Robb
"Two months!"
He slammed his fist on the war table, making certain his knuckles scraped firmly against Lannister's last known position. "You're telling me my sister has been free of Dragonstone for nearly two months, and we are only just hearing of it?"
Beneath the table, though only just barely given his size, Robb could hear Grey Wind growling softly. The direwolf had always reflected his emotions in some way or another. It had been quite the tactic to use against their enemies, though as of late that only seemed to be an additional burden on his men. Without the release that came with battle, without the taste of victory on their tongues, frustration was at an all time high, not least upon himself. Unfortunately, the poor scout, who was only out to deliever a message from another man, who know doubt heard it from another himself, was receiving the brunt of it at this very moment.
"We do not command an army of whisperers as the Spider does, Your Grace," Lord Roose Bolton interjected with that ever even tone of his, saving the scout from having to explain that which he did not know the answer to. "No matter our military might, Lord Tywin will always be one step ahead in that regard."
Some would call it bold to claim fault in the army before the King in the North. Robb called it smart. Sure, Northern Lords had all the tact of an aurochs and were not afraid to voice their dissenting opinions, but as Robb continued to prove himself, as men across the countryside started whispering The Young Wolf, the words became less and less. They believed him, and by extension themselves, unable to do wrong, and for a time that had been enough to slog their armies across the Westerlands chasing the illusive Lion, but now even that was wearing off.
"So, it is entirely possible that he already has them," Robb murmured, not oblivious to the venom in his voice.
"It is, Your Grace," Roose said from across the table. He always had an eerily calm demeanor about him, even in the face of battle. The man never smiled, but he never appeared to get angry either, and that might have been the more terrifying of the two. "However, I doubt even Tywin Lannister would want to keep quiet about acquiring your sister, given the circumstances."
Given the deaths of my brothers, you mean.
Robb let his fist clench and unclench, let the anger that temporarily gripped his heart fade again before he spoke. With Bran and Rickon...gone, with Sansa and Arya missing, Myra was it. She was the heir to his throne, wherever that might have been at this point; it certainly wasn't Winterfell. Until he had a child of his own, all he had was his sister, and Roose was right, Tywin would take full advantage of that.
He still had Jon, however, but words from the king of a united realm could hardly sway the Watch, much less from a boy who controlled two of them. All he could do was ask his lords not to execute Jon upon his arrival, but he would always be seen as the traitor, the runaway, the coward. More names for the bastard of Winterfell.
Sighing, Robb looked up at the scout. "Send for my mother."
Catelyn entered not long after, followed by her looming guardian, Brienne of Tarth.
On more than one occasion, it had been brought up that he dismiss the woman, though some suggested further action, in regards to her abandonment of the Baratheon camp and involvement in the death of her king. But Robb knew his mother was no liar, and that she would never accept a kingslayer's oath of service. And, in part, he was relieved to have someone looking after his mother. A woman she may have been, but Robb had seen Brienne best every man that dare to challenge her when the camp was quiet and the men were training. His mother could not ask for better.
Roose bowed out, having sense enough to realize that this was a private matter. With a nod, Brienne stepped back outside the tent as well, though he knew the woman stood just outside. She'd probably hear every word they spoke. He doubted this would be a quiet conversation.
Robb stretched his arms out, leaning on the war table. It was the only thing keeping him standing at the moment.
"Mother," he started slowly, staring resolutely at Winterfell on the map rather than at the woman who bore him. "Before I tell you anything, I want you to know that nothing is certain, and that this news comes to us late...very late."
He finally chanced a glance at her. Gods, if his mother hadn't aged before, she looked like a ghost now, withered and worn and tired beyond that which sleep could fix. Her hair was limp and her eyes had lost their glow, her skin was pale and the lines in her face had deepened. A small breeze could blow her away.
And why wouldn't she look this way? First her husband, and now, for all she knew, out of her six children, he was the only one left. Even with the message he'd received, he still might be.
Robb took a deep breath. "There was word from Dragonstone. Several weeks ago, Myra escaped."
He'd seen her brace herself, waiting for the worst news no doubt. That was all their family ever received. But then it all melted away, overwhelmed by a look of sheer relief. His mother grasped at a chair and fell into it, her shoulders shaking.
"I knew the gods would have to listen one day," she said, voice cracking with emotion. "I knew..."
He heard Grey Wind whine.
Being the dutiful son he was, Robb went to his mother's side. He put a hand on her shoulder as she wept, allowing her a moment before he continued; he wasn't sure how else to comfort her. Myra would know what to do. She always did. But she was not here, leaving him to stumble in the dark.
When they'd heard of Winterfell, he should have gone to his mother, and he had, eventually, but not before seeking solace in the arms of Talisa, not before casting aside his oath because he'd needed to be weak. He needed someone to understand that for one day, he couldn't be a king or a son; he needed to just be a boy who was broken in ways he could not imagine.
They would know soon, he realized, but for now, he liked to pretend that everything was still the way it should be.
Some days he wondered if Myra would have stopped him.
"How did she escape?" his mother asked eventually.
Robb felt his hand twitch. "I don't know the specifics. What I do know is that she escaped with the Kingslayer."
"Jaime Lannister?" Catelyn asked, turning up to him. "The last I saw him, he was leaving the Vale with his brother. I'd assumed they were returning to King's Landing."
"Jory made no mention of him either, but whatever the case, it seems that Stannis Baratheon had several prisoners of interest," Robb continued, taking a breath. "And now we've no idea where they are."
And there it was: that look of expectation. His mother was waiting for her son to tell her that everything would be alright, that his sister was going to be okay because he was going to move the heavens and the earth in order to find her, a lost young woman in the middle of a war that had nothing but.
Gods help him.
"Mother..."
"Don't," Catelyn snapped, her eyes wide. "I know what you want to say, but you can't."
"It's not a matter of wanting, Mother," Robb admitted, sinking into the chair across from her. "I don't have the resources to send a search party for her. I don't even know what direction she headed."
"She is your sister!" Catelyn hissed, standing. "And you would just leave her out there! Even worse, you'd leave her with Jaime Lannister! If he takes her to his family, we'll never see her again!"
"Do you think I'm not aware of that?" Robb asked, looking up. "Do you think I don't want to march out there myself and look for her? But things are different now. My army is stretched thin across the Westerlands. Our camps are undermanned, we are short on supplies, and winter is coming. I can't go to my men and ask them to give up more so that I can look for my sister, who might not even be alive."
Catelyn looked indignant. "Do you hear yourself? I thought I taught you better than this, that your father-"
"Father taught me how to be the Lord of Winterfell, not the King in the North in a time of war," Robb interrupted, tired of being berated. He already hated himself over it. "I told you about Myra because I wanted you to hear something good for once in this forsaken war. I could have chosen not to tell you; I can't afford to look for her, and I need you to understand me on that matter."
She was silent for a while, searching his eyes. Was she looking for a weakness?
"One way or another, her brother is going to get her back. Those were your words for her."
His mother dared to use those words against him, words he had spoken when he had been defeating the Lannister army at every turn, when the thought of the Greyjoy fleet at his side was not a distant, hopeless dream. This was not the same army. He was not the same man. She could not expect him to live up to that promise now.
He was spared replying when Brienne reentered the tent.
"Your Grace, my lady," the woman spoke, inclining her head. "Forgive the interruption, but I could not help but notice your...predicament."
He supposed that was one word for it.
"I would like to volunteer to search for the Lady Myra, with your permission."
Robb felt his mouth drop open in a very un-kingly manner.
Catelyn shook her head. "Brienne, I could not ask you to do such a thing."
"Then I suppose it is a good thing that you did not ask, my lady," Brienne replied with a small smile.
"Lady Brienne, if this is about silencing any rumors about you in the camp..." Robb started.
"Men speak what they will, Your Grace. I know better than most," Brienne said. "But this is not about me. As I am sworn in service to your mother, I feel it is my obligation to search for her daughter in your stead. I've heard a great deal about your sister. She seems like the rare sort, and it would be shameful to leave her in the company of the Kingslayer."
Robb wondered if this wasn't the most honorable way to shame him.
"Very well. If my mother permits it, then you have my leave." Robb stood, walking toward the opening. "However, I would ask that you do not go alone."
"That is not necessary, Your Grace. I travel faster on my own."
"Nevertheless, I insist," Robb replied, opening the tent flap. "Send for Olyvar."
The guard nodded. "At once, Your Grace."
"I'll send my squire with you, since I cannot go. My sister should know that I am thinking of her, at least."
"I do not doubt that she believes it, Your Grace."
He met Brienne's eyes, if only because he could not face his mother.
"We march for Harrenhal soon. Meet us there, if you can."
Myra
The sky was a pale blue without a cloud to be found. With the sun unimpeded, Winterfell grew warmer than most of its occupants were used to. Children fled the confines of the castle without cloaks, and with sleeves rolled at the elbows if the fabric allowed it. Maester Luwin, realizing his tutoring would be for naught on such a wonderful afternoon, dismissed his pupils early, to cries of triumph and relief.
Myra sat upon Tempest, her eyes closed as she hummed against the warmth of the sun. She'd been inside too much as of late. It was good to be out again.
Her eyes opened as she heard riders approach. Bran, his grin wide, rode up to her on his own horse, while Jon and Robb trailed behind him.
"Robb said I'm big enough for Caern!" Bran shouted happily, scratching the dapple gray between the ears.
"Did he now?" Myra asked, leveling a cool look on her twin. "Does Father know?"
"Course he does," Robb replied, he and Jon sprouting matching impish grins. "And he agrees."
"And Mother?"
Silence.
Now it was Myra's turn to smile. "Oh, dinner is going to be wonderful tonight."
Jon began to laugh as Robb's smile faded.
"You're always out to ruin things, aren't you?"
"You smile too much to be a Stark, Brother. I'm only helping correct that."
Theon approached on his filly as the dark-haired siblings took turns laughing at their red-haired brother. Rickon sat in front of him, gripping the reins tightly, even though the Greyjoy had control.
"The little lord asked for me personally," her father's ward spoke, pulling up next to her. "Seems he doesn't have time for you anymore."
Myra rolled her eyes. "He's just weighing you down for me, Theon. Not that I need help running circles around you."
The boys chuckled as everyone took time lining up their horses. They'd spend their day at a creek not far from home, relaxing in the shade of the trees as the sun continued to warm the air. The boys would fight with sticks until one, or more than likely all, ended up in the water, gasping and shrieking about how cold it was. She'd be better off leaving at that point, because Robb was not about to leave her out of that fun.
But first, they had to get there.
"Edge of the forest?" Jon asked.
"Like always," Robb replied, nodding. "This is Bran's first proper race now, so take it easy."
"I can handle it," Bran countered.
Theon nodded. "Good. Diving right in."
"Alright, on the end of the count," Myra said, pulling back on Tempest's reins. The mare could sense the looming race. "Three...two..."
"ONE!" shouted a blur as it rushed past the group. The young lords and lady looked up to see another horse flying down the hillside, recognizing the rider as none other than Arya.
"That's not fair!" Bran shouted as the elders simply laughed. "She can't do that!"
Robb patted his brother on the shoulder. "Well, you best catch her then, and teach her a lesson."
Bran never did catch Arya before she reached the forest, but by the time the others caught up, the two had already tumbled into the creek, a flurry of fists and mud.
Why?
It was the only word her mind could conjure, after hours (days?) of darkness and silence, of an emptiness she'd thought she had begun to grasp only to find that the abyss was unending.
Why?
There were no excuses, no explanations, no reasoning short of utter madness that could allow her to even begin to wrap her head around the concept of what Theon had done. It was the sort of tale that maesters told their charges while shaking their heads in shame, because even the wisest of men could not justify such senseless slaughter.
Was Maester Luwin there still? Had he seen it? Or had Theon murdered him as well?
Oh gods, had her mother returned home, or was she safe with Robb? Safe in a war while her home burned.
Why?
Myra blinked, eyes focusing on the smoldering ashes of a dead fire. Was this the same fire from her memory so long ago, or had they moved since then? Her memory consisted of little after he'd told her the news.
Something was draped across her. She pulled it tighter across her form, blocking the cold air of the early morning. It was a cloak, and not hers, she realized. Jaime's then.
She sat up slowly, wrapping the fabric around her, looking around the fire for a familiar, blonde head, but the man was nowhere to be found; she wondered how safe they must have been if he'd decided to leave her alone. Perhaps he was just tired of her presence. There was only so much to be done with a wordless young woman.
A moment passed, then another, and suddenly Myra realized she was moving away from the camp. Perhaps her feet knew something that she didn't.
They'd travelled some distance from the Trident, it seemed. Normally the great river was within their line of sight, even when they camped for the evening, but something must have changed as of late. Perhaps they were closer to the war, and the river was no longer the best course of action.
Myra found Jaime not twenty feet away, at the foot of a rock slope that gave way to a small creek. He'd waded halfway into the water, his boots and shirt discarded on a nearby rock, and was washing up in the freezing current, or so his mumbling told her. He was completely oblivious to her presence.
Had he lied, she would have believed him. Had he looked her straight in the eye and said everything was okay, even though she could see right through the words, she would have believed him, because she was sick of the truth. The truth had taken everyone and everything from her. At least with lies, she could pretend her life was whole, even as the weight of it crushed her into the dirt.
Jaime had finally noticed her presence, standing up in the water and smirking at her with that familiar cockiness.
"See something you like?"
He'd said that to her once, a lifetime ago back in Winterfell. She had been caught staring then as well. Why she had been looking at him that way was a mystery to her now, something unimportant lost to time.
But she'd called him handsome. Even now, after the toil and hunger had begun to take its toll on his body, as his beard grew back out and his hair hung limply against his face, it was not a misplaced description of the man. She would have turned a nasty shade of red and run away with her head between her hands on any other day.
Not today, though.
In fact, she didn't even acknowledge that he spoke, staring past him until Jaime got the hint. He sighed, running a hand over his face.
"Go back to the camp, Myra," he mumbled. "I'll be along shortly."
She neither replied nor moved, and Jaime did not seem to care enough to attempt to change that, going back to washing himself like he had never seen her at all.
Myra blinked.
"I understand why you did it."
Jaime stopped and looked back up at her. Was it the fact that she spoke that made him look so surprised, or was it because her voice sounded so little like herself?
"Why you pushed my brother out of the tower."
How easy it was to say now, as if Theon's act of treachery had utterly erased Jaime's. What did it matter if this man before her had almost killed Bran when Theon actually did? He did not know her brother, while Theon had watched him grow, and thus his act was the more heinous of the two.
Or that was what she told herself.
Her thoughts must have drifted for longer than she realized, because when Myra took a breath to speak again, Jaime had climbed out of the water and donned his tunic. He suddenly no longer seemed annoyed by her strange behavior, but curious, concerned even.
"If I had known..." she took another breath, feeling the sudden anger wash over her. It made her fists ball together to tightly, her nails began to dig into the skin. "If I had known what Theon was capable of, what he was going to do, then I would have killed him where he stood."
She watched those green eyes looking at her, and could have sworn they looked disappointed.
"No."
How could that one word feel like a punch to her gut?
"No?"
Jaime took his time walking up to her, as if mulling over what to say. Even when he stopped by her side, he was silent, eyes cast downward. She watched the water drip from his hair, forming dark pools on the fabric of his shirt.
"That isn't you, Myra. I think you would have reasoned with him, begged him, given your life if need be, but couldn't kill like that."
"I've killed," Myra replied through gritted teeth, as if offended by the notion that she was incapable of being as cold-hearted as everyone else she had come across in her life.
"You've defended yourself. That's hardly the same," Jaime countered. "To look a person in the eyes, to hold their life in your hands and to choose not to spare them, that is something else entirely."
He finally looked up, and Myra was surprised by how vulnerable he seemed.
Was he speaking of Bran? It wasn't a split second decision. He'd held her brother in his hands, and he'd had the choice, but he chose death. He chose Cersei.
Funny how those two things always went together.
Myra shook her head, hating how reasonable Jaime sounded. "Maybe I should be like that. Where has kindness ever gotten me, but right here?"
"No," he said again, and somehow it hurt more than the first time. "There are enough Theon Grejoys in the world. But you? The Seven Kingdoms could use more of you, Myra Stark."
He walked away then, and she let him, briefly stunned into silence.
How was it after everything that had happened, Jaime Lannister managed to make her feel in the wrong?
Jaime
They had found an abandoned house some time before the sun set that evening. Whether it was good, bad, or just some form of dumb luck that brought them to it had yet to be determined, but given neither he nor Myra had yet to let go of their daggers, it was obvious which side they were betting on.
There was some old, broken furniture and half-rotted firewood outside the door, but otherwise the place looked hardly lived in. A thick layer of dust covered every surface, and no clothing or remnants of food could be found. Nothing smelled foul; nothing moved. There was just...emptiness.
He wasn't a man made uneasy quickly, but if he were honest, Jaime would have preferred to have found evidence of a struggle inside. The thought of this place lying abandoned just for them to find weighed heavy on him, but like that cave, it was too good an opportunity to pass up.
Myra had huddled in the corner beside the fireplace, her blade well within view as she watched the doorway unblinking, waiting for someone to emerge through the threshold. Anyone who tried her this night would find themselves regretting that action quickly.
Himself included, he noted.
Jaime had taken to watching the fire that roared in the hearth, half-listening to the distant cries of a mad man.
How strange that Aerys had become the least of his concerns. He'd rather hear his raving over the sound of Myra's cries or the gasp of a little boy falling to his doom, a boy whose eyes looked just like his older sister's.
He ran a hand over his face.
Seven hells, she had certainly put him in a mood.
"Are you thinking about him?"
Jaime looked to his right. Myra was watching him, her face half-shadowed in the firelight. He remembered when she used to flinch when she asked questions.
She sat up a little further, clinging to the cloak she had yet to give back. "You always get this look on your face whenever you look at the fire."
"And what look is that?" he asked, snapping when he didn't mean to.
"Like you did in the throne room when you told me about my grandfather and uncle," she continued, unaffected. "It's like...you're back there."
Gods, he was starting to wonder how he and Cersei managed to get away with so much if he was this easy to read. Then again, Robert never had been the most observant of individuals, at least when it didn't involve tits or wine. Noting the Kingslayer's emotions? Others take him, why would he do that?
Jaime looked back to the fire, listening to it crackle, ignoring the eyes boring into him.
"Burn them all," he whispered, feeling a sudden weight shift off his shoulders. "Those were his last words. He shouted them over and over, even as I drove my sword into his back. Even when I sliced his throat, I could see his lips forming those damned words."
For half a moment, he'd thought the blood on his sword would start to burn, melt the steel of his blade, do something otherworldly, but there was nothing. Aerys Targaryen's blood was as red and uninteresting as all those who came before him, and all who would come after. Before the startling realization of what he had done fully set in, Jaime had almost felt disappointed.
The dam broken, he let the rest of the words tumble out. It was a story long untold, a secret in desperate need to be shared.
"You're well read, so I assume you know what wildfire is, what it does," Jaime continued, watching the flames in the hearth turn a sickly shade of green. "Imagine barrels of it, stretching so far in either direction that you can't make out where it ends. Aerys had the alchemists working day and night making it, placing them in caches throughout the city. He'd always been the paranoid sort, but this was...something else entirely."
Aerys had toured the hoards once, in the dead of night so no one would see. The liquid had a pungent smell that Jaime could not forget if he tried. Thick, nauseating stuff that nearly made him retch. It must have smelled like sweet nectar to Aerys. He'd have probably drank some if it weren't for the memory of Aerion Brightflame's end.
If only he had done it nonetheless, spared them all what was to come.
"When my father sacked King's Landing, the Mad King had one order for me: 'Bring me Tywin's head. Prove you aren't a traitor.' He actually planned to burn the city to the ground, soldiers and babes alike in the greatest fire the world had ever seen. But he wouldn't die with them, no. Dragons do not burn. He would rise again, king of ash and bone."
He hadn't been at Aerys' side at the time. As the only member of the Kingsguard left in the city, he'd been put in charge of defending the Red Keep. But when he heard those orders, he'd ran. Fear conjured images of green flames leaping up across the walls as if he were already too late. A piece of furniture had fallen over and he'd thought the end had come.
People said Kingslayer and pictured a man with a cruel smile staring down at the crime he had committed as if he took pleasure in the act. The Jaime Lannister who'd murdered his king was little more than a boy whose knees were shaking so badly that he could hardly stand, covered in a layer of sweat and breathing hard from the most desperate run of his life.
"The last Hand of the King, Rossart, head of the alchemists, practically jumped with joy at the thought of using his wildfire, so I slew him first. Aerys turned to run, and I killed him next. I think you and the rest of the realm knows what happened after that."
He could still feel the sensation of the blades rubbing against his armor as he sat on the Iron Throne, the scratching that sounded more like shrieking, or were those the screams from the city below?
He could still see the look on Ned Stark's face as he found him there, waiting, accepting of what was to come. He'd almost felt giddy and had to clamp down on his tongue to keep from laughing, and suddenly Aerys' descent into madness did not seem so strange.
The way the Warden of the North looked at him, as if he was an affront to nature itself, made his blood boil. He dare sit there and judge him as if he and Robert hadn't traveled across the countryside to do the very same to their king. They swore vows too, but they conveniently forgot those truths.
"I spent the next couple days hunting down the other alchemists, making certain that Aerys' final command never came to be. They begged, offered money, but in the end, they fell silent like all the others."
He'd returned to overhear Ned Stark asking Robert to send him to the Wall at least. The blood of their would-be killers still covered parts of his blade, and this was his repayment. If that was how they felt, he preferred the executioner's block. That was mercy.
Myra was right: he was back there, and he stayed there until he saw her small form crawl from its hiding spot. She sat on her knees in front of him, so that they were eye to eye, and the flames were out of his line of sight completely. In the sudden darkness, it was hard to make out the girl's features, but he thought her face was wet.
"You did the right thing, Jaime. You were right to kill him."
He wasn't certain if it was the words she spoke or the conviction in which she spoke them that rendered him speechless.
The story of why he killed Aerys was one he never spoke, either because no one cared to hear it or because he didn't feel like explaining himself. If no one could understand why a man would turn their back on such a monster, why should he bother? Their minds would never change.
But Myra Stark had always been different, hadn't she?
"Your father didn't think so," Jaime whispered, his voice hoarse for a reason unknown to him.
Myra sat back, turning slightly to the fire so he could make out her face properly again. She wasn't angry at his words, only thoughtful, biting at her lip like she always did.
"My father was a good man. Honorable, honest to a fault, and one of the best men I have ever known," she spoke slowly, a wistful smile on her face even as she turned back to him. "But he was wrong."
She had spoken similar words to him the night he had saved her from Robert's wrath. Even though they had stunned him then, he had always thought of them as the words of a rescued maiden, blinded by her gratitude. Myra would never feel the same way if she knew what he did.
But now she knew everything, Aerys, Cersei, her brother, all of it, and still she spoke the words.
"I'm sorry," he said, suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of guilt that made him nauseous.
"I know," Myra replied, nodding. She took his left hand in both of hers, examining the remnants of his injury as she looked to be fighting back tears again. "I...you were right, I shouldn't be like that, be like him. I can't be."
He watched her take a shaky breath, felt her warm hands clutch his a little tighter, trying to convey what she felt because the words were giving her difficulty.
"I don't know if I can forgive you, Jaime. I don't know if something like that can or should be forgiven, but...I can't hold it against you anymore." Myra's voice was quiet as she said the words, her gaze still on his hand. She was tracing the forming scar with her fingers. Something tightened in his chest. "This is healing well."
She tried to pull away then, freeing herself from whatever direction the conversation had taken, but Jaime wrapped his fingers around one of her hands and held her in place.
"Tell me about him."
Myra finally met his gaze, eyes darting ever so slightly as she searched his for an explanation. And then she relaxed, her shoulders sagging as her hand squeezed his back.
"I told you once, he always wanted to be a knight. He'd just started practicing with a bow. The poor thing wasn't very good with it just yet and..."
She spoke for hours it seemed; she never tired of saying the words, and he never chafed under the length at which she told the tales, both of Bran and Rickon. In fact, it was only after the fire had dwindled to nothing that Jaime even noticed she had stopped.
Myra had fallen asleep, curled up against his shoulder, and was snoring softly. Her face was relaxed, not strained with worry or anguish as it had been as of late. He almost wanted to say she looked comfortable in his grasp, her hand still tightly bound in his.
They'd moved at some point, allowing Jaime to lean against the wall so that he would not disturb her slumber. And as sleep slowly claimed him, he felt, for once, a sort of peace fall upon him.
And there, in the middle of a war, in an abandoned cabin with a girl he ought to call his enemy, Jaime Lannister found the most peaceful slumber he'd had in years.