Myra

Before he spoke to her, Jaime Lannister had been unconscious for three days.

The first had been the easiest.

After she had managed to compose herself, Myra had cleaned up as best as she could. She made certain that Jaime was as comfortable as she could manage, and then set about distracting herself. She straightened out the camp, organized the items that would be useful, tossing the rest. Since moving her companion was out of the question, Myra made a new fire to his left, hoping it would be enough to keep him warm for the time being. She let the flames soar as high as they dared. With her three new guardians, Myra did not care who might have seen the smoke.

Given that looking at anything else was preferable to the broken man suddenly left in her care, Myra and Brenna returned to the scene of the attack, the latter seeming to bark on order at her sister. Lady sat beside Jaime and did not move until they had returned.

She combed through the bodies strewn across the forest floor, searching for anything else of use. Their wretched states did not faze her in the slightest. At the sight of every new body, she would simply look at them, appreciate the deserved damage the direwolves had dealt, and hoped that they had not gone quickly. Deep down, some part of her was disturbed, but the sensation was thoroughly buried under a fury like no other. Who was she to feel pity when the entire world sought to harm her?

One body had remained untouched. It was the large man she had stabbed, the one who had held her back as his comrades attacked Jaime. He was seated at the base of a tree. From a distance, he looked to be merely resting in its shade, but his eyes had the unfocused appearance of death, his trousers soaked completely through with blood. Apparently, she'd hit that spot Jaime had told her of, the kind to render a man dead in minutes.

Good.

She hadn't expected Jaime to be awake when she returned, arms full of water skins and other trinkets, but it was disheartening all the same. So, she sat beside him and began to clean up the blood on his body.

His fever started some time in the night.

Given how dark it was, Myra had to wait until morning to check his wounds. Until then, she had bundled him up with as many blankets and cloaks that she could find around the camp, and then sat beside him throughout the night, listening to his teeth chatter and the occasional moan escape his lips. He moved quite frequently, and she struggled to keep both the cloaks in place and his leg from further harm.

Brenna and Lady had watched on, large beasts rendered utterly useless. Myra thought she saw the glow of Nymeria's eyes from the trees, but the darkness played tricks all the time.

Come morning, he still lived, yet that did not put her mind at ease.

Myra cleaned out his leg, pursing her lips at how tender it was. It did not appear infected, but at the end of the day, she wasn't Maester Luwin, and knew little of such things. Still, she knew it could be worse, and if she did not keep up the care, it would be, at which point Jaime would be all but finished.

The shoulder was less concerning, although it still leaked. Deciding it was for the best, Myra grabbed the fishing supplies she had found and, after giving herself a generous helping of the atrocious alcohol she had picked up, began to sew the wound shut.

Jaime had mumbled something incoherent at first, but was otherwise silent as she worked. The hook was hardly made for such a task, and she'd made quite a mess of it, but in the end, the stitches were strong, and would hold the wound closed.

After an awkward affair of positioning and attempting to not drop Jaime on his head, because rolling onto his side would never work with his leg, Myra managed to get him upright, and sewed the entry wound closed as well. He'd mumbled a bit more at that, names and other things. She thought she'd heard hers.

Unable to do more, Myra simply sat and watched.

Please don't die.

Brenna rarely left her side, her presence a small comfort as Myra waited. Lady moved often, but never the left camp. Nymeria was rarely seen.

Jaime only seemed to get worse when night fell again.

Throwing as much wood on the fire as she dared, lest it spread out of control, Myra laid beside Jaime's right side, helping to keep him warm where the fire could not. She gingerly placed her legs as close to him as she dared without disrupting the wound, then rested her chin gently beside his shoulder. Hesitantly, her right arm reached out, hovering over his chest a few moments before resting on it. Against the firelight, she watched it rise and fall with every breath he took, felt the heat radiate from his body even through the layers, afraid to close her eyes. She would not sleep that night either, wracked with the fear that she would wake to a still and cold body.

Please don't die.

On the third day, Myra never moved.

Jaime was so warm, she thought he felt like the fire itself, but his body still shook as if winter had arrived, and so she remained. Through the heat of the day, even as the sun passed overhead and broke through the few openings in the trees, leaving her sweat-soaked and weary, Myra never moved. She couldn't. If anything happened, it was her fault. If he died...

Please don't die.

Please don't die.

Please don't die.

It was a prayer spoken to any who would listen, carrying her through the day and into the night.

He'd stilled at some point, and that was what broke Myra from her stupor. She reached up, gently resting the back of her hand against his forehead.

The fever had broken.

Myra allowed herself a small smile.

She sat up some time afterwards, realizing how hungry she was. Sifting through what supplies she had, she opted to nibble on some dried meat, reveling in the sweet relief she felt. His journey was not over yet, but she liked to hope that the worst had passed. It felt nice to hope again.

That was when he woke up.

"She left me with nothing."

It was not the words themselves that gave her pause, but the manner in which Jaime had spoken them, as if he had only just realized the answer to her long forgotten question himself. Even through the pain and the uneven speech of a parched throat, Myra could hear the lilt of surprise, a twinge of sadness and disappointment, betrayal even.

He'd looked so utterly miserable in that moment; Myra could not help but reach out to him. Though nowhere near a feverish state, his face was still warm to the touch, beard coarse under her fingers. She felt the pressure of his face turning into her hand and briefly wondered how aware of the situation he truly was.

When he asked her to stay, she was almost positive he was delirious, but she obliged him nonetheless. As she had done for her brothers whenever they were ill, Myra began to run her hand through his hair over and over. Lulled by the sensation, Jaime was asleep soon after.

A woman of her word, Myra remained by his side, watching on as he slept. He looked so relaxed, the pain and the cares of the world gone. He appeared to her a boy then, beard and all, and one so utterly in love with a woman. And that woman had taken his love and done the vilest of things: denied him all that she had been given. The thought left her so upset, she'd completely forgotten that the woman in question was his twin.

The toil of the days catching up with her, Myra was suddenly unable to keep her eyes open.

With the direwolves keeping guard, she took no issue with sleep claiming her as she curled up against Jaime once more.

Her eyes opened against a harsh light. Hand hovering above her head, Myra realized it was midday. How long she had slept, and still the urge to continue remained. Though sorely tempted, she began to stretch, hoping to cook a proper – hopefully shared – meal, whatever that meant nowadays, until she realized something was holding her in place.

Reaching around, thinking Brenna or Lady may have curled up beside her in the night, Myra nearly jumped out of her skin when she found a hand grasping her waist. After taking a few, well-needed breaths, she realized it was Jaime's.

Oh.

Face suddenly warm, Myra glanced up at the man beside her. Jaime was still fast asleep, his eyes fluttering slightly as if he were dreaming, and his breath slow and even. He must have moved some time in the night, a natural reflex, and she, utterly spent, had not noticed.

Briefly, her mind touched on the notion that he may have held Cersei this way, but her embarrassment quickly drowned it.

Of course, Jaime was not the only one to move. Myra became very aware of the fact that rather than lying next to him, she had taken to resting her head on his shoulder and her arm, though now free, had been flung across his chest.

Oh.

She wasn't certain how to proceed. Attempting to untangle herself might wake him up and lead to a terribly awkward situation, but waiting for him to naturally come to would be much the same, and honestly she could not decide which would be worse.

Unable to choose, Myra just continued to stare, desperately hoping the rapid pounding of her heart didn't wake him.

That was when she heard the voices.

Myra shot upright, grasping her dagger and bolting to the nearest tree. Jaime did not stir. She probably could have kicked him in the face and he would have slept on.

Clinging to the trunk, Myra watched two individuals on horseback weave their way through the trees, keeping close to the creek. Both wore well-made armor, the best she'd seen since Maidenpool. They were definitely soldiers, perhaps even knights, but to whose army did they belong? Or were they deserters?

The two brought their steeds to a halt, glancing around the area, conversation fallen silent. They would be standing about where the attack took place, which was undoubtedly what caught their attention. She watched the larger of the two, blonde and taller than most people she'd ever come across, turn their head this way and that before unsheathing their sword.

Myra turned away, hand covering her mouth to keep the gasp from escaping. Gods above, what was she going to do? They had barely escaped the last group and Jaime would not longer be able to defend himself. He wouldn't even be able to stand!

A quick glance told her that they direwolves had taken the opportunity to disappear as well.

Gods, but didn't they have impeccable timing.

She looked over again. The large soldier had dismounted and was speaking in hushed tones to the other. With a turn and a shout, the second rider took off, pushing his horse hard and fast. Whomever they were with, the rest would surely be back soon.

But right now, there was only one. This was the best chance they would have.

Myra gripped the dagger with both hands, taking deep breaths, desperately attempting to remember what Jaime had told her about weak points in armor.

"Lady Myra!" called out the distinctly feminine voice.

She froze.

They knew her name? Was it a trap? Who were they? She knew of few women who wielded weapons. Dacey Mormont was certainly tall, but she sounded nothing like this woman, and she did not wear her hair so short.

"Lady Myra, can you hear me?"

The woman had drawn close as Myra had debated her identity. Scooting around the tree trunk so that she would not be seen, she watched the large woman step into the camp, examining every inch for a sign.

She wore bronze armor of the highest quality. It was the sort her father would have scoffed at, made for knights at play rather than warriors who meant to kill. She was no Northerner, though her accent gave that much away, and Myra had never heard of any famed warrior women from the Riverlands.

Who was this woman?

Stopping before Jaime, Myra watched the woman sheathe her sword and kneel down beside him.

Her grip on the dagger tightened.

"The Kingslayer," she heard the woman whisper.

Something snapped inside.

Myra ran forward, closing the distance between herself and the woman faster than the latter could react to. Before she could stand, Myra had placed the edge of the dagger against the side of her neck.

"Don't you touch him," Myra hissed, pushing the dagger closer.

Slowly, the woman raised both hands in surrender. Even kneeling, her head must have come to her chest. Myra knew that despite her position, she was hardly the one in power.

Jaime, meanwhile, had yet to stir. He slept on, completely unaware of the drama unfolding before him.

"My lady, if I may-" the woman started, attempting to look over her shoulder. It only prompted Myra to move the dagger closer. The woman made a sound and looked forward again.

"How do you know my name?" Myra asked.

"Your mother and brother sent me to find you."

Though she knew better than to believe her words, Myra could not still the hope that blossomed in her chest.

"Who are you?"

There was a pause. "My name is Brienne of Tarth."

The name sounded familiar, and Myra tried to comb through years of lessons. Tarth, the Sapphire Isle, and House Tarth of Evenfall Hall. A noble house, though not a large one, and...

"Tell me, how does a woman from the Stormlands come into the service of Lady Stark of Winterfell?"

"Not easily, my lady."

Myra allowed herself a moment. It was too easy, was it not? Surely half the countryside knew that she was missing, and any man, or in this case woman, could claim that they worked for her mother. But she could have claimed to be from any place along the Trident. Instead, she said she was from Tarth, an answer that would immediately draw more suspicion than not.

Part of her just wanted to slit the woman's throat, if she could, but something was holding her back, some little thing in the recesses of her mind.

For the second time that morning, Myra Stark did not know what to do.

It was at that moment that Brenna decided to reappear.

The direwolf trotted into camp as if nothing had changed since the previous night. Myra watched her with narrowed eyes, knowing a traitor when she saw one. The creature ignored her, walking right up beside her and nudging her arm with her snout.

"Your wolf led me here," Brienne said, her voice surprisingly even for a woman with a knife at her throat. "She found us by the river some three miles away and came here. She's quite large, your direwolf. Larger than your brother's I should think. What is her name?"

Myra took a breath, feeling her fingers flex against the hilt. She looked over at Brenna, who began to lightly nip at her wrist. Perhaps her direwolf could smell Grey Wind on this woman; perhaps she knew...

Sighing, Myra removed the dagger and took a step back. "Brenna."

The woman rubbed her neck gently before standing and turning around to face her. She was a homely woman, and bore the look of one who not only knew that, but had been told as much all her life, but there was a confidence in her, a pride in what she did that gave Brienne a sort of regal bearing. Myra doubted she was actually a knight, but she certainly looked the part.

Unsheathing her sword and dropping to one knee again, Brienne looked up at her, that same pride burning brightly in her eyes. It reminded her of Jory. What had happened to him?

"My sword is yours, Lady Myra, until I've seen you safely back with your family."

It was funny, Myra thought as she extended a hand to her. The woman had the same brilliant blue eyes as her direwolf.

Arya

She saw him before the others, mostly because she'd been searching for him ever since they'd left Harrenhal.

Arya thought Jaqen looked rather smug, staring down at them from the outcropping. It was a funny look for a man who might have killed himself because she'd said his name. But she did what she had to, and now they were free.

Jory noticed him next. His head was on a swivel constantly, maybe moreso because of the missing eye. He'd nearly unsheathed his sword until she grabbed his arm, pulling it back down.

He looked at her like she was crazy, which really wasn't so different from before. It felt a bit like home.

"That's the man," Arya said, though when she looked back up, Jaqen had disappeared.

Jory watched the empty space, his eye wide. Gendry and Hot Pie both had ridiculous looks on their faces with their jaws slack and eyes frantically searching their surroundings. Arya realized it probably should have concerned her as well, but so long as he was on her side, she didn't really care what strange sorts of things he was up to.

She began to walk up the hill, knowing he'd be waiting for her, until Jory's hand grasped her wrist.

"My lady, what are you doing?"

"Going to see Jaqen," she replied, attempting to shake out of his grip. "Let me go."

Jory did not give in. "My lady, I cannot allow that."

She almost rolled her eyes. All this 'my lady' business was going to get them into trouble. It was bad enough that Gendry had returned to mocking her over it. He kept bowing every time she tried to speak, and Hot Pie was almost afraid to even say her name, as if Jory would beat him into the ground over it.

Well, maybe he would. She wasn't quite sure.

"'My lady,' you said. 'My lady.' Doesn't that mean I'm in charge? I outrank you and I let you out, so I'm going to see Jaqen. Let me go."

Reluctantly, Jory released her wrist. "At least allow me to accompany you."

"A man does not have trust."

Arya turned to see Jaqen H'ghar standing behind Jory and her, taking the space between them and Gendry and Hot Pie. The latter had made a funny sort of noise and was currently sitting on the ground. Meanwhile, Gendry was pointing his sword at him, standing side face, just like she mentioned.

Jory brought his hand back to the hilt of his sword. "You run around dressed as a Lannister guard in order to kill Lannister men. What is there to trust?"

The corner of Jaqen's mouth twitched. "A man prefers honesty and straightforwardness. A naïve perspective, but respectable."

She couldn't help but smirk at the slow, but steadily building, look of offense on Jory's face.

Jaqen returned his attention to her. "A girl wishes to remain?"

"Where else would I go?"

"To Braavos."

Jory stepped forward, attempting to place himself between her and Jaqen. "That is out of the question."

On his part, Jaqen appeared more bemused than offended. He glanced down at her. "Does a girl speak for herself?"

"She does!" Arya shouted, a little too quickly, as she stepped in front of Jory. "Would you teach me how to do it? How to kill like you?"

"If a girl wishes."

"My lady-"

"A girl has many names on her list," Jaqen continued, eying Jory. "Names the Many-Faced God would accept. A girl would do well in Braavos, better than in Westeros. Perhaps a man should reconsider what he is capable of."

Jory nearly drew his sword at that. She could see his face turning red, in anger or suddenly realized embarrassment, she didn't know.

Arya took a breath, thinking. "My sister, Myra, is still out there. She isn't safe, and we should find her. And everyone else too."

Even Sansa.

Jaqen nodded, seeming to accept her decision, and then he offered up a coin.

Valar Morghulis.

Arya kept repeating the phrase over and over. Maester Luwin always said she was terrible at remembering anything: house names, sigils, which cities belonged to which kingdom. But if she said it over and over again, it became easier. The words didn't disappear deep into her mind, but stuck together. Riverrun was always with Tully, Lannisport to Lannister, Storm's End to Baratheon. If she could remember those, she could remember this.

Valar Morghulis.

"So..." Hot Pie started, breaking Arya's concentration. She suddenly realized they'd all been silent for some time. "Can we buy supplies with that?"

Arya turned the coin over in her fingers before shoving it in a pocket. "It's not that kind of coin."

"What kind is it then?"

Jory walked past all three of them, taking the lead. "The kind to be forgotten."

Arya glared at his back, but said nothing. Then again, he probably knew. He always did when it came to her.

Gendry, who'd been staring at his boots ever since they'd left the area, suddenly looked up, a strange determination in his eyes.

"You know my name."

Jory turned back, though he couldn't have seen much. It was over his left shoulder, where the eye was missing, but he was too proud to switch sides. "I do."

"How?"

It was silent for a while, save for the squelching of boots in mud. Arya wanted to break the tension somehow, but felt it was wrong. Hot Pie just kept glancing at everyone and looked about ready to run the instant anything happened.

"I was Lord Stark's Captain of the Guard, and I was with him when he visited you on the Street of Steel. Do you remember that?"

"Course I do," Gendry replied, almost offended. "Hard to forget when the Hand of the King comes bothering you with questions."

"Hey!" Ayra shouted.

Gendry shrugged. "What? He was."

"And what did he ask you?"

"He asked me that, for one," Gendry continued, hunching his shoulders, suddenly uncomfortable with the conversation. "Asked me about the other Hand, my mother..."

"Did he ask about your father?"

"Of course not. I'm a bastard."

Jory chuckled suddenly. "He would want to keep that secret, though I suppose it doesn't matter now."

Arya turned her head. "Jory, what are you talking about?"

The group came to a stop when he turned to face them. "He's not just a bastard, my lady. He's Robert Baratheon's bastard."

She blinked.

Oh.

Hot Pie took the moment to finally speak again. "So...does that make you royalty?"

Gendry, who had paled and looked about ready to fall over, whirled on the boy. "Course it doesn't! I'm not...I can't be...my mother worked in a tavern."

Jory nodded, oddly pleased with himself. "Yes, and your father was Lord of the Seven Kingdoms."

Arya looked between them, the pieces connecting. "That's why the gold cloaks were looking for you!"

"The gold cloaks came for him?"

She nodded. "They attacked us, and killed Yoren."

"Who's Yoren?"

"He was from the Night's Watch; he was taking me home."

Hot Pie blinked. "So...you are royalty."

Gendry threw his arms in the air. "I'm not bloody fucking royalty!"

"You just might be," Jory agreed, playing with the hilt on his sword. "The princes and the princess are baseborn Lannisters. There isn't a drop of Baratheon blood in them."

Now Gendry definitely looked ready to faint. "Bastards can't inherit."

Jory shrugged. "And why not? Joffrey did."

Arya snickered, the overwhelming need to capitalize on the event taking over. "Are you going to be alright, Your Grace?"

She knew that look on his face; she'd seen it in the eyes of every one of her siblings when she'd taken something too far. It had been a while since that happened, and she hadn't realized how much she missed it.

He pointed a finger. "Don't you start..."

"My apologies, Your Grace," she continued, bowing her head. She looked up again in time to dodge a swipe in her direction. Laughing, she danced around him, shouting 'Your Graces' until he all but collapsed in the dirt out of frustration.

Jory smirked at their antics, but the humor was gone quickly. "Come now, we need to find somewhere safe before dark. Your...friend may have gotten us out, but I doubt he'll stop the Lannister soldiers from searching for us."

The mood instantly dissipating, all three fell into line behind Jory, following silently, for the most part. Hot Pie took a moment to mumble something about 'royalty' again, but was quickly silenced by an elbow in his side.

Meanwhile, Arya took the coin back out, running the iron between her fingers again.

Valar Morghulis.

Jaime

When he first woke, Jaime had no idea where he was.

For a moment, he thought he was back in King's Landing, having fallen asleep...somewhere. Hopefully not in the gardens, though gods knew why he would be there. He'd never hear the end of it from Robert.

No, that wasn't right. Robert was dead.

The memories returned to him with such ferocity that Jaime gasped, frantically turning his head to search for their attackers. Instead of armed men, however, he was met with a muzzle and a cold nose poking at his face.

He was not particularly proud of the noise he made.

"Lady!" shouted a familiar voice. Myra suddenly came into view, grasping at the fur of the creature as if it was a regular hound rather than a giant fucking wolf. "Lady, get off him!"

The direwolf whined, but obeyed, stalking away toward another, even larger one. They nipped at one another a moment before turning their gazes back in his direction. The intelligence in their eyes disturbed him.

"So, that wasn't a dream," Jaime murmured.

Myra smiled softly. "You should be grateful for that. If it was, we'd be dead."

A dark look passed over her features as she said those words. He saw Myra toying with the cloth that covered him. It appeared to be someone's cloak.

"How long?"

"Three days."

"Three days?!" Jaime shouted. He shot upright, or rather tried to. In his weakened state, he could hardly lift his own body, and when he tried to use his arms, pain shot through the left one as it gave out. It took Myra wrapping her arms around his shoulders and pulling him upright to finally get him off the ground.

He realized then, as her soft hands gently touched his skin, that part of his shirt was gone.

Jaime reached with his right hand, touching the jagged line where an arrow had once protruded from his shoulder.

"I used fishing line," Myra explained, her voice distant. "Don't have much in the way of bandaging, so I left it uncovered. It seems to be doing fine."

Remembering his other wound, Jaime pulled the cloak off his body. His pant leg had been cut apart around where the arrow had been, the affected area wrapped by some bloody cloth.

"I've kept it clean. I don't think it's infected," she continued, running her fingers along the makeshift bandage. "Fortunately for both of us, you weren't conscious when I closed it."

Jaime took a breath, trying to remember what exactly happened. His memory was full of fleeting images mostly, impressions about what happened. Pain had a way of stealing a good many of things from a person, not just their peace of mind.

"You dug it out..." he started, remembering the moment before. She'd given him the most terrified look he had ever seen, even moreso than when she was attacked, and then, without hesitation, stuck her fingers in the wound.

Everything was a blank from that point on.

Myra shrugged. "You asked me to."

Jaime blinked. He had, hadn't he?

He looked over at Myra, really looked at her, and could see right through her indifferent façade; he had asked the impossible of her and she had done it, and for that she had been left alone with an unconscious man for days. Jaime could see the strain in her dark eyes, how her frown seemed deeper than the last time he saw it. Her hands were shaking slightly in her lap.

"I shouldn't have done that."

"Maybe," Myra agreed, clenching her hands together. "Maybe not. I can't say that you wouldn't be dead now if I had left it in. I can't...I can't say that if I hadn't, that I wouldn't have had to pull it out at any other point, that you wouldn't have bled out in front of me like some stuck pig. You could have died in so many ways and I-"

The woman was getting hysterical. Jaime reached out and grabbed one of her hands while the other frantically wiped tears from her face.

"You saved my life," Jaime said slowly, squeezing her hand. "Thank you."

Myra began to laugh at that. Jaime smiled at her change of demeanor, although he wasn't sure of the reason.

"What?" he asked.

The woman took a breath, regaining her composure. "Gratitude sounds strange coming from you, Jaime Lannister, especially without heavy amounts of sarcasm behind it."

"Would you prefer it that way?"

She smiled sheepishly. "Would it be strange if I said yes?"

Possibly, he thought. Not many people appreciated his nature, save for Tyrion. He seemed to recall Myra bristling at it as well some time back. It felt like ages ago, in another land entirely.

Having calmed, Myra took to looking at the hand on hers. "You woke up last night. Do you remember that?"

He didn't, but something in the tone of her voice told him that he should have.

"What happened?"

Her smile had grown sad. "Nothing you'd want to hear from me."

Jaime opened his mouth to ask her more, though he wasn't entirely sure he wanted the answer, when a figure walked out from the woods.

"What in the seven hells is that?" he asked, eying the armored thing walking toward them. Monstrously tall and horrible to look at, he was suddenly uncertain as to whether or not he was actually awake.

Myra rolled her eyes, though she seemed tense. "Ser Jaime, this is the Lady Brienne of Tarth."

"It's a woman?"

For that, he received a smack on the arm.

"She's sworn in service to my mother," Myra continued, replacing the cloak over his leg. He did not miss the flash of her dagger catching the sunlight as she placed it beside him. "And is here to see me safely returned to her."

Jaime also did not miss the slightly emphasis she put on 'me.' Though it would not have been hard for him to guess at given the obvious glares the giant woman was throwing his direction, Myra was trying to give him a hint. She did not know what Brienne would do with him, and she did not want to take any chances.

For the first time, as Jaime looked up at this woman and the real possibility of winding up with the Starks, he wondered what it might have been like to have travelled with those men from the inn, to have gone back to King's Landing, to have gone back to...

Then he remembered why he didn't wonder about that. He would have been alone, because the woman next to him would have been dead.

"She's sent my brother's squire to bring him here," Myra said, sounding oddly subdued for a woman so close to returning to her family. "It should take a few days, so once you've rested, you'll get on her horse and ride south."

Brienne stepped forward. "My lady, I do not think that wise."

"It speaks!" Jaime shouted, prompting another hit from Myra. It was certainly a confusing message she was sending him, giving him a dagger as warning against this Brienne character while simultaneously assaulting him for being improper toward her.

"What would you suggest then, Lady Brienne?" Myra asked. "Take him to my brother in chains?"

Brienne stood straighter as she was challenged, holding the hilt of her sword like the gallant knight she was pretending to be.

"There are crimes which he must answer for, my lady. Crimes against the realm, and your family."

Myra stood then, looking insulted on his behalf. He was reminded of that day she stood up to Robert.

"I haven't spent weeks on the run with this man, saving him as he's saved me, only to throw him in a cage like an animal," Myra said, her voice dangerously low. He could see her fists clenching. "When he is stronger, he leaves."

She turned around and stormed off, clearly having had enough of people for the time being. The large direwolf took off after her, casually trotting by her side as Myra scratched behind its ear.

The one Myra had called Lady took the opportunity to curl up beside him.

Jaime smiled, smug. "I think they like me more than you."

Brienne's eyes narrowed. "Know this, Kingslayer, should any harm come to her, I will-"

"'Should any harm come to her,' really? You heard her yourself, we've been together for quite a while. I think if I intended to harm her, I would have preferred it without witnesses," Jaime replied.

The woman didn't necessarily look ashamed, but he could see her falter slightly. She took her hand off the hilt of her sword and stepped away, moving to the far edge of the camp. It gave her plenty of room away from him, but he was still well within sight.

Lovely.

Jaime fell back against the bedroll, doing his best to ignore the giant, the wolf, and whatever other uncomfortable thoughts about his future that were roaming about his mind. There was no denying he was running out of time. Robb Stark's army was coming, but with his leg the way it was, there was nothing he could do about it, not yet. But he was determined that he would not be caught, not again.

So, instead, he found himself trying to remember what had made Myra so sad.