Myra

The instant her body hit the water, all the air was knocked from her lungs. Her legs burned from the impact while the rest of her froze as she was engulfed by the deep waves of the Narrow Sea. For a few moments, which dragged for an eternity, Myra was stuck, her mind still attempting to comprehend what she had just done. The moon continued to rise slowly overhead, bathing the water in an ethereal glow, and she watched it, as if her life did not hang in the balance.

Then she began to swim.

Myra gasped as her head broke the surface. She turned one direction, then the next, trying to make sense of where she was, but everything looked different from below the cliff. She was afraid to move. Dragonstone's waters were notoriously dangerous. One wrong move and she could find herself dragged out to sea, or bashed against the jagged rocks that littered the shallows.

Treading water was growing difficult. Her dress was not one made for the South. It was from home, made of thick wool; it soaked up the seawater and was beginning to weigh her down.

"Jaime!" she cried, desperately searching the waters for a blonde head. "Jaime, where-!"

Her head dipped below the surface. It was only brief as a surge of fear gave her the strength to return, but the panic had set in. If she did not free herself, the dress was going to drown her.

Myra took a breath before letting herself sink. The world went quiet as she fumbled with the trappings, but the cold of the water had numbed her fingers and the movements were slow. She couldn't get anything to release.

She returned to the surface long enough to catch a breath before sinking again. It felt as if something was dragging her down towards the bottom. As a girl, she had feared the deep of the water. Old Nan liked to speak of bony hands that would claw at the living from the abyss. Would her tale be true?

Only her fingertips brushed the surface now.

She went into a frenzy, arms flailing wildly as she desperately clawed for the surface, but the harder she fought, the more tired she became. And then her lungs began to burn, begging her mouth to open and let in the sweet relief of air. But there was none to be found, only saltwater.

Then, in a brief moment of clarity, she remembered the blade.

To her unending relief, the Valyrian dagger was still within the folds of her dress. She wrenched the thing free and started to cut open the front of the bodice. But the edges of her vision were beginning to pulse, and her fingers were so clumsy.

When the dagger fell from her grasp, all Myra could do was watch.

Then Jaime grabbed it.

His free hand cupped her face. Through drifting strands of hair, Myra saw Jaime examining her. Soon after, she heard the dull sound of tearing fabric and felt him tug the wretched dress off.

Even now, she heard a scandalized gasp in the back of her mind as she was left exposed to him in nothing but her smallclothes.

Jaime wrapped his arm around her waist, dragging her limp body to the surface.

Coughing and sputtering, Myra took in air once more. How sweet it tasted.

She was vaguely aware of Jaime swimming them in some direction. Occasionally, she even tried to help, but her senses did not fully return until she felt sand beneath her feet. Though Jaime helped her up, Myra was able to stumble out of the sea on her own. She made it a few feet, well clear of the waves washing up on the beach, before collapsing on the sand. Jaime fell beside her, and there they lay for some time, surrounded by the sound of waves and their own panting.

If she never wore a dress again, she would die a happy woman.

At some point, Myra slowly sat up, her muscles still trembling, but stronger. She took in the area around them. With Dragonstone bathed in moonlight, it was relatively easy to make out where they were. The castle was some distance from them now, not so far that it was not still a looming figure before them, but enough so that they could at least catch their breath. She doubted armored guards were going to follow their precise route.

The beach was abandoned, and had no signs of life. No fishing nets or rowboats left for the evening. They might as well have been the only two people on the island.

Beside her, Jaime groaned. Myra watched him roll over, sand sticking to his unkempt beard while his hair was plastered to his face. He was a far cry from the golden knight of the Kingsguard, but once again, she found herself owing him. For the briefest of moments in the dungeon, she had truly considered leaving him there to rot, for Bran, for her father, for everything his family was doing to hers.

And where would that have gotten her? She wouldn't have made it out of the castle, much less come to the insane conclusion of jumping off the cliff to freedom. She'd be back in her cell at that very moment, or killed, or drowned. And it hadn't even been an hour yet.

Whether she liked it or not, Jaime Lannister was currently her best chance at seeing home again.

If he planned on staying with her, of course. She wouldn't if she were him; she would only slow him down. A woman who couldn't fend for herself, who couldn't even swim without nearly getting herself killed. What use was she?

But he saved her anyway.

"Thank you," Myra said softly.

"Well, you did let me out," Jaime replied, wincing as he sat up. He looked over at her, reminding Myra of exactly how underdressed she was. She wrapped her arms around herself, bringing her knees up. The wind was suddenly very cold. "I suppose that makes us even."

She didn't say anything, but the air became thick; she knew Jaime realized his poor choice of words.

Something glinted out of the corner of her eye.

Jaime was examining the dagger. She watched him turn the thing over in his hands, taking in the steel and the peculiar hilt. It would not take him long...

"This is it," he mumbled, grasping the hilt properly. It looked much smaller in his hands, yet deadlier. "This is what started everything."

"Not everything," Myra stated, looking at him. Jaime met her gaze, and she knew that she did not have to finish her thoughts. He was well aware of the role he played.

They might have stared at each other all night, locked in some sort of battle of wills, had Myra not noticed something behind him. Further down the beach, there was a light in the distance.

A search party.

"Jaime."

Perhaps it was the look on her face or the tone of her voice, but before he had even turned to see the approaching threat, Jaime already had the dagger in a defensive position.

"Get up the hill," he whispered, beginning to stand.

"You can't actually mean to fight them," Myra replied, grabbing at his arm as she stood. He was one man, unarmored with a dagger. Greatest sword in the Seven Kingdoms or not, his odds did not look favorable.

"Now is not the time to question me," he hissed, eyes never leaving the party. They were still fairly far off, the light of their torch obstructing their view of things in the distance. They'd have been better off without. "You said you trust me, so listen."

Myra hesitated for a moment before running up the beach. Sand gave way to grassy knolls that sloped gently toward the village on the far side of the island. Only a few dark rocks jutted from the sands, edges rounded by rain and wind, the last remnants of a fierce eruption some centuries ago.

Her shoes long lost, the soles of her feet bore a rare sort of pain as she scrambled over the sand and rock to the relative safety above. She remained silent, ignoring the pain. Something told her that she had far more trying days ahead.

At the top of the hill, Myra dropped to her stomach, keeping her head as low as possible as she inched to the edge to watch. She could not have been more than eight feet above the beach. If the search party bothered to look, her dark form would have stood out against the pale blades of grass.

She supposed that was where Jaime came in.

The man himself had yet to move. As the party approached, three men in total, dressed in chainmail armor and armed to the teeth, Jaime stood his ground, he in nothing more than a tunic and leggings, his feet also painfully bare. She could not see the dagger.

Myra took a deep breath.

I trust him. I trust him. I-

"You there!" shouted the closest guard as he spotted him. Immediately, the man unsheathed his sword, walking toward Jaime. When he finally came to a halt, the tip of the blade hovered just short of his neck.

By the gods, she was about to watch Jaime Lannister die.

She thought to shout something, distract the guards for a moment so Jaime could fight his way out, but something kept the words at bay. Myra had the distinct feeling that Jaime would be furious if she tried anything.

So, she watched.

And prayed.

"Where is the girl?"

Jaime shrugged. "Bottom of the sea, I imagine. It seemed like a heavy dress."

The guard pushed the sword closer. Jaime leaned back, and Myra imagined he looked rather offended by it.

"Wrong answer," the guard replied. His voice was deep, but in the false way that gave men a sort of bravado that did nothing more than get them killed. He actually believed he could intimidate the Lion of Lannister.

"Well, actually, it's the right one seeing as how she's dead."

Others take him, he lied like one of her brothers.

The guard turned back to the others, who had lingered behind some feet. One had his hand on the hilt of his sword, but had yet to draw. The other just held the torch.

"Search the-"

It happened in an instant.

Jaime brought the dagger up in his right hand, batting away the sword while he closed the gap between him and the guard with his left. He punched the man, leaving him to stagger before finishing him by shoving the dagger into his eye. The man stood absolutely still for a moment before collapsing into the sand, dead.

Grabbing the sword from his body, Jaime began to twirl the blade while the other members of the party composed themselves. Then he outstretched his arms, as if inviting them. This was how her brothers acted when they were children with wooden swords, and here was a member of the Kingsguard doing the same with his own life.

The third guard dropped his torch, and together the remaining men unsheathed their swords. They ran at him, hard and heavy, but at least in unison. Jaime dropped back into a defensive position, his sword pointed outward, his body back, side face, but weight on the balls of his feet as if he were about to spring. Her brother, Robb, had tried to fight like that once, but he preferred to properly square off against his enemy, both shoulders facing them. It made for a much larger target, and that was something the Lannister could clearly not afford.

The second guard swung his sword downward, while the third swung up, both clearly intent on cutting him in two. Timing everything just right, Myra watched as Jaime blocked the upswing with his sword while sidestepping the downswing, placing himself precisely between both soldiers. Keeping his momentum moving forward, Jaime spun, bringing his sword across the neck of the second guard whose own blade had been temporarily lodged in the wet sand. He fell with a choking noise and the beach turned red.

Myra remembered that day at the Red Keep, when she and Syrena had watched him practice. It had been brutal and unrefined, but even then there had been a sort of beauty in the movements. Now, it seemed to her, he fought even better, as if the opportunity to kill people was what drove him. It could have been that his life was on the line, but she did not believe that was it. There was something about war that made men long for it. Why else would they always speak of it?

Jaime whirled on the last guard, who barely got his sword up in time to protect him. It hardly mattered. The Lannister knocked the sword out of his grasp in the next hit, and drove the blade deep into the man's gut, practically lifting him from the ground, before sliding the sword out and letting his body collapse.

And then it was over.

Myra could scarcely move.

Her hands gripped whatever grass was nearby with white knuckles, crushing the little blades until they broke off. She kept staring that that tiny section of beach, and the man who had just murdered three armed guards without missing a beat. He casually walked among the bodies, combing through their armor as if those men weren't just alive and breathing. They might have had families, had children.

She remembered the guard in the castle who Jaime had easily slain. He was a boy barely older than her. And she remembered Ser Hugh, so violently killed and easily forgotten.

It was wrong.

This was wrong.

But this was the way of the world now, wasn't it? The way of her world. Was Robb not doing this right now as he led an army south? Did her father not do this when he did the very same years ago?

All her life she had known liars and killers, but to her they had always been fathers and brothers and decent men, and she had been ignorant enough to believe they could be nothing but.

Stannis Baratheon had been right. She was still just a child.

When Myra finally gathered her wits and returned to the beach, Jaime was leaning over the first guard. She watched him pull the dagger from the man's eye. Blood had never bothered her, but the sight made her stomach roll nonetheless.

"Did you enjoy it?" she found herself asking, the words tumbling out without her permission. She could have slapped herself.

"Not much is sweeter than a good killing," Jaime replied, standing up. He seemed more relieved to her than he had in days. It disturbed her. "Your father enjoyed it just as much as I do. Try not to tell yourself otherwise."

"Don't speak ill of the dead." Myra felt her throat catch on the last word.

"Would you rather I lie?" he asked, removing his tunic. "Doesn't seem very honorable."

Myra blinked rapidly as she was suddenly faced with a half-naked Jaime Lannister.

"Wh-what are you doing?"

"I certainly don't plan on walking everywhere like this. It's bound to attract attention," Jaime answered, offering the shirt to her. "Plus, I imagine you're cold. You certainly look it."

Heat rising in her cheeks as Myra was, once again, made painfully aware of how she was dressed, she crossed her arms quickly. Ignoring the way Jaime smirked as she practically tore the garment from his grasp, she turned around to throw it on. The brown fabric was coarse and starting to harden from its exposure to the seawater, not to mention it smelled terrible, but it blocked the wind and certainly made her feel better about her clothing situation.

The horizon was beginning to lighten when Jaime finished. Dressed in Baratheon armor, he looked even less like himself. The colors did not seem right on him. She watched him attach the Valyrian dagger to his belt before moving to follow him, desperately trying to forget the bodies they had left unceremoniously on the beach.

In silence, the Lannister and the Stark made their way to the village.

Sansa

Take a left at the broken red building.

Go down the stairs. Follow the path.

Ignore the man trying to sell meat. It's rat.

The door on the right with the cracked frame.

Sansa let out a small breath of relief when she returned to the relative safety of her hovel. While she had gained the courage to venture on her own out in Flea Bottom and had taught herself the way back, it never failed to fill her with a sort of joy to return to something familiar. No, it was not the luxurious spaces she had come to know as a child, a keep with great walls and servants to help her every need, and she could never call it home, but there was comfort to be found in isolation. The Red Keep may have had baths and soft beds, but it also had Joffrey, and faced with that decision, Sansa knew which place she would pick.

The days following her father's death had blurred together in her memory. Syrena had told her it had been a week before she even looked her in the eye again. Sansa could not recall what she had done in that time. Her mind had gone blank. The few times she had a solid grasp of things, she attempted to remember something of her father, but every memory ended the same: with his head on a butcher's block. Even so, hindsight made the past painful. Sansa recalled with utter clarity how ungrateful to him she had been, how spoiled and rotten and childish she had been. She remembered asking her mother to make him Hand of the King, all so she could marry a stupid boy who would kill her father without a second thought.

Then she would remember the crowd on that horrid day, how they cheered when Joffrey called for his death, how their shouts grew as his head had toppled to the ground. They knew nothing of what happened, of how good her father was, of how he saved them from a terrible king not so long ago, of how he would never kill Robert. They were so ignorant and so foolish, just as she had been.

She did not want to be a fool anymore.

Sansa dropped the small bag she carried on the table. An apple rolled out and a loaf of bread, what things she could afford with the money Syrena gave her. Normally, the handmaiden, who was certainly more than a handmaiden, would bring food for her, but the woman still served Cersei and tended to be gone for long periods. So, out of desperation, Sansa adjusted.

When rats ate all her food one night, Sansa learned to place what she had left on a high shelf, covered, with something heavy on top. If it rained, she stuck a small vase outside, because the rainwater was far cleaner that anything she would find in the wells. It was best to leave at dawn and dusk, midday was too hot, and the sun would ruin her hair.

She walked to her small rain-filled vase, taking in her tiny reflection. Syrena had dyed her hair some time back, and Sansa had cried about it all the while, but over time, the dark waves had grown on her. She thought they made her look more like Myra.

There was another person she had never been kind to. Always about herself, poor, poor Sansa.

She hoped Myra was alright, and back home.

She even hoped Arya was okay.

Syrena had searched for her sister for two days, but the youngest girl could not be found. Arya always had been good at that, disappearing when people needed to find her most. The handmaiden had caught word of a man from the Night's Watch leaving the city with a group of young recruits. Sansa determined then that her sister had found a way to go with them. People were always mistaking her for a little boy, and this way, she could see Jon again.

Arya would like that.

Sansa sat at the table and began to sew. It was all she had done recently. She sewed the ragged dress she had been forced to wear (inside the lining was an outline of a wolf now), and she sewed the soiled cloak she had only just managed to clean. It had left her hands raw and stinging, but the fabric no longer stank. She sewed whatever garments Syrena brought her, more for her entertainment than the handmaiden's need she discovered rather quickly. They were silky things that Sansa longed to wear, and she found herself running her hands along the smooth pieces, a satisfied hum on her tongue, but then she would stop. Pretty things weren't for her anymore.

Sometimes, she pretended her needle was a tiny sword, stabbing away at Joffrey over and over again. Sometimes, it was the Queen, sometimes Ilyn Payne. She sewed their lips together and poked out their eyes.

To think she had once wanted to sew little lions.

The door opened. It used to make her jump. Now, she hardly looked in its direction.

"You've certainly grown comfortable," Syrena mused, sitting across from Sansa. The handmaiden no longer wore the silks of a servant in the Red Keep. She wore a cheap tunic and leggings. The boots on her feet were caked in dirt. The woman had been somewhere.

Sansa shrugged, continuing to sew. "When am I going to leave?"

Syrena sighed. "You ask that every time we see one another, and my answer is always the same."

She didn't know; she never knew. The woman asked Sansa to trust her but all she could give her was the same answers everyone else in her life had. When was it going to be different?

"You promised Myra you would look out for me," Sansa started, putting down her sewing. "How am I supposed to stay safe here?"

Safe in King's Landing, blocks away from where her father had lost his life. It sounded like a cruel jest, a punishment for everything she had done. Perhaps it was.

"My vow to your sister is not the only one I must uphold," Syrena replied, grabbing the apple on the table and taking a bite. She frowned in displeasure. "Too sweet."

"Like your vow to Cersei?"

She watched Syrena's eyes narrow. Over the time they had been together, Sansa had taken to watching her, if only because she had nothing else to do. Syrena was a good liar. She had to be given everything she had done so far, but when she was truly angry, her whole demeanor changed. She wasn't a handmaiden any longer, or even just the beautiful woman who had rescued her, but something else altogether. Harsh, terrifying, not unlike when she murdered the man of the City's Watch.

Syrena looked like that woman at that very moment.

Sansa felt her head tilt, a puzzle fitting together. "You don't work for the Queen, do you? I mean, you do, but she isn't the one you really answer to."

The look disappeared almost instantly. Suddenly, Syrena was looking at Sansa in a new light.

Then she smiled. "Perhaps you are not so helpless after all."

As much as Sansa enjoyed the compliment, as backhanded as it felt, she was now only more confused. If the Queen's own handmaiden wasn't actually working for her, who was she working for? Suddenly, she felt worse off than before.

"Do you work for Lord Baelish?" she asked, grasping. Littlefinger had been a strange man, but not unkind to her. He said he had known her mother, and mentioned how much they had looked alike. She supposed it had been a compliment of sorts, but it had not felt that way. He had mentioned once that a lot of people worked for him, telling him all sorts of things. A handmaiden to the Queen would certainly know a lot.

Syrena snorted. "Only a fool would work for Littlefinger. He's a mind for power and little else. Even his friends are regarded as foes."

"Then who do you work for?"

There was that smile again, the one her father and mother and sister gave her so often. She wasn't going to get her answer.

"That is an answer for a different time."

"What time?" Sansa asked, feeling herself getting angry. "You said it yourself, you don't even know when I am going to leave. You expect me to trust you, but all you have done is thrown me in this little room and left me to fend for myself. You tell me I'm safe, but I'm still in King's Landing. Someone is bound to recognize me at some point. And now, you won't even tell me whose side you're on. For all I know, you're waiting to sell me as a slave."

Syrena listened to her small rant with an indifferent expression, though Sansa could see the muscles in her jaw tightening.

"Have you ever kept a secret?" she finally asked, turning to face Sansa properly. Her eyes had grown darker. "I don't mean something your sister did not want your mother to know. I mean the kind that holds life and death in balance, which men would gouge your eyes out in an instant for. There is no greater pain in the world than holding knowledge that someone else wants, and it is not something you would survive."

Sansa felt a chill crawl up her spine, but she kept her eyes on Syrena nonetheless. "You don't know what I can survive."

The smile returned.

"Oh child, yes I do."

Jaime

The villagers of Dragonstone were a depressing lot. They wore ragged clothes and deep frowns, and eyed him the way one might a trespasser on their land. He'd recalled a maester once calling some of the people 'dragonseeds,' since the Targaryens were about as keen to keep their hands off the smallfolk as anyone else. It was just another pathetic reminder of how far their house had fallen.

To be honest, he was surprised Robert hadn't razed the whole place to the ground. He supposed the man wouldn't be doing much of anything anymore though. Decomposing maybe, along with Ned Stark.

Sighing, Jaime glanced over his shoulder. He'd left Myra hiding behind a small hill before entering the village. Trying to explain why he was walking around with an unkempt woman was not an obstacle he needed that morning, but he was half-convinced he'd turn around to find her trailing behind him anyway. Not for her safety's sake, no, she never seemed overly concerned about that until it was far too late, but Myra Stark might have been utterly convinced that he would do something stupid. The look on her face when he told her to stay behind had told him that much.

He couldn't say she was wrong in that regard, either.

The fight on the beach had felt good, giving his body that rush he relished, but hindsight told him it was a foolish move on his part. The guards never stood a chance of beating him, that much he knew, but had one decided to run instead or cry out a warning, their little escape would have been cut woefully short.

But he'd needed that fight. He'd needed to hold someone's life in his hands, to have that control once again restored to him. It had been weeks of nothing but suffering at the hands of someone else, and feeling that freedom retrun was nearly an ecstasy.

Most of the village was abandoned so late in the morning, save for fishwives and men too old to be of much use. The husbands and strong-armed lads had departed just before the sun rose on their fishing boats and would probably not return until it began to set. It was ill timing for them. They could not afford to wait that long. The place would be swarming with Stannis' men in no time.

He chanced a glance at the waterfront, which was about as depressing to look at as everything else in the area. Rickety, rotting planks made up the docks. Covered in mollusks and algae, they looked ready to sink into the sea with the next tide. A few baskets littered the area, a pole or two, and a single rowboat overturned in the sand. Jaime did not enjoy the idea of having to row to the mainland, but at some point it might become necessary.

"How much do you have?"

Jaime turned in an instant, his sword half drawn. Behind him stood an older man, undoubtedly another fisherman, with long, pale hair pulled neatly back and teeth nearly as black as the moth-eaten cloak he wore. His clothes were too big for him and his hands had begun to turn inward on themselves from a bone affliction, but there was a brightness in his eyes still, an intelligence.

"Excuse me?" Jaime asked, releasing his sword. Cutting through every person he saw wasn't about to solve any of his problems, unfortunately.

"A man like you is looking for a way out," the man continued, shuffling forward. The way he leaned on one side suggested one of his legs wasn't real. "The King's guards don't come down here, not 'less they have to. Stannis keeps to himself and we keep to ours. It's the way things have been here for some time. You're the first guard I've seen in a month, only one alone though."

Inwardly, Jaime groaned. Couldn't one damn thing go right in this bloody place?

"Are you suggesting that I'm impersonating one of the King's men?" Jaime asked, drawing himself up. "There are harsh consequences for such accusations."

"Not suggesting, I'm saying," the man replied with a grin, not intimidated in the least. Some of his teeth weren't black. They were just missing. "My son's a better liar than you, an' he's dead."

Right, cut through everyone it was.

Jaime unsheathed his sword, stepping closer. "Well, then if I'm not who I say I am, killing you shouldn't be a problem for me."

The fisherman's smile didn't diminish in the slightest. "Good luck getting off the island then. Keep my oars at home. You'll never find them before the actual soldiers come."

At this point, Jaime just wanted to kill him so he wouldn't have to look at that ugly grin anymore.

He sighed, defeated. "I have money."

"On you?"

"No."

"Then you don't have money."

Jaime felt his eyes narrow. "I know people with money. Ever heard of the Lannisters? We're very good with our debts."

"You got a Lannister on the mainland?"

"King's Landing."

The fisherman snorted. "Ain't no one going that far. War's going there. Rather my boat capsize in friendlier waters."

He felt his hand grip the hilt of the sword tighter. This was getting him nowhere.

Suddenly, he saw the fisherman's eyes go wide as he began to examine something up and down. Jaime did not trust the look that crossed his face.

"Give me a few moments with that one, and I'll take you to shore."

He knew what was behind him before he turned. Myra Stark had finally decided to follow. Her arms were crossed over herself as she stumbled along the sand, trying to keep her feet from catching on the driftwood that littered the beach.

Instantly, Jaime launched himself at the fisherman. He grabbed the man by the shoulder, holding him still as he thrust the sword toward him. Fortunately for the man, he managed to stop himself just short of gutting him below the ribcage.

"Mind your tongue or lose it."

The damn fool was still smiling. "What she's got between her legs worth more than your life?"

He pushed the blade forward ever so slightly. "Certainly worth more than yours."

"Jaime, what are you doing?" Myra asked as she caught up. She put her hands on his sword arm, and he allowed her to pull him back.

"I thought I told you to stay hidden."

"There were guards coming."

"How many?"

"Six, at least."

Jaime sighed. That was beginning to press his luck, even with armor and a proper sword. They needed to leave now or they'd never see anything other than Dragonstone ever again.

The fisherman seemed to realize this, eyes once again raking over Myra's poorly dressed form. "Don't s'pose you have money, or some other kind of payment?"

He watched the realization of what the man was implying dawn on Myra. She briefly looked offended that a man of his station, or any man in general, would dare ask her such a thing, but then her anger faded into that serene mask he had become strangely familiar with. The calm before the storm. Men were going to come to fear that look.

Jaime saw her glance over at his belt. With one hand on his sword and the other anchoring the man in place, he could not stop her as she reached for the Valyrian dagger and drew it. He half thought she was about to stab the man herself, until she grasped the blade in her hand and offered the fisherman the hilt.

"Dragonbone and Valyrian steel. It's worth more than your entire village."

"Not to mention your life," Jaime added, squeezing the man's shoulder as if he needed a reminder of the position he was in.

The man nodded, though that did not stop him from appearing disappointed that he did not get another prize.

Slowly, Jaime let the man go, and watched as he walked over to the rowboat. With one swift heave, the man turned it over, revealing two oars half-buried in the sand.

Seven hells, how he hated Dragonstone.

It was one of the smallest boats Jaime had ever been on. Then again, no son of Tywin Lannister traveled in anything less than excessive. The Lannisters had an image to maintain after all.

What his father might have thought upon seeing him on this tiny fishing boat equally entertained and unnerved him.

At least they hadn't been stuck in the rowboat with the man. He'd rowed them to a nearby bay, where his ramshackle boat was anchored down, relatively safe from the shifting winds and tide. Its sail was full of poorly sewn patchwork and the wood was rotting in several places, but it floated and was more than enough to get them to the mainland.

Somehow, the boat managed to have a tiny cabin below deck. Myra was there at the moment, changing into some clothes that had belonged to the man's dead son. He'd offered her an oddly well-made dress at first, and Jaime had smirked at how green her face had turned. Whether it was over who had worn the dress last or her terrible last experience with one, he couldn't say. Some combination of the two probably.

Jaime watched the fisherman as he sailed the boat, making sure his eyes stayed up. He had no doubts the man knew about a hole or two in the woodwork.

Why it mattered, he didn't know. He supposed he never cared for how some men leered at others; he certainly never cared for how some looked at Cersei. He'd have killed them himself if she hadn't insisted she could handle them.

Myra Stark hadn't seemed like the type who could handle others, though he was starting to wonder if he wasn't wrong.

As if sensing that his thoughts had turned to her, Myra emerged from below the ship. She wore breeches and a pair of worn, leather boots. A thick, green, wool-spun tunic that fell nearly halfway down her thighs had been cinched around her waist by a large belt in order to keep the thing from completely engulfing her. She'd also braided her hair, and was playing with the ends, clearly uncomfortable on the boat.

Jaime had done away with the armor, leaving it to sink to the bottom of the sea. It was bulky, heavy, and loud, everything they needed to not be if they were going to survive whatever was ahead of them. The fisherman had given him a jacket. It had a hole in the side, but he would survive.

His hand, he noticed, was toying with the hilt of his sword much like Myra did her hair.

She wasn't the only nervous one.

"Where is he taking us?" she asked, leaning on the railing beside him, careful to keep her voice down.

Jaime turned to face the water, sighing. "The closest piece of shore, I imagine."

"No further?"

"Being in our company probably isn't advisable if you want to keep your head on your shoulders," he replied. "We're lucky he took us up on the deal at all."

"No thanks to you."

Jaime met her gaze. "I'm sorry, would you rather fuck him? I'm sure we still have time to arrange that."

Myra blinked, oddly unoffended. "You attacked him because he suggested using me?"

Turning back away, Jaime knew he told her more than he meant to.

He heard her sigh. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't antagonize you. I owe you my life and then some."

Yes, he had saved her from drowning and from the guards, but she had also let him out of the cell and had the presence of mind to use the dagger to get them off the island. He'd have gotten himself captured by now on his own. They were on equal ground if anything.

But Jaime didn't say that.

They sat in silence for some time, listening to the waves and sloshing of water against the boat. Myra had taken to watching the horizon, a thoughtful look on her face. Her hands had left the braid alone.

"Where do we go?"

"King's Landing, of course," Jaime said without hesitation.

Now Myra did look offended as she practically jumped off the rail. "I'm not going back there."

"You're more than welcome to wander the Crownlands on your own."

What the fisherman had said still nagged at him. The war was heading to King's Landing. With Stannis and his fleet gone, Jaime had no doubt the man would soon attack the capital. They had no ships to defend themselves with, and with his father tied up in the Riverlands, King's Landing made for easy pickings.

Cersei would never leave the capital, so he would have to come to her. He would defend her until his last breath. It was what he was born to do.

"Half of the Crownlands have sworn loyalty to Stannis," Myra replied, her arms crossed. "They'll be looking for you, and the road to King's Landing is the first place they'll search."

Jaime felt his eyes narrow as he looked back at her.

She returned the gesture. "Tell me I'm wrong."

He didn't.

He couldn't.

And he hated that.

So, Jaime did what he did best: he pushed back.

"You know, I preferred it when you were too scared of everyone to talk back."

Myra didn't hesitate. "And I preferred it when my brother could walk, but neither of us are getting what we want."

Jaime could swear Tyrion was laughing at him from somewhere.

"Then where do you suggest we go?" he snapped, tired of being in the wrong.

"We could go north."

How unsurprising.

"Well, unless you have another dagger to barter for a boat, we'd have to walk," Jaime started, turning to her. "North of here is the Vale, which is in the middle of the mountains surrounded by clans of barbarians who won't hesitate to murder and rape you, probably in that order too. And if we manage to make it that far, Lysa Arryn will promptly throw me out the Moon Door, so as you can see, I'm not exactly thrilled at the prospect of returning there."

Myra had pressed her lips together, looking about as thrilled with their situation as he felt.

He hoped Catelyn knew how much she had destroyed things for her daughter; he hoped she felt it with every breath she took.

Mostly because he was starting to feel how much he had destroyed everything for himself.

"So...we head west," Myra murmured, looking at the looming shore. "Toward the war."

"And my father."

"Or my brother."

They glared at each other, the Lion and the Wolf, at war with one another, but in desperate need of the other's help.

When the fisherman finally brought them to shore, some distance from any village, their antagonistic attitudes had all but vanished. Jaime looked to Myra as she stared at the distant tree line, her face suddenly pale and frightful. Arguing about what they would do had been one thing. Actually being faced with it was quite another.

Jaime reached out to her, his hand hovering just above her shoulder before he thought better of it. Instead, he walked past her, brushing her arm slightly.

"C'mon," he said, his voice frightfully serious. "We don't have much light left, and we should find shelter before we lose it."

"Jaime," she called, causing him to turn. "I meant what I said earlier. I do trust you."

He wanted to ask why. After everything he had done, to her brother, to her father, why did she trust him? But the sincerity in her gaze kept his mouth closed.

Did the reason ever matter in the end? It hadn't for him; it hadn't for anyone who ever looked at him.

It had for her though.

Jaime kept silent and nodded, watching as she caught up to him. Together, they entered the forest, trekking toward an uncertain future.