A/N: Hello everyone! Sorry you don't hear much from me on here. Know that I do appreciate every one of your views, votes, and comments. I just don't use this site very often as FF.net is where I started and probably where I'll die. Please feel free to message me there with questions, or follow the link to my blog and send me an ask! I'm always open to questions or conversation. Just be warned, there are spoilers for the most recent chapters of AVWH.

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Thank you! Now on to the chapter!

Myra

In the wake of everything she had been through, a funeral seemed an odd thing. It was a breath in the middle of a war, and not an altogether welcome one at that. For the briefest of moments, Myra could forget the horrid things outside their somber little world, but to turn her head to the left or right would reveal the broken war machines from the siege of Riverrun at the beginning of it all. The scars would remain for years, and serve as a reminder that all things changed.

Myra watched the banner of House Tully blow gently in the breeze, giving the silly little impression that the trout was swimming. Robb had made fun of the rather unintimidating sigil once, and in return was given a thorough history lesson on the house, courtesy of their mother and Maester Luwin.

Family. Duty. Honor.

She supposed she'd gotten that order completely wrong.

Seven trusted lords, in honor of the seven new gods, pushed Lord Hoster Tully's funeral boat into the river, among them Robb, and their great-uncle Brynden. Catelyn clung to her side as they did so, arm intertwined with hers, hand squeezing the feeling out of her fingers. She hadn't spoken to her in days; she hadn't spoken to anyone. It was a quiet reminder that her mother had lost so much over the course of the war, more than any of them. Her ability to stand tall in the face of that was a testament to her strength.

Their father had always said she was stronger than him.

Edmure, her grandfather's youngest child, and only son, nocked an arrow then, lighting it in the brazier beside him.

Funerals for river lords were a strange sort of ceremony, but given their livelihood and wealth was so heavily tied to the Trident, it made sense. To be forever united with the one constant in your life was a poetic end.

The arrow was drawn and loosed, an orange orb arcing its way toward the boat. Myra found herself holding her breath.

When the arrow dropped into the water, she felt her mother's hand twitch.

Edmure glanced around at them, a sort of sheepish look on his face, like that of a child, and it occurred to Myra that she was not certain precisely how much older than her he was, just that he was a good deal younger than his sisters.

She tried to give her uncle an encouraging smile – after all, how could one focus following the death of a parent? – as he returned to firing.

Another arrow found itself floating down the Trident.

Robb chuckled softly. The highborns gathered on the shoreline were glancing nervously at one another, murmuring. Her mother had gone pale.

What an omen it must have been.

When the third arrow refused to hit its mark, Brynden stepped forward with a huff, shoving his nephew aside and grabbing the weapon for himself. He took his time, judging the wind from the Tully banner flying above. His pause made her nervous. The boat already seemed too far off, threatening to round a bend and be lost; the grip on her hand echoed her mother's concerns.

But the Blackfish's aim was true, and the boat was ablaze before it passed out of sight.

With a collective sigh, the crowd began to disperse, most making the long trek back into Riverrun. They moved with a quick pace, clearly uncomfortable with being out in the open too long. Siege equipment, she was told, left a lasting impression.

Myra gave Robb a look, and despite everything that had passed between them, he seemed to understand. He took her mother by the arm and led her away, Talisa trailing quietly behind them. A death in the family, it seemed, put everything on hold.

Edmure was still at the edge of the dock, watching the distant curve in the water where his father had last been. Myra watched his hand curl and relax on the bow, over and over. Funny how it reminded her of Jon.

Be safe, Brother.

She took a step forward, loudly, so her uncle would know she was there. He looked briefly over his shoulder, before reuniting his gaze with the Trident.

"Quite the first impression of your uncle, isn't it?"

Myra crossed her arms, shrugging. "I've had worse."

"I reckon you have," Edmure replied with a mirthless chuckle. It was moments such as this one that reminded her nearly all the realm knew how the late king acted toward her. She never failed to feel ill at the thought.

Her uncle turned back to her, the sadness clear on his face. "Children should be the ones to bury their parents. It seems I failed my father one last time."

"Oh no, Uncle, you didn't fail him. You were here for him, which is all a parent can ask for, I should think." She moved to stand beside him, watching as he casually tossed the bow onto shore. "I wasn't there for my father. Even if it meant losing my life, I wish I had been. How lonely he must have felt."

She should have told him no when he asked; she should have stayed by his side, and taken her sisters away when things began to turn ill. Why was she allowed to live while they were all gone?

Not gone, she reminded herself. Arya is out there, somewhere. Nymeria will keep her safe.

"I only met him a few times, but he seemed a good man. Cat spoke the world of him in her letters," Edmure replied, grabbing her hand gently. "And you too. You're everything she said you'd be. Openhearted and kind to a fault. Father would have loved you."

Myra felt her lips twitch. "I don't know. Lately, I feel as though I'm failing at that."

A ghost of a smile appeared on her uncle's face as he offered his arm. "Then let us failures be off."

A full moon was out that night, bathing the land in a light glow. Myra sat at her windowsill, watching the light reflect off the river below. After the first night she had returned, sleep had been difficult for her. She'd grown used to short hours, waking up in the dead of night to take her turn to watch. A full night's sleep on a comfortable bed was a foreign concept to her.

She'd also been dreaming again.

It was easier when the wolves were around, her dark slumber only interrupted by vague impressions and sounds. But with Brenna gone, the dreams had returned with a vengeance, perhaps clearer than before.

The other night, she'd dreamed of a river, smaller than the one before her, surrounded by trees. There had been a fight on its shores. She'd heard the screams, felt water wash over her skin, and tasted blood in her mouth.

Something had happened to Jaime, and through Brenna, somehow, she knew that.

That may have been why she could not sleep either.

A soft whine caught her attention.

Lady was looking at her, eyes large, clearly looking for attention. It was funny how much Sansa's wolf acted like her, despite how long they had been apart.

She kept hoping for the day that Lady ran off like her sister, in search of her counterpart lost somewhere in the world.

"Can't sleep either?" she asked, scratching the large creature behind the ear. Lady nearly came up to her chest when she stood, leaving the wolf eye level at this point.

Lady snorted.

"I miss them too."

Standing, Myra moved to leave the room, Lady trailing behind her. It was something she had done the night before as well, wandering the halls quietly. Her fingers would trail along the brickwork of the great keep, her mother's childhood home. While Harrenhal had indeed been the first proper building she'd seen in some time, it was the burnt husk of one. Riverrun was whole, untouched and unbroken. She did not fear what might lie around the next corner. For once, she could be completely at ease.

It was a euphoric sensation, the feeling of utter safety and peace.

And yet, it made the idea that something dark waited on the horizon grow that much stronger.

With every day that passed during the war, Myra found herself understanding her father a little more.

Myra found herself taking in a tapestry in one of the various halls, a small smile still on her face from when one of the guards passed by, giving Lady an extra wide berth, when she heard footsteps behind her, and a tall form settled in by her side.

"The hardest part for me was how still the air was," Brynden Tully said quietly. He was still dressed in his scaled armor, and Myra got the impression it was rare to see him in anything else. "Even when the wind had died or I'd gotten a tent for the evening, there was always something moving my hair. It used to bother me to the point that I'd considered shaving it all off. Then I spent the night in Seagard, and found I missed the sensation.

"Walls were a nice change though. Never thought I'd be so fascinated by brickwork."

She glanced up at her great-uncle. "You've heard then?"

He snorted, and she found herself comforted by the rude gesture. "You think we didn't get a raven as soon as they'd found you? You sounded like some sort of myth, walking out of the woods surrounded by wolves. Surprised they haven't written a song about you."

"Trust me, they've tried."

The Blackfish chuckled.

"My bed is too soft," Myra admitted eventually, glancing up at him. "And I'm too warm at night."

Her great-uncle nodded in understanding. "I'd work myself until I could barely stand in order to fall asleep."

"Did it work?"

"I'll let you know when it does."

Myra smiled softly, looking back to the tapestry, wondering if the conversation was at an end. She didn't take the Blackfish as a man of many words, but he surprised her by lingering a little longer, perhaps even fidgeting.

"You should talk to your mother. She's worried about you."

She hadn't realized that had been an option.

"I don't have anything to say," she replied, a little defensive.

"Doesn't have to be about anything. Talk about bloody fish for all I care, but just make sure you talk to her. Seems she's losing everyone as of late."

Myra listened as his footfalls disappeared down the corridor, and sighed. No one liked it when she spoke, and no one liked it when she remained silent.

She wasn't certain what anyone wanted anymore.

Jory

He'd seen many things over the course of his life, some mundane, others that the world would never bear witness to again.

He saw his uncle defeat the imposing Brandon Stark without even swinging his sword to prove a point. In the following years, he watched as the Stark household was torn apart on the whim of a madman. He saw rebellion and war, Robert's warhammer as it crushed Rhaegar's chest in, the Kingslayer's smile as he sat upon the Iron Throne, the Siege of Pyke when ships at sea and men on land clashed together with shouts and screams.

He had seen more than any man of his station had any right to.

But that evening, in some cave in the middle of nowhere, Jory Cassel witnessed that which put all others to shame:

The impossible.

Beric Dondarrion was a decent swordsman. He'd seen the man fight in King's Landing, but Jory had been under no illusion when he challenged the Hound to trial by combat. Sandor Clegane may have been a despicable bastard, but he knew how to handle a sword, and could best most men if he bothered, flaming weapons or not.

So, he hadn't been surprised when the Hound buried his sword into Beric's shoulder. To him, it was more of a wonder that the man hadn't managed to cleave him in two. The room had gone silent though, the men who so confidently followed Beric and the priest stunned by the turn of events.

So much for their red god.

Thoros had run to his side, mumbling something to the corpse. Prayers for the dead maybe, or something else. He was a drunk. It could have been anything.

Arya had screamed, and the boy Gendry had grabbed her. He should have gone to her, Jory knew that, but the way the Hound mocked her anguish made his sword hand twitch. His justice belonged to the old gods, and they would see no wrong in his execution of the Hound.

They had no eyes here, after all.

But then a dead voice spoke, and Ser Beric rose again.

Now the men slept, and the Hound was long gone. Arya slept fitfully while Gendry kept a close eye on her. In the back of his mind, Jory thought to worry about them, but it was a time of war, and he could not blame youth for getting into the mischief it often did.

"How did you do it?" Jory asked, staring up into the cave opening above him. It was a full moon that night. "How does a drunk like you do something like that?"

Across from him, Thoros chuckled. "I did nothing. The Lord of Light simply used me as a tool for his will."

"How do you know it was your red god?"

"Have your gods ever brought the dead back to life?"

"We don't ask the old gods to resurrect those that are gone," Jory replied, looking at the priest. In this lighting, he almost looked respectable. "Death is something to be respected, foul as it can be."

It was another reason he never liked the Greyjoys much. Their Drowned God was an abomination of a different variety.

"An admirable idea," Beric said to his right. He was sharpening his new sword, the old one ruined by flames, not to mention the Hound had cut through it like butter. "The Lord of Light may have plans for me, but this is not something I would wish upon a person. Every time I come back, I feel as though a little more of me stays behind."

"How many times has this...Lord of Light brought you back?"

Thoros took a drink, standing. "I think this makes six."

Six. By all the gods in all the realms, it should not have been possible.

"You know," the red priest continued, stumbling between the two men. "If we put the two of you together, you might make a whole man."

Beric shook his head, chuckling. "Get some sleep, Thoros. You've done enough for one day."

"Says the man who just returned from the dead."

Still, the man left, expertly stumbling through the cave, avoiding all the outcroppings as if he memorized the path long ago.

"Does he think he's funny when he's sober?" Jory asked, watching Thoros leap over a sleeping form.

"He's never been sober, so I couldn't say."

They shared a small laugh.

"Where do you plan to go?" Beric asked, placing his sword on the ground. "Riverrun?"

"That's the idea," he replied. "Even if Lord Stark's forces aren't there, it will still be safe, and Lady Arya will be with her kin."

Lord Stark. It was a strange set of words to him now. Eddard Stark was his lord, not Robb Stark, not the boy he'd seen grow up in Winterfell. The thought of him commanding anything was perhaps more difficult to grasp than the idea of the man sitting beside him. The world kept changing, and he kept stumbling blindly through.

Blindly. That was a poor joke, wasn't it?

"And what of the boy?"

Jory looked to Gendry, who'd finally nodded off, leaning against an outcropping with his arms crossed.

"He might be in more danger than she is."

"These are strange days indeed," the resurrected man mused. "It makes one long for simpler times. I was betrothed to Allyria Dayne. Her family had wanted a wedding at the start of the year, but I don't suppose she'll have anything to do with me now. I know I wouldn't.

"What about you, Jory? Is there a life that calls to you beyond the war?"

There had been, he thought. A life of service in the distant North, an honorable calling until the end of his days.

A warm smile that could cut through the harshest cold.

"No," he admitted with a sigh. "I don't believe there is."

They left in the morning on foot, because as kind as their hosts had been, the Brotherhood Without Banners needed all that they could get, and horses were a rare commodity in the Riverlands, where every passing army took what they found and burned the rest.

"You should join us when you've seen these two to safety," Beric offered, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "There are few good men left in this war, and the Brotherhood could use all the ones we can find."

Jory would have been lying if he said he wasn't tempted. When his trek back to Dragonstone had begun, he'd seen the most horrendous outcomes of war. Perhaps age had worn the memories down, but he could not recall such desolate heartache during the rebellions of his youth. Or perhaps he had been keener to ignore them then.

He'd seen Lannisters burn and Baratheons bludgeon and even Stark soldiers ruin the lands they rode across. The people beneath them suffered again and again as armies crossed back and forth over Westeros, and none seemed ready to defend them.

But he had made an oath, and the honor in his heart was a hard beast to tame.

"You've your fight, and I've mine," Jory replied, "But I'll not cross swords with you, nor will I set to bring more suffering into this world."

Beric smiled. "Then go in peace, and may you walk in the light."

When Lady Melisandre entered the camp later, dismay would greet her at the absence of the boy she had seen in the flames. Much later, when Jory heard the tale, he would chuckle to himself despite everything.

So much for their red god indeed.

Cersei

Power had its price. She'd known this for years. It did not freely give to those who sought it. It demanded sacrifice, again and again, so that only the strong and worthy lasted to see the fruits of their labor.

For a woman, that sacrifice was constant. A man would be questioned once and no further when his answer was given; a woman would be questioned time and time again by the same person, utterly ignorant of her ability to assume control, and she was surrounded by fools who echoed the same sentiment. And so, she gave to silence them. She gave and she gave, and slowly yet surely, they had all fallen by the wayside, while she remained.

She was a queen, powerful, feared. Her marriage had kept the Seven Kingdoms intact; her authority kept King's Landing from crumbling into the sea. Where would they all be if not for Cersei Lannister?

Yet her father showed up, and all her works were for naught. He ended everything she had worked tirelessly to put into place with a simple nod and no one questioned it, not even her misshapen little brother whose only pride was antagonizing the very people he claimed to love.

Everything was slipping through her fingers. Margaery Tyrell – the little flowery bitch – was to be the new queen, Joffrey was firmly under her father's thumb, as was Tommen, she was unlikely to see Myrcella ever again, and Jaime...

Jaime was the reason she drank.

She took a sip from her goblet, gaze flicking to Tyrion. He hadn't said a word since entering her solar, finally realizing it was a good time to hold his tongue. Instead, he seemed rather focused on his cup, which wasn't out of the ordinary. Despite that, he'd yet to drink, while she'd nearly finished hers.

"Did you know?" she asked, voice sounding more hurt than venomous. Pathetic.

Tyrion rolled his eyes. "I grow tired of that phrase already. I'm not in the mood for word games, Cersei, so simply tell me what you want."

Cersei turned back to the window, watching the wind blow the vines that curled around her balcony.

"He betrayed us."

"Who did?"

"Jaime."

It seemed she finally found a way to silence him, because for once Tyrion had no witty reply, no crude comment to cut through the seriousness of the situation and render it as nothing more than a farce.

Perhaps the strangest part of all was that she'd wished he'd say something rude.

Tyrion stood from his chair and put both hands on her desk. "First, you hardly react to the news that our brother has escaped the Starks. Now, you're claiming he's a traitor. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you weren't my sister."

A thousand insults came to mind, all referring to how he wasn't her brother, how no one who looked or acted like him could possibly be of her blood, but she didn't care enough to commit. The news had sapped the energy out of her.

He was supposed to be the one she could trust.

"Some of the search party returned the other day," she started, turning the goblet in her hands. "They'd found Lannister soldiers, dead, at some filthy little inn on the Trident. The patrons inside had quite the story to tell. It was about Ser Jaime Lannister, and how he murdered the men he'd just been drinking with, and then ran off into the night with a young woman."

Cersei stood, wandering over to the corner of the room to fill her goblet with more wine. She found herself staring at the wall, wondering if it could give her the answers to her questions. It made about as much sense as everything else in her life at the moment.

"Tell me, Tyrion, would you not define that as treason?"

It was silent for a long time. Cersei found herself too preoccupied with the damned wall to care. Her little brother might have slunk out of the room for all she knew. She didn't care either way.

She heard him take a breath.

"We don't...know the circumstances."

Something snapped inside.

The wall was gone, replaced by the open view of her room. Tyrion held his arms up slightly as her goblet flew clear across the space, wine showering a trail of deep red in its wake.

"He could have come home! He could have come back to us!" Cersei shouted, curling her fingers as if she could wring the life out of the girl at that very moment. "Instead, he chose the wolf bitch; he chose to betray his house."

"You shouldn't have ordered the men to kill her. You put our brother in a difficult position."

Difficult? Jaime had stabbed the king he'd sworn to protect in the back. He'd pushed the little Stark boy from a window in his own home. Letting a girl die in the middle of nowhere while their families were at war was nothing. It should have been nothing.

He should have been back.

"I did what I had to, and if Jaime had the sense to think about what he was doing, he'd have done the same."

Tyrion's face became gravely serious. "Perhaps you should be grateful that our brother doesn't think things through. If he'd let Myra Stark die, her brother would be breaking down the gates at this very moment with naught to blame but you. And Father is already so disappointed."

"Get out," she hissed, wishing she still had the goblet to throw. She'd strike him across his ugly little face and give him a new scar to weep about to his whore.

He didn't understand. None of them understood, none of them saw. The instant Myra Stark had left her desolate, little world, she had begun to weasel into every aspect of their lives. That she-wolf already had both Jaime and Tyrion defending her, as if she wasn't a Stark, wasn't the enemy. She gave them smiles and had the fools convinced she was their friend, their ally, and the longer she was alive, the more she would sink her claws into their house.

Men were weak fools.

It was up to a woman to fix their mistakes.

Jaime

There had only been one time in his youth he had been truly sick. Confined to bed for weeks, the maester had visited him several times a day, poking him with this, making him eat that. It wasn't that he was desperate for Jaime to live; he was desperate to not be the man that let Tywin Lannister's heir die.

Tyrion had been there every day as well, reading to him constantly from his bedside, mostly fantasy tales that he barely caught half the words of, but the sound of his little brother's voice grew to be a comfort, an anchor that helped him keep track of what was real, and what was the fever. Their father, apparently, stopped by in the mornings as well, though he said nothing. He simply stood and waited, as if the presence of Tywin Lannister would stop death itself.

Stranger things had happened.

Cersei had come to him once, when he'd managed to be conscious for longer than a few minutes. She'd been cross with him, blamed his illness on the foolish pride that drove him to dive from the cliffs into the sea, and blamed him for souring their father's attitude and ruining their name day celebration. He hadn't even been aware that time had staggered into the next month.

What he remembered most about that time was the sensation of falling, and a constant pounding in the back of his head and behind his eyes. He felt it now as they slowly walked through the trees, the horses having long fled. His hand throbbed fiercely, and the sensation had begun to crawl up his skin.

Had they not been Northmen, Jaime might have thought the blade was poisoned.

He squeezed the bandages on the wound, feeling the flesh squish beneath.

Something was wrong.

No, nothing was wrong. His hand was fine. It had to be fine.

He'd survived that fever, he'd survived getting shot by fucking arrows and flinging himself head first off Dragonstone; he'd survive this.

His leg caught on something, a root maybe, and he fell to his knees.

The pain of catching himself with his wounded hand brought temporary clarity as he hissed and clutched the offended limb.

"Kingslayer," Brienne spoke, turning to tower over him like the giant she was. Did he detect a hint of concern in her voice?

"If you're going to fight with me, then call me by my name," he hissed, feeling a hand grab his arm to steady him. Why did it matter what she called him? Why did it always matter?

He felt the pressure on his arm increase as he tipped over. In the distance, he heard hoof beats.

"Jaime!"

"Get up, Jaime."

Green eyes watched him, framed by golden hair, porcelain skin twisted into a sneer. Even in anger, his sister was beautiful.

"I said get up. You're a Lannister. We don't die helpless in the dirt."

Why did she always sound like their father?

"Someone should," Cersei continued, his thoughts spoken word to her. "And why not me? I am the only one who has done as Father asked; I am the only one who has brought power and pride to our name. You've murdered old men and been captured by them. Now you're dying of a scratch."

Not dying.

"Not dying, but helpless and weak. You said you would tear the countryside apart to get back to me, and now you can't even lift your hand."

I'm trying.

"Are you? You should have been back already. All you had to do was let the girl die."

No.

"No!"

He tried to sit up, but he was being held down. There were faces all around him, ugly, misshapen things that he didn't recognize. He fought against them, but they were stronger.

"Hold him down, would you?!"

"You think he knows what's happening?"

"I hope so. Least he deserves."

Another face appeared. Older, still ugly.

A cup was forced into his mouth. An obnoxious liquid passed into his mouth. He knew the taste immediately: milk of the poppy.

Coughing and sputtering, Jaime attempted to reject the foul stuff, but they did not abate, and unless he wanted to drown in it, he had to give in. Sleep returned soon after.

A warm hand ran along his face. He met those gray eyes again, and watched them crinkle at the edges as Myra smiled; he liked them better when they weren't sad things.

"You really are terrible at running away," she said.

"I've admitted that already," he replied, blinking. The room was hazy, bathed in an early morning glow. With her dark furs and hair, Myra was contrasted against it all. "No need to keep a man down."

"Then do a little better next time, Ser Jaime."

Her smile was teasing, but he could see a darkness creeping into her eyes again. She grabbed onto his hand and held it tightly, looking away from him.

"I shouldn't have left you."

Myra turned back to him. "Hard to have a conversation when you're headless."

"We're not having one now."

Now her smile was sad. "I knew what I was doing. Don't blame yourself for my decision. You burden yourself too much already."

"You think you know so much about me?"

"I know everything about you."

She did.

And still she smiled.

It faded as she looked at his hand again. The bandages were gone now, her hand the only thing covering his. When he tried to move his fingers to grab hers, he found himself unable. It frustrated him.

When her eyes met his again, there were tears in them.

"I'm sorry, Jaime."

When he opened his eyes, the room was still bright, and the haze from the milk of the poppy still clung to his vision, but Myra was no longer there. Because she had never left the Stark camp. She had only been a dream

He took a shaky breath. His chest felt heavy and unsure of the action, ready to break down into a fit of coughs at a moment's notice.

Taking in the room around him, Jaime found herbs and jars and all sorts of little devices that he'd seen Grand Maester Pycelle toying around with from time to time. They'd found a keep then, somehow. There was something both humiliating and entertaining about the idea of Brienne dragging him around the forest. It was surprising that she hadn't left him to die.

But then again, she was honorable.

Jaime took some time to move his body a little, testing his joints. His leg was stiff and his shoulder sore, but otherwise they were well. It was good to know that he hadn't aggravated anything during the battle.

He looked back to the spot Myra had been sitting, wondering if he hadn't mumbled something in his sleep. If the maester of the keep truly valued his life, he wouldn't say anything about it.

Jaime lifted his hand, distantly wondering why it hadn't been able to move in his dream. It was a childish thought, but he was curious nonetheless. Perhaps it had been bound too tightly?

When a bandaged stub met his eyes, he screamed.