We have hit 900 reviews! And 120 for the last chapter alone! Do I need to keep rambling? I'm crying all over my keyboard right now. I love you guys so much! It is so wonderful that this story has touched so many people. Makes me so happy to see that this story that holds a special place in my heart has found people who love it. I'm honestly overwhelmed. Thank you.

So, shoutout to MimikoFlamemaker for writing the longest review I have ever seen, to everyone who has embraced the Jamyra vibe, and the strange amount of you referring to Jaime as 'woke.' A surprise, to be sure, but a welcome one. Also to reviewer Beelzebub who is keeping the 'selling my soul' story alive. Glad you love the story. Tell me, is hell just hot or is there humidity too?

Edit: Oh, and to katie! I accept full responsibility for your conversion. I may also quote it for the rest of my life. Thank you.

Oh, and quick note: I will be on vacation next week, specifically on a road trip which doesn't allow for much writing, so the next update may be later. Just thought you should know.


Chapter Twenty-Five
The Changes

Oberyn

To underestimate one's opponent was perhaps one of the greatest sins a man could commit. Not only was it a grievous offense to the skill of one's adversary, it was also an affront to one's own. Such presumption of one's abilities begged for recompense, and there was not much Oberyn enjoyed more than watching his brother collect that particular payment.

Prince Doran Martell was not about to best a man in ritual combat, and somehow that led many lords and ladies to believe that they could match him in a duel with words. Oberyn was not sure why. Even before the gout had cost him the use of his legs, his brother had always been considered the intelligent one, but perhaps that was because he took his time to think things through rather than charge headfirst into dangerous situations. That was not the Dornish way. Really, not much of what Doran did was considered the Dornish way, but if Oberyn heard anyone utter those words aloud, they'd soon find his spear in their chest.

Ah, was that why he was not allowed to be armed in the Water Gardens? Funny he did not think of that sooner.

Smirking, Oberyn watched the back of the latest diplomat depart the room. He was from some minor lord to the west, negotiating about taxes like they all did this time of year. The fool thought to take Doran's silence as some form of weakness, and paid the price dearly.

While his brother was not as quick to anger as himself, Oberyn knew from experience that his ire was to be feared nonetheless. His brother had this strange ability to shake the very foundations of Sunspear with a look.

"Does this truly not bore you?" Doran asked, looking over his shoulder. Oberyn had taken up residence at a writing desk behind his brother, so that he would not disturb him while the negotiations took place, but was still within view of the visitors. He wanted to make sure they knew what the Red Viper thought of them as they spoke their colorful words; he liked to think his brother tolerated his presence because of his persuasive demeanor.

Oberyn took a sip of wine, carefully replacing the goblet on the desk well within his brother's line of sight. He always used to chastise him over placing drinks near his papers. Of course he'd been right to do so – the number of letters he had ruined over the years was innumerable – but even at his age, it was his duty as the younger brother to get under Doran's skin in whatever way he could.

"You ask me that every year."

"And I have yet to receive an answer."

He chuckled softly, standing. "Brother, I think the fact that I am here every year should more than suffice as an answer."

Doran shook his head, an image he was more than familiar with. "Sometimes I wonder about you."

Oberyn crossed the room, taking a seat in the couch nearest his brother. "Only sometimes? It seems I have begun to slip in my old age."

His brother snorted. "Try to remember you're my younger brother before you go making claims about your age."

The two shared a comfortable silence as they awaited the next diplomat. Oberyn glanced around the room, taking everything in. In his youth, he'd never paid it much attention. When their family had come to the Water Gardens, he had played with Elia in the lavish pools outside while their father educated Doran in the ways of ruling. There was still a chipped tile on the eastern wall from the one time he had been left to his own devices. That had been the first time he had picked up a spear. Not a week later, he was sent away to foster at House Qorgyle.

Even then, it had been clear to his father was sort of man his youngest was going to be.

Two servants entered the room shortly after, accompanied by Areo Hotah, whom Oberyn was certain had given the diplomat a warm Dornish farewell. The guard took up his position silently behind Doran, as one servant delivered his brother a missive, while the other replenished the fruit bowls on the tables between them.

Oberyn looked the man up and down, remembering his dusty hair and pale eyes. Yes, he had been Ellaria's suggestion, and she was rarely wrong in these matters. That had been a particularly fun evening.

He winked at the servant and received a meek smile in return. Oberyn watched him walk back out, wondering if he shouldn't change his plans for the afternoon.

When he was out of sight, Oberyn turned back to find his brother staring at him.

"Tell me," Doran started, opening his letter. "Just how well acquainted are you with the servants here?"

Oberyn smiled. "Don't ask questions you don't want to know the answers to, Brother."

The light-hearted air did not last as Doran began to read the contents of the letter sent to him. To the unfamiliar, hardly anything had changed in the lord's appearance, but Oberyn knew his brother. He saw the calm nature practically melt away, revealing the raging Dornishman beneath. His hands gripped the paper tightly and began to shake, and it was a wonder to him that the building did not do the very same.

Areo noticed the change as well, and eased closer to his brother.

"What is it?" Oberyn asked, sitting up in his seat.

The look on Doran's face had him wondering if he hadn't killed or slept with the wrong person lately.

"Your daughter has done something foolish."

Oberyn almost laughed. "You're going to have to be more specific."

"Syrena."

Ah, that one. Like his daughter Sarella, Syrena had not been content to remain within Dorne. While Sarella longed to learn about the world around her, Syrena wanted to serve. She listened to speak of treatises, trade routes, and other political machinations that would have put her sisters to sleep with a fervor matched only by her uncle. His brother claimed to love each of his nieces equally, but Oberyn knew that Syrena had been his favorite.

Until now, it seemed.

"That seems unlike her," Oberyn said cautiously, testing the waters. He did not want to become collateral damage to his brother's anger any time soon.

Rather than reply, Doran shoved the letter in his direction.

Oberyn gently took the paper, reading carefully. The words were in Valyrian, of course, and coded, but he knew how to decipher the script. It was the same he had used all those years ago when he had traveled to Essos on behalf of Doran.

Glancing at his brother, he waited for a single nod before walking toward the fireplace. The days were still warm, but night was beginning to sweep in faster than before, and had become harsher as of late, so the servants lit the fires early. Oberyn tossed the paper into the flames, wishing he could banish what they contained so easily.

Sansa Stark was coming to Dorne.

It was bad enough that they were to play host to the Princess Myrcella. Oberyn had argued with his brother long and hard on marrying a Lannister into the family, a Lannister through and through according to Stannis Baratheon's words. After all their work, it seemed a slap in the face, but Doran assured him it would fit well into their plans.

But a Stark certainly would not.

"I could intercept them," Oberyn murmured as he watched the letter curl in the fire. "Sail out tonight and send her back before anyone knows."

"Send her back to the Lannisters?" Doran asked. "I did not think you so cruel, little brother."

Oberyn felt his fists clench. He knew what his brother was doing, though he did not know why. Surely he must have agreed with him.

"Then I'll take her to Essos, put her up in a house somewhere. I still have friends in the East." He turned around, facing his brother, who suddenly looked far less angry than he should have. "If we bring her here, we are inviting war to Dorne."

Doran had the audacity to actually smirk. "The Red Viper not welcoming war? We live in strange times indeed."

Oberyn sighed, feeling like a mocked child. "Brother."

The Lord of Sunspear was quiet a moment, watching as the sun set behind the distant palm trees.

"It was Lord Tyrion who offered his niece's hand. If her party has encountered no obstacles, then I fear he already knows who travels with her," Doran mused, looking back to him. "It may already be too late to avoid this."


Sansa

Emptiness greeted her when she woke that morning. It stretched from horizon to horizon, much like the seascape that rested behind her. She had never thought a place could look so desolate, with miles of little more than rock and patches of desert grass. Some thought the North was an empty place, but at least it was green. Here, nothing appeared to be alive, save for a lone gull that cawed overhead before it dived into the sea.

Sansa thought she could make out structures in the distance, but the early morning haze obscured the view. The sun could not have been up for longer than an hour, but already the air was warm, the stiff breeze off the coast making it thick and difficult to breathe.

So this was the price of freedom.

They must have made port in the dead of night, but no one on the ship had dared to bother the princess. Now that she had risen to grab a bit of breakfast and clean water for Myrcella, several pairs of eyes landed on her, expectant. Ser Arys gave her an apologetic smile as she turned to go right back down the stairs.

Myrcella's cabin was the only one on the ship, but the princess had allowed her to stay through the journey. Although she had not cried when she left King's Landing, her days since had been filled with tears. Sleep had not come easy to her and Sansa had found herself sitting up late through the night, running her hands through her soft, blonde curls. No one deserved to be alone while they suffered.

She certainly hadn't.

Sansa sat on the edge of the bed, watching the princess briefly before gently shaking her shoulder. When her green eyes finally opened, they glanced around the cabin in confusion before remembering.

"We're here," Sansa said softly, smiling. She stood then, moving over to the large clothing trunk near her bed. "I was thinking you could wear the red dress we looked at yesterday. It compliments your skin tone."

And your Lannister heritage.

When Myrcella did not respond, Sansa turned back to her. She sat on the bed, her knees tucked in and eyes full of fright.

"I don't want to go."

Sansa sighed, taking the dress in her arms before kneeling in front of the girl. "I know you're scared, but try to think of it as an adventure. New places, new sights. I hear we are going to the Water Gardens, and that it is one of the most beautiful places in Westeros."

She tried to sound enthusiastic, but the words felt hollow to her. Still, it seemed to breathe some life into Myrcella, who nodded and began to dress with her help.

For how well-thought Syrena's escape plan had been, the handmaiden had forgotten a thing or two, such as the fact that Sansa had no idea how to play the part of a handmaiden. She knew how to order them around and had a vague idea of what they did, but Sansa had never asked any further than that. She was the lady of a noble house, after all, the daughter of the Warden of the North, even being a lady-in-waiting seemed beneath her.

Fortunately, Myrcella had been a little too distraught to care for her discrepancies, and life on the ship was an adjustment for everyone, including Ser Arys, who had inelegantly lost the contents of his stomach over the railing on several occasions.

When they finally emerged, arm in arm, Ser Arys escorted them off the ship, a skip practically in his step, and onto the dock. A litter waited for Myrcella there, and two dozen guards had been sent to escort them, dressed in yellow cloths. Some wore light leather armor, but for the most part their clothing was lightweight, a relief in the harsh sunlight of Dorne. In comparison, Ser Arys in his full Kingsguard armor looked ready to pass out at any moment.

One man rode up to them, two rider-less horses beside him. His face and head were uncovered, unlike the other men, and he was dressed as someone of importance. His skin was tan, dark hair short, and his nose had a slight hook to it. He was handsome, Sansa decided, and he carried the air of a man who knew that.

He dismounted, allowing one of the guards to hold his horse steady, and held his arms open wide.

"Princess Myrcella! Welcome to Dorne!" he shouted, bowing with a grand, sweeping gesture. Myrcella giggled, and even Sansa had to smile at the antics. "I am Prince Oberyn Martell. My brother, Doran, regrets that he cannot meet you here, but disease has taken the use of his legs. However, he looks forward to speaking to you once we arrive at the Water Gardens, as does my nephew, Trystane. I certainly hope you like the game, Cyvasse. It is all he has been playing as of late."

"I've never heard of it," Myrcella replied quietly, though her eyes were lit with curiosity.

"No? Well, you will soon enough," Oberyn spoke, looking down on her with a smile. "Between you and I, I'm no good at the game. It requires smarts, and no one has ever accused me of having those."

Myrcella giggled again as she allowed Oberyn to help her into the litter.

"And welcome to you, Ser Arys," the prince continued, looking the man up and down. "Your reputation precedes you. I hope you find my home to your liking."

"It could do with a few more clouds," Arys commented with a smile, tugging lightly at his armor.

"Ah, but that is the beauty of Dorne. Boys arrive and men leave, although you might not make it that far in your armor. We can have you fitted with something more beneficial when we get to the Gardens." Oberyn turned his gaze to her, and Sansa thought his dark eyes were seeing into her soul. "And you, my lady…"

He whistled. Another guard ran up to him with some fabric in hand, the same yellow color that all the others wore. Without another word, Oberyn began to wrap the cloth around her head, circling it around with practiced ease, leaving excess to hang down in case she wished to cover her face against the wind.

"Skin as pale as your does not fair well in lands such as these," the prince whispered. "But you, too, will become stronger for it."

She hoped not all Dornish people were as cryptic as the two she knew.

Oberyn stepped back then, gesturing to the horses. "Shall we?"

Ser Arys helped her into the saddle before mounting his own horse. The caravan started off then, though at a slow pace. Aside from Oberyn, Ser Arys, and herself, no one else was on horseback. A dozen soldiers walked in front of the litter while a dozen took to the rear. Ser Arys rode beside the litter, engaging Myrcella in conversation through the curtain while Sansa lingered behind, watching.

She hadn't noticed Oberyn was still beside her until his hand took hold of her reins, bringing her horse to a stop. The soldiers continued walking, purposely ignorant.

"Wait a moment," he said, his voice deeper. Gone was the jubilant personality that greeted them, replaced by a more serious persona. It worried her.

"I should remain by the princess," Sansa said quickly, attempting to regain control of her horse. "Please remove your hand, my lord."

Oberyn looked down at her, the smile on his face wicked. "Handmaidens should know better than the question the orders of a prince. It is a wonder that you've made it this far, Sansa Stark."

Her heart dropped, but Sansa kept herself composed. She ceased fidgeting with the reins, waiting for the caravan to pass them by. When they were finally the last to leave, and some thirty feet behind, Oberyn let go and allowed them to move forward once more.

"I will tell you this now so that there is no mistaking it later: you are not a welcomed guest here, Sansa," Oberyn said, keeping his gaze resolutely forward. The structures in the distance were coming more into focus, with palm trees and buildings so strangely designed, she thought they might have been on another continent altogether. "I offered to take you elsewhere, to save our house from the damage your presence would cause."

Sansa gulped, feeling her courage fail. "I do not mean to put your family in any danger."

"And I'm certain your father did not mean to lose his head, but he is dead nonetheless," Oberyn replied, his dark eyes remorseless. "What people mean to happen and what actually happens are two distinct things, which is a fact both you and my daughter are ignorant to, it seems."

"Syrena is your daughter?" Sansa asked, though she felt a little silly doing so. After everything he had told her, that was all she could say?

"She is," was his curt reply.

They were quiet after that, continuing to follow the caravan. Sansa was actively fighting off the urge to just take the horse and ride far away, knowing full well that there was nowhere for her to run to. She had no water, no supplies, and no idea where she was. The Hound was right, it was a cage, but she hadn't expected it to be this much smaller.

"Where will you take me?" she asked quietly, unable to look up at him. Her life was very much in the hands of people she did not know, but how well had she known Syrena? It seemed that she just kept running from one unknown to another, thinking she was smart in doing so, but she was still a foolish girl.

Oberyn sighed, and she got the distinct feeling he was looking at her.

"You will remain here," he admitted reluctantly. "My brother has commanded it. It seems sending you away is more dangerous than not. You will remain in service to Princess Myrcella and keep up this little ruse my daughter has started. Whatever fate has in store for you, Sansa Stark, it appears to be the same for Dorne."

Sansa frowned at that.

Since when had fate ever been kind to her?


Jaime

The last night his father was the Hand, he had been forced to guard the Mad King.

He stood outside, vigilant, as any good member of the Kingsguard ought to be. Both Ser Gerold Hightower and Ser Barristan Selmy had offered to take up his guard, in order to allow him to be with his family before they returned to Casterly Rock, but King Aerys had insisted that it be him, and who were they to disobey the king?

More than once, he had considered walking away. No one ever came down these passages in the dead of night; no one wanted to hear the noises that filtered through the door as the king had his way with his wife, as he shouted of fire and other crazy ideas. It would be hours until his relief came. They would all be none the wiser.

And yet he remained, staring resolutely at the wall across from him. Sometimes he saw his father, glaring at him, the perfect image of furious disappointment; sometimes he saw the White Bull, holding the cloak that had now chained him to the whims of a madman, and taken away everything he had ever wanted.

Mostly he saw her.

It had been years since they'd seen one another. She had developed from girl to woman, far more beautiful than his imagination could conjure, with her fair, golden hair and emerald eyes. He had thought she was a dream, but then she had touched him, hugged him, and welcomed him back, and Jaime knew then that he was lost to her.

Fortunately, his desires had not been one-sided. What they had felt as children had blossomed into something more, culminating in a night of passion that had left him breathless. He would have given her everything to remain in her arms, and he had.

Now this was the cost.

Jaime blinked, wondering if he hadn't fallen asleep and his dreams taken shape because Cersei stood before him now, dressed in a servant's garb, her hair barely covered by a dark hood.

"Cer-"

His sister rushed forward, placing a hand on his mouth, only to remove it instantly and replace it with her lips. She tasted of honey.

"Father is being a fool," Cersei said when she broke away from him, though his hands remained firmly planted on her hips. "Giving up the most powerful position in the kingdom, and for what? A slight? No man would dare to call him on it, not even the king, not openly. He fears Father more than anything."

"Then don't go," Jaime whispered. "Stay with me, just as we planned."

"The plan was to have Father stay here as well," Cersei countered. "What use is King's Landing now? I'm not the princess; I'm not the daughter of the Hand. I'm nothing."

"You're everything."

Her smile made him feel like a simpleton, as if his grasp on the world were that of a child's. "What you think doesn't matter."

He grabbed her arm as she tried to leave, dragging her back. "You said we'd never be apart again."

Suddenly, Cersei was older, though no less beautiful. She looked as she did now, a woman grown, a mother, a queen, fierce and elegant. Now she held his arm tightly, angry.

"You were never supposed to leave me again."


He startled awake, hand instantly on his sword hilt, ready to attack anything that moved, but in the quiet of the night, there was only the soft crackle of a low fire, and her.

Gray eyes watched him, nearly black in this light. Her mouth popped open briefly, as if she were about to speak, but appeared to think better of it and shut again. Part of him wanted her to go ahead and talk, to just babble on about some mundane topic like most women at court were prone to, if only to distract him from the thoughts that had been assaulting his mind all throughout the day and night. But this was Myra Stark, not only was that not in her character, but she also had an irritating tendency at guessing what was going on in his mind, and had deemed it necessary to remain silent lest he lash out at her over it.

Jaime ran a hand over his face, attempting to rid his mind of the dream, but it did not matter. Even when he was awake, Cersei was there. She had been on the beach before them when they had ridden away, sat in the saddle of his horse when they had dismounted, even Myra's eyes had turned a vicious green whenever he looked back to her. His sister was always there, demanding penance.

You were never supposed to leave me again.

They always left one another. It was their lot in life.

He'd had a choice, though, hadn't he? Cersei was within his grasp, as was Tyrion. He could have been on his way back to King's Landing at this very moment.

But the price was too high.

Jaime chanced a glance at Myra again. She was no longer watching him. Her attention was focused on their small fire as she poked it gently with a stick, watching the embers fall between the dried wood and kindling.

He once said he would burn everything that stood between him and Cersei. Now the only obstacle was a young woman and a few words he had spoken to her, and for that, his hand was stayed, for her he had turned his back on everything.

As with everything, it had come second nature. In his mind's eye, he had pictured her dead, pale and motionless in a pool of her own blood, and the knife in his chest had twisted so hard, he thought he might never breathe again. Only killing those men had eased the pain, only saving her had made everything feel right again. The relief he had felt when the party had told him they had been sent to find him had paled in comparison to what he felt upon seeing Myra still alive and breathing.

What sort of weak fool had he become? Was he to be a traitor to everyone he knew?

Jaime felt her gaze on him again. It seemed to come as naturally as fighting with a sword now, knowing when she was looking, and when she wanted to speak. He supposed he owed her something; he hadn't spoken for an entire day.

He sighed. "Ask."

One syllable. It was all he could manage.

Myra blinked and took a breath, looking between him and the fire more times than he could count.

"Why?"

This was going to be a terribly short discussion.

Jaime stood. Maybe he thought better on his feet; maybe he wanted an opportunity to run away like the foolish boy he was. He ran his hand over his face again, felt the stubble on his skin. His beard would be returning soon.

"I said you would be safe with me. I couldn't break that vow on same day. Even for an oathbreaker, it's a bit much."

He was hiding behind the words, and she knew it. She always knew.

Myra got to her feet as well, her new cloak falling to the ground. She approached him, proximity demanding an answer. "Jaime, why wasn't I safe?"

He hesitated.

"They had orders to kill you."

She grew still and her eyes widened. Jaime saw her hand lightly brush over the dagger.

"From her?" she asked, her voice trembling. The girl looked on the verge of tears, as if he had betrayed her instead of saving her life.

Jaime could only nod.

"I have done nothing to her. All I wanted was to be with my family and to serve my house, and for that, she wants me dead." Myra shook her head, looking at him in a way that reminded Jaime too much of her father. "How can you love someone like that?"

He wanted to get angry, to defend his sister and their love. Cersei was all he had known, all he had wanted, and the only woman he had ever been with. No other lord could claim that, not even the honorable Ned Stark, but Jaime said none of those things. Instead, he felt something he thought he never could when it came to loving Cersei.

Shame.

It almost made him sick; it was a greater betrayal than butchering those men at the inn. He'd never regretted loving Cersei, not when he had taken his vows or when she married Robert, not when they snuck to every abandoned corner they could find for only minutes together, not because of his relation to her.

But there it was, blossoming in his chest.

"I…"

What was he going to say?

He didn't know.

He didn't want to know.

"But…we aren't going to King's Landing," Myra murmured, piecing together what he had done. "You saved my life."

For some reason, this was what angered him, and his response had more bite.

"Despite evidence to the contrary, I don't want you dead, Stark."

"Even for her?"

So it seemed.

Myra shook her head again, disbelieving. "You pushed my brother out a window for her."

He'd done a lot worse for her.

"Your brother was just a nameless child to me," Jaime admitted, his voice a whisper as he looked down at her. "You aren't."

I know you.

"Is that supposed to make it any better?"

Jaime almost laughed. "Since when has the truth made anything better?"

Myra was silent for a long time. He'd never seen such conflict before. She seemed torn between anger and gratitude, and something else. Perhaps she had her own shame to conceal. After all, what sort of woman takes to the Kingslayer, to a man who tried to kill her little brother?

Not that it mattered now, he supposed.

And therein laid another problem.

He shouldn't tell her. She had told him nothing of Tyrion in King's Landing. Her regret of the fact meant nothing. He owed her nothing.

And yet when she tried to move away from him, Jaime felt his hand reach out and grab her by the wrist.

"Wait," he mumbled, taking a breath before meeting her dark eyes. "There's something you need to know."

"What more could there possibly be?" Myra asked. She sounded angry, though she made no effort to fight his grip.

Too much.

"Before everything, the soldiers told me what's been happening while we've been wandering aimlessly."

"Robb?" she breathed, her eyes suddenly frightful.

Jaime sighed. "He's not the one you need to worry over."

He watched her eyes flit back and forth, attempting to understand his cryptic answer. "What do you mean?"

"Your father's ward, the Greyjoy…"

"Theon? Has something happened to him?"

Jaime shook his head. "He betrayed your brother; he joined his father and captured Winterfell, and…he killed your brothers."

He spoke the last words so quietly, he wondered if she had even heard him, but the way Myra stilled confirmed that she had. Slowly, he released her wrist, watching, waiting.

Anger. That was the first emotion he saw. It pooled in her eyes like a great fire, burning bright and darkening her features all at once.

She gritted her teeth. "They're lying."

"They had no reason to lie, not to me."

Myra shook her head, tears lining her eyes as she stepped away from him. "I don't care what you think, they're wrong! Theon wouldn't do that! He grew up in Winterfell! Robb was his friend!"

"Your brother is the trueborn son of the man who took him from his real home, don't fool yourself," Jaime started, stepping toward her.

Myra slapped him.

"No! He was like a brother to him, to me! He helped Bran pick his first bow, and he took Rickon riding when the sun was out! Don't tell me that meant nothing to him! He is not you, Jaime Lannister!"

The words stung more than her open palm had.

"Myra-"

"No!" she shouted, hitting him in the chest, the tears freefalling now. "No, no, no!"

She hit him over and over, in the chest, in the arm, the shoulder, and he let her. He felt none of it. The whole of the war could have descended on him at that very moment, and he would not have noticed a thing.

"I don't believe you!" she shrieked. "I don't-!"

Suddenly, she collapsed into his chest, nearly knocking Jaime off his feet. She sobbed into his tunic, fisting the fabric as if it was the only thing keeping her upright.

For a moment, he couldn't move. He'd never been one for weeping maidens or crying babes. Cersei never wept, and Tyrion hadn't cried since he was a child. When Joffrey, Myrcella, or Tommen had cried, he'd never comforted them, never given them any words to ease the pain. The first time he had tried with Joffrey, Cersei had all but chased him away. That was when he knew it would be easier to do without.

But this was different.

The moment passed, and Jaime gave in, letting his body do what felt right. He wrapped one arm tightly around her as he kneeled down, sweeping up her legs with the other. She felt terribly light as he carried her back toward the fire, awkwardly stooping until he was seated on the ground with her nestled in his lap.

He felt his fingers rubbing circles into her back, something his mother had done for him once, while he tucked her head underneath his chin.

Something was shattering inside.

"If I can get you back to your brother, I will," he spoke, though he doubted she heard a word of it. "And if I can't, I'll take you to Casterly Rock. You'll never have to see King's Landing again."

No one had witnessed his vow. No crowds had cheered. No knight had put a cloak on his shoulders. He swore to no gods and to no king. And yet as he held the woman whose life he had destroyed, Jaime knew there was no oath greater than this. It had not been a mistake; it may have been one of the greatest things he had done.

His redemption.

"I made a promise to protect you," he whispered, watching the fire die. "Honor or not, that is one I intend to keep."


Arya

She never used to be patient.

Even before the king had come to Winterfell and ruined everything, Arya could not remember a time she had sat for the entirety of a proper meal, or made it through a lesson without her mind wandering to the windows or some pleasant corner of her mind. Everything had to happen right then and there. How could you enjoy something if it took all your life to get there?

But now, patience was her ally. She let the Lannister guards pass her by as she went about her tasks, keeping her head low and slowing her gait to a crawl if she had to; she took her time when she ate, savoring the small morsels she was given, uncertain if the food would be as good the following night, not that it was ever good, but at least the maggots were gone.

She kept herself from trying to murder Tywin Lannister.

Arya had thought of half a dozen ways to kill the Lord of Casterly Rock, but each was more rushed and foolish than the last. Her first thought had been to poison his drink, but she didn't know what to put in it or how much or even how to get it, and she would be the first suspect. She'd make it ten feet before the Mountain would gut her with his broadsword, if she were lucky.

Then she thought about stabbing him while he slept. She didn't need a sword, not even her Needle. A knife from dinner would work, and it would be easy to slip one up her sleeve. But she wasn't allowed in the tower that late at night, and the guards would catch her.

Also, she wasn't entirely sure Tywin actually slept.

Gendry thought he slept with his eyes open in order to trick his enemies. Hot Pie was convinced he fed off the happiness of everyone around him. She thought that idea was silly. There wasn't any happiness to be found before he arrived. If anything, moral had improved under his command of Harrenhal.

Except for his officers. They didn't get to slack off anymore, or torture their prisoners for their own sick desires. Their inadequacy unveiled, they spent their days squirming under their lord's hard stare.

And even Arya had to admit, it was one of the few forms of entertainment to be found in the gloomy castle.

"Can any of you tell me how long it has been since we received word from Dragonstone?" Tywin asked, giving every man seated at his war council an equally malicious glare.

Arya knew all their names. Gregor Clegane was the easy one. He stood beside the table because his knees would not fit beneath it. Even so, he seemed dwarfed by the demanding presence of Tywin Lannister.

Ser Kevan, Leo Lefford, Reginald Lannister, Amory Lorch, names and faces she had come to memorize and hate in her own way. She tallied each of their crimes and weighed them in her heart. Two of them were already on her list. She wondered if she would add any more today.

"Six weeks," Tywin continued. Arya did not meet his eyes as she filled his goblet with water. Servants did not look their lord in the eye; servants did not exist. "You've had six weeks to find my son, and what has each of you given me? Excuses."

Was he still talking about the Imp, she wondered? No, she remembered seeing a letter. Tyrion was in King's Landing. Ser Jaime then?

Arya shuffled away from the table, keeping her head down and her ears open.

"The Riverlands is a large tract of land to cover, my lord," she heard Leo start. "As are the Crownlands, either of which he could be in."

"I didn't come for lessons in geography. I came for results," Tywin retorted, silencing his officer. Arya stood at the preparation table, slowly gathering the meal together, watching from the corner of her eye. "Stannis Baratheon had Jaime on an island and still managed to lose him. If we're unable to recover him, we'll look like bigger fools than he already does."

She watched him turn to the Mountain. "Tell me, how many of your men are searching?"

"A full company, my lord."

"Send two more, one north and one south."

Ser Kevan looked concerned. "That will weaken this position considerably. Can we afford that?"

"This isn't just about Jaime," Tywin continued. "With Ned Stark dead and his youngest daughters scattered to the wind, Myra Stark's value has been raised considerably. Having her in our possession is paramount if we are to secure a victory against her brother."

Arya gasped, and dropped a fork to the ground.

Six sets of eyes turned to her.

Thinking fast, Arya grabbed the platter of food and began to serve the men at the table.

"Apologies, my lord. My fingers are clumsy."

She felt Tywin's gaze on her, burning her skin. It had always been obvious that he suspected something of her, and she wondered if she had not given it away.

"No excuses," Tywin spoke. Had she not known better, Arya could have sworn he sounded entertained. "A servant knows their place, what they are capable and incapable of, something the lot of you would do well to emulate."

Arya looked to the table as she felt her mouth twitch ever so slightly.

"How are we so sure the girl is still with Jaime?" Reginald asked, stuffing his mouth full of food as soon as Arya set it down before him.

"He'd be a fool not to keep her," Tywin remarked, his frown turning into a scowl. He stood abruptly then, forcing the rest to follow. Reginald had a piece of ham hanging from the side of his mouth. "Take the food back, girl. They haven't earned their keep."

"Yes, my lord," Arya replied quickly, gathering the food she had just set down. Perhaps she could sneak some down to Gendry later.

"Whoever finds them will get a hostage for their effort," Tywin stated, turning away from the table and striding to the door, Ser Kevan on his heels. "For your sakes, it better not be Robb Stark!"


Myra was alive!

Arya practically skipped down the steps, taking them two or three at a time. In her jubilee, she nearly ran into several soldiers, each either swearing or shoving her to the side, but none of it mattered to her. This was the first she'd heard of any of her siblings outside of Robb since she'd left King's Landing.

It didn't even occur to her that the last time they had seen one another, her older sister was supposed to be heading home, not mixed up with the likes of the Kingslayer. She was alive and that was all that mattered.

But she was in danger.

No, Robb would find her. He'd never let Tywin Lannister get his hands on her, not if he could help it, and he was the King in the North now. He had the means.

"What's got you so merry?" Gendry asked as she ran into the smithy. He placed a newly minted sword on the rack, wiping the sweat from his brow with a dirty rag.

Arya grinned, placing a biscuit in his hand. "Doesn't matter."

The smith shook his head. "Yeah, well, try not to let anyone see you. It's probably punishable by death around here."

Ignoring him, Arya hopped on the crumbling stone mound she usually used for a seat whenever she visited. She started to nibble on the remainder of the ham from dinner, relishing the juiciness of the meat. Had anything ever tasted better?

Letting her eyes wander around the castle grounds, Arya spotted a man tied to a lone post near the gate. His feet were bare and his head hung limply between his legs, long and muddied hair blocking his face. Only the shaking of his shoulders told her that he was still alive.

"Who's that?" she asked, taking another bite.

Gendry glanced over, averting his eyes as soon as he realized whom she was talking about. "They brought him in after noon, been beating him off and on ever since. Don't know why. They don't even ask him any questions."

Arya tilted her head to the side. Even the Tickler had asked questions of those he tortured, as useless as they were. She wondered what sort of man could earn less than that.

"Don't," Gendry warned, pointing at her. "I know that look. Last man stepped within ten feet of him was beaten into the mud right beside him."

It was sound advice, of course, but when had she ever listened to him?

Arya grabbed some pieces of wood, attempting to look occupied, as she moved closer to the man. Anything Gendry might have said to bring her back was cut short lest he expose her while trying to save her.

Moving slowly, using every corner she came across, Arya tried to look as small and unassuming as possible. Most soldiers weren't looking for trouble. They let a good deal slide if it meant they could continue relaxing or keep their conversations flowing. All she had to do was not attract their attention.

When she drew within a few feet of the man, the squelching of her boots caught his attention.

"Back already?" he spat, turning the mud bloody beneath him. "You're awfully bored."

When he looked up, his eyes widened, or rather, his eye. The left was beaten and bloody beyond recognition, leaking something foul. He'd have no sight with it again.

And yet, despite the missing eye, and the cuts and bruises marring his face, despite the length of his hair and the thickness of his wild beard, there was something unmistakable about him.

"Jory?"


Bet you thought I forgot about him, didn't you?


Questions:

From mimkarer: How often do you update?

Okay, while you're not a guest and I already personally answered, I thought this would be great for other readers. So, as some of you beautiful people are aware, I haven't been the most consistent in updating this story. That said, I'm in it to win it now. The goal is to update roughly every two weeks, with some exceptions.

From Golded Haired Ravenclaw: Are we going to get to see the other siblings' POVs? I don't get what Sansa has to do with this, at least specifically?

So, again, I did directly address this with the reviewer, but I thought this question was beneficial. Also had great timing considering the last POV of this chapter. So, as I have stated before, I have drastically changed Sansa's story. Originally, she was going to have the same storyline, stuck in King's Landing, tortured by Joffrey, etc...but I decided that the girl needed a break. And since I had Syrena save her, everything that happens is new. I can't just ignore her story arc, so her POV is along for the ride. As for the other siblings, I put their POVs in when they become relevant. It was easier when they were around Myra because they offered a different perspective, but now she is on her own. Robb's story isn't different, Arya's story wasn't until now. Jon's won't be for a LONG time. There's really no point in putting in POVs that change nothing. That said, we'll see their POVs again in the future.

From Nataliw (Natalie?): Knowing what we know from the first chapter, Jaime has to choose between Cersei and Myra...and of course Tywin will not let Myra go without tying her to his house. So does he marry Myra off to Tyrion? Or will Jaime be released from the Kingsguard?

That's for me to know, and you to find out :3

From Alexa: Is Arya still alive?

I got u, fam.

From Erodrerk: Am I getting a sansan vibe going on here?

Seen a lot of people talk about this in recent chapters. I'm not sure if this is a spoiler, but I'm seriously the biggest sansan shipper so I should just warn you guys about this. Still undecided about using it, but trust me, I love it.