(AVWH opening credits created by yours truly)
Tyrion
Drink. That was what they needed. To drink long and hard and not cease that particular activity until the sun threatened to break over the horizon, but Tyrion learned rather quickly that Myra Stark was not so accustomed to long bouts with wine. Two cups in and she was already prone to giggling excessively.
Then again, she might have snuck some when he wasn't paying attention. He couldn't blame her in the slightest. What she spoke before the court would not have been easy for anyone, but she had the added difficulty of her stubborn honor and loyalty so well suited to her household. It would make for quite the scandal in the coming days, aside from, well...everything else she and Jaime were involved in.
Over time, Tyrion subtly moved the goblet away from Myra, until it was well out of her reach. He had wanted to subdue her nerves, not leave her blacked out on the floor for when Jaime returned.
Whenever that was. His brother was certainly taking his time.
He couldn't say anything terrible had happened, however. The castle was still standing after all.
That was what everyone underestimated about Jaime, even himself. They mistook his impassive approach to everything as a lack of passion entirely. But his brother had been willing to tear the countryside apart to save him from certain death, he'd defied his father and his king to save Myra at the risk of his own life, and he'd killed a king to save those he hardly knew. No, the problem wasn't that Jaime did not care. The problem was he cared far too much, and for that, he tried very hard to pretend he was quite the opposite. After all, it was considered a weakness in the Lannister household, to Cersei in particular, but Myra had thrown those flood gates wide open. He was both curious and terrified to see the results.
"It was so easy,' Myra said suddenly. There was still a smile on her face, but it had grown sad. "Saying all those things, denouncing my family. There used to be a time where I couldn't fathom the idea."
Tyrion sighed. He was no good at this.
"You should be grateful that it was," he said, fingers tapping against his goblet. He felt altogether too sober, but didn't want to encourage his good-sister to drink more. "That will hardly be the last time you'll need it. I can't imagine when you won't, honestly."
"When I'm old and gray and no longer care, perhaps."
He snorted. "Perhaps you should tell that to Lady Olenna. She's older than every one of us and plays the game twice as hard."
He often wondered if he'd make it to that age. It looked like a miserable journey. Perhaps he ought to be grateful to pass while most of his body functioned properly, at least by his standards.
"As long as you remember what's important to you and your family, you can lie all you want. None of it really matters in the end."
Myra reached for her goblet then, fully standing in order to do so. "If it doesn't matter, then why do so many people die for it?"
Tyrion was saved from having to answer her impossible question by the sudden arrival of Jaime. He didn't say anything as he approached the small table, prompting Myra to sit back down rather than rush to greet him. He grabbed the unused goblet they had left out for him, filled it to the brim with wine, and proceeded to down the entire thing before he looked remotely ready for conversation.
"I see the discussion with Father went well," Tyrion ventured to say, watching Jaime fill all three of their goblets to the top before he collapsed in his own chair. "Might I ask what it entailed?"
"Nothing that bears repeating so long as I live," Jaime replied quickly. His voice was hoarse. He'd been shouting. "Also, you might want to double your guard, or pay the current ones more. Maybe hire a food taster. Cersei is...going to be in a mood for a while."
Tyrion blinked. "What did you do?"
"I played the game," Jaime said, taking another drink. "And I won."
There was a moment of silence. Tyrion looked to Myra, and she to him, before they simultaneously lifted their goblets and drank.
Despite their insistence to learn more about what transpired in his absence, Jaime refused to share any details. Only his constant drinking and a dark look in his eyes hinted at the severity of their confrontation, which only prompted the rest of the party to drink more, until they'd forgotten it all entirely.
Well after sundown, all three Lannister outcasts were thoroughly inebriated, laughing easily and speaking freely. Tyrion had taken to lounging on a sofa while Jaime sat in a large, cushioned chair, his little wife curled up in his lap. Her head was resting comfortably on his shoulder, appearing utterly exhausted, but every time something remotely funny was spoken, she would giggle and her head would lift briefly.
Even in this state, Tyrion was still able to observe the pair rather clearly – after all, only Bronn could hold a candle to his drinking. It was strange, seeing Jaime so at ease. Of course, he'd had ample time to grow used to the idea of his brother being a married man, but he'd never seen him so comfortable in the role. His good hand was wrapped around Myra – rather tightly if he were honest – and he took no issue with taking every opportunity to give his wife a proper kiss, like some love-struck little boy. Tyrion thought he ought to feel strange witnessing the whole thing, but he was far too fascinated by it.
He still kept that stump of his at a distance, leaving it on the armrest away from everything, but every now and again, Myra would reach for it and hold it until something demanded her attention. Usually, it was more wine. She'd tried to hold it for Jaime to drink as well, but that was a failed venture from the get go.
This was all Jaime had ever wanted. He could see that now. It wasn't so hard to believe why his loyalties rested with Myra now.
She was a good woman, Myra Stark – Myra Lannister – and perhaps precisely what they all needed.
"Jaime, I say this as your brother and because I love you: you had no right to survive anything over the course of the war."
His brother chuckled at that, clearly in agreement, until Myra raised her goblet, then he took a moment to be offended.
"You always say Tyrion is the smartest Lannister, so don't be cross when he's right," she replied, laughing as she drank the last of the wine and tossed the cup away. "Besides, if it weren't for me, you'd still be in a cell on Dragonstone."
They all laughed at that then. The wine had served to fill in the gaps in Jaime and Myra's story, though Tyrion was still unsure of certain parts. Things had happened that neither was willing to admit, the furthest they spoke was of how Myra saved his brother's life when they'd been attacked, how Jaime had taken two arrows and nearly died in some nameless part of the country, lost to them forever.
Tyrion sobered a little then.
It was when he noticed Jaime's hand becoming a little adventurous that Tyrion decided it was time for him to depart.
"I'll leave you to it then," he said quickly, keeping his eyes averted lest he see something he really shouldn't.
"Thank you, Tyrion," Myra's oddly sober voice called out to him, causing him to pause and turn. She was watching him with the warmest of smiles on her face. "For everything you've done. I'm glad to call you family."
He wasn't ashamed to admit that her statement touched him; he received far too few of that variety.
"As am I, Myra," he replied, exiting the room.
It was a strange sort of contentment that carried him through the hall to his own, admittedly smaller, abode. Though he knew that there were certainly perils in their near future, for that evening, at least, he could take comfort in small kindnesses and good company.
When he opened his door, his bed was not unoccupied.
"My lion."
Very good company.
Sansa
The patrons referred to it as The Scabbard – and the young, drunk knight who told them smiled as if he were clever – but most simply referred to the brothel as Littlefinger's. The whores would gasp in mock offense, saying 'Lord Baelish' before going back to their paid service. Sansa wasn't entirely certain which performances were worse, those in here or those in the Red Keep, but she knew which the Viper would have preferred.
"I wish I could have been there!" Oberyn shouted, morose, collapsing into a chair. He gripped the arms tightly, like a child attempting to restrain himself. "The look on Lord Tywin's face when his son defied him, how giddy it might have made me."
"It's not as if anyone was stopping you," Sansa replied. She sat on the cushioned sill of a window, peering into the growing dark outside, a discarded book in her lap. It was difficult to read when she could not even trust the four walls that surrounded her.
"Of course there was," Ellaria spoke from the lounging chair she reclined on. "He was stopping himself. The Viper has a reputation to maintain, and even he would not be caught laughing during that disastrous affair."
Oberyn pouted a little longer, but nodded. "My lover is right. Doran may have inherited all the family's tact, but even I can exhibit intelligence once in a while."
"And patience," Sansa added, turning to him. It was a poor tease.
Oberyn's look became dark, distant. "No one knows the trials of patience better than I."
They watched one another a moment. There was no anger, just an understanding. They had both returned to the worst place in their lives.
Recognizing the dark turn of events, Ellaria rose from her seat, sauntering over to Oberyn. She whispered something in his ear, her gaze on Sansa – even with their open affection, they tended to spare her – before departing the room. He turned to watch her leave, and she could see the wheels turning in his mind. How painfully obvious men could be at times.
He took a breath. "I know this is not the place you want to be..."
She smiled, though there was no mirth. "I don't believe I want to be anywhere."
King's Landing was treacherous, Dorne was not her home, it was a waiting place, and her true home? Winterfell felt like such a distant dream, sometimes she questioned if it was real.
What she wanted were actions, not places.
"You will," Oberyn assured her, standing. "Give it time."
And then she was alone.
Sansa turned back to the window, though all she could see were distorted images of torches. Occasionally, a shadow would stalk by, but nothing discernible. Perhaps the Hound's would stand out to her, but Tyrion had mentioned he was gone.
"Fuck the king," he'd said, and vanished from the battle.
It had made her smile.
A bump caught her attention, causing Sansa to grip her book tightly, but the room quieted quickly. It was only from the rowdy parties inside.
She was far less disturbed by the brothel than she thought she would be. It did help that they had managed to find her the quietest corner of the establishment – while Oberyn threated slow dismemberment if there were anything untoward about the walls in the room – but every now and again, she would catch the moans and cries of pleasure.
Once, she would have blushed, hidden her face beneath the pillows, even in Dorne, but back in King's Landing, things were different. Here was where she heard the men and women cheer for her father's death, cry out in glee as his head fell from his shoulders. What were the sounds of whores compared to those vile things?
No, the brothel did not bother her at all.
It was where he would find her.
"What makes you believe he'll show?" Myra had asked her. After all, her older sister could not be the only one bearing secrets.
"Besides the fact I'm a Stark?" she had replied. Even after losing the war, they seemed quite popular. "I played the game in a way he did not expect. I imagine he'll want to see what else I can do."
"I don't like this, Sansa."
"Neither of us are doing things the other likes."
That silenced her sister rather quickly. She loved her dearly, and would support her in any way she could, but marrying Jaime Lannister had taken the moral high ground she had rested upon all her life and destroyed it. Questioning one another over their actions was pointless now.
There was a light knock upon the door.
Briefly, she thought of letting it be. Would that have stopped her visitor? Perhaps not, but she could look back and tell herself she hadn't willingly leapt into the unknown.
Sansa turned the handle of the door, not bothering to look on the other side before she returned to her window seat.
Petyr Baelish said nothing as he entered the room, quietly closing the door behind him. He gave it a thorough onceover, inspecting each corner and trinket, with his hands neatly tucked behind his back, as if he suspected thievery from Oberyn. More than anything, she believed he was giving her time to speak first. It would give him a way to gauge her current train of thought regarding him, but she wasn't about to give him that opportunity.
"When your mother came to King's Landing, I made certain to hide her here," Littlefinger said eventually, turning to her. He mentioned her mother often.
Whatever reaction he expected was not the one he received from her.
"It seems you already know of her visit."
Sansa nodded once. "My sister told me."
Myra had told her many things before they arrived, some good, others...not. Whatever it took to arm herself against the coming days.
"Your sister is much like your father that way, too honest for her own good," he said, and she didn't disagree. "Although, you might have enjoyed the performance she gave today. It was very...Lannister of her."
"I imagine it would have to be, if she wants to survive," Sansa replied, toying with a strand of her hair before tossing it aside. She was already growing tired of his presence. "Why are you here, Lord Baelish?"
He smiled the way he always did, with a subtle touch of wickedness, a promise of something more. She'd once thought they had meant nothing, but she would no longer pay that particular price.
"I could ask the same of you, Sansa Stark," he said, avoiding the question. No one answered directly in this place. "It seems the last time we spoke, you were adamant about avoiding King's Landing. And now, here you are, back where all your troubles began, hidden away in the last place you deserve."
"As you said, my mother was here once. Surely, it's not all that bad."
They could have gone back and forth like that all night, Sansa thought. She never used to think people could say so much and yet so little at once, but here they were, doing just that. It was equally fascinating and frustrating.
Littlefinger bowed his head briefly, conceding her point. "You're far better at this than most would believe. Your mother would be proud."
She doubted that.
"But you aren't as clever as you might think," Littlefinger continued. He took a seat in the chair across from her, leaning forward. "Prince Oberyn has his plans for King's Landing. This isn't an assumption. It is a fact, and it is obvious to everyone. But he never has had to worry about subtlety. He is a prince, after all, in possession of power and status, not to mention any man or woman who dares to counter him would find a spear in an unpleasant place.
"People like you and me are not so fortunate. I can no more stab a man than you can rely on your family name to get you out of terrible circumstances. Yet you are here nonetheless, and I expect I have something to do with it."
"That's a rather bold assumption, Lord Baelish," Sansa countered. "My sister is in the Red Keep as we speak. I would rather stay with family."
"But you aren't with family, are you? Ser Jaime is your brother-by-law, and could easily have you brought to the Red Keep with little trouble, yet we're here talking in a brothel, one of mine no less. You have no intention of returning there."
It was true. Myra had discussed it at length with her, but Sansa did not mean to return to the Red Keep and be tied down by etiquette and protocol. She would not be in those walls again unless she knew with absolutely certainty that no one would hamper her; she would not face Cersei or Joffrey again in their place of power.
"I have something you need," Littlefinger concluded smugly. "It seems I have something everyone needs nowadays."
"And what is it you need from me?" Sansa asked, watching him closely. He had tells, she was sure of it. "You could easily have the City Watch take me in. Cersei would reward you handsomely, and yet here you are, speaking with me, putting all your precious plans in danger."
"Even the most practical of individuals have to take risks now and again," he admitted, toying with an empty goblet. "Lying to you seems a poor choice. You're better than your father and your sister in that regard. So instead, I offer the truth: you're valuable, Sansa Stark, and my future plans need someone of value."
"There are certainly safer choices."
"Yes, but I quite prefer you."
Sansa took breath, watching Petyr Baelish. She was suddenly struck with something one of her father's men had told her, Jory she thought. He had mentioned how much she resembled her mother in her youth. Given Littlefinger's excessive reference to her, it made her wonder...
"And why should I trust you?"
He chuckled at that, and she felt a child again. "Please, Sansa, this is not about trust. We're all out to stab one another in the back eventually, but tell me, who is going to give you a better chance at your heart's desire: me, a man with no ties to anyone, or your sister, who is married to the enemy?"
Myra
For three days and three nights, she and Jaime scarcely left their room, save for in the evenings when they ate dinner with Tyrion. He told them it was for the best. Time would allow the boiling anger to simmer and the curiosity to move on to other things, such as the wedding or the latest nonsense Prince Oberyn performed. The Viper, as everyone expected, but no one said aloud, had a proclivity for distraction. Whether he was doing it more so for their sake or his own, however, was up for debate.
On their part, the newlyweds offered no complaint over their current situation. In fact, they rarely left the bed, and there was scarcely a moment she could recall where she wasn't touching her husband in some form or another, whether it was simply running a finger along his back or completely intertwined with him as they made love again and again.
Jaime never even put any clothes on, but the chambermaids were far less mortified than they should have been.
Her husband caught her frowning at that and chuckled to himself.
"Is that jealously in your eyes?"
With an unsophisticated snort, Myra rolled on top of him. The past few days had boosted her confidence, at least in terms of lovemaking. Jaime may have been the golden lion, but she always felt he was just as in awe of her as she was of him, silver to his gold, like a silly little song.
"It took both of us nearly dying to come this far. I think I'm safe."
"These maids serve Cersei. You'd be surprised what they're used to."
She'd smacked him at that, and a wicked look crossed his eyes. He pinned her down and showed her precisely what that annoying tongue of his could do.
But come one morning, Myra woke with a feeling in the pit of her stomach: inevitability. Though their time together had been out of necessity, she was still aware that the longer she took, the more the North may suffer, the more her bannermen may suffer. It was enough to make her sick, all the thoughts and possibilities churning in her mind.
"Now who is the one thinking too hard?" she heard Jaime mumble, feeling his lips on the back of her neck. It sent an enjoyable chill down her spine, but she ignored the sensation, turning around in his grasp to face him.
"I need to speak with him today."
Jaime sighed, his green eyes doing little to hold back what he felt about the entire thing. She felt him run his hand through her hair.
"And what are you going to say to him?"
"I'm not quite sure."
He chuckled. "Well, you're no worse off than the rest of us then."
Myra had just managed to get a robe on – and get Jaime's hand off her – when the door opened to their chambers, and a lovely, dark-haired woman stepped inside. She smelled of lavender and dressed in a simple, deep red gown.
"Welcome back to King's Landing, my lady," Syrena said, flashing a brilliant smile.
Smiling herself, Myra hugged the young Dornish woman. Things had changed, certain truths had been revealed, but the handmaiden would remain a bright spot in her memory. After all, both she and Sansa owed her everything.
Jaime, however, did not feel the same. Even without facing him, Myra could feel his glare go right through her.
"Do you know who she is?" he asked, his tone threatening. She couldn't blame him, of course, knowing Syrena's history with Cersei, but more important was her connection to Dorne. They need not fear her, or at least, not have to hold her completely at arm's length.
"Yes," she replied, turning to her husband. Both women stared him down, waiting for him to say something else. Instead, Jaime simply collapsed back on the bed with a huff, just barely covered by the sheets once more.
"I need to find something to wear," Myra continued, almost smiling. Despite what was coming up, being with the woman she had openly gossiped with nearly made her feel giddy again. "I have to speak with Lord Tywin today."
"Nothing gold or red," Jaime mumbled behind them. He'd covered his face with a pillow. "You may have married me, but my father will see it as trying too hard."
"Green then," Syrena suggested, immediately walking to the wardrobe. "Calm, neutral, reflects your husband's eyes."
Jaime groaned and Myra laughed.
She could almost pretend she wasn't walking toward danger.
Tywin Lannister suffers no fools he had told her before she left, holding her wrist tightly. The sensation had begun to sting, but Myra made no mention of it. Whatever made Jaime feel better about the whole thing, however little it was. Especially impatient ones. He will make you wait.
And so, he did. The instant the servant left the chambers, Tywin had stated a stern 'sit' before continuing to write on a parchment. She had done just that, sliding into the seat across from him at his desk, and had been waiting ever since. It might have been an hour or simply ten minutes, Myra could not tell the difference. All she knew was that he had yet to look up at her again.
It occurred to her that this was common practice for the Lannister patriarch. None of his children ever struck her as particularly patient. They must have chafed under the lack of attention from their father, even at their ages.
But Myra was a Stark before she was a Lannister. Patience was the first thing she had been taught. The sun would remember to break through the clouds eventually, the warmth would return one day, the nights wouldn't be so long after a spell. Nothing happened quickly in the North. Patience was all she had.
She did not look at anything in particular. For a time, Myra watched his hand methodically write their letters. He did not seem the long-winded type, yet what he wrote stretched on for an age. It seemed Tywin Lannister had many instructions to give, or punishments. She did not bother trying to read the contents. He wouldn't have written anything in front of her that would be of value anyway.
Her eyes focused on the pin after a while, the one object she had hoped to avoid, but the sun had cast through his window at just the right angle, making the gold glint every now and again. She wondered if it was the very same pin her father wore, or if they had melted that one down and started anew. It was the sort of symbolic idiocy that King's Landing would have cheered over.
Well, it seemed she was already starting to sound like a Lannister.
"I presume you are here regarding Winterfell."
Tywin spoke so suddenly, Myra almost missed it entirely. He had still not looked up from the parchment, leading her to wonder if she hadn't imagined the whole thing.
But she needn't have worried. Tywin continued, making what was to be a conversation very one-sided.
"And if that is the case, then you have wasted your time. Winterfell was promised to the Boltons upon the defeat of your brother. Marrying Jaime has not made Winterfell any more yours than it has made you a Lannister."
He looked at her then, the green eyes of his household piercing straight through her. There was no judgment in them, only absolute certainty. He'd already measured her, of course, held the trial, debated the evidence, and read the verdict of guilty before she'd even reached King's Landing. She supposed it was only fair; she'd done the same of him.
"You are a Stark, a traitor by blood and by action. Marriage erases none of those things. The only reason yours remains is because you have somehow convinced my son that you are the only woman he will have."
Myra felt her fingers digging slowly into her dress, the nails carving lines into her legs. It was not so much for herself, but for the idea that Jaime had merely been manipulated by her, rather than make a decision on his own, that a small flame began to burn for, deep in the pit of her stomach. But she could not get angry here, she knew that. Her oddly heated outbursts worked on many who had thought they knew her, but Tywin expected nothing less. She would not rise to that expectation.
If Robb had taught her anything, it was that Tywin Lannister was good at underestimating Starks.
"You are right, Lord Tywin, I am here to discuss Winterfell," Myra said slowly, her voice even but her tongue dry and thick. "But not for myself."
"For your sister then, I suppose," Tywin replied, looking back down at his writing. The pretense that he knew the direction the conversation would take and thus had no interest in it was already wearing her thin.
"If it can be helped."
"It can't."
She nodded briefly, expecting as much. It was less surprising than knowing that Tywin was aware her sister was safe. After all, there were many spies on all sides. The fact that nothing had come of it assured her that Joffrey, at least, had not been informed – a miracle for both Sansa and Dorne.
"Then for whomever the Crown chooses, so long as it is not House Bolton."
"I'll not upend the peace I have just restored to this country simply because of your grievance toward Roose Bolton."
Grievance. Such a funny little word to describe how she felt toward the man who had ripped her in two.
Jaime Lannister sends his regards.
"There is no peace with House Bolton," Myra replied, far too quickly for her liking. She'd been back there for just one moment, in a room full of vicious laughter and blood.
He was watching her again, annoyed. Silly little girls and their emotions clouding their judgment like a dense fog on the battlefield, swinging wildly and hoping something stuck.
But she was no little girl.
She was Myra Lannister, and the Old Lion would know it soon enough.
"Perhaps you know tactics and strategy, Lord Tywin," she started, sitting straighter and regaining her composure. "Perhaps you know how to bend southern lords to your will, and convince the others that it is by your hand alone that the realm still exists, but you do not know the North. No southerner can. When I say there is no peace with House Bolton, it is not out of vengeance, but knowledge of my people and fear of what will happen if you leave them unchecked."
Tywin at long last lowered his quill and sat back in his chair, hands folded on the desk. He was giving her a chance, or rather, he saw an opportunity in her passion, but it did not matter. Nothing mattered so long as she could help her people.
"The North will not stand for their new liege lord. Few trusted them before my brother was king. They were rebels and rapists and flayers of men. But to have betrayed and killed their king for Winterfell, House Bolton will have ignited the ire of a people. There will be a rage that he cannot hope to control.
"One cannot hold the North by force or fear. The Boltons will undoubtedly find allies, but they will find many more enemies, and they will batter and beat one another until the entire countryside is red with their blood."
Myra took a breath, watching Tywin a moment. "No one cares about the North – we always knew that – but you will care when it is on fire and your enemies are closing in. How strong is a king who cannot keep his lands in order?"
"Tell me, what enemies would you have me fear? Stannis Baratheon? He cowers on his rock on the brink of utter defeat. The Ironborn? It is the North they've laid waste to. Perhaps if your people have enough sense, they'll stop fighting one another and do something useful."
"What of the threat to the east?"
She'd heard the whispers – though much louder when spoken by a half-drunk Tyrion. Daenerys Targaryen lived and marched across Essos with three dragons and an army of thousands. Perhaps it was simply a rumor, tales became exaggerated from person to person, but every wild rumor she'd ever come across had a truth buried inside it somewhere. If the Targaryen warranted such an outlandish tale that made it across the Narrow Sea, there must be something about her to be worried by.
"There is no threat to the east."
Perhaps he believed that; perhaps she was simply not entitled to what he believed. She had no doubt, however, that he had looked into it, and was weighing every option carefully in his head.
They watched one another in silence for some time. Were it anyone else, Myra might have continued her little tirade about the North – and how she wished to – but for Tywin Lannister, it was merely enough to point him in the right direction. He would come to the conclusion himself. Whether it was the conclusion she wished him to make was what worried her now.
Now, for the first time since she arrived, Myra began to chafe under his silence, his deliberate prolonging of the inevitable. The man who had taken everything from her was her only way of regaining what little she had left, and how it hurt her. She could feel the humiliation, buried beneath the worry and anger of it all, chipping away little bits of her soul that had finally returned to her, cold as ice and as sharp as the sword that once carried its name. There was nothing to protect her from it. She simply had to continue on.
"The answer is no," Tywin said, firmly, final, his words washing over her like the cold of Blackwater Bay. "You have trifled with enough events in this realm; you will learn your place."
He leaned forward then, and Myra could have sworn his voice was venom. "And if my son so much as mentions the North to me, I'll have the Boltons flay every last soul in Winterfell, then we will see if the North really is as stubborn as you so claim."
She did not know which made her more ill: the image of what Tywin had suggested or the idea that she would manipulate Jaime into talking to his father on her behalf.
"Believe what you want, Lord Tywin," she said, quietly, not defeated, simply tired. "I am a traitor; I am a usurper. I want to see the South burn for everything that has happened to me. But I love your son – as useless as that emotion is to you – and I would never use that against him, not even to destroy you."
"Then prove it," Tywin said, standing suddenly. Myra blinked, confused by the quick movement as the Hand of the King went to grab something on the table nearby. "Prove to me that you haven't married out of spite, that you are not here to hold this house's legacy hostage.
"Give my son an heir, and then I may reconsider the situation in the North."
Jaime
He'd thought about waiting for her to return, but the longer Myra was gone, the closer the walls seemed to be. Jaime had never been good at standing still – how he managed to get through all those years in the kingsguard would forever be a mystery to him – so he wasn't sure why he was trying to now.
Before he'd formed a clear idea of what to do, Jaime marched out of the room and into the halls. Tyrion would be busy at this hour – his little brother taking to actual responsibilities still threw him off – and Cersei was certainly not an option. The thought of being alone with her at all made his stomach sink.
His friends were few, he realized. That never used to be an issue.
The keep was oddly quiet for the middle of the day, but Jaime counted that as a blessing. No need for awkward conversations or additional glances to the stub on his arm. He supposed eventually it would have to be seen to, given something helpful or to at least make him appear whole.
He'd floated the idea of a hook and Myra threatened to have their marriage set aside right there and then. Or, at the very least, he was no longer allowed to touch her.
And he so enjoyed touching his wife.
Jaime hadn't thought himself preoccupied, yet he was suddenly walking into the training yard with no recollection of choosing to go there. It, too, was mostly empty. A couple squires took turns swinging at one another without any sort of form or grace, while a few more cheered them on.
He watched them for a moment, noting their horrid footwork. Even at their age, he had been skilled. He would have offered to take each one of them on at once, and he would have bested them all. Now he doubted he could manage one of them.
Eventually, the small group noticed him. Their eyes went wide and they began to whisper to one another. He thought he heard 'Kingslayer' passed around. It should have been unsurprising, and yet, for whatever reason, it was.
The Kingslayer was a different man, he wanted to say. He was a skilled swordsman, a renowned killer, a confident and brash fool. That wasn't him, not anymore, except for perhaps the fool part.
Instead, he simply walked away.
He walked and walked until he wasn't able to anymore.
It was a small landing near the bay, not really useful for anything, maybe fishing – as if highborns could be made to do that. For once, at least, he could actually feel alone.
So, of course, that was short-lived.
The sound of wood impacting the steps caught his attention.
An old practice sword fell near his feet. He watched it a moment, wondering when he'd last used one.
"Pick it up."
Of course it was Brienne.
She stood at the top of the stairs, watching him with that scathing look of hers. He was reminded of when they first met.
"Pick. It. Up."
He almost laughed.
"Or else what?" he asked, reaching for that old façade of his once more. Perhaps he was no longer that man, but to wear the skin still felt comfortable. "You'll toss me in the bay? I won't be very useful to my wife then."
"You aren't very useful to her now."
"She might have a word or two to say about-" he was cut off when Brienne picked up the practice sword and shoved it into his chest with a force that left the air rushing from his lungs. "...that."
"Jest all you want, Ser Jaime, you and I both know you aren't fooling anyone," Brienne replied, walking past him to the other end of the landing. "What happened in the throne room proved what we already knew: your name isn't going to get her far. You'll have to protect Lady Myra in other ways."
"Isn't that what you and her ever-growing number of squires are for?" he asked, turning the wooden sword in his hand. Even this felt heavy to him, and he could feel his fingers fumbling with the motions. "Though I suppose it would be a little awkward with you in the bedroom. But who knows? It might awaken something in that thick skull of-"
"Jaime."
He stopped, watching her blue eyes look at him. It was not that she said his name, but rather the manner in which she did. Not angry or frustrated, just empathetic and sad. It had all been a struggle to him since his return, being pulled one way or the other, wanting for things to be easy again, but knowing that path was both impossible to return to and something he could not be. Most of the time, he just found it easier not to think at all, but like everything else, they'd run out of time for that.
"I'm sorry, Brienne, I..." he sighed. Words never had been forthcoming. Some things never changed. "You deserve better."
The lady nodded once. "And so does she."
Jaime sighed, turning the sword again. If he hadn't been acutely aware that Myra was a better person than him before, the fact that she was currently facing down his father – the man responsible for nearly all of her suffering – while he couldn't even find the means to face himself more than drove the point home. It stabbed him with that all too familiar feeling, the feeling that he thought Myra had taken away, but he supposed not everything could be up to her.
He nodded then, turning the sword up, assuming the most basic position from his memory. Brienne faced him, keeping her body open, making herself the simplest of targets. She wasn't in armor but some bright blue tunic that she'd clearly had no hand in picking out.
He didn't even think about mocking her for it this time.
She hit the sword out of his hand more times than he could count. Sometimes it was a strike on the wrist, another on the fingers, mostly all she had to do was hit the sword and it would fall out of his hand of its own accord. He was weak from a good many things, not just the lack of practice. He'd only just started to properly recover from the journey through the Riverlands.
As Brienne continued to make a mockery of him, there was at least one thing Jaime could count on: she wasn't him. There were no ill quips, no rude gestures. Seemingly aware of what he needed, the Lady of Tarth kept utterly silent throughout their exercises, minus a grunt or two. His precious ego meant something here, and that thoughtful patience momentarily reminded him of Myra.
They fought – though he wouldn't use that word for it – until the sun was low on the horizon. Covered in sweat and thoroughly displeased with himself, Jaime marched up the steps with Brienne. He realized then that he was breathing harder than she was, and was reminded of how old he had become.
"We'll have to give you something to do with your right arm," Brienne commented as they trekked toward the keep. They'd hidden the wooden swords away so that none would catch them. "You can't just hold it to yourself. It's dead and useless weight."
"I'll get a new hand soon enough," Jaime replied. "I'm sure it will be gold. Never hit a man with gold before."
"You'd be better off with a hook."
At that, Jaime laughed.