(Warning - Violent Content Ahead)
Ned
"You didn't bring my token."
"Am I supposed to? You aren't competing anymore."
"Well, no, but it would have been nice."
"Are you pouting?"
He let the conversation between his daughter and Renly Baratheon fade into the background. Any day now, he thought, and the boy would come to him to ask for her hand. How strange it would feel to him, an image long past of Robert and Lyanna. But that was not it, no, and he should not think of it as such. It would be an ill omen, even if much of this felt...fated.
Sansa kept glancing up at the two of them, a sort of dreamy look in her eyes. As far as he knew, the prince had yet to speak to her again. He supposed she needed something to look to.
To her right, Littlefinger said something. Now here was a development he did not care for. He had needlessly involved one daughter in their affairs.
Above them, just to the left of where Renly and Myra sat, the two somehow coordinated again in shades of blue, Robert was strangely silent. Perhaps he had lied a little about no one wanting to strike him. Jaime Lannister would have, and Robert would have gone at him with such ferocity, at least one of them would have wound up seriously injured.
Although, Ned noted, Robert was unlikely to be unhorsed.
It was a terrible joke, yet somehow he could still hear his friend laughing.
Jesters that had been rolling about in the dirt for entertainment took off suddenly and the jousting began again. There were only three left that day, and the first belonged to Ser Jaime Lannister and Sandor Clegane. The introduction of the latter brought little fanfare, while the former received a great deal of shouts, and quite a few words from Robert's position.
"One hundred gold on the Kingslayer," Littlefinger declared to his right.
"I'll take that bet!" Renly shouted from above. "The Hound looks hungry."
He supposed the young Baratheon would know.
"And what does the lady think?" Littlefinger asked.
Ned glanced back to his daughter, who was rolling her eyes. "The lady thinks this cruel sport should end already."
He nodded. It was good to know this place had not changed her. Although, given the other night, he might have wished the opposite. Ned supposed it was much to ask of Myra, going against her better nature, but standing up before the King in the midst of his court was...dangerous, foolish, almost treasonous if spun the proper way. But when they had spoken, she'd had no regrets, and her eyes glowed with a familiar defiance that asked him to tell her she was wrong. He had given in with a sigh and a warning, which he knew she would take to heart.
The two jousters passed each other, and Sandor Clegane was nearly unhorsed. Cheers rose in the commons. Robert had gone silent again. Sansa was quiet, entirely captivated, while Myra gasped at every movement.
They went at it again, only now Jaime Lannister was the one in trouble. He fell off his steed, headfirst, and rolled in the dirt for some feet. The crowd stilled while Robert roared with laughter.
"Is he alright?" Myra asked.
"Of course he is," Renly reassured her. "A Lannister wouldn't dare die at a tourney. Now, Lord Baelish, about that gold of mine."
The young Baratheon was right. Jaime got to his feet, unscathed, although he appeared to be having some difficulty with his helm. It was dented, and in no time it was obvious to nearly everyone that he could not get the thing off.
Laughter filled the grounds, the most boisterous belonging to Robert. He'd dropped his wine goblet, and the crown was threatening to fall from his head. Even Myra, his normally composed daughter, was biting her cheeks as she watched the Lannister stumble blindly through the dirt.
"We shouldn't laugh," Myra mumbled, though her warning was ineffective as she broke down into giggles.
"Aha!" Renly called out, triumphant. "I knew you would come around. No one is that kind to a Lannister."
Yes, no one.
After the jousting had finished, when they had concluded the terrible business with Ser Gregor Clegane and Ser Loras Tyrell, Ned walked alone with his daughter toward the archery field. Sansa was being escorted by Jory, oblivious to the state of affairs that he and Myra knew.
"Tell me, is there something else you wish to speak to me about?"
He watched her carefully as they walked down the path, straying far from the other nobles. She looked confused and then thoughtful, her fingers playing with a loose bit of her dark hair. Perhaps she had more to speak of than he thought. It was a troubling notion.
"Is this about last night?"
"In part," he admitted, steering her away from the path. There were so many eyes, even now. "Ser Jaime...what is he to you?"
His daughter's reaction was...unexpected.
She laughed.
It was neither loud nor long; it almost felt out of exasperation. His daughter looked so different to him then. In the span of a few, short months, she had aged, the troubles of Westerosi politics bearing down on her with unmatched force.
How he wished Robert had not traveled North.
"I am sorry, Father," she said, taking a breath. He watched her look about the grounds, seeing everything but taking none of it in. "Ser Jaime is nothing to me, at least in a greater sense. I am not Sansa pining after some golden knight."
The laugher died then, her face softening, distant.
"I suppose I do owe him, in a way," she admitted. "He answered something I asked...about the Mad King."
Ned felt his back stiffen, and a sorrow long dulled in his heart stab him anew.
"And how did he answer you?"
The corner of her mouth lifted. "Far more kindly than you would give him credit for."
Ned sighed. Jaime Lannister's definition of kindness was an odd sort of beast, but if his daughter gave him the credit, he could hardly call her a liar. Still, the whole notion of that discussion taking place, it made him uncomfortable.
"He should not have told you."
"Ser Jaime didn't offer to tell me. Will you blame him for my curiosity as well?"
His normally obedient daughter was in that mood again, not particularly angry, but incredibly defensive, and that was when her Northern stubbornness would rear its head. It was never about herself, though. She was always defending someone else. Catelyn had more experience with it. There had been several occasions, more often as she grew older, where he would hear the raised voices of his wife and daughter arguing over Jon.
He wondered how she would have handled all of this. Renly. Jaime. Robert. No doubt Myra would have been halfway back to Winterfell by now.
"No, I suppose I can't," Ned spoke after some time. "But, please, Myra, try to distance yourself from this. I don't want you any more involved than you already are."
She smiled softly, taking his arm as they returned to the path. "I don't believe I have much choice in the matter, Father. You can't protect me forever."
No, he could not.
Myra
She had never thought feasts could be dull affairs. The occasions were rare enough in Winterfell that she would become overjoyed at the prospect of one, helping her mother as much as she could to make certain it was as perfect as possible. Laughter would echo through the chambers of the castle well into the night, and there was a warmth to be found that no fire could match.
But here, in the South, the feasts were common. She had been to more in one week than a year in Winterfell, and for all the warmth of King's Landing's climate, there was something much cooler about their celebrations.
No one, she noticed, truly celebrated, unless they were fully drunk. They spoke of things behind one another's backs and made deals under the table. None seemed inclined to give in fully to the merriment of happy company. It was another part of the grand game they played.
Was sleeping for rest, or had they figured out how to use that as a piece as well?
Myra watched it all carefully, nibbling at whatever course had been laid before her (she had lost count). Renly was to her right, engaged in conversation with Ser Loras again. They had attempted to include her, but it was obvious to Myra that her presence was not particularly wanted. She recalled Littlefinger's words at the tournament, and Renly's reactions to Ser Loras' near-death experience, and had begun to wonder if she was the kind of company the Lord of Storm's End wanted at all.
That certainly made her situation more complicated.
Of course, there had yet to be anything official announced. Renly had not stepped within ten feet of her father all evening, so she still had time to change her mind regarding the whole affair, but she had few reasons to do so. An inattentive husband was far better than one inclined to follow her every move, either out of suspicion or jealousy. Renly would neither beat her nor would he throw her out in the cold, but he would not love her, and he would not really be hers.
For the first time in what felt like an age, her thoughts strayed to Domeric and a life that would never be.
Finding herself tired of Southern hospitality, she excused herself. Renly made an offer to walk her back, but she had brought Syrena that evening and left him to his conversation.
They walked slowly through the Red Keep. Myra was not particularly interested in going back to the Tower of the Hand, or anywhere really. She was restless. So many recent revelations had left her feeling...drained.
"Is everything alright, my lady?"
"I...no, I suppose not."
They stood near a balcony and Myra retreated to the edge, watching the moon cast an eerie light over King's Landing. Below in the city, she could hear the common folk still celebrating. Shouts and music and laughter, the sounds of home far more than what she heard behind these stone walls.
And beyond it all, the sea. She would never have to leave it with Renly, but how much did she truly love it? All this time, she had not bothered to go to the beach, to touch the waters of the thing she often stared at.
Perhaps King's Landing was revealing more about her as well.
Myra sighed, so tired of everything all of a sudden. Perhaps it was the wine speaking, but she missed home more than ever.
"Syrena," she started, picking at a loose rock. "I believe you spy on me for the Queen."
Beside her, the Dornish girl blanched. "My lady...I would never-"
She chuckled. "It's alright if you are. You can't exactly say no to her, especially the likes of Cersei. Besides, there's nothing much to tell. I'm not after a crown; I'm not even after Renly. I'm just here...playing along. And I'm afraid I'm quite rubbish at it."
And full of too much knowledge for her own good. She might have been better off in ignorance. She was not allowed to help her father either way. At least not knowing allowed her to sleep in peace.
Well, relative peace. It was still too warm at night for her comfort.
"I'm still grateful to you," she continued, realizing the handmaiden's discomfort. "You have helped me a great deal, and our conversations have been the highlight of my days. I would like to hope that you found my company at least tolerable. Otherwise, I should congratulate you on your acting skills."
She heard Syrena release a breath, and turned to see the girl much more composed.
"Your company has been more than I could have hoped for, my lady," she paused, biting her lip, the moment of truth. "I am sorry we must know each other in this way."
"I'm not," Myra said, straightening. "Keep doing your job. Maybe I'll throw in a story now and again for her to chew on. I suppose it's the least I can do."
Though they both laughed over it, Myra knew she would not. She was better than that. All she could hope to do was go about her days as she always had and maybe the Queen would lose interest.
But if Robert did not, neither would she.
She supposed that was where Renly came in.
"What will you do now, my lady?"
She thought to the Valyrian dagger in her father's desk, and the broken antler tucked away in her chest; she thought of Sansa and Arya running about the Tower of the Hand and Robb alone in Winterfell with a crying Rickon and broken Bran. She thought of the Lannisters and the Starks and the Baratheons and wondered at her place in all of it, if there was a chance to change anything. If there was even a point in trying.
It was as she was about to answer that a great bellow came down the hallway. Alarmed and equally curious, both women returned inside.
Stumbling down the hall was Robert Baratheon, and one lone member of the Kingsguard. It could not have been Ser Barristan or Ser Arys, who might have lent a hand, and certainly not Ser Jaime. The King was far too quiet for that, as if he hadn't just roared down the length of the palace.
The stench of wine was on him, even from so far off. Myra could not remember how much he had been drinking at the feast. In fact, she could not remember the King much at all, a testament to either how preoccupied her mind was or how somber he had grown in the evening.
"My lady, I do not trust this," Syrena whispered as he approached, looming larger than ever in the dark of the evening. He stopped before them, silent and wavering. She watched his bright blue eyes go in and out of focus. Behind him, Ser Mandon Moore stared resolutely forward.
"Your Grace," Myra started with an incline of her head. Syrena echoed her with a curtsey. When he did not answer, she added, "May I help you?"
He blinked and narrowed his eyes at her, and it occurred to Myra that he was only just seeing her now. Wherever he had been, it was not King's Landing.
"It's you," he whispered, voice soft and in awe. "Lyanna."
Nothing silenced a room quite like the realization that things were about to go horribly wrong. For a moment, she felt entirely alone, separated from the present, standing in some place that felt so heavy. She wanted to be anywhere else, far away.
Her smile was forced. "No, Your Grace. It's Myra. Ned's daughter."
He blinked again and started to murmur something under his breath. She heard her name and her father's. The King just seemed to be repeating what she said, attempting to wrap his drunken mind around the words, but it had done the trick for the time being.
A hand grabbed hers. Syrena said nothing, but her eyes moved down the empty corridor.
For once, Myra was eager to abandon her courtesy. No doubt Robert would forget her disappearance come morning.
They had barely stepped away when Robert came to.
"Stop!" he bellowed, shaking her very being, but they continued to walk, hoping to make it around the corner. "I am your King!"
That made her halt, not out of honor or common decency, but out of the realization that he would either come after them or make Ser Mandon do it for him. The dead-eyed man appeared to have no issue doing whatever the King pleased, and he certainly wasn't about to stand up for them. She had to wonder if a man could truly live without a soul.
"Syrena, leave," she whispered, grabbing her handmaiden's wrist and pulling her forward. "Find Renly or Ser Barristan and bring them here."
The Dornish girl looked truly frightened. "My lady..."
"Go!"
She wanted to ask for her father, but she did not want to put him through whatever this may cause. They were friends, and this might only end in drawn steel.
Myra put her chin up. Robert was drunker than usual, but he was still there. He would not harm her; he would not harm Lyanna either. Whatever was plaguing the King, she could talk him out of it. She had to.
"Your Grace," she spoke as she turned to him.
And there was that look again, the awe in his blue eyes, the emotion she had first spied in Winterfell. He was a man seeing the dead, only now he well and truly believed them to be alive.
"It can't be true," he whispered, approaching her. "You can't be here."
"I'm not her, Your Grace. I'm not-"
His hand reached out to her, and with a delicacy she did not think a man like him could possess, he moved a stray hair from her face, gently tucking it behind her ear. She was distinctly aware of how large his hand was, how it could crush her in a moment's notice if he so desired.
And the man she had dared call Ser would never raise a hand to help her if he did.
It was what kept her from raising her own hand to stop him, the thought of his anger returning. He was an emotional man to begin with, unpredictably swaying from one extreme to the next, but this deep in his drink, she did not know what would set the great stag off.
His hand moved to cup her cheek, thumb grazing the skin just under her eye. His palms were hot, sending a chill up and down her spine. She let out a shaky breath.
Robert chuckled. "You're shaking like a leaf. I thought you Northerners couldn't get cold here."
"We can...sometimes," she whispered, the words not fully agreeing with her. Her body wanted to flee, but was held in place by his hand, though it hardly gripped her. He could not hurt her, she thought, but she had seen a mark the Queen had attempted to cover once. A man who did that to one could do it to another.
He stepped closer, his face a swift movement away. His breath was rank, full of wine and dead meat, some still left in his beard. The crown nearly touched her hair. His stomach did touch hers, but he did not seem to notice.
"Every day, I see you when I wake up, when I sleep, when I fuck." His eyes drifted over her, soaking her in. There was no longing in them , not from what she could tell, only a deep sadness. Despite this, she was grateful her dress was far less revealing than its predecessors.
"You won't leave me, woman, and I'm not sure I want you to."
There was so much emotion playing on his face. Even Robert seemed to have difficulty choosing which to act on. He looked like some wild beast, lost and confused in a world he could not understand.
Myra dared to place her hand on his, lowering it from her face. "Your Grace, I am not Lyanna. Lyanna is gone."
She wondered how convincing her voice could be, shaky as it was.
Robert allowed his hand to fall to his side as he looked around the room, mulling over her words. Myra took the moment to step back, just out of his reach. She eyed Ser Mandon, standing some feet behind the King, but he was not even facing them.
"What he did to you...what they all did!" Robert roared. She did not feel far enough away. "And I couldn't stop it. Gods above, I couldn't save the woman I loved. Ned never looked at me the same, how could he? The bastard won't even tell me what he did to you! What did he do?!"
He shot toward her then, gripping both arms tightly before she could move away; he pushed her into the wall, not painfully, but enough to knock the breath from her lungs. Myra could not help but turn her face from him, closing her eyes as the panic began to grow in her. He was stronger than her, she could never escape his grasp no matter how hard she might have struggled, but even now her body rejected such a notion. It was frozen in fear, barely able to stand much less put up a fight.
Gods, she did not want to be here. She wanted to go home; she wanted her brothers. Where was Robb? Jon? Theon?
Her movement got his attention, and Robert loosened his grip.
"I'm sorry. Gods, I'm sorry." His hand was on her cheek again, thumb moving along the skin. It was wet. Was she crying? He was, and he leaned forward, his forehead on hers. The crown was so cold and so heavy, and she was trapped beneath it. "I should have saved you, Lyanna. I should have saved you and killed him. Every night I kill him!"
Robert punched the wall next to her. Myra yelped, and felt whatever strength had remained in her whither. With both arms free from his grip, they wrapped themselves around her shaking form as it attempted to back further into the rock that would never give way.
"Your Grace...I'm not her...please...please just let me leave."
Let her go home. Let her go back to Winterfell. To Robb. To Bran. To Rickon.
He stepped back, his look darkening. "You want to leave me?"
For a moment, everything went still again. As earlier, Myra saw the beginning of something terrible, the anger in his eyes unavoidable. Something worse was coming, and no words she tried now would ever soothe the beast she had unwittingly unleashed.
"Was I not good enough for you, Lyanna? Was he truly a better man than me?"
He. Rhaegar Targaryen. Oh gods, he thought Lyanna had left him for Rhaegar.
And he thought she was Lyanna.
Myra could not help herself. She tried to duck out from under him, take advantage of the small gap Robert had created, to get herself off the wall, but for his size and state, the King was deceptively fast. Both hands grabbed her arms again, pushing her back and slamming her against the wall, this time nowhere near as softly. Her head bounced off it and the world was momentarily askew.
"Do you want to run back to him? Is that what you want?"
"Wh-no...I...please..."
He slammed her again, fists squeezing her arms too tightly. Did he know how strong he was? How hard he hit her? Her head ached and her vision pulsed. She started to cry.
"You're hurting me...Robert, please!"
"Is that what you want?! To go to Rhaegar so he can fuck you how he pleases?! So he can make you his whore?!"
"I'm not Lyanna!" she cried, turning her head away. She couldn't face him. "I'm not her! Please, I'm not her!"
His hand slammed against the wall, dangerously close to her face. "Is that what you want?!"
"No! No, no, please!"
She wanted to go home. Why couldn't she just go home?
Where was Robb?
His hand wrapped about her chin, dragging her face back to him. Her eyes opened to his furious gaze, and her breath caught. She watched him inch closer, and grasped his wrist with her free hand, for what good it did.
"I went to war for you." His voice was low, a growl. "Rhaegar Targaryen can't have you."
"Rhaegar Targaryen can't have anyone anymore," a calm voice spoke.
Myra's eyes flicked to the left, meeting green. Jaime Lannister stood there, all in gold and white, but so did Ser Mandon, and he had yet to speak a word. So, Myra closed her eyes again, unable to look at anyone. Was this the noble Kingsguard her little brother had so desperately wanted to join?
But, despite her fears, Jaime continued. "Your war hammer saw to that, remember, Robert?"
"Watch your tongue, Kingslayer. I still own you."
"Of course, Your Grace, but you don't own her."
Myra dared to open her eyes again. Jaime was looking at her, not Robert. His gaze was encouraging, telling her to keep looking at him. She took a deep breath and tried to nod, slowly releasing Robert's wrist.
Somehow, Jaime's words had gotten through to the King. His grip loosened, hand leaving her face entirely. In what felt like an eternity, he backed away from her, a strange, sobering look on his face.
And when he had moved enough, Jaime gave a nod, almost imperceptible.
Myra dashed from her spot, ducking behind Jaime. He stepped in front of her, making sure no one followed. Robert, on his part, stayed where he stood, watching the spot she had vacated before looking to Jaime. They stared at one another for a long while, and then Robert swung, his fist colliding with his Kingsguard's jaw.
She screamed.
Jaime fell to the floor, armor clanging, much like he had the other night. Myra watched him shake his head, blonde hair covering his face. His movements were slow, but he still rose to his feet once more, standing tall and straight like any knight should, perhaps even more so.
"Is there anything else, Your Grace?"
Robert said nothing, though he looked sorely tempted to hit him again. Instead, he backed off and returned down the dark hallway.
Ser Mandon moved slightly. "Should have stayed out of it."
"And here I thought you were a mute," Jaime snarled. "Turns out, you're just a cunt."
The man said nothing in reply, only stared at his fellow a moment longer before following his King down the hall.
When they had gone, Myra's knees gave out and she collapsed on the floor, a shaking fit of sobs. She hugged herself tightly, drawing her legs in as she wrapped her arms around them. Her hands rubbed the fabric of her dress, but nothing she did could stop the shaking. Why was she so cold?
She should have been home, where it was actually cold, with Mother and Robb. Oh Robb, what would she tell him? He'd know, oh he'd know, one look, that was all it would take. Father too. Oh gods, what would her father do?
And the King. Would he forget? What if he remembered? What if he didn't care? His hands were still there, she could feel them holding her, hurting her even now. Would he do it again? Was that the man beneath the flirting and drunken revelry?
Oh gods, it was too much...too much.
Something moved out of the corner of her eye, and Myra flinched, ducking away from the movement and raising an arm in defense.
Standing over her, his white cloak in his hands, Jaime was frowning. His lip was bleeding and he looked angry, but not at her. It was almost comforting.
"I'm not going to hurt you."
His voice was soft and kind, so far from his usual self.
Slowly, she relaxed, lowering her arm. His gloved hand reached out to her, reminding her so much of that day in Winterfell, only it had been the King then. She hesitated, looking up into his green eyes, but the thought was banished as she saw the patience reflected in his face.
She took his hand, allowing him to pull her back up to her feet. He wrapped his cloak around her shoulders. It was so much heavier than she imagined, and so much warmer too. The cold began to leave her body as Myra allowed herself to be escorted away by Jaime, his hand on the small of her back lest she fell again.
Do not trust the Lannisters, her father had said, but right now a Lannister felt like her only friend in the world.
They walked through the silent halls for a long time, Myra never realizing that her steps were small and slow. But Jaime never complained. His hand stayed on her, softly guiding her in the right directions. She could distantly make out the sound of his armor. How sweet it sounded to her, how safe.
When they turned another corner, Myra recognized the entrance to the Tower of the Hand, and came to a halt. Her family was there. She could run to them; she could cry. They would hold her and tell her everything was alright.
And then they would ask questions. They would be angry, her father and Jory and everyone else.
What would they do?
"No, no, I can't," she mumbled, breathing hard. "My father...he can't see me...not...not now."
Not like this.
She looked up at Jaime, pleading, expecting him to be angry that he had to put up with her longer, but his gaze was thoughtful, calm. He nodded once and escorted her away, to a balcony partially hidden by overgrown vines. The city had grown quiet and still, and it only served to make her feel more alone.
She wanted Robb.
Holding tighter to his cloak, Myra moved to the railing. Jaime followed, his hand hovering close to her arm. She realized in that moment that he believed she would jump. The notion frightened her, but she was grateful that he cared enough.
"You can hide here until you've...settled. No one should find you."
Was he going to leave?
At the thought of being truly alone again, terror seized Myra. Perhaps someone would find her; perhaps, somewhere, out there, Robert was still wandering around, lost in a world still filled with Targaryens and Lyanna. Who would help her then?
"Will you stay?" she blurted, looking to him again.
A strange look passed over his features.
"As you wish."
And so, he did.