Tyrion
He would have thought the sky cells at the Eyrie were the worst place he could have been, yet somehow Tyrion found the cells in the Red Keep to be worse. It wasn't the near-constant darkness nor the dampness of the particular cell they had thrown him in, no, it was simple the knowledge that he was here on his family's orders. He could blame insanity on Lysa Arryn, but what could he blame here? His father's intense hatred of him? His sister's need to put every foul thing that happened to her on his shoulders? His foolishness in believing his family would ever trust him?
Ah, yes, that one seemed to be the victor here.
He should have known, he told himself over and over again. After how his father and sister had treated him over the years, he should have known that this would be the only outcome. Yet time and time again, he convinced himself that he was proving his worth to his family, that his contributions were beginning to show his loyalty and usefulness, to them and to the rest of the world. But that wasn't true, it was never true, so why did he still believe?
Why did he keep having hope?
He'd spent much of the first evening pacing back and forth in his cell, even has his legs began to ache and then lose all feeling, he'd kept walking. The cell was small for a man, but the gaoler had joked that for a half-man, it would be a kingly space. It wasn't, of course. There were larger wardrobes in Casterly Rock.
Pacing helped him think. At first, it had been on offering a defense against the accusations, but very quickly Tyrion realized that it probably would not matter in the end. No doubt his father would preside over the hearing, and Cersei would whore her way through the witnesses; no, he did not seem to have much going for him at all.
Had Jaime not lost his hand, he'd fight for him, and everything would be fine. But that, clearly, wasn't an option either. No doubt Cersei would have chosen Gregor Clegane for her champion as well, and even in his prime, Tyrion wondered if his brother could best that beast of a man.
So, Tyrion began to think of other things. He tried to solve Joffrey's murder, but with so little evidence and his current housing predicament, he found himself grasping at ideas. Then he thought about Casterly Rock and recalled the days he was in charge of the cisterns. How unremarkable a task it had been, and how he'd striven to do his best at it nonetheless. Near the end, he was thinking of ways to throttle his sister before weariness finally claimed him and he fell asleep in a pile of hay.
No one arrived the next day, save for the guards who threw pieces of bread that they'd bitten. At some point, he was given the thinnest stew he'd ever supped on, completely convinced that someone had spit in it, but too tired to care all the same.
He'd expected Jaime to speak with him, or Cersei to gloat, but both were absent. In the silence of his cell, Tyrion began to wonder if Jaime thought it was true. That was something he could not tolerate above all. Jaime was the one who had loved him all these years, the one who refused to let him down. Him truly believing that he'd murdered his son would be a slap in the face.
By the next day, Tyrion had taken to whistling, mostly the tune of The Rains of Castamere. His father hated that song almost as much as Myra, and he delighted in the idea of the great Tywin Lannister hearing it somewhere and not being able to do a thing to stop it.
He sat on his little bed of hay and tossed pebbles at the opposite wall. Once or twice, a rat would scurry by, but they quickly found their way out through tiny holes he could hardly see. Tyrion found himself admiring them. Oh, to be so small. He was smaller than most, but it never gave him an advantage; he couldn't fit through small openings, and he couldn't reach things either. Being a dwarf only gave him his mind, and what good it did in a place like this.
The sound of the cell door being unlocked brought Tyrion to his feet. A torch entered the room first, followed by an unusual visitor: Oberyn Martell, dressed in the yellow and orange of his house, nearly a bright as the fire he brought with him.
"Lord Tyrion," the man greeted, setting the torch in the sconce on the wall. There was not much space between his head and the ceiling.
"Prince Oberyn," Tyrion replied, sitting back on his hay bed. "Welcome to my home."
The Red Viper nodded, taking in the small space. "It is cozy."
"It must bother you knowing Dorne treats Lannisters far better than Lannisters treat Lannisters."
"If your sister is to be believed, you aren't truly a Lannister, so perhaps we should both find some comfort in that," Oberyn said, sitting down against the wall opposite him. "If my father had me locked up on Elia's orders, I would not be in so fine a shape."
Tyrion laughed mirthlessly. "Believe me, Prince Oberyn, if they'd provided me with wine, we would not be having this conversation right now."
He was rarely completely sober on the best of days. This would have been something else entirely.
Oberyn suddenly produced a wineskin, seemingly from nowhere, and tossed it in his direction. It landed right beside him, and Tyrion cautiously picked it up, eying the prince.
"Do you think I would poison you?" Oberyn asked.
"I thought you might give me the option."
"I am not that kind."
Oddly, Tyrion found that statement comforting. He took a swig from the skin, holding the bitter drink in his mouth a moment before swallowing; he wanted to savor every moment. There would not be much more of it in his future.
"Why are you here, Prince Oberyn?"
Oberyn shrugged. "The funeral for the king is happening right now. I am not one for them. Ever since Elia died while I was away, I always think to myself: if I could not see hers, why should anyone else's be so worthy of my time?"
"That seems a fair point," Tyrion replied cautiously. He doubted Oberyn brought up Elia often, and did not like the idea of facing his anger alone in a cell. Was he testing him?
"The people are calling it The Short Wedding," Oberyn said after a moment, smiling at nothing in particular. He wasn't even looking at him. "At first, it was just because Joffrey died at the altar, but now that they know the famous Imp had something to do with it, they cannot resist using it. All the dwarves in King's Landing are gainfully employed recreating the incident. Their pockets have never been fatter."
The god of dwarves and regicide. It wasn't quite what he wanted, but it was certainly unforgettable.
"And I am glad for it. A little. Not really," Tyrion replied, taking another drink. "The only dwarf I care about right now is me, and as you can see, I am not in the best of places, so I think I'll ask you again, Prince Oberyn, why are you here instead of the brothel amongst a sea of whores?"
"I admit, I would rather be there," Oberyn said, taking in their surroundings with a disgusted sneer. "The stench of the city is nearly unbearable, but there is something far more foul in this keep. The blood of innocents on the walls; the smell of death lingers. Surely you've noticed it."
Surely a conversation between him and Varys would make for some dizzying entertainment.
"Perhaps I've grown used to it."
"Then you are more Lannister than your father gives you credit for," Oberyn replied, standing. He picked the torch back up, tossing it between hands momentarily. The man looked fascinated by the fire as it danced in the space between. "I have been appointed as a judge for your trial."
"And I don't suppose you're here to tell me that you'll stand up and proclaim my innocence to the realm."
Oberyn shrugged. "I will proclaim whatever the evidence points me to."
"Then I'm as good as dead."
The Red Viper chuckled then. "You take it better than most."
"One can only stare certain death in the face so many times before they grow bored."
"If death was certain, then why are you still here?" Oberyn asked, glancing over at him. Tyrion could not tell if it was the closeness of the torch or genuine curiosity that make his eyes glow. "Perhaps the gods have another plan for you, Tyrion Lannister."
He snorted. "Perhaps they ought to tell me this plan. As far as I'm concerned, I'm merely the entertainment."
Oberyn smirked, approaching the cell door and giving it one solid knock. A key turned in the lock moments later.
But the prince did not leave just yet. He watched Tyrion until he began to chafe under his dark gaze.
"Should the trial not go your way, I would fight for you in combat."
Tyrion narrowed his eyes. "Why?"
He shrugged. "You have presented me with a rare opportunity."
And then he was gone, disappeared through the corridor along with the light of the torch, burying him in darkness once again. Tyrion did not mind. He preferred to not see the things that he was occupying the space with. Ignorance, he was realizing, was the greatest gift a man could possess.
That, and a lot of money.
Tyrion sat there, alone in the dark, contemplating Oberyn's words for some time. What opportunity could his trial grant the Red Viper? A chance to show off his skills? To anger his father by freeing his imp of a son?
No, there had to be more to it than that.
He then began to think on Elia, whose name Oberyn had been far too liberal with.
The answer was so obvious, Tyrion could have smacked himself.
Sansa
The days following Joffrey's death were a blur, but she had relished every moment of them. Littlefinger's brothel was often filled to the brim with guards, gossiping as they were wont to when drunk and pleasured. They spoke of the chaos in the Red Keep, of the mayhem that Cersei was causing everyone as she practically tore the castle apart trying to find answers. Some claimed she never slept while others boasted of seeing her hair torn out. Sansa chose to believe all the rumors, true or false, because the satisfaction they gave her was the happiest she had been in some time.
Happier than seeing Myra again, she thought. Or perhaps it was a different sort of happiness.
That was something she preferred not to think about.
She'd learned of all the hiding places in the brothel, and had used them to listen to all those little rumors. Some were meant for patrons, another form of pleasure she could not quite understand, while others were meant for a certain few, for herself and Littlefinger, and once for Ros.
The woman had thought she was safe. Under the employ of Petyr Baelish, she'd thought she had it made, that she was finally beginning to crawl out of the grime that she had been born into. Instead, she had become another pawn in the grand scheme of the game, another piece bound to be forgotten as the others quarreled over the outcome of her death.
Sansa kept that in mind as she watched Littlefinger play his part, always aware that in the end she was another piece, and if she was the only thing that stood between him and power, she would join the multitudes who had fallen in his wake. In death, no one was better than the others.
In the daytime, few people were in the brothel. Even Oberyn frequented the place less and less, between being on the Council and being a judge in Tyrion's trial, it had left him little free time, and his attitude reflected it.
However, someone else had spared time on that particular morning, and it was the reason Sansa found herself tucked away behind a wall, a single eye peering into the adjacent room.
Lady Olenna Tyrell took the room in with a deep scowl, her eyes glossing over the space in abject disgust. This place was beneath her – as was everything else – but she was there nonetheless. It was a risky move, even for someone as uninterested in opinions as the Queen of Thorns. With everything that had happened as of late, one rock out of place could start an avalanche, and the future queen's grandmother was a very significant rock.
"Have you finished skulking yet, or must I have my guards burn this place to the ground?" Olenna called, tapping her cane against the floor. "No one is going to miss a whorehouse, least of all Tywin Lannister."
"That will be unnecessary," Littlefinger spoke, striding into the room. He placed himself just in front of the screen she hid behind. While most would not notice the presence of someone watching, it was not an infallible hiding place, and Olenna Tyrell had a rather curious gaze. "How might I help you today? My workers are not typically around during the daytime, but I am certain some may be located, depending on your interests."
Olenna snorted. "Don't play coy with me, Baelish. You know why I am here. We were supposed to murder a king together, were we not?"
"I believe he was to choke on his wedding cake."
"Yes, a rather nasty little ending, but certainly fitting for him. Instead, he bled out onto the tiles of the sept and made the entire city lose its mind. It's the sort of chaos that rats like to fatten themselves up in."
"I take it I am the rat in this metaphor."
"You certainly aren't the king, but I can have you join him shortly. An accident at sea, perhaps. Whatever will your betrothed do?"
Sansa could not see him, but she could picture exactly how Littlefinger looked. That false smile stretched a little too wide. He did not like to be cornered, and he did not take threats well.
The smile she wore while watching them was absolutely genuine.
"I can assure you, Lady Olenna, I had nothing to do with the king's early demise. I would never put your granddaughter at risk, given our agreement."
Olenna took a step toward him, her cane hitting the floor with a terribly loud thump.
"And yet, the whore was from here."
"Obviously, perhaps too much so. You and I don't make easy mistakes, but there are others who foolishly think we do," Littlefinger said, turning to the side. Was he referring to her? "Ros was more of a businesswoman than a whore at this point. I left her to run the books in my absence. I do not know who she might have interacted with in recent days, but as we all know, a little power demands more. She might have made a deal, clearly one that did not work in her favor."
Olenna's eyes swept around the room again, and Sansa moved away, afraid she would be caught. When the matriarch was silent for longer than she was comfortable with, she thought she had been.
"You mean to tell me that a man who makes it his business to know everything has no idea what his own whore was doing?"
"As much as I like to think I know everything, I am very much limited in my knowledge."
"Another convenience."
Littlefinger lifted his arms up in surrender. "Then kill me now. I am caught, clearly. But when the Vale rebels, when they turn to dragons in the East, remember that I was the only one who could have turned them from it."
Sansa dared to peek again, noting Olenna's utterly unimpressed façade. "Do try to remember your place. Those who stick their necks out rarely keep their heads."
He bowed graciously to the woman, escorting her from the room and leaving Sansa with little to spy on.
She wondered if he would whisper something to her on their way out, a secret not even meant for her. Would he admit to having a spy, or would he tell her of a plot they would enact on a later date?
Paranoia, Sansa found, was a very easy trait to come by.
Sansa waited a few minutes before exiting the cramped space, quietly making her way through the building until she found herself in Littlefinger's office. He was writing away on a scroll, wrist flicking to and fro at a rapid pace. The conversation had revealed something.
"Did you mean for Margaery to be involved?" Sansa asked curiously. "Given your agreement with Lady Olenna, it was a brash move on your part."
Littlefinger frowned, appearing normal for once. It was odd.
"I admit, the poison was a misstep on my part. I did not expect Joffrey's constitution to be as strong as it was. He was supposed to have died in the night," he admitted, pausing in his writing. "Still, what a marvelous disaster it might have been. Who would unite the Tyrells and the Lannisters then? It might have even come to blows. Another war in an already war-torn land. Who might have emerged victorious?"
"Do you believe you would have survived long enough to find out?"
He smirked. "Lady Olenna has her friends; I have mine. And mine are far better at surviving."
With that, he finished up his writing, blowing quickly on the ink before rolling up the scroll.
"In three days, I leave for the Vale. I don't plan on returning for some time, not until after I have settled affairs with Lady Arryn," he said, standing and walking to her side. "I would like you to join me."
"As who? Your whore?"
"As Sansa Stark, of course."
Myra
Where days before, the city had roared and rejoiced, now a somber mood had fallen upon the people, a thick blanket that snuffed out all the cheer that had once occupied them. They were all dressed in black, a throng of mourners gathered for their fallen king. The High Septon spoke kind words that the dead could never live up to, painting a picture of a kind-hearted soul whose righteous reign was cut off well before its time. He spoke of the cruelty of man and the jealousy of those who sought to destroy the realm.
Jaime had tensed beside her, and briefly Myra pictured him running the man through. It gave her no pleasure, but there was something right about the image.
While the man droned on, Myra had watched. She watched the cold exterior of Tywin and the indifferent mood of Myrcella, the well-formed tears of Margaery and the soft sobs of Tommen. Above all, she watched Cersei, every crack in her mask, every movement, every time her gaze changed. A woman who used the death of her own son to destroy those she did not care for. It was a depth Myra had not thought her capable of, and it made her wary.
There was a feast after, but it was quiet, filled with whispers and fleeting gazes. Whenever Cersei paused, the room fell silent.
Jaime had left already, unable to stomach any of it. She'd barely kept him sober for the event, and did not doubt she would return to find him in a similar position. Myra did not blame him, and that was why she was not with him. He had let her be when she needed it, and she would do the same for him.
For most of the feast, Myra hovered around Tommen and Myrcella. Without Tyrion to keep her company, and Oberyn suspiciously absent, Myra had few allies to chat with. There was small talk here and there, condolences, queries about Jaime's whereabouts, but little invested interaction.
Mostly, she and Myrcella kept others from getting their claws into Tommen. He would be crowned on the morrow, and the vultures circled too close for her taste. She would allow the lords and ladies to make their introductions, gave them a few moments, then subtly – or not so much – escort the conversation, or Tommen, to other things.
Tywin Lannister himself had given her what she could only assume was his version of an approving nod. It made her blood curdle.
After a time, when the wine had truly begun to flow, the gathering became livelier, the guests forgetting their fears of disturbing Cersei. Tommen and Myrcella eventually departed, the future king unable to stop yawning long enough to properly greet his subjects.
"Can I stay with you tonight, Aunt Myra?" the boy had asked.
Robb's child would have called me that, her heart cried.
But she had pushed that thought aside, forcing a smile and kneeling before the boy. She straightened his red jacket. He liked to tug on the collar, a trait he shared with Jaime.
"I'm afraid not," she'd said, thinking of the poor state of things they might return to. "Tomorrow, you'll be crowned king, and the king must reside in his own chambers."
"Then you can stay with me. I could order you."
Myra had frowned deeply, an exaggeration reserved just for stubborn little boys. "And deprive your Uncle Jaime of his wife? He needs me to keep him company. You see, he's not as brave as you are."
The boy had looked torn for a moment, but nodded slowly, allowing his sister to escort him out with Sers Arys and Balon. She'd yet to see the less than chivalrous members of the Kingsguard with him. Small miracles, she supposed.
No one would have questioned her departure from the gathering. With Jaime missing, Myra Stark was hardly a figure anyone wished to engage with, especially after the funeral. The Lady of Casterly Rock she may have become, but no one was in a rush to get in her good graces. She wondered if they thought her station was only temporary, that something akin to their king's fate would befall her shortly.
She supposed they'd hold a tournament for that.
Instead of leaving, Myra chose to remain, calmly listening to conversations as the room attempted to ignore her. She overheard tidbits about lords she knew little of choosing to store the information away for later. Eventually, her wandering brought her to the balcony, and she found herself standing beside Cersei, just out of arm's reach, should either of them get any ideas.
She was wary, yes, but she also had a terrible curiosity.
For a while, nothing was said. Myra watched the city, ignoring the stench that wafted in on the warm evening breeze, while Cersei sipped at her wine. She was surprised the queen did not immediately leave, but perhaps she allowed it because her presence kept others at bay. Hate her all she wanted, Myra at least did not offer false pleasantries.
"I know what it's like to lose someone, to have a piece of your heart torn from you," Myra found herself saying. Someone screamed in the back of her mind.
Cersei turned to her, radiant in her mourning gown. "If this is your famed sympathy, I've no use for it."
"I am glad. I have none to give you," Myra replied, rising to the challenge. "You know deep down that Tyrion had nothing to do with this. You're smarter than that, Cersei, or at least you claim to be. Do you care so little for your brother that you'd rather he dies than find the actual murderer? Do you care so little for your son?"
"Do not speak to me as if you know!" Cersei hissed, approaching her. Myra did not fear her, but it took great effort for her to stand her ground nonetheless. "You have not brought a child into this world. You have not raised him, loved him, given him everything you have only to helplessly watch a miserable creature steal him away from you!"
Myra blinked, watched as the façade that the queen so dutifully kept up slipped from her grasp entirely. She was an open book, and Myra could read every emotion behind those green eyes of hers, eyes that looked far too much like Jaime's.
"You truly believe Tyrion killed your son," she whispered. "What a wretched creature you are."
She believed that Cersei might throw the goblet at her, or perhaps even attempt to throw her off the balcony, but the queen simply took a large gulp and walked away, still a slave to whatever image she had left. Heads turned back and forth in the gathering between them before settling into discussion once more.
Myra felt her hands relax, releasing the fists she had not been aware they made.
"You're far braver than I am," a light voice admitted beside her. Margaery had finally decided to join her, walking beside her on the balcony. She, too, looked wonderful in black. Widowhood suited her, if it could really be called that.
"Far more foolish, perhaps," Myra admitted, allowing herself to be guided to a bench where they sat together, rather cleverly hidden behind a large statue. She noted that Ser Loras had stationed himself on the other side. Even curious ears could not venture close.
"I wouldn't say that. You've managed to secure a husband who lasts longer than a week. You should tell me your secret."
Myra smiled softly, out of courtesy, watching Margaery carefully as she drank. She had wondered if, perhaps, the Tyrell had something to do with Joffrey's death. It was no secret that the king was a miserable bastard. Despite her excellent control over him, why would Margaery wish to subject herself to such a horrible life? But whether there was any truth to it or not, it did not matter. No one would ever accuse her and live.
The whole realm would likely starve before Margaery Tyrell was tried for anything.
"I want you to know, I have not forgotten what we spoke of the other day," Margaery said, eying her. "It will simply take a little longer."
She'd heard they had every intention to marry Margaery to Tommen as soon as possible, but he was far too young to consummate the union. It was little more than the signing of a contract, a promise to remain allies until the young king was older. And until he was, Tywin would be determining the fate of the realm. Margaery would have no real power until Tommen came of age.
For that reason alone, Myra dismissed the notion of her involvement in the murder.
"Tommen is a kind boy, and he will make a fine king," Myra admitted, standing. "Do well by him, Margaery. I, too, remember what we spoke of."
Queen of the Four Kingdoms had such a terrible ring to it.
Jaime
He'd wanted to avoid the meeting for some time, or never go at all. Being curled up in the corner of his chambers, drunker than he'd ever been, was a preferable option. At least he knew Myra waited for him at the end of it. But his little brother was waiting for him now, and he deserved the truth, as cruel as it was.
Facing uncomfortable questions was dredging up old memories, old hurts that never found closure. There were truths that even he could not be forced to face, not yet at least.
The last time Tyrion had been put in a cell, Jaime's fury had been unmatched. How it had burned in him, a fire worthy of Aerys's madness. He would have torn the entirety of the Eyrie down himself had they not let him in. And now, what could he do but stare helplessly at the dirty form of his brother as the cell door opened.
"Surely I don't look that terrible, Jaime," Tyrion said, smiling sadly. "It's only been...actually, I don't know how long I have been in here. A week?"
"Three days."
Tyrion actually laughed at that. "I truly am going mad. I always wondered what that might be like. Now I can understand the Mad King, or even better, our sister! How does she deal with this every day?"
Jaime said nothing as he went to sit in the cell, watching the torchlight flicker above them. It was a small space, but not as terrible as he expected. He'd seen all the cells once, and there were far worse places in the depths of the keep.
He could not bring himself to say anything as he watched his little brother. A thousand different things had run through his mind as he made his was over from the funeral, and yet they had all gone silent the instant he'd entered the cell. He rather missed his old self, always with a jape on his tongue, never afraid of the silly little musings in his head. Some days, he felt all the worse for becoming who he was.
"Prince Oberyn stopped by earlier, did you know?" Tyrion said, breaking the silence. "You would have noticed his absence from the funeral. Surely he would have been the only one dressed in anything other than black."
"I assumed he stayed away to keep from laughing," Jaime found himself saying. "The Septon was...very flattering."
"Oh yes, I'm certain he was. Spoke of Joffrey's great charity and courage, his honor and loyalty, and how a nasty little creature snuffed it out before he could achieve true greatness," his brother replied, snorting. "If I weren't accused, I would have laughed myself, and then been locked up in here anyway. I suppose I should thank Cersei for saving me the trouble."
Jaime fidgeted, unable to meet his brother's gaze. Tyrion wasn't a fool, he'd have noticed by now, but he wasn't saying anything about it. He knew his brother was being a coward, and he was not about to help him out of it.
"He offered to be my champion, should the trial not go well, which I assume it won't," Tyrion rambled, filling the silence. "I've never seen the Red Viper fight, but I've heard he's a force to be reckoned with. He'd have to be if he's going to face the Mountain."
"Why would he face Ser Gregor?" Jaime asked.
"Why wouldn't he? Cersei isn't going to let just anyone fight for her. She has to make sure there is absolutely no possibility of me escaping my crimes. She's always wanted me dead, and she's determined to see this through."
"She hasn't always wanted you dead, Tyrion."
"Hasn't she?" Tyrion asked, standing. He hobbled over to him, not bound by chains, but walking as if he might have been. His brother stood taller than him now, but he always had, in a way. "All my life, I have been tormented for what I am, by servants, lords, our father, but Cersei was always the worst. Father was held back by his need to keep up appearances, but Cersei did not care. She wore her cruelty like a badge of honor. You could never see past the façade she put on for you, though. She was everything you wanted her to be when she needed you."
Jaime felt a frown tugging at his skin. Tyrion was right. Of course, he was. He'd always acknowledged the animosity between them, but never thought it was anything more. Why would she want Tyrion dead? He was their brother.
But she'd never considered him their brother, had she?
Jaime sighed, finally looking directly at Tyrion. "I shouldn't have let this happen. I'm sorry, Tyrion."
"What are you sorry for? It's not as if you led the investigation," Tyrion replied. Now he was the one fidgeting. "You'd have probably accused Meryn Trant if that were the case. What a fine trial that would have been."
"Father came to me with the evidence against you. I offered to be your champion."
"Brother, I love you, but you'd make for a poor champion. They'd have pit you against Moon Boy, and you'd have failed miserably."
Jaime could not help but smirk. "I should be insulted, but you aren't wrong."
"Of course, I'm not. I'm never wrong about these things. Only about my own safety, apparently."
They fell silent again. Jaime struggled to continue his confession, and Tyrion wasn't exactly helping. He had to wonder if his brother knew what he was here for all along, and did not want to hear the words either. What a miserable pair they were.
"There was evidence against Myra too," Jaime finally admitted, choosing to look at the ground. It was either confess or look at his brother. He could not have both. "Not real evidence, just what they needed. I had...to choose. I..."
"I know," Tyrion said softly, cutting off his stammering. He was looking at him so calmly, even in the face of betrayal. "Father likes to play his games. The only thing that would have kept you from killing yourself for me was if he had another piece to play, and he did. He always does.
"I should hate you for it, choosing a woman over the brother you've known practically all your life. Yes, that woman is your wife, but I'm me, and far more entertaining than her at any rate. Sometimes. Maybe. But I can't."
He felt Tyrion's hand rest on his shoulder, and once more, Jaime found himself unable to face his little brother.
"You've always been on my side, Jaime, and you always will be. I'll get out of this, one way or another."
He'd spent time wandering the keep, again, and came to regret it the moment he stepped through his chamber door. Myra had been pacing, stopping mid-turn when she saw him. Her eyes were wild and worried. She'd even let the fire burn itself out, walking back and forth in their chambers with little more than a single candle to light her way.
"I was about to go searching for you!" she cried, walking up to him and taking his face in her hands. "When you didn't return, I thought you'd passed out somewhere or gotten hurt or...or..."
Jaime took one of her hands in his, silencing her. "I went to see Tyrion. I should have told you."
"Yes, you should have!" Myra replied, pulling her hand away. "We're in danger here."
"I know."
It was all he could say before leaving the doorway. He wandered over to one of the chairs by the fire, dropping heavily into the seat. He was so tired; he just wanted to be done with this place. If they never saw it again, all the better.
Jaime closed his eyes, resting his head against his good hand. And there he sat for a while, not thinking, not moving, just searching for a little bit of peace. There'd been so little of it since they had returned, and it was beginning to weigh heavily on him.
He'd thought Myra had retired for the evening as punishment for keeping her worried, but eventually he felt a tugging at his sleeve as she began to remove his fake hand. She was not one for abandoning him, even when she should.
She'd probably regret that one day.
"Did you know Tyrion was married?" he asked, unwilling to open his eyes. He was afraid to. In the darkness, it might not be Myra that he saw. "It was a long time ago. Tyrion was more a boy than a man, but he fell in love with a girl and they were married in secret."
He heard her sit in the chair beside him, but Myra did not make another sound.
"Her name was Tysha. She was a common girl, a crofter's daughter, I think. Tyrion and I came across her when she was attacked by outlaws. I drove them off, and he took care of her. She liked him and sang for him, and so Tyrion went and got a septon drunk and married the girl. For two weeks, they hid away in a cottage, and our father scarcely noticed he was gone."
Jaime chanced opening his eyes, glancing at his wife in the darkness. She was watching him carefully, her mouth parted, hands grasping the armrest of her chair tightly.
"Of course, the septon couldn't stay drunk forever. When he'd sobered, and gathered what little courage he had, he spoke to my father about the union. I was there when he confessed; I wanted to run right out of the room and find Tyrion. I wanted to warn him, but I stayed rooted to the spot. I was afraid of my father then."
It seemed he was always standing still when the foulest things in his life occurred.
"She was a whore, our father said, only interested in the Rock. So, he treated her like all whores ought to be. All the guards had their way with her, and paid her a silver each. Tyrion had her last, for one gold, because he was a Lannister. The marriage was dissolved, and we were to never speak of it again."
"But she wasn't a whore," Jaime continued, sighing. He felt his bones ache and muscles cry; he felt like an old man then. "I told Tyrion she was. I told him that I had hired her so that he could finally become a man, and that I didn't expect him to go and marry her. I told him that because my father instructed me to."
"Jaime," he heard Myra say, her voice scarcely more than a whisper.
"I thought it would be better for him," he said, defending his foolish younger self. "Who was I to tell Tyrion that he'd raped the woman who loved him? That he'd stood by and watched all the guards rape the only woman who ever truly cared for him?"
And that was it. The final secret he had kept from Myra. Murdering his king was far less damning than what he had done to his brother, and by the look in his wife's eyes, she agreed.
It was not like the night in the cabin. Her eyes were not full of understanding and empathy. They were dark, matching her mouth as it turned into a deep frown. There were no excuses this time, nothing for her to attempt to understand. He had ruined his brother's life, and a young girl's, because he was too scared and too ashamed to speak up.
Worst of all, he'd already killed his king, and somehow not learned his lesson. What a coward he was, her golden lion.
"You need to tell him the truth," Myra spoke after a while, her voice flat. "But not until after the trial. Right now, Tyrion needs to believe he isn't alone."
She left him there, in the dark, alone with his thoughts and the kind, blue eyes of a girl who had done nothing wrong.