Well, guys, I guess I got it in early! So, the next one might be late. I'm on vacation, and again my game is out this week, so I'm going hermit mode.
Once again, thank you so much for all the reviews. One thing I'd like to address, however, is what someone comment on Sansa and how they think the books coddle her. I have to say, she wasn't at fault in the least for Micah dying. Joffrey ordered the child dead well before she had to speak before the King, so honestly I don't know what forcing her to see the body would even do except traumatize the girl, or force her to wrongly believe she had done something to him. Her not seeing it is perfectly acceptable in my book.
Okay, that said, enjoy!
Chapter Eight
The Tournament – Part I
Myra
The first time she ever saw blood, it was in the godswood. She and Robb often hid there, knowing it made the septas, as well as their mother, uncomfortable. But they were children of the North and had nothing to fear of their old gods. So they ran around the heart tree, catching its leaves as they fell, unwary of its crying face.
It had been a shriek the likes of which she had never heard, high-pitched and strangled, and in utter pain.
A rabbit sat just inside the wall, dropped by some besieged hawk. Its white fur was stained red, body mangled, a foot twisted in the wrong direction, yet the poor creature lived, and it was screaming.
Robb wanted to kill it, and she had slapped him away. With the body in her arms, her dress covered in its blood, she had run back inside the keep crying. Through tears she had begged Maester Luwin to do something, but his face grew solemn, though his eyes remained soft. He gave the rabbit something to drink (milk of the poppy, she realized later, enough to kill it) and led her to her father's solar.
That day, the Lord of Winterfell gave his daughter her first lesson on death.
Myra could not help but think of that rabbit as she watched the poor knight from the Vale bleed out in the dirt beneath her. Completely innocent yet doomed to die, she wished someone would go to him in his final moments, but she was rooted to her seat. Her eyes were transfixed on the lance tip lodged in his neck, the blood seeping onto his newly crafted armor. Here was someone's son, dying far from home for the entertainment of his fellows, and all they could do was watch.
A dangerous place indeed.
Finally, his spasms ceased and collective breaths were released. Two squires dragged him off the field, and Robert, momentarily sobered, shouted for the next round and another goblet of wine.
To her left, Sansa appeared pale, but retained all the composure a good lady of the court ought to. Inwardly, she was probably congratulating herself. On her right, Arya watched in fascination. The look on her face was something different entirely, a curiosity that no one should have.
"We should pray for him later," Myra said as the crowds began to murmur once more. "Ser Hugh deserves that much from us."
"An excellent idea," Septa Mordane agreed with a nod, as if they had just decided what wine to take with their meal rather than how to mourn the dead. "To have witnessed such a tragedy, it is only right."
The only tragedy was how little people felt for it.
Proving her point, Arya made a face. "What's the point? We didn't know him."
"Arya!" Septa Mordane shouted, but her sister would not recant. She never did.
"But we didn't!"
"To know a man at his death is to know him better than anyone has." Myra could not remember where she had read the line, but it had been one that stuck with her. She could recall telling it to Robb and Jon after their first execution.
"True words, my lady," a voice spoke just above her. Ser Barristan gave her an approving nod, which she returned. Robert had remembered her small lie regarding Jaime and the two had spoken for some time regarding the order. She found him an honorable, kind man, one her father greatly admired. Once she pressed him on the subject of the Mad King but was only met with a sad look and an excuse.
The King mumbled something about shitting and took another swig from his goblet.
"Still seems silly," Arya continued, arms crossed. There was not a person alive who could match her sister's stubbornness.
A figure leaned forward from Sansa's right. Littlefinger had joined them some time ago and taken up a conversation with her sister. While not overly comfortable with the way he whispered to her, Sansa did not seemed distressed, but even so, Myra strained to hear every word. Unlike her or even Arya, news of conspiracy would not bode well for Sansa. For all Myra's difficulty with lying, her sister was far worse.
What words did he hope to snare her with? What sort of friendship did he mean to extend? Everyone had a plan. He had said it himself.
"Perhaps I should pray for him in your stead."
Myra eyed him. "You do not seem the type, Lord Baelish."
He gave a knowing nod before sitting back. "We all have our secrets."
Indeed.
Her father's words had felt truer than ever, and she had avoided Littlefinger for some time. She was wary of him, promise and all; she was not her mother, and she had not heard his vow. Besides which, a man with a mind like a maze could never be trusted with such things.
Had she read that somewhere too?
Ser Jaime was next on the tilts, against Lord Bryce Caron. Some mumbled bets but most spectators knew better than to risk their money against the Lion of Lannister.
"The Kingslayer is going to win," Arya announced, sitting up eagerly in her seat, her annoyance forgotten.
"Well, of course he is," Sansa replied. "No one beats him."
Kingslayer. Myra had not been aware how freely that word was used in King's Landing. Back in Winterfell, her father had quieted them quickly on the use of that word, but he was not here, and neither Septa Mordane nor any of the lords or ladies seemed to take issue with it, the King least of all.
Myra thought it cruel how Robert acted toward his good-brother and sworn guard. Perhaps he did so because of the dead or perhaps it was because of his wife. Either felt a poor excuse to her. He had pardoned Jaime for his crime after all, even if it was to keep Lord Tywin at bay, and Cersei…well, she certainly wasn't her brother's doing.
She watched him chat with is squire, face obscured by his ornate, lion-shaped helm. From head to toe, he was covered in gold; even his sword glistened of the stuff in the sunlight. He was the knight all the minstrels sang of, all the ladies swooned over, all the tales spoke of, prowess and pride rolled into perfection, and yet…
Kingslayer.
Perhaps she was strange, and in King's Landing that was becoming more and more apparent, but she could not call him by that name. Even thinking it felt unfair. There was a truth to it, certainly, but it was a truth long dead, a truth that had brought a terrible war to its end.
Now there were others truths to worry over.
The Lannisters were plotting. Her father believed it, and he never believed in anything without a great deal of proof, and a Valyrian steel dagger once covered in her mother's blood was a fairly convincing thing.
But like Tyrion, this crime against Bran did not seem like Jaime. To attempt to kill a boy in such a nefarious method seemed to go against everything she had seen him stand for, a man who preferred to do things himself, out in the open, not in shadows.
Though that did not mean he was clueless about his family's dealings, she supposed. The Lannisters were not noted for caring for much. Their family was the exception.
What had Bran seen?
Ser Jaime and Lord Caron passed one another, both lances landing brilliantly on their marks.
"C'mon, Kingslayer, is that the best you've got?!" Robert shouted. More bets were placed.
Jaime raised his new lance in reply, and proceeded to knock Lord Caron clean off his horse in the second pass.
No, Myra decided, she could not suspect him of the matter. The Queen possibly, but Jaime was of a different sort. At first she had thought he was just callous, a little too confident like her brother, his humor dark and unforgiving, but that view had changed the other day.
The story of the death of her grandfather and uncle was one that she knew, though not in the great detail that Jaime had provided her. She was surprised he had conceded to her request, and given what transpired as he wove the tale, it made her more curious as to why he had.
He had not been aware of the emotion that played on his face, the way his eyes searched certain areas for something familiar that no longer was. Jaime had relived that moment, and for a while, she felt herself there as well, the heat of the fire on her face, the screams of the dead echoing across the chamber. In that moment, she had seen the young man he once was, so unsure of the world he had sworn himself to.
There were a lot of things I wished to stop.
Maybe she ought to have been grateful to the King for interrupting when he had. Those last words he had spoken in their privacy were not meant for her, she thought, not meant for anyone, just the man who was playing his part. She had not known what to say to him at that moment, perhaps something too deep. The words were lost to her now. All she could recall of that moment was that for the first time, she did not use his title.
The crash of lance against shield knocked Myra from her thoughts. Two knights she did not recognize were dueling, Jaime's golden armor long since disappeared.
Only time would tell, she supposed, as to what pieces stood where.
The rest of the afternoon progressed slowly. No more men lost their lives, but the constant shattering of lances had somehow grown boring to her. Until, that was, the last contenders for the day were announced.
Renly Baratheon rode his steed across the field to great fanfare, his deep green armor a contrast to Jaime's gold. His helm sported great antlers, much like his brother's once had. He seemed quite regal on his charger, every bit the gallant lord, yet something about the image did not quite fit.
His opponent was Sandor Clegane, whom appeared to be quite bored with the whole affair, sitting atop his horse with disinterest, hound helmet open for all to see. Myra pictured a redheaded lad across the saddle and turned away.
At the King's signal, both men charged at one another to loud cheers and whistles. This time there were many bets placed, pitting Sandor's anger against Renly's popularity it seemed. The wagers continued straight into the first clash, when the Lord of Storm's End flew full-bodied off his charger, landing with a loud crack.
Myra stood with a gasp, hands clasped to her mouth. All around, spectators stood, clamoring for a view. Squires ran to the place where he fell, Robert shouted for answers, and distantly Myra could feel Septa Mordane's hand on her shoulder.
A moment passed, then another, and then from the flock of squires, Renly Baratheon emerged to cheers, his helm short an antler. He seemed no worse for wear, save for his pride, and Myra breathed thanks to the gods.
With a gracious bow to Clegane, Renly began to cross the field, purpose in his stride. He walked right up to the stands and stood before Myra, winded and red.
"Perhaps next time I should ask for my lady's favor," he proclaimed loudly, handing her the antler. "After all, the wolf is greater than the hound."
"How poetic," Littlefinger murmured. Renly paid him no mind.
Myra could not help but feel there was something bigger to this display, that she was committing herself to him in a way she had not thought of, or rather she had, but not expected.
The Lady of Storm's End.
She smiled, grasping the ornament tightly. "And I would give it to you."
There were cheers. Sansa looked ready to burst when Renly kissed her hand. It was like a story unfolding, but that was all it was: a story. She knew that now, or perhaps she had always known but never accepted. There were certainly worse fates than a pretty lord in a large castle.
And she had given the people something else to talk about.
Sansa
The day had been perfect.
Her first tournament, and it had been everything she could have wanted and more. The beautiful knights in their gilded suits of armor atop finely groomed steeds, their banners drifting in the wind, ladies of the court from all parts of Westeros sat in ornately crafted dresses, colors vibrant like a painted canvas. Even Arya had decided to not be annoying that afternoon, and that alone would have satisfied her.
Even better, she was not at the feast now.
The knights had traded their armor for finer garb, the swords for dinnerware as dozens gathered for the first feast of her father's tourney. So many courses had passed by, and yet the kitchens did not seem to be done. Sansa had gotten her fill ages ago, and graciously passé don whatever morsels were offered after, choosing to sip on the bit of wine Septa Mordane had allowed her.
The two of them sat to the left of the King, a place of honor, but Myra had been moved to the right. She sat with Renly, chatting and laughing as if she never belonged anywhere else. The Knight of Flowers, Ser Loras, had stopped by them as well, only adding to the mirth.
How wonderful it had been, watching him offer a token to her sister. He wasn't going to be king, but Renly Baratheon was the Lord of Storm's End, a much finer place than the Dreadfort. The two of them could be close to one another. They could visit one another constantly. Their children could play with one another.
She wondered if marrying Renly would also make Myra her aunt.
Once, she had posed the question to Septa Mordane, and the woman laughed so hard she spilled her drink.
Sansa did not think it was that funny.
All her thoughts of marriage turned her back to the one problem spot in the whole affair: Prince Joffrey. He still had yet to speak with her since the river. She knew he must have been angry. No one was punished, not even the wolves, but surely he realized Lady had not been at fault. He had seen her stay at the camp.
After all this time, Sansa had hoped that Joffrey would realize Lady being alive and safe made her happy, and perhaps one day they could find her again and all would be well.
Joffrey had his Hound. She wanted Lady to look after her children.
Their children.
Did he still want to marry her?
In the center of the tables, a minstrel began to play his lute. The conversations softened as the audience began to take in the notes, only to strike up again when they realized the song. The Bear and the Maiden Fair was a favorite, and soon the lords and ladies filled with drink began to drag one another onto the floor, performing the worst renditions of dances anyone had seen, and yet they all looked so beautiful to her. The swirls of color and the laughter, women lighter than air floating across the floor while their knights attempted to keep time with the song.
A spot of green passed out of the corner of her eye. Myra and Renly had taken to the floor, their colors nearly matching. Of all the couples, they danced the best. Sansa had not even been aware her sister knew how, but she and Renly glided across the floor like lovers of legend.
Sansa sighed. She wished Joffrey would ask her to dance.
She chanced a glance at him. He was still seated, drinking from a goblet. He did not look particularly pleased at what he was watching, so Sansa let that small hope die. She resumed watching the other dancers, marveling at it all.
"My lady."
Glancing up, Sansa almost thought that Joffrey might have changed his mind. Instead, she found herself staring into the most beautiful pair of eyes. It was the Knight of Flowers himself come to speak with her.
She did not dare hope…
His hand extended to her, smile warm and bright. "It seems a shame for a beauty such as yourself to be left as an onlooker. Come, let us show these fools how it is done properly."
Sansa hoped she was not blushing. "I'm afraid I am not very good, ser."
He chuckled, like a sweet melody. "Nonsense."
And then they were gone.
She had but a moment to glance at a very much asleep Septa Mordane before they joined the thrall on the floor, Lady Sansa Stark and Ser Loras Tyrell. It was suddenly easy to understand how Myra danced so well: the atmosphere was intoxicating. She, too, felt light and able to do anything, and with Loras' strong grip, she felt entirely safe to try.
"They look lovely, don't they?" Loras asked after some time, eyes straying to Renly and Myra. The two had since stopped dancing and taken up a conversation with Ser Beric Dondarrion.
"What Lord Renly did at the tourney was wonderful," Sansa admitted. "People will be talking about it for a long time."
"Yes, they will." He smiled, looking proud. They must have been good friends.
The music began to slow, and Sansa considered retiring for the evening, the wine rushing to her head, when a shout brought everything to a halt. One of the performers even broke a string on his harp.
"No!" bellowed the King from his seat. His face was red, and his tunic stained with food. The Queen was standing, utterly still. "You do not tell me what to do woman!"
The table shook as his fist smashed against the surface. Goblets tumbled and grapes rolled off the edge. Septa Mordane stirred and looked about in a confused daze.
Myra moved toward the table with Renly behind her, trying to pull her back.
"I am king here, do you understand?!"
If the Queen had anything to say, it went unspoken as she gathered her skirts and left, Lannister guards following her out.
Ser Jaime stepped forward then, placing a hand on the King's shoulder, but still in a fit of anger, the King shoved him, and the Lannister fell with a clatter on the floor. Someone stifled a giggle.
The King looked not about done with Ser Jaime, his goblet wavering in the air, when Myra appeared and planted herself firmly between the two men. Renly stood to the side, mumbling something she could not hear.
For a moment, Sansa thought she might have gone backwards in time. She saw Myra defending Lady, and a raging man calming under her gaze. She knew her aunt was to have married the King. Did she do the same to him?
"Have you come to tell me what to do as well?" the King asked.
"Of course not, Your Grace." Myra stood tall and her voice never wavered. "A king does as he pleases."
There was a beat, tense and drawn out. Sansa held her breath. Everyone did.
King Robert lowered the goblet. He looked past her sister. "I can still knock you in the dirt, Kingslayer, remember that."
Ser Jaime stood. "Of course, Your Grace."
Conversations took up again as Robert accepted another goblet from Renly. Myra was speaking to Jaime, but he brushed off whatever she said and stalked to a dark corner. She, too, took a goblet from Renly and engaged both Baratheons in conversation. Her smile was gone.
"Your sister is awfully friendly to the Kingslayer," Loras mumbled at her side.
"I hadn't noticed."
The dancing failed to take up again. Ser Loras, having lost interest, left her alone to help Septa Mordane back to the Tower of the Hand.
Myra
Her head was spinning. Or was it the bed?
A single eye opened, faced the cruel, bright morning, and promptly shut again.
No, the whole castle was spinning.
The last time she had drank so much, it had been her and Robb's name day. They had both been so drunk, Robb collapsed in the hall outside his door and did not move all night while she had attempted to kiss Jory as he tried to get her up the stairs. Jon had been found in the stables the next morning.
They had not actually drank much for dinner, but when their parents had gone, Theon brought a drink fit 'only for a kraken.' For once, he must not have been exaggerating. He was the only one who ate breakfast that morning.
Her stomach rolled at the thought of breakfast. Myra curled into a ball and willed the pain away.
She blamed the King for her state, and were she not utterly hung-over, she might have felt bad laying it all on him. After his little spell at the feast, her father's words about interfering had come back to her with a vengeance, and she began to drink as much wine as both Robert and Renly offered to make her forget it.
Oh, what a complete fool she had been! Standing up to Robert at a lone keep amongst soldiers was one thing, but in the middle of King's Landing at court? Had she not already felt like death, the prospect of gossip would have kept her in bed.
Her head hurt too much to think about it further, so she buried it under a pillow and tried to think of calming things. The sea, the vast fields by her home…
The sound of footsteps outside her door.
No. No.
The door opened, and she swore the hinges were screaming.
"Good morning, Lady Myra."
Was Syrena…screeching?
Myra opened her mouth to reply, but only a moan escaped her lips. As it accurately summed up her current situation, she left it at that and silently willed the handmaiden away.
There was a chuckle. "I thought it might come to as much. I have brought just the thing to help."
At the thought of some form of relief, Myra made an attempt to sit up. Unfortunately, her perception was more than slightly skewed. Her hand hit open air and she tumbled onto the floor in a mess of sheets and her eveningwear.
"My lady!" Syrena shouted, rushing to her side. "My lady, are you alright?"
"Yes," Myra mumbled from under her mess of hair. "No…how did I get here?"
"Lord Renly carried you to the Tower, but Lord Stark took you from there. I do not think the thought of him alone with his drunk daughter sat well with him."
Myra leaned her head against the mattress. "Well, there we have it. I cannot face anyone again."
Syrena laughed again. "Come, my lady."
With a great deal of help from the handmaiden, Myra managed to crawl onto a chair and sit relatively still as she worked with whatever state the previous night had left her hair in. The tea she had brought, which stunk of something unmentionable and was so thick she thought there was no possible way it was liquid, managed to not only settle her stomach, but ease the throbbing of her had. She did not bother asking what it was. The answer would most likely spoil the concoction for her.
As Syrena deftly wielded a comb through her hair, Myra noted that she did not fill the silence with her usual gossip. It gave her a moment to think on Littlefinger's words, on the Queen and handmaidens under her employ. The woman herself had given Syrena to her.
"What do they say about me?" she asked, wanting something to fill the void, even something as vile as what King's Landing gossip spoke of her. A glutton for punishment was the eldest Stark.
There was a pause. "Nothing terrible, my lady."
That sounded worrisome.
"Such as?"
"You and Lord Renly are one of the bigger subjects. There are many jealous ladies over his affection toward you." Well, that was not so bad. "But then there was…the King."
Ah, there it was.
"A good many servants have seen such tantrums, and they had yet to see someone so boldly step up to him, much less succeed at the endeavor, and I have no doubt they told their households as much."
With a groan, Myra rested her head on the table. Her father would have most certainly heard. Littlefinger undoubtedly told him himself. She could picture the sly smile on his face.
"Some have considered…I don't have to continue. Very few say such things."
Myra twisted her head to the side. "Very few say what?"
Syrena huffed. She placed the comb down and actually moved to sit beside her. Her dark eyes were sympathetic, her round face still beautiful despite the frown. If she was the Queen's, she was very good.
"There are a few who wonder if…Lord Renly is receiving 'damaged goods,' and that he plays along at the behest of his brother."
"Well…fuck."
It was the only word she could think of for the situation, and it was accurate enough. Strangely, however, she did not seem to care much about the words, despite their cruelty. Perhaps it was because she knew they were not true, and that no one had ever witnessed more than that. Maybe King's Landing was finally starting to rub off on her. Suddenly, all the prickly attitudes of those who lived here were starting to make sense.
There was a snort.
Myra watched her handmaiden's face contort until she burst out laughing, arms clutching her ribs. It was contagious and soon, she too was laughing. It did make her feel a great deal better.
"I apologize, my lady. To see you use such language…it is strange," she managed in between giggles.
"You should speak to my brother, then. He knows a thing or two about my language. It's usually directed at him anyway."
"Perhaps he should visit," Syrena offered, standing again.
"He'd never leave Winterfell. Not without a good reason."
"That is a shame."
"I suppose it is."
It wasn't. Robb would not last more than a day. Her tact, as naïve as it was, was still leagues ahead of what little her twin had. The game would have driven him crazy within a few hours and he would have ridden out of the city first chance he got. No, Myra would not wish this place upon him, or anyone.
Another moment of silence passed, during which Myra decided she would be alright. If Renly was using her, he was protecting her as well, or at least trying to. She did not give him much opportunity last night, all but dragging him toward Robert.
But he had tried.
"My lady, might I ask something?"
"Of course."
She felt the comb go through her hair, gently picking at the knots. "They say you ran to Ser Jaime's aid…"
Inwardly, Myra groaned. She had forgotten about him. Truthfully, she had wanted no trouble at the feast, and for Robert not to harm anyone. Had anyone else been the victim of his outcry, whether it was Ser Barristan or even the silent Ser Mandon Moore, she would have stepped forward. It was her way. Instead, she had stood between the King and Ser Jaime, and what an utter fool she must have looked. He no doubt thought of her as some love-struck simpleton.
Well, she supposed there were worse ways to be regarded.
"Are the two of you…"
"Close?" she almost laughed, though in her mind, Cersei had spoken the words. "Far from it. I believe he barely tolerates my presence. He just happened to be the man the King struck down."
She hoped the Queen would believe that.
"It was brave of you."
"Stupid, more like. My father told me to never do such a foolish thing again."
"Then why did you?"
Myra sighed, thinking on how to answer. She had nothing to hide, she supposed. If the Queen wanted to play her games, she could try, but it would do nothing for her. "I will not change who I am because of what others may or may not see."
"That is a dangerous game to play, my lady."
It seemed that no matter what she did, she was in danger.
Is it asking too much for more word on how I do with characters? I'd really like to know if they are alright.
Thanks again!
