Myra

The godswood of Riverrun was a thing of beauty. Sunlight drifted lazily through the open canopies above, and a small breeze was ever present, not a cold thing, but enough to keep the air from being too still. A variety of trees crowded the area, all focused at the heart of the sanctuary: the weirwood.

It wasn't like home, she thought, where Winterfell's great heart tree towered over everything else, its blood red leaves blanketing the area and leaving it in a constant sort of darkness. There, it had a presence, large and foreboding, but constant and strong. Here, the heart tree of her mother's godswood felt more like the other trees around it, pretty but unassuming. The face carved into its trunk seemed kinder as well.

Even their trees suffered in the embrace of the South.

Still, it was better than nothing. In King's Landing, she'd gone to the godswood once, some time in the first week, when her mind still swam at the immensity of it all, and the troubles of her family had not been quite so entwined with Southern politics. She vaguely recalled finding the godswood there just as unimpressive, as large as it was. It was louder there, full of little insects that made peculiar sounds, and had clearly been the victim of overly curious and passionate nobles. She'd lost interest in going again even before the trouble started.

Myra knelt before the tree, feeling the cold of the earth seep into her skirts. She closed her eyes, taking a moment to listen to the soft trickle of the stream nearby and the distant call of a bird. How peaceful it felt, here in the middle of a war.

And then she began to pray.

She prayed that Arya would remain safe, wherever she was, and that Nymeria made it to her.

She prayed Sansa still lived, and had found shelter somewhere in the world.

She prayed for Jory, lost in the war as well.

She prayed for the souls lost in Winterfell, that in death they may find the peace that life had robbed them of.

And, in the end, she prayed for Jaime. The old gods, she thought, might not care to hear such words for a man of his nature, but she'd not heeded anyone for him thus far, why should she stop now?

Let him be safe, she thought. Let him go home.

Her words were silent, for they were for the gods alone. Many Northerners scoffed at the idea of praying out loud to the Seven, as if the words were more for those around to hear rather than the gods themselves. It seemed much of the Faith of the Seven focused on pomp and ceremony. She recalled more than one septon garbed in far finer things than many of the lords they preached to.

No wonder Jaime hadn't any faith in such things.

He might have liked the old gods though, except, perhaps, for the tree part.

No, he would have made a terrible joke straight into the weirwood's face.

The thought made her smile.

Myra opened her eyes to the unchanged face, wondering if the gods had a sense of humor, or if they were like the lords who served them, quiet, dark, and as unyielding as the winter winds. If they did, it may not have been the kind that those so far beneath them would care for. Life and death and sickness and war were just pieces in a game far grander than theirs.

The breeze picked up, carrying a small, red leaf into her lap.

"Maester Luwin always said that the wind through the leaves of the weirwood were the gods speaking to us," Robb's voice called from behind her. Myra turned to see him standing there, for once not armored, though his sword still hung by his side. "I asked him if he could translate for us, and he laughed."

Myra smiled softly, though even that felt strained. "And then you convinced Arya that if she blew hard enough, the wind would reply."

"As I seem to recall, you waited until after she tested that theory before telling her that her big brother was a liar."

She watched Robb unsheathe his sword, placing it on the ground before him as he knelt, a sign of respect for the gods of their youth.

Not knowing what he wanted, and preferring not to start anything, Myra chose to wait quietly. She thought the sun would set with them still in silence when Robb finally spoke again. His voice was heavy.

"What did Father tell you before you left? What were his last words to you?"

Myra could still feel the warmth of the sun on her face from that day, the breeze from the south, thick with heat and salt, the gentle sway of the docks. There were so many faces she'd never see again, watching her with a sort of melancholy. Even Renly was gone now.

How often had that scene played out in her mind over the course of the war? How often had she tried to imagine what would have happened if she refused to leave?

Yet it always ended the same.

"He told me not to pay for his sins, or mother's," she answered slowly, feeling the emotion choke the words slightly. "And I told him not to pay for Robert's."

Robb took a deep breath. Even from where she was seated, Myra could feel him tense. It was that protective nature of his, the one that had reared its head from the very moment Robert Baratheon had come to their home so long ago.

How different their lives would have been if the man hadn't bothered.

"Do you think he can see us?" Robb asked, eyes focused on the face of the heart tree. "If the gods can see, why not him? There isn't a man more deserving."

"I don't want him to see us. I can't stand the thought of him knowing what's become of his family."

What's become of us.

Robb nodded, seeming to agree, and their conversation lapsed into silence once more. But there was less tension to it, the kind that she would be content leaving the way it was. It felt a little like days gone by, when all they needed was the presence of one another to be content. They didn't need to speak, because they knew what the other was thinking, and they knew how the other would respond.

Maester Luwin once said that they solved quite a few arguments without exchanging a single word. He then joked that the Citadel could use more individuals like them.

That may have been the only time she actually heard the man jest.

"So, was I right?"

Myra blinked, turning to her brother. "What?"

"Did all the southern lords and knights stalk you around the keep?"

She was silent a moment, staring at her brother as if he'd lost his mind. But his blue eyes were pleading, perhaps desperate, just this once, to have something go peacefully in his life. He was trying, and gods forbid she not meet him halfway.

"They certainly tried. When Father wasn't around to scare them away, Jory took up the slack," Myra replied, musing over her wayward friend. "There was a knight with butterflies on his shield. He was from somewhere in the Reach, very dignified, very sure of himself. Jory took one look at his sigil and said, 'you think a wolf's going to marry into that?' I'd never seen a man look more defeated in my life."

Robb chuckled. How wonderful it sounded.

"Aye, knight or no, Jory wasn't afraid to put anyone in their place. He'd probably been through more than all those flowery lords combined."

"How was he when you saw him?" Myra asked. "Was he hurt?"

"No, nothing like that. He was tired, angry, and eager to get back to you," her brother replied, thoughtful. "If we see him again, I'll have him knighted. It's the least I can do."

"We'd have to tell him about Rodrik."

"Aye."

Jory had been through so much already. If he was still alive, he'd come back to no family, or so they presumed. Ser Rodrik's daughter, Beth, had been at Winterfell, and as far as anyone knew, no one remained at the castle. A thousand outcomes came to mind, and each one was worse than the last.

What had the world done to her when she began to find death as a kinder fate?

Of course, that was not a question she truly needed to ask anymore. The dagger she kept at her side answered that well enough.

"I can't forgive you for what you've done, Myra," Robb started, slowly, the words difficult for him. "But I don't want to fight anymore. It seems every decision I make leaves me with less and less. I'm losing everything, and I can't lose you too."

Myra sighed, looking to her twin, feeling both relief and melancholy descend on her. How far had they all fallen? How long would it take to find their way back again?

"Robb, I-"

Footsteps approached from behind them.

The Stark twins turned to find their mother standing before them, looking wary even in the godswood of her childhood.

In her hands, she held a small bit of parchment.

"There is news from Harrenhal."

They stood abruptly, Robb grabbing his sword and sheathing it.

"What is it?" he asked. "Have the Lannisters made a move?"

"If it were anything like that, the Greatjon would have torn through here long before I could," Catelyn replied with a shake of her head. "No, it's something worse, I'm afraid. Lord Karstark is dead."

The silence that followed enveloped the whole space. Gone was the steady flow of the streams around her and the breeze through the leaves. She couldn't see the way her mother looked at her, or feel the heat of her brother's gaze. There was only the moment, the dread that climbed through her very soul.

Gods, she hated how familiar it had become.

"What happened?"

Catelyn shook her head. "I don't know. Lord Bolton mentions his scouts finding a few survivors, to include Jaime Lannister."

No.

No, please.

"And he took him alive?" Robb sounded furious at the idea, speaking through clenched teeth. He'd sent Lord Karstark to kill Jaime, and somehow the opposite had happened.

"He did," their mother replied. "He wonders if perhaps we might still have use of him. He says...there's no one around to release him now."

A cruel jest. What humor the Lord of the Dreadfort had.

"What else?" Myra asked, taking a deep breath as her hands clenched into fists. "I can see it in your eyes, Mother. There is something else."

Catelyn hesitated, looking back to the parchment and sighing. "Lord Bolton also claims that the Kingslayer is no longer able to do any harm. He has...lost his sword hand."

She couldn't breathe.

Why couldn't she breathe?

He'd rather die than live like that. What is Jaime to do if he can't fight?

He needs me. He needs me to tell him it will be okay.

He needs-

Myra took a breath, sharp, stuttering. She sounded on the verge of drowning.

She looked to her brother, and had never seen him so torn before. His body was still tense, angry, hands shaking as they now clenched the letter their mother had once held, but she could see it in his eyes. It hurt him to see her this way; it was his duty to comfort her, as it had been hers to comfort him.

But he couldn't now.

Not over this.

"Go on, Robb," their mother said quietly, touching him on the shoulder. "Your bannermen will need to hear the news, as will Harrion. He is Lord of Karhold now."

Her brother never seemed so eager to deliver bad news as he all but ran from the godswood.

Myra watched the space where he once stood, feeling utterly alone once again.

They took his hand.

They took the one thing that still made him proud.

"Mother, I...I know you don't care but...but I..."

Almost immediately, she was wrapped up in her mother's arms, her tight embrace allowing Myra to slump against her, and share the burdens that threatened to overwhelm her. She felt her hand brush through her hair, as she had done so many times when she was a girl. How safe she had felt then.

"Please don't go," she cried into her mother's dress.

"I won't, my sweet girl," her mother replied, hushing her. "If I must, I'll stay until winter comes."

Arya

It was strange not having Hot Pie with them. She hadn't realized how much he contributed to conversation, which was most of it really. Without his complaining or sudden need to break the quiet that had fallen on their small group, they mostly travelled in silence. Hours passed without anyone speaking, even a day once, or so she thought. It was hard to tell. With the endless trees and green, it was all starting to blur together.

They had stopped again by a creek, where they made a fire near a small outcropping of rocks. There was still plenty of daylight, but Jory had said rain was coming, and it was better to have shelter now than to be caught without. She could smell it approaching, the wind carrying the thick air from the south.

Gendry and Jory were practicing again. They'd both gotten better, their movements were faster now, less focused on technique and more on the actual application. Even without his eye, Jory clearly outclassed Gendry. He claimed it would be harder for him, since he was starting his training at an older age, and it showed. Her friend had no patience, and preferred to attack rather than wait for his opponent to come to him.

Jory joked that it made his parentage all the more obvious. King Robert had no patience either.

For some reason, that just made Gendry angry, and he swung at Jory without thought, all his strength behind it. All her father's captain had to do was step to the side and let the boy fall over himself, before kicking him in the back for good measure.

"Keep letting that anger get to you, and you'll pay for it one of these days," Jory said, pointing his sword at Gendry. "You won't always be fighting me."

Arya didn't know what it was about that day that compelled her to move more than the others, but she suddenly leapt off the rock she'd been spectating from and stood in front of Gendry. She took up the sword she had been dragging along since Harrenhal and ran it along Jory's, standing side face, the way Syrio had taught her.

"What are you doing, my lady?"

"It's like you said. Gendry won't always be fighting you, so I'll help," Arya replied, wondering if it sounded as stupid to them as it did her. "And it's Arya. You shouldn't be calling me 'my lady' out here."

"Given the Lannisters are searching for Arya Stark, I don't see how it could make much difference," Jory said with a smirk.

Arya frowned, twisting her sword around his until she'd knocked his arm back and exposed him to a strike from the front. Of course, she'd also hoped to disarm him, but unprepared or not, Jory was still a soldier through and through. He'd hold on to that sword until they had to pry it from his fingers.

She pointed the tip of her sword at his chest. "Dead."

"We are not doing this."

"Father let me learn water dancing. Syrio Forel used to be First Sword in Braavos." Arya moved to Jory's blind side, her sword flicking up to his neck. "Dead."

She watched his eye narrow, and then it happened. Quick as lightning, Jory dropped his sword and grabbed the hand that held hers. With his free hand, he grabbed the collar of her tunic, picking her up off the ground before dipping her down. There she hung, one hand in his possession, staring at the world from a new angle and Gendry's feet as he stood again.

"This isn't a game, Arya," Jory said, clearly frustrated. "I'm teaching Gendry how to take a man's life, and overconfidence will kill you just as fast as inexperience."

"So you won't teach me? If we get attacked, we'll all be killed, and if I can't fight back, I'll be killed even faster."

Jory sighed, lifting Arya back onto her feet. She could see him debating, the conflict between the need to protect her and the fact that he could not possibly do so in the war reflected in his eye and body language.

"She's right," Gendry said, breaking the silence. "Not knowing how to fight a man is asking to die out here. You should let her do it. She's probably a better learner than I am anyway."

"I wouldn't go that far," Jory replied, the barest hint of a smile on his face. "First lesson then: don't go for a man's blind spot often. The better the swordsman, the more aware he is of it. He'll assume it will be your first move, and he will make you pay for it."

And so, Jory taught Arya what he knew, or a simpler version of it. Things he could teach Gendry didn't quite apply to her, whether she was too short or not strong enough or simply by the fact that she was a girl and men probably wouldn't fight her the same way. But he gave her the basics, and late in the night, when the rain poured down and Arya found herself unable to sleep again, she tried to apply the idea to the lessons she had already been given by Syrio.

Jory had managed to fall asleep quickly that evening. Even above the rainfall, she could hear his soft snores.

Gendry was awake though. It was his turn to watch, and he sat huddled by their small fire, watching as the gusts that burst through the rocks made the flames dance and sputter.

"We should be at Riverrun soon," Arya said, sitting next to him. She chewed on a bit of stale bread they had. They might have all forgotten to eat that day. "Hopefully Robb will still let me train. Mother won't like it, but I think I can convince him, and since he's the king, she'll have to allow it. They'll train you too. Give your proper armor and everything."

Her friend sighed. "I'm not staying at Riverrun."

Arya blinked, her bread dropping to the ground, forgotten. "What?"

"Your brother is a king, and you're m'lady. Once we get through those gates, I'm just the bastard boy from King's Landing. Doesn't matter who my father was, I'll be shoved away to a corner where some lord can order me around like a dog."

"That won't happen. I won't let that happen."

Gendry shook his head, a faint but sad smile on his face. "And how do you plan on doing that? Should I swear my fealty to you? Lay down my blunted sword from Harrenhal at your feet?"

"Seven hells, no," Arya replied, looking at him like he'd lost his mind. He was certainly talking that way. "My brother could give you a good position. He could make you a knight even."

"I don't want to be a knight. I made armor for knights, and they were the worst people I'd ever met. Starving men are more likely to give you food than a knight is to look you in the eye like a person," Gendry said. He picked up a small stick, poking at the flames as they withered. The ground around it was damp. It wouldn't last the night. "The Brotherhood is just men, farmers and fishers, trying to save others like them. Maybe your brother is good, maybe he's not, but he's not about to save everyone. Probably did some of the damage himself."

"That's not true! Robb would never-" Her argument died when Gendry gave her an unconvinced look. "Beric Dondarrion is a knight. Him and Thoros of Myr, they fought at the tourney. I watched them. They spoke to all those knights that you don't like."

"And I bet they speak to me the same way. They respect us, so we respect them."

Arya stood up, her head the only one not about to hit the rock that gave them shelter from the storm.

"Then why did you even come? You could have stayed with your stupid Brotherhood."

Gendry shrugged, staring at the fire for a little while. "S'pose I just wanted to make sure you made it to Riverrun."

She didn't like that. She didn't like it at all. She was supposed to be angry with him and what he told her made her feel...less angry.

She hated that.

"I don't need you to protect me," Arya spat.

"Oh, I'm aware," Gendry replied, looking up at her. "But I still wanted to know."

Arya took a breath. Then another. She stared down at her friend – her treasonous friend – and felt her anger slipping away. He was going to leave her. After everything they had been through, he was going to walk away and fight with a bunch of men who let the Hound go because of their stupid red god.

And she couldn't stay angry.

Arya flopped back down to the ground beside Gendry, keeping her eyes focused on their dying fire.

"I hate you."

Gendry chuckled. "I know that too."

Jaime

He'd choked the man named Qyburn when he came to check on the scream. And he demanded to know why he would do such a thing, though it was difficult for a man to answer his question while his windpipe was being crushed. One of the guards relieved him of consciousness, and put an end to that.

When he woke, Jaime tried it again, but they'd gotten smart and restrained his left arm.

Clearly there had been no need for the right.

"The procedure was necessary to save your life," Qyburn explained as he changed the bandages one morning. Jaime refused to look, his eyes focused on the wall. Once he thought the jingle of Pycelle's chain was maddening, but now he found the lack of the sound disturbing. "The tissue had begun to rot. Had it spread any further, we would not be having this discussion."

"You should have let me die."

The Northmen wanted him gone anyway. What difference did the manner in which he departed make?

"You still have your left hand, Ser Jaime. Many men have adjusted to such...circumstances."

"Tell me, if I took your eyes out, would you adjust?"

Qyburn didn't speak after that.

Now he was in the baths beneath Harrenhal, naked as his nameday, watching the steam rise from the water. A servant boy watched him from the corridor, perhaps waiting to see if he'd try to drown himself. It was an idea, but not one he was particularly fond of.

Perhaps he could simply will himself to die.

A knight without a hand.

A kingsguard with no means to protect.

The gods had a shit sense of humor.

Jaime watched the stump as it rested above the surface of the water, useless and ugly. He could still feel his fingers though; he could feel himself making a fist over and over again, so clearly that he half believed that when he closed his eyes, he'd open them to a whole hand once more.

He imagined a pair of green eyes looking at the stump and narrowing in disgust. They were attached to a frown, a beautiful thing that would never let him touch her again.

Then he saw gray eyes, sad, but determined. Her hands touched his stump without recoil, holding his gaze, steady and true.

And then he saw blue.

They'd put Brienne of Tarth in a dress, and somehow it managed to make her look like less of a woman. He might have laughed at the idea once. Now he simply stared past her, not a single cruel jest coming to mind.

A single look from the woman sent the servant boy scurrying down the hall.

Brienne hesitated, looking awkward as she stood there, or maybe it was the dress.

Jaime blinked. "How are you alive?"

"The Boltons took me prisoner," Brienne answered.

"Yes, but how? We had a direwolf on our side, last I checked. A big, bloody, mean one. You could have ran off into the woods and there isn't a soul alive who would have followed you."

Again, she hesitated. "I...allowed them to take me."

"Gods, you have to be the simplest person I've ever run across. You let them capture you?" Jaime shook his head and tried to push his hair back, only to find he had no hand to do so. "I'd have been halfway to King's Landing by now."

"And that is why I am not you, Kingslayer. I hold true to my oaths."

He began to chuckle. "You think you're going to release me from here? The Lady Brienne of Tarth taking on all of Harrenhal because honor compels her to. You shouldn't even be alive right now. I'm the prisoner of value, not you."

"Lord Bolton has given me his protection."

"And a dress, how kind of him," Jaime noted, watching Brienne's composure fade again. "You might find that trusting a lord with a flayed man for his sigil isn't the wisest decision."

Brienne's eyes narrowed, but she said nothing further.

They watched one another for some time, neither moving nor speaking. The steam continued to rise, water continued to drip from some far off corner, and his ghost fingers continued to clench, over and over.

"Go on, get in. I can smell your stench from over here," Jaime said eventually, gesturing to the tub behind him. Brienne didn't move. "I'm not going to look. That's not exactly something I want to see."

With a glare and a huff, Brienne walked around his tub. He listened as she continued walking, heard the sound of her clothes falling the floor, and more than once felt her glare on the back of his head. But he never looked.

How honorable of him.

He sank further into the water, feeling cold. The bandages of the stump were barely kept above the surface. His left hand examined the stuff, poking and prodding, wondering if it couldn't find his hand hidden beneath. But there was nothing. There would never be anything again.

"I'm sorry," Brienne spoke suddenly.

Jaime sighed and sank further. "For what?"

"For your hand," she clarified. He could hear the water moving behind him as she began to clean herself. "Had I known you'd become so pathetic without it, I'd have begged them to save it."

He turned in the tub, mouth open, ready to say something that would make her regret having ever bothered in the first place. But Brienne was one step ahead of him, already facing him, the two of them separated by a foot of stone.

"Convince me that you aren't trying to die, and I'll take it back," Brienne hissed, blue eyes challenging him.

Jaime hesitated. He couldn't. Even lying about it was too much for him.

"Myra Stark sacrificed everything for you, she defied her own family, but the instant something bad happens to you, the great Jaime Lannister, you give up. She's more of a knight than you are."

Brienne wasn't wrong, but he wasn't about to admit that either.

"What she wants hardly matters anymore," Jaime replied, turning back into his tub. He hoped she would leave it at that, get cleaned up and move along. He just wanted her to shut up; he wanted the thoughts in his mind that agreed with her to shut up.

"She's clearly in love with you. But I suppose that doesn't matter either."

The gray eyes were back, smiling. Jaime could feel her touch his face, touch his hand. He could hear her speak all those words that had put him to shame, had surprised him into silence. All the things she said that no one else would, that no one else cared to say. And what had he done to earn such affection? Pushed her brother from a window, threatened her father, and brought both of them into a war that neither could hope to escape from.

Stay with me.

Jaime took a breath, and sat up a little higher in the tub.

Brienne was wrong. She had to be.

For both their sakes, Myra Stark could not love him.

On the surface, Roose Bolton appeared to be a plain man. There was nothing distinctive about him, nothing about the way he carried himself that made him look to be the lord of anything. But there was something else about him, some feeling that clung to the air around him, which told Jaime he was the last man any other should cross. His unassuming nature made him the most dangerous of all of them.

And here he stood, handless, unarmed, and without armor, making threats to him.

No one had ever accused him of being intelligent, not even Myra.

"You and I both know that if my father isn't already aware that I am here, he will be shortly," Jaime said, watching Roose from across his desk. He had to give the man credit, where his father or sister would have been writing or preoccupying themselves with something else, Roose Bolton chose to look every man he spoke to in the eye. It was both a sign of respect and an intimidation tactic. "You'll receive a raven asking nicely, and then you will receive an army asking, well...not so nicely."

"Perhaps I should just kill you then," Lord Bolton replied. It occurred to Jaime that the man was not one to blink. "Robb Stark wants you dead after all, and, as I seem to recall, you killed one of his bannermen some days ago."

"Then why let your pet maester save my life? You know as well as I that the only way you are going to survive this war now is if I return to King's Landing intact."

"Mostly intact," Roose added.

Jaime felt his ghost fingers clench again.

"You used to be one of the most feared men in Westeros. Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, the greatest sword the country had ever seen. And now you're handless and begging for your father to save your life. One has to wonder what that does to a man."

He shrugged, ignoring the boiling hatred bubbling inside. "We all have our bad days."

"Some more than others."

Dying because he stabbed Roose Bolton over his poor sense of humor did not seem so bad a way to go.

"Fortunately for you, word has already been sent to your father," Roose admitted, looking away from him at last, though only briefly. "When you are able, an escort will be provided to see you safely returned to King's Landing."

The state of Robb Stark's army could not have been as admirable as he once thought, if his bannermen didn't even hesitate to aid his father. The Young Wolf had won every battle he'd encountered, and yet looking at the state of things now, the North did not appear to be on the winning side of the war.

That was where the brilliance of Tywin Lannister shined. Battles were not the only way to defeat one's enemy.

Jaime stood, bowing his head slightly. "I thank you for your hospitality, Lord Bolton. I do hope I can repay the debt one day."

"I'd prefer you didn't."

He began to walk toward the door, limping slightly, though Qyburn said he was healing well enough. But he hesitated in the threshold, hand holding on to the wooden beam, as if refusing to let him move forward until he asked.

"What of the Lady Brienne?"

Roose shrugged. "She is to remain here for the time being. After all, she is wanted for releasing a prized prisoner, and her father doesn't control half the gold in Westeros."

Jaime turned back. "I want her to come with me."

"No."

"I'm afraid I must insist."

"Then I'm afraid you'll have to make due with no hands."

Jaime chuckled then, glancing around the space. He may have understood that Roose Bolton was not a man to be trifled with, but he also knew that, like so many other Northmen, he was terrible at bluffing. His demeanor may have made others shy away, but Jaime could see right through him, and he had nothing to lose at this point, as far as he was concerned.

"Then go ahead and take it," Jaime said, walking back to the desk. "My father will know, and he will kill you. Take my tongue, take my eyes, and he will kill you. Kill me, and he will kill you. Refuse to release me, and he will kill you. Bind and gag me, and throw me on the back of a horse, he may not kill you, but one well-placed raven will see Robb Stark knowing the truth about why I'm not back in his possession. Then I can sit back and watch the North tear itself apart.

"Brienne comes with me."

Roose Bolton stared at him, hard and long, and looked to be considering choosing one of those options that got him killed, if only to spite him. But then he heard the man sigh, and knew his gamble had paid off.

"Very well," he agreed, voice tight. "No woman from the Stormlands is worth this much trouble, but I'll expect something in return."

"Whatever you want, I'll make certain it's provided, on my honor."

He enjoyed the way the man's lip twitched.

Jaime turned back around. "Do send my regards to Robb Stark."

"And none for the Lady Myra?"

Freezing in the doorway, Jaime took a breath before looking over his shoulder.

Roose Bolton looked impossibly smug. "I had heard the rumors that the king's sister fancied the Kingslayer. I had not thought the feeling was mutual."

Jaime had nothing to say to that, not even a denial.