25

Chapter Text

Catelyn II

'My Dearest Catelyn,

I can only pray that my letter reaches you in time. There are foul matters afoot in King's Landing, matters spinning out of control that I cannot go into details of. I fear that your husband has made some choices that put you and your children in harm's way. Eddard Stark is a good, noble man, of this I have no doubt, but good, noble men do not thrive in a royal court. It is not a place for the honest or trustworthy, and I'm afraid Ned has bitten off more than he can chew. 

By the time you read this, you may already have learned of the mess Cersei Lannister is attempting to lay at Ned's feet. The woman is mad, there is no question about that, and I do not think many will believe her claims, but, for the moment, it matters not. The chaos in the capital, and the death or 'disappearance' all of Robert's immediate heirs have allowed Cersei to maintain her power. The Small Council and others are grasping at the Iron Throne, but, as Robert's widow, and the mother of the only royal child thought to still be alive, Cersei still has a strong claim. And, after the death of Tywin Lannister, she and her twin have assumed control of what Lannister forces are in the city. Whether they'll be able to maintain that control has yet to be seen as I'm sure that Kevan Lannister is considering his next moves carefully. 

Despite this, we should count ourselves lucky that things are not worse. Cersei attempted to take many of the other nobles, especially their children, into custody. Why, she even tried to abduct your lovely youngest daughter! I'm sure it was only by pure luck that she managed to escape, as was the case with the many others to avoid capture. Not everyone managed to avoid capture though, Cersei still managed to seize around a dozen minor houses. I fear for their safety.

Thankfully, I was able to flee the city as well. My close ties with you and your family, and, by extension, both the Starks and the Arryns, have made me a target as well. I would never betray you of course, but, if I am to be of help to anyone, I could not stay. As you read this, I am en route to the Eyrie to meet with your sister. With Jon Arryn dead, her son will be the new Lord of the Vale and Warden of the East. But, as I'm sure you know, young Sweetrobin is a frail, ill boy. Such a large responsibility will not come easy to him. I need to be there to help him and Lysa navigate the storm that will be coming.

This leads to my second reason for writing.

Dearest Cat, I worry for your son. Everything I've heard about Robb Stark tells me that he is a capable young man. But he is still young. Being charged with leading the North until such time that his father returns is a great responsibility. He needs you to guide him in these coming times. And I ask that you allow me to help you. 

Years in King's Landing have left me with a wealth of knowledge about Cersei Lannister and her allies, few as they may be now. Additionally, I have enough of my own men in King's Landing that, even far from the city, I know what is going on. We must not delude ourselves, there will be war. And, knowing Cersei Lannister, she'll see everyone not actively supporting her as an enemy and treat them as such—including poor Lysa and the rest of your family. 

I fear for what could happen to them all, especially your Lord Father, so I beg you to advise your son to gather his men and lead them down south to meet up with Tully and Arryn men. Together, the army should have no issue with the forces Cersei can muster. 

I trust you, Cat, and I know that you want to do what is best for your family and your people. And I know you'll want to believe in your son, but, in your deepest of hearts, do you trust him with this task? If you have even the slightest doubt, you need to take control and do what you know is right.

-Yours loyally,

Petyr

In the privacy of her quarters, Cat reread Petyr's letter over and over again. It had been years since she heard from her childhood friend—not since the small, standard letter of congratulations that she and Ned had gotten after Rickon's birth— so to receive such a thing was a surprise. The contents of the letter even more so. 

She'd known that Petyr had done well for himself over the years, climbing high on the ladder of King's Landing's court; it was no surprise that the man would be aware of the goings-ons of the city. Cat was thankful that it had been enough to allow him to escape unharmed, for though she had not seen him in many years, and they did not part on the best of terms, it would have broken her heart to lose such an old friend. 

'And yet now he wants me to manipulate my own son,' she thought.

But was it truly manipulation to suggest a sound idea? 

Petyr —and Ned— were right, a war was coming, and they'd need as much support as possible if they were to weather the coming storm. The Knights of the Vale were well-known for their strength in battle, and Tully men were no slouches either. Wars also required supplies, which the North lacked, while the Riverlands and the Eyrie had it in abundance. They also had ships for supplies, transport, and naval warfare, which the North did not. 

For all the idea made her stomach turn, Petyr's plan had merit and his words had truth in them. Catelyn loved Robb and believed that, with time, he'd be both a fantastic lord and an outstanding military leader. But, for now, he was young and lacked experience. While neither Cat nor Petyr had ever fought on a battlefield, or led troops into the fray, they'd lived through the horrors of war. They'd seen the mistakes others had made. They could avoid them.

So... she'd bring it up during the upcoming war council among lords. It had taken years of hard work, patience, effort, and grace, but Catelyn's voice had come to be respected in the North. And she was Robb's mother, he took her words to heart. 

'After all, what could it hurt?'

"So, I believe we should open this council with discussing the states of affairs we find ourselves in. Just so we are all on the same page."

"It's a fucking mess."

Cat pinched her lips together and said nothing. She'd come to accept that the men of North were a rough, often vulgar lot, and, though she did not approve of such things —especially during such precarious circumstances— she also knew that voicing such an opinion would not win her any allies in this room.

"...Elegantly put, Lord Karstark," Robb replied, hiding a snicker at his future good-father's words. "But more specifically, I assume everyone has read copies of both my father and Cersei Lannister's words?"

"Aye, the queen bitch thinks that just because her husband and spawn died she has the power to demand we throw our own into the fire," Maege Mormont said. 

"And that, once again, only death comes from Starks traveling South," cut in the cold voice of Barbrey Dustin, effectively killing the tense, yet fairly friendly atmosphere of the hall. "Eddard Stark made that mistake once, and now he's gone and done it again, leaving the bodies of our own behind in the viper's pit."

A gathering of all the Northern lords and their heirs was always a chaotic event; too many strong personalities with their own agendas in a single space tended to create friction. And, among those personalities, Barbrey Dustin was usually one of the most understated. She rarely visited Winterfell, only coming when propriety absolutely demanded it, and, when she was there, the woman did little to hide her disdain for Ned, Cat, and their children. Ironically, the only one she seemed to tolerate was her husband's bastard. 

'But perhaps that was just because the Bastard is a living reminder that Ned had his failures,' Cat wondered. It made sense, she often thought the same thing when she looked at Jon. "My husband has his reasons for traveling to King's Landing; he had no way of knowing events would unfold the way they did. The troubles that have befallen them are the results of others, and you suggesting otherwise is dangerously close to treason!"

Barbrey glared at her with sharp, pale eyes, yet swallowed hard and nodded as the rest of the hall grumbled and hissed their displeasure. "I was merely stating a fact. Bad things happen when Northmen travel south, even for war."

"...Which is why I believe we should follow my father's advice," Robb said, looking back and forth between the two women. "Especially with the actions Euron Greyjoy has already taken against our people; we already have villages of dead, and there is no reason to believe he and the Ironborn will stop. To say nothing of how we've heard nothing of the Riverlands facing similar deprivations, which implies they're concentrating on us. Meanwhile, the Lannisters must already have prepared for war if Cersei would make such moves.

"Therefore we need to solidify our defenses, and to do that we need to choke the Neck. No one can be sure when the Lannisters will move against us, but we need to prepare. Cutting off their main means of getting to us is the best way."

"The Freys will be a problem," Howland Reed said. The small man was seated to Robb's left, eyeing the massive map of the Seven Kingdoms that Maester Luwin had spread out on the ground. "They control the area just south of the Neck, and love to profit off of anyone going through that area, as well as causing problems for my people."

"That's because your people are easy to push around, Frogeater," Harwood Stout, Lord of Goldgrass, scoffed. The one-armed man turned to Robb, "Are you suggesting that we put the safety of our lands in the hands of Mudmen?"

Privately, a small part of Cat agreed. She held respect for Howland as one of Ned's vassals and close friends, and her gratitude to the man for saving her husband's life years ago, and even greater affection for him recently saving Bran. Despite this, Catelyn couldn't help but remember how disparagingly her dear father had spoken of the Crannogmen. Stealth, trickery, and sneak attacks were excellent ways to deal with small groups of enemies and avoid being conquered, but when it came to an entire army? Cat doubted there was much they could do, especially with their Lord away. 

That being said, there was a warm glow of pride in the Lady of Winterfell's chest as Robb drew himself up to glower at the lord. 

"My father personally chose Lord Reed to advise me while he was away, and he now has personally requested that I have Howland carry out this task," he said, his voice low and cold. "Lord Stout, do you mean to suggest that my father, the Warden of the North, is incapable of selecting trustworthy, capable men?"

"...N-no, I just—"

"Then perhaps you mean to suggest that Lord Stark's personal judgment is flawed and we should disregard his orders?"

The lord swallowed hard and he ducked his head, "Of course not, Lord Robb. I respect your father far too much for that. I was merely... pointing out that, while efficient fighters in their own right, the Cannagonmen do not have enough manpower to protect against an entire military force."

"Which is why other Houses will be offering aid in the form of aid men and supplies," Robb informed, smiling like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. 

This news caused a notable shift in the demeanor of everyone, especially those whose lands bordered Greywater Watch. No one dared speak up, however, until...

"That is only fair."

All attention snapped to the plain, unremarkable face of Lord Roose Bolton. With a face devoid of all emotion, the Lord of Dreadfort stared back out the crowd in a pale-eyed gaze and said, "If the Reeds are to be our first line of defense, it is logical that we would all support them in whatever way possible. Don't you agree, Lady Stark?"

Catelyn sat up straighter in her chair as a shiver went down her spine. She did not like Bolton; as far as she could tell, no one did. Despite the man's dispassionate, inoffensive behavior, everyone —from the serving girls to the sturdiest of warriors— seemed to avoid the man. But, despite this shared discomfort, Catelyn never witnessed anyone —not even the rowdiest of individuals— would approach him. More than just the Boltons' reputation for flaying men alive, there was something that compelled everyone to avoid Roose. 

'This is a cold man,' she thought, trying not to shiver as the man stared unblinkingly at her with those unnerving eyes of his.

Ned never invited Roose to stay at Winterfell; he'd visited Dreadfort once every few years, doing a thorough investigation of the land and castle, but never stayed any longer than necessary. Her husband also only ever sent short, though genuine, letters of condolences after the deaths of Bolton's wife and son. So, while Ned never voiced any complaints about the Lord of the Dreadfort, at least not in front of Cat, he never spoke positively of the man or his family either. 

Aside from one thing: that the man took responsibility and cared for his baseborn son, Ramsay.

'In the end, it all comes back to bastards.'

Catelyn cleared her throat, "On the contrary, I would like to suggest an alternative course of action." 

Roose Bolton was a scary man but Cat had learned to stare down scary men at her father's knee. Her voice did not waiver and she would not be cowed. 

 All eyes on her, she continued. "As you all know, I am from the Riverlands; they are ruled by my family and, with all due respect Lord Reed, the Freys are my father's men. I've known Lord Walder Frey since I was a small girl. He is a difficult man, I will admit, but not a dangerous one. We need not treat them as enemies when they could be our allies in protecting the North."

Cat let herself trail off, carefully observing the looks on everyone's face as hushed whispers broke out among everyone. She needed this moment to identify who was a potential ally in this, who was at least willing to hear her out, and would fight her every step of the way.

After a moment, Lord Karstark asked, "Lady Stark, what exactly are you suggesting?"

"We should gather our forces and lead them south, past the Neck and into the Riverlands to meet up with the Tully soldiers and the Knight of the Vale. My sister, Lysa, is the widow of Jon Arryn and will support us in our efforts," she said. "Choking the Neck to keep out the Lannisters is a smart measure, yes, but it would mean we are sitting back and waiting for them to come to us. And, after all of Cersei Lannister's transgression against the Starks and the North, I refuse to let her control the tide of the war! I believe preemptive measures will put us in a better position when fighting finally erupts. The North remembers when its blood is shed by outsiders, and I suggest we show our foes how it remembers!"

Predictably, the hall burst into noise.

"You dare suggest that—"

"We can't trust Southerners!"

"Lady Stark has a point!"

"No one doubts the strength of the Knights of the Vale, but—"

"This isn't what Lord Stark—"

"We need allies to—"

"Going past the Neck is a death sentence!"

"—would require too many supplies—"

"We deserve revenge!"'

"Not revenge -justice!"

"SILENCE!" Robb shouted, rising to his feet and slamming his fist into the table. In front of the table, Graywind shot to his feet and let out a loud snarl, echoing his master's command. There was an intensity in his eyes that Cat had never seen before. That, combined with the strong cut of his shoulders, blade at his hip, a massive direwolf by his side, confirmed to Catelyn that her son was a true Stark, the descendants of the Kings of Winter, coloration be damned. 

She'd never felt prouder. So, of course, it was now that Robb chose to break her heart.

"Mother, your suggestion has... logic behind it, I will admit," her eldest said slowly, looking back and forth between her and the gathering of lords and heirs before him. "But I cannot approve it. There are too many factors to predict, too many things could go wrong while moving an army that large without solid direction. Especially as we have yet to hear word from my grandfather or aunt on their intentions."

The boy might as well have pulled his sword and held it to her heart. 

Cat did her best to ignore the embarrassed blush that was burning her cheeks. She cleared her throat once more, "I must insist that-"

"When Father returns, he should hear of your plan," Robb continued, cutting her off. "Should he decide it has merit, he will surely put it into action. But, until then, we shall wait and do as he instructed. We need to gather our forces, strengthen our defense, choke the Neck, reinforce the western shores against renewed Ironborn raids with increased patrols, and prepare for the worst. Now, does anyone else have any objections?"

Despite the murmurs that broke out across the hall, no one spoke up. Not Dustin, not Bolton, not Karstark, and certainly not Catelyn. 

"Alright, if everyone understands then—"

The sound of an old chair scraping against stone cut Robb off as Wyman Manderly hauled his massive bulk upward.

Robb blinked, "Do you have any objections, Lord Marderly?"

"No, Lord Robb, just a concern," he said, shaking his head. "Lord Stark, quite correctly, identified the Neck as the most likely port of entry to the North that the Lannister armies will be using. However, that is not the only way our homeland is accessible: the water. To both the east and the west, the North has hundreds of miles of shoreline that is vulnerable to attack. And, might I remind you, we have no naval fleet that can be called upon to patrol and defend them, against both the Lannisters and the Ironborn. I haven't seen anything like that last wave of reaving since the Greyjoy Rebellion, and I suspect there will be more to come. You —we— need a naval fleet, Lord Robb."

A cold shock went through the room as the truth of the words rang true. The waters of the North were cold and rough, no easy feat to sail, but plenty of Ironborn raiders and trading ships broke through; there was no reason to believe Lannister forces couldn't do the same. Moreover, they had no idea of how much of the royal navy fleet Cersei commanded. Catelyn knew that the Royal Fleet had been in a state of disarray for several years now, and, thankfully, given the tone of Cersei's letter towards the Tyrells, they were unlikely to have the Redwyne ships at their disposal.

As Catelyn could recall, there was a time when the North had a navy. But, as the story went, King Brandon Stark had loved the sea, gaining him the name of Brandon the Shipwright. and, thousands of years before Aegon's Conquest, King Brandon attempted to sail across the Sunset Sea, never to be seen again. After that, his son, also named Brandon, burned the remaining North ships in his grief and anger, and thus became known as King Brandon the Burner.

'Perhaps my son will become known as Robb the Rebuilder? ' she wondered, half amused and half hopeful. It was important that future generations would honor his deeds.

"And I suppose you are suggesting yourself to lead this endeavor, Lord Lamprey?" Greatjon Umber sneered.

"Oh, I welcome anyone else to take it on," Manderly scoffed. "I suppose the Last Hearth is rich in shipwrights and docks?"

"No... but it does have plenty of lumber," Robb said, ending the two lords' pissing contest. "It's settled then. Lord Manderly is right, we need a navy. I understand that it will take time to build a ship, more than we likely have, but I want you both to start planning the construction of a fleet immediately. Lord Umber, you'll provide the materials, and, Lord Manderly, you'll provide the location and the labor. If my father chooses not to go through it, then so be it, we'll redirect that time and resources, but, until then, I want it to be a priority. Also, Lord Manderly, I also want you to look into purchasing some ships from Essos in the meantime, to see if it's a viable alternative to creating our own."

The sword dug deeper into Cat's heart. It was one thing to be dismissed so completely by her own son, but it was another to have the same son to easily agree to a suggestion by someone only a moment later. 

In an attempt to regain some control, regain some voice in the situation, she spoke up again. "While I hate to point out the obvious, White Harbor is on the eastern coast of the North, Lord Manderly. A fleet of ships launched from your city would be useful for protecting our eastern waters, but what about the western ones? Should we risk sending them around all of Westeros?"

"Build some on Bear Island!" Maege Mormont called out. When all attention turned to her, the short, stout, rough-faced grey-haired woman continued. "While we don't have much space, we have lumber, and we know ships. We just never had the shipwrights to build 'em bigger. So send some to my island, and we'll build the western half of the fleet. I welcome the opportunity to take the fight to the Greyjoys!"

By Maege's side, her heir, Dacey, gave a confident grin. "Bears are excellent swimmers, can we say the same for lions?"

At the choir of chuckles, Cat felt her lips pursed. She could... respect Lady Mormont and her family, but they'd never been able to have more than a stiltedly polite conversation, the same with her wild hoard of daughters. Dacey could give the appearance of grace and a properly demurred demeanor, but the morningstar ever by her side dispelled the notion quickly. Alysane was worse though; with her two bastards —not that anyone was brave enough to say that to the woman's face— she didn't even attempt to appear lady-like.

For the sake of keeping the peace with one of her husband's most loyal vassals, Catelyn had never said anything about the matter, yet she'd also never invited Maege to visit or suggested fostering the woman's younger daughters. Because, while there was a chance she could have civilized them, there was an equally likely chance that they'd be a bad influence on her own daughters. While Cat doubted Sansa would have any interest in the Mormont girls, Arya didn't need anyone validating her wild ways. 

"Bear Island's population is small," one lord said. "Would you be able to build the fleet while also protecting your own?"

"My own are perfectly capable of protecting themselves," Maege replied. "Man, woman, or child, everyone on Bear Island knows how to fight. Life made us hard and ferocious as a bear; we run with the wolves, and we fear no lion. My stubborn old coot of a brother gave control of House Mormont over to me after his fool of a son disgraced our family because he knew I would lead our people well. I do not hunger for war, but should they force it, let the Lannisters come and we shall see who is mightier! The South will not find any defenseless women and scared children on my shores!"

"Here, here!" Lord Robin Flint called out, echoed by a ruckus cheer.

'They listen to her easily enough and believe her words without question,' Cat thought. 'Why not me?'

When the cheers died down, the Greatjon stood up. His presence was undeniable, and only partly due to his massive size. "All this talk about Queens and of the South is bullshit! Why do we care about what the rest of Westeros is doing? Never has anyone in the South cared about what is happening here? We've always been two separate people, and this cements it! Before the Targaryens came, there were seven individual kingdoms. Before the Targaryens came, the North was independent! Then Torrhen Stark knelt and surrendered his crown and our people to those dragon fuckers!"

He took a deep breath and continued, "But this Lannister bitch doesn't have dragons; she doesn't even have many allies after breaking Guest Rights on so many. So why do we care? Why does the North need to continue carrying about the south when we could use this opportunity to be independent again? I say we let the South eat itself alive and go back to taking care of our own!"

.

.

.

Dozens of voices broke out in thunderous yelling. Men shouting at one another, be it in agreement or arguments, filled the air. Catelyn could barely hear herself think, let alone truly consider this outlandish idea! As much as she wanted her children to achieve the greatness she knew they were destined for, to break away from the South —her homeland!— would be folly! If nothing else, the North still relied on its trade and supplies, especially with winter coming. She also refused to leave her family to face the Ironborn threat alone, not with her father's poor health.

"ENOUGH!" 

Robb's face was flushed and he bared his teeth like a wolf. "How many times do I have to tell you all? My father is still alive! As long as he lives, something of that magnitude is for HIM to decide!" 

An embarrassed quiet fell across the hall, people ducking their heads and looking away. Cat let out a quiet sigh of relief. Her son wasn't completely set on breaking her heart, at least. 

Her son stared Greatjon dead in the eye, "I... appreciate your enthusiasm, Lord Umber. And, speaking truthfully, I agree with you. The South is nothing but a rotten, festering limb to us, and it would be better to hack it off before it can infect the North. But, for now, I am just here to lead in my father's stead until he returns, and I will not be making such a decision without him. Now, I will hear nothing else on the matter! I've given orders for the now and, if anyone has any questions, speak now! If not, be silent!"

His words ended in a wolf-like snarl, echoed by a glowering Greywind. The direwolf looked ready to pounce and rip the throat out of anyone who dared to question his master. 

But no one did and all Catelyn could do was sit there, silent and making her own plans for the future. 

Tyrion VI

The next morning, after a filling breakfast of porridge with berries mixed in and thick bacon —both of which kept threatening to make a reappearance—Tyrion was led to the ship's galley where the trial would be taking place. Escorted by Captain Adelaisa's men, Tyrion didn't feel as much like a man being led to gallows as he probably would have otherwise. They may not have any particular loyalty to him, aside from the order of protection given by their captain, but they also didn't have the knee-jerk hatred of him due to his family name either. Which, for now, made them friendlier than most. 

Tyrion took his place at the center of the room, giving a moment of silent appreciation that he'd at least not been bound in chains like an animal. The good captain had forbidden all weapons from the trail aside from the ones her guards had; many had argued, but when asked if they were afraid of a single dwarf, mouths shut. And besides, it wasn't like he could run away. In the face of so many eyes burning with hatred, Tyrion fought the urge to fiddle with his hands, and wished to whatever gods were out there for a glass of wine. 

'Maybe they'll give me one with my last meal?' he wondered, half-seriously and half as a jap to comfort himself. 'Alright Tyrion, it's time to put everything you've learned throughout your life to good use. This will be your ultimate test.'

Mace Tyrell was there, and normally Tyrion wouldn't give him much worry, as the Fat Flower was easy enough to manipulate. But of course, he wasn't the real danger, for that would be the Queen of Flowers. Huddled in an armchair much larger than herself, Olenna Tyrell looked as old and unimpressive as any widow, but Tyrion knew better. He'd heard all about what that shrewd mind could accomplish when she decided on a goal, and with a granddaughter lying injured in the infirmary, the extent of her injuries unknown to him, Tyrion could only imagine that goal was to see someone pay. 

And yet...

The Queen of Thorns was... predictable in her desires. Much like her son, she wanted to see her house flourish. For decades now, Olenna Tyrell had been carefully cultivating her house, like a gardener carefully tending to a rose bush, to see it put in the greatest position and gain the most power possible. If Tyrion could convince her that siding with him would be beneficial to the Tyrells in the long run, he may just have one vote in his favor. 

'They'd need to be repaid for what happened to Lady Margaery, of course. Gold and jewels, maybe even some land if I can get Uncle Kevan to agree to it. Of course, I doubt they'd agree to a marriage with any Lannister, let alone me!'

Then there was Lord Stark, his face as cold and hard as if it had been carved from stone. For all the man had a reputation for being a fair and just ruler, Tyrion doubted he'd be seeing much of either. The Starks had lost much to the south, Ned Stark more than most. Was he remembering the terrible deaths of his father and brother? Of losing his sister to the Dragon Prince?

'Or maybe not,' he thought. 'Under different circumstances, it would be Stark on trial today. Being his best friend would have not earned him any mercy from Robert. If anything, it would have made Baratheon see it as an even bigger betrayal. Life is funny sometimes.'

Was that a button Tyrion could press? Remind Stark of the damage he caused, and the lies he told to protect his nephew? Of course, it was noble to protect a loved one, but at the potential cost of the happiness of his wife? Of the boy's sense of self-worth? Of his title? Of his family's lives?

Guilt and shame were powerful things, Tyrion knew that better. And he had seen in Jon's eyes when people sneered at him for his supposed bastardy. 

'And to think, those same people likely wouldn't hesitate to throw themselves at his feet if Rhaegar had won. Oh, destiny does love to be fucking funny.'

Speaking of Jon, he was here too, despite not technically being lord of anything. He was also the one person Tyrion could be reasonably certain was on his side. Or, at least, would judge him fairly in the end. 

It wasn't a guarantee of any victory, but it was a comfort nonetheless. Serena Volkihar sat next to her betrothed, their giant friend a looming, protective presence. While he wasn't sure they'd be voting, Tyrion was glad they were there nonetheless.

Members of more minor houses, like the fat young man Tyrion recognized as Samwell Tarly, were also present, but their opinion would count for little in the end. The major players were Stark and Tyrell, which was just fucking great. 

"I suppose it's time to start this farce," Tyrell huffed, drawing himself up importantly. "I, Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden, Lord Paramount of the Mander, Defender of the Marches, High Marshal of the Reach, and—" Tyrion fought the urge to roll his eyes. If the man intended to go on like this, he might end up dying of old age before he could be executed. Which might be preferable. "—Warden of the South, call for this trial to start. We will begin with—"

Creak!

The Fat Flower stumbled over his words, everyone's attention leaving him as eyes turned to the gallery door. 

"Thank you for waiting for my arrival to begin proceedings," Shireen Baratheon said, doing her best to project her tiny voice.

She was flanked by the Onion Knight and Lady Serana's unnerving mother. The two cleared Shireen's way, letting her take a seat between Jon and Ned Stark. Indeed, the young man switched seats so there was an opening beside his uncle. Mutters broke out as the girl walked past the crowd of smaller houses and onlookers. She did not react to them, instead focusing on keeping her chin proud and high—even if that meant leaving her scars bare for all to see. 

'Poor girl,' Tyrion thought. 'Doing her best to appear adult in a world so much bigger than her.'

"This isn't a place for children, Lady Shireen," someone said, safely anonymous amongst the crowd of minor nobles and knights. 

The girl swallowed, and Tyrion saw the conflict warring in her eyes — fighting between the urge to duck her head and accept this judgment, and the desire to speak up for herself, to assert her place in the world. All within her world of powerful men who were heard and obeyed while children and women were expected to endure silently. The Lannister Imp got the impression that he was watching a defining moment in the young lady's life. 

Whatever she chose to do now would color how these powerful men, so much larger and heavier than her, saw Shireen for the rest of her life. 

"...Perhaps not," she said. "But I thought it was a place for the Heads of House. Which, I'm sure none of you need reminding, I am."

Shireen Baratheon was small, both in stature and presence. But, at this moment, she seemed to grow another foot tall. 

Someone else snorted, "Well, Lady Shireen, I sure no one needs reminding that your guardian is in charge until you are of age."

"This is true," Davos Seaworth spoke up, stepping closer to his charge. "I am charged with acting in Lady Baratheon's best interest, and the best way to do that is to let her be informed."

"..."

"I suppose there are no more concerns about my presence than?" Shireen asked, though it was more a statement than a true question. "No? Then let us begin."

.

.

.

"Yes, let's begin," Jon said, hiding a grin behind his hand. "Uncle, would you care to open things?"

'Did Jon just redirect the trial so his uncle was the primary lead?' 

"Oh? Aye, it is time." The Lord of Winterfell stood and cleared his throat, hard gray eyes staring Tyrion down. "Tyrion Lannister, you are here to plead for your life. Your sister attempted a coup that resulted in many members of other houses. Is there anything you'd like to say for yourself?"

"Yes. I am guilty."

A fury of gasp overtook the room, Mace Tyrell made a sound like a trodden-on seal, the Queen of Thrones pursed her lips, and even Ned Stark's eyes bulged out of his skull.

"Wha—"

"Guilty," Tyrion cut him off, "of being related to the wrong person. Which—" he looked Stark dead in the eye "—is not a crime, as far as I know."

Instinctively, the man's eyes flicked to his nephew. Success! Tyrion's first shot landed perfectly.

"No fancy tricks, Lannister," a Tyrell guard snarled. "You have one chance to plead for your life, don't waste it."

"No trick," Tyrion said. "Just facts. I wouldn't risk my own life and, more than that, I do not wish to risk the lives of the innocent members of my house."

"An innocent Lannister?" Lord Tyrell laughed.

Tyrion gave him as dirty of a look as he dared. "Yes, as a matter of fact. Believe what you want, but there are innocent Lannisters. Like my little niece, Janei. She is only five years old. Tell me, good ser, is it fair that she be judged in relation to my sister's crimes when she is still learning her letters? Or how about the Lannisport Lannisters? Are you going to hold Cersei's actions against them too? Many of them have never even met my sister! Yes, that sounds quite fair."

No one said anything, though their expressions remained grim. And yet, the discomfort look on people's faces told Tyrion that, once again, his words hit their mark.

"The Lannister House is larger and more extended than most," he pressed. "Women. Children. Men. All living simple, normal lives with their families. They have nothing to do with my sister's machinations, so don't lump them together. Don't punish them for relations they can't control. Don't do what she would."

Tyrion had very few positive relationships, even within his family, but they had his loyalty nonetheless. If Uncle Kevan decided to ally with Cersei, then Tyrion wasn't foolish enough to believe that he could save everyone, the nature of war wouldn't allow it, but maybe he could save the young and the helpless. He wasn't a particularly good man, not enormously compassionate, empathic, or generous but, If nothing else, he needed to try. 

"You've made a good point, Tyrion," Jon said, flashing him a quick grin. "Now, what can you offer in exchange for clemency?"

"Information. I know the ins-and-outs of Casterly Rock and King's Landing better than anyone—" 'Except for the Spider, but they don't need to know that.' "—including all the secret tunnels and entrances. I know my sister, though she may deny it, and I can anticipate her moves. I know my Uncle Kevan, and he is an intelligent, practical man. He'll want to avoid the unnecessary cost of war. Especially one which began with such needless murder, including his own brother. I can talk to him, convince him not to aid Cersei. If Cersei hopes to mount a war effort, she will need the Lannister fortune and army backing her. Cut off from that, her hopes of conquering Westeros will wither and die."

Of course, Tyrion wasn't being entirely truthful. He did know his sister, well enough to know that when confronted by overwhelming odds, Cersei would dig her claws in and burrow down. She'd always been convinced the Iron Throne and control over King's Landing was rightfully hers, and Cersei would die before she gave that up. He could only hope that they were able to pry her out before Cersei could do too much damage to herself or others. If not for her then for—

'Jaime,' he thought. 'What have you gotten yourself into? You better not die defending our bitch of a sister!'

Even with all of Tyrion's cleverness, he wouldn't be able to save Jaime if his older brother decided to defend Cersei. Maybe he could convince Stark and the others to take Jaime alive, only that might be crueler in the long run. His older brother never could stand to be separated from his twin for long.

"The way I see it, Cersei is already pressed into a corner without much in the way of allies," Stark said. "And the information we can get in other ways."

"Perhaps," Tyrion agreed. "But more is always better. You all have families and homes you want to return to, subjects you want to protect. Anyone here who fought in the Robert's Rebellion or against the Greyjoys knows that these are the people who will suffer the most in war. Working together is the best way for everyone to survive and minimize the collateral damage. And if you look within yourselves, those of you with half a brain will know that is true."

Mace Tyrell stood up, affronted. "Are you calling us fools, Lannister?"

The anger came suddenly. Some of it had been there before, simmering in the pit of his gut as he was forced to plead for his life in front of people who hated him simply for the manner of his birth. It just wasn't fair. He was trying to help them! Trying to help his family! He hadn't harmed any of them or their families and yet, here he was, trying to save his own skin.

"Yes, you morons!" he shouted, unable to stop himself. "You all are so caught up by my family name that you're ignoring what I'm offering you! In any other war, in any other time, you'd kill for what I have! I'm trying to help you all! Why won't you let me?"

Everyone looked aghast by Tyrion's outburst, no one speaking.

"I had nothing to do with Cersei's coup. She killed our father and tried to kill me too!" he continued. "Now, put aside your hatred of my house, your hatred of me, and your hatred of imps. And, for god sake, DO YOUR DUTY! Do what is best for your houses, for Westeros, for the people! Ego and old grudges built on something as uncontrollable as a name have no place here, when helping to decide the future of so many!"

He swallowed hard, anger evaporating. "That is all I ask of you."

.

.

.

Stark swallowed hard. "I suppose you have nothing else to say then, Lannister?"

"No, Stark, I don't. I've said my piece."

"Then you may step away and exit the room while we... discuss what you've said. Then we will vote on your fate."

Before Tyrion could say anything more, one of the ship's guards put a hand on his shoulder and led him to the deck of the ship. Away from the cluster of hatred and enemies, Tyrion felt... well, not relaxed but at least calmer. It felt good to breathe fresh air and the wind felt good on his skin. If nothing else, the smell of salt off the ocean spray was a certainty of life. 

'How kind of them to let me see the sun one last time,' Tyrion thought, staring out at the waves. 

"If you're thinking of jumping overboard, I'd recommend against it. Drowning is an unpleasant way to go," the guard said. "Assuming nothing out there gets you first, that is; these are strange waters after all."

"I wasn't thinking of jumping," Tyrion replied, only half lying. "Suicide is a coward's way out. And I still have some kernel of hope that my words got through to everyone."

"It was a good speech. You brought up smart points. I'm no politician, but I was a soldier and I know how important information is. In my homeland, no one would disregard what you are offering; they might kill you for having it, but they'd know how valuable it is."

"And where are you from, my good guard? I'm afraid I've neglected to learn the names of my hosts."

"High Rock. Northpoint, to be specific. Chenadia is the name," the man said, shaking Tyrion's hand. "And I'm the first mate of this ship, not a guard."

"The first mate? Why, I'm flattered that I rank so high as to deserve the protection of the First Mate."

Chenadia shrugged. "For all she complains, the Cap'n trusts me. And I volunteered for the duty, mostly for Jon's sake."

That revelation wasn't altogether surprising. The ship's crew, and especially its captain, were loyal to Jon, that much was clear from their actions and words. "Are you two close?"

"No, but I like him. He's a good man. More generous with his money and care than he ought to be, but in a selfish world I'm not going to criticize a kind man. Especially considering this extra little venture of his means my sister doesn't have to worry about rent for the next year, and my nieces get to continue their studies without worry."

"Hmmm, even you and your sailors have homes and people you wish to return to," Tyrion said. "Don't you... resent having to stay for Jon's sake?"

"No, not really. Some men are annoyed by it, yes, but no one is gonna argue against the extra pay. Besides, we all owe Jon Whitewolf an unpayable debt."

"All debts are payable. I know better than most."

"Not this one." 

"What debt could possibly be that large?"

Chenadia blinked, giving Tyrion a completely baffled look. 

"You really don't know, do you?" He shook his head, "I knew this place was separated from Tamriel, but to think that you know nothing about nothing... I almost envy you. Ignorance might not be bliss, but it helps you sleep at night."

"Well, go on! Don't leave me in the dark!" Tyrion pushed. 'I knew Jon was important in Skyrim, but he is talking less like he is a man, and more like he is a legend.' 

"Nah," Chenadia shook his head again. "I wouldn't know how to explain things. Don't like to think about it either. And, besides, it's probably time to get you back."

"Oh, wonderful! Off to my execution, we go!"

"Don't be so pessimistic, I think you have a good chance."

"Perhaps you have a point. In large groups, people are stupid and hard to convince; they're more prone to lashing out in anger or fear and making decisions based on emotions," Tyrion said. "But in small groups, especially isolated ones, it can be easier. There is no way I could convince entire kingdoms or entire houses to side with me, but a select few of several important houses stuck together and facing a common enemy? Now that is possible."

"Being stuck together with nowhere else to go could also drive them all mad."

"...That is not helpful."

A thick cloud of mutters went quiet when Tyrion was led back into the galley, discussions cutting off as eyes locked back onto him.

"It's time then?"

Stark nodded, lips pressed together in a thin, tight line. "Aye. Do you have anything left to say, Lannister?"

"No. You've all made up your minds by now."

"Alright then." Stark stood up and cleared his throat, "I, Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, call for a vote. A voice from each present house will vote on whether or not to cooperate with Tyrion Lannister in mounting a defense against Cersei Lannister and her forces."

'That is a pretty way of putting it,' Tyrion thought to himself. 'Make no mistake, they're voting on my life.'

All his life, Tyrion was tugged around by the limitation of being an Imp. His three advantages in life were his intelligence, his gender, and his family name. Being a Lannister granted him money, prestige, and protection. 

But only for as long as Tywin Lannister allowed it. 

His dear father had always made it clear that he could revoke Tyrion's privileges at any given point, and cast him off to make his way in a harsh, cruel world. And, for years, Tyrion brushed it off because Tywin was too much of a control freak to throw away his own blood, less it became a potential enemy. 

But now Tywin was dead and Tyrion had to make it on his own. 

"Those in favor of siding with Tyrion Lannister, speak now."

"Aye."

"Aye."

"Aye."

"Aye."

"Aye."

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Five votes in his favor. Which wasn't bad.

"Those against siding with Tyrion Lannister, speak now."

"No."

"No."

"No."

"No."

"No."

"No."

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. 

Six votes against him. That meant...

Dread pooled in Tyrion's gut. It was lost.  'And here it comes. One, two, three...'

"Wait!"

All eyes turned to Shireen Baratheon, who grew pale under her scars, but stood up and faced the crowd nonetheless. 

"I never voted," she said. 

Tyrell frowned, "Yes, you did, Lady Baratheon. You voted in favor of assisting the imp."

"True, I voted for my house, the Baratheons of Dragonstone. But, the way I see it, with my Uncle Renly in bad health and unable to attend to his duties, I am left to act as his representative. In other words, I should get two votes! And I vote 'Aye' on both counts!"

A small spark of hope reignited within Tyrion. It was a long shot, he doubted the men of the other houses would agree to honor it, and Shireen getting two votes only made it even. He needed one more!

"Absolutely not!"

"That is nonsense!"

"We can't let a little girl pull us around!"

"Someone shut her up!"

"SILENCE!" Stark roared, slamming his hand down on the table and cutting the fighting off. 

Stark was such a placid, stoic individual, usually more statue than man. Not now though, not with so much at stake. 

The man's face twitched as he glared at Tyrion. Through gritted teeth, he said, "If Lord Renly was with us, then he would be allowed a vote. But, since he isn't and Lady Shireen is the only Baratheon representation on board... her point is valid. She will be allowed two votes."

"Lord Stark, I must protest!" Tyrell said. 

"I'm not any happier about the situation than you are, Lord Tyrell, but it is our responsibility to see that this is done fairly. By law, as the only Baratheon present-" 'And quite possibly the only trueborn Baratheon left,' Tyrion thought, though he didn't speak up. "—Lady Shireen has the right and to make decisions on Lord Renly's behalf, and we need to honor that."

.

.

.

"...That is acceptable," Lady Olenna said, digging her sharp, claw-like hand into her son's arm when he tried to speak up. "If I was allowed to vote on behalf of House Redwyne, then it is only... fair that the girl is allowed to vote twice."

A flutter of annoyed, unhappy murmurs overtook the room, but no one voiced an argument this time, and a little bit more of the dread left Tyrion.

"But Lady Shireen's two votes puts us at a stalemate," Samwell Tarly pointed out, his voice as wobbly as is many chins. "What does that mean?"

"It means that it's my turn to vote," Jon said. "Aye!"

"What? Who are you voting on behalf of?" someone called out. 

"House Targaryen, of course."

Despite the direness of the situation, Tyrion had to fight back a chuckle at the smug grin Jon shot at his opponent.

"Absolutely—"

"Done!" Captain Vendicci called out, her voice loud and clear. She turned to Stark, "I may not know how justice is done in your land but, from what I can see, this man—" she pointed to Tyrion "—has more in favor of accepting his help than killing him, and is, therefore, free to go. Am I wrong?"

"...No, you are right," Stark said, face still grim.

'Don't look so happy about that, Stark.'

The Lord of Winterfell stood up to address his peers. "I understand that many of you are unhappy about it, but the majority have voted to spare Tyrion Lannister and listen to what he has to say. Once we reach Dragonstone and separate, you are free to accept or disregard any help you'd like. For now, though, Lannister will live and advise. Anyone who takes issue with that is free to take it up with me."

"And me," Jon said, rising to his feet. 

"Me too!" Shireen all but shouted, standing as tall as possible. 

Serana Volkihar spared a glance Tyrion's way, "I stand with my future husband."

Never one for unnecessary words, Enzo Vlast merely lent his impressive presence to his friends' words. 

"On this ship, we follow law and order," Vendicci said. "I'll see no one taking justice into their own hands there. Are we at an understanding?"

The threatening edge to her voice did not go unnoticed. 

"Aye."

"Aye."

"Aye."

"Aye."

"Aye."

"Aye."

Tyrion let out a breath he had realized he'd been holding. He looked around the room; some were still glaring at him, yet plenty others were already forming small groups to talk among themselves. About what, he could only imagine. Over in the corner of the room, Bronn caught his eye and winked. 

'Don't celebrate just yet,' Tyrion reminded himself. 'Surviving is the easy part. Now comes the winning.'

"Impressive show," Bronn said, the two of them back in their shared cabin. "I especially liked the part where you yelled at the rich sods to get their heads out of their asses."

"It was a risk," Tyrion admitted. "One that could have easily gone wrong. I shouldn't have let my emotions go like that."

"Mmmh, it worked in the end," Bronn shrugged. "Now you just have to make sure they want to keep you alive."

"Your confidence in me is overwhelming."

With just the two of them, Tyrion finally felt like he could breathe again. For now, he was safe. For now, he had a plan. For now, there was a chance he could save his family. For now—

Knock! Knock!

"Come in!" Bronn called out.

Jon's curly dark head poked through the doorway. "How are you feeling?"

"A nicer room would be appreciated," Bronn said.

"I'll get right on that," Jon chuckled. "But, for now, I was hoping I could speak to Lord Tyrion alone."

Tyrion raised an eyebrow at those words. 'Oh? What is happening now?'

"Alright, I know when I'm not wanted," Bronn said, rolling out of his bunk and heading out. "You think lizard-man would mind making me a snack?"

"I've never seen Veehsi turn down a hungry stomach, go ask."

With the sellsword gone, Jon turned back to Tyrion. "What about you, Lord Tyrion? How are you feeling?"

"Glad to not be dead."

"Usually a good feeling," the young man agreed. "And also good to hear because, if you're up to it, I have a surprise for you."

"What?"

Jon just smiled, opened the door wider, and stepped aside. "Brace yourself."

"What do— Umpf!"

A warm body ducked around Jon and slammed into him and thin arms wrapped tight around Tyrion's neck.

"Uncle Tyrion!"

The Imp pulled his face from the dark curtain of hair obscuring his vision, pulling back to see who exactly was sobbing into his shoulder. 

"Myrcella!"

His niece was almost unrecognizable. Her long, golden blonde hair had been cut to her chin like she was in mourning, and dyed dark to match a black and silver dress. More than that though, there was something distinctively... different about Myrcella's appearance. It wasn't anything Tyrion could put words to, but when he tried to look closely at his niece, his attention seemed to... drift away. 

"I'm so glad you're alive!" the girl cried, eyes red and wet. 

"And I, you," he said, shaking those thoughts away. "I was so worried that you and Tommen would be left in the hands of... What's wrong?"

A fresh wave of tears came, "Tommen is... Tommen is... He's dead, Uncle Tyrion! Joffrey killed him and I couldn't help him! I was useless!"

Tyrion closed his eyes and took a deep breath as a wave of pain and dread washed over him. 'Oh, Tommen. I'm sorry you were born into this family.'

"It wasn't your fault."

"You don't even know what happened!"

"Doesn't matter, I just know it wasn't your fault."

Myrcella shook her head, "Mother... She wanted Tommen and I locked up safe while she took over. Joffrey wanted to be involved though, so she let him 'look after us.' Except he wanted to make us watch the guards kill people. Lady Serana saved us but Joffrey still killed Tommen and I! COULDN'T! DO! ANYTHING!"

Tyrion took his niece's chin in hand, "Myrcella, where is Joffrey now?"

"..."

"Myrcella?"

The girl looked away and mumbled something under her breath.

"What was that?"

"...I killed him," she whispered. "I grabbed a dagger and killed him. And I don't regret it. Does that mean I'm evil?"

"No, it means you saw a bad person kill someone you loved and reacted in anger," Tyrion said, soft as he could. He'd never been allowed to spend much time around his niece and nephews —Cersei's orders, of course—and had no idea how to comfort a child. Tyrion had always been good at learning on the go.

'At least something good has come from this,' he thought. Perhaps it was horrible to be glad Joffrey was dead, the boy was still his blood, after all, but Tyrion could only breathe a sigh of relief. He'd know something was wrong with Joffrey for a long time, ever since first seeing the vacant look in his green eyes as a toddler. He'd have been a terrible king, and a monster of a human being. Everyone was better off with Joffrey gone.

'Except maybe Cersei. She is probably mad with grief.'

Tyrion refused to let himself feel a stab of pity for his murderous bitch of a sister. She was, after all, a murderous bitch.

"Serana managed to get her back to the ship and tucked her away in one of the cabins," Jon said. "We couldn't leave her there."

Tyrion felt a cold pit form in his stomach. "Of course not. You couldn't leave such a valuable hostage behind."

Jon gave him a hurt look, and opened his mouth to say something when Myrcella gave him a sharp pinch on the arm.

"Don't talk to him like that!" she snapped, glaring. "Jon is nice. He and his friends are protecting me, and tried to save Tommen too! And you from what I've heard!"

.

.

.

"...You're right," Tyrion said with a bow of his head. "I apologize, Jon. You've been good to me to no benefit to yourself; it was wrong to assume you'd use my niece."

Jon shrugged, dismissing the apology as easily as he dismissed Tyrion's accusation. "As far as most people on this ship are concerned, she isn't your niece—-she is Serana's."

"What?"

Myrcella gave a sneaky grin, dipping into a low curtsy. "Myra Volkihar, at your service."

"...Well, that explains the hair," Tyrion remarked with a grin. 'Smart girl.'

"And the eyes already matched," Myrce— Myra said. 

"That's good, that's good. Hiding in plain sight is sometimes the best." Tyrion turned to Jon, "Thank you... For everything."

"Of course," the young man nodded. "Myra is welcome to stay with us as long as she'd like. She'll be safe until we can find a more secure location for her. You have my word."

"Then I entrust my sweet niece's safety to you."

'Fail to keep her safe and I will kill you,' Tyrion promised himself. He wasn't sure how he'd do it, but he'd find a way. He was a smart man after all.

"I like staying with Serana," Myra said. "She's nice and she knows so much!"

"That she does. Actually, could you do me a favor and go find her while I talk to your uncle?"

"Of course!" 

Myra gave him one last hug before scampering off, leaving Tyrion alone with Jon.

The young man shut the door. "So some aren't happy with the outcome of the trial but I'm sure you'll be happy to know they've agreed to work with you."

"For now."

"For now," Jon agreed. "But that's better than nothing."

"I suppose that, even in victory, I can still expect hatred," Tyrion said, taking a seat on Bronn's bunk.

Jon slumped down beside him. "Unfortunately, even with all my power and influence, I can only do so much about that. Is there anything else I can do for you though?"

"Wellllll....." 'What could it hurt to ask?' "I would very much like to see your dragons close up."

Jon gave him an apologetic grin but shook his head. "Maybe in the future. I feel quite protective of them right now."

"Ah, well... that's disappointing, if not surprising. They are miracles after all," Tyrion said. "I've always loved dragons, did I tell you that back in Winterfell?"

"No."

"I have ever since I was a small, ugly child dreaming of flying away from a lonely life at Casterly Rock, and burning away those who mocked and belittled me," he sighed, remembering a simpler —if not happier— time. "I read every book in the city about them. I used to dream of having a dragon of my own. When I was still young my uncles asked him what I wanted for his nameday, I begged them for a dragon. 'It wouldn't need to be a big one,' I said. 'It could be little, like me.'

"My uncle Gerion thought that was the funniest thing he had ever heard, but Uncle Tygett just shook his head and told me the last dragon died out over a century ago. I cried myself to sleep that night over the unfairness of it all. And yet, all these years later, here you —and they— are. A miracle made flesh."

"The world is changing."

"You don't know the half of it," Tyrion said gravely. "Once we get to Dragonstone, everything will change. Everything will become real. You're in the Great Game now, Jon Whitewolf."

Arya VII

"Again!" 

Arya slid back into her ready, doing her best to ignore the way her sore, tired muscles screamed for rest. Pushing her exhaustion to the side, she raised her sword and lunged again. She danced around the straw practice dummy, stabbing at its vulnerable areas. Arya kept her movements as smooth as possible, trying to imitate the effortless dance she'd seen Syrio demonstrate. But, when she went to sink the tip of her blade into the dummy's eye, her knee buckled and Arya fell forward. Her sword skidded across the ship's deck as the wooden deck chafed against her cheek. 

" Umpf! " she grunted, trying to force herself back up. 

Syrio shook his head, "No, that is enough for today. Go rest."

"No! I just need to catch my breath," Arya said, getting to her feet. "I'm ready to go again."

"Arya-child, you can barely stay upright. Go. Rest is as important to the body as training."

"No!" she repeated. "I want to go again! I need to go again! Against a real person this time! I need to know how to beat a real person!

"You're not ready."

"I don't have time to be ready!" Arya pleaded. "I'm not stupid, I know war is coming. I need to be able to protect myself and the people I care about when it comes. Sansa nearly got us all killed because I didn't keep an eye on her in King's Landing! I nearly got captured because I let myself be tricked! I have to get better! I have to learn to fight!"

Her teacher looked down at her, his face impassive. "...No."

"What!?" Arya shrieked. "Why!?"

He turned to walk away. "You are not ready, Arya-child."

Arya ran after him on wobbly legs, grabbing his sleeve. "Don't you walk away from- Ahhh!"

Syrio spun around faster than her eye could follow and Arya's feet were swept out from under her. She landed on the deck again with a gasp, the wind knocked completely out of her. 

"You. Are. Not. Ready," the former First Sword of Braavos said, face still infuriatingly blank. "And if you keep pushing yourself, Arya-child, you never will be."

He started to walk away again and Arya felt a rare kind of indigent rage bubbling up in her gut. She didn't consider herself a particularly rage-filled or temperamental child —despite what her mother and Septa Mordane seemed to think— but she hated being dismissed or disregarded. After so many years of being told her only worth was her name and breeding, Arya was working hard to be taken seriously. If SHE was taking her training, seriously then Arya expected her master to do so as well.

"Come back," she coughed. "I have to do this. Come back!"

Syrio didn't even look at her, just kept walking away.

The rage boiled over, leaving a sharp, bitter taste in Arya's mouth. Lightning sparked at her fingertips, dancing with her anger. "I said come back!"

Arya would like to say she didn't mean to shoot the lightning bolt at Syrio but, in her heart of hearts, she knew that would be a lie. Maybe she hadn't planned on it, but in her anger, Arya wasn't thinking straight and just wanted to lash out. As the twisting bolt of magical energy flew through the air, the little she-wolf could only scream. 

"Duck!"

Syrio turned, his eyes growing wide at the sight. 

"Oh my, what is this?"

Cool as could be, Lady Valerica emerged from around a corner and reached up a lazy hand. To Arya's amazement, the scary woman caught the lightning from the air, the energy coiling around her fingertips. 

"Destruction magic was never my specialty," Lady Valerica said, tilting her head back and forth as she examined the tamed lightning with a look of vague amusement. "I'm quite impressed with myself."

Arya collapsed back against the deck, wood cool against her overheated skin. 

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"You're an eager student, Arya-child," Syrio said. "You need to be careful about that."

"I'm sorry," she repeated, slumping further down the taffrail. "I was planning on hurting you, I just got so angry that I snapped. I didn't even intentionally summon the spell."

The old man passed her a water skin. "Drink this. It isn't a bad thing to want to learn, girl, but you can't let desire cloud your judgment. Syrio Forel has seen many promising students burn out and destroy themselves pursuing perfection. You will learn in your own time, trying to force it will only lead to failure."

"I know, I know. It's just the thought of being helpless, of being worthless to everyone when things get tough is terrifying."

"War often is," Lady Valerica said, smooth a cold hand over Arya's forehead. "However, breaking yourself in pursuit of strength isn't going to do anyone any good. Shortcuts to power only lead to pain."

Arya pulled her legs to her chest and frowned. 'I need to be strong for Jon and everyone else, no matter how long it takes. Stronger than Mother and maybe even father will let me be. Stronger than Westeros will accept.'

"Arya-child, what troubles your mind?"

"...I'm selfish," she admitted after a moment.

"What do you mean?" Lady Valerica asked. 

"I want to do right by my family... but I don't think I can do the one thing that would help them most." 

That only got her a twin pair of questioning looks so Arya sighed and continued.

"Ever since I was old enough to wonder about my future, I've been told how I must marry a lord to create allies for the Starks. And I'm not sure I can do that."

Valerica cocked her head to the side. "You don't want to get married or have children?"

"No, not exactly. I just want that to be my only choice. And I know it's selfish to put my own desires over the good over everyone else and it would be the best way to help but... but..." Arya trailed off, looking over the waves at the horizon. 

"Arya-child, you are allowed to put yourself first," Syrio said gently. 

"And it's hard to help others when you yourself are unhappy," Valerica added. "Would it truly be better to be stuck in a marriage you never wanted as resentment grew inside you?"

Something about the tone of the woman's voice told Arya that Valerica had her fair share of experience in an unhappy marriage and the long-term effects it could have. 

"But what can I do?"

"Don't speak as if you have no choice in your life, girl," Syrio said, reaching over and tapping Arya under the chin. "Ask yourself, how do the women in your brother's land live?"

Arya's eyes went wide, "You can't be suggesting-"

Valerica cut her off, "It seems to me that you are at a crossroad, girl, and need to decide how your life will go."

"My family would never let me go."

"Jon is your family and he would never let you be pressed into something you didn't want," the older woman said. "So what will you do?"

At that moment, Arya could say anything. It almost felt like treason to even think of leaving Westeros, of her family, for Skyrim. Despite everything, she loved her family and the only home she'd ever known. Could she really leave it all behind? Could she really start over?

And yet...

Eyes still locked on the horizon, the thought crept into her mind and burrowed down deep. 

'Perhaps I was never meant to stay in Westeros.'

Next Chapter: Arriving at Dragonstone, Jon and the others plan for the future, Margaery awakens to her new reality, and a Red Priestess makes herself known.

Notes:

The image of Valerica catching lightening was inspired by Tissaia doing something similar in the Witcher S1. In fact, I've decided that MyAnna Buring as Tissaia is my fancast for Valerica.