Myra
She'd watched the Frey party approach Riverrun from her room, the window overlooking the roads to the north. Myra had never met any of them, with the exception of her brother's former squire. They were not exactly an intimidating lot. Their armor was dull and crudely made, more like the common folk rallying to defend themselves rather than actual soldiers in an army. But they had the numbers her brother desperately needed, and in war that may have been all that mattered.
"I can't say I missed them," Talisa mumbled beside her, watching the view warily. "When the Freys left Robb, his army lost a peculiar smell as well."
Myra laughed softly, wringing her hands. She couldn't sit. No force in the world could compel her to do so. She was nervous for her brother, and her mother beside him. How she wished she could be downstairs listening to what they spoke of, but she would be of no help. It was Robb's mess, and only he could fix it.
"Do you think they'll demand he set the marriage aside?" Talisa wondered, turning about on the bench. "I'm sure you Westerosi have some sort of exception for foreign brides."
She was jesting, but Myra could hear the undercurrent of fear. It was an actual concern of her good-sister's.
"If that's the case, Robb will make due without the Freys. I think he'd let his whole army go before you."
"I'm afraid of that sometimes."
Love was a terrible thing like that.
Love made men forsake their vows and plunge the countryside into war. It made women lose their minds and end their lives at the prospect of being without. It made her a traitor, lost amongst her own family, flitting from one place to another, unsure of where she truly belonged anymore.
Love destroyed everything, and they clung to it desperately nonetheless.
"You shouldn't be. It won't come to that," Myra replied, resting a hand on Talisa's shoulder. "The Freys may be stubborn, but at the end of the day, they are trapped between the North and the Riverlands. They'll have to give in eventually."
"An army without much choice doesn't sound like the kind we want."
"No, not really, but we don't have a choice either."
They fell into silence then, watching the horizon and waiting. Talisa had grasped her hand and clung to it. Myra had to wonder if she wasn't holding her shoulder tightly. Neither complained either way. Small annoyances were nothing when they had to endure all this.
How long had it been, she wondered. Had they started talking or had the party not even made it past the gate?
Time was a funny thing when it wanted to be.
Talisa took a breath. "I'm pregnant."
Myra blinked, looking down at her brother's wife. She'd heard the words and understood their meaning, but connecting them all to the woman before her, and in turn to her brother, took some time. To be honest, she'd barely grasped the concept of Robb being married. Her brother, the young lord who all the ladies swooned over, who ran away with Theon in the dead of night to go see the whores in town, was dedicated to one woman.
And now he was to be a father.
Her silly, stubborn, idiot of a twin brother was going to be a father.
It was the happiest news she'd received in what felt like an eternity.
"Really?" she asked, her voice high. "Are you certain?"
Her good-sister grinned bashfully. "Yes, I am."
A wide smile spread across Myra's face as she fell to her knees in front of Talisa and wrapped her arms around her. She began to laugh. They both did. There wasn't enough joy in their lives anymore, and they had to embrace every moment they found.
"Does Robb know?"
Talisa shook her head. "No, not yet. I wanted to wait until he wasn't completely overwhelmed, though I'm starting to feel that's never going to be the case. But I needed to tell someone. It's been so difficult to keep quiet about."
She chuckled. "Robb is going to be so upset that I found out first."
"I think he'll manage."
Myra grasped Talisa's hands, looking at her thick dress. Her niece or nephew was in there.
Niece or nephew. Gods what a thought.
"I can't imagine Robb as a father," she said, the smile beginning to hurt her face. "Growing up, I thought my brother would be a little boy forever, and in some ways I think he still is. One time, not terribly long ago, he and the other boys were fighting in the kitchens for whatever reason – I'm not even sure they knew – when they knocked a shelf off the wall. Robb's hair became covered in honey, just everywhere, it was a mess.
"Now, Robb could have washed it out, but Maester Luwin, in all his wisdom, advised our father of a different punishment. So, my brother's beautiful curls disappeared overnight, sheared like a sheep."
Talisa began to giggle at that. "I don't think I can picture him that way."
"Most of us couldn't. He kept trying to wear a hat, but Arya and Jon made it their mission to steal it every chance they got," Myra continued, remembering home without pain for the first time in ages. "He was absolutely miserable, and cold all the time. I'll never forget the sound of his chattering teeth."
They began to laugh together, the air cleared of all the miserable thoughts the Freys had brought with them from the Twins. For just one moment, Myra thought things were really beginning to turn around. They would have a future, a good, happy one, and this child would know only a loving family. For their sake, they would move on from this terrible place they had found themselves in; for their sake, they would forgive one another.
A swift knock on the door, however, reminded Myra that the rest of the world was still owed debts, quickly chasing away all the joy that she had just received.
With permission, her uncle Brynden entered not long after, still clad in his scaled armor. He looked angrier than usual. She imagined dealing with the Freys was not a particularly pleasant experience. Not many liege lords would tolerate a bannerman who sat in such open defiance of them. The idea that Robb had to make a deal in the first place to save Riverrun was downright confusing at best, and treacherous at worst.
He gave a small bow as she stood. "Forgive me, Your Grace. King Robb has asked for his sister."
Myra felt her heart sink at the tone of his voice. She knew what this was about. He didn't have to say a word, because it was obvious. A lady wasn't invited to discussions. She was brought in because she was a part of the bargain.
Talisa's hands squeezed hers, eyes having grown solemn. She would look the part for the North soon enough.
With a nod, Myra followed her great uncle out of the room.
At first, the journey was silent. She glanced at all the guards, wondering why they watched her, wondering if they somehow knew what she did not, but that was her nerves getting the best of her. It was why she spoke. The mouth needed to distract the mind.
"What is the offer?" she asked.
The Blackfish grimaced. "An apology, Harrenhal, and your uncle."
She hadn't been with Edmure much since the funeral, but Myra knew this would not sit well with him. From what she understood, House Frey was not regarded highly anywhere – something she was certain added to Lord Walder's prickly nature – and the thought of being tied to one from their household perhaps seemed like an insult. Well, the vanity of it aside, she was certain her uncle's bannermen would not appreciate it. Why should the disloyal be honored so?
Whenever this war ended, the fallout from their desperate pacts would prove difficult to move from.
Peace did not sound quite so grand anymore.
"And me," Myra added after a pause.
The Blackfish grumbled, but said nothing more.
They entered the Great Hall as their two guests moved to depart. Neither of the Freys was particularly stunning to look at, the peculiar caps they wore on their heads not helping. She could not recall Olyvar being dressed as such, but perhaps he had been gifted better armor. A king's squire had to look the part, after all.
The one with a limp approached her first, steering clear of her great uncle in case he lashed out at him. He certainly appeared ready to, hand resting none too gently on the sword at his hip.
"Lady Myra," the man spoke, his voice attempting to be sweet, yet somehow managing to sour the words instead. "Our lord father looks forward to your presence gracing our humble halls."
"It will be a welcome sight during these troubling times," the other added. His voice did not pretend to be courteous, but there was a look in his eyes she did not like.
"My sister has not agreed to anything yet," Robb called from the table. Her mother and uncle occupied the seats on either side of him. "Now, if it pleases you, my lords, the steward outside will show you to your rooms."
Both men turned and bowed their heads accordingly.
"Of course, Your Grace," said the one with a limp.
"We thank you for your hospitality."
When they left the room, Myra felt the air clear again. Those Frey men were slippery creatures, and reminded her of something that scampered along the ground, hiding and dodging until a perfect opportunity arose.
And her brother had gone and given them one.
"The limping one was Lothar Frey," her great uncle said. "The other was Black Walder...Rivers."
A bastard and a cripple. Lord Walder Frey was out to enjoy every moment of her brother's desperation.
"He is a spiteful one," Myra commented, striding toward the table. Her uncle had abandoned it, watching the land outside the window. "How many men could he possibly have for you to tolerate such insults?"
"A few thousand," her brother replied darkly, clearly unhappy with the outcome as well.
"Probably all sired by him too," the Blackfish added, pouring himself a drink. He handed her a glass as well, a rather full one at that.
Her mother gave him a reproachful look. "Lord Walder was wounded by us when we failed to keep our end of the bargain."
She watched her brother's grip on his chair tighten.
"I didn't break any deal. Neither did your sister," Edmure mumbled from the window. "Now the Late Lord Walder wants both of us. I don't even get to choose who I am to marry. What sort of offer is that?"
Her mother turned to him. "Would you risk our safety for a pretty face?"
"Your son got a pretty face!" Edmure shouted back. "A pretty face that put us in this predicament in the first place."
Robb stood from his seat, slamming his fists against the table. He might have said something they would all regret had she not immediately spoken.
"What about me?" she asked, loudly, quieting the room. The Blackfish, she noted, was already halfway between her and Edmure, no doubt preparing to convince his nephew. "Does Lord Walder have someone in mind or am I to wait?"
Her mother took a deep breath. "He...wants to see you first, in order to measure your...character."
Character indeed. She knew what the Lord of the Crossing spoke of, and it made the bile rise in her throat. And when he'd measured her looks, would he place her with a 'suitable' son, or find the most misshapen of his children just to spite the King in the North?
They faced so many unknowns, and the answers were out of their hands entirely.
What choice did they have though? What choice did she? The Karstarks may have been loyal, but there was dissent amongst the troops after their lord's death. Harrion was one bad day away from taking his men home. Roose Bolton knew more than he should. Were she to refuse, it could all come undone.
She was not the reason the Freys had left, but Myra knew she had jeopardized the war in other ways. Now was the time for her to pay her debts.
She was starting to sound like a Lannister.
Jaime.
Myra took a large gulp from her goblet.
"I'll do it. I'll marry the Frey."
Robb actually looked hurt. "Myra, you don't-"
"Don't have to take the offer?" she asked, incredulous. "I won't be the one to deny the army the men they need. Lord Walder asked for two Starks before. It only makes sense he'd want at least one now."
Gods, how it hurt to speak of it all so objectively. She was talking about her future, the rest of her life married to a man she may not like, confined in the Twins with Lord Walder and his endless family tree.
At least she wouldn't be lonely.
She wanted to laugh. Instead, she drank.
"You shouldn't have to pay for what I've done."
"And yet I am," Myra replied, leveling a look at her brother. She watched a sudden change in his mood, and knew that he realized what she meant. This was her offer, her sacrifice for the wrongs she had committed. A clean slate, if that was possible, her life for Jaime's. "Sons go to war and daughters marry. It's about time I start performing my duties."
Her mother was giving her a look, somewhere between pride and utter sadness.
Brynden gave her a proud smile, though. "There's someone who knows to do the right thing, no matter the cost."
She knew it was less praise for her and more of a jab at Edmure, but she nodded in gratitude nonetheless, taking another drink from her wine. Would she be one of those wives, she wondered, the kind who drank and drank to forget what their lives had become? What a bleak prospect.
Edmure turned around from the window, meeting her gaze. She half expected him to be disappointed, leaving him alone to be the determining factor in whether they received reinforcements from the Freys once again, but he almost appeared to be relieved. Perhaps the prospect of misery wasn't quite so horrid a thought when you weren't going alone into that dreadful end.
"Alright," he said eventually, voice a quiet sigh, as if he hoped the gods would not hear. "I'll do it."
There were no words of gratitude, and certainly no congratulations, simply quiet acceptance on all their parts. Myra continued to spin the goblet in her hands, sipping on occasion, waiting for someone to move or speak, but it seemed the weight of everything had frozen them all.
Robb sighed. "Might I have a moment with my sister?"
Their uncles nodded, and quickly fled the room, Brynden mumbling something to Edmure that made him scoff. Their mother was slower to move, however, looking between the two of them.
"You don't have to worry, Mother," Robb reassured her. "We're past all that now."
Catelyn nodded once, and proceeded to walk out the door. It shut loudly, the sound echoing throughout the room.
Her brother looked back at her. "I have something to show you."
She followed him to a small writing desk in the corner of the room, where an unsealed letter rested. Robb handed her the document, stepping back and allowing her to read it uninterrupted.
Like with his wife earlier, Myra understood the words before her, and yet comprehending their true meaning was something else entirely. She reread the sentences over and over, wondering if this wasn't some dream, or if her eyes had betrayed her.
"You're...legitimizing Jon?"
Robb nodded. "Should anything happen to either one of us, the North needs a Stark. Bran and Rickon are gone. I don't even know what's happened to Sansa or Arya, and Uncle Benjen went missing from the Wall over a year ago. He is all we have left."
Arya is out there, somewhere, she thought. Without definitive proof, however, Myra did not want to give her brother or mother false hope. It could prove as deadly as any weapon in their possession.
And then there was his child, but that was for Talisa to tell him, not her.
"He's a member of the Night's Watch now, Robb," Myra said, though she knew he was aware. "They would execute him if he left, as would your bannermen."
"I've discussed it at length with a few of them, and they agree with my plan. The Night's Watch may be independent from the affairs of the realm, but the Wall is part of the North nonetheless. We are the strength they rely upon if anything should happen. They will need a Stark supporting them," Robb replied, taking the letter back. "Besides, with one of their own in charge, they'd undoubtedly find their numbers and stock better supplied than it has been in years."
Jon Stark.
There was an idea she had never thought possible. Had it been, perhaps their brother would not have run away to the Wall, but back then, their family was whole and the Seven Kingdoms at peace. She had spoken of it to Jon once, and only once, because the sadness that overcame him at the sound of it had broken her heart too much.
"You should name him your heir," Myra said suddenly. "I won't be a Stark for much longer, I imagine. I'll be a Frey."
"No," Robb replied, gritting his teeth. He put both hands on her shoulders, holding her there. She could feel him shaking. "No matter what you've done, no matter who you marry, you are a Stark. Your children will be Starks. You have the blood of the First Men in you, same as me, same as Jon, as any man from the North. Walder Frey is a fool if he thinks marrying you to one of his sons can control that."
She nodded, feeling both a surge of pride and a twinge of melancholy. She hated talking like this, like he would die, like their fight would be for naught. For the first time, it truly dawned on her how close she was to ruling over Winterfell, over the North itself. No one had ever taught her to rule, to give orders and offer punishment. She had trained to be a wife, a keeper of a home and of children. This was something that larger than she was capable of handling.
But she was Myra Stark of Winterfell, daughter of Eddard and Catelyn, sister to the King in the North. She hadn't survived war and ruin to give in to her own doubts.
Still, she could only nod in reply, no words able to convey the magnitude of what she felt.
Robb lowered his arms, calming, turning the letter over in his hands.
Then he smiled. "Don't tell Mother."
"Others take me, I wouldn't dare."
They shared a small laugh and left the room arm in arm.
The army departed for the Twins two days later, leaving a large enough force behind to guard Riverrun. Myra sat atop her horse, dressed in thick traveling clothes, Lady standing beneath her, watching it all in motion. A heavy sensation had fallen over her, much like the day she had left for Dragonstone. There was a finality to it all, a sense that something was about to change. For better or worse, she knew her life was going to be different.
When her mother asked what she was looking at, she lied and told her that she was taking in Riverrun one last time.
In truth, she was watching the direction that led to King's Landing.
Jaime
"Why did you convince Lord Bolton to release me?" the wench had asked the day they left Harrenhal. "You could have left alone as well."
"You think I trust these men?" he'd replied immediately, gesturing to the crowd with his stump. "When they turn on us, I'll need someone who can kill them."
Brienne had given him a look, one that told him she knew he was lying, and perhaps he was – although he really didn't trust Bolton's men – but saying out loud that he owed her for helping keep Myra safe by taking the blame, not to mention his life, did not sit well with him, not amongst these men, not after everything.
Riding to King's Landing was a miserable affair. He was still feverish, his dreams plagued by that moment his hand had been stabbed at the river, and Qyburn forced him to drink the most obnoxious concoctions. The man claimed it would help kill any infection, though mostly it felt like his insides were burning.
And handling a horse? They'd given him a docile enough creature, but with only one hand to properly grip the reigns, he felt immeasurably insecure. If the beast decided to take off at any point, he was not entirely certain he could stop the thing.
Mounting and dismounting took a good deal of embarrassment as well. Brienne had taken to helping him and he was just too tired to complain about it. If it got the job done faster, he would hold his tongue.
Their traveling 'companions' did not share that opinion. They laughed and snickered and said, very openly, how they felt about the whole thing.
So, when Brenna casually wandered into their camp one evening, scattering the Boltons, some with their trousers literally down, Jaime had laughed half the night away, and still felt smug come the following morning. He almost felt himself again.
It didn't hurt that he had a giant direwolf by his side. The creature – which he swore looked bigger than the last time he'd seen her – stayed by him and Brienne every night, watching the Boltons with those intelligent eyes. He felt like he could see the wheels turning in her mind, and caught himself wondering what she was thinking.
The day they came upon the hillside that looked down on the capital, however0, Jaime felt his regained confidence swiftly flee at the sight.
His ghost fingers were clenching again, the stump where they had once been suddenly burning with such intensity that he had to grit his teeth against the pain.
Even from his position, he could see the wreckage of ships across the bay, the remains of Stannis' attempt to take the Iron Throne. Otherwise, the city looked much the same. It was still loud, buzzing with movement, and if the wind turned just right, Jaime was positive it would still smell like shit.
And she was down there too, waiting for him, or so he had hoped for so long. Cersei, golden and perfect. Time would never change that.
But it had changed him. He would never be the same. His hand was gone, his body broken. His hair was a tangled mess, beard unkempt, clothes tattered and smelling of something foul. How was anyone to recognize him when he couldn't himself?
They'd all but knocked the Lannister out of him.
He'd be a fool to return looking as he did, weak and frail, not a lion, a beaten dog perhaps.
Yet the group continued on into the city, silent. Brienne glanced at him every now and again, but never said a word. She was starting to know better around him. Maybe he really was just that easy to read, and the entirety of King's Landing had been playing him for a fool.
At this point, it wasn't even the most unlikely thing.
Brenna left them at the gates, making sure he had made it into the city up until the last minute. The creature had scared all sorts of common folk, and almost seemed to take pleasure in it.
Myra would be disappointed that he'd corrupted her direwolf.
Or she'd smile.
The thought carried him through the winding roads that led to the Red Keep, allowing him to remain blissfully unaware of the looks they received. A dirty man was one thing, but on horseback with armed guards? That was something else. He'd thought to not bring them at all, to sneak through the city instead, but they made the crowds disperse faster and all he wanted was for his journey to finally be done. He wanted four solid walls, a decent bath, good food, Cersei...
When the Red Keep finally welcomed them into its embrace, Jaime nearly fell off his horse. He didn't wait for someone to take the creature from him, didn't hear the calls of his annoyed escort as they demanded reward, all he knew was that he was finally back and that he needed to be inside, away from them, away from Brienne, away from everything that reminded him of his miserable existence over the past year.
Jaime wandered through the halls, his mind a blur, barely noticing the faces that watched him curiously. It didn't matter, his feet knew the way. Blind, deaf, and dumb, he'd still find his way to her no matter where he found himself.
He'd moved with a strength he didn't think he still possessed, fast and confident, like his leg had never been wounded, but when Jaime at last found himself standing in front of Cersei's door, that strength abandoned him. Suddenly, he could barely stand, much less bring his hand up to the door.
Staring at the grain of the wood for what felt like hours, Jaime began to wonder what was preventing him from taking those final few steps. Cersei was there, on the other side, waiting for him. All he had to do was open the door.
But he was afraid.
After everything he had been through, he was afraid of Cersei seeing him.
Jaime took a breath. He was being a fool. After everything he had been through, he could handle this.
When he attempted to open the door, his stump brushed against the knob. He stared at it for half a moment, willing the disgust away, before using his left hand.
Cersei sat at her desk, writing away on a piece of parchment as the sun drifted through the windows behind her, lighting her hair until it glowed itself. She was just as beautiful as the day he left. No, more so. The world had taken from him, but it had given to her, just as it always had been.
What did she leave you with, Jaime?
She wasn't alone. Standing beside the desk, helmet in hand, was Ser Meryn Trant. His face was as offensive to look at as it had always been. Jaime was surprised his sister allowed the man so close to her, especially with his head uncovered. She'd never been a fan of ugly things.
While Ser Meryn glared at him, as offended by Jaime's presence as he was of his, Cersei had yet to react to his entry. Her hand had paused briefly, but had resumed thereafter, her eyes having never left the page. Perhaps, he thought, far too many people bothered her these days. She didn't have time to look at every single waste of space that entered her solar.
"Cersei," his voice called out. It was little more than a whisper.
Her writing paused longer this time, until she dipped the quill back in the inkwell and began again.
Ser Meryn's eyes were laughing.
Jaime huffed, shoving into the room. No more of her games, not today. He hadn't gone through war and death and fucking wolves to be ignored by her because of some imagined slight.
"Get out," he ordered, standing in front of Cersei's desk.
"I am a member of the Kingsguard," Ser Meryn countered, resting his hand on his sword. "I am charged to stay by the queen's side."
"Well, in case you'd forgotten, or because you're that much of an idiot, I am a member of the Kingsguard, so you stand relieved."
"I leave when I am commanded to by the queen, and no one else."
Jaime took a step forward, although he wasn't certain what he was going to do. He wasn't armed, and even if he had been, his left hand would be no good. Even a terrible fighter like Ser Meryn could have cut him down in an instant. Gods, he would never shut up about how he bested the Kingslayer.
"You may leave us," Cersei said calmly, defusing the situation before Jaime had to deal with the, more than likely, embarrassing consequences. "I am more than capable of dealing with my brother."
Ser Meryn nodded, replacing his helmet and walking out of the room. Jaime watched him, waiting until he'd shut the door and his hulking footsteps had disappeared down the corridor before turning back to Cersei.
She was still writing. He knew what she was doing; she wasn't terribly subtle about it. Putting words to paper to make her appear occupied and thus justify ignoring whoever was in the room was one of her specialties, although she had always used it on Tyrion, not him. Never him.
"Look at me," he said, hating how desperate his voice sounded.
Cersei continued to write.
"Look at me!"
Jaime slammed his good hand on the desk, knocking a few trinkets around and jostling the inkwell until it spilled all over the parchment. Cersei watched the black liquid seep into the paper before gently putting the quill down and turning her face upward to meet his.
More painful than any anger she might have showed, his sister simply looked at him with utter disinterest.
"Yes, I'm looking. Now what do you want, Jaime?"
"What do I want?" Jaime echoed, incredulous. He had to use to desk to keep himself from falling over. "I want you."
What more could he say? What else was there to say? Here he had lived through nightmare after nightmare and Cersei looked at him as if he'd been gone no more than a day, like he was some inconvenience that she was being forced to deal with.
He tried to reach out and touch her hand, confirm to himself that this wasn't some fever dream he was having in Harrenhal still, but she moved away from his hand, standing and walking away. Jaime watched her form walk to the corner of the room, where she began to pour some wine.
"I have been gone for a year!" he shouted, kicking at the chair beside him. "I have been captured and beaten and nearly died more times than I can count just to get back to you!"
"Did you now?" she asked, unbelieving. He watched her take a long sip. "I'm certainly aware of the year part. For one year you left me alone to deal with Robert and Ned Stark and the mess you left behind when your little stunt went awry. And then I had to deal with Stannis Baratheon as he attempted to take the city, not to mention the smallfolk attacking Joffrey. It was a miserable business, and you weren't here to help. You weren't here to protect your king."
Cersei turned back to him, the anger now flashing in her green eyes. "Instead you chose to run around in the woods with that little she-wolf."
Jaime inhaled, and felt his ghost hand twitch.
"We were on the run from Stannis Baratheon," he countered. "And if I ran into Robb Stark, I couldn't very well say I'd slit his sister's throat open."
The fingers clenched.
"And when you killed my men?" she asked, crossing back to her desk. "What pathetic excuse do you have for choosing Myra Stark over us?"
Jaime was silent. What could he say to that? He didn't think anyone would know, but he supposed someone would find out eventually, Varys or Littlefinger or any one of those insufferable creatures that lived to serve the king's every desire, whispering what he wanted in order to climb a little higher out of the dirt.
"Do you deny it?" she asked.
"No."
"So you admit to treason."
"Treason?!"
"She's a Stark, and last I checked, we are at war with the Starks. Aiding the enemy is commonly known as treason, unless I've forgotten, but I doubt that."
"Myra Stark has nothing to do with-"
"Myra Stark has everything to do with this!" Cersei shouted, slamming her goblet on the desk. No wine spilled out. She'd drank it all already. "Ever since she looked at you with those pathetic, sad eyes, you've wanted nothing but her approval. She's strung you along and dragged you about as she pleases, just like Robert."
Jaime chuckled at that, mirthless, angry. "You're jealous, aren't you?"
Cersei's eyes narrowed to slits. She crossed the space between them, and slapped him across the face.
Admittedly, he'd tried to catch the offending hand, but once again, Jaime had forgotten that he was no longer in possession of his right digits. The stump had uselessly come up, ghost fingers unable to grasp his sister's wrist before she hit him.
More out of surprise than actual physical pain, Jaime found himself falling into the chair from the impact. He stared at his bandaged arm, numb, the fight having left him.
"I am the queen. My son is the king. I have nothing to be jealous of," Cersei replied, voice calm but edged like a knife. "Perhaps you should have stayed away. The doe-eyed bitch probably has a soft spot for cripples."
Jaime sat there, unmoving, unable to speak until he heard the door shut.
How can you love someone like that?
He stood slowly, shuffling over to his sister's wine.
How could he love Cersei?
He couldn't, could he?
Jaime remembered stumbling through the hallways, shouting at someone, multiple someones, until he found himself in front of another door. Instead of knocking, he simply collapsed in front of it, leaning against the frame until the door opened and he fell inside, smacking his head on the tile. But it felt cool against his skin, so he hadn't minded.
"Varys, I do believe that my brother is home," someone spoke above him. Tyrion. It had to be. He only had one brother.
"So it appears," the eunuch replied. "I'll go inform Grand Maester Pycelle."
"Much appreciated."
Everything was a blur after that, a series of voices, some familiar, some not. Jaime thought he might have seen his father's stoic face glaring down at him at one point, but then he also so Myra's, so how was he to tell what was real and what was not?
Mostly he saw Cersei, green eyes fixed on him with such anger and betrayal.
How dare she look at him that way, he thought. He gave up his life for her; he sat back as Robert had his way with her. His life was a waste, meaningless duty interrupted by secret trysts that never left him satisfied, but he had willingly pushed through it because of her.
And she would dare to call him a traitor.
He pictured himself kissing her, and then choking her. Stroking her skin, and then running her through with his sword. But he wanted none of those things, neither the good nor the bad. He just wanted her to leave him be, to let him rest for once in his life.
When he finally opened his eyes again, properly this time, Jaime found himself staring at a canopy. He turned his head slowly, taking in the dark room. In the corner, lit by a candle, sat Tyrion as he read over a thick volume. At least some things never changed.
"You're uglier than the last time I saw you," he croaked, his throat parched.
"Kind of you to notice," Tyrion replied, closing his book and grabbing the candle. He made his way to the bedside, the light against his face actually revealing a scar that went from one side of his head to the other, neatly chopping a bit off his nose. "Everyone likes to point it out. So wonderful that my dear missing brother's first words are that as well."
Jaime blinked. "It was supposed to be a joke, I didn't-"
"See it? I know," Tyrion said, grabbing a pitcher from his bedside and pouring the liquid into a cup. "I'm told that the darkness makes me look vaguely handsome. It's a wonder I don't skulk around in dark corners all the time."
Ignoring the pounding of his head, Jaime sat up, leaning against the pillows on the bed. Someone had changed his clothes and rewrapped his stump.
"How did you get it?"
"The Battle of the Blackwater. It seems Ser Mandon didn't like me very much."
Jaime looked at his brother, watching the candlelight move across his face. There was more to the story, but he was too tired to ask. He didn't want to know the implication, not yet.
"I certainly hope he paid for that."
"He came down with a case of spear through head," Tyrion replied, handing Jaime the cup. "It's just water. Mixing wine with your frail condition wasn't exactly the smartest thing you've ever done."
Frail. Broken. Alone.
Jaime drank greedily as Tyrion pulled up a chair.
"I can't remember the last intelligent thing I did," he admitted, staring into the dark. He could feel eyes on him.
"Saving Myra Stark was one."
Jaime turned back to his brother, wondering if the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms knew what he had done.
Tyrion only shrugged. "Cersei found out some weeks ago, and she had to take her anger out on someone, so naturally she spoke with me. Had you come to see me first, I could have warned you about that, at least."
"Are you jealous that I went to see Cersei before you?"
"No, I'm just trying to make lighthearted conversation," Tyrion replied, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair. "You look positively miserable, Jaime, and that doesn't even include your hand."
Miserable. Yes, that was a word for it.
"She didn't want to see me."
"Must be strange for you, knowing what it's like to be me."
Jaime gave Tyrion a look, but his brother only shrugged it off.
They sat in silence for a while, as his head pounded and his ghost fingers clenched and unclenched. He wondered what his brother was waiting for. Was he keeping guard? Someone had to make sure the Kingslayer didn't do something stupid.
"You said her name quite a bit, you know," Tyrion said eventually.
"Cersei's?"
"Myra's."
His hand clenched again.
"Seems a bit strange," Tyrion mused. "I've only met the girl once and suddenly she's in every conversation I've had as of late, usually with your name right beside hers. You're on the run together, you saved her life, she saved yours, and these are only the things I've been told.
"What happened out there, Jaime?"
Even if he wanted to, Jaime wasn't certain how to answer. What had happened out there in the forest? It was so clear then, but now? Now it felt like a distant dream. It was a desperate flight across the countryside to escape Stannis Baratheon, running into every sort of complication imaginable. They fought, and then they fought together, nearly died together, survived together.
What happened?
"Myra Stark happened."
Jaime didn't realize he'd said it out loud, and Tyrion didn't offer anything to tell him otherwise. He refilled his cup and bade him goodnight, the strangest look on his face.
When Jaime slept again, he dreamt of wolves.
Arya
She was running through the trees, faster, faster. The taste of blood was fading from her mouth. She hadn't killed in days, but it didn't matter. Not now. She was so close. So close.
In the distance, she saw a fire. Despite the familiar scent that came from it, she slowed down and approached with caution. The others didn't know. The ones with the sharp sticks. She couldn't hurt them, but it wouldn't stop them from hurting her.
Slowly, she got closer. The older one was asleep. The younger one wasn't facing her. Closer she crept. Closer and closer until she was looking at her own face.
Arya opened her eyes to a large snout pressing against her cheek. She blinked, vision slowly coming to as she took in the sight of a friend she had not seen in so long.
"Nymeria!" she shouted, wrapping her arms around the direwolf. She'd grown so much since they last saw one another. She was much bigger than her now.
Jory bolted upright, drawing his sword. Gendry turned around, yelped, and proceeded to trip and fall backwards.
"What in the seven hells is that?" he exclaimed from the dirt.
"She's a direwolf, and her name is Nymeria," Arya replied, glaring at her friend.
"I've only heard of those in stories." Gendry sat up, keeping his sword close. "And you've got one as a pet!"
"All the Stark children do," Jory said, sheathing his sword. He walked straight up to Nymeria without a hint of fear, and let the direwolf sniff his hand. She licked it once. "Even Jon Snow."
Nymeria turned her attention to Gendry, trotting forward until she was inches from his face. Arya had never seen her friend tremble like he was now. He'd been braver in Harrenhal when rats were about to eat his chest out.
"And...they're friendly?" Gendry asked, leaning back.
Jory shrugged. "Mostly."
Seemingly satisfied, Nymeria turned away from Gendry, allowing him to relax. Just as quickly, she turned back, getting closer and snorting in his face. Her friend made an embarrassing little sound and fell right back over.
Arya laughed, and held her hand out for her direwolf. Nymeria licked her hand, and her face, and curled up with her beside the fire.
It was the best night's sleep she'd ever had.
They reached Riverrun two days later.
Ayra didn't know what to think. She could feel her heart trying to beat its way out of her chest, and at some point had tried to run, but Jory had grabbed her by the shoulder.
"Take your time, my lady," he cautioned, though there was a smirk on his face. "It's not going anywhere."
And yet, Arya couldn't take her eyes off the castle, utterly convinced that it was going to disappear, and that only by willing it to stay would it actually remain.
There were a tents pitched outside, with sigils from all the houses in the Riverlands, and turning in the breeze amongst them, she could see the direwolf of House Stark.
Robb was here.
Robb.
Robb.
"I thought his army would be bigger," she heard Gendry say, walking with Jory somewhere behind her. Nymeria had taken off in the early morning. She probably didn't like the indoors much anymore, but Arya knew she was nearby. She could feel it. "That's not enough men to take on the Lannisters."
"It doesn't appear to the bulk of his forces, no," Jory admitted. "But his army may be stretched thin, or camped somewhere less open."
Or he wasn't there at all.
No, he had to be.
Robb was there.
Or her mother.
Or Myra.
Someone had to be.
The three of them walked up to the gates without much trouble. Two children and a man with no eye weren't exactly the largest threat Riverrun had faced, but they still got looks. Men were suspicious of everything nowadays.
Riverrun sat between two rivers, creating an island of sorts. The only way in was through a drawbridge, and while it was down, two soldiers dressed in scaled Tully armor guarded the crossing, and they looked none too happy to be dealing with anyone.
One of the soldiers held up a hand as they approached.
"That's far enough," he said, sounding rather tired, like he'd been turning away refugees the whole day. "The castle can't take anyone else. There's an inn a mile up the road, and-"
"We're not smallfolk looking for shelter," Jory interrupted, putting his hands on her shoulders. "This is Arya Stark of Winterfell, and I'm Jory Cassel, captain of the guard. We're here to see her brother."
The other guard looked ready to laugh. She wanted to smack him. It reminded her of those men back in the Red Keep. They hadn't believed her either.
"King Robb isn't here, or any of his family for that matter," the man said. "Even if what you claim is true, we've no way to prove it."
"Doubt it's true anyway," said the first. "Arya Stark is a ten-year-old girl who wouldn't last a day out here."
"I'm thirteen!" Arya shouted, stepping out of Jory's grasp. "And I am Arya Stark, and if you don't let me inside, I'll find where my brother is, and he'll know that two useless guards he couldn't bother to bring with him kept me from being safe. How do you think the King in the North will treat the men who denied his sister refuge?"
Maester Vyman was old – she'd never seen a young one – but he wasn't unkind, like Maester Luwin. He sent for supper to be made the instant they'd been let inside. Sitting at the table, she and Gendry nearly choked as they stuffed themselves with the bread and soup they'd been provided. A small chicken sat just out of reach, and may have been the only reason they hadn't devoured that as well.
Jory didn't eat. He didn't even sit, but stood in front of the fireplace with Maester Vyman, whispering.
"I do believe you, Jory, there is no need to further convince me," Vyman said, glancing over at the table. "Before they departed, Lady Myra gave me quite the description of her sister. No one else, mind you, just her. It was as if she knew she would be coming.
"The hair is shorter, and she's a bit dirtier than I imagined, but that is very much the girl she described."
"Where did they go?" Jory asked.
"To the Twins. Lord Edmure is set to marry one of Walder Frey's daughters in exchange for his army."
"Then that is where I'll be. Is there a horse you can spare?"
"Well, yes, but ser, we must tend to your wounds first."
"I'm not a ser."
"Regardless, I can't imagine that eye has been seen to since you received the wound."
Arya watched them argue, having completely forgotten that they were there. Gendry continued to eat his food, but she was suddenly no longer hungry.
"Let me come with," she said, dropping her spoon.
Jory looked over at her, and sighed. "My lady, I cannot. You're safe here, and you'll be well looked after."
"I don't care," she replied. "Robb isn't here. Neither is Myra or my mother. My uncles aren't even here. Gendry is going to leave, and you. I don't want to be alone; I want to see my family. Don't I have that right?"
Her father's captain crossed the room and knelt beside her. Gendry, knowing better, grabbed his food and moved further down the table.
"My lady, the fact that we made it this far is an impossibility itself," Jory started, with that tone she hated. When would everyone stop speaking to her like she was a child? Children didn't kill; children didn't see what she saw. "I cannot take the risk of losing you on the way to the Twins; I could never face your family with the knowledge that I'd gotten you to safety, only to lose you because you wanted to see them sooner.
"They will return here when the wedding is done. I'll see to that. And I'm certain they'll be happy to know that you're here, being well taken care of, and undoubtedly driving the servants insane."
"But-"
Jory held up a hand. "When you had your dancing lessons, did you teacher tell you to be reckless?"
"No," she admitted. Syrio Forel taught her about patience, about letting the enemy come to you and twisting their moves against them. She was only to move when the time was right, and she knew, deep in the back of her mind, that this was not the time.
"We'll all be back, my lady. I promise."
Arya watched Jory ride north, until she couldn't see his figure in the distance anymore. She was safe now, safer than she had been since King's Landing, and yet Arya felt more uncomfortable now than ever.
Davos
He was not one to use the word disaster lightly. As the captain of a ship, it couldn't even be thought of, much less uttered. If a crewman said the word, he was green and panicking. An officer was unfit for duty, but a captain? That was cause for an uproar. Sailors could be fickle creatures, especially when the winds had died and their bellies were empty. A mention of disaster could trigger a mutiny if they felt like it.
And yet, no matter how he looked at their present predicament, Davos could only use that word to describe it.
A disaster.
Their fleet was all but destroyed, broken and burned and lying at the bottom of the Blackwater. The bannermen they had gained form the Stormlands were either dead or had tucked tail and abandoned the campaign, bending the knee to Joffrey as quickly as the wildfire had taken their ships. Stannis' own men from the Crownlands were teetering on the edge of a knife, one wrong move away from joining those who had already left.
Then there was the matter of their missing prisoners.
With his army on the move, there had been no proper way to receive word – although even he knew that was a thinly veiled excuse. No man alive wanted to tell Stannis they had failed – so the news that both Jaime Lannister and Myra Stark had disappeared into the night awaited their return from their failed campaign. The air on Dragonstone had never seemed quite as cold as it did when his king received that news.
Though he would never admit it out loud, Davos was glad for it.
No men were sent out to find them. It was far too late for that. Stannis simply locked himself away in his war room and that was where he could be found more often than not, moving pieces across Aegon's table and taking council from the Red Woman, what good it did him. For all her magic, she couldn't see his ships burning, she couldn't warn them that Tywin Lannister would ride into King's Landing backed by the Tyrells.
She couldn't see his sons dying.
Dale. Allard. Matthos. Maric.
Four sons.
Four of his seven boys gone in an instant.
He couldn't even give them a proper burial.
Devan was still alive, thank the Mother. As the king's squire, his son had stayed by Stannis' side throughout the battle and had miraculously survived. He'd been the one to write home about his brothers. How he wished he could have sent his son with those words to comfort his mother and to keep him safe, but Devan had proven himself, and neither the pride of the father nor the son would have him hide away now.
Davos climbed the winding stairs of the tower, listening to the waves crash around the island. Sometimes, he could hear the screams on the water, feel the fire on his face from the explosion. At times like that, he would reach for his fingers, only to remember he'd lost those as well.
Princess Shireen was speaking to someone. Unlike him, she didn't need to read her words out loud. She seldom received visitors, and he was admittedly curious as to who it could be.
When he heard the witch's voice, Davos could have ripped the door from its hinges.
"Ser Davos!" Shireen called. She was always excited to see him.
Melisandre said nothing, but he did not trust the look in her eyes, not that he ever did.
"Princess," he replied with a bow of his head. "Am I intruding?"
"Of course not, Ser Davos," the Red Woman replied, standing to meet him. "The Princess Shireen and I were just wrapping up our discussion."
"Over what, pray tell?"
"Duty."
She left then, and he watched after her, half tempted to run her through with his sword once and for all. But that hadn't worked before, and it wouldn't now, and she knew that. That woman always seemed to know something.
Davos closed the door, and sat at the small table like he always did with her. When Shireen pushed a book forward for him to read, however, he stopped her, and took her hand in his.
"Whatever she's asked of you, you don't have to do it. Your father won't make you do anything you don't want."
"Mother says we should be obedient. The Lady Melisandre speaks for the Lord of Light, and we must obey."
He made a face. Stannis Baratheon was both a man he could handle and admire. He was simple in his ways, with straightforward goals and an unbreakable bearing. His wife, however, was...something else entirely.
"Obedience is important," he admitted. "Your mother obeys your father, as does Melisandre. Red god or no, they all still have to go through the king."
Shireen smiled at that, though it faltered.
"She says she saw me in the flames," the girl said quietly, looking properly frightened. "She saw me release them, and that I'm to blame for the disadvantage Father has."
"Release who?" Davos asked, though as he spoke the words, he realized the truth. "Princess, you must never repeat what you just told me, do you promise?"
She looked unsure.
"Do you promise?" he said more urgently.
"Yes, Ser Davos, I swear. I won't say it again."
"Now tell me, what exactly did she say to you?"
He'd run her through. By the gods, he would kill Melisandre even if it led to his death.
Davos stormed down the corridor, ignoring the guards who still gave him curious stares. The waves outside pounded harder against the rock beneath the castle. The sea was angry as well.
She was seated with Stannis, of course, whispering things in his ear, corrupting things, things that made him kill his own brother in the dead of night. Demons and blood magic and all sorts of foul creations that the king should never have anything to do with. How could the people ever follow him if he was committed to such heinous deeds?
"Your Grace, I have put up with this...this witch because it was your command," he started, slamming his hands down on the table. "But this is too far. I cannot stand by and allow her to do this."
Stannis sighed, looking tired and old in that moment, but Melisandre simply smiled at him. It was something wicked that brought him back to that night. The screams of that creature. He couldn't drive them from his mind.
"Come now, Ser Davos, you of all people ought to know that victory requires certain risks, sacrifices even," she spoke, crossing the room toward him. She didn't walk, she slithered.
"Burning a man doesn't bring victory. It just leaves you with one less man," Davos replied, staring the woman down even as his skin began to crawl. "And to involve the princess in blood magic? There isn't even a chamber in the seven hells prepared for that."
Stannis stood abruptly, looking ready to skewer him, but the fact he did not outright do so gave Davos hope.
"And what would you have me do, Davos? Our army is scattered, our fleet is broken. Even now, I can hear them laughing in King's Landing. They think they are safe, and for once they may actually be right."
"If I had been at the battle, our king would have succeeded, but you gave him poor counsel, Ser Davos. This is the consequence of your action."
"And what of your action?" he asked. "You left for the Riverlands, and came back empty handed, or was that something your red god wanted as well?"
Melisandre walked past him toward the fire, and once again Davos felt the urge to draw his sword.
"I made a mistake," she admitted, and even Stannis seemed stunned at that. "The Lord of Light gave me a vision, but I was not fast enough. We are all his servants, but until we are cleansed by the fire, we are not pure.
"The ceremony, however, is. I already promised that the princess is in no danger. We only need her blood, and that is a small task even a maester could perform."
"Your Grace, she is your daughter!" Davos shouted, but Stannis was not looking at him.
"Men and boys have shed rivers of blood and their lives for this campaign, and more will without this ceremony. What are a few drops of blood next to the lives of thousands?" Melisandre asked, her voice attempting to sway him. "Besides, she has already agreed. Unlike some, she is aware of her duty to the crown."
"Putting fear into her heart is not an agreement. It's manipulation."
"Enough," Stannis said, leaving the table. "I will speak to my daughter. If she agrees in my presence, then we will proceed. If not, I suggest you think of other options."
It was a threat, but Melisandre did not seem bothered by it, bowing her head gracefully as he left the room.
And speak to his daughter, Stannis did.
When they gathered around the fire that night, listening as blood filled leeches squirmed and popped, Davos felt something dark gather around them, and for once, he did not believe the red woman to be the center of it.
"The usurper Joffrey Baratheon."
"The usurper Balon Greyjoy."
"The usurper Robb Stark."