(coming at you from a socially acceptable distance)
Gendry
He wasn't used to people.
That was, he wasn't used to having the same people for so long.
All his life, people had been leaving him, or he them. Ever since his mother died – not that he could remember much of her either – his life had been a series of faces and places, things he never grew used to because they would be gone soon enough. The kind, fat septa who had snuck him extra bread at the orphanage, the cruel, old one that replaced her, the blonde girl with the gap in her teeth – Tess, was it? – who would whistle when the coast was clear so he could sneak fruit from one of the market stands.
Tobho Mott had been the first, if annoying, constant in his youth, but even then, Gendry had not allowed himself to become used to the man, always keeping a bag ready for when he had to run again. The constant threats hadn't helped. Good at smithing he may have been, but Tobho preferred to motivate his workers with unemployment and starvation rather than compliments, even after two Hands promised him a good life.
That really should have been the first sign that something was wrong, but Tess had always said he was thick.
Given his parentage, it sort of made sense now.
Arya Stark should have been one of those faces, in his life one moment and gone the next. Even when she was just Arry, he had expected as much. She'd go missing on their way to the Wall, die when the Lannister soldiers came, die in Harrenhal, be taken away at any point during this crazy journey of theirs, and yet, Gendry still found himself in her company.
He had meant what he said to her that evening, about going back to the Brotherhood when they'd traveled her to Riverrun. She was a highborn lady after all, and about to become one of those past faces again, and he preferred the new ones to be company of his own choosing.
But his feet had dragged in Riverrun. They'd given him a bed and good clothes and the smith was quiet, but decent to him. And Arya was about as determined to leave him be as the rest of the world was apparently. She always found herself in the smithy, one way or another.
Gendry guessed he'd just grown used to her.
She couldn't whistle for shit, though.
He woke with a smile on his face, and a craving for apples, but the smell of bacon sizzling somewhere below was enough to squash that sensation. He almost began to mourn the opportunity to have some when he realized it was probably being made especially for them.
He wasn't used to having money either.
Gendry turned to his traveling companion, half expecting her to leap from the balcony as soon as she caught a whiff of the stuff, but was surprised to find Arya still asleep, completely unaware of everything around her.
She hadn't been sleeping much, he knew that. Every time it was his turn to take up the watch, she would just lie there, staring. Sometimes she'd close her eyes, but her body was still tense, ready to leap up and stab the next thing that ran into the area.
Sometimes, he wondered if he shouldn't have been more disturbed that the girl asleep next to him would rather kill first before any other option, but after Harrenhal, well, he couldn't question much anymore. He could still hear those rats in the dead of night, clawing at wood and flesh; he even thought he could feel them.
Carefully as he could, Gendry stood from their makeshift bed. He'd let her sleep as long as he could, all day if she needed to. What was the harm in spending another night?
The bacon tasted as good as it smelled, and suddenly Gendry was glad to be eating alone. Arya would smack him for it, but he'd enjoy teasing her about getting to eat first nonetheless.
When the door to the inn opened, Gendry paid it no mind. His face was half buried in porridge anyway. But when a gruff, familiar voice exchanged words with the innkeeper, he nearly choked.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw him, the hulking beast from the cave. There was no mistaking the half-burned face that turned to him.
The Hound was here.
He sat on the other end of the table, though it didn't seem so far given how large he was. While the innkeeper busied with food, completely oblivious to the rising tension in the room, Gendry sat up a little straighter, and wished he'd decided to sleep a little longer.
The Hound did not look at him, yet somehow he felt watched.
"Where is she?" his deep voice asked eventually.
Gendry said nothing.
"Being stupid only gets you killed faster."
Still, he said nothing. He kept his gaze firmly forward, trying as hard as he could to avoid looking up. He could look anywhere, just not there.
"Just get it over with," Gendry said eventually. He was dead no matter what, he figured. Maybe if he shouted in time, Arya could escape.
The Hound picked up his tankard and drained it.
The door burst open again, and three loud men clumped inside. Their armor was red and black and finely made.
Lannister soldiers.
What a fine morning to wake up.
Gendry watched them howl and laugh and push the man down when he asked what they wanted. He thought he recognized one of them as he stepped around the innkeeper, laughing the hardest; he certainly recognized the sword on his belt. The fine, castle forged steel that he had spotted in King's Landing.
It was Arya's, which meant this man was from Harrenhal.
He really did have all the luck.
The three fell silent when they spotted him and the Hound staring. He wondered if they recognized the man. Was a bit hard to forget a monstrous man with a burnt face, but it was war and people were stupid. Anyone could get lost.
When the man with Arya's sword, Needle, walked over and sat down at the table, Gendry knew he had his answer. He doubted the man recognized him, but the way his luck was going, he might actually know his name and who his father was.
His friends circled behind them, hands on their hilts.
The Hound didn't seem bothered one bit.
"Sandor Clegane," the man started, grabbing at one of the mugs on the table. "You're a long way from King's Landing. Out to burn the Riverlands too, or is that just something your brother does? "
In reply, the Hound ate some bacon.
"S'pose you're not fond of it, the scar and all."
He grabbed Gendry's porridge.
"Heard you ran from the Battle of the Blackwater. The king put a lovely little price on your head for that, did you know? Could fuck all the whores in the realm and still have enough to retire, I reckon. Good thing Lannisters shit gold. Or Baratheons. Whatever they are these days. Hard to tell."
The Hound drank.
The man looked frustrated, glancing at his comrades behind the table. His eyes met Gendry's.
"So the Hound likes little boys, is that it? Never can tell with the brutish ones."
Finished with his meal, the Hound looked up, and Gendry could have sworn he'd never seen a more bored expression on a person's face.
"If I knew you were going to talk so much, I'd have killed you at the door."
There was a beat.
Gendry had left his sword upstairs, though he figured it would not have been much use. He'd never draw it before the men behind him shoved theirs through his back. He wondered if Sandor Clegane could beat them. Didn't seem like it would be hard for a man his size, but maybe there were more outside.
Maybe they would focus on him and he could slip away.
He doubted that.
They continued to sit, watching, waiting.
Gendry caught the briefest of flashes above him.
One moment, the man was looking at him, and the next, a sword went straight through the top of his head, driving through his skull and exiting out the bottom of his jaw. Clinging to that sword was Ayra, who briefly balanced on his shoulders before falling back.
Gendry stared at her as blood covered both their faces.
He heard steel.
Thinking quickly, Gendry grabbed back his bowl, and flung it backwards in the face of the man behind him. It staggered the man in surprise, long enough for him to climb from the table and grab him. They struggled. He was strong, but the Lannister soldier was taller and armored. It made things difficult.
He landed a punch. The other man landed a punch. The world started to spin.
Then he got angry.
Gendry suddenly threw the man against the wall, and hit him against it again and again until his grasp loosened. Then he grabbed the man's sword and ran him through.
The man gasped. Blood began to pour from his mouth as he crumpled to the floor.
Arya was by his side a moment later, her sword in hand.
They stared at each other a moment, both surprised by what had just happened, but their attention was captured by the death throes of the third man as the Hound all but picked him up with this sword.
He and Arya stared at the Hound.
The Hound stared at them.
Gendry felt a tiny hand grasp his and yank him away from the scene, toward a door in the back.
They burst into the early morning sunlight, running as hard as they could, although they did not make it far. They didn't have to. Almost as soon as the Hound cleared the building, there was a snarl and a shout.
Nymeria had launched herself at the man, and was currently pinning him to the ground, jaws snapping in his face. He'd dropped his sword, and was struggling to grab it again, but Arya turned on her heels and dragged it away, before pointing Needle at his face.
The Hound stopped struggling, and still managed to look unimpressed despite a direwolf's jaws being inches from his face.
"Do you remember him?" she asked. "Mycah. The boy you rode down."
"Your fire god doesn't seem to think I did it."
"He's not my god," Arya replied, bringing the tip of Needle right to his neck. "You'll see mine soon enough."
"Will I now? Hope it smells better than this thing," the Hound replied, earning another snap from Nymeria. "Good luck getting to the Vale."
Gendry blinked, grabbing Arya's arm and pulling her back.
"How do you know we're going there?"
"Where the fuck else would you go? You're going to see her aunt, Lysa Arryn, and you're going the wrong way."
Arya shook her head. "He's lying."
Gendry turned to her. "Why would he lie?"
"Because that's what people like him do. They kill and they lie."
"We kill and we lie!"
She'd bloody dropped on man and stabbed him in the head!
"He wanted to kill you!"
"Everyone wants to kill me!"
Gendry sighed, exasperated. Gods, he should have just stayed in bed.
"Look," he started, questioning where his sanity had gone as he said the words. "We're not going to make it to the Vale on our own, even with Nymeria. People like you and me are the kind of people that everyone wants to take out. But if we bring him, maybe things go better...and maybe we don't get lost."
Arya looked at him, clearly hurt. He knew how much Mycah had meant to her. She'd screamed herself hoarse when Beric had failed to kill him back in that cave, but things were different now. They were two kids alone in a war. They didn't have Jory or the Brotherhood or her brother's armies. They had one direwolf, and Nymeria hadn't been inside when everything went down. If those three men had shown up without the Hound interfering, they would have been dead.
She had to know that.
The Hound sighed. "For fuck's sake, just kill me already."
Arya pointed Needle at him again. "You're coming with us."
"Am I now?"
"You are. As our prisoner."
The Hound began to laugh, and it echoed across the open countryside.
Oberyn
For the second time within a month, Oberyn found himself waiting at the docks for a Lannister.
At one point, he considered it good fortune that he did not have to wait in the shadows at night, but then he realized that if he had good fortune at all, he would not need to be here.
Lions willingly entering a pit of vipers, and the vipers themselves unwilling to bite.
When had the world become so unrecognizable?
He sat on a box, cleaning his spear – even Doran did not expect him to kill this Lannister – ignoring the sun as it rose higher in the sky, casting light off the water and into his eyes. The cool morning air was quickly burning away. He was beginning to feel beads of sweat on the back of his neck. Might be no one greeted the man if he kept them waiting.
A distant rumble caught his attention.
Oberyn looked up to see five riders rapidly approaching the docks, four guards flanking a dark-haired woman. His own escort came to attention at the commotion, though they were hardly on edge. The Dornish did not fear their own.
At first, from the distance, he thought one of his daughters might have found their way out of the Water Gardens, Nym perhaps, but as the group drew closer, the clouds of dust that their horses kicked up presented less of an obstacle, and Oberyn realized he was in the wrong.
This was much worse than one of his daughters showing up.
Arianne Martell rode straight up the dock, leaving her guards behind. She brought her gelding to a halt right before Oberyn, staring down at him with a challenging smirk. Had it been anyone else, he would have told them to take care, but this had been a running joke between uncle and niece for some time. After all, it was the only way she could ever be taller than him.
"Good morning, Uncle," Arianne finally spoke, smiling fully. Doran always said she smiled like him.
"So it is still morning. That is good to know," Oberyn replied, glancing around the area. "I have been here so long, the sun is beginning to play tricks on my mind."
With a quick swing of her leg, Arianne dismounted, leaving one of the guards to take her steed away. Even in riding leathers, she was dressed elegantly, with yellow and orange silks draped around her form and golden thread depicting their house sigil throughout the fabric. She'd braided her hair, but wild ringlets still escaped to frame her face.
"The sun did its damage long ago. There is hardly anything left to harm," Arianne countered, moving toward the end of the dock.
Oberyn chuckled softly as he joined her. Together, they stood in silence, watching the distant horizon. He thought he saw sails.
When the silence had drawn on long enough, he sighed. "What are you doing here?"
Arianne acted as though she did not hear him, though her eyes narrowed slightly. She had spotted the sails as well.
"When I received word that the Kingslayer was a guest of Dorne, I had the guards hunt down whoever had started such a foul rumor. We do not house our enemies here; we bring them to justice.
"But now the Imp sails to our borders, and I am forced to wonder what has become of my family."
Oberyn felt his hand tighten on the spear. Perhaps his brother should have made him leave it behind after all.
"We are doing what we must."
He was starting to sound like Doran in his old age; he didn't like it.
"And what must we do?" Arianne asked, turning to him. "Grovel at the feet of the bastard king? Serve the whims of the man who slaughtered our own?"
"We must keep the peace."
"Peace?" She hissed as if the word burned her. "Dorne does not want peace. You did not want it either, once, I could see it in your eyes. Tell me, Uncle, what has cowed you so?"
His hand tightened further. He could feel the wood rub against his palms, small grooves in the surface making themselves known.
"Do not make the mistake in believing that your anger matches my own, Arianne," he cautioned, watching the ship slowly sail into port. The sails, at least, did not have any obvious sigils on them. "You speak of avenging those you hardly knew."
"Then why do you not speak of it? Why do you hold your tongue, Uncle?"
She thinks I have been silent all this time.
How often had he and Doran clashed over the years? How many words were spoken that neither one of them could take back? They had lost Elia and the children, and then nearly lost one another.
Some time ago, Oberyn had made the crucial decision: he could have his vengeance, or he could have his family. Doran's game was a long one, as they always had been, but he trusted his brother. Their prince would see this through.
"Because I believe in your father," Oberyn admitted eventually, just as the ship slowed beside them and the crews began to tie it down. "As should you."
It was a statement that clearly brought more questions than answers, but Arianne held her tongue. Though her blood ran hot like all Dornishmen, his niece was smart and knew when to control it. Doran had gifted her that much.
The gangplank came down, and not long after, Lord Tyrion Lannister descended onto the dock. He looked justifiably nervous, which already told him the younger brother was by far the smarter of the two. Behind him followed two men: a gruff one who looked like many a sellsword he had seen in his life, and a younger one who tripped on his own feet and had to be held back from falling into the water.
Such strange company they had these days.
"Lord Tyrion," Oberyn said curtly.
The Imp nodded. He had a scar that cut clean across his face. A wound from the Battle of the Blackwater perhaps. Oberyn had heard he fought in the foray, more so than their king at any rate.
"Prince Oberyn," he replied, glancing over. "And...uh..."
"This is my niece, Princess Arianne Martell, heiress of Sunspear."
He did not miss how she straightened at her title.
"Ah," was all the dwarf could muster. Oberyn watched his eyes flit about as he grappled with what to say next. "Perhaps we ought to dispense with the pleasantries. I don't want to be here. You don't want me to be here. Neither of us cares for the other, so the sooner we are done, the sooner we don't have to see one another."
Arianne hummed. "Finally, a Lannister I can agree with."
Oberyn had wanted to say that returning to the Water Gardens brought some form of relief, but the tension only increased as they waited on Doran. It was only the three of them in the room, and Arianne had yet to take her eyes off Tyrion, sitting on the couch across from him. Her face was a neutral expression, but he knew that from the receiving end of that stare, her eyes could appear to be anything. Angry, satisfied, suspicious. It would start to unnerve people; it was what she was good at.
Tyrion Lannister, on his part, was doing his best to keep eye contact. Early on, he had looked to him as he stood between the two, but Oberyn only shrugged. He did not want to start anything. So long as his niece was silent, there was no harm to be done.
Oberyn the peacekeeper. That was a thought.
Elia would have laughed at the idea.
When the doors opened, and Doran entered the room with Areo in tow, Oberyn witnessed one of the few times his brother looked genuinely surprised. No one had told him of Arianne's arrival. How strange.
Doran looked to him, but again, Oberyn could only shrug.
"Father!" Arianne jumped from the couch, swiftly moving to stand beside his chair. Briefly, his niece flashed a sweet smile to Areo. "It has been far too long. I hope the Water Gardens are good to your health."
"They are. The pain does not bother me so much," Doran replied, his small smile not disingenuous. His brother was a thinker, his smiles rare even in the best of times, but those who knew him well recognized when he was happy. "What brings you here?"
Arianne gestured to Tyrion, who had stood from his seat and was surveying the whole affair with an uncomfortable air. He'd never seen a man so ready to leave a room.
"I have never met a Lannister before," she replied, emphasizing the name. The girl knew full well she had. "I thought Lord Tyrion would make for a wonderful start."
Doran turned to their guest, and Oberyn saw a flash of pity in his brother's eyes.
"Dorne welcomes you, Lord Tyrion. I hope the journey was kind to you."
Tyrion nodded. "As kind as it could be, given the circumstances."
A silence fell. Doran continued to watch Tyrion as the dwarf seemed to shrink further before their eyes. Arianne looked strangely entertained.
"Prince Doran, I..." Tyrion huffed, thinking. "I have to be honest. Dorne is the last place I want to be. I would rather fling myself back at the mercy of the hill tribes in the Vale than be here."
Oberyn suppressed a smile.
"I know how Lannisters are viewed here, and I can't blame you for that. But Jaime is my brother, my foolish, stubborn, oaf of a brother, and all I want is to take him out of here and put this all behind us."
Tyrion grabbed a small letter from his belt, walking it over to Doran. Arianne snatched it away before he could come close enough, handing it to her father with a glare at the messenger.
"I don't know the contents of that letter, and if I'm still being honest, I never want to know. Whatever my father says, it won't happen, because I know that Jaime is going to leave. I'll knock him out and drag him to the docks myself if I have to. Although, I have a sellsword turned knight for that, so I don't imagine that happening any time soon."
Doran closed his hand around the paper, nodding slowly. "I will keep that in mind, Lord Tyrion."
He turned to Areo. "My friend, please take our guest to Ser Jaime's quarters. I'm certain the brothers are overdue for a reunion."
With a nod, the man departed the room with Tyrion right on his heels.
The door shut, and the three Martells were left in silence. Eventually, Doran opened the letter, looking over the contents. Oberyn could practically hear every syllable his eyes read, his brother was taking so long. Arianne began to play with the end of her braid.
His brother rolled up the letter and sighed.
"What does it say?" Oberyn asked.
"What Tywin Lannister's words always say: in one hand he offers rewards and in the other, a sound and crushing defeat." Doran almost appeared to smile at the predictability of the lion. "There is a seat on the small council for me, upon Jaime's return to the capital."
Arianne lit up at that, falling to her knees before Doran. "Give me the honor, Father. Allow me to sit on the council in your stead."
There was a sight Oberyn wished to see: a young woman sauntering into the council chambers, surrounded by old and useless men playing at war. How Tywin would bristle.
Doran placed a gentle hand on her cheek. "My daughter, you have Sunspear to think of."
"Sunspear," Arianne echoed, standing. "So you would give me nothing?"
"Have I not given you rule over the people in my place?"
"You have given me a chair and smiles. When the maester speaks, I hear your voice. When the seneschal speaks, his words are yours. I am nothing more than a mouth to speak your commands, and for how much longer will I even have that?"
"What is this you speak of, Arianne? Dorne is yours. It has always been yours."
"Has it?" the girl asked, her eyes having grown dark. "Tell me where Quentyn is now, truthfully, and I will believe what you say."
"He is at Yronwood, as he has been for some time."
Oberyn fought the urge to sigh as Arianne flinched at her father's words. He'd never seen his niece look so hurt before. She knew that Doran was lying. They all did. His oldest son had been sent away, gone across the Narrow Sea to fulfill an obligation that should have been hers.
When she fled the room, Oberyn sat down and watched over his brother. Doran was motionless, but he could see all the emotions in his eyes.
"You need to tell her," Oberyn said as he came to realize that his brother would not speak first.
"It is too dangerous."
"It is far more dangerous to keep her in the dark," Oberyn countered, watching the doorway. "She thinks you mean to take Dorne from her, though I don't know why. Perhaps it does not matter, so long as she is convinced of the idea."
His brother was silent again. It was unlike him to not have anything to argue with.
"You can have your vengeance or you can have your family," Oberyn said, echoing his words. "If we do not tell them the truth soon, the Lannisters may never leave Dorne, and no amount of fire or blood will save us then."
Tyrion
He shouldn't be here.
He really shouldn't be here.
And it wasn't just the nervous voice in his head repeating that over and over. No, Bronn was more than keen to share that sentiment out loud whenever he had the chance, usually after a servant gave them that look, the kind that would skewer a man if it were remotely physical. Podrick said nothing, of course, but his eyes did. He concurred with the former sellsword.
Tyrion decided then that he should have just brought Shae with. Never mind that the disappearance of a maid at the same time he left would have been suspicious. He had two men with swords, and she was the one he'd trust with his life.
But instead, he left her. She'd broken something, nearly over his head, and was either breaking everything else or spending his money. Probably some combination of the two. There were days he wondered why he loved that woman, but then came the days that reminded him why.
They ran into a vaguely familiar face in their journey and the giant of a man – Areo he'd heard – permitted them to stop, although he did not seem very pleased. Well, maybe, it was hard to tell. To him, all of Dorne seemed displeased, but that just may have been the Lannister effect.
Bronn had attempted to provoke some sort of reaction from the man, and succeeded, in a way. The blunt side of the longaxe in his face was considered so by any standard. The man had muttered something about bloody Norvos and proceeded to keep quiet after that.
At least Podrick got to smile.
"Lady Sansa," Tyrion greeted, rather unconfidently he admitted. He'd only seen her briefly in Winterfell, but the hair was recognizable enough, as was the height. She'd grown, and so had that scathing frown of hers. "I trust that you are-"
"Doing well, Lord Tyrion?" she finished, her voice possessing a particular bite that reminded him of her mother. "That's a rather pointless question to ask a Stark."
Tyrion bit his tongue to prevent himself from saying anything worse.
Why did he event bother with pleasantries anymore? He couldn't remember the last person who genuinely reciprocated them.
"You're doing better than he is," Bronn commented, leaning on the wall. "That has to count for something."
Tyrion sighed. Sansa, at least, did not appear amused by the outburst. Frankly, she looked offended.
"You're dismissed, Ser Bronn. Go try not to kill something," he spoke, pinching the bridge of his nose. He could feel the scar. "You too, Pod."
While Bronn went whistling on his merry way, Pod seemed anchored to the spot. He was staring.
"Podrick!"
With a quick 'milord,' the squire scurried off.
Sansa managed to look less displeased. Everyone loved Podrick, like a puppy wandering the halls.
Areo may as well have been a statue, though, not reacting at all.
"You're here for your brother then?" Sansa asked, eying him as if he was about to draw a dagger on her. A Stark with Dornish influence was a terrible combination.
"That is the apparent idea, yes."
She did not outwardly acknowledge his statement; she only turned and began to walk down the hallway, black silks floating behind her. Areo followed. Apparently everyone knew where his brother was staying.
He allowed the silence to sit for some time.
"I did want you to be safe," he said quickly, hoping to preempt any other scathing remarks. "When Syrena came to me with the idea-"
"She told you?" Sansa asked, glancing over her shoulder. Her blue eyes were suspicious.
"I surmised. All the lies in the world can't make up for impeccable timing," Tyrion continued. "I knew then that King's Landing was not safe for you. Believe what you will, but that much is true."
"You only wanted me alive so my brother would not sack the city."
"But at least I did want you alive. I can think of a handful of others who did not share the sentiment."
Sansa was silent a moment, and Tyrion took that as her conceding the point. He didn't want her to thank him, and he doubted she would anyway, but perhaps the air would clear a little more now.
"And yet...now you want to take my sister there."
Tyrion blinked. "I never said that I-"
Sansa turned to him, disappointed. "I'm not so blind to everything as I used to be, Lord Tyrion. Your father would never allow two Starks to remain in Dorne, especially the heir to the North.
"Besides," she continued, faltering slightly. "You'll never get your brother to leave otherwise."
She moved to a balcony, crossing her arms. Sansa Stark looked oddly cold despite the weather.
Tyrion took it as an invitation to approach, finding himself just able to see over the railing, much to his relief.
There, in the shade of a tree, sitting in a chair looking at nothing in particular was Myra. She looked paler than he remembered, smaller, all the warmth she had exuded in Winterfell snuffed out.
Absently, her hand stroked a large wolf by her side.
That creature had seen better days as well.
"How is she?"
Perhaps it was the emotion in his voice or how quietly he spoke the words. Either way, Sansa did not rebuke him as she once had. She sighed, and he could feel the tension fall from her.
"She talks with me more often than she used to, even holds polite conversation with the servants, but..." The girl fell silent, thinking. She looked to him then, and he was surprised by the honesty he saw in her eyes. "There is something there that I can't help, or she won't let me help, I'm not sure which. All I know is that there is only one person who can."
"Jaime," Tyrion replied, sighing. What a strange position they had found themselves in, he and the Stark girl. They had never spoken before or even been properly introduced, but here they were, forced together because the people they loved were hurting. "He's never told me much about her, or what happened out there."
There was a ghost of a smile on her face. "Then I suppose I know more than you. Still, I can't wrap my mind around the idea."
They were silent again, watching Myra in the distance, waiting for something to break perhaps.
"My love for my sister outweighs my hatred for your house," Sansa spoke again, leveling a hard stare on him. "Convince Jaime to do something, if you can, but don't save her only to kill her in King's Landing."
The finality in her tone sent a chill up his spine.
Jaime was lying on his bed when Areo brought him to the room. He was staring at the ceiling, looking at nothing in particular – a common theme it seemed – while his left hand played with a small quill. Tyrion noted the discarded paper around the floor and the terrible writing etched across each of them. It seemed his brother hadn't improved since he sent the letter.
When his brother finally looked to him, there was genuine surprise in his eyes. He sat up and looked him over, as if his imagination had brought him there instead.
He'd never seen Jaime's hair so short. It was a little unnerving to be honest.
"You actually let a Dornishman put a razor to your neck?" Tyrion asked, noting his brother's lack of a beard, although the stubble was growing in again, grayer it seemed.
Jaime shrugged. "They told me that if their prince wanted me dead, he wouldn't leave the job to a servant."
"A servant told you that?" He watched Jaime nod. "I hate Dorne."
His brother gave him the briefest of smiles.
Then there was more silence.
"Why are you here, Tyrion?"
There was perhaps no other point in his life where Tyrion Lannister wanted to beat some sense into his older brother more than now, but he'd learned long ago that there was no point. He'd only hurt himself in the process.
"I think it might have something to do with the fact that the son of Tywin Lannister thought it would be a good occasion to visit the one place that hates him the most." His brother gave him a withering look. That was supposed to be his job. "Father sent me to bring you home before you get yourself killed, Jaime. We just ended one war, and now you want to start another."
"That's not what I wanted. I told Father that I came here on my own. The Dornish have nothing to do with this."
"Since when has the truth gotten in the way of how Father thinks, Jaime? He'll threaten to burn the entire countryside down if it means they'll ship you home."
"Rather hard to burn a desert."
Seven hells, he'd kill his brother himself.
"You could have been at Casterly Rock, Jaime," Tyrion continued, suppressing the urge to hit the man. "Father would have been satisfied, Myra would no longer be at the Twins, and Dorne would not be in the picture."
Jaime looked at his feet, clearly uncomfortable with the argument. This was hardly the man he had seen stand up to Joffrey and their father in King's Landing. Where had he gone? What had happened?
"She needed her sister," his brother offered eventually.
"She needed to be safe!" Tyrion shouted, before calming again. "Father would have been content to ignore whatever you did in Casterly Rock, so long as you were there. But now you have Dorne's attention, and the North's attention, and Joffrey's attention. How do you plan to protect her from that?"
"I can't," Jaime whispered, defeated. He watched his brother grasp the stump on his right arm.
Tyrion sighed. He wasn't used to his brother not putting up a fight. Somehow, that made him more difficult to defeat.
"She blames me, you know." Jaime continued. "She chose me over her brother, and she lost him for it."
His brother blamed himself too, he could see it.
"You should speak with her, Jaime."
"Myrcella said the same thing."
"Well, my niece is far more intelligent than I. Why didn't you listen to her?"
"Because it isn't that simple."
"People only say things aren't simple because they are in denial about how simple it really is."
Jaime snapped.
"And how would you know, Tyrion? You've spent your entire life throwing gold at whores. How can you possibly know what it means to..."
There was a heavy pause, the air having grown thicker. Tyrion could see the welling regret in his brother's eyes, but the damage was already done. He thought of Shae, his own personal whore, back in the King's Landing, doing gods know what. How could she love him? He paid her. Those thoughts never stopped plaguing him at night.
But mostly, he heard the soft voice of a young woman who had been so grateful for his help.
Tysha.
"I'm sorry, Tyrion, I..." Jaime ran his hand over his face. His brother looked old. "You didn't deserve that."
Feeling quite vindictive, Tyrion was more than happy to agree.
"Of course I didn't. Father thinks I do, but Father is also a miserable cunt whose only joy is to bring more misery upon others, so I'm not certain I can take it that personally anymore. But you're supposed to be better than that, Jaime. You are better than that." Tyrion moved to the door, suddenly unable to stomach his brother. "I don't care what happened at the Twins. I don't care what you may have said or what she may have said. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and fix the mess you've made. The rest of us are tired of cleaning up after you."
He hadn't meant to run into anyone for the rest of the day. The only company that could tolerate his presence now was the best wine they had available. Luckily for him, he was in Dorne. He didn't even mind the thought of it potentially being poisoned.
However, his feet turned him this way and that, and suddenly Tyrion found himself in the sun outside with Myra seated just before him. The direwolf at her feet blinked at him, but did not move otherwise.
Tyrion was so stunned by his sudden arrival there, he didn't speak. He simply watched the girl before him.
When her gaze finally met him, she jumped slightly at his presence - he doubted she had heard him approach at all – but then her shoulders relaxed, and a small smile adorned her face.
"Hello, Lord Tyrion."
Ah, yes, Myra Stark had always been the one with courtesy. She hadn't been broken of that, it seemed.
"My lady," he replied, taking a seat across from her. The air was hotter than it had any right to be. Tyrion could feel himself sweating all across his body, but Myra seemed quite comfortable, although her dress was far airier than the outfit he'd traveled in.
She didn't ask about his scar. He didn't ask about her brother. In fact, those five words were the only things they exchanged for some time. She had gone back to staring into the distance, and he was quite content in letting her do so. He needed to think.
When he finally spoke again, the shadows had begun to lengthen.
"My brother is an idiot."
He couldn't quite pick out the emotion in her eyes, but he thought it was promising.
"I don't know what has happened between the two of you. Nothing. Every time I tried to talk to Jaime about you, he would go quiet. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get my brother to shut up? Nearly as impossible as it is to get me to.
"When I left Winterfell, the two of you scarcely knew one another, and now here I am at the opposite end of the world because Jaime decided to run away with you. He has defied everyone for you, but the prospect of speaking with you terrifies him. I can't wrap my head around the idea of it."
Myra regarded him, slowly growing more attentive to what he spoke. Her hand had stopped stroking the direwolf.
"When he came home, he was broken, and I can't say that he is doing any better."
Some part of Tyrion didn't want to go this far for Jaime. It was his problem, but he knew his brother. If someone from the outside didn't set things in motion, the man would wallow for the rest of his life if he could, and despite any words his brother said, Tyrion would never let him remain that way. He loved his brother.
And so did the woman before him.
"It really wasn't his fault, you know. You should have seen the look on Jaime's face when they'd told us about what happened. You'd have thought the world was coming to an end."
"I know," Myra said meekly. Her lips trembled but there were no tears. "That's not him...that's not...I didn't mean to..."
Tyrion stepped out of his seat, gently placing his hand on hers.
"I'm not saying it's your fault, and I am not saying it's his," he said slowly, afraid she might break. "He needs you, Myra, more than he'll need anyone else, and I suspect it's the same for you. But Jaime will wait for the rest of his life for you to tell him it's okay. You have to be the one to go to him, for both your sakes."
(Now, in case you hadn't noticed, there hasn't been a Myra POV for a bit. This was done on purpose. The next chapter will be ENTIRELY from her POV. Thanks!)
(Also, that video is older, but I don't think I posted it on here???)