Myra

The first time Robb had ever been angry with her, truly angry, they had been fourteen years old.

It had been a meeting with Lord Manderly to discuss trade taxation and the like. Given White Harbor was a port city, and the richest in the North to boot, not only was the matter an entirely serious affair, it was also a fairly large and complicated one at that.

Their father had put Robb in charge of the whole thing, a sign of utmost trust in his son and heir, as well as a sort of trial by fire. Lord Eddard Stark may not have been one to toss his children into frigid waters to teach them to swim, but he was clearly not opposed to the idea behind it.

Myra had been allowed inside as an observer. A future lady of a castle should have an idea of the goings on within it, although she knew this would not be a constant in her life. Winterfell was larger than any hold she would be in charge of, and given their connection, she might have proved more of a hindrance than a help to Robb's cause. Her father had warned them both on their dependence upon one another. It was both their greatest strength and weakness, and they had to learn to make do without the other before life decided to do it for them.

So, she had done her best to keep quiet, fidgeting in her seat off to the side of the room, while Robb took up the lord's chair with Maester Luwin beside him. Their father lurked in the corner behind him, and Myra could not say if having him out of sight made Robb more or less nervous. True, Father wasn't directly watching him, but he could also not look to him for guidance, or her for that matter, given one of Lord Manderly's sons was conveniently standing in front of her.

They'd planned this, but at the time, neither sibling realized it.

Her assistance had started off simply enough. Robb had stumbled over some key facts about White Harbor, which he had either forgotten or – which was more likely – he hadn't bothered looking into enough. And while Maester Luwin was there as a resource, it would be rude of him to interrupt his lord without permission, especially the number of times he would have had to in Robb's predicament.

Then one thing led to another, and before she realized it, Myra had all but stolen the meeting from her brother, although she and Lord Manderly were hardly speaking of trade at that point. They'd gotten to a lovely discussion about harbor festivities when her father made his presence known again. He thanked Lord Manderly for his time, and walked him out of the room, Maester Luwin trailing behind them. It left Myra and Robb alone in the Great Hall, which was also planned, and again not noticed by either of them.

"What are you doing, Myra?" Robb hissed. Seated in their father's chair, he looked more like a little boy than a lord to her. "This was my opportunity to impress Father and his bannermen."

"And what a fine job you were doing, Brother," she countered, not a fan of his tone when all she had wanted to do was help. "You couldn't remember half the things they trade in White Harbor, not to mention your numbers were all wrong."

"So, you decided to show me up, and prove yourself the better leader."

"That wasn't my intention, and you know it!" Myra shouted, her voice echoing over the open space. "It isn't my fault that you cannot take your duty seriously!"

Her brother stood up then, his chair scraping across the floor. "You think you're so much better than me, don't you? You read all these books and you memorize how much wheat a household grows and how much it's worth, and suddenly that makes you capable of doing what Father does. But there's more to it than that, Myra. There needs to be leadership, the ability to command men. Facts mean nothing when no one will listen to you."

"And the ability to make people listen means nothing if you sound like an idiot," Myra replied, standing up as well. "I didn't happen to know everything about White Harbor. I read about it yesterday, while you were out hunting with Theon. You wouldn't have had any trouble if you'd just taken the time to know your men rather than ignore your duty."

"Ignore my-" Robb paused, taking a breath. She could see his jaw clenching. "Every day, that is all I hear. Do your duty. Remember your duty. You'll be lord one day, don't forget that. You can't know what it's like, Myra."

"Of course I know what it's like!" she shouted, exasperated. With a huff, she sat right back down, and distantly wondered what the point of getting up was. "Because every day that passes is one less day I get to be here. No one has to tell me anything, because every day I feel it, from the moment I wake up until I go to bed at night, there's this pressure on me saying that one day I will have to leave.

"It's easy for you to complain because this is all you're ever going to know. You'll have Father and Mother to look to for years to come, gods willing, and where will I be? Somewhere I know nothing about, because that is my duty. I have to go to some other keep and be a wife and a mother, and maybe my husband will listen to me, or maybe he won't. Maybe I'll just be this quiet figure in the back of the room for the rest of my life, and so I just desperately don't want to be one now."

She hadn't meant to make it about her, but she'd just needed to vent her frustrations at her brother. He had so much to look forward to in his life, and she very much less so. Because that was what women did: sacrificed their safety and security to keep the peace through marriage.

Of course, she would perform that duty because she was a Stark, and to shirk one's duty was practically the worst of infractions a person could commit, but that did not mean she had to do so with happiness in her heart.

Robb was sitting beside her in the next moment, a sort of stunned look on his face. "I'm sorry, Myra. I didn't...I mean I should have..."

"No, it's alright, Brother," Myra replied, cutting him off. "I really shouldn't have interrupted. Perhaps I'll pass you notes next time."

"I don't know about that. With how poorly I did, I doubt there will be a next time in the near future."

The two laughed awkwardly.

"But Myra," Robb started, looking over at her. "If you ever feel unwanted when you're married, you come straight back here. I don't care what the consequences are, no lord who is content to ignore you deserves you."

"Careful, Brother," Myra said, trying very hard not to cry. "I might hold you to that."

"I hope you do."

Their father would come to find that his plan hadn't really worked on making them more independent, yet somehow he could not quite call it a defeat.

Sometimes, she wished things could be so simple again; to just yell at her brother for a few minutes before they both realized how foolish they were and forgave each other before the day was through.

But they had both been painfully ignorant then, and Myra did not wish to live in the dark as she once had, not when she knew of the machinations that surrounded her at every moment, ready to scoop up unwilling participants at a moment's notice.

She supposed simplicity was the victim of knowledge.

Talisa, however, seemed to be a good indication that things may just turn out. If she could have one person on her side, she could get others. In the meantime, Myra thought it best to avoid Robb altogether. Their arguments now would only end in more anger, and they did not need to risk more regrettable things being said, or the chance that someone may overhear them. They had enough on their plates in Harrenhal.

The anger that had gripped the army upon arriving in the abandoned castle was quickly smothered by disappointment, and the realization that their struggle to catch the Lannisters had yet to cease. There hadn't been a battle, there were no prisoners to question or battle plans to unfold, but there were victims nonetheless, and with every hour that passed, the number increased.

On the first morning, they had held a vigil for the bodies that had been scattered around the courtyard. The bodies had been burned in a large trench outside, save for a few knights they had recognized, who received slightly better memorials. Many of the soldiers were men of House Whent though there were other Riverlords' banners among the dead, as well as Northmen. A few even came from the Crownlands.

Some time after, the dungeons had been found. Myra heard it was a sight not worth repeating. Several other rooms full of bodies and questionable practices were discovered after that. There were no services for the dead then. Most chose not to speak of it.

It left the army in a bitter state. Even with the multitude of rooms to choose from, the Greatjon chose to remain in a tent outside the battlements, claiming the stench would keep anyone from attempting to ambush him in the night.

Myra was tempted to join him at time, but found the allure of solid walls overwhelming.

She had gone to visit the lone survivor at some point. Qyburn was his name, a soft-spoken man with one of the sharpest minds she'd ever seen. She helped change one of the bandages on his wounds, and the two held a brief discussion on medical procedure, she not so subtly hinting on what she had performed in the woods. And while she had found the conversation enlightening, there was something unnerving about the man, his quiet nature seeming to hide something much louder and more dangerous beneath. Myra decided then that one visit was more than enough.

While within the confines of Harrenhal, Myra had been allowed to wander the grounds unescorted. Well, not entirely, she supposed. Lady was by her side constantly, never more than a few feet away at any given moment. The poor thing was not taking Brenna's absence well. Nymeria, however, wandered in and out of the castle every so often. She'd given the guards quite the fright when she returned dragging an elk carcass the other night.

At her side now, the direwolf seemed uncomfortable, running around in circles and pawing at the dirt. Something was wrong, but Myra could not begin to guess what, simply because everything in Harrenhal felt that way.

When they stumbled upon the smithy, the direwolf refused to leave, circling one particular spot and whining as if she had been physically hurt. Given Nymeria was the more volatile of the three, Myra found the sudden change in her nature concerning.

Kneeling beside the poor creature, Myra placed a hand on her head, trying to calm her.

"What is it, Nymeria?" she asked, watching her paw the earth. "What's wrong? Is something here?"

That didn't seem quite right, given it was solid dirt beneath her.

Then what, Myra wondered. This direwolf wasn't like Brenna, who was more or less content to clearly point at things with her snout. The two could almost speak to one another, as strange as it sounded. But Nymeria wasn't her wolf. Perhaps is Arya had been there...

"Arya..."

Nymeria stopped moving immediately and barked.

Myra blinked. Could it be? Was her sister alive? They'd heard nothing for months. How could anyone escape King's Landing?

How could anyone escape Harrenhal?

Her heart dropped briefly at the thought of Arya being one of the undiscovered victims awaiting the army within the walls, but surely her direwolf would not have acted in such a way if she had never left.

No, her sister was alive. If anyone was going to survive this gods awful war, it was Arya.

"Fine her, Nymeria," Myra commanded, putting both hands around the wolf's head. "Find her and bring her back to us."

Nymeria licked her cheek and ran off.

Myra sat back, a grin on her face. She didn't know when she would see them again, or if she would, but a spark of hope in such a dark time was something she desperately needed, what they all needed.

"My lady, I would not suggest going too far on your own. Harrenhal is a vast place, and not many know the layout any longer."

"Lord Bolton," Myra said quickly in surprise, taking the hand that was offered to help her stand. "I apologize. I did not notice your presence."

"There is no need. Many of the Northern lords find me too quiet for their tastes," he replied, lips twitching slightly. An almost smile at self-deprecating humor? How unlike him. "Might I ask what brings you here?"

Only if I can ask the same of you, Myra thought. How he often wound up by her side was beginning to unnerve her.

Instead, she offered an apologetic smile. "I'm afraid that when my mind wanders, so do my feet. I probably could have wound up in half a dozen places by now."

"Of course, we all need solitude now and again," he said with a nod, pausing. "There's been word from Riverrun, my lady. Your grandfather, Hoster Tully, has passed."

Grandfather. It was an oddly familiar word for a man whom she had never met, at least, not within memory. She had been born at Riverrun after all, but never had the opportunity to travel back since the rebellion ended. Her mother had told her more than enough about the man, and yet Myra could not conjure up a single word to describe him at the moment.

"Your brother has decided to move the army to Riverrun for the time being, while my forces remain garrisoned here."

Why did the idea of having leagues between them not put her at ease?

"I suppose that makes you Lord of Harrenhal now."

Bolton's mouth twitched slightly, more out of courtesy than actual amusement.

"Lord of nothing more than a crypt," he added, glancing around. Even he seemed to be ill at ease in such a place. "I would not linger here a moment longer than needed. Fate is not kind to those who hold this castle."

There was a bitter truth.

Bolton glanced down at Lady, who bristled under his attention. "I seem to recall you having a pack of these beasts at your beck and call. It seems you've lost a couple."

Myra placed a hand on Lady, more for her countenance than the wolf's.

"They tend to wander every now and again. I'm not about to keep them on a leash."

"Of course not," he replied. "I just hope they aren't anywhere they shouldn't be."

He caught her gaze then, and for once the utterly unreadable Roose Bolton was an open book to her.

He knew.

And he wanted her to know that.

Tyrion

There was nothing he loved more than Small Council meetings.

That used to be a sarcastic statement, and while he still loathed dragging himself away from relative productivity – not to mention sanity – in order to yell nonsense at idiots, with his father as the Hand, he at least had the pleasure of watching both Cersei and Joffrey never get their way. Admittedly, he was also a favored target of his father's attacks, but that was nothing if not commonplace in his life, and a worthwhile sacrifice for his entertainment.

With Littlefinger gone and presumably not returning given his title of Master of Coin had been so graciously gifted to Tyrion, the Small Council shrank a little more. Never mind that they'd received another member in the form of Mace Tyrell. The man had about as much intelligence as a lackwit, and was mostly present to parrot whomever he agreed with at the time. It was a position allowed purely out of the need to pay back the debt the crown owed to the Tyrells. A Lannister always pays his debts after all.

Besides, the man could hardly do any harm as the Master of Ships. They had no fleet.

As such, the Small Council was indeed very small.

Upon entering the chambers of the Hand that day – his father had already done an immense amount of redecorating since his arrival. Was it wrong for a Lannister to hate red? – Tyrion noted that his father seemed pleased. Tywin Lannister wasn't smiling, but his gaze was less murderous than usual. In his eyes, that made the man look downright ecstatic.

It was unnerving.

His dear sister must have agreed because she kept sneaking glances in their father's direction, but was utterly unable to commit to a question.

So, it was up to him.

Nestling in his chair and ignoring the glare that the wonderfully beardless Grand Maester Pycelle liked to throw his way, Tyrion stared his father down.

"I take it you have news about Jaime."

Several eyes turned in his direction, while his father's narrowed.

"And what, pray tell, makes you think that?"

Tyrion could have laughed. Even when talking of presumably good news, the mere sound of his voice managed to chase away his father's goodwill.

"It's quite simple, really," Tyrion started. He always loved having these family discussions in public. "There is only one member of this family who has managed to make you even remotely happy over the years, and he is not currently seated at this table. Thus, there must be good news about my brother."

The table was silent a moment as other council members took their time glancing between Tywin and Cersei, both of whom appeared to be regretting not sitting within arm's reach of their drunken relative, and oh how he relished it.

Tywin sighed, looking around at the others, eyes daring them to comment. "Lord Varys informs me that my son, Jaime, has indeed escaped captivity from the Stark encampment, although when he was captured by them is still a matter of debate."

The Master of Whispers nodded. "My little birds tell me he fled with a soldier from the Stormlands, a Brienne of Tarth."

"A woman?" Maester Pycelle asked, sounding genuinely startled by such a notion.

"I remember her," Mace Tyrell added. "She's a giant of a woman. Fought my son in single combat."

Bested your son, Tyrion thought, choosing not to stir the pot. Mace was hardly worth the effort.

"This is no doubt to curry some favor from his majesty," Maester Pycelle continued. "A pardon for the family's treason perhaps."

"Whatever the case, soldiers will be dispatched immediately to find him," Tywin started, writing something down on the paper before him. Tyrion always wondered if he was like Cersei, jotting down anything to give the appearance of doing something, and then he would remember who his father was. "I grow tired of chasing rumors through the trees."

"I'll send along some of my best soldiers as well," Mace added, lighting up at the possibility of furthering his place in Tywin's good graces. "House Tyrell will do its part."

Tyrion needed a drink. Why were these affairs always sober?

Ah, right, because of him.

Cersei was being oddly silent about the whole thing. He thought she would have been jumping for joy upon hearing news about their brother, or whatever equivalent there was for being in front of their father. Instead, she seemed quite determined to count the grains in the table, looking as desperate for a drink as he felt.

The council moved on to other, smaller details. Clean up from the battle, wedding plans, Lord Baelish's plans to woo the Vale out of neutrality. He'd apparently already sailed for home, but would return before the wedding to finalize some business accounts.

Funny how the absence of Littlefinger only made Tyrion more wary of him.

As time dragged and discussions began to wind down – funny how things got done when Joffrey wasn't around – Tyrion began to get comfortable with the idea of leaving soon, finding a good bottle of wine, and staying with Shae for the evening. She was good at making him forget about his scar, among other things. But when he looked to his sister, Tyrion realized his problems were just beginning. She looked positively murderous, and wasn't about to let anyone go without a lengthy conversation about whatever it was on her mind.

"What about the Stark girl?" she hissed.

Gods, she wasn't still going on about Myra, was she? The girl was half a world away, presumably back in her brother's company. What more could she want?

Tywin briefly glared at Cersei, but relented. "I have been informed that Sansa Stark is hiding in Dorne."

Suddenly, Tyrion was grateful that he did not have a drink. He likely would have spit it out.

There were a few incredulous looks around the table. Even Varys appeared surprised by the revelation, so much so that Tyrion was inclined to believe that he had not known. After all, why would he have kept the information a secret?

No, this complication stank of Littlefinger.

"Of course she was," Mace blustered, red-faced and ready to spit. "The Martells have always been the treacherous sort."

Tyrion rolled his eyes. "Yes, because they've been given no reason to mistrust the crown."

His father was glaring at him again, but he knew the great Lord Tywin would get over it, if only because he knew he had a point. Tywin Lannister wasn't the sort to commit horrendous acts and pretend that there wouldn't be consequences attached to them.

No, that was Cersei's business.

"These are serious allegations," Maester Pycelle started, chains tinkling as he turned in his seat. "If Sansa Stark truly is in Dorne, then this treason must be answered, and the girl brought to the capital at once."

"No."

All eyes turned to look at Tywin. Tyrion thought his mouth might have dropped open.

"You can't be serious," Cersei spoke, hands gripping the table.

"And when have you known me to be of the joking variety?" Tywin asked, leveling a look on his daughter before glancing at the rest of the Small Council. "Sansa Stark will remain in Dorne where she cannot bother anyone. We will not talk about her; we will not acknowledge her existence."

"When Joffrey finds out about this-"

"If the king should find out, then he will learn a lesson in priority," Tywin continued, not caring for Cersei's tone. "We are at war, in case you hadn't noticed, and the last thing the crown needs is another belligerent house threatening secession. Not to mention Princess Myrcella is currently in their possession."

"A poor idea in hindsight," Maester Pycelle added, glancing Tyrion's way.

The old coot looked in need of another shave.

"A necessary one at the time," Tywin admitted, though he didn't bother looking his direction. "When Robb Stark and Stannis Baratheon have been dealt with, then we will focus our efforts on Dorne. In the meanwhile, it is in our best interest to keep them sated and ignorant."

The tone in their father's voice said he was done speaking on the matter, but Cersei's fury would not allow her to see the telltale signs.

"And should they marry her into their house, should she breed, what happens then?"

Tywin Lannister did not raise his voice, but the look in his eyes could have struck down armies.

"Then House Martell will discover how far away the North truly is," he replied. "Besides, the Northern lords would never accept a Dornish welp as one of their own. The child would be a bastard in their eyes."

Perhaps Sansa Stark should be so lucky. At least then his father wouldn't consider her a threat, and leave her alone.

When the council had been quiet long enough, Tywin nodded. "I believe we are done here. You may leave."

Cersei stood with a huff and left the room so quickly, Maester Pycelle may have spun around in her wake.

Tyrion made a move to stand, until his father's hand shot up.

"Not you, Tyrion."

Audibly gulping, he got comfortable in his seat again as the others left. Varys gave him a sympathetic look as he shuffled out of the room.

The door shut rather loudly, and echoed in the newfound silence of the chambers.

Tywin leaned forward on the table then, eyes distantly burning.

"Did you know?"

Varys was waiting for him outside. Tyrion liked to pretend that he was relieved to see him walk through the doors in one piece.

"It seems you have survived your encounter," he observed, falling into step beside him.

"I wouldn't call it that," Tyrion replied, recounting the oddly quiet conversation they'd had. If they had been at the losing end of the war, he suspected it would not have ended as well as it had. Jaime's escape had also put his father in a relatively good mood, letting the incident slide. And by slide he meant that if he ever tried anything like that again, Tywin would personally nail him to the Dragon Gate, probably while still alive.

"I think I may have to lie low for a while," he added.

"Well, before you commit to your disappearing act, let me regale you with the rest of your brother's tale," Varys said, pausing in the hallway. "Brienne of Tarth may in fact be on the run with him, but she was not the one who freed Ser Jaime."

"Myra Stark," Tyrion sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. It still hurt. "My dear sister will be overjoyed at the news."

"Which is why she will not hear it from me, but I thought to warn you. After all, not all the whispers belong to me."

As their conversation lulled, the door behind them burst open, revealing a very content and whistling Bronn. Syrena exited soon after, gently closing the door. She did not even appear surprised at their company in the hallway, curtseying low and gracefully.

"My lords," she said, turning away down the hall without another word.

That woman was the only unknown in the equation. After all, how could Littlefinger have gotten to Dorne? Yes, he had his spies but Sansa had been gone for months. He hadn't said a word, or even spoken Sansa's name, and neither Bronn nor Podrick had enough sense to know whom they had been talking about at the time.

Which left the Dornish bastard.

"Tell me, Bronn," Tyrion said as the newly knighted sellsword stood beside him. "Do you trust that woman?"

"Please, I fuck her with a hand on my dagger," he replied. "My other dagger that is."

"Varys?"

The eunich shrugged. "My little birds have watched her for some time. She's good at avoiding people when she doesn't want to be seen, but as of late, she hasn't avoided anyone, and she's done nothing of interest."

Tyrion watched her retreating form.

Perhaps their problems with Dorne were only just beginning.

Jaime

"She's watching us again."

That seemed to be the behemoth's sole function: to stare at him from a distance with what he guessed was supposed to be an intimidating look. Really, the scowl on her face just served to make her appear uglier, and more laughable rather than threatening. But more than anything, she was starting to annoy him.

"I think 'she's watching you,' is the more accurate statement. After all, you aren't trustworthy, Ser Jaime," Myra replied, clearly amused by the whole thing. She was changing the bandaging on his arm with what supplies Brienne possessed. That required the removal of his tunic, and involved Myra running her hands all over his bare skin. The woman wasn't bothered by it in the least, clearly focused on the medical aspect rather than how outlandishly improper the whole affair was. Her fingers jabbed and poked and pulled, they weren't soft and gentle caresses, yet Brienne watched them with a growing look of horror.

It gave him an idea.

Using his good arm, Jaime reached out and grabbed one of Myra's hands. He brought the appendage closer, making certain it was in full view of Brienne, and began massaging her knuckles between his fingers.

Such tiny hands, and they'd managed to save his life.

When he glanced up, Myra was looking at him as if he'd sprouted a second head.

"Jaime, what are you doing?"

"Having a little fun," he replied, glancing in Brienne's direction. She'd taken notice and was sitting straighter on her side of the camp, even looked ready to stand.

Myra rolled her eyes. "You're a child."

She tried to pull her hand from his grip, but even in his weakened state, he was stronger than her. He watched her struggle, enjoying the growing annoyance on her face.

"Really, Jaime?"

"Yes, really," he continued, pulling her closer. The sudden jerking movement left Myra bracing herself against him to keep from falling forward. In order to avoid the wound on his shoulder, her hand pressed against his chest. He briefly saw it then, the flash of embarrassment, the young, proper lady suddenly afraid of what the world thought, until her frustration with him melted it away. "This woman, or whatever she is, looks at me as if I'm about to gut you the instant you turn your back. Excuse me if I want to get back at her in any way I can."

"Oh, and here you'd convinced me that you didn't care what people thought," Myra replied, a smirk pulling at the side of her mouth. She always remembered exactly what she needed to in order to make him sound like a fool.

He glared at her. Her smirk became a grin.

When he released her hand, the smile nearly broke her face.

"Thank you," she said with an air of victory as she flexed her fingers.

Rather than remove her other hand, however, Myra chose to slide it across his skin toward the bandage. It was the lightest of touches, probably unnoticed by her as she immediately refocused on the wound, but he was distinctly aware of every moment that passed as she did so. It made his chest constrict, feeling something so gentle.

She'd touched him that way before, hadn't she?

"You're going to have to make a choice," he spoke eventually, his voice quiet. He eyed Brienne across the camp, who was currently standing and had made it a few steps from her bedroll. She looked ready to cut him in two, but suddenly he didn't care.

"Between the two of you?" Myra asked, clearly not noticing how somber he'd become. "At this point, Jaime, you probably deserve whatever you provoke from her."

"That's not what I meant."

He felt the tugging at his bandages cease, then a gentle pressure on his arm as she gripped it. Her hands were warm.

The gray eyes looking back at him were frightened, not for his life, not for hers, but of the burden that had been placed upon her. There were no right answers, no good outcomes, and there may have been no avoiding it. Their lives seemed to lead to nothing but dead ends.

He wondered what would have happened if they'd just stayed in that cabin a little longer.

It took one day for them to be caught.

Jaime's horse stumbled over a root and fell, bringing him down with it. He managed to roll into the brush, only receiving annoying little cuts on his exposed skin, but the beast was not so lucky. The bone in its leg had snapped, protruding from its leg, sharp and bloody. The creature's screams echoed through the forest.

Brienne had silenced it immediately with her sword, looking around the trees as if the riders had already arrived.

With one horse, they were already down on their luck, but her stallion was near death, blood oozing from its nostrils. It would collapse from exhaustion within the hour.

They were left to stumble on foot until they came across a river, swollen from the rains, but with a gentle current. There was no bridge to cross within sight, and while it was quite the distance from one bank to the other, both of them seemed keen on attempting to ford it.

Until they heard the party in the distance, full of shouts and thundering hooves.

Brienne swung around, unsheathing her sword with a shout. Jaime did so less elegantly, gingerly placing his injured leg behind him. It didn't hurt as much to walk on now, but the wound had grown stiff. Hopefully their attackers would just recklessly throw themselves at him, because he wasn't about to dazzle anyone with fancy footwork.

"Alright, wench, try not to forget to hit them with the sharp part of the sword," Jaime said. Despite his heckling, he moved closer to her. Now was not exactly the time to choose whom you wanted to fight with.

"Perhaps I should just let them kill you," Brienne replied, raising her sword higher. She, too, moved closer though. They both knew they had better odds with the other than alone.

He just wished the bloody direwolf hadn't disappeared again.

Moments later, several men rode out of the brush, shouting and spitting and looking every inch the barbaric Northerners they were. They were dirty, bloody, and looked like they'd gone mad. He bet they hadn't slept in days, riding through the nights to find them.

How touching.

"Kingslayer!" shouted perhaps the craziest of the lot. His gray hair stuck out in every direction, and if he didn't know better, Jaime would have guessed he was one of those wildlings the Northmen liked to talk so much about. "I'll have your head for what you've done!"

Ah, this must have been the father.

He'd have made a comment on how pathetic the boy was, but Brienne would have probably skewered him on principle.

"And you, bitch! You think that pretty little armor's going to save you?"

Brienne tightened the grip on her sword, hunching over into a smaller target, though not much smaller. She braced her sword on her free arm, and put her weight onto her back foot, waiting for a strike.

"No, just my sword."

They backed up to the edge of the river, waiting. The men were tired and impatient, it wouldn't take long for one of them to strike, having ridden so long in search of them; the lord wanted his vengeance, the men wanted to prove themselves and have a story to tell the army when they returned. It would not be a coordinated attack.

The only issue was the horses. Even with their swords, there was a good chance the bloody things would run them down before they got a strike in.

It was a thin line they were treading.

Holding his sword with both hands in a defensive position, Jaime found his left arm growing weak. He hadn't tested holding it out for long periods of time, much less with something weighted in his grasp, and the appendage was starting to shake.

Get it over with already.

Do it.

Do it.

"Do it!" he shouted, his own nerves getting the best of him.

There was a beat, and then, in perhaps the greatest stroke of coincidence he'd ever witnessed, Brenna leapt out of the forest, bloodied and battered, but perhaps even more terrifying because of it. The horses panicked at the sound of her snarls, rearing and tossing their riders.

In one swift motion, she jumped over one and grabbed its rider by the neck, crashing back into the dirt with the sound of crunching bone.

Everything broke into chaos after that.

One rider who'd managed to remain in the saddle charged forward with a shout.

Jaime felt his muscles coil, waiting for the right moment to jump aside and avoid the attack. The horse would hopefully go too deeply into the water, either losing the rider or at least buying them time before he attacked again.

With another shout, however, Brienne surged forward. Rather than be crushed beneath the beast, as he expected, the wench managed to not only dodge the creature, but brought her sword up with enough force to cave the armor on the rider's chest and send him flying off the horse. The man fell limply onto the ground, presumably to never move again, but just in case, Brienne shoved her sword into his gut.

Jaime blinked.

Well, that was-

A shout shook Jaime from his thoughts, bringing him back to the battle. He only just managed to counter a swing from one of the Northmen as the remaining, uninjured few managed to rally.

The man was a large one, and the impact from his swing shook Jaime to the core. It made him step backward, where his boot made contact with the water. He countered the other hits more effectively, leaning forward, attempting to drive the man back, but he wasn't as strong as he used to be, not after his injuries and weeks of less than nothing for food. The best he could do was to just barely keep from going further into the water.

At least until the man blocked his attack, and Jaime was rewarded with a boot to his chest. He caught a glimpse of Brienne fighting two attackers before he plunged into the water, sinking quickly to the bottom. Silt rose up around him, clouding his already obscured view, and somewhere in the back of his mind, Jaime suddenly decided that he hated rivers.

He sat up with a gasp, barely able to blink at the daylight before the boot met his chest again and drove him back into the water. This time, however, it remained there, a weight pushing him further into the mud and muck of the river. His sword had fallen out of his hand, and the murkiness of the water prevented him from finding it.

Desperately searching for the dagger on his hip, Jaime managed to free it just as he caught a glint from above the surface.

Jaime swung the dagger, just fast enough despite the water to deflect the sword that plunged into the river, its tip poised for his face. Without hesitation, he brought it back around and stabbed the man in the leg.

The weight vanished from his chest, allowing Jaime to rise above the water level and get a desperately needed breath of air.

Water and hair still blinding his eyes, Jaime didn't see the fist that caught him in the jaw.

He fell back into the river, but this time on the shore, leaving him resting in inches of water rather than feet. Before he could recover, he was hit again and again, leaving him lying on his back, exposed and vulnerable.

Gripping the knife, Jaime swung wildly, unable to focus over the pain and shock from the hits, but he wasn't fast enough. The man stopped punching him long enough to slam his boot down on his wrist, jolting the knife out of his grasp.

The Northman picked the knife up, and slammed the blade into the palm of his hand, driving all the way through to the sand below.

Jaime screamed, only to be silenced by another punch.

He was barely aware of his surroundings, even the pain had vanished, as the man gripped the front of his shirt and pulled him up.

There was a growl, and suddenly a large form tackled the man.

Jaime dropped back to the ground with a thud, looking over to find the river had turned a deep shade of red as Brenna tore the man apart in the water. Her fur was matted with blood, clumping in parts. Some belonged to the Northmen, some to her, but the beast did not seem deterred by it in the least.

Rolling over and ignoring the carnage beside him, Jaime looked at his wound. Left hand trembling, it gently touched the handle of the dagger. The blade had gone completely through his hand, most of it exposed on the other side.

He couldn't fight like this.

He couldn't do anything like this.

In the distance, Brienne was on her knees, bloody, but mostly intact. Two equally bloody men stood over her, waiting, their swords at her neck. They weren't the same ones she had been fighting earlier. Those two were dead on the shore.

The wench was fairly decent, not that it did them much good now.

As Jaime stared, he became aware of a sword out of the corner of his eye. He turned to see the crazed man from earlier, his hair somehow wilder, and his face bloody.

"It's time for you to die, Kingslayer," he said, bringing the sword back. "This is the king's justice, for the North, for Bran Stark, and for my-"

Gods, he was sick of old men talking.

With a shout of rage, Jaime grabbed the dagger and pulled it out of his hand, slicing it across the man's abdomen. It wasn't a deep cut, but enough to distract and make him hesitate.

Jaime leapt on him then, driving the blade into his chest until he felt a pop. It didn't take long for the wound to bleed and bubble, a straight shot into the lung.

"Your son spoke too much as well," he hissed, watching as the man began to cough up blood. "That's why I cut his throat."

He stayed there, holding the man down with his body weight, waiting for the light to fade from his eyes. In the distance, Brenna had attacked one of the men by Brienne, leaving her open to fight off the other.

The battle was won, somehow.

Jaime heard a sigh, and felt the body beneath him go limp. He waited a few moments more, and then rolled to the side, clutching his hand as it bled out in his grip.

When he slipped out of consciousness, the last thing he pictured were beautiful, gray eyes.