So, as it turns out, writer's burn out is a very real thing. Sorry this took so long to get out, especially since I don't think it is a particularly good chapter. Still, I should be back on schedule soon, I just need to give my brain some rest after taking on so many projects at once. I'm working one a One Piece fic that is turning out way longer than initially intended and two commissions.

Timeline

283 AC/4E 187: Robb Stark is born; (two months later) "Jon Snow" is born.

286 AC/4E 190: Sansa Stark is born; RS-3, "JS"-3.

289 AC/4E 193: Arya Stark is born; Theon Greyjoy (10) arrives at Winterfell; RS-6, "JS"-6, SS-3.

290 AC/4E 194: Bran Stark is born; TG-11, RS-7, "JS"-7, SS-4, AS-1.

295 AC/4E 199: Rickon Stark is born; TG-16, RS-12, "JS"-12, SS-9, AS-6, BS-5.

296 AC/4E 200: Direwolves are found; TG-17, RS-13, "JS"-13, SS-10, AS-7, BS-6, RS-1.

297 AC/4E 201: Robb Stark turns 14; (two months later) "Jon Snow" turns 14; (one month later) "Jon Snow" runs away from Winterfell/appears in Skyrim; TG-18, SS-11, AS-8, BS-7, RS-2.

299 AC/4E 203: Jon Whitewolf sends a letter to Winterfell; TG-19, RS-16, JW-16, SS-13, AS-10, BS-9, RS-4.

300 AC/4E 204: Lord Eddard Stark asks Jon to return to Winterfell; TG-20, RS-17, JW-17, SS-14, AS-11, BS-10, RS-5.

302 AC/4E 206:

Jon Whitewolf receives Arya's letter: TG-22, RS-18, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.

1. (Two-and-a-half months later) Jon Whitewolf arrives at Winterfell: TG-22, RS-18, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.

2. (Four days later) Robb Stark turns 19: TG-22, RS-19, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.

3. (Two weeks later) Jon Whitewolf (18) leaves for KL with Enzo, Ned Stark, Sansa Stark, Arya Stark, and the royal party.

4. (Two weeks later) Jon Whitewolf (18), the Starks, and the royal party are attacked while at the Triton.

5. (Two weeks later) Jon Whitewolf (18), the Starks, and the royal party arrive at King's Landing.

6. (Three days later) the Tourney of the Hand begins.

7. (Five days later) Serena arrives at the Red Keep.

8. (Ten days later) King Robert Dies

9. (Six days later) Cersei Lannister's attempted coup results in the deaths of Boros Blount, Preston Greenfield, Gregor Clegane, Jon Arryn, Selyse Baratheon, Joffrey & Tommen Baratheon, Eden & Sierra, Sallem & Morie, and Tywin Lannister.

Arya VI

Arya was never particularly interested in hair, it had always been more of Sansa's thing. For years, she watched Mother comb sweet-scented oils into Sansa's hair or weave it into complex styles with pretty bits of ribbon and the occasional jeweled hairnet. Arya never wanted that, always thought it was more practical to just stick it in a braid, but it hurt that Mother had long since stopped asking if Arya wanted her hair combed too. Her hair wasn't even particularly nice! It wasn't thick or soft or a nice, rare color like Sansa's and it didn't have have the fun curls of Jon's hair -which he had the nerve to be ungrateful about, always saying the curls got tangled too easily- either. Arya's only solace was that it looked like Father's and even that wasn't much of a comfort when Sansa and her friends teased Arya about being 'plain.'

In fact, her own brunette locks had always existed as something of a nuisance. They got in the way when she was trying to do something or had to be pinned back so hard her scalp hurt for days afterward. Sometimes it would fall out of its braid when she was out playing and getting her in trouble with Mother or Septa Mordane because it revealed that Arya had been wrestling with Nymeria or climbing trees with Bran instead of practicing her needlepoint or whatever. Honestly, she'd rather be done with all it and hack her hair short like Serana.

'With everything going on, I could probably get away with it too. Me having short hair would be pretty low on Father's list of priorities these days,' Arya thought as she fiddled with the scissors she'd gotten from Lady Valerica, opening and closing them a few times to make sure they were sharp. 'Mother would still probably throw a fit though.'

But despite her own failures in the area of 'ladies fashion,' Arya was the only one here right now. Mother was far away, Sansa had been put into another room by Father, and Arya hadn't seen or talked to her sister since, and Septa Mordane was... gone. That news had left Arya numb and unsure how to feel; she hadn't liked the woman, a side effect from only ever receiving criticism for her, but Arya had known the Septa since she'd been born and, at the very least, the woman didn't deserve to be killed like that.

"Are you sure you want me to do this?" she asked the girl sitting in a chair in front of her.

"Yes, cut it all off please," Princess -former princess? This was all very confusing- Myrcella said. "Short as you'd like, just make sure you cut all the blood out."

Even in the dim light of the cabin they were shared, Arya could make out how the dried blood stuck the princess' long, beautiful golden hair together in messy clumps. She winced, "I can't promise it will look good. You'd probably be better off asking Serana, her mother, or my sister to do this."

"I'm asking you, Arya. There aren't many people I trust to hold something sharp close to my neck right now, and you're one of them," Myrcella insisted firmly. "It doesn't need to look good. I just want it gone as soon as possible."

The littlest she-wolf felt herself blush as her chest swelled with pride at the compliment. "Alright, let me get started."

Snip. Snip. Snip.

Slowly but surely, the dirty tangles of Myrcella's hair fell to the floor of their cabin as Arya tamed the girl's locks to chin-length. It was uneven and choppy, the bangs hanging in front of her eyes made the princess look a bit like a sheepdog, and Arya was pretty sure she came close to cutting off an ear once or twice. Never once did Mycrella make a peep though, just continuing to stare forward into the small mirror as Arya worked.

"How's that?" Arya asked, bending over to gather up the cut locks.

"It's fine, it'll actually make the next part easier," she noted. Her beautiful green eyes flickered to the hair Arya had gathered up, "Toss that in the fire, please. I don't want to see it again."

Without question, Arya did so, wrinkling her nose as the strands were eaten up by the flames and the bad smell of burning hair hit her. "What do you mean, next part?"

As an answer, Myrcella just held up a small jar and a pair of old gloves. "Have you ever done this before?"

"What? Dye hair? Sure, once. I wanted to darken my hair so I'd look more like Jon," Arya admitted. "It didn't go well, the color was uneven, and my mother threw a fit because I ruined the dress I was wearing."

The amusing little story actually put a bit of a smile on the princess' face, though it vanished after just a moment. "I'm not too worried about ruining this-" Myrcella gestured to her ripped and stained dress; an outfit that probably cost an easy thousand golden dragon would now be useless as rags. "-and, so long as I look different, I don't need my hair to be perfect either."

"Don't say I didn't warn you," Arya mumbled, slipping on the gloves and wrapping a ratty towel she'd found a drawer of one tiny dresser drawers around Myrcella's shoulders. "This stuff is probably going to smell too."

She was right about that, at least.

"You look so different, Princess," Arya noted as she watched Myrcella rub her now-black hair dry. "Like a whole new person."

"That's what I wanted," the other girl said, examining herself in the mirror and running around her choppy new bangs, "and you shouldn't call me that anymore."

"Call you what?"

"Princess, don't call me that anymore; in fact, don't call me Myrcella either. Call me Myra instead."

Arya was confused. "That is a pretty name and all, but why?"

"Same reason I wanted to change my hair. Lady Serana said I should try to hide who I am for as long as possible. We -she, your sister, and I- were among the first to get to the ship; the captain and crew don't know or have any reason to care about who I am so Lady Serana brought me to this room and told me to keep out of sight for as long as possible. She is worried I-ll... I'll..."

And with that, the strong, steely facade Mycrella had been putting up crumbled and the girl collapsed in on herself, folding into a tiny ball on the floor and starting to weep.

"Nonono, don't do that," Arya pleaded, awkwardly fidgeting. This was far from her area of expertise and she doubted her usual methods of cheering up Bran and Rickon when they were sad -telling dirty jokes and making fart noises, respectively- would work very well in this situation. 'Should I go get Serana? She might be better at this than I am but-

I'm asking you, Arya.

-Myrcella is my friend.'

Slowly, so she wouldn't startle Myrcella, Arya sat down on the floor next to the crying girl and gently pulled her into a hug. "It'll be alright."

"No! It! Won't!" Myrcella gasped in between sobs. "I killed my brother! I killed Joffrey! I'm a traitor! And, even worse, I'm a kinslayer! I'm damned now, don't you understand? The gods will damn me the Seven Hells for what I did! And I don't even care because Tommen is dead too; Joffrey killed him for trying to protect me and I didn't even get the chance to say goodbye!"

'Well, at this point, she's basically at rock bottom and things can't get much worse... but I doubt she'd find that comforting,' Arya thought, patting her friend on the back. "Look, I don't know what exactly happened by I do know you wouldn't have killed Joffrey if he didn't deserve it-" 'And he did, the obnoxious little prick.' "-and I definitely know Tommen wouldn't want you to blame yourself for what happened. He loved you too much for that."

Honestly, Arya had always found the younger prince to be a bit of an annoying crybaby; leagues better than his older brother of course, but not someone she'd want to spend a lot of time around. Even still, the news of his brutal and completely senseless death had horrified her.

"Joffrey is... was awful, I know that but he's still my brother," Myrcella said, trying to rub away the tears and snot that was running down her face. "The Seven detest kinslayers, everyone knows that! I-"

"I follow the Old Gods and they hate kinslayers too but I also think that... if any sort of gods exists, they have to understand that there are exceptions to every rule. Right?" Arya asked, half to Myrcella and half to herself. "Joffrey killed Tommen and he probably would have hurt you, Sansa, and Serana too. You were just protecting yourself and, if the gods really do damn you for that then maybe they aren't worth following?"

Myrcella gasped, "That is sacrilegious! Do you want to risk divine retribution?"

Arya just shrugged, "They can bring it on! I'm tough enough to handle them!"

The other girl just gave her a funny look before bursting out into laughter, which Arya followed. The two girls collapsed fully against one another, nearly rolling on the floor giggling. Every time the laughter got close to finishing up, they'd look at one another and it would start all over again. It was as if, in this one moment, all of the horrors they just faced didn't exist and they could just be carefree young girls.

A knock on the cabin door interrupted the merriment, if only briefly.

"Who is it?" Arya called out, choking back another laugh as Myrcella buried her face into Arya's shoulder to try and smother her own giggles.

"Me!" Serana called back. "Can I come in?"

Arya glanced at Myrcella, who nodded. "Yeah, just give me a second to unlock the door."

After a moment of fiddling with the lock, she waved the older woman in.

"So what was all that laughing I heard?" Serana asked, nimbly kicking the door close with the foot as she balanced a stack of folded clothing in her arms.

"Oh, nothing," Myrcella said, blushing slightly. "Just something stupid."

"The fact that something made you laugh at all is a good sign, considering..." she trailed off, seeming to lose her train of thought. "Anyway, Myrcella, I brought you some clean clothes. Mother and I dug out some clothes from cargo; we had to alter them so you'll have to try them on and let me know if they need to be adjusted."

Myrcella took the outfits with a smile and a soft thank you, tracing the navy blue collar of a simple dress. Serana patted the girl on the head, pinching a strand of her newly dyed hair between two pale fingers.

"Your hair looks nice," she offered. "I'm glad you took my advice and changed your appearance."

"My name too, I want to be called Myra for now," the princess explained.

Serana nodded, "Good, I'll let everyone know. You'll need a family name too. How do you feel about pretending to be my niece?"

Arya looked up, confused, "You have a niece?"

"No... but no one else in this country knows that. If Mother and I claim a girl with black hair and green eyes is Myra Volkihar then who can prove otherwise?" the young woman explained.

"But will people really believe that?" Myrcella asked.

"Doesn't matter, if they can't prove it then they can't prove it. It's not a perfect plan," Serana admitted, "but it should add an extra layer of safety for Myrcella until..."

And awkward silence filled the tiny cabin as both Serana and Arya's eyes still to the still-huddled form of Myrcella who scowled.

"I'm not going back!" she declared. "I refuse to go back to my mother! I refuse to even call that woman my mother! I refuse to let Cersei Lannister use me as a puppet and a pawn for her own goals!"

Arya awkwardly shifted in her seat on the bed, "Myrcella... Do you know what you're saying? Are you really give up a chance to-"

"To what? To sit on the Iron Throne?" the other girl snapped. "That throne turned Robert Baratheon into a broken glutton. The promise of it turned Joffrey into an entitled monster and the chance to control it made Cersei Lannister willing to kill babies. I want nothing to do with it!"

"Myrcella, she is still your mother," the youngest she-wolf reminded gently. She hated the queen too but it just seemed... wrong for a child to hate their parent. Angry as her own mother often made her, Arya could imagine life without the woman.

The runaway princess' face turned vicious. "No, she's not! Mothers love their children and the Queen can't love anyone but herself; even her precious Joffrey was only a tool to her! One she was confident in her ability to control that she let him 'protect' Tommen and I. She is just as responsible for Tommen's death as Joffrey was."

The girl's chest was heaving, her face flushed red with rage. With burning green eyes, she looked up and growled, "I don't want a throne. I don't want a crown. I don't even want a mother. I want Tommen back but, since I can't have that, I want revenge!"

.

.

.

"Alright, Myra Volkihar it is," Ayra mumbled.

Serana gave the girl an understanding look, "We'll officially 'introduce' you tomorrow but for now you girls should get some sleep, things aren't going to get any easier in these coming days."

"Can you at least tell us what you know?" Myrcella... Myra asked. "How is everyone? What are our most immediate plans?"

Arya nodded, "Where is Jon? Is he okay? What is going on with Sansa? Father didn't let me see or talk with her, he seems angry with her."

"Oh, he is," Serana said immediately, then blinked when she realized what she blurted out. The older woman closed her eyes and let out a long sigh, sinking into a chair. "Look, after everything, you girls deserve to be talked to like adults so that is what I'm going to do."

She turned to Arya, "Your sister made a... well, 'mistake' doesn't even begin to cover it and your father is trying to figure out the best way to deal with it; he doesn't want her to say anything to anyone before he can make any decisions. He is cooped up in his cabin right now, between what your sister did and what happened with Jon, I'm sure he has a lot to work out."

"W-what kind of mistake?" Arya asked.

The older woman hesitated, biting her lip before sighing once more. "The kind of mistake that has gotten people killed. The kind of mistake that could get her killed."

That just about crushed the young Stark girl. Sure, she'd always thought Sansa was an idiot but never that much of one!

'I promised that I'd look after her,' Arya thought, 'but I didn't and now this happened! Damnit, this is all my fault!'

"Jon is resting," Serana continued on. "He is fine, just... tired. He put a lot of work into getting as many people to safety as possible and is recovering; you may not see him for a few days but don't worry."

Both Arya and Myrcella let out a relieved sigh at that news.

"Lady Shireen and her guardian, Davos Seaworth, are with us but her mother was killed along with Lord Arryn; they asked to be dropped off at a place called Dragonstone. We also have the Tyrells and Lord Renly with us too, they came with some of your father's men."

Then she paused and gave Arya a sympathetic look, "Arya, Wyl and Heward were killed."

Her throat tightened and her eyes got hot. Arya wrapped her arms around herself and nodded, signaling for the older woman to continue.

"Margaery Tyrell was injured in the attack but nothing life-threatening; Mother is with her now. Renly, though, is in much worse shape; I'm not sure if he'll survive. Samwell Tarly came with Mother, Shireen, and Davos. He is fine physically but the seasickness may succeed where the Lannisters failed. Other than that, Enzo and Jon managed to get two of King Robert's children and their mothers to the ship."

They lapsed into silence then as Myrcella and Arya absorbed everything Serana said and the implications her words held.

'Cersei wanted to control everything,' Arya realized. 'With just about every major noble family being in the Capital, she had all the potential hostages she could ever want. It was the perfect storm -Father, Lord Arryn, the Tyrells, Tywin Lannister... aside from Mother's family, the Greyjoys, and the Martells, all the pieces were in one place.'

"There is going to be a war," Myrcella said, soft but certain.

Serana was quiet but eventually gave a slow nod, "That... seems likely. Now, get some sleep; it is late. Lock the door behind me."

And, with that, the older woman left the cabin as the two girls were forced to ponder what the coming days would hold. The last major military conflict was the Greyjoy Rebellion and both had barely been alive for that; though Arya and Myrcella had heard stories of the horrors of wars, neither had ever been forced to deal with it personally. Hell, Arya even got another brother out of the Greyjoy Rebellion.

Wordlessly, they did as Serana suggested, changing into nightgowns and Arya slid into the narrow bunk. Sleep didn't come easy, even with the comforting rocking of this ship. She tossed and turned; while not uncomfortably, exactly, the mattress didn't hold a candle to her one at home or at the Red Keep. It also didn't help that Nymeria wasn't with her, instead, she, Ghost, and Jon's other animals had been given a cleared out storage room to stay in.

"Arya, are you awake?" Myrcella whispered into the darkness.

"Yes."

There was the rustling of cloth followed by the patter of bare feet on the wooden floor. Silently, Myrcella slipped into Arya's bunk beside her, nestling down into the covers.

"I'm scared," she said sadly, her warm breath tickling Arya's cheek.

"Me too," the youngest she-wolf admitted.

The princess took her hand under the blankets, "Arya, can you teach me about magic?"

Enzo VI

The sun was annoyingly bright.

"Well, how is everyone this morning?"

His question was greeted by a breakfast table of tired, scared, and unamused glares.

"Yes, that seems about right," Enzo remarked, sliding into a chair next to Serana and grabbing an apple.

Serana, chin propped up on her hand, gave him a lazy look. "You don't look like a million septims yourself there, Z."

"I have not been sleeping," he admitted. "Being on a boat is bad enough when you are from the desert but I keep worrying that we will be ambushed. I just stay awake pacing the deck to make sure everyone is safe."

"Have you spoken to Jon then?"

"Well, Jon isn't exactly speaking to anyone," Enzo joked, pointing towards his throat. The action caused Serana and her mother to chuckle, much to the confusion of everyone else at the table. "But he does seem fine, just needing rest for now."

For a moment, Enzo amused himself with the idea that his friend was just faking it to explain the whole magic thing to everyone. Satakal, was he glad it wasn't his responsibility.

"Speaking of young Whitewolf, I'm going to whip something up for his throat," Valerica announced. As she walked away, Lady Poison called over her shoulder, "Samwise, be sure you finish that tea; it will settle your stomach. I can sympathize with seasickness but if you vomit on my boots again I shall ie you up and dangle you over the side of the ship as shark bait. Shark meat is quite the delicacy and I'm sure they'll find you to be delicious."

Serana gave Sam a confused look, "Samwise? Why did she call you that?"

"I don't think she bothered to remember my name and, quite frankly, I'm scared to correct her," a pale-looking Sam shrugged, taking a shaky sip from his mug.

"She is a formidable woman," the old knight, Ser Barristan offered, to which Enzo couldn't help but mentally add, 'You don't know the half of it.'

"Makes good tea though," Sam added, his color already improving.

That actually made the extremely dour-faced Olenna Tyrell look up from the meal she'd been picking at. She turned to address Serana, "Yes, I noticed your mother seemed to have an affinity for plant life. I'm something of a herbalist myself; tell me, is your mother a healer?"

"Not really," Serana replied nonchalantly. "She is mostly just interested in plant toxins."

Sam looked up, alarmed, "What?"

"I mean, poisoning and healing are two halves of the same coin; by studying one she, by default, learned a lot about the other," the vampiress added. "And, I promise, my mother knows her plants."

"...I have no doubt," the hirsute young man commented meekly as he poured his remaining tea into a nearby potted plant, which he would doubtlessly be keeping an eye on to see if it would be dead by nightfall.

"Some mail for you, Enzo," Veehsi Cadaresh rasped, laying another plate of bacon straight from the kitchen on the table as he handed over a stack of letters.

Enzo took them with a nod, eyeing the Argonian's chef's hat with amusement. The only thing more so what the dumbfounded, disbelieving expressions on the faces of the majority of the Westerosi passengers. "Thank you, Veehsi. Back to the kitchens then?"

"Yes, a chef's work is never done, especially at sea."

And with that, he turned tail and left, leaving only confusion in his wake.

Eventually, the fat flower lord cleared his throat, "I'm sorry, but can I just ask about-"

"Quiet down, Mace; now is not the time or the place," the old woman snapped.

Barristan gave a small chuckle, "Seeing as we owe this crew our lives, I think it is best that we stay polite."

"Yes, and commenting on people's appearance is rarely so," Arya's bald sword instructor added wryly.

"Seriously, why are none of you surprised by the man-lizard?" asked Loras, who threw down his fork in exasperation.

"I'm old," all three simply replied... much to the young man's frustration.

"The world is much larger than you know, Loras, and you have still only seen a small part of what is out there. It is best you prepare yourself for things you never thought possible," Enzo suggested. Then opened the first of the letters, giving it a quick once over. "Ah, excellent."

"What do you have there, Z?" Serana asked, peering over his shoulder.

"The first update from my information network," he explained. "These-" he held up the stack of letters"- should tell us what is going on in King's Landing."

"Oh, that should be helpful."

.

.

.

"Wait a... INFORMATION NETWORK? Since when do you have that?" the vampiress demanded.

"Not long, I put it together during the time we were in the city." Then Enzo had to reluctantly admit an embarrassing fact. "It is only composed of a shamefully small sixty individuals, not nearly as large as the one I have back in Skyrim and Tamriel as a whole."

Serana buried her face in her hands and let out an almost deranged giggle, "You really are one of a kind, Enzo. Only you would think creating an entire spy network in a city you were visiting was necessary."

"Well, what did you think I was doing whenever I went off on my own?" the Ebony Warrior asked, getting a wry glare from the dark-haired woman.

"Don't make me answer that," she grumbled. "I-"

"As interesting as your process in building a spy network surely is," Olenna Tyrella cut in, voice sharp and stern, "perhaps you could share some of those updates with us?"

"Oh, yes, of course," Enzo hummed, shuffling through the papers and wordlessly passing Serana half of them. "It seems the Cuckoo Queen is rushing to do damage control, starting with locking down the city."

"She's locked the gates?" the Fat Flower asked, aghast. "The city will stave within three months, they rely on food shipments from the other kingdoms to feed the citizens!"

"Not quite," Enzo said slowly, shaking his head. "Merchants and the like are still allowed into the city, though they are carefully checked first, but no one inside is allowed to leave -for now, at least."

"So she has hostages," Lady Alerie, who'd been quiet and haggard-looking all morning, whispered. "How frightening... all those poor people in danger stuck under her thumb."

"While it's certainly not a positive development," Lady Olenna admitted, "Tywin isn't one to let chaos run wide; he is too anal-retentive for that. He will rein her in."

Sam raised an eyebrow, "Is that a good thing?"

The old woman shrugged her boney, hunched shoulders. "That depends on how if you'd rather have a ruthless and uncompromising but pragmatic and intelligent individual as your enemy over a self-important woman-child with delusions of grandeur, an over-inflated ego, and a decent amount of skills at manipulation."

"Doesn't matter," Enzo gruntled, holding up one letter in particular. "Tywin Lannister is dead."

"WHAT?" everyone at the table demanded.

"There is no need to shout," Enzo noted, rubbing his inner ear. "Apparently, the queen has announced that her father and her sons were all slain by her brother, Tyrion, who, with help from the 'treacherous Starks' then abducted Myrcella Baratheon and fled the Capital using the princess as a hostage."

"That can't be right," Serana stated. "From what I saw, Tyrion absolutely adored Tommen and Myrcella; sure, maybe he could have killed Joffrey but so would just about everyone and everything that ever met him, but not them."

"Agreed," Enzo grunted. 'If for no other reason that the princess is still tucked in a bed on this very ship.'

"Still, it is a believable enough lie," Lady Olenna admitted, obviously reluctant to pay the queen something even resembling a compliment. "Tywin's hatred of his imp son was well-known and the feeling was quite mutual. Anything else?"

"A couple of kingsguard are dead, many guards killed... aw, Jon Arryn was killed. That is disappointing; I liked him," the Ebony Warrior mumbled.

"Does it say how?"

Enzo shook his head, "Just that he was stabbed and that it appeared to be murder. If I was such a man, I would bet that Queen Cuckoo is attempting to keep as many details away from the public as possible."

"Not surprising, it was a Lannister man who did the killing," Serana said. Seeing the questioning looks on everyone else's faces, she continued, "The Mountain, he killed Lord Arryn. Jon was there and said he was stabbed right through the chest."

"Can't wait to see how the Lannister spin that," Lady Olenna hummed.

"Oh, they are blaming Jon… uh, our Jon, and the Starks. Apparently, they, and we by extension, are traitorous schemes who, and this is apparently a direct quote, 'seized the vulnerable time between the official crowning of a new monarch as a chance to weaken the crown's power by killing important court members," Enzo remarked.

Serana sighed and tugged at her hair, "Wonderful… it makes sense though, Jon did kill the Mountain after all."

"Really?" Loras asked, surprised.

"Mmmhmmm," Enzo nodded. "He could not tell me all of the details but it seems Jon killed Clegane in the infirmary with a candlestick. So they are pinning, I suppose rightfully, that on Jon, along with starting several large fires that were started around the city and the deaths of some guards and city watchmen."

"Joy," Serana grunted sarcastically, head thumping down on the table. "I can't wait to see the fall out from all that."

"What about our family?" Lady Alerie asked. "What do we need to prepare our people for?"

"Hmmm, let me check... Ah, you are all traitors as well, of course," he explained, scanning the small, smudged writing. Then he glanced over to the old knight and added blandly, "As are you, Ser Barristan."

The man looked amused, eyes bright, and surprisingly mischievous over his raised teacup. "Oh, really?"

Enzo gave a theatrically solemn nod, "Yes, you have abandoned your position in an act of cowardness and disdain for the royal family."

"Well, that second part is right," the other man said, mostly to himself. Then he just shrugged, "Considering recent events, I will wear the title of traitor proudly. And stop with this 'Ser Barristan' nonsense; I believe we are safely on a first-name basis by now."

"Of course," the Ebony Warrior smiled, "and I insisted you do the same."

"How sweet," the recent;y-returned Valerica cooed, an amused smile pulling at her lips and carrying a pale blue bottle of pulpy liquid. She held up the concoction, "Serana, would you like to take this to Jon?"

The vampiress hopped up from her seat a little too quickly, knees knocking into the table. "Of course, I'll give it to him right now."

"Jonny is getting a bit of personal nursing, eh, Sera?" Enzo snickered... then winced at the hard slap he got to the back of the head. 'She had to know how much that would hurt.'

"Is... is there anything about my family?" Sam asked, swallowing nervously.

"...No, actually. Nothing about them at all," Enzo commented. Then, taking in the fear still in the young man's eyes, added, "That is not a bad thing -no news is good news, after all. You got them to leave the city before the bloodshed started, they are probably safe."

"Oh... oh, that is good," Sam said, giving a relieved smile. "I was worried about them."

Lady Olenna cleared her throat, turning to Sam.

"Out of curiosity, how did you manage to convince your father to leave," the shrewd, wrinkled Old Flower questioned. "In my experience, Randall Tarly isn't a man to listen to others very well."

Sam flushed and gave an awkward laugh. "I... I hit him."

The entire table turned to the red-faced young man in surprise.

"Really?" Olenna asked, actually sounding somewhat impressed.

Another laugh. "We were arguing... Father refused to listen, I got really angry and just... hit him, right in the face." Sam mimed a punch -Enzo fought the urge to wince at the young man's positively horrendous form- and continued. "I thought he'd killed me for it but I guess Father came to the conclusion that, if I was determined enough about getting him to leave that I'd resort to violence, then I was probably being serious. So he gathered up the rest of my family and left the city."

Lord Mace's eyebrows shot up at the explanation, "Truly? That is... Mother, why are you laughing?"

Valerica II

"You should prepare yourselves for what you're about to see," Valerica advised the huddled group of Tyrells. "We've cleaned the girl up but the damage is rather extensive and the injury is still fresh; the first time seeing it may be hard."

"Will Margaery be alright?" the woman, Alerie, asked.

The pleading look in the other mother's eyes and the desperation that tinted her voice was to soften even Valerica's dead, old heart and made her hesitate briefly before answering. "...She will survive her wound, I have no doubt, but the girl may have a hard time living with her injury.

"What about Renly?" the young man spoke up, wringing his hands nervously.

"That is a touch more complicated," the ancient vampiress admitted. She gave the whole group a sympathetic once over, "It should reassure you that they are both in stable condition and we've decided that you can see them."

They all surged forward a step, causing Valerica to raise a hand for them to stop. "But," she stressed, "only one each and at a time. One for the girl and one for the man."

"I have to see Renly," Loras demanded, stepping forward.

Valerica gave a nod; Serana had explained to her the specifics of the two men's relationship -not that it wasn't obvious- so she wasn't inclined to argue. "Alright. Now, who will see the girl?"

Even though there was no exchange of words, the looks passed between the family spoke volumes. Everyone wanted to see their loved one yet all were scared about what they'd see. They want to see and comfort the girl but, by not seeing her state, they could still pretend to themselves it wasn't too bad.

After a moment, the old woman -Olenna, she vaguely recalled- stepped forward. "I'll go."

The fat man put a pudgy hand on the crone's shoulder. "Mother, I-"

"Don't say anything," Olenna shook him off. "A parent shouldn't have to see their child in certain states. I am old; I've seen far too much and the only risk to me at this point is my heart giving out."

Valerica's lips twitched at the joke but she turned to the two concerned parents, "You'll get to see your daughter in due time; try to relax and ready yourselves for now. You two, come with me."

With that, she led the grandmother and grandson into the ship's infirmary. It was a small cabin, but cleaner and brighter than most with comfortable cots and cabinets full of medical supplies, both of the traditional and magical variety. Only two of the five beds were occupied, thankfully, and the Bell Singer's chief healer, Recilia Magione, sat crouched over the sleeping form of the girl, Margaery, and was dabbing at her bandage-wrapped face with a damp cloth.

"Oh, Margaery," Olenna breathed, all but collapsing at the girl's bedside despite the old woman's attempt to remain stoic.

In a rare, silent act of respect and gentleness, Recilia rose from her seat so the grandmother could take it and passed over the washcloth. "I'm going to change her bandages soon but first she needs to be freshened up. Even unconscious, I'm sure your granddaughter would find it more comfortable if you assisted me."

Leaving them to it, Valerica led Loras by the elbow and led him over the second occupied cot where his lover was unconscious. At first glance, it appeared that the young lord was sleeping but if you looked closer you'd see the unnatural stillness of his rest and the uncomfortable slowness of his breathing. Pulling up a chair, the handsome knight took hold of Renly's hand and took it to the sight of him. Either Recilia or one of her assistant had shaved the man and cut his hair short so it would be easier to keep his head wound clean. They'd also stripped and then redressed him -and Margaery- in a loosely fitted robe so he'd be easier to wash.

Touching the man's cheek tenderly, Loras turned to Valerica. "What is wrong with him?"

"Brain swelling," she explained, gently turning Renly's bandage-wrapped head to the side and pointing to the large, covered wound on the upper left side of his skull. "The injury has put him into a coma."

All of the blood drained from Loras' face. "What? When will he wake up? Isn't there anything you can do for him?"

All the questions tumbled out at once, harried and scared. Valerica could understand the confusion and fear but held up a finger to quiet him. "There is no way of knowing how long the coma will last; he could wake up tonight for all we know. And we have been doing something -everything we can, in fact."

And they had. On top of the mundane manners of healing injuries, Recilia had cast her spells, her assistant had carefully fed the man healing potions, and Valerica had applied three different healing balms to the head wound.

But Renly still did not wake.

No matter how much magic they fed into his body or smelling salts they waves under his nose or the pins they stuck into the arch of his foot, he would not wake.

And, quite frankly, that was not surprising.

'The thing about Restoration that frustrates most mages,' Valerica mused, 'is that healing magic is finicky and untamable. One can study the school of an entire lifetime and still fail to save a mother in the birthing bed while a novice can pull a soldier back from the brink of death. Emperors have died from falling off a horse while surrounded by the greatest healers in the world.'

The testy, unpredictable nature of restoration magic was what kept most mages from studying it too deeply and what a shame that was, especially since in Skyrim it was just about the only type of magic universally respected. Still, young impatient students of magic wanted to be validated when they practiced their spells -they wanted to shoot fire from their fingertips and summon daedra and harden their flesh and put up shields- so the very real possibility of being able to heal a burn one day and achieving absolutely nothing the next was disheartening to them.

'Children these days... consumed by the belief that something isn't worth doing if there isn't the promise of results,' the pure-blood vampiress thought. Most of her greatest breakthroughs only came after years of practice, refinement, and trial. Though, to be fair, she had far more time than most.

Loras' admittedly lovely eyes stared up at her, "Is there anything I can do?"

"Well, you could-"

"I'll tell you this," Recilia cut in, having left Margaery's side to stand by Valerica. She jerked a thumb toward the unconscious Renly, "If he doesn't wake up in a month's time then you should just smother him."

"WHAT?" the young knight all but shrieked, jumping to his feet and surging towards the ship's healer but then Margaery stirred and let out a pained mutter in her drug-induced sleep.

The noise caused them all to freeze and Valerica used the opportunity to shove Loras right back down into his seat. She fixed him a stern, hard stare and hissed out, "Sit down and be quiet."

Then she turned to Recilia with the same look. Now, let it be said that Valerica liked the healer; she was a rough 'n' tumble, take no-nonsense woman in her thirties who'd, while having received a rich education, never lost her common roots as the put-upon youngest daughter of a fisherman and a tavern wench. This had left Recilia with a hard disposition and a coldly realistic outlook on life. She spoke her mind and never honey-coated anything, including her medical advice. These were things Valerica usually appreciated but right now found far too harsh.

And, yes, Valerica did realize how hypocritical that sounded coming from her.

Recilia just shrugged, "I'm just speaking the truth and you know, Val."

Still, the woman's face softened just a touch as she turned back to Loras. With a small sigh, she, not completely unkindly, explained, "Look, it is still far too early to worry about him not waking up -he could be up and about tomorrow, for all we know- but the longer he doesn't wake up the greater the chance that he never will. At a certain point, doesn't it become more merciful to let him go?"

Loras looked stricken but said nothing, only turning his eyes to his love's face.

"You should try talking to him," Recilia added. "I can't say if he'll actually hear you but it can't hurt. You're welcome to stay as long as you'd like... so long as you don't get too loud."

There would be no shouting in Recilia's infirmary, she even had a plaque stating as such hanging above her desk.

The woman leaned over to Valerica before nodding towards Margaery and her grandmother. "I'm going to go start brewing more sleeping drafts for the girl. Think you can replace her bandages and keep everything under control?"

"Of course. Let me know if you need any ingredients."

And, with that, the two women separated -Recilia leaving for her private quarters attached to the infirmary and Valerica going to join Olenna. Silently, she slid into a seat beside the old woman and waited for her to say something. It wouldn't be long.

"I would like to see it," the Tyrell matriarch declared, voice stern but soft. "The injury. I would like to see it."

"I can show you, but you need to be prepared," Valerica. "We've cleaned it up as much as possible but the wound isn't pretty."

"I've lived so long that gore and viscera no longer bother me," the old woman replied. "Blood might as well be spilled ink as far as I'm concerned."

Valerica clinked her tongue even as she started to unwind the bandages from Margaery's head and face. "Be that as it may, it is always different when it is family."

The only reply she got was a sharp intake of breath as the gauze came away to reveal the girl's empty left eye socket. The attack had left Margaery with a deep gash that ran from her left cheekbone up through her eye, across the bridge of her nose and cutting through her right eyebrow before ending midway up her forehead. Though they'd cleaned the wound, applying magic and healing salves, it was still red and swollen -a brutal mark of ugliness against a beautiful face.

"We couldn't save the eye," Valerica said, as if it wasn't obvious, "but the wound shall heal nicely if cared for properly and, with time, Margaery will be able to use her other eye to compensate for the missing one."

Face remaining impressively stoic, Lady Olenna reached out as if to touch the injury, only to pull her hand back at the last minute. Her eyes tracing the long length of the slash mark, she breathed in through her teeth. "I won't pretend to understand who you people are and the strange things you are capable of doing, but... why can't you fix her?"

"She is not broken," Valerica shot back out automatically as she started gently smearing a thick healing paste made from corkbulb root, ash hopper jelly, and blisterwort on the wound. "And, bad as the wound is, your granddaughter is far from disfigured. I've seen much worse"

'Though,' the vampiress mentally added, eyeing the girl's face, 'in a society that seems to use a girl's beauty as one measure of her worth, perhaps she will see herself as broken as well.'

"Recilia is keeping her asleep for now so that the worst of the healing can be done in peace," Valerica continued, starting to apply clean, fresh bandages. "The most important thing is that she does not itch or pick at it, otherwise it could reopen and cause further scaring."

It was only Valerica's extra sensitive ears that allowed her to hear the old woman's hard swallow. "Well, I suppose I'll need to have some nice eyepatches made up; perhaps a lovely glass eye, as well. Nothing but the best for my granddaughter."

At those words, the pure-blood vampiress couldn't help but give the idle thought, 'Who doesn't want the best for their loved ones?'

Bran III

(One day before Robert's death)

Lord Howland shoved Bran to the side as he jumped away from the rush of smoke that roared out of the opened door, causing the young boy to be thrown to the ground with a loud "Umpf!"

"Backdraft!" the Lord of the Neck shouted out in warning as thick clouds of dark smoke escaped the wooden doorframe.

Though there was a sharp pain creeping up his arm, Bran was coherent enough to know what that meant -living in a land of ice and snow where fire was one of the only sources of warm, every Northern child grew up with a clear understanding of fire dangers- and scrambled away to a safe distance before using some curtains to pull himself up.

"Clear the wing, I'm going to go get help," Howland ordered before turning on his heel and rushing away.

'But the books!' Bran couldn't help but think. The library of Winterfell was not particularly large in comparison to others but it was old and held many rare Northern texts; if nothing else, Maester Luwin had spent decades curating the collections.

Still, people were more important so the young Stark boy turned and started to do as instructed... when the sound of coughing reached his ears over the flames.

"Is someone still in there?" he wondered out loud, staring desperately into the smoke-filled room. "HELLO? HELLO?"

There was no answer and Bran knew he should leave, knew what he was thinking was a horrible idea, but just could not risk leaving someone to burn to death when he could have helped.

With a grunt, Bran tore down the heavy drapes from where they hung on around a window and wrapped it around himself, covering his mouth and as much skin as possible. Then he grabbed ahold of a nearby flower vase -one of a set Mother had picked out, he vaguely recalled, and filled with soon-to-be-dead canna lilies that had been painstakingly grown in the glasshouse to remind her of home- and threw the flowers down, causing them to land on the floor with a wet SPLAT. The water was what was important; he scooped out a handful of the icy liquid and splashed it on the cloth covering his mouth and nose. That would make just a touch easier to breathe.

With a final breath of cool, clean air, Bran steeled himself, ducked his head, and rushed into the burning library. Almost immediately, his eyes began stinging and watering from the thick clouds of smoke filling the room. The hissing of burning wood and paper seemed as loud as a dragon's roar in his ears and, despite his precautions, Bran started to cough. If there was one blessing though, it was that the actual fire itself was rather small -contained in only one bookshelf. If Bran acted quickly, he might be able to stop the fire from spreading. There should be enough water left in the vase to quell the flames or at least significantly reduce them.

All thoughts of his initial reason for rushing inside the room forgot, Bran pushed through the thick smoke towards the source of the fire. Holding his breath and squinting his eyes, one thought crossed the young Stark boy's mind. 'In a fire, it is the smoke that kills you first.'

Unfortunately, the fact that breaking any of the windows to let in the fresh air would only serve to feed the flames meant that Bran had to tough it out for now.

'Aim for the heart of the flames,' he remembered, tossing water on the lowest shelf where the fire seemed to be strongest. With a sharp hiss, they dimmed considered but were not completely extinguished -it was enough to buy him time though.

'I wish I had some dirt or sand, that would work better than just plain water,' he thought, looking around for something to finish the job with.

"Maybe I can- grhhh!"

Something smashed against the side of Bran's head, thin and hard. Through the throbs of pain that overtook his face, the young Stark boy had the presence of mind to roll to the side -even taking the precaution of covering his face with his arms to shield himself from the remaining hot ash and embers.

The drapes that were supposed to protect him nearly ended up being his downfall, however, when pressure on them stopped Bran from rolling further away.

Staring upward, blinking his watering eyes, Bran realized he was looking at a strange man. His attacker was small and dirty with a gaunt face, limp blond hair, and pale deep-sunk eyes that reminded Bran of a dead fish. Clad in filthy brown, soot-covered clothing, maybe it was just Bran's imagination but he could swear that the man smelt like sour wine and sweaty horses. But, despite all of that, what drew Bran's attention the most was the fireplace poker he had clutched tight in one hand.

The two seemed to stare at one another for ages before the man finally spoke up. His face still unsettlingly blank beind a filthy scarf tied around his nose and mouth, he grunted, "Just my luck."

Bran began wiggling out of the tangled prison the drapes had become; terror rushed over him -hot and cold at the same time- as the man tossed his makeshift weapon to the side and pulled out a dagger. He was not ashamed to admit that he screamed for his parents when the man stabbed downward. He kicked out with both feet still trapped, catching his attacker in the knees. Knocked off balance, the man pitched forward still clutching his blade. Both screaming now, Bran pushed himself to the left and just barely missed being impaled as the man landed half on top of him.

"Get off of me!" Bran shrieked and he thrashed about, finally able to free himself from not only the drapes but the weight on top of him. Stumbling to his feet, the youngest Stark boy made a mad dash for the library door... only to be grabbed by his hair and pulled backward.

"Let go! Let go!"

He fought with all his might, scratching at the hand holding him and wriggling like a fish on a hook. As a last-ditch effort, Bran dropped himself to the floor, throwing all of his weight down, and twisted to the side, pulling the man almost completely around. The thought crossed his mind that he really wished Father hadn't put the axe he'd gotten from Jon in his solar before leaving, promising that Bran could start training with it under supervision when he got back from King's Landing.

But then, Bran heard a gurgle from behind him... and the grip on his hair relaxed before completely falling away. 'What...' Cautiously, Bran turned around and promptly let out a yelp of shock at what he saw.

It was his attacker... and Lord Howland, who had picked up the discarded fireplace poker and rammed in through the man's throat from behind. Bran could only watch on with some unholy combination of relief and horror as the Lord of the Neck, completely heedless of the man's death gurgles, tossed him to the side before grabbing Bran by the upper arm and hauling him to his feet.

"What were you thinking?" the green-eyed man roared. He didn't really want an answer though, instead shoving Bran towards the doorway and past a group of guards who were rushing in armed with buckets of water and sand.

Bran stumbled into the hallway and away from the library, eventually collapsing against a wall as his chest heaved as the boy sucked in lung-fulls of cool, clean air.

"Bran! Bran!"

The young Stark was knocked almost completely off of his feet as something warm and solid slammed into him before gripping him tightly. For the briefest moment, Bran struggled, fearing he was being attacked once more. But then, the familiar scent of his mother's favorite soap washed over him and Bran relaxed into the embrace.

"Mother," Bran muttered as he fell against her larger form.

The woman pulled back, hands on his shoulders as she knelt down to Bran's eye-level. Despite the fear in her wide blue eyes, the paleness of her face, the bags under her eyes, and the messiness of her hair, Bran was shocked at how much the figure in front of him looked like MOTHER.

Was his mother finally back?

Were they finally done with the bitter, confusing stranger wearing his mother's face that had been shuffling around the castle for what seemed like ever?

"Oh, my sweet Bran," she breathed, gently touching his cheek and smoothing her thumb through the layers of soot, tears, and the blood that dripped down from the wound on his face. "Thank the gods you're alive!"

"I'm glad you're okay too, Mother," he whispered into her hair as she pulled him in for another hug.

Theon Greyjoy I

(Three days before Robert's death)

"What do you think you are doing?"

Theon froze from where he was fastening the sails of a one-man boat tied to one of White Harbor's many small docks. Swallowing hard, eyes watching his white puff of breath disappear into the dark night, he slowly turned to see Robb looking at him with those sad, blue puppy-dog eyes of his.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" he eventually grunted, turning his back on the boy he'd grown up with.

Robb wouldn't have it though. The Heir of Winterfell wasted no time in marching down the length of the dock and grabbing Theon by the shoulder, spinning him around so they could speak face-to-face. The only light was from the silver full moon above them and the lanterns they both had. The darkness made their world seem smaller, like it was just the two of them.

"Well," he started, jaw clenched in annoyance, "it looks like you're running away. What I can't figure out is why! Theon, you could be put to death for that!"

"You think I don't know that?!" Theon snapped back, yanking a frustrated hand through his hair. "I've lived with that threat hanging over my head for years now! Not that it matters anymore; not after the news gets out about what my uncle did anyways."

Robb's eyes widened, a dark looking clouding the blue irises for a moment and Theon couldn't help but wonder if he'd been having nightmares about all the horrors of that poor village too. 'Salt Price... I spent years hearing all about it but the only salt to be found there was in the tears of mothers and their dead babes. That man... he is right, I am a traitor. And I don't even care.'

"Th... that wasn't your fault!" Robb argued. "It wasn't your father that rebelled! Surely the King will see-"

Theon only shook his head. "Forgive me for not wanting to take that risk. At best, I'll get to keep my cushy life as a hostage... but I doubt the Lannisters will allow it. Hells, the Old Lion wanted me killed all those years ago and I won't bet on that having changed at all. It'll even be easier for the crown to justify now that I'm older; it never looks good when you execute a child, no matter the reason."

Going pale, skin almost silver in the moonlight, Robb looked like his mind was whirling as he tried to think of something to say. "Father wouldn't... he would never allow-"

Theon flinched at the mention of Lord Stark.

"Theon, I was hoping we could speak?" the Lord of Winterfell asked.

The technical Heir of Pike felt his eyebrows creeping up his forehead in surprise. Theon could count on one hand the number of times Lord Stark had visited him in his quarters, usually to check on him when Theon was ill or to scowl him for something or other.

But this was different -the Lord of Winterfell looked... awkward. Not unhappy or upset, exactly, -and that did a lot to ease the fear stirring in Theon's gut that always popped up when Lord Stark asked to speak with him privately- but he had his hands clasped behind his back and was shifting from foot to foot, not wanting to look Theon in the eye.

"Of course," he eventually agreed, rising from his seat on his bed in the customary sign of respect for his guardian.

"No no," the man said quickly, waving his hand as he stepped inside, closing the door behind him. "Please, sit down."

Slowly, Theon sat back down, keeping a careful -and confused- eye on Lord Stark. His guardian opened his mouth as if to speak a few times but always closed it before any words came out. The man -who himself seemed to be watching Theon out of the corner of his eye- went to sit down on the bed beside him before deciding against it, and gave the room a quick pace before grabbing a hold of a desk chair. He dragged over so he was sitting directly in front of Theon, now at eye level with his charge.

Unusually, Theon would have found such a change in attitude amusing or unnerving but now he could only find it... oh, what's the right word?

Refreshing?

Reassuring?

Relieving?

No, no of those were quite right.

But, anyway, Lord Stark had been acting so strangely in the months since Jon had run away. The little twerp's disappearance had affected everyone -including himself, not that Theon would ever admit that- in ways that ranged from Arya's dramatic, day-to-day mood swings to how Lady Stark always seemed to be forcing down the urge to happily skip around the castle. The Lord of Winterfell had been effected the most though:

First, he denied Jon was really gone at all or, at least, denied he'd be gone for long. Lord Stark watchmen on a constant lookout for the curly-haired brat and was the first to reassure his other children that their brother would be home soon enough -restless young boys ran off all the time, after all. But as the days of Jon being gone turned into weeks and then months, Lord Stark had changed too; he led large search parties into the wilderness, offered sizable rewards for even information that led to his son's safe return, and locked up Jon's bedroom. Then he had raged, raged like a snow thunderstorm screaming in the night. Lord Stark's anger hadn't lasted long, only about two weeks, but the entire household had done the best to avoid him during that time.

'Especially after he blew up at Lady Stark,' Theon thought. He wasn't sure about the specifics of the fight, everyone had remained annoyingly tight-lipped on the subject and he only knew for sure that it was something to do with sept. Theon also knew that, whatever happened, it was bad enough that even Bran, who was his mother's favorite son, angrily ignored her for a week afterward.

After the anger subsided, Lord Stark had grown... distant, distant and odd. He walked around as if in a daze, speaking to almost no one unless addressed first, and stopped taking meals with the family. This shift in demeanor had lasted an uncomfortably long time and left everyone else on edge. Honestly, they still were.

Lord Stark had finally started to emerge from whatever fog had been consuming him, having resumed his lordly duties and begun spending time with his children again. Hells, he and Lady Stark even went for a private walk yesterday. Still, everyone watched the man with bated breath and waited to see if there would be another change and, if so, what that would bring.

So now there they sat, a politely titled 'ward' and his 'guardian,' a man who'd never been unkind to Theon and to whom he did feel genuine respect for... but who had also never shown Theon any great deal of warmth either and had certainly never done anything to shield him from the icy disdain of Lady Stark.

The Lord of Winterfell was better to the hostage he held in his home than he needed have been... and wasn't that a fucking sad thought?

"So... Theon," Lord Stark started, holding and unfolding his hands, "how have you been coping with everything these past few months?"

It took a moment for Theon to process what the man was saying to him?

'How have I been coping?' Theon could only hope that he kept the bemusement off of his face. "It wasn't me who's brother ran off, My Lord."

He fought the urge to wince. Jon was still something of an unapproachable topic around Lord Stark; everyone having silently agreed to not bring him up less the man either lash out or shut down again.

Rest assured, at the mention of his missing son's name, Lord Stark flinched hard -causing Theon to internally wince, twinges of guilt hitting hard even if he refused to show them- and let out a long, low breath before continuing.

"Yes," he nodded, "but you've also known Jon for a long time now; it wouldn't be strange for his disappearance to affect you as well. I know you two didn't always get along but..."

He trailed off and Theon found it was now his turn to shift awkwardly. The truth was, he'd been glad when Jon first ran off.

For too long, Jon and he had for so long been two sides of the same sad coin. Jon shared the blood of the noble Stark line but not the name and that kept him on the outside; always having to be grateful Lord Stark took care of him even though he had to live with constant reminders that his existence was shameful and unwanted. Theon carried noble blood and a noble name but the position of hostage -even if Lord Stark never used that word to his face- kept a wide chasm between him and the Stark children; always having to grateful the Lord of Winterfell chose to treat him so well even if his position as an outsider was always clear.

So, for a while, Theon couldn't help but think that, with Jon being gone, there'd be more room for him in the household.

But then he had to hear Robb's attempts to smother the sound of his tears with a pillow. He had to see Arya weep. He had to watch as a somber Bran climb as high as he could go so he could be alone with his pain. He had to deal with little Rickon's confusion questions. Finally, Theon had to deal with guilt for being glad about something that caused those he cared for pain.

Theon is under no delusions about his own virtue or morals -he isn't a particularly good person and would be the first to admit that- but you don't have to be one to feel sad about a crying little girl.

"Jon is stronger than you think," Theon said, "and he is better with a sword than plenty of men twice his age. Ghost was with him too; Jon should be able to take care of himself."

Lord Stark looked surprised by his words and, quite frankly, so was he. Theon hadn't planned to say that but it came out just the same, yet he still found himself continuing on.

"He's smart; Jon wouldn't have run- left without a plan," Theon explained. "You said it looked like he was heading toward White Harbor, right? I know he had quite a bit of money saved up, maybe he decided to take a ship somewhere? Or maybe... maybe..."

Theon let out a sigh and shrugged his shoulders, "Look, I'm just saying that, wherever he is, I think Jon is alright."

The Lord of Winterfell just stared at him for a painfully long time as Theon fought the urge to squirm before a small, sad smile broke across the man's face.

"Thank you for saying as much; I desperately hope that is the case," he said, bowing his head and smoothing his hair back. "But, Theon, the reason that I'm here is... well, this entire situation has made me realize that I need to confront a reality that I have been shamefully avoiding."

He swallowed hard and the man's slate gray eyes seemed to bore into Theon's mind. "I have not been fair to you, Theon. In the years since I... brought you into my household, I have seen that you are fed and clothed and educated properly. I have tried to allow you as much freedom as possible given your... situation so that you won't feel smothered. But I still have not cared for you properly."

"What do you-"

"Please, let me finish," Lord Stark interrupted, holding up his hand to cut Theon off. "I kept you at an arm's distance, first because I believe doing otherwise would make you uncomfortable but then because I felt you'd resent me trying to step into the role your father should fill.

Or, at least, that was what I've been telling myself for years. But, in truth, it was because I feared getting attached to you. I fear that, if I came to care for you like one of my children, what I would mean for us all if... if..."

'If the Iron Islands rebel again and the king calls for my head,' Theon finished mentally. "I understand, Lord Stark. You didn't want to put your family in danger. I know that you can't put my comfort above their safety."

"But I should have tried harder!" Lord Stark insisted, anger -not at Theon but, seemingly, at himself- filling his voice. "You were a child ripped from you home and thrust into a new environment all alone and I should have tried harder to take care of you."

Then the anger seemed to drain away, leaving behind a tired man creeping into his older years. "I'm sorry, Theon. I truly am. And, if possible, I'd like to try again."

It felt like a million emotions hit Theon, one right after another. Happiness at finally being accepted. Fear that this was all a dream or some sort of cruel joke. Sadness that it had taken this long.

And anger.

That came red-hot and overpowering.

"Thanks for the offer, Lord Stark," he growled, leaning back and away from the man, "but I have no desire to be a replacement for Jon. Use someone else to quell your guilt over being a bad enough father that your kid ran off."

The words were harsh and purposefully so. In the back of his mind, Theon realized he was actually hoping Lord Stark would get angry and yell at him; punishment and dismissal would be able to easier to deal with false hope and disappointment.

But that didn't happen. Though there was hurt in his eyes, his Guardian kept calm and quiet as Theon finished his rant."

"Theon, I don't want you to be a replacement," he said simply. "As much as it hurts that Jon is... gone, I don't want anyone to replace him. It is just that his leaving us made me realize some faults I need to make up for. So, will you give me a chance to do so?"

Theon sighed, "Look, Robb, your father... Lord Stark... he has been good to me, better than he needed to be and better than most would have in his position. I-" he swallowed hard, unused to being so emotionally open but still feeling like he owed Robb the truth "-care about all of you... and that is exactly why I won't put any of use in that position. Please don't try to make me."

And with that, Theon hauled a barrel of drinking water into the small boat. He kept his eyes averted so he didn't have to look Robb in the face, so he didn't have to see the hurt and the sadness. Theon didn't want to hurt his friend, that was part of the reason why he was leaving, but also knew that disappearing into the night would remind the other heir of Jon going missing -an event that was probably the most traumatic event in Robb's life.

He had to do this, that didn't mean he wanted to.

"So what are you planning on doing?" Robb asked desperately, yanking his hand through his hair. "Go back to the Iron Island? Head off to Essos? Or are you planning on sailing off into the sunset?"

"I am going to go find Asha and my mother," Theon explained tensely, tightening a knot in the sail rigging. "I'm going to save them."

"Oh..." Out of the corner of his eye, Theon could see an uncertain look pass over Robb's face. He seemed to be deciding on what he was trying to say, eventually, he decided on an, "but you haven't seen either of-"

"Damnit, I know that, Robb!" Theon shouted. "I know that I haven't seen either in years! I know that I don't haven't any idea where they are or what they even look like these days! I know they are probably dead already! I know I'll probably die doing this but, damnit, they're my family, Robb! I can't sit around and do nothing; I have to try. I can't just leave them to Euron."

.

.

.

"Euron… he is the new leader of the Ironborn?" Robb asked slowly. "What can you tell me about him?"

Every story he'd ever been told about his uncle popped into Theon's mind, but he only gave a dry, dark chuckle. "You know all the things mainlanders' say about the Ironborn? Well, plenty of Ironborn say those same things about Euron."

It took a moment, but once the implication set in all the blood rushed from Robb's face, leaving him in a state of wide-eyed, pale-faced shock. He swallowed hard, "Oh."

"Oh,' indeed," Theon grumbled sarcastically. "My father never let any of us children ever be alone with him, you know? I asked him why once but he never explained, only said to never go anywhere with him. Father finally banished him from the islands after he raped and impregnated my aunt... well, Euron claimed he just seduced her but I'm not sure how true that is. After that, my Uncle Victarion beat her to death to retain his honor."

Theon paused to take a shaky breath and Robb stayed silent, a sick look on his face. "He is a monster, Robb, and I don't want you or Jon or Arya or Sansa or Bran or Rickon or your father anywhere near him. So, again, please don't fight me on this."

Robb closed his eyes and gave a meek, sad nod. "I know I can't stop you. I'd probably be doing the same thing if I was in your position... but I can stop anyone from coming after you."

Now it was Theon's turn to be confused. "What do you mean?"

"If... if people think you are dead, then no one will have any reason to look for you," Robb explained, his voice quiet and somber. It wasn't surprising, Robb had been raised to value truthfulness and honor above all else and was now suggesting treason to the crown, all to keep Theon safe.

"And why would they think that?"

"Because I'll find a letter you wrote saying that you threw yourself into the sea because you were afraid of being punished for your father's actions." Robb gave a weak shrug and smile, "Mainlanders don't think much of the Ironborn, they won't question such cowardness."

At the suggestion, Theon only stared for a long moment... before he rushed forward and pulled Robb into a warm hug.

"Thank you," he whispered into his brother's ear.

Oberyn Martell I

Oberyn Martell considered himself to be a man of exceptional intelligence and cunning -just about all who met him would agree with that sentiment, though they'd always have plenty of unique descriptors to add at the end of it- so when he woke up that morning with the innate feeling that it would be a good day, he was inclined to have faith in his own judgment.

"Papa!"

Despite the plea for his attention, Oberyn didn't stop his careful observation of the lesson Obara was giving little Obella. Spear fighting wasn't quite the same as fighting with a quarterstaff but it was close enough that he felt comfortable leaving Obara to it. He couldn't help but smile as he watched Obella twirl the expertly carved hickory quarterstaff he had made for her last nameday, hitting it against her eldest sister's knee. From the tiny smirk on Obara's usually severe face, she found it endearing as well.

"Papa!"

And then, over in the corner of the courtyard, there was Elia 'helping' with Dorea practice with her morning star in the shade of an orange tree. Of course, by 'helping' he meant that Elia was chucking over-ripe oranges that had fallen to the ground at her sister so Dorea could smash them in mid-air, spraying juice everywhere.

'Dorea is going to need a scrubbing after this,' he noted as orange pulp sprayed across his second youngest daughter's grinning face and sticking in her curly dark hair.

"Papa! Pay attention!" Loreza huffed, bottom lip sticking out as she pouted and adorably glared at him.

"Yes, yes, Sweetling," Oberyn cooed at his youngest daughter. "I'm sorry, little one, your papa got distracted."

"That is because you are old," the girl replied simply, crossing her arms as she continued to look on from across the little patio table.

Oberyn very pointedly did not react to the twin snorts of amusement from Nymeria, who was polishing her favorite ornamental Yi Ti-ish daggers, and Tyene, who was embroidering golden horned desert vipers into Obella's favorite red dress. Instead, he tucked a lock of Loreza's hair behind her ear and smiled, "That is true but being old does have it's advantages. For example, I promised to teach you a new trick, right?"

"Mmmhmmm."

Grabbing three of the empty teacups from the table, Oberyn turned the upside-down and pulled off his thumb ring -shaped like a viper of course; Ellaria had it made for him five years ago and said she wanted something that would appeal to his egotism- to hold out for Loreza to see clearly.

"Now," he gave a sneaky grin, "what you need to remember is this -always keep your eye on the snake."

With that, Oberyn put the ring under the middle teacup and shuffled all three back and forth. Glancing up, he saw how Loreza's dark eyes dart from side-to-side as she tried to track the ring and felt his chest swell with yet another rush of affection.

'That being said, there is still another lesson to teach with this,' he thought. Carefully, he slid the cup with the ring closer and over the edge of the table, causing the ring to fall down into his lap. A little more mixing the teacups up and he was done. "Alright, now, where is the ring?"

Loreza's cute little face scrunched up as she concentrated, eyes narrowing as she looked over each of her choices carefully. Eventually, she pointed at the one to the far left -incidentally, it would be the right one under different circumstances, Oberyn noted with pride- and said, "That one."

Forcing his face to remain blank, Oberyn lifted it up. "Oh, sorry, sweetling. That would be a no."

The frustrated cry of defeat his youngest daughter let out almost made Oberyn reveal his secret but he fought back the urge. It wasn't time yet. 'Soon she'll learn that the viper is never where you expect it to be, to expect the unexpected.'

Three rounds of the 'game' later, Loreza was nearly ready to overturn the table in rage, and Oberyn very nearly cracked a rib holding back his laughter.

"I think that is enough for now," he said, deciding it was time to take pity on the poor girl. "Let me explain how to-"

"Greetings, Prince Oberyn."

All eyes in the courtyard turned to the servant who had just arrived. The man bowed respectfully, tilting his head in polite greeting to each of Oberyn's daughters in order of their age. "Prince Oberyn, Prince Doran needs to speak with you immediately."

It was rare for Doran to demand anything of his younger brother, having long since realized that doing such usually backfired. So it was no surprise that Oberyn cocked an eyebrow in response to the order-a gesture amusing mirror by every single one of his children present- and cleared his throat, not even bothering to rise to his feet. "Surely Doran will understand that I am quite busy at the moment. Tell him that I will be along when I can."

"The Prince asks that you come immediately," the servant insisted. "There has been news from King's Landing that he thinks you'll be quite interested."

That had Oberyn on his feet, his attention fully captured. "I will be there in one moment," he said, causing the servant to nod and leave.

"Is it time?" Obara asked, eagerness creeping into her voice as she rubbed a thumb over the polished wood of her spear.

"I don't know," he admitted, a smirk forming on his face, "but if Doran thinks whatever happened is worth discussing, then perhaps."

Tyene gave a serene smile, "I do hope something is happening, I have a few new concoctions that I'm just dying to try out."

Loreza giggled at her sister's words as she tugged the snake ring out of Oberyn's hands to roll between her fingers. The Red Viper patted his youngest on the head turned to his elder daughters, "Stay here and watch the little ones, please. I'll be back soon and we can discuss things further."

"So, keep Elia from running off to spy on you and Uncle again?" Nymeria asked, cocking a teasing eyebrow.

Elia's only response was to chuck an orange at her sister's head.

"Finally able to tear yourself away from your childminding, Uncle?" Arianne asked, her voice sweet and mocking all in one.

"It's called 'parenting,' my dear niece," Oberyn mocked back. "Some old friends of Ellaria's are in the city and she wanted to spend some alone time with them, so I get to enjoy the rare treat of having my girls to myself."

Doran gave a quiet chuckle, "Obara is in her thirties. How much more parenting can she need?"

"Children never stop needing their parents, less they decide to take everything into their own hands," he shot back. Both brothers' eyes slid to Arianne who, while far from stupid, tended to be rash in her scheming, and it as only by sheer wit mixed with a considerable amount of luck that none of them had blown up too badly in her face.

The Princess of Dorne just rolled her eyes.

Oberyn flopped himself down on a chaise lounge beside Doran's desk, "So, what is so big that you've torn me away from my fatherly indulges?"

Arianne giggled, a dark little smile playing of her beautiful face, "Oh, you'll enjoy it. The Lannisters fucked up bad."

A raised eyebrow in Doran's direction only led to him passing Oberyn six pieces of parchment. The first three were a letter written in a deceptively simple code known to the most trusted of Doran's spies -it involved holding the writing upside-down in front of a mirror and from there it was a simple book cipher using a standard copy of The Loves of Queen Nymeria. The next three pages were the decoded message which Oberyn read over carefully once, twice, three times.

Then he burst out laughing.

"The Lannister queen's coup ended worse for her than anyone else! Now her two sons are dead and her daughter is in the wind!" he howled. "And now she expects people to believe Eddard Stark and his family were the ones behind all the deaths and disappearances?"

Arianne smiled as if her nameday had come early, "It looks like the lions have lost most of their power in the Capital, no more heirs to claim the throne and the head of the house was supposedly killed by his imp of a son."

"The same son who is now also, conveniently, missing," Doran mused, taking the letters back. "Though, while our spies have no proof, it is likely the queen herself did the deed. It does make sense, detestable as I find Tywin Lannister, the man was far from stupid and I cannot conceive him allowing his daughter to operate so foolishly."

Oberyn gave a grumpy shrug; he hated having to attribute anything positive towards the Old Lion. "So who is the Lannister woman going to put on the throne to try and hold onto power."

"It doesn't say, the woman is apparently claiming the kingdom should have a proper period of mourning before speaking of such things but I suspect she has a plan," Doran admitted. "What I do find interesting is this young man who has been mentioned several times in correspondence from our people in King's Landing, this Jon Whitewolf."

"I've never heard of him before."

"No, you have, just not by that name," Doran informed. "Jon Whitewolf is Jon Snow, the same Jon Snow that fled from his father's home in Winterfell several years ago."

Oberyn felt his eyes widen, "Truly? The boy survived to come back after all these years? He must have some interesting stories to tell."

The Red Viper may not have many positive feelings towards the Warden of the North but, as a father, he could not relish in the news that the man's son had disappeared. Perhaps Ned Stark had deserved to lose a child though, he couldn't say how well the boy was treated in his home but Oberyn did seriously doubt Lady Stark was happy to have her husband's illegitimate child was raised alongside her own -Northerners tended to be testy about that kind of thing. It was foolish, in his opinion; after all, children raised without love tended to turn venomous to their own blood.

"Why are you so interested in this boy?" he asked, genuinely curious. This didn't seem like the type of thing to catch Doran's attention. If there was more truth to the rumor that Jon Snow was Ashara's son than Oberyn could understand but, as it stood, he had no idea.

"Just an old theory that has been turning in my mind," the Prince of Dorne hummed, glancing back over the letter before looking up to meet Oberyn's eyes. "I think you should write Willas. There is a storm brewing on the horizon and I believe the time for our family's revenge is almost upon us. Oh, and send a letter to Sarella too; her little game may soon become more useful than previously believed."

Deadly as any viper, Oberyn just smiled at those words.

Jaime III

What a strange feeling it was, to outlive both of your parents and two of your children. Certainly, Jaime was far from the only one who'd experience such a thing, but it still felt odd. Staring down at the prepared bodies of his father and little Tommen, Jaime wasn't sure how he felt. Sad... Angry... Confused...

Shocked.

Yes, that would probably be the best word.

Growing up, there was always a sort of mythical impenetrability to the great Tywin Lannister and, even as the man grew gray and took up a cane, he always seemed larger than life and like nothing could ever harm him. So to see the man so cold, and lifeless... well, it felt like Jaime was caught in a dream.

Then there was Tommen, his youngest child. The boy had always been so hyper, constantly buzzing about the Red Keep like a little honeybee, and chatting with anyone who'd spare him a moment. It just felt wrong to see him so still and quiet, like the body before Jaime was just a stone effigy of the young prince instead of the child himself. Despite the distance Jaime had always forced between himself and his children, something still ached deep inside his heart when he learned his child was dead.

Silently, he reached out and gently stroked the back of Tommen's limp, cold hand.

"He looks so much like you."

"Yes, he..." Jaime trailed off as he turned to see that Cersei wasn't talking about Tommen but rather about Joffrey.

Leaning over the body of her deceased precious son, she cupped Joffrey's face with her right hand and leaned down to press a lingering kiss on his cheek. Pulling back, she smoothed a thumb down the young man's chin and whispered, "He looks so much like me."

'So did Tommen but you don't care about him,' Jaime thought bitterly, sickened by the display he was witnessing. His twin had barely spared a glance toward her dead father or youngest child, saving all her focus and tears for her beloved first-born.

But then he took another look at her and flinched, 'I should judge her so harshly. She's been through so much recently... can I truly be angry at Cersei for grieving in her own way?'

Cersei, who'd been a famed beauty throughout all of Westeros since she first flowered, had been burned. The fresh, blistering wound stretched from the middle of her left forearm and crept up to the middle of her cheek, along with some patches no her chest and back. They'd been expertly bandaged by a maester that had recently arrived to study some texts in the library and her arm had been put in a sling to stop Cersei from stressing it. He'd assured them that, with proper treatment, they'd heal up quite nicely, and even that there was a special procedure he could proform to cover up the scaring.

Though, ironically, it was the loss of most of her long blonde hair that probably hurt Cersei the most. The flames had burned away all but a few inches of the woman's glorious golden mane not the left side of her head so, in an effort to maintain some level of appearance, the rest of her hair had been cut short as well, leaving her with a short bob. Cersei had called for the finest wig-maker in the city, but it would be a while until on up to her standards could be made.

It was... hard to see Cersei like this, so different from how he'd ever seen her before in their lives. Never again would her milky skin be so smooth and flawless. Never again would he be able to run his fingers through her shimmering, thick hair without being reminded of so many terrible events. Even her green eyes were different now, Jaime noted as she tore her gaze away from Joffrey to stare him down. Not so much in color or shape or anything like that, but there was something... manic in there now, something hungry and alive.

"Tyrion did this to me," she hissed, turning to address him for the first time since Jaime had arrived. "He did this to me and the Starks helped him! They need to pay! We need to make them pay for what they did to me!"

Heart sinking, Jaime carefully approached his twin and gently took her by the arms. "Cersei, my love, you're hurt... you need rest. Tyrion... I can't believe he'd do this to-"

SLAP!

The force of Cersei's slap caused Jaime's head jerked to the side. He let out a long, low sigh, eyes low to the ground, and he gently touched his stinging cheek. "Cersei, I-"

"So you're turning against me too? You, who I've done so much for? You, who I've always supported and loved? You're going to side with that monstrous imp and those flea-bitten mongrels over your own sister, the mother of your children?" she demanded.

Jaime shook his head, trying to get through to her, "No, of course not. I just don't think we should rush into anything. We need to-"

"Jaime, Tyrion killed Father! The Starks... that Snow bastard and his whore killed Joffrey and took Myrcella! Who knows what they plan on doing to her?" Cersei said, grabbing his arm so hard her fingernails dug deep into the skin. "They and all their allies are a danger to our entire family, they need to be dealt with!"

If Jaime was completely honest, he felt a little grateful someone else, whoever they were, had killed Joffrey. The boy would have been a poisonous king to the realm, yes, and, yes, Jaime never had any fatherly feeling towards the boy, but the idea of having to kill his secret child was one that had been weighing heavily on his heart.

He didn't believe Jon killed Lord Arryn, didn't believe he would have caused all that pain and chaos that Cersei was claiming; the Old Hand had seemed to like the boy, far more than he ever did Jaime. He didn't believe Tyrion would have killed Father... not that his brother wouldn't have had good reason to. Though he only has had a handful of conversations with Lady Serana and, while there was definitely something unnerving about her, specifically in her eyes, he didn't believe her capable of killing Joffrey and Tommen or taking Myrcella either.

Her mother, on the other hand, was completely terrifying and Jaime could easily imagine Lady Valerica plunking out his eyeballs and eating them as an afternoon snack.

Still, he remembered Eddard Stark's icy, hard eyes as they stared at him, judging Jaime for his actions before even asking why. Jaime remembered how the man judged without knowing. For all of his supposed honor, Stark rarely considered how his actions affected others.

All the dead guards? All the missing nobility? All the fires? All the chaos?

Someone had to answer for all of that.

'But a war?' Jaime though. 'Does Cersei really want to jump right into a war?'

Once upon a time, someone had told Jaime that war was all he'd ever be good at and perhaps that was true. Jaime wasn't a scholar -looking at a page in a book made his headache and his handwriting still looked like scribbles- and he wasn't a diplomat -the spoken word was for Father and Tyrion and even Cersei- and he certainly not a healer or artisan. He was good in battle and in the bedroom, that was it.

So perhaps it was ironic that he hated the idea of another war.

Closing his eyes, Jaime shook his head. "I-"

Cersei burst out into tears, "Jaime, you're all I have left. I need you; please don't leave me. If you do, I'll throw myself from top of the Hand's Tower."

'Don't do it, she is just trying to manipulate you,' Jaime told himself.

'Don't do it, had you locked up for two days during all of this,' Jaime told himself.

'Don't do it, she is lying to you about something,' Jaime told himself.

'Don't do it, you already know she is lying to the public about some of what happened,' Jaime told himself.

'Don't do it, she just hit you,' Jaime told him.

"Jaime, please! I love you so much, please don't leave!" Cersei begged through her tears, grabbing his sleeve like a scared child.

The Kingslayer looked the only woman he'd ever loved -took in her tears, her red eyes, her bandages, and her cut hair- and pulled her into a gentle embrace. Careful of her swaddled injuries, Jaime kissed the crown of Cersei's golden head and whispered, "Okay, I'll stay."

After a couple of sniffles, Cersei was pulling away, her tears completely stopped and a new smile on her painted lips. "Excellent," she declared. "Now we must plan what to do next."

Jaime frowned. Didn't she want to finish mourning her sons and Father? "Well, the funerals will be held soon so-"

"No, not about that," Cersei cut him off. "Someone needs to lead the Seven Kingdoms until Myrcella can be safely recovered and returned to me."

His frown deepened. Yes, Cersei was technically correct; the realm didn't stop existing whilst they buried their loved ones but still...

"Alright, we'll need to gather the council and discuss who should be the acting King," Jaime offered. "We also will need to find a new Hand of the King after Lord Arryn's... untimely departure."

"And let that group of old men take my daughter's rightful inheritance away from her?" Cersei scoffed. "No, I will be taking the throne as regent and continue to do so until Myrcella is ready."

Jaime felt his jaw drop at the idea. "Are you joking?"

His twin's face twisted in anger, "Why would I be? It is no different than what would have happened if Tommen was set to take the throne! If we let anyone else attempt to control things, our daughter would be deprived of what is owed to her. Do you really want that to happen?"

"No, of course not," Jaime reassured quickly. Hells, under different circumstances, he'd have thought Myrcella would have been an excellent ruler, not that she'd be accepted by the kingdom at large. "But I don't think the Council would accept it without any question."

Cersei rolled her eyes, "Those fools? Why should I worry about them? Anyone who doesn't stand with me is against us, against the Lannisters, and will be dealt with accordingly. We'll get them in line soon, don't you worry, and that includes replacing Littlefinger and the Spider, both of whom have conveniently scampered off. The same with that blasted dog who failed to protect Joffrey. As for the Hand of the King? I have someone in mind."

"Who?" Jaime asked, confused and fighting back the urge to vomit as a gut-turning feeling of worry grew in the pit of his stomach.

His twin just smiled sweetly, "Why, you of course. That way you'll always be by my side."

Gendry I

Gendry had never been on a ship bigger than a small fishing boat, so being aboard the Bell Singer was quite the change for him. Only one of many, as it turns out, that had occurred in the past few days. Taking a bite of the ham sandwich he'd been given by the weird lizard-man who operated the ship's kitchens, he sat back against the taffrail and try to enjoy the sunshine and sea breeze. The air the was cold, especially to someone who spent most of his time in a forge, but the clothes Gendry had been loaned were both warmer and nicer than just about anything he'd ever owned.

Plus, the sight in front of him was pretty amusing.

"Left! Right! Watch your footwork!"

Face twisted with a combination of intense concentration and frustrated, Arya danced around the straw practice dummy that had been dragged up onto the deck from the cargo hold. Mister Forel had decided that just because his student, her family, and her friends had only just managed to escape a kidnapping/attempted assassination didn't mean Arya could skip her lessons. In fact, it seemed as if the man had decided to escalate them, even allowing Arya to finally have a real blade.

The sun glinted off the blade of Arya's sword as she moved it smoothly yet slowly around her straw enemy. The blade was a thing of beauty -and Gendry wasn't just saying that because he had a hand in creating it either- with it's slim, narrow blade and elegant handguard which had been specially designed to allow its owner to wield it with both hands. True, it was a small thing and would probably bounce right off of a knight's breastplate but, when used correctly, the smith's apprentice was sure it would be plenty deadly.

And now, watching Arya practice with it, Gendry could not imagine it ever being wielded by anyone else.

"Now, finish him!"

At the command of her teacher, Arya lunged forward... only for an errant wave to jostle the ship and throw her off balance, causing her sword to go right through the straw dummy's groin. Gendry cringed at the horrifying mental image the sight caused and sucked in a breath through his teeth, a sentiment shared by the men around him who clenched their legs together.

"Well, that wasn't what Syrio Forel meant but I suppose such an attack will defeat any man," the master swordsman remarked wryly.

Mister Enzo laughed, "Did Serana teach you that move, Arya?"

His question caused the girl to blush cutely and give the giant man the finger before slipping back into the beginning stance to begin her practice once more. Mister Enzo laughed again and came to stand beside Gendry.

"She is good," he observed. "Do you agree?"

"I've never met anyone quite like her," Gendry replied honestly. "I've never met any girl who could stab a guard in the leg or freeze a man's face off with some sort of ice... sorcery. At this point, seeing her use a sword is impressive, but not surprising. I'm glad she likes it though."

"I think Arya would have liked any blade but I also suspect this one will forever be special to her. That is good; considering what has happened and what is yet to come, she will need to feel comfortable with a sword in her hand and blood on her soul" Mister Enzo nodded. Then his dark eyes slid down to Gendry's, warm and concerned, "And what about you, young Gendry? How are you coping with recent events?"

Gendry opened his to respond, then closed it.

Quite frankly, he didn't know how to respond. Learning he was a bastard wasn't a surprise, Gendry had long since expected it, but learning he was not just a noble bastard but KING ROBERT'S bastard? Now that was a shock. Though, in hindsight, it did explain a lot, like why Master Tobho Mott had taken him, a poor street child, on as an apprentice so young, why the now-dead Hand of the King and Lord Stannis Baratheon had stopped by to seemingly check on him a few times, and why his master had always seemed so protective of him.

That protectiveness was part of why it had been so strange that Master had insisted he leave the shop that morning to drop off the sword in person, to the point he had all but shoved Gendry out of the door. Looking up at the sky and resting his head back on the taffrail, he could help but think, 'Gods, please let the Old Man be alright. Please, let him not be hurt because of me.'

"It's strange," he eventually said. "For so long, I knew nothing about my family and now I know everything but it doesn't really matter does it? My family is still dead and now I just have people after my head for something I have no control over. Hells, knowing nothing may have even been better! Then, at least, I could have had my fantasies. I could have had my dream of a normal, happy family that just ended in tragedy like so many others. I wouldn't have been special, just another orphan."

Mister Enzo didn't offer up any meaningless platitudes, for which Gendry was grateful; instead, he just hummed quietly and said, "You found out that you have siblings though, is there any joy in that for you? I have a brother and sister myself and, though they each have their own special way of annoying me, I cannot imagine my life without them."

"I guess that is true," Gendry agreed with a shrug. "Being an older brother seems like it could be fun."

Meeting his half-siblings and their mothers was a strange experience. To be related to someone you've never met anyone and the only reason you ever met them in the first place was that the wife of the father that none of you had met before wanted you dead was enough to send Gendry's mind into a spiral. Oh, and you have a noble cousin who looks a lot like you but is too shy to meet your eyes and too sad to leave her cabin.

Still, Dalla and Mhaegan were nice enough, if a little overwhelmed by everything that had happened recently, which was understandable, and more comfortable staying in their cabin for now.

Dalla was quiet and withdraw, though she immediately volunteered to help with cooking and laundry after arriving on the ship. Dustun, seemed to be adjusting well to living, however temporarily, on a ship. He was fascinated by all the different parts of the Bell Singer and, when he could slip out from the cabin the two little families were sharing, would latch himself to the hip of one of the sailors and badger them with questions. Mhaegan was sweet and well-spoken; she was also very pretty and Gendry was doing his very best to shove that thought out of his mind because, GODS, was it weird that the mother of his half-sister was closer to his age.

Barra was a baby. She didn't do much.

"It is just so strange to even think of myself as an older brother or some man's son, let alone the son of a king," Gendry continued. "You know, a week ago I knew who I was and I had the rest of my life planned out. I was Gendry, the most skilled apprentice to the most skilled blacksmith in all of Westeros; my future including completely my apprenticeship, setting up my own blacksmith shop or maybe even eventually taking over my master's -he'd mentioned it a few times, said he wanted to leave it to someone he could trust and who wasn't 'a complete fool'- and when I had enough saved up I find myself a wife, get a little family to call my own. Now though? I have no idea. I don't know who I am or what I'm going to do with my life."

"Ah yes, who am I and what do I do with my life? The eternal questions," Mister Enzo said, sliding down the taffrail to join Gendry. "Well, as for what you should do... You are welcome to join me and the rest of Jon's party when we return to Tamriel."

"Really?" Gendry felt his eyebrows shoot up.

"Of course. Skyrim always has room for more blacksmith and I know Jon would be more than happy to offer support and accommodations until you can get on your feet, he is always doing stuff like that," the older man explained. "Who knows, perhaps you will even be able to figure out who you are there?"

"I.." Gendry heard himself trail off before he could give a proper answer. Could he really leave behind everything and everyone he'd ever known? Could he really trust Jon not to abandon him in some faraway land? Sure, he liked Jon and thought him to be a good person, but he still knew very little about him. "Can I think about it for a while?"

"I insist on it, such a decision should not be taken lightly," Mister Enzo said cheerfully, slapping Gendry on the knee -and, OUCH, that man definitely didn't know his own strength!- and standing up. "Anyhow, I have to go talk to the captain about..."

The giant man's voice faded out as Lady Serana walked up to the pair, a strange expression on her face. "Sera, is everything alright?"

"Ye- Nn..." The dark-haired woman bit her lip as her beautiful face twisted into something unreadable. "I think there is something you should see."

Next Chapter: As lines start to be drawn in the sand, many must decide where they stand and what they stand for. This includes learning who they are willing to work with and if they can put aside their own pride for the sake of others.

1) GOD OF WAR: RAGNAROK HAS BEEN ANNOUNCED!

This has nothing to do with anything in the story, I'm just hoping to find someone to share my enthusiasm with.

2) Before anyone says anything, I will be addressing more of the 'people's reaction to magic' thing next chapter. Don't worry.

3) Considering we are starting to have a lot of different groups, would you like me to start including a 'factions' list?