Chapter 1

Smell carried. Smell filled the senses. Smell provided the never ending, colorful backdrop to the stage of life. For Sean, Sheffield smelled like home. London had its own odor, strongest right before a hard rain. Paris always carried a lingering waft of baked bread for him. New York held the scent of over boiled mystery meat with just a hint of food cart vendor sweat. Los Angeles left the taste of exhaust, suntan spray, and silicon in his nostrils. The dusty tall curtains and oiled wood floors of the stage smelled different than the chill, often stale air pumped onto a sound stage. The memory of these scents were locked forever in the actor's brain, never, unless by miracle, to be appreciated afresh again. None of them however had prepared him for the olfactory assault of an army at war.

Twenty thousand unwashed men and half as many horses trod down the kingsroad, leaving behind a trail of rancid refuse: endless mounds of excrement, moonscapes of ash, fields of rotting carcasses, oceans of churned up mud, and rivers of ammonia laden urine. Every hamlet, village, and holdfast they passed or camped around at night held the nasty stench of raw sewage and over full middens. Worse, not only did his army manufacture the reek of human death and gangrenous wounds, but it cheerily carried the putrid essence of it with them. Sean's soul shivered as he gazed up at the heads, whose deaths had done little to quench the flames of vengeance burning inside the heart of the lord whom he rode with that day, Rickard Karstark.

While the wild haired, greying Lord Karstark, leader of one of the largest northern contingents fighting for the Direwolf banner, ranted, more than pleaded, for the right to the Kingslayer's miserable life, Sean watched the sunlight catch the few last red hairs of the mad man who'd started this civil war. Morbidly, whoever not Ned rode in front of each day, the Eagles of Seagard, the Unchained Giants of Last Hearth, the Green Dragons of Atranta, or today the Black Suns of Karhold, his aides made sure his 'trophies' rode nearby, propped atop the sharp tips of spears, pikes, and lances. Large clumps had fallen out of what the bald Lord of Casterly Rock had to offer, but enough remained to give the rotting flesh of his skull an appropriate crimson Lannister sheen. It was the eyes; however, well eye sockets really, that caught the actor's attention. Something about the vacant, maggot filled space drew Sean back to the first time those imperious and still whole eyes had arrogantly gazed upon him with contempt.

Tywin Lannister stared suspiciously, looking up and down at the form of the man he thought of as Ned Stark, or more likely as Lord Stark's imposter. 'God,' Sean thought, 'he really looks like Charles. Well … if Charles was bald … and sported mutton chops instead of a close cropped beard.'

The Lord Paramount, in charge of the Westerlands army waiting impatiently at the bottom of the long slope, finally ended his ominous glower and spoke with icy heat. "Lords Bolton, Cerwyn, Hornwood, Glover, what childish game do you play at, bringing before me this … mummer? Do you mean to scare me with the image of a ghost? Or just delay me? Now where is the boy, Robb? I will speak to the one who truly leads you?"

The four Northern lords, brutal killers a more apt description, stayed silent. He'd had the devil's own time convincing them and the other lordlings to believe he was Ned. But they'd come around in the end, especially after he pitched them the Green Fork strategy he remembered some of the crew talking about back on the set. Appreciating how their silence must irk the Lannister, Sean smiled coolly, putting on his sternest Ned face. "No ruse. No mummer's show, Lord Tywin. A fort night ago Ilyn Payne, at the command of your grandson, beheaded me in the presence of my own daughters. But the Old Gods, the gods of ice and the weirwood, were not done with me. They returned me to the North. Charging me to put an end to the madness your son and daughter started."

"Lord Tyrion had nothing to do with your son's … with the attack on Bran Stark and Lady Catelyn," not Charles lap dog, his brother Kevan, snapped.

"No, he didn't," Sean agreed calmly.

Several eyebrows rose in surprise at the unexpected pronouncement.

"Which is why I asked you to bring him to the parley," he said into the shocked silence. Sean turned to face the so called Imp. Uglier than Peter and with actual mismatched eyes; but like Peter, an aura of sorts, some indefinable charisma, bubbled out of him. "My apologies Lord Tyrion for the ordeal you suffered at the hands of my lady wife and my goodsister, the Lady Lysa Arryn.

Not Peter bobbed his head in acknowledgement of the words, but kept his face stoic, not revealing one way or the other what he thought of the offered words.

For a moment, looking for the first time at real life versions of George's characters, Sean pondered how similar Catelyn might be to Michelle and Robb to Rich. "I know a Lannister always pays his debt, my lord, so perhaps it may help you to know that both the Lady Catelyn and myself were tricked into thinking you owned the dragonbone knife used to attack my son. Tricked by the aptly named Littlefinger."

Curiosity and distrust both shone in the halfman's eyes.

Only icy disdain however poured out of Tywin Lannister's. "Baelish? What does that ill-bred toad have to do with this? You mentioned my daughter, the Queen. What of her?" he demanded.

"Patience, Lord Lannister," Sean declared, not taking his eyes off not Peter. "Littlefinger declared you won the dagger, Lord Tyrion, when you bet against your brother in a tourney. But you never bet against Ser Jaime, do you?"

"No," replied the Imp fiercely. "And I told Lady Catelyn that, more times than I'd care to remember."

"And I wished she'd listened to you," the actor answered sincerely.

"If your tale holds a sliver of truth, then why did Baelish lie? And who's dagger was it?" not Charles demanded in a tone resounding of natural command and superiority.

It took all of Sean's acting skills not to promptly bend to the other man's will. He paused and forced himself to exude an icy, aristocratic demeanor that would have made Ken or Ian proud. "To sow chaos, Lord Twyin. To pit the Great Houses against each other. To make his own services more appreciated, more valued, so that he might rise even higher than Master of Coin. But mostly, to distract my investigation of his own vile crime."

Not Charles snorted softly, refusing to contemplate how he could have been unwittingly maneuvered by the likes of the Master of Coin.

"And what would that be?" Lord Kevan Lannister asked dubiously.

"The murder of Jon Arryn."

Small gasps and mutterings of "what?" and "why?" greeted this pronouncement.

"Oh it gets better," Sean continued, trying to put a Ned like chill in his voice. "Littlefinger plotted the Hand's death with his lover ..." He paused again, to artfully let the tension rise. "… Lysa Arryn."

Scoffs of disbelief met this proclamation.

A sneer crossed Tywin Lannister's face. "You seek to accuse Lady Arryn of the murder of her own husband? It seems you are the one who seeks to sow chaos and confusion with your mummer's stories," Tywin Lannister tugged on his reins and stated. "I will take my leave of you and soon return with my …"

"No!" burst out not Peter. "Please wait, father … it … it makes sense. I've … been around King's Landing. Heard Littlefinger's boasts. Seen, at court, how he … how he acted around the Arryns. And I was almost killed by Lysa Arryn's madness. 'Make the little man fly,' her wretched child said to her. Lord Stark's words have the ring of truth about them."

The power and beauty of the imp's voice paled in comparison to actual Peter's. Perhaps why Lord Twyin met his son's words with withering skepticism, "Then was it Baelish too who magically arranged for the dagger to attack Lady Stark?"

"No," Sean interrupted firmly. "The blade belonged to Robert."

More gasps. That statement truly did capture not Charles attention.

Sean continued, "Who but a King would have such a collection of dragonbone daggers that when one went missing not a soul noticed?"

"Then who?" asked an intrigued Tyrion.

"Joffrey. The boy's the second coming of Aerys the Mad. And I'm not just saying that because he cut my head off," Sean said with the hint of a smirk.

Not Charles eyes narrowed dangerously at the implication of his kin. "Why?"

He shrugged. "You'll have to ask him. Perhaps he wanted to finish the work his parents started when they threw Bran out of the tower window in Winterfell."

Blank and confused looks met his statement, all except for Tyrion.

Sean's smirk became obvious. "Yes, you're wondering why I said 'parents.' I've already indicated the blade was Robert's. Well that morning he was out hunting with me in the Wolfswood."

Not Charles sensing he wasn't going to like what came next, but caught up in the web of the story leaned forward, placing a threatening hand on the pommel of his sword. "Go on," he dared.

"A father, such a tricky word. Who really, other than the mother, knows the true sire of her progeny? You yourself have trouble acknowledging Tyrion as your own offspring, don't you Lord Lannister?" he asked, pushing the verbal dagger deep. "Spent many a troubled night suspecting Joanna cheated on you."

Tywin Lannister said nothing. He clasped the pommel in a bone breaking grip, grinding his teeth in exactly the way Sean imagined Stannis Baratheon did.

"On that day in Winterfell, Cersei stayed behind. She stayed behind so she could fuck her lover in secret. But Bran, an excellent climber, accidentally stumbled upon them in the deserted tower; and Cersei' lover, her brother Jaime, made my son a cripple for it," he snarled.

"No." choked Tywin Lannister. He partly pulled his sword from the scabbard before his control reasserted itself, ensuring the sanctity of the parley wasn't broken. "Enough of you and your charade. You will pay for these … lies," he whispered. "Come!"

And off the small party of Westerland lords trotted, heading back to the mass of knights, men-at-arms, and archers waiting them at the bottom of the hill.

"He'll come at us hard, my Lord," Roose Bolton hissed in his quiet, reptilian voice.

"All the way to the Twins, I hope," Sean answered. "Tywin Lannister's the most vicious, but also at his most stupid, when it comes to slights against his house."

"Then lets pray the stupid rage outweighs the clever anger, my Lord," Robett Glover responded.

"Yes," not Ned laughed, trying to hide his nervousness at having provoked the lion. "And in the meantime, if the Old Gods words to me were true, Robb should right now be capturing the Kingslayer and freeing Riverrun. When the North is through with them, the Lannisters will wish the Others had taken them."

"Others take the Kingslayer!" Rickard Karstark swore, concluding his protracted vow for vengeance at the killer of two of his three sons.

"No, cousin, you will have that chance first, my word on it," not Ned promised. 'The arrogant prick should be long dead before the ice zombies ever get near the Wall.' "For now, Jaime Lannister has more value alive than dead; which is why I've brought him with us. There are more dangers to the Seven Kingdoms, to the North, than just the Lannisters, Lord Rickard. The Kingslayer shall be the bait to draw these hidden snakes out of the Red Keep and into the open, where we may safely dispatch them. Then, and only then, will you have my permission to seek your justice. But until then, I will hear no more about this, do you understand, cousin?"

The shaggy haired man bit his lip, but kept his tongue, if barely. He looked quite displeased.

"Have you arranged a marriage yet for your Alys, Lord Rickard?" not Michelle asked politely after a few minutes of silence, looking to move the conversation onto a more pleasant topic. Alas it was not meant to be.

The Lord of Karhold scowled again. "The dear girl had a secret engagement, thought I'd never find out about it, silly little chit. Nothing happens in my hold without me hearing of it."

"Not with anyone inappropriate, I hope," Cat said with sincere concern, for both Lord Rickard's tone and the possible impropriety of the situation.

"Nay, I'd have been proud to call him my goodson," Rickard Karstark ground out. "Been keeping an eye on him, 'til recently; a fine lad, more's the pity."

Fearing the worst, Cat asked softly, "Who was the poor boy?"

"Daryn Hornwood," he said bitterly.

"Oh," his not wife gasped, well remembering both Lord Halys' son, dead at the Whispering Wood, and whose sword took his young life.

'Great,' the actor said to himself sarcastically. 'Another victim we can chalk up to the Kingslayer.'

A sly glint suddenly snuck into Lord Karstark's eye. "I suppose the betrothal between the Lady Sansa and Joffrey Waters is no good no more. My boy Harrion, like Alys, is not betrothed to anyone either …"

Even in death, through the shadows cast by his evil progeny, Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, and Warden of the West, still mocked Sean's plans to save Westeros. 'God damn it George, what else don't I know about your shitten little world? It fucking stinks,' the actor cursed. And the stench would only grow, the cesspool of King's Landing was only a few more days march away.