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Chapter Text

Which gods have I blasphemed against, thought Eddard Stark to himself, that I would face this hell?

‘This hell’ was one of the many rooms within the Red Keep, where seven chairs usually met in the quotidian business of ruling the Seven Kingdoms. As a second son Ned would never have expected to step into the highest realms of power, much less in audience to the august persons within the room.

“Calm, Eddard.” Tobirama’s mutter was like a physical weight at his back, even past the wooden backing of the chair.

Even faced with Queen Rhaella – now Queen Dowager, he reminded himself – and Princess Elia – now the Queen Elia – and five of the Kingsguard behind the ladies, Ned would still bet that Tobirama would win. He had won before against worse odds.

The third adult Targaryen at the table stirred. “What…?”

“Very fortunately, days ago I came across Prince Rhaegar a few leagues from Harrenhal, asleep to the elements and due to drop into the Gods Eye,” Tobirama then clicked his tongue. “My mistake. It is King Rhaegar now.”

“…excuse me, Ser Tobirama,” the prince frowned. “You may be a wildling, but you did witness my father the King at the tourney at Harrenhal with Lord Eddard. As for why we are here with Lord Eddard…”

“Unfortunately, Lords Rickard and Brandon are still in recovery from their ordeals in imprisonment,” Tobirama spoke, like a liar, to royalty. “Hence the presence of my lord Eddard. Fortunately, House Stark is now lucky enough to negotiate with a new monarch, Your Grace.”

The Valyrian features of mother and son exchanged glances, both uncertain. “Until my father passes on, I am only a Prince. My royal father is… unwell, but that is all.”

“There lies the question, of which I shall endeavour to answer,” came the glib reply. “It is my understanding that, during the trial of one Elbert Arryn, the poor King Aerys cut himself on a half-melted blade sticking out of the Iron Throne. A very common occurrence, I am certain, there are uncomplimentary epithets that your royal father was known for as a result of this very common event. Very unfortunately, the proximity of live steel to his delicate stature also came with tetanus introduced from a few centuries of rusting metal and dirt in the middle of this… city… and it took him. Fatally.”

“And King Scab finally died from one too many a cut,” remarked Elia after a long silence.

Ned choked, and quietly sank in on himself away from the attentions of the royals.

“It is my understanding, however incomplete, that the quotidian affairs of the realm are already busy enough without the danger posed from the Iron Throne itself,” Tobirama continued his performance, somehow commanding a royal audience with nothing more than Ned as a mummer’s prop in the room of the small council. “Your history is filled with examples – Maegor the Cruel, found dead with a blade through his neck; the first Viserys, who lost two fingers to a stumble that cut to the bone; your own royal father now… As a new citizen, my first petition to the throne to blunt all the blades found on it is done with only the kindest of intentions. Your Grace,” the last part was added, as if Tobirama had completely forgotten the titles of the highborn.

Ned sank in on himself, prompting Tobirama to stuff a goblet of water into his hand. Ned drank it anyway, not thinking about poison, or the possibility of smearing poison on a blade on the Iron Throne, or even employing the Throne itself as a weapon of murder...

Ned would really like to know where Tobirama kept his balls on his tiny stature, because any regicide standing before a king must certainly warrant much courage. Ned was only barely associated from the wildling he fished out from the godswood at Winterfell, and already, all the hints of how tidily the matter resolved itself seemed to cut into his lifespan.

“That is… very kind of you,” Rhaegar finally replied after an echo of silence following Ned’s outburst. “However, Ser Tobirama, I am still quite lost. I believed I was around Harrenhal… and Elbert Arryn? Wasn’t he at Riverrun? I believe Lord Brandon was due for his wedding there?”

“That is… the question,” Ned coughed. “Brandon… received word that… Lya had been kidnapped by Your Grace.”

“Of course, it was an unfortunate misunderstanding,” Tobirama said, his cadence containing an implication which flew over Ned’s head.

“The Lady Lyanna and Lord Benjen later reported into Riverrun, to the confusion of their prospective goodfamily of House Tully. Some investigation revealed that one of Lord Tully’s wards had propagated the lie, and justice was met. My lord Eddard sent me ahead to King’s Landing before Lords Rickard and Brandon could accidentally lose their lives. Their Graces the Queens Rhaella and Elia were very kind to admit this poor wildling entry to the Hall to press suit.”

And then King Aerys died, Ned completed the unspoken.

If he had known, Ned would never…

…actually, if he had known Ned would probably have requested that Tobirama arrange something to clear himself of the suspicion in the midst of his task, as the royals were now regarding his wildling as though some predatory animal.

“Then as the gods will it, the Lords Rickard and Brandon live,” Queen Rhaella murmured. “I will get the Grand Maester Pycelle to attend them shortly, Ser Tobirama.”

“Your Grace the Queen, Grand Maester Pycelle has been retired.”

“Ser Tobirama, there has been no news of a Conclave…”

“No, Tobirama is right, Your Grace,” Ned admitted. “Grand Maester Pycelle has been retired by exit from the rookery whilst sending a raven to the Westerlands. Tobirama shot it down before it could escape – the message lies before the King, Your Grace. Currently, Tobirama is the attending physician to their care.”

Eyes still fixed on Ned or a few inches above Ned’s seat, Rhaegar slid the paper across to his mother. “Westerlands. Tywin Lannister, I presume. No matter. As for medical care…”

Ned understood that look. Gazing on perhaps the Dragonpit, or even the dragon skulls at the Red Keep, it was easy to stare in awe at the supernatural such as Tobirama, no matter what manner of man or monster he be. Tobirama was perhaps the only supernatural entity he knew whose danger was equal to the benefit he posed to men and monsters both.

“What will you do now, Lord Stark?”

“My father is Lord Stark,” Ned defended. “When Tobirama declares my family well recovered, we will journey to Riverrun where Brandon will marry Lady Tully, and then back to Winterfell for us. Us Starks fare poorly south of the Neck.”

“That would make the Lady Lyanna stay north rather than move to Storm’s End, my lord Eddard,” murmured Tobirama. “If I may suggest, it would be time to convince Lord Rickard otherwise regarding her betrothal.”

Rhaegar gave a slight cough. “In view of your… extraordinary service to Lord Eddard, perhaps more than a mere knighthood, my good Ser…”

“I am not knighted,” Tobirama admitted. “My lord Eddard would reward me, forsooth.”

Rhaegar sat straighter. “Well, that is criminally remiss of Lord Stark. In this new reign positions do open; We would need men of great ability under the Iron Throne…”

It was then that Ned decided, Tobirama can glare the problem of the collapsed and ruined keep of millennia into submission as a new bastion of the North. Nothing more complicated than economic expansion would be planned for at least the next decade, while Ned spends the rest of his life with Tobirama with enough gold and no lines of inheritance, no Southron ambitions, to worry about.

Chapter Text

Ned was still walking with one of the builders around Moat Cailin before he was nearly brained by a handle of black wood.

“Really, Lya,” he huffed, pushing away the wooden frame draped with oiled paper and patterned in a spiral of Tobirama’s sketch of blue winter roses. “When Father allowed you passage to Moat Cailin, it was with the promise of your best behaviour.”

“Come off it, Ned,” laughed Lyanna. “We all know that Father only allowed it because Tobirama would follow.”

And behind Tobirama would trail any number of charmed Northmen, Ned amongst their number and standing at their head. Ned forbore to mention that, or any of the bannermen lingering nearby.

“And because you had been very ladylike with Tobirama’s portable sunshade back at Harrenhal,” Ned squinted at the wooden frame that Lyanna held. “You do not strike me as a lady inclined to the southern fashion of shelter from the sun… or snow, where we are.”

With an impish grin, Lyanna twisted the hooked handle in hand and pulled, the easier to show Ned a flash of the concealed blade within the hollow wood centre. “What can I say, Tobirama is a convincing man,” she lifted the blade back into the sunshade. “I was also given the option for thicker ribs and stretchers, so that it would form an excellent club.”

“Only the gods know you need more help to be lethal,” Ned sighed. “Father would confiscate it if he knew.”

“Actually, Father paid for Prickle to be forged,” Lyanna revealed the blade’s name, thus also showing her attachment to it. “The scare back at Riverrun showed that having some means of self-defence was vital. And Tobirama is a very convincing man.”

“Have a care, Robert would throw his glove before Tobirama ere he suspects any impropriety.”

“My dear brother, Robert would be launched straight into the Neck should he attempt to duel Tobirama,” Lyanna clicked her tongue as they approached the Children’s Tower to find the topic of the conversation. “And then the lizard-lions would be having pâté de Stormlord. Tobi!”

“Yes, at an incline, Therry,” Tobirama was instructing as he turned towards them. “Enemy soldiers would march up, find that our walls are too steep, and then fall into the moat for the lizards. The placement can be sped up with cement, adding a mixture of aggregates – Lyanna, dive!”

Ned was still blinking when Lyanna hit the wet ground and then a splash of red covered half his vision. The wet slap of a dismembered hand fell to the boggy grounds, guards barely moving in stunned reaction to Tobirama pulling at the builder’s… face?

Ned gagged when Tobirama’s hand tore off the skin, and then dislocated the other’s jaw.

“By the old gods,” Helman Tallhart stepped back from where Tobirama was breaking the builder’s arm. “It’s a woman!”

“Behind me, Ned,” Wendel Manderly swelled up, shield at the ready between himself and the very defenceless assassin. “…Gods, Tobi, that’s a Faceless one that is!”

“I take it back that you were the most boring of us siblings, Ned,” Lyanna panted as she got to her feet, Prickle already drawn. “Barely a landed lord and someone already sent a Faceless Man after you.”

Ned gagged, almost a sob.

“Now then, as I understand it, and from what Beron has brought upon his return from the rookery after sending the message to Lord Rickard, someone seems to have spent a veritable fortune for our guest to murder our dear Lord Eddard,” Tobirama summarised a few hours later in the great hall of Moat Cailin. “Our guest is skilled in a technique not unlike a second-rank technique I am acquainted with that allows him, or her in this case, to steal another’s face and render it over their own-”

“How disgusting,” Lyanna cooed over a cup of mint tea by the stone table that was the centrepiece of the hall. “Exactly what kind of life have you led, my good man?”

“Far beyond comprehension, my lady,” Tobirama demurred. “Nevertheless, we are fortunate in that I have stopped the prospective assassin in the course of their preliminary investigation. With organisations of assassins, usually the execution of one would merely invite more of them.”

“Valar morghulis. High Valyrian, means that all men must die. The creed of the Faceless.” Lyanna frowned, then her brow smoothed. “Ned, if you’re founding a cadet house, you can put the house words as Tubī daor. Not today.”

“I am glad the attempt on my life is a jape to you, Lya.” Freshly scrubbed clean of the blood and changed into another set of linen tunic and woollen breeches, Ned took a swig of watered-down ale. “Putting aside that House Stark has no Valyrian roots, how do we know their target?”

“Upon seeing me, the assassin’s first reaction was to try and stab you in the back,” Tobirama pointed out. “It only shows that they have some vague idea of my presence. They have overestimated their ability this time.”

“For the first time in history that they were caught, yes,” Ned agreed. “My query lies more in the fact that I am no great lord, even as a member of House Stark or my lordship over Moat Cailin.”

“Should Lord Brandon been the target, you would have been the first suspect, Eddard,” Tobirama gave him an apologetic look. “To identify suspects is in the Washing Away of Wrongs, you understand.”

“Yes, we were there when you dictated the whole book to Maester Luwin,” Ned groaned. “My brother however is wedded and bedded and my new goodsister would likely bear the next heir anytime. Before Benjen becomes a suspect, I would first defend that Benjen lacks the funds.”

“Not to mention Ben’s horror at suddenly moving up a step in the inheritance,” Lyanna added, now sober and considering. “Should myself be suspected, I would lack funds, as well as having nothing to inherit even if I was to lose my most reasonable brother.”

“You never say that when I speak for Robert,” Ned muttered, but gamely continued: “And then if we continue down any measure of House Stark, nobody benefits or loses if a second son dies.”

“Yes, nobody in the family gains materially from the fall of the Lord of Moat Cailin,” Tobirama agreed. “So, we must think of it another way. Outsiders?”

“Moat Cailin is the first line of defence for the North,” Ned suggested. “The Ironborn?”

“The squids can afford the gold price?” Lyanna echoed in disbelief. “I think they would rather reave the Moat themselves than hire magical assassins from Braavos.”

“And the same principle would apply to any external enemy of the North as well, in that Moat Cailin is not worth that expense when White Harbour is a more attractive target straight for Winterfell via the White Knife,” Tobirama considered. “I rather fear, my lord Eddard, that you may have become a target by proximity.”

“Because you are a powerful Northern warrior and… somehow associated with me,” Ned slowly spoke as he pieced it together. “And greater men, the latest amongst them the King on the Iron Throne, have offered literal fortunes for your vow of service, of which I am the current holder?”

“My lord is far sharper than he gives credit.” Tobirama’s eyes glittered, and Ned slowly coughed and looked down. “Unless you are expecting a sudden windfall to inherit, unlikely since any such inheritances would have to go to Lord Brandon first, I am currently the most valuable piece in your service.”

“Since you are the first man in history to foil the Faceless Men, Tobi, I doubt even the gods themselves would disagree,” Lyanna drank her tea, and stole her brother’s horn of ale to Ned’s glare. “If we measure by price… well, few could pay the price for my dear brother, could they? If I think on it… King Rhaegar may be included amongst them.”

“My lady, King Rhaegar can hire my services by proxy simply by inviting my lord Eddard to court,” Tobirama ruthlessly quashed the doubt. “I understand that you have certain doubts of the man since Riverrun and being foolish enough to nearly abscond with a married man, but you have to concede that House Targaryen have a minimum of intelligence and that Rhaegar holds them in this generation. There are lords who can match royal resources enough.”

“It is said that you could hire an army of common sellswords for half the price of a Faceless Man to kill a Braavosi merchant,” Ned pondered. “I am the son of a Lord Paramount; I imagine that the price for my life is measured in amounts only Lords Paramount can move.”

“if we count by constituency… we can discount your father and the Tullys first,” Tobirama ticked off. “We have already mentioned the Ironborn, so we can leave the Iron Islands out. Your greatest friend is Lord of the Stormlands, your second father is Lord of the Vale, neither of them could have missed that largesse spent for your life. Dorne is counting on you to sponsor the medication for Prince Doran, they wouldn’t kill you just yet. The Reach is very keen on any medical advancements I have, but Mace Tyrell strikes me as having too few wits for politics and no acumen to hire assassins.”

“Westerlands,” Lyanna came to the same conclusion. “Lord Lannister? We did out his man Pycelle from the Red Keep.”

“There is currently no proof,” Tobirama cautiously reminded. “While Lord Lannister remains the most logical conclusion following our train of thought, there remains every possibility of someone passing as a Faceless Man to frame him and therefore cause his death should I try for his neck following Eddard’s death.”

Ned decided not to touch the chances of Tobirama infiltrating Casterly Rock to pull off the feat of ending House Lannister of the Rock in their mountain home. The chances were higher than what he was comfortable with. “Who hired the assassin can be investigated further. What about the actual assassin in the dungeons? Executing one would mean more.”

When had he become so cavalier over his life? Perhaps when it was clear that he would only lose it over Tobirama’s dead body, and it would take more than one magical assassin to down Tobirama.

“We would have to bargain with them,” Tobirama concluded after a long moment of thought. “And I would require some hold over them. Do you think Luwin knows about the Faceless Men?”

“A girl is humbled,” the assassin woman rasped when brought to the great hall in chains and on her knees before Ned, or more accurately before Tobirama who was standing over Ned, sentinel of magic that he was. “An acolyte girl does not compare to the Many-Faced incarnate.”

Time and time again, Ned would think that Tobirama was a manner of man, only for the world itself to seem to point out his mistake that the man was just a man. When magical assassins compare someone to Death incarnate, that someone was certainly touched by the gods in some manner.

“Your attempt was certainly rushed, necessitated when I discovered your presence as you first stepped before me,” Tobirama’s dispassionate assessment seemed like a master faced with a pupil’s arithmetic. “So many accidents happen during construction work, especially since helmets are not part of safety gear here. So easy to drop a chunk of basalt from above, let it strike Lord Eddard’s skull, and it would be blamed on the old towers and age. Moat Cailin has stood for millennia as I understand, and the process was not graceful.”

From the corner of his eye, Ned spotted their new maester Beron scribble down an order for steel helmets. He certainly approved of the initiative.

“I am aware that your organisation has accepted the payment for the life of Lord Eddard Stark here,” Tobirama continued. “I am also certain that as an acolyte, you cannot determine if the man lives or dies. I have patched the worst of your injuries and removed the false tooth with poison from your jaw, so that you may take a message to Braavos in search of someone who can speak with authority to repeal the bounty on my lord.”

“…the Many-Faced is wise,” the assassin spoke. “Him of Many Faces seeks that which is of use to him. Treachery would not benefit anyone here. If this girl may ask, however… some of the Faithful may argue that the Lord’s life is now consecrated to Him of Many Faces, and… to expedite the offering.”

“Oh, I am aware,” Tobirama’s sharp retort caused her back to straighten. “From the analysis of your disguise technique and the methodology of your planned assassination, I have already pieced together the main disguise technique of your organisation – the false masks from the dead that your colleagues swap at pleasure, the poisons, even the knives. Should any treachery be done, ravens will fly all over the known world to detail that exact methodology. Every subsequent ‘offering’, as you put it, would become at least a magnitude harder, if the information I uncovered does not outright render most of your kit obsolete. You already know that you cannot kill me before I write down all those secrets of the trade and send them out. Some ravens would get through any siege, some information could leak if I will it. Would that be enough of an incentive for someone of authority to come and talk before I scatter your secrets across the world?”

“It shall be as He of Many Faces wills. A girl shall depart forthwith.” The assassin had a pleased smile even as she… melted into shadow.

“Average technique,” Tobirama criticised. “She is specialised to the disguise and infiltration aspect, which makes discovery an additional danger. My lady Lyanna, observe here that you may learn something of the art of disguise from her.”

With her shoulders shaking, Lyanna put her face into her hands. “Gods, Tobi. You blackmailed the Faceless Men?”

“Organised assassins have a reputation to worry about,” Tobirama explained. “Even if we managed to find the employer and kill them, it would not stop the original bounty – they would have to honour the agreement some way. Removal of the organisation itself would take too long and take me some distance from Eddard, which opens the possibility of one assassin’s success or the possibility of grudges escalating. So, we must drag the organisation to negotiate a stay of execution to, say, Eddard’s passing in his sleep a century later, or the space to achieve a condition by which the bounty on Eddard would be withdrawn.”

“That is interesting wording, Tobirama,” Ned sunk him on himself from his perch in the wooden chair. “I notice you do not exclude the possibility that you may have to remove the organisation entirely.”

“All men must die, as it is said,” came Tobirama’s easy reply. “For you, Eddard, I will make sure that you die in your sleep in ripe old age.”

Chapter Text

It was days after the Faceless scare that Lyanna finally spoke in the training yard over the clack of quarterstaffs: “So, any word from the Faceless Men? Ow!”

In the midst of maintaining his own castle-forged sword and armour, Ned looked up to where Lyanna was taking her lesson in quarterstaff from Tobirama.

Tobirama sternly lifted the ruler he was using to rap her knuckles. “Mind your footwork. Lord Stark may not have seen through the ruse with the parasol, and Eddard would not be inclined to inform on you, but you must know how to use all weapons. Including the dagger that I gifted for your chatelaine belt.”

Grumbling, Lyanna shifted and redid the steps before they exchanged blows in a rhythmic manner again. “Glad the first things we fixed was the training yard…and that the weather allowed us to drain some parts of the grounds. But what about, you know, the assassins after my brother?”

“We are trying to keep that a secret, my lady,” Tobirama murmured.

“Between yourself and the crannogmen I doubt any spies would get through,” Lyanna groaned, although low.

Tobirama feinted a thrust, brushing the fingers of his free hand against the ground. “…be quiet about it.”

“Thank you.” A decisive clack. “Shouldn’t it take a raven shorter time to cross the Narrow Sea?”

“You are the local who uses them more,” Tobirama acknowledged. “However, do note that this is not an event they would want to publicise. I had no choice but to inform Winterfell, but we had to keep it a secret. As I understand it, the security of Braavos relies upon the Faceless Men in no small part. If the reputation of the organisation suffers as it likely will should this news get out, they will have no choice but to close the contract to protect that reputation. By showing both willingness to keep quiet, as well as a threat to their reputation against the possibility of them assassinating us, we… persuade… cooler heads to accept my proposition. Hands!”

“I see it!” Lyanna hopped away from Tobirama’s lash out and backhanded her own staff to block his strike. “You… know quite a lot on such, right?”

“…War takes from everyone, Lyanna. Even the youngest of us.”

“She looked my age,” Lyanna groused. “War?”

“She can change faces. She may be an old crone, a matron, even a kindly maiden under the false skin.” Tobirama made a tap against her thigh, which smacked loudly and caused Lyanna to bite back a curse. “I was on the battlefield at six years old, and… I have sent children to learn the craft of killing at similar ages. Age is not a direct indicator of danger.”

And that is both your gift and your tragedy, Ned thought but did not speak it.

“Ow,” Lyanna scowled, but gamely kept up, until Tobirama gave the signal for a break.

Then Tobirama had to fling the waterskin at her as she simply dropped into the grounds and stared blankly at the sky. “Tobi!”

“It’s Sensei, we’re in your lessons right now,” Tobirama sternly pushed the waterskin into her face until a scowling Lyanna took a swig from it. “After you clean yourself up, it will be lunch, a short rest, a lesson on herblore in the crannog style with Lord Reed, and then archery and the night hunt. Remember both to wear your repellent, and that poison and medicine are part of the same family; one day you may have need of these skills.”

“When I want to promote myself to Lady Dowager, that’s when I need it,” Lyanna rolled her eyes.

“…the two of you were caught under the same umbrella during his last visit-”

“Give me one of those tiny snipping blades on my chatelaine belt, I can cut my own throat,” Lyanna groaned.

“I know that he had no way to take liberties with you, and his relationship with Eddard also means that he would not, otherwise Eddard would borrow Ice from your father and set out to make him a foot shorter-“

“What’s this about making people shorter? Tobi, that raven from Braavos came!” Lord Howland Reed was jogging up.

Faster than Lyanna had thought possible Tobirama was already before Howland, unwrapping the scroll handed to him. “Howland, I leave the Lady Lyanna in your lessons for this past week. While this is a bit unorthodox-”

“Yes, it’ll be our trial before the first ship comes from Pyke. I also got ravens from there.” Howland grumbled, though the gesture was not made with any threatening gesture as was done the first time the idea of anything related to the Ironborn was brought up. “Look, Quellon might be the best of a bad lot, but…the Ironborn? Really?”

“After I paid a medical visit to Lord Greyjoy and attended his illness, we had a long conversation on the nature of the Old Way, as they call it,” Tobirama stated flatly. “Either I can guide his economic policy into something that works for us and for them, or the Iron Islands will no longer be a problem.”

“Ah. Good.” Howland Reed walked away with the distinct reminder that Tobirama had talked to the Faceless Men and lived.

“….” Ned hummed. “Tobirama… when you said the Iron Islands would no longer be a problem…”

“…I understand that Moat Cailin was said to be the location for a working known as the Hammer of the Waters,” Tobirama considered, looking at the sky. “I was the strongest… water user… back then. I can repeat it with the Iron Islands as the main target.”

“Tobirama… the Hammer of the Waters separated Westeros and Essos. Complete landmasses.”

“Yes. A lot of water rushing at high pressure tends to do that to anything in its way. Including… half of this continent. If I position it right, we could cut a canal right through while removing a major enemy at the same time.”

“Please don’t,” Ned groaned. “And you’re japing it simply to provoke me, aren’t you?”

“Unfortunately, my dear brother, it looks like the possibility raised is very real,” Lyanna pondered. “And very kind. Thank you, Tobirama. House Stark calls upon your services should we need to… cut Westeros in half. Perhaps if we decide to secede. Or, if, say, the Long Night is upon us, and some time is needed for the south to rally.”

“My lady, it is my understanding that the dead do not breathe. If I did so, they will simply walk along the bottom of the sea, and then invade.”

“…Tobirama, have you actually dealt with the walking dead?” Ned stared at him in horror. “What next, the children of the forest?”

Chapter Text

The lack of cold with the snow was the first indication to Ned that this was a dream.

A proper Northern winter had winds like knives and the lingering chill falling with diamond-dust even in the depths of Winterfell’s Great Keep, and more than once Bran the Builder’s great design seemed to fail when faced with winter as a general concept.

What was I doing? Ned thought. Something about Roose bloody Bolton, right, Tobirama caught him on trying to practise first night on some of the smallfolk and I was the arresting officer, his trial is tomorrow… not that much more action is needed. And unless Roose bloody Bolton managed to hire the Faceless Men too, it was unlikely that he was being kidnapped and tossed out in the Wolfswood to die of exposure.

Pinching his thigh was not painful; it also confirmed a rare lucid dream, one that was peaceful.

Wide branches spread out, curved to scoop even the winter storm itself in their embrace as the stranger spoke in the Old Tongue: “Yes, you are dreaming.”

“Oh, that is a relief,” Ned turned to the stranger huddled under a great and ancient weirwood tree, one without a face. “Yes it seems as though we share the same space this night.”

“As though carried by a bridge of dreams, even a passing meeting should be cherished,” the man praised. “Especially under this tree, such a tree that reminds one of the autumns.”

“We will not see autumn for a while as it is early summer, good man.” Ned frowned at the man, who wore red plated armour over a nut-brown and lithe body, long hair trailing behind him.

“Summer? Exciting with chilled beer,” the man agreed.

“Indeed,” Ned hid his confusion. “Dare I ask which child of the forest came in my dreams? Some portent to be known to the Stark in Winterfell perhaps? You would be looking for my father, if not my brother.”

“Well, my clan was known as those of the forest. Better than the Senju name that was given to us.”

Senju… the name sounded familiar. “Is there something wrong with the name?”

“The name is derived from our patron goddess, the thousand-handed Kanze’on,” the man related. “Her name translates to ‘those who perceives the world's lamentations’, she who hears the world’s despairs. In hearing the voices seeking her help in prayer, her head split into eleven pieces, hence she needed eleven heads to help her hear the cries of the suffering. Upon comprehending them, she attempted to reach out to all who needed aid but found that her two arms shattered into pieces, unable to reach out. Once more, through her efforts and divine gift she was appointed a thousand arms, each bearing a different god-like skill. Of those who are skilled, much is demanded. Each of my clan members possessed a speciality as a result and were hunted for it.”

Again, that explanation seemed so familiar yet so far. “And the forests were the only respite?”

“Perhaps,” the man reached up, and Ned’s eyes trailed to where the fanciful weirwood dipped a branch, some moving animal in how a fruit bloomed from the branch and was plucked off immediately.

Under his feet, the curve of the snow-covered ground glittered, with the wet and damp look running with the grain of weirwood under his feet. This was only reinforced with the canopy of night stretching up, clouds rushing and winds howling before the sodden mist splashed nearby and then froze in the same instant to leave a stalagmite of ice dipping into a frozen puddle in the weirwood floor under his feet with red leaves as its carpet.

Under the light of the moon which was suddenly much closer than what should be possible, Ned squinted at the other man. “…are you familiar with Tobirama?”

“My younger brother,” replied the man. “Call me Hashirama.”

“…Ser Hashirama. I am Eddard of House Stark, Warden of Moat Cailin.”

Ned did not look up at the looming statue where the floor trailed off towards as a branch grew from a trunk, nor did he look down to where hundreds of feet of empty space hung between him and the treetops of the forest. “I am glad to inform you that your brother is safely in the North’s hospitality.”

“And I am glad for it,” Hashirama agreed, also smiling though the smile itself reminded Ned of Brandon when the master-at-arms had him on the ropes in training; the wild wolf poised to strike back and strike hard. “Although whichever forces transported him to your Westeros seemed to have deemed it an exigency. Considering your enemy, I agree.”

Glittering in the horizon now was the pale line of the Wall, rendered by moonlight against the dark fuzz lined by trees of the forest. Again, the weirwood under his feet moved, steps even as though a giant statue was not headed for it from the wrong expected direction for giants. Already they were approaching, and Ned winced from where one castle lost half its battlements from their passage.

If this was a dream, then it was damn prickly about the maintenance of the fortresses and towers manned by the Night’s Watch.

Here Ned was certain it was a dream, because here he was further than perhaps the wildlings, reaching past the endless forests cloaked in snow, past the great blue-white glaciers and the dead plains, where hung the many-coloured curtain of light at the end of the world at the heart of winter, where marched…

“There, there,” Hashirama comforted as even in a dream Ned seemed on the verge of apoplexy. “They’re still gathering, it’ll be quite the distance between them and the Wall.”

“…Gods be good.”

Already the trees and plains rimed in ice, frosting over in shaped in mockery of life. A passing crow cawed, and then a heartbeat later thudded onto the forest floor in a solid layer of ice, before the whole block – bird and all – was shattered underfoot. Twin pinprick of light like stars set in a long-boned and gaunt face of cold marble glared down, and the grey armour seemed to shine mirrorlike on its body even as the thing – for it was a thing out of legend – stabbed the block with a blade that resembled a stalactite, as if someone had had the bright idea to use ice to forge weapons.

Then it beckoned with one hand. A mummer with a new puppet, the crow wriggled, shuddered, and the parts of it which had already separated juddered even as the main body of the crow tried to fake its limp towards life, unknowing of the death it already suffered.

Hashirama made a gesture, almost negligent, and weirwood – unrotting, eternal weirwood – curled around them as the statue seemed to move, making a judder and bump even as outside there were cracking sounds like the lakes in winter.

“I regret that it was necessary to show you,” Hashirama added, as though he had not upset Ned’s world with this revelation. “The shield of the realms of Man, however, may need a bit more support.”

“What the fuck,” Ned swore.

My name is Senju Tobirama, it echoed to him from his memory. I am not from this world. I died and something, I suspect your Old Gods, have transported me to your Westeros. And it will only get worse from there.

“The trees inform me that Tobirama had spoken on this with you in confidence,” Hashirama began without preamble, as though it was normal for the godswood of King’s Landing to be exchanging gossip with him.

Given that Ned was sitting on what was effectively a giant weirwood statue, it was entirely possible that Winterfell’s heart tree was the one gossiping. Which would lead down to an unpleasant series of questions on whether trees could think, were Ned awake and not preoccupied with any matter to ponder on the topic.

“He also omitted some things, obviously,” Hashirama added. “Granted, none of you seem to care about what he did in a world that you never saw. And that is good, my brother is more suited to the project of empire-building in relative peace.”

“From what I saw, his warcraft is indeed necessary to combat the White Walkers. The Others.” Dear gods. “But an exigency? Of war against the monsters of legend?”

“They are of the not-breathing, the walking dead,” Hashirama summarised. “Back in my world, there were only two people who had any inkling of… I think your word for it is ‘necromancy’, and it is currently the closest word I can use to describe what field of study Tobirama founded. But the similarities were enough, apparently.”

Field of study; such a mundane term for the dark art that Hashirama was telling him that Tobirama apparently founded. Like the miracle of reviving the dead was something within the realm of mortal knowledge. “And…is this because of all the children fostering at Moat Cailin? I have no idea why or wherefore so many are sending their children, I am so-”

“You are the first person who has not questioned his purpose at all,” Hashirama evenly spoke. “And… back there, altruism amongst our… people… was not… common. I have not heard of examples where kindness could be given freely. Beyond immediate dangers to your family, you have never asked of him anything.”

He was never going to be holding any conversations near weirwood trees ever again.

“I am sorry that you will have to force him on the Edo Tensei. And that is why I am doing you a favour,” Hashirama continued. “There is danger ahead and Winter approaches. Dark things stir in Winter’s heart. Don’t worry, the fall will be very short.”

“What fall-”

Hashirama gestured, and then Ned was tipped over by the statue to fall down the height of the Wall towards the hard, unforgiving earth-

Ned awoke when Tobirama was breaking down the door to his room, screaming as he clutched at the bedclothes. “Oh Gods.”

“A nightmare?” Tobirama was checking him over.

“I just met your brother in a dream. And he tossed me down from a great height. There is great danger, Tobirama.”

“My brother predeceased me, but if anyone could infiltrate your dreams to irritate me, it would be him,” Tobirama’s garnet eyes softened as he checked Ned’s pulse. “Eddard. I will find Luwin to get you a hot drink. You may get your writing-desk to write your dream down. Then, whatever it is, we will resolve this.”

There was a frankness to Tobirama that Ned knew and was grateful for, and yet he was dimly aware that the conversation would be uneasy for the two of them. “Bring one for yourself,” he added. “It oft feels we have much to converse, and… barely life enough to reach it.”

Chapter Text

The only benefit to huddling in the Children’s Tower with a locally made Myrish far-eye was proximity to Tobirama, and even then, it was small comfort. Tobirama seemed to run cooler than most, as though he too commanded ice in his heritage to make him a son of Winter.

And then Tobirama gestured and started to blow fire into the nearest available brazier, somehow achieving the feat without melting.

“All of House Targaryen born after the Dance of the Dragons would be green with envy,” Ned murmured even as his hands hovered as close to the fire as he dared. “What happened to being discreet?”

“You were cold, and hypothermia is a real risk,” Tobirama mused. “Though, I will concede that usually seasons do not last so long. I am almost convinced that there is a nearer influence here, since the problem cannot be explained under the paradigm of planetary rotation and proximity to the Sun. Eddard, your palms.”

Even holding hands together caused Ned’s traitorous heart skipped more beats. “The temperatures south of the regions are not exactly the worst… though winters at the Eyrie were surprisingly terrible.”

“Most of the North have forests as a buffer, or so I notice. The Eyrie, however, is eight thousand feet above sea level. The difference in temperature and the lack of… breathable air… would contribute to form a condition termed as altitude sickness.”

“Interesting. But this is not the Eyrie.”

“The Neck has a combination of cold, as well as wet. It is not a nice combination if your desire is a warm fire.”

“Mud is a common inconvenience.” Still, they stood close to each other. “Tobirama, I notice…your parasols seem to sell for use against the rain more than the sun. The basket-weaver Alys asked your leave to make more during court, perhaps with more colours.”

“All except red.”

Ned frowned. “Is there some reason to it?”

“Ah…” Tobirama glanced into the far-eye. “In the culture where I grew up, the couple to be wedded would have a red parasol held over them in the wedding procession to the… shrine. Perhaps, banning the colour outright might be…”

“No, Tobirama, that is… a very good reason. I will tell Alys.” Ned would never be able to regard parasols in Lannister red the same again. “I am thrilled to learn about your background, truly. You know… everything about my family, Brandon even, and I only know about Hashirama.”

“It is a terrible thing to lose brothers,” Tobirama reflected, turning back to glance at him. “I was born as the second son – much like yourself Eddard, a spare, the responsible, the dutiful. My brother was the pride of my clan, unmatched in…power. Behind me were two little brothers. They died.”

Ned tried to imagine it, and could only barely scrape the surface. “In childbirth?”

“No. The life expectancy… back then, somewhere in the thirties, mainly due to war, also due to child-killing squads. I lost them both that way.”

Small wonder then that Tobirama had turned to regicide, in the face of his father’s and brother’s imminent executions. Not that Ned was mourning anything. “I am sorry for your loss. That your clan is extinct is a terrible thing to face...”

“My grand-niece and my grand-nephew yet live… at least when I left them.” Tobirama pondered aloud. “And behind them were the six students I defended to my dying breath, and behind them is the kingdom we built hidden in the leaves. I am certain that the students will lead the… realm to a peaceful future.”

“Thank you for telling me,” Ned whispered, breathing into clasped hands to warm the cold and calloused touch. “As the gods gave you re-birth, it is your time to spend as you wish. You really don’t…”

Ned froze, paused, and tried to parse his words: “As you claim the North as home so we extend our hearth and home as yours. Should you desire a life… elsewhere… I only ask that you come home to me.”

“I am not a young man… at least mentally, my lord. Physically this is the prime of my youth.”

And yet, thought Ned, he is ethereal and ageless in the sense of divinity, bursting with knowledge centuries past and centuries before, wields powers unheard of since the age of Heroes past. Even the fucking Valyrians acknowledge and welcome him.

“And I am a young man, but… I ask nothing of you, only that…we grow old together,” Ned finished in a rush. “Valar morghulis; all men must die. We need not die alone.”

“I… do not know. I have lived as a Shinobi…it will be a long time, I suspect. That we walk this path.” A low look under long eyelashes, the spiderweb frost another veil in the light of the brazier. “I am… surprised… that Lord Rickard is so permissive.”

“I strongly suspect that keeping a suspected regicide so close to me would ruin any marriage prospects South, and Brandon has ruined all of those septentrional.” Ned kept a straight face. “Why would Northern ladies take the second son when they can have the wild wolf?”

Tobirama considered, and the sly look he gave as he mouthed “Their loss” drew a boyish giggle from Ned.

Chapter Text

To Ned’s eternal shame, there was that one time that Brandon caught him in the bath, because what other insane man would bathe in an outdoor pool when dragged by Tobirama?

“An underground hot spring in the barren shore between the Kingsroad and the Neck, close enough to fall under Moat Cailin’s charter, and the eye of the spring is not large enough to spare a glass garden – not that we can produce that much glass and ship it over anyway.” Brandon read out. “Hence… Ned, Howland, Lord Wyman, the three of you submitted this request for an… inn?”

“House Manderly has previously submitted a petition to expand the charter of White Harbour which was shelved due to lack of alternative trades,” Ned listed out the arguments that four men had outlined. “Moat Cailin is the primary fortification that overlooks the Kingsroad, and Greywater Watch is involved for security reasons and because some money may be earned by the crannogmen as well. Since Moat Cailin is vulnerable from the east, we may as well build some walls there as well.”

“And there, I know someone coached you, Ned,” Brandon’s eyes narrowed. “Because I doubt you would have thought up this concept yourself and talk Lord Wyman into it at the same time. Lord Wyman?”

“Just Wyman, my lord, you’re the next Lord Stark after all,” Wyman Manderly gave a vaguely fond air. “Our Tobirama thinks far beyond in pointing out that as neighbours we should collaborate on this project, which addresses two forts’ need of money and White Harbour’s need to expand out. There’s fishing, there’s silver, there’s trade… and not enough space to expand. We can even build a second port, call it Bitebay.”

“Bitebay will be under Moat Cailin, Wyman, if you realise,” Brandon’s lips thinned. “But an inn? Why even?”

“Inns, taverns, entertainments, markets… since the hot spring was found there, it was thought that we could tap into, erm, tourists seeking the hot spring… much like Jonquil’s Pool,” Ned admitted with his eyes firmly fixed on the solar’s ceiling.

“And how, pray tell, would you know?”

“Pre-assembly of most parts and the ready presence of lumber on hand managed to save building time,” A few miles from Moat Cailin, Tobirama was speaking as four assembled lords stared in horrified awe at the smallish wooden keep that had been assembled in mere days as opposed to the expected fortnights. “Furthermore, these are the temporary facilities made, and with the additions to Moat Cailin’s charter I have expanded the planned castle town to include the borough branching out from Moat Cailin. Any questions?”

“…Bitebay is yours, Brandon,” Eddard’s numb disbelief belied Brandon’s own expression as they slipped past a group of builders with blackened spades. “Tobi…I think, after this, my lord father would want you for the supply train at least. I want you for the supply train.”

“I do good enough work here, and the progress of the town makes for an influx of funding, and this is the very basic. You would need experienced builders to consider piping any hot water through any permanent walls later.” Tobirama’s sharp eyes drifted to the lords. “As for the inn, perhaps I should show you.”

In the bleak and barren shore, Bitebay seemed to have been carved into the land with the kind of grim fanaticism that seemed to be Northmen’s reaction to Tobirama in general. Near the town square where a great weirwood had bloomed, a maester’s drone could be heard on the common tongue amidst a young chorus – a minimal education provided in letters and arithmetic and perhaps more to serve White Harbour’s need of educated men.

The inn itself was built large at four stories atop a low-rise hill, and the trail of cobblestone where white houses sprung up on either side showed it as the other point of the axis where the town was formed around the inn and the keep that their retinue just departed.

The sign overhead was simply the numeral for one and a crescent moon, and the oaken doors opened to a wide community hall, a marbled counter with an apple-cheeked aproned serving girl, and then behind her was the staircase that spiralled up and around the side of the building, where at each landing there stood walls lined with rooms.

“Welcome to the One Night- Ser Tobirama! My lords!” the girl stood straighter than a pole. “The day passes?”

“Certainly, thank you, Masha.” Again with the careless dexterity that had seen many a throwing knife into its target, Tobirama flipped a gold dragon which she caught. “Since these are the kind sponsors for the place, perhaps you may send young Arrec for the boiler, and ask the mistress Alise to refresh the hunter’s stew.”

“Why not the hot pot? We got in a great tunny in the morning and thanks to ser, everyone from this side of the Narrow Sea wants it! Beg your pardon if I interrupted, Lord Ned.”

“I am very interested as well, since the North is hardly known for its culinary delights,” Wyman Manderly answered the girl with a big grin.

“Beg pardon, but everyone from here to Braavos says its best after a long soak, my lord,” the newly-identified Masha pressed five wooden plaques into Tobirama’s arms and directed them to the east wing.

Blue and pink curtains identified sections for men and women while the plaques were exchanged for a set of two towels, shelves and wicker baskets identified changing areas and temporary storage while a guard kept watch, and on the walls the steps to bathing manners and steps for a sponge bath and rinse prior to soaking had been outlined pointedly in pictograms for even the most illiterate. Rather than individual tubs, a sunken pool provided both seating and soaking as excess waters drained out and steaming water dripped from a pipe fixed into the wall.

And then Tobirama slid open a side door striped in wood and what looked like thick cloth and stepped out into the cold sea breeze that hissed in, before it slid shut.

“I think I understand why an inn now,” Brandon mumbled, already prepared to step in before Tobirama’s diversion, “but why is there a door leading… out…”

There was a fence on the left, and a Dornish-style wind tower roof overhead, but the dimmed light did not avoid the steaming waters that drifted up from heavy basalt rocks. Low panels of cloth hung all along one side under the roof, but some points had tied the cloths to one side to expose the view over the Bite, stretching out to the Three Sisters and beyond to the cloudscapes over the Narrow Sea. By the view itself there was the silver-haired mystery, eyes of garnet glittering even as he looked out over the bay.

The hot waters splashed as Wyman Manderly sunk in and groaned in relief. “One would only have such luxury in Braavos or the Summer Islands, never mind the North!”

“I saw a Northern sauna as well… excellent for personal health.” Howland Reed followed suit. “Lord Manderly, perhaps we can discuss the supply of sweetwater to Bitebay…”

Brandon sank in, taking care to tie his long locks out of the waters. “If I didn’t know better, I would think Father had planned for something in his dotage… get in before you freeze, Ned!”

Blushing, Ned distanced himself far away from the tempter who started all of this and his brother who was now moaning indecently – in a public bath! – over the splashing of steaming water carried by aqueduct into the pool.

Chapter Text

Apparently the meanings of words had changed, for the ‘hot pot’ served at the One Night Inn was a literal hot pot – an iron affair stacked atop a brazier of lighted coals, steaming with the fish stock that was poured in bubbling hot. Meats and fish sliced thin were assembled besides vegetables diced small, cooked with mere swishes through the boiling stock before being scooped out with a wooden ladle into waiting bowls and dipped into sauces of redolent flavours and strange textures before entering the mouth-

“Oh,” Lord Wyman Manderly gave a hearty sigh. “An unexpected feast this far north, just dipping and boiling meats and vegetables! And the fish, the best catch of the day!”

“I would have thought it a soup or a stew,” Ned admitted once the meat went down his gullet – and it felt so luxurious despite the fact that he had seen the fish be caught out of the Bite and presented as raw fish-flesh minutes before. “I would never have thought of it being cooked at the table.”

“A dish suited to the North,” Brandon downed his own horn of ale before flagging for another. “Tobi, I swear, once I get back father would be poaching you for the supply train, if not the great kitchen itself.”

“It is a simple concept, the credit should go to the White family for realising what I outlined,” Tobirama demurred, slowly picking his way through slices of trout and sole and mullet. “Ah, here he is, Warron White.”

“My lords, my sers, Master Tobirama, welcome to the One Night Inn,” Warron White was a man who, while not as rotund as Wyman Manderly himself, still had the characteristic Northern stoutness. A windblown face was ruddy with a beaming smile under dark eyes, and he carried with him a smallish barrel with a spigot sticking out from the bottom over the heavy leather apron. “For our opening my wife Alise is brewing a special brew, beg pardon for its christening.”

“Oh? Come, good man,” Brandon passed over the emptied horn, and then stared in delight as the ale spilled out from the spigot, dark until a foaming head crowned it around the rim. “Mmm, that hit hard.”

“Aye, that’s a bit strong,” Wyman was tasting the ale with the air that somehow the tankard in hand would become a stemmed goblet with enough sampling. “Dry and nutty there… think it’d go well with Sisters’ Stew.”

“Aye, my lord, ‘tis what Alise said,” Warron cheered. “Since we’d be serving lots of fish.”

Ned tried a swig and coughed. “Strong.”

“Breaks like a wave on the tongue,” Wyman waxed some more.

“Then call it the Breaker.” Brandon smirked towards Warron. “Tell your wife to keep the recipe as an heirloom, with this dish and the baths and your beer you’ll never want for business Northside.”

“Yes, Lord Brandon. Would you be finishing up the soup then?”

“Finishing?”

“Well, there’s an Essosi thing where they add rice to hot stock, but for the finishing course we have noodles planned. Drop them in to boil and then slurp up the noodles finished in flavoured stock to close the night’s feast.” Warron beckoned towards Tobirama who was now looking away. “Ser Tobirama suggested another recipe for wheat, and it’s a success enough that we got Braavosi merchants interested.”

“Brandon, Tobirama’s in my supply train,” Ned shot back towards the Stark heir. “Warron, I noticed that we got some chicken eggs in a basket in the hot waters, I congratulate you on finding another use for them. How do they taste?”

Warron brought some of the eggs with the noodles, and they topped bowls of the noodle and soup combination with creamy yolks and pillowy whites. Lomas Longstrider had never met such a dish.

Chapter Text

BRANDON

The lord’s solar in Winterfell now occupied a smaller desk, one that Brandon was stuck behind most of the time as heir of Winterfell under the gimlet glare of his lord father.

“And for Tobi we need both of us here?”

“It concerns your brother.”

“By that logic, Father, Lya and Ben should be here as well,” Brandon snapped back, though his tone gentled. “Honestly, if anyone hired the Faceless Men of Braavos after us, I would’ve thought I would be the target.”

“Considering the many spoiled maidens and bloodied sons left in your wake, I agree.” Lord Rickard Stark glared at the ceiling of his solar as if the words physically pained him to admit. “Still, it is fortunate that Ned has such a…protector.”

“Thought unfortunate for your Southron ambitions.” Brandon grabbed a nearby pitcher and glared at the water within as he poured himself a cup, though he still drank it.

“I am certain that Tobirama will understand the significance of Ned marrying.”

Brandon choked on his water and had to sop the stains from his doublet. “…we’re talking about the same person who we suspect regarding the Mad King, right? The one who has confirmed to foil the Faceless Men? The one who, I say with all means of politeness, was bloody well sent by the Old Gods into the godswood? The one time they tiffed I had Roose bloody Bolton asking after Tobi’s bloody health! When Ned was the one who started it!”

“And you have touched on the matter,” Rickard Stark admitted after a long while. “Because he is Gods-sent, or the closest to it, I can only place him in the heart of the North and put my son at Moat Cailin to manage him. I thought he would follow you, I really did. But instead of the wild wolf who really needs a minder, he chose the quiet wolf.”

A quick rap on the door.

“Sir,” said the muffled voice of the steward Vyman Poole, “Ser Tobirama from Moat Cailin.”

“Send him in,” their father sat behind the desk, almost as though it were a physical barrier against the warrior that swanned in.

No that was wrong – Brandon had seen the man before, been tossed around the training yard before, been caught on a blade’s end before he could even bring the vaunted great-sword Ice to bear. Tobirama now looked truly of the Far North, as if he needed to be any more intimidating than he usually was.

“Lord Rickard, Lord Brandon,” A workably polite bow.

“Tobi, so glad you could join us,” Brandon praised. “Annette is making trout, I heard from Lya that you eat a lot of fish. Sup with us tonight at the high table? I’ll introduce my newly wedded fish to you.”

“I am honoured.” A gleam in his eyes. “Lord Rickard, the Faceless Men do confirm to return the monies paid for my Lord Eddard, and I will be paying the client a visit.”

“You are the first person in history who could manage it,” Rickard admitted. “Would you need a letter for admission?”

“Considering that this client threatened Eddard’s life, I believe the visit will be at night, by his bedside, in the dark, and I have a dagger.” Tobirama’s summary was quiet and not at all implying that he would be a hostile visitor ready to plant a knife into someone’s back.

“You know where he is, then?”

“Casterly Rock.”

“…” Rickard paused. “The seat of the Lannisters. The tallest point of the Westerlands, Tywin Lannister’s own castle. That Casterly Rock.”

Brandon coughed to stifle the snigger that rose. “Tobirama, we appreciate your loyalty to Ned, really, thank you. Casterly Rock has never fallen in battle or a siege, it would be folly to try.”

“Casterly Rock has not fallen in direct battle,” Tobirama agreed. “Your history is a bit vague on attempts to sneak inside.”

“…fair point. Try not to get caught.”

“I will try. I will unfortunately miss dining at Winterfell, Lord Brandon.”

“Oh, before you go, would you mind delivering a message to Ned?” Rickard Stark finally caught himself. “We’ve received some disturbing news about Bear Island that poachers were disappearing. Usually poaching is punishable with maiming, but the punishments issued under House Mormont don’t seem to match. I hate to suspect Jeor’s son, but investigation is needed and Ned is the best investigator for this.”

“Very well. Thank you, Lord Rickard, Lord Brandon.” Tobirama took the accepted envelope before he left.

Brandon clicked his tongue after Tobirama left. “From anyone else I would take it as a jape, but he did break into the Red Keep for our lives, Father.”

“Yes. Unfortunately, he is in Moat Cailin, not Winterfell, and it is Eddard who has his employ.” Rickard rubbed his brow. “Brandon, pass me the dictionary by the wall. I have to craft suitable words of mourning, and I am afraid that any mention of the Lannisters has left me bereft of suitable words.”

TYWIN

Tywin Lannister awoke to dim light. This was not expected, and not something desirable, but he could not move, as though the creature sitting next to his bed playing with a dagger in hand had replaced all his bones with lead-cast rods in preparation to murder him right here, in the lord’s chambers of Casterly Rock itself.

“I believe you were expecting me,” the man with the burning eyes murmured. “My acquaintances from Braavos informed me that they returned your funds to your study this morning.”

“N- Not me…” Tywin rasped.

“Lord Lannister, I do understand. The funds, though they do originate from Lannister coffers, came not from your say, but by the order of the Lady Cersei to murder my lord at Moat Cailin.”

The dagger was played around, with it a small lantern. “It starts, you see, at Harrenhal where your son was knighted and entered the Kingsguard. Very prestigious, it is my understanding that many second sons enter it for influence at court. For first-borns, however… well, you did not want it, and imagined it a slight of the Mad King against you. Very reasonable, given all the rumours I did hear.

“What you need to realise, Lord Lannister, that after an interview with the Queen Dowager Rhaella I have with me the testimony of one Ser Jaime Lannister, who before his entry into the Kingsguard confessed that he did not enter… pristine. And that this came about due to his seduction by his twin sister, who imagined herself to be Queen very soon. No matter the issue of the then-Crown Prince being married and already with an heir. Do not fear, I understand that the Queen Mother has taken Ser Jaime under her protection on account of the late Lady Joanna Lannister.”

“Now, where was I? Ser Jaime being knighted, then the debacle with King Aerys, his coincidental death, the crowning of Rhaegar… all very peaceful, all quiet, and no room for the Lannisters’ return to Court. Your influence remains, but as you physically remain at Casterly Rock the King is already engaged in heavy policy with Dorne and the Reach, possibly the Stormlands… and no space for the Lady Cersei anywhere. Now, your daughter has your influence and your gold, and with that hired assassins to kill the main individual holding the one who stopped the imminent war – my lord. Do you follow?”

Cersei what have you done? Varys did mention that this individual had likely committed regicide; the murder of a Lord Paramount was likely not too far off.

“Your life will not satisfy the exchange,” Tobirama bluntly informed him. “By dint of your high position and due to geography, my lord and yourself are not likely to interact much, especially since the Lord of Winterfell stands. Your daughter, however, will not get away with this. I understand that you have some pride, you will demand a trial, and everyone will be tarred by this whole mess… or we can settle this quietly, and it will end with Lady Cersei having slipped and fallen down the stairs and broke her neck. What do you say, Lord Lannister? Do note that if you are not satisfied, you may join your daughter down the stairs as well.”