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Chapter Text

* * *

Jaime Lannister tried to follow what Robin Arryn was saying. The school nurse had given him his medications and while the child was better now, he was still not entirely coherent. As she and Jaime attempted to wrest the story from the boy, the new fourth-grade teacher, Miss Tarth, knelt down in a vain attempt to keep from looming over him. “Robin, we need to know exactly what happened.”

Preferably before Mrs. Arryn arrived, Jaime thought. Somehow she managed to magnify by fifty times every scrape, every incident involving her only child. He spent far too much of his time as principal of Crossroads Elementary dealing with overprotective parents as it was.

The nurse got Robin a glass of water and gradually he calmed down.

Jaime thought the process would be sped up if they weren’t distracted by the program showing on her tiny portable television. “Could you turn that off—whatever it is?”

“It’s Blackhaven Hospital,” the nurse informed him with quiet dignity. “I just had it on for the background noise while I was doing the inventory. Robin, slower sips, all right?”

Between gulps and shudders the story came out. The usual contingent of bullies had been after him and he’d taken refuge in the locker room.

Jaime had to admit it was a sound strategy. Absolutely no one would expect Robin to voluntarily go anywhere near the gym.

Eventually, the boys had given up or gone home and Robin had emerged from his hiding place.

“It came out then,” Robin blubbered. “The Thing.”

The nurse and Jaime exchanged looks.

“It looked just like everyone says. The . . . the teeth.” Robin started crying in earnest again, just in time for his mother to come rushing into the office.

“The teeth?” Miss Tarth asked, plainly bewildered. She hadn’t been at Crossroads Elementary very long.

He supposed it was a good that his staff members were obeying his orders not to discuss the problem in the locker room, but it also meant that he would need to have The Discussion with Miss Tarth.

Mrs. Arryn’s arrival fortunately allowed him to steer the conversation away from the boys’ locker room and onto Robin’s run-in with the other boys. She was a nervous woman and an overprotective mother by nature; widowhood had exacerbated these traits, but Jaime honestly couldn’t blame her in this case. Crossroads had a zero-tolerance policy for bullying. Robin may have been a sniveling little boy, but that was hardly an excuse.

Jaime assured her he was on it. The other boys would be disciplined. They had very good counselors for this sort of thing as well.

“The teeth,” Robin whispered.

“Sweetling?”

“Robin was just about to tell us about the locker—”

Jaime shot Miss Tarth a glare. “—Robin hurt himself in the boys’ locker room.”

“I don’t want to go in there anymore,” Robin whimpered. “And I didn’t hurt—”

“—He’s fine, though, aren’t you, lad?” Jaime patted the boy on the back. “Mrs. Arryn, I want to assure you that I will personally see to it that the situation in the locker room is fixed.” He saw Robin opening his mouth, probably ready to spill everything about Biter. “We may need to suspend physical education classes for a while.”

Robin absorbed this and said no more about the teeth.

More assurances were needed to placate Lysa Arryn, but eventually she too was satisfied.

“How long can we keep them out of the locker room?” the nurse demanded after Mrs. Arryn and her son had left.

Miss Tarth had her arms folded across her chest. “What’s going on? What’s wrong with the locker room? Robin isn’t that imaginative. What is this business about ‘the teeth’?”

Jaime sighed. He was so sick of having to have The Discussion.

* * *

Despite a renovation costing who knew how many millions, the waiting area in KLX International Airport was grim and extremely unsuited to the two-hour waiting period Sansa Stark had endured. There were three banks of grey seats in a C-shape facing a row of monitors, all of which were showing pretty much that every flight was delayed. Another screen was airing Blackhaven Hospital. Sansa hadn’t watched the show in years, not since she’d shared an apartment with Jeyne and Brienne. Jeyne had the biggest crush on the actor who played Dr. Beric Dondarrion and used to force the two of them to watch the episodes she’d DVR’d.

As painful as it had been to watch the soap opera then, it was torture now. Sansa was old enough to remember a time when you could go to the gate to meet someone—a time when you didn’t need to be stuck between a woman whose nose was dripping non-stop and a little boy who was relentlessly kicking his sneaker-clad toe against the chair leg. The last thing she needed was to have to watch some aging soap opera actor who had been killed off and brought back to life almost as many times as Erica Kane had husbands.

To the far right, sitting facing her, was her ex-boyfriend’s somewhat terrifying uncle, Tywin Lannister. Sansa knew he was semi-retired, which explained what he was doing babysitting Tyrion’s little girls, in the airport at 1:00PM. She had met them a few times, but it had always been in a crowd of their relatives and she doubted they would remember her. They flanked him. One had her nose in a picture book and the other was babbling nonsense to her doll. Thankfully, Mr. Lannister (in contrast to his brother, Kevan, Tywin Lannister was not a man you addressed by his first name easily) was reading a financial newspaper and didn’t seem to have noticed her. Not that it would matter. In all the time she was living with Lancel, he had never remembered her name, not once.

It was good he didn’t remember or recognize her. Sansa had already been through two uncomfortable discussions each with Lancel’s parents. She had liked both Kevan and Dorna and would miss having them in her life, but nice prospective in-laws were not a strong enough reason to stay involved with a man who hadn’t believed her when she had needed him to and who really, when she thought about it, didn’t have all that much in the way of backbone.

One of his granddaughters pulled at his blazer and Mr. Lannister bent over to help her identify a word. Sansa found herself thinking that he was quite a handsome man, even if he was now handing them juice boxes and seeming very disturbed that he was doing so.

But now Mr. Lannister had her in his sights and he was furrowing his brow.

Sansa smiled politely and inclined her head in acknowledgement. The frown on his face deepened and there was the faintest look of disdain to his expression. He probably either thought she was some opportunist or if he did remember her, thought the worst of her for dumping Lancel. Sansa decided to appear to be engrossed by Blackhaven Hospital and was relieved when Margaery’s flight arrived soon after.

“Oh, thank goodness!” Margaery dumped her carry-on unceremoniously at her feet. “I thought that plane would never get here.” She enveloped Sansa in a hug that went on slightly too long.

Sansa extricated herself and removed Margaery’s hands from her bum. There had always been an odd kind of attraction with Margaery, but now she was married to Sansa’s brother, Robb, and if Margaery’s definition of acceptable sexual behavior with a sister-in-law was very fluid, Sansa’s wasn’t. She was happy, though, to be out of sight of Lancel’s uncle.

* * *

Brienne sat in the principal’s office trying to absorb what Jaime Lannister had just said. “Let me get this straight. You’re telling me the boys’ locker room is haunted?”

“You got it,” he responded brightly. He had his hands clasped behind his head, and despite the grim nature of the discussion, looked very pleased with himself and his perfect golden hair.

“Haunted?” Brienne wondered how much time Jaime Lannister spent in front of a mirror every morning.

“Pretty much.”

Hours, she thought. He probably rose at 5:00 to start a haircare regimen. “There are no such things as ghosts.”

He sighed, unlocked his desk drawer, and pulled out a key ring. “I am so sick of having to do this.”

“Do what?” Up until now, Brienne’s dealings with the principal had been minimal. He was a hands-off administrator and seemed to her comparatively inexperienced eye to be fairly flip about most problems. Too flip, she had thought.

“I’m going to introduce you to Biter.”

* * *

Tywin was relieved when the girl who had been seeing Lancel, whose name he could never remember, broke off eye contact with him. She had turned her attention to that ridiculous soap opera as if it were utterly fascinating.

Two elderly women settled in a few seats down from him. “They brought Dr. Beric Dondarrion back from the dead? Again? How many times does this make?”

“Six, I think,” said the lady with the sweater patterned with cats. “I forget how he they killed him the last time.”

“Knife fight with the alcoholic burn victim. And the time before that the psychotic mercenary shot Dr. Beric Dondarrion with an arrow in the jungle when he was helping that blonde freedom fighter, the one who had Anguy’s baby.”

Tywin cursed himself for ever letting Kevan talk him into limiting use of the corporate jet to official business only. In the old days, there would have been none of this mixing with the great unwashed. He would have been treated like a king. Tywin had been in this grim little waiting area with his granddaughters for hours now and there was still no indication that Tyrion’s flight would ever arrive.

“Grandfather, who is that lady with Cousin Sansa?”

Tywin looked. Sansa. That was her name. Eddard Stark’s daughter. “She isn’t your cousin.” He watched as Margaery Tyrell draped herself all over the girl.

“But she lives with Cousin Lancel.”

“Not anymore.” And judging from the way Margaery Tyrell had her arm linked through Sansa Stark’s, it was perhaps fortunate. He turned his attention back to the monitors and sighed with relief. “Ah. Your father’s flight has arrived.” Finally.

* * *

Jaime had to hand it to Miss Tarth. She held it together a lot longer than any of the other former skeptics. It wasn’t until they reached his office that her knees started to buckle. He guided her to a seat and watched as she sank onto it.

“What was that?”

“Biter.” Jaime yanked open his bottom right desk drawer and fished out the bottle in the brown paper bag that he kept on hand for emergencies such as this. He poured the liquid into a red plastic Solo cup and gave it to her.

Miss Tarth gulped it down and then immediately started to spit. “What in the seven hells is this?”

“Bourbon.”

“I’ve had bourbon. This is not bourbon.” She coughed violently.

“Scotch?”

“It’s blue.”

Jaime looked. It was not, in fact, bourbon. He pulled the bottle out and groaned. “Qarthian absinthe. I must have gotten the bottles mixed up.”

She made a face. “Isn’t that illegal?”

He got another cup and some water for her. “Possibly,” he hedged. “It’s not illegal in Qarth.”

“The teeth . . .”

He was almost relieved to be back on the subject of Biter. “It’s a long story.”

Brienne stared at the two cups. She set the water down and took a sip of the absinthe. “Tell me.”

* * *

Margaery didn’t seem to notice any awkwardness, chattering away about the flight, Robb, and their business. Although Sansa noticed that Margaery was actually vague about how the hotel was doing, and every time Sansa ventured a question, her sister-in-law steered the conversation onto something else. Only when they reached Sansa’s apartment did Margaery ask her how she was doing. “I couldn’t believe it when I heard about Lancel. I thought you two were heading to the altar.”

“Like I wrote when I emailed you, it’s complicated.”

“Well, I brought some Qarthian absinthe. We’ll get drunk and you can tell me all about it.”

* * *

Despite Tylenol and a copious amount of water, Brienne’s head was still swimming. It didn’t help that she could not get the image of Biter out of her head. She did feel much better now that they were away from the school, although she wasn’t sure being in the apartment of the principal was the most appropriate place.

“I would never have taken the position if I had known. They did warn me that Crossroads was unusual,” Jaime was saying—they had been on a first name basis since she’d thrown up into his office wastepaper basket. “We have to do something. Some of the parents are starting to suspect and I can’t keep closing the locker room.”

“How long has . . . Biter . . . been down there?”

“No one knows. Or will say.” Jaime rummaged around his kitchen cupboards and unearthed some Saltines. “I’m really sorry about the absinthe. My brother gave us each a bottle when he came back from his honeymoon in Essos. Tyrion said it’s supposed to open the mind through prophetic dreams or visions and provide clarity. Oh, and it’s a gateway to past lives too, I think.”

She thought she had all the clarity she required. It felt like her mind was open already—open as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to it. “Us?” As far as she knew he wasn’t married. “Maybe I should go.”

“I live alone.”

Brienne didn’t like the flutter in her stomach that his statement produced. He was the principal. He was full of himself and very cavalier about how he ran Crossroads Elementary. He was extremely handsome. She was not. Men like Jaime Lannister did not pay attention to women like her. Besides, she still wasn’t ready for a relationship. It was too soon after the divorce.

Jaime pushed the package of crackers toward her. “I meant my sister and father. I think we all had the same reaction and just shoved it in a drawer or a cupboard. I’ve had it for years. I’m not even sure how it wound up at the school. Tyrion is my younger brother and he likes to joke around a lot.” He showed her a picture of his family.

They looked happy. She listened as he named everyone: his twin, her husband and kids, his brother, his brother’s wife and children, his parents.

“My mother passed away a few years ago. Father is still not over it. He’s semi-retired. I think that was a mistake. I’m not sure my father knows what to do with himself. What about you? I am guessing you’re from Tarth, but . . .”

He was very easy to talk to, Brienne realized. As she was telling him about her father and then her ex-husband, she remembered something. “Are you related to a Lancel Lannister?”

“First cousin, why?”

Brienne found her phone. “I may know someone who can help . . . with Biter.”

* * *

The absinthe cocktails Margaery whipped up were things of beauty, but after one sip, Sansa put her Blue Fairy down. “Is it supposed to taste like that?” She wasn’t even sure how she would describe it—cough syrup and cranberry juice? No, that didn’t quite account for the viscous feel in her mouth.

Margaery laughed. “Yes. You don’t drink Qarthian absinthe for the taste. So tell me: what happened with Lancel?”

She was saved from answering by the sound of an incoming text on her phone. Sansa read it, frowned deeply, and tapped out an answer to Brienne.

“What is Crownlands Paranormal Investigations?”

Sansa looked up to see Margaery peering over her shoulder. “You promised you would stay on your side of the sofa.” She shook Margaery off.

“Robb wouldn’t mind. We have an open marriage, Sansa.”

“I would mind. He’s my brother.”

Margaery pouted, but she slid back to her original position.

Now her phone rang. It was Brienne again. “I have to take this.”

* * *

Margaery checked her email while half shamelessly eavesdropping on Sansa’s phone call. Robb missed her, he wrote. Also, the Celtigars’ daughter had broken off her engagement and they were canceling the wedding reception. Mr. Celtigar wanted his deposit back. Robb felt badly about the whole thing and was inclined to refund their money.

“It’s called ‘Biter?’” Sansa’s eyebrows had shot up.

Robb’s generous nature was one of his best and his worst qualities. While Sansa was apparently enthralled by what she was being told over the phone, Margaery found the pdf copy of the agreement the Celtigars had signed, forwarded it in an email where she copied Robb, expressed their joint regret and extended best wishes for a happier future to the daughter, while stating that they had a policy on non-refundable deposits, which was further outlined in the agreement. She also included a link to The Crossing’s web page where this was reiterated.

“In the boys’ locker room? Wow.”

Margaery then texted Robb and told him not to bend. The Celtigars were loaded and could afford it. Robb and she could not.

“I didn’t actually meet the paranormal investigators, Brienne. I had packed up before Lancel even hired them.”

There were a few emails from prospective customers. Those Robb could handle. There were also two from businesses with whom they regularly dealt. One tersely promised a formal letter would be coming. Another stated they’d be moving to a cash-up-front basis from now on.

“Oh, I would say Lancel was pleased. He’s sleeping with one of the partners of the company.”

Margaery’s phone buzzed. She read Robb’s text and immediately tapped out: “non-refundable means we keep their deposit.”

That done, there was really nothing to do but wait for Sansa to finish talking to Brienne. Margaery waited until Sansa had hung up. “Tell me about Lancel.” She was honestly more interested in this business about Crownlands Pararnormal Investigations, but it appeared to be tied up with Sansa’s ex. She might as well begin there.

* * *

Sansa deflected three times, but as the evening wore on, she confessed the truth. At first she wasn’t sure Margaery believed her, but by the time she was done, Margaery’s eyes were round and her rosebud lips were slightly parted in shock. “I know it sounds insane, but I swear by the Seven, it’s all true.”

“No, I believe you. It’s just . . . but you said the ghost is gone.”

She decided to give the Blue Fairy another try. It tasted slightly less vile the second time around. “He says yes. He found this company that gets rid of spirits or something. And afterwards, when I went back to get the rest of my stuff, the whole house felt entirely different.”

“Does Lancel want to get back together?”

“He told me so over the phone, but he . . .” She sipped again. “He’s now involved with one of the people from this ghost hunting firm. He’s not good enough for me.” Actually, it felt good to be talking this out, and with Margaery in particular. Margaery had never liked Lancel and the Lannisters weren’t all that crazy about any of the Tyrells. And Margaery and Robb had been so focused on their business that she and Sansa were not as close as they had once been. But now it felt like the old days when they would confide in each other.

Margaery twisted her lip. “Crownlands Paranormal Investigations,” she said slowly. “Is that the same company?”

“Yes.” Sansa swallowed some more. This time it went down easily. “It’s so weird. Brienne Tarth, you remember her from college?” She saw Margaery nod. “She asked for their name.”

* * *

Davos Seaworth, the man from Crownlands Paranormal Investigations, had a Flea Bottom accent, but he sounded very professional, Jaime thought. “No, I can’t say that we’ve noticed any ectoplasmic discharge. Like I was saying before, it’s . . . well, it’s the teeth.”

Brienne was shuddering.

Jaime suddenly wanted the situation dealt with as soon as possible. As he answered questions about the frequency of incidences, it was chilling to realize they were increasing. “How soon could you get out here?” There was a pause, so long that he said, “Hello? Are you there?”

“Yes. Sorry, we were supposed to go out to Dragonstone, but they’ve canceled so we’re available.”

“Wonderful!” He eyed Brienne. She was yawning.

“But . . .” Another long pause. “Sorry, I’m looking at flights. It’s just that with the urgency of your request, we’ll need to charge above our normal fee and I’ll need a deposit up front.” He named a figure.

“Oh.” This could be problematic. There was only so much money he could claim under the amount budgeted for “pest control.”

“Is that a problem?”

He would have to call Father. Then Jaime thought about what Father was going to say if he ever got wind what his son had spent the money on. “I need to be absolutely certain of your discretion. It’s an elementary school. I cannot have this getting out.”

“It’s not a problem, Mr. Lannister. If you can just make the deposit, we’ll send a team out on a flight tomorrow.”

Jaime turned to share the good news with Brienne, but she had stretched out her endlessly long legs on his couch and was dead to the world.

* * *

Tywin was never quite sure how to react when his granddaughters hugged him. Cersei’s children were boys and very reserved. He had not been around much when they were younger and he supposed that had something to do with it. Tyrion’s girls were very small and no matter how aloof he was, they persisted in treating him as if he was some favored toy of theirs.

“That’s enough. You’re alarming your grandfather. We don’t want to make your favorite babysitter have a stroke.” Tyrion tugged and they mercifully let go. “Thanks for taking care of them.”

Tywin nodded and returned inside. He ate the meal the housekeeper put in front of him, read his paper, watched the financial news, and perused the division reports. Tywin didn’t need to work anymore. He had more than enough money; Kevan and Cersei would be perfectly capable of running the company if he wanted to step down permanently, but he was unwilling to do that. As it was, he felt like he was going slowly mad having as much free time as semi-retirement afforded him. He could not imagine what he would do if he didn’t work at all.

Finally at ten, he moved toward the bar, intent on pouring himself his evening nightcap only to find that the decanter with the cognac was empty.

Before scaling back from work, his staff had done their utmost when it came to serving him. This would never have been allowed to happen. He had been the Tywin Lannister and no one wanted to brook his displeasure. Now he was his granddaughters’ walking, talking teddy bear and every one of his servants and underlings had lost respect for him as a result.

He was in the process of opening the cabinet below the bar, when the phone rang. “Hello?”

“Father!”

“Jaime.” He balanced the receiver on his shoulder and reached back for a bottle.

“I have a small problem and I’m wondering if you could see your—”

“How much?” Jaime seldom called and it was usually when money was needed. Tywin was only half listening as he absently poured out a measure of alcohol into his glass.

The figure Jaime named was insignificant, but he was being less than clear about what this “small problem” entailed. It was tempting to tell his eldest son that if he had just gone into the family business, money would not be a concern, but the boy had always wended his own slightly odd way through life and Joanna had encouraged Tywin to accept it.

“Father, I really cannot go into specifics. If you’ll just authorize it, I can withdraw from my trust.”

Tywin took a large gulp and nearly choked. “What the . . .?” He coughed violently and then stared at the remains of a gelatinous liquid coating the bottom of the rocks glass. It had the consistency of Pepto-Bismol, but was a glowing blue color. Absinthe, Qarthian absinthe.

“Father? Are you all right?”

“I’m . . . yes.”

“You’re sure?”

Tywin hacked a few more times. “Yes.”

“Oh, good. It’s just that I need the money immediately.”

The relief in his son’s voice was probably because his death would have necessitated a lengthy period of probate. “I’ll give orders to the bank tomorrow.”

“Great. Talk to you later.”

Tywin consulted the bottle, swore, and then deliberately poured the rest of the bottle of Qarthian absinthe down the drain of the wet bar. He downed a large glass of water and headed upstairs.

As he settled into bed, he turned on the television. Joanna had liked to watch it in the bedroom; he had not. There were far better things to do with her in this particular room. But after her death, he’d kept the habit of occasionally watching a television show or an old movie. He found it helped him fall asleep. He was just flipping through the channels when Tyrion called.

“Jo lost Mr. Zorse. Is it at your house?”

“No.”

“Father, can you just look? She won’t go to sleep without it.”

“No.” He hung up and then remembered something. He phoned Tyrion back. “Her backpack. It’s in there.”

“We’ve already looked there.”

“It’s the pink one with that idiotic cartoon cat. Check there.”

“Hello Kitty? Oh, it is there!”

Once upon a time, he had been able to bring men to their knees just by looking at them. Tywin hung up and focused on the television. He had no idea what the program was, but then he seldom did; he’d always been a man far too busy for entertainment geared at placating the masses. It appeared to involve space aliens and parallel universes, but it didn’t matter. He would doze off quickly enough.

* * *

Chapter Text

* * *

“They’re very good here at Blackhaven Hospital, wench.”

Brienne was not reassured by Jaime Lannister’s words.

“I am not just saying that.” He held up his right arm. There was a rotten, putrid stump where his hand had been. “Seven hells, why does this keep happening to me?”

“Brienne Tarth?” A bearded man stood before her. He wore a white doctor’s coat and a head mirror. He spoke briskly and exuded an air of competence.

“Yes?”

He smiled at her. His blue eyes twinkled. “I’m your surgeon.”

“Why do I need a surgeon?”

“Because you’re missing half your face,” Robin Arryn told her, not looking up from the miniature trebuchet he was playing with.

Brienne reached up and removed the blood-soaked compress on her cheek.

Very carefully, Robin aimed the trebuchet in the direction of Jaime. A baby went flying.

A tall, fat man in red robes leapt into the air, caught the baby, and raced to the end of the emergency room waiting area. He threw the baby into the end zone. As it hit the ground it turned into a cantaloupe. “Touch-down,” he screamed.

* * *

Kevan and Dorna Lannister's dining room table groaned from the weight of the bounty atop it: dewy pitchers of iced drinks, platters heaped with clusters of enormous grapes, perfectly ripened peaches and plums, towering pyramids of oranges, an array of cheeses, artisan breads, fancy crackers, and the desserts. Oh, the desserts.

Sansa's mouth watered at the cakes. They all looked so luscious: sponges with layers of homemade bright red jams and cream; tortes with chocolate ganache, and her favorite, the lemon cakes: the perfect blend of light and sweet and tart.

"Like you," Mr. Lannister told her as he fed one to her out of his hand.

Sansa obediently took a bite and nibbled. She looked down and realized she was naked, but no one else seemed to mind. Kevan and Dorna weren’t paying any attention at all. Mr. Lannister dandled her on his knee and brushed an errant crumb away from her lips.

“The Tyrells will come back into the fold soon enough,” he predicted.

Lancel started to say something and then nodded. “Yes, Uncle Tywin.”

“Sansa!”

Sansa was busy licking Mr. Lannister’s fingers, noting with satisfaction his sharp intake of breath.

"Temptress," he hissed.

* * *

Tywin strode into his office and stopped short. Where his desk and chair usually stood was a throne—the Iron Throne, in fact. On it sat Lancel's erstwhile girlfriend.

“You're late,” she loftily informed him.

“What is this doing here? Why are you here?” He couldn't remember the young woman’s name, only that his sister-in-law, Dorna, adored her and kept on saying anxiously to anyone who would listen that she was sorry her eldest son had messed this up.

“Bow before your queen.”

Tywin swirled around to see a man with red-gold hair in a doctor’s uniform standing behind him. “Why are you dressed like that?”

“Dr. Beric Dondarrion just won a battle for me,” the ginger-haired vixen on the throne told him. “He stopped your hostile takeover in its tracks.”

Tywin dimly remembered reading that the barbs had pierced one King Aerys so many times he was called King Scab. This girl was barelegged, save for tall black leather boots and a short black skintight dress, but the creamy flesh of her impossibly long legs was unscathed. He wondered why.

Margaery Tyrell sat to the right of the Iron Throne, on a cushion on the floor, with her legs curled up behind her. “Because she is the one true queen of Westeros and captain of the Enterprise, you fool.” She was naked except for a collar studded with purple gemstones, and Tywin realized she was chained to the throne.

“Don’t be rude, pet,” the queen scolded. “Now about that leveraged buyout.”

* * *

It wasn’t fair that Jaime got to go in first to the doctor. Brienne’s cheek was practically falling off and all he had was an amputated hand. He popped out. “Look!” He held it up. In the place where the stump had been was a chainsaw. He revved it.

“You’ll scare Robin!” Mrs. Arryn hissed.

“Brienne Tarth? I know you’re frightened, but you need to come along now.”

She stared at the surgeon. “But you’re missing half your fingers.”

“Right.” He beamed at her as if she had gotten an answer right. “But I’m left-handed so it’s perfectly fine. Four less fingernails to clean!”

Brienne shook her head. “I want another surgeon.”

“Wench, don’t be so picky. It’s just your face.” Gone was the chainsaw. Now there was a pasta attachment and Jaime was cranking it and green fettuccine was coming out.

“My name is Brienne and I want another surgeon.”

The bearded man with the twinkling blue eyes considered. “Well, there is Dr. Beric Dondarrion.”

“Does he have all his fingers?”

“Aye.”

“I’ll take him.”

* * *

“Sansa! You never finished your lessons!” Miss Mordane complained.

“Is this true?” Mr. Lannister demanded.

Sansa furrowed her brow. She couldn’t figure out why her sixth-grade homeroom teacher was at Lancel’s parents’ house bothering about her schoolwork now of all times. She was enjoying herself so much, particularly as Mr. Lannister tweaked her nipples.

Miss Mordane transformed into Dr. Beric Dondarrion, right before her eyes. “Sansa has not done her homework for today.”

“You’ve been very naughty.” Mr. Lannister considered her. “You’ll have to be punished.” He lifted her out of her chair, even while Dorna was telling everyone all about the quilt she was making, turned her over his knee and spanked her.

The blows were light at first.

Too light, Sansa thought. “Harder.”

“What’s the magic word?”

“Please,” she begged. “Mr. Lannister, please.”

He obliged her.

She squirmed as the sensations tingled through her body. The ache between her legs was nearly unbearable. “Mr. Lannister,” she moaned.

“There. I think you’ve learned your lesson.”

“This roast chicken is marvelous,” Kevan told his wife. “And you made my favorite potatoes.”

* * *

“And then you take the hot mixture and add them to the eggs.”

Tywin couldn’t quite understand why there were massive monitors in front of the throne or how he knew the plump woman speaking earnestly to everyone in the television audience.

“This way, they’ll curdle and you’ll have chocolate scrambled eggs.”

Margaery Tyrell pointed at him. “He’s a spy for the Romulans.”

He was also naked, but as the queen directed a pleased and lingering glance over him, he felt no shame or embarrassment.

“He’s not a Romulan at all,” the queen said slowly. She sat up, crossed her legs, and licked her scarlet lips. “He’s here for me.”

Tywin realized she was seeing him for who he truly was.

“I will do a mind meld to see what he knows,” Dr. Beric Dondarrion announced.

“No,” the queen decided. “I want to do the mind meld. He’s all mine. Mine,” she repeated.

“But you’re not a Vulcan,” Dr. Beric Dondarrion protested.

She had hopped off the throne and wrapped her fingers around Tywin’s cock. “Neither are you.”

“Hold still,” Margaery Tyrell purred. “Queen Sansa must be obeyed.”

* * *

Dr. Beric Dondarrion held the door open for her. Brienne stood up and followed him into the operating room. He busied himself with a tray of what appeared to be cake decorating tools.

Jaime came with her and helped her lie down on the table.

“Why are you tying me down?”

“So you won’t move.”

“And why am I naked?”

Jaime didn’t answer, but he was naked too. The pasta attachment was gone and he was fitting something else over his hand.

Dr. Beric Dondarrion turned around and Brienne shrieked. He was now missing an eye. As he stripped out of his clothes, she saw at least six major wounds all over his naked body.

“You’ll like this, wench.” Jaime held up his right arm. On it was now what Brienne recognized as a Hitachi Magic Wand. The good one, she somehow knew. It was the same model Sansa had opened up on her name day. The one that had come from her sister-in-law, Margaery, who ran a hotel called The Crossing. The one that Margaery said should only be plugged into an outlet with enough electrical capacity.

Dr. Beric Dondarrion stood to the side and grinned. “Get on with it.”

“But you’re the doctor.”

Jaime chuckled. “He just stands there and looks good. I’m the one who’s going to operate on you.” He spread her legs further apart.

“But it’s my face that’s hurt.” Still she found herself widening her legs to accommodate the vibrator on Jaime’s stump.

* * *

The queen’s eyes widened. “I told you he wasn’t a Romulan spy!” She inspected him. “You are here for me! Aren’t you impressive?”

“Oh, he must be the Hand of the King,” Margaery Tyrell drawled.

The woman on the monitor stopped beating her chocolate scrambled eggs and shook her head. “Hand of the Queen.”

“Your poor hand must get so tired,” the queen murmured. “Here, let me.” She pushed him onto the Iron Throne, dropped to her knees, and began running practiced hands up his legs.

“The Romulans want more money,” Dr. Beric Dondarrion announced. “And a babysitter.”

“There will be no more money,” Tywin announced. “And I am done babysit—”

“This has been Cooking with Walda and I wish you—”

And then there was blessed silence. “No more talking,” Queen Sansa pronounced. “Let me take care of you now.” She bent over him and brought her ripe, plump lips around his cock.

* * *

They were in a spa tub. Dr. Beric Dondarrion stood by the door with a clipboard. He consulted with the school nurse.

“Just relax, wench.”

It was very hard to do that with the Hitachi Magic Wand being just where it was.

“Should we be using this in the water?” Brienne managed between moans.

Jaime smiled reassuringly at her. “I’m completely grounded.”

The lights began to flicker.

“Try it now,” Dr. Beric Dondarrion directed.

“What?”

Jaime licked her cheek. “Strawberry syrup! A complete success.”

* * *

Mr. Lannister righted her.

Sansa stood before him, naked and quivering. She dimly heard Lancel asking for more salt for the chocolate pudding, Mr. Lannister’s clothes melted off him. He led her to the back of the room.

“No,” she protested. “I want everyone to see.”

“If you had done your schoolwork like a good little girl, I would have obliged you.”

Sansa pouted.

He lifted her onto him and fucked her against the wall. “Say my name.”

“Mr. Lannister.”

Again he thrust into her. She was so happy. Except were those bells in the distance? She dug her nails into his back, writhing as he filled her with his cock.

“Louder, temptress.”

“Mr. Lannister!”

No, they weren’t bells. It was like a swarm of angry bees.

“You’re not saying it loud enough.”

“No, no, don’t pull out. I need you so much. Mr. Lannister!”

The buzzing engulfed her.

Sansa sat bolt upright. It took her a full moment to realize that she was in her bed. She could hear Margaery showering, probably trying to get ready for her early morning meeting, the one she was being so close-lipped about. Blinking furiously, well aware she was sopping wet between her legs, Sansa fumbled for the alarm clock, and then for the vibrator in the bedside table drawer.

* * *

Margaery stepped out of her very dissatisfactory meeting with the manager of the Iron Bank of Braavos.

Mr. Nestoris had been perfectly civil, so civil she wanted to slap him, but he had shut down every one of her requests. He had mentioned her family, of course, but once she’d indicated they were not an option, that had pretty much been the end of the appointment.

Two and a half Blue Fairies and all she had to show for it was a throbbing headache. Sansa, meanwhile had barely finished one and from the sounds Margaery had heard coming from her bedroom, had had one whopper of a dream.

She walked through the streets toward the restaurant where she was meeting Sansa for lunch. It was in the historical district, and as she passed by several tourist attractions, she saw something that intrigued her, but it would need to wait.

Sansa was already seated and gulping down her glass of water when Margaery joined her.

She was relieved Sansa had picked a place frequented primarily by tourists. Aside from Tywin Lannister, who was glaring at them as if they had personally offended him, there wasn’t a soul in here that she knew. Sometimes it was better to be anonymous, particularly when the thought of having to answer multiple questions from well-meaning friends and family about how her business venture was or was not going. “Thanks,” Margaery told her when Sansa produced two Tylenol after they placed their order. She could see Sansa about to question her about the meeting. “So tell me about it.”

“What?”

“That dream you had.”

It wasn’t that easy, though. If not a prude, Sansa was very private.

“Was it about Lancel?”

“Well, he was in it.”

“Was I in it?”

Sansa smiled then. “No.” She grew serious. “Someone older.”

“How much older?”

“Older. Like inappropriately older.”

“The rule is half your age plus seven,” Margaery reassured her.

Sansa didn’t say anything.

“Oh. Oh.” Margaery twisted her lips into a knowing smile. “Well, rules were made to be broken.”

* * *

Sansa Stark. There would be no question of his ever forgetting her name now. Tywin grimly chewed his way through his steak and willed his cock to return to a more seemly position. She sat not two tables down with Margaery Tyrell, chatting about something, taking an interminably long time to finish a small salad.

Tywin thought of the market crashing, his family name in the dirt, cartoon kittens, and juice boxes, and finally, despite one setback when the two women had walked by his table and he’d had a long glimpse of Sansa Stark’s shapely legs, he was back to normal.

He dealt with the check and rose to leave. He was done with semi-retirement. If the Board balked, he’d start another business.

“You go. I’ll see you at the apartment. I think I left my scarf—” a female voice said from behind him.

He turned to leave and walked straight into Sansa Stark.

The pause was one of the longest and most awkward of his life. Her face was flushing and he could feel his own cock starting to spring to attention. “Hello,” he managed. Dripping noses, demands for his money, Go-Gurt, that stupid cartoon monkey. There. That was better.

“I didn’t think you remembered me.”

“You used to date Lancel,” he barked.

She blushed again. “Things . . . he . . . was complicated.”

Tywin snorted.

“The situation was complicated,” she clarified, her lips twitching.

“Are you seeing anyone now?” The moment the question left his mouth, he cursed himself. What did he care what this young woman did or who she did it with?

Sansa Stark seemed startled. “No.”

“I shouldn’t keep you. You must be busy.”

“Excuse me.” She bent down to retrieve the long blue silk scarf that had fallen down the chair back, exposing several inches of silk stocking-clad thigh. She started to straighten, but paused.

He realized she was eye level with his erection. String cheese, little girls who needed to be escorted to the bathroom, sycophants, insolent young pups who thought they knew every—

“As a matter of fact,” Sansa Stark said slowly, as if coming to a decision, “I have the rest of the afternoon off.”

* * *

Unlike the bank manager, Tycho Nestoris, Edric Storm, the man at the King’s Landing Cultural Center, was extremely helpful. Margaery took all the pamphlets he gave her and made notes of names and numbers.

“The ghost tours are very popular,” Edric informed her. “I think it’s the due to a lot of programs like A Haunting and Ghost Hunters. Oh, and you might want to talk to the people at the Aerys Targaryen Asylum for the Criminally Insane. They’ve been on a couple of those shows and they do a very nice business with the tourists these days. Before, the place was just a white elephant that no one wanted to buy.”

Margaery thanked him and went into the lounge. She hunted through her contacts for Brienne Tarth’s email. Sansa had been distracted through lunch. There was no need to bother her with this. Brienne would be able to get her the contact information for the ghost hunting firm.

Then she called back to The Crossing. After asking him how everything was running in her absence, she took a deep breath. “Robb, baby? I think it’s going to be okay.”

* * *

Brienne had somehow made it through the day. It felt like there was a full construction in her brain jackhammering away and there was an aftertaste in her mouth she couldn’t shake, despite three attempts with mouthwash and tooth brushing.

She was checking her mailbox in the front office when Jaime Lannister came in.

He saw her and approached her with concern. “Are you all right? I wasn’t sure I did the right thing not waking you up last night.”

Bits of her dream had been coming back to her all day long. “I’m fine. I think.” Blood was rushing to her head as she thought about his hand and the Hitachi Magic Wand. She glanced around the front office, but it was mercifully empty. He was just her principal. He would never be interested in someone like her.

“I know it’s the end of your day, but I was wondering if you would mind staying a little longer. That company you told me about it is due here any minute and I thought they’d like to hear about your encounter.”

What Brienne wanted to do was to go home and sleep for days, but she agreed to wait.

“And if you aren’t doing anything this weekend, maybe I could make it up to you with dinner?”

The flutter was back. This was a bad idea. She worked under his supervision. It was inappropriate.

I’m completely grounded.

“Mr. Lannister?”

They turned around.

“I’m Davos Seaworth from Crownlands Pararnormal Investigations. The rest of my team will be here in a moment.”

Brienne stood very still. It was one of the people from her dream. If the beard and twinkling blue eyes wasn’t enough, the four missing fingers on his right hand was.

* * *

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Retaining your services

We own and manage The Crossing, a recently renovated hotel and spa, located in the heart of the scenic northern Riverlands. Since taking ownership, we’ve experienced a number of incidents. We would be very interested in retaining your services to help us deal with these spiritual manifestations.

Can you help us?

Sincerely,
Robb and Margaery Tyrell-Stark
The Crossing Historic Hotel and Spa

* * *