Feasting the Royal Family

Ages

Benjen Stark: 32

Daenerys Targaryen: 15

Viserys Targeryen: 22

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Strolling through the Winterfell settlement, Ser Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard continues to look for his younger brother Tyrion. If he knew Tyrion better, and he most certainly did, the Imp would most likely be within the nearest whorehouse – and set out to find him. Just simply listen to the sounds of moaning and they'll lead him straight to the missing Lannister. Inside, Tyrion Lannister drinking wine and laughs as a red-headed prostitute named Ros bestows oral favors upon the dwarf. Tyrion shudders in pleasure as his "companion" finishes her work and stands up to meet him at eye-level.

"Mmh. It's true what they say about the Northern girls," Tyrion grins.

"Did you hear the king's in Winterfell?" she giggles as Tyrion leads her to the nearest bed.

"I did hear something about that."

Ros smiles. "And the Queen. And her twin brother. They say that he is the most handsome man in the Seven Kingdoms."

Tyrion rolls his eyes in amusement. "The same has also been said of my nephew, as well. But what about the other brother?"

"The Queen has two brothers?" Ros mocks in a playful tone.

"There's the pretty one," Tyrion points out as he disrobes. "And there's the clever one."

Ros grins as she circles her finger around Tyrion's chest. "I hear they call him the 'Imp'."

Tyrion's grin briefly fell before returning. "I hear he hates that nickname."

"Oh? I hear he's more than earned it. I hear he's a drunken little lecher into all manners of perversions."

"Clever girl," Tyrion concedes.

Ros giggles. "We've been expecting you, Lord Tyrion."

"Have you?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. "The Gods gave me one blessing."

As Ros begins to climb on Tyrion, the door suddenly opens as Jaime enters without announcing his arrival. Ros stops moving and turns her attention towards Jaime.

"Don't get up," he says – not surprised at what he's already seen.

"M'lord," Ros addresses politely as she rolls off Tyrion.

Tyrion acted unamused but couldn't help but joke around with his older brother.

"Should I explain to you the meaning of a closed door in a whorehouse, brother?" Tyrion questioned.

Jaime gives a lazy grin as he walks to the counter to pour himself a coup of ale. "You have much to teach me, no doubt, but in this instance perhaps you'll forgive the interruption. Our sister craves your attention."

"She has odd cravings, our sister," Tyrion shrugs.

"A family trait," Jaime replies. "Now, the Starks are feasting us at sundown. Don't leave me alone with these people."

"I'm sorry," Tyrion playfully apologizes, "I've begun the feast a bit early. And this is the first of many courses."

By that, Tyrion is pointing to Ros – who grins at the acknowledgment.

Jaime shook his head. "I thought you might say that. But since we're short on time…"

He turns to the door and opens it, and one-by-one a bevy of naked whores enter and descend upon Tyrion.

"See you at sundown," Jaime says as he bids farewell, making his way out.

"Close the door!" Tyrion shouts.

Jaime Lannister, amused, shook his head and makes his way back to the main hall to relay the news to Cersei. No doubt she will be furious, though what was to be expected from their brother. The same thing will always happen: Cersei will rant and rave for a while, and tomorrow things will be as if they never happened.

In a bedroom at Winterfell…

Catelyn Stark is busy fixing the hair of her eldest daughter Sansa. Although 13 years of age, the girl has been described as tall, slim, womanly, and beautiful, destined to be a lady or a queen. She has blue eyes and thick auburn hair that she inherits from her mother, who came from House Tully in the Riverlands. Even her own mother thinks Sansa will be even more beautiful than she was when she was younger. Already a lady by the time she was 3, Sansa was always so courteous and eager to please. She is enthralled by songs and stories of romance and adventure, particularly those depicting handsome princes, honorable knights, chivalry, and love. Initially those song and stories were Sansa's vision of the world beyond Winterfell, a world she desperately wishes to experience.

When word reached Sansa's ears that King Robert offered to name her father Eddard Stark the new Hand of the King, and possibly betrothing her to Crown Prince Daveth Baratheon, she couldn't deny the fact that the notion thrilled and excited her greatly. Sansa was immediately attracted to the Baratheon prince the moment she saw him for the first time and is very taken with him.

"Do you think Daveth will like me?" Sansa asks nervously, uncertain about whether or not her father would accept the King's offer to betroth her to the Crown Prince. "What if he thinks I'm ugly?"

Catelyn shook her head as she continued to braid her daughter's hair. "The Prince is one of many things, dear, but being stupid is not one of them. From what I could tell, Daveth seems to be a good lad. He'd better be, for his sake."

Sansa listened to her mother as she held up a mirror.

"It's like when I first married your father. He didn't love me when we married; he hardly knew me or I him. Love didn't just happen to us," Catelyn continued. "We built it slowly. It takes time, but it lasts longer."

She took a moment to let the words sink it, but couldn't tell whether her daughter actually listened.

"He's so handsome," Sansa sighed dreamily.

Catelyn rolled her eyes, concluding Sansa only partially listened; yet at the same time she allowed herself a small smile at such youthful infatuation.

"When would we be married? Soon? Or do we have to wait?"

"Hush now," her mother hushed in a gentle tone. "Your father hasn't even said yes."

Sansa looked confused. "Why would he say no? He'd be the second most powerful man in the kingdoms."

"He'd have to leave home. He'd have to leave me… And so would you," Catelyn said as pain began to take a grip, knowing that Eddard had to leave twice to fight in Robert's wars. But the thought of losing one her daughters? The prospect seemed to crush Catelyn as a mother to have to say goodbye to one of her children.

Sansa didn't seem to notice. "You left your home to come here. And I'd be Queen someday," she says before turning to face her mother. "Please make father say yes."

"Sansa…" Catelyn tried to speak, but was interrupted once more.

"Please, please. It's the only thing I ever wanted."

Catelyn was uncertain. Part of her wanted to remind Sansa to be a bit more careful and not rush things too quickly, but the other part of her wanted to give whatever her daughter asked for. She'll soon find out once the festivities commenced tonight.

Night time within the Interior Great Hall of Winterfell…

The feast for the king enters its fourth hour. A singer players the harp at one end of the hall but none are able to hear him above the roaring fire, the clangor of pewter plates and cups, and the din of a hundred conversations going on at once. The long wooden tables are covered with steaming platters of roasted meats and baked breads. Banners hang from the stone walls: the dire wolf of House Stark; the crowned stag of House Baratheon; the lion of House Lannister.

Eddard Stark and Catelyn host King Robert (who already appears to be really drunk), Queen Cersei, Ser Jaime and a few other luminaries at a table on a raised platform. The Stark and Baratheon children sit at a table directly below the guests of honor. On the main floor, the soldiers, squires and other commoners sit on backless benches. The Starks were soon visited by their uncle Benjen, a well-respected member of the Night's Watch who had stopped by. The youngest son of the late Lord Rickard Stark, Benjen earned a name for himself when he earned the rank of First Ranger, a high-ranking position within the Night's Watch responsible for defending the Wall and ranging beyond it. As First Ranger, Benjen Stark leads the Rangers and answers only to Lord Commander Jeor Mormont. After sharing a hug with his nephew Robb, Benjen approaches Eddard.

"You at a feast – it's like a bear in a trap," he points out.

"The boy I beheaded," Eddard says in reference to Will. "Did you know him?"

Benjen nods. "Of course I did," he answers his older brother. "Just a lad. But he was tough, Ned. A true Ranger."

"He was talking madness," Eddard says. "Said the Walkers slaughtered his friends."

"The two he was with are still missing," Benjen acknowledges.

Eddard raises an eyebrow slightly. "A wildling ambush."

"Maybe," Benjen speculates. "Direwolves south of the Wall. Talk of the Walkers. My brother might become the next Hand of the King."

Both elder Stark brothers shared a laugh before looking each other, a serious look on their faces.

"'Winter is coming'," Benjen recites House Stark's motto.

"'Winter is coming," Eddard recites back.

Outside…

Among those not in attendance was Jon Snow. He was outside instead, stock piles of arrows. Frustrated at not being allowed inside, Jon began taking his frustrations out on a nearby fencing dummy.

"Is he dead yet?" a voice calls out to him, pointing to the abused training dummy.

Jon turns around and recognizes who that voice belonged to. "Uncle Benjen!" he reacts with excitement before hugging him.

"You got bigger," Benjen says as he looks at his half-nephew. "I rode all day. Didn't want to leave you alone with the Lannisters." He notices how upset Jon looks. "Why aren't you at the feast?" he asks concerned.

"Lady Stark thought it might insult the royal family to seat a bastard in their midst," Jon answers honestly.

Jon had wanted to experience the festivities but was forbidden from doing so at Catelyn's insistence. He never understood why Catelyn hated him; sure he was a bastard, but what did Jon ever do to his father's wife that earned him such animosity?

"Well," Benjen begins, "you're always welcome on the Wall. No bastard was ever refused a seat there."

"So take me with you when you go back," Jon demands.

Benjen was taken aback. He hadn't expected such a forceful request from Jon before. Something must have driven him to make such a decision, but Benjen tried to explain.

"Jon…"

Jon interrupted again. "Father will let me if you ask him, I know he will."

"The Wall isn't going anywhere," Benjen reassures Jon.

"I'm ready to swear your oath," he says again.

Benjen shook his head. "You don't understand what you'd be giving up. We have no families. None of us will ever father sons."

"I don't care about that," Jon replies.

"You might, if you knew what it meant… I'd better get inside. Rescue your father from his guests. We'll talk later," Benjen promises before going inside to the banquet.

Jon looked on at his half-uncle, hopeful that he would speak with his father about requesting his leave to join the Night's Watch. His thoughts were soon broken by the approach of Tyrion Lannister.

"Your uncle's in the Night's Watch," the Imp notices.

"What're you doing back there?" Jon demands.

Tyrion takes a sip from his cup. "Preparing for a night with your family. I've always wanted to see the Wall."

Jon sizes him up. "You're Tyrion Lannister. The Queen's brother?" he asks.

"My greatest accomplishment," Tyrion replied rather grim.

"And… you're Daveth's uncle?"

Tyrion's face then lights up with pride. "My proudest accomplishment," he says with a smile. "And you – you're Ned Stark's bastard, aren't you?"

Jon becomes visibly angry at being called that; he hated whenever people called him a bastard. So great was his anger that he turns away.

"Did I offend you?" Tyrion apologizes. "Sorry. You are a bastard, though."

"Lord Eddard Stark is my father," Jon answers flatly.

"And Lady Stark is not your mother," Tyrion points out. "Making you a bastard. Let me give you some advice, bastard. Never forget what you are. The rest of the world will not. Wear it like armor. Then it can never be used to hurt you," he says as he begins to walk away.

"What the hell do you know about being a bastard?" Jon shouts in anger.

Tyrion turns to look at Jon, solemnly answering: "All dwarves are bastards in their father's eyes."

As the dwarf heads inside, Jon continues stacking arrows and hitting the training dummy with his practice sword.

Back inside…

A few seats down at the main table, Catelyn and Cersei watch as Robert becomes rather bawdy with a tavern wench; Catelyn is embarrassed by this public act, while Cersei merely looks on in plain disgust at her drunken husband as he gets even more bawdy with the wench. Being a good hostess, Catelyn tries to distract Cersei.

"Is this your first time in the North, Your Grace?" Catelyn asks in desperation.

Queen Cersei looked at Catelyn. "Yes. Lovely country," she acknowledges before observing Catelyn's daughter Sansa, motioning her to come over – which the young maiden obediently obliges.

"I'm sure it's very grim, after King's Landing," Catelyn continues. "I remember how scared I was when Ned brought me up here for the first time."

Cersei nods as Sansa approaches, smiling shyly as she bows in courtesy before the Queen's presence.

"Hello, little dove," Cersei politely greets. "But you are a beauty. How old are you?"

"Thirteen, Your Grace," Sansa answers.

Queen Cersei eyes her up and down. "You're tall," she notices. "Still growing?"

"I think so, Your Grace."

"And have you bled yet?" Cersei asks.

Sansa's posture now shifted slightly, showing Catelyn how embarrassed she was with the sudden question from the Queen. When she looks at her mother, Catelyn silently tells Sansa to answer.

"No, Your Grace," Sansa replies discomfited.

"And your dress," Cersei says as she looks over Sansa's outfit, noting how finely detailed and perfect it looked. "Did you make it?"

Sansa smiles and nods yes.

Cersei smiles. "Such talent," she praises. "You must make something for me."

Sansa nods and courtesies again as she departs to return to her seat.

"I hear we might share a grandchild someday," Queen Cersei says to Catelyn.

Catelyn looks pleased. "I hear the same."

"Your daughter will do well in the capital. Such a beauty shouldn't stay hidden up here forever."

At the table below, Daveth Baratheon sips his cup. He didn't like the taste of ale or wine, at least the ones he didn't like as he looked at his father in disgust. He only did so because he didn't want to be considered rude or impolite as his family were honored guests of the Starks. As he ate a few grapes, Daveth continues eyeing his father as King Robert began groping the wench's bosom he was embracing.

'If wine will make a man look and behave like THAT with no shame, then I'd be glad to never allow such vile toxin slide down my throat again…' Daveth thought as he swallowed his food.

"Something bothering you?" Robb says as he sat down next to him.

Daveth's concentration broke. "What? Oh, Robb. Just… he's doing it again," he admits as he points in King Robert's direction.

Robb notices it as well. "Has he always been like this?" he asks.

Daveth shrugged his shoulders. "For as long as I can remember. Gods be good, you'd think he'd have some decency as King. Why father believes this gives him the right to do whatever he pleases, I have no idea."

There was a tense pause between the two.

"And how does the Queen feel?" Robb asks.

"Mother is absolutely livid about it," Daveth answers. "It dishonors her, humiliates her. Whenever she argues with father about his… 'adventures'… he hits her."

Robb looks disturbed. "What kind of King strikes his Queen?"

"A foolish one," Daveth says. "When I was a child, I didn't know what was wrong between the two of them. Ignorant as I was, I thought that maybe if I could find a way to fix things… maybe the physical and emotional abuse would stop," he takes another drink. "Sadly, it didn't work. Father never listened to me, mother didn't appear to like it."

As Robert laughs, Daveth looked back at his cup as Robb notices Daveth tightening his grip slightly.

"Which is why I've decided a long time ago that I will not be the kind of man father is," Daveth swore, with some hint of heat in his voice. "Instead I will forge my own path. And only the history books will decide what kind of person I'll be."

"You're already called 'the Oathkeeper'," Robb jokes. "You're wanting more?"

Daveth shudders in response. "Please don't even think of such things."

Both friends notice Sansa observing them, mostly Daveth. The Crown Prince nods his head upwards. Sansa blushes as she turns to her friend Jeyne Poole. Daveth decides to change the subject, becoming serious.

"I hear we're about to become brothers soon."

Robb returns with a more serious face. "As do I, Daveth. You're a good friend and I trust you, but I need you to promise me that you'll take good care of Sansa. She's my sister. Promise me that no harm will come to her."

Daveth stoically looks at Robb, before nodding his head. "You have my word."

It was the same phrase Daveth used whenever he issued a promise… or a threat. Whenever someone, somewhere within the Seven Kingdoms negotiated with the famous Oathkeeper, they were always forced to take Prince Daveth Baratheon. If they pleased him, he rewarded them. If they failed or wronged him, he punished them. But in the event someone pushed him too far, Daveth without saying a word simply dealt swift retaliation against those who foolishly defied them or acted against his wishes. Such actions, sometimes harsh, were often compared to his grandfather Tywin Lannister's brutal response to the rebellion House Reyne of Castamere and House Tarbeck of Tarbeck Hall almost 40 years ago. Such actions were later immortalized by the minstrels in the poular song, The Rains of Castamere. Robb acknowledged Daveth's vow and the two shook hands.

Eddard Stark, on his way to the table, was blocked Jaime Lannister.

"Pardon," he excuses but Jaime still refused to move aside.

"I hear we might be neighbors soon," Jaime says. "I hope it's true."

Eddard acknowledges. "Yes, the King has honored me with his offer."

"I'm sure we'll have a tournament to celebrate the new title, if you accept," Jaime points out. "It would be good to have you in the field. The competition has become a bit stale since my nephew Prince Daveth bested me in the melee last year."

"I don't fight in tournaments," Eddard said.

Jaime raises an eyebrow, leaning forward as if to mock the Stark patriarch. "No? Getting a little old for it?"

Eddard shook his head. "I don't fight in tournaments because when I fight a man for real, I won't want him to know what I can do."

Jaime's eyes elevated slightly, grinning rather smugly. "Well said," he complemented before finally stepping aside.

When all of a sudden…

*WHACK!*

"Arya!" Sansa screamed in horror.

Her sister Arya used her spoon as a catapult to fling a wad of pigeon pie at Sansa, across the table. It hit Sansa square in the face as bits and pieces fall from her cheek and lands on her dress. Her brothers Robb, Bran and Rickon saw it and laughed hysterically. Joffrey joined in by laughing, but Myrcella tried to help Sansa clean herself off and Tommen ducked to avoid being hit. Daveth saw what had occurred as well, before turning his head slightly.

'Something tells me I'm going to have my hands full…' he thought.

"It's not funny!" Sansa continued complaining as she tried to wipe herself, before Jeyne and Septa Mordane arrived to help clean it off. "This was my favorite dress, and she ruined it! She always does this! It's not funny!"

The noise caught Catelyn Stark's attention, who signals a laughing Robb to deal with the girls. No longer laughing, Robb stands from his seat and hoists up Arya.

"Time for bed," he says as Arya looked upset at her fun being ruined. Robb nods at his mother and escorts his little sister to bed early.

Pentos, across the Narrow Sea...

At a window overlooking the Narrow Sea stood a young girl, with long, lush silver hair and violet eyes. Daenerys Targaryen, only daughter of King Aerys II Targaryen and his sister-wife Queen Rhaella, stared out at the bay of Pentos where shirtless fishermen haul nets full of wriggling fish from their boats onto the docks. She was a beautiful girl but nobody bothered to tell her that. House Targaryen had been the ruling royal House of Westeros for over 300 years since their ancestor Aegon I Targaryen–known simply as Aegon the Conqueror–united the Seven Kingdoms into a single realm through conquest. Their banner was a red, three-headed dragon on a black field; and their motto "Fire and Blood." The Targaryens were the old blood of Valyria, an empire spanning most of the eastern continent of Essos before sailing across the Narrow Sea to Westeros.

The members of House Targaryen, like their ancestors of Valyria, often married brother to sister to keep their bloodline pure in order to control the dragons and keep their Valyrian legacy. However, generations of such heavy inbreeding increasingly produced insanity in some of them. After 300 years of this, varying forms of insanity became so common in the family that it was said that every time a new Targaryen was born, the Gods would flip a coin to determine if he or she would grow to be insane. The last was Daenerys's father Aerys, whom the people in Westeros labeled "The Mad King" before he was slain during Robert's Rebellion and House Targaryen was deposed by House Baratheon.

For more than 16 years, the remnants of House Targaryen had been living in exile; begging for food and shelter from wealthy patrons of the Free Cities.

"Where's my sweet sister?" a voice bellowed out.

In her room steps her older brother, Viserys Targaryen, older brother to Daenerys and younger brother to Rhaegar. Officially, he is styled as "Viserys of House Targaryen, the Third of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm." However, the name means nothing to him now as Robert Baratheon, whom he calls "Usurper", was now sitting on the Iron Throne. In his arms is a white silk dress made especially for his sister.

"Daenerys," Viserys calls out. "There's our bride to be! Look – a gift from Illyrio. Touch it. Come on. Feel the fabric."

Daenerys obediently complies with her older brother's request. She gently brushes her fingers across the delicate dress, letting it slight through. But the sight of it gives her no pleasure.

"Isn't Illyrio a gracious host?"

Daenerys hands the gown back to her brother and meekly looked up. "We've been his guests for over a year and he's never asked us for anything."

"Illyrio's no fool. He knows I won't forget my friends when I come into my throne." Viserys hangs the gown from a hook beside the door. "You still slouch," Viserys studies her critically as he pulls off his sister's gown. "You have a woman's body now. I need you to be perfect today. Can you do that for me?"

Daenerys covers her breasts and looks away, earning the ire of Viserys.

"You wouldn't want to wake the dragon, do you?" he warns in a menacingly, low tone of voice.

A narcissist, Viserys was a rather arrogant and self-centered man, caring only about himself and looking down on others, especially his sister Daenerys. While his relationship with his sister was initially warm, Viserys grew to resent Daenerys for the death of their mother during her birth and began treating her abusively, both with cruel words and with physical assaults. He would frequently warn her not to "wake the dragon" and incite his anger.

"No," Daenerys quietly answers with a small hint of fear.

"Good," Viserys smiles and nods, brushing back her hair with something like affection. As he starts to leave the chamber, he turns around to face his sister. "When they write the history of my reign, sweet sister, they will say it began today."

Once Viserys leaves, Daenerys turns around and steps into a steaming hot bath with a despairing look on her face. As she approaches the water, the maids warn her.

"It's too hot, my lady."

But Daenerys keeps stepping deeper. Wondering what the future holds in store for her. Only the Gods and fate will decide, if they are as merciful as she hopes they are.