Jaime
It was raining. Again.
His armor, once polished and pristine, was covered in mud, blood, dents, and scrapes. It looked duller somehow, but not so much that he did not look like an enormous, glittering target every time they attempted to hide in the brush. Tyrion and Bronn had taken to staying away from him altogether during those phases of their journey. He had thought to take the damn thing off, but his underclothes were poor protection against the weather of the Vale.
And he was, as Bronn so eloquently put, their fucking way out of this mess. A king's man on the king's business. So, it was best to look the part.
Not that the mountain clans had cared whose armor he wore.
Thunder clapped overhead. He could feel its rumble in his chest. They had discussed seeking shelter at some point, but had quickly decided being struck by lightning and hail both would be preferable to another hour in the Vale.
Tyrion was right. Their father should set the whole damn thing ablaze.
Burn them all!
Jaime blinked, and fought the urge to grab his sword.
"Well, this should make for an interesting story," Tyrion grumbled from somewhere behind him. "The Lannister brothers walking into the encampment. Father will be so pleased. 'Lannisters don't walk. We have people to do that for us.'"
This one-sided conversation had gone on for nearly an hour, starting somewhere with a joke about a jackass and a honeycomb, before spiraling into nonsense and mockery. His brother always did love the sound of his own voice, especially when he was bored or nervous. The Vale had provided them with an abundance of both.
Bronn shuffled over, looking no worse for wear, though he might have sprouted another deep line on his face. "You going to attack me if I run your brother through with my sword?"
"I'll pay you to do it," Jaime replied.
"Bronn, how could you?" Tyrion asked, mockingly wounded. "I thought we were friends."
The sellsword shrugged. "Well, you know what they say about friends."
"That they can't be bought?"
"Oh...is that how it goes?"
He was going to kill both of them.
There was another rumble. The rain came down harder.
Somewhere in King's Landing, Cersei was waiting, warm and dry and everything else he could ever need. Thinking of her was a better motivation to get through the muck than vengeance. Lysa Arryn could rot alone in her tower if that meant he would get to see King's Landing faster.
But that was not where he was headed.
He never could think clearly when angry.
Cersei was alone with Robert while their father was on the warpath. If the king was smart, he'd use her as leverage and stay behind his walls. But Robert Baratheon was not smart. He was barely functional; he was a drunk, prideful man who would face his father on the open field, if only for the chance to say once and for all that Tywin Lannister had one man to fear in Westeros.
The thought of him actually attempting to defeat the Lannister army might make his father almost smile.
Almost.
A proper Hand would advise against that course of action, but Ned Stark was a different story. They were all traitors to him. He'd probably join Robert on the battlefield, their broken trust healed by the unifying power of hating his family.
Even if it was destined to fail, the campaign would take months at least. Any number of things could happen during that time. He could be anywhere across the Riverlands, while his sister was sealed behind the walls of the capital, a place he might not ever be able to return to.
He should have just taken the damn ship back.
"Father must hate this," Tyrion continued, a slight skip in his step despite how difficult the long walk must have been on his legs. "Having to go to war for me. I don't know if he's angrier that I was taken or that Lady Stark made him have to be a good father for once."
Something thrummed deeper in his chest than the thunder. A lie a young man once told his broken-hearted brother, because obeying his father was the right thing to do, because the truth was a terrible thing.
For a man who hated the game, he carried far too many secrets.
"I don't know about that," Jaime replied after a pause, glancing over his shoulder. "I think father wanted another good war before leaving his legacy in this hands of...us."
It was so easy to picture the disappointment on his father's face.
Tyrion snorted. "I'd hardly call pillaging villages a war, but to the victor goes the spoils, and the mark on history."
The group fell silent then, with nothing but the patter of rain and the squelching of their boots on the muddy roadway to keep them company. Over time, the mountains had begun to ease into hills, their abrupt angles softening to rolling curves that hugged the high road on either side. The trees were thinning, lessening the chances of another ambush. He thought perhaps if the clouds weren't so low, he could see the Trident in the distance, but that may have just been wishful thinking on his part.
What he did see was a steadily approaching group of men, perhaps seven in all, on horseback. They wore no particular colors and bore no sigils. There were no helmets among the lot of them, and barely half the group even had leather armor. They looked more like farmers than warriors, but were still armed with swords and bows, and upon noticing their ragtag group, they picked up their pace.
Seven hells, what now?
Jaime stopped. "I don't suppose you have any sellsword friends looking for you."
Bronn responded by drawing his knife and tucking it into his sleeve.
Right.
Within moments, the riders surrounded the three. The two archers of the group, one a boy scarcely bigger than his bow, circled behind them. Their arrows were already nocked. This was not about to end well for anyone.
"Hullo there!" called out a man. He was one of the few in leathers, and the only one who didn't look about ready to draw his weapon on them. That made him the most dangerous of the bunch. "Bit of a strange sight, travelers on the high road without horses. Dangerous idea, that. Run into some kind of trouble?"
He smiled. His teeth were browning.
"One could say that," Jaime replied, eyeing the man to his left. His horse was the biggest, if only because he was the fattest of the lot. He held a mace in his hand and was staring at the crest on his armor.
"Aye, them wildlings don't take kindly to anyone. Think the Vale is theirs, and I'd hafta agree on that one."
The fat one was muttering something to the skinny man next to him. Bronn had stepped between the two riders on his side, and was measuring both of them up. Tyrion looked like he regretted ever leaving the Wall.
"Name's Tobin," the leader offered. He nudged his horse forward, until the damn thing was nuzzling Jaime's armor. "And you are?"
Jaime raised an eyebrow. "Edd. This is my brother, Duncan..."
Behind him, he heard Tyrion suppress a snort. He supposed quickly naming him after Ser Duncan the Tall was a bit much.
"...and Bronn."
The sellsword gave him a look. Jaime could not help but shrug. He was a knight, not a liar; he should have let his brother do the talking.
"No, you ain't," the fat man croaked. He looked to Tobin. "That's Kingsguard armor."
He had a feeling this wouldn't be the last time he regretted keeping the thing on.
Jaime shook his head. "No, I received this not long ago. A gift from the Lady Lysa for dutiful service."
Tyrion looked like he wanted to strangle him.
"That ain't no gift," replied the man, poking him in the shoulder with his mace. "King came to my village once. Fucked my sister's brains out. Men in your armor stood outside my home half the night."
And once again, Robert's cock had ruined everything.
With his lie broken, Jaime really couldn't help himself. "I don't seem to recall King Robert having a taste for cows, but we all get a little desperate sometimes."
The man thought about it for a full second before raising his mace in the air with a shout.
Tyrion stepped in front of him at that moment, waving his arms frantically. "Wait, wait, my good man! Please! You don't want to do that!"
"And why not?" the man asked, defiant, but still he lowered the weapon.
"Trust me, I'm doing this for your benefit, if not ours as well. Neither of us want to see my brother dead," Tyrion continued, his eloquent oratory making his words sound both appealing and threatening. "It wouldn't end well."
Tobin nodded, his hands still nowhere near his sword. "He's right, you know. Only one man in the kingsguard has an imp for a brother. This is the Kingslayer, Jaime Lannister, makes that one Tyrion, and you..."
The sellsword, who had since found a sword sitting very close to his neck, only shrugged. "I'm still Bronn."
"You Lannister boys are pretty popular where I'm from," Tobin continued, edging his horse between the group. "That lion of yours was the last thing most people in my town saw, 'fore your father burnt our homes to the ground. S'pose we were lucky though.
"Ethon over there..." He pointed to the boy, who was gripping his bow tighter. "The Mountain That Rides came to his village. Only he survived. Doesn't talk much now. Can't imagine what he saw."
Jaime felt his hand moving toward his hilt. It did not take a smart man to realize reason was not going to work against these men. Vengeance was a powerful motivator, and a blinding one.
"Neither can I," Tyrion continued, ever the diplomat. Of course, not being much of a fighter did that to a man. "It is wrong, what has happened to you, to all of you, but when Lady Catelyn Stark took me her prisoner, she declared war on House Lannister. But perhaps, now that I am free, I can convince my father to cease hostilities."
It was very difficult for Jaime not to laugh at that. Tyrion seemed to sense that, glancing his way briefly.
"If you help us return to his camp, I can even see to it that all of you are rewarded handsomely."
Tobin appeared to consider his brother's proposition, rubbing his beard. "Never was a rich man. None of us were, but we had enough to keep our families fed. But they're gone now, all of them. Tell me, what use is gold now?"
The man made a move Jaime didn't like. He drew his sword in an instant, ready to defend his brother, but almost as quickly something struck his hand, cutting a jagged, bloody line along his thumb and knocking the sword from his grip. Jaime hissed, turning around to see the boy, Ethon, staring at him, another arrow already nocked and drawn.
"Next one's yer eye," the boy mumbled, his voice still high-pitched.
Tyrion took a deep breath, holding his hands out in a calming gesture. "My brother is here by royal decree. King Robert is expecting him back at the capital. Delaying us is treason."
The fat man snorted. "Lot o'good the king's done us. Riverlands are burnin', and he's sittin' pretty in his castle getting drunk."
Tobin nodded. "We were off to see the Lady Arryn for assistance, but it seems to me she won't be much help now. No matter. There are plenty of other lords who'd like to see justice."
He nodded, and swords were drawn. Jaime watched the tip of Tobin's hovering near his eye, before glaring up at the man. He worked to memorize his face, every detail from his rotting teeth to the scar just above his left eyebrow.
"Tie up the Kingslayer. Kill the other two."
Jaime stepped between his brother and numerous blades, while Bronn quickly drew his knife, preparing for a fight. "You don't want to do that."
"Why?" The fat man asked. "Your father gonna burn our homes again?"
"No, but he'll never know how I was taken," Jaime replied. Whenever diplomacy failed, bribe a man. Coin was not the only way. A man's ego could get a person far. "Imagine, the great Tywin Lannister, his favorite son, taken captive by farmers. What a blow that would be to him, knowing the men he attacked got their revenge."
There were nods among the group. They were interested, except for the boy. He looked ready to kill everyone.
"Now, none of you are going to get into my father's camp, but Tyrion? He can tell your tale."
Tyrion nodded. "Yes, I'm very good at this sort of thing. My father will know of the men who ruined his...legacy."
Tobin looked around the group, before nodding. "Tell your father: he burns more villages, we'll burn his precious son."
Jaime couldn't find the will to look intimidated by the group. Mostly, he was deciding how he could kill them all slowly when the night came and their guard fell.
He locked eyes with Tyrion. They couldn't exchange words, but they did not need to. One subtle nod to one another was all they needed. They would see each other again.
His brother and Bronn were allowed to leave then. He watched them take off through the brush, until the last remnants of movement were gone.
Looking up to the fat man, Jaime smirked. "Sorry about the whole cow thing."
The man brought the back end of the mace down on his head, and the world went black.
Ned
He had been sifting through a book, which he could not name for the life of him, reading but not retaining anything, when a shrill, angry voice pierced the door.
"I am the Queen, and I will not be denied entry by anyone!"
Ned sighed. He had hoped that Robert could contain the situation, but he knew that was about as likely as Tywin Lannister deciding he did not like war and returning to Casterly Rock. Still, he thought to at least have some warning.
He closed the book, rubbing his face before calling out. "It's alright. Let Her Grace in."
The words had barely escaped his throat when Cersei burst through the doors into his solar, a vision of Lannister red and gold, possessed with all the fury of a Baratheon. Her queenly façade had been discarded, replaced by a mother who had been wronged, and woe to all who stood in her way.
Gods help him.
"This is treason!" she shouted, green eyes boring into him.
Ned stood and nodded to the guard outside the door, waiting until the door was safely shut before continuing.
"Pardon, Your Grace, but short of selling the realm to slavers, what the king commands is hardly treason."
Her eyes narrowed. A weaker man might have been cowed. Ned did not think himself necessarily stronger, but he was a married man, and his wife was far more terrifying than Cersei Lannister when she wanted to be.
"Don't think I didn't hear your voice in the orders. First, your wife takes my brother, and now you would have Robert imprison his own son!" Cersei yelled, putting her hands on his desk.
Ned sighed. He and Robert had fought long and hard over the issue, but both had easily come to the conclusion that Joffrey had been the one to send his father's blade away with the catspaw, especially after Robert's confession that he may have spoken about death being preferable to an incapacitated life. He had thought to let that hang over Robert for some time, but Ned knew his childhood friend; he was never one to shy away from saying what he meant, and in truth, he had not thought his children were present.
"Your son has been confined to Maegor's Holdfast. It's hardly imprisonment."
"The Red Keep is his home, and he cannot go where he pleases! The guards won't even allow him to speak to me! He is the crown prince!"
He took a deep breath, taking care with his words. "The crown prince your son may be, Your Grace, but the king and I have every reason to believe that he has committed a crime. Would you prefer we throw him in the dungeons until his father decides what is to be done?"
Cersei became still so suddenly, Ned thought she was about to faint, but she only appeared to be thinking. He could see her reining the anger in, something her husband had never learned to do. Her hands slipped off the desk, clasping in front of her; her shoulders straightened and the composure returned to her face.
"Is this why you sent Jaime away? To keep him from defending his family?" she asked, quietly. "To keep him from stopping you?"
Ned felt anger for the first time at her accusations. "Your husband sent him away to save your brother, and to keep him from murdering me. Should he have done the same for you, Your Grace?"
He knew he had said too much, and the look on Cersei's face confirmed it. She glanced briefly at the book on his desk, and he thought her lips twitched.
And then she was gone, a blur of red retreating from his solar.
Ned sighed again. When this was over, he was going to step down, but there was a sinking feeling deep inside that told him he might not even make it that far.
"Yorick," he called out. The guard entered his room, and Ned took a moment to appreciate the Stark sigil on his armor. "Arrange passage for my daughters to White Harbor on a ship, and keep quiet about it. Don't even tell the girls until it is ready."
"Yes, milord," the guard replied with a bow of his head, departing just as swiftly as he entered.
With the room empty again, Ned looked down to the book he had been reading. The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms. It was the book he had gone to see Grand Maester Pycelle about long ago, before everything had fallen apart before his eyes. It seemed the volume had finally been delivered to him, and he had only started flipping through to appear occupied, while his mind wandered over everything.
But recalling the look Cersei gave the book, Ned decided to look through it more thoroughly. He turned the pages with great care, given that many appeared to be rotting with age, but there appeared to be nothing of great value to the writing. It was a well-documented record of births and deaths in all the great houses, no more and no less.
Still, something about it kept him turning the pages, until he found himself at House Baratheon. He looked through generations of babes born with black hair, until he reached Robert's children.
Golden-haired.
He blinked, and read the parchment again and again, attempting to find some hidden meaning in the words.
Golden-haired.
The seed is strong.
And then he knew.
There was no member of the Kingsguard at Robert's door when he approached, and Ned thought perhaps that the king had gone back to his old ways, taking the to Kingswood when responsibility became too much for him, but the way his door sat open troubled the Stark. It was possible that Robert might have called them inside. He was always fond of sharing old war stories, but he did not hear the bellowing voice of the king from within.
Cautiously, Ned approached the door, inwardly cursing himself for coming alone. Of all the mistakes he could make in all the times.
A chair appeared to have been tossed and broken. Goblets were scattered, their contents spilled across the floor. There appeared to be no one inside, and Ned offered a small prayer that his first impressions were true.
But when he stepped in further, passing Robert's bed to glance at the other side, he spied a motionless form on the floor, lying in a gathering pool of blood.
Robert Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, was dead.
A knife had been plunged deep into his chest, while there were various other wounds along his abdomen.
Ned knelt beside him, hands hovering over his body, but unwilling to touch. His childhood friend, who had betrayed him more times than he could count, but who had never left his side and loved him as a brother, was gone, and deep inside some final piece of himself was gone as well.
Who could have done it? Where was his kingsguard? The queen?
It was while he was lost in these confused thoughts, stuck motionless beside his dead friend, that the door to Robert's room burst open, and one of his guards finally entered. Ned dared to hope that it was Ser Barristan or perhaps Ser Arys that had come to check, but instead he was faced with Ser Boros, a man he had come to know as one with questionable loyalty.
He stared up at the man, fully armored and sword drawn, and knew then that this was all a trap.
He did not bother to dodge the fist that flew toward him.
Myra
She woke to darkness, and the distinct feeling that something was horribly wrong.
Sitting up in her bed, Myra watched the storm rage outside her window. Much like most places in the South, she had no shutters to close against the howling winds. It seemed like a poor choice to her, given the frequency of rain to the area, but at the moment, she did not mind the wind and the rain and the strikes of lightning so close to her. They seemed a much safer opponent to the forgotten beings in her dreams.
Slowly, she climbed out of bed, grabbing a robe and wrapping it about her body. She walked to where the rain fell just short of spilling into her room, though she could still feel droplets spray on her bare toes.
The way the rain danced in the hectic winds was mesmerizing in a way, and as she watched it, she attempted to piece together the mystery of her dream.
It was not of Robert, as they had been of late, which was a strange blessing in itself. But it did feel...darker, cold. She was not herself, and yet she was. In the distance a wolf howled and was suddenly silenced. Then five sorrowful ones joined the silenced call, and she did as well, feeling a great pain blossoming in her chest.
Myra smiled to herself, even laughed. It was silly of her, questioning the meaning of dreams. The last time she had done so, she was ten, and it was something about a flying cat and purple flowers, or some other such nonsense. There were more important things, real things, which needed her attention now.
Though she supposed it would not do much good so early in the morning. At least, she hoped it was morning. It was so hard to tell here.
Thunder boomed overhead, though it almost felt as if it came from the very bowels of the castle. The sound enveloped and deafened her, and not for the first time did she question how people could live in such a place.
No wonder the Targaryens invaded, she thought. They probably wanted to be away from here.
She turned then, thinking to go back to bed, when she caught sight of her door wide open, and a little girl standing in the threshold.
For one moment, she was a little girl again, and Old Nan was reciting tales of ghosts that drove her to flee to her father's room in the dead of night.
Myra jumped and, for the most part, contained the scream in her throat. With a hand on her heart and the other on her mouth, she watched the young girl enter her room with the most apologetic look on her face.
"Sorry!" she spoke, somehow managing a whisper that could be heard above the din outside. "I couldn't think of a way to enter without scaring you."
The girl closed the door behind her before wandering about the room as if she owned the place. She had to be around Arya's age, with an equal amount of curiosity and lack of respect for the privacy of others, but rather than being put off by it, Myra found it charming. She missed her sister.
She smiled. "It's alright, though perhaps next time you could try introducing yourself when it isn't storming."
"It's always storming around here," the girl replied, picking up a comb. "And Father likes to put visitors in these rooms, the kind that make the storms the loudest. It unsettles them and makes them easier to talk to."
That did sound like something Stannis Baratheon would do.
"I take it that makes you Shireen?" Myra asked as the girl walked her way. The only daughter of Stannis, and seen by very few. She did not even leave Dragonstone when her father had gone to serve his brother in King's Landing.
The girl smiled as lightning flashed, highlighting gray scars on the left side of her face, stony, weathered things that looked so unnatural.
Something must have shown on her face, for Shireen's smile faded into a frown. "The maester calls it greyscale, and says I'm lucky to be alive. Mother doesn't seem to think so. She doesn't like others seeing me. If she knew I was here..."
Myra felt her heart breaking. She was reminded of Jon, and how her mother had always wished him gone. But Shireen was speaking of her own mother. A child should never have to experience something like that.
She smiled softly. "Well, I won't tell if you won't."
Shireen smiled again, and together the two sat on her bed. Myra lit the candle on her nightstand and covered them both with a blanket.
"So, Lady Shireen, what brings you to my room at this hour?"
The girl looked embarrassed. "I heard the guards talking about you. They said a girl stood up to him, not much older than me. How are you so brave?"
Myra hummed, looking into the young girl's face. She had her father's dark hair, but otherwise she could scarcely tell the girl was a Baratheon. "I don't think I'm very brave at all. I just did what I had to in order to keep my family safe."
"Is your family in trouble?"
"Yes, they are, but...I think we can get out of it."
She hoped.
They were silent for a moment. The storm outside had subsided, but the wind still howled in its wake. It sounded like screams, and made her far more uncomfortable.
"I don't sleep well," Shireen mumbled, wrapping the blanket tighter. "The guards think I'm still in bed, but I know when they change. I like to wander and forget about my dreams."
It seemed Dragonstone wasn't good for anyone. "I dreamed of wolves. They were howling and sad. What was your dream?"
"Dragons were coming to eat me."
Myra blinked. "My, that does sound terrifying. I think you've got me beat...but not my brother. He had a dream once that a giant wanted to eat him, but, of course, giants don't eat their meals raw. No, they had to cook him, and he told me every little detail."
Shireen giggled at the grimace on her face. It made her happy to hear the girl laugh.
"You have a brother?"
"I have a twin, and three spare brothers. Two sisters too."
The girl's eyes went wide. "I wish I had a brother. They all died."
Myra frowned. The little Baratheon did not seem able to catch any breaks in her life.
"Well, you can have one or two of mine. All they do is cause me trouble. Trust me, you're better off without them."
"That sounds like something Father would say."
Again, that did not sound unlike Stannis.
Shireen turned her body to face her. "Mother says you came from King's Landing. Did you meet my uncles?"
Is that what you want?! To go to Rhaegar so he can fuck you how he pleases?! So he can make you his whore?!
Myra nodded, her voice coming out as a whisper. "Yes, yes I...I did. Renly was very sweet and Robert was, um..."
The girl snorted. "Mother says Uncle Robert is an embarrassment, that Father would be a better king."
"Does she?"
Shireen nodded. "What about the kingsguard? Were they like the songs and the stories?"
"Should have stayed out of it."
"Yes...I..." Myra took a breath. The poor girl knew nothing of her troubles. She only wanted to know about the world outside of her home, which she only knew through stories she had read. But it was so difficult to oblige. "Frankly, I think their armor is...much less beautiful...in person."
The girl hummed. "And what about the Kingslayer? Was he there? I heard he's the prettiest man in Westeros."
"I'm not going to hurt you."
Suddenly, something broke inside, and Myra found she could breathe again. She even managed to chuckle. "I don't know. I suppose he might be, but he was...kind to me..."
He tried to kill my brother, said a voice in her head. But then he went and saved me.
"Father doesn't like him."
Myra nodded, in a sort of daze. "I don't believe many people do."
"It sounds like you do."
Did it?
She had opened her mouth to speak, though no words had come to mind, when the door burst open again. A slightly disheveled Jory stood outside.
"My lady, you'll want to see this."
Jaime
He had regained consciousness tied to the back of a horse. After realizing their captive was awake, however, the riders decided it far more beneficial to group morale to bind his hands and drag him in their wake instead.
They had stripped him of his armor, leaving him in a light tunic, which had quickly become soiled over the several dozen times each one of his captors decided to kick him into the mud. They never appeared to tire of it, laughing until one complained about their sides bursting. It grew old very quickly, and he began to wonder how much they would laugh when his sword burst one of their sides.
When they weren't trying to drown him in the mud, Jaime was mostly left to his thoughts. He wondered how Tyrion fared and if Bronn had stayed with him. Though, if he knew sellswords, the prospect of having a Lannister in your debt was not something one just threw away. The man had already offered to be his brother's champion. A couple of farmers weren't about to scare him off.
As for the farmers themselves, he wondered where they might try to take him. He expected some minor lord's home, maybe Harrenhal if they felt lucky, but when they continued to follow the Trident even as it widened further and further, slowly becoming what they called the Bay of Crabs, he started to think they had a bigger plan in place.
Something he certainly was not going to enjoy.
Saltpans was what they called the town they came to, what little there was of it. A small castle overlooked the harbor, but otherwise the homes were ramshackle wooden things that looked ready to tip with the slightest breeze. More attention was given to the boats that dotted the harbor, the livelihood of the people.
Jaime felt the eyes of everyone on him. After all, it wasn't often a man was dragged through town, or so he hoped.
Tobin, whose horse Jaime was tied to, tugged on the rope, pulling the Lannister forward. A crowd had gathered in front of them.
"Say hello to the Kingslayer!" he shouted, voice travelling unreasonably far. "Ser Jaime Lannister, son of Tywin Lannister, the man who is burning our homes, our fields, our familes!"
A kick to the back sent Jaime to his knees, leaving him to look up at a dozen angry faces, cold and vengeful eyes. They would kill him, he realized, if someone made the first move; they would tear him to pieces right there in the road.
"We're going to make sure he gets his justice, but feel free to give your own along the way."
And then they were moving again, slowly, parading him through the town, the prize beast for all to get a look at.
The first thing they threw must have been a rock. It cut his forehead as it bounced off, leaving blood to trail down his face and into one of his eyes. Then there were all forms of food, breads and cheeses, rotting fish, there was a bucket of something, he didn't want to think of what. The smell told him enough. One particularly bold man rushed forward with a knife, but the fat rider with the mace rode his horse into him.
At least they were so focused on actual justice, they would not let him die.
Lucky him.
With the growing agitation and noise in the gathering crowds, the horses became anxious. One stray rock hit Tobin's steed in the hip, and the thing bolted.
Jaime had a brief moment to realize what was happening when the rope became taut, and suddenly he was flying through the air, landing back in the mud with a hard 'thunk,' only to continue being dragged through it. He hit rocks and nets and whatever other refuse was lying about. It did not take him long to realize the man was letting it continue, long after he had regained control of his animal.
When they finally stopped, with him coughing and wheezing up half the silt of the Trident, the crowds had fallen back. They were at the docks, standing before one particularly large and dark ship. Its sails were unfurled, ready to depart, but the sailors were too occupied watching the chaos below.
Unable, or perhaps unwilling, to stand just yet, Jaime watched Tobin dismount his horse and approach one of the men. He was not able to make out much of their conversation, but there was a lot of pointing in his direction.
He wondered if they were pirates or smugglers. Maybe he was being sold into slavery across the Narrow Sea, or sent somewhere where they hated Lannisters. He heard Dorne was always good for that.
His head throbbing in pain, Jaime could not be bothered to care much. It was too hard to focus on his anger, too much effort to stay focused. He closed his eyes, and tried to go somewhere else, to that place deep inside where no one would bother him.
It was easier this way.
"That sounds like giving up."
Jaime opened his eyes again, surprised to hear that voice in his head.
Something fell to the ground next to him. It was his armor.
Tobin pointed to it. "There is all the proof you need. Jaime Lannister of the kingsguard, and his armor."
Jaime focused on the armor, seeing his knife still attached to it. None of the other men appeared to have noticed, they were focused on what Tobin was saying or on the crowds behind them.
He reached out slowly, attempting to wiggle the blade free, but Tobin's conversation suddenly ended, and he noticed the movement.
"What are you doing? Miss your armor, Kingslayer?"
The man began to kneel down beside him.
Jaime almost laughed. The idiot could not have made it any easier.
In an instant, he pried the blade loose, and brought it swiftly across Tobin's neck, cutting deep into the flesh and spraying his blood across the road.
One of his men shouted, leaping off their horse and running at him. Jaime kicked out, tripping the man up. He stood then, ready to stab the man in the chest, when a sword flashed out of the corner of his eye. It was pointed at his neck.
"That was stupid of you," the sailor it belonged to said.
Then someone hit him, again.
It did not completely knock him out, but Jaime was only vaguely aware of his surroundings. Voices, the ship, the movement of the sea. He dreamed without sleeping, of golden hair and green eyes and a young woman wrapped in a white cloak.
He could not say how long he was on the ship; he never saw daylight nor food nor water. There was darkness and the smell of the sea, but eventually the door to whatever hold they had thrown him into opened.
Two figures dragged him out of the bowels of the ship, throwing him onto another dock, or it could have been the same one for all he knew. He looked up and saw two well-armed soldiers staring down at him, each wearing equal looks of disgust. They wore yellow over their armor, bearing a distinctive sigil.
"Stags," he managed to say, wondering when his mouth had become so dry.
One of the soldiers looked to whoever was behind him. "You told us you had Jaime Lannister."
"This is him."
The man looked down, then back up again. "You're full of shit, you know that?"
"Is this Dragonstone?" Jaime croaked, leaning toward the soldier, who took a full step back. "Is. This. Dragonstone?"
"No, it's the fucking Iron Islands," the other soldier snapped.
He ignored him, glaring at the other. "I am Ser Jaime Lannister, son of Tywin Lannister, one of Robert Baratheon's kingsguard, and I demand to see your fucking lord."
Myra
She watched a man enter the Great Hall of Dragonstone caked in mud and blood and grime. But even from the distant corner she had been allowed to stand in, Myra could recognize Jaime Lannister. Her breath hitched at the sight of him, and she bit her tongue before any of the thousand insults that came to mind escaped her mouth.
Whatever conflict she had felt earlier had utterly disappeared at the sight of him.
Stannis was, once again, standing by his seat, taking in the image of the broken Lannister with his usual stoic demeanor. Two men had accompanied Jaime, one a rather large man, the other much thinner. They were both dressed plainly.
"Ser Jaime Lannister, you are long way from King's Landing," Stannis started, looking at the others. "And in interesting company."
"I was ordered to the Eyrie by the king to retrieve my brother, Tyrion," Jaime replied, sounding wholly unlike himself, like he had not drunk properly for days.
Good, cried a voice in her head. Myra closed her eyes and willed the thought away.
Stannis nodded. "And where is your brother?"
"Far away from here."
Myra watched the two stare at one another, something transpiring between them that she did not fully understand. Something to do with Jaime's secret, no doubt.
"Your brother is expecting my return," Jaime continued as Stannis stepped away from the dais and circled the visitors like some sort of vulture.
"If he is, then why didn't you take a ship back to King's Landing?" Stannis asked, not intrigued, just making a point. "You'd be a lot cleaner, and free of these fools."
Jaime said nothing to that.
"Who are you?" the Lord of Dragonstone asked the pair of wayward travelers.
The large man stepped forward. "Name's Roric, milord. We found the Kingslayer on the-"
"Jaime Lannister is an anointed knight of the Seven, and you will address him in the manner that is befitting of his title," Stannis interrupted, leveling a stare on Roric.
The room felt so much colder then.
"Y-yes, milord. We found...Ser Jaime on the high road with his brother. We brought him here for justice for our homes. For the Riverlands, milord."
Stannis put his hands behind his back, walking away. "So, you found a member of the kingsguard, on orders from his king, and decided to capture and torture the man for the crimes of his father, crimes that he himself could not have committed seeing as how he was nowhere near the Riverlands when you found him."
Myra thought she saw Jaime smile.
Roric blinked. "Yes...milord?"
She thought she saw Stannis' lip twitch, and for a moment believed he was resisting rolling his eyes. "Ser Davos, have these men locked up. The same goes for the crew of the ship. Send a detail of soldiers to wherever it is they came from, and round up any of those involved as well."
"At once, my lord," Davos replied with a bow of his head.
He had been standing right next to her, and at the sound of his voice, Jaime had turned in their direction. His gaze met hers and she watched the recognition slowly seep into his green eyes. She wondered what he saw in hers. Nothing good, she hoped.
"Someone get this man cleaned up," Stannis continued, returning to his seat. "And then find him a cell."
"What?" Jaime shouted, incredulous. Even Myra was taken aback by Stannis' words. "You said it yourself, I am on orders from your brother!"
"Orders which you were willfully disobeying. The king's law does not exist at your convenience," Stannis replied, taking his place in the lord's seat. He seemed a much bigger man then.
"Ser Jaime Lannister, I, Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Dragonstone and rightful heir to Robert Baratheon, the First of his Name, do hereby charge you with treason against your king and the realm."
And just like that, the course of their lives had changed.