Myra
When she was a young girl, all Myra had wanted to do was attend a wedding. Before Sansa dreamed of her knights and ladies, her older sister had fawned over the idea of a wedding. She'd seen one, in passing, in Winter's Town. The people laughed and danced while the bride and bridegroom were showered in trinkets and praise. Ale overflowed their cups and spilled across the ground, drunken men bet each other in little games, women flocked in groups to giggle over others, and children danced in circles, holding ends of rope and daring the others to let go.
Surely, she had thought, if the commonfolk had such a splendid time, then a highborn wedding would be something to behold.
There had only been one wedding in her recollection while she lived in Winterfell. They had been invited, as was customary, but were under no expectation to attend. It would have been a sad sight to see, as Wylla had told her. The bride would not stop weeping, a girl of five and ten married to a man more than thrice her age. But she should have considered herself lucky. Her husband's brother was nearly seventy.
That was when she stopped dreaming of them.
And weddings now, of course, were not so fine a thing to her.
Servants and handmaidens gossiped up and down the halls of the Red Keep, lords and ladies from across the land dressed in their finest silks, knights had new swords and armor forged, and the smallfolk danced the nights away with a buzz that threatened to shake the very foundations of the keep, but all Myra could think of was her uncle.
Edmure, the rightful Lord of Riverrun, shivering in a cell beneath the Twins, alone and nearly forgotten, while she pranced about King's Landing. While he was stripped to bare rags, she wore the finest deep red gown with rubies and emeralds inlaid in the bodice and the sleeves while golden strands weaved complex patterns across the skirts. Her necklace bore a ruby the size of her thumb, joined with amethyst and mother of pearl, hanging from a golden chain.
They had both lost the war, or so she had been told.
"Is everything alright, Myra?"
Blinking, Myra recalled that she was not alone. Margaery had requested her presence as the final preparations were made before the ceremony. They were in her quarters, which were larger still than hers and Jaime's.
Margaery stood before a mirror as her cousins fretted about her. They had all been introduced at one point, she was certain, but Myra had forgotten and, frankly, they all looked the same to her.
She was seated in a chair across from the bride, her gowns spilling out across the floor in a red tidal wave. Amongst the hues of chestnut, sand, and pale greens, she was very much the sore thumb.
"Forgive me, Margaery. I was lost in thought."
It wasn't a lie, at least.
Still, the future queen frowned and quickly dismissed the others. With quick giggles, they melted away, as if into the walls themselves.
"It is I who should be asking forgiveness," Margaery said, easing into the chair beside her. It had once been occupied by her grandmother, but Olenna had complained all the twittering hurt her ears and had disappeared from the room. "What a dreadful thing for me to do, asking you here. This wedding is probably the last place you want to be."
Myra felt the corners of her mouth twitch. "There are a few others I could name."
A few dozen, perhaps. What would this wedding be next to Maidenpool? The Twins? That cave so far away?
"Even so," Margaery continued, leaning gently on the armrest. A ringlet of hair fell across her shoulder. "I should have considered it. What happened is unspeakable and if you were to quietly disappear after the ceremony, I would make certain my husband takes no notice."
"Unless you have the same effect on Lord Tywin, I'm afraid it would be for naught."
They paused, eying one another before laughing softly.
"There isn't a woman on earth who could make Lord Tywin move, except for perhaps my grandmother, but I believe she only moves him to indigestion."
They laughed again.
"Is that why you married Jaime so quickly?" Margaery asked then, genuine curiosity in her eyes.
Myra shrugged. "I can't imagine all of Dorne was eager for that particular ceremony."
"I should thank you for that, by the way," the Tyrell said, standing again. "Had you managed to return unwedded, Lord Tywin would have made your ceremony the largest in memory, and I do so loathe being outdone."
"As I have noticed," Myra replied. Seventy-seven courses would be feeding the menagerie of guests that evening, and she could not imagine making it past seven. Even Robert Baratheon might have called it too much. "Trust me, you needn't fear me in that regard."
"But in others then?" Margaery teased, returning to her mirror. She moved a hair here and there, little things to make herself appear occupied. She was already radiant. "I certainly hope our discussion hasn't gone to your head."
In more ways than you realize.
"Of course not," she answered, playing with the necklace. It was a gaudy thing, but Jaime had insisted on it. Something of his mother's, he had said. She suspected there was more to it, but did not pry. He would say eventually. "It's the Stark in me."
"Well, for the sake of the realm, perhaps you should find a bit more Lannister," she replied with a pointed look.
"You've never been in a litter before?" Jaime asked as he sat across from her, practically buried in her skirts. They jostled to and fro, a ride only slightly less bumpy than the carriage from home. Outside the curtains, she could hear the smallfolk shouting the names of the king and future queen. Occasionally, theirs made it above the din.
"What was it about Winterfell that made you think I had?"
He chuckled. "You have me there."
Jaime turned back to the window, watching the crowds slowly pass by. Every lurch had him grasping the curtains.
"Have you been in one before?"
He shrugged. "Once, when I was little. Usually I'm on a horse."
She smiled. He probably couldn't stand the idea of being on something not in his control. The Jaime with her now might have been different from the one people often saw, but there were more similarities than differences. Trust was still hard to come by, and he believed more people to be fools than scholars. Being forced to trust the fools to carry him without incident must have been quite the blow.
The tightly enclosed space did not do him any favors either.
"Well, I'm glad you're in here with me."
"I'm not sure the litter carriers would say the same. Perhaps Tyrion should have ridden with you."
Her laughter was drowned by the shouts of the crowd. Myra glanced out the curtains behind her and spied Cersei exiting her liter with Tommen beside her. Victory over Stannis had even won her back the favor of the people. She supposed it wasn't hard, so long as the commonfolk had food in their bellies and a place to sleep at night.
Soon enough, their litter came to a final halt, and Jaime could not have escaped faster. He nearly tripped on her skirts on the way out, practically crawling across the space.
The crowd seemed to erupt at his presence, even more so when he extended his hand and helped her outside. Men and women alike called out their names and waved bits of cloth. Petals fell from windows, blowing in the breeze and getting caught in the manes of horses that strode by and in the armor of the City's Watchmen on guard.
A little girl even managed to crawl out of the fray to give her a rose. She knelt down and graciously accepted it, while subtly prying a small ruby from her dress and depositing it in her outstretched hand.
Jaime smirked when she stood again, offering his right arm. "Don't approve of your dress?"
"Well, I know you certainly don't," Myra replied, giving him a smirk of her own. He'd only tried to take it off her several times. Syrena had all but chased him from the room so she could finally dress her properly.
She'd only ever seen the Great Sept of Baelor from a distance, but even then, she had marveled at its size and beauty. Up close, it almost did not seem real. Its pristine marble walls and crystal towers were glistening in the early morning sun, so pure and unblemished that it hurt her eyes to gaze upon it for more than a few moments at a time.
What a contrast it was to the city they had ridden through. Although they had taken safer, well-traveled roads, one did not have to look far to see the squalor that most of the city lived in, and no amount of brightly colored silks and shining jewels could cover the stench of a city soaked in its own filth.
They liked to pretend the North was full of backwards upstarts who barely stood higher than the mud in which they built their homes, but it was the Northerners who accepted their lives and lived them well. They did not toss gold in a hovel and call it civilization.
As they slowly climbed the steps to the sept, a gnawing feeling entered the pit of her stomach. Something about the place that she ought to have remembered; something important to her.
"This was where he died," Myra spoke suddenly. She did not stop moving, but could feel Jaime pulling her upward nonetheless.
Here she walked in the finest garb where her father's blood once stained the marble. They'd put his head on a pike, Sansa had told her. Syrena had seen it from the keep, along with their septa and other members of their household.
"Don't think about it," Jaime whispered. "He stopped being your father the moment Payne swung that sword."
"Could you say the same of your father?" she hissed.
Jaime said nothing at that.
Still, Myra attempted to take his advice, taking slow, steady breaths as they passed the horrid spot and entered the sept itself. She grasped Jaime's golden hand tightly, slightly comforted by the notion she could at least not hurt that. He noticed anyway, and covered her hand with his good one, giving it a quick squeeze.
They would get through this day, by the skin of their teeth perhaps, but they would survive one way or another.
Slowly, they passed through the Hall of Lamps, the colored glass hanging above their heads doing little to appeal to her, but even through her melancholy, Myra found awe at the main chamber of the building, with its great statues dedicated to the Seven, climbing higher than most buildings in the city itself. But they were such cold things, adornments that neither reflected the piety of those within nor the splendor of those whom the people worshipped. A godswood was simple, but it was alive, and pulsed with the life of the gods they so loved. What was a statue next to the blood-red leaves of the heart tree?
Joffrey already stood at the altar between the statues of the Mother and Father, his prideful smirk on full display. Myra could feel his gaze on her as she and Jaime went to stand on the Lannister side of their gathering. Fortunately, Lord Tywin had deemed peace a necessity at the wedding, and had firmly planted himself between Cersei and Jaime for the ceremony.
Tommen, looking handsome in his little red tunic, quickly found his way to her side, tugging on her dress until she leaned over.
"You look very pretty," he whispered.
"Why thank you," she replied, smiling warmly. Taking the rose she had received earlier, she tucked it into the golden sash across his chest. "There we are. You look very dashing."
"Like the Knight of Flowers!" he exclaimed, quieting when his voice echoed a little too much. Tommen quickly scurried back to Cersei's side, and Myra was very much aware of the queen's glare in her direction. But with Lord Tywin right beside her, she did not dare do anything that would cause the boy to become upset.
"Hopefully not too much like him," Tyrion said, walking up beside her. "There's barely enough room for one Loras in this world."
Myra shook her head, but smiled nonetheless.
Behind them, she could hear Myrcella and Prince Trystane giggling about something. They'd both arrived in splendidly matched orange garments, light and breezy as was the Dornish way. It reminded Myra of when she'd dressed alike to Renly.
That had been in this city too, hadn't it? So very long ago...
"I don't suppose this will be a quick affair," Tyrion sighed. "I do hate standing for so long."
"If there's one thing I learned about King's Landing, it's that nothing here goes quickly," Myra replied.
Except death.
Margaery entered not long after, escorted by her father, Mace, and the whole sept fell silent. She really did look like a queen, dressed more elegantly than any other, like a song come to life. This was the wedding that Sansa had always wanted, and may have even gotten had things not gone so awry. When Margaery's hair caught the light in the right way, she even thought it looked red.
She had been right, of course, about the speed of things. The High Septon was an old man, and the years of his life showed in his voice and movements. He seemed frail, ready to fall at any moment, the grand crystal crown atop his head bending him forward and weighing him down. She'd caught Jaime smirking more than once at his words. If this felt like a farce to her, she could not quite imagine how it was for him.
She'd caught Tyrion swaying once or twice. No doubt his legs hurt something fierce. Even Joffrey had swayed once, only slightly, which no one seemed to notice.
At last, the High Septon began to bind their hands, wrapping them together in cloth as once she and Jaime had. Myra did not doubt it was made of the finest silk, worth more than any of the commonfolk cheering outside possessed.
"Let it be known that Margaery of House Tyrell and Joffrey of the Houses Lannister and Baratheon are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder."
Myra glanced to Jaime at those words, and found him already looking at her.
Margaery and Joffrey turned as one, facing the crowd. Myra thought the latter looked rather pale. They'd certainly never stop talking about the wedding if Joffrey fainted. Tyrion would probably pass out from laughter himself.
"With this kiss," Joffrey began, his voice low but still echoing through the quiet chamber. "I pledge my love."
He turned to face Margaery then, and Myra watched as the young woman's smile slowly faded. She was focused on something on his face.
"Your nose," she whispered, though she could still clearly hear it. "You're bleeding, Joffrey."
The king only just touched his fingers to the spot before he buckled and fell to the floor, eliciting a scream from Margaery, followed by others, until the whole room erupted into chaos.
Cersei pushed past Margaery and was at her son's side in an instant, screaming at everyone to both help and get away. The Kingsguard had closed in, helpless. Boros Blount had even deigned it necessary to draw his sword, though there was nothing he could kill that could help Joffrey now.
Jaime had rushed over as well, alongside Tyrion, though they too stood helplessly, watching on. Tywin had grabbed Tommen away from the excitement and ushered him over to Myra.
"Take the boy," he'd ordered, and she'd done so without hesitation, grabbing the scared prince. He'd buried his head in her dress and she did her best to cover his eyes with her hands. Myrcella was clutching Trystane, pale as a sheet, with Ellaria at her side, while Oberyn stood in front of them, guarding them from whatever potential danger there may have been.
What few glances she'd gotten of Joffrey were horrid. The bleeding from his nose had moved on to his mouth and his ears, even his eyes, until she could see a pool of it on the tiled floor. Arys Oakheart had uselessly offered his white cloak to press to the king's head, but there would be no point. Myra Stark had seen impossible come to be, but death always won in the end, and it had come for Joffrey Baratheon.
Cersei's shrieking broke through the din, and suddenly the room fell silent again. Myra watched the queen cling to her son, holding and rocking him as she had no doubt done when he was a babe. How agonized she looked, a wretched shadow of herself. She could see her mother in Cersei then, and even Robb in Joffrey.
Even for her, Myra felt sadness.
"The king is dead," Tywin declared, his voice booming across the chamber. She felt the words rattle in her bones and across her heart.
"No!" Cersei shouted, looking up at him. Tears spilled from her eyes, but there was a fury burning within them. "Do not say that! Do not-"
Her voice broke then, and her attention returned to Joffrey.
Everything became so still. No one dared to break the silence, save for those who wept. Margaery looked on with horror, her face pale and eyes full of unshed tears as she clutched her brother, Loras. Mace stood beside them, unusually somber.
Tyrion stood beside Cersei, almost moving to touch her, until he thought better, and Jaime...
Myra could not describe the look on his face. Distant, confused, lost. He never liked being lost; he was a man who had a plan or a quip for everything, but not now.
When Jaime turned to her, his mouth was set in a firm line. He walked toward her, putting his good arm around her as he whispered in her ear. "Get the children back to the keep."
He then turned and pointed to both Ser Balon and Ser Arys, two members of the Kingsguard she knew he would trust, and who would listen to him despite no longer being in command. They knew their new king would have to be guarded.
Myra looked down at the young boy clutching her skirts. Yes, he was the king now, wasn't he?
That was something she never expected to have in common with him.
She nodded once at Jaime, turning around. "Myrcella."
The young princess looked at her. She had shed no tears, looking dignified in her somberness; she nodded to her and left Trystane's side. The prince tried to fight it, but Oberyn put a steadying hand on his shoulder and gave them leave.
Myrcella took Tommen's other hand, and together they walked out of the sept.
They day was still bright and full of cheer, but the shouts of awe turned to horror before they'd even entered the litter.
Yes, she thought. Death did come quickly here.
Jaime
Seven hells, he was tired.
They'd stood there in the sept after Myra and the children left for gods knew how long. When his father began to call for the Silent Sisters and for the guests to be escorted out, Cersei had turned on him. She'd screamed for him not to do a thing, wailing and berating him until her voice echoed through every corner of the building.
He had tried to stop her, as useless as it was. Even when she hadn't completely hated him, his words often had little effect on her. When Cersei was set on a course of action, it was not to be undone. She had slapped his good hand away, her furious gaze piercing him. He thought she would accuse him of killing the boy right then and there.
She did try to start her investigations, calling on the remaining Kingsguard to do their duty, but their father had put a stop to that.
"That is enough," he'd said. "You will cease this foolishness, you will return to the Red Keep, and you will leave the rest to me."
"If you think you can keep me from this, I'll-"
"You will either walk out of the sept with dignity, or you will be dragged out."
That had quieted Cersei. She had left some time after, though he had not been paying attention. His mind was swimming, lost in so many thoughts, some from the wedding, others from before. The war was over, but it seemed things were still falling apart.
He'd stood over Joffrey, watching as the Silent Sisters began to care for his body, half-listening as Grand Maester Pycelle droned on about the various culprits that could have been behind Joffrey's death: poisoning, disease, some little bug from Asshai, but it was hard to focus on anything past his stammering and the soft jingle of his chains. The sun had begun to set by the time he regained his focus, with his father standing beside him.
"You're not in the Kingsguard anymore," Tywin had said, looking over at him. It wasn't his usual, hard look. Perhaps the lack of light was playing tricks on Jaime's mind, but he thought there might have been understanding in those normally cold eyes. "We're needed back at the keep."
So, they had left Joffrey then, alone with the Silent Sisters, and Ser Boros to keep watch.
The streets of the city had been nearly cleared. A few mourners had been allowed to remain outside the sept, their overplayed cries and shouts making Jaime wince. Not so long ago, they would have all cheered at the thought of their king's head on a pike.
"I take it this means Tommen will not be joining me at Casterly Rock," Jaime said as they walked down the steps. He did his best to ignore the disappointment growing in his chest.
"Unfortunately, no. Though the Hand will make decisions in his stead, we cannot have the king wandering off. It would not reflect well on the Crown, nor will the Tyrells approve of it. I've no doubt they'll want a hand in raising him as well."
"Should we be worried about that?"
"Tommen's father was a lecherous drunk who spent money on a whim, and his mother ignored him in favor of Joffrey, and look how that turned out," Tywin replied, mounting his horse. One of the guards offered his to Jaime. "I may not like the Tyrells, but I would be remiss in ignoring them during this time. Margaery handled Joffrey better than most. She will make for a suitable companion for Tommen until they are wed."
"Cersei won't like that."
"And does that bother you?"
Jaime suppressed a smirk. "Not in the least."
"Good. You have other problems to concern yourself with," Tywin said as they rode toward the Red Keep. It practically glowed in the late evening light. "Joffrey's death considerably weakens our position. Tommen is your heir as well as his. Should anything happen to him, the realm will fall into chaos once again."
"You're forgetting Myrcella," Jaime replied. She'd do better at ruling than either one of her brothers, though he did not say that aloud. He wasn't here for an argument.
"Myrcella would put a Martell on the throne, and that alone would cause enough strife," Tywin rebutted, ending that discussion entirely. "When you return west, you must show that the name Lannister still carries weight. Our enemies must not see this incident as something to take advantage of. Brynden Tully has taken control of Riverrun, and the Freys in all their ineptitude have failed to wrest it from him."
"Aunt Genna must not like that."
"You will put an end to that nonsense," Tywin continued, ignoring Jaime's remark. He and Genna had not spoken in some time, and it seemed he was content to keep it that way. "And then you will focus on the Greyjoy incursions along the coast. This folly must be crushed, permanently if need be."
"You think Robert should have razed the Iron Islands?"
"Back to the sea and their drowned god, yes. It's the only sort of authority they would listen to," Tywin admitted, unwavering. "But above everything else, you need an heir, Jaime, now more than ever. I've made certain your wife is aware of the importance. Surely I don't need to remind you."
Jaime scowled, thankful the darkness hid his face. "I've always known my duty."
"Make sure you actually perform it this time."
Jaime was surprised to see Ser Arys and Ser Balon lingering outside his quarters. He had expected them at Tommen's chambers, but it didn't take long to figure out why they were there. Cersei hadn't returned to the keep to comfort her children, but Myra would. Tommen would cling to her like one of his kittens.
"Is there anyone to relieve you?" he asked quietly.
Arys shook his head. "The rest are all tied up in this frightful business, but it's nothing we cannot handle."
"Still, at least one of you should take some time to rest. I doubt anyone will be leaving this room until dawn."
The main room was empty when he entered, prompting a moment of panic that had Jaime reaching for his sword, until Myra appeared in the bedroom doorway. She looked exhausted, paler than usual, still in her lavish red gown, though the jewelry was gone and her hair was undone.
"How is she?" Myra asked quietly as Jaime tossed his sword onto the desk. He unbuttoned the high collar of his jacket, tugging on the fastenings as quickly as he could with one hand.
"No doubt ready to charge you for Joffrey's murder," Jaime replied, crossing the room to his wife's arms. He felt the weight of her grip around him and realized that he'd been ready to collapse at any moment. "I've never seen her so scared before, so..."
"Powerless?"
It was not said in jest or even in malice, he knew that, and yet something about the word sat wrong inside him. Perhaps he was simply so used to Cersei being in control, that seeing her at a loss, even when he wished it upon her, just felt wrong, as if nature itself was being undone. He'd felt much the same when he'd learned that his father had lost to Robb Stark. Tywin Lannister did not lose battles, and Cersei did not lose control.
But it seemed they were all beginning to lose things.
Glancing into their bedroom, Jaime spied Myrcella and Tommen asleep in each other's arms, also in their wedding attire. They'd fallen asleep on the covers, but Myra had covered them in a blanket.
"How long have they been asleep?" he asked.
"Not long," Myra admitted. "Tommen kept asking after his kittens, but I wouldn't let him leave the room, not with everything the way it is, and Syrena told me the royal chambers were blocked off. She did not dare cross the guards."
Jaime sighed, removing himself from Myra's embrace. He stood beside the bed, taking a moment to run his good hand through Myrcella's hair and to pull the blanket over Tommen's shoulder.
"They'll be safe, Jaime," Myra said. "We'll make sure of it."
A smile briefly crossed his face, humorless. That was the problem, wasn't it? They had always thought they were safe. Their secrets were safe, their power was safe, their family name was safe, but the world consistently proved that they were wrong, and yet they kept falling for the same lie over and over again.
Safety was perhaps the biggest lie every one of them had come to believe.
Jaime made his way across the room, sitting on a sofa that faced the bed. Myra was immediately by his side, putting her arms around him. He took her hand in his and held it.
And there they sat for a long time, neither moving nor speaking. He watched the moonlight slowly creep through the balcony opening until the children were bathed in it, though they slept on.
"I'm supposed to mourn him, aren't I?" Jaime asked. He never expected an answer, especially from Myra; he just needed to say it. "But I don't feel anything."
"Jaime..."
He shook his head. Had he not just been talking to his father about what they were going to do? They'd spoken about Joffrey as indifferently as they had once spoken of Robb Stark or Stannis Baratheon. But he wasn't their enemy in some far-flung corner of the map. He was a Lannister, if not in name, at least in blood.
But even Lannisters no longer mattered when they died.
"What does that say about me? I can't even mourn my...my son. He was my son, and it feels no different than anyone else."
He felt for Cersei's sadness, for Myrcella's and Tommen's, but he did not feel anything for Joffrey himself. He'd seen the boy die before his very eyes, and only reacted because it was how he ought to. It was to save his life because he was the king, not because he was his son. Robert's death had struck him more.
Now he was simply feeling sorry for himself, something that happened far too often.
"Joffrey was a monster," Myra said quietly, grabbing his face and turning him toward her. "He was, Jaime, and his death does not change that. You were kept from him because it was dangerous, and you cannot blame yourself for not caring now. No one would."
"Cersei would," he admitted.
"Does what she thinks matter so much to you?"
Any good man would have said no. Why would he risk breaking the heart of the woman he loved? But Jaime knew Myra better than that. It was the truth that she wanted, no matter how it might hurt her, but she would grow to understand it. She'd done so with everything else he'd told her.
"Sometimes," he spoke quietly, turning away from her. "She's still my sister, still the person I spent most of my life with. I can't deny that part of me will always wonder what she thinks, no matter how I feel about her.
"You didn't see the way she looked at me. She knew I didn't care about our son. She knew. There was no crueler thing I could have done."
Myra stood then. He thought that was it; he'd upset her and she was done with him, at least for the time being, but he was wrong. His wife knelt before him, once again taking his face in her hands. How powerless he felt in her grip, a lost child seeking comfort.
"He wasn't your son, Jaime. He was your king and he was your nephew, but he was not your son," she said firmly, moving aside so he could see the bed. "But you still have a chance with them. I can see it. You would die for them, and that is more than some parents would do for their children.
"You're not the monster you are making yourself out to be, Jaime."
Sometimes, he wished he was. The world would be a much simpler place that way.
Tommen stirred then, sitting up abruptly. He looked on the verge of tears.
"Myra?" his quiet voice called out.
She was on her feet in an instant, and by Tommen's side a moment later, brushing down his hair and murmuring words of comfort. And for a second, Jaime thought he saw a brown-haired boy instead, with eyes like his sister's and a curiosity that would eventually damn him.
Jaime stood, bringing himself to sit at the end of the bed.
Myrcella woke briefly, looking up at him and smiling before sleep took her once more.
Tommen had curled up in Myra's arms, drifting to sleep as she continued to run her hand through his hair. The Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, a mere babe who needed a mother more than a crown.
He felt something stir within him, a renewed anger at the thought of the same fate befalling Tommen or Myrcella. Had they been the ones who fell, Jaime knew he would still be scouring King's Landing at that very moment looking for their killers.
Myra was right. He would die for them.
And a part of him wondered if he wouldn't have to in the end.
Sansa
A member of the kingsguard was supposed to guard the body of the king until he was interred in the sept, and had the kingsguard been the valiant knights of legend that Sansa knew from song, she might have been worried walking into the sept. But they were not. It seemed even Tywin Lannister knew as much, having taken the knights he deemed more trustworthy to guard over the living, leaving the less appealing task for those he'd rather not see.
Ser Boros Blount had the honor that night. A large man with an even larger appetite, Sansa hardly recalled him from her time in King's Landing. She'd only noticed Sers Barristan Selmy and Jaime Lannister, as they'd had tales and honors, or dishonors, attached to them. This man would quickly be forgotten, even if he was in the White Book. There would be nothing but his name written in those pages.
Littlefinger had managed to distract the man for a few moments with a septon who was under his employ. She had wanted to ask, but thought better of it. No doubt the man had certain tastes that Littlefinger could easily supply for him. Those were the sorts of things she was simply better off not knowing.
She stood there with Littlefinger before the marbled bier that Joffrey's body rested upon. The Silent Sisters had long ago finished their work, leaving the young king nearly resplendent in his deep red and golden clothes. Jewels caught the moonlight that drifted through the windows, giving them an eerie glow that befit their role in decorating a corpse. His eyes were covered with stones, but the way they were painted almost made her laugh. How comical the once proud king looked.
Arya would have stolen the stones and skipped them across the Blackwater.
She would have helped her.
"I must admit," Littlefinger would say later, when they'd left the sept well behind them. "I did not think it would take so long. The boy had a strong constitution."
Sansa would only smile at that.