Foreword

My dear readers who have stuck with me throughout the years, and the many who have asked me to come back.

I've been trying to write, but I've had real trouble coming up with anything new, and I honestly don't think I'll finish any of the stories that still need to be completed. But with the new season out this week, I can't help but think that all that enthusiasm needs to be channelled into something, and today, I felt that I actually had something to write that might not be completely stupid. So here's a new chapter that picks up where the previous one left off.

I will try to post once a week for as long as my creativity lasts. You can also check out my blog .com for detailed reviews of the new episodes.

Thank you for sticking with me all this way.

Gilraen

Myrcella closed her eyes and fervently tried to block out the sounds issuing from behind the hall curtain. Outside her sheltered enclave, she heard quiet chatter and raucous laughter, music, spilling of wine, and occasionally, her brother's voice, welcoming someone or other, saying this or that, complimenting this lord or that lady on their apparel; being king.

It was a feast to celebrate the arrival of the lords of Westeros for the Royal Wedding, the first of many that would be conducted over the next few weeks. This night was also to be the public announcement of her engagement to Prince Trystane, the fool who didn't understand artillery.

'Lord Jaime, Lady Arya,' she heard Tommen say, his voice resonant despite its quietness, 'my humble home is honoured by your presence'.

'Your home is as humble as ever, Your Grace,' Lady Arya replied in her high, clear voice, 'is that new glazing on the windows?'

'Your impertinence is one of the joys of life, my lady.'

Myrcella's heart leapt, and she opened the curtain just a fraction. Lady Arya was there, resplendent in her black gown and sword belt, maybe she'll help me, perhaps, and she was standing there with that man by her side, wretched, tainted, dirty, and a little blonde girl, accompanied by a septa, that Myrcella could only imagine was her ten-year-old cousin, Janei, whom she had never seen. The little girl curtsied, and Tommen bowed gracefully, all the while blushing to the roots of his hair.

Seven hells, has he no shame? Myrcella thought, her mind filled once again with the whores she had seen in her brother's chamber, and Tommen's puzzling, grotesque nakedness, how could Mother and Ser Jaime have done it? How?

There was a rustling sound behind her.

'Oh!' an accented voice exclaimed, 'Forgive me, my lady; I had no idea this hiding place was occupied.'

Myrcella whirled around, furious that some fuck-crazed Dornishman had been the one to discover her.

'Seven hells, is there nowhere where a lady may go –'

She faced her interlocutor.

'– to be alone…' she mumbled, and stared as the stranger bowed.

When he straightened up, his dark eyes bore an expression of sincere, deeply-embarrassed regret to which she was entirely unaccustomed. Princesses were rarely regarded in such a way; a fact connected, no doubt, to the often unfortunate consequences of treating royals with sincerity.

He doesn't know who I am, she realised.

The man, meanwhile, was staring at the floor and blushing.

'It was not my intention to intrude upon your privacy,' he softly said, 'I merely hoped to find mine. Neither of us, I think, cares much for places like this.'

Myrcella smiled in spite of herself.

'No.'

The man stared at her, and smiled back, then seemed quickly to remember propriety. He bowed and scuttled out of the enclave as though fleeing from something.

Myrcella peered beyond the curtain and watched him go. He looked back for an instant, then walked quickly and resolutely away. His behaviour had surprised her, for he did not seem like the sort to be shy. He wore an ostentatious cloth-of-gold doublet and seemed to have taken more than usual care with his hair than was generally expected of the men at court. Yet here he had been, hiding too, despite his obvious vanity. She looked out at the crowd, and wondered which of the Dornish ladies was responsible. It surprised her to realise that she did not want to know.

Jaime kept a tight hold on Arya's hand and made several heroic attempts to lead tedious conversations, most of which his wife ended up finishing for him. But the surface of her skin was like ice, and her face frozen into an expression of such numb, emotionless composure that he began to remember, with regret, that day on the beach, when he had persuaded her to come with him to King's Landing. Aunt Dorna had played a role in it too, but ultimately, she had come here for him. She was being put through this by him.

The hall swam with people that she remembered for the wrong reasons, and with memories that he knew she would rather not have. It swam, also, with Freys, their faces rat-like above their grey doublets, so that it seemed as though the millions of vermin that lived in the sewers of King's Landing were congregating now in its greatest holdfast, bringing with them disease and muck.

'I'm alright, you know,' Arya said, her finger tapping his wrist, 'I think I'll be alright.'

But her hand in his told a different story, her knuckles pale as ice, and as Jaime bent to ask her quietly if she wished to take the air, he spotted Lord Walder, limping dramatically in their direction.

'That's interesting,' Arya mused flippantly, 'I wasn't even aware he could walk.'

Jaime could feel his vision blurring with the memory of her; small, vulnerable and silent on her chamber floor. He could also see her growing paler in front of him, and her jaw set in determination, and Tommen looking over at him pleadingly, and Margaery Tyrell making a beeline for Lord Walder from the other side of the hall, and the guards at the doors grasping at their weapons.

'Let's go,' he insisted.

'Certainly not,' Arya calmly replied, 'let's chat to the old bastard.'

'Do you want to start another war?'

'Not just now; we don't have the money.'

Jaime attempted to pull her away by the hand. She yanked her hand out of his and glared at him. Jaime looked despairingly at Margaery, who was still too far away, and at the guards, who looked desperate.

'Stark, come,' he growled.

'No,' she growled back, and then the old man was in front of them, his bones cracking audibly as he made a low bow.

'Lannister,' Lord Walder grunted, a wave of fetid stink wafting over them as he gesticulated in Arya's direction, 'why did you choose one without breasts?'

Jaime seized the front of Lord Walder's doublet with a snarl of rage and pulled him forward so rapidly that his walking stick slipped out of his hand, and Jaime could have sworn that he felt the shrivelled heart beating through the leather in terror before another hand lashed out and closed around his wrist.

'Wait, now!' Arya shouted, and then both Tommen and Margaery were there, one seething with rage, the other acting as though it was all a joke.

'Uncle, you will release Lord Walder and contain yourself,' Tommen commanded in a low voice.

'Indeed, Lord Jaime, there are varieties of wine here that you have not yet tasted,' Margaery cheerily added.

Lord Walder, his eyes molten with anger, was silent, and so, Jaime noticed, was Arya; wordless after having broken her own rule to contradict him only in private. She was looking at him pointedly, however, and in her gaze he could see words.

You are the Lord of Casterly Rock. Act like it.

Jaime looked once again at Walder Frey, and rather wanted to draw his dagger and slit the old bastard's throat. Or else open his stomach and serve his entrails to his sons, dressed up with herbs, like boiled pigeon liver.

Jaime let him go, and watched with satisfaction as he crumpled to the floor. Margaery tsk-tsked at the nearby Freys to help Walder Frey stand.

'Lord Walder, you will pay five thousand golden dragons to Casterly Rock for this insult to its Lady,' Jaime said as Frey men picked their liege lord up from the ground, 'you will also be required to contribute seven thousand men to the Lannister army.'

'That is more than half my army, boy,' Lord Walder griped, swiping at his men as they attempted to steady him, 'would you leave me –'

'Consider this a warning in deference to your old age,' Jaime interrupted, 'next time, it'll be death.'

Jaime watched Arya's eyes flicker to Tommen, who nodded at her, then at Lord Walder.

'As Your Grace commands,' Lord Walder simpered with an obsequiousness that fooled no one, before limping off and shouting at one of his men to bring his walking stick.

Jaime turned to Arya, who was deathly pale, her fingers still clutching his wrist. He was surprised. He had expected her to be angry with him.

'Are you feeling alright, Little Wolf?' he couldn't help but ask, 'don't you have a good fight in store for me?'

Arya did not reply. She only smiled, and stood a little closer.