Okay, I know, I'm terrible for that tease, but honestly, guys, I'm pretty sure this will satisfy you and then some. I don't like to toot my own horn, but I am EXCITED. I hurt myself writing this chapter, honestly.
Thank you once again, you beautiful people, for your wonderful reviews (and shoutout to the guest reviewer who agrees that I sold my soul). And welcome to my new followers! Glad to have you here!
Just a quick note: Since a lot of you are guest reviewers and it's a bit hard for me to get to you, I'm going to start posting answers to any questions you may have at the end of the chapters. Unless there are a lot of similar ones that I feel need to be shared straight away, they'll always be there. So, feel free to ask anything.
Enjoy!
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Vow
Myra
"I think you like that beast more than me."
Myra blinked, startled from her reverie of forests and howls on the breeze. She turned to Jaime, who still sat on the water's edge filling his water skin, catching the mischievous glint in his green eyes before he returned to his task.
Things had been…easier. That was not to say she was completely recovered, or whatever word there was for such an experience (she doubted she ever would be the same again), but sleep came a little faster and lasted a little longer. Her mind did not wander so endlessly, and smiles were not so difficult to produce. Acquiring a horse had done wonders to ease her mind, and seeing that little girl days ago seemed to return something to her. It was a taste of home, perhaps, and a reminder of a young woman who dreamed of the sea.
Jaime Lannister, however, may have been the biggest change. Seeing that the worst had passed, he no longer hovered as he once had, and his particular brand of humor had returned full force: brash, nagging, improper to a fault. She had to wonder if he had reined it in a little for her sake, or if she had just grown used to it over time. It certainly did not bother her as it used to. In fact, she welcomed it with open arms.
He was certainly more accepting of conversation though, that much she could tell. It made the passage of time far less painful. They didn't speak of much, usually whatever surrounded them, and occasionally happier times with their families, both parties avoiding particular subjects as best they could, but it was clear that whatever barrier that had existed between them in the beginning had begun to wear away. She supposed being stuck together would do that.
Unhappy with the lack of attention, the chestnut plow horse they had bought began to nip at her fingers until she returned to stroking his muzzle.
"Of course I do," Myra replied, fingers tracing the white blaze that marked its head. "He's quiet, respectful, and he certainly smells better."
Snorting, Jaime stood. "You don't exactly smell like flowers either, Stark."
Myra smirked, gathering the horse's reins. He'd taken to using her last name whenever she irked him. She usually went back to calling him 'Ser Jaime,' which the man might have found the most annoying of all.
Positioning herself, Myra put her foot in the stirrup and, with practiced ease, swung herself into the saddle. She nudged the horse forward, bringing him beside Jaime on the bank. Sniffing at his clothes, the creature decided the rocks beneath its hooves were a far more interesting subject.
"What are you doing?" Jaime asked, looking up at her.
"I have been clinging to your back for the better part of three days," Myra replied with a shrug. "Now it's your turn."
Jaime rolled his eyes at her childish response, but did not offer any resistance. He tucked the water skin into the saddle pack and climbed onto the saddle behind her.
Briefly, Myra wondered if she hadn't made a mistake. The pressure of a body behind her made a deep chill crawl up her spine. She stiffened slightly at the movement, but Jaime made no indication that he noticed. Rather, he seemed to understand how uncomfortable it might make her. Aside from a steadying hand on her shoulder, he made no move to touch any other part of her.
Clicking her tongue, Myra urged the horse along, moving them just into the tree line, still following the ever-flowing waterway. The further west they traveled, the thinner the Bay of Crabs became. It would turn into the Trident soon enough. At the very least, they'd be certain then that there would be no sign of Stannis Baratheon's men, not that there had been any so far. She wondered if the man even knew, or cared, that his prisoners were running free.
After some time, Myra felt herself relax. She didn't lean into Jaime, but she no longer felt the need to bolt upright every time her back bumped into him. It occurred to her that she hadn't ridden with someone behind her for an age, not since her father had first taught her how to hold the reins when she was a child.
Myra knew now that her fears had been silly. Her father would not have hated her for what she did. If anything, he would have hated himself for having not been able to protect her, for being, distantly, to blame for the situation she was in. But at that moment, with all her emotions and the memories still fresh on her mind, she'd been able to think of nothing but. Logic had an uphill battle in times like that.
It was just another thing she was grateful to Jaime for. He wasn't the best man for emotional comfort, but his honesty did far more than he could imagine.
She tried to picture the look on her father's face had he seen her at this very moment…
"You're doing it again," Jaime called from behind her.
"Hmm?"
"You're overthinking something," he continued. "You look at your hands and play with them. I bet you're even biting your lip."
Myra ignored that, straightening her mouth. "I was just…I can't remember my father's face."
"Well, Ned Stark was certainly a dull looking man. I can't imagine many people do."
She elbowed him. Terrible humor may have been Jaime Lannister's backwards way of empathy, but that didn't mean she had to completely tolerate it.
Jaime only chuckled, unapologetic. "Think of a favorite memory. It makes things easier."
The godswood, her first snowfall. She'd chased the flakes around the weirwood for hours, red-faced and breathless, catching as many as she could on her tongue. Her father came searching for her, since her mother was still so wary of the place, and chuckled at the sight of his daughter collapsed on the ground, frantically flailing her arms in the white stuff.
That was the first smile of his she could remember, a proper, toothy grin that showed off the laughing lines on his face. How funny it had looked to her, and she had told him just as much.
It had only made his smile grow.
"Do you have one?" she asked, her voice hollow. Suddenly, seeing her father's face was the last thing she wanted.
"Of my father?" Jaime asked, sounding a little surprised. She felt him shrug. "Fond family memories aren't exactly what Lord Tywin is known for. I'm told he smiled once, but I think Uncle Kevan was making that up."
"What about your mother?"
The silence that followed stretched for an unbearable amount of time.
"She liked to sing."
That was all he said, and Myra did not press him on the matter. She knew Lady Joanna had died some years ago when Tyrion was born, but it was still clearly a sore subject for Jaime. Losing a parent at such a young age, she could not imagine what that would have done to her.
Myra almost turned to look at him, but thought better of it. Some things were better left to what privacy a person was afforded. Still, she could not help but wonder what she would see in those green eyes now.
Late in the afternoon, they came across the burnt wreckage of a galley on the shoreline. It had clearly been there for days, even weeks, and had been picked over by every scavenger imaginable, leaving only the blackened wood skeleton. Myra watched it briefly, listening to wood creak as the waves pushed into the hull.
Behind her, Jaime sighed. "We're the only people looking for the war, and somehow the only ones who can't find it either."
Myra felt her lips twitch. "Well, I've always wanted to visit the Sunset Sea."
Her companion did not think it very funny.
Across the water, Myra spotted a group of buildings. They seemed like rickety little things, ready to fall into the bay if the right storm came through.
"Saltpans," Jaime said, sounding none too happy about it.
She looked back at him, watching as his eyes attempted to burn down the little village all their own. "You know it?"
"I was dragged through most of it."
Myra nodded, remembering how he'd looked when the smallfolk had brought him onto Dragonstone. How long ago had that been? It was so hard to say now.
Fortunately for Jaime, they were on the wrong side of the river, so Saltpans could remain a distant, bad memory. But as they continued along the shoreline, it became clear that this bank was not unoccupied. The trees were beginning to thin, and around the bend, a dock stretched out across the water, with a large, but worn barge tied to it, undoubtedly to ferry passengers to the other shore. River crossings were a rare blessing along the Trident, especially here where the mouth of the river was so wide.
Eventually, a building could be made out between the trees. It stood two stories tall, and was quite large for such an isolated location, having its own stable and a little, weathered sign that swung back and forth in the breeze.
An inn that had thus far escaped the devastation of the war was quite the miracle.
Myra guided the horse up to the building. No one was outside, but there were loud voices coming from within, rowdy conversations over drink. From a partially open window, the smell of bread wafted out to meet them. Her mouth began to water.
"Do you suppose we have enough money?" she asked, longing for the feel of a proper bed, or warm water. Even the thought of a roof over her head almost made her sigh.
"Maybe," Jaime replied, clear longing in his voice as well. "But it would only be for one room."
"Then I certainly hope you like the floor."
Jaime snorted, no doubt some other profane comment on his lips, but before he got the chance to speak, the door slammed open, revealing three men. They wore undistinguished armor and drab leathers, but what drew Myra's attention were the swords at their waists. They were well-crafted things, much finer than someone dressed as they were would possess. These were not bandits or local guardsmen. They were something more.
The three came to a halt, eyes widening at the sight before them.
"It's him," one said, almost in awe.
His reaction time faster, Jaime ripped the reins from her grasp and turned the horse about, putting their backs to the men, or his at least, and leaving them free to flee the area should anything go wrong. Myra felt him reach for his sword.
"No need for that, Ser Jaime!" another called out. He was a tall man with a distinguished face and long, black hair. The apparent leader of the group, he held his hands up calmly, showing them that he meant no harm.
Myra glanced back, seeing Jaime's eyes widen at hearing his name.
"We've come from King's Landing," the man continued. "The queen sent us to find you."
She supposed the bed was comfortable, everything she'd been dreaming of every night when she had to lie on the cold, hard ground, but Myra could not bring herself to care about that now.
Sitting on the edge, she stared at her hands in the faint glow of the candlelight. They were shaking.
What a fool she was.
There was a knock at the door.
"It's me," Jaime called from the other side.
Myra stared at the door for some time, wondering if she shouldn't just keep it closed. Jaime would grow bored eventually and leave her. He'd wander down into the tavern and pick up the conversation with those three men again, the Lannister soldiers who'd been hunting for him for weeks. Apparently there were a dozen similar groups around the Crownlands and the Trident, searching.
Had Robb sent anyone? Were they desperately searching for her too?
She could keep the door closed tomorrow too, and the next day, however long it would take for them to leave her alone, but she knew it would end no better than going with them. At least she stood some chance of survival in King's Landing, over going off on her own.
When she opened the door, Jaime burst inside, a clear spring in his step. And why should he not be excited? He was going home.
"Found some new clothes for you. I think they should fit," he said, tossing some breeches and a thick tunic onto the bed. There was even a new cloak. "If not, you'll still look far less ridiculous than you do now."
He turned back to her then, and Myra believed she was looking at a complete stranger. Jaime had already cleaned up. His hair was still wet and shone in the flickering light, and his beard was gone. He almost looked like the man she knew back in King's Landing, a man she had not necessarily feared, but took some precaution with at the least, and marveled at when he did something unexpected; he had been an enigma then.
But the eyes were different. There was a warmth and familiarity in them that he'd not afforded anyone, her especially. It was what convinced her that she hadn't just stepped into some terrible dream.
"What?" he asked, frowning.
Myra opened her mouth, but found the words unwilling. She shut the door, ignoring the small voice that shouted in the back of her mind; she and Jaime were long past the lines of propriety.
"I'm…glad for you. You get to return to your family, to…" She couldn't bring herself to say the words, but Jaime would realize what she meant. "And I won't. I don't know when I'll see my mother or brothers again. I should have just stayed in Maidenpool."
"Then why didn't you?"
His words weren't harsh; his tone held a long brewing curiosity, probably from the time she'd said she would rather go with him, yet she flinched at them nonetheless. She felt a little ashamed at having not done so, having gone with him instead of taking her chances at seeing home again. There had been a time when she would have readily thrown herself at any opportunity, no matter how slight, to see Robb again, and with that question, she was forced to face what she had done. No matter what way she phrased it, in her heart she knew she had chosen him over her brother, as unintentional as it seemed, and she would have to live with that.
"You saw the place; you smelled it. I couldn't stay there and ignore what was happening, I couldn't…" She took a breath, sick of her own excuses. "I don't know Lord Mooten, Jaime. Is he cruel or kind? Would he treat me well or sell me to the next army that passes by in order to spare his keep?"
She met his eyes. "But I know you."
Silence was what met her, yet the look in Jaime's eyes was unbearably loud. The intensity in them was so much that she had to look away. She felt like a silly little girl again, clinging to fantasies of chivalrous knights. Jaime was not that way, he never claimed to be that way, even if his actions might have proven otherwise. This was not a story she'd read in her books; this was not going to end well.
"I'll watch out for you," he murmured, so softly that Myra thought she might have imagined it.
"What?" she asked, unable to contain the small amount of hope bursting in her chest.
"When we return to King's Landing, I'll make certain no harm comes to you. You may be a…prisoner, but you'll have free rein of the Red Keep. I won't let them put you in another cell."
Myra smiled gently. It was certainly a nice dream.
"Jaime, you're a member of the Kingsguard, and you must do what your king com-"
"Fuck the Kingsguard," he said, cutting her off. He did not raise his voice, but there was something about the tone that demanded her attention. "I've done more than my fair share, and after what I did, Barristan Selmy certainly won't welcome me back with open arms."
She thought to ask, but there were some things about Jaime Lannister that Myra knew she was better off not knowing.
"Jaime-"
"I've sworn quite a lot of vows, and broken most of them," he continued, stepping closer. "But I promise you this, Myra Stark, you'll be safe with me."
Sansa
Dorne. She was going to Dorne.
A thousand thoughts had swum through her head when Syrena had finally told her about the plan. It was mostly silly things: vaguely remembered house sigils from lessons, how the sun would ruin her skin, Arya's stories of Nymeria…
But above it all, a gleeful voice had cried out and silenced the rest.
She was leaving King's Landing.
She was leaving.
A grin had broken out across her face at that thought, the first genuine piece of relief and happiness she had felt in so long. And then Syrena had brought her some clothes. For the time being, she would pose as a new handmaiden to Myrcella, at least until they reached the South. Getting her hands on actual, well-made fabric that neither scratched her skin nor looked like something had died in it finally drove her over the edge.
Sansa had giggled, then she laughed, full and hearty. The feeling was so foreign to her that she found it almost frightening, but then she began to relish it, dancing about the room with the dress in her hands like she was back at one of the tourney feasts. By the time she stopped, there were tears in her eyes.
Of course, when she had settled, the more respectable, cautious thoughts began to probe at her joy.
The first was an obvious one: Dorne was even further from Winterfell than King's Landing. And while it may have been a more pleasant experience than essentially being under Joffrey's boot, Dorne was more or less a desert. Escaping wherever she was headed, if she needed to, would be far more difficult than the rolling hills and forests of the Crownlands.
The other, slightly more unnerving, revelation was that Syrena was from Dorne, which was all the more personal detail the woman had given her. It occurred to her that she might just be a piece being shuffled from one end of the board to the other, to be used to the advantage of someone else.
But after a night of mulling it over, because sleep was not going to come to her no matter how hard she tried, Sansa decided that a pawn she may be, but everything so far was vastly preferable to what she had right now. It was an agreeable situation for everyone involved, and if that ever changed, then she would deal with it.
The wide-eyed girl who had come to King's Landing full of dreams and a false sense of love was no longer here. She would survive no matter what came her way.
She had to.
When dawn broke, Sansa watched the sun rise from the little window of her sad, little home. The day Myra had left had been much like this one, beautiful, perfect, still. It had made Sansa unhappy. She'd wanted it to rain and storm, to keep her sister in the city and to properly reflect how both she and Arya felt about the situation.
How little they knew then. The silence was the storm.
Something was going to happen today.
Dressing in silence, Sansa fought to quell the excitement that was bubbling inside of her. Anything could happen, and the day might very well end with her back here, no better off than she had been before.
Or worse, back in the Red Keep.
Taking a breath, Sansa ignored that particular thought, and took a good look at herself in the water basin. Her silken outfit was red, perfect for a handmaiden to a Lannister. She once thought the color would look terrible with her hair, but it was dark now and seemed to match perfectly.
How much older she looked. Sansa tilted her head this way and that, attempting to find the youthful side of herself again, but try as she might, she thought she just looked old. Well, not old, but certainly far older than she was. Her eyes had dulled, her cheeks had thinned, and her face looked far too natural with that deep frown.
Yet, at that thought, she had to smile a little. She really was her father's daughter.
Sansa left then, not bothering to look back at the place that had been her shelter for so long. What was there to remember?
Syrena met her some blocks away, dressed in heavy clothing. She led her through alleys and other discreet back ways, everything she could to avoid attracting too much attention, but the morning was quiet and lazy. Even those who were up had a sleepy look to their eyes. No one saw them, not truly. No one saw anyone here.
They came to the dock, where a royal barge waited to take Myrcella to the ship. It sat just outside Blackwater Bay now, sails still tied up and masts bare, but Sansa could tell it was a large galley, and fast. They would have to be to avoid Stannis. Perhaps that was also why it flew the Martell sigil instead.
Aside from the rowers, who were busy fidgeting with the ropes and oars, one man stood at the docks. She did not need to see his face; she had known he would be there.
Sandor Clegane did not turn to face them, but it was clear that he was aware of their presence. His shoulders shifted ever so slightly and his feet parted a little more. He certainly wasn't going to be caught off guard this time.
Syrena eyed him warily, stepping between them as they came to a halt. Sansa caught the glint of a dagger in her hand.
"I'm not here for you," the Hound mumbled, side-eying Syrena. "So you can fuck off."
The handmaiden looked ready to say something, but Sansa cut her off, grabbing her hand gently. Taking the hint, Syrena backed away. Though she was out of sight, Sansa imagined she wasn't actually far.
"How did you know?" Sansa asked, not turning to the towering man beside her. She knew he wasn't looking at her; she'd feel it.
"I guessed."
"It was a good guess."
"Not really."
They stood in silence, with only the roll of the waves to break the calm that had settled. A fisherman yelled in the distance; a dog barked. The breeze picked up and gently blew her skirts.
"You still planning on going through with this?" he asked eventually, eyes still focused on the little boat.
"Yes."
"It's a stupid plan."
"Probably."
"And another cage."
"I know."
The Hound finally looked at her, eyes as intense as they ever were. He was someone she could not read. Or perhaps she just did not wish to. There were some things that she did not need to know.
His eyes flicked up, catching sight of something.
"Alright, wolf, time to go."
Sansa could not say if he was mocking her or not.
Syrena returned to her side, leading her toward the boat. "Just stay calm and they will never know. No one is looking for you here."
Nodding, Sansa let the Hound help her into the boat.
"May I ask why?"
"You can," was his gruff reply.
But you won't answer, Sansa thought. Of course he would not. His sad little tales were for when he was far too drunk to care. She wondered if he would be drunk tonight.
The royal caravan arrived not long after.
Sansa watched them from the boat, partially hidden by the curtains of the canopy. Despite Syrena's words, she could feel the fear rising within her. What if they did recognize her? The Hound had, and she had spent far less time with him than Joffrey or Cersei. Surely they would know. They had been searching for so long after all.
But when Joffrey stepped out of his litter, the fear disappeared. Sansa felt an anger grow within her. She gripped the canopy tightly, wishing now that she were no longer on the boat; she could get close to him, walk right up to him without any suspicion.
She could kill him.
"Careful, girl," the Hound warned, stepping away. "A wolf's no match for a group of lions."
Sansa felt her breath release. He was right of course. Someone was always right. Just never her.
But one day, she thought. One day she would look down on his corpse and she would smile.
The barge rocked as a man entered. He was dressed as one of the Kingsguard, and though the helmet obscured his face, Sansa realized she knew the man. He was Ser Arys Oakheart, one of the younger, and kinder, members. She'd been escorted by him once or twice, and had found him charming in his own way. Unlike the others, he had always actively tried to converse with her.
As he nodded at her, however, Sansa realized that he had no idea who she was. She could have picked him out of a crowd, but here, alone and face-to-face, Ser Arys did not recognize her.
She was not certain if that was a testament to how much she had changed or how little he had cared.
"My lady," he said with a nod, his voice courteous, as it has always been.
"Ser Arys," she replied.
"Ah, I see you know me." Ser Arys smiled. If only he knew how foolish he seemed to her just now. "I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage."
"Alayne, Ser Arys," Sansa said, thinking fast. She thought she had heard the name somewhere once. "Just Alayne."
He nodded again, and was silent thereafter.
Myrcella boarded not long after. She was quiet, clearly shaken, but she did not cry. Despite herself, Sansa felt a little proud of the girl. Not so long ago, that had been her, but they had both been proper ladies and did as they were told.
Besides, she thought. No one should cry for Joffrey.
The boat began to depart, rocking unsteadily in the shallow waters. Sansa watched the shoreline, locking eyes with both Cersei and Joffrey more than once, but she knew they were not looking at her. Neither of them could see her. She truly was no one now.
With that thought, she gave King's Landing one last smile.
Jaime
He'd left Myra to clean herself up and returned downstairs, his mind swimming. The barkeep seemed to notice his state and pushed a tankard in front of him as soon as he settled in a chair. He drank the ale so quickly that he nearly choked, never mind that it tasted like piss; he needed something to calm the thoughts swarming him.
What had he just done?
Of course, he knew what he did. He'd spoken the damn words as readily as any other vow he had taken, only there were no witnesses this time, the White Bull wasn't there to fasten a pretty little cloak on his back. Just a solemn little Northern girl whose eyes had grown so wide, he'd thought they'd never close again.
And the smile she'd given him after that…
Cersei was going to kill him.
Jaime motioned to the barkeep, getting his empty tankard replaced. He'd made it halfway through when the soldiers from earlier sat at his table.
"Now that's the Ser Jaime I remember," the leader, Jaron, commented. He, too, got the barkeep's attention. A serving wench returned some time later with full tankards of ale for the three. "Look just like you did at the tourney."
"Minus the helmet," snickered the ginger soldier, Garrel or something. The third man, bald with a thick, blonde beard, clearly the largest in the group, shook his head. He couldn't recall that one's name.
Jaime put his ale down, leveling a hard glare at the impudent soldier. "Let me make this clear. You may be helping me, but that neither makes us comrades nor equals. Speak of me like that again and I'll beat your brains out with my drink."
Now the bald one was laughing.
Jaron, the mediator as well, shoved an ale in Garrel's direction, and took control of the conversation again. "I have to say, Ser Jaime, we weren't expecting to find you all the way out here. The boys and I were going to cross the river come morning and make our way back east. Seems you got lucky."
Jaime only nodded, keeping his gaze on the ginger. The boy refused to look up from his drink.
"Tell us, how did you escape Dragonstone?"
I need you to trust me.
I do.
He took another drink. "We jumped off a cliff."
Eyes widened around the table, but no one commented any further on that.
Putting the ale down, Jaime leaned forward on the table. His personal conflicts could wait until later. There were things he needed to know.
"What is happening in King's Landing? Has Stannis attacked?"
Jaron shook his head. "Last we heard, he was still cleaning up the mess he made in the Stormlands. Renly was killed by one of his own men and his armies scattered. But he could arrive any day now. Lord Tyrion has been planning a defense."
Gods knew he was relieved to hear Tyrion was alive. There'd been no word since that day in the Vale, but still, this was the last thing he expected to hear about his little brother. Planning a defense? Was there really no one else in that bloody keep?
"What does my brother have to do with anything?"
"He's Hand of the King," the bald one replied.
Seven hells, this day was something else.
"What about my father? Lord Tywin could throw Stannis back into the Blackwater with his eyes closed."
"That he could, Ser Jaime," Jaron agreed. "But Robb Stark's been giving him some trouble."
The bald one nodded. "He's won every battle against your lord father."
Jaime finished the second tankard.
Tywin Lannister was one of the few constants in his life, this immovable object who managed to command the entirety of Westeros without ever being crowned king. It didn't matter whose ass sat on the Iron Throne. Everyone knew where the power truly belonged. The thought of him losing anything was something that did not quite connect with him; the last time had been when his fleets had burned at Lannisport, but even sleeping lions were prone to surprise attacks. But actual, orchestrated battles? No, Lord Tywin did not lose those.
Until now.
Was that Myra laughing in the back of his mind?
He needed another ale.
"Not that it matters now," Garrel grumbled, eyes stuck to the bottom of his drink.
"What does that mean?" Jaime asked, accepting another tankard.
Jaron smirked. "They call him the King Who Lost the North now. That Greyjoy he's so fond of took Winterfell with his father's men. Killed the Stark boys while he was at it."
If he continued speaking, Jaime did not hear it. The room had become overwhelmingly silent to him, despite the robust conversations that surrounded them, the shouting of wenches assaulted by the men they served, and the crackle of the fire just behind him. No, nothing made its way to him, only the sound of his breathing and the sudden gasp of a small boy pushed from a window.
Unwittingly, his eyes shifted to the stairwell.
He didn't want to tell her. Gods knew the past few months had been one terrible thing right after the other. A few days of blissful ignorance was something she could use, something they both could have used, but Jaime had no doubt that word would get out eventually. One of these men seated with him would say something, whether unintentionally or because they wanted to see another Stark suffer. After all, they were under no obligation to her. She would learn the truth, and he preferred that it not be in so callous a way.
So, it had to be him.
At which point, he doubted he would ever see that smile of hers again.
Suddenly, it seemed so easy to understand Ned Stark.
Blinking, Jaime found three sets of eyes on him. He ran a hand over his face, pushing his drink away.
"Are you alright, Ser Jaime?" Jaron asked.
"It's been a long journey," he sighed, wondering why he was bothering to make an excuse. It was hardly his concern what they thought. "I'm not used to such accommodations, or conversations for that matter."
"S'pose the girl wouldn't be good for much," Garrel snorted.
Jaime tilted his head, feeling his hand clench. "Need I remind you that 'the girl' is Myra Stark? Enemy or not, she is a lady of a noble house, and thus worth far more than your little life."
Cersei couldn't have sent quiet soldiers, could she? He thought discretion was a favored trait, but perhaps the war had made them all desperate.
"Is that why you're still with her?" Jaron asked, drawing attention away from his idiot counterpart again. "Cause she's worth something?"
"Well, I couldn't very well leave her. It'd be in poor taste."
He could see the wheels turning in their heads. The thought of the Kingslayer caring about how anything happened appeared to be too much for their little minds. Of course they would have expected him to dump her the instant he was able. Perhaps he would have, once. It was hard to say. Quite a lot had changed since Winterfell. Too much.
The bald one mumbled something about taking a piss. He watched the man lumber away through the crowded area. A few locals watched him warily, but no one made a move. Drunk, armed men were something no one wanted to deal with now.
The other two continued chatting, a little too friendly for Jaime's liking, but he dealt with it. He supposed he owed these men something, though he wasn't entirely certain how only three more soldiers were supposed to improve his chances.
"How do you plan on getting us back to King's Landing?" Jaime asked after some time.
Jaron was quiet a moment, considering. "I'm afraid we can't beat Stannis back, but we're still ahead of the Stark forces. Your father's taken most of the Kingsroad, so with well-rested horses, the four of us should make good time without much interference. Not many locals want to deal with the Kingsl-"
"Five," Jaime interrupted.
"Ser?"
"You said 'the four of us.' There are five of us."
The man blinked then nodded. "Of course, Ser Jaime. The lady is so quiet, I forget about her. The queen will be happy to have a Stark back in King's Landing."
That wasn't the word he would use for it.
Jaime often wondered how Cersei would react to seeing him again. With Robert gone, there would be little to worry about, not that they were ever too concerned with him to begin with. The king wanted as little to do with her as possible, which was one thing the two could agree upon at least.
He imagined she would make him wait. She always did, as much as it hurt both of them; she would come when he least expected her, naked and beautiful, his perfect other half. She would straddle him and tease, resisting his efforts because it pleased her. And she would whisper to him…
It won't be enough.
The men hadn't moved, though Jaime could have sworn he jumped. He shook his head, clearing the strange words from his mind as he stood.
"I think your friend had the right idea," he said, excusing himself from the table. He wandered through the room, ignoring the strange looks he received and the curious whispers. That was something he certainly hadn't missed.
Stepping outside, Jaime took a deep breath. Night had fallen and the air was bitter cold. He could see his breath. Had fall arrived, he wondered? It seemed appropriate given everything else that had happened.
He wandered around to the back of the building, preferring not to present himself to anyone else who might arrive at the inn. Piles of logs made a sort of fencing against the woods, some half rotting, and a little boy watched him briefly before disappearing back inside through another door. The night was strangely quiet, even with the low hum of the people inside.
A little too quiet, if he was being honest with himself.
Jaime figured he was being paranoid, weeks on the run would do that to a person, but he could not help but feel that something was off.
"Are you out here?" he called out, suddenly wishing that he'd been paying more attention when the men had introduced themselves. "The bald one. I can't remember your name. Sorry about that."
He was met with silence.
Straining his eyes, Jaime wandered around the darkness for some time. He searched around the building and even near the stables, where their horse gave a soft whinny at his approach, but there was no sign of him.
No one was outside.
Something cold made its way up his spine.
The four of us.
Four.
He ran.
The front entrance was too crowded and would attract attention, so Jaime ran through the door at the back of the inn. He ignored the shouting of the kitchen wench and went straight to the stairs, taking them three at a time. The servant's stairs led straight to where he wanted to be: the washroom.
Throwing the door open, Jaime was met with a yelp and the sloshing of water.
Myra's wide eyes were peering at him from over the lip of the washtub as her hand frantically grasped for a towel that would never be within her reach if she wanted to keep her modesty intact.
He sighed, shutting the door.
"Jaime fucking Lannister, what in the seven he-"
Putting his hand on her mouth, Jaime cut off whatever other expletives she would have thrown at him. Some part of him, deep down, was no doubt entertained, but they did not have time for that right now.
"Listen to me, I'm not here to hurt you," he whispered, grabbing her hand as it tried to fight him, ignoring the fear in her gaze. Of course she was afraid. She was naked and here he was holding her down. No amount of vows were going to make this any less awkward. "I need you to get dressed and go out the back door. Ready two horses and wait for me. Do you understand?"
He continued to hold her mouth, afraid that she would scream the instant he moved his fingers. Slowly, her breathing steadied and the fear lessened in her eyes, though only slightly. She still trembled under his touch.
"Do you understand?" he repeated.
She nodded.
Turning, he left the room again without another word and made his way down the hallway, drawing his sword. Her room was at the far end, closest to the other stairs. Below, the patrons had begun to drunkenly sing The Bear and the Maiden Fair. It was fortunate. No one would hear what was about to happen.
Jaime kicked the door.
The thing opened maybe halfway before slamming into the body that stood behind it, knocking them down onto the floor. As he thought, it was the bald soldier who'd excused himself. It angered him, the thought that he'd just let the man go without considering even for a second that something might go wrong. He'd have attacked her and Jaime would have known no better until it was far too late.
Seeing who it was, the bald man stopped himself from fighting back. He stood, looking guilty like some little child who'd been caught stealing scraps from the kitchen rather than a man about to butcher an innocent woman.
"Ser Jaime, I-"
"You know, I spilled the guts of the last man who wanted to harm her," he said, entering the room. Jaime held the sword up, drawing a line across the man's stomach. "Actually, the very last one she killed herself. I wasn't fast enough, but this time…"
"It's just orders, Ser, I-"
"Orders," Jaime mumbled, seeing the state of the man's trousers. He gripped the hilt tighter. "Tell me, were you to violate her before or after you killed her, or did it not matter? I suppose it doesn't. A warm body is all the same to you, and she's a very pretty one."
"She's just a Stark."
"Yes, she is."
When Jaime swung his sword, there was enough power behind it to remove the man's head from his shoulders.
Downstairs, men cheered as they finished the song.
He grabbed the man's dagger from his belt and moved toward the stairs.
No one noticed him quite at first. They were all shouting in revelry, acting as if the war had already been won. Garrel was attempting to start a round of The Rains of Castamere. His tune changed quickly when Jaime shoved his sword through his back. The boy gurgled and collapsed to the floor as every eye in the building looked to him.
Jaime did not hesitate. He grabbed Jaron by the neck and slammed him face first into the table, before taking the dagger and stabbing it into one of his outstretched hands.
The man screamed, flailing as they all did when experiencing true pain for the first time.
All around him, men began to react. Some started to draw their own weapons while others began to back away, not in the mood to be drawn into another conflict. Still, some looked to be debating if they wanted to do anything at all.
"My name is Jaime Lannister, and if any of you bastards intervenes, then I'll see to it that every last one of you is hunted down," he growled, eying the crowd. "Go back to your drinks. I won't be long."
Jaime leaned over, mouth close to Jaron's ear.
"Who sent you?" he hissed. "Was it Stannis or some other cunt who's named himself king recently?"
"What are you-"
He twisted the knife.
The man screamed.
Behind them, someone began to retch.
"You're not the one asking questions here. Who sent you?"
"It was the queen, Ser Jaime. We were sent by the queen!"
Jaime removed the knife, only to stab him in a new place. He cried out again, panting as he watched the blood pool out from his hand.
"Stop lying to me!"
"I'm not, I swear!" Jaron screamed, his voice cracking. "Queen Cersei gave us all the order! We were to bring you back and only you! If we found Myra Stark, we were supposed to kill her!"
"My sister wouldn't order that. She can't afford to lose another Stark."
"I don't know why she did it!" he cried.
It won't be enough, Cersei whispered to him, the last time he saw her. Find the girl and take her. Let the Starks know that no matter what they do, they cannot protect the ones they love.
Jaime stilled, remembering. Of course Cersei had given this order. She'd hated the girl from the moment Robert laid eyes on her, and even more so after he had saved her.
Cersei had always wanted her dead.
And he had not bothered to care.
"Please…I told you everything. Please, let me go," Jaron begged.
Jaime looked around at the men watching him, pulling the dagger out of Jaron's hand. The man sat in his chair, taking one solid breath of relief before Jaime slit his throat open. Men murmured, some whispering 'Kingslayer,' and a serving wench fainted, but still no one made a move against him. He wiped the dagger on Jaron's shirt and pulled his sword out of Garrel.
"Take their coin. Bury them in the back, toss them in the river, burn them. It doesn't matter. No one is going to come looking for them," Jaime murmured, tossing his own coin purse onto the table before walking toward the door. The crowd that stood in front of it parted silently, their mouths gaping like fools.
Myra was waiting for him outside. She had taken the plow horse for herself, and sat astride it now, having saddled a gray stallion for him. Her hair, still wet, was shining in the moonlight, and her breath came out in short puffs.
In her hand, she held the dagger he'd given her.
He mounted his horse, taking the reins when she offered them.
"Jaime?"
He didn't say anything.
"Jaime, what happened? What did those men do?" she pressed.
"We can't go back to King's Landing," he murmured.
Myra blinked, her mouth dropping open much like everyone else's.
"Why not?"
He did not speak for a while, and refused to meet her eyes when he finally did.
"Because I made a promise."
.
.
.
.
Teehee
Questions:
From Guest: How canon this story will be? Will you continue it till s8?
Well, I have changed quite a bit so far. Obviously, for characters such as Jaime and Sansa, their canon is all over the place, but others will be fairly the same, such as Jon or Daenerys. I do plan on going to the very end, and have a relative idea of what I'm doing up to season six. As for seven and eight, that is all going to be dependent on how the show ends. Chances are that I'm going to drastically change the outcome of the ending, so as the story progresses, it will start to branch off more and more.
