I apologize for how long this chapter has taken. Every once in a while, I hit a wall. It's because of a couple things really. One, I feel the last chapter is really one of my best and following that up is difficult to say the least. Nothing ever felt right, and even now I'm a bit out of sorts with it. And second, I think season eight has left a bigger impact on me than I thought. This story is far bigger than I thought it would be (I WAS ON BUZZFEED?) so I feel this immense pressure to do it right and to do the story the justice that D&D clearly did not give Game of Thrones. It's not necessarily pressure from you as readers. I just naturally put far too much pressure on myself as a person. (I have spent days agonizing how I'm going to play up the Night King angle and Daenerys and what happens with Jon. You have no idea)
Going off of that, I am so incredibly glad that many of you have embraced this story after everything that has happened. You are all so wonderful to me, and I don't mean to sound like an utter wreck.
Also, did anyone else join the Jaime Lannister is Alive Clown Club?
Oh, and quick thing: I have a poll set up for this story. I'm trying to figure out everyone's favorite moments from AVWH. So, if you would like to participate, I have a link to the poll on my Tumblr or if you have an account here, I have a poll on my page. I can see a few of you found it already. I'll keep it open for the next week or so.
Enjoy!
Chapter Forty-Seven
The Shift
Jaime
He didn't sleep that night.
He'd slept the entire day away, after all, but that wasn't really the reason why Jaime kept a silent vigil through the early hours of the morning.
Ever since he was a child, Jaime had spent the night alone. He'd never taken any other women to bed before, and attempting to do so with Cersei had come with the threat of discovery and execution.
So, even for him, there were certain things he was not accustomed to.
He'd never known the sensation of a body lying next to his for hours on end. His mind never touched on the thought of holding someone in his arms for longer than a few moments, on the idea that he had the choice not to let them go. The concept of lying in bed with the woman he loved without fear of being caught was completely foreign to him.
But things were different now. Myra had changed everything, and Jaime found himself completely unwilling to sleep through it all.
So, he held her throughout the night, feeling her back rise and fall against his chest, listening as she murmured softly in her sleep, and distantly waiting for it all to disappear.
When she had first come to him, Jaime had thought it was all a dream. Gods, he had never expected the woman to forgive him, much less apologize herself. It felt like a wicked game, a cruel trick his mind was playing on him, but here he was, holding her, and there she was, never disappearing.
Was happiness such a difficult thing to believe in?
Happiness.
It was a strange word to him, and perhaps a stranger sensation. Describing himself as happy hadn't been something he liked to do, as if the word itself made him recoil and to be described as such made him all the weaker. He supposed that could be blamed on his father. Tywin Lannister had never encountered a greater enemy than a smile he could not be rid of. He'd certainly tried to kill it in all of his children.
Perhaps that was why Tyrion smiled as often as he could, even if he wasn't truly happy.
Funny how it didn't feel like such a weakness now. The longer he held her, the more capable he felt. Even the loss of his hand paled against the sensation of holding her in his arms. Suddenly, everything was far less terrible, and the past several weeks were nothing more than a bad dream, and Myra Stark was completely unaware of the affect she had.
Or so he thought.
"You're thinking too loudly," her muffled voice called out, heavy with sleep.
Jaime couldn't help but chuckle, resting his head on the crook of her neck. "Am I now?"
She hummed in reply.
"Can you tell me what I'm thinking?" he asked, kissing the soft spot beneath her ear.
Gods, he could do this all the time now, couldn't he? The thought almost made him giddy. Giddy. Here he was, Ser Jaime Lannister, the famed Kingslayer, reduced to little more than an overjoyed boy. Seven hells, there were actual boys who had gotten to do more than him, who had always had more freedom than him, and somehow he had once thought himself their better.
Myra turned in his grasp, putting an end to both his musings and efforts.
"You're thinking that if you distract me, I won't ask about what you're really thinking of."
Jaime paused. "You are far too good at this, Myra Stark."
"Perhaps you're just too easy to read, Ser Jaime."
He sighed, flopping onto his back. Myra followed, lying on top of his chest. Her right hand began to gently stroke the scar on his shoulder, a little ceremony he doubted was going to leave any time soon. She'd done it before she had fallen asleep earlier as well.
She wasn't going to ask. He knew that, and she knew that he knew. Perhaps he was easy to read, but Jaime was beginning to understand her just as well. Maybe they had always understood one another well, for whatever unexplainable reason, but he'd denied it, because people weren't like her, people weren't like Myra Stark.
There was no one like her, and there was no one like him.
Seven hells, that was pathetic.
Myra laughed softly. "You look positively disgusted with yourself."
"You don't want to know."
She smiled at him, though it melted away quickly as she continued touching that scar. Her eyes watched her work, and he watched her, noting all the little emotions that played on her face.
"I can still see them," she said, lifting her hand from his scar. Jaime turned to see her fingers hovering just over the spot. "It's like I can touch them, those little barbs piercing the skin. I'd never been so scared in all my life."
She placed her hand back down, frowning.
"What happens now, Jaime?"
He glanced around the room. "We leave, and we deal with everything. Together."
"Together," Myra echoed, smiling slightly. It made him want to touch her, and so he did, because he could, lifting his hand to cup her face. "The Stark and the Lannister."
"Stanger things have happened."
"Not much stranger."
Jaime felt his eyebrows lift. "I seem to recall being saved by three giant wolves once."
She shrugged, her smile playful as she leaned closer. "That's not strange."
"You Starks are strange," he whispered, his body tensing at her proximity. Gods, he wanted her. He would never stop wanting her.
"That's not entirel-"
Myra never got to finish her sentence as he pulled her down and kissed her.
He loved everything about this woman, how she tasted, how she reacted to him, how she both gave herself to him and took control. It wasn't a battle of wills or a race against time; it was just them. No politics, no families, no one but them.
How long had he wanted this? How long had he thought he did have it?
Loving Myra Stark taught him that he'd never known love. He'd known what it was like to love someone else, but what they gave him in return was not the same, it was not what she gave him.
How had he ever thought to be satisfied with what he had before?
Myra pulled away briefly, breathless, flushed, her eyes dark. To think he had once believed she was nothing more than another lady caught up in her propriety. She'd certainly proved him wrong.
"Let's never leave this room," she whispered. "The realm won't miss us."
Jaime kissed her again, slowly but with no less passion, rolling them both over in the process.
It was a nice dream, though nothing more than that. They would have to face the consequences sooner rather than later.
But for now, he thought, for now it was okay to dream.
The morning was nearly spent by the time Jaime left his room. He hadn't meant to take so long, but every time either he or Myra began to put their clothes on, the other would immediately try to take them back off again.
It had been one part joy and one part avoidance, but in the end, reality had won.
Myra had diligently dedicated herself to buttoning his tunic all the way up, effectively trapping him. She refused to undo them, and he had neither the strength nor dexterity to be rid of them. He'd actually laughed at his fumbling attempts.
She had grabbed his hand. "We have to go."
He'd nodded, but said nothing on it, unwilling to agree to the matter out loud.
At that moment, Myra had grabbed his stump, kissing it once more. Though the nerves were deadened, Jaime thought he could feel it still, somehow. He'd certainly felt it the day before, more so than anything in his life. All the pain he had endured over the years, the scorn, the misery, the interludes of nothingness, and the brief moments of joy, none of it had compared to what he felt then.
He had felt nothing. Everything he held onto, every memory, every trauma, every vile word, Myra had taken on those burdens in that moment and held them for him. She had taken his resistance as well, and that was why he cried for the first time since his mother died.
When her lips began to tremble, Myra released him and walked to the door. She had given him one last lingering look before disappearing.
It had taken every ounce of strength he possessed to keep from repeating her.
Stay.
She would have listened, he knew, and where would they be now?
Seven hells, he missed being the Jaime Lannister who didn't have to worry about everything and everyone.
Well, the ability, not so much the man.
She'd liked that man too.
Jaime shook his head, wandering through the corridors with two guards in tow. He ran his hand through his hair, still marveling at how short it was. It hadn't been that short since…some time before he became a knight. It made him feel older than he wanted, but he was also able to avoid seeing how changed it had become, how gray.
Time was something he'd never been able to fight, now matter how good with a bloody sword he was.
He found Tyrion sitting at a table out on a balcony, overlooking the pools below while drinking Dorne's famed wine. His squire, Podrick, a simple lad but he aimed to please, was bouncing on the balls of his feet in the shade just inside the doorway, his skin already tinged pink. It'd be red before sundown.
And the famed Ser Bronn of the Blackwater – he'd certainly come a long way from pissing off lords and ladies in the Eyrie – was seated as well, his feet kicked upon the table and a deep, purple bruise ornamenting his eye.
The mighty Tywin Lannister had sent these men to bring his heir back to King's Landing.
Perhaps the gods are real, Jaime thought. It's too clever a jest for pure happenstance.
"Ser Bronn," Tyrion started, glancing up at Jaime from his glass. "You have keen eyes. Tell me, does my brother seem overjoyed to you?"
So it begins.
"Man's damn near floating," Bronn replied, watching him with his bright eyes. He doubted the man missed a detail. "Doesn't much look like your brother anymore, though."
"No, not really," Tyrion agreed, squinting at him. "It's the hair. We Lannisters used to be a blonde lot."
"The Stark's gone and turned him Northern."
Jaime sighed, eying the man. "And who decided to turn you into that?"
Bronn shrugged, wincing slightly as he touched the tender area of his eye. "One of Oberyn's bastards. Called her a fair looking boy. What's her name? Omara?"
"Obara," Podrick piped up from inside.
"That's it."
Jaime looked between his brother and the former sellsword.
"She punched you because you called her a boy?"
"No, she kicked me for that. She punched me for saying that if I fucked her with my eyes closed, I might enjoy her more than her sister."
Tyrion shook his head.
Jaime took a seat, reaching for a goblet. Podrick quickly shuffled into the sun to pour the drink for him before promptly disappearing back into the shade.
He drank deeply.
"My father thought you'd make a good knight?"
Of course he did. The bloody Mountain was a knight, and what did that man do but rape and pillage his way across the countryside? Tywin Lannister had only ever been interested in effective men, and if making them knights made them more loyal, then so be it.
"Ser Bronn, if you could kindly leave us. My brother and I have much to discuss," Tyrion spoke before his counterpart could reply. The former sellsword frowned, but complied. "You too, Podrick. Go find a dark room and pray to the Seven that the sun doesn't find you."
"Yes, milord."
"And I don't mean that literally."
"…of course, milord."
Jaime felt his lips curve upward.
"That!" Tyrion shouted. He'd been in the process of drinking his wine, and nearly emptied the goblet onto the table as he pointed at him. "That is what I don't recognize. You don't smile for anyone, Jaime. Anyone who's not family, that is. You should have rolled your eyes with thinly veiled disgust while commenting on how the standards for squires have reached a remarkably new low. Instead, you're grinning like he's a puppy who's just tripped over his own feet."
It was a strangely apt description.
"Are you saying you don't recognize me because I'm not being a terrible person?"
"Yes!"
Jaime found himself briefly speechless at the idea, before he began to chuckle, long and deep. In fact, he found that he couldn't stop. Tyrion looked mortified, until his face melted into a smile and he began to laugh as well.
And there sat the two sons of Tywin Lannister, laughing and smiling in the morning sun of Dorne.
After they both fell silent, it remained that way for longer than Jaime was comfortable with, but he had never been good at starting conversations. That was Cersei's role, that was Tyrion's. He was just the one spoken at, not to.
His good hand grasped the wine pitcher. He wondered if he wouldn't be drunk by the time this was all through.
"I take it you bedded her then."
Wine spilled all over the table, and nearly across the ground as Jaime rapidly tried to steady the container. Doing so one-handed was proving steadily more difficult for him, until Tyrion hopped down from his chair and grabbed the pitcher himself. His little brother gave him a look that he reserved for the most pathetic of creatures. The last time Jaime had seen it, they were in the presence of their cousin.
Seven hells, was he really no better than Lancel?
"That would be a yes," Tyrion continued, placing the wine out of his reach. Jaime watched him return to his seat, eying him all the while. "You know, your cock's gotten us into more trouble than any cock has a right to."
Jaime felt his eyes go wide, and briefly felt the urge to hit his little brother. "That's enough joking, Tyrion."
"Do I sound like I'm laughing?"
He could practically hear the unspoken words, the ones his brother would not dare say because he wasn't a fool.
Where would the realm be if Jaime Lannister stopped fucking women he shouldn't?
He groaned, but said nothing.
"Don't get me wrong, Jaime. I'm happy for you. Beneath this roughly handsome and disappointed looking exterior is a little brother who is overjoyed for you. You've found someone to love who loves you back equally so. It's all you've ever wanted, I think, though whether or not you deserve it is up for question."
Tyrion took a drink from his wine. Jaime had felt older, but he hadn't realized how much his little brother had aged too. Had he been so blind this whole time?
"But one of us," his brother continued, placing his goblet back down. "Has to pay attention to the consequences of our family's actions. Clearly neither you nor Cersei are willing to do so, thus the burden falls to me. Funny how Father calls me the irresponsible one."
Jaime sighed. "Tyrion, I-"
"Don't apologize. You're terrible at it," his brother said, cutting him off. "You've always meant well, in one way or another, but stopping and thinking about your well-meaning has never been one of your strong suits.
"But it is one of mine."
Tyrion gave him a hard look, one that told Jaime to keep quiet and listen. His brother looked very much like their father at that moment. It was a little unsettling.
"Father already has a reason to not keep Myra Stark alive: she is her brother's heir, formally acknowledged by her men as the Queen in the North. It doesn't matter how many decrees Joffrey signs or how many men are flayed, she will always have the better claim to Winterfell than the Boltons, not to mention the Riverlands.
"And that is also the only reason she is alive. She is a threat to the Boltons, and a means of keeping them in line. Play along, and perhaps she is removed from the picture. Be loyal, and maybe she makes a suitable bride to solidify their claim. Of course, Sansa might have proven useful as well, but none of the men know her. Her validity would have always been questioned, not to mention removing her from Dorne would cause more problems than it would resolve.
"However, things are more…complicated now."
Grabbing his goblet, Jaime downed the thing in one go.
He didn't want to hear it; he didn't want to hear any of it. Everything Tyrion said, Jaime knew he needed to hear, but it made an anger boil deep within him. His ghost hand was clenching again, ready to lash out at the next person who chanced upon him.
Protecting Myra Stark was the one thing he was supposed to do, and loving her was beginning to undo that.
"Roose Bolton will hear about this, because everyone hears about these sort of things. He could demand reparation. Myra Stark is a ruined woman. It makes no matter if he wed her to his son a month or a year from now, there would always be whispers that his heir's child is likely 'the Kingslayer's bastard.' Doesn't matter the validity of the claim, it evens the playing field.
"He could also use the information to destabilize her position amongst the Northmen. She's a traitor. He already knows she released you, but proving it would have been difficult, until now. Suddenly, a Bolton at Winterfell isn't such a terrible thing, next to a Lannister whore."
Jaime slammed his fist against the table, knocking over both their goblets. They rolled across the table, falling to the ground with a clatter, immediately forgotten.
His vision was swimming, pulsing red. Had he been armed, the sword would have been in his grasp, perhaps as well as he had done at the Twins, his anger was so consuming.
Hearing those things said about Myra was one thing, but in such a casual fashion was another. He knew Tyrion was only trying to explain the situation – he had to – but it cut worse than any wound he had taken on the road. The loss of her home, the loss of the trust of men who had known Myra her entire life, all because she had chosen to be with him. Men who would die for loyalty would be strangely quick at tossing it aside.
And his bastard?
Jaime took a breath.
Tyrion was watching him, he knew, worried, for himself mostly. He couldn't blame his little brother in the slightest.
"The point is, Jaime," he started again, voice quieter and slow. "Myra Stark is no longer useful. Joffrey already wants her dead, and Father will be less inclined to stop him, so, the situation must be remedied.
"You can't take her to Casterly Rock. Uncle Kevan has no doubt been ordered to bar the gate upon your arrival. She can't stay here. It puts both you and Dorne at risk. There is always the possibility of sending her to Essos. Give her some money, find a small manse for her to run until everything has blown over. She might be happy there, away from everything."
"She won't go," Jaime said, his voice strained. "Not with her men locked away and her home in ruins."
"I thought as much," Tyrion admitted. There was almost a respectful tone in his voice. "Which leaves one other option, although it may just succeed in making everything worse."
"And that is?"
"We take her with us to King's Landing."
Jaime wasn't accustomed to hearing his brother say idiotic things. Terribly timed, ill-humored bouts, certainly, but nothing that he could genuinely say was a terrible idea in the long run. But this sounded like one of those moments.
"And to her death!" Jaime shouted, as if he needed the volume to get it through his brother's thick skull. Joffrey wouldn't even put her on trial. He'd bring Ilyn Payne straight to the gate to meet her.
"Not if we play it right," Tyrion countered. "Father has his heir back, but the family legacy is not yet secured, and what better way to protect Myra than to ensure that it is?"
Jaime played his brother's words over and over again in his mind, slowly understanding.
Seven hells…
Arya
She tried to kill the Hound that first night.
It would not have been hard, she told herself. She had killed before. Didn't matter that Sandor Clegane was bigger, he was still just a man and all men died the same. Gendry would understand.
He had to.
Turns out, Gendry understood all too well. As soon as she made a move that evening with Needle in hand, when she thought he had fallen asleep ages ago, he stood up, crossing his arms and watching her.
"Go on then," he had said.
Arya didn't think he was going to stop her. He wasn't even standing between her and the Hound – the man was to her right lying against a tree while Gendry was on her left – but it felt as if a wall had gone up, as high as the one Jon had gone to protect. It was the disappointment in his eyes that had done it. She didn't like that.
So, she hesitated.
The Hound began to chuckle, because of course he'd been awake the whole time.
"Let her have a go. See if she can't stick me like that butcher's boy."
"You, shut up!" Gendry had shouted, pointing at him. Somewhere behind him, Nymeria snarled.
Arya had begun to move toward him in earnest then, and that was when Gendry decided to step forward. He didn't touch her, but stood close enough that she was forced to stop.
"Kill him and you kill us," he'd whispered. "Is vengeance any good to you if you're dead?"
Gendry had stared her down for a while before sitting in front of their dwindling fire. Maybe he was still giving her a choice; maybe he already knew he had won.
Arya had sat across from him, and had not bothered trying since.
The days passed slowly. Everything was the same bleak colors: grays and dark greens and browns. She only saw the sun when it was setting and only saw people when they were already dead. The Riverlands had been run through by the Lannisters, and then by Stark soldiers, and then the Lannisters again. The only people who remained where the ones who would never be able to leave again.
They passed homes that had been looted, other that had been put to the torch, worn down fields and remains of camps with cold fires and abandoned weapons marking the shallow graves.
The Hound never spoke, which was fine by her, choosing to walk ahead by several paces. Nymeria was never far away, ever watchful. Sometimes she would get too close for his liking and he'd snarl at her. She used to think it was stupid. Now she didn't care.
Gendry was quiet too, and that was the part that bothered her. Even since that night, his words were few and far between, mostly grunts – she was completely surrounded by animals, wasn't she? – and Arya struggled to find the cause. She wondered if it was her, and then she wondered if she was more concerned for him or herself.
She always felt bad after that.
It was at dusk, when she was cleaning Needle again – a nightly ritual despite not dirtying it – that Arya realized the true reason behind his silence.
"You've never killed anyone before, have you?"
Maybe she had just assumed. After everything they had gone through, how could Gendry have not killed anyone yet? Harrenhal may have been Jaqen's work, but they'd had the fight with Amory Lorch's men. Hadn't he killed someone then? She'd been too busy helping the prisoners to notice. By the time she had caught up, it was all over.
Perhaps she had been the only one to kill someone: that boy in the stables, fat and stupid and now dead.
She'd forgotten about him.
Gendry jumped at that, glancing around the trees like he was terrified of the Hound's judgment.
But Sandor Clegane wasn't around. He'd wandered off to take a piss or find firewood or something, Nymeria following his every move all the while of course. Not that it really mattered. He wasn't going to leave; he wasn't even their prisoner. She just said that to feel better about not killing him. But he wanted the reward that would come from delivering them safely to the Vale. Money was how you got men to listen when they didn't fear you.
"I…no," Gendry finally admitted, running his hand through his hair. It had grown longer and was starting to get into his eyes. His beard still refused to grow further though. "I tried to kill one of those soldiers back when we were with Yoren, but all I managed to do was piss him off."
She ran her cloth across Needle again, feeling for any imperfections in the steel. Polliver had kept it in surprisingly good condition. Perhaps all he really did was pick his teeth with it.
"Back in King's Landing, when you told Hot Pie you'd already killed someone, I just thought you were trying to intimidate him," Gendry continued, filling his waterskin at the creek that lazily wound its way through the trees. "But you weren't lying, were you?"
Arya shook her head, placing Needle down gently. "I didn't mean to. I just stood up and…stuck him with the pointy end."
Gendry smirked briefly, before his face melted back into that serious façade he'd been carrying the past couple days.
"How'd it feel?"
For once, Arya paused and thought about what to say. He was looking for an answer she didn't really have.
"I don't know," she said eventually. "I was too busy running from the Red Keep. It happened, and then it was over. Same thing with the man at the inn."
He nodded. "I should say that's bloody terrifying, but really I'm just jealous of you right now."
"You shouldn't be," Arya admitted, picking at some leaves on the forest floor. "It's just hard to care when you've got no one left."
Gendry didn't say anything at first. Like most boys, he wasn't really good at this. She wasn't either, but her mother had been, and Myra. They would know what to say, but they weren't here; they were never going to be here.
"Well, I'm not going anywhere," he said suddenly. Arya looked up, watching Gendry blink as he began to decipher what he just said. "Not that I really matter but I won't go. When we get to the Vale, that is. I'll stay. If you want…that…is…"
Arya snorted and toss a twig in his direction, breaking the awkward silence that would have fallen.
She was about to say something – though she didn't know what – when she heard the sound of horses in the distance and the rumbling of their hooves.
The two blinked at one another before standing abruptly, running toward the sound.
They had picked the creek bed to settle that night because it sat in a small ravine, mostly likely carved out from the recent rains and mudslides. Being just within the tree line, it was well hidden from most passersby, but the fields just beyond still posed a small risk, one that was significantly enlarged by the sudden appearance of a small host riding across the plains.
Arya and Gendry peeked their heads over the edge of the ravine, the former having to climb while the latter had to stoop.
"There's got to be at least fifty mounted men," Gendry whispered, watching as the men came to a halt. Calls went up for campfires. "Where did they come from? Why are they here?"
Her eyes squinted, catching sight of one of the banners.
A flayed man.
House Bolton.
Arya felt her heart jump into her throat as she scanned the sea of men rushing about the field. Those had been her brother's men once. They'd fought beside him, called him their king, and now they were running around free and unafraid while her family was dead.
The men parted suddenly, revealing the one she had been searching for. She'd know his face anywhere. He had come to Winterfell once back when Myra was going to marry his son. His cold expression had frightened Bran and Rickon and even Sansa – though she never admitted it – but not her. She'd gone straight to her older sister and said she'd stab him if she wanted her to.
Myra had laughed at that, and insisted that she would be fine.
She wasn't used to her sister being wrong.
"That's Roose Bolton," Arya said, her voice calm and even despite how her hands were shaking.
"What?"
"He's the one who betrayed Robb. He's the one who-"
Without realizing, Arya had begun to climb out of the ravine, only for Gendry to grip her shoulders and rip her away from the edge. She hit the ground hard, the air briefly knocked from her lungs.
"Are you insane?" Gendry hissed, keeping his voice low. "Do you see how many men are out there? You'll be dead before you make it two feet."
"He killed Robb. I have to-"
"What? You have to die too? Look me in the eye and convince me you can make it to Roose Bolton, kill him, and make it back without dying, getting caught, or getting me caught."
Arya opened her mouth to object, but no words came. He had a point. She didn't like that he had one, but he had it nonetheless.
Footsteps above caught their attention.
Quickly and quietly, Gendry and Arya moved against the wall of the ravine, pushing themselves as close to it as they could, and pulling their legs in. Dirt and patches of grass fell onto their heads and shoulders.
Up and to their left, Arya glimpsed a lone Bolton soldier looking over the area. His head would only bob into view every now and again, the tips of his boots just reaching the edge.
She glanced back forward when she heard the sound of his trousers being undone. A stream of piss followed soon after, maybe a foot from Gendry. Arya could feel him leaning closer to her.
They waited.
When the man finally finished, Arya hoped he would be on his way. Instead, she heard him mumble something and felt her heart drop. They hadn't had much at their camp yet, but the water skins were out near the creek, as were their swords, and he'd seen them.
Rather than call out, the soldier dropped down into the ravine, just in front of them. He walked to their little camp and they watched, both unarmed, both too shocked at the whole thing to move.
The man lifted Needle, marveling at how small it was like everyone else she'd run across.
That was when he turned and saw them.
They watched him.
He watched them.
Slowly, the soldier put his free hand up, while lowering Needle with the other. He stood and walked toward them like they were about to bolt. She watched his eyes glance at the top of the ravine, searching for anyone else. His eyes were green.
"It's alright," the man whispered. He didn't seem much older than Robb. "I won't tell anyone. I won't-"
The blade of a sword pierced through his chest, the blood so thick it was nearly black.
The boy might have called out with a dying breath, but the Hound clasped his gloved hand over his mouth until all his movement stopped. Then he let go, and the soldier's body slid off his sword and fell face first into the dirt. Nymeria immediately ran in after, grabbing his leg and dragging him off.
"The fuck are the two of you doing?" the Hound asked as he glanced up as well. "You want to get captured again?"
Gendry jumped to his feet, running to grab their things. Arya watched as Nymeria flipped the body over.
Why did the soldier suddenly look like Micah?
Myra
She realized there was something inherently wrong with her hesitation to see Sansa. Her brothers and sisters meant everything to her, after all, and she would do anything for them, and yet the prospect of speaking to her now struck her with the strangest sort of fear. The fear of being judged or being found a disappointment, yet she had not felt that way when contending with her brother.
But I'm in his position now, aren't I? she thought. We truly were cut from the same cloth.
Myra took a breath, pausing in her journey through the gardens. She fiddled with her hands, waiting for the image of Robb to fade. Past tense was a dreadful sort of thing, and it only strengthened her desire to return to Jaime's room and hide from the world again.
It was the first time she hadn't dreamt, lying in his arms through the night. He'd held her tightly, wrapping her in a warmth and security she had not thought possible since nearly everything had been taken from her. She knew he had been doing it for himself as much as for her, and there was also a sort of comfort to be found in that. It was not so hard to discover yourself so desperately dependent on a person when that person needed you just as much.
She'd fled from one sanctuary to another, and deep down she knew that somehow everything had been made much worse in the process.
Caught in her musings, Myra did not notice she was no longer alone on the path.
When Brienne and Olyvar strayed too close, she nearly jumped, only just managing to catch herself. She smiled upon seeing them properly, and though she was genuinely happy to see Dorne had treated them well, somehow the action still felt forced.
"My lady," Brienne breathed, glancing her over as if she was staring at a different woman. She probably was. "I have not seen you in some time, at least not so…"
Brienne flushed as she tried to think of a proper answer.
"Unburdened," Olyvar offered with a nod.
Myra nodded back, unable to answer properly right away. She couldn't remember seeing them during the course of her stay here, and briefly she was frightened by how she might have been, but neither party seemed offended. If anything, they were relieved by her sudden change in appearance.
"Time has been kind to me," Myra replied, sounding diplomatic. It felt so terribly strange attempting the most basic of conversations, like her tongue was about to trip all over the words. "To you as well, I see."
And it had. The boy looked darker than she remembered, as did Brienne. It seemed they had been training often in the harsh sun, but both seemed fairly thankful for it. Brienne appeared more relaxed, while Olyvar was less nervous.
They'd traded their sturdy armor for leathers and lighter clothing, the browns and yellows and oranges that dictated Dornish attire. It suited them.
Brienne nodded slowly, her off hand fingers strumming along the hilt of her sword. She had something to say.
"Olyvar," the woman started. "Could you give us a moment?"
Her brother's squire – or was he hers now? – nodded slowly, continuing down the path.
A long moment of silence passed.
"Have you gone to see Ser Jaime?" she asked, the tone in her voice conveying that she already knew the answer. But she had to hear it herself. She supposed they all did.
"Yes," Myra admitted, playing with her hands again. Her face felt warm. "Yesterday."
Why was something that made her so happy so difficult to speak of now?
"And today?"
She lifted her chin, feeling that small bit of defiance return to her. "And today."
Brienne didn't say anything at first, though Myra could see so many emotions playing in her bright blue eyes. She had never been good at lying, but she suspected the woman had never wanted to be. She was virtuous in a way that should not have been possible anymore.
How she wished her father could have met Brienne of Tarth.
"I am the last person to judge you. All my life, others looked down on me for my appearance and my choices, but you, just as your mother, did no such thing. My actions and words dictated your view of me and nothing else," Brienne said, her lip trembling slightly. She supposed the woman was not quite used to being so open with anyone. "But allow me to worry for you, my lady. We are in a dangerous place now. We cannot trust anyone."
Myra smiled softly at the compassion that Brienne gave her, but rather than fill her with relief, she felt a sort of dread pool in the pit of her stomach. Now was not the time for swords and vows. It was for words and political battles and knives in the dark that a woman of honor would never expect.
"I trust us," she said eventually. "For now, that will have to be enough."
Sansa was sitting beside a fountain, running her hand across the water's surface. She seemed so much more serious now, more contemplative. Her little sister had grown in her absence, and not in a way she would have liked. How she must have suffered all this time, and how lonely she must have felt.
Myra felt the guilt gnawing away at her. She could remember that brief moment of joy when they had been reunited, but then the grief had consumed her once more. Sansa had been taking care of her all this time, when it had been her job for so many years, and she deserved to have her older sister back properly.
Instead, she had fled to Jaime; instead she had chosen a Lannister over her little sister.
It was a familiar feeling.
Sansa took notice of her scrutiny, glancing up and offering a brief smile. It did not reach her eyes, however. She wondered if her sister properly smiled anymore.
Slowly, Myra made her way to the fountain, taking a seat beside her sister and watching as the water streamed beside them. She wondered if she had seen any fountains in King's Landing; she couldn't recall. She wondered if her sister came here often, or if she just happened to chance by the spot; she wondered anything that kept her mind off the inevitable.
"Is he good to you?" Sansa asked, almost nonchalantly as her hand continued to run over the water.
The sister she had left behind would have swooned at the idea of her with a golden knight such as Jaime. She'd have talked about the songs that would have been written and referred to all her romantic tales. Now she spoke with a hint of a threat in her voice, as if she would personally see to him if her answer did not line up with what she wanted.
"He's one of the better things that has happened to me," Myra admitted, staring out at the foreign plant life surrounding them. What a strange place Dorne was.
"Never mind that his sister wants us dead," Sansa replied, sounding more informative than offended. "Or that his son killed our father."
Myra took a breath, briefing feeling herself return to Dragonstone. She thought she had known pain then. How she wished to return to that pain.
"I was there, you know," her sister continued, looking up at her. How dark Sansa's eyes had become.
Too much like Robb's before the end.
Her nails dug into her palm.
"I saw Father at the Sept of Baelor. I heard Joffrey appeal to the crowd and I heard the people cry out for his head. They wanted him dead. They didn't know him, but they wanted him dead all the same."
Myra sighed. "Sansa, how did you escape?"
"Turns out your handmaiden is more than she appears. She's Prince Oberyn's daughter, sent to spy on the queen. You asked her to look out for me, and so she did. She brought me here."
Syrena. Yes, that was her name. Myra had not thought on her handmaiden in a long time. She had been good to her, and she always expected that there was far more to her than she gave, but the truth defied even those expectations. It seemed she was always surrounded by fascinating people, twisting her life in ways she was unaware of.
"And Arya?"
Sansa shook her head. "I saw her once. She'd escaped the Red Keep, but I lost her to the crowds at the execution."
"I think she's alive," Myra replied, watching a small bird flit between bushes. "I found our direwolves, and Nymeria picked up on her scent.
"Lady was there as well."
Sansa allowed herself a genuine smile. Her sister was so subdued now, so guarded with her feelings. And she'd grown as well, taller and more beautiful, her red hair longer and braided in the way their mother had once worn hers. She was a completely different person, and Myra did not know how to talk to her.
"The pack survives," she whispered, almost appearing wistful and like her old self before the emotion faded away. "What are we going to do?"
"About what?"
"Everything. Winterfell. Joffrey. Cersei. Tywin. The Boltons. The Greyjoys."
Myra shook her head. This was the world she had woken up to: enemies on all sides, and no one else in sight.
"What can we do, Sansa? It's just us."
Sansa looked at her like she was simple. "The Northern lords are still loyal, and the River Lords as well I'm sure. You're their queen now. If we ride north-"
"If we ride north, we'll be intercepted long before we reach it and we will be killed. The Riverlands are burnt and rotting, Robb's armies are dead and scattered, his men are prisoners at Casterly Rock and-"
"Your men."
"What?"
Sansa actually put her hand on her shoulder, shaking her slightly. "They're your men, Myra."
"They aren't, not after what I've done, not after Jaime and I…" she paused, not wanting to make the connection.
"Then why did you?"
Myra almost laughed. How often had she heard that sort of question from everyone she knew. The idea truly was too much for them.
"Because I love him."
"I used to believe in things like love," Sansa admitted, her hand falling. "Now I'm not so sure."
They were silent for a long time. Myra listened as the water continued to trickle, splashing her with droplets that cooled her skin in the heat of the afternoon. Strange birds called in the distance, children splashed in the nearby pools, a guard walked by on his patrol.
This was not what had wanted; this was never what she wanted. She was the daughter of Lord Stark, but had three brothers before her. Winterfell was never meant to be hers, a crown was certainly never meant to be hers, and she had been satisfied with that. She wanted to be the mother, the keeper of her home; she wanted to be the kind, welcoming face who provided and loved.
But she couldn't be that anymore, could she?
She wasn't that anymore.
"We don't have the men," Myra said after some time, ideas rolling over and over again in her mind. Robb's battle plans, her father's old speeches, Maester Luwin's lessons all bunching together to give her some idea of what was happening. "The Freys have the largest in tact army in the Riverlands, and the Boltons in the North. Even if they did not, the Crown has the Lannister and Tyrell armies, and that's before they use our bannermen's lives to threaten the other families into submission.
"And even if we did…Sansa, I can't start another war, or continue this one, whatever it is. You haven't seen the Riverlands. Children murdered with their mothers and bodies floating in the rivers, and fires that burn for days on end. The Greyjoys already did enough damage, but if we act right now, if we declare ourselves right now, we are inviting more war and death to the North. We won't survive it."
"Robb would keep fighting. He-"
"Robb lost!" Myra shouted, feeling the emotion from that night burst within her. "Even before Roose Bolton shoved that dagger in his heart, Robb was losing. We didn't have the men, we didn't have Winterfell, we didn't have the morale, and we are worse off than that now."
Sansa actually looked ashamed, pausing a moment, mulling things over. "Then what do we do?"
So they were back here again.
Myra took a breath, feeling an odd sort of calm fall over her. She remembered this place, that strange serenity that befell her at the beginning of the war, when she stood on Dragonstone and declared her place in it all. For the briefest of moments, she could see it all laid out before her, the future, the past, and every little thing she needed to do.
"We play their game."
She could see Sansa watching her with newfound interest. Her little sister was far too invested in the idea, and it should have frightened her.
"And if we are going to do that, then you need to know everything."
"I have to get Winterfell back."
Myra knew Jaime was awake. She could tell by the way he was breathing, how he sighed every now and again as her hands ran through his hair. He was resting his head against her chest, arms wrapped around her, naked as his nameday and glowing in the firelight.
She'd sheepishly returned to his quarters when the sun fell low in the sky, finding him leaning against his hearth, watching the fire and swaying slightly. There'd been a cup of wine in his hand.
When he looked at her, Myra knew he had as much to say as she did, but rather than confronting those particular problems, they'd made love again, slower, gentler, easing away the pain she had from the night before, but it felt no less urgent. It felt like they might never be together again.
That was their tale, was it not? Apart and miserable, but the world moves on, or together and complete, but what remained of their lives fell to pieces.
"I know," he whispered, the defeat evident in his voice. One day. They could not even have one day of happiness.
She knew he understood why. He may have acted as though Casterly Rock did not mean much to him, or at least as much as Winterfell mattered to her, but if his home was ever taken by one of his father's bannermen, Myra knew Jaime would never stop until it was theirs again. It was deeply rooted in all children to care for home, no matter how long they had been away.
Her right hand reached for the scar on the back of his shoulder. It was a strange little thing that kept everything in perspective for her, how easy it was to lose him again.
"I won't ask anything of you; I don't want to start another war, but the Boltons can't control the North. You don't know Roose Bolton like I do; you don't know his son."
"You can't take back the North without a fight."
Myra bit her lip, knowing there was one other option. The idea of it filled her not with dread, but with an anger that threatened to consume her. Only the man in her arms held it back.
"I might be able to if I speak to your father."
Jaime shot out of her arms in an instant, looking down at her with a fear that froze her.
"Perhaps I don't know the Boltons, but you don't know my father. He'll never allow you to have Winterfell again. And that is if you even make it through the gates of King's Landing alive. Joffrey wants your head and Cersei-"
Myra put her hand on Jaime's face, silencing him. She knew he had been considering this, perhaps running the scenarios through his head again and again that day. It was why he had been drinking; it was why he had looked so sad when he saw her. Perhaps he had convinced himself she would just leave, if only because it was the best option.
Apart and miserable.
"It's not about me, Jaime. It never has been," she said, stroking his cheek gently. "If I can convince your father that the Boltons are bad for the realm, perhaps he'll grant another house Winterfell, or allow Sansa to return."
Jaime looked confused. "But not you?"
"Winterfell is my home, but it was never meant to be mine. It shouldn't be mine, not after what I have done." She paused, running her hand through his hair again. It was something she had thought on after leaving Sansa, long and hard and miserably, but returning to Jaime's room had put it all in perspective for her.
"Having Winterfell means losing you, and I chose you, Jaime. I'll always choose you."
The look that crossed Jaime's face was something she'd never seen before, a disbelief so profound that he did not know how to act at first. He had given up Casterly Rock once for love, and she would give up Winterfell for the same. Perhaps it was strange to find someone so willing to do the same. Perhaps-
He kissed her so firmly, Myra lost track of her thoughts, and she was alright with that. Her thoughts were dark, terrible places, as were his.
But he pulled back just as quickly, cradling her head in his hand as her eyes fought to adjust again.
"It could work," Jaime admitted, thinking. There was something adorable about it. "But you'll never survive King's Landing.
"Not as a Stark."
.
.
.
I mean, it was kinda inevitable, right?
So, I have vacation coming up the first week of July. I'll try to get the next chapter up before then, and then I will be off! I'll have my phone, but no tech otherwise. Just going to be me and Lake Superior.
Questions:
Guest: Also a quick question that's very unrelated to this comment... what's your opinion on Gendry being the child of Cersei and Robert, especially seeing as you are not following the season 8 storyline?
I don't believe it and never have. The black-haired child never was in the books and I think they just put them in to 1. Humanize Cersei (which they've done a good job at despite everything else they mess up) and 2. just to showcase that there is no way that the three kids could possibly be Robert's. It's the same reason Gendry said his mom was blonde, proof that Baratheons are always dark-haired children. The idea of him just being a bastard is just better to me really.
Guest: Would you ever write this again for us but from jaimes POV?
Funny, I was asked the same thing on my blog. I think I could give it a try later on, maybe write the AVWH Appendices or something.
To Rita Orca: I have never written a book. I would love to read a book. I am not professional in the least, but thanks for saying it. ^^
