Myra
He'd dragged her into the darkness as she screamed and kicked, but his body was like a rock that would no budge no matter how she protested. She could feel the cold steel of his blade against her neck, and the pain as it began to cut into her skin, but she did not care. Slicing her throat open was preferable to what he wanted to do.
Her eyes found Jaime's one last time. How frightened and angry they looked as he watched her disappear. After all, what could he do? There was a sword to his neck, and three men to watch him. He could not help her.
The man let her go briefly. Myra tried to run, but one hand on her shoulder was all he needed to not only drag her back, but also shove her onto the ground.
Then he was on top of her.
Whatever she had felt before was nothing compared to the panic that rose within her now. She felt his hand on her thigh, reaching upward to find the hem of her leggings.
"No! Let me go!" she cried, kicking and thrashing.
That was when he punched her.
"Quiet, bitch!"
The world was a blur. She couldn't hear anything, save for the sound of her rapid breathing. Something was tugging at her, and then she felt the fabric of her tunic give way, the cold, evening air rushing to her exposed skin. Her eyes turned to the man, his face twisted and ugly, breath foul, smile grotesque as he moved one hand to his breeches and the other back to her legs.
And suddenly, the fear was gone, or rather, replaced. There was an anger in her now, an indignation rising up inside, ready to explode. She was Myra Stark, eldest child of Lord Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North; she was sister to Robb Stark, the King in the North. She was a woman grown, respectful and decent, who bore no ill will toward her fellow man, and she did not deserve this. No one deserved this.
How dare he.
She began to fight him again, oblivious to the second hit across her mouth; she kicked and she scratched and she screamed. There would be no quiet obedience from her, not this time.
He startled suddenly, distracted by something deeper in the cave. Myra could just barely make out the figures scuffling by the fire. Jaime was fighting back.
Myra felt the pressure lift from her body as the man moved to help the others. She watched him walk away, as if in slow motion, but she was not done with him yet. With a shout, she lashed out at him, grabbing his leg and tripped him up. A large man fell hard, and this one was slow to get up. His dagger, she noted, had tumbled from his grasp.
She raced forward, climbing over him to grab it first.
He reached for her. "What are you-"
Myra slashed his face open.
The man screamed and clutched his head. As he did so, Myra climbed on top of him. He was at her mercy now. How did it feel, she wondered. She hoped he was terrified, that he prayed to whatever gods he believed in and despaired as they said 'no.'
How dare he.
Grasping his knife with both hands, Myra swung down with all her strength, stabbing him in the chest.
It might have killed him then. There was a sickening crunch and a popping sensation as her blade dug past his ribs and well into the organs beneath. He wheezed a moment before coughing and sputtering, blood spilling past his lips. He could not survive, but she had to know.
Somehow, she managed to remove the knife, feeling its blade scrape against bone, and with another cry, she brought it down again.
And again.
And again.
How dare he.
How dare he.
How-
Myra stumbled slightly, her foot catching on a fallen branch. She recovered quickly, having been more disrupted than in actual danger of falling, but nonetheless, the movement attracted the attention of her traveling companion.
He looked over his shoulder, silent, but his eyes spoke volumes. When her mind was not wandering, she had caught him glancing back at her several times. It was not subtle in nature, either. He was very clearly looking at her, and wanted her to know that.
Jaime Lannister was worried.
She had never seen him this way. There had been a moderate amount of concern here and there, mostly when potential threats were involved, but even on that night with Robert, he had been more defensive than openly troubled. Now, his arrogant nature had been set aside entirely in favor of a more approachable disposition, which made him appear terribly awkward either because he did not know how to interact properly with her or because he did not know how to function without his caustic personality for longer than a few hours.
Someone was laughing in the far reaches of her mind. She wondered if it was her.
His gaze returned forward, toward the ever-stretching beach that had been their path since the early morning. Myra knew that she should give him some sort of sign, let him know that she was here, buried under this quiet melancholy. After all, she hated for others to worry over her, even a Lannister, but the words were heavy and her tongue thick, so she resigned herself to silence.
Myra pulled her cloak tighter, though the fabric seemed to be at its limits already. She felt the seams stretch, but her fingers still clawed for more, numb from their white-knuckled grip for so long.
Shame. That was the word, was it not? It was a terrible one. Shame was for Robb when their mother caught him sneaking home after visiting the whorehouse; shame was for Robert Baratheon for attacking her in his drunken stupor. A highborn lady who had done nothing to provoke so vile an act should not feel shame. It was for the wrongdoers, not the wronged.
And yet, the sensation was burying her alive.
But, she had done wrong, had she not?
She'd killed a man, taken his life with her own two hands, crazed, violently, brutally. Even Jaime could not claim to be the butcher that she was. His kills were clean, efficient, and quick, more or less. But had he not intervened, Myra could not say when she would have stopped. Her brief recollection of the damage she inflicted before she had stumbled away from the corpse was unrecognizable carnage. What was once a man had become something else entirely, and yet she would have continued.
However, she did not regret it.
Deep inside, a pillar stood firm against the whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. It was the solid belief that she was justified in taking that man's life. Doing what she believed was wrong was sometimes the only way, and she was starting to see that now.
There was something else to this, she realized, something more than the shame of exposure and humiliation, more than the horrendous act she had used to free herself, that kept her so low.
Myra stopped. She looked around, taking in the sun and the warmth of the day, the breeze that fluttered gently through her hair. Suddenly, it was so incredibly difficult to breathe.
"He'd hate me..." she blurted, voice cracking.
Jaime stopped and turned back to her, eyes wide, as if the idea of her speaking was surprising.
She met his eyes for what felt like the first time in ages, though it could not have been more than a few hours.
"My father...what I did...he..."
He wouldn't understand. Why was she telling him? Had he not said how she felt was not his concern? She was just a stupid girl who had no clue about the world, a useless, foolish, waste of his time...
She turned away from him, looking back to the water, feeling utterly alone.
Jaime came to stand next to her, the crunching of rocks beneath his boots giving him away. She could feel his eyes on her, but he did not speak, not yet. Did he have nothing to say? That seemed rather unlike him.
"He wouldn't hate you," he mumbled after some time. "Ned Stark wouldn't fault his daughter for defending herself."
"You don't know that," Myra replied, her lip quivering as she turned to face him. "I wasn't defending myself, not anymore. I butchered that man..."
She watched him look at her, not impatient, as he has been so many times. There was only an understanding reflected in his eyes as she argued with him.
Then he almost smiled. "You know, all Lannister children are fine examples of fatherly disappointment. You should trust me when I say you aren't capable."
"But I-"
"No," Jaime said firmly. "In the thick of it, we do things that we can't control. There is no logic, no time to think it through, just raw instinct and emotion. What you did was what anyone would have, and what he deserved. Don't think on it any more than that."
Myra opened her mouth to argue further, but decided against it. She looked to the ground, nodding lamely, before her eyes caught sight of something dripping. Jaime's left hand was wrapped, badly, in some filthy rags, which his blood had begun to seep through.
"You're hur-"
She'd reached her hand out from her cloak to grab the wounded limb, only to freeze upon seeing her own blood-soaked hand. The liquid had dried over time, the red of it dark and brittle to the touch. She felt the stuff crackle against her skin as she moved her fingers against one another.
Suddenly, it was wet again, slick and warm.
How dare he.
How dare he.
How-
Jaime grabbed her hand with his good one. Startled, she attempted to pull away, but he held firm until she recognized him again.
He sighed. "Come with me."
As they walked toward the water's edge, Jaime did not let go of her hand. His grip was tight, as if convinced that she would bolt the instant he let go. He needn't have worried, though. She would have followed him anywhere at this point, lamely, like a stray.
When the water was lapping at their boots, he let her go, giving her a quick onceover before removing the dagger from his belt.
Myra blinked.
He reached for her cloak, and she stepped back.
Taking a breath, Jaime put both hands up slowly, a calming gesture. She'd used it on nervous horses before.
"I need you to trust me."
She did. But she couldn't say it; so Myra just nodded again and let Jaime go back to work.
"You're going to look ridiculous, but at least you won't have to hold onto the cloak anymore," Jaime said, his voice distracting her from his work, or at least trying to. As the blade cut into her cloak, the tearing fabric returned her painfully to the night before when her tunic had been ripped open. Myra did her best to focus on his words. "There, now put your belt around it."
Giving her the courtesy of turning away, Jaime waited as Myra undid the belt around her waist and cinched it around the two pieces of her cloak at the front, keeping herself covered up without having to hold on to the fabric. With two slits cut on either side, she had a way for her arms to freely move about. It was ridiculous, but it was better than what she had before.
Myra briefly looked at her red hands again before taking to her knees and shoving them into the water. It was freezing to the touch, but that hardly mattered to her. She rubbed her hands back and forth, scraped at them with her nails, did anything she could to get the dreadful color off her skin.
How dare he.
How dare he.
She felt a hand on her shoulder. "You're done."
Looking up, Myra met Jaime's eyes briefly, and nodded. She leaned back, sitting properly on the pebbles that filled the beach, drying her hands on her cloak. Then her gaze turned to his own wounded hand. "May...may I see it?"
Jaime looked at his hand. "It's fine."
The side of her mouth quirked ever so slightly. "You're a rubbish liar, Jaime Lannister."
He sighed, hesitating. She watched him glance around the area before sitting on the beach next to her. Myra gently took the offered hand into both of hers, turning the appendage over carefully and examining it thoroughly before she began to unwrap the fabric that had been hastily put in place.
This blood was different, she told herself. It was Jaime's, not anyone else's, and not at her own hands. She could do this because he needed her help; she could do anything if it was for someone else.
"You'd have been better off not wrapping it at all," Myra quietly criticized, tossing the fabric away. "Gods know what sort of foul things that had been on."
"You cook, you start fires, and now you're a maester," Jaime teased. Her lips twitched again, but a smile felt so far off.
"Every lady knows a thing or two, but I grew up with three boys around the same age, so I know a bit more than that," she replied, grateful for a distraction as her fingers inspected the cuts on Jaime's hand, and the bright red that still blossomed from them. "Maester Luwin always said I was far too curious, but he still taught me. I think he was just happy that one of us listened to him. Wash these out."
Jaime did as he was told without complaint. Myra watched as he scrubbed out the dirt and other filth that had gotten stuck to his wounds. It was a curious injury.
"How did you get these?" she asked, thinking on how he might have gotten the cuts. "It almost seems like you...grabbed a sword by the blade."
He didn't reply.
"Is that what you did?"
"I had to get to you somehow," Jaime mumbled, taking his hand back out of the water and offering it to her again. "The man's sword wasn't going to move on its own, after all."
Myra blinked, finding herself unable to move in any other way. Jaime Lannister owed her nothing. After she let him out of his cell, he could have left her. Then he could have let her drown. He could have refused to help her off the island or left her on the beach when they hit the mainland; he could have let those men have their way with her, or even before this wretched business had begun, he could have left her alone with Robert all that time ago. Yet at every turn, he continued to prove himself to be one of the few people she could rely upon in this world.
Complicated no longer seemed an appropriate word for her relationship with the man.
"Still bleeding," Jaime spoke, though he seemed to look more amused than anything.
Shaking her head, Myra tossed the thoughts aside. "Give me your dagger."
"Are you sure?"
She took a breath and nodded. "Yes."
Jaime removed the knife again, grabbing the blade in order to offer it to her handle first. She took it slowly, ignoring whatever thoughts swelled inside as she handled a weapon again. Instead, she clung to that one pillar; the one that told her she was right, strengthened when Jaime said it was all she needed to know. She clung to it desperately, and began to cut at her cloak again.
Myra tried to use a relatively clean portion of the fabric, but after everything they had been through, there wasn't much left that could be considered under the proper definition of the word. Still, it was leagues better than what Jaime had used.
Placing the dagger beside her, Myra took the strip of cloth she had cut and began to wrap Jaime's hand.
"I can't do anything about your fingers, but the cuts aren't as deep. If you ball your hand into a fist, the bleeding should stop eventually," Myra said matter-of-factly, her focus solely on her work. She tied the ends of the fabric on top of the wound in order to keep pressure on it, just as she had been taught so long ago. "As for your palm, we'll have to keep an eye on it. An infection out here isn't going to go well."
Myra began to turn his hand over again, inspecting her work, mentally noting how small her hands were compared to his.
"I suppose I ought to thank you," Jaime mused, causing Myra to look up. She met his green eyes, teasing and genuine all at once, and was struck by them briefly. They were the first things she saw when he was trying to stop her from stabbing Thom further, the first things she focused on as reality and her sense of self returned to her, and at that moment, they had been the most beautiful things she had ever laid her eyes on.
Clearing her throat, Myra nodded and released his hand. She grabbed his dagger beside her and offered it to him.
Jaime stood instead. Myra followed suit, offering it once more.
"You need to keep it," he insisted.
"I can't."
"You have to."
Myra felt her breath quicken, and did her best to control it. "I don't want to kill someone else."
"Good, you shouldn't."
But you do, was her unspoken reply. Jaime seemed to sense it nonetheless. Myra didn't think he looked ashamed of the thought, but there seemed to be something darker about him anyway.
"Hold it out," Jaime said. Myra complied, letting him adjust her grip to his liking. "Your grip shouldn't be too firm or too loose. Think of it as a natural extension of your arm. It should feel comfortable."
He grabbed her wrist lightly. "Going for the chest will kill a man, but you won't get many openings for it. Not to mention, the men we met didn't have armor. If you're going to defend yourself, you need to know where to hit them."
Myra swallowed hard. She hated this; she wanted to back away and have nothing to do with it, but there was a solemn look in Jaime's eyes. It was something she needed to know in order to survive, and he wasn't going to move until she learned it. She would not be a victim again.
So she nodded, and he continued.
"Armor can seem impossible to fight against, but there are always vulnerable areas to exploit," Jaime said, moving her arm down, low enough that she got the point, but not so much to make it uncomfortable. "The groin and thighs have plenty of veins in them. Hit the right one and a man can bleed out in minutes."
He moved her hand up near his shoulder. "Any joint works, but the underarm is best. Stab straight inward and you'll render a man unable to breathe."
Then he took her hand to right beside his neck. "Then there is the obvious one. Stab or slice, you're bound to get the job done, but this is the most guarded. Don't go for it unless you have no other choice. It leaves you the most vulnerable."
Jaime let her hand go then, though Myra did not move. The blade in her hand rested ever so slightly on his skin. She wondered if he had not done that on purpose.
She trusted him. Perhaps now he trusted her.
"You're certain you don't want to kill anyone else?" Jaime whispered when she hesitated too long. His eyes were watching her intensely, not worried, only curious perhaps.
Myra lowered the blade, tucking it into her belt as she had seen him do.
She didn't answer him though, remaining silent until he lost interest and began to walk them down the beach again. It was after a few minutes, when her head stopped swimming once more, that she spoke again.
"Thank you, Jaime. For everything."
Her voice was so quiet, Myra couldn't be completely certain if he had heard her or not, but his pace, she noted, seemed to slow considerably after that.
Sansa
"Twenty coppers for half a dozen apples? What sort of person agrees to this?"
The shopkeeper sniffed, nose held in the air like some flowery knight from the king's tourney. To think she once thought better of men like that.
"The kind who know good quality when they see it."
"If by quality, you mean dropping your cart on the Street of Steel and not picking it up again until it reached the bottom of the hill," Sansa retorted, turning the bruised fruit over in her hands. "I've seen better foodstuffs in the stables."
"Then why don't you get your food there and stop pestering me!"
She almost smirked at how beet red the man's face became. The two had crossed paths before. He had cheated her out of quite the sum until she picked up his tricks. The truth of the matter was: these apples were from the public stable. She'd seen him (and several others) there over the course of the month, picking through what they could before the gold cloaks took notice. The war was putting a strain on everyone.
"Perhaps I will," she agreed, replacing the fruit. "That way I'll have food and a full purse."
Sansa gripped her small bag tightly, and turned away from the vendor. She walked slowly, waiting.
Three.
Two.
One.
"Eighteen coppers."
"Ten," she called, not bothering to look back.
"Fifteen. I'll go no lower."
Smiling, Sansa returned to the cart and picked the best pieces before paying. She'd gotten much better at bartering. Where once her attempts had been ignored or downright shouted down, now most sellers bent to her will. Though, she could not say it was all her. People were desperate for money. Less than expected was still more than none.
Still, she knew her days of success were numbered. With food becoming scarcer, there would always be someone willing to pay more, or worse, willing to kill.
Fortunately, Sansa had been able to avoid that complication thus far. Syrena had taught her a thing or two, and Sansa had picked up other tricks as well, mostly through trial and error, a teacher that the handmaiden said had experience like no other. Where once Sansa had avoided people, now she stuck to crowded streets. No one was looking for Sansa Stark anymore, but a lone young woman in an abandoned alley? Trouble would find her faster than not.
She also learned to keep her ears open; she was constantly tuned into the other conversations around her, listening for key words or tones that would warn her of impending danger, or clue her into something to take advantage of. It was also how she learned of Robb's victories against Tywin Lannister, and Stannis Baratheon's defeat of his brother, Renly.
It was how she learned of the details of her father's trial.
Lords and ladies she had happily dined with, dreamed of being, spilling out foul lies about her father, about her sister. And it was all the queen's doing. She did not need Syrena's confession to see that now. Cersei had always been off, Sansa realized, and now she was no longer willfully ignorant to it.
A voice behind her caught Sansa's attention. Authoritative, frustrated, a gold cloak perhaps, or maybe a sellsword. Either way, it was no one she wanted to deal with.
As casually as she could, Sansa stepped aside, pretending to check her bag in the doorway of some abandoned building. She even offered an apple to the beggar at her feet, smiling at his kind words and toothless grinned. How she used to flee at the sight of men like him. Now she would give all her money to be in his company over the beautiful people of the Red Keep.
She watched the men pass her by from under her headscarf. Three gold cloaks, tense, their swords already drawn. Ever since they had butchered the bastard children of Robert Baratheon, they had been uneasy in Flea Bottom. The people kept their distance, but they had that look in their eyes: bloodlust. It was not unlike when they shouted for her father's death. Someone was bound to make a mistake eventually, and it would cost them dearly.
They paid her no mind, eyes glancing over her form like the rest of the filth. She couldn't remember the last time she had properly bathed versus scrubbing herself with sand and rainwater. Perhaps she really did look like everyone else now.
It was as she was about to continue on her journey that a large figure came to stand beside her. He did not wear the armor, but his shoulders bore that white cloak, as tarnished as it was, but it was his face that stood out to her. Burn marks marring the right side, reminders of the worst day of a poor boy's life as his brother punished him for touching a toy.
Sandor Clegane.
He was already looking at her when she caught sight of his face. Those dark, unreadable eyes were boring into her with an intensity that nearly floored her. And though he made no move to grab her, did not even appear to tense in any way, Sansa knew that he recognized her, dirty appearance and all.
"Little bird."
She ran.
Throwing her bag behind her as if it actually stood a chance of stopping someone as large as the Hound, Sansa fled down a narrow alleyway. Now was not the time to hide in groups of people. He'd still see her, and would plow through the crowds like some great war horse, all while she would get caught in the confusion. She had to lose him in the winding roads that snaked their way through King's Landing, even if it meant getting lost herself.
She leapt over bits of garbage and other debris, for once grateful for the foul clothing that Syrena had given her. Here, she was lighter, and stood little chance of getting caught on anything. Her clothing was slightly too short as well, so there was little need to pick up the loose fabric as she ran across the stonework. Still, it did little to ease her fears. The Hound was one of the greatest fighters she had ever seen. If she made one wrong move, she'd never escape him.
Sansa chanced a glance back before taking an abrupt turn. He was some distance behind her, running through things she had easily avoided. She must have surprised him if he was so far back. The Sansa Stark he knew would not have run. She'd have been a proper lady, timidly asking for the blessing of her freedom, a little bird bound for its cage once again.
She picked up the pace, overturning what carts and discarded furniture she could find, ignoring the shouts that quickly fell behind her. It did not matter. They would forget her come the morning. This would all be just a terrible dream.
Rounding successive corners, Sansa hoped to throw the Hound off her trail, but her final turn brought her face to face with a wall, and nowhere to hide. There were two doors in that narrow corridor, but neither gave way to her efforts to open them. Briefly, she thought to climb, but it would never work. That had been Bran's gift, Arya's, but not hers. She'd barely make it a foot off the ground.
As his heavy footfalls came to a stop behind her, Sansa felt her hope turn to ash and fade away.
And here she had thought she'd had none left.
"What in the seven hells are you doing, girl?" Sandor grunted. He sounded out of breath. It was strange to hear.
Sansa turned to him, blinking, though there were no tears. "Surviving."
He snorted. "Not in this shithole, you aren't. C'mon, little bird, time to return you to your cage."
The Hound took a step forward, and Sansa took a step back.
Now he laughed.
"Is this where you'd rather be, girl? With the robbers and the killers and the men who'd rape you as soon as they catch a glimpse of your pretty little face?"
Another step forward. Another step back.
"They take anything they can get, but for you, they'd find a special pleasure in what's between your legs."
Forward. Back. She was against the wall now, her fingers attempting to dig into the brickwork.
Sansa raised her chin. "Is this supposed to make me believe that I am better off trapped with the boy who murdered my father?"
"Take a look around, little bird. King's Landing may be larger, but a cage is still a cage."
"But it is one of my choosing."
"Is it now?"
Sansa opened her mouth to reply, but found that she had no answer. In her hesitation, the Hound closed the gap between them, and moved to grab her arm.
That was when he stumbled back in pain, shouting and swearing as he clawed at something on his back. Syrena appeared from behind him, bloody knife in her hand, eyes as wild and angry as they had been in the Red Keep. She lashed out again, driving the Hound into one of the closed doors as he narrowly avoiding getting slashed across the face.
"Sansa, run!" she shouted, continuing to attack with a ferocity that even Sandor Clegane seemed unable to match. He barely blocked her blows with his vambraces, her speed and proximity making it nearly impossible to draw his sword. Still, he was no gold cloak. Syrena had merely caught the man by surprise. This could not be kept up forever.
Running maybe ten feet, Sansa found herself turning back when she heard Syrena's shouts suddenly become cut off. The Hound had one hand around her wrist, while the other had grabbed her throat. With a shout of his own, he drove her across the corridor and slammed her into the building on the other side. Somehow, Syrena was still conscious, clawing at the hand on her neck with her free arm.
"I know you," he hissed, beating the knife out of her hand. "The Dornish cunt who works for the queen. What do you want with the Stark girl? Answer me!"
When he slammed her against the building again, Sansa reacted. She spotted a clay pot sitting on the ground and quickly grabbed it. Using all her strength, and what reach she had against his large form, Sansa broke the pot across the side of the Hound's head. She knew it would not be enough to render him unconscious, but once more, he was taken by surprise.
Reeling, his grip loosened on Syrena just enough. She kicked out, knocking him to the ground in a dazed state, before she fell over too, gasping and coughing. Sansa ran to her side, helping the handmaiden to her feet.
"You should...have run...like I said," Syrena choked out, leaning on Sansa slightly as she regained her balance.
"And when was the last time I ever actually listened to you," Sansa mumbled in reply.
She stopped then, glancing over her shoulder. The Hound still sat where he fell. Sansa doubted that he couldn't get up. It just seemed to her that he was choosing not to. Instead, he was watching them walk away, a strange look on his face only highlighted further by the droplets of blood that were beginning to travel down his scarred skin.
Pausing, Sansa made sure that Syrena could stand properly by herself before gently letting her go.
"What are you doing?" Syrena asked, reaching out to her.
"Don't worry," she replied softly. "He won't hurt me."
Sansa walked toward the Hound, carefully unwrapping her headscarf. She felt her dark waves tumble down her back as she bunched the fabric up in her hands. As she stood by his side, the man still tall even as he sat on the ground, she half expected him to bark out about not needing her pity, but he said nothing as she took the fabric and pressed it against the wound. She held it there a moment until his own hand moved to take it, briefly brushing against hers.
"I'm a wolf, not a little bird," Sansa said, stepping back. "And this is my choice."
Jaime
"There are bodies in the water."
Jaime looked up from where he rested under a willow tree. They had taken shelter beneath it the evening before, since enclosed spaces were likely to send Myra into a panic. Not that she was doing any better without. Her sleep was racked with nightmares. She'd toss and turn, and with every little desperate sound that escaped her throat, Jaime could not help but feel that knife deep in his chest turn a little bit more.
The first night, he had tried waking her, and nearly got stabbed for his efforts. Ever since, he'd taken to covering her in his cloak. She seemed to respond well enough to that, and there was the added benefit of her red-faced embarrassment when she woke up wrapped in his clothing. It happened every morning without fail, and he relished poking fun at her propriety before her somber mood returned.
One day, he had thought. One day it might work.
Standing, Jaime went to stand beside Myra, who'd taken the last watch and, he presumed, hadn't moved from that very spot since she did so.
He followed her gaze and sure enough, maybe twenty feet away, were three large forms bobbing in the current. Bloated and misshapen, they had clearly been dead for days, and could have come from anywhere in the Trident. The rains had nearly flooded certain areas and caused the river to flow faster than usual.
Turning his gaze westward, Jaime almost immediately unsheathed his sword.
Myra was at his side in an instant. "What is it?"
"Smoke."
Nearly an hour later and they still had yet to reach the gray plumes that billowed into the sky. They were all thin wisps at this point, but given how widespread they were, Jaime imagined there had been a great fire recently. There probably wasn't much left of whatever town was up ahead. He wondered if this was going to be the fate of every place they encountered.
This is what you wanted, Tyrion's voice chided, triumphantly returning. You said it yourself, the Riverlands were going to burn.
And the Vale, and every person standing between him and Cersei. Yes, he remembered his words well, and how much he had meant them.
Burn them all!
Jaime took a breath, grasping his sword tighter and looking up. Fortunately, Myra was not looking in his direction. She'd found some stray cloth on the ground and was examining it intently.
"Red salmon on a white field..." she murmured, thoughtful. The words meant little to him. He knew the sigils of his father's bannermen well enough, and a few others that had piqued his interest over the years, mostly those belonging to well-fought knights, or the occasional house that had angered Cersei too much. He was certain he'd been taught it at some point in his life, but there were far more important things to remember than obscure houses on the other side of the country.
"House Mooten," Myra continued, finally looking back to him. "We're at Maidenpool."
He felt his eyebrows rise slightly. House Mooten may have meant nothing to him, but he'd at least heard of Maidenpool. It was a busy harbor city, and one of the larger places that rested along the Trident. More importantly, these were lands that would have been sworn to Robb Stark.
And now they were burning.
Myra seemed to realize the same thing, lamely letting the fabric fall to the ground and wrapping her arms around herself again.
Within the next hour, they could see the keep of the city looming in the distance, as well as the pink of its outer walls. As they stood at the crest of a hill, the carnage of the war spread out before them. Dead horses and carts were strewn throughout the field leading up to the city, while along the road, smallfolk were evacuating, while others had taken to cleaning up the dead. Someone was wailing in the distance, and a thick stench was beginning to rise in the air.
What Jaime didn't see was any sign of Lannister forces. If they'd remained, there would have been a garrison resting outside the walls. Instead, it seemed whomever the commander was had been satisfied enough with sacking the town and leaving it to rot.
It sounded like something Ser Gregor would do. Then again, there were still living people to be found.
The two made their way slowly toward the city, carefully picking through the field. Jaime sheathed his sword again, and helped Myra through the wreckage, noting how closely she was walking beside him now. It wasn't the dead, he knew, that were making her wary; it was the living she took issue with now.
He said nothing, though, as she began to walk just behind him, using his body to shelter her from the gazes of others. Whatever made her feel more comfortable.
However, no one looked at them as they approached the city. Their eyes were locked to the ground as they ambled out into the unknown, looking for someplace safe, he imagined. In fact, no one paid any attention to them. He and Myra were like anyone else.
They made their way through the gates, which had been broken and were currently lying scattered across the ground, and into the city. The stench was worse here, where the walls blocked the wind and the added smoke choked what clean air was left. He felt his eyes sting as they made their way past several smoldering buildings. Some people were still attempting to salvage the situation with water and sand, while others looked on, a defeated sag in their shoulders.
Groups had gathered at the large pool in the center of town, dragging the bodies out of the water, while others were attempting to cut down their loved ones that had been strung up from whatever high places could be found. Widows wailed and the wounded moaned from where they had been gathered, with little hope of getting help.
Myra glanced up at him, wide, gray eyes just peeking out from where her sleeve covered her nose. She didn't want to be there.
"We don't have much choice," Jaime said, answering her unspoken query.
At some point, a man drew too close for Myra's liking. She quietly backed away behind Jaime as he drew his sword. The man thought better of it, dashing away immediately. Just because he had given her a dagger didn't mean she was ready to use it again. Still, he was more comfortable with the idea of her having one, when she wasn't asleep that was. '
The two continued through the town, looking for a sign of anything useful, but the inns were abandoned and broken, and the shops burned. They wandered until they met the walls of the keep, the only thing in Maidenpool that appeared to be intact. With its high walls and thick gates, it was possible that whichever army passed through did not have the means to breach it.
Two archers sat atop the wall, watching as citizens gathered below them, cursing and throwing rubbish.
"Seems this Lord Mooten spent the sacking safely tucked away," Jaime observed, looking down at Myra. "The great bannerman of the King in the North."
Her narrowed eyes only served to entertain him further.
"You could stay here, you know," he continued. "Convince them to let you in and you'd be well off. Food, clothing, a raven to your brother. He'd probably cut straight through the Riverlands after hearing you're here."
He watched her consider it. There was no mistaking that hopeful glint in her eyes at the prospect of seeing her family again, but she was hesitating. Myra glanced around them again, at the destruction and the ignored cries of the people, and she frowned.
"I'd much rather take my chances with you," she responded, sounding more certain than she had in days.
Jaime wanted to say he wasn't surprised. A man like Lord Mooten, who willingly ignored the plight of his people, would not sit well with Myra, and the prospect of remaining in Maidenpool as it continued to smoke and smell was not very inviting either. But he was offering her the very real chance of seeing her family again, and being safe for the first time in months. Surely that outweighed even her incredibly weighty moral compass.
Tell her to stay! the voice shouted. If she leaves with you, she won't survive.
Tell her to stay.
"Alright," he said.
If she wanted to die, it was hardly his problem, or so went the lie he told himself in hopes of covering up whatever he felt in his chest. The knife had loosened, and he could breathe a little more. Why was that a bad thing to him?
They wandered outside the town, following the road some ways, looking for anyone willing to sell anything. For nearly all the coin he had taken off the outlaws, Jaime managed to buy a horse from a farmer whose crops had been razed. It was an older beast, but large and sturdy; it would do well for them.
Myra had disappeared from his side. Jaime searched for her among the refugees, hand on the hilt of his sword, but he relaxed upon seeing her a little ways down the road.
She was kneeling before a little girl with blonde curls and tattered clothes that were far too big for her. The girl was showing her a small doll she owned. Jaime was suddenly struck by the similarity to the dead girl they had found on the road. If Myra noticed, she did not show it. She was too busy taking interest in the girl's plaything, holding it gently in her hands and inspecting it with exaggerated facial expressions that the child seemed to enjoy.
The girl took her doll back and gave Myra a hug. She chuckled, giving the child a small kiss on the cheek.
As if sensing his scrutiny, Myra turned to him, a large grin stretching across her features, her eyes practically alight with joy. He'd never seen her so happy before; he couldn't remember seeing anyone that happy in a long time. Tyrion maybe, after a night of drinking and a good joke, certainly not their father, and Cersei's happiness was always reserved, like it would be used as a weapon against her otherwise.
But here was Myra Stark, a lady of a noble house, holding this small peasant child as if she was the greatest treasure on the earth, and finding bottomless joy in her presence.
Jaime couldn't help himself.
He smiled back.