Hello again! So sorry that I'm a little late. The past couple of days have been...well, rough to say the least. Let's just say the world decided my birthday wasn't going to be the most pleasant experience. However, I sat up all day today and finished this chapter. So happy birthday to me!
I want to thank everyone who has taken interest in my Jon/OC story. The current working title is The Quiet of Winter, and you can find some more information on it on my Tumblr. If you want any info posted on my account here, just let me know.
Welcome to all my new followers, and thank you for all the reviews, follows, faves, and views. Just thank you! I will reply to everyone soon, though probably not tonight cause I have to celebrate at least a little of my birthday.
So, here's Chapter 33, in which Brienne discovers Jaime has an 'off button.'
Chapter Thirty-Three
The Guilt
Myra
When she woke that morning in the cabin, Jaime was still asleep.
Warm and strangely comfortable despite her awkward position, Myra settled for remaining where she was. Mind still clouded by sleep, she took to watching the unconscious man beside her, unafraid of what might happen if he woke and caught her staring.
He was a quiet sleeper, she realized, making scarcely a sound as he reclined against the wall. He'd said the opposite about her once, as had Robb and Jon in their youth. She snored, not loudly of course, but that was never the point. It was about making the subject uncomfortable, and for whatever reason, telling a woman she snored always did the trick.
Had things been different, had history not gone the way it did, Myra thought her brothers would enjoy Jaime's company.
Myra frowned, moving her chin against his shoulder. His face was relaxed now, but she remembered the way it looked in the firelight, when he spoke of destroying his honor and saving a city all at once. In one moment, he seemed so young, and in the next, the years burdened him, carving deep lines into his face. He'd looked so fragile to her in that moment, a warrior threatening to fall apart under the lightest of touches. It was what kept her motionless the entire time he spoke, only daring to come forward when he'd grown quiet for too long.
He bore his soul to her, and she wasn't even certain why.
But she was glad he had. She was thankful, and admittedly more than a little relieved that he had put just as much trust in her as she had him.
They were holding one another up in more ways than one, and some not so small part of her was afraid of the unknown they faced when they finally left their sanctuary. Not pain or death or any of the other horrid images war could conjure, but the idea that whatever this was could not continue. Without meaning to, she'd grown used to him, and the idea of facing a day in the future without him seemed wrong to her. A choice would have to be made soon though, whether by her or him, and Myra suspected she was not the only one who did not welcome the idea.
Though, she supposed he had already made a choice once.
And so had she.
They'd chosen one another over their families. Perhaps she knew what that meant, but it was not a road she was quite willing to explore just yet.
The hand that gripped hers twitched slightly. Myra looked down, taking in the sight of it. How small her hand was in his, how frail. Though covered in dirt and scratches from her time on the road, it was still the delicate hand of a maiden. His bore scars and callouses. It was the hand that killed a king, and saved her life.
It was also the hand that tried to kill her brother.
"I lied to you," she whispered, not quite brave enough to tell him when he could actually hear her.
Myra freed her hand from his, running her fingers across his skin. Somehow, she knew he would not wake. It was the sort of sleep that no force that roamed the earth could drag a person from, when utter exhaustion met a brief moment of peace. She wasn't sure when he last got a decent night's rest.
She looked back to his still sleeping face, watching as the early morning light began to drift into the windows, catching his profile. She looked to the strange way his nose sat, and wondered if he had broken it in his youth. Had his childhood been happy despite everything? Did he ever want Casterly Rock, or had those words he spoke to her so long ago still hold true?
There were so many things she wanted to know about him now, and Myra had a feeling she'd never get the chance to find out.
Slowly, Myra untangled herself from his grip, standing and preparing to face the day, letting her silly thoughts hold on for just a moment longer.
"I do forgive you, Jaime. For everything."
She watched the fog gather on the ground outside, curling around the ankles of soldiers who were just waking for the morning. A few of them, in their half-awake state, tripped on unseen holes and twigs, to the entertainment of their companions.
Squires ran up and down the lines, carrying armor, saddles, and plates of food for their lords. They would just miss running into one another, adeptly dodging with the experience of daily routine. Some of the soldiers, feeling bold so early in the morning, would attempt to hit the boys or get in their way, but the boys were no longer so green. They dealt with the interference with practiced ease, some even hitting the men back.
There was no malice in any of it, just a little bit of fun before the day properly kicked off.
It wouldn't last much longer.
As the sun began to break over the hills in the distance, Myra turned back inside the tent. Her mother sat at her desk, still watching her after all this time. It was what she had done since she and Robb were children, although her brother faced its affects far more than she ever had. Whenever they did something wrong, she would not yell or even confront them about the incident. She would simply wait, and watch, and there was something about the subtle disappointment in her eyes that would eventually get her children to confess their crimes to her.
Although, Myra wasn't certain what her mother wanted from her now. She'd already gotten an explanation, multiple times, and they were far past apologies, not that she had any to offer to her. If there was one thing Myra would not regret in her life, it was freeing Jaime Lannister. It felt like the only right thing she'd done in a long time.
"You should go tell him," Myra said, sitting across from her mother. She let her hand lie on the surface of the table, feeling the grain beneath. "Robb is going to need someone who hasn't betrayed him."
Her mother was quiet for a while, shifting in her seat. "I told Jaime Lannister that the only reason I was allowing him to leave was to save you. I'm not about to turn back on those words now."
"Yet you won't speak to me."
"And what do you want me to say, Myra?"
She didn't know. Probably silly things that only a little girl could dream of, little lies like 'everything will be fine' and 'I forgive you.' But she was a traitor now, wasn't she? And comforting words from her mother weren't really going to do much in the end.
Still, she wanted them.
"Tell me what to say, Myra," her mother continued, that calm mask of hers cracking to show the anger underneath. "Tell me what words will convince you to tell me why you did such a thing. Why you betrayed your family, and your house."
Myra almost laughed. It was the same thing over and over again, as if her words meant nothing. They didn't want her explanation, they wanted her to say that Jaime had used her, that she was afraid for her life and so she freed him, or some other such nonsense; they didn't want to acknowledge for even a second that it wasn't the Lannisters' fault that something had happened.
Gods, she sounded like Jaime, bemoaning her family's hypocrisy.
"I want you to say that you understand, Mother," she finally spoke, shaking her head. "I want you to tell me that you've actually heard everything I've said, and that you're not just tossing it aside like it's some childish fantasy."
Her mother took a breath. "I've heard everything you've said, every last syllable. Including when you said that you did not care about your brother."
I don't care!
She hadn't meant to say it like that. It was a cry out of frustration, her emotions running rampant and taking control of her mind. Her mother might have known that, should have known that, but frankly Myra couldn't blame her for bringing it up anyway. It was a strange little line she balanced on, between being frustrated by but also understanding her family.
"I care about him, you know that," Myra said, picking at the grains on the table. She watched her hand as she did so, noting how clean it was now, and how strange that seemed to be. "I confronted Jaime about it on Dragonstone, and I did so again while we were on the run. I hit him, and I screamed at him, and then I stopped, because what was I to do? Leave him and be on my own? Would you prefer that I had died over this?"
"That isn't fair."
"No, none of this is," she replied, looking up at her mother. Myra thought she could see conflict in her eyes, but it was probably another silly little dream. "None of this has been. You weren't there when Robert attacked me because he thought I was Lyanna, you weren't there when I fled Dragonstone by jumping off a cliff and nearly drowning, you weren't there when I…when I killed a man after he tried to rape me…"
Myra felt the emotion choking her lungs, and she found it hard to breathe.
Slowly, she felt her mother's hand grab hers, and could see the tears in her eyes. It made her start to cry as well.
"You…you weren't there when he was dying in my arms, or when I had to save him by myself or risk being all alone in this war. You weren't there when he told me-"
Myra took a breath, wiping her eyes and stopping herself. Jaime's story of King Aerys was for him to tell alone, and who would she be to betray his confidence after so much?
She leveled a final look on her mother. "You weren't there."
An array of emotions played across her mother's face, and what she thought might have been the dawning of a realization.
Her mother blinked, hand slipping away. "You're in love with him."
Love had always been a strange word to her. She knew the love she held for her family, and she knew a young girl's idea of love, which became sillier and sillier as the years went by, but the concept of loving someone else had always baffled her. Over the course of her childhood, she had watched her mother and father, and how they acted toward one another, and not just the obvious things such as holding one another's hand or stolen kisses that they thought their daughter wasn't witnessing. It was the certain looks they gave one another, the smiles reserved only for them, the way they knew how the other worked, like how her mother always brought an extra knife to the dinner table because for whatever reason, her father constantly managed to drop his.
She wondered how it could be possible to know someone so wholly even though they had not grown up together, how a person can so fully accept the other and give in despite having never known them for most of their lives.
When she met Domeric, she liked him, but then again, she liked most people. It was in her nature to automatically like a person, and decide later if that needed to be changed. She smiled when he was being sweet, and held his hand when he offered it, but deep down Myra always knew that if given the choice, he was not the sort of man she'd spend the rest of her life with; she knew that she could get along with him, that she would be content in the life ahead of her, but she also knew that she would never be in love.
How strange it was, to not know what love was, but to know when it never would be.
But Jaime Lannister? She couldn't be in love with him either. He was in love with someone else, his sister no less, and he was not the sort of man she would fall for. Jaime was rude and callous and stubborn and…
And he made her smile, and laugh. He listened to what she had to say, and was willing to give his life for her despite everything. Jaime didn't offer his hand, she reached for it, and he wasn't sweet because sweet annoyed her. He was rude because she would be rude back and they'd go at it for hours if they could help it…
And…
And…
And she loved him.
She was in love with Jaime Lannister.
Myra took a breath. "…I…"
Shouting outside quickly scattered her thoughts.
Myra stood abruptly, moving to her mother's side. She felt Catelyn put her hands on her shoulders, holding tightly as if the men were about to burst inside and drag her away.
"Put some decent clothes on," her mother whispered in her ear. "We'll get through this."
Not long after, mother and daughter emerged from the tent, Myra having changed into one of her Northern dresses, hiding the muddied boots and breeches in her chest.
They were met with chaos.
Bannermen were shouting back and forth at one another, their sworn shields either adding to the din or attempting to keep swords in their scabbards. Scattered around, foot soldiers and squires watched the fray, slack-jawed and wide-eyed. A punch was thrown. A man fell. There was a scuffle to bring everything back into order.
Her brother's men were at each other's throats.
And it was all her fault.
"ENOUGH!"
The crowd broke up, revealing Robb, standing there with all the fury of the North. He looked at his men, fire in his eyes, daring any to speak over him now. Behind him, hackles raised, Grey Wind silently posed the same question, eying the onlookers with an almost human gaze.
"Have you no discipline? We're supposed to be an army, not a group of bickering children!" Robb shouted, giving each man a onceover. Some were cowed under his gaze, while others maintained a glare of their own. "We are not doing this here!"
"I say we are, Your Grace."
Lord Karstark emerged from behind his men, hair more disheveled than usual. Myra felt her mother's hand in hers, and she gripped it back, tightly.
"Let's not hide behind closed doors anymore. Let the men know what really happened to our prized prisoner." He walked right up to her brother. Despite being taller than him, he seemed the smaller man. "Tell them where the Kingslayer is, Your Grace."
Robb looked ready to skewer Lord Karstark on the spot, and he might have done so if his army was not suffering. But Myra knew the position they were in since losing the Freys. They needed what men they had, and that meant appeasing even the unappealing lords.
The Greatjon, however, took his oaths very seriously, and had no issue saying what Robb could not. "Is that how you'd speak to your king?"
But Lord Karstark was not one to be shaken by even Lord Umber. "It's how I'd speak to the man who lost my son's murderer."
Murmurs went up amongst the men. Robb closed his eyes. Myra imagined he was trying to contain his anger. The King in the North, at least, had to keep a level mind, even if it was the last thing that he wanted to do.
"Aye, Jaime Lannister has escaped," Robb finally admitted, looking defeated in doing so. "But he won't be gone for long. He's an injured man alone."
"Not alone," Catelyn spoke up. Myra glanced over at her mother, if only to avoid all the eyes that were suddenly drawn in their direction. She feared giving them an answer they did not want; she feared meeting her brother's gaze and seeing the disappointment in them. "Brienne is gone as well. It's possible that she helped him escape."
Lord Karstark made it one step in their direction before a spiked mace stopped him in his tracks, gently tapping his chest plate.
"Take care in your threats to us ladies," Maege Mormont warned, lowering her weapon. "Not all of us are unarmed."
"I did not know," Catelyn offered. "She saved my life before, and I thought she could be trusted."
Lord Karstark snorted. "And how much have we lost because of what you did not know?"
"That's enough!" Robb shouted again. Myra watched Roose Bolton whisper something in her brother's ear. "You're the offended party, Lord Karstark, and for that no apology will do. Instead, I offer you an opportunity.
"Take your most trusted men and leave camp now. Hunt down the Kingslayer, and give him what justice he deserves."
Myra briefly met her brother's gaze, and was chilled to the bone by the accusation in them.
Jaime
The wench had taken to trailing him.
No matter what he did, whether it was slowing down or turning his horse about so he was either behind or beside her, one way or another, she would find her way back there. She didn't trust him, obviously, but it was becoming a little ridiculous. What did she think he was going to do? Leap off his horse and lodge a sword in her back? He could barely walk.
So, if that was the game she was going to play, he had his own.
With a – less than stellar – swing of his good leg, Jaime turned around in his saddle, facing Brienne with is best Tyrion grin. To say that the wench was unimpressed was putting it mildly. She rolled her eyes and gathered the reins, attempting to reposition herself…somewhere.
Escorting a prisoner out of a war camp was hardly honorable, but gods forbid she make eye contact with the Kingslayer. That was an offense on a whole other level.
"You could just leave, you know," Jaime suggested, leaning back as Brienne attempting to ride past him. "Your oath was to get me out of the camp, and last I checked, we haven't been there for nearly a day."
As much as he loathed the idea of having to travel through the Riverlands alone, it was still leagues better than doing so with the solemn giant.
"I promised Lady Stark that you would not get caught," Brienne replied, riding past him. "If I leave you alone, you're bound to wind up their prisoner again."
Jaime didn't want to say he was offended but…
No, he was offended.
He turned back around in the saddle, eying the back of Brienne's head and wondering how accurate his throwing arm was.
"You know," he started, changing up his tactics. "I heard about how Renly Baratheon died. Something about one of his soldiers killing him. I don't suppose you'd know anything about that?"
It was a long shot, but from what he recalled of Tarth, it wasn't too far from Storm's End. All the lords had sworn to Renly, and the youngest Baratheon always had a penchant for the strange and spectacular. Showing off a giant of a woman who could also wield a sword seemed right up his alley.
When Brienne stiffened in her saddle, Jaime knew he had her.
"So, it was you," he said, smile smug, as he rode up beside her. "I guess that explains the traitor bit. Tell me, what's it like killing a king? I didn't find it nearly as exciting as everyone makes it out to be."
Brienne glared at him. "I didn't kill Renly."
"No, of course not, you were just in the vicinity with a sword. I didn't stab Aerys either, but somehow his blood was all over my armor. Strange thing, that."
"I'm not you, Kingslayer. I uphold my oaths," Brienne countered. He could see a muscle in her jaw twitching. "His brother killed him."
"Stannis killed him? So he just walked into camp and stabbed his brother in the back?"
"There was a shadow. It looked just like Stannis, and it stabbed Renly through the neck."
Jaime blinked, and then proceeded to laugh.
Of all the things he had heard over the course of his lifetime, to include the silly little stories Tyrion used to read to him from their childhood books, this was perhaps the most outrageous, if only because the wench spoke as if she actually believed it.
"It's true," Brienne continued. "Lady Catelyn was there as well. We witnessed it, and fled together."
"Yes, because the word of Catelyn Stark makes it that much more believable," Jaime replied, breathing hard. "And if she swore you could fly, would you jump from a cliff on your honor or because your lackwitted mind actually-"
Brienne kicked out from her saddle, boot landing squarely on his injured thigh. Jaime gasped and saw only white. He fell to the side, slipping off his saddle and landing firmly on the ground, the root digging into his back far less painful than the pulsing in his leg.
When his vision finally cleared, Brienne was standing over him, her sword aimed at his neck.
"Go ahead, kill me," Jaime challenged, staring her down. "I can't be made a prisoner again if I am dead. It's still a clean, honorable kill."
The wench did not move for a moment, and Jaime thought she was actually considering going through with it.
"Lady Myra told me you made a vow to her, a vow to keep her safe, and that you've upheld it. Why?"
Jaime snorted. "Just because I disregarded one vow doesn't mean I'll break all of them."
"But why her?" Brienne asked, leaning closer. "The Starks are your enemy. Why would you swear an oath to protect your enemy?"
Perhaps it was the pain, a moment of weakness that brought him to answer the question he would otherwise ignore. Maybe he just wanted someone to know that for once, he wasn't doing something just for himself, even if it was to a wench whose name was as tarnished as his for all the world knew.
Or maybe he just stopped caring.
"Myra Stark is not my enemy."
Brienne watched him a moment, studious, before lifting her sword and sheathing it. "You're still alive, Kingslayer, because she wanted you to be. I'll not bring dishonor to her sacrifice by disobeying that wish."
She walked away from him, though her words still echoed through the trees.
"If you truly cared about her, you would stop acting as though her actions mean nothing."
Brienne of Tarth liked to think she knew everything about him, that she had him pegged from the moment they met. She was like most people in that way, despite her grotesque nature, because everyone heard the word kingslayer and thought that there was only one way a man like that should act.
But Myra would have known otherwise. She would have seen through his shallow humor and antagonizing remarks; she would have known it was all a front. It was what he did when he was uncomfortable, and trying to runaway from the truth of the situation.
And what was the truth?
That he had allowed Myra to put herself in harm's way for him. Instead of facing the executioner, he was running away and letting Myra take the blame.
Jaime hadn't just broken the vow he made to her, he'd shattered it, and deep inside, the guilt of it was slowly consuming him.
Sansa
"You should have told me."
She didn't sound angry. The tone of her voice did not remotely match the fury that was threatening to consume her at that very moment, but the way Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper of Dorne, was fidgeting in his seat told her that he was getting the brunt of it anyway. Had she not felt so utterly betrayed at that moment, Sansa might have found the fact that she had managed to make him so uncomfortable entertaining.
After Littlefinger had told her about her brothers, she'd left. She didn't say a word, and he hadn't bothered to follow her. Instead, she had wandered the Water Gardens, her thoughts floating here and there. She didn't cry though; she wanted to, but the tears would not come. What did that say about her? What did that mean? Did she not care enough?
Of course she did. She cared. She was yelling at a prince over it, of course that meant something.
She hoped.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Oberyn took a breath, looking around the room. It was late at night and they were in his study, but he still acted as though everyone could hear their conversation. Given that Littlefinger managed to show up, she supposed it wasn't uncalled for.
"I don't expect you to believe me when I say that I wanted to tell you," he started, twisting one of the rings around his finger.
"You're right, I don't."
"And that is not undeserved," he replied, lips twitching slightly. "But we were concerned with how you might react. My brother and I did not know if you would simply wallow in self pity or do something more drastic, disappear in the middle of the night perhaps."
"Because gods forbid you lose Sansa Stark, your little pawn in this whole game."
Oberyn stood, looking mildly offended. "Yes, may all the gods forbid we lose you, because this is a game, and in the end we are all pieces that have a part to play. You can either keep pretending that you are the exception to the rule, or accept your place in this world, and do something about it."
"And what can a woman in my position do about it?" Sansa asked, standing up to him. If he'd taught her one thing this whole time, it was to be stubborn. "Should I just go with Lord Baelish?"
"He won't take you to the Vale."
"I know," Sansa admitted. "But what else is there? Should I actually disappear in the middle of the night? Or marry someone? Marry you?"
Oberyn looked as if he'd just swallowed a lemon. Again, she wanted to laugh, but there was nothing to be found.
"You didn't think your brother thought of that possibility?"
The Red Viper looked uncharacteristically awkward. "Not until now."
Sansa started to laugh. "This entire time, I thought I was making something of myself, you let me believe that I could actually do something, but here I am, in the same place I started, on the verge of going back to the one place I swore I'd never see again."
"Then go," Oberyn said, his eyes dark. "If all you care for is feeling sorry for yourself, then leave. There is no place for that here in Dorne."
"That is all Dorne has room for!" Sansa shouted, feeling bold in her anger. "You can tell me about how brutal and angry your people are, but from the moment I stepped foot in this place, all I've seen is people stewing in their pity. How many years has it been since your sister died? What have you done besides wallow in your hatred for the Lannisters?"
Oberyn stalked over to her, his height seeming to climb as his anger bore down on her, but he did not say anything. She watched him glare at her, meeting his gaze unflinchingly, but she could see the fight leaving him. She'd struck a nerve, but it was an accurate hit, one that even he could not defend.
They might have stayed there all night, neither willing to speak further, had a small knock on the door not caught their attention.
Myrcella entered shortly after, looking slightly ashamed as she snuck into the room unattended.
"I'm sorry," she said softly, approaching the two.
"That's alright, Princess," Oberyn managed to say with a smile. "You're not interrupting anything."
"Well, I doubt that," she admitted, stepping closer as Sansa and Oberyn separated themselves. "But I meant it for Sansa."
Sansa felt her eyebrows rise. Myrcella had been there when Littlefinger announced himself, but she hadn't thought the girl would accept his words so quickly.
"What do you mean?" she asked, done with her image and propriety.
Myrcella played with her fingers a moment. "I've known for a while. I think I've always known it was you. You were everything I wanted to be, Sansa. Pretty, sophisticated, talented. It's hard to forget a person like that.
"I should have told you right away. That way you wouldn't have to lie to me, not really. But I never told anyone about you. They said your father killed mine, but even if that's true, you didn't do anything. So everyone back home thinks you're a servant. You're just Alayne."
"Just Alayne?" Sansa repeated, a small idea forming in the back of her mind.
She looked up to Oberyn, whose eyes had that same spark.
He shrugged. "It is a dangerous idea."
"But would it work?"
"It might."
She had been in Dorne for too long. Dawn was now cold to her, the small breeze making its way up the coastline actually giving her chills. How she would ever survive in the North again was a mystery to her.
If she ever returned.
And the longer she was away from home, the more Sansa realized that it might not be a possibility.
Strangely, she was growing accustomed to the fact, and did not hate the idea as much as she probably should have.
Littlefinger's boat was a small, unassuming thing. It didn't fly any particular flag, and looked to be a simple trading vessel. It certainly fit the man well enough.
Lord Baelish himself was still standing on the docks, dressed as he always was in King's Landing, looking rather smug about the whole thing. She took some pride in the idea that she was about to surprise the man who apparently knew everything. It was the small things, she supposed.
"Morning is a lovely time of day," he mused as she went to stand beside him, watching the sun slowly rise. "Though I'm afraid that seems to be all Dorne has going for it. This pit of vipers has betrayed you for the last time, Sansa. You'll be better off now."
"Will I?" she asked, wrapping her arms around herself. "Tell me, Lord Baelish, what is to keep Dorne from saying that you came and whisked me away?"
"Self-preservation," was his answer. "The idea of a few words ruining a house's reputation has kept more than a few in line over the years."
"And yet, one has to wonder. If you know I am here, then how long before others know?" Sansa asked, looking over to him. She was nearly taller than him now. "How long before others know that I am in the Vale? How long before I am traded off to someone else?"
Littlefinger's eyes grew wide, and he gave her a look as if he did not know her. Perhaps no one did anymore. She certainly did not seem to know herself.
"I know you weren't going to take me to the Vale," she said, lifting her hand as Littlefinger opened his mouth. "No, it's alright, you were just doing what you do best: self-preservation. I should thank you though. If it weren't for you, I wouldn't have found out about my brothers."
"Sansa, I meant what I said. I intend to bring you to your mother."
"I'm sure you do, but it's what happens before then that worries me." She smiled softly. "I wonder if perhaps this all depended on me. If you'd convinced me that the Martells were my enemy, then I'd have to come with you. It's quite brilliant, given everything."
Littlefinger frowned, almost looking disappointed. "Do you think they are your allies then?"
"I think that the only person I can depend on is myself. I see that now, and I should thank you for that too. Enjoy your trip."
She made it one step.
"You know, I can still tell Lord Tywin about you. The queen at the very least will be convinced that obtaining you is most paramount. Not to mention King Joffrey."
Sansa took a breath, not allowing her anger to get the better of her this time.
"I think the queen would be more concerned about maintaining the safety of her daughter," Sansa countered, glancing over her shoulder. "After all, Myrcella has sworn up and down that I am only a servant, and who is the Hand of the King going to believe: an upstart lord, or his granddaughter, the princess?"
She thought Littlefinger chuckled at that.
Arya
She'd gotten good at pretending to be asleep.
Back home, when she was angry or, more often, when she was in trouble, Arya would flee to her room, hiding under the covers until no one wanted to bother with her anymore. It never really worked though. Her mother said she fidgeted too much, that she didn't like sitting still, so she could always tell when she was faking. But she was good at it now. She knew the value of patience and would lie awake all night if she had to.
Not like she was able to fall asleep anyway.
Across the fire, Jory was cleaning his weapon. He hadn't killed anything with it, but still liked to take a bit of cloth to the steel. He told her once that a man should know every part of his weapon, every scar and imperfection, like you know your own. Maybe this was his way of doing so.
More importantly, it meant that he was leaving soon.
She waited for that telltale sign, when he'd hold his hand on the blade longer than usual, staring it down like he'd written something on the surface and had forgotten how to read it, before tossing the cloth away. He would sigh then, and stand, which was about the time that Arya would close her eyes.
Jory liked to check on his charges. He'd look over Hot Pie and Gendry before stopping over her. There he would stay, some nights longer than others, and watch her. She wanted to ask him what he was thinking about, but she didn't want him to know that she was spying on him. And she got the feeling he wouldn't tell her anyway. It was one of those 'adult' things.
Killing was supposed to be for adults too, but she'd killed that stable boy. The Tickler and Amory Lorch too, in a way.
But she didn't want to tell him that either.
At some point, he sighed, and walked away. He walked for maybe thirty paces, more if the night was clear, enough to keep the fire in sight, but not himself.
"What does he do every night?" Gendry asked, interrupting the calm that fell in Jory's wake. Well, somewhat calm. Hot Pie was snoring up a storm to her left.
At least someone could sleep.
She just wished he'd do it quietly.
"He practices," Arya replied, sitting up.
A couple nights ago, she'd snuck off after him. Clinging to the side of a tree, Arya watched Jory swing his sword about, moving from stance to stance just like he'd trained her brothers. He was slow, but he was still injured, so it made sense. However, that wasn't what bothered Jory. His hits weren't landing right. She'd see him swing for a tree, hitting too shallow or too deep, sometimes missing altogether. Eventually, he'd get so frustrated, he'd just start hacking at anything nearby. That was when she left. He wandered back not long after.
"He's not as good as he used to be, not without his eye."
Gendry snorted, sitting up as well and putting his hands to the fire. "Still better than us."
"Maybe," she replied. Arya had thought about offering to help, but she already knew what his answer would be, so she hadn't bothered. On the road alone or not, to Jory she would just be her father's daughter, to be protected at all costs. Never mind that she'd been the one keeping Gendry and Hot Pie alive all this time.
She glanced up at Gendry. He'd gone somber, staring at the fire. She noticed his hands had moved back to his sides, curled tightly into fists.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
Gendry blinked, shaking his head and looking at her like she was mad. "Nothing's wrong. Why does something have to be wrong?"
"People don't stare at campfires because their lives are perfect. They sleep the night away like Hot Pie."
On cue, their friend snored.
"He's stuck in the woods, freezing to death in the middle of a war. I wouldn't call his life good."
"He's alive, free from Harrenhal where he managed to not have rats eat his chest out. This is as close to perfect as it gets for him."
But not her. Didn't matter that she was free. Tywin Lannister was still out there, planning to kill her brother and capture her sister. Polliver still had Needle. Joffrey was still alive, and Cersei, and all the other names on her list.
Gendry was quiet a while, staring at the flames again. "They're all dead because of me. Yoren, Lommy, all those other boys. They weren't perfect, but they didn't deserve to go the way they did, and it was all because of me."
"No."
Arya stood up, walking over to Gendry until she blocked his view of the fire.
"You're wrong."
"I'm sorry, did you hear those men say someone else's name? They were looking for me, and if I hadn't been there-"
"If you hadn't been there, some other group would have attacked us because there's a war going on. Lommy would still be dead. Yoren would still be dead. And you'd probably be dead too because they found you in King's Landing and cut your throat open."
"You don't know that."
"Maybe. I do know that you sound like my brother, and that he always sounded stupid when he went on like this."
"What? Your brother, the king?"
"No, my brother, the bastard."
That kept Gendry quiet. He was looking at her strangely, like she'd just grown another head.
Arya sat down. "His name's Jon, and he liked to blame everything on himself too. Didn't matter that he had no say in being born. To him, it was all his fault anyway. So, he went to the Wall too, and now he's there with other bastards, and criminals, and people who don't love him because he hated himself.
"I should have told him it wasn't his fault. My sister did, but I didn't. So, I'm telling you now, it's not your fault. What other people do isn't because of you. It's because they're terrible people who don't need an excuse to do terrible things. It has nothing to do with you."
Gendry was silent a while, looking at her strangely, like he'd never seen her before.
"Thank you."
Arya blinked. She'd never been thanked before, at least, not sarcastically. She wasn't quite sure what to do with that.
Then Gendry had to smirk and ruin the whole thing. "That was very kind of you, m'lady."
"Shut up."
When Jory returned from practice, Arya had actually fallen asleep. Though he realized she was lying much closer to Gendry than before he left.
.
.
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Honest to God guys, this chapter was a struggle. If you think you're missing Jaime and Myra together, just talk to my muse. I think it's in open rebellion.
Questions:
CEM: OMG 10 chapters until they're reunited? That's 5 months! Please update a little more frequently, PRETTY PLEASE?!
Hang on that isn't...no, wait, math checks out.
On a serious note, I know you're joking, but I do want to quickly address it. I know it's going to be a long time (I'm even looking into shortening by a chapter or so to keep it from getting too dull) but this separation is also necessary. First, because yes we do need to get to the events of the prologue, but I also think it's going to really showcase how they've changed around one another. They're both going to struggle (and me too help), and it's just going to make their reunion that much better. Sort of. Stupid wedding.
Please be patient with me.
