Myra
Warmth: that was what she woke to. The sort that one found themselves wrapped up in on a particularly cold morning, and had a smug satisfaction upon realizing there was no real need to move from it, even as the sun rose high and the rest of the world slogged through the weather. It wrapped her from head to toe, and left her humming in delight. She hadn't slept so comfortably since King's Landing.
Her eyes fluttered open.
Even in the darkness of the tent, she could tell it was light outside. She could make out the smallest holes in the fabric, slight gaps between the canvas and the ground. Also, the bustle just beyond sounded like quite the ruckus. Boisterous laughter, steel swords scraping across one another, shouts of jest and orders and status of the cooking. She hadn't heard so much noise in one spot for an age.
In its absence, Myra had forgotten how much she enjoyed the sound – so long as she was not the center of its attention – and hummed again as she let the noise consume her until it became little more than droning in the back of her mind.
A deep chuckle brought her back.
Myra opened her eyes fully, blinking away the remnants of sleep.
Sitting in a chair beside her – how she had missed his lurking form, she had no idea – was Robb.
She'd never considered her brother to be a large man. He was fairly tall and strong, but he'd always been so scrawny, which served to make him about as intimidating as wet paper (although she had always been biased). Jon had been the larger of the two, the more dominating presence that matched his glum look, but wrapped in his cloak and armor, Robb almost appeared a giant to her now.
His blue eyes crinkled at the edges. "That's the best sleep she's gotten since you left for King's Landing."
Confused, Myra turned her head.
Lying beside her, face relaxed as she soundly slept through the day, Catelyn Stark appeared a far different person than the one she had left in Winterfell. She did not appear to be the pale, frail woman that Myra had hesitantly left alone with her ailing brother, but she was still not the same woman that she kept in her mind's eye and pictured when she felt alone at times. Even as unburdened as her brother said she was, their mother still looked older. Myra could see new worry lines on her face, and little gray hairs that had not been there before.
Of course she would look different, Myra thought. Her husband was dead, her two youngest and her home were gone.
But not me. She still has me.
She'll always have me.
Myra gently squeezed the hand that held hers under the furs.
"How long have I been asleep?"
To be honest, she could not remember much from the previous night. They had ridden into camp and were greeted by various cheers, claps, and an assortment of weaponry pounded on shields. Myra had somehow found her way into her mother's arms during the racket, and all she could recall from there were tears and unintelligible mumbling in between sobs.
"It's about midday now. I wanted to let you sleep, but...I didn't want to think you were a dream either," Robb replied, glancing around. Still terrible with his emotions. At least some things never changed. "I've needed you here, Myra. More than anyone else, I've needed you."
Easing herself out of the covers, and her mother's grasp, Myra joined her brother. This was something she could do. It wasn't attacking bandits or political discourse; it was what she had been doing all her life: helping her family. And gods, when was the last time she could say she'd done anything like that?
He stood and embraced her again. It was not so hard this time, though she could still feel where his armor had done its damage, not that she minded.
"I'm here now," she whispered. "I'm not going anywhere."
How could she? She had no home to return to.
Myra shoved that thought aside. There would be plenty of time to be somber later. For now, she wanted to enjoy the happiness she had been given.
"Aye, you're here," Robb replied, releasing her and giving her a onceover. She was still in her traveling gear, she noted, including her boots. "Let's get you something to eat, something to wear, and then you can help your brother fix everything."
Smiling fondly at her adorably useless twin, Myra returned briefly to her mother's side, kissing her on the forehead and making certain the furs covered her. Then she left the tent arm in arm with Robb.
Myra wouldn't say that all activity stopped upon her exit from the tent, but things certainly grew quieter, and there was a suspect amount of eyes focused on her person.
Unbidden, her thoughts returned to that moment in the courtyard, when Robert had first met her and the dreadful journey that had become her life began. To what did she owe that, the look of a dead woman, she wondered, and what was simply the horrid luck that seemed to trail after her family like some stray dog?
Coincidentally, a wet nose at her palm returned Myra to the present.
Scratching Brenna behind the ear, she was pleasantly surprised to find all the direwolves present, Nymeria included, though the creature looked oddly skittish.
"Not sure what surprised my men more, you or the pack you came with," Robb started with a smile, patting Grey Wind. "They've been whispering about it all night. Some have even taken to calling you the Wolf Mother."
"Wolf Mother?" Myra echoed, the words sounding ridiculous on her tongue. Though, if she were honest, hearing Robb say 'my men' felt even more so. Another confirmation their father was truly gone and the days had changed.
"I suppose it makes sense. You always were a mother to us anyway."
She could hear the sadness in his voice, but said nothing of it. He probably thought she did not know about Winterfell and their brothers, and wanted to put it off as long as he could. She took no issue with that.
"Well, I'm not so sure about that," Myra replied, clinging together to her twin as she surveyed the area. "I may have to rely on you now. Seems to me you've done alright."
They walked on, Robb navigating through the sea of tents with practiced ease. Mrya had no idea how he could keep track of anything. It all looked the same to her, endless rows of gray fabric in pristine lines only occasionally broken up by some stray tables or carts. Men in armor and leathers bustled about with weapons, horses, and various supplies, bearing sigils not only from Houses Glover, Karstark, and Umber, but also over the river lords, Houses Mallister, Bracken, and Tully. They all bowed their heads to her brother, giving their proper 'Your Graces,' and some additional 'my ladys,' before going back to business.
She felt her head starting to spin.
Winterfell she knew. Stores and ledgers and whether or not to open another cask of ale, she knew. Keeping the Greatjon far away from Lord Glover unless you wanted the harvest boar to be seasoned with blood, that was what she knew.
A war camp was another beast entirely.
"Besides starting a war and getting declared king, you mean."
Only a Stark would consider a crown a bad thing.
"Well, you didn't start the war," Myra replied, feeling a squeeze from her brother. "But, yes, maybe you could have avoided the king bit. You don't have a crown, do you?"
"Suppose that I do," Robb said, eyebrow raised. "What would you say to that?"
"I'd say you'd have more jewelry than your sister, Robb Stark."
That earned a hearty laugh from her brother as he led her to another tent. This one, at least, she could discern from the others. It was larger, and bore the sigil of their house, as well as several guards posted at the entrance. They came to attention at their approach, and again murmured their 'Your Graces.'
How could she be back with everything she knew if it was all so unfamiliar?
A great, hulking form immediately blocked her path upon entering the tent.
There had been a time when Myra Stark feared the Greatjon. Besides being a beast of a man, he was loud and violent to boot, prone to all sorts of outbursts, but when she accidentally lost her temper at him during a feast – in her defense she was ten and he was very rude – the Greajon laughed, slapped the table, and declared her a proper Northern lass.
He then proceeded to offer one of his sons for marriage.
Though her father had promptly put a stop to that, Lord Umber had remained a figure in her life whom she enjoyed and looked forward to visiting, even now as he crushed her in a hug and possibly bruised a rib or two.
"My Lady Myra!" his great voice boomed, though he wasn't actually shouting. The tent might have collapsed if he were. "From Dragonstone to nearly Riverrun. If I could sing worth a damn, I'd write a bloody ballad."
"Perhaps we should all be grateful that the Greatjon can't actually sing," she heard Robb say, the smile clear in his voice.
"That has not stopped him from trying, I'm afraid."
The third voice belonged to Lord Roose Bolton, the man who would have been her father-in-law and, unlike Lord Umber, one she had never learned to stop fearing. With an utterly even voice and expression that rarely shifted, he was perhaps the most placid man in all of Westeros, but rather than calming, Myra found it to be an alarming trademark. He was the sort of man who appeared to be doing nothing, but she felt his mind was constantly turning, and saw more than he let on. It made her feel paranoid despite having done nothing.
Still, months on the run had not killed all her courtesy, and Myra found herself bowing her head toward the man as Lord Umber laughed off his jape.
The two gave her more of their incredibly opposite congratulations before leaving the tent with promises to come by later to discuss their next move.
"Tywin Lannister's probably pissing himself over his precious son," the Greatjon cackled. "Wish I was there to see it."
Myra slumped in a chair, briefly questioning why she had been happy at all.
Had she forgotten or selfishly ignored it?
Jaime had not gotten away. He was here, somewhere, a captive of her brother.
Gods, she should have let him leave earlier. Why didn't she let him leave earlier? Did she actually want him caught, after all this time?
No, she just...didn't want him to go.
She was used to him, his voice, his laugh, his incredibly rude sense of humor. Everything else was a terrible and painful unknown, even if it promised everything she had been hoping for.
And now look at where that selfishness had gotten her.
"Myra!"
She glanced up to her brother staring at her from across the war table, concerned.
"Where are you?"
At that, she could only shrug. "I don't know."
Between them sat a literal continent, a map of Westeros filled with garrisons and troop movements, and other such things that meant nothing to her. For once, Robb had the advantage there. She could make out the little figures at least. Stags on Dragonstone, Lions at Lannisport and King's Landing.
Winterfell, she noted, was bereft of any wolves.
"You're a king, Robb," she spoke slowly. Though the words had always sounded strange on her tongue, to have her brother here, right in front of her, and not refute the claim just made it all the more surreal. "When I left home, you were the acting Lord of Winterfell, and scared to death of it as I seem to recall. And now they call you the King in the North. I don't know where I stand in any of this..."
"It means you're a princess."
Myra looked up at her brother, watching his solemn face twitch until a grin stretched across his face.
She blinked.
Gods, that did make her a princess, didn't it?
At that, she started to laugh.
It wasn't a very mirthful laugh; it was just the only proper reaction she could imagine for a ridiculous situation such as this one. Her father and little brothers were dead, her sisters were missing, her home was destroyed, but she got to be a princess.
The gods had a strange sense of humor.
When she returned to her senses, Myra noted that Robb was seated next to her. His smile faded as he reached a hand toward the bare part of the map that Winterfell occupied.
"You're my heir, Myra."
Had she not been sitting next to him, she would not have heard her brother's voice, it had grown so small.
"I know."
"How?"
Myra bit her lip. "There was...an inn. People were talking. Jaime heard and he told me."
"He had no right."
She'd never seen such anger in her brother's eyes before, a fury simmering just beneath the surface, threatening to spill over. And she knew why, of course. The things the man had done, and the harm he had caused. Myra knew it was justified, and were she anyone else, she might have felt the same.
Because he was the Kingslayer.
But to her, he was Jaime Lannister.
"Maybe," she admitted, feeling her fingers fold in to one another as they shook. "But I'm grateful that he did."
They fell into silence, though she could feel the subject of Jaime hanging heavy in the air. She had to ask, but there was something holding her back, a great fear clinging tightly to her chest.
Was she afraid of what her brother would do?
She had never been afraid of Robb.
"What are you going to do with him?" Myra spat out, attempting to prove herself wrong.
Robb did not get the chance to answer as a young man burst into the tent. Though well armored, he looked more like a child at play than an actual soldier, mostly due to how scrawny he was and his lack of beard. She had a feeling he wasn't capable of growing much of one.
Emblazoned on his chest was the sigil of House Frey, two twin towers linked by the bridge that made their house famous. Perhaps he was Olyvar Frey then, her brother's squire that Brienne had told her about. It would explain why the boy got inside without so much as a peep from the guards outside.
"They're telling me I have to leave!" the boy shouted, running up to the table and leaning on it, out of breath. "My family, your bannermen, abandoned you and now they're saying I have to leave as well! What is this madness, Your Grace?"
Myra knew the look that crossed her brother's face now. He had done something, and he was deeply ashamed of it. Though he tried to hide it behind a mask of solemn duty, she could still see it there, behind his eyes. He couldn't hide those sorts of things from her.
"I've broken the pact that I made with your lord father, Olyvar," he said calmly, though she saw his fists clenching beneath the table. "Though I did not wish to see them go, I cannot blame them for doing so. You should do the same."
She watched the heartbreak dawn in the squire's eyes. The boy truly cared for the cause, and for her brother.
"Please, Your Grace, allow me to stay."
Out of the corner of her eye, another figure entered the tent, though they remained by the doorway, watching silently.
"Olyvar," Robb started, standing. His voice possessed that chiding firmness their mother used on them so often as children. When had her brother grown so much? "I will not force you to choose between your family and my cause. Go home."
She watched the boy's lip quiver, and then he straightened, shoving his emotions away like all good lords and squires do.
He bowed his head. "Farewell, Your Grace."
In a few strides, he had reached the door, pausing to eye the person standing there. It was a woman, with dark hair and a foreign look about her. They watched one another long enough for it to be considered uncomfortable before the boy continued on his way, passing out of sight and into the camp.
Robb sighed, sitting back down in the chair, the wood creaking under both his weight and the troubles he brought with him.
Myra eyed the woman regarding her. She was dressed simply and wore an apron stained in blood, but stood in the tent as if she belonged. Her brother did not question her presence, so neither did she.
Looking to Robb, who suddenly appeared far older than he should, Myra decided to bring up the dreaded question.
"House Frey is a bannerman to our grandfather. If the river lords are sworn to you, what did you do to make them leave?"
The woman stepped forward. "He married me."
Myra blinked once.
Twice.
"Excuse me?"
Robb looked up, eyes flitting between the two women. Despite the solemn nature of what she had just witnessed, Myra saw some happiness return to her brother's eyes. Perhaps even a look that bordered on dopey if she were honest.
"Myra, this is Talisa Maegyr of Volantis," he said, gesturing to the woman. "She's my wife."
She looked between the two of them, wondering if this was some sort of jest. Of course, it wasn't, not after everything that had just played out in front of her eyes, not after seeing her big, strong, masculine brother give the woman that look.
So she said the only thing that came to mind.
"Seven bloody hells."
Sansa
As it turned out, Dorne had been a benefit to more than just herself.
Before her life had been torn apart, Sansa spent hardly any time with Princess Myrcella, mostly because she preferred the company of the girl's older brother. What she could recall was a mostly quiet girl with a pleasant smile and equally pleasant manners. She remembered thinking her simple – a laughable concept now – and that her time would be better spent with those closer to her age, even if it was only four years separating them. To a child, she realized, that was nearly an eternity.
But in Dorne, Sansa noted, Myrcella had blossomed. Not only was she livelier, she was bolder, more intent on engaging others in activities, and even offered good arguments instead of passively standing down in the face of opposition. The princess was brighter than she let on, and saw everything. If someone made a point in an argument a fortnight ago, not only would she remember it, she would hold on to that tidbit of information until the moment that very person contradicted it in another discussion with a completely different subject, and then she would proceed to bury them alive. Trystane had given up trying to fight her ages ago, content to simply watch, and Oberyn seemed to find a lot of entertainment in defeat (though most times Sansa believed he let her win, she'd caught a few genuinely surprised reactions from the man as well). It was Prince Doran, however, who enjoyed Myrcella's newfound enthusiasm the most. They would talk until late, and Oberyn often had to step in and remind the two that going to bed before the sun rose was still customary in Westeros.
Of course, it wasn't just the mannerisms that were changing.
Myrcella was becoming a woman, and her dresses were very good at showing that fact off. Sansa could still remember the way the girl had blushed when she first put on the bits of fabric that qualified as a dress in Dorne (she also recalled possessing a similar look). Now, well, that was certainly a thing of the past. Myrcella practically flaunted her looks, something she definitely picked up in Dorne, and people noticed, Trystane in particular. It took all of her restraint not to burst out laughing when she watched Oberyn smack his nephew upside the head for a particular look. Not that the Red Viper would not do the same to a woman – or man she had come to realize – that he appreciated, but as Trystane's uncle, he'd earned the right to a certain level of hypocrisy.
Mycella was proudly displaying her newfound vibrancy as she vividly described the new dress she wanted to wear when the Princess Arianne returned from Sunspear, going so far as to twirl around as if she already wore the thing. The girl had taken a keen interest in Prince Doran's eldest child. Sansa expected that it had something to do with the fact that despite having brothers, Arianne was set to inherit.
There were many strange customs in Dorne, but Sansa found she did not mind this one so much.
Sometimes she wondered what it would have meant if Myra became Lady of Winterfell instead.
At some point, Myrcella had finally stopped moving, her focus now on a large, yellow flower in the garden. She hummed as her finger gently stroked the petal.
It was a wonder she was related to Joffrey at all.
"You certainly seem happy here, my lady," Sansa noted, stirring the girl from her reverie.
Myrcella smiled sheepishly, as if caught in the wrong. "I am happy here, I guess. I...it's just so different from home. I don't have to worry about what I say here. Well, I do, but everyone is so kind and gracious here, not like in King's Landing. The words there could be so very cruel."
The girl took a seat beside her on the bench. It was still early in the morning, during one of their daily walks. Ser Arys, at this point, had relaxed enough to allow the two their alone time, though Sansa thought he seemed a little hurt by Myrcella's lack of attention toward him. He used to be one of her only allies. Now she was drawn to everyone equally, including the quiet Areo Hotah, who reserved a rare smile just for her.
"Try not to misunderstand, I do miss my family," she continued, stroking her hair. It was a bad habit Sansa had tried to rid her of, but for now she allowed it. "Tommen especially. Mother liked to pay the most attention to Joffrey, so it was mostly us. I understand why, he was the crown prince after all, but sometimes I...I wish there was more to us than that.
"I still love my big brother, in my own way, but after Father died, things just...changed."
Sansa could tell the girl's thoughts were heading somewhere unpleasant. Hers certainly had. She could hear the chanting of a wild crowd, and her cries above it all.
"Perhaps when the war is over, Prince Tommen could visit," Sansa suggested, trying to keep her voice light. "I'm certain he'd love it here, as would his kittens."
"He'd wind up going home with three more, and I haven't even seen any here," Myrcella replied, smiling again. "Do you miss your family, Alayne?"
"All the time," Sansa admitted, not needing to fabricate a story for once. The better lies contained the truth; the best lies weren't lies at all. "I wasn't the best toward any of them, and I'm not sure I'll get the chance to make it up to them."
"You will," Myrcella said, brimming with confidence. "I know it. When the war ends, I'll get to see my family, and you'll get to go home."
Something in her tone spoke volumes, and when Sansa met her green eyes, she knew Myrcella was far more aware of things than she let on.
That was what happened when everyone ignored you. You got to see everything, and they forgot you were even there for it.
Sansa opened her mouth to say something, though she was not sure what, when footsteps caught her attention. It could not have been the guards, she had memorized their patrols a long time ago, and it could not have been Ser Arys. Even in more agreeable armor, his steps were heavy and loud. She briefly thought Oberyn had decided to join them, because he was often up early as well.
What she did not expect was the man who actually turned the corner.
He gave a quick bow. "Princess Myrcella. Lady Sansa. Strange company for even stranger times. I do hope I'm not interrupting."
Sansa took a deep breath, attempting to quell the anger boiling over inside.
"Of course not, Lord Baelish."
Jaime
His head hurt. His leg hurt. His chest hurt. Everything was hurting, including his pride.
Seven hells, he'd actually managed to get captured again.
Sighing, he leaned back against the pole he had been tied to. His hands were bound behind his back and his neck had been chained to the damn thing as well, but at least they had granted him the small courtesy of a tent, though not privacy.
Some heavyset, nasty smelling Stark soldier sat in the corner by the tent entrance, his beady, little eyes constantly watching him. He never said anything and never moved; he would have ventured to call him dead – he certainly smelled that way – if it weren't for the occasional raspy cough.
Jaime had taken to calling him Bill.
Bill the Ill.
Bill the Swill?
Bill whom he was going to kill.
The man did not bother reacting when he tested the nicknames out loud, thoroughly killing his fun.
Outside, the angry mob, who he assumed wanted to kill him and stick his head on a pike for the vanguard, continued to piss and moan. They'd been out there for hours, grumbling about this and that. Apparently the boy he'd killed belonged to someone important, and they weren't taking it well. They ought to be thanking him really. Anyone who was killed that pathetically shouldn't stand to gain anything.
He was surprised they hadn't barged in and taken him already. It wouldn't be very hard, and what would Robb Stark do? Execute his men for killing the Kingslayer? He'd probably grant them all titles for a job well done.
The conversations died suddenly, and he heard the sound of shuffling feet. Someone important had arrived and scared them all off. Perhaps things were finally about to get interesting.
Two figures stepped inside moments later, one so monstrously tall that it could be none other than Brienne of Tarth, while the other was a red-headed woman whose grim, honorable nature practically rolled off of her in waves. It stank up the room worse than the soldier they'd just dismissed.
"Lady Catelyn," Jaime started, inclining his head. "I'd stand and offer you a seat, but it seems I've been rendered unable to. It's a shame, really."
"It's all a joke to you, isn't it, Kingslayer," Catelyn hissed, hovering over him. She seemed much older than when he saw her last in the Vale, though no less righteous. "You kill and you maim and then you laugh it off with your twisted words."
"Should I be bitter and grim like the lot of you?" he asked. "Has that ever gotten the Starks anywhere? Tell me, how many members of your house are you down now? Because I seem to recall-"
In hindsight, Jaime should have noticed the rock in Catelyn's hand, though he doubted that would have changed anything. He was always going to rub the woman the wrong way, and she was always going to hit him.
And seven hells, did she ever hit him.
The world was spinning, and the only reason he remained upright was because the ropes that bound him to the pole were tightly wound, though he hung limply from them. The taste of blood returned to his mouth. It had been there most the day already after the beating he had received from his captors.
Yet there was a smug grin on his face when he regained his senses. Catelyn Stark wasn't about to get any satisfaction from his suffering.
"They are dead because of you!" she shouted, her voice shrill with emotion as her shaking hands dropped the rock. Lurking in the corner, Brienne looked ready to skewer something. "Because of your sister, and the foul things you have done!"
"The Seven Kingdoms were at peace for over ten years. They were still at peace when I pushed your son from the tower." He paused then, watching the heartbreak wash over Catelyn's face. Some part of him relished it; some part of him was terribly disappointed with himself. "War only broke out when you, the morally upright Catelyn Stark, took my brother captive and nearly executed him without a proper trial."
Catelyn was silent, staring down at him with a mother's fury, but he knew his point held her tongue. The Starks weren't so different from Lannisters in that regard: they hated to be proven wrong, especially from the other.
Jaime took advantage of the gap. "What? No words for that? Is this the first time someone around here actually gathered the nerve to tell you the truth? Because let me tell you, they all think it, even your brute back there. Where would we all be if Catelyn Stark had just gone home?"
Brienne stepped forward. "You do not speak for me, Kingslayer."
Catelyn held up a hand, keeping her beast at bay. Her eyes were suddenly cooler now, composed, and if he were the worrying kind, Jaime would think to be nervous.
"I'd kill you now, Kingslayer, and have your body tossed in a shallow grave to never be found. Your name does not deserve the glory your family would give it back in King's Landing."
It was strange, the things he actually agreed with her on.
"But you're our hostage now," she continued. "Even a man such as yourself has value."
She turned away then, and that really should have been it, but Jaime would not have been the man everyone had come to see him as if he didn't try to get one last word in.
"You ought to be thanking me, you know," he called out, though Catelyn did not stop. "If it weren't for me, Myra would be in the same position I'm in now."
Had she not already disposed of the rock, Jaime was certain she'd have thrown it at him.
"You do not mention her!" Catelyn shouted, whirling about on him. "You do not speak my daughter's name!"
"It really must hurt you, knowing that it was dear old Ned who sent your daughter to Dragonstone, while the dreaded Kingslayer had to be the one to rescue her. Seems to me I've done more for your family recently than either one of you."
"You were only keeping her safe for your family to use against us. Don't pretend otherwise."
"I saved her from my family."
He'd made a mistake, and could see it very clearly from the looks that crossed the faces of both women in the tent. Jaime didn't know if they were going to ask, because why would they want to know about what good things he had done, why would they wish to acknowledge that he had saved one of their own at no benefit to himself? It was a concept they couldn't wrap their tiny minds around, and he wasn't about to give them the opportunity to try.
"You should get some sleep, Lady Stark," Jaime mumbled, his voice rather pathetic. "Beating up broken prisoners takes a lot out of you."
Though she did not say anything more, Catelyn remained longer than he wished her to, staring down at him with far too inquisitive eyes. Only when it started to become overwhelmingly uncomfortable did she finally leave, Brienne trailing after her with a final glance his way.
Jaime was suddenly thankful for Bill's silent presence.
He slept fitfully at some point. His head would rest against the pole, only to roll off when his mind drifted, at which point the collar would catch his neck and attempt to choke the life from him. He made the most outrageous sound every time he woke from that, and still his prison guard did not make a peep.
It was during one of those in between moments, when he'd finally relaxed and thought that maybe this time he could get some decent sleep, that he heard voices outside. Soft and feminine, he could track them walking around the tent, deep in discussion.
"It's impressive what you were able to do for him without the supplies," an unfamiliar voice spoke. "Unfortunately, the wounds have only been aggravated by his capture, but we'll do what we can."
"Why are you bringing me to him?"
Myra.
"My brother and mother would not want me within a thousand leagues of this tent."
He heard them stop. "When your brother first found me, I was removing the leg from a Lannister soldier. Since I'm from Volantis, Stark, Baratheon, Lannister, the house names mean nothing to me, only the people. And I can tell that you needed to see him."
"Thank you."
He heard them enter, listened as the other woman spoke quietly to his guard and left the tent with him, and waited; he knew she was standing there, could hear the shuffle of her dress every now and again, but something was keeping her from speaking.
When he opened his eyes, she was staring at him, covered in thick furs and newly washed.
Lucky her.
"It's not quite Casterly Rock, but I suppose it'll keep me dry at least," Jaime spoke, not in the mood to indulge her sad, gray eyes. He wasn't in the mood for much of anything. "Well, unless they want to drag me out when it rains. War can be awfully boring and they'll need some form of entertainment."
Myra blinked, but kept silent. She didn't seem bothered by his comments or saddened. In fact, aside from pursing her lips slightly, she barely acknowledged the words. He'd traded one mute for another.
It only made him angry.
"Your mother came for a visit earlier. That would be the gash on the right side of my head, or is it the left? It's so hard to keep things straight when someone is beating your head in with a rock."
Still nothing.
"You know, I'm curious that you came at all. You've got everything you wanted. You're back with your family, so why even bother with a Lannister? We're the enemy after all, and you're nothing more than a..."
Seven hells, he couldn't even bring himself to say it. She knew him; she knew why he was doing this, and she would sit there silently taking it all until he finished, no matter how hard he tried to hurt her.
It would have been easier if she had just stayed away.
"Alright," he sighed. "I'm done."
Myra was at his side in an instant. She'd brought a small bucket and some cloth, and placed them beside her as she began to examine the gashes on his head.
"I'm sorry," she murmured, over and over. "I'm so sorry."
"Don't be," he replied, hissing as her fingers ran too close to the wound. "You tried to give me a head start. I'm just terrible at running away."
Despite everything, he saw a smile tug at the corner of her mouth. "Well, at least you can admit it."
"It's not good to kick a man while he's down, you know."
"I learn by example, Jaime Lannister, and guess who I've spent far too much time with."
He held back an unsavory retort as Myra tossed off her cloak and rolled up her sleeves. She grabbed the cloth and dipped it in the water, wringing it out as she looked around the space. Admittedly, he hadn't bothered looking at most of it. There was a chest – probably empty – and a table with a chair, lit by a single candle. The thought that some fine lord had to vacate the tent for him brought some amusement at least.
"It's freezing in here," she continued. "Are you warm enough?"
"Hadn't really noticed."
Myra cupped his face in her hand and, in his state, he could not help but lean into it. Her hand was warm and gentle, and reminded him of something he'd forgotten.
With a look of utter concentration on her face, Myra began to clean the dried blood off his cheeks and forehead, gently tapping around bruises and under his eyes. He watched her all the while, noting how her gray eyes would flit to his every now and again. Despite the cold, she was not trembling, and did not appear nervous to touch him as she did. He supposed after everything she had done, cleaning a little blood was child's play.
"My mother should not have hit you," she mumbled, turning his head over to the other side.
"We both know I deserve it."
Her eyes met his again, only this time they stayed. He could see how torn she was on the subject. After all, in that cabin, she had practically forgiven him, but she was not her mother, she was not her brother. One person could not change the mind of all the Seven Kingdoms. They were no longer on their own anymore, and had to start acting like it.
"Maybe," she finally admitted, turning back to her work. "But you're a...captive now. There are rules, and we must be held to a higher standard."
Jaime couldn't help but chuckle. "This is war, Myra. Morality has no place here."
"It has to. It will," Myra objected, that Northern stubbornness of hers rearing its head. He'd forgotten how much she liked to see the good side of things. "I'm going to fix this, Jaime."
"You can't."
"Why? Because you're a Lannister and I'm a Stark? If that were true, Jaime, you would have let me die at that inn."
"Never."
He hadn't meant to say that either, but here he was, facing down Myra Stark and her heartbreaking eyes as he told her the truth.
"Vow or not, I would have saved you."
Because she wasn't just a Stark.
She was Myra.
The woman before him sighed, her smile sad. She placed both hands on his face, holding him gently. Jaime felt his hands pull against the ropes, but they would not give way.
"Then I can do no less," she said, leaning forward. Her forehead rested against his, and Jaime heard himself sigh.
"You nearly died in my arms, Jaime Lannister," she whispered, voice shaking. "I cannot sit back and allow you to die at the hands of my family."