Myra

Snow had fallen across the godswood, blanketing the ground in white and silence. The blood red leaves stood stark against the background, for even in the dead of winter, the heart tree would not shed its leaves. It was made of sterner stuff, much like the men and women who worshipped in its embrace.

Myra sat at the base of its roots, enjoying the crisp scent in the air. How peaceful winter could feel at times, and at others it was a beast with no compare, two extremes with no in between. Perhaps that was why she found it so beautiful.

Small flakes drifted between the gaps in the leaves, gently covering her cloak and dress. She watched their slow journey through the air, the wind caressing their final descent.

It was how her gaze landed on him.

"I thought I might find you here."

Her father sat beside her, Ice in hand. She had always wondered if he believed the godswood to be the only place he could clean it.

"There never have been many places to hide."

Ned smiled. "Perhaps you ought to tell your sister that. Arya has found new ways to vex your mother."

Myra wanted to smile, but found her face so heavy and the act impossible. She watched the boys in the distance as they laughed at their antics. Robb ran with Rickon on his back while Bran chased after him. Her twin tripped on his own legs and fell into the snow with a burst of white, and suddenly the younger brothers had both turned on him, assaulting him with snow and little sticks.

She took a breath.

"You're not here, are you?"

Her father stopped cleaning his sword.

"No, I'm not, but that doesn't make me less real," he replied, turning to her. She could see it now, something off about him, softer perhaps. Her memories could not quite capture his look. "You and your brothers and your sisters have the best parts of me. I'll always be here."

"But it's not the same."

His smile was sad. "No, Myra, it's not. And it never will be."

It sounded like him at least. There was a comfort she could take in that.

They fell silent. Her father resumed his cleaning of the sword while she looked back to the boys. They had quieted some, their mother having followed them outside. She always did know when they were up to no good, and no fear of the godswood was going to stop her then.

She could almost mouth the entire conversation. The same hard words from her mother, the same half-apologies from her brothers. There would be a sigh and then smiles and laughter.

"Is it wrong that I love him?" she asked. "Even after everything?"

Talisa was there, smiling widely as she brushed the snow from Robb's hair. He kissed her sharply while Bran and Rickon made faces.

Her father paused. "Right and wrong are funny things when it comes to matters of the heart. I never understood it, not fully."

Myra felt it then, a small twitch of her lips as she looked at him. His eyes crinkled at the look she was giving him.

"I don't have all the answers. You ought to know that best of all," he continued, placing Ice gently on the root beside him. "How many things did I have to ask your mother over the years? I've lost count. I knew nothing, especially when it came to daughters."

"We are a complicated lot," she admitted.

The snow stopped falling.

"Jaime Lannister is...well, you know what I think of the man. You never cared for it much," her father said, wringing his hands. She noticed the pin for the Hand of the King resting on his jacket. "But if he makes you happy after all this, I don't see how anyone could fault you for it."

She frowned. "That doesn't sound like you."

"And why not?" he asked, glancing at her. His eyes were amused. "Surprising their children is something every father loves to do."

Myra stood then, gently wiping her face. She noticed the others had stopped, their attention all on her.

"I want to believe that, Father, I do...it's just..."

"Then don't believe it," he said, standing as well. He seemed taller than she remembered. "All your life, you've defied others, Myra, for your brothers, your sisters, for anyone you deemed worthy of it, which was half the countryside as I seem to recall.

"But never for yourself."

Her father approached her, cupping her face between his hands. How warm they felt, how real. She could almost pretend it wasn't a dream.

"It doesn't matter what I think; it doesn't matter what anyone thinks. If you allow us to hold you back, then they have killed you too."

The wall was different.

Of course, it wasn't actually, but to her, everything had changed. It was as if a fog had lifted, and she was seeing the world clearly for the first time in a long while. She could make out the subtle colors in the tiling, the small cracks in the bottom rows, the occasional mistake in one of the pieces, things that required concentration and effort, her mind solely in the present.

It was a peculiar sensation.

Her hand ran along the wall, feeling the bumps and dips in the work, marveling at how different it was from any other thing she had seen.

If she was this fascinated by one wall, it would take her years to look over all of Dorne.

Dorne.

Gods, she was in Dorne.

Her memories of the last few weeks were scattered at best, the most profound thing being an overwhelming sensation of loneliness and despair. It had wrapped itself around her, blanketing her in darkness and ignorance, hiding her from the consequences of the rest of the world. Sometimes, she found it comforting, and sometimes she wanted to scream and be rid of it, but it had taken her voice and her strength and every compulsion she had to free herself was immediately smothered, as if her body was no longer her own to command, only her mind, trapped so very far away.

Snippets broke through the veil though, images of sunrises and sunsets, the taste of food, Sansa's voice as they spoke of things. She remembered answering questions and wondering if the voice coming from her mouth was truly hers.

Myra moved to the wardrobe, her hand wandering over several exotic materials until it rested upon a simple dress, deep blue, with a solid back and front, much different from those she had glanced during her stay. Even Sansa's dresses had been revealing to an extent, yet she had seemed so comfortable in them, as if it was nothing.

Slowly, she slipped the gown on, ignoring her pale reflection in the mirror. Her hands only slipped up once as she tied the laces in the front. She recalled needing help with even that much, her fingers having lost all their dexterity.

She'd grabbed Lothar and stabbed him over and over. She could feel the warm blood ooze over her hands and the sickening squish as the blade thrust through muscle and organs. She felt it pop and tear, and all she could think of was how it must have felt for Talisa.

Myra took a breath and urged the thoughts away.

She had always thought of sadness as some cold thing, but only now did she realize what a trick it was. The deepest pits of despair were welcoming and warm. They offered safety in their misery, and that was how it was so easy to fall back into them. No, not fall, jump. It made you believe it was your choice, and if it was your choice, there was nothing wrong in not escaping.

The world now was so different, so empty of everything she had known, and she could feel the sensation beckoning her even now.

How had she even gotten this far?

You have to be the one to go to him.

Tyrion, yes.

Tyrion was in Dorne, as was Jaime. Two Lannisters in the one place they shouldn't be. She knew that much, of how the Martells blamed Tywin for the deaths of Elia and her children. It was, perhaps, the worst kept secret in all the realm, but what their father spoke had often been regarded as truth.

Except here.

And here is where Jaime brought her.

They could have killed him, she realized. All this time, they could have killed him, and she would not have known.

They could have killed him while he still believed she hated him.

The idea lit a fire within her, and suddenly Mrya was at her door, grasping the handle, and yet she still struggled with the idea of turning it. Outside this room was the unknown; outside were the consequences and all the other foul things she would have to face in the wake of her loss.

Outside this room, her brother was dead. Her mother was dead. Talisa was dead.

But outside this room, Sansa lived.

Jaime lived.

Her hand turned slowly.

Jaime Lannister sends his regards.

I was the one who pushed the boy from the window.

You betrayed your family for a Lannister.

You're right, I don't care about them.

She took a breath, feeling the sensation creep back into her bones, the warmth, the quiet, the darkness, the place she had taken to hiding in for so long.

He needs you, Myra...

The voices vanished as she flung the door open.

Outside, the sun was shining. Birds sang as they flew by, and a soft breeze blew her hair across her face. The world was still there, moving along as it always had. Even in the wake of so much destruction in her life, the world was still there, and Myra could not tell if that was a comfort or an insult.

Was it possible to be both?

Grey Wind sat up from his position on the floor, his nails ticking across the hard stone. He had been nearly up to her shoulder once, but now he seemed so much smaller. Dorne and the loss of Robb had been unkind to him. Neither of them should stay much longer.

Whining, he gently rubbed against her arm, and Myra began to scratch that sensitive spot behind his ears.

"Stay here, please," she whispered, catching a look in his eyes that she might have called concern. "I'll be alright. I need to do this on my own."

With a snort, Grey Wind retreated back inside, and she shut the door.

No one was around, and yet Myra felt as though all the eyes of Dorne were on her.

She began to walk, slowly, carefully, unsure of every step she took, but the further she was from her room, the easier it became. Her hand ran across the walls she walked by, feeling every little detail in their surface; her eyes searched every corner and crevice, soaking it all in.

All her life, she had never imagined being in a place like Dorne, and now she had almost forgotten she was there.

How different it was, how alive it seemed. She could see how Southerners did not like the North. It was much more muted than all the rest of the realm, but it had never seemed that way to her. Would it now?

Would she ever see her home again?

He joined his father and captured Winterfell, and...he killed your brothers.

Did she want to?

Myra continued to walk, wandering the halls and passageways, all somehow abandoned. She must have been through them before, because her feet seemed to know the way.

Tyrion had told her where he was. He'd told her slowly and carefully, afraid that she might forget, but she had listened closely then, she remembered. She'd hung onto those words as if everything depended on them. And Myra was beginning to understand that everything did depend on them.

What happened today would change everything.

Her pace quickened.

She found Jaime huddled over a desk in his room, surrounded by discarded paper, so fixated on whatever he was writing that he did not notice her presence. Myra was grateful for that, suddenly finding herself nervous. In fact, she stood there for a long while, opening and closing her mouth over and over as she fought to hold on to whatever words she had. Her hand clung tightly to the barred gate of the door, refusing to fully commit to going inside.

She couldn't remember the journey to Dorne, she realized. After leaving the Twins, there was nothing, not until she first saw Sansa standing there on the docks that night. Had Jaime tried to speak with her? Had she shouted at him again or ignored him? Had he bothered at all?

These were the sort of questions that could drive a person mad.

Jaime tossed his quill suddenly, groaning in frustration. From the movement, she caught a glimpse of the scrawl on the parchment. It was like a child's, uneven, with large, misshapen letters.

His hand. Of course. How could she have forgotten?

What else had she lost?

She took a breath.

"Would you like help?"

Jaime jumped, completely caught off guard. He stood so quickly that his chair nearly fell to the floor.

The sudden movement panicked Myra, and she might have fled the area had it not been for her grip on the gate.

So, as it was, they ended up staring at one another, wide-eyed and at a loss for words.

Gods, his hair was gone, as was his beard. She almost couldn't recognize him, standing there in orange Dornish robes. Even his eyes were different. Still the same shade of green, but how sad they looked, how...frightened.

Jaime Lannister was scared.

She'd never seen him look that way before, not since that cave from a lifetime ago. But a man had been stealing her away while he'd had a sword to his neck. Here, he was free and safe, and still completely terrified of what stood before him.

Were she not in the doorway, he may have been the one fleeing.

What had she done to him?

You loved him, she thought. And you spat it back in his face.

Myra took a breath and stepped inside. Her feet moved slowly, quietly, avoiding this paper and that as she made her way to the abandoned quill. She could feel his eyes on her all the while. How they bore into her soul and reminded her of every foul thing she had screamed at him.

Her hand was shaking as she picked the quill up. She hoped he did not notice.

"I..." she started, marveling at how high her voice was. "My handwriting has never been the best, but in this case, it might be an improvement."

She did not miss how he tried to hide his right arm behind his back.

The silence continued. As much as she wished to say something else, she was compelled to wait. She had given him an offer. It was up to him to continue it.

Just as she thought he might not oblige, Jaime nodded, just once, just barely. Had she not been so transfixed on him, she may have never noticed it.

When she moved forward, he stepped back, allowing her space, allowing himself time. He seemed to watch his feet more than he did her. This the man who had looked her in the eye and told her all the horrible things he had done. He couldn't look at her.

He wasn't broken; he was shattered, and all the little pieces fit neatly in her hands.

She sat at the desk, and he sat on his bed, a simple, little thing tucked into the corner. The chair, at least, was angled to face him.

Myra turned to the last piece of parchment he had been working on. She could tell it was addressed to his father, and that there were certain words written that she could never have imagined speaking to her parents. It was hard to tell if he truly felt that way, or if it was the frustration at his inability to write seeping through.

"Shall I copy it word for word, or would you prefer a more diplomatic translation?"

He said nothing.

She felt a breeze through the barred window of his room. Leaves drifted inside.

"Jaime."

His breath hitched, surprised, as if hearing her speak his name unlocked something. Those green eyes met hers and she was overwhelmed by the emotion in them. Seeing him so vulnerable, it frightened her, rocked her very being to its core. She knew it then, this was something no one had seen, not his brother, not his sister, only her.

It was all for her.

She hesitated. "You...you have to tell me what to write."

He blinked, running his good hand over his face. She heard him sigh. How tired he sounded.

Did he sleep? she wondered. Did he eat? What had he done all this time?

Myra hadn't bothered to ask anyone. She'd gone straight to him, after all. Making sound decisions in regards to the man before her seemed a rarity.

"It's...to my father," Jaime finally blurted. He'd struggled with those words, as if there were a thousand other things to say. There probably were, and here they sat making the most uncomfortable small talk.

She'd been braver back in Winterfell.

"Alright," Myra whispered, dipping the quill in its inkwell.

Her hand hovered over the new parchment, debating. Should she write 'Father?' It was what he had done, but it felt wrong to her. Lord Tywin, perhaps? Lord Tywin Lannister?

Because my father made him Warden in the North.

Jaime Lannister sends his regards.

"You don't have to do this."

Myra glanced back at Jaime. He had calmed some, used to her presence, and his eyes were less wild, less like a deer ready to flee.

More like a lion.

"Yes, I do."

She could do this because he needed her help. She could do anything if it was for someone else.

If it was for him.

The quill touched parchment and slowly spelled out 'Father.'

She looked back.

He waited.

"In regards to my...disobedience, I did what I believed was right."

His voice was tight. Clearly the neutral words pained him. It certainly sounded nothing like him.

Her lips twitched.

"The...Northern prisoners would have died in Frey custody," Jaime continued, watching her closely. She straightened her back and continued on. "Sparing them now spares us from future trouble. You wanted me to be Lord of Casterly Rock in your stead, and so I am. I've made my decision."

She couldn't finish the words. The quill hovered, her eyes focused on the half-written 'Casterly Rock.' The words played over and over again in her mind, pieces connecting, questions answered, others springing up.

"How?" she blurted, looking over to him. He'd leaned closer, concerned by her sudden stillness. "How could you possibly be that?"

Jaime took a breath, and though the answer was obvious, he was silent for some time.

Though it was obvious, she had still asked.

"Because I left the Kingsguard."

She was shaking, but not out of fear. No, something else had taken ahold of her, powerful, ready to tear her apart, and yet she found herself welcoming the sensation.

"Jaime, why did you leave the Kingsguard?"

His eyes met hers, lips parted. There was something about the way she looked that struck him.

He swallowed. "I think you know the answer to that."

The only Stark I care about is you.

Myra dropped the quill, all thoughts of the letter abandoned and forgotten. She stood, staring down at the man before her.

The man she loved.

The man who surely loved her back.

He seemed afraid again. She could see it in his eyes. She could always see the truth in his eyes. He was afraid this wasn't real; he was afraid to hope.

She never wanted to see that look again.

The hand that reached out to him trembled, until she touched his skin, until she felt him underneath her palm, then it was sure in its movement. She felt the stubble of his growing beard, ran her thumb along his cheek, touched his shortened hair with the tips of her fingers. And then she felt the pressure of him leaning into that touch. How relaxed he looked then, how much younger.

How long she had kept him waiting.

"I'm sorry," she said, and Myra realized she was crying. "I'm sorry, Jaime."

She knelt before him and cupped his head between both her hands. "You didn't deserve that. You didn't deserve any of it. You came for me, and I hurt you."

"You didn't know," he replied, voice still a whisper. She felt his left hand grab hers, his thumb tracing along her skin; she felt it more than anything else in the room. "You couldn't have."

"I should have," she insisted, watching his green eyes search hers. They seemed so surprised. Had anyone ever apologized to him? Had anyone ever insisted that they were the ones in the wrong, or had he taken those hits too? "I know you, Jaime. I know you better than anyone I've ever known. You would never hurt me."

"I could have...once."

Gods, why did he insist upon being so stubborn?

"I don't believe that," Myra replied, shaking her head. "Forget what everyone else has said, and listen to me. You're a good man, Jaime Lannister."

He couldn't hold her gaze. His eyes fell to the floor as she watched him struggle with everything she had said, but his grip on her hand remained, tightening, clinging to her as if she might disappear otherwise. She wondered if he still believed it to not be real. How twisted up inside he must have been, alone with her words and the words everyone had spat at him, alone with his loss.

Her gaze drifted, finding his right arm resting by his side. The stump was covered by a sleeve. Of course, it was a red one, a mocking salute to Lannister pride. She was surprised he still wore it, but perhaps the color was easier to bear than the physical scar that hid beneath.

Without thinking, she reached for it, and the sudden absence of her hand brought Jaime back to his senses. He jerked his arm away before she could reach it. That wide-eyed look was back, that fear. She knew then the only thing holding him in place was the hand that still rested on his cheek.

They took the one thing that still made him proud.

She moved her hand along his skin, reassuring him. This was his decision, not hers. As long as he wanted it to be left alone, she would wait.

The hand holding hers shook.

Then he nodded once.

Slowly, his right arm returned, gently depositing itself in the palm of her hand.

Myra moved to sit beside him on the bed, the arm firmly between them. She had to remove her other hand, and while Jaime let her, she found his grip reluctant to release.

In her left hand, she held his arm, while the right gently gripped the sleeve. She looked up for permission to proceed.

He hesitated, then nodded again.

Gently, as if the motion physically harmed him – and perhaps it did in a way – Myra removed the sleeve from his arm, revealing more and more of his skin until she'd done away with the fabric entirely, leaving it to rest on the bed beside them.

Though it had been obvious his hand was gone, the sight of his actual skin ending in nothing twisted something inside of her. How often had she held that hand? How often had he used it to defend her? He'd saved lives with that hand, and taken them as well. His whole life, everywhere he had been, everything he had become, was because of the hand that held his sword, and it was just...gone.

Her fingers softly ran along the scarring, drawing a shaky breath from Jaime. Had he expected her to flinch upon the sight of it? To be appalled and want nothing more to do with him?

Of course he had.

He'd come to expect nothing less in his life.

He'd rather die than live like that.

No.

No more.

Myra was tired of losing those she loved.

Jaime Lannister was more than his hand, more than his skill with a sword, but he would never believe the words, no matter how loud or how often she might say it.

But she could show him.

She brought his arm up slowly, feeling the lightest tug of resistance. Her eyes glanced at his briefly, feeling them bore into her, examining every last movement. Myra gave him the gentlest of smiles before placing her lips upon the scarred skin of the stump.

The world went completely still.

Jaime sighed, his breath and body shaking. She looked back up to him, and there she saw it, the one thing she had wondered on for so long.

Myra had never known what love truly looked like until now.

"It's okay," she whispered, finding tears on her face once more. She brought her hand back to his face, and then wrapped it around the back of his neck, pulling him toward her. "It's okay."

And then he was in her arms, clinging to her so tightly, she wondered if he'd ever let go again.

Gods, never let me go, Jaime. Never leave me.

"We're going to be okay, Jaime," she continued, running her hand through his hair while the other clung to his clothes, for she was just as unwilling to release him.

She could hear him sobbing into her shoulder. When was the last time he'd been allowed to be weak? Had he ever been, or had there always been something propping him up, threatening to give way, but refusing to all the same?

But he had her now. She would hold him up whenever he needed; she would never leave him alone again.

"It's going to be alright," she whispered into his ear over and over as they held on to one another.

It was a promise to both him and her.

Jaime had fallen asleep. She didn't know when, or how long they had held one another in the growing quiet of the morning; she only knew that when she became aware of the world again, he was reclining on the mattress, his good hand holding firmly onto hers. Her other hand was running gently through his hair, marveling at how short it was. Every now and again, his nose would twitch, and she'd smile.

How she missed that sensation.

Eventually, she left his side, gently freeing herself from his grip. She would have remained there all day, but there was something she needed to do.

So, Myra settled down at his desk and waited.

Jaime slept for hours, the question of how much he did so clearly answered. The sun settled overhead, then passed by, drawing larger shadows in its journey. Servants passed through twice, stunned by what they found inside, and Myra gratefully accepted whatever food they brought. Only once did the man named Areo pass by, eyes briefly locking onto hers before moving on.

Darkness settled, and a small fire was built on the opposite side of the room. The nights were hardly as cold as the North's, but gave off enough of a chill to warrant one.

Time passed, and the Water Gardens grew quiet. The exotic birds ceased their strange calls, and even the wind had died down, leading Myra to forget that the windows were open.

She heard a sigh, and knew she wouldn't be alone for much longer, smiling softly as she continued to focus on the parchment before her.

"What are you doing?" his quiet voice asked some minutes later.

Myra turned to him, finding his eyes watching her. How dark they looked in the firelight.

"Writing a letter to my brother, Jon."

She watched his brow furrow, then his gaze rake across the room, thinking. "This whole time?"

"No," she replied, far too quickly. "Maybe."

The fact was she had been trying to write it all the while. She'd stared at the paper for hours, willing the words to come to her, but finding them resisting. She had stopped and started so many times, the paper on the floor might have been half hers now.

Jon undoubtedly knew the truth, the bare facts of it all, but he deserved more. He deserved to hear it from her, if not in person, then at least in her own words, but what words could she use to describe it? There were none.

Which was why she still sat there, staring at a small piece of paper that said nothing more than his name.

"Are you telling him you're in Dorne with Jaime Lannister?"

Myra looked up, finding Jaime sitting up on the bed. His lips curved upward ever so slightly, and she realized he was teasing her. Or trying to, at least.

She almost burst out laughing.

"I was writing to tell him I'm alive, not to kill him."

He smiled then, genuinely, and she was reminded of a simpler time, a better time when it wasn't so difficult to speak to one another.

"He's a lot like your father, Jon Snow."

Myra found herself nodding. "More so than any of us, I think. I always wondered if that was why...if that was why my mother hated him."

She wondered if there would be a time when she could mention them without losing the ability to breathe.

She also wondered if she'd hate herself when that sensation disappeared.

"Tyrion is a lot like Father, I think," Jaime admitted, looking at his feet. She wondered if he was disappointed in himself. "Get past the drinking and the whoring, and there's a mind always at work, more so than mine at any rate."

"He did call you an idiot," Myra replied, smiling softly.

His green eyes were full of laughter. "Then they really are two of a kind."

The room fell silent, save for the crackle of the fireplace.

"Jaime, why did you bring me here?"

He looked confused. "Sansa is here. At the time, it felt like the right decision."

"And now?"

He smiled. "You're talking to me, aren't you?"

Myra sighed, briefly cursing his stubborn attitude. "They could have killed you, Jaime."

"Well, that doesn't matter now."

"It matters to me. It always will."

Jaime was quiet, but she could see the thoughts turning over and over in his head. He nodded, accepting her argument.

She waited.

"I brought you here because I love you," he said suddenly, quietly, but his eyes had never looked more focused, piercing her in a way she never imagined. When Jaime Lannister knew what he wanted, he could move mountains. "But I think you already know that."

Myra took a breath, acutely aware of the situation they found themselves in.

"I do."

She watched him.

He watched her.

They waited.

Myra swallowed slowly. She wasn't nervous, just expectant.

And nervous.

A log cracked apart in the fireplace.

Jaime rose to his feet, and Myra scrambled to hers, tossing the quill aside as his hand wrapped around the back of her head and brought her lips to his.

She'd never been kissed before. Gods, she had thought about it. How often had she spoken to Wylla about it, what it might be like, who it might be with? Never had she imagined this, never with him, never like...

Her mind went blank as his tongue entered her mouth, her hands clinging tightly to his robes lest she fall right on the spot.

And he dared to chuckle against her lips.

Myra pulled back, attempting to look upset, but she was far too flustered to manage it. Her eyes were suddenly unwilling to focus, yet she could still make out that mischievous glint in Jaime's, the one she had come to know so well.

His hand moved a hair from her face, gently, purposely moving across her skin as he did so. It left a trail of heat in its wake.

"You were thinking too much."

Gods above...

"Shut up, Jaime."

She grabbed his collar and pulled him back down, kissing him with as much fervor as he had kissed her. His hand moved to her neck, thumb running along her jawline as hers tangled into his hair. She grasped the short strands, suddenly wishing his hair was longer, but her effort was still rewarded with a low moan on his part. It awakened something in her, a heat that she was not willing to be parted from.

Myra knew she was no good at this, but Jaime wasn't complaining. Every movement she made, he matched, his lips coaxing her in the ways he wanted her to go. She let him have control; she wanted him to. She didn't want to think; she didn't want anything.

Only him.

His hand pulled at her hair, gently tilting her head back and exposing her neck. When his lips left hers, she found it hard to be disappointed as they made their way down her jaw to her neck, pausing on the spot that made her sigh.

"Jaime."

His lips returned to hers in an instant, the breathlessness in her voice inciting him.

Then she felt his stump bump against her shoulder, and everything stopped.

Jaime stepped back, shrinking. He looked ashamed, suddenly unable to meet her eyes; he couldn't love her the way he wanted to. He couldn't hold her the way he should be able to.

Myra grabbed his right arm and held him in place. With her free hand, she grabbed his face and made him look at her. Then she kissed him on the lips, kissed the small scar on his cheek, brought his arm up and kissed the stump again. She loved him, every part of him, and one day he would remember that.

It didn't need to be today.

But one day.

Jaime sighed, and rested his forehead against hers. There was hardly any pressure against her skin, and yet she felt as though she was holding him up.

"I never stopped loving you," she whispered, feeling Jaime's hand return to her face. How gentle his touch was. Even after everything, it was so difficult to imagine him like this. Yes, she knew him better than anyone, and yet there was so much more to discover, and by all the gods, she would. "I don't think I can."

He moved back, eyes looking deeply into hers. They were dark things now, filled with desire, but restrained.

Gently, he placed a kiss on her forehead. "You should get some sleep."

Sleep? How could she sleep now? Her heart was thrashing about in her chest and the heat burning inside of her threatened to consume her entirely. How could he walk away when she found herself rooted to the spot?

Was it for her honor? The unwed lady and the Kingslayer. What were scandalous words to her now? She was past those things. She had bled and killed and lost. If words now were her only enemy, then perhaps she had finally found peace in this war.

And where had honor ever gotten her? Where had it gotten him? What had it done but made them miserable for its sake?

Fuck honor.

Myra's hand reached up, pushing against Jaime's chest before he could take a step away from her. She looked up at him, and knew in his eyes that she had him. Anything she said, he would do.

Jaime let her hand guide him back to his spot, before it gently ran down his robe to the belt that sat on his waist. She made quick work of the latch, tossing it aside to rest with the paper scattered across the floor. Myra helped him shrug out of the first layer of clothing before her hands began to pick away at the buttons that went all the way to his neck.

Briefly, her mind touched on the idea that he probably hadn't done them himself.

His hand grabbed hers once, stopping her as she reached the final button. She looked up at his questioning gaze. He was giving her a chance to leave.

But she didn't want to. For once, she wasn't afraid, she wasn't dejected, she wasn't alone. She had never been more certain of anything. She wasn't about to sit by and wait for the world to tear away one more thing from her.

She was going to take what she wanted.

Jaime's hand slipped away as she undid the last button. He allowed her to pull the fabric off his shoulders, where it fell to his feet, forgotten.

Her hand ran over his exposed chest, feeling his breath shaking under her touch. How often she had seen him this way, and yet now it was so different.

See something you like?

You are handsome, Ser Jaime, I admit...

He wasn't just handsome. Jaime Lannister was the most beautiful man she had ever laid her eyes on.

And he was hers.

She ran her hand along the scar on his shoulder, thumb caressing the raised skin.

...her skin turning red from the blood, his blood.

She pressed her lips to it before taking a step back.

Slowly, her hands began to unlace the ties on her dress. She waited for Jaime to stop her again, but he was frozen to the spot, eyes wide and dark, breath heavy. It might have been all he could do to remain still.

When she finished, Myra peeled the sleeves off her shoulders, pausing briefly before letting the entire dress fall to the floor, a pile of blue fabric resting on the orange of his.

For one moment, Myra Stark allowed herself to be afraid.

She'd always known how a man could covet a woman, how certain aspects of her body could be more desirable than others. She wasn't too thin, her chest wasn't too flat, her hips weren't too narrow. These were things that helped find a suitable husband, aside from her name. But how often had she asked herself if she would be good enough? How often had she wondered if she would be a disappointment?

That fear was obliterated when she saw the look in Jaime's eyes.

He wanted her.

He needed her.

And she was his.

Myra took a breath.

"Stay."

Free of whatever held him back, Jaime did not hesitate, wrapping his arms around her and crushing his mouth against hers once more. The feeling of his skin on hers only ignited the heat further, until she thought she might burn alive on the spot, but what a good death it might have been. What a feeling to give into.

She almost could not keep up with him, almost, but with every moment that passed, Myra found herself more confident, hungrier, willing to meet him at every turn and movement.

She was vaguely aware that they were moving, her feet padding gently across the floor, but she wasn't certain where she stood, and frankly she hadn't cared until the back of her knees hit the bed.

With a squeak, Myra fell backwards, taking Jaime with her. They fell onto the bed, a tangle of limbs. He'd managed to cradle her head in the fall, and it held her still now as she buried her face in his shoulder.

And then she laughed.

She laughed until it hurt to breathe; she laughed until tears came to her eyes. She laughed because she had missed the sensation, and she laughed because he was laughing too.

When they'd quieted, they watched one another. Jaime had never looked so alive before, so happy, so free. She brought her hands to his face and marveled at the change. Had she really done all that?

He chuckled, as if reading her thoughts, and kissed her once more.

Her fingers ran along his exposed back, relishing the feeling of his skin under her nails, while he grasped her thigh, digging in just as deeply. Instinctively, her other leg wrapped around his hip, her toes curling at the sensation running through her body.

How often had she been warned about this? How often had she been told it was wrong? An action between a man and his wife, and no other. That was what the gods demanded, but what had the gods ever given her?

How could they claim to be better than the man in her arms?

And so, she gave herself to him, body and soul, and somewhere in the recesses of her mind, between the emptiness and the euphoria, she knew he had given everything to her as well.