(Stay safe out there everyone)
Oberyn
He watched the faces in the crowd closely, noting the subtle changes that had taken place over the last week. Though the cheers had not dulled in the slightest, the lords and ladies who made the sounds were beginning to show wear from such a long celebration. There were reasons such affairs were so short. Late nights of drunken revelry could only last so long, but Lord Whent's tournament had events planned for ten days.
Oberyn decided the only reason they remained so rowdy was that near most of them were still drunk.
The guiltiest was the young lord of Storm's End, who had shouted gleefully at every tilt. Robert Baratheon could probably be heard all across the tournament grounds – which was impressive given the size of Harrenhal – but House Martell had the unfortunate luck to be merely a few feet away. His ears were starting to ring after so much abuse.
He hummed, leaning back on his seat and kicking his boots onto the railing. It was the final round of the joust, and as such, the fools were delaying it as long as possible. A small troupe had begun a disastrous reenactment of the War of the Ninepenny Kings, tripping and falling over the joust barrier, their little wooden swords, their own feet. It was a simple performance that appeared to entertain the masses.
King Aerys most of all.
He was cackling from somewhere behind them again, which out of all his considerably random moods was perhaps the eeriest. His parched throat could barely manage the task, breaking down into a fit of coughs more often than not. Whenever the servants tried to bring him water or wine, he'd order them away.
Oberyn could hear his nails tapping against the wood, those long, grotesque things. Of all the things wrong with Aerys, they were probably the safest to stare at when speaking to him.
There was a reason he had scarcely left Elia's side.
"Are you not amused, Brother?"
His older sister looked radiant that morning, dressed in bold shades of orange. It contrasted well with her skin and hair, and demanded that everyone take notice of her. She'd been uncertain of the outfit at first, but he had insisted. It was only her second public appearance since being bedridden for half a year after Rhaenys' birth, and he wanted the realm to know their princess would not be going anywhere. She was stronger now.
And she was. The color had returned to her skin, and the light in her eyes was vibrant. She was still thin, but Elia had always been that way. He remembered an old maester commenting on her frail form and how poor a wife she would make – not fit for childbirth, he had said. He'd beat the man bloody, only sparing him for his sister's sake.
He had been twelve.
"I might have been a few days ago, but this tournament drags like a slow poison. A man can only watch so much."
Elia gave him half a smile. All she ever heard was her brother complain.
"You could always cozy up to one of the minor lords. That never fails to entertain."
"If not me, then everyone else, yes?" he replied with a chuckle, picking at some grapes he had been provided. Even the fruit north of Dorne seemed to lack flavor. "There is nothing more fragile than a lord confronted with the affection of another man. The Free Cities had a better grasp of the concept."
"Do you plan on returning?" Elia asked, taking a sip from her goblet as if it could hide the truth of the matter: she did not wish him to.
"Is there a reason I should not?" he asked, side-eying the king behind them. "Say the word, and your brother will never leave your side, be it in King's Landing, or that rock the Targaryens call a castle."
Before she could speak, a roar went up in the crowd. The final jousters had finally entered the arena. Ser Barristan Selmy of the Kingsguard rode in on a stallion as white as the cloak he bore, while Prince Rhaegar strode in as the opposite, on a dark warhorse to reflect his armor dyed in Targaryen colors: black and red. Oberyn could just make out the three-headed dragon adorning his helm.
It was a strange sight, a kingsguard competing with his prince in the joust; it made the crowd only more eager. The people loved Rhaegar so.
"Do you fear for your husband?" Oberyn asked, putting his feet back down. He had heard of more than one lord losing their life to a bad fall from a horse. Of course, his favorite had been Luthor Tyrell. Not only did he fall, but so did the horse, straight off a cliff because he could not muster the intelligence to look down.
All of Dorne laughed that day.
Elia shook her head, not noticing the sudden smirk on his face.
"The gods have seen fit to give Rhaegar everything. They would not take him here."
Oberyn thought to point out that the gods would love to do just so, but he did not wish to antagonize her further.
This time.
The match was a close one, eliciting shouts and gasps from all in the audience. Elia was silent throughout the joust. She did not believe in such overt outbursts; she was calm and composed when she needed to be, like their brother.
In the end, Rhaegar unseated Ser Barristan, and the crowd erupted into cheers.
Elia released a breath.
"It must grow boring being married to someone like that," Oberyn commented, watching the prince make his rounds for the crowd before adorning the tip of his lance with the crown of winter roses.
"Better boring than exiled, hm?"
Oberyn clutched his chest, mocking offense, but the smile that grew on his face was wicked. It was how he had earned the name the Red Viper after all, the day he killed Lord Yronwood, or rather, the day his poison did.
No one had dared to call his absence exile though.
But Elia would. Always two steps ahead of her younger brother was the Princess of Dorne.
They watched Rhaegar approach the stands, but he did not stop before them. The man did not even hesitate as he rode by to a seat further down.
There, in the lap of some pale, dark-haired woman, he placed the crown of flowers.
The woman was Lyanna Stark.
Her brother, Brandon, was on his feet in an instant, spitting curses as his younger brother fought to restrain him. Beside the girl, Robert Baratheon was silent, and utterly still.
Oberyn would have joined the former, but Elia grasped his wrist before he could rise from his seat. She did not look at him – her eyes never left the scene unfolding before them – but he knew there would be consequences if he disobeyed.
So, he remained, drowning in his fury as his sister was shamed. She bore it with a grace few possessed, but it should not have been her burden to begin with.
And in the growing silence of the arena, Aerys began to laugh.
The sight of the merchant ship approaching the docks brought him back to that day, the memory so clear that he could hear the wind in the banners and feel Elia's hand on his skin. It was not just an old wound reopened – as if it had ever healed to begin with – but torn open and spat upon.
It was the dead of night, but the wrong time of the month. The moon hung full and low in the sky, illuminating everything brightly on that clear night. He could make out every detail of the ship as it made its final approach. It would not be difficult to distinguish who was onboard.
He felt exposed.
What a disturbing feeling to have at home.
Four guards whom he knew could be trusted above all stood with him, as well as Areo Hotah, whose longaxe glistened in the moonlight. The skilled warrior would be useful should anything go awry, but Oberyn was no fool; the man was to be his brother's eyes and ears, and to be his warning should he think to take anything into his own hands. That axe was as likely to cleave him in two as it was anyone on that ship.
It would be shameful for his brother to lose him in such a way, so he had elected not to carry a spear.
But the dagger remained.
Had he not been in the room at the time, Oberyn wondered if his brother would have even told him of their impending visitors, or if he would have waited until they were safely within his custody before deeming to inform him that the son of Tywin Lannister now resided in Dorne. It would have hurt him, thinking his brother could not trust him, but sometimes Doran knew him better than himself. Believing to be in control was one thing, but in the heat of the moment, all promises and vows meant nothing.
However, Oberyn had been in the room, and seen the sealed scroll from House Frey. He had read the words himself, which had been poorly formed. Oberyn had heard the Kingslayer had lost his hand, and the parchment only confirmed his suspicions. Not even the maester had been allowed the rewrite the words.
At least the fool had taken some precaution in his plan.
Some.
"I don't see her," Sansa whispered beside him.
The Northern girl had taken to being as glum as her people were known for over the past few weeks, but now, on the brink of having something good happen to her again, she was beginning to act her age. Sansa was fidgeting, occasionally rising on her toes as if it could make her see more clearly. She had grown impatient as they waited, and appeared ready to run down the length of the dock if he were not readily able to catch her.
It is foolish to bring her.
Doran's words echoed in his mind, but he knew not why. Sansa Stark's presence outside of the Water Gardens was no more likely to give away their mission than a very blonde and very handless Lannister stepping off the boat.
Besides, ever since he had avoided telling her of Winterfell, Oberyn felt obligated to share everything with Sansa when it came to her family. He knew what it was like to be blind-sided, and no one should be forced to deal with that alone.
Oberyn gave Sansa's wrist a gentle squeeze, and the girl stilled again.
After an eternity, the ship docked, and sailors leapt from the vessel to tie it off, mumbling orders both in the common tongue and Valyrian. The gangplank was lowered not long after. Sansa took a breath, and Oberyn could hear the spears of his men straighten in anticipation.
He remembered the boy who had been sworn into the Kingsguard, young but handsome, with his Lannister green eyes and blonde hair. His smile was wicked and his stride confident, and all the young ladies of all the noble houses swooned at the possibility of being near him. They had said he was the best sword the realm had seen, despite his young age, but Oberyn never got the chance to test his metal. The instant he had donned that white cloak, Jaime Lannister had become Aerys' pawn, and the Mad King had him shipped back to King's Landing without a second thought.
The man who stepped off the ship was not that boy.
Gone was the confidence, the youth, the charm. He looked tired; he looked old. Oberyn might have ventured to say that he had lost more than his hand if he was capable of thinking properly, but the sight of Jaime Lannister – even in his rugged state – triggered something in the back of his mind. He stormed up to the man as four spear tips lunged forward and surrounded him, cutting off any potential exit. For his part, Jaime did not even flinch. If anything, the threat against his life gave his confidence resurgence, and his back straightened, eyes glancing around as if he was offended by the notion.
Gods, how he hated Lannisters.
Oberyn was acutely aware of the Areo's shifting stance with his longaxe, and brought himself to a halt before his brother's guard did it for him.
Jaime looked him up and down. "Prince Oberyn."
"Why are you here?" he hissed, voice clipped. Oberyn had to bite down on his tongue to keep himself from saying more or raising his tone. His hands were already in fists at his sides, nails digging into the palms of his skin. One thrust of his blade was all he would need, then Tywin Lannister would begin to know of the loss he had scarred Dorne with.
But all too well would Dorne come to know the might of a realm united against them, and for that knowledge, he controlled himself.
Areo's longaxe tapped the dock.
"You know why I'm here," Jaime replied, glancing over at Sansa. Oberyn watched her meet his gaze head on before stepping in the way. "The fact that you're here means you got my message, so why bother with the useless questions?"
They will say he died making a poor joke.
"Do you think me foolish enough to believe that you are only here to reunite the Stark girls?"
The Kingslayer sighed. "I am a Lannister alone in a country that wants to kill me. Do you think me foolish enough to try anything else?"
Oberyn did not get the opportunity to reply. A new, hooded figure stepped toward the gangplank, and while he did not get a close look at them, Sansa had. She gasped and leapt past the guards, nearly knocking the Kingslayer over in her attempt to get onto the ship.
A heart-wrenching cry came from the woman on the ship, and she fell to her knees before Sansa even made it to the top. As the sisters embraced with a chorus of tears and wails, the hood slipped off the elder's head, and Oberyn found himself confronted by the past once more.
Lyanna Stark was a not a woman he had known well. Had he even had an inkling as to what she would come to mean in his life, perhaps he would have paid more attention. She was pretty, but not beautiful like the Lady Ashara Dayne, who he shared several dances with throughout the tournament. She was feisty, but not near so much as Elia when he had taken his teasing too far. Hers was a face he only remembered because Rhaegar had gifted her the trophy that should have belonged to Elia.
And then she was gone, torn away by the Last Dragon. His sister and his niece and his nephew died because Rhaegar Targaryen wanted a woman that Oberyn could scarcely recall.
He did not hate Lyanna Stark, but her memory brought him no joy.
But Oberyn held his tongue on the matter. This was Myra Stark above him, after all. Sansa's older sister, who the girl had spoken highly of on several occasions. Smart, honest, kind to a fault, and broken by the world around her. Her story seemed more akin to his sister's than her aunt's.
Two figures stood beside them, watching on in somber silence. One was a wisp of a boy, and the other a woman, larger than any he had ever met, and armored.
There is a story I would like to know.
When Oberyn tore his gaze away, he found Jaime watching him.
"That was all I wanted," the man said.
"Then it seems your business is concluded," Oberyn replied, leaning close. "Leave now, Kingslayer. Lannisters do not fare well in Dorne."
"Kill me where I stand if it suits you," Jaime whispered, low and stern. "I'm not going to leave her any other way."
He knew that look in his eyes, that fire and determination. It seemed Jaime Lannister was willing to do anything for Myra Stark, including dragging them into a war.
Areo tapped his longaxe. "My prince, your brother requested an audience with the Kingslayer."
"Only if I could not persuade him to leave," Oberyn clarified. "Which it seems I cannot."
Jaime nodded.
He sighed. "I certainly hope you can all ride. We will be taking the long way back."
A low rumble caught his attention.
Hovering over the girls as they embraced was a large wolf, smaller than a horse, but not terribly so. It stared at him with intense, yellow eyes, baring its teeth slightly. Oberyn could not help but get the feeling he was being warned.
Jaime Lannister huffed, as if the creature was simply up to its usual antics.
"Don't worry, it's only the one," he said, making his way past the spears. "The other two wouldn't fit on the boat."
Jaime
The sun was beginning to rise when their party finally made it to the Water Gardens. He had often heard that the place was a paradise, shelter in the midst of a harsh country, but to him, it was simply a beautiful trap. The painted tiles and exotic ferns would look lovely with a splash of his blood. Much like the North, the art of subtlety was lost in Dorne, and he could see the desires of every Dornishman who looked at him. They all wanted him dead, preferably slowly, and his head presented to his father on the end of a spear.
But the thought did not frighten him. The idea of his death never had, really. Powerlessness had, though. The inability to fix a problem with his own means, the vulnerability that came from being unarmed, it was terrifying. He should have been uncomfortable walking through the open and airy corridors of the Water Gardens without a single weapon on his person, or on any of the people who actually tolerated him. Sometimes he was, but then he would see Myra walking in front of him, arm in arm with her sister, and the feeling disappeared.
Whatever happened after this, whatever consequences there were, they were worth it.
They were escorted to an open chamber, a meeting room of sorts, which was decorated with fine furniture, large pillows for sitting, and lounging sofas, all brightly colored and welcoming. Jaime seemed to recall Maester Volarik telling him once that the more colorful a creature, the deadlier they were. It seemed the Dornish had taken that to heart.
The guards remained outside, their spears hitting the marble loudly and echoing down the corridor. The beast of a man referred to as Areo Hotah departed the room to fetch Prince Doran, whom he had heard was confined to a chair, legs stricken by gout.
Prince Oberyn, however, remained, resigning himself to a small desk in the corner of the room, where he glowered and waited. Jaime hadn't realized the Red Viper was going to greet them. He half thought the man was still somewhere in Essos, roaming with mercenary companies and stabbing little boys with his spear. Things would have been easier for both of them if that had been the case.
But since when had luck ever been on his side?
The Stark sisters sat on one of the sofas, still clinging tightly to one another. Myra's cloak had been removed, leaving her in her dull traveling clothes, too thick for the weather so far south, and far cry from what Sansa wore, in her light, sleeveless tunic and riding breeches. She had clearly been in Dorne for quite some time, her skin having taken on a darker shade. Myra looked terribly pale next to her.
Brienne and their newest stray, Olyvar Frey, went to stand behind the girls, sworn swords until the end. They had both retained their armor, Brienne's having no markings and Olyvar's sigil simply covered by fabric, but Jaime's armor was about as distinguished as they came, with red, black, and golden lions. The overly loud outfit had found itself at the bottom of the Trident before they'd chartered a boat.
Grey Wind entered last, slinking past Jaime to sit at the feet of his masters. The plan had been to leave all the wolves behind. They weren't made for a climate like Dorne's, but Robb Stark's direwolf refused to leave Myra's side, going so far as to fight the others off. It had taken an extra gold dragon to convince the captain to let the creature on, but the panicked looks on the faces of all who saw him certainly made the effort worth it.
Jaime sank into the sofa across from them, feeling his bones ache. He was tired. Sleep had not come to him easily on the journey, and what hours he caught were filled with Myra's shouts and the screams of dead men and fire. The only reason he tried anymore was because Brienne threatened to knock him unconscious. While the thought was tempting, his pride wouldn't let the woman do it.
And then they waited in silence.
Every time he glanced at the other sofa, Sansa was glaring at him, and her grasp on Myra tightened a little more. Here he was, the cause of their reunion, and she still looked at him as if his existence offended her.
She certainly was a Stark.
Mostly, he kept his gaze to his lap, not so much because of Sansa but more so for the pitiful look Brienne kept giving him. He preferred it when she hated him. At least then things had felt normal. Now, he didn't know where he stood, only that things seemed to get worse no matter what direction he turned to.
Areo returned with Doran, wheeling him in on his chair. The Prince of Dorne may have been confined to the thing, but he still had a regal bearing, upright and proud with an air that dared a challenge. He, too, leveled a hard gaze on Jaime as he stood, but it made no difference to him. He'd been willing to let the woman he loved take his life, what their eyes spoke made no difference to him.
The façade broke briefly as Doran spied the giant wolf on the floor. He glanced to his younger brother, who had slunk from his hiding spot to stand just behind him. Oberyn merely shrugged.
Jaime gave a stiff bow, as did Brienne and Olyvar. The girls did not move, but no one seemed to mind. The energy of the room had shifted its focus to him. He could feel it buzzing, a swarm of flies attracted to the scent of Lannister.
"Prince Doran," he spoke, straightening. "You have my thanks for allowing us into your home."
"And what other choice did you present me with, Ser Jaime?" Doran asked, his voice the coolest thing in Dorne. "Had I refused you entry, would you not have lingered outside our borders until I relented? Or perhaps until your father came to retrieve you, bringing a Lannister fleet to Dornish waters?"
Jaime had no intelligent – or non-offensive – answer to the man's questions, so he simply shrugged.
Doran paused, watching him, measuring. He wasn't certain what the man wanted to find. Perhaps some proof that he was still the Kingslayer everyone spoke of. Jaime hoped that he would inform him if he did.
Then he turned to Myra, who managed to meet his gaze when she realized someone was looking. She had been staring at the floor. Over the course of their journey, she'd murmured perhaps a dozen words – none of them to him – and got about as much sleep as he did. For the most part, she sat and stared.
Go away inside. Was that not what he told her to do? But he could not imagine it was much better there either, trapped between painful memories of those who were dead, and the reality of them being dead.
"My lady," Doran started, his voice softened. He spoke as a father would to his hurt child. "The word of your loss pains me, as it does many in Dorne. I know that my words bring little in the way of comfort, but know that you are safe here in my home."
Myra nodded once. "I thank you, Prince Doran."
Her voice had cracked.
"Sansa, might you escort your sister to her room? She need not be here for the rest."
The younger Stark all but jumped at the opportunity, whisking Myra away before anyone else could speak. Jaime felt his ghost fingers reaching out, but the woman never looked his way as she disappeared from the room, Grey Wind trailing behind.
Brienne looked uncomfortable being left behind, but she knew better than to try anything.
Doran turned to them, completely ignoring Jaime as he stood there. He thought to sit, but something about the room told him that was no longer allowed.
"And who are you two? Sworn shields?"
"My name is Brienne of Tarth, Prince Doran," she replied with a nod. Jaime watched her hand reach for a sword that was no longer there. She seemed awkward standing without one.
"Lady Brienne!" Oberyn called out, leaning across the back of the sofa. For the first time since they arrived, the Red Viper did not appear on the verge of murdering someone. He looked utterly fascinated, eyes lit like a child who found a new toy. "You are the one who bested that flower, Loras Tyrell."
"I did defeat Ser Loras in a competition, but how would you know?"
"When someone who parades themselves around as much as the Knight of Flowers, word gets out when they've been defeated by a woman," Oberyn replied, grinning. Brienne looked more uncomfortable. "I've fought the boy myself. He has talent. Tell me, who taught you?"
"My father."
"He must be a great knight."
"He's not."
Jaime found himself glancing at Olyvar, who was taking in the conversation with rapt attention. His eyes darted back and forth between the two, fingers twitching at his sides. He looked half ready to bolt.
Clearly the boy had more sense about him than he did.
"And you?" Doran asked once the room had quieted, though Oberyn looked on the verge of saying more. "What is your name?"
"I'm Olyvar," the boy started, looking uncertain. "Olyvar Frey, my lord-prince. My prince."
The air grew still again.
Brienne cleared her throat. "Olyvar was squire to Lady Myra's brother, Robb Stark. He has sworn his life to her to make amends for his House and their actions."
Doran smiled, not unkindly. "I had a younger brother named Olyvar. I can only hope he may have been as honorable as you. The servants will see both of you to chambers."
Olyvar practically bolted to the door, but Brienne lingered, worriedly watching Jaime. It was only when he nodded that she finally left.
The air changed rapidly as Jaime found himself the center of attention once more. He could scarcely breathe, it had grown so thick with both princes watching him. Some distant part of him wished to make a joke, as he would have once, but the not-so-foolish side of him quickly smothered the idea. If he was to die in Dorne, it would not be over making a silly comment about the weather.
"Would you care for some food, Ser Jaime?" Oberyn commented, running his finger along one of his rings. "You see, in Dorne, guest right is still sacred."
"If the food is poisoned, is guest right violated? The line is a little unclear."
No, he was going to die insulting the Red Viper.
He never had been the smart Lannister.
Oberyn's eyes narrowed to slits, but before he could do anything else, Doran raised his hand.
"Enough," he said, voice commanding. It was enough to keep his little brother in line. "Before we continue, Ser Jaime, I need to you tell me that my people will not face the repercussions of your actions. Myra Stark is a sworn enemy of the crown, and Dorne has thus far remained neutral in this war."
Except for the whole Sansa Stark debacle, but Jaime opted against saying anything. He knew where that particular line was.
"My actions are my own, and my father is clearly aware of them, or rather, he will be," Jaime replied. "I am in more danger from him than your people, I promise."
"Even so, see to it that you send a raven to King's Landing. Perhaps even two. Some messages should not be left to chance."
Jaime bowed his head. "As you command."
Doran's eyes narrowed, and his expression darkened. Suddenly, Jaime could see the resemblance between the brothers, the anger that they both held.
"As I command," he echoed. "Tell me, if my command was to have my brother execute you where you stand, what would you say to that?"
He took a breath, feeling the ghost fingers twitch.
"I'd say: keep her safe."
Oberyn glanced at his brother. Both were clearly confused by the reply, and briefly forgot to hate him.
Doran sighed, glancing over his shoulder. "My friend."
Areo Hotah, despite his large size, had seemingly disappeared from sight he had stood so still. Now he emerged from along the wall, longaxe still in hand, to stand beside his prince.
"See to it that he reaches his quarters," the prince continued as his guard immediately stepped away. "He will be your only friend in Dorne, Ser Jaime. See to it that you do not antagonize anyone, and I will send my maester for you."
Him not antagonizing people was a bit like telling Tyrion not to drink wine, but even his brother sobered up sometimes, and Jaime was in no mood for a fight.
It did not take long for him to find trouble, or rather, for it to find him.
Three short, very angry girls blocked the hallway, standing side by side. They were armored, but did not carry any weapons. Perhaps even they knew not to test the brute beside him, but Jaime did not doubt they would try anyway.
He'd heard of the Sand Snakes once or twice, Oberyn's large bastard brood. They did not look nearly as intimidating as they thought they did.
Areo stepped in front of him, halting and tapping his longaxe on the marbled floor.
"Step aside. My prince has commanded his safety."
"We only wish to speak with him," the tallest replied, stepping forward lightly. Her braid bounced off her shoulder. "Surely Uncle can understand our curiosity. It is not often Dorne receives visitors, especially Lannisters."
She stopped just short of Areo, knowing her limits.
Another came forward, shorter, brutish, probably smiled with a frown. "But if we wished to do more, you would not be able to stop us."
This one was more daring than her sister, closing the gap until Areo lowered the axe in front of her face.
"I would."
The youngest took her turn, skipping between her sisters, a curious smile lighting her features. "He's certainly more handsome than I expected. How long do you think it would take for his good looks to rot away?"
The longaxe struck the ground harder as Jaime instinctively grabbed for his missing sword.
"Longer than it would take for retribution," the guard said, voice grown deeper. "Do not make me fight you this day."
The braided girl only smiled. "Oh Areo, we would never wish to fight you. Would we, sisters?"
While the smallest nodded, the angry one simply stared the guard down.
"Obara?"
"No."
They stepped away then, Obara and the youngest girl turning back down the corridor. The taller one remained, eying him quietly.
"We wanted to meet the great Kingslayer, but all I see is a pathetic man."
Jaime allowed himself a breath when the final girl disappeared and Areo resumed marching his way down the hall.
"That will not be the last time you see them."
He did not doubt that.
Sansa
The first night, she stayed in bed with Myra, clinging to her tightly as she had when she was a little girl in Winterfell. Neither of them had slept, both taking turns weeping in each other's arms as they mourned and recovered together. She needed her sister, and her sister needed her.
She stayed with her the other nights because Myra did not stop needing her.
Sometimes her sister cried out in the dead of night and needed someone there to comfort her; sometimes she simply wept, and needed a hand to wipe her tears. More often than not, Myra just stared, silent and unmoving. Those were the times Sansa worried the most. She hovered over her as their mother had done when they grew sick, watching, waiting. For what, she did not know. Nothing good.
All the while, Grey Wind remained. He would lie at the foot of her bed, or next to Myra if she needed to go somewhere. Every once in a while, the direwolf would whine. He had grown thin, and his fur lost its volume. The climate was not suitable for him. Sansa had never seen such a sad creature before.
One night, Myra murmured, "I think he wants to die."
That was all she had said on it.
Myra would speak on occasion, sometimes even hold full conversations. Sansa would ask her simple questions, delicately tiptoeing around sensitive subjects. She learned of her sister's journey to Dragonstone, of how she escaped, and her journey with Jaime across the Riverlands. But they always ended the same. There would be a word or a sound that caught Myra off guard, and then her body would shrink in on itself, and Sansa knew that her sister was done for the day.
Once, Myra had almost smiled, and Sansa believed the very idea of her being happy was what brought her back down.
Sansa could not deny her curiosity about the wedding. The more she knew, the more real it became, and perhaps then she could begin to move on as well, but the more she said it, the more it sounded like a lie. But she did not ask her sister. Perhaps when she was younger, she would have, bothering her night and day no matter what affect it might have on Myra, but Sansa knew better now.
One day she would know the truth.
But not today.
She rose one morning before dawn, quite used to the routine of it by now. As soon as she left the bed, Grey Wind hopped onto the mattress, lying beside Myra with his muzzle on her stomach. For once, her sister was soundly asleep, and barely moved at the commotion.
Sansa allowed herself to smile at that.
Making her way outside, she made sure to leave the dinner tray outside the door. The last time a servant had come to take it away, Myra had gone into a panic. This was the easiest solution.
She made her way down the hall, her bare arms chilled by the early morning air, but she knew it would change soon enough. Sometimes she wondered if she could handle the temperatures in Winterfell anymore, or if she would suffer in the cold like the rest of the Southerners.
Her footsteps led her down a different hallway, one that was less open, though no less opulent. Here, there were barred doors, places of imprisonment for the highborns, though she heard they were rarely used. Dorne did not give slaps on the wrist. They believed in real punishment.
Despite this, Jaime Lannister was occupying one of the rooms, his gate soundly shut and locked. She watched him take his quill to a piece of parchment, slowly, deliberately. His face would twitch at every mistake he made.
He clearly made quite a few.
Her hand reached out for one of the bars, pulling gently until she heard the thum of a locked door that would not budge.
"The key is with me," Jaime said matter-of-factly. Sansa spied the metal trinket on his left. "I was told it was necessary to keep me safe at night, although I seem to recall a Tyrell dying from scorpion stings. I don't imagine gates will do much good at stopping them."
"Do you think I care what happens to you?" Sansa asked.
"You should," Jaime countered, looking up from his writing. His hair had been cut, and his face shaved. He looked nothing like the golden knight from King's Landing. "If I die here, my father will return all of Dorne to the sand, one way or another."
"The Targaryens and their dragons could not conquer Dorne. What makes you believe Lord Tywin would do any better?"
"I never said he meant to conquer."
It fell silent a moment as the Rains of Castamere came to mind. Sansa had heard they played the song at the Twins before the slaughter began.
"You've changed since King's Landing," Jaime admitted as he stood from the desk, making his way to the threshold. "You're angrier, less doe-eyed and ignorant. It suits you."
"And you're missing a hand. That seems to suit you."
Jaime looked at his stump, his shoulders slumping. "Maybe..."
Sansa watched the man, taking in every little detail. She had heard her sister's stories – and Brienne's whenever she came by – and imagined the gaps that had been left behind. Jaime had saved her sister's life more than once, and Myra had done the same for him, and yet, Sansa could not escape the image of the Kingslayer, brash and confident and untrustworthy. No matter how different he seemed, no matter what picture was painted for her, all Sansa saw was the man her father mistrusted.
And that was enough.
"What do you want, Lady Sansa?" he asked after a while. He sounded tired.
What did she want? She could not fathom why she even came this way, only that her feet walked and she followed.
"Why her?" she asked, voice betraying her. She did not want to know. She did not need to know. "Why my sister?"
Jaime was silent for a long time, allowing the sun to rise further through his window until the light shone through the doorway, nearly blinding her, but she did not flinch. For one brief moment, she thought he might not answer.
"Because she never looked at me the way you are now."
The sadness in his eyes almost made it hard to believe that he could possibly be the father of Joffrey, but then she remembered who his mother was. They were such opposites, Cersei and Myra, another strange piece of the already unsolvable puzzle.
Her feet shifted. "Did you kill Jon Arryn?"
Jaime blinked, surprised by the direction of her question. That alone told her he had not done it. He wasn't very good at hiding things, not like his sister, and if she had done it, he would have known.
"No," was his reply, simple, without a rude comment or two. It seemed he couldn't keep up that façade long. Not anymore.
Sansa simply nodded then, and it was as if Jaime had been released from her control. He shuffled back to his desk, sitting uncomfortably on the little wooden chair he had been provided, his face wincing in pain.
He waited on her, glancing back to the doorway every now and again, but her feet were planted to the spot. She watched him, she watched the wall, she watched the dust that floated in the sunlight between them, but she did not move. Eventually, Jaime grew tired of waiting and returned to his efforts at writing. Sansa could make out a letter or two, but the distance was too great and his handwriting too terrible for her to discern what he was writing about.
"I'm going to kill him," Sansa spoke, her voice echoing in his small chamber. Jaime glanced over his shoulder, confused. "Perhaps Myra loves you, and perhaps you're better than what everyone claims, but it makes no difference. I am not my sister.
"One day you'll receive word that your father has died, and when you do, know that I have paid my debt."
Sansa did not give him a chance to respond. She returned down the hall at a brisk pace, feeling the air begin to warm in the morning sun.
She needed to say it out loud, a solemn promise given to another. It set a plan in action, one that she would not back down from, on her honor.
He could tell his father for all she cared, warn him that there was another amongst the hundreds of thousands who wanted Tywin Lannister dead. It would not matter.
Who would suspect Sansa Stark of killing a man?