Myra
The days began to blur together, with slow, trudging marches that appeared to take them nowhere. Though she had attempted to converse with the others in the initial days, the conversations always ran dry. She found Ser Harys to be overwhelming in a multitude of ways and the man called Red Ronnet gave her an uneasy feeling. He'd made several comments that bordered on insult. While she had tolerated a few, figuring it was simply his nature, she'd tossed a few back in his face. Jaime, however, had been more ferocious in his response once he'd caught on.
Of all the lords to accompany them, Myra had taken to the Strongboar best, although that usually meant long bouts of silence.
Slowly, the flowing fields of the Crownlands melted into the wastelands of war. Burnt crops and hastily dug mass graves dotted the landscape, a clear sign that they had crossed into the Riverlands. Throngs of refugees passed them daily, their few possessions in hand and hate in their eyes. Myra had tried to pass along food or coin, but most rejected her offers. Some even spat upon the ground before her. Lannisters were despised, and she was one of them now.
So, she began to ignore them, turning her gaze toward the landscape or Jaime.
It was alarmingly easy to pretend they did not exist.
The nights were easier at least, when the men gathered around large fires, eating and laughing, sometimes even singing. When she closed her eyes, she could scarcely tell the difference between them and her brother's army. Their accents were less harsh, but their jokes were just as jovial, their bonds just as strong. They spoke of home and their wives and children; they spoke of places they hoped to see again soon.
Sometimes, she and Jaime walked amongst the men while they were eating. At first, they would awkwardly attempt to stand and speak their proper courtesies, but her husband had them joking in no time. For all the shame that his name carried amongst the nobility, the soldiers admired Jaime. The loss of his hand meant nothing, his murder of the king meant nothing. Jaime was a soldier, just like them, and Myra knew there was nothing a soldier appreciated more than being led by a man who knew what they were going through.
The passing days had done nothing to help her good-brother. She ate with Tyrion once, though it mostly consisted of him quietly drinking and little else. Not even Bronn could lighten the atmosphere with his terrible humor.
"Where do whores go?" Tyrion asked her at one point in the evening, cutting off a story that Bronn was telling without a second thought.
She had glanced at both Bronn and Podrick before answering as best she could. "I think they'd want to go home, whatever that might mean to them."
His eyes had grown wide at her answer, and he ceased to speak.
The remainder of her time belonged to Jaime, most of which was spent in their tent, a tangle of limbs and sweat. It only occurred to her on the fourth night that the men could probably hear them - in fact, they definitely did - but her propriety was smothered by her need to be with Jaime. War had done many terrible things to her; the men being able to hear as she was pleasured by her husband was the least of her worries.
"Tell me more about Casterly Rock," she said one evening as they huddled under furs, her head propped on Jaime's chest as she waited for his answer.
"I s'pose you really are heading there now," he mused, no doubt not entirely believing it. Most things felt like a dream to her as well. "What have I told you about it?"
"That it's tall."
Jaime started to laugh at that. "I think you're missing a few details."
His face settled after that, softening; his eyes were distant and she could tell he was trying to remember.
She found it hard to recall Winterfell now, despite having lived there all her life. If Myra tried to describe what it looked like now, she might well fail. It was a dark spot at the edge of her mind's eye, imposing yet blurred, as if someone had taken a torch to her memories.
But if she thought of something she did at home, such as the time she chased Jon round the stables for ruining her good saddle, then suddenly it was returned to her: Winterfell in all its glory. Its ancient stones covered in bits of moss, the crumbling old towers, mud tracked through halls lined with melting candles larger than a child, their wax accumulating on the floor and walls. She remembered every turn, every knot in every door, which stones were loose and used by Arya to sneak treats and which footholds Bran considered to be the best, which corners were for Rickon to hide in and which were for Jon when he decided to brood without her. She remembered how warm Sansa's room was, covered in tapestries and colors, while Robb's was bare bones, as if he hardly lived there. Which was true enough, as he had usually been in her room.
Myra wondered how many happy memories Jaime had to reflect on.
"First of all, there are far too many rooms. You'll never get to them all. Just give up now before you arrive," he started, prompting her laughter. "The number of servants alone could make up a village. You'll have a small army of your own at your disposal.
"The deeper into the castle you go, the less important the rooms are. I'd suggest sticking to the ones with windows. You'll get lost otherwise. Tyrion actually disappeared half a dozen times before the age of ten, and once he'd stayed gone for an entire week and he-"
Jaime's voice halted, and the tent fell silent. He'd sounded so excited talking about his little brother, and then he'd remembered everything that had brought them here.
Myra reached up and touched his face. "What did he do?"
A ghost of a smile returned. "He'd been living out of a pantry, sneaking lemon cakes every night. We only found him because he missed the taste of meat."
His arm wrapped around her slowly, and Myra could feel him tracing circles on her skin.
"I think you'll enjoy my mother's rooms. Father gave her one of the tallest towers in the keep, with a perfect view of the Sunset Sea. I used to stand at the windows when I was a child, keeping watch for Uncle Gerion's sails."
Myra did not get the chance to ask about his uncle. Jaime drifted to sleep soon after he spoke the words. She did not mind. They had time, she told herself. They had time to figure it all out.
A little over a week after they set out, Harrenhal was looming before them, as decrepit and ominous as it had been the last time she visited. The ruins stretched out before them, an enormous skeleton jutting from the earth, burnt and broken, standing as a reminder of past glories and downfalls. The sight of it made her stomach turn.
"This is where everything went wrong, isn't it?" Myra asked quietly, watching a shadow pass over Jaime's face. She did not miss the way his good hand gripped the golden one.
"I awoke to no hand and Roose Bolton offering to send me home," he replied, glancing over to her. "He said he was off to a wedding, and I told him to send your brother my regards."
Myra gripped the reins a little tighter, looking away to the great lake in the distance, and the island that rested in the middle. The Isle of Faces, that was what they called it, where the First Men and the Children of the Forest made a pact to live in peace. Weirwoods covered the small plot of land, their faces always crying. Old Nan used to talk of the green men, and how they still guarded it.
She supposed Old Nan was gone now too. It was hard to imagine. Growing up, they'd always thought she'd outlive everyone.
"It was a joke meant at Bolton's expense, not your brother's. That much I can swear to."
Myra turned back to her husband, and noted the concern on his face. It bordered on fear, and she realized what she had done to him in that moment of silence.
"I don't blame you anymore, Jaime," she said quickly, touching his arm. "I was wrong to place it upon you to begin with. What you said just made me...remember."
He shifted in the saddle. "Stay in the tent tonight. There's no need for you to go in there. I'll assign someone to watch over the keep tonight, and we'll leave this place at first light."
"And where do you plan on staying?"
Jaime made a face.
"Then that is where I will be as well. We can both be miserable together."
"I don't plan on being miserable if you're there," he said with a smirk. "We'll chase the ghosts out with your screams."
Myra smacked him as he began to laugh.
. . .
Harrenhal had somehow become more miserable since she had last been there. In the absence of any proper leader, the occupants had turned upon each other, fighting over scraps of food and good clothing. The dungeons were filled with ripe corpses, bloated and ready to burst. Those who somehow survived looked more dead than those corpses, skin barely clinging to bone, eyes sunken, hair brittle and half fallen out.
Myra watched an old woman take a bite of bread, smile in contentment, and die where she sat. One of the other prisoners hastily attempted to take the food from her, but her grip would not relent, even in death.
She watched with careful, dry eyes as everything unfolded before her. This was Ser Gregor's doing, or so she had been told, but a part of her wondered how the conditions were in Roose Bolton's care. His household flayed men after all. The Mountain that Rides might have taken fondly to such a man.
But they were both dead now, so her pondering made no difference in the end.
"My lady, we should not linger here," Brienne said quietly beside her. The Lady of Tarth had paled some since they'd entered the castle. Olyvar had already gotten sick in a corner. The stench alone almost had her joining him. "There is nothing more we can do for them."
"The lady is correct," a voice spoke from behind them. Red Ronnet was suddenly beside them. Myra did not miss the way Brienne's gaze went to her feet. "She does not know much, but a hopeless cause is something she's quite familiar with."
Myra broke away from the dungeons, returning to the open air of the surface level. Already, men were setting to work cleaning up the place. Jaime had barely been inside more than a minute before he was barking orders and setting the occupants right. He may have hated leadership, but it agreed with him.
"I see you've reacquired your tongue now that my husband isn't around, Ser Ronnet," she said calmly, allowing the knight to walk with her as the crossed the grounds. To their left and right, soldiers stopped and nodded, a gesture she always returned in kind. "Why are you annoying me again?"
"Try not to flatter yourself, Lady Myra. I did not mean to seek you out," Red Ronnet spat back as they cleared past the smithy. She wondered where Lady was now, or any of the direwolves. "But I could not help but notice the company you keep. I found it to be quite the coincidence."
"Did you now? How so?"
They crossed over to what appeared to be an arena, though time had worn the stones and rotted the wood. It was more of a sad little pit that greeted them, with the corpse of a bear resting at the bottom, the crows picking at what remained of its flesh. Her imagination conjured enough images to drown her curiosity thrice over.
"The Lady Brienne and I were once betrothed, back when she still attempted to wear gowns. Do you recall?" he asked, turning to her silent guard. "Or will you choke on your tongue again?"
Brienne met him with a narrowed gaze, a deep frown tugging at her features. Were she not the honorable woman Myra had come to known, she might have even ran the man through with her sword. "I recall. You gave me a rose, and said that was all I'd ever have from you."
"Seems it was the most you ever received. Three betrothals and no husband still."
"That is enough, Ser Ronnet," Myra interjected, not wishing to see the outcome of his continued abuse. She could not say why he insisted upon it, only that Harrenhal appeared to bring out the worst in men, though his was never far below the surface. "You will apologize to Lady Brienne for your insults."
Brienne shook her head. "That is quite alright, my lady. His words would never be genuine, nor would I ever accept them."
"Nevertheless, he should, my lady," Olyvar said, stepping before Brienne. The boy had never said an unkind word to anyone, and had grown very close to Brienne over the time they'd been together. He was her squire in all but name. "Such childish behavior should not come from a landed knight."
"Boldy spoken for a Frey," Ser Ronnet said, eying Olyvar. The boy had a hand on his sword. "Do you plan on drawing steel against me? I'd see you without a hand, or a head, before the night-"
Red Ronnet did not get to finish his threat. Brienne moved swiftly forward, landing a blow on his cheek with a balled-up fist. He collapsed where he stood, a clattering of armor following his swift exit from consciousness. Myra pressed a hand to her mouth, not out of shock, but rather a desire to not be heard laughing across the grounds. That did not stop nearby witnesses from doing just that. They'd taken a shine to watching Brienne knock fools to the ground, and this was perhaps the most foolish of them all.
Brienne watched his body a moment, a deep anger seated in her bright eyes, but she soon came to her senses, her skin reddening deeply as she realized what she'd done.
"Forgive me my lady," she muttered so quickly, Myra barely caught it as the woman fled the scene. She dashed between soldiers and broken stone, disappearing in an instant.
"Olyvar, follow her," Myra said, putting a hand on the squire's shoulder. "Make sure she doesn't flee the castle entirely. I'll be fine."
The boy nodded once, releasing his sword and chasing after Brienne.
Myra looked down to Red Ronnet, his eyes blinking slowly as he regained consciousness. His teeth had turned red, and blood had begun to pour from his nose. Brienne might have let him insult her all day - it was something she was unfortunately used to - but the moment he threatened Olyvar, she'd struck hard and fast. Quick to defend others, but never herself.
It reminded her of something her mother said once...
"I do believe a rose is not the only thing she's taken from you, Ser Ronnet," Myra said with a polite smile, leaving the ruined knight to sit in the remnants of his dignity.
When Jaime heard of what had transpired, he'd laughed until he'd bent over the war table, unable to stand upright any longer, and Brienne had turned even redder than she had when she'd actually hit the man. She tried to offer herself up for punishment, but Jaime would have none of it.
After all, he had finally found a volunteer to watch over Harrenhal.
. . .
Sansa
Lysa had brought a septon, and a number of her lady's maids, to the decrepit tower that housed Littlefinger's family, effectively cornering him into a marriage, unless he wished to flee into the sea. While the thought was a lovely one, she preferred watching him squirm before the septon and the small crowd gathered in the Great Hall. She gave him credit, the façade he put on was a rather convincing one, but she could see the cracks as plain as day.
Frankly, her aunt may have never noticed if he was outwardly disgusted. She was utterly infatuated with the man, to the point where he could do no wrong. It reminded Sansa of a young girl who only had eyes for a selfish, ugly little prince, and for that, Lysa had her pity.
It was, however, a very short-lived pity as her aunt, rather than embracing her as a long-lost niece, gave her a onceover and that look, the kind that spoke of contempt and jealousy. She would usher herself between her and Littlefinger every chance she got, and would glare when he so much as spoke to her, even from across the room.
Sansa, for the first time, truly began to realize how her sister had felt. To have the face of another was nothing but a curse.
However, Lysa was no Cersei, so whatever threats she believed to be throwing at her were nothing but annoyances, like little gnats buzzing about her for attention. There was nothing to fear from her, not after all that she had seen. When Lysa stared, she would look right back at her, holding her aunt's gaze until it faltered. It ever failed to make her smirk.
The bedding, however, had her roaring with laughter.
Lysa had insisted upon screaming his name the whole night through, and she had proven very true to her word. At first, her lady's maids had giggled at the sound, but they grew tired of it quickly. Even the howling of the wind, the crashing of the waves upon stone, and the baying of the hounds in tandem could not compete with the ridiculous squawks echoing from the top of the tower.
She'd lived in a whorehouse for some time and had never heard anything remotely as painful to the ears, and it delighted her to no end. Eventually, she'd had to bite her fist to control herself, and by the time her aunt had finally fallen silent, she'd broken the skin and bled.
They left for the Eyrie the next day, Littlefinger's plans forcibly on hold in favor of Lysa's never-ending needs. She took his attention for the full three-day journey back to her keep, ranting to him about the lords of the Vale and their disapproval, or over their insistence on taking her Sweetrobin - a plight he assured would never happen while he was there - and she would always finish by ranting over some girl, Brynna, who found herself in her care. The girl bothered her to no end, from her manners to her habits, to her insistence at prowling about at strange hours. Littlefinger would question her about the girl, but never received more information other than how annoying she was.
For this, Sansa was grateful Littlefinger had no time to speak with her, for she had a suspicion, no, a certainly as to who waited ahead, and she knew she could hide that realization on her face.
After all, who else but Arya could be so utterly aggravating?
Myra had mentioned her suspicion that their sister was alive after her direwolf had fled Harrenhal. She could only imagine the journey she had been on, and what had brought her here of all places.
She hoped Littlefinger did not suspect the same; she did not want him devising a scheme before she had the chance to see her again. But that almost felt impossible. What child could annoy Lysa Arryn to this extent and yet still somehow be in her possession, if not a relative? It was a terribly easy puzzle to solve.
He'll want to be rid of her, Sansa thought glumly. His plans don't have room for another Stark.
She spent the rest of the journey deep in thought.
The air grew thin and cold as they traveled, and by the third day, they could easily spot the Eyrie. It was an imposing structure that stabbed at the sky in defiance, reminding those before it of what feats man was capable of.
Briefly, Sansa felt like the young girl who saw King's Landing for the first time again. There was a sense of wonder as she stared at the behemoth. Truth be told, the Eyrie was perhaps one of the smallest castles amongst the largest families, yet no one could look at it and not be impressed.
"How do we get up there?" she found herself asking.
One of Lysa's guards had chuckled. "Very carefully."
He hadn't been wrong.
Sansa had foolishly believed that she had lost her fear, or at least controlled it to an extent. The basket ride into the castle was a reminder of the arrogant nature of that line of thought. She could have swallowed her heart, the way it lodged itself in her throat. Clinging to that tiny basket, at the mercy of the wind and other cruel elements, Sansa began to regret her decision a hundred times over. She wondered if Littlefinger and Lysa found temporary marital bless while grinning at her suffering.
A guard had kindly kept a hand on her shoulder as her unsteady legs fought to regain control of themselves once she'd set foot on level ground again. Despite being sheltered from the weather, the air still felt cold in the Eyrie, and Sansa found herself shivering before a small fire as she waited for the rest of the party to make their way up.
Sansa lingered toward the back of the group as they were ushered into the Eyrie. She could hear Lysa's voice echoing over the stonework, calling for a great feast with her favorite minstrels that would last until the next morning; she could also vaguely hear Littlefinger's gentler tones attempting - and failing - to talk her out of it, but most of her attention was on their surroundings.
How often she had spoken of places being cages, but none she had been to truly encompassed the word like the Eyrie. It was, after all, an impossible place to leave without the coordination and aid of several people, if one wanted to live that was. There would be no fleeing in the dead of night, no sneaking away in disguise. She would have to tread carefully here.
Their company entered the High Hall, where Sansa's gaze was drawn to a large, weirwood throne and the little boy who sat upon it. She guessed that it was her cousin, Robert, who occupied the seat, playing with a little carving of a dog. The toy was promptly tossed aside when the boy saw Lysa, and he ran as fast as his legs could carry him down the steps, which wasn't terribly fast at all. She'd heard he was sickly, but seeing him now, Sansa wondered how her cousin could have survived all these years. The cold in the castle alone should have killed him.
"Did you bring me something, Mother?" the boy asked, his tone impatient.
Lysa smiled at him, smoothing down his hair. "I've brought you something far better than any trinket, Sweetrobin. Do you remember Petyr Baelish? He's my husband now, and he's going to take care of us."
Littlefinger inclined his head toward little Robert. "It is good to see you again, my lord. You've grown taller since I last saw you."
Sansa frowned at the interaction, holding back the urge to roll her eyes at Littlefinger's sweet words. She'd never heard anything fouler.
The sound of several running footsteps caught everyone's attention, and soon enough a small form was darting into the room with two guards and another lady's maid chasing them.
Arya came to a halt before them, dressed in a tunic and breeches, hair shorter than Sansa remembered, disheveled and covered in melting snow.
Thinking that Arya was at the Eyrie was one thing, but seeing her little sister before her now, it was something else entirely. Sansa felt a pressure lift from her chest, a worry that had been nestled between her ribs since they'd last seen one another in King's Landing. How had she come so far on her own? How had she made it here? She'd been helped by Syrena from the beginning. Arya had not been so lucky, and yet, here she was, alive and whole.
Sansa was not Littlefinger. She could not pretend that it wasn't her sister before her; she couldn't hold back the wave of emotion and tears.
"You!" Lysa screeched, grabbing her son up from the ground as if her sister would bite. "What have you done now?"
"Why do you think I did anything? I-"
Arya froze mid-sentence, spying her. Her little sister bit her lip, shook her head in disbelief once, and then bolted for her. She crashed into her with the force of a brick wall, knocking the air from her lungs, but Sansa held firm, wrapping her arms tightly around her and refusing to let go.
Though Arya had managed to grow, she was still much shorter than her, and Sansa could feel her legs dangling as she picked her up off the ground.
How they had loathed one another once. How she wished she could take it all back.
Sansa briefly opened her eyes, spying Littlefinger over her sister's shoulder, and a look that sent warning chills down her spine. She held that gaze of his, and hoped it conveyed what she felt.
If he touched her sister, he would die.
. . .
Oberyn
Forgive me, Elia.
It was the small prayer he had offered before killing the Mountain. For years, he had dreamt of that moment, of extracting a confession from the beast as he screamed in agony, but it was just as he had been told: the Mountain was weapon, not a man. All his efforts would have been for nothing, and he would have left Ellaria alone in this world in pursuit of that dream.
Of course, deep down, Oberyn knew his sister would have forgiven him in an instant. She never would have wanted him to risk his life in that way to begin with, and the only unforgivable offense would be dying when he need not. The Elia he had asked forgiveness of was one he had created, his need for vengeance wearing her face, driving him forward all these years, blinding him.
With the Mountain dead, it made everything all the clearer.
What a fool the Red Viper of Dorne was, and always had been.
Now that the trial was concluded, and King's Landing was finally emptying of spectators, it was time to move on, and to fully dedicated himself to his brother's plan. His face was still terribly bruised, but it no longer hurt to the touch; his nose was still difficult to breathe through, but this was not the first time it had been broken, nor the fifth. Breathing would come again.
Nymeria and Tyene dutifully stood on the docks, waiting for him, dressed in colorful silks from home, as if ready to sail on the Greenblood. Syrena had come as well, although she lingered behind her sisters. Though he did not regret how he spoke to her, Oberyn did not like how she looked now. He had never seen one of his daughters so thoroughly cowed before.
"I do believe your uncle plans on sending Arianne to take his seat on the council in time. That is if it hasn't already been revoked," Oberyn said, putting a hand on Nymeria's shoulder. "I want you to take my place until she arrives."
"A bastard on the council sounds amusing, but is Trystane not a preferable choice? Arianne has Sunspear to think about after all."
Oberyn glanced to his nephew at the adjacent dock, standing with Myrcella as she gave her tearful goodbyes to her brother. Nym was cunning as ever. In truth, Trystane was supposed to stay in King's Landing, that had been the plan the entire time, but given recent events, Oberyn did not trust his nephew would remain safe. He wanted the boy as far from Cersei Lannister as possible. He'd written Doran about it, and hoped he'd forgive him for the change to his plans.
"Your cousin has a role of his own to play in Dorne, which is why you are needed here. Just...try not to provoke Lord Tywin's ire just yet. Keep your head low."
"I am afraid you ask too much of her, Father," Tyene teased with a soft smile, earning a glare from her older sister.
"I do not doubt you wish to take her place, but you must remain where you are."
Tyene easily found herself in the good graces of the High Septon, with her easygoing and innocent nature. She knew the right words to say, the right questions to ask, and had an instinct about a man's weaknesses. Everything that came from the High Septon's mouth inevitably made its way to his ears, though there had been little news other than chatter about sparrows.
It did not seem like much, but the faith could determine the emotions of the entire city, whether for good or bad, and they needed a finger firmly on that pulse.
"As you command, Father," she said with a small bow of her head.
As he commanded. Yes, his daughters were some of Dorne's best soldiers, his best soldiers, even the youngest yearned for such an honor. He had given them enough love, had he not? Enough opportunity to choose a life they desired, yet there they stood, ready to serve. He could not have been prouder, and yet, Oberyn felt as though he had failed them.
"Let me speak with your sister," Oberyn said, moving past them.
Syrena watched him with cautious eyes. "I did not wish for us to part on bad terms."
Oberyn nodded once. "Neither did I."
He hugged his daughter, and kissed her on the head, remembering how she used to fall asleep under the blood orange trees. The ripened fruit fell from a branch and split over her head. She's smelled of them for a week.
"Keep an eye on the queen," he whispered into her hair. "I do not know if she is planning anything, but she will not let go of what I have done easily."
"You have my word, Father," Syrena replied, slipping out of his grasp and back toward the keep. Her presence would be missed all too quickly, and so she could not linger.
Oberyn bid farewell to his other daughters and moved to join Trystane and Myrcella.
In order to avoid suspicion, they would depart together, but near the Stepstones, he would disembark to a ship that waited for him, if all had gone according to plan.
"I am surprised our young king did not order you remain," Oberyn said with a smile as he approached the two. They were dressed in matching orange fabrics, an image of youthful splendor that would make bards weep, but all he saw was danger when he looked upon them. Their marriage, should it ever take place, would be strained by a burden they could not possibly begin to imagine.
But they were children still, and foolishly enamored with one another. Who was he to ruin such innocence?
"He did actually. Twice. But I am still his big sister," Myrcella replied, dabbing a cloth at the corner of her eye. "I do wish he did not have to stay here. I understand that he's king now, but he is just a child. Surely Grandfather could have let him go with Uncle Jaime, if only for a few years."
"That is the unfortunate reality of ruling: you are in control of everything but what you want most," Oberyn said. He often thought of what Doran would have done were he not the head of their household still. Would he have spent more time with Quentyn? Would he have gone after Mellario?
Myrcella nodded once, allowing Trystane to wrap a comforting arm around her as she watched Tommen and his guards disappear from the docks. In their wake, a figure dressed in all black and a member of the kingsguard remained. Had Oberyn not immediately recognized the woman as Cersei, he would have known from the way Myrcella straightened her back, immediately uncomfortable.
"Do you wish to speak with her? She is your mother, after all."
The young woman was quiet a moment, but quickly shook her head. "I've said all that needs to be said. My mother won't change. I'd rather she not poison me further."
Myrcella turned away toward the ship, crossing the gangway with Trystane even as Cersei began to cry out her name.
"Myrcella!" Cersei called, her voice cracking. It was with a pain only a parent could feel, and for that, she had his pity. "Myrcella, come back! Look at me!"
Oberyn stepped in front of the gangway, arms crossed, barring them from entry. Cersei stopped before him, and for a moment, he thought she meant to hit him.
"Let me through!" she shouted.
"I cannot allow that."
"I am the queen!"
"And I am a prince of Dorne. We obey to keep the peace, not because we are commanded to obey. Your daughter does not wish to see you, and I will do her the kindness of keeping you off this ship."
The kingsguard, Meryn Trant from what he could tell, stepped forward, doing his best imitation of an intimidating man. It was amusing.
"Step away. The queen has commanded it."
Oberyn smirked. "I killed a man who could have crushed you into the dirt with his fist. You might find staying out of this conflict is in your best interest."
Predictably insulted, Meryn Trant attempted to extract his longsword from its scabbard. He'd not even managed to pull it halfway out before Oberyn had a dagger pointed to his neck, finding the open spot in his chainmail.
"You'll find that longswords are terrible for close combat," he spoke, an amused, wicked grin growing on his face. How he enjoyed teasing men as simple as this one. They were so easy to manipulate into the corners he preferred. "But men such as yourself balk at the idea of carrying something small, as if it speaks to your manhood. You'll die because of it."
"That is enough!" Cersei shouted, though it seemed much of the fight had already drained from her. She was paler than last he saw her, especially in her black gowns. Her hair was in disarray, her green eyes red-rimmed. This was a woman barely held together. "I wish to see Myrcella."
"And I would allow you if I could," Oberyn replied, frowning. "I know the suffering of being parted from a daughter, but she has no desire to see you, and I will not knowingly inflict that pain on her."
Her slap reminded him that his bruises were still nowhere near healed. The world was briefly a blur, but he recovered quickly, keeping his dagger trained on the Kingsguard.
"You poisoned her against me!" Cersei screamed. "You and your lot! I know what you're doing. You think to use her against us? To take what is ours with her maidenhead? You will not have it. I will have her back in my arms."
Her words sounded of madness and despair, and Oberyn could not begin to think of which had the greater hold on her.
"If you wish to have her back, then it is she who must come to you. I have no desire to keep a mother and daughter parted. Write to her, speak of kinder things, and perhaps Myrcella will wish to visit you one day. But until that day comes, I will defend her as one of my own." Oberyn removed the blade from Meryn Trant's neck. "Leave."
Had he been less of a fool, Oberyn would have feared the look in Cersei's eyes. Instead, he allowed himself a breath of relief as she retreated down the dock, defeated, and looked forward to the leagues that would soon be between them all.
He boarded the ship, standing with Ellaria as they departed King's Landing. The sun shone brilliantly, brightly reflecting off the water, blinding, and a warm breeze blew in from the Narrow Sea that almost convinced passersby that Winter was simply a myth.
It was a good day to sail.
It was a good day to make for Meereen.
. . .
Jory
Lady Catelyn did not sleep, or if she did, he never saw her do so. Often, she stared, at the moon, at the trees, into the distance. To him, she always seemed to be searching, for her children, perhaps, or Lord Stark. He saw emotions cross her ragged face where others saw nothing but the terror of a corpse brought to life.
Or perhaps he was simply imagining it all. Anything to distract from the reality that faced him every day.
She called herself Lady Stoneheart now, or at least that was what the Brotherhood had taken to calling her. Catelyn rarely spoke. Her wounds had not been healed by the Lord of Light's blessing. To speak, she had to hold the gaping wound in her neck with her hand, and even then, the words that came out where strangled.
A good number of men had departed following Beric Dondarrion's passing. Many no longer believed in following without him, and many more did not wish to follow Catelyn and her undeterred desire for vengeance. Their work was brutal and relentless. It offered no chance of mercy, where once Beric had offered trial by combat. They killed for the sake of killing, and they had left scores of bodies strewn across the countryside.
That had brought a new sort into their fold, vile men, those whom they would have once fought themselves. The Brotherhood had gone from the people's champions to another gang of outlaws roaming the forests.
When they'd managed to kill Roose Bolton, Jory was certain he'd seen Catelyn smile. For three days, they'd left him in the tree, and she'd scarcely taken her eyes off him. They were no longer a beautiful blue, but deep and dark, almost hollow, but when she looked directly at him, he could see something burning within them. A red fire, unnatural and haunting.
That had brought them more men, a little more skilled and obsessively loyal. If they could kill the Warden of the North, who else might they bring to justice?
Jory sat with Thoros most evenings. They were the only originals members who remained, both tied to Catelyn for as long as they lived for the same reason. It was their work that saw her alive and in this state; it was their duty to see it through.
"Do you ever wish you were still a sad drunk who just played with fire at the tourneys?" Jory asked one night. He watched Catelyn as she sat at a table they'd procured, tracing her long, white fingers across a direwolf banner.
"Sometimes," the red priest admitted. "But the Lord of Light has a reason for leading me down this path."
"Do you really believe that still?"
"I have to."
A blonde boy with a lopsided grin sat across from them, effectively blocking their view of Catelyn. It was brave of him. Most never sat with their backs to her.
"I've got news. Lots of it."
"What news, Will?"
The grin grew, and the boy held out his hand.
Thoros sighed. "It's called a brotherhood. That means we don't pay one another for talk."
He only jutted his hand out farther.
Jory tossed a coin at the boy, impressed that it landed near him. His sight had been improving. Frequently killing Freys had that effect it seemed.
"The king's dead, killed by his uncle, the Imp," the boy started, garnering the attention of everyone around. They pulled in close, old men and young boys, killers all. "They put him to trial, but the Red Viper freed him when he killed the Mountain That Rides in single combat."
Thoros whistled. "Seems we've missed a lot."
"S'pose that happens when you kill everyone you come across," Jory said, sitting up. "The Mountain was the reason Beric was out here to begin with, was he not?"
"He was. May the Lord of Light watch over him."
There were murmurs in agreement.
"That's not all," Will continued, grin overtaking his face. "The Kingslayer has left the capital, and he's on his way to Riverrun with his lady wife."
The murmurs turned into full blown excitement. This was the moment the men had been waiting for. He could see it on their faces, the opportunity had them giddy. Even he could not deny the lightness in his heart at the idea.
Behind the boy, Catelyn slowly stood.
Jory blinked. "Wait, lady wife? The Kingslayer is a member of the Kingsguard. He has no wife."
Will shook his head. "He does now. Married Myra Stark, he did, or so the sparrow told-"
His words were cut off by a feral scream, neither human nor animal, that pierced the air and the soul at once. Jory felt his blood run cold, his breath stolen away, and he found himself praying to the old gods once again.
Only when he looked to Catelyn did he realize the foul noise had come from her.
The small fire he had once seen in her eyes had grown until they glowed in the darkness of the night. To look upon them filled him with images of death and pain, and he could not hold her gaze.
Catelyn grabbed her throat, hissing as she shook the tattered Stark banner in her grip.
"...kill...him..."