Myra
Winterfell had been quiet for hours, but admittedly, Myra was just settling in to sleep. A new candle and a good book had proven difficult to escape from that evening, until it occurred to her that she had read the same sentence several times, neither comprehending the words nor the fact that she had indeed reread them. She'd curled up in bed after, the leather-bound script on the pillow beside her, and was just falling into oblivion when her ears caught the slightest creaking sound.
There had been a time when she would have jumped at such noises, but the various visits of younger siblings over the years had dulled the fear that came from strange bumps in the night. Instead, she shifted and let out a contented sigh, waiting for the inevitable dip in the bed.
It was only when nothing happened that she began to worry.
Now, Myra loved her half-brother, but the sight of Jon's brooding face staring down at her while lit by a solitary candle might have been the most terrifying thing she'd encountered in years.
When she opened her mouth to protest his, frankly, vile way of waking her, Jon slid forward and covered it with his hand, muffling her words and doing dreadful things to her attitude.
"Myra," he whispered, not bothered in the least by the profane language his large hand was blocking. "We need your help."
She calmed enough for him to remove his hand.
"We?"
Jon stepped aside, revealing Robb sitting at her writing desk. Though a small, completely guilty smile adorned his features, it was strained, and for good reason. His right hand was clutching his left arm, blood spilling out between his fingers.
"Others take you, Brother," Myra hissed, clambering out of bed and to her twin's side. "What did you do?"
"Just a little late night practice is all," Robb replied, attempting to sound jovial and failing miserably.
"Without supervision or blunted blades?"
Jon crossed the room, glancing down the hall before closing the door. "Didn't think we needed any."
"Clearly," she murmured, swatting Robb's hand away from his arm. Her fingers pulled delicately at the blood-soaked cloth that clung to his skin, revealing a cut that, while clean, went terribly deep. Though the sight of such things had never overly troubled her, she still felt herself blanche, a frown gracing her features.
"We need to take this to Maester Luwin."
Robb shook his head, taking his arm back. "We can't."
"What do you mean 'you can't'?" Myra asked, looking at her brother as if he had grown another head. Funny, it looked a lot like Jon. "This isn't something you can bind up and forget about, Brother. There is real damage here, the kind that can kill a man if he's stupid enough to not get it treated properly, which apparently you are."
"But Maester Luwin has been teaching you," Jon interjected, though he sounded thoroughly unsure of himself.
"Odds and ends, things a proper lady ought to know, not this," Myra replied, voice raised, as she gestured to Robb's limp arm. Her brothers jumped slightly at the sound. "I hem dresses, not flesh, Jon."
Robb leaned in, his voice low. "If Maester Luwin treats me, he's obligated to tell Father and Mother."
Myra met her brother's blue eyes and knew. Of course they came to her. They were desperate. If their mother found out that Jon had done that sort of damage to Robb, to Ned Stark's trueborn son, there would be a grave price to pay. It was hard enough trying to convince Jon not to take off in the dead of night and run to the Wall. If this got out, Lady Stark would all but drive him to it.
So, it was up to her to fix their mistakes.
Again.
Some days she wished she'd been an only child.
"By the old gods and the new, Robb, if you let this get infected, I'm letting your arm fall off." Myra held her hand against the wound, motioning the other at Jon. "Grab me something from my dresser. Anything."
Her poor brother made no such movement, having gone suddenly still. She couldn't recall him having ever looked so uncomfortable, to include the half dozen times she had seen her mother berating him over the years for minor infractions. Those he had taken in stride, but the idea of rifling through her garments? Perish the thought.
"For gods' sake, Jon, don't look if you don't want to," Myra said, sighing in frustration. "Close your eyes and toss the damned thing at me."
Jon scowled, but complied, tossing the first thing his hand grabbed at her. Though he kept his eyes fully open, his gaze had landed on everything but the garment.
Taking a moment, because a woman rudely woken felt no pity, Myra shook the cloth in his direction. "It's one of your old shirts, you ninny."
Robb's chuckle at their brother's discomfort quickly turned into a hiss as Myra poked at the wound again.
"Take your shirt off," she commanded, standing. While her twin struggled out of his tunic, Myra picked through her sewing things. Calm she may have appeared, but her hands fumbled with the jumble of thread and needles in her basket. Which would work best, she wondered? Which would break? Which would fray? Which would be the easiest to cut out?
There were so many questions, and she did not have the answers.
A hand covered hers, squeezing gently.
"You don't have to do this," Jon whispered.
Myra shook her head. "Of course I do."
Making her decision, she went back to Robb. She grabbed the shirt Jon had given her and soaked it in her water basin.
"Put your arm on my desk."
Robb did as he was told, gingerly holding the limb out. Myra began to wash the wound with the cloth, cleaning off bits of blood that had already dried, but the cut still bled quickly. This would not be clean.
"If you have something to drink, Brother, now would be a good time to take advantage of it."
While Robb drank rapidly from a skin Jon had seemingly produced from nowhere, Myra thread her needle and placed the tip over the candle.
"Get him a belt too," she whispered, watching the flames curl around the tiny bit of metal. "No point in sneaking around if Robb's just going to wake Mother and Father."
Her twin opened his mouth, offended, but Jon produced his weapons belt, shaking his head.
"Best not to question her now, Brother."
Eyes rolling, Robb sighed and bit down on the leather, lips twisting in slight revulsion at the taste.
Served him right.
Myra removed the needle, and positioned herself over Robb's arm, moving the candle around for the best light. She paused then, tip hovering just above her brother's skin, watching as blood seeped out of his wound. Her hand was trembling, as was her breath.
She closed her eyes.
I can do this. I can do this. I-
I can't do this.
"C'mon, Jaime!" Myra cried, attempting to drag the man to his feet. Whatever cold confidence she had felt just moments earlier had fled, leaving her alone with her fear and a dying man.
No, not dying, just...
Just not dying.
She didn't know where they would go, but any place had to be better than right here. Surely those men had a camp or something, a place where they'd tied their horses, anything. There had to be somewhere safe, someone who could help, something.
But she knew deep inside that if there were anyone, they would not help.
They were alone.
Jaime groaned, managing to find both the consciousness and strength to make the stand. Myra stuck to his right side, being the support his injured leg could not be. She thought her body would have buckled under the weight of his, but no such thing happened; she would hold him all day and night if she had to.
Myra glanced around the forest frantically. Which way should they go?
A whine caught her attention.
Lady ran in front of them, her fur newly matted with blood. She gave a small bark, as if trying to say something, and ran further into the forest, stopping after a few yards and turning back with an expectant look.
Myra readjusted her grip on Jaime's arm. Forward it was.
After a few, painstakingly slow steps, Brenna appeared at Jaime's side, sliding her head under his arm. The direwolf pushed against him, holding his body up a little more as they trudged forward.
"There's...a wolf...under my arm," Jaime mumbled between ragged breaths, so quiet she almost did not catch it.
Some part of her wanted to laugh. Another wanted to cry.
"Try not to think about it," Myra replied, managing to keep her voice steady.
The camp could not have been more than twenty yards away, nestled in a particularly thick growth of trees, but they might as well have been traveling to the Wall for how long it took them. Every step, every stumble, was a struggle that left Myra breathless and covered in a thick layer of sweat.
It was a scant affair. A few bedrolls, a pack or two, and the smoldering remains of a fire. One man had been left behind to guard it. Nymeria was tearing into his lifeless body with a ferocity that suggested eagerness. Brenna gave a low growl and her sister backed away into the trees, dragging the body with her.
Jaime collapsed at the first bedroll, dragging Myra down with him. Bumping her head against him, sense took a moment to reassert itself before she leapt up, attempting to remove her cloak. Her fingers shook, and it took her longer than she wished.
"Brenna, get him up," she ordered, tossing the cloak away. The direwolf did as she asked without hesitation, burying her muzzle under the small of Jaime's back and lifting him up. Crawling forward, Brenna laid down behind him, her body so large that he was almost completely upright. Lady simply watched, head tilting in curiosity.
Myra removed Jaime's cloak, gently sliding it off the still exposed arrow in his back and tossing it away. Then she grabbed her dagger, bringing it up to his tunic. Ignoring how badly her hands were shaking, she began to cut at the fabric, starting at his neckline and moving toward the shoulder. Though she was not harming him, every stitch torn made her want to jump out of her skin.
"Are you stripping me?" Jaime asked. The man even had the gall to give her the most lopsided grin she'd ever seen.
Gods, how reassuring it was.
"Does nothing kill that damned humor of yours?"
Kill. He's going to be killed.
No, he's not.
"Not really," he murmured as she continued to cut away at his tunic. Rather than risk moving the arm, she chose to rip it completely to the end of the sleeve, gently peeling the fabric off his bloodied skin.
The bleeding had slowed, thank the gods, but that would not be the case once she pulled the arrow out. Fortunately, it had not broken off completely when he fell, and the fighting hadn't pushed the barbed head back into the wound.
It was the leg she had to worry about.
It was the leg she didn't want to think about.
"I need something for this," she spoke, leaving Jaime's side to look through the camp. She wasn't running away, she told herself. She just...needed something.
I can't do this.
Myra dashed around the camp, grabbing packs and overturning them. Lady even brought a few to her, dropping them at her feet as she searched through others. There wasn't much to them: bits of food, whetstones, tinder. In one bag, she found a fishing hook and some line, which quickly brought her to the terrible conclusion that she would more than likely need it in the near future. In another were a shirt and small flask, the latter filled with something dark and strong.
She took a swig from it.
It was the sort of foul stuff only Theon could have loved.
So, she took another.
Myra grabbed the shirt and returned to Jaime's side. He was staring off into the distance, still conscious, though she suspected she had Brenna to thank for that. The side of his face closest to the direwolf's head looked strangely clean.
"Fucking beast won't let me sleep," Jaime mumbled, eyes slipping shut briefly. Brenna responded in kind, licking him again.
"As if you deserve sleep after what you've put me through," Myra replied, attempting to smile and failing. She gently grabbed Jaime behind the neck and pulled him closer, easing her right leg behind him so she could have a good view of either side of the arrow.
"What I've put you through?"
At least offending the man kept him awake.
Myra grabbed her dagger again, cleaning off the broken end of the arrow. Debris in the wound could prove just as deadly as the injury itself.
Looping the shirt under his arm, Myra braced herself with a hand on either side of Jaime. Each held the fabric, one hovering over his back, ready to cover the wound, while the other gently gripped the arrowhead.
She took a breath.
And another.
I have to do this.
"Jaime, I'm going to pull the arrow out. On the count of three." She felt him tense. "One...two..."
Myra ripped the arrow out, tossing it quickly aside. Jaime shouted, but she ignored the sounds and his movement, and how it made her heart drop, wrapping the shirt around his shoulder and tying it off on the front, hard.
When Myra backed away, Jaime fell against Brenna, but the direwolf did not appear to mind, looking on with inquisitive eyes.
"You forgot three," Jaime murmured, eyes shut in pain.
Myra didn't reply. She was too busy looking at her hands. They were warm and sticky, coated in red.
His blood.
His blood.
I don't want to do this.
Lady knocked Myra from her thoughts, rubbing against her with a whine.
Myra looked down to Jaime's right leg. The arrow there, too, had been broken off, which didn't bode well for them. Unlike the first, this arrow did not go completely through. The head was buried in his leg, possibly deep, perhaps even in bone. This was something beyond her. Gods, the first arrow had been something she shouldn't have done. How could she possibly hope to save him?
I can't.
"Take it out."
Jaime was looking at her, his eyes clear and ill-timed humor gone.
"That arrow might be the only thing keeping you from bleeding to death."
"I don't care."
"Well, I do, Jaime Lannister," Myra snapped. "Don't make me..."
Don't make me kill you.
"Myra," he said, voice not unkind. "Take it out."
She took a deep breath.
Then another.
Standing, Myra moved to the other side. She could feel Brenna's eyes on her as she began to cut away at his pant leg. The arrow was closer to his knee than not, finding itself in the less fleshy part of his leg. It did not appear to be in very deep, but looks were deceiving, and she had no idea how much of the arrow had broken off in battle.
The mess that greeted her when she cut away the last of the fabric made her stomach drop; the fight and subsequent movement had jostled the arrow, enlarging the hole in his leg. Myra thought she could almost see the beginnings of the arrowhead, but even now, pulling it out did not seem to be a good idea. Arrows weren't designed to come out as easily as they went in to targets, especially if one wanted the subject to live.
When she looked up, he was still watching her.
Jaime Lannister didn't ask for things, not like this. He'd done so much for her, given up more than he should have. She owed him.
I need to do this.
"I...I can't sew this shut...there's..."
She didn't know how to say it.
Jaime fumbled around, producing his own dagger.
He knew.
Nodding once, Myra grabbed the blade, moving over to the fire. She picked at the still smoking bits, hoping to rekindle the flame. A few dried leaves and curse words later, and she had a small fire started. She put the blade in the flames and returned to his side.
"Brenna, keep him down."
Easing out from under Jaime, her direwolf gently rested her head on his chest, waiting.
Lady was whining again.
From the trees, she could swear Nymeria was watching.
Myra took a breath.
And then she plunged her fingers into the wound.
The scream that came from his mouth was inhuman.
Even with her size, Brenna seemed to struggle to hold Jaime down.
Myra tried to ignore it all, pushing her fingers through the blood and muscle of Jaime's leg. She could feel the wound pulse with his heartbeat. It made her sick, made her want to close her eyes and flee, but still she pressed forward, fingers gently reaching for the arrow; it wasn't much further than an inch inside, far away from the bone, thank the gods, but that did not make it much easier. It caught on every piece of flesh it could; it felt like hours of catching and her fingers slipping until she finally extracted the damned thing.
Jaime had gone silent ages ago, passed out from the pain.
Myra stared at the blood soaked arrow for a moment, before returning to the fire. She quickly grabbed Jaime's dagger, feeling the heat roll off the steel; she didn't have time to think about what she was doing because he was bleeding out rapidly into the dirt. So, she lined it up with the wound and pressed.
Had Jaime not already been unconscious, he would have been now.
The smell of burning flesh was not something she knew, and gods how she wished that were still true. She couldn't help but gag at the smell and the sound, her eyes watering. It was then that she realized she'd been crying this whole time.
Myra did not hold it in place long. When the bleeding stopped, she tossed the dagger away as if it had burned her as well.
She waited a moment for the wound to cool down, and then gently wrapped her cloak around it.
I did it.
Brenna stepped aside, allowing Myra a proper look at Jaime. He was still pale, but didn't seem any worse. Gods knew that might not be the same in the days to come. But if he made it through the night, he might be all right.
That was what Maester Luwin always said, wasn't it?
Myra reached out to touch him, but her hand was still red. The blood that clung to it was thicker now, covered in bits of other things. It began to shake harder, so she grabbed it with her other hand, but now they both shook. Then her shoulders went, her legs, her entire body.
Gods, what had she done?
She grabbed at Jaime's cloak, desperately attempting to wipe the red off her hands, but no matter how hard she tried or how much her hands burned, it was to no avail. The red was still there.
She tossed the cloak aside with a shout, pounding her hands feebly on the earth over and over until her strength failed her.
Drawing her knees in, Myra rested her elbows on them, her hands hovering just over her head as she began to rock back and forth.
"Fuck!"
Sansa
The sun had yet to rise when she met Oberyn that morning.
She felt like a child again, sneaking out of her room to steal lemon cakes from the kitchens before anyone was the wiser. Or at least she had tried. Once. But at the last moment, she'd stopped, convinced that it wasn't for a proper lady to do.
Arya had stopped by later and given her some cakes she had stolen herself. And later that week, when she inevitably made her angry, Sansa told their mother of what she had done.
What a vile child she was.
With only the barest light on the horizon and torches lighting her path, the Water Gardens went from striking shades of orange to blue and back again. Her eyes strained against the shadows, looking to find the man who was offering her the chance to actually do something.
She picked up her skirts and shuffled to the edge of the training yard, where Ellaria had watched Oberyn fight his daughters. The way that the buildings around were structured allowed for a breeze to pass through almost constantly. In the cool, early morning air, Sansa nearly caught a chill. What a strange thing it was.
Oberyn emerged from behind one of the palm trees some time later, dressed in his yellow robes, but wearing riding boots and twirling his spear. He ignored her for a moment, taking his time to examine the environment, the rocks beneath his feet, the make of his weapon. Sansa did not say anything. It felt wrong to.
Then he casually pointed the spear at her.
"Is that what you plan on wearing when you avenge your family?"
Sansa blinked. "What?"
Oberyn strode forward, picking at the bottom of her dress with the spear. "I hope you do not plan on running. Loose silk trips and catches on everything. And it is too clean, too obvious, any guard who has half a mind will remember it and then you will be discovered. You cannot hide anything on your person; you cannot defend yourself when a stray hand catches the fabric and pulls you back. You have come poorly prepared, Sansa Stark."
He was leaning over, voice a hiss, bearing down on her with a look that reminded Sansa a little too much of Maester Luwin during his rare outbursts.
"You didn't tell me what to wear," she replied, soundly meeting his gaze.
"Should I have to?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. He began to circle her, a bird of prey sizing up its target. "I am not here to guide you through life; I am not your septa."
"My septa was murdered."
"And what did you do?"
Septa Mordane had told her to run, and she had not. She watched the sword get driven through her, felt her blood on her hands, and still she did not move. The man from the City's Watch came for her, and all she could do was beg.
Sansa's gaze slipped. "Nothing."
"Precisely," Oberyn said, stopping beside her. "You relied on my daughter to save you; you relied on her to get you out of King's Landing, you relied on that dog the Lannisters use to keep quiet about you, and now you are relying on my family to do the same. Everything that you have accomplished has been made possible through the grace of others. No more."
He held his arm out, handing her the spear. Sansa watched it for a moment, taking in the lines in the wood, the elegant curve of the head, and the bits of leather tied about it, left loose as decorative tassels. It was beautiful, in a simple sort of way.
"If you are not prepared, you will fail."
Sansa glanced up at Oberyn, taking in his serious gaze.
She reached for the spear.
Suddenly, Oberyn began to chuckle, pulling the weapon away from her. He stepped back a few paces, spinning the spear around him once again as his voice echoed through the open space.
All sense of seriousness and decorum aside, Sansa huffed. "What are you doing?"
"My apologies," Oberyn replied, bowing mockingly as he had for Myrcella. "My brother only allows me to be armed on the training grounds, so I take advantage when I can, but please, do not let my mood deceive you. I meant everything I said. However, I am not about to teach you how to wield a spear, or any such weapon. Although, I appreciate your willingness to do so."
"And why not teach me?" Sansa asked, incredulous. It certainly couldn't be because he thought a woman was incapable. His daughters were more than proof enough for that.
Oberyn paused, and then shoved the spearhead into the ground.
"Take it now."
Sansa waited a moment, eyes flitting between him and the spear. She stepped forward then, gripping the shaft with both hands and tugging.
It didn't budge.
She tried again.
Nothing.
"There is strength," Oberyn started, moving her aside. He used his boot to push down on the spear, angling it until Sansa could pry it loose. "And then there is the experience to know how to use that strength, to both advantage and disadvantage. Weaponry requires both, and you do not have the luxury of time."
Sansa looked to the spear in her hands, noting how foreign it felt in her grasp.
She remembered watching Robb and Jon spar back in Winterfell over the years. Today, they would be considered brilliant swordsman by any standard, but they had not always been that way. Once they had been awkward young boys swinging at one another clumsily with little wooden swords. It had taken years to get to where they were, and still they trained.
Why she thought she could amount to something like that proved how little she still knew.
Properly disheartened, Sansa handed the spear back to its owner.
"A woman such as yourself must learn to use what you already know," Oberyn continued, tossing the spear aside. "If you walk into the Red Keep with a sword on your hip, you will be soundly defeated."
"Then what am I to learn?"
"Cunning will be your shield, Sansa Stark. And your weapon?" Oberyn produced a small vial from a pocket hidden on his person. "Poison."
Sansa took what was offered, turning the vial over in her hands. A clear liquid sloshed inside.
"Tears of Lys. I've used it once or twice. It is effective, but there are far less costly ways to kill a man."
Kill a man.
Could she do that?
It was both an intriguing and disturbing thought.
Oberyn noted her silence. "There is still time to change your mind."
Sansa hummed, looking up. "Why teach me at all? You said it yourself: I'm not welcome here."
"Do not take my kindness as an invitation to all of Dorne," Oberyn replied, dark eyes serious, but not unkind. "Should the need arise, I will personally throw you from our borders. I believe the words of your mother's house explain that well enough."
Family. Duty. Honor.
Yes, she supposed they did.
"That said, I am not ignorant to your suffering. Far too many of us have lost loved ones to the deceit of King's Landing."
A distant look crossed Oberyn's face, dark and seeded with anger. Of course he would know of her suffering. His sister had been married to Rhaegar Targaryen, and murdered by the Mountain with her children.
How could she forget that?
Oberyn looked back down at her. The fury in his eyes should have terrified her, but instead, Sansa found a sort of comfort in it.
"It is up to those of us who remain to show the Lannisters that not all their debts are paid."
Arya
Gregor Clegane, Ilyn Payne, Meryn Trant, Joffrey, Cersei, the Hound.
Gregor Clegane, Ilyn Payne, Meryn Trant, Joffrey, Cersei, the Hound.
Gregor Clegane, Ilyn Payne, Meryn Trant, Joffrey, Cersei, the Hound.
If she said the names, she'd never forget them; if she said the names, she would kill them.
One day.
"Is it midnight yet?" she heard Hot Pie whisper from somewhere behind her.
Arya's eyes came back into focus, staring down a darkened Harrenhal. They'd met at the forge, gathering what weapons they could handle and hiding in the deep corners hidden by its beams. Guards had passed every half hour, but now their patrols had dwindled, their steps slowed. With Tywin Lannister gone, things had returned to the complacency of before.
She probably could have left on her own, the way things were now.
But she wasn't stupid.
Gendry sighed. "Not yet."
"But...how can you tell?"
Arya ignored them, focusing on the man on the other side of the courtyard. As part of the deal for Jaqen's life, she had insisted they all leave, all four of them.
At some point, Jory had been forced to do hard labor. He'd obeyed well enough, citing once that it would be easier to keep an eye on her if he wasn't dead on one of the rare occasions she spoke with him, but her father's captain of the guard wasn't so obedient now. He snapped at guards, wore on their nerves, mocked them openly if he could. Arya had never seen him like that before. It made him more unrecognizable than the beard or missing eye.
That was how he wound up right back where he started, tied down and beaten when it was convenient.
At least they'd let him keep his boots.
"Did you bring the extra cloak?" Arya asked, interrupting the same argument about time between the boys.
"I did," Gendry replied.
"Good."
Then she took off, crossing the distance at a quick pace. Unlike before, she did not hide. There were no eyes here. Jaqen said he would get the job done, and she believed him. He did things that no man could. Everything would be fine.
Hopefully.
Jory stirred at the sound of her approach, looking up at her with a wide eye. The guards had at least granted him the courtesy of tying some cloth around his left one, sparing everyone from the sight.
"My lady, what are you doing here?" he asked, voice a whisper. He had avoided using her title before, but surprise usually made him retreat to what he knew.
"We're leaving," Arya replied, walking around the post. His hands had been cuffed to a chain that hung in the back.
"That sounds like a fine idea. Tell me, how do you propose we do so?"
Arya smiled, seeing the key to his chains neatly placed in the slot.
"Like this," she said, turning it.
Hands slipped from the cuffs, Jory turned around and stared at her as if she had turned into something else entirely. Perhaps she had.
"How did you..."
"A man is helping us."
"Man? What man?"
"You'll see."
The boys ran over as Jory stood, lamely offering the man a cloak and sword. Jory appraised them, his eyebrow rising slightly.
"These are my friends, Hot Pie and Gendry. They're coming with us."
Jory's eye took a strange look at the latter's name.
"Gendry...from King's Landing?"
Her friend stood straight, defiant. "What of it?"
Her father's captain looked down at her. "You keep strange company, my lady."
The four made their way through Harrenhal, snaking through its uneven paths, blocked by bits of burnt rubble or broken carts. Though the rain had finally relented, the mud had not, claiming victims of a good amount of equipment and clothing. The men seemed less motivated every day to do anything about it.
When they came to the final stretch, they ducked behind a low wall, watching the guards that stood by the gate.
"I thought there weren't supposed to be any guards?" Gendry asked, incredulous.
"There aren't," Arya replied.
"Then why are they there?"
"I don't know," she hissed, meeting her friend's round, blue eyes. "But Jaqen said we were to walk through the gate at midnight, and that's what I'm doing."
Jory put a hand on her shoulder. "My lady, those guards will sound the alarm before you even make it to the gate. We'd all be dead within the hour, if we're lucky."
Arya shrugged off his hand. They were wrong; they had to be. It didn't make sense otherwise. Jaqen H'ghar had not backed down on his word yet, and he'd already provided the key to free Jory. Why would he do that if he was just going to let them die anyway?
Taking a breath, Arya slipped out of Jory's reach, jogging out into the opening. She ignored the muffled cries behind her, determined to leave this dreadful place once and for all.
However, footsteps caught up with her quickly.
Jory wrapped his arm around her shoulders, swinging her behind him. She beat his arm with her hands, but his grip was unrelenting as he put himself between her and the men at the gates. His other hand held out the sword they'd given him, challenging.
But nothing happened.
Jory's heavy breathing filled the silence for the better part of a minute before Arya felt his grip loosen. Wrenching herself free, she stepped out of the cover he'd provided, looking between him and the men he'd hoped to fight.
"They're dead," he spoke, awed. "They're all dead."
Dawn was slow to come that morning. A thick fog had fallen overnight, wrapping the countryside in a ghostly mist that clung low to the ground and soared high above the trees. For fear of running into Lannister patrols, they had been tempted to stop; for fear of running into them, they also kept going.
Eventually, the air cleared to a reasonable distance, allowing the fleeing prisoners a moment of respite. Their breath eased, strides growing longer and louder, and Hot Pie even thought to crack a joke.
It wasn't a very good one.
Arya walked beside Jory the entire time, wondering when best to speak. She'd never gotten more than a sentence or two out of him in Harrenhal, mostly because he always shooed her away. They knew him, he said, but they didn't know her, and he preferred it stay that way.
"Jory," she started. "How'd you wind up in Harrenhal?"
"Your sister had me bring word to your brother on her condition in Dragonstone. I was captured trying to make my way back to her." She heard him sigh. He sounded sad. "I suppose she's still there now."
"No, she isn't."
Her father's captain froze in his tracks, staring down at her as if she had gone mad. Behind them, Gendry and Hot Pie had grown very quiet.
"What do you mean?"
Arya straightened. "Tywin Lannister made me his cupbearer, and I heard them talking. She escaped nearly two months ago with the Kingslayer."
For the briefest of moments, Jory looked positively relieved, but then the tension in his shoulders returned twofold as he mulled over her words.
"Jaime Lannister," he spat. "Your sister is on the run with Jaime Lannister?"
"Is something wrong?" she asked. Her sister had always seemed friendly with the Kingslayer. She didn't know why, but Arya knew Myra would never go with a man she didn't trust, even if he was a Lannister.
Jory huffed. She'd never seen him so angry before.
"That man is the reason all this has happened," he said slowly, clutching the hilt of his sword a little tighter. "He's the one who pushed your brother from the tower."
When they'd settled in that night, Arya began her prayer anew.
Gregor Clegane, Ilyn Payne, Meryn Trant, Joffrey, Cersei, the Hound, the Kingslayer...
Jaime
There were dark and formless things that crept about his mind, consuming his thoughts until he was left with but one. The same one that found him in the day as well as the night.
There he stood, his sword glistening with the blood of Aerys Targaryen, the Second of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. In the ill-lit room, the liquid took on a sickly black hue, but it was blood all the same, neither wreathed in flame nor gnawing away at the steel of his blade.
He'd named it once, hadn't he? Some foolish word that mimicked Ser Arthur Dayne, the result of a giddy boy unprepared for what was to come.
For this.
He stepped forward, stuck in time, unable to deviate. His hand grasped the shoulder of the king, pulling him to his knees. He felt so light, Jaime thought he could toss him from the walls of the keep itself.
At least then they would not know.
Instead, his sword glided swiftly across the king's neck, turning his final words into nothing more than bloody gurgles. What a pathetic noise it was.
But as Aerys brought his gaze skyward to glance one last time at the man – the boy – who betrayed him, Jaime was met not with those strange, violet eyes, but blue, bright and familiar and gone from this world like those that came before.
Robert.
Kingslayer.
His mouth formed the words, daring to grin as he took his final breath.
Kingslayer.
Gray eyes huddled under a pristine white cloak watched him, but he could not bring himself to meet their steady gaze.
Jaime tossed Robert's body aside. It collapsed into ash.
"He saw us."
Turning, Jaime found himself no longer in the Red Keep, but that damned broken tower in Winterfell. In his hand was not a sword, but a scared little boy. Bran clung to his shirt and the window fiercely, but his strength would be nothing next to him, to the Lion of Lannister, slayer of boys and old men.
Once again, Myra was there, still wearing his cloak and standing beside Cersei. She did not plead for her brother this time. There was a neutral expression on her face, observant, waiting.
"He saw us," Cersei hissed, completely unaware of her presence.
Jaime felt his hand begin to nudge the boy. Though he tried, he could not pull it free. He could only delay the inevitable.
Now he met Myra's gaze. "I can't stop."
She gave him a sad smile. "I know."
He watched her walk forward, standing beside him at the window. Behind them, Cersei screamed, but he did not hear the words, he did not care for them.
Myra placed a comforting hand on her brother's shoulder, calming the boy.
Then she took Jaime's hand in hers, and together, they pushed Bran from the tower.
Tears falling down her cheeks, Myra turned to Jaime. She was back in her traveling clothes, face scuffed up, that stick still in her hair. Her hand still held on to his. She briefly turned to Cersei, who continued to scream with no sound.
"What did she leave you with, Jaime?"
. . .
His eyes opened to a dark sky, and the faintest impression of light in his periphery.
He attempted to speak, but his tongue was like cotton and his throat was parched; he wheezed and coughed instead, a terrible pain shooting through his shoulder.
"Jaime!"
Something met his lips, and suddenly there was water, slow and steady, pouring into his mouth. He drank the cool liquid greedily, and nearly choked, sputtering as the source was pulled away.
"Nothing," he choked, his voice raspy.
Myra's face came closer, her features suddenly discernable from the darkness. Her cheek was bruised, face etched with worry. She looked as if she hadn't slept in days.
"What?" she asked.
"She left me with nothing."
He watched her ponder the words, and then a sad look crossed her face. She reached out, hand brushing his hair out of the way, stroking his cheek with the softest touch. Sighing, Jaime felt himself lean into it. How long had it been since he'd felt something so gentle?
"Go back to sleep," Myra said, her hand departing.
"Stay," he murmured, missing her presence even as his mind began to drift again.
Though his eyes were closed, Jaime thought she might have smiled. He felt her sit next to him, her hand returning to his hair, fingers running tenderly through it. His mother had done that once.
"As you wish."