Myra
A fog had crawled across the camp in the night, thick clouds of mist spun up by the Trident beside them. As the morning dawned, bleak and gray, there was little to be seen. A lone standard fluttered, a horse emerged nickering and guided by a small page, and Riverrun still loomed in the distance, towering in its sudden singularity, the direwolf of her house standing triumphant.
The imagery mocked her as she stood among the lions. Myra knew there was no hope for her brother's last holdout, and yet it looked untouchable in that moment, a behemoth hearkening back to Robb's glories.
Her uncle had disappeared into that fog an hour ago, perhaps more, perhaps less. It was hard to say when the world felt empty and quiet. Even the farm animals the Freys had in their possession were silent in the stillness.
She'd spied the bridge falling and rising from the distance, but nothing had happened since. Myra had no idea how long it would take. Perhaps Edmure was having second thoughts. Perhaps Brynden had felt the need to lock him up. Perhaps-
"Thinking about all the possibilities will kill you," Jaime whispered beside her. He'd been at her side ever since they had taken her uncle away, but had been so still she'd forgotten.
"What else am I to think of?"
"Anything. Nothing."
Jaime wasn't very helpful, but she could tell by the edge in his voice that he was not faring any better. The words may have been as much for himself as they were for her.
Go away inside. That was what he always said, but where to? A castle in the distant north she'd not seen in an age? A memory of laughter from brothers she'd never see again?
Her mind settled upon a cabin nestled in the woods.
"If it comes to a siege," he started again after a while. "I want you to travel ahead with Tyrion and Brienne."
"Now who is thinking of possibilities?"
"I'm serious, Myra," Jaime continued, blocking her view of Riverrun as he stood in front of her. He held her shoulder gently. "It will be long and it will be bloody. You shouldn't see your family treated this way. Not-"
Not again. That was what he wanted to say. She could see it in his eyes, along with a deep-seated terror. He did not want to lose her again. Their time in Dorne had been a blur to her, days and weeks rolled into one. For him, it must have been a century.
"If I leave, I will never forgive myself, for their sakes and yours. I helped put this in motion, so my hands are just as dirty as yours now. Whatever happens, I need to be here."
Even if she did not want to be; even if she wanted to flee down the flowing green slopes and throw herself into the river, wail as a child clinging to her mother's skirts, tear her hair out and rip her clothes. She could do none of those things. It was her obligation, both as a Stark and a Lannister.
However, those fears hardly mattered in the end. The drawbridge lowered once more and did not move again. Men shouted from the camp, and she could hear the rough din of armor shifting by the hundreds.
"They'll pick it clean," she whispered, watching leather capped heads bobbing in the dissipating fog.
"Ser Addam will have men at the gates," Jaime clarified as he put a hand on the small of her back and escorted her down the hill. "No Frey will enter without my leave."
"It's not your castle."
"It is until I say so," he continued as they trudged through the mist and the muck. Jaime wasn't wearing his armor, a sign of trust perhaps, but Brienne never took hers off, and the comforting sound of scraping metal could be heard behind her. Myra did not know why now a fear had chosen to grip her so tightly. "The Freys needed a Lannister to give them Riverrun. They can wait on my permission to occupy it."
True to his word, Ser Addam had not allowed a soul into Riverrun who did not bear the lion crest. A gaggle of Freys stood on the bridge shouting obscenities at a row of Lannister guards, whose faces were stone and bodies still, but not a single man made a move against them. It seemed their courage only extended to drunken lords and women.
The Strongboar had accompanied them, and upon his booming command of MOVE, the Freys scattered like rats, flocking to the sides of the bridge in order to escape whatever harm might come. Several fell into the moat below.
Myra stared down the soldiers as they passed through their ranks. She looked at their dirty, scowling faces and wondered how many might have been there. Who carried a sword that still bore the blood of Lucas Blackwood? Who had plunged their daggers into Dacey Mormont? Who had taken the Smalljon's head?
These were the sorts of questions that plagued a person to the end of their days.
She remembered clearly what Riverrun had been like before. Refugees from the war were everywhere, clustered with their few belongings in random corners of the castle grounds. Chickens were being chased by small children while the older ones led goats and small cows. Women washed clothes in groups, singing little songs while the men returned from the fields with wood and little creatures they'd hunted. It was hardly the image of a proper lord's castle, but her uncle had looked at its occupants with a soft pride and an even softer smile. He'd cared for each one of them.
There was no evidence of those families now. There were hastily built barricades and piles of weapons taken from those who'd surrendered. A Tully banner had been trampled into the mud, a Stark one torn in half. A group of soldiers stood assembled in the courtyard, helmless but unharmed. No children laughed and no women sang. There was only silence, and the steely gaze of men beholding a traitor.
Myra turned to Edmure, and found him staring at a banner on the ground.
"Where is the Blackfish?" Jaime murmured as Ser Addam approached.
"Escaped," he admitted with a wince. "Ser Kennos is looking for him now, but he has the advantage."
Edmure looked up suddenly, his face smug. "It was the castle you wanted. You never mentioned anything about my uncle."
Jaime sighed, glaring at her uncle, but ultimately decided not to engage him. Instead, he turned to her, leaning in closely. "You're being quite the actor right now."
"I could jump up and down if you'd like," Myra replied, flashing the smallest of smirks. Her husband looked ready to throw himself into the moat with the Freys.
"Please don't. Take your uncle inside. Have him grab whatever he wishes. It will come with us to Casterly Rock. You have my word."
. . .
The interior of Riverrun had not fared much better in the aftermath of the Red Wedding. In order to protect their halls, the servants had taken up arms, their duties belonging to the watch and upkeep of the battlements instead. The lack of their care showed. Mud caked the floors from the travel of soldiers, dust and cobwebs clung thickly to every surface, and general refuse had piled up in random corners and crannies.
Myra walked slowly beside her uncle, watching his face as he looked upon his home again. It seemed to her that he did not recognize it either, and that it had not brought the relief he had been looking for.
They slowly walked through the winding halls, stopping at every threshold and turn. She would watch as Edmure swayed for a moment, mouth opening but no sound ever escaping. On several occasions, Myra found herself on the brink of breaking the silence, but would clamp down on her tongue. It was not her place, and she did not know what would happen if she let those ill-advised words loose.
Eventually, he led them to a room at the far end of the keep, with great, wide windows that ran the very height of the wall, overlooking the swollen Red Fork. The room was covered in a fine layer of dust, but otherwise appeared untouched. The four-post bed was wrapped in gentle blue linen, which matched the color of the rug beneath their feet and the towering curtains. There was a quiet feeling to the room, a softness that she would not have expected from Edmure's quarters.
"These are your mother's chambers, aren't they?"
Edmure nodded slowly, running his finger across a small desk. "My father ordered servants to leave them as they were. They would keep the dust and spiders at bay, but everything would be returned exactly as it was."
He turned around and looked at the bed. "Cat used to tell me that when our father left, she and Lysa would spend the nights with her here. She was so lonely without him."
Myra remained silent as he circled the room. She could not imagine entering her parents' chambers now. The thought alone threatened to overwhelm her.
Eventually, Edmure settled on a wardrobe. He pulled out a small necklace, a pendant with a stunning sapphire center.
"My father gave this to her on their wedding night. She wore it every day since. Cat told me she had begged him not to let it burn with her, but neither of my sisters wanted it. It hurt them too much. I think it would be a shame to let the Freys get their hands on it now."
She nodded, agreeing. "Is there anything else you might want?"
"No...no, I'd rather just leave this place," Edmure replied, face falling. "All this time, I wanted nothing more than to return, and now I just want to run away from it."
"Surely there is something else you want. Something from your rooms or your father's?"
A strange look crossed his face then, highlighted by eyes shining with unshed tears. "I used to hate myself for having no memory of my mother, not that it was any fault of mine, but now I find that what little I know of her is the only thing left in this place that can't hurt me. She was before all of this; she is the only thing left untouched."
"You still have your sister, Uncle. You could write to Lysa before we leave."
An ugly frown marred his features. "Lysa never wrote to us once she was sent away to the Vale, likely due to Father, but I never asked. I wrote, but she never replied. She was silent when we went to war, silent when our father died, and likely silent still when we lost everything. The only sister I had was Cat, and the Freys took her from me, just as they are taking this castle."
Myra found she could not look him in the eyes then, and they did not speak for the rest of the day.
. . .
Cersei
She despised people who thought they were clever. The Dornish bastard sitting across from her was one of the worst offenders to date. How she smiled coyly and doted upon Garth Tyrell, as if his flatulence were a perfume from the East. She truly believed that the council could not see the body of her son resting at her feet, or Myrcella at her back with a knife to her throat. Yet she spoke with the council as if she truly cared about the realm, and wasn't actively trying to destroy it from within.
Worst of all, the council played along.
Her father had been fit to burst when the Sand Snake took a seat in his chambers, but even his ire had cooled over time. He begrudgingly took her points and even allowed her victories. The great Lion of Lannister was truly old now, clawless and toothless and half-blind. The father she remembered would sooner have had the bastard thrown in the dungeons than allowed her near the Tower of the Hand.
It's for Myrcella, she had tried to convince herself. It's to keep Myrcella safe.
No, if he had cared for her safety, he would have demanded she remain. Instead, he let her slip away, just as he let that deformed little monster he dare make her call brother slip away, just as he let the she-wolf and Ja-
Cersei straightened in her seat. She had not uttered his name since he left; she would not do so now.
The bastard's smirk grew. She had dressed in a soft lavender gown that hugged her tightly and had more holes than fabric. Cersei did not doubt the bastard was testing her father's limits. She might well walk in naked one day.
"Lord Tywin," she spoke slowly, her voice a soft purr, but all Cersei heard was a hiss. "There is a growing concern about the number of sparrows that are flocking to King's Landing. They come in honor of the slain faithful, and they are hardly quiet."
"Surely we're not here to provide religious aid as well," Mace Tyrell countered. Much to Cersei's disappointment, the Lord of Highgarden seemed to be the only member of the council still willing to see reason and side with her. He had no love for the Dornish bastard, and even less love for his uncle, Garth. It took all of one small touch from the Sand Snake to get the Master of Coin under her influence, a treachery Mace took personally. "The High Septon can handle his flock. It's what he was appointed to do."
"Except these sparrows do not heed the High Septon's call. They claim to follow this High Sparrow instead."
Garth snorted. "Quite the original title."
The bastard smiled at him, and Cersei watched him change shades.
Tywin watched them with a frown, but said nothing. He would shame his own grandson before the council, but for the Dornish bastard and her wanton flirtation, he gave silence. He preached family and legacy with one hand and tossed the idea aside with the other.
Her father turned to the spider. "Is this true?"
Varys nodded once. "It appears the Lady Nymeria is well-informed. Thousands have flocked to the capital, and there is a growing tension between them and the established order."
"Words of malcontents have always circled the capital," Cersei spoke, eyeing the bastard. She knew so little of how things truly worked. "If we act upon them, it shows they have meaning."
"They seemed to have meaning when the last High Septon was torn apart," she countered. "The situations are similar. The new king is barely into his rule, and there is unrest. The Crown has already seen what happens if it is left ignored, only this time there is not an army at the gates to rally the people back to your cause."
She would like that, Cersei mused. An army at the gates, fire in the streets, blood upon the Iron Throne. Dorne had been crying for their vengeance for years, and now they suddenly wished to see the realm remain intact? It was a lie so plain, even Tommen could have spotted it.
"The people rallied for their king," Cersei replied, her jaw clenched.
She was met with an arched eyebrow, and an unconvinced smile. Pycelle started coughing.
Her father leaned forward in his seat, looking between the two of them. "I will consider options for putting an end to these sparrows. In the meantime, we will bolster the City Watch and add extra patrols near the sept. Should their numbers encourage them to act, they will be met with steel."
Perhaps they ought to find this High Sparrow, Cersei thought. His little birds would scatter to the wind should he turn up with no head. She made a note to bring it up after the meeting, when there were less ears and imbecilic placeholders.
"We should make certain they do not interrupt the wedding," Mace added. "House Tyrell is willing to supply its own armies to guard the streets."
Cersei frowned. She had already argued against the spectacle, but her father would not be moved. A marriage suggested stability, even between a child and a woman who would likely be the crone by the time he came of age. They would not hide in the keep, because they would not show the kingdom that there was something to be feared.
They would have Tommen stand in his brother's blood and steal his wife...
"Should we expect Lady Margaery to attend the council meetings?" the bastard asked, drawing gazes around the table. "As the queen, she would-"
"I am the queen," Cersei spat. She'd choke the bastard where she sat. Would she die smirking too?
"Forgive me, Your Grace, but you are the Queen Mother."
"Because my son is king."
"And soon he will have a queen of his own. Surely two would make things...complicated."
The table was silent. Other members looked around, their gazes falling on anyone, but her. They spoke without speaking, and their faces betrayed their foolish thoughts, but Tywin Lannister was cold and still as stone, staring at everyone and no one. Why was he not speaking? It was treason the bastard suggested. To supplant her was to-
"I agree," Mace Tyrell spoke, seeming to choke on his words, as if the idea of agreeing made him less of a man. But even he would bend to the whims of a Dornish woman if it meant his precious daughter could play politics. "The queen has made it clear she cares little for Margaery's presence."
"A mother's protectiveness, Lord Tyrell. It is nothing more, I can assure you," Cersei replied, disgusted by the sweet tone in her voice. She should be demanding his allegiance. Were she a man, she could have beaten him into submission and been praised for her efforts. But she was a woman, and she had to be a soft, delicate thing. If she was in the right, then she was wrong, and she had to correct her mistakes, because the gods had never created a man who could stomach the idea of losing to a woman.
Garth cleared his throat. "It is the king's duty to marry, and as the Queen Mother, you should understand that best of all. But if you cannot, or will not, then I fear the council meetings will be little more than you attempting to stop everything Margaery puts forth."
"Are you suggesting that I have nothing to contribute?"
"I'm suggesting only one of you has made an effort to find common ground, and she is not seated at this table."
Cersei stood, her chair scraping across the floor. Her father may have been content to see their family dragged through the dirt, but she was not. It was a lioness they should all come to fear.
"Was I not here, on the council, during the war, when Stannis threatened to raze the city, when the people were starving, when the Starks demanded their vengeance? Was I not here doing what I could to guide us through to safety?" Cersei paused, staring down the Tyrell. "I suppose you would not recall. You were on the opposing side for much of the conflict."
"That is enough!" Tywin bellowed, though still seated, he had grown in stature. Finally, he had found his senses. "The council is dismissed. I would have words with my daughter."
What?
Cersei stared in astonishment, unable to form words as the council drifted away. Not once had her father spoken in defense of her, not once had he silenced their remarks, and he would dare send them away as if nothing had happened?
She gripped the edge of the table, refusing to grace the exiting members with a glance at her face. Her eyes remained focused on the surface, taking in the hazy reflection in the polished wood. Her clothes were still for mourning; she was the only one who clung to the colors. Even Joffrey's overwhelmed widow had shed them. Black made for a terrible wedding gown.
How tired she looked, even from such a poor reflection.
I've aged, Cersei realized. I am not who I used to be.
'Until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear.'
Was it the she-wolf, she wondered, or did another lie in wait?
"Do you plan on speaking or staring at the grain for the remainder of the evening?"
"I thought to ask you the same question," Cersei spat, feeling bold again. Anger freed her from doubt and questions. It was the armor she bore when she rode to battle. "Tywin Lannister suffers no fools, but you have allowed them to run amok in this room. Joffrey would never tolerate such belligerence."
Her father was unimpressed. "Your son was a fool. He would have the mobs drive our family out of the castle before bending to the simplicity of common sense."
"Do not speak of him that way. He was your grandson and your king."
"And he was a fool, no thanks to you or Robert."
"At least Robert could keep his council in check."
How many years had she longed for her father to return to the capital and restore sense and order? Now she was defending her oaf of a husband. How different her world had become. Joffrey had truly held it all together, and the dwarf had taken from her.
One curious eyebrow lifted. "So, now you would compare me to a fool and a drunk."
"Shall I compare you to the man you were? Ever since Jaime returned to the fold, you have allowed this council and this kingdom to falter. The Tyrells have their hands on everything, the Dornish are slithering around waiting to strike, and you sit in your chair and pretend that none of them are coming for us."
"Do not mistake silence for ignorance," her father replied, his voice low, a threat. "I know precisely where we stand, and who has power where. I do not confide this to you because you have made it abundantly clear that you cannot be trusted. Between your determination to upheave the alliance we have with the Tyrells and your insistence on placing every man, woman, and child in Dorne on trial for Joffrey's death, you have destroyed what little standing you had remaining when I returned to the capital."
Tywin stood then. If he moved to his desk and started writing a letter, she would strangle him, but he graced her with the respect of remaining still. "You will no longer sit on the council. You will see to your son, you will engage with the other ladies of noble houses, and if the gods are good, you will repair the damage you've caused by marrying Willas Tyrell."
Cersei might have thrown her chair at her father then. She would have split it apart and bludgeoned him with the pieces. Was his blood truly red, or did he bleed green for the Tyrells?
"I will not marry again."
"You will do your duty."
"I have done my duty!" Cersei screamed. She grabbed her chair and overturned it upon the ground. Forget all who might hear. She would let the entire castle know the injustice being thrust upon her. "I married the man you told me to marry. I bore his children. I watched as he spent every last coin you gave him on whores and wine and parties, and I attempted to save what I could, because you would not dare lift a hand. I held this kingdom together while you fought your war. I will not be sold again!"
Tyrion had never done anything beneficial for their family, and her twin had only lived to shirk his duty. The fool that he was, he could have set the countryside on fire and their father would reward him. He betrayed their family and the kingdom to marry a traitor and for that, he was rewarded with Casterly Rock. All she had ever done was serve. She listened to their father, she took his words to heart, she performed the duty that was expected of her, and still he would take. They would take from her until she was old and toothless, and even then it might not be enough.
There was no anger in her father's eyes when he approached her. He was stoic, emotionless, and for once she could not place where his thoughts were. Tywin stood over her, a father looking down upon his child, and she suddenly felt the urge to beg for forgiveness.
"You will not lecture me on your accomplishments. I can see perfectly well what little they have achieved. You will marry again, you will bear children, and you will put to rest these foul rumors that you have breathed life into. Were it not for me, you would have already been buried by them. Be grateful you have the opportunity to atone for your mistakes."
. . .
Cersei could not recall leaving the room. She'd left the Tower of the Hand as well, and walked along the narrow corridors that led to the gardens, but no thoughts occupied her mind, no words her tongue. She should have been screaming at her father still, but she had become mute and had pathetically escaped his presence. She needed to think, needed to plan, but there was nothing coming to mind. There was only a solemn emptiness.
There had been a time when Joffrey refused to leave her side. If she was not in sight, he cried. If he called and she did not answer quickly, he screamed. To other mothers, it might have been a frustration, but she had relished every moment, and had loved every sound. There was someone who needed her. Only she could soothe, only she mattered.
Even now, she could feel his little hands clinging to her skirts. Perhaps that was why she walked so slowly...
When a blonde head rounded the corner into the castle, Cersei thought she had stumbled into a dream. Joffrey had returned to her. But soon her vision cleared, and it was Tommen running toward her, cheeks red and out of breath. He wore a coat that was far too large for him, and carried a little wooden sword.
"Mother!" the boy cried, holding up his sword. "Ser Loras is teaching me! He says I'll be a great knight one day!"
As he spoke his name, so entered the member of the Kingsguard, his sister right behind him. Loras was never far from Margaery, and sometimes it made her wonder.
Cersei knelt down, grabbing the sword. "My sweet, you don't need to be a knight. You are a king."
"But I want to be a knight like Ser Loras and Uncle Jaime."
Margaery stepped forward, a warm smile on her face, but Cersei could see the wariness in her eyes. She ought to be cautious; she was not queen yet. "And so you shall be! Perhaps Loras will even be the one to knight you."
Her simpleton of a brother nodded. "It would be my honor, Your Grace."
Cersei narrowed her eyes. "Perhaps Ser Loras has his vows mistaken. The king does not bow to his Kingsguard."
And certainly not to a Tyrell.
They had grown bolder since the wedding. Joffrey would not have easily fallen prey to their ways, but Tommen was just a boy. He liked to please and he hated to see anyone upset. All Margaery had to do was pout and Tommen would declare a war just to see her smile again. If she was allowed to continue to have a hand in his upbringing, there would be a puppet king sitting the Iron Throne in ten years time.
'Until there comes another, younger and more beautiful...'
"My apologies, My Queen," Margaery said in that sickening tone. "We did not mean to offend. We only thought it would be good for the realm to see that their king is ready to face the dangers that may lie ahead in his reign."
"And what dangers would that be?" Cersei asked, daring either of them to answer. She'd see them shipped off for treason in an instant, though she preferred the idea of their pretty little heads on spikes, one beside the other. In time, no one would be able to tell them apart. "Joffrey did not need to be knighted. He still fought for his kingdom. Was he less courageous for that?"
Margaery frowned. "Of course not."
Tommen pulled the sword from her grasp. "Joffrey didn't fight. He told people to fight. Myrcella told me a king shouldn't command anything he wouldn't do himself."
The words of Oberyn Martell from her daughter's mouth, no doubt. How Dorne would dance and sing should Tommen encounter an accident while training.
"Your brother led the fight against Stannis."
"He ran away from Stannis! I don't want to run away! I want to help!"
Before she could grab him, Tommen ran back the way he came, taking Margaery's hand as he led her back outside. Ser Loras stared at her for half a moment, pity in his eyes. How she wished to claw them out.
Was it too late for Tommen? Could she not free him from the clutches of the Tyrells?
Cersei wandered the gardens, lost, dazed, empty. She had lost the council, lost Joffrey, Myrella, Tommen...
Jaime.
She sat by one of the fountains, running her hand through the water. Her reflection here was clearer, though no less tired. They had called her the most beautiful woman in the kingdoms, and what had that gotten her? A lecher husband who called out the name of a lesser woman. A foolhardy brother who took everything owed to her. A child dead in her arms because the realm could not bear the thought of his rule.
A prophecy she feared was beginning to come true.
As she sat there, a shadow came to linger by her side. She paid it no mind; she had no time for false courtesies with lesser lords and ladies. If she was to be carted off like the brood mare her father thought her to be, then why must she bother with the facade any longer?
"My apologies, My Queen. I come far too late bearing condolences for the loss of His Grace."
The rat always did know when someone was at their lowest.
"On that, we can agree, Lord Baelish," she replied, not bothering to look at him. The thought of having him run through with a sword was amusing, but he'd gone and made himself important. Lysa Arryn was pathetically reliant on him, and they had enough enemies without the Vale declaring war as well. "Say your piece and leave."
"As you command," he said, sitting across from her at the fountain. Littlefinger was dressed far more resplendent than usual. His new wife was doting upon him as well, but of course he still schemed. He'd received more than anyone of his status deserved, but he continued to climb. A man as frail as him would die in the fall. "Your current situation is not...admirable, but with a word here and an action there, things may start to change for you."
"If you are aware of my current situation, then why have you come to me?" Cersei asked. She did not doubt that he was aware of everything. Somehow, he probably heard the argument with her father as well. Varys may have been the Master of Whispers, but Littlefinger had proven adept at knowing things even the spider's little birds could not procure. "You're a power hungry little fiend, and I have nothing of interest to you."
Smiles looked unnatural on the man. "While I do not deny the description, I would argue that there is plenty we can do for one another. I, too, see the danger in granting the Tyrells too much power. Your father is confident that he has them under control, and perhaps that is true, but despite the rumors, Tywin Lannister is just a man, and should he die, who is to stop them from seizing everything? His brother Kevan? Your brother? From what I can see, there is only one amongst us who can curb the power of Highgarden, and that is you, Your Grace."
She thought to accuse him of simple flattery. It was easy to see what she hated and what she wanted and to compose a story based on that, but Cersei considered his side of the situation. She doubted the Tyrells wanted anything to do with him. The Queen of Thorns would sooner see him as her whipping boy than come one step closer to the Iron Throne. All his scheming was for naught amongst a house of schemers.
"And I suppose you come with a proposal to see me back in a position of power?"
"Just so, Your Grace, though it will involve Princess Myrcella."
It took all her strength not to reach out and strike him then. He had already needlessly involved her in one of his failed plans. She did not want her daughter thrust into another.
"Mind your next words carefully, Lord Baelish."
He did not seem deterred. Her claws had truly been stripped from her.
Littlefinger spoke of a twisted little tale, a princess disappearing in the dead of night from Dorne, only to reemerge in the possession of a house in the Reach, unharmed and unspoiled of course, moved around by servants and minor lords whom he knew well.
She listened to how his mind worked, how he weaved together a future fraught with conflict between Dorne and the Reach, for Dorne could declare Myrcella queen, and who would hate that more than the house who strived to put Margaery on the throne for so long? And who would ever suspect her mother of arranging her escape, for everyone knew she despised the Reach as much as Dorne.
With the threat of war and her safety no longer guaranteed, Myrcella would be returned to King's Landing. The bastard would be removed from the council, the Tyrells would no longer be trusted. And she would be the one who was in the right all along.
It was a pretty little story that played out in her mind.
"And what would you get out of this, Lord Baelish? Surely you don't offer my heart's desire out of the goodness of your own."
"I have come into possession of the other two Stark girls, Your Grace, and I would ask for leave to put them where I may."
Cersei narrowed her eyes. "Come into possession of, or stolen from King's Landing? I am well aware Sansa was here not so long ago."
"I admit, I brought her with me to the Vale. She is the other key to securing their allegiance. My marriage to Lysa is only a temporary solution. After all, she is not an Arryn, and her son's health is failing fast," Littlefinger amended. "And Arya I intended to send to Winterfell. Her marriage to Ramsay Bolton would secure the North, and considerably weaken any claim Myra or her children may have."
She felt her fingers clench at the word children. Jaime had children. They were her children, and they would be the only ones.
"While the thought of destroying the she-wolf's life is tempting, I have no interest in it. Do what you wish with the Stark girls, they pose no threat now," Cersei replied, standing. "As for Myrcella..."
Memories of a girl full of light and laughter washed over her. A daughter who longed to be as beautiful as her mother, who ran her fingers over her dresses in wonder and would was the day away running a brush through her curls. The same daughter who would spit upon her simply for trying to protect her from the danger that surrounded them on all sides.
A child in the grasp of Dorne. Another with the Reach. A chance to free them both.
"I would welcome her back with open arms should the day ever come," Cersei said quietly. "Now leave."
Littlefinger nodded once, slipping away from her small sanctuary. She watched as he flitted past Meryn Trant, her ever silent shadow, and wondered if she shouldn't have him killed anyway.
. . .
Jaime
The last time he'd had dinner with Genna, one of the servants wound up getting stabbed with a fork. He couldn't recall who had done the stabbing or why it had taken place, only the shrill sound of a man in pain, and the bawdy laughter of his infamous aunt. If they got through this latest affair with no additional holes in any of those in attendance, he might reconsider the existence of the gods.
Jaime had thought Myra would refuse to attend given the circumstances - he might have himself if he wasn't certain Genna would drag him inside by the ear - but she was oddly adamant about attending. For the good of the realm, his young wife had said. It was her worst lie to date, and he'd said as much.
"Very well," she'd replied with a sigh, shrugging into her modest gray dress. No Lannister colors for her that evening. She was asking for war. "I want to properly meet the new Lord of Riverrun, and see if he is worthy of the keep he now possesses."
He knew her answer would be no from the start, but said nothing of it. It did not take long after they sat at the table for Myra to draw that conclusion herself. She measured Emmon quickly, and found him wanting. Her eyes would narrow every time her gaze landed upon the thin wisp of a man across from her, and her grip on whatever utensil was in her possession would tighten. And Jamie had made the mistake of leaving her on his right side. He imagined plopping his golden hand on her thigh was hardly the calming presence he meant it to be.
Genna, however, more than made up for her pathetic excuse of a husband.
Jovial and large as ever, his aunt had welcomed him with a proper hug, giving him a onceover. "They've sheared you. It makes you look old."
Jaime had held up his arm. "They took my hand too. At least one of them grows back. Unfortunately, not the one I'd prefer."
"Hmph, of course it's gold," Genna replied, looking over to Myra. "And this one is silver. Couldn't quite break her, nephew?"
His wife's smile was sickly sweet. "Wear your husband's colors and I shall wear mine's."
Daven, who had been lingering in the back, had broken into a fit of coughs. It was well known that Genna was still a Lannister, even if she had been married to Emmon Frey. There was no command her lord husband issued that did not have her approval behind it, and it was she who would be in charge of Riverrun, a fact that Myra had picked up on during the course of their meal.
It had been a calm dinner for the most part. Conversation dragged on about the war and the wedding and the terrible state of Riverrun. They'd managed to clean the dining hall ahead of their meal, but there were piles of refuse outside the doors and a distinct smell lingered in the air, a constant reminder that this dinner was anything but normal. Not an hour before, Jaime had still been determining where to place the prisoners and ordering Freys about.
"You should have consulted me about the dispensing of punishment," Emmon squeaked from his seat. Stuck between Genna and Daven, he looked impossibly smaller. "Promising the soldiers they could return home? They are traitors, and should have been dealt with as such."
"You'll have enough problems keeping order in the Riverlands. A little mercy can go a long way," Jaime replied, taking a bite from his meal, dutifully cut once again by his loving wife. She'd kept her eyes on Emmon the entire time. The large apple in his throat had bobbled.
"And what of Edmure Tully? So long as he lives, the people will claim he is their lord. I demand he be returned at once."
Myra had straightened. "Who are you to make demands? If it weren't for Jaime, you'd still be stuck in the muck with your goats and pigs."
Daven laughed at that, his meal partly stuck in his beard. "Emmon never did meet a woman he could best."
Even Myra smiled at his joke, and Jaime felt a good deal of tension slip from his shoulders. This had been one of the final hurdles, getting past this place. If she was doing well so soon after the keep had been taken, things would be alright. They were off to Casterly Rock in the morning, and hopefully a peaceful future, at least for a time. He could use a proper night's rest.
"Regardless, Edmure Tully is my uncle by marriage. While the Freys are certainly a shining example of familial relations, I don't plan on taking after them. He will travel with us, his wife will join him, and we will speak no more of it."
He felt Myra's hand on his knee, the emotion she could not show outwardly.
Genna broke her quiet observation of the table. "This is certainly not the way Tywin would have handled things."
There was a time he would have been insulted by those words. Despite his stubborn attempts to leave the family legacy behind, there had always been the boyish need to live up to his father's name. One did not simply grow up in the shadow of Tywin Lannister and come away unscathed. Yet now, he felt vindicated by his aunt's words.
Jaime took a drink from his goblet. "I am not my father."
"Indeed," Genna replied, looking around. "Speaking of, I had thought your brother traveled with you. Has Tyrion no love left in him for his aunt?"
I don't believe he has any love at all.
He had thought to go to his brother earlier in the day, when he returned to the camp with Edmure Tully in tow. Genna would never believe he had killed Joffrey, and even if he had, she might have agreed with him. Tyrion could use company like hers, but he had grown cowardly upon approaching his brother's tent and sent Pod in instead. The squire returned with a shrug, and a new wine stain upon his trousers.
"Tyrion has taken ill," Myra said diplomatically, covering for her husband's stumble. "He celebrated Prince Oberyn's victory too hard and too often, and now he suffers the consequences."
"A fine day that was. Your father's face must have been a sight to behold."
"I did not look," Jaime said. "I prefer to stay amongst the living."
Conversation lulled as evening retired into night, and the sun dipped below the horizon. The candles cast eerie shadows across the room, and Jaime often found himself hearing the echoing words of the Blackfish's tales. It had been a long day.
Daven stood from his seat first. "This was a fine meal, but there is much to prepare for and a long journey home still. If it's alright with you, coz, I would join my party with yours."
"You are welcome to it. Myra and I could use better company."
Myra stood as well. "If that is the case, might you escort me back to camp, Daven? I imagine the other Lannisters have much to discuss."
Oddly taken with his wife, Daven was quick to put his arm around hers, giving Jaime a quick wink. "She's definitely smarter than you."
Jaime stood and watched them leave, strangely at ease with the whole interaction. Myra would need as many Lannisters on her side as she could get, and Daven was an important one. His aunt, however, was a different question entirely.
He turned to Genna. She was finishing off her wine and glaring at her husband, who was still picking at his dinner without the slightest clue that he was not wanted.
"Get out."
Emmon Frey even squeaked like a mouse as he quickly abandoned his chair and the room.
Genna settled back into her seat, observing him. Jaime imagined she wanted a proper look at the man he had become without his wife present. He wondered if he was meeting her expectations; he wondered if he cared.
"Can she be trusted?" his aunt asked.
"I trust her."
She snorted. "I should certainly hope so. You only committed treason by marrying the woman, but I need more than that. Men and their hearts matter little. I want proof that a wolf can become a lion."
"Then I have none," Jaime replied, looking her squarely in the eye. "But it is not Genna Lannister who is Lord of Casterly Rock. Myra Stark is my wife, and she will be respected as such, and there will be consequences for those who refuse to comply, regardless of whatever esteem they believe my father holds them in."
There was a glow in her green eyes that briefly caused him concern until his aunt stood. "There it is."
Jaime blinked. "What?"
His aunt practically cackled, crossing the room to rest a hand on his cheek. "Jaime, my dear, you have always been such a sweet and simple boy. You are your mother's son in so many ways, but you have allowed people to use you for far too long. I may not know this Stark girl, but she has put a fire back in you that I have not seen since you were a child. If this is a sign of what is to come, your father's legacy is in good hands after all."
For one moment, he was touched. Words like hers made his heart soar, for despite her nature, he truly loved his aunt. But Jaime could not help himself. He grinned. "That is perhaps the nicest thing you have ever said to anyone."
She smacked him lightly on the cheek, frowning. "And if you tell a soul, I'll beat you senseless with your golden hand."
He believed it.
. . .
It had begun to rain when Jaime finally left the castle, drenching the countryside and scattering men to their tents. He watched Freys bicker over the well maintained ones and laughed out loud at their foolishness.
Myra was studying the war table when he entered their tent, tracing her fingers over lines somewhere to the west. Her lips moved once in a while, when her finger stopped in a particular spot and her eyebrows furrowed. Jaime watched the ceremony with interest.
"It occurs to me that I know very little about the West," Myra said, not looking up. "I know a few houses and a few stories, but I ought to properly get to know each and every one."
Jaime shuffled to the map, gazing at the top of her head. "Many lords would say that's a job for me and not you."
He was met by an unimpressed gaze. "If I know you at all, Jaime Lannister - and I like to think that I do - you are going to need all the help you can get, not least of which will come from me, seeing as how I may be the only one who can dissuade you from being a fool in one way or another."
"And yet, you were a large part of the most foolish decision I have ever made," he teased, leaning on the table. "You don't need to learn it all overnight, Myra. You have plenty of time to impress everyone."
She smiled at that. "You know, you are a lot like Robb in some ways. He could fight and command, but the politics of it all was a little much for him."
Jaime smiled back, not because he cared much for the comparison to her brother, but that she spoke of him with more ease. The pain was still there, but it wasn't about to tear her apart. It was a good sign.
"Well, I have plenty of time to get better at that too. Seeing as how I can't fight, I need to not be completely useless."
"Mmm, I think it's rather too late for that."
"You wound me, Stark."
Before he could properly show her how much use he still had, a Lannister guard entered the tent, bowing. "My lord, we found a man at the edge of the camp. He claims to know Lady Myra."
Jaime was at his wife's side in an instant. "Who is this man?"
"He says his name is Jory Cassel. We might have called him a liar were it not for-"
"Send him in!" Myra commanded, gripping Jaime's hand tightly. He could feel her trembling beside him. They hadn't seen Jory since she sent him away on Dragonstone at the beginning of the war. Myra had thought him dead and mourned him just as she had the others. "At once, please."
The guard nodded. "Of course, my lady."
The man who entered the tent not long after was not the Jory Cassel Jaime recalled. There was a patch covering his left eye, and scars crossing the rest of his exposed skin. His leathers were tattered and torn, worn well from abuse and war. Blood stained the fabric of his sleeves, and his hair had grown longer and wild. There was a look in his remaining eye that likened him to some creature from the woods, on guard and rabid. It was the look of a man still deeply entrenched in the worst parts of war.
But he was the same man to Myra. She ran forward and embraced him in a hug, crying as she called his name. He held her tightly and sobbed, a man who never expected to see her again. When Myra held his face and ran her hand over the patch, Jaime was reminded of what he had seen on Dragonstone: a captain who had fallen in love with his lord's daughter, and she none the wiser. But there was no jealousy he felt. Jaime simply pitied the man.
"Jory, what has happened? How are you alive? How-"
"Many things have happened, my lady. It would be remiss of me to say what exactly, but suffice it to say I am here now, ready to uphold my vow."
Jaime could not help but chuckle. "You're going to have more sworn swords than me."
Her father's man had clearly not noticed him in the tent, not once his gaze had fallen on Myra, but he glared at him now with a fury that might have cowed other men. Jaime grinned, smug. It still meant little to him.
"My lady, whatever he has done to you, I-"
Myra rested a hand on his arm, quieting him. "He has done nothing to me, Jory. Jaime is the reason I am alive. I need you to understand that."
It was surely a lot for the man to take in at once. Jaime could see the emotion dancing across his eye, and wondered if Myra saw the same. She knew how people worked, but for Jory Cassel, she had often been blind.
"If you insist, my lady," he replied, focusing on her again. If that was what it took, Jaime did not mind, although he wondered how he was supposed to explain this to his men. What was another difficult task amongst the many? "But there is something else. Someone else, actually, and they want to see you."
"Is it Arya?" Myra asked, her eyes wide as a child's. "Have you found her? Is she here?"
"I will not say before him, and I certainly won't bring her here."
"Jory, please, the camp is safe. You must bring her here."
Jaime stepped closer. He did not like this turn of events. Something was wrong with the way Jory acted, with how he wished to lure Myra away. It made his hair stand on end, and he felt his hand reaching for his sword.
He'd told Brienne to rest for the night, and Myra had insisted. He regretted that now.
"It's dangerous outside the camp," Jaime warned, moving closer to Myra. "The Brotherhood Without Banners is killing anyone they can get their hands on. Whoever is with you, I promise they will be safe."
"I do not trust the words of a Lannister," Jory spoke.
"Myra is a Lannister."
"She is a Stark."
Jaime moved to grip his wife's arm. "Myra, step away from him."
He thought she might argue with him, insisting that there was nothing wrong with the way Jory was acting, after all he was a Stark man in a Lannister camp, but Myra backed away as he asked, allowing herself to be led by his grip. She had grown quiet and wary.
"My lady, please..."
"Jory, you are sworn to me. You will bring her here, or I will call for the guards."
The man deflated, the weariness and weight of war pressing down upon him once more. "I can't."
Jaime had a shout on his tongue, but it died the instant the Lannister guard returned to the tent. A bow was in his grasp, drawn and taut, ready to fire the instant either one of them did something that wasn't to his liking. Myra gasped as Jaime pulled her behind him, shielding her.
"Told you it wouldn't work," the man mumbled.
Behind them, Jaime heard the sound of shuffling feet. He turned to see more Lannister guards emerging from the drawn curtains on the other side of the tent. There were four, properly armed and undoubtedly ready to skewer them both.
The missing scouts...
Myra wrapped her arms around him, and Jaime held her, until a knife at his throat had him pulling away. His wife watched him, eyes wide, free but bound just the same by the blade that rested upon his skin. Even if he called out now and summoned true Lannister men at the cost of his life for hers, he knew Myra would fight for him, and die all the same.
"You're to come with us," the first guard said, lowering his bow. "If you shout, you die. If you run, you die. If you do anything I don't care for, you die."
A thousand insults came to his mind at once. Jaime had to bite his tongue to keep them at bay.
"And where are you taking us?" Myra asked, her voice deep, fearless, insulted.
"To your lady mother, of course."