A/N: REVIEW FOR IT FEEDS MY ETERNAL ENGINE OF CREATION! It keeps usssss alive!

I'm kidding of course, feel free to do as you please, dear reader.

Feels good to be back in the saddle again!

Game of Thrones for life!

I'm back, baby!

Whooo~!

I wrote this partly to test the waters and partially because I was challenged. If you like it? Great. The requester *redacted* was given this story as asked, but it seemed a shame to let it mothball and waste away, so I asked them if I could publish it. They were fine with it, so here we are. Again, if you like it and wish to see an unconventional take on things in which Tyrion isn't treated like an utter idiot by D&D, then great.

This quote gives a hint as to why our favorite blond is in Westeros.

"I curse you, Uzumaki Naruto. May your victory be ash. May your joy turn to ash in your mouth.

May you wander for all time. May you never know rest.

May you never know peace."

~a goddess.

And Who Are You?

This was not whom he'd expected.

When the door to Tyrion Lannister's cell abruptly creaked open in the dead of night, he'd thought it was death waiting for him on the other side. That his lord father had grown tired of this perpetuating this grand farce and finally decided to end his life. He would be facing the Mountain tomorrow, alone. With no champion to stand for him. Perhaps he simply didn't wish to wait that long, and thus elected to end his life here and now in the wee hours before dawn. It would be a mercy. He did not envy his chances against Gregor Clegane. Or perhaps it would be Jaime, come to save him.

Yet it was not his father who emerged.

Nor was it Jaime, either.

Or even Cersei.

No, when the door swung back to reveal the flame of a torch, when the weary Lannister squinted against this sudden light among the dark, when his vision finally cleared enough to discern some slender semblance of a silhouette, found himself face to face with a young man. One he didn't recognize at that. But he saw the empty dagger's sheathe in his belt all the same. In a moment of wild, inarticulate fear the dwarf actually considered lunging at him, but thought better of it at the last. Even if he somehow made it past this stranger the guard behind him would no doubt execute him on the spot for trying to escape.

The door creaked ponderously shut behind his guest, denying him that swift death.

He found his face in fire.

Wild blue eyes stood out amongst a whiskered visage framed by an unkempt mop of blond hair; one that looked to be in dire need of a good brushing and a wash besides. Those keen orbs held his the moment he set foot into the cell, locking onto him with all fury and intensity of a singular passion. His armor-if one could call it that-consisted of little more than worn blue-on-black traveling leathers over which he'd thrown some faded green vest of foreign origin. Poor fool. He looked like he'd seen better days.

"So." when he spoke, he betrayed his age. "You're the imp."

Tyrion fought down a grimace.

Even after all these years, the name still stung. He'd learned to ignore it over time, to shrug off such spite with smiles, but nothing could quite blunt the silent sting that the accursed title brought. Imp. Dwarf. Half-man. Kinslayer. Monster. You who killed your mother to come into this world. Gods, he needed a drink. But curiosity reared its ugly head in him and he couldn't bring himself to turn this stranger away. After all, he would be dead by morning. What did he have to lose?

So he climbed down off his cot, spread his arms wide, feigned a smile he didn't feel, and addressed the newcomer.

"Here I am." the words emerged as a hoarse croak, not at all what he'd intended. "I'm afraid you have me at something of a disadvantage, ser...?

A sharp and short laugh echoed in the waning light of the black cell, low and bemused by the insinuation, though no offense was taken. "No, not a ser. Not a knight, either. I'm not from these parts. You wouldn't know my mother or my father." When he stabbed a hand into his belt, Tyrion fought down a flinch. But rather than a dagger it was a water-skin that sailed toward him, laden heavy with drink. He knew at once, because he actually caught the damn thin and realized it was full to bursting with wine.

"Take it." his visitor commanded. "Drink. You look like you need it more than me."

Tyrion uncorked it with only the faintest flicker of hesitation.

"Its not poisoned, I trust?" he asked.

The blond slowly tilted his head.

"Would you like it to be?"

The surprisingly benign inquiry caught the dwarf in mid-sip and he nearly whoofed it back out with a gasp. It was only the man's laughter that stilled his fears and prevented him from hurling the drink in his face. His was not the laughter of a cruel man, but one who played an amusing prank. Keen blue eyes twinkled back at him in the fading firelight, quietly bemused by his reaction.

"Relax," his voice soothed, "I didn't leave Dorne just to poison you. Drink your fill."

Tyrion frowned, but did as he was bade.

There it was, the first nugget of information thrown down for him to inspect. Even in his battered state the little lion's mind remained keen as ever. He paused, taking another look at the stranger who had come to witness his final moments. He didn't look Westerosi but neither could he be call a foreigner either. A Northman he was most assuredly not, but neither could he be called Dornish either. He hadn't seen him with Prince Oberyn's party, which suggested they'd hidden him of he'd come of his own volition. Perhaps he hailed from the Summer Isles. Perhaps not. Who knew? Origins aside, there was a far more pressing matter that demanded his attention.

"Why are you here, friend?" he inquired.

"I wanted to see the man who killed a mad king." the stranger gave an immediate rejoinder, dropping to his haunches to get a better look at him. "I never got to see the last one."

"Robert or Aerys?"

Something ugly twisted behind that young face.

"Aerys."

Aha. There was a story there to be sure, but all the gods old and new told Tyrion not to press the matter any further. Some sixth sense shrieked at him when he opened his mouth, telling him that if he did, he would die as surely as Joffrey had. Choking and gasping for breath. So, in spite of his own burning curiosity, the littlest Lannister bit the side of his cheek and reduced himself to stoic silence. When at last he sorted out his thoughts and trusted his tongue not to betray him; only then did he dare to speak.

"You still haven't answered my question."

"What does it matter who I am? I have a unique set of skills and a dislike of all things Lannister." came the ready reply. "I would use them to help you."

A seed of hope planted itself in Tyrion's chest, but he stubbornly smothered it before it could take root. "Men don't do things for free." he disparaged his would-be ally, still not trusting to his words. "And though my lord father is often fond of saying otherwise, I am indeed a Lion."

"I require no payment." those wide blue eyes regarded him for a long, piercing moment. "And you are not a Lannister."

Silence ensued.

"You don't believe me." the stranger rocked back on his heels, chuckling softly. "You think that I'm a phony, some jester come to wring you out of the last of your coin. That's alright. Most people don't trust me when they first meet me. Doesn't matter. Perhaps a demonstration would prove my worth."

He paused just long enough to set the torch into a brazier.

To turn, and face him completely.

Then his hands...blurred.

In the hours that followed, Tyrion would wonder if he dreamed the rest. If they were merely the delusions of a man destined to die. Perhaps it was the wine. Perhaps he was mad. Regardless, it didn't change what he saw nor what transpired. He watched the young man wave an empty hand over the torch, dimming its light. He saw him step back into the subsequent shadows that swelled to take their place. And when he emerged, that odd the young man was gone, as though he'd never been.

In his place, of all people, stood Cersei.

"Hello, little brother." she smiled at him. "Did you miss me?"

Tyrion jerked back as if he'd been struck and flung the wineskin away.

Still, his guest made no move to accost him, much less threaten him with harm.

He smiled at him with her face, spoke at him with her voice, moved with her body, gazed at him with her eyes.

"When you've been around as long as I have," his-her?-words oozed out at him like poisoned honey as she stepped into the shadows, "Life tends to lose its meaning. Kings come and go, rulers are cunts no matter the line or name, and the people always suffer for it. Then I heard tell of a man who killed a nasty little shit named Joffrey. Kingslayer they called him. Like his brother. Good on him, I thought. Joffrey was a rotten little shit. Bad leader, bad for his people, bad for a kingdom. Probably would've killed him sooner or later myself. Then you did. It caught my attention. And here you are."

When he stepped out of the shadows again he wore Jaime's form, armor and all.

"Rotting for a crime you didn't commit."

Yet the imitation was imperfect; his beloved brother's golden hand was nowhere to be seen, in place this "copy" bore a fresh limb in its place.

"You didn't do it, did you?" it was phrased like a question yet Jaime's voice mocked him still. "I know the look of a guilty man. Yours? Not it." he paused, considering the hand he shouldn't have. "Hmm. Not quite right, I take it? Makes this easier, I suppose." A short step carried him backward into the shadows once more, the light fading further still. "I wanted an excuse to strike at the Lannisters and I admit, I wasn't entirely sure about you until we met...but now...

When next he stepped into the light, when next he emerged, Tyrion found himself face to face with Tywin himself.

...I've never been mere certain about anything in my life."

Oh, he was good.

Whomever he was he was very good indeed. Not only the voice but the tone as well. He could very well be mistaken for the real Tywin himself. It was a facsimile of course, but a damned passable one at that. The sight of a smile-that smile!-on his lord father's face was more chilling than anything he'd seen in recent memory. Forget the wineskin, he'd need an entire barrel to get over this.

"Could you please...stop?" Tyrion croaked. "This all disturbing, and I don't have nearly enough wine."

His father's weathered face creased in a flinty smile. "As you wish."

Another rush of smoke and the young man-or was he?-stood before him once more.

And in the silence, the Imp was left to ponder what he'd just seen.

"By the gods, who are you?"

After a moment he drew his dagger and knelt. "Many things."

"Used to be no one." the blond hummed, uncaring for the baffled look it gained him. "Got tired of it after awhile. Started doing what I do now."

At first, Tyrion didn't fully grasp his intentions, much less the reasoning behind. The shock likely had something to do with that; his once infamous wit found itself momentarily dulled by the sheer spectacle he just borne witness to. But his mind was quick to recover and he grasped the situation mere moments before the whiskered warrior spoke. It didn't stop his heart from lurching at the words that followed in their wake:

"They call me the Man of Many Faces. But you?"

Pearly white teeth flashed back at him in the gloom.

"You can call me Naruto." his grin grew. "And I will fight for you."

A/N: Mountain's in for a bad time.

Alrighty there now, wait, stop PAUSE!

Naruto is of course, Naruto. Not quite who he claims to be, but still Naruto.

There's quite a story to be had there, but we'll save that for the next chapter, eh? Suffice it to say he's...been alive for awhile. As to why he bothered to seek out Tyrion...

...that's a story for another time.

First off, he's not a Faceless Man. Lets get the out of the way right quick. He's just abusing the hell of the transformation jutsu, which is VERY dangerous in Westeros. Think about it for a moment, if you dare. Any shinobi with even a moderate grasp on that technique could wreak havoc in Westeros. They could become anyone. Almost anything.

Think of this as more of a comedic adventure between, and less a romance.

I wrote this just to test the waters and simply because I was challenged. If you like it? Great. The requester *redacted* was given this story as asked, but it seemed a shame to let it mothball and waste away, so I asked them if I could publish it. They were fine with it, so here we are. Again, if you like it and wish to see an unconventional take on things in which Tyrion isn't treated like an utter idiot by D&D, then great.

If you don't?

It'll be gone in two days.

So there we are. Hope you enjoy.

Now, I'm about to get my chest cut open...fun stuff.

So...in the Immortal Words of Atlas...

...Review, Would You Kindly? And of course, enjoy the preview!

(Previews!)

Gregor Clegane laughed.

"You're small. Tiny. I'll crush you."

His opponent merely beckoned him forward.

"And who are you, the proud lord said, that I must bow so low...

Tyrion sighed.

"Must you keep humming that?"

Blue eyes twinkled merrily. "What? Its catchy."

R&R~! =D