Clash of Ambitions, chapters 1-3 (Patreon)

May the old gods and new curse district-wide testing. Seriously. I went into this profession to teach, not test. And test some more. And then assess testing which precludes kids from making improvements. ANYWAY… I didn’t have the brain cells for original work, so I fell back on fanfic. Again. This is part two of my Game of Thrones rewrite. When last we left the characters, Jon was off with Arthur Dayne to rescue Dany from the Dothroki. Jaime had just learned the truth and was headed for Castle Lyanna and Ned had set off to reinforce the North for the coming war—both the one to the south when Robert eventually died and the one with the Night King. So, here we go.

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Chapter One

Jory walked next to Ned as they walked up the stone-paved path to the entrance of the valley where Whale Song was set.  Ned had seen the plans for the settlement on paper, but he was anxious to see what the city actually looked like.  

“We have kept Jorah and his Lannister wife away from the most dangerous secrets, m’lord,” Jory said quietly.

Ned nodded.  He had thought that when the tournament after the Greyjoy Rebellion came later that Jorah would have avoided taking a southron wife that drove him into debt. Lynesse Hightower had already married a Reach man before Jorah had a chance to impress her. However, Jorah had ended up meeting and marrying the equally young and spoiled Liony Lannister. Jorah could not escape an inappropriate desire for women far too young and wealthy. Worse, his loyalty to his women was unshakable, far stronger than his loyalty to the North or the law.

“Have Kyle and Errok meet me at the castilian’s office,” Ned ordered.

“Aye, my lord.”

The guardian towers that would soon stand at the sides of the gate were only half built, but Ned knew that the city was this far along only because the giants had ripped stone from the mountain slopes. The scars from their rough mining were now covered by the houses the Free Folk had built into the sheltered nooks.

“Do you want the craftsmen to report for work today?” Jory asked.

“No. Let them rest and get settled into quarters.  They can report to the local builders tomorrow.”  Ned had brought enough stonemasons to work on a dozen projects, but he hoped to find dragonglass deposits somewhere in these mountains. If they could, many of the craftsmen would soon be practicing their stone knapping skills on much smaller rocks. If necessary, he would import dragonglass from Stannis on Dragonstone, but he didn’t want to explain why he would want the brittle stone.  It would be better to find a northern source.

Ned strode past the half-built towers and stopped. He’d seen the plans for Whale Song, but the sight of the city shocked him into silence.  The valley was long and wide enough for gardens and grazing land between the slopes. A stream wandered through the valley, and people had hollowed out several pools. Children filled buckets and skins before running back up to the homes.  The land was a patchwork of gardens and fields where goats stood chewing their food under open shelters. 

The two slopes were crowded with clusters of buildings. Even a quick glance revealed the tribal divisions between groups.  Each cluster had mudded their houses with a different colors–some oranges and reds. Others were dressed in yellows or decked out in tans and browns. Yet others used sea bleached wood or bone to make white houses.  Some small clusters of houses clung to the upper edges of the slope before the true mountain started.  Larger groupings were closer to the valley floor. Close to the front of the valley where the wind carried the smell of salt and sea, hundreds of buildings made of leather stretched over wooden beams were crowded together. Homes and workshops all crowded together.

Come winter, each tribe would be close to their tribe members, but it worried Ned that there were gaps between groups. These people were still Hornfoots and Singers and Nightrunners and Ice River Ravens and Featherhairs. They weren’t even united as Free Folk, and they certainly weren’t ready to be Northmen.

Ned sighed.  This was going to be difficult. But at least the communal gardens and the improvements along the stream suggested they were working together.  To the north, watch towers stood on the mountain tops, and trails wove down the mountain back to Whale Song.

Ned was used to Wintertown, which hosted three thousand most times, swelling to fifteen thousand when fear of freezing and the dark led people to huddle together in winter.  The streets were muddy and the smell of nightsoil lingered on the air.  He was also familiar with King’s Landing where a half million people made the whole coastline stink of shit. 

But Whale Song had a fresh sea breeze washing away any lingering smells, and the Free Folk didn’t leave even a bit of garbage in the streets. Desperation had taught them to use every scrap, which made the city far more pleasant than any Ned had seen in this life or his last. The paths were cobbled with rough stone broken off the blocks used to create the towers, and even now he saw a group carving steps into the southern slopes.

“They were warned they needed walls against enemies, but they would only build towers.” Jory sounded frustrated.  Ned had left Kyle to advise the Free Folk because he had helped to rebuild Wintertown after the last two winters. He knew how to prevent a roof from collapsing under the heavy weight of wet snow. However, Ned was not surprised that the Free Folk would listen only as much as they wished. They were traveling folk, so walls would be unnatural to them.

“They threw the Ironborn out easily enough,” Ned said, but he shared Jory’s concern. If the army of the dead swept this way, the mountains would provide poor defenses.  It would slow the dead, but these people would have no choice but to flee. The city counted on the cold to protect itself from inland attack, but the dead felt no cold. 

Then again, last time the Night King had avoided the mountainous regions, driving his army straight down the center of the North to Winterfell. The dead could not think, and the cliffs and ravines might prove more of a barrier than walls.

“Aye, they did. I wish I could have seen those cursed followers of a cursed god run for their lives.” Jory’s laugh carried a fair amount of malice. After seeing good men die in the Greyjoy rebellion, Ned felt the same. They could all die and he would not waste a single thought for their souls. 

“It is hard to see where fifty or sixty thousand live,” Ned said.

“They crowd into small spaces,” Jory said. He spoke of them without the ire. Ned hoped other Northmen were equally willing to change once they met actual Free Folk.

Ned moved to the only stone building set on the valley floor. Eventually traders would come here to pay the tax and get access to the market, but right now it was an empty shell. Built from white stone, it was one of the only buildings not mudded in colors. In another city, residents would be fighting to claim the space, at least until a lord moved in and started using the space as it was intended. In front was a huge town square. The narrow side pressed against the building was three hundred feet, and in length it was thrice that. Most town squares were mud, but this had paved lines with packed gravel between.  It was far grander than Ned had expected.

The Free Folk preferred smaller spaces that were more easily heated and thick mudded walls that gave insulation.  The valley was much more temperate than the lands either north or south because it was open to the ocean breezes. They would get no summer snows here. But come winter, he could imagine Free Folk piling snow against the front of their houses to provide even more insulation. The whole valley would be white with trails leading from one group to another.

But this town hall and square belonged to a far grander city.  It was the grand manse of a wealthy lord who could support a huge number of bannermen. Only Winterfell had any building that could match what this would be when it was finished. Even now he could see the beginnings of a second floor that had been abandoned in favor of towers. The builders Ned had sent either talked the Free Folk into some grand gesture or they were far more proud than Ned expected. Perhaps they wanted to prove they were not savages and this building would be their statement.  It was already impressive.

Ned stopped at the sight of a man on a rough stool with chisel and hammer.  He was working the stone on the corner of the building, and Ned could already see a large whale tail emerging from the white stone.  Ned watched while the stone carver worked on the base of the tail before stepping back to consider his work.

“Your work is impressive,” Ned said.

The man gave Ned a suspicious look.  “Surprised a savage can do it, are you?” he demanded.

Jory opened his mouth, but Ned put out a hand. These were Free Folk and it would be generations before the animosity faded, assuming it ever did. It wasn’t as though Boltons and Starks had ever truly ended their simmering hatred for one another.

“Nay,” Ned told the stonemason.  “But I am impressed that the town is so well run that you have time for such. I imagine someone with your skill is most often pressed to make tipped weapons.”

The man stood and brushed stone chips from his leather apron. “Aye, true enough.”

Ned pulled a stone from his pocket and held it out.  “Have you seen any stone like this?”  The obsidian glowed dully in his hand.  Even though it had not been worked, one side was smooth. 

The man took it, turning it over in his hand.  “Aye. It goes by many names.  Blackstone, coldstone, glass… it’s only used to hunt mammoths.  It is too brittle, so if it hits a bone, it shatters and all the work that has gone into carving it is gone.  But it is sharp enough to get through a mammoth hide.”

“Do you know where to find it?”  Even though the Free Folk had only lived here a few scant years, Ned knew they would work first to find resources.  They were a people used to living on the edge of starvation and death, so knowing where to find raw materials, game, and weapons would be first on most tribal leader’s minds.

“Not around here.”

“I have some raw pieces. Could you show other stonemasons how to fashion it into daggers and arrowheads?” Getting the stonemasons trained to knapp such a fragile material was almost as vital as finding new mines.

The man frowned and tilted his head.  “We have agreed to forgo hunting mammoths.  The giants will decide if the herd must be culled.”

“But weapons powerful enough for those beasts would work well for other enemies,” Ned said.

The carver studied Ned as if he were a strange beast that had crawled into camp.

“I’ll pay you for your time.  A good fur cloak,” Ned said.

The stone mason was slow to answer. “I’ll show your people, but I don’t teach fools or anyone who would speak against me or mine,” he said sharply.

“Agreed,” Ned said.  “I’ll leave you to your work, but I’ll have a hand of men here tomorrow morning to learn to work with the… blackstone.” He turned to Jory. “Have five of our most experienced stonemasons, preferably men with experience carving, meet the good master an hour after sunrise.”

Jory nodded. “I’ll see it done.”

Ned walked into the main building.  The interior was dim, but someone had painted bright scenes in colors that reminded Ned of sunset. Oranges and reds and the intense blue the sky turned before yielding to the other colors.  One scene had a familiar weirwood tree standing on a hill, and Ned walked to the wall, touching it reverently. He could see every branch, every leaf, every knot on the trunk.  This was where the three-eyed raven waited in the roots of the tree. “Rivers,” he whispered.

The man had called Bran north.  That had saved Bran from death at the hands of Ramsay Bolton, but it had also meant that Bran had ceased to be Bran.  He had become the eyes of the gods.  Ned would rather the old gods take less of an interest in his children, just as he hoped the coming war would focus on him and not his children.

“I had not thought you travelled north of the wall, Warden of the North.” The man elected speaker for the Free Folk stood behind Ned, and he had not noticed him. Nor had he noticed Jory moving to the door, giving them a semblance of privacy.

Errok Nightrunner was studying him with an expression much like the stonemason had used.

“I admire the artist who created the work,” Ned said.

Errok studied him before saying, “That is a dangerous place.”

“Every place north of the wall is dangerous, especially now,” Ned countered. The Free Folk were the only ones he didn’t need to lie to when he helped them prepare for the coming war.

Jory was watching their conversation, his confusion poorly hidden, any illusion of privacy lost in his need to understand the danger Ned and Errok spoke of.

“Aye,” Errok agreed.  He had once been a huge man, one famous for running all night in order to warn his tribe of a coming attack from Thenns.  But age had whittled away his strength.  His beard was white except for brown streaks from the corners of his mouth, and his long hair had retreated from the top of his head. Still, he projected a strength that made the tribes respect him, which is why they had chosen him to speak for the Free Folk.

Ned had expected Tormund to take that role, maybe because he knew the man.  Errok was a mystery. Perhaps he had been one of the faceless mob killed by White Walkers in Hardhome. Perhaps he had died, even before that. But he had never appeared in any vision.

“How goes the building?”

“Well,” Errok said.  “We’ve placed the stone near where the craftsman will work.”

So the giants had done their work and retreated to the far end of the valley.  “Good. Have you created a ravenry?”

“It hardly seemed a priority given we lack one of those who can care for ravens.”

“Maesters,” Ned offered.  “I will send a raven to Oldtown asking one be assigned once we have quarters and a ravenry.”

“Then we should build at least part of the second story. We planned for any southrons to live in this place.” There was a twist of derision in his voice, as if emphasizing that this building was the one least prepared for winter. Even Ned’s bannermen would scoff to live in such a place, but most maesters were the second and third sons of great houses who could afford to educated. They would want more than a mudded house set into the slope.

“There is another matter that I am asking after as I travel. Blackstone. We need to find a source.”

He frowned. “Blackstone? You mean glass?”

“Aye.” Ned pulled it out of his pocket.

“I know the stone, but we have not searched for it.”

“We need to,” Ned said.  “These mountains may have a source. The stone will be found where fire once came from the ground.  I have small deposits at Winterfall and I have men mining it, but I need greater quantities.”

Errok took the stone and turned it over in his hand.  “It comes from earth fire?”

“It does.”

Errok looked at the painted weirwood tree and then started walking toward the stairs.  “Come. Let us talk.”

Ned gestured for Jory to stay before he followed Errok to wide stairs that led up into a wooden structure that protected the interior from rain as workers placed stone for the second floor.  This building was everything the Free Folk felt disdain toward. The high ceilings would be difficult to warm and the open spaces meant any heat would be sucked away.  It was a grand gesture to their belief that those from south of the wall were idiots.

“I hope the higher floors will be more practical for winter,” Ned said.

Errok gave him a toothy grin.  “We shall see.”  They walked out onto the unfinished second level.  From here, Ned could see the length of the valley, including the distant godswood that appeared as a faint smudge of dark green.  The Free Folk had found a weirwood tree and a number of guardian trees a half day’s ride down the valley.  Southrons would have cut the trees down for wood.  But Free Folk were more like Northmen in their respect for the old gods.  The godswood now marked the boundary between Free Folk and giant territory, and Liony Lannister had been told that those who followed the Seven were not allowed in the sacred space.

Jorah had been raised to follow the old gods, but he had been so offended on behalf of his young wife that he had taken her back to Bear Island. His loyalty might be poorly given, but Ned could not question the strength of it.  Ned had men watching for the slave traders who Jorah had once sold men to, but so far his foolishness had been limited to offending the Free Folk and his own sister. Ned would prefer her lording over the island, but he could not remove Jorah for no reason.

Errok walked to the one wall that had been erected.  “Earth fire yields the sword,” he said.

“Pardon?”

Errok pursed his lips and stroked his beard. “It is something our elders say, something they insist must be passed down from one generation to another although the meaning is lost.  If something is true, you say, “Earth fire yields the sword.”

Never had Ned heard anything of the like, not even in his last life. Sometimes Ned despaired over the fact that this lifetime was diverging so much from the previous that he no longer recognized it.  Then he reminded himself that if they were on a similar path, then his children would have been fated to suffer.

“What does it mean?” Errok asked. “You call for us to find earth fire, so tell me what that saying means.”

Ned needed allies, and in this, the Free Folk were his best alternative. “My people call it dragonglass because it’s found in the same places one finds dragons. They both come from earth fire.  The stone kills wights.” Ned took a breath. “It kills White Walkers, too. It might kill the Night King, I know not.”

Errok took a deep breath.  “My people whisper that you are a greenseer. They say you brought us south of the wall because you saw what was to come.  They say that some of our people cause you great distress. The sight of Ygritte of the Frostfall causes you pain and you trust Tormund Giantsbane for no cause. What have you seen?”

“Nothing true,” Ned said.

Errok sucked air through his teeth. “Then you are powerful enough to change the fates. Few greenseers have such a power.”

“I have no such power,” Ned said. “I had one vision long ago.  One vision that frightened me enough to do everything I could to change it.”

“And Ygritte?”

“Dead saving my nephew,” Ned said.

“Tormund?”

“I did not see his end, but I saw him fight well and truly.”

“Did you see me?”

“No.”

Errok stared out onto the valley.  “They were fighting wights and walkers. That is the only reason you worked so hard to bring us south of the wall. You sent Umber and Bolton, but they kneel to you. They would have made no offers without your permission.”

“I thought you would best understand them. They are hard men, much like your tribesmen.”

Errok turned to Ned. “You thought we would not understand you?”

Ned smiled wryly. “Few do.”

“We know wargs and greenseers. Can you warg as well?” A Northman would ask that question with fear and disgust, but there was a hope in Errok’s face.

Ned shook his head. “That is not my gift.”

“But your children and nephew have direwolves. Such cannot be tamed but by a warg. I talk to every southron who comes here about magic. They say magic belonged only to Targaryens who are gone.  Have you hidden your magic or has it returned to your line?”

Ned considered obfuscating the truth, but these Free Folk had stories that had been lost south of the wall. “It returned with me,” Ned said. If he spoke to any other about having magic, he would be forever tainted, but Errok relaxed, as if this was an answer that made Ned more trustworthy instead of less.

“Then you do not know the dangers. North of the wall, we keep the tales of the First Men. You’re of their blood, but you would not be here if you carried their stories. North there is magic.  The tree that captured your attention is part of it, but not the whole.  Greenseers are called north. Ever north. Some grow strong enough to resist the siren call. They lock away some part of themselves, and that allows them to greensee without being taken.  Others are taken over by great evil. They will lay in wait and destroy tribes from within.  You should not be this close to the true north, greenseer.  Go south and stay there. Do not listen to the siren song.”

“I hear no song luring me, but the North is my responsibility.  I must travel my lands.”

“Why? Are you a stonemason to shape the stones before placing them? Are you a worker to lift them into place?  Are you a boy to carry meals to the men? Do they need you?” No bannerman would dare to speak such, but Errok’s words were harsh.

“The Brothers at the Wall will expect me to oversee the work.”

“As long as there are no Free Folk hands among the workers, the crows will accept any help that is offered.”

“I must do what I feel necessary,” Ned said.

Errok nodded. “Know that if you go north of the wall, my tribe will no longer trust you.  Maybe the Frostfalls and Ice River clans and Hornfoots have forgotten the oldest of our legends, but I am from the northernmost of all the tribes that escaped the Night King. I am a Coldbiter. We remember.  I will have our elders start sharing the old tales, singing of the dangers. I will make sure that if you go north of the wall, no Free Folk will ever again trust you.”

A shiver went down Ned’s back.  Is that what happened to Bran? Had he been replaced by something evil that waited to destroy the kingdom from within or was he one of those greenseers who had cut off a part of themselves in order to survive?  “Children.  Are children more or less able to withstand this evil?”

Errok studied him for a long time. “Less. Considerably less.  More than one tribe was destroyed by a child whose visions led them to set fire to their food stores. Bodies are preserved by the cold. No doubt those tribes now live as wights.”

Horror robbed Ned of his words for a time. Something was corrupting greenseers to try and feed the Night King. Something was stealing children and turning them into tools for the growing evil.  “I won’t go north of the wall.  I’ll make sure my son doesn’t either.”

“You have a greenseer son.” His words were sharp.

“Maybe.  In my one vision, he was and the son of a friend was as well. They were called north. But I have seen no sign of either in this life.”

“No good comes of children going north. Even our tribe would send anyone with sharp dreams south, as close to the wall as they could get. The wall dampens the dreams. So guard your children well, Warden of the North, and keep them from the true north.”

Without another word, Errok walked away, leaving Ned alone with very disturbing thoughts.  He assumed his children had won the war against the dead, but if he believed Errok, they had handed the throne to a great evil.  Jon was exiled beyond the wall, Sansa sat as queen in the north, unaware of the danger, and Arya had sunk below the waves.

His children had not saved the lands of men.  That is why the old gods sent him back. His children hadn’t won the war at all.

Chapter Two

Benjen wrote the last of his responses and set them aside to take to the ravenry later. First, he went to the door and flagged down the nearest servant. “Ask Jaime Lannister to come to my solar,” Benjen said.

“Yes my Lord,” the woman agreed before hurrying down the corridor, her arms full of linens. Benjen had never anticipated being the lord of his own keep, and his father had certainly never trained him for such. He found the amount of paperwork required tiresome, even without the headache of managing so many guests as he set up training sessions. Had it not been for Tyrion Lannister, he would have run screaming from Castle Lyanna, abandoning it to someone better with letters.

Benjen’s life plan had always been to go to the wall and studiously avoid being named Lord Commander. As a young man, before his father had died and his world had upended itself, he had dreamed of being First Ranger, riding north of the wall and protecting the realms of men. That would've been an appropriate occupation for someone with his predilection.

But that was not his fate anymore than it had been the fate of Lyanna to marry a man she loved and live happily ever after. 

Fairy tales yielded when reality or the malice of the men or even the needs of the family intervened. The needs of the family. All those with noble blood lived under that stricture. He returned to his desk and studied the last message he had responded to. What had Lord Tarth been thinking? Benjen knew that pirates often prayed on that small island, and he had to wonder if the Lord found the obligation to defend his bannerman so overwhelming that he sacrificed his own child to duty. 

Benjen’s father had been the same. Rickard Stark had plotted and schemed and nearly destroyed his family in a misguided attempt to save it. Benjen still struggled to believe the story his brother had recently shared. The idea of living life a second time sounded like it came out of Old Nan’s stories, but Benjen had never shared his desire to go to the wall. He was not sure how to feel that in the life that never happened he had made First Ranger and died beyond the wall, disappearing right around the time that Jon turned ten and six. 

Right around now. 

Benjen wished he could dismiss his brother's words as some illness of the mind, some defect that led to a unique form of madness. But Ned was the man least likely to go mad. He was too connected to reality, and Howland had confirmed every word, explaining how they had used Ned’s knowledge to avoid certain outcomes and endure others they had been unable to change.

Like Lyanna’s death. Like the deaths of Jon’s siblings.

And the story of living his life again explained why Ned had changed so much between Harrenhall and the rebellion. He had grown more outspoken, quick to condemn traditions he deplored, such as rape, even in the face of much older bannermen. Benjen had always seen his brother as having that core of iron, but as a young man, he had never voiced it. It was funny. Their father had always thought Ned lacked decisiveness, but Benjen had always seen his brother as being too decisive. He made up his mind, and it would be days or weeks later that he would allow other voices to make him question himself. But he had rarely voiced these convictions–at least not until he had returned from a life where the Stark family had come to an inglorious and bloody end.

Benjen’s musings ended when Jaime stood in the open door rapping his fingers against the wood.

“Come in,” Benjen said. Jaime had lost some of the saunter in his walk after learning of Jon's parentage. A Jaime Lannister who was not arrogant was actually rather disturbing. “I wish to discuss a request I've received for our next training class for Southrons,” Benjen said.

Jaime sank into the guest chair and propped one ankle on the opposite knee. “I thought the goal was to cut the North off from the South, not continue trade.”

“Arden and I discussed this,” Benjen said.  In his head, he had long ago stopped thinking of the assistant Master at Arms at Castle Lyanna as Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of Morning who was hiding in plain sight so he could help raise Jon.  “It would be too suspicious if we were to stop. We simply limit the number of Southrons so that any attempt to take the castle from within during training will fail.”

“This is playing with fire,” Jaime warned.

“I would rather play with fire than warn the throne that a game is afoot,” Benjen pointed out.  He understood why Ned didn’t want Jon on the throne–or Sansa. Both had a pathway to the Red Keep, Sansa as queen to Joffrey or Jon as the legitimized heir of Rhaegar. Yet Ned worked hard to keep both as far from that as possible. And Benjen understood. The thought of his adopted son, his beautiful little Jon, living in that vipers’ pit made Benjen’s stomach sour.

He would never be safe.

But just as nobles had to sacrifice for family, royals had to sacrifice for the realm.  Robert Baratheon was driving the kingdom into debt, Stannis would sacrifice Westeros on the altar of his twisted god, and Renly was incapable of decisions beyond what fabrics to use in his various court outfits. They were all useless, and without a clear heir to the throne, Westeros would descend into a civil war that would leave nothing standing.

Jon had an obligation, and as the father who had raised Jon, Benjen was required to stand back and allow his beautiful little boy, the man who had Lyanna’s grey eyes with the slightest flash of purple in firelight, to ascend the throne.

Jaime nodded. “Secrecy is our best tool now. Which is why I worry about having so many Southrons in our courtyard on any given day. Even with good northmen at my back, I would fear a battle inside our walls.”

“No Northmen this round,” Benjen said.  “Quentyn has asked to bring a new contingent of Dornish to train with you.”

Jaime sucked in a breath.  “They know something.”

“Likely,” Benjen agreed.  Jon and Arden had been gone for five months, and the first continent of Dornish had shown up with no agreement, no warning, a mere month after they left. For them to return so quickly suggested they were aware of something, although Benjen could not say which of the secrets they had ferreted out.  Had they learned that Jon was Rhaegar’s son? Had they learned that Elia Martell had approved of her husband’s relationship with Lyanna? Did they know Daenerys had been kidnapped by a horse lord or that Jon, the presumed prince of the realm and the Sword of Morning had gone to rescue her? For the last fifteen years they had quietly supported Viserys and Daenerys from a distance, but now they moved to strengthen relations… with the North.

Jaime rubbed a hand over his face. “I don’t trust them to have my back if news of Jon and Arthur reaches the king.”

“They will fight for a North that tried to protect their family and avenged them when that failed. They have no reason to love Robert Baratheon or his sadistic spawn.”

“Do not trust that those who share an enemy will stand with you on the battlefield,” Jaime warned. “Every person in this game has their own agenda, and we can only trust those whose agendas we understand and share.”

“Who would you have us trust?” Benjen asked curiously. Since learning that Jon was the prince’s son, Jaime had turned colder. The dangerous edge he always had was now polished and displayed to anyone who came too close.

“You, Arthur, and I would all save the realm by putting Prince Jon on the throne. I would trust Ned to protect us or Jon, but he will undermine any attempt to move on the throne.  There is literally no one else in the seven realms or all of Essos I would trust.”

“That is a pessimistic view of the situation.”

“It is a realistic one,” Jaime countered.  “We will have to spill a lot of blood before this game ends, and if we give trust too easily, it will be our blood upon the floor.”

Benjen nodded slowly. In Ned’s first life, Benjen had died north of the wall and Jaime had stood at Jon’s side, fighting back the wights until his warped sense of duty had pulled him south to stand with his sister as they both died.  That was a reality that Benjen could not imagine because there were few people in the world that Jaime held in as much contempt as Cersei Lannister.

“Because of that, we will have a number of warriors from smaller keeps rather than train one house,” Benjen said.  “I doubt Ambrose, Durwell, Bridges, Hewett and Tarth will unite against us. I rather think most of them would side with us against Baratheon if the war came, but a couple might side with Renly.”

“I will not trust any man to fight for me until I see him put his sword in action,” Jaime said.

Benjen didn’t argue, largely because Jaime was right. The coming war would tear apart alliances and turn neighbors against each other. Some would never stand for a bastard king, not even one that Robert Baratheon himself had legitimized. Others would admire Jon’s prowess on the field and his honor.  Most would seek a way to control Jon or get more profits for their own families or realms.  Everyone would fight for their own reasons.

Since affairs of the realm were beyond Benjen’s ken, he focused on the affairs of Castle Lyanna. “Lord Tarth has a request which will pose difficulties for us.”

Jaime frowned. “Tarth is a rather small holding, and the Lord of that island has not caused anyone grief as far as I know.”

“I suspect many people are grieved given that he appears to have violated many Southron traditions, but I'm not one to judge another man's decisions regarding his family.”

Jaime looked even more confused.

“His only child is a daughter, Lady Brienne. Lord Tarth writes that she is far more fond of the sword than the mirror, and he asks for a place in training for her.”

Jaime's eyebrows rose in shock. “A warrior woman? Can she even lift a sword?”

“I would spend a considerable coin to see you say that in front of Mormont women,” Benjen said.

Jaime smirked. “I am not a great enough fool to do that. But the Mormont women and Northern women in general understand the need to defend their homes. Southron women expect men to do it for them. I would not expect one to know how to lift a sword. And I am not a babysitter to put a wooden sword in a boy's hand, or a girl’s.”

Benjen had the same worry, but he had no reason to disbelieve Lord Tarth. “Her father writes that she has been training for six years. She is ten and six now, and he has no man in his keep who can best her with the sword.”

Jaime snorted. “I weep for the quality of swordsmen in Tarth.”

“The girl stands taller than any man in Tarth, and her father would have her arm herself in her own defense since few men are willing to stand for her.”

Jaime's expression darkened. He disliked any mention of women being left at the mercy of men even though he never spoke of Princess Elia, not even to Quentyn, at least not where Benjen had heard.

“Her father offers us three times the gold to train her, and I thought to include her in our next course. Perhaps I could write to the Mormonts and invite them for training, providing these southrons an education on what a woman trained in a weapon can accomplish.”

“You want me to train this woman?”

Benjen leaned back in his chair. “You do not seem to mind training Mormont women.”

“Because they can swing a mace. But I do not want some southron giant who I must defend from southron knights who are likely to object to her inclusion.”

“That is not what I expected you to say when I brought up Brienne of Tarth,”  Benjen commented. He had expected Jaime to admire a woman who could flout all the expectations placed on her. The trait he hated most in himself was his wavering nature when people put expectations on him.

“Are you ordering me to train this Brienne?”

“Do I need to?”

Jaime considered him for long seconds. “You pay me to be your mastered arms. That gives you a certain leeway to issue orders, assuming you do not push that too far.” He narrowed his eyes.

Benjen was growing concerned about Jaime’s change of attitude since the grand secrets had been revealed. On the training grounds, he excelled as always, but he was harder, sharper, less patient and more likely to number someone’s faults.  He sounded, in short, like his brother. One Tyrion was more than enough. As much as Benjen admired the younger man’s ability to balance books, he was rather abrasive. “Has something happened to turn you this disagreeable, or are you still fretting over Arden?”

Jaime clenched his jaw until the muscle bulged, but Benjen did not comment. He waited for the first rush of emotion to pass so that he could see what Jaime was truly thinking.

“Why was I not told of Jon's parentage? He was my prince, and I was never told.”

The words shocked Benjen. In the months since Arden and Jon had left, Jaime had never shown any anger over the topic of Jon’s true parentage. “Would you have treated him better had you known?” Benjen asked. From all he had seen, Jaime had been an exemplary teacher for Jon and had never commented on his bastardry. Then again, if Ned were telling the truth about having lived his life a second time, then Jaime had fathered three bastards of his own, so he clearly had no strong feelings against them. Still, Benjen was very grateful that fate had guided Jaime down a different path this time. Sleeping with one’s twin was a level of depravity that Benjen had trouble associating with Jaime who was rash and arrogant and sarcastic, but never… perverse.

“Of course I wouldn't have, but I would've understood the importance of making sure he was trained. I would have monitored his progress more closely.”

Benjen nodded. “You would've hovered over the boy,” he summarized.

“I would have trained him better. Now he is gone to Essos, and as much as I trust Arthur to protect him, the dangers there are more than a boy of his age with his training should face.”

Benjen nodded slowly. “And how would you have explained this all-consuming need to make sure that my son was the most dangerous sword in Westeros?”

“Others need not have known.”

“You are Jaime Lannister. People watch what you do, far more than they ever watched Arden, a man with no reputation and no fame.”

Jaime rubbed a hand over his face. “I would've kept the secret,” he said quietly.

“You would've tried,” Benjen agreed. Jaime's head snapped up. Benjen held out a hand to stop him from speaking. “You never would have intentionally betrayed the secret, but you love too strongly Jaime. Every time your brother walks in the room, everyone can see how deeply you love him. Even now that he is a man, the joy you get from reuniting after even a week apart makes your ties of brotherhood clear, even if you do not look alike. Had you known that Jon was Rhaegar’s son, you would've looked on him with the same favor, and then people would have wondered why.”

Jaime had been coiled in the seat, his muscles bunched as though he was ready to leap into battle, but now he sagged in defeat. “I could not save his brother or sister. I should be with him now, ensuring that he is safe,” he whispered.

“You should be here. Sooner or later word will reach Robert that Arthur Dayne has returned. At first he will likely think it an imposter, someone with a replica sword seeking to capitalize on the man's reputation. Between the difficulty in passing messages across the sea and Arthur's own attempts to hide his identity, it will be a year or perhaps two before Castle Lyanna will be tasked with bleeding the royal armies that try to cross north. If you were to vanish, how much more quickly would the war come? If spies reported that not just Arthur Dayne but also Jaime Lannister had been seen in Essos, how much more quickly would those rumors be believed?”

Jaime grimaced, but he didn't argue the point. Benjen assumed that meant that he understood their logic.  “But he is the crown prince. He is the only child of Rhaegar that survived the horrors of that rebellion. And now he has lost his father's name. I know he wished only to be a Stark, but naming him such feels like an insult to his true father.”

“Why do you believe he has lost his father's name?”

Jaime frowned. “The idiot king legitimized him as a Stark.”

A slow smirk graced Benjen’s face. “King Robert legitimized him, naming Jon of Castle Lyanna in the North, the legitimate son of his natural father.”

Jaime stared at him, his eyes wide. Jaime often joked that he was the stupid Lannister, but he was not. “You do plan to put him on the throne.”

“Westeros cannot survive without him. Five more years of Baratheon rule and the Iron Bank will step in. There will be a war, either Westeros versus the mercenaries of the Iron Bank or the various noble houses against each other as they try to put forward a candidate to replace Robert, one that can stave off the Iron Bank. And all that danger exists even if no one ever gives credit to the rumors of Joffrey’s parentage.”

“Joffrey,” Jaime said with a grimace. “I have lived in the Red Keep, and I know how tightly nobles can keep their fists around the smallfolk and servants and truth. They are willing to strangle all three. I lived most of my life with Cersei, and I saw how she manipulated and controlled everything around her. And yet, the Baratheons cannot keep rumors from spreading more quickly than the pox. Joffrey's cruelties, Tomman's weakness, the whole kingdom knows of them. Are you behind that?”

Benjen couldn’t deny any involvement because he didn’t know what his allies were up to. Hightower and Arthur had spent years arranging pieces to favor their prince, so Benjen would not be surprised to learn that one of them had encouraged servants to speak out of turn. Given the Joffrey’s cruelty was so clear even when he was a boy, it would not be hard to encourage servants to speak out of turn.

“People do not need cause to gossip. They’ve already seen one mad king, and now they fear another is about to take the throne. But we have another fight to prepare for. Lyanna had Jon because she believed that he had a role to play in a great prophecy, one that lay in the North.”

“What prophecy?”

“I do not pretend to know,” Benjen said. If the prophecy was true, it would reveal itself without men needing to manage it. Benjen still resented Lyanna for leaving them, for plunging the world into war and abandoning her child because she valued some prophecy. He swallowed down the bitterness before it threatened to stain every memory he had of his sister. “Ned fears that the throne destroyed Aerys, that his capture at Duskendale sealed his fall. He sees what that throne did to his friend Robert,. He sees how Prince Joffrey descends into evil each year that he grows without having his power checked, and he fears that it is not blood that drove the Targaryens mad but rather power. He would keep his family from such power, and by doing so, protect them. And he feels the need more keenly because he, like Rheagar and Lyanna and Arthur and Howland, believes that Jon must fight in the war of men in the North. He fears that if Jon is king, he will be damaged the way others have been before he can claim his true destiny.”

“Another war? We are riding an out-of-control horse and careening toward a cliff,” Jaime exclaimed.

“We are. But if we do not ride this horse, the consequences will be borne by the entire realm.”

Jaime nodded. “So we shall pretend that all is well and tell everyone that Jon is traveling, and I shall endeavor to be less disagreeable.”

“And you will train the Lord Tarth’s strange daughter, for we are known for training anyone for gold. We want no one questioning what it is that motivates us.”

Jaime stood and bowed his head towards Benjen. “Lord Stark,” he offered in an oddly respectful tone and then he turned and exited

Chapter Three

“How are your new fighters?” Tyrion asked as he wandered into Jaime's room without bothering to knock. Jaime opened his mouth to complain, but then Tyrion held up a pitcher and two mugs.

“I'm allowing you to remain only because you bring gifts, and because I don't want the men to see me drinking in the hall.” Jaime claimed a mug and held it out for his brother to fill.

“That bad?” Tyrion planted himself on the top of Jaime’s chest. He had two chairs, a bench, and the bed, and his brother still chose to sit on things that were not designed to be sat on. Tywin would be horrified, which, Jaime suspected, was the point.

“Did you not see them when they arrived or when I did my first evaluation on the training grounds?” Jaime drained half the cup of strong northern ale. Each year, the quality of the warriors fell, which he should be grateful for given that he would face off against these southrons over a battlefield sooner rather than later. However, teaching them was a level of torture that even Tywin Lannister wouldn’t aspire to.

Tyrion looked at Jaime as if he had a dragon growing out of his ass. “Do I look like someone who pays attention to the training grounds?”

Jaime snorted. “I know full well you can handle an axe. I taught you.”

“You tortured me, and now that that period of torture is over, I plan to avoid training yards for the rest of my life.” He raised his cup as though toasting the idea. “The ale hall and the library, those are my true habitats. Give me an ale and a book and I am as happy as a lion lizard in the swamp.”

“But not as dangerous,” Jaime said. He'd often heard Tyrion’s speech on how books sharpened his mind the way a whetstone sharpened Jaime's sword. If so, Jaime did not think his little brother needed any more books. His mind and his tongue were sharp enough already. Jaime worried more about his arm.

Tyrion clutched his chest. “I am mortally injured. My brother does not find me fearsome. I will have you know that I reduced three different people to tears just today. I am awe-inspiring. Pound for pound, inch for inch, you will find no one who is my match.”

“I’m tempted to say something unkind about your pounds and inches,” Jaime said.

“No you aren’t,” Tyrion said with confidence.  “So what is so remarkable on the training field that you would ask if I had seen it?”

“A lady,” Jaime said.

“Are the Mormonts back? I find them delightfully blunt.” Tyrion’s grin had a salacious glint that would get him killed if he was not careful around Darcy. Either that or he had already talked his way into a Mormont bed and what Jaime saw was a courtship of sarcasm and wit. It was possible.

“Do you mean they put up with you flinging your most offensive words in their general direction? If so, yes, they are. But I am not speaking of the Mormonts. This is a southron lady from Tarth.” Jaime made a show out of studying his very short brother. “Now that I think about it, she would be a good match for you.”

Tyrion sat up. “A match for me? Why?” Suspicion colored his expression, and his mismatched eyes studied Jaime in search of the jape.

“Truly, you two are a pair. A matching pair.” Jaime nodded and schooled his features into a serious expression.

“Is she short?” Tyrion asked.

“No, she is exceptionally…” Jaime paused, allowing the silence to draw out until Tyrion had narrowed his eyes and clutched his mug tightly enough that Jaime suspected it was about to fly at his head if he said the wrong word. “Odd,” Jaime concluded. “You would be a match for the ages. Minstrels would sing of you. Mummers would playact your life.” Jaime raised his mug to toast the very excellent idea of Tyrion Lannister wedding Brienne of Tarth.

“What is wrong with the lady?” Tyrion demanded.

“Nothing,” Jaime said, “nothing at all.”

“If you do not tell me, I shall march straight to the steward and find where this lady warrior is sleeping. I will knock on her door and tell her that my brother spoke of her with such eloquence that I had to meet her immediately.” Tyrion raised his eyebrows in challenge, and Jaime knew he would do it. Tyrion was ruthless. Jaime found it very ironic that the only child of Tywin who followed in his footsteps was the child he had fathered and then rejected entirely. 

He held up his hands in surrender. “I just think it would be humorous to see you stand side-by-side in a sept offering each other your vows.” Jaime grinned. “You standing no taller than my chest and her standing tall enough that I must look up to her.”

Tyrion's eyes widened. “No,” he said in shock

“Yes, she is a giantess, and easily the best sword on the training grounds. While far from proficient, she is as close to competent as any southron gets with a sword.”

“That will make the men unhappy.” Tyrion poured himself a second cup of ale, but this time he sipped it. Since he was chancellor, he had to wake early and with a clear enough head to handle most of the paperwork for Lord Stark the younger, so he had learned to limit his drinking. He had also learned Lord Benjen had no patience for a hangover and his own sadistic streak when he suspected Tyrion was nursing one.

Jaime raised his own mug of ale. “You are a master of understatement.”

“I am happy I can be master of something,” Tyrion said. Jaime controlled the urge to wince. Had he the money, he would pay for Tyrion's entry to the masters, but Oldtown would charge an inordinate amount of gold simply because they knew Tywin would claim his pound of flesh if they had the audacity to train the child he wished to see dead. Besides, Jaime feared that were Tyrion to ride south, their father would take him hostage to force Jaime back into the family. 

“The men asked me to dismiss her, and she has the poor grace to outfight every one of them so they look like they fear a woman.”

“Is she beautiful?”

“Aye,” Jaime said, “as beautiful as a brick wall, as a Frey, as the marsh when a particularly large animal dies and leaves a rotting corpse behind.” While that was exaggeration, and her looks would be much improved if she did not go out of her way to appear manish. However, even the application of silks and paint would not turn her into a proper lady. At best, she would be a poor imitation of the courtly ladies who gathered praise, so he supposed it was best that she chose instead to be a fearsome fighter, an area where she could excel.

“I may have to watch these trainings. It sounds like it would provide some amusement.”

“It provides headaches,” Jaime said.  He eyed the pitcher. While he would like to drink, he had to train tomorrow. He could not appear on the training grounds with a muddled head unless he wanted to join the ranks of those embarrassed by a bear of a woman. Bear.  Maybe he could invite Tormund down. He would appreciate Lady Brienne’s… charms.

“It must be difficult for you to be training without Arden,” Tyrion said.

“Why would you say that?” Jaime asked.

Tyrion frowned at him. “You are turning into a Northman, all frowns and terse silences. My ridiculous brother who stole Cersei’s hair lightening tonic has all but vanished.”

“I never…” Jaime spluttered.

Tyrion raised an eyebrow, and Jaime sagged. Fine. He had. Often.  Lannisters were supposed to have hair like spun gold, but Jaime and Cersei had both inherited a rather dull and tarnished version of that gold. Luckily, there were any number of tonics that could remedy the problem, and as a callow youth, Jaime had followed his sister’s lead in using them.

“I have lived in the north for years now. There is every reason for me to speak like a Northman.”

Tyrion put his cup on the floor and studied Jaime. “What is going on?” he finally asked.

Jaime controlled the panic that stirred in his breast. He could face a line of charging Ironborn, but one dwarf and he felt as if he had been held under torture for an hour. The truth was bubbling at his lips. “I told you, Lady Brienne of Tarth is making this a very difficult training. None of them will want to train with her after today, not after she put several of them in the dirt. The master of arms in Tarth is impressive. Certainly they have done more with her than most of these other lackwits who can't figure out which end of a sword to hold on to.”

“They must be lackwits if they can't figure out you hold the blunted end and stick the pointy part in someone else's body. It appears a rather simple equation to me.” Tyrion mimed stabbing someone with a sword.

“There is a bit more to it than that.”

Tyrion waved him off as if Jaime's words were inconsequential. Sometimes he was very annoying. “What has you so concerned? And do not tell me that men being displeased at being shown up by a woman is shocking. The Mormonts nearly caused a civil war after they bested the Karstarks, and you handled that easily enough.”

“They are northern. Southrons are different.” Jaime fought to keep his tone even.

“Spoken like a true northman. Are you that bothered by Arden's absence? Are you afraid you will not be as effective without him?” Tyrion’s sympathetic tone was like bees stinging Jaime–not fatal but intensely uncomfortable.

“I know I will not be as effective without him, but he felt he must go.”

Tyrion leaned back, using a foot to push his cup away. “He must go? I was under the understanding that he escorted Jon on his great tour of the world. In fact, I quite mourned for the lad. Arden is rather dour, and most of the time when young men travel, they hope to sleep with every pretty woman they encounter from one end of the kingdom to the other. It would be hard for Jon to find female companionship with Arden trailing two steps behind. But now you speak as if Arden was called away by some duty other than Jon and his lonely cock.”

“Don't speak of Jon that way,” Jaime chided him.

Tyrion's eyebrows went up. “My my my. What have you discovered, brother?”

“Discovered? I don’t know what you mean,” Jaime said quickly.

“And here I was hoping you would learn to lie. Evidently not.”

“What?” Icy fear gripped Jaime.

Tyrion gestured towards Jaime from the top of his head down to his toes and back in a wave that encompassed all of him. “This. I assume you have only recently discovered Jon's true parentage or else you would've reacted like this any number of other times that I commented upon the young prince.”

Jaime's heart thumped so hard he could feel the pressure in his chest. He could not get air to enter his body, and his limbs felt chilled.

Tyrion rolled his eyes. “Do you really think you keep a secret that well? Is it so shocking I would discover it?”

“Yes!” Jaime's door was already shut, but he hurried to the corridor, certain that someone was listening. While that was likely paranoia, he could not speak until he had checked for himself.  No one waited, no assassins were in the corridor. No one was listening.  Jaime slammed the door and sat on the bed, close to Tyrion. “No one can know about this,” he said, desperate for his brother to take this seriously.

“Obviously. King Robert would have both our heads on spikes outside the Red Keep. Cersei would mourn for days over you. Absolutely days. She would weep under your mounted head. But then she would laugh and dance every time she saw my head, and then they would have to lock her up for being mad.” Tyrion made a show of thinking about that future. “It might be worth it.”

“I'm serious.”

“You’re always serious,” Tyrion said. “You’re far too serious. And I have known about the prince since he was eight. If one of the two of us is going to betray the secret, it will not be I.”

Jaime stared in horror at his brother. He knew Tyrion was smart, but this was… inconceivable. He knew their father had always called him the stupid Lannister, but it wasn’t only he who was fooled. The entire kingdom had been. That was the only explanation for why King Robert hadn’t come after all their heads. “How could you know?”

Tyrion stared at Jaime as if he were a particularly stupid and amusing child. Jaime narrowed his eyes in warning and Tyrion held her hand up as if he could hold off the coming violence. “Peace,” he said. “Ned Stark went to Dorne to get his sister. Arthur Dayne was guarding his sister. Kingsguard only guard the royal family. Did Lyanna and Rhaegar have a secret marriage?”

Jaime snorted. “Do you think anyone in the seven kingdoms would want a prince born from a second marriage?”

“They would like that more than a bastard prince. I'm not sure how you plan to get him on the throne now that he is a legitimized Stark.”

“He isn’t one.”

“Funny, I thought you came back from the tourney with stories of Jon earning his name in the melee. Were you confused about which Jon I was asking about? Is there another Jon I should know about? A Jon Waters? Maybe Jon Stone?”

“Of course it was our Jon,” Jaime snapped, “but he was legitimized to carry the name of his natural father.” 

Tyrion bellowed a laugh, picked up his mug, and raised it as if in salute. “Whoever masterminded that bit of tomfoolery, I salute you.” He poured another cup of ale and drank. “So now you have a legitimized Targaryen. And then you have two Targaryens wandering Essos. Are we going to have another dance of the dragons minus the dragons? So, a dance?”

“I hope not.” Jaime knew Viserys would want the throne, but even as a child in the Red Keep, he was not a good lad. Jon had been raised to lead. Jaime could see now how much Benjen and Arthur had invested in teaching him to handle politics and economics and strategy–all under the guise of making sure he could handle Castle Lyanna. 

“Arden!” Tyrion shouted

Jaime started. “What? What about Arden?”

“Arden is Arthur Dayne. How could I have not known of this? I am ashamed of myself.” Tyrion threw his hands in the air. “If Jon is the prince, of course he would have a kingsguard. Idiot me, I assumed you were the kingsguard in question and that was why you seemed to embrace your celibacy with such a fervor. But if you didn’t know he was the prince, it makes sense that Arthur Dayne was the prince’s true guard. That’s why he is so damn good with a sword, and why he never shows the men he trains his true skill.” 

“I do not embrace my celibacy with fervor,” Jaime protested.

“Yes, yes you do.”

“I would not if there were anyone here to take as a bed partner. There's a lack of brothels in the area.”

Tyrion's grin grew crooked.” But there is not a lack of Freys. There are an abundance of Freys. A plethora of Freys.”

Jaime stared at his brother in horror. “You're sleeping with a Frey girl?”

“No,” Tyrion said, but Jaime waited for the other half of the jape and Tyrion provided it. “I am sleeping with several Frey girls.”

“Do you know what their fathers will do if they are dishonored?”

“They know how to brew moon tea by the gallon. I am not concerned about a Frey’s ability to look out for themselves. I rather admire that trait in them.”

A shudder of horror ran down Jaime’s spine. “I would rather not have my little brother bedding Freys.” Jaime was revolted. Some of the girls were pretty enough, but they were Freys. Every man in that house had such a dearth of goodness that Jaime could not imagine the girls were any different.

“I'm bedding them, not marrying them,” Tyrion said. “Besides, it's not as if many women want to bed a dwarf. They are so desperate for attention, they don't care how short I am or how disowned. They live in hope that father is going to ride north and beg us both to return home on bended knee while lavishing us with gold. Then they dream that as I ride south on a huge white palfrey that I will stop by the Twins and take two or three of them to wife. Who am I to deny them their little fantasies.”

“You are acting despicably,” Jaime said dryly. While the Freys had an obligation to protect their women and the women made a choice to bed a man without marriage, Tyrion carried most of the blame in this horror.  Those women hoped for rescue, and Tyrion, even if not promising it, held out hope like bait dangled from a fisherman’s hook.

“I am acting like a man with a cock, something which you know little about. Still, how did I not realize he was Arthur Dayne? So if both Jon and Arthur Dayne are missing, I have to assume something is happening. If Robert heard word of this, I would expect an army at our doorstep, so this has naught to do with the Red Keep. Benjen has not mentioned anything wrong with the Stark family, so they are not dealing with Lyanna’s side of the family, which leads me to wonder if something is wrong on Rhaegar’s side. Has Viserys finally done something insane enough that the Sword of Morning must get them out of trouble?”

Jaime rubbed a hand over his face. The guess was too close to the truth. “You should not know any of this, and I want to speak of your habit of bedding girls who hope for more than tumble. This is not the same as paying a professional who understands the temporary nature of the liaison.”

“Who am I going to tell your secrets? The Frey girls? Trust me, I am not that great of a fool.”

“If you lay down with Freys at all, I am sorry to inform you that you are a fool. If books sharpen your mind, you need to read more.”

Tyrion snorted. “Women can desire a tumble as well as a man, and those Frey women are locked in the Twins with cousins and brothers and uncles who treat them like workhorses with no thought other than to cook and clean for men.”

“And you shame them by using that unhappiness to get your end.”

Tyrion refilled his cup and drank.  “I can do nothing without their consent. Unlike the Frey men who stole girls from fields, I am not strong enough to carry off an able-bodied woman. And I think the more interesting conversation is that of our Prince Jon Targaryen. That is far more interesting than my choice of bedpartners.”

Jaime closed his eyes. Tyrion was correct about that. “If you discovered this so easily, I worry about how many others know.”

“I assume that anyone figured it out is on our side. The day that I see the army on the road to the castle, I will note that someone on Robert's side knows. Wait. Is that why our niece and our tolerable nephew are in the north? Does Stark the elder expect war soon or is he planning on holding our family members hostage?”

“Is Lord Stark the type to hold hostages?” Jaime asked dryly.

Tyrion wrinkled his nose. “True. He should hold hostages because hostages would be the quickest way to get our father to back off, but I’m not sure he plays the game that way. Mind you, I'm not sure Robert likes his children enough for hostages to be effective in his case, but still, hostage taking is a rather effective strategy when you're at a numerical disadvantage.”

“Lord Stark would say that taking women or children hostage is despicable and dishonorable.”

“Lord Stark's honor is going to get him killed one day.  I hope to avoid following him into that ignoble grave, so I hope Stark the younger has a more pragmatic view of hostages or any other strategy that would win the day.”

Jaime did not comment. He had a difficult enough relationship with honor that he avoided discussing what any other man did in search of it. “Ask to speak with Benjen. Tell him what you know.”

“Why? So he can wonder whether he should throw me in a cell?” Tyrion gave him a suspicious look.

“Benjen wouldn't do that,” Jaime said with confidence.

“He would if he was wise. Anyone who learns the secret should be closely guarded.” Tyrion twisted his face into a comical imitation of thoughtfulness. “But this is a Stark we're talking about, and wisdom has never been one of their great strengths. Honor, yes. Strength, yes. I admire many things about the Stark's, but they are not known for their great intelligence. Any family whose heir would charge into the court of a man called ‘the mad king’ before threatening the crown prince… that is a family not known for intelligence.”

“Might I suggest you never say that in front of a Stark,” Jaime cautioned.

“Since I am known for great intelligence, I already knew that.”  Tyrion leaned back and propped his feet on a chair. “I’m actually a bit impressed. I never thought a Stark could pull off a hidden prince, but the family has depths I didn’t suspect… well, until when Jon was eight, years before you figured it out.”

Jaime rolled his eyes. “I'm serious. Talk to Benjen. Maybe if you help us with cover stories, fewer people will learn the truth.”

“What? Do you mean that someone might question whether a boy of three and ten can impregnate a girl? Most boys of three and ten are still trying to figure out how to get their cock to fit in their hand, so getting it to fit into the daughter of a traveling minstrel seems a stretch.”

“I do not want to hear my little brother talk of cocks anymore,” Jaime complained.  His brother was nigh obsessed with the subject, which Jaime had attributed to sexual frustration and a lack of whores in the castle or the closest town. However, if he was dishonoring Frey women, that was not the problem.

“Well, there ends that theory,” Tyrion said in a weary tone.

Jaime opened his mouth, offended that Tyrion had been testing some theory on him, but what good would that do? That was Tyrion’s nature. He experimented on people as an ale-wife experimented with hops.  “What theory?” he asked.

“I had thought perhaps you were a sword swallower and that's why you are not seeking the company of women. But most sword swallowers I know aren’t so offended at a discussion of men's cocks.”

Jaime couldn't take it anymore. He reached over and grabbed a cushion and pelted Tyrion in the face hard enough to knock him to the floor. He might love his brother, but Tyrion was the single biggest pain in the ass in all of Westeros… possibly all the known world.