A/N: Ok, I've been trying very hard not to write this because of the huge amount of time that might (would) be invested into this. But I just couldn't

Also, we're doing a fantasy Game of Thrones committee, simulating Daenerys' future Queen's council, at our MUN at university, so well. . . that's about the list of reasonable reasons I could scavenge out of the myriad of unreasonable and completely self-destructive

The story follows the TV series plotlines. Warning: I've only read the first two books. And please don't judge me for liking the series more than the books.

Written with the assumption that Jon is NOT the blood of the dragon (he burns his hands saving Mormont from that wight, remember?). However, it doesn't mean that Jon doesn't have magic.

Warning: Major Character Death. Well, that's a given in GoT, isn't it?

Valar Morghulis

Chapter 1

They didn't have much to do on the water. Even though Tyrion was familiar with spending a night or two cooped up in a box with his own shit and vomit across the Narrow Sea, back then he hadn't been as much worried about the absence of the sweet smell of wine as much as he had been paranoid, that somehow Cersei's men would capture their ship, and turn it around back to King's Landing, for this time, he had committed a crime. The shine of Lannister gold could be seen even across the Narrow Sea, or so they claimed. And Tyrion had never been so afraid of his deceased father's wealth.

"Dornishmen without their wine, hah!" he had remarked to Varys when the Dornish and the Tyrell fleet met them halfway off the coast of Stepstones with supplies for their men, "Now that's a first."

Varys had tutted and moved away in his hunched, silent fashion in Missandei's direction, a direction Tyrion often found him going.

Now, all there was to do was to watch Daenerys mount Drogon on the sea, wild and free, and give her and Missandei lessons on Westerosi culture. Once or twice, Drogon flew too close to their ship, nearly tearing through their sails, but he always seemed to steer past at the last moment, once even forcing Varys to duck away in a most undignified manner. They all laughed at that, most of all the Ironborn.

The map of Westeros lay in front of them: him, Varys, Missandei and Daenerys, in the Queen's cabin, seated in a circle. They reasoned that Daenerys had to know the people she was going to rule over, so that she didn't make a mess of it, as she had done in Slaver's Bay (but Tyrion did not voice that aloud). Ellaria Sand had yet to join their group and to greet them formally, and had yet to discover that Daenerys had named a Lannister her Hand. And had yet to resort to one of her highly undiplomatic fits.

Daenerys sat up straight, and pointed to the West, "Tell me more about the Westerlands."

Tyrion tried not to sigh. As of late, Daenerys had become more and more interested in the West, about his family, his siblings and his father, even though she spoke of them with thinly-veiled anger, and sometimes with almost indistinguishable pain in her voice. Tyrion could not imagine her position—the only Targaryen remaining in the world, of the loneliness she must feel sometimes. Tyrion knew what family meant—what Jaime meant—even if he probably would hack him to pieces the next time they faced each other.

He wished he wouldn't find Jaime in King's Landing, but he knew Cersei and her paranoia. She'd orchestrated a coup. She'd taken the Throne. At first, when Varys had told him that Tommen and Myrcella were both dead, he did not believe it. And then, when he'd told him that she'd killed them herself so that she could be the Queen, he did not believe him even more. Cersei wouldn't do that, wouldn't kill her children. She'd once told him that they were the reason she hadn't ended her life.

No, Jaime would be at her side. Guarding her, protecting her. But then, what of Casterly Rock, then?

"The biggest city of the Westerlands is Lannisport. Silk, spices, wine, from Qarth and Volantis to the Summer Isles," he pointed at the distant bottom-most right corner of the map, "everything is traded here. Majority of the gold is mined in this region," he outlined a circle around the cities, "but you've heard the bit about Lannisters and debts—"

"A Lannister always pays his debts?" Missandei retorted, "That must be an overly used phrase. Everyone pays their debts, eventually."

Tyrion chuckled, "Not the crown, Missandei. Before I was accused of regicide, I happened to be the King's Master of Coin. And I can reliably inform you, my Queen, that the realm, the kingdoms you intend to rule," he looked at Daenerys', and then to the Braavos on the map, "are tens of millions in debt. To the Iron Bank of Braavos," he pointed on the map, "and to us, the Lannisters. Well, to my father."

Daenerys frowned, "Your father is dead."

"Yes, and since the Lannisters of Casterly Rock are Lords of the Westerlands and my older brother has been relieved of the Kingsguard, he's the Lord Paramount of the Westerlands and Warden of the West. The crown is three million in debt to him."

"That'll change," she whispered. Her eyes had the sort of hunger and intent he'd only seen on Cersei's face. Her fingers touched Casterly Rock, and then Riverrun and then the Twins. Tyrion knew he had to choose his next words carefully.

"He broke me out of prison, Your Grace. He's the reason I'm here. He's the—"

"And you're the reason his father's dead, Lord Hand" Daenerys looked at him intently. Varys turned, frowning.

"Leave us," she said, and the two of them bowed and left at once without a sound, leaving Tyrion with her. He pursed his lips, studying her. She was arguing for argument's sake; she was testing him. And she was enjoying the verbal spar as far as he could tell, so he chose to indulge, just a little bit more.

"He was my father too."

"As the Mad King was mine."

He understood her meaning. If Jaime didn't forgive him for Tywin's death, Daenerys won't certainly forgive Jaime for killing the Mad King. He refrained from calling Aerys Targaryen as the 'Mad King' but Daenerys did not. She made her father's title a part of her identity, as was her blood.

Every time a Targaryen is born, the Gods toss a coin. . .

Daenerys was a Queen, fair enough. Her people would see her, would follow her, would take inspiration from her strength and her justice. But Tyrion knew one thing. Good kings and queens were, more often than not, bad governors. So, Tyrion chose a different strategy to humor her.

"My Queen, for people in our position, nursing grudges can be a bit . . . counterproductive. When Robert Baratheon took the Throne, he pardoned Ser Barristan Selmy, Varys, and Grand Maester Pycelle, even though they had all served your father—"

Daenerys frowned, "What about Littlefinger?"

Tyrion looked at Daenerys with mild irritation, only till the levels he was allowed to in front of his Queen. Being her Hand, Tyrion was allowed more liberty than anyone else, save Missandei.

On the day they left Meereen, Tyrion had begun Daenerys' crash course on the history of the Seven Kingdoms since the Targaryens came to power, and of all the great lords of Westeros. Daenerys was very focussed, and in many ways, an ideal student. In the beginning, she had been very interested in the exploits of Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters. But as they moved towards the present, her interest moved from Aegon to Lord Harren and his sons to Jaehaerys I to Baelor the Blessed to Tywin Lannister and her brother Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark. And then, understandably, to Robert Baratheon and Ned Stark, and then to Littlefinger. Since then, he had been unable to shift her interest elsewhere.

The first time he'd opened the map, he had pointed at the East considering Daenerys' potential marriage alliances, on the Eyrie, like Maester Volarik would, to teach him all that he already knew at the age of six, "That's the Vale. Lords - the Arryns. Sigil - a falcon over the moon. The Eyrie is the seat of their power. They have one of the finest warriors in the realm."

Daenerys had frowned, retaining that information, "Who's their leader now?"

"Well, Robin Arryn is a sickly boy, barely fifteen, I think—"

"Thirteen, my lord," Varys had interrupted.

Daenerys had then smiled conspiratorially, one of her rare, mischief-filled smiles that she didn't have when she was Queen Daenerys, "He'd be the perfect husband, won't he, Missandei?"

Tyrion had narrowed his eyes, trying very hard to control the image creeping into his mind. Missandei had smiled, "Not if you want to further the line of succession, Your Grace."

That's when Daenerys' smile had died away. Tyrion smiled sympathetically, knowing how she felt. Despite being the Queen Regnant of the Seven Kingdoms, her most important task was still to give the kingdom heirs.

"My Queen," Varys had filled the void with his courteous, slightly worried tone of words, "Robin Arryn may be Lord of the Vale, but for the sake of a complete picture, might I inform you that Lord Petyr Baelish is currently the Lord Protector of the Vale and Warden of the East?"

Daenerys had looked up at Varys, who had just opened the can of worms for the first time, "Lord Littlefinger? Of the Small Council?"

Tyrion had given her a questioning look. He didn't know that she knew about Littlefinger.

"Ser Jorah told me a little," she had answered.

"I'm afraid he's left the Small Council, Your Grace," Varys had replied, "He was granted the seat of Harrenhal by royal decree, and then he married Lady Lysa of the Vale, making him Lord Paramount of the Trident."

Varys had said no more. Tyrion knew there was no love lost between Varys and Littlefinger, but he didn't understand why he didn't warn her. Varys and he had then exchanged glances, before the former had looked away to gaze out of the window at the endless blue sea.

"My Queen, Littlefinger did not serve your father," he reminded her once again, jolting back to the present, "He became the Master of Coin under Jon Arryn's patronage. He's served in that position ever since."

"How many kings has he served?"

"One less than I have, I'm afraid. However, the only person Littlefinger truly serves is himself, my Queen," Varys entered their cabin, showing them a roll of parchment in his grip, "Disturbing news from Westeros."

"What is it?"

Varys unrolled it and gave it to Daenerys, "From the Riverlands and Winterfell, You Grace. Apparently, Sansa Stark became Sansa Bolton before becoming Sansa Stark again."

Tyrion looked at the parchment worriedly. He hadn't heard, or cared to hear, about Sansa after his escape. The worries of an unhappy wife and suicidal thoughts did not mix well, even in a merry place like Pentos.

Daenerys looked at Tyrion, worry playing on the deepest wrinkles of her frown, "You said this would happen. You said, when the Ironborn asked for independence. And now, half the kingdom has declared themselves independent."

Tyrion shook his head, "Northmen hold the Starks as the Kings in the North. And who is that king? Brandon Stark? He was a cripple, the last time I saw him. And Rickon Stark is ten." And then he realized. Did Sansa declare herself Queen? No, that wasn't possible. She was the girl who talked of stuffing pig shifts in her enemies' beds.

"Jon Snow, my Lord Hand. He has declared himself King in the North, and the Knights of the Vale have declared for him."

Tyrion narrowed his eyes, "That's not possible. Jon Snow is a man of the Night's Watch." He glanced at Daenerys. She was feeling out of her depth.

"Here," he pointed at the point where the river met the Kingsroad, "Winterfell. After the War of the Five Kings, Winterfell was taken by the Boltons from the Ironborn, making them Wardens of the North. And there, the Wall, patrolled by the Night's Watch," he turned to Varys, "I know Jon Snow. I was with him when I visited the Wall. The boy is no King. Besides, he's a bastard of the South."

"Lord Eddard Stark's blood flows through him. Apparently, that's all that matters to the Northmen."

"And what of the fact that he's also a deserter?"

"The Warden of the North passes the sentence, but he's declared himself King now," Daenerys interrupted, "So you have your conundrum."

Tyrion smiled, impressed, and she smiled back. She was learning. He turned back to Varys.

"I still don't believe that the North would rally behind a bastard who broke his vows. What of the Vale?"

"Petyr Baelish has declared for the Starks, my Lord Hand," Varys replied, "And if you remember, the last time the Vale and the North allied. . ."

"They overthrew the Targaryens, yes. And the Riverlands?"

"Lord Walder Frey is dead. Murdered at his table. Along with his two eldest heirs."

Tyrion snorted, "I can only imagine how my sister would take that."

"It says your brother now holds Riverrun," Daenerys read from the parchment, "Where's that?"

Tyrion pointed at the meeting point of the Red Fork and the Tumblestone, "There. The Freys were made the Lords of Riverrun after the War of the Five Kings, but the late Blackfish managed to take it back, and then my brother took it from them. It is one of the most siege-proof castles across Westeros."

"Hmm. Doesn't sound very siege-proof."

Tyrion laughed out loudly for a moment of humor in the wake of worrisome news. The tone of her voice reminded him of Bronn and his irritating pragmatism, "No, it really isn't. But that's my brother for you."

"So who's the Lord of Riverrun, now that the Freys are all dead?"

"Not all of them, Your Grace," Varys said in his usual soft manner, "Lord Frey's eldest natural-born son, Walder Rivers, stakes his claim on the Twins and the Riverrun. All the other heirs are either girls or infants."

A knock on their cabin door, followed by a man's voice, "Queen Daenerys?"

Tyrion understood from the abruptness in his voice that it was one of the Ironborn steering their ship. Daenerys rose, "Come in."

The Ironborn came in, a tough young beast of a beauty of about twenty, "Lady Ellaria waits for you outside to greet you."

"Oh please, handsome," the familiar Dornish accent wafted in, and Tyrion stood up, "I'm no lady."

Ellaria Sand walked inside. Her hair had been cropped short and she still was in mourning. Somehow, she looked even more beautiful and exotic after Oberyn's death. Her hips swayed from one side to other as she made her way to Daenerys. In her somber, battle-ready clothes, she looked as much regal as Daenerys did. Where Daenerys was young, short and curvy, Ellaria was tall, slim and mature, even if the only emotion that drove her now was her desire for revenge.

She nodded, "Tales of your beauty do not do you justice, Queen Daenerys. It is a pleasure to finally meet you. I'm Ellaria Sand, ruler of Dorne," And then turned to look at him, her eyes narrowing.

Daenerys turned ever so slightly to Tyrion. He understood. She did not know how to address Ellaria. And neither did he. But she did not make her ignorance known for too long, "I'm glad you could join us, Ellaria. This is my Lord Hand, Tyrion—"

"—Lannister, I know, my Queen," she said, brazenly interrupting her, but she did not sound angry or petulant or whatever it was she felt all the time, "He killed Tywin Lannister. He avenged the death of Elia Martell, her children and Oberyn Martell. Dorne will forever be in your debt, Tyrion Lannister."

Tyrion felt flummoxed by the very warm response. He had expected her to at least be angry about the fact that Oberyn had died as his champion, or the fact that he had stolen her revenge by killing Tywin all by himself. At any rate, he did not like the assertion that somehow killing Tywin was a grand scheme in which he singlehandedly avenged the Targaryens and the Dornish and the Starks and everyone who had hated his father. He did not like being seen as a hero for killing him. He killed him for his own selfish interests, and that was that.

Daenerys quickly intervened, "What can I do for you, Ellaria Sand?"

"I'd like to speak with you alone, my Queen."

Daenerys looked at Tyrion, and he understood, "I will send Missandei in, Your Grace."

Once, he and Varys were out on the decks, with Missandei inside, Tyrion kept stealing wary glances towards the cabins, where Daenerys was, with Ellaria and Missandei. The Dornish were an essential, and extremely skilled, part of their army, but Tyrion worried about their eccentric ruler, and that of the allegiance of her people. True, the Dornish kingdom had grown to loathe the Martells who did nothing despite the death of their princess. But Ellaria had staged a coup to take power from the Martells. Not much different from Cersei, but the point was that he knew Cersei. He knew what she'd do, and what corners she'd go to if she had to hide. He did not know Ellaria all that well.

"I understand your misgivings, my Lord Hand," Varys said, as if he could read his minds, "But Ellaria Sand is an important alliance. Dorne has been the only kingdom to resist the Targaryens."

"She killed her lover's family. She killed her prince."

"And you killed your father and your lover. Makes her no more trustworthy than you."

That shut Tyrion right up.

"Daenerys Targaryen is not the kind to judge a person solely on their past actions," Varys remarked.

"Thankfully. Or I'd be lying dead mixed with the sand in one of the fighting pits in Meereen, with my magic dwarf cock sold off to anyone who believed in its magic."

Varys turned away, rolling his eyes. He did not appreciate cock jokes, Tyrion reminded himself.

"Varys?"

He turned back, "Yes, my Lord?"

"Do you think she loved me? I like to think that she did."

Varys looked at him sadly, "You were harsh with her. She was angry. She wanted you dead. And sadly, my Lord, I will forever be ignorant of all the mysteries that lie at the bottom of a woman's heart."

Tyrion thought back, trying to bring the realm of logical reasoning into his memories of Shae. He raised an imaginary glass in the air, "As will I. To all the mysterious women in our lives."

"I have no woman in my life, my Lord. You know that."

Tyrion turned away, muttering under his breath, "How fortunate."

It was almost nightfall by the time Jaime was called into the Queen's chambers. He wasn't sure he wanted to go in.

It had been two days since he had arrived at the capital to find that Tommen had killed himself, and Cersei had killed everyone she had wanted dead. With wildfire. Bronn hadn't dared utter a word more than what was necessary. It was obvious just how unnerved he was. He made no statements about his sister as he once freely did. He took his money and did his work like a servant.

The first day she had accepted oaths of fealty. Jaime had expected to be renamed to the Kingsguard. For nearly half his life, it had been his place of honor, if only in name. Now, the capital, the Throne, it all disgusted him. It made his skin crawl from inside, to think that outside, around the Sept of Baelor, thousands had been blown to smithereens and here, his sister was crowning herself Queen. With Qyburn on one side and the Mountain on the other, Cersei, in a black gown and with Widow's Wail on her hip, had looked formidable, beautiful. Power suited her. Control suited her.

So he was relieved when Cersei named him Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West, if it only meant that he'd not have to live in the capital.

"Your Grace."

"Ser Jaime," she acknowledged his presence formally. Qyburn was inside the room with her, and Jaime had misinterpreted her intentions for summoning him so late, "How many Lannister men remain in your service after the siege of Riverrun?"

If it could be even called a siege, Jaime thought, "Twenty thousand. With about five hundred in King's Landing, and rest stationed in Riverrun, the Twins and Casterly Rock."

A hint of smile played along her lips, although her eyes remained impassive, a look that reminded him of his father, "Good. The Stark forces are less than a thousand strong. And as you've no doubt heard, they've crowned another Stark brat King in the North. So, you will ride North tomorrow at first light, and remind them of Robb Stark's fate."

"The Knights of the Vale—" Jaime began.

"The Knights of the Vale are under Lord Baelish," she exclaimed, "and Lord Baelish will flock to whichever side is victor. Our numbers are greater."

"Lord Baelish also knows that winter is come. Mounting an attack on the North in the winter is madness."

"This is our only chance, Ser Jaime," Qyburn said, but Jaime cut across him.

"The Neck is marshy. Lannister forces have not gone north of the neck in a thousand years. We'll be on attack in the swamps from the front and the back."

Cersei pursed her lips, and then turned to Qyburn, "Leave us." Jaime found the man, despite his talents, unfit for trust. Just the kind of person Cersei would weave her conspiracies with.

Just as Qyburn had shut the door, Cersei had crossed the distance between them and captured Jaime's lips in a simple sweet kiss, so soft that Jaime was, for a moment, transported back to the night before Cersei's wedding, before all the misfortune had struck her. And, for that moment, Jaime could not resist himself.

"Come back to Casterly Rock with me, Cersei," he stupidly breathed into her mouth when they parted to catch their breaths, feeling like an idiot even before her name left his lips.

Cersei tried to push him away when she heard him, but he held her close, "And then what?"

"Shh, it doesn't matter anymore. All that kept you in the capital: Robert, our children, they're all gone. The only things that matter now are you and I. No one can hurt us in Casterly Rock, sister."

She sneered, "And be what? Trapped between the land and the sea as our enemies corner us and tear us apart?"

Jaime grabbed her wrist and squeezed as Cersei frowned, fighting the pain he was causing her, "And you'd rather stay here and rule over the people who'd kill you first chance they get?"

"They'd never get the chance at all. Unless you don't bring me the head of that bastard and that whore Sansa."

He squeezed tighter, prompting an ungainly squeal from her, "You did not become the Queen so that you could kill Sansa Stark." It was not as much a question to her as much a question to himself.

Cersei smirked smugly, "And all my enemies. All our enemies. You said, after father's death. They'd all kill us. We'll kill them first."

She jammed her knee into his leg, freeing herself from his painful grip and almost drawing her sword. But she was slow. Jaime had her in his grip once again, her face to the wall, his rough hands gripping her dainty arms.

"Let me go!" she demanded with her attempts unsuccessful at gaining the upper hand as they wrestled, "Jaime!"

"No," he grunted in her ear. With his right hand, he restrained her upper body and her arms, while his left hand worked at the strings of his armour. Trying to free herself from him, she looked no Queen. She looked like his fifteen-year-old sister, "Never."

"She killed my son, that traitor. Jaime, you know she did. Grand Maester—"

"You killed our son!" Jaime roared.

"He killed himself!" she cried, "If I had know—"

"How could you have not known?! Do you think I'd keep on living if I knew you were dead?"

Cersei's futile attempts at freeing herself subdued as her body collapsed to the floor, and Jaime with it. He held her close and he held her tight while she silently wept in his arms. And when she was done, she wiped her tears away, her face so stony as if they had never been shed.

"Ellaria Sand controls Dorne, Olenna Tyrell and her forces have left the city, Walder Frey was killed at his own dinner table, the Boltons are all dead and the North has crowned that bastard their king."

Jaime chose not to comment on their own sons.

"Don't you see? Sansa Stark, Olenna Tyrell. We have to kill them all, Jaime. Otherwise we won't be safe. They'll tear us apart and they'll kill us."

Jaime shook his head, "Our men have no experience fighting in the winter. Theirs do. You know what happened to Stannis Baratheon."

She grabbed him by his collar, "Stannis Baratheon isn't you. And he did not attack from the South. You took Riverrun. You'll take Winterfell too."

Cersei spoke with a conviction that worried Jaime, "And how can you be so sure that I will be successful?"

Cersei smirked, and stood up, brushing the dust off her gown and adjusting the sword, before taking it off and keeping it on a chair near the table. She poured herself and Jaime some wine as he staggered to his feet, "Do you remember the lessons father gave us? Both of us? Maester Volarik wasn't ready to school me in who the lords and what their holdfasts were."

Jaime sipped at the wine cautiously, "A bit."

"Around Winterfell, there's a village called Winter Town. With the change in weather, the village will fill in with the smallfolk and the country people around.

When Jaime frowned, unable to follow. Cersei smiled broader, as if she had discovered something very crucial, "Winterfell is built atop hot springs so it is a warmer place than most of the North. Now, a lot of food and sheep will be stored inside the castle halls and the granaries, so you can expect the castle gates to be open almost all the time. And Winterfell will be crawling with those wretched northern savages. It's gone through a siege. It'll be in repairs."

Jaime covered his face with his palms, "Okay."

"Theon Greyjoy has proven that an enemy in the guise of a friend could take a castle as huge as Winterfell easily. So, five hundred of our best men, in the guise of these peasants will enter the town and smuggle armor and weapons inside. Once this is done, you will send a raven informing them about your visit under a flag of truce. The Northerners are a suspicious people. This will make them shut the gates, along with your men inside."

And Jaime did not need to be told the rest.

"And once the castle falls, you will install a loyal Westerner as Warden of the North. The bastard will die, and Sansa will be brought here for trial by combat for Joffrey's murder where Ser Gregor will fight her champion."

Jaime understood Cersei's implication. No, this he would not say yes to, "Sansa is guilty anyway. Her necklace was found on that fool's body with traces of the Strangler. A simple trial will—"

"I want them both here, and I want them both dead," Cersei insisted, her eyes flaring up, an alien hard tone in her voice, the sort he'd never expected to hear, "You ride for Winterfell tomorrow, Ser Jaime. Sleep well."

My first and probably the only GoT fanfic, so. . . review?