(shout out to my fellow essential workers - good luck to us all)
Tyrion
Life had a funny way of changing at a moment's notice.
At one point, he, Tyrion Lannister, the Imp, had been in the most prominent position of power. He had the gold cloaks in one hand and soldiers in the other; he had the pyromancers and the smiths working day and night for him. Varys and Littlefinger telling him secrets while Maester Pycelle was locked away. He had destroyed a fleet and led men to war against Stannis Baratheon himself.
And in the span of one evening, it had been taken away. He was once more just the dwarf with only a name to keep him afloat, ignored by the highborns and his family and anyone else who may have mattered.
Really, he should have laughed at the whole ordeal, it was so ridiculous, but that had been one of his many failings: he cared too much, and in the end, he knew it would cost him in the game, one way or the other.
What he didn't expect was for it to happen to his father.
One moment, Tywin Lannister had been riding on the aftermath of his greatest victory: securing his legacy, and now he looked more terrifying than Tyrion had seen him in some time.
Precisely the time when Jaime had more or less threatened Joffrey...
Oh.
Seven hells, Jaime, what did you do now?
Their father was a cunning man, feared and obeyed by nearly everyone, but Jaime had always been that outlier. Cersei had been too, but it had been easier for their brother. No one could predict him, no one could intimidate him, and no one could stop him once he set his mind to something. It seemed their father was finally learning that lesson.
"Your brother is a fool."
Tywin was looking out the window, his back to Tyrion, a scroll clutched tightly in his hands. He could not quite make out the wax seal on it, but he was certain he would find out soon enough.
"I'm glad we've finally found something to agree upon," Tyrion started. He always did like to joke when nervous. "Although I imagine you're aware of something that I am not."
His father turned back to him, fury undeniable, but Tyrion did not feel the brunt of it. For once, it was not focused on him, and for whatever reason, he found that more terrifying.
He tossed the scroll onto the desk between them. The broken seal was of two towers connected by a bridge – the Twins – and the handwriting inside was a childlike scrawl.
Tyrion had just begun to reach for it when his father tossed another one down, this one bearing a sun pierced by a spear.
House Nymeros Martell.
"Against my orders, your brother has fled to Dorne with Myra Stark," Tywin stated, sitting down in his chair. "He is now an 'honored guest' of Prince Doran, or so they would have us believe."
His brother had wanted to take the girl to her sister. It was obvious, wasn't it? The only family she had left, and after everything she had been through, that was most likely the only thing that could help.
But Tyrion didn't want to believe his brother was that foolish. Oh he certainly was, but giving his brother the benefit of the doubt was what family was for.
"Perhaps it's a trick. Something to lure our focus away," Tyrion replied with a shrug. "Although pretending to have Jaime's dreadful handwriting is far too clever for most of our enemies."
A third scroll found its way onto the desk. This one bore the sigil of their house.
"That is from Casterly Rock," Tywin continued, his voice clipped. "Sent to us after Kevan accepted all the Northern prisoners from the Twins whom your brother promised sanctuary."
Never mind then.
"Well, Jaime should be in for a wonderful stay," Tyrion said, picking at the chair arms. "After all, the Martells hold our house in such high regard."
Ah, there it was, the focus of all his father's disappointments on him. He was starting to feel lonely without the sensation.
He took solace in the fact that Jaime might have enjoyed his jest, although his brother was growing harder to read by the day.
"Your brother is alone amongst men and women who would rather see him hanging from the gates of Sunspear than take another free breath in their midst and here you sit, safe in King's Landing, making jokes," Tywin started, not giving him the chance to counter. "And the only reason he is still alive and you are able to joke is because Prince Doran is guided by intellect, unlike most of the country. Had that reckless brother of his been in charge, our armies would be on the march at this very moment."
Yes, Oberyn Martell. He knew of the man's reputation. He also knew that he and his intellectual brother had every cause to hate their family, ever since their father had allowed Gregor Clegane to murder Princess Elia and her children.
And now his son and heir had marched straight through their doors, no strings attached.
"I have to wonder why they aren't already," Tyrion mused, watching his father grab a piece of parchment. Furious, curved words flowed across the paper, and he struggled to read what it said. "You burned the Riverlands when Catelyn Stark took me, and I am not Jaime."
"You were her prisoner. Your brother is not theirs, not yet. The instant our banners make a move the Martells don't like, Jaime is as good as lost. Dorne is not the Riverlands. They are not open; they are not weak. They do not suffer threats lightly. Most would prefer open conflict over allowing Jaime back into our hands."
"So, they're insane."
"They're Dornish."
He seemed to recall Bronn having a similar point once.
"It seems that we are at an impasse then," Tyrion noted, glancing around the room. "So, why summon me here? Surely it wasn't just for the political banter. I'm certain there are others you'd prefer to speak to, not sure who, the entirety of King's Landing seems to have the intelligence of a flea, but they're all not me, of course."
His father did not reply, too preoccupied with his writing.
So, Tyrion waited, silent and bored, eying the room for any sign of wine. Of course, there was none. His father had masterfully hidden every drop away – probably somewhere high – in preparation for his arrival. Then he began to count the number of lions that decorated the space. He was somewhere in the twenties when his father finished writing and sealed the letter with the sigil of the Hand.
"Do I ask what that is for?"
Tywin Lannister wrote his words carefully. He wasn't Cersei. Every syllable had its purpose. Someone's life hung in the balance behind that wax seal.
"It is a message for Prince Doran about how we should proceed next, to be delivered directly to him," Tywin replied, handing over the letter. "Upon your arrival in Dorne."
Tyrion stared at his father's hand as if it had turned into a viper itself, ready to strike if he dared to move any closer.
"No."
It was all he could say. All the thoughts swimming in his head, all the possibilities – bloody, terrifying possibilities – fighting for the center of his attention, and that one word was the only thing he could pull out of fray. There were no more jokes, just a fear of the unknown that would almost certainly end in his death.
"No?" his father echoed, that tone in his voice asking why he would dare disobey, as if he were refusing to finish his supper.
"This is not a house you can intimidate with some fancy words. This is House Martell, and in case you forgot, they have spent the last twenty years hating our family because of what we did to them."
"And you conveniently sent them a hostage in the form of your niece some time ago if I recall correctly," his father countered, much to Tyrion's chagrin. "It was war. The Dornish know it well. Women and children die all the time."
"But not princes and princesses. Until they are avenged, we are still at war, and you are about to give them both of your sons." He paused, taking a breath, painfully realizing the obvious. "Of course, it doesn't matter to you. The only son you care about is already in danger. What difference does it make if the dwarf goes?"
Tyrion stood, turning to make his way out of the room. Though he could feel his father's eyes boring into his back, it remained silent as he walked away. Only when his hand finally grasped the door handle did the man think to speak.
"When you were captured, your brother did not hesitate. I'm told he attempted to attack Ned Stark in response to what had happened to you. Then he went to the Vale where they, too, have no love for the Lannisters, and he fought for you. Then he fought the hill tribes for you. And then he was captured. For you."
He heard his father's chair scrape across the floor, and turned to find Tywin staring him down.
"You speak of family and bearing the Lannister name, but now that I have presented you an opportunity to prove yourself, you balk at the idea. I've come to expect no less.
"You do not deserve the kindness that Jaime has undeservingly given you."
It was rare occurrence these days, his father saying something that truly bore down upon him and broke a piece of his spirit. In his youth, it had been often, but the pieces that had remained were strong and willful, used to his callous ways. But every now and again, Tywin Lannister found those cracks and pried them wide open.
Still, he was stubborn and prideful, a lion through and through.
"If you have so little regard for me in this matter, why send me at all?"
"Because whether I like or not, you are the only one whom your brother may listen to."
Was he? It didn't feel that way anymore. During their time apart, Jaime had changed. Some might argue for the better, but it had left him vulnerable. His guard was up, and everyone who had been a part of that old life was now facing the brunt of it, himself included. He didn't talk about what happened after Dragonstone, after his capture, after he lost his hand.
Sometimes, Tyrion would catch his brother off-guard, and find him on the verge of saying something, but then he would realize and change the subject.
Was it to protect Myra or himself? Maybe both. No one had taken well to anything that had happened to him, so his brother had done what he did best: shut up and moved on, or at least pretended to.
Still, this was about as close to saying he needed him as his father would ever get, and had he not been so thoroughly defeated, Tyrion might have found some entertainment in that thought.
Slowly, he crossed back to the desk, quietly reaching for the letter without meeting his father's gaze.
"I'll leave on the morrow, if that is alright."
"You'll leave today."
Of course.
"And I presume you will do your best to avoid conflict, given your contribution to the outbreak of this war."
How often Tyrion thought about telling his father the truth: that his golden son had been the one to start the whole thing by pushing the Stark boy out the window, because the child had been unfortunate enough to see him fucking Cersei. How he wanted to ruin the legacy for him; how he wanted to see his face when he realized what his children truly were.
But he could not do that to his brother. Even now he would bear that burden for Jaime.
It was what family did, after all.
Jaime
She was laughing at him.
He could hear it, a stifled giggle every time he made the smallest of movements underneath his cloak.
They made no fire that night, worried about some suspicious tracks in the forest, but the moon was full and bright, bathing the area in its glow. Through the gaps in the trees, moonlight shined down on Myra Stark, where her eyes watched him. Her cloak sat across her lap, but she was otherwise unprotected from the cold. She did not seem to mind in the least.
When he heard the sound again, Jaime bolted upright.
"What?"
That only made her laugh louder.
"You're cold."
Jaime sighed. "It's a wonder your father didn't figure everything out sooner. Such keen minds the Starks have."
He hadn't meant to be so harsh, but he was tired and he was cold, and Myra's amusement at the whole thing was not helping.
But the comment did not seem to faze her. She only smiled at the teasing, glancing up at the sky briefly. He wondered if she wasn't hoping for snow.
"You Southerners," she said, looking back down. "The instant your breath is visible, you think the world's come to an end."
"And I suppose whenever you Northerners catch sight of the sun, you think the realm's about to go up in smoke."
She began to giggle again at that, and Jaime could not help but smile. He should have been annoyed still, but for whatever reason, he found the sensation had gone missing, chased off into the darkness by a girl's laughter at his teasing.
Who was the last person who laughed at one of his japes that wasn't Tyrion? There was a question he didn't have an answer to.
While he thought, he didn't notice Myra stand. It wasn't until she was standing beside him that he realized she had moved at all.
In her hand was her cloak, which she extended out to him.
"Try to stay warm, Ser Jaime," she said softly. "Winter is coming."
It was a cooler morning, nothing that he was unused to, but he could see the servants shiver now and again. Back in King's Landing, this would have been a good start to the day. In the North, these temperatures were probably unheard of.
Jaime ran a hand over his face. He never used to think about the weather.
Dorne had yet to kill him, which was a surprising turn to say the least. The people had found a good leader in their prince, though he wondered how many of them appreciated the fact. Considerably less so when word got out that the Kingslayer was here and alive, he imagined.
He found himself standing in a viewing gallery by the training grounds. Behind him, Areo Hotah remained, a silent but suffocating presence in his life. When not in his rooms, the guard was with him. With the exception of the first day, the man spoke in single word sentences, and never made an expression no matter how Jaime prodded. The Kingsguard had never seen a man so obedient in all their years.
If he were honest, Jaime was not entirely certain how he got there. For the last few days, he had taken to being on his own – mostly in his room where he could cause no trouble and be free of his new 'companion' – but he had grown bored of the same four walls, and found even the bright decorations of Dorne became dull when forced to stare at them over and over again.
Brienne was practicing with Olyvar on the grounds, both having been allowed training swords. Neither was giving it their all, mostly going through the motions, testing the other. The Frey boy, for all his nervousness in most things, fought with confidence. His feet were sure of themselves and his strikes were firm. He made for a fairly competent swordsman – which was more than he could say for most knights he had come across.
Still, the boy never could have defeated him in his prime, nor Brienne if they had cause to attack one another.
But now?
Now they could have given Tommen a sword and he'd soundly beat him, hatred of hurting things and all.
His fingers itched.
"Uncle Jaime!"
He almost didn't recognize the girl walking toward him – or was it young woman now? Myrcella was taller than he remembered, her hair longer, and she was-
Seven hells, what was she wearing? Where were the sleeves to that dress? Or any of the fabric?
When she smiled, so did he. That much of her he knew. It was warm and kind and so full of life. He head spent little time with her over the years – at Cersei's insistence – and yet, she still smiled like that for him. One could argue she smiled like that for everyone, but at this point, Jaime would take what he could get.
When she embraced him in a hug, Jaime might have held on longer than he should have, but Myrcella never complained.
Gods, how could she possibly be their daughter?
"I hardly recognized you," Jaime said as she pulled away. Myrcella briefly turned to Areo, who managed a smile for her. Everyone smiled for the princess.
"And I you," Myrcella replied, looking him over. "Your hair is darker, and shorter, and..."
Her eyes wandered to his right side.
Jaime lifted the stump. "And I'm short one hand."
"Does it hurt?" she asked, her hands reaching out to grasp the limb.
He pulled it away before she had the chance to touch it.
"It's fine," he blurted, too quickly. Myrcella's unsure gaze confirmed that, but, again, she said nothing. She always had been observant. "Makes for better competition."
They fell silent as their gazes turned back to the grounds.
He wondered briefly if he shouldn't say more, but could hardly remember the last time he'd ever had a lengthy conversation with Myrcella. Surely it made no difference now whether or not he did, yet it felt wrong.
Despite this, Jaime couldn't find the words to begin with.
Brienne and Olyvar had ceased their sparring, standing in the open space, breathing hard. Words were exchanged, and the boy managed a smile.
From the left, Oberyn Martell leapt onto the training field, a spear in hand and a grin on his face.
Things were about to get interesting.
"My lady!" the Red Viper called out, strutting his way toward Brienne. Confidence poured out of the man in waves, and, admittedly, he wouldn't mind seeing the woman put him in his place. "Surely you deserve better sparring than that!"
Honorable until the end, Brienne ducked her head in greeting. "We were merely practicing our stances, Prince Oberyn. There is no need for a real fight."
"But that is the only way to train! Elsewise we become predictable and slow, and I have a feeling you want to be neither of those."
Jaime watched as Oberyn began to spin his spear, showing off how rapidly he could change stances and grips. He resembled some toy that Tommen had played with once, but he knew better than to underestimate the man. Confident and over the top he might have been, but it wasn't unearned.
Over the years, Jaime had a few opportunities to see the Dornish prince fight, though never against him. Oberyn loved the crowds. He loved to please people and reveled in their worship of him, but he loved to fight even more. Men changed when they fought, not for show, but the real deal, life or death, and Oberyn Martell always fought that way. There should have been something disturbing in the way he relished his proximity to death, but Jaime had known that feeling as well.
He wondered how alike they might have actually been.
Olyvar was looking between the two fighters and slowly backing away.
Smart lad.
"I'm not either of them," Brienne replied, watching as Oberyn circled her. He could see the barest hints of annoyance on her face, even from that distance. Like the Starks, she never was good at concealing how she felt about things. "And I couldn't fight you with a spear. You aren't even armored."
"Then our business should be concluded in no time, so why continue to deny me the opportunity?" Oberyn asked, sticking his spear in the dirt. "You are the kind of woman who wants to be treated as an equal, yet here you stand, refusing me. Perhaps you're afraid."
Jaime's mouth twitched. "He's baiting her."
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Myrcella turn to him.
"Would she fall for that? It seems so very obvious."
He shrugged, looking down at her. "In my experience, the younger or more honorable you are, the easier it is to fall for simple tricks. Brienne of Tarth happens to be both."
"And Prince Oberyn isn't," Myrcella replied, looking back.
Neither was he.
"I'm not afraid," Brienne countered with a tone that might have been convincing for a child. "But I do not wish to chance harming you. You are a prince of Dorne."
"Rumor has it you killed King Renly," Oberyn replied, grinning. "Injuring a prince should be nothing to you."
The air grew colder.
Jaime found himself waiting with bated breath. Brienne had gone utterly still, but she would not remain that way for long.
The subject of kingslaying never sat well with her. It reminded Jaime a bit of himself, back when he had killed Aerys. He used to lash out at those who would use that action against him, before he thought better of it, before he realized it would stop nothing. But Brienne was new to the sensation, not to mention she hadn't killed Renly. The poor fool had been in love with the man – he could tell – and harming him would have been the last thing on her mind.
Brienne was quicker than he remembered, unsheathing the practice sword and charging at Oberyn without pause.
But the Red Viper was faster.
Oberyn lifted his spear out of the ground and spun away as her sword sliced through the air where he once stood. He cackled in delight, switching to a defensive stance with his spear resting against his cheek, pointed outward, while the bulk of his weight rested on his back leg. From that position, she would have to reach, allowing his spear to dictate the flow of her sword.
When Brienne hit against his spear to leave him open, Oberyn would twist away in the opposite direction before she could bring her sword back around. It continued several times, much to his delight and her annoyance.
The prince would win, Jaime had no doubt, but it would take a while. Spears were made for jabbing and piercing. Their window of opportunity was smaller, especially against armored individuals such as Brienne. Waiting was their game; waiting for mistakes and small opportunities, but despite her annoyance, Brienne kept a close guard of herself. The instant she believed he was going to make a move, she would close up and leave no gaps for Oberyn to take advantage of.
Oberyn tested her defenses once. The blow to his spear left him shaking his hand.
This only seemed to please him further.
"I've never seen him fight like this," Myrcella murmured, her voice in slight awe. He wondered if Dorne had done that to her as well. "His daughters are always quick to attack him, and he beats them so easily. Now he actually has to try."
"The prince will grow impatient," Areo said behind them. His gaze was fixed on Myrcella. "He always does."
And at some point, he did.
Oberyn began to jab more often, testing and reaching and bouncing off Brienne's armor. It pushed her back, further and further into the arena as she fought to keep her defense up.
Then there was a shift. The spear glanced awkwardly off the armor, and Brienne pounced on the opportunity in an instant, bringing her guard arm up and wrapping in around the shaft. She pulled down, dragging Oberyn closer to her; she could have ended the match then, with a sword tip pointed to the neck, but her anger got the better of her, and the prince of Dorne caught a fist to the face instead.
He staggered backward and took a knee.
It fell silent.
Myrcella moved her hands to her mouth. Jaime bit his tongue. Brienne looked ready to flee the area.
But then Oberyn began to laugh.
He looked up, blood running from his nose, and smiled. His teeth were red too.
"Much better."
There was another pause. Oberyn's spear was on the ground, as was Brienne's sword, discarded in favor of her fist. They both eyed one another and then scrambled for their weapons.
Whatever they had been doing before, it paled next to the fight that broke out now. Wild slashes and blocks and parries and stabs, blurred by an unreal speed between the foes. Jaime watched it all, feeling himself sway slightly at the movements, picturing how he could have ended the fight in one place or lost it in another. He missed the sensation.
Eventually, it ended as Jaime predicted. Fully committed to the fight, Oberyn did not take long to wear down Brienne. He broke past her guard, and she found his spear in her face, but she did not seem disappointed by the outcome. Rather, she smiled, and bowed gratefully to the prince, all evidence of anger gone.
Myrcella began to clap. Jaime hit his left hand on his leg a couple times. Gods, there wasn't much he could do anymore, was there?
Jaime found his eyes wandering as congratulations were thrown about. His gaze found a balcony in the distance, and there, seated, he saw her.
Myra.
She was watching him. He couldn't see that – the distance was too great – but he could feel it. Hadn't he always felt her watching him?
"You should go to her."
Jaime looked down at Myrcella, her studious, green eyes watching him. She knew. They all seemed to know, even when he did not.
He sighed. "It's not that simple."
"It's always that simple."
I loved you, and I lost everything because of it.
"The closer I get to her, the more she gets hurt, and I can't do that to her anymore."
Myrcella looked ready to say something else. A girl of thirteen – it was thirteen now, wasn't it? – attempting to advise him in the ways of life. As silly as it sounded, she was better at it than him at any rate. She'd managed to charm the Dornish, probably the first Lannister to ever do that.
Baratheon, that was.
Not Lannister.
Never Lannister.
The sound of wheels caught his attention.
Prince Doran was being pushed into the space by his son, and Myrcella's intended, Trystane. He watched the girl's face light up at the sight of him, and couldn't help but notice his ghost fingers curling.
"Did you enjoy watching my brother make a fool of himself, Princess?" Doran asked, giving a quick nod to Areo. The guard stepped out of hearing, watching the entry.
Myrcella dipped into a curtsy before nodding. "It was thrilling. Brienne is a wonderful fighter!"
"But not good enough to beat my uncle," Trystane countered, stepping to Myrcella's side and taking her arm in his.
Jaime felt the urge to punch something.
"Good enough to break his nose, perhaps," Doran said, his mouth quirking. His gaze turned to Jaime, and quickly his mood changed. "Might the two of you leave us? I have something to discuss with Ser Jaime."
They both nodded, Trystane pausing to give him that typical Dornish look of hatred, but Myrcella reached out to him, squeezing his good hand once before departing with the prince.
He didn't deserve to have that in his life.
Jaime looked back to the balcony as Doran took his time with his words. It was empty now, and he felt something sink inside at that.
"Did Lord Tywin order the deaths of Elia and her children?"
Straight to it then.
"If you're expecting me to betray my house, you're going to be disappointed."
"If you did not want to betray your house, you would not have come to Dorne."
But that was what they did, wasn't it? He betrayed his family for her. She betrayed her family for him. And what had that left them with?
Jaime sighed, sitting in the chair beside him that he had been ignoring. He was surrounded by people who were far better at this than he was; he always had been, of course, but his sword had also always been an option out.
Now he had to adapt.
He wasn't good at that sort of thing either.
"No, he didn't."
Doran frowned, unsatisfied. "And how would you know that?"
That was how it worked, wasn't it? Believe what they wanted to hear, but anything less than that could not have been the truth.
"Because my father is smarter than that," Jaime replied firmly.
He believed that. Tywin Lannister was no fool. To outright order the deaths of Elia and her children was borderline insane, and to do so in such a manner...No, he would have encouraged the complete removal of the Targaryen line, and left whatever remained to the unforeseen casualties of war.
It was the game he always played. Directly order what he knew he could win in totality, and only influence those actions that would play against him otherwise. It was the same for the Red Wedding. He would never order such a slaughter, but he would not disagree with it either.
"And what of you?" Doran asked, watching him carefully. "As a member of the kingsguard, it was your duty to protect them."
Jaime sighed, remembering that night, remembering the red cloak that wrapped the bodies of the children. Rhaenys had loved to pull on his cloak when he wasn't looking. Aegon was scarcely more than a babe, wide-eyed and quiet.
And Elia...he could still remember the disappointment in her face when he brought her the news of Rhaegar. Not sadness, just a solemn acceptance. He also remembered the fear in her gaze when he told her she could not leave the keep.
Mostly he remembered how Robert Baratheon laughed at their deaths.
"I was the only one left," Jaime replied slowly. "I was in charge of guarding the Red Keep. I didn't know they weren't safe."
"Of course not, how could you? You were too busy killing your king."
His eyes narrowed. "And I would do it again, given the chance. Their deaths were the only regrettable things from that night."
Doran watched him for a long time, and Jaime fought to hold his gaze.
"I used to ask myself every night: why would Rhaegar leave Elia?" Doran started, closing his eyes. The words seemed to pain him, or perhaps it was the gout. Perhaps both. "Elia, who had given him a son and heir, and a daughter, beautiful and sweet. Elia, who had done her so at the risk of her own life, who bore insults and threats and the constant horror that was his father, all for him and her duty. I used to tell myself it should have been impossible, and then you arrived in Dorne.
"You, a Lannister, bearing a Stark to our borders to keep her safe. You, the son and heir of Lord Tywin, bringing Robb Stark's heir to the one place you should not be, because you do not care about yourself, or what happens because of your actions."
Jaime felt tense as Doran opened his eyes again, the accusation in them overwhelming him.
"Twice over the realm has been nearly destroyed for Starks. What is going to happen to us for this one?"
Arya
"Do you think it's safe?" Gendry whispered, pulling back the branches of the bush they had ducked behind. Beyond it was a small inn, with a couple horses wandering the fields and smoke curling out of the chimney.
"Probably not," Arya replied, hand gripping the hilt of her sword tightly.
"Is anything safe anymore?"
"Probably not."
They had left the boat behind a few days ago, finding the path too difficult to stay on. With the Stark armies scattered, the Riverlands were in chaos again. Lannisters and Freys and groups of men who were just out to cause trouble roamed the area, and most stuck close to the river. Even at night, it was difficult to travel unnoticed. Twice they'd nearly been caught, actually spotted once, but Nymeria, who had been following them along the shore, quickly took care of the problem.
But they both knew it could not last. Nymeria was a terrifying creature, but not even a direwolf could stand against the might of an entire army. They would eventually find a group too big to handle, and there would be no escaping then.
At least on land, Nymeria could keep them away from danger. She also provided them rabbits every night so they wouldn't starve, but the smell of bread wafting from the building before them reminded Arya that she had grown tired of the taste.
Gendry sighed. "They have food and beds, and we have gold. What's to keep us from going in there?"
"Common sense," Arya replied, watching a chicken flee its coop. "And the fact that it will probably go wrong for us just like everything else does."
"That's a fair point."
Before Arya could count to ten, they both stood and began to make their way down to the inn.
Covered in mud and sweat, they stood before the door, taking a moment to breathe in the smell of food. A pig picked through the dirt nearby, snuffling, while the building creaked uneasily in the wind. Someone stepped inside and it shook the wood enough that bits of hay drifted off the roof.
It was more welcoming than the Red Keep had ever been.
Slowly, they stepped inside, eying the area cautiously as their eyes adjusted.
The inn was dark and smoky, a single, large room with several tables about. A large pot hung over the fireplace on the far right, where four others were gathered, their conversations quieting as they spotted them.
Above them was a loft that circled the perimeter of the building, accessible by one set of stairs by the fireplace. Arya could hear soft snores coming from somewhere above.
A large, fat man stalked over to them from the fireplace, his face none too kind.
"I don't take in strays," he said, wiping his hands on his shirt. Grease came off his fingers. "War's taken enough from me. There's no free meals here."
"We've got money," Arya said, lifting up her coin purse. It wasn't all the money they had been given. They had taken Maester Vyman's advice and split it up amongst them. There were coins in their boots. Gendry had some in his shirt. Arya's cloak was thick enough that she'd made a small pocket for them.
"Who'd you steal it from?"
"Does it matter?"
The man snorted. "Course it matters. I got enough troubles without Lannister soldiers comin' in here asking about their gold."
Gendry stepped forward. "I was a smith in Riverrun, and-"
"So you stole it from the Tullys?"
Arya shrugged. "Not like they'll be looking for it."
Her fingers pressed into her palm at that.
He stared at them for a long time before reaching out to take the bag. Upon viewing how much was actually inside, he did not seem to care so much about who the gold may or may not have belonged to. In fact, he was a downright cheery host afterwards, giving them the best cuts of meat and assuring them that the bed upstairs was the best to be found for leagues.
Arya didn't miss the fact that he only mentioned one. Neither did Gendry as he choked on his drink.
Of course, by bed, the man had meant a large pile of hay with blankets on top, but Arya didn't mind. The night before, she had slept on a root. This may has well have been made with goose down and silk.
Gendry had hovered over the bed a while after she had already laid down. Never mind that they had probably slept closer to one another before, the concept of being in the same bed no matter how large it was seemed to unsettle him.
"You're being stupid, Gendry."
"Maybe," he admitted.
She watched him in the growing darkness as the fire downstairs burned down, but he seemed keen on staying put. With a sigh, she rolled over to her side, inching as far as she could to the edge of the space and closing her eyes.
Eventually, she felt the hay shift, and heard her friend sigh as he relaxed into the blankets.
She imagined all the ladies Sansa liked, and how they would have gasped and giggled at the situation. It never did make much sense to her. They were just trying to sleep.
Her thoughts turned to the rest of her family, and Arya blinked against the tears. She didn't want to cry anymore. Crying never helped anyone. She had cried for Mycah, but the Hound had still killed him. Sansa had cried for their father, but he was still dead. Their mother had cried for Bran, and now they were both gone.
Crying did nothing.
"Gregor Clegane, Ilyn Payne, Meryn Trant, Joffrey, Cersei, the Hound, the Kingslayer, Roose Bolton, Walder Frey."
The words would do something. One day.
"Gregor Clegane, Ilyn Payne, Meryn Trant, Joffrey, Cersei, the Hound, the Kingslayer, Roose Bolton, Walder Frey."
"What is that?" Gendry asked.
"What is what?"
"What do you mean 'what is what?' Those names you keep saying. I've heard you say them nearly every night, except those new ones, that is."
Arya shrugged, but realizing he probably couldn't see the movement, she rolled over.
Gendry was on his back, hands behind his head, looking up at the ceiling. He'd put his sword between them, a flat, little barrier to keep him at ease.
"When we were still with Yoren, he told me about a boy who'd killed his brother, and how he used to say his name every night. One day, he finally killed that boy."
He looked at her. "And these are all people you're going to kill?"
"That's the idea."
Gendry chuckled. "Good luck killing the Mountain. You can't even reach his knees."
She reached over and smacked him, but that only made him laugh harder.
When they'd finally settled, they were lying closer together, but Gendry didn't seem to mind as much.
"Does it bother you, the list?"
It really shouldn't have mattered what he thought, but she wanted to know anyway.
Gendry thought on it a moment, and shrugged. "Not really, no. S'pose I'd have a list too if I were you."
She smiled softly at that before rolling back over. "Goodnight, Gendry."
"Goodnight, m'lady."
He didn't laugh when she tossed his sword at him.