Myra

The family crypt was not a place she visited often. She had first entered its dank halls when she was ten and two, and had been surprised by how warm it was. Robb and Jon had mulled over the idea of moving underground when the next winter came, excitedly claiming statues to sleep by, but their father silenced the planning with a dark look. The crypt was no place for silly words, only those carefully considered, as solemn and binding as an oath. Myra made sure to never speak whenever she returned.

She could not be certain what brought her back now. Surely it had to be some form of bad luck to wander the place while her little brother still barely clung to life, but her feet kept their pace and had no intention of turning back. Perhaps she only wanted to see everything once more before journeying south, even the dead.

There was something oddly final about it all.

Myra approached the last of the tombs. Built nearly eighteen years before, it housed her aunt, Lyanna Stark, but all that she could see gazing upon the statue was her own face. It sent a small chill up her spine, as though Myra were looking at her own final resting place, though she supposed that was not to be true. She would be entombed with her lord husband's family, whomever that may be.

Lyanna's outstretched hand held a small feather, or rather its remains. The notoriously damp crypts destroyed most things not made of stone within weeks, if not less, and even some of the older statues had to be replaced, though a few were left to settle. Their faces had been forgotten and no one knew what to do with them.

Her hand gently reached for the plume, touching only the slightest edge lest the rest fall apart before her eyes. She wondered what sort of significance it held, and if the hand that bore it knew it was there.

"She may not have known it, but I loved her with all my heart."

Eyes wide, Myra turned to the unmistakable source of the voice: Robert Baratheon. How he had managed to catch her off guard, she could not be sure. She had thought the man was incapable of going anywhere without catching the attention of everyone in the vicinity.

"Your Grace!" She fell to her knees with a smack, her skirts soaking in what water had gathered on the stone floor while her eyes took in the image of the King's mud-caked boots as she willed away the heat gathering in her cheeks. How foolish she must have looked to the man, so lost in her own daydreams that she could not be bothered to greet him properly. As she thought over all the ways to apologize, his gloved hand reached out for her.

"Don't go ruining your dress on my account."

Myra took the King's hand, surprised by how quickly and easily he lifted her. Despite his girth, King Robert had maintained his strength and his dominating presence, if his towering height over her said anything. There, in the darkness of the crypts, it was suddenly no longer difficult to picture the man he once was, with his helm of antlers and a war hammer that could crush a man into nothing.

"You Northerners and your propriety," the King continued, oblivious to her scrutiny. His breath, as usual, stunk of drink. "Do you plan on taking a knee every time we cross paths?"

Her mouth opened and closed, unsure of what to say. The man's boisterous nature made it difficult to tell if he was angry or not. In that manner, she found him very similar to her father's bannermen, the Umbers. Make an odd comment to the Greatjon and you stood half a chance of getting an axe in the face. The other half was reserved for an hour's worth of boisterous laughter. With that thought, she also had to wonder why the South believed them to be proper people.

"Only if you ask me to, Your Grace."

"Ask you to," Robert echoed with a snort. "And if I asked you to jump from The Wall stark naked, would you?"

"No, Your Grace," she replied slowly, gauging his reaction, but the shadows that flickered across his face made it difficult. "I'd much rather die with my clothes on."

Myra was not sure why she had replied in that manner, completely out of line with that propriety he claimed she had. She supposed the conversation reminded her of ones she had shared with Theon. In that case, it was best to fight fire with fire.

The King was silent just long enough for regret to begin seeping into her veins, then he broke out in laughter so raucous, she thought the very ceiling might collapse around them. Myra felt her cheeks growing warm again. Now she was glad the place was so dark.

"You really are Ned's," he said, clasping a hand on her shoulder. Myra could not help but notice how large it was. She felt like a small child in his grasp. "All Winter is Comings and Your Graces, and a sense of humor buried underneath it all. I could stand to be surrounded by more like you."

He moved on from her, hand leaving her skin cold in its wake, and turned his attention to the statue of her aunt. She had to wonder if his words had only meant Lyanna, or if the Southerners were really as miserable as he was making them out to be.

She watched Robert remove a feather from the pocket of his cloak, and at that moment felt ashamed. This was not something she should bear witness to. Only the souls of the dead and whatever gods he may have believed in should know what was about to transpire. Yet as she tried to leave him to his privacy, the King spoke.

"It comes from the southernmost lands of the Seven Kingdoms."

Myra turned, finding the King still facing the statue.

"Your Grace?"

"The feather. From some damned bird I can't pronounce the name of. I used to bring her all sorts of these trinkets. I wanted to show her the world, and prove I'd cross the breadth of it for her."

He turned to her then and, even in the dark, she could see all the emotion in his eyes, the anger and the pain and all the love he still bore for a dead woman.

"But it was never enough."

The words should have been for Lyanna, yet Myra got the distinct impression that they were meant for her. In that moment, as she locked eyes with the King, she knew that something had transpired between them, and in the pit of her stomach, it all felt so very wrong.

"You've been in the crypts."

Myra smiled softly at her mother, who was just noticing her presence despite having sat across from her for the better part of an hour, not that she could blame her. Ever since Bran fell, Catelyn Stark had hardly slept, if at all, and her mind would often be elsewhere, preserving what energy it could. Either that or she was lost in dreams of a small boy, climbing to his heart's content with legs that still worked.

She looked down at her dress and sighed at the state it was in, though it was not so different from any other day come to think of it. Her hair would have given it away more, soaked through and nearly frozen at the ends from the sudden cold of the morning. "I suppose there is no way to hide that."

"What were you doing down there?"

"I was just...taking it all in one last time."

Myra turned to the bed that separated them and the boy who occupied it. She had hoped he would have awoken before the King and his party took their leave, so she could remember him as someone other than the frail creature lying asleep before her. Try as she might, Myra could not recall him looking like anything else, not even when they had spoken over his direwolf pup. The only image her mind conjured was a pale child with sunken eyes and a broken body. He had been a boy so full of life and had lost nearly every bit of it.

Bran was not the only one, however. Their mother was not the same either. She had aged at least ten years since he fell, and was all but broken herself. Her hands were shaking as she worked on some wooden ornament for Bran and her eyes were swollen from the ceaseless crying. It had been four days of this.

"You should get some rest, Mother," Myra urged softly.

Catelyn shook her head. "I can't leave him. Even if I wanted to, the thought that he might pass alone..."

"He won't be alone. I'll be here."

"The caravan leaves today..." Her mother trailed off, eyes widening as if she only just realized. If possible, she seemed to grow much frailer.

Myra dropped the subject a moment, letting her hand run through her brother's hair. How he would have hated her doing that. He was not some pet, he would say. No, but he was a pup, a wolf pup, and that was close enough.

What was her mother to do without her husband and daughters now? Robb was terrible at dealing with emotion and Rickon was nothing but it. Neither could help their mother; they were still so terribly dependent on her.

"I don't have to go," Myra offered, looking up. "Sansa is engaged to the prince and Arya has her desire for adventure, but there is no need for me in the South."

Her mother looked surprised. "Myra, I cannot ask that of you."

"You're not asking, I'm offering. Winterfell is my home and I would rather not leave it like this, not with Bran..." she paused, unwilling to speak the words like they were some ill will. "Besides, Robb will need all the help he can get. My poor twin will be in over his head. And someone will have to tend to Rickon. Old Nan scares him more often than not. And there's the matter of the upcoming harvest..."

Catelyn held her hand up, ending Myra's rambling. Her mother appeared stronger now as she gazed at her with such pride in her eyes.

"I remember when you were just a babe, clear as day. You were so quiet and good-natured, I must have checked on you twice as much as your brother, afraid you might have died. But you were always fine, content with your surroundings and never prone to complaint. Even when Robb got upset, you never made a sound. You would only try to go to him, no matter what separated you, and give him comfort. My little girl, born without an inkling of selfishness."

Her mother stood then, perhaps for the first time in a long while for her feet were a little unsteady, but the Lady of Winterfell regained her bearing as she crossed the room. Myra rose with her, watching.

"You tell yourself you will not regret staying, but Myra I can assure you, if you do not leave with the caravan, you will spend the rest of your days wondering what might have happened." Catelyn cupped her face in her hands, thumbs wiping tears Myra had been unaware of. "The North will always be here, as will Winterfell, and both will welcome you with open arms when you choose to return."

Myra looked to her mother's Tully blue eyes, knowing that whatever she said would be of no use. And she could not deny the part of her that was more than a little curious at what was so special about the lands south of her home, so she conceded with a nod. Her mother kissed her forehead gently.

"I'll miss you, Mother."

"And I you, my sweet girl."

Three weeks. That was the longest Myra had ever been separated from her twin. It had been her first official outing from the castle, when she and her father had gone to the Dreadfort to visit Lord Bolton, and introduce her to his son, Domeric. It was meant to be no more than a week's journey, but upon their arrival, Myra had grown deathly ill and was confined to a bed for days. Robb had told her it was clearly a sign that they should not be parted from one another, a joke she so easily saw through because the fear and relief in his eyes had been unmistakable.

Three weeks.

And in that amount of time, the caravan may not have even reached King's Landing yet.

Gods help her.

Robb stood near the portcullis, saying farewell to Jon. As much as she wanted to join them, become the trio of silly children they used to be just one final time, Myra forced herself to remain still. This was their moment, and she would not ruin it for them. If she knew the boys half as well as she thought she did, whatever emotion they were revealing now would turn inward on itself if she did show up, leaving them the tough, Northern boys they pegged themselves to be.

At her feet, Brenna began to paw at her boots. She had changed into riding breeches, longing to see the last of her home from horseback rather than the confines of a carriage. Like herself, Myra's direwolf was growing restless. The pup had an uncanny ability to reflect whatever emotion she was feeling.

"Me too," Myra breathed, locking eyes with her twin from across the courtyard. In that moment, she felt a swell of emotion she could not place and thought she might keel over on the spot. Somehow, she remained standing as Robb crossed over to her.

"I'm already tired of goodbyes. What about you, Myra?"

"I could probably use one more."

They embraced then, holding the other more fiercely than they ever had. Emotions may not have been her brother's strong suit, but she knew he was fighting back the tears as much as she was.

"Don't go doing anything rash now," Robb spoke as he released her. "You won't have your brothers to look out for you in King's Landing."

Myra could not help but laugh, even if it felt hollow. "Oh, you've been watching over me all this time?"

"Of course I have," he countered, his smile equally unhappy. "And now I won't be there when all the Southern Lords come calling on my sister."

"They can call all they please, but any man who fancies himself up more than I has no place trying."

"Well, if the King's party is anything to go by, you may die an unwed woman."

She smacked her brother on the shoulder. It was no harder than a tap, but he rubbed the offended limb anyway. "And if your studies are anything to go by, you may need me to."

Their father rode by then, a picture of Northern apathy, but when his eyes locked on them, she knew it was all a ruse, the only one he ever performed. The caravan would be leaving shortly.

Robb helped Myra onto her mount, a palfrey named Tempest, more so for her speed rather than temperament. Her brothers had lost a fair amount of bragging rights to her small chestnut. Below, Brenna positioned herself between the mare's hooves, brimming with excitement that her owner could not yet show.

"When you leave the gateway, don't look back," Robb said as he handed over Tempest's reins. "And neither will I. If we do, one of us is bound to go after the other."

"It would probably be you."

"Probably," he agreed with a faint smile that quickly vanished. "Goodbye, Myra."

"Goodbye, Robb."

With a quick nudge of the foot, Tempest broke away from her brother and the rest of the castellan. Myra would do as she was asked; she would not look back, even as the portcullis passed overhead and the great expanse of the North opened up to her, even as her mind suddenly forgot what all of Winterfell looked like and desperately wanted one last reminder. She had been wrong when talking to Robb. It was not he who would go after her, but rather the opposite, so she fixed her eyes on a point upon the horizon, and waited for the caravan to close in on it.

It had not been long, and yet an eternity, since they had left when a dark rider pulled up beside her.

"He asked you not to turn around, didn't he?" Jon asked, he himself not turning his head in the slightest.

"I might go back otherwise." Myra paused, glancing at her half-brother. "I will if you come with me."

She might have imagined it, but Jon appeared to consider her proposal before shaking his head. "You know I can't do that."

Yes, she knew, and deep down she wanted Jon to follow what he believed in, but she had buried it below fact and concern. She was no fool. The Night's Watch may have sounded honorable, and perhaps at times it was, but she knew the sorts of men who went there: the kind Uncle Benjen dragged from the dungeons every so often and little lords who could not be bothered to follow anyone's laws, their own fathers' included. Jon must have known this, but perhaps he had convinced himself otherwise, if only to make it easier.

Then she thought of her mother, who, even while stricken with unimaginable grief, kept Jon from seeing his brother for so long. He had been nothing but kind to Bran, and she could be nothing but cruel to him.

"No," she admitted finally, picking at Tempest's mane. "I guess you can't."

They walked their mounts side by side in silence for some time, listening to the wind howl across the open countryside, and Arya as she already managed to drive Sansa to her breaking point.

"I can't say goodbye to you, Jon," Myra blurted suddenly, turning to the bastard brother who looked so much like her. "I know I'll see the others again, but you...I don't want those to be my last words."

Jon did not hesitate. "We'll meet each other again."

"I'm afraid you're overestimating my love of the cold, Jon."

"Nonetheless Myra, we will. I promise."

How she wished she could have his confidence, or whatever skill he possessed to make him seem that way.

Arya rode up to her after a time, when Jon was long gone and their home was safely hidden behind the horizon. She looked sad, but Myra knew that was only for her benefit. The young girl was practically shaking with excitement, and she could not blame her. When she was much younger, the emotion came to her easily. Age seemed to dull many things.

"Do you think I'll have my own room in King's Landing? Or will I have to share? Can I share with you?"

"So you don't have to share with Sansa, I presume?" Myra replied, giving her little sister a sidelong glance. She could not help but smirk at Arya, as she looked at anything but her.

"Maybe."

Her smile grew. Truth be told, she rather liked the distraction. Talking with Arya and her constant bickering state with her older sister made things start to feel normal again. "I shouldn't think you would have to share. The Red Keep is a large place. I hear people have disappeared in there."

"But it's not as big as Casterly Rock or Harrenhal."

Myra snorted. Those strongholds were so large, no one knew what to do with them. She could not imagine being in charge of a keep so big; she might not be able to explore it all before her death.

"It's still a great deal bigger than Winterfell, and you have your own room there."

"But we were the only important people in Winterfell, not like in King's Landing."

"Don't let Father hear that, Arya," Myra warned. The Lord of Winterfell was a firm believer that lords were only as good as the people they ruled over, and no better. It was why Winterfell was not the finely decorated keep like many other strongholds. Once, he had heard Robb mutter something quite similar to what her sister had just said, and her twin found himself working in the muck for nearly a fortnight, a lesson in humility. Though she was not sure if he could find such a punishment for Arya out on the Kingsroad, especially with the King as company.

"Our Father," she continued, "is the Hand of the King. He'll help control the books, the tournaments, and the daily affairs of King Robert. It makes him the second most powerful man in all of Westeros. I think he can find it in that vast power of his to give you your own room...so long as you behave."

Arya smiled, the kind that was both a promise and a vow to break said promise. She would be good, for a time, then she would test her limits, and then she would jump over the established line of propriety completely, usually with Sansa as a target or at least collateral. Myra was going to give her two days before she tried something, and that was being generous.

They continued side by side, Arya going on about why she named her direwolf Nymeria and the story about the Rhoynar Princess, when a great warhorse pulled up beside them. Seated on the steed was the King himself, looking red-faced and happier than he had cooped up inside Winterfell.

"Your Grace," Myra said, inclining her head. Arya mumbled the same beside her.

"Not falling to your knees this time?" King Robert started with a chuckle. "You might survive yet."

Myra blanched, and did her best to ignore whatever jests he started to throw her way, because in the back of her mind, she could still hear their conversation in the crypts, and the look that he gave her, like she was the answer to every problem he faced.

Cersei

She hated the North.

She hated the gloominess and the cold and the ridiculous sense of honor that choked the very air they breathed. This was the Starks' land, anyone who wasn't blind, deaf, or dumb could tell that, and it was the last place she wanted to be. At least she had the comfort, little as it was, that the caravan was departing southward, but the North was far larger than it should have been. It would be nearly a fortnight until she could say she was truly rid of it, and the smell of dogs and piss would linger for months.

Despite her resignations, Cersei bore it all with a smile and all the grace she could muster, because being Queen meant sacrifice, and she had sacrificed much to get to the position she was in. If need be, she would sacrifice more to stay there. Power was a hungry beast and even she had yet to tame it.

A throat was cleared, gently, out of a want for attention, not necessity. Her eyes flicked upwards, green meeting gray, and the familiar pang of bitterness returned.

Cersei had never believed the stories. She had not wanted to. That woman's name was a curse to her. The less she was reminded of her, the better, but even she could not deny the likeness of Myra Stark to her late aunt, or, more importantly, Robert's obvious fascination with her.

She never wanted to call herself possessive of her husband, after all the man had whored himself across the Seven Kingdoms and back again, but seeing the image of the She-Wolf in his company again returned memories of her younger self, back when she had believed herself to be in love with him and foolishly, childishly, thought he might love her in return. Then he had called out Lyanna's name instead of hers on their wedding night and shattered every dream she carried. Now she felt the old wound reopen, and she did not take pain well.

They were alone for the time being, she and Myra, in the carriage meant only for the royal family. Out of courtesy, the Stark girls had been invited in as well, though it served a dual purpose. With no prying eyes and sound muffled by the creaking wagon wheels, Cersei could speak as freely as she pleased, and so could whomever she spoke to, if they knew what was good for them. Perhaps she was lucky the eldest Stark was an early riser.

Cersei smiled, knowing the sweetness of it dripped with venom. "Tell me, Myra, how is it a beauty such as yourself has not yet found a lord husband?"

She supposed beauty was accurate enough. There were certainly far more homely girls in the kingdoms, but it was clear her copper-haired sister would outshine her in looks. Still, she would have no shortage of suitors, especially with her father as Hand of the King.

The girl's mouth popped open, but no words came out just yet. It made her look like a simpleton.

"I suppose you wouldn't know, Your Grace, but I was to be married. My betrothed died."

"Yes, of course, the young Bolton boy. It is a tragedy, to be certain, but that was nearly a month ago. Surely your father as thought of someone else."

The young woman fidgeted, clearly uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was heading. She would have to grow more of a backbone if she wanted to survive the game, not that she would know how to play. Honor got no one anywhere in life, except to the grave.

"He may have, Your Grace," Myra admitted, drawing out each word like it was killing her. "But my Father said we would wait. There is no rush."

"How fortunate for you, to have such a caring father."

And foolish at that. Cersei thought. Does Eddard think himself Baelor the Blessed reborn, hiding his daughters in Winterfell like it were the Maidenvault?

The North never did care for politics, so she supposed the marriage of its daughters did not matter much either.

"Still," she continued, "there are plenty of young suitors in King's Landing, and I'm certain you'll be betrothed soon enough. I even have a cousin there, Lancel, who may prove to be of interest."

Myra nodded slowly, putting on a smile that the Queen could see right through.

Oh, little She-wolf, you must try harder than that.

She and Lancel might actually be meant for one another. They could both gawk and cower at authority figures in marital bliss. Her cousin certainly could not ask for better, and no doubt her Uncle Kevan would dote on the girl. She would be the best looking thing in his household.

"I'm certain I'll enjoy his company, Your Grace."

Had she been anyone but a Stark, Cersei might have thought the girl was playing games with her. But the doe-eyed thing had a genuine look upon her face causing Cersei's smile to falter ever so little. She was not used to pleasantries for the sake of being pleasant. It left a vile taste in her mouth.

Cersei glanced outside, taking in the bleak countryside. Normally, she had the curtains closed, uninterested in their surroundings, but she had them drawn today, to give her a distraction from the dead woman's face. She watched Robert plod by on his warhorse, mumbling something about a spear and another hunt. When he was not hunting, he was racing the damn creature with the girl's horse. He never won, of course, he was too fat to do so, but that was never the point. Myra Stark rode like Lyanna, and that was all that mattered.

"It's a funny thing," Cersei started, making eye contact with Jaime before he rode off behind her husband. "Here you are, a woman grown, no husband, a perfect match for my Joffrey, and yet your younger sister is the one engaged to be married."

Again, the girl's mouth opened with no answer, even though it was so obvious. Robert had proposed the marriage between their houses, without her counsel or permission, and he chose Sansa for Joffrey. The image of Lyanna Stark was for no one, not his son, not Rhaegar Targaryen, not even Lancel if he got wind of her proposal. She was only for him.

"Tell me, what does my husband see in you?"

Myra looked to her hands, white-knuckled as they clutched the skirts of her dress. Cersei watched her play with the intricate patterns on the fabric.

"I don't know, Your Grace," she mumbled softly.

"I think you do."

Myra met her eyes. Her lower lip was trembling, but there was something defiant in her gaze, some strength the girl had been hiding.

"He sees a dead woman, Your Grace, and no more."

The carriage door burst open; the younger Starks entered, squabbling about dresses and swords while Tommen followed them going on about some kitten he found hiding somewhere and Myrcella inquired about Robb Stark again. Myra quickly fell into conversation with the children, but her shoulders remained tense throughout the day, and she never met her gaze again.

Jaime

"You spend an awful lot of time with the King," Jaime said to the eldest Stark one evening as they rode side by side. It was the first time he had spoken with her since the banquet.

Myra did not answer him right away. She was staring resolutely forward, at the back of King Robert, or perhaps it was at her father who rode right beside him. If Eddard Stark suspected his friend of any dishonorable actions with his daughter, he certainly hid it well, which led Jaime to believe the man was oblivious to it completely, despite the gossip that raged around their evening camps like wildfire. Between those giggling handmaidens and Robert's dreadful attempts at flirtation, Jaime wondered how he hadn't killed someone yet.

He also wondered how Cersei hadn't.

"Are you jealous, Ser Jaime?" Myra asked, so matter-of-factly he almost missed the sarcasm. He hadn't thought the girl capable.

"Oh, absolutely," he replied, wishing to test her bounds. "Spending the rest of my life as his babysitter just isn't enough for me. I need to spend every waking moment with him, talking of whores and drinking."

The proper little Northern girl returned as Myra looked positively scandalized by his choice of words. She glanced back to Robert, no doubt checking to see if he heard his guard's remarks, which he hadn't. He was too loud to hear anything over his voice, and too drunk to hear anything else not within two feet. It might have been why Eddard had to ride so close to him.

"Why do you speak of him like that?"

"Would you rather I compare him to a knight in one of those songs the minstrels are always on about? That would take a great deal of lying."

Myra was watching him with narrowed eyes, head tilted like she was trying to figure him out. He wished her luck. Only his siblings understood him, and that had taken all their lives.

They grew quiet for a while, listening to the slow hoof beats of their steeds, no doubt still tired from the last run. The King might have been racing, but the Kingsguard still had to chase after him.

Robert always made sure he was the one on duty when they left. He supposed someone had to witness the further insults to Cersei as he took to the Stark girl far better than he ever had to his wife. Rather than hold her in such poor regard like his sister, however, Jaime managed to feel some form of pity for Myra. The strict sense of honor she inherited from her father was doing everything in its power to only encourage the king. She laughed when he joked, she always said yes to his requests, and she never said anything to stop him.

It was going to get her into trouble, far sooner than later.

"Might I ask you something?" Myra asked, breaking the silence.

Jaime shrugged. "I don't see why not."

"You are Lord Tywin's eldest son, and you were his heir until you joined the Kingsguard. Why do that? Why throw it all away?"

So I could fuck Cersei whenever I pleased, he thought glumly, though a lot of good that did me.

He could still remember it plainly, when she had come to him, golden hair turned molten by the light of the torches. She told him of their father's plans, how he was to marry Lysa Tully and leave her for Casterly Rock and his duties as heir. He remembered how she touched him that evening, how he had never felt his heart beat so fast, how he had never felt more alive.

"The Kingsguard," she had whispered in his ear before biting the lobe, licking the skin. "Join the Kingsguard and we'll never be apart again. We'll forever be whole."

He could also remember the sight of her leaving with their father while he remained alone to guard The Mad King.

It still made his blood boil.

"Haven't you heard, Lady Stark?" he said after some time. "The Kingsguard is the highest of honors. A man should consider himself lucky to don the white cloak and protect the King with his life."

She gave him a strange sort of look, no doubt a reaction to his previous comments. Cersei would wear the same one whenever he acted this way, unconvinced by his words and frustrated by them, but not willing to show too much of it. Still, he could see it all brewing beneath the surface. Anyone who spends enough time in King's Landing learns to read faces to some extent, and she was certainly not bred to lie.

"Even a man with all of Casterly Rock waiting for him?"

Jaime sighed. "Politics don't interest me. Neither does gold. I like killing things. It's what I'm good at."

Myra appeared to consider it, looking forward again. "Wish I could do something like that: speak a couple words and no longer have to worry."

"The realm could always use more Silent Sisters."

She arched an eyebrow. It made her look impossibly more like Lyanna. "I'm fairly certain believing in The Seven is a prerequisite. You don't find many Sisters in the North."

He snorted. "You don't find much of anything in the North."

She briefly looked offended before it melted into understanding. Myra did not get angry easily, he had noticed, and appeared to be one who avoided conflict at all costs. She certainly would have quite the task ahead of her in King's Landing. Conflict was the favorite pastime.

"No, you don't," she eventually admitted. "I suppose for someone coming from King's Landing, it would be quite the change, but I rather like the emptiness. There's room to breathe and to grow, and no shortage of places where eyes do not follow you. It feels...safe."

There was a pensive look to her as she spoke. Jaime had never thought of Casterly Rock in that way, not since their mother died, and he certainly did not feel it for King's Landing. In fact, there was not much he even loved. Cersei. Tyrion. Maybe even their father in some strange way. Nothing else. There was no need to grow attached to things that would only wither and die.

"No, you really wouldn't like the North," Myra said after a pause, looking to him again. "Not much to kill in a safe place."

To that, oddly, Jaime had no reply.