Hello all! I really meant to be on track for a quick update on this chapter, but then I got covid. Oops. Luckily, I've got all my boosters, so it wasn't so bad. And now we're back with another update!
Enjoy!
Chapter Sixty-One
The Siege
Jaime
Despite all the comforts afforded to him on the journey west, Jaime found that he had preferred traveling through the Riverlands with Myra when they'd had little more than the clothes on their backs and only one another for company. There they had been subjected to trees more than bodies, water rather than smoke. Maidenpool had burned, but the inn had been teeming with life.
There was no life on the River Road. Darry had been the last sign of it for some days – a stay that had been mired by the presence of half a dozen Freys demanding rights to the castle and the extinguished line of House Darry - as the road twisted through more burned villages and empty fields. But as time passed, Jaime noted that the absence of life felt less due to war, but something else. Crops had been picked clean, rather than set ablaze or left to rot. Untouched homes were abandoned, and the refugees had disappeared.
The work of the Blackfish, Jaime mused. He knows how to prepare for a siege.
Of all the castles in all the realm to lay siege to, Riverrun was the worst. It was bordered by rivers on two of its three sides, and the other had a moat that Bryden Tully undoubtedly had filled. It was nearly impossible to cross to, and just as impossible to starve out, and the new Lord of the Crossing, Emmon Frey, wanted as little damage to the keep as possible. The man was his uncle by marriage – an unfortunate circumstance that no one in the family cared to remember – and though he cared little for the man's complaints, Jaime was not one to deal with the wrath of his aunt, Genna. There were few in the realm who could match his father head-on, and his aunt bested them all.
Then, of course, on top of all those complications, there was the matter of his wife, and the fact that Riverrun had been home to her mother. She'd even been born there herself, she'd told him one night. A proper siege was something he did not want her to witness, but he would do what was necessary to put Riverrun under their control. If he had to send her on ahead, so be it.
The quicker I end this war, the quicker we can forget about it.
Jaime glanced over to Myra, who looked half-asleep on her horse. He'd almost incurred her wrath earlier that morning when he attempted to wake her. She'd threatened to stab him, and he laughed.
"We still have the carriage, you know," Jaime said, leaning over.
A lazy, gray eye looked over at him. "If I have to look your brother in the eyes again, I'll throw myself under it."
For whatever reason, it made him chuckle.
He knew he would have to speak to Tyrion again, though what he would say was completely lost to him. But like most things in his life, Jaime was content to put it off until the last possible moment. Though, it should probably be before they returned home lest Tyrion remembered his old self and disappeared without a trace.
How he loved his brother, and yet the thought of him vanishing brought a sense of relief, even comfort.
The selfish Lannister. That was who he was.
It was late afternoon when they arrived at Riverrun – although the days had been growing shorter, so perhaps not as late as he thought. Jaime had not been certain of what to expect upon arrival – nothing good at least – but the encampment that stretched out before them made him grimace.
The Frey camp was a half-buried disaster, with tents scattered to the wind with no rhyme or reason to their scheme. They were gathered in clusters, poorly constructed of less-than-ideal materials. Small breezes looked to be stormy gusts as the tents shook against their wroth. Many were poorly patched together, and many more weren't put up properly to begin with. Pigs and other livestock wandered between tents, some guided by pages, other left to simply roam wild.
There was no siege equipment, no trenches, only a solitary gibbet that stood just outside the range of the archers in the castle. It was empty, the noose swinging limply in the breeze, so the Freys were at least capable of listening, just so long as it wasn't another Frey telling them to do so.
Jaime heard Addam suppressing a cough, whether it was covering up laughter or an urge to be sick over the foul stench rising from the encampment, he could not say. He could certainly guess though.
"Perhaps they mean to drive the trout out with the smell," the Strongboar said, sniffing.
"Or they mean to plant crops," Ser Dermot added with a snort.
"Well, they certainly don't mean to attack, either way," Jaime finished. It was hard to tell whether they'd actually expected to get aid and decided this was all the effort needed, or if this was truly the best they could muster.
The Young Wolf died for want of this army.
Jaime chanced a glance to Myra, who'd been silent the entire time. Her eyes did not even fall upon the army, but rested on Riverrun instead, where both the Tully and Stark banners flew proudly. The last holdout of the King in the North.
Or was it her last holdout?
Bringing his horse about, Jaime looked over his army, seven thousand by his last count. They'd lost a few to reinforcing Harrenhal and Darry, but those had been his green troops. These were veterans all.
"Ser Addam, scatter the Freys below. I don't care where to, so long as Riverrun wakes to a sea of red outside their walls. If anyone objects, they can find me over there," Jaime said, pointing to an encampment on the other side of the Red Fork. It, too, flew Lannister colors, and no doubt belonged to his cousin. "Ser Kennos, Ser Dermot, find Edmure Tully. Give him a tent up here, next to mine."
He wasn't about to let that man out of his sight. There'd been enough trouble over him as it was.
"Olyvar," he called back, noting the young Frey watching his kin with thinly veiled disgust. "Do you care to speak with your cousins?"
"No, my lord. Only my brother, if he is here."
"Do you trust your brother?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Good. You're both to guard Edmure then. He is your good-brother, after all."
The young Frey looked to Myra, waiting for her nod of assent before joining the knights.
Jaime struck out for his cousin's camp, bringing a handful of soldiers with him. Myra rode quietly beside him, deep in thought and pale, Brienne following in her wake as usual. Only now did it truly dawn on him that he was about to go to war with her family. He'd fought them in defense of his own life, but this was different. His wife would have to witness as he extinguished the remaining reminder of all her brother stood for.
He'd rather kill Aerys again.
"Myra," he said quietly, his words almost lost amongst the hoofbeats.
She did not speak, only gave him a long look. Her eyes were dark, and full of sorrow, though they remained dry. This was not the time, they said.
He nodded once and continued on.
It did not take long to spy his cousin amongst the soldiers. His head was a mass of hair, with a beard that extended to his chest, tangled and wiry, and a good length of hair tied in back, golden red in the sunlight. The last time he'd seen Daven, the man had been cleanshaven, but that was prior to his father's death. Stafford had been killed at the Battle of Oxcross by-
Ah.
This would prove interesting.
Upon seeing him, Daven approached, a grin hidden beneath the hair. "About time you showed up, coz. We would have camped closer, but for the stench."
"A wise decision on your part," Jaime replied, sliding from the saddle. "You don't have many of those."
"Still more than you, I reckon," Daven spat back. The cousins shared a laugh, thumping one another on the shoulder. Daven eyed his arm. "So it's true. We'd gotten word, but I never believed it. My famous cousin without his sword hand?"
"It was either the hand or my life."
"Is there a difference?"
Jaime looked to Myra, who had dismounted and was watching them quietly. "I like to think so."
His cousin huffed and looked to his wife. "So, this is the wolf that tamed the lion. I'll give you this, cousin, she's a better sight than most."
"Daven…" Jaime warned, voice low.
But his cousin was as stubborn as they came, and he approached Myra without hesitation. He was a giant of a man, leaving her small in his presence, but she hardly reacted, except to tilt her head in order to properly meet his eyes. Brienne, of course, had walked within striking distance, but she was smart enough to keep her sword sheathed.
"Your bannerman, Karstark, cut down my father at Oxcross. I swore to grow my hair until I got my vengeance."
Myra narrowed her eyes. "You'll likely trip on it one day then."
They stared at one another a moment longer, Jaime and Brienne watching with bated breath, until Daven let out a loud guffaw.
"She'll do, coz. I'd heard Northern women were a different sort. Glad to not be disappointed," Daven said, clapping Jaime on the back. "You do owe me, however; you took my vengeance out from under me."
"I'll get you a razor, if that's what you wish."
Daven laughed again, a single boom that echoed across the camp. "I'm better without, I think. Not every man has a pretty wife to keep him warm at night."
"I thought you had a Frey to marry."
"I said pretty, didn't I?" Daven asked, raising a bushy eyebrow. "Might be I can wiggle out of that deal anyway. With the Late Lord Walder making good on his name, the Freys have lost their spine. The Westerlings have a daughter they've been trying to push on me…"
"The Westerlings have their name and little else."
"And what do the Freys have but a hundred whelps vying to marry into every family they can get their hands on. They already got Genna, which is more than they ever deserved."
Jaime could hardly disagree there.
Their conversation at a standstill, Daven led them to his tent. Jaime kept an eye on Myra, waiting for any objection or sign of distress, but she calmly watched their surroundings and even smiled at some of Daven's jokes. It could have been worse.
"I don't have much to tell you, other than we're stuck," Daven started, hitting his gloved hand on the table. His page poured cups of wine and offered them. Myra drank from hers slowly, watching the map. "There was never movement from the castle, except when they paraded Edmure Tully to the gallows, and you took that away a few days ago."
"My apologies for your loss of entertainment," Jaime said sarcastically, moving his golden hand along the map. At least it was good for that much.
Daven snorted. "Makes no difference to me. I'd have hanged him the first day and been done with it."
Jaime froze, eyes darting to Myra. She made no move, but her eyes were watching his Daven very closely.
His cousin caught her gaze – it would have been hard not to – and quickly put the pieces together. "Ah…"
He developed a cough after that.
"Might you give me a moment with my wife, coz?"
Jaime sighed as his cousin darted from the tent, his page quickly following after him. He leaned against the table, taking a hard, long drink from his goblet.
"I shouldn't have brought you here."
"I wasn't about to be left behind or sent away, Jaime."
"No, instead you get to watch as I destroy what little is left of your family," he snapped, harsher than he meant. "If Daven had been in charge, he would have hanged your uncle and stormed the castle by now, left it a smoldering ruin with no trace of your brother or the Tullys left behind, and I wouldn't have disagreed with him. Every Lannister needs his Castamere after all."
He wondered if Riverrun would be his, or had Aerys already done that for him? No one sang songs about the Young Lion killing the Mad King. Killing one man ruined your reputation; killing many made you great.
They were silent for a while, the air in the tent heavy. There was so much more to be said, but he did not have the energy to do so.
Myra walked in front of him, standing almost sheepishly, her hands nervously fiddling in front of her. He did not care for it, so he took a hand in his.
"I don't think we truly thought this through," she said.
Jaime looked up at her, offering a small smile. "I never do. So, really, this is all on you."
She almost laughed. "Typical Lannister. Always blaming a Stark."
"Except you're a Lannister now."
"But I'm not, am I? Not really. I don't think I ever will be," Myra said quietly, fidgeting in his grasp. She looked small. "Do what you need to, Jaime. Whatever it is, I won't stop you, and I won't blame you. Just end this war. Please."
Jaime impatiently stood at the end of the bridge extending toward Riverrun, wondering if the trout would actually treat with him or if they were content watching him squirm. Daven had thought him crazy to pull such a stunt, but deep down, Jaime knew the Blackfish would never think to kill him. The Tarbecks and the Reynes haunted every household, and Brynden Tully had certainly been alive for their demise.
Then again, if there was anyone crazy enough to try otherwise…
I should have just taken the armor off, Jaime thought as he tugged at his gorget again. At least I'd die comfortable.
Brienne had offered to join him, but he'd been against it. Part of his idiotic strategy was that no one in the castle actually thought him capable of fighting the Blackfish. Bringing another sword would do no good, especially one that had once been sworn to Catelyn. It would only serve to get her killed.
Just as he was about to give up for the evening – he'd been far more patient than anyone would give him credit for, himself included – the drawbridge began to lower.
Behind him, Jaime heard the unmistakable sound of soldiers getting into position. Addam swore he would not have them attack, but that did not mean he would not be ready. The Blackfish would step out to two of the finest Lannister companies staring him down from across the bridge. It would affect nothing, in the end, but Jaime found some comfort in it.
Brynden Tully had aged since he'd last seen the knight – as all men do – but he looked no less capable of cutting down a dozen men half his age. There was an air to him that commanded respect and admiration, and in his youth, Jaime had been in awe of it, and the man it came with. A hero from the War of the Ninepenny Kings, Jaime had been delighted to speak with him when he visited Riverrun for a time, before the Kingsguard, before his knighthood, when his father considered marrying him to Lysa.
Now that man looked at him like dirt to be trampled beneath his boots. He was used to that look at least; he could handle that much. The rest was up to luck and his ability to keep an even temper.
Well, inability.
It was a futile effort, but Jaime knew he would regret not trying.
"Never thought the Freys would have Tywin Lannister at their beck and call, but here you sorry lot are," Brynden said as he walked onto the drawbridge. Jaime made no move. He did not want to tempt the Blackfish's archers.
"My father doesn't like loose ends," he replied with a shrug. "Also the castle belongs to my aunt now. Family, duty, honor, you know the rest."
Brynden's eyes narrowed, and Jaime thought he might just call down the archers on him anyway.
"This castle belongs to my family, as it has for a thousand years. I'm not about to let some Frey whelp take control of it."
"That's what happens when you lose a war, I'm afraid."
"A war lost at a wedding."
"Yes, Robb Stark's. How very honorable of him, abandoning his bannermen for a foreign bride."
"So, the oathbreaker dares lecture the dead about honor."
No, he dares lecture the old about hypocrisy.
Jaime frowned, biting his tongue. They could go in circles trading barbs all evening, but it would bring him no closer to taking Riverrun. The Blackfish could play for time. He could not.
"Give up the castle, Ser Brynden. Whether today or tomorrow or two months from now, it will fall. I'd rather not be forced to kill everyone inside," Jaime said, attempting some form of diplomacy. Had he still possessed his sword hand, he might have thought to challenge the Blackfish to a duel, but he wasn't a fool when it came to his ability anymore. "Your men will not be harmed if they lay down their arms. They can go back to their homes, or remain here if they wish, under the service of Emmon Frey."
The Blackfish spat. "Two months from now, your army will be starving and freezing, and we will still hold this castle."
"I am trying to save your lives."
"You are trying to take my home. You've already taken my nieces and nephews. You cannot have this."
"Your niece is here."
"As your prize, I've heard," Brynden said with a look that could pierce steel. "The true North won't accept Bolton's bastard. They certainly won't accept you."
Jaime felt his jaw tighten, but did nothing to refute the claim. Time and distance did funny things to stories. In King's Landing, they'd been revered as a loving couple, having overcome all odds to be together, but out here, it was a less flowery tale, with Myra as the victim of his family's machinations. Then again, this was her honorable family. They never believed him capable of doing anything less than horrific to another person.
This was what he wanted when they left the Twins, he reminded himself. This was how he could keep her safe.
"Do you want to see her or not?"
"Do you plan on giving her back to us?" he asked, to which Jaime said nothing. "Perhaps my nephew then, or do you intend to dangle him like bait a little longer?"
"I put a stop to that days ago," Jaime said.
"You should have told them to go through with it instead. Edmure is a dead man. Myra may as well be too, left in your possession."
Negotiations apparently concluded, Brynden turned away back toward the keep. It hadn't been much of a talk to begin with. They'd traded insults and little more. Could he truly say he'd made an effort?
"Your men are dying for someone else's home," Jaime called out. "They'll come to realize that before long."
"Perhaps if your father had left them homes to fight for," the Blackfish replied as the bridge began to rise. "It wasn't the Riverlands that started this war."
"No, only your niece, when she nearly killed my brother."
Brynden Tully turned back to him, their eyes briefly meeting before the bridge obscured their view of one another. "And who gave her reason to do that?"
For the first time in a long while, Jaime heard the sound of a young boy gasping.
Myra
She hadn't known Edmure long, but in the time they had been in one another's company, Myra had come to see him as more of a brother figure than an uncle. He'd made up for the cold space that had come between herself and Robb, and had been a beautiful respite from the judgment of her family.
But in the days since she'd left him behind, he'd been a dagger in her heart. Though she tried to remember him in a better light, all she'd been able to picture was the sad creature left alone in the dungeons of the Twins, begging her to leave. He had lost everything too, yet she was the only one freed.
Myra had selfishly hoped to find relief from that misery when she saw him again, but looking upon her uncle only pushed the dagger deeper.
He was haggard in appearance, his hair longer, greasy, and black from filth, an unkempt beard obscured his face. The rags he wore were filled with holes and reeked in a manner that brought her hand to her mouth.
"They were supposed to clean him," Myra whispered to Olyvar.
The young man shrugged. "My brother says he was tossed in the river once. Edwyn didn't want to waste good water on him."
With a shake of her head, she'd motioned to the serving ladies. She waited outside as they stripped and scrubbed her uncle, impatiently pacing outside of the entrance.
What did he know of her situation? Did he know she was married? Would he hate her once he found out? Would he leave her too?
She wished desperately to think of something else, but the only alternative was Jaime as he went to speak with her uncle, Brynden, and though he assured her he meant for nothing more than peaceful negotiations, she could not help but worry. Jaime Lannister was rather terrible at having things go the way he wanted them to.
At some point, Brienne had put a hand on her shoulder. "You shouldn't let them see you this way."
Myra found herself pacing in the tent after that.
"He's going to hate me," she said.
"My lady, you are his family, nearly the last of it," Brienne argued standing resplendent in her armor. Ever since Harrenhal, her sworn sword had grown in confidence. It showed in every step she took, and every interaction she'd had with the men since; it suited her. "He cannot hate you for the decisions you have come to."
"Robb did, for a time," Myra countered. "I don't think he truly began to forgive me until…well, that hardly matters now."
"The explain it to him, properly. If he does not understand then that is his loss. You cannot place this on yourself, my lady. It's far too big for any one person."
Myra took a breath, easing her pacing. She knew Brienne was right. Standing by her decisions and convictions was what she needed to focus on if she wanted to get past this war, but the idea of being rejected by one of her few remaining family members after all they had been through left her terrified.
I don't know if I will even get to see Sansa again.
"Am I doing the right thing, Brienne?" Myra asked quietly, turning to the Lady of Tarth. "Should I just sit by and let Riverrun fall to the Freys? Must I continue betraying my family?"
Brienne was pensive for a moment, and then her shoulders fell a little. "I used to think I knew what was right and wrong, my lady. But this war has proven that both can somehow exist at once.
"When Renly was killed before my eyes, I wanted to seek out Stannis Baratheon and kill him where he stood, but your mother cautioned me against it. I would only die during the effort, and he would never be avenged. I owe it to him to survive and properly fulfill my oath when the time comes.
"No one would fault you for standing up for your family, but if it serves no purpose other than to lead to your death, than surely there must be another way. You are able to save Edmure now because you did not die back then."
Myra gave Brienne a soft smile. "All too often I forget that I am not the only one who suffered. I hope you can forgive me."
Brienne shook her head. "There is nothing to forgive, my lady. I…care for Renly. He was kind to me, and I choose to believe he would want me to live, but I will not allow the treachery of his brother to stand forever."
She wondered just how successful Brienne would be in her attempts. Sitting in on Jaime's meetings had told her many things. Balon Greyjoy had fallen to his death on Pyke and now his brother, Euron, claimed the Seastone Chair, Daenerys Targaryen ruled as queen in Meereen with three dragons, and Stannis Baratheon had come to the aid of the Night's Watch in the North. His army had turned the tide in the battle, keeping an invasion of Wildlings from successfully taking Castle Black.
And her brother had been voted Lord Commander. It seemed he had been given greater honor with them than he ever had at home.
With his forces bolstering the weakened Night's Watch, Stannis might find favor with the northern lords. Although they were a stubborn lot, and had no love of anything southern, Myra knew Stannis had a nature that they could respect, and with Ramsay Snow holding Winterfell, he would undoubtedly be a more appealing candidate to throw their support behind.
Would Brienne get her vengeance if all the North stood behind Stannis Baratheon? Would she throw down her arms or pursue it to the end of her days?
But Myra did not ask her that.
Eventually, one of the maids returned, quietly signaling that they had finished their work.
Gathering what little courage decided to remain with her, Myra returned to her uncle's tent.
He stood in the center, looking away from her, dressed in a plain tunic and trousers. They'd at least not humiliated him further by putting him in anything remotely lion-like, although she supposed they might find it wasted on him. His hair was still damp and longer, but the beard was gone at least, so he somewhat resembled the man she had come to know, although that boyish charm he'd possessed was lost to him.
"Uncle Edmure?"
Her voice was the barest whisper, yet he jumped at its sound and turned to her, a wide-eyed, frightened boy who'd just encountered a ghost. For a while, he simply stared, disbelieving, until a sob escaped his lips and he collapsed where he stood.
Myra rushed over to him, settling on her knees and gathering him up in her arms. He felt lighter than a feather, and she could have held him all night if she needed to.
"I told myself I'd come back for you," Myra whispered into his hair as he sobbed into her shoulder. "And here I am, Uncle. You won't go back to them. I promise you. You're safe now."
Bleary-eyed and shaking, Edmure pulled back to get a good look at Myra. He touched her face, her hair, her clothes, and still appeared unconvinced of his change in fortune.
She smiled gently, and gripped his wrists firmly. "I am here, Uncle. I swear to you, this isn't a dream."
"But how?" he asked, his voice cracking. Then his eyes widened, a realization setting in. "It's true, isn't it? I thought the Freys were trying to provoke me but you…you've married him, haven't you?"
Myra sighed. She'd hoped they hadn't said anything, and that she could tell him on her own, perhaps come out ahead for once, but it seemed she was always playing catch-up as of late. Fighting just to tread water was exhausting, and she saw no end in sight.
"Come, Uncle, take a seat, and let me explain things to you."
Edmure jumped to his feet with a burst of energy she hadn't thought he'd be capable of at the moment, but he was shaking with a rage fit to tear apart the entire Lannister army if he had to.
"I shouldn't have listened to him, to any of them! I knew he was never going to keep you safe, but what could I do about it? I was only the man who let his entire family die on his wedding night!" Edmure paused, breathing hard. He was on the verge of tears again. "But I suppose that's all that is left to us, isn't it? Hoping that they can find some use for us rather than string us up before-"
Myra placed a hand gently on her uncle's cheek, quieting him. "Uncle Edmure, please, just listen to me."
She led him over to a table and sat in a chair across from him. He'd been granted quite a bit of furniture: a writing desk, a bed, a trunk. Were it not for the large war table taking up most of Jaime's tent, she'd say her husband had less than her uncle.
She took his hands in hers and held them tightly, her knuckles turning white. How cold his hands were; how they shook. Myra could not begin to imagine the things they had done to him, and she knew well enough what they had done to her.
"Yes, it is true," she spoke quietly, as if the army that surrounded them did not already know it for a fact. "I am married to Jaime."
Edmure immediately attempted to stand again in his fury, and that was why she held him so tightly. In his state, it was easy to keep her uncle seated. She hardly put any effort into it.
"After what he did. After everything you went through, he-"
"-did not force this upon me," she said slowly, calmly, choosing each syllable with the greatest care. Explaining this to her uncle would have been difficult to begin with, but now he was seeing it through a lens clouded by abuse and tragedy. "Uncle, I chose to marry Jaime Lannister."
Her uncle stilled, and even in the flickering firelight, she could tell he'd grown paler. "To save your own life, surely, or to prevent something worse from happening, or…"
His voice trailed off, and she felt his hands attempting to pull from her grasp. She let them.
"I know you weren't aware of the reasoning behind the falling out with my brother, only that it existed," she said quietly. She felt small under his gaze. "It was because of him."
"So, you love him then? The man who killed our family, you love him?"
Myra shook her head. "It's not like that, Uncle, he-"
"Jaime Lannister sends his regards!" Edmure shouted, bursting from his chair. "Those are the words you shouted to him. Did you think I'd forgotten, Myra? What else was I to think about lingering in that cell? You were in my arms for two days before you even moved. You were…you were still covered in their blood, and now you just expect me to believe he had nothing to do with it?"
"I don't expect you to believe a thing about him," Myra said calmly. "He's a Lannister, of course, and the damage is done. What I want is for you to trust me."
Edmure grinned as if he would laugh, but it sounded like a sob. "How can I now? After everything, you married him."
"Jaime Lannister did not stab Robb. That was Roose Bolton, his bannerman. Jaime Lannister did not stab Talisa or cut my mother's throat. That was the doing of your bannerman's sons, Lothar and Black Walder, and it was Jaime Lannister who arranged to have them killed. It was Jaime Lannister who returned Robb's body to me, and it is Jaime Lannister who has freed you from the Freys.
"Yes, I married him, and I will neither regret nor be judged by you for it."
Edmure was silent, stunned. He watched her with eyes wide as saucers, a frightened child unsure of where to turn for safety.
"Tell me, Uncle, would you truly prefer that I be dead? Would I be more honorable to you if I had become Walder Frey's next wife instead?"
Her uncle said nothing to that. She watched him pace around the tent, lost; she let him have as long as he needed. She'd been given months to get used to the idea, he only had a few moments.
Slowly, shaking, Edmure returned to his seat.
"He's here to take Riverrun," her uncle said quietly, a whisper barely heard above the commotion of soldiers outside. "How can you be okay with this?"
"I'm not," she admitted. "But we have no choice in the matter. Jaime can no more raise the army against his father than you could against yours."
"This is my home, Myra."
"Winterfell was my home too, but it is nothing more than stone and mortar and memory. It can neither comfort me nor return what I have lost. If the only price I had to pay for this bloodshed to end was to give it to someone else, I would thank the old gods and the new for such a simple demand."
How good she had become at lying, Myra realized.
How easy it was to do terrible things.
But Riverrun wasn't Winterfell, and Emmon Frey was no Ramsay Snow. His people would not suffer, so long as the war ended.
Was she truly so terrible for wanting it all to be done?
Sansa
She'd been writing letters since before the sun had risen that morning, taking care of requests that Littlefinger had left for her. He'd returned to King's Landing some days ago, apparently to wrap up some loose ends he'd left behind. While she suspected he did have things to take care of in the capital – the consequences of which she would undoubtedly see shortly – Sansa firmly believed he was simply running away from his wife.
Every night, she'd heard Lysa screaming, and wondered how she still had a voice to yell at Arya during the day. It had gone from a hilarity to an annoyance rather quickly, and Sansa found herself grateful that Littlefinger was gone. She could sleep at night again.
Well, some nights.
Sometimes, her little cousin, Robert, would come into her room at night. He'd apparently spent many nights with his mother, and now that she was married again, she had less time for him. She had been fine with it, at first. It reminded her of all the times Myra had welcomed her – and the rest of their siblings – into her bed, but Sansa was quickly reminded that little Robert was not like the rest of her siblings. His hands wandered a little too far, and he often woke her in the dead of night with his shaking. Maester Coleman would take him back to his own room, but Sansa could no longer sleep after his episodes, so she spent the mornings watching the sun rise over the mountains, enjoying the cold, crisp air, and thinking.
The Eyrie truly felt like King's Landing at times. Though the number of eyes were fewer, they were all on her, and made no moves to hide it. Since Littlefinger had not bothered to hide her identity, the keep also knew that Brynna was actually Arya as well. Sansa supposed she could not blame them, to an extent. They represented an uncertain future, after all. The Eyrie had declared itself neutral during The War of the Five Kings, yet now housed two Starks.
This was, perhaps, the only time Sansa was grateful that Myra had married Jaime Lannister. It would take some of the realm's focus, though she wondered if part of Littlefinger's business in King's Landing had to do with them. Perhaps explaining away one Stark would have been easy, but two would put him in a precarious position with Cersei.
She smiled at that sometimes.
"Why are you doing that?"
Sansa glanced up across the table, where her sister sat with a book. Since the discovery of her true name, the servants had given up dressing Arya properly, so she sat in a tunic and breeches, contentedly swinging her legs beneath the table.
"Writing letters?"
"Working with Littlefinger," Arya clarified, narrowing her eyes. "You know what he did to Father."
"I do," she said quietly. She knew far too many things that he did. "He'll do it to us as well, if he wants."
"Then why work with him?"
"So I can stop him before he does just that."
Arya watched her for a moment, and Sansa could see the little wheels turning in her head. In the past, her little sister would have accused her of being too stupid to do something like that, but not now. It was more like her sister was trying to figure out her thought process, or what had happened to the sister she had left behind.
"What's in the letters?" Arya asked.
"Invitations to all the lords and ladies of the Vale," Sansa answered, glancing down at her latest effort. It was filled with so much flowery and flattering language that it almost made her sick. "They haven't taken well to Aunt Lysa's marriage, so they've been invited to treat with us."
"Do they plan on bringing their armies?"
Sansa paused. "Some might."
Arya turned a page in her book. "I don't see how he can talk his way out of this. The lords liked father, since he was fostered here. And Littlefinger isn't much better than the smallfolk."
"He's been made Lord of Harrenhal, not to mention Lord Paramount of the Trident."
"Then maybe he should return there."
Sansa had to laugh at that. Arya had changed, but was still the same in so many ways. It was impressive that she had made it so far, but surviving the war and surviving Littlefinger were two very different things, and her little sister was going to need her help with the latter.
They were quiet for a while, with Arya turning the pages in her book occasionally, but Sansa knew she wasn't focused on the writing. Her curiosity and attention were all on her.
"So, what are you putting in those letters?" she asked, her voice low. "Any secret messages for the lords?"
Sansa shook her head. "That isn't how this works, Arya. They don't know me any more than they know him. I'm simply complimenting them to the point that they don't think it necessary to pull a sword as soon as they enter the castle."
Letters were proof, she told herself. If she wanted to gain the attention and trust of the lords, she needed to use her words in person. A letter was easier to discover than a conversation, especially if one knew where to talk. Sansa liked to speak with Arya in her room best. Much like back home, she'd covered her walls in colorful tapestries. Where one might see the touch of a young woman, Sansa saw a room that muffled voices in a castle that echoed far too much.
"That wouldn't be so bad an idea."
Yes, still very much the same in so many ways.
And yet, in others…
Sansa put her quill down, glancing at Arya's book. It was from Maester Coleman's personal collection – she recalled hearing him complain about the missing tome earlier. He had been using it to teach Robert his letters.
"How is Gendry?" she asked, watching all the color drain from her sister's face. "That's his name, right? The blacksmith's apprentice in the undercroft."
"He's…fine."
"You're teaching him to read, aren't you?" she asked. Arya nodded slowly. "He has a terrible teacher."
Arya threw the book at her, and Sansa just managed to dodge it. It made her laugh, properly, not at some horrible pleasure, but for something pure, something that truly made her feel alive again, like that young girl back in Winterfell. Although, then, she would have run to their mother. Now, she tossed the inkwell back at her sister and covered her tunic and face in bits of black.
And then it all fell apart. They chased one another around the room with shouts and giggles, throwing whatever wasn't too heavy at one another. For a brief moment, they forgot about the war and deaths that had plagued their every step. They were just young girls.
At some point, Sansa tripped and fell onto the floor. Arya proclaimed her victory until she kicked out her legs. Her sister dramatically collapsed on top of her, before rolling over. The fact that no servants came to check on the noise told her enough about what her sister had been up to in the time she'd been here.
She wished she had felt this way with Myra.
"I need you to trust me," Sansa said quietly, staring up at the vaulted ceiling. "No matter how long it takes, I need you to trust that I'm doing the right thing."
"I do trust you," Arya replied. "The lone wolf dies…"
"But the pack survives."
Edmure
He'd always been a rather lonely child. Catelyn and Lysa were much older than him, and had doted upon him as a mother would rather than a sister. His father often left home, restless and still in search of adventure, and his mother had died in childbed.
It was the servants he'd come to look up to most. They were the ones he joked with, told stories to, shared his greatest triumphs. Though they were commoners, he loved them as family. He'd swam in the Red Fork with a fisherman's sons and spent a night under the stars with the blacksmith's daughter, though he'd done nothing more than fumble with her clothing. Her father was the largest man he'd ever seen. Only his uncle had ever intimidated him more.
Fighting was never his strongest suit, as much as he had wished it to be. He'd grown up with stories of his uncle's accomplishments, and had hoped to be just like him, but only proved adequate with the sword and archery had never been meant for him, as he had swiftly proven upon his father's death.
He was no tactician either. Robb had drawn up battle plans that Edmure never could have conceived, swiftly earning the praise of Brynden and his generals. His nephew had known he was so inept, he hadn't bothered sharing half his ideas with him, and he'd managed to muck them up anyway.
But he'd always wanted to impress people. He wanted to play the part of a man who could fight and who could think, because that was the sort people put their trust in. So, he carried himself as such, instilling confidence in his men and the smallfolk. Inevitably, it would always fall apart, but for a time, he felt like the lord he was meant to be.
If there was one thing Edmure could always confidently say about himself, it was that he was a man who cared.
But now Myra had him questioning if that had all been an act as well.
All those days in that dark cell, at first attempting not to go mad from the sound of men dying and in pain, and then doing the same when all he heard was silence, all he thought about was home. When his stomach ached, he thought of the grand feasts they'd host when his father returned from his travels. When he began to freeze, he imagined he was back in the Great Hall, sitting beside the roaring fire with one of the kennel master's hounds. When his heart felt heavy, he recalled the time he'd scared Catelyn so badly, she'd fallen into the river. Lysa had laughed while her betrothed, Brandon Stark, had fished her out of the water.
Riverrun may have just been a structure of stone and mortar, but in his deepest moments of despair, it had become alive. It was the mother he'd never had, his shelter against the storm, his shield, and like a child, he wished for nothing more than to be in her loving embrace again.
The cruelest thing about standing at the gallows every day had not been the thought of dying, but simply watching his home as it sat just out of his reach.
How could a Frey ever appreciate Riverrun the way he had?
In the hours since Myra left, however, her words had been running through his mind over and over, a rushing storm that would not leave him be. What was the cost of his desire for home? The Freys and the Lannisters would throw themselves upon the walls of Riverrun, and all the while, the smallfolk would have nowhere to hide from their wroth. Their men would be killed, their women raped, what remained of their food taken in order to feed the armies that amassed at the Trident.
If the fisherman's sons were not already dead, they would be. The blacksmith's daughter would bear a lion's bastard. The servants would hang from the ramparts.
All because Edmure Tully wanted to go home.
It was as he writhed with these thoughts that Jaime Lannister chose to appear. He'd done away with his lion-themed armor, though his leather jacket was still that obnoxious red. It made the gold of his hand stand out all the more. That hadn't been there the last time they'd seen one another.
Many things had been different then.
One thing had remained the same, however. Jaime Lannister looked tired.
Edmure remembered in his youth when the knight – only a squire then – had come to visit Riverrun. Lysa had shyly fawned over him, the only time she wasn't focused on Petyr Baelish, but Jaime only had eyes and ears for their uncle, reveling in his stories as all others did. He'd been alive then, young and cocky, but not without the skills to justify it. Only his father's master-at-arms had been able to properly keep up with him. The man before him was hardly that boy. He looked as weighed down by the war as he felt, and his family had won.
He eyed the man, who only stared at him in turn. It seemed neither of them knew where to start.
With a sigh, Jaime stepped forward and sat at the table, the same place Myra – his wife – had been seated in earlier. He leaned back in the chair, and placed his golden hand on the table with a soft clunk.
He wondered how long the lion would last if he stayed silent.
"What do you want?" he grumbled instead.
Jaime looked unimpressed. "Well, I've certainly heard stupider questions. Granted, not many."
"I'm not going to give you what you want."
"See, that's the thing. Riverrun will fall. It's only a matter of when I will get what I want. Now, what you want is never going to happen, so why sacrifice your men to prolong this misery?"
Edmure chuckled. "That's quite clever. Your wife said the same thing."
Jaime's entire demeanor changed in that moment. He looked very confused, and no longer like a man in control of the situation. Had he truly not known what Myra had done? Had his niece asked him to do this on her own?
"She should not have done that," he said quietly.
"You mean to have me believe that you had nothing to do with it?"
His offense returned the rigidity to Jaime's posture. He looked more like an annoyed lion now, rather than a tired one. He certainly wasn't the Young Lion anymore. "I've never been much of a liar. So, no, I did not make my wife do my dirty work for me."
"Not much of a liar? You certainly had the entire kingdom fooled when it came to your bastards."
"I never had a reason to lie," Jaime admitted, looking him straight in the eye. "People tend to not ask if you're fucking your sister when you're not a Targaryen."
Edmure had been expecting him to deny the allegation, but to have it openly thrown back in his face silenced him. He walked away to the far edge of the tent, unwilling to look at the man anymore. They hadn't bothered shackling him. Part of him had wondered if he could wander about the encampment, but he'd been afraid of the world outside of his thin walls.
"You're the Lord of Riverrun, Edmure, and your men know it too," Jaime said behind him. "As I told your uncle, if they surrender, they will not be harmed. They may remain in service to the new Lord of Riverrun or they may return to their homes to prepare for winter. I won't kill men who were only doing as they were commanded."
"And what of me?" Edmure asked. It was hardly a whisper, words that escaped before he could stop them.
"You'll come with us to Casterly Rock."
"In chains?"
"If you prefer. I was going to offer you a horse."
It could not be true, any of it. A Lannister offering kindness where his father's bannermen had not. Everything he had come to know in his life felt like it was at war with itself. It made him sick to his stomach, and he found it hard to breathe.
"Does she know about what you've done?"
"She knows everything," was Jaime's immediate reply.
"And she still trusts you?" Edmure asked, turning back to the Lannister. To that, the man could only shrugged, as confused about Myra's willingness to accept him as he was. This did not help Edmure. No, it only made things worse.
He tried to think of home again, of the warmth and happiness it had contained, but now he could only see the bodies. They were piled atop one another in every room, the stench choked the air, blood covered the walls. In place of laughter, there were screams.
Riverrun no longer looked like home in his mind. It looked like the Twins.
Edmure swallowed. His tongue was thick, mouth dry.
"I'll…I'll do it."
Jaime stood, surprised, but Edmure cut him off.
"Don't make me repeat it."
If he did, he might be sick.
The Lannister nodded, understanding, and moved to the entrance of the tent. He made to leave, but paused, looking back.
"I've sent for your wife. She'll be joining you at Casterly Rock. I hear she's with child."
His pretty wife and his unborn child. He could have it all, so long as he gave up everyone else.
"Do you think this makes you a good man?" Edmure asked. "Or that it begins to atone for everything that you've done?"
Jaime looked at him, hard, a man who had been forced to answer this question most of his life. "Keeping your people alive makes this war end faster, so I can finally be done with it. But I am more than happy to carry out the siege if I must. I love Myra, but she is the only one I love. I don't care for you, your uncle, or anyone within those walls. Keep that in mind if you consider going back on your word."
.
.
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I don't really have much to go on for Edmure, so I hope I wrote him well enough. I've always been biased toward him anyway. He's a sweetheart and I'm adopting him. Also accidentally made Daven Lannister my favorite side character ever. Will need to include him in future events.
Things are really going to start picking up in the next couple chapters. While this chapter is "canon" enough, well, don't worry that's all changing soon.
Until next time!
