Chapter 8 lookin' great! Honestly, this chapter read a little filler-y to me but what the heck? There's some good stuff here!

THANK YOU to everyone who reviewed, followed, favorited so far! Although I do think people didn't get the email for Chapter 7...oh well, here's Chapter Eight!


Jaime

Your chambers. Midnight. We need to talk.

That was what the note Saoirse had slipped him read once he got a chance to open it, which wasn't until after sundown and Ser Mandon Moore came to relieve him. He'd kept it tucked under his thick gambeson despite his desire to read it immediately. While letting his mind wander, as he was wont to do while standing outside the king's chambers, he had tried to parcel out what she could've written. She'd seemed perfectly calm during the meeting, save for her angry outburst at the King that, if Jaime was honest with himself, he greatly admired. It was about damned time someone told Robert the truth.

Now he sank into his bath, washing away the sweat of the day. It had been scorching hot that day, and he had worn no fewer than three layers including his armor, which wasn't exactly breathable. He didn't mind, though, after all these years he was used to it.

The moon was gaining altitude in the sky, and he knew he should dry off and redress before Saoirse arrived, but he luxuriated in the lukewarm water a while longer. The thought of her finding him in such a state brought a smile to his lips as he tried to imagine her reaction. Would she be scandalized and shield her eyes like a shy maiden? No. She'd seen (and, if rumors of her travels were true, had) many cocks before. More likely she would take in the sight, roll her eyes, and say something to bruise his ego. Or, better yet, she would discard her clothes and join him.

A small knock came from his door and he stood, letting the water drip off of his body. "One moment," he called, reaching for his silk Lannister robe that had been a gift from his father on his last nameday. It seemed that everything his father sent him was the crimson and gold of his house in a desperate attempt to get Jaime to renounce his place in the Kingsguard and be Lord of Casterly Rock. Tywin Lannister would be less than pleased to find out that Jaime had volunteered for a trial by combat to avenge anyone who was not his own flesh and blood.

He secured the robe around himself and walked over to the door. No sooner did he have it open than Saoirse was slipping inside the room. She wore a dark cloak with a deep hood, her mead-colored hair pulled back in a hasty fashion. Under the cloak was a dark chemise and black trousers. Jaime smiled to himself as he thought of the ease with which those items of clothing could slip off her small but muscular frame.

He opened his mouth to comment on her attire, but before he could speak her hand collided with his left cheek, the slap echoing around his chambers.

"What in the seven hells were you thinking?!" she demanded, her tone angry and brittle.

"Well so much for all the support," he chuckled as he felt the side of his face throb. No doubt it would soon be a shade of crimson to match his robe. For a small woman, she could pack a lot of power into a slap.

"Shut up, damn you! Ser Vardis may be old but he's built like a goddamn mountain!" Her words came out in a hiss. There was a fire behind her eyes that he hadn't seen in years; panic. She was worried for him in the upcoming trial by combat. A part of him bristled; did she doubt his ability? Of course not, he thought, no one in the realm could have less doubt than a woman whose attacker he'd slain before her very eyes.

"I think that moniker has already been taken," he teased, trying to break the tension evident in her body.

"Stop making jokes!"

"Saoirse, I did this for you. This is our chance to avenge your father, that's what you want right? Lysa's head on a spike?" Jaime stepped close to her and put his hands on her shoulders, feeling the warmth of her skin through the fabric of her dark clothes. Her angry resolve softened with his touch, exactly what he had been hoping for with the gesture.

"Yes but-"

He interrupted her, "So I'm going to do what I do best and ensure that happens." She was staring the ground, avoiding his gaze. Her lips pursed and her jaw tight, he couldn't tell what she was thinking but knew it was not good.

"Why?" she finally asked, the word a mere whisper upon her lips. In that moment she looked uncharacteristically small. It is true she was short of stature, her limbs slender but muscular. However, this was a different sort of small. This was a shrinkage of spirit. Her shoulders hunched forward, her hands clutched in front of her breasts. Normally she held her back straight, her chin strong, and appeared as imposing as the mountains of the Vale. But now she had crumbled, the stresses of the last few weeks taking their toll.

"Why? Because your father was a kind man, and he deserves to be avenged." As gently as possible, he ran his hands down her upper arms. She pulled herself out of his grasp suddenly, moving toward the open window but careful to stay back from it lest someone below see her. They were a few stories off the ground, but one couldn't be too careful.

She hugged herself, her back turned to him, "So this is all about my father, then? You only mean to deliver justice for his murder, nothing more?"

Jaime could tell that she was trying to lead him into a trap, he just didn't know what it was. He would have to answer carefully.

"If that is all you would like it to be, then yes."

"I would prefer that," she turned her head so he could see the profile of her face perfectly outlined by the bright torch behind it. Her answer had been cold but Jaime could feel the heat spread from his chest to his limbs. She was practically ethereal in the low light of his chambers, her pale skin in sharp contrast against the blackness of her clothes. Her icy blue eyes resembled Valyrian steel, and could slice him to ribbons just as easily.

He moved his hands to his hips, "Might I inquire as to why?"

She turned to him fully now, her dark cloak billowing out around her in an ominous cloud before settling at her sides once more. Now he could see her eyes of steel were brimming with tears, probably the reason she had turned away from him.

"If you volunteered because of your...feelings for me, and you happened to lose the contest, I would never forgive myself," her voice trembled as she confessed this to him. Jaime felt the tug of a string in his chest, but he didn't know what to do. How to help her. How to make that helpless look in her eyes disappear.

"I chose to fight to avenge the honorable Jon Arryn," he said, using her preferred justification even though the words felt wrong as they passed his lips, "Nothing more."

She seemed to accept his answer and swiped at a few stray tears. "Good. Let's keep it that way, shall we?"

She brushed past him, and was out the door before he could protest. He couldn't tell what she was thinking. Obviously, she knew how he felt about her. Their past antics proved it; stolen kisses, ungraceful groping, a few moments of mad, unrestrained lust and want over the last several years. While their occasional trysts were satisfying, for the first time in his life Jaime Lannister was aching for more.

He had been standing in the shadows of her life for too long. It was rather difficult, however, for Jaime to admit his feelings for a woman who was not Cersei. His twin, his equal in birth, his other half. The woman who had delivered him three healthy children, although he could never acknowledge them as his own.

When Saoirse had left after her assault, it had been surprisingly difficult for Jaime to set aside his feelings for her. Absence, he found, did make the heart grow fonder, but at the same time he was able to put his feelings for her on a high shelf in his mind and forget about it. Indeed, until he caught her throwing knives in the tiltyard he had forgotten how much he adored her.

And then, not a full moon's turn later, she had disappeared to Myr. That time, it was much more difficult for him to set her aside. In the grand scheme of his life, did he want to be Cersei's source of pleasure, a Kingsguard who made the whoremonger king a cuckold, or the knight in shining armor for Saoirse, a man of honor who murdered the sot who raped her and wanted to do nothing else with his life but please her. Gods, he hated to admit it to himself. But he wanted her. All of her.

It seemed such an agonizing decision, but in the end it had been one of the easiest that Jaime had ever made.

Saoirse, not Cersei, was his future.

He only wished he had the words to fully express it to her. For now, he would let his actions speak. Even if she didn't wish to hear.


Saoirse

She cursed herself for being so stupid. Saoirse Arryn was many things, but skilled at sneaking around the Red Keep at night was not one of them. Purposefully dressing in dark clothing and dodging from shadow to shadow was more tedious than effective. It had taken her much longer to cross the keep to the White Tower than anticipated. Now she strode down the hall with no guard and a hand poised to reach for one of her knives should the need arise.

She was hyper-aware of her surroundings; she always was at night. She noted every sound, her eyes searching the area around her, she mentally checked to make sure she had at least three easily-accessible knives on different parts of her body. It was a reflex now, borne out of the fact that she knew she could take down an attacker rather than the fear of being attacked. She was the predator now, not the prey.

She could smell Littlefinger before he crossed her path, and when he did Saoirse was greeted by his typical shit-eating grin.

"My my, Lady Saoirse, out and about at this late hour? You're not up to anything scandalous, are you?" he queried, but his words only seemed half-joking. Saoirse knew it was probably less than that.

"If I am, I'm sure one of your informants will tell you soon enough," she scoffed as she tossed her hair back, "Unless you are doing your own spying nowadays?"

He chuckled mirthlessly, "I have not stooped so low yet, My Lady. I was actually hoping to make sure our deal was still in place, now that Lysa's demise is seemingly imminent."

His cat and canary smile remained plastered on his sharp face, but Saoirse could feel spiteful satisfaction rise within her.

"It is not, Lord Baelish. Our deal hinged on your testimony, which you did not give."

"My Lady, forgive me, but I was not given the chance."

"I am most certain you did not want the chance, My Lord. I have it on good authority that you were the one who reminded her of the trial by combat option, now why would that be?" She was goading him, which she knew was not the most advisable option but seven hells did it feel good to have the upper hand over him.

"Perhaps I did not wish to reveal to the court my past with Lysa."

"That may not have been necessary. You were to tell the court that she was obsessed with you. The details of your...dalliances with my stepmother needn't have come up at all. No, you were trying to grasp my father's seat that much sooner and not lose face in court. Our deal is most certainly off." she smirked at him and tried to move past him, but he stepped into her path.

"Come now, Lady Hand, surely you wouldn't renege on our deal? Especially since I all but guaranteed Lysa's death."

"You've done no such thing. Ser Vardis may be old, but he was a fearsome warrior."

"The King was once a fierce warrior as well."

"You will watch your tongue, My Lord, or I shall see it removed." Saoirse had had enough of Littlefinger's meddling in her affairs. He would have the Vale over her cold, dead corpse. For the second time that night, a man gripped her upper arms. This time was much less enjoyable, as Littlefinger's little fingers dug into her biceps painfully as he pinioned her arms against her body.

"You listen to me, girl," His grey-green eyes were full of malice and she slipped one arm down to her lower back, grabbing a knife without his notice. Before he could continue, she pushed the tip of the blade against his belly and his words died on his tongue.

"Go ahead and threaten me, Baelish, no one would miss you." She pushed the blade until it slid through the thick fabric of his velvet doublet and he shoved her away from him. The mockingbird's feathers were ruffled, but what did it expect, going against a falcon? He smoothed his hair and squared his shoulders before meeting Saoirse's eyes again, the same malice in his gaze.

"You will regret this, Lady Arryn," he growled before roughly shoving past her and continuing down the corridor. She looked over her shoulder to catch him in her peripheral vision, only to make sure that he left her in peace for once and for all.

He turned the corner, and she resumed her walk back to the Tower of the Hand.


Renly

Lady Saoirse had called an emergency meeting of the Small Council, and as usual Renly was the first to arrive. Loras was constantly mocking him for his compulsive punctuality. When his squire had given him the news, he hadn't given any details. Most likely because Lady Saoirse hadn't provided any.

As the rest of the members trickled in, Renly made friendly chit chat with Varys, who as usual sat next to him. Eventually Lady Saoirse entered the room with one of her handsome guards and called the meeting to order. Her hair was a mess, and she looked as if she hadn't slept the night before. It had been three days since the announcement that Jaime Lannister would be the champion for the crown in the upcoming Trial by Combat, which Renly had fought against announcing as it might scare Ser Vardis Egen further into hiding.

Perhaps the gold cloaks had found Ser Vardis already? Unlikely that she would call a meeting for that, but one couldn't help but speculate. Renly thought to himself as he picked at a stray thread on the sleeve of his doublet. This one was old, perhaps time to retire and replace it. He would have it cleaned, tailored, and given to a young lordling in court who desired attention. Perhaps Lancel Lannister, the Queen's cousin and King's squire. A plain-faced, jumpy boy of six-and-ten at most. He operated mostly in the shadows of court, because Robert would often drag him front and center to berate him. Poor boy. He could use an ally, just as Renly could've when he was in the same situation.

"My lords, I apologize for the urgency of this meeting, but I am afraid that we have an urgent matter to discuss. As you can see, Lord Baelish is not with us today. I was informed only this morning that he has left the city. This leaves us without a Master of Coin, which seems an urgent enough matter to call you all here to hear suggestions for a new one."

"My Lady Hand," Stannis chimed in, "Are we so sure that Lord Baelish will not return?"

"Lord Varys, have you heard anything on this matter?" Saoirse asked. She remained standing while the men were all comfortably seated. She was an odd woman, to be sure, but Renly had always enjoyed her presence in the capitol. The two of them talked of fashion and Dorne and their respective homes (The Eyrie had always been a sort of fascination for Renly), and she was among the first to know of his predilections. He trusted her to keep his secret.

Varys nodded, "One of my little birds saw Lord Baelish slip onto a cargo ship headed for Braavos last night. My bird saw that he did have bags with him, and they looked heavy."

"And you didn't think to say anything?" Stannis demanded from across the table. To Renly, Stannis had always been the perfect example of the septa's warning. "Your face will freeze like that if you be not careful!" Stannis's face was frozen in a permanent scowl, which was understandable given the circumstances of his life. A wife who hated him, a disfigured daughter, and a tempting high priestess always whispering in his ear.

"I did not think it strange at the time, Lord Stannis. Lord Baelish often travels to Braavos for loans from the Iron Bank, does he not?" Varys countered, keeping a level head as ever. Stannis grumbled an answer and shrunk back in his chair, sulking like a scolded dog.

"Thank you for your information, Lord Varys, no matter the timing," Saoirse said graciously, still standing. "What matters now is finding Littlefinger's replacement. If he expects to leave with no prior notice, he will find his seat taken when he returns. That goes for anyone at this table, not just Littlefinger."

Renly smirked to himself. Gods, this woman had moxy. If he were the kind to find the opposite sex attractive, neither of them would still be single.

"Perhaps one of the Tyrell men?" Ser Barristan suggested. He looked a bit haggard to Renly, as if he'd been up all night. Perhaps he'd taken the overnight shift last night.

Renly smirked, "I hear Prince Oberyn of Dorne has a head for figures."

"Your flippancy is not helping, My Lord." Saoirse glared at him. He had heard first hand about her exploits with the Red Viper upon her return from Dorne, and liked to remind her of that fact from time to time.

"I am not being flippant, Lady Hand. Having a dornishman on the small council could help forge and ensure alliances. And I hear that Prince Oberyn is quite the intellectual."

"We do not need an alliance with the Dornish," Stannis insisted before muttering, "Bunch of brutes."

"Keep a civil tongue, Lord Stannis." Saoirse warned as she began to pace.

"Lord Renly may have a point. The Red Viper did start forging a maester's chain." Varys added.

Ser Barristan chimed in, "But how would the King feel having a dornishman in court? They fought against him in the rebellion.

Saoirse stopped her pacing just over Renly's shoulder and reasoned, "My father was able to broker peace. Robert has respected that peace until now, I don't see why he would object to a Martell in court."

"Then I think that settles that?" Renly asked, looking over his shoulder at the Lady Hand, whose slender fingers were touching her chin as she considered.

"I am not sure he will accept. He hates leaving Dorne, and he may insist he bring his daughters to court as well."

"How many daughters does he have?" Stannis asked. Renly could see the thought of Shireen flicker across his face. Was his brother hoping that Shireen would make friends with one of the infamous Sand Snakes? One of the younger ones would be of an age with his niece, so it wasn't a ridiculous notion.

"Eight. The youngest is five or six I believe." Saoirse answered.

The door crashed open then, causing a few in the room to jump. Renly's older brother the King stomped into the room. "They've found him!" he bellowed so loudly that the sound reverberated through Renly's bones. "Saoirse, they found that Vardis fellow, he's on his way into the city!"

"What?" Renly could tell she was fighting a smile. It had risen to her eyes, but she kept her lips in a straight line. Renly felt free to smirk on her behalf. Lysa Arryn had been a tiresome, shrill woman. Her death would be a relief.

Captain of the City Watch, Janos Slynt, was at the King's side. "My Lady, he was apprehended on the Kingsroad. He demands to meet with Lady Lysa before he will agree to a Trial by Combat."

"Let him see her. Give him a day's rest and a day's preparation if he so wishes, as a gesture of goodwill." Robert sucked in a great amount of air, which meant he was about to yell at her a great deal, but she held up her hand to stop him. "Would you not wish the same courtesy if you were in his position, Your Grace?"

She'd always had Robert in the palm of her hand. Renly remembered their first meeting upon her arrival in King's Landing. Robert had laughed and smiled and hoisted her in the air, nearly crushing her in a giant hug. He remembered being jealous of the blonde haired girl who had stolen his brother's affections, for all Renly received when he arrived in the capitol was a gruff nod and a comment about how skinny he was for a boy of eight. Over the years, he came to realize that Robert saw Saoirse as the younger sister he'd never had and grew out of his jealousy.

Robert's chest deflated, "I suppose."

"Ser Janos, will you see that he is given a room and allowed to practice?" Saoirse asked. The bald Commander nodded silently and she dismissed him.

"Is that all, Your Grace?"

Robert gestured to the table, "What's goin' on?"

"Lady Saoirse called us together to discuss replacing Lord Baelish as Master of Coin. He has mysteriously disappeared, it seems." Renly chimed in, meeting his brother's eye.

Robert shuffled his feet, unsure of himself. "Any contenders?"

"We had nearly settled on inviting Oberyn Martell to take the position." Lord Varys explained gently. He always took that tone with Robert, as if he was speaking to one of his little birds.

The King nodded, "Cersei will hate that," he looked to Saoirse, "Do you think he's he best fit for the job?"

"I do. I was about to draft a letter to send to him."

"Well, if he wants it the position is his, I guess." Robert shrugged, as if he didn't really care about the outcome. "Even if they were loyalists during the war."

"My father worked hard on your behalf to broker peace with Dorne, and the Martells could be valuable allies." Saoirse reminded him, a slight tone to her voice.

"I am aware of that. Do what you will, Saoirse, you have my complete trust." He waved a hand as he took long strides toward the door and saw himself out. The silence that settled on the room was nearly palpable until the Lady Hand cleared her throat.

"That will be all for today, My Lords." she dismissed. Her voice was strong, but her posture told a different was the last out of the room, and saw her slump into the chair at the head of the table.

His brother had a way of doing that to people, Renly thought on the way back to his chambers. Robert was a loud, boisterous presence at best, a brewing storm at worst. He would suck all the energy and air from the room to let it fuel his own gaiety, leaving nothing left behind. With Robert on the throne, the country was a rudderless boat set to drift in a tempest. The people on the lower decks were starving while those in the upper cabins were reveling in excess. It was only a matter of time before the ship came to rest upon some shoals and began to sink.

But with Saoirse as second in command, Renly mused, the ship may yet avoid the reefs and continue sailing for years to come.

He could only hope as much.


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