The Songs of Winter | Robb Stark

Chapter 8

Aida Stark

I sit curled up on the cold, stone floor of the cell, my legs drawn tightly to my chest as I stare blankly at the tally carvings Tyrion has etched into the wall with a piece of rock. He's been here for two months now, while I've only been here a fraction of that time. Yet, it feels like a lifetime. Each passing day drags on, the reality of my future in King's Landing growing more ominous with each sunrise. The more my stomach swells with the life growing inside me, the less time I have, making my time here feel even more desperate. Once this baby is born, they'll seize the first opportunity to execute me.

Every week, I endure ten lashes, each session more excruciating than the last. The new wounds overlap the old, which haven't even begun to heal. The pain is relentless, a constant reminder of my grim fate.

Lost in my sorrow, I am jolted from my thoughts as the door creaks open. The guards return, dragging Tyrion back from his morning trial. I fear that Tyrion is the only thing in Kings Landing keeping me sane because despite the bleakness of our situation, Tyrion's chatter has been a small solace, a distraction from the horror of our imprisonment. He claims his incessant talking is to take my mind off things, but I suspect he simply enjoys the sound of his own voice. From the tales he's shared, it seems unlikely he'll escape this place, especially with Cersei's animosity.

The guards unlock Tyrion's chains, leaving him with a clank as they close and lock the cell door behind them. Tyrion rubs his wrists, a pained expression crossing his face as he walks slowly to his usual spot on the floor. His shoulders are slumped, and he appears deep in thought, his usual witty demeanor replaced by a somber air.

Noticing his silence, a pang of concern grips me. "Tyrion," I whisper, my voice hoarse from lack of use. "What happened?"

He looks up at me, his eyes tired but kind. He picks up a cup of water from beside him and stands, crossing the cell with deliberate steps. "You need to drink some water," he says gently, handing the cup to me. "Your mouth is dry."

I almost refuse, the thought of accepting anything from this place feeling like an act of surrender, but Tyrion's earnest expression convinces me otherwise. "For the baby." He whispers. At his insistence I take the cup from him, the cool water providing a momentary relief.

As I drink, Tyrion returns to his spot, his eyes downcast. After a moment of silence, he speaks so softly that I almost miss it. "She was at the trial," he says, his voice breaking slightly. "Shae."

My heart clenches at his words. Tyrion has often spoken of Shae. The stories of her love, her ability to see past his physical imperfections to the man within, had brought genuine, fleeting smiles to my lips. I clear my throat, struggling to keep my voice steady. "Did you speak to her?"

"She testified against me," he says, his voice a mixture of pain and resignation.

The weight of his words crushes me. "Maybe your father and sister forced her," I suggest, trying to find a shred of hope in the grim reality.

Tyrion shakes his head, a small, bitter laugh escaping his lips. "Maybe they did force her to come, but the words she spoke were her own." He closes his eyes briefly, the pain evident on his face. "I tried to protect her. I thought I was doing what was right."

I try to offer comfort, my own sorrow mingling with his. "What you did was right. If you hadn't let her go, she would've been killed, and you'd be burdened with that guilt. You did the best you could."

Tyrion looks at me with a glimmer of gratitude in his eyes, the heaviness of his situation momentarily lifted by the shared understanding of our mutual suffering.

"I demanded a trial by combat." Tyrion says, "Figured if it was up to my father and sister I'd never make it out of here alive, Thought I ought to level the playing field a little." He says.