Hello one and all! And welcome to our first post-prologue chapter! Not going to lie, it totally sucked writing this thing. I actually just started it on Monday haha. Actually, part of the reason I delayed writing it so long was because I MADE A NEW TRAILER Y'ALL. So, if you guys just want to take a gander at my profile, you'll find the link there.
I swear, this is the last one...mostly because I'm out of good HD footage for Myra.
Also, I know I spoke to someone about the song once and I can't remember who so please make yourself known. My memory is skittish at best. Don't ask me how I remember anything for this story.
Shall we?
Chapter Forty-One
The Crossing – Part I
Arya
"Lady Arya! Lady Arya, where are you?"
They'd been running around for hours, servants and guards, calling her name, asking quietly, then demanding that she make her presence known to them. They thought they could intimidate her into coming out of her hidden corner of the world, but the Mountain hadn't, Tywin Lannister hadn't, what did these people have next to that?
Only her mother had ever known where to find her, and on the rare occasions that she could not, only she had the tone of voice that could compel Arya to leave her sanctuary. Father may have been Lord of Winterfell, but she could always get her way with him, but her mother stood as firm as the walls that surrounded them.
But this wasn't Winterfell.
And her mother was dead.
Arya tucked herself a little further into her corner, listening as more calls drifted in and out of the area.
She didn't cry. She wanted to, and had scrunched her face and huffed until her cheeks hurt, but the tears wouldn't come. Sansa was the one who cried, and she used to make fun of her for it. She'd cry over her hair coming undone or a song that had some silly little romantic lines in it; she'd cry at dinner or when she went to bed or even when she woke up in the morning. Arya used to think that crying was one of the stupidest things a person could do.
Now she felt stupid for not being able to do it at all.
So, she sat. She watched the shadows move across the space with the sun, listened as the blacksmith hammered heated steel into shape, felt that heat on her face as the fire roared and died with the breeze. She didn't think, she didn't feel, and she didn't notice when a large figure stood in front of her.
Gendry sighed. "Thought I'd find you here."
Arya blinked, looking up.
Jory had insisted that Gendry be treated well in his absence. She wasn't sure if he'd told Maester Vyman the truth about his father or not, but he acted as though Gendry was a young lord nonetheless. They'd had him bathed and given him clean clothes. The smile nearly split his face in two, Gendry had been so happy. Never had clothes without stains or holes, he'd told her.
She told him he looked like her sisters, twirling around in his new outfit.
He'd said she still managed to look like a boy in her dress.
She smacked him, and he laughed.
"Why?" she asked. She sounded like she'd been crying, even if she hadn't.
He shrugged, sitting against the wall that led to her small corner. She'd taken to hiding behind the weapons rack at the smithy. The man had seen her do it, but didn't seem to mind, nor did he seem keen on letting anyone know she was there. She liked that.
"It's loud, so no one can hear you, and you can't hear them. It's dirty, so no maid is going to go climbing through here looking for you, and maybe…" he trailed off, looking to second guess his next words. "Maybe you were waiting for me to drop by."
"Why would I be waiting for you?" Arya snapped.
Gendry shrugged again, looking around. He'd been poking around the smithy the last couple days. The blacksmith chased him off the first couple times, but then he'd grown used to his presence, and then he saw how good Gendry was. He'd talked about making him his apprentice if he was up to it.
Arya didn't think he wanted to work for people like the Tullys, but he hadn't left yet, and didn't look eager to either.
"You're going to want to talk to someone."
"So you think I'm going to talk to you."
"Who else are you going to talk to?" Gendry asked. He wasn't angry, just patient, like a parent. That somehow made her angry. "Maester Vyman? That shrill lady who shrieks every time she sees your hair?"
"Maybe I don't want to talk to anyone."
"Fair enough."
It became quiet then. Arya waited for Gendry to get bored and leave, but he didn't. He just sat there, waiting, looking at everything but her, giving her the privacy that he knew she wanted. Everyone else wanted to prod her with questions or smother her with their sympathy, and it made her angry. They didn't know her and she didn't know them; they barely knew her brother and sister, and here they stood pretending that they cared about what happened; they only cared about themselves, and how they looked associating with her, like it was charity.
It reminded her of King's Landing.
How she hated it.
She watched Gendry as he sat there. His interest had turned to whatever the smith was working on. She could see him taking in every movement, memorizing it, and mumbling something under his breath now and again.
Then she looked to his fine, new clothes.
He'd gotten them dirty.
Slowly, Arya crawled out of the corner, dragging her dress through the soot and dirt that had piled up over time. She sat next to Gendry, brushing her shoulder against his, and watched the blacksmith with him.
"They're gone," she whispered in between hammer strokes.
Robb, Myra, and her mother were lost at the Twins. She saw her father die, and had left Sansa alone in King's Landing, so she was probably dead too. Even her brothers in Winterfell hadn't been spared. Maester Vyman had told her when she asked about home. He said he couldn't lie to her.
"I'm the only one left."
That wasn't true. She had Jon, but he was in the Night's Watch, and she was a girl. He couldn't come to her and she couldn't go to him, so he may has well have been dead like the others, he was so far away from her.
Gendry looked over at her, and she thought he wanted to say something, but he didn't. She didn't know if she liked that or not.
Arya leaned over and rested her head on his shoulder.
Just this once, she thought. Just this once, she could be weak.
Time passed slowly, or quickly, she wasn't sure. Gendry never moved or said anything even when the sun dipped low in the sky, hidden behind the walls of the keep. The wind from the north was cold. She'd heard it was autumn now. It would be nice to see snow again.
A commotion rose up on the walls and in the courtyard as guards began to yell back and forth to one another. The men had been tense for days, ever since they had gotten word from the Twins. They jumped at everything, so their shouting meant nothing to her.
"Open the gate!" they shouted. "Open the gate, it's Ser Brynden!"
That did catch her attention.
She had never met her mother's uncle, but Arya knew the Blackfish by his reputation. Growing up, she had raptly listened to her mother's tales about him, as attentive as her brothers. He was the sort of man who would let her have a sword, she had thought; he was the sort who would not question her refusal to marry and be a proper lady.
After all, he had done the same in his own way.
Arya shot up, followed closely by Gendry. At this point, he did not bother questioning her, but chose to follow silently, and cautiously. Wherever she walked was usually the direction of danger, no matter how safe the place they were in.
A gray-haired man in the Tully scaled armor rode recklessly inside on a horse covered in sweat and frothing at the mouth. The creature nearly collapsed as he jumped from it. Two more riders stumbled in after him. All were covered in dried blood. One had his hand bound against his chest.
"Call in everyone!" he shouted at no one in particular. "They have until nightfall to get here, and then the bridge goes up!"
"Ser Brynden, how did you survive? Are there others?" one of the guards asked.
"There's no one else," the Blackfish replied. His own words gave him pause, and for a moment, the fury that consumed her great uncle ceased. He suddenly looked very old and alone. "They're all gone. Your king, your queen, your lady…I don't even know if Edmure lives."
The courtyard fell silent. Arya watched the people look to each other, utter despair in their gazes. The Riverlands had been hit first when the war started; the people who surrounded her had known nothing but suffering for nearly a year. Robb had saved them, and now he was gone. They couldn't even take a breath.
"Behind us, the Freys are coming with their army. Tywin Lannister has them believing that the Riverlands is theirs now, but this is our home, and we'll show them who the true lords are," he continued, the fervor returning. "Prepare for a siege!"
Chaos erupted. Guards ran to prepare, servants grabbed foodstuffs, and messengers rushed out the gates with fresh horses to gather whatever men they could.
The Blackfish turned their way, eyes landing on her.
"Who are you?"
"Arya Stark, your niece."
The man took a breath, glancing between her and Gendry.
"Seven hells."
Two hours after nightfall, the army arrived.
Arya watched them climb over the hills in the distance, their torches lighting the way. There were a couple thousand she guessed, but it was hard to tell without the light. Did they have siege equipment, she wondered, or did they just plan to starve Riverrun out? The latter seemed a little silly given they were on a river.
But winter was coming, and fishing in the cold wasn't very productive, especially when you had to feed hundreds.
"Come away from the window, child."
Arya turned to Maester Vyman, who was holding out a pack for her. Beside him, Gendry already wore his, along with a fresh cloak and thick traveling clothes, perfect for the cooling weather. Her dress had been traded for breeches and rough, wool shirts. They'd even given her sword back, at Ser Brynden's insistence.
Well, she'd been right about that much.
Taking the pack from the maester, Arya slipped it on, feeling more than the weight of the bag burdening her shoulders. She couldn't even mourn her family properly; she had to run again.
A siege was no place for children, he'd said. Especially those as valuable as them.
"I've put enough food inside for a week, more if you ration it right," Vyman explained, turning to Gendry. He gave her friend a small sack. She could hear the jingle of coins inside.
"This is…that's too much," Gendry said as he opened the bag.
Vyman smiled kindly. "We'll have no use for gold here now. Split it amongst the two of you. Hide it. Make certain if someone takes it, you have more somewhere else."
Gendry nodded solemnly, then looked to her. Arya wasn't sure if she was supposed to say something.
The door burst open and Ser Brynden stepped inside.
"Come with me. Now."
They followed her great uncle through the winding halls of Riverrun, descending into the depths of the keep until the air became thick and the walls moist. She could hear the sounds of the river echoing through the stonework.
"You know how to row, boy?" the Blackfish asked as they approached a small opening that led to the river, and from there, to the rest of the Red Fork, and freedom.
"I can learn fast enough."
"Good." Her great uncle stopped before a small rowboat, helping them both inside and untying the rope that kept it in place. "The Freys are a stupid lot. We'll distract them. An arrow and an insult or two ought to do the trick. Wait for a bunch of angry shouts."
Both nodded.
"Follow the river for as long as you can. Row at night, hide during the day," Brynden continued, handing Arya a rolled up piece of parchment. Her thumb traced over the wax seal, feeling the engraved fish. "Whatever happens, do not lose that."
"What is it?" she asked.
"Proof to my niece that you are who you say you are. Go to Lysa in the Eyrie. The Vale is a much safer place than here."
Arya nodded, wondering if she'd get to know this relative for longer than an hour.
"Protect each other."
Then the Blackfish left, leaving them to wait in silence.
Arya had never been in a rowboat before. Clearly, neither had Gendry. It rocked awkwardly as they both attempted to find their balance. Her friend took the oars in both hands, gingerly testing them as she held onto the stones of the castle to keep their boat from moving.
Gendry looked at her. He had seemed less nervous in Harrenhal.
"Do you know how to swim?"
"Yes."
"Well, that makes one of us."
A moment passed, and then they both laughed. Awkward and quiet, it was gone as soon as it started, but they'd needed it. The nerves were a little easier to handle now.
The droning outside suddenly became louder, more prevalent, and that was going to be as good a sign as any.
Slowly, their little rowboat made its way down the river. As soon as they'd cleared Riverrun, the current picked up, allowing Gendry to bring in the oars and lie low with her as they cleared enemy lines.
Arya watched the torches in the distance, surrounding the keep and spreading outward. Men were shouting and laughing. All sorts of animals cried out, wagons creaked, metal hit metal. It was chaos; it was an invasion.
She watched them with narrowed eyes. These were the men who had taken her family from her. Silently, she vowed to herself that she would come back. They wouldn't have Riverrun, one way or the other.
Myra
She had laughed until something heavy had crashed over the back of her head. The world had gone dark – blessedly dark, you can't dream in the dark – and when she came to, it wasn't much brighter. They'd dragged her into the dungeons, where she'd been lying in her uncle's arms for the better part of a day.
He had been smiling and laughing that night, but so had she. Now look at where they were.
She had stood, and suddenly, all the men knelt. Young and old, healthy and on the verge of collapse, the men of the North and the Riverlands, even Edmure, had sworn their fealty to her, to Robb's heir, to their queen.
But had she not done this to them?
Maybe it did not matter. They had nothing left. Who was supposed to succeed her? Edmure?
No, Arya.
Arya.
Stay lost. It is far better than being found.
The Greatjon had asked after his son, and she had told him the truth, sparing no detail.
"That's my son," he'd replied with mirthless laughter. "They'd never defeat him otherwise."
"Is it true?" another had asked. "Is Walder Frey dead?"
Lifeless eyes stared up at her. Her, but not her. His blood seeped into her clothes, but no, not her clothes. She wore blue not green. But she felt him leave, heard his gasp of surprise, saw his body go still.
"Yes. He is dead."
They didn't cheer, but the air felt lighter.
For endless days, they sat in the darkness, coughing and shivering and starving. She watched as men succumbed to their wounds and their bodies were dragged out unceremoniously. The deer her brothers once hunted were treated better. Whenever protest was offered, they received steel for their efforts, but it was less intimidating every time.
The Freys were scared, they could all see it. Even locked away in the darkest corner of the keep, the men of the North still intimidated them.
They wouldn't even look at her.
Men offered her parts of what little food they received, all of which she refused. They were her men now, and their needs came first. They always came first.
But the Greatjon never took no for an answer, and so she ate what he gave her.
Edmure never spoke, no one did, but he never took his eyes off her either.
When it rained, water pooled in every cell. When the wind blew, it somehow made its way into every corner, even though there were perhaps two windows in the entire space. They could barely see, couldn't hear anything outside, and yet they continued on, in the darkness, waiting.
And then he came.
Jaime Lannister.
"Jaime Lannister sends his regards!" she'd shouted at him while he stood there like some kicked dog. He dared to stand there and look her in the eye after everything he had done, after what he had done to her family. "That was what Bolton said as he plunged his sword through my brother, as they killed my good-sister, and my mother! Do not tell me you played no part, Kingslayer!"
And then those sad, green eyes looked at her, pleading, like he had done nothing, as if she would continue to believe all his lies. He'd gotten them all killed and now he wanted her to make him feel better about it, to forgive him like she had with Bran.
That had been her mistake, and this was the price she had paid.
Her hands were still stained in her brother's blood, and she'd claw Jaime's eyes out with them if she could.
"Then I won't," he admitted, defeated.
He cared for you.
No, he didn't. It was a lie. Everything had been a lie. She had thought she knew him, but in the end, she had just fallen into another trap. Her father had been right; her mother had been right; her brother had been right. Never trust a Lannister.
And yet they were dead, and she was here.
Robb.
Talisa.
Mother.
Jaime Lannister sends his regards.
"You have no honor, and you have no heart."
She didn't know what happened after that. Did he leave right away or did he stay and stare some more? She couldn't remember anything. There was just anger and loneliness and a bitter taste left in her mouth. She wanted to cry, and she wanted to shout, but instead she sat in silence and continued to wait, for what, she did not know. The end perhaps. It was all they had been waiting on.
Not an hour later – or perhaps it was minutes, moments, days? – the guards returned, demanding she come with them. Whatever anger her men had felt before at their treatment paled in comparison to the rage that echoed in the small space. They shouted and raved, shook the bars of their cells and made it very clear that their queen would not be going anywhere without their leave.
"You want her, boy?" the Greatjon spat at the guard, whose hand hovered over the lock, uncommitted. "You'll have to go through me."
Jon Umber had been drunk and near unconscious when the fighting began in the Great Hall. He had not been of use to anyone then, and he was certainly not going to make that mistake now.
She watched men on both sides brace themselves. Perhaps the Greatjon could take a guard or two down, perhaps they would leave them be, but there were more men in the wings, waiting. They would get what they wanted eventually, whether or not it came at the cost of her men's lives was up to her.
Her men.
Not Robb's.
Long live the queen!
When Edmure attempted to hide her behind himself, she grabbed his arm and shook her head. "Stand down, Lord Umber. I will go with them."
He hesitated only a moment before stepping aside. "Aye, Your Grace."
That phrase hurt more than anything the Freys could have physically done to her. It made her footing falter slightly as she left the cell, but Myra held her head high. Even if it took all her strength, even if it killed her, she would leave this place with her pride intact. Her men had seen her dragged in. She would not allow them to witness the same again.
Four guards flanked her, none of them men that she knew, as they made their way slowly out of the dungeon and up into the living quarters of the Twins. Their hands, she noticed, all held onto the hilts of their swords.
She made them nervous.
Good.
Hall after hall, their party passed through, silent, but garnering the attention of everyone around. Servants veered away and other guards stiffened at their arrival. Freys narrowed their eyes and whispered curses. They thought her a monster. What vile creatures they were, judging from atop a hill of dead men.
Eventually, they came to a door at the end of one of those halls, flanked by two Lannister guards. One of them knocked on it, and the door opened almost immediately. Brienne stood there, hand on her sword, bronze armor shining in the daylight that streamed through the window.
Behind her, Jaime Lannister rose from a chair.
She waited.
Moments turned to minutes, yet neither of them moved nor spoke. The guards were beginning to eye one another. Feet around her began to shuffle and armor began to make strained noises from the movement, yet she continued to watch him.
Then she took a step forward, and another.
He would never come to meet her, and she just wanted it over with.
The Frey guards left as soon as she crossed the threshold.
Brienne sighed. "My lady, I-"
"Leave us," Myra hissed, glancing at the tall woman beside her. "If he wants to speak to me, then he shouldn't have to cower behind you."
Brienne was clearly taken aback, her mouth opening and shutting awkwardly as she attempted – and failed – to form any sort of response. She looked over at Jaime, who met her gaze, then slowly nodded.
Bowing her head slightly, Brienne left the room, shutting the door behind her. She heard the woman whisper something to the men outside. Several footsteps departed later.
Jaime didn't speak. He just watched her, his shoulders slumped, eyes sullen. In the light of the room – which had left her nearly blinded when she first entered – she could see he was clean for the first time since the inn. He hadn't shaven and his hair was dark, clinging to his head. His armor was too large for him, and his sword was on the wrong side.
She looked to his hand again, the stump – now covered by some dark cloth – that she had cried over. She had mourned the loss of his pride while he had plotted the destruction of her family.
The vile taste returned.
He noticed her scrutiny, and pulled his arm back.
"Why?" she asked eventually. Her voice echoed over the space, a small dining room, with little more than a table and shelves on the walls for candles.
Jaime took a tentative step forward, then another, his left hand raised as if she were some animal ready to flee.
Or attack.
"I thought that maybe if you weren't with your men we could talk more openly," he responded, misunderstanding. He took another step. "I wasn't sure if they knew about-"
The moment he was within reach, Myra slapped him.
Surprised, Jaime stumbled backward, grabbing at his chin. He took a moment, and a breath, composing himself before he stood straight again and looked her in the eye. He'd done that for Robert too.
"Alright," he said.
He looked to her, and she thought he tried to smile.
"'s alright."
Myra slapped him again, harder. Jaime stumbled back a little more, but once again looked back up to her.
So she hit him again.
And again.
She hit him until he fell back against the wall, where she gripped his armor and held him there. He didn't fight it; he felt like a child in her grasp, weak and helpless. She could have thrown him if she wanted.
"Why did you do it?!" Myra cried. "After everything I did, why would you do this to me?!"
"I didn't," he replied flatly.
"How can you say that?" she hissed, gripping the fabric around his neck. "How can you say that while you're here and he's dead? Roose Bolton captured you, and then he stabbed my brother in the heart. He died in my arms, and then they all laughed when they tore him away from me…"
's alright.
Myra.
She bit her cheek until it bled, forcing the sobs down.
"Everyone is gone, and here you stand, free," she continued. "What did you give him for my family's lives?"
"Nothing," he whispered. "I gave him nothing."
She left me with nothing.
"Stop lying to me!" she shouted, hitting his breastplate. "The deed is done. What more do you have to hide behind? You never cared for them, you never cared for what might happen to them, so why should you expect me to believe you!"
"You're right, I don't care about them," Jaime snapped, his green eyes suddenly alive again. "I don't care that they died. I don't care about Roose Bolton gutting your brother or about whichever Frey bastard slit your mother's throat. They could have died in any manner, it makes no difference to me.
"The only Stark I care about is you."
He cared for you.
No.
He cared for you. I could see it.
No!
Myra shouted, reaching for the dagger on his belt. Jaime attempted to grab it from her, but he used the wrong hand, bumping into her wrist with his stump as she lifted it. The tip of the blade hovered over his neck.
Stab or slice, you're bound to get the job done…
He'd told her that, so long ago.
"You don't get to say that!" she wailed, no longer fighting back the tears. "You don't get to say that you care for me, not after this! Not after what you did!"
Jaime no longer tried to move, not with the dagger at his throat. He didn't look nervous about it though; he just stared on with those green eyes, looking through her. There was no pity, only sadness, grief, as if he knew anything of loss.
"I didn't do anything," he maintained, not wavering in the slightest when the dagger pressed against his skin. "Your brother's army was stretched too thin. Roose Bolton knew that, and he also knew that the instant he captured me, he was a target for my father. Harrenhal would burn again before Stark forces marched to save him, so he let me go."
"Then why did he kill my brother?"
"Because my father made him Warden of the North," he replied, voice softening. "I've never lied to you, Myra. The one time I tried, you saw right through me. Don't look at me now and pretend that I am."
He wasn't.
She knew it.
She had known it from the moment he looked at her in the dungeons.
Jaime Lannister had done many terrible things to her family, but this wasn't one of them.
The blade wavered and dropped to the ground with a clang.
"I killed them," she whispered. "I released you, and your father took advantage of it."
Jaime's good hand reached for her arm. "No, Myra, you had nothing to do with-"
"Don't touch me!" she shrieked, slapping his hand away. She stumbled backwards into the table, gripping the edges lest she fell to the floor. Her breath hitched as she felt the walls closing in and the eyes of the dead upon her.
"I loved you," Myra sobbed. "And I lost everything because of it."
Her legs gave out then, and she fell to her knees, then crumpled to the floor. She had no strength, no pride, nothing. She had nothing.
She was briefly aware of his silent presence over her, but Myra did not care how she looked as she sobbed between some chairs in a random room of the Twins. She wasn't there; she wasn't in the Twins or King's Landing or Winterfell.
She was nowhere, and she was alone.
Brienne
She had wondered if leaving the two of them alone had been the wisest course of action. It wasn't that she did not trust Jaime – no, she had grudgingly, and then willingly, accepted that he would never harm the girl – but rather she felt that, for once, he was the one in danger. Myra had a violent look in her eyes, unpredictable, and Jaime was in no position to defend himself. Not because of his missing hand, but because he was likely to allow her to do anything to him.
"Jaime Lannister sends his regards," Brienne had echoed when they were escorted to the meeting room. She expected the Freys were shoving them inside to give the appearance that they would be speaking with them shortly. Meanwhile, they would ignore them and hope someone else would solve the problem. She'd never seen such cowardice in one's own home before. "Did you actually say that?"
"It had been a jest," Jaime admitted, collapsing into the nearest chair with a groan. "Roose Bolton could hardly tell his king that he'd caught and released me."
"Yet he did."
"Yes, well, I wasn't expecting…this."
Brienne took a good, hard look at the man she had been traveling with. They'd been on the road a week, pushing their horses, and what soldiers his father had sent with them – a cavalry unit of maybe twenty – to the edge of their abilities. He hadn't spoken, and when she finally got him to reply to any questions, they were one-worded answers. Jaime had been closed off to her and to the rest of the world, a man bound by one goal: to get to the Twins. He'd seemed so certain then, stiff and commanding, but in the hour they had been in the keep, all that had changed. He looked uncertain now and nervous, smaller.
It felt strange to think it, but Brienne did not like seeing him this way.
"Are you certain you did not know this would happen?"
She already knew the answer, but felt compelled to ask the question anyway. Even if she did not believe that he cared for Myra Stark's wellbeing, there was at least one thing she had come to realize about Jaime Lannister: he preferred to do things himself. The Red Wedding was a concept his mind would have never touched on.
For a man she had considered utterly dishonorable, Jaime was certainly set on his own moral code.
His gaze was hard when he looked up at her.
"I knew nothing."
They didn't speak again before Myra arrived. In the light of the room, well away from the horrors of the dungeons, the girl certainly looked better, physically at least. Most of the blood her clothes sported was clearly not hers, and what few injuries she had received were well on their way to recovery. But her eyes were still dark and her presence felt like a gathering storm. Jaime was about to bear the brunt of something, and yet, she had left them alone.
Like that time in the forest, Brienne felt that whatever was about to transpire between them was something not meant for her or anyone else. It was why she took the guards with her – who had become more prone to listening to her once she'd kicked several of them into the dirt – and did not return until the sun had dipped below the horizon.
Admittedly, she hadn't gone far. Down the stairs and to the left a bit, she spent the hours on a decidedly small bench that she almost had to fall into while her knees came up far too high when she drew them in. She had tried cleaning her sword, but she had done that far too much on their journey. She sharpened her knife, picked at her gauntlets and greaves, accepted a small supper from one of the servants that she was certain a Frey or two had spit in, all the while her body felt on edge.
This was the place. They had murdered everyone here, Lady Catelyn, Robb Stark, and here she sat in their halls eating their food. The men were probably dining in the very place it had happened. Did they know? Did they care?
It was enough to drive a person mad.
It would certainly be enough to keep her from sleeping or even removing her armor during their stay.
As the movement in the corridors died down and the men shuffled away to whatever quarters they had been offered – no Lannister was to stay outside, not after everything they had allowed to happen – Brienne began to grow impatient. Her mind began to play tricks on her, curiously wondering if one of them wasn't dying at that very moment, so she silently cursed and made her way back to the room.
Jaime wasn't inside. He was standing in front of the door instead, his head lowered, shoulders somehow lower than before. The stump was resting on the hilt of his sword, while his left hand gripped his belt where a dagger used to be.
His eyes met hers as she approached, and Brienne was struck by the emotion in them, both the sheer amount and the fact he showed her at all.
Jaime Lannister was a changed man; she knew that. The loss of his hand had done things to him that he wouldn't even admit to, to the point of ignorance. But if that had broken him, then whatever had transpired in that room had utterly shattered what remained.
"What are you doing?" she asked, voice quiet. Anything more than a whisper might topple the man over.
"Standing guard."
His voice wasn't much louder.
"You have men to do that for you."
"I don't trust them."
"Then I'll stand guard. You should get some rest. I don't recall you ever actually sleeping on our journey here, and you're practically falling over now."
"I'm fine," Jaime countered, attempting – and failing – to stand a little straighter. "I need to be here; I need to protect her."
She sighed, looking the man over. Conventional methods of persuasion never did seem to work on Lannisters.
Brienne gave his leg a sharp kick. Jaime crumpled to the ground without the barest attempt to save himself. Instead, he just shrank against the threshold, head held up by the door behind him. He'd hit it on his way down. Perhaps it would knock some sense into him.
Jaime looked at her, betrayed, but did not verbally protest, which might have been the most concerning thing she had encountered thus far. Not caring what Myra did to him was one thing; not caring what she did was certainly another.
He sighed then, closing his eyes. "You know, she never called me that before."
"What?"
"Kingslayer," Jaime replied, with a tone that she had come to realize was reserved for that word alone. "Not once. She cared more about what Jaime Lannister had to say rather than the Kingslayer.
"Everyone loved that word. Kingslayer. It made them all better than me. Never mind that half the country hated Aerys Targaryen and would not have given a second thought to shoving their own sword through his gut, I was the one who did it, and thus I was the despicable person. But she didn't care about that. She fought Robert over it; she fought her father over it, and now I've killed another king in her honor."
Brienne blinked. "You had nothing to do with this."
Jaime chuckled, mirthless. "I shoved that dagger into her brother's heart the instant I let her betray him for me."
She paused.
"You're in love with her, aren't you?"
He opened his eyes again.
"Yes."
She had suspected for some time. When the men told her Jaime had immediately given up his position in the Kingsguard to save her, Brienne knew she was right, yet saying the words out loud was something else entirely. It gave this man that she had hated a depth that she would have otherwise never admitted that he had. Suddenly her world was no longer bound by blacks and whites, but had come undone, muddled into gray. Weddings were massacres and dishonorable men loved something so fiercely that they gave up everything.
Admittedly, it left her confused, and for once, she wasn't quite certain what path to take.
A servant girl happened to pass at that moment, eying them cautiously.
"You there, excuse me," she offered, trying to sound pleasant, but it was hard to in such a place. "Please escort Ser Jaime to his chambers. And when you've finished, I'd like you to run a bath for the Lady Myra."
The girl blinked, then nodded. "At once, my…uh, lady."
Brienne barely suppressed the urge to roll her eyes as she offered her hand to the man below her. "Get up."
Jaime seemed taken aback by the harshness of her tone, but complied nonetheless, grabbing her hand with his good one. He didn't even have to try to stand, she all but yanked him off the ground herself.
"Leave. Now."
Soundly defeated, Jaime could only nod pathetically and follow the girl down the hall.
Then Brienne turned to the door.
A single candle was lit on the table, but the walls of the room were light and the glow persisted farther than it should have. Seated before it was Myra. She stared into the tiny flame while her hands turned Jaime's dagger over and over again.
"I tried to kill him," the girl admitted, her voice distant and weak, a far cry from her earlier self. "I had the blade pressed to his neck. All I had to do was push a little harder, and he would have let me."
"Do you want to kill him?"
"No…yes…no…" Myra tossed the words back and forth, neither sounding particularly convincing. "Robb was right. I've had my family all my life, yet after a few months, I chose Jaime over them. Even now that they're dead, I still chose him over them. I hate him, and I still chose him."
Myra didn't hate Jaime. The emotion in her voice said it all. It was the voice of a woman in love, and who hated the fact that she couldn't fall out of it.
Brienne knew the feeling all too well.
"My lady," she started, crossing over to the other side of the table. "I admit, I did not know your brother well, but I cannot imagine he would want you to do such a thing. Your mother certainly wouldn't. They would rather you spare a life than kill for them."
"I thought that was true for so long," Myra said, placing the dagger down. "All my life, I have been the kind child. I hated pain. I hated suffering. I hated death. If it was within my power, I would stop conflict and violence. Words and reason, those were the key to keeping peace, to changing minds.
"But I was wrong, and the world showed me that. It showed me in King's Landing, it showed me when I was on the run, but I kept forgetting, I kept hoping, but no more.
"The only way to get anything in this world is to kill for it."
.
.
.
God, emotions suck.
Questions:
Guest1995: And the next chapter takes place right after the prologue? And Lady Stoneheart has risen? How will Myra react when she finds out?
Well, I think I got the first one for you. As for the last part...well, she's certainly not going to take it well. I mean, if my mom turned into a nearly headless zombie, I wouldn't exactly throw her a 'welcome back' party.
Guest: How did Jaime have a part in the Red Wedding? Just because he sent his regards he didn't even know what was going to happen. Like take a chill pill Myra, the man has saved you more times than I can count.
Look, when you think about it, yes, it's obvious that Jaime has nothing to do with it. That said, when you're covered in blood, watching your family get murdered, and a dude stabs your brother in the heart, logic ain't exactly going to stick around. She knows that:
1. Roose Bolton had captured Jaime.
2. Roose Bolton is currently stabbing her brother.
3. Roose Bolton is saying the name of the dude he had captured whilst stabbing said brother.
I think she gets a pass here.
Holly: Did she warg? She didn't, did she?!
I think I answered this last chapter. (My notes aren't completely useless now)
Boba Fett: This is my favouite Asoiaf fic to date!
OH MY GOD, BOBA FETT READS MY FANFICTION. CAN I HAVE YOUR AUTOGRAPH?
Also, dude, not cool with the Han Solo thing.
Guest: I just visited your tumblr to check out your story stuff there, and was wondering what show/movie it was that you got Myra's scenes from for the trailer.
I use Adelaide Kane for Myra, most notably from the show Reign (Yes, I know, Mary is an anagram of Myra - no, I didn't get her name from the show. She existed before I was even aware of it. This is just an unfathomable coincidence).
Reign is...well, if you're looking for good historical fiction...look further. MUCH further. My historical expertise isn't the Tudor Period, but it's really not hard to tell how badly they treated history. I mean, it's the CW, I shouldn't expect much anyway.
Sorry, soapboxing.
And hey, AllisonParks, no skipping lectures!
