A/N: Holy shit guys, ya know what this is? My THIRD DAILY UPDATE! Which if you knew me at all and knew what lazy piece of shit I am, it would be super impressive. Hope you enjoy!

Chapter 5

The king and his traveling companions had only made a few more miles of progress since Patrick's men had left them, and they caught back up easily. It was on entering the camp that they encountered one of Patrick's favorite people in Westeros: Tyrion Lannister, the Imp. Tyrion was bent over a thick tome, a tankard of wine in his hand, and glanced up suddenly at their approach. The sardonic grin that was one of his many trademarks spread over his face when he saw the approaching group.

"Well, what do we have here?" he snarked. "Some more lonely hedge knights come to join my brother-in-law's army?"

Patrick smiled in return, reaching into his saddlebag. "I'm afraid we are no knights, my lord of Lannister, and as for what we've come for, we come to bring your wonderful brother this," he said, tossing the severed head of one of the bandits at the Imp's feet.

The dwarf's eyes widened momentarily, before his usual look of disinterest reasserted itself. "How impressive," he said. "Sixteen men to bring my brother one head."

Patrick maintained his smile. "Sixteen men to kill twenty, and bring one head to throw at your pretty brother and hopefully wipe that smile off of his face," he responded.

Tyrion's face instantly clouded over. "I am many things, ser, but disloyal to my family is not one of them. I may be small of stature, but insult my family again and you will taste the full height of my displeasure."

Patrick continued to smile, stooping to Tyrion's height to retrieve the head. "As you say, my lord," he said laconically, then turned and walked away in search of the Kingslayer.

- 3 weeks later -

Events were moving apace. The first load of cartridges for Patrick's firearms had arrived at Winterfell at the same time he did, two weeks previously. With all the hubbub, he had just now garnered a chance to go and ensure all was in working order. The king had gone hunting, and he knew that soon Bran would fall from the tower to become a cripple. While he knew it was necessary for events to shape up as he would have them, his remaining twenty-first century sensibilities would not allow him to be around while a child was seriously injured. So instead he removed himself.

He had ridden far enough from any castle or settlement, alone, that the gunshots would go unnoticed. Targets sat at various ranges, one at ten meters, one at twenty, another at fifty and the last at one hundred meters. The first two he would be shooting at with his revolver, while the others would be reserved for rifle fire. In a smooth motion, remembered from doing the same at a firing range thousands of times in his last life, he brought his revolver up in a Weaver stance, both hands wrapped around the grip, side-on, cocked back the hammer, sighted, and fired.

The first bullet went just wide of the target, so he frowned and fired again, ensuring his aim was dead on. It was, but the bullet this time struck the outer ring of the target. He reached down for his tools, making adjustments to the sights before firing again. Closer this time. A few more adjustments, and he put a full cylinder, six rounds, into the bullseye of the ten meter target. Reloading and switching targets, he quickly replicated the feat at twenty meters.

Returning the revolver to its holster at his belt, he next drew the lever-action repeater from a special sheath on Baelor. He started at the twenty meter target to make sure the sights were adjusted. A few minutes later, he was consistently hitting the bullseye, so he walked his fire out to the fifty meter, then the hundred, only stopping when he could put all of the repeater's fourteen rounds through each target's bullseye.

Finally, he reached into a small, padded case attached to Baelor's saddle, withdrawing what looked like a small telescope. He hooked it to a pair of mounting points canted to the side of the repeater, then stared down it. A brass tube, with two pieces of Myrish lenses mounted at either end, it was Westeros' first scope for its first rifle. He repeated the process of sighting in with the scope. His work for the day finished, and most of his first shipment of ammunition exhausted, he finally glanced around and realized how dark it had become. Loading his gear, and secreting his firearms among his other gear, he turned and rode back to Winterfell.

- 2 weeks later -

Patrick prepared to ride out of Winterfell for King's Landing, with the royal party from the start this time. Upon Ned's acceptance of the position of Hand of the King, Robert had seen fit to assign Patrick and his men to be the Hand's guard, to augment his personal guards. This fit perfectly with the lordling's plans, allowing his men to keep the Stark's safe while also allowing them the autonomy to do what needed to be done in the capital.

It only took a few more days of travel before Patrick emerged from his tent in the middle of the night to relieve himself, just in time to nearly run into an unarmored Lannister guardsman at the flap of his tent.

"Lord Worrel," the guardsman said, sketching a short bow. "The Queen asks you to please follow me to meet with her."

"At this hour?" Patrick questioned.

"Aye, my lord. She requested you come as soon as you are able," the guard replied.

Patrick nodded his acquiescence, gesturing for the guard to lead the way. Scant moments later, they stood in front of the Queen's tent, and the guard gestured for the lordling to precede him into the tent. Patrick stepped inside, almost instantly dropping to one knee. "Your Grace, to what do I owe the honor?" he asked.

Cersei Lannister flapped a hand at the Northern warrior. "Rise, rise," she said. "I would ask something of you, Northman."

"What would you have of me, your Grace?" he asked.

"I want you to spy on Ned Stark for me," she said, as bluntly as could be.

"Your Grace…" he began, but she cut him off.

"Will you do it or not?" she snapped. "I am a busy woman, and I don't have time for hemming and hawing."

Patrick smiled inwardly. He had hoped something like this would happen. Acting as a spy for Cersei would allow him to partially control what information she received, as well as hopefully garnering information on her own plans. His answer came eventually to him, but quickly to her. "As you will, your Grace," he intoned.

She nodded at the guardsman behind him, who rested a hand on his shoulder, prompting him to turn and walk back out of the tent. Outside, he nodded at the guardsman before turning and walking back to his own tent to get some sleep.

- The next day -

The following day was one that Patrick had known was coming, and he realized it had come quickly. Arya Stark slipped out of camp with the butcher's boy, Micah, early in the morning. Not long after, Joffrey and Sansa rode out to spend some time together. Patrick slipped out after them, following them at enough distance that they wouldn't notice his presence without looking for him. Finally, he came to the site of the first confrontation between Lannister and Stark.

He watched as Arya and Micah went back and forth with sticks, whacking at each other with wild abandon. He watched as Joffrey dismounted, swaggering towards the two going at it. He swung off of his horse, advancing quietly, hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword. Joffrey was posturing challenging the butcher's boy to attack him, when Patrick stepped out of cover and between the two.

Joffrey's face contorted in equal parts confusion and anger. "What are you doing here, Northman?" he snarled.

"Simply wandering the countryside, your Grace," Patrick responded calmly.

"Then wander on, savage," the boy spat.

"I would, your Grace, but it seems as if you could use some assistance. After all, who knows what this strapping young butcher could do to a delicate southron flower such as yourself," he mocked.

The prince's face contorted in rage, turning towards Patrick and focusing solely on him, just as the lordling had hoped. Joffrey's sword cleared it's sheath, and he rushed the older, stronger, more experienced man. The first blow Patrick dodged by stepping aside, the second with a slight sway, and the third with a short hop. Finally, he grew tired of the dance and stepped into the next blow, knocking the sword aside with his bracer. Joffrey fell off balance, and Patrick gave him a shove, grabbing the sword with a mailed hand as the boy fell backwards and disarming him.

Ignoring the fallen royal, Patrick instead turned his attention towards the sword in his hand. It was fine blade, castle-forged steel inlaid with gold. With a small grin on his face he turned and flung it, end-over-end, into the Trident, much as Arya had in the original timeline. This time, however, there would be no loss of life.