Myra
They had waited for the Great Hall to clear. Given that Stannis was not prone to excessive bouts of gossip, the wait was not long. Men and women alike declared themselves to be at the service of the one true king and departed with little more than a nod in return. His brother might have made for a terrible ruler, but even Robert had the decency to accept loyalty warmly and with thanks. Stannis was all military bearing and little else.
The thought of the now dead king gave Myra pause as she waited. For all his faults, and there certainly was no shortage of them, Robert Baratheon did not deserve the end that was implied by the letter. And yet, the fact that he was gone made the memory of him slightly easier to bear. She did not want to know what that said about her.
Jory was fidgeting beside her. He'd never been an overly anxious man under the service of her father, but dark times and unwelcome surroundings did a lot of things to people. It seemed they were both eager to be rid of the place.
At last, the crowd parted, lords and ladies trickling away into distant halls of the keep, save for a handful. They looked on with curious eyes, wondering what the rightful king and the daughter of a supposed traitor could even speak about.
The taste of bile rose in her throat.
Stannis Baratheon was seated on his throne, the crown securely on his head, with the red woman standing on his right. To his left was Ser Davos, watching with sympathy only a father could possess. Certainly not all fathers, though. After all, Stannis had a child, but he was made of solid stone.
Myra cleared her throat, the anger she once possessed having cooled during her wait. "My Lord, I-"
"His Grace is the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, child," the woman interrupted with an air of superiority that felt right at home in King's Landing. "You will address him properly."
"An honest mistake, Lady Melisandre," Davos replied on her behalf, giving the woman a none too kind glance.
A foreign name to go with her foreign accent. She had heard of the red priests from across the sea. Thoros of Myr, who had competed in the tourney, was one. Perhaps this woman was another. Myra had to wonder how a man as straight-laced as Stannis Baratheon fell into her company.
Stannis gave a heavy sigh then, as though this were only a hint at what went on between his advisors. It was the most human thing she had seen him do.
"Your Grace," Myra started again, looking pointedly at Melisandre. "My father needs your help, now more than ever."
"According to King's Landing, Eddard Stark is the reason my brother is dead," Stannis replied, leveling a hard look on her. "Tell me, why shouldn't I leave him to rot?"
Jory tensed, but held his tongue.
Myra took a breath. "Your Grace, you and I both know my father did not murder Robert Baratheon."
"Do we?" Stannis asked, standing then. "Clear the room."
Guards along the wall moved swiftly and silently, herding out whatever lords and ladies remained in the chamber. When they had finished, only Stannis and his advisers remained, as well as Myra and Jory.
"The Lannisters are not fools. If they claim that your father murdered my brother, they have something to use against him. The fact that he is being put to trial instead of the Kingsguard outright executing him is a testament to that."
Myra could not help but glance at Jory. His gaze was cold, jaw clenched.
Stannis looked between them. "What do you know?"
She did not want to tell him. Uttering the words would be too much. It would put her in a place that she would never want Stannis Baratheon of all people to see, and breaking down in the middle of Dragonstone was not going to get her anywhere.
Jory, she noted, was staring down the supposed king. She was grateful for her guard's restraint. He'd have skewered Stannis twice over by now otherwise.
"She resembles young Lyanna, does she not?" Melisandre asked, stepping forward. "I have seen her face in the flames. Even now, the dead play a part in this world."
Myra looked to the red priestess, finding the woman's eyes on her. The way she looked at her sent a chill up her spine. She was examining her, like a hunter watching their prey, calculating every movement she made.
"The only thing to see in flame is fire, my lady," Jory spoke, his voice ice. "If you are seeing faces, perhaps the wine is too strong."
Stannis stood in front of Jory. "I'll give you the courtesy of one warning. Do it again, and I'll have your tongue ripped out."
"Your Grace," Myra said, stepping in front of Jory. "What your brother did is inconsequential. My father would never-"
"So Robert did do something." The Lord of Dragonstone looked her over. "My brother always was a weak fool. He spoke of Lyanna like she was one of the Seven come to life. When I met her, all I saw was a woman, and hardly the sort to start a war over."
He started to walk back to his throne. "Your father is beyond help. It is better that you consider him dead."
"Beyond help?! My father would declare you king, and you would let him rot in the capital!"
Stannis whirled around, standing on the dais so he was above all. "I am the king! By right and by blood! Whether I remain here or march on the capital by nightfall, Eddard Stark will still die in King's Landing, the only difference being how quickly the Lannisters decide to end it."
Myra felt her lip quiver. This was not how it was supposed to go. Her father had trusted her. She was to go to Dragonstone and get Stannis' help. Now she could not even help him when he needed her most. How useless was she?
"What of Ser Jaime?" she asked, desperate. "If you inform Cersei Lannister that you have her brother, perhaps my father-"
"What is it about my demeanor that makes you believe I am another Baratheon willing to fall for your charms?" Stannis interrupted, finality in his tone. Myra could say nothing as he sat once more. "Jaime Lannister will stand trial for his own crimes. He is not a piece to be bartered with."
Myra felt her shoulders slump, whatever hope she'd held onto dying. "Then it seems my presence here is neither desired nor required any longer. I'll sail for White Harbor at dawn, Your Grace. My brother will need me."
Stannis sighed then, as though loathing to speak again. "I cannot allow that."
She blinked. "Your Grace?"
"There have been other ravens, my lady," Ser Davos started, looking terribly uncomfortable as he spoke. "It appears you are wanted in connection to the murder of Robert Baratheon."
Melisandre raised her head higher, as though she must always look down on those she spoke to. "If you leave Dragonstone, you will be captured and returned to King's Landing to face trial alongside your father."
"So I am to be a prisoner?"
"You are a guest, my lady," Davos replied, though he did not seem entirely convinced of it himself.
"Guests are free to come and go as they please, ser," Myra shot back. "My brother will not look kindly on this, Lord Stannis."
Stannis' eyes narrowed to an incredible degree, and the temperature in the room seemed to plummet, but Myra stood firm against his glare. She was of the North, after all. A little cold was nothing to her.
When it became clear to her that the conversation was at an end, Myra took her leave, storming away in a flurry of skirts, Jory right behind her.
"Your brother is an untried boy a thousand leagues from here." Stannis did not raise his voice, yet it still caught up to her. "If he were wise, he'd bend the knee."
Myra said nothing as she made her way out of the Great Hall. She brushed past the lords and ladies who still stood curiously outside, ignoring their hushed tones and lingering gazes, no doubt in her mind that Jory was giving them a look or two of his own.
They continued in silence until the relative safety and privacy of her quarters in Windwyrm Tower. Blinded by rage at that point, Myra reached for Jory's sheath as he shut the door, drawing his sword and burying it in the first piece of furniture her eyes locked on to. The unfortunate piece was the trunk lying at the foot of her bed; the sword pierced the lid so deeply that Myra did not have the strength to remove it again.
Huffing, she turned back to Jory, whose wide-eyed gaze might have earned a laugh from her on any other day. "Sorry."
"Don't be, my lady," he replied, gripping the hilt. Of course he would extract the thing as if she had only cut cake.
She moved to the balcony, taking in the salty sea air. It seemed such a despicable smell now. She missed the cool, crisp scent of the northern lakes, and the cold air that would wander down from the Wall, fresher than anything she had smelled in the South. All she wanted to do was go home, and it seemed the whole world was preventing her.
"Your brother will have called the banners," Jory mused from behind her somewhere.
"He'd march the entire North to the gates of King's Landing if he could," Myra murmured. That was, of course, if he could get the northern lords to listen. The men were loyal to a fault, but to first gain that loyalty was an obstacle difficult for anyone. Robb didn't have their father to help him, nor their mother, and certainly not her. "He doesn't know I'm here, Jory. None of them do. All they knew was that I was returning home by the sea. I expect they think I've drowned, or worse."
"Give your brother credit, my lady," her guard replied, stepping onto the balcony with her. "The two of you have a knack of knowing when the other is in danger. He knows you're safe, I promise."
Myra smiled softly, though it was short lived. "I suppose he'll know I'm here soon enough. Wanted or not, I doubt the Lannisters would send a fleet searching this far north for me. For all they know, I'm already in White Harbor. No, Lord Stannis thinks he can use me to convince Robb to bend the knee."
Jaime may not have been a bartering piece, but it seemed that she was.
Jory frowned. "That seems unlike him."
"It does," Myra agreed. "But I wouldn't put it past that red woman. She has quite a bit of sway for some foreign priestess."
Even Stannis had to realize that despite his claim, he was hardly popular. Renly had been the charming younger brother, not him. He may have claimed to be honorable, but the Lord of Dragonstone would have to reduce himself to other tactics if he truly wanted his crown.
She looked to the sea, eyes wandering in the direction of King's Landing.
"They said nothing of my sisters, Jory."
Her father's captain of the guard said nothing. What could he say to comfort her in such a time? To the north, her twin prepared for war while her little brothers still waited for their mother, while to the south her father awaited trial and her sisters were pawns just as she was in this never ending political game. Her family was torn apart.
The lone wolf dies...
Hidden in her dress, as was the case most days, was the damned Valyrian dagger. Her hand gripped the hilt, a new determination rising in her.
She would leave this place and see her family again, if it was the last thing she ever did.
Tyrion
This was not how he wanted to see his father again.
After stumbling through the brush for nearly two days, he and Bronn had chanced upon a horse. Only one. And it appeared that that particular horse was the only one left in Westeros between them and his father, which meant that they rode into the red and gold camp of the grand Lannister army on the same saddle. Worse still was that Tyrion could not hope to stay on the horse without clinging to something. He tried the back of the saddle, but it hurt his spine, so he had to settle for the man seated in front of him.
Bronn had yet to stop laughing about it.
Tyrion would have preferred to walk into the camp, but the sellsword had insisted on anything but, kicking the horse into a gallop and leaving him to hold on for dear life. Seeing the looks on the soldiers' faces now, he might have preferred falling to his death.
"I'll never understand lords and their armies," Bronn mused as they trotted down the line of tents, nearly running over several soldiers without a second thought. "So close together and with all these bright colors. Practically begging to be wiped out in a single blow."
"And what do you propose is capable of doing that?"
The man might have shrugged. It was difficult to tell with all the bouncing. "Not sure. Someone'll think of something."
They rode straight up to the command tent. Tyrion suspected Bronn might have taken the horse straight inside, if doing so didn't mean catching his neck on the flaps. As such, Tyrion was relieved of that much embarrassment at least. He carefully dropped out of the saddle to the ground, groaning as his knees cried in protest.
What he wouldn't give for a hot bath, a good bottle of Dornish wine, and a whore or two.
He stood outside the tent for a moment, staring through the opening, though he was unable to make out anything. Bronn stood next to him, smirking.
A servant approached, somehow unsurprised by the sudden appearance of Lord Tywin's missing son. "Shall I announce you, my lord?"
Tyrion looked the boy up and down, as if he had sprouted another head. "No, don't announce me!"
Bronn raised his hand. "I'd like to be announced."
Shaking his head and asking the gods why they had cursed him with a man nearly as annoying as him, Tyrion finally took the leap and entered the tent.
He hadn't expected much fanfare upon his unexpected arrival, and yet still found himself disappointed. His father looked at him for a whole second before returning to whatever paperwork that was before him on his desk. His uncle, Kevan, at least had the decency to hold his gaze, and even give him a small smile. To think, he was considered the overly friendly one in the family.
Tyrion walked toward the center of the space and waited a moment, glancing around at all the trinkets his father had decorating the place. Bronn, somehow, still had a smug grin on his face.
He cleared his throat. "Father."
"Tell me," Tywin Lannister finally spoke, his voice like ice as he stood from his seat to glare at his youngest son from an even higher position. "Why have I received word that your brother is now a captive of Stannis Baratheon?"
Tyrion blinked. He was surprised, of course, but mostly relieved. The last he saw of Jaime, his brother was being carried off by some angry peasants. He knew Jaime, and he trusted him, but that did not make him sleep any easier at night, wondering if they hadn't just strung him up from the nearest tree and been done with it. To hear that Stannis had him was the best news he'd heard in some time.
"Seems word travels faster than we do," Bronn mumbled. It earned him a harsh glare from Tywin, but nothing seemed to phase the sellsword.
"The last I'd heard of Jaime, Ned Stark was sending him to save you, since you'd gone and gotten yourself captured, by Catelyn Tully no less. It appears he was successful in freeing you, yet somehow you're here and he isn't," Tywin continued, glaring between both men. "What happened?"
"There was an incident...in the Vale. Clansmen from the mountains descended on our escort. We had to fight them off, including myself," Tyrion started, turning to Kevan. "I bashed one of their heads in with a shield, and proceeded to throw up immediately after. It's a tale meant for song really."
Kevan was giving him that look, the one that told him not to antagonize his father. Funny how every member of his family had perfected it.
Tyrion turned back to Tywin, who was quite possibly burning a hole through his head at the moment. "We had no men and no horses, and then proceeded to run into some disgruntled farmers, Gregor Clegane's doing it seems. They took Jaime and that is the last I saw of him."
"You mean to tell me that my son and esteemed member of the Kingsguard was taken captive by a handful of peasants?"
Well, when his father put it like that, Jaime's noble surrender sounded far less...well, noble.
"There's a bit more to it than that, I believe."
"There's always more to it with you," Tywin countered, striding from his desk. He went to grab something from one of his trunks. "You had to go see your damn Wall, piss off the edge of the world as people like to say it. And now look where you've gotten us. The edge of war, your brother captured, and King's Landing in chaos."
Tyrion glanced at Bronn. "I'm not sure I've heard about that one."
Kevan sighed. "A lot has happened since you were captured, Tyrion. Robert Baratheon is dead, murdered, and Ned Stark stands accused."
Had he not felt the gravity of all that was transpiring around him before, Tyrion surely did now. Had this all really started because of the death of an old man and the fall of a little boy?
Tywin returned to his desk, tossing a new piece of parchment on top. "And now I am requested to act as Hand, as if I'm doing all of this for the benefit of my health. Your sister always was good at making a mess of things."
Seeing his father's anger turn from him to Cersei, Tyrion saw a rare opportunity to escape. "I think I shall take my leave, then. Find a good bed. Maybe some wine."
He made it one step.
"You're not staying."
"Well, I certainly hadn't hoped to join the war effort."
Tywin gave him a look. "You're going back to King's Landing. You'll depart as soon we've readied a horse."
"To do what?"
"To rein in your sister and keep things from spiraling out of our control," Tywin replied, writing something quickly on the parchment and handing it to him. "As Hand of the King."
Tyrion blinked. "Father, I-"
"Don't think of it as a gift. Until I am finished dealing with the river lords and the wolves to the north, not to mention sinking Dragonstone back into the sea, I need someone to look over things. Clearly Cersei cannot be trusted, nor my grandson, and your brother is not here to take up the task. You, Tyrion, are my last option."
Tyrion stood outside his father's tent for some time, staring down at the paper in his hands. That little parchment made him one of the most powerful men in all of Westeros. He wasn't entirely sure he wanted that.
Bronn was still beside him, somehow, watching the troops. "That went well."
"Believe me, that was one of our better meetings. You should see family dinners," Tyrion replied, looking up. "Bronn, would you care to join me in King's Landing? I could use a man of your talents."
"Is one of my talents being able to tolerate you?"
"That is certainly one of the more exceptional ones, yes."
Bronn nodded, considering. "Will I get paid?"
"You will be working for the Hand of the King. I'll give you whatever you want, though I was hoping our dear friendship would be more than enough."
The sellsword smirked. "Give me enough coin and I'll sing your praises in the streets if you want."
"That definitely won't be necessary," Tyrion said, watching as his readied horse approached. "So, what say you?"
Bronn shrugged. "Why not? I always wanted a cushy job."
Tyrion had the feeling looking after him was going to make the war look comfortable, especially when Cersei found out.
Ned
The days were starting to blur together; the only way he had to keep track of time was the food his guards brought on occasion. Most times, there was not even a lit torch to distract him, so he slept or listened to the distant shuffle of rats on the stonework. He once thought that perhaps he might go crazy in this place, but he had too many thoughts, too many questions; he had to keep his mind, if only for the sake of his daughters.
It shamed him to recall that he had not asked after them. Cersei would have never given him the satisfaction, of course, but at least he would have done as every father should: looked out for his children, in whatever way he could.
He should have sent Arya and Sansa with their sister, and instructed them to go straight to White Harbor. To have sent Myra to Stannis was...foolish, desperate, ill advised, much like most of his dealings ever since he arrived in King's Landing.
In the darkness, he sighed. Catelyn had told him not to go. She would never forgive him for this.
He would never forgive himself.
Ned could not say how many days had passed when Varys came to him, but the look on the eunuch's face when he caught sight of him in the torchlight said enough. Too long.
"Lord Stark," the spymaster greeted, kneeling before him. Ned took note that even now, visiting him in the dungeon where his presence would mean a death sentence, Varys still kept to his usual cleanliness. He was covered in a plain cloak, yes, but the eunuch was careful not to touch the walls or even sit upon the floor. Perhaps he had other reasons for that as well.
"Varys," Ned croaked. His throat was parched. He couldn't quite remember the last meal that was brought to him, but his stomach had stopped hungering long ago.
The eunuch offered a waterskin. Ned made no move toward it.
"If it were poison, you ought to be grateful. There are worse ways to die."
Ned grunted, but took what was offered, lapping at the water like some animal. It wasn't cool and tasted stagnant, but it may as well have been the sweetest Dornish wine.
"My daughters," Ned coughed as he drained the skin. "What has happened to them?"
Varys was silent for longer than he liked. Ned grabbed the collar of his cloak, though the grip was so weak, the man could have batted his hand off if he liked.
"Sansa and Arya. Are they well? What has happened?" he begged as Varys looked at him as though he were another man. "Please."
The eunuch took a breath. "They're gone, as far as we know. Your household is dead, but your daughters have scattered to the wind. It has put the Queen in quite the position. She has gone from three hostages to one."
Ned released his grip, slumping against the wall and mumbling a silent prayer to the gods. His daughters were free. He could not say how safe they were, but out of Cersei's clutches, they stood a better chance.
He hoped.
"There is to be a trial," Varys continued, straightening out his cloak. "If the Queen is smart, she'll have you meet an untimely end before it takes place. After all, anything you say, whether true or not, will be remembered."
His eyes narrowed. What was Varys getting at?
"Fortunately for you, the Queen is more spiteful than intelligent. She wants the whole realm to know your family's shame, even if it means dirtying herself in order to thoroughly drag you through the mud."
Varys looked to him, no doubt noting his confused look. "What I mean, Lord Stark, is that you hold something far more dangerous than any sword the crown commands: knowledge."
Ned slowly began to wrap his mind around the eunuch's plan. "You mean for me to speak the truth that Jon Arryn knew."
"Honor compelled you to play the game right into her hands," Varys spoke, standing. "Will you allow that same honor to tear your family apart before all the realm? Let the people decide what they believe."
"If you know what I do, then why do you not speak it?" Ned asked. "Why keep it a secret?"
"I serve the realm, Lord Stark, not the throne. But it is men greater than I who must shape its future. I only but whisper in their ears what they may shout."
Varys turned away then, his piece said. Ned had no delusions about the spymaster coming to save him from his imprisonment, and yet the sight of the man's back to him made a sort of finality dawn on him. He had faced death many a time on the battlefield, a parry too late, a sword far too close for comfort, but they had been passing threats, ones only remembered from the safety of hindsight. The one that loomed before him now provided far too much time for thoughts and regrets.
"Tell me," Ned murmured, as the light began to fade. "Who killed Robert?"
A voice in the darkness called back to him. "A vengeful woman whose anger is not entirely misplaced."
"I'm at death's door, and you would speak to me in riddles."
Ned did not expect him to reply. He knew enough to figure that Varys took smug satisfaction in leaving men with more questions than answers.
He had time to wonder at it, though; he had all the time in the world in that dungeon, pondering riddles in the dark.
Robert
He always knew, deep down, that his end would not be the glorious death he often envisioned as a lad. At some point, men get to the age where the closest thing to death in battle would be to fall off their horse drunk, snapping their neck in the process. He figured his would come as he took a shit; he only hoped he could have a good laugh about it before it all faded.
But not for one second did he ever believe he would go quietly.
The day Robert died, he woke from another miserable, sober night. He'd almost gotten pissed after the earful Cersei had given him over Joffrey, but the moment he reached for his wine, those damn sorrowful eyes were looking at him again. Myra Stark had a way of sticking with people.
He hadn't had a woman in some time either, only adding to his self-imposed misery. So, it took him by surprise to find a woman sitting on his desk, dark eyes watching him from over a goblet.
"Your name wouldn't happen to be Bessie, would it?" he could not help but jest.
Course that wasn't her name. Bessie had great big tits. This one had...alright ones. He wasn't about to complain. Tan skin, raven hair, and a sharp nose, he'd seen women far homelier. He'd been with damn ugly ones too. Never was very picky when it came to fucking.
"No, Your Grace," the woman replied. She placed the goblet down on his table, only to casually knock it over with her hand, watching as the wine spilled across the floor.
"Who are you?"
"Sand, Your Grace."
A bastard then, and a Dornish one at that. Made sense, given her looks. Least she couldn't be one of his. Never been with a Dornish woman, not a real one that was. Plenty of fake ones.
She stood from his desk then, walking gracefully across the floor toward his bed. The woman wore servants' clothes with dust and mud clinging to the bottom of her skirts, but she did not act like any of the servant girls he had met. They were either meek or eager to please in all sorts of ways. This woman was looking at him as if every breath offended her.
"Why are you here?" he asked, trying to sit up. He found that his body would not respond. It was as if everything were still asleep, and only his mind was working.
The woman sat on his bed, though he could not feel the sensation of the mattress dipping. "You are dying."
"Am I?"
She nodded, running her hand along the sheets. "They call it Sweetsleep, Your Grace. The next time you close your eyes, they will not open again."
He thought to get angry, to thrash about and demand his end come in a different way, but his body was tired, and failed to comply. All he could do was speak.
"Why?"
She shrugged. "I am not like my sisters. There is a time to fight, and there is a time to be smart, to let go of your anger and do what is necessary. I only wish now were not the case."
Robert looked at her, closely. "You're one of them, aren't you? Those damned Snakes."
"Syrena, Your Grace," she replied with a bow of her head. "Second daughter of Prince Oberyn, niece to the slain Princess Elia, and cousin to her butchered babes, Rhaenys and Aegon."
He remembered that night, when Tywin brought their broken and disfigured bodies to him. He'd nearly laughed, pleased with the outcome. Not once since then had he regretted it, not when Dorne threatened war nor when he had babes of his own. They were dragons, after all. Dragons had taken everything from him.
"I know your name," he whispered, finding it hard to raise his voice. Somewhere in the recesses of his memory, he'd heard it spoken, seen her raven hair out of the corner of his eye. She had always been here, following Myra Stark dutifully, and before that... "Cersei."
Her smile was sad, almost pitying. "She had a different end in mind for you. I offered something less complicated, and far more rewarding."
Robert tried to speak again, but his chest felt heavy, his mouth like an iron gate drawn shut. All he could do was watch as her hand reached out to his face, stroking his cheek gently. Her touch was cool.
"I am not cruel, Your Grace. Your death is far kinder than what was given to my family. I promise, you will feel nothing."
And as his eyes closed for the last time, all he saw was a beautiful woman with a dagger raised above his chest.
Forgive me, Ned.