Jojen, and Brienne for safe passage through the gates of the Wall. If the men of the Watch were honorable, they’d make that deal.

But more likely, the men of the Watch would kill the lot of them and all the Free Folk to ensure word never made it to Houses Stark, Reed, and Tarth.

No… most likely, the Free Folk would kill Jon’s entire party on sight, sparing perhaps only Meera so one of them could steal her as a bride. Not because the Free Folk weren’t resourceful, or that they had no concept of diplomacy, but because, in a man’s final hour, he was little more than an animal. As Jon was walking proof, desperation and hunger stripped away a person’s compassion. A starving man would steal an apple right from the mouth of a starving child. What would a hungry, desperate mob of savage people do to the southern kneelers that represented the very reason they were hungry and desperate?

No, there was no leaving this cave until the Others were here. They’d have that one chance to end this darkness, and they’d likely fail.

But Jon would still try… because he was the worst of those hungry, desperate, savages. He was the lone wolf that survived the white winds and the long night.

He had to be, or else he’d never again see the sun.

Notes:

Argh... Trying to capture the despondency that Jon would be feeling without it seeming like he's become some sort of Bad Guy. Though I do like me some dark Jon, so...

Anyway, next chapter will be a Margaery POV. Or a Sansa. Guys, I'm struggling with the order of events here, NGL, because even though the order of the chapters isn't necessarily the order of the PLOT, I'm trying to post in a way that is compelling, which means jumping back and forth between POVs, but that means forgetting what the hell I meant to write in that person's next POV. Not that I always write chapters in the order they end up being posted, but I do try to, so you won't go months between updates and forget everything about this long and now complicated story.

Well, enough bitching. I hope you liked the chapter!! Poor baby Jon - even Meera's sweet lovin' and Brienne's pep talks can't stop the sulkmaster from sulking.

BUT... well... Arya kind of got some good news, right? Even if it left her conflicted.

Chapter 59: It’s time to make more friends

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Margaery

If the Citadel offered a maester’s link in human nature, Margaery would have earned one by now.

Even in peacetime, the capital had always been rife with lessons to those with a curious mind, but now that the entire realm seemed to be under threat of a madman with a dragon, Margaery was learning more about human behavior than she cared to know. Truly, she ought to write an essay someday. Perhaps she’d write it under Willas’ name – he was just academic enough for it to be believable that the words were his, and learned men would never read it if they thought it was written by a woman. She wasn’t sure women would read it, either – in her observations, not all noble girls were lucky to have a grandmother like hers, that encouraged her to sharpen her wits rather than bury them until they withered and died.

Alas, writing her great treatise on human nature would have to wait, because these days it took most of her time just to keep up with what was going on and maintain her position as queen’s confidante. Not that she was Daenerys’ closest confidante – that would be either Ser Barristan or the dark-skinned herald, Missandei – but she was among the few trusted to even be allowed within a twenty-foot radius of the queen these days.

The queen’s paranoia was wise, for all the reasons Lady Stark had so unexpectedly pointed out up on the ramparts, when even the queen’s bodyguards were thinking only of the fact that a handsome yet clearly unhinged pirate had flown off on the back of the queen’s fire-breathing pet after issuing a vague threat of destruction at a magnitude that would send Daenerys to her knees, begging for mercy.

Margaery didn’t know whether she respected or reviled the queen for it, but either way, she knew the one thing Daenerys would never do was kneel. Margaery suspected she’d skin herself alive, hack off her own fingers and toes, and pull her hair out fistfuls at a time before kneeling. She’d walk into a noose and become dead weight before kneeling. Certainly, before she kneeled to anyone but a Targaryen, and maybe not even then.

Regardless, Euron Greyjoy had not returned to claim the queen’s fealty yet, but he’d been far from idle. The man called Crow’s Eye was earning himself a new moniker: One-Eye. As in, Euron One-Eye. Also, Euron the Kinslayer, since rumors had spread that he came into his position as ruler of the Iron Islands by killing his own brother. Thus, he was now being compared to one of the most feared and reviled Targaryens to ever live (which was saying something): Aemond Targaryen. The eyepatch and kinslaying were but the shallowest of reasons for the comparison. More pertinently, as Aemond One-Eye had once burned dozens of settlements and hundreds of acres of fertile land along the Trident, Euron One-Eye was presently burning and sacking along the Mander.

The speed with which his fleet converged on the Shield Islands gave no doubt that such had been his plan all along, which made his offer of co-rulership to Daenerys a bit of a head-scratcher for Margaery. Until Loras and Ser Percival had explained it, at which point it made too much sense. If Daenerys had agreed to the madman’s proposal, he’d have slowly convinced her that the Tyrells were plotting treason. When Father defended himself, Euron would see to it that the confrontation escalated to the point where Daenerys would wish to take military action against the Reach, or at least House Tyrell. And wouldn’t it be convenient that her new husband would have an entire armada of longships just past the Shield Islands? And wouldn’t it be convenient that half the Redwyne fleet was all the way on the other side of Westeros, guarding the capital by sea from those pesky pirates who’d been making a ruckus in the Stepstones?

One might wonder if those pirates were, mayhap, led by someone like Euron’s brother Victarion, or his niece, Asha…

Thus, one of the bitterest lessons Margaery had learned of late: to those for whom human blood is a cheap commodity, chaos is a tool. Euron Greyjoy would burn and rape and starve and steal from the richest kingdom, because it would weaken the entire continent enough that the masses and even the nobles would embrace that very man as their savior.

Margaery couldn’t help but compare the man’s tactics to those of other powerful people.

Her own grandmother, with Margaery’s father as the mouthpiece, had stopped all shipments of vital crops from the Reach to the Crownlands and Westerlands during the War of Five Kings. Had it meant the loss of hundreds of thousands of gold dragons for House Tyrell and its vassals? Most certainly. Had it meant hunger for half a million in King’s Landing and countless more beyond the city? Absolutely. Had hundreds if not thousands died as a result? Sadly, yes. And yet if it meant seeing her granddaughter as queen consort, it was a small price for Olenna Tyrell – who herself never missed a meal.

Then there was Lady Catelyn Stark – a most interesting muse of late. No doubt she had little love for Daenerys Targaryen. None besides, perhaps, a smidge of maternal instinct. Yet she had shielded the queen with her own body and name. Why? Because the queen’s death would create chaos in the city, which would have a ripple effect across the sea to wherever Sansa and her daughters were hidden away. And yet, Lady Catelyn had been the first to advise caution when dealing with Euron, either in attempt to protect the madman or the dragon or both. But why? Was it because she hoped Euron’s next actions would incite a coup against the queen? Or was it out of the same protective instinct that had her shielding the queen’s person – was it because she feared Daenerys would be vulnerable without her dragon, and that her daughter and granddaughters would be vulnerable without Daenerys? Margaery still didn’t know and likely never would, though she’d bet her favorite dress that Catelyn’s intent had not been to create chaos. Unlike Grandmama, Catelyn Tully-Stark would not sleep well while the lands of the Mander were burning and its people screaming.

Nor would Mace Tyrell. Poor Father was officially spending more time on the privy than off it. Nervous bowels, though he was also recovering from a mild case of the grippe. Grandmaester Pycelle – a walking medical (and political) oddity for the mere fact that he was still alive – had said there were different manifestations of the same ailment. For some, the lungs were most affected, for others the digestive system, but otherwise the symptoms were the same: headache and body cramps; fever and fatigue. Father had spent two days abed, shivering and sweating and complaining of aches in every part of his body that had ever been injured – even the toe he broke when he was only four years of age! – and yet could hardly catch a wink of much-needed sleep as he was constantly dashing to the privy and at some points barely making it to the chamber pot. Well, he’d caught some sleep on the privy at one point, the poor man. He’d been found there by Ser Rickard – another poor man for that very reason. Thank the Seven, the fever and aches had been gone by the third day, yet Father’s stomach was still touchy, meaning he could not eat his troubles – which were many.

Lastly, Margaery wondered what Lord Lannister thought about chaos – was it friend or foe? She had come to the conclusion that, for him, it was neither and both. He had spent decades keeping peace in the kingdoms for his once-friend, Aerys the Second. That spoke to a man who didn’t need to profit from the misfortune of others, nor to rock the boat in hopes of being the last man who hasn’t gone overboard by the end. Yet he’d also waltzed right into the capital because that once-friend was desperate enough to let him in – certainly an example of a man taking advantage of a chaotic situation. Yet what did he do once within the walls, other than let his men sack the city and then guard the throne for Robert Baratheon rather than claim it for himself? Did he truly think the dragon blood in Robert’s veins would make the people accept him better than they’d accept the man who’d been king in all but name – an effective one at that – for two decades? And if his only ambition had been to make his daughter Queen Consort, then to what end? The only way he’d arguably benefited off the crown during Robert’s reign was in usury payments on the debt owed to House Lannister – yet those payments would’ve been much greater if the queen influenced her husband to spend loosely but not to such an extreme as that the crown’s funds had to be split to make payments to not one but three lenders. Or had his plan all along been to claim the throne after those payments stopped coming? But – again – why? How had he planned to benefit from being king? Sure, House Lannister of King’s Landing could send moneys to House Lannister of Casterly Rock, but how much money was left when those payments to the Faith and the Iron Bank were still due each year? Margaery hadn’t the foggiest concept of the Crown’s finances and wasn’t about to ask a Frey to explain it to her, but by Sansa’s own indications – the dear girl thought she was subtle – Tywin did not truly want the throne but took it because the alternative was letting his inept and probably mad grandson rule.

Ultimately, the only explanation that Margaery could come up with for the great lion’s contradictory actions was this: failure. The reason she could not discern his true motive was because his ultimate goals had not been realized because he’d failed to achieve them.

Either that, or the man was playing such a long game that the goals were never meant to be realized within a matter of years but decades. Such patience was admirable, and it hinted at how the man ought to feel about chaos. Long games required quite a bit of predictions, and predictions were easier to correctly make if disruptive factors were kept to a minimum. Disruptive factors like mad kings and war and the betrayal of sons and the resurrection of dragons.

Margaery didn’t bother wondering whether Daenerys sought chaos as something of a rope she could use to climb the mountain of power, because it was clear she’d never intended to climb at all. Her dragon would fly her right to the summit, and with the help of a few humans like Varys and the Kingslayer and Ser Jorah and Ser Barristan, it’d done just that. The problem was, having not climbed every inch of that mountain, she was unfamiliar with the terrain of everything below her. She stood at the top, yes, but had no way to know which direction it was safe to step – where she’d find a foothold and where she’d find naught but empty air. And it might not’ve mattered so long as her winged chariot remained nearby, but it hadn’t.

It was sad to think – the girl was still at the top, but it suddenly looked less like an ascension and more like being stranded on an island. In all Grandmama’s lessons, she never told Margaery that the top was a lonely place to be.

She wondered if Tywin Lannister had learned that lesson back when he had a front-row seat to the decline of the last dragon king. She wondered if that was why Tywin Lannister let Robert Baratheon claim the iron throne. Could it be that the man who had seemed to live such a solitary life was afraid of the acute loneliness he’d find at the top of the mountain?

Could it be that finding companionship in a sweet little northern girl made him forget his lesson?

Or could she be giving the man too much credit; could it be that the throne had always been a temptress to the Great Lion, just as it was to countless other men?

As Margaery knew well, temptation could only be resisted for so long.

Speaking of, Ser Colton was expecting her.

Perhaps Father had shat out the last of his cowardice.

Yesterday afternoon – ten days after Euron Greyjoy flew off with the queen’s greatest weapon, Missandei, Grey Worm, and Varys arrived at the Maidenvault just as the evening meal was due to be served, along with enough Unsullied guards to give pause to any who thought to get to the dragon queen by getting to her beloved friends and councilors. Tommen and Shireen were invited to dine with the queen in her apartments. Daenerys had hosted them multiple times, but never together. Missandei then turned to Dickon Tarly and said he was welcome to join his friends. It struck Margaery as odd, and when she looked back at her father pointedly, he had slowly come to have the same impression. Men are like horses. No matter how thirsty, some must be led right to the stream before they’ll think to drink.

Margaery wasn’t even sure she wasn’t being paranoid, but she couldn’t shake the notion that if Tommen, Shireen, and Dickon walked into Maegor’s to dine with the queen, they wouldn’t be returning to the Maidenvault. The queen had no reason to harm them, nor to consider any of the three likely to conspire treason. It was not a statement of suspicion of any of those young people, but a sign of distrust of House Tyrell.

Because without her dragon, she posed no threat to the Tyrells, except for what she could order Tyrion Lannister, Stannis Baratheon, and Lady Melessa Tarly to do on her behalf if they wished for their kin to live.

Her father was not a quick-witted man, but in truth he was no fool, either. He was a slow learner, but he did learn, eventually. And living in a different place than grandmother for one of the few times in his life meant his brain was forced to adapt. There was a saying Margaery heard Willas use – “necessity breeds invention”. Mace Tyrell had never needed to be particularly intelligent or witty, not with the Queen of Thorns ever-able to fight his battles, and ever-willing to do so, since as a woman she’d never have battles of her own to fight.

But he’d needed both yesterday, along with courage, and he’d found all of it.

Missandei, after receiving a suspicious glare and nod from Dickon, smiled at Margaery, “Of course, our queen’s dear friend is always welcome.”

Perhaps because she did think that Daenerys genuinely considered her a friend – unlike the other three who’d been invited – her inclusion made Margaery feel less guarded. Or perhaps because she knew that Daenerys needed Father more than he needed her and that she’d not dare take one of his beloved children into her possession. So, deciding her initial reaction had indeed been paranoia, she’d smiled earnestly and gone to rise only to be stopped by a heavy hand on her shoulder. She looked back and to her left to find her father looming over her, his gaze fixed on the eunuch.

“My daughter will be supping here tonight. Please make her apologies to the queen. Hers and Lord Tarly’s.”

Missandei blinked in confusion, her skills in diplomacy having reached their limit, it would seem. It was the Spider who spoke up, “You speak for Lord Tarly, my lord?”

Dickon opened his mouth but Father’s voice carried over it, “Aye. He’s my bannerman, it’s true, but he is young and new to lordship. His father would ask me to speak for the lad.”

Dickon looked ready to protest when Shireen, of all people, shot him a look that said, “Shut that pretty mouth if you know what’s good for you.”

And the boy did, so fast it was comical.

“Speak for him over matters of where to sup?” the Spider tittered.

Mace Tyrell said nothing to that, but his gaze was certainly not one of surrender.

The Spider nodded slowly, the pretense of congeniality dropped, “Very well. It will be noted that Lord Dickon and Lady Margaery refused the queen’s invitation.”

An unspoken threat hovered in the air like a mist – exacerbated by the fact that the eunuch held Father’s eyes rather than turning to leave. Obviously, he was giving Mace time to understand his meaning – that the queen would be insulted by the refusal – and to change his mind for fear of displeasing her.

Many moments passed, the room quiet but for crackling hearth fires, and neither man moved an inch.

But Loras did.

Her sweet but sometimes impulsive brother rose from his chair, standing at full height. Unarmed, it ought not to have been intimidating, but Margaery felt a shiver go through her at her brother’s resolute gaze. Known fan of men, flowers, and fashion, ‘Loras Tyrell’ was not a name to strike fear in the hearts of men, and yet the truth was that few in this realm could best him in a fair swordfight. One of them was currently in the dungeon tower, and another was away from the capital on some errand of the queen’s. The other two were Cleganes – unlikely to show their faces in this city while the dragon queen held sway, unless the one was dragged in by bounty-hunters.

Unfortunately, Loras carried no sword at the moment, and she doubted the spoon laid out in anticipation of being served soup tonight would do him much good against the likes of Grey Worm.

“Ah, Ser Loras,” Varys turned to him, eyes shrewd as ever, “I see you are hoping to take your sister’s place since she is unavailable. I suppose the queen would welcome your presence, even if the two of you did get off on the wrong foot.”

Ser Perceval rose next… then Ser Colton… then Ser Rickard… One by one every man in the room rose but the trio who sat with Lady Stark. The latter Margaery considered a strategic display of neutrality rather than an unwitting display of cowardice.

Grey Worm lacked the Spider’s penchant for subtlety, and probably didn’t understand the need for the pretense to begin with. He planted the blunt end of his spear on the floor and faced Ser Loras, “You and your friends have no weapon. Don’t be stupid.”

“No weapons?” a voice drawled – the first voice to have spoken after the invitations were issued. Father stepped around Margaery, partially blocking her view. As a member of the queen’s small council, he was the only one in this room bearing arms, and yet all of them including Margaery knew that he was less deadly with a sword than the average squire.

Except that wasn’t the weapon he was referring to.

“Neither my son nor my daughter nor my bannerman will be supping with our good queen tonight. Nor tomorrow night. Nor the night after. And so on. You wish to take Lady Shireen and Lord Tommen? I do not speak for them.”

Tommen’s eyes darted around, looking for guidance. Margaery went to shake her head – to let him know that he didn’t have to, but Shireen stood up.

The girl was the smarter of the pair, even if Tommen was not so dense as he seemed.

“I’d be happy to join her grace in supping this eve,” Shireen curtsied briefly then moved to stand between Lord Varys and Missandei, taking the latter’s arm as if the teenage girls were best of friends.

It was a sacrifice if Margaery ever saw one. Giving herself over to the queen’s direct possession to appease the woman and relieve the tension in the room. No doubt Shireen feared what would happen to the brave but unarmed knights, or even Father, should the Spider insist on taking either Margery or Loras.

“I, too, accept the queen’s generous invitation,” Tommen stated as he rose, tipped his head, and moved to stand on Varys’ other side. Whether he was doing what Shireen was doing because he had no idea what to do, elsewise, or whether he wanted to ensure Shireen wasn’t alone in being a much more literal hostage than they had been to-date, Margaery would not find out.

“Very well,” Varys sighed, but the words were nearly lost under the slave gibberish that Grey Worm spat out, which had the other Unsullied stepping fully into the room, moving toward Loras’ table at the same moment Grey Worm pivoted and took a defensive stance facing Father.

Multiple things happened at once:

Margaery stood, putting her hand on Father’s right elbow, not with enough force to impede him if he drew his weapon, but enough to make him think the choice through longer than he otherwise would.

Lady Stark’s three guards stood. They were only permitted to be armed when leaving the Keep with their lady, but they formed human shields for said lady, nonetheless.

The other knights moved to put themselves in front of Loras. It was another shield wall – one that Loras appreciated less than Lady Stark by the tsking noise she heard her brother make at finding himself protected like some simpering maiden.

“Commander—” Varys started, this time being over-spoken by Father.

“ENOUGH!” Father roared. Margaery blinked at the back of his fat neck – had that really been his voice? “Tell those that don’t understand the Common Tongue – I cannot stop them from slaughtering unarmed men and leaving here with my son, but if they do, I’ll be pulling all my men from this city and not a single speck of grain will be shipped here from the Reach as long as she sits the throne. Do I make myself clear?”

“Of course,” Varys spoke, then mumbled something to Grey Worm, who eyed Father coldly while saying something to the Unsullied. They had not yet attacked, only positioned themselves within striking distance of the knights protecting Loras. Men of the West, Riverlands, and North moving to protect a son of the Reach. Not because Loras’ people were the reason their bellies were full, but because a certain comradery had been formed among all in this building. It was a strange way to live, with boredom and worry the worst sensations any of them had to experience, and yet with full cognizance that they were hostages. Only Father and Margaery had freedom to come and go as they pleased – with the caveat being that Margaery couldn’t leave the city without Unsullied chaperones “for her own protection”. Lady Catelyn and Father didn’t even have that much restriction put on them, because it wasn’t needed. Somewhere in this world, Catelyn’s kin lived with a blade to the throat – she wouldn’t openly or even secretly conspire against the queen until and unless said kin were returned to the loving embrace of Winterfell or Riverrun.

In Father’s case, the dynamic was much more nuanced. The blade to his throat was double-sided, with Daenerys’ pale skin touching the other edge. Daenerys needed Father’s men and his food. Father needed Daenerys’ friendship to have any chance at power – that shiny bauble that certain Tyrells were positively obsessed with. Well, perhaps need was the wrong word as of ten days ago. Without the threat of seeing his two youngest children burned to a crisp, Father suddenly had more leverage than Daenerys. And yet he was unwilling to give up his attachment to the throne. No doubt he still expected Daenerys to someday take Willas or Loras as husband, meaning Mace’s grandson would be Lord Protector of the Seven Kingdoms. Could he easily put himself or one of his sons on the throne directly, right now? Of course. Well, barring the threat that the Lannister forces in the city posed, but that could be neutralized by seizing Tommen and all the other Westermen – including Tywin Lannister – residing in either the dungeons, the dungeon tower, or the Maidenvault.

But what claim would secure Mace Tyrell’s reign? Targaryen blood? No. Legality? No. He didn’t even have a name that dated back to the Age of Heroes; House Tyrell’s family tree went back three centuries to a lowborn servant. His taking the throne would be conquest, and conquest alone. Even Robert Baratheon, who had many good reasons to rebel and a Targaryen grandmother, had been called “the usurper” until the end of his days. Peaceful his reign may have been, but the man himself was not exactly revered, only respected because of his military prowess. That he was able to hold onto the throne had more to do with him being foster-son of Lord Arryn and goodson of Lord Lannister.

Tywin Lannister likely would’ve had a peaceful reign, and he’d also have had reverence – whether one loved him or hated him, they feared him.

But no one feared Mace Tyrell. No one feared Willas the cripple or Loras the fairy. No one would fear Garlan if they realized he’d let Leonette sit his throne, ruling his lands, while he spent his days fox-hunting and sparring.

No… Daenerys Targaryen was Father’s last chance at power. He could not turn his cloak a fourth time. Or is it fifth? Well, he could presumably turn his cloak back to crimson by claiming his loyalty to Daenerys had been a ruse all along, a way to get close enough to his liege’s enemy to eliminate her. Has it been? But such a strategy was not without risk. Not only did House Lannister have the most to lose, hostage-wise, but there was no guarantee that whatever lion or little lion emerged on top would believe Mace’s claims of loyalty.

All Margaery knew for certain was that her father’s options suddenly looked less limited, as the Unsullied retreated backwards to where they’d been standing originally – near the doorway – and the stand-off was over as quickly as it had begun. No more words were spoken. Shireen and Tommen left with a Missandei who was doing an admirable job pretending they were honored guests, not leverage. Lord Varys dipped his head at his fellow council member, Grey Worm cast a glare at Loras – even cockless men had their pissing matches – and then they were all gone.

Margaery let out a shuddering breath, only then aware of her heart’s thudding. Father waited until the footsteps of the Unsullied were too far away to hear before turning and pulling her against his chest.

In the grand scheme of things, it was barely a violent display and yet Margaery was trembling.

“It’s alright, love,” Father had promised.

She hated that she needed to be soothed. As she stood in the warmth of the dual-hearth hall of the Maidenvault, Garlan was mustering a host to march to defend the lands of the Mander against a hundred Ironborn longships and a fire-breathing dragon. Father had already dispatched half the men they had in the capital for the same purpose, at the queen’s orders. They were meant to meet with Lannister men that Lord Tyrion or one of his delegates would lead south – also on queen’s orders.

And Willas, who’d never ride into battle unless there was a dire shortage of men in the world (in which case, there’d likely also be a shortage of battle), was coordinating it all from Highgarden, probably growing a gray hair every hour, the poor worrywart.

And this was just the beginning, Margaery was smart enough to understand even if Father and Loras hadn’t explained it to her. Euron Greyjoy was toying with Daenerys’ realm like a cat with a mouse. With the dragon, he could have burned entire castles to the ground, or threatened such to secure a surrender. Each surrender would add soldiers and horses to his army which – so far – was comprised of men who only knew how to fight on ship decks and beaches. But he was only just stinging the coastal villages, or so initial word had said. The raven-delivered message received yesterday morn had been sent in obvious haste from House Hewett on Oakenshield. A small but stout place it was, but the lord had bluntly and unapologetically stated that he would hold strong against reavers as long as possible but would surrender before letting a single one of his people burn by dragonfire.

Or so Father had relayed, without providing the details Margaery craved. Like, what had the queen looked like, when seeing in plain ink a lord’s statement that he’d surrender to the mere threat of dragonfire, without loosing a single arrow.

It would’ve been the longer way to the summit, but Daenerys might stand firmer on her perch today if she’d taken it.

Soon, Margaery feared, wondering about the dragon queen’s thoughts, or Lord Lannister’s, or Lady Catelyn’s, or Grandmama’s, would be a luxury she didn’t have time for. Soon they’d hear that Hewett had surrendered or fallen… then another castle… then another. They’d hear that grain silos and wagon trains had been seized or burned. Soon they’d hear about this lord’s daughter being carried off by fiends, this one’s son being slayed by them…

Would Euron Greyjoy go after Highgarden? Better question – why wouldn’t he? Well, except that soon tens of thousands of men of the Reach and (hopefully) the West would be keeping him and his beast engaged. How many men would die to spare each silo of grain, each acre of grapevines?

And what was the dragon queen going to do about it?

So, the morning after almost being taken hostage by Grey Worm and his men, Margaery sought out her father before he even had time to sit down to his porridge.

“Margaery,” Father greeted, not hiding his surprise to find her up and about at this hour.

“Father,” Margaery made her bottom lip wobble, and with a click of his tongue Father was pulling her in for a hug. Among Mace Tyrell’s many talents, hugging was high on the list.

“I told you last night: there is no need to be afraid,” he soothed, “I will speak to her grace today and make it very clear that my children and the children of my--- and my leal men will not be turned into leverage for her.”

“No more than we already are?” Margaery clarified.

Father let out a small snort – an agreement, but only to an extent. He knew there was nothing stopping him from leaving the city with all his men and both children; nothing but the fear of making an enemy of a monarch, no matter how weak she looked at the moment.

“I’ve been thinking,” Margaery continued, voice a soft whisper into her father’s neck.

“Hmpf. You take after your grandmother, so of that I have no doubt.”

Margaery smiled, “I was thinking that it’s time to make more friends.”

The slight back and forth motion that Father had been moving them to was only noticeable after it stopped, which was the instant after those words left her mouth.

“I like to think we have many friends,” he whispered, in the way he spoke to grandmother – confident in tone but uncertain, by inflection. The way a more honest man might say, “I like to think we have many friends, don’t we?”

“How many that live beyond the boundaries of the Reach?” she posed the very critical question, and its equally critical mate, “And how many that are our friends only so long as we each choose to keep faith with a certain mutual friend?”

Even Mace Tyrell had that one puzzled out in only a moment, “Do not speak of treason, daughter. Last night must’ve rattled your senses, but—”

“I don’t. I speak of preparedness. I speak of… making sure those who’ve had your friendship know it – lest the tide turn, as it has done so many times in the past half decade.”

“What do you know?” he asked in a low, almost threatening voice.

“Nothing. I only watch, Father. I only notice things. Like the arrival of certain people. Like the notable departures that happen to coincide with those arrivals. Like the recent… whereabouts… of certain people…”

In truth, she didn’t know precisely what it meant, only that it meant something. She hoped Father, with all he was privy to on the queen’s council, and his more extensive life experience, might be able to put the puzzle pieces together.

Lady Catelyn arrives in the city but has yet to bend the knee. She lingers here, as if waiting for something, and it is certainly not the queen’s ear – she’s already gained that to a large degree as of eleven days ago.

The Kingslayer leaves with only vague explanation and zero fanfare.

Word spreads that Lord Baratheon has ridden one of the queen’s wayward dragons during a stormy night on Dragonstone.

Lady Catelyn was with Lord Baratheon on that same stormy night.

Euron Greyjoy sneaks into the city – no difficult feat – and claims the queen’s allegedly tamed dragon – a near impossible feat.

Lady Catelyn advocates against the instant execution of Euron Greyjoy, which would possibly lead to the instant death of his recently claimed dragon.

Lady Catelyn protects the queen with her own body.

Euron Greyjoy begins his attack on the realm’s most vital region.

The queen orders Tyrell and Lannister men to respond with military action.

The queen moves Shireen and Tommen into Maegor’s – Margaery confirmed this morning that neither had returned to the Maidenvault last night nor early this morn.

The queen tries to bring Dickon and Margaery to Maegor’s but Father refused, in doing so showing his hand to the queen, but only once certain the queen’s own hand could not best his.

Margaery felt as if the entire world was living on the edge of a blade being balanced on a fingertip. What she didn’t know was, whose fingertip, and what would happen when the blade fell?

Notes:

Not entirely happy with this chapter, though I'm loving writing Margaery's POV because I think she's close enough to her father and shrewd enough (like her grandmother) to have lots of THOUGHTS and IDEAS about what's going on, without knowing anything for a fact. I love to write what she thinks/observes about the major players in place of a POV of one of those players.

I think Daenerys trying to hoard her valuable hostages in Maegor's is a reasonable reaction to the loss of her dragon. If it taking 10 days seems weird to you, well, I can only say she was weighing the options and taking advice from her council. Of course, the first day or two she was probably numb from seeing her favorite dragon fly away under the control of a notorious madman - and that's his reputation among his own people who are all "it's okay to steal anything, and that includes people".

I also hope the dynamic between Dany and Mace seems authentic. The Tyrells want to be attached to the throne but not the one sitting in it - I imagine Olenna has that in common with Tywin. That means, in short, whoever's ass is in the throne has their loyalty - with the exception of Joffrey, who isquite obviously doing everything he can to make people want to assassinate him AND who would never warm to Tyrells anyway thanks to Cersei's influence. With the Tyrell/Baratheon numbers Renly had a better chance of taking and keeping the throne than Joffrey had of waking up the next morning, so in that case the aspiring king was the safer bet over the incumbent.
Suffice to say Daenerys looked like the safe bet with her dragon nearby, but now? Well, they might feel less enthusiastic about her. And yet, will they move against her when she *may* be the only person who can regain control over Drogon? Will they move against her if, so far as they know, Rhaegal may yet come la-di-daing into the capital to help his mother?
Urgh, here I am defending my plot choices. I can't help myself. It's just that I think through the domino effects of each event six ways to Sunday. It's really not healthy.

Chapter 60: A Lannister always pays his debts

Notes:

Another bachelorette-party-gag-gift-monster-dong-you-pray-your-friend-never-actually-uses of a chapter.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Tywin

“House Myatt,” Tywin lowered himself down then pushed himself back up, his joints protesting more than his muscles now that he’d had months of this form of exercise.

If he was only eating something more than frumenty, porridge, mealy apples, thin soups, and of course the ever-popular prison staple: stale bread, he might say he was in the best shape of his life.

Lowering and lifting his body again, he snorted at that notion, knowing he could never make that case. He may be keeping his muscles from wasting away, but there was nothing to be done for the rest of him. He’d taken to rolling the waistband of his pants so they wouldn’t fall off, and his tattered tunic fit him more like a nightgown. The thing had more holes and tears than he cared to count, though at least a wool jerkin had been delivered to him some weeks ago. Apparently, the queen didn’t want her caged lion freezing to death. Tywin doubted he would – the underground portions of any city were always cool but never actually freezing. Anyone who’d ever dug a hole during winter knew this; the top foot or two of soil would be rock-hard from frozen water content, but below that was mud or loose earth for as far down as one could dig.

Still, he supposed the damp cold of subterranean life could make him ill, so he appreciated the jerkin and the extra blankets he’d been provided, though he’d trade half of the latter for even the cheapest bedroll. To be made to sleep on stone with only a blanket or two for cushion was a particularly devious sort of torture – one that meant Tywin never slept for hours continuously, always waking to roll to his other side in search of comfort he knew would be shallow and brief before every part of his body in contact with the stone would protest, at which point he’d roll over again.

Did Daenerys Targaryen know how miserable this was, or had she convinced herself it was mercy to keep him alive, to allow torchlight to spill into his cell, to give him a warm jerkin and plenty of blankets?

Thinking about his successor made Tywin’s limbs burn with a desire for violence that he could not express as he wished, so he channeled it into his exercises.

“House Myatt,” he repeated as he lowered and lifted again, “Current lord Willem, who has naught but daughters – the presumed heir being Ella. Willem’s predecessor was his father, Lord Andric, son of Alic, nephew of Rollam, son of Willem. He was the fourth… no, fifth Willem to rule House Myatt. The first being its founder, a Casterly bastard beloved by his uncle, the then-ruler of House Casterly, whose name was Myatt.” Tywin pushed himself back up, “Though, who bloody knows? We don’t even know how Lann the Clever took over Casterly Rock, do we? Popular rumor is he sicced trained lions on the male Casterlys then snuck into all the female Casterlys bedchambers and impregnated them while they slept, none the wiser until their tummies started rounding. Though knowing what I know of lions and women, I find that highly unlikely. More likely House Lannister started much as House Baratheon did – with some ambitious rogue killing the lord and wedding his only daughter. Not so very clever, is it?”

He stopped talking as he heard distant, heavy footsteps approaching. As he was the only one housed in this corridor of the dungeons, he knew that meant to expect a visitor.

He stood up, making sure he looked relaxed but alert, not frightened or leery.

Ser Barristan’s long white hair glinted gold as he looked in at Tywin while mumbling to the eunuch the words that most likely translated to ‘open it’, because the eunuch did just that, and Ser Barristan stepped inside the cell confidently, placing his own torch in a sconce.

“Please turn around, Lord Lannister.”

“Never took you for one to stab a man in the back.”

“And about that much you’re right. It’s your son who earned that reputation, not I.”

“Earned it? No. He sliced open Aerys’ throat, yet people prefer to think a Kingslayer must also be a backstabber. For so long I resented them for it. Turns out they were right all along.”

“Funny,” Ser Barristan did not look amused, “Turn around.”

Tywin looked down and saw the man was holding a manacle. He looked back up and met the self-righteous twat’s eyes, “Will it be sword, gallows, or fire? The latter would send a strong message, to be sure, but if she wishes to get in one final insult, best would be to hang me, right in the main square, alongside all the run-of-the-mill rapists and murderers.”

Ser Barristan must surely be annoyed, but the man was better than most at hiding it. He only gave Tywin an unimpressed glare until the latter turned around, even making it easy by bringing his hands behind his back.

This was the point during which Jaime, if he was in this position, would throw his head back if Ser Barristan’s nose was close enough, or reach quickly and blindly for the man’s sword or dagger. He’d cut the man down efficiently then do the same to the eunuch and all the others he encountered.

But what good would it do Tywin to escape and go on the run? Bad as he smelled, the Queen’s men wouldn’t even need a bloodhound to track him if he tried to hide out somewhere in the city, and if he managed to get outside the city, the queen would take advantage of her bird’s eye perspective to locate him.

Even if he did make it to some haven – and Casterly Rock was the only one he’d trust until he understood the current political climate – the queen could simply have Tommen or Jeyne or Jocelyn brought to just outside his walls, threaten to feed him or her to the dragon, and Tywin would turn himself in. Not because he should, but because he wouldn’t be able to stop himself.

And he would not let Daenerys Targaryen smirk over the victory. He would not suffer the humiliation of l losing to the girl again.

So he did nothing as Ser Barristan bound his wrists, tempting as it was to smash in the face of the person who’d used his status as a man of principles to convince Sansa to leave the Red Keep.

They walked down the corridor, then the next, then the next, until they came to what Tywin knew was the main stairway that led to ground level. They ascended, and through a slim window in the round stone wall of the dungeon tower Tywin caught a glimpse of sunlight. It was not as blinding as it would’ve been if he’d been housed in the true Black Cells, but the sheer whiteness of it, in contrast to the gentle amber and orange of a torch, made his eyes want to squint and his cheekbones and brow start to ache.

He didn’t show that, either.

Up they ascended, the temperature increasing with each step, until Ser Barristan led him by the elbow into one of the cells. In there Tywin found two of the eunuch guards and a lad of perhaps sixteen namedays who was dressed in the green-trimmed attire of a House Tyrell servant.

Tywin’s eyes left the boy to find a large wash basin – the type smallfolk used for their baths and laundry – had been brought in and filled with water that was still steaming.

Gradually un-squinting his eyes, Tywin saw that a table and pair of chairs sat under the high, narrow window that would allow a prisoner to feel sunlight at certain times of day without actually seeing the world beyond the tower. In the far-left corner sat a pot-belly stove, the flames within it strong and bright. In the far-right corner, a single cot with a bare mattress would look, to any free man, like a reminder of the lonely fate of any soul made to live in this room. To Tywin it looked like the key to the best sleep he’d had in months. At the end of it sat a pile of neatly folded clothes and, on the floor nearby, a pair of boots that looked roughly his size.

Now he was even more certain he was to be executed on the morrow. The queen wanted him to look clean and well cared for, so none of her courtiers would realize the cruelty of a man spending the better part of the year in a dungeon cell – much less a lifetime of it.

He ought to be panicking, to know his time was near.

He only felt like crying tears of joy to know he’d get to feel warm water before the end. A hearty meal would probably be brought up, too, with another tonight and maybe even one in the morning. He’d walk to the headman’s block, the gallows, or the dragonpit with a full belly and in clothes that didn’t reek so badly that even Tywin was sickened by their odor.

He stood not on ceremony, though for the sake of his pride nor did he let himself smile or seem over-anxious. “I presume that bath is for me?” he directed at the boy – a valet, he now assumed.

The boy nodded, “Yes, my lord. Do you need assistance with your attire?”

Tywin snorted, “To touch these clothes – or smell them up close – is a punishment I’d not wish on my worst enemy.”

The boy offered a restrained smile – obviously uncertain whether it was rude to laugh – as he watched Tywin pull the tunic over his head and throw it as far as he could behind him. In the process, he twisted enough to see that Ser Barristan had stepped into the cell and closed the door that was solid wood but for a small square opening at about a grown man’s eye level and a lower opening even narrower, clearly designed for plates or bowls or other items to be passed through. Flanking Ser Barristan were the two eunuchs, who looked about as interesting as the ones who stood guard outside Tywin’s dungeon cell.

“Well, now I know what a whore feels like,” Tywin said as toed off his shoes – the clasps of which had broken some weeks ago. He kicked them toward the tunic, then divested his socks and let them join the shoes, chuckling as he wondered if he’d get a reaction out of one of the Unsullied by throwing the socks directly at them, but deciding he’d rather not let a beating ruin what was turning out to be the best day of his life since he followed Jaime out of Maegor’s via secret tunnels. Next, he pulled off the under-tunic that quite possibly smelled worse than the socks. When he was down to only his pants and unders, he stood up to his full height. “I’d suggest you cover your eyes,” he directed at the guards, “if I’d lost my cock, the last thing I’d want to see is another man’s.” When neither of them made any reaction and Selmy only pointedly looked away in obvious annoyance, Tywin shrugged, “Suit yourselves.” He didn’t even need to untie the waistband, just unroll it once and both pants and unders dropped to the floor together. Tywin stepped out of them and turned toward the tub, not looking to see if the Unsullied were ogling what had been stolen from them before their prime. “Then again,” he directed to the valet, “if I’d lost my cock, I’d probably throw myself from the nearest balcony with all due haste.”

The valet snorted faintly and averted his eyes politely as Tywin straddled then sunk his arse down into the basin, moaning as the warm water came up to mid-thigh and navel. There was little he wouldn’t do to have his old copper tub, the one which he could sink into up to the neck, but this was… Well, perhaps the best bath in his life if only for how over-due it was.

Though he faced away from the guards, he closed his eyes. Within a few moments he heard a chair being lifted then put down nearer to the tub. “Soap, cloth, and a scrub brush for you, my lord. Whenever you’re ready. I’ll leave you to your soak unless and until you need my assistance.”

Tywin hummed, “Thank you…?”

“Willem, my lord.”

Tywin snorted, “A good name. Do you serve Lord Tyrell?”

“I… served his son. I was Ser Loras’ personal attendant, for a time. Now I do a little of everything for those Tyrells residing in the Maidenvault.”

“Willem…” Ser Barristan warned.

“I doubt it’s a state secret, Selmy,” Tywin said, “There are only so many domestic buildings in the Red Keep.”

“Still,” Ser Barristan huffed, “No need to chat about the goings-on in the capital, Willem.”

“Right you are,” Tywin agreed, speaking without opening his eyes, “I’d much prefer to hear how things are going in the West, or the Riverlands, or the North mayhap.”

“You know what I mean,” Ser Barristan grumbled.

“Apologies, Selmy. I’ll stop teasing you; I know you never could take a joke.”

“I found little amusing during my tenure serving Robert Baratheon and his… family.”

“Nor can you make a joke, apparently. Or was that meant to be an insult? If so, try harder.”

“Ah, that’s right. You cared nothing for your daughter and grandson. I suppose to wound you I’d have to strike closer to, say, your second family.”

Tywin opened his eyes, staring up at the small window, “You could certainly try.”

He heard Ser Barristan shift on his feet.

“Hmpf. For the Lady’s sake, I won’t. Wash yourself, Lannister. Our queen is generous, but her patience is not infinite.”

Tywin didn’t say anything to that, though he wondered what she could possibly wish to say to him on the eve of his execution. Perhaps another speech about how his death was about justice, not vengeance? Or would it be one last prod at him? No – probably some lecture on morality.

He supposed he could endure it, whatever it was, if it meant more time in this cell rather than the one underground.

“No wonder I’m being cleaned up. Her grace shouldn’t have to suffer prisoner stench,” he spoke pointedly before sitting up and reaching for the chunk of soap and the cloth. He’d put the scrub brush to use, but only on the areas he couldn’t get clean with the cloth. His pale skin looked almost papery with so little fat beneath it.

I’ll look like a feeble old man when I walk to my death, but my chin will be high and I will not give her the satisfaction of my fear. I will not tremble, I will not cry, I will not beg. I will not scream even if I am engulfed in dragon flame.

Though I’ll be given an opportunity to have last words, and it is an opportunity best not squandered.

But what to say?

Tywin sat at the table where, sure enough, a midday meal had been delivered, though by the fading brightness in the room he suspected it was close to supper time.

It had been probably two hours since he was brought here. In that time, he had (with Willem’s help), scrubbed himself from head to toe until the water was as gray as the stones of the dungeon, then sat in the chair near the stove, wrapped in a drying sheet, while Willem attended his nails then trimmed his beard to his preferred length and used a razor to neaten it up around the edges. His hair was also cut almost to the scalp – he had so little of it on the top of his head that it would only look ridiculous to maintain the style he’d had when first taking the throne and for most of his life prior to then. Back then it had long-since receded from his forehead, but there was enough at the top of his dome to keep it a couple inches long and swept back at the top and sides. When he asked Willem to tell him how much of his scalp could be seen from above, the lad nervously said, “Is this like when a lady asks if a certain color dress complements her hair?”

Tywin had gotten a kick out of that, “No, it’s like when a man with a desire to live asks his arms-trainer what’s wrong with his stance.”

“Well, in that case… I see more freckles than hairs, Lord Lannister.”

And so, his hair had been trimmed short, though long enough to be more than stubble.

It shouldn’t matter, he supposed, except that it was the last hair trim he’d have in his life, and likely to be the image conjured by hundreds when they thought of the Great Lion of Lannister.

Willem helped him into the provided clothes. Unders, hose, wool stockings, trousers, wool under-tunic, linen tunic, and quilted suede doublet. He pulled on the second pair of stockings, knowing it must be frigid outside based on the sample he got when on the ground level of the dungeon tower. The boots, a bit loose – though that was better than too tight – were donned last. Finally, he felt almost like the man and lord he was, except that the fare brought in shortly thereafter was nothing like what the Warden of the West would eat, except when on campaign. Venison steak with boiled potatoes – with no seasoning that his palate could detect. The delicacy of the meal was the chunk of brown bread – still warm – that’d been given a careless but generous swipe of butter. He hadn’t tasted butter in months, and his mouth salivated at the thought. He’d save that for last.

He cut each of the potatoes in half so the steam could escape, then went to cut the meat, his stomach grumbling so loudly that a different Tywin would have been embarrassed that three other men heard it (Willem had been dismissed by Selmy once done tending to Tywin’s grooming and dressing).

“I’d suggest not eating too fast,” Selmy warned just before Tywin brought the fork to his mouth with a fourth bite of meat ready to be consumed.

The feeling that washed over him prickled every speck of his skin, flushed open every one of his pores.

He stared down at the tin plate and found himself back in Harrenhal, his eyes frequently moving from his tasks to spy on the pretty, copper-haired whore eating his supper. It hadn’t been particularly ladylike, the way she inhaled the food, but that only solidified Tywin’s belief that she was a commoner and his suspicion that the men in power at Harrenhal were feasting while keeping their servants and prisoners on the brink of starvation.

Starvation was a particularly cruel way to die. Crueler even than the Tickler’s method which involved a rat, a bucket, and a torch. Tywin knew that, to this day, the reason he respected Stannis Baratheon was for the fact that the man had chosen that most extreme form of suffering over surrendering his brother’s castle. Tywin had always believed he’d do the same, but he wasn’t so certain anymore. What was his home but a dark, lonely rock? If he decided to try for an escape, and successfully made it to Casterly Rock, what would be the point other than to condemn another Lannister to his punishment? There was nothing for him there but gold. No redhead discovering her fiery side by honing her claws on him. No baby girls so pretty that to look upon them was to find a reason to believe in the Gods. No brother who was the only person he’d count as a friend. He’d have kin there, but not his family.

He stared at the hunk of meat on the tines of the fork, remembering the way Sarina had sweated and panted at the ill feeling that afflicts empty bellies that are filled too quickly.

It occurred to him that she’d have never learned to use those claws if their marriage came about in any other way. If Robb Stark had offered up his sister as part of some terms of surrender, would Sansa have gone to their wedding bed as anything but a trembling child woefully aware that the man taking her maidenhead was her family’s enemy? No… In having to play the part of a strumpet for the good of her brother’s cause, she’d freed herself of all the reservations that would have made their marriage one of cold courtesy and forced intimacy. Tywin knew because, not long after the twins were born, Sansa had tried to erect those walls so that she might not feel like a traitor to her own values. Tywin had at first assured himself that it mattered not if he was denied his wife’s warmth, but when he went to sleep shivering each night, he knew it for a lie.

It was another thing that didn’t matter anymore. His wife was dead – perhaps that was the real reason he was meeting with the queen. Perhaps it was also the reason he was being killed on the morrow. Perhaps Daenerys was willing to risk keeping around a beaten-down lion with too much to lose, but not a lion with only blood and vengeance on the mind.

He wondered how it had ended for Sansa. Had it been something as pointless as a fever? Or had she died because Ser Jorah did not appreciate her fire the way Tywin did?

Had it been quick?

Had it been painful?

Had Ser Jorah, that sewer scum of a human being, hurt Tywin’s wife?

His hand clenched around the handle of the fork, the cheap metal bending.

He heard Selmy approaching and stood abruptly, gripping the fork not in some act of posturing – as if the Old Lion was as deadly with fork as the White Bull was with sword – but because if he didn’t have something to squeeze, he might just find himself crying.

“How?” he asked sharply.

The knight stopped walking, eyes going to the fork then back up to Tywin’s face, “How what?”

“How did my wife die?”

Ser Barristan’s brows furrowed in confusion, “Your wife is not dead.”

“Don’t LIE to me!” Tywin shouted, then threw the fork with all his might against the wall, just because he needed to, “Was it your queen’s plan all along? Kill Sansa lest she someday become a nuisance for her keepers? Surely, it’s good enough to have my daughters! Has she been dead all this time?! Did she ever even make it out of the bay? Did one of these mindless horse-fuckers throw her into the freezing water, or was he good enough to slit her throat instead? Well?!” Tywin took a step forward, “Well?! Answer me, you self-righteous prick!!” he used both hands to shove the knight’s chest…

Or started to, at least. Selmy caught his right wrist and used Tywin’s momentum against him, spinning him then slamming him down on the table’s surface by twisting Tywin’s arm back and up, using pain compliance to his advantage. The plate of food bounced then teetered on the edge of the table for a moment before the half-potatoes rolled in the same direction, making the light tin plate topple over itself then fall to the chair Tywin had been sitting in not even a minute ago.

There was no point in using his free arm to push himself up – it would only make the left shoulder, elbow, and wrist hurt so badly he’d crumple back down. He could only stay there, bent at the hip, left cheek against the table’s cold surface, until Ser Barristan decided to let him up.

His chest and belly were vibrating with frustration that made him want to scream. He felt helpless in a way that being in a locked cell hadn’t managed. To be so directly at another man’s mercy? He hadn’t experienced it since he was a boy in the training yard, and that would be over in the time it took to say, ‘I yield’.

He was vaguely aware that Ser Barristan was trying to calm him but only by the man’s tone of voice – the words were not penetrating the acute panic Tywin felt to be so thoroughly dominated. Selmy had one hand clamped around Tywin’s wrist, the other pressing down on Tywin’s opposite shoulder, his legs pressing Tywin’s thighs against the hard edge of the tabletop. Tywin had not a single point of leverage. At least, none he could use without breaking his elbow or wrist or dislocating his shoulder.

Had Sansa felt this way when he’d had her in the same position, intent on forcing the truth out of her with threats of a hard buggering, since his dagger in her mouth hadn’t done the trick? Had she felt this way when Ser Gregor had her trapped between him and the desk, threatening rape?

He looked up to see her – Tysha – staring down on him. Smirking at him.

“A Lannister always pays his debts,” she said proudly.

“Fuck you!” he shouted back. He knew she was an apparition and yet couldn’t stop himself.

“It’s not personal,” she shrugged, “You needed to be taught a lesson.”

He pushed off against the table only to immediately whimper in pain and drop back down, panting like a dog.

“Stop fighting me and I’ll let you go.”

That voice belonged to Selmy. Tywin watched Tysha turn to look at the knight, eyebrows raised, “Well, if only I’d been given the same offer.”

“I should’ve killed you,” Tywin hissed.

“Why? For upholding my vows?” Selmy asked.

“Not you, you dumb cunt.”

“Who then? Me?” Tysha asked in a different voice, and when Tywin next blinked she was Daenerys Targaryen, and he knew she was no apparition.

“Aye,” he snorted, “Should’ve killed you, too.”

“I’m sure you had the motive and the means. So why didn’t you?”

“Fuck off,” Tywin growled. She could throw him back in his dank cell or take his head right here. He wouldn’t be humoring her with conversation when the only woman whose voice he wanted to hear was dead.

“This is how you repay my generosity?”

Tywin sneered as best he could with half his face smooshed against the table, “Whatever this is, it isn’t generosity. Spew your horseshit elsewhere, girl – it won’t work on me.”

He watched with satisfaction as her jaw bulged and her cheeks darkened. She was clearly lost for a retort, for she only turned and mumbled some gibberish at her guards. Tywin then heard them approach. One wrenched Tywin’s right hand back, the other closed the manacle around it, then the left. Ser Barristan released the pressure on his arm in lieu of grabbing the chain that now bound Tywin’s hands. Something clacked against it, then Tywin was being pulled upright. Ser Barristan, a tall man, reached up and hooked the end of a length of chain around one of the bars in the small window – the other end obviously attached to the manacle, though with enough slack that Tywin’s arms weren’t lifted painfully behind him but allowed to hang down at his arse. Task done, the knight pushed Tywin to sit in a chair that was pushed all the way to the wall so that he was perpendicular to the table.

“I’ll bring in another chair, your grace,” Selmy offered, then disappeared out of the room, leaving the queen and her two eunuch soldiers.

With a sigh, Daenerys pulled the other chair all the way from the table and frowned down at it. Then, as if the task weren’t far beneath any lady, let alone queen, she began gathering the scattered food and returning it to the plate, placing it on the table when she was done. She was staring at the food when she said, “Most in our city would cry tears of joy to find this on their supper plate tonight, and yet in your fit of rage you wasted it. Are you not hungry, Lord Lannister?”

He didn’t answer, just kept his eyes pointed straight ahead so he only had to see her in his periphery.

A moment later Ser Barristan was walking through the doorway with a chair that he placed at the opposite side of the table from Tywin, bowing for his queen then moving to stand with his fellow guards.

“You may leave us,” Daenerys stated softly.

“Your grace, I would not advise—”

“Noted. Stay right outside the door, Ser. If a man with his hands chained behind his back can inflict mortal harm on me without making a ruckus that will draw the attention of my loyal men, then I daresay he deserves the kill.”

“As you say, your grace,” Ser Barristan gave a bow, as did the Unsullied, then the three left and closed the door behind them.

“What’s the point – they can hear everything through the slots in the door?” Tywin asked, before remembering he didn’t want to talk to her.

It was only that… he’d had so few opportunities to talk to anyone but himself these long months.

“I keep no secrets from Ser Barristan. I just find conversations tend to be more candid when there are fewer eyes on those speaking.”

“Perhaps for fools who don’t know that it’s ears that hear, not eyes.”

Daenerys sighed, “I suppose it was naïve of me to expect you to exchange pleasantries with me.”

Tywin snorted, feeling bone-deep exhaustion now that his agitation had burned away, “If it makes you feel any better, it’s naïve of anyone to expect that of me.”

Daenerys lowered herself into the chair, “You’re not one to suffer fools or flatterers. And yet I’ve been told countless times that if I don’t learn how to play nice with such people, I’ll never have the support of the noble class.”

“Likely true, for you. Not for me.”

“And why is that, Lord Lannister?” she asked softly.

“Because I’m a… proven entity. You aren’t.”

She leaned back in her chair and sighed, “It’s amazing how much all of society strikes me as little more than an enormous wolfpack.”

Tywin lifted his brows, turning his head to face her, though not directly, “Interesting comparison for you to use.”

She waved a hand, “Fine. A pack of wild dogs. A pack of… Well, any pack animal. So far as I know, none of them ever has more than one leader – the alpha. Usually a male, but not always.”

“I know this,” he huffed.

She was undeterred by his bitter tone, “Mostly, the pack members are content so long as their bellies are full. When game gets scarce is when they’re most likely to turn on the leader.”

Tywin snorted, “A starving man is a dangerous man.” How many times will I share this lesson?

“A starving man is a rebellious man,” Daenerys amended. (He didn’t disagree.) “And a hungry animal is a rebellious animal. When wolves are hungry, they blame their leader.”

“Believe it or not, your grace, you need not bludgeon me over the head with this point. Aye – men and women are little better than animals when pushed into desperate times. Is there a purpose to this lecture?”

Apparently not. She continued, once again undaunted by his dismissive words, “But some wolves challenge the leader even when things are going well. Why is that?”

Tywin worked his jaw back and forth, “Because it’s in their nature.”

“To seek power?”

“To seek the illusion of power, and the privilege that comes with it.”

Daenerys sighed, “Anyone who thinks this duty is full of privileges—”

“Why wouldn’t they? The king – or queen – has the finest clothes, the softest bed sheets, the richest meals, the most talented entertainers. It is a comfortable life, and quite an enjoyable one for those who bask in the privilege while ignoring the duty.”

“Ah,” she spoke bitterly, “This is where you tell me that all my forebears fall into such a category.”

“No,” Tywin’s lips shrugged, “Robert Baratheon is perhaps the best example. The only duty he personally saw to was war, but that was no real duty for him. If Robert Baratheon was a king to be lauded it is only because he didn’t start wars just to have an excuse to swing his war hammer at living targets. I think most of your forebears – with definite exceptions – cared very much about their duty. They just happened to be too ignorant, too dumb, or too mad to perform their duties adequately.”

Her mouth twitched into a smile, “Do I strike you as dumb?”

Tywin grumbled, “Unfortunately for me, no.”

She let out a faint snort of amusement, “Do I strike you as mad?”

“Not yet, though you remind me too much of your father and brother, when they were young, to believe it won’t come in time.”

He watched her smile fade. He wished he could say the sight gave him joy, but all he felt was a shallow satisfaction that was too little, too late.

He half expected her to ask him to elaborate, and he did not want to. How could she understand that a list of seemingly benign or even positive traits tended to foretell madness?

Generosity.

Conviction.

Self-confidence.

Lofty ideas.

Ambition.

If a random set of people ranging from smallfolk to nobility were asked to compile a list of qualities that a good leader would possess, that list would include some, if not all, of those things. But Tywin could look even beyond the kings he’d known and studied to others – wardens and lords, even bailiffs and stewards and others of moderate station – and know that few of those attributes were ever as they seemed.

Generosity? Most were generous not out of genuine compassion for others but as a means to obtain friendship and loyalty. It reflected a desire to be loved that often could never be truly satisfied. Such kings became martyrs or fanatics, not just covetous of admiration but fearful of rejection. They became paranoid that their wives were unfaithful, their friends disingenuous, their subjects faithless.

Conviction became an inability to heed counsel; after all, how could a man convinced of his own righteousness entertain the possibility that he was wrong?

Similarly, self-confidence became arrogance, superiority, entitlement. It became comfort in one’s position. Why strive to be effective in one’s duties when there is no fear of losing one’s position?

Lofty ideas? Aerys had a new one every week as a young man, each grander and less practical than the last. And perhaps this trait wasn’t a precursor to madness, but a hint of madness already there, dormant in the back of the person’s mind. An over-active imagination had young Aerys intent on being the greatest king who ever lived by accomplishing feats of engineering marvel. Later, that same imagination had him seeing traitors in every face, assassins in every shadow, poison in every cup, death in every blade. Would the same be said about Daenerys Targaryen in time? One day she is imagining a world without slaves, without inequality and injustice; the next she is burning all those who contributed to the concentration of power until the only person left breathing is her?

Ambition? Well, that was the reason some wolves challenged their leader even when the pack was healthy and strong: some just can’t help but want to be at the top of the pyramid, usually with no real concept of what they’ll find there.

In thinking through all this, Tywin had an epiphany of sorts. Many men developed some if not all those traits throughout their lives. A shy boy could find confidence. A humble boy could decide to work for more. A cold man could grow a heart, learn compassion and charity. That was all well and good. It was being born with all those traits that spelled doom. Aerys had had all those traits since he and Tywin were young boys. From what Tywin knew of the Targaryen kings, many of them did as well. It was what made them so much more dangerous than men like… like Joffrey, who’d been born without any sense of ambition or generosity, and probably never had an original idea in his life. Joffrey’s ilk were the monsters one knew to be wary of; the dogs that barked and growled and pranced and postured before lunging for the neck. Aerys’ ilk were the monsters hidden behind masks of altruism and righteousness, the snakes that struck from the grass, their victims never knowing an attack was coming.

No matter how much she’d completely fucked Tywin’s life, he knew Daenerys Targaryen was no Joffrey. She was either an Aerys or… or the type that has earned and learned… the type that is not a keg of wildfire destined to explode; the type that can be that good and righteous ruler.

And if she is good and righteous, what does that make me?

He cared little for the answer. A king – or queen – need not be good to be effective. Tywin did not need to have a bleeding heart for the masses to see them fed; he need only know they formed the backbone of society. It was their toils that kept the gears of any industry turning, and in exchange, the wealth of the noble few flowed down to them.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter,” Daenerys spoke after a rather long spell.

Tywin sensed she was gearing up to launch a new vein of conversation, so he beat her to it, “Is my wife dead?”

She was either a first-rate mummer, or the question thoroughly surprised her. “Why would you think that?” she responded, “I gave you my word. We made a deal.”

Tywin snorted, “A deal I might not’ve made if I knew it was lifetime imprisonment, not swift death, that I’d receive for my cooperation.”

Her lip curled in self-righteousness, “I never promised you death. I never stated what your sentence might or might not be.”

He snorted again, “Did you know so little of this land that you didn’t know lifetime sentences are unheard of? The closest we have is lifetime service at the Wall, and even there a man can see the sun every day, breathe fresh air, read books, exercise his body, converse with other men. Hells, the Watch even looks the other way if he finds carnal pleasure in a Mole’s Town whore, or one of his comrades in black, I imagine.”

Daenerys rolled her eyes, “Are you once again asking to be moved into a sunny cell? Or is it the books you want? Or the whore? Certainly not the comrade, though it could be arranged…”

He leaned forward as much as he could without stretching his arms back painfully, “I’m asking you to consider whether I deserve to suffer more than the murderers and rapers at the Wall.”

“Why wouldn’t you!? Because you use other men’s hands to murder, other men’s cocks to rape!? That doesn’t make it better. In fact, it makes it worse. It makes you a coward – afraid to get his hands dirty.”

“My hands are plenty dirty,” he sneered, “You think I don’t know that? You think I need to be educated on my sins by YOU? A petulant little brat who doesn’t stop to wonder what the cost of her good intentions will be? Things aren’t going so well for you out there, are they? I heard from Tyrion before he left on his errand that you’d been collecting reparations to fund your crown. I bet you thought only the nobles would pay for that, but you found out otherwise, didn’t you? Because wealth flows down in this world, not up. Those lords you all but bankrupted cannot pay their servants, their guards; they cannot buy goods from merchants and farmers. So those servants and guards and merchants and farmers go hungry. Their families go hungry. Are they showing up in droves at the city gates, begging for bread? You can afford to give it to them, since you stole from their overlords, but that creates other problems, doesn’t it? The city has only so many shelters, only so much lodging. They’re shacking four families to a house, I wager. Might sound efficient, except it means that when one of them contracts the grippe, they all do. Then again, I suppose that’s the least of your concerns. How are your eunuchs faring in this weather, hm?”

“Enough,” she growled.

“What’s the matter, your grace? Can’t be news to you. Clearly with all your experience ruling Meereen you knew precisely what you were doing. This is simply the darkness before the dawn, right? Surely, you’ve got plans…”

“ENOUGH!” she shouted, standing up and slamming both palms on the table, “What do you wish to hear, Lord Lannister? That you know more about governance, about economics, about administration, than I do? Fine. YOU DO. But at least I do care about each and every one of those people who is hungry, or cold; who falls to winter fever or the grippe or the wet lung!”

“And do you think the people would prefer a queen who cares, or a king who gets results?”

Her teeth were bared, “Depends which people. Those who lived twenty years ago may notice that my soldiers did not loot their shops, kill their men, rape their women, but I seem to recall yours did all that and likely more. You dare to say I don’t consider the cost of my good intentions? Well, what is the cost of your ill intentions?!”

“It was a mistake!” he shouted, and immediately tried to swallow it.

But it was too late.

That single admission, that one word, stole the wind from her sails, though he’d prefer she keep yelling at him than look at him as she was now. Eyes narrowed, scrutinizing. Head tilted, wondering.

He looked away, letting out a breath he’d been holding in for too long, feeling once again exhausted.

In his peripheral vision, the queen also turned her gaze away, and a silence grew, thick and gray and missing stones in too many places to hide what each of them wanted to keep to themselves.

He heard air enter then leave her lungs, and when he eventually glanced in her direction he saw her reach into a fold of her fur-mantled cloak and withdraw a slip of parchment.

Tywin eyed it suspiciously, expecting it was a decree of her council’s agreement to immute his life sentence into a death penalty, though by the way she’d just been speaking to him, it was more likely their agreement to send him down to the bowels of the dungeon, where darkness would put an end to him like a flame with too little air.

He was wrong on both counts.

She held out the scroll that had obviously been read before, explaining, “You asked if your wife lives. I suppose I can accept that you doubt my promise, all things considered. All I can tell you is that she does, and that she is… doing well. This recently made its way here from Ser Jorah…”

Tywin worked his jaw back and forth, looking at her eyes rather than down at the letter she held open for him to read.

“…oddly, addressed to your son. Your eldest son. I’d prefer not to have opened what seemed a personal correspondence, except that I considered the contents may be important to me, and time sensitive.”

Tywin realized then this was not the letter promised to him and Lady Catelyn, one that should be addressed to them and written by Sansa, not her keeper.

He raked his eyes over the young queen’s face a final time before lowering them to read, his heart going at the pace of a sand steed.

L,

I won’t waste time on pleasantries that I won’t mean and you won’t believe. Rather, I write you with information that I feel you are entitled to. Information I would want to know, even if the messenger were someone I misliked.

The girl has begun adjusting to her new reality and casting off the illusions that she’d previously forced herself to see to preserve her sanity and conscience. One of those illusions pertained to the guilt of a certain man in regards a certain crime. A certain crime that touched you more closely than anyone.

I know that vengeance has already been delivered, but I thought you should be assured that it was vengeance much deserved and therefore you have no cause for even small regrets. You probably only regret that the vengeance cannot be repeated every day.

That is all I had to say. I’ve written to our mutual friend separately but did not share what I shared with you, not out of duplicity but because this is a personal matter, the information yours to disclose only if you wish.

-B

He felt it building again as the words sunk in… the frustration of being utterly powerless.

He knew “the girl” was Sansa. He knew the “certain man” was himself. He knew the “certain crime” that would’ve touched Jaime more than anyone else could only be the death of Cersei, or perhaps the death of Joffrey, which led to the death of Cersei.

But why would Sansa tell Ser Jorah that Tywin was guilty of one or both of those crimes?

“I know that vengeance has already been delivered” he stared at those words, and knew

Sansa believed him dead. Ser Jorah believed him dead – or at least did at the time he wrote this letter – and told as much to Sansa.

She blamed me for the crime knowing I couldn’t die for it again, but she could… her sister could…

But why did she even need to blame me in the first place? Jorah and Jaime hardly appear to be friends by the former’s own admission; why would the poacher ask Sansa for an admission on that of all things?  

“The girl has begun adjusting to her new reality…” his eyes hovered over those words, and he didn’t understand why the sight of them made his guts feel as agitated as the sea.

Had Sansa truly accepted her fate?

It’s what I told her to do.

And I meant it.

(I just never thought she would.)

Foul images assaulted him, when he should instead be basking in the knowledge that his wife yet lived, even if he was not long for the world. He saw Sansa in a bed, her head against Ser Jorah’s thick chest, absently stroking her beautiful fingers through a pelt of the coarse hair that marked him as a Northman while she whispered words she’d uttered once before. “After my father died, I was given to him… He was sick. He enjoyed seeing me in pain.”

Only she wasn’t talking about Joffrey this time. She was casting off the illusions that she’d previously forced herself to see.

It was Tywin she spoke of to Danerys’ loyal knight. She told Ser Jorah about the words Tywin had spat at Robb Stark. About his use of Roose Bolton to scare Sansa out of Riverrun. About carrying his children when she was barely past girlhood.

About how he couldn’t just let her go. About how he wanted her so badly that he didn’t consider what was best for her, only feared the hunger that would grip him if he had to go another week without her.

Tywin scrubbed his fingers against the unfamiliar bristles of his freshly trimmed beard, unable to stop the torrent of painful realizations and crippling regrets…

He should have returned his armies to the West the moment Jaime was in his possession. He could have kept the vast fortress and lands of Harrenhal as recompense for his troubles, and there was no more that needed to be done to prove that he was a man best not fucked with. His men had already scarred the people and lands of the Trident. His grandson had already killed the Warden of the North and scarred the sister of the King in the North.

And Tywin had already ruined her.

If only he’d just gone home. Sansa would’ve been safe in Riverrun, and eventually Winterfell. She’d never have been there in the capital for the dragon queen to use as leverage against Tywin; neither she nor his innocent, helpless daughters.

“He even killed his own grandson,” Sansa in his mind whispered to Ser Jorah, who kissed her brow and told her that her suffering was over. That she no longer had to fear the lion, nor cower in his shadow. The bear would protect her.

Did Jeyne and Jocelyn call him ‘Papa’?

Did Sansa tell him she loved him?

Did Tywin deserve for the answer to either of those questions to be ‘no’?

He did not, and yet he wanted it anyway.

He truly was a cruel man, for not being able to find comfort in imagining his family’s happiness if it was found in the arms of another man.

A Lannister always pays his debts.

I’ll be paying this debt always.

His only chance at comfort was in imagining that Sansa’s whispered words were nothing but sweet lies. Could he fault his wife for using the deadly weapons that were her kisses, her smiles, her promises, her cunt?

“All the tools at your disposal, however limited they may be, use them for yourself and for our girls…” He had told Sansa that, then slipped a coin into her pocket.

No, he could not fault her.

And no! – he need not wonder if his conjuring was genuine. Whatever kind of man he was, Sansa’s love for Tywin Lannister was genuine. If he hadn’t known before that night on the boat, he’d have learned it then. She would not be, a few months later, already in love with another man – with the man who stole her and her daughters from their home. Even if she had come to loathe Tywin for any number of reasons since then, Westeros was her home. Ser Jorah had stolen her away from her sister, her mother, her brothers, her friends.

No, Sansa would not be loving such a man.

But she might pretend to… So that he would stop watching her so diligently. So that she might slip away unchaperoned to do a bit of shopping with the girls, perhaps to pick out a nameday gift for their beloved papa… He’d never know she handed a certain coin to some Braavosi. He’d just find himself choking on his own blood one day, while Sansa and the girls used the commotion to flee.

But maybe before it even came to that, Jaime would arrive there to retrieve a letter, and as soon as he turned back for Westeros, Kevan and Ser Davos would enact whatever precisely their plan was. And maybe because the fool thought Sansa loved him, and because he loved her and her daughters, he’d never even think to use them as shields against Kevan.

Maybe… just maybe… everything would line up as neatly as Sansa’s impeccable stitches.

“Is this true?” Daenerys shook the letter, pulling Tywin from a fantasy so divine his lips had curved without his knowledge.

He met her amethyst gaze, a poor man’s sapphire, “Yes.”

Her brow frowned, “You… you lied to Ser Jaime then.”

“He did worse to me.”

She shook her head as if thoroughly bewildered, then met his eyes again, “Why? Why become a kinslayer?”

“For the same reason you’d have been one, if your father still lived.”

For a moment she seemed to be preparing an argument against that statement, but someone – likely Jaime or Ser Barristan – had her well informed of her father’s sins.

“Joffrey was mad,” Tywin continued, sparing her from having to admit the distasteful, “he was bad for the realm. He was a threat to my legacy. He was an even greater threat to my wife and then-unborn children. So I did what needed to be done.”

“Without fear for your soul? Do you not believe there is an eternity in the Hells for kinslayers?”

He couldn’t tell if her words sounded acerbic or childlike. She did not believe in the Gods, but perhaps wished she could.

Tywin snorted, “No more than you do, I’d wager. Besides, if there are any gods, would they punish me for killing an evil boy who happened to share my blood more than they’d punish me for killing innocents who did not?”

Her eyes narrowed, though not because she was considering his logic. She seemed to be hearing more than what he was saying by the way she kept giving him that look, like his face was one she vaguely recognized, but couldn’t say from where or when.

Her chest rose and fell before her next question, “And your daughter? Did you kill her, too?”

He allowed a moment of hesitation this time before answering, “Yes. For the same reason. She was a threat to my wife and daughters. She was not nearly as cruel as Joffrey, but she was just as dangerous. A plotter. The type who’d burn her own house down because someone she didn’t like was inside.”

Another silence settled between them like a makeshift wall, each allowing the other to mull over Tywin’s “confession” while looking at anything but each other. And he was mulling it over. He was mulling over the sentiments he’d projected, and found they weren’t exactly farce.

“I killed my brother,” her voice drifted softly to his ears after long minutes of silence.

He brought his gaze up, but she was only staring at the plate of food that would make some hound in the kennels very happy tonight, because Tywin was too proud to admit that he wanted it still – cold as it was, having been spilled on the chair some prisoner’s arse had certainly been in, and touched by Aerys’ get.

He wondered if she realized who much she’d have to do to prove to the realm that she was not her father reborn. Even more than he’d had to do to prove he wasn’t Tytos reborn. Tytos was an anomaly in the Lannister family tree and Tywin had, since boyhood, been nothing like him. Aerys, on the other hand, was rather prototypical of House Targaryen, and whispers from across the Narrow Sea had foretold a daughter who was at least something like her father.

For his part, he knew better than to comment on their similarities again, instead watching her move to stoke the fire in the stove then return to her chair, in no rush at all.

Eventually, she continued as if she’d never paused, “Not with my own hands, but… but with my consent. He had tried to steal my dragon eggs, intent on bartering them for an army of sellswords. Then he insulted my husband and his people. But what really did it was threatening to kill my unborn child if Drogo didn’t deliver the crown he had promised my brother. Viserys held his sword against my belly,” her hand dropped to that part of her body, seemingly of its own volition, “saying he would take me back, since the Khal hadn’t held up his end of the bargain, but that he’d cut out my babe and leave it for its father. One of his slaves that I had taken as a handmaiden refused to translate Viserys’ words – she was afraid that Drogo would kill her – and not quickly – for even repeating them. So I translated instead,” Daenerys shrugged, her eyes still not looking at Tywin, “and Drogo told me to tell Viserys he would have his crown. And I knew… I knew what he intended. He looked in my eyes and I knew he would kill my brother the moment I was free of his grasp. And I stared back, letting my eyes tell him that I… that I wanted him to. And he did. He poured molten gold over Viserys’ head. Cooked his brain, I suppose. And afterward I felt… nothing. For all my brother’s faults, and there were many, he was my only kin. He had raised me. He used to carry me on his shoulders by day, and by night he would tell me stories until I fell asleep, curled against his chest. And when I look back,” Daenerys let out a small burst of laughter, “was it so wrong of him to demand Drogo keep his word? In Viserys’ mind I was the most eligible maiden in all the known realm, and he gave me to this horse lord only on condition that said lord’s armies be at Viserys’ disposal to take the Iron Throne. So he was not wrong to demand his due. And yet,” she shrugged one shoulder half-heartedly, “he threatened my child.”

Apparently, the tale ended there. Tywin wasn’t sure what to make of it. Was Daenerys trying to show that she could relate to Tywin committing an act of kinslaying to save his offspring? And if so, for what purpose? He was not some courtier whose arse Daenerys needed to kiss.

Could it have been some type of threat? Was she trying to make sure that Tywin knew she could be ruthless? That she could see her own kin die an agonizing death and have nary a regret over it?

Or was it less pragmatic and more profound than either of those possibilities? Was she unburdening her soul to a man she knew would tell no one, because he had no one to tell?

Or because I won’t live long enough to tell anyone…

She took another deep breath, then her eyes finally met his, so unexpectedly that he flinched.

“You are a particularly hard man to understand, Lord Lannister.”

“So I’ve been told,” he let out in an almost self-deprecating rumble.

She smiled faintly, though it did not meet her eyes, “I sense none of the sickness in you that I saw in my own brother, in countless of the men I’ve known – Dothraki and otherwise.”

“Should I feel flattered?”

She shook her head, not in answer to his question but in wonderment at her own thoughts, “How can a man be so cold without being pure evil? I’d almost say you are heartless and consider it an improvement over those whose hearts are black. Yet I know you have a heart, because you gave up your freedom, your position, your life, for your wife and daughters.”

He shifted in the seat, flicking his eyes to the door, though he wasn’t sure why, “As is a man’s duty.”

The smile she gave him in response was a patronizing thing, “You said you don’t need me to educate you on your sins. That you know them well.”

Tywin exhaled loudly in exasperation, “What of it?”

Her voice came out measured, careful, “I do believe… that the last time we spoke at any length… on the boat… you seemed rather convinced that you’ve sinned no more than the average man.”

Tywin worked his jaw back and forth, not liking her implication, “I grow weary of this conversation. Find someone else to enrapture with your words.”

“Do you have better things to do?”

“I’d sooner listen to crickets chirping and mice scampering.”

“You’re a bad liar.”

Tywin shook his head and leaned forward once more, “Enough. What is this, your grace? Giving a dying man a chance to unburden his soul? Or are you unburdening yours to someone who won’t be around long enough to tell anyone?”

She frowned in confusion, “A dying man?”

Tywin rolled his eyes then gestured down at his clean garb with his chin, “A bath, a change of clothes, a meal of more substance than soup? Tomorrow I’m to have an intimate inspection of the headsman’s block, aren’t I? Or will it be the hangman’s noose? Or the dragon’s maw?”

At the last accusation her eyes twitched.

Tywin leaned back, “Fire then. Like father, like daughter.”

Her lips curled back, “I have no intention of executing you on the morrow. Nor the next day. Nor the day after.”

“I’m to believe you had me cleaned up because you felt the need for my scintillating company?” he scoffed.

She lifted her chin, undaunted, “Perhaps I wanted to see whether it’s possible for a man like you to be… reformed… for lack of a better word.”

“There are no other men like me.”

Daenerys snorted, “Your son has told me the same about himself.”

“He stole that line from me.”

This time the sound that came out was full-blown laughter, so much so that the queen covered her mouth, startled by her own reaction.

Tywin could not find it in him to be amused. It was one thing to talk to her (though even that rankled his pride); every moment he was in this room, engaged with another human being, was a stitch in his sanity, which at times felt threadbare in his dark, lonely cell. But to smile and laugh with the woman who had torn his life to shreds? Who had stolen the happiness he had unexpectedly found in the twilight of his life? Who had Sansa tossed into the ice-cold sea, just to get him to comply with her demands? Did she know how often he dreamt of that night, of watching over the side of the boat as his wife sputtered and gasped and kicked and paddled for as long as she could until the cold shut her body down and it sunk beneath the waves, never to resurface? Did she know he sometimes dreamt that his daughters were in the water, too, screaming in fear and pain, and it was Jaime who gave him the choice to save one, not all of them? And each time he chose Sansa, only the moment she was on the ship’s deck she reached for a dagger Tywin didn’t even know was on his belt and sliced her neck, all while staring at him with hate in her eyes for letting both their daughters die.

“‘Twas real cruel, makin’ your wife spend a minute in the cold sea. The queen shoulda made you watch those Dothraki screamers rape’er instead. That’s how civilized folk do it, right?”

“Shut up,” Tywin growled.

“I beg your pardon?” the queen’s merriment came to an abrupt end.

No, Tywin would not be sharing any tender moments with this woman. He’d made that mistake with her father; even with her older brother, long after Aerys proved to be a lost cause. She was a monster, he decided. One of the ones that wore a mask of goodness and righteousness, but those masks could not fool a man who’d seen all he’d seen.

“Are we done here?” he held Daenerys’ eyes as he asked.

She took a deep breath, then shook her head, “No. We’re not. It is possible you will hear certain news that might… tempt you to conspire against me.”

“The hell you say,” he spoke in a dry, sarcastic voice.

The queen glanced to the ceiling in exasperation, then settled her gaze back on him, “I would caution you against giving into any such temptations. I would suggest you keep in mind how much you have to lose.”

Tywin shook his head faintly. He almost admired the girl’s gall. She was so confident that threats against his wife and daughters would keep him in line indefinitely. He wondered if it had ever occurred to her that Ser Jorah could become a dull blade in her arsenal. That the knight could be turned from her side by a woman who was capable of loving a man wholly, no matter his flaws. Tywin suspected Daenerys was like every other Targaryen – first and foremost in love with herself. As a distant second, in love with those who were reflections of her.

As Cersei had been, too.

“I also…” Daenerys spoke up again, “I have read about Aegon’s Conquest. I have the echoes of my brother’s words, expounding on the glory of it all: the beautiful terror that was Balerion the Dread; the deep love between Aegon and his two sisters; the fatedness of it all.”

Tywin snorted, “Fatedness, hm? It was no fate. No grand scheme of the Gods. It was simple human nature. The stronger conquer the weaker. The First Men drove the Children of the Forest to the brink of extinction. The Andals came and took land the First Men surely did not wish to part with. And – many, many years later – the dragons came and claimed it all for themselves.”

Daenerys’ cheeks darkened, “Yet no one speaks with animosity about the Andals or the First Men.”

“Of course not. Whenever there is a new invasion, everyone forgets about the older ones. Besides, all of us are descendants of those Andals and those First Men; we cannot curse them without cursing our own existence.”

Daenerys sighed and waved a hand, “Nevermind that. I wish to ask… The histories do not explain why Aegon conquered Westeros. They all say the same: that he wished to unite the kingdoms. I accept that, but why?

“So that he could rule them all,” Tywin answered plainly.

“But for what purpose?”

So that he could rule them all,” he repeated emphatically.

Daenerys huffed in frustration, “To what end?”

“To himself, sitting on a throne.”

“You don’t understand—”

“No, you don’t understand. The throne was his only objective. He thought himself a god – or as close to a god as any man can be. But a god cannot exist without believers, without followers. The Iron Throne was a shrine to the greatness he perceived in himself.”

“That cannot be all.”

“Then tell me what Aegon did with that throne, that crown, that institution that he created.”

Her mouth opened and closed, words forming then dissolving faster than she could utter them.

“He ruled the seven kingdoms,” she finally offered.

Tywin sighed in annoyance. Is this girl truly so dense?

“Sure,” he conceded, “he ruled the seven kingdoms. Meaning he added another tier at the top of the pyramid – the overlord to the overlords. But he is not known for any drastic changes to society. He enacted no laws to make the kingdoms stronger, to make life better, to make Westeros collectively richer. He was known for traveling the continent, making his royal progresses. Do you know what they progressed?”

The queen shook her head warily.

His power. They showed his dragon off to all those who hadn’t the chance to see one during the conquest. He collected vows like tax payments. Vows made in person, not via letter – the type of vows that men in this world uphold. He didn’t travel the realm to find out how he could best help his subjects; he traveled to collect more believers, more followers.”

“That cannot be all. There must have been some… some noble reason to his conquest. Whether it was achieved or not.”

Noble,” Tywin jeered, “You give men too much credit. There are no selfless people in this world, Daenerys Targaryen. Or maybe there are, but they aren’t the ones waging war, I can guarantee you that. They aren’t the ones taking lives and land that don’t belong to them. That is not the mark of a virtuous man – it is the mar of a covetous man. You wish to know why Aegon the Conquer conquered? I already told you – because he thought so highly of himself that it wasn’t enough to rule over the rocky island of Dragonstone. Or,” Tywin shrugged, “he was bored. Some men are, when they’re not warring.”

She shook her head, “Such a cynical view to have. If the throne is naught but a shrine some arrogant man built for himself, then why did you take the thing? You clearly have no respect for it, nor any of the men who’ve sat in it.”

He curled his lip at her, “Why should I not take it? Someone had to. At least I – unlike everyone else in this realm – have experience.”

“Ah, yes. All your experience ruling on my father’s behalf. I know my father was far from perfect, Lord Lannister, but I find it hard to believe that all the credit given to you is yours alone. How could all the peace and prosperity of that period be attributed to you, and not a speck to him?”

Tywin leaned forward and growled, “Take my word for it. Your father would have bankrupted the Crown if I wasn’t there to distract him from his fanciful notions. Do you know he wished to build an entire city out of marble, just on the south side of the Blackwater rush? For what, you ask? Because he couldn’t stand the stench in the capital. I proposed improvements to the sewer which would’ve more cheaply remedied the issue, but he never signed off because he was already planning to build a war fleet capable of conquering all of Braavos. Why, you ask? Because they expected him to honor his father’s debts, and he didn’t want to, because that was money he needed to build underground aqueducts from the Blackwater all the way to Dorne. Or was it to move the entire Wall a hundred miles North, all so he could have another 30,000 square miles of frozen, barren, useless land?” Tywin laughed bitterly, “You dare to say he deserved some of my credit? If anything, I should get twice as much credit because I had two jobs: to rule your father’s realm ably, and to keep him from single-handedly destroying everything,” he lowered his voice, the words curdling in his throat as months’ – no, decades’ worth of rage was trying to spew forth, “Why did I take the throne? Because who else was I to trust with it? You say I detest the thing. Why shouldn’t I? The throne is nothing but a leech on our society, sucking wealth out of the hands of every man and woman, from peasant up to warden, just to feed its own existence. It has not united the kingdoms – men have warred since its creation just like they warred before its existence. Sometimes warring because of its existence, because of the deaths your many ancestors never had to pay for, all because they had dragons. Or mayhap they did pay; after all, the Crown poisons all who wear it… Perhaps the throne has its own way of delivering justice, of extracting a toll from all who are arrogant enough to think they alone are worthy of sitting in it.”

A Lannister always pays his debts.

He leaned back in his chair, his throat raw from projecting his voice after months of speaking mostly to himself and the few who deemed him worthy of an occasional visit.

“Yourself included?” she asked.

“Myself most of all, because I knew precisely what it was, and I took it anyway.”

Daenerys gave him a reticent smile, “Because you thought you alone were worthy of sitting in it.”

He snorted, this time in genuine humor, “At least, in my case, I had some proof. But if you wish to call that arrogance… Well, I don’t know that I can argue.”

She nodded minutely, “It would seem you are wrong in thinking that there are no other men like you. Arrogant. Deadly. Clever. Cruel. There are so many men like you, it’s boring.”

“Those things are not what set me apart.”

“Then what is?” she lifted a pale eyebrow.

“That I freely admit to all of them, and don’t hide behind some veneer of altruism.”

The corner of her mouth lifted, and she gave him that knowing smile that he did not like at all. Who was this cocky little chit – has she even seen twenty namedays? – to look at him as if she was the one with wisdom, and he the child in need of some?

“Perhaps…” she mused, her tongue drawing out the ‘s’ like the serpent she was, “it is something else you’re hiding. You commit your sins in full view of gods and men, after all…”

“An entire barracks full of ‘em. The entire city of Lannisport. The entire city of King’s Landing. The entire kingdom of the Trident.”

This time he managed not to tell the bitch’s ghost to shut up; he’d not give Daenerys Targaryen the satisfaction of thinking he was broken.

The queen continued, “But who, I wonder, witnesses your good deeds?” her mouth quirked up again. She was such a proud, vain thing. Despite his reputation, it was rare in his life that he’d been tempted to smack a woman across the mouth – but he was tempted now.

“A man needs a heart to be heartbroken,” she concluded. “A man cannot feel sorrow if he knows no compassion. A man cannot harbor regret if he has no conscience. So I would say, Lord Lannister, that I know what you’ve been hiding. So do you, now; did you always?”

He sneered at her gall, “Fuck off.”

Her eyes widened with surprise she quickly concealed, “What an eloquent response.”

“I don’t care. I’ve wasted enough breath on you this day. Tell my why I’m here.”

She looked disappointed as she answered, “I needed to know if what your wife told Ser Jorah was true.”

“An answer I gave you half an hour ago, it seems. But that’s not what I ask. Why am I here, your grace? Why am I alive? Surely you know a dead lion is less of a threat than a caged lion.”

She rolled her eyes, “A metaphor I’ve heard too many times from some of my advisors.”

“Not all of them? Then you’ve too many fools in your midst.”

“Your insults lack zeal. Or perhaps you want me to kill you – I’ve also been told it’s more merciful than even a year in the dungeons. Or perhaps you want me to wonder if you’re trying to manipulate me the other direction, so that I’ll let you keep your head.”

“Perhaps it’s both.”

She lifted her brows thoughtfully, “Perhaps. Yet I cannot help but think that killing you would be… rather final.”

He rolled his eyes, “A radical observation about death.”

“Don’t patronize me. How long would your men in this city keep the peace after your execution? Would I even make it back to my chambers?”

“By dragon back?” he asked rhetorically.

Her eyes darted to the window, no matter that it was too high for her to look through and that dusk had enveloped the tower in a gray shroud. When had that happened? How long had the room been dim, only dwindling flames from the stove and, he now noticed, a lantern hung on the wall that the queen must’ve brought in, plus whatever torchlight crept through the small openings in the door and whatever late sunlight snuck in through that high, small window? Why hadn’t he noticed until now?

Because I’ve become a creature of darkness. It is the light that is strange to me now, not the absence of it.

Daenerys’ chest rose and fell, and she turned back to him, “You ask why you’re still alive. Ensuring the compliance of the Westermen in and beyond this city is a very pragmatic reason, but not the only one.”

When she didn’t elaborate, he prompted, “Do you intend to enlighten me?”

She shrugged, “I care a great deal for your son.”

Tywin snorted, “I’ve known men to have a preference for blonds or brunettes, for slim women or plump women. But he’s the first I’ve known to exclusively fuck queens.”

Her eyes narrowed, glaring at him venomously, “Do not sully what Jaime and his sister had. Nor what I am to him, and what he is to me.”

Tywin sighed, “Fine. You care for my son. You love him. Good for you. What’s that got to do with me? Seems to me Jaime would consider my head on a spike a rather romantic gesture.”

Was it a trick of the waning light, or did her eyes seem to shimmer?

“He would,” she agreed with a slow nod, “And a moment later, he would hate himself. I knew it even before we left Meereen. I told Jaime that death was too merciful for you. He thought I meant to torture you, and in a way he was correct. Except – believe me or don’t – I do not relish in suffering unless it serves some… purpose.”

“To make an example of me. Men fear my fate worse than they fear losing their heads, or even the fire of your beast.”

“No,” she shook her head, “I have made examples of people before. The maegi who killed my… The maegi who wronged me and mine. I chained her to the same pyre that gave birth to my dragons. The masters who thought to intimidate me away from their city by killing innocents in a way even you would call extreme. When I took that city, I made sure their punishment fit their crime.”

“I heard all about that,” Tywin mumbled, withholding the rest of his opinion. Even her father’s cruelest crime was nothing on what she did to those masters. That she had the stomach to do it, no matter those men’s crimes, was frightening. Yet another indicator that she’d go the way her mad father had. But he knew better than to say so. She’d only offer justifications, claim it wasn’t something she enjoyed, but something she felt was necessary. But Tywin knew enough of human nature to know that that was not something one could bring his or herself to do unless some part of them enjoyed it. To anyone else, it would be too sickening a prospect to actually follow through on.

“Fine. So my continued existence is not your idea of torture,” he conceded, though he didn’t believe that for one heartbeat.

“It’s not my idea of meaningless torture.”

“And what is the meaning then, hm?”

“I’ve already told you. Earlier. But you didn’t want to hear it.”

“You’ll need to repeat it then, your grace.”

She sighed in obvious exasperation, “I see before me today a man who possesses something he didn’t a year ago.”

“Other than new wrinkles, what might that be?”

She smiled, “Remorse.”

A Lannister always pays his debts.

“I’m sure it hasn’t been pleasant, Lord Lannister. But I do believe it was necessary. I suggest, when your son returns, you make peace with him.”

“For his sake, or yours?”

“For all our sakes.”

“And what will I get for it, hm? I am a reformed man, but what good will that do anyone if I still spend the rest of my days in a dungeon?”

“I’m not sure I’d call you entirely reformed. But in time, perhaps freedom can be yours…”

He knew that was a lie, but wasn’t sure if she did.

“…and by that time, you will have seen that I am not a madwoman in the making, as you seem so sure. You will know I have no desire to build grand marble cities, nor colossal Northern walls, nor the largest fleet to ever sail. I have no desire to build anything but a better word, Lord Lannister. Unfortunately, one cannot undertake such a feat by starting with a foundation that’s rotted and uneven. Sometimes, wasteful as it may seem, the old way must be destroyed before something better can be built. I have no interest in building a monument to myself; only in using the power at my disposal to break the old to make way for the new. You’ll see,” she smiled wistfully, her eyes unfocused as she seemed to picture this new world that she’d referred to only obliquely.

Or, perhaps it was imagining the destruction that would come first that brought such a gladdened yet lazy smile to her face.

Did she even hear herself? Speaking as if rebuilding the world was a sane, rational goal where building an extensive fleet was not?

Tywin only knew one thing for certain: he had seen that smile before. (And he’d never wanted to see it again.)

The queen’s spirits were still high when she thanked him for his time and left him in the tower cell, alone with his realization that the queen had not come to ask about Ser Jorah’s letter, nor to threaten Tywin away from the temptation to conspire against her. Nor was it his wisdom she sought – though she received it anyway.

No… She came because she had to see if she’d been right… because it wasn’t enough to restore dragons to the world, to free thousands of slaves, to sit the Iron Throne without a king by her side… Daenerys Targaryen needed to know that she could perform a miracle: teaching the Old Lion remorse.

And it chafed worse than the chains around his wrists that she would take the credit for stealing his family and throwing him in the dark. If he was a reformed man it had nothing to do with that odious woman who wouldn’t be happy until the entire realm worshipped her.

It had everything to do with the woman who was happy to have the love of one man.

Selmy stepped into the room, and Tywin could feel pity rolling off the man. He wondered how a man who’d witnessed, up close, the extent of Aerys’ depravity, could ever willingly serve another Targaryen. Then again, Barristan Selmy had never been much of a free thinker. Most men who sought knighthood weren’t, or else they wouldn’t condemn themselves a lifetime of being a hired sword for another man.

“Finish the meal,” Selmy spoke curtly while unlocking the shackle around Tywin’s right hand, “I’m not carrying it back to your cell.”

Tywin stared at the buttered bread. It must’ve landed on the chair buttered side up, a coin flip won.

He ate half in one bite, chewed, swallowed. He tackled the rest while standing up so Barristan could more easily bind his wrists again after detaching the chain that tethered him to the window bars.

His last act before turning and letting himself be steered back to the darkness was a glance at the cot, and the thin cushion that laid atop it. It would fit perfectly on his stone bench.

He turned away, shaking his head.

“A Lannister always pays his debts,” she mocked his weakness, his pride.

Always, he agreed.

Notes:

If there's a distorted lens through which to see a Targaryen, it's Tywin's. He had a front row seat to not just Aerys II but to Jahaerys II who might not have been cruel to the realm but was cruel to his son and daughter, and of course Aegon V who blew himself, his son, and many others to smithereens trying to "wake the dragons". This firsthand experience is in addition to what everyone in the realm knows about other noteworthy Targaryen headcases, mass murderers, and literal monsters (here's lookin at you, Maelys). My point is, Tywin is never going to give Daenerys a fair shake, and I choose not to write him becoming so evolved of mind that he can switch off a lifetime of anti-Targaryen sentiments AND ignore the much more recent and personal offenses. Sorry not sorry. Him learning to see the error of his ways - or rather, to feel remorse over them - does not equate to him becoming forgiving of others.

I could say a dozen other things about this chapter, but I'll let you draw your own conclusions. Do you agree with Tywin that Daenerys is exhibiting some early indicators of mental illness, or is he so jaded that he's jumping at shadows? Who wins the award for honesty in this chapter, or is it a two-way loss? :P LMK what you thought!!

Oh - just ONE thing: Yes, Tywin was a little loopy in the beginning, and yes, it was totally by design. Ever take your 100% house-bound feline outside for some sunshine and fresh air and when they get back inside they run around like a maniac, pouncing on shit they see every day, because they're all high on "outside"? LOL, but that's what I was going for here. And I have to believe Tywin Lannister has a sense of humor, since Jaime, Tyrion, and even Cersei have one. Sue me.

Chapter 61: The most insolent hostage who ever lived

Summary:

To jog your memory because it's been a while: recall that at the end of Chapter 49, Daenerys promised Tywin (and, implicitly, Jaime) to have a letter from Sansa delivered, addressed to Tywin and Catelyn (who’d not yet arrived at court). Daenerys had Varys send this instruction to Jorah via his network (off scene). Later, in Ch. 53, Daenerys promised Catelyn the same letter, hoping to earn her loyalty, but due to Catelyn’s depiction of Jorah, Jaime began fearing what the disgraced knight might be up to when out of Dany’s orbit, ranging from hurting Sansa/Jeyne/Jocelyn to betraying Dany on Sansa’s prompting. He convinced Dany to let him go to Essos to see the hostages are well; Dany permitted it only if done in secrecy, as aided by Varys. If you wish to refresh yourself on the Dany/Jaime dialogue, go to Ch. 53 and read everything starting with “He knew it was coming the moment...”

Notes:

NGL, I am nervous to post this chapter, which has been complete for weeks now, originally planned to be posted as chapter 59, but I kept delaying.

Why didn't I end this story when Tywin took the throne with a HEA?

If you're still reading, THANK YOU. If you're still invested enough to communicate with me via comments, DOUBLE THANK YOU. Fanfic writers make zero money, so kudos and comments, especially positive comments, are what keeps us going. You guys have been super supportive and I am glad that there are other people out there, like me, who have an interest in reading fics in which most of the characters are morally gray and, moreover, flawed and HUMAN - meaning selfish, vain, sulky, pretentious, prideful, hypocritical, or all of the above. Fix-its and fluff have their place in the world, and I've written my share of self-indulgent fics or fics that exist solely to make you laugh (or horny). But this fic is very much NOT that, even if parts of it early on were self-indulgent. This fic has always been about jumping out of the frying pan only to land in the fire - and not just for Sansa. Tywin, Daenerys, Jaime, Catelyn, Jorah, Jon... all of them are very much thinking "Can I get a f****** break?!" Have some of their woes been of their own making? Yup. But that doesn't mean they aren't also victims of the fact that fate just likes to mess with some people while others have it relatively good. I've digressed a bit from my point, which was that I know this fic can be frustrating to read, because it's intentionally frustrating to read, but I also feel your pain because I frustrate myself with it, LOL.

Now, onto the story...

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

“Quickly,” Sansa urged in a whisper.

“There’s no need to rush,” Red chuckled lightly as she pulled him into her room.

“There’s always a need to rush,” she admonished before pulling his head towards hers, giving him a brief but intense kiss.

Only tonight, as she reached for his laces, his fingers circled her wrists, squeezing firmly but gently.

She looked up into his eyes, frowning.

“He’s gone on one of his errands,” Red stated plainly, using Jorah’s term for his outings, which used to always have a practical purpose, but of late seemed like nothing but evenings spent drinking at a tavern or winesink instead of their house.

“I know that,” Sansa responded, a bit curtly.

“Meaning he’ll be gone for hours and come back totally muddled. So…” his left hand dropped her wrist and came up to gently smooth back her hair, freshly stripped of its color just yesterday and still tender at the roots as a result, “let me take care of you. Let me treat you like the queen you are, hm?”

When he said things like that, she wanted to shove him with all her might. Slap him. Punch him. Kick him. Stab him. Strangle him. At minimum, she’d like to be able to scream at him. Did he think so little of her? Did he think what was missing in her life was being pampered and spoiled?

All she consistently wanted was her daughters. Some days she also wanted vengeance. Some days she wanted Winterfell, with the mother and sister and little brother she prayed were still there.

Some days she wanted to die, because it was her only chance to see any of the men she’d ever loved: her father; Robb; maybe Bran, though she still counted him as a boy and hoped he’d survived his excursion; Jon, even if she had only realized her love of him in hindsight, upon learning he had likely died beyond the Wall.

Her husband, who was haunting her ruthlessly not as a specter but as an echo of what she knew were her own thoughts and fears:

That she was a failure. That she was weak. That the only thing he’d asked of her was to protect his daughters, and she couldn’t even manage that. Surely there’d been a way. Perhaps early on, that day Ser Jorah promised to bring her daughters for a visit in six months, then seven months, then eight. If only she hadn’t been so damned stubborn, telling him plainly that she wanted him dead and would see it done herself if ever she got the chance. If she’d played it differently then, showed him sorrow without the fire, would he have subsequently fallen for her attempts to gain his trust, his… fondness? He was a Northerner, after all (no matter that he was one she didn’t like to count among her ilk), and the North remembers. Did her words that day echo in his mind whenever he was tempted to thaw, bolstering his resolve and re-freezing his wretched heart? She only knew that success must’ve been attainable, because more than one woman had earned Jorah Mormont’s affection and devotion. Meaning there had been a way to win, and she had lost.

Some days she wanted to curl up in a ball and refuse to face life, to let the melancholy consume her like a fever, rot her flesh away from her bones until she was nothing but a skeleton that the Unsullied would bury in some unmarked grave in the backyard. Perhaps the best she could hope to be was fertilizer, and perhaps that wasn’t even an ignoble aspiration. Perhaps that was the entire reason for the human race, or any animal race: to nourish the soil from which plants and trees would sprout. Perhaps she and everyone else existed to serve the trees. The thought made her want to laugh, thinking that her ancestors had the right of it to pray to the weirwood. Hadn’t Old Nan told of blood sacrifices that used to be a part of their religion? Mayhap if people still slaughtered lambs and sliced open their palms over the roots of a heart tree, there wouldn’t be so much war. Mayhap all wars were caused by the gods – the trees – to saturate the soil in blood and fertilize it with the dead.

Those were the days she felt particularly jaded and snappish, so she would sequester herself in her room until the feeling passed – which happened when she reminded herself that soon she’d be reunited with Jeyne and Jocelyn, and she’d need to be sharp for that.

And there were yet other days when she was as antsy as a caged cat and would spend the day cleaning the house from floor to ceiling, enlisting Bronze for help even though the others seemed to tease him for being so eager to partake, since domestic chores were considered menial, beneath them. It was funny how even within the world of slaves there was a hierarchy. Sansa only knew because, early on, Ser Jorah had explained it to her after they saw a fancy man and woman out for a bit of shopping, the presumptive wife being closely attended by two dark-skinned women who each had a tattoo on the right cheek. Sansa had commented, knowing facial tattoos were used to indicate a slave’s status and ownership, and that Braavos was a Free City where slavery was outlawed.

Ser Jorah had reasoned that the woman probably bought the slaves in the south, then brought them to Braavos as servants.

When Sansa asked what the difference was, Ser Jorah had snorted, “Little. The woman, or her husband, would have bought them then told them they were free and had a choice: they could stay in Yunkai or wherever they’d been bought, or they could come serve them in their home, earn room and board for their labor.”

“If they chose to stay in Yunkai, what would have become of them?”

“They’d have been enslaved again, most like. If they were men trained in fighting, they might’ve been lucky enough to be taken in by some sellsword company or another. But women? They’d be in chains again – even if only metaphorical ones – by sunset.”

“But wouldn’t they have proof that they’d been freed by their owners?”

“A scrap of parchment?” Ser Jorah had shaken his head at her naiveté, “Parchment burns easily, as I’m sure you know. But don’t shed a tear for that pair, wife. They’ve got it good.”

“How so?”

“See how they are touching their lady? Helping her pick out a scarf?”

Sansa had nodded.

“They are the equivalent of a lady’s maids. In the household, only stewards and the husband’s personal attendants would outrank them. And guards, in matters of security.”

The conversation continued that evening, Sansa’s curiosity unable to be stifled. Ser Jorah, who had then only been inclined to enjoy an ale or two, patiently told her how slaves had their own hierarchy. The ones who directly served their masters – maids, valets, and the like – looked down their noses at the household servants, who tended the property, horses, livestock, gardens, kitchens, and so-on. The stewards, because they could read and had been educated in sums and sometimes even histories, looked down on all the other slaves, and had the right to punish them as they saw fit. Eternally drunk on their relative power, they were often crueler than their masters when it came to disciplining the slaves under their command.

Guards were a bit different. Uneducated, they were looked down on by the stewards. Not having a trusted position attending personally to the master or mistress, they were also looked down on by the personal attendants. Yet because they could fight and were armed, they’d be left largely unmolested. Depending on how much (or little) the master and mistress cared about the wellbeing of their slaves, the guards might use their strength to force themselves on the female domestic slaves. Any offspring that came of these or even consensual unions between slaves would be property of the slave owners. Often, they’d be sold at the slave auctions, such as to the men who took toddler boys and groomed them into emotionless killers, or to other men (and women) who took toddler girls and taught them how to satisfy the varied carnal desires of men (and women).

And thus was the final category in the hierarchy of a household’s slaves: bed slaves. Their treatment depended on the household dynamic, Ser Jorah had admitted. For instance, how much authority the master had over the household versus his wife, and how much said wife accepted the bed slave’s presence. Some wives were grateful to have another woman take the burden off their hands, while others were jealous. Some wives enjoyed the bed slave’s company for themselves – with or without the husband’s presence. In those households, the bed slave was more like a mistress, having unofficial superiority over all the other slaves, even the stewards.

“Such women did not fare well when slavery was abolished. No more than the stewards who were a bit too heavy-handed,” Ser Jorah had stated with a look like regret in his dark eyes.

When Sansa asked why, it took him a few moments to respond, “Imagine you and a dozen other household slaves and guards have spent years being treated like dogs by some uppity steward and some spoiled bitch whose position is owed entirely to her pretty face and her… bed skills…” He hadn’t needed to go on, and perhaps hadn’t wanted to, since it would be akin to acknowledging the violence that Daenerys created when she outlawed slavery with a snap of her fingers. Overnight, the balance of power had shifted, except not entirely, since the masters still held all the wealth. But the slaves, er, freed slaves, had the numbers – and, for the first time ever, the law on their side.

Except that most of the masters didn’t recognize the law.

Sansa wondered if a less sudden approach would have been more successful. In Westeros, laws, taxes, tariffs, and such were not enacted immediately but months or years after they were announced, giving those affected time to prepare and adjust.

But would a class of people who had owned slaves for millennia accept even a gradual or phased approach? Sansa doubted it, though she supposed it depended on many other factors.

“What’s wrong?”

She realized she had drifted, letting her mind wander while Red held her cheek, waiting for her response to his offer to spoil her.

She shook her head, “I’m no queen, and need not be treated as one.”

Red closed his eyes in what she’d come to recognize as frustration, “Nor are you a whore, yet you seem to want to be treated as one.”

She put a hand on his chest and pushed, stepping aside as she did, “Just go back to your own room. I’m not in the mood.”

Her heart thundered in her chest, though she wasn’t sure why. In her periphery, she watched him hesitate, take a deep breath, then shake his head faintly.

“As my queen commands,” he spoke deliberately, as if his point wouldn’t be clear otherwise. She chose not to respond, knowing verbal bait when she heard it. But when he reached the door and mumbled, “Tired of competing with a ghost, anyway”, Sansa couldn’t keep herself from flying at him like an angry chicken. He turned just in time to catch her wrists for the second time this evening, this time to stop her from hitting him, though it didn’t stop her from trying. As a result, she mostly just threw herself back and forth, pushing and pulling with arms that were held in place by a much stronger set of hands.

She wasn’t even sure why she was so angry about his faulty assumption, why she wanted to hit him until he understood that which she couldn’t put into words.

It wasn’t Red that was found lacking in comparison to her memories of another man. Certainly not in performance, in eagerness to please, in looks.

It was that she didn’t want him to compare. Guilt turned any pleasure she felt into nausea.

How could she let herself enjoy anything when her daughters might be scared, sad, or lonely, at the same exact moment?

How could she let herself enjoy anything when her mother, sister, and brothers might be worried sick over her fate? When they might be risking their own lives to petition the queen? Hells, Arya would likely charter a ship and set out looking for Sansa herself, out of equal parts love, bravery, and desire to escape the doldrum of castle life.

Bran might be cold and hungry right now. He might be dying. Same for Jon Snow, unless his suffering had ended long ago.

Rayna might be crying herself to sleep, thinking of the husband and daughter she’d never see again.

Mother might be crying herself to sleep, thinking of the husband, son, daughter, and granddaughters she’d never see again.

How could Sansa let herself be pleasured when the man who taught her pleasure was dead, all because he took a throne he didn’t truly want so that he and Sansa wouldn’t have to live in a kingdom ruled over by the king who’d tormented her; a kingdom still at war with the North and Riverlands, who’d never have surrendered to that same king? All because he loved her and his daughters so much that he had to take the bait the dragon queen lured with, knowing the trap he stepped into would kill him.

There was no guilt for having become familiar with the texture of another man’s lips, the taste and feel of another man’s cock.

There was only guilt when she forgot to fight the pleasure; to let it become more than a distraction.

“I want to enjoy it,” she’d told him that first night, when she was drunk on fantasies of taking control of her life; of killing Ser Jorah, no matter that it might be the last thing she ever did.

She hadn’t known it was a lie until he sank to his knees and pulled her hips toward his face even as her shoulders stayed pressed to the wall.

The entire time, she clenched fistfuls of skirt so hard her hands shook, all to keep from screaming. They wouldn’t have been screams of rapture but of frustration and helplessness and disgust at herself and the world at large.

She pulled him up when she could no longer stand it, embarrassed by her inability to find pleasure despite Red’s diligent efforts, and afraid to insult him. She yanked at his laces and acted as if she was mad with the need to be fucked. In a way, she was. Legs around his waist, pinned against the wall by his torso, supported by strong arms each wrapped around one of her thighs, she savored the discomfort of the position and the chafing caused by the less-than-ideal angle.

It had been that way ever since – rough and frantic – on the occasions they dared to chance an encounter. It was usually when Ser Jorah fell into a deep, mezcal- or wine-induced slumber downstairs. Red was less concerned about the Unsullied finding out, but to his knowledge none of them knew he sometimes snuck into her room. Even if they did, they’d only suspect that Red held her to offer comfort, or perhaps pleasured her with his fingers or tongue to offer distraction.

Regardless, they were careful not to make noise. Even their words – Red’s especially – had to be whisper-quiet, on the off chance one of the Unsullied had snuck down the hall to stand outside Sansa’s room to eavesdrop. That meant doing it on the floor instead of the bed that creaked. That was better, anyway. Cold, hard, unyielding wood with only a rug to cushion her shoulder blades and tailbone. But tonight, Red clearly wanted to take advantage of Ser Jorah’s absence to have a less hurried, more intimate encounter.

And here she was, trying futilely to strike him for daring to want her to enjoy it.

“Why do you care?” she asked in the most accusatory way it was possible to whisper.

With a firm yank she was in his embrace, his arms moving to wrap around her, because what damage could her delicate little fists do to his chest?

“Because it pains me to see your eyes so dull.”

“Liar,” she hissed.

“As you say,” he sighed in surrender.

Now she was mad at him for trying to be the reasonable one. She shoved him away for the second time tonight, and for the second time he let her.

He looked so very wounded as he stood there, waiting to see if she’d change her mind.

She hated herself for wanting to apologize instantly.

She hated him for being her only ally and yet, more than likely, as mercenary as any other man.

She hated the world for being a place where men and women didn’t say what they meant. Wouldn’t it be so much better if no one ever lied, if all motives were entirely transparent?

She shook her head, “If you want something tender and sweet and filled with declarations of affection, I cannot give you that.” Not yet, she almost added, but that felt like an empty promise.

He gave her a wan smile, “When it comes to you, I’m a dog. I’ll take whatever scraps fall off your plate, and be grateful for them, though forgive me if I never stop begging for more.”

His words made her smile, though not for the reason he’d think. In the second volume of her life, she’d known a man who compared himself to a dog. She doubted he’d ever admit such a sentiment to her, nor to himself, but if he did, she’d believe him.

In this, the fourth volume of her life, she almost laughed at the absurdity of any man feeling that way about her. She felt like a swindler, a conniver, selling the promise of something she did not possess, and yet she’d never actually promoted a thing. The only man with whom she’d ever tried to sell her virtues was Joffrey, and look how that turned out. With all others she gave only fear, defiance, apathy, meekness – and look how they wanted her. Or, at least, the illusion of her.

Regardless, it was no matter that she didn’t trust Red; she couldn’t risk offending a friend, even if he proved to be a fair-weather friend (as if the weather around her was anything close to fair). Beyond that, she liked him. He was clever and witty, and their stolen moments were her only departure from the banality of her life. At least, they would be for the next thirty-five days. In thirty-five days, she’d be reunited with her daughters, assuming Ser Jorah kept his word. She’d know then if all her sickening worry had been for naught, if they’d toddle into the house happy and healthy, with a Rayna who’d managed to accept her new existence better than Sansa had.

She’d also know whether she’d have a future; if she could kill Ser Jorah and get away with it because enough of the Unsullied wouldn’t raise a weapon against her. She’d know whether she could count on any of them beyond Red to help her and Rayna and the girls get back to Westeros. Once there, the fifth volume of her life would begin, and she hadn’t the foggiest idea what it would be comprised of. Hiding, warring, death, love, family, vengeance, mourning, peace… It could be any of those things. All of them. Only time would tell.

Either way, she’d be in this limbo for another thirty-five days. And it would be torture if she didn’t have these moments with Red to distract her from all that haunted her. She suppose she owed him for that, at least.

She held out a hand, beckoning him to return, “I don’t quite believe you. Let me see this dog you claim to be…”

He smiled softly then moved quickly, grabbing her by the elbow and turning until she faced the wall, her back flush to his chest as he crowded her, cutting off any avenue of escape. “Silly me, forgetting I was dealing with a she-wolf,” he rasped in her ear.

Perhaps if he hadn’t planted that thought in her mind, the next morning would have gone differently. Perhaps if she hadn’t been reminded of her claws, she’d not have made the mistake of showing them off. Hadn’t she learned it was always better to be the bird, to fly away to safety, unscathed, so she might live to fight another day?

Sansa had heard Ser Jorah enter last night not long after Red tiptoed back to his room. It had been rather too close for comfort, especially since Jorah’s footsteps weren’t the lazy, scuffing sounds they were when he’d over-imbibed.

She had hardly slept from then on, expecting to hear the same footsteps creep down to Red’s door, taking the younger man by surprise, unarmed and groggy from sleep. Her fears made no sense, given she knew Jorah was out of the house while she and Red were together. Her balcony door was shut, her curtains closed, their words and movements hushed. Jorah couldn’t have spied them, couldn’t have caught them, yet his return from one of his errands earlier than expected, and more sober than expected, had Sansa manically wondering what had been different about tonight. She knew said errands were sometimes a meeting with some contact who maintained the chain of communication between Jorah and his queen. Had Jorah been given orders to make an example of one of the queen’s hostages? If so, did it mean someone in the Stark or Tully or Lannister families had openly defied the queen? It filled Sansa with equal parts pride and anger; they could gamble with her life all they wanted, but to endanger her daughters?!

She’d risen with the sun, uncertain if she’d ever fallen asleep for more than a few fleeting moments. Dressed and wearing the best mask she could cobble together considering her ragged nerves, she descended the stairs, with only one thought on her mind. Please let it be me. Please, let any punishment be meted out on me, not my girls.

She nodded at Flea by the front door and headed straight for the kitchen. Ser Jorah was already there, pouring water from the kettle into a stoneware cup that she assumed had tea leaves in it. His presence proved that she had fallen asleep at some point, for she hadn’t heard him leave his room. It was little comfort that she’d face whatever this day brought with at least a partially rested mind.

“Good, you’re up,” Ser Jorah spoke curtly but not coldly. He grabbed another cup, put two big pinches of tea in it from the cannister, then poured water over top. “Sit,” he gestured at the table with his chin as he brought the cups over.

He made me tea.

He wants me sitting.

He had a meeting last night with someone who knows what’s happening in Westeros.

By his demeanor, she doubted she was about to be told that her or Jeyne or Jocelyn was going to be sent to King’s Landing in pieces, but a new fear sprouted up in that one’s vacated place…

He heard bad news. Bad for me, or else he wouldn’t be trying to soften the blow with tea.

Who died? Who died, who died, who died?!

Gods, please, not Mother, not Arya.

She began thinking of all those whose death would hurt but not cripple her. Uncle Edmure. Uncle Brynden. Tommen. Tyrion. Shireen. Margaery. Bran, if only because she had come to terms with the likelihood of his death months ago, even if perhaps that had been too soon to lose hope, given the nature of his journey.

It was only after Jorah slid the items toward her that she noticed a blank sheet of parchment, inkpot, and quill sat on the table. She frowned at the items, wondering if she would be told to make a statement related to whatever bad news was about to be revealed. “I do not condone the actions of my rogue great-uncle. As such, I agree with Queen Daenerys’ judgment of execution by sword. I implore the members of Houses Stark and Tully to heed our good queen’s word, and make no further attempts to undermine her, for it is I who will pay for your treachery.” The letter would be written in ink but signed in her blood.

She swallowed and looked up at the knight, her mouth dry as she waited for him to speak.

He did only after taking a deep breath, “You must write a letter. Address it to your mother.”

She licked her parched lips as her stomach seemed to cave in on itself. Had her poor mother been the one to try to go against the queen? Had Daenerys, in all her mercy, decided that Catelyn deserved a second chance to be loyal, and hoped that Sansa would encourage her thusly?

“I… May I ask for what purpose?” she dared to venture, her heart pounding so loudly it almost blotted out the sound of footsteps descending from the upper floor.

Ser Jorah’s eyes darted to hers then back to the parchment, “The queen is in something of a negotiation with your mother over the matter of Northern fealty. Your mother will not commit until she has proof that you and her daughters are alive and well.”

The relief that hit Sansa was so potent that she felt she might slide off the chair. Not only did she receive no ill tidings, but she had confirmation that her mother lived as of – well, weeks ago, perhaps a couple months, at most. That likely also meant that Winterfell had not been attacked, because if the North’s fealty had been forced at dragonfire, Sansa doubted Mother would be in a position to make demands.

With tears in her eyes that Ser Jorah was good enough not to mock, Sansa nodded. She uncorked the inkpot and dipped the quill, starting at the top of the letter with her mother’s name.

“Don’t bother trying to include hints as to our location. Just attest to your health, your fair treatment, your comfort,” Jorah instructed.

She nodded as she started on the word ‘Dearest’.

“…as well as that of your daughters.”

Her right hand stopped on the ‘r’.

“Excuse me?” she asked, peering up at the knight.

Ser Jorah looked up and gave a nod at whoever had just come down the stairs and into the kitchen. She glanced only long enough to know it was Red and Crawler. Bronze would soon follow, then Flea would head upstairs to catch up on sleep.

“You will write that you and the girls are well,” Jorah repeated in a voice that was far too casual.

She dropped the quill on the table, uncaring about the ink staining the wood that had heretofore been maniacal about keeping clean, and leaned back, “I think not.”

Jorah scrubbed a hand down his face, mussing his bushy brows and longer-than-normal beard, “You will, because I am telling you to.”

“I will not, because I don’t want to.”

“For once will you just do as I say?” he spoke through gritted teeth.

“For once?” she snorted, “my entire existence is doing as you say.”

“Your entire existence is being a pain in my arse!” he leaned across the table, grabbed the quill, and tried to force it into her hand.

It would’ve been easy to fall into an argument about which of them was the bigger pain in the other’s arse, but she would not waste her breath, and what little of Jorah’s conscience remained, on pointless matters. “You wish for me to write a letter attesting to my health and wellbeing? I will do so. But the only detail I’ll include about my daughters is the truth – that I haven’t seen them in more than half a year and have no idea whether they are happy or healthy or even alive!”

Jorah straightened his back, cocking his head down at her, “And why would your daughters, valuable hostages as they are, be anything but alive and well?”

She stood up so they were eye to eye, though unlike most of their other arguments, a table stood between them, “Then I shall write that I assume my daughters are alive and well but have not seen it with my own eyes.”

A calloused hand smacked the table hard enough to rattle their teacups, “You’ll see it with your own eyes soon enough!”

“Only a man with no children of his own and no heart within his chest would call thirty-five days soon enough when it’s already been seven months!”

“And whose fault is that, hm?” he spoke in a low, threatening voice, “You would’ve seen them already if you’d done as I said from the beginning, if you hadn’t made it your mission to be the most insolent hostage who ever lived!” he flung his hand in her direction.

She dropped her head back and rolled her eyes, “Well pardon me for not bending over backwards to make my captor’s life easier! I suppose your beloved Khaleesi would have taken better to imprisonment – I would strive to be more like her but for fear that you’d end up in my bed. Again!

He ignored the last bit, flinging his hands wildly in the air, “You call this a prison?”

“I’m not allowed to leave and I’ve been taken from my family, so aye, I call it a prison! Just because you don’t make me sleep on the hard ground, and give me more than thin soup and stale bread, doesn’t mean it’s not!”

“Might be I should!” he nodded emphatically, “Might be a week in the cellar, cold and hungry, and you’d come up here with a healthy measure of fear and respect!”

“For you?” she scoffed, “it will take more than a week. Have you forgotten I was imprisoned by real monsters? I’ll never look at you and see anything but a mangy old stray who feels sorry for himself because his mistress isn’t around to hand-feed him anymore!”

Again, his hands slammed hard on the table, “SHUT UP!” He leaned toward her, his eyes night-black and his face cherry-red.

She was scared, in truth. She’d never not be scared when a man or even woman yelled at her. It could be her dear mother or sister across from her, and she’d feel at least a flutter of apprehension to be shouted at.

But she’d be damned if she ever looked like a scared little girl again, unless it suited her to be perceived as such.

And she’d be twice damned if she ever let Jorah Mormont see her tremble.

She dropped into the seat and lifted her chin, “Very well.”

He straightened again, eying her warily, and letting out a long sigh, “You’ll write what I said?”

She shook her head, “I’ll shut up. You wish for me to write that my daughters are well? Then,” she walked two fingers through the air toward the front door, “Go and bring them to me. When they are in my arms and I’ve heard from Rayna that they have not been abused or treated poorly in any way, I will write a glowing letter of reference to your abilities as a caretaker.”

Jorah’s teeth clenched together, “We don’t have time for that, or did you think I have them staying in the house next door?”

She crossed her arms, “All the more reason to hurry along then.”

In hindsight, she would recognize that her mistake was in thinking she knew what the man’s line was: cruel, cutting words, a hard slap – that was the worst she’d ever gotten from Ser Jorah, no matter how she’d poked and prodded.

He looked away from her, shaking his head and letting out a dry, humorless laugh. He muttered something in Valyrian to Red and Crawler; Sansa only recognized the word for ‘her’. Both their eyes widened but Crawler gave a curt nod, then came to stand behind Sansa’s chair, his hands coming down to her arms and holding them against her body.

The fear in her spiked but she still didn’t believe Jorah would do anything to her worse than what he’d already done; he’d only threaten to, and when she didn’t fall for it, he’d curse and growl and smack the table and throw his mug and then head for the door, returning with her girls in a day’s time, or a week’s, or a month’s.

Red looked at her, and she could practically see him having the same thought, yet not managing to convince himself. Subtly as possible, she shook her head. Ser Jorah’s eyes never left Red, so there was no risk of him seeing it.

Red’s gaze moved to Jorah, and he nodded without letting any emotion be betrayed other than surprise. Sansa prayed that Jorah wouldn’t suspect him for that alone. Certainly, these once mindless killers could be forgiven for thinking for themselves since Daenerys freed them of their collars. Certainly, all Jorah saw was Red wondering over a command that was hardly an everyday request, whatever it might be.

Sansa took a deep breath, still committed to hiding as much of her fear as she could.

Red moved to stand behind her, putting his right hand on her right arm, which allowed Crawler to put both hands on her left wrist, pulling it away from her body.

She struggled more on instinct than anything, but Red’s right hand grabbed that wrist and pulled until her fist was against her collar bone, while his left arm went around her neck, leaning his weight into her from behind. With all her might she focused on pulling her left arm toward her body, out of Crawler’s grasp, but it wasn’t a particularly impressive attempt. He just kept pulling the opposite direction, slow and steady, until her elbow was unlocked, her fist pressed to the table.

She managed to angle her head up to look in Crawler’s eyes, needing to see some hint of humanity, but all she saw was… nothing. His eyes were as lifeless as a doll’s, and she remembered what Ser Jorah told her. That all Unsullied had to care for a puppy for a year, then strangle it. Then they had to buy a slave baby from the flesh market and kill it. All to earn their collar and their right to fight. All before the age of four and ten.

And this was how they could do it: by going away inside.

Like I used to. Before the riots. Before Harrenhal. Before Tywin. Before any of it, I had already learned how to hide behind a mask.

To look without seeing.

(Father’s head. Ser Gregor’s cock.)

To lie without stuttering.

(“I love King Joffrey.” “My family are traitors.”)

To feel without hurting.

(Ser Boros’ fist. Ser Meryn’s sword.)

To fear without crumbling.

(Tywin’s dagger. Lord Bolton’s eyes.)

Flea appeared next to Crawler, and she heard Ser Jorah speak again in Valyrian as he moved around the table until he was somewhere behind her, in the main part of the kitchen. Flea began prying her fingers open, the pinkie and ring, then held them open until he could press them to the surface of the table, her other fingers mashed underneath the same edge, with him and Crawler pushing down and forward so hard that she couldn’t move any of the digits. She was certain her ring finger would break at the joint where it met her palm, but she refused to whimper in pain, refused to beg them to stop.

Ser Jorah rounded the table, walking behind Crawler and Flea to come back into her field of view, though he stopped right beside Flea rather than at the opposite side of the table. Her frantic brain managed to latch onto the notion that he was going to threaten to break her fingers.

Instead, he leaned both fists on the table, though one was wrapped around the meat cleaver.

Her heartbeat sped up as she stared at the blade that she’d seen hack through the thick joints of pig and goat and cow, separating bone from bone in a single swipe.

No… No, he wouldn’t. A broken finger is one thing, but he’d never maim me. It is indeed an empty threat, a bluff. A fright tactic.

The thought did nothing to slow her heart.

“I have put up with your insolence, your judgment, your blatant insults. I’ve put up with your Stark arrogance. I’ve put up with you trying to guilt me into being your puppet, then trying to guilt me some more for not feeling guilty in the first place. But I will not put up with your outright disobedience. Pick up that quill and write the damned letter.”

Each word came out with calm precision, and Sansa took comfort in knowing that this wasn’t drunk Jorah, rage-fueled Jorah.

“Bring my daughters here, and I will write the letter,” she countered.

She heard his next breaths tremble. In and out, the air shivered, “Write the bloody letter, or there will be consequences.”

She leaned her neck as far forward as Red’s hold allowed, ignoring the way his thumb rubbed the inside of her right wrist, desperately begging her to agree to Jorah’s demands.

But she couldn’t agree. It no longer even felt like strategy, an attempt to be reunited with her daughters sooner. It only felt like pride. Ugly, sinful pride. Stupid, pointless pride that did no one any good.

She shook her head and watched a bead of sweat roll down Jorah’s temple, its progress stopped when it met his beard.

“Write. The fucking. Letter,” he growled.

Tears blurred her vision, tears of a rage so pure it was beautiful. Was this how Arya felt when she grabbed at Gregor Clegane? Was this how Daenerys Targaryen felt when she took cities that didn’t belong to her, just because she could? Was this how Tywin felt, when he unleashed the might of his army? Was it how a wolf felt when closing in on its prey?

Those lucky people and creatures, who let neither fear nor rules stop them. It was a glorious way to live, even if not an honorable one.

“Go. Fuck. Yourself,” she replied, breathless with the power she felt, a smile curving her lips.

You can’t take this from me, she screamed inside her mind. You can take away my home, my family, my husband, my freedom. You can put me in a cage. You can scare me, taunt me, threaten me, beat me, but you can never take my pride. I will never roll over; I will never submit. Because some things are more important than surviving.

“Wolves don’t belong in rose gardens,” Tywin had said to her once, on a day she wore the mask of a wolf to go face down a lion. At the time, his words made her feel like a fraud, but now she understood that the presence of fear in her heart didn’t mean she wasn’t a wolf. What made a wolf wasn’t the absence of fear, but the ability to look either predator or prey in the eye and show nothing but sharp teeth and an iron will. Wearing a mask wasn’t cheating, it was necessary for enduring this cruel world. Only around the pack could the masks come off; the underbellies be exposed.

Jorah’s lips curled, pursed, parted, over and over, as if a thousand words were trying to squeeze out at the same time. Then, he stood up straight, lifting the cleaver to shoulder-height. “Write the letter,” he repeated.

“Bring my daughters,” she spoke calmly, looking him straight in the eye. She imagined they were on horseback, each racing toward a cliff’s edge – the first to pull up the reins, loses. The second wins, and maybe also dies.

She understood more deeply than she had before why Robb couldn’t march back to Winterfell, tail between his legs, after Joffrey killed their father and Tywin publicly taunted him.

She understood why Arya, to this day, had never conceded a debate, even about the most inconsequential subjects.

She understood why Mother never allowed herself to forgive father for bringing his natural son to Winterfell to be raised alongside Robb; it had never been about Father’s lust for another woman, it was about his insult of his wife.

She understood why Tywin killed every last Reyne and Tarbeck after Ellyn Tarbeck nee Reyne tried to supplant his mother, then proceeded to insult his house at every opportunity, no doubt whispering words of dissent into the ears of her husband and brother.

The cleaver came down hard, and she couldn’t help but close her eyes and gasp, only opening them when, long moments later, she noticed no pain in her fingers nor anywhere else.

She found the top corner of the blade buried in the table, about two inches past the tip of her ring finger.

“Do you think I’m fucking JOKING?” Jorah yelled.

No, I think you’re bluffing. I think any moment now you’ll pull up the reins. I just need to ride a half stride further than you.

She shook her head.

“Then you’ll write the letter?” he asked, eyes narrowed.

“If you bring me my daughters,” she replied.

His lips moved again, his eyes frenzied as they looked at her, then at the cleaver, then back at her.  

She was certain she’d won, so much so that she almost gloated. Until she heard Ser Jorah roar out a prolonged “FUUUUUUCK!” as his hand grabbed the cleaver’s handle, yanked it out of the table and high into the air, then brought it down with the same word still coming out of his mouth.

She still flinched at the sound of metal driving into wood, only this time she didn’t close her eyes.

There was no pain… not at first. Only confusion over what she was looking at.

Then the deafening sound of a woman screaming.

Crawler and Flea released her left arm, and she brought the hand to her face, staring at the abrupt and bloody ends of two fingers.

The woman kept screaming, only it was muffled by a hand pressed against her mouth – and that’s when she realized that it was her screaming, and her fingers cropped by a knuckle, and her fingertips on the far side of the table.

Her hand was pressed to the wood surface again, blood spurting out of the two stumps, her middle finger now with them with only her index and thumb tucked under the edge, Flea and Crawler immobilizing her hand and arm while on her other side Red was holding her too tight in what looked like restraint but felt like comfort.

“Are you going to write the letter?” Ser Jorah asked, his face the color of pea soup, his eyes unfocused and not meeting hers, yet more wild than she’d ever seen them.

It was no rational thought that made her shake her head, only disbelief and shock and confusion and this isn’t happening. He wouldn’t. He’d never. It doesn’t even feel real. It feels like a dream.

Jorah shook his head, sweat dripping down his face, as he held the cleaver aloft, his gaze fixed on her middle finger. His lips moved, more unvoiced curses begging to be let out. He took three bursts of air in and out in rapid sequence then let out another “FUCK!” as the cleaver came down…

…buried in the wood an inch away from her fingertip.

“FUCKING CUNT!” he roared as he stomped away. Though it sounded like she was listening from underwater, she heard him donning his outerwear at the front door, then stepping through it and slamming it shut behind him.

Her last thought before the darkness closed in on her was, I won.

Notes:

Umm... Happy New Year?

I may post the next chapter today, as a Twofer Tuesday.

Chapter 62: What you're looking for

Notes:

Wow, wow, wow!! You guys shocked me. I was expecting half of you to hate me after last chapter, no matter that you suffered through far worse in the ASOIAF books and show. Instead I get 99% supportive comments, some even reacting with a "Go Sansa!", viewing her not as a victim but a badass bitch. Truth is, I've always seen her as a badass bitch, she just doesn't know it, and she's smart enough to know that being underestimated and written off is a good thing in this world where all the Big Bads are jockeying for position. She's approaching adulthood in canon and hopefully will start to realize that she can play the game behind the safety screen of her meek persona. In my fic she's older and situations and other people have forced her to embrace a more proactive badass approach, even if she still doesn't consider herself a badass.

Did that make sense? Oh well, enjoy this chapter which is much more lighthearted than the last one. Er, most of it, anyway...

Oh, and THANK YOU!!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Jaime

Patience had never been one of Jaime Lannister’s virtues.

Honestly, he wasn’t sure patience should even be considered a virtue. What an utterly boring place to live – a world where everyone hemmed and hawed over every decision and took their sweet time before every action.

It wasn’t that he never looked back on one of his more impulsive acts with regret or shame, but nor did he believe deliberation could prevent regretful decisions. If there were any gods, they’d surely laugh at man’s unsubstantiated belief that he could control a damned thing or think something through long enough that the right choice would become clear. How could it, when there rarely were any right choices – only the choices not made and the tantalizing belief that they’d have led to better outcomes.

Nonetheless, despite Jaime’s lack of respect for the false virtue that was patience, he decided to embrace it upon his arrival to one of Braavos’ many harbors. His only instructions from the little birdie that had been his companion for both legs of his sea voyage had been to find a particular inn and wait there three days for someone to come to him.

Not wanting to advertise the fact that he wasn’t a local, he had at first searched for the inn’s name on a sign, frequently referring to the nonsensical combination of letters he’d scribbled down before stepping off the small trade ship – letters that formed two Valyrian words that translated to “pepper pot”, per the birdie.

He spent an entire day in such an endeavor. An entire cold fucking day because, he’d learned, Braavos was about as far north as the Neck in Westeros. Also like the Neck, it tended to rain (a lovely sort of rain that drenched a man’s clothes and iced the stone walkways and bridges) more than snow.

He’d spent his first night in the last inn he checked that day, for fear his fingers or toes would be the price of further diligence, and chose a different strategy the next day: calling out “pepper pot?” until some kind soul led him to the right place. The letters on the sign matched his scribbles, and Jaime gave the lad what was left of the jerky he’d taken from the ship, as he’d initially hoped to limit his stops at inns and taverns for sustenance, so as to reveal his presence in the city as little as possible. A vain effort, that, but it wasn’t as if he thought one of his father’s men could’ve followed him all the way from King’s Landing when Jaime’s departure was done in complete secrecy and under cover of night.

Alas, his second night in Braavos was spent at the Pepper Pot Inn. A quaint place, if not for the one-woman brothel that was being operated out of the room next to his, judging by the variety of male timbres he heard through the plaster wall and the bow-legged creature that had eyed him hard in the common room while he drank what was either wine or vinegar in attempt to get blood back into his extremities.

On his third night in Braavos, he considered paying the girl her usual nightly take to have a night off, just so he wouldn’t have to be kept awake by a two-person choir with a creaking bedpost laying rhythm.

On his fourth night in Braavos he didn’t leave the common room until even the whore had turned in – not wanting to miss the arrival of whoever was to see him on to his (hopefully) final destination.

His fifth night in Braavos was spent much the same, except for repeatedly having to pry the whore’s hand off his groin, when not his coin purse. (The weather was shite and business was slow.)

On his sixth night in Braavos, he found a patron who spoke the common tongue and gave the man one of the iron coins that was equivalent to a silver stag (if the port office clerk hadn’t lied) to tell Jaime if there was another Pepper Pot Inn in the city, even if not on this island. The man shrugged and waved over the innkeep, who spoke only the Braavosi version of High Valyrian. With the first man acting as translator, Jaime learned that this Pepper Pot Inn was the only Pepper Pot Inn because it was named after the soup first concocted by the innkeep’s grandmother – a recipe guarded as vigilantly as the Casterly Rock goldmines. And if some dirty cheat had named his or her inn the Pepper Pot, they’d likely also tried to replicate the secret recipe, and the innkeep would be taking matters to the local magistrate. That was when the innkeep’s wife inserted herself in the conversation, angrily recounting a competing inn that had tried to pull such a stunt just three years ago. The impromptu translator stopped translating at some point, and Jaime figured it was because the woman had admitted to burning down said competitor’s establishment.

(He’d supped on the famed soup multiple times by then, and really didn’t get what all the fuss was about.)

For the next four nights, Jaime convinced himself there was no cause for worry (though worry he did), rationalizing that whoever was meant to meet him might’ve been delayed by the weather, or had to tend to some task more time-sensitive than Jaime’s, which may yet prove to be nothing more than a whole lot of travel all to ease Jaime’s conscience – that thing he’d ignored for most of his life. He sat in front of the hearth, supped on mediocre soup and abysmal wine, and forbade himself from thinking about the past. Instead, he wondered what Daenerys was up to in the capital, other than dealing with all the woes that winter brought. He hoped, at the least, that the pirate activity in the Stepstones had died down. The Redwyne fleet, sailing through in all its frightening glory, ought to have rattled some sense into those rapscallions. Then again, Jaime didn’t care over-much. Those islands were as far from King’s Landing as King’s Landing was from White Harbor, and he hadn’t shared Dany’s concern for the situation. Though, he supposed, she might’ve seen it as a test of the strength of her reign. And for half of the Redwyne fleet to answer the queen’s call to protect the capital sent a clear message that the Reach was, as ever, loyal to House Targaryen.

And then Jaime woke on his tenth day at the Pepper Pot and knew that something was wrong. His instincts were well honed after decades of serving kings he’d rather kill, of maintaining a clandestine love affair with his twin sister, of figuring it was only a matter of time before Robb Stark fed him to a wolf, of not knowing whether the dragon queen or one of her men would decide to stab him in the throat. And he shot up out of bed with the distinct feeling of having been duped. Varys had impeccably orchestrated every event directly leading to Dany sitting the throne; how could he fail at delivering Jaime from point A to point B?

Jaime decided he’d find point B on his own.

If he’d initially hoped to blend in, he no longer could be bothered. At lunch, for the second time since his arrival, he asked aloud, in common tongue, if anyone spoke the common tongue fluently.

A young man with dark hair, a scar on his chin, and a chipped front tooth was the lucky winner of one of the iron coins that was allegedly equivalent to a silver moon back in Westeros. Jaime also bought him a tankard of strong cider and a bowl of the fucking soup he’d hopefully never taste nor smell for the rest of his life, and they sat down for a chat.

“I’m trying to find an old friend,” Jaime started.

The young man glared at him, his lips pressed together like a disappointed woman’s.

Jaime sighed, “I am looking for an old friend. An acquaintance, more like. And I mean him no ill will. It’s just that he was supposed to meet me here a sennight ago and he hasn’t. Which makes me think he’s found himself in a spot of trouble.”

The man gulped down his cider as if Jaime had dared him to, then let his eyes drift to the innkeep’s wife.

With a louder sigh, Jaime waved the woman over and asked her to deliver another tankard of cider, and to keep them coming.

“What you want know?” the man asked after his second cider was half finished.

“I know my friend lives here with his family. A… wife. A couple kids, last I heard…”

Unless the Spider lied... They could be in Myr or Lorath for all I fucking know.

“…But I don’t know where. I don’t even know which bloody island. I can only assume he would want to be… eh… inland?” Jaime didn’t know if that was the right term, since he didn’t know of any part of Braavos that was far from some canal or another. The hundred-or-so islands connected by stone bridges weren’t even named. Not officially, so far as Jaime knew, though he assumed that, like Flea Bottom in King’s Landing, there were subdivisions or districts within the city.

“A wanted man in your land?” the young man asked knowingly.

“No. I mean… yes. But not for…” Jaime huffed, “Let’s just call him wrongly condemned, alright?” the last thing he needed was this fellow proving to be some stickler for law and order, alerting whatever the local authority was to the presence of a dangerous Westerosi criminal in his ordinarily peaceful home.

It turned out Jaime’s subterfuge was hardly needed. The man grinned, finished his cider, nodded at the woman across the room, and faced Jaime again, “Lots them types in Braavos.”

Jaime rolled his eyes, “All I want to know is, if a man wanted to be away from one of the harbors, in a neighborhood that’s less… crowded… Where might he go?”

The man shrugged, “There is places like this. Not much.”

Good.

“And?”

The third cider was gulped from lazily before the man wiped his lips on a sleeve and scrunched his scarred chin, “Redgate. Melly remio. Six Streets. Beer girl bree. Eh…” the man circled his hand in the air, “Not gold... Not silver…”

“Copper?” Jaime guessed.

The man shook his head, “Eh… Like copper.”

“Bronze?”

The man snapped his fingers. “Bronze. Bronze Bridge. Not really bronze. Brudasma.”

Jaime nodded, “Can you write each one’s spelling, in Valyrian?”

“No write.”

“Right. I mean… I understand. Um… Brudasma? Melly… something?”

“Melly Remio.”

Jaime nodded, “Brudasma. Melly Remio. And… beer… girl?”

The man smiled, “Beer ger-ahl-bree.”

“Beer ger-ahl-bree,” Jaime repeated slowly, imagining the letters in his mind though he doubted he was spelling it correctly.

“When you go Melly Remio, find the… how Westerosi say? Brothel?”

Jaime nodded, “Aye. Why? Someone there speak the common tongue?”

“Someone there give good tongue!” the man grinned.

Jaime couldn’t find it in himself to tell the man the expression was ‘giving head’ not ‘giving tongue’.

And, now that he thought about it, ‘giving tongue’ was more apt.

“Right,” he agreed with a nod and a sip of his largely untouched cider. “Any other places I should check?”

The young man shrugged, “Not where Westerosi would live, but could be.”

Jaime groaned, “Hold on.” He then repeated the three places he’d already learned of, in both common tongue and Braavosi Valyrian, several times each. The man watched on in amusement, finishing off his cider and beckoning the lady over for another.

When Jaime laid down that night, he repeated the list in his mind, even after using his precious parchment and ink to write the names down as the words sounded to him, certain he was butchering them. He’d considered asking the young man to be his guide but decided against it. If Varys was up to something, it would be quite convenient to plant someone at the Pepper Pot all to lead Jaime on a wild goose chase.

Or worse.

He didn’t want to let himself go down that path. If Varys was up to something, trying to delay or prevent Jaime from getting to Sansa and her daughters, it was more than likely because he was trying to cover up for some mistake or failure of Ser Jorah and his assigned Unsullied. Varys’ treachery could go no deeper than that – not when he’d done everything in his power to get Daenerys on the throne. Jaime even suspected now that his years-ago journey to Meereen had been aided by the Spider without his knowledge because – in hindsight – how the fuck had he made it there in one piece? At the time Jaime thought he’d been sneaky and clever, but now he suspected the Spider’s invisible hand had delivered him to the dragon queen.

And there was still the possibility that Varys was plotting nothing, concealing nothing. But Jaime’s instincts continued to insist otherwise and – beyond that – it couldn’t be wise to stay in the same inn for nearly a fortnight. If some Stark or Lannister man in the capital suspected Jaime had left to rendezvous with Ser Jorah and his charges, might they have figured Braavos the likely destination? Could they be in this city, hoping to catch a glimpse of the golden lion’s golden hair just as he was now hoping to catch a glimpse of the red wolf’s red hair? If that man was going neighborhood by neighborhood asking after a blond-haired Westerosi of above-average height, eventually he’d be pointed in the direction of the Pepper Pot Inn.

So Jaime would be gone before that could happen.

Thus, he left before the sun had risen on the eleventh day, hood up and cowl covering most of his face. Wool hose, socks, breeches, tunic. Leather boots, gloves, coat. Wool cloak and scarf. Fur hat. And still it was bloody damned cold outside!

Which was rather unfortunate because it meant a Westerosi could blend in anywhere.

Well, it was fortunate and unfortunate for him, because it meant he would blend in, too. Everywhere he looked, the few brave souls who were out and about, barring the street vendors and town criers, were bundled up like swaddled babes. He caught glimpses of tan skin and pale skin, but Braavos might as well be a city full of bald people for all Jaime could see.

It was a large city, too. Probably the same size as King’s Landing, but its terrain – or lack thereof – meant streets zigged and zagged and ended quite abruptly rather than, for the most part, resembling a starburst pattern emanating from one locale (the Red Keep) straight outward, with cross-streets forming a sort of curved grid. It meant he could not go street by street, starting with the ones that ran roughly north-south, then moving onto the ones that ran east-west. It meant he felt like a traveling septon, only he was searching for a familiar face, not a sinner in need of salvation or a cripple in need of blessing or a pair of lovebirds in need of validation.

All the while he walked, hoping he’d spot a red gate or a point where six streets converged or a bridge that’d been gilded in bronze (was that possible?), he repeated the words in his head, sometimes mumbled under his breath, so he wouldn’t forget them.

At last, he found a red gate, though it seemed more a symbolic demarcation than a protected boundary.

It proved to be a small neighborhood, with modest houses stacked so close together that Jaime couldn’t imagine Ser Jorah choosing it as his hideaway. Still, Jaime wandered the streets, looking for a familiar face or some hint that behind one of the doors lived a ragtag family of former slaves, a disgraced knight, a former queen, two former princesses, and a nurse.

After midday Jaime was frozen to the bone, not to mention uncomfortably damp. He stepped into what looked like a tavern and ordered some stew by putting his hands in the shape of a bowl.

Why hadn’t it occurred to him to bring one of Daenerys’ guards, since they all spoke some derivation of High Valyrian? Sure, the Spider said a smaller traveling party was better, and Jaime had never warmed to the company of men who neither smiled nor laughed nor pissed standing up, but—

The Spider said a smaller traveling party was better.

Jaime ripped off his gloves and threw them down on the table but knew better than to pull back his hood, even knowing a man who hid his face indoors would earn just as much attention as a blond-haired, broad-shouldered Andali. He was rapidly losing the ability to give a fuck.

What in all seven hells could the Spider be trying to hide?

His heart began drumming a dangerous beat, because Jaime could think of only one explanation for the deception.

Sansa and… and my baby sisters… were not here. They were not anywhere. The Spider and Ser Jorah knew Dany would never permit them to be killed, no matter the threat the girls could pose to her reign, so they did the queen’s dirty work while keeping the queen’s mind blissfully ignorant and thus her conscience blissfully clear. They conspired the entire elaborate ruse, tricking everyone in Westeros, including Jaime and Dany and Grey Worm and Missandei and… and my father, and Tyrion, and Tommen. They did it to ensure Dany had her leverage over Houses Stark, Lannister, and Tully, while eliminating the threat that leverage posed.

They gave Daenerys the best of both worlds, even as they disregarded her specific instructions that the girls not be harmed and that Sansa only be harmed if she tried to escape or conspire.

Jaime never tasted the stew as it slid over his tongue. He couldn’t say after it was done if he’d eaten carrots or turnips or any type of meat. He only sat there, shoveling it into his mouth mechanically as he tried to convince himself there was some other explanation.

But his instincts still insisted otherwise.

With each passing moment the fire in him built, until he did not fear stepping out into the cold.

He had to know.

He’d comb every inch of this city like a soldier helping a comrade in arms de-louse.

He’d do the same to every city they could feasibly have been taken to.

No… He’d search this city, and if he found no sign of the hostages, he’d make his way back to King’s Landing and confront the Spider. Certainly, there were other parts of him that could be snipped off to make him talk. Jaime would get him to tell the truth, and if it was found that he had gone against the queen’s orders, Jaime would take the one appendage that no man could survive without.

And then…?

And then, he didn’t know, because it wasn’t supposed to be this way. No innocents were supposed to be sacrificed to bring the lion to justice.

Then again, the lion was supposed to be put down, not locked in a cage to be made a spectacle…

The stew sat as heavy as mortar in his gullet, as he realized there was one other possibility: that whatever had been done to Sansa and her daughters had been done at Daenerys’ will, not against it.

He quickly banished the thought. He knew Daenerys would not endorse the deaths of two little girls.

Yet how many would have died under her original plan – to take the Iron Throne by sacking the city and Keep with not just Unsullied soldiers but also Dothraki screamers and fire-breathing dragons?

He thought of the past months of his life, serving at Daenerys’ side. She always got so righteous and proud about how she took the throne without bloodshed, but in truth she’d have shed as much blood as necessary to take the Crown, if Jaime’s father hadn’t handed it to her.

Still, he reminded himself that Jeyne and Jocelyn’s blood was hardly necessary to meet that goal. Moreover, he didn’t think Daenerys could lie to him for so long without ever betraying a hint of the deception.

Though she lied to me for months about Quentyn Martell, even if only by omission.

But that was different. Quentyn Martell was no one to Jaime, and Daenerys came clean about it eventually. Not that she’d done anything wrong to the boy. He was a victim of naught but his family’s ambition and his own bravado.

And even if he’d grossly misjudged Daenerys, it would make no sense for her to permit this journey of his if she knew that Sansa and her daughters had met their end.

Unless she means for me to meet my end, too.

He shot up from his chair, refusing to let paranoia set in. He wouldn’t let himself turn against Dany. Maybe that was precisely what Varys wanted. Or maybe Varys had done nothing wrong. Maybe the little bird that was supposed to meet Jaime at the Pepper Pot died of cold or plague or a street brawl.

He threw down some coins and donned his gloves. Sitting and thinking were dangerous to a man like Jaime. The inside of his head was more hazardous than a wet winter day or a night spent on the streets of a foreign city.

He covered all he could of Redgate, and used the waning, cloud-shrouded sun and the help of strangers to find the next closest locale of interest: Bronze Bridge. That district felt bigger than Redgate – or perhaps Jaime was simply beginning to realize the futility of walking up and down every street of Braavos hoping he’d spy a redhaired woman through a window, or an Unsullied soldier standing sentry on the front porch even though a man would surely catch his death of cold doing so.

The sun set early, and Jaime did not yet seek an inn. Instead, he retraced the afternoon’s steps, trying to take advantage of the fact that some houses were now illuminated within by lantern, candle, and hearth, making it easier to see whoever was inside, assuming the curtains were not closed. Occasionally he asked a passerby if they knew of any Westerosi families in the area – a man, woman, two little girls, and their servants. That seemed safer than referring to them as man and wife, since Jorah could be trying to pass off Sansa as his daughter. Initially, Jaime hadn’t even considered that the man would try, given that Sansa was willowy where he was burly, her features delicate where his were rough and over-large, her hair red and eyes blue where his were brown and browner. Then Jaime remembered that Ned Stark had left little of himself in his daughter, so Jaime supposed it was possible that Jorah might believe it more credible that he had sired Sansa than that he’d married her. Perhaps in Braavos, unlike Westeros, ugly men rarely got beautiful brides.

As the minutes after sundown passed, fewer windows were uncovered, and Jaime knew he needed to find an inn – not the one he’d stopped at for lunch.

His sleep that night was fitful as the day’s musings planted disturbing visions in his head. He was on a boat, returning to King’s Landing after an unfruitful search. It was a rowboat, which would only strike him as ridiculous after he woke. In the dream he rowed and rowed and rowed, at some point taking a break because he realized that Ser Barristan was behind him, also rowing. From the moment they set off, he could see Dragonmont in the distance and felt as if it would be a matter of an hour or two before they were in Blackwater Bay.

Except it seemed a dozen times they had to stop, for some ridiculous reason or another, such as when a raven landed on their boat and Ser Barristan attached a scroll to its foot, telling the bird to fly to the queen so she’d know to expect their arrival.

Dragonmont never did get any closer. In fact, Jaime told Selmy that it seemed to be getting smaller. The knight laughed, “Of course! We’re going north, not south.”

“What’s north?”

“What you’re looking for.”

Jaime couldn’t remember what he was looking for, or if he’d been looking for anything, but he kept rowing, now with his gaze cast on something as tall as Dragonmont yet wide and straight at the top. Of a sudden, their small vessel hit land, and Jaime threw his left foot over the side only for it to sink ankle deep in snow, not sand, not water.

When he turned back around, Selmy was gone, and Jaime realized it wasn’t his face he’d spied over his shoulder, nor his voice that had spoken, but Ser Arthur Dayne’s.

In the face of the only man Jaime had ever idolized, he shrunk. Each of his many sins was unfurled like a map before his hero’s violet eyes, even those that Jaime had never really thought of as sins. And yet Arthur did not chastise him, nor even give him a withering glare. He only flipped through the record of Jaime’s deeds until he came to the end, a page entirely blank, yet Arthur seemed to find some invisible message there. “You were supposed to serve for life,” he told Jaime.

“He was mad, Ser. You know he was!”

Arthur smiled sadly, “I charged you to defend the innocent.”

“I have! I do!”

“I charged you to protect all women.”

“I…” Jaime shook his head, “I cannot be everywhere at once.”

“No, but I can.”

Jaime frowned at his idol, who blinked to reveal eyes a distinctive shade of blue. Another blink and they were violet again.

“I have to go now,” Arthur spoke in a whisper, “You won’t see me again. Remember what I said.”

“Which part?” Jaime asked, but Arthur was gone, replaced by a statue of himself. Or perhaps he’d been a statue all along.

With no idea what to do, Jaime began walking toward the great monolith in the distance, the only beacon he could think to follow, until the sun began to sink to his right, and Jaime realized he was walking south, not north, which meant he was north of the wall.

That realization had terror seizing him, as he became suddenly aware that he was the only living thing in this entire place, but not the only moving thing.

Nor the only seeing thing.

He wanted to keep walking as he’d been – headed to the wall and the safety on the southern side of it.

But Arthur had told him that North was where he’d find what he was looking for.

Indecision kept his feet as still as tree roots, and he stood there so long his branches began sagging under the weight of wet snow.

And that was when he found what he was looking for…

“Jaime.”

He spun around and his eyes latched onto her immediately. White hair, white skin, white dress, she glided over the ground like the lightest of sleds, just there, on the far side of the field from where Jaime stood.

He ran toward her, his steps far less graceful, as if he’d only just learned to walk and she’d mastered the skill a thousand years ago. And he realized that, like Dragonmont and the Wall, he was never getting any closer to her. But if she’d only turn around, she’d see him, and he was sure he’d reach her then.

He wanted her to look, needed her to look, and yet his heart pounded like a warhorse with an abstract fear that once he saw her face, he’d never be able to unsee.

The fear was not enough to mute the desire. He kept running, his teeth gritted together as he pushed himself to his limit, screaming a name he didn’t understand, in a language that had been lost to all but those who lived in the dark.

He never made it to the white woman, though he never stopped trying until a man who was shadow from head to toe appeared right in front of her, walking toward her, and she toward him, until they melded into one. She cast light on his shadowed features, and he gave nuance and boundary to her blurry form. It was a terrible thing, Jaime felt, and yet so beautiful that could not wish to unsee it. He held his breath, waiting for the magnificent creature to turn, because he no longer feared being seen. He needed to be seen. He needed to be found, because he was the one who’d been lost all along.

“Look at me,” he begged.

Her head cocked and he knew he’d been heard.

“Look at me,” he whispered, watching the words drift across the expanse that separated them. The letters danced on the wind that carried them, swirling with the snow that swept across the open field. “Make… tool?” Jaime read, frowning, trying to call back the letters before the woman heard them, because he knew he’d get no second chance. “Tale mook? No! No, no, no! Not team look! Not lake toom! Not—”

Jaime’s entire body flinched awake at the sound of his door rattling on its hinges. He sat up, reaching for his dagger and hiding it beneath the bed sheets.

Then he heard footsteps receding down the corridor, and a heavy knock on one of the other doors.

He collapsed back against his pillow, recognizing the sound as the wake-up call for any who wanted to be roused with the sun (and most of those who didn’t).

He yawned, stretched, and burrowed back under the blankets. The room was cold enough that his breath fogged, just as it had every morning since his arrival here except for the nights when he could not sleep a wink and thus never let the fire go out.

Tempting as it was to stay under the covers, the pressure in his bladder eventually ruined the experience, driving him out long enough to use the pisspot, at which point he figured getting back under the covers would only mean torturing himself again in a few more minutes. So he hurriedly dressed, gathered his things, broke his fast and headed out…

To find the rain had turned to snow overnight, and all was coated in a layer of the stuff.

That was… unnerving.

He turned halfway, squinting at the sun that was creeping up over the tops of the buildings, using it to gain his bearings.

He turned back to the direction that he now knew was North, knowing only that he’d eventually hit Purple Harbor if he kept heading in that direction. He’d seen it to the east after sailing under the Titan’s skirt, disappointed to find that when he looked up there was only shadow to be seen, then wondering why he was disappointed to not see a giant set of bollocks straight above his head. The captain had said that large, clean looking port was Purple Harbor – off limits to non-Braavosi ships. They headed almost due south instead, tying off at one of the many busy, dirty docks alongside all the crabbers and cargo haulers.

But, just maybe, Varys had, within his network of birds and spies and sea captains and sellswords and whatever else his menagerie contained, a Braavosi ship at his disposal.

Maybe the clever man figured anyone looking for Sansa would likely be from Westeros and thus enter Braavos via any number of the other harbors and start their search there.

Maybe the captain’s casual comment had not been so casual.

Jaime headed north, careful not to slip in the places the ground was slicked. It was early yet, the sun lighting the sky but not yet melting the snow that had glazed the city overnight. Children were out playing, at least those who weren’t put to work helping their parents remove the snow from their storefronts or porches using hard-bristle brooms, buckets of sand, or flat-edged shovels.

He walked until the sun was high enough to warm him and turn the snow into slush, zigzagging to keep his course as due north as possible while diligently avoiding the half-frozen puddles. Unfortunately, at one point a pair of young boys came tear-assing down the street, forcing Jaime to leap to the right to avoid a collision. Ungrateful little buggers never stopped running to apologize when Jaime’s right food landed in a shin-deep puddle of frigid water beneath a thin layer of slush. The good leather boots would’ve kept his foot dry if not that the height of the water was ever so slightly taller than the boot.

“Son of a cock-sucking whore…” he growled as the water filled his boot, hitting him like the pain of a thousand pinpricks.

A chorus of cackles distracted him from ice-cold agony, and he looked across the narrow street to find a trio of women on the opposite side, arms full of whatever they’d picked up at the market that morning. “Oooohhhhh, Andali!” The one with the Valyrian look shouted, grinning. Her dark-haired companions giggled, then began chattering away, their eyes fixed on Jaime though they were clearly addressing each other. It was rather rude, because he heard ‘Andali’ enough times to know they were talking about him – in Meereen he’d heard many of the Unsullied and Dothraki and local freedmen call Ser Jorah ‘Andali’ or ‘the Andal’, though they never applied the same nickname to Jaime or Ser Barristan. Ser Barristan was something that sounded like Timpa Ogre – it roughly translated to White Hair. Jaime’s nickname was an easy one – Kelio, for Lion.

Jaime rolled his eyes in response to the heckling, moving to lean against the nearest building while he pulled off his boot. Water sloshed out, which the women found hilarious. Shoulder against stone, he dug through his bag until he found another pair of stockings. It wasn’t graceful, but he managed to get the wet sock off and the dry one on without having to put his already frozen foot down on the slushy ground. He shoved a pair of handkerchiefs down into his boot, soaking up the excess water, then slid his foot in and went on his merry way, ignoring the Braavosi-babbling of the three women he guessed were ladies of the night returning from their morning errands to wherever they conducted their trade. Maybe under other circumstances he’d follow them to whatever brothel they were returning to and let the two brunettes warm him up, but he was angry as a badger and cold as… well, whatever animal was bothered by the cold.

As he’d done yesterday, he walked the streets of Braavos feeling half-resolute, half-do I really expect to just stumble upon Sansa Stark who may not even be in Braavos, or alive?

But he’d always been a stubborn one, committed to seeing things through to the best of his ability. Well, the things he chose to attempt to begin with.

Zig-zagging north, stomping his right foot hard against the cobbles to keep some blood circulating, almost falling on his arse when he stepped on one of the city’s many bridges only to find it was still frozen even when the paved ground around it wasn’t, he trudged on, entering what seemed like a residential district. An affluent one, with space between the homes, some of which were the size of manses, walled off and gated, likely for privacy and image rather than security since he was taller than most of the walls. One generous homeowner had adorned his walls with a limestone maiden statue on each corner, each white as the moon and naked as her nameday, complete with teats and bush and thick thighs even if she was otherwise lacking nuance. Jaime supposed it was a fair depiction of the average man’s simple preferences: as long as there was something to squeeze, the details really didn’t matter.

He walked on by, deciding he must be a bit loopy to be tempted to approach the property just to caress some cold, stone breasts, when his feet stopped walking.

White maiden. Cold, white maiden.

He turned around, heart thumping.

It was coincidence, right? Surely it was; there had to be other houses with statues of naked women – this was Braavos, after all, where courtesans were worshipped and treated like queens.

With a shake of his hooded head, he turned and kept walking.

It was twelve paces before he turned again, this time mumbling a curse. He thought to go bang his fist against the gate until the resident came out, if only so that it wouldn’t bother him the rest of the day, when he saw a figure disappear down the cross street he had just walked past.

“You there!” he called out, “Hey!” he jogged down the street, turning his head to the left and finding the person was continuing down the street. “Wait!” he called out loudly.

The figure stopped and turned, peering at Jaime from within a fur-edged hood. Jaime jogged until he was an arm’s length from the stranger, who he now saw was an older but not elderly man, his skin weathered and wrinkled. He had kind eyes, though they were rather wary at the moment, no doubt due to being accosted by a stranger from a foreign land, no matter that Braavos was said to be welcoming of foreigners.

“I… I’m interested in buying that house,” Jaime hooked his thumb over his shoulder and to the left, in the general direction of the house with the naked lady statues, “The one with the wall and the… female statues. Do you know the homeowner?”

The man shook his head.

“You don’t live around here?”

The man said something in Valyrian.

Jaime sighed and would’ve smacked his forehead if not for the witness. “Right. You don’t speak the common tongue. Eh… sorry,” Jaime shrugged and turned around, back to his original plan to make a racket at the gate until the resident came out and proved to either be someone he recognized or not.

As it turned out, Jaime wouldn’t be the one making a racket. He was nearly at the gate again when it swung open, one of the iron bars smacking him hard in the nose.

“Fuck,” he groaned, pinching his nose with one hand while the other leaned against the wall. His eyes were filled with tears yet still managed to see stars, and his nose was most definitely broken; already he could taste the blood in his throat.

“Kelio?” a male voice asked.

Jaime fumbled under his many layers for his dagger, ignoring the agony that was the front of his face as he forced his eyes to blink away tears and focus on whoever the fuck had just identified him as a lion.

Except the ‘whoever’ turned out to be familiar.

“Bronze Beetle?” Jaime asked, having just enough awareness to keep his voice down, and only remembering after the two words left his mouth that the lad preferred ‘Bronze Fist’, and used to scowl at Jaime whenever he forgot that.

“Kelio,” Bronze Fist repeated with something like relief in his voice, “Ser Jay-mee.”

Jaime swallowed, half convinced he was seeing things, imagining things, as a result of having his bell rung or perhaps the start of a fever. He wanted to ask to be taken to Ser Jorah or Sansa or both. He wanted to ask if his little half-sisters were well. He wanted to ask a dozen things, but something ominous settled over him like a winter mist – a communication from his instinctive mind to his rational mind. He frowned, looking from Bronze Fist to the gate to the house behind the gate, then back to Bronze Fist. He asked the question that was pecking at him more noisily than all the others, “Why were you running?”

He watched the young Unsullied who used to be his sparring partner swallow before answering in a low and frightened tone, “Lady no wake.”

Jaime turned his head, looked up at the manse, nodding numbly.

Then, he ran.

Notes:

Thank you again, see you in the comments and next chapter.

Chapter 63: Not all in this world is as it seems

Notes:

Today's twofer Tuesday!!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Catelyn

The invitation to dine in the queen’s personal chambers was not one Catelyn could refuse. Not if she wished to maintain the tentative trust that the queen had extended to her ever since Catelyn used her body and name as a shield for the young, suddenly dragon-less queen.

Since that day, she’d occasionally been invited to contribute her thoughts to some discussion amongst the queen and her advisors. She was certainly not privy to every meeting, probably not even half of them, but enough to know that the queen saw something in her.

Perhaps Daenerys only trusted that Catelyn would not harm the woman who held a proverbial noose around her daughter’s and granddaughters’ necks. But sometimes, Catelyn suspected there was more to it. Sometimes, after the council had been dismissed, Daenerys would ask Catelyn to stay behind, to sit near the fire and drink tea. The queen would share stories of her childhood, her brother, her once-husband. She’d share her dreams and hopes, from the simple to the grand.

She’d ask Catelyn for stories of her own youth, and those of her children. She wanted to know about Eddard Stark, a man Daenerys had been raised to loathe, yet who had gained himself a reputation for being honorable above all else. She wanted to know about Robert Baratheon. She even wanted to know about Rickard and Brandon Stark – as if by speaking their names she could make amends to their ghosts.

There was often a certain wistfulness in the young queen during these private moments that might last five minutes or two hours. And when her gaze became relaxed and her eyes twinkled, it struck Catelyn how very young she was. Younger than Robb by nearly a year, older than Sansa by less than two.

The age Brandon was when he died. Two years older than Ned was when he led the North to war, or than I was when I conceived the child of a stranger. Four years older than Lysa had been when Lord Arryn took her as his wife.

The world was a cruel place, indeed. Especially to children.

Perhaps Stannis was right to laugh at the notion that there were any gods, or at least ones that had the ability to influence the realm of men. What God could have watched what was done to Brandon and Rickard Stark and not intervened? What God could have let Rhaegar Targaryen steal a fourteen-year-old girl, or watch Joffrey Waters give the command to take Ned’s life?

What God could have watched Daenerys, a girl barely flowered, being wed to some beast whose entire life was built around rape and pillage and slavery?

And now, what God was watching Euron Greyjoy burn villages and settlements along the Mander, clearing the way for his soldiers to move inland to pillage and sack? Apparently, House Hewett had surrendered just days ago, their island keep under-defended after much of the Redwyne fleet had sailed up the river in response to the initial threat – Euron Greyjoy’s dragon burning settlements far to the North and East of Highgarden. It turned out to be a lure, and it worked. While the Redwyne fleet was upriver, the Ironborn fleet converged in the seas around the Shield Islands, claiming what was effectively the gatehouse to the ever-important Mander.

Now the Redwyne fleet was trapped in the river, but not idle. Those men were engaging the Ironborn, trying to defend as much territory as they could. The Reach’s armies, led by Ser Garlan Tyrell, Lord Mathis Rowan, Ser Parmen Crane, and others Catelyn had never met, were marching to reinforce key locales on or near the river. They’d certainly have all the advantages, if it weren’t for the dragon’s ability to do significant damage to a keep’s defensive structures. The only thing that could be even remotely considered a blessing was that the dragon was not full grown.

It seemed terrible odds for the Reachmen. Catelyn had nearly bitten her tongue in half to keep from shouting at Daenerys to send Stannis Baratheon, adragonback, to the river. Cat must be going soft in her middle-age, because she did not like the idea of that man being involved in an air-battle against such a tricky opponent with a purportedly larger weapon, but nor could she stand wondering how many men would die, how many women and children would be put in chains, with every castle that fell and every settlement that was ransacked. She didn’t even know if Lord Baratheon had mastery of the beast and dared not ask if the queen had word on the matter; she knew that what tenuous trust Daenerys had placed in her might be shattered if she suggested a plan that involved Stannis Baratheon being the savior of the Reach.

It had turned out Catelyn only had to bite her tongue so long. Ser Barristan Selmy made the same suggestion that she was swallowing. Daenerys had appeared to think it over but declined, refusing to put one of her “children” in danger of its larger sibling, nor to put the other in danger when it wasn’t in control of its actions but under some dark spell. Daenerys had faith that the Lannister and Tyrell armies would be victorious yet had no answer for what would happen to her favorite child in the process. Did the queen not realize that, to win, her men would need to kill the thing? Or did she imagine the Iron Fleet retreating, with Euron Greyjoy flying off to lick his wounds, thus giving Daenerys time to strategize the recapture of her dragon?

Catelyn couldn’t even venture a guess as to the queen’s thought process on the matter. She only knew the queen seemed to have come to terms with reality after days of being in a sort of stupor.

At one point she’d come up with the plan to order a hundred Lannister men to escort her on a southwesterly march, convinced that she could penetrate whatever hold Euron had on the dragon if she could get close to it. Ser Barristan talked her out of that – saying that she’d be entirely at the Lannister men’s mercy and they’d either restrain or kill her, while their comrades in the capital would work to get Tommen and Tywin Lannister secured. Daenerys then reminded the old knight that she had other lions in her possession – ones that couldn’t be so easily secured. Ser Barristan looked pained to tell Daenerys, while studiously avoiding Catelyn’s eyes, that two girls were a price many men would be willing to pay in exchange for a lord.

Catelyn hated that she knew this to be true. The moment the Kingslayer had been captured, she had asked Robb to arrange a prisoner exchange: Sansa and Arya for Ser Jaime. Robb had looked pained, and studiously averted Catelyn’s eyes, when he told her that he could not do that without losing half his men.

Daenerys had reckoned she’d instead use a good chunk of her remaining Unsullied and Dothraki soldiers to escort her, and Ser Barristan had reasoned that the result would be the same: the Lannister men would take over the city, freeing Tywin and Tommen, while she was away.

When it became clear what Ser Barristan was really saying – that if Daenerys left the Red Keep, she would lose her throne and likely her life – a certain peacefulness drifted over the queen’s countenance. An acceptance of unpleasant but unavoidable truths.

And since then, Catelyn had been met at every encounter by this young woman who wanted to swap stories; to reminisce, even if they had no common history. And it struck Catelyn like a blow to the temple that Daenerys Targaryen was little more than an orphan looking for a place to call home; a girl who sought the reverence of millions to replace the family she’d never known. The girl was seeking love, unaware that she already had it. Ser Barristan loved her like a daughter. Grey Worm and Missandei loved her like a sister. Catelyn couldn’t say how Ser Jaime and Ser Jorah and all Daenerys’ other men saw her but was certain that they loved her. But it wasn’t enough for Daenerys, who clearly wanted more. It was a pitiable thing, to never be happy with what one had. To never appreciate what one had.

Like me. Five healthy, hearty children, and yet whenever my eyes landed on Jon Snow my warmth turned to ice. Why could I not have forgiven Ned, who was a better husband than any woman has the right to expect, for bringing his bastard into our home? Can I fault him for loving the lad and wanting him near? Would I have willingly parted from Robb after that sweet babe was placed in my arms at Riverrun?

Catelyn halted herself from continuing down that line of thought. She’d been thinking of Jon Snow much of late, since her time spent at Dragonstone. She wanted to believe it was because she saw a parallel to Jon in Edric Storm, but knew it was not that. She’d been thinking of him since the night on the tower roof with the dragons, since she looked in the one’s eyes and found something that wasn’t vicious and rabid but… surprisingly human. A loneliness and longing that, in hindsight, had been in Jon Snow’s eyes whenever he saw Catelyn showering her trueborn children with affection. She’d seen it then, too, and used to feel some sort of dark pride for having reminded him of what he’d never be and never have.  When she thought back on it now, she became nauseated with guilt. She could have been leery of the bastard, could have kept an eye on him, without being so cold. What was she afraid of, after all? Did she really think the North would clamor for a bastard to be its lord over three trueborn sons and two trueborn daughters? No… I feared that Ned would love him more than the children I bore if I let him into our family. It was Jon I wanted to be leery. Leery of what I’d do to him if he tried to entrench himself in my husband’s heart.

Loss had made Catelyn see these uncomfortable truths about herself, because only loss could put in perspective the inconsequence of those fears that used to dominate her mind. Worrying that Ned would love Jon most, instead of worrying that Ned wouldn’t be around to love any of his children. Worrying that Jon would linger at Winterfell all his life, challenging Robb’s authority, instead of worrying that when Robb and her other children needed more wolves in their pack, Jon would be too far away to help. Worrying that Arya would not grow into a true lady instead of worrying that she’d not grow up at all. Worrying that Sansa would be matched to some lumbering Northman who wouldn’t appreciate her genteel ways, instead of worrying that Sansa would be promised to some cruel little boy with an ugly heart and devious mind hidden behind a veneer of golden hair and blinding smiles.

Regardless, Catelyn had an understanding of herself and others that she didn’t possess five years ago. And thus, while she did not let her guard down, nor forget her ultimate objective, it became impossible to hate Daenerys Targaryen, any more than she’d hate a starving dog that stole the meat off her plate.

She suspected that Margaery Tyrell felt much the same way. Perhaps Lord Mace did, as well. Catelyn had witnessed the almost-altercation between the queen’s men and the knights-turned-hostages in the Maidenvault’s dining hall. Either the departure of the dragon had changed the man’s position, or Mace had never been as loyal to Daenerys as he seemed. Even so, a fortnight later he had not moved against the queen, even though he certainly could. If he did so without harming a hair on Tommen or Tywin’s heads, he’d probably be unimpeded by the Lannister loyalists in the city.

It was the day after that incident that Catelyn’s afternoon prayers were invaded by Lady Margaery’s cousin – was it Alla or Elinor? – kneeling next to her in front of the Crone.

“We should all pray for wisdom, during such… cold times,” Alla or Elinor had spoken under her breath, audible only to Catelyn.

Catelyn had said nothing.

“The wisdom to know that not all in this world is as it seems. For instance, sometimes the best way to be a friend is to be an enemy.”

The girl mumbled her prayers then, before moving on to the Maiden, leaving Cat to ponder the words that either Mace or Margaery no doubt told the girl to recite. If she was to deem them earnest, then she would believe that the Tyrells had never actually shifted their loyalty from Lannister to Targaryen – from Lannister and Stark to Targaryen – only pretended to.

And yet – what was the difference with Tyrells? No matter if they meant to remain loyal to King Tywin, they’d have eventually turned their cloaks if the dragon queen offered enough incentive. Conversely, if they’d been truthful in their vows of fealty to the latest monarch, could that fealty not be swayed back to its previous owner under certain circumstances – like the elimination of the new monarch’s greatest weapon? The Tyrells’ support was almost a moot point when Catelyn would never count on it in making her plans. It would only matter if her plans fell through and she found herself in need of an ally right then and there.

Frankly, she wasn’t sure any of it mattered. It seemed the entire city was a sort of farce of civility while everyone held his or her breath to see what would happen next. With Euron Greyjoy (and the dragon) casting a shadow over the city even from three hundred leagues away, no one seemed willing to be the one to fracture the fragile peace in the capital. To each Westerman wondering if he’d be facing a dragon on the morrow, every eunuch and Dothraki and Reacher suddenly looked like another that could throw a spear or shoot an arrow at the mad squid and his deadly mount. A common enemy had united them in tenuous comradery in a way they couldn’t unite against Daenerys without risk to someone they either cared about or felt a sense of loyalty toward. Euron Greyjoy was the Mad King, bringing five kingdoms who’d rarely bothered with each other under a single banner. Then it was the Stag banner. Now it was… the Targaryen banner? Cat truly did not know. All she did know was that this alliance felt much shakier than the one inspired by the Mad King. So shaky, in fact, that she was rather afraid of being buried under the rubble when it eventually caved in.

Nodding at the guards at the end of the drawbridge, Cat put all of it out of her mind. She had to play her part before the queen – the part of someone who was loyal out of duress now, but whose true loyalty could be earned by the right ruler. She had to be honest, but not about certain things. She had to seem fond of the queen, but not glad to be fond of the queen. She had to offer advice when asked, as if reluctantly, but not volunteer it too often or too insistently.

Soon enough, they were outside the queen’s apartments. Arren and Armand would go no further, which was as Catelyn knew to expect. The twin brothers would spend the evening teasing each other, no doubt, while their lady played friendly with the woman who had torn apart the peace and happiness that the realm had only just started to enjoy.

Missandei was the one to see her to the queen’s private dining chamber, as intimate a space as could be found in this building, short of a bedroom.

Catelyn was surprised to find herself as the sole guest – unless others were expected but running late.

As if reading her mind, the queen looked up from where she already sat at the table, “I was in the mood for company, but not too much of it.”

Cat nodded as she approached the table, pausing to curtsy a few paces away from the place set for her.

“Rise, Lady Catelyn. I wish for no formalities tonight. I’d even ask you to call me Dany.”

Catelyn inclined her head, “Then you may call me… Cat,” she almost said Catelyn, unwilling to let the dragon queen use the nickname that only Ned, Brynden, Hoster, Lysa, and Petyr had ever uttered. But she imagined that ‘Dany’ was a name that couldn’t be used by just anyone. Perhaps only Missandei when the women were alone together. Mayhap Ser Jaime, who Cat suspected early on had seen the inside of his queen’s bedcurtains.

“Please, Cat,” Daenerys smiled, “Sit.”

With another nod, Catelyn did just that, noting that the table held a variety of covered crocks, yet no one was waiting to plate their food. The first time Cat dined with the queen it was in a similar fashion, but that hadn’t truly been a meal – it was a negotiation meeting for which some vittles had been set out.

“May I serve you first, your—Dany?”

Daenerys sat forward in her chair, smiling, “How about I fill a plate with helpings of those dishes closest to me while you do the same, then we switch?”

Cat forced a smile to her lips, “A fine idea.”

And that’s what they did. Cat piled slivered green beans, roasted shallots, and crisped potatoes onto the plate, then handed it to Daenerys while using her other hand to accept a plate of smoked salmon and stewed cinnamon apples.

After completing their plates, Daenerys held up her goblet of red wine, “A toast… to finding friends in unlikely places.”

Cat forced herself to smile while clinking her cup against the queen’s. Was she the friend Daenerys referred to? Did the queen truly think of her that way, or was this some sort of test?

“Unexpected gifts are usually the most cherished,” Cat added.

“Indeed. Funny you should say that,” Daenerys paused to take a sip, so Cat took the same opportunity, eager to let the wine warm her blood, “I’ve been thinking of late… how the things we count among our blessings can turn out to be cursed. And vice versa.”

“Hmm,” Cat hummed thoughtfully, “Was it something in particular you were thinking of, your—Dany?”

“Honestly? Lately it seems every event in my life was not what it seemed.”

Like the Iron Throne?

“Pray tell.”

“Well,” Daenerys took a bite of salmon, not continuing until she’d chewed and swallowed, “My son… he was not even delivered of my womb when a cruel maegi killed him with her blood magic, claiming it was to prevent him from burning cities to the ground. Oh, I should back up. Before that, my husband, Khal Drogo, had become sick from an infected wound. It was a fatal illness, so I had asked the maegi to heal him with her magic. She warned me that only death can pay for life, but that it wouldn’t be my death. I agreed. I won’t bore you with the details, but the woman tricked me. Yes, she saved my husband, prevented him from expiring, but he was nothing but an empty shell. Unable to move, to speak, to eat, or even blink. And the death that paid for him to be thus was my son’s. And yet…” she paused to eat some more salmon, while Catelyn could only blink at the young woman, stunned. “Khal Drogo’s funeral pyre was the fire in which my children were born. I used to think it was my presence, but I was wrong. I had sacrificed my husband, whom I loved dearly, even if at the time I only thought it was mercy, helping him die. I had sacrificed my son, whom I also loved, even if unwittingly at the time. Though sometimes,” Daenerys took a sip of wine then swirled what was still in her cup as her eyes looked toward the hearth, “sometimes I wonder why I didn’t ask the maegi for assurance that my son would not be the price to pay. I was heavily pregnant, utterly aware of the babe inside me, so why didn’t I think to ask about it? Or did I think to but chose not to find out because I knew I would make the trade – a son for a husband – but didn’t like to admit it to myself.” Daenerys shrugged, “It makes no matter now. A son and a husband died, but three sons were born. Drogon, Rhaegal, Viserion. So, the maegi didn’t lie – death does pay for life. And maybe she wasn’t lying when she said she killed my son to save entire cities from burning. Targaryen men have been known to do so, after all. Maybe… for as much as I’d have loved Rhaego… maybe he was not meant to be the stallion that mounts the world. Maybe I am the mare who mounts the world.”

The queen finally went silent, working on her meal, and Catelyn had to feign an appetite. Her mind was whirring. She did not want to judge Daenerys for trading an unborn son for a living husband, but how could the woman look back and consider it a fair deal when none of those three children were under her control or command right now, and one of them was being used against her realm? Was it because one of them helped her take the throne? Or helped her take the Slave Cities that had since slipped from her grasp?

Catelyn knew she should say something but couldn’t force her lips to cooperate in forming a question that wouldn’t stoke the queen’s anger.

And yet, why do I care? What would she dare to do to the woman who has Riverrun and Winterfell behind her?

Catelyn did not get the chance to form words, because a knock on the door had Daenerys’ attention.

It was Ser Barristan, who was welcomed in with a smile, though the knight returned something more like a wince.

“Yes, Ser Barristan?” Daenerys asked softly.

“Your grace…” the knight bowed then straightened, his eyes darting between the two women. “I… We’ve received news, your grace. From Storm’s End.”

“Storm’s End?” Daenerys asked, her lips frowning, “Wasn’t Storm’s End being held by a garrison of Tyrell and Lannister men?”

“Aye, your grace, and a small number of Baratheon men, all under Ser Gilbert Farring who was permitted to retain his role, since the former king was trying to make peace with Lord Baratheon.”

Daenerys hummed, “What news, then? Is there fighting amongst all those men who wear different sigils?” she gasped suddenly, “Is it Rhaegal? Has he been spotted there?”

Ser Barristan shook his head and wet his lips, “No, your grace. It would seem a large army of sellswords from the Golden Company has landed at Storm’s End. They are flying, among others, the Targaryen dragon and the Martell sun.”

The queen’s face became a mask of confusion, then utter glee, “The Dornish have finally declared for me, and to show the depths of their loyalty they have contracted the best sellsword company in the world! Storm’s End is not very far from the Reach, is it?”

Ser Barristan shook his head, “It is about three hundred leagues from Highgarden, as the capital is.”

Daenerys frowned, “How many leagues between the capital and Storm’s End?”

“About a hundred and fifty.”

“Do they mean to come to the capital first? To swear fealty and gain my permission before marching south and west to face the Ironborn?”

“Your grace,” Ser Barristan took a deep breath, “They fly under a Targaryen banner because… they claim to have a Targaryen among them. Your nephew. Rhaegar’s son, Aegon.”

Daenerys’ face froze, “Aegon is dead. The Mountain and Ser Amory killed him under orders of Lord- of Cersei Lannister.”

Catelyn lifted an eyebrow at that, but kept her lips sealed even as she wondered why Cersei Lannister would do such a thing. Hadn’t she only been a young woman then? Had Tywin Lannister blamed his dead daughter in hopes of escaping the new queen’s judgment for that crime? Had Tyrion Lannister spread such a rumor in hopes of earning leniency for his father?

“Aye, your grace,” Ser Barristan nodded, “But this young man claims to be your nephew. He told this to Ser Gilbert when they met for parley beneath Storm’s End’s walls. He claims that there was a conspiracy to swap the real prince for another child – an orphan no one would miss.”

Daenerys’ voice came out a hasty stutter, “But… no one knew what Cersei Lannister had planned. How would anyone have known far enough ahead of time to find a… a doppelganger for my baby nephew?”

Ser Barristan cleared his throat, but it was Catelyn who answered, “It was not hard to predict, your grace. If not Cersei Lannister, someone else might have seen the children as a threat. At best, they’d have lived the rest of their lives as hostages, warded by someone Robert Baratheon trusted, and kept under lock and key so they’d never be free to seek allies to help restore House Targaryen.”

Ser Barristan nodded stoically, “The lady is correct. Though that doesn’t mean that he is truly Aegon the Sixth.”

Daenerys shook her head in confusion, “And what does this Ser Gilbert think on the matter?”

Ser Barristan shifted on his feet, “He believes the man’s claims and thus… surrendered Storm’s End. Though with ten thousand soldiers and at least a dozen war elephants, it is likely the keep would have fallen anyway, your grace.”

Something itched inside Catelyn’s brain, and she worked at puzzling it out while the knight and the queen continued their dialogue.

“Why does he believe the claim? Does the man have proof he is my nephew?”

“Eh… Your grace, he arrived in the company of Ser Jon Connington…”

Catelyn gasped, earning a glance from both blue and violet eyes.

“Who is Ser Jon Connington?” Daenerys asked.

“He was a companion of your brother Rhaegar,” Ser Barristan supplied, “A close friend of his, in fact. Some even speculated Ser Jon was… enamored… with your brother.”

Daenerys shook her head, blinking in confusion, “If this young man were truly my nephew, why not send men ahead to request parley and sail to King’s Landing, instead?”

“Because of the Redwyne fleet,” Catelyn guessed, “He does not trust you, and knows that the Redwyne fleet could destroy his own should you see him as a threat or an enemy rather than a nephew.”

“I would guess the same,” Ser Barristan agreed, “Also, if they’ve been weeks at sea, he may not know that Drogon is not in the capital. They likely don’t know about the Ironborn raids along the Mander.”

Daenerys’ entire face flushed, “If he is my nephew, and if this Jon Connington can prove it, he has no reason to see me as an enemy. I would welcome him by my side. I would name him my heir.”

Catelyn almost felt like laughing. She recalled each and every one of Ser Alix’s words when he delivered to Winterfell the summons from Daenerys Targaryen. Per Ser Alix, in her speech as she took the throne abdicated by Lord Lannister, Daenerys spoke of doing it out of a sense of duty. That if only her nephew lived, she’d be supporting his claim to the throne.

But that was not the sole reason for Catelyn’s sense of amusement. Her head was spinning, and the only thing she could reasonably expect about the coming days was that they’d bring something completely unexpected. Not very long ago, five kings made war against each other – all because Cersei Lannister tried to pull a Rhaenyra Targaryen on the realm. The war ended with Renly and Robb dead, Balon Greyjoy defeated, sulking on his dreary island, Stannis defeated and sulking on a different dreary island, and Joffrey Waters being usurped by his own grandfather through some legal loophole that no one but the fearsome yet capable Tywin Lannister would have the nerve to utilize. It was all quite strange, and yet there’d been peace for a time. Too short a time before a Targaryen queen used cleverness and a dragon to usurp the usurper of the usurper’s son. Then the new Lord of Pyke stole the dragon and was presently using it to terrorize the lands that sustained most of the realm. And now a prince had come back from the dead with an army of sellswords and elephants, no doubt to march on King’s Landing now that many of the queen’s Tyrell and Lannister soldiers were off dealing with the Ironborn.

And all Catelyn could think was that her daughter and granddaughters were not yet back in the hands of family, or at least the honor-bound lord of Dragonstone. If only they were, then Catelyn wouldn’t have to care who ended up with the throne. The North would kneel in exchange for peace, but they could never trust any peace that Euron Greyjoy offered. Nor could Catelyn say what peace with this supposed Aegon Targaryen would cost. Rickon as a hostage? Sansa’s daughters dead, Sansa wed to one of his men?

Gods, she just needed Ser Kevan and Ser Davos and Gendry to succeed. She wanted so badly to hear that her daughter was safe at Dragonstone; or better yet – en route to Winterfell or White Harbor. But had Ser Jaime even made it to wherever they were hidden? How long was the voyage? Was Sansa’s party in Braavos, or had they arrived there only to move inland, deep into the mountain region of Norvos, or south to the Flatlands or the lands along the Rhoyne? Would it take months for Ser Jaime to reach Sansa’s location? Would Ser Davos be able to track him for that long? Would he be able to do so without being discovered?

She wanted to cry. Instead, she shook her head and looked pointedly at the dragon queen, “You would name him your heir? If he is who he says he is, the Crown belongs to him.”

Daenerys frowned, “I took the Crown. I have already claimed it. You expect me to give it to him? He should have come to me first. If he has the Golden Company at his back, that means he’s been in Essos all this time. He should have come to me in Meereen and offered to unite our claims and our armies!”

Catelyn looked up at Ser Barristan, “Ser, you say the Martell banner is being carried alongside the Targaryen?”

He nodded, and Catelyn watched as realization widened his pale blue eyes. He turned to Daenerys, “Your grace… it is possible that Dorne supports him because he has wed, or promised to wed, the heiress Arianne Martell.”

Daenerys scoffed, “Or because he has Dornish blood through his mother. His alleged mother. He would be a fool to wed anyone but me, knowing only I can give legitimacy to his claim. Knowing that I am the mother of dragons – those creatures he has the nerve to display as his standard without providing any proof. He is likely an imposter! And if the Dornish would follow an imposter over an indisputable, trueborn dragon, all because of that boy Quentyn’s foolishness, then I will make them rue the decision for the rest of their lives!”

“Who is Quentyn?” Catelyn asked, pushing aside the discomfited feeling that came from watching a monarch declare her intent to seek vengeance rather than peace.

“He is no one,” Daenerys answered flippantly, “Just another young man who would stop at nothing in attempt to satisfy his ambitions. Like almost every other man.”

That was hardly a comprehensive answer, yet it made the itch in her brain intensify. She looked to the knight but got nothing but an inscrutable glare in return. “My queen,” she breathed, “The history of Dorne’s relation to House Targaryen is one filled with defiance and bloodshed. Respectfully, you are mistaken if you think the Martells would support this boy because his mother might’ve been Elia Martell. No… they likely don’t care whether he is a trueborn son with Martell and Targaryen blood, or an orphan picked up off the streets of Lys. All they care about is that Martell blood will be in the next generation, because I believe Ser Barristan is correct in assuming the princess of Sunspear has been or will be wed to this claimant. The Martells see the situation in the Reach and know they could take the capital easily right now, then go aid the Tyrells and Lannisters fighting the Ironborn. This boy may be nothing but a puppet who’s been told he has a right and duty to sit the throne. I would implore you to make peace with him so you can, together, focus on the bigger threat.”

Catelyn couldn’t even stop to think about whether such an outcome would bode well for her personal objective. At this point, she was only hoping her logic was still sound: as long as Daenerys lived, her men in charge of Sansa’s safekeeping would do nothing to hurt their queen’s hostages. And if this prince or pretender or whatever he was had ten thousand sellswords and a dozen elephants and who knows how many Martell spears, then he would have no trouble taking the capital and killing the rival to his claim.

Unless Stannis can command the dragon and brings it here, not to the Reach.

But Gods, how could I in good conscience hope he’d defend this keep instead of hundreds of miles of fertile riverlands and the innocents being slaughtered there?

But if something happened to Sansa and my granddaughters, I know I’d trade a hundred thousand innocents for the chance to bring them back, Gods forgive me.

She looked up to the ceiling for a moment to reverse the flow of tears, then took a fortifying breath and looked across to Daenerys. The queen’s cheeks were crimson, her jaw bulging as she clenched her teeth together, looking as incensed as she did betrayed.

Betrayed.

And finally the thought that had been itching the back of Catelyn’s brain came to the forefront of her mind. “Your grace… How did the Golden Company and a man claiming to be Aegon Targaryen the Sixth make it from somewhere in Essos to Storm’s End, without your Master of Whispers hearing of it?”

Daenerys and Ser Barristan turned to face her, blinking almost comically.

“It is winter,” Ser Barristan eventually proposed, “the weather slows down all communication, including the covert.”

“The Spider is said to have ears in every major city. How could he not have heard, at the least, that the sellswords had set sail?”

“If they sailed straight to Storm’s End from wherever they’d been – Myr, last I’d heard – they’d have gotten there faster than any word could travel through the Spider’s network.”

“No,” Daenerys shook her head, “It is not just that… The story this supposed nephew of mine is telling… That he was smuggled out of the capital, a decoy left in his place to be slain or turned into a hostage… Who would have helped this Jon Connington fellow with such a task?”

Ser Barristan shook his head, “Jon Connington was not in the capital during the Sack. The king had exiled him after the Battle of the Bells. Someone else must’ve gotten the babe out and transferred him to Ser Jon’s…” the knight trailed off, his cheeks darkening.

Daenerys stood from her chair, the motion slow and measured, but her calm was belied by a frantic gleam in her eyes, which pointed at her aged but capable guard, “Summon Lord Varys. Tell him the queen has need of his council.”

The knight’s boots thudded together before he bowed, “At once, your grace.”

The ensuing silence between the women was colder and heavier than a coating of wet snow, and Catelyn could think of nothing to break it. She felt fearful of the queen, who grew more agitated by the second, but also fearful for her… and fearful of what it meant for Catelyn’s kin if the Crown changed hands yet again, this time to some brat who had even less experience ruling than Daenerys, and who had no followers but ones that were bought with gold.

And even that might be a fear she’d later come to know was ridiculous, like her fear of Jon Snow conspiring against her trueborn children, because Euron Greyjoy would use the queen’s dragon to kill this Aegon the Sixth and Daenerys, and a third madman in as many decades would sit the Iron Throne, this one needing no jars of wildfire because he had a fire-breathing beast under his command.

She prayed silently for the least bloody resolution to come to pass, and for Houses Stark and Tully to not be the ones who paid that blood. She prayed while watching the queen’s tiny fingers tap the tabletop that held their largely untouched meal. Catelyn told herself she’d ask the queen for permission to bring the contents of her plate for her guards to share but knew better than to waste any of the queen’s goodwill on something so trivial.

It seemed the better part of an hour before Ser Barristan arrived, face red and eyes wary.

“Your grace,” he bowed, “the Master of Whispers cannot be found.”

The queen’s eyes narrowed, “You checked his personal apartments near the gate?”

“Aye, your grace. He is not there, nor in the maester’s office, nor the council chamber.”

The queen’s eyes, which seemed like living flames moments ago, became dull and unfocused as she commanded, “Send out search parties. The entire keep plus the city. I want him found.”

Ser Barristan winced, “Your grace – with respect – if Varys does not know that we suspect him, he will turn up eventually from wherever he is. After all, he spends much of his time meeting with his various informants in any number of places unknown to you and me. But if he sees queen’s men scouring the city or hears word that we are so frantically searching for him – he may flee.”

“And if we don’t search, we’re giving him time to do just that.”

“If the Spider wishes to sneak out of this city, whose tunnels and secrets he knows better than anyone, he will, and we will not be able to stop him. Right now, the best course of action is to give no hint that he has reason to leave.”

“I only mean to question him,” the queen huffed.

“And punish him, if you learn that he has been keeping secrets from you,” Catelyn added.

Daenerys turned to her, “If he is innocent, he has nothing to fear.”

“In which case he will show up sooner or later,” Ser Barristan spoke, “If he does not join us for tomorrow’s small council meeting, you will know he has been withholding information from you, at minimum.”

“And at maximum?” the queen asked her loyal man.

Yes, Catelyn thought, what is the worst the eunuch could be playing at by hiding his knowledge of this claimant who has the Golden Company and at least some of Dorne’s might behind him?

And why play at all? Varys was integral to Daenerys taking the city, the throne. Why bother if all along he supported another claimant? Or does he support the boy? Why keep the boy’s existence hidden from the queen otherwise? Could the Spider be playing at something ten levels deeper than which Targaryen sits the throne – the indisputable daughter of Aerys, or the supposed son of Rhaegar?

Catelyn had no explanation to offer. It was Ser Barristan who responded to the queen, many moments later, with a single word that sent shivers down Catelyn’s spine.

“Treason.”

Daenerys nodded a bit absently, “I… Your words make sense, Ser. Do not organize a search that will tip our hand to the eunuch. But you and Grey Worm should spread the word to my trusted men that if Varys is seen, he is to be brought to me, that I seek his counsel.”

“At once,” the knight said with another bow, and then he was gone again, and the silence was even more suffocating.

Catelyn began to rise, “I should leave you, your grace. You’ll surely want time alone to consider your—”

“I do not wish to be alone, Lady Catelyn. I mean, Cat,” Daenerys looked up at her and smiled – a weak but genuine thing, yet it seemed to fill Cat’s stomach with gravel.

Was this how those in the mad king’s inner circle felt when he first began his descent into madness? Did they look at him and feel sorry for the man who had had such heavy burdens placed on his shoulders at such a young age? Did they feel sorry for the man made to marry and bed his sister when both were years from their majority?

Did they keep feeling sorry for him even as his offenses became more serious? Did they feel sorry for him even after he started burning criminals alive instead of giving them clean, painless deaths? Did they feel sorry for him even when he tortured poor Rickard and Brandon Stark?

Catelyn had always assumed, when Hoster offered bits and pieces of information on their king, that those loyal to him remained so either out of fear or avarice, nothing else. Now though…

She supposed she could ask Ser Barristan. In the end, had the mad king been surrounded by sycophants who were just as morally void as he was? Or was he surrounded by people who knew him when he was a charming young man – people who witnessed whatever trials and oppositions he faced during his reign and forgave him for losing some of his wits, then all of them?

“My own brother sold me to a war lord as payment for the promise of an army,” Daenerys stated, out of the blue.

Catelyn looked across the table at the girl, who drained her wine and placed the chalice down heavily before continuing, “More fool I, for not knowing right there, right then, that I’d never be able to trust a man.”

“What of Ser Barristan? Grey Worm? Presumably Sers Jaime and—”

Daenerys interrupted with a wave of her petite hand, “They are men who lack ambition. Men who are satisfied with a lifetime of servitude, of honor. But men who are ambitious… they will never be my friends, Cat. They will only ever see me as a threat, or an obstacle. At best, a tool to be used as long as it benefits them. Thus, I will stop trying to be the bigger person. Instead, I will return the favor.”

Catelyn did not like the sound of that. Not one bit.

“A woman in power…” Daenerys continued, her voice now a whisper as she seemed to be speaking to herself, not her dinner companion, “is as ludicrous to them as a freed slave is to the masters of Astapor, Meereen, Yunkai. Trying to convince them that every person has a right to dominion over his or her life was as futile as it would be for me to try to convince you that pigs can sprout wings and fly. Perhaps I was wrong in thinking it was only selfishness that had them fighting me, attacking me, killing my men and trying to kill me. Perhaps… Perhaps it was fear. What I was doing was unprecedented in their lands. I was unprecedented in their lands. And I have found in my life that what people fear most is the unknown.”

“And change,” Catelyn added, “Though perhaps they are one and the same.”

Daenerys smiled faintly, “Indeed.” Then she tucked back into her meal, no matter that it was cold, as if she was famished. Catelyn would say one thing for the girl – she was not spoiled. Entitled, Catelyn supposed, but not spoiled.

Despite Catelyn’s concerns, she forced herself to mirror the queen’s abruptly cheerful demeanor until the smiles she faked had fooled her own mind. She managed to eat most of what was on her plate, and was on her second glass of wine, when the door swung in without a knock preceding it.

It was Ser Barristan yet again, and at the look on his face, Catelyn’s stomach flipped over and she instantly regretted every bite she had taken.

“Your grace,” he sputtered out, “I was called to the dungeons…”

Daenerys shot up out of her chair, “And?!” she shouted.

Ser Barristan swallowed, “It’s the Old Lion, your grace. He’s…”

“Well?!”

Catelyn closed her eyes, sent a prayer to the Father above, because there was only one word she could imagine concluding Ser Barristan’s sentence.

Dead.

The Old Lion is dead.

Notes:

Stop looking at me like that...

Chapter 64: Going to be alright

Notes:

If you haven't read chapter 64, which was posted maybe 1-2 hours ago, go read that first!!

Chapter Text

Jaime

The woman had never let down her cowl as she worked on her patient, fearful of catching the deadly plague that was slowly but surely making its way to Braavos, though Jaime had encountered no sign of it during his near fortnight in the foreign city. Then again, he supposed any with the plague were holed up in their homes or one of the city’s shelters, sweating and shitting and praying for either instant death or instant relief – whichever their gods were willing to grant.

It was Bronze she spoke to in Braavosi Valyrian after it was done, the young man nodding solemnly to what Jaime figured were instructions for tending Sansa’s wounds. She handed him a stoneware jar of what Jaime hoped was a medicinal salve, a satchel of herbs, a small vial made of amber-colored glass, and several strips of clean linen. It had cost Jaime what he thought was the equivalent of a gold dragon for the supplies, and this after he gave the woman three of the same coins just to come here. Healer she may be, but the encroaching bloody flux was terrifying even the most iron-spined due to its high mortality rate. Contracting the illness was almost a death sentence, especially for those over the age of forty or under the age of ten, but even those lucky enough to be in the prime of their life were not exempt. He and Bronze had successfully engaged her services only with the promise of more wealth than she would ordinarily see in a year, Jaime figured.

That was after Jaime’s been delivered to Sansa’s bedroom in the manse she shared with Ser Jorah, Bronze Fist, Crawler, Flea, and Red Spider. Jaime was glad to learn this, knowing that Bronze seemed a gentler soul than the typical Unsullied, and recalling Crawler and Flea as ones who could crack a smile on rare occasion, though he had little recollection of Red Spider before boarding the ship that would ferry them to Westeros.

His gladness didn’t last long, though. It was almost instantly replaced by shame at realizing he had neither wondered nor cared which Unsullied were tasked with guarding Sansa and her daughters back when Daenerys or Ser Barristan or Ser Jorah had made the decision… then anger at learning that Sansa’s daughters and their nurse were in a different location, under the care of Slug, Black Mole, and Bald Rat.

For better or worse, none of those emotions had the chance to consume him. He’d been led into the bedroom by Bronze, finding Red Spider standing defensively at the lady’s bedside, dirk in hand because he must’ve heard Jaime’s unfamiliar footfalls encroaching.

At first Jaime had been confused, seeing only a head of frizzy white hair against a tan pillowcase, the hair’s owner covered up to the chin and shaking the bed with her rattling. He’d looked at Red Spider, one of the Unsullied who could boast the exotic Valyrian look, and wondered if the man had found a long-lost sister, until he stepped closer to the bed and recognized Sansa Stark’s bone structure.

It seemed hazy after that, as Bronze’s words – Lady no wake – came back to him. Jaime was on the bed, clutching at Sansa’s clammy face with both hands, hoping she would wake if he lightly slapped her cheeks.

She didn’t.

It had made no sense to him, when Red Spider gently pulled the blankets down to reveal a pale left hand, two fingers bandaged but clearly shorter than they should be.

Crawler had come in then, saying the lady had fever, had “wounds gone bad”, and that Ser Jorah had been gone four days – since causing said wounds because “lady no follow order to write letter”. The Unsullied had cleaned and bandaged the wounds and made the lady eat and drink that afternoon when she awoke, and that night, and the next day. They’d cared for her as best they could, giving her wine to ward off the chills and changing the bandages frequently, but yesterday afternoon Sansa had been too weak to eat, and Crawler found her “head too hot”. Red Spider, though not officially in charge, took command – ordering Crawler and Flea to search for Ser Jorah while Bronze was sent to inquire about a healer. They returned late that night – Crawler having found Ser Jorah at a brothel (though unable to coax the knight back to his duties) and Bronze having been referred to a local who was Braavos’ equivalent of a wisewoman, but the woman turned him away – likely recognizing him as a product of the far south of Essos where the bloody flux was running rampant.

The next morning Bronze had been told by Red Spider to go back and bring the healer by force if necessary – that was what the young Unsullied had been doing when he threw open the gate that had smashed Jaime’s nose. And after Jaime saw Sansa for himself, he joined Bronze on his mission, armed with a heavy coin purse and a long sword and willing to use either or both to secure the woman’s services.

It turned out that the promise of one and threat of the other were enough, though Jaime was pretty certain that she’d put some type of curse on him as she muttered her farewells, based on the way Bronze’s eyes widened and he made a hand gesture that was the Unsullied equivalent of a Westerosi making the sign of the Seven over his or her chest.

Now the sun was headed toward the horizon and all that could be done for Sansa had been done, though it had not been pretty. Luckily, the pain induced by the healer’s work had awoken Sansa only long enough for her to weakly fight the strong men who held her down then promptly pass out again. Something Jaime guessed was feverfew was among the supplies the healer sold him for a small fortune, along with a tiny vial of what Crawler translated as “flower dew” – Jaime hoped it was poppy milk since he had some secondhand experience with the stuff.

Jaime had another task to see to, but he took the opportunity to sit and relax for the first time since he arose from bed this early morning. Collapsing into the cushioned chair at Sansa’s bedside, he did not allow himself to think that this was all his fault, because it wasn’t. He just watched her chest rise and fall at a thankfully normal rhythm while telling himself he couldn’t kill Ser Jorah no matter the temptation.

Not yet, anyway.

He looked up to find the most somber of the Unsullied – Red Spider – watching from the doorway. Jaime shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. “Common tongue?” he asked.

Red Spider lifted his gaze to Jaime then lifted his right hand to teeter it in the air.

Jaime nodded, figuring Red Spider was like many of the Unsullied – understanding some or even most of the common tongue though not able to speak it. Their former masters hardly even cared to teach them their mother tongue, except those words that were necessary to understanding the commands one might give to a hired killer. All the rest they seemed to have picked up along the way, and much of it only after Daenerys gave them freedom.

“Well, you did right, sending Bronze for a healer. Thank you,” Jaime spoke sincerely.

Red Spider lifted one shoulder, his eyes back on Sansa’s sleeping form, “Job is keep lady safe,” he spoke in what Jaime guessed, given his fair features, was a Lyseni accent. Jaime, feeling a bit delirious after the day’s events, wondered if the man should count himself lucky to have been picked up by the Astapor masters to be trained among the Unsullied, or if he’d prefer to have been a bedslave in Lys. Certainly, being a stud to the world’s most beautiful women was preferable to losing one’s cock and balls, but Jaime assumed that male prostitutes, when not being harvested for their seed to make pretty little slave babies, had more male customers than female. Since Jaime had become acquainted with the Unsullied, he often thought he’d rather lose his sword than his sword-hand, and being buggered from sunset to sunrise didn’t sound like a grand old time.

“Still, I thank you. And I trust you will continue being diligent while I have Crawler lead me to whatever brothel Ser Jorah has taken up residence in.”

Jaime knew some of those words were likely beyond Red’s comprehension, but the guard nodded slowly and stepped into the room, putting his face in the path of the setting sun coming through the window. His violet irises were almost invisible in such light, and Jaime found himself frowning at the sharpness of the younger man’s hooked nose, which struck Jaime as a mismatch for the rest of his face. A decades-old memory assailed him out of the blue. On his first military campaign, the one for which Jaime had been knighted, he was squiring for Lord Sumner Crakehall. Jaime had been drunk on hero worship the entire journey to the place where the bandits were suspected of hiding. Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Barristan Selmy… Men who’d visited Jaime last night in that strange dream of rowboats and snow and the wall and the woman he could never reach, who was white from head to toe—

He shifted in his chair, turning his gaze to the hearth fire that the healer had insisted be kept roaring to dry out the room even as the window should be kept open to keep the temperature down since Sansa still had a fever. He shook off the inexplicable fact that his dream had been prophetic in nature, even if only in a vague way. Instead, he focused on what called that campaign to mind to begin with – a memory that Jaime hadn’t thought of since it was no memory at all but the actual experience. Lord Sumner was talking to Jaime while tending to his stubble in the looking glass. At fifteen, Jaime’s initial reaction was to feel jealous of Lord Sumner’s thick blond beard, but quickly his attention was pulled to the man’s reflection – specifically the reflection of his nose. Jaime had always known it to be hooked, with a wide bump at the bridge likely from being punched in his youth. Jaime hadn’t thought of the lord’s nose as crooked, however, until he was looking at the man’s reflection and marveling at how his nose bent so acutely to the left. That one small change was enough to make Jaime feel like he was talking to a stranger, not a man he’d known his entire life. Then Lord Sumner finished his grooming and turned around, wiping away soap and stubble with a cloth, and looking precisely like the man Jaime knew him to be, though Jaime did note that his nose was indeed bent to the left.

Jaime pushed himself up to stand, “Right. No use delaying.” He rounded the bed and went through the doorway to the corridor, not pausing even though he was tempted to get a better look at that hawkish nose.

Down at ground level he found Flea stationed at the front door and Crawler and Bronze busy in the kitchen preparing supper. Jaime gestured Crawler over to his side, “You’ll take me to the brothel where you found Ser Jorah.”

Crawler glanced at Bronze, then back at Jaime, but didn’t utter a word.

“Problem?” Jaime asked, planting his hands on his hips and raising his eyebrows.

Crawler gave something of a shrug, his eyes darting to his comrade a second time for a brief moment, “Jorah Andal in charge. He say leave him alone.”

Jaime snorted, lifting his upper lip in a wry smile, “How can he be in charge if he’s not here, hm?”

Crawler shrugged again, “Daenerys Stormborn say listen Jorah Andal.”

“And Daenerys Stormborn sent me here because she feared that Jorah Andal couldn’t be trusted with a young woman as his charge. And apparently, she was right.” Jaime didn’t think it was lying to not tell the Unsullied that it was he who didn’t trust Ser Jorah, and that it was Catelyn Stark who planted those seeds of distrust in his mind because – as it turned out – both Catelyn and Jaime were right. Jaime had left Westeros fearing that he’d find the older knight’s loyalty had been compromised by Sansa Stark’s cunt, but now Jaime only wished that had been the case. Instead, he arrived to find the lady maimed and suffering from an infection that could yet prove deadly, her daughters nowhere in sight, being tended to by men who’d had any sense of compassion tortured and drugged out of them at a young age. Ser Jorah had shortened two of Sansa’s fingers by a knuckle because she refused to write a letter that included testimony to her daughters’ wellbeing.

She had stared at a cleaver-wielding man and refused to be the first to blink.

Was it pride, bravery, or stupidity that afflicted these Starks?

(And why was it that lately Jaime was envious of whatever it was?)

Crawler held his gaze, searching Jaime’s eyes for treachery, and it was during that protracted silence that Bronze hissed something in Valyrian.

Crawler turned to the youngest of them and hissed something back.

“What did he say?” Jaime directed at Crawler.

Crawler shook his head, “No thing.”

Bronze hissed again, more passionately this time. Crawler hissed back again, even more annoyed.

“What?” Jaime directed at Bronze, “Tell me.”

Bronze cast a final nervous glance at his comrade before turning to Jaime, his gaze instantly becoming resolute, “Jorah Andal drink the mezcal. He get… mad… with lady.”

Jaime stepped toward Bronze, “He beats her?”

Bronze shook his head then shrugged, “This one… I do not see. But… Some night… No… One night, he—”

A reprimand from Crawler stopped the lad’s progress. Jaime had had enough of that. He faced Crawler, “Say one more fucking word to him and I’ll gut you where you stand.” Jaime did not draw his sword nor even rest his hand on the pommel; he didn’t need to. Unsullied may fear no one, including the Stranger, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t recognize and respect a superior opponent. Jaime had sparred with Bronze, among others. There were none that could best Jaime with actual blood on the line. Aye, they were all capable fighters, but their strength was a collective one. He’d put an Unsullied shield wall against any cavalry charge he could imagine because these dead-inside fuckers would never flinch even when a thousand tons of armored horse were barreling straight for them. He’d put them across a battlefield from a host twice their size because pain didn’t faze them, meaning each man would fight until his last breath even with one hand holding in his innards. But one-on-one or even two-on-one, Jaime would not bet on them against the average Westerosi knight.

And Jaime was no average knight.

His eyes silently dared Crawler to test him.

Crawler turned away.

“Go on,” Jaime encouraged Bronze with a bolstering nod.

Bronze wet his thick lips to continue, “One night… He go in lady’s room. Red see him… ah… at morning. Leaving room. Ahhh…” Bronze made a vague gesture at his own chest with both hands.

“Naked,” Crawler mumbled resignedly, “Jorah Andal and lady fight much now. Lady want daughters. Jorah say no.”

Jaime laughed drily, nodding his head, “Right. I’m gonna kill him.” He turned and headed for the hallway that led to the front of the house, getting halfway there before someone grabbed his arm.

He turned, snarling down at Bronze, “Don’t get in my way. It won’t end well for you.”

“Lady… She want… she… want… only want…”

Crawler huffed, “Lady want her daughters. One moon and Jorah bring them here.”

Jaime frowned, “Jorah said he would bring her daughters here in one moon?”

Crawler nodded, “Lady say bring now and she write letter. Jorah say write letter now, he bring them later.”

“Stubborn fucking Northerners,” Jaime growled, uncertain which Northerner he was referring to, then he split his gaze between the two Unsullied, “None of you knows where the girls are?”

Crawler and Bronze shook their heads. Jaime turned to his left to look at Flea, still standing sentry at the door. He, too, shook his head.

Jaime pointed above him, “Red Spider?”

Crawler shook his head, “Only Jorah Andal. Black Mole, Bald Rat, and Slug took them. We never go,” at the last bit, he gestured to the three Unsullied in the hall.

Jaime forced himself to take a deep breath and focus on the information being conveyed which was, in short, that only Ser Jorah knew where Jeyne and Jocelyn were being kept. His mind started wandering to the usual dangerous places of late. Did Daenerys order him to separate mother from daughters, or was that Ser Jorah’s swell idea? Or the Spider’s, perhaps?

“Right,” Jaime relented, “Then I won’t kill him. But his holiday is over. Come,” he nodded toward Crawler, “Lead me to whatever den of sin Ser Jorah is haunting.”

He recognized the street as one he’d walked down this morning, and Jaime laughed to himself, ignoring Crawler’s sidelong glare. If only Jaime had followed those three working girls and invited himself into their place of employment to dry out his foot and wet his cock, he might’ve encountered a soused Ser Jorah in the common room. It was good that he hadn’t, though, because unless Jorah immediately agreed to bring Jaime to the manse, it would only delay his arrival there which might’ve delayed Sansa’s medical treatment.

On this bitterly cold night, Jaime was surprised to step into the place and find the common room not even half full. That was unfortunate in that it meant his arrival did not go unnoticed, though the trade-off was that there were fewer total eyes to see him, and he was still mildly worried that some brave Northman might be scouring Braavos for Sansa Stark just as he’d been doing until about eight hours ago. But Jaime had never been good with worrying about two things at the same time, despite all his father’s lessons in the importance of making decisions based on careful consideration of all possible scenarios and variables. Such analysis was the type of activity that made Jaime want to fall on his sword, and given he’d made it this far in life without thinking things through from a thousand angles, he wouldn’t bother breaking the habit now.

“Andali!”

Jaime turned and found one of the brunettes from across the room waving at him, to the annoyance of the patron whose lap was serving as her chair, his hands her breast-warmers.

Jaime groaned and turned to the other side of the room, scanning for a familiar sight, when Crawler spoke, “Not here. Upstairs.”

“Right. Lead the way.”

With a nod, Crawler did just that. The madame – or so Jaime assumed – was shouting at their backs, but he couldn’t bring himself to care that he was breaking the establishment’s rules. He’d toss the woman a coin on his way out and she’d forgive his bad manners.

Crawler led him up the stairs and down a corridor filled with the sounds of feigned female pleasure and genuine male exertion, to a door at the end that struck Jaime as belonging to the best room in the place – or at least the most private. Good thing about whorehouses – doors didn’t lock from the inside, for the protection of the girls. Jaime turned the knob and let himself in, causing a pale-haired woman to scream and jump from the bed where Jorah Mormont was face-down, snoring like a bear. Valyrian curses were being shouted all the while Jaime grabbed the naked girl by the right arm and threw her out of the room. Crawler needed no command to slam the door shut and lean his body against it.

With the distraction of an irate whore removed, Jaime could take in the state of the room. Specifically, the smell. Sex and sweat, woodsmoke and vomit and an earthy liquor Jaime could not place. He opened the small window as his first order of business.

As his second order of business, he found a pitcher of water and wasted not a moment dumping it on Jorah’s mostly bald head.

The knight shot up reaching blindly to the wrong side of the bed if he was seeking his dagger, but it wouldn’t have mattered. Jaime had his own to the man’s hairy throat, sneering down at the disgusting excuse for a human being.

“Was it your intent to stay here until infection conveniently took your charge, Ser?” Jaime asked.

Jorah went still at feeling the cold steel against his neck and blinked up at Jaime, his irises black in the room illuminated only by the fire in a pot belly stove.

“Well?” Jaime barked.

“Kingslayer?” Jorah asked, his breath reeking of stale liquor and sleep.

“Good to know you haven’t drunk yourself blind. It’s been known to happen with that crap that peasants make in their washtubs, which – by the smell of your breath – is what you’ve been drinking.”

Jorah wiped at bloodshot eyes, “She’s recalling me to King’s Landing? You’re here to take my place?”

Jaime tightened his grip on the dagger, disgusted by the hopefulness he heard in Jorah’s voice. Had his assignment in Braavos been so miserable, fucking Sansa Stark and local whores?

“Listen to me, you fucking cunt,” Jaime growled through clenched teeth, “If your beloved Khaleesi could see you now – if she learned of how you’ve been spending your time – she’d never want to see you again for as long as she lives. She’d exile you to fucking Sothoryos; might be the only continent that won’t be a worse place for your mere presence.”

Ser Jorah’s eyes spun for a moment before fixing on Jaime, “What did the bitch tell you, hm? She’s a spoiled,” Jorah hiccupped, “brat. Always pushin’… Always prodding… Always…” Jorah burped, the air from his belly filling out his cheeks.

Jaime took a step back, bringing the dagger with him and keeping it at the ready though he knew Jorah was well past the point of inebriation in which a man has freak strength and no self-restraint. Jorah was swaying where he sat on the bed, his eyes unable to stay on Jaime for too long before drifting to nothing in particular, lids drooping closed.

“You’re fucking wasted,” Jaime spat.

Jorah went to snort but it came out with another hiccup before he said, “You’d be too.” He then began breathing heavily through his nostrils, his belly heaving with each inhalation, and Jaime recognized it from fellow soldiers and his little brother, and stepped out of the way just in time to avoid the liquid vomit that splashed the hard floor.

“Ugh!” Jaime scoffed, “You fucking…” he pursed his lips, unable to find a vile enough word to describe the man, “While you were here getting muddled and fucking your whore, Lady Sansa was burning up with fever, did you know that?”

Jorah was hunched over, still heaving but no longer producing anything but spit.

“And for what?” Jaime continued, “Because she wanted to see her children? Why did you separate them to begin with?!”

Jorah didn’t react at all to his words, just stayed there with his head bowed, bobbing and swaying each time he hiccupped.

“Did Daenerys order you to separate them, hm? Or the Spider, perhaps?”

Jorah finally lifted his head, his drooping eyes staring up at Jaime as best they could. It was only then that Jaime realized what should have been obvious – that the man was naked but for stockings, with only the sheet twisted over his lap to spare Jaime an eyeful of what he didn’t want to see under any circumstances, but especially now. He might just snip the thing off so no woman – paid or otherwise – would ever have to feel the man’s sweaty, hairy skin rubbing against her chest again.

Jaime had to do something, or he was going to kill the man. So, he whipped the back of his left hand against the knight’s cheek, sending the drunken lout toppling down, his hands splaying out on the mattress that smelled like too many foul things.

When Jorah’s only reaction was not to fight back but to reach a clumsy hand toward a flask on the night table, Jaime knew he’d make no progress tonight. He swiftly grabbed the flask and flung it, uncapped, against the far wall. That got more emotion out of the man than any of his words so far, and Jaime let Ser Jorah scurry over to his elixir – it would be the last of the stuff he had for a long time. 

“Better” was a very relative word, but by mid-morning the next day, Jorah was sober enough to have a conversation and well enough to stomach the breakfast Jaime ordered for him, then ordered him to eat. Multiple times Jorah pointed out that he didn’t answer to the Kingslayer, but Jaime had quite cockily told him that Daenerys had given him full authority over the hostage operation in Braavos, and Ser Jorah was too hungover to argue too much.

Unfortunately, recently sober Jorah Mormont was about as amiable as the creature of his family’s heraldry, and as obstinately unapologetic as only a man hiding serious regrets could be. Jaime wanted to count that as a good sign, but it would be easier if all Jorah had done was slapped Sansa on the cheek or made unwanted advances that the lady was able to successfully rebuke.

Then again, Jaime was assuming the Unsullied were more trustworthy than Ser Jorah, who wove a different tale. By Jorah’s depiction, Sansa Stark was a witch, a seductress, a liar, a conniver, a brat. He hadn’t gone to her room drunk and forced himself on her, nor even taken advantage of the fact that she was a desperate young mother willing to do anything to see her daughters again. No, she had somehow lured him in there with her feminine wiles and taken advantage of his drunken state so that she could later hold his indiscretion against him as leverage. Ser Jorah would swear on his life that she was plotting his demise (and Daenerys’), while Crawler painted a portrait of a woman trying to adapt to her circumstances, finding small joy in menial tasks like laundry and cooking and only ever asking Ser Jorah to bring her daughters for a visit.

The reports were so contradictory that Jaime wondered if there weren’t two women living in that house – one invisible to all but Ser Jorah, the other invisible only to Ser Jorah. Because he detected no lie in Ser Jorah’s words, but nor did he detect a lie in Crawler’s, nor in Bronze’s last night. Both sides were telling the truth – their truth – but those two truths could not both be true.

Jaime decided it didn’t matter if there was some truth in Ser Jorah’s claims, because he didn’t intend to let the girl get the better of him. Unlike Jorah, he wasn’t prone to falling under a woman’s spell simply because she had a pretty face or said pretty words. Saving her life didn’t mean he was going to let her make demands of him once she recovered. Though that didn’t mean he wouldn’t permit her to see her daughters, and not just because he wanted to lay eyes on the girls himself. Jaime recalled what Dany had promised in exchange for Tywin’s abdication: that Sansa and her daughters would live comfortably. What was comfortable about a mother going half a year without seeing her baby daughters, or even receiving any news of them? He thought of Cersei, the way she’d held Joffrey when he was newly born, cooing over her perfect golden cub, showing a side of her Jaime hadn’t known to exist prior to that point.

He then imagined Cersei being offered a choice: give up her life or give up her chance to ever see her children again. Jaime knew which one she’d pick. The Cersei Jaime knew would fight the Stranger tooth and claw, but only if her children were not the price to pay for her resistance.

He didn’t know what would come next after having the girls brought to the manse. The smart thing would be to move to another part of the city, or even to Lorath or Pentos or Norvos, but he feared embarking on such a journey during winter with two young girls and a so recently ill Lady Sansa. Still, he figured there were other houses nearby for rent. He’d send Crawler out to make inquiries if the lady recovered.

Nor did he know who could be trusted to stay with the hostages when he returned to King’s Landing. Ser Jorah was not an option. He might be on good behavior while Jaime was here, fearing any misstep would be reported back to his Khaleesi, but what would keep him in check after Jaime left? Jaime wasn’t even sure the man deserved to live, but he knew Daenerys would not take kindly to Jaime executing the person who’d been by her side since she was nothing but an orphaned princess being sold to a heathen. And the fact was, Jorah’s dedication to Daenerys was not in question, and Dany had so few loyal men. Guarding the queen’s back was where Jorah belonged, but there weren’t a ton of options as to who could replace him as the caretaker to the queen’s most valuable hostages. It could only be Jaime or Ser Barristan, in terms of who could be trusted not to bungle the duty or be tempted into Sansa Stark’s cause. But Sansa would never accept Jaime - would more likely slit his throat in his sleep - and he couldn’t think of a more boring assignment.

And maybe none of it mattered because Sansa would never wake up to write the letter. Jaime supposed he’d have no choice then but to bring one of the girls back to Westeros as proof of life. Fuck. Or Sansa would wake up and be more than a little miffed about losing a third of two of her pretty little digits and refuse to write the letter. Double fuck. Well, might be she’d be so grateful to him for having her daughters brought that she’d write the letter. He’d throw in two of Jorah’s fingertips to sweeten the deal and – depending on how the knight behaved between now and then – maybe the tip of his cock.

And on top of the dung pile of worries Jaime didn’t want to have to deal with was his pesky curiosity around the Spider’s true intentions. Had it been coincidence that no little bird showed up to retrieve Jaime from the Pepper Pot Inn, or was Varys purposefully keeping Jaime (and thus Dany) in the dark about the living situation of the prize hostages? Jorah could not help shine light on that mystery – when Jaime asked if he’d been in communication with the Spider recently, the knight seemed perplexed to even be asked. The only recent communication that he’d received was the request to have Sansa write the blasted letter that seemed to be at the root of all their problems. And for as little as Jaime respected Jorah Mormont, the man had no reason to lie about that. In fact, Jaime didn’t think the man was much of a liar at all, unless the person being deceived was his own self.

Regardless, they were all problems for Jaime to solve after seeing that Sansa’s daughters were alive and unharmed and not orphaned thanks to Jorah fucking Mormont.

It was a full turn of the sun after Jaime and Crawler interrupted Jorah’s nap that Jaime sent the knight off to retrieve Jeyne and Jocelyn, tasking Flea and Crawler to go with him, ostensibly as extra muscle but in actuality because Jaime seriously feared Jorah would run away from his problems as the man had a history of doing. Jorah didn’t like the command, nor being commanded by the Kingslayer at all, but Jaime made it clear that he was taking charge of this little operation and would take responsibility for any unfortunate consequences of his decisions, but that it was imperative that Sansa Stark write that letter and that he would not condone threats of violence being the incentive they offered. (Jaime may have painted a bleak picture of the goings-on in Westeros, shamelessly leveraging Jorah’s devotion to his queen, but it was all for good reason.)

He’d like to have Dany’s input on the situation, not to mention send for Ser Barristan, but Jaime feared putting in writing what had happened to Sansa. It could be intercepted by someone who’d deliver the information to Catelyn or Arya Stark or Edmure Tully. At minimum, any communication would meet Varys’ ears or eyes before the queen’s. Dany would worry over Jaime’s prolonged absence, he knew, but that couldn’t be helped.

With shadowed eyes, a resigned expression, and two eunuchs for backup, Ser Jorah parted ways with Jaime outside the brothel, mumbling low that it would be a few days. The trio headed southeast, and Jaime watched from beneath his hood until they were long gone before returning to the house, thankful for the forethought to have Crawler jog his memory on the route before they parted ways.

Though hungry and weary and cold, Jaime went straight for the staircase instead of the kitchen, greeting Red Spider with only a nod upon entering.

He was relieved to find young Bronze at the lady’s bedside while Spider watched the door. Perhaps because Jaime was feeling suspicious of spiders lately, or perhaps because he’d had bad experiences with purple-eyed men, or simply because he didn’t like the man’s nose, Jaime didn’t want to interact with him tonight, bone-tired as he was.

Bronze was dabbing Sansa’s forehead with a cloth when Jaime walked in. The young eunuch glanced up long enough to nod in greeting then set back to his work, his touch so gentle Jaime felt the strange compulsion to cry.

Instead, Jaime dropped himself into the chair on the opposite side of the bed, letting out a loud exhale and asking, “You are fond of the lady?”

Bronze looked up, “Fond?”

“You… like her? You… enjoy her company?”

Bronze hummed his understanding, “Lady sing. Lady sew. This… Me and lady cook to gather.”

Jaime smiled, “Together,” he said softly, not wanting Bronze to think he was being mocked.

“Too-gether, yes.”

“The lady is… kind?”

Bronze nodded, “Never mad at this one for… take lady away from West-terros.”

The answers offered Jaime little insight into the mind and motives of Sansa Stark. It could be she was a genuine sweetheart, or it could be clever strategy to charm the Unsullied, being as they outnumbered Jorah four to one in this house.

Then again, what good had their numbers done her? When Ser Jorah ordered them to hold her down, they did, because they had the brains of a slave even if not the collars.

Like me, when I stood outside the queen’s bedchamber, listening to her screams, or when I watched Lord Stark cooking in his armor, or when I watched green flames consume that which the mad king hated.

Or when I pushed Bran Stark off the ledge without Cersei ever voicing a command, because I knew what her command would be, and it was what I’d have done anyway.

Or when I watched them toss Sansa Stark into the frigid, shark-infested ocean, not making a peep because Daenerys said it was all part of the plan.

“Is Daenerys Stormborn… on eye-run throne?”

Jaime looked at Bronze and nodded, “Yes. She is the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Good. She is good queen. She let this… she let me have name. Good name.”

“Yes,” Jaime responded, his throat inexplicably clogged, “She is a good queen. And you do have a good name. Better than Flea.”

Bronze snorted, “I tell this to Flea.”

Jaime shrugged, “I don’t care. He’s had all this time to pick another name.”

“Pick…?”

“Choose. To… give himself another name.”

“Oh. He like Flea.”

Jaime sighed – resisting the urge to roll his eyes and withholding several snarky comments.

“Jorah Andal no bad man,” Bronze said out of the blue – as close to blurting as he could with his primitive grasp of the language.

Jaime sighed again, withholding more than snark this time.

“He… Daenerys Stormborn… He…” Bronze made a fist and tapped it against his breastbone.

“Loves her?”

Bronze scrunched his face, “He… serve good.”

“Oh. He is loyal to her?”

“Yes,” Bronze nodded, “Jorah loyal to queen. That make Jorah good man. But to lady…” Bronze shook his head, “he… ah… mad? No…”

“He is annoyed by her? He hates her? He—”

“Hate. Yes. Jorah hate and like lady.”

Jaime frowned, “He can’t hate her and like her.”

Bronze shrugged, “Some days… he… Before… He smile and…”

“Laugh?”

“Laugh, yes. He smile and laugh with lady. Then he yell. Or lady yell. He hate and like lady.”

“And does the lady hate and like him?”

Bronze sighed, “She try like. But no… Red say she want daughters. Hate Jorah.”

“Because he separated her from her daughters?”

“Yes,” Bronze nodded, “I ask why lady… sad. Crawler say in Andali-land, ladies no… eh, no give? No…” he held his hands out toward Jaime.

“Give away?”

“For coin.”

“Ah. Sell. In Westeros, women don’t sell their children.”

“Yes. This is… true?”

“Yes,” Jaime nodded then shrugged his lips, “I mean… some lords and ladies give their daughters to husbands in exchange for some gain, but… but no; it’s not like in the slave cities.”

“Mm. This one… Me…” Bronze tapped his forehead.

“Think? Believe?”

Bronze shook his head.

“Uh… remember?”

“Yes. This one remember… mhysa…”

“Daenerys? Or… Oh… your actual mother.”

Bronze nodded, “Remember,” he traced his fingers along his cheek.

“A scar?” Jaime guessed, then quickly corrected, “A tattoo. She was a slave.”

Bronze nodded again. Jaime braced for some heartbreaking tale of little – whatever his birth name was – being pried from his mother’s arms by whatever master owned the woman and thus anything that came out of her womb. But Bronze only dipped the cloth in the basin at Sansa’s bedside and resumed his care of their mutual charge. Jaime’s eyes fell on her form for the first time since he came into the room and he saw that her body was trembling.

He sprung forward, pressing the back of his fingers to her forehead. Her skin was hot like it hadn’t been since the healer left. He looked up, meeting Bronze’s wide eyes across Sansa’s prone figure, “She needs more of the herbs. The feverfew. Will you go make tea?”

Bronze was on his feet in a heartbeat and his nimble frame was descending the stairs a few moments later. Jaime hurried to stoke the flames, cursing for coming in here and distracting himself and Bronze with questions, though in hindsight he couldn’t recall asking more than one.

Jaime returned to the bed, kneeling to Sansa’s right and grabbing her slender shoulders through the blankets, rubbing his rough palms against them vigorously to try to get her warmed up while he waited for Bronze to return with the tea.

“Hey,” he heard himself say, “It’s alright, Sansa. Can you hear me? You’re going to get better, and the girls are coming here. Alright? Jeyne and Jocelyn – they’ll be here in a few days. Do you hear me?”

He felt like a bloody fool, talking to an unconscious person, but he didn’t stop asking if she could hear him until Bronze was coming through the doorway with a mug of tea. Seeing the steam wafting up, Jaime poured some of the water from the bedside pitcher in to cool it, then did as he’d seen maesters do, with Bronze’s assistance, to get the feverfew tea down Sansa’s throat. Slow sip by slow sip they drained all but the dredges from the mug, and Jaime let out a quivering breath he didn’t know he’d been holding in. He nodded at Bronze, feeling exhausted once more but knowing he’d get no sleep tonight. He’d get no sleep until he knew that Sansa’s infection wasn’t going to return, that the fever wouldn’t take her in the night.

So he told Bronze to go get some supper and some rest, to come relieve him around midnight.

It was only after the young Unsullied walked out of the room quietly that Jaime realized he was still holding Sansa up, her back supported by the front left side of his torso, as he’d propped her up so he and Bronze could get the tea down her throat. He’d wait until the shivers stopped, letting her borrow his body heat in the meantime even though more likely he was stealing hers. She was radiating heat like a black rock on a summer day, and he feared her body was shedding its warmth too rapidly, her core too cold while her skin was too hot.

“It’s going to be alright,” he spoke close to her ear, hating himself for noticing the too sweet odor of her sweat, which he knew hinted at sickness or death. Or both.

“It’s going to be alright,” he repeated what he hoped was not a lie.

He kept repeating it, unsure who he was trying to soothe, nor why he feared that her death would break what little of him remained intact after losing Cersei. Her death would not be on his hands. It was Ser Jorah who hurt her, and Daenerys who devised the plan to use the lion’s family against him in the first place, a plan enabled by Varys and Ser Barristan more than Jaime.

He kept repeating, for fear that when he stopped, he would find himself facing unwelcome realizations that he could not deal with right now while also trying to do right by Sansa Stark without fucking things up for Daenerys Targaryen.

He kept repeating until he was silenced by a small voice.

“Tywin?” the voice croaked.

Jaime’s entire body froze, and it was only then he realized he’d been rocking Sansa side to side.

He didn’t answer – not to pretend to be someone whose arms she might welcome more than Jaime Lannister’s, nor to correct her.

“Where…” she trailed off.

He swallowed a painful lump, “Somewhere safe,” he spoke quietly, hoping it would be enough consolation for her to drift back to sleep, because he realized it was not just realizations that would be unwelcome right now, but also accusations.

“No,” she whimpered, “Our babies…”

Jaime turned his head toward the window, “They’re safe, too. You’ll see them soon. They’re coming here.”

“No…” she cried out pathetically, and Jaime tightened his hold. “No,” she repeated, “No, no, no,” she thrashed for a few moments, her head shaking, and then he felt the tension slip loose from her frame, which became a dead weight against him again.

He knew she hadn’t understood a word he said or else her reaction would’ve been markedly different, and yet still Jaime felt like a failure for not knowing what to say.

Then again, when had he ever?

Chapter 65: A very long night is upon us

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Tywin

Tywin had just finished his evening meal and was using the apple stem to scrub his teeth when he heard a familiar voice speaking bastard Valyrian to the guard stationed outside his cell. He remembered some of the language from his youth, mostly root words which allowed him to make a rough translation, but only if he could detect them as they were spoken at conversational speed, surrounded by words he did not know.

In the Spider’s familiar voice, he only made out the word that translated to ‘queen’, and from that presumed that the Spider was relaying that he had the queen’s permission to be here, or that he’d come on her orders.

The guard mumbled something back and then grunted… Then Tywin heard something heavy rubbing against stone then being set on the ground.

Varys just killed the guard.

He wanted to find humor in the thought of the chubby, powdered eunuch killing the trained soldier eunuch, but couldn’t help but think that this turn of events did not bode well for him. He rose while tucking the soup spoon up his sleeve and lamenting the fact that the lion had fallen so low as to have to defend himself with such an instrument. Perhaps in the hands of a Clegane or Baratheon it could be deadly, but he doubted he had the brute strength to do any damage with it unless he had a clear shot at his intended target’s eye.

Still, it was better than nothing.

The spymaster’s familiar bald head appeared on the other side of the bars. Tywin stepped in front of the tray that sat on the floor in front of his bench, ostensibly to get closer to the man on the free side of the bars. “What are you doing?” Tywin asked.

“I am leaving the city, Lord Lannister.”

“Taking the scenic route?”

The eunuch snorted, “I’m taking the safe route, I like to think.” His eyes left Tywin to look at the keys in his hand as he tried a few before finding the one he needed. Without further explanation, he unlocked and opened the gate. “Coming, my lord?”

Tywin shook his head, “Is this a trick? I leave with you, and you take me right to the queen? She kills Tommen, or perhaps sends word to Ser Jorah to kill one of my daughters? Or is it only me she will punish for my attempted escape?”

The eunuch shook his bald head, “No trick.”

“Perhaps not. But when she finds out I am gone, she will take it out on someone of my blood.”

“Our queen has a soft spot for innocents, my lord. The slave masters repeatedly sent assassins after Daenerys, and at least one of them paid some mercenary group to kill her freedmen in sneak attacks. Not once did Daenerys kill one of her hostages.”

Tywin narrowed his eyes, “How would I know this is the truth?”

The eunuch sighed, though remained as collected as ever, “Lord Lannister, we haven’t the time for this.”

“Then leave,” Tywin flicked a hand, “If you’re in such a hurry, leave without me.”

“That won’t do, Lord Lannister. You see, I’ve overstayed my welcome in this city – for now. But my loyalty to House Targaryen is true. I will prove as much by delivering you to a young man who will need your help in the coming months.”

“And you expect me to let myself become your pawn?” Tywin stepped closer, growling, and immediately two children stood between him and the eunuch, each expertly wielding small but deadly-sharp blades,

“Pardon my little birds, Lord Lannister. They are protective of me. I like to think it’s because they love me as much as I love them, but it could be simply that I’m the one who keeps their bellies full.”

Tywin glared at the children who couldn’t be more than ten – a girl and a boy – then brought his gaze back to the Spider, “You think I fear death by blade after spending months in a dungeon? Or has it been a year? I had kept count for a time but found the task rather gloomy.”

The man sighed dramatically, “My lord, I had no idea that she would dole out such a punishment – this I swear on my life – but let us not pretend you have not earned every day you spent in this dark place. Now, in a moment I shall begin counting to thirty. When I get there, you will either come with me and my companions, or I shall close and lock this gate with you still inside the cell, wasting away. But before I begin the count, know that in exchange for your cooperation, I will have your wife and daughters delivered to Winterfell.”

“What?” Tywin asked breathlessly, too shocked to feign indifference.

“I will have your wife and daughters—”

“I heard you; I just don’t believe you. You just said you are loyal to House Targaryen. If you are, you would do nothing to weaken your queen’s grasp on the throne.”

Rather than explain, Varys sighed again, then began counting, “One. Two. Three. Four. Five…”

Tywin swallowed. It was not enough time to think, but he must

If he stayed in this cage, Daenerys would have no reason to punish him by hurting one of her Lannister hostages.

If he left, his wife and daughters would be returned to Winterfell by the eunuch who certainly had the resources to do it. But could Tywin trust the man who’d betrayed him and now seemed to be betraying his chosen liege?

If he stayed, his only hope of seeing his wife and daughters again hinged upon Kevan and Ser Davos being able to track Jaime as he traveled to wherever they were hidden, then stealing them without losing any of them.

If he left, Varys was going to try to use him in some way. Deliver me to some young man that needs my help? Who could that be? And who would I willingly help that is also a friend of the Spider?

As the Spider got to twenty-three, Tywin had the only thought that mattered: if he stayed in this cage, he may never get another chance to leave.

He nodded.

Tywin hadn’t the foggiest idea where they were, at first.

The journey through labyrinthine passages had completely disoriented his senses, not to mention tested his fitness. He’d been huffing and puffing as much as the portly eunuch when they emerged after what must have been hours into a space that smelled more like dirt and moss than stone and fetid water. It proved to be a cave. A natural cave, or so it seemed. The air beyond the mouth was dark as pitch, and Tywin was glad the eunuch hadn’t smuggled him out at high noon.

A small fire was made, deep in the cave, and one of the “little birds” began sorting through a bag until a cloth-wrapped bundle was produced.

Within the bundle was jerky, and Tywin’s mouth watered when the smoky scent hit his nostrils. Luckily it was meant for all of them, and he chewed on his while the children watched him, more curious than wary, he thought. He supposed they weren’t used to dining with a high lord. Then again, he hardly looked like a high lord, and they were sitting on a dirt floor eating fare typical of a soldier on campaign.

“What are your names?” he asked.

Neither answered.

“They do not speak, Lord Lannister.”

He snorted, “You mean they cannot speak. How generous of you to fill their bellies, with the price being naught but their tongues and a lifetime of servitude to you.”

“A lifetime of employment. And if you’d ever known real hunger, you’d have eaten your own tongue if you could.”

Tywin decided to change the subject, knowing Varys’ little birds were the least of his concerns at this moment, “Why are we bunkering down in this cave? Should we not get as far as possible from the city? And where are we, anyway?”

Varys had sat not far from the fire and began going through the contents of one of the bags. Tywin realized belatedly that only two had been brought along for the journey. The other must’ve been hidden in this cave. An escape plan should the Spider ever need to leave in a hurry. I wonder how long it’s been here. Since my reign? Joffrey’s? Aerys’?

“Not far from the Rosby road,” Varys answered as he pulled clothing from the bag, re-folding each item methodically.

“Why would there be a secret tunnel leading from the prison to beyond the city walls?”

Varys tittered, “Lord Lannister, it is a web of many intersecting tunnels beneath the keep, with their access points well hidden. There is no threat of a prisoner using one to escape unless that prisoner had prior knowledge of the nearest access point and knew how to navigate to the main branch from the one in the prison. Oh, and had a way to open the bars of his cell.”

Tywin sighed, “Still, why a tunnel out of the prison at all?”

“Who says it is a tunnel out?”

“We just used it as one.”

“That doesn’t mean it was intended to be one. Recall the man who had the first tunnels built. He had a rather unquenchable bloodlust, didn’t he? And prisoners are easy targets for such proclivities, aren’t they?” Varys pulled a wig of dark hair out of the bag and began finger-combing it.

Tywin shifted where he sat, realizing that for the better part of a year his arse had only known hard stone, then hard wood, and now hard dirt, “Where are we going that you need a disguise?” he jutted his chin toward the wig.

We need them, and for the journey, not the destination.”

Tywin hummed, “You have me at your whim, Spider. It isn’t like I’ll be turning you into Daenerys Targaryen, even if I could. What is our destination? Who is this man you are taking me to?”

The eunuch leaned back against the earthen wall, his hands still fiddling with the wig, resting in his lap, “We head to Storm’s End. Well, to the west of it.”

Tywin frowned, “Storm’s End is held by a coalition of Lannister, Tyrell, and Baratheon men. Or it was, during my reign.”

“Indeed, it was, until said coalition yielded it to a Targaryen.”

Tywin growled, “Another Targaryen, or the same one I supped with not long ago?”

“Another one.”

“Explain,” Tywin demanded, no matter that he wasn’t the one in charge here.

The eunuch took no offense, only reached forward to poke at the fire with a long stick, “I suppose there is no reason for secrecy anymore. You know that only I can see your family returned. You also know I need only whisper the command and your family will be permanently and irrevocably lost to you.”

Unless Kevan succeeds.

“I wouldn’t have come with you otherwise.”

Varys nodded, leaning back into a comfortable position, “We have some time before our escort arrives.”

“Escort?”

“You will see soon enough, my lord. Now, you ask which Targaryen I am taking you to. The answer is Aegon, son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell.”

Tywin sneered, “Dead at the hands of Gregor Clegane. I saw the body.”

“You saw a body. A gruesome sight, that was. But had you ever lain eyes on the little prince before then?”

Tywin shook his head, “No, but others did. Maids, guards. My own son, surely.”

“Your son? No, he never laid eyes on the boy. He was set to guarding Queen Rhaella’s chamber – a rather unenviable assignment. When the queen sailed to Dragonstone with little Viserys, Daenerys but a swell in her belly, Ser Jaime was set to guarding the king. And as for maids – yes, there were a few who attended Princess Elia, and a wetnurse. None survived the sack. Do you think Elia Martell was the only one who fought to protect those babes? Even still, the boy’s skull was caved in. Pale blond, blood-stained hair was all anyone saw, and with the bodies of Elia and Rhaenys clearly identified, there was no cause to think little Aegon was not little Aegon.”

“You put a decoy in the prince’s crib, hm? Did his mother not notice?”

“Of course,” Varys shrugged, “But she trusted me. Or rather, she trusted the person I suggested take her son. It was meant as a precaution, in the event the city fell to the rebel or his allies. If the city remained in Targaryen hands, the boy would be returned. Obviously, such did not come to pass, so the child was spirited away to Essos.”

Why not Dorne? Tywin thought. If the child had the Valyrian look, he could be hidden among the Daynes, who’d been loyal not just to House Martell but to Prince Rhaegar.

Or the Spider is lying about Essos; trying to keep House Martell clear of what would’ve been treason against Robert.

Or he’s lying about all of it, and the child is no prince because the prince died under Gregor Clegane’s fist, after all.

Tywin nodded thoughtfully to convey that he was buying, or at least not refuting, the eunuch’s story, “This person who took the child… he or she can testify that he is Aegon the Sixth?”

“Not with any credibility. But alas, I will not give away all my secrets, Lord Lannister. All you need to know is that I had – carefully, of course – done what I could to support the prince who was raised as a commoner. I do believe that will make him a good king, one who has genuine compassion for the masses.”

“Hmpf. And Daenerys Targaryen does not?”

Varys took in a deep breath, “She does. But unfortunately, she does not have what it takes to hold onto the throne. It was my intent to see her keep it, but… my plans were disrupted.”

“As plans often are.”

Varys smiled faintly, “Indeed. But there will still be a place for her, my dragon queen. Just not the place she had hoped for. In time, I think she will realize it is for the best.”

“You helped her take the throne,” Tywin spat, “All to help someone else take it from her?”

Varys shook his head, “I had supported Prince Aegon from afar for many years. I kept eyes on Princess Daenerys and her brother, of course – they could either be contingencies or threats – but the rightful heir was the horse I put my coin on. Until—”

“Until her dragons hatched.”

Varys nodded slowly, “The prince’s claim on the throne would always be contested, no matter my nor anyone else’s testimony. But a girl who woke dragons from stone? Who spent an entire night sitting in a funeral pyre, and lost only her hair for it? She was the one who could not just take the throne but keep it.”

“So you gave up on the prince in favor of the princess?”

Never. I helped them both as best I could, deciding to let fate determine which would end up on the throne. When Daenerys was ready to leave Essos, I helped her claim the throne. I had asked her what she’d do if there was a male Targaryen alive to claim it. She told me she would serve her king. I believed that, in time, Aegon would rule by her side – I would even be the one to broker the marriage. But within a fortnight of her arrival here, the queen told me that she is barren – that she plans to name an heir based on qualification rather than blood. A… noble… concept, if not that it will lead to succession wars when she sets the precedent that the Crown is not inherited but earned. Men from hedge knights up to wardens will believe themselves the best option, and all of them will fight, lie, and bribe to achieve their goal. Beyond that,” Varys shrugged, “the great Targaryen line would end if Aegon took her for his wife, unless he also took a second, but the realm’s tolerance for polygamy has waned since the Conqueror’s time.”

“I suspect her dragons could encourage tolerance just as Balerion the Black Dread, Vhagar, and Meraxes once did.”

Varys shook his head sadly, “I will never underestimate the power of the Faith. Beyond that, the Conqueror and his sisters had complete control over their beasts, and sizeable beasts they were. Our queen… she was only just starting to learn how to control Drogon when I heard that the Golden Company – which I knew had been commissioned by Prince Aegon – was preparing for an extended campaign. Soon thereafter I learned of the pirate activity in the Stepstones. I suspected it was a lure, as I had also heard of Euron Greyjoy’s aspirations to pillage all of Westeros – a warrior king who would slake his bloodlust on the weak, then claim the ultimate bounty: the Iron Throne. I thought it could be perfect: the Seven Kingdoms would unite against the pirate scum. Together, Aegon and Daenerys would do what King Robert ought have: eliminate the war-faring Ironborn entirely; blot the name Greyjoy out of existence. And in giving Pyke to someone worthy – another would be indebted to House Targaryen. Everyone from Highgarden to Deepwood Motte would rejoice in what Aegon and Daenerys managed in a concerted effort by land and sky.”

Tywin was confused, “You mean to tell me that Euron Greyjoy has launched an attack on Westeros soil?”

The eunuch’s eyes closed slowly, then opened after long moments, “The lands along the Mander.”

“The Redwyne fleet let them pass the Shield?!”

“Half the Redwyne fleet is here, my lord. Months ago, I suggested to her grace that protecting the capital ought to be her first priority.”

Tywin snorted, “To make it easier for the Ironborn to wreak havoc on the Reach… All so your little dragons could come to the rescue.”

“For the good of the realm, my lord? Yes.”

“And what went wrong? The beast isn’t heeding its mistress’ commands?”

“I’m afraid not. The disruption to my plan came about because I did not consider one particular factor. A shameful oversight considering my own history.”

“What factor?”

The eunuch’s lips quirked, “Magic.”

“Magic?” Tywin scoffed.

“Blood magic, to be precise. Euron Greyjoy is in control of the beast now, my lord.”

Tywin scoffed, “What nonsense is this?”

“He has bound the black dragon to him. It does his bidding.”

“Fuck. And what was her response?”

“She has sent some Lannister forces and some Tyrell forces to defend the river coasts, as Ser Garlan Tyrell and your son Tyrion do the same.”

“Then the dragon – and the fleet! – will simply go elsewhere! They will target Oldtown, or Lannisport, or the Arbor!”

“Not if Euron Greyjoy is killed. I have since done some… research. The man claimed his death would cause the dragon’s demise, but I now believe that was a clever ruse on his part. I believe now that his death would simply break the spell, with the dragon… disoriented… at worst. As would the destruction of the horn he carries.”

Tywin rubbed at his forehead, “And doing either would make your prince a popular fellow…”

“Do you expect me to act ashamed? The realm is broken, Lord Lannister. It needs to be—”

“The realm was not BROKEN until you brought a Targaryen and her dragon to Westeros! We had peace!”

“A tenuous peace—”

“Better than this!” Tywin flung his hands up.

Varys’ cheeks flushed dark, “The throne was not yours to take,” he spoke in a low, threatening voice – one Tywin had never heard from the eunuch.

Was Tywin finally seeing the real Varys? Or was this yet another façade?

“Who are you to give a shit who sits the throne?” Tywin asked with narrowed eyes, “You claim to care for the realm, but the realm is bleeding now because of you.”

“I did not cause this. Euron Greyjoy would have done what he’s doing whether I told the queen about her nephew or not.”

“Can you say that for sure?”

Varys snorted, “Will you cry for the people of the Mander?”

“We’ll all be crying,” Tywin sneered, leaning closer to the eunuch to emphasize his words, “If these attacks aren’t stopped very soon, we’ll all have empty bellies.”

“Hence, I have encouraged Prince Aegon to march his host west with haste. You and I will encourage the Tyrell and Lannister factions to… embrace his presence.”

Tywin ignored the allusion to his role for now, “March west to face a madman on a dragon? I hope those elephants can fly. Wait…” he sat back, blinking in thought, “What of the queen’s other dragons? Are there not three?”

Varys reached into his bag, though Tywin could tell he was looking for a distraction, not a disguise.

“One of the dragons is missing, though I have heard reports of sightings in the North.”

“What’s in the North?” Tywin asked facetiously.

“Snow,” Varys snorted, “Lots of it. Though there are many known hot springs throughout the North, and supposedly volcanoes deep in the island of Skagos.”

“And the other?” Tywin asked, not caring about some winged lizard hunkering down on Skagos for the winter.

“Has taken up residence near a much closer volcano.”

Tywin frowned, “Dragonmont?”

“So Lord Bartheon has claimed and my little birds have confirmed.”

Tywin shook his head, feeling overwhelmed with all he was being told and trying to remind himself that it all could be lies. Did Varys think that Tywin would support this apparent prince because he was preferable to a squid on a dragon? Begrudgingly, he probably would; but from Varys’ perspective Tywin didn’t have a choice in the matter unless he was willing to risk never seeing his wife and daughters again. Varys didn’t know that Tywin’s hope for reunion didn’t rest entirely in the eunch’s soft, chubby hands, but in the calloused ones of Kevan and Ser Davos.  

“Do you not fear what will happen to the queen once my men find out I’m no longer in her possession?” Tywin asked, trying to steer the conversation back to the more proximate Targaryen.

Varys offered a soft but proud smile, “Ser Barristan is wise. He will advise her to keep your… disappearance… a secret. And my queen is not without resources. She has recruited from the city to bolster her numbers. Beyond that, she has been keeping to Maegor’s, with never less than a month’s food supply in the kitchens, with Shireen Baratheon and your grandson as her houseguests.”

Tywin snorted, “Perhaps the Lannister men will keep in line for Tommen’s sake, but are you so sure? He’s naught but a bastard, thanks to your queen—”

“And your son and daughter had nothing to do with that…”

Tywin sighed loudly, “And are you really counting on Stannis protecting your queen to protect his daughter? And how will he do that, hm? By glaring a thousand men into submission? By boring them to death, one at a time?”

Varys’ smile grew to something almost arrogant, “I was thinking the threat of dragonfire might do the trick.”

Tywin blinked at the eunuch, “You either lie or you jape and I’m in no mood for either.”

“No lie. No jape. He has ridden the dragon Viserion.”

Tywin barked out a laugh that startled the children, who both blinked at him from where they sat on the far side of the fire, “First Euron Greyjoy by blood magic, then Stannis Baratheon by… what? A drop or two of Valyrian blood in his veins? You must think I’ve gone mad from captivity if you expect me to believe that.”

The eunuch shrugged, “Suit yourself.”

Tywin huffed, “And if I believed you, I’d just think you’re mad to expect Stannis to not take advantage of the other dragon’s absence to take the city. If your queen is as tender-hearted as you say, she won’t let her loyal followers burn, nor will she slice open Shireen Baratheon’s throat.”

“If it were any man but Stannis Baratheon, I’d assume the same, Lord Lannister. But he is a most principled man, I have found. And he’s lost his taste for fire, after his experience with the witch. Burn a city just to claim it?” Varys clicked his tongue, “The moment she realizes you and I are gone, she will be offering him his daughter’s release in exchange for his protection of the city.”

Tywin squeezed his eyes shut, “And if he accepts, it will be on a mutual vow that Stannis is too bloody honorable to ever break. How will your chosen prince ever take his throne with a dragon defending it?”

“By earning the people’s love in his campaign in the Reach, and by using Daenerys’ own words against her: she said before all of court that if her nephew lived, she would support his claim and his ascension.”

Tywin laughed faintly, “Funny… I thought that seemed a rather strange thing to say in a victory speech. I figured she was saying it to satisfy all the men in the audience, but now I’m guessing those were your words, weren’t they?”

Varys made the sort of smile that Tywin’s daughter used to wear when she’d been outsmarted or caught in a lie. It was a smile dripping with derision, a ‘fuck you’ that would not be said aloud because words had consequences, but smiles did not.

“Regardless,” Varys took a deep breath and set his eyes back on the clothing in his lap, running his chubby fingers over seams and fold-lines, smoothing wrinkles, “Stannis will support the rightful heir because he’s rather fanatical about rules and law, but he will be honor-bound to uphold whatever agreement he and Daenerys will inevitably make. Which means, in short, he will support Aegon without doing anything that endangers Daenerys. If I know the man’s motives, he will vie for Storm’s End to go to him, Dragonstone to go to Daenerys, and the throne to go to Aegon. Aegon will give his aunt some position of import – ambassador to Essos perhaps. Or a welfare representative of the people. Perhaps even his Hand.”

Or all your little machinations, your attempts to play God, will fail, and all you’ll do is thrust the realm into another Dance of the Dragons.” Tywin shook his head, “You claim to serve House Targaryen, yet you have stolen me from the reigning Targaryen’s grasp all as part of your scheme, which is built with too many interdependencies and too many assumptions. I wonder if this Aegon Targaryen didn’t offer you a big bag of gold – he must have some to have hired the Golden Company. Enough gold to betray his aunt. Or is she his aunt? Did someone dress up some Lyseni catamite as a prince and pay you to say you’d spirited him out of the capital twenty years ago?”

Varys let out an exasperated sigh, “Did I ever claim to serve House Targaryen? My dear lord of Lannister, I have only ever served the realm, and the fact of the matter is the Targaryens are the only ones who can hold the realm together. And a unified Seven is now, more than ever, what the realm needs.”

“And why is that, Spider?” he asked while watching the portly man watch the flames of the small fire the children kept tending.

Varys took a long, deep breath, as if the very words saddened him to speak, “Because I fear a very long night is upon us… and the night is dark and full of terrors.”

Tywin snorted, “Fool. So is the day.”

Varys’ lips quirked at that, “Perhaps, Lord Lannister, perhaps. Now,” he set the wig in his lap and clapped his hands lightly, “it should not be much longer before our escort arrives. I’d suggest you change now unless you prefer to undress around a half dozen sets of male eyes.”

“Whose eyes?”

“A few men I’ve taken into my service. They will keep us safe on our journey – not to mention warm and fed.”

“Why not sail to Storm’s End? Surely with all your resources and all your connections you could arrange a small boat to retrieve us from the coast, which cannot be too far from this cave.”

The Spider glared at him, “As a matter of fact, a small boat will take us to the mouth of the Wendwater then upriver, all the way to Felwood land. But from there it is about a week by foot to intercept the prince’s army on their westward march. A cold and challenging week it will be, but I’m afraid sailing from here to Storm’s End is inadvisable – part of the Redwyne fleet defends the Gullet, and I doubt they will let us pass. Nor will I change the longer route around Driftmark and Dragonstone, knowing Stannis Baratheon is not one to let anyone slip past his defenses. And, as very soon I’ll be considered a fugitive of the Crown, I will not chance the long trek to Stonedance to leave from their small port.”

Tywin hummed, “You’ve thought of everything, Spider.”

“I do try. Now here,” the eunuch had managed to assemble a neat stack of clothing with the wig – shoulder-length, stringy brown hair – sitting on top beside a cap that would presumably keep the wig in place and cover the spot where it met his forehead in the front. He lifted the pile while gesturing with his chin to Tywin, extending the bundle then pulling it back, “But just in case this taste of freedom is going to your head, remember: the Tyrells and the remainder of the queen’s men, not to mention those she’s recruited from the city, outnumber your Lannister men. If you mean to snap my neck then seek out your men to lead a coup, know that there is no guarantee of success. And even if you did achieve it, word would travel to Ser Jorah. Unlike our queen, he has no tender heart. Your she-wolf and your cubs will pay.”

Tywin nodded, “Do you honestly think I would chance any of it? And for what – to claim a city that either Euron Greyjoy or Aegon Targaryen will be sacking in a month’s time?”

“I always did find you to be an exceptionally reasonable man, Lord Lannister. And I’m a person who appreciates such a characteristic. I like to think in a different world, we’d have been allies. Though I suppose in this world, we still might. Aegon Targaryen has done you no ill. And if you tell him the truth about his mother and sister, he might just forgive you for letting their murderers go unpunished, in exchange for your… cooperation.”

Tywin was no fool. The eunuch was not a man who did things half-arsed, as evidenced by this current scheme which seemed to be decades in the making. He would not barter for Tywin’s cooperation but ensure it indefinitely by making a hostage out of someone Tywin loved. Sansa, Jocelyn, Jeyne – likely all three. They’d merely be transferred from Ser Jorah Mormont’s custody – as Daenerys’ proxy – to someone loyal or indebted to the eunuch.

Tywin realized now that the Spider was more of a player than he’d ever imagined. And players did not win by fighting fairly or honoring their word. No, Sansa and Jeyne and Jocelyn would not be sent to Winterfell. Or if they were, it would only be because Tywin was back in chains. Or dead, he supposed. Perhaps Varys meant to deliver him to Aegon as a gift -- did the eunuch even believe that it wasn’t Tywin who gave those heinous orders to Clegane and Lorch? Perhaps the eunuch’s support of Aegon Targaryen had not been so visible (or real) and he needed to prove his loyalty to the young man now. What better way to do so than to hand him Tywin Lannister, the notorious villain behind the murder of Aegon’s mother and sister?

The eunuch was betting far too much on the assumption that Tywin would be a good, obedient little pet for as long as the hope of seeing his family was dangled within his sight. But he was not appreciating that Tywin was accustomed to considering every angle of every situation. He had underestimated his opponent or perhaps overestimated the effect that captivity would have on a lion. Tywin knew from his family’s history that no amount of time behind bars could tame a lion. They were not dogs, inclined toward obedience and servitude, but feral beasts whose predatory instincts were only sharpened when lesser creatures tried to make prey of them. And this lion’s sharp instincts told him that while Varys dangled that very enticing bait – Sansa, beautiful and real and warm, running into my arms – he’d never get to taste it. All the eunuch truly offered was another cage.

“All I wanted was to be free of my cage, but I flew right from one into another, didn’t I?”

Tywin smiled faintly and didn’t care that Varys gave him a curious look for it. Tywin wasn’t known for smiling, but hopefully the eunuch took this one to mean that Tywin was so glad to be free and so hopeful for a reunion that he’d follow like a sheep his shepherd.

He knew what he had to do, but also knew there was a risk. If Varys was the only person who knew where Sansa and the girls were being kept, and if Kevan and Davos failed, how would Tywin ever get his family back?

Though Jaime will know, too. But would he ever tell me, even if I tortured him?

No… He wouldn’t tell me. But he might tell Catelyn Stark. How else might he atone for what he did to Bran Stark, which I’ll be making sure the lady knows.

Though, in the end, Tywin’s decision was made with little concern for logic and odds and risks. He thought of his dreams, of always choosing Sansa only to find he chose wrong.

And he thought of his brother.

Kevan had not failed him yet, and Tywin had faith that he wouldn’t fail him in this most important task.

“Starling?” Varys spoke for the first time in minutes. Tywin looked to find Varys was addressing the girl. He took that opportunity to tug at his right sleeve, ostensibly adjusting it for comfort.

The girl nodded to show the eunuch had her attention.

“Go and see if the men have arrived at the meeting place. Lead them back here only if you see they haven’t been followed.”

Another nod and the girl was gone, her footfalls silent enough to be testimony to her talent.

Tywin let out a sigh to voice his annoyance and resignation at once, then shifted up to his knees, leaning toward Varys and reaching for the bundle with his left hand.

Just as the eunuch was handing it over, Tywin made his move. His left hand went to the back of Varys’ head while the right drove the handle end of the spoon into the man’s eye. Varys screamed and, as Tywin knew would happen, the boy practically leapt over the fire to defend his employer. Tywin had turned in anticipation that the boy would be the bigger threat until the eunuch recovered from the initial pain and shock, and caught the boy’s forearms, narrowly avoiding a swipe of the dagger the boy clutched. The child was feral but skinny – how could they be mistaken for common, harmless street urchins if they had too much meat on their bones? – and Tywin easily threw him against the stone and dirt wall of the cave. The impact stunned the boy but did not render him unconscious. It was no matter; Tywin put his knee on the boy’s bicep while wresting the blade from bony fingers and turned again, driving the dagger into the eunuch’s neck. The boy threw himself at Tywin, biting hard into his upper ear, and Tywin cried out in pain as he felt the boy’s filthy fangs pierce the cartilage. He threw the boy down again, keeping the dagger raised in his dominant hand while the other cupped his ear, trying not to notice if part of it was missing.

“Son of a bitch,” Tywin spat, “Come at me again and I’ll kill you. Or you can search that bag, take half of whatever coin you find, and run away. Might be enough money to charter a cabin on a ship headed somewhere warm.”

The boy blinked at him then down at Varys, who laid cheek-down on the dirt floor of the cave, his lips moving silently as his lifeblood flowed out, one heartbeat at a time.

Quick as a cat, the boy hopped to his haunches and searched all three bags until he found not one but two pouches heavy with coin. His eyes wide, he looked up at Tywin, silently asking permission even though he already had it.

“Both gold?” Tywin asked.

The boy untied the drawstring on each pouch and tilted them. Though dim, the firelight shone enough for Tywin to see that both contained an assortment of coins – gold and silver and copper. He didn’t have time to make sure it was an even split and supposed it didn’t matter. He jerked his chin toward the boy, “Take one and go. Find the girl if she hasn’t met the sellswords yet, and take her with you. And don’t even think about—”

He didn’t have to finish, nor get a chance to. The boy shook his head rapidly, made an ‘x’ over his heart, and dashed out of the cave. If he’d been loyal to Varys for the meals the eunuch occasionally provided, he’d be loyal to the man who just spared his life and gave him more coin than he’d have otherwise seen in his entire sad life, even if Varys allowed his little birds to grow into adulthood, which Tywin somehow doubted.

Considering his next moves (and reminding himself to clean his ear at his earliest convenience), Tywin gathered all the bags and walked to the mouth of the cave. As he stood there, stars overhead for the first time in a very long time, he heard something in the far distance, to the southwest if he had his bearings right.

Another man would run in the opposite direction. Tywin Lannister didn’t need to, because those howling beasts would fill their bellies with the easy meal – the one whose blood they must already be scenting from a mile away.

Perhaps he was a bit loopy, but he tipped his head in the direction of the sound, then went on his way.

Notes:

I feel like the entire cave scene screams of the cliché "bad guy brags about his genius, giving his adversary time to figure out how to escape". Except that Varys doesn't think of himself as a bad guy, nor does he expect Tywin to be trying to escape because he thinks he has Tywin by the balls. Er, the heart. Still, it feels kind of like cheating to dedicate most of a chapter to Varys explaining his motives and plans, but I think much is still being left to wonder about. How truthful was Varys being about his support of Aegon and Daenerys? Was his goal really to have them co-rule? Is Aegon really Aegon and not fAegon? If he's fAegon, is he some Blackfyre descendant or does he have not a lick of Targaryen blood in his veins? Would he have returned Sansa and the girls to Winterfell or, as Tywin suspected, keep them as collateral against Tywin's loyalty to him and/or Aegon? How much of all that happened was as Varys planned, and how much was he trying to portray himself as even more of a puppet master than he really is? How much does he know about the Others that he is worried about a long night? And will his death come back to bite Westeros if/when that long night comes?

These answers will never be known, because Varys is a mysterious dude and it would ruin things to reveal all his secrets, because wondering about them is so much fun!!

Only one thing is certain... a lion who's had it with all the bullshit is on the loose. He'll be running around, pouncing on butterflies, acting all spunky and high on fresh air for a little bit, then surely he'll go back to being a grumpy cat, planning the downfall of his enemies, right? Or maybe he'll go on the defensive for a change, laze on a sunny windowsill in Casterly Rock in total confidence that no one can challenge him there. Who knows what he'll do? I sure don't. 👀

Chapter 66: To tomorrow

Notes:

I know it's been a month. :( I discovered an error in the previous chapter. Can make no excuses except for a total brain fart that had me forgetting a friggin' river separates the Red Keep from the Kingswood, so Varys/Tywin wouldn't have emerged there. I honestly can't remember if when I wrote that detail I was mis-remembering the location of the Kingswood (which in canon is south of the capital city) or if I was mis-remembering the location of the Blackwater, but either way I had to fix it. So, they instead emerged on the NORTH side of the city. (Think: in the direction of Rosby).

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Catelyn

“It’s the Old Lion, your grace. He’s… He’s gone.”

Catelyn was crypt-quiet and stone-still, waiting for the queen to say something. Ser Barristan had left to organize a proper search of the castle and city, and Catelyn had tried to excuse herself so the queen could focus on the very serious matter at hand. The young queen had only lowered herself into the chair she’d popped out of upon hearing Ser Barristan’s words, then told Catelyn in a thin voice that she need not leave.

Since then, neither woman had said a word, the only sound being the crackling and spitting of flames in the hearth that a maid occasionally scurried in to stoke and feed.

She was too stunned to even wonder whether the news was a boon for her family and her people. She only knew that another Essosi-raised claimant for the Iron Throne had landed on Westerosi soil with a modest army, and that an old but dangerous lion was on the prowl. She mused that she might wake up tonight to find Tywin Lannister hovering over her, a dirty hand pressed to her mouth so she wouldn’t scream in fright.

She half-hoped it would happen, if only so she would not be plagued with curiosity, while the other half of her hoped he was far away from this city.

Then again, if he was far away from the city, it was probably because the spymaster was leading him to Storm’s End in hopes this supposed Targaryen prince could use him as leverage against the Western lords. Surely this Aegon the Sixth needed all the help he could get; ten thousand sellswords, even with their war elephants, weren’t enough to take King’s Landing.

Unless the Tyrells side with him. If he hasn’t given his hand to Princess Arianne, perhaps he will take Margaery as his bride and queen. After all, if he is truly a half-Martell, then Sunspear should be on his side, regardless.

But would they be on his side if he married a Martell?

Catelyn regretted that she didn’t know more of the current inter-kingdom and inter-family relations south of the Riverlands. Reach-Dorne hostility was widely known, but had it cooled in recent years, or would it yet cool for the sake of this half Targaryen, half Martell boy?

But if Mace Tyrell was planning to turn his cloak from one Targaryen to another, what did that mean for the one whose side he’d be abandoning? And what did that mean for the people on Daenerys’ side, even if only out of self-preservation and love of family?

And what would the West do, if they realized that Daenerys had only one lion – Tommen – in her clutches? Would they join the Martells in backing Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of his Name? Was Tommen a price they were willing to pay?

Of course he is, but who would make that determination? Who is giving the orders now? Could Tyrion Lannister have a way of communicating from the other side of the continent without Daenerys knowing? Or is no one giving orders, and the Lannister men are simply continuing to operate in a way that won’t piss off the woman who holds several Lannisters hostage? And which of those hostages do they truly value? Which would they willingly sacrifice?

The wish that Ser Kevan and Gendry and Ser Davos would get word to her was as crippling as a wish could be, but a close second to that, as of today, was the itch to know who was leading the Lannister forces in King’s Landing. Catelyn hadn’t dared to socialize with any Westermen during her stay here, though had passing interactions with the ones who were living in the Maidenvault. They were mostly the men who had been personal guards to Sansa or the king, but she’d dared not make contact knowing that if there was any place the spymaster was watching closely, it was the keep full of men sworn to Houses Stark, Tully, and Tyrell… Not to mention a Stark/Tully and several Tyrells.

But the spymaster is gone now. I could see if the Westermen know anything. Perhaps Tommen does? Would I dare speak to him, though, knowing how fond he is of Lady Margaery and her cousin? Could I trust he would not repeat my words to her?

And if I find out, to what end? Would I tell that man that the Great Lion has been freed from his cage, even if only to be moved into another? Would they take action, then? Would they try to find Varys and Lord Lannister? Would they move against Daenerys? Would Sansa and my granddaughters pay the price? Or are they already safe in the arms of Kevan, Gendry, and Davos?

It seemed no matter how much Catelyn thought up schemes and plots, small moves she could make to topple Daenerys’ reign, it all came back to that same fear: that Kevan, Gendry, and Davos had not yet found Sansa.

Or that they have, and failed to secure her and the girls. That they’re dead. That I sent them to their deaths. Just as I’ll send myself if I’m still here when Daenerys gets word that a rescue operation was attempted on her valuable hostages.

It was no revelation to the once mother of five (who could be a mother of two at this moment) that she did not fear death, only what her demise would do to her remaining children. Would Rickon curse her name to the end of his days; consider her no more than the woman who abandoned him twice with only servants and one sibling for company? Would Arya ever forgive her? Catelyn had walked out of Riverrun, leaving her precious girls in the company of only a pair of uncles they hardly knew, neither of whom had experience with daughters. And she’d walked out of Winterfell, leaving one daughter in hopes of saving another.

Will Arya think I loved her less than Sansa?

Will Rickon think that?

Do I love them less than Sansa?

No, but I worry for them less. Rickon has survived what was effectively a years-long imprisonment. Arya is strong and brave; a fighter. Sansa fights by surrendering, by appeasing those who hold power over her. Oh, my sweet girl, what have you chosen to endure? If you endured Ser Gregor’s company the old lion’s bed to protect yourself and your sister, what would you do to protect your daughters?

The same as I’d do to protect my daughters: anything.

Catelyn pointed her eyes at the ceiling, forcing the tears back from whence they came, twisting her neck this way and that as if working out a kink. She feared the queen would interpret her tears as sadness over Lord Lannister’s unknown fate, or joy over his freedom. Neither would do.

“Why is it…” Daenerys spoke in a silky voice, “that my mercy is only ever used against me?”

Catelyn lowered her head and blinked at the queen, who was not looking at her. Rather, her eyes were fixed on the goblet she was swirling against the tabletop.  “I’m afraid I don’t understand, your grace.”

“Mercy,” Daenerys repeated the word bluntly, “I took the city peacefully, yet still the people were quick to blame me for their woes. Hunger. Sickness. Even the weather,” Daenerys snorted lightly and shook her head.

“Commonfolk are superstitious by nature, and—”

“I let Lord Lannister live, and now he has run off with the eunuch, probably to throw themselves at the imposter’s feet.”

“He may not have gone willingly. I doubt he would expect a warm welcome from a Targaryen prince.” And the imposter may have a better claim to the throne than you do.

Daenerys ignored that. In fact, Catelyn wasn’t sure she was hearing her at all, “I offered Stannis Baratheon – the man who built a fleet and chased me and my brother from our home – everything he could want. And now he sits at Dragonstone, likely learning how to ride my dragon…”

“He would not plot against you. Not with Lady Shireen—”

“And this Greyjoy?” Daenerys shrugged one shoulder, her eyes still fixed on the wine goblet, “He was bold enough to sneak into my city, into my dragonpit, and steal my other dragon. And why not? What have I done to strike fear in anyone’s hearts?”

Catelyn felt her stomach twist. She did not like the sound of this.

“Your grace. Dany,” she implored, “you did the right thing. Do you truly think you’d have fewer enemies if you came here as a… a conqueror? If you acted as a tyrant?”

“I’d have fewer enemies willing to move against me. Lord Lannister was far from loved, yet who was ever willing to challenge him?”

Catelyn sighed, “He might not have been loved, but he was capable. He had the people’s respect, distasteful as it may have felt to give it to him.”

Daenerys waved a hand, “If you believe it was respect that kept people loyal to him, then you grossly under-estimate the average man’s capacity for betrayal.”

“Fine,” Catelyn conceded wearily, “but I still say you’re safer if you have the people’s love and respect.”

Daenerys snorted, “That’s just it, isn’t it? Who are these people? I had the love of hundreds of thousands of slaves, which only guaranteed that I was scorned by thousands of freemen who held all the power in those lands. And here? Here it is even worse. I thought I could come here and free the people of the invisible chains of oppression, but what can I offer other than bread and shelter, which is what even the worst ruler would give, even if only to prevent a riot from disturbing their leisurely lifestyle?”

Catelyn sighed, “Change takes time. It’s been, what – not even a year?”

“Change takes more than time, Lady Stark. I see that now. One cannot build a new palace over the structure of an old one. The old must be demolished and cleared away. That is the mistake I made in Astapor, in Yunkai, in Meereen. The literal collars were gone, but the metaphorical ones remained because the slavers still held too much wealth, too much power. In Astapor, I stripped the masters of their power as much as possible, put in place a ruling council comprised of one priest, one healer, and one scholar. I thought, surely that would work. Intelligent, faithful, compassionate men… Surely, they would rule well. But they hardly got the chance. A butcher… a former slave… he rounded up the noble sons I had allowed to live, had them castrated then conscripted into his army. Astapor has been nothing but war ever since. A new man grabs the power, but never holds it long before someone else takes it, along with his life. What good have I done there? I empowered the weak only for them to use that power to bully others, to hurt others. The prey became predators, and the predators became desperate. I didn’t break the wheel, I only reversed it on its axle so that it rolls the other way.”

Catelyn sighed, “What that butcher did… what others after him did… it is horrible, your grace. But—”

Daenerys shook her head lazily, “It’s predictable. No matter how many of them die for it, men cannot help but fight for power just as starving dogs would fight over a deer carcass.”

“Dany, why are you telling me this?

Daenerys’ lips pursed in a look of patronization, but still her eyes did not lift to meet Cat’s, “I have tried to do things the honorable way. The least violent way. The most peaceful way. And what have I gotten for it? A throne I am holding onto rather precariously and a populace who think I’m a curse. I’ve met doubt and betrayal, lies and manipulations. My child has been stolen out from under me to be used as a weapon against my realm, while a pretender uses my banner and my name as he invades one of my kingdoms, intent on claiming all of them. I have shown nothing but benevolence, and where has it gotten me?”

“On the Iron Throne.”

Daenerys snorted, “For now. But not for long. Because you know what, Cat?”

“What?” Catelyn asked, striving to keep the trepidation out of her voice.

“Ser Jaime was right. The people don’t want peace. Certainly not the men. They want blood,” her teeth clanked together, “The people don’t want a good ruler, a kind and generous king or queen. They want someone to blame when they fall ill; when they don’t have enough money; when winter comes and they go cold and hungry. They want someone to hate, so they don’t have to hate themselves. Or maybe so they feel justified in fighting, when really they’d do it anyway to satisfy their bloodlust. Well, now that I have lived this indisputable fact, I have realized another: the only king or queen that will ever be safe is the one who is feared. They will fear me, and so they will stay in line. And then I will finally have the time to make progress toward my vision. Then I will break the wheel, and the people will see that they can have more than their blood and their hate. I will force a better world upon them, like the mother who makes her children eat their cabbage. And once they live in that world, they will appreciate it… and appreciate me for giving it to them. But I cannot build this new world within the confines of the old one.”

“I don’t understand…”

Daenerys finally brought her gaze to match Catelyn’s, her chin lifted, looking confident, motivated, and yet somehow detached, “I will summon Stannis Baratheon. He will kneel before me, then he and I will ride Viserion to the Reach and put an end to Euron Greyjoy, reclaim Drogon. Then we will fly to the West and ensure that any who have not yet sworn fealty to me are incentivized to do so. Then, with Tyrell and Lannister armies behind us, and dragons beneath us, we will put an end to this pretender’s foolishness. And his Dornish friends will be exposed – no Red Mountains to hide in. Dorne never kneeled to the conqueror, but they will kneel to me. They will kneel or they will burn.”

Catelyn felt shocked; afraid. Though it had little to do with the queen’s words, and more with the way she was saying them: without any awareness that she might easily fail at such an endeavor.

Catelyn might have dismissed it as hubris, given Daenerys’ youth, except that the girl had years of experience ruling. Years of experience ruling, but not ruling well. She just spoke of Astapor, mired in civil wars that have nothing to do with slave against master, and everything to do with greedy man against greedy man. How can she speak with such certainty of this plan, without seeing the many potential points of failure?

Catelyn cleared her throat, kept her tone level, completely immersed in the role of unofficial advisor, confidante, and friend of the queen, “And you are certain Lord Baratheon will not only endorse but be willing to execute such a strategy?”

Daenerys shrugged lazily, “I saw that he has fire in his veins, just as I do…”

You’ve no idea.

“… And he craves blood and power, just as all men do. And besides,” she shrugged again, “I have his daughter. A charming girl, with a sharp mind and a good heart. Lord Baratheon wanted his blood on the throne, and I’m sure he still does. I will give him that.”

“And the Tyrells?” Catelyn asked, “Mace Tyrell loathes Stannis Baratheon. You depend on the might of his armies for your plan, and on his food for your people, yet why would he endorse a plan that puts his enemy’s daughter on the throne he wanted for his own daughter? Why endorse a plan that makes his enemy a hero?”

“Because he will see Lord Baratheon as the greatest hope the Reach has of not seeing all its lands burned before Euron Greyjoy is taken down, nor trampled by the elephants of this pretender. Oh, Tyrell will plot, I’m sure, but he will not act until all those pesky threats to his homeland are eliminated. Likely an attempt to have Shireen Baratheon, her father, or both suffer some fatal malady or tragic accident, then hoist one of his sons on me. But I will be prepared for that. The Tyrells will be encouraged to return to the Reach, to oversee the recovery of their lands and castles. Lord Mace will have to settle for a grandchild or great-grandchild on the throne. And for his support, I will give him that. To see Shireen on the Iron Throne, Lord Baratheon will agree to promise his someday grandchild to a someday grandchild of Lord Tyrell.”

Catelyn shook her head, “Why tell me this? Why are you trusting me with this information? I like to think we’ve come to respect and care for one another, but still…”

“You mean, who better than the woman who would’ve let herself be skinned alive before seeing her daughter handed over to Tywin Lannister?” Daenerys lifted a brow.

Catelyn was only partly surprised that Daenerys had knowledge of that incident that felt like a decade ago, or a different life entirely. When I had just lost my firstborn. When I thought Rickon and Bran were dead. When Sansa was not yet a mother, Arya not yet a woman. She sighed, “Aye. Why me, your grace?”

“Because, my Lady Catelyn, this new world I intend to craft will not last if men still hold all the power. I would have you and that blunt tongue of yours on my council. I’d have your young son wed to my heir – to Shireen – because I understand that Eddard Stark did not raise his sons to view women as mere tools.”

Catelyn’s heart began thudding with a strange mix of fear and… hope? On the one hand, she did not want Rickon – nor any of her children – in this city. If Sansa could be reached here even with all the might of the Great Lion acting as her shield, then no one would ever be safe here. But on the other hand, Daenerys was speaking to Catelyn as if she trusted her above any other.

Could it work?

Could Catelyn and Stannis live here, guiding Daenerys, guiding Shireen and Rickon, helping to mold the realm into a place of peace once more?

It sounded like a pretty dream and yet dreams were rarely what they seemed, even when they bothered coming to fruition. What would Daenerys think of Catelyn when she found out Catelyn had conspired to have her daughter and granddaughters stolen from Daenerys’ grasp?

And, of course, the entire plan was premeditated on Daenerys’ conviction that she and Stannis could beat Euron Greyjoy without sacrificing the black dragon, then gain the fealty of the West, while retaining the fealty of the Reach, then beat the supposed prince’s armies and his claim.

And perhaps if Daenerys spoke of it all with an apparent appreciation for the uphill battle it would be, Catelyn would be able to respect it. But she spoke as if reciting a simple recipe. First combine the flour and salt, then add in the water and seasoning, place in covered kettle and bake until browned. After all the girl’s firsthand experience, did she truly believe anything she set off to accomplish could be so easy?

Catelyn reminded herself that it didn’t matter. This poor girl could bury herself under the rubble of her ambition if that was her will; Catelyn would not be here to witness it, nor to be buried with her. “So that is your plan, your grace?” she asked innocently, though with a hint of approval.

Daenerys nodded slowly, her smile faint but true, “All this time I thought my purpose in Westeros was to bring back the age of the dragon, but I was wrong. My purpose here is to bring forth, for the first time, the age of the woman.”

Goosebumps prickled Cat’s skin, “The age of the woman?”

Daenerys hummed affirmatively.

“Women like… my daughters?”

“With young… Rickard, is it?”

“Rickon,” Cat corrected.

“With Rickon here, siring Shireen’s heirs, your daughter Arya will be needed to rule Winterfell and the North. I understand she already does, effectively.”

Cat nodded slowly. Does it look like I’m agreeing to this?

And what even is this? Madness? Or the best possible outcome for House Stark, if only we commit to the presently dragon-less dragon queen and she doesn’t kill me for conspiring to steal my kin from her thrall?

“And Sansa?” Catelyn asked, swallowing more fear than saliva.

“In due time, she’ll be needed in Casterly Rock. Regent to Jeyne Lannister, Lady Protector of the West, Shield of Lannisport, Lioness of Lannister.”

“Jocelyn?”

Daenerys shrugged casually, “A confidant and advisor to her slightly older sister, I can only assume.”

Cat shook her head, “Wait… This is… This is fantasy. Men have the strength. Men have the arms training and knowledge of war and—”

“And we have our wits. And our dragons.”

Your dragons. Or are they?”

Daenerys gave a bitter smile, “Whatever foul magic that one-eye used to enthrall my dragon will be broken. And Rhaegal remains unclaimed, my poor, defiant boy. But in time he will make his way here. If Stannis’ Valyrian blood called to Viserion, then eventually Rhaegal will make his way back to me. Or perhaps to Shireen. I am sure of it. Our blood calls to them.”

Or to your rival, Aegon Targaryen, if he is who he says he is.

Catelyn’s heart was beating frantically with a hope she dared not nurture but acknowledged all the same.

Daenerys intended to align herself with Stannis, who may very well have a dragon under his command. Stannis who, more than the dragon queen, Catelyn trusted to be reasonable and just in his rulings because he was practical to a fault and dutiful to a fault. In fact, the few sins anyone could try to lay at the man’s feet were committed not out of some deviousness but out of those very characteristics.

Daenerys intended to name Shireen her heir, which would help unite those who’d supported Robert and those who supported House Targaryen.

Daenerys intended to empower Arya completely as Wardeness of the North.

Daenerys intended to make Rickon Shireen’s consort – and yes, Catelyn knew that her youngest may never be fit for such a role, but if he was, it would tie Houses Stark and Tully to the throne and the Stormlands.

Daenerys intended to bring home Sansa, Jeyne, and Jocelyn and to empower them as well.

At shallow examination, Catelyn wanted to rejoice. Her son a prince consort, her daughters and granddaughters all safe on Westerosi soil and in positions of authority.

But she realized that despite the Queen’s steely eyes and obvious determination, there was as much naivety in Daenerys’ aspiration as there’d been in the queen’s expectation that she could outlaw a millennia-old, highly lucrative industry in city-states whose entire economies were tied to that industry, and receive little backlash for it.

Those people that would be happy to see someone of Targaryen and Baratheon blood as the sole heir to the Iron Thone? Their pleasure wouldn’t last with that venerated blood flowing through the veins of a mild-mannered girl with greyscale marks on her cheek and neck.

And how many in the West would accept Sansa Lannister nee Stark as the regent for their future Lady Paramount, when the very price of each’s existence was the life of the man who’d had their region prospering since his boyhood?

Would the Ironborn not sail the Mander out to sea, dispersing the fleet to make it impossible for Stannis’ dragon to burn more than a fraction of it? Well, maybe they wouldn’t, but that did not guarantee Stannis’ success (nor his survival).

Would Mace Tyrell and his mother accept the fact that their blood would not run in the veins of Westeros’ king until both were dead?

Would Dorne not seek vengeance against the people who killed the boy they believed was their long-lost king, the blood of House Martell, rightful heir to the throne?

And, of course, the dragon queen might not get a chance to accomplish any of these things. Firstly, it would require Stannis to have control of the beast. Secondly, it would require Stannis to agree to be the queen’s fist, to fight her battles. Thirdly, it would require Stannis to be successful, which would require him and the dragon to survive. Euron Greyjoy was not likely to make that easy, nor Dorne, who’d built the very dragon-killing weapons that Winterfell’s carpenters had been working on duplicating since before Catelyn left her home.

And yet, there was no evidence in Daenerys’ gaze that she recognized the challenges she would face in the short and long terms. To expect a realm ruled by men to accept matriarchy? To expect a Stark girl to hold the Rock? To expect that if Daenerys didn’t have compliance, she’d be able to use her dragons to obtain it via fire and blood? The girl had, as Catelyn learned from Margaery, only been seen riding her dragon a few times after taking the throne. The other two dragons didn’t even deign to visit their mother in King’s Landing. Plus, so far as Catelyn knew, no dragon rider had ever controlled more than one beast. During Aegon’s conquest, each dragon had its rider. During the Dance of Dragons, each dragon had its rider. Riderless dragons were not used in battle because they were too unpredictable, unable to discern friend from foe without a human pointing them toward the right targets. And, of course, some dragons were never meant to be ridden, just like some horses could never be broken, some dogs never domesticated. There’d been feral dragons throughout history, known for being anything from a nuisance to a menace for the people of Dragonstone (and their livestock). Perhaps the third of Daenerys’ dragons – the one that Catelyn had observed on that rainy night in Dragonstone – was such a beast. Untamable, unrideable.

While allowing the queen to bask in the apparent pride she felt with her plan, Catelyn couldn’t help but wonder how many people felt the same shiver creep up their spine while listening to some Targaryen king or another speak of their grand dreams.

I think I shall conquer all the kingdoms of Westeros, name myself king of them all. But will the current kings not fight you? Of course, but I will burn all who refuse me.

I shall build a lavish holdfast, with dozens of secret tunnels leading to other parts of the keep and city. But what if the builders speak of those tunnels? Then your enemies will use them to get into your home. Then I shall simply have to kill all the builders.

You have a son now, my liege. Perhaps you should make clear that he is your heir, not his elder half-sister. Why? I’ve already named an heir in my daughter. But do you truly expect all men will accept that? Do you not see how it will lead to war over the succession of your crown? Ah, stop being paranoid! I’m sure every man, including my trueborn son, shall gladly kneel to my daughter and her bastards!

I think I shall finally finish the Conqueror’s work and force Dorne into submission. My young king, how will you succeed with men and horses where the Conqueror’s three dragons could not? Why wouldn’t I?

I will gather most of my family and servants in Summerhall and use wildfire to try to birth dragons. What could possibly go wrong? Did you say wildfire, your grace?

I shall kidnap Lady Lyanna, a fourteen-year-old girl. Surely no one will mind. You realize she is the daughter of the Warden of the North and the intended of the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands? Oh, and that you’re married to a princess of Dorne! What’s your point?

And, of course, there was the Mad King. Catelyn knew her recent history. How Aerys the Second’s reign started out peaceful enough, though with the king making lofty plans with which he never followed through. An underground canal to deliver water from the capital to the deserts of Dorne. The conquering of the Stepstone Islands, as if the many pirates who nested there, not to mention the powerful lords of the Free Cities, would let that happen.

Catelyn felt suddenly overcome with a need to speak to her goodson, who would have been the voice trying to talk Aerys out of all those ridiculous ideas. If she told him of Daenerys’ plan, and if the man could set aside his bias against the young woman, would he tell Catelyn it wasn’t the worst idea?

Or would he tell her that the daughter sounded just like the father?

She almost laughed, knowing the answer was staring her in the face but she didn’t want to accept it because, perhaps, she didn’t want to think this poor girl would meet the same end as her father.

But she is not my responsibility. What did I tell Brynden to relay to Sansa, when I thought I’d be skinned alive within two days? Family. Duty. There is no place in this world for honor.

It was not a notion that sat well with her, but that was the honor talking.

It was time, Catelyn realized, to get herself out of this city. It could become a battleground if word got to the Lannister-loyal men that their lord was no longer in the queen’s custody. It could become a battleground if this Aegon Targaryen marched north, not west. It could become a bonfire if Euron Greyjoy got bored with his exploits in the Reach. Hells, it could become a bonfire if Catelyn had been over-estimating Stannis Baratheon’s sense of conscience all this time.

And for the first time since her earliest meeting with Daenerys Targaryen, it was time to look right in the girl’s face and tell not just untruths, but patent lies.

“Do you mean it, my queen?” Catelyn asked, allowing herself a hopeful smile.

Daenerys nodded, “Do you see any other way to stop the never-ending wars, the oppression, the injustice, but to take the power away from heartless, selfish, ambitious men and put it in the hands of compassionate, wise, fair-minded women?”

Catelyn let the smile grow, “I do not, your grace.”

“Dany, remember?”

Dany. Your words…” it wasn’t hard to summon a welling of tears in her eyes, because she hated herself in that moment – almost as much as she hated the men and women who played this endless game over an iron chair that would do more good if it was melted down to make kettles and pots, “They inspire me like nothing has in a long time. This is the way to have lasting peace in the realm!”

Daenerys smiled brightly, “You understand, then?!”

Catelyn nodded emphatically, “I do. I… I never thought I’d live to see a monarch so selfless and so… progressive! If you’d been on the throne years ago, Ned and I would never have had to sing to the tune of Robert Baratheon and his wife. My Sansa would never have become victim to that evil boy-king. So much pain could have been prevented not just in my family but countless others.”

“If only I could have been here and in Essos, but alas, there is only one of me!” Daenerys giggled.

Catelyn laughed along. And thank the gods for that.

“My queen, my friend, allow me to go to Dragonstone as your delegate, and I will not return until I have secured Stannis Baratheon’s loyalty. I will bring Shireen with me, as a show of good faith. I know that he will be swayed by that. Besides, Dragonstone is the place for the queen’s heir, and it will show how deeply you care about the future that you would see it protected until those who would threaten this city are squashed.”

Daenerys leaned back, smiling, “Indeed. Finally, they will all see that I’m not some pestilence in this city, but its staunchest defender – a defender of all people, especially those without the resources to defend themselves.”

Daenerys the Just – that’s how you will be remembered for generations to come. Or Daenerys the Good? I know: Daenerys – the Queen of the People.”

“Yes! I need no adjectives after my name to know my virtues. All I want is to be remembered as the queen who cared for her people first and foremost. No – for all people; every man, woman, and child in Westeros and Essos and every island in between.”

“Indeed!”

“I agree with your proposal, Cat. I shall think on the terms and have them drafted. Perhaps I shall consult young Shireen on this – it will give her some practice in diplomacy.”

“A wonderful idea,” Catelyn maintained her smile, knowing that to ask for Shireen to be released into her custody immediately would be suspicious and that it didn’t matter, anyway – her three guards would not be enough to keep Shireen from being dragged back to the holdfast if Daenerys had a change of heart. Of course, if Shireen was in Cat’s custody they could all sneak out of the city… But no, that was madness. There was no guarantee that a Dragonstone- or North-bound ship would be available, and that assuming they made it to the docks. Catelyn would bide her time and leave with the queen’s blessing rather than as a fugitive. The longer Daenerys thought of her as an ally, the safer Cat and her loved ones would be.

“Thank you. First thing tomorrow, see about your travel arrangements. If there is no captain headed to Dragonstone within the next week, then engage one on the queen’s orders – I will see that he is paid.”

“I will do so, Dany,” Catelyn raised the wine goblet that she’d long forgotten to sip from, “to tomorrow… may it be the dawn of a new era.”

Dany smiled and lifted her own drink, “To tomorrow.”

Catelyn fell asleep feeling peace and hopefulness for the first time in many months. Guilt tried gnawing on her conscience, but she repeated her house’s words: Family. Duty. Honor. What not all outside House Tully knew was that the order was meaningful, not random. She would worry about being honorable only after her family was safe and her duty to that family complete. She had plenty to atone for, and she’d spend the rest of her life doing so.

She carried her optimism with her while she dressed for the day, while she broke her fast, while she kneeled for her morning and noontime prayers. It stayed with her throughout her luncheon, while she anxiously awaited Brant’s return from the harbormaster’s office. It stayed with her after he arrived with news that a trade ship was bound for Maidenpool in two days’ time, but that the captain would gladly make a stop at Dragonstone’s port – for a fee.

She held onto it when a page summoned her to Maegor’s sometime in the mid-afternoon, as the sun was creeping toward the horizon. Surely Daenerys had an update to share and was looking for Catelyn to do the same. No doubt Daenerys could complete her letter to Stannis in less than a day, especially since she’d given up on holding court since shortly after her dragon was stolen by a madman, and since Shireen would have helped Daenerys choose words that would resonate with her taciturn father. Not that Catelyn cared about the contents of the letter; she only hoped it was finished so she could be on that ship in two days.

Catelyn had the twins Arren and Armand escort her, leaving Brant to supervise the servants packing her belongings, though she was in such a generous mood she hardly cared if some of her clothing or jewelry grew legs.

Her spirits remained high, even if her heart raced rather frantically to be so close to getting herself and Shireen out of this city. She’d like to have been able to bring Tommen but had no convincing reason to suggest it, and settled for having faith that, with the old lion missing, Tommen’s value had just increased tenfold in Daenerys’ eyes.

Eyes that looked rather manic when we spoke last evening… and wouldn’t Brandon and Rickard Stark have been valuable hostages to the Mad King?

Shut up. Now isn’t the time to worry over Cersei Lannister’s bastard, innocent though the boy may be. My family must come first.

Nervous yet optimistic, Catelyn gave a quick nod to the twins as they were led to the room where they routinely ate and passed the time in leisure whenever Catelyn was with the queen. She hadn’t given them all the details, no more than she ever had, but surely they noticed their lady’s mood was rather cheerful as she sent their brother-in-arms to the harbormaster’s office this morning.

Yet the moment she stepped into the queen’s receiving room, every pore in her body opened and leaked.

Rage radiated off the young queen, and something like fear off the advisors Catelyn hadn’t expected to see here on this occasion.

It was a dizzying, crippling thing to go from fluttering with hopefulness to drowning in dread, and she found herself deaf to most of the conversation as she stared at the letter Daenerys held in a death grip. Catelyn wanted to strangle it, too, though for very different reasons. Daenerys was enraged over the contents, Catelyn over the timing.

She remembered, after that terrifying and wet night on the tower roof at Dragonstone, feeling compelled to either slap Stannis Baratheon (again) or kiss him. Now she harbored no such conflicting sentiments. If that block-headed man strode into the room, he’d not meet the wrath of a dragon but that of a wolf.

The letter had come from Tyrion Lannister, who had paused his tour of the West, collecting oaths on behalf of the queen, to command part of the Lannister army that marched south and east to help the Reachers push the squids back to sea, though it seemed that thanks to Euron Greyjoy’s possession of a dragon, it was less about pushing them back and more about keeping them from moving forward – meaning inland.

Tyrion, who Daenerys seemed to consider loyal to her even if only due to his love for family, had relayed the news that a new force had entered the fray…

Stannis bloody Baratheon.

Adragonback.

Mace Tyrell looked furious – or was doing a fine job of pretending.

Grey Worm was trying to be the voice of reason… saying that Stannis Baratheon was fighting as a queen’s man. The herald Missandei was nodding passionately, though her eyes looked far less certain than the Unsullied captain’s were. The Dothraki man who wasn’t always present, and whose name Catelyn could never quite catch but for the sound of a ‘z’ and the ‘o’ at the end, was staring down at a map of the Reach that Catelyn had seen before. Ser Barristan was quiet, for now, but only because he was disinclined to interrupt.

Catelyn could not risk taking such a stance as the old knight. She put herself between Grey Wind and Lord Tyrell, leaning her hands on the table at which the queen sat, uncaring for the lack of decorum, “Your grace, this changes nothing but the sequence of events. All that we spoke of yestereve – it can still happen. Lord Baratheon may not be waving a Targaryen flag, but it is your realm he fights for; I know it. He is doing what needs to be done to protect the richest of this continent’s lands.”

“Then why did he not send me a message? Or stop here to gain my blessing?! I’d have ridden with him! I’d have—” Daenerys smacked her lips shut.

Catelyn sighed, “Perhaps he feared you’d take offense to his… usage of your dragon? Perhaps he feared that Lord Tyrell would dissuade you from permitting his mission,” she cast a glance at Lord Mace and hoped he knew this wasn’t personal, “perhaps he thought Lord Tyrell would see his entire kingdom burn before allowing Stannis Baratheon to be its savior, just as Lord Baratheon would’ve let his entire castle starve before allowing Mace Tyrell to claim it.”

“A message then, as I said. Why not make his loyalty clear?”

“Because his loyalty is not to you, clearly,” Lord Mace declared.

Catelyn clenched her teeth, and for not the first time wondered whose side the man was on, besides his own, “Or he sent word, but it has not reached you yet.”

“A courier from Dragonstone hasn’t reached King’s Landing, but a raven from the far west has?” Daenerys asked sharply.

“Perhaps he sent no courier,” Catelyn suggested, “perhaps he, too, sent a raven, but it became lost, or died in the cold.”

Something shifted in Daenerys’ eyes, and it chilled Catelyn so thoroughly she felt her bowels tighten. The queen rose from the chair she’d been in since Catelyn’s arrival.

“Or…” Daenerys spoke in a suddenly calm tone, “he sent no courier, no raven, no word whatsoever, because he is not on my side. He is on the pretender’s side. Perhaps he has been all along, just like Varys was.”

“He would not go against you while you have his daughter.”

“No?” Daenerys lifted a brow, “But what if he believed his daughter was en route to Dragonstone?”

Catelyn’s mouth went dry.

“What if he believed so because he had someone here, a traitor operating right under my nose?” Daenerys slowly rounded the table until she stood forehead to chin with Catelyn, her head tilted back and her lilac irises strangely tranquil, as if she’d just woken from a lovely dream, “Someone who gained my trust, my affection? Someone I’d have shared all my power with?”

Her heart was thundering like a courser’s hooves, and Catelyn knew it was over. This was one she could not talk her way out of, and yet still her lips let out a pathetic sounding, “Dany…”

“Don’t you dare call me that!” the queen hissed, “I was so foolish! I knew you spent time at Dragonstone with Lord Baratheon. I knew his daughter had been friendly with yours. I later learned your own husband had declared him king, right at the beginning of the recent war. I knew he gave oaths to your daughter and her husband. And yet still I thought his loyalty could be mine, in time. And yet still I thought I already had yours!” Daenerys’ eyes glittered with tears, and Catelyn wondered how she could simultaneously want to pull the girl into a never-ending hug and dash her head against the table.

“And it didn’t even occur to me last night when you offered to go to Dragonstone with Lady Shireen… because I thought you saw the bigger plan. I’d have made your son a prince, given your daughters each their own kingdom. I’d have—”

“It wasn’t yours to give,” Catelyn growled. She knew she should keep trying, keep lying, keep defending herself even if at best she could plant a seed of doubt that would keep the queen from doing something rash, like taking her head, or Shireen’s, or sending word to Ser Jorah to take Sansa’s. But the anger and resentment were muting all sense of self-preservation, of plotting, of schemes and plans.

Tully azure met Targaryen lavender. Both were shining, probably sparkling like a set of rare gemstones, but there was neither sorrow nor joy behind those diamond tears. Just rage.

“My daughter was queen consort before you came here. My other daughter an acting wardeness, my son a future warden. My granddaughter set to be queen regnant in time. You speak of empowering them? You’d have made them nothing but puppets on your strings, beholden to you, avowed to do your bidding. No; you’d not have given them anything. Just like you gave the slaves of Astapor nothing but the right to die at the blades of their brethren instead of the slavemasters.”

Daenerys’ head reared back as if Catelyn had slapped her, and Catelyn took the opportunity to reach for the dagger on Lord Tyrell’s belt, but Grey Worm was captain for a reason. His hand came down hard on Cat’s forearm, hitting a nerve that made her cry out even as she reached for Daenerys with her left hand. There was no plan in her mind, and no time to wonder how the execution of any potential plan could come back to haunt her. She felt coarse hair in her fingertips, then she was spun and slammed down onto the floor, her cheek hitting the planking hard as her arms had been wrenched behind her by Grey Worm. She heard steel sliding against sheath, and didn’t know whether it was Lord Mace or Ser Barristan who’d drawn first, only knew which had gotten the upper hand by the next words that came from the queen.

“All this time you’ve kept your children out of my grasp for fear I’d use them against you. It never occurred to you that I might use you against them.”

Lord Tyrell gave a rather genuine sounding laugh, “You may try.”

Catelyn wriggled, though with a knee now pressed to her upper back she knew it was futile to resist as the man tied what felt like a leather strap around her wrists. She was yanked up and spun to see Lord Tyrell held at sword point by Ser Barristan, while the Dothraki had his curved blade ready to defend the queen and her friend, who stood to his left and a step behind, facing Lord Tyrell with two big paces separating them. The lord might be willing to sacrifice his own neck to go after the queen, but he’d not get past the Dothraki’s blade.

The queen rather proudly returned to her seat, putting herself separated from all the others by a table and then some. Sitting straight, she smiled at Catelyn and Lord Tyrell, “I suppose I owe each of you some thanks, for the lessons you imparted unwittingly through your betrayals.”

“I didn’t—” Mace Tyrell began.

“No? Then why has your son offered truce to this pretender?”

Catelyn had no idea what the queen referred to, only that it must be Lord Willas – or perhaps Ser Garlan – and that the news must’ve come to Daenerys’ attention sometime since Catelyn left her chambers last night. Perhaps even in the letter from Lord Tyrion. Was the dwarf lord spying on the Tyrells for the queen? Or was the truce between Tyrell and this returned prince never something meant to be hidden from the queen?

“So they might combine their forces against a worse threat!” Lord Mace answered instantly.

“Euron Greyjoy? Or me?”

“Greyjoy,” Lord Tyrell spat, “do you truly think I’d move against you when we’re all allies against that cretin?”

“No – I think you’d plan it now and do it when that cretin has been eliminated. Same as Stannis Baratheon. Same as Lady Stark here. Same as countless others. You see, I’ve been thinking of Astapor since I spoke of it to Lady Stark last night. About how many fell in with this butcher who wrested power from the council I left in charge. About how many fell in with those who killed the butcher to claim his power… and so on… and so on… War makes strange bedfellows, and you men are always fighting a war, aren’t you? In here, at minimum,” she tapped her temple.

“I had no intention of betraying you, now or later,” Lord Tyrell insisted.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. But you would have, as soon as it benefited you to do so. For instance, if this pretender offered to take Lady Margaery as his bride.”

Lord Tyrell’s face was so red Catelyn thought something was going to pop. His lips pursed in anger – but was it anger at being falsely accused or at having his plotting uncovered?

Catelyn huffed, “So what is your plan, then? Keep myself, Lord Mace, Ser Brynden, Shireen, and Tommen as hostages indefinitely? Do you think that is loyalty? Five kingdoms kneeling to me to protect their kin? That isn’t loyalty.”

“But it will do, for now. I told you, Lady Stark – I have learned from my errors. I cannot build something great from the ruins of something rotten,” she turned to face Ser Barristan, “Take them to the room we prepared. Then, you know what to do.”

“Your grace,” Ser Barristan tipped his head without taking his eyes off Lord Tyrell.

The two of them were herded to a large room that had two guards outside the door. Inside sat Tommen and Shireen, playing a board game of some sort, seemingly in fine spirits until they took in the scene of Lady Stark and Lord Tyrell being shoved into the room they would, apparently, be made to share. Four cots were in there, two on the window wall but close to the hearth, two on the interior wall by the opposite corner. A privacy screen sat out of the way for now, but Catelyn could hardly be grateful for it, no more than she could summon indignation to be made to share a room with two men who weren’t kin.

Her binds were cut and the Unsullied and the knight were ready to leave without another word, when Catelyn decided that just wouldn’t do…

“Does it please you, that your queen’s reign is enabled by the imprisonment of others?” she directed at Grey Worm. The man’s only visible reaction was one of annoyance, so she set her gaze on Ser Barristan, “And you, ser? Satisfy a soon-to-be dead woman’s curiosity: I’ve always wondered… did you ever wish you hadn’t survived Duskendale?”

His jaw bulged, and he turned to face Grey Worm as if to confer on some subject, “I’m sure none of them has an appetite after today’s events. No need to waste food on their suppers that’d be better off going to hungrier bellies.”

Both men quit the room, locking it from the outside. Catelyn heard mumbles of voices through the thick wood, and knew that Ser Barristan was giving orders to the guards who’d guard from without. She figured it would be more than the two who’d been set to guarding Shireen and Tommen. Lord Tyrell surely was more of a threat than Tommen, as Catelyn was more of a threat than Shireen.

Then again, neither was much of a threat with no weapon but a pewter water pitcher and basin – of course; why give us ceramic that could be shattered and used as a sharp object? – and, presumably, a chamber pot under each cot. Hopefully one under each. Though his presence meant that man was now her ally, whether he’d been so yesterday or not, she didn’t wish to share a pisspot with Mace Tyrell.

Catelyn helped herself to the cot furthest from the hearth, sat down, buried her face in her hands, and laughed.

I should’ve told someone, anyone, about Lord Tywin’s escape.

I should’ve killed the queen last night.

I should’ve never tried playing this game.

She’s probably torturing Arren and Armand as I speak – and Brant – to find out everything they know about my plotting. I told the boys nothing, but that won’t protect them, will it?

She will call Arya to the capital, threaten to execute me if she doesn’t come or doesn’t kneel.

Or perhaps she’ll bring my other daughter and granddaughters here. Make me watch as she kills them, as punishment for my betrayal.

Or maybe she’ll order Stannis to use the dragon to burn all of us alive, if he wants Shireen to live.

She laid back on the bed, once again ignoring decorum. As it’d been when she traveled incognito with Ser Rodrik to and from the capital, she had no concern for her dignity, nor her reputation.

Only for her children.  

Notes:

Sigh... that chapter was like passing a kidney stone. Er, a hard turd. (Don't want to jinx myself and end up with a kidney stone).

At risk of sounding all 'woe is me', I need to sort of vent about how hard it is tying a bunch of plot lines together even when I knew roughly how I would. The more content I've written to-date means more that I might accidentally contradict, or forget about. Finishing a plot-driven fic with several different plotlines feels like weaving a tapestry with really fragile thread. Posting a new chapter is scary because I'm afraid someone will notice the place where I used the blue thread instead of the green by accident, and when they point it out I'm going to take the entire thing and throw it in the fireplace, then stomp on the cinders, then cry over so hastily destroying my creation. Does that make sense?

(And if I feel this way over FPTF, what the hell does GRRM feel when writing WOW/ADOS?!)

Anyway, thanks for listening. Hope you enjoy this. I could say a lot about my thinking behind Daenerys' character arc in this and some of my head canon for her, but I'll leave you to form your own opinions.

Chapter 67: Let's dance

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Jaime

It wasn’t until her eyes opened and stayed open that Jaime realized there’d been more for him to fear than Sansa’s demise.

There was a slight delay before her mind regained its bearings after days spent in fevered sleep, but Jaime knew the moment it happened by the contempt that settled over her pale face. A pang of fear gripped him, to be the subject of such loathing.

He had no doubt that if she’d possessed a dagger in that moment, it would’ve been buried in his throat. Where there was a will there was a way, and the fury in her blue eyes told him that her will to kill him was stronger than his will to live.

“Are you hungry? Thirsty?” he’d asked weakly, while leaning halfway out of his vigil seat to reach for the cup and pitcher at her bedside.

She made no verbal response and he was too craven to look for a nonverbal one as he poured water with a hand that hadn’t trembled so badly since his first time fighting for life and limb rather than practice.

“You need to drink some water. We got as much into you as we could, but I’m sure you’re a bit dehydrated,” he had to glance up to hand her the cup, a fleeting moment that scorched his soul in the time it took him to snap his eyes away.

He pretended to find something on the night table interesting, all while her gaze never left his face; he could feel it on him like a tangible weight.

He chanced another glance and confirmed what didn’t need confirmation, all while his heart thudded so hard that it made his temples throb.

“It won’t be conceding if you take this cup of water,” he spoke with feigned nonchalance, though it felt like he’d be the one conceding if he retracted the cup after she refused to take it. He’d been unwittingly enlisted into a war of wills. While he had no doubt that she needed a victory more than he did, he’d always been a stubborn sort, so, still holding the cup out to her, he prepared his defense…

I didn’t know you’d be separated from your daughters.

I didn’t think Ser Jorah would hurt you. Not with a meat cleaver and not… however else he hurt you.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

None of it was supposed to be this way.

But even you must admit the price of Daenerys’ ascension was cheaper than it could have been: whatever blood came out of your two skinny fingers instead of the blood of ten thousand men.

It was war. The most civilized war ever fought. Not my fault that you lost.

Do you think you’d have been better off with him? You have a tender heart; how long before you regretted marrying a monster? Would you have been able to live with yourself the next time there was a war and he didn’t fight fair? I did you a favor.

I harbor you no ill will. Nor does Daenerys. I’m sorry you’ve suffered, but that wasn’t our intent.

I’m here to make it right. To protect you. To protect your daughters.

I got here days too late, but it wasn’t my fault.

None of this was my fault.

He cautiously brought his eyes back to her face. Nothing had changed. The gaze burned like a brand, forever marking him as something far worse than a kingslayer and oathbreaker.

He looked away.

He placed the cup on the table.

He stood up.

He rounded the bed and quit the room, and all the while he felt her eyes following him, saw in his peripheral vision her head turning to track her predator.

Yet after he softly pulled the door shut behind him, he let out a shuddering breath and realized that for the preceding minutes, he’d felt like wounded prey.

The lady’s awakening shrouded the house in tense silence.

Or perhaps it shrouded Jaime in silent tension.

There was no more casual conversation between Jaime and Bronze Fist. The youngest and seemingly most innocent of the Unsullied was surprisingly attuned to human emotion, considering it had probably been beaten out of him by the age of ten. His brown eyes darted about nervously, looking for signals to read on Jaime’s face, or Red’s, or Sansa’s. He found only three people who guarded their thoughts like the Maiden guards her virtue.

Red spoke little and showed even less, but that seemed to be normal for him. Sansa laid in bed, speaking not a word. Only venturing out to relieve herself; drinking water but leaving untouched most of the food they brought to her. Not enough to starve herself, but enough that Jaime worried about just how arduous a process her recovery would be if, even after days spent unconscious, she couldn’t summon an appetite.

Jaime hadn’t gone into her room again, understanding that his presence was unwanted and that she’d not be moved by any excuses or apologies or explanations he offered just now. She was mad as all hells, and mad people couldn’t see reason.

And he was mad, too. Mad that he hadn’t thought to ask Ser Jorah what he meant by a ‘few’ days. What was his definition of ‘few’? Three? Five? Seven?

And what the fuck would Jaime do if the knight never returned because he’d slipped Flea and Crawler and fled the city, or because someone came upon their party and killed them for the coins in Jorah’s purse or because they were Stark or Lannister loyalists or because they worked for Varys who may be Jaime’s enemy or Daenerys’ enemy or both or neither?!

About a hundred times since Sansa woke, Jaime had thought to go into her room and tell her to stop feeling sorry for herself because her daughters would be arriving soon. Except he imagined her asking the very logical, ‘how soon?’, to which Jaime would have nothing but a vague response of ‘a few days, and some of them have already passed’. She might ask him to define ‘few’. Or she might ask him how her young daughters would be traveling here, and he’d have to tell her that it was with Ser Jorah as escort. Ser Jorah. The man who chopped off her fingertips and possibly forced himself on her when in one of his apparently frequent drunken stupors. Had the man been such a lush when Jaime knew him before, in Meereen? Jaime didn’t think so, but perhaps such vices were hidden from the queen Jorah worshipped like a goddess.

So Jaime avoided conversation with her altogether. Avoided proximity to her, too, and yet could still feel that tangible press of her hatred even when he was separated from her by a flight of stairs. Bronze was their intermediary, always willing to answer Jaime’s questions and obey his commands. Bring the lady some food. Did the lady eat? Does she seem to be in pain? Did you change her bandages? Are the wounds healing? Red would help with the care and feeding but had little interest in updating Jaime. Perhaps the former dead-inside slave couldn’t comprehend that Jaime would care about Sansa. Perhaps he didn’t like having to talk in the common tongue.

Or perhaps he just didn’t like Jaime. Perhaps he was loyal to a new mistress. Perhaps…

Perhaps Jaime was going mad.

And then… a full night and day and night and day after she’d awoken, Ser Jorah returned… And he didn’t return happy.

It should’ve been a purely joyous occasion. Not for Jaime – though he’d certainly been looking forward to it – but for mother and daughters. And it was, in a sense, yet it was tainted by the state Jorah was in, and the knowledge that none of them would be putting their feet up anytime soon.

Jaime didn’t even have time to call up to tell Sansa that her daughters were here, which was a damned shame because, in hindsight, he realized he’d been hoping she’d thaw a bit toward him after realizing that he was responsible for the reunion.

An Unsullied soldier that Jaime vaguely recognized entered behind Ser Jorah carrying a small girl bundled up against the cold. Behind him was a woman Jaime instantly recognized, carrying a similar bundle. Flea and Crawler brought up the rear.

“Bar that door,” Jorah barked at Red, who had stepped aside to let the party enter mere moments earlier. Jorah proceeded to scan the room and didn’t even bother scowling at Jaime before he jerked his chin at Flea, “Check that the rear door is barred, and the hatchway from the cellar. The rest of you stay in this room.”

“Where. Is. My. LADY?!” the woman all but shouted in Jorah’s face as she let the little girl slide down her body to the floor. Poor thing gripped the woman’s hand fiercely while the other hand clutched the back of her skirts.

Jorah didn’t feed into her ire, instead glancing to Jaime as if deferring the answer to him.

The woman whipped around to face him, one hand keeping the little girl pressed to her thigh while the other girl, still held by the Unsullied, began whining, “Way! Way, what wong?”

“It’s alright, Jossy. Just stay with Mole,” the woman replied without taking her eyes off Jaime, “Where is she?”

Jaime swallowed, then began to point toward the stairs when from the same direction he heard, “RAY?! RAYNA?!”

“Mommy!” the girls cried out in perfect harmony. Then there were footsteps overhead, rapid but sloppy like a drunk’s.

By the time Sansa was at the foot of the stairs the girls had been released and crashed into her. She wore only a long-sleeved nightgown, and had collapsed on the hard floor on her knees. She began sobbing, choking on the air she tried to gulp in too quickly, mumbling her daughters’ names as she clutched both to her chest with her right arm, with the left providing extra support even as she carefully kept the hand far away from her girls’ excited bodies.

And the little girls were so happy to see their mother that they were crying, too. Babbling about things “Way” – or Rayna – had told them about why their mother wasn’t around as best their two-year-old mouths could express it.

“Leave them to their reunion,” Jorah spoke lowly to Jaime, “we have a problem.”

Jaime tore his eyes away from the happy scene to face the older knight, “If this is some stunt to get out of—”

“My lady! Your hand!”

Jaime’s head whipped to the girls’ nurse, following her movements as she hurried over toward her lady, stopping short only at the last moment as if afraid to intrude.

But Sansa only held open her left arm and Rayna, like her mistress before her, collapsed to her knees, hugging Sansa with two toddlers in between them.

Four female voices of various pitch but equally high volume overwhelmed Jaime’s senses. His eyes stayed on the foursome, narrowing when he noticed Rayna sitting back on her heels to gingerly inspect her mistress’ bandaged fingers with her own hands, one of which was bandaged around the palm.

Jaime slowly slid his eyes to Jorah, who let out a sigh through gritted teeth, “Wasn’t me. Will you listen?” he gripped Jaime’s right arm hard and steered him – or Jaime let himself be steered – closer toward the front wall where Red stood sentinel. Only when they were standing with but a foot between their noses, and the women a good twelve paces away but in their peripheral sight, did Jorah continue. “Listen to me… the nurse woke up three nights ago to the sound of the nursery door creaking open.”

Jaime swallowed, “Go on…”

“She’d been sleeping in there because Jeyne had had a nightmare earlier and—” Jorah shook his head, “doesn’t matter. Point is, three men came into the room. When they saw Rayna, they quickly told her they’d been sent by Arya Stark, that they were friends of House Stark and the girls.”

“Fuck,” Jaime groaned, thinking he’d led the men right to them, even if on a very indirect route.

Jorah shook his head almost imperceptibly, “The nurse is… a clever one. She asked who they were to be entrusted with such a mission. They gave names and said they were three of Lady Arya’s most trusted men. She asked them to prove it by telling her something anyone who’d lived in Winterfell would know: the name of the person who escorted Lord Rickon Stark north of the Wall.”

“What?” Jaime scrunched his face. Why the hell would anyone, let alone a young boy, go north of the Wall during winter? And what are the odds that I just dreamt of being north of the Wall a few days ago? Was it because I was searching for a Stark, a daughter of the winter kings? Or was it something else…

Jaime shook away the thought. He wasn’t a superstitious sort and wouldn’t pick up the habit now when his wits seemed more important than ever.

Jorah let out another sigh, “One of the three answered with too much delay that it was the blacksmith boy married to Lady Arya.”

“She married a…? Nevermind,” Jaime shook his head again.

“Doesn’t matter,” Jorah agreed, “Because Rickon Starj didn’t go to the Wall, his brother Bran did. The nurse knew the men must be lying about being from Winterfell and having been in loyal service to the Starks long enough to be trusted with such a mission. She screamed and threw herself at the men. Managed to grab one’s dagger off his belt and put herself between them and the cribs. One tried to disarm her, and she ended up with a slash to the palm, but Slug and Black Mole heard her scream and were there in a matter of seconds. Slug didn’t make it, but he helped Mole take them down.”

“Please tell me they kept one alive,” Jaime groaned.

Jorah shook his head, “Not a habit of theirs. Anyway, they found Bald Rat downstairs, slain. He’d been on watch that night.”

“And he opened the door to a pair of strangers?”

Jorah turned his head halfway toward the women then stopped, “Door was locked. They must’ve had another way in.”

A secret entrance… or exit… the type that Varys is so fond of using.

Jaime banished the thought, or rather set it aside for later inspection, and resisted the urge to rest his hand on his sword’s pommel. He’d only put on his sword belt upon hearing the gate open moments ago, but he was glad for it now; without the comfortingly familiar weight on his hips, he’d be panicking instead of focusing on what mattered. He lifted one shoulder and spoke with a calm tone, “Why not kill the guards in their beds? This whole thing sounds sloppy. Even if the nurse hadn’t been in the nursery the girls might’ve cried or yelled when the men tried to carry them away or… or worse.” Were they there to abduct them, or kill them? And either way, who was behind it?

“Aye,” Jorah spoke grimly, looking very much like the knight Jaime met in Meereen. He’d never been a happy man, nor even a content man, but Jaime realized he looked respectable enough when he had a mission. And when he is idle, he is as far from respectable as humanly possible. “…Made me think there was a way out of that room, but not a way in. Their plan was to get into the room, quietly open the secret door, grab the girls and disappear behind the wall. Or maybe they’d have covered the girls’ mouths so they couldn’t be heard screaming. It doesn’t fucking matter. All that matters is—”

“It does matter. It’s fucking sloppy. It’s… It was…” Jaime settled on the word he was looking for as a chill went through him, “rushed.”

Jorah’s brows came together, “You think somehow they figured out that I was on my way with two other men…”

“And decided to act before the three at the house became six.”

“And definitely before six became nine back here.”

Jaime slowly turned to face the women, realizing that while Jorah was telling the story, Rayna had been telling the same story to Sansa, as evidenced by the bandaged hand she held up, as if the women were newly minted soldiers showing off their battle wounds, though with much less bluster. He saw the former queen pull her old friend back into a tight hug, mumbling words that could only be gratitude even as tears streamed down her face.

Jaime shook his head for what felt like the dozenth time and faced Ser Jorah again, “You already have the guards locking down the house, but what if there are hidden tunnels here, too?

Jorah’s brown eyes peered around the room as he considered it, “We keep them together at all times so we don’t have to spread ourselves too thin. The women and girls, I mean – with at least three men guarding them at any given time, leaving four to cover the entrances in shifts. Though Mole needs to sleep first – he took a gash to the waist in the fight, and me and Crawler and Flea have barely slept a wink during the return trip, unsure whether there were more where the first three came from.”

Jaime nodded, “The four of you sleep now, during the day. Red, Bronze, and I will stay here with the women and wake you all at dusk. It’s doubtful anyone would try anything during the day, unless they have a secret way in, indeed.”

“We’ll all bunk together in one of the rooms so no man will be an easy target if they do.”

“Right. After sundown, we put two on the rear, two on the front, hour-long shifts so no one turns into an icicle.”

“There are only seven of us.”

Jaime gave a wide grin, “Well, one man will go two hours on, one off. I nominate whoever’s lived in the far north at some point, acclimated to the cold as such a man must be.”

Jorah rolled his eyes, making a dry snort that Jaime couldn’t quite place as either amused or mocking. The older knight moved his eyes to the foursome of women still huddled on the floor, the girls now telling Sansa how Rayna had taught them to make snowballs, and that they threw them at Mole and once he even threw them back.

Without shifting his gaze, Jorah leaned close, speaking in a whisper, “Don’t let them out of your sight, Kingslayer. The nurse has proved to be clever, and the lady…”

“The lady what?” Jaime snapped back, though kept his voice low. Ser Jorah would be paying for his actions, but until Jaime knew who and how many of the enemy remained, he needed to think of the Northerner as his ally. Still, that didn’t mean he had to be particularly pleasant to him, nor to listen to him bemoan the torture of having to live with Sansa Stark.

Jorah made another snort, this one most definitely mocking, “She acts innocent, but she’s not. She’s a bloody schemer, that one.”

Jaime clenched his jaw, “Perhaps, but you seem to forget she had every right to scheme against you. What were you thinking, keeping her from her daughters?” What were you thinking, going to her bedchamber?

Jorah lifted his chin, “I was thinking that my allegiance is to Daenerys, not to her.”

Jaime shook his head, “Just go to bed, man. We’ll sort it all out when you’re all rested and we’re sure someone’s not trying to kill us. Or someone will succeed in killing us, in which case we’ll be spared the trouble.”

Jorah nodded curtly, then, with a hand gesture, bid the three who’d be joining him in catching up on sleep to head upstairs. Mole, wincing as he pushed himself away from the wall, led the way, but was stopped at the bottom of the stairs by Sansa, who stood and beamed tearfully at the young man, “Kirimvose. Kirimvose for… protecting my daughters and my rakiros. Has your wound been—”

“Enough,” Jorah spoke harshly, “He needs sleep, not you fussing over him.”

Sansa Stark faced the knight and raised an eyebrow, seemingly holding back a few dozen unladylike words, “Perhaps he needs both, Ser.”

A low rumble preceded Ser Jorah’s next words, as if he could not speak to the girl without growling, “I’ll see to his wound. Enjoy your time with your daughters.”

“Because it won’t last?” Sansa asked, her blue eyes looking black against the ashen skin of her face. Jaime knew she needed rest, but how could he order her to sleep when she was making up for half a year of lost time with her children?

“Because it’s all you wanted,” Jorah spoke contemptuously, “and nothing good ever lasts.” The man said no more, all but pushing Mole up the stairs, with Crawler and Flea passing Sansa without making eye contact. Were they ashamed of their role in her maiming, or did they truly care so little for the woman, unlike Bronze?

Speaking of, Jaime beckoned the lad over, turning to do the same with Red who was still standing at the nearby door.

Realizing he no longer had the cover of the girls’ excited babbling, he decided to address the women, too. Their compliance would be necessary, after all. He wet his lips and took a breath, then looked between Red, Bronze, and Rayna as he spoke, “Look, until we know who was behind the thwarted abduction, or whatever it was, and whether there are more such men liable to try again, we’re all staying in the same room.”

He half expected Sansa to object, if for no other reason than that she didn’t like taking orders from him, but he dared to search her face for a reaction, only to find her leaning against the stairs’ railing, swaying.

His expression must’ve alarmed the nurse, for she turned and grabbed her lady’s arm, gasping in concern as she pressed a hand to Sansa’s forehead.

Jaime was already sprinting across the space when he saw her begin to topple, catching her around the waist and lifting what had become dead weight to carry her into the sitting room. He barked out orders for Red to tend the fire and for Bronze to brew some of the feverfew tea while he laid the lady out on one of the sofas. The girls began crying, asking what was wrong with their mama, as he checked Sansa’s forehead with the back of his hand. She felt warm, but not nearly so warm as she’d been at the height of her fever, and he wondered if it wasn’t exhaustion that made her collapse. Certainly, the journey down the stairs and excitement of her reunion were more than her healing body could handle. He stuffed a pillow under her head and wiped sweaty hair back from her cheek, “Rest, Sansa,” he whispered, “Your girls will still be here when you get better – whether that be in an hour or a fortnight. You’ll not be parted from them ever again. I swear it.”

Her eyelids flinched, as if she’d heard him, even though she was out cold. Strange… Had she come to so quickly, or—

A hot flush spread across his skin as he rose, spun, and drew all at the same time, and a half-heartbeat later heard his favorite sound in the world: steel kissing steel.

Red’s eyes were wide in a sort of awe, no doubt marveling at how Jaime had anticipated his silent attack. For a moment neither man was even pushing, just crossing swords and meeting eyes, as they each faced inconvenient realizations. For Red, that he wouldn’t be able to stab the kingslayer in the back with his shortsword. For Jaime, that at least one man in his house was not on his side.

It felt like forever, but must’ve only been a moment before something crashed into Jaime’s back, propelling him forward into his opponent.

But such was not uncommon on a battlefield, one-on-one fights spilling into other one-on-one fights, so Jaime knew what to do. As it became clear that his trajectory was down, he had to take the other man down with him, and ideally not land on his back in the process. It wasn’t perfectly executed, but it had happened quickly enough, and Jaime had enough of a weight and strength advantage, that Red could do little to stop Jaime from hitting the ground and rolling them immediately until Jaime was on top, his sword pressing down on Red’s, inching ever closer to his neck and—

“Agh!” Jaime cried out, dazed, when he felt something hit the back of his head and shatter, by the sound of it.

“RAY! Get them to the cellar!” was shouted close to him, and he had to momentarily bring his left hand away from his sword to reach blindly for his goodmother, only to feel something sharp but not steel-sharp swipe against the probing hand, earning another grunt from him.

Knowing he had to abandon his position before Sansa Stark grew the stones to slice his neck open from behind, he gave a shove down against Red’s sword then leapt up and off, pivoting to half-face the place he thought Sansa was, but what the lithe Unsullied lacked in brute strength he made up for in agility, throwing his feet into the air and bringing them down to the floor at the same moment his upper body came up, such that he was standing, shortsword still in hand, without having gone from lying to sitting to kneeling first.

Jaime grinned at the man and the redhead who moved behind him, who still looked so pale and sickly that he knew it was only stubborn anger that kept her from falling over.

Spinning the sword in his right hand and not bothering to check on his left, Jaime nodded his chin at the white-haired guard just as all ears in the room heard the sound of heavy footsteps above them.

Jaime was about to say something cocky when he realized the man’s grin was now matching his own.

“He should never have hurt her,” the man spoke in perfect common tongue, in an accent that Jaime would know for the rest of his life, “They’d have followed him to the grave, worthless sack of shit that he is, if not that he made them monsters again.”

“Who are you?” Jaime asked, and let his eyes flick to Sansa, who looked almost as surprised as he felt, though perhaps it was fear he saw in her eyes, as the sounds above them had become the sounds of a fight in close quarters.

The man’s mouth twitched, “I suppose the kingslayer-slayer doesn’t quite roll off the tongue. Ah well, I’ll think of something.” He twirled his shortsword with practiced grace, and Jaime knew this would not be his usual quick victory. Yes, he had the reach advantage, not only due to his height but because the sword he’d brought to Braavos, the one he wielded now, was a longsword. But fighting in a sitting room, no matter how spacious, turned his longer reach into a disadvantage. He’d not be able to make full-powered, wide-arced swings without hitting walls or furniture that would block or slow his strikes, dull the blade, or perhaps even snag it.

Knowing damned well he may be tossing the weapon down in lieu of his dagger very soon, he matched the man’s confident gleam, “Better men than you have tried.”

“Enough talk, kingslayer. Let’s dance.”

Jaime assumed his stance, taking quick measure of the space between him and his opponent, taking inventory of the obstacles in the room that could be used in his favor if he didn’t trip over them first, all in the span of a few heartbeats.

“Go down to the cellar, Sansa,” the man said without looking to the lady, his tone measured but familiar, even soft.

“Yes, Sansa,” Jaime agreed mockingly, “You won’t want to see your friend’s guts staining the rugs.”

Before he could see whether she obeyed either of them, Jaime heard a crashing of bodies above them, louder this time as if the men were right at the top of the stairs.

Then he was sure of it, as one of them tumbled down the stairs, and Sansa cried out, which Jaime didn’t have time to analyze because his opponent lunged. Jaime barely got his sword in position to cross the other in time. Closer than they’d ever been while looking at each other face-to-face, Jaime knew what had bothered him about the man’s appearance. Like the reflection of Lord Crakehall’s crooked nose, Jaime realized he was looking at a familiar face but with an out-of-place beak. The brows, the cheekbones, the forehead, the eyes… All at once they were so familiar that he marveled at not recognizing back on the ship.

“Dayne,” he grunted.

Purple eyes widened for a moment, then sparkled with delight, and it was the last of the amusement that would pass between the men. There would be no more gloating, no more banter, just male violence in its purest form.

Now it begins.

For the first time since he was killing sellswords in the fighting pit of Meereen, Jaime Lannister felt alive.

 

Sansa

She watched as if removed from the violence by an invisible screen that separated the living from their phantom observers, a mummer’s play to entertain those who’d never experience anything tangible, physical, ever again. Her body and head were light, her worries conspicuously absent, as she watched Red and Ser Jaime square off. She felt no pulsing pain in her fingertips, nor the sweat that was surely dripping down her back and chest, nor the dryness of her lips, nor the nervousness that ought to be gnawing on her resolve.

“I spoke to the Unsullied while you slept, while Ser Jorah was busy getting pickled with his whores. If it comes to a fight, they will fight on your side, not his,” Red had assured her in a whisper after her fever had broken. At the time she’d been dazed and disoriented, uncertain why Red was sitting at her bedside during broad daylight, holding and kissing her right hand. A glimpse to her left had caught her up, and she looked at the severed fingers and smiled. If this was the price to have four men on my side instead of one, then it was a bargain.

“But there’s been a… complication,” Red continued, and she turned to face him, “The kingslayer is here—”

If her throat hadn’t been hoarse and parched from her days abed with fever, every occupant of the house would’ve heard her shouting, “WHAT!?” As it was, it came out like a feeble cough, but Red understood.

“It can mean nothing good. He has sent Ser Jorah, along with Crawler and Flea, to bring your daughters here,” Red held up a hand to thwart her interruption, “I fear he means to bring one or both to Westeros. He said he was here to check up on Ser Jorah due to the queen’s concerns, but do you think she’d send her favorite man all the way from King’s Landing, when any of the contacts Ser Jorah meets with could do the job?”

Sansa shook her head.

“Mormont will likely bring with him one or more of the guards from wherever they’re holding your daughters. That means it’ll be three on four, with the three including two of the best swordsmen in the realm. We’ll need to strike as soon as the lion and bear are separated.”

She’d known today the moment was coming as soon as she came downstairs and recovered from the shock of holding her daughters and Rayna. Mole was hurt, and he and Ser Jorah were both operating on little sleep, she’d heard the knight admit to Ser Jaime. Then again, Crawler and Flea were also sleep-deprived, but she figured she only needed them to hold off Mole and Ser Jorah until Red and Bronze could join them, turn two-on-two into four-on-two. In rising from her crouch, where she’d been holding her girls tightly to her, safe between two women who loved them and would die for them, she felt so lightheaded that she nearly fainted, which gave her an idea. If Ser Jaime was thoroughly distracted, there’d be no need for Red and Bronze to fight him, nor risk a sneak attack the seasoned knight was likely primed for, touchy as he was after hearing of the attempt to abduct his half-sisters.

And they’d been so close. Even with her eyes closed, she had a sense of what happened while she lied on the sofa, focused on keeping all her muscles lax.

She hardly had time to wonder why Ser Jaime would lie about letting her and her daughters stay together, except perhaps he feared she was falling into sickness again and wanted to give her a motive to fight the strangely alluring pull of fever sleep. If nothing else, she knew he didn’t want her dead, for Red said the knight barely slept until he knew she was well. How kind of him to be so concerned for the queen’s prize hostage. If only he’d been struck by a similar bout of basic decency just before he pushed Bran off the window ledge, or all those times he cuckolded his king, or when he betrayed his father and condemned his own half-sisters to a lifetime as collateral.

Rage was building in her once again after her attempts to injure the knight had barely seemed to faze him. It was the same rage she’d felt upon waking to see the kingslayer’s chiseled face when some unconscious part of her expected to be in the afterlife, with Tywin there to greet her. The rage made her muscles clench and cramp, and she considered flinging herself at the knight, gambling that he’d not raise his sword against her and that she’d be able to divert his sword arm while Red moved in for a killing strike. She had almost convinced herself it would be worth the risk when she realized that Ser Jaime would just use her as a shield; hold his sword against her throat until Red threw his down. A half a moment later it was a moot point; she heard something crashing down the stairs, and looked through the wide doorway into the foyer to find it was Flea’s body.

The sight made her want to cry, to scream, not just for the loss of a man who’d been stripped of his humanity only to have recently begun to rebuild it, but for what it meant about her likelihood of losing this battle. It wouldn’t mean losing her life, but Red’s, Bronze’s, Crawler’s. Maybe Rayna’s.

And it would mean losing whatever minor freedoms she enjoyed. She’d be a true prisoner, then. Her daughters would be taken far away. Her captors wouldn’t try to encourage her good behavior, her compliance, because they wouldn’t need it. She’d be in chains, perhaps with her tongue removed, perhaps drugged daily.

If they lost this day, she would lose everything.

She watched Red and Jaime, engaged in a clash of swords, oblivious to her. She saw a figure come down the stairs in her periphery and knew by the gait that it was Jorah.

The strange feeling washed over her, same as it had when she called Ser Jorah’s bluff with the cleaver, only to learn he hadn’t been bluffing.

He looked at her when he stepped up to the doorway, leaning to one side as if to be ginger with his ribs. His black eyes roved her, must’ve deemed her to be no threat, feeble and unarmed as she was, because when he heard a grunt that was definitely not Red’s, Ser Jorah snapped his attention to the dueling men. From the threshold of the room he was several paces away from where the fighting had brought the pair, and as soon as Sansa saw his body weight shift, her feet decided to move.

She never understood the tales of battlefield heroics she’d heard over the years, of some random soldier who earned his knighthood by leading his regimen to victory even after taking some grievous injury. As a sensitive and delicate child, she couldn’t fathom an arrow wound to any part of the body would be something a man could fight through, much less two or three arrow wounds, or a couple arrow wounds plus a gash to the forehead or arm or leg. Perhaps because she’d never liked to think about suffering, she had a rather juvenile image of a battlefield that was comprised of men yielding the moment they took injury, and their enemy letting them do it. For most of her life prior to moving to King’s Landing, she’d vaguely assumed that the side that won a battle was the side that had more men standing at the end, as if someone would pause the combat to take a headcount. They’d declare this side or that side the victor, and all those yielded men would stand up and walk in an orderly fashion to some tent where they’d be made to swear allegiance to their recent enemy. The older she got, the more unlikely she knew it to be, yet she still had no confidence that those tales of glory told during feasts at Winterfell were anything but gross exaggerations. How could men experience such blood loss and trauma to their bodies and keep fighting?!

In the span of a heartbeat, while knowing her feet were moving but not feeling the motion, she understood. Because it had been little more than a sennight since she had two fingertips quite crudely amputated, and barely three days since she woke up and could keep her eyes open for more than a few minutes, and barely an hour since she had risen from bed for longer than the time needed to use the chamberpot or wash the sweat off her armpits before collapsing back into bed, exhausted and soon to be asleep again.

She should not be awake, much less standing upright, much less throwing herself into Ser Jorah’s path before he could reach Red’s back with his sword. There was no technique and even less grace to her move, she just used her own mass as a projectile, but it worked in deflecting the burly knight toward a table, sending a candelabra crashing to the floor. That the candlesticks had been unlit seemed both a boon and a curse.

He didn’t fall though, and heavy as he was, their collision had her bouncing off him and backwards, twisting to the left.

Her body’s instinct could not be resisted, and she reached to break her fall with her injured hand, letting out an agonized scream that ended abruptly as the pain knocked the wind out of her, leaving her sounding like a dog heaving before it coughs up a bone. She was paralyzed by pain and lack of breath but aware enough of Ser Jorah regaining his footing, only to take another step toward the dueling men and losing it promptly as his right foot landed on a candlestick that rolled out from under him, his arms flailing and his sword waving around wildling for a suspended moment before he landed on his right hip, his back to Sansa. It was just the delay she needed for an inhalation to finally make it down into her lungs. She got to her knees then dove for the metal candelabra, and didn’t think before raising it high over her head and bringing it down on Jorah’s skull with all her might. He grunted in pain and rolled toward her. In her haste to back away from his clumsy advance she didn’t immediately think to get to her feet, only doing so when she saw him pushing up from his knees.

He stood unsteadily, his sword once again gripped in his right hand while his left was cradling the back of his head. When the hand came away with bloodied fingertips, the knight looked down at the red substance, then up at her, his face a collage of every hateful feeling in the world. She felt frozen as she’d been when Red and Jaime first began swinging their swords, but only until the men’s fight spilled into Ser Jorah’s space. Ser Jaime was backing Red up with an onslaught of strikes until Red’s back hit Jorah’s back hard, sending the knight careening forward toward Sansa. Her feet again unsticking themselves of their own volition, Sansa shrieked as she threw herself backward, the point of Jorah’s sword narrowly missing her hands held out defensively. Realizing she was only putting part of herself in easier reach of the man’s weapon, she crossed her forearms over her chest and kept jumping back, eyes squeezed shut as fear overwhelmed her fool’s courage. Back, back, back, she kept leaping, and with each footfall she felt a breeze on her face that she knew was the air being disturbed by Ser Jorah’s sword.

He means to kill me.

The realization hardly had time to settle when her back hit something solid and in the same moment she felt as if her cheek had been whipped. Opening her eyes in shock, she saw the emotion reflected in Ser Jorah’s countenance. He was staring at her cheek, wide-eyed, and she realized it had been the tip of his sword that she’d felt. She dared not bring a hand to her face, terrified she’d find no shallow scrape but a gaping wound. She just stared into the black-brown eyes of the man she loathed more than any other, though for reasons she’d be unable to put in words. She stared at him and knew it was over. She was backed up to a wall and utterly defenseless. The sounds of the other men’s struggle became distant, and yet she knew it would be Red who fell, and Jaime who prevailed, because why should she expect otherwise? There were undoubtedly other women, other people, who had it worse than her, and yet she doubted any had been toyed with by the gods so repeatedly… the gods who were forever dangling some illusion of peace and happiness and safety in front of her, only to snatch it back whenever she thought it was within her reach.

The sob that escaped her was half amusement, half surrender.

A grunt reached her ears from the far side of the room. She knew it was Red’s. Had heard a similar but much quieter version in her ear more than a few times now, albeit in a very different context.

“Do it,” she spat at Jorah, knowing she had but one chance, and that, even if successful, it would likely only delay her demise unless Ser Jaime chose her over his comrade. Whether to swing or jab, Jorah would need to wind back the sword, and it would give her a blink of an opening to throw herself against him, sink her nails or teeth into his face, or knee him in the belly or stones. She’d try anything and everything.

And it would fail, because he was too much stronger than her, not to mention trained in fighting, but she would go down fighting, like a wolf ought. Will you be proud of me Arya, when you hear of this? Will you and Mother find comfort in knowing how I ended?

She almost felt proud of herself for a moment, before realizing the truth would never reach their ears. Ser Jorah and Ser Jaime would disguise her death as an illness or suicide, have her body burned like all the plague victims’ corpses were.

All to protect Daenerys Targaryen.

No… all to protect her reign. How much more blood will the throne demand before everyone sees it for the parasite it is?

Valar morghulis. All men must die, but the throne never dies.

Valar dohaeris. All men must serve, but who does the throne serve?

Not the people, who are only poorer for the tributes the throne demands.

Not the ones who sit in it either. It steals from them perhaps most of all; steals their sanity, their health, their humility, their life.

“Do it!” she shouted at Jorah, her voice breaking, “End it, so you can go running back to her! End it, because I want you to be there, to see when it sucks the life from her like a leech!” she growled, “I want you to see what it does, and know that ALL of this was for NOTHING!”

His chest rose and fell, huffing as it had when he held the cleaver over his shoulder, his eyes almost inhuman – alive but with no compassion to be found in them. He drew back his sword, but at the last minute his eyes darted to the right of her, and he pivoted and brought the sword up, barely missing her again, to deflect a spear that had been on a trajectory to impale him. The spear circled the sword and came down for another strike that was blocked, the clacking sound so loud it jolted Sansa out of her mind. Her eyes took in the sight of Bronze, standing just in front and to her right, his spear crossed with Jorah’s sword, grunting as he pushed with his inferior weight, trying to gain ground.

It looked like an impasse, but she couldn’t imagine why Bronze wouldn’t use all the fancy moves she’d seen the Unsullied practice in the back yard, except perhaps that such moves required a fairly wide perimeter around the spearman, free of anyone or anything the man didn’t want sliced open with the razor-sharp end of the spear. Like me.

But Bronze would never win a battle of brute strength against Ser Jorah, nor one of stubborn will to live.

She heard the young Unsullied say something in Valyrian, but Jorah made no response. Had Bronze tried to reason with him? Was it possible that Bronze couldn’t bring himself to hurt Jorah? Did he still feel beholden to Jorah due to his loyalty to Daenerys? Was his timely intervention on Sansa’s behalf yet another lure of false hope? Were the gods laughing to know that she still hadn’t learned?

Ser Jorah muttered something back, his voice pained and tired but the strength of his arms not yet failing. Sansa heard Red still engaging the kingslayer, but couldn’t peel her eyes away from the more immediate duel – if it could be called that.

Bronze spoke again. Then Jorah. Then Bronze. By tone, Sansa could tell it was a disagreement. But if Bronze thought he could use words to convince the knight to surrender, he was even more naïve than she was.

Her eyes drifted to settle on Bronze’s low back, the place where he and Red liked to keep their daggers, while Crawler and Flea preferred them on the hip. Her right hand reached for it. Closed around the handle. Pulled up. With Bronze’s body blocking what she was doing, Ser Jorah never saw it coming. Her feet stepped around the young guard and she drove the blade forward and up.

She was surprised how easily it went in, and how unashamed she felt at the grunt Ser Jorah let out. There was a cry at nearly the same time, but she could not look to see if Red had fallen. She didn’t want to know, couldn’t let it distract her.

Still holding his sword up against Bronze’s spear, Ser Jorah looked at her, confused and betrayed and blinking repeatedly.

When Sansa looked down to inspect the damage, she saw the short blade buried in his upper belly, her hand still clasped around its handle. Her hand that had heretofore never done anything more violent than slap a man on the cheek. The appendage did not seem to be her own, but some traitorous thing, some evil five-legged creature.

“I’m… sorry…” she breathed, uncertain whether she meant it, only knowing that she should.

Her eyes traveled up to his face again, and as soon as they did Ser Jorah seemed to rid himself of his shock. Several things seemed to happen at once. His sword circled then smacked away Bronze’s spear; his left hand clamped around her right, keeping it painfully tight around the dagger handle; he vaulted himself backward, bringing her with him as she tripped over her feet and skirts. It seemed they spun in a full circle before she was slammed into a wall, her hand still wrapped around the handle because his wouldn’t release it. She vaguely recalled hearing that stab wounds would bleed more profusely after the offending object was removed but had no time to strategize a solution to her predicament before she was spinning again until her back was to Bronze, Ser Jorah pivoting to keep her always between him and the spearman. She balled her left fist and swung at Ser Jorah, but the blow did more harm to her hand than the side of his thick neck. The pain pulsed into her fingers again and she wanted to cry, wanted to collapse, wanted to vomit, wanted to scream for her mother or beg for Jorah’s mercy. She felt and heard Bronze moving behind her, darting side to side in hopes of finding an opening, but Jorah kept pivoting her, even if she tried to lean her weight left when he yanked her right, it only made him exert himself more but didn’t stop him from moving her this way and that as his living shield.

“I should’ve killed you a long time ago,” he said at one point, in a resigned, airy sort of voice that another man might use when replacing the word ‘killed’ with ‘kissed’.

The feeling was mutual, and nothing felt more insulting than the idea that only he would get what he’d wanted for so long.

An instinctive, half-animal part of her finally knew what to do. He wouldn’t let her pull her hand away, but perhaps…

She hopped up and forward, and for a moment the only thing supporting her weight was the hand attached to the blade in his belly. As she’d hoped, her weight pushed the blade down, she could feel the tearing of his skin vibrating through the steel as it sunk from just below his ribs down to about his navel, and the man screamed shrilly in pain before gritting his teeth and spitting, “Cunt” at her face.

“I told you that I would be your end,” she answered, more defending than gloating.

He coughed twice, then stretched his lips in a wide, red smile, “And I said it would be the last day you live.”

“And I said perhaps I wouldn’t care.”

A breathy snort came through his nose, splattering blood from his lips, “And I said valar morghulis. It means—”

“All men must die,” she smiled widely as his own flattened.

“It would seem we were both right,” he spoke in a quiet, stunted voice. She realized he wasn’t breathing – it would seem filling his chest and belly with air would be too painful. Would he bleed to death before his lungs overruled their master? Or would he black out from lack of air, then die a gentle death?  

“Jorah,” a panting, pain-filled voice called from behind her, and she remembered that she wasn’t alone, that the end of Ser Jorah didn’t mean the end of her nightmare.

Jorah’s sword clattered to the ground.

“Don’t!” the voice shouted. She recognized it as Ser Jaime at the same moment her hand, still wrapped around the dagger, was pushed away from Jorah’s body. With a battle cry, Jorah used both hands to drive the dagger up toward her face, her elbow bending even as she tried to resist. She threw her head back and to the right so hard she felt something pop in her neck, but she managed to evade fatal injury, if only just, before Jorah tried again to make her stab herself.

But it never happened. There was a gruesome cry and a heartbeat later Jorah’s hands landed on the floor, leaving her holding the dagger, blinking at it, trembling from head to toe.

Had she been trembling this entire time?

How had she managed to defend herself if she’d been such a shaking mess?

And why was she holding a dagger?

And why was there a pair of hands on the floor, one with a section of arm attached to it?

And who was holding her, turning her, pushing her away?

And why was Red slouched down against the wall, his eyes open but not looking at her, a trail of blood leaking from his pretty mouth?

She fell to her knees; crawled one-handed to Red’s body. He didn’t look quite so handsome anymore, but rather like he did before she knew he was a Westerosi. His features too sharp, his nose too hooked, and yet she felt more fondness for him than ever. Whatever selfish intentions he might’ve had, he’d never act on them now. Now all he was to her was all he had been thus far: hope; comfort; escape. For that alone, Sansa of yesteryear would’ve cried for him. Sobbed into his shirt, begged him to come back.

Sansa of today knew more of loss than any other subject, so tears never did well in her eyes for the man who had died for her, even if she felt the accompanying grief.

“I’m sorry,” she said, kissing it into his too-cold forehead and giving his eyes one last look before sliding each one closed with her thumb.

She leaned back on her heels then clambered to her feet only to have to brace her right hand against the wall as the room around her started going dim… had someone smothered the fire? No… because something was roaring in her ears. Or was it the ocean? Is that why her stomach was churning?

And who was crying? Was that one voice, or two?

She pushed away from the wall, turning her head to follow the source of the crying, only the light faded even more rapidly, until there was nothing to see.

Notes:

RIP Crawler, Flea, Jorah, and Red. Yes, I'm including Jorah. He was the only character in this fic other than the obvious like Gregor that I chose to write as pretty despicable, without many redeeming traits, though I do tend to think of Jorah as someone who, even when you're mad at him, he's almost too pathetic to hate. It's like, dude, you could've had it all. Sure, Bear Island ain't Highgarden, but he was born a lord and basically threw it all away to spoil his southern bride who he was old enough to realize was NOT gonna fit in at Bear Island AT ALL. And this was his 2nd wife, one he married when he was like, 28, 30? Meaning old enough to know better. Anyway. He then decides to murder a 13-YO princess in order to buy his way back to Winterfell but instead ends up serving her because he's in love with her. He now a 40-something year old man and she arguably a victim of marital rape, definitely a victim of statutory rape, and definitely a victim of her brother's blind ambition and cruelty. And I know that Dany wasn't a victim for long. By GRRM's bullshit timeline I think she went from being sold to Drogo to getting her free Unsullied army within a year, so I'm not gonna ignore the context that Dany was far worldlier and with more agency than, say, Sansa at age 12-13 when Baelish starts mackin' on her... Alright, that was a digression. My point is, despite Jorah being one of the few people in this fic that I purposely wrote more on the "bad guy" side of the spectrum, I hope I achieved enough nuance to make him interesting and thought-provoking.

As for Red's identity... Well I think one or maybe two readers guessed it was Darkstar, and you were right. I just see his character in canon as being a guy with lofty aspirations and a willingness to use people for his own ends but not a sadist like Ramsay, and not a certifiable psychopath like Cersei. With the Great Lion on the throne, and also because it was stupid AF, the whole "Arianne tries to make Myrcella the queen" plotline didn't happen in my fic. Bored at High Hermitage and getting fed up with Arianne dismissing his advances, Gerold Dayne thought to make a name for himself in Essos, traveling there and falling in with Quentyn's party by infiltrating the Unsullied. He doesn't want to be a guest kept at arm's length but get himself in a position to distinguish himself to Daenerys, or maybe to capture her and sell her to the highest bidder, someone like Tywin Lannister, who knows? But when he gets asked to return to Essos with the Jorah party, it's another queen he finds himself in the position to befriend. I can't tell you what his ultimate plan was because he doesn't even know beyond this: whatever is of greatest benefit to him. Do I think he would've outright betrayed Sansa? Probably not, unless for a reason so sure and so compelling that he couldn't resist. At minimum, let's assume he saw himself being Lord Consort to the Wardeness of the North. At maximum, Prince Consort to the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Gerold Dayne is cunning, but I think not smart the way Baelish and Tywin and others are in that they are *typically* able to evaluate their plans objectively. Gerold I see as the type who, if he wants something badly enough, will convince himself it's achievable and has just enough cunning (and balls) to make a decent attempt at it. He's another gray spectrum character in my fic who, like Varys, we'll never know all he has done or planned to do. Oh, and he has been shaving off that strip of black hair since leaving Westeros in search of Quentyn. Sansa does describe him as sweeping his hair to one side, so basically his side-part hides the missing patch of hair where there is black stubble.

Final note: writing action/fight scenes is hard. Why do I make myself do this?