Oberyn
He remembered the first time he'd laid eyes on a rat. It was a twitchy, disgusting little thing that snuck around the kitchens and put its paws on everything it could see. Every now and again, it would make a soft squeak, enough to garner the attention of those nearby, before it disappeared again. Even though he could no longer see it, Oberyn had known it was still there, watching and waiting.
He also remembered watching a viper catch and consume the creature.
The image of that pathetic animal's death spasms was the driving force behind the smile Oberyn flashed at Petyr Baelish, the king's Master of Coin, and general annoyance to the Seven Kingdoms.
Well, that and the rough handling Areo Hotah was giving the man. No one moved about the Water Gardens without his knowledge or permission. Indeed, Littlefinger was fortunate he hadn't been presented to them skewered on the end of a spear.
There was still time, however.
"Lord Baelish," Doran began, his voice that curious mix of politeness and venom. He was seated in a chair by his writing desk, quill at the ready for whatever he needed to do to counter this interruption. "I'd welcome you to Dorne, but it seems you wished to skip the pleasantries."
"Forgive me, Prince Doran, but I-"
Littlefinger's presumably well-polished apology was cut off as Areo retreated further into the room, his shoulder bumping against the man, causing him to stumble forward. It was a small doorway, and his brother's guard was a large man. These things happened.
Clearing his throat, he continued. "As I was saying, Prince Doran, I do apologize for my perceived lack of courtesy but-"
"Perceived?" Oberyn echoed. He sat up from his reclining position on the couch and leveled a hard glare at Littlefinger. "This is not King's Landing, Lord Baelish. It is not even Sunspear. These are the Water Gardens, our family's sanctuary. No one arrives without invitation, and no one leaves without permission. So tell me, what do you perceive your unwelcome presence as?"
The man did not answer immediately. He only watched him, and Oberyn could see his mind at work behind those beady eyes. His lips quirked briefly before he set back to Doran.
Oberyn was not a man easily intimidated, but he knew when to be wary. When a scholar smiles at the threat of violence, one must keep their guard up.
"A precaution," was the calculated answer Littlefinger gave his brother. "You have someone that I was seeking out, and I preferred to find them before anyone had the chance to whisk them away."
"That is a bold statement," Doran replied, leaning back in his chair. He'd let go of the quill, and was eying Littlefinger much in the same way the man had done to Oberyn earlier.
"I find that when you're in a room full of people who would prefer you dead, lying does not help your position."
"What do you want, Lord Baelish?" Doran asked, clearly unable to stomach dancing around the subject any longer. In King's Landing, it might have lasted for days. Being direct seemed to be a lost art.
Sensing the conversation turn in the direction he wanted, Littlefinger took the opportunity to approach his brother's desk. "A simple trade is all I ask. Release Sansa Stark into my custody, and I speak nothing of her presence here."
"I did not take you for one who enjoyed little girls," Oberyn said. His tone was light, but his eyes had narrowed. Anyone who knew anything about him could see he had grown taut, coiled for the strike. There were few things that could get directly under his skin and immediately make his blood boil, but he had many daughters, and the thought of anyone touching them in their youth was perhaps the worst. "Why else could you possibly want her?"
Littlefinger met his gaze. "What difference does it make to you, Prince Oberyn? She is no less a pawn here than she would be in King's Landing, or in my care."
"The difference is I know what we are capable of, Lord Baelish. We do not harm little girls here in Dorne. You, on the other hand...what sorts of foul things have you committed?"
"Not much, I'm afraid. The Master of Coin is as boring a life as it sounds."
Quite the bold lie. Everyone knew there was more than one Master of Whisperers in King's Landing.
"Did you say the same to Ned Stark?"
Littlefinger narrowed his eyes, but said nothing.
"Ah, no perfectly crafted response? You are losing your touch."
"Enough, Oberyn," Doran eventually spoke, waving his hand. He was surprised he ended it so soon. Oberyn could have played this game for hours, wearing Littlefinger down until he gave them what they wanted. "I will ignore the fact that you are threatening my family in our home, which is cause enough for me to have you killed and cast out into the sands, which my brother will gladly carry out without hesitation."
Oberyn flashed Littlefinger another toothy smile.
"If," Doran continued, "you tell me why Tywin Lannister would care why Sansa Stark is here. Yes, he will be angry, and yes, his pride will be wounded, but this is Dorne, where every man, woman, and child is taught to fight for their home to their dying breath. He cannot hope to invade us under these circumstances, especially when we have his granddaughter in our care."
"And here I thought you did not harm little girls," Littlefinger replied, grin smug as he glanced over at Oberyn. "Be that as it may, Sansa Stark is the key to the North. Her brother will be dealt with; her sister will most likely follow her twin even into death, and that leaves Dorne with the only Stark left in this world. Risky or not, Tywin Lannister will not allow you that kind of power."
Doran watched Littlefinger, considering everything he had said.
"Leave us."
The Master of Coin did not have a spare moment to counter Doran's order as Areo Hotah swooped in, quick and quiet despite his size, and escorted him out of the room, closing the door swiftly behind him so the two brothers could be in peace.
"What do you think?"
Oberyn stood, grabbing his goblet and draining the wine that was left. "I think he is full of shit."
Doran hummed, clearly not in agreement. "And if he is not?"
"Then let them come!" Oberyn shouted, tossing his goblet across the room. "For far too long, we have been waiting to destroy Tywin Lannister. I will not wait until I am too old and useless to see our revenge through."
His older brother gave him a look, the kind that said even he was treading on dangerous ground.
"We have a plan."
"Viserys Targaryen is dead, Brother, and his sister is lost to us! This is no longer the time for plans! We must take action!"
"I am not yours to command, Oberyn!" Doran shouted, hands gripping his chair tightly. He took a deep breath afterward, leaning against one of the armrests as Oberyn settled down, watching quietly like a child scorned. "I will not suffer the loss of hundreds to satiate our bloodlust. Perhaps it is time to cease this foolishness, and send the girl back to where she belongs."
"That is not King's Landing."
Now Doran was giving him a look, one that made him feel like a foolish little boy again, years ago when Elia's laughter could still be heard in the corridors.
"Now you care for the Stark girl, Brother? Do you see her as one of your own, as someone that we should risk our country for?"
"I see her as someone who will not survive the instant she sets foot outside of these borders," Oberyn replied, pointing an accusing finger at his brother. "We will be sending her to her death, and that will be on us. Are we not better than them, Doran?"
"Sometimes I wonder if we are not," his brother admitted, leaning back in his chair. "Perhaps it does not matter. Lord Baelish arriving here has already started something. It may already be too late to walk away from this."
Sansa
They would not let her inside, and it made her angry.
Three men were sitting in a little room not fifty feet away, talking and determining her future, and for some reason she was not allowed to be there, not even to listen much less speak up for herself.
Here, she had thought she could finally place her life into her own hands again, but maybe she was wrong. Maybe she really was still as ignorant as that little girl who fled Winterfell for the capital.
Sansa sat there for nearly an hour, straining to hear anything from the room, but she was too far away and the walls of the Water Gardens were too thick. Unlike in the Red Keep, conversation did not echo so loudly here. She had to wonder if it had been built with that in mind.
Footsteps caught her attention, and Sansa turned to Littlefinger walking her way again.
She stood abruptly, ready to flee, but the man held up his hands.
"I'm not here to hurt you, Sansa. I would never do that to you."
"And why not?" she asked, chin raised. "You didn't lift a finger to help my father."
"Your father was beyond saving. Cersei Lannister was going to have his head from the moment he found out the truth."
"An honorable man would have helped him."
"Honorable men die, Sansa, and I much prefer living, don't you?"
He sat down at the bench she just vacated, gesturing that she sit next to him. She considered for a moment, then decided to accept, if only to not make a scene. The less who overheard, the better.
"And does living require that you insult my sister as well?" she asked after a while, thinking back to all the foul rumors she had heard involving Myra and Robert.
Littlefinger almost had a pained expression on his face. She wondered if acting was a good trait of his.
"I admit, it was not one of my prouder moments, but the Queen wanted a test of loyalty, and I knew that your sister had been a thorn in her side ever since King Robert laid his eyes on her."
"Yet I presume you're here without the Queen's knowledge."
Littlefinger chuckled. The sound made her skin crawl.
"You are more clever than you appear, Sansa, but you have a lot to learn. Queen Cersei does in fact know that I am here, though the purpose is different from what I led her to believe."
The better lies contained the truth. She knew that well enough.
"And what is your purpose, Lord Baelish?"
He looked her in the eyes then, and she thought then that he believed himself a savior to her, or at least to play that role. Did he truly think she would fall for it, after all this time?
"I am here to take you to the Vale."
Sansa blinked. "The Vale? Why?"
"I am to court and hopefully wed your Aunt Lysa. If you come with me, you'll be closer to home than you've ever been, and when the time is right, I can see you returned to your family."
She felt her eyes narrow. Yes, she'd heard those lovely words enough over the past year.
"The time is never right, Lord Baelish. Tell me, what is to keep you from never letting me leave?"
Littlefinger shrugged. "I imagine Lysa would like to see her lovely niece returned to her sister. And I care very much for your mother, Sansa. I would not let her remain apart from you for long. However, your brother's war camp travels frequently, and I'd prefer to not get the Vale entangled in the war any more than it already is."
Sansa shrugged. "Then just send me to Winterfell."
"I can't imagine you'd fair well in smoldering ruins. After what Theon Greyjoy did, I'm not sure how long it will take to rebuild, with both the war and winter approaching after all."
The peace of the Water Gardens suddenly ceased. It somehow grew quieter and yet all at once it felt like something was screaming at her.
"What did you say?"
For once, Sansa imagined that the look of sympathy on Littlefinger's face wasn't completely disingenuous. His hand reached out and touched her, and she was too shocked to snatch it away.
"Sansa, have they not told you about your brothers?"
Myra
It took two days for the quiet discontent around Jaime Lannister still possessing his life to turn into a roar. Men protested, loudly, demanding his head be removed and returned to his bastard son as retribution for Lord Eddard. Others suggested far crueler forms of punishment. Once, she would have been horrified by their words, but now she saw only desperate men, and desperation was the death of sanity.
Their anger was only fueled by the fact that Jaime had cut the throat of one of Lord Karstark's sons in his attempt to flee. It was Karstark men who first burst into the tent he was being held in, but unbeknownst to them, Robb had moved his prisoner in the dead of night to a secret location known only to a few. What those men found instead was the Greajon himself with two of his most trusted captains.
They were in chains in one hour, and hanging from the noose in the next.
Despite her mother's initial protestations, Myra chose to witness the executions. This got her somber looks of approval from her brother's bannermen, but she did not do it to keep up appearances. Somewhere, deep inside, she felt partially at fault for their deaths. It had been their decision, but if Jaime had not been in camp to begin with, nothing would have happened. Her brother's men were dying because she did not let him leave sooner.
Never mind that Torrhen Karstark had been killed by the dagger she had given to Jaime.
She continued to watch the bodies as they swayed lifelessly in the breeze, until men arrived to cut them down, tossing their bodies carelessly into a cart.
"Bury them well," Myra spoke, watching the men turn to her with confused looks. "Their debt is paid."
She left to the sound of 'my ladys,' wondering when that had become so unfamiliar to her.
Brenna at her side, Myra began to make her way to the command tent. The going was slow. Recent rains mixed with the constant movement of soldiers had left the ground as little more than deep muck. Her new, thick dress was ruined at the bottom, as was her cloak, but it did not matter much to her. Underneath the layers, she wore riding breeches and a sturdy pair of boots.
The men were arguing inside, namely Robb and what sounded like Lord Karstark. As far as anyone could tell, he had been ignorant of his men's intentions, but it was obvious to all that he was still disappointed by their failure to carry them out.
Every now and again, the Greatjon's booming voice prevailed over all, quickly followed by the mellow tones of Lord Bolton. It was not hard to guess at what they were shouting about, and Myra would bet that Lord Karstark was not one of the privileged few who knew where Jaime was.
Then again, neither was she.
She chose to remain outside, standing silently with the guard, until the meeting concluded; she hadn't been privy to any as of yet, either as a courtesy for her recovery or, more likely, because she would be as useful as a child at the war table. While she did not consider it insulting to not be inside, she supposed that really even as heir she had no place within, Myra felt it was odd. All their lives, she and Robb had faced problems together, and now...
Well, now they weren't.
As she waited her turn, Myra took to watching the men wander about the camp. The hangings had certainly quieted them, but the air was practically buzzing, thick with the possibility of something else. One wrong move, a man too drunk, and something was bound to happen.
This was not what she expected from an army that had yet to lose a battle.
Then again, they'd lost other things.
Myra watched Talisa in the distance. She was chatting with a couple wounded soldiers and looking over their bandages, seeming most comfortable amongst the blood and infection.
It was not that Myra did not like her. In fact, she believed that Talisa was wonderful. She was caring, smart, uncompromising, and clearly more than a match for her brother's stubbornness. It did not take much to imagine how often they must have argued before they got it into their heads that they were doing it just to be around one another more. She figured her brother fell first – because it would be him – and Talisa could only resist for so long. It was a terribly adorable idea, but at what cost?
The Frey army was gone, their access to the Crossing, if not gone, had at least increased in price considerably, all but cutting them off from the North, and the men were left with nothing but a solitary woman in return, a woman who was not even from Westeros, with no title or lands to give.
Gods, she loved her brother, but he was a damned fool.
A trait, she realized, that was far more common in her family than she initially thought.
The voices reached a crescendo, and Myra could not help but turn in their direction. She wondered if her brother needed her help, although she supposed that would not be very kingly.
"It never used to be so loud," her mother spoke, approaching the tent with Brienne behind her. Brenna made a noise and accepted a quick scratch on the head. "There was once boisterous laughter, although it was mostly Lord Umber. War changes everything."
So it did.
"Did he tell you he was going to marry her?" Myra asked, looking back to her mother. "Did he ask what you thought of it?"
Catelyn gave the guard a look and took her daughter in arm, walking away from the area. They strolled past tables set up for meals where dozens of squires sat sharpening swords and cleaning armor, as well as soldiers who did not have such a luxury.
"He did," her mother admitted after a while. "And I told him what any good mother would: not to go through with it. He'd made a pact with Walder Frey, and he had to uphold it."
"But he didn't."
"But he didn't," Catelyn echoed, patting her hand. "We may be at war, but the two of you are still young and inexperienced. Love can be a difficult thing for anyone, especially when you don't know what tomorrow brings.
"All we can do now is support him. In the wrong or not, Robb is still king, and he needs all the help he can get."
They looped back around to find men dispersing from the command tent. Lord Karstark was furiously marching away while casually being followed by Lord Bolton. Myra imagined that the meeting did not end as her brother wanted.
Robb did not look up when Myra and Catelyn entered the tent. His focus was on the war table before him, his hands resting flat on the surface while his chair lay toppled over behind him. The pieces that had once been strategically placed across the map were scattered across the surface, while some had made it to the ground. Another chair rested some feet away, one of the legs snapped in two.
Mother and daughter looked to one another, neither willing to ask the obvious. Instead, they waited on Robb.
"Lord Karstark is demanding reparation for the deaths of his men."
Catelyn scoffed. "Reparation? His men went against your orders and attempted to kill a prisoner. Their end was justified."
That did not seem to comfort Robb. "He also wants justice for his son. We have his murderer after all, and there's little use for him otherwise."
Myra felt her heart sink, and a deep cold envelope her despite the furs she now wore.
"Little use?" she echoed, disbelief painfully apparent to all. "That man is Jaime Lannister."
"Aye, he is," Robb replied, finally standing straight. "And his father will never give a ransom for him, or accept any terms. They have nothing to trade for, no hostages of their own. The only thing we risk by keeping him alive is the chance that he'll escape."
There was a pounding in her head, pulsing at the edges of her eyes. She felt as if the walls of the tent were closing in around her. Here it was, the greatest fear she had, and Robb was speaking about it as casually as he would describing his swordsmanship.
"Robb," she started, putting her hands on the table, if only to keep the space from spinning. "If you execute him, the Rains of Castamere will pale in comparison to what Tywin Lannister does to us."
"She's right," her mother, surprisingly, agreed. Myra looked up at her, relieved, but she did not trust the look Catelyn was giving her. "If Jaime Lannister dies, this war will continue until one side has utterly consumed the other. With him alive, there is a chance to end this, once we've won a few more battles and shown Lord Tywin that-"
"But we aren't winning battles, are we?" Robb countered, giving his mother a hard look. "Lannister forces are refusing to meet us in the field, and Lord Tywin is back in King's Landing, commanding his army from a comfy chair as if this war no longer matters."
"It will matter if his son dies."
"Aye, it will," Robb replied, his voice dangerously low. Myra had never seen her brother look so threatening. "He'll come at us full tilt, and we'll cleave his army in two. You told me, Mother, that we would kill them all, and that is precisely what I mean to do."
"Robb, you don't have the men."
"We'll get the men. In the meantime, we won't lose any more over him. It'll pacify the troops, and bring justice for Lord Karstark and for us."
Myra couldn't breathe. Was the ground still beneath her feet?
"Robb, please, don't do this. You're better than this."
Her brother looked at her, and she couldn't help but feel that he did not recognize the woman before him.
"Better than what, Myra? I just executed my own men for committing a crime, and Jaime Lannister has done more than they ever will. He tried to kill Bran, he betrayed King Robert by sleeping with his own sister and fathering her bastards , and now he has murdered the son of one of my bannermen."
"But he saved me!"
Those four words gave both her brother and mother pause. They looked at her, disbelief evident on their faces. It seemed as if she had just slapped them.
Robb took a breath. "Myra, I know you look to see the best in everyone, and I know you've been with him for a long time, but anything he did, it was in the best interest of his family. Had you fallen into the hands of the Lannisters, they could have used you as a hostage against us."
Gods, how she wanted to scream. This was her twin, and he should know her better than anyone. He ought to know that she would not carelessly throw her allegiance behind anyone, especially over Bran; he ought to know that while she saw the good, she also saw the bad. Instead, he was thinking her ignorant to it all, a girl who did not know the consequences of war, and it angered her.
"They already had the chance to," she replied, her voice low this time. She gripped the edges of the table, and quieted the pounding in her mind.
"What do you mean, Myra?" she heard her mother ask.
She sighed. "We came upon an inn some weeks ago. Inside were men who had been sent by Queen Cersei to find her brother, and they'd also been ordered to kill me."
Myra heard her mother gasp, and felt the table shake as Robb punched it.
"Instead, Jaime killed them," Myra continued, looking her brother in the eye. "And sacrificed his chance at safely returning to King's Landing. He chose me over his family. So, I am asking you, Brother, to spare him, one life for another."
Robb stared her down a long time, perhaps looking for a lie, but he knew she was dreadful at it. Every Stark child was terrible at lying. It was in their blood. Still, the words must have seemed foreign to him, a Lannister doing something for a Stark, but he had to believe her. He was her twin; he knew her.
Unfortunately, she also knew him, and she could see herself losing the battle in his blue eyes.
"Whether or not he did you a kindness, Myra, Jaime Lannister is one man. I'll not see my army torn to pieces for him nor will I see him escape justice for you. I'm sorry, but this must be done."
He wasn't sorry. It was a formality, and she knew it. What man would apologize for executing the Kingslayer? He only regretted that she did not understand.
She did understand though, more than he realized.
But she could not let him go through with it.
"We'll wait a few days," he added after a while, looking to Catelyn. "Executing him just after we hanged the men who wished to do the same would be a bigger slap in the face to Lord Karstark and his men. Mother, I'd like for you to go see him. I doubt he wants to look at my face right now, and frankly, I don't want to look at his."
Their mother nodded. Out of the corner of her eye, Myra saw her looking over, but she did not want to meet her gaze. Her disagreement with Robb had been brief.
All we can do is support him, that was what she said. Because he was the king, not the oldest daughter. Her words did not matter.
When Catelyn left, the two stood silently across from one another. She could not have felt further from her brother if she was back in Dragonstone.
"Myra..." he started, though his voice trailed off quickly.
She met his blue eyes. "Robb, please..."
"I can't. I won't."
A messenger entered the tent then, and Myra turned away from her brother, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. While he was distracted, she snuck outside, moving quickly into the sea of tents so that he could not follow her.
When night fell, Myra blew out all the candles in her tent. She waited for a couple hours, listening as the sounds of the camp began to die down. Singing turned to snoring, and marching became the occasional set of footsteps.
She removed her dress, and replaced it with a shirt and jacket beneath her cloak. Grabbing a skin, a pack, and her dagger, she made her way to the entrance and slowly peaked outside.
A few guards were scattered about the area, but it was dark and beginning to rain again. Soon, her footsteps would be muffled by the sound of droplets splashing against the mud.
Beside her, Brenna whined softly, and Myra grabbed her fur.
"Can you find him for me?"
Brenna snorted.
Good enough for her.
Quietly, Myra and her direwolf snuck out into the night.
However, in her haste to find Jaime, Myra missed the blonde-haired woman watching her from a distance.
Jaime
There was water dripping on his head.
Did they know there was a hole precisely where they had tied him, or was this some divine justice or whatever the fucking priests of the Seven liked to say. Perhaps one of the guards poked the hole afterward, reveling at the idea of a wet and angry Kingslayer.
Cunts, all of them.
Jaime attempted to roll his head away from the water, but as soon as his scalp was clear of the dripping, his neck was pinched painfully against the collar. His head moved back into place, but honestly the dripping was becoming so enraging, he was thinking of opting for the pain.
Pain he knew; pain was something he could get through.
But this waiting...
He knew they all wanted him dead. The men who'd dragged him away in the middle of the night to this new spot had grumbled about it enough. No one wanted to defend him; no one wanted to draw steel against his brother to protect the likes of the Kingslayer.
Word had gotten to him about the men who'd been hanged trying to find him. His guard had given him a look then, one some might describe as chilling. Jaime had had half a mind to taunt him, but he reconsidered. For once, he thought, discipline might not actually win out. He might actually get a sword in the gut for it.
If he was going to die, he'd prefer they take his head rather than letting him bleed out like some stuck pig.
Voices caught his attention.
Jaime drew his legs in, ready to lash out at whomever was coming. If they wanted to take the cowardly way and kill him while he was in chains, they wouldn't get an easy fight.
Two figures stumbled through the opening. One was clearly his guard, disoriented and mumbling something about how hard he worked and how no one took him seriously, and the other was Myra, her arm linked in his as she desperately attempted to keep him upright.
"Perhaps you ought to sit," she suggested.
"No, no, I'm fine," the man replied, as he proceeded to fall flat on his ass. "Just...just need...to walk around a bit."
Myra kneeled next to him, lifting the helmet from his head. "Sorry about this."
A light tap against his chest was all it took for the guard to fall on his back, snoring before he even hit the ground. Myra began to pat down his armor until her hand emerged triumphantly with a set of keys.
"What are you doing?" Jaime hissed as she ran to his side, fidgeting with the bindings around his hands. "And how did you...did you poison him?"
"It's just a little milk of the poppy," Myra replied, keeping her voice low. He could feel her hands straining against the bindings, and then the sweet relief as they came loose. "He'll be fine."
Jaime flexed his hands as Myra set to work on the collar on his neck. His eyes glanced at the determined expression on her face, and noted how her hands were shaking far more than they should.
He grabbed her hand. "Myra, what are you doing?"
"I was wrong, Jaime. I can't protect you. I'm not you," she replied, swatting it away. He remembered her saying the same once before. "I'm not the firstborn son; I'm not some knight that men have come to fear and respect. I'm just...me, and no one listens to the likes of me."
The collar clicked and the pressure against his neck disappeared. Jaime sighed, removing the damned thing and running his hands over the area. The spots were tender, but the skin had yet to break.
Myra offered a hand and helped him stand up. His leg was still sore, but it was better than it had been. He could stand on his own at least.
Until the woman practically jumped onto him, wrapping her arms around his neck and knocking him backward. He struggled to remain upright briefly, and thought to say something until he felt just how badly she was shaking against him.
"My brother looked me in the eye and told me he was going to execute you, even after everything I said," she said, her voice rumbling just beneath his ear. She sounded on the verge of tears, and Jaime felt his arms slowly close around her. "He says if you die, your father will finally meet him on the battlefield, and then he can defeat him."
"It's a sound strategy," Jaime admitted.
Really, if it didn't involve killing him, his father might actually respect the plan.
"Shut up, Jaime," Myra replied, pulling back. Her gray eyes were glossy, but he could see the barest hint of smile on her face. "It's not going to happen because you'll be gone before sunrise."
Myra moved away from him then, but Jaime reached out and grabbed her hand.
"This is treason," he said.
"I don't care."
He released her hand then, and she began to remove her cloak.
She didn't care. Myra Stark was betraying not only the man she called king, but her brother, her twin, the family she'd known and loved her entire life.
For him.
She was risking everything for him.
What did she leave you with, Jaime?
He remembered that question, asked by the very woman before him right before everything fell apart. And he remembered a reply, late in the night and while riddled with fever. He'd admitted to Myra the one thing he had been too afraid to speak out loud otherwise.
"Nothing," he whispered, the words painful and relieving all at once. "I told you she left me with nothing."
That look was back on her face, the sad one from the forest that had confused him.
"I'm not her either, Jaime," she replied, handing over her cloak. "Put this on, and the helmet too. Hopefully that's enough to pass you off as a soldier until we get to the edge of camp."
Dressed in his disguise – perhaps that was why Starks were always so somber, because they were being crushed under their bloody cloaks – Jaime slowly followed Myra out of the tent. Her direwolf joined them as they weaved their way through the camp. They tried to stick to the quietest of areas, walking as casually as they could to avoid suspicion, as well as to keep him from limping too much.
Brenna served as a lookout, smelling approaching soldiers before they could see them and calmly guiding the two to another area of the camp.
Though they could see the edge of it, they were constantly forced to turn away.
At one point, a patrol returned late, forcing Jaime and Myra to wait between two tents filled with snoring Northmen. In the darkness and the light rain, the patrol would never see them so long as they did not move, but that was not enough to comfort either one of them.
Without her cloak, Myra was shivering in the rain, and he could see her breath coming out in rapid puffs.
Jaime grabbed her hand, and slowly pulled her toward him, warming her as best he could.
"You should go," he whispered.
"No," was the solid reply he received.
They continued once the patrol passed by, following Brenna once again. Myra's hand never left his.
The last leg of the journey took them by the horse corrals, and beyond that, at least one hundred yards of open fields.
Brenna distracted the guards well enough, merely having to stand by them in order to unsettle them, while Myra coaxed a sturdy warhorse out into the field with them. It wouldn't have a saddle, but Jaime wasn't about to complain.
As they continued into the field, the rain turned into a downpour, soaking even Jaime through.
When they reached the tree line, Jaime discarded the helmet and attempted to remove the cloak.
"No, keep it," Myra insisted, instead handing him the pack she had been carrying. He'd already taken a sword off his guard. "You're going to need it."
"You're freezing," Jaime countered lamely.
Her lips quirked at that. "I'm from the North. I'm not allowed to die from the cold."
A moment of silence passed between them.
"You need to head south. I saw my brother's map. It should take you close enough to Harrenhal. If your father's forces aren't still there, you'll at least be able to reach the Kingsroad."
"Thank you," Jaime replied, taking a step toward her. He wasn't good at gratitude, and those two words were pathetic in the face of everything she was risking for him. Some utterly foolish of him was tempted to ask her to come with, but that was a ridiculous notion. Her brother wouldn't kill her for what she was doing, and being hated but with them might have been better than nothing at all.
So, he thought of something else.
"And I-"
"Don't move, Kingslayer."
Before Jaime could even fully turn around and face the brute of a woman attached to that voice, Myra slipped around and stood in front of him. Her shivering was gone, replaced again with that righteous fury of hers as she faced down both Brienne of Tarth and Catelyn Stark.
Brienne's sword had been drawn, though she lowered it now.
"Myra, what are you doing?" Catelyn asked, sounding both concerned and furious, a curious trait mothers seemed to have.
"Saving him."
"He is a Lannister. What his family has done-"
"Is not what he has done," Myra countered. He could hear the emotion in her voice, shaking every syllable. "He didn't kill Father, he didn't touch my sisters, he hasn't even fought in this war."
"He almost killed Bran!"
"I don't care!"
The silence that followed could have been cut clean in two by the sword he carried.
Jaime watched the weight of her daughter's words fall on Catelyn Stark, watched whatever youth she maintained melt away in the face of bitter betrayal. He even felt for her, in his own way; he couldn't imagine hearing those words from family.
"Bran is dead," Myra spat. She was crying now. "He's not coming back, and killing Jaime won't change that. But I am still here because of him. He saved me from his family, from Stannis, from Robert Baratheon, and I will not repay that debt with his blood."
Catelyn could only stare, the words seeming to have no effect on her.
Then she looked up at him. "What have you done to my daughter?"
Nothing good.
"Look at me, Mother!" Myra shouted. "He's not done anything to me. I'm not a child living in some fantasy. I've made this decision on my own, and I know the consequences. If you want to take him back, you'd better throw me in chains too."
Jaime took a deep breath, and strangely met Brienne's eyes. They shared a look, and briefly, he thought they might have understood one another. Neither wanted her to do this.
Catelyn was silent a while, staring at her hands, before she nodded slowly.
"Let me speak with him."
Myra did not move. In fact, she only stepped closer to Jaime.
Her mother shook her head. "I'm not going to stab him, even if it's what he deserves. I just need a word with him. Alone."
"It's alright," Jaime murmured, stepping away from Myra. He followed Catelyn some feet away, vaguely aware of Brienne closing the gap between herself and Myra. He briefly wondered if Catelyn hadn't been lying, that she really would try to stab him and Brienne would keep her daughter from running to his aide.
At this point, he wouldn't put it past Lady Stark.
Instead, when they came to a stop, Catelyn slapped him across the face. The thwack echoed loudly through the trees.
"First, you push my son from the tower and now you've turned my daughter against me? Did you touch her? Have you ruined her?"
Jaime almost laughed. "Are you suggesting she wants to free me because I fucked her?"
He caught Catelyn's wrist this time.
"Don't hit me again," Jaime warned, letting her go. "I haven't done anything to your daughter, apart from what she's said. Her honor is intact, if that's all that really matters to you."
"Don't twist my words against me, Kingslayer," Catelyn hissed. "The moment you entered our lives, you've brought nothing but ruin to us. Now you're going to tear this family apart even more."
Catelyn paused. "She told me you saved her from thugs your sister hired to kill her. Is that what you meant the other day, when you told me you saved her from your family?"
Jaime took a breath, sparing a glance in Myra's direction. She was saying something to Brienne.
"Yes."
He heard Catelyn sigh.
"You deserve to die, Jaime Lannister, make no mistake about that," she started, sounding as if every word pained her. "But if I let you, I'll lose her forever, and I am not losing another child to this forsaken war. You will ride away from here, you will go back to King's Landing, and if the gods are good, you will never see my daughter again. And one day, she will forget about you."
This time he did chuckle.
"You don't forget what she's been through, Lady Stark. Perhaps when you're not so focused on pretending that everything's back to normal, you'll ask her what she's been through, and why she doesn't go anywhere without a dagger anymore."
Catelyn looked at him then, really looked at him, and Jaime thought that maybe she could see straight through him. He suddenly realized where her daughter had gotten the trait from and was concerned he may have revealed something that he should not have. She certainly did not seem put at ease by whatever she saw. It was the opposite, in fact.
They returned to the others, though Catelyn put herself between him and Myra.
"Lady Brienne, I do not wish to ask anything of you that would damage your honor, but I have a request," Catelyn started, waiting for Brienne to nod in acknowledgment. "Escort the Kingslayer away from the camp. See to it that he is not caught. Get him away from us."
Myra's face briefly lit up. "Mother, I-"
Whatever look Catelyn gave her daughter quickly killed her smile. Myra sobered, glancing his way with those sad eyes.
Perhaps he had been wrong; perhaps she would have been better without a family that hated her.
Brienne nodded. "I will do it, my lady. When the guards discover he is gone, tell them it was me. Tell them I wanted to go home, and took the Kingslayer with me."
Had the moment not been so somber, Jaime might have made a joke about how he was growing on the wench.
Catelyn shook her head. "Brienne, I can't..."
"I'm already thought of as a traitor to one army. It's nothing I'm not used to."
In silence, they readied a horse for Brienne, and managed to grab a saddle for Jaime. Myra stood beside her mother as they mounted, her mouth open as if ready to speak, but in their present company, she could not say the words.
Instead, they took to staring at one another, until Catelyn grew fed up.
"Leave," she hissed.
Fixing a last, pointed look at Lady Stark, Jaime turned his horse about and followed Brienne.
Unlike last time, however, Jaime did look back, and found gray eyes still staring after him.
I'm glad you're not her.
That was what he would have told her, but Jaime never had been good at saying things when they needed to be heard.