Jaime
When he woke that morning, he was alone. As it turned out, Myra was just outside the cabin, tending to the horses, but Jaime could not deny the hint of disappointment that nestled in the bottom of his stomach.
She had greeted him with a smile and a small jest about him sleeping the morning away, but they had not spoken since, choosing to ride in silence.
To be honest, he wasn't certain what to say. He half thought he'd dreamed the previous night, but every time he caught Myra's eye, there was a look in those dark irises that had definitely not been there the day before, or any other day. He couldn't place it, and honestly had been debating it for much of the afternoon. Jaime knew anger, hatred, disgust, all the terrible things people felt toward him, which was certainly notwhat she was looking at him with.
Gods, he was fretting over it like some damned little boy. It was pathetic.
But he also couldn't help himself. He'd told the story once, and to only one person. Tyrion had found him the night of Robert and Cersei's wedding, when he'd finally been allowed to drink himself into a stupor. The things he had done mixed with his sister's refusal to see him for a fortnight leading up to the ceremony had left him in a terrible state, and the alcohol had only served to aggravate it. Tyrion got the tale he had more or less given Myra, though a little more slurred and a little less kind. When his brother offered to tell their father the next day, it had resulted in one of those rare moments when he actually got angry with him.
They hadn't spoken of it since.
The point was, Jaime did not know where to go from here. Was Myra going to keep silent about it or ask him more? He wasn't sure he could handle more.
He wasn't sure of a lot of things these days.
As his mind continued to wander in circles over the woman beside him, Myra began to fidget in her saddle. He noticed her glancing his way now and again, debating, but didn't have the willpower to meet her gaze, until she cleared her throat.
"Tell me about Casterly Rock."
The look he gave her must have been a ridiculous one, because she bit her lip to keep herself from smiling.
"Why?" he asked.
"It seems to me that there is a very distinct possibility that I may end up there," she replied, looking back to her hands. "And I thought that...oh, I don't know. I just don't want silence anymore. It makes me think too much."
He supposed it could have been worse. She could have brought Aerys back up, but he should have known better by now. Myra knew when to avoid things.
Jaime sat back in the saddle, grateful for the distraction. "Not sure I'd know where to start."
Gods, he couldn't even remember the last time he had been home. It couldn't have been before Robert's Rebellion, could it? No, there had been the Lannisport tourney after they had defeated the Greyjoys. He'd almost won the whole thing, but Robert had given the prize to some man just knighted. Ser Jorah was it?
That meant the last time he had stepped in Casterly Rock, Myra Stark had been, what, five years old? Six?
Seven hells, he hoped that groan was inward.
Myra wasn't laughing, so he was either blessed or her acting had improved immeasurably.
"Is it really as large as they say?" she asked, shaking her head as soon as she spoke the words. "That's a...silly question. My sister used to go on and on about how big it was and I never could believe it. It didn't seem right, a structure being that large, but then we came to King's Landing and...well, I started questioning everything."
Even a fool could tell her words had another meaning, but Jaime was tired of sore subjects.
"The Red Keep was a step down from home," he murmured, conjuring an image of the Rock in his mind's eye. It was no less grand than the stories told about it. Some things were just meant to surpass expectation. "It's carved into rock that's taller than the Wall, and can be seen from miles away. I used to think that if I stood on the tallest tower, I might be able to see what's on the other side of the Sunset Sea."
He chuckled then. "But it never was big enough to outrun my father when I wasn't at my studies."
Myra was smiling beside him, though he could see the twinge of sadness in her eyes. There wasn't going to be much to distract her from her brothers, but she was trying. He supposed she had no choice in the matter.
"You loved Casterly Rock."
It was a statement, not a question, and he supposed not an altogether false one. He had enjoyed his home. There were memories there that he would not trade for the world, but there were also other ones: distant echoes of his mother's singing, a warm smile and a gentle hand to calm his fears, ripped away by bloody screams.
Lady Joanna's death had changed Casterly Rock. It would never be how Myra saw Winterfell for him, not anymore. Still, he had loved it, and maybe still did in his own way, if only for the sake of his mother.
"Jaime, why did you join the Kingsguard?"
She'd asked something similar to that once – and her tone said as much – back when Robert was still blustering about and everyone was none the wiser to what was happening in King's Landing. He had answered in the only way he knew how: coarsely, with the hope that the conversation would end there. Jaime almost wished he could conjure that ability now.
"I think you know the answer to that," he said glumly.
Myra shook her head. "Your sister is the queen. She has King's Landing, and children, and power. What did she leave you with, Jaime?"
Cersei gave him everything he'd needed: her, his other half, the only one he could be whole with. He didn't need Casterly Rock or children he could call his own; he didn't need the legacy that his father strove for every day of his life. Never mind that they did not have many moments together, they still had them, and without the Kingsguard, none of that would have been possible.
Liar.
The voice was back, only it wasn't Tyrion's, or even Myra's.
It was his.
Jaime nudged his stallion forward. He didn't care that he was running away from the conversation; he just wanted it to be over.
Myra caught up to him some time later, when he'd stopped at a small tributary of the Trident. It could not have been more than a foot deep, but the way the landscape had been carved out suggested it flooded often.
She appeared to be struggling to find the words to speak, picking at the mane of her horse, but Jaime let her fidget. He didn't relish the thought of returning to that particular subject.
"I shouldn't have said those things back there. It wasn't my place to ask, and I'm sorry," Myra admitted, though she didn't seem too pleased with the effort. "But, I worry that-"
"Do you think we've been here before?" Jaime asked, cutting her off. He didn't want to hear about how she worried; he didn't want to hear anymore of her thoughts on the matter.
Now he was just being a child.
Myra, however, was all too eager to latch on to a different subject as well, glancing about the forest with newfound curiosity. It didn't matter much. The trees looked the same as they had for days. Once they had made it far enough inland, the forests had grown dense, and had yet to let up. They wouldn't start to thin again until they approached the borders of the Westerlands, and at this point he was starting to believe they'd make it there.
"I don't think so," Myra replied, but he could hear the doubt in her voice. Without the Trident as an exact guide, it was hard to stay on a straight path, but this far into the Riverlands, it was dangerous to stay near the open water.
Jaime snorted. "At this rate, the war is going to be over, and we'll still be wandering the forest."
Myra hummed, clearly entertained by the idea.
Well, at least her mood was improving.
They sat there in silence, allowing their horses time to cool down and drink from the small creek. Myra took the time to fix her hair. He watched her small fingers deftly braid the dark locks, completely unaware of the small twig stuck between the strands. Or perhaps she didn't care.
Unwittingly, his hand reached out and plucked it from her hair. Myra didn't jump at the action, but she did turn to him, a curious eyebrow raised.
Jaime Lannister wasn't one to become embarrassed, but he certainly felt caught under her scrutiny, and struggled to find some explanation. There was none to be found, of course.
Suddenly, she grinned, looking positively mischievous.
"Does this mean you've forgiven me?"
And then she laughed, full and hearty, closed eyes, shaking shoulders, and all. As her voice echoed through the trees, Jaime saw the youthfulness return to her features, and the weight of everything that had happened over the past few days falling away. She seemed so unlike herself in that moment, and yet he felt as though that was how she ought to look. The glum Northern attitude did not fit her, not when she could look as she did now.
Forgetting that he was supposed to be the offended party, Jaime smiled, even chuckled to himself as he watched Myra's hopeless attempts at getting the giggles under control.
She clapped her hands over her mouth, dark eyes shining over her fingers as she watched him.
Jaime fell forward then, the wind knocked from him as though someone had slapped him across the back, hard. He started to recover, leaning on his horse and looking over to Myra in confusion, finding that she had grown silent and still. Her eyes widened in fear, and all the color drained from her face.
He looked down.
An arrowhead stuck out of his chest, somewhere just beneath his left shoulder. His fingers grazed the barbed metal, feeling the warm blood, his blood, as it oozed along the surface.
And then he fell.
Sansa
Despite the arid environment that surrounded them, the Water Gardens, as it turned out, properly lived up to their names. It was hardly as green as any of the lands to the north, and the plants were like nothing she had ever seen, consisting of many strange, prickly things that seemed to match the inhabitants well, but it was a beautiful escape from the sands of Dorne nonetheless.
However, a reprieve from the climate it was not.
Sansa had thought King's Landing was warm, and had smiled to herself when she adjusted to it swiftly, but in Dorne, the sun was downright vile. In Winterfell, she had celebrated the appearance of that bright orb in the sky, and here she would do the same for a cloud, which she had not seen since setting foot in this place.
Both she and Myrcella had to commission new dresses with even lighter fabric to keep them from overheating. They'd also both turned terrible shades of red at some point, and confined themselves inside the cooler buildings until their skin had returned to normal, or closer to. Sansa had always been pale, but she noticed her exposed skin darkening ever so slightly. The thought of it had revolted her at first, but then she remembered where she was and why. There were more important things to concern herself with.
Such as maintaining her cover.
Oberyn had taken her to see Doran late in the evening when Myrcella was already asleep, and the prince had more or less given her the same statement that his brother had: she was not welcome, but they would not send her away.
Sansa, for her part, had taken that information in stride, and did her best at keeping up appearances. She befriended a few maids, had them show her around the area, and worked to memorize the winding walkways when she was not busy. She learned how the Dornish preferred to style their hair, investigated which cook was more agreeable to her requests – late night treats did wonders to help Myrcella cope with being so far from home – and above all else, avoided anyone from House Martell.
Still, she thought she could feel eyes on her at every moment. Sometimes, it made it hard to sleep.
Midday was the most unbearable, so Sansa and Myrcella had taken to strolling through the gardens in the early morning, when the barest amount of dew still rested on the various ferns that lay scattered along their route, and the air was not quite so thick. It had become a daily routine of theirs, as had avoiding Ser Arys, much to the Kingsguard's chagrin. Myrcella had taken to spending the evenings with Trystane, and she would recount every moment of it in detail with her in the morning.
"Cyvasse is such a wonderful game!" Myrcella exclaimed, sounding far livelier than she ever did in King's Landing. Perhaps she had not been the only caged girl. "I used to think that Trystane was only allowing me to win, but last night, he grew so frustrated, I thought steam was going to rise from his ears!"
Sansa smiled softly. "It seems you've quite the talent for it, my lady."
Large, green orbs stared up at her. "Alayne, are you sure you don't want to try?"
"No, Princess, just as I told you yesterday, and will likely tell you tomorrow."
"I could make it an order, you know."
She felt her mouth twitch. "That would not be very kind."
Mycella was quiet a moment. "No, it wouldn't."
The two continued their stroll, coming across an open practice arena. It was occupied most mornings by the guards running their drills, and for the most part, the two girls ignored the contained chaos, but on this particular day, a different sort of battle was taking place.
It was not hard to spot Oberyn Martell. He was the only man currently fighting, locked in a duel with three younger women. Dark-haired and feisty like him, Sansa could only assume that they were his daughters, three of his Sand Snakes, as they were called. She'd never heard of them until she had arrived in King's Landing, Maester Luwin having chosen to gloss over those particular branches when it came to lessons about the great houses. Ladies and lords alike enjoyed to gossip about fierce young women who acted as men and preferred weapons to them as well. It seemed that, for once, the gossip had not proven inaccurate.
Despite their famed ferocity, however, it was clear that they were no match for their father.
Oberyn skirted past them with a speed she'd not seen in men half his age, dodging spear jabs and blocking blunted blades with his own. While the girls shouted and huffed, brows furrowed in both fury and concentration, Oberyn did not even appear winded, mouth wide in a gleeful smirk. He was enjoying himself.
"If you want to defeat me, work together!" he shouted, grabbing the spear of one of the girls. With ease, he yanked it from her grip and sent her tumbling into the thin layer of sand that covered the training yard. "You are sisters, not rivals! Why must you upstage one another?"
Another ran forward with a shout, her sword poised for the kill, but Oberyn sidestepped her easily, tripping up her unprotected feet with her sister's spear.
The last girl held back, twirling two smaller blades in her hands. Oberyn tested her guard, jabbing left and right and left again, keeping her on her toes. Unlike her sisters, the youngest did not give in, choosing to wait. When her father was a little too slow, she dived in, bringing a blade up to his neck before he could block her.
She smiled. "I win."
Oberyn waited a beat before head-butting the girl and knocking her into the dirt. He kneeled beside her, grabbing one of the blades she had dropped and bringing it to her neck.
From across the courtyard, Sansa noted an older Dornish woman was fidgeting, worry clearly etched on her features, even from so far away.
"You have not won until there is blood or I have said so," Oberyn stated flatly, letting up the blade. "You are overconfident, Tyene."
The flat of a sword came to rest on Oberyn's neck.
"Or perhaps you are, Father."
Oberyn chuckled, though there was no mirth in it. "So, this is what you call victory? Sacrificing your sister in order to defeat an opponent. That is a greater defeat than him having killed you, Obara."
The girl named Obara frowned while her sister Tyene stood. Behind their father, the third girl snickered.
Oberyn pointed the blade in her direction. "Do not think you are blameless in this, Nymeria. You are the fastest of your sisters, and yet you took your time to recover from my attack. You and your sister both could have blindsided me well before Tyene took the fall."
Nymeria's face fell. "Yes, Father."
Sighing, Oberyn looked to the rapidly rising sun. "That is enough for today. If we allow the sun to get the better of us, our heads will never cool."
"That is assuming they were ever that way to begin with."
The woman who had been spectating emerged from the shade of the palms, wrapping her arms around Oberyn. The way she was dressed was terribly provocative, even for Dorne's standards; the dress was dark, but cut terribly low, both in the front and back, but she did not seem to care about it.
Paramour.
Yes, that was the word Sansa had heard the servants whisper about. Ellaria Sand, Oberyn's long-time lover and mother to four of his daughters.
She watched Oberyn chuckle, whisper something, and then return her embrace, passionately kissing the woman as his daughters walked away.
Sansa turned her head, feeling like an intruder.
Myrcella, however, seemed enthralled. "They're like lovers of legend. Mother and Father were never like that. I don't think I've ever seen anyone like that."
She had.
Unwittingly, her mind touched on a far off keep, nestled in the cold winds and bleak landscapes of the North.
"My uncle is quite the fighter, isn't he?"
Turning, Sansa ducked her head politely as Trystane appeared behind them. Myrcella, meanwhile, was all smiles and giggles, already smitten with her betrothed.
"He is," she agreed quickly, nodding a little too enthusiastically. "Do you know how to fight like that?"
The boy shook his head. "One day, but Father says I must focus on my studies first. He told me 'a man who has no time for books will be at war all his life.'"
Sansa could not help but smile. "Your father is a wise man, Prince Trystane."
"He certainly is," he replied, with that forced tone that only came from a young child bristling under their father's rule. He sounded like Arya when she had no choice but to be polite, although he did a far better job.
Chatting animatedly, the young prince and princess took off arm in arm. Sansa made to follow, keeping just far enough back so that their words were unintelligible lest her eyes roll into her skull and remain there, when her path was blocked by three figures.
Covered in dust, sweat, and blood, the Sand Snakes were quite the sight to behold, and to smell. Robb and Jon after a hard practice might have been flowers next to them.
Sansa thought to be intimidated, but she was taller than all three girls, and it was hard to appear frightful when she had to look down upon them. Besides, she'd beaten the Hound over the head with a vase, and he was far more terrifying than they could ever hope to be.
"You are not welcome here," Obara started, her frown so deep Sansa thought it might always be that way.
They knew then. She wondered if secrets were just as hard to keep in Dorne as they were King's Landing, or if keeping secrets from particular people was more worrisome than not.
"So I've gathered," Sansa replied, not bothering with her cover. They clearly did not care for it, and posed a much bigger risk than she did.
Tyene stepped forward. "You should leave."
Sansa raised an eyebrow. "And if I don't?"
Nymeria gripped her sword. "Then we will make you."
There was a moment of silence as Sansa stared the girls down. They were all older than her, all capable of cutting her down in a moment's notice, and yet still she did not fear them. If anything, they annoyed her, and she wanted nothing more than to be done with them.
"No, I don't think you will," she said, standing straighter as a surge of confidence overtook her. "If you'd wanted to, you'd have done so already. I've certainly been here long enough. You wouldn't bother with words, that's not your way, and I can see why, you're absolutely terrible with them. No, you've been ordered by Prince Doran himself to leave me alone. You can't touch me, and you can't scare me away."
When Obara began to lower her spear, Sansa thought she might have made a mistake, but Oberyn appeared behind his daughter, placing a calming hand on her shoulder.
"Cooler heads," he whispered, though it sounded more a threat than anything the Sand Snakes had said. The girls lowered their heads in respect, moving away from Sansa, though not without icy glares thrown over their shoulders. Ellaria left with them as well, her gaze not nearly as harsh, merely studious, which unnerved her more.
"You should not rile them," Oberyn spoke, not unkindly. She could feel the heat emanating from his leather armor, even from a few feet away; she wondered if it would burn her skin. "Well, more so than they already are. They may have orders, but Dornish anger is a powerful force."
This only seemed to anger her further. "So I should just take their words? Keep playing the meek little handmaiden and hope they're merciful?"
Oberyn shrugged. "If you want to survive, then this is what must be done."
"I don't want to survive."
She had not wanted to speak the words aloud, but her mouth had rebelled against her.
Sansa watched as Oberyn's eyes widened, before melting into a different look altogether. He did not appear to be angry or even frustrated by her little outburst. If anything, he was starting to look at her with interest.
"Tell me why," he said, crossing his arms.
Frankly, she wasn't sure how. It wasn't even something she was aware of until that very moment, but there was something about being confronted by the people she had been entrusted to that made a piece of her snap.
And yet something about him compelled her to speak.
"Animals survive," she said slowly, eyes locked on his dark gaze. "They move around here and there, unaware of anything except making it to the next day, and that is all I've done since the Lannisters killed my father."
Whether it was the back alleys of King's Landing or the beautiful gardens of Dorne, she was still hiding, a pathetic little creature dependent on everyone around her. She was tired of being at their mercy; she wanted what they had.
"I don't want to survive; I want to live, and I want them to know it."
She wanted them to pay for it.
Oberyn stared at her for far longer than she was comfortable with, but she did not look away. Something told her this was a test, and it was not one that she wanted to fail.
"I know this path you speak of," he murmured after a time, his dark eyes somehow blacker. "Vengeance is not so easy a thing to turn from. You should reconsider it."
Vengeance. Why did such a cruel word suddenly sound so sweet?
"What if I don't want to?"
Oberyn smirked, his mirth returning. He dusted off his hands and picked his spear back up, ready to depart the area.
"It is early yet, Sansa Stark. Escape the sun, let the shade cool your head, and the night ease your mind. I've seen you wandering these halls. Something tells me you'll know where to find me if your thoughts do not stray."
And find him, she did.
Myra
Her hand reached out to grab Jaime as he fell, fingers clumsily grasping at his cloak, but he was a large man, and she was not strong enough to keep him upright. Stunned from the impact of the arrow, he lamely fell off his horse and into the creek.
For a moment, she couldn't move. All she could do was stare at her hand as she held it out to the empty space he once occupied.
Then another arrow struck her horse in the flank. Panicked and in pain, the creature reared, tossing Myra into the water with a shout.
Pain blossomed in her back as she struck the ground, but she frantically rolled over to protect her head from getting kicked as the horses fled the area, their screams echoing. It fell disturbingly silent when they finally disappeared.
Gasping, she looked in the direction that Jaime had fallen. He had recovered his senses, and was attempting to roll onto his hands and knees, the shaft of the arrow waving wildly in the air, broken in half from the fall.
"Jaime!" she cried, ignoring the pain as she ran to his side. Nearly crashing into him, Myra tried to put his good arm over her shoulder, as if she were strong enough to actually help. Jaime gritted his teeth in pain, but his right hand clutched hers tightly as he leaned into her and got to his feet.
"Stay low," his hoarse voice ordered.
They ran to the other side of the creek, stooped over as another arrow struck the water beside them. When they'd reached a large tree, he pulled them behind it, shouting in pain as his back impacted with the trunk and jostled the arrow more. He grabbed her shoulders and threw her against the tree, pinning her between it and him as his eyes frantically searched the tree line.
Myra found her hand pressed against his wound, her skin turning red from the blood, his blood. She pathetically pushed harder on it, attempting to stop to the bleeding, to do something other than watch and wait in fear.
"This is why I hate archers," Jaime hissed, grabbing her hand. "Listen closely, we need to find better cover. Go from tree to tree separately, it makes for smaller targets..."
He continued to speak, but Myra did not hear the words that fell from his mouth. Her focus was solely on what she saw over his shoulder.
"Jaime," she breathed, not knowing if it was fear or despair that clutched her heart now.
Five men had emerged from trees, standing behind him some twenty feet. They wore leather armor, and were armed with long swords, axes, and cruel smiles. Further away, she could make out a few more figures, bowmen perhaps, like the one on the other side of the creek. The way they looked, the way they stood, all ease and confidence, suggested this was not some accidental meeting.
They'd been hunted.
Unsheathing his sword, Jaime turned side face and held it toward them, but the Lion of Lannister was not so intimidating with an arrow in his back and his left arm hanging limply by his side.
A few of the men chuckled.
"What do you want?" Jaime demanded, readjusting his grip.
One of them stepped forward, a burly man with a large, black beard and beady, little eyes. His sword was still in its scabbard, hands resting on his weapons belt, completely at ease, as if he were only out to enjoy the summer day.
He shrugged. "Nothing."
A moment passed, but it stretched on forever. Myra knew what she was facing, defilement and death, and there was nothing they could do about it. She and Jaime had had their fair share of luck, but this was different.
This was the end.
How she wished they'd never left that cabin.
The man moved his hand to the dagger on his belt, and Jaime lunged, swinging in a wide arc that would have caught him in the chest had he not moved. But the man was fast, and the tip of Jaime's blade didn't even cut through the leather.
When Jaime attempted to swing again, another arrow launched from the trees, lodging in his right thigh and sending him to the ground in agony.
"No!" Myra screamed, the words ripping their way out of her throat. She pushed off the trunk and ran to him, but what could she do? Defend him? Save him? Myra was incapable of any of these things.
But she wasn't going to leave him alone.
However, as she reached his side, just barely able to feel the wet fabric of his cloak, a large hand grasped her hair and pulled her backwards. Myra screamed and kicked, both attempting to flee and to keep her hair from being ripped from her scalp. Her hands grasped for the braid, only to be grabbed by the man as he pulled her up to her feet, wrapping a large arm around her waist and holding her there like some sort of child.
Green eyes met hers, and suddenly she was in the cave again, afraid, powerless, at the mercy of men who did naught but cause wanton destruction wherever they went.
How dare they.
Jaime shouted, gritting his teeth and standing again. He held his sword up in challenge to the men who faced him.
"Any man can kill another from a distance," he hissed, venom in every syllable. "Which of you has the balls to actually face me?"
The bearded man stepped forward, unsheathing his sword. Jaime held his ground this time, his right leg extended behind him so as to not put so much weight on it, but Myra could see how it shook, ready to give in to the slightest pressure.
So, of course, that was where the man went first.
Jaime parried his first strike, but had no way to counter the leg that swept under him. He took a boot to his thigh, collapsing immediately from the pain alone.
Flipping onto his back, Jaime was just able to block the blade that came down, but without the use of his left arm, it was difficult for him to hold the man off. The bearded man only smiled, because he was barely trying, and enjoying the effort that his opponent had to put into it.
Jaime kicked up with his good leg, landing a solid hit on the man's groin. He shouted in pain, but did not step away, instead knocking the sword from Jaime's grasp and punching him in the jaw.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
The men around them only laughed.
"Stop it!" Myra shouted, flailing in the arms of her captor, but to no avail. "Don't you know who he is?"
He stopped, if only to humor her. The bearded man stepped away from Jaime briefly, affording her an image of the Lannister's bloodied face. He was still conscious, hand feebly searching for the sword knocked out of his reach.
How dare they.
"This is Jaime Lannister!" she continued. "Son of Tywin Lannister. Spare his life, bring him to his father, and he will pay you your weight in gold."
The man chuckled, walking around Jaime. He kicked the sword further away before resting his boot lightly on Jaime's neck.
"Wonder what his head'll bring us?" the man pondered, before looking up at her. "We know who he is. Why do you think we're here?"
He pressed down.
Myra heard the scream, like an animal's, but did not realize it came from her. She managed to reach behind her back, where she had stored the dagger Jaime gave her, and pulled it out, stabbing downward with all the force she could muster.
Blade met flesh, the muscle of the man's leg giving in far easier than the chest of the one who came before. She pulled it back out, thinking to use it again when his grasp on her disappeared. Myra made it two steps forward before he grabbed her by the shoulder, turned her around, and backhanded her across the face.
She crumpled to the ground, body limp. The world grew quiet, shouts muffled as blurred figures ran to one another. Her hand softly gripped the earth beneath her, the blood of her attacker rubbing off her skin on to the dried leaves of the forest floor; her mouth tasted of the stuff, and she could feel it trailing down her forehead, getting into her eyes and hair.
Vaguely, Myra was aware of a pressure beneath her stomach. She'd landed on her knife, protecting it from being taken from her.
Jaime was looking at her, his green eyes bright against the blood that covered his face. She wanted to reach out or say something, but her mouth could not form the words.
A hand gripped the collar of her cloak and tunic, slowly lifting her. Her hand grasped at the dagger, ready. If this was the moment she died, at least she could say that she did not go quietly, whatever comfort there was in that.
Was this the foolish courage her father spoke of so often to her brother?
There was another shout, and suddenly she dropped back to the ground.
Myra rolled over and found Jaime on top of the man who'd grabbed her, a blonde one with the barest hint of a beard. He'd somehow found the strength, and was using the rest of it to beat the life out of her would-be attacker. Fives hits were managed before his companions responded, kicking Jaime back onto the ground.
How dare they.
Jaime managed to get to his knees with a groan. The bearded man returned and picked him up by the cloak.
Strength suddenly returning, Myra leapt up, slashing the man's arm with her dagger. He yelped, letting go, and Jaime dropped into her arms. She fell to her knees, left arm wrapping around him as she held out the dagger toward their attackers with her right. He felt so light to her then, as if she could pick him up in that moment and run away from this dreadful place, but that would not happen here. They were only delaying the inevitable.
The men looked down at them, their twisted sense of humor vanished, replaced by anger and annoyance. Myra readjusted her grip on the dagger, waiting.
A scream pierced the forest.
It came from the other side of the creek. Several sets of eyes turned that way, watching, but no movement came from the trees, and the sound had cut off almost as suddenly as it started.
The bearded man stepped toward the creek, sword at the ready. "Tanner!"
No one answered.
"I thought they were alone," he said, looking back at the others.
"They are," answered another.
Someone screamed from behind.
One of the archers had disappeared. The others were quickly fleeing toward the group, shouting.
Momentarily forgotten, Myra watched as their attackers stepped away from them, unsheathing weapons and readying arrows. This was a chance they should not have gotten, but she wasn't sure Jaime could even stand anymore.
As if reading her thoughts, Jaime reached up and grabbed her wrist, pulling the dagger down.
"Run."
Myra only tightened her grip around his chest, feeling the blood seep into her clothing.
"I'm not going anywhere, Jaime," she whispered, resting her head against his. "I'm not leaving you."
She watched the men form a loose circle, facing both the creek and the direction the archer had disappeared. Swords and axes were raised, arrows nocked and drawn, and the forest fell silent, save for their heavy breathing.
Something growled.
A streak of gray charged from the trees, crashing into the group. The man closest to was taken, his neck enveloped by powerful jaws. In one leap, the creature had cleared the group and twisted around to face them, biting down on its victim with a sickening crunch that ended his screaming. Only then did it drop his body.
The creature was larger, far larger, than she remembered, but she knew that coloring, that fierceness that had so accurately reflected the young woman who'd owned her.
"Nymeria?" Myra breathed, her eyes wide. The direwolf did not react to her. Hackles raised and bloody teeth bared, she wasn't about to let any of the men before her out of her sight.
From where the second archer had disappeared, another form emerged from the forest. Smaller, though no less enormous, and lighter in color, Lady looked less intimidating than her sister, but deadly nonetheless. She ran into the group swiftly, grabbing an archer's bow and breaking it between her jaws before darting back out of reach.
That was what broke them. Gripped by fear, the men scattered and fled, shoving one another out of the way, hoping their companion would die before them.
Myra watched them flee, wondering why Lady and Nymeria did not pursue. The former clearly wished to, pawing the ground where she stood, but something was holding her back.
Then the third direwolf emerged from the creek bed, turning toward her.
"Brenna," Myra whispered in awe.
Larger than both her sisters, Brenna was clearly the one in charge. Her gray hair was darker than Lady and Nymeria's, but in the light, Myra could still make out the silver that had fascinated her when the creature was still a pup.
She did not growl and her ears were perked up in what appeared to be curiosity, but her mouth was red. The blood of the first victim.
Brenna approached slowly, until she was just within reach.
"What...is that?" she heard Jaime ask, his hand reaching to clutch the arm that held him tightly against her.
Dropping her dagger, Myra stretched out until her hand brushed against the direwolf's coat. It was no longer the soft fur of a pup, but coarse, rough stuff, meant for the wild, meant for fighting. Her fingers grasped the fur, feeling a calm wash over her.
"A friend," she replied.
The bright blue eyes of her direwolf had not changed. They were watching her, full of an intelligence she did not think possible. She stared deep into those pools, feeling something eerily familiar in them, a link, an understanding...
A dream.
And then she knew what they were waiting on.
Myra looked down to the man in her arms. Jaime had lost focus as he began to drift toward unconsciousness. Words formed on his lips, but made no sound. Blood oozed from his chest, from his leg, from various cuts on his face, while his skin had grown pale.
She gripped him even tighter, hand fisting his shirt as if the world meant to physically pull him away.
They had tried to take him from her.
How dare they.
Myra met Brenna's eyes once more, focused and more certain than ever.
"Kill them all."
The forest filled with the screams of dying men.
Fanvid made for me courtesy of Walfllower