The Provenance || Jon Snow | Game of Thrones

3.08

There have been times in Jaime Lannister's life where he has been known to take extreme, maybe even reckless measures, most notably in the action yielding his title, the Kingslayer. Indeed, now that he considers it, he's more reckless than he isn't: shoving Bran Stark from a window, attacking Eddard Stark in King's Landing, attempting to fool Locke to get out of his chains. And all the same, he now considers how very petty this situation is when compared to dragons and armies, simply diving into a fighting pit with a bear to get Brienne--handless all the while.

And yet, his actions have always been in protection of his family--Cersei and Tyrion--rather than helping a friend or companion. Yet here he stands, almost leaned against the tall blonde of his height, shaking with adrenaline as he's risked his own life for hers. And she seems to be in the same mindset, her eyes revolving onto his every few seconds in an attempt to understand his motivations. Seven hells, he doesn't understand them himself.

And Locke, the Bolton man, is proving to be a greater thorn in his side than ever before, simply wishing to escape this horrid place and make his way back to Cersei. But the commander himself is blocking his way, as if he has power over the actions of the Lannister and Tarth heirs, his voice a hoarse and mocking mechanism that thoroughly pushes Jaime to the edge of his anger.

And thus, he practically hisses, "What do you think is more important to Lord Bolton? Getting his pet rat a reward or ensuring Tywin Lannister gets his son back alive?" The man has the intelligence to not refute the claim in Jaime's ears, and the Kingslayer takes that as his ticket to leave, nodding bluntly with a taunting smile, "Well, we must be on our way. Sorry about the sapphires."

But they all know he isn't.

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Arya perches her lean and quiet form over the massive Hound as he sleeps crookedly upon rocky soil, the fire no longer providing any warmth although it is now morning. Almost impossibly, this soldier looks rather deadly even in his sleep, proving to remind Arya of this man's actions against her family and friends, elevating the rock in her hand in preparation to lodge it in his skull. But all the same, Sandor Clegane has far more experience in the arts of warfare and cruelties of his brother, having learned long ago to wake upon the smallest of sounds, and especially with this small female.

"I'll give you one try, girl. Kill me and you're free," the Hound growls and Arya does not wince, his eyes opening to a malicious stirring in his gut, taunting her avidly like the man he is. "But if I live, I'll break both your hands. Go on, hit me. Hit me hard."

Her eyes bore into his own then, the threat not taken lightly as she considers all her intents to assassinate members of the royal family...needing her hands. So, she drops the rock and carries herself to the other edge of the fire, crossing her arms as she slouches in anger of this situation. And all the while, the Hound sits up, grinning widely, "Sulk all you want. The truth is, you're lucky. You don't want to be alone out here, girl. Someone worse than me would find you."

"There's no one worse than you," she growls, her fierce blue eyes glaring into his own as his humour rapidly escalates.

He barks loudly in laughter at the girl's rather obvious innocence and ignorance to this world, "Ha, you never knew my brother. He once killed a man for snoring. There's plenty worse than me. There's men who like to beat little girls, men who like to rape them. I saved your sister from some of them."

Arya's eyes sharpen at the words of her sister, their movements analyzing his facade for a lie, though he know she will not find anything--it's the truth. Ignorantly, she scoffs, "You're lying."