Jaime
The day Joffrey was born had been the first time he'd seen Cersei well and truly terrified. Their mother, after all, had died in childbed, as had so many other women over the years, be they noble or common. It was one of the reasons he refused to leave her, even as the septas and nursemaids attempted to drive him from the room. He'd almost drawn his sword on them.
In the end, he'd had nothing to fear. The labor had gone as smoothly as it could have, and soon enough, Cersei held a swaddled babe, bright pink and bawling. But he'd calmed under his mother's touch, and she'd spoken such sweet words to him. Jaime had wondered if perhaps their mother had looked that way.
He'd felt it then, some emotion swelling in his gut, a mix of terror and pride and joy all at once. Nothing had come close to it before, not being with Cersei nor the day he'd been knighted. This was something unfamiliar to him, and yet he felt himself never wanting to let it go.
But he'd had to.
When they were alone, he'd asked to hold Joffrey, and Cersei had all but spat at him. Of course, he could not. Fathers hold their sons, and he was not his father, not truly. Robert was, and it was a ruse that they would have to keep up in its entirety. No secret meetings with the child when no one was watching; no familiarizing himself with the boy. He would be the inattentive uncle who could hardly care about his existence. Tyrion, as much as she hated him, had been given a better chance at a relationship.
But he had obeyed. Though he had been there for the births of Myrcella and Tommen as well, that feeling had not returned. It was buried deep underneath his sense of duty, just as he had done when the Mad King had ruled. Nothing mattered because it could not matter.
Now Jaime had no idea what did and did not matter, or where his emotions should be.
The children had stayed with them the next night and the one after, doing nothing in particular, just happy to be in their presence. Tommen had been given a quiet coronation, and had quickly retreated back to their chambers. With the investigations underway, no one had questioned it, him least of all. He was grateful, in part, to have nothing to do with them. Avoiding Cersei now was best for all parties involved.
Jaime and Myra had found themselves in bed with the children every night, usually because they had trouble sleeping, both the children and themselves. Sometime while they slept that particular night, Myrcella had found her way to him. She was still asleep now, curled up against him, the early morning light making her blonde curls glow. Beside her was Tommen, his arms outstretched above his head, a kitten asleep on his chest, snoring the morning away.
Myra was still asleep as well, her arm carefully draped over Tommen. How she'd been looking forward to the young boy coming with them, to regain perhaps some semblance of family, but as with everything in her life, the world had other plans.
Tommen would ask her to stay – how could he not? – and it would tear her apart inside.
Perhaps he could talk to the boy before he had the chance to, make him understand that staying in King's Landing was the worst thing that could happen to her.
Slowly, Jaime removed himself from the bed, making certain not to wake Myrcella, and stepped out of the room.
It was as empty, even bereft of servants, yet somehow, he found himself surprised by that. He expected the vultures to have already made their way in through the woodwork, but he did not doubt they were somewhere outside the door, lingering, waiting around corners with their false smiles and bloated compliments. They would launch themselves upon Tommen with no remorse, each determined to get their way from the little king, and he, being the kind boy that he was, would do his best to help each and every one of them.
It was one of those rare moments that he was truly grateful for his father. Tywin would keep them all at bay, and his steady hand would keep the realm together, for a time at least, until Tommen was able to do so himself.
Although part of him wondered if the boy would ever be able to handle such a burden.
Jaime sighed, pouring himself a goblet of wine at his desk.
"And here I thought you were the only Lannister who did not partake in drink this early."
Myra shut the door and crossed the room, tying the sash of her robe as she went. She yawned, rubbing the back of her neck. Neither of them had been sleeping well, especially with extra bodies in the bed.
"Suppose I ought to start fitting in," he replied with a mirthless chuckle, handing her the goblet. "You may as well join me."
His wife examined the goblet before giving in, taking a long drink before handing it back to him. "What happens now?"
"We keep our heads down," Jaime replied, taking a drink himself. He'd been avoiding thinking about it. "Keep the attention off of us until after the funeral and then perhaps we'll be able to sneak out of the city. My father isn't about to let this little drama affect his plans for having me at Casterly Rock. He'd have probably shipped us out there already if our absence wasn't suspect."
Myra hummed, leaning against the desk, her fingers trailing across the length of the sword lying there.
"I suppose you're not so keen on going there either," he added.
She opened her mouth briefly, but shut it once more, thinking better on it. The answer was obvious to him. Why would she have any interest in Casterly Rock? It was neither her home nor a place she could truly say was safe. A wolf amongst lions, no different than King's Landing. He could not blame her for that, and yet, some part of him was disappointed.
"I wouldn't say that," she admitted eventually. "From what you've told me, there's a lot to look forward to."
"Too much, some might say."
She smiled briefly. "It's funny. When I first left Winterfell, I thought to myself that I would not know what to do with a keep as large as Casterly Rock."
"And yet here you are."
"Here I am."
Jaime stood in front of her, gently running his thumb down her cheek. "Do you regret it yet?"
In reply, she took his right arm, slowly undoing the clasps on the golden hand. He often slept with it on, just to give him a sense of normalcy. She placed the hand on the desk, running her fingers delicately over the skin before kissing the stump. Myra did so nearly every day, a constant reminder that she would accept him no matter his shape, and it never failed to make him sigh.
"I'll never regret anything I do with you."
Spurred on by those words, Jaime quickly wrapped his left arm around her, lifting Myra off the ground until she was seated on the desk.
"Jaime, what are you doing?" she hissed, looking toward the bedroom frantically. "The children are-"
"Asleep. Isn't that why you shut the door?" he asked, chuckling as his wife's cheeks rapidly reddened. "You've grown quite depraved, Stark."
"Wherever could I have gotten that from, I wonder," Myra replied, grabbing Jaime's shirt and pulling him forward. How confident she had grown, his wolf wife, with her words and her tongue and her fingers. She did things to him that he'd never experienced before, making him feel like a young boy all over again, inexperienced in all things but willing to learn more.
They hadn't gotten very far, his hand barely up her thigh when a soft rapping could be heard on the door.
"Ser Jaime."
He briefly thought about ignoring it. No doubt it was more bad news, and he was no longer in the mood for any of that, but Myra had already pulled away, readjusting her robe.
Sighing, Jaime pushed off the desk and made for the door. A young page was standing on the other side, eying the kingsguard to his right. It was Ser Loras this time. At least they were keeping with the trustworthy knights guarding Tommen.
"What?" Jaime barked, causing the poor page to stumble backwards.
"L-Lord Tywin has sent for you, my lord...ser," the page replied, bumbling in a manner that reminded him of Podrick.
Jaime quickly slammed the door in his face.
"That was rude."
"I am rude."
Myra laughed, finally lifting herself off the desk. She followed Jaime back into the bedroom where the children were still fast asleep, helping him change. As she had done with every outfit he had worn since they reunited, Myra fastened and tied whatever needed to be done, her two hands deftly working those simple tasks he would have struggled over. Every now and again, she would wait and allow him to work it out for himself before his frustration took over and he gave in.
"What do you think he wants?" she asked quietly.
"Nothing good. It's never anything good."
Varys was exiting his father's chambers when he arrived, which already put Jaime on edge. Although Tywin utilized his particular skillset and understood its importance, he had little interest in the man himself, and to find him conferring with the eunuch in private meant something of vast importance.
"Ser Jaime," Varys said with that lilting tone of his. It always made him sound interested in everything, from the lowest kitchen boy to the king himself. "How does young Tommen fare?"
Jaime sighed, choosing to oblige the man, if only to delay talking with his father a little longer.
"He's the king now, so I imagine not well."
"I hear he has been in your chambers all this time. The princess as well."
"They are."
"How gracious of you, Ser Jaime. I had no idea you'd taken such interest in your niece and nephew," Varys replied, his tone sickly sweet. Though he felt his ghost fingers less and less, every now and again, something would trigger the sensation. The dangerous look on the eunuch's face was one such moment. "As I once told Lord Stark, family is paramount. With the queen preoccupied with her investigations, it is good to see someone else take them in."
"And how long has the queen been investigating the murder?"
Varys shrugged. "I found myself dragged out of bed early this morning to be harshly questioned by Ser Meryn Trant, so I'd imagine she hasn't slept at all."
Jaime wasn't surprised that she hadn't listened to their father, and, for once, he could not quite blame her. If only she was about to find the actual perpetrator rather than throw a conviction upon some poor, blameless fool.
His father was not in his solar, but rather he was seated at the council table when Jaime entered. Scattered across its surface were numerous parchments, each with hastily scrawled letters that he could barely make out.
"What are these?" he asked, carefully picking one up. It was a kitchen maid swearing up and down that she'd seen a whore named Ros in the castle on numerous occasions.
"Written statements from nearly everyone in the keep, detailing events leading up to the wedding, and certain parties that may be complicit in it," Tywin replied, placing a small pile on the table. "We have suspects."
"You mean Cersei has suspects," Jaime said, tossing his paper. "Were you actually planning on investigating or just allowing my sister to throw accusations left and right until one fit your narrative?"
"Mind your tongue," Tywin warned, his voice low.
"You're not denying it."
He glared at him for a half a moment, a method that cowed smaller men, but never his children. It was one of the few hopeless things Tywin Lannister still clung to: the idea that his children were afraid of him. They weren't, of course. Their whole existence was in spite of him, and yet, he somehow was still getting his way.
Perhaps fate feared Lord Tywin as well.
His father stood then, picking up one parchment in particular and handing it to him. It, too, detailed an account of Ros in the castle, specifically in Tyrion's company, multiple times. This one was signed by Varys.
Jaime always wondered why Robert hadn't had his head like all the others. It seemed to him the realm may have been better off if he had.
"Tyrion with a whore? Even you shouldn't be shocked by that anymore."
Tywin narrowed his eyes. "This whore was from Winterfell. Seems she followed him here to King's Landing, an effort to keep her pockets full, no doubt. And now she's dead."
He shrugged. "Are we to mourn this dead whore? Do you want me to break the news to Tyrion? I'm sure he'll be moved by your gen-"
"That is enough!" Tywin ordered, quieting him. "The whore was your brother's personal plaything and she had been found poisoned by the same vile substance that killed Joffrey."
"What are you say-"
"We have more than enough evidence and we have a motive. Tyrion will be arrested later this afternoon."
Jaime found he could no longer stand, and fell into a chair beside him, the wood scraping harshly on against the stone floor. His brother, a murderer? No, that couldn't be. Tyrion loved his niece and nephews, even Joffrey in his own way. He loved his family. To hurt Cersei, or him, in this manner was something Tyrion was entirely incapable of.
"You can't really believe he did this," Jaime whispered, feeling as though his chest was being crushed. "He is your son."
"He is more than capable of murder, and has proven time and time again that he has no love for the king," Tywin said, returning to his seat across the table. "They call the poison The Long Farewell, as it takes some time to fully kill the victim. It seems the whore was given a dose unknowingly, and was sent as a gift to Joffrey in preparation for the wedding. She succumbed to it far sooner than he did.
"We should consider ourselves fortunate that it only took Joffrey. Had he lived long enough to seal the marriage, Margaery might be lying next to him in the sept, and we would be looking at another war."
Tywin droned on, but Jaime could hardly hear him over his heartbeat. It pulsed across his body, harder and faster, as a bitter rage began to consume him. Old regrets flared to life, terrible memories he would have preferred locked away for the rest of time coming to the forefront of his mind, the horrible decisions of a brother who'd only meant to love his younger sibling.
No, he could not allow this. He would not.
Jaime stood then, his strength returned, slamming his golden hand on the table. Tywin looked up at him, a parent thoroughly annoyed by his young child.
"So, this is how Tywin Lannister gets his wish then, to be rid of his monster of a son once and for all by falsely accusing him of regicide. Did you even bother to think harder on the evidence or were you blinded by excitement?"
"You've always allowed yourself to be weak when it came to your brother. It's always blinded you to his wretched ways."
"Wretched ways," Jaime echoed, nearly laughing. Yes, of the three of them, it was truly Tyrion who was the wretched one. "So, he fucked a whore who is conveniently dead and found almost immediately. Were it anyone else, you would consider that suspicious, but no, not Tyrion. He must be guilty. Anything to get rid of the blot on the family name, even if that means still dragging that name through the dirt in order to convict him."
"Would you rather Joffrey's killer walk free?"
"Tyrion didn't kill Joffrey!" Jaime shouted, slamming his hand onto the desk again. It left a deep indent in the wood. "Just because you think he killed Mother does not mean he is guilty of every crime you deem fitting."
Tywin stood so quickly, Jaime braced himself for an attack. He'd never mentioned his mother in front of him, not since she'd died, knowing it was the one line to never cross, but Tywin remained still, though his eyes burned.
"There will be a trial," he spoke through clenched teeth. "If you are so convinced he is innocent, then the court will side with him."
Jaime snorted. He knew his brother never stood a chance there either. Cersei would produce a thousand witnesses to damn him, and offer to sleep with a thousand more just in case. Their hatred of Tyrion was the sole bond that Cersei and Tywin shared.
"The same court that took Ned Stark's head? I know how fair these trials are," Jaime hissed. "Tyrion won't get one. He'll demand trial by combat, and I will be his champion. You will lose both your sons with one stroke. Your legacy will be for nothing."
His father did not smile, but Jaime thought there was a change in Tywin's disposition. He looked more dangerous than ever, a hunter having cornered his prey.
"Tell me, Jaime, if you are dead, then what becomes of your wife?"
Jaime took a deep breath, realizing the mistake he'd made.
"You wouldn't dare..." he started, knowing the futility of it.
"No? There is more than enough evidence against her too, not that I require any to execute the Queen in the North."
Jaime leaned against the table, feeling his breath coming up short. Was he truly so worthless now?
Tywin stood beside him, ready for the kill. "Defend one of them, and I will make certain the other falls. I leave the choice to you: your brother or your wife."
Arya
She'd always known the trek to the Eyrie was a dangerous one, full of steep climbs and thin goat paths that fell into nothingness on either side, yet she had always thought the prospect of making that journey was an exciting one, full of daring adventure like the knights from the old tales.
In reality, Arya was becoming well acquainted with the boundaries of her own daring.
They'd spent the night at the Gates of the Moon, the winter castle for House Arryn. Since the Eyrie was so high up, in the winter, the roads would freeze and the sheer winds from the mountains would make it too difficult to bring in supplies. Even in the warm months, the journey was treacherous, and they were deep into fall.
Their group, consisted of her, Gendry, the Hound, Ser Donnel, and a guide by the name of Mya Stone. She was a tall girl, strong, with dark hair and bright blue eyes, and did not take anything from anyone. Every insult the Hound had thrown at her, she'd tossed back twofold without hesitation or any particular interest in his response. It told Arya she was used to untoward attention from others, and she'd thrown up defenses that rivaled the Eyrie's.
"That fat clod ain't riding one of my mules," she'd said when they approached the first waycastle, Stone. From there, horses would be too cumbersome and finicky for the journey, and they'd have to switch out. "He'll crush the poor thing before we make it to Snow."
"Fat clod?" The Hound had echoed, stepping up to her. Though she was tall, Mya was still dwarfed in Sandor's presence, not that it had bothered her. She almost seemed to grow when he challenged her. "Rethink your words, bastard."
"Or what, hm?" she'd countered, crossing her arms. "Go ahead. Crush me into the dirt, then you go and find your way to Sky. Hope your thick skull can take the Giant's Lance when he whisks you clean away."
The Hound had snorted and found himself in full retreat, while Gendry had found the courage to laugh through his dangerous glare. Mya had taken a shine to that, and hadn't stopped speaking to him since, although it wasn't so much speaking as it was shouting over the wind. Arya could hear every syllable, and found herself liking the girl less and less as a result.
They'd passed through Snow, a waycastle that was little more than a tower dominating the road. A boy no older than Gendry was in charge, but he leered at them with an old man's eyes. There they exchanged their mules and carried on.
The trees had fallen away, leaving them fully at the mercy of the mountain wind. Gendry had turned white as a sheet and even the Hound managed to look uncomfortable as he plodded along, but Arya barely stirred in her cloak. Her mule, Patch, Mya called him, was a steady old fellow and knew his way without the guide's steadying touch, and the howling of the wind reminded Arya of Nymeria. Wolves thrived in the mountains, and she was a wolf through and through.
Unlike the Northern Mountains, whose peaks stretched down into gently rolling hills that covered the countryside, the Mountains of the Moon were striking things, seeming to shoot out of the ground, the claws of some mythical beast buried beneath the earth.
She could hear Old Nan weaving a tale about giants and dragons in the back of her mind. Her voice was cracked and eerie, out to make children scared of her words in the dark, but Arya never had been. They'd only excited her. Sansa got scared, Bran and Rickon too, but never her.
Did Robb ever get scared? she wondered. Did Myra or Jon?
Ser Donnel's mule nearly lost its footing, shaking Arya from her thoughts.
Sky wasn't even a building, really, just a large wall that shielded travelers from the wind. There was a cave in the mountain that had a few rooms – if they could be called that – but the waycastle wasn't meant to be occupied for long periods. It was just the final breath before the climb.
Arya craned her head upward, taking in the mass of the mountain above her. She'd spied the Eyrie during their journey, but the wind had kept her head down more often than not. Now she could barely see it, maybe a bit of the ramparts and the occasional flick of a flag blown in the wind, but it was mostly the solid rock of the mountain.
She could pick out little handholds dotting the surface of the mountain. One of the ways up was climbing, while the other was a little pulley system that lifted a large basket up and down from the keep. It was being drawn up as she watched, carrying foodstuffs for the week ahead. The way it jostled in the wind even made her stomach drop.
Six hundred feet between Sky and the keep, that was what Mya had said.
"That basket won't carry you," Arya had told the Hound as they all got ready for the final leg of their journey. "You'd probably snap the rope and fall to your death."
The Hound snorted. "Rather climb anyway."
"Me too."
His snort this time almost sounded like a laugh. "The wind would pick your scrawny ass up and carry you across the mountains."
"Would not," she argued. "I can hang on."
"Much as I'd like to see that, you're not worth anything dead," he'd said, picking her up by the jacket when the basket returned and tossing her inside. "Don't move."
"You might want to listen to him this time," Gendry said as he entered on the other side with her. "We're this close to finally being safe. Let's not risk it."
Arya didn't say anything to him, choosing to watch Mya as she winked goodbye to Gendry. Her friend paled suddenly and looked away, mumbling his barely intelligible goodbyes to the guide.
Boys were stupid.
The basket lurched upward not long after. Surprised by the sudden movement, Arya found herself gripping a sack of potatoes tightly. They'd had to put a few supplies on her side to balance the basket. She felt less like Lady Lysa's niece and more like a rat that happened to sneak inside.
No, a cat. That was what Syrio wanted her to be.
How long ago had Syrio died?
"You're being awfully quiet," Gendry said after a while, sounding distressed. Arya looked up at her friend, but he was staring at his feet, his hands gripping the sides of the basket with white knuckles. "Please say something."
Arya bit her lip, debating. She didn't really feel like talking to him, but he clearly needed a distraction from the situation. Every time the wind jostled the basket, he moaned pathetically, like a dying cow. It wasn't really fair of her, she guessed.
"Do you like her?"
"Like who?"
"Mya Stone."
"What?" Gendry asked abruptly, looking up. His face paled even further at the sight of the shifting horizon, and his head quickly fell between his knees again. "No! Why-why would you think that?"
"You talk to her a lot."
"I talk to you a lot."
"That's different."
"How is that different?"
"I'm the only one you have to talk to."
"Oh, so if I decided to talk with Ser Donnel instead, you'd think I want to polish his sword, is that it?" Gendry countered, pausing as the basket shook again. "Seven hells, I'll never understand girls."
Arya quieted after that, a little ashamed of herself. They had been talking for months now, and didn't exactly get the chance to hear someone else's voice or news. But the way Mya had laughed at his words and smiled at him was gnawing away at her, and she didn't like it.
"Do you think she's pretty?"
Sansa used to call her horse-face. She remembered that. Of all the things Sansa did, she remembered that one the most.
"I...I guess? I don't know!"
"How do you not know? Seems like an easy answer to me."
"It's complicated, okay?"
"How is it complicated?"
Her friend slowly looked up at her, frustration managing to bring color back to his skin. "Look, I think she's my sister, okay?"
"Your sister!?"
Gendry's hands left the basket as he made quick shushing sounds at her, daring to glance below the basket before thinking better of it. "Look, one of the servants back at the Gates of the Moon mentioned something about Robert's bastard, and I know they weren't talking about me. I mean, look at her, same hair, same eyes. It's got to mean something."
She'd heard about King Robert having a lot of bastards, but she didn't think they'd actually run into another one of them. But Gendry did have a point, they looked a lot alike. If she hadn't been so focused on how Mya was interacting with him, she might have noticed it herself.
Gendry was smiling suddenly, and she found it suspicious.
"What is it?"
"Never had a family before," he said softly. Arya felt her face fall, and Gendry noticed. "No, not like...not like that, I mean, like you. You have brothers and sisters. I never got that."
"Had," Arya said softly, burrowing into the supplies. "I had brothers and sisters."
An eternity later, Arya and Gendry were finally pulled through an opening and into the keep. Gendry had all but kissed the ground when he got inside, earning him a friendly pat from one of the guards. They'd all had their first time in the basket. Most preferred climbing back down.
The Eyrie was cold, both in temperature and appearance. It didn't have the luxury of natural hot springs to heat its walls, leaving it cold and exposed to the air, which meant more often than not there was a low whistle to be heard within the walls as the wind made its way through the cracks.
But the keep also didn't feel lived in. There was a coldness to everything. Pieces were placed but never used or even touched. She couldn't hear servants conversing or laughter others within. People lived in the Eyrie, but it felt more like a hall for ghosts.
She didn't like it.
They were escorted to the High Hall, where a throne carved of weirwood dominated the room, and seated upon it was her aunt, Lysa Arryn.
She was the younger Tully sister, or so she had been told, but she looked older than Arya's last memory of her mother. There were deep lines in her face that aged her and she wore a scowl that pulled the skin lower. She was paper thin, yet somehow did not tremble in the cold of the keep.
Seated in her lap was a skinny little boy. Her cousin, Robert, she guessed. She knew nothing about him other than that he existed and he was sickly.
Lysa looked down on her, judging, and it only served to make Arya angry. She kept her chin up, staring the woman down.
"You don't look like my sister," Lysa said quietly, but her voice carried.
"I look Northern," Arya replied.
"And you certainly act it. Barbarians, the lot of them. How my sister could have ever been interested in Brandon Stark of all people..."
"My father is Eddard Stark!"
"Of course he is," Lysa replied, her lip twitching. She pressed a kiss to her son's head. "Sweetrobin, would you sit here a moment? Mummy needs to speak with these miscreants."
Her cousin nodded, half paying attention as he played with a little carved bird. Lysa easily lifted the boy off her lap and back onto the throne, swaddling him in a blanket before descending the steps to their level.
"And who are you, boy?" she asked, stopping before them. Guards flanked her on either side.
"Gendry Waters, m'lady," her friend said quickly, bowing his head.
Lysa reached out and grabbed his chin, pinching it tightly as she lifted his head to get a good look at his face.
"What do you think, Maester Coleman?" Lysa asked as a man appeared over her shoulder, the familiar clink of the maester's chains giving away his presence. "You spent as much time around Robert as I did."
The thin man examined Gendry closely before clearing his throat. "The king spread his seed almost everywhere he went. The boy may well be who he claims."
Lysa hummed, releasing Gendry. Arya glared at her, but said nothing.
"You have a letter for me from my uncle," her aunt said, turning to her. "I'd like to see it."
Arya was tempted not to give it to her either, but she had no way out of the situation now. They wouldn't let them back out the way they came, and the only other way was the infamous Moon Door that sat in the middle of the room. She'd heard about it, but was in no rush to discover anything more.
Digging into her coat, Arya produced the parchment, which Lysa quickly snatched up and opened. She watched her eyes quickly look over the writing, her thin lips quietly murmuring the words.
"Uncle, you fool," she whispered, glancing back at them. "Very well. You are offered the protection of the Eyrie; you are my niece after all, but do not expect to be allowed whatever you please. There are rules here and they must be followed. I don't want your family's war making its way to my home."
"They're your family too," Arya said, but Lysa ignored her.
"You, boy, do you have any skills? Can you read? Write?"
Gendry ducked his head, embarrassed. "No, m'lady. But I can smith. I apprenticed under Tobho Mott, the best smith in King's Landing."
"Wait, you're going to make him work?" Arya asked, angry. "After everything in that letter?"
"My uncle only asked that I keep him safe. He never said to let him become lazy and useless."
"Which is fine, m'lady!" Gendry intervened, stepping in front of Arya. "I'd rather work."
Lysa smiled thinly. "At least someone has manners."
Shouting caught their attention. The halls doors burst open, revealing the Hound in chains being dragged inside by six guards, and even they appeared to struggle with him. His legs and arms were bound, his body dragged by the chains alone, and there was a large cut on his forehead, bleeding into his shoulder and onto the marbled floor.
Ser Donnel stepped inside, holding his helm under his arm. "Ser Sandor Clegane, my lady."
Arya looked between her aunt and the Hound, and opened her mouth, but Gendry caught her arm and shook his head. There was nothing they could do now. Best not push their luck.
Lyra looked down at him, curious, almost excited, at this new development. "Finally, some vengeance for the Riverlands. Tell me, Clegane, did you enjoy killing my father's people?"
"That was my brother, you dumb cunt!" Sandor spit. Ser Donnel kicked him in the jaw.
Lysa straightened. "Put him in the sky cells. We'll see if that changes his tune."
Her cousin, Robert, sat up in the throne. "Is he going to fly?"
"He just might, my love."
Myra
Myra had never considered herself much of a loner. While she had appreciated the quiet that came from studying those dusty tomes in the library or the first hours of the day when the rest of her siblings were still deep in sleep, she rarely missed them. Good company came in many forms, and she found them all equally inviting. Contentment had never been a difficult thing to find in her childhood.
But the longer that she was in King's Landing, the more she simply wished to be alone, to be rid of everyone around her. Their words and their looks, they gnawed at her, ebbing away what little patience she still possessed until she was a breath away from giving them a true taste of Northern hospitality.
Sometimes, she even wished to be away from Jaime.
It was never for long, and never anything of his own making, but rather hers. She would rather be alone to deal with her thoughts and discomforts than make him witness them. He'd seen enough of her tortured side. He blamed himself enough as it was.
She told herself that putting this dreadful city behind them would help, but sometimes she feared it would not be enough.
Myra looked down to her hands, where her fingers fiddled with a rose. Tommen had given it to her before he and Myrcella were escorted away by septas to break their fast, although she could not say where the boy had come across it. The petals were creased and torn, leaving small red streaks across her hands, but there was a beauty to be found in it still.
This was the place Renly had found her when he offered the very same flower. She remembered it so clearly, far more than many other memories. The taste of salt on the breeze, the scent of flowers in full bloom, though many now had dwindled as fall took a firm grasp on the countryside. She remembered being too warm, overwhelmed, and yet ready for more.
I'm afraid it is no blue winter rose...
It was funny, she realized. She'd never actually seen one before.
"I find the gardens much less appealing these days," a soft voice spoke behind her. Moments later, Lord Varys stood by her side, smelling more of flowers than the actual plants around them. "They don't cover the stench like they used to."
Her father had always spoken of the Master of Whisperers in a curious tone. He never was sure what to make of the man, only that he did not trust him most of all. On her part, Myra had never met him before, although she could guess why with ease.
"It seems nothing in this city is quite what it used to be," Myra replied, glancing at Varys. "Even the spiders have moved on."
Varys inclined his head, leaving the conversation at a standstill. Below them, waves crashed upon the rocks, nowhere near the devastating power of Dragonstone's swells, but enough to distract her. She watched the water churn below, sea foam clinging desperately to whatever solid surface it could find.
She had loved the sea once, had she not?
"So, what can the Lady of Casterly Rock do for you, Lord Varys?" Myra asked, stepping away from the view. "That is why you have taken a sudden interest in me, is it not?"
"I do not mean to offend, my lady," he replied, turning to her, hands neatly folded into his sleeves. No one ever seemed to suspect what he had in them. "Someone such as myself can be most occupied, and I am afraid I have no time for more personal relationships."
"I do not find it offensive. I appreciate the honesty."
Even his laughter was light. "You are perhaps the first to tell me so."
It fell quiet again. A hard breeze blew in from the North, and Myra felt chill crawl across her arms. The sensation felt so foreign to her.
"I would simply like to have your ear," Varys spoke eventually, his voice no louder than the wind that swirled about them. "A chance to be heard before either you or Ser Jaime make decisions moving forward."
"You advise the king."
"Kings, Hands, a Master of Coin or two should I get the chance."
"I am none of those things."
"No, but perhaps you are more," he said, pausing briefly. A gull flew overhead, its cries unheeded. "Do I strike you as a powerful man?"
Myra wrapped her arms about herself. She'd grown colder. "Yes and no. You have knowledge, clearly, but you don't have armies or lands. I'm not entirely certain you actually are a lord."
Varys smiled, briefly. "I'm afraid not. It is a courtesy that I have been extended, nothing more."
"Surely you've been offered those things as a reward for your services."
"Several times. I've never cared for them."
"Then what do you care for, Lord Varys?"
"People," he replied. His voice was deeper this time, the airy nature of it all but gone. "Would you walk with me?"
Myra nodded, eager to be away from the breeze. They stepped back onto the main garden path, where browning leaves littered the walkway, scraping lightly against the stones as the wind threw them about. More fell from the trees above them, harmlessly bouncing off her person. Her last fall had been so long ago, she could scarcely remember it, but she recalled diving into piles of leaves with her brothers in the godswood, and how the heart tree would never lose them no matter how the weather changed.
Few people were out in the gardens, which may have been why she fled to them. Most were mourning for Joffrey, taken to hiding in their rooms either to avoid having to extend courtesies or accusation, most likely both. Though she was dressed for mourning, a part of her had been sorely tempted to find her brightest gown, but Jaime's foolhardiness hadn't entirely rubbed off on her yet, try as he might.
"These lands have exchanged rulers for centuries, and with every war for the throne, it is the commonfolk who suffer most of all. I have never cared for which house rules over the others, so long as what they do is in the best interest of the people they serve."
"Lady Margaery cares a great deal."
"But I do not care for her," Varys said bluntly as they continued along. A Lannister patrol passed them, their captain acknowledging her. Not so long ago, it was Stark soldiers. Would they still view her the same way? She doubted it. "Lady Margaery believes kindness will win her the throne, and while she is right, how long will that matter? When it is no longer kindness but violence that is needed to secure her crown, she will just as easily resort to it.
"But you, Lady Myra, are of a different sort."
She almost wished she wasn't. Perhaps people would bother her less if that was the case.
"Kindness has won you the hearts of the people and Ser Jaime, however unintentional it was. Even my little birds have spoken of you in sweet words."
"I suppose I've interacted with several of them before."
"Of course," Varys replied, coming to a halt and turning to her. "My point is that when it comes to the safety and security of the people, I believe you are willing to put them first above all the others, and you are now in a position to do something about it, and I will help you keep the peace in whatever way I can."
She smiled softly. "Until someone better comes along, I suppose?"
"That is often the way of things."
So it was.
"Varys, don't go putting your claws into my good-sister. I like her far too much."
Myra turned to see Tyrion walking toward them along with Myrcella. The young girl was also dressed darkly and in a heavier gown. Perhaps the day was truly cold after all.
"You of all people should know that is not the game I play," Varys replied.
"No, the game you play is far too confusing and you consistently change the rules," Tyrion said as he finally came to a stop in front of them. Even his doublet was black. "I do hope today finds you well, Myra."
"No worse than I have been here," Myra replied with a small smile. "But what about you, Myrcella? We barely got the chance to speak before you were whisked away."
"I'll be alright. Every day is a little easier."
She nodded. "And where is Tommen?"
"With Mother. I didn't want to see her, but I wasn't going to stop him. He still likes her well enough."
Beside Myrcella, Tyrion sighed. It was an argument she'd seen him have with the girl before, and a strange one at that. Tyrion love his siblings, she had no doubt, but there was such an animosity between him and Cersei, that she thought he would take no issue with Myrcella's decision to keep away from her mother. It truly spoke of a man who wanted family.
"Has there been word on the investigation?"
"I'm afraid even my little birds have been quite silent on the manner," Varys admitted, folding his hands. "Depending on the method used, our killer may not even be in the city anymore."
"Well, aren't they the lucky one then," Tyrion said, rocking on his feet. "I've enjoyed my time here, but I'd rather be anywhere else now."
Their conversation moved on to more pleasant things, and Myra found herself feeling a little better about everything. There was something about Tyrion's particular brand of humor that she found comforting. Jaime's was all bluntness, but there was a subtlety to Tyrion's speech that put her at ease.
It was as their words danced around subjects such as the fall and what winter in Dorne might be like that Myra began to notice figures approaching them. At first, she thought nothing of it. After all, the gardens were traveled by many, but they drew closer far faster than she expected, which was why she turned to face them.
Ser Addam was at the head, dressed in his City's Watch armor, his cloak billowing behind him as he marched purposefully toward them. Four men walked behind him, and when she glanced around, Myra found other pathways blocked by pairs of gold cloaks.
She felt that cold consuming her body again, the inevitability pressing up against her. Would Cersei truly use her son's death as a means to get rid of her?
"Tyrion Lannister," Ser Addam called, coming to a halt before them. Myra watched all the warmth drain from his face as he turned to him. "In the name of the king, I am arresting you under the charge of regicide and treason."
"What?!" Myrcella cried, stepping forward as a guard with shackles came closer. Addam put a hand out to stop him. "There must be some mistake! Uncle Tyrion would never do such a thing!"
Ser Addam sighed, clearly at odds. Myra remembered how familiar he was with Jaime. No doubt he wanted no part of this, but he was a good soldier first.
"That is not for me to say."
"Well, it is for me!" Myrcella shouted, hitting the closest gold cloak. Myra ran up to her then, grasping her arm and pulling her back. "I am the princess! My father was Robert Baratheon and I will not have you treating my uncle like this! I won't! I command it!"
"The princess's words mean nothing next to the king's," one of the gold cloaks mumbled. Ser Addam gave him a harsh look.
"My brother is a child!" Myrcella shouted. "Someone put him up to this!"
"Myrcella, enough. Enough! There is nothing you can do about it now!" Tyrion yelled, quieting the girl. He turned slowly to Ser Addam. "I imagine Cersei would rather have me dragged to the dungeons, but I'd prefer to walk there of my own accord, if that isn't too much. It's not as if I'm about to sprint away."
Ser Addam considered the proposal briefly before nodding once. "Very well, Lord Tyrion."
They still surrounded him on all sides when they left, slowly making their way back into the Red Keep. Tyrion glanced back once, a terror reflected in his eyes she'd never seen before.
"The board has shifted again," Varys said quietly as Myra gathered Myrcella into her arms.
Myra returned to their chambers late, having seen Myrcella off with Ser Arys. They'd stayed in the garden for hours as the girl cried. She hadn't shed such tears for Joffrey, but Myra had to wonder if they weren't for him all the same. A lot had happened to her recently, and her brave façade could only hold up for so long.
She knew that all too well.
The room was dark, lit only by the dying light of the fireplace, and Jaime was nowhere to be seen. Myra did not doubt he was in his father's solar, defending his brother to the best of his ability. She probably would not see him for the rest of the night, which made her proud and lonely all at once.
She walked toward the fireplace, ready to stoke the sad thing back to life. Servants were fine and all, but there were some things she could handle herself, and no amount of pampering was going to shake that from her.
Certainly the staff at Casterly Rock were going to have a rough time with her.
When the fire was roaring in the hearth once more, Myra stepped back to admire the work. It was only then that she could truly see all the details in the room, such as the empty goblet on the floor with a trail of red wine in its wake leading to a crumpled figure in the corner of the room.
Myra slapped her hands against her mouth, stepping back quickly, but her eyes adjusted and she soon recognized the man on the floor.
"Jaime!" she shouted, running to him. He startled as she shouted, swinging his fists at enemies she could not see. Myra grabbed his wrists as gently as she could, his golden hand slamming into hers painfully, and attempted to hold them still. "Jaime, it's me. It's Myra. Jaime, listen to my voice."
He slowed then, recognition crossing his face. She could smell the wine on his breath. He'd been passed out drunk.
"I'll fetch the maester," she said, attempting to back away, but Jaime held on, his grip strong even in this state. "Jaime, please."
"No...no, I don't want that cunt near me," he mumbled. "I don't want any of them near us again."
"You're not making sense, Jaime," she said quietly, but he offered her no more. He reminded her a bit of Jon when he was drunk, and what a sad thing he was. "C'mon, let's get you to bed then."
Myra stepped forward, putting her arms under his and lifting. After much coaxing, she got her drunk husband to work with her, and through both their efforts – with help from the wall – Jaime managed to stand again, though he teetered back and forth something fierce.
When she wrapped her arm around him, he almost fell again.
"Just leave me here," he mumbled.
"I carried you once. I can carry you again."
"You had a bloody wolf with you."
"Just shut up and walk, Jaime."
Slowly, they made their way across their chambers and into the bedroom. Several decorative pieces fell victim to their lack of balance, and one of the small tables was completely overturned, but Myra managed to get Jaime into their bedroom and onto the bed in one piece.
He sat there quietly as she began to undo his jacket, almost in a trance. She half-expected him to pass out again as she worked, but he just stared forward, his green eyes so lost.
"I had to choose," he whispered as she tugged at the last of his buttons.
"What?"
His eyes were so clear when he looked up at her, and the saddest she had ever seen them. She had seen him cry before, but this was different. This was blame and guilt and loss.
"I made a promise to protect you, so I can't protect him."
His words crashed upon her like the waves in the garden, loud and violent, shaking her to her core. Was this not a story she had seen before, played out before her very eyes? Had she not reunited with her family only to tear them apart for Jaime? Was he really to go through this with his own?
Together and complete, but what remained of their lives fell to pieces...
That was the price they paid.
Myrcella
Myrcella could still remember her mother's laughter. It was soft and fleeting, gone as soon as it came, but she had heard it often when she was younger. They would go for tea in the gardens, just the two of them, and spend the day warming themselves in the sun. She would do her best impression of Robert, and her mother had called her a fine actress.
Her father had been there once, and she could remember demanding that he sit with them. She was the princess and as a member of the kingsguard, it was his duty to obey her. And so he had, taking tea with them in the early afternoon. His helmet sat on the table, allowing his blonde hair to blow in the salty breeze, while her mother chided him over leaving it there.
She had never been that content before, Myrcella had realized. She had truly always known, even when she did not.
But those days were long behind her. The years wore on and her mother's smiles became frowns, and her frowns scowls. She drank more, spoke less, and never laughed unless it was mockingly so. King's Landing had slowly yet surely worn her mother down, and Myrcella had watched it every step of the way. In truth, part of her pitied what had become of her mother. She knew things had not been easy, but when she began to take out her suffering on others, Myrcella found that pity dissolving, twisting into anger as she watched her mother make the world worse for everyone rather than better.
She had hoped after Robert died, things would improve. Instead, it all seemed to be falling apart.
Myrcella marched through the Red Keep, Ser Arys right on her heels, confidently turning at every passage she needed to, knowing the place like the back of her hand. She'd ran through these halls as a child, especially when Robert had taken them out, on the days he felt like being a father. He'd charge after them, a drunken bull, while they'd shrieked, dipping between servants and guards, terrorizing the entire keep.
Those days had been few, and disappeared early.
They were in the king's solar, which she supposed was Tommen's now. Joffrey had never used it. He was too busy killing things with his crossbow and ordering servants abused to do anything truly useful for the realm. Trystane had tried to speak with her about the order of succession, how she would be the next in line in Dorne, but King's Landing was not Dorne, and she had no interest in the throne, especially when it would put her in conflict with Tommen. She was no Targaryen; she would die for her brother rather than go to war with him.
Of course, it was her mother who was seated at the desk, while Tommen was playing with his kittens on the floor. He'd given them all different colored ribbons so that others could tell them apart. He'd certainly never forget who was who.
"How could you do it?!" she demanded, stepping right up to the desk. Her mother was dressed in the most elegant black gown she'd ever seen. Myrcella remembered it well. She'd worn it when Robert died too.
"How could I do what, sweetling?" her mother asked, feigning ignorance. It was what she always did. She never admitted to doing anything; she always let others do that for her. "As Queen Regent, I do quite a few things. You'll have to be more speci-"
"Don't play me for a foolish little girl, Mother! You had Uncle Tyrion arrested!"
Her motherly façade disappeared quickly then, her skin paling until there appeared to be no warmth left in her. She eyed Ser Arys at the door, and her guard quickly shut it.
She watched her mother slowly put the quill down and set aside the parchment she was writing upon. Myrcella tried to get a glance at the words, but was too late.
"Foolish little girls cry about their problems out loud for everyone to hear, Myrcella. Until you start behaving like the young woman you should be, I will treat you as I will."
"Would you prefer I have you arrested, Mother? After all, that is how you treat others you do not agree with."
Her mother's gaze was cold. "Myrcella, you do not know what you are speaking about."
"Of course, I do!" Myrcella shouted, slamming her hand onto the desk. Her mother actually straightened. "You think I haven't seen the way you've treated Uncle Tyrion? You hate him just like Grandfather; you always have, and yet somehow he still tries to defend you. He actually wants me to have some semblance of a relationship with you, and I do not know why. He would do anything for this family, and you have gone and taken Joffrey's death as a way to get rid of him!"
"Tyrion killed your brother," her mother hissed, an anger she'd rarely seen lighting her features. "You think your uncle is kind and funny because he has played you, just as he has played Jaime. Only I have ever seen the truth. He should have never been allowed near this place, near any position of power. He'd hit your brother, curse your brother, find every way he could to undermine his position. This conclusion was inevitable. My only mistake was not stopping him before it came this far."
"You truly believe that, don't you?" Myrcella said quietly, shaking her head. Her gaze landed on Tommen, who had grown quiet, his kittens getting away as he watched the argument play out. She went to sit next to him. "Tommen, you're the king now, do you know what that means?"
"Myrcella, don't you dare-"
"It means that whatever you command, everyone has to obey. You need to command them to free Uncle Tyrion, okay? Make them free Tyrion."
"That is enough!" her mother shouted, grabbed Tommen by the arm and pulling him away. "I don't know what the Martells have done to you or that wolf bitch your uncle has married, but you will not take my son away from me."
"Your son or your crown?" Myrcella asked, standing. "You never cared about Tommen until he became king. Myra has been a better mother to him than you ever ha-"
Her mother slapped her. It instantly brought tears to her eyes, her skin stinging and pulsing where her hand made contact.
She remembered the bruises her mother once wore; the ones Robert had given her. She'd always known better than to ask.
Myrcella looked up, locking eyes with her mother. There was fear in her gaze, a realization of what she had done. Even after everything, her mother had not expected to go that far.
"Joffrey deserved to die," she hissed, walking back to the door. "But it was not Tyrion who finally rid us of him."