Brienne
If she had been honest with herself, Brienne never truly expected to find Myra Stark. She was aware that to come as far as she had – escaping Dragonstone of all places – defied the expectations of most, and she had always believed in the strength of hope, but Brienne had also learned long ago to counter, to balance, that hope with a good deal of realism. A girl alone in the wilds did not stand much chance of surviving; a girl alone with the Kingslayer, perhaps less so. It eased the burden of failure, or so she told herself.
And yet, despite the odds, Myra Stark was sitting not twenty feet away from her, scolding the Kingslayer himself over his inability to sit still as she examined the makeshift bandage on his leg.
It was...quite the sight.
Myra had told her of the attack some time in the night when Jaime Lannister had drifted off to sleep, though it required a good deal of prodding on her part. Though the girl had seemed willing enough to take her vow and allow her to remain, she did not seem content in doing much else around her. If Brienne wandered too close, whatever conversation she held would die off; if she looked in her direction, Myra would meet her gaze and wait until she had turned away. There was always a considerable amount of distance between them and a dagger constantly within reach.
The young woman Lady Catelyn had tearfully described to her had been one full of life and compassion, who would sooner see herself put to the sword than to witness the suffering of another. But war, she knew, changed many things. In one night, her entire world had burned. Brienne could not imagine the impact of two months.
That may have been why she started keeping her distance, watching and waiting as the days began to pass, though it only seemed to make it easier to ignore her rather than allow Myra to approach on her own. The girl had no interest in her. She only had time for Jaime Lannister.
Even now, with her sword and whetstone laid out, her eyes fully, and obviously, focused on them, Myra and Jaime conversed as if they were the only two people in the forest. Only here did she see the true nature of the girl break through. She smiled for the Kingslayer, and laughed, and touched him gently when they grew quiet. And when he was not looking, her gaze would remain, softening.
He had no idea how she looked at him.
And she had no idea how he looked at her.
She'd never met the Kingslayer before now, but she had heard the tales. He was a handsome man, the most handsome in the Seven Kingdoms if the gossip was to be believed, with his golden hair, green eyes, and wicked, prideful smile. He was the sort of man every woman pictured when they thought of a proper knight, despite the man doing everything in his power to be anything but.
Like most children, she had been told the tale by her father of how Ser Jaime Lannister, sworn protector of the king, forsook his sacred vows by murdering King Aerys. And to add to his dishonorable nature, he engaged in a relationship with his sister, fathered her children, and pushed Bran Stark from a window when he discovered the truth.
Brienne might have thought all the tales were wrong looking at him now.
Relief was how Brienne would describe it. She was no poet, and even in her head, the words sounded like a silly fantasy, but that was the only way she could make sense of it. The way a tired man looked when he was finally able to rest after a long day's work, the way a sailor sighed after a bad storm had passed, the way a young soldier counts his blessings when he hears that there is to be no battle, that was how Jaime Lannister looked at Myra Stark.
Pure and utter relief.
That was not the look of a man who had attempted to murder the girl's brother, or one who was in love with his sister.
This was something else entirely.
And, frankly, it concerned her.
Brienne took solace in the fact that clearly Myra could not have known the truth of what befell her brother, or what vile things the Kingslayer did with his sister, or she would never smile for him the way she did.
Jaime sat up suddenly, hissing as Myra tightened the fabric around his leg.
"And you think you're ready to leave now?" Myra asked as Brienne began to sharpen her sword, desperately pretending that she was not listening. "You can barely handle this."
"It's not so much that I'm ready as it is that I need to leave."
Myra crossed her arms. "If you try and leave now, you'll open the wound, bleed out, and drop dead in the middle of the forest. And the histories will say, 'Ser Jaime Lannister, he died pathetically.'"
The forest fell silent. Brienne found herself fighting the urge to laugh.
She certainly had been raised with brothers.
"Well, that was uncalled for," a shocked Jaime finally spoke.
"If you say so," Myra replied, grin smug.
"And below the belt. Very below."
"We can agree on that."
"When did you become so cruel?"
"When you started acting like a maiden."
Jaime scoffed in mock offense, and the two continued their bickering, trading gentle jabs until smiles got the better of them and the conversation died off.
Brienne looked away then, finding all her focus suddenly directed to her sword. She felt like a little girl again, spying on things that she should not rather than a sworn protector to the woman in front of her. But despite the wrongness of it all, she felt that it was something she was not allowed to bear witness to. She was an intruder here.
Besides, the sound of her whetstone on steel helped distract her from perilous thoughts, such as the suddenly loud one that insisted on reminding her how she had once longed for Renly to look at her the way the Kingslayer did Myra Stark.
Gods, she hoped King Robb arrived soon.
Sansa
Had she ever been told at any point in her life that she would one day learn how to kill a man, despite the ridiculous nature of it all, Sansa would have most likely imagined herself with a sword, or a dagger, or even simply standing beside a knight sworn to her service as she gave the command to have someone executed. It would have been something out of song, refined, graceful, powerful.
Instead, she was reading.
She waited on Myrcella, ate meals quietly with other servants, and she read.
Gods, the truth was boring.
It was not that she had lost sight of the importance of what she was doing, or the gravity of it either, but at the end of the day, she was still a young girl, and reading had always been boring for her. She had always preferred to hear the tales in song, as rare as that was, or to have Myra read the stories to her at night when she went to sleep. Her sister had loved books, and spoke the words with lilting tones that made them come to life. Robb had sounded like he was dying whenever he tried.
Sansa smiled at that, turning the page.
Since openly reading a book about various poisons and other dangerous things was not advisable for crowded areas, Sansa had to get creative. She'd found every nook and cranny she could think of across the Water Gardens. However, these areas were also very well known to other servants, and she learned, quite awkwardly, that they were preferred places when it came to getting to know one's companions intimately.
Midday seemed to be her only reprieve. She would wander outside, when most others had fled to the shelter of the buildings, and sit beneath one of the palm trees. At the right angle, she could catch the breeze that drifted between the buildings and in the shade of the tree, the heat did not seem so bad.
"Tears of Lys," Sansa murmured, careful to keep her voice low even in isolation. Her fingers ran gently over the page, feeling the slight rise of the ink on paper. Distantly, she wondered if Maester Luwin had a book like this one.
She read over the contents, noting the characteristics of the poison as well as its affects. Odorless, tasteless, clear, and when administered, it destroyed the bowels. Something about it struck her, and she spent a while staring at the words without actually reading them.
There was a memory in the back of her mind, words she had overheard, but had not fully paid attention to.
Had Jon Arryn not died of an illness of the stomach, or was it the chest? Or was he just too old?
She recalled her father mentioning him often, always talking with knights about one thing or another. Sansa had always thought that was just what the Hand of the King did. Perhaps there was more to it?
Two Hands of the King, two dead men.
Sansa ran her hand over the page again.
In her heart she knew, it was no coincidence. Her father was falsely accused and murdered for a reason she did not know. Jon Arryn had died not long before him.
And then Stannis Baratheon had declared to the entire realm that the Baratheon children were bastards.
Sansa nearly dropped the book.
Was that why her father died? For a Lannister lie? Was that why she had left her home and all she had known, because the Lannisters had murdered Jon Arryn for discovering a truth that was better left alone?
Had Myra known? Was that why she fled King's Landing?
It was so much all at once.
And yet, despite how truthful it rang to her, something about the scenario she had constructed bothered Sansa.
As beneficial as it may have been to kill a man who knew the truth, surely the Lannisters would have known his death would have also attracted attention. Cersei was smart. Sansa had seen the woman at work. There was a lot left to chance, attempting to poison a man. Oberyn had made certain to teach her the benefits and pitfalls of the different poisons, how they must mimic natural settings and the person's own health. A strong, young man who suddenly began to whither away would be strange, but to come down with a sudden cough that a maester gives too much milk of the poppy for? That is not so unbelievable.
Had Jon Arryn died suddenly?
Gods, why had she never paid attention?
Who would have killed him, she wondered. If Jon Arryn suspected the Lannisters of anything, he wouldn't openly accept a drink from them, would he? Would they trust a servant to carry it out? What if something was mixed up?
Sansa sighed. This was far too much for her. Myra had been the thinker in the family, always curled up in the library or raptly paying attention to Maester Luwin's lessons. She would have been able to make sense of all this. Perhaps she would have already figured it out.
But she was not Myra. She was Sansa. The pretty, unintelligent one who'd let herself believe that being with the snobby prince was worth any price. They had all seen through him, and she had blindly followed. And what did that leave her with? No father, no sisters, nothing and no one, just chaos.
Chaos.
Sansa took a step back from the little picture she had painted for herself, and looked at it from a different angle. Rather than why Jon had died, she looked at what his death did. It brought a new Hand into the fold, one who was not used to Southern custom; it brought an unknown into the capital. It brought mistrust and deceit and sewed the seeds of something new.
Something chaotic.
But who would want to bring chaos into King's Landing?
Oberyn Martell had struck Sansa as the sort of man who could find enjoyment in whatever he did. Even we he pretended to be civil, she saw that as a sort of game to him as well, one that he took pleasure in and thus added to the illusion. So, to see him seated at a desk, slumped in the chair, looking as if all the joy had been stolen from him, was a strange sight to her.
The way he stared at the pile of papers, as if wondering if he could conjure a way to murder them, reminded her of Robb.
"You look as if you're being tortured," Sansa said, sitting across from him. She watched his lip twitch slightly as he continued to stare down the paperwork.
"That is because I am," he replied, giving her a humorless smile. "So long as I am in Dorne, my brother has seen fit to remind me of my obligations as a prince. The bastard."
Now that really did sound like Robb. She remembered a time when he had to learn about Winterfell's accounts. Myra had been all but banned from the premise, so she and Jon had taken off into the Wolfswood for the day, leaving Robb alone with their father, Maester Luwin, and Vayon Poole. Sansa remembered walking by him with their mother, and how she had chuckled at her son, saying she'd never seen anything more miserable in her life.
She missed home.
Oberyn sat up in his chair, his demeanor becoming serious again. "Are you armed?"
"No," she replied, remembering her lessons. She'd replied too quickly once and he threw a date at her. It didn't matter that she actually wasn't armed. That was not the point.
Now he actually looked amused. "Never answer directly, unless you plan on challenging a person. Did you listen to the conversations in King's Landing, and I mean truly listen? There is a reason why nobles speak so much. The more you say, the less you are actually telling.
"Words like yes and no are so grounded, like night and day. It is either right or wrong. But turn a word into a sentence or a paragraph, and suddenly it is only a little wrong, or a little right, or it is nothing at all.
"Now, Sansa Stark, tell me, are you armed?"
He allowed her time to think.
"Why would I be?" she asked. "Weapons aren't allowed in the Water Gardens."
Oberyn smirked. "Better."
It was all so strange, but Sansa did feel a familiarity in the words. She recalled many people speaking in such ways, and had always taken them at face value. Had she heard her statement before, she would have assumed that meant she was not armed. If weapons aren't allowed, then clearly she did not have one. But she did not actually say that.
Funny how a person's own beliefs could change the meaning of things.
As it fell quiet, Sansa saw Oberyn slowly reach for a piece of paper. She watched as he read over the words, his lips moving ever so slightly. The emotions playing in his eyes were fascinating, as were the subtle changes in his expression, a small raise of the eyebrow, a little twitch of the lip. She wondered if he had let his guard down around her, or if she had begun to notice things more.
Sansa couldn't say she felt particularly welcome in Dorne yet, especially when she had the misfortune of running into Oberyn's daughters, but it was obvious a good deal of tension had been released.
She had yet to decide if that was a good thing.
"May I ask you something?"
Oberyn ran a hand over his face. "If it is about the import taxation of figs, I'd rather you not."
Sansa smiled, though it quickly faded. "It's personal."
"I don't see why not. Unlike you Northerners, we are far more open about these things."
Despite the invitation, Sansa was silent for a long time, gathering the courage to say the words. It was not that she did not know how he would react – in fact, she'd spent a lot of time imagining that particular scenario – but rather if she had any right to ask at all. Even for the Dornish, she knew there were subjects that were best left alone, and this was perhaps the biggest of them all.
"What did you do when...when you found out about Princess Elia?"
The man before her went utterly still.
Sansa had never been curious about Elia Martell's death. It was and always had been a tragedy, and she had been content to leave it at that. But as her thoughts swirled around the conspiracy that her family had been wrapped up in, that she had remained ignorant of for far too long, Sansa realized that she had nearly torn her book in two thinking over it.
She knew anger, or at least a young woman's anger. The anger at a younger sibling for ruining something, or at a parent for not understanding, but this was something else, something deeper. It wasn't there, not all the time, but every now and again, it would take hold of her, and she was more than willing to allow it to take control; it was what allowed her to attack Sandor Clegane and what drove her to stand up to the Sand Snakes.
As good as it had been to her, Sansa wondered if she wasn't giving it too much power.
Here in Dorne, there was at least one man who could understand what she spoke of, and he was currently staring her down with an intense fury. Not focused at her, not really, but at the memory, at the idea of its very existence. It was how she felt whenever someone mentioned her father.
Oberyn sighed, standing. If there had been a test, she must have passed.
"I was in the Free City of Norvos at the time," he replied slowly, grabbing at the wine glass on the desk and drinking from it. "I don't remember why I was there or what I was doing at the time. The only thing I can recall is how ridiculous the mustache looked on the man who broke the news to me.
"And then, there was rage. No images, just an all-consuming feeling. The next thing I remember is the Dornish fleet cutting me off on the Narrow Sea. My brother always did know me well. Had he not stopped me, I would have walked up the steps of the Red Keep myself and taken what was owed me."
"I saw him when I left," Sansa replied, recalling a vile pair of green eyes. "Joffrey was right there at the docks. He couldn't have been more than twenty feet away, and he had no idea that I was watching him. I could have killed him."
Oberyn's smile was strange. "You would have died instead."
"How do you stop it?" she asked.
For once, the Red Viper looked unsure.
"You don't. You simply find someone who is willing to stop you."
She watched Oberyn walk to the open arch behind his desk. He leaned against the pillar, looking out over the palms and buildings that made up the Water Gardens. If she had grown to know anything about him, it was that he knew when she had more to say. He never pushed it, though, giving what privacy he could so that she could mull over her thoughts.
"Did you still want Robert dead?"
He didn't tense, but when Oberyn glanced back over his shoulder, she could see viciousness in his eyes. "That is a dangerous question to ask."
And she knew that. But as Sansa remembered her father's death, she wondered at how the king had died at all. Cersei and Joffrey claimed her father murdered Robert, but since that was not true, who had? He had been stabbed, violently, and despite Joffrey's nature, Sansa knew he would not have done it, he had loved the man he called father, in his own way, and she knew Cersei would never have the chance. Robert was a large man. There were few who could actually manage that. It could have been his kingsguard, she knew, or it could have been someone else...
Like a handmaiden who worked for the queen and arrived to save her life just in time.
Was she shaking?
"I don't..." Sansa started. "I don't mean to entrap anyone or expose them. The Lannisters killed my father, and what they did got Robert killed as well, I know that, I just...I want to know why everything happened the way it did.
"Wouldn't you want to ask Rhaegar why?"
Jaime
He recalled having an easier time walking when drunk.
With a sigh, Jaime resigned himself to the dirt once more. Myra helped him sit down, taking as much pressure off his leg that she could. She was certainly a better companion for it than Tyrion ever had been. During that drunken stupor, he'd mistakenly believed his brother to be a good foot taller than he was, and promptly toppled to the floor when he attempted to lean on air.
The memory should have made him smile, but it only served to deepen his scowl.
From the other side of the camp, the wench was watching. She was always watching, more a guard dog than the three direwolves they had roaming about. There wasn't a smile on her face – how horrid that would look – but Jaime knew she gained some satisfaction from seeing him fail. No amount of supposed honor in the world could keep a man from enjoying the sight of his struggling enemy, especially one called the Kingslayer.
Although she wasn't a man, or so she said.
She almost made him miss Ned Stark. At least he was tolerable to look at.
"You sat of your own accord this time," Myra said with a smile, sitting next to him. "I'd say that's progress."
Jaime snorted, remembering all the times his knee gave out. Myra was strong, but not so much that he hadn't found himself face first in the dirt a few times. He still remembered how she laughed when she peeled a leaf from his forehead; he might have even enjoyed it then if the brute had not been watching, but there the Lady Brienne of Tarth remained, watching him as if he was going to stab Myra at any moment.
Never mind that he had nearly died for the woman.
"It's not enough," Jaime mumbled, trying to ignore the stern glare of his father in the back of his mind. How pathetic he would have looked to him, relying on a woman for help; how shameful. What an unworthy heir.
Though he wasn't his heir, despite his father's attempts to say otherwise. The realm may have trembled in fear of Tywin Lannister, but it took pride in its ability to tell him, 'no, not this time.'
"It will be," Myra replied, though her attempts at reassurance would have fared better if she had not sounded so defeated.
Jaime motioned at Brienne as the monstrous woman walked off into the forest. "Is that going to be a problem?"
The woman rolled her eyes at his choice of words, but let it be.
"She swore her sword to me."
"Which conveniently does not involve me."
In a way, he supposed he couldn't blame her. Who wouldn't jump at the opportunity to have the Kingslayer as their captive? And wouldn't Robb Stark love to tell his father how a woman took down the greatest sword in the Seven Kingdoms, even if he was too injured to stand properly. If it weren't for Myra, he'd probably be tied to a tree somewhere.
The wench was lucky he was wounded. Two sword strokes and he could quickly solve their problem.
Myra shook her head, and it reminded Jaime that she was just as unhappy about this particular turn of events as he was. It was a strange thing. Before everything had fallen apart at the inn, he could vividly recall being overjoyed at the prospect of returning to King's Landing. Myra Stark did not look like a woman on the verge of reuniting with her brother.
She looked torn.
"I'm not you..." she whispered, so softly he almost did not catch the words. Her lips trembled slightly, and he almost asked her what she meant. But then something changed. She became still suddenly. He watched her jaw clench, bold determination settling on her features.
Myra stood then, and offered her hand.
"Get off the ground, Jaime."
It took him half a moment to understand, and in the next they were up again. While his arm was still slung over her shoulder, it was clear Myra was not going to hold as much weight as before. She wanted to test him, it seemed.
Brienne's horse was grazing not thirty feet away, but it might have been thirty miles. Every step he took made his thigh feel as if it were about to burst, and when relieved of the weight, it throbbed something terrible, the trembling making its way up his body. It took all the strength he had just to keep himself from giving in to his knee's plea to fall to the ground and take the pressure off.
She left him alone to wobble against the slight breeze in order to ready the horse. Like every other creature they seemed to come across, it took quickly to her, and obeyed her nonverbal commands as if she had trained it herself. Jaime found the horse slowly lying down for him, so he could climb onto the saddle.
Even then, it was a difficult and awkward affair.
He could neither put all his weight on the wounded leg nor swing it across the horse unless he wanted to experience a whole new kind of pain. Instead, he settled for sitting on the saddle and shuffling his left leg slowly over the front, attempting not to kick the horse in the process. Something told Jaime he looked as idiotic as he felt, but Myra made no indication that she noticed. Her mouth was set in a firm line, one of utter concentration.
"My lady!"
Jaime rolled his eyes. The wench certainly had good timing.
Brienne stalked across the camp, her hand on the hilt of her sword. Myra stepped in front of the horse, grabbing the reins. She looked about ready to throw herself at the woman.
Noticing this, Jaime watched Brienne slow. "My lady, the Kingslayer should remain."
"His name is Jaime Lannister," Myra stated, her voice a command that demanded respect. He was reminded of Robert again, and how she had shouted him down for the same reason. "And he is leaving."
Myra gave the horse a quick nudge and the creature stood, jostling Jaime. His thigh felt as though it was on fire, but he held his tongue. The wench would not get anything from him.
"My lady, I must insist."
She hadn't drawn her sword, but Jaime saw it move, just slightly.
"You insist?" Myra echoed, affronted. "You swore your sword to me."
"And I swore an oath to your mother."
"To bring me back to them! Did you swear to my mother that you would bring her Jaime Lannister? Did you swear to my brother?"
Brienne hesitated and Jaime felt a ghost of a smile on his face. Myra had her.
"No, my lady."
Myra drew herself up to her full height. Even before the enormity that was Lady Brienne, she suddenly appeared taller.
"Then on your honor, you will not stop him."
Brienne released her sword, lowering her head in submission. "As you command, my lady."
Jaime watched the wench slink off back to her side of the camp, his good feelings at her failure diminishing quickly when he saw Myra's shoulders sag. Her grip on the reins tightened and began to shake.
"Will you do me a favor, Jaime?" she asked, her voice suddenly so small that it was difficult to believe she was the same woman who cowed a warrior and sent her scurrying away.
"What?" he asked, surprised by how equally quiet his voice was.
The emotion in Myra's eyes as she looked up nearly floored him.
"Don't look back."
Jaime took a breath, taking in the woman before him. The calm, cool, and utterly uninteresting Myra Stark.
How wrong he had been.
He nodded slowly. "Goodbye, Myra."
Giving the horse a kick with his good leg, he turned the creature around, heading south.
And as she asked of him, he did not look back.
When night began to fall, Jaime found his mood souring, not that it had been any good to begin with. He found himself hating the sudden silence, and on several occasions he turned to ask something of the woman who was no longer with him. If it kept up like this, he'd be talking to himself in no time.
The Mad Kingslayer. What an interesting title.
In the dying light, he desperately searched for a place to dismount his steed. If he had the choice, he'd keep riding through the night, but the forest was full of treacherous dips and traps. Losing the horse here would mean almost certain death for him.
So, he looked for a hill, something he could easily get off on without putting too much pressure on himself or the horse, but the land had leveled off and was unwilling to cooperate.
He imagined himself returning to King's Landing without having ever dismounted.
Seven hells, it was going to be a long journey.
The horse halted suddenly, its ears alert. It began to paw the ground as its nostrils flared.
Something was out there.
Jaime began to search the area, but it had grown too dark for him to make out anything other than vague shapes of trees and the horizon. He drew the reins back, ready to urge the horse forward. Risk or not, he did not want to remain here.
Then it was upon him.
He'd turned his head one last time, catching a glimpse of shining eyes before the large form leapt at him from the darkness, giant paws catching his chest and driving him into the ground.
Jaime gasped for breath, briefly fighting against the weight crushing him into the dirt, until his eyes focused again to the sight of bared teeth.
It was a direwolf, but not like the other three. The coloring was different, as was the size.
Robb Stark's wolf.
He didn't know what to do. Even if the creature wasn't crushing him with its full body weight, he couldn't outrun the thing, couldn't fight it. He found himself closing his eyes against the encroaching teeth.
There was a howl, then a yelp, and suddenly the weight was gone.
Jaime opened his eyes to gray fur. Myra's direwolf, Brenna, was standing over him, growling at the other with her hackles raised. She leapt after the wolf, chasing it off and leaving him alone in the darkness.
The horse had run off, of course.
For a while, he dragged himself through the sticks and dirt, hearing the distant sounds of wolves scrapping. When he reached a tree, he leaned against it, easing himself up.
He looked around in the darkness and spotted a torch rapidly approaching.
Seven hells.
A young face was lit by the torch, eyes widening when they fell on him.
Blinking against the light, Jaime sighed. "Don't suppose you've seen my horse?"
"Kingslayer," the boy hissed, raising the torch higher. In his other hand, he held a sword.
Jaime slowly reached for his dagger.
"Never heard of him."
"You think I'm a fool?" the boy asked, pointing the sword his way. "I'd know your face anywhere. I've seen you at the tourneys."
"You fancy me then, boy?" Jaime replied, eyes narrowing. "Go ahead. Shout."
They stared one another down for half a moment.
"He's-!"
The boy did not get to utter another syllable. Jaime moved faster than he anticipated, slicing his neck open with the dagger. The torch dropped and sputtered out on the dampening ground while the boy clutched his neck and fell to his knees. In the darkness, his blood oozed black.
Jaime staggered away from the scene, the brief rush keeping the pain at bay.
Behind him, more torches began to follow.
Myra
Every now and again, she would look to the bedroll Jaime had occupied for days. A strange sensation that was both relief and disappointment would come over her when she found the spot empty. She would look back to the fire, give a silent prayer, and continue her solemn meditation, mind thoughtlessly adrift.
She never failed to forget that he was gone, despite the emptiness that met her every time.
Beside her, Lady nuzzled her leg, and even Nymeria had emerged from the darkness, laying behind her and keeping her back warm against the night air.
Myra had no idea where Brenna had gone, or so she tried to convince herself.
Keep him safe.
Across the fire, Brienne was fidgeting. She'd glance up once in a while, usually after Myra had checked the bedroll, but had yet to say anything. In the firelight, her eyes turned an inky black, giving the woman an otherworldly feel, as if she didn't stand out enough already.
She wasn't angry at her, not really. In fact, Myra understood why Brienne tried to stop them all too clearly. By all accounts, she was in the wrong. The Lannisters were at war with the Starks, and Jaime would have made an important prisoner, perhaps one that would change the tide of things, wherever they were at. But she could have been that same prisoner once too. Instead, she was here, free, because Jaime had pushed back against it.
Who was she to deny him the same?
She knew she was right, no matter what the world claimed.
Brienne moved again.
"It's okay, you can stop fretting," Myra said softly, looking up. "Please, speak your mind."
The warrior sighed, suddenly unsure. "My lady, I'm not certain I should be the one to say this..."
Myra felt her lips twitch and a distant flutter in her heart. "If it is bad news, by all means, say it. It doesn't matter whose voice tells me. The outcome is still the same."
Brienne nodded, taking a breath. "My lady, the kingsla...Ser Jaime, is the reason that your brother-"
"Fell from the tower? I know," Myra said, almost smiling at the look that crossed Brienne's face. For some reason, she found it funny. "I know that the queen is his lover, and that he is the father of her children."
"Then why did you release him?"
"Because I know everything else."
It was hard to put to words, the reason she knew she was right; it was almost a compulsion, a command from something deep within. It defied all the laws of man, ringing truer than any rules or oaths or scripture; it was something solid, despite its nonexistent form, that she could grab hold of and put her faith in. It was what kept her from feeling guilty in the eyes of the woman before her.
"I'm afraid I don't follow."
Myra scratched Lady behind the ear. "Even if you could, I don't think you want to. I know that the Lannisters are the enemy, Lady Brienne, but Jaime is not my enemy. Despite everything, he's a good man."
Brienne frowned.
"I know that look," Myra continued, grabbing at the grass beneath her feet, tossing the blades into the fire. "My father wore it on several occasions. I always used to think he could smell the dishonor on a person, like one of the hounds in the stables. It used to terrify me to the point where I could never tell him a lie."
It was the face her father made whenever she mentioned Jaime Lannister. She'd never thought much on it then, but now, reflecting on everything, Myra realized she'd come to dislike that face. It was the face of Northern stubbornness, the kind that would never give way no matter how the winds blew; it was the sort of stubbornness her mother had clung to whenever she stood up for her half-brother, and now it was the kind that Brienne held fast to as she half-heartedly explained her reasoning.
"Good men have honor," Brienne stated flatly, as if there was nothing else to explain on the matter.
"Perhaps to you. Maybe even to me once, but I've come to realize the world is far more complicated than I was raised to believe." Myra paused, wondering if she should continue. She found herself biting her lip, and heard Jaime chuckling over how she was thinking too hard. "Tell me, Lady Brienne, how many lives is your honor worth?"
Whatever her answer may have been, Myra never got to hear it.
There was a shuffling in the forest. Brienne stood, sword drawn in an instant, but it was only Brenna emerging from the undergrowth. Myra held a hand out to the enormous creature, smiling as the wolf leaned in to her.
"Where have you been?" she asked, noting several droplets of blood on her fur. She did her best to crush the fear. Brenna would know if something was wrong.
In response, the direwolf snorted and then turned back to the forest. Another pair of eyes was watching from the darkness, slowly emerging into the light of the fire.
Myra blinked. "Grey Wind?"
The direwolf, who was indeed smaller than Brenna, if only slightly, approached slowly. He, too, had some blood on him, but it barely registered to Myra as she held her hand out. She watched him sniff her palm, and then lick it.
"How...how are you...?"
Then she heard the horses.
When she had returned from the Dreadfort, after all those miserable days confined to a bed, clinging to life, Robb had ridden out to her. He had been told to stay home, because he was lord in their father's stead, but no force in the entire world was going to stop him from seeing her as soon as they were spotted on the horizon.
He'd ridden his horse so hard and so fast, she thought the poor thing might lose its footing and send them both into the ground, but Robb's horse had always been a confident thing, and could never be pushed harder than it knew it could handle. Arya and Jon, as it turned out, had been riding with him at the beginning, but he'd left them behind long ago. They'd never stood a chance.
Somehow, he managed to stop in time to not run down the other horses in the group. Her father and the rest of their guards continued forward, while she stared down her twin, whom she had not seen in so long.
Less than a month, an eternity to her.
When Robb did not move, as if he was still debating if she was there, she had smiled.
"Hello, Brother."
Then he'd wrapped her in a hug so deep, they both nearly tumbled off their horses.
And now? Now he was dismounting his horse, giving her that same look he had so long ago, when sickness and the distance between two places in the North had been all they had to worry over her.
How different her brother looked. His hair was wilder, his beard fuller, and under his furred cloak, he wore armor rather than just leathers. He was so much older now, the burdens of the North, of a crown, resting hard upon him. Gods, how he looked like their father now.
Myra had not realized she stood until she took a step forward, and in that moment, her knees almost gave out. She'd come so far to find him again, surely she could take a few more steps.
Yet she stilled, and let him come to her.
Robb stopped a foot away, looking her over. Was he afraid she would disappear, just as she feared for him?
Then he choked out a sob. "I should have looked back."
Myra nodded, tears falling from her eyes. "Yes, you should have."
And then she was in his arms.
He was gripping her too tightly, the armor pressing hard against her skin, but she didn't care. Gods, she did not care what happened to her now. He was here. She was holding him. He was home.
Robb was her home, and she'd come back to him. Through everything that had happened, she'd come back to him.
And he'd come for her.
And for the briefest moment, the world was still. There was no war or death; there was no Stannis Baratheon or Jaime Lannister, no Cersei or Theon.
The world consisted only of Robb and Myra Stark.
When everything came to, she and Robb were suddenly surrounded by others. So many familiar faces from her childhood: Dacey Mormont, Smalljon Umber, Wendel Manderly, and others who bore crests from the Riverlands, whom she had never met, but greeted her like an old friend nonetheless. She grasped hands and embraced armor, smiled until it felt as though her jaw would never function properly again, and still she wondered if it wasn't some dream a girl locked away on Dragonstone had concocted out of madness.
Myra tried to speak to them, but her voice had left her.
A large cloak was wrapped around her, and Myra thought she might drop on the spot. It was heavier than anything she had worn recently.
Robb, now cloak-less, began to speak on her behalf, though the words sounded distant and muffled. He wrapped his arm around her, his grip on her shoulder tight despite the thick fabric in between; he was not going to be letting go any time soon.
By the old gods and the new, let him hold on forever.
More riders approached, and Myra struggled to see them in the darkness.
Her brother, she noted, grew somber, and his grip tightened further.
"Do you have him?" he asked.
A rider dismounted, Daryn Hornwood if she had to guess, revealing a large form draped across the back of his horse.
"Aye, Your Grace," he replied, grabbing a chunk of hair and lifting, exposing a handsome face and bleary, green eyes. "A lion fit for a cage."
Gods, no...