You'd think at some point I could control my impulse to update immediately after finishing writing a chapter, but nope. At least this time I'm not up at a horribly late hour. Progress?

Once more, I am humbled by your outpouring of love for this little story of mine. I'm glad that my words can bring so much to so many. Believe me, I'm escaping in this story as much as you guys are. Thank you.

And so, I give you what I've alternatively titled Myra Stark and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.

Warning: uncomfortable content ahead. Nothing explicit, only implications.


Chapter Twenty-Two
The Storm

Myra

"Are you scared?"

Round eyes watched her from the threshold, belonging to her young brother. Bran fidgeted, eying the window nervously as lightning flashed outside. One of Winterfell's rare storms, which always seemed to strike in the dead of night.

"No," was his meek reply.

The crash of thunder outside quickly changed his mind, sending the young Stark flying toward his sister's bed. She lifted the sheets as he ran, covering him as he all but dove under them and huddled by her side. Fortunately, Myra had been awake already. Storms no longer scared her as they once had, but she was still unable to sleep through them.

Resting against her headboard, Myra put an arm around her brother. "Care to tell me why you've come to my room?"

Not that she minded, of course, but when she was his age, she preferred the company of her parents. Then again, she hadn't had any older siblings.

"Theon says Father'll be disappointed if I go to him. He says I shouldn't be scared."

Myra sighed. The Greyjoy was going to get a piece of her mind come morning.

"Father wouldn't be disappointed," Myra replied with a warm smile. "There's nothing wrong with being scared. A man cannot be brave unless he is scared. He'd tell you just as much."

Bran made a face. "I don't want another speech."

"You're a Stark, Bran. That's all you're ever going to get."

He stuck his tongue out. She did the same. Brother and sister smiled at one another a moment until another round of thunder sent Bran burying his face into her side.

"It's alright," Myra cooed, holding him close. "The storm can't hurt you here."

"Old Nan says thunder is the sound of giants crushing the mountains together," his muffled voice replied.

"Well, she told me it was dragons blinded by the rain crashing into one another. No one has seen a giant or a dragon in years. I think we'll be okay."

Another lightning strike revealed a taller figure standing in her doorway this time.

Myra smirked. "Well, look at that, Bran, even your big brother is scared of the storm."

Robb entered the room slowly, hobbled by Rickon as he clung to his leg. "Petrified."

"Aw, Rickon, did Robb wake you? Honestly, Brother, you could have come in by yourself. I don't judge."

Her twin snorted as he neared the bed, all but prying his baby brother off so he could put him on the mattress before climbing on himself. They made quite the sight, the two oldest protecting the youngest.

Rickon huddled up to Bran, who did not seem bothered in the least. If anything, her brother seemed happier with the company.

Robb flopped down on one of her pillows, making himself comfortable. "Think we'll see the girls?"

Myra shook her head. "I doubt it. Arya can sleep through anything, and Sansa-"

On cue, thunder boomed, and the redhead dashed into the room.

"-is here."

Robb chuckled. "We're running out of room."

Shifting over, Myra let Sansa rest on her left side, making sure that Robb was the one nearly falling off the bed. He gave her a look, but complied, lying on his side so he could fit.

"I'm not scared," Sansa insisted as she clutched her sister's nightclothes. "I just needed to make sure everyone is okay, like a lady should."

"You're a proper model for us all, Sansa," Robb answered. Myra grabbed her brush from the bedside table and threw it at him. Rickon laughed.

Not a minute later, Arya walked through the doorway, guided in by Jon, his hands on her shoulders. The girl looked sheepish, as if her fear tarnished her otherwise outgoing, adventurous nature. Jon simply shrugged.

Myra smiled. "Well, come on then."

Arya dived onto the bed, claiming the space between Robb and Rickon, knocking the former to the floor. Being the dramatic brother that he was, Robb made a show of it, falling slowly and groaning like a man wounded in battle.

And Arya, as was her way, was having none of it. "Oh, shut up, Robb."

"What have I done to deserve such cruelty?" he asked, poking his head up, curls sticking out this way and that.

"You were born with sisters," Jon replied, sitting at the foot of the bed.

Myra stuck her tongue out, kicking at Jon from under the covers.

Undeterred, Robb went to lie back down in his old spot, right on top of Arya.

"Get off me, you big oaf!" Arya shouted, though Robb's clothes muffled the words.

"Did you hear something?" he asked, looking at his other siblings. Rickon was laughing again and even Bran smiled. "Could have sworn I heard this…annoying sound."

"Get off! Get off! Get off! Get off!" Arya flailed, landing a kick somewhere tender. Robb doubled over and rolled off the bed again. All the Stark siblings, Jon included, had a good laugh at their brother's pain.

"If Theon comes in, he's sleeping on the floor," Myra said as Robb slowly stood and sat on the opposite end of the bed.

"Better yet, we could lock him in one of your trunks," Jon suggested.

"I like that idea," Arya said.

"Me too," Bran agreed, sitting up a little.

And one more person did enter that evening, though it was not who they expected. Lord Stark stepped into the room, holding a candle, with a serious look on his face, though it softened at the sight of all his children piled together.

"Papa scared too!" Rickon shouted.

Their father chuckled. "Quite the racket you've all managed to make. I forgot there was even a storm outside."

"We're sorry, Lord Stark," Jon apologized. He always called him father to his siblings, but never when the man was actually around. Perhaps he thought their mother was nearby. "It won't happen again."

"There's no need, Jon. No harm's been done. But the rest of you should get back to your own beds. I imagine your sister's had enough of your company. You can all bother her come morning."

"Oh Father, it's just one night," Myra pleaded. "I don't mind, really."

She watched him look at her, hoping he realized. After all, this time next year, she'd be a married woman and living in the Dreadfort. Until she had children of her own, she would never have something like this again, and even then, it would not be the same.

Her father nodded. "Very well, but get to sleep."

Following a chorus of 'yes fathers,' the Stark children proceeded to get comfortable. Both Robb and Jon put their heads at the end of the bed with their big feet poking at their siblings. Sansa had quickly grabbed a blanket and covered them, mumbling about not dealing with the smell all night. Rickon held on to Arya, who for once did not complain, while Bran faced Myra as Sansa held onto her back.

"You see, Bran?" Myra whispered when the others had fallen asleep. "You've nothing to worry about."


Thunder crashed overhead, knocking Myra from her reverie. The warmth of Winterfell melted away, returning her to the cold and somber reality of the Crownlands. Her siblings turned into Jaime, and her happiness to a wretched mood that would not fade.

They had not spoken that morning, not when Jaime woke nor when the first drops of rain began to fall. There was no shelter to be found, so they simply began to walk. Jaime had handed her some dried meat he had taken from the ambushed caravan. His hand had brushed hers, and she thought on how it might have been the very one that pushed her little brother. It made her stomach twist, but she'd accepted the food anyway, eyes refusing to look up from the ground.

How easy it would be to think of Jaime as nothing more than some monster, an evil man her father had warned her against, but evil men did not save young women from their king, they did not laugh about fond memories, and she certainly would never trust one.

Jaime Lannister was no monster. He was simply a man.

And that only made it all the more painful.

The rain picked up. There was no wind in the trees, but the deluge had gone on for so long that the leaves had grown heavy and provided little in the way of cover. Their cloaks, once decent protection, had become soaked and only seemed to weigh them down, but Myra and Jaime continued forward in silent misery. They had no choice. If they did not find shelter, they'd die of exposure come the night.

They were descending into a valley, which either meant they were near a river or, if they were lucky, the Bay of Crabs. The way wasn't terribly steep, but the downpour had made the ground slick with mud. She and Jaime made their way slowly, holding on to low-lying branches and bushes to keep them from falling. However, in her distracted state, Myra took a wrong step and slipped.

She didn't fall far. In fact, Myra seemed to just sink into the mud beneath her and stayed stuck. Her hood fell off and she found herself staring at an opening at the top of the trees. Lightning streaked across the sky, followed closely by another round of thunder, and Myra could not help but feel a small boy tugging at her clothes.

It was easy to cry when the rain hid the evidence.

Jaime entered her vision, ready to help her up, and Myra, her misery drowning what inhibitions she had, could not help herself.

"Why her?"

She wondered if Jaime heard her properly, given the confused look on his face, so she continued.

"Why Cersei?"

His face darkened, and suddenly Jaime turned away, clearly no longer interested in helping her up. It was fine with her. She wasn't in the mood to touch him anyway.

Myra sat up, her sadness quickly igniting into something harsher. "You crippled my brother for seeing you with her! The least you could do is tell me why!"

Jaime turned around, equally furious. "I'm not here to discuss every decision I've made in my life with you. How you feel about it is hardly my concern."

She stood. "Given everything you do in your life is destroying mine, I don't care if it's your concern or not!"

Shaking his head, Jaime turned around, picking his way down the hill again. But Myra was not done with him yet. She was tired of being ignored, tired of being on the run, tired of everything going wrong, all because of the infuriating man walking away from her. The events of the day had not helped, and Myra found herself at a rare breaking point.

In a burst of rage, she gave a small shout and shoved him. Jaime staggered a moment, but regained his footing as he grabbed a small tree. He turned back to her, eyes wide in surprise.

"I hate you!" she shouted, hitting him again and again. "I hate your family! I didn't want any of this, but you took it all from me anyway!"

Jaime grabbed her wrist before she hit him again, his green eyes narrowed. "Hit me one more time and I'll-"

"You'll what, kill me? That's your answer to everything, isn't it?"

For a moment, his anger seemed to break, his eyes widened, mouth parting slightly, but at the same time, the tree he clung to gave way, and they both tumbled down the hillside. Myra felt rocks and sticks jam into every part of her body as she fell. She saw the sky, then the dirt, then the sky again, and had mostly given up on trying to stop herself.

Eventually, the ground evened out, and Jaime and Myra came to a halt, a jumble of limbs on the muddy earth.

She laid there for some time, watching the rain wash the mud off her outstretched hand, before sitting up slowly. Myra tested each of her limbs, checking for breaks, but she seemed to be fine, other than being bruised and battered and relatively ashamed of herself. She removed the hair from her face, feeling a fine layer of mud slip free onto her fingers. What a fine mess she had made.

Jaime was slower to move, but he, too, eventually sat up. He was next to her, shoulder brushing hers slightly, though he faced the opposite direction; he was staring at the trees, thinking.

"I can't tell you why," he said after some time, turning to her. His hair stuck out in wild directions, and half his face was covered in mud. The sight should have been hilarious, but she had never seen him more serious, not since that night on the balcony. "I didn't choose Cersei. She didn't choose me. Robert didn't choose Lyanna. Your father didn't choose your mother. We don't get to choose who we love."

There was a moment when she searched the green of his eyes when she did not see a brother in love with his sister, but a man who loved a woman. It was a sincerity she had not seen often, deep and close to the heart. They were words not said lightly.

"No, you don't," she admitted, her voice soft. "But you do get to choose how you act upon it. If loving someone means tearing half the world apart, perhaps you're better off without."

Jaime stood, wincing slightly. "You've never been in love."

As if that was an excuse for the death of thousands.

He offered his hand to her, seemingly over his anger as well, but Myra stood on her own, looking him in the eye.

"I don't think I want to be."

Myra began to walk away then, not bothering to check if Jaime followed or not. He'd dealt with her this long, so she figured her chances were good. She just didn't want to see him anymore.

The sky was beginning to darken when she emerged from the tree line. Though the rain still had yet to let up, making visibility near to none, there was still no mistaking the large body of water that she faced.

"The Bay of Crabs," Myra breathed, stepping onto the rocky beach. Though cold, hungry, and otherwise miserable, she let her heart soar ever so slightly at the sight. This was progress, real progress. There would be villages along this waterway, and that meant food and proper shelter. And, if she was lucky, lords loyal to her grandfather, Hoster Tully.

The same brief look of hope crossed Jaime's face when he walked out some time later. It diminished when he looked at her, but she could say the same for herself. They both took a moment to wipe themselves down at the water's edge before walking westward down the beach.

Out in the open, the relative protection the trees provided was gone. Not only were they down poured on entirely, but they were also buffeted by the winds that pushed in from the coast. Myra's brief happiness shriveled up and died somewhere cold as she uselessly wrapped the cloak around herself.

After some time, they stumbled to an outcropping, where the bay seemed to have worn out a cave some time ago. Jaime and Myra tentatively looked at one another before closing in on it. They stopped at the opening, just far enough inside that they were free of the storm, waiting for their eyes to adjust to the darkness.

"Do you think anything is in there?" Myra whispered.

Jaime grabbed a rock and threw it inside. She heard its impact, and the echoes that followed as it skidded across the hard ground. No other noise escaped.

"You shouldn't have done that," she continued, still unnerved by the convenient prospect of an empty cave.

"Well, there was nothing for me to kill," Jaime spat back, entering the cave with his sword unsheathed. Myra felt her eyes narrow, but followed him inside.

Deeper in the cave, her eyes began to adjust. Despite its proximity to the water, the space seemed rather dry. In the back of her mind, Old Nan was telling tales of smugglers and their prized possessions hidden away in secret corners of the world. Very much at the forefront was the possibility that those were more than just tales.

"Seems someone built a fire here once," Jaime mused, kicking at something on the ground. He kneeled down. "Lucky us."

She heard the sound of him striking steel on flint and soon a small flame emerged. It grew slowly, revealing parts of the cave they could not yet see.

Myra wasn't sure this was the kind of luck they wanted.

Nothing stood out immediately, but upon examining the interior, it became clear that someone had spent some time inside. There were no signs of animal life, a few branches had been gathered off to the side for kindling, and there was a distinct depression in the earth where someone used to sleep.

"We should not be here," she mumbled, eying the cave again with newfound wariness.

"Then go spend the evening in the storm if you like," Jaime replied. He met her gaze and thought better of it. "Look, if you want to stay dry and warm, we have no other choice."

She knew he had a point.

Resigning herself to defeat, Myra collapsed on the ground. She removed her cloak and placed it as close to the fire as she dared. The storm continued to rage on outside, but despite their safe surroundings, she still could not shake the feeling that they would have been better off at nature's mercy.


Tyrion

Things…weren't going well.

It was a rather mild way of saying that if a gate opened to any one of the seven hells at that very moment, he would not only choose to go, but may very well dive in headfirst and call it one of the best choices he'd ever made.

Wine. He needed more wine.

He stumbled out of his chair, which had become more of a bed than his actual mattress as of late, much to Shae's dismay, and crossed the room. Pod, knowing what he wanted, though it really didn't take much to guess, made to grab his decanter of wine to pour for him, but Tyrion waved him off. The last time he tried, he'd nearly spilt the entire thing, and if there was one thing he hated most in this world, it was the waste of a good wine.

Oh, and the whole war effort.

"So," Tyrion started, pouring his wine. "We have a famine, riots in the streets, burning buildings, and half the population of King's Landing wants Joffrey's head on a spike. Am I missing anything?"

"Don't forget the bloody flux," Bronn added, cleaning away at his nails with his dagger again from a bench.

"Oh, of course, how could I miss that?" Tyrion replied, returning to his desk. "Now, does anyone propose a solution to anything?"

Bronn looked up. "Why are you asking us?"

"The Small Council consists of either idiots or people whom I do not trust. The two of you may as well be better advisers."

"And which category does your sister fall under?"

Tyrion gave him a look, but it only served to encourage the sellsword.

"Pod," he started, looking to his squire, who still stood against the wall. The boy still jumped every time his name was mentioned. "Tell me, what would you do?"

The boy blinked. "More goldcloaks, milord?"

"We barely have the money to employ the ones we have now. Not to mention they're so horribly trained, I can't imagine how terrible the recruits would be," Tyrion replied, nodding. "Still, a good try. Bronn, how about you?"

"Make more money."

Tyrion rolled his eyes. "We discussed this already. It wouldn't work."

"And I still think you're full of shit."

The door burst open then. All three occupants looked over as a woman closed the door again and crossed the room as if she owned the place. She was dressed like a handmaiden, one of Cersei's if his memory served correctly, though he had never seen a handmaiden act as confident as this one. Her raven hair and tan complexion stood stark against the light green of her silk dress.

Bronn, Tyrion noted, was leaning forward in rapt attention.

At least someone in the city was predictable.

"Do you know who I am?" the woman asked, sitting in the seat across from his desk as if she was talking to a good friend rather than the Hand of the King.

Tyrion was at a loss for words. He looked over at Pod, who could only shrug.

"My name is Syrena," the woman continued. "Sand, if you must know."

"You're from Dorne."

"From Sunspear, yes."

Bronn sniffed. "And how does a bastard from Dorne get in the service of the queen?"

Syrena turned to the sellsword, her smile sharp. "By making herself useful, of course."

Tyrion watched her, a small thought forming in his head, involving a dead king and a man set to take the fall for his murder. He did not voice this thought aloud, of course, that would be a death sentence in and of itself, but Tyrion did not believe he was far from the mark. Dorne had no love of Robert after all, and her presence here and now was far too convenient.

"You're from Sunspear," Tyrion mused. "Are you related to anyone we know in particular?"

"My mother was no one, the daughter of some fishmonger, but my father…" The smile that grew on her face was a wicked thing, a far cry from the woman he had glanced in public. She grabbed a letter opener from his desk, toying with the sharp edges as if they were nothing. "It was not until I was older that I found out about the Red Viper. I demanded to see him. So go to him, my mother said, but when he discards you, do not return home. It is clear whom you have chosen. So, I went to him and he took me in. I trained, learned to read, scrubbed the smell of fish from my skin, and when I had grown, I returned to my village and burned down the fishmonger's hut with her inside."

The room was silent for some time. Tyrion gulped, eying the letter opener in her hands. He suddenly felt rather unsafe.

Then Bronn began to chuckle. He stood from the bench and crossed the room, walking behind the chair. Though he kept a leisurely pace to it, Tyrion could tell he was positioning himself. It seemed his money was being well spent.

"Here I thought she was going to be normal, then the Dornish in her raised its ugly little head."

Syrena glanced up, playing innocent. "You think my head is ugly?"

"I think it's very pretty," Bronn admitted, getting an eyeful from his position above her. "Absolutely crazy, but pretty."

The handmaiden hummed, replacing the letter opener on the desk. "You can stand down, Dog. I am not here to hurt your master."

That made the sellsword laugh, hard.

"Thank you, Bronn," Tyrion said dryly as he reached for the blade, bringing it safely back into his possession. "So, if you aren't here to murder me, then why are you here?"

"I have a proposition for you."

Tyrion chuckled. "Well, despite the incredibly true rumors you've heard about me, I'm afraid I'll have to decline. My dog, however, appears more than willing to take up the slack."

Bronn appeared offended. "I can do my own flirting, thank you very much."

Syrena rolled her eyes. "You are short on allies, are you not? Wolves from the North, Stags and Flowers from the South. What if you did not have to worry about whose side Dorne would fall on?"

Intrigued, Tyrion leaned forward. Perhaps this handmaiden did know a thing or two. "What are you suggesting?"

"My uncle, Prince Doran, has a son, Trystane. He would do well for the princess."

It was an interesting prospect. Not only would Myrcella be safe from the enclosing war, their house could finally extend the first tentative olive branch since Robert's Rebellion. They had only just avoided war with them, and only because the steady hand of Doran held the people, and more importantly his brother, at bay. Without him, things could get out of control quickly.

This may just be their way of finally settling things.

However…

"Why is it that you are bringing this to me?" Tyrion asked, sitting back again. "If Prince Doran were interested in such an alliance, surely he'd have sent a raven. I hear that Dorne treats its bastards better than most, but I doubt negotiating marriage contracts is something House Martell would entrust to one, especially when they are apparently secretly working against my sister. I assume she doesn't know whose bastard you are."

Syrena shrugged. "She knows what I tell her, same as you."

"And what does Prince Doran know?"

"He knows that if you send word, it would be too good a possibility to pass up."

Tyrion narrowed his eyes. "What are you hiding?"

She smiled. "We're all hiding something here, Lord Tyrion."

He looked to Bronn, then to Podrick, before locking eyes with the handmaiden again. There was something about her, some fact that he was missing. Yes, she used to work for someone, a girl…

"Who are you hiding?"

There it was, a flicker of something in her eyes. Uncertainty? Anger? Whatever it was, it gave away everything, and she knew it. This alliance was an opportunity for more than one person it seemed.

"No one you need concern yourself with."

They stared each other down for some time. Tyrion thought to decline her offer, have her followed if he could. Varys might know someone. But she would suspect, and if he were honest, he'd rather not spend the rest of his time in King's Landing in fear of a handmaiden with a letter opener. There were already too many to watch out for.

Besides, this may provide…future opportunities. If anyone knew what his sister was truly doing, she might.

"Alright, I accept. I'll write Prince Doran personally and ask for this alliance. Provided he agrees, I'll see to it that Princess Myrcella and her…entourage are accommodated."

If the handmaiden truly was hiding Sansa Stark, as he suspected, the girl would not be safe in the Red Keep, His sister was temperamental and Joffrey was…well, there wasn't much of a word to describe him. But in Dorne, she would find some reprieve, and at least he'd know where she was. Slightly out of arm's reach, but not untouchable was better than not having a clue at all.

This web he was spinning was growing far too complicated, even for himself.

The woman's wicked smile returned.

Syrena stood slowly, graciously bowing her head. "Thank you, Lord Tyrion."

She turned around, moving to leave. Running her hand across the back of Bronn's shoulders, she seemed greatly amused by the way he turned to look at her. "Dog."

Tyrion watched as she opened the door. "Tell me, what do you get out of this? Moving your precious cargo?"

For the first time, the woman seemed hesitant. She blinked slowly, a frown pulling at her lips. Still, she looked no less graceful.

"Some vows are not meant to be broken."

And then she left.

All three men stared at the doorway for some time, then Bronn whistled low.

"You ever been with a Dornish girl?"

"Can't say I have," Tyrion replied, grabbing his quill. Clearly he had some work to do.

"They're just as likely to kill as to fuck you," Bronn said, sounding oddly impressed by it.

Podrick, who had been quiet through the whole affair, finally spoke. "Is that why she took your dagger?"

Bronn froze, and Tyrion would have given all his gold to see the look on the man's face as the wheels in his mind turned. He watched the sellsword look down and pat himself, finding nothing on his belt.

"Fucking Dornish bastard," Bronn grumbled, storming to the threshold.

"Don't stay out too late now," Tyrion called, receiving a slammed door in reply. "Come and take a seat, Pod. Tell me everything you know about Dorne. I'm a little rusty with their customs, and would rather not start another war with a letter."

Gods knew he was about to start one with Cersei by doing this.


Jaime

Myra had not wanted to sleep, he could tell. She had moved against a wall of the cave, where the rock formed a corner of sorts, and eyed everything with a deep mistrust. But eventually the hardship of the day caught up to her, and she fell asleep with her head leaning uncomfortably on her shoulder.

It should have occurred to him that the young woman who had been so at ease in the middle of the forest suddenly becoming frightened in their shelter was a bad sign, but he was too angry and tired to care.

The day had been a long one.

It would be so easy to leave her, he realized, as he watched her from across the fire. He could walk away now and she would be none the wiser, until she woke to embers and an empty cave. It would certainly save him a good deal of trouble. That stunt she pulled on the hillside could have ended worse than it did. Running from Stannis would prove quite difficult with a broken leg, not to mention fighting. Never mind the small voice in the back of his head that insisted she wasn't wrong to act as she had.

Why did it sound like Tyrion?

However, the thought of abandoning Myra Stark to whatever fate had in store for her, death most likely, did not sit well with Jaime, and he quickly pushed it aside. They had come this far together, and she could be useful down the road.

That wasn't the only reason, chimed the voice, and Jaime frowned. His damned sense of honor, tattered and soiled as it was, still had some sort of sway on him. Whether it was from leering eyes or cutthroats, he felt obligated to protect Myra Stark, and it wasn't even a conscious decision. It just happened, and it had been for some time.

Yes, he could see now why Tyrion had been incredibly entertained by the notion. And why Cersei thought him so pathetic. The man who had killed a king finding his hand stayed by some sad, gray eyes. Had Robert not acted the same way?

This certainly was a new low for him.

What surprised him more was that Myra still managed to trust him enough to sleep in his company, especially after her little outburst. She claimed to hate him, but he was not entirely certain that was true. Maybe at the time, but when she looked at him after he finally answered her question, there was no hatred in her eyes. Myra had been as much an open book at that moment as he had felt. There was no malice, no disgust, only an understanding, as if she could actually accept what he felt for Cersei.

It was the fallout of their love that did not sit well with her.

He'd considered fleeing to Essos once when he was young, in order to leave behind all the problems and taboos that plagued them. A man of his skill would do well as a sellsword, and he'd undoubtedly have his own company in no time. When he mentioned it to Cersei, she had quickly dashed those thoughts. There was no safety in it, and she would not come to depend upon him. In Westeros, she had power and identity, a political standing few could compete against, and she would not abandon that.

There had been nights when Jaime wondered how life would have been across the Narrow Sea, with only Cersei. He wondered what would have become of the Seven Kingdoms.

They certainly could not do worse than this.

Jaime sighed. He hated how his mind wandered to places he'd rather not go. This was the life he was given. There was no sense in trying to imagine the what ifs of it.

He grabbed another branch from the pile that had mysteriously been left behind and added it to the fire, watching as the dried leaves withered and the bark curled and crunched under the strain of the heat. Myra stirred briefly and mumbled something, but otherwise did not wake. Perhaps he'd let her sleep the entire night. He didn't feel like sleeping much himself.

But his body had different plans, and soon his eyes grew heavy.

He dreamed of the tower, the broken, crumbling thing he had scouted the night before while everyone was sleeping or drunk. Tyrion had barely looked up from his book when he left. Sometimes he wondered if his brother did not prefer their company to him.

Tyrion certainly wouldn't be the first, or the last, he figured.

Cersei was there, eyes wide in a sort of fear he had never seen in her before. She held her shawl close to her body, mouth forming those familiar words.

"He saw us."

Jaime looked to his hand, holding the boy who would damn them all: Bran Stark. The child was already halfway out the window, clinging desperately to his arm. He was equally terrified, and for good reason: his fate was already sealed.

"Wait!"

Gray eyes pleaded with him as Myra Stark suddenly appeared beside Cersei.

"Please."

Jaime hesitated.

"He saw us," Cersei hissed.

In the next moment, the boy was falling, as he always had, as he always would.

Myra screamed.

Jaime bolted awake, scrambling to get his bearings. Her gray eyes were staring at him even now from across the fire, wide in terror.

And at her neck was a dagger.

The instant Jaime reached for his knife, a boot kicked him in the head. He fell over, hard, his mind swimming. Another swift kick to his stomach flipped him over onto his back. He coughed and wheezed, clawing at the offended region as if he could cut the pain out with his fingers.

"Jaime!" he heard Myra shout. His eyes opened despite the pain. Three men were standing above him, dressed in ragged clothes just like them. They were brutish looking thugs without an ounce of intelligence between them, he wagered. Men like them thrived on war, when sacking villages and killing those within seemed to be on everyone's minds. He'd seen their kind many times, hunted them down as well, and now he was at their mercy.

The fourth man dragged Myra to her feet, the dagger never leaving her neck even as her hands reached for his wrist. He was an ugly bastard, faced marred by pox marks and hair greasy black. His rotten smile was large as his free hand stroked Myra's cheek.

"Got ourselves a pretty one 'ere, lads."

The girl closed her eyes and whimpered.

At the sound, Jaime sat up abruptly, but was met with steel. Three swords pointed down at him, nearly blunt, crude things, but they would certainly get the job done. He glared up at the equally ugly faces staring down at him.

Better to kill me now, he thought. I won't allow you a second chance.

The men, however, seemed to be intent on letting him live for whatever twisted reason. One took his dagger away, kicking his sword to the side in the process.

"Move, and we'll gut ya like a pig," the man mumbled, as if he was somehow intimidating. His breath was deadlier. "Watch 'im."

Two of them moved off to the side, searching through what little gear they had, while the one remained, a cruel smile on his face as he held Jaime at bay.

"What's a girl like ya doin' out here, eh?" the man holding Myra mumbled, speaking into her hair as he smelled it. "Waitin' for someone like ol' Thom to come along and show you 'ow it's done? Bet my pecker's bigger 'an his."

Myra began to cry, her eyes still shut. "Please…"

"Oy, look, see? Got you beggin' for me already."

"Fuck's sake, Thom, you ain't got to woo 'er," shouted one of the men by the gear. "Some of us want to 'ave a go."

'Thom' huffed but complied, dragging Myra back toward the entrance of the cave, where the firelight ended and bathed the area in darkness. Despite the blade at her neck, Myra began to flail, kicking her legs up and screaming, but the man was far too strong for her.

"Jaime!" she cried, voice shrill and filled with terror.

He stood, and the sword came to rest upon his neck. This man was bigger than him, yet still utterly unintimidating.

"Move again and I'll cut you open."

"You're going to regret that," Jaime hissed.

Myra disappeared out of the light, still fighting as hard as she could. Her wide eyes looked to him one last time before they faded into the darkness.

"No! Let me go!" he heard her scream.

"Quiet, bitch!"

Then he heard the sound of tearing fabric.

His reaction was instantaneous.

Jaime grabbed the sword held to his throat with his left hand, shoving it to the side. Never mind that it cut into his palm and fingers, he couldn't feel the pain, not through the rage that consumed him. It was the right hand that he needed intact; anything else was expendable.

He wrenched the sword out of his grip, the man too stunned by Jaime's actions to react properly, and punched him in the face with his right. The man fell hard, but he had no time to worry about him.

Quickly, he tossed the sword into his right hand and swung at the closer of the other two attackers. It got caught halfway through the man's neck. The man barely gurgled before falling to the ground in a bloody heap.

The other man launched forward as Jaime tried to pry the sword loose, and from behind the first one grabbed him, lifting Jaime into the air. His grip was tight on his ribs, choking the air out of him. He dropped the sword, flailing a moment before kicking out at the man running toward him. Jaime knocked him back against the wall, stunning him briefly, and proceeded to elbow the ribcage of the one holding him.

It had no effect, of course, so Jaime reached backward, searching for the man's face, scraping across the skin. A sticky squish and a shout told him he'd gotten the man's eyes, and soon the grip loosened.

Jaime dropped to the ground as the man stumbled backward, hands on his eyes. He grabbed his sword quickly, bringing it up just in time to catch the blade of the man he had kicked as it arced downward, ready to take out his head.

The man's eyes widened at his strength, realizing that his band of outlaws clearly chose the wrong man to confront. Jaime quickly knocked the sword from his grasp, and drove his into the man's gut.

Half-blind, his last attacker stumbled forward, blood gushing down his face.

"Why I oughtta-"

Jaime sliced his sword straight across his stomach and left the man to die with his intestines spilling out.

"Myra!" he shouted, running toward the front of the cave, sword at the ready, bracing himself for the worst.

He heard her before he saw her. She was grunting, angrily, and beneath it he heard the all too familiar sound of steel on flesh and bone.

When his eyes adjusted, Jaime was almost too stunned to move.

Myra was straddling Thom, who at some point must have heard the ruckus and tried to intervene. It must have been enough of a distraction for her to fight and gain the advantage because he was on his back now, eyes staring lifelessly as Myra stabbed him again and again in the chest. She was crying still, hands and face bloody, tunic torn so far that her chest was barely hidden from him.

She didn't even notice him; she just kept stabbing the knife into the man, each hit as hate filled as the last.

"Myra," Jaime called out, but his voice was too soft, lost, and she did not hear him.

He ran to her side, grabbing her wrist as she was mid-swing. She screamed, fighting to get out of his grasp, fighting to stab him with the knife if she had to.

"Myra, it's me!" he shouted, getting her attention. She slowed, eyes impossibly wider than before. Her body was trembling and her breath was shaky. "I'm not going to hurt you."

"J-Jaime," she breathed. Then Myra took in her surroundings, saw the blade in her hand, and the bloody mess she had created. It was as if she had not realized what she had been doing. He knew the feeling all too well.

Her breath hitched, and she stumbled to the side, dropping the knife. Jaime let her go, and she proceeded to retch.

He knew that feeling too.

Jaime walked over the body and grabbed her hair out of the way, which at some point had been pulled out of the braid she had woven. He was careful not to touch her with his left hand. Better not to leave her with another bloody mess.

"C'mon," he whispered when her stomach had settled. Jaime put his arm around her shoulder and helped her up, slowly leading her toward the cave entrance. She lamely pulled at the fabric of her tunic, attempting to cover herself up.

He settled her down just outside. The rains had dispersed, leaving a clear sky, where a bright moon rested, and the red comet continued on its path. In the east, the first pale colors of dawn were beginning to form on the horizon. The air was cool and crisp, but far preferable to where they just were.

"Let me see," he spoke softly, kneeling beside her. He moved his hands slowly, so that she would see them approaching, and gently touched her. There was a bruise forming near her left eye that he lightly prodded. She winced slightly, but otherwise made no complaint. Her lip was split, and when he lifted her chin, he could see a trail of blood where the blade had nicked her neck. "Is there…anything else?"

Myra blinked slowly and then shook her head.

Jaime cupped her face in his hand. "I'm going back inside for a moment. Will you be alright?"

He watched her eyes move back and forth, searching his. Fear flickered in them, but faded quickly as she nodded.

Inside the cave, the one man still moaned. Jaime looked at him briefly, watching his hands uselessly struggle to return his insides to his stomach, before moving on. He gathered what gear they had, picked up Myra's cloak, and searched the other bodies for things of use, money, rags, bits of food, things these men wouldn't need anymore.

He ripped the sleeve of one of them and wrapped it around his hand; he was no maester, but it would do for the time being.

Jaime returned his sword and dagger to their proper places, and tossed the satchel over his shoulder.

"Please…" came a pathetic sob.

He looked to the man, who reached his hand out, begging to end his life. Jaime wished he could. He wished the others were alive so he could shove his sword through them again and again and again; he wished that they would live for hours and bleed out slowly, that terror was the last thing they knew before leaving this world.

But only one remained, and he did not deserve the mercy of a swift death.

So Jaime left.

Myra had not moved. She'd gathered her tunic as best she could and sat hugging herself against the wind, though Jaime knew it was not the cold that continued to make her tremble.

She was right. Everything he did was destroying her life.

"Here," he said, placing the cloak over her shoulders. Myra jumped at the movement, but quickly snatched the fabric up, burying her hands inside as they held it against her body, covering everything up. "We need to go."

She nodded, standing; she allowed him to put his arm around her again and gently lead her away. He knew she was taking his advice, going away inside. Talking about it now wasn't going to get him anywhere. She would speak in her own time, although he couldn't be certain that he was the one she wished to talk to about it.

But he was all she had.

And she was all he had too.

For better or worse.


Note: Just in case my words did not convey it well enough, which is entirely possible, she was not raped. I'd just like that to be clear.

Until next time.