Arya

She was bored.

It had been a week since they'd arrived, and Arya was already sick of the Red Keep. Well, she was sick of what parts she got to see, which she could name on one hand.

It wasn't fair! She knew the stories: old passages and secret tunnels built by Maegor the Cruel, so many that people could get lost and die before they ever saw the light again. Rumor was the dragon skulls that once decorated the throne room were hidden somewhere, bones so large they could swallow her whole. And then there was the Iron Throne itself, which she had yet to see. Instead, she had been cooped up in the Tower of the Hand, getting fitted for more dresses she would never wear and sewing direwolf patches.

She missed her direwolf. At least Nymeria was free, a lot freer than she would have been in King's Landing. She deserved a place without walls and highborn jerks turning their noses up at her. Stupid Prince Joffrey had done something right after all, she guessed.

Sansa missed Lady too, she knew. Her sister was a loud crier, especially at night when she thought no one could hear her. Maybe next time she'd know better than to choose a boy over her family.

But Myra did nothing wrong. She never did anything wrong. Myra was perfect, unlike Sansa who only thought she was. Sometimes Arya resented her for it, but deep down, she was always grateful to have someone like her to fall back on when she was in trouble.

Like at the keep. She got the King to stop and saved their wolves. Arya could not figure out how. Sansa said the King was just smart like that, but she didn't believe her. He would not have bothered trying to execute them in the first place.

"Why did the King listen to you?"

Myra tilted her head, confused.

They were sitting on the balcony outside their quarters, taking in the early morning sun. None of the stupid windows shut, so the crack of dawn always managed to wake them up. Not Sansa, though. She would sleep well past midday if Septa Mordane didn't drag her out of bed.

"Back when you saved Lady and Brenna," Arya clarified, picking at a loose string on her breeches. It was easy to get away with wearing them when their septa was not around. Myra never cared much. She wore them herself, but not now; she had on one of those new dresses she had made, the kind not meant for the North, but to make all the young lords take notice.

And they had. Their father had to practically chase them out of the tower. Jory told all the guards not to let anyone in who did not have official business with the Hand of the King. That never stopped Renly Baratheon, though. He did have official business, and then he came right to their quarters and grabbed Myra for a walk.

Sansa called it romantic. Arya had other words for it.

Myra frowned, looking back to the sea. She did that a lot.

"He listened to reason. I just happened to be the one speaking it."

"Father spoke with reason, but the King didn't listen to him, and he's supposed to be his friend."

Had Arya thought to consider more than just her undying curiosity, she would have noticed how tense her sister grew, how her grip on the armrest tightened. She might have even caught the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes.

Instead, she got the warm smile of an older sibling explaining life in a way only they could. "And that was the problem. Sometimes it takes someone who isn't a friend to knock some sense into you."

"The King seems awfully friendly to you."

Myra's hand went to her face. "Arya...look..."

"It's complicated, right?" she jumped from her seat. "That's what everyone likes to say when they don't want to explain anything."

"You know that isn't what I mean."

And deep down, Arya did, but she had committed and her stubborn attitude would never allow for a change of heart, not this early. She thought to head to her room and clean Needle again, not that it was needed. There was nothing for her to stab with it. Well, there was Prince Joffrey, but even her sister would not be able to get her out of that mess.

As she crossed through the common room, a knock came at the door. Moments later, it opened, revealing Jory and some woman. She was dressed plainly, well, as far as the South was concerned, and sported a tan complexion with raven hair.

Arya heard her sister approach from behind. She wondered if Myra still liked Jory. He wasn't Renly Baratheon, but when they were younger, she and Robb had caught her and another lord's daughter in the stables making those eyes at him. They'd followed her around the castle for nearly a week making kissing noises until their mother finally snapped and offered they do the same to the Captain of the Guard.

She missed Robb. And Mother.

"Lady Myra," Jory started with a quick bow of his head. "She is here for you with a message from the Queen."

The woman stepped forward, her lilac dress just skirting the floor. She was slightly taller than Myra, her hair done up in the way the Southern girls liked it to make her look taller still, until she dropped in a curtsy.

"I am Syrena, my lady, your new handmaiden. The Queen requested I join your service as a highborn lady such as yourself should have more than just her septa to rely upon."

She had a thick accent, making her words a little hard to understand. Jory seemed to get it, though. He looked like he was hanging onto each word.

With a raised eyebrow, Myra looked past the woman to him. "That will be all, Jory, thank you."

The Captain's mouth snapped shut briefly. "Yes, my lady. Lady Arya."

He added that last bit with a wink.

Arya stuck her tongue out at him.

She liked Jory.

But not like that.

"Well, Syrena, while I am pleased to meet you," her sister started with a shrug. "I am afraid you have me at a loss. I never had a handmaiden back home. What am I to do with you?"

The handmaiden smiled, teeth bright. "While I may not start your fires or draw a bath for you, I am here to see that it is done. I can accompany you wherever you like, act as a messenger, and help you get dressed."

Arya's lip curled. "People can't get dressed by themselves?"

Myra looked embarrassed but Syrena merely chuckled. "Southern fashion can be very complicated, my lady."

"That's silly. It's just clothes."

"True enough. I myself prefer something simple, but I am not subject to criticism."

"Well, you won't see me in one of those fancy dresses."

Myra rolled her eyes. "She will if you want to attend the tourney."

Arya stuck her tongue out again.

"Is there anything you need help with, my lady?" Syrena asked. "If not, I will see to moving my things to a nearby chamber."

"Actually, I do have one question. One of the dresses I received seems to have a lot of...parts."

Syrena laughed again. "I see, my lady. Shall we decipher its language?"

The two walked away, chatting animatedly about dresses. Arya rolled her eyes and went to her own room, wondering if they'd replace stabbed pillows or just make her sleep on them.

Myra

Syrena, as it turned out, was nothing short of a blessing to the out-of-place Northerner. Beleaguered by the prospect of navigating the intricacies of Southern fashion, propriety, and even gossip, Myra found her new handmaiden was full of useful advice and insight. The important thing to remember, she had said, was to never look defeated; the outcome of a situation was far less important than the impact on the individual. It made no sense to Myra but nothing south of the Neck did.

Her handmaiden was Dornish, having grown up on the Narrow Sea in a family of sailors. How she wound up in King's Landing was 'a sad tale that no one needed to be burdened with.' Nonetheless, Syrena took life in stride with a shining personality even her father had found refreshing, having muttered something about girls and war.

Normally not one to gossip, Myra quickly found herself engaging the handmaiden in it daily, awing and giggling at the latest stories. Nothing terribly damaging, she had her limits, but simple, silly things that seemed far too important to people who clearly had nothing better to do in their lives, such as the matching of colors and particular sleeve cuts. They were things she had laughed about with her brothers and it was the kind of company she missed. Syrena, at least, would not come to her room smelling of sweat and steel.

It was some time later, a few days before her father's tournament, that Myra and Syrena found themselves near the training grounds, and they were not the only ladies who had turned up. The grounds were in the middle of a giant courtyard, surrounded on all four sides by the keep, having openings above for highborn ladies to gaze down upon the knights and whisper about which they had their eyes on.

The grounds were filled with as much the sound of clashing steel as giggles for every time a knight would successfully defeat an opponent. He would turn to the spectators, flourishing his sword and bow grandly. The young ladies would smile and fan themselves. It had repeated several times over the course of an hour or so.

Most of the knights did seem to be in it for the show. Some looked to be testing out their opponents strengths, but for the most part, they appeared to be boasting.

Except for two.

Beneath the alcove they occupied, Ser Jaime Lannister and Ser Arys Oakheart were locked in a rather heated duel. Unlike the grand displays of the other competitors, those two actually seemed out for blood, abandoning all graceful moves in favor of tactical advantage. It produced a far different dance, both brutal and erratic, but also far more appealing than its clearly choreographed counterparts. She had yet to take her eyes off the battle.

Jaime had seemed the sort to never fight unless one meant to draw blood, which made him more Northern than either of them would ever admit, and Ser Arys was no more likely to wind up with one of the spectators than his Kingsguard counterpart, since they were sworn to take no wives. They had no one to impress, only themselves, and the only proper way to train was like they meant it.

The duel very much reminded her of ones she had seen Robb and Jon take part in at home. Usually one had angered the other, so they would sit about all day letting it stew until Maester Luwin had given them leave to go. Then they would storm to the training yard, grab wooden swords, and beat one another senseless until they were bruised and bloody.

Except Jaime and Arys were using real steel, and it was starting to make her nervous.

"Do you fancy one of them, my lady?" Syrena asked, stirring Myra from her thoughts. "You've scarcely taken your eyes off them."

Myra gave a very unladylike snort. "I fancy real sword work."

"Ah, you are not a fan of displays?"

"No. Sansa is. She used to make me read romantic tales of knights and princesses over and over. Frankly, they bored me. I prefer the real ones."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Syrena smile. "You would do well in Dorne."

Arys took a great, arcing swing toward Jaime which, had the Lannister not dodged, would have taken his arm clean off. Instead, he took the opening to slice at Arys' exposed left side. It was a glancing blow, but enough to slice through the leather covering his hip.

And just like that, everything was over. The fighters, breathing hard and dripping in sweat, halted where they were and called it a match. Across the square, spectators applauded, Myra included.

The two dispersed without so much as a look at one another and in no time the strutting began again amongst the other knights.

"Ser Arys fought well, but he was never a match for Jaime."

Myra nearly jumped as the Queen herself appeared by her side. She and Syrena barely got in their curtsies and 'Your Graces' before she continued.

"He's a favorite to win the tourney. If our little brother were here, he'd likely bet all his money on him. As such, my husband has done the opposite."

Despite the subject of King Robert, something Myra thought she would never have brought up willingly, Cersei hardly seemed fazed when she mentioned him. She looked almost reminiscent as she glanced down at the training yard. Jaime looked to be on the verge of drowning himself as he rapidly downed water cups offered to him. He hardly noticed as some squire took his sword away.

She was not certain why the Queen had come under a banner of peace, as it seemed, but she was not about to ruin the comfortable mood by bringing up anything that had transpired between them.

"Is it true, Your Grace," Myra started slowly, "That Ser Jaime does not need to practice?"

Cersei turned back to her, a smile tugging at her lips, though it seemed forced.

She turned to Syrena. "Would you leave us?"

Her handmaiden bowed her head and shuffled off. Myra watched her exited, suddenly feeling utterly defenseless. Their conversation on the Kingsroad had left her shaken, and she had yet to interact with the Queen after countering what had been her order regarding the direwolves. Now whatever peace there may have been between them felt as though it were slipping away between her fingers.

A small part of her began to wonder if the jump would kill her.

"It is about as true as saying he was born with a sword in his hands," Cersei answered, any hostility she may have possessed not yet present. "My brother is many things. Perfect is not one of them."

As if sensing he was being spoken of, Jaime glanced up to their spot. He inclined his head before disappearing back into the keep. Cersei continued to watch the spot, as if willing him to reappear.

Myra missed her twin.

Robb would come inside from practice, curl up in the Great Hall with a book Maester Luwin had recommended, and pretend to read it until she had come down the stairs. Then he would proceed to ask her everything he needed to know. She loved her brother dearly, and he had a great mind for strategy, but history and politics? He may as well have all the tact of a fox left in a chicken coop.

Something told her she and the Queen were similar in that way, the quiet minds to the raging bodies of their brothers, but she would not speak that. It would only add fuel to a fire that she could not hope to know how large it had grown.

"I have come to apologize," Cersei said suddenly. "That affair on the Kingsroad was beneath me, regarding both my husband and your wolves. It was...extreme, but ladies of the court have to fight for every moment. Perhaps it is different in the North."

Myra had the distinct feeling Cersei was not apologizing, at least not by her 'Northern' definition. It was an excuse, crafted in such a way that if any blame were to be found, it would be on differing customs, ignorance, mostly on the part of her. So, in a way, she may have been blaming her for simply not understanding.

Or perhaps the Queen was dreadful at apologies. She certainly seemed the type who did not have to do it often.

This game the Southern lords played, full of masks and hidden intentions, was difficult, and not one she was particularly interested in playing.

"There is no need to apologize, Your Grace. It was a frightful affair, and I am merely glad that it is now behind us."

There was a look in her green eyes, one she could not quite place. Her brothers were easy. They were dreadful liars and even worse at covering emotion, but the Queen was a different beast entirely.

And beast, Myra noted, was beginning to be an apt description.

"Well, perhaps we can begin to assist one another then. I see you have taken to the handmaiden I sent you."

Myra nodded. "Yes, Your Grace, Syrena has been most helpful, especially with adjusting to King's Landing."

"As I can see," Cersei replied, giving her a once over. Her dress was pale blue in color, and far lighter than anything she had packed. She had described it as akin to wearing nothing, resulting in a chuckle from her handmaiden. Her sleeves were, again, cut to the elbow, but it was the change in neckline that had made her hesitant to walk outside the door that morning. Her shoulders were very much exposed, as was much of her chest, the fabric finally pick up its slack when it reached the top of her breasts. She felt terribly exposed and so...pale next to the other girls.

Although a small voice in the back of her mind liked to remind her that the looks young lords gave her were not the worst things she had encountered.

Myra might have blushed on the spot if she did not remember her company.

"You and your sister are well suited to this place," the Queen continued, unaware of her self-scrutiny. "The North has too few eyes, and fewer who would use them."

Compliments were not meant to make one wary, yet Myra felt a chill in the summer heat.

"There are those who would prefer it that way, Your Grace."

Was this the game, she wondered, every sentence said one way but meant as another? What a web it spun in her mind.

"Perhaps," Cersei hummed, pausing. "Would you walk with me? I have something to discuss with you."

"If it is your dear cousin, I do believe she can wait, Your Grace," a voice interrupted, halting Cersei in her tracks. "Lancel Lannister is not someone I would subject any fine lady to."

Her savior came in the form of none other than Renly Baratheon, a smug smile playing on his lips that came from the prestigious position of being the King's brother, and thus being able to make such a comment without consequence.

Or much of one, that was.

Myra might have shriveled and died at the look the Queen was given her good-brother at the moment, but Renly only smiled wider. It must have been a common occurrence.

"Lancel is a fine member of House Lannister," Cersei replied, forcing her face into some form of neutrality. "Any lady of the court would be lucky to have him."

Renly chuckled. "I don't recall either you or my brother saying anything remotely as kind as that before. You sound more like Kevan."

"My uncle is an honest man."

"Your uncle is also his father."

They were at a market, and she was the meat being haggled over. She had known this was often the case for daughters of lords, but feeling it for the first time herself, she felt so small. Is this how her father had spoken to Lord Bolton and the other Northmen? Surely he had been different.

"And tell me, what possible use could you have with her? Your interest in such objects wanes so easily," Cersei replied, sneering at Myra. She appeared satisfied at the paler look that had bloomed on Renly's face, and took her leave, her Kingsguard trailing behind her.

"Well, that should make things interesting later," Renly said as he watched her disappear down the corridor. "Truly, though, you have been spared. If Lancel didn't open his mouth, you'd be quite confused as to which party he belonged to."

Myra said nothing to that. She merely watched Renly, trying to get a read on him. What Cersei said cut deep, so there had to have been some truth to it, though it was so buried under subtle reference that Myra could not begin to guess if she tried.

"What did she mean?" Myra asked, her voice back. She supposed it was too much to ask for a straight answer in this place.

Renly frowned. It looked so strange on him. They had spent a great deal of time together, and his mood had always been jovial. Even if the subject was less than ideal, he always turned it to something better. Only now did it occur to her that this man striving to spend so much of his time with her was still a complete unknown.

"We've all done things in our youth we aren't proud of. Given the age difference between Robert and I, Cersei was around to see most of it."

He moved to the railing, leaning on it to better watch the knights. "She likes to do that, twist mistakes, your very being into something it's not, until she convinces you it was the truth the entire time. And then she has you. That lion's claws aren't easy to escape from."

Myra nodded slowly, seeing some truth to it. "And what of you, Renly?"

The Lord of Storm's End snorted, his humor back. "Only thing I've twisted was my ankle when I tried besting Jaime at the sword. It might be the only truth to their lot, that he is good."

"I thought he was the best?"

With a smile, Renly returned to her side, linking her arm in his. "Remind me to introduce you to the Knight of Flowers."

Renly

"Would you stop fidgeting?"

With a sigh, Renly forced himself to stand still. It wasn't his fault he was not built to stay in one place for hours getting primped and powdered or whatever Lora fancied doing that particular day. He actually had responsibilities, as terrifying as it still sounded to him. He had the Small Council, and matters for Storm's End. Not to mention the silly little scheme he'd been mixed into. And then there was Stannis.

Gods, help him, if he got another letter with the damned Dragonstone sigil, he was going to burn the ravenry.

It was Robert's decision, and a good one at that. No one liked Stannis. Not even Stannis liked Stannis. The people needed someone they could feel comfortable with. Even Eddard Stark smiled once in a while.

"You're doing it again."

Renly looked down to a mop of curled hair kneeling by his hip. Loras was straightening something on his armor, though he could not say what. Names escaped him. He survived by pointing.

"Well, maybe if you'd stop taking your sweet time."

That got him a look. "We need to make sure you're just right for the tourney. Can't have the Lord of Storm's End looking like a slob."

"Don't see what difference it makes. You're going to win anyway."

Something tightened a little too far.

"Flattery isn't going to get you anywhere," Loras replied. Renly thought to add it had gotten him somewhere but Loras' hand was dangerously close to a fragile place. "You have a part to play. Can't woo the Stark girl without some effort."

Renly closed his eyes and sighed. He really wished he's stop letting Loras drag him into these things. Shave him? Fine. Dress him in armor he can hardly move in? Alright. But court Myra Stark?

"Do I really have to go through with this? Myra Stark is a sweet girl, really, but I think there are a few...complications with this arrangement." He ran a gloved hand through Loras' hair. "You, for one."

Now Loras sighed. He stood, done fiddling with whatever strap was down there, and looked him in the eye. They looked quite lovely when he was frustrated.

"You know exactly why we have to do this. Don't pretend to be so daft, Renly."

He rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes, your sister wants a shiny crown, but I don't see why I have to be sacrificed."

"Well, believe it or not, Lord Renly, you're going to need heirs. That requires a wife, and Myra Stark would make a perfectly acceptable one. Not to mention you could use someone who knows what they are doing in the Stormlands."

Renly frowned. "I know what I'm doing."

"But you aren't in the Stormlands, are you? In fact, I can't remember the last time you were there."

Loras had a point, as much as Renly hated to admit it. Though he took his responsibilities seriously, he also liked to avoid them. He had been the third son after all; he had maybe a knighthood or just a drunken livelihood to look forward to in his youth, then Robert had to go and make himself King. To him, it still belonged to Robert, if not their parents. He felt like a child playing at adulthood.

Taking his silence as a weak moment, Loras pounced. "You'd need a son and then you won't have to deal with her again. She'd have all of Storm's End and a sea of people who would adore her; she could do worse. You've seen the way your brother looks at her."

He had. All of King's Landing had. And word had gotten out of what she had done. No one changed Robert's mind, not without a row full of curses and blood, but she had done it. The damn girl's face had his brother under some sort of spell. He thought he was fifteen years younger, the impressive warrior that bested the Last Dragon. It was embarrassing, really. Renly could deal with a drunken Robert, but a love struck boy was another matter entirely.

"It would be merciful on your part, taking her from him, and I know how much you like to play the hero."

Renly snorted. "If you feel so bad for her, marry the girl yourself."

"Unlike you, I'm still the third son," Loras said as he grabbed a goblet. "If you're really not up to the bedding task, we can always have your brother do it and claim the bastard as yours."

Something akin to guilt knotted in the pit of his stomach. "You Tyrells certainly are something else, aren't you?"

Loras paused, and then nodded in understanding. He put down his wine and clasped Renly's shoulders. "Renly, I know this whole affair makes you uncomfortable, but you must think of the bigger picture. Your brother is no king, we both know that, and Cersei...she is poison, all the Lannisters are. The Seven Kingdoms needs someone strong and capable of managing. Margaery has the keenest political eye, aside from our grandmother. If anyone can tame this situation, she can. But if you don't take Myra away, Robert will see her next to him, one way or another. She'd break under a crown, if Cersei does not break her first."

"You're telling me we're doing this for the greater good? Not just so your sister can have a new trinket?"

"Something like that."

Renly sighed, considering his options. Really, he didn't have any, but he liked to pretend a lord still had a choice in the matter.

"Alright, alright, I'll make a grand show of things at the tourney. The court gets a thrill out of those." He tried to move but found his joints painfully constrained in his new armor. "Now help me out of this damn thing."

"With pleasure."