Barristan
"You ever regret anything, Selmy?"
Ser Barristan looked up from the hole his boot had kicked into the dirt. Early that morning, the king had come to him and demanded that they go on a hunt. Never mind that the tournament's closing festivities were later that afternoon and that he had several dignitaries he had yet to greet over the course of the whole affair. When King Robert wanted to kill something, it was best not to get in his way.
Admittedly, he had thought the man was still drunk. Sobriety was not a state of being Robert liked to be in, but in the hours since they had departed the Red Keep, Barristan had come to realize his king was far more serious than usual. Lancel, he noted, was still carrying a full wineskin, despite multiple attempts to give some to Robert. The last time he had been threatened with disembowelment, so the poor squire had taken to sulking some yards behind them. Robert not taking to wine was something to worry about, strange as it sounded.
He had received no reports of anything unusual in the night, but Ser Mandon never had been one for talking. Barristan always thought it odd a man as respectable as Jon Arryn could have had such a glum character in his entourage.
"And I don't mean eating some piss poor meal that has you shitting your guts out," Robert continued, not noticing the knight's scrutiny. "Real regret. The kind that chews your insides up till you can't take the pain anymore."
He blinked.
This was...different.
Barristan was used to more jovial conversations, the ones that drunkenly mocked death and women and decorum, anything a proper king should not venture to discuss. Rare were the somber moments, and short-lived as well.
"Are you going to answer me or stare at your boots all morning?"
The thing was, Robert was not even looking at him. He was seated on a rock, picking at his spear like he had nothing better to do with it. The man hunted for many reasons, to get away from trouble, to get into trouble, never just for the sake of hunting. But this felt like more. He had only half-heartedly tracked what few prints there were in the Kingswood and was not agitated in the least that there had been no sighting of their quarry. Had he not served by his side for the better part of two decades, Barristan might have wondered if he'd gone hunting with the wrong man.
Even so, he still did.
"The tourney at Harrenhal, Your Grace," Barristan spoke eventually, giving in to the king's question. He shuffled closer to Robert, but not within eye view. "I regret not winning it."
The king huffed. "Not enough victories for you?"
"No, nothing like that. Perhaps if..." His voice trailed off as he thought of how to best phrase his answer. A smart man knew there were certain names to never mention to Robert; a wise man would not have bothered at all. "If someone else had been crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty, things might have been different."
He could still remember how Prince Rhaegar had passed by his wife in order to crown Lyanna Stark. The crowd had fallen so silent as she took the flowers in hand. Her brothers were furious, Elia Martell shamed, even King Aerys did not look favorably on his son's actions, and he, too, was a lecherous sort. But at that moment, the prince saw no one but her.
Robert was watching him. Barristan recalled his face as well. Younger and thinner, but still full of the famed fury of his house.
"And who was your queen?"
Ashara Dayne. With her violet eyes and dark hair, she still haunted his every step. He could pretend, just this once, that he regretted not winning for the sake of the realm, but all the dead across the kingdom for a stolen girl and a rebellion could not mean a thing next to the loss of her.
"Someone else, Your Grace," Barristan replied, remembering her smile one more time. "I suppose it no longer matters who."
The king nodded and stood, stretching to the sound of bones that cracked too loudly.
"You know who I'd have crowned. The whole damn kingdom knows."
Then he began to walk away. Robert was never a vague man. The faster he got to a point, the sooner things could be over with. It was what made him a great warrior in his youth, and a dreadful diplomat now.
He did not go far, stopped before a soldier pine, gazing up into its branches. Barristan wonder what he was searching for.
"I've done something terrible, and Others take me, I don't know what to do about it," Robert said, taking his spear in his hands. "The King of the Realm can't look his own friend in the eye, like the bloody coward he is."
Robert brought the spear across his thigh, easily snapping it in two.
"Damn her."
Barristan tilted his head, a pang of worry in his chest. "Your Grace?"
"Lancel!" The king shouted, ignoring the knight as he turned around. "Where are you, you miserable wench?"
His squire appeared from behind a tree, ready with wine.
"Bring me another spear!"
The young Lannister froze. "Y-Your Grace, you only brought the one."
There was that slight pause the old knight had grown familiar with, when Robert was about to make some ludicrous demand of the poor boy. Though, even he had to admit, any sympathy had run dry long ago. Lancel Lannister had proven himself grossly incompetent at anything he tried, though he supposed that did not mean he deserved the king's ire.
"And you didn't think your king would need another? How can I kill a fucking boar if I'm not armed properly?!" Robert shouted. "Go back and get me another before I shove these pieces up you and really tickle your fancy."
Lancel ran off so quickly, Barristan barely glanced his blonde locks before the boy disappeared completely into the wilds.
Robert watched after him, shaking his head. "Put a dress on that one, and he'd become the prettiest maid in the kingdoms."
Despite himself, Barristan chuckled.
"C'mon, Selmy, we've got boar to hunt."
"Without spears, Your Grace?"
"You've got a sword. So do I. I want to bloody the damn thing again before I die."
And so they left, though the worry remained firmly in the clutches of his chest. Barristan knew better than to pry, though. He had a feeling the source of the king's previous ramblings would come to light soon enough; he only wished he could be prepared for it, for once.
Ned
Jory was speaking to him, that much he knew. But he could not hear anything over the silence of the door just beyond them.
Myra had not spoken once, and so he'd left, though now he questioned if that had been a poor decision on his part. She had not emerged in the hours since. His other daughters came and went, half-heartedly asking after their elder sibling. Too much drink had been his excuse. Sansa had accepted it, gossiping about it with Septa Mordane as she left, but Arya had known better. She had watched him for half a moment longer than he was comfortable with before departing for her lessons.
She was becoming too smart for him.
Ned blinked. How long had his mind been wandering?
He glanced at Jory, whom, he noted, had finished speaking. His captain of the guard made no indication as to how long he had been waiting. The man would have waited all day, no doubt, and offered no word of complaint. At least where the North was concerned, he had placed his faith well.
"I apologize, Jory, I..." His voice trailed off, unsure of how to describe himself even now.
"It's alright, my Lord. It was a long night for all of us."
"I'm not entirely sure it's over," Ned replied, standing from the dining table. It was where he had decided to wait, but even a concerned farther was not allowed to let life pass by forever, especially the Hand. "What was it you spoke of? The Small Council?"
"Yes, my Lord. They requested an urgent meeting. Something about news from the East."
The Targaryens. As if he did not have enough on his plate, now he had to worry about Robert's obsession over a dying house.
Robert.
Never one to bother with the affairs of the actual running of the kingdom, he often chose to ignore such meetings. But for the Targaryens, the man just might show his face.
And what would he do?
Ned felt his fists clench. He was not the man he used to be, but there was still strength in his aging bones, certainly enough to beat a fat man within an inch of his life.
"I suppose Robert will be there."
Jory was silent for a long time. Ned could practically hear him weighing the options in his head.
"You don't have to go. Surely the Hand of the King has that much right."
Perhaps he did. Perhaps not. He wasn't entirely sure it mattered.
He glanced to the door again. Over the course of the morning, Ned had come to memorize every detail of it. All the lines in the reddened wood, the notches, the scrapes from abuse, the fading gold from the knob as it wore off from use. Ask him to choose from one hundred doors, he'd pick the right one every time.
He should never have left her, and now it felt too late to go back.
"No," he spoke after a while. "I should go. Gods forbid a war gets started because of my absence."
Jory nodded, his face growing somber. "Then I'll watch over her. If it's the last thing I do, she won't go through that again. I swear it."
Ned looked to his captain of the guard. He had served him for years, been there in times of war and peace, been at his wedding, and now he had followed him here, far from home and family. Jory Cassel was family himself in all but name. He, too, had seen Myra grow, had kept her company as her brothers sparred, and had even been the sword ready to defend her life.
Until last night.
It seemed there were many men reflecting on regret and failure that morning.
He put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "You were out the entire night looking for her. The fault does not lie with you, Jory."
"Neither does it with you, yet here we both are, watching a door," he replied, motioning toward it. "I stand by my word. I'll send someone when it opens. No need to worry on that front."
Just on everything else.
The unspoken words hung heavy in the air. Both Northerners exchanged unsatisfied looks.
With a nod, Ned turned toward the main door. "Try to get some rest, Jory. You'll be no good to her if you collapse."
He thought that, perhaps, away from the damned door, his mind might find some reprieve from the hell it had been going through, but alone in the stairwell, facing the prospect of confronting the man he had called his friend, his thoughts only swirled closer and became more frenzied. Ned thought the walls might have been closing in on him, that the air was growing thicker.
His feet came to a stop at a familiar spot, the very place from earlier. He could swear there were marks on the wall where he had held Jaime at his mercy. Ned looked at them and wondered what he had been thinking. His daughter would have never allowed herself to be escorted by the man who wronged her, but in that moment, he needed someone to blame, anyone. The Kingslayer was a good a mark as any.
It was so easy to believe Jaime Lannister had done it, even when Myra had begged that he come to no harm; it was easy to ignore all the signs that had pointed to this for so long.
Had Robert been there instead of Jaime, would he have done the same?
No, of course not. He would have trusted the man who harmed his daughter.
The pain did not register, not at first. Ned stared at his fist as it pushed against the wall, but it did not occur to him that he had actually punched it, not until the knuckles began to pulse and dark red oozed from the skin.
He moved it, a mark of his own next to Jaime's now, and looked at the broken skin. Was this all he could do for her?
Robert's Kingsguard would stop him before he made a move. And even if they were not there, could he do it? His trust in him was shattered, but Robert was still his king. What more could he do but berate the man and threaten to leave? Lords had gone to war for their daughters for less slights, and here he stood, honor and love at war with one another.
Catelyn had worried about Myra most. Arya was strong-willed and wouldn't tolerate anything anyone said to her and Sansa was born to play amongst lords and ladies, not to mention Septa Mordane would stare down any would-be challenger. But Myra, his wife had said, was the kind to give a man a chance until it was far too late.
"You must watch out for her, Ned. She won't have Robb to do it for her anymore."
He smiled at his wife's protectiveness. "Myra is a woman grown, Cat. She'll be able to handle it, far better than her sisters at any rate."
She sighed, stroking his cheek; she always did that when she had a lesson to teach him.
"That is where you are wrong. Myra will watch out for them and you and everyone else in this world before she takes a moment to look after herself. She needs her father, now more than ever."
And where had he been when his daughter needed him most?
He had failed them, his daughter and his wife, and even now he was continuing to do so.
Suddenly weary, Ned fell back against the wall, but even that was not enough. His legs were weak and shaking and they collapsed beneath him.
And there, uncomfortably seated on the steps to the Tower of the Hand, he wept.
The way the Small Council stared at him, Ned thought they might have all known. Varys more than likely did. The King's Spider knew a great many things and the look of sympathy on his face did not go unnoticed. Littlefinger, however, was smiling. For his sake, Ned hoped he was ignorant in the matter.
"My apologies," Ned started, lingering by the door. He was one wrong word away from fleeing, like some boy waiting for punishment. "There was a...family matter to tend to. I hope I have not kept you waiting long."
It could not have been that long, though. Robert had yet to arrive. Given his obsession with the Targaryens, Ned would have expected him to have beaten everyone else to their seats. Perhaps the gods did provide with small blessings.
To be honest, he was not entirely certain what he would do once he saw him.
Gods be good, how was he to get through the day?
"There is no need, my Lord," Varys replied, voice so sickly sweet Ned was positive the man knew now. "Family is paramount. Besides, an hour or two can hardly affect the outcome of matters across the sea."
"Yes, but a month or two might," Littlefinger added, some inside joke Ned did not care to know, though he did not doubt he'd find out shortly.
He glanced at the rest of the table, and his gaze froze on Renly. It took every ounce of strength in him to keep his body standing still, though his fists still curled. He had to remind himself, again, that the boy was not his brother, in both looks and demeanor. Surely he did not know what had transpired either, or he would have come to the tower himself. No, his serious mood had something to do with the meeting.
Grand Maester Pycelle he did not even bother with. The man looked on the verge of falling asleep.
"Where is the king?" Ned finally managed to ask. He had yet to move.
Renly shifted in his seat. "My brother decided it was a good day to hunt. He took Ser Barristan and his squire early this morning. Strange, since he usually likes to drag along unfortunate souls to witness the slaughter, namely me."
Running from responsibility. That was Robert's entire life. His drinking and his whores and excessive violence, it was all just running. Ned had known that well enough, though the reason itself had always eluded him.
Except for today, that was.
He took a breath.
"Has a message been sent for him?"
Pycelle nodded. "We did send a messenger, my Lord, but the council agreed that we would like to discuss the situation with you beforehand."
Of course they did. The one meeting the king would want to attend and they wanted him nowhere near it.
Ned nodded, slowly making his way to the table. He took the centermost seat, the seat of honor, in Robert's stead. An empty goblet sat on his right. He closed his eyes and pushed it away.
A stifled gasp to his left caught Ned's attention. Varys, or rather the entire Small Council, had taken notice of his bloodied right hand. Truthfully, he had completely forgotten about it, though he could not understand how. Moving the fingers was difficult and the skin still stung.
"It is nothing," he said quickly, hiding the object of focus under the table. "Just a difficult evening."
"I wonder what the other man looks like," Renly mused, a grin on his face. He wondered if the boy would look the same if he knew.
"Indeed," Littlefinger concurred. "To get the honorable Ned Stark to fight, they must have done something extraordinary. I certainly hope it wasn't anyone we know."
Ned did not deem his comments worthy of a reply, a punch of his own, perhaps, but he had promised Cat. There had to be at least one he would not break.
Varys, he noted, was also watching the Master of Coin.
"If you would allow me, my Lord," Pycelle started. "I may have something to alleviate the-"
"That's alright, Grand Maester," Ned interrupted. He just wanted to get it over with. This prolonging felt like purposeful torture. "If we're done discussing the matter, I believe we have something more important to attend to."
Varys nodded, "Quite right, Lord Stark. My little bird across the Narrow Sea has brought us...grim news."
"That little bird being Jorah Mormont, I take it?"
"The very same," the Spider replied, maintaining eye contact. Ned supposed he would not care what the man had done. Those in a position like the disgraced Mormont were the kind he lived for using. "He informs me that Daenerys Targaryen is with child."
Ned groaned. "And what of it?"
"My brother will want action taken." Renly leaned on the table, looking less a boy than ever as he juggled with the fate of a life. "They should have been killed long before they became a problem."
"And are they a problem?" Ned asked, glancing around at the other members. "Two Targaryens who were babes when they fled Westeros, who are still scarcely more than children now, have caused all of you enough grief to justify their murders? You'd never even pick them out of a crowded room."
Littlefinger sat up. "Regardless of what they have or have not done, it's what they plan to do that gives us pause."
"What, planning to invade the country with an army that fears the very thing they need to cross? If the South was always concerned with such unlikely threats, the Wall would still be at full strength today."
"If Wildlings could manage to stop fighting one another for longer than a day, the realm might actually tremble in fear. As it stands, they're nothing more than fur-covered pests with a penchant for the occasional raid, not unlike the Greyjoys in that regard."
Yes, pests that started a rebellion and managed to burn down the fleet in Lannisport, bringing a full-scale war back to the already scarred landscape of Westeros. But Ned did not mention it. It felt like fuel for their fire rather than his.
Varys nodded. "No matter what you might believe, Lord Stark, the rest of the council agrees that action must be taken against this threat. It would be wise to present this case to King Robert on a united front."
So that was why they wished to see him, not to discuss what they should tell Robert, but to make him agree to their decision before the king returned. With things as rocky as they were, Robert and his Hand disagreeing was not going to help.
It was a shame they were far too late in that regard.
"And if I say no?" Ned asked.
Littlefinger smiled. "Then we begin placing bets on who can yell louder."
"Please, Lord Stark, imagine the lives you will be saving," Pycelle said, shifting in his seat. "If the Dothraki do invade, thousands will be lost."
"Tens of thousands," Varys clarified.
Ned shook his head, unable to believe what he was hearing. "Do you plan on killing the entire Dothraki horde as well? Say you succeed in killing the Targaryen children, what is to stop her people from taking revenge? Right now, undisturbed, they hardly have a reason to move, but murder a Khaleesi, and they'll find a way across the sea."
That bought him a few moments of silence. It appeared at least some of the members, namely Renly, had not considered the consequences in their entirety. Good. Perhaps he had a chance then.
"Better a savage horde threatening the realm than a Targaryen led army," Littlefinger said, breaking the silence. "Khal Drogo cannot convince half the kingdoms to join his cause."
There were solemn nods all around.
"So it is no matter if thousands die, so long as a Targaryen isn't the direct cause of it." Ned stood, his seat creaking across the polished floor. "I'll have no part in this."
Pycelle attempted to stand with him. "You must understand that we-"
"No more!" Ned shouted as he strode toward the doors, anger rising. "It seems all King's Landing is good for is harming young girls. I've had enough."
He had said too much and he knew it, but it no longer mattered to him as he slammed the door behind him. All he wanted was to get back to his daughters and get out of this damned place. He doubted he could do so before Robert returned, but he could try. Cowardly though it seemed, it would save them all a great deal of trouble if they never saw one another again. The people could gossip all they wanted. Winterfell was safe from such frivolities.
"My Lord, if I may..."
Ned stopped and sighed. He was not aware Varys could move so quickly or quietly; he had not even heard the door open again.
He waited for the eunuch to approach him, the smell of lavender and some other foreign flower announcing his arrival. Dressed in his silk robes and dainty shoes, it was a wonder that this man help command some of the most disturbing acts. The murder of children, destruction of cities, no one would ever suspect a man of his nature.
Part of him had to wonder if this was truly the way he wished to dress, or if it, too, was part of his grand scheme.
"I'll not talk of the Targaryens again. I've had enough of it."
"As have I, Lord Stark. That discussion can wait for cooler heads to prevail," Varys agreed, looking down to his hands, which were neatly tucked away in his large sleeves. "There is another matter to discuss, one that greatly inconveniences your desire to leave the capital. Were it not of the utmost importance, I would allow you to carry on. I can understand why-"
Ned huffed. "I believe you know things, Lord Varys, but do not pretend to understand them."
Varys did not back down. "Few of us know the pain of the deepest of betrayals, Lord Stark. It cuts deeper than any sword and burns hotter than any fire; it was why I insisted the Small Council meet early. More important than the Targaryens, I wanted to make certain both the Hand and our King survived the day."
There had been a time when Ned thought he knew the inner workings of the Master of Whisperers, but much like everything else in King's Landing, the truth was still very much hidden from him.
"Then you have my gratitude," Ned admitted with a weary sigh.
"Try to hold on to that feeling. You may not care much for it upon hearing the news I have." Varys gestured away from the Throne Room, and Ned followed slowly until they had come to a narrow hallway, most likely a passage for servants, with no signs of life. "The situation regarding a certain dagger has become much more complicated, I'm afraid."
More bad news. That was the only news he seemed to receive as of late.
"What is it?"
The look of sympathy was back on Varys' face. "It seems that your wife has taken things into her own hands. She happened upon the same inn Lord Tyrion was staying at with a member of the Night's Watch, and called on her father's bannermen to arrest him."
Oh Cat, what have you done?
"Without more evidence implicating the man in your son's attempted murder, your wife's arrest of Tyrion Lannister will be seen as unprovoked. His father has done worse things for less, not to mention his brother."
Ned felt the worry return to his chest. "Does Ser Jaime know?"
"Not yet, and he won't from me. I prefer to keep my head, you see, but he will learn soon enough, and he'll want blood."
Again, Ned felt weak. He placed a hand on the wall to hold himself up as he began to realize how dire everything had become. They would be on the brink of war for this, a war no one was prepared to fight.
"If you are to rectify this, Lord Stark, you will need Robert," Varys said calmly, his words cutting through the thoughts that threatened to overwhelm him. "As much as you want to leave this place, it now may be your only hope."
Myra
She did not dream, yet what little sleep she had felt like an eternity. Her mind drifted through somewhere deep and dark, content in the abyss. If nothing could happen, then there was nothing to fear or to hurt.
But there was also nothing to love or find joy in, and with that realization, her eyes opened.
Even hidden under layers of blankets and sheets, the brightness of the day was not lost on her. It shined through the fabric, enveloping her in a soft and welcoming glow. For a moment, she pretended that the world outside was something different, perhaps Winterfell. Though even on the brightest of days, when white covered both the skies and the ground, her room would never be so radiant. After all, Northerners believed in four walls and doors to shut anything that dared to be open.
But it was a thought that cheered her nonetheless, for what little time it could.
Myra could not begin to imagine how long she stayed that way, lying under the covers, remembering the last time her home was fully covered in snow (she and Jon had managed to lose Robb, despite his Tully hair, and spent the better part of an hour searching for him while he giggled obnoxiously from a hole in the ground), but when she did finally manage to free herself from the bed, the room had grown much dimmer.
Her body ached, her head and arms in particular, though her back felt as though she had slept on a rock all night. The rest of her just felt...drained. How she had even gotten into a sitting position was something of a miracle in itself. Her hand moved up the arm of the dress, feeling the bruises that had been left by him.
Is that what you want?! To go to Rhaegar so he can fuck you how he pleases?!
"No! No! No!"
She was on her feet in an instant, all pain forgotten as she tried her best to tear the dress from her body. It was cursed, trapping her in that memory, and she wanted it gone.
Without her handmaiden, it was difficult work. Seams were ripped, fabric physically torn, but eventually the damn thing had been ripped from her body and thrown into the remains of the fire. Like kindling, it took to the flame quickly and soon the hearth was roaring once more with an uncontrollable blaze.
Myra stared into the fire, in naught but her shift, watching the fabric burn away with the remains of the antler.
So he can make you his whore?!
"No!"
She did not even notice as the flames escaped the hearth, as the dress had not landed completely inside.
The door slammed open.
"Lady Myra!" shouted a frenzied Jory as he entered her chambers. He stared at her state of undress for but a moment before rushing forward to stamp out the fire beside her. Right behind him was an equally wide-eyed Syrena, who grabbed a blanket from her bed and moved quickly to cover her.
"My lady, what are you doing?" the handmaiden asked as she led her from the scene.
Myra took a shaking breath, only just realizing she was sobbing. "I don't want to be his whore. Please...I don't..."
Syrena wrapped her arms around her shaking form, letting Myra cry into her shoulder. "That will not happen to you, my lady. I promise."
Myra was vaguely aware of Syrena saying something else to Jory. The door shut again and she felt herself being moved to the bed. A gentle hand smoothed out her hair, while the other rubbed small circles on her back, taking care to avoid her arms.
She was not Lyanna. She was not Lyanna. She would never be Lyanna.
Some time passed before she calmed again. Syrena never left her side, whispering words of comfort into her hair. It made her feel like a child again, running to her mother when she was hurt.
How she wished her mother had stayed.
"When did you come back?" Myra mumbled, unwilling to open her eyes just yet.
"A few hours ago, my lady. Your Ser Jory almost did not let me in, until I asked if he was going to dress you from now on," Syrena replied. She could feel her smirk. "He is quite protective of you."
"He hasn't been knighted, you know."
"So I have been told, but he is better than half the men who carry the title. I think I shall call him as I please."
That made her smile.
Myra looked up, opening her bleary eyes to a very welcome face. "You sent Ser Jaime to me, didn't you?"
"Of course I did, my lady," Syrena said, her dark eyes full of kindness. "I had hoped to send more, but he told me to keep quiet."
"It was probably best. The less people who know..."
There was a seriousness in the handmaiden's eyes now. She grasped Myra by the shoulders, ever so gently, and turned to face her. "My lady, did he harm you? More than..."
Her words drifted off as she took in the sight. Myra glanced down at her arms. They had turned nasty shades of purple above her elbows and on her wrists. She thought she could make out a distinct handprint on her skin.
I went to war for you.
Myra took a deep breath, urging her nerves to calm. It did not work.
"I...I am fine. The king...he did not..."
She could not bring herself to say it.
"You said you did not want to be his whore," Syrena said, as softly as possible, but the words still felt like a slap across her face.
Myra looked to her hands. "He thought Lyanna had run away with Rhaegar...to be his lover...his...Robert did not like that."
Syrena mumbled something under her breath. It was a foreign language, a beautifully worded curse.
"Is that High Valyrian?"
The handmaiden smiled. "It is, my lady. You have a good ear."
"There is so much I don't know about you," she mused. Myra supposed she never would. Syrena, she had come to realize, had more secrets than most in the capital, but unlike the others, she did not flaunt the idea of being mysterious. "Where did you go, after Jaime?"
The woman bit her lip, thinking. "I...went to the queen. With all the ears in the keep, I wanted her to hear it first from me, so there was no mistaking what happened."
Myra nodded. Truthfully, she was thankful to the handmaiden for such quick thinking. It was so easy for a few simple words to be changed, leaving the queen to believe something else entirely had happened that evening. The last thing she needed was Cersei Lannister storming into the tower with fury and accusation.
She took a moment to look around the room, noting the burnt remains of her dress, the ashes across the floor, and her sad, small reflection in the mirror near her bed. How frail she looked. Had she found anything in King's Landing that did not maker her feel this way? She could not remember now. Any laughter or happiness she may have had, it was...clouded, obscure. Anything before that night felt so far away.
"I'd like to go to the sea, I think," Myra started, looking over at Syrena. "I can't stay in here any longer."
Her room. The Red Keep. King's Landing. They all applied equally.
The Dornish girl smiled, standing up. "Of course, my lady."
It took some time to ease Myra into a new dress. Attempting to avoid both her discomfort and another episode proved more troublesome than either party imagined, but eventually Myra found herself standing before the mirror, looking somewhat presentable at least. Syrena had found a gray dress that reflected the Northern style while being blessedly lightweight for the climate of the South. The handmaiden made certain that all the bruises were properly covered before allowing her to set one foot out the door.
The moment she did, Jory stood from his seat at the table. Myra became distinctly aware of the state he had seen her in earlier and felt the heat rising in her cheeks, but her father's captain of the guard made no indication that he remembered. He simply looked concerned and took a few steps forward before stopping himself.
"My lady," he said, bowing his head. "Forgive me...I should have been there."
She smiled softly. "You were with my father, as you should be, Jory."
"Nevertheless, it is my duty to ensure all members of House Stark are safe. I have failed you, my lady, and I...it won't happen again."
Myra thought she was done crying for the time being, but the emotion in Jory's voice nearly broke her. In a few, short steps, she was wrapped in his arms, clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping her standing, and he very well may have been.
Her younger self would not have dared this. There had been a time in Winterfell when her eyes had only been for him. She had boldly declared to Wylla Manderly during a feast (with more than a little influence from ale snuck to her by Theon) that she would marry him one day. Her friend had laughed at her antics, insisting that what she spoke was nonsense. She'd never be able to marry a hedge knight, much less a man who never even had a title.
And so, she grew a little more that night, and discarded her silly notions of love and marriage. How appropriate it had been, the very next week her father announced her engagement to Domeric Bolton.
She could not help but smile into the leather of his armor. What strange places the mind traveled to when it wished.
Strange and beautifully happy.
Slowly, Myra relinquished her grasp on Jory, and returned to a more appropriate distance for a lady and her guard.
Syrena smiled. "My lady wishes to go to the sea. I told her it would be a splendid idea."
Jory looked between the two of them. "I just sent word for your lord father. He wished to know when you were up."
"He can meet you there," Syrena insisted. "I will wait for him here, and in the meantime, clean up the chambers. There is no need for him to know what happened."
Myra felt her shoulders sag in relief. No doubt her father was suffering through enough guilt as it was. She wondered what she would even say when she did see him. The only words she had spoken the night before were for him not to harm Ser Jaime.
Oh gods, had he?
The words were thick and stuck to her tongue. She did not want to ask Jory, not if he did not know. There was no need to implicate more people in that part of her little drama. It was difficult enough knowing the few people who knew did.
She allowed herself to be led from the room by Jory. They walked beside one another in comfortable silence, leaving the tower and traveling through the rest of the Red Keep with relatively little contact. What few nobles they did pass were met with lowered eyes and the most proper of greetings. Myra did not care what they thought, only that they moved on quickly and were done with the whole encounter.
After some time, Myra began to notice things about the captain of the guard. He never strayed far from her and his sword hand, while from a distance it appeared relaxed, was at the ready. His fingers flexed every now and again, and always moved close to the hilt, as opposed to his other hand, which swung freely.
He was ready for a fight.
"Are you my personal guard now, Jory?" Myra asked, attempting some form of humor, though she found her voice hardly reflected it.
Jory's frown only deepened. "I promised your father I would take care of you, my lady. And I plan on doing so until he tells me otherwise."
A small smile graced her features. She was glad of it, and secretly hoped her father would allow him to stay by her side, at least for the time being. It made her more at ease in the halls.
It was a strange feeling, walking now. She was strong enough to stand on her own, to move and breathe and talk, but at the same time, she felt so weak. A good breeze could kick up in the hall and Myra felt she would fall over, never to get up. Whatever was holding her together, be it sheer willpower or the simply the desire to see the Narrow Sea, it was only doing so just barely, and her mind might not know it had fallen apart until it was far too late.
Like back in her room.
One instant she was sore and tired, but alright. And in the next, it was night and Robert was there, a behemoth of a man threatening to crush her, body and spirit. It had felt so real, so close.
She would have to leave this place, she knew, as if her father would ask her to do anything but. Myra only wondered what this meant for her sisters. They would not want to leave, she knew them well enough. Sansa had her engagement and Arya was finally getting the sword practice she couldn't at home. Why should their dreams be crushed because theirs had been?
But this was King's Landing, she remembered, and danger was around every corner.
Myra just did not expect it to be this very one.
As they turned to head to one final staircase, Myra and Jory were met by a party returning to the Red Keep. Ser Barristan and Lancel Lannister brought up the rear, following none other than Robert Baratheon himself.
The young Stark froze, a strangled sort of noise escaping her throat. She felt the blood drain from her face and all her musings scattered to the wind.
Jory, to his credit, did not pause. He stood in front of her, a shield, and grasped the hilt of his sword, ready to draw at a moment's notice.
Ser Barristan's hand was on his as well, while Lancel backed up some feet, grasping the wineskin tightly as if it could save him.
Robert had yet to move.
"You would dare draw on your king?" Ser Barristan spoke, stepping forward. He, too, would have placed himself in front of his charge had Robert not put his hand out and stopped him.
Jory did not flinch. "Aye, and anyone else who thinks to threaten my lady."
The air suddenly grew thick.
Ser Barristan looked confused for a moment, but then she saw something dawn on his face. He looked to Robert, then back to them, and looked briefly ashamed before resuming the façade of the Commander of the Kingsguard.
Robert blinked, suddenly returning to the moment. "Does Ned know?"
"Course he does."
The silence stretched for an eternity.
Then the king took a step forward.
Steel was drawn, one after another. Someone shouted. Myra blinked and in an instant had flung herself in front of Jory. She watched the tip of Ser Barristan's blade hover mere inches from her face as she desperately pushed her father's captain back, her hand reaching for his sword, attempting to lower it.
King Robert, having recovered from being pushed to the side by his kingsguard himself, stepped between the two groups, assuming his commanding presence.
"ENOUGH!" he shouted.
Ser Barristan froze in an instant, though Jory did not appear nearly as affected. Myra kept her hand tightly around his wrist, urging him to stay still.
"To my solar, all of you!"
Myra felt faint. "Y-Your Grace, if I-"
"That is an order!"
The world started to spin. Surely this was what happened earlier, a memory she was trapped in. She could not be on the verge of being stuck with him again. This could not happen. Jory said it would not happen.
A strong arm wrapped tightly around her.
Myra looked up and saw the determination in her guard's eyes. It gave her a sort of courage, as small as it was, to gather herself up and follow the king and his entourage.
After all, a king did as he wanted, and who was she to disobey?