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TYRION LANNISTER

He awoke in darkness, the musty smell of mold and shit filling his nose. So he was still in King's Landing, that was a relief.

"We should kill him now," A slurred accent argued, a harsh bite to their words. "It's what the lion deserves."

"And what of us?" A more pronounced accent whispered, "If Tywin Lannister finds out who truly took his son—"

"Who would believe him when the Starks would want retribution for their Lord?" The first voice snapped, impatient as the seven hells themselves. "We kill him, and the world looks everywhere but us."

"And start a war in the process." A new voice joined the fray, this one male and stern. Tyrion recognized that tone. He'd heard father use it on Jaime many times before. It didn't take long for Tyrion to put the pieces together.

The slurred accents, the hatred for his father, the new voice. Light flooded his vision, although it wasn't much better than the sack that had served as his helmet for the past few minutes.

Tyrion met the narrowed gaze of Prince Oberyn Martell, a sly smirk on his face as two figures remained in the shadows.

"Keeping him here should give us the time we need," The Prince spoke, dark eyes narrowing at the man before him. Tyrion was used to feeling powerless, especially among the mockery of the court, but even then he'd had the Lannister name to force them to fear him. Here the Lannister name was what would get him killed if he wasn't careful. Prince Oberyn squatted to the floor until he was level with Tyrion's eyesight, "At last we meet Tyrion Lannister."

He didn't bother interacting with the prince, knowing exactly what the Martells wanted. Vengeance. For their dead Princess.

And he was the best Lannister to trick.

Jaime was off in the Riverlands, Cersei was rotting in the Black Cells, and Joffery sat on the throne.

It is a shame they chose the least valuable Lannister to bargain with. Tywin Lannister would rather like to see Tyrion's head on a pike, and so the Martell's plans began to fall apart.

"If you plan to use me to exact vengeance against my father—"

Oberyn tsked, shaking his head as he stood up, grasping a knife from his side and twirling it in his hands, "You truly think so little of us Lannister? We do not seek to punish children for their father's crimes." The knife arced down until it splintered the wood between Tyrion's fingers, the blade barely missing his hand, Oberyn Martell's gaze narrowed, "Not yet anyway. You still need to watch the show."

The sounds of jeering and yelling was heard just outside the window of the brothel he was still in.

He'd missed the later events of the day due to both his drunken stupor and "Aya's" draught of poison, but from the sound of the crowd, Tyrion knew it wasn't anything to celebrate. A cacophony of jeers and protests mixed with the sounds of something wet slapping against skin gave it away.

Someone's head was about to be placed on a pike, and Oberyn Martell was going to make him watch the entire ceremony. For what, he didn't know.

As some form of torture for Tywin Lannister's crimes against his sister? As a way to remind Tyrion that he himself wasn't immortal? Perhaps the offender on the receiving end of the execution was Cersei herself, and the Martells wished to have company as the woman who tried to kill Doran Martell's heir was sentenced to death.

Tyrion shook his head inwardly at the thought. No, even in prison Cersei would figure out a way to escape the clutches of death.

She was remarkably talented at that. Not at much else, but Cersei Lannister was a survivor. To see her head roll to the ground was merely wishful thinking on Tyrion's part.

The curtains flooded open to reveal the open square surrounding the Sept of Baelor, citizens of Flea Bottom gathered in numbers to watch King Joffery's first public execution.

Tyrion scoffed inwardly. His demonic nephew as King. The crown had truly fallen far from the glory it once held.

There were seldom few who actually deserved the title of King, but considering Westeros had been ruled by brother and sister-fuckers for the past three hundred years, perhaps he shouldn't be surprised.

"I'm disappointed," The Red Viper leaned against the window frame, his arms crossed over his partially exposed chest, the rays of the Kings Landing sun making his widow's peak even more pronounced than it already was. "I heard stories of the Great Tyrion Lannister, a monster who could talk his way intro victory," Prince Oberyn shrugged, "But you haven't said a word since my daughters dragged you here."

Tyrion's chuckle was weak, "Your daughters..." He should've known. The snake had always been gifted with a large brood, vipers all like their father, except they ensnared the deadliest of prey.

Men who held power.

Men like Tyrion.

Damn his cock and his lust for wine. "Am I right in assuming my sellsword was also a victim of yours?"

The slurred voice from before pierced through his ears, "He was unimportant. We were really only after you."

"Although I wouldn't mind a turn with him when this is all over," Tyrion recognized the voice that interrupted her sister. A blonde with innocent eyes twisted her lips into a deadly smirk. She looked the very opposite of the woman beside her, a much older dornishwoman with the same pronounced widow's peak and oil black hair as her father and a sharper face. A long braid cascaded down her shoulder, as opposed to her sister's flowing blond locks.

The only feature they seemed to share was the brown skin that matched the salty coloring of the dornish and the same almond shaped eyes.

Oberyn shot a stern look at the two girls, although neither one seemed phased by it.

The world outside quieted, and Tyrion was suddenly drawn to the spectacle that was taking place below him.

King's Landing never quieted. Not even for an execution. There was always yells and sneers and taunts abounding. So what had brought the crowd to such a standstill?

The answer made Tyrion's throat clog up, not in surprise, but something else. Something he could't quite pinpoint.

Eddard Stark knelt down on the marble steps, his red-headed daughter just a few paces to his left, beside her future husband and king. Sansa, Tyrion recalled her name. Her eyes were wide, but she didn't look afraid. At least, not for her own life.

Father and daughter exchanged a look and Ned Stark faced the crowd that had defiled his name.

"I am Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the King." Stark took a deep breath and Tyrion found himself breathing along with him, "I come before you to confess my treason in the sight of gods and men...I betrayed the trust of my friend Robert." A pause, "I swore to protect and defend his wife and children, and yet, before his body was even joined with the gods I plotted to overthrow his legacy. Imprisoning his Queen and...attempting to murder his son, King Joffery, on his coronation day— in order to seize the throne for myself."

Gasps and yells erupted from the crowd, and suddenly Tyrion understood what this spectacle was all about. A way for Joffery to play the merciful or just king, to show leniency or to punish the lord before the sight of gods and men.

The seven never listened to prayers, as far as Tyrion figured, the gods didn't exist. But that didn't mean people didn't believe in them. And sometimes belief was a far greater weapon than a sword.

"Let the High Septon and Baelor the Blessed bear witness to what I have to say," Eddard Stark continued, Cersei's words spoken in the Warden of the North's voice, "Joffery Baratheon is the one true heir to the Iron Throne. By the grace of all his gods, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."

Tyrion scoffed. His nephew was king of nothing, the furthest thing from a protector since the Mad King himself.

Joffery was a child with the entitlement of a conqueror, and that made him dangerous. Hopefully the next Hand of the King would do a better job of reining him in.

Pycelle's words were as hollow as Ned Stark's before him, simply appeasing the person with the most power. "What is to be done with this traitor, Your Grace?"

Traitor.

Now that was one word Tyrion had never thought to use to describe Lord Stark. The only person more honorable than the Lord of Winterfell was Jon Arryn himself, and that precisely, was why Tyrion had hoped to keep Ned Stark alive and in his sights rather than dead and on a pike.

Joffery's golden crown gleamed as he stepped forward, something akin to a smile on his face as he faced the crowds. "Lord Stark had admitted his crimes before the gods and men, and that will not go unheard. Baelor the Blessed was merciful, and so is my mother," Joffery gestured toward a new figure, whose golden hair and crimson dress made Tyrion's fists clench. Cersei stood with her head high, looking every inch a Queen despite the days she'd spent in the Black Cells. "A victim of Lord Stark's treachery herself, she has asked for his release to the Night's Watch, where he will be stripped of all power and titles, to serve out the remainder of his sentence protecting the realm, as was the promise he made to my father."

Joffery turned toward his betrothed, "And the Lady Sansa...has begged mercy for her father. As I should have with mine."

Tyrion waited with bated breath, and Oberyn looked as calm as ever. In fact, the Viper didn't even seem phased by the possibility of Ned Stark losing his titles. Perhaps because he knew that the Wall was where his sister's daughter was right now, and the Martells had a greater plan set in motion than what was revealed.

Joffery turned toward the crowd, "But they have the soft hearts of women, and as long as I'm your King, treason will not go unpunished." And then Joffery turned toward his executioner and spoke the words that would plunge the realm into chaos, "Ser Ilyn, bring me his head."

Oberyn's demeanor shifted, and suddenly his hand was on his dagger.

"Father—" The black haired woman spoke up, a glint of silver in her hand as the world erupted into chaos below them.

"Send word to Doran and Nymeria immediately," Oberyn ordered, turning toward the blonde, "Tyene, secure him."

Tyrion struggled against the ropes, but it did little good. The sweet concoction was down his throat in seconds, black spots dancing before his eyes as the sound of steel against skin filled his head, mixing with the screams of women and children below him.

"Forgive me Lannister," Oberyn spoke mockingly, "The seven kingdoms will be at war soon, and we all need hostages."

Tyrion's sight turned black once more.

***

JON SNOW

He stared out at the training yard, gently nursing his burned hand as he waited for Lord Commander Mormont to return from his meeting with the other members of the watch. Maester Aemon had encouraged Jon not to worry about the weeks of training he would miss while his hand healed.

"A Stark is leagues ahead in training than the best watchman," Sam had told him the day after the attack, "You'll be back to being the best of us in no time."

But Jon wasn't a Stark, he thought bitterly. He never would be.

The door creaked open and Jeor Mormont strode forward, his heavy black coat weighing his shoulders down.

His gaze lingered on Jon for far longer than he was used to, although he resisted the urge to fidget.

"When does Aemon think you'll be able to use that hand?" Mormont asked in his familiar gruff manner.

Jon simply shrugged, trying not to seem too bothered by the silence hanging between them. He was meant to be used to it as Mormont's steward, but instead it just reminded him of the long silences in Winterfell as he stood behind his siblings whenever they received a member of their vassal houses.

Never to be seen, never to be heard.

"Soon, he says," Jon replied in a curt manner, not wanting to dwell on the incident any further. It wasn't possible. Those figures from last night couldn't be anything but shades from his nightmares.

Stuff that Old Nan would use to scare them to sleep.

Nothing more.

Lord Mormont nodded in affirmation, pressing his lips together as he reached around the desk in his solar and pulled out a large scabbard dressed in black. The color of the Night's watch. "Good, you'll be ready for this then," He held it across his fingertips, bridging the gap between him and Jon.

Jon's eyes caught sight of the pommel first, something that didn't go unnoticed, "I thought a wolf more appropriate for you than a bear so l had a new pommel made," The white of the hilt contrasted against the dark steel of the sword, red eyes painted in an eerily similar fashion to Ghost's own gaze. Jon was speechless. Valyrian Steel. The sacred weapon of House Mormont was now in his hands, and it's Lord had freely given it to him. A bastard. The bastard of House Stark. The mark of dishonor on a Great House. "lt's called Longclaw," Mormont continued with a wry smile, "Works as well for a wolf as a bear, l think."

Longclaw.

It befitted a sword like this.

But it didn't belong in his hands.

"This is Valyrian steel," was all Jon managed to stutter out.

Mormont's eyes broke into a prideful look, "lt was my father's sword, his father before him," The older man sat down behind his desk, staring at the relic in Jon's hands, "The Mormonts have carried it for five centuries. lt was meant for my son Jorah," The Lord Commander's voice tensed as he said the name of his son, not unlike the way Father's used to say Jon's, "He brought dishonor to our House, but he had the grace to leave the sword before he fled from Westeros."

Another northern son bringing dishonor. Jon couldn't accept. He wouldn't accept. He wasn't fit for a sword like this, he wasn't meant for a sword like this. He was a bastard, a brother of the night's watch, not the son of a lord. Not anymore. "My lord, you honor me, but l can't –"

"Oh, you can," Mormont cut him off without so much as a look his way, "And you will. l wouldn't be standing here if it wasn't for you and your beast," Mormont spat out, something akin to a chuckle escaping him, "A bloody dead man tried to kill me, so you'll take it. l'll hear no more about it. ls that understood?" His gaze bore into Jon's and for a moment everything shifted.

He wasn't the bastard of a great house anymore.

He was a brother of the Night's Watch. And he'd earned this sword the way Uncle Benjen earned his role as First Ranger.

It wasn't because he was Ned Stark's son or because he was some sort of noble. Mormont had gifted him this because he'd earned it. Not because he was entitled to it. Jon had never been entitled to anything, but he'd earned this.

"Yes, my lord." Jon spoke solemnly, thinking of Nymeria weeping in the snow, of Ethan bleeding out, of the heart tree he'd spoken his vows too.

He stared down at the sword in his hand, and for a brief moment, his lips twitched upward into a smile.

***

NYMERIA MARTELL

She shivered in her furs, making her way toward the fire burning by the gate. Her room was too cold these days and she didn't have any desire to go to sleep anytime soon. His face still haunted her, and the cold bite of Valyrian steel dug into her side with each step she took. It weighed her down, along with the letter she crushed in her hand.

Her family had made it to King's Landing.

Oberyn and Tyene and Trystane and Obara and Nym.

They were all there and she was stuck up here.

Snow descended around her, and she couldn't bring herself to look at it. Grenn and Pyp had told her that she would get used to it, that eventually she'd find the beauty that all Northerners were forced to accept.

But she still hadn't. She didn't think she ever would. All she felt was cold.

Nymeria tried not to let her offense show as several Nights Watchmen abandoned the fire when she approached. Their glares dug into her, icy and unfeeling like the terrain they'd called home.

Alone in a frozen wasteland, surrounded by strangers who hated her, she considered her options.

She could abandon the quest for her Uncle's pride and join her cousins in King's Landing. The journey would last a long month but she was sure the royal family could not refuse the Princess of Dorne. She scoffed. Not like that had stopped them before.

But as her eyes fixated on the falling snow around her, something sunk deep into her bones, replacing the chill she'd grown used to.

Icy gazes and a tight grip flooded her mind, hand gently massaging the area Othor refused to let go of.

She hadn't had a restful night since.

Nymeria's hands shook as she gripped the dragon bone handle of the lengthy dagger, Valyrian steel glittering against the flames.

"What's it called?" A soft voice punctured her thoughts and Nymeria lifted her gaze to find Sam Tarly staring at her, trying just as hard to bundle himself as she was.

It took her a moment to realize he was talking about the dagger. "I don't know," She confessed, the gleam of the blade almost catching the moonlight, "It was a gift so I don't think it has a name."

Sam scoffed, "All blades made of Valyrian steel have names," He spoke matter-of-factly, "Brightroar, Longclaw, Heartsbane, Ice..."

Nymeria chuckled slightly, her heart not fully in it. At a loss of what to do, she turned toward the portly boy with a smile, "Haven't heard of those last two."

Sam's eyes lit up and he began to ramble, "Heartsbane is the ancestral sword of House Tarly. I was supposed to wield it before..." He trailed off, his Adam's apple moving up and down as he gulped. "Anyway. Ice is the ancestral sword of House Stark. Jon could probably tell you more than I could, but..."

Nymeria waited patiently in silence before Sam continued on.

"It's not like Longclaw or the others. It's a greatsword like the Dayne's have." Nymeria's snapped to attention at the sound of her father's House. He'd wielded Dawn once upon a time. And then Ned Stark cut him down. Probably with the same sword Sam was admiring now. "Last I heard, Lord Stark had taken it with him to King's Landing, so it's probably not been used in quite some time."

She nodded in agreement, biting down on her lip as she stared at the flames, twirling the blade in her hands. "Yes, well, those are swords, I don't think a dagger is quite as deserving of a name."

Sam shrugged, "You never know. I've seen you fight, there's a lot of great deeds you could do with that dagger. As many as a sword."

This time her chuckle was real, lips spreading into a genuine smile at the boy's innocence. He almost sounded like he admired her. "Yes, well, If I ever do find a name for it, you'll be the first person I tell, Samwell Tarly."