Jaime

"It looks ridiculous."

Myra bit her lip. "It is certainly...ornate."

"My dear wife, you have never once lied for the sake of my pride. Please don't start now," Jaime replied, leaning back in his chair. Maester Qyburn was currently strapping a rather ludicrous fake hand to his wrist, with flowers and vines and a hideous shade of gold to boot. He'd almost said no to the entire thing – he didn't want this stinking lecher anywhere near that part of him – but the other option was Grand Maester Pycelle. They'd be here until Winter came if that was the case.

Lesser evils, he supposed.

Lesser idiocies more like.

"If anything, becoming a Lannister should have made you more prone to breaking down one's pride. We've a proclivity for it," Jaime continued, grabbing a date from the bowl on his desk. He never used to have an interest in them. Must have rubbed off in Dorne.

"Well, then, if we are speaking truths," Myra started, sitting across from his desk. She'd taken the day to actually wear Lannister colors. Jaime knew it made her uncomfortable, but he all but made up for it by telling her how ravishing she was in them. Had he both hands, he would have put that lionhead pendant around her neck himself, and left only that as he proceeded to take the rest off.

"I'm quite surprised you know the word proclivity," Myra continued, grabbing a date herself. "And how to use it."

"Thank Tyrion for that one," Jaime replied, eying Qyburn as he tightened the straps. "He once made it his goal to teach me a new word every day. Half my vocabulary is thanks to him."

Myra hummed, smiling. "That does sound like him."

"I'm starting to think you like him more than me."

"I'm starting to think you're right."

They fell into silence after that, as Qyburn finished up with his duties. The former maester said something about the progress of the healing on his wrist and something else about the false hand, but Jaime didn't hear a word of it. He was too busy paying attention to Myra.

Of course, she was sitting there, soaking in every word, because that was what she did. Never mind that it was about caring for him, and that was basically what half her occupation was now. No, that was just her. Taking interest in topics when most would have shrugged them off, smiling at the one hated person in the room, that was and had always been Myra Stark, and she was still there despite everything. The edges were rougher, her eyes were sadder, but the woman he had come to know so well was still there right before him.

Myra turned then, and gave him a toothy grin. He'd been caught, but didn't bother looking away.

"Are you done yet?" he asked Qyburn, keeping his gaze locked on Myra. It felt like a challenge, and neither one of them was about to relent.

"Yes, my lord, I have just fin-"

"Then leave."

He rather liked having this power. Of course, when he was in the Kingsguard, servants and the like would obey him – after all, he was Jaime Lannister – but this was different. He was a lord and if he really didn't want to deal with someone, he could just order them away. It didn't matter what they thought of the situation.

Suddenly, it was as if Jaime understood Robert entirely.

"If I ever get too fat, tell me," Jaime said as the door shut.

Myra's eyebrows stitched together. "What?"

He shook his head. "Nevermind."

The room was quiet. Myra was still eying him, curious, but wary. It reminded him of those nights on the run, when she couldn't quite make out what he was; it seemed they both had done their fair share of that. At least he wasn't a completely open book to her. He wanted some part of him that he willingly shared. Worked better for his pride.

Jaime lifted his right arm, examining the golden monstrosity attached to it. He wasn't entirely certain it was better than having just a stump. At least with the lack of a hand, he could finally get used to the idea. Here, he just thought it was a heavy glove, and that somehow the metallic digits would begin to move of their own accord.

"I can take it off, if you want," Myra said, breaking his stupor.

"No," he replied, placing it back down, a little too heavily. There was a loud 'thunk' on the surface of the desk, and a scratch left behind. That would take getting used to. "Better to just get it over with. Hopefully I'll be able to hit at least one miserable bastard with this before my life is through."

"As long as that miserable bastard isn't my brother."

"I've no quarrel, but I can't say the same for him," Jaime replied. Her bastard brother had the same Stark mannerisms, obsession with honor, hatred of Lannisters, etcetera... Attacking him would be his first reaction, no doubt. "Did you finally write that letter?"

"I did," she said with a shrug, turning away. "No telling when he'll get it – if he gets it. I don't even know if he's alive, and with Winter..."

Jaime frowned. Myra had been avoiding the topic ever since she returned the other evening. She'd crawled into bed without a word, and they'd both spent the night wide-awake. He hadn't wanted to admit it, but in the weeks they'd been together, he'd grown spoiled by the prospect of having someone in his arms every night. Suddenly, it was difficult to sleep any other way.

He'd been fine with waiting on her. Dealing with his father was troublesome on the best of days, and it was undoubtedly a nightmare for her. It would take time for her to come around, and he wasn't exactly going anywhere – neither of them were until at least the dreaded wedding was over.

But now he was starting to wonder if she was waiting for him to bring it up.

He caved.

"What did my father say?" he asked, turning over another date in his hand. "Or did he not say anything at all? There were several occasions when he just had me sit for an hour, speechless, and then left the room entirely when he was done writing something."

"Oh no, Lord Tywin spoke quite a bit, got his point across soundly," Myra replied with more than a little bite. "Winterfell shall remain solely in possession of the Boltons. He isn't one to go back on his word, after all."

Jaime snorted at that. What did words mean when he could easily have laws rewritten? The only reason his father hadn't gotten him out of the Kingsguard sooner was that Robert wanted to spite him just as much as Aerys did.

Funny, the things people had in common.

The unifying hatred of the Lannisters.

"But there is one thing that would make Tywin reconsider."

"What?" Jaime asked, puzzled. But Myra did not answer him right away. She was looking away from him again, twisting her fingers. She almost looked embarrassed.

Oh.

"A child," he said with a sigh, almost bringing the golden hand to his face before he caught himself.

"An heir," Myra emphasized. "I imagine if I gave you a daughter, we'd get a tiny piece of parchment sternly saying 'try again.'"

As if a daughter was such a bad thing, Jaime mused. He thought of Myrcella smiling up at him, warm as the sun and far brighter. They'd barely had a relationship, but she deemed him worthy of her kindness nonetheless.

What it might have been like to openly call her his...

Jaime became aware that Myra was watching him. He must have been quiet for too long.

She suddenly looked nervous. "I know you have your...niece and nephews, but had you ever considered..."

"What was there to consider?" he asked, feeling uncomfortable himself. "I was in the Kingsguard. That meant no wife or children. I still wake up thinking everything is back the way it once was."

She was looking for him to say he wanted children, or was open to the idea. Of course, Myra would want them. Every time she looked at a child, her entire disposition changed. She mothered everyone, and they all loved her for it; she would make a better mother than most.

But her children might not have much of a father.

Jaime sighed. "The night we returned, my father told me that our marriage would be set aside, and that any child we had would be a bastard, and I could have run my sword through him for that."

Myra's eyes widened, her mouth popping open slightly, but she remained silent.

"I don't know what that means for me," Jaime continued, looking at the intricate marks on his false hand. "I don't know how to want something I never thought I'd have."

He had come to want her; he supposed the rest might find its way to him as well.

Myra looked oddly satisfied with his answer. There was a soft smile on her lips. She always liked it when he was open like this.

So, naturally, he had to ruin the moment.

"Although, the way we've been going at it, I probably won't have much choice in the matter."

As it turned out, the golden hand was great at deflecting a bowl of dates.

The festivities were short-lived, and soon Jaime found himself strolling the gardens with Myra on his arm. His father had yet to deem him worthy of any 'work,' so he was mostly expected to make appearances. Lords and ladies didn't remain locked up in their rooms. They mingled and strutted the grounds like the useless peacocks they were.

Gods, they'd been out of the room no more than ten minutes and he was on the verge of losing it.

His wife clearly felt the same.

"Is this what we do now?" she asked as they took a turn, not bothering to lower her voice or acknowledge any of the other couples around them. They were all doting smiles now, but he remembered their arrival in the city; they had smelled blood and were eager for it, and now they were caught out in the open with their hypocrisy. The game might prove fun after all.

"Walk around and smile and pretend that we don't want to stab everyone in the back?"

Jaime genuinely chuckled at that. "Took you long enough, but you're finally ready for this wretched place."

"I think I'd rather be back on the run."

So would he.

At least no one would think twice about him stabbing people then.

The remote thought of using a sword had Jaime looking to his new hand again. Myra had made it a point to be on his right arm rather than the accustomed left. She claimed it was that he would undoubtedly need it for something, but she was still dreadful at lying to him; she knew how he felt about it. Holding it would hide it from him, and perhaps help him adapt.

She even had her right hand stretched over to cover it as they walked along.

And then it struck him: he was actually strolling the gardens arm-in-arm with Myra. He could go where he chose, wasn't stuck in his stifling armor, didn't have any specific duties later. All those years he'd spent hating people for doing the exact thing they were – oh, he still hated them, that wasn't going to change – but he'd been jealous as well.

When was the last time he'd been this free in King's Landing?

"What are you thinking about?" Myra asked, prying Jaime from his thoughts. She was looking at him suspiciously, and he realized there was a hint of a smile on his face.

"Nothing untoward, I promise," he replied, glancing down at Myra, which gave him a proper view of how lovely her dress truly was. "Well, not yet, at least."

She tried to look offended and smacked his false hand. It made a dull sound that left her in a fit of giggles.

To be honest, he hadn't expected to hear that from her in King's Landing of all places. It was a good sign.

He hoped.

But all that encouragement promptly vanished when Jaime spied the approaching caravan. Joffrey and Margaery were out for a stroll as well, accompanied by a sea of ladies-in-waiting and guards. Aside from the two Kingsguard, Ser Osmund and Ser Loras, of course, there were a handful of Lannister guards as well.

Cersei's doing, no doubt. He was surprised Joffrey allowed it, but Margaery, he'd heard, had quite the effect on the boy. It might have been something she had asked for.

He wondered if she knew what her intended was really like.

Jaime briefly thought about turning away down another path. Here, with less people – Tywin in particular – Joffrey would feel more at ease doing whatever he wished, and Myra didn't need that conflict right now. He didn't need it right now. Back when he could take on any member of the Kingsguard, things would have been different.

He'd even started to turn away, but Myra's arm held firm. Jaime looked over at her as she stared resolutely forward.

She wanted this.

Perhaps they were both gluttons for punishment.

"Uncle!" Joffrey shouted, holding his upward in a friendly wave. Jaime felt his stomach twisting. Even he had once thought the boy harmless. He should have paid attention more. "Such a strange place to find you. Never took you for the wandering gardens type. It's very...domicile of you."

Said the boy walking the gardens.

Jaime sighed. "It's a lovely day for a walk, Your Grace. And here is one of the few places I can escape the stench."

"Are you so certain it's the city, Uncle?" Joffrey replied without missing a beat, turning his gaze toward Myra. "And not some foreign thing?"

"A little rude to speak of Prince Oberyn like that. You only just met the man."

Joffrey paused at that, stepping back. He hadn't expected Jaime to change the course of the discussion. It seemed the king was used to people taking the bait. He may not have been Robert's, but he acted just like the fat drunk, a bewildered, wide-eyed creature that didn't know what to make of the unexpected.

"Regardless of whatever stenches there may or may not be, I do believe we all can agree that the Red Keep's gardens are marvelous," Margaery said suddenly with an airy tone. So, she was the peacekeeper. He supposed someone had to be diplomatic. "It reminds me so much of home."

Jaime doubted that. He'd been to Highgarden once, briefly. Its namesake was there for a reason.

"And what about you, Lady Myra? Do you find these gardens as charming as I do?" Margaery continued, turning to her with a bright smile. Jaime could have sworn his wife bristled. It seemed she hated the courtesy more than Joffrey's insults.

Seven hells, he really had left an impression on her.

Myra smiled, briefly. "I suppose I do, Lady Margaery, though it is a far cry from what I am used to. I find myself a bit overwhelmed."

"Are there no gardens in Winterfell?" she asked, sounding genuinely curious. He guessed it was hard to comprehend anything cold when you never left the Reach.

Joffrey grinned. "I'm afraid there's not much of anything in Winterfell, my lady. Especially now that we've rooted out all the traitors."

Myra didn't acknowledge him, staring squarely at Margaery. "We had mud. And sticks."

Jaime bit his tongue.

Margaery just looked like she'd encountered a challenge, and smirked briefly before releasing Joffrey's arm. "Come, my lady. Let us leave the men to their talk. After all, there is a wedding to plan."

His wife allowed herself one worried look in his direction before allowing Margaery to pull her away.

And then she was gone, disappeared behind half a dozen chattering ladies and Ser Loras' billowing white cloak.

Leaving him alone with Joffrey.

Wonderful.

The grin had yet to leave his face, like he'd thought of some mischievous scheme and was plotting a way to enact it. It made him look like a wretched thing; it made him resemble Cersei the most.

"I still think she would have made a lovely centerpiece, Uncle," Joffrey said, as casually as if he'd just mentioned the weather. "That's the only thing Starks are good for these days: decoration. Shame I don't still have her father's head on the walls. Her septa might be somewhere, however."

Jaime fought the urge to test his new hand's strength against his nephew's face. "Your Grace, might I remind you that Myra Stark is now your aunt by marriage, not to mention her life is the only thing that might placate the North."

If they were lucky.

She did marry him willingly after all.

"The North lost the war. They fled with their tails tucked and will be hiding in their homes until Winter is over."

"Because their king was killed at a wedding," Jaime clarified. He'd hated the Starks as much as the rest of them, but even he was able to acknowledge how Robb had utterly surprised everyone. "You'd do well to remember that they never lost a battle, and that was for killing Ned Stark. Try to imagine what it would look like if you killed the woman they still call queen."

"But she's not the queen, is she?" Joffrey asked, glancing up at him. There was a very serious look in his green eyes. He did not like being challenged. "In fact, one might call it treason to even mention that idea. Wouldn't you agree, Ser Osmund?"

"Yes, Your Grace," the man replied gruffly. Jaime didn't know much about him, but the look of him said there wasn't much activity in his mind. Cersei's choice then. "It is treason."

Jaime could only chuckle to himself. Even without his fighting hand, he wasn't intimidated.

"You know, your father only ever laughed at these things. People called Tywin a king and he laughed. They called Jon Arryn the man who ran the country, and he still laughed. Never threatened much more than that."

"And my father proved to be a weak king."

"And do you think you're strong?"

They stood in silence for a long time, attempting to stare one another into submission. Jaime was aware of Ser Osmund's hand on his sword. He wondered if he shouldn't start taking his own guards with him.

Where was Brienne when he needed her?

"Uncle!" came a cry from behind him. Jaime turned to see Myrcella briskly walking up to him, with her own Kingsguard, Ser Arys, behind her. At least they had chosen someone decent to guard her. "I have been looking all over for you! You were supposed to take me on a walk by the bay this morning."

"Was I?" he asked, playing along as Myrcella tucked her arm neatly in his. "I really am getting old."

"Myrcella, you're interrupting important business," Joffrey hissed, sounding more like an annoyed brother than a king.

"It can't be that important. You don't even have your crossbow," she countered, quickly dismissing him. "Come, Uncle Jaime. You can make up for lost time."

"You're not going anywhere. I am your king!" Joffrey threatened, stepping forward.

Myrcella rolled her eyes, turning the two of them around. "You're my brother. And you're still shorter than me!"

They strode forward together then, Arys quietly following behind. Myrcella was fully confident that Joffrey wouldn't do anything to stop them, and she was right in that matter. Hearing that he had done something to one of his siblings would not sit well with Tywin, and it was for fear of him that Joffrey had been somewhat diplomatic, at least in comparison with his usual self.

Jaime couldn't even say that Cersei would have done something about it. She'd all but ignored Myrcella and Tommen in favor of Joffrey, much like Tywin had done to him. All that mattered were the firstborn sons.

He briefly wondered if he would be that way.

Myra surely wouldn't. Her parents had loved them all, and she would be the same. She'd even love children that weren't hers.

He looked down at Myrcella. "Is it just that you have a peculiar sense of good timing, or is there a reason you showed up to save me at the last moment?"

Myrcella grinned up at him. "A spider told me you might need help."

Oh, so now Varys was interested in his well-being.

Seven hells.

Myra

She didn't quite know what to make of Margaery Tyrell. Had she not known any better, Myra would have guessed her to be much like Sansa when she was younger, full of easy curiosity and joy at the pleasantries afforded to highborns. She did the bulk of the talking as they pushed through the gardens, arm-in-arm, as if they had been friends all their lives, never once straying from shallow topics or pausing at her rather blunt responses.

But given her handling of Joffrey, Myra knew there had to be more to her. She was a schemer, like Cersei, but thoroughly less obvious about it.

Better at it, was what she meant.

Myra tried to put up a front, gods she did, but if lying was difficult for her, lying about being happy and carefree was downright impossible.

There was a sudden shift halfway through their walk, the red colors of the Lannister guards being swapped for the green of House Tyrell. They'd done their part to ensure the lions didn't smother them, and somehow Joffrey had taken no offense to it.

The girls that had trailed them disappeared in different directions, but Ser Loras remained, eagerly contributing to the conversation as much as possible. The siblings truly cared for one another, and Myra felt a painful stab in her chest at watching them. The way they teased and smiled so easily reminded her of home, of Robb, and how she would never have that again.

Margaery noticed.

"Loras," she said quietly, turning to her brother. "Might you give us a moment alone? Perhaps inform Grandmother that we're on our way."

"Am I to be your royal announcer now?" he asked, smiling brilliantly. She could see why Sansa had been so enamored with him, and why he was so enamored with himself.

"Please," Margaery continued. She knew that tone of voice, a soft insistence that any brother would understand.

He nodded once, turning to Myra. "My lady."

And then they were alone.

"Finally, a moment's peace!" Margaery sighed contentedly, breathing in the garden air as if they had only just stepped outside. "I enjoy good company as much as the next person, but constant company is something else. So many voices calling for attention, it drowns out your own thoughts."

She paused, sobering. "I apologize for how uncomfortable I must have made you just now. You must have been very close to your brother. Losing Loras in such a way...I can't imagine."

Myra regarded Margaery, both stunned and suspicious. She did not believe her to be lying about the statement, and that in itself was the confusing part. What did she gain from this?

Perhaps nothing. Maybe, sometimes, she wanted to be genuinely kind.

She wasn't used to that anymore.

"I'm afraid there are no words to describe it, although I'm not sure it would be better if there were," Myra replied quietly.

Margaery nodded. "Come along, then. My grandmother has been most interested in meeting you."

She'd heard of Lady Olenna Tyrell. They called her the Queen of Thorns, and for good reason. She had a prickly nature that only the experts could navigate. Her mother had spoken of her once, off-hand. She'd seen her at a tournament once, and how her father had been verbally chastised through and through by the woman.

Needless to say, Myra was curious.

Lady Olenna was seated at a table under a pavilion overlooking Blackwater Bay. Loras stood at her side, quietly conversing as servants quickly fled the area, having placed various fruits and cheeses on the table.

Two incredibly tall, muscled, nearly identical men guarded the entrance. They spoke nothing as she and Margaery approached, and stared resolutely forward, although she was under the impression they were watching her nonetheless.

"Arryk and Erryk. They're twins, if you couldn't tell," Margaery said with a grin. "Grandmother's personal guards. She can't tell them apart. Calls them Left and Right."

"Her left or ours?"

Margaery frowned. "I hadn't thought about that before."

"Margaery, tell Lady Myra she can gawk at the twins later. They'll still be here, although I can't say the same for me."

"Grandmother!"

Loras smiled by her side. "You shouldn't tease about your death so much. You'll likely outlive us all."

Olenna sighed. "Numbers never were your strong suit."

"Well, this is a terrible way to introduce Lady Myra to our family," Margaery said, taking a seat on Olenna's right. Myra took the chair on the far side of the table, across from the Queen of Thorns. She preferred to face her head on.

"It's the only way," Olenna replied. "Dear Loras, could you leave us alone? The adults would like to speak."

Margaery bit her lip as Loras made a face, but complied with his grandmother's orders. As soon as he exited the pavilion, Arryk and Erryk stepped over, effectively closing the area off.

Olenna gave her a hard look then, and she her. They observed one another while Margaery stayed out of it. They were quite the contradictory pair, Margaery dousing others with flowery compliments while Olenna could not be bothered. Olenna was nearly completely covered, to include her hair, while her granddaughter was...much less so. It reminded Myra of something Sansa wore in Dorne.

"You've certainly had an interesting go at things, my dear," Olenna said eventually, sitting back in her seat. "From Robb Stark's heir to Tywin Lannister's daughter-by-law. You must tell me the secret to such a contradictory lifestyle."

The table was silent a moment. Margaery ate a bit of cheese.

"Your granddaughter has gone from being Renly's queen to Joffrey's," Myra replied, suddenly feeling smug. Jaime's influence, no doubt. "Contradiction seems to be just as well known in the Reach."

Olenna nodded once, grabbing a fig. "Finally, a Stark who isn't completely hopeless."

Margaery smiled, not bothered by the comment at all. "Grandmother wasn't certain about you, but I assured her that you'd be a perfect fit. After all, anyone who can steal Jaime Lannister away has to know a thing or two."

"And it's quite advantageous that you did, given those foul rumors," Olenna said. Her tone of voice said she knew it to be true. "That old lion ought to be groveling at your feet for what you did for him, but men are either stupid or stubborn, and as much as it loathes me to say it, Tywin Lannister is an intelligent man."

Right. Love did not exist in the realm of politics.

She supposed it was best to play along then.

"You seem to have a good grasp of Joffrey," Myra spoke, grabbing a few grapes for herself. "I hadn't thought it possible."

Margaery shrugged. "Men aren't terribly complicated. The hardest part is finding what makes them tick."

She briefly wondered what that might have been for Robert. Lyanna seemed to be both the answer and the last thing one should use.

"So, why am I here?" Myra asked, looking between the two. "Surely it's not just for idle talk. Lady Olenna, you don't seem the type."

The older woman chuckled. "It's true. Why waste my breath talking about the flowers or dresses? I've done that most of my life, and the thought of continuing to do so for what remains of it is a horrifying thought. Especially with so many interesting topics at hand. Lions marrying wolves, flowers marrying lions, flayed men being hanged..."

Myra blinked. "What?"

Margaery leaned forward, her voice low. "Word is that Roose Bolton was hanged by the Brotherhood without Banners. Ramsay Bolton is now the Warden of the North."

"Snow," Myra snapped.

"My dear, he has been legitimized by the king," Olenna replied, speaking not without sympathy.

She shook her head. "It makes no difference. He'll always be a bastard."

"And that bastard is now Lord of Winterfell."

Myra took a deep breath, attempting to get her emotions under control. She couldn't even revel in the idea of Roose Bolton being dead – even if she hadn't been able to witness it – because the reality of Ramsay being in control of her home was a far more terrifying prospect than his father. All her fears that she had already laid out before Tywin were coming true. She thought to at least have time to prepare since Roose still had a good many years left, but when had she ever been given time to do anything?

Margaery reached out and grasped Myra's hand, and it took every ounce of strength to not pull it away.

"We don't mean to distress you," she said soothingly. "But I figured the truth would be better coming from us rather than someone else."

Joffrey.

She meant Joffrey.

"It's no secret that you would want to wrest Winterfell from the Boltons. Even my oaf of a son figured that one out," Olenna spoke. "But Tywin Lannister was never going to allow you the opportunity."

Margaery sat up straight then, looking quite proud of herself. "But you don't need it."

Myra turned her head. "What do you mean?"

"I may have spoken too quickly about her not being hopeless," Olenna mused, leaning on her hand.

"Grandmother, she's in shock. Give her a little credit," Margaery lightly chastised. "Think about it, Myra. You and I are about to be the most powerful women in the Seven Kingdoms. You have a stake in the North and the West, and I in the South and East. Our reach is greater than any woman has had in generations. As you pointed out, I have a grasp on Joffrey, and, well, anyone can tell that Jaime would do anything you ask of him."

Anything she asked of him. Was that so obvious?

Of course it should have been. Jaime had once done anything for Cersei – to include pushing her little brother from a tower. When he committed to someone, it was completely, at no regard to his personal safety. A vile person like his sister would have easily taken advantage of it.

Had she?

If the situation were dire enough, would she?

"Once I become queen, give me some time. I'm certain you and I can come to an arrangement, and Lord Tywin will be powerless to stop us."

"It will certainly move faster than whatever ultimatum he gave you the other day," Olenna added, eyes not so subtly moving to her waistline. "Such things are so unpredictable."

"It sounds like you're willing to share quite a bit of power," Myra spoke after a while, her mind mulling over all that had just happened. She knew she had to be better at the game, but exercising it was another thing entirely. "Too much. Your position might be compromised."

Margaery sat back in her chair, grabbing her goblet. "Casterly Rock has been regarded as the power in this land for some time, there's no denying that. And there's no denying that without you, I might as well be Queen of the Five Kingdoms."

"Four," Olenna corrected. "Gods know what the Vale is doing nowadays. Lysa Arryn has never been considered stable."

"The Four Kingdoms," Margaery agreed, looking to Myra again. "It's quite simple then: I secure your home, you secure my kingdom."

Arya

They'd left the thick forests behind a few days back as they traveled away from the Trident. The lands had leveled out, allowing for several tracts of farmland to rest without the threat of flooding, but to the North and East, the hills rose sharply. When the days were clear, Arya could spot the beginnings of the mountains of the Vale.

Soon enough, they'd have to find the High Road. There was no navigating the mountains without it, not unless they wanted to be hunted down by the hill tribes. The well-traveled roads would at least be better guarded, perhaps more than usual given the Vale's neutral stance. No invading force could make it through the mountains and take the Eyrie. Perhaps that was why it was tolerated.

The days had pretty much taken on the same repetition. Walking during the day in silence, training with Gendry at night in silence – at first the Hound had made fun of them, but even he got bored of it after a while – and lying half-awake at night in silence. There wasn't really much to talk about. Arya had given up all talk of her mother, and since Nymeria returned to her side, she hadn't dreamt either.

Everything was just so...boring.

After everything, Arya thought she had wanted safe again, that she had taken it for granted, but falling into a routine, even if they were on the run, was just making her feel restless again.

But, she was starting to realize that being in the company of the Hound meant things weren't going to be boring for long.

They'd come upon a farmer's house that evening. The windows were bright with firelight, and a lively discussion could be heard from inside. But more importantly, they could hear the soft whiney of horses corralled nearby. Gendry had gone to investigate and hadn't come back just yet.

"Boy's lucky Robert's dick was so careless," the Hound grumbled beside her as he watched the house. She didn't even remember telling him. "That royal blood in his veins is the only useful thing about him."

"That's not true," Arya argued. "He's good at plenty of things. He can fight and he's a blacksmith. He's worth more than you at any rate."

"Really now. Until that bastard kills more people than you, his worth is shit."

Arya huffed, but didn't bother continuing. She'd learned that the more she argued with the Hound, the more likely Nymeria was to attack him. And as much as she wanted him to be crossed off her list, she knew they still needed him.

Just until the Vale.

The grass rustled as Gendry returned to their side. "I count four horses. Calm beasts. Didn't even flinch when I approached. The saddles and reins are all right there."

"Good. I want to be out of here before they notice. Don't know how many are inside."

"Scared of a few farm hands?" Arya asked.

"I could murder them all if you like," the Hound replied, glaring down at her. "Gut the men, fuck the women, and hang them all by their entrails from the nearest tree. Would you like that?"

She followed him silently after that, as Gendry walked behind them and kept an eye on the house.

Gendry had been right. The horses were docile. They didn't even react to the Hound as he walked up to them and threw the gate open, and calmly allowed him to saddle all four of them up.

"We only need three," Arya hissed.

"If ones of these beasts is lame, I don't plan on letting either one of you ride with me. We're taking them all."

Arya thought to argue about it, but held her tongue. If the owners found out they were out here, they wouldn't be leaving with any, or they'd be leaving with bodies in their wake, and the last thing they needed were others searching for them.

Although, chances were, no one cared if a few more farmers died. They'd seen enough of that already.

Instead, Arya dug into her jacket and retrieved a small satchel. She fished out the number of coins she thought would work and searched for a suitable place to put them.

"What are you doing?" she heard Gendry ask.

"Leaving them money."

"What?!" the Hound whispered, though it sounded more like a soft roar, and they all paused to watch the house. "You have money?"

"Are you thick? Of course we do. You wouldn't have found us at that inn otherwise."

"You're not leaving them any coin."

The Hound attempted to grab her, but Arya ducked and slipped away toward the house, quietly creeping on her knees. She felt moisture seeping through the fabric, but didn't mind. The night was oddly warm for autumn.

Arya put the coins on the windowsill, just as Myra had after Micah died. Her sister would have approved. The thought made her smile.

"Stop looking so proud of yourself," the Hound spoke when she returned, the grin still on her face. "You take pity on every fool that can't care for themselves, we'll never make it to the Vale. Where's the rest of your coin?"

"Around," Arya replied. Given she and Gendry still had it split between themselves, it wasn't a completely wrong answer.

"Give it to me. You too," he continued, looking at Gendry. "Can't trust either one of you with it."

"And if I say no? You going to search me for it?"

"Don't think that I won't," the Hound replied, taking a large step toward her. She squared up, unafraid, as did Gendry. He could try it. Nymeria would just knock him on his sorry ass again.

Instead of anything happening, however, they were treated to the sound of approaching footsteps and loud, brash voices. The Hound wasn't facing them, and refused to turn as a band of Lannister soldiers walked by the house.

"Oi! This your farm!?" One of them shouted. He was eating away at a large carrot. They'd clearly been through the fields, taking whatever they pleased.

The household went quiet.

"Hey, my friend is speaking to you!"

The Hound sighed. "We could have been gone."

One of the bolder soldiers, still wearing his helm, walking right up to them. Maybe the dark was obscuring how large the Hound was; maybe he was just that stupid.

"You a mute or somethin'? Turn around and-"

The Hound whirled on him, backhanding the soldier so hard that he fell to the ground. As the other soldiers rushed to unsheathe their swords, Sandor already had his out and was driving it through the man's gut.

"Any of you try anything, you'll wind up just like your friend," the Hound warned, pointing his bloody sword at them. "I could kill you all easily, but I'm fucking tired. Just leave. Don't be stupid, for once."

They hesitated for one second.

Arya could almost hear the Hound's eyes rolling as five soldiers began to rush at him. She quickly unsheathed Needle and heard Gendry doing the same, and ran in the fray as well. They were all so focused on the Hound, they didn't notice her small form darting to and fro, cutting the backs of their knees.

While the Hound was distracted by a man, Gendry managed to stab another in the back, right before his axe could land between his shoulder blades. The Hound quickly turned around and took his head off.

As Arya stabbed the last man in the throat, she heard hoofbeats. A Lannister captain emerged from the darkness, surrounded by several other men.

"For fuck's sake," she heard the Hound breathe.

"Well, if it isn't the Hound," the captain spoke as Arya and Gendry rushed back to his side, their swords raised, like it would do any good. "The king has been-"

"Looking for me? Heard the same story from the last ten men I killed, not including this pathetic lot," the Hound said, kicking one of the bodies. "Fuck the king."

"Famous last words."

"Not yet."

The men unsheathed their swords, but never got to do much else. Their horses suddenly panicked, ears flattening against their heads as they smelled something.

Nymeria rushed in out of nowhere, jumping and catching the captain by the head, dragging him down as his horse reared and bolted. Other horses did the same. Men fell, others fled, but even as Nymeria remained, occupied by her kill, they heard others screaming.

Two more direwolves emerged from the darkness when the silence fell one last time. Arya recognized them immediately. Lady was still smaller than Nymeria, but Brenna was far larger. She looked like the direwolves Old Nan would always tell them about, larger than life and almost unbelievable in their size.

Lady almost immediately ran to Arya's side, wrapping around her like a happy puppy, but Brenna went directly for the Hound. She stood before him, glaring at him with almost human eyes, her teeth bared. Her muzzle sat at chest height, and Arya began to wonder if fire wasn't the only thing the Hound feared.

Then Brenna snorted and trotted away, clearly satisfied with whatever she saw. She sniffed at Gendry once, and he almost tripped over himself in fear.

The door to the farmhouse opened suddenly, and three men in dirty tunics looked outside, their eyes comically wide.

The Hound sighed. "We're taking your bloody horses."

They shut the door and didn't emerge again.

Oberyn

He'd heard of the Red Keep's many hidden corridors, built by Maegor the Cruel in his never-ending paranoia, but hadn't thought to ever use them. Sneaking around with shadows and whispers was never his style, but he needed to speak with his daughter, and this was the only way he trusted.

Nymeria had accompanied him and was watching every twist and turn like a hawk, though she was not currently armed and was dressed in a simple, bright yellow gown.

Tyene was working her way into the High Septon's good graces and he did not wish to bother her progress.

"I hope you do not get us lost down here, Father," Nymeria whispered, perhaps afraid the very stones around them would crumble if she raised her voice. "Dying in King's Landing is terrible enough, but to do so helplessly, I'll never forgive you."

Oberyn could not help but chuckle. "We are not lost, Nym. Even if we were, your sister could get us out of here."

"And be in debt to Syrena? I don't know which is worse."

All of his daughters had such a competitive streak, even the younger ones. It was a surprise they'd all managed to grow up at all, given how often they tried to outdo one another. Once, all four of his eldest children had been confined to their rooms for weeks, having each broken at least two bones in their bodies.

Doran could not stop laughing about it for three days, while Arianne skipped between each room and teased them mercilessly.

They had been wonderful times, though still tainted by his desire for revenge. How good it would feel for it all to finally be over.

A light appeared at the far side of the tunnel, and Oberyn stopped in his tracks. Chances were that it was Syrena, but he could not be fully certain. He had no doubt that the Spider often traveled these paths, and many of his 'little birds,' as he liked to call them. These may have been the safest places to speak, but they were still far from empty.

Syrena was dressed in all black, covered in a riding cloak with a hood that obscured her features, but he knew her stride. Quick and silent, filled with purpose, not pride. That was always her way.

"Father, I am glad to see you," Syrena greeted, placing her torch in a nearby sconce and hugging him. He wrapped his free arm around her, keeping his torch far away. It had been a long time since he had seen her, much like Sarella, his two curious daughters.

"And I, you," he said, truthfully, despite the reason they were in the tunnels to begin with.

"And no greetings for me?" Nymeria pouted.

Syrena gave her younger sister a onceover. "I would have preferred Tyene. Maybe even Obara."

Nymeria snorted, but clasped her sister's hand nonetheless.

"But while I am glad, I have to wonder: why have you brought me here?"

Oberyn regarded his daughter, her dark eyes hiding nothing. While she was a grand liar, she never could do so to him. She was genuinely curious.

She never expected Arianne to betray her.

And to be honest, neither had he.

"There are many questions I wish to ask you, but for now, only two matter."

Nymeria looked between them, respectfully quiet. She did not know what was about to happen either, but he trusted her to keep the truth here.

"Did you kill Robert Baratheon?"

Syrena straightened at that, suddenly prideful. "Yes."

Oberyn sighed, glancing at Nymeria who appeared to be jealous.

"Why?"

"He was a dead man already. The queen had seen to that. I figured that his death may as well come at the hands of a Dornishman. He knew why I was there at the end."

"Then you have gotten some vengeance for us, at least," Nymeria said.

Oberyn shook his head. "Vengeance? I did not care for Robert Baratheon, but he did not murder Elia or her babes, nor did he order it."

"He laughed at their bodies!" Syrena cried, as if she had ever gotten the chance to meet them.

"He did. And so did many others, and if I could punish them freely, I would, but you have risked us in doing so," Oberyn continued. "Do you know how I know? Sansa Stark guessed it. She, a girl barely of age, figured it out; she came to me with her suspicions and it was not hard to guess from there. Imagine if it had been someone else, someone with even the slightest more influence."

Syrena shook her head. "It does not matter. I have the queen's trust now. The gambit paid off. I have done more to take this family closer to its vengeance than any one of you."

"And how does telling Littlefinger that Sansa Stark was in Dorne help our cause!?"

His voice echoed down the corridors, a dull roar in the silence. Nymeria, wide-eyed, looked between the both of them, reaching for blades that she did not carry. She truly thought it would come to blows, and he briefly wondered whose side she would be on.

Syrena was quiet for once, struck dumb by the shock of his knowledge. But he would not suffer silence from her.

"Answer me!"

"If the Lannisters found out, they would have to act, and we would finally stop burying our heads in the sand, pretending that nothing was happening," she replied. Her voice was meek.

Oberyn stepped forward, forcing his daughter against the wall as he stared down at her. "Is that why you sent her to us? To start a war?"

"Not at first, no," Syrena admitted, looking smaller and smaller as the seconds trickled by. "I did want her safe, but then I realized we had an opportunity to-"

"To what, Syrena?! To die?!" he shouted, making her jump. "By the time Littlefinger came to us, the Lannisters were allied with the Tyrells. Would you have us go against them both? They would relish the opportunity to crush us."

"Our people are strong!" Nymeria called from the side.

Oberyn sighed. Pride in their people was a good thing, but not this blind stuff. Every ruler who has lost a war once thought their people were strong.

"We are outnumbered, Nym. Strength means nothing against those odds," he spoke quietly. "It is why we listen to Doran."

She nodded once, understanding. "For fire and blood."

He looked down at his other daughter, the one he had trusted to get things right; he should have known better. As long as he and Doran were keeping secrets, the wounds would fester. Sooner or later, the pressure gets to everyone. He just did not think it would get so out of hand that she would willingly bring them to the brink of war.

"Fortunately for all of us, those in charge are far more intelligent than a little girl who knows nothing of the game she plays. Had Tywin Lannister not been Hand of the King, none of us would be here now."

It made his fists clench having to say as much.

"Nymeria, leave us. Go back the way we came and wait for me."

"Yes, Father."

He listened to her retreating footfalls, waiting for them to take a wrong turn to listen in, but his daughter was obedient and soon the corridor was silent again.

"Are you Littlefinger's puppet?"

"No."

"Do you still serve Dorne?"

"Always."

Oberyn snorted. "We will see about that. You will do nothing in the mean time. Play your little handmaiden game, but do not think to interfere."

He stepped away then, walking back down the hall.

"Father!"

Oberyn stopped in his tracks, but he did not turn. He loved his daughter fiercely, but he could not stand to look at her now.

"Had you not been mine, you would be dead. Remember that."

She did not call out again.