*flies through the door* GUYS I FINALLY MADE IT
So so so sorry for the long wait. Writer's block is terrible, and this chapter has been an utter nightmare. I combined a couple chapters because they felt like not enough on their own, but then they felt too much as one, and it has just been a logistical mess. But here it is, extra long, because you deserve it. And don't fret, we will have a reunion between Myra and Jaime shortly. And then they will be together for so long, you might just get sick of it. Well, I hope not, but you get what I mean.
Also, over 200 reviews? YOU GUYS ARE THE BEST. Really, you all make me feel so wonderful. Thank you so much!
Enjoy!
Chapter Fourteen
The Battles
Myra
However intimidating Dragonstone had been from her ship, the feeling grew tenfold as she stood at its base, staring up at its grotesque carvings and misshapen outcroppings from the docks. Whatever good feelings she had possessed when they started their journey toward the island had fled in fear of it.
"This place doesn't feel right," Jory mumbled next to her, looking no more comfortable than she did.
Ser Davos appeared beside them, looking as at home on the island as he had on his ship. His son was still dealing with the crew.
"You get used to it," he commented, shrugging at the terrible statues as if they depicted the Seven. "If you will follow me, my lady."
The interior of Dragonstone did nothing to ease the dread growing inside of her. Every hall was dark, barely lit by the torches on the walls or whatever sun that managed to trickle in from the outside. More carvings awaited them, shaped in ways that did not seem possible.
Perhaps Old Nan had been right after all.
Jory was eying the statues with an unease she had grown accustomed to over the past few days. His eyes darted to and fro, waiting for some stone creature to lash out at them, but each was no livelier than the empty halls they travelled. Still, that did not stop her from reaching out to move his hand, which lingered dangerously close to his sword hilt.
She doubted Stannis would be as forgiving as his brother when it came to drawn steel. From what she had heard, he was not forgiving at all. A mind for justice, yes, but the two seldom went hand in hand.
For his part, Jory complied, but she could not be certain for how long.
Finally, their path came to an end at two great, wooden doors. The threshold, like much of Dragonstone, depicted dragons and fire, terrible images. Two guards stood at the entryway, the stag of House Baratheon emblazoned on their chests. It occurred to her that she had not seen any other guards or even servants since they left the docks.
Ser Davos turned to her. "My lady, allow me a moment alone with Lord Stannis, and then I'll retrieve you."
She nodded, watching him slip through the large door as though it weighed nothing.
One of the guards was eying her. She returned his gaze until he had sense enough to look away.
With a tug on her arm, Jory led Myra away, out of earshot.
"I don't like this, my lady," he whispered, his gaze on the offending guard.
"So I gathered," she replied, unable to help the smirk. "But wasn't this your idea?"
Jory blinked. "Lord Stark told you?"
"He didn't have to. Father would have never come to the decision on his own. He'd rather tie me to the mast of a ship until I reached White Harbor before putting me in the middle of another mess."
The captain of the guard paled. "My lady, I-"
"I'm grateful, Jory," Myra said, cutting off what was no doubt an apology. The man looked surprised. "Really I…these past few days, I feel as though I have been the cause of so many things. For once, I want to be able to fix something."
His face softened, but any reply was prevented by the door opening.
Ser Davos nodded from the threshold. Myra took a deep breath. This was it.
The Great Hall of Dragonstone was perhaps the least strange room in the entire castle. There were fewer dragon motifs, replaced by stark lines and abrupt angles instead. Pillars gave way to vast openings on either side, looking out at Blackwater Bay and providing the most light she had seen. But there was something about the simplicity of it, and the lack of any formal decoration, that gave her even greater unease than the grotesque statues outside.
Or perhaps that came from the man before her.
Lord Stannis did not sit in the lord's seat. He stood beside it, fingers tapping on the arm rest; he was looking down, as if lost in thought.
Davos stepped aside. "My lord, allow me to introduce the Lady Myra of Winterfell and Ser Jory."
"He's not a ser," came a mumbled reply.
"My lord?"
Stannis Baratheon looked up. His hair was short and graying, and his face clean shaven. He appeared much older than Renly, and even Robert, and carried an authority she had never seen either brother possess. Even when King Robert was angry and bothered to look from his drink or his women, he could never encompass the cold, calculating feel of his younger brother. She had to wonder what sort of life led a man to feel like that.
"The North worships the Old Gods, not the Seven, thus there aren't many knighthoods north of the Neck," Stannis replied, so matter-of-fact that she wondered if it occurred to him how insulting the statement might be. "You aren't a septon, Ser Davos. I suggest you don't knight anyone."
Then his eyes were on her, dark things she doubted anyone could ever read. They were watching, waiting, and it took her far too long to realize that she was expected to speak next.
"Lord Stannis," Myra spoke with a nod. "My father has spoken a great deal about you…"
"No, he hasn't."
Myra blinked, "My lord?"
"No one has ever spoken about me at any length unless they needed something. I'm not ignorant enough to not realize that, nor am I vain enough to accept your poor attempts to tell me otherwise in what I assume is supposed to be flattery," Stannis continued. He sat in the lord's seat, a great piece of rock that looked to have sat on the island long before the castle did. "Whatever you've heard from your father, you heard only now because he was sending you to see me, so spare me your false courtesies or our business is concluded."
The hall grew frightfully silent. Outside, Myra could hear the booming of wave upon wave crashing against the rocks of the island. It sounded as though the whole sea wished to drown the castle and everyone within its walls, yet Dragonstone stood, indifferent to it all.
She saw Ser Davos, his face sympathetic, very much like any father watching a child in distress. It made her feel small, as though she had never been up to the task of speaking with the likes of Stannis, and he was witnessing her inevitable collapse.
It made her angry.
"My father, the Hand of the King, requests that you return to King's Landing."
Stannis watched her for a moment, his back as straight as his seat. "No."
Something waned deep inside, hope maybe, but Myra stood her ground. "And why not?"
If Stannis took offense to her sudden lack of propriety, he did not show it, though his next words had more bite.
"Because requests can be denied."
"My father is investigating the death of Jon Arryn and he needs your help."
"Jon Arryn got sick and died. It happens to us all."
"And if that were the case, you would not have fled the capital and hid yourself away in Dragonstone."
Stannis stood then, stepping from the dais to within an arm's reach of her. Like his brothers, he was a tall, built man who towered over her. It must have worked wonders in making his opponents feel much smaller than they were, but Myra found a strange sort of courage nestled deep within that encouraged her to maintain eye contact, the kind only found in desperation, when all you held dear was in danger.
"You would call me a coward?"
"My lord, I would call you rightfully concerned," Myra replied, searching for a flicker of anything in his eyes. "Men have died knowing less than you, and more will if you keep silent about it."
The Lord of Dragonstone turned away from her then, in thought. Past him, there was a doorway, no doubt leading to a council chamber or something like it. A woman stood in the threshold, watching. She was covered in red from head to toe, and carried a strange air of authority around her. Myra found her presence…unsettling.
"What I know," Stannis mumbled, turning back to her. "What I know is that some miles from here Tyrion Lannister is being held captive by your mother and I cannot help but wonder if that's the reason you're truly here."
Myra opened her mouth slowly. "I…can't deny the coincidence of it."
"Of course you can't!" Stannis barked, making her flinch. "Your father is in desperate need of allies. My arrival in King's Landing would only work to bolster his claim, with or without my consent. It will no longer be about Jon Arryn's murder, but some glorified pissing contest between my brother and Tywin Lannister."
He walked away from her, sitting back in his seat. Myra waited a moment, letting the air settle, and her heart return to its normal rhythm.
She took a breath. "My mother took Tyrion Lannister because she believes he tried to have my brother Brandon killed, and that the Lannisters are further involved with his crippling. My father is afraid her actions may cause more to come to light, and none of it good."
"The Lannisters are far more involved with the poisoning of King's Landing than either you or your father could possibly imagine," Stannis spoke after some time. She watched him look to Davos, and then to the woman, before surprising her entirely. "Jon Arryn died because he knew a simple truth: my brother, Robert, has no trueborn heirs, that the children Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen are bastards all."
It was as though something clicked in the back of her mind, like pieces were fitting together that she never thought to connect, a painting she had stared at but never truly seen. And suddenly, as the words were spoken to her, hollow and distant as though Stannis were on the far side of the island rather than in front of her, everything began to make sense.
"Their father is Jaime Lannister."
They had given her a room in one of the towers. Windwyrm, she thought they called it, but her mind had been in a daze ever since Stannis had finished speaking with her. She could not even recall climbing the stairs or sitting down, but here she was in a chair, perched on a balcony overlooking the sea. Her hands were playing with the Valyrian blade, turning it over and over again while her thoughts wandered.
Bastards.
Their father.
Jaime Lannister.
It was the revelation of a lifetime, and all her soul could conjure was disappointment.
Perhaps it was just too much at once.
Perhaps after everything she had been through, she just did not care any longer.
But that did not sound like her.
In her absentmindedness, Myra nicked her finger. She watched the blood trickle down the length of her hand. The blade meant for Bran, covered once in her mother's blood, now hers. It was more than enough to make the thing a family heirloom.
The thought failed to entertain her.
"My lady?"
Myra had forgotten Jory was in the room. She looked over to him, standing a few feet back from the balcony. How long had he waited for her to say something, she wondered.
She quickly hid her hand in the folds of her dress, not wanting the man to get worked up over nothing. "It has been a long day, Jory."
"Aye, my lady," Jory replied, taking a cautious step forward. "But you convinced him to tell you the truth. The battle is half won."
Her smile held no mirth. "No, it isn't. We've lost."
There was a pause. "What do you mean?"
Myra put the dagger down, having half a mind to toss the thing in the sea and be done with it.
"Part of the reason Lord Stannis fled here was because the truth he knows, no one will believe," she spoke, giving word to the pieces she had put together. "Besides the fact that he's claiming the queen is…intimate with her brother, her twin no less…"
Unbidden, her thoughts raced to Robb, and she was forced to suppress the bile rising in her throat.
"If the princes and princess really are bastards, that would mean Robert has no heirs, making Stannis the next in line to inherit the throne. Even the simplest of men would find suspicion in that claim."
Jory was silent for a moment, considering. "But you believe him?"
"I do."
"Why?"
Myra blinked slowly. "It just…makes sense."
She looked back to the dagger, wondering. Someone had tried to kill Bran, because he had seen something, because his fall was supposed to kill him…
In her memory, she desperately searched for answers, back to that day, when everything terrible in her life had begun. Before she had fainted, when her eyes had first landed on the form of her brother, pale and broken in the mud. There had been so many there. Among the faces, green eyes stood out to her, in a plain coat, but with a face she would always recognize.
And just like that, the final pieces fell into place.
Tyrion
Life had certainly grown interesting. Of course, not in the way he wanted. He preferred his story to go the simple route filled with wine and women who could bend in ways his mind could not imagine, and he could imagine quite a bit.
Instead, his days had been filled with sky cells, a grotesque man named Mord, and two women whose ability to bend was limited by their overreaching sense of justice, or whatever skewed version they had taken to. After all, one had whisked him away from an inn so quickly, it was a wonder his head wasn't still spinning, and the other had locked him up in hopes of receiving a false confession.
Tyrion had no idea what he had done in his life to earn such ire from every woman he ran across, but he was desperately missing the days when Cersei was the only one he had to deal with.
Then again, if the trial did not go his way, he'd never have to deal with anyone again.
He looked to Ser Vardis Egan, dressed fully in his armor, brandishing a large shield with the sigil of House Arryn across it, and then to Bronn, the simple sellsword who had volunteered to fight for him, with nothing more than his sword and leathers.
Part of him wondered if he ought to just jump out the Moon Door now and be done with it.
It was just as little Lord Robert Arryn, who had wanted him to 'fly' from the moment he set foot in the castle, was about to call for the trial to begin that the door to the hall burst open. Gasps and murmurs shook the room as soldiers of both House Lannister and the City Watch of King's Landing entered the room. They all stood aside, allowing none other than Jaime to march through the threshold, looking every bit the knight the ladies dreamed of in his Kingsguard armor.
Tyrion thought he might faint on the spot.
"My dear brother," Tyrion breathed, his voice painfully high. "You have the most remarkable timing in all the Seven Kingdoms."
Jaime did not even acknowledge him. He strode forward, eyes set firmly on Lysa, his hand on the hilt of his sword. "What in the seven hells are you doing?"
Standing beside her sister, looking down on the Lannisters like she always had, Catelyn narrowed her eyes. "The same could be said of you, Ser Jaime. This is not King's Landing. What is a member of the Kingsguard doing in the Vale?"
The look his brother gave her could have skewered a boar. It delighted Tyrion.
"Acting on the orders of King Robert and your lord husband. It seems even dear old Ned cannot come to your defense on this one. I suggest not looking so proud of yourself."
A sword was drawn. Catelyn's man, Ser Rodrik Cassel, took a bold step forward. "Watch your words, Kingslayer."
Jaime did not hesitate. His sword was in his hand, pointed in Rodrik's direction before anyone could blink. Then more steel was drawn. Every man had a weapon, while the ladies shrieked and stepped back to the outer walls of the room, their skirts in hand. Tyrion swallowed hard, and took an extra step away from the Moon Door.
"I'm not here to answer to you!" Jaime shouted before turning to point his blade at everyone in the room. "Or any of you! You're to answer to me. Now can someone who isn't a halfwit tell me why my brother is still on trial when the king himself has ordered you to stand down?"
There was a long, drawn out moment of silence, only followed by soft murmurs to one another, none directly answering Jaime's query, and yet doing so all the same. No one had known, no one beyond those who needed to that was, and yet they had proceeded.
Tyrion balled his hands into fists, his chains jangling. "You would have received a raven days ago! You left me in the sky cell all that time? I could have died!"
Catelyn managed to look ashamed. "Lysa, is this true? Has King Robert ordered the release of Tyrion Lannister?"
Lysa Arryn, who had remained silent through the whole affair, appeared unaffected. Her lips were tightly shut, eyes boring into Jaime as if she could will him through the Moon Door herself.
Jaime was unmoved. "You told no one, as if you could get away with the murder of my brother."
"It is not murder. It is justice," Lysa replied. Around the room, more murmurs could be heard.
"Not the king's justice."
"King Robert has no claim over who I can and cannot try for harming my own. My Sweetrobin is the Warden of the East, and he demands an answer for his father's death." Lysa snaked an arm around her son, who had begun to fidget. "The trial will continue. The Kingslayer can either step aside or be thrown in his brother's cell."
Tyrion could not speak for a moment. He was too stunned by the stupidity of it all. The room was silent again, none of the lords wanting to openly go against the king's orders, but none foolish enough to speak out against their lady either. Even Catelyn looked unwilling to speak. Only Jaime would, but even he could not take them all on.
Jaime chuckled, frustrated, tapping his sword against the polished floor. "Fine, I'll play your foolish game. My brother demands trial by combat, and I will be his champion. We will leave this wretched place together, and you'll be short one knight. I do hope this is all worth it."
Lysa Arryn could only smile. It was cruel and wicked, but devoid of any intelligence. She played the game like a blind lack wit. Even Jaime could out-duel her with words, and he wasn't even trying.
"Your brother's champion has already been selected. Despite your threats against me, I will allow you the courtesy of watching this common sellsword fight for your brother's life."
She gestured toward Bronn, who had taken to leaning against one of the columns. He was cleaning his nails with a knife. Tyrion wished he could look so calm before death, but he supposed that took a good deal of not caring, and he cared about life very much.
The man looked around and shrugged. "Technically, he chose his brother first."
Jaime appeared ready to storm up the steps and slay Lysa himself. Instead, he tossed aside his cloak and hilt, no one daring to question his right to fight, and looked around the room. He spotted Ser Vardis, who looked ready to jump out the Moon Door as well.
Without a single word, he strode toward the knight. The man was easily heavier than his brother, and better protected, but Tyrion doubted there was a soul who believed that the fight would tilt in the Vale's favor, or even be on equal grounds.
Vardis brought his sword up, swinging it down, heavy and awkward. Jaime ducked to the side, slicing his sword across the nape of the knight's neck.
Lysa's champion dropped his shield, bringing his left hand up to his neck, while wildly swinging with his right, hoping to keep Jaime at bay.
Jaime swatted the sword aside with his own, before thrusting the blade deep into Vardis' abdomen. There was a sickening crunch. The audience gasped. A lady fainted. Tyrion could not take his eyes away though, as his brother practically lifted the man with his sword, watching the man's face until the light disappeared from his eyes and his body fell limp.
Tyrion could not help himself. He clapped; he did not care that all the Eyrie stared at him like some freak. They always had. Today, he wasn't dying and that was to be celebrated.
His brother pushed Ser Vardis off his sword with his boot, kicking the man's corpse down the Moon Door and into the open air. He stared down the opening for some time, his face blank. There were more gasps and angry mutters.
"The man is dead," Catelyn spoke up, shaking with anger. "Must you insult his corpse as well?"
"Lady Catelyn, ever the morally superior despite everything you do. You really have taken to the Stark name." Jaime grabbed his cloak, using it to wipe the blood from his sword. "Next time, why don't you look a little closer to home for someone to accuse? Save us all the trip."
His brother turned away then, heading for the doors.
Tyrion, now free from his chains thanks to Mord, looked to his audience. "My lords and ladies, it has been a pleasure, but I'm afraid I have stayed past my welcome. Bronn, would you care to join me? I do believe I owe you for nearly saving my life."
The sellsword, having barely looked up during the fight, eased off the column. "Sounds alright to me. Can't say I fancy being around here much more."
They began to leave the room.
"I know what you've done, Kingslayer!" Catelyn shouted them, her voice carrying across the stones of the Eyrie with great effect. "I know your family is guilty!"
Jaime turned around. He didn't look angry or frustrated, only amused. "I believe your daughter, Myra, would say otherwise. Perhaps you ought to ask her what the Lannisters have done for your family."
Tyrion did not dare look at Catelyn's face. He wanted to survive his trip home.
Jaime
His mind had wandered far away, to some place deep and dark, simple and inelegant. It was where he liked to think, where he retreated to when things grew too difficult for him. He had always thought that perhaps with time, it would grow easier to stay away from his retreat. Lately, it had felt very much the opposite.
He was vaguely aware of someone speaking. It only occurred to him that the words had been directed at him when things fell quiet.
Tyrion, seeming to sense this, repeated his question. "I said, should I ask?"
Jaime blinked. "Ask what?"
"About the Stark girl."
Oh yes, that. His brother would be curious.
They were riding down the high road, heading for the Bloody Gate and the Riverlands. The goldcloaks had been dismissed and were returning to King's Landing, but he still had about ten Lannister soldiers with him. If Robert thought he was actually going to return after everything, he was a bigger fool than even he thought. Perhaps if Catelyn had been reasonable, but now he had every desire to see Riverrun burn as his father did.
He had been quiet for a while, but Tyrion did not seem ready to give up. "Because, last I saw, you had barely spoken more than a few sentences to the girl. Mostly, you were out to antagonize her."
Jaime shrugged. "Catelyn Stark needed to learn her place. Family seems to hit home for her."
"It seems to hit home for you as well, seeing as how you came all this way," Tyrion replied. He looked around the hills for a moment before continuing. "You're forgetting I know you, Jaime. You aren't our sister. You never say anything unless it means something."
Sometimes, Jaime really wanted to hit his little brother.
The men had started to pull ahead of them, except for the sellsword, Bronn. He had not seemed inclined to take any interest in any sort of business that did not involve quick money, but he could not help but feel the man was listening anyway.
"Let's just say Robert truly misses Lyanna."
He watched the wheels turn in Tyrion's head, and enjoyed what precious moments of silence it gave him. For all the time he had missed his brother and longed for his level-headed conversation, now was not the time to discuss anything. He was still seething with anger, and did not want to say anything he would regret. Tyrion was good at remembering those particular outbursts.
"Did you hit him?" Tyrion asked after some time.
"Why does everyone assume I hit him?" Jaime asked, mildly offended. His brother gave him a knowing look. "No, I didn't hit him. I…reasoned with him."
"And how did that go?"
"He punched me."
"That sounds about right."
Tyrion was looking at the hills again. Jaime had heard about the clans that lived in the wilds of the Vale. No better than Wildlings and liable to attack anything that moved. His brother had never been the paranoid sort. Then again, he had never been a prisoner or put on trial. It seemed all the Lannisters were facing new challenges, mostly due to the Starks.
"It was good of you to do that," Tyrion continued, focusing on him once more. "Very noble, very honorable."
"Now you're mocking me."
"I am not!" his brother replied, taking his turn to be offended. "I am capable of being serious, you know, and I am being serious. There are a good many foolish things you've done in your life, Jaime. That will never be one of them."
Jaime smirked. "I'm finding it difficult to appreciate that compliment."
"It's been a long day. It seems I'll be incapable of being nice without some back-handed comment for a while."
"As opposed to your usual, charming self?"
The two brothers shared a chuckle, and Jaime felt months of tension roll off his shoulders. True, where they were headed was nothing to laugh at or be at ease about, but somehow he felt all the more capable of facing it with Tyrion at his side.
His brother sobered quickly. "Lady Catelyn accused me of sending a catspaw to kill her son."
Jaime frowned. "So did Ned Stark. He said you won the dagger."
"Which I didn't. You made a fool of yourself as I recall, and I walked away with nothing."
He snorted, thinking back to that day. The details were a blur, however. All the days in King's Landing were no different than the others, to include the tourneys. He couldn't even recall who had unseated him. Figuring out who walked away with the dagger was going to be a nightmare, and for all he knew, that person sold it long before their mess started.
But someone had done the deed. Someone knew.
And his family would never be safe until they were dead.
"I don't suppose you brought any wine with you, dear brother," Tyrion said, breaking through his thoughts. His brother always did know when he needed a distraction. "I have been painfully sober through this whole ordeal. This needs to be remedied."
Jaime shook his head, a ghost of a smile on his face. Wanting to dull his mind as much as his brother, he reached for a wineskin tied to his saddle.
Until an arrow took his horse in the eye.
Dead in moments, the creature barely grunted before collapsing to the ground, taking Jaime with it. His head smashed against a stone in the road as the horse fell on top of him, crushing his leg beneath its corpse.
He must have lost consciousness then, because next he knew, the party was in chaos. More horses littered the road, most with wounds that would not kill, but it did not stop them from screaming in agony. Lannister soldiers had fallen as well, red cloaks motionless in the dirt. Swarming around the survivors were ragged men dressed in leathers and poorly smithed armor, but Lannister superiority could not stop them from utterly decimating his forces.
Jaime turned every way he could, but there was no sign of his brother anywhere.
He pushed against his horse, attempting to pull himself from underneath, but the saddlebag had caught his foot and the weight was keeping it in place. But he kept at it nonetheless. He had to find Tyrion. He'd be damned if he saved his brother from one death sentence only to lead him into another.
Pulling at his leg again, Jaime almost missed the form approaching him from the other side of the horse. The clansman was a particularly ugly one, with a beard full of bits of food and blood, and missing teeth. His helmet sported various horns, and his hand one very large axe.
The man stepped on the corpse, balancing on the beast's side as he raised the axe overhead. With one swing, he could cleave Jaime's head in two, while still managing to bury half the thing in the road.
Jaime fingered the small blade at his hip.
With one leg caught beneath his horse, and the other awkwardly straddling the top of the creature, Jaime had to swing his body upward with all the force he could muster. His blade reached across the gap between him and the clansman, slicing the latter's shin.
The man slipped, his wounded leg falling back to the ground behind the horse, and his face catching the end of Jaime's knife as he slashed again.
His howls of pain guaranteeing momentary reprieve, Jaime set back to freeing himself. With one last, violent tug, he extracted his leg from beneath his horse and began to drag himself away.
Another man from behind was finishing off one of his soldiers, burying a blade into the back of the young man's neck. He caught sight of Jaime struggling to his feet and charged at him full speed, short sword swinging wildly, spraying those around him with the fresh blood of a dead man.
Jaime managed to gain his footing, unsheathing his sword straight across the clanman's abdomen, cutting through the leather and deep into his flesh. He died with his entrails strewn across the road.
Turning back around, he came face to face with the man from earlier.
There was more blood in his beard now, and a red blob where his left eye once was, the trail from his knife carved out on either side of it. Though he had cut deeply, the man did not walk with a limp on the wounded leg. He barely seemed to notice either injury.
He carried two axes now, a smaller one and one that was certainly meant to be wielded with two hands, but when he swung at Jaime, it was as though the thing weighed next to nothing.
Jaime dodged, ducking beneath the man's arm and shifting to his new blind spot. The clansman did not hesitate to swing his left arm backward, the tip of his axe catching Jaime in the arm before he spun away.
With two weapons, the man's reach would be nearly impossible to break through. Wearing him down would be the best option, but he did not have the luxury of time. Tyrion was out there.
The clansman swung one axe, then the other, over and over at a speed he should not have been able to maintain. Jaime would try to block with his sword, but it would deflect off uselessly, shaking his entire arm until it felt as though his shoulder would fall off.
Grabbing his knife again, Jaime used both blades to block the larger axe as it cut across, dropping down just before its partner could cut his head off from behind.
Within his defenses now, Jaime kicked out. He had thought to sweep his legs, but doubted he could manage to actually move the man. So, he went for the next obvious target.
When his boot connected with the man's groin, he dropped his guard just long enough for Jaime to dislodge his sword.
And shove it through his throat.
He watched the man sputter blood from his lips for a few moments before running off into the chaos.
"Tyrion!" he shouted, stumbling over the corpse of another Lannister soldier. "Tyrion!"
His brother was some ten feet away, attempting to pull an axe out of the skull of one of the clansmen. Jaime scrambled toward him, running his sword through a man before he drove his own through his brother's back.
"First rule of combat," Jaime shouted as he grabbed his brother by the shoulder and turned him around. "Never turn your back on the enemy!"
"I thought it was make sure you're armed!" Tyrion yelled back, accepting the knife Jaime handed down to him. "Let's make sure our father burns this fucking place to the ground!"
Jaime only grunted in response as he shoved aside another attacker, driving his sword into their abdomen. At the same moment, the tip of a blade burst through the man's mouth. He only narrowly avoided getting hit by the thing, but not the blood that sprayed all over his face.
Both blades withdrew at once. When the body fell, Jaime found himself staring at Bronn. He blinked. The sellsword shrugged. Then they were back to back with one another, fighting off the remaining attackers before the few intelligent ones decided to flee back into the hills.
It fell silent then. The horses had died; the wounded had bled out and died as well. There was nothing but a distant drone, the last pumps of adrenaline coursing through his body.
His arm was bleeding, that much he knew. It pulsed with every beat of his heart. He couldn't be sure about the rest of his body, however. The kingsguard armor always had been shit to fight in. It was more for visual appeal than actual combat, but that was why the king always took the best. Someone had to make it look good.
He glanced over at his brother, who was taking a good, long look at one of their dead soldiers. His brother had killed before, he could see that now, and the thought of that made something lurch in his stomach. It was something he never wanted, his little brother taking another life. Tyrion was not a fighter. He was a talker, a lecher, but he was not a killer, or at least he should not have been.
Jaime might have saved his brother from death, but he felt that he had failed him nonetheless.
"So," Bronn called out, drawing Jaime from his thoughts. "The horses are dead, your men are dead, and if we don't clear out of here by sundown, we'll be dead. Any suggestions?"
The two brothers eyed one another. Jaime took a breath.
"Fuck."
Ned
It had been a little over a week since he had sent his eldest child away, and he had yet to hear any word on her. Some not so small part of him had hoped Myra had given up on the whole ordeal and went straight for White Harbor instead of Dragonstone. While Stannis was likely to keep his mouth shut about any activity around his home, Ned knew Wyman Manderly. Had Myra crossed into his city, a raven would have found him, without a doubt.
Where was she now, he wondered. Safe, he hoped. The thought of damning his children for his mistakes was nearly unbearable.
He certainly hadn't slept since she had gone.
Sansa had hardly noticed, too preoccupied with learning how to be a future queen. At least one of his children was living their life carefree, relatively, but Arya was asking questions, too many. More than once she had offered to "stick" someone for him, and Ned wondered, not for the first time, if Syrio Forel was a terrible decision on his part.
When was the last time he had made a good decision for his children? It was a disturbing question, the answer equally so.
He couldn't remember.
Sighing, Ned looked away from the fire that he had been staring at for far too long. His eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room and spotted Robert sitting at his desk. He wasn't sure if the man had ever been to the Hand's solar, but he sat inside like he owned the place, though he supposed actually he did.
Ned had to wonder when his fists would stop clenching every time he laid eyes on him.
Robert was reading a piece of parchment, his lips quivering with every word. Grand Maester Pycelle, or one of his servants, must have visited. He could not recall ever being so oblivious to the goings on around him, especially in King's Landing where the very air made his hairs stand on end.
"Damn it all!" came a shout, followed by the sound of his desk shaking. Ned watched Robert stand from it, moving toward the fireplace. "Tywin's cutting through the Riverlands like butter. Ser Gregor is leading raids on the villages, setting fires, raping women and children. You sent Ser Beric after him?"
Ned nodded, "I did."
"He won't stand a chance." Robert moved back to the desk again, grabbing fresh parchment. "I may be the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, but the Martells hate me, the Tyrells still want a bloody Targaryen on the throne, and the Lannisters want to fight me. What does that leave me with? Four? No, the river lords are practically bending the knee to Tywin already. I'm king of half a kingdom, Ned, and for what? A fucking imp!"
There was a long moment of silence. Ned did not feel much inclined to answer Robert's ravings. Anything he said might put the man over the edge, given recent events.
"But you are king," he spoke slowly.
"Yes, Ned, I'm the fucking king. I can shout it all night and day, fuck my whores, and kill every blonde head I see in the Red Keep, but Tywin Lannister is still going to carve his way through your wife's people." Robert sat down, putting his head in his hand. "Do you know how many people wanted Tywin to be king? A lot more than me, that's for sure."
Ned looked back to the fire, his thoughts dark. "Then he must be held accountable before they start thinking that way again."
Robert snorted. "I call for Tywin to receive the King's Justice, and then we will be at war."
He had to wonder what this was then.
"Seventeen years, Ned. Seventeen years of peace, or close to it, and I hated every second of it." Robert glanced over at him, looking as if every one of those years was taking their toll at that very moment. "Does it make me a terrible king to want to say 'fuck it, let's go to war'? I want to kill something, Ned, not some bloody animal, a person. I want to hold his life in my hands and say 'no, not today.'"
Ned could only shrug. Maybe it did. Maybe it didn't. The fact that Robert had resisted doing so thus far was probably a good sign, but he was hardly someone to give advice about anything anymore.
He took a breath. "I sent Myra to Dragonstone."
The silence was thick, and Ned could practically hear Robert blink.
"You did what?"
Robert was standing again, walking toward the fireplace with a curious look on his face.
"I asked her to get a message to your brother. We need him to return here, now more than ever."
"That wasn't what I meant by sending out a rider, Ned!" Robert shouted. "Do you really think Stannis is more likely to listen to a girl than his own king? He's a Baratheon! We're as stubborn as they come."
"He has answers about Jon and-"
"Oh, not this again!" Robert stepped closer, looking like a looming giant even to him now, though he could never recall him being that much taller. "Jon died, Ned. He was old and he died. Stop thinking everything is a damn conspiracy."
"Then why did Stannis leave as he did?" Ned asked. Surely Robert had noticed something, anything. Even drunks were sober on occasion.
"Because my brother is a cunt who can barely stand the sight of me. Trust me, the feeling is mutual."
Ned shook his head. "Stannis is not a man to abandon his post. He knows something, and he feared for his life. I think someone killed Jon Arryn, and he knows who."
"And let me guess, you suspect the Lannisters?" Robert asked, and Ned was silent just long enough to answer the question. "Seven hells, Ned, I thought I hated the blonde bastards, but you're taking the prize for vindictiveness. The Lannisters didn't kill Jon…and they didn't try to kill your boy."
At that, Ned blinked. He took a good, hard look at the man he had called his friend for so many years. They had been fostered together, gone to war together, mourned together, and then in a few days, each had ruined so much. He had feared it was only the beginning.
"What do you mean?"
Robert took a breath, thinking long and hard. "That tourney you mentioned, and the dagger. It didn't belong to Tyrion Lannister."
Ned found himself holding his breath, thinking back to the words Jaime had spoken to him before he left for the Eyrie. He had told himself the man was lying, that he would say anything to free his brother from incrimination, but there had been a voice in the back of his mind telling him the man was right, and that everything he had been fighting for was a lie.
"It belongs to me, Ned."
Wow, we covered a lot of ground here. Not nearly as fast as season seven is doing, but hey still pretty fast. (Also, if D&D keep ruining Jaime, I'm gonna march right up to their office and have a few words with them).
Please let me know what you thought of the action sequences. I'm not that great at writing them, but I try my best.
Enjoy the show tonight (if you haven't already)!
