Once more, sorry for taking so long. Been working on straightening things out in my life. I've deleted a few stories if you hadn't noticed. I've just really got to narrow my focus, and this is one of them.
I've also been working on my novel (more like trying and failing haha). I've been doing plotting and getting it ready to write for NaNo this year so I have been trying to pour a lot of my attention into that.
Anyway, enough about me. This chapter is kinda boring, but it's a big set up for things to come.
Enjoy!
Chapter Fifty-Eight
The Confession
Arya
She hated the Eyrie.
It wasn't like hating anywhere else. In King's Landing, she'd at least had her water dancing and Syrio. On the run, she'd always had Gendry at her side, and Hot Pie, and Jory. In Riverrun, she could easily outrun all the servants who tried to put her in dresses.
But there was no hiding in the Eyrie. It was cold and tiny and every movement she made echoed across the empty halls. When she wasn't locked up in her room, she was under guard, and stuffed into a dress so thick and layered that she could scarcely move.
And she wasn't Arya Stark anymore.
They'd gone and named her Brynna, the bastard daughter of Brynden Tully, sent to the Eyrie to keep her safe from the Freys. It was an ugly name, and reminded her more of Myra's direwolf than anything. But she played along anyway. She'd been Arry once, and Weasel. She could be Brynna too.
The moments she hated the most were when her aunt Lysa forced her to 'play' with her cousin, Robert. Sweetrobin, she called him, but she'd never seen a viler child. He demanded everything she had. Whenever she took interest in one activity, he made certain it became his, and cried and screamed until she gave it to him. The first time, she left him to it and he'd began to shake and froth at the mouth. Lysa had cuffed her for that. Niece or not, she'd have her thrown out the Moon Door if she harmed her son again.
Arya was rapidly beginning to hate this place more than Harrenhal.
The only thing keeping her from going completely mad were her late-night ventures.
Over the days they had been in the Eyrie, Arya had managed to sneak clothing into her possession, simple servant's clothes that helped her blend in around the kitchen. She'd memorized the route the guards took and when they changed shifts, taking advantage of the momentary disarray to sneak through the darkened halls.
The Eyrie was small compared to other places, but densely packed as well, halls circling around one another in ways that left her dizzy. She'd experimented several times, trying to find her way down into the lower levels, and had found herself at several dead ends or in the clutches of a night guard. But eventually, she found herself in the undercroft of the Eyrie, where a bare bones smithy was kept.
"Most of the work is done at the Gates of the Moon," Gendry had explained to her one night. They often snuck into the kitchens and kept warm by the fire. The servants didn't seem to mind, so long as they kept out of the way. "The one up here is too small to do any large pieces. I think it's here in case the castle gets surrounded. I've made a goblet or two, but mostly I've been doing heavy lifting for the steward."
"Must be nice," Arya said, pulling her knees up. "Everywhere we go, there's something nice for you. And I'm back to wearing dresses and pretending to be a lady."
"There's a lot of people out there who'd rather wear a dress and never have to work again."
"But that's not me."
The days began to blur together, a series of repetition. By day, she was Brynna Rivers, by night, Arya Stark. It scared her, the possibility of this going on for years. The Eyrie was hardly somewhere they could escape from. Even when they went to the Gates of the Moon for winter, they were in the middle of the mountains. There were only so many places to run, and nowhere to hide.
She felt trapped, and it was gnawing away at her, slowly yet surely.
"Is it true?" she asked another evening. Gendry was lying on a bench in the kitchens, pretending to be asleep, but she knew better. He always made a funny little sigh before drifting off.
"Is what true?"
"That you can't read or write?"
Gendry opened an eye, looking down at her on the floor. "Course it is. Not all of us were born in castles. Reading is rich people's business."
She hadn't thought about that before. For some reason, she'd always assumed everyone could read. It didn't make sense, but that was how she had viewed the world. She had watched people fight to kill pigeons and rats to stay alive, but somehow, she thought they could read too.
"I could teach you."
He laughed. She smacked him.
"I mean it! I could do it!"
"Arya, teaching requires patience and kindness."
"I can be kind!" she shouted as he laughed again. Syrio Forel hadn't been kind. Well, not in the way most people thought of, but she supposed water dancing was a little different from reading. "I'm serious. I could do it!"
"I've made it this far in life without needing it. I'll be fine."
She fell quiet, looking back at the fire. It hadn't been much, but teaching him was one more thing to get her through the nightmare she found herself in. At least back home, she'd had her brothers, and her father, and they'd let her get away with anything. What did she have here? What price was she paying to finally be safe?
She hated this place.
Behind her, Gendry sighed. "Alright, fine. I'll give it a go. But if you hit me, I'm quitting."
Arya bolted upright, grabbing her friend's hand and yanking him completely off the bench.
"What are you doing?!"
"Getting parchment and ink! I can pick the lock on Maester Coleman's door!"
"Oh, of course you can."
Sometimes, she visited the sky cells. The gaoler, Mord, was a dumb brute, but a coin or two got him to keep quiet. They hadn't managed to take all her money from her yet. They'd gotten Needle, but she would find it again. If she could get it back after running through a war, she could find it in this stupid castle.
The Hound was always sitting in the same corner when she arrived. Maybe he never moved. Even with the winds howling about him, she could still smell the stench on his body.
"Aren't you scared?" she asked, standing on a stool so she could see through the small bars on the door.
"No," had been his bored reply.
"Why not?"
"How the fuck should I know?"
Their conversations often went that way: questions with short, blunt answers. He never sound interested in her being there, but he never told her to go away either.
She didn't know what made her think of it, but Arya was seized by a curiosity one night.
"Before you left King's Landing, did you see my sister at all? Sansa. She has red hair and-"
"I know who she is, girl," the Hound barked. It was the biggest reaction she'd gotten from him the entire time they'd been in the Eyrie. "Your sister was playing at being a commoner. Found her running around Flea Bottom."
"Is she still there?"
"No."
Arya grasped the little bars, pushing her face as far in as she could. "Where is she then? Did Joffrey capture her? Is she dead?"
"Do I look like I'm with her?!" the Hound snapped, turning his gaze on her. His eyes looked wild. He may have sounded bored, but being in the cells was starting to get to him.
With a sigh, Arya retreated.
But after a moment, his voice followed. "She was headed to Dorne. That's all I know."
Dorne!
She'd never heard a sweeter word.
Tyrion
There was no sweeter drink in all the realm than his taste of bloody freedom that afternoon, not that he hadn't spent the entirety of it searching for one better. Dornish reds, Arbor golds, and Eastern mixes he could not hope to pronounce or guess the contents of. He'd gotten ill at least twice, but that hadn't stopped him. The idea of dying naked at the base of the Iron Throne, more wineskin that man, had become an appealing notion at some point in the evening, and he was currently giving it his all. One last hurrah for the god of tits and wine.
The moments after the Mountain's fortunate demise were a blur to him. He remembered laughing until he was nearly sick, and the ways his father and sister's faces contorted as they came to understand the reality of the situation. Mostly, he remembered that the sun felt too hot on his skin, an inconsequential detail that somehow overtook his memory of the event. He'd been overheating in the sunlight, sweat dripping from his brow, making his collar tight. They'd dressed him in fine enough clothes for the event, and he'd sweat straight through them.
After that, there were several naked women – or one incredibly flexible one – followed by a brief, and exceedingly sober, meeting with Prince Oberyn. The Red Viper of Dorne looked worse when he wasn't covered in blood. His wounds had swollen across his face and turned freakish shades of blue and purple; his right eye was completely buried in a mass of ripened skin, but he still had a wicked smile and an infectious laugh that had the entire brothel joining in.
"Did you ever doubt me, Lord Tyrion?" he'd asked, stretching his arms wide. Ellaria never left his side, dabbing him in ointments and touching him gently where she could. That was not a woman who had expected her lover to win.
"Yes," he had replied with a laugh that sounded more like a sob. "Yes, I did."
Oberyn had laughed then, only to flinch when Ellaria touched his cheek.
"Something changed while you were out there," Tyrion had mentioned, watching a frown tug at the prince's normally handsome features. "What was it?"
"Someone told me to stop."
Tyrion had thought about that line every so often since he'd left, in the moments between the laughter and congratulations, when his more rational side attempted to break through the merriment and drunkenness to remind him that he was by no means safe. But that was why he drank. Tyrion fucking Lannister needed one day of happiness in this forsaken city.
He was swaying back and forth in front of the hearth, uncomfortably nestled on the rug as he had lost the ability to remain upright on any piece of furniture, goblet smashed against his face as he finished off his wine while also attempting to hum a song about a bear and a maiden who was supposedly fair when his senses returned to him. Putting the goblet down, having embarrassingly realized that the wine had run out ages ago and he'd actually been occupied by the sound of his voice echoing back at him, Tyrion glanced about the room. It was nearly empty, though he recalled seeing several relatively familiar faces speaking to him and looking various shades of disgusted.
"Tell me, Jaime, have I scarred Myrcella for life?"
His brother was sitting in a chair behind him, looking more like a weary father watching over his child at play. There was an empty goblet in his hand, and a somber expression in his eyes despite the smile he produced.
"Nothing she won't recover from. On the contrary, Tommen found your antics positively hilarious."
"I shall make an excellent replacement for Moon Boy then," Tyrion replied, attempting to stand.
"We both know you can't stay here."
"I'm aware of tha-" The moment he'd straightened out, Tyrion was smacked with a wave of dizziness, so harsh that he didn't feel the impact of falling until he was well and truly on the ground. Flat on his back, Tyrion could not even turn to see Jaime now. "Suppose I die right now, what do you think would happen?"
"Cersei would have the Kingsguard toss your naked body into the Blackwater."
"And you'd let her?"
"After all the trouble you just put us through? Absolutely."
"Glad I could bring the family back together."
He wished he had another drink; he wanted to return to that stupor he'd been in most of the day. Now that his life was out of danger – the immediate sort at least – Tyrion found his thoughts wandering to places he'd rather not go, over his family, the complete betrayal of everyone…
Shae.
He'd called her name as that whore had ridden him; he'd asked her to call him a lion and she had complied, but it was not the same. She was mocking him, the Imp, the half-man who could do nothing more than be saved by his betters. He was no lion; he was no man. He was a blot on a page somewhere, likely to be stricken from its history when it suited his father.
Where could he possibly go from here? Jaime would undoubtedly take him back to Casterly Rock, but then what? Was he supposed to simply help his brother fumble through efforts to keep their affairs in order, once more left in his shadow? He'd had true independence in King's Landing, as the Hand and even as Master of Coin; he'd carved his story out in a way that would finally leave him recognized. For once, he could truly be proud of something that did not come from his name. So, of course, it had to be snatched away in the end. All good things that happened to him were.
And Shae…
Wherever she was, he hoped she was happy. He hoped she was enjoying her gold and whomever's cock she had been promised for testifying about him. She'd better be smiling and telling him that he was hers and she was his; she'd better be savoring every sweet moment of freedom, because when he found her, he was going to wrap his hands around her thin neck and squeeze the life out of her.
Yes, he really did need another drink.
Conveniently, Jaime had taken pity on his sad little state and joined him on the ground, shoving a full goblet into his hands the moment he helped him sit upright.
"Awfully brave of you to come down here," Tyrion said after taking a large swig of the bitter stuff. "Think you'll be able to get back up?"
Jaime snorted, the briefest smile tugging at his face. "Someone will find us eventually."
"Myra is not that strong."
"You don't give her enough credit."
His brother fell silent then, staring at the flames in the hearth. He almost looked like the man he used to know, the fire giving his hair a golden glow.
"I do miss the days before everything fell apart," Tyrion mused, taking another drink. "At least you weren't moping all the time."
"And you weren't accused of regicide."
"Ah, yes, that too."
"Things will get better."
"And when do you suppose that is?"
"I don't know."
Tyrion continued to watch his older brother. What did Jaime have to mope about anyway? He was about to leave this miserable place with his loving wife and handsome brother intact. The man should have been celebrating more than he was.
"Out with it already," he said, though Tyrion was suddenly gripped by the feeling that he would regret this.
Jaime looked at him, and Tyrion thought he might have been terrified.
Then he said her name, the one person who'd started him down this miserable road in his life, and Tyrion wondered if he was the first man to regret not being executed.
"It's about Tysha."
Cersei
To be a woman was to be in danger all her life. Danger from childbed or a jealous husband, danger from a cruel father or a man who simply decided she looked particularly satisfying. Her position as the daughter of Tywin Lannister had done nothing to alleviate it. No, it was amplified. She was power, and what man wouldn't want possession of it, either to kill or conquer.
When she became queen, the danger steadily increased. One wrong move, one wrong word, and everything would fall apart. Robert could whore and drink and spend the royal purse on every frivolity imaginable, but she was required to be perfect, and she had been. She was not one of mourn her position, no, she would use it to strengthen herself. She'd seen the danger and relished every moment of it. Jaime could play with his swords and Robert his whores, for she had held the realm in balance.
But she could feel the walls closing in now. For once, she did not dare take on the danger in defiance. It had an advantage, and was beginning to undo all the work she had accomplished.
All the terrible things in her life had started with Tyrion. She should have known they would come to a climax with him.
No, she had known. It was the ignorant men in her life who had refused to see otherwise. They were her undoing. Men always were.
Tywin was at his desk, as he always was, writing away his little letters as if the bedrock of the realm was solely composed of ink and parchment. It also demanded action, not cowardice, but even in her fury, Cersei knew better than to accuse him of such a thing.
"What are you doing?" she hissed, standing before him. Her father slowly met her gaze. What a tired old lion he was. "Joffrey's killer is walking free!"
"Tyrion was declared innocent in trial by combat. While unfortunate, there is nothing to be done about it."
"Nothing to be done about it!?" Cersei nearly screamed, throwing herself at his desk. "You are the great Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock. Your grandson lies rotting in a tomb and you would let his murderer walk freely around the castle because you're afraid of a few words?"
Her father did not flinch. "Those few words have held this realm together for centuries. The sanctity of guest rite has already come into question due to this pointless war. Were I to forsake the laws of gods and men that have been standing long before you or I, the kingdom would fall into chaos once again."
"Then rewrite the law."
"And I suppose when it no longer suits you, I should simply write it back?" Tywin replied with narrowed eyes and a ghost of a smirk on his face. He was only ever truly entertained when mocking his children. "The law must stand for something other than the whim of those who preside over it. Tyrion will hide behind Jaime, as he always has, and he will fade into obscurity, for which we should all be grateful."
"He killed my Joffrey!"
"Joffrey would have died early in his rule regardless, whether by another killer or even his own wife. He spent more time creating enemies than even his father did, a feat that might have been impressive if it weren't so idiotic," Tywin coolly rattled off, as if he was speaking to anyone other than his grandson's mother. He'd gone back to writing his stupid letters, choosing to consider his correspondence more important than her, as he always had. "There is no real proof that Tyrion actually did the poisoning, apart from his hatred of your son, and there is no shortage of suspects there. We will continue to look into these matters, but for the time being, there is nothing else to be done."
Cersei wanted to scream again. She wanted to pull out her hair and throw every trinket on her father's desk to the floor; she wanted to slam his head against the sanded wood until his blood began to seep into the grain. The Old Lion killed by the Lioness. It would be a story fit for song and legend.
But she was the queen. She was perfect, and perfection required that she not be the one to stain her hands.
Tyrion would meet his end, one way or another.
Calming herself, Cersei sat in the chair across from her father. She watched as he scribbled away the future of Westeros without counsel or consent. He hadn't called a meeting in some weeks, choosing to do most of the work himself. Every now and again, she'd see Varys flittering about the keep, but the halls were otherwise silent. Tywin trusted few people in life, fewer still in King's Landing. She'd never had his trust, but he would tell everything to Jaime. Jaime, who had never cared until some pretty young thing told him to. Tywin Lannister was handing control of half the realm to Myra Stark, and he couldn't see it.
"You'll need a new Master of Coin," she said casually, fingers grasping a lion pendant she'd kept on her person. Joffrey had worn it on his last name day. The ruby in the lion's eye had caught on the sun and glistened red across his skin. She should have known then.
She was not about to nominate herself for such a tortuous task, but she had suggestions. Men of an unscrupulous sort, who would bring gold back into the realm by force if need be. Digging themselves out of the hole Robert had put them in would not be easy, and it would not be kind.
"I have already named Garth Tyrell to the seat."
Cersei nearly cut herself, she grasped the pendant so tightly. "That old bag of wind? Your Small Council meetings will have to be cut short due to the smell."
Tywin looked unamused.
"He's a Tyrell," Cersei spat. "Surely there are enough flowers growing across the keep."
"He has been acting as seneschal for Highgarden since Luthor's time, and has managed to make it thrive, despite his nephew's best efforts."
Even Moon Boy could make Highgarden thrive next to Mace Tyrell's ventures.
"The Tyrells want power, and you're gifting everything to them," Cersei replied. She could not believe how foolish her father had grown over the years. Age was clouding everything.
"Of course, they want power. They would be fools not to," Tywin said, placing his quill down. "They are providing most of the food in the capital and the money to make up for your husband's spending. We're lucky that they aren't demanding more. If I were to deny them any sort of position, they'd leave us alone and at the mercy of the Iron Bank."
She nearly rolled her eyes. "Surely the Iron Bank can wait. They aren't exactly beggars."
"Yes, they could wait, and while they do, they will fund our enemies."
"And who are they to fund? Stannis Baratheon? He's ran to the North with his tail tucked between his legs."
"There are others they might find interest in."
He meant the Targaryen girl. She'd heard the rumors as much as anyone else. The girl had decimated slave cities across the East with her hordes of dragons and Dothraki. Baseless, superstitious nonsense. The last dragon had died over a century before, sickly and weak, and the Dothraki were mindless beasts themselves. They followed only the biggest brutes they could muster, and a Targaryen girl was never going to be one of them.
But she left the discussion at that. The Iron Bank could be a problem if any of the other houses decided to get any ideas. She could wait until the debt was paid, and then they would begin to prune the garden, one flower at a time.
Better the old hag's money than ours.
"There is one other issue to deal with."
"Is there now?" Tywin asked. The tone of his voice made her feel like a child again, asking ridiculous questions that he had no time to bother with. How she loathed that he still had this power over her.
"Myrcella."
Tywin sighed. "Her betrothal to Prince Trystane will stand."
"The Martells acted against the Crown to rob us of justice."
"Prince Oberyn does as he sees fit, with or without his brother's consent," her father said dismissively, though he did not pick his quill back up. He was watching her, tiredly. "He wanted an opportunity to publicly execute Ser Gregor, and that is what he got."
"If Tommen should die, Myrcella would put a Martell on the throne. According to their laws, she should already be queen. Why can't you see what is right in front of you?"
"Are you suggesting that they were waiting patiently for something to befall Joffrey, or worse, that they were actually complicit in his death?"
Cersei nodded slowly. It all made sense in the end. The Martells hated House Lannister and Baratheon. What better way to strike back at them than to end their claim to the throne entirely? They couldn't hope to win in a war, so they had to be cautious, the snakes that they were. Poison would be their weapon of choice.
"Tyrion is the one who engaged Myrcella to a Dornishman. He started the entire thing. So, he killed Joffrey, and gave them an opportunity. All they had to do was save him."
"And what exactly has Tyrion gotten out of this entire disastrous affair, other than keeping his head squarely on his shoulders?" Tywin shook his head, standing. He wasn't going to listen. "Dorne cannot risk a war. They would lose. Moreover, they'd never trust a Lannister, even one so twisted as your younger brother. You are grasping for answers to problems that have already been solved, and your attempts to do so will ruin what little peace we have managed to achieve. You will keep quiet about this."
Cersei flew out of her chair. "Then when they come for Tommen, I will deal the pain they inflict upon him tenfold upon you!"
There it was, perhaps the most insulting thing he could ever bestow upon her: Tywin Lannister smiled.
"Then it is a good thing they aren't."
Myra
She hadn't wanted to leave the brothers, knowing full well what Jaime was about to admit to Tyrion, but it wasn't her place. They deserved some amount of privacy, whatever could be afforded in a city as horrid as King's Landing.
So, she wandered. It was something she did often as of late, which was, perhaps, one of the more foolish things she could be doing given the circumstances. If they weren't in danger before, they certainly were now, but the knowledge that they would be gone within the week gave her some comfort.
And then what?
It was a question she had been putting off since they arrived, ignoring the inevitable. As long as they were in King's Landing, there was no future she had to tangle with, just a never-ending present that left her powerless and drifting.
But now the big questions were looming before her.
Casterly Rock. Winterfell. Riverrun. The remnants of the war. They were all things she would have to contend with in the coming months, if not years. She'd been able to lead a contradictory life thus far, but now everything was coming to a head. She was the Queen in the North and she was Lady of Casterly Rock, a Stark and a Lannister. There was no possible way that she could have both.
But she'd chosen Jaime. Winterfell was no longer hers, but she could not pretend that the suffering of her people meant nothing to her. Perhaps she was a Lannister now, but the North still flowed through her veins. The cold wind and thick forests and distant acres of bleak landscape were still home to her. Pretending she did not care was not something she could do. It went against every fiber of her being.
So what could she do? Without Margaery's aid, was she really left to hope for a son with Jaime? Even if she had a child within a year's time, the damage could be irreparable. Was she to take advantage of her husband's love and send his own troops to Winterfell to oust the would-be warden? The North would never accept that, and the houses would rally around Ramsay faster than they had come to her brother's aid.
Was she really meant to simply ignore everything?
I wish you were here, Robb.
He'd have no answers, but at least he'd make her feel better.
If only she'd stayed in Winterfell…
Myra flopped onto a bench overlooking the bay. It was a cloudless night and the full moon had turned the water into shimmering light. She could almost pretend that it was snow.
Would Casterly Rock get snow when winter finally came, or were they too far south? She knew next to nothing about the lands she was to be the lady of. That was another challenge she would have to overcome, but in the grand scheme of things, it was the least important.
Oh, what were they thinking?
"It seems you and I are destined to only meet in the gardens, my lady," a sweet voice spoke to her from the darkness. Varys appeared a moment later, robes glowing brightly in the moonlight. "Although I do hope you don't plan on taking evening strolls very often. King's Landing is frightfully dangerous at night."
"It doesn't appear to be much better in the daylight, I'm afraid," Myra replied, not surprised that she had been paid another visit by the Master of Whispers. With Tyrion's innocence proven, the board was beginning to shift. Pieces would be moving rapidly, and King's Landing would no longer be the center of everything.
"Yes, but I'd much prefer to see what is coming after me," Varys said, taking a seat beside her, his hands neatly hidden within his sleeves. "A knife in the dark is a terrible way to die."
So was a knife in the light.
In the back of her mind, her brother sighed.
"Dare I ask what terrible news you have brought me, Lord Varys, or should I have a moment or two of peace first?"
She thought the man might have smirked before his hands emerged with a simple piece of parchment. He handed it to her without another word, keeping a watch on the pathways around them.
The seal had already been broken, an entirely unsurprising detail, but what struck her was the plainness of it. Pure black, no sigil. The mark of the Night's Watch.
Her heart caught in her throat and her hands began to shake as she read the words, the moonlight so bright it may as well have been day.
There are too many words to say and not enough parchment. I have been gone and learned of Robb's death and your predicament on the same day. I wish I could have been there. I should have been, but this is my duty now. Wildlings are attacking the Wall soon, and there are too few of us to defend it. I should not ask you this – No, I won't. Take care, Myra. Stay safe.
It wasn't nearly enough words, but Myra had to stifle a sob anyway. Her brother was alive, at least when he had written to her. When had she last heard from him? Had he ever written to her after he went to the Wall? She'd forgotten. So much had happened, and her brother had been away from it all, helpless to stop it. Had any member of the Night's Watch been tested as harshly as him?
But what did he mean 'he had been gone?' Was he like Uncle Benjen? Had they both gone missing?
And what was this of wildlings?
The war had supposedly ended, yet everything continued to fall apart.
"My apologies for the state of the letter. Nearly everyone on the Small Council has had their hands on it at one point or another. It is a small miracle I was able to procure it at all."
"And I thank you for it," Myra replied, running her fingers over the parchment, her skin feeling the raised ink. Jon's handwriting hadn't improved since he'd left. He pressed too hard with the quill, and the ink tended to bleed. "What is this about wildlings?"
"I was hoping you could elaborate for me. We've gotten word from Ser Alliser Thorne as well as their maester detailing the approach of a horde set to take the Wall."
"What about Lord Commander Mormont? What does he have to say?" Myra asked.
"He has died, unfortunately. There was an expedition north of the Wall. I don't have quite as many eyes so far away, but rumor is he was killed by his own men."
Her father once spoke so highly of the Night's Watch. What a terrible thing he had done, convincing Jon it was honorable. He should have been with them, with his family.
But he'd be dead now too, a small voice spoke to her.
"The Small Council is convinced there is nothing to worry about. The Wall has stood for thousands of years and is more than enough to keep wildlings out."
Myra shook her head. "My brother is no liar. He's as honorable as our father. If he and the others say it can't be held, then it is the truth."
Varys nodded, his face grave. He'd clearly suspected as much. As he claimed to be a man invested in the safety of the realm, this news would not sit well with him, but the rest of the Small Council had probably already forgotten. The Night's Watch may have been neutral, but its men were northern as far as the South was concerned, and the realm did not care about what happened in the North. No one ever did. Robert Baratheon might have charged to their aid, but only because he missed the thrill of battle.
Would Ramsay Snow care? Would he aid the Night's Watch as the lords of Winterfell had for generations? Or would he laugh until his walls were surrounded by invaders?
The war, the coming winter, and now the wildlings. Her people were suffering greatly, and here she was, so far away, a traitor to all of them.
"There may be some good news," Varys spoke quietly, her face no doubt saying all the words her mouth would not. "My little birds tell me that Stannis Baratheon has gone north. At first, we thought it was to curry favor with the offended northern lords, but perhaps…"
"He's gone to aid the Night's Watch," Myra finished, allowing hope to rekindle in her chest. Whatever her grievances toward the man, if he could help her people, she would be indebted to him.
"That act alone may bring allegiance from some of the houses."
"Then so be it. Stannis is a man the North is better off following, a man of his word. If it keeps them safe, I hope they all bend the knee to him."
Varys smiled briefly. "That may bring war to them again."
"A southern army invading the neck at the cusp of winter? They'd freeze before they found a single village."
"Then I hope it is a long winter," Varys said, standing up, his hands finding their way into his sleeves once more. He began to shuffle away, only to stop at the base of the steps, lost in thought. "There is one last question I have…"
Even he seemed uncertain of it. How much stranger could things be than invading wildlings?
"Ser Alliser Thorne came here in person some time ago, claiming that the lord commander was attacked by a wight. He had brought an arm as proof, but it had long since turned rotten. Tyrion mocked him, as any lord would, but what do you think of these circumstances?"
Wights. A story told to her and her siblings time and again by Old Nan. They used to frighten her terribly as a child, but she had grown up and lost her fear of make-believe things.
Now she felt that fear grip her again. Who was she to deny such myths when she had seen the world through the eyes of another? Direwolves south of the Wall, wildlings attacking, dragons in the East? Perhaps all myths were truths to someone in time.
"Think what you will of the Night's Watch, but Lord Commander Mormont was a good man. My father spoke favorably of him often. He would never send a man down with such outlandish claims unless he believed them to be true," she replied, standing and walking to Varys's side. "I can't say if these wights are real, but something up there put fear into the heart of one of the North's strongest lords, and that must be taken seriously."
"I feared you would say as much," Varys replied, his voice sad. It was, perhaps, the most emotion she had seen from him. "There are too few now who take such threats into consideration. For the sake of the realm, I do hope the lord commander was mistaken."
Her rooms were empty when she returned, though a fire roared in the hearth. She expected Jaime was still with Tyrion. They'd promised to spend the evening in the younger Lannister's room, so as to spare her from anything misfortunate. She'd wished her brothers had been so kind. They only sought to drag her into whatever nonsense they had on their minds.
Myra sat in a chair facing the fire, and brought the parchment out again. She read the words over and over, searching for clues about…well, anything really. He still sounded like Jon, but had anything changed? Had he ever been hurt? Was his hair longer? Did his beard finally grow back out?
Had he killed someone?
She took those few words and held them close. Were trinkets all she was allowed to have of her family now? Sansa was gone, Jon was in danger, and Arya… Gods, where was Arya?
Myra jumped when something slammed into the door, hard and heavy. She thought the latch might actually break.
Tucking the letter away in her dress, she made her way over, slowly opening the door to reveal Tyrion. He'd collapsed onto the floor, and nearly fell completely over when the door was pulled back. At first, he looked around in confusion, baffled by his surroundings. But when his eyes fell on her, a harsh determination filled them, and a deep frowned pulled his face down.
"You," he barked, standing upright as quickly as a sober man might, but the smell of drink rolled off him. "I should hate you."
Tyrion staggered toward her, grasping her dress. "Before you, I was content. I hated my life, but I had found peace with it. And now…and now…you took the one thing away from me I thought I had."
His anger vanished in an instant, replaced by a boundless sadness. He appeared to her a child then, lost and alone in a world that knew nothing but cruelty.
Tyrion fell back, tripping over his feet. Myra rushed to him, only just getting her hand behind his head before he crashed into the wall.
The Lannister began to openly sob. "Jaime was supposed to be the one good thing that happened to me. He defended me; he would die for me. But he took Tysha from me. That bastard could kill his king, but he couldn't stop our father when I needed him the most."
Tyrion grabbed her arm, looking deep into her eyes. "I want to hate you, I truly do, but I can't. You are the only one who has given me the truth. You're a Stark, but you've cared for me more than anyone else in this family."
"Don't say that, Tyrion," Myra spoke softly. "Jaime, he-"
"I don't want to speak of him!" the Lannister shouted through gritted teeth. "He is not my brother!"
A sob shook his body, and Tyrion lost all ability to speak. Instead, he wailed, a high-pitched, mournful thing that made her chest ache. Myra took the man into her arms, rubbing small circles into his back as he wept. There were no words to be said, no comfort she could give to alleviate so grievous an injury. All she could do was hope that time would be kind to him.
When she glanced out the open door, Myra saw Jaime standing in the hall.
By the look in his eyes, he'd heard every word spoken.
.
.
.
Honestly, Myra needs to start charging these Lannister boys, the amount of free therapy she gives them is staggering.
Next chapter we are FINALLY going to leave King's Landing. May the plot commence!
