Tyrion
The quiet of the library was a blessed relief from the chaos of the king's feast. Not that he did not enjoy a good party, but every now and again he liked the company of intelligence and understanding more, and there was none to be found in the Great Hall of Winterfell.
He had not meant to spend much time in the library; he only wished to replace the books the Starks had provided in his room - a kind gesture on their part but woefully misinformed - but now he found himself tucked into a small chair in the corner, a candle on the table to his left and a dusty text on Artos the Implacable on his lap. The wineskin he had brought along had run dry long ago, but even that had not been enough to convince him to retire. Many would find that surprising, save for Jaime. Only his older brother knew how he truly functioned; only his older brother cared to know.
The book had begun to tell him of the Battle of Long Lake when the sound of an opening door caught his attention.
Tyrion glanced up to see a dark figure entering the room, and though the candlelight barely lit their features, eh could tell it was a woman, and a rather relived one at that. she did not seem to notice him. He found it a little odd, but not entirely out of the realm of possibility. After all, people had been ignoring him all his life. What was one more person among the many?
"Some might call it strange, seeking the company of books rather than man, especially for someone such as yourself."
The woman jumped, clutching one hand to her chest. "Lord Tyrion...I didn't realize anyone would be up here, especially at this hour."
Gods knew that of all the possible visitors, Myra Stark was one of the better ones. Of course, anyone Tyrion had deemed a worse than death companion wouldn't think to step near a book, much less the library.
"Tell me, do you Northerners often keep a fire burning alone in a room full of paper?"
Even in the darkness, he could make out her sheepish features. "Only when Maester Luwin knows I'm coming."
He nodded as she took a seat across from him. "You are a frequenter then?"
"I must have read most of these twice over," she replied with a sigh. Her eyes wandered the shelves adoringly before pausing on him. "The Tales of Artos Stark, as written by his ailing Maester. I find the embellishment a little much, but once you break past the overused vocabulary, it's quite insightful."
Tyrion smiled. Oh yes, he and this Stark were going to get on just fine.
Myra was a pretty girl, perhaps not the most beautiful, but any lord with half a brain would count his blessings to have her on his arm. Her gray eyes were wide and curious, her face heart-shaped and friendly, and she had all the curves a woman could ask for, plus a little more for the sake of men. It was a wonder she had not been married off already, but Tyrion supposed Eddard had a reason for wanting his family close to him for longer than needed.
"As for the company," she continued, unaware of his scrutiny, "sometimes I enjoy being surrounded by things that cannot talk back."
He knew that feeling all too well.
"And when the books start to talk back?" he asked, shutting his own.
The girl chuckled. "Then I've had too much to drink."
Clearly I've not had enough.
It did feel unusual, still being at least partially sober, especially given the circumstances. Then again, the night was still young and there was plenty of wine to be found, no doubt because they had heard of his reputation to drink the lands dry. Or maybe that was Robert. Between the two of them, every inn within a thousand leagues was only serving water now.
A brief moment of silence passed between them before Myra spoke again, all traces of her previous humor now gone. She looked much more like her father that way, filled with all the grim tidings of the North. "Might I ask you something, Lord Tyrion?"
He sighed. "I suppose if it can't be avoided, but leave the titles out of it. My father is Lord of Casterly Rock. I am only his spawn, or so he is forced to believe."
Tyrion did not miss the strange look on her face, the slight sadness in her eyes at his choice of words.
"I did not mean to remind you of anything...unpleasant."
Well, she would be the first.
"My dear girl, I am reminded of it every time I wake in the morning. It takes an awful lot of drink in order to forget what I am, and I am hardly capable of getting that drunk anymore," he paused, eying his empty wineskin, "Now, please, ask what you will."
Still, she was quiet again, taking her time before hesitantly asking, "I was only wondering...the stares and the whispers, how do you ignore them? How do you make them disappear?"
Tyrion looked back to her, suddenly realizing what it was all about, why she sought sanctuary here in the library. Robert wasn't like to venture anywhere near intelligent things, nor any of his entourage, any of those who would whisper of who she resembled. He had never met Lyanna, but he knew of her. Not a soul alive in Westeros was unaware of the sad tale that brought the land to war. Myra must have seemed like some strange omen.
"I don't," he replied flatly. No need for lies here. For once, the truth was best. "Convince yourself that they do not exist and you will only wind up hurt. Believe me, I tried once."
He watched her nod, clearly defeated by his answer.
He sighed again. "Look, you are a pretty girl, and one day you'll have a lord husband who will relish it. Count your blessings that you have been given the face of another rather than..."
Tyrion gestured to himself as he slid down from his chair.
Her frown deepened. "I am sorry, Tyrion, I don't wish to compare my case to yours. I simply..."
She trailed off, biting her lip.
"I know, I know. Stop apologizing, you've done nothing wrong," he waved his hand in her direction, walking slowly to the door, book in hand. "Now, as much as I have enjoyed our conversation, I think a little fresh air may do me some good."
As well as some more wine, if our dear king hasn't drank it all yet.
"Good night, Tyrion."
"Good night to you as well, Lady Myra," he replied with a sweeping bow, a courtesy he hardly thought he knew anymore.
Myra smiled at him before he left through the threshold.
"My mother is lady of this castle. I am only her spawn," he heard her call out.
Tyrion, despite himself, chuckled. "And I will do well to remember that!"
It was a long journey to the bottom of the stairwell, though not quite as tiresome as the climb had been. Still, Tyrion found himself scarcely able to breathe when he at last reach the bottom. More than once he glanced at the wineskin, cursing himself for having consumed it all too quickly. He had half a mind to retire to bed and be done with it, but still his tired body continued to waddle toward the Great Hall and the commotion coursing from it.
He turned a corner quickly, nearly running into an out held wineskin and the looming figure it belonged to.
"I told you not to leave me alone with these people."
"And I told you where you could find me," Tyrion replied as he grabbed the skin and took a swig. It was bitter stuff but satisfying nonetheless.
Jaime chuckled. "Ah, yes, the library. I think I preferred it when you were in the company of whores."
"Gods know why. You look at books the same way you do women: with complete and utter disinterest."
"At least the whores have a sense of humor."
"So do the books, if you'd read them once in a while."
Tyrion took another swig, heading back toward his room. Jaime walked beside him, at a pace that would most likely be uncomfortable for someone of his height had he not grown used to it over the years. For all the trouble Tyrion gave him, he was grateful for his brother. The gods, it seemed, had cursed him in every way they thought possible, but at least they had spared him one family member who cared.
Jaime gave him a look. "They're all the same. War turned into poetry and old men yearning for youth again. Tales of glory and honor. No one talks about how fast blood can drain from a man hit in the proper spot or the sound of metal making contact with the meat of your enemy. Not every book is about dragons or grumpkins but they're all fancy as far as I'm concerned."
There was a moment of silence.
"That was oddly serious of you. I should leave you alone more often."
"I'd rather you didn't. These Starks and their brooding are bound to drive me insane," Jaime said as they entered another stairwell. Tyrion did not bother hiding his disappointment upon seeing more steps. "There's a reason no one travels north."
"Maybe there's a reason they don't travel south," Tyrion added as they approached his room. "Come, Jaime, I plan on being properly inebriated before the night is through."
Jaime sighed. "Ah, from one drunk to another, my duty never ends."
Myra
She never used to dream. Nights often went uninterrupted until the first rays of sun broke over the horizon, but that morning she woke with a cold feeling grasping her body and the memory of a raven's wings. She could not recall any images, but whatever transpired in the dead of night left her with an empty feeling; she did not like it.
It was only when Myra finally forced her eyes open that she remembered she was still in the library, curled into one of the chairs. The position was not particularly comfortable, but she had fallen asleep there so many times that her body had grown quite used to the feeling. Maester Luwin used to keep extra blankets especially for her on one of the shelves.
Part of her longed to drift back to sleep, ignoring the party downstairs until they departed. It seemed a fairly pointless effort, however, considering she was to travel south with them when they returned to King's Landing.
Her father was now Hand of the King - something she still could not quite grasp the reality of - and she, Sansa, Arya, and Bran were to accompany him to his new position in the Red Keep. That left their poor mother with only Robb and Rickon. She could not imagine how lonely it would be, to go from six children to only two, and to go without sharing the bed with her husband. It was a wonder her mother still functioned, but she was the strongest person Myra knew.
Myra wondered how she would deal with the distance. It was Robb she worried for the most. And Jon. None of them had ever been far from the others. She knew Jon would not remain in Winterfell, especially if her mother had her way. To an extent, she could understand her mother's harshness toward their bastard brother, but at the end of the day, Jon had never done anything to her, and frankly had treated her with far more respect than what was called for. But she supposed her mother's opinion did not matter at this point. Jon had his eyes fixed upon the Wall and the dark duty their uncle had taken up all those years ago.
And now Robb would be acting Lord of Winterfell. At any other time, the thought of her twin, only seven and ten, commanding anything would have her bursting at the seams from laughter. Now it only reminded her what little time they had left in their childhood.
Our whole family is being torn apart, and all for the want of one man.
A pounding at the door drew Myra's attention away from her thoughts. Sansa suddenly burst through the threshold, out of breath and clearly in a rush. A small part of Myra jumped in concern, but she had learned long ago that her younger sister often drew problems well out of proportion.
"Myra, where were you?!"
She blinked, glancing at her surroundings and gesturing to them. "Right here."
Sansa stamped her foot. "You were supposed to help me fix my hair this morning!"
"Oh..."
Recalling their conversation the previous night about attempting to plait her hair the way all the Southern girls did, Myra began to feel a little guilty. Sansa had been so excited. She wanted to look perfect for Joffrey, a thought that still caused a bit of bile to rise in her throat. Myra had to wonder what Sansa would think of the boy had he not been crown prince.
"I wanted Joffrey to see me before he went on the hunt," Sansa sighed, looking utterly deflated all of a sudden.
Myra just barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Gods, youth was annoying.
"Sansa, the two of you are betrothed. You've plenty of time to show him whatever hairstyle that pleases you."
"You don't understand!"
She sighed. "No, I suppose I don't. Look, why don't we work on it now, that way when he returns, he can see how much more beautiful you've become in his absence."
That seemed to cheer Sansa up. She smiled timidly, though it quickly disappeared. "We aren't going to do it here, are we?"
Myra raised an eyebrow. "I hadn't thought to, but what is wrong with the library?"
"It smells like dust and dead things."
Well, she supposed her sister wasn't wrong, though she wasn't exactly right either.
Not an hour later, Myra found herself in Sansa's room with clumps of hair in each hand and a slew of curse words caught in her throat. She had always thought herself quite gifted in the realm of style - even if she often did not use it. Then again the North had never really required much out of her. Everything from the South was so finely intricate. Most of the detail was likely lost on others, but it was still demanded, something that would no doubt drive her insane at some point or another.
Brenna and Lady were on the ground before them, both watching with heads curiously tilted. Out of all the direwolves, theirs were the best behaved. Myra's was by far the largest, at least at this point, and often took command of the others. It was entertaining if not slightly unnerving at the same time. They were so like each other, all the Starks and their pets.
"Are you finished?"
"What do you think, Sansa?"
She huffed. "Well, are you close?"
"The instant I am anywhere near being done with this monstrosity of a hair style, I will tell you."
Sansa fell still again, though Myra knew it would not be for long. She gave her younger sister credit, she did far better at staying in one place than Arya ever would, but she knew the girl had limits and they were very close to breaking them.
"Do you think he'll love me?"
Myra had not expected such a question from her sister, so sudden and serious. She paused a moment, before continuing to plait her hair.
"I think he would be a fool not to. You're beautiful and kind - when you choose to be - and far better than any of those Southern girls they brought with them."
"But what if it's not enough? What if he hates me? I don't want to live with a husband who hates me."
"He won't hate you, Sansa."
"How do you know?" Sansa turned to her, slow enough to allow Myra to let her hair go. Her poor sister looked on the verge of tears. What had brought it all on? "It was different with you and Domeric. He wasn't pretty and he wasn't a prince, but I could tell that he loved you."
Ignoring the jab at Domeric, she smiled. "We'd known each other for a long time. You have been with Prince Joffrey for hardly a day. Give it time and you'll be alright."
Sansa sat back again, though not entirely relaxed. Myra could spot the tenseness in her shoulders. "I hope so. I'd hate to end up like the Queen."
Her smile disappeared. Yes, the Queen. What a life she must have led. A replacement wife for a dead one, left to watch as her husband makes a mockery of their marriage and their rule, constantly under the scrutiny of others all the while. Myra knew a good mask when she saw one, and the Queen's was an exquisite piece, but the cracks were there, and time was making them more obvious.
Despite first impressions, she pitied the woman. And she pitied the king for being blind to it all.
Myra had just returned to her struggles with Sansa's locks when Lady and Brenna began to howl. Had they been any of the other pups, she might not have minded, or rather she would have expected it. A quick harsh tone would be all they needed to quiet up. But when it came to her pup and Sansa's, the two had hardly uttered a yip, much less a howl. They sounded in pain and immediately ran for the door, clawing at it.
"Lady, what is wrong with you?" Sansa asked, turning to the door. "Lady come here!"
The pup did no such thing. She only howled louder.
Myra watched them, her stomach sinking all the while. She remembered her dream and the cold feeling.
Dark wings, dark words.
Something was wrong.
"Sansa, take hold of Lady. I want you to stay here, alright?"
She did not like the frightened look her sister gave her. "Myra, what is happening?"
"I don't know. It's likely nothing."
"You wouldn't tell me to stay here if it was nothing."
Myra sighed. "Please, Sansa, do it for me."
Her sister nodded, grabbing Lady away from the door. Myra opened it and followed as Brenna rushed into the corridor and down the stairs, as fast as her little legs could carry her, which as it turned out was nearly enough to outrun Myra. She hitched up her skirts as high as she dared, trailing after the little pup at a reckless speed. Left and right, servants paused to look at her, but if they knew her well enough, which most did, they would be used to it. All her life she had run up and down the halls of Winterfell, chasing after siblings and getting aid when one of them hurt themselves again. Usually for Robb. He always was the clumsy one.
Gods, what if it was the hunting party?
She pushed back the dark thoughts as far as she dared, picking up her pace as Brenna led her outside, to a well secluded and less looked after part of the castle. From time to time, Myra would visit the area, often conjuring up ideas of how to improve it. Calling it the Broken Tower and leaving it be, burned and rotting, did not seem to do Winterfell or her family much justice. If anything, it made them look like a lazy lot, which they were quite the opposite of.
A small crowd had gathered at the base of the tower. There were wails and whispers and an overall commotion that did not bode well. Brenna stopped just short of them, making her way to another direwolf pup and howling beside it.
The pup belonged to Bran.
And in the center of the crowd, pale and motionless, was the small form of her little brother, looking more dead than alive.
It was all she remembered before the ground gave out beneath her feet.
Jon
Something was hurting, a steady, stabbing motion deep within his chest. The more he thought about it, the more it hurt, but there was nothing in all of Westeros that could take his attention away, save for Bran's voice asking another one of his silly questions or trying out a new name on his direwolf.
But Bran would not be speaking for a long time now.
Perhaps never.
He'd rather think of the pain than that.
He'd rather think of it over the fact that all his family was gathered around Bran now, comforting one another while he was in the godswood, praying to gods who never spoke, grieving alone because even now Lady Stark could not bear the sight of him. Even now, while his brother was lying there helpless, possibly dying, she would send him away, not let him look at his sweet face one last time before fate took him away. It was a cruelty far worse than anything she had given him, and still his father would have him obey.
And he would, because he was a hopeless bastard who knew more of obedience than love.
He wanted to punch the ground then, and so he did. Again and again his fist made contact with the dirt. More pain shot up his arm, but it was nothing next to the pain in his chest. His skin was breaking. He didn't care. His fist left trails of blood in the dirt. He still did not care. It felt good to vent his frustrations, at Catelyn, at the king, at everyone who had ever made him feel small only for breathing.
Even when he thought something cracked, he kept going. Bran was dying. He could take the pain.
"Jon, stop!"
His fist froze midair.
Jon turned in the direction of the voice. There Myra stood, not three feet away, her eyes watching him with a wild, desperate look and her lips trembling. She looked on the verge of tears. Her hair was a tangled mess and her dress, the very one she had worn for the feast, was covered in mud. He had heard she fainted at the sight of Bran and that one of the guards had to carry her back inside.
He stood slowly, hair just touching the low lying leaves of the weirwood. The fingers on his right hand flexed slowly, but the pain was gone, the skin numb.
"Suppose you'll want to look at this," he mumbled, daring to meet her eyes again.
"I might," she whispered.
They stood silent for a while, neither daring to speak or move, yet so much passed between them. Jon suddenly understood it, the silent talks that she and Robb always had, knowing what the other wanted and needed without saying a word. He knew then what Myra needed.
The instant he strode forward and wrapped his arms around her, Myra collapsed, her silence broken down into sobs. She buried her face into his shoulder and dug her fingers deep into his clothes.
"I couldn't bear it, Jon," she managed between shaky breaths. "Mother was wailing...so was Rickon. Sansa and Arya and Robb. Even father. Oh Jon, I couldn't look at him. He wasn't the same. I told myself I had to be strong. I had to be strong for them, but I couldn't. The screams and the whispers and the words like death. I can't be strong, Jon, not anymore."
"You know you never have to be around me." He tightened his grip, taking care to keep the blood off her clothes. "I'll be strong for the both of us."
"That isn't fair to you."
He paused. "Nothing ever is."
Myra's shaking stopped suddenly. She looked up at him, gray eyes so like his own, though reddened from her tears. He could see the concern welling in them, the urge to care calling her back from despair. Slowly, she released herself from his grip and grabbed his hand, gently turning and touching it. She was a good healer, even Maester Luwin had said so. Anything that involved her hands, she could master, though she never said anything of it. That was Myra Stark, strong and quiet, humble and kind.
"Do you remember that Septon from the Riverlands? The fat man with an even fatter ego?"
Jon nodded, smiling softly. "How could I forget? You had him convinced that I was your twin and so for one whole day, I was Robb Stark, heir to Winterfell. You even had our brother prepare my horse like some sort of servant."
"I told Robb if he didn't play along, mother would find out about his expedition to the brothel." Myra let his hand go, leaving her fingers red and sticky. She stared at them for a long time before meeting his gaze again. "Don't go to the Wall, Jon. Not now...not with everything like this."
He should have known the conversation would take this turn. It had been a fact looming in the air for the past few weeks, but Myra had never mentioned it, likely out of respect. Perhaps now she thought she could change his mind. Or she was desperate enough to ask him to do something he did not want. That wasn't like her. Myra would drag herself through all seven hells and back again to keep others from having to do something for her that caused them issue.
"And what would you have me do? She won't even let me see him, Myra, my own brother."
She shrugged. "I could speak with her, Jon."
"You've spoken with her a thousand times before, so has father. It never changes anything," he paused. "If I don't go to the Wall now, I never will."
"Then never go."
His sister made it sound so easy. How he wished it was.
"It's a bit selfish, don't you think, asking me to stay while you're set to leave for King's Landing?"
Myra bit her lip, a telltale sign that the foundation of her argument was crumbling. "You could come with us."
"You and I both know bastards don't fare well at court."
She stood a little straighter. "Then I'll stay. I won't have you leave, Jon. Our family is falling apart, and if you go...I fear I'll never see you again."
He sighed. "And what am I to do when you're married? When Robb is? Am I to trail my siblings around for the rest of my life, the unwanted bastard of Winterfell with nothing better to do?"
Myra shook her head. "Why must you always be so cruel to yourself, Jon?"
"Because life is not kind."
A brief moment of silence passed between them. Jon knew the discussion was at an end. Myra was not one to push something, even for things as important as this. She did not like to argue, and she did not like to leave things on a sour note.
"You should return," he said eventually. "Father'll be looking for you."
"Not until you've had your hand taken care of."
Jon looked at it again. Flexing the fingers was harder now, though no more painful. "It's fine. A little rest is all it needs."
"You're a dreadful liar, Jon."
He had to smile at that. She always knew.
They walked through the godswood toward the entrance, each step slower than the last. He did not wish to leave the relative peace of the area and got the feeling his sister felt the same. Part of him wished to suggest they stay, spend a few more hours, let the world outside pass them by. Nothing could harm them here. But he knew better than that. Eventually they all had to face the world.
And so they stepped back into Winterfell, his heart no lighter than before, not ready but at least willing to do what needed to be done.
It was the last time he and Myra were alone together before Winter engulfed the countryside.