Myra

In all the time she had been at King's Landing, Myra had never stepped foot in the Great Hall. And it was not until she crossed the threshold, having left Septa Mordane and Sansa to their daily lessons, that she realized the true reason.

She had been avoiding it.

As far as seats went, the Iron Throne was not as large as the storytellers made it to be. Had she the courage to stand beside it, the swords that formed the back would make it to maybe her shoulder, and if she were perfectly honest, she could not image King Robert fitting in the thing comfortably.

And yet, it had this...presence. It was alive somehow and with the eyes it did not have, the throne was watching, studying, judging. Kings had bled for it and it had made them bleed, and she dared to stand in its presence, this insignificant speck in the grand scheme of its game.

Not for the first time did Myra wish she had never left the North.

"Marvelous, isn't it?"

Myra jumped, farther and faster than she would have liked. Her hand flew to her mouth, however, preventing other embarrassing actions on her startled body's part. She had thought in a place as large and open as the Great Hall, she would have heard anyone approach, though she supposed the man behind her was not quite anyone.

"Lord Baelish," Myra mumbled when she regained some composure, handing moving to her chest. She had passed him a few times in the halls of the Tower of the Hand as he went to or came from heated discussions with her father. The Master of Coin was a different sort of man, one who did no hiding and seemed perfectly content with the world knowing he was scheming. Perhaps, in some twisted way, it made him the most honest man in King's Landing.

"I did not hear you."

"That seems quite clear," he said with a strange sort of smile. He was not a small man, per say, but his stature was hardly like that of other lords in the keep. She was nearly taller than him, in fact, and Sansa would likely grow taller than the two of them; she imagined a great many people underestimated him because of it. "My apologies, Lady Myra, I often forget I don't have clamoring footsteps as opposed to some of my armored counterparts."

"No need to apologize. I fear I may not have stirred if a stampede broke down the doors."

The corner of his mouth twisted, almost a smirk, but far more calculating. Yes, her impressions of the man said that he was always thinking, a mind never still, filled with plans. Her father had not so subtly insisted she have as little contact with him as possible, but here they were, alone, because of a curiosity she had to quench, her handmaiden and septa nowhere to be found.

"Which brings me back to my previous question." He stepped forward, closer to the dais than she had dared. Whatever affect the Iron Throne had, Petyr Baelish appeared immune.

"What do you think of it?"

He did not turn back to her. Myra believed if she slipped out at that moment, his question would be forgotten, as would she. Perhaps its affect was merely different to him.

"It's not what I expected." Myra took a hesitant step forward, watching the blades that formed the throne as if they would spring to life and skewer her. It was a silly notion, something made for Old Nan's tales, yet her heart fervently believed it to be true.

"Things seldom are," he replied, turning to her. "This place especially. What you must realize is that nothing here happens without a purpose. Everyone has a plan and not one step is taken unless it coincides with that plan."

Myra looked back at him, her gaze steady. She studied his eyes, knowing full well she could not pick out the truth, but perhaps there were other things to see. They were serious things, those light irises, and she could see all the intelligence cooped up behind them, waiting, knowing, testing. Yes, of course, a test. What had everything in the capital been but a test?

"Does that include this conversation, Lord Baelish?"

The man many referred to as Littlefinger chuckled. "Perhaps you aren't as helpless as I thought."

If that was meant to comfort, which she was positive it was not, it did a dreadful job at it. The confirmation that people believed she was some simple girl with little knowledge of anything outside of her little world was disheartening, and made her feel smaller than she already did.

Gods help her, how many plans was she caught up in?

As if reading her thoughts, Littlefinger smiled. It seemed too sweet for his face, a feature not meant for a man of his profession. "There is no need to worry. I made a promise to your mother. You're quite safe with me."

"My mother?" Myra's eyes narrowed, finding even his form of honesty lacking. "Why would you do such a thing for her?"

For a moment, she let herself believe he actually looked hurt. "It seems Catelyn is not one to discuss ancient history. We knew one another growing up. I was her father's ward, and when he betrothed her to your uncle, I fought for her honor. I would have been split clean in half if she had not spoken up, though I still bare the scar."

She watched him trace a line from his belly button to his sternum and bit her lip. Myra knew the story of her Uncle Brandon, but often forgot. Given the affection her mother and father had for one another, it was difficult to imagine her married to anyone else, especially one as bold and brash as Brandon Stark. He was a brutish sort, far more imposing than her father was, and the fact that Littlefinger had survived such an encounter was a testament to her mother's persuasion.

"I am sorry that happened to you," Myra offered, not sure how else to confront a man more or less proclaiming his love for her mother. "But I do not see how it applies to me."

"I never stopped caring for Cat, and though she will never see me in that way, it still drove me to promise her your family's safety before she left."

Myra paused, whatever previous words she had in mind dying on her tongue. Littlefinger struck her as a man who never said anything without each word having been carefully considered, yet what he had said could not be right.

"My mother has not been here, Lord Baelish. Not for some time."

The smile he gave her was pure confidence, a skilled player watching his prey walk into a trap. "It seems your father has begun to adapt. He has secrets of his own to keep."

She stepped forward, nearly to the dais, away from his gaze; she did not want him to see her face, not now. All the thoughts running through her head, they were hers alone. And there were so many to sift through.

Her first was that it was a lie, but that would help no one, Littlefinger most of all. But if he was not lying, he spoke the truth, and that felt far worse. Her mother had been in King's Landing. To have come and gone already, she would have left not much longer after they had. Could it have been Bran? No, they had gotten the raven. He was awake and feeling awfully sorry for himself, but alive. She had cried. Sansa cried. Even Arya had not bothered with her usual sass. For a few moments since they had arrived in the capital, they were a happy family.

Then what? Robb spoke of nothing in his letters, missing her and her smarts mostly, but there were times she felt his words were on the edge of something...else. Could it be the reason their mother had abandoned Bran's side and come to King's Landing all her own? She had not come to see her children, not even left word. Her father had gone about his day like nothing had happened.

Something was terribly wrong.

"Why tell me this?" Myra asked, clasping her hands together to keep them from shaking. Her family problems could wait. She had a man who knew far too much about her life to deal with first. "How do you know? What is it that you even know?"

"I know a great many things. It's my job to," he replied, once again at her side.

He was dancing around the subject, like so many others. She was tired of dancing.

"I thought that was Lord Varys."

Littlefinger shrugged, turning his back to the throne to face her. "He has his birds, and I have mine. And the Queen, she, too, has hers, messenger boys and...handmaidens."

He placed a hand on her shoulder. Myra glanced down at it, expecting it to turn into something misshapen or burn through the fabric of her dress. It did no such thing, only left the feeling of something cold.

"Your family has stumbled into something they are not equipped to fight. No swords or honor will save you here." He leaned in. She wanted to turn away, but his words seemed far too important. "Unlike what your father believes, ignorance is not safety, not for you, Myra. You are in far too deep to stagger through this blindly."

She tried to keep his gaze; she wanted to be strong, she always had to be strong. Her father was relying on her; her sisters were relying on her. But all she wanted to do was disappear. Not once had she asked for the position she was in. All she had ever wanted was kindness and to give kindness in return, and for that, King's Landing gave her its back.

The throne was watching her again, only it was no longer empty. Robert sat upon it, his face stern, eyes like fury. On his left stood Cersei, her face hiding nothing of the contempt she felt. And to his right, a figure that blurred between Lyanna and herself, both covered in blue petals. A crown of roses rested upon her hair.

"Tell me," she whispered, eyes not leaving Robert. "What do they say about me? Do they say I am her, or that I am his?"

"They say a great many things, and it depends on who you ask, but yes, Myra, they do say that."

Her jaw tightened, setting her mouth into a firm line. Something had budded in her chest, something she did not know the name of, but it gave her strength to look Littlefinger in the eyes again.

"And how do I get them to stop?"

He chuckled again, though the mirth never met his eyes. "Why, you give them something else to talk about."

Jaime

He had not meant to walk in on them, but as his terrible sense of luck would have it, there he was in the Great Hall, watching the Master of Coin wrap another victim up in his grimy little plans. It would be the Stark girl. Running circles around her seemed to be everyone's pastime as of late.

Jaime did not like the man, not that he liked many others, but as opposed to the eunuch, there was something about Littlefinger that made his sword hand twitch every time he laid his eyes on him. How badly would a weasel truly be missed? The King didn't need a Master of Coin if he was just going to keep taking from the Lannister vaults anyway.

It was with the image of Littlefinger's blood on his sword freshly in his mind that Jaime decided to make his presence known. The man looked as though he had known the entire time, or maybe his face was always that way. It was hard to tell really. But, of course, Myra Stark looked surprised, caught like a child in the wrong. Her problem was that she thought he actually gave a damn about what they were talking of. That was Cersei's area of expertise, not his.

"Every time I come down here, you're staring at that thing," he started, looking at the throne. "It's starting to become pathetic."

"Well, not all of us want to dispose of the current owner in order to sit on it."

"I should hope not. It's terribly uncomfortable. Hardly worth the trouble."

He could remember all the blades, still sharp as the day they were forged, poking at his armor and tearing his bloodied cloak. Aerys had always complained of cutting himself on them, his arms and hands covered in scars. He complained that the throne was against him, just as everyone else was; he complained that the Kingsguard was useless and that Jaime was only good as a pawn. He complained and he shouted and he burned...

"You've sat on the throne?"

The question was small, overly curious, a thought spoken aloud that was meant to remain silent. At least, that was what Myra Stark's face told him. She'd gone paler, her pink lips pressed together in a firm line, preventing other ridiculous questions from escaping.

Littlefinger was all too happy to answer. "That he did, with the dead king at his feet no less. It must have been quite the sight your lord father walked in on."

His hand was twitching again. How nice it would be to just run him through.

"He was there, actually." Jaime pointed to his right. He could still see Aerys' blood pooling on the cool tile, a red cascade down the dais steps. His lips still moved, wordless, but Jaime knew what he spoke. It was the only thing he could say before the end.

Burn them all.

"If we're going to talk king slaying, we may as well get it right."

The look Baelish gave him was smug. "Yes, of course. Where he died is very important."

Where you killed him was what he meant to say, but even Littlefinger knew better than to play that game while he was armed. He'd remind him of his favorite scar before dealing with it.

The Stark girl was still staring at the spot he had pointed out, as if the stone had actually begun gushing blood. Her eyes looked around, wide and curious, as if taking in the place for the first time. Given the family history, he supposed one would find such a place...different. He still expected dragon skulls to line the walls every time he entered.

"They died here," she murmured, not so much a question as confirmation.

Ah, speaking of...

"Yes, Brandon and Lord Rickard. It is a shame what happened to them," Littlefinger offered, but Myra was not listening. Her eyes were focused on him with a strange sort of determination he had not seen in the passive girl before.

"You were there."

He was. Of course he was. Aerys did not like doing anything without his pet Lannister at his side. One would have thought it was his greatest accomplishment, robbing Tywin Lannister of his heir.

Jaime sighed, realized what she was getting at. He stepped on the dais, resting his hand upon his sword. "I'm not here to entertain you with talk of old glories or whatever the opposite is. You wish to speak of history? Grand Maester Pycelle will bore you to death with it."

Myra blinked, all that determination vanishing in an instant.

She gave a quick nod of her head. "Very well, Ser Jaime. Lord Baelish."

The girl turned to leave, steps slow and cautious. Her head turned to and fro as if seeking out the answers in the walls. They may very well have answered her; the keep had enough secrets after all.

"Pretty thing," Littlefinger muttered when she was out of earshot, "but frightfully unprepared. That seems to be the fate of all Starks who come here."

The Master of Coin turned and left, heading toward the Small Council chamber, yet his words remained. Jaime watched the young Stark. It figured the noble Eddard Stark, in all his efforts to protect what family he had left, was in turn damning them. He wondered if the man bothered to realize, or if that had something to do with his honor too.

Something twisted inside.

"Your uncle died where you're standing," Jaime called out, watching Myra stop in her tracks. She whirled to face him, surprised.

She was not the only one.

Seven hells, what was he doing?

He stepped off the dais, approaching her. "After your aunt was taken by the prince, Brandon and other Northern sons rode here and demanded Rhaegar's death. The King had them all arrested for treason and demanded their lord fathers come to the capital."

The Great Hall began to change. All the old dragon skulls returned, Meraxes, Balerion, Vhagar, Caraxes, Silverwing, Tessarion, he knew them all, every tale. Aerys recounted them constantly, obsessed with his dragon blood, his lineage, the king who would never fly.

The windows darkened, smoke filled the air, the constant burning of wildfire choking while pyromancers shuffled across the room, their robes soiled and minds diseased. How the Mad King loved his fire.

And all the while, Myra watched, waited.

"He executed them all, save for some Glover boy. But your family, no, he had something special for them."

The hall filled with faces, a good many dead ones. They watched on, as silent as Myra, but far more guilty.

"Lord Rickard demanded trial by combat, which Aerys was more than willing to accept. However, House Targaryen was not represented by a man, only fire."

He watched her eyes widen, mouth part slowly. Part of him wanted to end this nonsense, but another wished to continue. He'd never had a captive audience before, not without his sword bloodied that was. It was something he spoke of too little, or perhaps not at all. He could not even recall telling Cersei the details. She did not want to know; she called them idiots. Rhaegar was a fool, Lyanna a fool, sometimes even their father.

Even him.

Perhaps he was.

Jaime pointed to the rafters. "Your grandfather was strung up...just there, in full steel armor over a pit of fire. And Brandon stood where you are now, a sword just out of his reach and some Tyroshi contraption around his neck. The more he reached for the sword, the more it choked him."

He paused, recalled the moment in perfect clarity. The light leaving Brandon's eyes, the last of Lord Rickard's screams. Above it all, an old man cackled as his throne cut his skin to ribbons.

Jaime blinked, looking back to Myra. "Brandon strangled himself as his father cooked in his armor."

Back then, he had been a young man, not entirely untested, but still green in the eyes of many. At the first opportunity to be alone, he'd gotten sick. The smell would not leave the hall for days, and food never quite had the same appeal.

"And no one tried to stop him?"

Suddenly, the room was bright and empty again, save for a lone Stark, who was watching the ceiling, transfixed on one spot. She did not cry, but there was no mistaking the emotion in her eyes.

He snorted, his sense of self returned from whatever place it had been. "No one would stand up to their king. It was the wrong thing to do. Plus, the prospect of burning like a roasted boar wasn't very enticing."

Her eyes snapped to him, angry, though she said nothing. He supposed comparing her dead grandfather to an evening meal wasn't exactly courteous.

Oh well.

It was not as if Lord Rickard cared much anymore.

"Did you want to stop him?"

Her question gave him pause. He looked at her, watching him with those gray eyes, the anger already gone, replaced by something...else, and wondered what she could possibly gain from knowing what he wanted.

Yet as he thought on it, the words tumbled out, a mere whisper. "There were a lot of things I wished to stop."

They stood that way for a long time. Myra looked on the verge of saying something, but the words were not coming out. He wondered if she would sound like her father when she finally spoke.

He did not expect her to step closer, not that they had been near one another, but a man of his...morality was not quite inviting. Briefly, a hand reached out before tucking back in with the other.

"Jaime, I-"

"Kingslayer!"

He closed his eyes and sighed, willing away the bellowing stag, but King Robert seemed to be his punishment. Quickly, he glanced down at Myra, but her attention had turned elsewhere, not to Robert, the dais maybe. She looked thoughtful.

Had he pegged her as anything but self-interested, Jaime might have though his sister should be worried.

"You keep terrible company, Myra," Robert continued as he approached them. They both nodded in respect, but did not do much more. "What in the Seven Kingdoms could you possibly want to discuss with a Lannister?"

A great many things, apparently.

Myra's lips pursed. "I simply wanted to know more about the Kingsguard, Your Grace. My brother always dreamed of joining. I thought to write him about it."

The irony was inescapable.

Her lie was dreadful, of course, but Robert paid no mind to it. He couldn't see past the pretty face.

"Better off with the Lord Commander than this one." He gestured behind to Ser Barristan, who was accompanied by Ser Preston. They did a lovely job at pretending they weren't listening intently. "A kingslayer might skew your brother's understanding."

"Then allow me to apologize, Your Grace, for any error in my judgment," Jaime spoke, voice strained. He'd have ground his teeth if it wasn't too obvious.

"No need to apologize, Ser Jaime," Myra blurted, attempting to play along. "Truly, I'd like to thank you...for everything."

He nodded once. "Of course, Lady Myra."

She smiled gently, the first genuine one he had seen in...well, some time. Not even Cersei smiled anymore, not in the way she should. He was starting to think the girl actually liked him. She couldn't be a Stark then; even the bastard Jon Snow inherited the hatred for the Lannisters.

Then again, if she knew the truth of the situation, she'd fit right in.

"Where are you headed?" Robert asked, ignoring their exchange entirely. "Someplace interesting?"

Myra shook her head, the cordial woman of court once more. "No, Your Grace, just my room. I have a good deal to write about."

That certainly wasn't a lie.

"You should get yourself a scribe. It would do you good."

"Then it wouldn't be a personal letter, Your Grace."

The King chuckled. Out of his line of sight, Jaime rolled his eyes. Myra briefly narrowed her eyes in his direction, but said nothing.

"So be it then." Robert turned to his other Kingsguard. "Ser Preston, escort her back to the Tower of the Hand. Come, Kingslayer, we have a whore to discuss."

Myra opened her mouth, but immediately shut it with an audible 'click.' She turned to him and nodded, that look back in her eyes from when they had been alone. "Ser Jaime."

"Lady Myra."

He watched her leave with Ser Preston, striking up a pleasant conversation along the way, and some small part of him wondered what had just transpired between them.

"You coming, Kingslayer?"

No, it wasn't important. Nothing in this damn place was.

Ned

She was watching him again.

His daughter thought she was subtle, glancing his way every time his quill met paper, but he was not blind. Her letter to Robb had not grown past a sentence since she sat down after supper, and that was near on an hour ago. Given her other missives were nearly too large to send by raven, he knew something was wrong.

Still, he waited. Myra was not Sansa or Arya. She did not stew in her troubles until it boiled over in a fit of rage. If there was something that needed to be said, she would come to him on her own.

But gods be good, she was taking her time.

It was about the twelfth time he caught her looking over that Ned had enough. He put his quill down, his own letter utterly forgotten, and leaned back in his chair. They were in his study, he at his desk, she a chair near the window, her letter catching the last light of the day. She had managed to jot down one additional word.

"Alright, Myra, out with it." She blinked, silent. "Don't give me that look. You've wanted to say something the whole time you've been here, so either speak your mind or leave it to rest."

His eldest opened her mouth, but immediately shut it again, thinking better of her words. For a moment, he thought she might actually drop the subject, which was not unheard of on her part, but then she sighed and set the letter aside. Whatever the words were, they weighed heavily on her. He supposed it would be too much to hope for something simple, like a quarrel with Renly Baratheon, but Myra was not petty. She could hand the young lord on her own, which was why he had said little on the matter; she seemed happy, and the match was a good one. Lord Varys practically sang about the two of them. And Renly was the honorable sort, or so he'd heard.

Gods help him; he was too old for daughters.

"She was here, wasn't she?" Myra finally asked, drawing Ned from his thoughts. He felt his blood run cold at the question, and could not bring himself to answer, prompting her to continue. "Mother."

Ned looked to his letter, full of unanswered questions and suspicions. He could not look her in the eyes. "How do you know?"

There was no point in denying it. She would know.

He did not look up when she slid out of the chair to take a seat across from him; he did not see that she could not look at him either. "Lord Baelish."

Others take you, Littlefinger.

This was meant to be a secret, not only for the safety of their family, but to keep suspicion from the Lannisters. They did not need to know that they knew, that they plotted, in some small way. He wanted his daughters to feel safe, even if they were far from it.

"She wanted to see you. I wanted to let her, but too many people knew she had come already."

"What does that matter, father? Why did she even come?"

Now he dared look up, watching his daughter's pleading eyes. She was too innocent for what she asked for. "What did he tell you?"

"Only that I am too...involved to be left in the dark."

Ned sighed. He was referring to Robert and perhaps by extension the Queen. Littlefinger had mentioned as much, in the few times he permitted the man to talk about his family. The Queen was not to be trusted where Myra was concerned, where Robert was concerned. He might have brushed off the 'advise' had it not been for that night on the Kingsroad. If Myra were to know more about the Lannisters than she ought to, Cersei may find out. She may find out anyway.

Robert, why must you put me in these positions?

He should have sent her home the instant it happened, should have made her stay in Winterfell with her brothers when he saw his face. Robb had known, and had practically chastised him for it. His son was shaping up to make a better lord than his father, who was a much weaker man.

And his daughter, kind and knowing as she was, could sense the turmoil in him at that moment. She reached across the desk, taking his hand into her much smaller one. Was he not the one to comfort her? How could he have brought such beautiful children to such a horrid place?

"I am sorry, Myra, for all that has happened, for all that may happen. You deserve better than this."

She smiled softly, a motion that reminded him of her mother rather than his sister; she did not look like a Tully, but had all their kindness.

"There is nothing to apologize for, Father. Whatever happens is beyond our control." Her grip tightened. "But please, let me help. The lone wolf dies..."

But the pack survives.

He nodded, but the conversation was not for this place. By the time this was all over, he might be a paranoid man.

"Come with me."

Though the sun had set, the Red Keep still bustled with activity. Lords and ladies scattered to various evening gatherings, stumbling in drunkenness and laughing at jokes unheard. With so many in King's Landing for the coming tournament, the building practically buzzed night and day. Surprisingly, there had been few incidents. A scuffle here and there, but nothing serious, no blood.

The same could not be said for the city, however.

Myra followed wordlessly through the various halls and stairwells, until they came to the stables. It was the safest place he could think of. A whorehouse was certainly no option. He had briefly considered riding out as well, but whatever ears there may have been listening were far less dangerous than the daggers littering the streets of King's Landing.

At the sight of him, the stable boys cleared the area. Ned wondered who they belonged to.

His daughter fed her palfrey a carrot, waiting patiently.

"You mother came here with Ser Rodrik," he started, as slowly as he dared, delaying what he could. "Her hands were cut, and she bore the blade that did the deed. It was of fine make, forged of Valyrian steel...it was a blade meant to kill Bran."

Myra gasped, moving a hand to her mouth. She turned away from the horse, approaching him, all her attention focused.

"Your mother held the attacker off until Bran's wolf tore his throat out."

Her hand lowered slowly as her eyes searched the ground, lost in thought. He could see her put together what few pieces there were, the same ones that led them to this very moment.

"But why kill Bran? He is an innocent child, unless he..." She stilled, a cold realization dawning on her. "Bran didn't fall, did he?"

"Your mother believes he saw something, something that could be devastating if he remembers it."

"But he remembers nothing."

"No, he does not," Ned admitted with a shake of his head. "But whatever it was, the Lannisters are involved."

This made his daughter pause, her brows knitting together. "How do you know this?"

Ned nearly laughed, though he knew not why. "Lord Baelish...he admitted the dagger was his, once, until he lost it to Tyrion Lannister in a bet."

There was a long moment of silence. Ned watched Myra mulling all the information over, taking it far better than he expected.

"That can't be right," she said eventually, surprising him. "I've spoken to Tyrion. He did not seem the sort to do such a...vile thing."

"Do you doubt Lord Baelish?"

"I doubt many things he says," she admitted, "but I believe a good deal too."

Ned nodded, understanding the complicated nature of their situation all too well. "Nevertheless, the Lannisters are up to something, and Tyrion is a Lannister, no matter how friendly. Do not trust him...or Lord Baelish for that matter."

"Should we even stay here?"

He sighed. Yes, how he would have liked to go home. He would have loved to tell Robert to keep his damn titles back in Winterfell, but Robert was no longer just his friend. He was his King, and his King had needed him; he still needed him. The storm that surrounded Robert Baratheon was not one he could withstand alone.

Ned walked over to Myra, placing his hands on her shoulders. She seemed so small again, a child alone in a world much too large for her.

"We are in a dangerous place, Myra, far more dangerous than any of us realized, but if we leave now, if I send you girls away now..."

"They'll suspect, and we may never know the truth." Myra nodded in understanding, her gaze solemn. "Winter is coming."

He cupped his daughter's face in his hands, kissing her forehead. "Winter is coming."

They embraced. The way she held him took him back to a time long ago, when old storms drove a frightened girl to his bedside. She clung to him then as she did now, afraid for her life and unwilling to let go. And just as he had done then, he indulged her, and allowed her to remain as long as she dared, for what they faced was an unknown.

Though deep down, Ned Stark might have believed it was already Winter.