Robb

The King in the North.

That was going to take some getting used to, although he'd been telling himself that for nearly a month. Still, every time he heard it, the sound nearly made him jump out of his skin. It was not so much the words as it was the conviction in the voices that spoke it, or shouted it most times. These men truly believed in him with every breath they took.

And the boy who had become a king was absolutely terrified of letting them all down.

Robb sat back in his seat, rubbing his eyes as the words on the war map began to blur.

It had been easier when his father was alive. They'd had a goal: go to King's Landing and free him. Now that he was gone, the war was turning into a complicated affair. None of his sisters were in King's Landing, so far as he had heard, and he doubted the Lannisters would pass on an opportunity to inform him of their valuable hostages.

So, why even head further south? To sack the capital out of vengeance? No one wanted that particular throne less than him.

Should he sack Casterly Rock in the West instead? Give the minstrels a new verse for the Rains of Castamere?

And what about after? He was called the King in the North, but the Riverlands had sworn to him too. When it was all said and done, was he to retreat to Winterfell and leave half his people trapped between Lannister forces?

Robb sighed. He hated looking at all of this objectively. His mother would have cuffed him if she'd heard how casually he tossed his father's death aside. But he was a king now, not a boy playing at war. Emotions were dangerous. Everything had to be a piece on a board, nothing more.

His gaze drifted toward Dragonstone.

It was such a small island that the map barely noted it, but that patch of rock meant more to him than Casterly Rock or King's Landing.

Myra was there.

He felt his hand clench into a fist.

An island. How in the Seven Hells was he supposed to get his army to an island?

If only Theon would return already...

So absorbed in his thoughts, Robb barely noticed the tent flap open. Two figures moved out of the corner of his eye, but his gaze could not be torn from that island.

"Robb!"

Finally glancing up, he noticed his mother at his side, eyes wild with both joy and fear, and a man behind her, dirty and haggard from a long journey. He almost looked like...

"Jory?"

His father's captain smiled, weary but grateful, and gave a small incline of his head. "I suppose it's Your Grace now."

Robb stood slowly, staring at the man as if he had just fallen out of a dream. The last he had set eyes on him, half his family was traveling to King's Landing. To see anyone return from that place was...surreal. It firmly rooted the reality of the situation, dashing any distant hope that somehow everything that had happened in the capital was all a lie.

"How did you escape?" he asked, having no doubt in his mind that Jory would have laid down his life for his father if he had been present.

Jory's face grew solemn, thoughts no doubt mirroring his. "I wasn't in King's Landing when Lord Stark was betrayed, Your Grace. I was with your sister on Dragonstone."

"He's brought a message from Myra," Catelyn added, her voice practically cracking. His mother had not slept well as of late, having no word from any of her daughters.

Robb gave one firm nod. "Tell me everything."

And tell him, Jory did.

Robb was torn between the raging anger at Stannis and the swelling pride for his sister. Myra was not quick to anger, but he knew the power she could command when driven to that point. One might have said he was an expert on taking his sister's rage. Still, he never thought to hear her stand up to anyone like Stannis. His father's bannermen, certainly, but she had grown in their company; she knew their limits. The man who currently held her captive was another beast entirely.

It seemed much had changed for his twin.

Much had changed for both of them.

"She said that you should not bend the knee," Jory continued. "That the Starks bow to no king. Seems to me no matter the distance, the two of you still know what the other is thinking."

Robb's grin was tight. He wished it were so easy. He could use her chiding to keep him in place.

He also really wanted to test the title of princess on her.

Still a boy, Robb thought. A boy and a king.

Catelyn looked frantic, as if those words weren't enough. No amount would be, he supposed.

"What of her sisters? Sansa and Arya, are they with her?"

Jory shook his head. "I've had no word of them, my lady."

She fell silent again.

Robb shook his head. "My sister, ever the selfless one. I know what her words mean. Don't come for her; don't let Stannis hold her over my head."

Catelyn gasped. "Robb, you don't mean to leave her there! She's your sister!"

He held up a hand. "I have no intention of doing that, Mother. When Theon returns, I'll send his father's fleets east. The krakens enjoy their pillaging. I'll give them something to burn."

Jory looked proud. His mother was horrified but calmed quickly. After all, they had both promised to kill them all.

"Will you return to her?" Robb asked.

The captain nodded. "I will, Your Grace. I swore my service to her."

"She couldn't ask for a better sword to protect her," Robb replied, grasping the man's shoulder. "Tell her I'm coming, Jory. One way or another, her brother is going to get her back."

Myra

The gods were burning.

She'd never worshipped the Seven, despite her mother's best efforts, but she knew the names: Father, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Warrior, Smith, and Stranger. Each person preferred a different aspect, but all were cast aside equally on the beaches of Dragonstone. A crowd had gathered in silence. Was it to be respectful or mocking?

Myra turned away from the sight, disgusted. Her balcony had a remarkably good view of the wretched ceremony. She wondered if they took that into account.

At least they hadn't bothered trying to bring her with. Might have been a little awkward when she refused to kneel.

"What is happening?"

Shireen was sitting on her bed, flipping through a book she had brought with. Myra had asked she keep away from the window. She had no doubt the girl was breaking several of her father's commands by being in the same room as her, and did not want to chance a guard looking up at the wrong time.

For both their sakes, she should have just sent the girl away, but Shireen had grown on her, and, truthfully, Myra had grown lonely. With Jory gone, there weren't many to speak to, except the walls perhaps, though King's Landing had taught her those have ears as well. Shireen was probably the only person on Dragonstone who could speak as though war had not broken loose across the countryside.

How she missed that sort of ignorance.

"Your father is burning things," Myra mumbled, walking back inside.

"Mother says that is how R'hllor speaks to us, through flame," Shireen replied, thoughtful. "I never hear anything. Just crackling."

Myra went to sit beside her. "That's probably for the best. Why should the gods speak to us? They're up there, and we're down here."

It seemed everyone was where she wasn't.

Moments passed in silence. Shireen continued to flip through her book, though it was clear she wasn't focused on it. The girl had something on her mind.

"I'm sorry," she blurted suddenly, looking up at her. In the darkness of her room, it appeared that her face was still whole. "I asked Father why he wouldn't let you go home. He wouldn't tell me, but I know it's bad. He always makes the same face when it's bad."

Myra hadn't been aware that Stannis was capable of making faces.

"Are we enemies?"

The stone she had begun to guard her heart with gave way slightly. Myra felt her face soften, and her lips form a small smile, the kind mothers reserved for their children when they overreacted to silly things, as was their nature.

"Do you hate me?" she asked.

Shireen blinked, as if she spoke madness. "Of course not!"

Myra felt her smile grow. "Good, because I certainly don't hate you. Now, I vow to never fight you, will you do the same?"

The girl nodded. "By the old gods and the new."

Not the red, Myra noted.

"Then we are not enemies."

Shireen's smile could light the whole room.

The moment was cut short, however, when Ser Davos stepped into the threshold of her room. Shireen had forgotten to close the door when she came inside. Myra hadn't minded much. They did not keep guards on her. Where was she to go? The open sea?

"Pardon the interruption, my lady, but-" he paused, taking note of her guest, eyes going wide. "Princess? What are you doing here? If His Grace discovers you're here, or your mother-"

"I know. I know," Shireen said, sliding off her bed. "She'd actually have to pay attention to me."

Myra pursed her lips. Davos looked distraught.

"Princess..."

"Goodnight, Ser Davos," Shireen replied, sneaking past him. "Goodnight, Myra!"

The Stark and the Onion Knight stared at one another in awkward silence, until Myra stood, straightening out her dress.

"I apologize, Ser Davos, for letting her stay. I know that she-"

Davos held up a hand, the one with shorter fingers. "There is no need, my lady. The Princess has a way of getting exactly what she wants out of people."

Spoken like a man who knew her charms all too well.

Despite all circumstances, Myra still very much enjoyed the company of Ser Davos. He was a genuine sort of man, honest and courteous to a fault, a complete opposite from the likes she had been subjected to since leaving home. He seemed almost incapable of hating anyone, not matter what side of the silly war they found themselves on. But Davos wasn't on her side, at least not where it matter, so even now, her guard had to be up.

What a tiring thing it was.

"I presume Lord Stannis wishes to see me?" Myra asked, building back up the wall she had made. It was a small thing that covered her heart, but with every threat to her family, with every word spoken against her, with every bloody second that passed on this wretched island, it grew a little taller and a little stronger.

If Davos still took offense to Myra's title usage, he did not show it. "His Grace waits for you in the Great Hall, my lady."

Whatever ferocity had overcome her the day Myra had sent Jory away seemed to have carried forward with her. Where once she saw the Great Hall as some large, foreboding thing, as cold as the waters that surrounded the island, now she only gazed upon a room, a room of stone with people of stone. They were nothing in the wake of what she suffered in King's Landing, of what she suffered even now as the loss of her father still clawed at her soul.

In light of all that, Stannis had become as intimidating as one of Tommen's kittens.

The man himself was not seated on his throne. He was staring at it, his back to her, his crown resting on one of the arms. Melisandre was nowhere to be seen, but even so, Myra felt the woman's eyes on her.

"It seems your brother will not bend the knee."

Myra allowed herself a small smile, if only because he could not see it. Defiant she might have become, but she wasn't a complete fool.

"In fact, he's made himself a king," Stannis continued, finally turning to face her. That same indifference she had come to know rested on his face, but his words were tight. It bothered him. "The King in the North, they call him."

Her brother, a king? It sounded like some sort of fantasy, but if there was thing she could say about Stannis, it was that he did not lie. He did not admit things until he was certain they were fact.

"I told you my brother would not look kindly on this," Myra spoke, taking his silence as her cue. "It seems your kingdom shrinks a little more every day."

She'd heard the rumors about Renly, how he had fled south in the wake of her father's capture and claimed the title of king for himself. He had the Stormlands and the Reach behind him, quite the formidable force.

"You think a few words are going to make me tremble, girl?" Stannis asked, taking a seat at last. "You can drop your titles and your courtesies, but you're no leader, no tactician. Your words have no weight. You're just a child holding a tantrum. Shall I deny you supper in order to teach you a lesson?"

Myra felt her eyes narrow, but she said nothing. He would only take it as more proof of his claim.

"It seems that you face a choice, Myra Stark," Stannis continued, in no way slighted by her silence. "Despite his grievous mistakes, your father was an honorable man, as was his father before him. He knew the way things ought to be, that the Iron Throne is mine by birthright. You said as much yourself.

"Your brother is a traitor, and the lords who would rally to him as well. When I have taken King's Landing, they will be dealt with, but I am no fool. The North cannot be ruled by any of my bannermen. They would break before bringing it to heel."

She watched him touch the crown, fingers gently tracing the golden flames; she feared the words he would speak next.

"Bend the knee to me, and it's yours. I will declare you the Lady of Winterfell and the Warden of the North. You will be free to marry whomever you wish, and I will see to it that your children are trueborn Starks. Or if you prefer, you may grant it to one of your younger brothers, provided they do the same."

For a moment, it fell silent. All Myra could hear was the sound of her breathing, the pounding of her heart in her ears.

Was this the true face of the South, power at any price? To forsake the family she had known her whole life, who she loved with all her being, who she yelled and laughed and cried with, for some pretty title and a lord's seat?

She was not so ignorant that she believed this could never happen. The Blackfyres had proven many a time that power could drive man to spill his kin's blood, but from what she had seen in the past few months, it almost seemed commonplace. They in the South who would call her people backward and barbaric stood ready to stab their brothers and sisters in the back and claim themselves superior.

Would her father truly call this honor?

"No," she hissed, her teeth clenched. She was trembling, but not from the cold. "Betray the crown or betray my family, I know where I stand. I will not bend the knee to any man but my brother, Robb Stark, the King in the North."

Stannis sighed. Why did he suddenly remind her of her father?

"So be it."

At the wave of his hand, two guards blanked her on either side. Their leathers, she noted, bore the flaming stag. How quickly the transformation took place. Had Stannis always been this eager to turn his back on his own?

Myra could not help but glance down at the sheathed sword nearest her. Noticing her movement, the guard drew it out ever so slightly, revealing the polished steel. Her eyes flickered to his. Whatever reaction the man had expected, what she gave him was not it. She barely registered anything. Where was the fear, she wondered?

Stannis stood, placing the crown on his head. "Myra Stark, I, Stannis Baratheon, the First of My Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, do hereby declare you a traitor to the crown. The penalty for such a crime is death."

She watched him step from the dais. He had just taken her life into his hands and shown it to her, and yet she was not afraid. There was nothing but calm. Was this how her father had faced his end?

"Fortunately for you, I will grant a stay of execution until after the war is concluded," Stannis continued, stepping before her. Myra met his gaze head on. She wondered if her reaction disappointed him.

"Perhaps your brother can beg for your life after I have laid waste to his army."

Tyrion

He had never expected a warm welcome upon his return to the capital, but to be ignored entirely? It seemed his sister had more surprises left for him after all.

They had traveled with a modest group of soldiers, which for a Lannister, even the infamous Imp, could be no less than one hundred strong. His family had an image to maintain after all. Plus, after the whole Catelyn fiasco, Tyrion was certain he'd never be allowed to travel lightly guarded ever again. Being an embarrassment, he had come to realize, did have its benefits.

No one greeted them at the Dragon Gate, or any of the smaller ones thereafter. A single squire ran out from the stables to inquire about their horses, but no messenger was present to announce their arrival nor any sort of servant to give them escort. Even Varys, who undoubtedly, somehow, had already caught wind of his new title, had not bothered to show his face. Had he not frequented the capital so often, Tyrion might have been reduced to waving down a scullery maid or some such to give him directions.

The absurdity of it all stank of Cersei.

He had to wonder if she didn't already know what their father had done as well.

When he finally made it to her solar, which, after such a long trip on the road, took him far longer than he was willing to admit, Tyrion immediately sank into the nearest chair, his legs on fire. Conveniently, a decanter sat on the nearby table. He hadn't had anything proper to drink since his capture. His father, of course, had made certain his caravan was dry, but with his sister, Tyrion always had two things he could count on: that she loathed his very being, and that there was always wine nearby.

Cersei was too busy transcribing something to pay him any mind. Oh, she knew he was there, but she liked to pretend she did not notice. It had given her great pleasure when they were little children and he had not known better, becoming utterly convinced he had truly vanished. That was until Jaime sorted him out. Clearly she had not grown out of the habit.

He doubted she was writing anything of import. Gossip perhaps, or 'I hate my little brother' over and over again.

Although, at this point, he couldn't actually be certain which brother she was referring to.

"I see you've redecorated," Tyrion observed, glancing around her quarters. She'd never been one to shy away from her heritage. Where most women were expected to take their lord husband's colors and sigil, Cersei had always done the opposite, countering Robert at every turn. Now, it seemed she had put an extra smattering of red and gold about the place for good measure. There were certainly more lions about.

Cersei, of course, said nothing. Although her writing sounded more furious.

Tyrion drank a little more, fingers tapping some tune he'd heard Bronn singing once on the road. Still, Cersei made no move to speak. She even seemed to relax, as if accepting her own lie and believing he was gone.

Sighing, Tyrion leapt off his seat, exchanging it for the one across from Cersei.

"I am going to ask this once and only once: did you kill Robert?"

Cersei stopped writing.

She glared at him like one might to a servant who dared speak back, as if his very presence soiled everything in the room. But his dear sister always looked at him that way so it did not have the affect she intended.

Tyrion frowned. He hated having to be the serious one. "We are at war, the king is dead-"

"Joffrey is king."

Well, at least she was capable of speaking.

"Yes, Joffrey is king, and what a remarkable job he has done so far. He only destroyed our hope of regaining peace with the North."

They'd gotten the runner not long after leaving the war camp. Tyrion was grateful he didn't have to see their father's face that evening. Not even Kevan would be able to withstand it.

Cersei smirked, like he had said something foolish. "There will be no peace with the North, only their total surrender. It's what traitors deserve."

"Have you looked at a map recently, Sister? The North is a large place."

"Yes, a large, empty place filled with dog lords and farmers," Cersei replied, finally leaving the parchments on her desk be. "Why are you even here, Tyrion, having this discussion? There aren't any whores here to entertain you."

Tyrion sighed, wishing she hadn't mentioned his preferred company. He'd give anything to go back to Shae right then. They'd found her just outside his father's camp and she was the only thing he'd gotten from the whole miserable affair that didn't make him want to bash his brains in.

And Bronn.

Occasionally.

Instead, he took the letter his father had given him and slide it across the desk. The look that crossed his sister's face as she read the words was almost worth it.

"He can't be serious," Cersei said, crumpling the letter up and tossing it.

"Have you ever known our father to jest?"

"Father is the Hand, not you."

"And Father is busy fighting the war you started."

"That you started, Brother, or have you forgotten how you let yourself be captured? How you let Jaime get captured?"

How could he? Everyone was keenly intent on reminding him with every breath.

Cersei sat back, hand reaching for her own goblet. "What makes him believe you could do a better job than me?"

"Well, first off, I wouldn't have had Ned Stark executed."

He watched his sister's lip twitch before she moved to take a drink. So, that had not been part of the plan. He'd always known Joffrey was a cruel and unruly boy, but he'd never expected him to go so far. Then again, he'd hoped Robert would have had a few more years, given Joffrey time to mellow with age.

It seemed the boy king was the only one getting what he wanted.

"It doesn't matter," Cersei spoke after a while. "Ned Stark confessed to the realm that he was guilty. Every house in every corner of Westeros knows what he did."

"They know what he confessed as you held a knife to his daughter's throat," Tyrion replied, leaning on the desk. "This vendetta you have against Myra Stark is going to cost you."

"And what would you know? You haven't been here."

"You forget, Jaime is my brother too. He tells me things."

Something flashed in her eyes. Anger? Jealousy? He wouldn't know why. Their brother only ever had eyes for her, even when every maiden, unwed or otherwise, practically threw themselves at his feet. He acted as if no other woman in the realm existed.

Cersei never had been very good at repaying that kind of loyalty.

The conversation was starting to wear on Tyrion. It wasn't even the most hostile one he had ever shared with his sister, and he doubted future discussions would go quick as smoothly.

He needed to drink. He needed sleep. He needed Shae. And definitely not in that order.

"Tell me that you at least have the other Stark girls, Sansa and what's her name."

Cersei did not answer.

Tyrion blinked. "You do have them..."

His sister began to fidget. She never did that.

Tyrion stood and walked to the other side of the desk. He grabbed the armrest and looked up at Cersei until she was forced to meet his gaze.

"You mean to tell me that not only did you kill Lord Stark, but you lost our only means of bartering with his son. What is to keep Robb Stark from tearing this city apart?"

"Our father will, or do you doubt him too?"

"Do you remember the last time the Starks marched south when the king had wronged them? It didn't end well for the Targaryens; it won't end well for us."

Thoroughly displeased with how everything had gone, Tyrion decided to leave once and for all. The only issue was that he had to find his way out of Maegor's Holdfast and then climb to the top of the Tower of the Hand.

Perhaps Bronn could carry him.

"This is what you want, isn't it? To see our House ruined," Cersei said, her voice low but edged like glass. "You took Mother. You took Jaime. Which of us would you have fall next?"

Tyrion sighed, his hand on the door. "My dear sister, I love my family, even you. Perhaps one day you might see that."

There was nothing in his life he doubted more.

Jaime

Myra Stark had been brought into the dungeon two days ago, or what he thought was two days. She had leveled one hard glare in his direction, then sat in the far corner of her cell, where the light of the torch could not reach, bathing her in darkness. The only way Jaime knew she was actually still there, and that he had not gone mad from imprisonment, was the occasional shuffling that came from the cell, when she went to grab what little food they were provided or make water.

He'd nearly spoken up a dozen times, the words on his tongue, nearly free, but every time he had stopped. Something had felt wrong about it. Perhaps it was the manner in which he was going to speak, his usual, callous self, or perhaps he just understood all too well the desire to be left alone by everyone and everything.

Still, the silence was starting to irk him. Ever since their...confrontation, Jaime had been left alone in the dark, save for the guards who were more likely to stab him than speak with him. He knew nothing of the outside world, not of his father in the Riverlands or his sister in King's Landing; he knew nothing of Tyrion, his little brother left alone with a single sellsword in the middle of mountain clan territory. They could dead for all he knew, and the just Lord Stannis would keep him in the dark.

No wonder Ned Stark had been so desperate for his help. They were cut from the same drab, hypocritical cloth.

Jaime couldn't say what finally pushed him to speak, but when he did, his voice was nearly unrecognizable.

"Is Tyrion alive?"

The desperation in it sickened him.

It was silent for a long time. Jaime didn't believe Myra was asleep, especially since he had heard her moving not so long ago. She might have been ignoring him, which made sense in light of everything, but Jaime did not care for sense and deserved treatment. Her mother had taken his brother, the brother she herself declared innocent; she owed him an answer, on her honor as a Stark. He almost said as much until her soft voice echoed in the darkness.

"I don't know."

"You don't know?" Jaime repeated, anger rising. "Your father was only betting the entire realm on his survival. He should be screaming about it from the top of the Red Keep, as if it's the only thing keeping my father from burning the realm to the ground. It's not, by the way. He's doing it out of spite at this point."

The shuffling returned. Jaime glanced outside his cell, watching Myra's dark form stand and move to the bars. She clutched the iron pieces gently, looking at him. He must have been quite the sight; he hadn't bathed in weeks and stank something fierce. His hair was unruly, bits of straw stuck in the limp strands; his beard had grown out, and he thought he might be utterly unrecognizable.

"I'd say dear old Ned and Robert were conspiring to keep me here, but that doesn't account for you," Jaime continued. Once he started, the words poured out of him like a fountain, unleashing weeks' worth of frustration and the need to just say something. "What did you do to make Stannis so angry? Did you use the word less? He hates that word. Or maybe it was his wife's doing. You are a fairer sight than her. It's the ears. Maybe she thought you'd come to steal away another Baratheon from-"

"You don't know, do you?"

Jaime paused. He looked at Myra, truly looked at her. She wasn't angry, not in the least, there wasn't even a poor attempt at covering up any emotion. It was as if she hadn't heard any of his tirade, as if suddenly he wasn't the man who had tried to kill her brother. All she held in her eyes was pity, and a sadness, deep and consuming.

The kind only death brings.

"Who?" he asked, bolting upright, fear bringing energy to his weakened form. "Who was it?!"

Myra stepped back, his words slapping her. "King Robert is dead, murdered, and..."

He watched her shrink, the sadness taking control of her body. She recovered almost as quickly, however, a strange sort of calm coming over her as she looked to him again.

"And your bastard executed my father for it."

Oh gods, Cersei, what have you done?

Jaime leaned against the bars, letting the cold metal cool his heated face. Everything felt like it was beginning to spin. All that they had worked for, all that they had built, was unraveling, spiraling out of control. How could they ever hope to recover from this?

"Stannis has declared himself king. Renly has declared himself king. My brother has been crowned the King in the North," Myra continued, though the words washed over him with little meaning. He didn't care for kings or crowns; he didn't care for any of it. "And for my support of him, I have been declared a traitor. I'm to be executed."

She had laughed as she spoke, her voice cracking, as if her impending death was just another mishap in a series of terrible events. Jaime supposed he knew that all too well.

Myra looked at him, shaking her head. "It seems we're meant to be miserable together, Jaime Lannister."

Jaime wasn't certain how much time had passed since she last spoke. Perhaps she was still speaking even now, but he didn't care for what she had to say. It didn't matter.

The world outside was burning and he was locked away on this pathetic island, unable to defend those who needed him. Had he not told Cersei everyone who stood between them would burn? Were those not his words?

Burn them all!

He chose to ignore the voice that had echoed in his head for so many years; he only wanted to think about his brother and sister. The only two people in the world who mattered to him; the only people keeping him going in this wretched place.

The torch had all but gone out. It had been how he liked to tell time. The guards at night were less inclined to do anything for the poor souls they had to watch over.

There was a light, however, in the darkness, distant but drawing closer. Jaime thought he might be imagining it, until out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Myra standing.

"Shireen!" she hissed as the light approached. It revealed a young girl with a face deformed by greyscale. Stannis Baratheon's fabled daughter. The girl rekindled their dying torch and stood before Myra's cell. "What are you doing here? How-"

"Father is gone. He took his ships and left," the girl replied. "I won't let him hurt you. You're not my enemy."

Myra knelt before the girl, stroking her hair through the bars. "And you're not mine, Shireen, but this is dangerous. Your father-"

"Is wrong," Shireen stated flatly. "You're a good person. The gods don't like it when you kill good people."

"Shireen..."

"The guards won't find me. They're asleep." Shireen put her torch down and reached for something in her skirts. Something jingled, and suddenly there was metal glinting in the firelight. Keys. Jaime drew closer to the bars as he watched the girl experiment with each one, his heart skipping a beat as he heard the deep clunk of the cell unlocking.

Immediately, the girl threw herself into Myra's arms. They hugged briefly before Myra set her back down.

"You have to go now. You can't be seen with me. No matter what happens."

Shireen nodded. "I'll miss you."

"And I you. Now go!"

The girl and the torch disappeared back into the darkness.

Jaime watched as Myra grabbed the keys that had been left in the door. The girl didn't seem to have much concern with escaping as she turned the bits of metal over in her hands.

Then she looked over at him, and Jaime suddenly realized that his escape was not so certain.

She walked toward his cell, slow and cautious, like he might bite her. Her eyes were dark in the torchlight, studying him closely.

He almost laughed. "I wouldn't if I were you."

Myra nodded, almost imperceptive, then began trying keys in his door. "And that is why you are not me. I may not like you, Jaime, but I hate Stannis, and it would give me great pleasure to rob him of both his prizes."

Now that was something they could both agree upon.

The instant he heard the lock give way, Jaime was on his feet and out of his cell. He grabbed the torch and started in the direction Shireen had come from, Myra on his heels. They walked quick and silent, breath eager. Jaime could feel his heart pounding against his chest, a lion roaring so loud he was certain the guards would hear him.

If only he could get a sword in his hands.

The dungeon ended in stairs going upward. Jaime moved slowly up them, crouched. He handed back the torch to Myra. She understood his line of thinking, keeping the fire behind her.

Jaime held out a hand as he reached the top, halting Myra as he peered around the corner.

It seemed that Shireen had been telling the truth. The guards were asleep, both snoring softly, their cups drained and fallen from the table they rested their heads on.

He waved her in slowly. Wide-eyed, Myra took in the scene carefully, making certain she stepped in safe spots. Jaime grabbed a sword that was leaning against the wall. It was poorly kept, dull in places, but it would still kill a man, and that was all he needed.

The Lannister and the Stark fled quietly through the halls of Dragonstone. With the fleets gone, the guards were few. They would be focused on the perimeter rather than the interior. After all, it was an impenetrable castle on an island. What had they to fear?

When one unfortunate guard came upon them, Jaime shoved Myra back around the corner they had just turned before shoving his sword straight into the man's throat. Held in place by his blade and a hand gripping his shoulder, the guard simply stood there and gurgled as he choked on his own blood.

Jaime lowered his body slowly, eyes flitting back and forth down the hallway, looking for any other witnesses. When no one came, he drew his sword out, and wiped it on the man's cloak. A trail of blood could get them both killed.

He turned back to Myra, who was eying the corpse.

Don't you dare pass out, girl.

As if reading his thoughts, her eyes met his and she nodded.

They continued, though Jaime did not know where he was going. He hadn't been in the proper state of mind when they'd first dragged him through Dragonstone; he wasn't entirely certain how they were to get off the island period. He wasn't much of a sailor, and he doubted the girl from landlocked Winterfell knew much either.

One step at a time.

He turned down another hall, only to have his hand grabbed by Myra. She pulled him another direction, hissing a 'this way' as she went. Jaime could only follow as the girl became the leader, turning this way and that as if she had the castle memorized.

They turned down one last hallway, which ended in a heavy, wooden door, and paused.

"Where are we?" Jaime asked, leaning against the wall.

"Servant's halls," Myra whispered, looking around. "They've an exit to the cliffs. Shireen showed me once."

"Of course she did."

They crept quietly through the halls, careful not to disturb those sleeping within. A maid stoked the fires near the kitchen, but was too preoccupied with her work to notice the two. Others were too bleary eyed or drunk to make them out from anyone else who worked there. Lords and ladies did not come to where they lived. They had nothing to fret over.

Myra eventually led them to a hallway with barred windows to the outside. The smell of the sea and salt was almost overwhelming, but Jaime pushed forward.

Both slammed into the iron door that kept them from freedom, struggling as the iron bolts groaned.

How in the seven hells did those two manage to get outside before?

When it gave way, both fell into the grass that covered most of cliffs. A stiff breeze blew across the island, whipping Jaime's hair against his face. The moon was rising in the distance, casting an eerie glow over the sea. It was oddly calm, or at least as calm as the sea could be on Dragonstone.

Jaime turned to Myra. She actually smiled.

Then an arrow struck the ground before them.

They were up and running in an instant, fleeing down the rapidly disappearing cliffs.

When he was a child, Jaime used to dive from the cliffs at Casterly Rock. Cersei would never go with him, no matter how many times he goaded her on. Those cliffs had been higher than the ones they stood on now. They could make it.

"I need you to trust me," Jaime said as they reached the end, eying the dark waves below. In the distance, he could hear the shouts of soldiers.

"I do," Myra replied without hesitation.

Jaime looked at her briefly before grabbing her hand.

They jumped.