Myra
The day Myra Stark departed King's Landing had dawned bright and clear. A warm breeze had risen from the south, perfect for guiding her ship from its harbor, and the seas had calmed so that from a distance, Blackwater Bay appeared to be nothing but glass. It seemed that even nature approved of her leaving.
She might have taken it as a good sign, once, but she knew that all the beauty was only a façade. A storm lingered beneath the calm, raging with strength enough to break the kingdom in two, and here she stood on one of the visible cracks, waiting for the inevitable.
There were no lulls to this storm. One moment, she had been a girl hiding in fear of a king, and now her father would task her to face his brother, one infinitely more disagreeable if the words were true, and convince him to come back to the very place he fled.
It would take an army to drag her back to King's Landing, and she did not carry the secrets Stannis Baratheon did.
Or rather, she would not for much longer.
Word of Tyrion Lannister's capture would spread like wildfire across every village. After all, there was only one imp who could dress as he did and call forth enough ire to have as many swords pointed at him as Varys had implied.
Was it fate, Myra wondered, that he and her mother happened upon the inn at the same time? Were they bound to meet with disaster?
She looked to the dagger in her hands. It was not overly ornate, but the dragonbone hilt and Valyrian steel made it nearly invaluable. A man in King's Landing could live comfortably after selling it, if he were ever lucky enough to come into possession of it.
And a simple man had come to hold it. He had taken in to her home and carved open her mother's hands with it; he had meant to open her brother's throat with it. And for what? It was an answer they still did not have, and all the proof that existed to Tyrion's treachery was the word of a glorified brothel owner, a man whom she neither trusted nor believed.
That was why her father had entrusted it to her. It was all they had, and in a place like King's Landing, things never stayed secret or safe. With her, the dagger would remain, close at hand, until it was needed again. And she had no doubt Stannis might find interest in it. He was no fan of the Lannisters either; he might find the situation to be more of an...opportunity than others.
The thought left a foul taste in her mouth.
Myra wrapped the dagger back in one of her dresses, taking care not to cut herself. Here she was, desperate to flee the game, and instead she had been thrust deeper into its clutches, where lives rather than pride were at risk. If she was her father's only hope at remedying things, Myra was afraid things were about to get terribly worse.
She took a moment to watch her trembling hand before slamming her trunk shut.
"None of these dresses will work for you back home," Syrena mused behind her, either not noticing or choosing to ignore Myra's silence. She could guess at which. "I have never been so far north, but given how warm all of you are here, I expect sleeveless is not the choice most ladies would go with."
"And do you find it cold here?" Myra asked, turning to the handmaiden. She had laid all the unpacked clothes on the bed, sorting them by weight and even color. Syrena was certainly organized, Myra would give her that.
"When I first came, it did not stop raining for a week," Syrena replied, a soft smile gracing her tan features. "I had never seen so much before; I thought it might flood the world and drown us. Or me, at least. But the cooler air did not bother me much, so long as I was dry. Nights in Dorne can be just as savage as the days."
"I always wondered how anyone could live there," Myra murmured, picking at the fabric of some yellow dress she never got the chance to wear. Sansa might enjoy it. It was a little much for a girl of her age, but their father had always relented to her pleas.
"And we wonder how anyone can live where you do."
Myra smiled softly, thinking back to her far off and isolated home. She supposed it would be difficult for outsiders to understand why anyone would want to live in a place others deemed a cold wasteland, but that wasteland was the only thing she wanted to see again, and she had to wonder when she actually would.
"May I ask something of you?"
Syrena nodded. "Of course, my lady."
"Will you watch out for Sansa?" Myra asked, turning her gaze back to the handmaiden. "I can't exactly bring you to Winterfell, you'd go mad within the hour, but the queen did trust you to me. I doubt she would mind if your service moved to my sister. After all, she is supposed to marry her son.
"Arya can handle herself, but I fear Sansa will find out what King's Landing is like all too quickly, and sometimes a septa is the last person you want to confess your fears to."
Syrena watched her for a good while, her dark eyes thoughtful, and perhaps surprised? It was hard to say. Her handmaiden was a difficult person to read, but Myra had gathered enough about her to realize that her obedient attitude might be a front entirely. There was a fierceness to the Dornish girl, one that made her wonder why she would choose a life in service.
The woman nodded once. "I will watch after her, my lady, you have my word."
It was a small party that saw her off at the docks, mostly family and the servants they had brought with from the North, the exception being Renly Baratheon.
He looked regal in his doublet, with the gilded stags of his house crisscrossing the dark green pattern. His beard was neatly trimmed and not a hair on his head was out of place. She briefly recalled her words to Robb on the day she left home all those months ago, about fancy men and her utter disinterest in them. How he would have laughed to see that she had almost chosen the fanciest of them all.
She stood off to one side of the group with him for a moment, her father allowing them a moment's privacy before her final goodbyes. Renly had decided to make a show of it all, placing his lips to her hand the instant they approached one another. It was the first time it did not make her blush like a maiden. Rather, she just wanted him to be done with it.
"I don't suppose there is a chance I can convince you to stay?" Renly asked, his smile brighter than the sun shining above them.
It was as if a veil had been lifted from her eyes. Suddenly all his moves and gestures, they seemed so empty to her, promises that had no intention of ever being fulfilled. She wondered how she could have ever been so foolish.
Still, Myra wore a smile when she spoke to him. "I'm afraid not. Being so far from home, it takes its toll."
"Perhaps I should visit one day then. I've never been to the North."
Even before everything, Myra was certain she would be able to see his lie. Renly looked uncomfortable speaking the words, as if traveling to Winterfell was some sort of sentence for punishment.
She took his hand, squeezing it gently. "There will be no need, Renly. A woman can tell when she is not worth the effort."
Myra almost laughed at the look on Renly's face, like a child caught in the wrong. His smile disappeared and his eyes grew wide, though he tried to recover with a cough and a quick shuffle.
"It wasn't all bad," she continued, letting his hand go. "I think I might have liked Storm's End."
Renly looked back up, genuine warmth to his face. "As do I, my lady."
The young Lord of the Stormlands did not stay long after, disappearing into the gathering crowd as soon as her head had turned, but Myra wanted to believe they had parted on decent terms. There was at least one Baratheon she would have no problems dealing with in her future, but as for the other two...
Robert did not show up to the docks, whether it was to avoid conflict with her over everything or suspicion that the king would even show up to a small affair such as this one, she could not be certain. Part of her was glad, but another was disappointed. She found herself glancing to the archway leading to the city often, hoping to catch a glimpse of white.
She played with her fingers as the guilt gnawed away at her insides.
Jaime Lannister did not deserve to hear about his brother secondhand. She owed him the truth, given everything he had done for her, and yet here she stood, running from King's Landing, hoping to turn the tide that her family had brought on itself. There had been ample opportunity to speak with him after her father had confessed, but she had remained in her room, shut away from everyone so the words would not escape.
Was it fear that kept her mouth closed or shame?
A small figure slammed into her body, knocking Myra from her thoughts as she fought to steady herself. Arya had wrapped her arms around her middle tightly, with no indication of ever letting go. It was impressive, given that when their father had announced her departure the previous night, she had shouted a string of improper words before locking herself in her room. The sound of her little sword hitting pillows came not long after.
"Don't go," Arya mumbled into the fabric of her dress. "Please don't go."
Her sisters did not know the truth, and if the gods were good, they never would.
Myra ran a hand through her sister's hair before untangling her arms from around her. "You're always welcome to come with me, you know."
Big, round eyes met her. "But I-"
She chuckled, kneeling down. "I know. Life is good for you here. You have your dancing lessons and your cats to chase but...it hasn't been all that good for me. Do you believe someone should stay where they aren't happy?"
"No," her sister replied, looking downcast.
"Besides," Myra said, putting a hand on Arya's cheek, lifting her face. "I think our brothers are a right mess without me."
That brought a smile to her sister's face, though it was short lived. She hugged her again, and Myra returned it, feeling like the one unwilling to let go this time. Why did it feel as though she would never do this again?
Sansa was more subdued with her goodbye, ever the proper lady, but Myra knew the girl well enough. She was disappointed that Myra was leaving. There would be no one to talk with other than Septa Mordane now, because the Others forbid she interact with her younger sister.
"Will you come back when I get married?" Sansa asked, holding her hands. "Please tell me you will."
Myra could not help but smile. That was so like Sansa, making something about her even when it should not have been. But that was her way of expressing her feelings. It was how she believed a proper lady should act, and Myra hoped she remained that way forever if it meant no harm ever came to her.
"If the gods are kind to Father, that won't be for a while yet," Myra replied, ignoring the disappointed look on her sister's face. "But when it happens, I will be here. Just give me some time to catch my breath before you go saying your vows."
That seemed to cheer Sansa some as she, too, hugged her goodbye.
Myra said her farewells to the various members of their household, Septa Mordane, Vayon and Jeyne Poole, and the like, before making her way to her father and Jory as they stood on the dock before the small boat that would take her to a larger ship out in the bay. The captain of the guard would be traveling with her, keeping his word to protect her, and was dressed for the occasion, though he was eying the water warily. Her father, however, was not. He still wore his day-to-day clothes, the golden pin of the Hand of the King still clinging tightly to the leather.
Jory nodded as she approached. "Whenever you are ready, my lady."
Would never be an appropriate answer?
He boarded the boat next to the dock leaving Myra alone with her father. Neither moved for some time, yet somehow so much was spoken between them, of friendship and betrayal and the desperate need for something to go right for them in this forsaken city.
Then her arms were around his neck, clinging tightly to him as she ignored the pain in her arms. Her father held her just as fiercely, nearly lifting her from the dock.
"I will bring him back, father," she whispered in his ear. "If it's the last thing I do, I'll get him to return."
Ned set her down, holding her head in both his hands. "Don't make it the last thing, Myra. Don't pay for the sins of your mother and I."
"And don't you pay for his," Myra replied through clenched teeth, willing away the tears.
A strange look passed over her father's face before he bent down and pressed a kiss to her forehead. She closed her eyes, attempting to make the moment last; she wanted to remember everything, the feelings, the smells, the sounds. Myra wanted to commit it all to memory, to last her through the journey and beyond, when the cold enveloped her at home and the fires of her hearth did nothing to warm her, Myra wanted to look back to this moment and remember her father.
Perhaps they both knew then that they would never see one another again.
Jaime
They would pay, every last one of them.
He should have known something was wrong when Ser Barristan all but locked him in the tower, keeping him from his duties and practically isolating him from everyone in the keep, but he had assumed it still had something to do with Myra Stark. Robert did not want to see him, and Cersei was still angry with him for being so foolish about it in the first place. Watching over Joffrey as he barely paid any attention to his head over heels betrothed was the only thing he had done remotely related to his position in the past couple days, and that had only been after Ser Barristan had no other options.
Word came to him midway through the week. He was in the training yard, standing over a dummy he had knocked down with single swipe of his sword. His mind had travelled elsewhere. Normally, the crumpled form of Aerys would appear when it did, but that day he saw Robert, his eyes wide and mouth parted as though cut off mid-laugh.
When he pictured a pair of gray eyes watching him, Jaime shook off the images. His eyes opened again to a Lannister guard, and five words he wished he'd never heard.
Lord Tyrion has been taken.
He almost punched the man right then and there, but instead took out his anger on the next practice dummy, lodging the training sword into its skull.
Now he stood in Cersei's quarters, surrounded by six of their most trusted Lannister guards, all officers, all veterans, all loyal to the death. Jaime had exchanged his golden armor for the red and black of his house. Golden lions sat on his shoulders rather than a golden crown on his chest. He felt more powerful now than he had all the years in the Kingsguard.
"This is treason," Cersei spoke, though her words were not in anger. After all, she had been the one who brought in the soldiers, dismissing Ser Arys the instant Jaime had entered the room. She did not care for Tyrion; she never had, but Cersei did care for House Lannister and would strive to bring down anyone who thought they could harm their family without swift and deadly consequences. And right now, that was all that mattered to him.
"I don't plan on being here long enough for your husband to do anything about it," Jaime replied, drawing his sword. The sound of real steel releasing from its scabbard ignited an excitement in him that he had not felt in some time. There would be real bloodshed today, and he could not deny that he had missed it. "You're positive he's with Maester Pycelle?"
Cersei nodded. "Of course I am. I had the old man send for him. They're talking about some book."
Jaime looked back to his sword. He pictured it covered in Ned Stark's blood. Actually killing him was not his goal, but the image pleased him nonetheless.
"Start for the rookery," Jaime said, looking to his men. "Two at a time. I don't want you attracting any attention before we have our chance."
All six soldiers nodded and departed the room in staggered times. When they had finally cleared, Cersei dared to approach him, interlacing her hand in his free one and leaning her head over his shoulder, so she could whisper in his ear.
"You should have taken this outside the keep."
Jaime shook his head. "He won't leave. The only reason Ned Stark is still Hand of the King is because he expects it to protect him. I'll prove to him otherwise."
"You're going to leave me," she murmured, anger in her tone. "You were never supposed to leave me again."
Sheathing his sword, Jaime whirled on Cersei, grasping her tightly and pulling her body close to his. He could see the excitement in her green eyes.
"I'll come back, and with the whole Lannister army if I have to. The Riverlands will burn, and the Vale, and every person standing between us."
He captured her lips with his, the urgency of the situation dispelling all precaution they had against discovery. Cersei matched his ferocity for a time before pulling away, mouth to his ear as he nuzzled her neck.
"It won't be enough," she whispered, breath hot against his skin. "Find the girl and take her. Let the Starks know that no matter what they do, they cannot protect the ones they love."
Jaime did not hear the jealousy in her voice. He did not notice how she used his anger at Tyrion's capture to pursue things he would not think of doing. All he knew was her smell and her taste, his better half, golden perfection.
In less than an hour, Jaime and his soldiers had advanced up the rookery steps, their attempts at subtlety all but gone. Servants fled at the sight of them and other guards stood meekly by, the reputation of the Kingslayer all they needed to keep their swords sheathed.
By the time they reached the door to Maester Pycelle's solar, Jaime was blinded by rage. He did not know what would keep him from shoving his sword through Ned Stark's ribcage, and at this point, he no longer cared. Damn the consequences. Damn the Starks. They had judged his family for the last time.
He and his soldiers stormed the room, filing in quickly in case the Hand had brought any guards with them, but all were surprised to discover that only Pycelle was there, quivering like a leaf as he always did, a moment away from falling over. After glancing around, Jaime marched right up to the old fool, shoving him down into the chair before his desk. He drew his knife and held it right up to the man's neck.
"Where is Stark?"
Pycelle did not even flinch. "Ser Jaime, you must-"
"He's right here."
Jaime drew his sword, as did his men, and turned to face Ned Stark. The Hand of the King stood just outside the doorway, completely unarmed, but he was not alone. From behind him, six other men entered the room, their armor gold and their cloaks white. At the head was Ser Barristan, his helmet removed and sword drawn. He stood between Jaime and Ned as the others blocked the Lannister soldiers.
King Robert entered the room last, looking awfully proud of himself. "You chose a piss poor day to become a traitor, Kingslayer. Now put your damn sword down before you make a fool of yourself."
Alone, Jaime might have been able to take Ser Barristan, though the man would have undoubtedly cut down half his soldiers before then, but surrounded by the rest of the Kingsguard, he knew his small group had no chance. With a grimace, he tossed his sword to the floor. Its metallic clangs were followed by six similar ones.
"I suppose you've wanted to do this for some time," Jaime said, watching Ser Barristan's sword. "It's a shame we couldn't end this with a proper duel. I've always wanted to test myself against you."
Ser Barristan looked disappointed. "If that is all the shame you feel, you do not deserve such an honorable death."
Jaime felt a pang in his chest.
"Is this the King's justice?" he asked, looking to the king. He may have been able to stay his hand, but his tongue would not go quietly into custody. "My brother is wrongfully taken captive and you would defend the man whose family did it? You're declaring war."
Robert stomped toward him, brushing past Ser Barristan as though he weighed nothing. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? I certainly would. I'd like to have your pretty head resting on the gates for your father to see when he gets here, but we don't get what we want."
The king turned away then and stormed back out of the room. Ned glanced in Jaime's direction for a moment. He did not even have the decency to look ashamed as he met his eyes. No doubt the high and mighty Lord Stark still thought himself better. After all, he had broken no vows, only the peace, and that was apparently not a crime.
Stark followed the king out of the room. The Kingsguard shepherded his men out as well, leaving Jaime alone with Ser Barristan, and a quiet Pycelle.
"To the dungeons then?" Jaime asked, feeling his ill-timed humor returning with a vengeance.
"We're not putting you in a cell," Ser Barristan said, turning to leave. "You're getting on a boat."
Jaime had to wonder how long Robert and Ned had been planning this little trap of theirs. Their very large and obvious group did not encounter a single noble on their way out of the Red Keep. Did they actually plan on keeping all of this a secret? Nothing stayed that way in King's Landing. Besides, Cersei would have their father informed well before he even reached his destination, wherever that might be.
They did not use the public docks, but instead took to the private beach just outside the keep. Even there, no ladies in waiting could be found, no young lords attempting to charm their way past a woman's decency, just waves and a small rowboat. In the distance, he could see a ship with the king's sigils on the sails.
"I do hope you're not sending me anywhere cold," Jaime said as he watched his soldiers get escorted onto the boat. The wind kicked up, whipping his golden hair about his face. For once, the air smelled of the sea rather than piss. It was almost a lovely day.
"The Vale cold enough for you?" Robert asked, standing to the side with Ned and Ser Barristan.
Jaime felt his eyes narrow. What were they up to?
Robert looked to Ned, who in turn sighed. "Ser Jaime Lannister, on the king's order, you are to travel to the Eyrie, where you will take possession of your brother, Tyrion Lannister, and return him safely to King's Landing.
"You will then convince your father to cease any and all hostilities. If he fails to do so, Lord Tywin will be brought up on charges."
It was a desperate ploy to save their skins. If Ned Stark thought he was going to be grateful for the opportunity to save his brother from his mistake, he was a bigger fool than Jaime thought.
"And what of Lady Stark's hostilities?" Jaime asked, noting how Ned tensed up. He wished the man would try. "What sort of charges should she face? A smack on the wrist? Going to bed without supper perhaps?"
Ned paused a moment, glancing at Robert. "If your brother is found innocent of his charges, I will personally take the punishment for my wife's actions, but not before."
In a fit of anger, Jaime took a step forward, only to find the flat of Ser Barristan's sword pressed against his chest.
"What damned charges?!"
"The attempted murder of my son, Brandon Stark."
The world fell still. Jaime could no longer hear the waves as they broke on the beach or the gulls that flew overhead. The wind was gone and the men around him as well.
He was back in Winterfell, in a broken tower they thought no one would bother to look in. Cersei stared at him, hair tumbling across her shoulders, eyes wide in fear. His hand was on a small boy, no older than Myrcella, who had seen more than he should have.
The things I do for love.
No. No one had seen; no one could know. He had made certain that there were no witnesses. Tyrion could not be suffering for his actions. It was the last thing he ever wanted.
"Your son fell." Jaime nearly choked on the words.
An unreadable look passed over Ned's face. "He did. And then a cutthroat was sent to see that he never woke up. He attacked my wife and left her hands scarred before my son's wolf tore his throat out."
Jaime blinked, his fear and anger replaced by confusion. The boy had been attacked? He had to wonder if Cersei had ordered it done. It was not below his sister, especially if she deemed her family was in danger, but she would have told him. Or at least, she would have after it failed.
But Tyrion? That was not how his brother did things.
"And what proof do you have?" Jaime asked, glancing between the men around him. He would not leave until they told him.
Perhaps they knew that, because Ned Stark gave him the answer.
"A dagger your brother won on Prince Joffrey's nameday tournament. It was the weapon used on my family."
A dagger? Jaime could not recall anything in his brother's possession that could hurt anyone, save for his wit.
There was a strange look on Robert's face. Surprise, maybe. But when he noticed Jaime's attention, his face became stoic again. It seemed the all parties involved had their secrets.
Jaime took a breath, trying to calm the anger boiling in his blood again. Despite everything against them, he did not want to lose his chance at saving his brother. Their father would see things taken care of soon enough, and these fools were willing to let go of the only leverage they would have against him.
"Let me speak to Lord Stark alone," Jaime said, eying Ser Barristan. "I'm no longer armed. I'll only be able to hit him once before you strike me down."
"I'd take your arm before you had the chance," Ser Barristan replied, voice even. He believed it.
Jaime shrugged. "Well, you are getting old."
"Come on, Barristan, this cat has no claws." Robert snorted, moving away. "And take off that stupid armor, Kingslayer. You're on my business now, not your father's."
He waited until the king was gone, watching Ned Stark all the while. The Hand met his gaze, never flinching. After everything he had done for the man in the past couple days, he would dare look at him this way. Perhaps his daughter did not mean as much to him after all.
Slowly, Jaime walked toward the man, only stopping when their shoulders brushed with one another. He kept his eyes focused on the sea, on the ship that would take him to his brother.
"I don't know where your 'proof' comes from, whether it's the spider or one of the other cunts on Robert's Small Council, and I don't care. But you should know, I didn't win the tourney on Joffrey's nameday, and my brother never bets against me. He walked away with nothing." Jaime turned to Ned, feeling satisfaction at the very uncertain gaze on the Northman's face. "So, if you decide to keep pursuing this, I'll make it quick for both our families. You and me before the gods and the realm. We'll see if all the Starks were meant to die in the South."
As the boat rowed away toward the sea, Jaime watched the vanishing shoreline. He hoped Ned Stark continued his foolish quest; he hoped he got the chance to end the man once and for all.
A Lannister always pays his debts.
Myra
In the darkness of her cabin, Myra woke with a start. She sat up in her cot abruptly, still feeling the grip of a hand on her face. Her nightclothes were soaked with sweat, as were the sheets she slept on, but her body was chilled to the bone.
Willing herself to calm down, she glanced out one of the slits that qualified as a window in the hull of the ship. The sea was still and the morning dark, but in the distance she could make out color on the horizon. Dawn was approaching. She very much doubted she could return to sleep now.
Not that she wanted to.
Myra eased herself out of bed, taking care not to make much noise. Their vessel was a small one, perfect for traveling relatively unnoticed, but not the best for privacy. She had called out in a dream once and gotten the attention of everyone on board.
Easing on one of her heavier dresses (the climate had changed drastically in the time they had departed King's Landing), Myra moved onto the deck of the ship, the cool remains of the night air chasing the terrors of her dreams away. She took a deep breath, enjoying the crispness. It was nothing like home, but it was still far better than the thick humidity of King's Landing.
There was a figure leaning on the portside railing, the only one to be seen other than the night guard at the bow of the ship. Myra knew it instantly to be Jory. She wasn't certain he had slept a wink since the ship had departed. At the very least, not since they had arrived at Dragonstone.
It loomed in the distance, a dark, volcanic island that smelled of ash and sulfur even as far out as they were. If she squinted, Myra thought she could see the steam rising from Dragonmont, and below it, the castle of Dragonstone. Its brickwork was shaped to look like dragons, from the lowest archway to the highest tower, the Targaryens had made their sigil known. Old Nan had said it was sorcery that shaped the castle. She had always found that hard to believe.
They had arrived after a little over two days of sailing, and had been waiting for three. Ships patrolled the coastal perimeter of the island, and threatened to sink any vessel that dare come too close. On the first day, they had left a message with one of the captains, explaining that they were to see Stannis on the Hand of the King's business, but there had been no sign of reprieve since.
"Bad dreams, my lady?" Jory asked, standing straight.
"Bad memories, more like," Myra replied, though she quickly added after seeing his discomfort, "Don't blame yourself for things out of your control. We'd all go mad within a fortnight."
Jory nodded, but did not look any better for it.
Myra sighed, watching the darkness for any signs of movement. "Do you think they'll come today?"
"I hope so, my lady," Jory answered, gripping the railing. He seemed to be willing ships into existence. "The men grow restless. We won't be staying here much longer either way."
Disappointment bloomed in her chest. Failing to convince Stannis to return to King's Landing would be one thing, but to not even be given the opportunity to try? It was shameful.
"Perhaps you should take your own advice, my lady," Jory continued, a hint of a smirk on his face. The stubble on his face had grown longer. He was uncomfortable with the thought of shaving on the open sea. "Lord Stannis sees demons in every dark corner. If he truly does not wish to see anyone, it will take a lot more than you or I to convince him otherwise."
His words rang with truth, Myra knew this, but she still did not like the thought of simply running home to hide from everything.
"Would a man as dutiful as Lord Stannis risk committing treason to hide in his home?"
The words sounded strange to her, as if spoken by someone else.
Jory shook his head, lowering his voice. "That is a dangerous ploy, my lady. I would not advise repeating it."
"Would it work?"
Her guard sighed. "I met Lord Stannis once, during the Greyjoy Rebellion. He's a mind for strategy and tactics, and little else. You'll not find a man who loathes the game more than him. Attempt to play it and we'll be kicked from Dragonstone so swiftly, we'll wonder if we were ever actually there."
Myra huffed, but nodded eventually. Jory was right, as was usually the case. She was not even good at the game. Her fumbling attempts would only hurt her cause, and see her father put in more danger.
The sun soon broke over the horizon, its warm rays stretching across Blackwater Bay. A fog had begun to crawl across the waterway, enveloping scattered, small islands, but it was not so thick that those on deck could not see a ship approaching.
There were shouts, and suddenly the entire crew was on deck. Some manned the sails, others the anchor. They looked ready to move, or to fight.
The ship was no bigger than theirs, its sails yellow and brandishing the stag of House Baratheon. A smaller flag was tied to the centermost mast, depicting a black ship with an onion on its sail.
"The Onion Knight," Jory murmured under his breath, so quiet she almost did not hear. She knew the name. Ser Davos, the Onion Knight, was a smuggler who aided Storm's End when it was under siege during Robert's Rebellion. Lord Stannis had knighted him for the effort.
She wondered if Stannis thought they would be offended by such a lowly man greeting them. If so, he forgot her father's captain of the guard was not even a knight himself.
At the bow of the ship stood an older man, Ser Davos she presumed, his hair and beard graying and his face weathered from too many days on the sea. Though he wore a serious frown, Myra did not find herself intimidated by the man. If anything, it may have been the opposite.
A young man stood next to him, equally solemn. He reminded her of Robb playing at being lord.
"Good morning, my lady. Ser," he called out once his ship was in range. His crew did not appear ready to fight but that did not make her men any less tense. "I am Ser Davos of House Seaworth, and this is my son, Matthos. Allow us to apologize for keeping you waiting, but you do realize that Dragonstone is not open to any ships."
"We do," Myra replied, straightening. She hoped she bore the poise and grace her mother had taught her, and was not making a fool of herself. "But I come on behalf of my father, Lord Eddard Stark, the Hand of the King. He requests Lord Stannis return to King's Landing so that he might receive his counsel."
Ser Davos nodded. "Aye, my lady, we received his missive some time ago."
"That is good to hear. We weren't certain the message had arrived, given there was no reply."
To her left, Jory made a noise. Ser Davos looked uncomfortable. Maybe she could do this after all.
"How can we be certain you come on the Hand's order?" Matthos called from beside his father, clearly angry. "You don't fly the king's colors. How do we know this isn't some sort of trick?"
Jory moved forward. "You would call my lady a liar?"
Myra put her hand on Jory's chest, stopping him. "Given the fate of the last Hand, we thought a less conspicuous approach was best. I apologize for any inconvenience this has caused, but my guard and I are the only ones here. We can hardly do any harm."
She glanced at Jory, and the frown set firmly on his face.
I hope.
Ser Davos was quiet for longer than she would have liked, but eventually he nodded, mumbling something to Matthos. His son then began to shout orders at his crew.
"Lord Stannis has permitted you entry to Dragonstone. I am to escort you to the keep, where he awaits you and your father's proposal."
Myra barely fought off the smile that threatened to burst. Her journey was not over yet, but at least it was able to begin.
Maybe she could help her family after all.