Jaime

He didn't sleep that night.

Even if he had wanted to, the shouts and cries from Myra interrupted every brief moment of silence, her cold, gray eyes – once so warm – stared at him from every corner of the room, and that dagger had returned again, stabbing him anew every time he adjusted to the pain. Once before, he had felt this way, and it had taken him years to get over it, or at least used to it.

Jaime didn't have years now.

So, he sat, and waited, watching the candle slowly burn through its wax and wick. At some point, he'd gotten it in his head that writing a letter might be a good idea. Jaime could not even remember who it had been for or why, but it hadn't mattered. About two words in, he abandoned the effort, realizing how futile anything was with his left hand. He could hardly eat properly, forming sentences may as well have been an impossibility.

When the first rays of light made their way though his window, Jaime left his room and found some meek servant who squeaked every time he so much as looked at them. It seemed that whatever backbone the Twins had once possessed – not that it ever had much – had vanished the instant Walder Frey died.

They escorted him to the Great Hall, the once empty space having been filled with tables and benches. His men stood and gave their proper courtesies before they resumed eating, talking and laughing as if nothing was amiss.

It seemed the Freys had covered their troublesome bloodstains with rugs.

Jaime was seated by himself at a table at the front of the room, not the high one where the lord sat, but it seemed no one was taking that spot. He noticed the servants eying it strangely when they brought his food, and thought he spied more blood on the chairs. He wondered if that had anything to do with Lothar's mumblings.

There he sat, picking at burnt bacon and fish, not hungry, but not unaware that he should eat something. He watched his men, he watched the servants, and the few Freys that joined them, and he waited. For what, he couldn't say. Myra was not about to enter this space again, and he certainly wasn't about to force her to. And Brienne...

A chair scraped as the subject of his thoughts sat beside him.

"Thought I told you to sleep," the woman mumbled, accepting a cup from one of the servants. She eyed it a moment before taking a sip.

"And I thought you'd be watching over her," Jaime hissed back, watching everyone more closely, wary.

"She'll be fine. The Freys aren't about to bother her. I think she frightens them," she replied.

"Did you speak to her?"

"I did."

There were a lot of unsaid words left to hang in the air around them, and unasked questions that he did not want answered.

"Jaime," Brienne started after a pause. It should have been strange hearing her use his name so casually. "She's not going to leave while her men are prisoners here, you know that. Not willingly, at least."

"I know."

He was fairly certain she wouldn't willingly go anywhere with him now.

"So what do you plan to do about that?"

Jaime sighed. That was the problem, wasn't it? What was he going to do? This wasn't a battlefield. He couldn't cut down men until a solution presented itself, not that he was capable of doing so anymore. But he wasn't his father, or even Tyrion. He didn't know how to make deals, not without threatening to get his father involved like a child, but Jaime knew the fear of Tywin Lannister would only go so far, especially since he'd allowed the Freys to do what they had, and was only tolerating his presence at the Twins for the sake of one woman, not the entire Northern army.

Seven hells, it took intimidating them with the wrath of House Lannister just to get him into the dungeons. There were too many Freys with too many ideas about what should happen to their prisoners.

Too many Freys...

"I have an idea."

Once, he might have been offended by the shocked expression on Brienne's face. Now he didn't have the energy for it.

Edwyn Frey had not been entirely wrong when he said he was lord at the Twins. It turned out his father, Ryman, was, but the man had taken a dagger to the side during the wedding and had been bedridden since, leaving his brothers, nephews, and cousins to quarrel over his inheritance while he writhed in pain.

He was rather ugly to look at – no surprise there – and overweight, though his face had sunken and turned sallow during the weeks he'd been in bed. The man was sweaty, pale, and stunk of many things, namely death. The fact he'd lived so long was more a testament to his maester's cruelty than his body's stubbornness.

"Ser Jaime," the man wheezed. He'd been propped up on so many pillows that his chin was beginning to sag into his chest. Jaime would be surprised if the man could even see him. "I apologize for not properly greeting you upon your arrival. Did my son?"

"Yes," Jaime replied, eying the maester until he left the room. He thought he could feel his presence just on the other side of the door, however, hovering, listening. "Though he made no mention of you. Suppose he thinks of you as dead already."

"Ah."

The man didn't sound remotely surprised by the notion.

Brienne gave him a look.

Jaime sighed, grabbing a chair and seating himself beside the bed. He'd never been one to stand on courtesy to begin with.

"Do you know why I'm here?" he asked, having to slump down in order to meet Ryman's eyes properly. They were beady like all the others, slightly crossed. The irises moved slightly at his appearance, but couldn't stay in place.

"For Lady Stark," was the murmured reply. "Father wanted to marry her, and look where it got him. Take her. She's cursed."

He felt his ghost fingers clench and did his best to ignore the sensation.

"I want the rest of your prisoners as well. The Northmen, the River lords, all of them."

Now the eyes met his gaze steadily.

"Your father promised us the prisoners we captured."

"And what do you plan on doing with them?" Jaime asked, shrugging his shoulders. "Let them all rot and die? You can't hold dead men for ransom."

"Can't do it with free men either."

"They're not going to be free. Those that can travel will be taken to Casterly Rock, where they might actually have some use. The rest will follow once you've had their injuries seen to."

"And why should I agree to this?"

Brienne stepped forward. "Because you would be a fool not to."

Jaime gave her a withering look. She made him look like a political mastermind.

He turned back to Ryman. "Tywin Lannister no longer cares about what happens to your household. He promised that the king would forgive your treason and not punish you for massacring men and women under your own roof."

"We defeated our enemy-"

"-at a wedding," Jaime finished, looking pointedly at him. "Those weren't soldiers in combat. They were drunk old men at a feast, and the whole realm knows it. You broke guest right. No one is going to trust you any longer, no one is going to help you, and no one is going to care when House Frey collapses under the weight of its own stupidity, least of all the king."

He had thought the idea was a long shot, but Jaime could see a flicker of life in Ryman's eyes; he could see the fear. This was something the man had thought on, but hearing it spoken aloud made it real.

So, he pushed further.

"Do you know what happened when we arrived? Your son was pushed aside by the rest of your family. He is acting lord, and no one cared. You're weak. Your son is weak, and they all know it. This family is going to tear itself apart for control.

"Unless you get help."

Ryman took a breath. "And how can I get help? You said yourself, your father does not care. And you're a kingsguard. What good are you?"

Jaime paused, feeling the stump with his good hand. "Fortunately for you, your information is outdated. I'm no longer in the Kingsguard, which makes me acting Lord of Casterly Rock while my father is the Hand of the King. And as acting lord, I can be persuaded to be invested in the future of House Frey.

"If you give me the prisoners."

Were he speaking to anyone remotely intelligent, the conversation might have dragged. He was offering potentially nothing for the Frey's only defense against retaliating armies. But Ryman was simple, and he was dying, which made him scared. He didn't have a future to think of, only the immediate present.

"I was against the idea from the beginning," Ryman admitted, confessing like he was speaking to a septon. "It was too dangerous, and we're too far from anyone."

Jaime doubted this was true. The man probably stabbed and gutted like the others, gleeful about the whole thing; the only thing he regretted was being stupid enough to get stabbed back.

"Black Walder and Lothar, they were the masterminds besides Father. Lothar even thought it would be funny to play the Rains of Castamere before it all. Kill them, and the rest will fall in line."

He blinked. "They're your family."

Ryman actually chuckled, sinking further into the pillows. "Not for much longer. Kill them, declare my son lord at the capital, and you can have your prisoners."

Jaime nodded once, standing. He began to walk toward the doorway with Brienne, already contemplating how to move all the men with so few to guard them – not to mention how he was going to word everything to his father – when Ryman called out again.

"Ser Jaime," he croaked, sinking further. "Edmure Tully stays. He's married to my cousin Roslin after all."

He stopped, staring at the unopened door, refusing to meet the living corpse of the man again. With the Freys taking control of Riverrun, Emmon, his uncle by marriage, would be Lord of Riverrun. Of all the prisoners they possessed, Edmure Tully would be the most valuable, and essential for the transition of power.

Brienne looked over at him. "We can't let him stay here. He's her uncle."

"Then if he cares for her, he'll tell her to leave him," Jaime hissed, opening the door. "You can keep Lord Edmure, but I want something in return."

Two tables stretched out before them in the maester's chambers, with two corpses lying across them covered in dingy white linen. The maester himself stood at the head of them, with a silent sister hovering by on either side, covered in their strange ceremonial garb. They each held a censer that burned, sending scented smoke about the room. It hardly covered the smell.

Jaime hadn't asked where the bodies had been. He didn't want to know.

He supposed they were lucky the Freys had kept them at all.

Myra stood between the tables, changed into a dull brown dress that belonged to one of the Frey girls. It seemed color was frowned upon at the Twins.

Her shaking hand reached out to the larger of the bodies, fingers gently grabbing the fabric. She'd nearly beaten him down the night before, a furious wolf that took nothing from anyone, but now she was fragile, swaying. A breeze would have knocked her over.

When she began to lift the cloth, Jaime dared to step forward and grab her wrist.

"Don't," he said gently as she wheeled around, the anger returning in an instant. "It's no longer your brother, and you do not want to remember him this way. Remember something you recognize."

Myra took a breath, appearing ready to shout accusations at him again, but the fire died from her eyes quickly. And there he saw a hint of the woman he knew buried beneath. He knew the sadness in her eyes all too well.

When she nodded, he released her and stepped back.

The maester cleared his throat. "We can have the bodies interred somewhere temporarily until..."

What was the man to say? Until Winterfell no longer belonged to the Boltons? Until Myra was no longer a prisoner of House Lannister? Her family was killed at the Twins, and it seemed their final resting place would be there as well.

Myra ran her hands over both tables, and Jaime could hear her fingernails digging into the woodwork.

"Where is my mother?"

Jaime glanced at Brienne, feeling as unsure as she looked.

The maester paled. "I-I'm not sure, my lady. I was only given the two...bodies."

"You're the bloody maester," Myra countered, stepping closer. "You haven't heard what they did to Lady Catelyn Stark all this time?"

"I...she..." the maester slumped, sighing. He did not look proud. "Her body was tossed into the river. I could not say where it is now."

It was quiet a moment, neither party knowing what the other would do. Jaime watched Myra closely. Her hand fell to her sides, clenching and unclenching, her shoulders shaking. She appeared to be attempting to control herself. The maester, after all, had undoubtedly no part in the wedding, but he looked frightened in her presence nonetheless.

"Thank you," he heard her say, teeth gritted. "You may leave."

Though they were in his quarters, the maester looked more than ready to depart, trailing the silent sisters as they fled the room.

Jaime grabbed his arm as he made his way to the door. "Send for the others."

The man's eyes widened briefly before he nodded and left.

Myra swayed on her feet, grabbing the table her brother was on and falling to the floor.

"My lady!" Brienne shouted, rushing to her side. Myra was pale, but conscious and sitting up, a distant look in her eyes.

Jaime wanted to go to her. He wanted to take her in his arms and hold her until she gave in, but he remained in place and simply watched. She did not want him there, and he would obey that wish. He didn't want to hurt her anymore.

No matter how much it hurt him.

Moments later, hobbled footsteps could be heard on the other side of the door. Lothar Frey limped inside, nodding.

"Ser Jaime," he said, turning into the room. "The maester told me you wanted to discuss the state of the prisoners. Not sure why you'd want to do it here."

He stumbled further inside, just before the tables. Only then did he notice they were not alone.

Myra stood slowly with Brienne at her side. She stared the man down, seeming to tower over him in that moment.

He'd killed one of them, Jaime realized.

The Frey slowly opened his mouth, coming to terms with the danger he was in.

"How-"

Jaime barely caught the flash of his dagger in Myra's hand before she shoved it into Lothar's gut.

Lothar gasped, doubling over, but she caught his shoulder, somehow holding him up. He heard her remove the dagger, only to stab him again, and again, the man making a choking sound every time she did so.

"A present for the queen," she hissed, letting the man go. He collapsed in an instant, groaning in a pool of his blood.

Myra stood over him, utterly still. She did not look pleased with the outcome, or angry, or sorrowful; she was just there.

"He was the one who killed Talisa," she said after he fell silent. "Stabbed her and the babe over and over. I was sitting next to her, and I could only watch."

Jaime felt his jaw clench, and his ghost fingers do the same. Being told she had been there was one thing, but hearing it from her was something else.

When Black Walder arrived not long after, Jaime grabbed him by the cloak and threw him inside, slamming the door shut. The man tripped over himself, falling to the floor, only for Brienne to pick him up and hold him against the wall, her dagger at his throat.

"What are you-!"

"It won't be so bad," Myra said from beside Brienne. Jaime saw the man's eyes widen and wondered what she was referring to. "Just close your eyes and pretend she's the Kingslayer."

When she nodded, Brienne slit the man's throat, and left him to die beside his brother.

Jaime stared at the bloody mess before him and wondered if his father would be proud.

Tyrion

King's Landing had been disturbingly quiet in the absence of Jaime.

When the news of his brother leaving the Kingsguard got out, he'd been expecting several things to happen, most of them involving his sister. He expected screams down the hallways, servants fleeing in terror, at least one dead body, but there was nothing. Cersei had remained utterly quiet. She drank, she wrote, and she spoke to no one.

If he were honest, it was the most terrifying thing he'd ever encountered.

The siege included.

His father, however, had been quite talkative. Tywin Lannister was not a man anyone would accuse of being a gossip, but he certainly went out of his way to ensure that everyone knew Jaime had returned to the fold. It was subtle, of course. A simple pointing out of tasks that would no longer fall to him, referring minor lords to Jaime whenever he returned.

Oh, and then there was the whole melting down of House Stark's sword and reforging it, because not even his father could celebrate something without a new trinket being made.

He had seen the new swords sitting in his father's solar. A smaller one that he presumed was for Joffrey, and the larger one, clearly meant for Jaime, with its intricate golden lion hilt inlaid with rubies.

Tyrion would look at that sword and suddenly realize how uncertain his future had become.

Though his father had denied it with every breath, Tywin had never actually disowned him. Whenever he died – which felt like an impossibility most days – Casterly Rock would have gone to him. Cersei could have done what she wanted to prevent that, but with Jaime in the Kingsguard, and his father officially recognizing him as a Lannister – despite his threats at being tempted to do the opposite – in the eyes of gods and men, Tyrion would have been the lord.

The people would have laughed; the lords beneath him would have conspired, but Tyrion knew each one of them, their strengths and weaknesses, who could be trusted and who might need an encouraging dagger at the back one day. He knew the game; he knew how to win it. He would have won it.

And now he was left with nothing.

Oh sure, he had his name and he was Master of Coin to an ever so grateful king, but all his life, or at least for the last twenty years of it, he had only wanted one thing: his birthright.

He knew Jaime hadn't meant to snatch it from him. His brother had been backed into a corner. If forced to choose between a lifetime of servitude to Joffrey or saving the woman he loved, Tyrion would have chosen the latter in a heartbeat, and their father had known that. But Tyrion still couldn't help the resentment that stirred deep within him.

Jaime could name all the lords under his father – probably, maybe – but that might have been about it. Whatever he'd learned about their households, he had forgotten in the years since. It had changed in the last two decades, and Jaime certainly would not have taken the time to learn about those changes. Even before he had sworn away his right to Casterly Rock, Jaime had hated to study. He hated anything he couldn't take care of with his bare hands; he hated talking with other lords like he cared about what they said and he hated trying to figure out impossible solutions to nearly impossible tasks.

He wasn't the man who could handle the responsibilities of Casterly Rock; he never had been.

And yet, now it was all his.

Jaime had always been the kindest, and somehow he had managed to take more from him than anyone else.

For days, he had stewed in the confusing whirlwind of emotions, passing from hatred to happiness to sorrow and back to hatred again, all with wine readily at hand, and when the wine ran out, he dove into his work, staring at the numbers and the ever growing debt until his eyes crossed and he passed out from overworking himself.

He had neither gotten any closer to solving the money dilemma nor determining which emotion he'd rather sit on when it came to Jaime.

So, he pushed it aside, allowing his brother the courtesy of being face to face with him when he decided to do...whatever it was that he was going to do.

Gods, how he envied Jaime's ability to not overthink anything.

Fortunately, a reprieve was sent his way in the form of Roose Bolton.

Robb Stark's bannerman – and apparently killer – had been summoned to the capital by Joffrey. For his role in the King in the North's demise, he'd been granted Winterfell, and the title of Warden of the North.

Emmon Frey had been summoned as well, as he was the Lord of Riverrun now, but he declined to do so until he occupied his keep and brought stability to the area. It was clearly his Aunt Genna's decision – most of them were – and the only reason Joffrey hadn't gotten into a fuss over it was because of Tywin. He was clearly still not willing to talk to his sister again.

How many years had it been now? He'd lost count.

It seemed all of King's Landing had gathered to watch Roose Bolton pledge fealty to the crown. Lords and ladies alike stood on the tips of their toes to look over guards and other onlookers, hoping to get a glimpse at the man who killed the Young Wolf. Tyrion, at least, had a good view, given his position on the Small Council. He looked on at the ridiculous ceremony from the steps beside the throne.

Cersei, he noted, was not present.

He wasn't the most spectacular thing to look at, the Lord of the Dreadfort. But then again, nothing from the North was, except for the Wall. His clothes were dull and muddied, everything adorning him made for a purpose rather than decoration. Only the fur lining his cloak seemed excessive, but even that served to protect from the winds.

Tyrion was beginning to sweat just seeing him dressed like that, but Roose Bolton had no outward reaction to the heat, or much of anything.

Joffrey, however, was like an open book.

He wore a wicked smirk – it said there would have been an execution if Tywin were not present – as Roose approached, with only two Bolton men behind him. Otherwise, he was flanked by members of the City Watch, their golden armor clanging loudly around him. Most men would be shitting themselves by now, and Tyrion had to wonder if the man was a good actor, or really didn't feel anything.

Stopping just before the dais, Roose Bolton stared down Joffrey a moment before taking a knee, along with his men.

"Your Grace," he spoke, voice eerily calm and quiet. People in the back strained to hear. "I, Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort, have come to swear fealty to you, Joffrey Baratheon, the first of your name, the true and rightful king of the realm."

Joffrey remained seated on the throne, hand casually holding one of the hilts. "Not so long ago, you swore fealty to Robb Stark. You fought his war, you fought my armies, you killed loyal men, and suddenly, what, you just changed your mind? Tell me, Lord Bolton, what would you do to a man who fought you and decided to change his loyalties in the end?"

Tyrion saw his father sigh. They never could get through one ceremony without issue.

Roose Bolton looked up, face expressionless still.

"I would have the man killed after I'd razed his household to the ground."

The answer seemed to satisfy Joffrey.

He stood, looking down. "I hear the Boltons used to flay their enemies."

"We did, Your Grace, but House Stark outlawed the practice."

"That must have angered your family, their customs being driven away."

"There has been resentment between our houses, Your Grace."

Joffrey nodded, thinking. Tyrion could see he was trying to trap the man again.

"I wonder, if you bore such ill will toward your liege lords, why did you not declare for me at the beginning of the war? Lord Stark was a traitor, after all, and his son with him."

"Time, Your Grace," was the simple reply he received.

The king looked confused, and Tyrion allowed himself a small amount of entertainment from that. There were few people who could get that sort of reaction from him, thus the amusement was few and far between.

"Time?"

"Yes, Your Grace," Roose continued. Were it not for his utterly even tone, Tyrion might have been convinced he was joking with his nephew. "King's Landing is weeks away from the Dreadfort, while an army could arrive on our doorstep in a matter of days from Winterfell. Certainly, I could have declared for you, and my household and name would have died for your glory.

"Instead, I followed my liege lord. I gave him counsel, I sat at his table, and when the time came, I stabbed him in the heart.

"When dealing with liars and traitors, sometimes it is easier to play their game."

When Roose Bolton rose again, he was declared Warden of the North to the cheers of all, and when the ceremony concluded, everyone went their separate ways. No one was particularly inclined to speak with the new Lord of Winterfell, preferring to whisper about him with friendlier parties, but Tyrion decided to get closer, curious if the man was truly a conspirator from the beginning or just a remarkable liar.

The man was speaking to his father, quietly of course, but Tyrion was able to make out the words.

"So long as Myra Stark is alive, the North will remain loyal to her."

"Until the war is over, she will be a prisoner of House Lannister. If you think I am going to be so quick to trust you with the key to the North, Lord Bolton, you are mistaken. Perhaps after some time, when you've proven your loyalty to the crown, the matter may be reopened for discussion."

Tyrion frowned. That idea was not going to sit well with Jaime.

And when Jaime did not like the way things were going, he often did something foolish.

Their father may come to regret getting his heir back after all.

Brienne

With at least part of the deal complete, Ryman had ordered the prisoners released into Lannister custody. The others complained but without their more outspoken counterparts – and with well-trained and well-armored soldiers staring them down – they lapsed into silence. Many had spoken about how simple Ryman was, but he had been right about one thing: Black Walder and Lothar had been the strongest opposition, what remained of House Frey's backbone. The rest, so used to serving at the beck and call of their father, seemed to be lost without him.

Brienne looked at her armor, still covered in Walder's blood, and wondered at the mess she had found herself in. It did not seem very honorable, slaughtering men in their own home at the request of their own brother, even after everything they had done. Yet she did not regret it. It freed Myra Stark and her men, or at least put them in a better position, and began to remedy the horrors that had taken place.

She might have argued once that Jaime was not doing enough. Cleaned and cared for, the Northmen and the River Lords were still prisoners, as was Myra, in a way. Honor and loyalty to Catelyn Stark should have compelled her to request their freedom, but she did no such thing. Jaime Lannister did not have to do any of this. He could have dragged Myra out of the Twins if he felt compelled to, and there was nothing the girl could have done, but instead, he was making deals behind his father's back, going against his orders, to see that she did not suffer any more than she already was.

Keeping the men prisoner was meant to preserve the delicate balance that the realm found itself in. The acting Lord of Casterly Rock being declared a traitor by the king was not going to keep Myra safe, or her men alive.

For now, this was the only way.

The men grumbled and they swore. Some spat at Jaime, but the man hardly reacted. He didn't speak in his defense, but he did not back down either.

"Where is she?" the Greatjon demanded, pulling against his chains and dragging his guards with him. He found two Lannister swords pointed at his neck, not that he cared.

"Upstairs under guard. She's safe for now," Jaime replied quietly. His voice had lost its bite.

"Not likely with you, Kingslayer."

The man spat on his boots before moving along.

In the end, none of the men remained. They'd taken their wounded out themselves, preferring to take the chance of them dying in the open air versus another day in the Twins. Brienne thought that was fair.

Only Lord Edmure lingered in a cell, although they'd been told he'd receive more accommodating quarters.

What a terrible lie it was.

"Why didn't you let Lady Myra return here?" Brienne asked quietly as they approached the cell.

"Better they think her my unwilling prisoner. It she stands, free, in my company, men start to talk."

Brienne looked at him, but said nothing.

Looking back on that day, she would come to realize she never called him Kingslayer again.

Edmure glanced at them from the other side of the bars. One of the men had left him a cloak that he'd wrapped himself in.

"What do you want, Kingslayer?"

"I want you to listen."

"And why would I do something like-"

"Because I am speaking!" Jaime snapped. Edmure actually fell silent at that. Something about him at that moment demanded attention in a way that reminded her of his father, the rigidity of his posture, the threat of consequence in his eyes. It was unnerving.

"I came here for one person, but in order to get her to leave, I needed to ensure her men were safe. However, the Freys aren't keen to release you, so you're going to tell her to leave you here."

Edmure glowered. "So you can have your way with her?"

Jaime's eyes narrowed as he approached the cell. He looked ready to reach inside and choke the life from the man.

"Never mind that I have done more for Myra Stark than you could possibly realize, given you've known the woman for the span of a few weeks. You and I both know that she can't stay here. She'll die. Regardless of your trust for me, would you honestly prefer your niece to stay where her brother and mother were killed before her eyes while you were fucking your new wife?"

The air stilled then. Brienne could hear the dripping of water, and the distant whinny of horses outside. The silence was heavy and it was long, and she did not dare interrupt it.

Edmure suddenly shrank before her eyes, his fury and pride extinguished as his gaze fell to the floor. Like with Ryman Frey, Jaime had gone for the obvious thoughts on his mind and ripped them into the light, bare and bleeding for all to see.

It was remarkably effective.

"Get her out of here," Edmure started, voice quiet. "And tell her my invitation is still open. She'll understand what it means, if you require proof."

Jaime nodded once, walking away.

Brienne lingered, watching Edmure shuffle into the corner of the cell and sit on the bench. Jaime might have done what he needed to, but that did not erase the fact that the man before her had just lost everyone as well, all while he was completely unaware. He'd lost his sister to that vile wedding, and now was doomed to remain, alone among men and women who hated him.

"Will she be safe with him?" Edmure asked, meeting her gaze. How dead his eyes seemed.

She thought long and hard on that answer, thinking back to when she first met them on the road. Then, she had foolishly thought that somehow Jaime was still capable of doing something treacherous to the girl, despite them having been alone for months. At the time, she thought he was the biggest threat to her life.

How things had changed.

"I cannot guarantee her safety," Brienne said slowly, left hand grasping her sword hilt. "But I can promise you that he will do everything in his power to protect her, as will I."

Edmure nodded slowly, lowering his head. He said nothing more, and after a time, Brienne thought she heard him weeping.

The winds had picked up. They came from the North still, bringing the chill of the coming winter, and the fury of the houses leagues away. Freys struggled across the ramparts, and standards ripped at their seams and flew across the countryside.

Myra Stark stood tall against it, her frail form unbothered. Her hair danced around her head and her cloak billowed out about her, but she remained still, watching the towers before her, and the convoy of soldiers escorting caged wagons full of prisoners.

"Where are they being taken?" she asked, her quiet voice difficult to hear over the wind.

"Casterly Rock, my lady. Ser Jaime promises they will be well taken care of."

She watched Myra's posture stiffen at the mention of his name, but the girl said nothing of him.

Brienne glanced over her shoulder. Jaime was watching them from several feet away, minding the horses. He turned away from her gaze however.

"I shouldn't leave him here," Myra said, wrapping her arms about herself. The cloak collapsed against her, clinging tightly to her legs.

"Jaime did what he could to release him."

"And yet he's still leaving him."

"My lady," Brienne started, standing in front of her. "It was either leave him or leave all of you. We weren't given another choice."

"He is my family!" Myra argued. Her words were strained, but she did not cry. "He is all I have!"

"And you are all he has, my lady. And for that, he would have you leave. Please consider his wishes in this."

Myra opened her mouth, but shut it again, staring past her to the Twins again. She could see the conflict in her eyes, the need to save, the need to obey, all fighting with the need to burn the damned place to the ground. She looked lost and confused, a child and a grown woman at odds with one another.

"I'll come back for him; I'll free him."

Brienne felt her lips quirk. "I do not doubt that, my lady."

They were silent after that. The column of men had already crested the far hill, the last soldiers disappearing below the horizon, but Myra remained rooted to the spot. Brienne did not think her capable of leaving on her own, not now, and thought to say something when a I figure ran up to them.

Her sword unsheathed in an instant, Brienne found herself pointing it at Olyvar Frey.

The boy who had once been Robb Stark's squire looked much the same as before, with flat, dirty blonde hair and dark eyes. He still had that anxious air about him, though that may have been due to the sword at his neck.

Olyvar had been a devoted squire, eager to fulfill Robb's commands. He had accepted the responsibility to search for Myra with a solemn vow, and from what she understood, had been terribly upset when he was forced to leave after his father's army had abandoned the campaign.

He still wore the armor his king had gifted to him.

It made her grip on the sword tighten.

"My...my lady, if I may have a word..."

"You've had several, Olyvar. Speak quickly," Brienne replied, noting the hurt look on the boy's face. They had not spoken much on their journey, but he was clever and a decent swordsman. She'd respected him and his efforts then.

Myra had gone utterly still. She watched Olyvar, ready to flee or to fight, depending on what his next words were.

Out of the corner of her eye, Brienne saw Jaime come closer.

"Your brother was my lord and my king," Olyvar started, looking into Myra's eyes. It seemed to ease his stutter. "I squired for him, and fought by his side; I would have given my life to save his, and I...I didn't know!"

His arms fell to his sides with a loud smack as he sniffed.

Brienne lowered her sword.

"They sent us away on patrol, my brother and I. We didn't know why. It was our sister's wedding, and they wouldn't let us attend! And when we got back, there were just bodies and screams.

"Robb promised to make me a knight one day, and I couldn't defend him when he needed me most."

"I remember the day you left. I'd never seen someone so upset." Myra replied, her lip trembling. "What do you want, Olyvar?"

Brienne felt the boy's gaze on her as he slowly unsheathed his own sword. She lifted hers, ready, but he simply tossed the steel at Myra's feet, and fell to his knees.

"I cannot undo what has been done, and I cannot begin to atone for what has been done to you, but I can serve you, my lady."

Myra was silent.

Olyvar began to shake. "Please, my lady. I...I cannot stay here."

It may not have just been a matter of the wedding not sitting well with him. His family clearly thought him too close to the Starks, and to stand out here, openly with them, put him in danger. He was risking his life.

Brienne glanced over at Myra, finding the girl looking at her. Her dark eyes appeared to be asking a question, and she nodded in answer.

Myra offered Olyvar her hand.

Night had fallen, and the four travelers had taken refuge in a grove of trees. All the soldiers Jaime had brought with, along with a few 'volunteered' units from the Twins, had taken the prisoners down the western side of the Green Fork, where they would eventually meet Riverrun before continuing their journey to Casterly Rock, but Jaime had taken them across the bridge and down the eastern side, toward the Kingsroad.

Brienne had attempted to get answers out of him. If he meant to take Myra back to King's Landing, he may as well have left her at the Crossing. If Joffrey did not have her executed, then his sister would kill her, or his father, or any number of people who did not approve of the Starks.

But Jaime had not answered her queries, and had ridden away from her when her pestering became too much.

Myra sat silently in front of the fire, staring into the flames, surrounded by three large direwolves.

They had found them at sunset, quietly edging out of the forest. Olyvar had nearly lost control of his horse, but otherwise there had been no reaction. It was strange how used to these creatures she was. They were used to her as well, gently sniffing in her direction, and Olyvar's; they had not taken well to Jaime however. Grey Wind and Lady had mostly ignored him, but Brenna had growled and even snapped at him.

Jaime had remained some feet away from them for the rest of the evening, leaning against a tree that barely caught the light of the fire. He looked cold and miserable. Brienne had thought to speak with him, but every time she moved, he just gave her a look.

He wanted to be left alone.

Or at least he wanted her to think that.

Brenna and Lady were curled up on either side of Myra, while Grey Wind rested his head in her lap, a low whine coming from his throat every now and again as she absently stroked his fur. It was her brother's direwolf, after all. Brienne wondered if he felt his loss.

Sitting across the fire, with Olyvar next to her, Brienne observed Myra without hesitation. She doubted the girl was seeing anything right now. Away from the Twins, and her men, her walls were beginning to crumble. She had no one to stay strong for, and no one who would take advantage of her weakness, so the reality of it all was beginning to crush her. Brienne could see it in her eyes, her shoulders, the way her hands barely grasped anything.

Both she and Jaime were very much alike at the moment, and Brienne had to wonder if either of them was aware of that.

Tired of the silence, Brienne stood, ignoring the looks Jaime gave her as she crossed over to him.

"Ser Jaime, I will not allow us to travel any further until you've told me where we're going. If you intend to take Lady Myra to King's Landing, then I will have to object, and stop you if need be."

He shook his head. "I have no intention of bringing her back to that place."

"But you're not taking us to Casterly Rock?"

"No, I'm not."

"Then where are we going?"

Jaime sighed, looking around the darkness, as if he was afraid of someone overhearing.

"We're going to Dorne."

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