Jaime
He had always wanted to hit the king, some days more than others. And Robert, the fool that he was, had figured out that much. While whatever servant girls he'd ushered into his chambers had at it in his bed, giggling and shrieking as they were wont to, the drunken ruler of the Seven Kingdoms would storm right up to him, shirt torn and covered in wine.
"C'mon Kingslayer, have a go," he'd say, casting his arms wide open. "You stabbed the last king, what's this to you?"
Jaime thought himself impatient, yet somehow he would get through Robert's harassment without budging. He would stare resolutely forward until the king grew bored and wandered back to his women, none of them his wife, none of them Cersei. How he shamed his sister night and day with his whores and his maids and his highborn ladies who thought a bastard could get them a crown. And he, the only man who truly loved her, was forced to listen. Sometimes he wondered if Robert didn't know the truth.
Then again, his head was still attached to his body.
Though that might not be the case after tonight.
Standing in the corner of the balcony, Myra Stark trembled under his white cloak. She had not spoken a word since he agreed to stay; she only stared into the distance, though if Jaime were a betting man, he'd say she wasn't seeing anything. The King, maybe, or Ser Mandon, but nothing that was actually there.
He almost had not been able to help himself. All the insults to Cersei he had managed to take, but the sight of that frightened girl pinned against the wall by her king had awakened something in him, an anger and shame he'd never found an outlet for, harkening back to days of fire and blood. Had Ser Mandon not noticed him and given a look of warning, Robert would have gotten his wish: a fist to the face and an excuse to be rid of him once and for all.
Instead, Jaime got the opposite: a fist to his face and a sobbing girl as a reward for his diplomacy.
Jaime sighed. Cersei was going to kill him, if Ned Stark didn't first. After all, here he was alone with his traumatized, unwed daughter, sworn to keep the king's secrets and thus unable to defend himself if the girl decided to remain a mute about the whole thing.
Seven hells, he should have left well enough alone.
But even as he thought it, Jaime knew that he never could.
Damn his twisted honor. Where had it ever gotten him? Here. It got him here with a girl he did not particularly care for in a city he hated surrounded by fools who liked to dance around one another with knives at their backs.
Maybe there was one out there for him. Probably.
"Why did you help?" Her voice was so small, Jaime thought he was imaging it, but when he looked in her direction, those gray eyes were watching him. They always seemed to be. "You made a vow to the king, the same one Ser Mandon did."
"Would you have preferred I leave you with him?" he snapped, still angry at his thoughts.
Regret followed immediately as Myra shrank before his eyes, pulling his cloak tighter. She looked away from him, much like she had in the hallway. The girl was ashamed. She probably expected him to treat her like everyone else in King's Landing had, as a pawn with no thoughts or feelings of her own.
He could understand that well enough.
"That was unworthy of me. I'm sorry," he said, stepping closer. She did not back away from him, but did meet his eyes again. They were the roundest, saddest things he had ever seen, desperate to latch onto something, a source of comfort maybe. She was searching for something he did not possess.
"I am grateful for what you did, Ser Jaime, more than you can imagine," she admitted, readjusting his cloak. She looked so small in it. "It's just...you have vows."
He couldn't help himself. "Yes, which your father likes to remind me of. Ser Mandon is honorable in his book. Tell me, which of us do you prefer?"
She was looking at the ground again.
He was terrible at this.
Not that he had asked to be here. Neither of them had.
"Has this happened before?" she mumbled eventually.
Violet eyes flashed before him.
"Not with Robert, no. Most women are more accepting of his touches."
Now scared, gray eyes met him. "Do you...would he have..."
Her voice grew small and trailed off.
Realizing his mistake, Jaime shook his head. "No...that isn't his way. He's a violent, drunken lecher, but he would never go that far. Too used to women giving into his every whim to bother, I think."
Myra nodded slowly, accepting his words, probably desperate to believe that she was not almost raped by the king. But Jaime meant what he said. Robert was a great many stupid things, but a raper was not one of them.
Unlike his predecessor.
Sometimes, in the dead of night, when all of King's Landing appeared to be asleep, he would hear her screams. They used to make him jump. Now they were just...there.
She was watching him again. He could feel the moment those gray irises landed on him. It was like she knew the instant his mind travelled somewhere...uncomfortable.
"Do you always stare at people?" he asked, feeling more defensive than he wanted. The damn girl was getting under his skin with a look. It was pathetic.
Myra saw right through him. "Will you tell me?"
He sighed, leaning against the doorway, fighting against the notion of telling her more. Though, deep down, some part of him had to admit it was easy to speak of his past with her. Myra Stark was not quick to judge or to anger, and she had yet to use that cursed name of his.
Perhaps he was the desperate one.
"You know the story," he started, hand playing with the hilt of his sword. It wasn't the same one. He'd had that one melted down. Maybe it was a chamber pot somewhere now. It seemed fitting. "King Aerys had fallen into madness. He enjoyed fire and how it burned things, people in particular. And after every burning, his Queen would receive a visitor."
They had never been fond of one another, Aerys and Rhaella, that much he knew, but it had not always been unkind either, cool but civil. One of her ladies in waiting had spoken of it once. Rhaella never used to bear so many scars.
"We'd stand there as she screamed. What could we do? We were to protect the queen, but we were sworn to the man raping her."
That was the honor people thought so highly of, standing and doing nothing because you said a word or two in your youth. No wonder he'd tarnished his so early. He hated standing still.
"Is that why you killed him?"
On any other day, the young lady of Winterfell might have looked properly scandalized by what she had just spoken, but in the dead of night, alone with him, her expression only held somber curiosity. No one had ever asked the why, not truly, seriously. It never mattered to them. But it seemed to matter to her.
However, there were some stories even a sad, young woman could not coax out of him, truths best left forgotten.
"No, it wasn't."
Myra nodded, unsatisfied, but willing to leave it at that, much to his relief.
She began to remove his cloak then, black strands of hair clinging to the fabric, a clear contrast to the white. Her sleeve rolled back slightly at the movement, revealing the beginnings of a bruise near her wrist. The motion, he noted, made her wince.
His hand clutched the hilt a little tighter.
"You're going to need this," she mumbled, leaving things unsaid to hang heavy in the air. She held the cloak up. "May I?"
Jaime thought to say no, but instead found himself turning his back to her. Even through the armor, he could feel her small hands shake, fumbling slightly, far different from the first time someone did it. Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, had fastened that pristine cloak to his shoulders, confident and slow, showing off for ceremony, yet the movements seemed to pale to the actions now. If he were honest, the last couple hours were the most honorable ones that cloak had ever taken part in, shielding an innocent girl from the world.
The thought unnerved him.
"My father is wrong about you." Her voice was a whisper. "You aren't just your vows or your honor, Jaime. You're better than them."
A long moment of silence passed. In the distance, a raven cawed.
Jaime turned to face the girl, who had since been done with his cloak, and thought to say something brash, but the look in her eyes left the words unsaid. The way she was staring at him, with that seriousness all the Northerners were known for. There was no accusation, no joking, only absolute belief in the words she had just spoken.
Now he felt like the small one.
Her eyes flicked to his mouth and back, silently asking permission. Jaime could not remember nodding, but in the next moment, her hand was at his chin, gently wiping off what blood there was with her sleeve. He could imagine other ladies gasping at the thought, but Myra's hands were at her steadiest now, soft and gentle.
"Can't walk around the keep like that," she murmured, lowering her arm. "People might say things."
"I don't care what people think," Jaime said, finally finding his voice.
She smiled softly, like a mother to her child. "I think you do."
Ned
The horizon was beginning to lighten, the first signs of dawn. Was that how long it had been?
When Sansa had returned alone with Septa Mordane, he had not worried; when Arya returned, late as she always was, because curfews had never meant a thing to her, he had questioned nothing. But as the hours grew long and the shadows of the evening longer, a deep, cold fear had started to bud in his chest. Myra was nothing but responsible, but all of King's Landing was the opposite.
Jory had insisted he remain in the tower, a form of precaution given the events of late, under close guard. Ned had protested, loudly, but gave in nearly as quickly. He could not deny the logic of his captain of the guard, but that was his daughter alone in the Red Keep, surrounded by both enemies and secrets. This was his mess she had stumbled into, and he should be the one to get her out of it.
Instead, he had been sitting at his desk for gods knew how long, staring a blank piece of parchment. Had he meant to write something on it?
He crumpled up the paper and tossed it aside, turning his gaze to the door.
Even the handmaiden had yet to return, and Sansa had insisted her sister had left with her. Could this have been some plot of the Queen's? The handmaiden was from her, after all.
No, he decided, that was not it. The Lannisters were bold, but arranging the disappearance of his daughter, that was another feat entirely. It was an action that beckoned war. Those little games they liked to play never fared well against steel.
Then where was Myra?
Ned feared the worst, as he always did. Catelyn would never forgive him; she had barely survived Bran. And Robb, he'd lead a manhunt the likes of which Westeros had never seen. Even Robert would come to fear the wrath of his son.
He stood then, unable to take the thoughts any longer. The sun would rise soon. Whomever was attacking his family would be hard pressed to try anything in the daylight. He would bring the whole retinue if it would ease Jory's worries, but no matter what, Ned Stark was no longer going to stand by while another member of his family was missing.
"With me," he spoke sharply to the four guards posted outside his door. They followed without word down the twisting staircase of the tower, until they were met by a couple climbing upward.
Disheveled and morose, Myra met him first. She did not approach him, but stopped a few steps down, watching the guards.
"Thank the gods." Ned went to meet her, but when his hands brushed against her arms, his daughter backed away. She immediately looked ashamed, her eyes cast down, but still made no move toward him. "What is it? What has happened?"
Myra said nothing, though her eyes briefly strayed down the staircase. It was only then that Ned took notice of the other man standing with them.
Jaime Lannister.
The man stood there, gallant in his shining Kingsguard armor while his daughter, so humiliated, could not meet his eyes.
He took a breath, fists curling, and turned to his men. "Take Myra back to her quarters. Stand guard until I return."
Life seemed to breathe into his daughter at that moment. She touched his arm gently, eyes pleading. "Father, don't..."
Don't hurt him.
Ned nodded slowly. Still, her eyes were on him as she was led up the stairs by his men.
She knew.
Jaime did not resist when Ned shoved him against the wall, hands clutching the bottom of his neck where the armor could not protect him, only a bit of cloth that easily gave way to his anger. There were no words of protest falling from his lips. The Kingslayer merely watched and waited, though even his pride gave way to a little concern on his part.
"What did you do?" Ned hissed, pressing him harder against the surface. He could hear the metal scraping against stone. "Answer me."
Green eyes watched him, calculating. Suddenly Ned could understand why Robert hated being surrounded by them.
"I found her wandering the keep. She'd lost her way," Jaime finally said. "Rather embarrassing really, but it seems Stark girls have a knack for it."
"You expect me to believe that?"
"I don't expect you to believe a word I say."
On that much, they could agree. Why his daughter had spent as much time with the Lannister was something he would never understand, but it was clear to him now that he should have ended this much sooner. Lannisters only brought pain and misery to all they touched.
"Is that the tale you're going to spin for Robert when I bring you up on charges?"
"I don't think Myra would look too kindly on that."
Ned slammed Jaime against the wall again, his hand climbing higher on his neck, squeezing. Still, he did not fight him. "Don't speak her name."
"I did...nothing...to her," Jaime finally confessed through ragged breaths.
He was growing tired of this game. "Then what happened?"
His green eyes darkened. "I can't...tell you."
There was a voice in his head urging him on, to squeeze just a little tighter, but Ned pushed those thoughts away. Even in his anger, he knew killing the son of Tywin Lannister would only end in disaster. He may have hated the man, but he was not worth a war.
Besides, he believed him. He did not trust the man, but he did trust the words he spoke. Jaime never lied about or denied anything, to the point of bluntness. That was his way.
But why could he not speak his mind now?
Ned took a moment to look Jaime over, specifically the bruise forming on his jaw. It would have taken a large man to produce that, large and powerful enough to get away without their blood covering his armor and sword.
Someone who Jaime could not speak of.
He released Jaime.
The Kingsguard doubled over, coughing and clutching at his throat while Ned fell back against the wall, staring into the distance at nothing. His anger had been smothered by disbelief and despair. How can one react to such crippling betrayal?
He lifted his hands, the ones that would have taken a life just now. How they shook. Beyond them, Jaime was beginning to rise again, his eyes watering and angry.
"What happened?" Ned asked. "Please."
"She got lost," Jaime replied, finality in his tone. But then his gaze softened. "She will be fine. She is...intact."
His relief was short-lived.
"Because of you," he spoke, realizing why his daughter wished the man safe. "You have my thanks."
Jaime began to laugh, wincing while he still held his neck, all signs of his seriousness gone. "Remind me to avoid Northern gratitude."
Ned bowed his head, ashamed. "Forgive me, I-"
"Don't," Jaime said, raising a hand. "I'm in no mood for your false courtesy, Lord Stark. We both know I am the last person you want to be indebted to, even if it did mean protecting the girl."
He began to walk away then, shining armor disappearing into the darkness of the stairwell. "Get some sleep. Today should be interesting for all of us."
Ned watched the spot for some time, listening to the distant footfalls of the man who had killed a king and saved his daughter. How long he remained, he could not say, but by the time he returned to his quarters, the sun had risen in its entirety. His guards, weary from the long night, were dismissed, save for one to hunt down Jory and his party.
Myra was not there when he opened the door. She had retreated to her room, where he found her curled up on her bed, wrapped in sheets and still shivering. How he wanted to ask her what had happened, but fatherly instincts stayed his curiosity. His daughter was hurting. He only wished he knew how to help her.
He wished Catelyn were there.
Slowly, he crossed the room. Her fire was naught but ashes, so he grabbed a poker and began to stoke it. He doubted that would help her, but he was at a loss.
As the fire began to roar to life, he noticed a broken antler lying across the wood.
Cersei
She was cursed.
Hounded by Stark women at every angle, taking things she had toiled over without lifting a single finger. Her plans had been perfect, had been worked on for so long, and yet they were being undone by ghosts.
Her fingers wrapped around the goblet, noting how light it was when she lifted it. It had been drained, along with the bottle on the table. She stared at the well-polished pewter before throwing it.
It crashed against the door as Jaime walked in.
Her brother looked at the goblet spinning uselessly on the floor, then back at her, eyebrow raised. "This is a little early for drinking, even by our brother's standards."
"You!" she hissed, standing.
"Yes, me," he replied with that stupid sound to his voice, like it was all some joke to him. Everything was a joke. Jaime the Jokester, Lord of Laughs and Idiotic Decisions.
Cersei marched towards him, anger in every step. Jaime suspected nothing up until she slapped him across the cheek, right where a new bruise had formed. Good. She hoped it hurt, deeply, for all the trouble he had caused her.
"What were you thinking?" Cersei questioned as her brother shook off the hit. "It is bad enough that Robert is wrapped around that little wench's finger, but now she's convinced you to play her would be hero. Tell me, what sort of excuse have you given my husband to kill you?"
Jaime was still holding his jaw. "How do you even...the handmaiden. She's yours, isn't she?"
"Of course she is." Cersei turned back into the room, searching for another bottle.
The Dornish girl had entered in a hysterical state, waking Cersei from a dreamless slumber. She had begged forgiveness, saying that she had found her brother alone in the halls. Jaime had asked her what was wrong and she had told him everything, about Robert and Myra, and how fearsome the situation had become.
And her twin, in all his intelligence, had ordered her to find no one else and left on his own to handle things.
She had hit Syrena too, and the girl had disappeared out the door. That was something she would have to deal with later.
Finding more wine, Cersei poured herself another glass. "Do you honestly believe that I would let Lyanna Stark's ghost wander the keep unwatched? Clearly I was right not to."
Jaime was looking at her, clearly frustrated, but said nothing as he moved to the table and collapsed in a chair. He rested his elbows on his knees and continued to touch his mouth.
"So, what did you do to my husband? Threaten him? Hit him? Gods forbid you actually drew steel."
"Nothing," Jaime admitted with a sigh, shoulders hunching further. "I did nothing to him. I barely spoke to the man."
"And yet somehow you wound up gone half the night with Ned Stark's daughter," Cersei observed. "You always wanted to be some gallant knight from the songs. It's pathetic seeing you try to get there, given everything. Father would-"
The chair scraped across the floor as Jaime stood abruptly. He stalked forward, leaning over her, his eyes burning with anger.
"Dear sister, I have been punched by our King, strangled by his Hand, and slapped by you over this damn girl. Do not tell me what our father would do about it." He grabbed her goblet and drank what remained in one swift gulp, tossing it to lie with its twin. "What's done is done."
"And what has been done?" Cersei asked, unwilling to back down. "Did you even bother to think what Robert would do to you over this girl? To us?"
"What would you have had me do? Leave her with him? The North would cry for retribution, and Ned Stark would feel inclined to give it to them."
Cersei huffed. "Ned Stark would never betray Robert. His honor won't let him."
"You forget what happened to the last king who harmed his family."
"How can I? You killed him."
Jaime fell silent then. Reminding her brother of what made him the Kingslayer was a quick way to win an argument, or at the very least get him to give up.
Unfortunately, her twin did have a point. Robert's transgression against the Stark girl had complicated things, and if they had been left alone, it may have been to the point of no return. The Northerners did not take slights well, and she could not be certain they would not take half the kingdom with them in their search for vengeance. The Vale certainly had no love for them, and Myra Stark was Hoster Tully's precious granddaughter.
Not that Jaime helped the girl for the sake of keeping the realm together. Her brother acted first and thought on it later.
"We have to get ahead of this," Cersei said, walking away from him. "If Robert thinks he can execute you over this..."
"He won't," Jaime assured. "Myra Stark, as you so kindly pointed out, sees me as her hero. She won't let me die for her."
"And what if she does?"
"Has she yet?"
Cersei felt the urge to hit him again, and she almost did until Jaime took hold of both her wrists. He pinned her arms against her sides, and forced her to look at him.
"Nothing is going to happen to me, or to us. Robert will go back to fucking his whores and the Starks will go back to serving him. Nothing has changed."
Jaime always had been a terrible liar.