I rolled over and groaned into the pillow. My hangover is awful. I felt the throbbing spikes behind my eyes intensify as I remembered the fucked up dream I just had. My stomach rumbled. I need a bacon cheese burger. They get rid of hangovers faster than Tylenol.

"He's waking my lady." said a voice.

Jerking in surprise and opening my eyes. I immediately started screaming into a fat curly blond man's face. He wore gray robes and a chain around his neck.

"Ahhhhhhhhh!" I screamed and pulled the blanket up over my head.

Will this nightmare never end?

I squeezed my eyes shut and wailed into the blanket like a dying animal.

The female voice I recognized from the dream spoke up. "You are safe sweet-ling. Mommy is here."

Oh Hell No!

Sobbing into the blanket like a little girl, I had no concept of how long I ignored everything they said and bawled my eyes out into the blanket. I didn't feel like a grown man anymore. I was overemotional and couldn't control it.

Eventually enough endocrine hormones kicked in for me to bring my tears to a slightly less embarrassing sniffle. I lowered the blanket enough to expose only my eyes. I was in the room I had first escaped from. The 'Darlessa' woman and what I assume is a Maester sat in chairs beside my bed.

"Do you know who I am?" inquired the fatty-boom-ba with girlie golden curls and gray robes.

I hiccuped and gave a muffled "No" from under the blanket. The female had not broken into sobs as previously, but had tears leaking from her puffy red eyes.

"Do you know what year is is?" The overfed Shirley Temple impersonator inquired again.

I shook my head negative and regretted it. It felt like needles digging into the back of my eyes.

The Maester leaned in closer and held up three fat sausage fingers.

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Three." Was my reply, once again muffled by the blanket.

The Maester smiled in what he thinks is a kindly way and asked, "Are you in pain?"

I answered yes and tried not to move.

"One more question and I will give you something to ease the pain. What is your name?"

I have no choice but to lie.

Gotta play the cards you are dealt in life, folding is death.

"I don't know" was the muffled lie.

"Your name is Tyrek Lannister. You are nine years old. The year is 293 after Aegon's Conquest. This is your mother Darlessa." The master spoke as he uncorked a vial and moved closer. "Can you repeat what I just said?"

"You said one more question and you will give me something to relieve pain. That was question number two and I want the pain relieved now."

As I drifted into the familiar feeling of opium fogginess, I heard the Maester speak to my 'mother'. "His memory is damaged, but he can still learn and thus, he will not be simple-minded from the injury. I have seen this a few times and his memory will most likely return soon."

Not fucking likely...

888

My first week in this world was mind numbingly boring. Two days spent in a heroin induced daze. Another five days of bed rest under the guard of my mother whom I referred to as Darla. The Maester, Theomore, also visited every day. I had seen no one else.

Baring the uneducated and ignorant medieval female personality, Darla wasn't such bad company. Her long blond hair and corseted wardrobe were easy on the eyes. She may be my mother, but I was a Lannister now... and didn't consider her my mother at all. She was determined to get me to acknowledge her as my mother. I was determined not to. It was not hard to break the imbecilic woman down to tears, which I did in spite all the third day. I've felt a little guilty about it when she stayed kind to me.

Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

I sort of behaved since then. She was getting used to my bluntness, almost. Still a very teary woman though.

I had convinced her to let me have the one book of my father, Tygett Lannister. 'Houses of Westeros' was about 100 years out of date and was far more picture than words. Full of sigils, banners, and, house names I was going to try and memorize.

On the eighth morning, she was especially teary when she entered my room with bread, cheese, and, watered wine. I greeted her and went back to my only entertainment. She usually just stitched things at my bedside and left me to myself. I personally dislike alcohol and only drink it socially, here, there was no choice but to drink.

"You were supposed to leave this morning." She said after we 'broke fast'.

My head popped up from the book. "Really, I can get out of this room?" I blurted hopefully.

She gave me the 'mom' look.

"No, you were so excited to leave the Rock and go to page for King Robert. I was going to Ashemark to live with your grandparents." She informed me as if I were supposed to know already.

Glad I fucked that trip up!

I would like to throw together a crazy and successful plan to conquer the world, but, I am not Martyn Lannister from a fantasy. This was reality and I had to face it the hard way like everyone else. Maybe this was punishment for making one too many 'Dude nailed to a stick for the salvation of mankind' jokes, and this was my punishment.

"So, are we going to Ashemark together then?" I asked. I hadn't heard of the place before she told me of the seat of House Marbrand. If I hadn't heard of it, It might survive the coming war.

"No, not anymore." She whispered sadly.

And here come the water-works again...

"Oh c'mon, Darla. Why are you crying this time?" I asked exasperated as she started crying again.

I swear, the woman is a tear machine.

"You are going to squire instead of page." Is what I could make out through the blubbering.

Okay, I polish swords instead of hold wine glasses.

Why the hell is she still crying?

I gave her space and started to read again.

A few minutes later, she got her sobs under control enough to continue. "Your -hiccup- Uncles decided that since you show so much martial prowess at a young age. -hiccup- Like your father." she started blubbering again. "You are old enough to squire" She finished through sobs.

Oh My God! This Whiny Woman!

"Okay, so I have to fetch the breastplate spreader at the drunkard's whim. I won't have to carry twenty gallons of wine if I'm not a page, So why are you still crying Darla? Knock it off. It's annoying."

"Not.. Not the King."She steadily started to cry harder.

"The Mountain!" She wailed as she threw herself on my chest, bawling into my nightshirt.

I felt myself begin to tear up too.

I shouldn't have puked on Tywin Lannister's boots.