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NYMERIA MARTELL

. Her Uncle's message had been a welcome sight during her first day at the Wall, but here she was a week later and now she could only feel shame. He had charged her with seeking information, and she had sent it to him, but it wouldn't be what he wanted to hear.

Tyrion Lannister was innocent in the Stark boy's murder, he was even innocent in her mother's murder, but he was their kin. He was a member of the family she had been brought up to hate.

But she could find no lie in his face when he recited his story.

He even eyed the knife with a kind of curiosity, wondering what it could be doing this far north, no doubt.

She was supposed to be helping her family, but what she had done was just the opposite.

She could lie, she realized.

It was a dangerous ploy, but it would work. But was it right?

No, it wasn't. It was a cheap move, and one that would cost her if word ever got out about the truth. A war would possibly break out, and despite her feelings about the Lady and the Kingslayer, Tyrion had been kind to her and treated her with respect.

He wasn't like his siblings. He wasn't like his father.

But he was a Lannister.

She dropped her head into her hands. Arianne was much better with this sort of thing. With one stroke of her pen, she would have a decision made.

Whether it was right or not didn't matter to her, as long as it helped her father. But here Nymeria was. And two sides were fighting for dominance.

Family Duty Honor, she recalled the Tully words. Catelyn Stark lived and breathed them, and somehow they had passed through her to her children as well. And now they had been the first ones to enter her mind. Instead of her own house words. Instead of anyone else's. Family came first. Family had always come first. Ink stained the page as it dripped from her quill.

She was patient yes, but how patient? Could she wait for Doran to plan his royal marriage? Could she wait for her own turn? When he would really marry her to Robb Stark to gain Winterfell to his cause?

She didn't know if she could. But she did know one thing.

This would speed things up. Doran would have to put his plan into motion if the Lannisters and Starks were moving against each other.

It would create an opening. Ned Stark would already cause enough chaos in King's Landing, what was the harm in enacting their plan a little earlier?

Her thoughts flitted toward Jon, and the vow he wanted to take. Once he took it, Doran's plan would be finished. She didn't know what her uncle had in store for the young bastard, but she was certain it didn't involve swearing himself to this cold hell for all eternity. His freedom would be gone. And then she would be called back to Dorne.

Back to summer seas and spars with her cousins. But Jon Snow would still be up here, freezing his ass off and battling ghosts.

Perhaps she could convince him to come to Dorne with her when she left. Oberyn would whine endlessly about harboring a Stark bastard, but even he couldn't say no to a new sparring partner. Arianne would have her way with him before long, and Doran's plan would still be in motion.

Yes, she fantasized, Dorne would be good for Jon Snow.

But something inside her knew that it would be nothing more than a dream in her head. A fantasy.

But the paper before her was real. She had a choice to make, and she already knew what it would be before her fingers glided across the page, writing the damned sentence as quickly as possible. Tyrion Lannister may have nothing to do with Bran Stark's attempted murder, but there was a better scapegoat before her. Someone hot-tempered and impatient and potentially at the scene of the crime.

As she finished up her letter to Doran, she pulled out another piece of parchment, rewriting the same words but a different name. It would do no good to have Lady Stark know the truth. Not when a war provided the opening Doran needed to enact his plan.

"Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken," she recited, quickly rolling up the letters and sealing them with black wax and a blank stamp. No sigil to be seen. Nothing to tie her or her family back to what she was about to do.

She was a Martell. A viper bred in the sandpits of Dorne. She would guard her family with her life, and that meant there were no exceptions.

She watched the raven carry her words, and silently prayed to the seven that she had made the right choice.

But she knew it was futile. The seven couldn't hear her up here.

OBERYN MARTELL

The glaring gazes of the twin sphinxes towered over him, bearing into his own as he sauntered through the gates, the bright candles lining both sides of the hall illuminating the way toward the Scribe's Hearth.

Oberyn had never willingly visited this room unless he needed to pass through it. The artificial sun hung above him, casting a red and yellow glow on the stalls of the scribes, where they sat patiently, scratching quills on parchment the only sound in the room.

He pressed forward until he reached the statue of Dareon Targaryen, with his massive sword pointed toward Dorne. Oberyn stared at the statue for a while. It was a great likeness, or so they said. Dareon had brought Dorne into the Seven Kingdoms through marriage, and now Doran was attempting to recreate that.

It was why he had passed over Arianne for Quentyn, it was why he had sent Oberyn here.

The viper huffed as he moved down the split path toward the Grand Library, where thousands of books were carefully shelved and put away in exactly the right spot. The desks were near spotless. Oberyn sauntered up to the desk, eyeing the blonde novice currently recording the movements and routines of the Maesters, and looking bored out of his mind.

Oberyn smirked, gaze lingering on the slim figure and his clean-shaven face, a pair of wide blue eyes blinking slowly every once in a while before flying up to meet Oberyn's black ones, the novice's face going red.

"C-can I help you Ser?" He stuttered out, his quill shaking in his hand as Oberyn towered over him, never taking his gaze off the young man. Oh if only the Red Viper was a green boy again, he mused.

Oberyn instead gestured to the library, "I'm seeking the journal of High Septon Maynard," he spoke clearly, his smirk hiding his intentions, "Rumor has it, he recorded everything in his life."

The novice quickly scrambled up, swallowing his nerves as he led Oberyn through the towering bookshelves, a deep cavernous pit revealing more books on the lower levels, truly revealing the wealth of knowledge the Maester's possessed.

Oberyn recalled the six links he himself had earned, and how much shit he had to sift through before he finally found what he was looking for.

Before he finally earned his place.

It had been humbling and irritating at the same time, and had done nothing for his pride. Studying at the Citadel had only opened his eyes, realizing how deep and corrupt the order truly was. Lord Hightower had his claws in deep, and the Archmaesters cared little for the qualms of the world, content to remain in their towers like the cowards they served.

The Reach was filled with men like them. And the Tyrells were the worst of them.

Their Lord was ambitious, but did not know the value of secrecy. And they were content to sit at the sidelines, never picking a side unless it was the winning one.

And it made Oberyn steam.

Mace Tyrell was lucky it was Lord Yrnwood Oberyn had dishonored and not him.

"Here it Ser," The novice pulled out a thick tome, its spine cracked and cover dusty. The novice's hands shook as he handed it to Oberyn, who gladly tucked it under his arm and thanked the boy, quickly searching for his old reading alcove.

There were few open, most occupied by young novices and maesters earning their links, but Oberyn was looking for a very particular one. It was hidden in the deepest corner of the library, where no one would ever find him unless they wished to navigate the deep labyrinths of the Citadel.

Hardly any light reached it, which was why a stack of candles was always placed nearby. Oberyn was quick to light one, and settled into the wooden chair, hardly a sound made as he cracked open the tome, resting it on his knee. He leaned back and plucked a fruit from his robes, biting into it as his hands ran themselves over the pages, searching for the exact dates he had been looking for. When he found it, his relaxed stance disappeared, and he moved the book onto the desk, candle wax dripping onto the edges of the pages as he leaned forward, eyes scanning every word.

The quiet settled over him rather comfortably, and Oberyn contented himself with reading about the High Septon counting the steps in the Citadel once more, as well as how many ravens he had sent out that day. There was a series of numbers near the top, growing increasingly greater as the pages moved.

Oberyn realized it was a count of the days. Of how many days winter had plagued them. But they were lower, despite the year indicating otherwise. Oberyn remembered that winter, and how warm it had been compared to previous years.

People had thought spring had come. And when he turned the page, he realized why the numbers were lower.

Loopy handwriting that didn't belong to High Septon Maynard had retroactively placed a title on this particular month. The last months of the year.

279 AC: The False Spring

Oberyn's blood ran hot as he read the page over and over again, wanting to tear it out and throw it into the fire.

He wanted the satisfaction of watching the words curl in on themselves and burn, but he settled for tearing the passage out of the book completely, stuffing it into his chest pocket and closing the book again.

He strode out of the alcove, flexing his fingers involuntarily until they curled into a fist, slamming the High Septon's journal down on the desk of the novice, dust rising as he did.

Oberyn glared at the boy. It wasn't his fault. He couldn't control the information the Maesters collected. But it angered him all the same.

Oberyn puffed his chest up and took his leave, eyes following him. And he made sure everyone knew the Red Viper of Dorne had visited the libraries of the Citadel.

It wasn't part of Doran's plan, but Doran's plan was failing.

Doran's plan relied on the support of a House that had humiliated their sister.

Doran's plan relied on sending their last reminder of Elia north, surrounded by wolves that would not support her. Surrounded by people who would jest and jape and sneer because she wasn't pale like the rest of them.

Doran's plan relied on his support, but Oberyn wasn't sure he wanted to support his brother anymore.

Not after this.

TYRION LANNISTER

The Valyrian steel blade dug into the rotting wood of his desk in his room, illustrating the need for both men and materials at the Wall.

Right now he was trying to solve a puzzle. In which the central piece involved the dagger he was spinning in his hand, while the missing one evaded him.

Who sent it?

What would Littlefinger gain from murdering Bran Stark?

Could Cersei have paid Littlefinger?

It made no logical sense for her to do so. She would be in Littlefinger's debt, not to mention her and Jaime's exploits would be looked into. Tyrion sighed. His siblings were more trouble than they were worth sometimes.

He'd known about them for years. Oh, his siblings always thought they were so clever, getting away with a secret that would stain their house right under their father's nose.

He supposed it was some sort of sick satisfaction, knowing that at any point all could be revealed and the reputation Tywin Lannister had built their house upon would crumble.

Tyrion smiled at the thought.

The knife clattered to the ground as it slipped out of his grip, and he was pulled back to the matter at hand.

It would do no good trying to solve it without proper resources. Without observing the other pieces of the puzzle first.

He chuckled mirthlessly, perhaps it was a good thing he was headed back to the capital after all.

Tyrion peered underneath his desk, realizing that the dagger had fallen quite far out of his reach. Sighing, he hopped off the chair, his back exploding in pain as he did. The strained grunt he released was not unfamiliar, and soon he found himself on all fours, crawling toward the dagger to grab it before someone saw him.

Unfortunately, lady luck was not on his side. A pair of boots appeared on the other side of the desk, a feminine laugh accompanying them.

Tyrion rolled his eyes and tightened his grip on the dagger, relief flooding through him as his back relaxed. But before he could try to regain his dignity, a familiar pair of russet eyes entered his vision, the Martell Princess's smile widening at the sight before her.

"You need some help there Lord Tyrion?" She asked, unable to keep the mirth out of her voice. Tyrion sighed and tried to keep his composure.

"Not at all," He replied, "Although I do appreciate the gesture, Your Highness,"

Nymeria shook her head and stood up again, and while Tyrion was glad she wasn't taking this chance to wound his pride further, he had no doubt the Princess was enjoying it all the while.

Everyone enjoyed it when he fell.

Tyrion finally came out from underneath the desk and straightened up, ignoring the foolish feeling that was creeping up.

No doubt Nymeria was eating everything up, itching to write all about how Lord Tyrion Lannister had embarrassed himself trying to fetch a dagger.

But when he met her gaze, he thought he saw something else. Sympathy perhaps? No, he realized. It was pity.

The only thing he hated more than humiliation.

"I did offer to help you know," She smiled, and Tyrion nodded his head, placing the dagger back on the desk. He watched the Princess's eyes flicker toward the weapon before meeting his own again.

"A gesture I am greatly appreciative of," Tyrion replied quickly, still not trusting the girl. Who's to say she truly believed him about the dagger? What was stopping her from spreading her own version of the truth to Catelyn Stark, telling her that Tyrion had in fact, sent the dagger? Finally getting the revenge she craved.

Nymeria sent him a small smile, fiddling with the ends of her sleeves. It was quite alarming really, how unfamiliar the woman was with the cold.

Winter would not be kind to her.

"So what is a Princess of Dorne doing checking up on the Dwarf of Casterly Rock?" Tyrion asked, trying to keep a cheery disposition. Nymeria chuckled slightly, almost nervous.

"Jon Snow mentioned that you wanted to piss off the edge of the world," She replied, a smirk on her face as she parroted his words, "I assumed you wanted company."

Tyrion raised his brow, "And how do you mean to piss off the Wall my princess?" He japed, gesturing between his legs, "I think it would be rather difficult without a cock."

Nymeria's chuckle morphed into a guffaw and she uncrossed her arms, "You're right Lord Tyrion," She continued to laugh, her hand drifting to her belly as her shoulders shook, "I suppose I shall have to procure one."

Tyrion soon found himself laughing alongside her, although it was more of a chuckle than anything. Tension dissipated from his shoulders as an unguarded smile drifted across his face.

"Well then," He began, gesturing toward the door, "Shall we go see what's at the edge of the world?"

Nymeria eyed him once again, but unlike her other stares, this seemed to be merely out of curiosity. She was fidgeting again. Nymeria stopped when she felt his gaze on her and let him lead the way.

After descending the stairs of the King's Tower, Tyrion cursed his legs once again.

They were cramping up, badly, and he was certain he could not tackle the Wall steps. But Nymeria was already at the winch cage, opening the door for him. She knew. Tyrion realized as she slid in next to him. The Princess knew what it was like for someone like him.

He eyed her up, searching for any physical pain she may have been feeling. If she was like him, she hid it well.

Perhaps she inherited Princess Elia's health, he thought. That would have been enough to cripple any woman, and it had been the reason Rhaegar himself had sought out the Stark girl, if stories were to be believed.

"My Uncle Doran," She said, as if reading his mind. Her eyes turned sad as she met Tyrion's mismatched ones, "We found out about the gout the same time he did,"

Suddenly it made sense. Nymeria knew how to care for someone in pain because she had already done it.

She sighed and looked out over Castle Black. Tyrion wondered if she was looking out toward Dorne. "Arianne and I began to care for him those first few months," She confessed, smiling slightly, "He could still walk then. But when Maester Caleotte brought in that awful contraption..."

Tyrion was suddenly struck with the urge to comfort the young woman beside him. She hadn't willingly sought confrontation since their conversation her first day at the Wall, and she seemed to have a sense of humor. Which was more than he could say for most of the brothers.

"Arianne and I couldn't stand to look at him after that," Nymeria confessed, voice threatening to crack. It felt wrong, Tyrion mused, like he was witnessing a sinner in a sept. "To see the man who raised both of us, the Prince of Dorne, reduced to little more than a man in a chair. Unable to even move on his own."

Tyrion tasted the bitterness on his tongue. How well-loved Prince Doran was despite his affliction. How his own family still accepted him until it began to manifest physically. It only served to remind Tyrion why he was so despised everywhere he went.

But he said none of that to the dejected woman beside him. Instead, he cleared this throat, gently placing his hand on her arm, almost reaching her shoulder.

It was all he could do. "Your Uncle is lucky to have a niece like you."

Her gaze almost broke him. Dark pooling into something softer, almost resembling gratitude.

Tyrion snatched his hand away at the sight, as if he had been burned.

He didn't deserve her gratitude. Not in this way.

They continued their ride in silence, staring out over the crumbling towers and mountains of stone, the bright lights of Mole's Town drowned out by the full moon hanging above them. If Tyrion squinted, he could almost catch sight of Winterfell, but he knew that it was mere imagination.

They were too far north.