Hello everyone! I am back! Sorry it took me a bit longer. I was so worried about Jaime and Myra meeting again. I tend to overthink things and end up taking forever, getting rid of draft after draft. I hope this version works out alright. Also, I just couldn't stop thinking about the finale. It was the only thing on my mind leading up to Sunday. But Jaime! Welcome back to your character development! It's been a long time coming!

Thanks to everyone for the reviews! They help me survive!

Enjoy!


Chapter Sixteen
The Truth

Sansa

The day had been so beautiful.

Her father had already gone by the time she woke up. Arya as well, off to her dancing lessons. She and Septa Mordane had shared a quiet breakfast and agreed that an afternoon of sewing in the garden would be a lovely way to pass the time.

She had been wondering what to sew, perhaps a direwolf like Lady or maybe a lion. It would make good practice for the future, for all her princes and princesses.

No, a lion was not right. They would be stags.

Myra would know what to do. She would not make fun of her or chide her for being silly like Septa Mordane. Her older sister understood what she was going through. At least someone in the family had.

But she had to leave. Every time she asked her father why, he would just grow quiet. Perhaps she had done something wrong.

No, that did not sound like her sister.

The Tower of the Hand was unusually quiet that day, but Sansa hardly minded. She and Septa Mordane walked wordlessly into the main keep. In the distance, she thought she heard something. Shouts, maybe, the sound of a scuffle. During the tournament, it had happened often. Jory or other Stark soldiers would accompany them when the nights grew long, just in case, but most of the knights had left King's Landing.

Septa Mordane slowed, grabbing at her hand. "We should return to the tower, Sansa."

She looked so frightened; she was never frightened.

"What is it?" Sansa asked, not quite willing to move. "What's happening?"

"I don't know," the septa answered.

Just then, a man rounded the corner. He was armored in golden chains and a cloak, a City Watch soldier. His sword was drawn and bloody, and he was breathing heavily.

Sansa barely noticed Septa Mordane push her behind. She was too focused on the blade.

"Sansa, leave," the woman whispered.

But why? The City Watch was supposed to protect them. Someone must have attacked, and then had been sent to check on them. Maybe Joffrey sent them, or her father.

"What is going on?" Septa Mordane asked the guard. He did not answer. "I am a septa sworn to the Seven and I demand that you answer me."

The man said nothing. He walked right up to them, look her septa straight in the eyes, and shoved his sword through her abdomen.

She remembered the knight, Ser Hugh, and how he had died with a lance in his throat during the tournament; she remembered how proud she was, a highborn lady who did not faint at the sight of blood. It had almost been exciting.

Now blood covered her dress, her beautiful, green gown she had made herself. She had wanted it to match Joffrey's eyes.

The sword hovered just short of her hip. She could almost reach out and touch it, touch the blood. Septa Mordane's blood.

It vanished in an instant, and the old woman crumpled to the floor.

Sansa held a hand up. It was speckled with little droplets of red. Behind her shaking fingers, she could see the man, the member of the City Watch, glaring at her.

Why did you do that, ser? she wanted to ask. You're supposed to protect us.

But she remained silent, the perfect highborn lady, even as his hand reached over to her. He could have easily crushed her skull in his palm. Perhaps he would.

"Please…" was all she managed to whisper.

He only smiled.

Then she heard footsteps, a grunt, and suddenly the man was howling. Blood was pouring from between his legs. He dropped to his knees, hand freeing her from its grip. Behind him stood a woman, her lilac dress stained in his blood, and anger raging in her dark eyes.

It was Syrena.

Syrena, the handmaiden who had taken care of her sister, and now her, who gossiped about the other lords and found the perfect dresses for her complexion. Hands that had deftly plaited her hair were now wielding a knife, the handle changing positions in her fingers with ease.

She grabbed man by the collar, pulling him back toward her before ripping off his helmet. He was an ugly man, old with pox scarred skin.

"You're a pathetic man," she hissed, grabbing what little hair he had. "Does killing septas make you feel superior?"

If he had a response, the Dornish woman gave him no opportunity. Her knife sliced across his throat, and she held him there as he twitched and gurgled.

Sansa watched the blood pulse from his neck, staining the tile before her feet. She had always thought red was a handsome color.

When his struggles cased, Syrena dropped the man and spit on his corpse. She moved swiftly over to Septa Mordane's body, carefully sidestepping the pools of blood. Kneeling, she spoke something softly, resting her fingers gently on the woman's eyelids, before looking in her direction.

"Did he hurt you?"

Sansa shook her head, or at least she thought she had. Syrena crossed the distance between them, gently touching her face with her free hand.

"Did he hurt you?" she repeated, softly.

"N-no," Sansa whispered, glancing down at Septa Mordane. "She didn't do anything."

"No, she did not," Syrena replied, grabbing her hand. "Come with me, quickly."

They ran back to the Tower of the Hand, while sounds of fighting and screams chased after them. It was getting closer.

She took them to her father's solar, barricading the door behind them. Sansa watched the handmaiden work, barely grasping it all. Her eyes began to wander around the room, half expecting her father to be inside, but there was no one. His desk was unoccupied, with only some book lying on top.

Only once had she ever been inside. She was yelling at her father about something; she could not remember what.

Syrena crossed the room, mumbling something to herself as she ducked under the fireplace. Her hand felt around the brickwork, before the sound of a bolt prying loose caught Sansa's attention. A doorway had opened where she stood.

Arya had always gone on and on about the secret tunnels in the Red Keep, how Maegor the Cruel had built them in case his enemies surrounded him. He had killed everyone involved in making them, she said, so that no one would know the secret but him.

The handmaiden returned to her, dusting the ash from her hands. "Whatever happens, whatever you hear or see, Sansa, I need you to never leave my side."

Sansa blinked. "What do you mean? I'm…I'm not going in there."

"Yes, you are."

"But I live here! I'm engaged to the prince! I can't just leave!"

"Joffrey is the king now," Syrena spoke, moving to glance out the window. She did not seem to like what she saw. "Robert Baratheon has been murdered, and your father has been arrested. Trust me, you do not want to be here for what happens next."

The king was dead? And her father arrested? That could not be true. Robert was her father's best friend. He should have been the one searching for the killer.

"My father would not have done that," Sansa replied, watching Syrena move back to her side. "We have to tell someone. I can talk to the queen. She'll listen to me."

The handmaiden laughed, though there was no humor in it. "This was the queen's doing."

"No…you're wrong. She was married to the king, why would she do anything?"

She knew the look Syrena was giving her, like a parent listening to their child's foolish ravings and not having the heart to tell them what was really true.

But this could not be true.

Could it?

Syrena put her hands on Sansa's shoulders. "I know you're scared…"

"I'm not scared," Sansa replied, almost offended by the notion.

"Then you are a fool," the handmaiden said. "Your guards are dead, your household is dead, and your father is long past anyone's help. I vowed to your sister that I would look out for you, and I do not break my vows."

Something crashed outside the door. Another man screamed.

Syrena grabbed her hand then, pulling her toward the fireplace. Sansa took a breath, hesitating for one last moment. This was her life, her future, she couldn't just run away from it.

Was this why Myra left?

With another rough tug, Sansa was pulled into the dark tunnel. She followed Syrena through a myriad of tunnels, some impossibly large to go unnoticed, and others no bigger than a child. But the handmaiden never lost her way, guiding Sansa through the darkness, away from the keep and everything she had ever known.

The day had been so beautiful.


Jaime

Well, no one could ever say Stannis was not a man of his word.

Before tossing him in the smallest, darkest cell Dragonstone's dungeon had to offer, Jaime had been cleaned of all the muck and piss and whatever other ungodly things that he had been dragged through, albeit not pleasantly. Buckets of cold water and brushes that scraped the skin off his back still got the task done. It was an entirely miserable affair, but he had more important things to worry about.

Like being a fucking prisoner…again.

Robert always had been a useless king. Even his own orders were not enough to help him. Even if he wasn't in the right, Stannis should have sent him back to King's Landing to deal with his punishment there, but the Lord of Dragonstone seemed to have another idea in mind.

Funny that he left King's Landing. He was doing a damn good job at acting like he belonged there.

Jaime glanced around at his surroundings, what little he could see. He only had a torch outside his cell for light, and the flame was dangerously low. There was a piss bucket in the far corner, resting far too close to the straw he assumed was bedding for comfort. Other than that, it was all brick. Wet, cold, impenetrable brick. There was not even an opening to see outside, only the bars that led to the rest of the dungeon.

There would be no escaping, not unless Robert interceded on his behalf, or his father managed to burn Dragonstone to the ground. Honestly, neither seemed very likely. Robert would have no way of knowing he was there, and if his father stepped too close to Dragonstone, then all the Baratheons would be united, providing a painfully difficult crusade for even Tywin Lannister. Family first, after all.

Resigning himself to his fate for the time being, Jaime moved to sit on the straw, which was only slightly less comfortable than the scratchy rags that passed as clothes they had provided. He leaned against the wall and sighed, trying to think of better things as he stared at the dying light.

He must have slept at some point, because when he opened his eyes, the torch had been relit, the flickering flame highlighting the features of a young woman standing just outside the bars. She just stared at him, eyes dark, and face frowning, full of that solemnness that the North was known for.

Myra Stark.

She did not speak; she only stared. Her eyes bore deep into him, and Jaime felt himself beginning to chafe under her scrutiny. There weren't many people who could do that to him. His father, certainly, and Cersei, but there was something about seeing that look in the eyes of a young woman who had been so fond of him not so long ago that made him uncomfortable.

His sister would call it pathetic. He was inclined to agree.

"Funny, running into you here," Jaime spoke after the silence became unbearable. "Thought you might have had your fill of Baratheons."

Something akin to regret welled somewhere deep in his chest at the sound of her sharp intake of breath. Still, she said nothing, and he worked quickly to push the feeling aside, conjuring pictures of his brother at the Vale. She dared look down on him after everything her family had put Tyrion through.

"Did you know about Tyrion?" he asked. A humorless laugh escaped his throat when Myra briefly looked down, all the answer he needed. "Of course you did. Why else would you be on this forsaken island? Nobody likes Stannis Baratheon, not even Stannis, but your father needed him."

He stood then, slowly working his way to the bars of his cell. Even in the strained light, he could see movement behind Myra. No doubt it was Jory, the loyal fool that he was, desperate to defend his lady's honor, whatever she had left.

"Your father, the honorable Lord Eddard Stark, needed his own daughter to secure an alliance, because his wife captured the wrong man. How noble of him, sending a child to do his work."

Face to face with one another, the space of the bars the only thing separating them, Jaime could pick out the subtle changes in her expression. How her eyebrows twitched, how her gaze dipped ever so slightly, and how her lips pressed slowly together, holding back whatever it was she had come to say. That mask of hers was far from perfect.

"Did Stannis tell you? Surely he's heard by now. Tyrion was facing trial by combat. He had some sellsword defending him. He asked for me, but your mother and aunt, in all their wisdom, denied him that right. Had I shown up any later, they might have given me the courtesy of watching my little brother fall to his death."

Something changed in her face just then. Jaime had seen the smallest impressions of guilt appear in the cracks that had formed in that mask of hers, and then all at once, it vanished, replaced by something else, something colder. Suddenly, he was reminded of when she confronted the king, how she stood straighter and reminded him of how tall she actually was. She was going to say something, and damned be anyone who tried to stop her.

"It's almost poetic, isn't it?" she finally spoke with a sad smile. Her voice was hollow and sounded wholly unlike her. "You pushed my little brother from the tower, only to find yourself watching yours in the same predicament."

She paused, and that brief time of silence felt like an eternity to Jaime. He could feel everything he had tried to protect falling apart, a colossal, crushing weight deep in his chest, burrowing its way to the pit of his stomach.

Somehow, he managed to keep his voice even. "Is that something else your father decided to tell you?"

"I came to the conclusion myself, after Lord Stannis told me about the king's children," she replied, taking a breath and looking at her feet. Her hands were shaking. "How they're yours."

Jaime laughed, though there was no mirth in it. "You heard it from the man who stands to gain the Iron Throne if Robert doesn't have any trueborn heirs. I had always heard the Northmen were gullible but this-"

"Stop it."

She did not yell, not like with Robert, but there was something in the tone of Myra's voice that brought Jaime's to a halt.

Her lower lip began to tremble.

"I may not be very good at this highborn game we're all supposed to play, but neither are you, Jaime Lannister." He watched her take a breath, closing her eyes to hold it all in as that mask of hers began to crack again. "You think you're so clever, pretending you don't care, that all the world is something for you to slander or ignore because you're a Lannister, you're the Kingslayer, and no one in their right mind is ever going to think more of you than that. But you do care, I've seen it, and I've also seen how the more uncomfortable you are, the more you try to antagonize people, so don't you dare play that game with me."

Jaime blinked, vaguely aware that his mouth was hanging open. Some part of him, a small, desperate piece, wanted to lash out as he was prone to, playing right into her hands from the corner she had driven him to. But how had she? She did not know everything about him, far from it, but in one, anger-induced tirade, Myra Stark had admitted to knowing more about him than a great many people who had known him for much longer than her. He could not even pretend that she was wrong, that she hadn't burrowed deep under his skin and gotten to him; he was still desperately trying to convince himself that she had not been there already, staring at him with those eyes that always wanted to help.

Those eyes weren't there now, though. They were dark as she continued. "Say it."

There was that tone again, willing him to obey.

Jaime sighed. "I was the one who pushed the boy from the window."

The sound she made at hearing the truth was inhuman. It broke whatever mask she had left, allowing the tears to flow freely down her face.

"He is nine years old! All his life, he only wanted to be a knight, one of the kingsguard, just like you, and you took everything from him!"

Her voice had cracked as she shrieked at him, like a mother's wail. It was strange to him. He had heard the screams of the dying, the shouts of men in unceasing pain, curses and damnation from those who thought him no more than a soiled knight, the Kingslayer. Every action he had ever taken had only led to fear and anger, things he had hardened himself against long ago, but this was the first time he had been confronted with despair caused by his own hands, not from loss of men or a battle or limbs, but the deep-seeded misery that only came from causing harm to something truly loved.

He remembered the day he had pushed Brandon Stark out the window. It was as clear as the woman standing before him. Through all the commotion, as he attempted to distract people by calling for aid while Cersei had snuck away from the tower, someone shouted above the others. The crowd had parted, revealing Myra, pale and passed out in the mud, while a soldier tried to shake her awake.

It was only then that he realized the severity of his actions.

Avoiding everyone from then on had been easy. The royal family had been far removed from the chambers of the mourning, and he had managed to steer clear of all the others until they had left Winterfell. No one expected Jaime Lannister to give apologies for what happened to a child. That was not what he did, and he had been alright with them thinking that.

But now he could not even look away. He did not know what to do, and he did not know how much longer he could take it.

Myra, however, seemed to be done crying. She wiped her face with the sleeves of her dress and sniffed. "You know, I never thought Tyrion was guilty. I defended him before my father. I even defended you; I trusted you above everyone else in King's Landing."

Jaime closed his eyes. He just wanted her gone.

"Then you're a fool," he said.

She nodded, not saying anything, not even looking at him. Picking up her skirts, she walked away from his cell, the echo of her footfalls growing fainter and fainter. He barely noticed, too focused on that all too familiar stabbing pain in his chest.

It was only after he heard the sound of movement that he remembered they had not been alone. Jory had remained behind, and had now taken his turn to stare Jaime down. Even with his sword drawn, he was not nearly as intimidating. In fact, the scowl on his face made the pain all but vanish, and Jaime felt more like himself again, able to face this particular enemy.

Jory did not say anything. He only let his sword linger close enough that Jaime got the message: the only thing keeping him from death was the fact he was Stannis' prisoner.

And he had called himself pathetic.

Jaime took hold of the bars with both hands, resting his head between two. "You know…she's never going to fuck you."

The look on the man's face was more then enough to make him feel better about the whole ordeal.

But it was after Jory had left, when the torch had begun to dim again and the sound of the guards making their shift change had ceased, that his thoughts began to encroach on him again, wiping away that smug satisfaction he'd had too easily. He spent the evening thinking on little brothers, and what their older siblings would do for them.


Ned

He awoke once to darkness, and the pounding of his head. Someone was shouting in the distance, and then everything faded again.

The second time, it was still dark. He managed to blindly feel around for a bucket to empty his stomach into before losing track of time once more.

By the third time Ned Stark opened his eyes, a light had filled the space. It was neither sunlight nor moonlight, but the flame of a torch that had been lit. He watched the flames flicker as his eyesight struggled to get a grasp on things. The torch refused to stay in place, dancing around his vision until Ned closed his eyes again lest his stomach lose control.

He took long, deep breaths, regaining control of his body as he attempted to recall how he got into such a predicament. Glimpses of a bloody knife and the body of his friend managed to break through the pounding pain of his mind.

It was a cell, he realized. Probably the dankest, darkest, most hidden corner of the entire keep. Part of him was surprised he even made it this far, that he had not been killed on the spot, but another part figured this was still all part of the twisted plan, the trap that he had so foolishly walked into.

"I could almost pity you," a distinctly feminine voice spoke from outside his cell.

Blinking his eyes open, Ned turned his head. Though still difficult to focus on, there was no denying the blonde hair of the queen. She was dressed in the appropriate attire, something black, but it was too well designed, too immaculate for a woman in mourning.

Probably made ahead of time, Ned thought, grimacing.

Cersei stepped closer, looking down with a sneer. "You were a strong man once. Still are, from what I have heard, and now here you lie, covered in shit and vomit like the common filth. It's almost painful to see how pathetic you've become."

Ned ignored her, using what little strength he had to push himself against he wall into a sitting position. His head swam for a few moments, but Cersei seemed more than willing to wait for him to speak. Every moment of pain probably brought her joy. Even before everything had happened, he had known that much about Robert's queen.

He opened his eyes, looking at her, staring her down as best he could. For all her faults and indiscretions, Ned had never expected this much from her. She might have been a Lannister, but Robert was the king, and the realm had not been torn apart and bloodied beyond recognition only to have the royal line shaken up once more. It was too high of a risk.

Yet she had done it.

And here she stood in the aftermath, the glowing widow, smug and basking in her would be victory.

"You had him butchered," he spat, remembering Robert and how strangely calm his face had been.

She actually smiled. "Butchered. What a strangely apt term. After all, if you marry a lion to a stag, how else could it possibly end?"

"He was the king!" Ned shouted, anger drowning out the pain that still coursed through his body.

"He was a drunken lecher who spent more time hunting boars than actually ruling the kingdom. Do you think Robert found the money for his armies? Do you think Jon Arryn single-handedly held King's Landing afloat while Robert fucked every whore within its walls? I held every decree, my words were in every letter. It was my guidance and patience that maintained the peace. The High Septon should have crowned me instead."

Ned snorted. "You committed regicide out of jealousy?"

"Jealousy? You would see it as something so pathetically simple." Cersei rolled her eyes. "I was more than willing to wait out Robert. At his rate, he did not have many years left. But then you arrived. Your daughter stole his attention, your wife stole my little brother, and then you threatened my children."

"Your children," Ned replied. "Not his."

She smirked. "Thank the gods for that. Jaime is a much more suitable father. Talented, handsome, strong. My perfect half."

A silence fell between them. Cersei looked contemplative, but more peaceful than she had ever been since he had first seen her. It made his insides twist.

"I could have loved him once," she offered, playing with a strand of her hair. "After all, he was Robert Baratheon, the hero of Westeros, the king, and he would be all mine. Then as he took me on our wedding night, he whispered your sister's name again and again."

I loved Lyanna.

Promise me, Ned.

"Then he laid eyes on your daughter. My husband was an easy man to read, and I could see that look in his eyes. He thought his second chance at happiness had come, only now there were no Targaryens to ruin everything," she paused, looking over at him. "Had you actually managed to tell him the truth, he would have made her his queen, and while he fucked her over and over, drunk on his wine, calling out her aunt's name, you would only stand there and say 'It's an honor, Your Grace.' 'Very well, Your Grace.' 'How else might the Starks serve, Your Grace?' You should be grateful for what I did."

Ned closed his eyes, unable to bear the thought, or rather how accurate it might have been.

"That's the difference between you and I," Cersei continued. "I will protect my children, no matter who stands in my way, be it Stark, Baratheon, Targaryen. My children are all that matters in this world, and they will receive everything I have worked for."

She left him then, taking the one torch that had lit their conversation, burying Ned in darkness once more.


Myra

It was the first time she had been allowed to leave the keep. Perhaps it had been the break in the weather, or the different guards who stood by the doors, but they had let her depart for the cliffs without so much as a look in her direction when the sun rose that morning.

She had managed to leave without Jory by her side, though that was because she had sworn up and down she was not about to do anything that day, maybe write a letter or stare out the window as she had been prone to do. Lying was never something she enjoyed, but it had come to her much easier than she anticipated. It had been for some time, she supposed.

Free from the confining walls of the keep, Myra felt as though she could breath for the first time in days. Ever since she spoke to Jaime, her thoughts had not been able to leave her alone. She was angry at him, but somehow more angry at herself for letting him get to her. Crying like a pathetic little girl who needed a hug was not the way she wanted to confront the man who had crippled her brother, but what little walls she had built crumbled pathetically before him.

Some part of her had still hoped he was innocent, but upon hearing the words, she felt as though her very foundation had crumbled.

How dare he have so much power over her. How dare she let him.

He was right. She was a fool.

Myra looked up at the horizon, watching the ever-steady line, as the waves seemed to touch the sky. There was not a cloud to be seen, not a single wave that looked threatening. Gulls had taken to the air and in the distance, she thought a fishing boat or two could be seen drifting.

It was hard to believe this place was still the fearsome Dragonstone, though she knew if she turned around, the grotesque castle that made sailors steer clear of the area would be staring her down. Perhaps that was why the villagers chose to live on the far end of the island.

She wondered if the day was this fair in King's Landing. It probably was. The days liked to be warm and welcoming, if only because the people were quite the opposite. Arya would be playing with her swords again. Sansa would be sewing or taking a stroll through the gardens. And her father…

Her father would be trying to sort things out, while still waiting on word from her.

Myra took a deep breath. Stannis capturing Jaime Lannister would no doubt…complicate things. She was surprised he had even done so. The man had said himself, it would be difficult to prove Jaime had done anything. There's was probably more she did not know about. Not every Baratheon was ready to pour his heart and soul out to her.

She really was sick of Baratheons.

The wind made it difficult to hear the footsteps, but Myra managed to pick them up just as Davos came by her side. She had grown to like the man in the days that had passed. Her father would have as well, smuggling aside. He had paid his price and served more faithfully than many highborn men, and had a sense of honor that she had grown to miss. Stannis certainly had his honor too, but unlike his lord, Davos was not lacking in personality. He even had a sense of humor.

"I'd not recommend coming out here alone, my lady," Davos spoke, his accent thick. From Flea Bottom, he had told her. "The breeze can catch your dress just right, and then you're in for an unpleasant trip to the sea."

Myra glanced over the edge of the cliff, smiling to herself for the first time in days. "Is that why the guards let me leave? Hoping I'd disappear with the wind?"

Davos shook his head. "Begging your pardon, my lady, but I know for a fact that there are a good many guards who are hoping you don't disappear any time soon."

Unable to help herself, Myra laughed. Perhaps too hard, but she was in desperate need for some sort of happiness. Dragonstone had been nothing but misery for her. Perhaps Winterfell was the only place where she was allowed to smile freely and often.

Calming, she looked back to the horizon. "Is King's Landing this way?"

The Onion Knight nodded. "You've a good sense of direction, my lady."

"Oh, I doubt that very much. I know where the sun rises and sets, and that's about it."

"Still a good deal more than many lords and ladies I've spoken to."

"And how many have you spoken to?"

"Not many, I admit."

She smiled to herself again, enjoying a conversation that had no requirements of her, no baggage or weight resting on her shoulders. Just two people making small talk and enjoying the morning.

It was when Davos began to shift uncomfortably next to her than Myra knew it had all been too good to be true.

"My lady…there's news from King's Landing."


Myra Stark thought she had known anger. She thought she had suffered real betrayal. But the letter in her hands was proof that she truly knew nothing that happened in the world, and that she was only just getting a taste of the cruelty that awaited her.

She stormed through the halls of Dragonstone, too angry to speak or even think; she knew she had to go to the Great Hall, she had to speak to Stannis, but what words she would use were at a loss to her. Making it up as she went seemed good enough for her. Stannis seemed to approve of getting straight to the point and she was too fed up with everything to give a damn about anything else.

Jory stepped beside her at some point, his longer legs easily able to keep pace with her. She handed him the parchment without a word, allowing the queen's words to do all the talking for her.

"…King Robert murdered…Lord Eddard arrested…Your father would never do such a thing!"

Myra grabbed the letter back. "No, this is Cersei's doing."

"Why would the queen murder her husband?"

She suppressed a snort. Anyone who spent more than five minutes alone with the two could figure out that answer fairly quickly.

"My father must have figured out what Jon Arryn did. Robert either knew or was about to. It's the only explanation."

"This means Joffrey is king."

Now she did snort. "He's not my king."

There were no guards when she approached, but the doors of the Great Hall had been swung wide anyway. Gathered inside were at least a hundred people, perhaps more. Most appeared to be guards, while a few looked to be minor lords, those who had been on the island when they first received word. She wondered how long they had decided to delay telling her. It would not have been very hard.

At the center of the room stood the red woman she had seen before. In the sea of dark colors, she stood out like fire, tall and proud, her voice booming over the space like the thunder of their storms. Her hands held a crown, golden in color and shaped with little flames, and at her feet, Stannis Baratheon had kneeled.

"I declare Stannis Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm." She placed the crown on his head and knelt as Stannis stood. "Long may he reign."

The Great Hall boomed.

"LONG MAY HE REIGN!"

She looked at Jory, and he looked at her. They both knew Stannis was the rightful king, yet neither one of them felt inclined to bend the knee.


So, I hadn't realized I had set up two Stark/Lannister dungeon conversations until I was writing it but here we are. Oh well.

I mean, yes, I meant to do that. PARALLELS.

Alright, not sure how much Jaime/Myra interaction we'll get in the next couple chapters. I mean, there are only so many times she can visit the dungeon before it looks weird, but the big kickoff is coming up soon. Get hype! Or not, this is hardly Cleganebowl.

Thanks again!