YEP. A week late, so sorry about another late upload! I'm actually trying to write an additional 4-5 chapters for every 1 that I post, so I have enough content to keep on posting for the weeks to come but it's not working out too great! And I've been...delving into way too many fics as of late, and am inspired to create another story...even though I have quite the workload already. I love torturing myself.
My brain doesn't like to work overtime for some reason but the story will go on!
Enjoy!
"you came in and suddenly every part of me is at war."
—n.m.
ROBERT
The Gods condemned him, and he was beginning to believe, to truly believe, he deserved it. He was unsure how far or how close he could get by offering marriage between his son and Laisa Stark. It was a farce, the desperate acts made by a desperate man, in efforts to draw Lyanna back to him. His fists curled; darkened eyes narrowed to the emptiness of the Great Hall as he lounged in the throne he was awarded, for a rebellion that he lost.
She will not be subjected to your torment, Robert. Your ploy to engage her to your son, to keep her within arm's reach, I will not allow it.
Robert lingered over Ned's sharp words.
My daughter is named Laisa.
There was no doubt about that. Robert felt inclined to address her as anything but when she wore the face of his dead beloved, his greed and anger grew unsteady just thinking of her. It was in the way she smiled, how her eyes lit up at the slightest of sounds, and her laugh…that damned laugh. Robert thoughtfully wondered if he had ever heard Lyanna laugh, if he bothered to remember her smile, yet when he was faced with Laisa Stark, he was rushed upon by a wave of memory. A living, breathing, painstaking reminder of what he had lost.
Or, perhaps, what he never had.
He spoke of adjoining Houses between the Stag and Wolf. To think if Lyanna had been spared and they were wed, would she and the Seven Kingdoms be enough to fill the gaping hole of need that manifested within himself.
Would he have been sated then?
Robert blinked and suddenly the walls of the Great Hall collapsed. He was no longer sitting in all his tainted glory on the Iron Throne, nor wearing his antlers of gold. It was the bitter scent of sea salt and the fragrance of the lavish flora, the gardens overlooking the sea that awoke his senses.
"Your grace, are you well?"
A gentle hand rested on his shoulder, gripping lightly to alert him of his position, unsteadily trekking through the walkways. Robert straightened himself, ignoring the strain on his back from the paunch that nearly protruded from his tunic and belt.
It was not kingly of him to be in a tranced state, nor being made a fool of by his blunders.
Robert was unaware of who it was, attending to his side and ensuring he was in good health. Once he had met the eyes of a Stark, he was unsure of why she was within arm's reach of his person.
"I can call for Maester Pycelle, your grace—"
"That decrepit old man." Robert snorted, "No need to take him from his important matters, my lady, I'm certain my wife keeps him quite busy."
At that, Laisa Stark laughed.
He was enraptured by the sound, the grace and beauty of it all. Robert composed himself and remained cordial for what good it had done him.
"Forgive me, your grace, that was not…appropriate of me." Despite her request for forgiveness, she was still smiling.
"Laugh, it is the demand of your king."
Laisa hadn't seemed troubled by his words. She laughed, no longer containing the happiness he longed to see once more. It was her being that brought him back to the days of his rebellion, to the Trident where his hammer met the breastplate of the three-headed dragon. Robert remembered the scents of blood and shit, the body of the last Targaryen at his feet.
Lyanna would be dead shortly thereafter. It mattered not how many times he had told himself the tale, it always ended the same. He found himself growing more repulsed each time he recited the histories.
Once her laughter had ceased, Robert resumed his self-torment.
"My father has informed me of your proposal between Prince Joffrey and myself, your grace." Laisa disclosed, wearing some look of pity. "And…that he respectfully declined.
He wasn't the slightest pleased with Ned's decision. Perhaps he should have reminded him kings get what they want, with and without permissions. "Yes. It was a fault of my own, my lady."
"I am grateful for the match, your grace, but Lady Sansa…she's fit better for the prince. A better match than I could ever be."
Lady Sansa is well above his station and you. Either of you are hardly within the same realm of desirability as my pitiful son. Robert silenced his unruly thoughts and assisted in seating Laisa under the canopies, overlooking the sea.
Several pitchers of wine at his disposal; sweets and platters of delicacies for her.
"Has your father proposed any well-endowed matches."
Laisa shook her head, nibbling a piece of cheese. "No, your grace. I presume there are no…suitors that please my father. I don't suspect he wishes I marry someone who is…well quite a bit younger than I. And to someone of such a high stature."
He laughed, loud and hard. "High stature, is that what he calls it? Don't all noblewomen desire to be a princess; a queen at one time or another."
"Not I, your grace."
Laisa nipped at fireplumbs, drawing her gaze into the distance, "It is not something that becomes of me. A responsibility that voids me. I would rather be a Lady of a fine kingdom than be queen of all seven and have no authority."
"Authority? Is that what you seek, my lady, to rule over where you are allowed to?"
"Yes."
Their eyes locked for a moment. Her gaze, challenging and as solid as steel; Robert squinted ever so slightly and was cursed with a disfigured perception. He immediately turned forward, facing the horizon and paid more mind to the gulls hawking above. It was laughable, the Gods must have been doing just that. It was the sounds of the waves crashing against the stones of the Red Keep that convinced him even the elements were taking pleasure in his misery.
Robert refreshed his goblet and took a hearty drink to gorge his needs.
"What was she like, your grace."
His fists curled beneath the table. The Gods were testing his diligence, too. "And who might this she be, my lady."
Laisa smiled. "Lyanna Stark."
Robert flinched at the sound of her name being passed through Laisa's lips. How could she so easily speak of her, so impassively as though her semblance hadn't caused a world of heartache—for both himself, and Ned.
"My father spoke of her quite often when I was little. I could see how much it pained him to see one of his daughters remind him so much of her. He tried to hide it. He was never very good at it…he would have this solemn look in his eye, every time he looked at me." she noted confidently, raising her cup to her lips, "Just like you are now, your grace."
What was he to say. The vision of his Lyanna worsened over the years, he had no proper recollection of their time spent together. Robert forced himself to manifest what he believed to be their life long before she was taken from him. These invocations of memories he had no longer, Robert sought the pitcher and gulped several cups. The wine dulled his senses; made his mind soft. Perhaps, it could provide answers to the questions Lady Stark had of his late betrothed.
He needn't ask for patience or time, Laisa awaited his words and hadn't troubled him further.
"She was…" Robert muttered, "She was the one thing I loved in this world."
It was this sharp moment of clarity, one muddled by the several cups of Dornish reds and a girl who sought the truth. His truth. There was no doubt she would be disappointed by what he had to say, only a fool would take his veracity with heart and ask nothing more of him.
Robert, then, became oblivious to who it was he was speaking to.
"I suppose what my father speaks of you is true."
To proclaim himself king, to enact a slight of rage to put fear into those who disrespected their monarch, in the face of the woman the Northerners called the Fierce.
It mattered not what something is called, but something that is, and he believed with all his being that she lived to her title.
Robert brooded over her words; a scowl forming across his puffed, reddened face.
"My father feared for me; did you know this." Laisa accosted. She remained even, keeping what remained of her propriety for his sake. "My and my sister's departure from Winterfell to accompany him, to ride to King's Landing which may be our indefinite home until the three of us are courted with proper suitors."
"Of all the innumerable contingencies he truly had to fear, the one element that had him praying to the Mother nightly, was you."
He expected nothing less. Ned was never too savvy with his words nor was he interested in a battle within the same stone walls. Robert respected him enough to put on a fine act in order to perform his duties when he knew the old wolf resented him. There was no ill-will, either man remained cordial to avoid a tension that would never be resolved. As Laisa put it, an indefinite home until his daughters were wed and Gods knows how long it would be before the wild one and the eldest would be matched.
Robert unknowingly thanked the Gods for blessing him with Myrcella, a sweet and obedient thing that was spared of her mothers' acrimony. He was unsure what he would have done if any of his children turned out as lawless as Ned's youngest daughter; as daunting as the woman before him.
"As you can see," Robert chuckled, dryly, pouring himself another cup, "You've nothing to fear, my lady."
"If I may speak freely, your grace."
He waved his goblet to relinquish permission.
Laisa turned inward, once again becoming the victim of her cold gaze. "The man, the king, who so desperately seeks his lost love and would do more than tear down a dynasty, perhaps burn the Seven Kingdoms, kill every man, woman and child if necessary, all so she could return to him."
"My likeness, it frightens you." she mused, "It seems we both have much to fear."
"A likeness is where it ends."
Robert intended to slight her, to offend her despite permitting her foulness, and perhaps shock her into submitting a proper tone for it was her king she addressed. His Lyanna and Ned's daughter were not akin, she was a great beauty with tenacity, who would not speak as absurdly as Laisa was now. If anything he knew of Lyanna be true, it was her docile nature. This woman, highborn or otherwise, no woman would put the fear of the Seven into him. He would not allow it.
He was king, to who did he owe the honor of being feared.
"Yes, I suppose it does." Laisa thoughtlessly picked at the lemon cakes and wedges of melon on her platter. "It seems I do not possess Lyanna's wolf's blood, so I've been told."
"Wolf's blood." Robert repeated, boasting another wheezing laugh. "Another northern term."
It was the look she laid upon him that made him lower his goblet. There was an unnerving silence between them, there were no gulls squawking in the skies, no waves breaking against the jagged shores, not as much as light conversation from the guests occupying the several canopies along the aisles of the gardens.
He gruffed, "Wolf got your tongue, girl."
Perhaps the drink muddled his senses at present. It never affected his sight first; it was his mouth.
"Yes. The wolf's blood, it.." Laisa murmured, a hinting smirk played on her lips. "It is what differed Lyanna from the ample, demure women of the south. "
Robert masked his disbelief. He was familiar with the passive women; he made the eight in his youth and he couldn't be bothered to remember their names or how many he took during his youth; to the many he took now. It was a quality that voided him for what he sought was between their legs—not between their ears.
"Eager women, those who seek to comfort and please their king by the only means they know."
"Is that who you believed Lyanna to be, your grace."
He became still. A part of him ignited at the slights towards Lyanna, a disrespect upon him was as sharp as needlepoint; to dishonor her memory was a pain he had yet to experience. Robert growled, "If you intend to keep your tongue once this conversation is through, you best watch your words."
Laisa lulled her head to the side, cupping her cheek. "You truly thought her to be a lady, your grace. Perhaps my father can enlighten you of the true, purest nature of Lyanna and remind you that I am no different."
"Answer me this, your grace, had Lyanna lived were you prepared to be disheartened and disrespected by her true natures, would you have discarded her too if she were nothing as you imagined."
"You dare speak to your king—"
Laisa picked herself up, dusting off her skirts and sliding the chair back beneath the table. She dismissed herself, speaking one last gripe before disappearing into the alcoves.
"Your rebellion made you immortal, your grace, best not squander your legacy by moping over a woman you never understood and condemning another for your sins."
LAISA
"If it does not offend, my lady, you seem…distressed this evening."
"I'm a fool, a great and fierce fool." Laisa muttered.
Illa mused, "You needn't punish yourself, my lady. How many people can freely boast about how they berated their king and live to tell the tale?"
"It's not a victory I am proud of."
She curled her legs beneath her, comforting her seat upon the windowsill, looking through the metal lattice. As of late, all Laisa felt she could do was roam the keep with Arya and gaze from the tower, to ease what was left of her disposition that rendered her irritable.
Freedom knew its bounds in the south. We succumb to our cages at one time or another.
"My lady, are you sure you're all right?"
Laisa thought it theatrical to speak as though she felt herself slipping away. It neared three weeks into their stay, the south had yet to drain her of all life. "Yes, I'm lost in thought is all."
Perhaps if I stage my death, flee back to the North, I could avoid a beheading.
"You Northerners truly have your heads buried in the snow, don't you." Illa teased.
"Aye. I suppose we do."
Illa became a considerable confidante, her only companion within the walls of the Red Keep. It never voided her that she may be under the queen's thumb. Perhaps the first rule of court was to always suspect if there were eyes were they shouldn't be. Who would question a sweet, young girl of high birth whose position is to change linen and clothe, brush and plait her lady's hair.
No better a creature to persuade and manipulate into doing one's bidding.
Had the queen believed she could do the same to her?
Laisa questioned what poisoned the wine in the south, however much of the red delicacy they consumed, it made many a man and woman delusional.
"Is there anything else I can do for you, my lady."
"No, thank you." She replied, "You may be dismissed."
Illa curtsied, then departed her chambers to leave Laisa to wallow in her self-pity. This behavior was unlike her, to be confrontational to the wrong people, to have a knack for disrespect. She convinced herself it was necessary to remain as such to protect herself from what stones may have been unturned. Laisa cursed herself for misplacing the condemnation—many years she lived, mourning the same spiel of how the dead was laid to rest and yet here she was, looming over Lyanna Stark as though she nor her father, or perhaps the king, too hadn't been burdened enough.
The booming knock at her chamber door caused her to flinch. There was no address. Viera roused from her slumber to approach the door with caution, sniffing the air. Laisa waited for some signal—a growl, a bark, anything. When no noise emanated from her pet, Laisa picked herself up off the sill to open her door and be rushed upon by a little body, arms flung around her waist and a head pressed hard into her abdomen. Those little hands that clung to her fabrics, scarred from dozens of scratches.
"Arya?" Gods, she was covered from head to toe in dirt and grime, "What is the meaning of this? Why are you all dirty—"
"Forgive me, m'lady, Lady Arya wanted to see you before we delivered 'er to yer father." Tomard, one of Eddard's guards, took up the threshold of her chambers. Harwin was his accompaniment, guarding the hall
"By the Mother," Laisa swore, "What has she done now?"
Arya picked her head up, screaming, "I haven't done anything!"
She silenced her sister by pressing her head back into her stomach, muffling her wild mouth for her own safety.
"She was found at the city gates, said she just came from the dungeons, found her way out through the sewers. The goldcloaks were giving her a rough time, m'lady." Harwin answered, looking awfully apprehensive for standing watch in the corridor. "We should take her to him, I'd rather not leave your father waitin'."
Laisa understood, prying her little hands off her bodice, gently pushing her in the direction of Tomard. "Go. I'll join you shortly."
Arya's reluctance to leave made her all the more worrisome. She encouraged her forth once more, assuring her with a softened smile.
Tomard left at Arya's side; Harwin remained.
"Where is Sansa, m'lady."
"In the gardens, I presume." Laisa murmured, "Harwin, is something else the matter?"
He sighed deeply, entering her chambers then closed the door soundly behind him. "I intend not to, m'lady, but when we were called to retrieve Lady Arya, she squabbled on—speaking of men who seeks your father's death for reasons that seem to have voided the young Lady."
Laisa felt her stomach wind, tighter and tighter like the taut strings of a bow. Men, unknown in appearance or name, threatened her father within the belly of the Red Keep. Arya, having been the one to stumble upon such knowledge by the luck of chasing tomcats through the castle, concerned her. She met eyes with Harwin, the steel and ice melded into one, harrowing vision that startled him.
"Find Jory, I will retrieve Sansa." said Laisa.
"M'lady, I will accompany you," Harwin protested, respectfully, "If what Arya says be true, it is no longer safe for a Stark to wander through the Red Keep."
When has it ever been safe.
Laisa trusted the words of loyal men. She had done enough foolishness for one lifetime, best not anger anyone further in her attempts to reclaim her sister. With a snap of her fingers, Viera was at her side before exiting her chambers. Harwin flanking her and at the ready for what may or may not come.
The Wolf's Blood so many claimed Laisa not to have boiled in her veins. Whomever had the gall to threaten her father, the Hand, the loyal man that is Eddard Stark—the realm will be displeased to find a woman of noble birth scouring the city for these people who dared call themselves men.
Neither had spoken since the night of the feast, the night Prince Joffrey asked for Laisa's hand in dance. Sansa convinced herself thusly that Laisa had taken her one true love away. She wondered where Sansa had gotten her sense of self-entitlement, to allow any senses of her own to be muddled by betrothals and a love she convinced herself existed. Laisa loved her sister, endlessly and without question, but she wondered if she or their mother hadn't done enough for her.
It was in moments like this, in moments made on the Kingsroad, Laisa must remind herself that Sansa is a but a child.
"Wait here, Harwin…I need you to guard the alcove." Laisa thought it safe to keep him at a distance, to prevent Sansa from fleeing. "And whatever you hear, do not approach."
"Yes, m'lady."
Laisa pushed herself forth, carefully coming upon Sansa and her ladies, speaking amongst themselves. Once she were in her sister's purview, the chittering laughter and conversation fell into silence. They greeted her, but their respect for her beyond it seemed to have voided them.
"I would like a word with my sister." Laisa ensured her tone was not taken as request. These southern women hadn't a knack for true suitability, they all answered to the same queen and believed she would protect them against the wrath of the wild Stark girl. And her monster, too. "Alone."
Neither woman had a word to protest, they all arose from their seats, curtsied low and fled.
Sansa hadn't bothered to raise her chin, nor stop the needlepoint in her hands. She, as well as her maids, stitched the same sigil into their canvases.
"You've yet to marry the little prince and you have already abandoned our sigil." Laisa had meant for that to be a simple jest, nothing more.
Sansa scowled, "Is that what you think of me. First, you attract the prince, and he forgets of me, and you dare question if I have abandoned my loyalty to my family."
"Do you truly believe I intended to attract him, that even wanted to."
She remained quiet, puncturing fabric and adding another detail to the rearing, golden…lion.
Laisa took the seat beside her, overlooking her work with awe. "Sweetling, you've got the wrong sigil. The prince is a Baratheon, a stag."
Though a momentary notice, a mistake that need be corrected, Sansa took it with much more meaning and shouted. "He's a lion Golden haired, and beautiful, strong and fierce and nothing like his drunken fool of a father."
"And it was his drunken fool of a father that proposed the marriage between myself and the prince." Laisa informed, "I suppose you didn't know that, did you."
"Of course I did." Sansa harshly snapped. It was a bit silly of her to lie knowing how terrible she was at it and to whom she was trying to lie to.
Laisa gentle placed her hand over Sansa's, feeling her become stuff beneath her touch. "Father declined, as did I. To make a mockery of my sister the way the king did, he is lucky I have not found the courage to take his tongue for trying to renege on a good arrangement."
Sansa's faced morphed into an undeniable sense of horror.
"I understand you may be angry with me still, to be…made fool of at a feast and I deeply apologize for it. All of it." Laisa said, "But you must come with me. Something has happened, and father may be in danger."
"Father?" Sansa echoed, dropping her canvas to the stones, "What has happened to father, is he all right—"
"Yes, he is but he was threatened. I do not know the specifics, I need you to come with me, I do not want you by yourself here."
Sansa blinked, her brow creasing in confusion. Neither had the time to go over every impeccable detail of Arya's findings, her concern was ensuring her sister's safety. It was paramount in such dire situations. She took Sansa by the hand, forcing her out of her seat to rejoin Harwin.
It was the light panic in Sansa's voice that worried her most, "Why? Laisa, what is the meaning of this—"
"I will explain everything once we are with father, I promise."
There was no further struggle or protest. As they delved deeper into the keep, Harwin assured them of their safety but with every pass or mention of guards or ladies and lords that happened to pass them by, Laisa could feel their ponderous eyes burning into their backs. Perhaps, she allowed her suspicions to best her or was she taking Arya's narrative too gravely.
No. These are no suspicions nor would Arya devise something like this.
A doubtful thought shaken away by force. She kept Sansa close, Harwin fell back just a bit to almost secure her between them as they pushed through the bare corridors. The trek to the Tower of the Hand felt longer, the distance seemed to grow by twenty paces.
And every watchful eye had landed upon them with such interest, Laisa loosened her hold and took Sansa's arm within hers. The entrance of the Tower was just before them. They were not concealed under the black of night nor were they careful about their sudden rush to the Tower. It was a fault of her own, Harwin did as his lady commanded. She should have been smarter.
Once they passed the threshold of the Tower, Laisa sent Sansa up the spiral steps first with their wolves at her heels.
"Find Jory, Harwin. Bring him to my father's solar immediately."
He nod, before setting out. "Yes, m'lady."
Laisa gathered her skirts once more, chasing after Sansa and the wolves to find the door to her father's solar closed. Tomard stood watch just outside.
"I've told your father of your arrival, m'lady."
"Thank you." She said quickly, pushing the door open to allow themselves entrance. Tomard shut the door behind them, awaiting for the arrival of Jory and Harwin.
The sternness of Eddard Stark cut through her like sharpened steel and flesh. "I take it Arya has told you."
"Aye, she did." Eddard muttered, "You needn't worry, loves. Mummers is all they were."
"Mummers." Laisa repeated with that same sternness, "Father, your life is threatened, and you say that they're mummers."
It wasn't disbelief that shocked Laisa into silence, it was his dismissiveness. To truly believe that it were men of troupes, wandering the halls of the dungeons speaking such atrocities and to reduce their worry to an overexaggerated story. Her father wasn't a fool, he was hard-headed and would dismiss the slights of any man (or woman) willing to cut him down given the chance.
Laisa held a now trembling Sansa in her arms, Arya seemed to gravitate in her direction and pressed her cheek against her abdomen once more. Her scarred and lanky arms wrapping easily around both herself and Sansa.
She could not ignore this. Laisa wouldn't allow him to ignore it, for Gods sake, he was threatened! Did the words of his own children, their worry, and their concern not mean a damn thing to the man?
"Father, with respect," She bit, "Have you forgotten where it is we are."
Eddard's face softened, a hand reached to the bridge of his nose to pinch, "Laisa…"
"Wolves are not welcomed in the south. And here we are, packed in your solar like rats. These men, whomever they may be, mummers, spies, traitors, they hid in the darkness of the dungeons to speak of such things. To speak of you, to threaten you."
"And if these men found her, what do you think they would have done to her." Eddard asked calmly, laying down his quill.
Laisa, though, was unable to contain her rigidness as her hand tightened against Arya's head. She hadn't an answer, if Arya had been found, Gods knows what they would have done to her.
The door to his solar was pounded on, twice, and three Stark guardsmen piled in and hurriedly shut the door. "M'lord. M'ladies."
"There is no threat against my life, sweet girl." Eddard's false assurances was the pitch to her flaming anger, "I apologize on behalf of my daughters who have gathered you here, there is nothing to fret over."
"You may not take this threat seriously, father, but I will." She growled, a hint of that wolf's blood vigor, evident in her voice. She held Sansa close, her worry rippled through Laisa's chest. "Harwin, and Jory, I want you to escort Arya and Sansa through the keep. Dancing lessons, walk in the gardens, to and from their bedchambers—do not let them out of your sight."
"Yes, m'lady."
Eddard, though, kept what he could to himself before he interjected, "If...If this threat is fact, I want no other man to guard you than Jory."
"Tomard will do." Laisa retorted, turning to their men whom were neatly lined and cordial, "This does not leave this solar."
She placed a kiss to Sansa's cheek, to Arya's forehead. "Go on, everything will be all right." She may have pegged Sansa for being an awful liar, but Laisa wasn't bothering to hide her disdain for their father's sudden disregard.
Jory and Harwin left at their sides, to part and resume their day as though nothing had happened—Laisa could only hope.
Tomard excused himself, resuming his duties. The solar felt thick, cluttered when Tomard left and now, Laisa met the steely eyes of her father with a similar if not exact demeanor. Had she learned something, anything of Eddard Stark, his rage was made of whispers. He was the calm before her storm—Laisa was no different. She placed herself in the seat before him, not taking her eyes from his as they spoke in silence.
"You are beginning to sound like your mother."
It didn't sound like an insult or a pity, rather it was a show of admiration. Laisa perked up a touch. "My father was threatened, his life could be in danger—do you expect me to sit idly by. To plait my hair and work on my needlepoint, when I know it is not just you who is affected."
Eddard chuckled smoothly, "Aye. I expect nothing less from you."
Laisa took that as her leave, rising from her seat and glide to the chamber door to barely get the heavy woodwork open before Eddard's throat clear made her flinch.
"Sit." He said, "We still have much to discuss."
JAIME
His mind was elsewhere. The five men who served themselves up to him to assist in his practice were as oblivious as he hoped, and with every strike of his sword he earned a tram of confidence. Jaime's steel met with shields and lesser blades, the metal sung once he struck and recoiled to prepare for another stroke. He drove his blade forward, to the closest man, whilst defending his unarmed side to send two men to the ground. The remaining three charged with all their might. Jaime's blood was not boiling as it would be in a field of war, it hardly felt warm to the touch. That only angered him, and he thrusted his blade with such force a sword was dropped from the hand of the weakest contender. He fell to his knees, yielding so pathetically, Jaime turned from his position and focused on the last two men standing.
Jaime took two paces back, allowing them to attack their lord as they so pleased before driving his sole into one's armored chest and throwing his wooden practice shield to the ground. It wasn't the same when there was no blood coating the sharpest tip of his blade. That is what he missed. The violence, the bloodlust, the victory. His white cloak tainted the glory of life that was once introduced to him as the Kingsguard.
The sacrifice was too great, and the days were too long.
He lowered his guard, hoping to gather some sense of a challenge as he awaited to be lousily attacked from this unsuspecting opponent, tossing his head of gold back to gather the strands from sticking to his skin.
Another thrust blocked, the metal didn't sound as heavenly as it did when it was one man against another. Jaime had his back turned on purpose, hoping the the band of Lannister men would rise to their feet once more.
It wasn't worth the pitiful practice. Jaime waved them off, wanting peace for the rest of his evening. The sticky air that wafted through the alcoves did nothing for the heat that stuck to his skin. Once his sword was sheathed, he reached for a waterskin and drank as though he hadn't known thirst. It dribbled down his chin, soaking up unto the collar of his tunic but it aided in a well needed cooling sensation.
He took a gander over the sea, the spray of sea salt in his face and the sounds of waves. It wasn't peace, but it was surely better than staring into the stone ceiling in his chambers, allowing himself the luxury to think off duty.
Jaime had his hand fisted into the tunic of a ten-year-old boy. One who loved to climb; shot arrows; ran about the wilderness of the north. Who lived his life in peace...if only he hadn't climbed that tower. He squeezed his eyes shut, cursing himself that he would dare blame a child. At the ready, he was insistent on killing those who stood in the way of his path to happiness, a life with Cersei that may never see the light of day. He gripped to the stone wall, his hands trembling.
What have I done.
"Ser Jaime?"
His eyes snapped opened. It was the Stark girl, Laisa was it, to happen upon him as she had done before. Jaime ignored his attempts at forgetfulness, all he ever heard of since the Stark's arrival was Laisa this, Laisa that; Lyanna this and that. Cersei sought him out more now that she was here, now that Robert was torturing himself, skulking and befriending drums of any wine or ale he could get his grubby paws on. Perhaps he should thank her, now that he had Cersei to himself and wholly to himself; in the same breath admit that it was he who shoved the little boy from a tower.
And he had the nerve to be the first to tell her of it. His cheeks hot and reddened from his tumble, the rush to dress himself and act under the guise of guardship of Laisa when he was nowhere to be found.
Jaime forced himself to turn and face her, his eyes following up to the steps where a Stark guard loomed in the shadows of the arcade.
"Ser, you're bleeding."
Was it blood? Jaime thought his sweat felt a bit thick but he paid no mind, simply cleaned himself off with a wet rag and resumed his practices.
She carefully approached, asking with kind eyes of she were allowed in his space. Jaime didn't care. Had he been left to bleed or be cleaned up for the sake of voiding infection, he wouldn't acknowledge it further. There were plenty of wounds that needed tending to, a cut was the least of his worries.
Laisa inclined her chin, a piece of torn fabric from her inserts in her hand as she dabbed the blood that spilled from his forehead. He hissed at the spun cotton having contact with his broken skin, sticking to the wound.
"What brings you to the yards this evening, my lady." Jaime questioned, now holding the piece of cotton to his forehead, once her fingers relieved their pressure. "Plan to steal another bow and quiver for your travels."
"No. I came from the kennels, Ser Barristan insisted on the king's order the wolves be kept there from now on." Laisa said, the corners of her lips pulling into a sardonic smile. "A young fellow thought it was smart to enter my chambers without address."
Laisa gently removed his hand, the sudden stroke of her soft fingers over the calloused, scarred skin of his knuckles. She carefully peeled the cloth back, wrenching the dirty washcloth that hung limply off the wood bucket, using the dampest and cleanest bit of it to melt the blood away.
At first, he was quite enjoying it. Jaime would rather have the soft hands of a woman—albeit a specific woman—than the crepe touch of Pycelle. Then, he found himself slowly creating a distance between himself and the aroma of her winter roses. Why was he allowing her to touch him, and so suddenly?
Had he asked, Jaime thought her answer might have been similar to one he had received before. A kindness
Jaime took a moment to think, a daunting task he knows. It was a mere moment he caught the glimpse of pure unease at the sight; her gentle caress and attentiveness, similar to some sense of maternal affection. How she approached him, silently asking for his permission before taking a heedful step further.
A sweet thing Laisa Stark is.
Much too sweet for his liking.
"I hope you don't mind, Ser..." Laisa murmured, pulling her generous hands back to her bodice, "I...If it please you, I'd like to ask you something."
"Go on."
She bit her lip. "This...what I do for you, it doesn't...bother you, does it?"
Jaime raised a brow, "My lady, it would please me if you're more specific of what it is you do for me. We wouldn't want another Stark guard to question your honor, now would we." The lilt in his comment caused him to gaze upon the stairs, the man's hand rested comfortably on a glimmering, silver hilt. He smirked in satisfaction.
"Kindnesses." she said, mustering a smile. "Forgive me, it sounds silly. I do not want to come across as a swooning maiden, tending to your whims, as immediately as I do."
Jaime was unsure of what to think of it at first. Had he minded her offering her bed and tending to minor wounds? No, he found himself quite thankful. Perhaps, he should be...the eldest sister of the little boy he nearly killed, tended to him whether he asked for it or no. He turned himself forward, facing the sea once more to welcome the salted sprays and the monstrous sounds that engulfed him completely.
He thought once more, a lucky streak. "No, my lady it does not bother me."
It was his answer that seemed to elate her, and he incited another grin to please her, once more.
There was a flittering thought that reveled in his mind. One he thought it right to ask; he answered on her behalf, what would keep her from returning the favor. "Tell me, have you a knack for expressing your utmost impudence to his and her grace or are all Starks dense by nature."
Laisa went frighteningly still. Perhaps, he should have used a kinder set of words. "Lord Baelish attests that we Starks have quick tempers and slow minds. Perhaps he is right. I seem to be digging my own tomb, with every word I speak."
"A tomb, no. But a pretty, clean spike on the city walls awaits you." If Cersei were generous; if Robert had the gall to do it.
"Does it bother you, having your ear talked off of my aunt, Ser." Laisa asked, "I assume your sister...her grace...must speak on her, on I, plenty. The king...many a whisper of the whores he has that come and go from his chambers, they all share a familiar look."
He remained composed. The relationship between himself and Cersei was yet to be compromised; from the outside looking in, they were twins whom were closer than most. Laisa Stark, raising her babe brothers and sisters, was ignorant enough to believe they were at all the same. It would be unbecoming of her to think so...vilely of her own kin.
"The things one does for love."
Jaime all but recoiled at her words. He was wide-eyed, staring at her with an impulse and a wanton hand gripping the lionhead pommel. Her euphemisms and wise words were scaring him into the thoughtless, wordless belief that she knew. He kept himself even. It was such an erratic feeling, to get a taste of Cersei's own suspicions and here she was, blatantly pointing the needle in his direction and without a second thought.
"Well...perhaps not love." Laisa murmured, "How can you love someone you don't know a damn thing about."
And yet, I revolt the very people who accepted babes born of their kin. What better a lover than the one you came into this world with.
"Forgive me, Ser, I've taken enough of your time. You're probably quite spent from your practice...and this conversation. Goodnight." Laisa swiftly ascended the stairs, waving a sweet goodbye before she and her ward were engulfed by the darkness of the alcove.
Jaime lingered for a moment longer, not on her words nor on the conversation he had already forgotten, but his sweet Cersei. An emerald cast in gold; rivaled the beauty of the sun and any dragon's fire. He carefully ascended the same stairwell, making haste to the White Sword Tower. He wasn't expecting her this night, as he hadn't been every other night this month. She seemed to manifest in his chambers and leave before first light to remain loyal to her king, in a sense.
He sauntered through the Tower's entrance, following the serpentine stairs to his chambers with a lug in his step and an unfamiliar weight on his shoulders. A push of his hand and his chambers were exposed, as was the pacing, blonde presence that angrily evaded him despite his arrival.
"You're late."
Jaime chuckled, "I wasn't aware I'd be having company tonight."
Cersei's eyes ignited with an anger he was well acquainted with. "Where were you."
"Will you calm down," he sighed, "I was in the practice yards, enamored with one of our Northern guests."
She had a certain beauty to her when she was jealous, one that made him grin and revel in such a pleasure like a green boy, fresh on the battlefield. Jaime undressed, set his blade closest to his bedside and sought out the washbasin to cleanse himself of the sweat and grime.
"You haven't a thing to fear, sweet sister, the little wolf merely wanted to speak for a moment. Nothing more."
Her tender, slim fingers traced over his shoulder blades, once he was used to the softest of touches, her nails dug deeply into his back.
Jaime hissed. "Gods-"
"Enamored, you say."
A lion still has her claws. "A conversation."
She turned him back around, facing her and becoming so enthralled by the neediness she masked behind her anger. Cersei melded her mouth with his, gripping onto his skin as she would his clothes with the intention to mark him. For a woman so fearful, so paranoid, she more than gladly left behind her reminder.
It was the moment he fluttered his eyes shut, one moment tasting the fury on her lips and the next, staring into the emptiness of his chambers.
Jaime didn't bother to chase after her like some cub in need of attention. He took it how she meant it, stripped to his smallclothes and blew out the firelight. The hearth hardly smoldered.
That night, he dreamt of jade and gold, and a fiery touch he desperately craved.
Another shitty attempt at sword fighting, by the Gods, why do I do it to myself.
Also was it just me or did Laisa dominate this chapter because...while I'm not mad at it, the whole point of POV's is to not center it around my character but I truly couldn't help myself I throughout enjoyed all these interactions and I hope you guys do too!
Don't forget to fav/follow/review! See you next time!
