Theirs had been a dreary path.

It wound from the Neck; the swamps, snakes and sullied glares from the crannogmen of Greywater Watch, through the frozen plains of the North, and twisted through the woods and wide open spaces of barren wilderness, to the hill upon which stood the ancient castle of Winterfell, the seat of House Stark; Kings of Winter, Lords Paramount and Wardens of the North, and most importantly, closest friends of their slim and delicate king. The journey had gotten harder as it got colder, colder until the sun itself was no true aid; they had to rely upon their packed furs and padded doublets. Yet Tybolt was certain the riders on their horses had it even worse.

That was not to say he would not join them in an instant; no, were it his own choice he would have been breathing in the bracing Northern air, feeling the wind rushing over his shoulders as the sense of adventure filled his short body and his stallion's muscles flexed powerfully between his legs. He had gotten a taste at first, had ridden with his uncle knight past a glen or two before his father asked for his company in the wheelhouse. Most like to end his 'debate' with Cersei. She always did have a soft spot for me. Though I suffer in his place, now that the Imp has buggered off to the nearest whorehouse. The thought filled Tybolt with distaste.

Though having just passed his fourteenth nameday, almost a man grown, with a man's needs, Tybolt Lannister could honestly say he had never lowered himself to the Halfman's standards. His grandfather had thoroughly whipped any thought of that particular iniquity from his mind; Lord Tywin of Casterly Rock was not having that sort of behaviour from his grandson. Tybolt had smiled when Tywin had privately expressed some small measure of relief that his heir would not turn the castle and lands that House Lannister had proudly held for centuries into a brothel filled with drunken scoundrels and whores with more bastards in their bellies than those of King's Landing, or Dorne. Oh, Tywin still held a fierce determination to have Ser Jaime stripped of the Kingsguard so he could have the heir he had always wanted; Tybolt was his contingency.

"Ah, shit!"

The wheel axle had broken again. Tybolt let out an irritated sigh as he guided a waking little Prince Tommen out into the light, his aunt and her daughter behind them. A boy of ten, Tommen held an innocent naïveté that Tybolt found beautiful, repulsive and stupid in equal measure; his little cousin would rather roll on the ground and pet kittens on the head than harm anything in the world, and wished no harm upon the foulest of monsters.

"It's alright, Tommen," Tybolt soothed, squeezing the little prince's hand. "They just need to fix the carriage wheels."

Tommen was, in his status of disturbed sleep, upset. "Aww!" he whined, giving his cousin his best impression of a doe's green eyes. "Again?"

"Again," Tybolt confirmed, offering a quiet smile. "Still, we're almost there; you see there?" He pointed to a black speck on a far hill in the distance. Tommen nodded. "That's Winterfell. And no, we may not ride ahead." Tommen pouted childishly, if there was any other way, and shut up. Tybolt ruffled his cousin's blonde hair with his free hand and grinned at the yelp of surprise before patting him on the shoulder.

A few minutes passed, punctuated by Robert's incessant shouting and complaining that they should just demolish the wheelhouse and his wife and children travel on horseback, and the transport was fixed. Once they were back inside (Cersei had asked Tybolt to join them again) and the horses were trotting forward once more, Myrcella decided to strike up a conversation. "Ty, how is Castamere coming on?"

Tybolt straightened up. Myrcella shared the golden hair and emerald eyes of her brothers, eyes which now sparkled with curiosity. He fought the urge to grin widely at her inquisitive nature (at least, in front of the queen, who quietly berated her daughter for her informality), opting instead to nod politely and answer, "Very well, princess. The walls are rebuilt, the roof and furniture replaced. All I need is that supply of ironwood and some good, sturdy Northern rock, to add the finishing touches, and to fortify the outer wall. That's why I've come." To help defend against attack, Tybolt had opted to build a second wall around Castamere, with an opening at a different point than the main holdfast, so as to make it more difficult to penetrate the castle. This was further compounded by the scorpions and cauldrons placed at differing intervals along the walls. The cauldrons would be filled with pitch and set alight, the hook-and-chain design allowing it to tip over the edge of the wall without losing the cauldron itself. Used properly, the number of foes they had to meet in battle would be diminished.

"I still don't understand why you must oversee the delivery yourself," Queen Cersei interrupted, frowning. "That is why you have subordinates."

Tybolt nodded. "Yes," he acquiesced, "yet I am unsure of whom I should trust, your grace. These are valuable products outside the North; part of the shipment could 'go missing'. I feel safer making sure of it."

"True."

"Where are you going for them?" Myrcella asked, cocking her head to the side.

Tybolt swallowed and scratched at his finger. "Well, Ironrath has the greatest supply of Ironwood in the known world, and I'll be seeing off the rock at White Harbour." When Myrcella scrunched her nose in a most unladylike fashion he smiled. "Ironrath is the castle of House Forrester, bannermen to House Glover, remember them?" The princess nodded. "And White Harbour's the largest city in the North; it's the seat of House Manderley." Tybolt had taken the time on the journey to memorise Northern politics and structure.

Most Northern lords were loyal to the bone to the Starks of Winterfell, save House Bolton and their vassals, who had been beaten into submission to end the millennia-old rivalry and struggle for power between the wolf and flayed man. Being the only kingdom that had not been truly conquered by the Andals or the Dragons, save Dorne, there was much tension with Southron customs, although some traditions, such as guest right, were shared between the cultures. A rigid system of honour and justice was upheld from Deepwood Motte to the Last Hearth, though this sometimes broiled over in personal grudges and extreme vengeance.

With the Starks' reputation for cold blood and hot heads, there had been mutterings of secession after Robert's Rebellion. Thankfully, with Lord Eddard's cool manner and willingness for diplomacy the North's anger at the murders of Lord Rickard and Brandon had soothed somewhat. Still, some yet muttered that the North would be better off with its sovereignty regained, although they respected and even loved their Lord Paramount; it made Tybolt nervous.

"Can I come with you?" Tommen asked eagerly, Myrcella's eyes wide with hope. Tybolt shifted awkwardly in his seat as Cersei told them no. They are so desperate to see something beside stone and sun. Just like me. Tybolt shared his great-uncle Gerion's love of adventure; some days at Casterly Rock - when he could get away from Lord Tywin's tutoring - he would scale the wall and stand at the precipice of the cliff. With the fall at his feet and the wind in his hair he would look out at the sun as it set, longing to see some of the world before he died - the bountiful, beautiful hills of the Reach, rolling as far as the eye could see, the Citadel in Oldtown with all the vast knowledge in the Seven Kingdoms, the sandy plains of Dorne, the Free Cities across the Narrow Sea, the Pyramids of Meereen, all the way up the Shivering Sea to the smoking ruins of the Valyrian Freehold. But grandfather wanted my mind on my duties, so I stayed, he thought sourly.

When he snapped out of his thoughts, he realised the Queen was speaking with Jaime through the window and his cousins were leaning in intently. Well, Tommen was already slumped against him so he had just tightened his grip around Tybolt's arm, while Myrcella's golden brow was raised. He sighed and lowered his voice. I can hardly crush that hope. "Tell you what," he whispered, "If you keep as well-behaved here as always, and don't cause any trouble with our hosts, I'll talk to your father, ask him." Their faces lightened up. "I can't promise he'll say yes; your mother might make him say no, and you know her position." He did not like to talk badly of his aunt; she tried to ignore who he was, but he could not hide the truth from them either. Quickly he leaned back in his seat as the Queen and Ser Jaime finished their conversation.

Cersei seemed oblivious to her children's plotting, but when Uncle Jaime ruffled Tybolt's hair through the window, the little lord knew he had his approval.

When they neared Winterfell he got out and onto his own horse, stopping to pay respects to his royal relatives, bowing to Tommen and kissing the air above Cersei and Myrcella's hands, though with his cousins he kept the mood light by grinning at Tommen and cheekily pressing his lips to Myrcella's hand before flourishing away with a leap off - while the wheelhouse was still in motion. As they giggled he mounted Brightroar and nodded to them, smirking cockily and riding ahead to just behind his father.

Or at least he would have if Tyrion had not slinked away from the party. Most like to the brothel. Could he not control himself for one hour? Just one? Is that really too much to ask? Tybolt supposed it must be so - Grandfather had always taught him about his father's slavery to his more base desires. To hear Lord Tywin tell it, the most use Father has been was when he cleaned the drains and cisterns of the Rock. Apparently the shit has never flowed better. But Tybolt cared little for well-behaved shit; he would be the heir to Casterly Rock, never matter the Imp's protesting about his so-called rights. Yes, that will teach the drunken fool. Regardless, with a smug satisfaction he took Tyrion's place as representative of the Westerlands, positioned just behind the royal stallions and just before the wheelhouse. It was a better spot than any other minor lord could hope for, sat amidst the royal family.

The lion banner of Lannister snapped over Tybolt as he passed through the gate and into the wolves' den, inhaling all the scents of Winterfell. The smoke and earth from the blacksmith, freshly-baked bread, the bitter tang of a thousand swords permeating the air, even the musky stench of shit and piss from the stables. It all combined to produce a smell that clogged Tybolt's nose and made him want to gag. I love it. The cold of the Northern air lingered within the walls, but something seemed to mute it. Tybolt had read about the hot springs beneath the castle running through its walls in pipes meant to spread throughout the building.

But how does the water stay hot the entire length and width of the castle? And how could it be expanded to work for Southron castles? If all one needs to do is light a fire under the pipe... no, no - it would need constant watchmen and multiple braziers set at strategic points: too inefficient! Far too inefficient! But perhaps if...

He was yanked from his thoughts when he spotted a tiny soldier in a sable cloak watched them hungrily from his perch upon a cart. A dwarf, maybe? But why... He shook his head. Never mind. Regardless, when the soldier clambered down and rushed off through the gates he caught sight of dark hair peeking out from under the helmet. A girl? Once he trotted into the main courtyard he spotted her amongst the crowd. Second from the left at the front, dark hair, grey eyes: a Stark. He found himself snickering when he saw the way she and the boy next to her - presumably her little brother - looked at the party: like they were the oddest, most wonderful thing they had ever seen. They were not alone; the elder girl, tall, with red hair and blue eyes was sharing a wide smile with the Crown Prince Joffrey, who looked like a cat with a canary. Suddenly ill, Tybolt climbed down from Brightroar, absentmindedly patting the stallion's nose as the beast snuffed and nudged his face, as if to say cheer up. The young lord smiled and turned to the family.

The King, a great wobbling mass that had once been, perhaps not the most skilled, but definitely the fiercest warrior in the Seven Kingdoms, had marched over to Lord Eddard and motioned for him to rise. Tybolt stroked Brightroar's mane and when King Robert chose his first words to his oldest friend in over seven years to be "You've got fat," he knew he was only one amongst many to be putting his fist to his mouth. A slight snort escaped him, but when Cersei's eyes turned to him he cleared his throat quietly, turning away to see Robert and Eddard laughing and embracing like brothers. Over the chatter he heard the soldier girl - Arya, he supposed - from earlier ask her sister, "Where's the Imp?" and his stomach lurched.

Well, if that didn't ruin my appetite... When Sansa told her to shut up he nodded imperceptibly, though he knew no one would see. The scowl lifted, however, when Myrcella nudged his arm and smiled - Tyrion was her favourite uncle, he knew, but although she enjoyed his antics she could see her cousin's distress over it; a fact he was grateful for. Tapping her elbow in thanks he focused on young Brandon, who grinned when the King told him he would be a soldier, eyes shining in a way that reminded him of Tommen.

"That's Jaime Lannister, the Queen's twin brother. And Tybolt, the Imp's son."

The scowl was back, along with Sansa's begging for her to please shut up, and so Tybolt harnessed Brightroar - who blathered quietly at him - to a nearby post at the stable before hearing King Robert demand that Lord Eddard take him to the crypts to 'pay his respects'. Blabber over the dead girl's corpse, you mean. And one that was as disgusted by you as any, to hear people tell it. It was as much a disrespect to Lyanna Stark as it was to his own wife, pining after her fifteen years after her death. Tybolt glared when Robert ignored Cersei's protests and merely motioned to his friend. Lord Eddard, seemingly uncomfortable, nodded apologetically to the Queen and followed King Robert into the crypts of the Kings of Winter.

"Where's the Imp?" Arya asked her sister again, who this time did not even bother to answer. Tybolt let out a deep breath and straightened up as Cersei strode over, humiliated.

"Where is our brother," she muttered, before turning to Ser Jaime. "Go and find the little beast." Tybolt started off with Jaime, but stopped when his aunt touched his shoulder, and smiled. "There's no need for you to bother yourself with him, nephew," she said quietly, sympathetically. "Although I would appreciate it if you helped Myrcella and Tommen to their chambers, and stayed with them until the feast."

Tybolt had no reason to decline, save to find his way to his own rooms, but that could wait. At any rate, refusal was impossible; as she taught him long ago, a request from the Queen is no request at all. And she is my aunt, they my cousins; one always aids their family whenever possible. Another lesson Cersei had taught him growing up. Therefore, he did not even think about declining.

"Of course, your grace," he said clearly, bowing his head, before turning to Tommen and Myrcella. "My prince, princess, when you are ready."

Tommen shook on the spot, giggling at the formality, while Myrcella stood a tad more regally, though her lips quivered, eyes glittered. "I do believe we are ready now, Lord Lannister," she declared haughtily, a little laugh escaping her. "Come, little brother." She took Tommen's hand and strutted off into the castle, Tybolt shadowing them with a hand on the hilt of his blade.