Arya

For days and nights, she had followed them, the men with the strange banners. The first night, she had picked off one of their guards. His bones crushed easily in her teeth. Men were weak creatures beneath their strange metal clothes.

The second night, she had driven their horses away, and feasted on the flesh of one of them. That was what brought the others. Small things, pale imitations of her brothers and sisters. Their alpha caved quickly to her, and so they followed, through the night and day, across fields and rivers, farther than any of them had been, against every instinct in their bodies. They picked the men off, first one by one, then more, until so few remained.

Tonight they would all die.

Tonight their alpha would writhe in her jaws.

She left the pack behind. They too had been wounded and needed to recover. This was for her alone; this was her kill.

Through the undergrowth of the forest she crept, as small as she could make herself. Strange scents surrounded her, different than days past. It put her on edge.

New packs? More men with the strange metal and biting sticks. It made no difference. She would not wait longer. They drew closer and closer to home. If he returned to his home of stone, there would be no vengeance, and that was all that mattered now.

She continued on her journey to their camp, smaller than it had been before, but there were no voices, no fire burned. There was only the scent of blood and death. She walked gently amongst the bodies, and made certain each had passed on, before continuing.

The alpha was not there.

In the distance, there was light. The wind shifted, bringing the new scents with it. Whatever had come was what had killed the men. She heard their voices, deep things, worn things.

Through the trees, she continued closer to the light. Old parts of her said to run, return to the pack, to safety, but she pushed against them. The alpha was close...so close.

Humans were gathered in a circle, staring at something above, hanging limply from a branch.

A body.

The alpha was dead.

Her kill had been taken.

She growled in anger.

The humans turned. A name flashed in her mind, a name from a different place.

Jory.

The man shouted and stopped the others from attacking. But one walked forward. It was different than the others. It stank of death and foul things, things that were not right, that did not belong there. It had wounds that kill creatures of its like, yet it walked with the living. It was wrong.

But the eyes...the eyes...

Mother...

Arya bolted upright in her bedroll, panting heavily and sweating despite the cold night air. Gendry looked over at her from the fire, having taken watch. The Hound snored somewhere in the distance.

"She's alive," Arya breathed. "My mother is alive."

"Your mother is dead, girl," the Hound grunted for the fourth or fifth time that morning.

"No, she isn't!" Arya shouted, stalking after him. They had traded the forests by the river for rolling hills some days ago, and spent hours at a time trekking across wide fields of grass. Game was harder to come by, and they were all a little hungrier and angrier for it.

"Because your bloody dreams told you?" the man scoffed, gripping his hilt and picking up his pace as if he could leave her behind. "I dream of killing my brother every night, doesn't make him any less alive."

"It wasn't a dream! Nymeria saw it, and so did I!"

The Hound stopped so suddenly, Arya nearly ran into him. He turned and looked straight down at her.

"Are you telling me you're a bloody skinchanger? Is that it?" he asked, and Arya – so stunned by the suddenness of it – found herself unable to answer. "Life isn't a bloody story your septa told you, girl. Thought you'd learned that by now. Walder Frey cut your mother to ribbons. She's dead."

He turned away again, the finality in his tone warning that her next outburst would end with a fist to her face; he'd already warned once about having no issues carrying her unconscious.

Arya sighed, and turned to Gendry, who had been listening quietly all the while. He looked nervous when her gaze landed on him, like he wasn't ready to answer anything she was about to say.

"You believe me, don't you?"

Gendry sighed, scratching the back of his head. His hair was getting too long for him. "I believe that you think it's real, whatever you saw, but people don't come back from the dead."

"Beric Dondarrion did."

"And do you think that's right? Do you think he should have?" Gendry asked, looking paler as he thought back to the night they witnessed the impossible. "What did you mother look like in your dream...in...whatever it was you had?"

Arya thought on it long and hard. The idea was still new to her, being able to see through Nymeria's eyes. She had done it before, but had never thought much on it, only that it seemed like a wonderful coincidence, but late at night, when she was nearly asleep and fully relaxed, she felt as though she could simply shed her skin like an old set of clothes and put on a new ones, only in the form of her direwolf.

The images and other senses were so clear when she was in them, but her memory of the moments grew foggy over time, more so than her human memories. Still, what she saw last night was etched in her mind's eye forever.

"She was pale, cold, not like herself," she replied, closing her eyes to remember. "There was a deep gash in her throat."

Gendry nodded slowly. "Look, I'm not going to question you, I know better than that. We've seen strange things, and you of all people would be able to do something like...whatever that is. But do you really think your mother should live like that? That doesn't sound like a good life."

"What does it matter? She's alive."

"I wouldn't want to live that way. I'd rather die," Gendry countered, following the Hound. "And I'd hope that anyone who might care for me would realize that."

Arya sighed, turning in the direction she knew Nymeria to be. She'd never make it on her own; she knew that much.

"Not today," she mumbled, turning to follow her companions.

Myra

The day Myra Stark returned to King's Landing was much like the day she left it: bright and clear and filled with the promise of something that would never come to be. She had known then that things would go awry, but she could have never predicted how rapidly or violently. Who expects to lose everything in the blink of an eye?

She did now.

Watching that vile city in the foreground, its beautiful façade cracked and rotting in her eyes, Myra could feel a fear building inside of her that had been notably absent the first time she arrived. It nestled beneath her heart, a sensation prodding her now and again, warning her. One wrong move, one word out of place, and she would lose everything that was left. Her men, her sister...

Her husband.

Myra looked over at Jaime. He was to her right, seated on a horse as she was, watching the city before them as she had. Normally, she had some idea as to what he was thinking of, but she found herself curiously at a loss as she watched him take in the view. His eyes were narrowed, jaw clenched, and his grip on the reins was white-knuckled. Perhaps he, too, was thinking of the potential outcome. He knew better than she the reactions that awaited them from those within.

But they also hadn't spoken much of what had happened after they had been separated. They were so focused on the future that the past had gone mostly ignored. Now, Myra found herself wondering what had happened to Jaime when he finally returned to King's Landing. It could not have been anything good, given his state in Dorne. How he'd clung to her when she'd shown him the barest kindness. His reunion had not been near as warm as hers had been.

A part of her could not help but wonder where she would be now if it had been.

But there was already so much to worry over. Lingering on the 'what ifs' would do her no good.

When she touched his arm, Jaime actually jumped.

She smiled softly. "It's going to be alright."

His smile was forced, and brief. "You're a Stark returning to King's Landing. Why are you the confident one?"

It was a façade for his sake, but she didn't have the heart to tell him that.

"Well, I'm a Lannister now," she replied, straightening in her saddle. "I thought confidence was one of our trademarks."

The name still felt strange rolling off her tongue. He'd caught her quietly practicing and wouldn't stop laughing all evening.

There was a genuine softness in his eyes when he looked at her. Despite his teasing, it truly meant something to him, her having his name, accepting it. They were no longer the Stark and the Lannister; they were on the same side, in a way. The thought helped, at least a little.

"First lesson, my dear good-sister," Tyrion called from behind, riding up beside them. He had an equally displeased look set upon his face, although she believed that had more to do with the creature he rode rather than the view before them. "Our confidence is an utter sham."

Jaime almost smiled again. "Don't try to reveal all our secrets just yet. You might scare my wife away."

Myra wondered when hearing that word would stop making her heart flutter.

She hoped never.

Now she truly did feel like one of Sansa's songs, although they weren't quite her songs anymore. Nothing she knew her little sister for was the same, and she found herself in unfamiliar waters like she had been with Robb. Had she been as different to them? Or did they find her the same, and somehow that made her lacking?

"Would that be such a bad idea?" Tyrion asked, ignoring her internal scrutiny. He'd dropped hints of it throughout the voyage, running away to this island or that, but they had never taken the bait.

"Yes," Jaime countered.

"They're all bad ideas," Myra added.

Tyrion sighed. "Then why does it feel like we chose the worst one?"

They might have stood there all day, staring at the inevitable, had Tyrion's man, Bronn, not said something. It was quick and insulting and left Brienne glaring at the former sellsword as if she could skewer him with her gaze alone. Podrick and Olyvar watched on silently, knowing better.

Myra cast one last glance at the sight of their destination. Somewhere below them, riding the warm winds from the south, were the Dornish ships. Sansa was still with them, hoping to seek refuge in the city while she dealt with the Red Keep. Part of her was grateful, a part fearful. Her sister would be so close to her, but they would never be able to see one another. They may as well have been continents apart.

But Prince Oberyn had given his word that her sister would be safe. She had no reason to doubt him, given all he and his family had done for her thus far. Myra could see he felt protective of her sister, and knew he was more capable than she when it came to looking out for her.

Princess Myrcella was there as well. Myra hadn't been aware she was going to accompany them back to King's Landing – given the state of things, it seemed dangerous to let their one pawn escape – but it seemed Prince Doran was about as capable of withstanding Myrcella's charming ways as everyone else, which was to say not at all. She seemed genuinely excited to be returning home – with Trystane at her side of course – and would have been perhaps more excited for another wedding, had she been invited.

As it was, that was how Myra found out Myrcella was even with them: when she stepped out on the deck of the ship the next morning to find the girl berating Jaime over his secrecy. The entire affair had tickled her, and she sat back and watched the verbal destruction with a smile on her face.

It was then that she could see it: Myrcella's similarity to Jaime. Of course, she had Cersei's beauty, but the little things, those were his. The way her brow furrowed, the tense line in her jaw as she listened to his terrible excuses, but more than anything, her personality that Myra came to know over their journey more than confirmed it. There was a warmth and tenderness to her that Cersei did not possess, but Jaime did, hidden away beneath the layers of callousness and pride that he had used to protect himself.

Myrcella was more Jaime's daughter than Cersei's, and she wondered if he was aware.

Or had he trained himself to never regard her as such?

"Myrcella seemed disappointed to not be accompanying us," Myra noted as they turned away, the seven of them – and Grey Wind – journeying slowly down the hillside toward the city. They had no guards, and they all seemed to prefer it that way.

Jaime sighed. "I didn't want her to be there in case anything happened; I thought to spare her from that much."

"And yet you thought to drag me into it," Tyrion interjected. "I was perfectly content on the ship. There wasn't a horse around for leagues."

Myra smiled briefly, appreciative of his attempted humor. It kept the air lighter, though it still threatened to choke each one of them.

When they got too close for comfort, Myra dismounted and bade her companion farewell. Grey Wind whined as he nuzzled her face, clearly distressed at the idea of leaving her. She felt much the same, holding the last remnant of her brother in her arms, but they would kill him in the city, and even if by some miracle they did not, a direwolf did not belong in such a place. Dorne had nearly killed him; King's Landing would most certainly be his end.

"Go find the others," she whispered to him. "Go home. I'll find you again."

With one last whine, the direwolf took off into the woods, his slim form disappearing into the underbrush almost immediately.

He would be fine, she told herself. He had to be.

"You know, I just don't get it," Bronn had commented, prompting Brienne to actually kick his leg.

They entered the city through the River Gate, and were given a spectacular image of the damage inflicted by Stannis Baratheon's campaign. The gates themselves were smashed and splintered from battering rams during the siege, and did not appear to be in any state of repair. It seemed the capital did not expect any other enemies to attack from the bay, and Myra supposed they may have been right. House Stark didn't have ships, and House Manderly's were mostly dedicated to trade, their one war galley better suited to scaring off pirates than actual combat. The ships from the Riverlands were uselessly stuck inland, and House Greyjoy was on the other side of the continent.

Still their confidence in their safety was overly done. Had House Tyrell not decided to join the fray, King's Landing may have been hosting a different banner.

And she would be nowhere near this wretched place.

"Why haven't the gates undergone repair?" Brienne asked behind her, voicing her concerns aloud.

Tyrion could only shrug. "No one wants to be the man who siphoned money away from the royal wedding, least of all me."

"Aren't you the Master of Coin?"

"Master of Debt, really," Bronn replied.

"Ser Bronn, as always, your input is overappreciated," Tyrion droned. "So, if you could abstain from using it in future, I would be most grateful."

No one paid them much mind as they entered. Some people glanced their way before going about their lives. The city was brimming with soldiers and highborns in anticipation of the wedding. They were just more of the same, not left to rot in the lean-tos along the walls.

Was the foul scent new to the city, or had her nose been just as ignorant in the beginning?

They made it perhaps two blocks before their path was blocked. At least thirty armed men stood in their path, gold cloaks of the City's Watch blowing gently in the breeze. Myra felt her breath seize as she took in the sight, though she willed down her fear. They would get nothing from her.

Jaime nudged his steed just in front of her, attempting to block her from view, although she had the distinct feeling that they were actually surrounded. This was why he had chosen to ride into the city rather than take the ships all the way to port. He did not like the idea of being isolated on foot with the water to their backs. If worse came to worse, he wanted the chance to flee.

She watched his shoulders relax slightly as a single rider approached them, his helm tucked beneath his arm. His face was distinguished, as was the long, copper hair framing it. His body was relaxed, calm, and there was an air of familiarity about him.

"Ser Addam," Jaime breathed, sounding relieved. "I don't suppose you're here to arrest us?"

The man brought his horse to a halt just before Jaime, shaking his head slowly. "My orders are to escort you safely to the Red Keep...and directly to the Great Hall."

His dark eyes flicked to hers briefly, before returning to Jaime.

"The king wishes to introduce his aunt to the court."

For some reason, it had not occurred to Myra that Joffrey was technically her nephew by marriage – she refused to think of the closer implication – and the thought made her stomach twist sharply.

Jaime sighed, picking at the mane of his horse. "I suppose that was to be expected. We should have come at night."

Tyrion snorted. "He'd have left us outside the gates in order to parade us through the city come sunrise."

Ser Addam nodded slowly. "I can't say Lord Tyrion is wrong in that regard. The king is certainly...excited by this turn of events."

"And our father?"

The knight's marked silence was enough to send a chill through her spine. Both Lannisters sat straighter in their saddles, and Myra became aware of Brienne inching closer to her.

This was it, she realized. The precipice. Her next step would be the first in the game. She could see the board stretching out before her, dark and never ending. She hoped it would not remain that way, but was not about to give herself that kind of hope, not yet.

"Then we mustn't keep him waiting," she spoke, drawing their attention to her. "I'm certain Ser Addam has other matters he wishes to attend to as well."

The man nodded once in acknowledgement, turning his horse about to lead them onward. With a swift hand gesture, the City's Watch moved forward, flanking them on both sides. Funny how it made her feel far less safe than before.

Their journey across the city was slow, and not because they were purposely hindered. The streets were teeming with soldiers, Lannister, Tyrell, and all the vassals between them. Though men shouted to make way, it was difficult for most to find the space, and left people uncomfortably pinned against one another at times. They rode single file down certain streets.

"Ser Addam is an old friend of Jaime's," Tyrion told her when they were able to ride two abreast. Jaime rode ahead of them, talking to the commander. "I was hoping Father would send him. He is a good man, and unlikely to seek harm to you."

"Jaime has friends?" she asked, unable to contain the terrible jest. She desperately needed it.

Tyrion genuinely laughed, garnering his brother's attention. "My lady, whatever happens today, at least know that I like you."

Her reply was cut off by a sea of shouts.

Ahead of them, a group of civilians had gathered, their chorus so loud and cluttered, she couldn't make out what they were actually saying.

The City's Watch moved forward swiftly, pushing the people against the buildings to clear the road again, although the group seemed to grow denser as the road drew on.

Jaime rode back to her as Ser Addam drew his sword. Brienne already had hers in hand, as did Podrick and Olyvar. Bronn had not armed himself yet, but his hand rested on a knife at his side.

"Get ready to leave," Jaime hissed. She didn't miss how he reached for his sword with the wrong hand.

"Get back!" Ser Addam shouted ahead. "Make way for the City's Watch!"

That only seemed to make the shouts grow, and only then could she begin to make out the words.

"Lady Myra!" they shouted.

"Lady Myra! Ser Jaime!"

"The Lion and the Wolf!"

The realization seemed to dawn on the group all at once. Swords began to lower slowly as faces awkwardly turned to look at one another.

One woman broke through the crowd and ran to her side, handing up a small, white flower before the guards dragged her back. Myra stared at the small thing in her hand, shocked, confused, and, dare she say, flattered?

"Tyrion, what's going on?" Jaime asked as they began to move forward again, the shouts increasing as they slowly pressed through the crowds. Ser Addam no longer had his sword in hand, but still shouted as they rode along. There were flower petals caught in his hair.

His brother cleared his throat. "I may have written Varys about the circumstances and asked for a small favor. It seems he was successful."

Successful was certainly a word for it. It took them nearly an hour to reach the Red Keep, after stopping several times due to completely impassable crowds. She'd been deafened by the cheers, her ears buzzing slightly as they finally reached the outer courtyard, safely shut behind the gates. The entire party had to take a moment to remove petals and flowers from themselves and their gear.

It was certainly not how Myra expected to return to King's Landing, and she felt her mind wandering for a moment, wondering if she hadn't strayed into a dream. Surely she was still on the ship...

Her thoughts scattered as a hand gently rested on hers. Jaime was watching her. He didn't say anything, and he didn't have to. All his concerns were evident in his eyes. She nodded slowly, and dismounted her horse.

Even after all this time, she still remembered the Red Keep. She remembered the color of its bricks and the strange nature of its open windows; she remembered which halls led where and if she closed her eyes, Myra knew she could find her way back to the Tower of the Hand with ease.

Servants bustled by and small groups conversed as Ser Addam led them through the keep. Nothing had changed, she realized. Her life had been torn apart, half the country decimated, this very city nearly brought to ruin, and yet the Red Keep felt as it had they day she left it.

We are in a dangerous place, Myra. Far more dangerous than any of us realized...

Her father's words echoed loudly here, the last place she saw him alive. If he were to haunt her in these halls, it would be one of the few good things this horrid city had given her.

Another of those walked beside her, hand firmly gripping his sword hilt.

The doors to the Great Hall were closed, but Myra could feel the presence of everyone on the other side. She could feel their gazes, so focused on the doors that they might have melted at any moment. She was here now: the curiosity, the Stark turned Lannister, the thing they expected least from this war. How they wanted to see her, talk about her, how they wanted her to appear as the freak their gossip predicted.

How she would prove them wrong.

The fear was gone, replaced by anger. She steeled herself, as she had many times in the past. Gone was the girl who dreamed of happiness and kindness, in her place was the woman who had killed to survive, the woman who had defied kings, who knew what she had to do, and the price she was willing to pay.

She would not be their pawn.

Myra removed her cloak, handing it to Olyvar. Beneath were traveling clothes, leather breeches under a roughhewn gray dress. It wasn't in poor condition given she had only worn it that day, but it was also hardly presentable attire for court. Yet, she felt more confident wearing it than anything else. Less exposed perhaps.

"My lady, I should accompany you inside," Brienne spoke, eying the guards that watched her. They had forbidden her and the others entry, only the Lannisters were allowed in, but no one would dare speak up if Myra invited her.

"No," Myra replied, as gently as possible. "Whatever happens inside, you cannot protect me from. But I can protect you."

Brienne looked ready to object, but then nodded slowly, accepting.

Myra stood before the doors with Jaime. She watched him stare at them, as if he could see through to the other side. If so, he didn't like what was before them.

She took his hand in hers.

He looked at her.

She looked at him.

And the doors opened.

Their hands released, and they walked forward together, as husband and wife, as equals, both scrutinized by the lords and ladies to their left and right. But Myra was no fool when it came to this – on this front she never had been. The blame and the hatred and the cruel mockery would land on her shoulders more than his. He was the son of Tywin Lannister, set to inherit one of the strongest positions in all of Westeros. She was no one, not anymore, daughter and sister to traitors, and, of course, a woman.

But she could handle that.

The stares that began to bore into her soul as she stepped forward slowly, the silence that enveloped and choked the room because no one dared to speak, the judgment, the shame, the plotting, she could handle those. These nameless highborns were nothing to her; the real threat was ahead.

Joffrey sat upon the Iron Throne, his crown crooked, his smile malicious. An angry little boy was the king, and his sights were set upon her.

Her memories of him were scarce, the clearest being the night they had to chase off their wolves. She'd seen him as little more than a spoiled brat then, frustrating, embarrassing, but hardly dangerous. How wrong she had been.

Beside him stood Lord Tywin. Few men lived up to the reputations they had gained, but one look at the Great Lion told Myra that every story was true. He towered over the room, and even the supernatural nature of the throne was dwarfed beside him. People had always spoken of the true power of Westeros lying in his hands, and she believed it.

He was frowning, but calm, whatever anger he surely felt safely secured behind stoic walls. His daughter, however, was not the same.

Cersei sat in a small seat some feet from the throne, a position of honor, but still tucked away. Her gaze would have melted Myra on the spot when she had first come to King's Landing, but now she found the ire in it encouraging, the way her hands shook as they gripped the chair exhilarating. Invisible hands gripped the fury that possessed Jaime's twin and held it close to her. She clung to it and relished it, but could not quite say why.

And she did not care.

They stopped at a respectful distance from the throne. Jaime bowed stiffly, while Myra curtsied, her knees creaking as she forced them to bend. Had anything ever felt so painful before?

For a while, nothing happened, though she was vaguely aware of Tyrion's form sneaking past the crowd. Joffrey stared and Tywin watched and Cersei glared, and the room remained silent as House Lannister's familial drama was dragged out into the open.

"These are strange times," Joffrey called out, making certain that the entire court heard him. Myra could hear the distant shuffle of clothing as the people leaned as close as they dared. No one wished to miss a moment. "Not two moons ago, my uncle, Ser Jaime, was the commander of the Kingsguard, sworn to a lifetime of service, and now here he stands, free from those vows, and already sworn to another."

Joffrey turned to look at her. She supposed he thought himself intimidating. Perhaps he was to others, for his stare bordered on some form of insanity, but it elicited no reaction from her. She had feared livestock more than the boy king who sat before her.

"That is, if the rumors are true," he continued, turning back to Jaime. "You did marry Lady Myra Stark, did you not?"

"I did," Jaime replied without hesitation. A murmur shot through the crowd. Cersei sat straighter in her chair.

"Myra Stark, the daughter of the traitor Ned Stark, who confessed to murdering my father and our king, Robert Baratheon. The sister of the traitor Robb Stark who claimed to be a king and rode in open rebellion to the crown. The woman who her men call the Queen in the North, that is who you married, Uncle?"

Jaime took a breath, and she could hear the wheels turning in his mind, thinking of a way to confirm without insult, though she would never hold it against him. "Myra Stark is my wife, yes."

"You married the little whore who tempted Robert for a crown," Cersei spat.

The murmurs grew louder.

Myra's gaze flicked to the queen mother, out of surprise rather than insult. She hadn't expected Cersei to speak so openly in court, but it appeared her emotions were getting the better of her. The anger was twisting her face into something vile, her true nature escaping for all to see. She was embarrassing herself, and her house.

"I'd know a whore if I saw one, Your Grace," Jaime replied, looking pointedly at Cersei.

Someone gasped.

Cersei's eyes widened, comically so, but whatever tart response she might have given was nipped in the bud as Tywin took a single, resounding step down from the dais. His footfall seemed to echo, and the chamber fell silent.

His gaze flicked to his left, and a frail man appeared from the wings, his heavy chains chiming against one another. She had seen Grand Maester Pycelle once or twice, but never spoke to him. Jaime had told her the lecherous old man was firmly in the pocket of the Lannisters.

"The crown acknowledges that a marriage occurred, but it does not acknowledge neither the so-called independence of the regions of the North and the Riverlands nor the title of queen bestowed upon Mrya Stark. A vow of matrimony does not clear these traitorous actions, nor should it," the man spoke, looking at her with a glint in his eye, gleeful perhaps. It seemed no one wished to hide their vile natures any longer. "Your Grace, it is the council's recommendation that punishment not be overlooked despite Ser Jaime's best efforts to...avoid the inevitable."

Jaime stiffened beside her, and seemed ready to do something incredibly rash, but Myra moved, as subtly as she could in the circumstances, brushing his arm gently with hers. It seemed to be enough, her husband calming once more.

Joffrey nodded, playing the unbelievable role of a king who actually listened. "Thank you, Grand Maester, for your wise counsel. It would be wrong of me to not consider punishment for these crimes, given the state the realm lies in because of them."

"Your Grace," Myra called out, her voice strong and unwavering. She could hear it echo across the room, and felt the attention of every man and woman turn to her. "If this is to be a trial, is the accused not allowed to speak?"

The young king watched her, his mask cracking slightly, insulted that she dare speak at him in such a tone, but he quickly mended it, gesturing nonchalantly. "By all means, share your explanations to the court."

Myra took a breath.

Father, Mother, Robb...forgive me.

"I was not privy to my father's plans regarding King Robert, Your Grace," she said slowly, the bile rising in her throat as she tarnished her father's memory. "As you may recall, I was not present in King's Landing at the time of the murder."

"No, you weren't," Joffrey acknowledged. "You were on Dragonstone with my traitorous uncle."

"It is a daughter's place to obey, and where my father commanded me, I went," Myra replied, watching the green of his eyes carefully. "I was also there when my brother was declared king; I took no part in the decision to betray the crown."

"And yet, you declared your brother king before Stannis and his advisors," a soft voice spoke to her right. Varys, the Spider, stood with the rest of the council, hands tucked neatly into his robes. "Surely you could have chosen otherwise."

A knot formed in her chest as she stared at the bald man. She had heard he knew things that should not have been possible, that he had so-called 'little birds' in every corner of the world. Of course, he would have heard something from even the isolated place that was Dragonstone.

Now Jaime's arm brushed against hers.

"Lord Stannis asked me to choose between himself and my brother, and I answered accordingly," Myra said, gaze returning to Joffrey. "It seems His Grace was not even considered by his uncle."

Joffrey grimaced, fingers drumming on one of the sword hilts that formed the arm rests of the throne. "Stannis' pride got the better of him. It was why his forces were crushed at the walls of King's Landing and his fleet destroyed."

The crowd murmured its assent.

"It was why your brother fared the same."

Her fingers twitched.

Myra...

"It is, Your Grace," she replied, fighting the bile in the back of her throat. "My brother's forces were scattered, his men were tired, and yet it was his wish to take Casterly Rock."

She paused as laughter rose and died down behind her.

"It was his wish to do the impossible and many had their doubts. They were already beginning to lose faith after Ser Jaime escaped...after I released him."

There were gasps. It was not common knowledge then. Good.

Joffrey sat up in the throne, suddenly more interested, and she could not quite tell if it was a ruse.

"You are the one who released my uncle? We were told it was another."

"The Lady Brienne took the blame for my actions under my mother's guidance. It was her wish to not lose any more of her children to the war," Mrya explained, feeling her stomach twist and turn more. She would be sick before the day was through. "But I was the one who freed him when my brother would not listen to me regarding his execution. My brother often would not listen to my council, and we disagreed on most matters."

"And on the matter of the North's treason, did you agree?"

Myra took a breath. "Had I been in my brother's place, I would not have betrayed the crown."

It was a bold-faced lie that was not meant to fool anyone; it was just another piece in the never-ending game. All of it was. This entire court affair was nothing more than that, and she knew it, just as the others did. To sentence her with anything other than freedom would have led Jaime to act, and they both knew Lord Tywin would never allow that. It was all a gamble that had played out long before they entered the room.

Joffrey was silent a moment, considering, then he stood from the throne and took a step forward. "Lady Myra has spoken her part, and my advisors theirs, and while it pains me to go against their counsel, in the end it is the king's decision alone. It would be unwise to punish Myra Stark for the actions of her household, given what little involvement she had. The gods would not agree with it either. After all, she is my aunt."

He paused for the forced laughter.

"Mercy upon one's enemies is sometimes the best course of action," he continued, speaking like he was the fairest king to grace the land. "Relinquish your titles and declare me the true king, and I shall consider your past no more."

Falling to her knees was easy. The weight of her betrayal to the North, to her men, to her family's memory, weighed her down so much, it was a surprise she did not crack the floor. It was the only way to save what she had left, and yet she felt hollow inside. There was no hope, there was no love, there was only the knowledge of everything needed to keep them alive, regardless of their perception of her.

Together and complete, but what remained of their lives fell to pieces.

"I reject all titles given to me by the traitors from the North," she droned, her mind elsewhere as the words passed her lips. "I reject the crown wrongfully bestowed upon my brother, and any claim to the lands he seized. My loyalty belongs to Joffrey Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm."

She remained there on the floor, staring at a crack in the marble, awaiting Joffrey's approval. The silence grew and time passed slowly, but the king did not speak.

So she waited.

Feet began to shuffle.

Someone coughed.

Armor clinked.

Yet she remained.

"Uncle Jaime!" Joffrey shouted, snapping the room from its reverie. It took every ounce of strength for Myra to not raise her head. She had not been pardoned and would not move until then. "It occurs to me that I have received no vows from you. You were...away when I was declared the king, and had not been given opportunity to do so when you returned. All the other lords and ladies of the land have declared their allegiance to me, my grandfather, Lord Tywin, included. It would only be fair that you...do the same."

The way he spoke those final words had a sinister quality that Myra could not help but be chilled by. How calm he was in threatening his own family. She suspected he would not have thought twice about executing him were he given free reign.

"As it pleases, Your Grace," Jaime replied in an even tone, though she could pick out the wariness in it. This was not planned for, and yet perhaps they should have expected it all the same.

Jaime knelt beside Myra, and her eyes turned to him as much as they dared. He was nervous.

"I, Ser Jaime, of the House Lannister, swear fealty to you, Joffrey Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. Long may you reign."

He practically spat those words out.

As with her, Joffrey sat in silence, and allowed the court to begin to tremble in anticipation. Jaime and Myra were left kneeling on the floor, staring and waiting, isolated, shamed, small. Everyone who stood was better than them; everyone who stood was above them.

She had to close her fist to keep from reaching out to Jaime.

"I accept your fealty," Joffrey spoke, satisfaction in every syllable. "Stand, Ser Jaime, Lady Myra."

Jaime offered his hand and helped Myra off the floor, to the applause of the entire room. Her legs began to pulse from the time spent on her knees and she felt unsteady, but did not break her concentration on Joffrey. His grin was impish nonetheless.

She did not hear when he dismissed the court, but the room filled when people began to exit soon after. Though there had been many curious eyes, none of the lords and ladies swarmed them, clearly afraid that whatever they had done would rub off, like children at play. But they continued to stare and speak more openly. Myra ignored them, her hand firmly in Jaime's still as the world around them began to buzz.

Only now did she notice how the chamber had changed. Gone were the leafy vines that climbed the columns to her left and right, replaced by pyres, the flames licking the stone and darkening them. She briefly wondered if the Mad King had once had them this way, only with wildfire to greet those who entered.

Perhaps things never truly changed after all.

Cersei, she noted, had disappeared.

Jaime said nothing the whole time, only squeezed her hand further. His grip trembled.

Tywin approached them from the dais, the people disbanding in his immediate path. His eyes seemed like fire to her, and she realized that even he was beginning to have difficulty containing his anger at the chaos they had caused.

"With me," he said to Jaime, the bite in his voice jarring. "Now."

Though Jaime released her hand, Myra still thought to follow him, until another hand grabbed her.

"That is a battle for him alone," Tyrion said, standing by her side. "He'll be fine. He always is."

How she wanted to believe him.

Jaime

Anger. That was all he felt.

It buzzed in his ears and coursed through his veins. It made his breath short and his strides long and heavy. The only thing that kept him from unleashing that anger in the throne room was the knowledge that it would be of no help to them, and would only work to make he and Myra the objects of attention once more, which was something neither of them needed right now.

It was also that knowledge that kept him quiet as he entered the Chamber of the Hand with his father.

How silent Tywin had been during that farce. He'd allowed Joffrey to parade them around like prize cattle. All his claims of saving face for their household meant nothing in that moment. It had satisfied him in some way, he knew it, and suddenly it wasn't quite as difficult to figure out where Joffrey had gotten his miserable nature from.

"Sit," was all Tywin said as he sat at his desk and immediately grabbed a piece of parchment.

No.

Jaime slammed his hand down on the paper. "If you are going to say something, you will look at me."

His father sighed, dealing with a child rather than a man, and slowly looked up. "Satisfied?"

He felt his jaw twitch as it clenched and backed off, choosing to pace around the room rather than obey his father's command. He needed to hit something, someone; he needed his sword hand back.

"Lannisters don't act like fools," Jaime spoke, echoing his father's constant words to him. "All my life, you have told me that, and yet you stood by and allowed Joffrey to make a mockery of the court. He didn't have to do any of this. You could have told him to leave it be, and he would have."

"Joffrey wanted to behead Myra Stark and display her head in the Sept of Baelor," Tywin said calmly, wiping his hand over the paper. He did not pick up his quill. "He wanted to make you climb those steps seven times a day for the seven gods in order to kiss her dead lips, preferably while being whipped."

Jaime paused in his pacing and watched his father, seeing his eyes still focused on him.

"Making you sit in the Great Hall like the squirming little boy that you are was the most merciful thing that could have happened to you, and yet you still complain," Tywin continued. "You marry a traitor, bring shame and embarrassment upon the family name, and expect your return to reflect nothing of what you have done. I would have thought losing your hand would bring some semblance of common sense to you, but clearly that opportunity departed long ago."

Silenced, and rather embarrassed, Jaime found himself finally sitting across from this father. Last time they were in this position, he had still been in the Kingsguard, yet it felt as though his father still held all the power.

He let the quiet linger, allowing his anger to cool, as Tywin finally returned to writing.

"Joffrey is a monster," he spoke eventually, more of an admittance to himself than an actual piece of conversation.

"Yes, he is," Tywin replied.

Jaime took a breath, attempting to decipher the words his father was writing. "What happens now?"

"Now, we begin to correct your mistakes."

He felt his blood run cold.

"Myra Stark will be restricted to her room. She will be guarded at all times, and will not be allowed visitors. When the royal wedding is concluded and the focus of the realm elsewhere, you will return to Casterly Rock. Your vows will be set aside, and you will find a wife of a more suitable nature."

The buzzing in his ears returned, but the anger did not. No, it had become a rage, so fierce and strong, that for a moment, Jaime could not move or even react to his father's outrageous words. He sat there, still as stone, on the edge of something that even Tywin Lannister would not be able to overcome.

"Should a child come from this sham of a marriage, it will be a bastard. You will be allowed to claim it and give it the name Hill. Myra Stark will be returned to the North where she will marry Roose Bolton's bastard and solidify their claim on Winterfell."

"No."

One word. It was all he could utter through gritted teeth. His vision was beginning to pulse as the words sank in. The idea of tossing her away as if she were nothing, of making her marry those behind her family's death...

Of taking away her, no their child...

No.

"No?" Tywin echoed, as if every act of defiance was new to him. All his life, his children fought him, and all his life he still somehow expected obedience. "Myra Stark has far too much sway over you. If you believe I am going to allow a traitor to have any sort of claim to Casterly Rock-"

Jaime slammed his fist on the desk. "I don't give a damn what you think!"

He stood again; he had to. If he didn't move, the rage was going to overwhelm him until he passed out. He needed an outlet, and short of punching his father, pacing was it.

"You knew," his hissed, marching back and forth over the small space. "The instant I threw that white cloak on your desk, you knew it would come to this. You're Tywin Lannister, after all, you know everything, yet you let me walk away. You wanted your precious legacy intact and that was all that mattered, and now that you have graciously allowed my wife to live, you think that I'll bend to your whims, but I never have. We never have, and somehow you've made yourself blind to it all."

Jaime threw himself at the desk suddenly, balancing on his only good arm. "Your legacy continues only through Myra Stark. I'll marry no one else; I'll send myself to the Night's Watch if I have to, and give the Rock to Tyrion."

Tywin stared at him for a long time, as if he truly stood a chance of winning this battle of wills, but there would be no victory for the Lion this time.

"You'll allow this girl to lead you around by the cock and ruin what this house has built."

"This woman is a better chance for House Lannister than any of the meek sheep you want me to make Lady of Casterly Rock. I trust her."

"And since when have your decisions been trustworthy?"

"Since I killed Aerys Targaryen!"

He'd gone too far. That was not a conversation he wanted to have, not now, not here, not with him. It was always something Tywin acknowledged as having to happen, but not in the way that it did. He didn't know the truth, and if he were honest, he never wanted to tell him. That was a judgment he could do without.

Despite whatever curiosity his father undoubtedly had, Tywin only sighed, blinking slowly. He suddenly appeared very old to him.

"Leave," he spat. "Go back to your wife."

Jaime didn't want to leave his father with the last word, and yet he could not think of anything else to say. He supposed it would not matter. This was not a conversation that would end so quickly or in one sitting.

He stalked loudly through the halls, not caring who saw him or how he looked when they did. It was a far cry from the last time he had been in the Red Keep. While he had tried to keep up the air of confidence he once possessed, it was woefully obvious that he failed at it. He'd gone quietly through the corridors, avoiding the busiest areas, keeping his arm carefully hidden as he navigated away from the few people he did see. Now his damned hand was the least of his concerns.

Tyrion would have taken Myra with him – he knew his brother that well at least – so he turned to make his way to his brother's chambers, only to find his path blocked. Cersei was walking his way, flanked by four Lannister guards, the visors of their helms down to obscure his view of their faces.

Her face in the Great Hall had been one of the few things to give him pleasure. The rage and jealousy carved into her features had lit a fire in him. Not the sort that would have had him chasing her down the halls and throwing her onto a bed. No, it was a different kind, one that made him wish to hold Myra closer, to show Cersei what she had lost, what he had found. His wife may have claimed he was a good man, but he was hardly above being petty.

That anger was gone now, or so she would have him think. Her face bore a soft smile, framed perfectly by her golden hair. She had worn a deep red dress for their house, making certain it was cut in a way that would force him to look at all she had; she'd once accused girls of being harlots for the same. Funny how he'd never noticed then.

"Your Grace," he said stiffly, eying the men around her. He wondered if they were the truly loyal soldiers, or simply new recruits. Surely all the good ones had gone to war.

"Now, Jaime, surely there's no need to be so formal here," she replied, her voice sickly sweet. How two-faced his sister was, but that, at least, he'd always been aware of. However, he'd gotten it wrong. The soft side of Cersei had always been the lie, not the other way around; the side of her she had shown them as she sat beside the throne was how his sister was always meant to look. How bitterly obvious it was to him now. What a fool he had been for so many years.

"You accused my wife of being a whore," he hissed, taking a step closer. He did not miss the subtle movements of the guards. Had she instructed them to be wary, or did they truly not trust him?

"Your wife," Cersei echoed, actually laughing. "You always have been the stupidest Lannister. Do you really think Father is going to allow this marriage to continue? Try to protect your little pet all you like, but Myra Stark is a traitor and she will get what all traitors deserve."

He just barely resisted reaching out and grabbing her, his hand left sitting lamely between them. At least he'd chosen the unmaimed one.

The guards moved closer.

"Go ahead, attack the queen," Cersei whispered, taunting. "You don't have your hand; you don't have your skill. You don't have anything except our monster of a brother and your whore of a wife. See what happens when you choose the wrong side."

His hand balled into a fist.

"Except...you aren't the queen," Jaime said then, and in that moment, he could feel his old self returning. The self-assured attitude that had gotten him through so many years slid right back into place, as if he had never been parted with it. "You're the queen mother, which makes you...nothing really."

Then he dared to grab her arm.

The guards began to move.

"You're Lannister soldiers, are you not?" he asked, glancing around at the men. "My sister is a Baratheon, in command of no armies, in charge of no lands. Lord Tywin is your commander, but he's a little preoccupied being Hand of the King, which makes me acting Lord of Casterly Rock. I feed your families, I arm and armor you, and I will be the one who sees to your execution if you lay a finger on me, and I wouldn't suggest it, bad hand and all."

Cersei struggled in his grasp. "If you think-"

"Leave. Us."

For a moment, Jaime thought his gamble had failed as the guards remained silent and unwavering. But slowly, one removed his hand from his hilt and turned away. The others swiftly followed, marching back down the hall.

He waited until the echoes of their footfalls disappeared, relishing the look of astonishment that crossed Cersei's face.

Then he pushed her against the wall. Not hard enough to harm her – he wasn't that much of a fool – but it got the point across well enough. For a brief moment, he could see the fear in her green eyes.

"You aren't the only one who has had to suffer in King's Landing all these years; you aren't the only one who knows how to play the game," Jaime hissed, utterly convinced by his own lie. The last time he had been this close to her, he could hardly resist her sight and scent. Now he only wished to pull away. "Touch Myra Stark, and you will see that I am not the one with nothing."