Hello everyone! Welcome to another chapter! Thanks so much to all who reviewed, favorited, and followed. You're all wonderful people. I appreciate you sticking with me so much. Thank you.

Small note on Syrena: Yes, she is a Sand Snake OC. And don't worry, more about her role will be revealed. A lot of roles have shifted since I started this journey, and this is just how the pieces decided to fall. Sansa, for instance, has a far bigger role in this story than I originally intended. I hope you guys don't mind.

Enjoy!


Chapter Eighteen
The Players

Ned

They came to him without warning, manservants dressed in plain clothes. In the light of their torches, he spotted rags and buckets of water.

The day of the trial had arrived.

He did not fight as they scrubbed him clean, stripping him of his dignity and treating him with far less care than a man would his horse. He had no doubt Cersei wanted his humiliation to be as thorough as possible. She'd have probably had him dragged into court in his current state if it weren't for the stench.

It proved how little she knew of him. He was a man born from war, who lost his father, brother, and sister in swift, successive blows. If the Queen thought a rough bathing was going to break him, she was certainly not as intelligent as she believed herself to be.

His hands bound, a city watchman half dragged him through the dungeon. Ned marveled at the distance they walked, wondering how far the space truly extended. Given the Red Keep's history, he had no doubt it was once filled to the brim with prisoners, hostages, and the like. Some grim part of him predicted it might very well end up that way again.

The natural light that met his eyes as he finally stepped free from the darkness was blinding. Ned paused for a moment, hands blocking his view, but it was far too long a wait for his guard.

As a testament to how long he had been kept in such wretched conditions, it took the guard but one swift yank on the rope binding his hands to pull Eddard Stark off his feet and onto the floor. It was a sad reminder of how far he had fallen in so short a time.

"Get up," the guard barked, as if he was somehow intimidating. Ned met his eyes, a cold sort of defiance growing in him, one he had not felt since his youth when Targaryens reigned and his friend was neither king nor dead. This boy in armor would know that it was not some common peasant he thought to frighten, but the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.

Ned stood slowly. He was taller than the boy, yet the guard looked neither intimidated nor impressed. Perhaps they had both seen better days.

"Move," the boy said. Ned simply looked at him. He could not have been much older than Robb.

Robb, his eldest son, alone at home with his younger brothers, acting Lord of Winterfell. He had no doubt in his mind that the boy had called the banners. Although Ned wished he would not, he could not deny that the boy was right to. Had he not done so when his own family was here in King's Landing, in this very same predicament?

Were his children doomed to live the past he had tried so hard to forget?

"I said move," the boy continued, moving his hand as though he were about to slap him across the face.

A gloved hand, however, caught him by the wrist, thus avoiding further embarrassment on Ned's part.

"That's enough." Ser Barristan Selmy spoke quietly, but with an authority that brought the boyish nature out in the guard. His eyes widened, and his mouth dropped open with an audible 'pop.' All the guard could do was nod as Barristan took up his role.

"Give them a little power and suddenly it makes them all lords," Barristan noted as he watched the boy leave. "Wish I could say it was never like this before, but I'm a terrible liar."

Ned straightened himself. "You shouldn't speak to me like this. You guard those who accuse me, after all."

"And I will continue to do so until I draw my last breath," Barristan replied, glancing briefly in his direction. He looked resplendent in his Kingsguard armor, white cloak shimmering in the early morning light. A far sight better than himself, Ned was sure. "That does not mean I cannot believe my own truths. There are those of us who know that what you stand accused of is nothing more than a lie to keep these events in motion."

"I don't suppose any of them are going to be witnesses at the trial," Ned spoke, his humor making a rare appearance. He always had been better at it when his life was on the line.

"Afraid not, Lord Stark," Barristan said. "You're quite alone in this place."

Strangely, the thought was a comforting one. It meant his children were far away, and could not be used against him, or their brother should he decide to do something. If he had to die alone in the South for their safety, he would declare his guilt for the entire kingdom to hear.

Ser Barristan was ever the noble knight, allowing Ned to freely walk to the throne room, while he stood at his side. Though his hands were still bound, his lead had been cut, allowing him some dignity as he entered.

A hundred faces he did not know turned to him at once. Young lords and ladies whose fathers and grandfathers he had once met, fought beside, or even against, watched him with accusing and bemused eyes. Guards stood in silent vigil on either side, looking at anything but him as they held the line between the accused and the gallery. And at the end of it all sat the Iron Throne, and the lions he was to be thrown to.

Joffrey, whom he supposed had been crowned king since he was locked away, was seated on the Iron Throne, looking more a boy than ever as the seat of authority threatened to swallow him. Cersei was to his right, still dressed in black, though a large, red lion had been embroidered on the bodice of her dress. The smug look on her face only diminished slightly upon realizing he wasn't been dragged into court the way she would have wanted.

Ned took some small satisfaction in that.

To Joffrey's left, however, was an unexpected sight. Janos Slynt, the Commander of the City Watch, had taken up a seat of honor. His grin was possibly more unbearable than Cersei's.

Barristan returned to his place beside the boy king, leaving Ned to stand alone before the throne. They had not even placed pulpits for the witnesses. No one expected this trial to last long.

"Lord Eddard Stark," Joffrey began, looking far too comfortable in his seat of power. He hardly seemed like a boy who had just lost his father. Although, Ned supposed Robert had never been much of a father to him or to any of his supposed children. There was a bastard girl in the Vale he had taken to once, long ago when she was his first child, but like most things, his interest had waned. "You stand accused of regicide, for the murder of my father, King Robert Baratheon. How do you plead?"

Ned looked at the three people staring down at him. What a farce this was.

"Am I to be tried by my accuser?" he asked, looking between Cersei and Joffrey.

The Queen smirked. "You are accused by Ser Boros Blount of the Kingsguard."

Of course he was.

"And what of this man?" Ned motioned to Janos. "Am I not to be judged by a proper lord?"

The commander's face reddened at the slight. "I have been granted Harrenhal's seat, for my role in ending your traitorous schemes."

For his role in slaughtering his household, more like. What sort of man took pride in butchering servants and septas?

Cersei's smile grew. "Lady Whent relented the castle to my father some days ago."

Ned thought to end it there, to just let them be done with it all, though he doubted they would actually execute him right away. With his daughters gone, Cersei had no one to hold the North at bay other than him. But Ned was no fool. No scenario was going to end with him walking away, not even if he requested trial by combat. If he was fortunate enough to survive fighting one of the Kingsguard, there was no doubt in his mind a knife in the dark would find him at some point.

Gods above, he really had become the paranoid sort. Unfortunately, far too late for his sake.

He straightened himself, determined to see this through. Perhaps he would play this game.

"I am not guilty of the crimes I am accused of," he stated, looking Cersei in the eye. "Begin your trial."

Hour after hour, witness after witness, it was all the same. Men and women paid or frightened into testimony wove tales of Lord Stark's jealousy toward Robert, of how he desired the throne and regretted allowing a man such as his friend to not only take it, but defile it by how he governed his people. And though Cersei never spoke, every word came from her mouth. He could hear her voice, sweet and vile, uttering the syllables. How proud she must have been.

He bore every accusation with little more than a look, focusing rather on remaining standing as his energy waned. His eyes stared at the top of the Iron Throne, barely glancing the blonde hair of the boy king beneath. It reminded him of the first time he entered the keep, only to find the Mad King dead and Jaime Lannister seated on the throne with about as much care as his son took now.

The man was likely out in the Riverlands at that very moment, burning them for what they had done with his brother. King Robert may have ordered Tyrion free, but Ned never expected Jaime to follow through on anything else. Undoubtedly word had spread about the king's demise, thus Tywin was free to do as he wished.

His attention only returned to the trial when Littlefinger took the stand. He expected nothing good from him either. A 'friend' of Catelyn's he may have been, but Lord Baelish stood to gain everything from dragging his name through the mud.

"Lord Baelish," Joffrey started, sounding no less enthusiastic than when they started. "What can you add to the accusations that the court has not heard yet?"

The way the man looked at him sent a chill up Ned's spine.

"Your Grace," he said with a bow. "While I do not doubt the validity of the accusers, their solemn belief in what they say, I would say that I do not believe Lord Stark committed this crime for the reasons given."

There were murmurs in the crowd. Ned felt his hair stand on edge.

Janos sat up in his seat. "Do you claim Lord Stark to be innocent?"

"Of course not, Lord Janos," Littlefinger said with a smirk. "I do believe that he murdered our good and gracious king, but not out of jealousy. Northerners aren't prone to these sorts of things, not for anything south of the Neck leastwise. No, his motivations are far simpler. It was anger that moved his blade, betrayal, a father's fury."

No.

He could not.

"We all know how his daughter, Myra, resembled the late Lyanna. And, no offense to you my Queen, how he still pined for his long dead betrothed."

Cersei could only nod, her sadness a pale mask. Ned could see the scheming face she barely hid beneath. "It is true. My husband often wished she were here instead of me."

"A poor choice on Father's part," Joffrey added.

Littlefinger nodded. "The girl knew she could trust me. After all, I am a good friend of her mother, and she had no one to turn to in her time of need. Her father, she warned, would never understand, and would no doubt take his friend's life if he ever knew. She hoped I could smooth things over."

"What is this?" Ned asked, his voice rising. "What are you doing?"

"The accused will remain silent," Joffrey spoke, his voice echoing across the chamber. "Unless spoken to directly."

Littlefinger was smug as he looked at Ned. "Forgive me, Your Grace, but King Robert was a lonely man, in his own mind, and Myra Stark is…a naïve soul. She didn't want the crown, only him."

"That is enough!" Ned shouted, blood boiling. He took a step forward, only to meet the ends of swords from the City Watch. Ser Barristan descended from the dais to stand beside him. He met his eyes briefly; he knew the truth. But they would never allow him to take the stand.

"Ser Barristan," Cersei called out. "The next time Lord Stark speaks, gag him."

"I advised the girl to end it," Littlefinger continued. "The King never would on his own. But she claimed to love him, and that forcing her away with Renly would only break her heart. And then…she asked if I could procure Moon Tea."

"ENOUGH!" Ned bellowed, his voice carrying throughout the room, silencing whatever murmurs had started because of Littlefinger's accusations. In the far corner of the room, Varys turned to leave.

This was his daughter, his sweet, precious child, who had done nothing to earn the ire of every person in this very room. Her only crime was to look like a dead woman, and all she had ever done was attempt to rid herself of the comparison. Now, they would bury her with it instead.

He had failed her at every turn since they arrived in King's Landing, and he had failed her in sending her away. Ned did not even know if she had managed to return home. She was lost much like his other daughters. But in this, he could not fail her, he must not.

"If it's my confession you want, you have it!" Ned shouted as Barristan held him back. "I killed Robert Baratheon!"


Sansa

She watched a rat scurry across the floor. It nibbled at a piece of bread that had fallen from the table the night before. The first time she saw one, Sansa had shrieked, and Syrena had held her mouth shut for fear of what her screams might bring. But in the end, no one came. No one cared.

In Flea Bottom, everyone ignored you.

Sansa had curled up on her bed, which was little more than some hay on brickwork, elevated from the floor just enough that she considered herself a little safe from the rats. Her feet were tucked inside her dress, the very one she had been wearing the day she escaped. Syrena had brought her 'proper clothing' for Flea Bottom, but Sansa could not bring herself to put the rags on. The thought alone made her want to cry.

The rat had grown comfortable enough with its surroundings to sit up and eat its food.

She tossed a bit of straw in its direction, watching as the small creature panicked briefly before investigating the new object.

A small blade flew across the room and embedded itself in the rat's chest. The thing didn't even cry out before it died.

"Don't play with the vermin," Syrena spoke, walking to the dead creature to retrieve her weapon. Her dark eyes locked with hers as she knelt down, but Sansa resolutely stared through her. "Still not speaking?"

Sansa blinked. Syrena sighed.

She had cried for days straight, and lost all track of time. The days were hot, the nights freezing, and Syrena was not even in the tiny hut she had forced Sansa to stay in half the time. Someone could have come in at any point and taken her away, and still her sister's handmaiden insisted this was the safest place.

Safe? What was safe? At least in the Red Keep, she would have been warm and given good food, not some lumpy bread that only the rats seemed to enjoy. She could bathe there and sleep in a comfortable bed, and her father was there, somewhere. He would have spoken to Joffrey, surely, and cleared everything up by now. He might even be searching for her at that very moment.

Of course, when she brought these ideas to Syrena's attention, the handmaiden only scoffed. Her father was in a dungeon, she said, and Joffrey was going to put him on trial.

Sansa refused to believe her.

"You're going to have to speak again at some point," Syrena said, gathering up her things. She put a scarf around her head, and hid a few blades in parts of her dress. "Your sister is still missing, but I have heard rumor about a little boy with a fancy blade running around. Might be her. I will return at nightfall."

And then she was gone.

Sansa stared at the doorway a moment, listening to the sound of people traveling to and fro outside the hut, before sitting up.

She moved slowly to the door, which was barely solid wood, filled with cracks anyone could look through. It was through one now that she glanced outside, though there was not much to see. It was an alleyway, or perhaps just a really narrow road. She didn't know how things worked in Flea Bottom.

Two equally decrepit doors sat on walls across from her, and in between them, a man tanned from years in the sun. He wore ragged clothes and shook a cup at any person who passed by. Several of his teeth were missing.

Sansa nearly screamed when his gaze turned to the door and somehow locked eyes with her. She pressed both hands to her mouth and closed her eyes, willing him away. There were never such dreadful people in the Red Keep. Just beautiful ladies in pretty dresses and knights whose armor shone in the sun.

How could anyone think this place was preferable?

The man was back to shaking his cup when she dared to glance out the door again, but in the back of her mind, he was still watching.

She'd had enough.

In a moment of pure frustration, Sansa ripped open the door to her sanctuary and bolted outside. Immediately, the man stood up to her, shaking that cup and grinning. He was drooling all over himself and smelled of something putrid.

Sansa did shriek then, pushing past him and down the alley. All about her, men and women dirtier than she thought possible turned to look at her, their gazes frightening. Some were laughing, others grabbed at the hem of her dress, but she moved too fast for any to get a solid grip. They shouted after her, terrible words that her mother and septa had warned against.

For a brief moment, Sansa thought to turn back and return to the place she knew. As wretched as it was, it was also familiar. But as soon as she turned her head to look back down the alley, Sansa knew she was lost. In her terror, she had turned this way and that, and had lost the path. All the doors looked the same, all the people the same terrible kind.

How big could Flea Bottom be?

Would she be stuck here forever?

A small figure barreled into her, knocking Sansa into a nearby stall. Fearing the worst, she began to hit at whoever it was, until they started to fight back, screeching in a voice that she was all too familiar with.

Sansa grabbed the wrists of what she had at first thought was a little boy, only to recognize the gray eyes staring back at her.

"Arya?"

Her little sister ceased her struggles. "Sansa?"

"You're covered in dirt."

"You're covered in blood." Arya paused. "Is it-"

"Septa Mordane…she…"

Sansa could not finish the thought.

They embraced then, clinging to each other as if their lives depended upon it. Sansa could not remember the last time she had hugged her sister, genuinely that was, not because their mother or father had forced it upon them as some form of punishment. But right now, Arya might have been the greatest thing she had ever set her eyes on.

She could barely recognize her sister anymore, in her leggings and dirtied tunic. Her face looked as if she had found a puddle of mud and had rubbed it all over her. But somehow she had kept that stupid little sword of hers, the one she said Jon gave her. She wondered if that made her feel safer down here.

"You should come with me," Sansa said after they released. "I'm going back to the Red Keep."

Arya shook her head. "I'm not going back there. They killed Syrio."

"Who cares about your dancing instructor, Arya? We don't belong out here. We're the daughters of the Hand of the King."

Her little sister stood suddenly, her eyes widening. She always looked like that when their mother called her name, usually because she had forgotten to do one of her chores; she preferred to spend her time shooting her bow and making their brother jealous.

"We have to go."

"What do you mean?"

"Father!" Arya shouted, offering her hand. "They're taking him to the Sept of Baelor."

Despite her small frame, Arya pulled Sansa up quickly, darting away as soon as her sister was stable on her feet. Sansa groaned and ran after her, suddenly forgetting that she was still in the most horrible place she had ever been to. She was in Winterfell, for all she knew, chasing down her sister after she broke something, again.

The crowds were thinning, and people paid less and less attention to the young woman dressed in fine clothing. They were more concerned with the bells tolling in the distance and the gathering crowds at the far end of the street.

In the distance, Sansa could make out the Red Keep towering over the small households. The mere sight of it was a comfort to her.

They ran to the edge of the crowd, where Arya immediately climbed a statue for a better look. Sansa watched her, on edge as she was left alone again. Even if she wanted to climb, which she didn't, her dress would never allow for it, leaving her amongst the commoners.

Above the crowd, on the large steps that led to the sept, Sansa could make out the Queen and Joffrey. Both looked wonderful in matching red themed outfits, but Joffrey stood out more with the golden crown seated upon his head. He was the king now, she remembered. His father had been murdered. And her father…

He stood below them. For one brief moment, her heart soared, Sansa fully believing that he was about to be pardoned for a crime he had clearly never committed. But then she saw how he stood, so weakly, and with his hands bound.

And then one of the guards forced him to his knees.

No.

They couldn't.

What were they doing?

Her father was the Hand of the King! Robert's greatest and truest friend! He had fought alongside him, fought for the kingdom; he was to be Joffrey's father by marriage to her! This was wrong. All wrong. It wasn't happening; it just wasn't.

"No, they can't!" Arya shouted, grabbing her little blade and diving into the crowd.

Sansa did not follow. No, she did the opposite. She backed away, far away.

This was wrong. All wrong. Joffrey would never. He couldn't.

But he was.

"Lord Eddard Stark has confessed to the murder of my father, Robert Baratheon!" Joffrey shouted, his voice echoing across the courtyard. How sweet it has sounded to her once. Now it screeched in her ears. "And for this heinous act, I will have his head!"

Sansa watched Ser Ilyn Payne climb the steps, her own family sword in his hands.

No.

Please.

"Foolish girl!"

A cloak was thrown about her shoulders, made of scratchy, tan fabric, hiding the colors of her dress. Syrena appeared at her side, dark eyes on fire.

"I told you to stay!" she shouted, shaking her shoulders. "Where is your sister? I saw her. Where did she go?"

Sansa barely noticed the woman, her eyes fixated on the steps.

"They can't…they…"

Syrena looked to the steps, and tried to turn her around. "We have to go. You mustn't look."

"We have to help him, please."

The handmaiden grabbed Sansa's face between her hands, staring deep into her eyes. "Listen to me, Sansa. We cannot save him. No one can."

Tears were stinging her eyes. That couldn't be true. It just couldn't!

Her father was the Lord of Winterfell! She was the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms! It just could not be true!

And then she heard the swing of a sword, and the frenzied cries of a bloodthirsty crowd.


Myra

There had been a time when Myra thought she had gotten her father killed.

When she was four and ten, Ned Stark took his daughter out for a late day ride. Robb had pouted like the young boy that he was, but upon hearing from their father that he was in charge of Winterfell while they were gone, he had straightened and done his best somber impression of a lord. He had looked rather silly to Myra, but she did not tease him for it, if only because their father had been there.

They had ridden quietly through the dense forest, allowing their horses to gently pick their way through the brush, speaking of this and that. There was no particular reason he had taken her out that day, other than to spend some time with her. With six children, she imagined it was difficult to get alone time with any one person, her especially, since Robb was practically attached to her at the hip.

She could not recall who had suggested it, but the memory of her father's wicked smile made her believe he was the one to bring up a race. It was one of the rare moments in which he spoke freely about his siblings, and how they had once charged through the forest, reckless and prideful. Of course, Brandon never won. He was a large man and his courser equally so. The Wolfswood was not made for their kind. But Lyanna and her palfrey could navigate through the winding soldier pines as though they were born amongst the trees.

Ever eager to take advantage of a light-hearted moment with her father, Myra had surged forward on Tempest. For once, she did not mind the idea of being like Lyanna as she tore a path clean through the Wolfswood. Branches full of needles whipped across her face and stuck to her hair as she flew across the moss-covered stones, but they may as well have been feathers. She noticed none of it, only the surging satisfaction as she burst free of the tree line, the clear victor.

Turning to face her skilled opponent, Myra was surprised to see her father was nowhere behind her. Briefly, she thought to be upset with him, as though he had purposely lost because that was what fathers did for their children. But the time dragged, and still he did not appear.

When his horse, rider less, cleared the trees, Myra panicked. She turned Tempest about, storming back into the Wolfswood.

"Father!" she had cried, scanning the greenery for any sign of his cloak. "Father, answer me! Father!"

Was it wrong to pray to the old gods and the new, she wondered? Would it not just mean double the help?

Eventually, she found a dark figure rising from the brush, a little worse for wear but relatively undamaged. She was so excited by the revelation that her father was well that she jumped from her horse into his arms, thus returning Lord Eddard Stark to the brush whence he came.

Her father had groaned from the impact, but it quickly melted into a deep chuckle.

"Let's not tell your mother about this one."

She could look for him now, call his name until her voice was hoarse, by Myra knew she would not see her father. Not on the waves of the Narrow Sea nor in the cool shade of the Wolfswood. She'd not hear his deep laughter nor feel the warmth of his embrace again. He was nothing more than the memories she cherished.

Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, was dead.

They'd had the gall to tell her in the Great Hall like some grand announcement. A trial was mentioned and a confession, but all that stuck to her was his manner of death: a beheading, with his own family sword.

She had sat in the godswood with her father as he cleaned Ice many a time, as had Robb and Jon. Both boys had tried to pick it up on multiple occasions, failing at every go. Myra liked to think it wasn't because of their lack of strength, but that the sword simply did not wish to be held by them. It had an otherworldly feel to it, as though it were alive, at least to her.

Now those memories had been tainted by her father's blood.

Myra had said nothing to Stannis, or any of the others who may have questioned her. She simply turned on her heel and left the room, cold and alone. There were no tears; there was nothing. Just…nothing.

She had seen this coming, had she not?

Jory had taken his place beside her as they stood on the cliffs of the island, gazing over the sea. There was no godswood in Dragonstone, no weirwood whose red leaves she could take shelter under; there was only the gloom of the castle and all those who resided within. So, the outdoors would do, where no one could see her face or hear the words she spoke.

"You have to leave, Jory," she said, voice deeper than she recalled.

Her guard must not have been paying close attention, for it took him a while to respond.

"My lady?"

"Lord Stannis wants me to remain on Dragonstone. He cares not what you do," Myra replied, turning to face him. She wondered if he looked older, or if it was the angle of the sun. "You could take his terms to Robb. His ravens will never find the war camp."

Jory Cassel was not a man who disobeyed. He had followed her father faithfully most of his life, questioning none of his motives, and giving no reason to doubt his loyalty. But in that moment, she saw a spark in his eyes.

Defiance.

"My lady, I cannot. I will not," Jory practically spat, the words difficult. "I swore to your lord father that I would protect you, and I cannot do that from across the kingdom."

"My father is dead!" she shouted. Myra quickly wiped away a tear that dared to escape down her cheek. "My father is dead, Jory, and you are released from whatever vows you may have made to him. Now, you must go to Robb and give him whatever Stannis asks of you."

Jory shook his head. She knew she was hurting him, and it brought her no pleasure, but this was the only way.

"Do you not serve my household, Jory?" Myra implored, watching his struggle. "Will you not listen to me as you did my father?"

"My lady, I-"

Myra reached out, softly touching his hand. "I need you to trust me."

That seemed to calm him. Jory took a deep breath, meeting her eyes and nodding. Defiance was replaced with fierce determination.

He stepped back then, unsheathing his sword and laying it at her feet before he took a knee.

"Lady Myra, I am no southern knight, but my words are no less true. I pledge to protect you, to counsel you, and to carry out your orders. And if my death is required in order to perform this duty, then so be it. I swear this by the old gods."

The young woman in her smiled at his neglect of the new gods; the lady who was Myra Stark stepped forward and offered her hand.

"Jory, you are far greater than any knight could hope to be, and I vow to you that you will always have a place in my home and a seat at my table, and that I will never ask of you anything that should cause you dishonor. This I swear to the old gods."

He stood, sheathing his sword. "What would you have me do, my lady?"

"When you take Stannis' missive to my brother, give him a message from me."

Myra looked back briefly at Dragonstone. Its standards had been changed. The stag of House Baratheon, once free, was now enclosed in a flaming heart, the work of Melisandre and her strange religion. Beyond the castle, a fleet had gathered in the port, ready for an invasion. The images were foreboding, and yet they did not frighten her. She had found a calm amidst the chaos.

This was not the first time, nor the last, that death would change her view upon the world.

"Tell him not to bend the knee. Tell him the Starks bow to no king."


And thus we finally, FINALLY come to the end of season one. Phew. What a journey.

Jaime Lannister will be back next chapter, and should be in every chapter from now on. There are just so many POVs I can write of sad men staring at cell walls.

Have a wonderful evening! Or morning! Something! Thanks for reading!