Chapter Two

It's his dry mouth that wakes him eventually. Not the washed out sunlight that casts his bare room in a pale, forlorn glow or the stabbing pains pinning down his brow or even the way his empty stomach clenches in hunger-pangs. No, it's that sickening taste gagged in the back of his throat, the way his tongue lies bloated and heavy in his mouth, the cotton-like filament on his unwashed teeth that reminds him, yes, he had staggered to his bed drunk last night. He hadn't done it alone either, which would have struck him in horror as the first time he betrayed Cersei, except his fuzzy recollections recalled warmth over passion and the comfort of being tucked into bed. Jaime's not as experienced with whores as his younger brother may be but even he was aware that such behavior is abnormal for them. Not that he could recall visiting the quaint town nearby Winterfell either…

It's not until his emerald eyes fall on a pitcher and an innocuous wooden cup that the memories come back to him. 'The bastard child brought me here.'

A few moments later, Jaime recalls his impudent behavior, the crass words he had offered and the secret he'd revealed. He cringes at them all, particularly his persistence in reminding a child of… seven… eight… some young age anyway, of her birth status. Ser Jaime Lannister did not consider himself a particularly gallant knight but he had sworn the same oaths and held the same vigil as they all did. There hadn't been any reason to humiliate the child, even if she did have the utter gall, born of kindness or not, to kick away the wine that he'd honestly stolen from Robert.

Speaking of Robert, that foolish lush of a King he was sworn to was likely still in bed. No matter how many bottles Jaime had consumed last night, he felt it a safe bet that Robert had done more and would be sleeping off his ills in his good friend's home now. The bastard girl- Lyarra, she'd said, Lyarra Snow of the haunting violet eyes- had led him to the Guest Keep had she not? If so, Jaime wasn't overly impressed with the grandeur of it; all the basics were there but the room was spartan enough to fit within the White Sword Tower.

When the blonde knight had managed to pull himself up to his feet, ignoring his aches with the ease of a warrior trained to endure pain since his toddling years, he took another look around the room. The practical gray stone of the North, a hearth still filled with burning embers, a pine bed, a matching dresser and table in the same dark-stained wood and many rumpled quilts. He had remembered the child tucking several around him but while most were the patterned grey and navy of the servant's work, one was a dusky violet-blue stitched clumsily of yellow stars in a child's hand. The Lannister had to notch his head to the side, only mildly due to the spin, to find the center one a shooting star.

'The bastard knows of Lady Ashara then.' Any guilt that may have arose from resting under the Sword of the Morning's House emblem was chased away by a dark amusement. The Quiet Wolf raises the niece of the once-finest knight in the lands, the one to die by his own hand. 'I'll have to speak to her of the pyromancers.'

Jaime Lannister should never have spoken of Aerys' mad plot, even to a nameless bastard child. It had been a swift agreement between his father and Lord Arryn to hide the conspiracy and covertly dispose of the dangerous substance. Even the King, who loathed the dragons and found grim satisfaction in another madness to accuse them of, agreed. None desired to panic the residents of King's Landing… and there would be panic, no doubt, as despite all of the containers Lord Tywin had found, the tally had not yet added up to the quantity recorded in the Alchemist's Guild.

Not that it mattered if Jaime was forced to be silent. None had thought to question his motive before.

'None but a little bastard girl in the North,' the knight mused, pulling the simpler pieces of his armor on. He would need a squire's assistance for the remainder- or perhaps a helpful snow spirit without any common sense to her name- and decided to find where the servants had placed his trunks first. 'She called me a hero.'

It struck something in him, however involuntary it was. Lyarra Snow was a bastard. She was Ned Stark's bastard. Her words meant little, her admiration even less so, she was nothing and nobody and no one and even then, to a nameless child he would never see again, Jaime was a hero. He had never been anyone's hero before.

'You're the second to call me such. The first was my brother, you see, and he is ever-partial to my feats.'

Now there were two of them. Both the bastards of their father's home.

'Tyrion would like this child,' Jaime knew. His own emotions were more complex. A current of ire ran under his veins, interwoven with a desperate yearning that he shirked away from in the light of day. Confusion over the utter perplexity that was Lyarra Snow sidelined a quiet, sincere happiness over the reassurance she'd given him. Derision that she'd follow him into his room and undress him with her own hands, underlined by gratitude for a foolish path taken. There was something else there, something light, that almost felt like vindication but warmer and not yet formed. And a good deal of hunger too but Jaime supposed that to be his decision to forego supper the night before.

With the King still sleeping off his drink, Jaime could correct the last deficiency now.

The lion knight judged himself as ready as he'd ever be. His crimson tunic was a bit rumpled but covered under silver metal that still gleaned from his squire's work. The white cloak of his position fell dashingly from his shoulders, pinned to his right breast by a golden lion brooch. His leather trousers were tucked neatly into his calfskin boots, the collar of his undershirt risen properly to frame his neck. Dipping his fingers into the dregs of water left in the cup, he'd run them through his golden hair, adding a wild touch to his features. Jaime fit carelessly handsome rather well- Tyrion had even said so, rolling his eyes all the while- but he rarely tried the look.

'Cersei prefers a more dapper beauty,' Jaime recalled, scowling at his lack of brush. He suddenly desired a means to reassure himself. 'Couldn't they have spent a handful of stags on a looking glass?'

Mayhaps Ned Stark didn't want reminders of his ugly face every day but Jaime actually liked his reflection! 'Lady Ashara's beauty was great indeed to have stamped out that Stark forehead and those exceedingly thick eyebrows. And that nose.'

If Ned Stark wasn't such an insufferable human being, Jaime would pity him for his nose alone.

Nonetheless, he was an insufferable human being and he'd sired an equally insufferable daughter, even if there was something almost endearing to the child's nature. However endearing it was though and however necessary a message he had to be conveyed, the lion knight hadn't any particular desire to chase down a snow spirit this morning. Breakfast first. Impetuous bastards with haunting violet eyes could appear after that.

'She left me on the ground floor?' Jaime realized, stepping out into the hallway and finding that the only stairs led upwards. How insulting. Admittedly it would be difficult for a child of… seven… eight… however many years to carry him upwards but still, he'd never been roomed on a bottom floor before. 'At least she ensured a water pitcher was available.'

Were Jaime a better son, he would track down any maids sent to deliver his pitcher and cup and bribe them to secrecy of this little drunk indiscretion. Alas, he was not and the Lannister reputation would suffer whatever minimal slight this incident could bring in the lands of nothing and nowhere. In a little corner of his soul, the blonde knight spitefully gloried over how he was not, and would likely never be, the son his father wanted. The son his father had, if only he could bring himself to accept Tyrion.

Not that Tyrion didn't have his own vices. Drinking and whoring aside, he also drove their Aunt Gemma up the wall by sneaking valuable books into the dining table for mealtimes.

'He's not the only one with the habit,' Jaime noted, decidedly amused as he stepped into the Great Hall. A little, dark-haired head was bowed over her lap on one of the lesser tables, an array of Northern staples surrounding her, though her pickings were slim. 'May as well bring down two ravens with one arrow.'

The lion knight walked past many of the servants bustling about the tables, surprised to find how many of the upper servants and even guards had woken at this early hour. It was unconscionable by the Court's standards, as they preferred a leisurely, ceremonial affair before noon, but there was less sunlight to be wasted on such frivolities in the North. Those were a people marked by practicality- a trait that lent decisively towards abruptness and tedium, Jaime had observed- and this was reflected in every aspect of their life and demeanor.

It would also, he lamented, do little for his taste buds.

Jaime filled his plate to the brim with a great deal of the small variety of food laid out that he sincerely liked. The Starks laid a heavy table of dark, nutty bread, cold pea soup, fried eggs, boiled potato slices, greasy sausages, oat porridge and pickled herring, amongst other culinary delights that he cared not for. There wasn't any fruit available, dried or otherwise, but there were plenty of jams and preserves that were easier to handle in the North. The knight mostly focused on bread, eggs and sausages for himself, laying the plate across from the bastard with a little more force than strictly necessary. His eggs wobbled worrisomely for a second but the dark-haired girl wouldn't look up.

"Snow." Jaime regretted the sharp tone of his voice not a moment later than it escaped him and it rankled a bit that he did so. His features remained in pleasant neutrality though, as the name drew owlish eyes up to blink at him dazedly.

"Hmm?" It took a heartbeat for her mind to draw itself out of those inked words but the moment it did, the blonde saw that snow-kissed skin flush pink. The bastard scrambled a second for a proper greeting before settling on, "Ser Jaime, I hope you're well-rested?"

"I am." And that acknowledgement was as far as he would go to thank her. "I'd hoped to speak of… your history lesson last night."

A flicker of emotions passed through her expressive eyes too swiftly for him to pinpoint them. 'I wish Tyrion was here to tell me what in the Gods she's thinking.'

"You must never speak of my words again."

Those bow-shaped lips curved downwards a bit, as the bastard closed her book and laid it neatly on her lap. "Were they untrue?"

The safer answer would have been to assure her that yes, he had lied that night. He truly was the monster that the commonmost narrative made him out to be. Jaime should have offered that answer but alas, he was not the better son. "They were but that is of no matter."

She was definitely frowning now. "I don't understand-"

"You don't need to," Jaime threw in flippantly. "Be a good little girl and listen to your betters."

He received a reactionary glower for that- likely he had ceased being her 'better' somewhere between that third wine bottle and being violently sick- but she quickly caught herself. Violet eyes skittered around him and then Lyarra Snow schooled her face into a nearly perfect mask of submissiveness. It was only that defiant glint in her eyes that she failed to suppress as she acquiesced to his request.

Picking up her own slice of nutty bread, thickly slathered in a ruby red jam, the bastard took a swift bite and proceeded to move her eyes away.

For some reason, that simply served to tick Jaime off. 'Who does she think she is to ignore my edict and avoid my eyes? This conversation isn't over yet.'

"This includes your father, of course." Another shallow nod, averting her eyes and taking a small bite.

"You will also stay silent on the matter of my infirmity." A third bite, first to her lip as though she was suppressing a question, likely one relating to his health considering she was a Stark, but then a nibble of bread. There was a streak of jam across her lips that she nervously licked off before nodding.

"In return, I shall never speak of your transgressions on my person." His tone was as haughty as he could manage- and certainly, as a Lannister, Jaime could manage- but other than a loosening of her shoulders, she did nothing more. It was another goddamn nod without any eye contact in the least.

Starks.

Lyarra Snow was such an insufferable little girl that Jaime Lannister had no doubt she was sired of Ned Stark's loins. Upset, and both ignorant of and indifferent to the reason why, Jaime sullenly watched the child reach for a small dish of her ruby red jam. Feeling rather petty, he decided to snatch it out before she could and then, because violet eyes were finally looking at him and he realized how foolish it would be not to follow through, the Lannister reluctantly spread a bit of this unknown mixture onto his bread. Then he took a bite.

And promptly scowled. It was delicious. Dammit.

x

Lyarra had to stand on her very tip toes to carefully slide the heavy tome of herblore out from the shelf. Her arms groaned in protest, especially after she'd had to drag one of the blocky chairs all the way to the back of the library to put her old text away in the second-highest shelf, but she persevered. Sacrifices had to be made to keep her reputation intact.

'Though why anyone's reputation would be sullied around that man is beyond my knowledge,' Lyarra huffed. Jaime Lannister may have been handsome and brave but he was certainly wasn't gallant. Blackmailing children with the loss of their honor was not knightly behavior.

It was why she took the added precaution of putting A Comprehensive History of the Alchemy Guild and An Account of a Mad King away by herself, rather than leave it out for Maester Luwin to see to later. Her arms didn't thank her for the task but if the alternative was disappointing Father, she would accept it. Lyarra may have been reckless- and, upon further review, she'd been downright foolish in approaching a strange, drunken man, even on her father's grounds- but she wasn't stupid.

The dark-haired Snow had provided that pitcher and cup herself, snuck into the room and stole her starry blanket while Ser Jaime broke his fast and even had Arya thank her for helping her with her sums last night in front of Lady Stark. There was a sour look to be earnt for the last but Lyarra had an alibi and she was sticking to it. Ser Jaime would be too, if he didn't want her to spread all knowledge of him being a decent human being under that prickly exterior and holier-than-thou attitude.

'A meaningless threat to anybody but Ser Jaime Lannister,' she mused, sharply biting down a giggle. Lyarra swiftly corrected herself. Didn't Old Nan say that if she continued in this bad habit, she'd end up with two fat, protruding lips like a fish monger's wife? 'Why's he afraid of the truth anyway?'

It could be that it wasn't the truth at all but then why would the Kingsguard knight lie to her? She was hardly anyone important or influential… he'd said it himself when he noted that a bastard's word meant little. Lyarra's even less so than most, as she was a child of eight years alone. The research hadn't decided it either way but it had leant a shred of credence to Ser Jaime's remarkable claim.

The foremost book on alchemy spoke of the prominence the Guild enjoyed under the Mad King's reign. It was evident that the writer shared many of the biases of the Citadel as it chiefly disparaged the fading institution but the facts still stood by themselves. Had it not been written an outright error, the Guild had delved deeply into pyromancy during the reigns of Aegon V and Aerys II. Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, the man that had kidnapped her aunt and led the realm into war, had even been born shortly before the Tragedy of Summerhall. Lyarra thought it a shame that the Gods had brought the man quicker through his mother's womb. Had Rhaegar delayed by even an hour more, Aerys and Rhaella had have gone up with the flames as swiftly as did the other Targaryens.

'Who says a dragon doesn't burn?' Lyarra thought, a little sardonically. Had they died, there wouldn't have been any reason for the kidnapping, the war, the wildfire plot… 'It's hard not to pity him.'

At least until Ser Jaime opened his mouth and that pity fled on gilt-edged wings to make way for irritation, exasperation and mild amusement. 'He's lucky I chose to have lingonberry jam today.'

It was sweeter than her preferences normally allowed. Lyarra tended to move towards the rich, tart jams instead, the ones with notes of bitterness and sourness under her tongue. Had he pulled his childish little stunt on another morning, Ser Jaime would have likely gagged on the acquired taste.

That was mean though and Lyarra didn't necessarily want to be mean to a man that had done such a paramount service to the Crown and King's Landing as a whole. Not that she was certain but the second book did have a minor acknowledgement of the Mad King issuing a royal decree to map out the sewer system of King's Landing before significant infrastructure overhaul occured. Of course, the upheaval of Rickard Stark's burning laid waste to any of those plans. Lyarra mourned as both a Stark, for her grandfather's death and a Stark, for the inefficient sewer system of the capitol that was known even here.

After she'd finished the second book, Lyarra decided that a break was to be called for. She'd been cooped up in the library all day, considering this matter (while feeling guilty for not taking it directly to her father) and frankly, the Mad King wasn't light reading. A break was to be called for and while Lady Stark had implied that she was to be cordoned to her quarters or the library for the duration of the King's visit, she hadn't ordered it. A trip to the Godswood was discreet enough to be accepted surely? And if Lyarra could find a few of the flowers in her book too, to press them down later and add them to her collection, then why not do so?

Her course decided, Lyarra hugged the herblore text to her chest, picked up the satchel that was her near constant companion since she learnt to sew burlap and marched out the door. 'Maybe I'll find more of those lavender springs. Nothing soothes better pressed underneath my pillow.'

Lyarra took the steps with light feet, not even bothering in her familiarity to hold onto the side of the wall as she traversed the spiral staircase of narrowly hewed stones. When she stepped outside, she had to squint a bit as it was an uncommonly bright day and rather more dim inside the library. Unknown men were walking about, not one paying any attention to the Bastard of Winterfell, as she cut across the pebbled pathway encircling a white pine and onwards towards the kennels. Many were gathered in the courtyard, amongst them her older brother, who looked beyond proud to be standing there amidst the warriors. His auburn hair shown as a beacon even amidst shades of blonde, red and brown within the predominant black and though he could not see her, Lyarra threw Robb a wave. He'd prove himself well. He always did.

A few paces afar from him was that Greyjoy hostage her father had accepted… Theon, perhaps? The boy was ten years old, sullen and defiant and while Lyarra sympathized with his circumstances, she hadn't liked the way he'd looked scornfully up at her siblings during dinner. She'd sprinkled a few crushed bell peppers into his dinner plate for that one and counted herself satisfied when his gaze became too teary-eyed to properly affect Sansa's enjoyment of all the knights about the castle. One man to earn her wide-eyed admiration was crossing blades with Ser Rodrik now.

'For all the arrogance he has, I won't disavow Ser Jaime this. He earned his spot on the Kingsguard.'

The golden-haired man struck a dazzling figure in his armor of white and silver and even more so by the way he easily batted away Ser Rodrik's weapon. Lyarra had seen Winterfell's Master-at-Arm's fight before, had even undertaken a few lessons from him on the occasions that Robb could badger them out for her, and she knew he was good. Ser Jaime then, was all the better, because as he parried the Northern knight's blows, deflected his piercing jab and ultimately forced the blade from the man's hand, he made it look easy.

The dark-haired girl appreciated good swordsmanship, so she lingered by the tree, the shadow casting her violet gaze into inked pools as she tucked one errant curl back and enjoyed the match. The surrounding crowd erupted into applause when the Lannister knight was done, throwing out praise and adulation that he simply stood there and drunk in, akin to a blossoming flower absorbing the sun's rays. Robb himself was particularly enthusiastic in his clapping and she couldn't help the bright smile that crossed her face at her elder brother's happiness. Hard emeralds traversed the crowd before somehow latching onto the little figure by the tree. They stilled on her curved lips and then, Ser Jaime Lannister, Kingslayer and Lannister, offered an unbound grin of his own to the Bastard of Winterfell.

Not that Lyarra Snow saw this. She was already turning on one heel and heading towards the Godswood. Still, as she walked on, Lyarra thought that mayhaps added research wasn't necessary. 'Ser Jaime might be a liar… but I don't believe that he is.'

x

I blame Author376 for this. I had full plans to take a break from Lyarra's love life but then we started brainstorming fanfic ideas and I couldn't resist.