His exact official orders were to be as distant as possible from the historical wedding happening in the desolate lands of the North. House Martell should have no official direct contact with the renegades of the Kingdoms, and a Prince of Dorne should not be seen giving it even half of the third of the attention the event had in truth.

The key word was officially.

The Old Inn was as full of residents as it always had been when the highborn married. People moved along with the dozens of other caravans, either aiming to move out of or move into a household. Youngsters in love or running away, families poor and miserable searching for income or new fertile lands, following hope like rats did to crumbs. Thieves readied themselves for the numerous caravans heading South or East or West, criminals and spies hoping to blend into the crowds seamlessly. The lowborn were always grasping at work and a few pieces of land or gold, a path to choose and home to find, and there were few better places to go other than the Crossroad Inns to start a new life in Westeros.

He had spend many a night in every room the old thing had. As a Prince or some street urchin, Oberyn Martell had haunted halls like these for as many reasons as how many he had taken to bed. This time, he was nameless, as to escape his brother and the Realms' attention. A feat that was easily completed with some washable hair ink from much preferred lands of pleasure and liberty, a few hagged clothes and an easy enough smile to charm the crowd into thinking he was nothing more than another lowborn following the crowds of highborn, hoping to snatch even a bit of their glory.

Initially, the plan was simple. Mingle with the dozens of caravans heading North to see the hassle with the Starks and Targaryen girl. His brother may have been very much against getting involved with them, and urged him to remain behind while their agents — which turned out to be his own precious daughters! The traitors! Getting into trouble without even inviting him along! — gathered whatever intel they found pertinent to their cause.

Oberyn thought he'd just go and surprise his little spies in their first big quest for the good of their kingdom.

So here he had been, at the Old Inn, finding pleasure in all sort of beauties from all over the countries, waiting for the opportunity to go further North when all of the party would be going to whatever holdfast — though it didn't take long for confirmation of Queenscrown being the chosen place reach the Inn— had been given to the young Targaryen princess and her bastard. In disguise, he was nothing more than a man waiting for the return of his runaway daughter, who had wanted to see the wedding at Winterfell. He only waited, faking sorrow to get closer to pitying maids who'd think him handsome and in need of consolation.

Not that far from the truth, and a perfect cover if only his princely brother hadn't known him so well, and thus sent a fake brother and his fake-son to stop him from trying to follow his fake daughter and her fake Northman savage into a holdfast somewhere in the Gift.

"HA!" He let his hand fall heavily over the boy's shoulder as the crowd around them laughed at the young boy's sputtering into his first ale cup. "It looks like yer boy still needs much to grow into a man, brother!" He made sure to put every bit of venom he could on the word as he forced a slur to his voice, narrowing his sight onto the sour-faced but handsome man sent to stay his hand from involving himself further in matters Doran thought beneath them.

The infuriating man only smiles, strained at first before smoothing out. He reached for the boy's mug, dragging it away from his small hands. "Ed is young, too young for this sort of fun."

Oberyn grinned wolfishly, "I'm sure you'd agree seven is old enough to at least prepare oneself for the pleasures of life." With his plan destroyed, Oberyn had let his façade of a common man fall slowly but surely, his words becoming more and more articulated, accent truer to how he was raised as Prince of Dorne. People were too drunk by now, and barely staying a night and paying attention to the pair. And the young lord was nothing if not infuriating, having abysmal acting capabilities that just about destroyed his crafted tale. The Stormlander was infuriating, if just not for the association — with the land he lived in, or the House he was sworn to, it didn't matter.

Oberyn had no clue, other than the blond boy who he took for a paige, about why he'd been sent to stop him from heading to a harmless adventure. His brother and his machinations had always been infuriating, interfering, and finding the most peculiar characters to act on his will. It made him suspicious and annoyed. He brought his own cup to his lips, taking a long swing and keeping an eye on the slight man before him.

Beric Dondarrion, from Blackhaven, one of the biggest thorns on Dorne's side since before the Targaryens landed on Dragonstone. A man who knew more than any other the animosity between their kingdoms; his House had guarded the pass to Dorne since a messenger had been saved by a bright purple lightning bolt and thus had been able to deliver some important message to a long-forgotten Storm King. Beric, the current Lord of House Dondarrion, was as elusive as the funny story of how someone was saved by a lightning bolt, a purple one at that. A fine warrior, and an even more besotted man.

"I'm almost eight…" the boy grumbled under his breath, hunching his shoulders and looking down. The Prince of Dorne imagined that he was probably playing with his fingers under the table.

Oberyn's eyes swung low to the boy, pale-haired with dark blue eyes that almost looked purple in the right light. Looking at him made his heart hurt, for memories of the past and what could have been's often haunted him. Pale hair and almost purple eyes were characteristics associated commonly with House Targaryen, but it also belonged to House Dayne and half a world of Valyrian descendants around the known world.

Oberyn could not truly appreciate most Lyseni nowadays. Most of the best whores from there were from Valyrian descent and quite proud of it.

Regardless, the boy, Eric Dayne, had nothing of Valyrian in him. Heir to House Dayne, and paige to Lord Dondarrion, who was betrothed to the boy's aunt, Allyria Dayne. The arrangement was very strange indeed and had made his hackles raise in insult when he first heard of the blooming romance between the Dornishwoman and the marcher lord. He'd thought maybe his own brother would interfere, as the arrangement happened but a few years after the Rebellion, yet Doran had let it happen.

As he did most things nowadays.

Not that Oberyn didn't know he had his reasons for it; there were probably some very good reasons, but he'd like the bothersome man to share them now and then.

Still, at least he wasn't stuck with only the boorish Stormlander, even if the only good company he had while they waited for his daughter was a mere child.

Thinking of the sole daughter that was coming back, out of the two that had gone North, made any amusement he felt now taste bitter. Doran had sent Sarella and Nymeria along with Ser Manfrey, the Princes' cousin. Cousin Manfrey, Castellan to Sunspear, had been very nervous about leaving the palace with his brother's degrading health, but Doran had insisted despite Oberyn's desire to be the one sent to deal with the brats. His daughters accompanied him in a quiet affair, not much to them other than being close to Daenerys and being completely capable of blending into the background.

He allowed them to go despite his annoyance to Doran, but now only one of them was returning.

As soon as Beric had caught him, the man had sent word to the Castellan about Oberyn's actions. It did not take long for their answer to reach them, Nymeria begging him to please stay put for a few days, so she could part with her revenue to go South and meet them. Sarella would be left alone because of his failed machinations, for his chagrin, but at least they'd get a complete report of what had happened.

Some interesting rumors were circulating already. Something about Daenerys Targaryen promising to end slavery? Or charging for the Iron Throne? Lord Stannis Baratheon had found the infamous Blackfyre sword, fought a basilisk for it, and gifted it to his ward? The god-emperor of Yi Ti himself had gone North, taking a thousand and one carriages of gold with him? Dothraki had taken control of the North? No, no, it had been invaded by pirates. They brought along fruit that was the color of the sun itself that could grant a man eternal vitality that they called 'bananas'. His favorite one 'til now had been a very drunk eight and ten boy who could swear the newlywed coupled turned into dragons — real dragons! — that vomited jewels and gold, making the Lannisters drop dead in green jealously.

Oberyn had always taken a certain delight in hearing drunkards pulling absurd stories out of their asses. And the ones he had heard were only the ones regarding the marriage! Imagine the absolute pearls there would be about their castle in the frigid North? There were already many people wondering how it'd look like and if it'd be made of out of ice, or if it'd be one of the castles at the Wall. Would it be beyond the Wall?

All ridiculous, but he thought the rumors absolutely delightful. Doran had exchanged many a letter with the Stark lord and his bastard as the years passed. Oberyn knew that it had something to do with their orchards and canals. Doran had informed him that they'd be investors in the gardens of their castle, and in repayment would have a seat in their lands.

A palace, he had said. What made Doran see a palace in the far North as worth such investments, Oberyn could only guess.

The Inn's door slammed open, interrupting his thoughts as a young man rushed in. "People have arrived from Winterfell! The Targaryens are marching North to Queenscrown!" The Inn erupted in loud exclamations and conversation, people getting up to surround the lad or moving to the windows to try and catch a glimpse of the few parties approaching the Inn or passing by towards the small village or elsewhere.

South, East or West; they'd all need to pass by the Inn at the Crossroads to get to their destinies.

Oberyn's eyes moved to meet Beric's. The young man also looked on towards the growing crowds before meeting his gaze. Oberyn nodded towards the stairs, getting on his feet as the man nodded back. He looked at his paige, nudging the young man's shoulder. "Come, Ed."

The child was quick to do the man's bidding, following him up the stairs. Oberyn drank up the rest of his cup, smacking his lips and putting it down on the table. He turned towards the door just as a slight figure passed through a well worn heavy cape covering their form. The person passed through the crowd and looked up, giving Oberyn a glimpse of familiar dark wide eyes, lustrous lips, and high cheekbones.

Oberyn made a show out of meeting her. "MY DAUGHTER!" He exclaimed, tears in his eyes as he stumbled towards her with open arms. The friends he made who remembered his reasons for being here all clapped and congratulated him. "I'm so glad to see you again, my dear Lyn!" Her wide-eyed stare was indeed worth all the trouble. Though the scene he made was for his own amusement, his embrace was sincere.

Nymeria was surprised, and no doubt ready to stick a dagger into him before recognizing him, but was quick to follow along. Her embrace was tight and Oberyn twirled her around in genuine happiness. "I've heard so many things, I feared you would follow them North!" he grabbed her dear unamused face and smacked a kiss on her brow. Oberyn turned, a grin stretching his lips as he took his empty cup and raised to his fellow drunkards and wanderers of the world. "Another round for these fellows! Let us celebrate together!"

"AYE!" they chorused. Oberyn did love the drunkards so.

"Father," Nym's strained voice caught his attention, and he looked over his shoulder to wink at her. She shook her head in exasperation. "Father, I am tired."

"Of course, of course. Come! Let's get you in your room! You can tell me all about what happened," Oberyn let his hands fall on her shoulders and down her upper arms, a mocking pout of worry on his lips that made her own mouth twitch with what he knew to be amusement. "Your papa is here now, don't you worry anymore!"

"Be sure to make a complaint to yer lord if those bastards harmed yer girl, Marys!" dear drunkard number four said. Oberyn turned to face his ugly face with a beautiful smile.

"I'll be sure to do so!" with that, he nudged her out of the room and up the stairs. As soon as they got to their small room, Nym snatched herself away from him. She took her heavy cape and threw it on the thin bed, eyes roaming over Lord Beric and the lordling for not even a second before she barked out her orders, "out, both of you." She did not wait for them to move, turning to face him with solemn eyes. Oberyn's joy died.

Oberyn opened the door to the room without taking his eyes from her, allowing the lord and his paige to pass before slamming it closed, bolting it securely. He walked further into the room with Nym until they stood by the window.

"Tell me, from the beginning." She took a deep breath, gathering her wits. Oberyn waited.

She spoke in a low tone, and quickly, eyes glued to his. "A magister — after the ceremony, there was a magister who brought freed slaves and dragon eggs turned to stones as gifts to Daenerys' house on the first feast. Daenerys offered to have them freed, truly, to wherever they wanted and their House would pay for whatever expanses. The bastard found gold and gemstones in the mountain range, and they are already mining and trading with it." Oberyn arched an eyebrow, eyes snapping away from her and looking out of the window and down to roaming crowd below. People spoke to each other, gossip running amok between them. "The slaves chose to stay with them, and that should've been the end of it but— it wasn't."

She grabbed his arms, shaking him and making him look back at her. Her dark eyes were wide and desperate. "It wasn't," she licked her lips. Oberyn could feel his heartbeat increasing, his fingers flexed into tight fists before splaying open. What happened that left you like this? "She promised — she made promises."

"Who?" he asked, just as forcefully.

"Daenerys!" she hissed. "She promised—freedom! Liberty, she said. That they preach for liberty, that Queenscrown is strong and is open to everyone! Bastard, slave, lord or not, she said that any who wished to prove their worth was welcome there. They passed the following days conversing with lords, merchants, and people from all around. Queenscrown seems to be a budding fountain of wealth from what I gathered from our meetings, with numerous investors other than ourselves. People from as far as Yi Ti came to meet with them."

He frowned, confused. Every highborn involved in the great game had suspected that they'd get lands in the far North. With the number of people traveling so far and the voyages carrying supplements as far as Bear Island or Eastwatch-by-the-sea were telling enough. Many had suspected they'd be given away from the Seven Kingdoms, cast aside to fund a dying order of thieves and rapers. T'was a surprise to find out they were not poor as expected, but otherwise not alarming. They still owed to many, their lands were mostly empty and managing the hordes of smallfolk that barely knew how to function in the South but now moved North was a challenge youths like them could not easily tackle.

Daenerys had always been generous, a soft heart that he always knew would get her into trouble, so her offering heaven for those cast aside was no odd idea. Bold indeed to announce such an invite so openly but… "Daenerys has always been so, Nymeria. We expected her to stumble about giving help to who she wanted." He frowned, eyes searching her pretty face for some sort of clue as to why she was so affected.

Nymeria shook her head, hands holding to his own and pulling them away from her face. "That was not all, father." He blinked down at her, letting his hands fall to his sides.

"What more could have happened?"

Nym pursed her lips into a tight line, looking down and pulling her small satchel around. She dug into it, pulling out a small strip of paper. She held it with reverent hands that trembled slightly, gulping and pressing her eyes closed for a second. She took a deep breath before meeting his eyes again. She pressed it into his hands, looking in his eyes and speaking so low he could barely hear it. "Do not repeat these words," she looked out on the direction of the door with a blank face. "We never know who can be listening."

Oberyn frowned, gulping at her heavy words and solemn gaze. He looked down at the paper in his hands, apparently inoffensive. He opened it, eyes following the elegant script.

"What bothers me so, father," she whispered, but Oberyn could barely hear it beyond the sound of his frenzied heartbeat. "Is what I discovered next."

Oberyn shook, his eyes focused on the one line on the paper.

Rhaegar's heir lives.

•••

"What nonsense is this?"

Tyrion looked at him over the rim of his cup, a glaze in his mismatched eyes that was often there. "The—," he swirled his beloved wine in the cup with an ugly curl to his mouth. "—requests, my lord, to move elsewhere. Northwhere, dare I say. From various individuals who see Lady Targaryen's—" he smiled fully, eyes moving to the side trying, poorly, to hide his amusement at the beggars. "—invitation as an opportunity for the betterment of their pitiful, bastardly lives."

Tywin felt only disdain for the dwarf lounging on the chair before him, and for the fools who dared send these requests to him, and Tyrion knew it. "An opportunity to find their ruin, it's what it is." The smile on Tyrion's lips turned into a smirk before disappearing beneath his cup. When he lowered it, his tongue escaped, licking at the remaining stain of wine.

"And they will pay for it, certainly."

His lordly father grabbed the papers, a sneer marring his features as he skimmed through the first letter. "There will always be fools like them."

The Imp only moved in his chair, eyes moving over his father's striking figure as his hands tightened around his cup. "Brave ones, no?"

Tywin eyed him — you will never be my son, no, i refuse, you took the only thing i held dear, you monster — with a hard look of his own. "No, just fools," like yourself, went unsaid but not unheard. He looked back at the thin pile of papers sent, and Tyrion allowed himself to pity them for a moment before casting such feelings aside. He knew their senders would be hunted and rightly punished for their daring.

Seven years Tyrion had worked in the cisterns and drains of Casterly Rock, seven years he had dealt with the shit and piss of his family, watching and learning and trying to prove himself somehow worthy of more. Hopeful, naive; just as the fools his father would mercilessly crush for wanting more than their lord allowed them. Tyrion could sympathize with them. When his Uncle's words reached them two weeks after the marriage, it cut short Tyrion's dream of taking his Uncle's role for whatever short amount of time it'd be.

Tyrion had the chance of his life to prove himself when his father sent Kevan Lannister, his right-hand man, brother, and castellan, to witness the union of the last scion of House Targaryen and a bastard. Tyrion had had a taste of power from then on, as little and tiring as it had been, with Tywin constantly undermining him, belittling and humiliating his every decision. It had grated on his father, and it took long days and many cups of wine to get where they are now; discussing with only mild remarks on Tyrion's inadequacy. Kevan's decision to remain away for longer than intended had incensed his father's anger though, and the news sent only made him roar louder and louder.

It was barely noon but already Tyrion was half-drunk; he had to be. How else could he deal with the man otherwise?

If not even two moons working as Castellan could sway his father's favor to him, what else could?

Daenerys Targaryen's foolish rambles and promises —Queenscrown is a wretched place desperate for any filth to join their ranks, his Uncle wrote a moon and a half ago. The Targaryen judge no one, they only wish for skillful hands and minds to work with them, the sheep whispered amongst themselves now.— sounded like paradise. It tasted of recognition that he still deluded himself with every time his father as much as nodded to him.

How pitiful; a Lannister begging for attention. At least he had something in common with his queenly sister. "Well," he replied, reading himself to raise his father's ire once more. "I say, let them be fools for our gain, no? Uncle sent word of the riches Ned Stark's bastard promised, we Lannisters are the best to deal with such riches. An alliance, an exchange, could be profitable," and they have full mines while ours are near empty, it went unsaid again. It was often like that, the game his father played; words left unsaid.

"And give them a reason to ask for more? No." He was quick to shut him down. Tyrion expected it, didn't mean he wasn't hurt. How stupid he was, to still be hurt after all the man had done. "If we are to meddle with children, it should be on our own terms. Kevan went to their miserable castle to deal with them, to know what we should expect of it," he huffed, supporting himself over the table with both hands and a thunderous scowl directed at the many papers over it. "I had not expected Ned Stark to grant the boy such liberties; to trade and deal with mountain clans?" Tywin shook his head, furrow in his brows. Tyrion would bet his favorite wine jar that the man thought Ned Stark the most stupid Lord of all lords to ever lord.

"Then we send our own man. Many a small house have been complaining about their emptying coffers," he grabbed for one of the unused papers on his father's desk, ignoring the seething stare of the man. "Say we grab some of our most experienced men. A minor house with little to no importance in the great game," he spread it, grabbing his own feather and ink. "We send word that we are willing to help them properly mine those frozen mines for, say, fifteen percent of their raws?" He looked up at the glaring older man, gulping down the shiver of dread that threatened to overcome him. "We give them information, they give us a share of their newly found gemstones." He tightened his hand around the feather, pursed his lips. "This is a good investment, father. Just tell me what we would need and I'll have it done for you."

Tywin leaned closer, his face smoothing over. "Those mines are in the Northern mountains," he spoke slowly, as if to a child. Tyrion tried to control the slight twitch of his mouth that gave away his displeasure at being addressed so, but he couldn't, and Tywin's green eyes showed satisfaction over it.

"And we are Lannisters," he stressed, a forced smile on his lips. "There are no better than us to deal with mining. And if Lord Stannis' note—" he nodded to the thin strip of paper that had been sent all over the Seven Kingdoms, they now knew. "—speaks true, then they are desperate for people, regardless of their origins. We take our good poor miners along, and we can even get away with, maybe, twenty percent."

"A child's word shouldn't be held to such high esteems," his father shook his head, sitting again, eyes looking somewhere where Tyrion couldn't reach. "Who would be so naive as to call over so many, so openly? That was carelessness on the Targaryen girl's part. This—" he gestured to the strip of paper with a lord's signature. "—is simply Stannis trying to grasp for what is left of his dignity, fixing over his ward's mistakes. He will cut off any who he doesn't agree with and we'll have people complaining because they cannot settle in wildling infested lands but they also won't have means to travel again and settle back in their old lives."

"It's an opportunity," he hissed, stressed, again. A furrow formed between his brows. anger built inside his chest, boiling up until it spilled over with his words. "Ned Stark's bastard is now a lord to the previous dynasty of the Iron Throne, and they are now living in their own corner of Westeros away from the said throne. Somehow those travels of Stannis Baratheon brought support from as far as damning Yi Ti. This same boy has affirmed to have found mines, untouched, new as when Lann the Clever first took this very castle, with a castle of their own ready for them that we have no clue of how strong it is, and a growing town, with actual trade and people. Daenerys Targaryen freed three slaves and made a speech hailing the poor folk to greatness if they heed their call—Father, this is an opportunity, can you not see?"

Maybe because Tyrion was part of the poor unfortunate folk, maybe because he knew what it felt to be ignored, but all the same it made him see with clarity how many could answer to their call. Oh, and Daenerys Targaryen knew it too. She was shunned by the whole of the Seven Kingdoms, the hate for an entire dynasty resting on that child's shoulders. Jon Snow was the bastard of the most honorable man in Westeros. Those two knew, just like Tyrion did, what a few kind words and the right encouragement could do to those who shared their grievances.

And now, instead of drowning in debt, they found mines. They find monetary power that they could turn and make it last for longer than the Lannister did; if they were smart.

Oh no, Tyrion did not think them stupid and kind only. Such words had tempted him to just leave behind his father's scorn, like the Faith once tempted him — like Tysha tempted him. A wolf was likely to hide amongst the sheep his father so scorned, and now they were inviting all kinds of them. Investment, it was what they were doing. Workers, people, minds. Stannis Baratheon was no stupid man, and had traveled far; he'd know when to spot a good opportunity to get some skillful minds, or, if the rumors of how he favored his ward were untrue, to sabotage the girl's ladyship by overwhelming her with too many mouths to feed.

But all of that fell flat to his lordly father as soon as those four words left his lips. Tyrion felt like hitting himself — when would he ever learn to stop questioning his father? By asking if he couldn't see what Tyrion could, he might as well have called him dimwitted.

"What I see," Tywin spoke, eyes now glued to his with an intensity that once frightened him out of his wits. There was fury in those eyes. Tyrion was indeed glad to be half-way drunk, otherwise, he'd certainly turn way. "Is certain death for our people, failure of unimaginable proportions. We know not how Baratheon will filter through the masses; our people would go and not come back and then die by hunger or wildling blade. We know not if that bastard is true to his word, and even if he was, what makes you think Stannis Baratheon, that boorish man, would want to deal with us instead of bending over backward to pay for those savage sharks he dealt with? The mines could be shallow and inaccessible in winter, but we won't know that for many years, so you could be sending our men to die for nothing. What guaranty we have their gold even has good purity, if they even have it! The gemstones could be lacking in quality — the cons are unimaginable, Tyrion!"

His name rang like a sentence over his head. Worst still, he saw his father's fair points, he understood them, but the challenging light in his eyes only made his blood burn hotter. His mind whirled, and he clutched tight to his quill.

"And what makes you think just gold and some gemstones would be enough to hold us afloat as our mines dry up completely?" There was a dry tone to his voice now as Tywin lounged back in his armchair. His eyes glinted. Tyrion felt the pressure of his words and expectations, for him to bend and acquiesce to his will, to his reason. "Tell me, Tyrion, did it pay well to survive on this mining business in the long game?" No, he was quick to think, eyes falling to the parchment under his quill. His father's words were filled with poison, the annoyance of actually having to speak with his hated younger son of matters that, two or so moons ago, he wouldn't ever come close to even listening to. "We take the gold, we have all the gold of the mines, but then the mines are dry and there's no more gold to have. So, no, I don't see why we should sacrifice our hard work with gold that will end just as ours did; if not quicker. Not at the costs of an unbearable amount of work and death in some frozen mountains up North."

He's right, he thought to himself. They would have part of the gold, but even then it'd be too little in exchange for the amount of work they'd put to get it. No, if they wanted to profit out of this, to stand out amongst so many others they'd need to pay, they needed something more. They needed to think beyond just the gold, just the price of a rough gemstone. His mind whirled, history and a thousand other things mounting a rough sketch of a plan; of a goal.

Investment, that's what they needed to focus on. To invest was to think beyond just the acquired gold, to focus on the profit for the long haul. If they did it, if they set to win something out of a deal with a pair of children stumbling upon richness, they shouldn't stop to think only of grasping at a bigger percent of their share of goods. No; gold was coin, gemstones could be worth more than just a set price if made a work out of them.

How much the Iron Bank would think worth to invest and have some more gold in their hands? How much could they get out of that? How do they even work as a bank, they have no mines like ours, or do they? How do they work with them? Tyrion went from there, thinking, calculating. Having a share of the mines' goods was too base, he realized. "And if we were to profit from whatever return they had? What if we used our mining expertise in guiding them, but asked not only for part of the rough gold, but for their continued use of our expertise and future investments? Their mines would go dry just like ours, but whatever comes out of them, part of it will be ours as long as they exist; an eternal debt of some sort, where we profit from whatever they produced as long as it is commercialized…"

Tyrion rambled a bit, scribbling ideas over ideas on the piece of parchment until he noticed how long had passed, and how silent his father was. He looked up, meeting pensive eyes that pierced. He gulped, waiting for him to cut his ramblings as surely as he did before, but nothing of the sort happened. Only a question came out of his father's mouth, prodding him softly towards something. "What of winter? The harsh conditions they'd have to mine?" Our people would have to mine, he meant.

He's agreeing, Tyrion thought, breathless. "I…" his father raised an eyebrow, and Tyrion obligated himself to think faster. "I can do the research for that too. We have records of our own methods and mining incidents and technologies throughout the seasons, from the mildest to the harshest of Winters. The Guilds—" and he turned his gaze down again, his hand moving furiously over the parchment, the haze of wine disappearing as he only had more ideas. "I could study their records, see what were the methods that had more success, adapt from them."

"You mean to find a profitable way for us to have them work for us using our expertise? To profit from whatever work they bring forth with our help, regardless of the gold? Beyond the gems and the gold they find?" Tyrion looked up at his father, a fire alight in his mismatched gaze that promised that and more. Just give me this chance…

"And for us to come out mostly unscathed should they not be successful."

A smirk finally broke the cold visage of Tywin Lannister. "Now you speak like a true Lannister." He nodded, grabbing another piece of parchment, writing on it. "Then it's decided. We wait for Kevan's word on the mines, the castles, their regent, and their own willingness. While he does that," he grabbed another parchment, eyes moving over his small form with something Tyrion couldn't bring himself to decipher. "You'll find a way for us to succeed in this…project." Tywin finished whatever he was writing with a small flourish, throwing it on top of Tyrion's mess of written thoughts. It was a slip of paper authorizing him to look over the registers of the Guild. "Prove your worth, Imp."

•••

"Dothraki slaves?"

Loras nodded enthusiastically, lazy curls bouncing slightly with the movement. The early morning sun made him lovelier, an eager innocence to his visage that was sweet to see after so long away. Willas knew he had a soft smile on his lips as he watched his younger brother, who arrived just the past night, coming directly from the North. "And a Lyseni one!" he continued, brown eyes moving from him to their sister sitting on the terrace table. Willas continued to tend to his newest hawk, young and untrained. "Garlan was flabbergasted! You would've loved to see his face," and then he made a poor imitation of it, pretty features twisting in mock exaggerated surprise.

Margaery giggled in delight. Loras threw his head back laughing, teacup spilling a bit in his hand making him yelp at the sting of the hot beverage against his skin. Margaery struggled against her own laugher trying to help him clean it and Willas shook his head, eyes moving outwards, overlooking their castle's grounds.

Freeing slaves at three and ten of age…he shook his head, snorting softly. Bold, he thought. Frightening so.

"That magister, that was one right mad bastard; bringing slaves to Westeros?" Loras spoke, blowing softly over his hand. Willas moved away from his place by the banister, raising his arm and letting his little friend fly for a bit. He limped, letting himself fall into a chair, lounging into it and grabbing a biscuit. He bit into it and watched his siblings. "Savage, such a backward and deplorable practice. Already the North was…" and his nose made that weird twist where he was particularly grossed out at something. "Deplorable. Dreadful. Far too cold and we're in Summer." He rolled his eyes skyward. "There was snow, at some point. Snow. In Summer!" He threw his hands up and glared at them as if to make them feel the same exasperation as he.

Their sister nodded, humoring him with a cheeky smile. She folded the napkin she used to clean him, put it on their table gently, and then returning her hands to her lap. Such a proper lady, Willas thought, a smirk on his lips. "And, and—" Loras gestured wildly, eyes moving from Willas to Margaery. It only made his smile wider, exchanging a short look with his sister. Their brother had too much to tell and kept stumbling over his tales the more excited he became. "That mad bastard gave her fossilized Dragon eggs too! Shame to see such treasures stuck in that cold place." It was endearing.

Willas had missed him. "I agree, such treasures should be kept in worthier places," Willas answered softly. Of course, his brother didn't bother to listen.

"Poor Daenerys!" He exclaimed, taking a sip of his tea and leaning back into his chair with a soft smile. "Stuck in that cold wasteland wrecked by those pests wildlings and poor excuse of brotherhood to serve, with slaves for handmaidens, Dothraki savages and a whore, and dozens of other slavers like that magister probably was, from Essos. At least the bastard isn't all too bad looking."

"Oh?" Margaery leaned towards him, warm eyes glinting and that cheeky smirk growing mischievous. Willas shook his head, grabbing the kettle to put some finely brewed rose tea for himself.

"The Dothraki are no simple savages, brother." He started, completely ignoring how the two of them rolled their eyes at him. "They are fine horse breeders, the best riders of the world," he sighed wistfully. "And wouldn't you know, they eat horseflesh?" Willas adored the absolute disgust that twisted their faces. "I'd be most interested in having a chat with those two handmaidens. Mayhap we could exchange recipes. Proper ones too, for such delicacy. Oberyn has said that the Dothraki are the best for—"

"Enough of that!" Margaery interrupted him. "I wish to know more of this…Jon Snow. Tell me, is he clever? Brave? A brute or romantic at all?" He arched an eyebrow at her, leaning back into his chair and cradling his teacup to his lips to hide his amusement.

"Yes, enough of that," they all turned around to find the small figure of their grandmother by the terrace door. "But let us not discuss what is no longer on the market and is worth only a tumble beneath the sheets, dears." Immediately, Willas coughed up in his drink, tea spilling from his nose and mouth. He kept on coughing, hiding his face, and turning away as the tap-tap of Olenna's cane approached them. Margaery giggled airily along with Loras. "And no, Willas, it was not the name of that damned viper that summoned me to disturb your wretched love poems about horseflesh."

Willas wanted to laugh, and the desire did not help him to stop coughing. Margaery leaned over him, a hand massaging his back as he found his composure once more. "Well, grandmother," he swallowed dryly before taking a deep breath and leaning back into his chair, his hand squeezing his sister's forearm in thanks. He smiled wide at the older woman sitting beside Loras. He knew she'd go soft for his dimples. "You are simply breathtaking, the sight of you was enough to make me lose my senses. This fine tea turned bitter at the sweet sight of you."

She pursed her lips at him, turning sharply away with a huff. "What a fine heir you are, sprouting tea from your nose at the mere sight of your dear grandma." He and his siblings laughed at his expense, Loras getting on his feet and leaning over their grandmother's small figure to hug her.

"Oh, how I missed you, grandmother," Loras spoke in her hair.

"And I, you, child." Her fragile hand rose to his back, barely passing the lad's shoulder to pat him softly. "Now, sit, sit!" She shooed him and Loras did as he was bid. She looked at the three, sighed softly and shaking her head. "Oh, to have Galan here now." She gestured for a servant, who was quick to disappear after a mere nod from her. Most likely to grab her carefully planned meal and medicines. Margaery set to pour some tea for her, ignoring the small twist of Olenna's lips at the sight of it. Willas knew she would much prefer wine.

"He couldn't come as planned. Since someone," and they all turned to face him. Willas kept his face calm as the fine breeze of the morning. "Very much demanded him to remain behind to properly oversee negotiations."

"I thought that that beast of a hawk you spent so long training and strongly insisted that should be personally given would be the end of your siblings' involvement into such…" she pressed her lips together, a tight line that all but screamed her disparagement for his association with the Targaryen. "Dealings."

He put his cup down on the table, grabbing a napkin and cleaning his mouth delicately before speaking. "Demand is too strong a word, Loras. I simply requested him to speak further with this Jon Snow." He looked at them with a critical eye. "I'm sure by now you all know of his promise of new mines?"

His grandmother snorted, rolling her eyes. "Yes, it's why the small folk has been boiling over in ideas of becoming the next Lannisters."

"Mass migration is no simple matter," he started, eyes moving to Margaery, who listened closely as she always did. "And that's precisely what is happening. Three moons have passed, and now we have caravans, hundreds of people desperate enough for gold to march from the Reach into the Gift, of all places, which might as well be the end of Westeros. Queenscrown, though marvelous," he nodded to Loras, who sighed wistfully, turning to Olenna. "Is new and couldn't possibly handle so many people. House Florent wouldn't be enough to make them support all even if Lord Baratheon were to take their full harvests. But if they had our full support they surely could, and maybe we could grab a share of gold too." He shrugged, leaning back. The disgruntled approval in her face was enough to make him smile smugly. "Maybe that could be seen as an interest in the support of the Night's Watch and us giving our share for the protectors of the realm." They all snorted together.

"Oh, grandma, my stay was short for the North was unbearable, but the castle, the glasshouses and orchards, and gardens…" Loras shook his head, brown eyes shining with awe Willas was fascinated to see. "The city!"

Olenna reeled back, an eyebrow arching the same way Margaery did. "City?" She turned to him, a calculating glint in her that made Willas smile in growing triumph.

"Yes," he said smugly, leaning on the table and supporting himself with an arm. "A planned city." Surprise and interest bloomed in her old face, making her turn to Loras with curious eyes.

"Now, don't lose your breath." She said, nodding in greeting to their father and mother. Now they were all together and ready to break their fast. "Tell us about this Queenscrown."

And he did.

A castle born straight out of a dream, glinting limestone turning white in the midday sun and then reflecting the beautiful sunrise or dawn sky. It rose high from behind the inner walls guarding the lake against pollution, he said, for it fed the town in its whole, and was key to the heating systems. Beyond the inner walls came the city proper and its many rings—districts. Paved streets within circulated the outer walls that met at the foot of the mountain range, where the Old Town began. The first settlement of workers built haphazardly before being brought into planning for the future that formed the rings.

Belts, Jon Snow called them. There were the outer greenbelts, the first seen once you entered the vast outer walls that stretched over miles of land. They were to be farmlands, land to be given amongst the population. Soon after, it was followed by two rings, the Palace districts, where the residencies of many investors were built or were still building. Then came the planned areas for future citizens, laid out the ground for the future city, where people were supposed to build their homes and business. The city proper. The streets between the last Palace belt and the first New Town belt was where the first waterway sat. Dividing the walkways into two giant lanes with warm water open to the skies.

"When the snow came," Loras said, reverent. "it fell to the paved streets and melted. Daenerys said that the space between the stones that made the streets directed the water to the waterways, into the earth itself. A cycle, she said. The water freezes, falls and then turns liquid once more, and is returned to earth until they heat it, making it rise to the skies again."

The New Town, still so very empty, finally gave way to the main Plaza, with the biggest fountain and the entrance to the castle. But before that, two greenbelts were to be passed. Those were more gardens than crops, with many glasshouses of the finest construct. "They were the most beautiful thing, a truly fine work of metal and glass." He tilted his head, eyes moving to meet Willas'. "And then there were the orchards — very similar to those of Dorne, it was often said."

He chose to shrug noncommittally. "Oberyn might have said the Prince exchanged one or two words with Ned Stark." He turned to his father, who had joined them halfway through the tale alongside their mother, a carefully crafted smile on his lips. "He asked what thought you, father, of the new Targaryens," in his latest letter, he thought. A very prodding letter, but they didn't need to know that.

"Oh, but you know very well what I think of them," his father said. A muscle in his cheek pulled involuntarily, and Willas took a long sip of his tea. Best to hide his disdain. Olenna looked at him with a deadpan that he chose to ignore. "Lady Targaryen has lost her high station, and never had and never will be granted the favor of our king and the royal family. She has wed a bastard, the nephew from Lyanna Stark, the very same who her brother captured. A disgraced pair, that they are." Mace ate a full spoon of his fruit salad, munching on it slowly as he stared down — or attempted to — Willas. "It's a waste to associate ourselves with that House again."

His mother nodded quietly, sipping before speaking lowly. "The Crown would doubt our loyalty."

His grandmother nodded begrudgingly, flickering her fingers at him. "Listen to your father, for once he speaks true." She turned toward Loras, ignoring her son's indignant glare. "It's a pretty image you painted, but also an extensively expensive one. What little gold they find will not be ours to take."

"They'll have to pay for all that investment," Margaery conceded.

"And all that glorious picture Loras was so enchanted with will crumble, just like the girl's dynasty. Just like the Watch they now serve." Olenna continued with a distant look in her eyes. Willas clenched his jaw, looking up at his little friend flying circles high above them. Olenna saw it; the young rebellion in him that threatened to spill over. She clicked her tongue, leaning over the table. Her eyes pierced him like never before. It only made him itch more and more to go against their wishes. "The Targaryens are gone, Willas."

No, he answered in the privacy of his mind. They are not.

The Targaryen were figures born out of legend. They conquered Westeros, truly conquered as no other had ever done, with mighty power and incredible beasts. To be connected so deeply to a beast of nature that turns castles to ash and have the skies as their true home… Creatures of nature they were, Willas had decided so long ago when reading his books. Just as wild as his hawks. They, those of Valyrian descent, shared blood with dragons and had magic running wild and whimsical in their veins. It was them who gave House Tyrell the very castle they sit on, they who sewed together the patchwork of kingdoms that made Westeros whole.

Willas wasn't one for blind loyalties based purely on the past. No, he was too smart to rely solely on it. Still, he knew his history, he studied enough to know that those of Targaryen descent never settled down for the ordinary. Even now, he could see pieces falling onto a bigger picture of greatness. At the center of it laid the Targaryen girl and her bastard boy, wild and unpredictable, a pair of too young and moldable children who could make this all the more interesting.

Daenerys Targaryen — the sole remaining heir to the line of Aegon the Conqueror, dragon rider of Balerion the Dread, the mighty beast whose shadow swallowed cities whole. There up North, she sat on a fortune the fates weaved for her own self, fit for one of her blood. Willas was most interested to see what that spitfire of a girl could make out of it.

Maybe some of Oberyn's impulsiveness and endless curiosity had finally passed over to him through their letters.

"Not gone," Willas smiled softly at his grandmother, a distant look in his eyes. "Just…faraway."

She scoffed just as his father beat a meaty fist on the table, rattling the various items on it. Willas kept staring at the shaky cup of tea his grandmother had yet to touch as it spilled a bit. "Bah," she responded, shushing her son's tantrum with an eye-roll and a slap to his fist. "The Mad King's son has been long gone, probably thrown to the streets by one of the many Essosi he begged aid to take back the Iron Throne; made slave or worse. His sister, that naive girl, has now married a bastard and is freezing up North, and we all know that if not for Jon Arryn the king would have her killed long ago." Here, Willas looked up at the slight pause in her passionate speech, meeting her heavy gaze.

Dragonspawn is better dead, and King Robert rejoiced over the Last Dragon's children's bodies.

Olenna breathed out, looking away first by eyeing her tea. She raised it to her lips, taking a long sip before continuing. "And we all know that if not dead, he'd want her sent to the Wall, even as a mere babe. Just the cold would've done the job for him, but no. No, she was born a girl and our kind is not welcome there. Small mercy that didn't do much to help, since she ended up there all the same."

"She's at the Gift—"

"Which is Night's Watch territory. She's all but an honorary member," she cut him. Her eyes turned soft for a fraction of a moment, the line of her mouth softening and face relaxing a bit, making her look older and fragile. Willas looked down. It was difficult to stand stubborn when his fiery grandmother suddenly looked at him so. "Willas; they are doomed," she put her cup down and leaned forward on the table, resting her elbows on it and her chin on her entwined fingers. He looked up at her through his lashes, putting his own cup down. He thumbed the fine ceramic softly, a movement her sharp eyes didn't miss as she looked pointedly at his hands. He hid them from view. Her eyes sharpened, meeting his with a glare. "Support them is to support another claim to the throne and we are already in cold waters as it is. The Crown thinks our loyalty shaky at best."

Willas looked down with a locked jaw, grinding his teeth. His little friend cried in the skies, a music of freedom and wilderness that made him look up briefly and watch him descend until landing with a beat of mighty wings on his elegant perch on their veranda. Its gaze met his, head tilting slightly so in the way Willas always thought terribly adorable and made Margaery coo endlessly. He took a deep breath, forcing a smile on his lips as he got up, grabbing the cane resting beside him.

"I understand, grandmother," he replied softly through his false smile.

His father grabbed his arm before he could leave, his grip forceful. Willas slowly turned to look down at him. He tried to breathe slowly, to calm down his heartbeat. Mace was red in the face, huffing, and puffing and staring up at him with an intensity rarely shown in such complicit man. "The Targaryen are gone, Willas," he spoke, and the Heir to Highgarden locked his jaw, struggling to keep his visage clean from any of the raging emotions within. "Gone and forsaken. Do not dare to degrade our family, our legacy, for blind loyalty." He shook his arm, as if to emphasize, to make him listen.

To make him stop.

It is not blind, he wanted to answer. It wasn't even loyalty. Just mere curiosity, like studying an interesting subject in history and observing the living proof of it. It would've never have made him think too much of it if they hadn't been so…terribly against his curiosity; this desire inside of him to prod, discover, and understand things beyond his control. To take it apart and then bring it back together in a more efficient way.

They accepted so many of his eccentricities, but wouldn't allow him this tiny curiosity.

It made him angry.

Willas nodded to his father, something slow and dangerous as he stared down at the older man who was always quick to underestimate him. It was Mace who broke their gaze first, turning around and returning to his food with smug superiority of a parent who believed they'd won. Willas looked at the others sat at the table, meeting Margaery's knowing gaze before he stood, grabbing his cane and walking away to the golden perch by the banister.

He gave a treat to his little friend, stroking its smooth feathers. He heard steps behind him and didn't turn as his sister leaning her back on the banister, elbows supporting her as she tilted her head and smirked cheekily at him. He dared not speak, afraid his temper would get the best of him.

"Have you given a name to this one yet?"

He side-eyed her, searching for the mocking that had been evident on Loras' face before he left but finding none of it. Only genuine curiosity. It made him smile. "No," he responded, shaking his head. "Do you have something in mind?"

She tilted her head, turning so she could stand just beside him, shoulders brushing softly against his. It was silent for a few moments where they just admired the little fellow, who gorged up his treats gleefully. When it ended its meal, it glared at him and cried out, demanding for more even as Willas showed that he didn't have it. She giggled, bumping shoulders with him. "What about Aegon? Perhaps something more fierce like Maegor? If you wish to bring real fury from our meek father, perhaps something more daring like Rhaegar. Maybe Balerion, if you feel particularly unimaginative."

He sighed, "Margaery…"

"What?" she spoke lowly, a sly smile on her beautiful lips, her small hand gripping his arm as she leaned on him with a giggle. "You've always fascinated by them. Half your pets are named after them, Valyrian and Targaryen. I think it was besides time you went after the real thing." He rolled his eyes and shook his head, only making her laugh more. "It's the truth! For a time, I know grandmother half feared you'd scheme to steal that bastard's bride." A quiet laugh escaped him, and he bumped his shoulder against hers in retaliation. She laughed, resting her head against his shoulder. He leaned his own on top of hers, a soft smile on his lips as his heart lightened and the sourness of his mood lessened. "Have you had word from Jon Snow?" He side eyed her, but his sister looked over the horizon, past their vast gardens farmlands.

"No," he replied just as quietly. He turned his face to look her fully, pondering over where this conversation could lead. "Not from him," at last, he decided, he may have an ally in Margaery with his ventures.

Margaery gasped softly, her brilliant mind trying to grasp his message. "Lord Stannis? Lord Stark?" She bit her lip at his silence, humming softly and turning to press her face against his shoulder. "Daenerys herself?" she asked lowly, turning slightly to spy behind them before turning to him. "She sent word?"

"Maybe," he wouldn't let her pry the information so easily. She huffed in annoyance, turning to look ahead again. "Maybe someone sent a letter so it'd arrive quietly, at night. Where I could ponder over it on my lonesome."

"You and your stupid secrecy," she said in a tone reminiscent of their grandmother. His lips twisted amusedly before shrugging and looking away. "Willas, tell me. What was it that she wanted?" she asked in urgency, coming closer to him.

He shushed her, looking behind him to see his grandmother squinting at them suspiciously. Loras remained ignorant, shining under the sole attention of their parents as he rambled on and on. "She was quite the visionary," he finally relented, winking at their grandmother who only squinted harder, her old face moving funnily enough to rob a snort out of him. "And had very interesting ideas for her ruling over the Gift."

"And what have you with it?"

"Well," he allowed a smirk as he stared down at her. "She needed some guidance and allies. I guess the bastard Jon Snow isn't the most supportive husband of all." He ignored the slight slap she gave on his arm, staring as she frowned thoughtfully over his words. "I find her quite…refreshing. The ideas she wanted to implant for her ruling would be a novice for our time, and investing in it seemed interesting enough. And, of course," he turned to her with an arched eyebrow. "Should it fail, we wouldn't be the ones risking our entire kingdom over some social revolution."

Her eyebrows might as well have jumped out of her face, so surprised she became.

"That is a big claim, brother," breathless, she turned to face him, at last freeing his arm.

"That girl seems as bold as we heard. I was quite amused by pretty much all of her claims." Margaery nodded, hands rising to pet her beautiful hair, pulling the waves over one shoulder. "Of course, we'd remain mostly distant for a long time. But a few letters and tips here and there wouldn't hurt much."

She stared at the young hawk he was training and asked, "What makes it all so interesting for you?"

"Well," he took a deep breath, leaning on his cane and lowering himself so he could whisper in her ear. "They have no more political obligation to the throne. They fall under no rules other than the ones established by the Wall, which are non-existent at this very instant until she and her husband head for the Wall for the official negotiations. She can pretty much play dolls with that city in any way she wants. And if she gets what she wants from her negotiations…"

"Oh, Willas," Finally understanding, Margaery sighed, closing her eyes and shaking her head as a fond smile molded her lips. "Father's hair will turn gray because of you and your experiments." She laughed softly, looking up at him. He moved his gaze away from her, towards their family as his father took notice and raised what he thought was a cup of wine to him. Willas nodded with a strained smile. "Haven't you had enough with all of your pets?"

Again, he shrugged. She sighed. A moment passed as they stood together in silence, only the chit chatter of their family behind them and the breeze of the morning breaking it.

"I shall help you, brother," She looked up at him with solemn eyes. "But you must understand that I do it out of pity."

He smirked, looking down at her.

"For me or for the girl?" with this he saw solemnity fall away to give place to mischief. His sister chuckled, a hand extending to caress the hawk's head.

"Both, I'd wager." He let a full belly laugh, throwing his head back and hugging her close. His sister giggled, burying her nose into his chest as he pressed his head to the crown of her head. He petted her long waves, still chuckling as he replied.

"You won't regret it," he put one hand on her small shoulder, stepping back and tugging her to his side as he smiled at his little friend. "We'll have fun."

She sighed softly, petting the hawk's head, "I hope so, Willas."

•••

It was the Rebellion's aftermath all over again.

"CALL THE BANNERS!" Robert laughed, petty, and well past half drunk. "The flying lizard princess—," he hiccuped, and Jon Arryn all but warred within himself to not roll his eyes as he did as a youngster. "Calls for her peasant army! Calling some bastards and peasant and slaves," he slurred, swinging his meaty fit in front of him as if he could bat away the girl he so hated. "She is forming an army, that she is. Fucking should've killed the slut when Stannis brought her here." He stopped to take another big gulp from his tankard. "The pitiful thing thinks her cries for help will be heard in that frigid place, ha!" he slapped his hand on his knee and wheezed dryly for almost a full minute. Jon only watched with tired resignation. "Should we send her a congratulation gift? Maybe the skull of one little dragon? Maybe it will suckle on her tit beside her bastard."

Littlefinger, the slimy little bastard he was, leaned on the table to quip. "Would certainly be better than her stone eggs? At least a skull was a dragon once."

Robert snapped his fingers at Baelish, raising his tankard to be filled by the Lannister boy he had as a cupbearer. His booming laugh sloshed the drink being poured, and the boy had to put even more. "That's—that's a good one! We should—we should put it in a letter! Jon, Jon les' do it."

He sighed, shaking his head. "We'll do no such thing."

Robert bellowed another laugh. "You're no fun, aren't ya?" He gulped down his fine wine, uncaring for the drums spilling on his kingly robes. "She is as mad as her father. Haven't you seen her claims?" He threw a piece of parchment on his face.

Jon Arryn stepped aside and let it flutter down to the floor with a dismissive glance. "Of course I did, I was first to read the missive." Robert's flushed face was deeply amused as he guffawed. Jon felt shamed for the disgust he felt for what Robert became. My friend, he sighed, what has become of you? Gritting his teeth, he lowered to the floor, grabbing the missive and grunting as his knees and lower back ached. "Lord Stannis issued this," he gestured for the carefully written missive. "For the whole of the kingdom, I'm told."

Robert wheezed and the table was quick to follow his ridicule. "Renly, Renly— tell us of— his face. Show the face he made when the girl! When the girl spoke."

Lord Renly, delighted by having the sole attention of his brother for once, was quick to humiliate his other sibling. "Oh, Robert, you would not believe how furious he was! Took the bastard and the girl away before even the bedding ceremony!" Robert's wide grin urged the boy on, and Renly soaked it happily. Jon sighed tiredly. "You know the face he makes when we have that wine he despises served? Multiply it tenfold!" And then he reenacted their sibling's fury, bringing another blunt of laugher from the king.

On they went, Robert, Baelish, and Renly taking delight of the girl's misfortunate words and her ward scrambling to righten daring. Pycelle tried to butt in as he always did, making far too inappropriate jokes about a child for a Grand Maester, and failing as the men ignored his mutterings. Ser Barristan watched on blank-faced, tense as he oft were when Daenerys Targaryen was discussed.

Or laughed at, as was more common.

One more sigh — as it was, he would probably run out of sighs to breathe and fall dead. Shaking his head, he sat on his place, opening Stannis' missive and reading the pleading he sent out.

Your Grace,

Daenerys is married and bedded. At the feast, she made an unfortunate speech beseeching the poor folk of the kingdom to aid her and the Night's Watch to populate Queenscrown and, in the future, the whole of the Gift. I urge you to heed the call, as it would be in the interest of the Crown to invest in the new House Targaryen of the North's discoveries in the Northern mountains.

Your faithful servant and brother,

Lord Stannis of House Baratheon of Dragonstone, Lord of Dragonstone, Master of ships.

He allowed a chuckle out, shaking his head at the wording. Direct to the point and concise. Stannis always had a way to make things seem easier to deal with. The Targaryen girl had fulfilled the duties put on her since her birth and, though Robert had been adamant to put her as far away from him as possible as powerless as she could be, it seemed her humiliation could become fruitful for the crown.

Jon eyed the other reports from the wedding, from low folk and nobles — even the other missive sent to all of the Realms with the girl's request for people. Those, of course, weren't written by the Lord Baratheon's own hands. By now, it was clear that those claims of wealth seemed to have a great deal of truth. Renly himself had confirmed it and Robert had snorted at that and drank from his cup.

As he oft did.

Pursing his lips, Jon's eyes roamed the inner council's table, narrowing on the chair missing their Master of Whispers. Though Varys had given him a report confirming few things from the North, and the operations going in the Westerlands — Tyrion Lannister supposedly had been acting in his father's steed in the Mining guilds and how could that not be connected to the reports of new mines in the North? — and the South. Dorne had been far too quiet, sealed shut, was his words. Highgarden had sent representatives to the wedding and one of the sons of Mace Tyrell had yet to return. Yi Ti had sent far too many of its subjects to Westeros, the aristocracy and merchants of an empire on the other side of the world marching to their doors and touring the Realms as if they were an exotic playground for them.

All this, but the bald man had found a reason to disappear.

All that happens, and the debt grows.

"Let's have a banquet! A feast! A festival with all the people in this piss shit of a city! A big one! With—with a tourney!" Robert screamed, raising his tankard. Renly was quick to agree, raising his own chalice to his brother. Baelish smiled, a twinkle in his eyes as he nodded to his king and raised his own cup in agreement. Robert grinned wolfishly at the man. "Make it the biggest one yet!"

"Aye, your Grace," was Littlefinger's answer.

"Let's show these fucking dragon spawn what is wealth!"

•••

The Red Keep.

He looked at it, looming over a shit city that was nothing like he dreamt, but that he loved all the same. Maybe more; after all, his dreams were mere dreams, but that? That was real. In his mind, there wasn't much thought about what happened around him, on what he was supposed to be doing, on what his mission was. Everything else faded away as he stood on the back of his vessel, the Red Queen, and watched the glorious city raised by Aegon the Conqueror slowly disappear, swallowed by the horizon.

His city, his legacy.

I'll take what is mine, he promised again to himself. To his father, mother, and sister. To his ancestors, the ones who started it all, he promised something else; they will feel their blood boil inside their veins.

He had lost many a night imagining how he'd do it, what he'd do once he had the Usurper at his feet. When and who he would put to the sword or chain them to him, bring them down in life as they did to him and his sister. I'll show them the cruelty of shackles, and they would wish themselves dead.

Stark, Baratheon, Arryn, Tully, Lannister — he'd annihilate them one by one.

He'd shun Cersei Baratheon of her beautiful golden hair, would have her daughter and sons raped in front of her. Hang, defiled, and rotting in a cell with her. She would have to eat from their flesh to survive, for he'd only allow her water. Hunger would make her desperate enough, he knew. Maybe then he'd brag about it to the Usurper. He should care at least for his heir.

Stark had many children now, so he'd have many opportunities to have him tortured. He could kill so many of his seed before they'd all be gone and he would have him watch as his band of heirs slowly died out until their proud House became nothing. The Tully would have their lands burnt again, to make them remember the dragons. Maybe he'd forgone the Riverlands entirely, make it all part of the Crownlands. He'd bath the Lannister in molten gold; only their members — their fingers first, then their hands and then their arms, and then their legs; bit by bit — so they could live the longest. Arryn would sit beneath him; old and frail and his soft heart would slowly lose strength as he was forced to watch his alliance being destructed.

He could continue daydreaming for hours, picture the destruction of each House who took a slight against him and his. He could scheme and plan for each individual endlessly; all punishments delivered carefully to hit where it would hurt more according to what he knew of them. And, oh, how he knew them. Each one of their bleeding hearts; the greedy, lustful, and craven.

They would know hunger, and cold, and dirt. Like he did.

"Captain," someone broke him out of his musings. He tilted his head towards them, still staring intently at his future; at the throne that awaited him. "The Spider rests in his cabin."

Humming, he straightened his neck. A caress from the sea breeze moved his blue-colored hair in front of him, blue strands blocking the magnificent sight of the castle he had once briefly called home. Fury ignited, deep and seething, but he did not let it show. "Let him for now," he told them softly, as he knew it to be best.

They bowed, deeply, and moved away never turning their back to him. He took a deep breath, moving his gaze away from King's Landing's distancing image with difficulty. He turned towards his crew, all of them working like a well-oiled machine. Lilac eyes watched dispassionately as the slaves were brought from below deck to do their work, now faraway from Westeros' judging eyes. He sighed softly as one of them stumbled and was whipped for it.

Walking away from the helm, he stopped briefly by the ship's wheel to stand beside his most trusted ally and first mate, his future Captain of the Kingsguard. "Your Grace," Ser Jorah greeted roughly as he finished giving instructions to the helmsman.

"I trust the Spider brought news," he started softly and walked away with the man close at his heels. "But are they what I want?" What I need, he thought with snide. None of it showed on his face as he walked amongst his crew, who were quick to open passage. The Spider had strange loyalties, stranger still that he associated himself with him. Weren't you loyal to my House before? And then to Baratheon? He'd burn too, he knew deep in his heart, but not now.

Not now.

"Whatever news he brings, your Grace, half of it can be discovered by common gossip I gathered from the peasants of the Capital." He hummed, prompting the man to continue as they walked towards his cabin. "People were bursting with the desire to sail North, I lost count on how many asked for passage there. Daenerys Targaryen issued an invitation to all who wished to find a home within her lands after freeing the slaves."

He hummed, stoping before his cabin's door as Jorah opened the door for him. "How did she free freed slaves?" he asked, a note of amusement in his words as he stepped inside.

"By giving them true freedom," came the answer from within. Ser Jorah stepped ahead of him, his hand on the pommel of his sword, already half drawn when he stayed the Northman's hand. Lilac eyes watched as the bald perfumed man stood before his desk, hands tucked into large sleeves and watching him with a complacent smile. "Freeing them from their invisible collars with enough gold and transport for them to settle down wherever they wished; or to stay and work for her as handmaidens."

His fingers twitched, grasping at nothing as his smile stretched, straining. He pressed his lips, fixed his face into something resembling calm. He wanted to scream at the Spider's daring. "Oh?" he said, walking past Ser Jorah and around the table, sitting in his chair like it was his throne. In a way, it is for now, and how dare this filthy lying thing passing for a Westerosi trespass into his cabin without his say so. "Giving choice to a slave, did they even know how to answer?" he smiled. "I'm sure you must be familiar with that. Tell me, Varys, when you first had your coveted freedom, did you even remember how to shit without your master telling you to?"

Contrary to himself, the Spider didn't allow as much of a wink in reaction. Simply nodding shallowly and looking at him through pale lashes. "Indeed your Grace, but I freed myself, and owed loyalty solely to myself. Those slaves…" He straightened, narrow eyes focusing on him as Jorah closed the door and stood before it. "Your agents owe their freedom to your sister, not themselves, and, most sadly—" he smiled, something sharp that made him itch to slap it away. "Not to you."

A muscle in his jaw twitched but he managed to spit out a defense; "It was me who sent them there. I bought them, I freed them, I sent them."

Varys smiled, again, "contrary to Westerosi belief, slaves need no collar to remain a slave, your Grace. You sent them to your sister. They had no choice but to obey, your sister offered them a chance at true freedom and, in doing so, made them loyal to her." He stepped forward, one dainty fingertip touching the table as he tilted his head, smile gone. "And now, they owe nothing to you, despite all the faith you put in them." He stepped back, face settling into a mask of indifference. "Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow, along with Stannis Baratheon and his advisors now know of you and your…plans."

Silence settled as Viserys Targaryen struggled to not release a shrill scream of frustration. Loyalty, loyalty, loyalty — the sole thing that seemed to always fail him. Ser Darren lied to him, made him lose all their riches, and live like a rat because of his secrets. The friends Viserys met throughout all these years, Magisters of the same kind as Illyrio and oily peasants scrambling for high positions such as the Spider that always failed him when he needed them most. Slaves and slavers alike he met, and none ever stayed with him. Unwanted, fear grappled at his heart, squeezing it. He sneaked a look at Ser Jorah, somberly watching the Spider with dark eyes, and felt something in him relax.

Not all of them.

"No matter," he said after taking a deep breath, Viserys sprawled in his chair, raising one hand so he could rest his chin on his fist. Fury bubbled in his stomach, a dragon roaring inside wanting nothing but to steal the little Targaryen princess away. "Khal Drogo was just one of many. And his savage slaves were poorly trained to so easily fail in their duties, it was to be expected." He sneered, distaste for a savage baboon making his mouth taste sour. "That coward cannot reach for me in the sea, and if he dares to touch a king on land…" he snapped his gaze back at Varys, fire in his lilac irises. "My humble servants will rise to defend me, I'm sure."

Varys smiled, "but of course," he bowed, "your Grace."

Viserys watched the eunuch, waiting. Waves crashed against the hull, making the ship rock. The lull of the movement was one of his favorite things when the sea was kind and made him feel like he was in his mother's arms again. Now, with the spider dallying in front of him, that peace was being sullied. "Is that all? If yes, then leave my presence at once."

The Spider's smile stretched wide until his eyes closed. "My little birds have all made their new nests. One of them fell from the tree, but they managed to sing loud and clear to me before going silent," dark eyes peered at him, making Viserys want to fidget. "They confirmed some things before their silence."

"And what were those things?"

Varys' smile fell, his shoulders moving back as he spoke. "There's a spymaster up North, and that spymaster works for Jon Snow. A Bolton bastard by the name of Ramsay Snow, a previous spy for Lord Roose Bolton whom Jon Snow somehow managed to seduce to his side," he walked closer to Viserys. "Your brother-in-law seems quite the charismatic character. He has a following, a proper one, all of them coming from all corners of Westeros. Enamored with him as their leader. They protect him fiercely." Unlike yours do you, Viserys heard, unsaid. His hands fisted tightly, shaking, but he remained silent.

Words echo in his head — "You must be worthy, Viserys. You must be worthy." —and make him dizzy with fury. "He is a sham!" He hisses out, slamming his hands on top of his desk. "Filth that sours our family name! He stains the blood of the dragons by putting his dirty little cock into my sister, putting bastards in her! Filthy lying things for him to try and steal my throne — BLACKFYRES THEY WILL BE! That Stark bastard must die! He is unworthy!"

Varys only raised an eyebrow, "not to your sister." Viserys froze, watching him in his stillness with growing dread, Ser Darren's voice haunting his ears. "He has gained her favor and that of Stannis. His spymaster, fledgling as he may be, found some of mine and Littlefinger's agents and acts swiftly by cutting them out. Your sister aids her bastard husband in the building of Queenscrown under this new player's rising protection. Right now, they ride for Castle Black, where they shall decide their roles within the Night's Watch and the Gift, uncontrolled by the Iron Throne and, now, far away from our watch. Behind them, a retinue of Valemen, Westermen, bastards, and many other kinds of the misfortune led by none other than the Bolton heir march for Queenscrown searching for land and riches. Whispers of how the Targaryens of the North are finding odd ways to help their people, few as they can be, are on every Westerosi mouth. Daenerys Targaryen walks amongst her people and asks what they need and Jon Snow makes it happen while under the tutelage of Stannis Baratheon."

He stepped closer until his scent overwhelmed all of Viserys' senses. "I've seen dynasties fall and rise, sire," he whispers, soft and lyrical. His clear eyes shone as the light coming from the window behind Viserys' fell into his irises. "I beg you to hear me when I say this; it is not the Dothraki Khal or something as little as your family's blood being dishonored you have to fear."

("You—you are promised, Viserys." Ser Darren's grip on his hand was bruising, pulling him with all he had towards his sickbed. Viserys sneered, trying to free himself from the sick man. His own grip on his travel bag tightened, the leather biting into his soft hands. "You must be worthy of her, of them."

"Let me go, you sick old man!")

"What of Dorne?" he whispered, gulping. All he needed was to get word to Dorne; everything would be well if that was accomplished.

Varys looked into him, tilted his head and smiled, stepping back.

"I barely managed to get word to them. The Bolton bastard was a truly magnificent beast, but it's done. Word will reach Dorne." His heart soared. Yes, he thought. After years, finally, his plans would come to fruition.

"Then, we sail to Dorne." He grinned, standing at once and looking at Ser Jorah, who smiled back at him with a nod. "Ser Jorah, sent word at once, we sail South! Years I have waited; now is the best moment to play the game."

("You must be worthy, my king.")

The Spider's next words took away all the joy. "We sail for Pentos, to Mopatis' manse," the Spider declared softly, an order if he ever saw one. Viserys found the will to not sneer back at him, despite the despair and rage burning in his chest.

"What have we to do at that disgusting magister's manse? The plan was to sail to Dorne, for me to finally meet—"

"The plan has changed," the bald man immediately dismissed him, stepping away. "Everything has changed. You will not remain ignorant. We must plan." He turned around, opening the cabin door and stopping at its threshold. Varys look at him over his shoulder, clear eyes turning dark in the shadows. "It is time you meet someone." And he went away, like smoke in the sky.

Viserys screams, slamming his hands on the table and pushing everything sitting on top of it to the floor. Clashes echoed in the room, papers thrown askew to the floor. He spun around and let himself fall onto the windowsill, grip so hard his fingers hurt. Jorah remained silent and tense behind him, ready to obey his every order. He could almost hear the other saying—

"We should be rid of him."

Viserys smiled bitterly, eyes locked on the horizon. "I know," and he does. He wanted to be rid of that insolent piece of a shit slave, but he can't. Everything in him itched to kill that bastard, and if he gave in — he would. Swiftly and without regret. But then— the throne. His plans.

His way into Dorne.

("You are promised, Viserys. Dorne—Dorne, you must be worthy of them. Of her. The throne will be yours, but only if you are worthy.")

He cursed softly, "fucking old man can't just die already." One of his hand grips his head, fisting blue hair until his scalp stung. "Just leave me be."

"My king?" Viserys turned his face up, meeting Jorah's hard eyes. "You have your people; killing the spider and proceeding to Dorne is doable. What he has that could stop us?"

What did he have indeed?

Everything, his mind said. His way into Westeros. His contact to Illyrio. Too many loose ends if that man died.

Viserys could not afford the East turning against him, and Illyrio would surely do ensure that should he know Varys died in his care. They were their main investors, Viserys could do nothing for now but obey.

What a king he was.

He swallowed, clenched his eyes shut, and took a deep breath. One step at a time. You give something, you gain something. You take something, you lose something. "Let him live." King Viserys opened his eyes, breathed in deeply, and regained his composure. Face freed of thought, loose and relaxed, he turned around and sat in his makeshift throne. "Let us see where the pieces fall." He looked around his cabin, sighing softly. "Call for someone to clean this mess and change our course to Pentos."

Jorah watched him somberly but did not refute his orders. He bowed, "it shall be done, Your Grace."

And then Viserys was left alone with his ghosts.

("You must be worthy.")

•••

Don't ask me when the next update comes, I dunno.

Anyways, I want to thank yall. Like, every single one of you who commented. I've been having issues and anxiety with fic and shit but today I sat and read your comments and then read the last chapter I updated and said damn, I should write more. i wanna write more. and then I read your comments again and read the next chapter I had like 98% done for like months now, maybe a year. how long has been since season 8? feels like a decade. anyways, y'all make me wanna write again despite my growing aversion to GoT.

i love cob tho so I'll just try and disassociate from the source material or something? i /

comments your ideas and shits, I'm buzzing with anxiety but hey fuck that.

from this moment on, we say fuck canon, kids. so that means I have completely disregarded every single detail about Jon. he's basically an oc to me now. he HAS TO BE. otherwise I cannot deal with his stupidity. like, I can't bros. his STUPID SEASON 8 FACE, I CAAANNNNTNNTTTTTTT. so brutal Jon with bromance with ramsay to the end my bros. my Jon is anime now I don't know who that kit dude is he has no association with the Jon anime emo boy I picture. and that's on period. sansa is going to be my little angel of hope *hiss*

dany will be a goddess queen and that's that on that.

also, stay safe, stay home and read fanfiction! write long ass comments! two comments? GIMME COMMENTS. we all know we been doing little but game and read fanfiction. (that's me at least)

see you in a week, or a year, or a decade.