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Chapter Text

Catelyn

Jon Arryn was dead and King Robert rode to Winterfell.

All of Winterfell, from the youngest stableboy to the oldest knight had put away other issues and tasks and focused on preparing for the royal family's arrival. Food had to be gathered, guest chambers prepped, and candles sought out to light the great hall. She had met with Maester Luwin at least a dozen times, discussing the special preparations that would be needed for the royal family. Lord Tyrion liked to read at night, so candles would be needed. Queen Cersei preferred a perfume from the Reach to scent her bath water. The Kingslayer would need at least six training dummies that could stand up to his attacks.

It was a trying, emotional time, and was made all the worse for the reason King Robert traveled to the North.

Ned had tried his hardest to hide his feelings; Catelyn knew that grief and fear had settled themselves upon his broad shoulders. It was funny to think of her Ned as anything but brave and she knew that to many in Winterfell such an emotion was thought to be foreign to him. He was the rock that they all grasped onto and used to balance themselves. Lord Eddard Stark did not tremble with fright. He’d marched into King Aerys' throne room not knowing what he would find. It was Ned who helped lead the charge that saw the Ironborn brought to heel after their failed rebellion. It was he who observed the old ways and swung the sword when delivering the greatest of punishments. There were some in Winterfell that whispered that their Lord had purged all negative emotions from his body, unable to comprehend such things as fear and sadness.

And yet he felt just as any other man did. His mourned for Lord Arryn, to whom he owed his very life and had been, during those dark times, a second father to him. Ned owed so very much to him; Had the Lord of the Vale simply shipped Ned and Robert to King Aerys in chains the Vale would have been made wealthy and House Stark would be extinct. There were some that claimed Lord Arryn protected the two in fear that the North and the Stormlands would unite against him for killing their lords and the crown would have been happy to let blame fall to another. Ned though knew that Jon Arryn had protected him out of both duty and honor.

The fear he felt was from the knowledge that Robert did not travel North merely to share his sorrow with Ned. The Hand of the King was dead and a new one had not yet been appointed, meaning that Robert sought Ned to take the position. They had been inseparable in youth and Catelyn sometimes wondered if their family would have stayed in King’s Landing had Ned made it there first and prevented the Lannisters from sacking the city. That event had driven a wedge between the two men, brothers in all but blood, and saw Ned return to the North. Robert needed a hand though and age, Catelyn though, drove him to look to the past and old friendships.

It was the worst thing that could happen to her family; anyone else and Ned would have been able to find some excuse not to go. Robert was his friend though and that meant that Ned's sense of honor and loyalty would prevent him from turning the King away, despite how much he want to.

The fear of what Robert brought with him prayed on Catelyn’s mind as well, though for different reasons. Twice already Robert had taken her Ned away. The first time he'd returned with that damn bastard. The second with Theon, who might as well have been a bastard himself.

‘I am loathe to consider just who or what Ned might bring back with him a third time.’

Catelyn strove to forget about her own fears and worries by focusing on the tasks that still needed to be completed. Work was a wonderful balm for an aching soul and the Lady of Winterfell found it hard to focus on what would come of the visit while pouring her energies into prepping for it.

She had just gotten done inspecting the chamber that would house Prince Joffrey when Ned came upon her, a small scroll clutched in his fist.

"What is it?" Catelyn asked. "Has something delayed the King?" 'Is he not coming?' she thought, knowing better than to voice those words.

Ned merely shook his head, his jaw stiff and set. "No... it isn't from the king." He ran his fingers through his long, dark hair, clearly agitated. "It’s from Antony. He's come to Winterfell."

Catelyn looked at her husband in disbelief. "Now? We must send a raven back to him, let him know that it isn't possible! The king-"

"The King is the reason he is coming," Ned groaned. “He wishes to speak with him and sees this as a chance to see us once more.”

Catelyn pursed her lips. "Of course. Never mind that we will be entertaining the king, his family, the queen's brothers, and members of court... now we will have Antony and his household to put up with." She shook her head in frustration. "Does that arrogant man ever think of others?"

Ned clearly did not like the prospect of Antony arriving at the same time as the king. "I could send the raven, tell him that we can not house him."

Catelyn looked at Ned, shoulders slumped. She knew he would do it, if she begged, but it would bring shame upon him and his house to be so rude to family. "You know you can't do that. He most likely already sent a raven to the king, informing him of his arrival.” ‘Knowing Antony, he has worded it so that Robert thinks we suggested the idea.’ Catelyn thought to herself. “No... no, we will just have to make due."

"At least it will be a small group," Ned stated. "If we are lucky, no more than a handful."

“He is a handful by himself.” Catelyn let out a huff of air. "I know he is family Ned but-"

"Cat, he's only family because he shares my name."

That was true enough. Antony 'Tony' Stark was Ned's cousin but barely resembled Ned in looks and not at all in personality. His father, Horard Stark, had died young and rather than take up his role as Lord of the small family keep Tony had journeyed to the Westerlands, seeking fame and riches. He'd finally settled a day's ride north of Lannisport and discovered a mine of his own. While the Lannisters had gained their wealth through the gold that run deep under Casterly Rock Tony had built his fortune on the many different types of iron he was able to mine. Soon blacksmiths and metalworkers had journeyed to the abandoned castle Tony had renamed Iron Pointe and made their community the greatest source of weaponry in all of Westeros. Lords from the Reach and Dorne and across the Narrow Sea all sought out swords and shields made in Iron Pointe... and none fetched a greater price than those handcrafted by Lord Tony Stark himself.

Catelyn begrudgingly admitted that his creations were beautiful. The great mines of Iron Pointe produced metals of many different brilliant colors, so that a knight need not paint their sigil upon a shield or decorate their armor with their family colors. Tony created spears of blue and black and arrowheads that looked like emeralds. Smiths in King's Landing and other cities attempted to mimic Tony's work but all failed to achieve the wonder of his creations. Thus his fame and wealth grew and with them his ability to forge his own path. Tony was able to select his customers, no longer needed to take on any work he could get in order to procure gold dragons. Cat had heard of him turning down offers from many great houses purely because the project they wished him to work on did not challenge him.

If that were the extent of his ego then all would have been well. But Tony was arrogant and vain, seeing himself as an artist who could move about a room doing and saying what he wanted. He was brilliant, talented and skilled; women wanted to bed him and men wanted to boast that they had drank with him. He had all the vanity of Jamie Lannister and the vices of Tyrion. He scoffed at the old ways and didn't care about the shame he brought upon his ancestors with his actions. He held no belief in the Seven or the old gods and made no attempt to hide his blasphemy. Catelyn had only met him four times since her marriage to Ned: once after the war that sat Robert on the throne, 6 months before the Greyjoy Rebellion, and two quick visits after Rickon had been born. Each time Catelyn had found that the charm Tony was famous for did not work upon her and he appeared to be little more than a braying donkey demanding attention.

‘A donkey would at least be useful,’ she thought.

Ned gathered her in his arms and held her close, his calloused hands running along her back. "Hopefully it will be a short visit. He only said he wanted to come while the king was here... he might have an appointment at the Wall and won't tarry."

Catelyn doubted that. Tony hadn't needed to sell weapons to the Night's Watch since he was eight-and-twenty. "Perhaps," she murmured.

"Perhaps we'll get lucky and the Lannisters and Antony will be at each other’s throats and leave us be," Ned said with a smile.

Catelyn chuckled at that. "The Seven be willing."

~AGOT~AGOT~AGOT~

Arya

"I still don't see why we have to stand out here."

Sansa glared down at her little sister. Unlike Arya, who was shifting from foot to foot, kicking at clumps of mud and forever twisting her head this way and that, Sansa was an example of the perfect Lord’s daughter: her back was straight and her head held high."It is proper. Would you have cousin Antony arrive to find all of Winterfell empty and his arrival unannounced?"

"The king and queen aren't out here," Arya said with a huff, crossing her arms over her chest. “They get to stay inside.”

"They are the king and queen! Cousin Antony is only a lord... and not even a Warden like father." Sansa reached over and yanked on Arya's arms. "And stop doing that! A proper lady doesn't cross her arms."

Arya narrowed her eyes, nose flared slightly. She hated how Sansa acted like she was her mother and could belittle her and order her about. Arya did not understand why the world believed that just because someone was older than her that made them smarter. Her father and mother were smart of course, and so was Robb and Jon, but not all adults were intelligent. Hodor could only say his own name and Arya thought her septa was a fool, prattling on about useless things like knitting and weaving. Sansa was even worse, acting at times like she was still 4-years old playing pretend. Her head was filled with clouds and dreams of brave knights that would sweep her off her feet. Arya was quite happy to do her own sweeping.

"Arya-"

Arya stubbornly kept her arms crossed. "Touch me again and I'll... I'll bite you!" she hissed, low enough so no one else could hear her.

"Mother!" Sansa hissed, utterly scandalized.

"Sansa, shhh!" their mother shushed. "Lord Antony is arriving."

"But-"

"Sansa, not now!"

Arya smirked to herself; the battle had gone to her. She glanced out of the corner of her eye at Sansa, who looked fit to be tied, and brought her arms to her sides, adopting a long of serene bliss. Sansa gapped at her before setting her jaw and staring ahead, her fingers clenching open and shut. The youngest Stark girl put all thoughts of her sister out of her head and focused on the arrival of Lord Antony Stark and his host.

She'd only been five when Antony Stark had last visited and Arya did not have many memories of that visit. Still, she knew plenty about him and wanted desperately to meet him and see if he lived up to all the whispered rumors the servants passed amongst each other. They said that Antony was a rogue and a scoundrel and nothing at all like the Lord of Winterfell, which made Arya feel a connection to him. She too didn't feel like a proper Stark and wondered if, as a boy, Antony felt separated from things as she did.

The first of the men to arrive was Hogan on his giant stallion. He was only a head shorter than Hodor but just as thick and strong as the gentle giant, though his face was grim and heavy brow forever furrowed. He slid out of his saddle, his heavy boots sinking in the mud of the main courtyard.

"Why do they call him 'Happy'?" Bran whispered. "He doesn't look happy to me."

"It’s a joke," Arya stated, rolling her eyes. "Like calling a fat man Tiny or a tall man Little." She watched as Hogan strode forward, looking about Winterfell as if he expected an attack to be launched at them. She'd heard that Hogan had been a sellsword before Lord Antony had employed him to be his shield and that the man was forever looking out for danger. “They say he never smiles and looks upon everyone as a potential threat.” Once Hogan was sure that all was ok he lifted the banner he'd been carrying and waved it in the air, signaling the rest of the riders to enter.

"Disgraceful," someone murmured behind Arya. The young girl understood why some in Winterfell were upset: while Lord Antony used the direwolf as his sigil, his was colored red and gold, making it look more fitting for the Lannisters than the Starks. Jon had said that Antony was honoring both his family and the House that had allowed him to make his fortune, for it was Lord Tywin that had given his permission for Antony to open the mines of Iron Pointe, but it appeared that there were those in Winterfell who viewed such actions as a slap in the face of Arya’s father.

With Hogan's signal Antony's group began to ride in. Arya grinned as she spotted Ser Jamie Rhodes, the commander of Lord Antony's soldiers. He was a tall, lean, dark skinned man who hailed from across the Narrow Sea. Arya had heard all manner of stories about him, such that he was a former Horselord who had pledged himself to Lord Antony or that he was a disgraced member of the Second Sons, trying to regain his honor. All Arya knew was that in his deep blue vest, coat, and pants and white shirt he made for an impressive sight. He got off his steed and strokes his neck, turning enough to allow Arya to see the sword slung over his back. He wore two more short swords, one on each hip, but one of the servants had told Arya that Ser Jamie Rhodes preferred his shoulder sword to do his work.

Another murmur rose up as Maester Jarvis was next to arrive. It was almost unheard of for a maester to leave the castle he'd been assigned to but then again if half the things Arya had heard about the seemingly sweet looking old man were true then Maester Jarvis was far from being a normal maester. One of the cooks had told her that Jarvis had nearly lost his chain for studying the deeper magics; he was one of the very few maesters in Westeros to have a ring of Valyrian steel and he was forever seeking out old tomes and forgotten scrolls in the search for new magics.

A covered wagon rolled forth, similar to the one that had carried the queen and the young prince and princess, and from it emerged Lord Antony's wife, Lady Virgina Stark. Arya had heard that she was beautiful and a few of the servants had compared her to Lady Sansa; Arya begrudging admitted they were right. This Lady Stark was tall and lithe, with red hair that hung down to her shoulder blades and wide, bright eyes. A heavy white cloak covered her shoulders but instead of making her look bulky it only showcased her lean form. Of all the members of Antony's house, Vigina was the only one to meet universal approval among those of Winterfell. She looked exactly as a Lady of House Stark should.

The last to ride in was Lord Antony Stark himself, sitting gallantly upon his stallion. Looking upon her father's cousin Arya quickly came to the conclusion that Lord Antony looked like a blend of Stark and Lannister, which she supposed helped him fit in better in the Westerlands. He had the dark hair of the Starks but his frame was lean and he wasn't overly tall like Arya's father. His moments were fluid like the Kingslayer but his face resembled Jon's greatly to the fact that one could have thought them father and son. Lord Antony wore his beard very short and so neatly trimmed Arya wondered if he shaved every few hours. He wore dark clothing and a black fur cloak but there were hints of red that peeked out from the dark material. A sword was strapped to his side though it was nowhere near the size of her father's sword common sword, let along the great sword Ice.

"Ned!" Antony called out, swinging out of his saddle gracefully. He took a moment to adjust the short jacket he wore before striding forward, looking about courtyard with a smirk on his face. As he strolled forward he moved his head and his hands about, as if he were afraid to stop moving lest he turn to stone. "You know, I always tell myself that I remember every detail of Winterfell but when I get here I find that my memory is completely faulty. Guess there are some things that can't be remembered and can only be experienced."

Arya was surprised by the way Antony spoke; it was the slow, careful way her father conversed, like he was weighing each word to ensure he did not waste a single letter. Lord Antony’s speech was fast and energenic, words falling off his tongue at a pace that made it hard for one to follow a conversation if they weren’t dedicating all their attention upon Antony.

The Lord of Iron Pointe shook Ned's hand and turned to Catelyn. "I see you're still with this gloomy grump. I'd have thought you'd have run off to Riverrun by now. I kid, I kid, good to see you, Cat." Antony kissed Catelyn's hand, ignoring the frown that graced the Lady of Winterfell's features.

"Antony," she said coolly.

"Really? Antony? Really? No 'Tony' or 'Ton' or 'T'? Really that upset about the joke? Sorry, forget that I can be a... hmm...” He snapped his fingers towards the dark knight. “Rhodey, what's the word I'm looking for?"

"Asshole?" Ser Rhodes supplied.

"Hmmm... no, not the one I was looking for but it fits. Anyway, ignore me most times, you'll find yourself living longer and give you less wrinkles from frowning at my jests." Like a whirlwind Antony was already moving on to Robb, leaving Catelyn fuming and Arya doing her best not to giggle. "Oh, look at you! Last time I saw you Robb you I could pick you up and set you on a high cabinet. Studying well? Learning how to be a Lord and be all gloomy and boring?” Robb looked as if he couldn’t decide if he should scowl or laugh and Antony clapped him on the shoulder. “Still have a lot to learn, I see. The cold hasn’t frozen your sense of humor just yet. Now then, who is missing…” He raised his hand up, placing it near Robb’s head, then drew it to the left, just over Sansa’s head. “Nope, sorry beautiful, you aren’t next. Looking for someone a bit less…girly. Where is Jon Stark?”

“Snow,” Catelyn bit out, trembling with outrage. “Jon… Snow.” Ser Rodrick and a few other citizens of Winterfell grumbled under their breath, disgusted by the dishonor Lord Antony showed Lady Stark by bringing up the bastard and daring to put him on the same level as her children.

Antony, however, didn’t pay them any heed. “See, I never got that. Why the goofy last names for bastards? Snow, Sand, Waters, Storm? Half of Westeros is made up of bastards and personally, and this is just me speaking, I would think it smart NOT to piss them off by, I don’t know, giving them different last names and treating them like crap because their fathers stuck it in a strange woman. They might decide one day that they are sick of being insulted for something that isn’t their fault and rise up in revolt. Kinda ass backwards thinking not playing nice with them and all that but what do I know, I’m not a Warden… I’m just a rich genius who cares about others. No offense, Ned. Now, where is Jon?”

“I am here, Lord Stark,” Jon said, stepping forward.

“Him too?” Antony turned to his wife, who merely smiled at his annoyance. “Ok, I’m convinced there is something in the air around here, something that makes all of you formal and grouchy. Pepper, try breathing through a rag or something, ok?”

“Tony…” she said with a smile, though her tone was as icy as the Wall. “Be… nice.”

Antony rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to Jon. “You look well.” He patted him on the shoulders, much as he had Robb. He leaned in close and Arya strained to hear his words. “Next time I come, you tell them all that I want you standing right at the head of the line. The world is always going to want to shove you down but that is no excuse for going along with it. You fight back like the direwolf and you let them know you are better than them.” Jon managed a nod at that and Antony smiled, though only Arya noticed the quick glance he sent her mother’s way. There was a story that and she wanted to know more.

Arya tuned out the pleasant words that Antony shared with Sansa, knowing they were all about her beauty and grace and how she was a fine young lady. Instead, she mulled over the man himself and found that her opinion of him was most assuredly the opposite of her mother’s. Antony was brash and rude and quick with a jest. He was not the stern northern lord her father was and eldest brother aspired to be. But Arya was fine with that, because she herself wasn’t like the rest of her family either.

“And why are you smiling?” Antony asked, looking down at her. “Thinking about all the rumors you’ve heard about me and wondering if they are true. Most of them are… except that thing about the pig and the dress. I’ll have you know it was a cow.”

“I heard it was a horse,” Arya said with a smirk.

“Arya!” Catelyn snapped.

“Someone from Winterfell who hasn’t had their humor sucked away!” Antony said with a laugh. “Wonderful! You’re sitting next me at dinner tonight.”

Arya’s face broke wide with a grin and she could hear Sansa letting out little ‘tut-tuts’ of disbelief. She chanced a peek at the rest of her family and saw that Robb and Jon were both fighting back laughter while her father did his best to keep her mother from pouncing on Antony and throwing him out of their home with her own bare hands.

“I think your mother doesn’t like me,” Antony said with a wink before looking right at Catelyn. “Her and Jon. The three of us can sup with the king. It will make for some wonderful conversation.” Sansa nearly fainted at that and Antony’s wife let out a long suffering sigh.

Arya, meanwhile, quickly decided that Antony was her new favorite relative.

~MC~MC~MC~

Next Time: Tony meets with King Robert to reveal a new venture that could benefit Westeros… and bring the wrath of some very powerful players upon his head. Also, there is a banquet, Benjen arrives, and the Lannisters meet up with Tony and his family.

~MC~MC~MC~

Author’s Notes: As if I don’t have enough on my plate, this one has been tickling the back of my brain for the last day and a half and demanded to be written. There are plenty of jokes online about Tony being a lost member of the Stark family and I think some people have written a few stories about it. The problem is that I know exactly what I want to read and I doubt anyone has really done a story like what I am going to attempt here.

I was also inspired by ‘The House of Wayne’, a brilliant story that took Bruce Wayne and put him, and Gotham, in Westeros. That story, combined with the same principles I used for the “Harry Potter Pokémon Master” series led to this: taking Tony and his cast of characters and applying them to the world and rules of Westeros.

A few minor notes: It does annoy me that people use normal names when importing characters into this world. It is so jarring to see Kevans and Joffreys… then read about Bills and Mikes. Thus, in the spirit of Mr. Martin, I took character names and altered/deleted letters to create their Westeros names. Luckily, Tony, Pepper and Rhodey all have nicknames that can stay the same.

Second, probably the biggest alteration here is making Pepper be married to Tony. Honestly, I couldn’t think of a good way to include her otherwise. You can’t make Pepper a whore and it would make no sense for a Lord to have a female servant running around snarking at him. Make her his wife, however… now things get interesting. Plus, I like Tony in a relationship with her.

Third, as of right now there is no plan for the Avengers to show up, mainly because it would be simply too large of a project to include them. That said, for those interested, here is how I see them in the Westeros world: Captain America would become Ser Roggers, a legendary member of the Night’s Watch from the time of Aegon who was lost in the North. He would awaken a wight during the ‘modern’ time, but keep his mind, thus having the strength and power of the wight but the heroic nature of a man, making him VERY dangerous. Thor would be Thor, cast down from Asgard to Westeros as punishment for hubris and discovered by a woman in Dorne. Hulk… the only thought that comes to mind would he would be an attempt by the sorcerers across the Narrow Sea to create the ultimate warrior.

There is a chance Black Widow could appear in this story, as could Hawkeye.

Finally, a question I will pose to all of you: if you could pick only one member of the Stark family to join Tony’s household, who would you pick and why? I have some ideas for this, as I want a Stark child to be involved with Tony’s adventures, but want to get opinions.

Chapter Text

Tony

Winterfell. The great Northern Keep. It was the seat of power in the North and the stronghold of the Starks for countless ages. Raised by Bran the Builder during the Age of Heroes, it had been first the home of the Kings of Winter and then the Wardens of the North. It had stood when other great castles fell and had weathered countless winters, never changing. Day after day, year after year, century after century it had remained, steadfast against a forever changing world, a beacon to those in the North to look upon and hold close to their hearts.

‘They should tear this damn thing apart stone by stone,’ Tony thought to himself.

As he walked into the Great Hall he wondered if Bran the Builder, in whatever part of the afterlife he was in, looked upon the castle he’d built and shook his head in disgust. Tony knew he would, if he had been its creator. Like Bran Tony was an innovator, striving to create new and better things. Bran had built the Wall and Winterfell and legend said that he’d had a hand in creating Storm’s End as well. He had done things no man before him had done and created structures that had stood the test of time. That was all well and good and he was sure Bran was happy that people still loved his works, but Tony would never believe that Bran would have wanted Winterfell to become so static. Just because you finished with something didn’t mean it had to remain as it was. Ned and his family should have pushed on, repairing and updating the castle till it looked nothing like the Winterfell of old. That would honor Bran’s legacy better, to take what he had built and make it stronger, to continue the tradition their forefather had started. Leaving it as it was now was a slap in the great man’s face.

That was the problem with the Starks: they were too rooted in the past. They clung to their yesterdays and wrapped themselves in it like those black cloaks they so enjoyed wearing. They still held to their old customs and their old weapons and even their old gods. They even used the same flags until they were so thread-bare that they looked like ghost-banners. It wasn’t a matter of cost as much as them trying to ‘honor tradition’.

‘And where did honor get them?’ Tony thought. Unlike his cousins he had sought of new roads for progress and had been rewarded grandly. No Stark had journeyed South as he had and now he was one of the wealthiest lords in the Seven Kingdoms. Iron Pointe was the envy of many and he was well respected by his peers. He had supped with Tywin Lannister and Mace Tyrell and Princes of Dorne. What of Ned Stark and the rest? If Robert’s Rebellion had never happened the Starks would be seen as lesser Wardens of little importance to the lower kingdoms. It was only the rebellion that saw them gain any sense of power and fame. ‘Interesting how you throw around the word tradition then march on a dynasty that lasted centuries. I guess you’re allowed to pick and choose what traditions and oaths you are to maintain and which ones you should break.’

All of this passed through Tony’s mind in a blink of an eye. He always thought fast, which is why he acted the way he did. Some called him scatterbrained or flighty; Tony was neither. He merely thought things through quicker than others and once he realized that a topic or a person would not be interesting moved on to something else. Everyone ended up agreeing with him in the end; it just took them longer to come to the same conclusions. It was as if he were running through the godwoods while everyone else strolled. That’s why it was so difficult to deal with people save those he loved; Rhodey, Pepper, Hogan and Jarvis were the only ones that really understood him. The rest just made life so trying.

And Tony was about to have a very trying time.

“Your Grace,” Tony said with a grin, giving King Robert a low, sweeping bow.

“Stark!” Robert bellowed, waving for him to join him at the large table that dominated the Great Hall. It was piled high with breads and meats and ale… and more breads and more meats and more ale. Tony wondered if they even had fruit in Winterfell or if the King simply refused to touch anything that didn’t come from grains or beasts. “Come, come, sit your ass down here and join me! I’m breaking my fast and could use the company. The rest of this lot has left me all to my lonesome.”

“Maybe that is because it is well past noon, Your Grace,” Tony said. “Ser Jamie, always a pleasure.”

The Kingslayer looked over and Tony and smirked. “See you’re stuck here too, Stark.”

“Oh, it’s not that bad of a place if you enjoy gloom and darkness and cold.” Tony looked over the table’s contents and selected a few rolls and some bacon that hadn’t been completely turned to coal. “And misery and boredom and cold and wretchedness-“

“You said cold twice,” Jamie Lannister pointed out.

“Well, it is cold,” Tony said simply.

King Robert snorted. “I have a remedy for that. It involves two great big tits pressed up against your face! I know that always gets me warmed up better than furs and blankets!” He turned to Jamie, his mouth half full of sausage. “That sound good, Kingslayer? A good long fuck warm you up? Or are you afraid that you’ll mess up that pretty hair of yours?”

Tony looked off to the side, rubbing his palm along his chin and cheek. Say what you would about King Robert, he had a way of making any conversation utterly awkward.

“I’d ask you, Stark, but everyone knows your balls are firmly in your wife’s hands.” Robert reached out and Tony watched in mute fascination as Robert snatched more sausages, realizing the king’s fingers and his breakfast were the same width. Jamie merely quirked an eyebrow and Tony shrugged, silently asking ‘what, you want me to say something?’.

“Yes, but what beautiful hands they are… and at the very least I know where they’ve been.” Robert nearly choked after that retort, coughing and laughing at the same time as he grabbed a large mug of ale and took a look slurp of it. Tony looked towards Jamie, who found it his turn to shrug. “I’ll have to be careful, Your Grace. Wouldn’t be good for business if people found out that I’d killed our King.”

“Especially if it weren’t your swords that did it,” Robert said with a laugh, grabbing a loaf of bread and tearing it in two. He looked up at Tony, using the loaf to soak up the grease from his sausages before speaking. “Ah, those are some good swords! And hammers too… damn good hammers. Wish you had been around back when your cousin and I were fighting to claim the Iron Throne.” Robert leaned back, a pleased smile crossing his face. “Just imagine it, would ya Stark? You could have made me the war hammer to end all war hammers. Black as pitch with gold bolts like those of lightning. Would have called it Thunderstrike and used it to crush that bastard Rhaegar’s chest in! ‘stead of his rubies flying off he would’ve had them embedded between his ribs!”

Tony merely nodded, hoping the King wouldn’t ask him to make ‘Thunderstrike’. War hammers were so simple and boring. A heavy lump of metal on a stick… sometimes the lump had little lumps on it. Pathetic and not worth his time. Now a helm like the one Robert had worn during the war would be an interesting project. He’d seen the stag-horn helmet before in the Red Keep, displayed with honor, and found it sorely lacking. Were he given the chance he could have made one black with white horns sharpened like spears and arrowheads. Something worthy of a king. Of course now he’d have to deal with all that fat that surrounded the king’s head and that would mean-

“Kingslayer!” Robert bellowed, wiping his lips with a napkin. “What would you have Lord Stark make ya if you could have anything? Suppose you could… if ya begged your father for money.”

Tony could tell Jamie didn’t like that. He didn’t feel sorry for the knight, however; Jamie Lannister might be an interesting person to talk to but that didn’t mean he didn’t deserve to have the piss knocked out of him every once and a while. Not like Tony… he never deserved it and never understood why people tried to.

“A sword,” Jamie said simply.

“Boring,” Robert exclaimed and Tony found himself agreeing. Predictable and boring, much like Jamie Lannister. The man had wits but lacked the interest his brother Tyrion had. He was a soldier and a knight and Tywin Lannister’s eldest son and all of those titles meant his entire life Jamie had been taught not to think too deeply. “Boring, just like Renly! He wanted a sword too from Stark here… can you believe that? Every man in the Seven Kingdoms has a sword! Every keep and castle and fort from Dorne to the Wall has a bloody blacksmith that could make a sword! This is Tony fucking Stark! He’s a goddamn artist and you ask for a sword? That’s like asking my cook to make beef stew! Its like getting the best whore from across the Narrow Sea and asking her to jerk you off! Boring… boring!”

Jamie gave the king a slight smile. “I am the best swordsmen in the Seven Kingdoms, your grace. Why would I want something I am not skilled at using?”

“He has a point,” Tony said with a smile. “A boring point but a point.”

“I am a boring man,” Jamie stated. “Until I have a sword in my hand.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Tony commented, taking a bite of bacon and wishing there was some fruit. Unlike most men he didn’t believe that one could survive on just meat and beer alone. “Never much of a swordsman myself. Can make them just don’t like swinging them around.” Rhodey had tried to teach him but Tony just didn’t have the feel for it. He understood how to make a sword or a spear or a hammer, he just didn’t enjoy swinging them around.

Robert, who was clearly growing restless, took a long swing of ale. “Well now Stark, ya came all the way up here to see me so ya might as well get around to telling me what ya want.”

“Right, of course. Right to business, love that.” And he did. It’d been fun to play around with the King and the Kingslayer but Tony found himself honestly growing tired of the game. It wasn’t fun to taunt a target that would kill you if you pushed it too far. Anyone else, even the mighty Tywin Lannister, and Tony would spend honors just ribbing and jabbing. The King though was different and that forced Tony to pull his punches… something he hated to do. It was his damn need to always win that drove him mad.

Tony reached down and grabbed the canvas bag he’d brought with him. He shifted it from hand to hand a few times, wanting to live dangerously, before opening it up and pulling several wads of cotton out.

“Going to knit me a sweater, Stark?” the king asked.

Tony chuckled. “No, no not that. No, this is something rather interesting. We were mining about a six months ago in one of the deeper sections of the mines… the southern one that runs… ok, it really doesn’t matter right now, the point is that we found something we’ve never run into before.” Tugging at the cotton, Tony found what he was looking for: a small, glowing white stone.

“By the Seven,” King Robert whispered, looking at the stone that Tony held up. It was polished smooth like a gem stone, barely the size of a silver stag. The light that poured out of it though was brilliant, lighting up the king’s face like a candle wick would. Jamie Lannister stepped forward, for once unable to hide his surprise. “Never seen a gem like that.”

“It’s not a gem,” Tony stated. “Looks like one, I’ll admit, but the density is all wrong and the way that it’s shaped-“

“Looks like a gem and gleams like a gem, Stark… that makes it a gem.”

“As you say, Your Grace,” Tony stated, realizing it was a waste of time to bicker with the king about the little glowing rock. “But you can see that they aren’t like anything else we have in Westeros. Maester Jarvis did some research and found that they are Sunstones… I wanted to call them Starkstones but I guess I was overruled. These little buggers never stop glowing, even if you leave them in a dark pit for days on end.”

“Interesting little trinkets,” Jamie stated, doing his best to act indifferent.

Tony merely smiled. ‘If only you knew.’ He wasn’t about to tell the blond that the Sunstones did more than glow. Jarvis had researched them greatly and found all manner of interesting traits the Sunstones were said to have. Mystics claimed they were magic given solid form and used them to amplify their own abilities. Tony didn’t believe in magic but had found that the Sunstones were the closest things to making him a believer. Metal was the instrument of their miracles and he’d enjoyed experimenting with them. A helm or gauntlet that had Sunstones embedded in it became light as a feather yet stronger than any steel he’d ever worked with. Once he’d inlaid one stone in a gauntlet he’d been fiddling with it had suddenly felt as if he weren’t wearing anything at all upon his hand. Yet, when he struck the metal with his hammer it would not bend or break.

More amazing was their reaction to silver. When a coin was pressed against the stone it would unleash a blast of… well, Jarvis called it magic but Tony wasn’t sure exactly what it was. It was powerful though, as a stone the size of a gold dragon had thrown him across the room when he first attempted it. The silver didn’t even need to be pressed against it; a light scraping on the back of one stone would cause the beam of light to shoot out the front, destroying much in its path. Tony had always wondered why there was so much gold around Lannisport compared to silver… the Sunstones might be the answer.

He wasn’t about to let Robert or the Kingslayer know those facts, however. Tony had learned early on in life that a secret is worthless if everyone knows it. The Sunstone was already an interesting bauble, if the King’s refusal to look away from its glow was any indication. Let them know that the Sunstones could revolutionize weapons manufactory and he’d see all his plans ruined as the Crown moved to seize every last one of them. Rulers and lords got easily frightened when lesser men discovered thing that could be used against them.

No, it was better that the King think of it as something of interest but not something of need.

“Trinket, yes,” Tony said with a smile, pulling out several Sunstones, including one roughly the size of his palm. If the smaller ones were like candles this one was a bonfire. “But even trinkets are worth something if used right. Lovers love candles but we also need them to light our rooms. Wine is a wonderful drink but boiled it helps mend wounds. Same thing with these little guys here. You put one of them in, I don’t know, a lamp or something and suddenly you have no need for oil or wicks or flames. Imagine being able to light your Red Keep without all that smoke?”

“Ye, I see what your getting at,” the King said, though Tony could tell he really didn’t. “Is there any more to this than that? I can’t imagine this was so important that you’d travel up North to the snow and ice when ya could have waited a month and saw me in King’s Landing.”

“And miss out on all the gloom and despair?” Tony jested, flicking his hand almost dismissively. He leaned back in his chair, slouching a bit as he spoke. “It isn’t the stones that brought me here, Your Grace. Rather, it’s where they are located.”

Robert growled, looking down at his empty mug. “I get enough riddles from Littlefinger and the Imp and the Eunuch! Out with it man, out with it!”

“The Sunstones were found in the southern mine on the farthest end of Iron Pointe. In fact, they were found at the very end of the tunnel.” He glanced over at Jamie and knew at once that the Kingslayer had figured out the issue. “I can’t dig out another shovel-full of dirt without crossing the border into Lannisport.”

“Lord Tywin,” Robert grumbled, soundly more like a bear than a stag.

“Not exactly a pleasant man and not one I would want to upset,” Tony stated. “He was kind enough to make me the Lord of Iron Pointe and I have no desire to offend him.” He looked over at Jamie and smirked. “Personally, I have no desire for them to begin singing ‘The Rains of Iron Pointe’ anytime soon.” The Kingslayer laughed at that, as did Robert. “I was hoping that you could serve as a neutral party, your grace, and help arrange a deal for me to mine the Sunstones. I would be willing to purchase the land or pay a tax upon all I find if Lord Tywin wishes to keep his holdings. I’m not looking to rob Casterly Rock… I’m hoping we can work out an arrangement that will benefit everyone.”

“Hmmm… I’ll see what I can do, Stark.”

“You’re welcome to keep those Sunstones, if you wish,” Tony stated, noticing how taken the King was with the glowing stones. “A gift. Hopefully I will be able to mine more soon. If not, then I’d rather they go to someone who can enjoy then.” Of course, that was a boldface lie. Tony had already managed to find a whole storeroom of the Sunstones and those few he’d passed to the king were actually the worst of the bunch. Robert couldn’t see it but Tony had used a special gem-cutter lens to inspect each one and found cracks and flaws in each. The eight stones all together could do something but would not match the strength of the ones he had waiting back in Iron Pointe.

The only reason he wanted to mine further was his hopes that bigger and better stones lay just beyond his border. He had plenty of experiments he wanted to perform on the stones and ideas for new weapons he could create, as well as the need for lesser stones to continue tricking Robert and the Lannisters into believing that the Sunstones were only trinkets good only for lamps and toys.

Tony looked over at Jamie and smiled. ‘A raven will be sent to your father, won’t it Kingslayer? Good… tattle on. See what I care. I welcome the challenge it might bring.’

Chapter Text

Tyrion

The banquet was a dull affair. It was better than any they’d had on their travel to Winterfell, admittedly, but still it lacked the majesty of those held in Casterly Rock and the Red Keep. Tyrion didn’t fault the Starks though; it wasn’t their fault they were uneducated in entertainment. The North was a sad, dreary place so it took very little to get the mutts excited. A few cases of ale, a bit of music on poorly tuned instruments and a bunch of laughter and they could claim it the best supper Winterfell had ever seen.

‘We really should get old Ned down south, so he can see how these things are suppose to be done,’ Tyrion thought to himself as he left the table. ‘Of course, if he enjoyed himself it would be a sign of doom and we’d have dragons and Others and snargles all appearing on our doorstep.’ He could tell his siblings wished they could excuse themselves as well but Cersei was Queen and with power came certain demands, such as smiling even when you were bored to tears. As for Jamie, the northerners were just looking for him to do something dishonorable to prove their half-backed prejudices about him, forcing Tyrion’s older brother to remain. Jamie would not give them fodder.

“I’ll drink ya under the table, I will!”

‘At least our dear King is enjoying himself,’ Tyrion thought, shaking his head. ‘We traded the Mad King for the Drunk King. The gods smile upon us.’ There were those that claimed the Seven were cruel; Tyrion didn’t think so… he thought the gods were pranksters. They looked at people and wondered ‘How might we make a jest at their expense?’. With King Aerys and his lot it was to take the most noble and powerful family in all of Westeros and render them so mad that they led to their own extinction. For any that tried to take Harrenhal the gods happily plucked their line like a maiden would flower petals. ‘And for my family it made Cersei a woman and me a dwarf. Jamie might be the only one to luck out of all of us… or the gods are just waiting to pull their final joke on him.’

Tyrion fought the urge to sigh. They’d been on the road for two months and would be stuck in Winterfell for at least another two. It wasn’t that he didn’t mind traveling, far from it. Tyrion loved to see new places and meet new people and see if a new land’s whores could do anything new with their hands and their tongues. The problem was that Winterfell had so little to offer her in ways to entertain himself.

The sound of a sword striking a training dummy fought against the laughter from inside the Great Hall. Tyrion followed the sound and was not surprised to find Ned Stark’s bastard once more using his sword instead of his cock to deal with his pent up aggression. The smallest of Lannisters was not a swordsman in any sense of the word but even he could tell that these were not training strikes; no, the boy was angry and he was taking it out on the poor wood and straw-stuffed scarecrow.

“Is it just me or does that boy need to get laid?” Tony asked, walking over and sitting down on a nearby crate, motioning for Tyrion to join him. The dwarf did so, a smile on his lips. Tony was one of the few Starks he could actually have a conversation with. The two of them had been friends ever since they had discovered their mutual love for books, wine and whores. Even after Lady Virgina Potts, now Stark, had managed to win his heart and end his trips to the brothel the two had enjoyed a roaring friendship. “A I’m just saying it seems like he is in need of something to ease his tensions. Maybe a nice plump girl with great big… well…” Tony cupped his hands and rocked them back and forth in front of his chest, “…and he wouldn’t be so hot tempered.”

“An old favorite remedy of mine, to be sure,” Tyrion stated. “I’m surprised to hear you speak of that, though. I had thought your dear wife would have your balls on the chopping block for thinking that.”

“That’s the problem with you, Tyrion,” Tony said with a smirk, “you’ve never met a woman who can satisfy you. Sometimes I wonder if men’s tastes are direction disproportion to their height.”

Tyrion snorted at that. Tony Stark was one of the few men that made jests about his height without letting such japes come off as sounding cruel. His was a self-deprecating humor that struck everyone, regardless of status or size. Tyrion knew that everyone was a target of Tony’s barbed tongue, not just him. “I doubt that. If that were the case then the Mountain would be the most celebate man in the Seven Kingdoms.”

“True. Maybe it’s just the extremes. You’re so itty bitty and the Mountain is a beast and the King’s appetite for whores seems to grow with his waistline-“

“Careful now, friend… that was almost treasonous.”

“Doesn’t make it any less true,” Tony reasoned.

“The truth is the most treasonous thing of all,” Tyrion quipped.

“You know, sometimes I wonder if Lord Tywin wouldn’t have been better off offering a marriage contract between the two of you,” Ser Jamie Rhodes stated as he ambled up to them.

“No offense, but neither of us would look good in a dress,” Tony said. “Though I did hear about that one time…”

“A filthy lie, I assure you,” Tyrion stated. He looked at the night and nodded in greeting. “Ser Jamie.”

“Lord Tyrion,” Rhodey said, leaning against a wall and watching Jon Snow continue his practice.

Tony pulled out a wine skin he’d hidden under his jacket and took a long drink. “Can we just put aside the titles for a bit? Makes the conversation go much faster. I mean, I know I get better with age but the two of you are only going to get more wrinkles.”

Tyrion waved his hand dismissively. “If you wish.”

“Why aren’t you enjoying the feast, Tyrion?” Rhodey asked.

The dwarf looked skyward. “There was a storyteller at Casterly Rock. A fine one, very entertaining. My sister cared little for her and some did Jamie but I always enjoyed her stories. Once she told me that every man is born with only so much breath. We are like… like this.” Tyrion snatched Tony’s wine skin, ignoring the weapon marker’s squawk of protest. “We can only have so much wine or air or anything put inside us before we die.”

“Good to know that my time is limited and I’ve wasted some of it listening to you,” Rhodey said dryly.

“The point,” Tyrion said, acting as if he hadn’t been interrupted, “is that no one goes on forever. Every breath is precious. And personally, I don’t feel like wasting mine watching our King dance with fat women while my dear sister glares at the world enraged she wasn’t born with a cock between her legs.”

“Does she wish to be a man or just have a cock?” Tony asked. “Because if it is the latter I hear Myr has shops that can do just that.”

“Thank you for the horrifying vision, Tony,” Rhodey complained. Tyrion snickered at that; Rhodey’s attitude was why the dwarf so enjoyed having the knight around. Tony and him were more like friends than lord and soldier and both had no problem with mocking the other. It was similar to how he was with Jamie… similar, but better. Tony and Rhodey held little back and did not have a blonde bitch constantly hovering around, scoffing and insulting one of them.

“I would offer such a suggestion to her but I fear that she would have my head on a spike… or accept with tears in her eyes.” Tyrion took a drink of wine. “My points remines, however. Breathing is precious and if it is a choice between taking my breaths in that Hall or out here under the stars, the stars will always win. At least until your cousins get better wine.”

“Good luck with that,” Benjen Stark said, stalking towards them. Ned’s younger brother, dressed still in the furs and layers of the Night’s Watch, joined Rhodey in leaning against the wall. “We northerners don’t have the tongues for wine. Until the gods see fit to make grapes that grow in the snow, there is little use in developing one.”

“I would prefer a grape that you squeeze and wine dribbles onto your tongue,” Tyrion stated. He waved his hands out in bliss. “Then I could die a happy man.”

“I’ll save my wishes for something else,” Tony said.

“And who would you wish to?” Tyrion asked. “You believe in none of the gods, old or new.”

“There is only one god,” Rhodey said simply, “and he is death.”

“I don’t think Death gives out wishes or wine,” Benjen said.

Rhodey shook his head. “No. The only thing he gives out no man should accept happily.”

“If we are going to discuss the great mysterious of life and the gods then I think I’d prefer to return to the banquet,” Tyrion groused.

“And what would you prefer to talk about?” Tony asked. “Wine? Women? Gold? Women made of gold and filled with wine?”

“Now you are just cruel, Lord Stark, dangling out my dreams in front of me knowing I can never have them,” Tyrion said. He nodded in the direction of Jon Snow. “How about the bastard?” Tony sucked in a breath. “Oh, I’m sorry, does that term offend you?”

“Yeah, just a bit. See, I have a problem with people being judged because of things they can’t control.”

“And we all know I do not. I enjoy the jests and mockery I get because of my height. It makes me smile so to have people point at me and children run away screaming fearing I am some monster come to gobble them up.” Tyrion rolled his eyes. “He is a bastard… that is the term for it. Would you prefer I call him something else? Perhaps I should call him a ‘natural born son’. That is what polite people say, isn’t it? Well, I am afraid to inform you that I am not polite in the slightest.”

“You could call him by his name,” Rhodey said.

“Yes, just as I would prefer to be called Lord Tyrion, god of tits and wine. Unfortunately, I am called far worse names.”

“Not by us, Tyrion, not by us,” Tony said with a smirk. “And when we do, it is only because we know you personally and thus can choose personal insults rather than generic ones.”

“Why do you want to talk about Snow?” Benjen asked.

“I hear he wants to take the Black,” Tyrion said. “As someone who did just that, I’d like to hear your thoughts on the matter.”

“I would too,” Tony said.

Benjen considered Tony for a moment. “Why do you care about the boy?”

Rather than deny it, Tony merely leaned back and gestured at Jon, who still hadn’t noticed them. “Because someone in this place has to.”

“Tell us, Benjen,” Tyrion said, taking a sip of wine from the skin he still held, “and be honest with us, for I will know if you are lying… do you think that your nephew should join the Night’s Watch?”

The youngest of the Stark brothers was quiet for a long time, letting the sound of Jon’s sword cleaving chunks off the training dummy fill the silence. “He is skilled with a blade and has been taught better than most on the wall. He would prosper there and do well. He wants to be like me, I think, but he’d be a better teacher. Thorne is an angry prick and is more concerned with weeding out the weaklings than making our order strong. Jon could improve upon that.”

“High and kind words,” Tyrion said.

“My brother says that anything said before the word ‘but’ doesn’t matter,” Benjen countered.

“…but… that doesn’t answer my question. Do you think the boy should join?”

Benjen pushed himself away from the wall and for a moment Tyrion thought, as the grim Stark man marched towards him, that Benjen was going to strike him. Instead the ranger reached down, claimed Tony’s wine skin, and after wiping the mouth of it took a long drink. “Seven Hells… no, no I don’t.”

“Well, that wasn’t at all painful to get out of you,” Tony quipped.

“Hold your jests, cousin.” Benjen returned to leaning next to Rhodey. “I’m not saying he shouldn’t someday join, if that is what he truly desires.”

“You just think that he shouldn’t join now,” Rhodey stated.

“He’s still a boy. I know he thinks he’s a man and able to make his own decisions but he isn’t. He’s young and he’s sheltered and…” Benjen took another long swig of wine. “My niece, Sansa, she has stars in her eyes when it comes to the world. She thinks everyone is brave and just and all knights are daring and bold and that she will marry a nice lord and they will have nice children in a nice little castle.”

“From what I hear she is going to marry the future king,” Tony said.

“Then she is going to find soon that nice and Joffrey do not coincide,” Tyrion muttered.

“Jon is the same way as her,” Benjen said. “But his stars are about the Night’s Watch.”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow about that little comment. ‘One would almost think that our dear Benjen doesn’t believe all the tales and songs about the noble Night’s Watch.’ He toyed with one of the rings on his fingers. ‘Of course, that’s because he among them. Just as I do not believe the mighty songs sung about my family, save for the ‘Rain’.’ He said none of this, of course, knowing that doing so would only shut Benjen up and the dwarf was interested to hear what Ned Stark’s brother had to say.

“He doesn’t know about life yet. All he knows is Winterfell. He hasn’t explored the world or seen the sights or tasted all that is out there for him. A man needs to understand what he is giving up before he makes this choice!”

“He sees it as a way out,” Tony said, rubbing his chin. “I mean, thanks to our ways and traditions he has few options. Ned ruined him by bringing him here.”

“It better he didn’t?” Rhodey asked in surprise. “That’s kind of cold, Tony.”

“I don’t mean it to be. But it is true. My cousin tortured that poor boy with kindness. He brought him here, forced him to see the family he could never really be a part of… and he has to deal with Ned’s charming wife…”

“We all know about your feelings concerning Lady Stark,” Benjen grumbled.

“I don’t,” Tyrion pipped up. “And I would love to hear them.”

“We don’t get along,” Tony said simply. “She has it in her head that I’m an arrogant jackass who cares only about himself and betrayed his family by leaving the North.”

“And you aren’t?” Rhodey asked.

“Of course I’m all those things that but isn’t a reason to hate me!” Tony flashed them a grin. “That’s all part of my charm.”

“And you’re feelings on Lady Stark?” Tyrion pressed. ‘Maybe the Starks aren’t the perfect little family they wish the rest of the Seven Kingdoms to believe them to be.’

Tony shrugged. “Oh, I have no problem with her. Great lady.” He paused for a few seconds, noticing that none of the other men were buying it. “Ok, so maybe I think that she was a bit too quick to move onto Ned while her ‘beloved’ Brandon’s corpse was still warm… and I think she holds grudges worse than your dear father, Tyrion…”

“Don’t tell him that… he’d take it as a challenge.”

Rhodey rubbed his arms, trying to chase away a slight chill. Benjen passed him Tony’s wine skin and the knight took a drink. “Okay, so Ned bringing Jon to Winterfell to be with his true born children wasn’t the greatest thing. But it had to be better than how most lords treat their natural born children.”

“I’m not saying that Ned was wrong to help him. I’m just saying… I’m just saying it was wrong for him not to go all the way.”

Tyrion was surprised by this. “You’d have Ned Stark claim his bas… claim the boy? What of Robb?”

“He could have always made Robb heir, even if he were younger. The king is Ned’s best friend… would have been easy.” Tony waved his hand and sighed. “But that’s not the point. The point is that Ned wrapped up Jon and now he has few options. He can’t stay here, not with Lady Stark breathing down his neck. Your sister would never let him near the Red Keep. Ned won’t give him a castle of his own. He hasn’t been taught to farm or fish so he can’t go and start a normal life.”

“He could be a knight,” Rhodey said. “Plenty of boys like him become knights.” Tony just stared at his friend. “And admittedly those boys would already be squires.”

“Exactly,” Tony said. “Ned should have left Jon with someone that could show him the world, let him find his talent and a path to take towards having some honor. Instead he let his own honor and his shame mix together and now that boy is going to freeze his balls off on the Wall. No offense, cousin.”

“None taken,” Benjen grunted. “You are full of comments, Antony, but I don’t see you providing an answer.”

“Actually, I think I did.”

Tyrion glanced at the weapons maker. “Did you? All I heard was some prattling.”

“Jon needs to see the world and needs someone to show him it.”

“And who would do that?” Benjen asked.

“Me,” Tony said with a grin.

Rhodey pushed away from the wall. “Tony, I don’t think you have thought this through. You can’t just decide spur of the moment-“

“It, uh, isn’t spur of the moment.”

“-to kidnap a boy and take him home-“

“He’s not a boy and it isn’t a kidnapping, ok Rhodey? A best this is mannapping.”

“-without discussing it with anyone-“

“I have, Rhodey, I have.” Tony held up his hand, getting his friend to quiet down. “Pepper and I talked about it when I first decided to come visit. She helped me work out all the little wrinkles.”

Rhodey just stared at his friend, shaking his head. “And you didn’t think I, as commander of your soldiers and your sworn shield, should know?”

“You do know. Just told you.” Tony stood up and began to walk about. “Jon needs to get away from here. Get away from all the people that know him and judge him and look at him with either shame or sadness or judgment. He needs to have a bit of excitement and try his hand at new things. You all know that Ned Stark isn’t the one to give him that… but I can.”

“You think he’d allow it?” Tyrion asked. “I would think Lord Stark wouldn’t trust you with one of his children.”

“But Jon really isn’t one of his children, is he?” Tony said. He wasn’t smiling when he said that, making it clear that the thoughts weren’t his own. “And he will if you stand in favor of it, cousin.”

Benjen frowned and Tyrion used the silence to waddle over and steal back Tony’s wine skin. He brought it to his mouth, only to grumble when he found it empty. Rhodey shrugged and the dwarf tossed it back to Tony.

“Jon won’t be happy,” Benjen finally said.

“Not at first,” Tony admitted. “But when we explain that he can still join the Night’s Watch in a few years, after he’s experienced life a bit and decided he’d rather have ice and snow, then he’ll come around.”

“Or you might rub off on him and he’ll become an even bigger shame to his father,” Tyrion said. “And speaking as someone who already brings their father shame, I can say such a life is quite enjoyable.”

Benjen sighed, rolling his head back and force. “Aye, I’ll talk to Ned. Between the two of us we should be able to convince him to go along with this plan.”

“Wonderful. Now, I say we return to the banquet, watch our fat king drink himself to an early grave, and then attempt to do the same ourselves.” Tony clapped his hands together and began to lead the group back into the Great Hall. Tyrion, however, merely looked back at Jon Snow and smiled.

“Bastard, you have no idea what you’re in for,” he muttered.

Chapter Text

Jon

“I want you to not think that this was a rejection,” Benjen told his nephew, his strong hand clamped on Jon’s shoulder. All around them men and women were hurrying about, getting together the last few things Lord Stark and his daughters would need for their trip to the capital. The King’s servants were also rushing about, triple checking rooms to ensure they weren’t forgetting anything. None of the royal family would laugh it off if a glove or favorite book were left behind. Depending on whose possessions were lost, it could mean a loss of their job… or their head.

“I know, uncle,” Jon said softly.

Benjen sighed, clearly disappointed in the boy’s tone. “The Wall isn’t going anywhere and your skills won’t get any weaker if you give it a year or two. In fact, it might help you out to travel South.”

“If you say so, uncle,” Jon murmured.

Benjen shut his eyes and released Jon’s shoulder. “I know you hate me and I know you think I’ve betrayed you, but I swear that isn’t true. I would be honored to have you standing next to me up on the Wall.”

“Just not now,” Jon stated.

“Just not now,” Benjen admitted. He looked up at the sky and Jon knew that his uncle needed to leave but didn’t want to depart with bad blood between them. The problem was that the ranger wasn’t known for his conversational aptitude and preferred to let his actions speak for themselves.

‘And his actions have certainly spoken loud and clear,’ Jon thought to himself. When his father had informed him that he wouldn’t be allowed to the Wall the first person Jon had turned to was his uncle. He had thought that Benjen would stand up for him, would tell Lord Stark that Jon should come, tell him it was the only possible solution and convince him to let him go. But instead of an ally he’d found himself facing a cloak-turner who merely shook his head no. Jon had been utterly shocked and his father had needed to tell him the second part of his decision three times before Jon finally comprehended that instead of going to the Wall and becoming a noble member of the Night’s Watch he was being shipped off to Lord Antony Stark’s keep.

Jon had swallowed his anger and his sorrow and told his father that he understood before hurrying to the godswood, his direwolf pup Ghost his only companion. He was glad of that, for he didn’t want to see anyone, to have to look upon their faces, filled with guilt or pleasure at his departure from Winterfell. Word had quickly spread that Lady Stark had told her husband that Jon could not stay in Winterfell after Lord Stark went to King’s Landing to serve as the Hand of the King. She had tolerated Jon for Ned’s sake but with him gone she would not allow ‘the bastard’ to remain. Jon knew that his father could not take him to King’s Landing; there were enough people whispering about a bastard being allowed to stay in Winterfell … having one in the Red Keep and the Tower of the Hand was simply unheard of. That’s why Jon had thought his joining the Night’s Watch was assured; it was the only option available to them all.

But it was not to be. He was to be sent off, no different than a young woman freshly bloomed or a rowdy child. It would have been different, had he been younger. There was great honor for a child of a noble house to be taken in and fostered by another family. Lord Stark had himself been fostered in the Vale. But Jon was well past that age and all knew that this was not an honor being given to him. This was him being cast aside. For the next few days every glance and look was either filled with pity for his fate or relief that the symbol for Ned Stark’s one and only mistake would be at long last gone.

“It will be fine, Jon,” Benjen said, checking over his saddle back. He was doing everything he could to avoid looking his nephew in the eye. He had claimed that he needed to get started early on his ride back to the Wall and had to decline King Robert’s offer to ride with them all to the King’s Road. Jon knew in his heart that if they were going together, Benjen would have accepted the King’s offer. But not now… now he and Lord Tyrion, who had taken it into his head to see the Wall, were riding out now.

‘The imp gets to see the Wall before me,’ Jon thought to himself.

“It is only for a year and then we’ll see about getting you up on the Wall.” The ranger’s shoulders slumped and he turned back, a smile on his lips that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Jon… I…”

“Have to go,” Jon finally said, putting his uncle out of his misery. “I understand, uncle. I do. Be safe. Till we meet again.” With that the boy turned and began to march back towards the main castle before Benjen could offer up more hollow words. He did not turn back until he heard the sound of hooves kicking up dirt. He glanced back at his uncle, his lips pursed. ‘Goodbye uncle.’ Jon thought, a tremor rolling through his body, making him wonder if he shouldn’t have parted with Benjen on better terms.

“Watch it, bastard!”

Jon leapt back, just managing to avoid being struck the scarred swordsman most knew only as The Hound. Robb had told him that the man served as Prince Joffrey’s shield but all Jon had seen the man do was get drunk and trail after the royal brat like a belligerent shadow. Jon wasn’t sure if the Hound’s attitude was a byproduct of the hideous disfiguring scars that marred the right side of his face or if he merely used the injury as an excuse for his horrid personality.

“Sorry ser,” Jon said quickly.

“Not a ‘ser’, bastard,” the Hound growled, his heavy dog-headed helm clutched under one arm. “Hurry it up, we’re leaving in within the hour and the king and your precious Lord Stark… both of them… won’t be made late by the likes of you.”

“I’m going to say goodbye to my brother Bran. My horse is already saddled and Lord Antony has collected my belongings.”

“I don’t give a piss about your belongs, boy. Hurry up and talk to the sleeping corpse and hurry down.” Jon opened his mouth, ready to argue that Bran wasn’t dead, only to think better of it. ‘He just wants to get a rise out of me,’ Jon thought. “That’s a good bastard!” the Hound bellowed after him.

Never in Jon’s life had he wanted to throttle someone more. The Hound’s laughter echoed through his head and burned his blood as he walked up the narrow steps and came to Bran’s door. His little brother lay asleep in his great bed, his back broken. No one knew what had happened, how the boy who so loved to climb had fallen from the tower, but they had found him there, his direwolf howling for all the world to hear. Bran lay in his bed, fighting for his life, and the Lannisters continued to drink their ale and laugh in their faces and look down upon the Starks as if they were no better than wildings. A fire that was so unlike his Lord father suddenly burned in Jon’s chest and it took all his resolve not to draw his sword and march back down the stairs, slit the Hound’s throat then find Jaime Lannister and the little shit Joffrey and any other golden-haired man in Winterfell and streak the dirt with their blood.

Jon stopped just outside Bran’s door, his fingers curled up in a fist. He forced himself to breathe, to take calming breaths before he continued on. Some many frustrations were now bubbling up inside of him, congealing together to form a great plug of rage in his heart. In that moment Jon hated so much of the world. He hated the King for making Lord Stark his Hand and ripping the family apart. He hated his father for agreeing when Bran was still ill and for refusing to let him go become a man of the Night’s Watch. He hated his uncle for betraying him and Lord Antony for stealing him away. He hated that Bran hadn’t listened to his mother and he hated that he was forced to leave, unable to be there when his little brother awoke. He hated Robb for not doing more for him and Sansa deciding that now that she was going to be queen that meant she should mimic her mother and treat him like dirt. He hated all of those that looked on him with pity and wanted to kill those that heaped scorn upon him. All at once it felt as if wildfire and ice from beyond the Wall were flowing through his veins.

He leaned forward, taking several deep breaths, swallowing the bile that burned the back of his throat. ‘Anger does you no good if left unchecked,’ Ser Rodrik’s voice echoed in his head. The old knight had taught Jon and Robb how to fight with swords and their fists and how to behave like men and in trying times Jon found himself remember the man’s lessons. ‘Anger is fire. You must set limits for it, keep it contained and an eye forever on it. You must stamp out rogue sparks and never let it grow too big or two bright. Do not bottle it inside or attempt to smother it away though. If tended properly it will aid you and guide you and provide for you. But if you allow it to rule unchecked it will overtake you and burn you and all you love and know will be turned to ash.’

His thoughts turned to Lord Antony. When he had heard the news that he was to go with him he’d been in disbelief. His father had asked him if Jon found that acceptable and he had quickly said it was fine, understanding that Lord Stark was asking only to be polite and that it didn’t matter what he thought about the situation. Truth be told, of all the options that he could have been given, Lord Antony was probably the best. He had always treated Jon fairly and never looked down upon him for his status like some of his father’s bannermen would. Jon knew that Lord Antony would be kind to him. But Jon’s heart had been set on the Night’s Watch and now that dream had been ripped away from him.

He pushed all thoughts aside as he entered Bran’s room, knowing they would do him no good. He didn’t want his goodbye to his little brother tainted by his own bitterness. Maester Luwin would have shook his head and told Jon he should be thankful for his lot, considering that there were many others that suffered worst blows than his… including Bran.

“What are you doing here?”

Years of such questions had enabled Jon to remain impassive in the face of that demand. Lady Stark was sitting next to Bran’s bed, the beginnings of a prayer ring clutched in her fingers. She refused to meet his gaze, choosing to stare off at a spot just above his shoulder. He was use to that too, having grown use to the fact that his father’s wife held little regard for him. On good days he was treated with indifference; on bad barely contained contempt. She never struck him or caused him physical suffering but she had made it clear all of Jon’s childhood that he was not wanted and done all in her power to take away anything that might make him feel as if he belonged.

“I’ve come to say goodbye to Bran,” Jon stated.

“You have then,” Lady Stark snapped.

Jon ignored her. He would be gone within the hour and he did not know when he would next be in Winterfell, if ever. There was little she could do to him now and he did not want her to ruin this final moment between him and his brother.

Jon could remember when Bran was born. He had been fascinated with the squirming, pink little thing that always seemed to cry out and wiggle this way and that. As he had grown that energy had remained and Bran had always been leaping about, trying new things and getting himself into adventures. He wasn’t underfoot like Arya; no, Bran’s problem was that he liked to explore and would disappear for hours at a time, wandering the woods and climbing the walls of Winterfell.

That’s what made his lying there so much worse. Bran was energetic and lively and forever bounding about. To see him lying so still, looking tiny in all the furs and blankets that covered him, without even a twitch to show that he was live… it broke Jon’s heart.

“I’ll be gone when you wake. I… I am going with father’s cousin, Lord Antony, to Iron Pointe,” Jon told his sleeping brother. “He says he wishes to teach me about the world. I suppose I will learn the art of weapons making and see how they run their houses in the South. I’ve never been down there, so… so I imagine I will learn a lot. They say the greatest artisans are making their home in Iron Pointe; not just metalworkers but weavers and potters and the like.” Jon took a step forward, his left hand clutching his right. He wondered if he was trying to convince his little brother that this was a good path or trying to convince himself. “After that I… I do not know. I still wish to join the Night’s Watch but I fear they won’t have me, despite what Uncle Benjen says.” He shook his head, forcing such bitter fears from his mind. “When you awake and are strong again perhaps you’ll be able to come to Lord Antony’s castle. I’ll show you the coast and you can play in the sea…” He words failing him so he chose to merely walk to his brother’s side and kiss him upon his brow. “I love you, little brother.” With that Jon arose and, with a nod of respect to Lady Stark, made his way towards the door.

“Jon.”

He stopped. Never had his father’s wife called him by his name. Always she spoke directly to him, if forced to, and never did she give a command that saw her needing to use the name his father had given him. He slowly turned, facing her, wondering what final parting words she might have for him.

“It should have been you Jon,” Lady Stark said coldly.

He shut his eyes, not wanting to see her face. He didn’t want to know if she would smile at his reaction, delighted that she had managed to so gravely wound him, or if she would merely continue glaring at him.

“No, it shouldn’t.”

Jon whipped around. There, standing in the doorway, was Lord Antony and never had Jon seen the man look so much like his father. In that moment it was easy to believe that Antony and Eddard were kin, for the same fierce, dark gaze that Lord Eddard had was seen on Lord Antony’s features. He strolled into the room, his eyes locked onto Lady Stark’s. Jon saw that she was surprised as well but there was still a hard edge to her gaze. Lord Antony though met her gaze and would not be cowed by her.

“What happened to your son is a tragedy,” Antony stated, his voice holding none of his usual mirth. “But you do him no respect wishing his fate on those he loves. If you truly care for him you would understand that he loves his brother and would not want to see him hurt.” Lady Stark looked ready to say something but Antony cut her off, a fake smile plastered on his face. “But don’t listen to me. Wallow in your hatred. Let it warm you at night. Tell yourself that you are the victim and wrap yourself in that indignation like a shroud. But don’t make Jon your target ever again. Don’t blame him for something that is not his fault. He will be my ward the next time you lay eyes on him and I do not take kindly to people insulting those I have pledged to protect. Speak that way to him again…”

Lady Stark stood up, her fingers gripping the godwheel so hard Jon thought it might shatter. She glared at Lord Antony, trembling like a leaf caught in a great breeze. “You have no right to speak to me like this. You enter my home-“

“Which is only your home because you were willing to trade a dead Stark brother for a living one,” Tony countered.

Catelyn’s eyes widened for a moment before she snarled, “I am the Lady of Winterfell and my son… my precious son… is lying there and you DARE question how I treat that bastard? My son… my Bran-”

“Loves his brother,” Antony repeated, cutting her off. “And he would be ashamed to see you like this. Of course, what he considers love and what you consider it might be two different things.” Lord Antony laid his hand on Jon’s shoulder and began to turn him away. “Farewell, Lady Stark… I don’t think we will see each other again for a long time.”

“Good,” she snapped.

Antony pushed Jon towards the door, only to pause. “Oh, and just something to keep in mind: life has a way of sending back to you all that you put out into the world. So remember your actions here the next time tragedy falls upon you and your family… and know it is all your fault.” With that Antony shut the door, a smaller, truer smile on his lips. “I’m sorry, Jon.”

“You should not have gotten involved.”

“I wasn’t apologizing for that,” Antony said. “I was apologizing… for things the people of Winterfell should ask forgiveness for.”

Jon didn’t know what to think of that and chose instead to ignore the comment. “You should not have spoken to her like that.”

Lord Stark nodded, rubbing the back of his head. “Yeah, probably not… and I probably shouldn’t call her a bitch but I will.”

Jon’s eyes widened in shock.

“Oh, come on… you’ve wanted to call her that for years.”

“No… never,” Jon said, looking about in fear someone had heard Antony slandering Lady Stark.

Antony threw his arm around the boy’s shoulder. “Jon, Jon, Jon… we have so much work to do with you.”

~MC~MC~MC~

Tony

Their ride out of Winterfell had been a boring one. There had been many goodbyes and well wishes and honors to be paid. Tony had begun to wonder if they would ever leave as it seemed that as soon as they had taken care of every last possible farewell the King or Ned would remember something and it would begin the process anew. Every parting was filled with tradition and ritual and turned the act of returning home into a mummer’s stage play.

Tony was not a patient man when it came to anything other than his metallic creations. Pepper had laughed at him often, wondering how he could fidget and shift like a child told to stand in the corner at the slightest delay but spend hours staring at a piece of iron, working out how best to use it. Conversations that did not interest him were like the worst torture but he would run a whetstone along a knife’s edge for days if needed, until he was satisfied. Rhodey worried that one day Tony would make a metal man and declare it to be his newest bannerman.

After many tears and well wishes and promises Ned had relented and let King Robert give the command for them to go. It had taken all of Tony’s power not to spur his horse and race out of Winterfell’s gate. Instead, to alleviate his frustrations, Tony had ridden up and down the caravan line, checking to make sure his servants and swordsmen were settled and understood their plans. He’d ridden with Jon for several minutes, making awkward conversation, before galloping over to Rhodey and requesting the knight keep an eye on the boy. He’d attempted to talk with Pepper but she had waved him away, refusing to shout from within her wagon just to release him of his boredom.

They’d ridden for eight days though the trip would have been half that if not for the constant stops. Every time it was a new excuse: the queen needed to rest, the princess wanted to see something, the king had to take a piss. It seemed as if every hour they had to stop and wait for some member of the royal family to go about their business. A knight or a servant could wander off and the ride continued but all stopped when Prince Joffrey needed to take a squat in the forest. The worst were the meals; breakfast, lunch and supper became a complete affair with tables brought out, minstrels pulled out their instruments and knights took bets if the king would be able to get back onto his horse without toppling onto his royal ass. Tony had managed to win some coppers the last time but that did not make up for the fact that they had moved far too slowly for his tastes.

That was about to change, however. They had come to their point of parting and Tony and his household would be leaving the King and his grand parade to head West. They’d asked him to continue with them, claiming that he could stay in the capital and enjoy the wonders of King’s Landing. Tony had waved that offer off, claiming he had pressing matters he needed to attend to in Iron Pointe.

‘Pressing matters like not being in a city that stinks of urine and body odor,’ Tony had thought to himself.

They had halted on a small hill, looking about the grass that lay spread out in all directions. Luck had been on their side and the summer snows had melted, giving all of them a rare glimpse at a non-frost covered North. Tony had sent Rhodey, Pepper and the rest of the household ahead and now he sat astride his horse with Ned and Jon on either side of him.

“Be well, my lad,” Ned said with a slight smile. “Look for opportunities to learn. This is a rare chance for you and you’ll regret it if you don’t take a hold of it with both hands.”

“I will, father.” Jon gripped the reins, his jaw working before he looked back at Ned. Tony could tell he wanted to ask Ned something but was debating whether it would be proper. He would start only to suddenly stop, then start again. Finally, just when Tony was sure Jon would never work up the nerve, the boy spoke. “My Lord… I’ve never asked about my mother. I’ve respected your wishes on that matter. But as we are here and I do not know when we might see each other again… does she know about me? Does she know what I am doing? That I am well?”

Tony watched Ned carefully. He too wanted to hear the answer to Jon’s question. Another man would have politely excused themselves but Tony wasn’t most men. “She knows enough, lad, she knows enough.” Ned moved his horse so he was next to the boy. He reached over and gripped Jon’s shoulder. “When we see each other next you will be a man… and then I will tell you everything.”

Jon gave a slight smile at that and spurred his horse forward.

“Well… that was a lie,” Tony said once Jon was out of earshot. Ned looked at him and the weapons maker smirked. “I’m not saying everything was a lie but at least one of those statements was. Not… not really for sure which one was but I know you lied about something. As a man that tells many, many lies, I can tell when someone is lying.” Ned merely stared at him and Tony rolled his hands about. “I’m not quite sure why you are lying to him or what big dangerous secret your hiding. Must be something rather big for you to do it. Not my place to judge… except I’m going to. You owe him the truth.”

“It is a matter between me and him,” Ned said sternly. “You would be wise to remember that, cousin.”

“Touched a sensitive spot I see. I get that, won’t do it again, a thousand pardons.” Tony rubbed his chin.

Ned remained quiet for a few moments, watching as Jon rode down to join Rhodey and Jarvis. “You believe you know what is best for everyone, don’t you?”

“Part of my charm,” Tony said.

“You question things you don’t understand and involve yourself with issues that are none of your concern.” Ned turned so that he was looking Tony in the eye, his dark, deep eyes never wavering as he looked upon his cousin. “You have no right to come into my home and talk as you do.”

“Someone heard about my little chat with Catelyn.”

“Aye,” Ned said gruffly. “She informed me. It is only because you are family and the King was there that you aren’t in a cell right now.” Tony smirked at that; both of them knew that while Ned was the King’s friend, Tony was too wealthy and powerful to be treated like most. Just when Tony thought that might be the end of it Ned reached over and grabbed him by the lapels of his coat, pulling him close. “What gives you the right to talk to her like that?”

Tony reached down and slowly pried Ned’s fingers open. He looked upon his cousin as if he were a clod of dirt. “Nothing. I had no right to speak to her that way. I should never have said those words.” If Ned thought he was going to get an apology he was wrong. “You should have said them.” It was Tony’s turn to stare defiantly at Ned. “You… you think you are so noble, taking him in and caring for him but you’re not. You made a mistake and let your lust get the best of you and took responsibility for that and I get it… I get it! That’s all well and good! But, and this is the key here, it is not noble in the slightest to stand back and let others like your wife blame that boy for your sins. And just to be clear, they are your sins. Not Jon’s. He didn’t choose to be born. He didn’t choose to come to Winterfell. He didn’t choose to have your brother’s almost-wife be made yours, leaving you trapped with a woman you hardly knew before riding off to face the greatest dynasty the Seven Kingdoms ever knew. He didn’t choose to be a reminder to Cat of you breaking your vows. You chose all that and you chose to wipe your hands of him while that woman went on her petty campaign to make him miserable to the point that he thought the only way he could find peace was to become a celibate soldier freezing his balls off on an ice wall keeping watch for non-existent boogeymen! So don’t stand there and act like you are better than me, cousin.” Tony nudged his horse, the stallion trotting forward.

“I … have made mistakes,” Ned said slowly, his tones measured. “I have not been able to give all that Jon deserved. I did the best that I could though and it was better than most.” He held up his hand. “That is not an excuse though. To do some but not all is does not absolve me of my failings. I understand that, better than you can imagine.” If his previous words were soft his next were as hard as steel. “But you of all people can’t act self-righteous. You are an arrogant, petty, narcissistic man that cares nothing for honor or valor. You are a merchant of death who makes his coin on the suffering of others. How many lives were ended by your swords? How many innocents were killed by your arrows? You hide in your castle and build gaudy swords and look down upon the rest of us for believing in something while ignoring your own faults and using jests to hide your blood-soaked hands. You hold nothing sacred and believe in nothing great than yourself. Well, I’d rather believe in something than be you.”

“Oh Ned… you could never be me.” Tony gave him a mocking smile as he began to ride away. He knew Ned had nailed him completely and thus couldn’t resist a final jab. “Oh, and while I’m offering unwanted advice… marrying Sansa to that brat Joffrey… you’re going to live to regret that!” With that parting shot Tony spurred his horse into a gallop, the clatter of hooves blocking any retort his cousin might have made.

Chapter Text

Tywin

The Master of Castlery Rock awoke as he always did: flat on his back, on the right side of his great bed, his sheets smooth with hardly a wrinkle. Years of practice and discipline saw him not roll about or toss and turn as he freed himself from sleep; Tywin Lannister merely opened his eyes like a corpse suddenly reanimated. Some might have thought it had something to do with his stern personality but it was more practical than that: when one slept on a battlefield the quieter he was meant he was the last to be stabbed in their sleep. Tywin could feel the sun on his face and his next action would have startled even those that claimed to be close to him, for it was so unlike the powerful and stern man they knew.

Tywin smiled.

Then, as he always did ever morning, he turned his head to the left, gazed upon the spot long left empty, and let the smile fade away, to be banished away until the next morning. For it was only in that moment, just after waking, that he would indulge in hope that it was not so and she was still with him. After that there was no reason to smile again. It was painful… more painful than any wound he could ever receive, but necessary. He wanted to remind himself that hope was a lie.

He arose from his bed and sat, savoring the silence of his bedroom. Too many people, he had found, abhorred silence, thinking it an emptiness that signaled the lack of something. Tywin agreed but did not see this lack as a negative thing. Silence meant there was a lack of turmoil. Silence could only be found in a world where everything was as it should have been and all ran exactly as it should. Noise meant that something had gone wrong or that there were issues that needed to be dealt with. Noise was the hallmark of the Starks and the Martells and the Tullys and the all the other lesser houses that barely managed to function. Casterly Rock moved with precision. It moved with silence.

Tywin rose to his feet just as the door to his bedchamber opened and his squire, Gerold Lannister, made his way over to the small bowl that on the table and poured cool water into it from the pitcher he was holding. As his master began to wash his face Gerold grabbed a towel and held it out for Tywin to grab.

‘A good one at long last,’ Tywin thought to himself as he washed his face and neck. It had taken him five years and twelve squires before he finally found one that met his needs. Some had been scared of him, which did not do; fear made them nervous and jumpy and prone to mistakes. Tywin took great pleasure in frightening people but such emotions were not useful in one that would be waiting on him day and night. A few had seen the position as a chance to suck up to him and try and gain favor. Those had learned quickly that it was folly to try and manipulate the old lion. One had admitted the first day to Tywin that he had only taken the job because his cruel father demanded he get in Tywin’s good graces or, if that weren’t possible, find something to blackmail him with. The boy’s honestly had tickled him and Tywin saw him rewarded: the young man’s father was murdered and the boy made lord of the family castle. That had served towards removing a threat, gaining loyalty of a bannerman and sending a message to those that sought to trick him.

Gerold had been with Tywin for nearly two years and proven himself quite capable. The boy understood that his was a job of aid, doing as Tywin commanded. He spoke when he needed to, was silent when not, and did not tarry when he was not needed. Tywin knew that if this continued he would see to having the boy mentored by the steward of Casterly Rock, so that he might continue to serve House Lannister.

In Tywin’s mind the ability to lead was a very important trait… and the ability to follow just as meaningful. Just as it wouldn’t do for the Lord of Casterly Rock to be timid, something his father had proven, to have too many leaders constantly butting heads like mountain rams would only lead to disorder. Tywin appreciated those that were able to put their pride aside in the name of bettering their house; he himself had done it many times, ignoring the urge to tell their drunken buffoon of a king just how much he loathed him. His brother Kevan was a perfect example of this ability and how much it was needed. Kevan Lannister was smart and had a great mind for military tactics. When leading a vanguard or a cavalry he was lord and commander and all men bowed to him. But when Tywin was around he easily slipped into the role of second-in-command. Kevan understood that this was something that was needed and was willing to do so in the name of House Lannister. He did this without any sense of anger or demand of reward. If more people within Tywin’s family thought like Kevan they truly would be a house that could never be broken. Gerold showed many of the same traits as Kevan and Tywin planned to foster these and see that the boy developed them.

Not that he would ever tell his squire this. He found it disgusting how so many people in the world demanded a pat on the head and happy little words whenever they managed to do what was expected of them. Tywin was not a cruel man that would deny someone their do, far from it. ‘A Lannister Always Paid Their Debts’. But there was a difference between a man doing their job and going beyond what was expected of them. Gerold had, so far, done well in his position and should he continue to do so Tywin would put his talents to good use. Should that avenue lead the boy to rendering House Lannister in his debt he would be rewarded; should he fail… well… not all debts were for the good of the collector.

“Is there anything you wished for in particular, my lord?” Gerold asked as he helped him put on his crimson coat. Summer may still have been in Westeros but Casterly Rock always saw milder temperatures thanks to their position on the coast. The jacket was fitting without being snug, the right side overlapping the left and snapped into place with gold clasps, and the tails of the garment, trimmed with gold, came down to his ankles.

“My usual.” He paused. “And two wheat muffins and a bit of jam,” Tywin said.

“Yes, my lord,” Gerold said. “Maester Rowan is ready to see you when you are available.”

“Send him in now. Bring the wine with you when you return.”

“Yes, my lord,” Gerold said firmly.

Maester Rowan was young for a ‘knight of the mind’ though a common man would not think so. Just barely in his 60s, he was a rather tall figure with hair that, despite his years, remained black as pitch. His frame was lean and his face long, with dark eyes that looked upon the world and cataloged everything he saw for future reference. He’d once told Tywin that his memory was so sharp that he could recall every word in a book after reading it once; Tywin had been pleased when this proved true and the master proved to be valuable. His great chain hung about his neck, the many different rings standing out against the blackness of his robes.

“My lord,” Rowan said, waiting until Tywin sat at his dining table before taking the chair opposite of his. Tywin often broke his fast in his large bedroom, using that time to gather his thoughts and go over the many messages he received before heading out to confront any tasks waiting for him. Breaking fast in the main hall meant he had to deal with those that wanted his attention. “Your messages.”

Tywin looked them over as Gerold returned, a crystal bottle of arbor gold in his hands. The squire poured each man a glass before retreating to the corner, awaiting for his next command. The raven messages were rather dull, which Tywin would take over talk of death and doom any day. One of his bannermen’s wife had given birth to a son. Tywin would send no reply, knowing that the message was merely one of respect to him. A rapist had been found and it was asked that they might forgo the usual offer to send him to the Wall and just kill him. Tywin considered this before deciding that the man’s death would serve well as a message to others. Some minor lord from the far end of the Westerlands had invited him to sup with his family in a fortnight. Tywin declined; the man’s wife had a voice that could shatter glass and his daughters were homely beasts.

One of the cook’s assistants arrives with Tywin’s breakfast: two pieces of lightly browned toast, 3 boiled eggs, two bright red apples and the muffins he had requested. Holding out his glass for a refill of wine he bid Gerold to go get his own breakfast. There was no need to tell the boy when to return; his squire knew well how long it would take his master to eat and would be back in plenty of time.

“Tell me, Maester Rowan, what brings you to me at this hour?”

“The matter of the King’s message concerning Lord Stark, my lord.”

Tywin nodded. More than a few people had thought him mad to allow Antony Stark to take residence in Highwatch, now known as Iron Pointe. Ned Stark’s cousin had come to the Tywin after spending several years across the Narrow Sea, touring the Free Cities. He had been sun baked and dressed in wild garments and acted much too casually for many of Tywin’s advisors. Those he surrounded himself with didn’t help matters; a dark-skinned swordsman from Braavos, a disgraced maester who had barely avoided having his chain taken from him due to his fascination with magic, a rather dour man called ‘Happy’ whose sole job seemed to entail seeking out imagined threats, and his wife Virgina from the disgraced Potts line who’d never set foot in Westeros before. Worst of all was Antony Stark’s love of laughing. Never to Tywin and never about him, if the whispers were true, but still, laughter was not something Tywin ever enjoyed hearing in the Rock.

Antony had at the very least approached him through the right channels. He had requested a meeting, paid his respects, and then laid out not only what he wanted but how it would benefit both himself and Tywin. That had been his first mark towards gaining approval; too many people thought that all they had to do was ask him for something and appeal to his vanity and they would get it. Those fools were quickly shown the door… or a cell. Antony Stark however had been different. He didn’t grovel like a lowborn or demand things like some foolish highborn who thought himself better than the Lord of Casterly Rock. No, the young Stark had held himself as just below Tywin, deferring to him but refusing to beg. He explained why he wanted the castle, why he was the only one that could do what he was proposing, and, most importantly, what benefits would come to Casterly Rock and the Lannisters from such a deal. That had been the part Tywin cared about the most, though not for the reasons most assumed. Many who asked for alliances spoke of soldiers or gold and daughters. Lord Stark had discussed history and new avenues; of securing the future while also fortifying the past. Tywin knew some of the pitch was a mummer’s act but he would have turned the Stark boy away if he hadn’t tried to play the game.

He still remembered well his daughter’s reaction to the news. She had come for a visit with the children and asked him with a teasing smile that held no joy or pleasure if he were suffering from the affects of old age. When he’d refused to play her games like Tyrion would she’d snidely reminded him, as if he had forgotten, that the Starks already had a link to her husband and were Wardens of more land than any lord in Westeros. Allowing them inroads in the Westerlands was foolish as, in Cersei’s opinion, they should have been working to minimize the influence Ned Stark wielded. She’d gone on and on, detailing how she would have handled the entire negotiation, less for his benefit and more because she simply enjoyed the sound of her own voice.

He’d allowed her to tire herself out before coldly asking her who she thought she was talking to. She’d visibly started at that and Tywin had proceeded to tear her down, pointing out all her faults and failings. He reminded her of all his accomplishments and how she had only received all she had because of him and his actions. Her wealth and power had not been won by her beauty or intellect, both of which she sadly thought she had more of than she did, but by his cunning and skill. He needled her on mistakes she had made and failures of plans until she was shifting in her seat like a child. Once he had verbally flayed her in a matter that would have made the Boltons proud he had sent her off on her way, warning her of the dangers of questioning him.

He hadn’t bothered to explain why he had agreed to let Antony Stark take control of Iron Pointe; that little display of hers had lost her the right. It wasn’t just the money that Stark had given him as payment, nor the agreement that saw Lord Stark paying a yearly tithing. Highwatch had been a blemish on the Westerlands and needed to be dealt with, rebuilt and brought back to its former glory. It also served as a matter of protection for Casterly Rock. The burning of the fleet in Lannisport by the Ironborn would never have happened had someone occupied Highwatch at the time.

Cersei had been right about the Starks having influence on the king but as always she had lacked the imagination to see how to deal with it. She saw them as enemies that needed to be dealt with; Tywin saw them as a mere obstacle that could either be bypassed or made into a strength. Antony Stark was far down the line but could inherit Winterfell if something were to happen to Ned Stark’s brood. Better for Tywin to control a Stark than to allow one more to run wild and free.

The only negative of the entire deal was that Tywin’s fool of a son had become friends with Lord Stark. Still, it was a small price; at the very least it got the youngest of his children away from Casterly Rock so Tywin didn’t have to look at his hideous squashed in face.

Tywin began to cut up one of the apples he had been given, his lips pursed in thought. He remembered well the two messages he’d received concerning Antony Stark and his desire to mine into Tywin’s lands. The first had been from King Robert and stated that Stark had come to the king and asked him to act as a neutral third party to help establish an agreement that would allow Stark to mine for ‘Sunstones’. Tywin could easily tell that it had been another’s hand that wrote the message and chose the correct words. Robert was a forceful, powerful man but he was not one to communicate well. He was more liable to just shout at people and snarl and demand they do what he wanted. It was a trait Tywin’s children had, much to his disgust; Jamie and Tyrion held it in small amount but Cersei held it in great quanities and it always led her into trouble. She, much like King Robert, was a young cub, snarling and leaping about, thinking that she merely needed to roar to get her way. Tywin was the old lion, who knew how to slink and slide and prowl, finding what he wanted and snatching it away before any knew what had happened.

‘Stark may have the blood of the wolf in him but he understands better the old lion’s ways then my offspring,’ Tywin thought to himself. Starks strategy was quite ingenious and Tywin would have expected no less of the man. By appealing to King Robert rather than himself, Stark had eliminated any possibly Tywin had of simply saying no and then mining the Sunstones himself. More than that, Stark had been able to demonstrate his new find to the King, ensuring that the drunken oaf would already know of them when Stark began to produce new items incorporating the stones and would be the first one sending silver stags towards Iron Pointe. By leaving it to Tywin to set up any fees or costs, Stark forced him into a corner, preventing him from overcharging him, lest the King see it as an insult.

Tywin could respect Stark’s cunning. He would still find a way to ensure that the Lannisters got the better deal, but it would not be personal at all, purely business.

Jamie’s note had been hidden with the king’s note. He’d described the Sunstone and informed his father that they were silly little things that appeared quite worthless to him. Jamie had then went on to tell his father that it would not be worth the effort to fight Stark on this and that he should just throw out a high number and get Stark to fill their coffers on his fool’s errand.

Tywin made a mental note to give his eldest son the same talk he’d given Cersei.

“What have you found?” Tywin asked Rowan, popping a slice of apple into his mouth.

The Maester reached for the canvas bag he’d brought with him. “I visited the Stark mines and reminded the foreman that his lord only has claim on them because of your kindness. I was taken into the southern shaft and found that King Robert’s message was mostly true. Stark has reached the end of his holdings and has not dug an inch further. They have carved out side tunnels that run along the boundary and exposed more of these stones, but it is clear that they would need to go forward, not sideways, if they wished to truly obtain greater quantities.”

“And what of these Sunstones?” Tywin asked, wiping his blade with a napkin. “What have you discovered about Antony Stark’s newest oddity?”

Rowan reached into his bag and pulled out a stone that was just a touch bigger than a gold dragon. Tywin had thought that the king was making too much out of the rock, that it could not glow as brightly as was claimed. It seemed that Robert hadn’t been in his cups as heavily as Tywin had assumed. Even with the morning rays illuminating his chambers he could see that the Sunstone let off a healthy glow. He cupped it in his hand and it looked as if he were holding a white flame in his palm. Tywin then ran his thumb along its smooth, flat surface before tapping it against his table several times, seeing that the glow never wavered or diminished.

“The Sunstones can be difficult to mine, though it depends on the stone they are in. Once freed they are easy enough to clean and shine, as they do not require the aid that diamonds need to be prepared for buyers.” Rowan pulled out two more stones and Tywin saw quickly that these two were halves of the same whole. “I took the liberty of experimenting on several, to see their reactions to normal gem polishing and cutting. Bluffing and polishing does little to improve the glow and almost nothing to diminish it. They are rather strong and it took several strong strikes of a steel mallet and a chisel to break this one here in half. Shaping them is the problem though.” Rowan lifted up one of the halves, running his finger along the raw, rough surface of the stone where the break had occurred. “Though they do not lose their illumination if shattered there is simply no way to smooth these rough sides. All attempts cause them to further shard off and shatter until all one is left with is dust.”

“That will cut into Stark’s ability to use them,” Tywin stated. “He will have difficulties making use of many pieces and will need a large supply if he is to use them for armor or jewelry. Are there any other properties to them?”

“None that I can find, my lord. The glow is quite fascinating but other than that they are rather useless. They cannot be melted down like metal or cut like a gem. They are as you see them.”

“Perhaps my son was right when he claimed they were nothing more than a bauble.” Tywin set the Sunstone on the table, considering it. “What uses do you see for them, Maester Rowan?”

“They would have few uses, my lord,” Rowan said, idly rubbing one of Sunstone halves. Tywin looked down and saw that he too had picked back up the one he had been given. He set it aside and focused on the maester’s words. “If I may speak freely?” Tywin waved at him to do so. “It might not please you to hear this, my lord, but in reality there is little use for the metals and gems that men most covet. Gold is too soft to make armor or weapons, while silver tarnishes easily. Rubies and diamonds and emeralds will never win the day on a battlefield… Rhagaer Targaryen’s rubies did not protect him from King Robert’s warhammer.”

“It is the great foolishness of men,” Tywin stated. “That which we have placed the most value upon is almost worthless. Lords will die of thirst and hunger before they give up their gems for a loaf of bread.” The Lannisters may have power because of their gold but Tywin had never allowed himself to become feverish in desire for it like so many others had. Going through the great Book of Lords, which detailed all the Lords of the Rock, confirmed that more than one Lannister had allowed ‘gold fever’ to drive them mad. Tywin respected his wealth and took pride in it but he never forgot that it was only the demands of others that placed a value upon it. “You see these Sunstones the same way?”

“Indeed, my lord. Oh, one of the Dornish Princes might want some in his armor so he can claim that he is ‘the Sun Prince’ or something like that and a few highborn ladies will beg their husbands for necklaces that glow, but quite honestly I do not see what other value these trinkets might have.”

“King Robert made mention that Stark thought they might serve as a replacement for candles.” Tywin took pleasure in seeing the maester give a start at that. He had always sought out the best when it came to council and was quick to find replacements if one faltered too greatly. But that didn’t mean that he was a dullard who needed to be told how to run things. He wasn’t Robert, who could barely figure out how to put his cock in the right hole, let alone run a kingdom. Tywin had advisors but he always prided himself on being able to be, at most times, already a step ahead of him. In his view, maesters and generals and the like were kept purely to reinforce his ideas. They weren’t yes men and would challenge him if needed, but for the most part their duty was to confirm what he believed.

“I… I suppose they could do that,” Rowan said, trying to get back on stable footing. “It would be difficult, what with them resisting cutting. It would mean one must always make a new fitting for them-“

Tywin stood up, wine glass in hand. He strolled onto his terrace balcony and, after taking a final sip, poured the wine down to the ground below. Silently he strolled back to the table and snatched the Sunstones, dropping them into the now empty cup with a ‘tink tink tink’. Covering the top with his hand, he merely raised an eyebrow as he looked at the maester.

“I give you a wickless lamp,” he said dryly. “No need for fittings, no need for metalwork. One can select the number of stones they want inside and control to amount of light. Bright and crisp for writing letters, dull and muted for reading in bed. It doesn’t matter what size the stones are, only their number and the size of the container. The stones don’t even have to look interesting. All one needs is a bit of glass.” Tywin set the cup down, looking Rowan in the eye. “I came up with that in less than a minute. Stark has had months to examine them and plot. He could sell them by themselves or get a glassblower to create the globes for him. With this find Stark might have just put all sellers of oil and candles out of business. All with something that has been under my lands for years now.”

Rowan licked his lips nervously. “Y-yes, my lord.”

Tywin sat down and returned to his breakfast, allowing the maester to consider his words. The man did not say anything, allowing the quiet scraping of Tywin’s knife upon his toast to fill the air. “Stark’s greatest trait is his creativity. It is something that is sorely lacking in the Seven Kingdoms. People go about their lives, holding true to the things that their forefathers did, never attempting to improve their lot. That should mean men like Stark would fail due to indifference but we come to another bit of irony about lesser men: they hate change but will embrace it if others do. The people of Westeros are sheep, forever looking for a shepherd to guide them. And who do the people turn to now?” Tywin jabbed his finger against the table. “The same man that made all aspiring knights request warhammers. Stark has the king interested in these stones and soon others will follow Robert. If I don’t adapt I might very well see Antony Stark surpass me in wealth and power… how long then before my bannermen wonder if it might not be wiser to follow him?”

“It would be unwise to deny him use of the mines, my lord,” Rowan said weakly. “The King would see it as you being petty.”

“Indeed,” Tywin said. “What would you suggest then, Maester?”

The black-robed man considered his words carefully, understanding just how unstable the ground he stood on was. “The lands that border Lord Stark’s have no villages or castles. Very few live there and it would not be of great loss. Sell to Lord Stark three square miles but request that he pay back any gold or silver found while mining. He wishes just the Sunstones and that is all me may have. Everything else should belong to House Lannister.”

Tywin nodded. “We not only make a profit on unused land but we also stand to gain more. Stark won’t be able to refuse because he’ll be desperate to get to the Sunstones.” The Lord of Casterly Rock nodded to himself. “What is the nearest mine to Stark’s?”

“Uh… let me think… the Northern Paw Mine, I do believe.”

“Send word to the foreman that I want them to turn towards Stark’s land. Create an open-pit if need be.” Tywin took a bit of his muffin, savoring the taste before continuing. “Stark is welcome to his Sunstones but that does not mean we won’t attempt to find our own. He will not have exclusive rights. If his mine runs dry then he can buy from us.”

“Of course, my lord. I will inform your steward at once.” Tywin said not a word as the maester left, Gerold returning just as the black robed advisor left. Lord Lannister stood up once more and moved to the terrace looking upon his domain. ‘You are clever, Lord Stark, more clever than most in your family… but you are merely a wolf playing a lion’s game.’

Chapter Text

Pepper

“Are you excited to return home, milady?”

Pepper looked up from the small book she was reading and smiled at Sandee. The girl was ten-and-eight and filled with a youthful vigor, made all the more apparent by the hints of baby fat that remained on her round face. Many commented that the young girl and her lady made an odd pair, what with Pepper being quite tall and lean with a shock of red hair while Sandee was short and a bit plump with dark curls. “Yes… yes I am. Are you?”

“Yes milady,” the handmaiden said. They were well into their third week of the journey and it would be at least another three before they arrived back at Iron Pointe. Pepper had spent much of the trip in the wagon carriage, reading of the history of Westeros and enjoying the company of her handmaiden. Tony liked to keep a hard pace and there was little chance for her to stretch her legs and see the countryside. They would break camp in the morning, stop at noon most days to get their ration of bread and cured meat and a cup of water or ale, then ride on while eating their lunch. They would only stop when they supped and would not start again till the next morning. It was a hard journey and she knew most ladies would not be able to handle it, but Pepper had made such travels plenty of times and was well use to them.

“Did you at least enjoy your time in Winterfell?” Pepper asked.

Sandee considered this for a moment before smiling shyly. “I suppose it is lovely in its own way milady, and they were more than kind but no, I did not. It is much too cold in the North and I do not like those heavy furs we were forced to wear.”

“Well, I don’t know if you were forced to wear them… you needed to if you didn’t want to freeze.”

Sandee giggled at that. “That is true, milady, that is true. The North is so dreary and sad. It seems that they are forever in mourning. Even their joy seems tinted in despair.”

“It is a hard place, to be sure. Much different that the South.”

“Is it true that Lord Stark grew up there?” Sandee asked. “I cannot imagine it.”

“I can’t either. It seems like such a strange place for him to be born into.” Pepper glanced out the window, gazing upon the low sloped hills that lay spread out before them. “Our lord is a man of the South, even if the North runs through his veins.”

“Milady, why has Lord Stark never changed his family name? There are many families that do so.”

Pepper set her book down on the seat beside her, resting her chin upon her hand. ‘That much is true,’ she thought to herself. ‘Even Northerners have done so. The Karstarks are merely Starks from a separate branch from the main family.’ She’d brought up to Tony once just such a suggestion, only for her husband to laugh and tell her that he would never do such a thing. He claimed that he had been born a Stark and made his fortune as a Stark and would not surrender his family name purely because he had decided to take a path different from that of his relatives. He was stubborn like that and would not change his name purely to separate himself from the Northern Starks. Truth be told, Pepper didn’t mind that he wished to remain a Stark; she had grown use to the name and could not see herself being the Lady of any other house.

It was only when the sun began to dip below the horizon that Tony called from them to set up camp. Their arrangements were nothing like the royal family’s, with their tents that were more like silk-lined rooms. They did not sleep under the stars wrapped in furs, of course; their tents were merely smaller, with no grand tables or fainting couches. There was only a low bed for Tony and herself and sack mattresses for Rhodey and the upper command. The rest laid on piled furs that doubled as blankets. It made for quicker setup and dismantling which suited Pepper just fine, as that meant they got to return to Iron Pointe all the more sooner.

“Jon,” Pepper called out. “Jon, a moment.”

The young man stroked his horse’s muzzle and gave him a final scratch behind the ears before walking towards her. Beside him was his direwolf pup Ghost, though one would not realize the beast was only a few months old from his already great size. Pepper had been shocked to learn that the wolf, which looked to be already fully mature, was only a few months old.

‘And they say he will keep growing till he is the size of a horse,’ Pepper thought with a slight shiver.

“Yes, my lady?” Jon asked, reaching down and placing his hand on Ghost’s head, signaling him to stop.

“I don’t feel much like eating I my carriage tonight, not with us finally get a bit of warmth.”

“I’ll get the long table, my lady,” Jon said.

“Jon, you are not a servant,” Pepper said with a laugh. “I meant that I wished for you to sup with me.”

The boy swallowed. “Is… is that proper, my lady?”

“Tony won’t mind,” Pepper said as she stepped out of the carriage, motioning for Sandee to hurry and let two of the male servants know she would need tables and chairs set up. “He’s already told me he wishes to sup with Rhodey and Happy tonight, so you will be keeping me company.”

“I didn’t mean that, my lady.” Jon looked down and Pepper could tell he wanted to fidget; it was only years of etiquette training that saw him not do so. “It is not proper for me to sup with you as you are a lady and I… I am a bastard.”

Pepper’s smile fell and in its place was a stern frown. “You know my husband does not like that word, Jon.”

“Aye, my lady,” Jon said quietly.

“What makes you think I would feel any differently?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Never call yourself that horrid word again in my presence, is that clear? I am not able to order you to stop thinking such thoughts about yourself but that does not mean I have to hear them.”

“I understand.”

Pepper smiled and motioned for Jon to follow her. Two of the servants were unfolding the long table; an invention of Tony’s that allowed for travelers to fold the piece up quickly and take up little space. The same was true of the two chairs Sandee brought to her, opening them up and pulling one out for her lady. “Sit.” Pepper accepted a linen cloth from Sandee while another server brought out bread and jams to tide Jon and her over until their meal was ready. “Tony tells me you’ve never been south of the Neck before.”

“That is true, my lady,” Jon said, clearly out of his element. He was unused to being waited on and Pepper forced herself not to laugh at his nervousness.

“How often have you traveled away from Winterfell?” Pepper asked.

“A handful of times, my lady,” Jon said as one of the servants poured him a cup of Arbor Gold. He looked at the wine, swirling it for a moment, before taking a tiny sip. Pepper smiled as she watched his eyes clearly light up upon tasting the finest wine in all of the Seven Kingdoms. “But never too far. A hunting trip here or there but those only last two days at most.”

“You are in for quite an adventure then, Jon.”

“Is Iron Pointe really that different from Winterfell?” Jon asked.

One of the cooks brought over two plates, each one filled with fish and boiled potatoes, both covered in a sweet-sour glaze. Pepper took her knife and fork and cut off a small piece of salmon, her eyes closing as she savored the taste. Jon, meanwhile, was proving that the rowdy behavior of the Northerners was not a persistent trait; he carefully sliced his potato into easy to handle chunks, swirling them in the glaze before selecting one piece and stabbing it with his fork.

‘He acts like the young lord he should be, if not for fate,’ Pepper thought to herself before speaking. “Sometimes I think that Aegon had it wrong when he united the Kingdoms. It brought peace, yes, but the South and the North will never be one and the same. The North is wild and untamed and large and full of darkness and cold and hard, solid men. The South is the land of flowers and gardens and beauty and crafting. It is a land of music and laughter and light. To compare Winterfell to Iron Pointe is like comparing Riverrun to Braavos.”

“I fear that I will have difficulties adapting,” Jon said, his nervousness causing him to hack into his fish.

“You will manage. The rest of us managed to find our footing and I am sure you will too.”

Jon raised an eyebrow in surprise. “You are not from the South?”

“No, I’m not.” Pepper said. “I grew up across the Narrow Sea, in Quorth.” She watched Jon’s face, amused at the way he seemed to struggle with that information. “You are surprised.”

“You look and sound like one from the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Just because I was not born in Westeros does not mean I am not of Westeros.”

Jon groaned at that. “You sound like the Imp.” His eyes widened the moment the words left his mouth. “I… I am sorry, my lady, I did not-“

Pepper laughed. “Jon, you are family, even if your father refuses to acknowledge you. Tony and I say you are a Stark and that is all that will matter at Iron Pointe. So stop treating me like you would the other Lady Stark or another noble lady. I want you to feel comfortable around me.” She paused glancing over to where Tony was sitting with Rhodey, Happy, and several of their swordsmen, a mug of ale in their hands and their laughter ringing out across the clearing. “Besides, it would be easier for you to begin treating me in a more familiar way.”

“And why is that my... and why is that?”

Pepper snickered and then laughed even harder when she saw Jon give a start at her laughter. “Because, Jon, if you keep acting like that around Tony and I he will use it to his own advantage and make you the butt of his japes.”

Jon scowled at that. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

‘Poor boy,’ Pepper thought to herself. Tony had groused to her about Jon’s treatment at Winterfell; it was one of the reasons she had agreed to his mad plan to bring Jon with them to Iron Pointe. She looked upon the young man, so handsome and sweet and noble and felt her temper rising at all those that had convinced Jon that his only chance in life was to throw his life away in the frozen North, guarding a possibly-magical Wall.

“My la… I mean Lady Virgina-“

“Pepper, Jon, please. I have refused to answer to Virgina since I could talk.”

“I… I couldn’t,” Jon stammered. “It isn’t proper-“

“In the North,” Pepper told him. “But as I told you, we are not in the North anymore.”

“Still, I do not know-“

Jon never got to finish, as the rest of his words were cut off by a gurgling scream. Pepper whipped around, a cry tearing through her throat as she stared at the cook, the poor man’s hands clawing at the arrow shaft that was embedded in his throat. Blood gushed down the front of his tunic, joining with the dried stains of the many meals he had prepared, before he collapsed to the ground with a wet ‘glug’. A horse cried out to her left and Pepper turned, stomach dropping as one of Tony’s swordsmen was dragged behind the panicked mare, several arrows sticking out of her flank like porcupine quils.

“Get down!” Jon screamed, tackling her and sending her to the ground. Pepper gasped, the air knocked out of her, dimly watching as arrows whooshed through the air right where her head had once been. She could feel the mud soaking into her dress and her stomach ached from where Jon had struck her. The young man dragged her back towards their table, kicking it onto its side and pulling Pepper and himself behind it, using the thick planks as a barricade. Pepper panted, looking out across the field, the fog that had permeated her brain flushed away at the sight of the carnage that lay before her. A large patch of grass had been stained crimson by the cook’s blood, marring the beauty of the field. One of the swordsmen had been shot in the leg but he refused to lay down and die. He had his arm wrapped around a thick oak, his free hand gripping his sword as he bellowed for the attackers to come forth. Sandee had managed to get back into the carriage and Pepper frantically waved for her to get down and keep out of sight, lest she become a target. Somewhere in the distance she heard Happy bellow in outrage but she couldn’t see him.

“What… what is-“

“Bandits,” Jon said, reaching for his sword. “Stay down.”

“Jon, no,” Pepper said. “Let Rhodey and his men handle this.”

Jon shook his head. “It is the Northern blood in me… a good man doesn’t let others die for him.”

“You were raised by a Lord, were you not, Jon?” Pepper gripped Jon’s arm, trying to tug him back down. She could hear the screams and hoots of the raiders echoing all around her, mixed with the clang of steel upon steel. “A Lord hires men such as Rhodey to do such things. It is not our purpose to get in the way.”

“Lord Antony knows this?” Jon asked.

“Of course!” Pepper practically screamed.

“Then why is he running around out there with a sword.” Pepper just stared at Jon, a cold dread washing over her. She slowly crawled to the edge of their barricade, peaking out around the corner. The thieves were dressed in patchwork armor and colors, no rhyme or reason to their garb. Pepper knew that this was no noble lord’s soldiers; these were little more than a roving band of cutthroats. They wielded swords and bows and spears and clubs and one even wielded a great reaping scythe. Torches had been flung about their camp and grassfires had sprung up and were spewing gray smoke across the newly minted battlefield.

Rhodey was right in the midst of the battle, weaving from enemy to enemy, cutting down all that stood against him. He had out his wide Valyarian short-sword out and wore a black and silver shield upon his left arm though he used it more as a blunt instrument. One of the bandits, a heavy set bruiser wielding a sawtooth sword, charged at Rhodey with a roar that would have down a great bear proud. Rhodey dodged the brute’s sloppy strike and swung his shield at his face, the heavy bandit’s nose exploding in gore upon contact. He reached up towards his damaged face, only to howl in agony as Rhodey slid his blade between the plates of his patchwork armor and gutted him. The knight did not wait to watch his foe tumble to the ground, choosing instead to move on to a overly tall and lean thief who dual wielded two thin blades.

The rest of their men weren’t having an easy of a time as Rhodey. In a fair fight the swordsman and soldiers would have won easily but the arrow storm had decimated their ranks, leaving many men already wounded before the bandits had rushed them. Those that were able to fight were focused on circling their fallen comrades, working to protect them from the spears and blades of the raiders. Ghost added to the confusion and chaos, leaping at one of the bandits and clamping his jaws around the man’s tender throat. A horrific wail filled the air as the man fell to the ground, Ghost shaking his head back and forth as he ripped apart the jugular. There was movement to her right and Pepper turned in time to finally spot Happy. He was as stern as ever, his sword hacking at any that got in his way, blood oozing from several shallow cuts on his arms and chest.

In the midst of it all was Tony. Pepper didn’t know where he’d gotten the sword he currently clung to like it was lifeline but there he was, holding it tight and looking around half in a daze. Once or twice a thief would rush him and Tony would give several wild swipes before one of his men would take over, allowing their lord to escape. The problem was that Tony never took the opportunity to find safe harbor, choosing to continue to wander the battlefield, trying to join up with someone to double-team a raider.

“Tony!” Pepper screamed. “Tony!” Her jaw dropped as her husband turned and had the audacity to actually wave at her before heft his borrowed sword and rushing towards a man that looked like his mother had mated with an ox. “If he survives this I’m going to kill him!” Pepper screeched.

“I’m more concerned about us surviving, my lady,” Jon said, getting into a crouch.

“Stop calling me-“ Pepper let out a scream as a raider fell into the table, cracking it under his bulk. One of the soldiers ran towards the thief, only to receive a jab from the outlaw’s spear for his trouble.

The bandit turned, leering at Pepper. He ran his tongue along his yellowed teeth, looking upon her like a hungry mountain lion. His left arm was heavily muscled while his right was much thinner, leading Pepper to dimly realize he must have been a blacksmith before he had turned to crime to provide his coins. A mop of coarse dark hair hung over his brow and broad nose and lips made him look more like some forest beast than a man. He grabbed the table and pushed it towards her, causing Pepper to scramble back. She lost her footing and landed on her rear, staring up at the man in shock.

“Well well well,” he growled, taking a plodding step towards her. “Whadda we’ve here?”

“She’s not for you,” Jon declared. He’d managed to sneak up behind the man and swung his sword, slashing the man’s leather-covered back. The former-blacksmith bellowed and turned around, Jon forced to back up the bandit tried to spear the young man.

“Ya should’ve minded yar own business!” the thief grumbled, jabbing at Jon’s chest; it was only Jon’s nimble feet that kept him from being run through. “If ya’d ran ya might’ve lived ta see a ‘nodder day, little lordling.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Jon said, grabbing at the thief’s spear and trying to yank it from his hands.

The man, however, was much stronger than Jon and was able to pull the young man towards him. He brought his weaker fist down upon Jon’s head like a hammer blow, the boy stumbling and falling to his knees. “Ya shouldn’t fight what ya can’t kill, lordling!” He brought his foot down, pressing it into Jon’s chest. He clenched his teeth together in a feral sneer, his mighty left arm hefting up his spear for the killing blow.

Pepper dove forward, grabbing Jon’s fallen sword and swinging it at the blackmith’s leg. Her arms trembled as the blade struck bone and she let out a cry when the sword’s pommel nearly hit her face as it was ripped from her grip. The bandit crashed to the ground, his howls joining those of Ghost as his injured leg flailed out. Jon stumbled forward, driven by pure adrenaline, and snatched up the man’s spear and drove it through his throat.

“T-thank you,” Jon gasped, doubling over as he struggled to catch his breath.

“Thank you,” Pepper said, walking over to him and wrapping her arm around him. “Careful now, that was a bad blow to your head.”

Jon swallowed and Pepper could tell he was struggling to keep the contents of his stomach from spilling out onto his boots. The sounds of battle were dying down and when Pepper finally looked up she saw Rhodey hurrying towards them, his shield and shield both dripped with gore and sweat dripped from his brow and stained his shirt. He looked down at the blacksmith’s cooling corpse and calmly reached down and ripped Jon’s sword from the man’s leg, shaking the bits of stringy muscle from it before holding it out for Jon to have.

“Your first one?” Rhodey asked, reaching down and using the dead bandit’s shirt to clean off his own blade while Jon sheathed his own.

“Yes, Ser Jamie.”

“I thought as much.” Rhodey looked across the field in disgust. “A bloody mess.”

“Literally,” Pepper said, shifting away from a hunk of flesh that lay near her feet.

“They were foolish to attack us,” Jon coughed, his hand rubbing up and down his chest.

“They were greedy,” Rhodey countered. “Some thieves steal because they are hungry. Some because they are desperate. These ones though, they do it because they want what they don’t have and they refuse to actually work for it or pay the price.”

“I… think they paid,” Pepper said, turned away from the carnage. “Now, where is Tony? I’m going to throttle him for wandering around like that.”

Rhodey paused, looking about. “Where is Tony?”

“What do you mean? I thought he was with you.”

“With me? I was too busy taking out those guards. I’m not his wet nurse Pepper-“

“I’m not saying you are but I thought you’d at least watch out for him!”

“I did watch out for him but it’s not my fault he didn’t do what needed to be done.”

“This is Tony!” Pepper shouted. “When does he ever do what he’s supposed to?” Her earlier revulsion was forgotten and she leapt stepped over the dead blacksmith’s body, the trim of her dress dragging through his blood as she looked about with wild eyes. “Tony! Tony! TONY!”

Chapter Text

Tony

The coarse rope bit into his wrists, tearing into his skin every time he shifted. The ground was cold and bits of twig and sharp rocks dug into his rear and legs. Tony blinked his eyes, trying to shake away the stars that danced in his line of sight. His jaw ached and his tongue felt fat in his mouth, like it was wrapped in cotton. Dried blood ran from his left temple to his chin and the back of his head throbbed with every beat of his heart. His boots had been removed and he could feel heat of the large bonfire the band of thieves had set up on his bare soles.

They’d ripped off his jacket and vest and were passing both around amongst themselves, each trying to claim it as his own. His shirt had been cut open and now hung in tatters on his frame. The main bulk of the survivors of the raid, those who weren’t fighting over Tony’s clothes, were gathered around the fire, watching as a large boar was spun on a spit, juices popping everyone once and a while. Tony’s head lulled to one side and he saw that one of the bandits was slamming a blunt axe against a small chest they’d managed to claim from one of the supply wagons.

“I… I wouldn’t bother with that if I were you.” Tony looked skyward, wincing slightly.

“Our guest is awake, boys!” One of the bandits, dressed in chainmail and brown leather with red lines painted along the arms and chest, stomped towards Tony, grabbing him by the chin and forcing the weapons maker to look at him. “Welcome to our humble home, Lord Stark. Might I offer you anything to make you more comfortable?”

“Oh, a glass of wine would be lovely,” Tony said. “A blanket would be nice too. I’d prefer silk though over cotton. I have delicate skin. Rashes and all that, really nasty.” The bandits let out a roar of laughter and Tony decided to join in with them, treating the entire situation as a joke. “Yeah, it’s a curse really but I suffer through it.”

“Oh, how difficult your life must be, Lord Stark!” brown vest declared. “We of course would know nothing of such things. Ours is an existence of pleasure and ease!”

“Yeah, you guys seem to have pretty pleasant lives… I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

Brown vest let go of Tony and backed away, giving him a sweeping bow. “Phyllup of West Water, at your service.”

“Well, Phyllup of West Water, it is wonderful to meet you and your… friends? Associates? Brothers in arms? Whatever you want to call it you all look like you are fine, upstanding kidnappers who would never think of harming someone who is being polite or who is too handsome to die.”

“I don’t know,” one of the raiders called out, “killing handsome and pretty things is a specialty of ours.” That earned another round of laughter from the criminals.

“Well, it is always good to have a hobby.” Tony grimaced as he heard the ax strike the chest once again. “Seriously, you are just wasting your time. Why don’t you have some boar? Smells very good, sure it tastes great too… did you use a sugar glaze on that or-”

Phyllup grabbed Tony once more, his thumb pressing against the lord’s windpipe. “You know, I have done this many times, Lord Stark. You are not the first to be honored by joining us. And I have found that whenever a man tells me to leave something alone… it is worth my trouble to examine it. Whenever a woman tells me to not do something… it feels so wonderful to do.”

Tony tried hard to hide his disgust. Phyllup released his hold just enough to allow him to breathe. “Well… I guess there is a first time for everything-“

Phyllup backhanded him. “Please don’t make me do that again.”

“I don’t want you to do that again,” Tony murmured.

“We are on the same page! Wonderful!” He leaned in close, Tony’s nose scrunching up as the rancid scent of old beer and rotting meat struck him right in the face. “If you want us to get along… stop telling us what to do.”

“Got it. Do what you want, I don’t care, crack open the chest, don’t, not up to me.” Tony heard a heavy crack and licked his lips. “Not a word from me, nope, no way, none.”

“What is this?” the ax-wielding bandit bellowed, lifting up a blue gown and shaking it at Tony. The chest, with its broken lock, lay tossed aside on the ground.

“I think it is a Lannisport design.” He looked over at one raider who was missing his nose, one of his ears, and had blackened head-wound running along his forehead. “You would look lovely in that. Really, I mean it. Matches your eyes-“

Phyllup struck him again. “What is this shit?”

“My wife’s gowns. She locks them up, not sure why. I guess she thinks they are going to get stolen or something…” Tony closed his eyes and grit his teeth, waiting for a moment before slowly letting one eye slide open. “Sorry, thought you were going to-“ The crack of Phyllup’s hand against his jawbone, “-smack me again.”

“You think this is a game?” Phyllup snarled, all signs of playfulness leaving him.

“Well, I did before you hit me… I can’t say this is the first time I’ve been tied up and stripped before.” Phyllup reared back and Tony cringed. “Ok, ok! You are serious, very serious. Phyllup the Very Serious! Got it!”

The leader of the raiders nodded, stepping back and running his grubby fingers through his tangled hair. Tony was surprised his hand didn’t get stuck. “Good. I am very pleased you are beginning to understand the gravity of the situation.” Phyllup walked back to the stump he had been using and sat down, motioning towards the shadows. Tony heard a muffled yelp and then a nude girl, maybe five-and-ten, entered the clearly, her body covered in burns and scars. Her every step was stilted, as if every movement caused her pain. “Down,” Phyllup said and the girl dropped to her knees. Tony shut his eyes and turned his head, letting out a pained sigh, hoping he was wrong about what Phyllup was about to do next. “Oh, are you bashful, Lord Stark?”

“No no,” Tony said, trying to stay casual. “Just… something in my eye. By all means, you and your… lady friend… just keep doing what you’re doing.”

“Lady friend?” No-Nose laughed. “Look at that, whore, you’ve been moved up to lady friend!”

Phyllup let out a groan and shoved the girl away. The bandit stood up, adjusted himself, then reached towards the fire and pulling out a long metal pole with a flat ring attached to the end. He looked at it for a moment before prodding at some coals, his smile made all the more sinister by the flickering flames. Tony’s eyes flicked towards the broken girl that lay crumpled by the fire.

“Oh, do not worry yourself… this is not for her.” Phyllup began to walk around the fire, the rest of his men quieting down and paying close attention. Tony suddenly had the vision of his septa leading story time for all the children at his father’s holdfast. “Do you know how we came to acquire this wonderful little item?”

“The girl or the prod?”

“The girl.” He lazily prodded one of the larger timbers, sparks shooting up as it fell onto the hot coals. “She came to us the same way we acquire much of what we have.”

“By stealing?” Tony asked.

The thieves chuckled at that. “No, Lord Stark, not by theft. We still do go on raids, from time to time, when our blood needs to be boiled, but the days of that providing us our bread and salt have long since past.” Phyllup pulled the poker out again, smiling as he examined the glowing ring at the end. “Have you ever heard of the Dohraki? They live across the Narrow Sea and their hordes can stretch for miles. They are so fierce that now, when they approach a city, they do not need to attack its walls. The good people happily offer them gold and food and women and slaves, all in the hope that the Dohraki will turn their attention onto someone new.

“When I head those tales and thought to myself that those savages had a brilliant idea. Why raid and pillage when you could simply receive your prizes with the promise to do no harm to those you target? Such a strategy has made us all… very happy.” Phyllup took a moment to thrust the poker once more into the flames before reaching down to tenderly touch the nude girl’s cheek. “We did well in the Reach. Lords feared us and travelers packed double just to be prepared to give us tribute. They’ll write songs about those days, mark my words Lord Stark! Tell me, do you of Lord Oaker?”

Tony did. Oaker was one of the Tyrell bannermen, a decent fighter and a terrible person. He’d won many victories against his enemies by sacrificing his men in needless charges and pointless attacks. When he looked upon a person he saw them not as something living but as something of value, weighing the risk and reward of their lives.

“This is his only daughter. A pretty thing, don’t you think?” Phyllip forced the girl up and licked the side of her face; the child didn’t even blink. “He was the smart one, Lord Stark. So many lords have daughters and then have to pay out portions of their wealth to marry her off to another lord. By giving her to us Lord Oaker saved himself a dowry and got us to leave the Reach alone.”

Tony’s jaw set and bucked forward, his eyes dark and murderous. There was simply no way he could pretend to be civil with the monsters that sat before him.

“Oh, he doesn’t like that boys! We’ve got ourselves an actual heroic lord, out to save the innocent. That is a rare thing in the Seven Kingdoms. You hear about it and plenty try and play the part, but to see one in person? It’s like finding an Other!” Phyllup leered at him. “You especially are a surprise, Lord Stark. Heroic and noble are not words we smallfolk use for the likes of you.” Snatching the prod, Phyllup advanced towards Tony, the weapons-maker struggling against his bonds as the raider brought the glowing hot brand closer and closer to his bare chest. Tony could feel the heat of the burning ring and even though it hadn’t yet touched his skin his chest already began to throb in pain. “You and your friends believe themselves so much better than the rest of us. You view us as cattle and sheep, only there to supply you with more wealth. You don’t care about any of us, Lord Stark, not a single one of us. The only thing that matters is your own greed.”

“Listen… listen,” Tony said, sucking in his chest to try and get away from the brand. “I… I get it. You’re angry with me. I can’t blame you that is a common-“ the brand nearly grazed his left nipple and Tony let out a yelp, “-common! Common feeling. I tend to rub people the wrong way! Talk too much, drink too much, talk when I drink and drink when I talk. But I’m sure we can work something out… no need to be hasty or anything.”

Phyllup merely stared at him. “That is all you lords can think about, isn’t it? That you can just toss money and titles about and you will be forgiven. Men like us, we would be headed for the wall or find our heads on spikes if we were caught. But you lords… you can murder and rape and steal and break every law made by the king and the gods and you believe that you’ll never have to face physically punishment because you were blessed to be born into wealth! Steal a man’s land? Give his son a knighthood and all is forgiven! Fill his daughter up with a bastard? Why, just toss some coins about and no one cares!”

“I’m… I’m sensing that you have some issues with me… or people like me. That’s no reason to go and mutilate me, right?” Tony could feel that the ropes that bound him had cut into his wrists and more of his blood was oozing from him. “Why don’t you put your burning stick down and we can discuss my ransom… and I realize how ironic that sounds, since you were complaining about throwing money about-”

“You still haven’t realized your situation, have you my lord? This raid was not about kidnapping you… it was about claiming you.”

Phyllup lunged forward and Tony screamed in agony as the heated ring burned his flesh. While it wasn’t as hot as it had been when first emerging from the flames, the ring still held heat and Tony howled as it melted his skin and seared his muscles. He could feel it pressing against his collar bone and through his pain-induced delirium he feared that it would shatter and Phyllup would burn his heart right out of his chest. Tony thrashed and screamed but the raider kept the brand pressed tight to his chest, refusing to let go. The lord of Iron Pointe howled in agony, several of the other cuts and wounds on his body bursting open once more as his muscles seized.

The raider pulled the brand away, bits of skin clinging to the metal like melted cheese. Tony gasped, tears streaming from his eyes, each gasping breath he took sending another stab of pain through his quaking body. He heard laughter and let out another cry when a pail of cold water was thrown on him, soaking him to the bone. He managed to open his eyes and watched numbly as steam rose from his scarred chest.

“You’ve been betrayed, my lord. Another, with more power than you can ever hope to have, took it in his head to have you dealt with. He will ensure that none of us are ever punished for your death… so long as we make it last. I don’t know why he wants you to suffer and I honestly don’t care… hell, I would have done this for nothing.” Phyllup thrust the poker into the flames, waiting a moment before pulling it free once more. “Now you know what it’s like to be us. Now you know what it is like to be expendable. Your money is worthless, your titles are worthless… you are no different than my little whore. I get to play with you… and toss you away.” He walked back to Tony, pointing the brand at him. “Now… should I go for the face…” he let the poker slowly dip till it lined up with Tony’s manhood. “Boys, I think I’d like to have his pants-“

Tony mutely heard a whistle fill the air, followed by a wet ‘thwack’. He looked up, his body shivering from the pain and the cold water, and stared at the captor. Phyllup had dropped the poker, not even noticing that the heated ring was burning into his shoe. The raider gasped dumbly, reaching out and touching the arrow that was now lodged through his mouth and out the back of his throat. He looked at Tony, confused, before toppling to the side, crimson blood gushing from his mouth.

Tony watched, eyes wide, as Rhodey stormed into the camp with 20 of his best swordsmen and guards. The raiders leapt up but their drunkenness had made them sluggish and led them to set aside their weapons and that cost them precious time. The soldiers of Iron Pointe were in a battle frenzy, seeking not only to recover their lord but avenge those that had fallen in the raid. The ropes ensured that Tony would remain in one place and all he could do was watch as his men butchered his captors. A few of the raiders attempted to flee and were rewarded with arrows through their backs for their troubles. The swordsmen fell upon these wounded man, hacking them to pieces before moving on to the next. Rhodey was dealing the most damage, his Valyrian short sword singing as it removed one thief’s head from his neck. Delirious from pain, Tony’s mind went back to how Rhodey had obtained that blade.

It had been in Bravos, shortly after Tony had met the man that would become commander of his forces. The two of them had been drinking and, as Pepper so lovingly put it, Tony’s mouth went off before his brain could realize what he was saying. Tony was still a bit fuzzy on how the bet had come about but the end result saw Rhodey challenging 10 members of some mercenary group; Tony honestly couldn’t remember with one. Each was a sellsword, known for their skill with weapons and their effective battle techniques. Three of them, the leaders of the mob, had carried Valyrian steel daggers and believed that Rhodey would die by their first man’s blade. After the dark-skinned warrior had taken out the first three the rest of the company had broken the battle pact and charged. Rhodey had killed them all, a whirlwind of death, and claimed their daggers as his right of conquest. Tony, in gratitude, had melted the daggers down and reforged them into a short, wide broad sword with a pommel of black lined with silver and gifted it to his friend on the day he was knighted.

“Lord Antony!” Tony was torn from his thoughts by someone cutting his bonds and when he opened his eyes he found himself looking upon Jon Snow’s face. The young man had his bow slung over his shoulder and his brow was wet with sweat. Jon knelt in front of him, running his hands along Tony’s face and peeling his eyes open. “Lord Antony, can you hear me?”

“I wish I could say this is the worst I’ve ever felt,” Tony said weakly, nearly sliding down onto the ground before Jon caught him and hauled him back up.

“We need the maester!” Jon shouted.

Rhodey hurried over, taking a moment to kick one of the still twitching thieves in the head. “No good scum,” Rhodey spat as he looked upon Tony’s mutilated chest. “Yorrick, go get Maester Jarvis now! Tell him to bring everything he has to treat burns. Nob, make sure Pepper doesn’t come anywhere near here until I say so! She doesn’t need to see him like this.” Rhodey scowled as he looked Tony over. “And send word we ride! Jarvis won’t be able to do much out here other than stabilize him! We need to get to a castle or a keep now!”

“Pepper…” Tony groaned. “She… Pepper…”

“She’s fine, Lord Antony,” Jon said, looking around the ruins of the campsite. His jaw was clenched and his hands balled up in fists at his sides. “What was their purpose?”

“Torture… death…” Tony mumbled. Rhodey slowly helped him to his feet and Tony fought back the pained cry that desperately tried to claw its way out of his throat. “The girl… is she…?”

“Girl?” Rhodey asked. “Tony what girl?”

“Girl… they had… tortured her too…”

Rhodey merely nodded. “Jon, see if you can find the girl.” The boy nodded, stepping around the corpses that littered the ground and avoiding the swordmen that were sweeping through the camp. Tony’s head lulled to one side, resting on Rhodey’s shoulder, watching as his men collect the discarded weapons and tore through the crates and chests the thieves had gathered, determining what would be worth to take back with them. For one dull, horrible moment, he saw them as no different than the raiders that took him. “They managed to get only a couple bags of grain and a chest.”

“How… how many did we lose?”

“Eight swordsman, three of the page boys, and the cook. Jarvis is working to save another two of my men but I’m not confident.” Rhodey looked over at Tony, shifting him slightly. “What the hell was all this about?”

“Not here,” Tony stated. Jon was crouched over a pale body but Tony felt his heart sink as the boy shook his head. “The girl?” he called out.

“Gone. Throat was slit in all the confusion.”

Tony grit his teeth. “Damn.” He looked at Rhodey, mustering up as much of his strength as he could. “We need to burn the bodies or bury them. Destroy the camp so no one stumbles upon it. Take everything we can and scatter the rest.”

“Tony, why-“

“Just… just do it, Rhodey. Tell the men they… they don’t speak… speak about this to anyone.”

Rhodey looked ready to argue but finally relented. “Ok Tony, ok.” He began to bark out orders, Jon moving to help two of the men load up an empty crate with the acquired daggers, swords and axes. Tony, for his part, clung to Rhodey, knowing that his legs wouldn’t be able to support his weight. His chest ached horribly but it was nothing to what he felt in his heart as he watched Lord Oaker’s girl being covered up. “Tony… what was all this about?”

“Betrayal,” Tony said as he slipped into unconsciousness.

Chapter Text

Daenerys

As she rode along with the rest of the horsemen Daenerys puzzled over a question that had been plaguing her ever since she had been a small child: was her life as it was now better or worse than it would have been had her father not fallen and her family driven into exile?

She knew it was a silly question. Had her father, King Aerys, have won the war she would have been the princess of the Seven Kingdoms. She would have known only the best, with the wealth of Westeros at her beck and call. She would have lived in the Red Keep and worn only the finest dresses and had servants to attend her every need. She would have had not just Viserys to rely upon but her father and her eldest brother Rhaegar and his family. She would have had nieces and nephews and a sister-in-law and perhaps even her mother would have survived, had there been better maesters and healers about to assist the Queen in Dany's birth. She would have married the greatest and most powerful lord in the Seven Kingdoms and blessed his house with the blood of kings.

But that existence was not to be. Her father was dead, her mother was dead, her eldest brother was dead. Her only family was Viserys, the 'begger king' as some said when they thought Dany couldn't hear them. They had lived off of gifts and the kindness of others, never staying in one place for long and never allowed to truly develop any sense of home. Her brother was the one who had raised her but his way of 'caring' for her had been to sell her off to a brutal savage warrior in exchange for an army to take back the Iron Throne. Her life would now involve riding with the savage men and women of the Dothraki from one village to another, choking on dried meat and foul smelling wine when Khal Droga wasn’t forcing himself upon her.

And yet... another part of her whispered that the life she led now was so much better than what she might have had in Westeros as the daughter of the king. Had Rhaegar won he would have been named king once their father passed away and Dany would have been merely seen as a hanger on, someone next to the power but not holding it. She would have had no hope of having any sort of claim to the throne, not with her eldest brother and all his children being his heirs. She glanced at Khal Droga and wondered if he were any worse than a lord of Westeros. She had heard tales of young girls being sold to deviant old men with shriveled cocks and the tongues of cats, forced to stand meekly at their side in front of the entire court as they were pawed at by their husbands and their withered, gnarled hands. Khal Droga was strong and proud and fierce, a powerful ruler in his own right that answered to no man save himself. Yes, he had forced himself upon her, brutally taking his pleasure from pounding her slight form. But would a fat, old lord of the Seven Kingdoms have been any better? Would he have been kind and gentle… or would he have done the same thing as Droga, raping her even if her father was the king?

She also thought, as she looked about the tall grasses that reached above her head even though she rode upon a horse, her silver, that had she remained in Westeros she would have lived a rather dull life. Even before her marriage to Khal Droga she had seen many sights and marvels in the lands that now served as her home in exile. In the Seven Kingdoms she may have only seen the insides of a few keeps and a tournament or two in King's Landing. Any friends or guests she would have seen would have been carefully determined by her family, making any ‘choice’ she made not truly her own. But across the Narrow Sea she had witnessed marvels and delights, dining with men and women of different creed and beliefs. She had met scoundrels and rich merchants, each with their own tale to tell. Her world had been opened up and Daenerys was thankful for that.

'Of course it cannot last,' Daenerys thought to herself as the Dothraki stopped their horses so that they might fill their water skins at a small river that ran across their path. 'Soon Viserys will grow impatient and demand Khal Droga honor his end of their bargain. The horde will sail into Westeros and I along with them.' She knew there was little chance she would be left behind; the Khal would not risk leaving behind his silver-haired bride. She was a symbol of his strength, no different than his braid. Dany did not think about what would come after that and what would happen after the war. She knew her fate if her brother failed; King Robert would not allow her to escape a second time. Viserys' victory would leave her final fate even more unassured. Would the new king of Westeros truly allow his sister to remain in the hands of the Dothraki? Would he force Khal Droga to bend the knee and stay in Westeros? Would he send him back? Would Dany remain wed to him or would she be freed? And if she were free, what then? Who would want to marry a woman who'd been befouled by a barbarian?

"Are you well, Khalesi?" Jorah Mormont asked, pulling his horse next to her's. He looked upon her with worry. "You look pale just now."

"I am fine," Dany said touched by the man's concern. Jorah was much like Daenerys and her brother: he too was exiled from his home. He too had found a place with the Dothraki and he too, she knew, could not hope for things to remain as they were forever. He was of use to Viserys at the moment, acting as an interpreter so that the true heir could converse with the men that would provide him his army. But how long could he act in that role and what part would he play once the war for the Iron Throne was decided? While Jorah clearly hoped that aiding the Viserys would lead to the end of his exile nothing was truly assured. Much like Dany, Jorah was little more than a leaf in the wind.

"Are you sure?" Jorah asked. "We have ridden hard and long... it would not be shameful to need some rest for a moment."

"Thank you but no," Daenerys said, nudging her silver to move forward. "I need to be by myself. I will return shortly."

"Of course, Khalesi," Jorah said, bowing his head slightly as Dany nudged her horse away from the rest of the group.

The girl sighed as she continued through the long grass, following one of the smaller, less defined paths until she was well away from the horde. She knew that the women that followed the horsemen had little problem sitting in direct view of all the men and taking a shit right there but for as much as she was trying to adapt to her new life Dany did not think she would ever be as open as those women who rode about with their breasts exposed and who had no sense of common decency. No, Dany would rather make a short ride away from her brother and Jorah and her husband and do what needed to be done in private, by her lonesome.

Daenerys eased herself from her silver's saddle and looked about once before bending down and digging into the ground with her hands, making a small little bowl in the grainy brown dirt. She had just begun to squat when the grasses to her right shifted and swayed. Dany froze, holding her breath as she waited for the intruder to show themselves. After a few moments she let out a sigh when she saw it was only one of the Dothraki women. Her long hair was crudely braided and her brown leather top and skirt barely covered her tanned body. She could hardly be called attractive, as the hard life she had led left its scars upon her body, but Daenerys had learned that the Dothraki were willing to overlook such things in the name of slating their lust.

"I am fine," Dany said, trying hard not to blush at being caught doing what she was about to do. "I only needed a moment by myself." The Dothraki woman stared at her, not saying a word. Dany knew that she didn't understand a word she was saying and, in turn, Daenerys had no way of explaining to the woman in her own tongue what she was doing. She stood up, pulling up the leather britches she wore. "Tell Khal Droga that I will return in a moment."

"Droga," the woman said.

"Yes... Droga. Please tell him that I will be back soon."

"Droga!" the woman said fiercely.

Daenerys looked at the woman in exasperation. "I only wish to relieve myself! I do not need the Khal watching me while I do that!"

"Droga! Droga!" The woman snapped, adding a few more words at the very end that Dany didn't know the meaning of.

"Enough," Daenerys said firmly, her eyes narrowing. She took a step forward, glaring at the woman. "I am the Khalesi and I will not go with you!"

"No," the other woman said.

Daenerys was startled by this. "No?" she said surprised that the Dothraki woman knew at least one word from the common tongue. Droga had said no once to her, but she had been unsure if he truly understood what the word meant. He obviously didn’t care what it meant, that was clear to her.

"No Khalesi." With that the woman leapt forward, her strong fingers grasping Dany's throat and crushing her windpipe. Daenerys let out a squeak before her throat was sealed, her eyes wide as she flung her arms about. The Dothraki woman's face was a mask of fury, her entire body trembling with rage as she squeezed her fingers tighter and tighter around Dany's throat, forcing the young woman to the ground. The girl tried to claw at the woman's face but her assailant was too strong and to cunning for that, ignoring the pain Dany caused her in favor of keeping a strong grip on the young woman’s throat. She refused to give up her grip and Dany found her strength waivering as her vision began to go dark. All sound save a great roar like that of the ocean disappeared and Dany's hands fell limp to her sides, her jaw open and her tongue lulling out as she trembled.

Then, just as the darkness threatened to claim her forever... a second roar filled the air.

Daenerys let out a gasp as the woman was ripped from her and cold air rushed through her bruised throat. She coughed and gagged, fighting not to breathe because it hurt so much but unable to stop sucking in mouthful after mouthful of precious, life-giving air. She rolled onto her side, her body still shaking, and stared at the sight before her, wondering if she were hallucinating it all.

The Dothraki woman that had assaulted her was screaming in agony, her eyes wide as she stared at the stumps where her hands had once been. Standing above her, snarling like a wild beast, stood a muscular man that looked more like a feral dog than a man. His dark hair stood up in great tuffs like the ears of a wolf and his jaw was covered in coarse stubble. A ponytail brushed his shoulder blades, swaying like the tail of a manticore. His thick, meaty arms were bent slightly and his bare chest heaved in and out as he panted. His hands were clenched around the strangest weapons Dany had ever seen. They were nothing like the swords the Dothraki favored for their battles and raids. The stranger's weapons of choice were two sets of triple blades that were connected to a squat steel bar. His fingers were wrapped around this bar so that each of the blade were between his fingers, making it look as if the knives were burst from his hands.

Daenerys let out a hoarse scream as she was lifted up, her eyes wide with fear. She braced for another attack, only for find Khal Droga wrapping her up in his strong arms, possessively pressing her to his broad chest. It was the kindest he'd ever been to her and she surrendered herself to his touch, sobbing in relief. Dany shut her eyes and soaked in the feeling of safety that Droga was projecting, allowing it to, for the moment at least, calm her frayed nerves.

"Khalesi!" Jorah shouted, leaping from his horse. He stopped short of coming near her and Daenerys did not fault him; the way Droga was looking it was clear he was ready to attack anyone that got too close, innocent or guilty. "Khalesi, what happened?"

Dany wheezed, trying to force the words out of her damaged throat. "A...at...atta..."

"Attacked?" Jorah asked. Dany nodded and the exiled man quickly translated for Droga, who held out his hand and was rewarded with a water skin that he forced into her hands, demanding she drink from. Dany did so, grateful for the cool liquid that soothed her burning throat. The Khal growled, snarling something at Dany's rescuer. Jorah, seeing that Dany wanted to know what was going on, quickly began to translate. "Khal Droga is asking the rider what happened."

The feral man let out a few bark-like words that Jorah quickly translated. "He says that he saw this one disappear and... smelled?... that she was up to trouble. He found her choking you and pulled her off before... cutting off the... I'm afraid that word is a bit too coarse for your ears, Khalesi... the woman's arms."

Looking down at his victim, the feral man growled something at the woman but she refused to say a word, her body trembling as blood gushed from her wounds. He lashed out, his claws slicing into her shoulder and making her howl. He snapped at her a few times before she replied.

Jorah's lips became a thin white line. "She was jealous of you, Khalesi. She wanted Khal Droga for herself and thought that if you were dead she could seduce him and claim him as her own."

Droga pressed Dany tighter to him but she knew this was less about love and more about possession. The Khal was upset one of his own had damaged what belonged to him... namely Dany herself. He turned to one of his men and snapped at them.

"The Khal says the woman must die-"

Before Jorah could finish the feral man lashed out, his claws ripping open the woman's belly and sending her intestines spilling out onto the ground. He snarled, watching her for a moment before striking one last time, slitting her throat and ending her life.

Droga shifted Daenerys so that she was standing at his side, his heavy arm wrapped around her body, his hand grasping her shoulder. He said a few words and Jorah nodded. "The Khal is telling the man he is in his debt... he says your rescuer may have anything he desires." The feral man growled and Jorah's eyes went wide. "Oh..."

"What... what is it?" Dany asked nervously, finding it a touch easier to talk now.

"He asked... to make the request to you, Khalesi." Jorah stepped to the side and Daenerys watched as the feral man stood before her, crouching so he was looking her in the eye.

"Khalesi," the feral man said. Dany stood in shock, not believing what she had heard. The rider spoke the common tongue! Jorah quickly translated for Droga as the man spoke. "Let me be your guardian and protector. Allow me to protect you, so that you might never be threatened by filth like that girl ever again.”

Daenerys swallowed, utterly startled by the request. She looked over at Jorah who merely nodded. Droga was giving what could be considered for him a smile. Seeing that neither of them had an objection, the young woman nodded. “I would be… thankful for your protection.”

The feral man nodded and stood up, speaking to the Khal for a moment before he when to retrieve his horse. Dany, for her part, waited until Khal Droga had had removed his arm and returned to his own horse before she spoke. “I… I don’t understand. Why did he ask for that?”

Jorah merely smiled at her. “That one… he isn’t like the rest of the Dothraki. All of them love the thrill of the fight but that one… he is more beast than man. Little is known about him and he isn’t one to talk to others about his past. Until today I didn’t even know he knew the common tongue. He drinks too much and is willing to kill at the most minor of slights… but I’ve never heard of him hurting a woman or child.” Jorah lowered his voice to a whisper as Khal Droga walked along the body of Dany’s attacker, spitting on her still warm corpse. “I’ve heard tales that once, when a city attempted to give Khal Droga children as slaves that your savior broke ranks and brutally slaughter the city founders. Twenty men died in the span of a minute, their blood staining the ground by his blades only. The only reason he wasn’t killed for acting without permission was that Droga believed that such a display should never be punished.”

“What… what is his name?” Daenerys asked. “Or does he even have one?”

“Every man has a name,” Jorah stated, nodding towards Dany’s feral protector. “And his… is Logan.”

Chapter Text

Jon

“I had begun to think we’d never see it again.”

Jon glanced over at Ser Jamie. ‘Rhodey,’ he gently reminded himself, ‘his name is Rhodey.’ After their battle against the raiders the dark-skinned knight had told Jon that he’d earned the right to treat him as a familiar and a friend. Rhodey believed that when men were coated in the blood of the same enemy they were linked forever and all differences between them, be it station or wealth, were cast aside.

Jon could tell that the knight was pleased to look upon his home again. Though he hadn’t wanted to come, and still didn’t if he were honest with himself, Jon would not ruin the joy the others felt upon looking at Iron Pointe. What Rhodey had said was true; many had begun to fear that they would never make it back to their home. After Lord Stark had been rescued they had been forced to find shelter in a nearby lord’s castle. Jarvis had stated that Lord Stark needed rest and that his injuries needed to be looked over, less the weapons-maker fall into greater peril. Though they all had been loathed to do so they would not risk Antony’s life with travel. The lord, whose name to Jon’s shame he could not remember, had been more than happy to help and provided for them well and, more importantly, had his maester aid Jarvis in tending to ‘the metal wolf of the Westerlands’.

Jon still remembered well the horrid burn Antony had suffered at the hands of the raiders. The brand had been driven right upon his chest, in the center of his breast. Flesh and muscle had melted from the heat and Jarvis had sadly proclaimed that Lord Stark would carry the scar the rest of his life. This though was not the worst of his injuries. He’d suffered a terrible blow to the head and it was only his continued consciousness that proved to the maester that Antony would not suffer from a swelled brain. The most threatening had been, of all things, the cuts of the bottom of his feet. They had become infected due to the dirt and foreign blood that had become caked in the cuts and for a time it was feared both would have to be removed. It was only his sheer force of will that saw Antony keep both of them.

While his wounds had been great that did not stop Lord Stark from issuing orders. But these too gave all of them pause. Jon was most surprised by the vehement resistance Lord Stark made towards telling anyone the truth of his injuries. When they had neared the castle Antony had suddenly broken free of the daze his pain had put him in and demanded in a clear voice that they lie. He didn’t care what they said, only that they not tell a soul about him being captured. Jon had thought at first that Lord Stark was being vain and didn’t want his wounds to become gossip, but after Antony had laughed away the news of his scar Jon wasn’t so sure. Rhodey had decided to keep it simple and merely claimed that they had been ambushed on the road and Lord Stark injured in the battle. The castle’s lord had accepted this falsehood without any sign of doubting them.

“I suppose you’ve never seen anything quite like this,” Rhodey said, moving his horse closer to Jon’s and clapping him on the shoulder. Even though he was still bitterly disappointed about being denied a place on the Wall Jon was willing to admit that he’d grown to like some aspects of his new house. The knight was friendly and treated him with respect but also didn’t allow Jon to wallow or whine. Whenever Jon got in a foul mood Rhodey would find a way to get him out of it, either with a jest or a barbed insult made all in good fun. The man reminded him of Robb, who Jon missed every day. “Welcome to our home… your new home.”

Iron Pointe was different from most of the great castles in Westeros in that its name referred to both Lord Stark’s keep and the large village that surrounded it. Situated on a great cliff face that hung out over the water, Iron Pointe looked like a large misshapen gray ring resting on a man’s stubby finger. The wall that surrounded the village, which was made of stone with steel reinforcements that resembled razor blades, was high towards the road and sloped down as it neared the cliff. The original owners had designed it so that there were only two gates that needed to be defended; Lord Antony had never bothered to learn their names and thus simply chosen to rechristen them the Crimson Gate and the Gold Gate. The Crimson Gate was similar to the ones Jon had seen in Winterfell but the Gold Gate, he was told, was quite unique. That entrance was buried underground and to reach it one had to travel through a tunnel nearly two miles long that worked its way down from the village to the beach at the base of the cliff. An army wishing to attack would have to first make it through the tunnel’s entrance, which itself was barred, then get through the narrow, dimly lit tunnel before the watchers on the wall slammed shut the 6 foot-wide gates that sealed the tunnel off form the city.

The castle itself was on the farthest edge of the cliff and was made up of two small towers, both of which barely reached the height of the main wall’s highest point, and the main structure that was one and a quarter their height. Due to their position when the waves struck hard against the cliffface the seaspray would make the castle appear to be floating in mid-air. It was a dizzying, discomforting sight and Jon swallowed hard when he realized he’d be sleeping in that keep. The castle was the only building that rose above the wall, which gave Iron Pointe a lonely, isolated look that disguised the hustle and bustle that occurred within. Those looking out towards the village from the castle could see all of Iron Pointe laid before them. To look towards the sea was to see the sandy beach that rested against the cliff… and the final great defense of Iron Pointe. At one time there had been a great rocky formation out in the water, a little sister to the legendary Shipbreaker Bay. Tony had seen fit to improve upon nature’s design and had installed upon the stony fingers great steel spikes that pointed towards the open sea. Rhodey had told Jon that there was still some debate on what to call the maze of steel and stone; some wanted to call it Shipripper Bay after Shipbreaker while others preferred The Claws, thinking the maze resembled a lion’s paws outstretched as it pounced.

“Why was it abandoned?” Jon asked.

Rhodey looked at him in confusion as they neared the Crimson Gate. “Pardon?”

“Why did the former family abandon Iron Pointe? It looks very strong…”

Rhodey chuckled. “You’re right about that. But Harrenhal was strong too and it has fallen.”

“Harrenhal fell because of dragons.”

“It fell the first time because of dragon,” Rhodey countered. “But the second? And the third? Do you know why Harrenhal is said to be cursed? It is too big to be properly manned. I don’t know if the Iron Bank has enough coin to pay men to arm it, let alone repair it. Castles are nice, wonderful things… but never assume they aren’t giant sucking money pits. The last holders of Iron Pointe were Lannisters; not from the main line, mind you, but from some lesser offshoot. They built this keep purely for it to serve as a watch point for Casterly Rock. That was fine… until the mines ran dry and the golden lions decided that it wasn’t worth wasting money on a glorified watchtower.”

“And Lord Stark is able to keep it running thanks to the iron he found?”

The knight shook his head. “At first, yes, but that isn’t the true source of Iron Pointe’s wealth.”

Rhodey paused and Jon looked up at the Crimson gate. Made of thick timber planks with blood red iron wrapped around it, the gate was quite impressive. Happy was standing at the front of the main column, barking out orders to several guards that were stationed in high rooms built into the wall right above the gate. After several moments a cry was heard and Jon watched as the doors swung open, revealing the village of Iron Pointe to them all.

Jon was struck by the differences between it and Winterfell. While his northern home had always been full and busy the village of Iron Pointe seemed to be teaming with so much more life than Winter Town had ever had. Many of the buildings had opened areas in front of the actual home, each with thatched or wooden roofs supported by heavy beams of oak. Within these areas men worked away, pounding on metal or sharpening weapons. Most surprising was that while many had the banner of Lord Antony Stark flying high other establishments featured the banners of other noble houses from all over Westeros.

“Tony realized quickly that while metal can provide some wealth it is all the more valuable if it is in the hands of a skilled blacksmith.” The column of men and women and horses marched on, villagers stopping to call out their welcomes to their returning lord and his party. Rhodey pointed towards one blacksmith whose workshop/house flew a gray banner with an icy blue mammoth sigil. “House Burlingame. I imagine you know about them.”

Jon nodded. House Burlingame was a Northern house, one of the houses closest to the Wall. It was said that in the Age of Heroes their founder, Rus, had tamed a mammoth and rode it into battle during the Battle for the Dawn. Jon was surprised to see a member of House Burlingame in Iron Pointe; finding one of that family in the Westerlands was like finding a snowman in Dorne.

Seeing Jon bemusement Rhodey smiled. “Tony isn’t the only member of an ancient family to decide to flee his birthlands. He found many men like himself, both in Westeros and across the Narrow Sea, and brought them here to help him rebuild Iron Pointe. In exchange for them paying a part of their profits to him Tony allows them to have first pick of raw iron from his mines.” As they continued on Jon realized that not all the buildings in the village housed blacksmiths and weapons builders. He saw a woodcarver flying the maroon flag bearing a black ram with blue horns. A few buildings down was the house of a jeweler who displayed the black shadowcat of House Dryer proudly. “Once word began to spread of Iron Pointe’s success Tony opened his doors to other craftsmen.”

Rhodey gave a quick nod to a tall blond man who stood at attention, a great halberd with an emerald blade held in his right hand while a shield with the gray and green capricorn of House Allen rested near him. “Take him, for example. Ser Kevan designs sigils.” Jon raised an eyebrow at that and Rhodey laughed. “What do you think happens when a man is made a knight and or a lord and is allowed to fly his own banner? Did you think they drew it themselves? Now would be an amusing sight… most knights I’ve met can’t read, let alone understand how to make a sigil and banner that means something. Most knights would have a bloody sword or a skull as their sigil and then be confused when they found every other throat-cutter had the same idea.” Rhodey shook his head in good mirth. “No, they get someone to design it for them. Tony’s own sigil was designed by Ser Kevan over there and Tony liked it so much he got him knighted and set him up here. Half the knights in Westeros get him to design their banners and a quarter of the noble houses ask him to redesign their sigils to be more bold and daring. Worked out well for Ser Kevan and works out well for Tony, since he gets a cut of the profits.”

Jon nodded, finally understanding how things worked in Iron Pointe. “Tony finds craftsmen and makes them a deal: they pay him a share of their profits and he lets them live here… and since Iron Pointe has gained the reputation of having the best skilled men in all of Westeros…”

“…whoever comes here sees their business flourish and Tony gets more coin. A win/win. Impressed?”

“I am,” Jon admitted honestly. He was surprised that he was impressed; a part of him shouted that he should find fault with what Lord Antony was doing, should scorn him for his ways to make coin. He couldn’t however; first and foremost he couldn’t find a reason why Lord Stark’s methods deserved scorn. It was a healthy business relationship that aided everyone. The North had never done anything like that and Jon wondered if that were the reason the system was giving him pause: it was something they didn’t do in Winterfell. ‘Of course,’ Jon thought darkly, remember some of the more bitter moments of his life in his father’s castle, ‘Winterfell wasn’t a shining beacon of joy either.’ And that was why he didn’t heap scorn on Lord Stark of the citizens of Iron Pointe: their lands were not the North and he had no right to expect them to behave like Northerners.

Jon found himself losing focus as they arrived at the main castle. As a boy he’d always found the pageantry of arriving noble families to be quite tiresome. The lord of a castle forced to stand at attention with his family, the polite greetings and occasional ceremony such as Guest Rights, the evaluation and first words... it was all so tiresome. Jon had never complained, knowing that doing so would only earn him trouble. He had thought it stupid though that he had to be there at all, seeing as he wasn’t a true member of the family and thus was required to stand with Maester Luwin or one of the servants while Robb and Bran and the rest chatted with whatever lord had arrived. It was a waste of time, in his opinion.

But he had found that arriving at a castle was either worse. He was weary and tired and longed to sit on something that wasn’t a saddle. The castle was right there, practically singing to him in her attempt to draw him in, but he could not enter because the castellean of Iron Pointe and several guard captains and a few other loyal members of the noble house needed to give their greetings to Antony and Lady Virgina and all the rest of them. Jon forced himself to remain stone faced as the minutes ticked away and the parade of people wishing to greet Lord Stark and ask him of his journey continued on and on and on.

He allowed his mind to drift to memories of their journey and, more importantly, memories of Lord Stark’s behavior after his rescue. Jon had been rather startled to find that after his emotional outburst, where he had declared that no one could know he had been captured, and his half lucid state under the care of Jarvis, Lord Antony had quickly reverted back to his old ways once he’d returned to the road. He had bantered with the men and told bawdy stories when he thought Pepper wasn’t in earshot and made sure he was the center of attention even when he shouldn’t have been. He had been proud and arrogant and prideful and everything Jon had come to expect out of the Lord of Iron Pointe.

It had taken three days before Jon noticed it. He could be forgiven for missing it, as it was hard to get Lord Stark alone and even harder to find him when his guard was down. When Jon had truly looked at him three days after they left the castle and saw the dullness of his eyes he realized the truth straight away.

“You see it to, don’t you?” Rhodey asked as they sat next to the fire. Much of the camp had gone to sleep and Jon had decided to keep the knight company during the first watch. Other than the few swordsmen that patrolled the perimeter of the camp they were the only ones still away… them and Lord Stark. He was several yards away from them, his face lit by the flicking flames of the large fire he sat beside. Antony was hunched over, a twig in his hands which he idly played with, eyes half-lidded as he gazed at the blaze.

“It’s all been an act, hasn’t it?” Jon finally asked.

“Yes,” Rhodey stated. “Even if you know him quite well it’s easy to miss. I don’t blame my men for not realizing that their lord is laying it on too thickly. But Pepper and Happy and Jarvis… and me… all of us have seen it. I don’t know what exactly happened in that camp but whatever it was its affected Tony more greatly than he’s let on.” The dark-skinned knight took out one of his daggers and a whetstone. “And that worries me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Despite what you Northerners think of him, Tony does have the blood of the Starks in his veins. He might be more prone to parties and displays of wealth but he is your father’s cousin. Think about Lord Eddard and tell me this: would you fear him if he found himself suddenly focused upon a single task?”

He wanted to say no but knew that was a lie. His father was not a violent man like some lords but he had killed and still could. He’d ended lives not just because it was his duty to do so but because he desired to. Jon’s thoughts when to Ser Rodrick, who had once regaled Robb and him about Robert’s Rebellion and the battles Ned Stark had fought in. He had spoke of the fury and the might of Jon’s father but the boy had come away from that conversation more startled than pleased. He had always seen his father as a man that would kill only if he had to and never take joy from it. But the way Ser Rodrick spoke, even if he never said the actual words, Jon could tell that his father had, in that war at least, taken up the sword because he wanted to and not just because he had too.

And if Lord Antony possessed the same fierce focus Jon’s father had…

“There is no telling what he will do,” Rhodey said quietly, looking over the fire towards Antony once more. “All I know is it won’t be good for anyone that gets in his way.” The knight sheathed his blade and glanced over at Jon. “There is something that interests me about all this.”

“What’s that?” Jon asked.

“I noticed that because Tony’s my friend. But you… you’ve known him less than even the youngest servant here. How did you see it was all an act?”

Jon flashed a bitter smile. “Because I’ve been playing that same mummer’s act my entire life.”

Antony finally signaled that he was through meeting and greeting the members of his household. Rhodey gave Jon a wave before heading off with the soldiers to get them settled in their barracks while Lady Stark announced that she would be heading to her and Lord Stark’s room to begin supervising the unpacking of their trucks. Happy leaned in towards Lord Stark, whispering something in his ear before heading off, leaving only Jon and Maester Jarvis to accompany Lord Stark and the tall, bearded, bald-headed castellean into the castle.

“We are all glad that you have returned, Lord Stark,” the castellean said as he led them inside the castle. Jon was pleased to see that Iron Pointe was at least similar in a few ways to Winterfell; the main entrance was not an overly large door as he feared and while there were more windows to let in the sun and larger halls and hearths throughout it was not a foreign abode that would trouble him greatly. “I trust you had little trouble during your journey?”

“Oh, you know, other than being attacked by raiders and branded like cattle it was wonderful, Obie,” Lord Stark said, patting the man on the back. Jon’s eyes went wide but before he could say a word Antony began to laugh. “Oh, you should your face. No, seriously, purely routine.” He paused, rubbing his chin. “Well, other than picking up this stray. Obadiah Stane, meet Jon Stark.”

“Snow,” Jon said quickly. “My name-“

“-is Stark,” Tony said firmly. “That’s what your name should be. My family’s blood runs through your veins, that makes you a Stark. Not my fault your father is more of a bastard than you are.” He clapped his hands together. “Besides, that will mean less whining from the highborns about me having someone not of their ilk in Iron Pointe.”

“Uh, Antony,” Obadiah said, giving his lord a tight smile, “I’m afraid that isn’t going to work. Even assuming that no one finds out, and they will, you can’t just elevate a bas… I natural-born child like that.”

“Obadiah is correct, my lord,” Jarvis said. “Only the lad’s father or the king can elevate Jon. You can’t.”

“I think I just did,” Antony said. “Yup… yup, I just did. Jon Stark. There, that worked out great. Good. Ok, so how are things here?” The Lord of Iron Pointe moved on, leaving his castellean, maester, and new ward trailing behind him in shock. “Come on, I’ve been out on the road for too long, I want to know how things have been going. That’s, uh, what a lord does, right? Listen to news about his kingdom-”

“You aren’t a king so it isn’t a kingdom,” Obadiah reminded him.

“Right, keep forgetting that. What do we call it then? Not lorddom, right, because that just sounds…” Antony waved his hand in the air, making a strange face.

“Lands, my lord,” Jarvis said.

“…wow, that sounds really bland and boring.” Antony avoided the Main Hall where he was expected to meet with those under his protection and hear of their woes, allowing Jon only a quick glance at the room before they made a left and headed for some stairs that led down into the bowels of the castle. “Alright, so news about the land.”

Obadiah nodded. “I have the reports on profits-“

“Ugh. No. So bored, don’t talk about that or I will fall asleep and go crashing down these steps and that wouldn’t be good. Anything new or important I should know about?”

“Lord Tywin Lannister sent a raven concerning your request to the King to mine for the Sunstones.”

Lord Stark clapped his hands together while Jarvis saw to lighting more candles to illuminate their way down through the lower hallway. “Perfect. Just what I needed to hear. He agreed, right? I hope so, because the first thing we are doing is installing Sunstone lamps down here.”

“Yes Tony, he did. I don’t remember the exact details but we can mine for Sunstones but have to surrender any gold or silver we find as part of the sale. It will be a limited amount of land and will require us to make another offer if we need more-“

“Perfect, great, sign my name to it. Jarvis, get one of your ravens to deliver it by tomorrow morning. I want to get this done so we can begin mining.” Tony suddenly whipped around, his hands pressing against the door he’d stopped in front of. “Obie, how many requests have I gotten since I was gone for weapons and jewelry?”

“I’ll… I’ll have to check the records but I think at least 40 weapons, ranging from swords to shields to axes, and around 70 requests for necklaces and brooches.”

Antony flashed the castellean a smile. “Perfect. Can you get one of your boys to bring all of those down to me? Also, do we have those requests I hadn’t looked at yet, the ones that came before I left for Winterfell?”

“I… believe I do…”

“Perfect again! You are just perfect, Obie. Have those brought down too. Oh, and let Pepper know I might not be at supper tonight, have some things I need to work on.” Lord Stark grabbed the door handle and slipped into the dark room, shutting the door shut on the three before they could say another word. He then quickly opened it and said, “Oh, and could you show Jon his room, Jarvis, and get him settled in. I swear, we’ll sit down later and get this all straightened out and make sure we have something for you to do, Jon. Just… you know, brain buzzing, want to get back to my element. But we’ll talk, we’ll talk… ok, good.”

And with that Lord Antony shut the door once more.

Jarvis looked over at Jon, who was clearly stunned by the lord’s strange behavior. “I will admit… not the best way to introduce you to our home. But come along, we’ll get you settled in.”

Jon mutely nodded, wondering what in the Seven Hells he had just gotten himself into.

Chapter Text

Tyrion

“Lord Tyrion, might I have a word?”

Looking up at ‘old bear’, Tyrion nodded, his stubby fingers grasping one of the belts he used to secure his trucks and pulling it a bit tighter. Normally he would not be in charge of seeing to the securing of his luggage but Cersei had made it clear when he’d made his decision to visit The Wall that she would not allow a single retainer to go with him on his ‘foolish errand’. Tyrion had hid his annoyance but had to admit that he did enjoy living on the road and experiencing life without a servant to do all the menial tasks and wipe his ass. Oh, he would take one of those servants in a heartbeat, if offered, but he still enjoyed the experience.

He idly considered one day writing a book about his exploits; it would certainly sell well if only to those who wished to laugh at the misadventures of a dwarf. He wouldn’t be able to write it till his father was dead… and even then Tyrion would probably wait until he knew the man was well and truly in the grasp of death, less he return as a wraith and torment Tyrion for daring to disgrace House Lannister. If there was any man that could escape after being held by the Stranger, it would be Tywin Lannister.

“Of course, Commander Mormont. I am always interested to hear what men of your standing have to say.” Mormont stared at him and Tyrion smiled. “I don’t mean that as a jest, Commander. I know you have no reason to believe me, as japes commonly spill from my lips.” Tyrion tapped his chin. “Perhaps that is why I drink so much; to drown them. Still, I very much would like to speak with you.”

The commander of the Night’s Watch gestured for Tyrion to follow him and the Little Lannister complied, though not without casting a glance at some of the new Nights Watch recruits and their sticky fingers. While Tyrion respected the men of the Nights Watch that didn’t mean he romanticized them; he knew well who they had been in their previous lives and understand that this rebirth did not place them that far from what they had once been. In some cases the Wall made them worse.

“I trust this will not take long?” Tyrion asked as they walked. “Yoren has made it clear that we will be leaving within the hour and I do not want to have to play catch-up.” Tyrion knew that it didn’t have to come to that. He could demand the man wait for him, of course, but that was more of his sister’s way than his. Tyrion preferred to do his best to keep to his promises and not throw his weight around; when one was forever using their power to get their way the magic and draw of it quickly faded and men lost respect for it. “And for me that would be quite hard… these legs of mine could be twice as long and I’d still find it quite troublesome to chase after your man Yoren.”

“This will not be long, Lord Tyrion. We need only settle a few matters.”

Tyrion grimaced. “Usually when I am told that it involves discussions of property damage and settling of tabs.”

Mormont led Tyrion out of the courtyard and into the main Hall of Castle Black. The little Lannister looked about, trying his hardest not to snicker. He’d thought Winterfell had been an utterly cheerless and depressing place but Castle Black made the Starks look like they were the Lords of Dorne holding feasts in a gilded golden palace while dancers pranced about waving their scarves of many colors. Dark walls, bare floors, rough wood tables and a deep soot-filled hearth that somehow made the room feel colder even when the fire was burning. The room Tyrion had stayed in had been little better and he knew that the Night Watch Brothers had even worse lodgings, as difficult as that was to imagine. It made the little man wonder just how many black brothers had thrown themselves from the top of the Wall to escape the dreariness; probably less than he suspected, as if they had all been like him then the Wildlings could have reached the top of the Wall by clamoring over the pile of dead bodies. Tyrion had fought the urge to leap himself when he’d taken a piss off the edge; it was only through the wonderful tonic known as alcohol that Tyrion had survived the visit.

He looked at the bench, hiding his disgust as best he could. ‘Would it kill them to make these a bit lower? The only thing I want to climb up onto is a bed… and only if there was a buxom woman waiting for me at the top.’ Sucking up his displeasure, Tyrion pulled himself onto the bench, doing all he could not to flail his legs about. He knew he’d never be able to move with the grace and dignity that Jaime commanded but by the Seven there was no way he was going to turn this into a mummer’s act purely for the entertainment of the Lord Commander and what few Black Brothers were in the hall.

“I must say,” Tyrion said, finally settling himself on the high bench, “I am surprised you wanted to speak with me. I was under the impression that you’d want me gone as quickly as my little legs would carry me.” He flashed the grim old man a smile, wishing they had a bottle of wine nearby. Dealing with simple-minded fools was so easier with a belly of wine to dull the pain. He knew Mormont was a cunning man but the Old Bear was so stuck in his ways and such a sour sport that any enjoyment Tyrion might have taken with conversing with him was sucked away. “I must warn you that if this is a recruitment pitch your words will be useless. While I admire you and your brave brothers I simply could never join. Whores all over the Seven Kingdoms would sob in grief at the news and I have never enjoyed bringing sadness to anyone.” He ran his tongue along his teeth. “And black is not my color.”

Commander Mormont never let his frown slip. “I want to discuss the altercation you had with my Master of Arms.”

“Oh, is that the title we’ve given it?” Tyrion asked with a raised eyebrow. “The ‘Altercation’? Come now, we must do better than that. Westeros is so well known for giving battles grandiose names.” He splayed his fingers out and held his palms out towards Mormont, his voice taking on a fake awed tone. “The Long Night! The Battle for the Dawn! The Battle of the Bells! The Dance of Dragons! Those are names one remembers. It simply will not do to have such a clash as mine go by with such a weak name. We must have something better… of course, it is so hard to choose, since I so utterly destroyed Ser Alistair. ‘The Pruning of Thornes’? No, sounds like a Tyrell battle, doesn’t it? ‘The Lion and the Jackass’. Hmmm, not really a name for a battle… more of the title of a song. Do you have a harpist here, Commander? I’m not much of a composer but I think I’ve stumbled onto something…”

Seeing that the Commander was growing tired of his jests, Tyrion wearily waved at him, motioning for him to speak. Mormont merely looked down at the Lannister, his disgust clear for all to see. “We allowed you to come here, drink our wine, eat our food, observe our daily lives and in return you get in a row with my Master of Arms while he was trying to train our newest recruits.”

“Is that what you call it?” Tyrion said in surprise. “Training?” Before Mormont could speak Tyrion leveled him with a look of utter loathing. “I would call it systematic torture and abuse perpetrated by an overgrown bully who takes out his frustrations and hatred for his lot in life on young men who have no choice but be here. But by all means, if that is what you call training then I apologize for my surprise.”

“I suppose you’d have us offer them warm beds, fine meals, and have no one do any work like down in the south?” Mormont asked. “It has been a long time since I have been south, my lord, but I have found from what I have seen and saw that such treatment has made all of you plump and soft. Such things do not do any good out here, where each day is filled with danger and death. No, Lord Tyrion… I think not.”

Tyrion blinked. “You think I’m plump? I prefer ‘pudgy’ myself…”

“And now you joke,” Mormont snapped. He jabbed his finger at Tyrion, his scowl deepening. “Most of our recruits are unruly boys with no sense of duty or honor or obedience. All of you in the south are happy to pass them to us and allow us to deal with them; out of sight and out of mind for all of you. Your jails remain uncrowded and you can claim that you have done us a great service. But you never bother to see how those boys turn out, never care about their lives once they are loaded into the wagons and brought here.” Marmont shook his head. “Most will die beyond the wall, either from a Wildling’s blade or from the cold itself. More often than not they won’t be found and thus not allowed a proper burial. Their only hope to survive is to learn and Allistar Thorne is my greatest hope at doing that. Are his methods extreme? Perhaps. But I have no other choice than to use him… to have him mold those thieves and rapists and northern boys with stars in their eyes and dreams of glory into men of the Nights Watch.”

“And believe me, I understand that,” Tyrion stated. “I do not claim for a moment to understand what all of you go through. The biggest struggle I have it taking a piss after a night of fucking whores and drinking the finest wines.” The little Lannister smiled, resting his elbows on the table. “When I was growing up there was a man in Lannisport that trained falcons. When I say train I mean it in the same way you do when you speak of Ser Allistar. He would starve them and break the wings of weak ones and keep them caged in tiny boxes and strike them with sticks if they did not behave as he wished. I asked my brother Jaime why someone would do that and he said, “He wants to toughen them up, little brother, to make them stronger and fiercer”.”

Tyrion reached over, only to remember that for once he was telling a story without a glass of wine nearby. He sighed in disappointed and continued. “He did achieve his wish. The falcons did grow fierce and strong.” He shrugged. “Of course, the only way any of us learned of his success was when the trainer’s body was found pecked apart and all his falcons stood sentinel around it with engorged bellies. Some of the men said that they’d never seen bones so thoroughly cleaned.”

Mormont frowned. “You are suggesting a mutiny.”

“By the Seven of course not!” Tyrion said with a mock gasp. “Why would boys who do not wish to be here and who are systematically abused and tormented by madman ever think of sneaking into your room and slitting your throat and claiming their freedom. A foolish idea, Commander, and I will not hear any more of it.” Tyrion paused, leaning slightly to the right, looking at the scabbard that hung on the Commander’s hip. “May I have your sword if you die? I know I’ll be gone soon but you never know when one of these boys will tire of being Thorne’s punchbag and decide to snap. Might happen before I leave and I’d love a present to remember my time here.”

Mormont refused to rise to Tyrion’s bait, much to the little Lannister’s disappointment. He so missed having someone to trade japes and jokes with; the Nights Watch was filled with boring, dull-witted northerners who refused to play with him. “I did not bring you here to discuss how I choose to train my recruits. I brought you here to discuss your fight with Ser Allistar.”

“It wasn’t much of a fight,” Tyrion stated. “More of me bludgeoning your man’s simple mind with my wit.”

“You interrupted a training session, mocked him, threatened him, and then told the recruits they could leave.”

Tyrion placed his hand over his heart. “Commander, I did no such thing! All I did was approach Ser Allistar as he was egging on the rest of your recruits to beat one of their own and suggested that he might be on the wrong side of the wall. I then pointed out, before he got it into his head that he might turn his blade on me, that my father would not take kindly to assault upon me. If Ser Allistar took offense to the truth that is his problem.”

Mormont closed his eyes, struggling to contain his emotions. “Ser Allistar’s approach when it comes to young Tarly has been… extreme-“

“In any other place your man would be thrown into a dark cell,” Tyrion snapped. “And that is being kind and merciful.”

“-but that boy is fat and soft and, more importantly, a coward. He cries at the mere sight of a sword and can barely stand up under the weight of the practice armor. He can’t run, can’t swing his blade, and can’t defend himself under the most gentle of assaults. If nothing is done he’ll be dead within a week.”

“So that’s why Ser Allistar has seen to it that the boy dies sooner than that? I suppose if the next world is filled with buxom blondes with tight quims then it would be a gift to beat him to death… if I were sure of such a fate I’d allow him to beat me as well.”

“You judge what you don’t understand.”

“Then enlighten me, Commander, please.” Tyrion leaned forward, jabbing his finger against the table. “You know that Tarly never wanted this. He joined because his vile father threatened to murder him in the woods if he did not go north.” Tyrion held his arms out wide. “My father is a harsh man, Commander, and none would say that he has parental pride in me, but even he did not demand that I take the black or die.” Tyrion leaned back, looking up at the ceiling and praying for strength when dealing with thick-headed northerners. “Your Master of Arms decided that, rather than attempt to actually train the boy or, the Seven forbid, find him some other task other than fighting Wildings-“ Tyrion waved towards one of the black brothers who was filling the hearth with firewood, the implication he was trying to get across clear, “-it would be more enjoyable to beat young Tarly. That’s what he told me, by the way: that he did it because it made him smile.” Tyrion blinked in confusion. “No… wait… I have that wrong. Sorry, Commander, forgive me, I made a mistake. It was not Ser Allistar that beat Tarly; he had your recruits do it. So, not only do you have rapists and thieves but you are now training them to beat the weak for the amusement of others.” Tyrion gave the Commander a dark smile. “Oh, the vaulted friendship and brotherhood of the Night’s Watch. I think I’ll have a song commissioned about your black brothers and how they nobly beat blubbering fat boys while their commanders egg them on.” Mormont scowled but didn’t say a word. “You’re not going to deny it, are you? You realize that it is wrong, just as I did… the only difference is I was willing to stand up to Ser Allistar and call him out for his barbarism while you prefer to turn a blind eye to him… all in the name of ‘training’.” Tyrion scoffed. “And you wonder why we plump southerners look at all of you in disgust?”

“We are not here to discuss how I run the Night’s Watch,” Mromont said, swallowing the rage and fury he clearly felt at being questions by Tyrion. The little Lannister smirked; Mormont was clearly thinking of the warning that Tyrion had delivered to Ser Allistar: if anything happened to him Tyrion’s father would see the Night’s Watch suffer. Tywin Lannister might not love his son but he would never allow anyone to kill him and get away with it.

“Then by all means, what are we here to discuss? I hope you are not expecting an apology, Commander Mormont. I have enjoyed my time here and will give you my well wishes but I will not apologize for insulting your Master of Arms and if he is like a whimpering girl that needs a cuddle-”

Mormont held up his hand. “It is not Ser Allistar I wish to discuss; it is Tarly.”

Tyrion blinked, dawning coming on him. “Ah… I believe I see where this is headed.”

“Your actions ensured that the boy was protected… but only so long as you were nearby to interfere with any of Ser Allistar’s further attempts to deal with Tarly. But with your leaving-“

“-he will feel the need regain his control over his recruits by making an example out of Tarly,” Tyrion said with a sigh.

“Correct.”

“And you will do nothing to stop him.” Tyrion glared at the commander. “And Tarly is the coward?” When Mormont refused to answer Tyrion rolled his eyes. “What exactly do you suggest I do about that? I’ll warn you now, Commander, that I cannot stay here and protect Tarly for all time… not because I don’t want to but because I fear you will fall in love with me.”

Mormont clasped his hands together. “What I suggest, Lord Tyrion, is that you take young Tarly with you.”

Tyrion stared at the Commander in surprise. “I would think that would go against many of your sacred rules, Lord Commander. I heard while I was in Winterfell that Ned Stark cut the head off a deranged boy for doing what you’re suggesting.”

“That was a brother. Tarly has not taken the oath yet and came here of his own accord.”

“Forced, actually,” Tyrion said.

“Indeed. But I doubt his Lord Father would raise a fuss if young Tarly was made squire to the King’s brother-in-law…”

Tyrion smirked at that. “Lord Commander, just when I think you rather dull you prove me wrong.”

~MC~MC~MC~

“Are… are you sure this will be alright?” Samwell Tarly asked, glancing back at Castle Black nervously.

“Of course, Sam,” Tyrion said, nudging his horse forward. Sam rode beside him on a strong young mare that Tyrion had purchased from the Lord Commander for his new squire. Yoren had already gone ahead with the main wagon, allowing Tyrion a chance to get to know his new companion. He was already making mental notes to have Tarly outfitted in something finer than the black clothes he wore. It would do no good for his squire to look so dower. “You told your father that you would go north and take the black… you never promised when. As I see it, your honor will be satisfied so long as you take an oath before your final breath.”

“But how will I know when my final breath with be, my lord?”

“Most likely it will be 5 minutes after you take the oath, Tarly. As such, until you take the oath you can enjoy life… and when you travel with me you will enjoy it greatly.”

“If… if you say so, my lord,” Sam said, watching as his new lord took a long drag from his wine skin. “I do not know much about living, to be honest.” He squirmed in his seat, his babyish face beaded with sweat even in the icy cold of the north. “I mostly enjoy reading… and eating.”

“As I can see,” Tyrion muttered under his breath. He winced when he saw Sam turn away from him; the boy had clearly heard him. “I… also enjoy reading.”

“You do, my lord?” Sam asked, looking back at him in surprise.

“Of course. Let no one tell you that it is wrong to read, Tarly. Some of the greatest warriors in this world are also the most educated. Any young oaf can swing a sword but an old warrior is one that can use his mind.” Tyrion smiled, thrilled with the fact that he might have found someone to actually discuss literature with. “You are quite welcome to read any of my books, assuming I have already looked through them.”

“T-thank you, my lord!”

Tyrion smiled even as a cold wind kicked up, billowing back towards Castle Black. “Tell me Tarly… have you ever been with a woman?”

Sam blushed. “No, my lord.” Tyrion smiled and Sam quickly explained, “Not that I don’t want to be! I love girls… any type… they just don’t like me that much…”

“Well, that all changes today. I can’t have a squire who doesn’t know his way around women… would look rather poor of me. We’ll be rectifying that-“

“My lord, look!”

Tyrion followed Sam’s gaze, tilting his head back as he spotted a crimson banner fluttering in the breeze. It took him a few seconds to realize that it was one of his own family banners, caught aloft in the northern air. How it had gotten there Tyrion didn’t know, as he had not brought such a banner with him and knew of no Lannister other than him anywhere in the north. The banner twisted and twirled a bit, dancing in the breeze, before suddenly diving downward and catching itself on an old iron spike that stood ramrod straight beside the side of the road.

Sam, realizing that this was a chance to prove his worth, rode forth to snag the banner from the spike, holding it up as Tyrion joined him. He held it up proudly, only to go pale as he saw the damage done by the metal spike. “My lord…”

Tyrion licked his lips. “We’ll have to add it to my trunks when we camp for the night.”

“But my lord… the lion-“

“Think nothing of it,” Tyrion said quickly. He reminded himself he was not superstitious; too many people in Westeros looked for signs and tidings and omens in ordinary things. They let their lives be governed by them and preferred to hang their failures and achievements upon such silly things rather than giving themselves praise or complaint. To look at some coincidence and believe it a message of things to come was a fool’s errand.

That is why Tyrion refused to consider what it might mean that the iron had pierced the banner… right through the Lannister lion’s heart.

Chapter Text

Pepper II

When she'd married Antony Stark she'd known that her life would never be like the many other ladies that lived in Westeros; mostly because her husband was not like any lord that could be found throughout the Seven Kingdoms. The closest she could find to another woman living a life like hers were the paramours of the House of Martell in Dorne. Oberyn Martell, from what she had heard, was as impulsive as her beloved Tony, sweeping through life doing as he pleased. She’d heard that before she’d met him Tony had actually spent a few months in Dorne and the Martells had even tried to convince him to stay, believing him to be a long-lost brother. Still, Prince Oberyn and his paramour were only a poor reflection of her and Tony, much like the image cast by a warped mirror in a mummurs' performance.

For while Tony could be impulsive and had a love for the pleasures of life, including wine and sex, he also had a spark of determination and a drive to create. While other lords would sit in their lofty keeps and castles, indulging in food and lazy entertainment while clinging to power purely via the deeds of ancestors long reduced to bone, Tony couldn't be forced to sit and relax. He wanted to always be moving, never slowing down even for a moment. It didn't have to be something strenuous. Anything that stimulated him, body or mind, would do. That was why so many saw his as rude or impatient; they just couldn't understand that for her husband it was utterly painful to remain stationary without some new impulse or experience to stimulate him. Pepper understood though; that was part of the reason she loved him. So she allowed him his quirks and eccentric ways.

But even she had her limits.

"Two months," she complained to Jon as the two of them made their way down the stairs to the lowest level of Iron Pointe. "Two months I've allowed him to stay in that bedamned workshop of his, seeing him only in passing. I've not said a word, not one, but enough is enough!"

"Yes, Lady... yes Pepper," Jon said awkwardly. Much like Rhodey, Pepper had been working to get Jon to be less formal with her. While she wasn't like Tony, who openly mocked such things and went out of his way to shove back at tradition and common courtesy, Pepper did have a limit when it came to scraping and bowing. Jon was family, despite what some of the Northern Starks thought, and it simply wouldn't do for him to forever be calling her Lady Stark when they were alone. Especially since it meant she was being compared to that sour woman Caitlyn.

In the weeks since they'd returned from Winterfell Pepper had gotten to know Ned Stark's oldest, if somewhat unwanted, child. She had marveled at the boy who seemed so unsure of himself yet held so much promise. Jon was a skilled swordman and Rhodey had confided that had Jon joined the Night's Watch he very well could have been their best ranger. He was also quite creative, though it took some prodding to get him to admit his own ideas, and was a natural teacher. He'd told her one night, when discussing what he missed about Winterfell, of how he'd helped Bran with his lessons and how he'd been hoping to aid little Rickon when it was his turn. Pepper had gotten with Obadiah and arranged for some of the younger children in Iron Pointe, who were just beginning to learn how to swing a sword, to be taught by him. Jon, though unsure of himself at first, had quickly grown in his position and Pepper and Rhodey had spent several afternoons watching Jon happily instruct the youths. He understood that every child was different and had their own talents. If one was slower than the rest he'd find some other way for them to train, allowing them to build up the confidence he himself had never truly had instilled within him.

At night Jon would join her for dinner and the two would converse on a wide range of subjects. She would nudge him, metaphorically, to give his opinion on topics and slowly the young man had warmed up to her and let his tongue become looser. She was sure there were some that worried that she was becoming too familiar with Jon but Pepper merely scoffed at that. It was clear it was not a lover's touch Jon Snow required but that of a caring mother.

It was during their most recent dinner that Pepper's protective instincts had flared up. She'd made apologizes, once again, for Tony not joining them when Jon had decided to speak up. Every other time she'd made excuses for her husband Jon had merely nodded but at this dinner the young man decided to take a risk and speak his mind.

"Have I offended Lord Stark in some way?" Jon had asked.

"Not that I know of. Whatever gave you that idea?" Pepper had quiried. “Has he said something to you to give you that impression.”

Jon had shrugged. “No… but the thing is… well…”

“Yes?” Pepper had pressed.

“…he hasn’t actually… said anything to me. At all.”

“This week?” Pepper had asked. She knew that was normal; there were times when Tony got so wrapped up in his work that he forgot that he hadn’t even said hello to her in days. Still, that wasn’t right and she would remind Tony that he had promised to care for Jon and couldn’t-

“Since we arrived at the castle.”

Pepper’s had pressed her lips into a firm little line. She’d slowly raised her hand, signaling to one of the attendants to hurry over. “Please apologize to the cook, but we won’t be able to finish this wonderful meal. Tell him I’m going to beat my husband with an iron ingot. When I return I imagine I’ll be quiet famished, so please be ready to warm this once more when the time comes.”

That is how she found herself marching up to the heavy wood door of Tony’s private work room, every step causing her rage to grow. Jon followed behind her, clearly nervously but seemingly figuring that it was safer to follow after her rather than flee and become a target for her wrath.

“TONY!” She roared, rapping her knuckles firmly on the door. “Open this door or I will break it down!” She heard something clatter before silence rang once more. “I know you are in there, Tony! Open this door!” She glanced to her left and spotted a heavy war ax. “I am going to kill him. I am going to kill him and even the King wouldn’t rule against me at a trial.” She grabbed the ax and dragged it towards the entrance, the weapon’s great weight making it difficult for her to lift. “Tony!”

“Is anyone else out there with her?” Tony’s voice finally called out.

“I am, Lord Stark,” Jon said, taking a step away as Pepper managed to heft the ax up.

“Has Pepper grabbed an ax yet?” The redhead bellowed and swung the great weapon, its blade embedding deep into the wood door. “I’ll take that as a yes. Alright, its unlocked, you can come inside… just leave your ax outside, alright?” Pepper merely growled under her breath as she shoved the door open, stopping into the room with Jon a few steps behind him. “Now, before you overreact…” Tony began.

“Oh, I’m going… to…” Pepper found the words unable to get past her tongue as she stared at the sight before her. She had been expecting many things, from her husband buried on a massive pile of weapons to him in the middle of creating some new type of crossbow that had seen the walls of his workshop pierces with arrows, but what she found before her had her brain stop working. Jon stumbled into her and though she couldn’t see his face she knew he was just as dumbfounded as she was.

There was Tony, wearing a simple shirt, leather pants, and flimsy thin boots, his face dirty and dried sweat clinging to his collar, gliding back and forth 6 foot off the ground. Pepper stared at the red gauntlets her husband was wearing, brilliant blue-white energy firing from them as he moved back and forth along the lab.

“Okay, so this looks real bad, right? I mean, I can’t tell because I’m me and I’ve been told my reactions aren’t the same as other people, so I need to ask. Though, now that I think of it- hold that thought.” Tony grunted and just managed to avoid the forge in the far corner of the room, forcing himself to fly back towards Pepper and Jon. “So… yeah, I can fly.”

“How… how is this even…” Pepper stammered.

“Wichcraft,” Jon whispered. “Magic.”

“Not magic because it has a basis in reality, and not witchcraft because I’m not a witch… mostly because I have something swinging between my legs. Pepper can confirm that… honey, could you confirm-“

“I am not going to talk about your penis!”

Tony frowned. “What, because of the kid? I hate to break it to you but Jon has one too-“

“Because you are flying!” Pepper shouted.

Tony looked down and saw he was, indeed, still flying. “Right, forgot about that. You know, it is easy to forget I’m doing it, since it’s rather comfortable. Like lying on a really nice feather bed, you know? Except nothing like that since I’m not lying, I’m flying-“

Rhodey burst into the room, looking about wildly. “I heard Pepper was coming to kill you, Tony, so-“ He froze, staring at the tableau before him. “Well…”

“Yeah, I can fly now,” Tony said with a grin. Pepper grit her teeth together and the Lord of Iron Pointe quickly landed. “But I’m on the ground now. Love the ground. Just great. Great ground. Shutting up now.”

“The Gods be praised, it’s a miracle,” Rhodey quipped.

“You shut up,” Pepper snapped, jabbing her finger at Rhodey before turning on Jon. “And you speak up more. Be more confident.”

“Yes, Pepper,” Jon said, deciding to just agree with her.

“And you… explain, now,” Pepper snapped, taking a step towards her husband. “What in the Seven Hells is all this?”

Tony gulped. “Well, you see… remember how I discovered those Sunstones?”

“I thought you called them Starkstones.” Rhodey asked.

“Jarvis wouldn’t let me. The point is that I began to experiment with them and discovered all sorts of amazing things you could do with them.” Tony walked over to his work table and grabbed the handle of a large chest that sat beside it, dragging it over to a bench. He slipped his hands out of the gauntlets and tossed one to Pepper, who let out a yelp and bobbled if for a moment. “Don’t worry, it won’t go off unless your hand is in it.”

“Tony…” Pepper warned.

“I’m getting to it,” Tony said as he pulled out some golden chainmail. “Jon, come over here and help me out.” The boy did so, hurrying over and taking hold of the chainmail; Tony laughed as the boy started in shock.

“Noticed it, didn’t you?”

“Notice what?” Pepper said, her annoyance at the lack of answers getting to her more and more.

“Come on, think about it Pepper!” Tony said. “That gauntlet feels a bit light, right?” Pepper glared at him but did admit that the metal gauntlet felt too light. It was like she was holding something made out of lace rather than the special colored metal that Tony worked with. Jon pulled the chainmail shirt over Tony’s head and Pepper spotted that the garment had small sunstones attached to it. He did the same thing with chainmail leggings, leaving Tony looking like a strange golden statue version of himself. “First thing I discovered, other than the glow, is that Sunstones decrease the weight of metal pieces. Not sure how but they do. Attach them to some metal and its light as a feather.” He sat down and pulled off the thin boots. “Jon, the grievers.”

“And that lets you fly?” Pepper asked as Jon helped Tony armor up his feet.

“Nope. Just means I can dance with all this stuff on.”

Rhodey took the gauntlet from Pepper and hefted it. “A lot of knights would pay good money for armor that weighs this little. I’m assuming that it keeps the same strength?”

“Actually gets stronger,” Tony said he grabbed a crimson breastplate and motioning for Jon to help him slide it over his head, the boy working to strap it into place. “Rhodey, can I have that gauntlet back? Thanks.” Taking it from his friend he slid it on before putting on its brother, Jon staring at the armor with the same gaze a child might have when they didn’t want their mother to know they longed for a new toy. Tony continued to talk even as he worked on securing the rest of the gold and crimson gear. “But Pepper asked about the flying thing. See the center of the Gauntlet?” He held up his hand so they could see the perfectly circular Sunstone embedded into it. “There is a bit of silver on the inside of the Gauntlet. When I flex my hand…” He thrust his palm out and a blast of energy shot out, striking a mannequin he’d set up in the far corner, turning it into straw and wood dust. Pepper let out a scream and Tony grimaced. “Sorry, tried to warn you-“

“DON’T DO THAT AGAIN!” Pepper screamed.

“Sorry, was that startling? I thought it might be-“

“Seven Hells, get those bewitched gauntlets off now!” Pepper shouted, moving to rip the clearly magical pieces of metal off her foolish husband’s hands.

Tony, however, pulled away before she could do that. “Listen, I get that I frightened you but they aren’t magic. They just use glowing stones and silver to produce a blast of raw energy that allows me to fly-by the way I have some in the boots to fly faster-and fire energy blasts.” He blinked at that, considering his words. “When I word it like that it sounds pretty magical, doesn’t it?”

“Just a bit,” Rhodey stated.

“Do NOT encourage him,” Pepper hissed. “I want you to take them off now!”

“Uh, yeah… not happening, dear lady.”

“And why not?” Pepper asked, her voice cool and cold.

Tony rubbed the back of his head, Pepper wincing as visions of his accidently shattering his own skull like a ripened fruit dropped from a great keep’s high tower flashed in her mind’s eyes. “Alright, how to explain this so you don’t have Obie drug me with some foul medicines while you tie me to our bed... okay, so you all noticed, and if you haven’t where in the Seven Hells have you been, that the Seven Kingdoms are awful. Just awful.” He turned to Jon. “I know you’ve only seen the inside of Winterfell and a little of the road but trust me on this, Westeros is a festering wound that has maggots swarming it and rats gnawing at the rough ends. You can cover it in fine lace or the best armor money can buy but in the end at its core… at its core it is a disgusting place full of rot and if someone doesn’t do something…”

“And you are the one to save it?” Pepper demanded, frustrated as she saw Tony’s plan. “You are behaving like Lord Eddard’s oldest daughter, dreaming of knights and shiny cities where justice and nobility reign and where a single man can save an entire kingdom… but you aren’t a hero, Tony! You make weapons, that is what you do! You don’t go running off to save Westeros in magic armor-“

“I don’t care about Westeros!” Tony shouted. Pepper took a step back in shook. Never had Tony yelled at her… never. He had gotten peeved and annoyed and a few times even given her the silent treatment… though with Tony that only lasted at most an hour… but never yelled. It just wasn’t in his nature. He was passionate but he found thundering about not his style and too, in his own words, boring and predictable. Too ‘Stark-like’. For him to actually yell at her…

“Lord Antony?” Jon said quietly.

Tony let out a laugh, shaking his head. “Those bandits that captured me, that branded me,” he rubbed his chest and Pepper noticed for the first time he’d placed a large circular sunstone right in the center of his breastplate right where he’d been burned by his kidnappers, “they had a girl. Lord Oaker’s only daughter. Those bastards, and I mean that in the most foulest of senses, had asked for a prize to leave Oaker alone. He… he had sent countless men to die on the battlefield for much less but rather than test his steel against the bandits he gave his daughter up to be those bandits’ whore. A glorious sign of the strength of Westeros.”

Pepper, her earlier shock forgotten, moved to her husband, placing her hand on his cheek. She knew others didn’t see it but Tony did have a good heart within his callous form and he would not be one to simply turn a blind eye to such things. The fact that a girl had been treated that way would eat at him and she now saw what had pushed him into such a strange and radical position.

“Tony… this isn’t the way. It isn’t. Tell the king-“

Tony laughed. “Yes, tell our fat king who would have likely joined those bandits rather than stop them.” Jon started at that and Tony rolled his eyes. “Kid, time to grow up. Robert is a terrible king and history will prove me right. King Robert the Whorer… or the Drunk. Or the Drunk Whorer. His word means shit to those that actually matter.”

“Then someone else then,” Pepper argued. “Oaker is bannermen for Lord Tyrell. You could tell him-“

“And how can I trust Tyrell to do anything?” Tony pointed out. “If he were such a good man he’d have made it clear to Oaker that he have but call for aid and receive it. Instead Oaker sells his own daughter to rapists and tonight he throws a party so he can sup with the powerful in his Keep.” Tony tightened his hand into a fist. “And besides… one of them was the one that hired the bandits to kidnap me.”

“What?” Rhodey asked.

“Yeah, found that out too. Seems someone doesn’t like me in Westeros… someone powerful. Someone with, according to the man that decided to play games with my flesh and hot irons, more power than I could possibly imagine. A warden or one of the small council… or the king himself.”

“You can’t believe that,” Jon said.

“Believe it? I know it. Westeros is a horrid hell but I was willing to turn a blind eye to it as long as I got some coin and wine. I was just as guilty as all the other lords… okay, maybe not as much since I didn’t do half the things they did but I allowed it. But now they’ve come to my door and hurt me… and next time it might not be me. It might be the people of Iron Pointe or you guys or…” He stared at Pepper, unable to finish. “So… so I have to decide if I am going to just pretend like nothing happened while waiting for my doom to come… or if I am going to stand up right here and say, “No, this is the line”. I’m not going to save Westeros… just like I can’t save that poor girl.” He reached down and grabbed a red and gold helmet and put it on, the featureless smooth face and glowing white eyes making him look like some strange metal demon emerged from the Age of Heroes. “But I’ll sure as hell avenge her.”

“Tony!” Pepper shouted as he lifted into the air. “Where are you going?”

“Didn’t you hear? Lord Oaker has a party.” Tony threw out his hand and blasted open a side door, revealing one of the many secret tunnels that led out to the coast. “You know how much I love to crash those things.”

Pepper could only stare in shock as her husband blasted out of the room.

Chapter Text

Tywin II

“Did you hear about my boy, Loras? Going to compete in the Hand’s Tournament. Won’t be able to make it myself but I’ll make sure to get a full written account when he wins. Or maybe have it done in song! They wrote up Loras’ last great tournament into a song and it was quite moving… if only I could remember the blasted tune. It was something like… no, wait, not that…”

Tywin merely cut into his steak, wishing for a moment he was a bit more impulsive and could get away with reaching over and severing Mace Tyrell’s throat with his knife. Or better yet the oaf’s own knife. Why sully his own silverware?

The Lord of the Rock was known for his iron will but even he had a breaking point and the blathering fool was pushing him to the point that he was ready to press Mace’s face into a wall until the noise stopped.

As Mace Tyrell droned on about his son, the pathetically named Knight of the Flowers, Tywin looked at all the simpering men in their scented linens and ornate garments and wondered yet again if his life would not have been easier if he had been someone else. Had he been born to any other family he would have been able to do as he chose, pursing paths that interested him, feeling no need to do anything to lifting the standing of his minor house’s name. He could be a drunk or a fool and no one would bat an eye because who cared about such a small house full of unknowns? If he’d had no house and been born a commoner he would have been able to feel a tool in his hand or a sword at his hip, doing his own small part and being satisfied with only that. He could hunt when he wanted, talked as he wished, spoken his mind and indulge in the baser urges of man without a care.

What would his life have been like if he had been a different type of Lannister? Had he been more like his father he would have been able to sit and hear such foolish things and feel no annoyance. Of course, if he were his father he would have never been invited to this bore of a meal. Neither he nor his father were like the men that sat around him but unlike his father he commanded enough respect that these men would never thing of not offering him an invitation.

Perhaps if he were like Jaime or Tyrion he would be drunk now and joining in, making just as big of a fool of himself as the lords and bannermen around him. If he were like Cersei he would simmer and snap, pretending he was doing so well to hide his own true feelings while the whole world knew and laughed at his poor attempts. Perhaps he could be like another man. A dullard like Tyrell, too stupid to realize just what he and others were truly like, bumbling about life with a smile.

Or he could be like the Mountain and murder them all.

Tywin took a sip of wine, not bothering to even make a show of paying attention to Lord Tyrell. He was not his children or Ser Gregor or Tyrell or even a common man. He was Tywin Lannister, Lord of the Rock and Warden of the West. More than that, he had created an identity for himself and despite the annoyances that came from such an identity he would continue to uphold it and do all he could to build upon in. If that meant attending such events as Lord Oaker’s feast and not making a scene despite how annoyed me might be, so be it. As he always did in life he would file the annoyances away and use them as fuel for future goals and plots.

“King Robert himself has spoken of how much he enjoys watching my son,” Mace said, the same stupid grin on his puffy face. “King Robert! Can you believe it? Someone that grand entertained by my son?”

Tywin merely took a bite of his steak. ‘You weren’t thinking he was that grand when you were trying to starve out his brother in Storm’s End.’ He chewed on the meat, which was overly cooked to the point that he’d have enjoyed eating his own boot leather rather than what their host had put out, and thought of the great ironies of the world. Had Robert never rebelled it was very likely he and Mace would have been the best of friends, two idiots who believed the other was the fool in the pairing. Yet the war had turned them first into enemies and then, with Robert’s victory, made Robert some grand figure. Tywin knew that unlike him Robert had forgotten all about the grievances the Tyrells had committed against him; rather than use such transgressions as fodder to better deals and force the oaf to pay him favor Robert happily waved such things away after a token payment from the family.

‘Robert’, Tywin thought to himself in annoyance. ‘The Drunk King.’ He pushed his burnt steak aside and grabbed a roll, reaching across Mace to get some butter, the dolt still so consumed yammering on about his son to even notice. Tywin thought of their king and not for the first time found himself thinking a rather traitorous thought. ‘Damn it Stark, you couldn’t have taken that throne when you had the chance?’

Tywin knew that his children thought very little of the Lord of Winterfell. Tyrion had jested that Eddard Stark had been up north so long that if one cut him ice would ooze out of his veins. Jamie was worse, mocking him for being so dour and serious and dark. Cersei felt that all the North was pathetic, seeing them as little more than barbarians in nicer clothes that at in barns with their dogs. If she had her way she’d have cut the North from Westeros like one would trim fat from a pork chop. Tywin always held him tongue, allowing only a quirk of his eyebrow to tell his foolish offspring that they best shut their mouths and not discuss those things they knew little about.

What Tyrion and Jamie saw as being depressing and dull Tyrion saw as dedication to his lands. The North was too wild to be ruled by a flamboyant fop who marched about in pretty steel or wined himself into an early grave. Ned Stark was the leader the North needed, just as Tywin was the leader the West needed. Both saw their domains swell and grow, bettered through their actions.

Tywin’s mind went to the Sacking of Kings Landing and the arrival of Ned Stark. Jamie had killed the Mad King, doing his duty as all Lannisters should, and Lord Eddard had arrived to find Jamie sitting on the throne as if it were his. Oh, Tywin had heard the rumors that he’d wanted Jamie to declare himself king and if he were a man of laughter he would have let out such a roar of mirth it would have echoed through all of Casterly Rock. Yes, one day Jamie would be the Lord of Casterly Rock (despite what Jamie himself might think concerning his vows to the Kingsguard) and would make a good Lord… but that was years and MANY lessons away. Even now Jamie was too young and too impulsive to be a good Warden of the West… let alone a good king. Jamie as King would have been nearly as bad as Robert; worse, actually, as his rule would have directly tainted the Lannister name.

But there had been Eddard Stark, needing only to step forward, sit upon the Iron Throne, and claim the kingdom as his own. Tywin knew that things wouldn’t have been perfect under the rule of King Eddard, first of his name, as there were no perfect solutions. The greatest issue would have been the same one he had when Robert became king: Eddard demanding justice after the Sacking. Foolishness to ask for such things but Tywin knew that Eddard, just like Robert, would have listened to Jon Arryn and rescinded. At worst Tywin might have been forced to sacrifice Ser Gregor Clegane and while that would have been a loss it would have been worth it. An apology for Ser Gregor’s actions, a strong sword across the Mountain’s neck, and some gold passed about and things may have been settled.

‘Eddard would have made my life easier and more difficult’, Tywin thought to himself. On one hand, getting what he wanted was much easier with Robert on the throne than it would be with King Eddard. Stark was stubborn and not as easily swayed as Robert was. Tywin would have to work much harder to get what he wanted if the direwolf hung over the Red Keep instead of the stag. But Tywin would also find so much more time on his hands as he wouldn’t need to work behind the scenes as much as he did to ensure the kingdom didn’t collapse. Jon Arryn had done his part and so had Tywin, the two acting as the secret powers behind the throne, tempering Robert’s foolishness and laziness. Ned Stark would have been different; he would have ruled better, avoiding the recklessness of Robert and perhaps even managed to repair the damage the war had done.

But most of all… Stark would have been a better match for Cersei. Robert had been chosen purely because he was the new king in need of a bride. But if the two men had been put on equal footing Ned Stark would have been Tywin’s choice. Oh, Cersei would have fought him tooth and nail but in time she would have found the match to her liking. Stark would temper her more foolish actions and perhaps taught her some of the caution Tywin was still trying to instill in her. He would also have been loyal to her. It still disgusted Tywin that Robert visited whores and treated Cersei as little more than a septa that cared for the children. Eddard had only once given into the pleasures of the flesh with a whore and thougt Tywin found such an act disgusting he was willing, begrudgingly, to forgive such a mistake and see it as an error made by a young man during a chaotic time who had been forced to marry a woman he’d been expecting to call ‘sister’. The bastard would have had to go but that would have been easy; simply have Robert raise the boy. That would have left Ned and Cersei to raise their family and rule; the Lannister family’s legacy bettered. He could not imagine a child with Eddard and Cersei as parents being anything like his spoiled brat of a grandson.

Tywin let out a small huff. It was useless to dream of such things. He only did so during dull times like this, when the likes of Mace Tyrell threatened to render him dumb as a stableboy through inane chatter. Considering the possibilities that would never come kept his mind from shattering.

Mercifully, Lord Oaker stood up, raising his glass to give a final meal toast. Tywin had already decided before coming down to dinner that the moment their host gave his second toast he would leave the feast and retire to his room. He’d only accepted the invitation because he’d already planned to pass through the area, having need to head towards the East through the Reach to check on some interests of his. The invitation meant staying in a warm castle rather than a, though spacious and well equipped, cold tent in the middle of nowhere.

Oaker was a fierce warrior, or so he liked to proclaim. All his victories came from sending out wave after wave of men to die needlessly to win meaningless battles. Tywin might have sent others to fight his battles but he didn’t claim to be some great swordsman who had single-handedly won every battle he was a part off. Oaker was a coward who wrapped himself in the cloth of a warrior and it was only because his words shut up Tyrell that Tywin tolerated him at the moment.

“My friends and lords, I thank you for coming to my home. I hope the meal is to your liking and the wine quenches your thirst. I do not think I have seen so many great men in the same room together since the campaign against the Greyjoys… I remember one battle I was in, it was a cold day and with much worse food-“ he paused to allow his guests to laugh at his jest before continuing, “-and much better company! I had just led my men in a daring sea battle against-“

The ceiling above them collapsed, sending thick chunks of masonry raining down on the banquet tables. Men and their wives leapt out of the way, screaming in horror as a chandelier came crashing down onto the stone floor, nearly crushing a servant. Tywin pushed back from his chair, watching as a figure in red and gold armor landed in a crouch in the center of the room. He wore a crimson helmet with a featureless gold faceplate that hid all signs of humanity. The warrior lifted his head up, the slits in his mask making it appear as if he were judging them all and finding them wanting; the effect was made all the more chilling by the light that poured out of them. He wore gleaming scarlet armor over golden chainmail, not a single inch of flesh visible, and in the center of his chest was a great glowing light that burned like a small sun. As the figure rose Tywin glared at him, instantly annoyed that the knight before him was wearing the Lannister colors. He didn’t know who this upstart was but if it were one of his men he would pay dearly for wearing such armor without his permission. The fact that said knight had managed to crash through the ceiling and stand moments later did not register with Tywin.

“Lord Oaker,” the knight said, his voice distorted slightly like a man talking into a large bell. He slowly stood up, his glowing eyes locking onto the lord of the keep. “Where is your daughter?”

“Who are you to command me!?” Oaker shouted, reaching for his sword as he blustered. All around him men and women were either shrieking in shock or wondering just who this knight was and how he’d come to fall through the ceiling into the dining hall.

“Wrong answer,” the knight said. He thrust out his open hand and the guests were rendered speechless as a blast of magic fired from his palm, striking Oaker’s arm. The lord screamed as the bones shattered and his sword was tossed away, the cheap metal shattering against the wall it struck. “Where is your daughter?”

“By the Seven,” Mace whispered, peaking up over the edge of the table. The oaf had fallen on his large bulbous rear when the crimson knight had crashed into the hall. “What is-“

“Shut up, you fool,” Tywin hissed.

“What do-“

“Shut your mouth or I’ll remove your tongue myself,” Tywin threatened, leaning forward. “I want to hear this.”

“I… I don’t know what you are talking about,” Oaker said, clutching his broken arm against his chest. The crimson and gold knight took a step forward and though none could see his face there was a sense that he was glaring at Oaker. The knight raised his hand and the old warrior began to stammer. “She isn’t here! She isn’t here!” Tywin could see white-hot fire flashing within the gauntlet.

“Why?” the knight said coldly.

“For gods’ sake, kill him!” Oaker shouted to one of his men, diving behind his chair. A swordsman leapt forward, slashing at the red knight’s back, only for his sword to tremble as it hit. The man stared at his sword in surprise, shocked that the blow hadn’t even made his foe stumble. The knight turned only for a second guard to attack, swinging his sword right at the knight’s head. That made the crimson intruder take a step back but he soon began to defend himself, thrashing about as two more guards joined in on the attack. Oaker, for his part, began to hurried away, hoping to make his escape while the knight was occupied.

Finally, after several moments that seemed longer than they really were, the knight managed to knock the last guard out before firing a blast at Oaker’s leg. The old man howled like a fox in a trap, collapsing on the ground as the knight stomped towards him. Oaker whimpered and pleaded but the knight paid no heed, simply grabbing him by the front of his shirt and hauling him up. The once arrogant lord sobbed like a child as his one good leg twitched, the other hanging limply as blood stained his pants.

“Why isn’t she here?” The knight demanded. Before Oaker could speak the knight twisted him around, forcing him to face his guests. “Tell them.” Oaker stammered and the knight shook him. “TELL THEM!”

“I gave her up! I gave her up!”

“To who?”

“Bandits!” Oaker pleaded, every word punctuated by tear-choke cough. “They threatened to attack my lands and I gave them gold and my daughter so they’d leave. I don’t know where she is now! I don’t know!”

The crowd murmured to themselves in disgust at this news. Mace turned pale at the news that one of his old friends had sold his child off to rapists and thieves. Others stared at the disgraced and maimed lord and it was clear that they wished for the knight to finish the job. Oaker had stood up there, bragging about being a warrior and his great victories, and he’d fallen to his belly like a coward and sold off his own kin just to avoid a minor skirmish.

The knight stared at Oaker for a moment before delivering a vicious punch to Oaker’s jaw, shattering it and sending the man to the ground. He slowly turned, staring at the shocked guests, his fingers flexing as he considered them all. He finally laid eyes on Mace Tyrell, the oaf making an audible gulp as the glowing slit eyes held him in place.

“Get those at your command in control and clean up your domain,” the knight ordered before staring down the other gathered lords. “Or it might be your keep I visit next.”

“Who… who are you, knight?” another of Mace’s bannermen asked.

“I’m no knight,” The intruder walked back to the center of the room. He held his hands out to his sides, firing off blasts of magic from his palms and feet, and to the shock of all rose in the air. He hovered for a moment, considering them all, before speaking. “I’m Iron Man.”

With that proclamation he rocketed out of the hall, leaving the guests, the knocked out guards, and the broken Oaker in his wake.

It took seconds for pandemonium to break out.

Servants were running about, unsure of what to do. The guests were in a panic, fearing that the self-named ‘Iron Man’ would return to kill them all with his dark magic. The guards that had finally arrived to investigate the commotions were demanding answers and not believing what they heard.

Finally Mace decided to act like the Warden he was and began calling out orders. The guards began to help clear the way for the guests to leave, the injured were taken to the maester, and two of Mace’s own men were to guard Oaker; once the man could speak he would have a lot to answer for.

Through it all Tywin merely watched. He had reclaimed his chair and decided to finish his meal while others moved about the clean up the mess. While other lords and bannermen whispered and murmured to each other, gossiping just as badly as their wives, Tywin reflected on what he had just seen, his keen mind already processing all he’d observed.

The world had changed and he’d been given a front row seat. While Robert’s Rebellion had altered the face of Westeros it had only seen, in the grand scheme, minor ripples. Life for him and the other heads of the great houses carried on. The small folk toiled away. Life continued on. But this… this altered everything. Not since Aegon had come with his dragons had Westeros suddenly found itself and its destiny so altered. Iron Man, in the span of a few minutes, had changed everything.

Now it was time for Tywin to figure out how to use this to his advantage.

Chapter Text

Arya

She found it so odd how people didn’t notice her here. Back in Winterfell, her home (because this place, despite what Sansa might think, would never be home), all the servants had called her ‘Arya Underfoot’. No matter how sneaky she’d tried to be, they’d always managed to spot her. She’d hated how Bran had been able to climb about and sneak and slink through the entire keep, never noticed by those that moved about Winterfell. With her everyone always seemed to spot her and shoo her away. She was always in the wrong place and not doing the right thing.

Back then it had annoyed her but now that she found herself seemingly invisible it drove her mad. All of her father’s men, who Arya knew by name and had spent time with them, either weren’t around due to other duties or ignored her until she caused too much trouble for them not to get involved. Even then, that rarely happened, as she almost never ran into anyone of note anymore. She’d been told that the Red Keep was larger than Winterfell but no one had told her how empty it seemed. Even if there had been ten times the people in the Keep as there were at home the halls would still have felt utterly quiet and still. In Winterfell there was always someone about, doing something more interesting than the dumb needlework the septa wanted Arya to learn. But here in King’s Landing there never seemed to be anyone around save for the glorified nursemaid that was forever chasing her around and telling her how horrible she was compared to her sister. Arya hated that woman with a passion and more often than not envisioned her during her training with Syrio.

When she did find someone more often than not they didn’t notice her. Arya had stumbled onto more than one conversation that she shouldn’t have heard without any of the speakers ever realizing she was there. She had heard stories about King’s Landing, how everyone was so clever and cautious, but it seemed that caution only applied to adults. No one bothered to keep an eye out for a small girl. Just a few days ago she’d stumbled upon Ser Barristan Selmy discussing with another of the Kingsguard his worries about the Red Keep’s sewers and how they weren’t secure. A day after that she’d heard the king’s youngest brother mention something about a man named Phyllup and wasted gold. And the day before last she’d heard one of the queen’s own handmaidens gossiping about something or other that Arya hadn’t been able to make heads or tails of.

But it had been a conversation she’d accidently heard between some knight she’d never met and a cook in the kitchen that had her bouncing up and down in excitement.

If only Sansa would stop acting like a spoiled brat and listen to her…

“Why must you make up such stories?” her sister asked, giving a haughty sniff before carefully taking up her knife and fork. Arya watched from her end of the breakfast table, staring in disbelief as Sansa actually cut her toast into tiny little bite-size pieces. “It is undignified to tell such lies as if they were truths.”

“They aren’t lies,” Arya complained, grabbing a handful of bacon from the plate in the center of the table. Her sister looked at her like she were some filthy little goblin but she didn’t care. It didn’t matter if the bacon had been left out for her father and she was expected to make due on bits of sweetbread and fruits like a good like lord’s daughter; Syrio said that warriors ate meat to put meat on their bones and Arya was determined to lift her wooden sword with ease and not tremble like a bent twig as she tried and failed to do so. “I’m not making this up. I heard about it from a knight.”

“What knight?” Sansa pressed.

“…I don’t know his name but he said it to the cook! You know, the one that made those lemon cakes, the ones you eat all the time?”

“I do NOT eat them all the time,” Sansa said. Arya merely leaned over, eyeing up her sister’s side. Sansa didn’t realize it yet but her time in King’s Landing had caused her to get a bit soft. When they had been in Winterfell their mother had watched over them and their brothers, making sure they ate only a decent share. Even their brother Jon was given what Maester Luwin use to call a ‘balanced meal’ and their mother couldn’t stand Jon. But here in the South mother was nowhere to be found and the castle was always filled with treats. Arya had Syrio, who stressed that one could not survive on sweets alone and who helped her work off any sugary confections she might rarely indulge in. Sansa had no one and it was clear to Arya that her sister had gained a few pounds since their arrival. Nothing too noticeable but if she continued as she was Arya couldn’t help but pity Prince Joffrey, as he’d most likely be crushed to death on their wedding night.

Her mind flashed to Micah and instantly she wished Sansa was as fat as the king and dropped upon Joffrey… preferably from a very tall tower with the Queen standing next to the blond little twit-

“You shouldn’t make up stories,” Sansa complained, reaching for another piece of toast only to think better of it, her hand lightly trailing along her side. Instead she selected a glass of apple juice and took a dainty sip. “It isn’t proper.”

“What isn’t proper?” their father asked as he came down the stairs and moved towards them. He leaned down, kissing first Arya and then Sansa on the head before taking a seat between them. He glanced at Arya’s plate of bacon but never said a word, causing Sansa’s smug smile to fall a bit.

“Arya is telling stories, father,” Sansa said, his voice a touch too snide for Arya’s liking.

“I am not!” Arya complained. She was thankful their septa wasn’t around, as Arya was sure she would have scolded her for speaking so loudly… just as she scolded her for everything else. “The Iron Man is real!”

“The Iron Man?” Sansa complained. “A knight who can fly and shoot magic beams out of his hands? Does he hunt woopers and grunkles?”

“You use to believe in woopers and grunkles,” Arya said sullenly.

“But I have grown up and know they are childish, just like you.” Arya let out a huff and Sansa turned towards their father. “Please tell her to stop telling these stories before everyone in King’s Landing thinks her mad, father! Prince Joffrey can’t have his Queen be related to a crazy little girl.”

“Arya,” Eddard said, looking at her with a critical eye. “Just who told you about Iron Man?”

Sansa smirked, believing that their father was preparing to scold her, but Arya knew differently. She’d grown use to her father’s different tones when he was preparing to discipline her… and this wasn’t one of them. She looked at him with wide eyes and rather than answer his question (and admit she’d been spying on people) she asked, “You’ve heard of him too?”

“Yes,” her father admitted. “I imagine by the end of the week all of King’s Landing, if not the majority of Westeros, will know of him.”

“Then… then he is real?” Sansa exclaimed. “There truly is a flying knight in golden armor who attacked a lord?!?”

“Gold and crimson,” Ned admitted; it was clear to Arya that he didn’t want to tell them but with the cat out of the bag he had no choice. “Arya, tell me exactly what you’ve heard.”

She grinned and launched into the tale she had heard the day before. “They say that Lord Oaker was holding a feast when a 10-foot tall magical knight appeared before them in a flash of light and began to shooting out spells at everyone and declaring that he would hunt them all down before he flew away!”

Her father let out a sigh, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I would say you were embellishing but compared to some of the other stories I’ve heard that was practically tame.” He looked at the two of them, considering them both, before speaking, “I suppose, since the tale will be on the tongues of all soon enough you deserve to know the true story.” With that their father launched into the events of Lord Oaker’s feast and the arrival of the mystical knight known as Iron Man. Both girls had listened with wide eyes as their father retold the account he himself had heard the day before as presented to the king and the Small Council. Their father took plenty of time to stress to them that they weren’t to share what they were hearing with anyone, at times interrupting his story to reissue the warning. Sansa and her nodded in agreement, both knowing they were lying and wouldn’t be able to do anything but share every word.

By the end of it Sansa’s frown, which she seemed to wear more and more since coming to King’s Land, had turned into her second default expression: a dreamy smile. “Oh, how magical! A dashing hero defeating the wicked and defending poor maidens!”

“Did you miss the part where the poor maiden was sold off?” Arya asked. “Doesn’t sound like he defended her that well.” Even though she scoffed at her sister’s fluffy take on the Iron Man Arya thought of the knight and beamed. Her father’s story was so much better than the tale she had heard the chef and knight discuss, because this story was real. As magical as it sounded Arya knew it was real, else her father would have never told her or Sansa. It had been Old Nan that had told them stories, never her father; he was too stern and rigid to indulge in false tales. No, the Iron Man was real and she was wonderful.

‘Yes, she’ Arya thought to herself, utterly pleased with herself that she had figured out the truth about the knight. From the way her father had described the knight it was clear that it was a woman under the armor, pretending to be a man. Arya would have done the same thing, purposely allowing all of the Seven Kingdoms to believe that she was a male so they would never realize who she truly was. The way the Iron ‘Man’ defended the honor of a woman he had never met also spoke that it was someone close to the lost lord’s daughter… a female friend, perhaps… who sought to do what no man was willing to do…

Sansa merely rolled her eyes at Arya’s comment. “He sounds so amazing, father! It’s like a tale from a storybook only it is real!” She let out a happy sigh, tilting her head up as she spoke. “I wonder if he is like my beloved Joffrey and is kind and fair-“

“If he’s anything like Joffrey we are doomed,” Arya muttered before turning to her father. “Will the king reward the Iron Man for what he has done?”

Ned shook his head, his brow furrowed as he stared at the two of them. “Girls, I want you to understand… this isn’t a fairy tale.”

“Father?” Sansa said in confusion. “Why are you upset?”

Lord Stark sighed. “It is true that Lord Oaker was a vile man who did vile things, and it is true that he must be punished for his crimes… but this Iron Man had no right to do what he did.”

“But… but-“ Sansa stammered, Ned holding up his hand to stop her.

“Sansa, he attacked a Lord of Westeros and brutally hurt him without leave of the king.”

“But you do the same thing!” Arya argued, not liking that her father was claiming that the Iron Man deserved punishment for doing the right thing. “Jon told me you cut that man’s head off, the one who deserted the Night’s Watch!”

Her fathered scowled and Arya gulped, realizing that she probably shouldn’t have told her father that she knew that. “I did that because it was part of my duties as Warden of the North. The men that captured that boy did not pass judgment on him but rather brought the news to me. The same is true of Iron Man… he should have gone to his lord, whoever it is, and presented the information he obtained so that this could have been handled properly. As it is the king is now deciding what must be done about this false knight.”

“Please father, tell him to not kill him!” Sansa said, tears in her eyes. “He is good and heroic and just and deserves nothing but praise! All the knights told in the songs and tales would have done the same thing as the Iron Man… we at least have a man in our lives to match those of the Age of Heroes and we can’t let him be hurt!”

“That is not for me to decide,” Ned said simply, patting Sansa’s hand.

Arya had a different concern. “He did nothing wrong! Lord Oaker was disgusting and should be punished!”

“And he will… by Lord Tyrell. Not the Iron Man,” Ned said.

“But Lord Tyrell wouldn’t know if Iron Man hadn’t acted! Nothing would have happened! The Queen is probably his best friend and would have told the king that Lord Oaker was innocent and he would have believed her!”

“Arya…” Ned said, his tone becoming sharp.

She, however, paid no heed, shoving herself away from the table. “It is just like with Micah! You let them kill him when Joffrey was to blame! And now you want to kill the Iron Man just because the Queen doesn’t like him!”

“The Queen has nothing to do with this,” Ned snapped in frustration. “And this is nothing like what happened with the butchar’s boy-“

“That was his own fault for hurting my Joffrey,” Sansa said quickly.

Arya trembled with rage. “LIAR! I wish the Iron Man would kill your precious Joffrey next!”

“Arya!” Ned roared, standing up. “That is enough!”

“NO!” Arya yelled back, shocking her father with her fury. He always did this, siding with everyone else other than her. Even when she was right, like with the Iron Man, he still found an excuse to not listen to her. It didn’t matter if he had only met someone within the last hour… her father would take their word long before her’s. “You’re just like them! You’re no better than the Hound! You just want to take away everything! I hate you! I hate you both!” She whipped around, tears in her eyes, ignoring her father’s bellows for her to return and her sister’s gasp of shock as she raced out of their dining room and down the steps. She stumbled past a few of her father’s guards, not bothering to apologize for crashing into them, and hurried along as fast as she could go. She didn't stop running until she was safely inside her 'dancing hall', her heart pounding in her chest. Arya knew her father wouldn't follow her; her mother would have, screaming at her and demanding she behave like a proper lady, but her father never had a stomach for catching her. He preferred to let her return to him, fear twisting her stomach as she wondered what punishment awaited her, while he sat silent and stern while waiting for her to apologize. She didn't even bother to make any vain promises of denying him of her hurried apologies, as she knew she would give them the moment she saw him. She always did, everytime. And she hated herself for that.

Arya took a breath and walked into the dancing hall proper, Syrio standing at the ready with his hands clasped in front of him, the pommel of his sword held loosely between his fingers. She moved automatically, grabbing her wooden training sword from the rack and holding it in one hand, just as Syrio taught her. The moment she did, however, she found that the grease from the bacon she'd grabbed was still on her fingers and the sword fell from her grasp, clanging against the floor.

She winced, waiting for Syrio to lecture her. But her dance instructed surprised her, coming over and taking hold of her hands.

"What has you upset, boy?" he asked. He'd never asked her that before and she suddenly wished he was yelling at her. She could deal with yelling, as it seemed to be the only way anyone talked to her anymore. Kindness was a knife, hot and cruel, twisting in her stomach until tears leaked from her eyes. "It is clear that something has happened. What has this stern strong student so upset?"

Arya rubbed her eyes with her free arm. When it became clear that Syrio wasn't going to drop the line of questioning Arya began to yammer on, unable to stop herself. "It's Sansa... and father... and the Queen and Joffrey and the King and the Hound... I hate them all and I told father he was a killer and I wished the Iron Man had killed him, or maybe I said I wished he had killed Joffrey, I can’t remember, but I don't really wish that because he's my father but he never listens to me except about my dancing lessons and you are the only one that understands me and I wish we could just leave and you'd take me to Braavos and show it to me and leave everyone behind-"

When she finally took a gulp of air Syrio politely reached forward and placed on his fingers against her lips. "I believe I would understand better if you began at the beginning... and took your time speaking."

Arya grimaced, realizing she'd been prattling on like Sansa about her future marriage to Joffrey and the cute chubby babies she’d squeeze out of her womb. She took a breath before starting over again, her words measured and steady as she spoke. She told her instructor everything: about growing up in Winterfell and how everyone always focused on Sansa and compared her to her sister; her father taking her south and how Sansa had lied about what Joffrey had done and her father hadn't done anything to stop her and he'd claimed Sansa had to side with Joffrey even though they were family; about how her friend Micah had been killed because of the Hound and the Queen while Joffrey and Sansa received no punishment; of their arrival and how Arya wished she were home and the only one that made her feel wanted was Syrio; and finally the tale she had heard about the Iron Man and how her father wanted him dead even though he had only done what needed to be done and Sansa once more only cared about Joffrey.

Through it all Syrio merely listened, a smile on his lips. It wasn't the condescending smile so many wore when she spoke, or the one full of humor as they took delight in seeing her as a fool. No, Syrio's smile reminder her of Jon and she briefly wished Lord Antony had taken her with him as well. Anything was better than being with her father or, gods forbid, her mother.

Arya realized as she finished her tale that Syrio had guided them to a small bench and sat them down, swords resting on their laps. She licked her lips as her dance instructor leaned back, his eyes drifting towards the ceiling.

"I have found," he began, "that there are three types of people that walk along the lands. The first kind, like your father, are unable to comprehend anything other than their own existence. Anything that does not fit in with what they know is treated as either not possible or, when there is no way to deny it for a second longer, is met with fear and hatred. Tell me... what would your father say if you or even someone like myself, Syrio Forel, the First Sword of Braavos, told him that there were in this world people who could call upon an iron sword that was across a room with merely a wave of their hand? Or ones whom could change their skin so that it looked like yours or mine or even something never seen, like a shade of blue more deep than the sea? What would he say?"

Arya frowned, her feet kicked out as she swung them back and forth. "He'd say that that was just a mummur's jape or some tale Old Nan would tell."

"And yet we know that there exists things strange and wonderful in this world. You told me of a stableboy, so large that only the Mountain would look over his head. What was his name?"

"Hodor."

Syrio nodded. "Yes, Hodor. If you were to tell someone in this city of this Hodor they would not believe you because they had never seen him. Yet that does not make him any less real. Now, what if I brought before your father one of my blue skin-changers. How would he react?"

The young girl frowned. She could practically hear her father say the words. "He would say that such a person had too much power and fear what they would do with it?"

"And what say you?" Syrio asked, studying her carefully.

“I like the color blue,” Arya said.

Syrio chuckled. “I meant about this person’s ability to change.”

"Oh. I... I suppose it would depend on the person?" When her teacher merely raised an eyebrow Arya elaborated. "Will this person hurt me? Or my family? Because if they do..." she trailed off, gripping the pommel of her sword. “But if not, why would I want to make an enemy of them?”

Syrio nodded in approval. "A wise thought. Now, the second type of person is one that can believe that such things exist and think of them in wonder... but do so only because they are too boring or too stupid to ever understand what these things truly are."

"Like Sansa."

"Your words, not mine, boy. Would not do for your father to hear me speaking ill of your sister."

Arya giggled at that, truly feeling better since the entire ordeal at breakfast. "You said there was a third type?"

"Can you not guess it?" Syrio said. "The final ones are those that are special. It is they that possess great gifts and are beyond the rest of this world. If the rest of the world is simple then they are superior."

"Then what am I?" Arya asked in confusion. "I'm not my father and I'm not my sister... and I'm not special."

Syrio stared at her, brow furrowed. "And whoever told you that?" When Arya shrugged he reached out and gave her such a hard shake she felt as if her teeth might rattle out of her mouth. "Do you think Syrio Forel would teach just any lord's child? I was the First Sword of Braavos! I do not select any random child to learn my secrets. No, boy... you are special. I have known it even before your father came to me. There is something within you, waiting for the right moment... it is different for everyone what triggers it... but a time will come when you will reveal yourself, like a flower blooming after the long winter, and you will be blessed and cursed."

"Because some will love me and others hate and fear me," Arya said.

"Clever, boy… very clever.” Syrio stood up and motioned for her to do the same. “Now, ignore your pains. The world will heap enough onto you so there is little need for you to add to them.”

“I’m just worried… my father-“

“Will rant and rave and punish you for how you acted?” Syrio asked, swinging his sword. “Let him. Do not fight back, do not protest. Accept the punishment… but never the blame. Let him think you see things his way while in truth you know him to be a fool who can not see that the world is full of wonders… and you are one of them.”

“How do you know that?” Arya asked as she got into position for the water dance. “And how can you be so sure I am special?”

Syrio merely smiled before attacking her, Arya smiling inside as she fell once more into the comfort of the dance. It would only be honors later when she realized he’d never answered her.

Chapter Text

Tony

‘And here I thought I understood the world,’ Tony thought to himself, a self-deprecating smile gracing his lips. Of course, no one could actually see the smile, seeing as he was currently wearing his helmet… and was flying high above the hamlets and villages that dotted the southern-most parts of the Rock. He was doing his best to stay just high enough to not frighten any farmer or smith that might be around while keeping low enough so that he could easily detect any danger or threat. He pressed down a bit more on the trigger plate in his boots, the silver striking the Sunstones and blasting him faster through the warm summer air. He was patrolling, seeking out the corrupt and the criminal, so that he might eliminate them and get a step closer towards completing his mission.

The sad thing was he didn’t have to go too far to spot a bandit or rapist in the middle of the act.

He has always known that Westeros wasn’t the civilized realm that it tried to play itself off as. He knew that the lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms, for the most part, liked to pretend they were better than the Free Cities across the Narrow Sea. They were more cultured and refined than the wild Free Cities, where anything and everything could be found and people held allegiance not to a king but to whoever ruled their city or the marauders that forced them to comply or die. The only two that didn’t were the Iron Islands, which prided itself on be full of pirates and being a rough land where one took what they wanted, and Dorne, which thought only they were better and the other Six Kingdoms, along with the Free Cities, were garbage when compared to them. The elite of Westeros complained about how the Free Cities were corrupt and filthy and filled with heathens. And they were; during Tony’s travels he’d seen the best the lands across the Narrow Sea had to offer and the worse. While he couldn’t claim that he’d dined with Dothraki or shared wine with a Faceless Man he had been involved in a few battles with Rhodey, visited a several brothels, and sampled things that still had his system buzzing even years later. Even Pepper, whose family had lived in Essos ever since the end of Blackfyre Rebellion, did not view the Free Cities through love-filled eyes.

But Westeros wasn’t the shining beacon of glory and culture the King and the Small Council tried to play them up as. The lands of Aegon the Conqueror were just as filth-filled as the Free Cities. King’s Landing was a disgusting sty, filled with feces and sweaty bodies and rot; all the perfumes and lace in the world couldn’t hide the stench. Most knights were just murderers that had lucked out and killed the right person or who had a family name that let them get perks they didn’t deserve. Rape was treated as something that happened to other people. Theft was only theft if you were caught. Even honorable men like Ned would count curs like Boltons as allies.

Tony had known all about this; he’d laughed at others who walked around thinking the world was as shiny as polished gold and prided himself on understanding how Westeros truly worked. It was only now, after a few weeks of being Iron Man, that he understood just how little he knew. He’d vastly underestimated just how horrible the Seven Kingdoms were and how corrupt so many aspects of it were. When he’d begun his ‘patrols’, as he called them, he had thought that he might stop a bandit or two but, for the most part, his days would be filled with aimless flying. Reality found him barely able to fly for 30 minutes before he stumbled upon a band of raiders or a lone murderer with blood on his sword. Tony didn’t know what frightened him more: just how wrong he had been or the fear that he would become immune to such horrors.

But that day had not come and Tony wasn’t able to pass by such crimes. That’s why he was now descending, his gauntlets firing off twin beams of energy to keep him steady as he landed in front of the band of men that were currently working to hold down some rough looking woman. She had a face that looked like someone had dragged her across a pit of rocks and her limbs were too long for her frame but her attackers weren’t that picky from the looks of it. Three of them were holding the struggling woman, one on each leg and the third with his arms locked around her torso, while the fourth was working on getting his breeches off. Several yards off the rest of the party was either kicking the woman’s husband as he lay on the ground or working to try and light the couple’s ramshack home on fire. All of them seemed to find all of this rather hilarious as they were unable to do any of the three tasks without cackling.

That laughter died when Tony landed right in front of the one man that had finally managed to free his cock from his pants.

“If I were you I’d put that little thing back inside,” Tony said, rolling his shoulders.

“You!” one of the raiders shouted, dropping his torch on the hardpacked dirt.

“Me!” Tony said pleasantly. “Come on guys, you must have a better quip than that.”

“Just turn around and go fly off,” another of the men snapped. “This doesn’t concern you.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Okay, if you aren’t going to bother to actually think of something clever to say I’m not going to think of an excuse not to blast any of you.” He held up his hands, the Sunstones glowing as he prepared to fire. “How about you let go of the nice lady and help her husband up before you hurry off to whatever rock you idiots crawled out from under?”

The rapist in the group laughed, stepping out of his pants and walking forward, his dick wagging back and forth as he moved towards Tony. “You think we are the bad guys here? Frollo here decided he could go hunting on our master’s land. Killed a stag that didn’t belong to him.”

“Oh yes, because last I checked King Robert punished poachers by beating them, burning down their homes and raping their women.” Tony took a step forward, keeping his palms trained on the closest of the bandits. Only one of them had a bow on them and that was the one closest to him; an arrow wouldn’t scratch his armor but he wasn’t about to let them get in a cheap shot. “Want a suggestion? Stop talking. It will take longer for people to figure out you are a bunch of idiots. I mean, they’ll still figure it out-”

The pantless wonder made the first move, reaching for his bow only to get a chest full of Sunstone energy. It was a short shot that sent him flying back but didn’t actually break any of his ribs or rip the flesh from his torso (both Tony had done early on when he was still learning how to moderate his energy blast output; those had been some rather messy lessons but at least they’d happened to very cruel men who deserved it). The men that had been restraining the woman dropped her and rushed towards Tony, going for their dirks and blades.

“Guys,” Tony said as they began to stab at his armor, the clink-clang-clung of their weapons against his enhanced breastplate ringing in his ears. “Come on guys, just stop,” he said, his tone dripping with boredom as they continued to pound on him. “Seriously, you are going to hurt yourselves.” One of the men grabbed his head, wrenching it back so he could rake a sawtooth dagger across Tony’s throat. Unfortunately for the man Tony was wearing chainmail under his suit and he’d made sure to include enough of tiny Sunstones to leave the links nearly as strong as his plate armor. “Fine, fine, get it out of your systems,” Tony said dryly, “I’ll wait.” Tony tapped his foot as the men pounded on him with their swords, making him rock back and forth but not even leaving a scratch on his armor. The men that had not been engaging in the attempted rape were now standing off to the side, watching with blank expressions as their fellows tried to hack Tony apart, confused why he didn’t topple to the ground in agony. “Alright, this has been fun but, well-“

Tony lashed out, punching two of the men. He connected with the jaw of one, shattering it, while the other got off with just a broken left shoulder. Reaching around him he grasped the bandit that was trying to slit his throat and flipped him over his shoulder, slamming the man into the ground. He grinned to himself; Rhodey would have been damn impressed if he’d seen that. The other men, deciding to actually do something of importance, rushed Tony only to receive energy blasts for their troubles. One proved that he had more in his head than rocks and managed to dive out of the way. Tony leapt into the air, using his boots to propel him forward so he could deliver a gut shot that had the man reeling. Tony picked him up by the front of his shirt and wiggled him.

“Alright buddy, why don’t you just take a nap on the nice hard ground while I go alert some local knights that you’re around.” The man let out a weak laugh, a bit of blood bubbling out of his mouth while he did so. “Okay, wasn’t that funny of a joke…”

“You… you really are a fool… aren’t you?” the man saidwith a cough, a bit of blood splatter on Tony’s facemask. “Local knight? Who do you think commanded us to teach these peasants a lesson?”

Tony opened his mouth to say something but the sound of a snorting horse made him pause. He slowly turned and he was very thankful he wore a full faceplate as the last thing he needed was to let the horse’s rider see just how pale he’d gone. He let go of the bandit, letting him crumple to the ground as Tony stared at the new arrival.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Ser Gregor Clegane growled as he got off the massive warhorse, the two squires that had ridden in with him hurrying off their ponies and grabbing the reins. While he was wearing leather armor he might as well have been wearing full plate. He towered over Tony, nearly as wide as he was tall, with a dark face capped with black hair and a short yet full beard. Ser Gregor eyed him carefully, his sour face scrunching up as he glared at Tony. “You’re that little knight everyone is talking about… the Iron Man.”

“And you must be the Mountain that Rides,” Tony said, flexing his fingers. “No offense but my name is better.”

“You’re interfering with my business, little knight,” Ser Gregor said sternly.

“This is the part where you tell me to leave now or die, right?” Tony asked.

“No,” Ser Gregor said, his squires hurrying over with his broadsword. “Run or stay, you’ll die either way!” He drew the massive blade that was nearly as long as Tony was tall, and broke into a fast trot. For any other man it would have been slow and given Tony plenty of time to move but the Mountain’s strides were so great that he reached Tony within seconds, swinging his blade at Tony’s neck. He managed to duck but Ser Gregor lashed out, grabbing Tony by the throat and hefting him up. “I’ll crumple you in that armor!”

“No thanks!” Tony gasped, activating his boots. Ser Gregor grunted, losing his grip more out of surprise than anything and Tony took to the air, hovering a few yard above Ser Gregor. “Okay, so he poached off your land. I get it… why not handle it like a normal knight instead of sending out this rabble? Do you really need to have them rape and kill for something so small?”

“They are mine to do as I wish!” Ser Gregor roared. “AXE!” one squire rushed forward with a heavy battleaxe that, in the Mountain’s hands, looked like a child’s toy. He sent the weapon flying and Tony was forced to dart out of the way. “All are mine to do with as I wish! To rape! To kill! To break!” Gregor tossed down his sword and took up two axes, throwing first one then the other. Tony managed to twist in the air, avoiding each projectile. “Come down, little knight! I’ll rip that pretty armor from your bones!”

“Yeah, how about no?” Tony said, firing off an energy blast at a fourth axe Gregor hurled his way, reducing it to scrap. “Alright, big guy… my turn.” Tony went into a dive, his fists held out in front of him. Gregor braced himself, preparing for impact, but at the last moment Tony rose up, just out of Gregor’s reach, and spun around, sending two blasts right into the massive knight’s back. Gregor toppled forward but managed to keep himself from falling flat on his face. His one squire wasn’t so lucky; Gregor’s flailing left arm caught him on the head and nearly decapitated him.

Gregor let out a blast of air from his nostrils, his eyes narrowing when he spotted the farmer and his wife hobbling away from their farm as quickly as they could with their injuries. The massive knight took a step forward to pursue only to get several more blasts of energy for his trouble.

“Come on, big guy, you can’t be tired of me just yet,” Tony quipped, circling Gregor and firing a few low-powered shots at the Mountain. He’d already torn off a few chunks of leather from Clegane but the Mountain didn’t show any signs of injury. Tony was more than a little disturbed that he hadn’t been able to get the knight down; everyone he’d fought in the past went down with only a hit or two but Gregor refused to play nice. He’d already fired his strongest blasts at Gregor… or the strongest he dared. During his testing of the Sunstones he’d found they could produce a great amount of energy but the stronger the blast the more risk there was. He’d nearly broken his hand the last time he tried to test the limits of the Sunstones.

All he cared about now was keeping Ser Gregor distracted enough to buy the farmer and his wife time to escape.

The Mountain let out a bellow of frustration and reached down and grabbed not his axe or sword but his dead squire, hurling the limp body right at Tony. He was so startled by the makeshift projectile that he caught it rather than dodge. That was all Gregor needed; the Mountain rushed forward and made a leaping grab, grasping Tony’s ankle in his meaty hands before allowing gravity to do its work. Tony let out a yelp as he was yanked out of the air, slamming into the ground with his legs dangling over Clegane’s body.

“Okay… okay… that hurt,” Tony moaned, rolling onto his belly. “Now I remember why I don’t do manual labor-” The next thing he knew Gregor was on top of him, the massive knight’s fists pounding into his back. Tony could feel the great weight pressing down on him and his eyes widened in horror as the sound of his armor groaning under the assault filled his ears. The Mountain hammered his bare fists into the armor, roaring as he did so, keeping all of his bulk firmly on Tony’s back.

Letting out a cry of pain Tony forced himself to press down on the activators in his boots, firing the Sunstones. For a moment nothing happened and Tony felt tendrils of fear grip his heart. Then, without warning, Gregor shifted slightly and Tony rocketed out from under him, the Mountain topping onto his back. Tony forced his palms against the ground and fired, pushing himself up into the air. He panted, rising a good 30 feet into the air. Gregor got back onto his feet and bellowed like an enraged grizzly, his remaining squire hurrying over with more axes. Gregor let one fly only for it to fall well short of Tony, who was catching his breath and checking over his armor. He wasn’t able to feel just how much damage the Mountain had done to his backplate but he knew that he couldn’t get too close and let Clegane get another shot in at him.

“Let’s not do that again, alright big guy?” Tony said, more to himself than Clegane. “Don’t make me come down there and bruise your knuckles while you punch a hole in me.” Throwing out his arms he began to fire off a series of rapid-fired blasts at and around Gregor, forcing the squire to leap away and sending Clegane stumbling back as he tried to shield himself. “Go to sleep, go to sleep, go to sleep,” Tony repeated over and over and he continue to blast Gregor with the volley of low power strikes.

Finally Tony held out his left hand, firing off 3 more rapid low-power shots before sending out a strong blast from his right hand. That managed to send Clegane once more to his ass and Tony rushed in to take advantage. He came to a stop directly above the Mountain and fired straight down, twin beams of energy hitting the knight and driving him hard into the packed earth. The Mountain shifted, dazed but not out, and Tony decided that it was time to cut his losses.

“I could say something really clever hear but it would be wasted on you so… farewell.” He rocketed into the air, the curses of Ser Gregor filling his ears as he made his escape. “Okay, note to self… never doing that again.” He dipped a little when the boot Gregor had grabbed sputtered before he managed to get the Sunstone firing again. “Second note… do not tell Pepper.”

Chapter Text

Ned

He knew the moment he saw Robert sitting with the rest of the Small Council that something was wrong.

When the king had come to Winterfell to ask him to become the new Hand of the King Robert had told him that they were ‘meant to rule together’. Ned had quickly learned upon arriving in King’s Landing that to Robert ‘rule together’ meant Ned did all the work and dealt with all the snakes and vipers in the Red Keep while Robert drank, whored, and eat; if he was feeling adventurous he might eat and drink while he whored. Of course, Ned had come to be grateful for the king’s lack of interest, as when Robert decided to come up with an idea it tended to only cause problems. The Hand’s Tournament had been the first example of this and Ned was still sore over that whole debacle. The crown sunk further into debt, one of the realm’s knights killed his own horse in a rage, Jon Aryn’s former squire killed, and that wasn’t taking into account Robert’s delusion that he could fight in the melee. That was just at the tournament; Janos Slynt had reported that the Gold Cloaks had learned of 25 rapes, 8 murders, 45 robberies, and three sellswords racing large hogs through the Mud Gate.

So when Ned walked into the Small Council Chamber and saw Robert sitting with Varys, Petyr Baelish, the king’s youngest brother Renly, Grand Maester Pycelle, and Ser Barristan Selmy, he instantly feared what fresh hell Robert had decided to drop on him this time. A small, dark part of Ned’s mind told him to simply turn around and go back to the Tower of the Hand… or back to Winterfell. Or maybe even beyond the Wall.

Instead Ned swallowed his annoyance and fear and made his way to his chair. “Gentlemen, your Grace, I apologize for being-“

“Seven Hells, Ned, shut it. I get enough scrapping and bowing from everyone else. And the last thing these ones need is more lips on their pimpled asses.”

“Oh, but we have such wonderful asses to kiss, brother,” Renly joked.

Baelish chuckled. “Of course, if we allow the Lord Hand to do that we’ll have to pay him quite a few coins… if we use the same rates as in my brothel…”

“Such talk is not befitting the nobility of this chamber,” Pycelle said, his heavy chain clinking together as he leaned back in his chair. “Especially when we have more important matters to discuss.”

“Of course, Grand Maester,” Baelish said, his almost always present smirk growing a bit bigger as he tugged on his beard. “Far be it for me to disgrace this noble chamber.”

Ned refused to look towards Baelish’s way, focusing instead his attention on Robert. “What is it that brings you to our meeting, your Grace?”

Robert grabbed a cup of wine and drained it before he spoke, ruby beads rolling down his jowls. “Iron Man.”

Ned felt as if he suddenly had one of Aegon’s dragons pressing down on his shoulders. Of all the problems that could have been presented to him the last one he wanted to deal with was the Iron Man. He shut his eyes and brought one of his hands to his brow, trying to massage away the headache he could feel coming. Iron Man had been causing him problems for weeks now even if the rogue knight hadn’t physically done anything to Ned. Arya had accepted her punishment for yelling at him and Sansa but would only respond with a few words when pressed. Sansa, for her part, was aghast that Ned wasn’t ready to offer the Iron Man a knighthood for his heroic deeds.

It wasn’t just his daughters that were enamored with the crimson and gold warrior. During his trips outside of the Red Keep he’d found himself unable to go 10 minutes without hearing some bard singing a ballad about the mystical knight. Merchants sold wooden soldiers painted to look like Iron Man and engravers were hurrying to create carvings of the knight’s facemask for those that wished to hang one upon their wall. It didn’t matter that no one could honestly decide what Iron Man looked like; the public just ate it all up.

And that was what worried Ned.

He had told Arya and Sansa that he didn’t like Iron Man because he was taking the law in his hand and that was true. Just as one of his knights could not carry out his duties so too should the Iron Man stop acting on his own whims. But what frightened Ned more was the fact that the common folk all throughout Westeros were holding him up as their new champion. They saw him attacking the wicked and the corrupt and cheered him for it. Ned feared what would happen when someone else decided to emulate Iron Man and begin attacking the rich and powerful. They would get themselves killed or worse succeed and spark a war between the lords and their subjects… and that would only lead to pain and death. Westeros had barely survived Robert’s War and the Greyjoy Rebellion had nearly sparked another one. The horrors Ned had witnessed in the last 20 so odd years had left him with no stomach for another one. He looked at Arya and feared the day she would decide to act like the Iron Man and begin stabbing lords and ladies in the street for any perceived crime. He glanced at Sansa and feared that she would associate such acts with fairytale nobility.

That was why he could not publically support Iron Man, despite how much he might agree with the man’s acts. Yes, what he was doing was important and, perhaps, noble, and justice had to be served. But Ned feared what others would do, how they would use the example of Iron Man to engage in violence and anarchy.

“What has happened?”

Pycelle pulled out a small scroll. “We received a raven this morning from Lord Twyin Lannister.”

“Don’t tell me Iron Man decided to attack the old Lion!” Renly said. He was trying to sound shocked by was failing to hide the amusement from his voice.

“No, nothing like that, though perhaps just as grievous,” Pycelle said reading over the scroll even though they all knew he had examined the message several times already before altering the king to it. “According to Lord Tywin the warrior known as ‘Iron Man’ attacked Ser Gregor 4 days past.”

“Oh my,” Varys said, pressing a hand to his mouth. When he’d first gotten to King’s Landing Ned had fallen for such acts but time and experience, even the tiny bit he had, taught him of all the acts and roles those around him took. Varys pretended to be like Sansa but he knew now that the eunuch was more cunning and knowledgeable than he let on… and more vicious. Ned was quite sure that Varys knew all about what had happened before even Lord Tywin received word. “To take on such a foe… Iron Man must be quite brave.”

“Bravery is not the word I would use,” Baelish said, leaning back in his chair. “Does Lord Tywin wish for us to send some servants to clean up the mess the Mountain left of Iron Man?”

“You think the crimson and gold knight was defeated so easily?” Renly asked. “I hear he commands magic… who knows what he can do.”

“I just know that when an iron sword strikes a Mountain it isn’t the rock that breaks.”

“In this case it was the Mountain that fell,” Robert said sternly.

“Iron Man BEAT the Mountain?” Ned said in surprise. He remembered well the massive knight from the tournament. The image of Ser Gregor beheading his own horse with a single swipe of his sword sometimes haunted his dreams; there were many things he was thankful for when it came to Robert’s Rebellion but the fact he hadn’t faced Ser Gregor was near the top of the list. Only the Hound seemed able to stand a chance against him and even then Ned didn’t believe that Sandor could actually defeat his brother. Iron Man, however, had.

“Not that Ser Gregor was willing to admit it, I’d wager,” Baelish said. “I’d hate to be the one that informed Tywin Lannister about it, as I imagine Ser Gregor will not be kind when he finds out that word of his failure has spread.”

“Be that as it may, Lord Tywin is demanding the crown do something about this,” Pycelle said, his slow, rattling voice lingering on every word, measuring each syllable before speaking it. “He does not take kindly to the fact that one of his knights was a target of the Iron Man.”

Robert slammed his fist against the table. “This will not do! Iron Man can’t just go attacking anyone he wants! The King’s law must be followed!”

‘You didn’t mind when he was attacking Lords other than Tywin Lannister,’ Ned thought darkly to himself. He didn’t dare speak the words aloud, knowing that it would only cause him problems with Robert. The King would not take kindly to such an insult, seeing it as an affront to his power… no matter how true it was. Ned had sadly come to realize that much like the Mad King before him Robert’s ego would not let him acknowledge the power Tywin Lannister wielded in Westeros. Instead Ned merely leaned back in his chair and asked, “Do we know why Iron Man attacked Ser Gregor?”

“Does it matter why?” Pycelle asked. “He attacked a knight of the realm.”

“He has attacked a lord already and we did not demand his arrest,” Ned countered.

“Lord Eddard is right,” Renly said, for once not flashing a teasing smile at the others. “Iron Man has not attacked anyone without good reason. Several times now he has done the crown a favor by cutting through the political knots we’d have been forced to untangle should we have tried to act. He must have had a reason to attack the Mountain… we all know Ser Gregor is not the most forgiving of men and not known for his gentle ways.”

“I would say that Ser Loras would agree with you,” Baelish stated.

Pycelle let out a ‘hurumpf’. “Lord Tywin’s message does not give a reason, nor should it matter. It is in our best interest to do something about this.”

“In the crowns or Lord Tywin’s?” Renly asked.

“Have you heard anything, Lord Varys?” Ned asked, knowing the eunuch had.

“Oh, only whispers, my friends.” Varys folded his soft hands in front of him, his baby-like face utterly calm as he spoke. “My little birds tell me that as he was returning from your tournament, Lord Stark, Ser Gregor learned that a local farmer had poached on his land. I can’t say what animal it was but Ser Gregor did not take kindly to such an act and decided to punish the man.”

“As is his right,” Baelish said, “though I wager his form of punishment doesn’t quite meet what most men would consider as ‘fair’.”

Varys nodded his head. “A very astute guess, Lord Baelish. Oh, but I can’t discuss it… the details are too vile and even now I shudder to think of them.” Ned watched as Varys tutted and tittered and he wondered if anyone in the room actually believed the farce Varys was putting on. Of course, the Spider had been playing his role for so long that the act was expected and it would have shocked them all had he not behaved as such.

“And this drew the attention of Iron Man?” Ser Barristan asked, a frown marring his features. Ned had heard that after the Sacking of King’s Landing Selmy had demanded to be sent to the Wall if Ser Gregor were allowed on the Kingsguard, as had been suggested by some; luckily for all the Mountain was not one for white cloaks and the suggestion never went far. “How did he fair against Clegane?”

“Rather well, I am told,” Varys said. “It is all heresy and rumor, of course, as only Ser Gregor, his surviving squire, and Iron Man truly know the tale and none are speaking, but my little birds tell me that our crimson avenger managed to fell the Mountain before escaping.”

“Fell but not kill,” Baelish said.

“Still, to bring the Mountain to his knees is a feat,” Renly commented. “That is a sight I wish I could have seen.”

Ned was also impressed but knew he couldn’t show it. He’d found that within the Small Council his role was to act as a tempering agent among Renly, Baelish, and to a lesser extent Varys and Pycelle. The two formers were liable to joke and jest the entire time while the latter pair enjoyed their sound of their own voices and would prattle on if not prodded. It was tiresome and at times, late at night, he wondered if Jon Arryn had died purely to escape the madness. Whatever the gods, the old or the new, had in store for them after this life couldn’t be worse than Small Council meetings.

“So Iron Man attacked Ser Gregor when he spotted him brutalizing peasants,” Ned said.

“I must preach caution,” Pycelle warned. “We do not know what Ser Gregor did. It would be folly to besmirch such a man.”

“And unsafe,” Petyr said. “I rather like my head where it is.”

“You’re the only one,” Renly quipped.

“And you would know of head, wouldn’t you?” Baelish muttered just low enough for Ned to hear.

Robert let out a burp, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Seven Hells, it doesn’t matter what Ser Gregor was doing, we can’t have Iron Man running about-“

“Flying, brother, flying,” Renly reminded him.

“-doing as he pleases!”

Ned could not hide his disappointment. ‘The Robert I knew would wish to grab his war hammer and seek out Iron Man to pledge himself to him. He’d wish to join him and together travel the Seven Kingdoms, fighting against the strongest opponents possible shoulder-to-shoulder.’ Ned thought back to Robert back at the tournament, his massive gut sticking out as he tried to put on his armor to battle in the melee. Even then he had been willing to fight… and yet now he appeared cowed by the commands of Tywin Lannister. ‘The Lannisters may not need to kill you… for your soul my already be withered away.’

“Oh, I don’t know,” Baelish was saying when Ned snapped out of his dark broodings, “it seems that Iron Man has provided some much needed entertainment for all of us… and serves us better doing what he does.”

Pycelle shook his head and turned his attention towards the king. “Your Grace, ignoring the fact that it would be unwise to allow this action to go unanswered-“ The words ‘and ignore Lord Tywin’s command’ were never said but Ned could hear them all the same, “-Iron Man has already proven a danger to the realm. The small folk sing his praises and turn their attention away from yourself and the gods and towards him.”

“First, Grand Maester, I would suggest not saying my brother’s name and the gods in the same breath… Robert already has quite a swelled head.” The king grumbled at Renly’s jest but there was a glimmer in his eye that made it clear he wasn’t that mad. “Second, I feel Lord Baelish is right. What does it matter if the peasants care for Iron Man? Tomorrow they will be singing songs of the Knight of the Flowers or Jaime Lannister or whatever new hero they suddenly take a fancy too. They are such fickle people and quick to turn towards new topics. Just the other day I heard tale of a woman as tall as the Hound who wishes to be a knight… perhaps she will be the small folks’ new champion.”

“And it does well to have the people distracted,” Baelish added. “Do you know what happens when the people don’t have something to focus on? They think.” He tapped his temple. “Think about what they don’t have, what others do have, their station in life and how it isn’t good enough… and soon those thoughts turn to ‘what can I do to get more?’ Iron Man and others of his ilk keep the small folk happily engaged in harmless dreaming while allowing us to continue to rule.”

“And you would know of dreaming of bigger things, wouldn’t you Lord Baleish,” Varys said with a gentle smile.

“But things have changed,” Pycelle said, his long beard swaying as he shook his head. “Save for Lord Oaker Iron Man has only attacked bandits, thieves, and the occasional rapist. That was well and fine but to attack a knight of the realm who was dealing with a criminal-“

“I would hardly lump a poacher in with a rapist,” Renly said.

“We’ve made this problem ourselves,” Robert said with a huff. “We’ve let Iron Man do whatever he wants for too long and now he has decided to press his luck. Well, we can’t have that!” Robert slammed his hand against the table. “Does Iron Man wear the crown? Does he sit on the Iron Throne? Did he break that bastard Rhaegar at the Trident? NO! That was me, damn it! I am the king and no one does anything in this kingdom without my say!”

‘Do you honestly believe that, Robert, or are you shouting it in hopes of convincing the rest of us?’ Ned thought sadly. Rather than say that he said, “How do you propose we bring Iron Man to justice, your grace?”

“Lord Stark once more has a point,” Selmy said. “Iron Man defeated the Mountain… there will be few that wish to cross swords with him once word spreads of that feat.”

“And before that he was not exactly a hedge knight,” Baelish said. “He is a flying knight with a command of magic. How would you suggest we capture a man like that, your Grace? Ask him nicely not to curse your knights when they show up with chains?”

“There must be something we can do,” Pycelle said. “Perhaps lay a trap?”

“What kind?” Selmy said, throwing up his hands in defeat. “I dare say we’d need to have Slynt empty all the gold cloaks out of the city and commit to your trap… assuming you could devise one that Iron Man couldn’t escape.”

“You make it sound like the man is a dragon,” Renly said.

“Well, there are some claiming he is a dragon in mortal form…” Baelish said, tugging on his beard.

“The answer, gentlemen, is quite simple,” Varys said. “It is clear that Iron Man has enchanted his armor somehow.”

Ned frowned. “If the answer is simple then say it, Lord Varys.”

“If the armor makes him impossible to defeat then we must find him when he is not in his armor.”

“I suppose even Jaime Lannister must remove his steel to take a golden piss,” Baelish said. “The same must be true of Iron Man. We locate where he hangs his codpiece and we can capture him.” In a lower voice he added, “And claim the armor for ourselves.”

“So we’ve traded one impossible goal for another,” Renly commented. “No one can figure out where Iron Man comes from.”

Ned looked down, jaw working as he considered that problem. He had been studying the reports of Iron Man’s attacks and rescues and found that there seemed to be no true pattern. He’d first been spotted in the Reach, but had quickly moved through the West as well as the Riverland, the upper parts of the South, and even one report from the Stormlands. To make things more difficult there were plenty of stories and rumors floating around of battles attributed to the Iron Man that no one could verify. Jory had said he’d heard in a local tavern that Iron Man had been spotted north of the Wall, battling with giants and mammoths. Sansa had told him just that morning of how her friend Jenye Poole had heard whispers that Iron Man had been seen flying over King’s Landing. Ned didn’t believe either of those stories but couldn’t dismiss all of them out of hand. With most rogues it was easy to have a general idea where they were camped out but when a man could fly it made it impossible to guess.

“Perhaps… perhaps not,” Varys said, the tiniest of smiles forming on his lips. “The last few reports that have come to me all mention something of interest. So many are so focused on his skills that few actually look at Iron Man and what he wears.”

“We know what he wears,” Robert grumbled. “That red and gold armor of his.”

“Yes, that he does.” Varys tittered. “Interesting how he wears the colors of the Lannisters, is it not?”

“You think Lord Tywin controls the Iron Man?” Ned asked. He knew Tywin Lannister was cunning but to sic one of his now knights against another?

“Oh, no no no. I doubt that very much. It is possible it is a knight under Lord Tywin’s power… or it could be a rival house wishing to make others believe Iron Man is a member of the Lannisters’ forces. But that isn’t what I meant. You see, while so many are focused on what he does they don’t notice the little details… like the glowing stone upon Iron Man’s breastplate. It shines with a pure white light, gleaming like a small sun.” He turned towards Robert and smiled his peaceful smile. “Did you not mention that Lord Antony Stark had discovered such a stone… a… Sunstone, was it?”

Robert frowned, considering this. “Yes, he did. They glow bright and let off light…”

“You are suggesting that Antony Stark is Iron Man?” Pycelle asked.

Ned stared at Robert for a moment, the king catching his eye before the two of them burst into laughter. The rest of the Small Council stared at him and the king in shock, utterly disturbed to see him, the grim and brooding Lord of Winterfell, cackling like a drunkard too far in his cups. Ned couldn’t help it though and just glancing at Robert caused the laughter to keep bubbling up from within him, ruining any self control he might have managed to gain. Ned leaned back in his chair, covering his mouth with one of his rough hands, yet couldn’t keep the mirth from shining through his eyes. Robert’s entire form jiggled with every peal of laughter. When the king began to settle he reached for his cup of wine, only to look at Ned and lose it all over again, spraying Renly with a mist of wine. Normally his brother would have protested but the sight of Ned and the king guffing so loudly and openly had caused the king’s youngest brother to lose all ability to speak.

Finally, after several long minutes, Ned managed to some semblance of control. He panted and Ser Barristan handed him a cup of chilled water, which Ned gratefully drank down. “I apologize, good lords, it’s just the thought that my cousin could be Iron Man is…” Ned glanced at Robert and forced himself not to look at his old friend, knowing it would only set him off again. “My cousin is a drunk and until he married Lady Stark a known womanizer. He cares only for jests and collecting gold dragons to fuel his expensive tastes. He is wasteful and vain and cares not what others think of him. Unless Iron Man is charging for his services I doubt very much my cousin is within the armor.”

“Or perhaps you believe the Imp is Iron Man?” Robert cackled.

“I agree with the Hand,” Pycelle said even as Robert snorted, “though I disagree with his poor assessment of Lord Antony. The Master of Iron Pointe has been a friend of the crown and the Rock since he took up residence. There is simply no reason for him to betray the crown as Iron Man has.”

“When you put it like that it does sound rather ludicrous,” Renly said.

Selmy nodded. “Stark knows how to make weapons but he has no clue how the wield them. I spoke once with the captain of his guard, Ser James Rhodes, and he told me a few stories of his liege lord’s less than stellar ability with a blade. Iron Man is a seasoned warrior from all reports.”

Baelish looked at Varys and smirked. “It seems it is time for you to find new little birds for your web, as their tweets are no longer what they once were.”

“You wound me, Lord Baelish,” Varys said, pressing a hand to his heart. “My birds are never wrong. And I did not say that Lord Antony was Iron Man… merely that his Sunstones were found in the armor… armor that appears to be made of the colored iron that Lord Stark specializes in.”

Ned nodded. “Tony is not Iron Man but I could see him tricked into making the armor, not realizing what it would be used for. His desire to create would lead him not the ask questions.”

“Why not admit to it, though?” Renly asked.

“Fear?” Pycelle said. “Wounded pride? A man like Antony Stark might feel shame that he had been played as he has been, especially for the damage done to his liege lord.”

“All the more reason he should be brought to King’s Landing for questioning,” Renly said, warming to the idea. “He could provide the information we need to discover the identity of Iron Man… and at worst he could liven things up for a few days.”

Robert nodded. “A smart idea. Grand Maester, send a raven to Iron Pointe at once. Inform Lord Antony his king demands an audience at once.” Robert pushed away from the table. “Gentlemen, if there is nothing else your king would like to take care of some other matters.”

The rest of the Small Council nodded in agreement; they had plenty of other subjects to discuss but knew not to mention this to the king. The group began to break up and Ned soon found himself walking back towards his Tower with Varys nipping at his heels.

“My Lord Hand, a word,” Varys said softly.

Ned nodded and motioned for him to join him in an empty room. While he did not trust the eunuch he had learned to listen to him. While others would lie to him Varys, at the very least, always told the truth… just how much of the truth was always the question. He had followed Varys advice and continued to treat him with contempt in public, but at this moment, where they were alone, Ned allowed himself to drop his guard just a bit.

“What is it, Lord Varys?”

“I fear you are allowing your preconceived notions of your cousin cloud your judgment,” Varys said in a whisper. “While in the past Lord Antony was as you described recent events have seen a change in him.”

“What do you mean?” Ned asked. Normally he would have bristled at such a comment revelations as of late had forced him to reevaluate his opinions. He had thought Jon Arryn a sensible man and yet he had allowed Robert to drive the crown into debt. He remember Robert as a strong, powerful warrior yet now saw him as a fat old king more concerned with what he’d stick his cock into next. He’d believed he understood his lady wife yet Tony’s words had caused Ned to wonder if he’d been blind to Caitlyn’s treatment of Jon. He’d walked the world seeing it through the prism of the past and failed to see it as it truly was.

Varys folded his hands into the sleeves of his robe before speaking. “Several months back I heard murmurs of a threat against Lord Antony. Someone in this city… possibly in this very castle… wanted to see him dead. I know at least half of the small council hold no love for him. I do not know what your cousin did, though when a man speaks and acts as your cousin does it is easy to make enemies. What I do know is that this new enemy hired known bandits to attack Lord Antony with the goal of torturing and killing him.” Varys paused, looking about the room before continuing. “The bandits were the same ones that Lord Oaker sold his daughter too. A curious coincidence, is it not?”

Ned frowned. “I had not heard of my cousin being attacked.”

“Neither have I, so perhaps the plot never went far… but I should say that the bandits mysteriously disappeared only weeks before your cousin returned to Iron Pointe. So strange that ones known for terrorizing these lands should so quickly disappear into the mists.”

The Hand of the King considered Varys words. He didn’t doubt what Varys said but it was still hard to wrap his mind around the thought that his foolish cousin could be Iron Man. And yet what had brought on ruckus laughter moments early now had him deep in thought. Tony always flaunted the rules and believed himself above them… would it not make sense for him to go a step further and act as the Iron Man?

“The question is… what do we do with this information?” Varys asked. “Yes, Iron Man is acting without approval of the king. But can we truly say that the likes of Ser Gregor did not deserve what Iron Man gave them? He is a hero of the people and has done more good for the small folk than most knights mght hope to achieve in a lifetime.”

“He is breaking the law of the land,” Ned said.

“Of course, of course,” Varys said, tutting a bit. “Though one would argue that you and Robert did the same thing when you went to war against your king.” With a shrug Varys wandered off, leaving Ned alone with his thoughts.

Chapter Text

Tony

“Anyone else here?” Tony called out as he entered his workshop via the secret tunnel. “Not that I don’t mind your company, Jon, just curious.” He rose up, his hands at his sides as he hovered in the air, the Sunstones firing at a light burn to keep him afloat.

“Just me,” Jon stated, putting down a sword he’d been looking over. It was a beautiful blade, designed with a short sapphire blade and featured a grip with strong yet supple leather. The very end had been crafted to resemble the tail of a fish.

“Like that? Designed it for Ser Kevan as thanks for some design work he did for a shield I had to do for some lord in the Riverlands, forget his name. Figured since Kevan’s sigil is a capricorn he’d know fish better than me and you know how those Riverrunners love their trout and salmon. I can’t tell them apart, all I know is I like them cooked well… or raw. You ever had raw fish? Rhodey introduced it to me; you’d think it would be horrible, like raw beef, but what they do to those little bits across the Narrow Sea… sorry, I’m rambling. I ramble. Lord Whatever-his-name-was liked what I came up with so I decided to make something nice for Kevan as a thank you. He likes his long staffs and axes but thought he could do with a sword.” Tony landed next to a stone bench and took a seat, reaching over to pat Ghost. The direwolf had gotten used to him being in his armor and allowed Tony to pet him… though only when he was in the mood. “I could make you one, if you want. I have a few ideas.”

“It’s fine,” Jon said quickly, putting the sword back where he’d found it. “Just admiring it.”

“Nonsense, let me make you one. Least I could do for all the help you’ve given me these last few weeks. I’m thinking all white, with a pommel that looks like Ghost here. Get some rubies for the eyes, use some of that white iron I’ve got plenty off… not a lot of people like white metal for some reason. They all want it to be red or black. Suppose to be scary, I guess. I tried to get the Kingsguard to buy it up but they are traditionalists… plus I think Jamie Lannister talked them out of it. Doesn’t like it that I get between him and his brother at times. Bad influence, as if that were possible with Tyrion.”

“I don’t need anything, Tony,” Jon said; he’d finally managed to get use to calling the man by his nickname. He moved to stand beside his guardian, working on removing the helmet. Tony let out a gasp as his head was free, his hair slick with sweat and stuck in odd clumps to his forehead. “I don’t mind helping.”

“Well, you’re the only one,” Tony said with a smirk as he held out his hand, Jon tugging off the gauntlet and placed it in the chest Tony had designated for holding his Iron Man armor. “You’ve been a big help, Jon. You know that right?”

“Yes Tony,” Jon said simply.

Tony, however, wouldn’t let the conversation end there. “I mean it. I mean, yeah, I’m doing the hard work, what with flying around and fighting criminals and scaring corrupt lords and risking my life day in and day out but… uh… I lost my point.”

“I’ve been a big help,” Jon stated, removing the second gauntlet. He looked it over, frowning. “Crack in the ring finger.” He paused, looking up at Tony the same way Maester Ludwin used to look at him when he tracked mud on the floors. “Blood in said crack too.”

Tony rubbed the back of his head. “Yeah… a hedge knight that liked to rape girls decided he wanted to fight against me. I thought about doing something amazing but then just decided to punch him over and over until noise stopped coming out of his pudgy face. Put it on the work bench. Do the same thing for the breastplate; silly thing almost popped off of me when a sellsword caught me in the side with his axe.”

“Was that before or after the rapist?” Jon asked.

“Before… or after. Did you realize just how many rapists are between here and the Trident? I mean, just… I knew there were rapists in the Seven Kingdoms but it was like I couldn’t fly for 3 minutes without having to save some milk maid.” Tony paused, considering things. “Make a note of that, Jon.”

“About the rapists?”

“Uh, no. The breastplate falling off. Or almost falling off. Can’t have that happen again or almost happen again. I’ll get something worked up for this set but when I do the full upgrade I’ll have to dig in deeper.” Jon nodded, walking over to grab a quill and a piece of parchment while Tony reached over and poured himself a glass of summerwine. “Do you know why you’re so important to all this, Jon?”

“Because you’d be stuck in that armor if it weren’t for me?” Jon asked.

Tony lifted his glass up, a grin on his face. It had taken a few months but Jon was finally feeling comfortable enough to actually jest with him. He still was too moody and dour for Tony’s taste but he was getting better. Jon had a drier sense of humor, one that saw him saying things that could just as easily sound like a casual fact as a joke. Tony liked that, it should a clever wit that was hidden under all the brooding sludge Ned Stark and his family had burdened the boy with. It pleased Tony and made him depressed. Pleased that he was able to bring Jon out of his shell and depressed to think of the interesting man Jon might have been if he’d never met Catlyn Stark.

Jon wasn’t wrong though. He had been the only one willing to help Tony out with what Pepper called his ‘mad scheme’; that had been the politest term she’d used. When he’d returned after dealing with Lord Oaker his lovely wife had been waiting and, in her kind, gentle way… screamed at him for a good three hours about how stupid he was being. Tony, after making a note to ask her when she’d learned Dohraki curse words, had deflected and countered her complaints until Pepper had finally left in a huff. She’d given him the silent treatment for the rest of that week until finally she’d come to him and said in an overly sweet voice that she wouldn’t stop him from his ‘mission’… but she wasn’t going to help him either.

Rhodey had been no better. His best friend had merely said that Tony wasn’t a fighter and he’d be better off getting someone else to don the armor. Tony had suggested Rhodes take the suit for a spin but Rhodey had quickly waved him off, claiming red and gold weren’t his colors. Tony was pretty sure Pepper had bribed him to not get involved.

That left Jon, who had begun to help his…

“What am I to you, anyway?” Tony suddenly asked.

“Pardon?”

“What are we?” Tony asked, gesturing at Jon and then himself. “I mean, your father and I are cousins so does that make us cousins? That doesn’t sound right. Uncle maybe? Uncle Tony? It has a nice ring to it but not exactly factual, is it? Of course, I’ve never been one for facts… well, I am, but only the ones I like. Do you have a pick?”

“Not really,” Jon admitted as he slid the breastplate off Tony, the older man retrieving his wine cup and taking another long sip. “Technically you are my lord and guardian.”

“Lord Guardian Stark… a bit of a mouthful, huh. Think I prefer the wine rather than that on my tongue. Let’s table that thought for a moment.”

That left Jon to help Tony out of his armor, assist in making repairs, and take notes whenever Tony had a sudden brainstorm. Already the two of them had made 9 different alternations and improvements to the armor; everything from widening the eyeslits to altering the boots so his landings were easier to creating a hidden crossbow in the left gauntlet. It had allowed the two to bond and Tony found himself very much enjoying Jon’s company and having a chance to actually teach someone how to work and craft armor and weapons. He’d never taken an apprentice before and Tony was thrilled that the boy was finding a way to fit into his life at Iron Pointe.

“You know when to talk and when to be quiet,” Tony said.

“I’m sorry?” Jon said in confusion as he put the breastplate on the worktable.

Tony reached down and began to remove his boots. “You know when to speak up and engage me and when to let me think. That’s why you are so important. Too many people are either too quiet and never speak up or feel the need to fill silence with inane chatter that clouds the mind and pushing the important thoughts away. You have a great knack of knowing just when to engage and when to let me puzzle things out. Makes you the perfect sounding board and assistant.”

“Thank you… I think,” Jon said. Tony pulled off the chainmail and tossed it into the chest. Jon’s nose wrinkled and Tony took a moment to sniff the armpit of the sweat-stained undergarment he was wearing.

“Gods, I smell like Kings Landing.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Pray to the old gods, the new gods, and the slightly used gods you never do,” Tony quipped. “You know why so many southerners douse themselves in perfume? Warm summers plus crowded cities equals a stink that would make even Walder Frey gag. Kings Landing is the worst; why do you think the Queen is always walking around with her sniffer held up? Gotten so use to avoiding the stench that it’s her permanent position. Well… that and she’s a bitch.” Tony pulled off the loose silk shirt he’d worn under the armor, staring at the dripping wet garment in distaste. “Don’t think I’ll be able to salvage this one.”

“I believe not,” Jon said with a slight smile as he took out a hammer and began to run his hands over the breastplate. Tony shrugged and tossed the shirt into the hearth, the flames rearing up the moment it hit the logs. “We’ll need to remove the Sunstone to make these repairs; it’s too dented for you to wear again.”

“Right,” Tony said, grabbing a small prybar. “Have to be careful then. Don’t want to blow ourselves up.”

“Tony, can I ask you something?” Jon said as he steadied the metal.

“Think you just did… nah, I’m not going to make that joke, even though I kinda did. Huh. Anyway, what is it?”

“Aren’t you concerned that people are going to figure out that you are Iron Man?”

“Not really,” Tony said as he popped the main Sunstone out of the breastplate. There were a few smaller ones on the inside to reinforcement the enchantment or whatever it was that caused the stones to strength the metal and he began work removing those as well. Tony was still miffed that Jarvis couldn’t figure out just why a Sunstone merely touching a piece of metal caused it to defy all common logic and silently promised to figure it out eventually. “I’ve put a lot of thought into this and made sure to set up enough diversions to keep me free and clear.”

“Like the fake armor?” Jon asked, gesturing towards mannequin that was wearing a replica of the Iron Man armor. It looked just like the main set Tony wore, save for a single difference: there was leather inlaid in all the armor’s Sunstone settings, ensuring the gems never came in contact with the gold and red iron. That meant that the armor was as heavy as any other suit a knight might wear. It was also missing the silver-laced mechanisms that allowed Tony to fire off the energy blasts and achieve flight. As a result the suit was nothing more than a fancy set of armor.

“Exactly,” Tony said with a smirk. Rhodey had complained that Tony was tempting fate having that suit out but the Lord of Iron Pointe had merely smiled and said he had his reasons for creating that pretty little piece. When Jon merely looked at him Tony placed his hand on his heart and struck a dramatic pose. “First of all, I simply can’t be Iron Man because I am too busy.”

“Too busy?” Jon asked in confusion. “With what? Drinking wine and annoying Pepper?”

Tony laughed. “And mocking Rhodey, don’t forget that. But no, not just that.” Tony walked over and picked up Ser Kevan’s sword. “See this?” He swished the blade a bit, Jon backing away in fear Tony would cut his head off by accident. He noticed Jon’s wince but couldn’t fault the boy; until the Iron Man armor he’d had zero skill in wielding any of his own weapons. “First blade I’ve made in months.” He set the weapon down and retrieved a set of keys he wore whenever he wasn’t out fighting bandits, rapists, and thieves. Selecting one he made his way to a locked side door and opened it. “But to everyone else in Westeros I’ve been very busy.”

Tony smirked as Jon stared into the room. Lining the walls were swords, shields, spears, bows and arrows, axes, warhammers, maces, daggers, and all manner of helms and bits of armor. There were a wide variety of colors and designs; one could have spent days going over each piece, examining their little details and hidden secrets. Tony walked to the center table in the room and began to leaf through a stack of parchment.

“A new sword for Ser Lonel of the Reach.” He pointed to said sword. “As far as Lonel knows, I’ll begin work on that in a week. After that I’m suppose to begin on that shield and three weeks after that the mace and dagger for Tommas Orneld of the Stormlands. I put some gray clouds on that… hope it isn’t too on the nose.”

“I… don’t understand,” Jon said, trying to wrap his mind around what he was seeing.

“When we first got back to Iron Pointe I knew that I’d need an alibi if I wanted to be Iron Man. I had Jarvis and Obie get me every request we’d been sent for weapons and told them that I’d fill them all. Made a detailed calendar that would allow me to work on each over the course of a year.” Tony smirked. “I then locked myself in here and got these all done in two weeks.”

“Two… two weeks?” Jon stammered.

“It was easy. You make as many weapons as I do and it gets to be automatic. Rather boring, actually. Once I was done I locked them all away and now I just bring one out from time to time and claim it is my latest project.”

“Offering you an alibi,” Jon said. When Tony grinned Jon shook his head. “But what about those that consider this. Someone will realize that you are not seen often and reason that it is because you are Iron Man.”

“Well, in that case, I have a Plan B,” Tony said, subtly raising his hand and measuring Jon’s height. When his ward turned towards him Tony quickly pulled his hand away. “But don’t worry about that… hopefully we will have some time before we need to worry about that.”

“Of course,” Jon said, though his tone made it clear he wasn’t as confident as Tony.

“Besides, I need your help with something more important.”

“And that is?”

“TONY!” Pepper roared from outside the door. “YOU FOUGHT THE MOUNTAIN?!?!”

“…helping me calm Lady Stark down,” Tony said with a grimace.

Chapter Text

Tyrion

"It could be much worse, my lord," Sam said, passing Tyrion a waterskin.

"And how, pray tell, could it be any worse?" Tyrion asked in annoyance, holding up his shackled wrists and giving them a shake. "Only a week ago we were traveling from inn to inn, enjoying the best wine, beds, food, and tits Westeros has to offer-"

"I didn't get to enjoy the t-tits, my lord," Sam reminded him.

Tyrion rolled his eyes. "And I told you, Samwell, that is because you deserve something special. You have never laid with a woman and if I am to now teach you the ways of the world I want your first to be memorable. I will never be a father which makes you my large, awkward, bumbling, possibly brain-addled, lightly craven son who I must teach the ways of the world. I will not have any boy of mine sleeping with just any old whore." His lips twitched slightly as he thought of his own first time. At the very least Sam's would not end as his did. He had suffered enough disgrace and embarrassment for the both of them; with him it had merely jaded him but his new squire might be pushed right into celibacy if he didn't approach things correctly. "But back to my point... we were enjoying quite a nice journey until our current hostess got it into her empty head that I am to blame for every sin there is in Westeros and decided to abduct me and drag us to her quite mad sister to be tried for every imagined crime she can think of..."

"Oh, she doesn't believe you guilty of everything, my lord," Sam said with a smile. "She merely believes you pushed her son out of a window and then tried to have him murdered while also scarring her hands. That is hardly ‘every imagined crime’.”

"Give them time, Samwell, give them time." He squeezed a bit of water into his mouth, wishing to the gods that one of those happy little miracles the old women were always prattling on about would occur and the water would turn into a fine summerwine. Of course, if he were only allowed one wish in life he'd also hope that said wine would make him grow to the size of the Mountain with strength great enough to break his chains and easily carry Samwell out of danger. He took another mouthful and swished it about, glancing at his stunted legs. "Damn."

"I'm sorry," Sam said, misunderstanding his disappointment. "I tried to find some wine but Lady Stark didn't bring much in way of supplies."

"Of course she didn't," Tyrion stated. "That would require her to think. This entire scheme has been poorly thought out since it began." It had been clear to Tyrion that he'd merely stumbled into a bit of bad luck. This hadn't been some clever trap laid by Catelyn Stark. She had been just as surprised as him when they'd turned up in the same inn. An impulse had overtaken her and she had acted rashly, taking him as her prisoner. While she had been clever enough to proclaim they were heading North when her goal was East she had failed in nearly every other step in the plan. She had too few men but even then did not have enough supplies. He glanced over at his horse, which the sellsword named Bronn was cutting up while his friend, a man named Clynt who had an odd taste in purple vests, tended the fire. It would do to have some meat but it wouldn't last and the Eirye was much too far. With the way his legs hurt already from walking for the last four hours he doubted he'd make it in time to be falsely imprisoned.

"Still, it could be worse," Sam reasoned.

"How?" Tyrion exclaimed.

Sam pursed his lips, considering this. "Well... it could be raining."

Tyrion let out a bark of laughter. "Yes! Yes, I suppose it could!" It felt so good to laugh and not for the first time he was thankful that Sam was with him. Anyone else and it was likely they would have been in chains as well... or convinced to turn traitor on him at the scent of a few gold dragons. Sam was too meek to become a backstabber and when Lady Stark and those with her looked upon Sam they saw not a threat but merely a curiosity.

He knew that it troubled Lord Eddard's wife that he was traveling with such an innocent soul... especially when compared to the rabble she'd thrown in with. Most of the knights that had joined with their party did so only because of the vows their lords had made to another lord. There was no true desire to see justice done, merely temporary obedience. Then there were the sellswords; they had come because they could taste the chance at some coin and adventure. Lady Stark would be a fool in the end when it came to them and it would cost her. She would believe she could merely give them a few coins and 'honor' would see them satisfied. She would have no inkling that lest she pay them proper the sellswords would use anything they could to make a profit... including delivering the news of his capture to Tyrion's lord father himself. Tywin Lannister would, of course, not be forthcoming with gold either but the sellswords didn't know that. Even if he was it wouldn’t matter. A Lannister always repaid his debts.

"What makes you so happy, Lannister?" Ser Rodrik Cassel asked from where he sat, Lady Stark standing within arm's reach of him.

"I merely told him it could be worse, Ser," Sam said pleasantly. "He found it a bit amusing."

"Samwell here has a way of lightening up even the darkest of life's moments."

Ser Rodrik snorted. "Laugh while you can, Lannister. Soon you'll pay for your crimes."

"Unless you are like dear Lord Stannis and believe that drink and whores are illegal than I'm afraid there are no crimes for me to be found guilty of."

The old knight made to say something but Lady Stark merely placed a hand on his shoulder and shook her head. Tyrion smirked at that; she was learning. He goaded her now for several days and only now had she learned it better to stop trying to match him in a game of wits. She'd scored a major victory against him, yes, but he had won their little skirmishes and she had found herself unable to defend against his weapons. His brother liked his swords, his father had the Mountain, and Cersei had what lay between her legs; Tyrion had words as his spears and he wielded them like the Red Viper himself.

"Samwell," Lady Stark said gently, turning her attention on the portly lad. Tyrion glanced at the boy, amused by how he shifted and squirmed under her gaze. "You are Lord Tarly's son, are you not?"

"I was, my lady."

"I wasn't aware Lord Tarly was dead," Rodrik said before eyeing Tyrion. "Or is he dead to you so you might travel with the Imp."

Sam swallowed, his heavy chin wobbling like a shaken pudding before he spoke. "No, Ser. More that... more that I am dead to him. He was never... I will never be the heir he wanted. I was told I had two choices: to go North and take the black or he would take me hunting... and somehow I would die."

Lady Stark looked at the fat youth and Tyrion smirked. It was clear that the thought of so callously killing one's child sickened her, especially after what had happened to her second youngest. And yet there was another flicker in her eye that spoke of warring emotions. He did not have to wait long for her to speak.

"And yet you travel with... him. Unless this man is now a brother of the Night's Watch-"

Tyrion chuckled. "Oh yes, how funny would that be." He turned and called out to Bronn and Clynt. "Tell me, how much would you pay to see me dressed as a Crow, battling a White Walker?"

Bronn raised an eyebrow. "I suppose it would depend on how long the fight would last."

Clynt merely smirked. "I would fear such a fight... what if the Others took a liking to you and began to emulate your ways? The Seven Kingdoms would be out of wine and whores in a week!" This got a good round of laughter from the other knights and Tyrion flashed a grin at the sellswords, showing that even he could take a jest against himself in good fun.

"You haven't answered my question," Lady Stark said to Sam as the laughter died down.

Sam swallowed. "I went, my lady, I did. And I tried. But it seems that the Night's Watch was just as interested in killing me as my father was."

"Surely not," Lady Stark said. "Perhaps that is what Lannister told you-"

"I told him nothing," Tyrion said, interrupting the woman before she could spout off more nonsense. "I arrived in their main training yard to discover the 'honorable' Allister Thorne commanding rapists and thieves to beat Sam here with wooden swords while he cackled the entire time. Would you like dear Sam to show you the wounds before you'll believe him? Do you need to check him for broken ribs before you'll listen?" He looked past Lady Stark, whose cheeks had taken on a pale tone, and stared at Ser Rodrik. "You remember Ser Thorne, do you not? He fought for the Mad King that saw your last liege lord burned to death while Lady Stark's original husband was strangled. Rather than have his head put on a spike they decided to let him take the black and he is now in charge of training the brave men of the Night’s Watch… just think, Lady Stark, had it not been for Lord Antony it might have been Jon Snow who felt such kindness.” Tyrion paused, grinning ear to ear. “Or should I say ‘Jon Stark’?”

“You will NOT call that bastard by that name,” Lady Stark snapped.

“And why not?” Tyrion asked. “From what I hear Lord Antony has legitimized him as his heir. He is a Stark, just not Ned Stark’s. I for one am thrilled. At first I thought the dullness and stupidity that seems to cling to your children was a Stark trait but Tony and Jon have proven me wrong. Perhaps Ned himself is quite cunning and clever but you have browbeaten him into submission and worn away his children’s intelligence.”

Lady Stark grit her teeth before promptly ignoring Tyrion and focusing on Sam. “Samwell, while I can’t speak to what happened before that forced you to serve Tyrion Lannister any words he made you say matter for nothing now. You are free to do as you please… should you wish I would be willing to send a raven to your father and mother, so that they might welcome you back-“

“Oh, this is too rich!” Tyrion said with a laugh. “You just heard that his father wanted to kill him and you wish to send him back there? You might as well leave Samwell here in the wilderness… at least the wildmen would kill him quickly!” Sam shrank at that thought and Tyrion reached out and patted to boy on the back. “Don’t worry, Samwell, I won’t let them harm you or send you away.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Lady Stark frowned. “Why do you care so much for him?”

“I have a soft spot for cripples, bastards, and broken things… and a deep hatred for fools, blunderers, and bullies.” He squirted a bit of water into his mouth, swishing a bit before swallowing. “I don’t know why you find it so preposterous that I want to help Samwell here purely out of the goodness of my heart. After all, we live in a land where the Iron Man flies about; a Lannister showing some common decency isn’t any stranger than that.”

Ser Rodrik scoffed. “The Iron Man… don’t tell me you buy into that rubbish, Lannister.”

“Normally I wouldn’t, good knight,” Tyrion said, reaching down and massaging his sore legs. All the marching had left him aching and the thought that he’d need to walk the rest of the way to the Eyrie had him wondering if it wouldn’t be better to just strip down, slather himself in butter, and hope a shadowcat would finish him off nice and quick. He’d done the first part in a whore house in King’s Landing… “The idea of a flying knight that can fire magical beams out of his hands belongs in the realms of grumperts and snortlings. Ludicrous and absurd. Simply not possible and any who believe so must be fools.” He paused and his normal smile fell. “And yet, from what I’ve learned from the ale houses and brothels I’ve visited… my own Lord Father witnessed Iron Man’s attack on Lord Oaker. Tell me, Ser Rodrik… do you believe Tywin Lannister to be the kind of man to fall for flights of fancy?”

Rodrik merely grunted.

“What of you, Lady Stark?” Tyrion asked. “Do you doubt the existence of Iron Man?” He held up his hand before she could respond. “If you refuse to believe the words of my father there was also Lord Tyrell at the feast as were-“

“Yes, yes,” Lady Stark said, cutting him off, not bothering to truly answer him. “We are not here to discuss this ‘Iron Man’ that has suddenly appeared and decided to act on his own accord as judge and executioner.”

“I don’t see why you are so against him, dear lady. In fact, I thought for a moment you were modeling yourself after the Iron Man. Trying to make yourself into the female version… an Iron Maiden, I suppose.” Tyrion’s eyes drifted down. “An apt title, as I imagine you are just as painful going into as one of them.”

Catelyn trembled for a moment, barely containing her rage. “And what would make you believe such a foolish thing?”

Tyrion held up his chained wrists. “Why, your own actions, of course! Though I admit you aren’t exactly like him; it appears that the Iron Man is only going after the truly guilty while you capture any that you can take hold of, despite their innocence-“

“Enough!” Lady Stark snapped in frustration. “I will not sit here and listen to your lies!”

“As you wish,” Tyrion said with a shrug. “Samwell, what do you think of Iron Man?”

“I… I honestly don’t know, my lord.” The heavyset boy looked down, running the toe of his boot against the ground. “I… I suppose that it is good that he is protecting people that can’t protect themselves-“

“Well, I think he’s a brainless idiot,” Bronn said, pulling himself away from Tyrion’s horse, his hands stained red with blood. He wiped his blade on a bit of cloth he had that was stained with all different manner of fluids Tyrion didn’t want to identify and strolled over to them, grabbing a waterskin from Ser Rodrik and shooting some water into his mouth. “Don’t get me wrong… the man has to have some skill, what with everything he is doing, but he’s still a bloody fool.”

“And how do you figure that?” Ser Rodrik asked.

“Because he’s doing it for free,” Bronn said simply.

“Ignore him,” Clynt said with a smirk. “Bronn here has an aversion to doing anything if he isn’t getting gold for it. Explains why he doesn’t shower unless I throw him some dragons.”

“That’s not true,” Bronn said with a scoff. “Doesn’t always have to be gold. Food, drink, women, land… I’m not picky how I’m paid.”

‘I hope you aren’t expecting any of those for this little trip,’ Tyrion thought to himself. ‘You’ll be lucky if Lady Stark manages not to sneer when she presses a few dragons into your palm-‘

All other thoughts left Tyrion’s head when an arrow came within a foot of entering his head.

“Ambush!” one of the Frey men shouted, rushing over a hill. Another of the men that had joined in Lady Stark’s trip to the Eryie was fast on his heels, only to cry out as an arrow shot through his throat, blood gushing from his open mouth as he tumbled and came to a stop next to Clynt.

“And just when I thought things were getting boring,” Clynt said, pulling out his long bow and snatching the arrow that had taken down the second Frey man. With practiced ease he notched and took aim, waiting only a moment before letting it fly just as one of the hillsmen came into view. The arrow pierced the wild man in the eye and sent him crashing into his two men that were right behind him. “Lady Stark! If you aren’t too busy I’d suggest hiding!”

“Bugger hiding!” Bronn snarled, drawing his sword and stealing the fallen Frey’s shield. “Grab something sharp and jab it at the bastards!” One of the hillmen screamed like a old man whose cock had been caught in the jaws of a hound, waving a short iron axe in the air as he rushed towards Bronn. The screaming fool went silent a moment later when Bronn lashed out, sending the wildman’s head flying off into a bush while his body continued onward for another step or two.

“He’s right, my lady!” Ser Rodrik said, unsheathing his own blade and moving into a protective stance. “Stay out of the way if you can but if you want to live be ready to fight!” With a bellow Ser Rodrik charged, his sword flashing in the dull noontime sun as he went after a wildman who was dressed in stained rags and a cloak made out of deer hide.

“What do we do, my lord?” Sam asked in a panic, eyes wide and his form wiggling and trembling.

“Samwell, do you fear death?” Tyrion asked.

“Yes!”

“More than anything?”

“Yes!”

“Then forget everything else you are afraid of and fight!” Tyrion shouted before hurrying over to Lady Stark. She’d managed to find a dagger and was holding it out wildly, looking for someone to get too close. “Free me!” She stared down at him and shock and Tyrion rolled his eyes. “I’m no good to you dead!” She looked at him again and he fought the urge to scream. “I’m not good to you if you are dead either!”

Lady Stark pursued her lips before retrieving the key to his shackles from the folds of her dress. With two clicks the shackles feel from his wrists and Tyrion rubbed his raw arms in relief. “Do not make me regret this.”

“Gods forbid I disappoint you,” Tyrion said as he looked about the carnage of battle. Bronn was struggling to keep one rather large hillsman from gutting him with a notched axe while Ser Rodrik was clashing blades with a one-eyed man whose jaw seemed to flop about with every swing of his sword. Samwell was cowering behind a rock but, to his credit, was able to keep his wits about him enough to have a sword in his hands, though he was trembling so much it was a wonder it didn’t slip from his fingers. Clynt had retreated about 10 yards out and was firing on anyone that was stupid enough not to have one of Lady Stark’s men around them. At one point an arrow flew at him and the archer gracefully caught it, twirled it around, notched it, and sent it right back to its owner via their scrotum. Clynt made a jest about penetration but Tyrion didn’t have time to enjoy it, as he was too busy trying to survive.

“No!” Lady Stark cried out when a burly wildman with a tangled mess of hair that went down nearly to his knees grabbed at the Lady of Winterfell’s throat with one hand while the other went for a nasty looking dirk. Tyrion glanced at her, then at the safety of the rock Sam was hiding behind, before let out a groan of annoyance. Sometimes he truly hated that he wasn’t more like Cersei. He rushed forward, snatching up a discarded hunk of ironwood that had been made into a crude shield and dashed towards the Wildman, driving the pointed bottom of the shield into the man’s soft flesh just below the knee. The hillman roared in pain, releasing Lady Stark and falling to the ground. Tyrion was on him in a second, driving the shield again and again into the man’s face, hot blood splashing onto his cheeks as he turned the wildman’s head into a gory mess. His opponent twitched several times before growing still but Tyrion gave him three more firm strikes before stopping, his heart thundering in his chest and his breath coming out in short gasps.

Tyrion gave a start when he felt a hand drop on his shoulder and whipped around, his shield raised only to find Clynt standing before him, holding his hands up. “It’s alright, killer! You got the last one.” It took only once glance to tell him that Clynt was right. Twenty fallen hillsmen laid about the makeshift camp, half of them with arrows sticking out of them. Rodrik was leaning heavily on his sword, blood coating the front of his shirt and vest. At least half of the men that had gone with them laid dead, hacked to pieces by the marauders. Tyrion let out a sigh of relief when he saw that Sam was none among the fallen; instead his squire had been drafted by Bronn to hold all the gear he was taking from the hillsmen.

“You’re first one?” Bronn asked when he came upon Tyrion and his dead Wildman. When Tyrion merely nodded Bronn sucked on the inside of his cheek for a moment. “You need a woman. Nothing better after a kill than a woman.”

Tyrion glanced at Lady Stark. “I’m game if she is.”

“And that vision will replace the kraken in my nightmares,” Clynt jested. He looked around the field, his smile slipping. “This is a bloody mess.”

“No pun intended,” Tyrion muttered.

Lady Stark looked at Bronn in disgust. “Must you loot the dead?”

“They aren’t going to need these where they’re going,” Bronn said, taking a knife off one of their fallen and putting it in his boot, “and we are. Here ya go, wobbles.” He picked up a helm, shaking it so the head that was still lodged in it came off, before plopping it on Sam’s head.

Clynt set about collecting his arrows, as well as adding the leftovers from the raiders’ quivers. “This was only the first raid of many, if I had to guess. If we are going to make it to the Eryie we are going to need to be armed.” He gestured at Tyrion and Sam. “All of us.”

Lady Stark glanced at Ser Rodrik, the old knight shrugged. “The sellswords are right. Our numbers are down by half and we have a few injured.”

“…if you give me a reason, Lannister, I’ll take your head.” Lady Stark stalked off, leaving Tyrion, Sam, and the sellswords by themselves.

“I think she’s beginning to warm up to me,” Tyrion said, strapping the shield to his back while Clynt handed Sam a sword and scabbard one of the Freys had been wearing.

“Not enough and not quick enough, dwarf,” Bronn said with a smirk.

‘No, but it’s a start,’ Tyrion thought to himself.

Chapter Text

Pepper

The raven from King’s Landing arrived early in the morning as Pepper was finishing her breakfast.

It took only 2 minutes for the enraged Lady of Iron Pointe to march into her husband’s private armory.

“Tony…” Pepper said, her tone as frosty as the Wall as she entered.

Tony, Jon, and Rhodey all looked up at her. Tony was seated at one of his workbenches, a hammer in his hand as he worked at pounding a few dents out of his shin guard. Rhodey had been dragged down there by her husband but apparently had decided that it would be a better use of his time to teach Jon how to fight with a sword and dagger at the same time. Jon glanced at Pepper and instantly sheathed his weapons, his stance becoming formal as he looked at her, gulping down the touch of fear that swirled within him. Pepper felt her foul mood slip at that; she knew that Jon had suffered enough under the care of another Lady Stark and the last thing she wanted to do was scare the young man she’d come to care for like a younger brother. He deserved more than that.

A glance at her loving husband… and the fact he wasn’t paying any attention to her… and her anger blazed up once more.

She walked over and snatched his hammer from him. He swung his empty hand down, looked at his palm, then swung again as if he expected to hear the ‘cling cling clung’ of the hammer against the metal. He glanced over at Pepper and flashed her the smile he thought was so charming and she thought was so him begging her to knock all his teeth out.

“Hey… so you’re clearly upset about something,” Tony said.

“When you started this little insane mission of yours what did I say would happen?”

“Uh… honestly you said a lot of things,” Tony said, rubbing the back of his head. “Well, technically you screamed them. But you’re looking for something specific. Let’s see. You said something about me crashing to the ground and being reduced to a bloody paste but seeing as I’m sitting here and still attractive-“ He smirked but when Pepper didn’t return it he leaned back a bit. “Let’s see… you said I would die, that I would be killed, that I would be reduced to a paste or torn limb from limb… you spent a lot of time thinking about me dying.”

“And recently how I might do it myself,” Pepper said before turning to Rhodey. “What did I tell him about this mission of his?”

The dark-skinned knight held his hands up. “I told you both I want no part of this.”

“Jon?” Pepper said.

“Fight it, Jon!” Tony said, waving his hands about. “Don’t let her entrance you! Fight! Don’t let her female ways entrance you!”

“Jon…” Pepper said, dragging out his name.

The young man gulped again. “You… you said, other than him being killed, that Tony would be discovered-“

“That you would be discovered!” Pepper said sternly, slapping the letter that had come with the raven down on the table. “This just arrived! King Robert requests you come to King’s Landing concerning Iron Man!” Tony took the note and began to read it even as Pepper began to pace, letting out her frustrations. “I told you this was a bad idea! I told you! And now the king wants to talk to you… and by talk he probably means throw you into one of those dark cells they have in the depths of the Red Keep!”

“Well, it technically isn’t the king asking, as this isn’t his handwriting; it’s actually quite elegant and Robert’s tends to look like a drunk cow was given a quill-“ Pepper whipped around to glare at him and he smiled weakly. “But that is not the thing that is concerning you right now.” Tony stood up, the letter still in his hand, and motioned for Jon and Rhodey to follow him. “Don’t worry, I knew this would happen.”

Pepper stood there for a moment, gawking at him, before realizing that her husband was actually leaving her in his wake. She hurried after him, just getting past a bemused Rhodey and a nervous Jon. “What do you mean you knew this would happen? If you knew it would happen why didn’t you do anything to not let it happen?!?”

Tony shrugged, gesturing absentmindedly as he began to climb the stairs, leaving it to Jon to lock up. “Well, it was pretty obvious after Iron Man fought the Mountain that Tywin Lannister would petition the king to actually do something about all this.”

Pepper’s eyes went wide as they reached the ground floor of the keep. “You fought-“ Rhodey grabbed her arm and quickly shook his head, gesturing towards the servants that were milling about, cleaning and taking care of all the tasks that needed to be done in order to keep Iron Pointe up and running. Pepper nodded silently her thanks before continuing in a much quieter tone. “Iron Man fought the Mountain? Why didn’t I hear about this?”

“Ser Gregor is probably bashful,” Tony said with a grin. “Jon, do you think Ser Gregor is bashful?”

“He’s bash something,” Rhodey muttered.

The young man looked like a tomcat caught by a hunting hound. “Is it too late to ask to stay out of this?” he asked Rhodey.

“Yes,” Tony said.

“Yes,” Pepper said.

“That’s my excuse,” Rhodey said with a smile.

“So now King Robert wants you to come to King’s Landing…” Pepper began, only for Tony to cut her off.

“Of course he does. Obie! Obie!” Tony turned and looked at Pepper. “Have you seen Obie? Usually he comes running when I bellow.”

“I don’t run, Lord Stark, I come at a dignified pace,” the castellean said.

“And you pull it off so well,” Tony said with a grin. “Can you get Jarvis and Happy for me? We need to go over some things.”

“Is this concerning the message from the king?” Obadiah asked.

Tony patted the bald man on the shoulder. “Obie, you are brilliant. Have I given you a raise recently? Who would I see about giving you a raise? Who is in charge of paying for things?”

“I am, my lord.”

“That is convenient. Give yourself a raise… heck, give yourself two, I can afford it. And a title… can I give out titles? I’d knight you but that is so bland. Let’s make you an enchanted duke.” With that Tony spun on his heels and made his way towards the Main Hall.

“Tony!” Pepper shouted in exasperation. “Tony, we need to talk about this!”

“That’s what we are doing,” Tony said, brow furrowed in confusion. “Jon, we’re doing that, right?”

“I think she means we need to actually discuss what is happening and what our next course of action is.”

Tony pointed at Jon. “You are either being a smartass or dull. I’m not sure which is worse.” He led the group into the Main Hall waving his hands about. “Do me a favor… whenever you’re not sure what to do ask yourself what your father would do… and do the opposite. Hell, that should be the Stark Family Words: ‘Do the Opposite of Eddard Stark’. Now, we have a few minutes so Rhodey tell me how the new swordsmen are doing.”

Pepper tuned Rhodey out as he went over the training he was giving to Iron Pointie’s newest warriors. The Great Hall was just a bit smaller than the one in Winterfell and was definitely more inviting. The Northern Starks seemed to prefer to keep everything is blacks and grays and what few pieces of cloth that hung in the hall were their colors. Tony did the same but seeing as he used the Lannisters’ red and gold his Great Hall felt more warm and inviting. Since Iron Pointe hadn’t been lived in for years before Tony had gotten it she’d been allowed to design much of the look and had gone for a mix of customary Westeros design and the exotic feel of the Free Cities. Golden drapes were wrapped around the pillars, the long windows had been replaced with stained glass that depicted different locales from around the world, and the long tables were made of red oak with gold inlay. The only things that had remained from what had first been at Iron Pointe were the chairs set up for the Lord and Lady of the castle. They were wide, designed for lords with a larger girth than Tony, with a low back so not to appear too throne-like. Pepper had insisted on adding cushions and padding, scoffing at the idea of leaving them as is since the chairs were simply too uncomfortable.

Of course she knew that if Lord Tywin ever showed up he would not be pleased with those additions. It was custom that if one’s lord arrived at their keep they were given the head chair. Tony, even if he didn’t act like it, was Lord Tywin’s bannerman, and would have to do such if the head of the Lannisters ever showed up.

Which he never would. Tywin Lannister was happy with what was going on in Iron Pointe. The old lion would only arrive at a bannerman’s door if there were problems. Tony didn’t step out of line, was respectful (for Tony, at least) and most importantly made Tywin money. Thus Tywin was content to have Tony show up once every year or so to reaffirm his loyalty and leave him be. The only minor issue between the two of them was Tony and Tyrion’s friendship but even that Tywin clearly didn’t mind that much; most likely because it got the Imp out of his hair and more importantly when he was in Iron Pointe he didn’t whore around, as Pepper made it clear that she was not in favor of Tony doing such things and Tyrion, in an attempt to making up for any future shenanigans, went out of his way to make her happy.

Pepper broke out of her thoughts when Obadiah returned with Maester Jarvis and Happy, Tony motioning for them to have a seat at the small council table that was set up to the left of his chair. He slouched in the seat, one leg draped over the arm rest, his head lulled back a bit as he stared at the ceiling. Pepper could feel her right eyelid twitch in annoyance at his casual demeanor. All he needed was a cup of wine and he might as well have been in his private solar entertaining his friends. Jon and Rhodey stood off the to the side, unsure what to do; on one hand Tony clearly wanted them to relax but on the other they were smart enough to realize that Pepper was in no mood for antics. Jarvis and Obadiah took their seats and waited for Tony to speak while Happy positioned himself so he was facing the door with his back against the wall.

“Okay, so let’s get something out of the way,” Tony said. “You know that flying knight that is racing around Westeros? The one that has it in his head to try and clean up all of the Seven Kingdoms just by himself?” Tony looked at the group, lips pressed together for a moment before he spoke. “It’s me. The knight, I mean. He’s me or I’m him or however you want to say…” Tony shook his head. “I’m Iron Man.”

Pepper just stared at her husband in horror. She had just told him that he was risking exposing himself, that there was a good chance King Robert had figured the whole made scheme out, and there he was telling more people the truth like-

“My Lord, do you have something serious to discuss?” Happy asked. “Because I have duties to attend to.”

“I must agree with Hogan,” Obadiah said. “We have a ton of work to focus on…”

“None of you believe me?” Tony asked, catching Pepper’s eye and giving her wink that had her wanting to scream. “No chance I could be Iron Man?”

Jarvis scoffed. “No offense but there is a better chance of Stane being Iron Man.”

Obadiah chuckled. “No thanks. Lord Stark keeps me busy enough.”

“Great!” Tony said, clapping his hands. “Now, onto real business. It does have to do with Iron Man though but not with me being him… which I am-“

“Of course, Lord Stark,” Jarvis said with a benign smile, his maester’s chain rattling slightly. “Would you like to go over old business first?”

“Why not?” Tony said with a grin. “As long as Pepper doesn’t object.”

“Of course not,” she ground out in frustration. Pepper moved to take her seat next to her husband, her jaw working as she did so. It was Tony’s intelligence that made him attractive… and made him a pain in her ass. He was always thinking and planning, coming up with new ideas and solutions to problems; it didn’t matter if the problem was a piece of metal or a being caught attacking lords and knights. He was creative and cunning and could come up with plans that only became obvious once they had been completed. After the fact she would happily admire how intelligent he was but during the whole event she found herself cursing him and his need to toe the line and risk everything they had built.

“The mines are running well, Lord Stark,” Obadiah said, looking down at the accounting tomes he’d brought with him. “We’ve managed to obtain 60 pounds of Sunstones in the last two months. That output should be increase now that the miners have discovered the newest vein in the eastern section.”

“Anything else found?” Tony asked.

Obidiah consulted his notes. “The foreman has reported that they’ve discovered silver close to the surface on the southern edge. He believes that doing a pit dig would be advised.”

“According to our agreement with Lord Tywin we must surrender any silver or gold to him,” Jarvis reminded Tony.

Pepper watched him out of the corner of her eye. She had avoided much when it came to his little Iron Man project but she did remember him telling her that it was a combination of silver and Sunstones that allowed him to achieve flight. That’s why he’d been willing to sacrifice the other precious metals without any payment: silver was, for Tony, a danger to all he wanted to do. She shut her eyes for a moment and shuddered at the thought of what would happen if any of that silver accidently came in contact with the Sunstones.

“Give him what we found and then inform him of the foreman’s suggestion,” Tony said. “I’ve got no problem digging out what we already found but if old Tywin wants more silver he needs to dig the pit himself.”

“And if there are Sunstones?” Obadiah asked.

“There won’t be,” Tony said simply.

‘Of course there won’t be,’ Pepper thought to herself. ‘If there had ever been any they probably already exploded with all that silver around.’ It was bad enough knowing Tony was flying around with the Sunstones, worse that he had bits of the metal that caused the Sunstones to react so violently… and terrifying that there was a massive pit of Sunstones with a quarry of silver next to them only a few miles away from Iron Pointe.

“I believe that is quite wise, Lord Stark,” Jarvis said. “While it may gain favor with Lord Tywin to do the digging ourselves it would not be wise to simply give him so much for nothing.”

Tony shrugged. “Like I always say, ‘Keep your friends rich and your enemies rich…’-” He paused, brow furrowed. “Rhodey, that doesn’t really apply to this situation, does it.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Then ignore me.” Tony leaned back in his chair only to leap out of it. “Except when I have something important to say like this: King Robert is requesting my presence.”

Happy pushed away from the wall. “Out of the question.”

“We can’t exactly deny the king,” Rhodey said.

“We can on this!” Happy complained. “You barely survived our trip back from the North and King’s Landing is much more dangerous.”

“I think you are exaggerating just a bit, Happy,” Tony said.

“Those bandits nearly killed you!”

Obadiah looked up. “Bandits? What bandits?”

“It was nothing, Obie, we didn’t want to bother you.” Tony turned away from the castellean and focused on his paranoid personal shield. “This is completely different.”

“Yes,” Happy grumped, “it is much more dangerous. In the North all you have to worry about are bears and wolves and a few bandits-“

“You were hurt by bandits in the North?” Obadiah asked.

“No, Obadiah,” Tony said. “Tell him, Jon.”

“It was actually after we’d crossed the Twins…”

Tony cut his ward off while Pepper held her head in her hands. “Ignore him, he’s a little crazed in the head, Catlyn Stark hit him one too many times. Personally, I think the woman is insane and we should already start finding my cousin a new wife. One who doesn’t hit Jon.”

“She never-“

“Ignore the boy, totally confused.” Tony walked over to Obadiah and patted the man on the shoulder. “Would I lie to you?”

“You lie to me all the time.”

“I meant about this.”

“…yes.”

Tony scowled. “Well, I’m not.” He turned to Pepper and mouthed ‘I am’. He turned back to address the group and Pepper just stared at him, wondering where here favorite axe was. “Happy, I know you hate it but I have to go to King’s Landing. If I don’t then Lord Tywin will be forced by the king to find out why and I don’t think any of us want that grump showing up.” Everyone, save for Jon (who had never met Lord Tywin), shook their heads. “Right, so I need to make a trip of King’s Landing.” He clapped his hands together. “Come on… it will be fun! The horrible smells, the scheming, trying to avoid having sex with King Robert… I have a very willowy body, I’m told, so he could confuse me for a woman…”

“Tony…”

“The point is that I need to go to King’s Landing. We need to begin planning right away. Rhodey and Happy will escort me, Pepper will manage things… and Jon will take care of a special project.”

“He will?” Pepper asked.

“I will?” Jon echoed.

“Very much so,” Tony said and Pepper shuddered when she saw the nearly maniac gleam in his eye. She knew right away Tony had something planned… and whatever it was, she wasn’t going to like it.

Chapter Text

Ned

He hated King’s Landing for many reasons. The horrid stench of perfume that did little to cover up the rot that came from the gutters and the unwashed citizens that pressed together. The scheming and games that everyone seemed to thrive upon; it didn’t matter if you were the Queen or a child who begged for coppers, they all seemed to be scheming and plotting. The way the Capital seemed to corrupt and alter everyone that came to it, twisting them into something out of a mummur’s play. How it was nearly impossible to ever find a moment alone. The endless dinners with a thousand courses that seemed to become the focus of everything BUT the schemes. But the worst, the truly worst of it, was how it was nearly impossible to sleep.

Ned would never claim that he led the hardest of lives. Yes, the North was cold and its snows deep but he was the Lord of Winterfell and his keep had its secrets. The greatest one proved that the Starks were smarter than people gave them credit for. Winterfell had been built over an underground hotspring and its water and heat moved through its walls, warming its chambers better than any fire. One still needed blankets and furs, of course, but Ned didn’t go to bed shivering.

But the heat of his room was nothing compared to the South. He went to bed dressed in as little as he could (he simply could not bring himself to go to bed nude as so many others did… the North was too deep in his blood to allow him to do that) and with not even a sheet to cover his form. And each morning he awoke after tossing and turning for hours drenched with sweat so badly that the servants had to change the bedding each day.

So it was this morning when one of the male servants entered his room. Ned groaned, pushing the damp strands of hair off his sweaty forehead. It was early morning and yet it was warmer than the hottest summer day in the North. He slowly sat up, a grimace on his face as he felt the sheet he’d been lying on cling to his back for a moment before pulling away with a wet ‘thwip’. They said that the Starks couldn’t go South as they had ice in their veins and leaving the North risked them melting. From the way he was sweating he was beginning to believe the old tales himself. Cat had teased his before he left that he’d become as fat as Robert from all the rich food in the Capital but Ned knew there was no fear of that happening, as he was losing stones from sweating alone.

“Lord Baelish is here to see you, mi’lord,” the servant said with a bow.

“Tell him I will see him shortly.”

“No need for that,” Littlefinger said as he entered Ned’s room with as easy grace as if he were entering his own. He plucked a grape from a fruit bowl that sat on a short table, popping it into his mouth before flopping down in a padded chair near the window. Ned glared at him in anger and annoyance but the Master of Coin merely smirked. “Don’t worry, Lord Stark… you are not the first man I’ve seen slick with sweat and trying to escape his sheets.”

“It is too early in the morning for your japes,” Ned growled.

“My japes? Or any japes at all? Think carefully, because with the news I bring it will determine if you disobey the King’s command.”

Ned walked over a clay basin filled with cool water and dipped his hands inside, cupping them before lowering his face down to wash the sleep from his eyes. Even the water felt too warm and Ned longed for a nice deep snowdrift to plunge his face in. He bent down and poured a cup of water over his head, grimacing as the water ran down his neck and soaked his greasy hair. He wasn’t a vain man by any standards but even he wanted to make a good impression on the other members of the Small Council. While he wouldn’t be coating himself in powder like Lord Varys he certainly didn’t want to meet with them while his hair looked like knotty rope and his body odor made them long for the rotting corpse of a cow. A bath, however, was simply out of the question, both because of the increasing heat and humidity and Littlefinger lounging only feet away.

“What brought you here at this hour?” Ned asked as he walked over to the dresser where his clothing for the day had been laid out. He ran a towel over his head one more time before stepping out of sight, not wanting Baelish to leer at him while he changed. If the Master of Coin sensed Ned’s annoyance and discomfort he did little to end it. He merely continued to slouch in his chair, his fingers steepled together as he waited for Ned to finish. The scents that were applied to his clothing to help hid the scent of his sweat burned his nose but Ned forced himself to continue.

“No need to be so modest,” Littlefinger said when Ned finally stepped into view again. “I have seen far better and far worse. When you walk in on the royal cock deep in a chamber servant you lose any sense of shock when it comes to the male form.”

“What did you mean about japes and disobeying the King?” Ned asked.

"You know," Littlefinger said, eyeing up Ned while refusing to answer his question, "I can't help but wonder something."

"It seems you are always wondering about something," Ned said with a grunt as he tugged at the new shirt he wore. With the way the air felt on his skin he wondered just how long this one would last; the day before he'd been forced to change his shirt six times, as he'd sweated through each of them.

The Master of Coin merely grinned. "A man who does not question the world might as well be stone. Don't bother looking up who said that, I just created it on the spot. No, I can't help but wonder, seeing how well you've come to fit in at court, why dear King Robert didn't bring you south sooner?"

Ned knew that him 'fitting in' was a bold-faced lie. Littlefinger knew he knew, damn him, but didn't care.

As for the other matter Baelish wasn't the first to wonder about such things, though he was the first to be brazen enough to ask Ned about it openly. He had heard the whispers and murmurs from time to time though they had grown infrequent as time went at on. After Robert's coronation many had expected Ned to be put on the Small Council and it would have only made sense, since all the other players in the rebellion had been rewarded. Robert became king, his brother Stannis Master of Ships. Jon Arryn became Hand of the King and then ensured the Lannister's were rewarded by making Cersei queen. The Tullys hadn't been granted a seat but that was only to be a temporary thing; Lord Holster had been too old even then and Cat's brother Edmere too young... though that didn't stop Renly from being named Master of Laws... thus Baelish had been given the reward for doing nothing. The plan had always been for Edmere to come to court but when Baelish proved himself so well at being Master of Coin and Edmere shown no interest in the role (coveting his father’s role as Warden instead) that in the end Littlefinger had been allowed to keep his position.

Master of Laws. Ned knew that was the role Robert had wanted him to take up. That had been the Grand Plan: Robert would rule, Jon Arryn would advise, Stannis would protect, and he would enforce the King's Law. Robert would keep on Varys and Barristan and Pycelle, as the formers had sworn to serve their new king and the latter a maester who couldn’t be replaced. Thus the Targaryen Dynasty would be wiped away and the start of a new way, adapted by those that had fought to destroy them would begin.

But that hadn’t happened. Ned and Robert, instead of greeting each other as brothers at the end of the war, had raged and fought. Even after they had made their peace Ned had known his place wasn’t in King’s Landing. How could he ever live there, rule there, when all he could see was Jon Arryn and Robert nodding politely at Tywin Lannister while the bloody bodies of Rhaegar’s family lay at their feet. Even if he hadn’t become disillusioned by his mentor and friend the events at the Tower of Joy had sealed that he could not stay and rule with Robert.

The scent of blue roses once more filled his noses and a voice from the past whispered ‘Promise me Ned… promise me.’

Shaking his head, Ned grabbed an apple and bit into it, knowing this was his only chance to get something in his stomach before the Small Council absorbed all his time. “Why are you here, Lord Baelish?”

Littlefinger smirked. “I’m afraid I am the bearer of bad news, my Lord. If you hate my japes then you are about to suffer through at least a week in the seven Hells.”

Ned began to rub his forehead, unable to even be annoyed by the fact that he’d just smeared apple juice all over his face. “Antony finally arrived, hasn’t he?”

“The Small Council has been summoned to hear his testimony. They were going to send King Robert’s squire to fetch you but I offered to bring you myself.”

“How kind of you,” Ned said, knowing that Littlefinger had his own reasons for coming.

“I am at your service,” Baelish stated with a low bow.

It took Ned another 20 minutes before he was able to leave. He’d expected the Council meeting to start midmorning and thus had planned to go over some issues among his household staff. Now he had to rush through going over how Arya was doing with Syrio, discussing Sansa’s lessons with the septa, supplies Jory had requested, and many other little details that had managed to gather up around him while he dealt with the whining and complaints of Robert’s court.

Finally he was able to make his way out of his solar and to the Small Council room, Littlefinger chasing after him like a puppy nipping at his master’s heels. A puppy that was trying to figure out how to take every last scrap his master had and barked at anyone who listened that he’d slept with his master’s wife. Oh yes, Ned had heard of Baelish’s claims that he’d had Cat’s maiden head and it was just another reason why he still considered running his sword through Littlefinger’s belly to see if he would still smirk with his intestines tumbling from his belly.

Ned stepped into the Small Council chamber and felt his heart seize and every drop of blood in his veins come to a complete standstill. He stared in horror at the sight before him, his lungs betraying him and refusing to allow him to even take a single breath. Had he been rendered into stone by some mage's spell it would have been better than what he experienced in that moment. There, standing before Robert, was the knight known as Iron Man, his hand raised up as he prepared to cast one of his burning spells upon the King of the Seven Kingdoms.

The Hand of King's body snapped out of the stupor before his brain and the next thing he realized he was already halfway across the Councilroom, his broadsword unsheathed as he rushed towards Iron Man. The crimson and gold knight turned and, seeing Ned running at him, raised his hands so he might curse him. From within the confines of his helmet and gold faceplate Iron Man let out an unearthly cry like some demon from Old Nan's stories. Ned didn't know if it was an enchantment curse or the iron devil trying to cause him to falter but Ned refused to stop and he swung his sword out to take the warrior's head-

His arms ached as his sword met the white steel of Barristan Selmy, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard parrying Ned's swing and forcing him back. Ned panted, eyes wide like a cornered animal, wondering if this was some new trick by Iron Man. Had he bewitched the old knight and forced him to do his bidding? His mind suddenly went back to the last time he had crossed blades with a member of the Kingsguard, the Sword of the Morning coming at him. 'Promise me Ned' echoed through his mind and he smelled the scent of blue roses.

"Seven Hells, Ned!" Robert roared snapping Ned out of the vision. "What has gotten into you?"

"Come now, brother," Renly said somewhere from Ned's left, "you should be thanking him. Not many kings can count on their Hand to so quickly rush to their defense... even if it is for not."

Varys had shrunken back, wringing his soft pale hands. "Oh, how simply dreadful. Swordplay in the Small Council!"

"I think I heard that song once in a tavern," Littlefinger jested as he took his seat.

"Oh, please, no one help the man pissing himself," Iron Man complained, pulling off his helmet and dropping it to the ground with a dull clang. Ned could only stare at the sweaty features of Antony Stark; his cousin's hair was plastered to his forehead and his eyes even now still held a glimmer of fright as he struggled to remove the gauntlets he was wearing. "By all means, Your Grace, enjoy my terror. I'm thrilled it so pleases you."

Robert grunted and waved for his squire, Lancel Lannister, to begin helping Antony out of the armor. "Suppose you're right, brother," Robert said to Renly. "Ned, I thank you for defending my fat ass from your cowardly cousin... but unless the challenge is a drinking contest I dare say I'm in little danger from him!"

"I... I don't understand," Ned said.

"You would if you had arrived on time," Renly said with a smile. "Still, perhaps you should show up late more often... makes it all the more entertaining for the rest of us."

Ser Barristan took pity on Ned and began to explain. "Your cousin arrived and has admitted his part in the whole Iron Man debacle."

"His part?" Ned said, his eyes narrowing as he stared down his cousin.

"You make it sound worse than it is," Antony argued as he lifted his arms so Lancel could remove the breastplate. "I admit it is bad but it isn't nearly as bad as it seems." Ned merely continued to glare at his buffoon of a cousin and Antony shrunk back. "It isn't!"

Pycelle cleared his throat. "Lord Stark has admitted to making the Iron Man armor. However, he has stated that it was merely that: armor. No magic or mysticism. Merely steel and iron."

Robert motioned for Lancel to hand him a gauntlet, which the king examined for a moment. "Damn good armor, though that is expected, but I doubt I'll be flying around anytime soon!" He let out a boisterous laugh. "Could you imagine? The smallfolk would piss themselves if they saw their fatass king zooming around the sky! King Robert, the first ruler to block the sun with his gut!"

"I'll admit that I went a bit dramatic in showing off what I had done," Antony said, "but there was no reason to nearly take off my head, Ned!"

Now able to truly look at Antony in the plate iron, Ned quickly realized that while he did from faraway look like the tales that were filling his daughters' heads Antony, as he had suspected, was no Iron Man. The armor he wore was too big for his frame, making him look like a child donning their father's helm during a game of play. In many places the pieces didn't meet properly, leaving horrid gaps that an arrow could easily slide through with room to spare. The helm was too large and would bounce upon Antony's head if he so much as walked, let alone if he were flying around battling rapists and thieves as the growing legends told. Even the way he held himself was all wrong; the singers spoke of a grim avenger who landed from the clouds in mystic fire. Antony resembled a drunken squire who was wearing armor purely for a dare.

"Stark! Hand us your helm, would ya?" Robert bellowed. Antony did as the king commanded and Ned watched as his bloated friend turned the helmet a bit before nodding. "Ned! Prove to these fools on my Council that I still have some sense in this head of mine! What's wrong with the helmet?" Robert gave the helm a toss and Ned managed to catch it, finding it heavier than he had expected. He twisted it and turned it and looked it over with a critical eye, trying to find what his friend was speaking of. It took him a minute to realize it and when he did Robert clearly saw the realization dawn in Ned's eyes. "The eye slits, you idiots!" Robert laughed. "They’re all wrong for Lord Stark!” Robert was right; the eye slits were spaced too far apart for Antony to wear the helmet. Add in how loose it would be on his head and he’d have spent half his time with only one eye uncovered. Robert, gloating, wagged his finger at Antony. “You know that some of these fools think that you are the Iron Man, right? Think you are the one flying around, fighting rapists and killers! Ha! Pycelle is more likely to be the Iron Man!”

Antony tilted his head. “Well, I’ve never seen the two of them in the same room…”

Pycelle sputtered for a moment before gathering himself, staring down Antony even as he spoke to the king. “While it appears that Lord Stark is not the Iron Man-“

“Appears nothing,” Antony muttered, annoyed.

“-it is clear that Lord Stark is, at the very least, responsible for the Iron Man having his armor, though not for how he does what he is able to do. Payment for these actions-“

“Already taken care of!” Tony, who was now solely dressed in a sweat-stained under shirt and pants, hurried over to a crate Ned had missed in his rush to confront the Iron Man and began to toss straw out of it, ignoring the comments and japes from the rest of the council concerning the mess he was making. “I have already sent word to Lord Tywin apologizing for my role and offering several options to make reparations to him and Ser Gregor. But for you, Your Grace, I have decided on something a bit more personal…”

Robert let out a laugh and leapt to his feet as Antony pulled out a great black and gold warhammer from the crate. The King hurried over, cackling like a child receiving their first sweet, and lifted up the hammer and began to swing it about, commenting on just what he would do with ‘Thunderstrike’. Antony merely watched on, smiling as the King and the rest of the small council discussed the hammer and its design.

Ned, for his part, remained off to the side, the helm still in his hands. He turned it about, running his fingers along the surface, seeing but not hearing Antony jest with the others. No, Ned’s mind was focused on just how neatly Antony had arranged this meeting, setting everything up to distract and deflect attention from him. If Ned didn’t know for a fact that his cousin was little more than a whoring, drinking, lazy layabout…

His eyes caught Antony’s and his cousin smiled… though the grin didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Ned gripped the helm just a bit tighter.

Chapter Text

Gregor

The screams of the villagers echoed in his ears. The familiar scent of blood filled his nose. He could taste the smoke from the burning houses and still feel the breaking of the last skull he'd decided to crush like an overripe melon. Every man had his element: sissy weaklings had their books and paints, pathetic bards had their instruments and songs, and pathetic old men had their seats of power and groveling courts. For the man all called The Mountain this was where he belonged. So many mistakenly claimed he was born to be on the battlefield. The last man to say so to his face had gurgled his final words, his fingers clawing at the broken bits of born and torn flesh where his lower jaw had been. Ser Gregor Clegane didn't belong on a battlefield; that implied that there would be an actual battle, with him facing a foe that could actually match him.

No... he had been born to be on the killing fields.

Lord Tywin understood this almost as well as Gregor did himself. Sometimes, when he was riding on his mount, the only sounds the clinking of his armor and the crunching of twigs and bones under his horse's hooves, he would wonder what his life would have been like had he had any other liege-lord, one who failed to understand his uses and needs. Most likely he'd be dead, with the blood of some old Warden on his fingers and all of the Seven Kingdoms having hunted him down and chopped him to ribbons. There was no way he'd become a sellsword, as he simply didn't have the patience, nor would have been able to join a group like the Second Sons or the Brave Companions or the Gold Company. It wasn't in him to deal with others unless it was to bark orders or gut them until the squawking noises they were making finally went silent.

Of course Ser Gregor didn't contemplate such thoughts often. While he would never say it to another soul he knew he was not a bright man... which ironically enough made him smarter than most. While other fools thought themselves great warriors when they were merely lucky butchers Gregor Clegane knew that he was nothing more than a big strong man able to swing a big heavy sword. If he had been born small and misshapen like Lord Tywin's dwarven failure he would not have lasted to adulthood. His mind was not built for strategy like Lord Tywin or the understandment of field position like Lord Kevan Lannister or the fancy flick of a sword like Lord Tywin's prettyboy son Jamie. No, Gregor won wars by rushing in and being the last man still standing, simple as that.

This though was no battle. This was, as Lord Tywin had explained, a message. Nothing more. The villagers that he and his men were slaughtering hadn't personally done anything to warrant his anger, though that was rather normal for him and his raids, nor had they done anything to offend Lord Tywin, which wasn't normal. No, their only crime had been choosing to live 500 meters on the wrong side of ancient boundaries set up by deadmen. Had they settled only a bit more to the west they would have been under the protection of Lord Tywin. Not under Gregor, though; no one was under Gregor's protection as much that they weren't his first targets. Instead their stupid fat ancestors had settled in the Riverlands and thus they became the parchment upon which Tywin Lannister wrote his message: "Return Tyrion to me or I'll raze all the Tully's control"

Gregor, according to his liege lord, was the quill to write out such a message.

Lord Tywin had given him careful, if simple, instructions: he was to attack several villages along the border, sowing death and misery among the populous. He wasn't allowed to murder everyone, as it simply wouldn't do if no one knew just who was responsible. That wasn't to say that Gregor could claim that it was Lord Tywin that was driving him and his men; no, he had to stay above this. It would merely be enough to slaughter half a village and let the other half, broken down completely, hurry off far and wide to let word spread of what had happened.

The Mountain stomped over to a fenced in little area where goats were bleating in fright and reached down, grabbing one billy by the neck and squeezing until he felt the beast's spine snap. Caitlyn Stark had been a fool to capture the Imp. Even if the smallest of Lord Tywin's children was a misshapen drunk that wasn't even fit to lick the shit from Gregor's boots that didn't mean the likes of Ned Stark's bitch could just wrap him in chains. No, that sort of action needed to be answered. Gregor understood that sentiment quite well. Some broken villages, some blood splitted, and rotting trout left in the septs would let the Tullys know well what had happened and why.

"Look at'em run!" Lorn exclaimed with a laugh, riding up to Gregor on top of his brown bay. He was new to Gregor's company, seven-and-one, and had proven himself a good swordsman and archer. The cocky soldier wore his dark hair to his shoulders and he was growing out a pointy little beard that was threaded with beads; a Braavosi style though Gregor honestly didn't care. He'd been with them for little under a year and had done well at keeping the peace in Gregor's lands and holdings. This was his first raid and the man had done well enough, managing to shoot a few fleeing peasants in just the right spot to maim them but not kill. Gregor supposed that if they were sending a message then Lorn was the exclamation point. Lorn clearly loved the sight of battle and destruction, drinking it up like a lush might a fine wine. "Gods, is there anything sweeter than seeing folks flee, boss?" he said with a laugh.

Gregor merely reached out, grabbed Lorn by the arm, and threw him so hard to the ground that his pretty little face exploded into gory upon the hard packed ground.

Yes, Gregor understood the need for actions to receive answers. Several of his men looked up, grim-faced. They may have averted their eyes from his gaze but not from the ruins of Lorn, the laughing warrior's corpse still twitching as his limbs tried to realize that they were attached to a dead man. Good. Let them stare. Let it be a reminder that he was not their friend. He wasn't their drinking buddy and he wasn't one of them, looking to swap japes and tales. He might fight with them, drink with them, eat with them, and sleep beside them, but he wasn't one of them. He was Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain that Rides, and any that thought they could jest with him purely because they'd slaughtered the same village could join Lorn in watering the Riverland with their blood.

He snorted, motioning for Marcas Trench to come over and strip Lorn of his armor and weapons and pass them out to the remaining members of his company. The stupid cocky youth had thought they were the same but they were nothing alike, both in body and in mind. Lorn lusted after violence; Gregor NEEDED it. While murder and rape were like Arbor Gold to the likes of Lorn for Gregor they were water and bread. He simply could not survive without them. Those that lasted a year in his company understood that he needed to partake in such things not out of some insane bloodlust but because he simply could not go on living if he didn't get in a spot of violence once and a while. A man needed to breathe in the air and taste cold water on his lips... but the Mountain needed blood on his hands and the screams of some silly bitch as he split her in half in order to-

Trench suddenly went flying back, crashing into a still burning house with a wet 'thwak'. Unfortunately for him the blow and the landing hadn't killed him and his pained groaned turned into agonizing shrieks as the fire took hold and cooked him alive in his armor. Gregor looked up, face twisting in rage as several more of his men were fired on by beams of mystical light.

"Iron Man," Gregor snarled, gripping his sword in his hand.

Jon

Of all the things he'd even done in his life... this was probably the dumbest of them all.

He wasn't alone in that sentiment. Pepper had been telling him for three weeks that he was insane for listening to Tony and going along with his mad plan. Rhodey had stayed silent on the matter but Jon could see in his eyes that the former sellsword agreed with the Lady of Iron Pointe. All three of them knew this was worse than a mummur's farce.

'Then why I am floating 20 feet off the ground wearing this damn armor if I know it’s so foolish?' Jon thought to himself as he looked down at the panicked villagers and marauding raiders that milled down below him. 'Surely Tony could have come up with a better plan than me flying around risking my neck! And even he couldn't why was I insane enough to agree?'

The answer was quite simple and it repeated in his head even as he floated above the burning village. It came in the way of a proclamation, written on parchment and flown on raven's wings to Iron Pointe over a month ago:

"By the decree of His Grace, Robert of the House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, from this day forth Jon Snow, bastard of Eddard of the House Stark, is legitimized and shall be known as Jon Stark, first of his name, heir of Lord Antony Stark, Lord of Iron Pointe, from this day until his last"

Legitimized. Tony had legitimized him. Though he had been born a bastard no longer would his name proclaim that shame to the world. He was Jon Stark, the future Lord of Iron Pointe. His father had allowed him to keep the name Snow, Lady Stark had used it to attack him, Theon Greyjoy had held it as a way to mock him... and Tony had ripped it away. That was why he now did what he did. Tony Stark had given him a new life... and Jon would use it to aid the man in his quest to avenge the people of Westeros.

Even if it was from those that should be their protectors.

Even though he'd never seen the man Jon instantly knew he was looking down at Ser Gregor Clegane. There was simply no one else in the Seven Kingdoms that could match the knight that was more monster than man. He towered over all that mulled about him but Jon, in the Iron Man armor, forced Ser Gregor to do something he hadn't done since he was 10 years old: look up at another man.

"SHOOT HIM DOWN!" Gregor roared and his men turned their arrows from the fleeing peasants and onto Jon. Though Tony had assured him that the armor would be able to withstand steel arrowheads Jon didn't want to test this theory; Ser Rodrik had always warned that while plate armor was good unless it was completely sealed there was always a gap that an arrow could slip into. On the battlefield that may cost him his head... as high as he was he knew there was no 'may' about it.

Thankful that he had been wise enough to actually practice over the Western Sea with the armor before donning it officially for this little adventure, Jon twisted his body and went into a twist spin that allowed him to zip away from Gregor's men and their volley of arrows. He came to a stop and raised his right hand, firing off a blast just as Tony had taught him. He cursed when it missed its mark; he had been aiming for a nasty-looking raider in a dented helm and black leather but instead fired at the ground just next to him and three other men. It was only his good fortune that the blast sent up a cloud of dirt, making it look like Jon had meant to do that on purpose to serve as a distraction. Still, he shook his head at his own foolishness. When he'd been training under the cover of darkness, aiming at bits of floating wood caught in the ebbing waters of the Western Sea, he'd come to be a good marksmen with the gauntlets. But Ser Gregor's men weren't driftwood and didn't bob up and down as they waited for him to shoot. They moved and scurried, forcing him to adjust and readjust even as he dodged their arrows. The only consolation for his poor aim was that the raiders were having as hard of a time as him getting a good shot.

Remembering what Tony had told him about his battle with the Mountain (though John doubted very much Tony watched him in the rematch), Jon made sure to keep one eye always on the mammoth of a man and to keep his distance. Ser Gregor though seemed content enough to wait him out... if one could consider pacing back and forth, roaring in outrage and cursing at his own men 'content'. Jon frowned, however, as the Mountain's men quickly got wise and began to duck for cover, using the burnt out husks of farm houses and squat little buildings to let them slip away from his sight and line up new shots. Where at the beginning he'd been able to duck and weave away from the barrage of arrows now one or two managed to strike him, clinging against his armor. They didn't scratch the metal in the slightest but one had been close enough to the unprotected joint between his bicep and shoulder to make him realize he needed to do something fast. Ser Gregor would never be considered the best tactical mind in the world but his battle with Tony had proven that, if given time, he could really cause problems for his foes. Jon's only option was to come up with something quick, something to put him on the backfoot and give Jon a chance to make an attack. While a part of him, the one that had heard the whispers of what Ser Gregor had done during the Sacking of King's Landing, burned to kill the Mountain Jon knew he simply couldn't do it. Tony was going to get enough heat for this unplanned battle, as it would now be clear that Iron Man was targeting Lord Tywin's bannerman. The plan ahd been for Jon to merely appear as Iron Man while Tony was in King’s Landing, giving him an alibit. It certainly had been to make the war against the Lannisters worse than it was from the first battle with the Mountain. No, Jon needed to merely cause enough damage to make his point and then get back to Iron Pointe.

Scanning the landscape Jon spotted a burning sept and a plan formed in his mind. He had always followed the old gods (only Lady Stark held the Seven in Winterfell though Sansa had prayed to the new gods and the new) but just this once thanked even the Stranger for the chance they were offering him. It would be risky and could end up getting him really hurt but if he pulled it off it would definitely get tongues wagging. He wondered if a bit of Tony's style was rubbing off on him, as it certainly wasn’t his father that drove him to be so daring, but he put that thought aside as he waited for the right moment.

An arrow struck him on the leg, a few inches from a gap, and Jon flexed his feet, making it look like he'd been struck and lost control of his 'magic'. The sunstones in his boots flickered and he began to drop, the sounds of Gregor's men cheering over the shot filling the air even as the wind whipped around him as he fell. He felt his stomach lurk but thankfully it wasn’t as bad as it would have been during a true fall; mostly because he knew he was in complete control. Jon waited until he was in the smoke of the burning building before he reactivated the stones, jerking himself to a stop as he slowed his descent and silently slipped through a hole in the roof of the sept. The fire made him sweat and he shut his eyes as the smoke burned them but he managed to land and kneel down on the hardpack dirt floor, his head lowered to keep the smoke out of his eyes. Starting slowly but growing in volume, the sounds of Gregor's men cheering filled the air as they slowly began to make their way towards the burning sept.

"I want his bloody corpse dragged out here now!" the Mountain roared. "I'll strip that damn armor off of him myself and hang it in my trophy room!"

Jon flexed his hands, feeling the mysterious energy within the sunstones pulse as he prepared himself. Though his face was hidden he still wore a look of utter grimness, one he had seen on his own father's face countless times when he'd been tasked with doing his duty. There was no shame, there was no guilt, there was only the need to defeat these men that terrorized the innocent for their own sick pleasure. His body tensed, his muscles screaming at him to move but he waited... waited... waited...

When he heard the creak of old hinges and the groan of a heavy door being opened Jon sprang into action, firing the sunstones in his boots. He burst through the door, hitting it with such force it struck the man opening it and crushed him against the burning wall of the sept, splattering him like an overripe melon. Jon spun as he rushed out, his hands splayed out as he fired short quick blasts of energy, sometimes at pointblank range. When he finally came to a stop and landed he turned to find a path of severed limbs and twitching broken bodies left in his wake.

"Think you're impressive?" Gregor snapped, motioning for one of his squires to bring him his sword. He drew the blade, which was as thick as a fat man's leg and longer than most knights, and held it as easily as a child would a butter knife. "I've seen your moves before, little man! They don't bewitch me like others! I'll squeeze your head off your neck like it was a grape!"

Jon merely stared down Gregor. He knew he should be frightened. Anyone else would have been frightened. Tony certainly had been frightened and his fight with the Mountain had been his choice in armor he'd crafted with his own two hands. Tony was closer to a boy than a man and had stumbled upon the raiders while wearing armor he'd only donned to complete Tony's mummur play. Grown men trembled at the name of Ser Gregor Clegane and the mightiest of knights would bow their heads when the Mountain that Rides lumbered past them, daring not to look him in the eye and risk his wrath. And yet... and yet Jon didn't feel and fear. He felt no terror or drive to flee. An odd calmness settled onto him and he felt from some deep part of his soul courage he'd never known he'd had burst forth like boiling water from a trembling kitchen pot.

"I'm surprised you can hold that sword, what with all the baby blood on your hands," Jon began to walk towards Gregor, a Tony-like smirk forming on his lips. He could tell that the Mountain didn't like that comment and Jon decided to push his luck. "You're nothing than a glorified butcher who keeps getting lucky. You don’t face fragile women and whimpering children this time." He paused before, in one fluid motion, pulled a sword that had been stabbed into the ground free and rushed Gregor, swinging at his torso. The massive knight just managed to dodge the blow. "Today you fight me.”

"You've learned some new tricks!" Gregor roared, lunging at Jon. "They won't save you!" He swept his sword in a wide arc and Jon moved to block it... only to find his sword, and his entire body for that matter, go flying before skidding to a stop. Gregor snorted as he stomped towards the groaning hero, his leather gauntlets creaking as he squeezed the handle of his massive claymore. He finally game to a stop beside Jon and lifted his sword high into the air. "Armor might be different but you are the same as any fool that thinks he can beat me! I am the Mountain and the Mountain bows to no one!"

That's when Jon fired twin blasts from his Gauntlets.

Ser Gregor let out a bellow that seemed to make the very earth shudder. Of course for Jon the rumble might have been his body rocketing away from the massive knight, his armored form skipping along the hardpacked dirt like a stone on a calm pond. When he finally came to a stop he found Ser Gregor had fallen to his knees, the greaves he'd been wearing torn away, revealing red blistered skin. Jon rose to his feet, the muscles in his arms and chest burning as he did so. Taking one of Gregor's swings, even with his sword, had done a number on him. Still, as he looked at the massive knight and how he had been brought down Jon couldn't help but feel it was worth it.

"If a Mountain doesn't bow..." Jon asked, activating his boots and lifting into the air, "...then what are you doing now?"

He didn't hear Gregor's response as he took to the sky. He had done far enough. It was time to go home.

Chapter Text

Arya

"Why are we doing this again?"

Syrio merely smiled, stretching his arms over his head before drawing them back towards his chest, folding them as one might in prayer at a sept. He slowly raised his right leg up, never once wobbling or teetering as he did so. Arya, despite the question, mimicked his poise as best she could, pleased that she only began to rock for a moment before she found her center of gravity.

It was early morning in King's Landing. Peasants had already begun to rouse themselves from restless sleeps and drunken stupors while servants hurried to prepare for their sleeping mistresses and masters. The smell of warm bread managed to cover the stink that seemed to forever cling to the city and the first cries of vendors peddling their fruits and other wares began to echo through the alleys and up to the Red Keep. Arya and her 'dance instructor', however, had been up for an hour already, standing in only their breeches and loose shirts. Both were barefoot and Arya kept rubbing her big toe against the floor, marveling at how something that looked so smooth could actually be quite rough. She remembered how the Queen had taken her and Sansa on a tour of their new home and bragged about how the floors were like polished glass, making a joke about being able to ice skate on them; Sansa had laughed while Arya didn’t see what was so funny. But with her shoes removed Arya found the stone under her bare soles just as rough as it was at Winterfell. Polish and disguise… just like so much of the Capital. Unlike her sister Arya had never been infatuated with King’s Landing and her time here only reinforced that opinion. If it weren’t for Syrio Arya honestly believed she’d have stolen a horse by now and raced to Iron Pointe to join Jon.

"I told you," Syrio said, lowering his right leg until his foot was level with his left knee, "we do this to become better at the dance."

Arya frowned as she slipped into the next position, swallowing as she struggled to lower herself down so that the toes of her left foot would just touch the floor without her toppling. "Wouldn't it make more sense to... build up my arms to swing a sword better?"

Syrio scoffed at that. "If you want to be like your drunk king who only got through his war by wildly swinging his hammer then leave Syrio and find a woodcutter. He will give you a log and give you arms that will make you topple over!" Arya let out a yelp as she fell onto her ass. "Like that," Syrio said with a smirk. "Position Three."

The young girl nodded, happy that this was one she could do to completion. It involved them slowly bending down, planting their hands onto the ground, and them lifting first one leg and then the other before returning to a standing position. Arya thought it very much like a slow-motion cartwheel and after a week and a half she'd mastered it and now could do it while talking. "I just don't understand why it is so important."

"What is the best way to not get cut by a blade?" Syrio asked.

"Don't be in its path," Arya said, remembering that lesson. She planted her hands on the ground, feeling the course stone on her palms. She did find it strange that she was feeling less and less of the stone's rough texture each day; Jory had commented a few days ago that her hands were getting as calloused as his. Arya smirked at that... Sansa would faint if she could see Arya's hands now. Her sister was convinced that a woman was ugly if her skin was perfect as silk. Arya didn’t care much for beauty… beauty didn’t save you from death. Some of the ugliest people she knew still lived.

"Do you know why it is so rare to see old knights?" Syrio and Arya in tandem lifted their right feet off the ground. "Because as one grows old they grow brittle and stiff. This is true of the body as it is of the mind. A man who was once a radical will become set in his ways and a warrior who once leapt about the battlefield finds themselves rooted like one of your Weirwoods. Green branches become hard kindling and soft limbs become stiff and unbending. It is a fact of life. Look at your sister; think of how she once danced about light as a rose petal on a soft breeze. She does not take the Positions and even now she slows and grows still."

Syrio was right. Arya remembered how her sister used to practice dancing for grand balls, twirling with imagined partners, her feet seemingly never touching the floor. She would whip around tables and chairs without even the hem of her dress touching them, nimble legs guiding her up and down the great hall of Winterfell. These days she was more prone to stand still or sit, her face looking like it had been carved from white marble. She knew this was mostly because Sansa believed this to be how a future queen was to behave but once and a while Arya could see that her sister had lost some of the fluidity she'd once had.

As if reading Arya's thoughts Syrio said, "She does not move. Muscles are like hounds... their master must let them out to romp and play or else they grow listless and lazy. One day your sister will need to move a certain way and find that her body won't listen to her anymore; her muscles have lost respect for her and would prefer to just stay where they are. By then it will be too late and she will grow more still and stiff until she is nothing more than a wizen old woman, covering herself with memories of how she once was."

Arya went into the full handstand and giggled at the thought of Sansa as an old crone. It was amusing to imagine her face covering in deep wrinkles and her red hair turned white like frost. She imagined for a moment her sister strolling through the throne room, the stupid ass Joffrey holding her while wearing that ugly little smirk on his face, only for them to find that every step they took made them age a year. Arya could see her sister running to try and get to the Iron Throne, thinking it would protect her, only for her gait to slow as her face became wrinkly, the skin around her neck loose and liver spots appearing all over her hands. She'd turn to her precious Joffrey only to find him many stones heavier, panting as he tried to move his bulk, his clothing bursting as he packed on more and more weight. That would certainly horrify Sansa and Arya delighted in imagining her finally getting to the Iron Throne only to see her old, decrypied form reflected back from all the gleaming swords, her cries of denial and horror ringing through the entire castle.

Syrio waited until she was done before he continued, the two of them moving into a full handstand. "But muscles can also be kept in good repair if one knows what to do. Your sword... one day it may rust and break, will it not? So would you let it sit out in the rain?"

"No!" Arya said, aghast.

"No... you clean it and ensure the blade is sharp. You care for it and ensure it is ready for when you need it. Do not forget that your body is its own weapon! You must learn how to use it and how to make it ready!" They finished their position but Syrio waved her off before she could go into the next one. "Enough... there are other things I wish to discuss." He motioned for her to join him on the small balcony that overlooked one of the main courtyards of the Red Keep, the two of them easing themselves down and leaning against opposite sides of the archway, their legs spread out before them as they soaked in the rising morning sun. Soon it would be too hot for Arya to enjoy the outdoors and she'd be trapped inside the Red Keep with the fools and foul things that called it home. Everyone said that Sansa was built for the south, that she flourished in it, but Arya knew she was too much of a Stark and like her father she simply couldn't stand the heat of southern parts of the kingdom. She wondered how Jon was doing, if his move to a more southern home was just as painful; she thought not. She had a feeling if she were at Iron Pointe, even without Syrio, things would be better.

Her mind went to Sansa once more, as it seemed to always do those days, and she latched onto a memory from their youth. When she had been very young her sister had claimed that Arya's real name was Arya Snow and she was a bastard just like Jon. Sansa had meant to wound and hurt with her comment and had been startled when Arya had seen such news as a gift from the Old Gods. To her it only made sense; she'd never felt like she fit in with Robb and Sansa, always preferring the company of Jon. She looked nothing like Sansa or Robb either. Her older siblings both took after their mother's Tully side, the same with Bran and Rickon (something that, from the rumors she'd heard the servants whisper when they didn't think she was listening, distressed her mother greatly and explained why her mother was so desperate to make her, the only Stark-looking of her children, into a perfect little lady). In fact the only one of the Stark children that truly looked like their father was herself and Jon. She remembered how people always said that bastards were wilder than their true born siblings and when she'd thought of how she always got in the way and seemed to be filled with boundless energy it just made more sense that she was a bastard as well. She'd reveled in the news, thrilled that she and Jon were so connected while the bonds that tied her to her annoying older sister had been lessened.

That pleasure had died when someone had whispered to her mother that Arya had asked Jory why her name wasn't Arya Snow. When her lady mother had found out what she believed... and who had filled her head with such notions... Arya had received a calm yet stern talking to and Sansa had been grounded for a month.

Still, despite what he mother said, Arya had always felt closer to Jon and her father, feeling that they were closer to the Stark line than her siblings.

Arya blinked when Syrio playfully nudged her with his foot, a smiling blooming on her face when she saw him wag an eyebrow at her. "Sorry... just thinking about how my sister and I are nothing a like."

"Oh?" Syrio asked. "In what ways?"

"Well... like this!" Arya gestured at the two of them. "There is no way Sansa would sit on the floor with her teacher, her shoes off as she watched the sun rise. She'd faint at the mere thought of it!"

"Your sister is one who is set in her ways," Syrio said. "Or, perhaps it is better to say, the ways of old. She does not realize that the world has begun to change and with it the old ways will wither and die."

Arya frowned at that. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that with the coming of the Iron Man all that your Seven Kingdoms once held will come tumbling down. Dynasties will crumble and the rituals and beliefs of the past are about to die."

"I don't know about that," Arya said. Early on in their training Syrio had told her that a skilled warrior needed a cunning mind to go along with a sharp blade. It would do no good for her to simply know how to swing a sword if her mind was, as he said, 'like curds and whey'. Thus they would, from time to time, debate and discuss a wide range of topics. Politics, religion, the myths of Westeros... all things that everyone from Sansa to her mother to her septas had said were offlimits Syrio wanted her to discuss and debate. "I mean, things have changed before without destroying tradition. King Robert's Rebellion-"

"Did not change things at all," Syrio said. When Arya merely stared at him Syrio waved his hand in the air. "Who was the power behind King Aerys before he became the Mad King?"

"Tywin Lannister," Arya said, remembering her history lessons.

"And who is the power behind the throne now?"

"...Tywin Lannister," Arya admitted. That much was clear, even to her.

Syrio nodded. "When Aegon the Conqueror was crowned king great houses crumbled while others rose up from the ashes. When King Robert was crowned king your world remained the same. Oh, a few knights were sent to your icy wall but for the common man the sun still rose and set as they had always done."

"And you think Iron Man will change things?"

"He already has," Syrio stated. "The people of this realm have begun to open their eyes to the greater world and finally begin to see that there is much more out there than their petty concerns." Arya frowned at that but Syrio wagged his finger at her. "Oh, you don't like what Syrio says? But you know in your heart it to be true. All men have little thoughts and wants, it is in our nature. Even you, young one... you wanted to learn to fight because you sought to stand out from your mother and sister and channel the rage you felt at the little blond cunt that killed the baker's boy." Arya glowered but silently admitted that her 'dance instructor' was correct. Flashing a victorious smirk Syrio leaned back, his eyes half closed. "Most important of all is that this Iron Man has been an awakening for those that will use their own power more wisely. It shows them that soon the time will come for them to reveal themselves and make their stand."

Arya's forehead crinkled at that. "What do you mean about using powers wisely?"

Syrio sighed, "I know you worship this Iron Man for what he has done but even you must see he is quite foolish in saving people as he does?"

"How can you say that?" Arya demanded, her temper flashing. Syrio slowly opened his eyes, catching her gaze and Arya took a calming breath. They had been working on her temper, as Syrio said that losing herself to rage in a battle was a deathwish as that was when one was most clumsy. When she was a touch calmer she asked, "Do you think he will be hunted down by the Wardens and killed? Is that why he should-"

Syrio's laughter cut her off and Arya gave him such a sour look that, had the Queen come in at that moment, she would have thought that Arya was actually her long-lost daughter merely dressed up as a Stark. When her instructor finally calmed himself he said, "Your kingdom is ruled by fat fools who can barely wipe their own asses and even then they need twenty bannermen to make sure they strike the right hole! The Iron Man has nothing to fear from them." Syrio ran his hand along his brow, rolling his eyes skyward. "No, what makes him almost as foolish as those that rule your Seven Kingdoms is how he wastes his time and his life defending those that will turn on him the moment it is worth their time."

Arya shook her head. "No... the people love him..."

"I met rich merchant in Pentos once. He had done much for the people there, paid fair wages. And yet his servants called him a goblin under their breath when he asked them to do a distasteful task. I asked him why he allowed them to do so and he said it was simply human nature. He told me 'the only thing the people love more than a hero is to see a hero fail, fall... die trying'. The people of your Seven Kingdoms will rally to this Iron Man now, cheer his name and speak of how they'd wait in the rain just for a glimpse of the one that taught them to hold on for a second longer. But when he doesn't do as they wish, even for a moment, they will turn on him."

"I can't believe that," Arya stated.

"King Aerys believed as you did," Syrio countered. "He now rots in an unmarked grave while his son’s killer gets his ass kissed by those who were the Mad King's greatest allies. So is the way of your Seven Kingdoms and the same will happen with your Iron Man."

"Then what should he do?" Arya asked petulantly.

Syrio smiled though at her frustration. "He can do little. Already the wheel turns for those that will replace him and make this land their own. There are people... glorious people of great power... who have hid themselves away from the abuses of the common folk. But their time is soon to come and they will rise up and overthrow the old masters and make themselves the new." Syrio's voice grew bitter and cold and Arya was struck by his dark passion and rage. "They will no longer cower in the darkness, fearing to even learn from a septa as children because of how they look and what they can do. Their time is coming and soon sides will be chosen... those that are special and those that aren't."

Arya swallowed at that. "How do you know this?"

"I know because I was told by my teacher... the man that rose me up from what I once was and made me grand."

A touch concerned but overall more thoughtful and curious, Arya asked, "Who is this teacher?"

"Only those within his brotherhood may know his true name. It is forbidden to speak it to outsiders. Perhaps, one day, we will welcome you among us and you will be able to ask him yourself." Syrio grew silent and it was only when Arya was sure he was done speaking and their lessons were complete that he said, "But his title... that I can speak."

Arya leaned in closer, eyes wide and face anxious. "And that is? Maester? Lord?"

A smile ghosted across Syrio's lips.

"Magneto."

Chapter Text

Ned

As he made his way through the halls of the Red Keep one thought kept echoing through Ned’s mind: he’d put this off too long.

He’d meant to make this trip sooner. He hated that he’d neglected his investigation into Jon Arryn’s murder, feeling it a grave dishonor to the man that had become a second father to him, but so much had happened in such a short amount of time that had forced his attention away from the death of the old man. Cat’s arrival and warning that someone had tried to kill Bran with a dagger she believed belonged to Tyrion Lannister. The Iron Man and the news that his cousin was the one who had, though admittedly by accident, created the armor the knight wore. The evening before he had learned of Cat’s folly, of how she’d captured the Imp and was now marching him to the Eyrie of all places so that she might have him tried for his crimes. Ned had not often felt annoyance with Cat; their marriage had been a good one and they complimented each other well. But in that moment he had cursed her name and wondered when his wife had been replaced by her impulsive brother Edmure. His wife had one grand fault: she reacted without thought when it came to her children.

Ned rubbed his face as he continued his walk down the empty halls of the Keep. Antony had been right; Cat had been allowed far too much leeway to mistreat Jon. Had Jon been willful or violent, like the tales of Roose Bolton’s bastard (and that was another thing he’d have to deal with soon), then Ned could have understood. But Jon just wanted to feel a sense of belonging. He wanted to be family. And he was. In another life he would have sat with them, been treated as an equal…

‘Promise me, Ned’

He sighed. Cat hated Jon because she feared he would put Robb aside for him. All because of the boy’s hair color.

After his parting with Jon and Antony he’d quietly put some questions to his men. It had taken some time and subtly that he utterly hated but he’d learned things that he’d wished he hadn’t. No… he’d learned things that he wish he’d known much sooner. Catelyn had become a joke among the servants when it came to their children. She was so sure that Robb was going to be put aside for Jon because Robby looked too much like a Tully that she’d scolded those in their employ who showed poor Jon even the slightest more sympathy than Robb. It was ironic because many of the common workers within Winterfell were bastards themselves and, as Ned had learned from Jory after the man had gotten a bit too much into his cups, formed a ‘network’ of sorts had formed to help Jon when Cat went on a rampage. As for Robb he could do no wrong yet it was clear that Cat, and to Ned’s own shame himself, had failed to truly teach him what it meant to be a lord. He looked the part, could stand and give commands… but the little moves that all lords must make were lost on him. Ned sighed and prayed he’d be able to correct that mistake soon enough.

Sansa and Arya were more errors. Cat wanted her daughters to be perfect Southern ladies and in her attempts to mold them into such she’d made them complete opposites, both to the negative. Ned saw too much of Lyanna in Arya and had honestly feared while Robert was in Winterfell that she and Joffrey would run off together. Of course he now saw that Arya was too wild for a Southern lordling or prince. Cat took this to mean that Arya would never wed and thus pushed her hard, fearing that Arya would end up alone and scorned by those around them; Ned for his part was reminded of Maege Mormont and knew that Arya would be just fine in the North. As for Sansa… well, that was a mess of its own and he feared that by the time she opened her eyes and learned that the world wasn’t a fairy tale it would be too late.

And now Bran. Bran’s injury had seen her lash out at Jon, cling to any theory she could of what had happened, and now capture the son of Tywin bloody Lannister. Ned bit back a pained laugh; with his luck Cat would get it in her head that Tywin himself was to blame and lead a march against Casterly Rock.

He sighed. He knew much of his current anger came from today’s meeting, which had turned all wrong and ended with hateful words. Robert had learned that Daenerys Targaryen had been wed to one of the Dothraki, was pregnant with his child, and had their greatest blooddrider as her loyal guardian. The King’s decree had been fierce and swift: he wanted the girl dead, the baby cut out of her womb, and if they had time her brother the Begger King and this berserker known only by the name of Logan dead as well. He wanted their heads sent to him, the baby’s included, and mounted on spikes in front of the Red Keep, a final reminder that the Targaryens were dead and gone and would never return. He’d even asked Renly to look into buying a little spike for the infant’s head.

Ned had been unable to hold his tongue. He had tried to argue that the girl be spared, that Robert show honor. ‘Promise me Ned’. His promise was proven wise… Robert would not budge and became more enraged as Ned continued to argue with him. He claimed Ned was betraying his family… and Ned had bellowed that it was Robert who betrayed himself. He’d flung off the badge of the Hand and told Robert he was done before he’d marched out of the Small Council room.

After that things had gone quicker than he’d ever imagined they could. He gave the command to Jory to find Sansa and Arya and bring them to his solar at once. Arya, he told him, would be easy enough, as he should bring Syrio with them as well; Ned had already decided to bring the fencing master with him back to Winterfell. Cat would complain but honestly, after her business with Tyrion Lannister, he didn’t care what she said. It would keep Arya happy. Sansa wwould be a different matter and Ned told Jory that he was to inform the girl, in no uncertain terms, that she was to come with them now or Ned would have her shipped to the Silent Sisters. It was harsh but after all the frustrations of the last few days he honestly didn’t have it in him to coddle Sansa anymore.

It had been Jory that had reminded him of this trip that needed to be made. He’d had the man find out what Jon had done during his last few weeks and Jory had returned with the news that Jon had visited a blacksmith. It was a very odd trip for Jon, who Ned knew hated the forges; while he’d punished Ned and Robert in their youth by assisting many at the Eyrie (including, to Ned’s horror, a dressmaker who’d used him and Robert to study how the cloth fell; sometimes Ned still had nightmares of Robert looking at a mirror and asking if the outfit made his ass look big) he’d never once sent them to help the blacksmith, feeling it not right to send them to do something he himself loathed. Jon Arryn had never spoken of why but Ned, in his youth, had heard the whispers, the tales of Jon’s boyhood days and the terrible accident that had befallen his best friend Viktor that left the young man horrifically maimed and eventually driven him from his home and Westeros. He didn’t know if it was true but for something to draw Jon to a blacksmith it would have to have been important.

He paused for a moment when he came to the hall that led to his tower (though no longer his, not after he gave up the title of Hand of the King). Ned knew what would be the sane thing to do: go to his solar, pack up his belongings, and get the hell out of King’s Landing before Robert decided to make good on his promise or, worse, apologize and convince him to take back the mantle of Hand of the King. He should have never gone South, didn’t want to do the job, and now had the chance to escape. Robert wasn’t the man he had known and he had enough troubles in the North to deal with. Leave now, while he could. Go North, fortify the Neck, and then wait out Robert’s wrath… or better yet never leave at all.

And yet… and yet honor demanded he follow up this final lead, lest he spend the rest of his days wondering what he might have found.

Ned ran his fingers through his hair. “My honor is going to get me killed one of these days,” he muttered to himself.

“Have you never listened to the old tales, cousin?” Antony asks, stepping out of the shadows, a smile on his lips. “They call that ‘foreshadowing’. I’d avoid it. It’s kind of like Chekhov’s Crossbow. That’s a playwrite from Braavos and he-”

The Lord of Winterfell glared at his cousin. “What do you want?” He had hoped that Antony would have left by now but it seemed that he wanted to stick about. Word had spread of the Iron Man once more fighting the Mountain, thus forever clearing Antony’s name, and now Robert and the court seemed to secretly feel the need to apologize for the confusion by pumping Antony with food and wine.

Antony shrugged. “I wanted to make sure you were okay. Word has already spread concerning you and our great King’s falling out.”

“Of course it has,” Ned grumbled. He’d learned that in King’s Landing if one touched their crotch everyone knew of it within a minute and within an hour the tale turned into one pleasuring themselves on the Iron Throne while Pycelle watched on. Give it a day and Ned was sure it would turn into him and the Queen having a masterbating contest that Robert judged while Petyr Baelish kept score. “I’m fine, Antony.”

“Do you need help leaving?” his cousin asked, not taking the hint to leave Ned alone. “I only brought a few men but I can send them to help.” When Ned looked at him Antony smirked. “Come now, cousin… if you weren’t planning to flee I’d think you a fool. Hands know well when it is time to escape and it is always when they stop being Hands and become ‘that bastard who spit in the face of the king’.” Antony shrugged. “If it would help I could take Sansa and Arya with me, if you fear being stopped. I’ll make sure they got back home or keep them at Iron Pointe until you ask for them.”

“We’ll be fine,” Ned said gruffly, though not with as much bitterness as he could have had. While he is annoyed that his cousin was once more butting his way into his life he couldn’t fault him for wanting to help. Antony stopped and Ned breathed a sigh of relief, hoping that maybe now the other man had gotten the hint to leave him be.

“Then perhaps I could help you see the blacksmith that Jon Arryn visited before he took ill.”

Though he said it quietly to Ned it felt as if his cousin had bellowed the words.

“How…” Ned whispered.

“Ned, think of who you are… and how, of all people, even you are playing the Game of Thrones. You think I don’t have my own ways of learning what happens in this city?” Antony tapped his forehead. “You are my better in many ways, cousin, but even you must admit my cunning is greater than yours. I haven’t been wasting my time here and you haven’t been subtle. Sending one of your best men out to be your runners? Sloppy.” Antony’s smile faded and when he spoke Ned was startled by how serious his cousin was. Ned had never seen Antony so serious. “Jon Arryn was a good man, Ned, and I know how much he meant to you. And while I know most days you wish it not so… you are family. The last bit of family I have left. Same with you, now that I think about it. My father and mother are dead. Your parents are dead as are 2/3rds of your siblings. You and Benjen are my only cousins and he’s up on the Wall. That makes you all I have left and when you hurt… well, I do care about family, even if I don’t show it right.” Antony tugged at his beard. “Let me help you, even if only for a few hours. Besides… sounds like fun.”

“I can do this on my own,” Ned says, though even he can tell how weak his argument is.

“Uh, yeah… no you can’t. Ned, where are you going?”

“A blacksmith,” Ned said, hating how he sounded so dumb. He was used to people thinking that, laughing about how the Starks were just brainless fools. He didn’t want to be seen as a genius or a schemer but he didn’t want people thinking he sat around picking at his toes and drooling on himself.

“And why would Ned Stark, who has just declared that he is done being Hand of the King and wants to get back to Winterfell as quickly as possible, go tarry and see a blacksmith all by his lonesome? Hmmm? You know what makes a better story? Ned Stark gets roped into visiting a blacksmith by his rich arrogant cousin who happens to be the best smith in all the Seven Kingdoms. Why this one blacksmith? Because Antony Stark is mad, that’s why, and poor Ned Stark, confused after fighting with the king, finally gives in because his cousin won’t stop pestering him.” Antony smirked a devious little grin. “Doesn’t that sound better to all the little birds the Spider will send to follow you?”

Ned wanted to find fault with the plan but couldn’t. It was a brilliant plan, actually, one he’d have never thought of but of course that was the point. Ned was not a cunning man… smart, perhaps, smarter than people give him credit for, but Antony’s mind made him feel like he should be wandering the Red Keep going “Hodor, Hodor”. It made him wonder if he shouldn’t convince Robert to take Antony as the Hand of the King; his cousin appeared better skilled at the Game in a few weeks than Ned had been in months. Antony was cunning, he was smart…

…and Ned was suddenly more and more convinced he was Iron Man.

It all is just too convenient. Too set up. It’s like some mummer’s play where circumstances just happen to occur at the perfect moments and at the end the audience laughs at the foolish players who couldn’t see the con being pulling right in front of them while the dashing bandit rode off into the sunset. Antony is flighty but not careless. There is no way he wouldn’t know who he made such armor for; it would be like Ned not knowing the names of his own children. Ned remembers the helmet he held in his hands and wonders again at just why Antony made a second set. He claims the Iron Man asked for two and only collected one… but wouldn’t it make more sense if Antony made it to show just how much he couldn’t be the Iron Man?

But then… who fought the Mountain? Ned considers this as he settles onto his horse, Antony mounting his own. The head of his guard could have donned the armor, Ned considers. The dark skinned man was a trained warrior. Or another of his soldiers. Perhaps his castellean, Ned can’t remember his name. Ned wouldn’t put it past Antony to have his wife in the armor; the Lady of Iron Pointe is foreign born and bold in ways other women aren’t. The only person Ned supposes couldn’t have donned the armor is Jon… even Antony isn’t mad enough to make a boy fight the Mountain.

A cunning man would have broached the topic carefully, with subtly.

“Are you the Iron Man?”

Ned was not a cunning man.

“Of course not! That is almost as insane as you lying about being Jon’s father!”

Antony was a cunning man.

“But of course you’d have to be,” Antony says, not noticing that Ned has grown pale and his brow slick with sweat that has nothing to do with the heat. “Why would Eddard Stark, who cares so much for his honor, disgrace himself needlessly? I suppose… if Jon’s real father was someone of great importance… and his mother was someone close to your heart… but again, that is just insane. Like me being the Iron Man.”

Ned swallowed and nodded. The message was clear: I know you know… and now you know that I know.

That matter was quickly dropped and they rode in silence to the blacksmith. Each knew the other held their greatest secret and to reveal one would reveal the other and bring ruin to them both. But in Ned’s case his ruin would hurt another, while only Antony would truly suffer for his. In this Ned was caught and he knew it.

When they finally arrived at the blacksmith’s Ned found it… ordinary. It wasn’t some slum where they pounded on scrap metal and tried to trick the poor into thinking they are getting valyrian steel, nor was it some grand establishment like one would find at Iron Pointe that catered only to the richest in Westeros. It was just a blacksmith’s shop, no more or less. What he learned from the man, Tobho Mott, was a surprise though: Jon Arryn came to see his apprentice, Gendry.

Looking upon the tall lad, who was Sansa’s age but is nearly as tall as Ned with Robert’s eyes and nose and mop of hair, he got answers and more questions.

“Robert’s bastard,” Ned whispered.

“His son,” Antony growled and Ned winced, having forgotten how that word bothers his cousin. In a louder voice he said, “Gendry, was it? Do you know who I am?”

“No m’lord,” the young man (for at his size how could one call him a child?) said, brow furrowed in confusion. “Should I?”

“Watch how you speak!” Mott snapped before turning to Ned and Antony. “I’m sorry, m’lords, but the boy is all muscle and no brains. A colossus, as the folk tales say.”

“I don’t know about that,” Ned said. “Just because he doesn’t know one lord from another doesn’t mean he’s a fool.”

“I have a way to see,” Antony said. “Show me your work.” When Mott and Gendry stared at him Antony wiggled his head about. “Come on… someone like you, clearly enjoys working with metal? You’ve made a few things in your off hours. Show me”

Gendry nodded and hurried off while Ned talked with Mott. “What did the Hand of the King speak to him about?”

“This and that,” Mott stated. “He asked if I treated him well. He asked about his family, which he has none. His mother, a sweet girl with curls of gold, passed away five years ago then the tavern she worked at got sold to the Master of Coin and was turned into a brothel; that’s when I took him in. The Hand made a few more comments and then paid me a few gold dragons to pay for the boy’s apprenticeship. Allow him to actually make some coin, to save up to open a shop of his own. I think he was impressed with him.”

“As well he should have been,” Antony said as Genry returned, the muscular youth holding a bullhead helm. Antony picked it up and began to inspect it, a gleam in his eye that Ned only saw when a true master of a craft looked over the work of another. At first Genry appearrf angry and perhaps a bit fearful that Antony would damage the helm but quickly the boy saw that while Antony moved quickly everything he did was deliberate and careful. “The seams are damn perfect and the curve, other than in this spot here, is spot on. What colors would you use for this?”

“None, m’lord,” Gendry said. “Color chips away. A waste of time and money.”

“Not if the metal is already colored.”

“I could never afford metal from Iron Pointe,” Gendry stated.

“Those who apprentice under the Lord of Iron Pointe are allowed to try their hands at it… assuming they have the skill. And you have the skill.”

“Who are you?” Gendry asked, forgetting himself.

Antony smiled. “The Lord of Iron Pointe.” He passed the helm back. “I’ll speak with you in a moment.” Gendry nodded, befuddlement clear in his eyes, and raced back into the shop. Ned gave his cousin a confused look but Antony instead focused on Mott. “How much longer does he have with you?”

“Three years,” Mott said.

“I’ll buy the rights to his apprenticeship,” Antony said. “I’ll even give you a month or so to keep him on, so you can find another. We’ll arrange for someone to get him to Iron Pointe.”

“I’ll… I’ll get the parchment, m’lord.”

Ned looked at Antony once Mott was gone. “What is that about?”

“I like to encourage those with the gift,” Antony said.

“And your true reason?” Ned asked.

“Let’s just say it would be smart to keep one of the king’s sons close at hand,” Antony said before going inside to discuss terms with Mott. Ned watched him go, wondering if he should follow after him or head back to the Keep to finish packing, when the sound of horse hooves filled his ears. He turns just in time to see a host of mounted knights ride towards him… and Jaime Lannister leading the riders in his white cloak. He looked much as he did during the feast in Winterfell, lordly and proud… only now instead of a taunting smirk the Kingslayer wore a scowl.

“Lord Stark,” Jaime said, dismounting and striding forward, his hand on his sword, “I’d like a few words with you concerning my brother.”

“You’re brother?” Ned said, fighting the growing fear he felt welling up in his stomach. Of course word of Cat’s actions had reached the Lannisters. Suddenly he realized how his comments to the king and his haste to pack the girls up might look to one used to the dark plots of the Capital.

“Oh, you know, little man, not hard to forget. I’ve heard some terrible rumors about him and your wife…and for once, when it comes to my brother, they don’t involve his cock.”

“Whatever happened…”

“It seems to me,” Jaime said, cutting him off, “that there are two options. Either you commanded my brother taken or your wife did so without your knowledge. If it is the former and he has been met with harm I’ll have your head. If it is the latter I’ll have hers.”

Ned’s eyes narrowed and he placed his hand on his own sword. “It was by my order,” Ned says. As much as he hated what Cat has done, honor demanded he take the bl-

Suddenly Antony’s words from only an hour ago were ringing in his ears.

“As I thought. Find his men… I’m sure there are some here. Lord Stark would not have come alone. Kill them.” The Kingslayer drew his sword. “Don’t worry, Lord Stark… I’ll only hurt you enough to get the message across.”

“You’ll try,” Ned said as he drew his own blade. Steel sang as the two traded blows. Jaime Lannister was good… very good… better than himself, he had to admit, but Ned had something Jaime did not: desperation. He’d himself seen it on the battlefield a hundred times, when a more seasoned warrior fell to a lesser opponent because of hubris on one’s part and drive on the other. As the two moved back and forth, parrying blows and striking with such strength that each man’s arms began to ache, Ned knew at the very least he was holding his own-

White hot pain laced through his leg and Ned fell to the ground, his sword falling from his hand. He gaped like a landed fish and looked at his right leg and the spear point that had been driven through it. Jaime Lannister looked at him, a mixture of annoyance that he hadn’t given the wound himself and malicious joy at Ned’s suffering warring on his features. He looked down at his blade, weighing his options, and Ned struggled to stand and face him only to find his body betraying him.

“WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?!?!”

Ned turned his head and watched as Antony stormed out of the smith’s shop.

One of Jaime’s men moved to grab him but Antony glared him down. “Touch a hair on my amazing head and Tywin Lannister will have yours!”

“He won’t touch us!” one of the knights stated. “We are his men.”

“And I am his bannermen!” Antony snapped dismissively. “You think your pathetic life matters to him when compared to me? Tywin Lannister can take a piss and hit another man to replace you. Me? I’m one of a kind.” Ned blinked, the pain making it hard to focus, and tried to focus on what Antony was saying. “Jaime Jaime Jaime… Tyrion would be so disappointed in you.”

Jaime glowers at the man. “It is for Tyrion I do this. If you were his friend you’d be doing the same.”

“Would you mind explaining just what has happened?” Antony asks, holding up a hand. “I’m afraid I missed much. I went from finding a new apprentice to your man stabbing my cousin.”

For a moment Ned wondered if Jaime would attack Antony too but as the seconds ticked by the Kingslayer got control of his emotions. “Catelyn Stark kidnapped Tyrion.”

“You know this for sure. Right? Not like you’d come here after hearing a whisper.” Jaime was silent and Antony sighed. “Of course you did. Rushing in on rumors. Jaime the Rusher, they should call you. Or not because that is a terrible nickname so forget it. Sorry, usually better than this but the sight of Ned’s blood is kind of offputting. So I have to ask… are you completely dense?”

“His wife kidnapped my brother.”

“Yes and I am pissed off about that as well,” Antony said with a sigh, like a septa trying to educate a dumb child. “And Lady Stark tends to do stupid, irrational things. What do you think she’ll do to Tyrion when she hears you maimed her husband, hmm? Give him sweet wine and a chance at her tits?” Jaime didn’t have an answer for that. “Get a maester and let’s get him back to the Red Keep… then we can send a letter to your father, which I am writing because, well, you’re and idiot and I don’t trust you not to bungle it up, and see if we can’t figure this out without Tyrion dead, okay?”

“You can take Stark all you want… and write to my father,” Jaime snapped and Ned saw the Kingslayer’s fuzzy form mounting his horse. “I’m going to find my brother.”

Ned let out a pained groan as Jaime and his host rode off. Antony kneeled down and sighed.

“And you think I’m the screw up?”

Ned opened his mouth to answer but found the darkness that creeped into his vision more inviting and chose rest instead.

Chapter Text

Tywin

“Tell me Rowan… what do you know of curses?”

The maester looked at the Lord of Casterly Rock, startled by the question. Tywin scoffed. Of course Rowan was already rather befuddled by the meeting his lord had called. It was himself, Lord Tywin, Kevan Lannister, and Ser Gregor. A strange group, to say the least. Not a usual gathering in any way, shape, or form. It was almost like a bad joke, the kind a servant would tell when too into his cups. A lord’s brother, a maester, and a knight walk into a solar…

Tywin scowled slightly. The first person to tell that joke would be whipped by all of them in turn.

“Curses? I’m afraid very little. I did not study the mystic arts in Oldtown as I found them quite foolish.”

“So you could not lift the curse that is on me now?” Tywin asked.

Kevan stared at his brother. “Are… are you jesting?”

“Not in the slightest,” Tywin said casually, though all could tell there was a sharpness in his words. “It is the only rational explanation for how I could end up with such stupid children.” Tywin leaned over his desk and gestured at the slips of paper that littered it. “Tell me, all of you… how is it that the worst of my children, the drunken little monster who brings shame like a cat brings mice, is the only one that at this moment I’m convinced has any brains!”

“You aren’t mad at Tyrion being captured?” Kevan asked.

“Oh, I am enraged. But as much as I’d like to blame Tyrion for this he did no wrong.” Tywin scowled… it was painful to admit that when it came to his horrid youngest born. “He wasn’t caught in a whore house or drunk off his ass… he went into an inn to sleep and was captured by Ned Stark’s shrew of a wife. The only thing I can fault Tyrion for is going off to see the Wall rather than returning to King’s Landing but considering what he tends to do in the Capital having him in the far north away from all of us was a gift.” He paused, looking at Rowan. “Do we have the name of the inn?”

“We do, my lord.”

“Good. We’ll pay them a visit soon enough. It seems to me we must… settle the bill.” Tywin began to pace. “Do you know what Jaime would have done, if he’d been in Tyrion’s position? Fought. Grabbed his sword and took them all on, everyone in that inn. Oh, he’d have cut down half of them, I’m sure, but one of them would get lucky with a blade. A lion is strong but enough swords can still cut it down. As for Cersei… oh, I can imagine it now. Her screams that she was the queen, as if that were some magic spell that made everyone do whatever she desired, would ring through the lands even as they put a sack on her head and marched her off. She’d probably be dead before they got to their destination, the men tired of her talk. Only Tyrion has even the slightest bit of sense.” Tywin shot daggers at them all, needing something to target his rage upon. “So it must be a curse… the more deformed my children the more sane they are.”

“I take it you’ve gotten word from King’s Landing?” Kevan asked, sensing there was more to his brother’s frustrations.

“Yes and none of it good.” He picked up a slip of parchment. “First a message from Jaime, claiming that he attempted to pursued Lord Stark to see reason only for the man to claim full responsibility for Tyrion’s capture. Jaime only harmed him… slightly… before he decided it better to ride off and seek a way to save Tyrion himself.” Tywin crumpled the message tightly in his fist. “My fool of a son. It never occurred to him that Antony Stark would send a message.”

Gregor snorted. “What did the peacock say?”

“Oh, he was there,” Tywin said in annoyance. “His tale was longer and I wager more true. Lord Stark had taken him to see a blacksmith when Jaime rode up with a host and threatened to kill Eddard or his wife for Tyrion’s capture. When Eddard accepted blame, and why wouldn’t he when my fool of a son threatened the man’s wife, Jaime thought that rather than seeing the king or contacting me so we might use this information to not only free Tyrion but ring some concessions out of the Starks that it would be all the more wiser to battle him in the streets like he was a drunken sellsword! Then one of the Lannister guards decided to stab Lord Stark through the leg with his spear and it was only Lord Antony pointing out the foolishness of what he’d just done that stopped Jaime from taking his head.” Tywin glared at Kevan. “I want to know who the fool was that interfered with his spear and have his hands cut off. Then his head, all of which will be stuck on his spear and sent to his heir.”

“I’ll see to it at once.”

Tywin shook his head, his anger showing no signs of going away. “Jaime… Antony makes mention that when he asked Jaime if he were sure the tales were true my idiot of a son admitted he didn’t. The reckless twit nearly killed the Warden of the North over a rumor. What do you suppose would have happened if the rumors were false and Tyrion had just passed out in a whorehouse? Jaime’s head, a chopping block, and a spike on Winterfell, that’s what!”

“But he was right,” Gregor said with a grunt, proving to Tywin once more why the Starks were so stupid to let their dogs roam near their tables. His at least talked and still he was a great slobbering fool that showed time and again that he could not be trusted not to bark at the wrong time. Gregor was still mad that Tywin had recalled him from his pillaging and his normal restraint around his liege lord, as thin as it was, had vanished. “The fishy bitch took the dwarf.”

“Yes,” Tywin said, glaring at Gregor, “and Jaime took away what leverage we had. Catlyn Stark made herself look like a fool. She disgraced the Stark name when she took Tyrion for whatever mad reason and the cost to regain their honor would have been great. A hostage, perhaps their youngest son, the one who isn’t lame, a part of their wealth, perhaps some land or an island or three, and things could have been settled. But then Jaime rushed in like the gallant fool he is and destroyed it all. Now we appear as brash as the Northern fools and that woman has all the more reason to put Tyrion’s head on a spike.”

“It will please him to know you care for him,” Kevan stated.

Tywin looked at his brother. Kevan wasn’t stupid; he knew Tywin cared little for his deformed child. No, what Tywin worried, and Kevan knew this, was how it would look to the other houses if he abandoned Tyrion. Though he was the most disgusting of the Lannisters he was still one of them and his son too… and it wouldn’t do to allow the other houses to think they could just do as they wished to his family. They needed to be reminded that if Lord Tywin could get this mad over Tyrion what would he do if Jaime were captured? Or Cersei? Or Kevan?

Rather than correct him Tywin directed his attention, and his frustrations, on the other message he’d received. “And then there is Cersei. Rowan, read the message. Tell me you can’t hear her whining dripping off the letters.”

Rowan did as commanded, picking up the raven’s message and reading it aloud. “Ned Stark gave away his position as Hand of the King just before Jaime defended the family honor. He now lies in restless sleep but Robert refuses to name a new hand. I command you to either take the role yourself or see Jaime made Hand while Robert is off on the hunt.”

“Command,” Tywin said and even Gregor leaned back, sensing the fury radiating off of the Lord of the Rock. “She COMMANDS me.” Never before had Tywin so looked like a lion, his lips twisting into a snarl. “I was too soft with her. Allowed her too much and now she believes she is able to command me. I suppose if I were to become Hand I would need to bow to her and answer all her demands!” Tywin snatched up a glass of wine and drained it. “My children. Tyrion is a whore loving drunk, Jaime can only use his head to keep his hair shiny, and Cersei muddles through everything with the subtly of a half lame goat.” He waved his hand at them. “Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me I should do what she… commands.”

It was Kevan who finally spoke. His brother, the only Lannister that convinced Tywin that it wasn’t dumb luck that had seen him with an ounce of intelligence, that there was another Lannister that wasn’t a blundering idiot. “You shouldn’t. In fact no Lannister should be Hand, not yet anyway. The people already whisper that we have too much power over the throne; Cersei is queen, Jaime a member of the Kingsguard, Tyrion at court half the time, Lancel as Robert’s squire, Lannister guards all about the city… making you Hand would only lead to strife.”

“If only my children were as bright at you, brother,” Tywin said. It wasn’t a jest or an idle comment; more and more he wished his family could have been more like Kevan. “Knowing Cersei next she’ll suggest replacing the Stark girl with a Lannister and have Joffrey marry within the family. I should have him marry Jaime… the fool is as in love with fairy tales as the Stark girl, if Cersei is to be believed. My grandson won’t even notice the change.” He turned to Rowan. “We shall send this reply: No.”

“No?”

“No,” Tywin stated. “Two letters. Not overly large, of course. Just big enough for her to clearly see. Perhaps that will send the message.” Tywin sat down. “We’ll table the rest of this for now. I need something to distract me from my children. What other news do we have? What of the Sunstones? It’s been too long since we’ve discussed them.”

“The mining goes well, my lord,” Rowan said. “We’ve moved what we’ve found from the Northern Paw Mine to the old Silver Thread Mine. It’s been used as a storage area since it dried up 4 years ago. Hopefully we can begin selling the Sunstones within the next few months.”

Tywin nodded in approval. With their mines having dried up and little done to find new areas to dig it was a small relief that they were managing with something. “Good. I want us to begin before winter comes. The Starks are fools but they are right to worry about the coming snows. Wickless lamps will be a fine thing to have in the dark nights of winter and people will pay greatly for them.” Tywin paused, pursing his lips. “What of the Iron Man?”

Gregor let out a growl but cut off any curses he wanted to issue forth. Tywin nodded, not so much in approval but more letting Gregor know that he noticed… and if he failed to mind himself Tywin would see him smashed away until they called the Lord of the Rock the Breaker of Mountains. For anyone else that would have been a foolish threat; for Tywin Lannister it was a promise that even Gregor didn’t scoff at.

It was Rowan who spoke. “He has been quiet, as of late. A few sightings, the most recent a week ago when he stopped some bandits near the Golden Tooth, but otherwise his activities have lessened. If I may be honest, my lord, it is hard to tell if this is by his choosing or if the scum of Westeros are merely hiding themselves better.”

“A bit of both, I’d imagine. Perhaps Iron Man has come to see how tiresome it is to constantly be a champion for good,” Tywin said dryly. He’d seen enough ‘gallant knights’ who believed themselves able to single handedly save all of Westeros become cynical wrecks to know that trying to be a hero of fable and legend was impossible. “And how go our attempts to learn who he is?”

“…poorly,” Rowan admitted.

Kevan nodded. “As you requested as I put pay to our spies to learn his identity but have turned up little. For a while I believe Antony Stark to be the Iron Man, after word reached me from his castelion, Stane, about unusual behavior, but with Lord Stark in King’s Landing while Iron Man faced Ser Gregor-“

The Mountain pounded his fist on the table. “We should burn Iron Pointe to the ground. Drive Iron Man out.”

“And rape the Lady of Iron Pointe and then fill your vaults with his gold?” Tywin said coldly. Gregor, for his part, merely stared at his lord and Tywin sighed. He pondered something King Robert had been fond of saying during his first few months on the throne: when all you have is a warhammer everything looks like Rhaegar. Tywin knew that Gregor tended to hold a similar view and use it to guide all his actions. “No, I think not. Lord Stark is not the Iron Man and I am not my fool of a son, rushing after rumor.”

Rowan nodded. “The rumors of Lord Stark’s behavior can easily be explained. He’d just returned home after a stressful visit with his cousins. I hear he and Eddard Stark parted on not the best terms.”

Tywin waved his hand. “And it seems he quarreled with Lady Stark… seems Antony is a better judge of character than most would guess. Besides, rumors of odd behavior means nothing to me. I’d wager my own actions over the course of a week could easily be twisted into making it seem as if I were the Iron Man.”

“He admitted to making the armor,” Gregor snarled, not wanting to let go of his desire to crush Antony Stark. “That is enough guilt to warrant a visit.”

“And he made you a set as well as an apology,” Kevan reminded him.

Tywin held up his hand. “The matter is settled. Antony Stark is to be left alone. He is of more value to me alive. And even if I were to use him or his lady wife as bait I would see them kept alive. To kill them would be a waste. Do I make myself clear?” He stared at Gregor and finally the massive knight huffed and nodded. “Now then, onto other matters.”

They continued talking about the management of Casterly Rock and Lannisport for another half an hour but Tywin simply could not bring himself to care. Normally he prided himself on being able to focus on many things at once, no matter how tedious or repetitive they might be, but in that moment Tywin found such a feat impossible. The slights visited on his family by the Starks and the Iron Man ached like old sword wounds that, while healed, left scars that throbbed at the most inopportune times. He could practically hear the laughter from those in the local taverns, jesting on how the smallest Lannister had been so easily captured and Lady Stark made him look like a fool. His mind went to his own father, wondering how he would have handled this situation and suddenly he knew actually what he must do.

The opposite.

“Enough,” Tywin said, holding up his hand, starting the others. “I’ve reached a decision. We can’t let this insult against our house stand a day longer. Lady Stark clearly believes that with her husband being Hand of the King this has given her rite to do all that she wishes. I intend to show her just how wrong she is. Kevan… call the banners.”

His brother did not protest, didn’t not stammer, did not show an ounce of shock. He most likely felt all of them but, once again showing that of all the Lannisters only he understood his role and played it perfectly, Kevan merely nodded and rose.

“What of Lord Antony Stark?” Kevan asked. “From what we know he only just now left King’s Landing. It will be almost a month before he arrives home.”

Gregor snorted. “Stark can swing a sword almost as good as a scullery maid. He’d be better use as target practice.” ‘Or as bait for the Iron Man’. Tywin could almost hear Gregor’s thoughts, though he ignored them.

Instead he stated, “But he can build armor and weapons, which we will need.” Of course Gregor would only think of death and now how an army would deal it. “I need him not for his skill in battle but to lead our smiths. And he does have men he can commit to the fields while he repairs and replaces our damaged weapons. Should we need to siege Winterfell it will be handy to have his mind at work on how to do it.” Tywin rubbed his chin. “Send word to his man, the foreign knight. He is to lead Lord Stark’s division to join us. Lord Stark will be given a week to put his house in order once he returns and gather what tools he needs before he is to join us… and brings Ned Stark’s bastard with him.”

Rowan frowned at that. “This Jon Snow-“

“Stark,” Tywin reminded him. “Antony has legitimized him as heir. I wish to see what the boy is capable of. If Lord Stark is so sure he and his good wife will not produce heirs I must see who will take over Iron Pointe. Furthermore… our Hand cared for his bastard and it is wise to keep a hostage ready, if one needs to… make an example.”

“Jon Stark will serve another purpose,” Kevan added.

Tywin nodded. “Yes… yes. Should we be forced to wipe out all the Starks we will be able to stem much protests by presenting the boy as the new Lord of WInterfell. Catelyn Stark hated the boy from what I hear and with the right words and deeds we could easily win him to our side.” Tywin liked that… the thought of gaining a new Warden of the North loyal to him would be a grand move. Perhaps marry off another Lannister to cement their connection? There was Gerion’s bastard, Joy Hill… Tywin mentally pushed that plan away for another day. Instead he turned to the Mountain and though the massive man tried his best to remain impassive Tywin could see in his eyes the same giddy gleam that came into Tyrion’s when he saw a flagon of wine or Cersei’s when she thought she’d achieved some victory again a perceived rival. The man was thirsty for a fight and that worried Tywin. Gregor had been his best weapon, his greatest piece on the board… but that had changed.

He had changed with two loses to the Iron Man.

The Lord of the Rock sighed in frustration. He’d seen this too many times before in his knights, when they would lose a battle that they believed they should have won and something came over them, a dark desire to prove themselves. Sometimes they claimed it was for him, other times for their families or the gods. But always the truth was clear: they needed to prove it to themselves that they were the same as they had always been.

Except they weren’t.

Gregor had been changed and would be a liability. Such desires as the ones Gregor craved now would make him rash, make him less likely to obey. If he took him on this march Tywin knew the man would do something stupid, rape the wrong girl or gut a fellow bannerman who got in his way, and then Tywin would have another mess to clean up. He’d seen it before, in the Sacking, and only barely managed to keep things in order thanks to Robert’s own bloodlust. This time would be far, far different; this would be a more deadly balancing act.

No… no, Gregor would not be coming with him this time. He’d use him in a different way, one that would hopefully get the Mountain’s mind back in place while still contributing to their efforts.

“Gregor, I have a different task for you.” The Mountain looked up at him, eyes half hidden by his sloping brow, but Tywin just stared right back. “It is time for you to test out the armor that Lord Antony made for you. Gather your men and march into the Riverlands. Lady Stark wishes to harm one of the Rock? We’ll burn her girlhood home to the ground. You are to unleash your men and sow destruction upon all that come in your path.” Tywin leaned forward and added, “Understand that when you do this you do this on your own. There can be no official ties between your actions and the Lannisters. You’d be wise to leave no survivors, only burnt out husks.” Gregor clearly swung back and forth between desire to pillage and kill and his drive to join the main battle. Tywin decided to sweeten the deal. “And… should you attract the attention of Iron Man…”

That was all he needed to say. The Mountain nodded firmly, embracing the plan.

“Then it is settled. It is time to remind Westeros who is the true power. Not the Starks, not the King, and not Iron Man. Debts have been made… now we collect. Dismissed.”

Chapter Text

Daenayrs

In the distance she could hear the cheers and roars of celebration. She knew that somewhere in the night her Sun and Stars was feasting with his bloodriders, glorying in their chants and calls for him to repeat once more his cunning actions only an hour ago. It didn’t matter that they’d all been there to see it… they still found it a glorious tale and by the time Dany had left the feast Khal Droga had told the tale three times. It would go down in legend, that was clear, and with that sole act, more than any other battle, he would be remembered by all the Horse Lords. So she let him revel in it, despite the pain.

When she’d moved to leave both Droga and Jorah had stood to join her but she’d waved them both off. ‘I will be fine. This is a night for both of you. Celebrate. Live. I will see you both in the morning.’ Droga had accepted this while Jorah looked to argue but in the end both had let her be and she’d left to stare up at the dark sky and gather her thoughts. While she’d felt relief earlier now she knew fear and doubt.

Her brother was dead.

It just didn’t seem right. She kept expecting to wake up, to discover this was some strange dream and they were once more in one of the opulent houses they’d stayed in during their youth, her brother coming to look her over once more, to gaze at her with lust and speak of what they would do when they took back their family throne and lands. She expected to open her eyes and see that red door again and know she was home. But Viserys would never look upon her again. He was gone, dead by her husband’s hands after he’d dared to threaten him, to threaten her, to threaten the child that grew within her. She placed her hand on her stomach and wondered… how strange it was, to know that now she was the oldest member of her family, that the duty of teaching her precious son of their history fell only to her. All of the generations past, each and every Targaryen, now sat on her shoulders, demanding she hold up their dynasty.

It was a heavy weight to carry.

She felt the wooden slab she was sitting on shift and looked over in surprise to find Logan had taken a seat on the ground, his back resting against her seat. She had never seen him so casual; normally her brave protector was always on alert, tense and ready for a fight. He was the first thing she saw when she left her tent each morning and the last thing to meet her eyes before Droga took her to bed. She’d wondered if he even slept. But she was comforted by his presence, feeling security in him being always so close to her. Once Dany had asked her Sun and Stars if he was worried about the man’s loyalty; she’s seen how others looked at her and wondered if Logan wanted more than what she’d ever give. Droga had merely laughed.

‘He loves but not as man loves woman. He loves as man loves horse. Thus, I do not fear him’. Dany had been a touch offended to be saw as a horse but later, one of her handmaidens had explained that to the Dothraki their horses were their prized possessions. They didn’t lust for them but rather loved them as a parent might a child… more so in that children would grow and move away but a horse was with a rider its entire life. A bloodrider must trust his mount and his mount must trust him, so too did Logan seek to keep her safe. He honored her, protected her, and saw his life as meaningless if she weren’t safe.

Once she realized that he saw her not as something to bed but something precious to protect Dany had become more at ease with her guardian and, over the last few months, him with her. But still, this was the first time he had been so relaxed in her presence. While her brother would have been offended by such casualness in a servant… Dany found it comforting.

‘Shouldn’t you be feasting and celebrating?’ she asked in his chosen tongue (with his wild looks it was clear that it was not his native tongue).

‘It isn’t right to do so, after what happened,’ Logan stated.

‘You talk of Viserys?’

‘I talk of your brother.’

‘He tried to kill my child.’

Logan nodded. ‘And had it not been for the foolish rules of Vaes Dothrak I would have ended him before he even got within arm’s reach of you.’ In another life someone threatening to kill a member of her family would have been alarming. Here it was a sweet gesture that made her smile. ‘But…he was still your brother.’

Dany swallowed at that. ‘He was. He was horrible to me… mistreated me… said he’d let every Dothraki rape me, one at a time, if it meant he got back the Iron Throne. He threatened to kill my baby. I wanted him dead. I watched him die and didn’t feel a thing.’ She looked at Logan and blinked in confusion. ‘Then why does it still bother me?’

‘Hmmpf… because you’re still a good person.’

‘Have… have you ever felt like this?’

Logan shook his head. ‘Can’t remember where I come from, if I even have a family. Been with women but none of them mattered. Fought shoulder to shoulder with other riders but never called them friend.’ He snorted because despite how casual he’d been it was clear to Dany he wasn’t comfortable sharing his feelings with her. ‘You’re the first person that’s actually matter, khaleesi.’

Dany smiled at that. ‘If you were me what would you do now?’

Logan grunted. ‘Go and fondle my new tits.’

She let out a startled gasp only to burst out into laughter. Once more she marveled at her bodyguard; any other man who said that she’d have screamed for Khal and his bloodriders and seen him castrated and tossed out of her sight. But with Logan… with Logan he was like an older brother who told bawdy jokes in front of her but meant no harm in it. A brother who would tease her and not treat her like some pricely relic that must be admired but handed with soft touches, as if a coarse word could make her shatter. So instead of getting upset she said, ‘If you were in my situation what would you do?’

‘Get drunk’

‘The old women won’t let me drink even watered down wine. They say that no Dothraki should taste wine before he tastes his mother’s milk.’ Dany considered Logan for a moment. ‘So you will drink for me, my brave protector. You will get drunk in my stead.’

‘I can drink a lot,’ Logan replied.

‘I have the time,’ she said. Logan finally nodded and stood up, Dany smiling as she led him back to the celebration and the wine casts that awaited him. If only for a moment… her heart was light.

Tyrion

“Is there anything I can get for you, my lord?” Sam asked as quietly as he could. Tyrion didn’t know why the boy was whispering, as those gathered in the Eyrie were hissing and cheering loud enough to keep even the most prying of ears from hearing them. He honestly wondered if even Varys’ little birds would be able to hear what they spoke of. “I tried to see to you but Mord would not let me pass. And then Lady Stark asked me to assist her with some books that she needed examined and then asked me to join her at dinner so she wouldn’t be lonely-“

“She kept you busy so you could not assist me,” Tyrion stated even as he watched Bronn battle with Lysa Arryn’s chosen champion. His portly squire folded in on himself at that and Tyrion sighed, trying to find a bright side. “I would be glad though, Sam… had the lady of the house had her way I’d wager you’d have already been pushed out the moon door because she thought you had done some imaginary slight to her. Eaten food meant for SweetRobin, I would guess.” Under his breath he added, “though, unless you sucked on her filthy teat I don’t see how you’d steal it…”

“She already tried,” Clynt said, standing to Tyrion’s left, sharpening an arrow lazily as Bronn clashed swords with the knight. Tyrion stared at Clynt in shock before he realized he hadn’t heard the ‘teat’ comment and meant trying to kill Sam. “Made a big fuss about it too, said that he was in league with you and probably killed her husband as well.” Tyrion raised an eyebrow at that and Clynt smirked. “Bronn and I laughed for 10 minutes for you. No offense to Sam here but I’d love to see him trying to sneak around the Red Keep playing assassin.” Even Sam smiled at that. “I informed Lady Stark that if Sam here was mistreated in any way I’d make sure every ale house knew what happened here. She stepped in at that point. Real reason she had Sam running those errands.”

“You… you did that for me?” Sam said, surprised. “No one’s ever stood up for me before.”

Clynt merely continued to sharpen the arrow. “I was once tricked into helping a bandit… a lord tried to pin the whole thing on me because the bandit was the son of his bannerman. I have issues with people being blamed for crimes they didn’t commit.”

Tyrion opened his mouth to say something only to let out a groan when Bronn took a nasty hit. The sellsword continued fighting and Tyrion, while wishing to focus on the battle that would decide his life, couldn’t help but ask, “Is that why you are talking to me?”

“Plain as the sun on our fat king’s pale ass you didn’t attack the Stark boy.”

“And what makes you say that?”

“Because he’s bigger than you. Probably have tossed you out the window himself.”

Tyrion opened his mouth to complain about that only to shut it when he realized Clynt had a good point. “And this assassin that Lady Stark claims I sent after the boy?”

“More stupidity,” Clynt said, tilting his head as Bronn threw a candle holder at the knight he was fighting. “Was the assassin a man of the North?”

“No,” Sam said when Tyrion didn’t have an answer… mostly because no one had bothered to tell him the full story of what he was accused of. All he knew was that at this point Lady Stark thought he’d crippled the boy Bran then sent an assassin to kill him while Lady Lysa believed he’d killed Lord Jon Arryn, wanted to kill little Robert, and most likely also thought he was the reason women bled once a month and why you could never find good fish to fry up when you had a craving. "According to Lady Stark the assassin had a Southern accent." Tyrion and Clynt both looked at Sam, missing as Bronn dodged a blow from his opponent and nimbly moved away; Bronn of course glanced over and saw the lack of attention he was getting and decided to have a word with the group about paying attention while he risked his neck and did amazing things. "She said it reminded her of a cobbler she'd once met who came from Flea Bottom. Couldn't be sure though... but definitely not from the North."

"And... just how did you come to learn all this?" Tyrion asked.

Sam shrugged. "Lady Stark told me, my lord." He shuffled a little bit, his rotund body jiggling as he did so. "People tend to tell me things without realizing they've done so. They begin speaking and soon forget I'm even there." He smiled, eyes half closed. "Once a visiting lord's two daughters were sitting next to me at a tourney and they began talking about touching themselves... the things they described-"

"We can dsicuss that later," Clynt said.

"I think we discuss it now," Tyrion said with a leering grin. "Bronn might die and I'll be out the moon door within moments afterwards. Sam's story might be my last enjoyment."

Clynt scoffed. "Bronn will be done in three minutes and you'll be freed, my lord. Which is good because you are clearly innocent."

"While I do agree with you and am heartened to finally have someone believe me... what led you to this conclusion?"

"When was the Stark boy attacked by the catspaw?"

"I honestly don't know."

"But it was before you returned to Winterfell, was it not? You mentioned seeing the boy and giving him the designs for a saddle?"

"I did," Tyrion said before letting out a cheer when Bronn slashed his foe in the side. His prospects were beginning to look up.

"So how did you manage to send a message to an assassin in your employee who lived in King's Landing to come up and kill the Stark boy?" Clynt asked.

Sam's brow furrowed. "A raven? Not that I think you gave the order, Lord Tyrion-"

Tyrion held up his hand, suddenly following Clynt's logic. "I was with Benjen Stark during the ride to the Wall. We never stopped at a castle. And the Night's Watch looked over all messages I sent with their ravens... meaning it impossible I could have done the deed." He shook his head in disgust. "How did I not think of that?"

"The same reason Lady Stark didn't," Clynt said. "Same reason Bronn just won..." Tyrion suddenly looked up and cheered as Bronn, to the horror of those gathered to watch the trial, stabbed his opponent in the neck and kicked him through the moon door. "...you are all lords and ladies, used to things being a certain way. Maesters to wipe your asses, servants to pour your piss buckets out, and honorable knights trading blows like it were a training game. Never occurs to any of you what life might be like without those things. Never think of how one gets a message when there are no ravens around."

"Something I'll have to keep in mind now that I breathe air as a free man." He stepped forward, wiggling his still restrained wrists at Lady Lysa. "I believe the Gods have decided."

Young Robert Arryn frowned. "Will the little man fly now?"

"Unless you are talking about another little man then no," Tyrion said sternly, glaring at Lady Stark. "Now that this mockery of a trial is done this little man would like to go home!"

"Not so fast," Lysa said sternly.

"Oh, what now?" Tyrion complained. "Bronn has won! I am cleared of the charges!"

"Of the charges made by my dear sister," Lysa said with a vindictive smirk. "But the trial for your role in the death of Lord Arryn can now begin." On her lap Robert began to clap and giggle.

"Lysa," Catelyn Stark gasped in shock, "that is now how things are done-"

"That is how they are done here! Sweetrobin wants to see the Imp fly and now he'll get a second chance."

Bronn rolled his shoulders. "Give me a few and I'll knock another one of your bloody knights down to join his friend."

"I'm afraid not," Lysa said, the crowd now murmuring, scandalized. Even they could tell this was wrong. To keep trying to find ways to force guilt on one… even if they all thought Tyrion was guilty they knew that the gods would not smile fondly on this. A few began to murmur prayers and look nervously about for signs of the gods sending their wrath against the House of Arryn for this. "As I can not choose the same champion so too can't Lord Tyrion. I'm afraid he'll have to pick someone else... and if not he will face my champion on his own. Ser Watner... you will stand for Jon Arryn, will you not?"

"Oh, this is just wonderful," Tyrion snapped. "And I suppose if I win this one you'll think of a new way to kill me?"

Lysa opened her mouth only to snap it shut when she saw the way her advisors and suitors were murmuring to herself. As vindictive and stubborn as she was even she could see that she’d already pushed her luck to the breaking point and had to tread carefully; a false move here would see her disgraced and so too her son. The Lady of the Eyrie took a deep breath before saying, "Unlike you I have some honor-“ Tyrion laughed at that, “and only two charges were brought against you... win here and you will be freed."

"Lysa, please," Catelyn begged; it was clear to Tyrion that at long last Lady Stark was seeing what a mess she'd created. "Press this farther and the Lannisters will never respect the ruling. They will feel you murdered Lord Tyrion-"

Lysa’s moment of patience and clarity died a painful death at her sister’s rebuke. "As he murdered Jon Arryn! It is not a crime to murder a murderer! Now fight Imp!"

"No need," Clynt said. "I’ll stand for Lannister. Boy! Begin it!" Before anyone could stop him little Robert yelled 'Fight!' and Clynt, with a look of utter boredom, notched an arrow and fired it right through the eyeslot of the helm Ser Watner wore. The knight stood there a moment, his body too dumb to realize he was dead, before he toppled to the ground. "Well, that was dull. Who wants lunch? I’m thinking ham, myself.”

"At least I gave'em a show," Bronn said, walking over and snatching the keys from Mord and undoing Tyrion's shackles. Nodding his thanks, the youngest of Tywin Lannister's children motioned for his coin purse, which Ser Rodrik tossed to him in disgust. Tyrion smirked and threw Mord a few coins before he led Sam, Bronn, and Clynt to the door.

“That… you can not do that!” Lysa roared. “Sellswords! You have no honor!”

“No,” Bronn said, “but they did.”

Clynt smirked. “Only a part right… we have honor… small it might be… but it is more than you have.”

Tyrion nodded and motioned for Sam to follow. "Goodbye, Lady Stark... don't worry, I'll make sure to pay off my debt to you VERY soon." He smirked as the doors were thrown open, not bothering to look back and see the look of devastation he knew was on her face.

"Where too now, my lord?" Sam asked.

Tyrion rubbed his face. "Now we go home... and see just how bad Lady Stark has made a shitpile of things."

Chapter Text

Arya

She should have known something was wrong the moment the guards looked at her as she made her way to her lesson. Mostly because they actually noticed her. For the first time in months people were actually noticing her, staring at her with curious eyes as she made her way to her lessons. She had grown used to being the Ghost of the Red Keep, able to sneak about with no one giving her a moment of their attention. Even the septa had given up trying to educate her and there were days that Arya wondered if Sansa remembered she had a sister. But that day the guards noticed her, watched her as she walked past them, their eyes following her movements carefully. Not in the way so many men would look at a woman, or how a father would look at their child. They were the stares that reminded her of the snowy owls that would roost on the towers of Winterfell, keen eyes watching for even the slightest bit of movement.

Later, much later, when she spoke of that day to others, she would blame missing all the signs on the confusion of the last month. First her father had sent for her and Syrio, telling them to come to the Tower. They’d arrived to find a fuming Sansa and a sighing Jory but no sign of her father. And as the hours had ticked by her father had remained unseen, Sansa fumed more, and Arya and Syrio merely watched, practicing their breathing exercises, and Jory had worried. Finally news had come from cousin Antony, who had burst in without his trademark smile or clever wit.

Instead, with utter bluntness, he’d said, “You’re father’s been stabbed by Jaime Lannister because your mother is an idiot.” He’d then paused, considering his words. “Not very comforting, I’ll admit. Still, stabbed, Jaime, Cat’s a moron. Can I get some wine? Seems like today is a day for wine. Arya? You want some? Sansa? Strange man with a nice beard? Jory?”

Only Syrio had joined him in drinking.

It had taken nearly a week for her father to awaken and when he had things had only gotten worse, at least in Arya’s opinion. Instead of going home, which Arya wanted oh so much and Jory had all but come out and said was her father’s plan, they’d been forced to stay when King Robert had told her father he was in charge because he wanted to kill something. It was around that time that Antony had left, much to Arya’s annoyance as he was one of the few people that could liven up the Red Keep. Things had gone peaceful after his departure, save for the news that a group of raiders identified as members of Ser Gregor Clegane’s forces were attacking the Riverlands. Arya had learned her father had declared Ser Gregor to be a false knight only for the peasant presenting the charge to reveal the Mountain had not been with his men. This, according to the whispers she’d heard as she moved about the Keep, had been a shock to all, even Lord Varys. The Mountain that Rides had simply vanished.

That… had gotten many people talking.

Sansa had been thrilled, hating the Mountain for his near killing of Ser Loras at the Hand’s Tournament. Others in the Capital had been nervous, not quite sure what to think. And her father…

Her father had become consumed with something.

If Arya were honest with herself she was becoming concerned when it came to her father. The Capital was doing something to him, making him take actions he’d normally never done back home. She’d heard whispers from the servants that her father had proclaimed he would no longer be Hand of the King, only for him to tell them when he finally woke up after his long rest that he was Hand still and that they were to get back with their lives. And said rest had come about because he’d gone out with Antony and gotten in a fight with the Kingslayer. A few servants thought that her father had gone drinking with Antony and Jaime and gotten so drunk that he’d injured himself but Arya didn’t buy that; it wasn’t just Antony Stark who could drink barrels of wine and barely feel a thing. It was in the Stark’s blood… she’d even herself, when no one was around, snuck down the to the kitchen and drank several cups of wine to see what it was like only to find it had almost no affect on her. So no, he hadn’t been out drinking. Whatever he had been doing he’d become more obsessed with it over the last few weeks until he’d suddenly shut the large book he’d been reading and become very quiet. Arya had tried to press him but he’d said it was none of her concern and that she should go to bed. She’d meant to press him on it but when the king had returned wounded she’d known that now was not the time and thus stayed silent, allowing her father to grieve when the fat king had finally died.

Perhaps, if it hadn’t been for her father and mother so many times shoving her off when she got to nosy, she’d have noticed something off. Instead she’d carried on like it was any other day, eating breakfast in the solar (alone, of course; Sansa was off once more to a breakfast only she’d been invited too and her father was already gone, focused on duties rather than his children) before heading to her lessons. Just a normal day.

Except now, when she found herself pressed against the wall of her practice room, a member of the Kingsguard glaring at her while several Gold Cloaks backed him up.

It took her a moment to realize that it was Ser Meryn Trant who stood before her and she found herself scowling a touch at the sight of him. Sansa had always prided herself on knowing each member of the
Kingsguard and their grand deeds. Ser Barristan the Bold, who had been so noble King Robert had pardoned him when he became king. The Kingslayer. Ser Arys Oakheart, who was said to have turned down the seductions of the Queen of Whores, who had never failed before him to bring a man to her bed in Lys. Ser Mandon Moore, the ‘Lonely Knight’ who received love from none and sought it neither, for all he cared for was duty. Ser Boros Blount who despite his ugliness Sansa claimed was the most kind of them all. Ser Preston Greenfield, who it was said could never be corrupted and never sought pleasures of the flesh.

And then there was Ser Meryn Trant. ‘Oh, and him,’ as Sansa had called him. The afterthought, the one most likely to be left behind while taking a piss, if Arya believed the jokes she’d accidently heard some of the guards say. Less because they hated him and more because he was simply forgettable. One day, when Arya had gotten it in her head to explore the White Sword Tower, she’d spied on the Kingslayer and Ser Preston, the former telling the later that it was his theory that Ser Meryn had gotten in line behind other men to be knighted, thinking it was a line for food, and King Robert had knighted him before he realized what was going on.

Arya had snickered at that. She wasn’t snickering now.

“Did you hear me?” Ser Meryn snapped, glaring at Syrio who, despite being utterly surrounded, calmly walked back to the rack of practice swords and replaced his and Arya’s weapons. “The Stark girl is coming with me.”

“Syrio Forel does not think so,” the swordsman said with a slight smile. “We are taught even in Braavos that when an old fat man wants to take little girls and boys with them without permission that foul things are about to happen.”

Ser Meryn turned red at that. “She is coming with me!”

“You can repeat it all you wish, that doesn’t mean it will come true. Only fools scream things over and over and believe the world will listen.”

“Do you know who I am? What I am?” the man bellowed, drawing his sword. Syrio tilted his head, considering the knight for a moment.

And then… Syrio transformed.

Dimly Arya found herself thinking of a book whose pages were being quickly flipped through. Syrio’s skin folded in on itself, starting at his face and moving down his body. His tanned skin, exotic in Westeros, become something unworldly as the flesh rippled and turned a deep blue with a hint of scale-like surface texture. Heavy muscles gave wave to feminine curves, though the frame was just as deadly looking. Curly black hair became slicked back short locks that were a deeper red than even Sansa’s. His round face framed with a dark beard became sharp angular features with stern yet pouty lips. His clothing disappeared as she grew several inches, nothing left to the imagination as her heavy breasts rose and fell with every breath and even the junction between her legs was left bare for all to see. Golden eyes, like those of a cat, shone brightly as Syrio looked upon the startled guard, taking a step forward. Where once had been her dance instructor Arya now gazed at a nude woman of blue who looked like some creature from Old Nan’s stories come to life.

“Do I know who you are? What you are?” ‘Syrio’ taunted before leaping into the air, her foot connecting with the gold cloak just to Trant’s left, striking the weakest part of his skull and sending shards of bone into his brain. The man fell bonelessly to the ground, ‘Syrio’ continuing her descent as she hit the man to Ser Meryn’s right, driving the palm of her hand into his throat so hard it collapsed his wind pipe and left him twitching on the ground, gasping for air that would never come. The Kingsguard tried to swing his sword but ‘Syrio’ easily dodged the clumsy swing and disarmed him before shoving him back, her flexible body allowing her to easily slam her bare foot against his throat, holding him in place against the wall. “Oh yes… it was people like you who made me afraid to go to the sept as a child.” She kicked him once, causing him to hit the wall, and as he bounced back ‘Syrio’ grabbed his head and easily snapped his neck. Nodding to herself, the blue warrioress looked over at Arya and suddenly the hardness the girl had seen moments before faded and a look of compassion appeared on her features. “We need to go.”

“How… how did you do that?” Arya whispered. “Is it magic? Are you a fairy or a sprite?”

‘Syrio’ shook his head and Arya could tell that her reaction had pleased her. The girl had the sudden feeling that ‘Syrio’ was more used to people screaming in terror than asking her breathlessly how she’d done what she’d done. “No and I promise I’ll tell you everything but we need to go now.”

“Go where?” Arya asked.

“Away from here. You heard them, they are gathering your family-“

“We have to save them!”

“We will if we run,” ‘Syrio’ said. Arya stared at him… her… in confusion. “The Queen clearly wants you as a hostage, to use against your father. If we aren’t here then they can’t use you as a pawn. It gives him a better chance to fight back, to not cave to her demands.” Arya bit her lip and ‘Syrio’ held out her hand. “Arya, I swear I’ll explain everything but please… trust me.”

She looked down at the extended hand and then back at her instructor’s golden eyes. “…do I get to be blue too?”

“No,” ‘Syrio’ said, thankfully seeing that Arya didn’t mean to insult with her question. “You’ll get to be something else entirely. Something amazing. Now…” her flesh shifted again and Arya looked down at Ser Meryn’s corpse and then at ‘Syrio’, who now wore the man’s face, “…follow me. We need to hurry.”

Arya followed after her instructor, a part of her wondering if she should be troubled that she wasn’t concerned about the dead bodies on the ground in their training area. ‘Syrio’ had just murdered three men, one a member of the Kingsguard. She hadn’t even needed to use a weapon! Arya loved her sword, was thrilled to have it… but after seeing the way ‘Syrio’ moved she knew she’d never be able to JUST be a swordsman ever again. No, her eyes had been opened and she wanted to learn to fight like…

“What should I call you?” she whispered when they rounded a corner. ‘Syrio’ shoved her forward, playing the part of angry and violent knight, and Arya constantly acted as if she were trying to squirm away.

“Ser Meryn, for the moment,” her instructor said, leading her into an empty room. It was clearly a solar for visiting guests of the Red Keep but today was empty with not a soul occupying it. Arya winced when she heard someone scream in the distance, realizing that most likely it was one of her father’s men, but while she hated leaving them to die she knew there was nothing she could do. ‘Syrio’ busied herself with finding a sharp knife before transforming once more. This time she returned to being a woman and her face and form resembled what Arya was quickly coming to realize was her true form, only now ‘Syrio’ wasn’t blue but pale and her hair was the same color as Arya’s. She wore the simple garments of a peasant woman and her face was even caked with dirt from the looks of it. “Hold still or else this will hurt.”

“What are you doing-ow!” Arya flinched and then looked down at the clump of hair that fell to the floor, followed by more as ‘Syrio’ ran a blade through her locks.

“You can’t shapeshift like me but we can make you look not like yourself. People are looking for Ned Stark’s daughter… they won’t be looking for a poor woman and her skinny son.” After a few more minutes (and more whimpers of pain from Arya when ‘Syrio’ tugged too hard) Arya was sporting a cut shorter than Bran’s and ‘Syrio’ was leading her out of the room. “I am your mother. Until I say so treat me as such.”

“Yes mother,” Arya said. “Where will we go once we leave?”

“Somewhere safe,” was all ‘Syrio’ would say. “And younger.”

“Hmm?”

“Act a bit younger. Think of your brother.”

Arya scowled. “It will sound stupid.”

“Why do you care? You are playing a role to escape.”

She blinked. She hadn’t considered that and suddenly it seemed rather fun. “Yes mama,” she said shyly and dutifully. Her ‘mother’ nodded in approval and quickly took her hand, ducking back out into the hall.

“We get out of this disgusting Keep and make our way to the Iron Gate and then to Rosby Road. After that we will begin to make our way…”

“Are we going to see… him?” Arya said in excitement. ‘Magento’, she thought, forcing herself not to grin lest she give away their ruse. ‘Syrio’s master! The special one!’

“Yes,” her ‘mother’ said. “Now, keep your head down.”

“Y-yes, mama,” Arya said, sniffing. Her ‘mother’ looked down at her and, seeing the fat and fake tears gathering in her eyes chuckled and shook her head. For Arya excitement danced with fear. A true adventure, escaping the Red Keep and King’s Landing, all under the nose of the guards that were hunting her! She gave a moment to wonder of her father and Sansa but in the end she knew that ‘Syrio’ was right; there was no way to save them now and her only hope of doing so would be to escape and get help. And from what Ser Meryn had said it was clear that there would be no help coming to her in this horrid city. Only escape would allow her to find those that could help her save her family.

‘I’ll return, father,’ Arya thought.

They made their way down to the stables easy enough, the confusion that seeped through the Red Keep making it easy for them to get through the halls without any questions and soon found themselves outside and able to head into the stables. A taller boy with short black hair and thick muscular arms, maybe around Sansa’s age, seemed unable to decide if he should focus on his tasks or go see what was happening around him. Arya and her ‘mother’ continued on, paying little heed to the confused young man, focused solely on finding some horses and getting out of King’s Landing while they still could.

“What do we have here?”

The two stopped short and, had they been in a mummur’s play, the audience would have roared with laughter at the way the two almost comically turned as one to stare at Janos Slynt, commander of the Gold Cloaks. He was wearing his finest armor and looked as puffed up as a peacock, a smug smile on his lips as he took a step forward, cloak billowing behind him as he drew his sword.

“There was a commotion,” Arya’s ‘mother’ said, sounding frightened and scared even as her body tensed, ready to leap forward and kill the bald annoyance that stood before them. “We fled-“

“As well you should, Stark Lovers,” Slynt said with a vicious grin. “King Joffrey is giving out gold dragons for every Stark Supporter’s head we bring back. I’ve already won myself a wonderful price by bringing in that traitor Eddard-“ Arya couldn’t help but start at that and her gaze instantly became murderous, “-but a few more wouldn’t hurt to set me up rather nicely.” He looked at the two and Arya squirmed under his gaze. It was a look that she’d not thought she’d see a man send her way for another few years. “Of course, if you let me have a quick poke…”

“You think I’d bed you?” her ‘mother’ asked.

“Not you…” Slynt said, running his tongue along the back of his teeth as he looked Arya up and down. “But she’d make a fine squirm-“

Janos Slynt, who had just earned his new king’s gratitude and his place in legend for ending the Stark Rebellion against Joffrey, first of his name… twitched as his head was reduced to a gooey mess by a well placed blacksmith hammer. After a few moments he fell to the ground in a heap, revealing Arya and ‘Syrio’s’ savoir.

“…please tell me that was the right thing to do,” the tall teen they’d past moments early said, staring at the body of the Commander of the Gold Cloaks dumbly.

“Very good,” Arya’s ‘mother’ said, a bit surprised that Slynt hadn’t died by her own hand.

“Who are you? Why’d you do that?” Arya asked suspiciously.

“My name’s Gendry,” the teen said. “I was told to come here by Lord Stark. The other Lord Stark, the one in Iron Pointe, requested me to journey to study under him. The Hand sent word that I was to meet him here, that he’d arrange for my journey to Iron Pointe. I brought my tools and was waiting when I heard screaming… then I saw this one… oh, by the Seven, I killed a Gold Cloak.”

“And a disgusting one at that,” Arya’s ‘mother’ said, already on the move. “You need to leave. Not just the Red Keep but the city as well. Something has happened, the Kingsguard and the Gold Cloaks are killing anyone connected to the Starks. They hear you were asked to come here by the Hand of the King and you’ll be dead before you finish talking.”

“Where should I go?” Gendry asked, trying hard not to stare at the bloated body that laid at his feet.

“Anywhere.”

Arya shook her head. “Come with us.” Her ‘mother’ glared at her, not liking this new thought, but Arya fired back, “You said they wouldn’t look for a mother and her skinny son… will they be looking for a mother with two boys?”

Gendry, realizing that with a swing of his hammer he’d thrown his lot in with them, chimed in. “We could take that wagon! I know how to drive one, did so for my master, Mott, many times! You could sit in the back… no one would question it! I know the way through the city well, all the short cuts!”

Arya’s ‘mother’ considered this and soon was nodding in agreement. “Very well… son.” Her form rippled slightly so that now her hair was as black as Gendry’s. The teen stared at her in shock and for a moment Arya thought he would begin to panic and ask questions but a well timed scream from deep in the Red Keep convinced him to just go along with this new development. As Gendry made towards the wagon ‘Syrio’ grabbed his wrist and hissed, “Help us and you’ll be rewarded beyond imagination. Betray us-“

“And you’ll kill me,” Gendry asked.

“No… you’ll wish for that mercy.”

The blacksmith’s apprentice swallowed, seeing death in the woman’s eyes. “Y-yes. I understand.”

Soon the three of them were in the wagon, Gendry urging the horses on a steady pace. Arya wanted him to go faster but he argued that would draw suspicion and her ‘mother’ agreed and told her to settle back and focus on looking like a nobody. It was soon clear to Arya that Gendry joining them would be a massive help as the muscular teen knew the backways of King’s Landing better than she and, if from her mutters of approval were to be taken as fact, her ‘mother’ as well. One or two Gold Cloaks did give them a look but Gendry had plans for that too. Where Arya would have tried to look as small as possible or slink by undetected Gendry was loud and unsubtle. The young Stark nearly pissed herself when they passed a squad of four guards and Gendry called out to ask for directions to a meatpie shop. She was for sure that the armed men would come at them swinging but instead the men just told Gendry to piss off and after muttering a curse about them being unhelpful pigs he continued on.

Again and again this happened and Arya just watched on in befuddled amazement. They would come upon a group of men with swords and dark murderous eyes, Gendry would call out something, and they’d be on their way. Sometimes he asked directions, sometimes he asked what was going on, and one time he acted like a guard owed him a few silver stags. Each time the Gold Cloaks would bellow and complain but never do more than to tell Gendry to get moving.

“What is going on?” Arya finally hissed.

Her ‘mother’, who was making a great show of looking like she was ready to wilt at any moment, smiled slightly. “You’ve been pampered your entire life.” Arya scowled at that but her ‘mother’ continued. “It’s true though. You’ve lived in a keep where every person who wasn’t family was in the employ of your family. They might brush you off or tell you ‘not now’ but they could never be truly mean to you.”

“You didn’t know my septa,” Arya huffed.

“But here,” her mother continued as if Arya had never said a word, “and in these roles? We are nothing to them. These Gold Cloaks see thousands just like us every day. So why should they care? Their duty isn’t to protect us, despite what kings and queens and even men like your father might like to claim. They are here to give the illusion of protection, to make the smallfolk believe they are cared for when they truly aren’t. The Gold Cloaks are no different than a sword made of gold: pretty to look at and shit in a battle.”

Gendry nodded in agreement. “They see me as someone that is going to eat up their time, drag them away from their conversation, and if things get fucked up then get them in trouble with their commander.” He paused, working his jaw. “Who I killed.”

“Try not to think about it,” Arya’s ‘mother’ said. “Think about getting us all out of here.”

“Where should I head once we get through the Iron Gate?” Gendry asked.

“Down the Rosby Road. Then to an inn called the Seven Moons run by a woman named Irena the Adder. I’ll be able to figure out our next step there.”

Gendry nodded, flicking the reins lightly. “What should we call ourselves?” When he saw Arya staring at him he shrugged. “Figure our real names might not be the best thing, at the moment. From the way she talks,” he nodded at the woman, “you are a lord’s daughter. Lord Stark’s, I’d wager. People will be looking for you.”

Arya’s ‘mother’ considered this. “What was your father’s name?”

“I don’t rightly know,” Gendry admitted. “My mother worked at a tavern, the Laughing Stag. It was sold to Petyr Baelish a few years ago.”

“Then go by Petyr. Arya, you are Kat now.”

“Kat?” Arya said, considering this. It would be weird, to be called by her mother’s nickname, but on the other hand it would be easy enough to remember. And she had been practicing the Ways of the Cat, as Syrio had called it… “Yes. Kat will work.”

“And what of you?” Gendry asked as they passed through the Iron Gate, leaving King’s Landing and the games and dangers of it behind. “What do we call you other than ‘mother’?”

“In public you may say I am Ravan,” Arya’s ‘mother’ said. “But in private you may call me by my true name.”

“And that is?” Arya asked.

Ravan smiled.

“Mystique.”

Chapter Text

Pepper

There was something wrong with Jon.

That much was clear to Pepper as she stood near the great entrance of Iron Pointe’s keep, once more glancing out across the city and hoping vainly that she might have the power to force her husband home. He’d been gone for far too long for her likely and every day he remained out of her sight she worried. Before their trip to the North, which had changed so much and altered their lives forever, she’d have worried about him gambling in the Capital or getting drunk and losing track of time or becoming distracted by some new interesting thing that would cause him to lose weeks of time when he’d thought he’d only been delayed by hours. It had happened before, far too many times for Pepper’s liking, and her natural tendency to worry and conjure up the most darkest of scenarios didn’t help the situation at all. Now her fears were of his death, of that damn suit of his failing, the magic that allowed him to fly and fight leaving him so that the swing of a sword lopped off his head. Or perhaps he’d be flying in the air only for the laws of nature to claim him once more, sending his body hurtling to the unforgiving ground below…

She shook her head, trying to banish such thoughts. Tony did not have his armor with him. He’d left it at Iron Pointe, for Jon to use in their ruse, but rather than that bringing her comfort she found that it only instilled fear. She worried, despite the ravens he’d sent telling her that all was going according to plan and that no one in the Capital suspected a thing, that someone would clue in. Sometimes Tony forgot that she wasn’t like the good little wives Westeros was so used to; if there was any she could see any connection to it was the infamous matriarch of House Tyrell, the so-called Queen of Thorns who was the true brains of Highgarden. Pepper knew of the players in King’s Landing and did not have Tony’s cocky ego to believe that they could fool them all. Not Lord Baelish, who some claimed could make money appear from the air and who Pepper suspected was the greatest thief and criminal of them all. Nor the Spider, Lord Varys, who every dismissed because he’d been castrated; it was so easy to forget that in nature the most cunning of animals were those without a cock. Then there was the likes of the King’s brothers; Stannis who had fled the Capital when Jon Arryn had died, and Renly. She worried about him, knowing that Tony had forgotten that he’d embarrassed him a few years ago by openly mocking his request for a special sword to be made.

Tony so found it easy to make enemies.

Her husband played a dangerous game. He danced with Littlefinger and the Spider and Lord Tywin Lannister and seemed to think that even outside of his armor he was untouchable. But Pepper knew the truth: they were all one step away, one ill made move, from falling into the breach. She needed him back home, where she could protect him from himself. Because it wasn’t a matter of if but when someone found out the truth.

And then there was Jon.

Jon, who she’d grown to care for. She didn’t insult him by seeing him as her son, as he was far too old to be mothered. She knew that some women would have hated that, seen it as an insult, but she honestly didn’t mind because she didn’t see her or Tony ever having children. Tony simply didn’t have the patience to raise a babe and for herself… Pepper knew herself well enough to know she’d make a terrible mother. She’d always suspected that, believing that she’d rule over a daughter or son too much, worry about things that were beyond all control and force them into actions they would hate and, in turn, hate her for forcing them into. She’d suspected she’d be a bad mother… and seeing so many of her own worst traits on display in Catelyn Stark only affirmed that she never wanted to risk raising a child.

No, in Jon she saw the little brother she had never had. Someone she could talk to, someone to spend time with but never feel as if one party was ‘lesser’ than the other. That was another thing about Catelyn Stark Pepper never wanted to emulate. She’d heard the whispers of how Catelyn Stark in her youth had basically ruled over her siblings and one only had the look at Lysa and Edmure to see how that had played out. Lysa Arryn was, if what she’d heard from the young Lady Barba Morse was true, a corpulent shrew who at times acted like she was an evil queen from a septa’s tale and at other times a childish creature who didn’t know up from down and screeched when she didn’t get her way. And Edmure was just as flighty and foolish, forever trying to prove himself in all the wrong ways.

She cared for Jon. She wanted to him to grow into the great man Tony and her could see he could be. And so, despite her worry about her tardy husband, Pepper moved to the small room just to left of the entrance all and sat down in front of Jon, watching as the young man stared down at his hands, his right hand pinching his left handed knuckles, pulling at the skin and twisting ever so slightly.

“What is wrong, Jon?” she asked softly. He opened his mouth to deny that anything was the matter but she held up a hand, forestalling his comment. “I can see you are distressed. People say you Northern Starks are emotionless but I know that is a lie. You’re like Tony, unable to do anything but display your emotions for all to see. Now please… tell me what is wrong.”

He was silent for a long time and just when Pepper thought she’d have to force him to speak he finally began. But his words made little sense. "My father doesn't like to talk about the Rebellion," Jon said quietly. Pepper furrowed her brow at this but Jon continued before she could question the strange change in topic. "He lost a lot of people he loved. My grandfather, Uncle Brandon, Aunt Lyanna... and that was just our family. He lost friends too, many friends. I think... I think he looks at those that are around him, like Jory Cassel, who lost his father to the war, and wonders if things hadn't been better if he'd just... let things go. He had to avenge them, of course... I'd do the same if Robb and father were killed... yet was it worth it? Was all that blood split truly worth all the pain?"

"Jon..." Pepper began but the young man held up his hand.

"I'm getting to the point," he said with a weak smile. "Father doesn't like to talk about the war but... sometimes he's let things slip. He'll see something and it will trigger something and he'll just... say something. Most times it’s just a few moments but that can be enough. I've learned a lot about the Rebellion by just paying attention." Jon scuffed the toe of his boot against the floor. "About four years ago father had taken Robb and I out to deal with a man that had raped a girl in a village an hour's ride from Winterfell. He wanted us to understand that the man that passed the judgment swung the sword. But that isn't what mattered... what did matter was that we were riding back and there was this farmer trying to deal with this... this stupid tree. It was old and half rotted and he was trying to chop it down by himself. We were almost on top of him when something happened, I don't know, but the tree fell the wrong way and came down right on top of him. Father leapt off his horse and told me and Robb to try and help the other riders free the man and when I looked at that poor farmer, who just wanted to cut down a tree that was half dead already… he just stared at me with these sad, scared eyes and said, "I don't want to go". Father kept telling him it was okay but the old man told me he was scared and he didn't want to go... and then he died. Just... died. Looking at me.

"Later, once we were back at Winterfell father came to see me, to make sure I was all right. I told him what the old man said and my father licked his lips and just said, "sometimes... sometimes people just know they are going to die. They feel it." I asked him if they always died and my father said no, that during the Rebellion he felt a few times that he was going to die and that is what convinced him to move, to try something different. He sensed that if he didn't change, switch tactics, whoever he was fighting was going to get lucky and gut him or take his head.

"I never understood that. How could you just sense that you were going to die? I asked Maester Ludwin and he said it was the Seven speaking. Old Nan told me it was the Old Gods whispering in a person's ear. I honestly don't know... I've worshiped the Old Gods, know the words, but I'm not convinced they're real." He didn't need to say it but it broke Pepper's heart to know what was left unsaid, of WHY he felt the Gods weren’t real. For one raised in the comfort of Winterfell Jon had come to know the cruelty of the world… and question how any Gods, New or Old, could allow such things to come to pass. "It just never made any sense to me and I couldn't imagine what it was like to... feel that." He sighed, looking down at his hands. "But when I fought the Mountain... then I understood. I managed to bring him down and every instinct screamed 'Finish him. End him. Kill him, he doesn't deserve to live'. And yet when I looked at him, saw the hate and rage in his eyes... I knew that he wouldn't be the one to die that day." Jon shut his eyes and Pepper knew he was fighting back tears. "I was a coward."

"Jon, you FOUGHT Ser Gregor Clegane. The number of people in Westeros that can say that can be counted on a single hand. You have nothing to be ashamed of."

"Except now every person that he rapes and kills is on me."

"You can't think like that," Pepper said sternly.

"How can I not?" Jon asked, his tone have reserved, half pleading. "If I had just been better-"

"Tony would tell you that 'if' is the most dangerous word in the world. If Tony hadn't asked you to don the armor then you'd have never fought the Mountain... so it's his fault. But if the bandits had never hurt him he'd have never made the armor in the first place, so it is their fault. But if King Robert had never have gone to Winterfell Tony would have never left Iron Pointe, so it is his fault... so on. 'If' is a wheel, forever turning, no different than the damn game the Great Houses are always playing." Her lips quirked in a tender smile. "There is no one to blame for what Ser Gregor does next but himself. And anyone who says it is your fault what he does is a fool."

"I agree!" Tony called out as he strolled into the room, the dust of the road still clinging to his clothes. "What are we talking about?"

"Tony!" Pepper exclaimed, rushing to him and wrapping her arms around him. She wanted to hit him, to kiss him, to never let go either by hugging or strangling him. She honestly didn't know. All she knew was that he was here now and that made her life all the better. "We were waiting for you! Why didn't the guards-"

"Had Happy ride ahead and let them know to take a break. Wanted to surprise you and figured they were getting tired watching for my lazy ass to finally come riding up."

"That was reckless," Jon pointed out.

Tony grinned. "Jon, still see you have no sense of humor." He wiggled free of Pepper's grasp and clasped Jon's hand in greeting, stopping Pepper before she could scold him for picking on Jon; the boy had enough issues without Tony adding to that. "So, what exactly did I do that earned such a greeting?"

Pepper motioned for him to sit down and while he didn't say a word she could tell Tony sensed that something was very wrong. Others might not have seen it, as he didn't glower and hunch in his chair waiting for the blow to come, but Pepper had spent enough time to know when her husband had gone from carefree man to serious lord. He hid it well but it was there in his eyes, the slight tension in his muscles, the way his jaw flexed as he bit back retorts he wanted to make. There would be no wisecracks, not this time.

"The king is dead," Pepper said, deciding to be blunt.

Tony stared at the two of them, raising an eyebrow. "Well... that is... yeah, that is worse than I thought." He reached up to rub his chin only to pause halfway there and let his hand fall to his lap. Pepper could tell it was bugging him, knowing that someone he'd seen only a month or so early alive and well was dead and he hadn't even known. It broke her heart to see him like this, to be struggling with what he'd just learned. Pepper still remembered the day he'd finally told her about how he'd learned of his parents' death. He'd been away then as well and thought that his return to their keep would be a reunion and not the arrival at a funeral. "How?" he finally asked.

"He was hunting... a boar-"

Tony let out a bitter laugh. "Yeah, that sounds about right. Damn it, Robert." He ran his fingers through his hair. "This is going to make things real messy. A damn mess, that's for sure, and things were already on the edge of chaos thanks to Catelyn Stark-" Pepper winced and Tony instantly seized on her facial tic. "What has she done now?"

"Not her," Jon said. "Lord Tywin. When he learned of the Imp... Tyrion Lannister's capture he called the banners."

Tony rolled his head towards the sky and cursed. "Oh, this is just wonderful." He took a deep breath. "Rhodey?"

"Already leading your men," Pepper stated softly. "Lord Tywin sent word you are to send a raven to Casterly Rock at once. You have one week before you are to ride to join him and take command on the armorers."

"And I am to go with you," Jon said.

"No," Tony said firmly.

"Tony," Pepper said. "I don't want Jon to go either-"

"Uh, then great. I'll blame you when I tell Lord Tywin why Jon isn't getting 100 meters of a battle."

"If you don't obey him he'll have you in irons," Jon said. "I have to go."

"And be a hostage to use against Ned? Yeah, no, don't think so Jon." Jon stared at Tony who rolled his eyes. “You honestly think he expects you to fight? Let me lay it out for you: Catelyn Stark has Tyrion. Tywin calls the banners. That means the Riverlands vs. the Westerlands. And do you think for a second Ned is going to sit by and let Catelyn risk her neck? Tywin knows that so the moment you show up at camp you’ll be led into a tent and told “Stay here, enjoy the wine, play some cards, if you step outside we’ll cut off your cock and have a raven send it to dear ol’ Ned!” Tony ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. “That stupid woman! Even when you are hundreds of leagues away she finds a way to fuck up your life! No! You aren’t going, that’s final, and I’ll make some deal with Tywin. Hell, maybe I should just don the armor and rescue Tyrion myself… before I grab Lady Stark and fly her over the Narrow Sea and drop her at its deepest point!”

Pepper had never felt so proud and so frightened for Tony before. But in the end she knew her husband had no choice; even with his blustering and bold claims Jon would have to go with him or else all of Iron Pointe and everything they'd built would be destroyed by Tywin Lannister in response to the slight. Especially with all that had occurred... all that Tony didn't know about. "There's more."

Tony gave her a sour look. "What now? The Others have returned? Dragons have been born? Walder Frey has decided to put on a strip tease mummer performance and we all have to attend?"

Pepper just shook her head, unable to laugh at his jests. She grew solemn though as the weight of her next bit of news fell upon her. "It’s too late to stop Robb Stark from calling the banners. Ned... they've taken him prisoner."

"Wha... who?" Tony asked.

"King Joffrey," Jon spat. "He says father tried to stage an attempt for the throne, that he meant to seize power for himself."

"That is the dumbest thing I've ever heard. Ned wants that throne as much as a whore wants lice."

Pepper scrunched her nose at the vulgar yet accurate description. "Be that as it may he is now in a black cell in the Red Keep. King Joffrey-"

"Please don't call him that. I vomit in my mouth when I think of that little shit being our king," Tony said sarcastically. “I had the misfortune of eating with him back in King’s Landing. I kept expecting him to demand his food be brought in fresh so he could strangle it himself.”

"-has sent word that all the lords of Westeros are to appear before him and bend the knee lest they be put in chains like Ned. Including his own grandfather."

“Even Tywin? Little bastard has balls. Tiny misshapen ones, I’m sure…”

"Robb has refused," Jon stated. "Pepper received word from the North... Robb has called his bannermen and is now marching South."

"Oh goody," Tony grumbled. "So I either march to join Tywin in fighting my cousin's son in an attempt to free Tyrion or I march South to bow to our little shit of a king. Either way I end up in chains most likely. Or I do the really stupid thing and side with Robb and Catelyn, because when I think of military victory I think the boy whose never won a battle and his brain-mad mother! Lovely, just lovely." Tony clapped his hands. "So, who wants to go to Essos? Hear the weather is lovely." The door to the Keep rattled as someone pounded on it. "Obie! Answer that!" Tony turned back to Pepper and Jon. "Seriously? Essos? Braavos? Summer Isles? We could pick Jon out a dark skinned wife, really piss Catelyn Stark off-"

Before Pepper could scold Tony for his japes a horrific sound filled their ears. It was like a clap of thunder only the clouds were only a few feet above her head and it rattled her teeth so badly they ached. Before she could even start, however, there was a sick wet 'thump' as Obie was hurled through the sitting room, his head colliding with the wall and exploding like an overripe melon dropped from a great high. Warm blood splattered Pepper's check and she let out a scream as she stared at the ruined remains of the steward of Iron Pointe.

"What in the seven hells?!?" Jon shouted even as Tony leapt to his feet. But any show of bravado died in both men's throats when the goliath of a man that was the intruder stormed into the room. He was nearly twice as tall as a normal man and was braoder than two men standing side by side. He was wearing dull gray armor that covered most of his body and that which wasn't was adorned with chain mail. A normal man would have been crushed by the weight of it all but the thing before her, and it simply couldn't be a man at all but some monster, moved with ease. A metal skirt of plate fell down to nearly his knees and the steel that covered his hands creaked as he flexed his boulder-like hands. The helm was rather featureless, resembling Tony's Iron Man mask though more primitive and raw. Rounded at the top, the helmet was smooth save for the two square eye holes and the gape along the mouth that made the helm appear to be forever prepared to open wide and consume them all whole.

"Antony Stark," the metallic creature snarled. "I need you to deliver a message."

Tony steeled himself and stepped forward, Jon grabbing Pepper and pushing her behind him. "And what message is that, Ser Gregor?"

Pepper prided herself on being of stronger stuff than most ladies in Westeros. She didn't get heart flutters if a table wasn't set properly and while her first reaction upon seeing blood was to cry out her second was to always stand firm and ready. But with the Mountain towering over them all it took all her strength not to loosen her bowels. All knew what the Mountain could do, what he had done... the terrors he had actually performed made the boldest threats of the blackest cads look like love poetry.
Gregor reached down and grabbed Tony by the front of his shirt, lifting him up. "Tell your friend the Iron Man he has till midnight to meet me at the Silver Thread Mine."

“He… isn’t a friend of mine.”

“I thought the little fly was you until he attacked me while you were in King’s Landing. You made his armor though and I think you know more than you let on. So do the smart thing… and tell him to come.”

"And... what makes you think he'll actually show up?" Tony said, trying to play it as cool as he could. To Pepper it was clear he was failing.

Gregor tossed Tony said, thankfully not hard enough to do more than bruise him. Any relief Pepper felt died when the Mountain turned his sights on her. "You'll convince him... your lady wife's chances of seeing another sunrise depend on it."

"NO!" Jon roared, hurrying over to a wall and attempting to grab a sword that hung there. Gregor though, despite his armor and size, moved lightning quick and grabbed the young man and slammed him into the ground. Pepper was now unable to stop herself from screaming and her throat went raw when Tony shifted to try and help Jon only to get knocked aside again for his trouble. Gregor lifted his fist, Jon letting out a pitiful moan as he tried to shield himself, blood trickling from his lips as Gregor pressed down harder with his left hand, preparing to deliver the killing blow.

"STOP!" Pepper cried out, throwing herself between Jon and the Mountain. "I'll go with you! I'll go with you!"

"There is no doubt of that," Gregor said, moving to shove her away.

Pepper spoke though before he could bat her away. "Iron Man won't come after me if he thinks I'm broken or dead! He isn’t a fool! He’ll know this is a trap and won’t come to rescue me if I’m already gone. You need me alive... uninjured... unspent... if you want him to show up. If you let Tony and Jon go now and promise not to touch a hair on my head until your deadline passes I'll go willingly. But if you hurt them again I'll fight you... and will you be able to restrain yourself enough to take me without killing me?"

"Pepper..." Tony said with a moan.

Gregor considered her word and for a terrible moment she thought he might give in to his desires. "After midnight... you're mine. If your husband fails…"

"I know," Pepper said, swallowing her fear. "I know what type of man you are."

"No... you really don't," Gregor taunted before standing up. He reached over and grasped Pepper around the waist, lifting her over his shoulder like she was a child throwing a tantrum. She heard him bellow. "Midnight, Lord Stark... a second more and I'll rape her till she splits apart and then crush her head between my hands! Then… I’ll do the same to the boy! And then each person in this town! I’ll kill them all while you watch! SO BRING ME THE IRON MAN!"

And with that final demand for Gregor turned away, allowing Pepper to watch Tony's devastated face as she was carried away, Jon weakly reaching a hand for her before it fell limp at his side.

Chapter Text

Ned

“Come to talk to me again?” Ned croaked, shielding his eyes against the sad, limp flicker of the candle in the turnkey’s hand. It was a mournful thing that such a pathetic little wick could hurt his eyes so, he who had survived the blazing sun of Dorne and the brilliant white of the North, but they didn’t call them the ‘Black Cells’ because of the color of the stone walls. Every castle and keep had its own ways of torturing those locked in its worst dungeons, so that they might break all the quicker. The Dreadfort had once, long ago, forced new prisoners of the Forever Cells to select one prisoner, refusing to answer why the men weeped and cried and begged not to be selected. The next day the new prisoner was given a blanket made of the skin of the prisoner they had selected, the silent screaming face of the original owner right in the middle for all to see. At Winterfell his ancestors had tied men to racks and alternated dripping burning hot water from the underground sprints and freezing cold water from the nearby river on their backs, never letting one get used to the temperature. The Vale had the Sky Cells, which drove men to fling themselves into the open abyss. At Casterly Rock they would lock a man in a room without windows and then stagger meals, sometimes going for days without a speck of food to be seen and then bring two with only a matter of minutes being apart; prisoners would lose all track of time and believe they had been trapped for years when it was only weeks. In The Reach horror stories were told of men placed on beds of soil face down with the seed of a thorn vine placed right near their belly button. The plant would grow slowly, worming its way against the prisoner’s skin… then into them if they didn’t talk quick enough. It was said that there were thorn bushes in Highgarden where you could still see the corpses of prisoners tangled in them, their bodies merged completely with the plants.

And in King’s Landing one sat in the utter dark, where no light save those chosen by his jailers was allowed in, left utterly alone.

They starved him of course. Gave him only moldy bread that turned his guts into knots and water so foul it actually tasted better coming back up than it ever did going down. But that didn’t break Ned. Not in the slightest. Cersei and Joffrey (for he refused to call the bastard ‘king’) had thought him like other lords, so used to soft beds and decadent food that even going a few days without it would drive him mad, raving and begging to be let out. They forgot that he had fought in the Rebellion and then, even amongst the splendor of King’s Landing (even in wartime the Red Keep was a paradise to most) shunned it all to travel through the deserts of Dorne to get to the Tower of Joy. This was nothing.

The only company he truly had was the turnkey that now thrust a wineskin full of clean water into his hands and gave him a small scrap of day old bread to chew on. He was sure Cersei would have been enraged by this kindness but it of course made sense … the Black Cells were filled with vermin, rats…

…and spiders.

“You make it sound so horrid, Lord Stark,” Varys said, dropping the rough and guttural voice he adapted when he came into the cell and returning to his light and, for lack of a better turn, ‘fluffy’ tones. “I would think you’d want to have some company.”

“I would… if I didn’t fear that you brought a way to torture me.”

“There are many that would laugh at the idea of me being able to torture you.”

“Then they are fools,” Ned grunted.

Varys considered him for a moment. “And they are fools,” he agreed, smiling slightly and allowing Ned a glimpse of the real man behind the tittering bald figure that the rest of the world saw. “But why would you believe I would torture you?”

“I don’t think you mean to, or perhaps you do. But in any case you bring news and news is torture when placed in the right ears and spoken by the right tongue.”

“My word. A few weeks in the Black Cells and you’ve become very skilled in the Game.” Varys tittered a bit. “Very amusing.”

“Not where I am sitting,” Ned groused. “Well… go on then. Give me the news.”

“And how would you like to be tortured today, Lord Stark? News of your daughters? Your sons? Your wife?”

“Did any of my people escape King’s Landing?” Ned asked.

“Only a handful, my lord, and too small a number to be of any hope to you. Jory Cassel leads them, having managed to already be prepared to leave with your children when you were taken. He wishes to help you but wisely knows it a fool’s errand and thus speeds back to the North. But then again I suppose their living brings you hope.” Ned merely nodded; while he was willing to trade japes with the Spider to keep himself occupied he wasn’t going to open himself up for verbal flaying. Varys, seeing that Ned wasn’t taking the bait, sighed and continued. “As for your eldest son he has called the banners and with your wife marches towards the Twins as we speak, though I question how he will cross as Lord Walder Frey isn’t known for gifts of charity. Nor is he known for backing a cause that he isn’t sure of. I hear the price he desires is your son’s marital bed. Young Arya’s too.”

“Another delay,” Ned muttered, knowing that even if Robb readily agreed it would still require time to sort out the details. “And another chance for them to decide to just kill me and be done with it.”

“It won’t come to that if you just confess.” Varys had been singing the song for a while.

“To what crime? Doing what is right?”

“I would think you, of all men, would know that what is right is decided not by the gods but by those in power. After all, you betrayed your oaths to your king and fought a rebellion to overthrow him.” Varys held up a hand as Ned moved to speak. “I understand. Aerys needed to be removed. I will not argue that. He was mad and though you scorn Ser Jaime know that if I had been born with the skill to wield a blade as he had… I would have made his choice as well. Aerys would have doomed us all and had to be torn from the throne. But until he was you were a criminal. The same is true here. You have lost, my lord, and that you must accept.”

Ned clenched his jaw but nodded. Varys was right. As much as it pained him to admit it. “And the rest?”

“Your daughter Arya has disappeared, my lord, along with her, hehem, dance instructor. So too the blacksmith boy your cousin Antony was interested in. Perhaps a connection?”

Ned didn’t say anything but he felt his heart soar. Arya was alive, he knew it, and in the safe hands of Syrio. He would get her back to WInterfell, he was sure of it. Or perhaps take her to Iron Pointe, along with Robert’s bastard. She was, at the very least, safe and not a pawn to be used against him.

“My lord, I’m afraid I must bring up one other matter to you… and I hate to do so, lest I crush your hope. But please know that Lord Antony is, by all accounts, still on the road and has already been summoned by Lord Tywin to join his forces.”

Ned nodded. “I expected as much. I doubt Antony would come here and risk speaking for me.”

“It wasn’t speaking I was hinting at,” Varys said. Ned looked at him and the Spider rolled his eyes, for once being blunt. “I enjoy games but there is a time and a place for them. Your cousin IS the Iron Man. I know it and you know it. What I am saying is that any hope of him bursting through the walls and saving you should be cast aside. Unless some grand event has occurred that would allow him to evade Lord Tywin’s gaze he simply can’t come.”

Ned hadn’t been hoping for that but it startled him that Varys knew the truth about Antony… and that he knew that Ned knew. Still, he refused to give up the secret. It wasn’t his to tell.

“My lord… I must press this again. Confess your crime and you will be spared. You will be allowed to take the black and service in the Night’s Watch with your brother Benjen. Your son Robb will be made Warden of the North after he bends the knee.”

“You think my honor is worth so little? Or my son’s?”

“Is it worth more than your daughter Sansa’s life? She is still held by the Queen and King Joffrey… ”

Ned finally turned to look Varys in the eye and as the Spider detailed the dangers and threats that swarmed around Sansa he felt ice enter his heart. Even though the conversation would go on for another 10 minutes it was already decided with those words that Ned would do the unthinkable.

He would disgrace himself forever… to save his child’s life.

Tony

Jon let out a moan and Tony looked up from the boot he was working. Setting the hammer down he walked over to the young man and ran a damp cloth over his head, gathering up the beads of perspiration that had formed on his skin. "Hey," Tony said, feeling rather awkward. He was used to flying by the seat of his britches but today had seen everything he relied on, the few rocks that offered stability in his life, come crashing down and now he was trying to find anything to anchor himself. Working with metal was one… Jon was another. "Don't move, alright? I've had Jarvis look you over and he says you’ll be fine but you need to rest. He thinks you just have some cracked ribs but doesn’t want you moving in case the damage is worse." Tony grimaced. "Sorry, I can repair armor well enough but people? I just... forget it, I'm rambling. Need anything?"

"Water," Jon croaked. Tony nodded though rather than water he grabbed some weak wine and let Jon have a mouthful, the young man nodding in gratitude. "What... happened? Pepper?"

"That pig fucker everyone else calls Ser Gregor took her," Tony said with a grimace before beginning work on a gauntlet. "She made a deal... her for our lives."

"My... my fault," Jon groaned, trying to sit up. Tony set the gauntlet down and walked back over to Jon, pressing on his shoulders and forcing him down. "Pepper..."

"Will be rescued," Tony said firmly. "But you won't do any good for her if you reinjure yourself. So lay down and let those ribs settle, okay?"

"Tony," Jon hissed, it clear that ever breath he took caused him great pan. "It's... all my fault."

"No, it isn't," Tony said. "Now lay down before I strap you down. And trust me, I don't want to strap you down... I prefer to do that with my wife." Jon, however, was stubborn and reached out and grabbed Tony's hand, hauling himself up. "Jon, you're a sweet kid but I don't swing that way... despite what Oberyn Martell claims." Under his breath he muttered, "And that painting he may or may not have..."

"Tony," Jon began again, his strength slowly returning as the watered down wine flooded through his veins, "I fought him. The Mountain. I was wearing your armor-"

"Yeah, heard about that in King's Landing." Tony made a face. "Did you really fly out of a burning building? Cause, got to say, that is impressive. I just dodged people he threw at me."

"-I should have killed him," Jon said, bitter and disgusted with himself. "I was scared, thought he would kill me. But I should have been better. It's all my fault. Pepper would still be here if I’d killed him."

"That's Catelyn Stark talking," Tony said with a glare. "Not everything is your fault, Jon. The world doesn’t revolve around you."

"But this is! If I'd killed him-"

"Tywin Lannister would have marched on Iron Pointe and razed it to the ground," Tony said with utter conviction. When Jon gave him a less-than-believing look Tony sighed, rubbing his face with both his hands. "Okay, listen... it's real easy to say, "Oh, just kill Ser Gregor, end his life and everything will be puppies and roses. The world will suddenly be perfect again and there will be laughter and joy and Tyrion will grow to be 8 feet tall and Ned will pull the stick out of his ass and Loras Tyrell will stop flirting with me." Real easy to say when you aren't the one facing that… thing… down. Don't forget, I fought him too and I didn't kill him." Tony's lip quirked. "Granted, I was praying I survived and you actually had a shot but still... anyway, the point is that others can say that because they don't need to think about what will happen next. I do.”

Tony walked back to the gauntlet he was working on and began to pound on it. He found that focusing on Jon’s mental state and working on his latest project was helping him not dwell on what he needed to do in a few hours… and what terrors Pepper was going through, even with the promise she’d rung out of The Mountain. "Let's say you killed Clegane. You think everyone would just shrug and move on? Oh, a lot of folks would celebrate... privately. A few fools might do so publically. But Ser Gregor is Tywin Lannister's bannerman and one of his most prized knights." Tony looked the gauntlet over before nodding in approval, the silvery white metal contrasting nicely with the crimson. "So far I've managed to just annoy Tywin. Iron Man is a nuisance and a distraction. He's caused some problems and yeah, he fought the Mountain a few times but nothing too serious has come from any of this. Nothing that, in the end, Tywin couldn’t forgive. Would he? Probably not. But if Iron Man disappeared tomorrow Tywin wouldn’t spend the rest of his days hunting him down. The Wardens haven't been truly affected and haven't been targeted. But if you'd have killed Ser Gregor? That would have forced their hand. Lord Tywin doesn't take insults well and he'd have seen such a brazen attack as the ultimate attack on his standing in Westeros. Where do you think he would have gone first once he got it in his head that Iron Man needed to be dealt with? To the guy that made the armor. By the Old Gods, the New Gods, and the Middle Aged Gods, even that dumb bastard Clegane was able to puzzle that much out! I admitted I made the damn armor and Tywin is sure to think I know more. A few rounds under torture wouldn’t even upset his stomach, even if he had to watch his men do it to me while he dined on lemon cakes. He could do it himself if he got bored. All of Westeros knows I’m connected to Iron Man… that’s why Pepper was taken, remember.”

"It's not..." Jon began, only for Tony to hold up a hand.

"My fault? Yeah, not claiming it is. See... I don't blame people for the actions of others and a certainly don't blame myself for the things other people do. Some lord with a stick up his ass decided to sic those bandits on me. I could spend hours worrying about what I did that might have offended someone to do that but in the end it doesn't matter because it isn't my fault. I know I've done nothing to warrant that extreme of a reaction. Getting punched out or wine thrown at me? Sure. But tortured?” He pulled up his shirt, letting Jon see the circular scar that was still on his chest. “Yeah, not so much. The only person to blame is the one that gave the command. That's why there is only one person to blame for Pepper not being here: Ser Gregor Clegane." Tony stood up and picked up the gauntlet, testing it out. "And that's why the only one who is going to pay for it is the Mountain."

“You’re going to kill him?”

“Yeah,” Tony said, not meeting Jon’s eyes. “And yeah, I know I just said doing that was bad but he changed the game. He’s now the one that attacked one of Tywin Lannister’s bannermen. I’m having Jarvis send ravens out, begging for any lord who might be able to help me to find Pepper to do so. Letting them know what Clegane did. Hopefully the bastard is dead before the ravens land and then I can set about finishing my master plan.” He managed a cocky smile, though his eyes told the real story. “Hell… by the end I might even thank the Mountain for all this. Could take care of a lot of problems.”

"You... you can't fight him," Jon said. "He'll be waiting for you. It's-"

"-a trap," Tony said, cutting Jon off. "Yeah, I know. Obvious, really. Gregor is a stupid bugger, didn’t even try and hide it. Probably didn’t want to, thinking he’ll have Iron Man beat. So yeah, trap. Big trap. Big nasty trap. But I've got a deadline and leaving Pepper there at his mercy isn't an answer. Well, it is, but not one I like that much and I wager neither do you. Best I can do is spring the trap." Tony flashed a grim smile and when he caught his reflection in the polished metal of the gauntlet he was a touch surprised to find that, for the first time, he truly looked like his dear cousin Ned. There was ice and iron in his veins and a hard determination to do what was right. It seemed that it only took the threat of the Mountain himself to reveal the wolfblood ran true in him. "I'm going to get Pepper back and then... I'm going to show the Mountain that it isn't just the Lannisters that pay their debts."

Jon just blinked at him, rather owlishly.

"Uh... that was my bold proclamation. You know, the one all the heroes make in those stories the old nursemaids tell kids right before they go and slay the monster?"

"Oh." Jon shifted. “Old Nan usually just skipped to the battle.”

"Huh. Well…wasn't it good? I expected at least a holler of agreement."

Jon shrugged, gesturing at his ribs. "It kinda hurts to cheer."

"Right. Huh. Kinda... took the wind out of my sails." After a moment Tony just awkwardly walked out of the room, only to return a few seconds later. "Suit’s in here. Forgot that." He began to strip down so he could put on his armor. "Probably... probably should have said that whole 'paying debts' thing when I was armored up. Flown out, all bold. Like I did with Pepper… told her I couldn’t save that girl but I’d… Hmmm." Jon merely laid there as Tony continued to don his gear. "This is awkward."

“It really is.”

The two looked at each other for a long while.

“So… uh… be good,” Tony finally said. “Eat your vegetables? That sort of thing? You know-“

“Tony,” Jon said.

“Yeah?” Tony asked, gladded Jon had cut through the awkwardness.

“I’m coming too.” Jon looked him square in the eye. “You can tell me it isn’t all my fault all you want. And I suppose you are right. We can only blame ourselves for what we ourselves do. And if that is the case… then I can only blame myself for not standing at your side when we save Pepper and finally take down Gregor Clegane.”

“…right, good. Glad to hear. Was worried I’d after to guilt you.” Tony continued to strip down, going to grab his armor.

“You’re letting me come?” Jon said in surprised.

“You expected I wasn’t?”

The young man grimaced. “Was… prepared to give a big speech about how I needed to do this, list why it was better if I helped, that sort of thing.”

“You had me sold on standing by my side. Don’t ruin a good moment by making it long, Jon.” Tony smirked and set to work getting armored up. “Yours is in the crate by the workbench.”

“Pardon?” Jon said walking over to said crate. He froze, staring down at the contents, and Tony walked over and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“You didn’t think to wonder what I was building while you were out? Making the final tweaks to that. Originally when I started this mess I was thinking of going with silver and red, to make everyone think I was a Reyne that somehow escaped Tywin’s vengeance, but decided it might be wise not to really pull on his nose that hard. Red and gold? That annoys him. Red and silver? Oh, that would have had him foaming at the mouth. Besides, silver isn’t my color.” He looked down at the new armor once more, a smile forming on his lips. “But I think it will work just fine for you.”

Jon reached down and, with shaky hands, lifted up the red and silver helm, running his fingers along it. “It’s… perfect.” He glanced up at his guardian and benefactor. “What should I go by?”

Tony snorted. “Glad you thought of that. I’m Iron Man and though you played the part well while I was out and about can’t have you flying around all the time with my title.” Tony considered the helm. “In Braavos they have a word for a man who takes it upon himself, with no hope of gaining coin or fame or power, to protect the innocent. They are the most selfless of heroes. It is a name that I think would suit you well.”

Tony took the helm and held it up.

“Centurion.”

Chapter Text

Gregor

The bitch had been quiet the entire time and he honestly didn't know if he felt relief or rage at her for that. Lady Stark had been silent and, true to her word, made no move to struggle or cry out as he'd taken her. Even as he'd carried her past the few members of that idiot Stark's guard that had actually shown their faces and in turn seen said faces reduced to mush under the force of his gauntlet-covered fists she'd been silent and still. Even as he tossed her onto his horse and threatened the Small Folk and craftsmen that had watched on from their hovels she’d been still. It was odd, as he was all too used to women screeching and sobbing when he came for them. He'd been ten-and-five when he'd last seen a woman come to him willingly; it had been a stupid Westerland bitch who'd thought she could coax him into going easy on her tribute-avoiding father if she flashed her tits and lifted her skirt to him. He'd killed her in mid fuck, spilling his seed into her lifeless broken body before tossing her outside his keep without a care. Then he’d doubled the tribute he demanded from her father. After that all women knew that to be in his hold was death and none tried to pretend otherwise. So they would whimper and cry and beg and only serve to annoy him further. Lady Stark was different. She gave him an ounce of peace.

And it pissed him off that he couldn't make the haunty bitch so much as whimper.

'She knows she's safe,' Gregor thought to himself in disgust as he paced back and forth along the edge of the Southpaw Mine, the flickering of torch lights making his shadow twitch and shake like a disemboweled bastard lying at his feet. He forced himself not to look at her as he knew the moment he did and saw that her face unblemished by tears and blood that he'd lose his control and tear her to pieces. Gouge out her eyes, rip her tongue out, cleave her ears off and shove them down her throat, strangle her with her own hair, strip her naked and then squeeze her till her body burst apart like an overripe grape, splattering him with her insides-

He growled and clenched his fists so tight his gauntlets groaned in protest. So many ways to slate his bloodlust and he was unable to do damn thing. He was like a Dornish bastard sitting next to a jug of water but refusing to drink, choosing instead to roast in the heat. She was right there, all but begging him to destroy her body and add yet another soul to the countless total he'd sent to the Stranger... and he couldn't do a thing.

'Till midnight,' Gregor reminded himself, making it his mantra. He just needed to wait till midnight. Then he would kill the Iron Man and then murder Stark's bitch; he'd only promised she'd be spared till Iron Man arrived, after all. 'I'll take her with me when I go back to Iron Pointe. Let the pissboy Antony look on her corpse before I tear him and Ned Stark's bastard to shreds. Then I'll burn the whole damn town down with everyone inside.' He remembered the smell of King's Landing burning and the feeling of the Targ brats' blood between his fingers and felt the desire to reenact that wondrous day. Lord Tywin wouldn't be pleased this time; he'd disobeyed his liege lord's direct commands to leave the Iron Man and Lord Stark be. Gregor was no fool and understood that by the time he was done he'd be the most wanted man in all of Westeros. 'Let them hunt me,' he thought as he scanned the sky, trying to catch a glimpse of the flying bastard. 'I'll kill them all, even the Old Lion himself if he gets in my way!' Gregor already had passage paid for on a ship headed towards Dorne. He'd then make his way across the Narrow Sea and find some sellsword company to overthrow and claim as his own. He might spend a few years indulging in killing some foreign shits and then he'd seek a pardon... or lead an army of his own back to the Seven Kingdoms and show them all why it was unwise to stand before a mountain and declare yourself its ruler. Maybe in the end it would be him sitting on that ugly throne… only he’d put the eyes of each of his kills on the swordpoints.

But that was all in the future. First he would kill the Iron Man.

He'd chosen Southpaw for this final meeting as he knew the land well and would not be caught off guard. Twice now the Iron Man had surprised him but this night Gregor was ready. There were no places the man could hide that Gregor didn't know about, no hidden areas where he might launch a counter attack. The only people that would witness this battle where the two of them and the Stark bitch, as the miners had all been told to pack up and get marching with the rest of the army. They’d been in such a hurry to leave that they’d abandoned the crates of glowing sunstones that had been meant to be shipped out for Lord Tywin and his maester to examine; with the Imp captured though the Old Lion had other things on his mind than 20 crates filled with glowing rocks. The miners had, at least, had the good sense to hide away the crates of silver that most likely were to have been used for supplies and wages but said hiding spot was rather pathetic and it had taken Gregor only a few minutes to toss aside the mining equipment and canvas to find them. These he’d loaded into a wagon, planning to use the silver to pay for his new life across the Narrow Sea. It was actually better than his original plan, which had been to raid whatever Stark had lying around and sell it off. Now he could just focus on razing Iron Pointe to the ground before getting to the ship. He hated when needs such as plundering and eating and sleeping got in the way of killing.

Southpaw had begun its life as an open pit mine, where men loaded great shovelfuls of broken up rock and dirt into boxes hooked to winches. These would be brought up top and then dumped onto water trays where, with a pull of a lever, a great crush of water redirected from the nearby Blue Tail River would spill into the trays, washing away loose dirt and revealing stone that could then be examined for silver ore. It had then become a mere eyesore, as more fruitful mines had been focused on and for 20 some odd years had been left to sit, visited only by stupid boys who wished to prove their foolishness and bravery by climbing about it. But after Antony Stark had first alerted Lord Tywin to the existence to Sunstones the mine had been reopened with more traditional mine shafts cut into the rock at the bottom of the pit. They'd obviously found a bunch of the stuff but hadn't cared all that much about it; the miners had worked to pack up their tents and hide the silver but had left the crates of Sunstones out for anyone stupid enough to try and steal from Tywin Lannister to attempt the deed.

Gregor paced back and forth, occasionally drawing his sword only to then place it back in its scabbard a few minutes later. Some might have thought him nervously but he was the exact opposite of that: he was impatient and ready. He wondered if this was what a virginal boy felt before falling into the bed of their lady wife for the first time. There was no fear or worry, just the desire to get it over with. He wanted to get the deed done, to grab hold of the flying bastard and squeeze his helm until his brains seeped from the eyeholes. Never before had he been so anxious for a kill, so ready for it. He figured only his scarred fool of a brother could have had hope to inspire such drive in him, such need for a kill. Perhaps he'd send a raven to King's Landing and taunt the mutilated little baby into journeying across the Narrow Sea so they could face each other one last time. It would be so much fun to tear Sandor-

"I hope I'm not late."

Gregor looked up and scowled at the floating form of the Iron Man. He hung in the sky, making no attempt to hide himself. No attempt at a sneak attack. Of course the bastard also hadn't come in blazing about on a glowing trail of magic, announcing to everyone that he'd arrived. He'd just shown up and treated his arrival like it was the most casual of greetings.

"I see your whipping boy Stark managed to get a hold of you," Gregor snarled, grabbing his helm and thrusting it on. "I'll make sure to let Lord Tywin know Antony is a traitor when I bring your crushed corpse to Casterly Rock. I'll also tell him how you died... whimpering and sobbing... all alone with my boot on your throat!"

"Oh, so wrong on so many counts, Greggy," Iron Man taunted before firing off a beam of magic. Gregor was ready though and thrust his hand behind a barrel and pulled out a large shield, catching the blast. A normal man would have been thrown aside, their arms shattered from the blow even with the shield, but Ser Gregor easily held his ground, batting away the attack. If the Iron Man felt any fear at seeing his potent magic so harmlessly cast aside he didn't show it. "First off, unlike you I don't get off on torture so there is no 'whipping boy' for me. Not that there is anything wrong with that..." Gregor snarled and grabbed onto one of the barrel he'd hidden his shield behind and threw it at Iron Man, who merely zipped away before it even came close to him. "Of course, if you are into that it explains a lot of things. Does that make your little tantrum after Loras Tyrell unseated you at the Tourny of the Hand you a lover's spat?"

Gregor roared and smashed another barrel, revealing two crossbows. He took aim and fired first one and the other, forcing the Iron Man to drop down a bit lower lest he get hit. "Come down here and fight, you cockless coward!"

"Yeah, no, more comfortable up here," Iron Man said mockingly. "You do realize Lord Tywin isn't going to be happy you attacked a loyal bannerman's keep and lady wife, right? The man might be able to look past a lot of things but he is in the middle of trying to free Tyrion. Can't afford to have the rest of his men wondering when you'll take your pleasures with their wives next."

"You think I care about that old bastard?" Gregor snarled, drawing his sword and banging it against his shield, motioning for Iron Man to face him. "All that matters now is spilling your blood."

"And you've done such a lovely job at that." Iron Man fired again and once more Gregor batted the blast aside. He came to hover about 10 feet above and in front of Gregor, holding out his arms wide.

Gregor let out a bellow and threw another barrel at Iron Man. But as he gave it a toss he was already twisting around, reaching for Lady Stark. The plan was simple: Toss her just like the barrel and see if he could trick the red and gold idiot into vaporizing the woman he'd come to save. The Mountain's hand grasped for her but rather than closing on her soft flesh all he found was air. He looked about and then saw the ropes that had held her, now sitting in tatters on the cold ground.

"The other thing you got wrong?" Iron Man called out. "I'm not alone. CENTURION!"

Gregor twisted just in time to catch a sword in the face; had it not been for his helm he'd have been dead. Now all he suffered from was a ringing in his ears as a second figure, this one wearing red and silver armor, lashed out with a broadsword in an attempt to hack him to pieces. Gregor shook his head and let the blows fall, wondering if he should thank that idiot Stark for such good armor, before rolling his shoulders and moving to snatch the blade from the Centurion's hand. But he'd forgotten about Iron Man and the red and gold knight was on him, punching him in the helm again. This caused Gregor to stumble back, giving the two an opening to begin trading blows. He was forced to drop his sword and use his shield to protect himself, is free hand lashing about as he tried to grab hold of one of them.

"You should have never taken her!" Centurion shouted, driving the point of his blade towards Gregor's unprotected eye. The Mountain caught the blade at last though and, with a satisfying crack, broke the sword like it was a stick before shoving the remains and the Centurion onto his back. This gave him a chance to finally focus on Iron Man and when the golden knight tried to fly away Gregor grabbed hold of his boot and pulled him back to him, bashing him into the ground before tossing him as hard as he could into the large wooden tower that made up the mine's winch system, causing it to crack and tremble. Iron Man hit with a hard thunk and Gregor heard Lady Stark scream. He looked about... there! She was huddled by a pile of timber, watching the battle with wide eyes, and shouted when she realized Gregor had spotted her.

"I'm not done with you yet!" Gregor roared, stomping towards her. "They think their armor is pretty?" he snapped as he got closer, the foolish woman toppling on her rear as her legs got tangled up in her torn dress. "I'll paint mine with your blood!"

"Paint it with your own!" Centurion shouted, flying at Gregor and tackling him. The two of them flew past Lady Stark and crashed through the little wooden shack that had served as the mine overseer's office and sleeping area. The beams fell down on them but the two continued to punch at each other, snapping like wild dogs. The Centurion got in some good shoots, even managing to fire a blast of magic at Gregor's side that dented his armor so much it made it hard to twist but still it had been stupid for the knight to get within arm's reach of him and Gregor now was able to turn the tide in his favor. He wrapped a hand around the knight's left arm and pulled, the metal creaking and groaning. Normally he'd have been able to tear the limb clean off but whatever metal the armor and chainmail was made of it was clearly enchanted as well and refused to do as he wanted. So instead Gregor began to punch at the hero's breastplate, his armored fist clanging against the metal armor until the Centurion let out a cry.

Gregor smiled behind his mask and struck again, getting another bellow. "Broken ribs..." he flipped them over and applied his sheer bulk to the injured knight, cackling as the man thrashed. "Maybe I'll just leave you barely alive... then you can watch me kill the bitch before I beat you to death with her corpse!"

"Oh shut up!" Iron Man shouted, firing twin bursts that knocked Gregor off Centurion. "What is it with you and killing people and using their dead bodies to do things? Did your father not hug you enough when you were a boy?"

"He hugged me as I crushed the life out of him and took his home as my own!" Gregor roared, standing up. He moved to stomp on the Centurion but the silver knight flew off, bouncing against the ground like a skipping stone. "Just like you will! Just like Stark will!"

"You keep saying you'll kill me and yet you just keep failing!" Iron Man shouted, landing about 20 feet from Gregor. "And besides... this is a really stupid plan. Kill me and... what? Run off? Leave that nice castle of yours? You think for a second they are going to let you live after all this? Tywin Lannister will have your balls for breakfast!"

"He can try!" Gregor shouted, grabbing a pickaxe from the ruins of the shack and testing its weight. He glanced around for the Centurion but didn't see him; bastard was probably licking his wounds like a coward. "But this is a new world! A new age! The fat king is gone! He can't muzzle me anymore."

"You think Joffrey will let you off with a warning?"

"The little shit will probably want to make me a lord! Give me Antony's keep as my own!" Gregor said with a boisterous laugh.

"You're mad," Iron Man said darkly.

"No! I'm just the only one in the whole of the Seven Kingdoms with his head on straight! I'm the only one who sees what the world truly is! What it's becoming!” He loosened his muscles, preparing for the next volley. “I've been around the boy! You think they keep my stunted baby brother around to protect him? HA! Sandor is there to protect everyone else!" He saw movement to his right and lashed out, hurling the pickaxe at the Centurion who was trying to get in a surprise attack. It forced the Centurion to change his flight pattern far too quickly, leading him to crash heavily into the silver-laden wagon. When Iron Man moved to attack Gregor lashed out and kicked him in the chest, sending him tumbling to the ground. "King Joffrey is like me! He might be a small little shit... but he's like me where it matters. He loves to kill. Not battle, not tests of strength, not any of the damn games the rest of these pathetic whimpering knights like to play to try and prove that they have balls! Just kill! We might end up making a team of it! He'll kill that bastard Ned Stark... don't think for a second he hasn't already decided to take his head, no matter if he bends the knee or not! Then he'll wipe out the rest of House Stark in the North... and I'll wipe them out in the West! I’ll bury you under all your pretty glowing stones they found in that pit down there and then I’ll bury every damn Stark!"

“Is that so…” Iron Man said, glancing down at the pit and then at the silver wagon.

“I know it.”

“You think you can wipe the Starks out?” the Centurion said, standing up. He looked over at the Iron Man and, after getting the slightest of nods, reached up and removed the faceplate of helm. “You’ve done a poor job of it so far.”

“The bastard,” Gregor hissed, staring at the boy’s face.

“You know,” Iron Man said, rising in the air, hovering over just the edge of the pit as he reached up and removed his faceplate as well, “I really hate that word.”

“Stark…” Gregor felt his entire body become racked with tremors. Rage… pure and utter rage… filled his heart and left him physically struck by what he was seeing. The Lord he hated and the iron bastard who made a fool of him… were the same. The only way it could have been worse was if Stark had revealed he was also his brother Sandor, cured of his scars and made whole again. He felt his gauntlets crack as his clenched his fists, his breath coming out in hot blasts as the blood rushed through his head, creating a thundering waterfall in his brain with the words KILL KILL KILL repeated over and over again. He suddenly felt strangely hot, like he imaged Rickard Stark had felt when Aerys had just begun to cook him in his own armor. Every muscle was tense, the veins on his neck and temple throbbing as he looked at the mocking smile of Antony Stark… the gods be damned Iron Man.

“Gregor,” Stark called out, “do you know why I just showed you my face?” He smirked. “So you could see me LAUGHING at you!”

The Mountain let out an unintelligible roar and thundered towards Stark, powering through the blasts he sent at him and leaping up. He got a brief moment of satisfaction seeing the man’s eyes go wide in surprise before he struck, wrapping his massive arms around him and squeezing him into a bear hug. Whatever magic he used to fly suddenly failed and the two of them began to tumble and fall, their descent a series of rapid drops followed by bone jarring stops as Stark managed to reapply his enchantment. But Gregor wasn’t about to let Stark get a chance to make a safe landing and so began to squeeze his body as hard as he could, startled that the magical armor was able to stand up to his brute strength but pleased enough that it wasn’t allowing the bastard to do any more magic. He kicked out, trying to break Stark’s ankle, ignoring the man’s shouts that he’d kill them both. Stark was an idiot… he may die but he was the Mountain that Rides. NOTHING could kill him-

He felt something strike his side, right where the bastard Stark had blasted him, and suddenly his world shrank down to his left hip as he felt it explode in pain. He lessened his grip and Stark twisted once more, firing another blast from his gauntlets that caused them to spin around so that it was Gregor who hit the bottom of the pit first. The Mountain snarled and reached down, touching just below his waist and bellowed in pain. Stark had fired a magic blast within an inch of his armor and torn it apart, sending shards of metal tearing through Gregor’s hip and side. He touched the largest of the shards and ripped it free, howling more out of rage than pain. He could feel warm blood soaking through his under garments and knew that unless he saw a maester soon the damage from the wound would cause problems. It might even cripple him.

That only made him more willing to ignore the pain and kill both the Starks.

He hauled himself up and tore his helm from his head so he might wipe the sweat from his face. It burned his eyes fierce and that only served to make him all the more enraged. Stark had made him actually work for his kill and that was something Gregor could not allow to go unpunished. He looked about wildly for Stark only to turn just as a sunstone roughly the size of a goose egg stuck his chest. He looked down at the stupid glowing rock then back up as another one joined it.

There was Antony Stark, standing next to a crate of spilled sunstones, a stupid look on his already stupid face. The asshole merely shrugged before he threw another one at Gregor, which harmlessly bounced off his armor.

"Come on now, at least make it look like I'm doing damage," Stark whined, grabbing his faceplate and putting it back on. Gregor rushed forward, his long legs eating up the space between then, and Stark was forced to roll away, Gregor crashing through the crate of glowing rocks and spilling them on the ground. He spun, kicking them off in different directions, just as Stark fired another blast of magic at him, making him rock but otherwise doing no other damage. "I get the sense you aren't in the mood to play."

He didn't bother making a reply. That wasn't who he was. Fruity little puffs like the Knight of the Flowers and the Kingslayer made pretty little quips in the middle of the fight. He ripped heads from necks and tore limbs clean off twitching bodies. That was how he responded to such things. He grabbed a crate and threw it Stark, the fool moving to blast it and send the stones within tumbling in all directions. Exactly what Gregor wanted him to do. While Stark was focused on that Gregor launched himself forward, catching the armor-plated peacock right in the gut with a punch that lifted him off his feet. Stark gasped and coughed but Gregor wasn't done in the slightest. He grabbed Stark's head and held it tight before bringing up his armored knee, driving it into his gut with a clang that brought a manic grin to his face. Stark fumbled to try and strike him but Gregor merely squeezed and Stark's attacks turned into the flails of a man in agony.

"Always so proud of yourself. Always so arrogant! Strutting about like you’re the King himself!" Gregor sneered, loosening his hold slightly as he brought Stark right to his face so that his nose touched the man’s faceplate, those glowing eyes burning his but making it oh so worth it as he felt him thrash. It was a favorite little move of his, to offer a hint of hope and freedom before caving a man's skull in. "But you made my armor too well, Stark... and now I'm going to kill you with it!"

The soon-to-be-dead man coughed. "How'd... how'd you... undo... the ice curse?"

"Ice curse?" Gregor asked. "What ice-"

His world went white and he screamed, releasing Stark and gripping his face with both hands. It felt like his brain was exploded and Gregor stumbled back, bellowing is agony for all the world to hear. He tasted blood in his mouth and realized he'd bit his tongue at some point and when he finally pulled his hands away he saw that his left hand was covered in core... and he only saw that with his right eye.

Stark had just blasted part of his face, along with his right eye, clean away.

"Hey look!" Stark coughed, one arm wrapped around his plated stomach. "You... and your brother... are twins now."

Gregor ignored the pain he felt as his brow furrowed and his jaw worked. The bastard had marked him... mutilated him... made him just like his weak pathetic brother!

"AAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGGHHH!!!" Gregor roared, bursting forward in an attempt to wrap his hands around Stark's throat. No more playing games. No more making the suffering last. He would just kill Stark, then the bastard, and then he'd rape that bitch of Stark's until he split her apart. Then he'd tear Iron Pointe down to the nails and mortar! And then the Westerlands! And Westeros! And then he'd go across to the Narrow Sea and do the same!

Iron Man blasted himself out of the way, firing wild shots that came no where near close to hitting him. All he did was hit crate after create of sunstones, littering the ground with them and illuminating their battlefield. If Stark hoped that Gregor was slip on the shiny stones or be blinded by them then he was dead wrong. Nothing would stop him! Nothing! STARK WOULD DIE!

"NOW JON!"

Gregor turned, bracing for a blast from the bastard, who he'd completely forgotten was still up there, only to see it wasn't magic that Ned Stark's git was trying to send his way. No, the bastard of Winterfell was pushing Gregor's wagon, laden with his recently found crates of silver, over the pit's edge. The Mountain quickly dove out of the way, roaring as his face slammed into the ground and dirt was smashed into his wounds. He heard a great crash and shoved himself back up, throwing out his arms as he looked for Iron Man... only to find the coward floating above him.

"Face me!" Gregor roared. "You can't kill me! You keep trying and you keep failing! I am the Mountain! And I will not rest until all you care for is dead! Your wife! Your family! Your friends! The people of Iron Pointe! I'll kill each and every one of them! You hear me Stark! I'll never stop!"

"I know," Stark said simply before flying up and over the lip of the pit.

"Coward! I'll kill you! I'll-"

Gregor didn't finish as his words were cut off by a blast of magic that sent him to his knees. He looked around, searching for the bastard or Stark, knowing it had to be one of them, only to see that he was alone. It was just him and the sunstones... which were throwing off blasts of magic all on their own. He tilted his head, his pain and anger forgotten for a moment as he tried to figure out what he was seeing. The blasts were erratic, with no pattern... a sunstone would get hit by a blast, causing it to skid about until it struck a bar of silver, at which point it would fire off a blast of its own. He was hit in the shoulder by one, his armor tearing away, but he could only watch on, a dawning horror falling upon him.

The silver. The silver was the key to the stones' magic.

And he was surrounded by both.

Another blast hit him and he stumbled back, trying to fight through. Where the blasts from the knights had been quick and fierce these ones were wild and untamed, lashing out like maddened serpents. He found himself being bashed about in his own armor, stumbling like the Drunk King after a night of feasting, unable to get his balance. One blast was nothing, something he could power through, and two would have only slowed him down, but now he was being hit on all sides, more sunstones coming to rest on silver and firing off their curses. He ducked one blast that almost took off his head and looked about wildly. For the first time in his life... he felt fear.

He'd kill Stark for that.

Spotting a ladder he raced towards it, grunting and snapping in pain every time a blast hit him, denting and renting pieces of his armor. His face burned as sweat got in the wounds and he found it hard to dodge with only one eye left but somehow he made it to the ladder. He leapt up, wanting to laugh at the irony of it all as he reached a rung high up. With his armor falling off the weight wasn't hindering him... Stark's little trick was actually helping him! He'd make sure to let the fool know that right before he killed him.

Gregor reached for a rung only to flop about violently, his left hand grasping onto the wood. A stray blast had just shattered his right kneecap, leaving him with only one good leg. He hissed but continued on, hauling himself up by his arms alone, the entire time the mantra of KILL STARK KILL STARK ringing in his ears.

Something cracked to his right and Gregor turned his head in time to see that another beam had hit the already weakened winch system and caused it to sway even more. For a moment it looked like the wooden structure would hold but then the timbers gave way and the entire thing lurched sideways and came crashing down right on top of him. He tried to hold onto the ladder but the rung merely tore free and he was falling once more, this dive much shorter as he landed with a bone rattling bang. The winch landed right on top of him, pinning him down on the ground, not allowing him to move. Any other man would have been crippled at best and dead at worst but the Mountain still lived.

"You... you can't kill me Stark!" Gregor laughed even as blood gushed from his mouth. "You can't-"

He felt something striking his back, hard and steady like a wine press. His breastplate, which had remained relatively undamaged, was caving in and he could feel the tearing metal begin to dig into his back. Then it was his skin being flayed away, muscles exposed. Gregor thrashed and roared like a dragon but he could not move the ruins of the winch that kept him pinned like a needle through a butterfly. And then there was a blinding pain, so bad it made tears fall from his one good eye... followed by nothing. He couldn't feel anything other than the damage to his face. Not his torn up side, not his injured back, not the weight on his chest... nothing. His focused on pushing the winch up but found it odd that despite how hard he tried his arms just flopped at his sides. He didn't feel a thing as the sunstone he'd landed on continued on blasting his destroyed spine and began to destroy his organs. He stared up at the sky, watching as Stark and the bastard flew over head, most likely with that bitch as well, and through clenched teeth Gregor screamed "STARK!" even as the sunstone finished digging through his body and magic burst out of his stomach, causing the slurry that was his internal organs to spray onto his form.

Moments later the entire pit exploded like it had been filled with wildfire, a pillar of magical energy shooting into the night... though those that witnessed it, save the three from Iron Pointe, knew its meaning.

The Mountain... had fallen at last.

Chapter Text

Ned

The words tasted bitter in his mouth, like ash mixed with blood. They actually hurt his tongue, made it ache in a way he’d never truly felt before and would never want to feel again. Each letter, as it passed his teeth and left his lips, were jagged pieces of glass, cutting up his mouth and making the agony even worse. The words tasted bitter in his mouth.

They felt worse on his soul.

Only one other time had he lied in his entire life. Not a fib, not a withholding of all facts… Ned Stark ahd only truly lied now twice in his life. The time he'd done so was to save a life, even though he knew that so many more lives would be pained because of his words, including the one he rescued. Including his own. He'd taken on that shame though, that stain upon his character, that whisper and gossip that would now forever cling to him like a sodden coat, and accepted it. And he’d accepted to that he’d given it to so many others, forced them to bare a shame that they didn’t deserve. He’d been able to live with that and felt that the Old Gods would understand when it came time for him to finally face them. They would understand why he'd done what he'd done.

'Promise me, Ned.'

And now he was lying again, once more to save a life. To save his eldest daughter. But this time would be different. The shame would be greater, far greater than any of his line had known. Worse than even the King Who Knelt. But this time only shame that would be heaped onto any Stark would be him alone. That was better. Robb would be able to be the Warden of the North and though he would face some difficulties within a generation or two, with proper marriages to strength old alliances, make right what Ned had so left in tatters. Syrio would return Arya to Winterfell, safe from harm, where she might finally grow into the proud Northern woman he knew she would be. Sansa would be able to return to Winterfell, assuming that is what she wished. It had broken his heart to see her standing there with the Queen, unable to even look at him, looking so comfortable among the lions. He feared that the Lannisters had gotten their claws too deep into and, with her inability to see life as anything other than a child’s tale, would see this merely as another development in her fairy princess story. See this merely as a woe upon her that would make her own tale great. Ned wondered if, in a few years, he’d even be able to recognize her.

He mourned that Rickon would most likely barely remember him and that he hadn’t been able to truly say goodbye to Bran. He feared what Cat would do, as her actions with Tyrion Lannister had shown that she could be too impulsive at times, and he made a silent prayer to the Old Gods that they would see fit to guide her tongue and stay her hand so she might not do anything foolish. He did not want his sacrifice to be made for naught by hasty actions. Robb had to bend the knee, send the bannermen home, and do his duty… the realm could not survive another war. Cat had almost sent them into another one and she had to keep from doing so again.

And then there was Jon. In another time, another life, he would have been Ned’s greatest regret. Never able to tell him about his mother, to let him know about his true place in the world. That his fears and pains weren’t real and he wasn’t like so many other bastards.

That he wasn’t a bastard at all.

But that wouldn’t be the case. Even if he was made a Ranger, trekking north of the Wall for the rest of his life until he died from a Wilding spear or ended up like Maester Aemon, another exile, or simple was never given the freedoms that Benjen had (and Ned doubted that he would; Joffrey would be kind but not kind enough to allow Ned to see his family again) Antony would be able to tell Jon everything. He’d be there for him, to explain the truth. Ned would send a raven to Antony, telling him everything, all that the man had yet to guess, so that he might pass it along to Jon. To correct that sin he had committed against the boy.

‘Promise me, Ned’

He never thought the words would come to him… but he hoped the Old Gods would bless Antony. Not just in his mission to make Westeros a bit better (for he now saw that he was so terribly wrong and this sad world needed the likes of an Iron Man… one who could be noble and strong and do what others could not), but in raising Jon. Raising him… as Ned should have.

And so he stood in front of the Great Sept of Baelor and confessed to the crimes he had committed… but not for the reason he truly had. He’d swallowed his pride in the Black Cells and asked Varys to help him find the words that he could say that would allow him, if only in his own heart, maintain his honor while also saving Sansa’s life. The Spider had been surprised, to say the least, commenting that he’d assumed Ned would try and do it on his own but he was pleased that he had the sense to see that in this he would need aid. In the end they had come to an agreement, what Ned could confess to that would please the Lannisters while also preserving the Starks.

As odd as it was to think, for Ned knew Varys was using him to his own ends, he truly believed the Spider wanted to help him get the best out of this horrid situation.

“I marched into the Red Keep with aim to take the King Joffrey,” Ned said, swallowing after every sentence. He was trying to keep his voice loud and strong, so all could hear and there was less risk of his words being misheard and twisted later on, but doing so hurt so badly and he was forced to pause, marshaling himself. “But I… never meant to remove him from the throne.” He knew he should look at Joffrey, to plead to the boy directly, but he could not. He was afraid that if he looked at him he would lose his nerve. “The death of your father… King Robert was my greatest friend. My truest friend. And his death seemed so… senseless to me.” Ned looked down, not needing to fake the grief he felt. “But rather than see it for what it was, a cruel end to a great life, I thought it some grand conspiracy, created by those that wanted to rip away all he had worked for… had made for… for you. I saw enemies all around me and in the end I came into that throne room not to usurp you... y-your grace,” he fought to not choke on the title, “but to protect you.” The crowd jeered at that but Ned carried on. “I see now the madness for what it was. How what I believed at the time was me trying to heroically protect you was not that. How I overstepped, how I allowed grief to twist me until I turned me into the very kind of man I hoped to protect you from. One that bribed gold cloaks.” He forced himself not to smile as he thought of Janos Slynt’s death; he wondered if Robert’s ghost had guided his bastard son’s hand in killing the turncoat. “One that threatened my queen. And one who did not bend the knee to you, my rightful king, but instead made demands with a sword in his hand. I see now, in my madness, I committed treason against you.”

There were still jeering and boos and proclamations of ‘traitor!’ in the crowd but they were less than before. Varys had been right… the Small Folk loved to see great lords humbled but if you did it right they would greet it with kindness rather than scorn. They wanted Lords brought low but then would forgive them if it let them feel superior. He glanced out of the corner of his eye at the royal family and saw Cersei smile. Not a cruel smile, though it was a touch vindictive, but a pleased smile. He was saying what she wanted and he realized right there that of all people… she was most willing to let him take the Black. To sweep away the threat to her incest-born son’s rule. They both understood that should Ned ever try to reveal the truth it would only be met with scoffs from the Small Folk and the Lords, seeing it as a bitter man trying to bring down the king that gave him punishment. Besides, if what Varys said about both Renly and Stannis marshalling their forces was true then the Lannisters had greater threats to manage and removing the Starks from the board was worth sparing his life.

He found that, even though she silently agreed with his actions… that only made him hate what he was doing all the more.

“I do not say these things as excuses, your grace,” Ned continued. “Only to explain. I loved King Robert… and he loved you.” And he did. Robert had never learned the truth and on his death bed had regretted how he hadn’t been there for Joffrey, to shape him into being a better man. Ned should have been less concerned about what was ‘honorable’ and ‘true’ and worked with Cersei to turn the boy into a good king instead of holding to the foolish notion that he had to do what was right for a realm that did not care. “I was wrong. I betrayed my friend, my king, and my role. And I submit myself to your justice.” With that he bowed his head and waited.

The gathered crowd murmured to themselves. Some called for mercy. Others for his death. So shouted for him to be banished and others tortured. It was better than when he’d been brought in and they’d all screamed for his death. Still, how quickly they had grown to hate him.

The boy king took a step forward and raised his hand, his newly made crown flashing in the bright sun, reflecting a few beams of light into his eyes and making him wince. He wore that crown to easily and that worried Ned. Robert had never wanted the crown and only taken it because what else was there to do? Some of the best of the Targaryens had never wanted the crowns forced on their heads. It was the ones that lusted after that circulet that had been trouble. Joffrey waited for the crowd to quiet before he spoke.

“I have heard your words, Eddard Stark. Of your admitted guilt.” To the crowd he said, “My mother wishes me to let Lord Eddard join the Night's Watch. Stripped of all titles and powers, he would serve the realm in permanent exile. A fitting way to make up for his crimes. And my Lady Sansa has begged mercy for her father.” He paused and then, without Ned even needing to look at him, he could hear the wicked smile on his lips as he stated, “But they have the soft hearts of women. And you have said so yourself: There are no excuses for your crimes.” There were murmured to Ned’s right, of Cersei and Varys and the like wondering at what Joffrey was doing. And Ned realized that they’d all made a grave mistake in trusting the little bastard in doing what was right. “So long as I am your king, treason shall never go unpunished. Examples must be made! Ser Ilyn… bring me his head!”

The crowd roared, some in outrage but most in bloodlust, and Ned found himself pushed so that his head was lowered and neck exposed. He could hear someone yelling and realized it was Sansa while the Small Council tried to get Joffrey’s attention, to get him to reconsider. But Ned could see the desire for death in Joffrey’s eyes and knew there was no hope. So he made no move to fight as Ser Ilyn took up Ice, the sword of the Starks, and in a final disgrace raise it above his head.

“Forgive me,” Ned whispered as he shut his eyes.

The sword fell.

Ned’s head remained on his shoulders.

He looked down at the fallen blade that had clattered just to his left and then, like all the rest gathered at the Great Sept of Baelor, to the sky. For there, hovering above them, his hand outstretched… was the Iron Man.

“Is this what counts for good rule in Westeros now?” Iron Man said darkly. Ned craned his neck around and saw Ser Ilyn’s prone form lying behind him; it was clear that Iron Man’s blast had shattered his shoulder and knocked him unconscious. “When men humble themselves before their king and admit their faults their reward is death? The prize for honestly is a swing of a sword? We survived one mad king… we didn’t fight a war to sit another on the throne.” The crowd remained silent as the gold-and-crimson knight flew down, landing before Ned. They were all shocked. The tales of Iron Man had spread throughout the Capital but it was one thing for a drunk to claim a man could fly and another to actually see him do it. Iron Man looked at them all before, in the lowest of whispers, he said, “Get up, cousin… I’m getting you out of here.”

“An-“ Ned began only to force himself silent, not wanting to reveal Antony’s secret to the world. Instead he struggled to his feet.

The first to snap out of their awe was the boy king himself.

“How dare you attack my headsman!” Joffrey shouted. “I am your king! And I demanded that traitor’s head! If you are truly a knight you will do as I command.” Iron Man slowly turned, his emotionless glowing eyes taking in Joffrey who, though clearly startled, puffed himself up and roared, “Do as I command! I am the king!”

“Anyone can shout ‘I am the king’ like a spoiled brat at play,” Iron Man said dryly, disgust tainting his words. “That doesn’t make it true.”

“You… you… kill him! Kill him now!” Joffrey ragged, his face beet red as he jabbed his finger at Iron Man, enraged by the disrespect. “I want him ripped from his armor! I want them both torn to pieces! Kill him! KILL HIM!” Like a toddler having a temper tantrum the newly minted King of the Seven Kingdoms stomped his foot and demanded that someone do what he wanted and he would continue to scream until they did so.

Ned slowly reached down and grasped Ice, hating how weak he was and how the sword felt so heavy in his hand. But if he were to die today he’d die with a sword in his hand. He’d tried it the Spider’s way… never again. He was Ned Stark and if they wanted his head they’d bleed for it. As he stood though his cousin merely shook his head, raising his hands up as the Kingsguard stepped forward. After a moment Ser Blout rushed forward and Iron Man, almost in exasperation, fired at his legs, sending him toppling to the ground. Ser Oakheart and Ser Greenfield were next, trying to rush him both, but Ned could only watch in awe as Antony easily fired his mystical bolts at them, crumpling their armor and sending them down to join their comrade. The last was Ser Barristan who gripped his sword and stared Iron Man and Ned down. Ned could see in the old man’s eyes that this was the last thing he’d ever wanted to do.

“I don’t want to kill you,” Antony said.

“I don’t want you to kill me either,” Barristan said with a sigh. “But my king commands me.”

“I know,” Iron Man said before blasting Barristan’s sword out of his hand then following that with a shot that send the old man backwards into The Hound. “Don’t tell anyone but I was aiming for his boots,” Antony quips quietly. Ned wanted to roll his eyes; even here his cousin had to jest. Still, he could tell that unlike with the others Antony, with whatever magic he had discovered, had only used a fraction of his power on Selmy compared to the rest of the guard.

Joffrey looked about wildly, as if the mere fact that what he wanted had not come to pass had broken his brain like a tossed about child’s toy. He turned to the Small Council but seeing none move to aid him he gestured wildly at the crowd. “What are you waiting for? Kill him! Take him! Your king commands it!”

“And what a king,” Iron Man said snidely. “Refuses to listen to the council of his elders. Shows disgrace for a woman he calls his lady. Denies mercy to those that admit their mistakes and who their father loved as a brother. And now demands his subjects do what he is too cowardly to do.” Antony scoffed. “Oh… the songs they will sing of you.”

“You dare?” Joffrey hissed.

“Yeah yeah, I dare,” Antony said, getting tired of Joffrey’s whines. “You thought I would stand there and let them hack me down? Kid… you’ve got a lot to learn.” He held up his hands, magic crackling along his palms. “Starting with when to push a battle… and when to retreat.” Joffrey looked ready to begin screaming again but, finally, some sense came to the Small Council and Cersei stepped forward, grabbing his arm and tugging him away.

“You… have declared war on the Seven Kingdoms,” Pycelle told Antony, stammering in shock at the notion.

“No,” Iron Man said, “just its king. What happens to Westeros depends on how long they let the little shit sit on the throne.” Ned watched as the mystical energy in Antony’s left gauntlet faded and his cousin pointed at a pale-faced Sansa while keeping his right training on Joffrey. “My lady? If you would come here? It’s time for you and your father to go home.”

Sansa stood frozen in place and Ned feared for a second she would refuse, choosing instead to remain and live out the princess fantasy that she’d been telling herself since she was a babe. But then the moment was shattered and Sansa hurriedly lifted her dress so she might rush to them. Ned heard Antony let out a sigh of relief, a bit of tension leaving his shoulders, while the crowd watched on like an audience at a mummer’s performance. And that is what it felt like: the noble hero, betrayed after his moment of sacrifice, making it mean nothing, only for the being of magic to appear and save the day. But it wasn’t a play. This was real and Ned swallowed again, his body shaking slightly as it dawned on him that, finally, the nightmare was over. They were going home.

And then Joffrey grabbed Sansa’s arm.

“No!” he snarled, eyes blazing with madness. “You aren’t going anywhere.”

“Let me go!” Sansa cried out, struggling against his grip. But Joffrey only held on tighter, his knuckles going white as he bruised her arm. “You’re hurting me!”

“You’re mine! My lady! You don’t get to leave!” Joffrey screamed, shaking her hard.

“You were going to kill my father!” Sansa shouted, fighting to break free.

“You are mine to do with as I wish!” Joffrey roared.

Sansa paused and stared at him before she growled, “I was never yours!”

“LIAR!” Joffrey screeched.

Tony’s right hand crackled with magic. “Let her go!”

“NO!” Joffrey roared, moving to place Sansa between himself and Iron Man. The crowd gasped as they watched their king use a girl as a human shield. Ned wanted to rush forward, to pull Sansa away, but he feared he would only get in Antony’s way and with how weak he was he knew he wouldn’t even manage to stand up to the little bastard that was holding his child captire. “She is mine! You’re all mine! You do as I say!”

“FATHER!” Sansa screamed as Joffrey began to drag her back.

Ned held out a hand. “Sansa!”

“Let her go!” Antony bellowed again.

“I! AM! THE! KING!” Joffrey roared.

What happened next was hard to describe. For Ned it was as if he were looking at a series of paintings, the collection showing a single event, capturing one second within each of their frames. There was Sansa, fighting against Joffrey, his arm around her throat, his face blood-colored with rage, his eyes dark and mouth twisted. And then he was no longer holding her, his arms empty as Sansa fell to her right, arms splayed out, bodying turning sideways as she hung in the air. Another picture, now of her clearly falling, the world watching in horror, Cersei hurrying towards Joffrey even as he dumbly looked at his empty hands, The Hound of all people trying to push his way towards her, hand outstretched in a vain attempt to pull Sansa back. There was no sound for the next image, of Sansa’s head colliding with one of the steps that led down from Great Sept. Only a look of terror as the hard stone shattered her skull. A blink of an eye and she’d fallen further, the hanging in the air once more, one last time, now limp and dim like a broken doll tossed aside by a careless child.

And finally Ned saw her, his little girl, who loved sweet songs and tales of knights, who practiced her dance steps and her needle work, who combed her hair 100 strokes every night and never took a step she wasn’t sure of… lying there on the unforgiving stone, her lifeblood leaking from her head, her hair spread out and limbs twisted.

Quiet.

Still.

Gone.

“…look what you made me do,” Joffrey hissed at Iron Man.

Tony didn’t say a word. He merely fired.

“JOFFREY!” Cersei screamed, moving to shove him away. The king fell to the ground but, to Ned’s disgust, did not die from that fall, though he did clutch at his face. Antony’s shot had grazed him, tearing away a piece of his right ear lobe and leaving his cheek looking as if it had been dragged across a carpenter’s sanding block. He cried and screamed, whimpering in pain… paying no heed as his mother fell to her knees, staring in shock at her left arm.

Her hand had been torn clean off her wrist.

The world sped up again and Ned found himself trying to lunge forward, to get to Sansa, only for Antony to wrap an arm around him and haul him back. He tried to cry out, to tell him they couldn’t leave her, but his words died as he stared at the emotionless faceplate of his cousin’s armor. Only now did he see how battered it was, how it showed the scars of battle, and he realized that if the crowd attacked them now they would both die. They had been lucky, as cruel as that was to say, but it would not last.

“We have to go, Ned,” Antony said. Ned looked once more at Sansa and let out a choking gasp before his cousin shook him. “She’s gone, damn it! She’s gone!” Ned shut his eyes but nodded, wrapping his arms around Antony as he took flight. The crowd gasped again and yelled and he could hear Joffrey screaming for someone to shoot them down. But Antony’s magic was too great and soon they were far above King’s Landing, well out of range of any arrows. Only then did Antony, in a soft voice, whisper through his tears, “I’m so sorry Ned. I’m so sorry.”

Ned only stared down at the Capital. “It was them. They took her from me. Took her long before today.” He shut his eyes. “I’ll kill them all. Every last Lannister. I’ll kill them all.”

It wasn’t Lyanna he heard.

‘Promise me, father,’ Sansa whispered. ‘Promise me.’

Chapter Text

Tyrion

“They have my son.”

Tyrion sat at the long table, looking at the other members of the War Council and wondered if his father had sounded so… beaten… when he’d been captured by Lady Stark. ‘Not bloody likely,’ Tyrion thought. ‘Though I suppose the fact that he actually called the banners and moved to save me rather than just leaving me to rot while he danced about Lannisterport is good enough.’ Still, for as much as he hated his father, as much as he loathed the man… Tyrion hated all the more seeing him like this. So worn down. So broken. So lost. There were people who wondered why the Lannisters did not keep lions at Casterly Rock. The Starks now had their direwolf pups, the Tyrells had roses forever about them, and even Storm’s End had from time to time kept a stag kept about, fed like a horse and treated as such. The reason all Lannisters, from the greatest to the smallest, gave was that it wasn’t right to take such a proud beast and break them by sticking them in a cage. And that was what Tywin Lannister looked like right now: an old lion, ripped from his hunting grounds and kept in a cage.

He’d never seen the man so venerable and it disturbed him. It was like seeing the sky turn red.

The two weeks had been ones marked with horrible news. First had been the messenger that had arrived in the early morning from Grand Maester Pycelle. He had tried his best to ease the bad news onto them but when Tyrion’s father had demanded the cold truth the messenger had given it to them all: Joffrey (‘the stupid little shit’, Tyrion had thought at the time and now upgraded to ‘brainless pile of shit’) had decided not to do the sensible thing and listen to anyone other than the imaginary spider that only he could see that whispered at times, “You should eat Lord Baelish”. So rather than sparing Ned Stark and saving them all from a lot of grieve their moronic king had called for the man’s head… and brought down the holy judgment of the Iron Man. Which, in Tyrion’s opinion, was bad but could have been handled correctly… had Joffrey not then murdered an innocent girl in front of most of King’s Landing.

It was the only time his father had resembled him as Tywin had promptly grabbed his wine glass and guzzled the entire contents down before demanding it refilled. Uncle Kevan had been so shocked it’d been left to Tyrion himself to do it. Three times.

They’d then learned that not only had the Iron Man managed to get Ned Stark out of King’s Landing but he’d also scarred Joffrey and removed Cersei’s hand. And that was after he’d utterly embarrassed the entire Kingsguard and made it clear to all that Joffrey was unfit to be king.

After that wonderful bit of news had come the reports from Storm’s End and Dragonstone. Both of Robert’s brothers had declared themselves the rightful king while singing the same song: Joffrey wasn’t Robert’s son but instead a product of incest, born from Cersei and Jaime cuckholding the king. Renly had apparently married Margaery Tyrell in a rushed wedding and brought the entire Reach over to his side; they were marshaled at Storm’s End deciding their strategy. And Stannis had taken nearly the entire royal fleet and turned it into his army… and then enlisted the aid of a red priestess from across the Narrow Sea who was said to be an enchantress that could wield actual magic. Thus meaning that the Lannisters now had three armies to contend with, starting with the Young Wolf Robb Stark. News of his sister’s death had reached him as well, and with Ned Stark now missing, gone gods-know-where with the Iron Man, the acting Lord of Winterfell had decided to seek vengeance for his sister by slaughtering Lannisters. Jaime had sent word that he would deal with the Riverlands while Tywin and the rest of the Lannister forces, supported by Tyrion’s Hill Tribe warriors, would crush the Young Wolf. The hope had been to cut off the Tully support, decimate the Northerns, and bring Robb Stark to their camp in chains to use as a bartering tool against Ned when he finally returned.

But it was Stark who crushed them, having lured the bulk of the Lannister forces away from the Riverlands so that they might take Jaime’s forces by surprise. Once they’d received that news his father had rushed to try and save Jaime’s forces but had arrived too late. What they hadn’t arrived too late for, though, was news from the Westerlands… and why Ser Gregor Clegane had never shown.

Tyrion had seen his father angry plenty of times. He’d seen him rage and rant. He’d seen him cold with fury. He’d seen him tremble with silent loathing. But he’d never seen anger like that which came from the news of just how badly the Mountain had fucked things up. Brazenly marching into Iron Pointe, killing Stane, assaulting Antony Stark and his ward, kidnapping Lady Stark, and in madness demanding that Lord Stark deliver to him the head of Iron Man and all the wealth of Iron Pointe or he would kill Stark’s ladywife. All the while claiming that Lord Tywin Lannister had named him the acting Warden of the West. The arrogance of it all. Then the man had ended up causing, of all things, an explosion that left him dead, the Lannister’s supply of sunstones destroyed, and Lady Stark tied to a stake, left at the mercy of the elements for three days until Lord Stark had finally managed to find her. The maester of Iron Pointe believed she would recover but Lord Antony asked for answers.

Answers none of them had.

Tyrion wondered what had been going through the Mountain’s brain, other bits of his own skull after the explosion, when he’d decided to do something so utterly stupid.

In his opinion Sandor Clegane, now the head of House Clegane, would have found himself facing the same fate as the Reynes had the final hammer not fallen upon them all just moments ago. His father had called the council of war to discuss Gregor’s actions and what needed to be done; despite trying to keep it quiet word had spread and the men under the banner of the Iron Wolf had wanted answers, demanding to know why their lady had been so abused by Tywin’s own bannermen. Rhodey had confided in Tyrion that he was doing his best to keep things calm, as he knew that any rebellion would end with their slaughter, but could not temper the anger for long. The men of Iron Pointe and its lands wanted to know just what the hell was going on. So Tyrion’s father had called a meeting, to explain what would be done, only for another messenger to arrive with the grim news: Jaime had been captured by Robb Stark and was now being held in Riverrun, where Robb Stark had houses his forces by the grace of his grandfather.

Tywin had merely listened on before turning away, leaving the others to fall into uneasy debate.

Tyrion watched them all, fighting the urge to shake his head in annoyance. About the table the members of his father’s War Council seemed more at odds than the Starks and the Lannisters were at the moment. Ser Harys Swyft was whining about Jaime’s actions, how foolish they had been, which Tyrion thought was a crock of shit because had Jaime won the battle Swyft would have been proclaiming him the greatest tactical mind in the world. Tyrion’s Uncle Kevan was trying to explain to Swyft that the layout of Riverun forced such tactics but the idiot wasn’t getting it. Ser Flement Brax was bemoaning the death of his idiot father who had gotten into a shoddily made raft in full plate and ended up drowning for his trouble. Ser Marbrand was trying to buck everyone up, claiming that this loss was nothing. Rhodey sat quiet, watching them all, waiting to see how Tywin would react. He was probably the smartest of them all. Where Ser Gregor would have sat was just an empty chair, as Tywin had disbanded the Mountain’s forces and spread them about the other factions, not wanting to risk the madness that had taken Ser Gregor spreading to the rest of his men.

Harys let out a moan. “It is a disaster. Ser Jaime captured, his army scattered…”

Lord Lefford sighed. “Perhaps it is time to sue for peace.”

Tyrion batted his wine class off the table, the sound of it shattering silencing the rest of the War Council.

“There’s your peace,” Tyrion said, pointing at the broken pieces of glass and the droplets of wine that remained. “Shattered much like Sansa Stark’s head. You’ll have an easier time drinking from that glass than you will bringing the Starks to the table. Not Robb Stark when Joffrey murdered his sister because he didn’t get his way. And not when he keeps getting victories.” Kevan grimaced at that and the others mulled over Tyrion’s words. “He’s winning. If you haven’t noticed.”

“Two battles does not make him a true threat,” Marbrand argued.

“Doesn’t it? Why does everyone care about what men did in wars past when it is the wars of NOW that matter? The boy isn’t as green as we thought. Worse he holds the better ground. We must press the attack and he merely needs to wait. Soon his father will return to him and if you believe otherwise you’re all fools. And when Ned Stark does take up command again the North will rally in a way that will make the Rebellion seem like a skirmish. The man is a bore but he has a good mind for war… he can hold up in the North or he can press south, the choice is his. We have none.”

“That is why we must sue for peace,” Lefford said.

Tyrion laughed bitterly. “With what? We had three Starks in King’s Landing. Cersei can try and cover it up but we all know one escaped with a Braavosi swordmaster who killed a member of the Kingsguard and the commander of the Gold Cloaks. The second nearly got his head cut off, which would have made him useless to us anyway, and now is being spirited away by the Iron Man back to his family. And the third became a martyr! Already the Small Folk talk of Joffrey, the slayer of little girls.”

“What of money?” Marbrand asked.

“The Starks can melt down Jaime’s armor if they want money,” Tyrion argued. “Besides, you think for a moment there is enough gold in all of Casterly Rock to pay what they feel we owe them? Would we? Remember this all began because Catelyn Stark took me hostage… and the Starks actually liked Sansa!” he said the last bit with a bitter smile, doing his best to ignore how his Uncle cringed at that fact. “We have nothing to offer… not while they are winning, Joffrey remains on the throne, and they hold Jaime.”

“That is why the first order of business should be ransoming for Ser Jaime!”

“We should march now to Casterly Rock, race a stronger force.”

“No truces and no retreats. We must-“

“They have my son!” Tywin snapped, making them all grow quiet. After a moment Tyrion’s father said, in a softer but just as stern voice, “All of you, out.” Tyrion moved to stand but Tywin shook his head. “Not you. Or you Kevan. And Ser Rhodes… don’t go far.” Rhodey nodded at that and left the tent, the other lords and knights scowling at the thought that a dark skinned former sellsword would be given knowledge they didn’t have.

As the rest of the War Council cleared away Tyrion moved to sit across from his uncle. He paused and, when his father didn’t say a word he reached out to pour himself a glass of wine… only for his father to take the pitcher and do it himself.

That… was not a good sign.

“You were right about the Starks,” Tywin said as he poured himself a drink. “If we had merely kept him in a Black Cell and kept his eldest locked away in comfort we could have used them to broker a peace with Winterfell and Riverrun. Which would have given us more time to deal with Robert’s brothers. Renly is marshaling his forces, uniting Highgarden and Storm’s End, and Stannis… Stannis is up to something, though I don’t know what. But now? Ned Stark believes our word to be worthless thanks to Joffrey’s madness and nothing short of total surrender will see him let up once he takes control of the Northern and Riverland armies from his son. Madness.” He reached over and touch a sip of wine. “Madness and stupidity.”

Tyrion found he couldn’t argue with that. He wanted to point out that this was all Cersei’s fault, that her coddling of the boy had led them down this path. He knew that his father had argued that Joffrey should have been fostered somewhere ages ago. He’d suggested Casterly Rock while Robert had argued for Winterfell. Tywin wanted to mold Joffrey into a cunning king while Tyrion suspected that Robert wanted Ned to make him a fighter… and had also hoped that such a move would work as a peace offering. The two of them had fallen out after the death of Rhaegar’s children and though the Greyjoy Rebellion had helped mend some old hurts things had never been the same. Joffrey being raised in Winterfell would have worked well with the possibility of the boy Bran later going to King’s Landing. But Cersei had refused, declaring that none would take her little boy from her. There were times when Tyrion was surprised Joffrey hadn’t ended up like Robert Arryn: a stunted little child who still fed at his mother’s breasts. Of course that would have required Cersei to have milk instead of poison.

He wanted to say all this but wisely decided to keep his mouth shut. He’d learned that when he spoke against his siblings, even when it was to echo his father’s views, it would only cause Tywin to turn against him.

“I always thought you were a stunted fool. Perhaps I was wrong.”

“Only half,” Tyrion said, unable to help himself. Still, his father made no comment on the jest. “I’m new to strategy but unless you want to be surrounded by three armies it appears we can not stay here.”

“No one will stay here. I will be sending Ser Marbrand will head out with 500 riders to attack the Riverlands, setting it ablaze from the God’s Eye to the Red Fork.” Tyrion’s mouth twitched at this. Clearly that would have been a mission for Ser Gregor… had the man not gone mad and gotten himself killed. “The rest of us will make for Harrenhall where we will part ways with Ser Rhodes.”

“And what do you have in mind for him?” Tyrion asked.

“He is returning to Iron Pointe, along with the rest of Lord Antony’s men.” Tywin took another sip of wine. “He will carry a scroll informing Lord Anthony that until my return he will serve as Warden of the West.”

Tyrion’s eyes widened at that and his Uncle Kevan stared at Tywin in shock. “Is that… wise? The men of Iron Pointe make up a good number of our blacksmiths.”

“It can’t be helped,” Tywin said bitterly. “Ser Gregor has left us in ruin. Lord Antony has asked for answered… not demanded, asked. He is smart like that. If he demanded then I would be able to beat him back. But by acting as a good and loyal bannerman should I am left with only two options: grant him a boon or seed mistrust in my own generals.”

Tyrion sighed. “How long would they follow us if they know their wives and children could be killed without a word from you?”

Tywin nodded. “Exactly. Your brother would believe they should still fight out of honor. Your sister would demand they fight or she would punish them. Both would end up dead in their beds, stabbed by a disgruntled lord who does not like worrying if his ladywife was raped while he was away by a fellow bannerman. Your brother and sister think of the Reynes and believe that is all that is needed. They fail to see that a good lord weighs a steel spine with a giving hand. Demand the best… and know when to reward for such things. Cersei and Jaime forget that the repaying of debts can be a good thing for those we deal with.”

“Gregor is the one who did this, not you,” Kevan argued.

“But he was my dog,” Tywin snapped. “And when a dog bites a man it is the owner who is at fault! For not training them properly.” He took a moment to settle himself. “The only way we can win this war is to prove not only are we better on the battlefield but also better in a seat of power. Southerners see the North as wild and we must continue to sow such believes. If I do not act to keep my bannermen loyal they will turn to the Starks. Especially one who shares their blood.”

“But that is what makes it so dangerous!” Kevan argued. “What if Antony turns on us?”

“Then we know where he stands,” Tyrion said, warming to the idea. “It’s rather clever. We can not make to Lannisport, not with Robb Stark’s army in the way but we can send Rhodey the long way. His forces are smaller and would be able to slip through and Iron Pointe’s path will be less guarded. They would work as a nice barrier between Renly’s forces if they march.” Seeing his uncle still wasn’t buying in to his father’s plan Tyrion continued. “I, for one, trust Tony. He has been a good friend to me and loyal to the Lannisters. His name may be Stark but he is one of us. Should he remain loyal, and I believe he will, then he will be able to protect our lands should the Iron Islands decide to take advantage of our absence while also continuing to manage over the smaller affairs. Tony can still produce weapons for us… it will mean cutting a path through the Riverlands but I believe if we are smart that could be done… and see that crops are grown. Perhaps he will even do so well as to earn a reward for his loyalty. Ser Gregor’s lands and keep, perhaps?” Tywin raised an eyebrow at that but said nothing. Tyrion hated saying the next part, as if felt like a betrayal of his friend, but knew he had to. “And… should he betray us… we can make what Gregor attempted to do look like a child’s flailing. Antony is not a veteran of battle, after all. He would not survive long.”

Tywin nodded in approval. “Exactly.” He motioned for Kevan to leave them and Tyrion’s uncle, ever Tywin’s loyal second, did so without a further word. Father and son sat and drank and Tyrion didn’t know if this was the best or worst interaction the two of them had ever had. “You’ll not be joining us either. You’re to go to King’s Landing.”

He stared at his father, trying to wrap his mind around what he’d just heard. He felt like an idiot, something he utterly hated, but try as he might he could not work out just what was going on. So he was forced to say, “And do what?”

“Rule,” his father said. “Joffrey has named me Hand of the King, which we both know means that Cersei has named me Hand of the King… while also demanding I bring the entire bulk of our army to protect King’s Landing.” Tyrion winced at that; no one demanded anything of Tywin Lannister. Not if they wanted to keep their heads. “Your sister clearly does not realize that we are now truly in a middle of a war and I can’t be there to coddle her like a nursemaid. I am needed here… so you will serve in my stead as Hand of the King.” Tyrion stared at his father, his mind breaking at just what he was giving him. Power yes… but also trust. His father was placing his trust in him. Not in his Uncle, not in some lesser lord… in him. Tyrion Lannister. “You’ll bring that boy king to heel and his mother too if needs be.”

“She won’t agree to that,” Tyrion said, trying his best to keep his voice from cracking. He wanted to just accept, to go along with his father’s plan, but his rational mind refused to not speak out on the failings and faults he saw in the scheme. “She will see it as a trick of mine.”

“Which is why you will be given two notes, written in my hand, sealed with my personal seal. One will be for the boy and the Small Council and inform them you are acting for me until I can end this war. The other… will inform Cersei that if she bucks against your decisions and I find out about it I’ll have her shipped off to the Silent Sisters.” It was only his shock at his father’s bold decision that kept Tyrion from laughing… a good thing too, as he knew the man would not appreciate that in the slightest. Still, that kind of threat would not help Cersei’s mood… but it would also keep her from publically having him marched to Ned Stark’s old cell. It wouldn’t keep her from trying to be sneaky, however, and Tyrion wasn’t looking forward to that. “You’ll also deal with those fools in the Small Council. They should have never allowed Joffrey the chance to commit that… folly… especially on in front of the Great Sept. We’ll be lucky if the Septon doesn’t declare Joffrey unworthy of future blessings.” Tywin paused. “And just in case any of them decide to follow their old friends Renly or Stannis… you even sense a hint of treachery from Varys or Baelish or Pycelle-“

“Heads, Spikes, Walls,” Tyrion stated. “Father… why not my uncle? Why not anyone? Why not someone… bigger? Why me?”

Tywin considered him. “You are my son.”

Tyrion forced himself not to glare at the old man. ‘Damn you,’ he thought. ‘Damn you, you’ve already given up of Jaime. You see him dead and are now left with just me.’ That was the only answer.

Except it wasn’t.

“There were those that did not want me to give Antony Stark Iron Pointe. And I will admit that I had my own doubts.” Tywin stood up and looked at the map of Westeros and the layout of their armies compared to the Stark forces. “I saw much of you in him and I wondered if I were not merely handing off a keep to a drunken fool who would bring disgrace to us all. And yet… he proved my trust in him correct. He has been a loyal bannerman, has provided wealth to the Westerlands… and brought prestige and dignity to us. His name may be Stark but he has behaved as a Lannister should.” Tywin paused and Tyrion shifted in his seat. “Kevan has argued for years now that the reason you whore and drink and act as you do is that I have failed to give you a task worthy of your talents. He stated only a few months back that how I have treated you is no different than if I sent Jaime to study at the Citadel. He would be miserable, unhappy, and bring disgrace upon us all. Looking upon Antony Stark I have begun to consider that I have been… wrong… in my handling of you.”

Tyrion was left speechless. He didn’t know if it was truly Antony’s work that had seen his father reach this conclusion or the fact that the Lannister cause was so bleak that had his father reevaluating his choices but Tyrion honestly didn’t care which. All he’d ever wanted was for his father to approve of him and while he hadn’t gotten that yet at least he’d be given a shot.

“Let us be clear… you are acting Hand. The moment I can safely leave this war in capable hands I will be taking over.”

“Understood,” Tyrion said. The warning was clear: don’t get comfortable and don’t make any messes I need to clean up.

“Should you prove up to the task we will begin discussing your future. You will not have Casterly Rock.” He said it firmly, with the same smooth strength one would use to plunge a dagger into a man’s heart. “I have decided that will go to Tommen. When this war is done I will take him with me, as I should have Joffrey, and make him a proper heir. He is young and I can correct now any failings his mother has instilled in him. He’ll take our name and the Lannisters will continue on, only now with royal blood. But… if you do well in King’s Landing, if you bring the boy into line and his mother and the rest… I will see that you receive a reward fitting not your stature but your skill. A position… a castle… and a chance to prove yourself to me as Antony Stark has.”

Sensing this was the end of the conversation Tyrion nodded and stood up, dimly realizing his wine glass was half full but having no urge to empty it. He made for the exit only for his father’s voice to stop him.

“If I find out you’ve brought disgrace to me with drunken antics… or if you dare bring a whore into the Tower of the Hand… you’ll wish you’d died in those Sky Cells.”

Tyrion nodded and hurried off, rushing to his tent as fast as his stumpy legs would let him. His mind was a whirl and he only briefly noticed as he passed Rhodey as he made his way through the camp. A thousand thoughts raced through his head but none of them truly mattered. Everything had become so twisted and strange that he felt as if he’d fallen through an enchanted well and ended up in a strange, fantastical version of Westeros where everything looked the same yet was completely different. It wasn’t until he heard Bronn’s chuckles that he realized he’d reached his tent.

Stepping inside the spacious tent Tyrion took in the gathering before him. Bronn was sitting at a table, still chuckling over something that Clynt had clearly said; Tyrion didn’t always hear the quips Clynt made but the man’s lips would twitch after he told a joke that gave it all away. Samwell was off to the side, talking with a dark haired boy who was maybe a year or so younger than the fat young man and certainly slimmer. The remains of a meal were scattered on the table and Tyrion could see that Sam had been working on getting everything packed up but now was having a small debate with the newcomer when it came to folding doublets. And there, lying on his bed, snoring softly… was the whore Bronn had found him. Shae.

Deciding that the best thing to do was to ignore the biggest problem at the moment Tyrion instead focused on Samwell and the newcomer. “And who is this visitor?”

“Podrick, my lord!” the dark haired youth said, quickly standing up and to attention. “Podrick Payne. I am your new squire.”

“… I already have a squire,” Tyrion said. “And who told you I needed one?”

Podrick’s brow furrowed. “Bronn, my lord.”

The sellsword shrugged. “Found him wandering about… decided to bring him home.”

“Why would I need a second squire?” Tyrion asked.

“I never understood why you needed one,” Clynt said.

Tyrion rolled his eyes at that and hauled himself up into an empty chair. “Well, I suppose it couldn’t hurt. I hear some lords have an entire squad of squires.”

“I believe they prefer to call them harems,” Bronn said with a smirk. “Bet that boy Loras Tyrell has a harem of harems.”

Samwell let out a squeak at that and Tyrion shot the sellsword a sour look. "Bronn, please don't scare the children." Tyrion poked at the leftovers from their meal, select a piece of chicken that looked as if it hadn't been gnawed on. "It seems to me that perhaps having two squires will serve me well in King's Landing."

"King's Landing?" Podrick said in surprise. "We aren't staying with the army?"

"It appears not. My father has commanded me to go there by morning's light."

"To do what?" Bronn asked.

"Rule in his stead. I am to be the acting Hand of the King."

Sam let out another choking sound at that.

"That mean we'll be parting ways then?" Clynt asked. When Tyrion raised an eyebrow at that the sellsword shrugged. "We're useful on a battlefield... not sure how much knife work there will be at the Capital."

"You've obviously never been in the Red Keep," Tyrion said drying. "Sam, Podrick... terrible name, do you mind if I call you Pod? Wonderful. Sam and Pod, please make sure that everything is packed and a wagon readied. Also let the Hill Tribes know we'll be heading out soon. Tell them that for helping me protect the Capital there will be new armor to go with the weapons they are owed." The boys nodded and quickly hurried off. "Bronn, Clynt, I would very much like to keep you in my employ, if you will stay on."

"Sleeping in a ditch praying some idiot prick doesn't kill me for my boots... staying in the Tower of the Hand..." Bronn weighed his options. "I think we could be convinced."

"I thought as much."

"In that case I think I'll go see about cheating at some dice" He stood up and grinned at the two. "Could always use some pocket change!" He strolled out of the tent, whistling the Rains of Castamere as he went.

Clynt rose to join him only for Tyrion to hold up a hand. "I have one final task for you."

"And that is?"

Tyrion looked over at his bed and the sleeping form of Shae before sighing. "Pick her up without waking her and find some tent to dump her in. If there is a man there tell her she is a gift from Tyrion Lannister." He produced two silver stags from his pocket and handed them over to the sellsword. "One for you and one for her. Wake her before you leave and... and inform her that her services are no longer required. Should I ever see her face again I will have you cut her nipples off. After that you will take her lips… both sets. She won't like would happen a third time."

Clynt stared at him, surprised by the command. "And here I thought you liked this one."

"I do," Tyrion said glumly. "She could trick me into loving her, I think. That's why I need her gone now, before I do something foolish." Clynt shrugged and gathered the whore up, the dark haired beauty murmuring as she was pulled from the warmth of the bed. Tyrion watched him go, his wine class in his hand... but his desire to drink gone.

Chapter Text

Tony

The journey North had not been an easy one... and that was without taking into the account the heartache that followed the party like a lonely pup begging for scraps.

Tony had flown them a few leagues away from King's Landing before he set down in a quiet grove of trees where Jon was waiting with a wagon and a team of horses; the obtaining of both would have made for a great story had he been in the mood to tell it. He had debated briefly trying to fly Ned the entire way to Winterfell but had quickly concluded that would be a folly. First because he didn't trust his armor to make it that far, especially carrying another body and with all the damage it had suffered at the hands of Gregor. He had wanted to return to Iron Pointe and work on both his and Jon's armor after that fight but the fear of Gregor's words, that Joffrey would wipe out the Starks, had propelled him towards King's Landing and now Tony was glad he'd listened to his instincts. He arrived just as Ned had begun his speech and had been ready to let justice serve its course; if Ned wished to go the route he did then so be it. But when Joffrey had proven Gregor right Tony had leapt into action even as he prayed his armor wouldn't crumble around him.

The second reason he hadn't flown Ned North was that he didn't want to spend hours hugging his cousin like that. The man smelled like a privy. The fact that he hadn't dropped Ned into a pond on his flight to the wagon and told him to wash up should have seen him knighted.

The reunion between Jon and Ned had been one of joy and sorrow. Ned had broken down at the sight of the boy, hugging him tight, before telling him of the horrible news and causing Jon himself to break down in grief. Tony had focused on removing just of his armor, knowing that they'd needed their space, but finally been forced to remind them that it was time to go. Ned had been placed in the wagon next to the supplies that Jon had managed to gather, with blankets piled on his thin frame and a hooded cloak thrown over his head despite the summer heat. Thus had begun the long ride through the Crownlands, doing all they could to avoid the Kingsroad and the more populated villages. They'd slept under the stars and Jon had made trips to the inns to stock back up in supplies. Tony and Ned had always remained behind, the more recognizable of their group, looking about the quiet forests for any sign of danger. The Gods, the Old and the New and the Slightly Used, had been on their side and they'd passed into the Riverlands easy enough, though all of them knew that was only part of the battle. With the war currently focused on the Tully Lands travel had become all the more dangerous, with both Lannister forces looking for Northsmen and Stark soldiers who would not know them from foe and might attack. So Tony set a cautious pace, only changing his plans when Jon had learned that Robb and the various lords of the North and the Riverlands held council now at Riverrun. It had been a risk to get so close but the reward was now proving far greater.

The time though did have one benefit: getting Ned back to decent health. His time in the Black Cells had left him as weak as a newborn pup. He easily tired and his body was covered in sores from sitting in the same spot for days at a time. He'd worked slowly to get back to proper health, each day eating a bit more and becoming more physical. As they had neared Riverrun Ned had taken to walking beside the wagon, strengthening his legs while he'd swung Ice about, using its weight to aid in the repair of his arms. His clothing was still in tatters and he was in desperate need of a bath and a shave but he no longer looked like a walking corpse now that they'd finally reached their destination.

All three of them had known there was no way they could simply walk into Riverrun. Even if they got past the Lannister scouts, and even if the guards believed them and let them in, Ned had understood that Tony and Jon couldn't be seen allying themselves with the North.

"I understand," Ned said once more when Jon made his apologizes. "There are times where one must be on the front line and times when one must remain hidden in the shadows. Robert never understood how war could be something other than rushing and fighting but Jon Arryn's lessons weren't lost on me. You must appear to all as remaining in the Westerlands, serving Tywin Lannister loyally. Only when the time is right might you reveal the truth to all."

"I still wish I could stand with you and Robb in this," Jon said.

Ned sighed and clapped him on the shoulder. "Jon... when I first heard of the Iron Man I feared what he would mean for Westeros. I saw him as a figure the Small Folk would look up to that would lead them into a fruitless war against powerful lords. I thought that he should have sought justice properly. But now... now the scales have fallen from my eyes. Westeros is a fruit that is rotten everywhere save the skin. What Lord Paramount spoke in my favor? None. I know that. What good would it have done though? Those I thought would aid me betrayed me or used my capture to further their own ends. I told Cersei that Stannis was the rightful king but how can I believe that when he did nothing to aid me... no moves to free me, no declarations that my capture was unjust. I received only silence from the man I was willing to go to war for. The Gold Cloaks serve at the whims of the Lannisters and the Kingsguard has been forever soiled. As for Littlefinger…” here Ned’s face twisted and Tony couldn’t help but agree; someone needed to slit that weasel’s neck and do all a favor. “Yes, there will be a war... that much is true... but war only will make things worse. When Lords battle it is always the Small Folk that are crushed. And in times like these, and the ones we are about to face... Westeros needs the Iron Man." He squeezed Jon's shoulder. "And Iron Man needs you."

Jon smiled at that. "Thank you, father."

Ned nodded and turned toward Riverrun. "Well... I suppose it’s time I made my entrance."

"In a moment," Tony said even as Jon moved to put on his helm. "Ned... it's time." Jon looked at the two of them, wondering what Tony was talking about but his guardian did not look at him. His gaze was only for Ned. "You promised him you would tell him the truth when you next saw him... and if these last few weeks have proven anything it is that we could all be dead tomorrow. Don't make him wait anymore... he deserves to know."

Ned rubbed his nose before his shoulders slumped. "I suppose he does." He turned towards a bewildered Jon and Tony took a step back to give them space but not so far back that he wouldn't be able to hold Ned to his promise. "Jon... what I'm going to tell you will upset you. But I want you to know that all of this... I did it out of love. Love for you... and your mother."

"My mother?" Jon whispered, hope and fear coloring her words. "Who..."

"Jon, do you remember how the Rebellion began?"

The young man nodded, licking his lips. "Yes father... Prince Rhaegar kidnapped your sister, Lyanna. When your father, Rickard went to demand her return the king held him captive... and then did the same to your brother Brandon. He killed them both and then demanded you and King Robert's heads."

Ned shut his eyes. "That story... is one that all know." The Lord of Winterfell let out a shuddering breath. "But it isn't all true."

"Father?" Jon said. Tony shut his eyes; he’d expected as much.

"Rhaegar didn't kidnap Lyanna. They fell in love and she ran away from him. She never loved Robert... she saw that marriage as one of politics. Perhaps, had she never met the prince she would have learned to love him but... but once she met Rhaegar there was no other man for her. Arya... people say that she is Lyanna reborn. Can you imagine Arya allowing herself to be married to a man when her heart's desire was another?" Jon dumbly shook his head and Tony merely watched on, wishing he could wrap his arm around the boy and offer him comfort. But he had to hear this... and there was far worse to come. "Rhaegar, in secret, had his marriage to Ellia Martell dissolved, and married Lyanna. Lyanna told me this in her fevered dreams. I can't say what their plan was after that... I just know that Rhaegar did love her... loved her enough to marry her proper... and ensure that their child would be trueborn."

"No..." Jon whispered, tears gathering in his eyes. "No, father... please..."

"Jon," Ned said, his voice ragged, "I'm not your father. I'm your Uncle. You... are Jaehaerys Targaryen, third of his name, Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms... and rightful heir of the Iron Throne."

Jon stumbled back, hitting a tree and sinking down to the ground. His eyes were red and wild and he looked first at his father and then at Tony, silently pleading for either one to tell him this was all a cruel lie. That he wasn't who Ned said he was. That his entire life hadn't been a lie.

"...why?" he croaked when neither man granted his wish.

Tony spoke up. "Robert. Think about it, Jon. You know what happened to Rhaegar's children... your siblings. He smiled when Tywin Lannister brought their bodies to him. What would he have done to you... a babe not only from Rhaegar... but from Lyanna? Proof that she didn't love him? You'd have been dead before you could open your eyes."

Ned seemed to have aged ten years. His posture was slumped and the weight of his words threatened to crush him. As for poor Jon it was clear to all the thoughts racing through him. A thousand different things were occurring to him at once, making his body a maelstrom of conflicting ideas. The joy in discovering the truth at long last. The horror that he was related to the Mad King. The relief that he wasn’t a bastard or a product of rape, that his parents had loved each other. The sorrow of what had been taken from him. The anger at how he had been treated so lowly by the likes of Catelyn Stark and how Ned had allowed this even though Jon wasn’t a bastard… that by all accounts he was more noble than them all. The agony of fate, the thought that he might need to stand up and take the throne himself once this stupid war was over. The longing to just keep things the way they were. All of this ran through the poor boy’s head and Tony wanted to do nothing more than hug him.

…or find someone to hug him because he was Tony Stark and he didn’t hug people.

Honest.

“Jon,” Ned finally said, kneeling down before the young man. “This must remain with only the three of us.” Tony glared at the back of Ned’s head, hating that rather than offering sympathy or comfort to the now driftless young man all he could think about was the secret. As important as it was Tony knew what Jon needed now was help, not warnings. “Even with Robert gone there are plenty in the Seven Kingdoms that would want to see you dead, see you as a threat. No one else can be trusted with this… not Robb, not Arya, not Lady Vyrgina-“

“Oh, she’s finding out.” When Ned glared at Tony he merely shrugged. “You can lie to Cat all you want but I’m not lying to my wife except on how Tyrion and I ended up naked in that sept with a basket full of strawberry cakes.”

“No one can know. The risk-“

Jon spoke up. “I already bear one secret.” He gestured at the Centurion armor he wore. “I know how to keep secret from those that will whisper them… and who I can tell that won’t speak of them. And I trust Pepper, fa… father.”

Ned, flinching as if he’d been struck, let out a long sigh. “Aye, I suppose you do. Go take a moment to gather yourself. But know this: I may not be your father… but you are a Stark” Jon opened his mouth only to shut it and walk away, leaving the two elder Starks on their own. What had gone unsaid hung in the air: ‘I am only a Stark because of Tony’. “He had to force himself to call me ‘father’. I always feared that.”

Tony was silent for a long moment before he spoke. “You know… some would argue that it isn’t the man that created a child that is their father… but the one that raised them who deserves the title.”

“I suppose,” Ned said softly. “Yet…”

“Yet?”

“Yet I fear that in acting as his father as I have… I haven’t been a true father to him at all.”

Tony had no response for that and chose instead to merely don his helm, snapping the face plate in place as Jon returned, he himself completely armored up with his face hidden. Tony could tell that Ned hated not being able to see what the boy was thinking… yet also feared what thoughts might be running through Jon Stark’s head. Still, there was no more time to focus on Ned and Jon’s relationship. They had to get Ned into Riverrun, so he might be reunited with his family once more.

~AMOI~AMOI~AMOI~

Of all the ways a man could make an entrance floating down in the grasp of a flying knight while his wife and eldest son watched was definitely something hard to top. Tony smiled behind his mask as Robb and Catelyn stared at them, the guards that had been watching over them as the two quietly talked in the small open garden readying their swords only to freeze when they realized just who Iron Man and Centurion were returning to Riverrun. Catelyn looked up with wide eyes, her mouth parting in shock, while Robb took a step forward only to falter, as if afraid taking another step would cause Ned to disappear like fog caught in the rays of the sun. Ned took the choice out of his son’s hand and, as soon as his feet safely touched the ground, stepped forward and dragged Robb into a hug.

“My boy… my boy…” Ned whispered hoarsely.

“Father,” Robb said, tears rolling down his cheeks. Tony did his best not to shift awkwardly at the reunion, focusing his attention instead on Jon. His ward clearly wanted to remove his mask and reveal himself to Robb but the knowledge of their true connection weighed on him. It hurt Tony to see how the young man wanted to go to his brother… but now couldn’t bring himself to see Robb as his brother. Couldn’t bear to reveal himself, to let him know he was here for him, that they might celebrate that they still lived and mourn the one that did not. He couldn’t do that; not anymore. The lie that Tony had found so horrid, so cruel to Jon, that cursed him with the shame of being a bastard had also given him a family. And now with the stain wiped away Jon found himself with nothing. Like a white cloth that had been stained with the Arbor Red removing what had made it so different left it as… nothing at all.

Tony glowered at that. ‘No… he has me. And Pepper. And Iron Pointe. And I’m going to make sure he never forgets that.’

The tears and whispers of greeting and reunion finally faded away and Tony forced himself to stand perfectly still as Cat and Robb looked over at him and Jon. He suddenly felt like his body wasn’t his own, like he’d been placed in some strange creature’s skin and didn’t know how to operate its arms and legs. He wanted to shift and wiggle and try out different poses that might look more heroic than just standing there like a bloody fool in his gaudy armor. He managed to tap down such urges and keep himself standing perfectly, utterly, still. Jon, he could tell, was doing the same at the two Starks ran their eyes along there forms, taking everything in.

“I’d heard rumors,” Robb finally said, moving to say more but finding there was nothing else to add.

His father nodded. “We all did. Thankfully… it seems that the rumors were true.” He gestured at the two of them. “I’m alive because of them.”

“But not Sansa,” Cat said quietly, though not quietly enough for Jon and Tony not to hear. From the way Ned and Robb flinched they’d heard her too. Louder she said, “We heard rumors… that she…”

“There was nothing anyone could do,” Ned said, sorrow in his eyes.

“The only one to blame is Joffrey,” Robb said even as Cat glared at that the two armored figures. Tony should have guessed she’d already be working to find someone to blame… though this time she was right. He should have been better, smarter, faster. He should have flown and grabbed her or blasted Joffrey’s smug little face off the moment he pulled her against his body. Come quicker. Acted more directly or perhaps with more subtlety. Leapt to action or slinked in. A thousand what-ifs, each of them seeing that bright beautiful girl live again. She haunted him.

“Enough,” Jon said, taking a step forward, dropping his voice an octave to disguise himself.

“I beg your pardon?” Cat said, staring him down.

Tony watched as Jon faced down his childhood tormentor. He wondered if Jon realized that he was able to literally look down at her; he towered over Cat now, making her look so small. Or maybe it was because he finally refused to let him feel small.

“I can see it in your eyes, Catelyn Stark. The wheel already turns and you seek a way to shift the play to the closest of targets. But there is only one who is to blame for this.”

“How dare you,” Cat hissed, eyes blazing with fury. “How dare you blame me for her death! If anyone is to blame, it is-“

“Joffrey,” Jon said, cutting her tirade off at the knees. “He is the one that killed her. Not Ned, not Iron Man, not me, not herself. The only one to blame here is him.” He took another step forward, forcing Catelyn to stumble back, as if she suddenly realized she wasn’t facing some guard or lord who could be frightened away with the title of ‘Lady of Winterfell’. This was not some lippy servant that thought they could say whatever they wished when they gained a bit of power who Cat had to put back in their place. This wasn’t, as far as she knew, Ned Stark’s bastard son who she railed against and taught others to rail against as well because of a hurt from over a decade early that she refused to ever forgive. This was, to her, some demon in red and silver, who commanded magic she could never understand and who held not only her life but the lives of everyone in Riverrun in his gauntlet-covered hand. “We will make plenty of mistakes in our quest to make Westeros a better place. I have little doubt we can actually save it but perhaps we can make it better. We will stumble, we will fall… and our choices will cause pain and death. I know that and Iron Man knows that. But you will not place the burden of what happened to your daughter at our feet. I will not take on any more guilt. A kind woman told me that it does no good to place blame upon on anyone other than the ones responsible. You will not put Sansa’s death on me. I refuse to carry that burden just so you can feel better.”

He turned and Tony gave him the slightest of nods; Jon had finally grown up.

“I find it interesting that when I said someone was to blame… you assumed I must have meant you. How… telling.”

Jon had grown up… and he truly was Tony’s heir.

Tony watched as Catelyn’s face twisted into something truly vicious, so horrific was her hate that Ned and Robb actually stepped away. She grabbed Jon’s hand and forced him to turn around but Jon was unmoved even as she raised her hand to slap him. He merely watched her, silently daring her to try.

“CAT!” Ned roared, suddenly snapping out of his shock. “What are you doing?”

“You heard him!” Cat practically screeched. “What he said of me… what he accused me of.”

“I heard him only say that it was no one’s fault but Joffrey’s when it comes to Sansa’s d… death.” Ned licked his lips. “These two saved my life. I’d be dead or recaptured if not for them. Iron Man did all he could to save Sansa and this is how you treat them? By lashing out? By blaming others with no proof or understand of what is going on?”

Catelyn turned, mouth opened in surprise as she stared at her husband. Tony was torn between leaving to give them space and asking Robb to fetch him a mug of ale so he could enjoy this. “Are you talking about Tyrion Lannister? How he crippled our boy… tried to kill him-“

“What proof do you have of that?” Ned asked. “What proof did you have before you took him hostage?” He yanked up his pant leg and Robb paled while Cat gapped at the hideous scar that marred his calf. “I bled in the street because of your rash judgment.”

“It was not rash, Ned. It needed to be done. If Lysa hadn’t… he would not be free now…” she shook her head and Tony wondered just what Lysa had… or hadn’t… done. He’d heard little of Tyrion’s time in the Sky Cells and honestly he was thrilled his friend had escaped; he had planned to fix his armor and fly to free Tyrion if he still remained trapped. Tony knew there was no way Tyrion would have ordered any attack on Bran Stark. “The dagger… the dagger was his, Ned. He sent that killer-“

“The dagger…” Ned whispered, eyes burning with a cold rage. The one the people called the Quiet Wolf let out a hiss as he whispered, “I remember it. I remember Littlefinger, your friend, the one you told me I could trust, holding it to my throat as he betrayed me to Joffrey… the boy that killed our daughter.” Cat tried to shake her head but Ned was clearly having none of it. The frustration and pain of what had happened, what he had witnessed, coupled with his long stay in the Black Cells had frayed his patience completely. “Do you know what he says about you, your ‘dear friend’? He brags to all of how you took your maiden head. How I got his leftovers. He tells of how you still long for him, how you hate me and our children from keeping you from him. How Robb is probably his as he comforted you long during the war.” Catelyn trembled at each comment, shaking like a leaf. “That is the man you had me side with. Do not speak to me again of any of Petyr Baelish’s lies. They cost me a daughter and nearly my own life. The next time I see him… I’ll take his head and leave his bones to scattered for the birds.” With that he turned and looked at Robb, who snapped to attention so hard Tony was amazed the boy’s spine didn’t snap. “Are the Northern Lords here?”

“They are father,” Robb said. “I was preparing to meet with them, to discuss our next course of action.”

“Tell them to assemble. I need to speak to them now.”

“Ned,” Cat said, her voice softer and without any of the anger or frustration it had held only moments earlier. “Can it not wait? Would it not be better for you to bathe and dress? To get a bite to eat and build up your strength? Let Robb-“

“Robb has done well. I am proud of what he has done.” He reached over and clasped his eldest son’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “But now I need to see those who have sworn loyalty to me.”

“But not like this,” Cat argued. “Let them see you strong-“

“Let them see that I took all the Lannisters could throw at me and lived. Let them see what awaits us all if we do not win this war. Let them see me in this torn black garments and with weakened form and know that this is what Joffrey considers mercy.” Tony and Jon glanced at each other; they’d both feared that a war was truly coming but to hear it spoken so frightened them all the same. “Iron Man… Centurion… I would like you to come, if you can.”

“We can’t fight for you,” Tony said. “We serve Westeros… not just the North.”

“I understand,” Ned said before Cat could protest. Ned already knew this but it needed to be known publically. “But you deserve to hear what I have to say. Keep to the shadows if you must but I want you to hear.”

Tony paused for several moments before finally nodded and the two of them followed Ned, Robb racing to gather the lords…

…and Cat was left behind, standing alone in the dark.

~AMOI~AMOI~AMOI~

“Ever seen anything like this?” Jon asked Tony as the two stood at the farthest edge of the gathering, remaining in the shadows. Ned had gotten them two cloaks that they wore over their armor and only if someone truly stared directly at them would they realize just who they were. Luckily Ned’s appearance before the Lords of the North and the Riverlands had ensured that attention was only on him, allowing Jon and Tony to watch as the different Houses greeted their returned liege lord.

“Never,” Tony admitted. “It is rare for a Warden to call all the lords under him to such a gathering. Most probably would have come for Robb’s wedding. Ned and Cat didn’t get a proper wedding, just some quick vows, and there was never a rally to war against Aerys, what with Ned and Robert in the Vale when the command for their heads to came down. This is… this is honestly something that happens once in several lifetimes.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad?” Jon asked.

“I’ll let you know when I decide.”

Ned had finally gotten the lords to grow quiet after greeting them, making sure to give not a single one more time than another. He talked quietly with Lady Mormont, shook hands with Lord Glover, and offered his greatest sympathies to Lord Karstark over the loss of his two sons. Tony had pointed out to Jon how smart it was to let no single lord feel himself lesser or great than the others, and Jon had been surprised at his father being so cunning. He’d told Tony that Ned had never taught him or Robb that and for a brief moment Tony wondered what would have happened to Robb had Ned not survived King’s Landing. How long would he have lasted not knowing the rules of the game, rules even Tony himself knew. How long would it have been before the likes of GreatJon or Lord Glover, or Roose Bolton had decided to test the Young Wolf.

He didn’t like where his thoughts led.

Catelyn had joined Ned shortly after, sitting next to him as he told them of his capture and of how he’d nearly lost his life... and how Sansa had paid with her’s. The other lords spat on the ground when they heard of Joffrey’s cowardice and several had sworn to murder the boy themselves to avenge Sansa. Tony had once again pointed out to Jon the dance that was going on: the man that did such a deed would earn prestige from House Stark and with the Seven Kingdoms about to radically change with this upcoming new war that prestige could see even the lowliest of Northern Houses suddenly rival the highest.

Once he had spoken he had allowed Robb to tell him of their actions and thus he, along with Tony and Jon, had learned of Robb’s successes in driving back the Lannister forces and capturing the Kingslayer, who was now held in a cell deep within Riverrun. Tony had shaken his head at that. “Always knew the idiot would get himself in trouble running off like a fool from a fairytale,” he’d muttered.

“And what would you have us do, Lord Stark?” Roose asked, the pale man watching with quick eyes as Robb finished of the tale of their battles. “What is your plan to deal with the usurper to the throne?”

Ned let his gaze sweep over all of them. “I will never bend the knee to a Lannister. That I can guarantee. I will see them all dead before I do that.” The lords nodded at that, grumbling their agreement. “But beyond that… you all came when my son called, in hopes of rescuing me. I can not, in good conscious, go forward without your council. The North goes to war and the North must be in agreement.” The men nodded once more at that. “I want to hear all each of you have to say; to hear your thoughts on what path we might take. We must be united… or else we will die.” And with that he sat down, opening the council to all.

There were several murmurs and half started comments before the voices began to talk over each other. Roose argued that they should press Tywin Lannister as he retreated to Harrenhall, pointing out that he was lacking the likes of the Mountain and thus was at his weakest. Marq Piper brought the Riverland lords into the conversation when he suggested they instead turn towards Casterly Rock as that would not only remove Tywin’s own home but also allow them to then encircle him. Jason Mallister, meanwhile, stated that they should not be rash and instead starve the Lannisters out by destroying their supply lines, reminding them that Harrenhall was famous for becoming a tomb for countless families. Jonos Bracken’s suggestion was they join with Renly, who had declared himself king much to Tony’s surprise, as this would mean that the Reach (who had already apparently pledged to Renly), the Stormlands, the Riverland, and the North were united against the Crownlands and the Westerlands.

“Renly is not the king,” Robb argued, showing more steel in his spine than Tony would have suspected. It appeared ruling in his fahter’s stead suited the boy… and he worried what would come now that Ned had returned to take back that power. Sons and fathers had fought over less. “He is Robert’s youngest brother.”

“Then you ask us to pledge to Stannis?” Lord Glover asked. “I do not like that.”

“I have heard rumors he courts a red priestess from across the Narrow Sea,” Lady Mormont stated. “They say she is some enchantress who uses flames to sacrifice all she sees fit to her Lord of Light.”

“Renly is the right choice!” another lord called out. “He is the youngest brother, yes, but he has the greater strength!”

“But what does he do with it?” someone else asked. “He sits at Storm’s End holding tourneys! Stannis is said to be building a fleet.”

“Said to be and nothing more!”

“Let them all battle it out!” cried one of the Freys and Tony smirked as he was shouted down. It seemed that it wasn’t just The Late Walder Frey who liked to stay out of fights.

“My lords! My lords!” Greatjon bellowed, standing up and moving to stand in the circle formed by the lords of the North and the Riverlands. “Here’s what I say to these three kings!” With that he spat a thick wad of spit on the ground, earning a few rumbles and cheers of approval. “You all know me… I am not a man of learning and of books. I know my words and I know my sums but I care little for maesters’ tomes. But it is time I reminded you all of our history! Why did we submit to the Targaryens? Dragons! Dragons is why! And when they were gone we still submitted… because it worked well for us. Until it didn’t. Why did we rebel?” He began to slowly spin, arms spread wide. “Was it because of Lannister woman was kidnapped by a Targ prince?” That earned a chorus of Nos. “Was it because the Baratheon Lord was held captive because he demanded the King serve justice?” The cries of denial were stronger. “Was it because the Lannisters or the Baratheons saw members of their family killed?” The lords roared in anger as they remember. “NO! We went to war because the Targaryens targeted our liege lords! The Starks! No Southern family! The North was targeted!

“And yes, Lyanna was promised to Robert. But only promised. He went on to marry a Targ loyalist. He slept in their beds! Eat their food! Drank their wine! Produced blond pieces of shit who look more Lannister than anything! While Lord Rickard, Brandon, and Lyanna lay cold in the crypt! He lost one… Ned lost far more.” Greatjon paused, letting that sink in. “But we bent the knee to Robert… because he was like a brother to Ned. Because he was a good man. But… he was a shit king.” Any other time such a declaration would have been met with gasps but instead the lords, even Ned, finally nodded in agreement. “And now we are supposed to choose between three we have no connection with? Stannis, the cold fish that spent most of the war in a castle, saved by the Onion Knight? Renly, who prances about like a little girl and has never known what a hard winter was like? Or Joffrey… the killer of little girls?” This received bellows calling for the bastard’s head, with Robb and Theon, who had watched on and said nothing with Ned’s return to lead, adding their voices to the calls for blood. “Ned refused the Iron Throne… and I don’t blame him. The South stinks of sweat and filth… and that damn chair looks mighty uncomfortable. Wouldn’t want it poking my ass. The Crownlands are full of idiots, the whole lot of them! Even their gods are wrong!” He paused as the Northern men laughed with the Riverland men scoffed but still nodded. “But now… there is no reason to fear that throne. No reason to honor it. No reason to bow to it.” Greatjon drew his sword and pointed it at Ned. “It is time we ruled ourselves again… and there sits the only king I’ll kneel to! The only leader left from the Rebellion! The only man with claim to a crown that I know! The King in the North!”

Everyone grew silent, shocked by the declaration, and Ned without a word slowly stood as Greatjon knelt before him on the cold ground. Though he wore ill fitting clothes and was covered in grim in that moment he looked to Tony like some lost figure for a forgotten age returned to the world again.

“I’ll have peace on those terms,” Rickard Karstark said, shaken from his sadness over his sons. He moved to kneel next to Greatjon.

And then, to the surprise of all, Jonos Bracken stood and moved to join the other men. “The Greatjon speaks true. We fought in Rebellion to avenge the Starks and undo a great injustice. Every life that was lost in that war will have been for nothing if we do not choose now the right king. And that man… is you. I might be from South of the Neck… but the rest of those bastards below us still scorn me and mine. So aye… I’ll join the North if you’ll have me.” He then drew his sword and knelt before Ned, who looked on at them all before he squared his shoulders and held his head high.

“The King in the North!” Greatjon roared, causing the gathered lords who had yet to draw their swords to do so and join him in the call.

In the shadows Jon turned to Tony. “This changes things,” he whispered.

Tony could only say, “This changes everything.”

“THE KING IN THE NORTH! THE KING IN THE NORTH! THE KING IN THE NORTH!”

Chapter Text

Daenerys

As the rising sun fell upon her nude flesh Dany reflected on the first title she’d ever been given. She’d had many hung on her head: princess, exile, the Beggar King’s sister, Khaleesi, mother, wife, and now widow. But it was the first name that she focused on, the name given to her the moment she’d come into the world, wiggling and screaming, her shrieks joining with the thunder claps overhead.

Stormborn.

So many people, when they heard it, developed their own opinion on what it meant. That she had been born during a great storm, both literal and figurative in that she was born during the storm of rebellion that would see her House nearly destroyed. Others thought it referred to what she was meant to do in life, that she was touched by the storm and thus would be able to bring lightning and winds upon her enemies (figuratively, of course, though Logan had mentioned a woman from the Summer Isles that was said to be able to do just that who was worshipped as a goddess; of course he also claimed he’d heard of a man made completely of stone who ran around only in a loincloth and that was when he wasn’t drunk). Drogo had, upon hearing her title, stated that it meant instead that she would herself birth a storm, create a child that would have the fury and rage and strength of the greatest of tempests. Daenerys had a different view though: he name reminded her that her life, like a storm, was constantly changing, never the same.

She’d never had a true home, as she and her brother had been always on the move, rushing to stay ahead of the Usuprer’s assassins half the time and the other half to avoid wearing out their welcome. With Drogo she’d thought that maybe she’d find some stability, even among a people known for having no true home, no red door that was their own. A husband she had grown to love, a child she could teach to be a good ruler, a people that loved her. It had all been within her grasp.

And then a cold wind had blown, lightning had raced down from the sky, and the storm had swept it all away from her again. Her child murdered in her womb, strangled to death by dark magics crafted by the traitorous Mirri, who Dany had saved only to be rewarded with pain for her mercy. Drogo made lifeless yet living, unfeeling to the entire world until Dany had shown him mercy and killed him herself. The great Horde having mostly abandoned her, splitting off on their own when she promised that she would continue what Drogo had begun when he promised to win her back the Iron Throne. All of it ripped away.

And yet even as that storm had raged Dany had felt an odd exhilaration. She knew that many people hid in their homes when a storm raged but she had also witnessed a few stand in the rain, watching at the wrath of the world and laugh at its might. She had never understood that until now, for she had looked upon the storm that was her life and felt new life. Even as Mirri cursed her from the stake and even as her tiny khalasar debated what she was doing as she lit Drogo’s funeral pyre Dany had smiled. For she understood now the truth: the storm can bring destruction, yes, in its change… but it could also bring about life. One merely had to be strong enough to claim it. The Usurper liked to claim he was of the Storm Kings but Dany knew better… she was the Stormborn, the one who would tame the storm and turn its destructive force upon the world, changing it rather than the world changing her.

The sun was rising higher. She could feel it on her skin, ] warming it. She found that odd. It shouldn’t have warmed her, not after what had happened to her. She had just faced greater heat and yet she hadn’t felt it. Now? Now she felt the sun on her skin and it warmed her blood. It made her feel alive. How very odd.

Her khalasar remained asleep and she did not blame them. She had commanded them to wait but had never expected them to keep watch the entire night. It had been a painful day, one that drew strength from even the strongest of her new bloodriders like a medicine man sucking venom from a wound, leaving only ache and pain. The loss of Drogo had only been the final gash; the khalasar had already been shattered, breaking up among so many, but to know that Khal Drogo was gone, truly gone, never to return had been a blow. Then had come their belief that she was walking to her death as well, that she had decided that the loss of her child and her Sun and Stars was too great to bear and she would join them both in death. She’d tried to tell them but in the end forgiven each of them for not understanding, from the lowest of servants to Ser Jorah, who had begged her not to do what she meant to do. She’d only smiled and told them that they would be hers and she would protect them.

The only one to accept what she had been preparing to do was Logan. She’d thought she’d lost her protector during the battle that saw the shattering of Drogo’s khalasar. One of her handmaidens had stated that she’d heard that when the battle had begun he had joined in, howling and raging at anything that moved. Another said she’d heard that he’d proclaim he served only the khaleesi and had been dragged away by five riders to be killed. Worst had been the one to claim he’d simply wandered off in defeat, dropping his weapons without a word. She tried to hold out hope that he would return but as the long days past, even after she had awoken from her terrible sleep that had seen her child killed by Mirri in her traitorous ritual, and he hadn’t returned she’d finally given up hope.

She felt shame even now as she sat on the dusty ground. Shame she had ever doubted him. He was his protector and he would always protect her… even from threats she knew not existed.

As she’d lit the pyre on fire and listened to Mirri chant in a vain attempt to beat back the pain there had been a murmur from her people before they’d parted like grass before a grand rider. And through them marched her Logan, his body marred with damage, blood clinging to his skin, and the newly named Khal Jhaqo skewered on his blades, near death but alive enough to know fear. Jhaqo had been, according to Ser Jorah, one of the first to rise up against her, declaring himself Khal even as Drogo lived. He had attacked those he had called brother when they refused to stand with him and raped women he’d once protected purely because he now could. Logan had seen it all and followed after him and those who chose him. For the next 10 days he had slowly killed them off, one by one, culling the Horde like a lion picking off the weakest of sheep. He’d left Jhaqo for last, waiting till the man was so full of terror that he’d offered all to Logan to just leave. Her protector had answered by driving his blades into the man’s back and marching him all the way to Dany. Every step had been torture.

Logan had merely looked at her, then upon the pyre, and said, “I go where you go, khaleesi. Now and always.” And with that simple statement he had dragged a screaming, pleading Jhaqo into the pyre, Daenerys following only a moment later. As the fires had swirled around her and Mirri’s screams of agony had joined Jhaqo’s death wails she’d found that neither she nor Logan made a sound. Even as the fire consumed them all, from Drogo, to the timbers, to her precious dragon eggs, to even the clothing she wore, she did not scream. Nor did Logan.

Logan burned.

Dany… did not.

She heard the stirring of her khalasar and opened her eyes, blinking away the soot that clung to her lashes. She was naked as she had been when she’d been born and once more she tasted smoke and ash, but now the world that greeted her was not one of despair and pain. Of loss. It was a new world, a better world.

She’d conquered the storm and made it hers.

Ser Jorah was the first to step towards the dark ground where the pyre had been but his eyes were not on her. She did not blame him; had she not sensed the transformation within the flames she would have been startled by Logan too. For her protector, despite burning away to just his bones… lived. Even now, as he stepped towards her protectively, naked as she, his body was mending itself, repairing the damage the fire and a hard life with the Dothraki had set upon it. He came next to her and she looked down at his bare legs and feet before raising her head to stare at his form. He glanced at her and she nodded, allowing him to help her stand, for she had her hands quite full.

Ser Jorah gaped at them both, as did the rest of her khalasar, their minds taking in the sight of two who should have burned but yet now lived. Upon Dany’s shoulder a dark newborn dragon perched, his little claws lightly digging into her skin, while his brothers fed from her breasts. Mirri had been right: a death for life. That was the key.

“Blood of my blood,” Ser Jorah whispered as he knelt before her in supplication, the others doing the same, her people bowing before their queen.

Logan remained standing, for it was his right. He had joined her in the fire and in the storm and had come out of it changed too. Even now he squeezed his left hand into a fist and from his knuckles burst his blades, now forever a part of him. Always ready to protect his queen.

One of the dragons, the small green one with hints of golden along his spines, detatched from her breast and let out a squealing chirp and Dany found that she understood what he wanted. He was cold and missed the warmth of the fire that brought about his and his brothers' birth. It wasn't like he was talking to her... rather that she knew purely from instinct. It was this same instinct that saw her hold out her right hand, palm up and open, and focus...

...and one of the small flames that still crackled in the last remains of the pyre shot out and wrapped around her arm, her skin unblemished as it rolled around her before swirling about her dragons, warming them each. Dany willed the flames to flow up her body, covering her nakedness. She could feel the fires around her and they called to her much like her children did. The three dragons chirped in thanks before turning to look at her khalasar, inquisitive eyes taking them in, before the one on her shoulder let out a cry. Above her the omen of fate, the red star, streaked across the sky.

Dany saw that the storm, for her, had lifted and the sun finally shone. And that sun was her.

She was Daenerys Stormborn no more.

She was Daenerys Firestar.

And for the rest of the world the tempest was just beginning.

Varys

The wig itched horrifically, making him just want to stop in the middle of the street and run his nails through it until he bled. He made do with just an occasional run of his fingers through the tangled hair, shifting it to try and get at the pesky little irritation. Others would have found that annoying but not Lord Varys; it helped him stay in character. No one thought anything of a portly dock worker getting at the fleas that lived in the bramble rush that he called hair. In fact they did all they could to fade away and be unseen themselves, as none of them wanted him, or his fleas, anywhere near him.

The Master of Whispers smiled, but only internally. It always amused him how little people actually saw. They were so utterly consumed with themselves and their lives that they failed to take in those around them. This was a mistake Varys refused to commit. He watched everyone and knew that to them his life, his work, and all that he cared for didn't matter for the simple fact that he wasn't them. For others this would have been soul shattered to realize; the truth that each and every person wasn't special. What did it matter if you were the hero of your own tale if a million stories were being told all at the same time? The only way for many to cope was to ignore such facts. But not Lord Varys. No no... he watched and he learned. He saw the people playing roles, and the people playing as people playing roles. A stone mason who doubled as an enforcer for a local gang. A man who claimed to be a sellsword but who was actually a rich man who sought thrills by pretending to be a cutthroat. And himself. Oh, how many roles he played, and roles on top of roles, and roles upon roles upon even more roles. Like a great knotted ball where the center couldn't be seen because of all the thread.

Some people thought they knew the truth about him. Ned Stark, for example, knew now that Varys was a master of disguise. But he believed that it was merely the Spider playing a role rather than seeing the truth: 'Varys' was a lie as well.

Oh, there were some truths to it. He was a eunuch; no lying about that, honestly. And he was truly from across the Narrow Sea. But Varys who loved wearing robes and preferred battling with his mind rather than his hands? Just another part he played. An enjoyable one, to be sure, and one he had grown to find a good amount of delight in taking on, but not the real him. Never the real him. The food was wonderful, the combat against the likes of Littlefinger kept him stimulated, and he did enjoy that he got to sleep on a soft bed rather than a pallet covered in hay... but those were merely perks of his role and when the time came for him to cast Varys aside forever he would surrender them all without thought. If he was to become a gluttonous sellsword or a humble measter or a back stabbing blockage runner he would take those roles on too.

In the name of the cause. In the name of his duty.

Stepping into the inn/tavern he didn't even bother to go up to the bar and let them know he was heading to one of the private rooms. If anyone noticed they'd just assume he was some regular who did it all the time and the owner was paid not to ask those types of questions. So up the stairs he climbed, his threadbare pants rubbing against his thighs and his coarse shirt that didn't fit right rustling slightly as he reached the first landing and headed down the hall. He passed by a man Varys knew for a fact was one of the best glassblowers in the city, who was leading a whore who, for those that were interested in such things, was pretty enough in the dark to a room. They shut the door and within moments the whore was moaning and screaming. Varys put on a look of lusty approval in case anyone walked by but in his head he was rolling his eyes; even a cheap whore was supposed to know how to fake it. Of course she wasn't actually doing anything... Varys also knew that the room was one the inn's favorite "double door" rooms. If you knew where to tap you could open up a secret door and gain access to the room next door. And for the glassblower the next room held his 'greatest rival' who also had a whore pretending to fuck him so no one would hear the two men buggering each other senseless.

Everyone thought they were so clever when it came to the game.

Stepping up to another door Varys pulled a worn key from the hidden pocket in his sleeve and quietly let himself in, slurring an old drinking song whose words he couldn't remember though that mattered little. Once he was inside and had locked the door (and placed a heavy dresser against the door... just in case) he removed his wig and waited, running his hands over his smooth scalp. He didn't flinch when the double door to his room swung open and the new arrival stepped through.

The man was tall and his limbs were filled with hard corded muscle that even the black leather coat he wore over his dark shirt and pants couldn't hide. His golden blond hair, which had once been as long as Ser Jaime's, now was cropped short and the first hints of gray were beginning to form at his temples. Stubble lined a creased face where every wrinkle had been earned not from age but from a full life. His left eye was still as bright as the finest cut emeralds but if the same was true of the right Varys couldn't say as a black eyepatch hide it from the world. The man was well armed with a short sword on his side, several throwing daggers tucked away, and a large sword strapped to his back. Varys, of course, knew the man had many more weapons hidden away on his person.

"It's good to see you, my old friend," Varys said smoothly, losing the gruff tones of his disguise. The voice of Varys, while not his original, was always so smooth on his throat. "What name do they have you using now?"

"Fury," the newcomer said. "Nikolos Fury."

"Ah, that old favorite." He paused, smirking slightly. It felt good to talk to someone who knew the real him, even if he couldn't be that man. "I was wondering who I might see this time. Last time I had to meet directly with Magister Illyrio Mopatis-"

"Does he still believe your only goal is to get Daenerys back on the throne?"

"Of course. These people... all they care about is that ugly thing." Varys rolled his eyes in annoyance. "Before that I met another of your brothers, a dark skinned fellow with nary a hair on his head... they called him Nikolos Fury too. He also wore an eyepatch... is that part of the disguise when you take that name?"

"No, he just likes to copy me," Fury grunted. "Even has a pretty little line too, from what I hear. "The last time I trusted someone I lost an eye". Bloody mummer."

Varys chuckled before growing serious. "Eddard Stark lives. It was a close call... Joffrey nearly had his head."

"Shit," Fury grunted. "That would have been a death blow. How did you manage to save him?"

"I wish I could claim responsibility but it was our dear Iron Man who saved the day."

"Which one?" Fury asked, crossing his arms over his chest. "Antony or Jon?"

"Antony, though I hear now that the newly named Jon Stark has been given his own armor and goes by the name Centurion."

"Two flying knights," Fury rumbled. "Joyous."

"Isn't it?" Varys teased, knowing for Fury it was anything but. "What does the council say?"

Fury let out a sigh at that, his lips forming a thin line so that he resembled his eldest brother in Varys' eyes... though he'd never tell Fury that. "They think it is just an aberration. A chance occurrence. There was some talk of me making contact... one ever suggested I just sneak into his house and surprise him in the middle of the night. Give the whole speech, 'You've just entered into a bigger universe... you just don't know it yet.' "

"Hmm, I remember it being a bit more... grand... when you used it to recruit me." Fury chuckled at that. "So the council isn't concerned. And you?" Varys pressed.

Fury was silent for a long period. "I think... that it is the heralding of a new age."

Varys swallowed at that. "One of minor note... or the one we have all feared?"

"We've feared," Fury stated. He shut his good eye for a moment, gathering himself. "I've been North of the Wall, old friend. I've seen them. They've awakened"

Varys suddenly felt very warm... and very cold.

"Have you..." he hated how his voice broke when he spoke and he cleared his throat in an attempt to steady himself. "Has the Court awakened?"

"...I don't know," Fury admitted. Varys licked his lips, knowing that if there was one thing Fury hated it was not knowing something. The man was cautious to near paranoia. "But what I do know, what I feel in my bones... is that Antony Stark is a part of this."

"And thus our hopes lie on a flamboyant braggart." He tried to make it sound like a joke and instantly knew he'd failed. "So... that is it then."

"That is it," Fury said. "Stark is the first. He won't be the last."

"How does that old saying going? 'The last song has ended and now the next begins'?"

Fury nodded. "Yes... A Song of Metal and Marvels." The one-eyed man turned to leave but paused, a hint of a smile forming on his face. "It's funny... my brother called me a fool for hunting for this," he shrugged his shoulders, making the great sword strapped to his back shake. "I lost my eye claiming it. But now this might be the blade that saves us all."

Varys looked at the Fury's blade. The pommel and hilt had been altered, the head (a lion caught mid roar) replaced with a simple ball while the fine leather had given way to a coarse patchwork. It was like a lion who had seen his mane removed... but woe to the man who thought that deadened his bright roar.

"Goodbye, old friend," Fury said, moving to the double door. "Till we meet again."

"You as well," Varys said as the door shut, only to add mentally, ‘Till we meet again... Gerion.’

Chapter Text

Sandor

“I suppose you are wondering why I am standing over you, little bird.”

Sansa didn’t answer.

The man known as The Hound let out a frustrated huff. “Everyone is pissed I’m doing this but fuck’em. Think I should be doing more important things… important to them, mind you.” He shifted his shoulders, causing the cape Joffrey had placed upon his shoulders to shift. “I just got this damn lily white cloak and they think it’s going to turn me into some dashing knight like from your stupid fairytales. But it doesn’t work like that, does it? There are no magic spells that make the ugly beautiful, no secret rings that let a poor man make gold by waving his hand, no oath to make me stop wanting to fuck girls, and no amount of wishing on that damn red star in the sky will make you open your eyes.”

The Red Keep was silent at this time of night, the hour of the wolf. Oh, he wasn’t foolish enough to think there weren’t spies about but he doubted they cared much about him. Varys and Littlefinger and the Queen would have commanded their watchers to keep an eye on him, especially with this unusual choice, but even the best spy would have grown bored staring at a man such as him standing in watch over a dead girl. An hour, maybe two, three at most before they would wander off to seek other juicy tidbits for their masters. It always amused him how so many people thought that they owned the people in their employ and they were oh-so-loyal to them and would heed any command without a care. Varys believed his little birds would never disobey him because his watchers had watchers… but he failed to see that such acts only inspired the sneaky to be even more cunning. Littlefinger thought gold could buy loyalty but gold only clinked happily in your pocket when it wasn’t tainted by vile hands. Even the poor had standards… and sometimes no matter the price some men inspired no loyalty. And Petyr Baelish made even Sandor sneer in disgust; he was an evil man but he would face whatever came in death and go “At least I wasn’t the whoremonger”. As for the Queen… well, one could only throw aside so many people before those that remained decided it was best to only deliver what was expected and nothing more. Give the bitch what she wanted and she was happy… and never learned of everything else that might have actually mattered.

That was the powerful, though. They thought they owned those under them. That was what Joffrey had thought when Sandor had made it clear he would be standing watch over Sansa Stark’s body as it lay in state within the Red Keep. The boy had turned crimson and snarled that he wasn’t allowed to, that he was to protect his king… and then Sandor had moved towards him, climbing the steps to the Iron Throne and causing the boy to lean back until the back of his blonde little head had scrapped against one of the blades that made up the ugly ass chair. He’d looked down upon him, Joffrey’s ear and half his face still swaddled in linen as Pycelle desperately tried to repair the damage the Iron Man had done, and told the king he was watching over the girl. The boy had finally gotten the sense to nod and Sandor had left him to spill his blood and, if Sandor’s nose was right, piss all over the damn throne.

“Fucking idiots, the lot of them,” he muttered to Sansa’s cold body. The Silent Sisters had done their best to make her look beautiful and perfect. To undo what Joffrey had done to her in his rage, like a mother mending a broken doll for their spoiled child. She’d wanted her life to be a fairytale and now she looked like a princess under some bewitchment with only a knight of the Kingsguard to stand watch over her within the dark and quiet of a magical castle. Of course she wasn’t under some spell. She was dead. Her skull smashed in by their idiot king during a tantrum. Her blood and brains had leaked onto the steps of Baelor’s Sept in front of all of King’s Landing. She wasn’t in some beautiful castle but in the Red Keep, built by a monster who murdered those who had made it so he’d be the only one to know its secrets. And the knight standing over her was a butcher who was only a member of the Kingsguard because there was no one else in the Capital who wanted the damn job.

He pulled out a wineskin and took a long drink. One was supposed to fast during their watch but that was a fucking stupid idea too. What did the gods care if a man had a sip of wine? If it mattered so much they could knock the skin from his hands.

When they did no such thing, once more refusing to answer him, he scoffed as he stared skyward before taking another drink.

“They didn’t want to do this, you know,” he told Sansa’s corpse. He looked down at her face, with those silly little stones that were painted to look like her eyes and suddenly had the urge to take them and cram them down someone’s throat. He didn’t know whose. He took another pull from the wineskin, feeling it warm his insides. “Pycelle argued that your family has committed treason and that they should just bury you. The Queen really didn’t care either way as she was more concerned with them placing a branding iron on that stump of hers.” He smirked at that. “Gods, I wish you could have seen that, little bird. That would have made you smile. Hmmm… maybe not. You were too sweet to smile at anyone’s pain, weren’t you? King Prick wanted you fed to the dogs but someone told him to shut the fuck up, not sure who. Might have been me, to be honest. Wasn’t until ol’ Ser Barristan told’em all how the city was in revolt still that got them to actually begin thinking with their heads. Varys said to give you proper rights, that it would show that what happened was a slip and ease the tempers.” Sandor scoffed. “Fucking idiot. I knew they took his balls but sometimes I wonder if they took his fucking brains.” Lurching forward, finding himself a bit unsteady on his feet, Sandor made his way to the stone table that held Sansa’s body and leaned against it, slowly sliding down till he was eyelevel with her. If anyone had looked upon him in that moment they’d have thought he looked like man sitting next to his lounging wife, telling her of his day. Just went to show how stupid people were. “If anyone thinks dressing you up and washing the blood from your hair is going to make anyone forget seeing your head smash in like that they are fools.” He sighed and stared at the ceiling. “I know I won’t forget it.

“That’s the problem with them all, though. They don’t think about us little people. You didn’t think of us either but at least you had the excuse of being a stupid little girl with clouds in her head. That lot? Should know better.” He took another drink of wine. “Damn it, I get talkative when I drink.” He paused, liking about the gilded room in disgust. “Probably didn’t know that about me, did you? Like that with all us Cleganes. That’s why Gregor had to be careful with his liquor before a battle, or less he’d get chatty and that’d ruin the fuckin’ legend he had going about him. Same with me. I yammer on. Hmm… not that you’d ever notice. People like you and yours? Never notice us. Forget that we even exist.”

It always amused him how utterly stupid the lords and ladies of Westeros could be. They seemed to think that servants didn’t have ears and would easily let slip secrets that should never be spoken right in front of those that scuttled about making their world run. Sandor himself had heard so many strange things. Facts that could topple dynasties and destroy so many of the noble elite. He knew that Petyr Baelsih claimed to be some great lover but then went to Pycelle asking for treatments for his flaccid cock… though that hadn’t stop him from visiting Lady Arryn’s bedchambers when her lord husband had been working late. He’d been given a message by Renly Baratheon to pass on to some prick named Phyllup of West Water and of course Sandor had read it; Renly didn’t even bother to seal it. He was demanding Phyllup strike and ‘kidnap the jackass and slit his throat quick’, though Sandor had no idea who had pissed off the Dandy Baratheon so much. He’d been taking a leak when Varys snuck in with some fat bastard from across the Narrow Sea claiming he’d finally made contact with someone named Drogo. They all seemed to take his name literal, thinking that like any hound he would listen without understanding.

But he did listen. The only reason they weren’t all dead, or worse, from their secrets slipping out is he honestly didn’t give a shit. He was a simple man who wanted to kill when there needed to be killing done, keep his belly full, and earn enough coin that he could afford to kill his pig fucker of a brother and sneak off to Essos to drink himself to death.

“Except that won’t ever happen now, will it?” he asked Sansa’s corpse, frowning when he found the wineskin empty. “The Iron Man saw to that. Killed Gregor himself. Think I’ll shake the man’s hand… then beat him to death for taking my kill.” He tossed the wineskin into the corner and sighed. “What the fuck am I even doing here? Why’d I agree to stand here like an idiot and guard you? You’re a rotting corpse and even before that you didn’t give two shits about me. Not because of belief… if the gods are real then they are cunts and can fuck themselves with hot spikes for all I care. Not out of duty because that is for fucking twats. No one wanted to even do this.” He let out a bitter laugh. “How does it feel to know that everyone was forced to prepare your body? Your family abandoned you, your precious prince killed you and wanted you tossed into the Blackwater… it took the threat of knife work to get them to show you the decency you deserved!” His head pitched forward till his chin rested on his breast and for a moment, had anyone walked in, they would have thought he’d fallen asleep. But then, in a quiet, slurred voice he asked once more, “Why the fuck am I doing this?”

“Because you love me.”

His body went rigid.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Sandor lifted his head up and turned it, inch by painful inch, until he was looking over his shoulder at the dead body that lay behind him. She didn’t move, didn’t breathe, didn’t give any signs of being alive. She simply laid there, body cold and still, looking beautiful and untouched in her pretty dress with her hair braided so to hide the damage to her skull. Perfect, like the little doll she had been in life, meant to be seen and touched but not allowed to think or do on her own.

And then Sansa turned her head towards him, the stones falling to the table and rolling onto the ground, clinking on the stone as she stared at him with brilliant, almost glowing blue eyes.

“FUCK!” Sandor screamed, stumbling away from her as he tried to desperately get to his feet. “Fuck! Fuck! Fu-“ a wad of phlegm went down his throat and he began to violently cough even as he struggled to draw his sword. “Fu…fu…” he hacked.

Sansa slowly sat up and looked at him intently. She reached up, stretching her arms without ever breaking eye contact, her movements languid and relaxed. “Why do you back away from me? Do you fear me?” She let out a tinkling laugh, like ice crystals falling to the ground, and rose to her feet. “How silly… you fear what is ugly, not what is beautiful.” She ran a finger along her dress as she kicked off the slippers that they’d put on her, which Sandor dimly realized looked much too small for her. In fact her entire outfit looked too small, clinging to her body in a way that would make some whores blush. It was as if death could not stand that one so young had died and thus caused her body to age to womanhood to set things right. Except she wasn’t dead. She was alive, her fingers working the laces on the front of her dress so that it pulled open, revealing that her small breasts had blossomed into pale full tits, the hint of large dusty colored nipples just barely visible. The hem of her dress rode up mid calf, revealing ankles and feet that were almost white. She gave him a pouty, sultry smile as she continued to advance, Sandor moving to place his back against a wall, eyes wide with shock and fright as the moving corpse continued towards him. “And you do find me beautiful, don’t you?” Her voice was both soft and innocent and old and lust-filled; it was a combination that made him tremble for all the right and wrong reasons.

“How… how the fuck… you were dead. I watched you die.”

Sansa just looked up at him, her unnatural blue eyes dancing in amusement. “And? What is death but another transformation? The Iron Born say what is dead may never die. Across the Narrow Sea they preached once that with our last breath in one life we breathe a new one in our next, the cycle seeing us live and die over and over again.”

“You… you’re dead!” Sandor repeated, part of him wondering if he said it loud enough perhaps the girl’s body would realize that and crumple to the floor, lifeless once more. “I watched you die! You smashed your bloody head in!”

“Well yes, of course.” Sansa seemed almost amusingly exasperated by the thought she’d been murdered. She reached up and pulled her hair back, revealing the twisted ruin that was her skull, bits of blood-soaked brain visible under her shattered skull. And then, as her fingers traced over the wound, it began to heal until all that remained of it was a white scar and the blood on her fingers, which Sansa stared at before whispered, “And now I’m not.” She stuck one blood-coated finger in her mouth and sucked on it, running her tongue around it in such a way that a weaker man would have whimpered. “There are many who receive wounds they should have died from, and yet they continue to live. Why not me?” She reached out towards him, as if offering one of her bloody fingers for him to taste.

“Get the fuck away from me!” he roared, grabbing her by the shoulders and moving to shove her away. But Sansa merely grasped his wrists and broke the hold, using unnatural strength to force him to let go. Once sure he would not try that again she reached up and began to run her fingers along his scarred face. “What… what are you doing?” He hated how frightened he sounded, how terrified… but he was petrified. Scared out of his mind by this… creature… that looked like the little bird only fully grown, who spoke in sweet riddles and yet made every hair on his arms stand on end.

Sansa didn’t answer him. Instead she merely ran her fingers along his disfigured face, tilting her head as she did so, staring at the old injuries. “You were hurt too. Hurt so bad you should have died. You were touched by the cruel fire. It takes everything away, burns all. Untamable, ruthless, horrid. Your brother did this to you, did he not?” Sandor could feel the flames once more on his face, hear the screams coming from his little throat as his brother punished him for touching his toy, taste the fire on his tongue. “You were wounded, just like me.”

And then he felt a coolness the likes of which he had never felt before.

“And now you are healed,” she said, pulling away from him. Sandor stared at her with wild eyes, trying to will his arms to work so he might strike her down with his blade, only for his eyes to drag down to his reflection in the mirrored surface of his blade. He stared in shock at what greeted him, the vision that should have never been that stared back from the sword’s surface.

His face completely healed.

No scars. No melted flesh. No fused muscles that hurt when he tries to move his face. The tenderness and tightness were gone. The itching he’d felt from skin forever trying to heal damage that was too great no longer there. He flexed his jaw and wagged his eyebrows and was amazed at the sensation. He’d forgotten what it was like to be able to move his face without resistance and pain.

He looked over at Sansa and felt tears gather in his eyes.

“I can give you so much more,” she said gently, stepping towards him once more. “For now you will need to hide your true self.” With a wave of her hand the scars returned but he felt none of the pain… only the coolness, like a kiss from falling snow. Magic, of some kind, that made the world see his ruined face but allowed him to know he was whole once more. “But soon, when the time is right for me to reveal all I can do I will rip away this glamour and they will see you for who you truly are. Who you were born to be. The first of many to know my blessing… and to join my new world.” She moved back and Sandor found himself reaching for her like a drowning man trying to grab a lifeline. “I only ask that you serve me… and only me. That your freeze your heart to all others and pledge yourself to me.”

“I do,” Sandor whispered in reverence.

“Kneel,” Sansa said with a soft smile. He fell to his knees and his little bird approached him, placing her hands on his shoulders. “I will need to do many things you may find hard to bare… but know that despite it all you and I remain true. Do you swear to serve me and see me as your Queen?”

“Till death take me.”

She laughed at that and though he didn’t know why she found it funny he smiled as he listened to the soft sweet sounds she made. “Then, let it be known the compact has been made. You are no longer the Hound. Others may call you that but it is no longer your name. You… are the Queen’s Knight.”

Sandor nodded and stared into her shimmering, otherworldly blue eyes.

And in the hour of wolf Sansa Stark smiled.

“And I… am the Night’s Queen.”