"You have so many bruises. Are you really so clumsy?" Sansa asked
"Not everyone can dance as well as you."
"You never used to be clumsy. You were a lovely dancer."
Memories of dancing in the great hall of Winterfell with Sansa and Robb drift through Myna's mind like snowflakes, before melting away under the heat of King's Landing. Myna knows she'll likely never dance there again. Not if she marries a southern man, who cannot embrace the north's harsh frigid air. Her chest is hit with a pang at the thought.
"Court dances are much more intricate, and I grow tired of the constant shine of the sun," The lie tasted bitter on her tongue."I am sure once I have settled, I will be less clumsy."
It had been agreed that she'd take Arya's cover of dancing, though it was not the training by a Braavosi sword master that made her ache. Devran made good on his promise, waking her every morning and pushing her until her body simply could not keep up. But though it is agony, it is a sweet one to Myna.
Fighting was the only time she is allowed to truly move her body. It silenced her mind and beat back the desire to run. The restlessness in her, the thing that paces inside her ribcage, all of that went away when Myna had a weapon in her hand and somebody to fight. Her father used to laugh himself silly at how her demeanor changed after a training session.
'I've never seen a girl so ready to bleed,' Lord Randolph Briarwood grins. 'You truly are my daughter.'
"Will you teach me a dance?" Sansa's voice danced through her thoughts like the gentle brush of fingers against a web. Myna felt herself come back to earth, felt her lips twist into the smile she is so used to wearing.
"Your father will find someone to teach you," Myna said. "You wouldn't want a dancing instructor as clumsy as me."
The dressmaker's wrinkled hands are swift and sure as they take Myna's measurements. Down to her small clothes, Myna stood on a block of wood and hid her wince. Her body was battered and bruised, but she held herself still for the dressmaker's careful hands. Sansa looked on with the barest hint of a pout as she played with a bolt of fabric laid out on her lap.
"Do you think father will allow me new dresses?"
"Queen Cersei and your father will outfit you with many new lovely things. You are betrothed to the prince, after all." Myna laughs though anger flashes through her at the mere mention of the prince.
Sansa preened with a small smile. "That is true. She has already given me so many precious gifts! The Queen is so generous and kind, Myna."
So kind that she ordered Lady's death? Myna thought to herself. What fairytales did her parents fill her head with, to not see what was so clearly in front of her? Sansa is young, but to leave her so blind, it nearly seemed...cruel. Fairytales are things of beauty, but seldom do they come true.
Myna had run out of hope in fairy tales the day she stumbled home from the woods with blood on her hands.
"Your dresses shall be done soon, m'lady. If it pleases you, these fabrics will make the base of your other requested outfits."
Bolts of silk brocade and lace were exchanged for leather and linen. Catching sight of Sansa's tilted head in the polished silver mirror, Myna waves her off.
"Can't very well ride in a dress, can I? Not well, at least."
"Ladies shouldn't wear breeches," Sansa said disapprovingly. "You won't wear them to the tourney, will you?"
Myna smiles to herself. "No. But imagine the looks on everyone's faces if I were to appear in breeches. Septa Mordane would simply faint on the spot."
"You are wicked," Sansa hid her giggle behind a dagged sleeve, the corners of her blue eyes crinkling.
Two things in this life make Myna feel like she's a giant. Hiding in the shadowed treetops, breathless and waiting for something to slither on by, and one of the Stark girls looking at her with admiration. She has no sisters; no girls her age to laugh with and talk of dreams. Sansa and Arya are years behind her, but seeing the admiration in Sansa's eyes as they grinned at each other, fills her hollow bones with the sensation of fizzing bubbles.
Myna turned back to her image in the mirror, her hands smoothing down the front of her small clothes. "I will take that as a compliment, my lady."
Jaime Lannister only looks more handsome with the dust of travel washed from his skin. He stands before what Myna can only assume is the King's doors, utter boredom on his charming face. Giggles erupted from the room, along with King Robert's drunken laughter.
Myna gagged. King Robert was whoring, and he was doing it loudly. The shame it must bring the queen to know her husband was nothing more than a whoremonger. She spins on her heel, glad for the excuse to dodge Ser Jaime, but the blonde calls out to her to stop her in her tracks.
Unbidden, her gaze flickers to one of the terribly small windows that line the castle's body this high up, wondering if she would fit through one of them. She could scale her way down, make it to the ground, and run back to the Tower of the Hand. But then the whispers that followed would drag her reputation through the mud even more.
"My lady, you must be lost. Give me your leash and I shall return you to Lord Stark."
A sigh escapes her as she turns back around slowly. His green eyes give him the look of an interested cat, the smirk on his lips unbearably smug. Callous remarks seem to be his favorite, not that Myna expected anything else. A spotted apple for his horse would not make them friends. She isn't sure if the man even had friends.
"Ser Jaime. I was just leaving."
"Do stay, I am terribly bored. Maybe you can tell me the story of how you stumbled out of the forest? I hear you were covered in blood but not a scratch was on you."
Her mouth goes dry and her mind goes silent. Many lords and ladies would not be so bold as to so openly inquire after her month in the wild. Most kept it to whispers, to comment thinly veiled with sweet-as-poison smiles. Talking about it too openly is uncouth. But it was just like him to reach out and scratch her out with a lazy paw for nothing other than his own amusement.
"You know, Ser Jaime," Her mouth was moving before she could stop her, her words spilling from her like candied venom. "I would love to regale you with the tale. Maybe we could even swap stories. My forest adventure for your slaying of King Aerys."
Horrified, her hand flies up to cover her gaping mouth. She hadn't wanted to say any of that. Myna waits with trepidation as Ser Jamie processes her words. Instead of pulling his sword free or shouting, Jaime simply tips his golden head back and laughs. It's a dry laugh, one tired of hearing the same joke over and over again. A tinge of scorn rings through it, and Myna comes crashing down from her high from earlier.
"Careful now, my lady. I was only trying to converse."
"Were you?" Myna whispers. Louder, she says, "Forgive me, Ser Jaime. That was unkind of me. I usually am not so quick to uncivil words."
Ser Jaime shrugs, the motion so easy despite the weight of his Kingsguard armor. It was not done out of kindness, Myna realized with a sick tummy. Already, she could see the dismissal in his eyes. She had given him his laugh, and now she was otherwise uninteresting.
"You should hurry along now. The tourney in honor of the Hand begins soon."
As she walked away, heat crawling up the back of her neck, Myna scolded herself. This was not the north and Jaime was a Lannister. He could have her squashed like a bug before supper time. Her temper was not a quick one, but something about this man made the flames flicker high.
She only wished she knew how to burn him back in a way that mattered.
Devran rattles off the names of the knights he knows as they come onto the field. Nerves make her leg shake, the loud noises of the tourney filling the air. She's never been to a tourney before. Was it only lances that were used? Would King Robert ride against one of his subjects, grinning for the cheap imitation of battle?
Her father and Robert had only one thing in common aside from their love for Lord Eddard Stark. And that was battle. It was what bonded them together during Robert's Rebellion; two handsome young men who painted the fields red with an enemy's blood. Her father had been a fighter till the very last breath he took. At least until he fell from his horse chasing after a stray Wildling.
According to her brother, Randolph Briarwood had crashed into the earth and cleaved his head right open. By the time they'd dragged him back to Briarwood castle, it was too late. His mind had been lost and his body soon withered.
Magnus, in all his wide-eyed solemnity, said there had been nothing left for him. He would never ride again, chasing another with his whip and sword at hand. Their mother Mildred would never again greet him as he returned from war, her smile so wide it threatened to split her face in two. What else was there, for a man such as their father?
Us, Myna had wanted to scream. We are left! His children!
When their mother died, the sky had never seemed so dark. But when her father died, even the moon refused to shine its light that night.
"Myna, are you listening?"
A horse neighs in disagreement with its master, rearing so its hooves raise far above the knight's head. Myna nods to her brother, her eyes on the horse's muddied feet.
"Myna," Devran sighed.
"What," Myna sighed back.
"The tourney will start soon. At least pay attention to that if not your own brother. Or draw dearest Sansa or Arya into a conversation, they must be terribly bored."
"I wouldn't say so."
Sansa sits in front of her with Arya at her side and Septa Mordane at Arya's. Every now and then, Sansa looks over her shoulder to share a smile with a flush painting her pretty features in rosy pinks. It's everything she's ever wanted, like the songs she so loves. Songs would be sung for the best of them all- it was a small wonder men came from far and wide to try and win a round. The chance of glory made fools of many, her mother would always say.
This time, Sansa does not look at Myna but past her to her betrothed. She expects Sansa to giggle or to smile wider, but the expression falters to one of hurt confusion. Myna frowns at her expression. She casts a look toward Prince Joffery, who is looking steadily at the field. Her frown deepens.
Lord Eddard has made no move to break the engagement, an act Myna didn't understand. Though Sansa did not see the truth, Lord Eddard must. He was giving his daughter away to an unkind boy who represented no traits in Sansa's beloved songs, aside from his golden beauty. Myna's leg stilled, and she leaned in to whisper in Sansa's ear.
"Ignore him. He is just a prat."
"Myna!" Sansa gasps. "He is the prince."
"Ah. Forgive me. He is a royal prat, then."
Arya and Myna share a smirk.
Sansa smothers her smile. "Enough, you will get us in trouble with Septa."
Septa Mordane, to her credit, only makes a show of ignoring them. It seemed she too was over Prince Joffrey's rude behavior, not that she would ever dare to speak it out loud.
"Lover's quarrel?"
Petyr Baelish slides into the seat next to Sansa, his weasley lips caught in a mocking twist. No wonder he chose a mockingbird as his House sigil. It was fitting.
"I'm sorry, do I-" Sansa starts with polite confusion.
"Sansa dear, this is Lord Baelish, he's known-"
"I'm an old friend of the family." Lord Baelish interrupts Septa Mordane with not even a glance of apology. He only looks upon Sansa as if she were the only person in the stands. If Myna had hackles, hers would be rising. "I've known your mother for a long, long time."
"Lord Baelish. Lovely of you to join us," Devran slides a hand onto Sansa's shoulder. "I'm sure you will find today fruitful."
"A tourney, fruitful?" Septa Mordane scoffs.
"Baelish is a betting man. Aren't you, Littlefinger?" Devran asks.
"Littlefinger? What kind of name is Littlefinger?"
"Why do they call you Littlefinger?" Arya asked loudly.
"Myna! Arya! Don't be rude."
Brushing the septa off, Baelish turns to Arya. "No, it's quite alright. I was very small in stature as a child, and I come from a little bit of land called The Fingers, so you see, it's a wonderfully clever nickname."
"I would say so," Devran smirked. If looks could kill, Baelish would have killed Devran with that nasty glance of his.
"A pity nobody asked what you would say, Lord Briarwood." Lord Baelish said dryly.
The king shouts out to his people with a horn of drink in his hand. His face is red and his steps unsteady, his voice full of untethered annoyance. "I've been sitting here for days! Start the damn joust already before I piss myself!"
"What a lovely king," Her brother sighs.
"Very," Myna mutters back.
Queen Cersei slides past her husband and the Lannister's loyal dog, a hint of ire to her pert mouth. Even in her anger, she is beautiful. The Lannister's with their golden hair and emerald eyes must have incredibly lucky genes. A scowling dark face catches her eyes, and again, Myna and the Hound are locked into a staring contest.
Scars left by flame cover half of his face, taking his scowl and dragging it deeper into an uneven crescent. Long black hair hangs around his face as deep as coal. The Hound is a man with hate in his eyes. Hate large enough for the whole world, and a sword at his hip to make it bleed. Myna shivers and smiles.
Terrifying he might be, but Sandor Celgane was an entertaining man.
"Gods, who is that?" Sansa asks in open horror.
The next man who rides out onto the field is less man and more giant. Myna has never seen a man quite so large, except for the Hound. His shield of yellow with three black dogs upon it makes the connection for her, and Myna snorts to herself.
"Does the Clegane family all consume dragons? Is that why they are so large?"
"That would be the Mountain. The Hound's older brother, Ser Gregor." Even her brother seems more subdued at the sight of the Mountain. His earlier excitement is gone, leaving him with a grimace. "Never met a man as needlessly cruel as he."
"Then you must not have met many men," Lord Baelish comments. "There is his opponent, Ser Hugh of the Vale. He was Jon Arryn's squire. Look how far he has come."
"I thought he was a squire," Myna's brows furrowed.
"He has been knighted, very recently in fact."
Baelish's answer was an enigmatic smile. The two knights below bow to their king, their faces barely visible through their helmets.
"Yes, yes, enough of the blood pomp. Have at it!"
Ser Gregor and Ser Hugh take off to either side of the field, their horses kicking up the earth behind them. At the signal, they ride towards each other, their tourney lances at the ready. The lances glanced off each other's armor and both men remained horsed. They spin back around and the crowd holds their breath. It is then that Myna notices the thick protective bulb at the end of Ser Hugh's lance.
The Mountain's lance does not have one.
The Mountain's lance glides between the gap of Ser Hugh's armor, jamming into his unprotected neck. The new knight sails from his horse onto the unforgiving ground and the crowd erupts into screams. Just as fast as his life as a knight started, it ended. Ser Hugh lay sputtering on his own blood, the life leeching from his face as everyone watched on in terror. All at once, he goes still, the tip of Ser Clegane's lance still embedded in his throat.
She stares at Ser Hugh, the world ringing in her ears. Bile rises and she has to swallow thickly to keep it back. Her brother wraps an arm around her shoulders and turns her away from the sight, forcing her to look him in the eyes.
The familiarity of his amber gaze does nothing to stop the sickness in her belly. His words sound as if they are coming from another person, from a mouth that does not belong to her brother and to a stranger full of cruelty.
"He died for honor, Myna. This is what men ache for. It's what they die for."
"He died for sport," Myna finds herself whispering. "He died for a song."
"A song that may be sung for eternity. It's more than most of us could hope for. Do you understand?"
Myna leans away as far as his grasp allows, shaking her head. "No. No, I don't understand."
"Is this not what you expected?" Lord Baelish asks. Her brother lets go of her, face twisting and writhing before turning to stone. He looks back at the field, jaw set. "Has anyone ever told you the story of the Mountain That Rides and the Hound?"
Myna can't find it in her to turn back and look at Sandor Clegane. Her eyes are only for his brute of a brother. Lord Baelish starts to weave a tale of a miserable upbringing and a vicious act between kin.
"The Hound was just a pup, a boy of six. Gregor, who is two years older, has already gained a reputation. Some boys are just born with a talent for violence. Gregor finds his little brother playing with a toy by the fire-Gregor's toy, a wooden knight. He never even said a word. He simply grabbed his brother by the neck and shoved his face right into the burning coals."
"My lord, this is not a tale suitable for young ears-"
"-He held him there while the boy screamed, while his little face melted from the bone." Baelish continued. "There aren't many who know this story, dear Sansa."
Bristling, Myna leans in between the two. "She won't tell anyone. Neither will I, Lord Baelish."
"I won't tell," Sansa promises quietly, pale as a sheet.
"No, please don't. If the Hound heard someone so much as mention it, I'm afraid all the knights in King's Landing won't be able to save you."
"Does it bring you joy, frightening young girls?" Devran snaps. "It is already horrifying, no one needs your tales, Baelish."
"My lord, I am merely warning dear Sansa."
They drag Ser Hugh's body from the field, a swath of red as dark as Littlefinger's warning trailing behind him.
Her letter to Jon comes easily. She tells him of everything good she can think of, her hand shaking as she spills white lies onto the parchment. She uses the smooth stone steps in the stairwell between the Briarwood apartments and the Hands, wishing her desk had been ready. The scratching of the quill is calming, the jumbled thoughts in her head from today smoothed out more by every drag of ink against paper.
She had thought she would be more honest than this. But she cannot tell Jon how oddly today went. Of all the blood she has seen, or how Joffery already makes his sister unhappy. It would do nothing but breed distraction for him. There was nothing Jon could do from the Wall anyway, and her morbid thoughts on the matter would surely disturb him.
Ink pools onto the paper when she pauses. A second of bravery pushes her to write how she dearly misses him, and how he's never far from her thoughts. But it is the cowardice of the rest of her letter that causes her to end it quickly, signing her name and letting the ink dry as she pulls out another piece of parchment.
Her second letter comes easier in a way she herself doesn't quite understand.
Myna doesn't bother with lies or half-truths. Eyes as pale as mist enter her mind, the unnerving gaze a warped mirror of her own. Days of playing in the forest and nights of howling laughter go up in smoke. Hands of ice that gripped hers tightly, as if trying to mend flesh together, bring out an honesty she cannot stomach.
She writes to her friend of blood spilled and of the screams that echoed through the tourney field. Of a man on top of a tar-black horse looming over his opponent as if he were a primordial god.
He'd always understand her horrors. Her fascinations. He would understand her now, as she revealed a truth she'd dare not breathe to another soul.
That Myna Briarwood's favorite color is not a buttery yellow or sea green.
That is it is red, red, red.
Sansa can have her fairytales. She can have her knights and princes and all the songs in the world.
Myna wants to be the beast in the forest and paint the world crimson. With her blood or that of another, she isn't sure of. All she knows is she wants.
AN: Myna is an unreliable narrator, just going to warn you right now. The next chapter is when things are going to start picking up plot-wise- and we'll also get to know a bit about the Briarwood's family history.
/rattles cup/ spare reviews? Reviews, gentle readers?