Myra
Unlike the last time she had left this foul city, the sky was gray and the clouds heavy with rain. They drenched the capital, causing small rivers to form in the streets as they washed away the dirt and grime. It came down in sheets so hard that they had to delay until nearly the afternoon, when the rains finally subsided and covered the land in a fine mist. The clouds continued to hover low, covering the higher towers of the red keep and obscuring them from view. She could not even see the Blackwater from where they stood in the courtyard.
Some had suggested they wait until the next morning, but Jaime was having none of it. He barked orders at his men, snapping at the slightest hint of attitude.
It had been a week since his confession, and Myra was positive her husband hadn't slept for any of it. He was awake when she fell asleep and gone well before she awoke, leaving the bed cold and lonely. Brienne told her they'd been practicing hard, though he was worse each day. He was desperate for a distraction.
Myra stood in the midst of the chaos in the courtyard, watching with curious eyes. She'd worn a fine golden dress with a cloak of deep crimson, the large lion of House Lannister embroidered across the fabric. It wasn't a heavy thing, yet she felt the weighed down by it, by the expectations that sigil demanded.
Her breath came out in small puffs. She wondered if she would see snow soon.
The last snow felt like another lifetime.
A commotion stirred in the courtyard as the Kingsguard entered, four tall, armored men escorting a little boy king. In one hand, Tommen held one of his kittens, while in the other, he held Myrcella's hand.
Myra dipped into a curtsy with a smile. "Your Grace."
Tommen bravely attempted to keep a straight face, but his lower lip began to tremble, and then he was running toward her. She knelt and took the little boy into her arms, taking care to not crush his poor kitten. It mewled between them, its claws sticking to the fabric of her dress.
"Please don't go," the boy sniffed, looking up at her with red-rimmed eyes. "I want you to stay."
She wiped the tears from his eyes. Had things gone to plan, he would be coming with them, crammed in a carriage with her and all his cats. They'd have taken him to Casterly Rock, and Jaime would have taught him all he needed to know about being a knight. He might not have his sword hand anymore, but Myra did not doubt he would have relished the experience. They would have been a family, the three of them, as strange as they may have appeared.
Tommen deserved the chance to still be a child, but now he was a king.
"I know," she said gently. "And I hate to leave you."
"Then why do it?"
"I have duties to attend to, just like you."
Tommen shook his head. In his cloak and heavy clothes, his little body was overwhelmed by fabric, and he looked much younger than he was.
"I could order you to stay."
Myra sighed, pulling a stray curl from his face. "Yes, you could, Your Grace, but do you really wish to?"
He caved immediately. "No."
Myrcella gave her a long hug, her smile warm yet sad. "Have a safe journey, Myra. Take good care of my uncle, please. He needs it more than he lets on."
Truer words had never been spoken.
The young princess looked down at her little brother. "Do you want to give it to her?"
Tommen nodded and Myrcella gestured to the Kingsguard. Ser Loras stepped forward with a sheathed sword in hand. It had a lion's hilt with rubied jewels for eyes.
Her breath caught.
Myrcella took the sword and gave it to Tommen in exchange for his kitten as he needed both hands to hold the thing properly.
"Uncle Jaime told me this used to be your father's sword," Tommen said, face twisting in concentration. "As the king, I declare it be returned to you, for your sons and their sons."
Myra gently took the sword up in her hands. It was a little smaller than its twin and just as light, its metal rippling red when she inched it out of the scabbard.
Joffrey had named it Widow's Wail like the cruel boy he was. It was a harsh and loathsome name. Her family's legacy, as broken as it was, deserved something more fitting, an honorable title. But no words came to her now that could fit such a daunting task.
"Are you certain?"
Tommen nodded. "I am the king. This is what I want."
Myra felt a smile tugging at her lips when she looked to Myrcella. "Does your grandfather know?"
The princess shrugged. "He will eventually."
She could see why it was Loras who had held it. He and Margaery probably thought it was a splendid idea, and spent the evening laughing over it. Tywin's reaction would certainly be a sight to see, and thankfully she would be long gone.
Hugging the little king, Myra loathed to let him go. While Tywin would be in charge until he was older, Tommen would no longer have the chance to be a child. He would have to learn how to lead, and how to make decisions that would break an ordinary man. Slowly yet surely, the boy with the large smiles would disappear, and she hated it.
When the children retreated to Jaime's side – putting the first smile she had seen in a few days on his face – Myra took the opportunity to enter the carriage. She hadn't wanted to be stuck in such a cumbersome vehicle – she could still recall how often the queen's had been stuck when they left Winterfell – but appearances were everything, another reason to be grateful for leaving. At least she wouldn't have to put on a façade then.
Tyrion was already inside, bundled up in furs and looking absolutely miserable. She wasn't certain if he was hungover, still drunk, or in the sad little space between, but the smile that had been on her face quickly died at the sight of him.
She sat across from her good-brother, watching him closely, wondering if he was even aware of her presence.
"Just say it," the lump of fur spat.
"Say what?"
"Are you certain you want to come with us?" Tyrion said, his voice pitched high in a terrible impression of her. His voice cracked and he coughed.
"If you're so certain I'd ask, then why do you need me to say it?" Myra asked, leaning back. The seats were covered in deep, down cushions, but she'd never sleep given how much the carriage would rock. "You don't have anywhere else to go, and I know there are things you need to take care of, just-"
"Don't murder your husband in his sleep?" Tyrion finished, burrowing further into the pile. He tipped over then, curling up in the seat, facing away from her. "Don't worry, my lady. Despite what they do to me, I'm not one for murdering Lannisters."
The silence that followed stretched for so long, Myra thought Tyrion might have fallen asleep, but his voice returned to her.
"I'm going to find her," he mumbled, nearly unintelligible. "The gods be damned, I will find my wife."
. . .
It was a slow crawl up the hill overlooking King's Landing. The horses trudged through mud and clay, unsteadily making their way up the incline. Myra watched through the window as caravans passed in the opposite direction. Farmers coming to sell their goods, soldiers on patrol, refugees still fleeing the clutches of war with little more than the clothes on their backs, all made their way through the muck to the very city she fled. She hoped it treated them far better.
Tyrion had already fallen asleep, not bothered by the movement of the carriage in the least. She suspected he had a fair bit of experience in that area, and smiled softly at the thought.
Her father had always told her that the truth was paramount, between family in particular. Nothing divided those who loved one another more than lies, and she had believed that, with all her heart, she had clung to that idea. She was truthful to Robb and to Jon, and though they had fought, they always came together again.
Despite the depravity that had been inflicted upon Tyrion, she had thought it would be best that he know. She wasn't so naïve as to think that forgiveness would come swiftly to Jaime, but she had believed that the truth was still the best course of action. But in that regard, she had been naïve. What had this knowledge truly brought Tyrion? Only more suffering just when he thought he could smile again. His brother was not the man he thought he was and his wife? What soul could live with the truth of what he had done?
They should have continued the lie, she decided sometime during the days they lingered in the city, when Tyrion had gone quiet after bouts of angry drunkenness. Better she be uncomfortable than he in misery.
How clear the path seemed now that she had taken the wrong turn.
The carriage drew to a halt sometime later, stirring her from those troubling thoughts. Tyrion only snored, threatening to roll off his perch until she gently nudged him back.
With a sigh, Myra hiked up her skirts and made her way outside, hoping that they hadn't gotten stuck already. It would be a terribly long journey to Casterly Rock if that was the case.
"What is going on?" she asked a guard standing by the carriage. It still struck her sometimes, seeing a red-clad soldier standing before her, his helm a broad dome with latches that covered the eyes and obscured the face. Some part of her still expected to see direwolves on fields of gray, but that was in the past now. She had to keep moving forward.
"Nothing to worry about, my lady," the soldier replied. He was so green, his voice still cracked. "We sent the carriage up first so the horses could rest 'til the army makes its way up."
And a small army it was. Their journey to Casterly Rock would be escorted by the bulk of the Lannister troops in the capital, allowing them to finally return home after nearly two years of war. Tywin had kept them around as he had not trusted the state of the City's Watch – or so Jaime informed her one evening. Stannis may have retreated and House Tyrell planted firmly at their side, but Robert had left many things wanting when he was king. But apparently, they met his approval now as he had both released several companies into Jaime's care, as well as Ser Addam Marbrand. Her husband had personally requested him. She did not doubt he needed a friendly face.
What a grand sight they would make: the lord and lady returning with a sea of red at their backs. A sight fit for song, if the people of the Westerlands could tolerate that their lord had married a woman whose brother had attacked their lands. The smallfolk of King's Landing hadn't dealt with Starks since her father passed, but the people she was to rule over had faced her brother's troops head-on.
Just another daunting aspect to add to the already impossible task.
Myra nodded her thanks, turning to look at the edge of the cliff.
King's Landing was still shrouded, but light was beginning to break through the throng of clouds, and she could make out the shadows of the city's looming giants.
It is quite the sight, isn't it, Lady Myra?
A ghost was speaking to her.
She was surrounded by them.
Two riders approached and dismounted, picking through the mud carefully as they led their horses. Brienne and Olyar were dressed finely, both given well-fitted armor and new weapons. Olyvar was even beginning to grow a bit of hair on his face, looking less a boy and more a man. He did not take after his family so terribly.
Myra smiled. "I've never seen a finer dressed squire."
Olyvar was quick to blush. "Your lord husband has been most kind, my lady."
"Surely you don't plan on coming with, Lady Brienne," Myra said, looking the woman up and down. "I don't know what oaths you are beholden to, but I would release you from them, whatever they are. Take a ship. Go home."
Her smile was kind, revealing deeply set dimples. "I thank you, my lady, but if it is all the same, I will still accompany you. It's a promise I made to myself. There is still a war, whatever they may say, and I don't trust most of your company."
Bronn walked by with a whistle and a wink as Podrick Payne struggled to lead both their horses without falling in the mud.
"Then I gladly accept your company," Myra replied. "I can't say Jaime wouldn't have missed you if you left. He'd certainly never admit it, though."
"I think he would have gotten on just fine, my lady."
"No, I don't think so. He respects you, Brienne. You've helped him, and in doing so, have done more for him than most people ever have. We are both grateful to you."
A curious look passed over Brienne's features, and her lower lip wavered, but the woman composed herself quickly with a nod. No, emotion would not do here, especially for a woman already in such a precarious position. While the North had some familiarity with women fighting – most of them Mormonts of course – the South was an entirely different beast, and she imagined the Lannister army would not be so accommodating.
Her mother had once shielded Brienne from the worst of scorn. It was her duty to do the same.
A coarse wind whipped across the caravan, whipping standards and capes, and even causing a few horses to briefly panic. It was cold as ice, catching her skirts and nudging her closer to the cliff. She took in the view below once more, of the city that had been the beginning of the end for her family. How peaceful it looked from so far away. What a wretched lie that was.
Cold touched her cheeks, a light kiss that quickly faded. She glanced up, catching sight of tiny dots of white dancing about in the air. They were few and would quickly melt, even before they hit the ground, but they were there.
The first snow of the coming winter.
And as she looked upon King's Landing one last time, Myra knew in her heart that she would return once more.
The capital was not done with her, nor she with it.
. . .
Sansa
She hadn't expected Littlefinger to be from any grand estate, but she had always imagined it would be a finer building than the tower she was presented with. The Drearfort, he had called it, a sad little structure that had no more than a kitchen, a hall, and the lord's chambers, all connected by an open stair that winded around the walls. The steps were narrow and she often wondered how many servants they might have lost to a bad step.
The land surrounding his family home wasn't much more appealing. The Fingers were a handful of peninsulas, barren of trees and most anything green save for moss and seaweed. A day without rain was rare and sunlight rarer still.
Having grown accustomed to the constant light in Dorne, Sansa found the prospect of remaining there for any period of time to be a downright depressing one, but she'd quickly chastised herself for it. The North hadn't been much better, and it was Northern blood that pumped in her veins. She'd adapted before and would do so again.
Littlefinger had offered the lord's chamber for her use, but she'd declined. He'd offered to have something made up for her in the hall, but again, she turned him down. Sansa decided to stay in the kitchens with the servants, as she did not dare leave herself alone in a place so open and easily accessible, not with a man who so keenly had an interest in her. The servants had given her odd, mistrusting looks, but hadn't said a word. All the dogs had taken to her in an instant, curling up around her at night. Had she not resided in Dorne, she might have found it too warm, but instead, it was a comfort to her. When she closed her eyes, she was in Winterfell again, and the pounding of the sea upon the coast was a rolling thunderstorm...
Sometimes, she dreamed. Actual dreams, not nightmares, not her father broken and stumbling over the steps of the sept, not the jeers of the crowd calling for death or the gleeful smile of the vile king who would gladly grant that wish. No, just dreams. There were fields of grain ready to harvest and streams twisting through trees and her family was there. She could not see them, but she could feel their presence. Some had dulled over time, but others had grown stronger, almost overwhelming in their intensity.
But they had had grown quiet again, and she found herself wandering, alone...
The hearth was little more than embers when she awoke that morning, and even the servants had yet to stir. No light came from outside, and she doubted dawn was even near, yet Sansa could no longer sleep. Her mind was troubled, and the last thing she wished for was to remain still.
One of the dogs joined her, a hound nearly the size of a direwolf, with brown, matted fir and a bark that sounded more like thunder in its chest. It snuffed the ground outside while she stood, wavering against the hard winds that constantly blew across the cliffs. Her hair gathered and flung itself upon her face, before retreating behind her over and over, yet she never minded it. Sansa simply stared into the night, watching wordlessly until the barest hints of gray began to climb over the horizon.
She'd been braver in King's Landing, when Oberyn or her sister were a message away; she thought she knew what had to be done, and yet now that she was here, once more far away from everyone she knew, Sansa felt small again, a child struggling to tread water.
Littlefinger had her right where he wanted, and for now, she would have to play into that, no matter how she longed to struggle. She just worried that he understood her far more than she did herself. If he played her desires and fears against her, she could simply become another pawn in his grand scheme, a puppet strung along to use when the fancy struck him. It was a fine line she walked in the darkness, with no hope of knowing how far she could go before falling.
Eventually, the grays grew brighter, and daylight sleepily took hold of the Fingers, though the clouds hung low and threatened more rain.
"There isn't much to look upon, but I called this home once," Littlefinger called from behind. He could not have been more than two feet from her, yet he sounded a great distance away. The hound growled at his presence, but let him be.
Myra would have loved it, Sansa thought to herself. Her sister had loved the ocean, or at least the idea of it. And around the right people, she might have loved any place.
Though, she supposed Littlefinger was not the right sort of person.
"And what do you call home now?" Sansa asked as he stood beside her. He did not seem so battered by the wind as she. Perhaps he truly was from this place. It was hard to fathom him being from anywhere, to be honest.
"In due time, the Eyrie," he replied, crossing his arms in front of him. "Though, I'd always considered Riverrun home. My fondest memories are there."
"Then it must hurt you to hear what has happened to it."
"Indeed. The Freys are like a vile disease, ruining and twisting all that they touch. It won't resemble the place I once knew when they're through with it, but that is a different problem for a different time. We'll remain here for a few days more, as I conclude business, and then make for the Eyrie."
Sansa turned to him, lips curling into the faintest smile. "Are you going to attempt to convince me that you aren't avoiding your bride-to-be again?"
It was something so very human of him, the little way his lip curled whenever the subject was brought up. Petyr Baelish so dreaded the idea of marrying her aunt that even he could not fully hide the disdain. Sansa knew so little of the woman from her mother that she could not begin to imagine what made her so intolerable to the man, but given everything he'd done to get to where he was in life, it made her so very curious.
And, fortunately, she would discover so shortly.
"Your aunt is a fine woman, and a finer match for marriage, but the love that she bears for me can be-"
"Obsessive?" Sansa offered, unable to contain her smirk.
The look of suspicion on his father nearly made her burst out laughing. When Littlefinger turned to see the approaching caravan that she had been watching, the way his face fell actually did.
And thus Sansa Stark met her aunt Lysa Arryn while laughing her head off, all thoughts of propriety tossed out the window.
. . .
Jaime
He'd foolishly believed that leaving King's Landing would relieve some of the misery in his life – after all, most of it had been founded there – but the day felt much like the others had, full of tension and an impending danger, though not of the variety he once enjoyed. What he was riding toward wasn't something he could take a sword to. Well, he could, but only if he wanted to continue this wretched war for another five years.
King's Landing may have been behind him, but Casterly Rock loomed in his future. It was a responsibility he never thought to have and now he had no way of properly dealing with it. His father had instructed Kevan to remain and help with the transition, but he couldn't be expected to rely on his uncle forever. Tyrion was better suited to this, or even Myra, but neither was speaking to him at the moment. They'd been locked away in the carriage all day, and scarcely a word was spoken about either one by his men.
So, he'd been left alone to contemplate this next step in his journey, although not as alone as he had hoped. Some lords of the Westerlands had joined the caravan home, having traveled for the wedding turned funeral. They spent the entire day attempting to curry favor with the new Lord of Casterly Rock, and Jaime had just barely been able to restrain himself from testing the integrity of his golden hand on their faces. In fact, he was certain that if Ser Harys Swyft had another chinless daughter available, he'd have pushed her on him despite his marriage. The man had grown too bold for his station since he'd become good-father to his uncle Kevan. It was more than likely why he was accompanying him now. His father had grown tired of him, and decided his son deserved the honor.
Jaime supposed he had a lot of that to look forward to as well.
Fortunately, Ser Addam Marbrand understood why he was truly brought with and interrupted a particularly unengaging conversation about barley taxation under the guise of needing to discuss the guard.
"You have my thanks for the rescue," Jaime said as they sat upon their horses some distance from the caravan, on a small hill overlooking the troop movements. They weren't entirely alone as he had a handful of guards and two standard bearers, one for House Lannister, and the other for King Tommen, but he certainly felt much freer than before.
Addam chuckled. "Jaime Lannister thanking someone? Your wife will turn you into a decent man yet."
That encouraged a small smile from him. "Don't make me regret bringing you already."
"And who else would you speak with? The Maid of Tarth?"
Jaime watched as the carriage carrying his wife and brother passed by. Brienne had been trailing it the entire day with Olyvar Frey, while Bronn and Podrick rode near the front. Few men attempted to hold a conversation with her – which she undoubtedly preferred – but their eyes spoke volumes more than their mouths ever could. They stared, they gawked, they gestured, anything to make her feel like a freak.
He understood now why his words had hardly made her flinch. What was one fool next to an army of them?
Guilt was a feeling he was growing far too familiar with, another effect of Myra in his life. He knew it was a good thing, facing down what he had done, doing what a good man would do, but some days he wished he could hide behind that façade again. Life was simple when he was ignorant and miserable.
Of course, he'd wound up miserable again anyway.
"It doesn't make for terrible conversation," he admitted quietly.
Addam raised a curious brow. "I do not mean to insult her, of course. I've had the chance to see her fight some fools in the practice yards. She had them in the dirt before they managed to finish their jeers. I just can't imagine the two of you holding a conversation remotely in the range of normalcy."
"I couldn't imagine myself married once either, and yet..."
"It happens to the best of us."
"Says the unwed man."
There weren't many people he trusted – that had at least never changed for him – but Addam had always been in that small group, ever since they were young and beating one another with practice swords.
Casterly Rock may have been his, but he hardly knew the people within or without. As Addam had done in King's Landing, so Jaime would have him do in his keep, and perhaps Lannisport. He needed eyes and ears that did not belong to his father, and this was where he would start.
He almost sounded like the rest of his family. Some might consider that good news. He was not so sure.
"Let me know if the men talk. I don't need them trying anything. She's been through enough."
"As my lord commands."
Addam had smirked when he said it. He supposed he wasn't Ser Jaime anymore, but Lord Jaime. It felt strange on the tongue, as though unsuited for him, or perhaps he to it.
For the remainder of the day, Jaime attempted to linger beside his troops, holding small conversations with his captains and a few hedge knights. Being at the head of the column only mattered for the approach to a keep, which they – thankfully – would not be doing for a few days. When confined to tents, at least he'd only have to make do with the foolish lords who'd joined him, though he did not have to choose to sup with them. Spending the night in a keep meant playing nice with the ruling lord and whatever ceremonial nonsense he'd thought to include.
He'd always prefer a wall of canvas at his back over stone.
He wondered if Myra felt the same. At least he'd have her to help him get through it all. She could direct a conversation far better than he ever could, even on her worst days.
Then again, perhaps she would prefer to play the role of silent wife after everything.
He sighed. What a bloody fool he was – or perhaps an impressive one – to have everything and yet have also lost it.
. . .
It took a surprisingly short amount of time for the tents to be staged. Given the number of troops with them – all well-versed with the practice after the war – everyone had a single role, and still left spares, leaving everything taken care of well within an hour. It had been quite the sight to behold.
Jaime had taken to making his command and personal tent one and the same. Most commanders tended to do so, as no one wished to be disturbed in the middle of the night for a trek through the cold. There was a divide between the two spaces, of course, one side containing a simple down mattress and a few trinkets, nothing excessive. The other housed the war table. It was not so grand a thing as Aegon the Conqueror's carved monstrosity, but it took up a good portion of the tent, appearing even larger when his commanders were crowded around it.
Addam Marbrand was there, along with Lyle Crakehall, also known as the Strongboar, Ser Kennos of Kayce, Ser Dermot of the Rainwood, and Ser Ronnet Connington. Red Ronnet was what many called him for the shock of hair on his head. There was something about the man that Jaime mistrusted, but it was either him or accepting Ser Harys's offer to join. A suspicious man he could work with, but a fool was another matter entirely.
"We should reach Harrenhal within a week, if the weather keeps up," Addam said, pointing to the marker that depicted the destroyed castle. "The cold is bad on the joints, but it makes the mud harden. Less lost boots, I imagine."
Jaime frowned, staring at the hunk of marble on the map. It gave Harrenhal a far more splendid appearance than it deserved. He was hardly interested in returning, given what he found – or rather what he did not – when he awoke there. But it could hardly be helped. A skeleton of a keep it may have been, but it was still large enough and situated in just the right spot to be of importance.
"I've lost track of who holds that bloody castle. Is there anyone?"
Ser Kennos shrugged. "Hard to say, my lord. By your father's decree, it belongs to Petyr Baelish, though he has not bothered occupying it since Ser Gregor departed."
Doubtful he ever would. Littlefinger had his eyes on a larger prize, and even a logical man such as himself still had a superstitious view of that place.
"Then there's probably a Frey or two in there, unless they've lost it to the rats already."
The men chuckled at that. There wasn't a man, woman, or creature alive that respected their sham of a house, and they all reveled in reminding themselves of that.
This was something he could do, talk of strategy, tactics, and general soldiering. There was no particular decorum expected of him. Just a head on his shoulders and a sword in his hand.
It was the wrong hand, but he would make do.
"We'll have to put a garrison there until at least reinforcements come."
Strongboar snorted. "Harys Swift is more than welcome to it, the way he's out to please you. Thought he might offer himself as a bedwarmer 'fore the march was through."
"As much as that would please all of us, we need to leave Harrenhal in more competent hands, but that can wait until we arrive. What else is there?"
Addam pointed to another marker. "We should be at Riverrun in two weeks, maybe three, hopefully without disruption. The Brotherhood Without Banners still attacks units that way. Their murder of Roose Bolton has only encouraged them. They've grown bold."
Jaime frowned, peering at the map. "And we've no idea where they are?"
"Our scouts never return, and the smallfolk tend to hide any sign of them. Best we can say is somewhere in the trees."
Strongboar snorted again. He was a man of bold action and combat out in the open, which meant that while he hated the Brotherhood, he would also have no reason to go after them. There was no glory in hunting down a ragtag group of murderers.
"How specific," Jaime said, watching Addam shrug. "Very well. I'd rather leave them to the Freys. These are their lands now, and their problems. We'll tighten the guard until we've cleared the area. No scouting parties, no curious, wandering soldiers."
"Yes, my lord."
"I assume the Blackfish still holds Riverrun?"
"He does, my lord," Red Ronnet said, crossing his arms. "The Freys have the castle surrounded, but they've hardly done anything to oust him, other than-"
The knight stopped, distracted. Jaime looked up from the map to see that Myra had entered the tent. She stood quietly at the opening, shadowed despite the loud red of her cloak doing all it could to announce her presence. Her eyes were dark chasms, taking in everyone and everything with a cold expression. For one moment, she actually reminded him of his father, and it left him speechless.
"By all means, Ser Connington, please continue," Myra said, a gentleness in her voice that her eyes did not possess. "Your work is important and should not be delayed on my account."
Red Ronnet's eyes met his. Of course, he did understand the man's trepidation. Ladies were not so often privy to the dealings of their lords, not just in matters of war but politics, accounts, and other subjects deemed too much for the soft. Myra also had the misfortune of her family name. Before the gods, she was a Lannister, but before men, she was a Stark, a daughter of the enemy, their uncrowned queen, and the niece of the man they sought to wrest Riverrun from. Even with no way to communicate, she was a risk.
And yet, Jaime remembered a time when his father sought his mother's counsel. She sat in on council meetings, spoke of strategy and tactics, and knew everything his father did. She was the only one he had truly trusted with all his secrets; she was his only equal in a room of fools.
Strangely, it would have been his father who understood best the relationship he sought to have with Myra, the one he needed to have. It wasn't just her ability to give him a son that made her the key to preserving their legacy.
"You heard my lady wife," Jaime said, leveling a hard gaze on each man present. "Continue."
Red Ronnet spared Myra one last glance as she walked farther into the tent, her gaze fixed on the war table.
"They've taken to standing Edmure Tully at the gallows every day, threatening to hang him unless the Blackfish gives up the castle."
Myra had gone still. She had since turned away from them, but Jaime could see the tension in her shoulders. She had little family left, and one had been facing death every day for weeks.
Jaime sighed. "They've already proven he's too valuable to actually hang by having not done so the first day. Now they're just making fools of themselves."
He hoped that helped her, and that the bluntness of his delivery was not too unkind. There were at least murmurs of agreement from the others.
"Send riders to Riverrun. Tell whichever Frey happens to be in charge that day that they are to stop this idiocy, clean up Edmure, and keep him locked up until our arrival. And if they don't do just that, they will find the Lannister army far less accommodating than they could be."
"My lord, is it wise to go so far out of the way for the enemy?" Ser Dermot asked, Ser Kennos nodding beside him. "Edmure Tully is no longer the Lord of Riverrun."
"Tell that to the people of Riverrun," Jaime replied, fixing his gaze anywhere except on Myra. "Kill him and we'll have to kill the whole lot of them, and I don't want to be involved in this mess any longer than I have to be. I want to wash my hands of the Freys."
He ignored the voice that insisted on telling him he only had one hand. Again.
Jaime pinched the bridge of his nose. He knew there was more to speak of, but he no longer had the patience for it. There were many more days of this ahead of him. He'd catch up then. Right now, he wanted to be done with it.
"Make sure to send out those riders at first light. We'll deal with the rest at a later time. Dismissed."
The men all inclined their heads, mumbling their 'my lords' as they left. Jaime spread his arms along the table, staring at the map without seeing anything. He was already tired of this, and he was expected to do so for the rest of his life.
I should have given it all to Tyrion, although he'd probably burn it down out of spite at this point.
"You did well," Myra said quietly from behind him. He'd actually forgotten she was there. She hadn't taken to lingering long in rooms with him as of late.
Jaime's laugh was humorless. "I'm a child playing at war."
"You're certainly doing better than the Freys."
He straightened, groaning as his muscles ached. He'd been wearing his armor too long. "A comparison fit to make any man feel better about his shortcomings."
She appeared beside him, suddenly so small, her fingers gently touching the marker for Casterly Rock.
"I want to thank you for doing what you did," Myra said after a moment, looking up at him. Her eyes had softened, though they were no less dark. "Edmure is your enemy, and you owe him no kindness."
Jaime shook his head. "I want to think I'd have done it regardless of you. Killing your uncle is the stupidest decision the Freys could make at the moment, which means it's only a matter of time before they actually do so."
"Do you think your riders will make it on time?"
"With any luck, though I suppose we haven't been the luckiest pair, have we?" Jaime mused, running his good hand over his golden one.
Myra's hand appeared, taking the gold contraption into her grasp. He was starting to believe she preferred it to his real hand.
"You should have died in the forest. I should have died at the Twins," she started, turning Jaime so he would look at her. Now she looked more like her old self, the woman she had been prior to knowing the truth. How confident she was in him, how proud, convinced he could do anything. "We both should be languishing in cells on Dragonstone or drowned in the sea. Yet here we are. As unfortunate as our lives have been, we're still here, and that has to mean something."
He smiled briefly. "It means we're easy to hurt, but hard to kill."
"Stop trying to ruin my speech," Myra said, smirking. She playfully batted him on the shoulder before moving her hand upward, gently touching his cheek. Her touch was soft and warm, and he found himself leaning into it with a sigh. "You look terrible."
"I feel terrible."
He felt her begin to tug at one of his gauntlets. "Of course, you do. You've been in this armor all day. You're probably about to fall asleep in it."
"Well, at least I'll be ready for the morning then."
She continued to tug at parts of it, no doubt confused by how it was all put together. Lannister armor was far different than anything her brother and his army would have had. Theirs mostly consisted of boiled leather and crude iron. His armor alone had more detail than all of their keeps put together.
"Don't," he said softly, grabbing her hand. "I have squires for this...somewhere."
Myra batted his hand away, continuing her work. "If I can't strip you naked, no one can."
He had to chuckle at that. She'd gotten very bold, with less blushes and more backtalk. It reminded him of their days on the run, when she'd truly shown him how Northern she could be when he pushed a subject too far; it had annoyed him then, now he relished every moment he had with it.
So, he let her have at the armor. It was a mostly silent affair, save for the pointers he gave her when she was stuck on a particularly ornate piece. There was something about the small tugs, the soft and gentle way she removed his armor that had him standing completely still. She did not look at him, gaze intent on her work, but he watched every movement that he could. From the gorget to the cuirass to the greaves, Jaime watched Myra work.
Gods how he loved this woman.
When she'd finished and set his armor aside, Myra returned to the map, moving her fingers along the lines, skin just hovering over the surface. How familiar it all must have felt, and yet utterly foreign.
Jaime walked toward her quietly, careful as a mouse, somehow afraid she might bolt if he made too loud a sound.
He stood behind her, rested his head in her hair, and sighed. "I miss you."
"I'm still here, Jaime," she said softly, turning around to face him. Her gaze had softened considerably, to the point of vulnerability. "I never left."
"It feels like you have," he whispered.
"I know, and I'm sorry for that."
There they stood for a half a moment, neither quite willing to speak again. Jaime found his hand moving toward her. Gently, he undid her cloak and let it fall heavily to the floor. He waited, until she nodded once, almost imperceptibly.
He kissed her so hard that she fell into the table and began to giggle, her laughter sweet against his lips, only encouraging him. Despite missing a hand, it was nothing for Jaime to hook his arms around his wife and lift her onto the table. Myra gasped at the action, staring at him with those wide, lady-like eyes before something wicked took over, a smirk crossing her face that he'd rarely seen, and only before the Red Wedding.
She flung her arms out, clearing the table of all his troop positions and holdfasts before moving farther on the table. He dug through her mess of skirts, frustrated by the sheer amount of fabric, which only made her laugh more when he finally managed to spread her legs apart.
He looked at her as she laid there, her dark hair splayed across the expanse of the North, Winterfell a framed crown atop her head; he kissed her passionately, slowly, savoring every sensation, because even now, in the back of his mind, he knew this could not last forever.
"No more secrets," she breathed when he released her.
"I have nothing left to hide," he whispered. "Everything I have, it's all yours."
. . .
He'd taken her not once, but twice on that war table, but eventually they'd made their way to the mattress. Hours had passed, but neither had slept. They laid there in the dying light of small fire, naked and uncovered, yet burning hot still, watching one another. Even his golden hand was gone, and he couldn't quite remember where they'd disposed of it.
"Is he alright?" Jaime asked after a long while of debating whether or not he should. He did not want to ruin what they had just gotten back, but there was that nagging voice in the back of his mind. He had to know.
Myra shifted, grabbing his stump. "I can't say he wouldn't try to stab you if I left the two of you alone."
"I can't say I wouldn't let him."
His wife frowned, curling up tighter into him. Her legs twisted with his and her hands wrapped around his head.
"He says he wants to find her," she said quietly, her eyes finally growing heavy. Her gray irises disappeared from sight. "Do you know where she could have gone?"
Jaime remembered seeing her escorted from the room; he recalled her sad form stumbling out of the postern gate, still clinging to all the coins she'd been given. If she hadn't flung herself from the cliffs, she more than likely would have been set upon by bandits. There weren't many places for a broken young woman to turn to.
His father should have just slit her throat and been done with it.
"No," was the only answer he gave.
. . .
Dawn came all too soon, and the stillness of the tents vanished as the men were awoken, rushed to breakfast, and then to work tearing everything down. Myra had disappeared to her own tent well before he had stirred, leaving Jaime to get dressed slowly and awkwardly by himself. His squires quickly assembled his armor and took care of cleaning up his belongings, never questioning the state of the war table.
Frost had covered the ground overnight, and a fog had begun to climb out of the trees where the river laid, fingered whisps that threatened to make their journey more difficult should they come much closer. Jaime watched his breath curl in the air, wondering how long it had been since he'd felt such cold in the air. He wondered how long it would be until he felt warmth in it again.
Murmurs caught his attention, and Jaime noticed a few soldiers staring. At first, he thought it might be toward Brienne again, but then he realized who walked beside her.
Myra had done away with her skirts, trading them for dark riding breeches and boots already caked with mud. She wore a large, leather overcoat which was shorter in the front but nearly touched the ground in the back. It was a deep red, closely matching his colors, with intricate needlework clearly depicting roaring lions. She'd also braided her hair once again, leaving it lying across her shoulder.
Hanging from her hip was Widow's Wail, the piece of her father's sword that Tommen had given her. She would never use it, but he imagined she never wished to be parted from it either.
"I hope you didn't believe I was going to ride in that carriage all the way to Casterly Rock," she said with a smirk, pulling on a pair of gloves.
"The thought had crossed my mind," Jaime replied, amused and a little disappointed his tent had already been torn down. "But I should have known better."
"Indeed, you should have. At least this time we won't have to go riding off into the thicket after fat old men."
Jaime chuckled, finding the journey ahead of them suddenly simple. He looked to his little squires who were staring up at Myra as if she'd grown a second head.
"Go on then. Get my lady wife a horse."
He then kissed her for good measure, unbothered by their witnesses.
He'd never heard the Lannister army whistle before.