Hello! I have returned! This feels like a bit of a catch all chapter, but things are progressing. It's about to get fun again...

Chapter Fifty-Three
The Climb

Arya

She found herself thinking of Hot Pie often, how he would have hated all the climbing they were doing.

Despite the horses they had taken from the farm, they were on foot more often than not. They were thin creatures, more used to easy work on the flat farmlands. The air thinned as they climbed the High Road, and the horses tired quickly. The Hound had killed his already, giving Arya a long, hard look as he drew the sword from its neck. They had cooked what they could that night and left the rest for the wolves that prowled the area, not that they were likely to attack them. Nymeria kept a vigilant watch at night, and the only creature that dared draw close had its pelt draped across Sandor Clegane's new horse.

The unusual group was mostly quiet as they journeyed up the ever growing hills of the Vale. There wasn't much to say anymore, though the Hound still had a word or two when Arya and Gendry trained at night. It didn't bother them so much anymore. He was usually quiet when they did it right.

Once, he even told Gendry to change his stance.

Gendry still looked at him funny for that.

Only when he wasn't paying attention, of course.

One day, the hills became mountains, stretching as tall as the clouds themselves. The Mountains of the Moon, she could hear Maester Luwin saying in the back of her mind. The Arryns ruled this land, though there wasn't much to it. Half the land was solid rock, uninhabitable; half the land that was able to turn a profit had to be abandoned come winter, when the hard winds and bitter cold destroyed everything they touched.

Still, they had money, probably more than the rest of the realm since her aunt hadn't called her banners. That was all the Hound cared about.

Arya had taken to wondering why Lysa hadn't helped Robb. It was her husband's death that started everything. She thought she would have hated the Lannisters.

They hardly met anyone on the road. The few travelers they did come by were leaving the Vale, and they quickly picked up the pace when they spotted the Hound. Not even the hill tribes came out to greet them. She found it disappointing.

"Of course you would," Gendry sighed as they sparred one evening. The fire had died and they were forced to practice by the light of the moon. "You're not happy unless we're in danger."

"That's not true!" she replied, dodging a heavy swing and rolling to Gendry's left. They weren't the perfect practice partners - Arya could never hope to match Gendry's strength - but they found a sort of balance. Arya was able to practice redirecting and dodging bows, while Gendry worked on fighting an opponent whose speed was greater than his.

"Course it is! We've been safely traveling for days. I actually manage to sleep through the night, and all you can talk about is how boring it is."

"Well, it is!"

"Boring is safe," he said, breaking off. "I'd rather be bored than dead."

Nymeria had curled up beside Gendry that night, clearly choosing a side, but come morning she was gone, and they hadn't seen her since.

The next day, they found themselves at the Bloody Gates.

Two watchtowers connected by a bridge cut off the narrow pass through the mountains. The banner of House Arryn flew high above them, whipped back and forth by the harsh winds that came through the pass. Archers watched them from the battlements, and a covered wagon quickly passed through the opening, the soldiers on the ground lining up behind it to block the way.

"Go back the way you came," a gruff voice called to them. A knight stood before them. His shield bore a broken wheel set on green. She couldn't remember whose house that was - if she ever knew. There were always so many houses and then houses in service to those houses. The North alone was hard enough. "The Vale is closed."

"Is it now?" the Hound said, watching the wagon pull away. "Just decided to close like that, all by itself?"

Arya huffed. "You're supposed to ask 'who would pass the Bloody Gate?'"

"Oh, I know who," the knight replied. "The seven hells will grow cold before I allow Sandor Clegane to pass these gates."

The Hound snorted.

"My name is Arya Stark!" she shouted. "Lysa Arryn is my aunt and I want to see her."

The knight and his soldiers laughed. "Arya Stark is dead. She was killed in King's Landing."

"I think I'd know if I were dead!" Reaching into her coat, Arya pulled out the parchment Brynden had entrusted to her. "I have a letter from the Blackfish to prove it!"

That silenced them, as they watched her wave the rolled paper back and forth in the air.

The knight stepped forward. "Come here, girl."

Just as Arya took a step, the Hound grabbed her shoulder.

"You get all of us or none."

There was a pregnant pause. Up on the battlements, the archers nocked their arrows, and the soldiers put their hands to their hilts. They had the advantage, and could easily kill the Hound, but they looked at him as though it wasn't enough.

Arya thought it was funny. He was just a man, a big one, but they all died just the same.

The knight sighed. "Come here."

They approached slowly, the Hound's hand still firmly on her shoulder. Arya held out the parchment for the knight to see, but as soon as he reached for it, she pulled it back.

"It's for my aunt's eyes only," she said, watching him. "You saw the seal."

"Seals can be forged."

"Then why bother having them?"

The man sighed, looking past her. "And who are you claiming to be?"

"I'm Gendry."

"Just Gendry?"

"He's one of Robert Baratheon's bastards," the Hound said, shoving Gendry forward. Her friend gave him a hard look, not that it meant anything to him. "Killed a few of the others myself. Not many of them left now. He's bound to be worth something."

Gendry went pale.

The soldiers began to murmur things, and the archers looked uncertainly at one another; the knight was the only one still as stone, staring at them as if he could produce the answers out of thin air.

"We'll keep them here, and send a raven," the knight declared, silencing the group. "If the Lady Lysa wishes to receive visitors, then she shall. If not…"

She didn't like the look on his face.

"Aye, there's a pretty price on my head," the Hound spoke, stepping closer. "The Freys violated guest right. You want your lady to be lumped in with those witless fucks?"

They supped that night on burnt fish and hard biscuits, the best thing they'd eaten in days, and Arya slept well into the afternoon, on a straw mattress that may as well have been made of down. All courtesy of Ser Donnel Waynwood.

Two days later, a raven returned.

Lysa Arryn would see them.

Myra

Robb and Jon were at it again. They'd been beating their practice swords so violently that she'd heard the clamor from her room, and she was nowhere near the courtyard.

So, she'd put on her cloak and quietly tiptoed through the castle halls. Her path took her past her father's solar, where he remained despite the late hour, and for it she received a knowing look. Their father never intervened with these sorts of things, content to let them play out as part of a lesson, but she could never resist. Not when it came to her brothers.

The night was cold and the air crisp, leaving her breath curling about her as she watched the boys from the safety of the stables. She always liked to observe at first. Myra had been watching her brothers train for so long that it was easy to figure them out, who was tired, who had the advantage, mostly it told her who had started the fight. It wasn't hard to figure out that night.

Jon wasn't fighting with any of the grace he usually had - as far as a boy of five and ten could have - attacking Robb with heavy blows and widely arcing swings that always left him open for attack. But Robb never pressed his advantage. He would block and redirect Jon's swings, but never made a move to attack him.

Myra dared to step closer, clinging to the fence post, hoping that the darkness would keep her hidden a little while longer. It was a moonless night - no doubt snow would cover the ground come morning - and the boys were using the dying light of four wind-battered torches to keep their duel visible.

Another huge lunge had Robb stepping to the side, Jon's blade digging into the dirt instead. This time, Robb took the initiative, slapping his sword against his half-brother's and easily knocking it from his grasp. Jon did not make a move to grab it. He just stood there, defeated, shoulders rising and falling heavily with his breath, steam pouring from every inch of him.

"You done now?" Robb asked.

Jon sniffed. "Aye. I'm done."

He turned away then, making for the keep. It took him right past Myra, his footsteps stumbling when he noticed her presence. They didn't exchange words, only a glance, before he continued on his way.

He'd been crying.

Myra left her sanctuary then, approaching Robb as he picked up Jon's practice sword, twirling it in his grasp.

"What did you do?"

Robb shrugged. "He was angry. Been holding it in for a while. I didn't want him to take it out on anyone else, so I pushed him, made sure he took it out on me. I think he gets that now."

She glanced back to the darkness her brother had disappeared into. "What was it about?"

"What isn't it about, Myra?" Robb replied, standing by her. He'd swung his sword onto his shoulder. "He's a bastard, and nothing we do or say is going to change that."

"He's not going to stay much longer, is he?"

"I don't expect so."

Myra sighed. He'd been talking about the Night's Watch since he was ten, and somehow she had always thought it was just that: talk. But the older Jon was, the harder things became. He didn't get sad or scared. Now he just got angry.

"How'd you get him to snap?" she asked curiously, turning to face her twin.

"I teased him about Ros."

"Who?"

Robb paused. If it had not been so dark, she imagined he would have been beet red. "I should not have said that."

"What? Why not? Who is she?" Myra asked, following Robb as he attempted to walk away from the conversation.

"No one," he said, retreating to the weapon's rack. "She just...works in town."

Myra paused, hands flopping to her sides as she realized. "You're teasing our brother over a whore?"

"A working woman!" Robb countered, pointing his sword at her.

"Robb!"

Her brother sheepishly returned to her side. "Well, it worked, didn't it?"

Myra rolled her eyes. "When he spits in your food come morning, I'm not telling you."

"You don't need to. You're a terrible liar. Your eyes will give it away."

She elbowed her brother, leading to soft laughter from the two of them. They stood there a moment, neither bothered by the cold, as flakes began to drift above them.

"Tell me, what do you-"

Myra turned to face Robb, but he was not the same. He was older, and bloodier. Winterfell was gone, replaced by the Twins and a crowd of murderers with bodies piled at their feet.

And then Roose Bolton pushed her aside, shoving his dagger into her brother's heart.

She used to wake abruptly from dreams of Robb. No matter how happy they might have been, it always ended the same. Sometimes she woke crying, other times screaming. Jaime never saw that part. By the time they were reconciled, she'd grown used to it, or as well as one could. The pain remained, but she no longer reacted so violently.

Honestly, Myra had believed Jaime's presence would help keep the dreams at bay, but after Joffrey's cruel jape, she supposed there wasn't a force in all of Westeros that could save her from the memories.

At least he had been there to keep her from slipping again.

He was asleep now, his back to her, still dressed in that ridiculous red outfit she'd teased him over. The dinner felt like days ago.

Myra eased out of bed, careful not to wake him, and made for the landing.

Their chambers were large - far larger than she was used to - with a dining area meant to entertain a dozen guests, a small solar, and two separate bedrooms, not that they had much need to use the second one. There were at least four private balconies that belonged to them. The one that extended from their room was the smallest, and her favorite. She curled up on the small, cushioned bench, and watched the moon make its way across the sky.

She was supposed to be the Lady of Casterly Rock, and her rooms here gave her pause.

There were so many things she was not prepared for.

A breeze blew by. There was a crispness to it. Winter was certainly on its way, but she was hardly cold. It made her feel more comfortable, if anything.

She wondered about Winterfell. Had the final harvest gone well, or had the army taken all the men they needed? Were the people ready for the harsh winter ahead? Did Ramsay care for such things? Would he offer them shelter or laugh as they suffered in the bitter cold?

Of course, Myra already knew the answer to all these questions.

"Roose Bolton is dead," she said quietly when Jaime joined her on the balcony. He stood off to the side, leaning against the rail to face her.

"I was supposed to marry his son, Domeric, before this all started, but he died. My father would not give me the details, but I'd heard the rumors. He died of a stomach ailment not long after he went looking for his bastard half-brother. We all knew what had happened. He'd poisoned him.

"Domeric was a sweet boy. He only wanted to know his brother; he had no siblings after all. And he died for it.

"And now that bastard rules Winterfell."

Jaime sighed, turning a sword in his hand. She hadn't seen it before. It rested in a finely decorated scabbard.

"And if he wants to keep Winterfell, given what his father did to take it, then that bastard should treat the people well. You Northmen don't take well to slights."

She smiled at that, briefly but genuine.

"Margaery told me she'd give Winterfell back. Apparently she's got Joffrey in the palm of her hand. All I need to do is keep the realm together."

"All you need to do?" Jamie echoed, smirking as he went to sit beside her. "I thought I was Lord of the Rock."

"She says you'd do anything for me."

Her husband paused, considering the words, and shrugged. "I suppose she's right."

"Jaime."

"Myra," he replied, facing her. In the darkness, she could make out his solemn gaze. "All my life, I've done things because other people told me to. Cersei, Robert, my father, the Mad King. You've never asked me to do anything. You're not forcing my hand. We're here because I chose to be."

He paused, eying his golden hand.

"If anything, I should be angry at you for making me responsible."

She smiled again, kissing his cheek. The stubble was growing in again. He'd mentioned doing away with shaving.

Jaime wasn't having just that, however, grabbing her quickly and pulling her in for a kiss. She giggled at the action, more than ready to forget the night's previous events, and quickly hopped onto his lap. Myra felt the false hand awkwardly fumbling with her clothing. He still wasn't used to it, but she didn't mind. There was almost something reassuring about it.

The sword fell to the ground, distracting them. Myra looked at the ornate thing, jewels shining in the moonlight, and had a feeling her husband had wanted to discuss something as well.

"I almost don't want you to see it now," he whispered in her ear. "I just got you back."

Myra turned to him, stroking his face gently. Seeing her that way could not have been easy for him. After all, the last time it had happened, she'd cursed his existence, held a dagger to his throat…

Her fingers drifted to the spot, thumb grazing the skin she might have nicked.

"Tell me."

Jaime sighed, then nodded, bending down to grab the sword as Myra stood. He balanced the scabbard on his golden hand, the left one tightly grasping the hilt. A ruby-eyed lion stared at her from the pommel.

"Take the scabbard," he said quietly.

She did so, holding the intricate piece firmly as Jaime drew the sword from its sanctuary. Dark metal greeted her, hardly visible even in the light. She'd never been an expert on craftsmanship, but Myra knew it was a magnificent sword, worth more than entire villages. It was the Lannister way.

"Is that…?"

"Valyrian steel? Yes. My father had it reworked, and now it belongs to me," Jaime replied. He did not sound very thrilled about it.

"Reworked from what?"

All he had to do was look at her.

Some of Myra's earliest memories were of her father cleaning that sword. She always thought of it as a religious act, his way of praying to the old gods. Even without weirwoods, as long as they had the sword, they were safe.

But like any Northern thing that came south, it had been battered and beaten beyond recognition, an insult crueler than death.

She took a shaking breath, running her fingers along the steel. Streaks of red made their way through the rippling metal. Her father's sword was bleeding.

"Robb had always wanted to use it," she said softly. "I told him he'd never be big enough."

Jaime lowered the sword, offering the hilt.

"It's yours."

She looked at her husband. "Your father-"

"-had no right," he finished, ending her weak argument. "Go on. It's not terribly heavy."

She'd always been afraid of Ice, and even now, as unrecognizable as it was, it still held a sort of power over here, a burden she was not ready for, but when had she been prepared for anything that had happened?

Her fingers firmly grasped the hilt, pulling the sword from Jaime's grasp. She remembered her father's lessons to her brothers. A sword demanded respect. Hold it in any other manner, and it would betray you.

Jaime was right. It was not nearly as heavy as she expected, but she knew she could never use such a weapon.

"Where is the rest?" she asked, staring at the metal. She half-expected something to stare back.

Jaime did not reply at first, prompting her to look at him.

He sighed. "A second sword was forged for Joffrey."

She drew a sharp breath. Of course one had been made for him. Her brothers had never once held the sword they revered, but the monster of a boy king who had killed her father would forever possess a piece of it.

It was sacrilege.

Myra snapped the sword back into the scabbard, handing it back to Jaime.

He stared at it. "Are you sure?"

"What am I to do with it? Mount it on a wall and forget it exists? My father's sword deserves better," she replied, pushing it forward until Jaime took it back. "And what better service could it ask for than to defend his daughter?"

"Not sure how much defending it will do," Jaime said, standing. "I'm not the swordsman I used to be."

"Still better than most, I'm sure."

He scoffed. "Now you're coddling me."

She hummed, wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her head on his shoulder; she refused to let any of this get to her. How tired of it she was.

"I asked my father, and he agreed that Tommen should come with us," Jaime whispered after some time. He sounded afraid of the very words he spoke. "What would you think of that?"

Tommen. The little boy with a heart of gold, Jaime's son through and through. She'd give him the world if she could.

"I think it's perfect."

She felt him sigh in relief, and was warmed by the small smile on his face.

Oberyn

He had never liked large gatherings. It was not that crowds bothered him, far from it, in fact. Ever since he was a child, Oberyn could take command of a room with ease. In his youth, he had done so with tricks and shouts, now his reputation did the work for him, turning eyes and hushed words in his direction as quickly as a shout. The challenge now laid in keeping eyes from him.

No, he misliked such events because they often bored him. A few men gathered in a room could be open and honest with one another, direct in their points without fear of repercussion. But the more in attendance, the less the words meant in the end. It was a series of empty flattery from one person to the next, fearful of the ears present, saying as little with as many words as they could.

He'd never had time for such things. Even Doran, with all the patience of the Mother, would have grown restless at such affairs.

But even the Red Viper had to admit he was finding an unusual amount of entertainment at the king's betrothal feast.

There was an air of awkwardness to the party that could not be escaped, no matter how deep into their cups the attendees were. Between the controversial marriage of Jaime Lannister to Myra Stark and the unorthodox methods King Joffrey used on...anything, really, the entire court was walking on eggshells, and it showed. With nervous glances at every sound and even the slightest raised voice met with silenced conversations and curious eyes, it was clear that King's Landing was waiting for an explosion of sorts. They expected someone to die, or at least lose a title or digit.

It amused him, how accustomed to the world these people were. They were soft, raised in lavish homes where they never onced needed to fend for themselves. Even the hardened veterans were quick to forsake what they had learned for comfort.

Now, Oberyn was under no illusion that he had not grown up in the lap of luxury - he had dispelled himself of that nonsense years ago - but Dorne may as well have been Flea Bottom to these people. Their bodies were soft, their bellies overripe fruit set to burst; their hands bore no calluses and many would not have known the weight of a sword, save for ceremonial purposes. They were fat, spoiled children, and watching them flinch at words made him smile.

"I have been with you for many years," Ellaria said quietly, whispering in his ear as she wrapped her arms around his waist. "And borne you four beautiful daughters, and yet, some days, I feel as though I do not know you."

He chuckled, grabbing a hand and kissing its knuckles. "You know me well enough, my love. I am a simple man of simple pleasures."

"There is nothing simple about your pleasure."

He laughed again, catching the attention of Mace Tyrell. His face was always so red, and redder still at the sight of him. How the man hated him for crippling his son, Willas, though it had been entirely accidental. Oberyn had since taken up a cordial relationship with the boy, maybe even friendship if one looked at it right, but the Lord of Highgarden cared not.

Doran had thought Willas might be the bridge to mend the hatred between their houses, but with his sister so close to the throne now, and their plans with the queen across the Narrow Sea, he did not imagine that bridge lasting long.

"And now I have lost you again."

"Forgive me," Oberyn said, turning about in her grasp. "There are far too many memories here."

And far too many reminders of what needed to be done.

Crossing in front of them was one such complication to their plans: Myra Stark.

He did not mislike the girl - what few words he had shared with her had been pleasant enough - but her little affair of the heart had certainly made things interesting.

Oberyn and Doran had a rough idea of where the battle lines would be drawn for their plans. The Tyrells and the Lannisters would be a united force with the upcoming marriage, leaving the Westerlands, the Reach, and the Crownlands as fields of battle. The Riverlands could, perhaps, be swayed to their cause, if they restored the Tullys and rid them of the Frey invasion, perhaps the Vale as well, and the Stormlands were still under Stannis Baratheon's control, but rumor was he had fled north. The lands would be weak. The North, he had thought, would be one of those swayed. The Mad King may have done their people ill, but the Lannisters had taken Lord Stark, his king son, and his brothers, replacing them with a traitor lord. Surely the new wounds festered worse than the old.

But then Myra married Jaime Lannister and the lines began to shift.

She had relation to the Tullys and the Arryns, and was still considered the queen to many Northerners. They were like the Dornish in many ways: stubborn, hard, untrusting of outsiders, and though their king had bent the knee centuries ago, many resented the idea still. Robb Stark had given them that taste of freedom, and if fighting for the Lannisters would help them keep it, they might well do that, bad blood or not.

Oberyn sighed. He hated thinking about 'what ifs.' That was Doran's battleground, but the closer they drew to their plan, the more his mind lingered on it. Perhaps this was the way madness lied.

"Lady Stark, might I have a word?" Oberyn asked, drawing her away from whatever young lord was attempting to speak with her. He was a cowardly thing, quickly fleeing the conversation when he caught the Red Viper's eye. "Or is it Lady Lannister now? Such things are hard to keep track of."

Myra could only shrug, the embroidered lions on her bodice rising and falling. "Depends on you, I suppose. Those who seek my favor choose Lannister, and those who would remind me of my place choose Stark. I imagine you don't fall into either particular category."

Oberyn grinned. Sansa had been right. Her sister knew people well.

"Lady Myra it is, then," he replied, gesturing to Ellaria. "Have you met my paramour yet? Ellaria Sand."

"Not properly, I believe. It seems we are always passing one another," the girl replied, taking Ellaria's hand without hesitation. "A pleasure to finally make your acquaintance."

"That would make you the first," Ellaria teased.

"I will add it to the list of unusual traits everyone has deemed me in possession of. At least I find no fault in this one."

She was kind indeed, even after everything, though he could see the sadness locked deep behind her gray eyes. It reminded him of Elia.

His fist clenched.

"Tell me, where is your lord husband?"

Myra gave him a brief suspicious look. "I believe his cousin, Lancel, took him away, though where, I am not sure."

"You look as if you pity him."

"You haven't met Lancel," she replied flatly. It made Ellaria laugh softly.

The conversation - all of them really - was interrupted by a loud whack! Hands went to hilts as attendees searched for the origin of the sound, only for them to break into awkward laughter as they witnessed Joffrey carve up a set of books, all while his uncle, Tyrion, watched on, a disappointed but unsurprised look on his face.

"That is a fine sword the king carries," Oberyn said when conversation picked up again, noting the unmistakable veins of Valyrian steel. Though still rare, they had been more common in Essos. Merchants liked to claim they'd ventured into the Ruins of Valyria themselves and pulled their wares from the rubble, when really it was an old trinket stolen from some man who'd won it in a game of chance from a man who'd taken it from a corpse and so forth and so on. Few deemed a journey to Valyria worth the danger, and fewer still returned.

"It was my father's sword," Myra said quietly. He could hear the anger in her voice.

She excused herself quickly, comforting her good-brother in a corner of the room and keeping him from downing an entire pitcher of wine in one go. Ellaria departed soon after, seeking out Nymeria on his behalf. His paramour would not be missed, but the absence of a Dornish prince was less forgivable.

The outburst had done much to ease the tension in the room, leading wary lords and ladies to believe they had been through the worst of it, so they returned to their boring flattery and shrill, fake laughter. That was how Oberyn found himself on the balcony, overlooking King's Landing, an empty goblet in one hand.

A breeze blew through his hair, and he wrinkled his nose. It still smelled of shit.

"I never thought to find the Red Viper of Dorne hiding," a woman's voice spoke behind him. It did not surprise him to find Cersei Lannister when he turned. The arrogance in her voice gave it away.

Oberyn leaned against the railing, gesturing inside. "My place is on the battlefield. This is a war that no one can win."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Cersei replied, standing beside him. Her golden hair blew gently in the breeze, and she seemed not to notice the smell. "I've won a battle or two on that particular field."

Oberyn regarded her as she took a sip of wine, resplendent in her golden dress with iron fixings to her waist and shoulders.

"I do not doubt that."

He recalled traveling to Casterly Rock as a boy, when his mother thought to have him betrothed to Cersei, or Elia to Jaime, whichever proved more beneficial. He remembered the way she tortured her little brother, how Jaime had to hold her back. She was a vile thing then, and though the mask covering it had grown more intricate and beautiful, she was a vile thing even now. Sometimes, he thought of what life might have been had Lord Tywin not dismissed them, and he pitied the man he saw.

"I would like to thank you for keeping Myrcella safe," Cersei said quietly. Perhaps she hoped no one would hear such a kind gesture from her.

"She is a kind girl, and she flourishes in Dorne," he replied, catching glimpses of the girl's golden hair through the doorway. She'd scarcely left Trystane's side that evening.

"She is a woman grown now," Cersei conceded. "Far more opinionated than I recall her being. Far more honest."

He was well aware of what opinions she spoke of, though he was not fool enough to mention it.

"I have several daughters. Trust me when I say this was inevitable," he said, examining his goblet closely. Even it had lions. "Lies do not get one far in Dorne, neither does flattery. It all burns away in the sun, until the honest truth is left."

"Then let us be honest with one another, Prince Oberyn."

Much like the Imp, he was disappointed, but not surprised by the direction the conversation was about to take. No one in King's Landing spoke without cause, least of all Cersei Lannister.

"I know she is here," Cersei hissed, voice as high as she dared. The feast inside was loud, but there were ears everywhere. "My father may be willing to overlook Dorne's treason, but I am not. Whether she is in that whorehouse or on your ships, my men will find her."

"And then what?" Oberyn asked with a shrug. "What would the mighty Cersei Lannister plan to do with a girl of ten and five? I am quite curious."

Briefly, the queen was taken aback, the look on her face entertaining. That was not the response she expected.

Oberyn chuckled. "Did you expect me to deny it? To beg you to call off your men with some favor? I may not be the smartest of my siblings, but I am not one of your prancing fools either. The realm is almost at peace, and you wish to fan the flames out of what? Jealousy? Spite? Do you really believe that you will be the victor in this?"

"You're quite confident for someone at a disadvantage," Cersei replied, her gaze cool. "Dorne is weak. It always has been. Mention war, and House Lannister will give you one. An empty desert is all that will remain."

"Dorne is not all desert, you know. Far from it, in fact," Oberyn replied, smiling wryly. "You are a clever woman, Your Grace, I will give you that. Far more so than most of these lords and ladies, but you have a fatal flaw: you think that no one can better you. You probably don't even believe you have an equal, save for Lord Tywin, but perhaps not even him. No one sees the same pieces you do; no one draws the same conclusions.

"But we can all see it, and more importantly, we can see you fumbling in the dark, pretending you have a light."

He moved off the railing then, not in the mood for whatever insults she would choose to spit at him.

"Dorne was not cowed by a dragon, Your Grace. It won't bend to the whims of a lion without claws."

Jaime

He'd never much liked his cousin, Lancel, a wisp of a boy who'd turned into a smaller wisp of a man, though apparently his wounds at the Battle of the Blackwater could be blamed for that. No matter. He was still a craven boy who stumbled over his words and relied on his family name to get him through life. Uncle Kevan adored his firstborn nonetheless. Jaime supposed eventually one of the Lannister brood had to love their children.

When Lancel requested they speak in private, he'd thought to say no. Leaving Myra alone for even a moment with the vultures did not appeal to him, not to mention he was leery of the reason, thinking it might have been a trick of Cersei's.

But with Myra happily engaged in conversation with Ser Garlan and Cersei's attention fully focused on Joffrey - not to mention the newfound interest he noticed Mace Tyrell taking in him - Jaime decided to take the risk, allowing his cousin to lead him away.

And lead him away he did. Through hall after winding hall, his cousin bade him follow, though the going was slow. It was his first time walking unassisted and it showed. Half a dozen times, Jaime thought to demand they stop, but the further they traveled, the more curious he became, and all the more suspicious.

He should not have left alone, he realized. Brienne had been at the feast, caught in an awkward conversation with the Queen of Thorns. She would have gladly joined him. Olyvar and Podrick had lingered on the outer walls with the other squires and pages. Either of them would have done. Just another hand to replace his.

When he'd finally met the end of his patience, Lancel finally brought them to a halt, in a small sept used more by servants than anyone else.

"Never took you for the jesting type," Jaime remarked, glancing around the small space. It could fit no more than ten, perhaps twelve at a time, but still had the man-sized statues of the Seven, the Crone, the Warrior, the Smith, and so forth.

It was the Mother his cousin stopped before, whispering a quick prayer before he faced him.

He wants mercy, Jaime realized. But for what?

His hand went to the small dagger at his side.

"You'll have no need for that, cousin. I promise you," Lancel spoke, slowly, like a man possessed, not his whimpering cousin. "Please forgive the delay. I find the sept gives me better strength these days."

Jaime blinked, relinquishing the dagger.

He would have preferred an ambush.

"Then what do you want?" he asked, albeit reluctantly. Whatever curiosity he'd had was gone now, but he had come this far.

"I should have died of my wounds, did you know that, cousin?" Lancel asked, looking to the Father. Gods, they always had a speech. "Every maester said as much. Ballabar, Frenken, Pycelle, even that queer Qyburn you brought to King's Landing. Yet here I stand, alive and blessed."

Alive, yes, with the withered, dry hair of a dead man, and the gaunt as well. He looked more like a corpse than a man.

"If this is an attempt to get me to atone for my sins, I'm afraid I'm not much for confession."

He'd already confessed nearly all his sins to Myra anyway, and it was her forgiveness he desired, not some god that stood still and unseeing in their halls. She was flesh and blood and kindness beyond what the pampered septons preached. If she deemed him worthy, it was all he needed.

"No, cos, it is I who must confess," Lancel said, turning to him. "Though I laid all my sins bare before the High Septon, I feel it is not enough. I must confess properly, to those I have wronged."

He took a step too close and Jaime found his hand on the dagger again.

"You're too deep in your cups, that's all, Lancel."

His cousin shook his head, blonde-white strands barely moving with the motion. "I've not had a drop since the Blackwater."

Suddenly, Lancel was on his knees before him, a motion so swift and sudden, Jaime nearly smacked him with his golden hand.

"Lancel, get on your feet."

"I must confess to you, cousin."

"I am no septon, Lancel, get on your feet."

When the boy still refused him, Jaime grabbed him by the collar and forced him up. He was so light, he would have never needed both hands.

"I always wanted to be you, Jaime," Lancel admitted with a sigh, held up by nothing but his arm. "And when you were gone, lost on Dragonstone and then in the Riverlands, I was so close. Joffrey had made me a knight, and I wore the armor with pride. I had a station, men, the queen's confidence, and…"

He stopped then, paling, and now Jaime could see the cousin he always knew. Even the Seven could not shake the cowardice from him.

"And what?" Jaime suddenly snapped, feeling a pounding in his ears, the anger beating against his chest. A voice whispered ideas in the back of his mind, but he quieted them. He needed to hear it. "And what, Lancel?"

"And her," he whispered, glancing around the room as if the statues would come forth and rip him to pieces. "I had her."

He saw red, and then Lancel was against a wall, feet dangling, held by the one hand still.

"What do you mean, you had her?" he asked through gritted teeth. It was all that kept him from shouting.

"There...there was never a...a bastard, I sw-swear it, Jaime. We were careful."

Jaime dropped his cousin, if only to wrap his fingers around his neck. If he tried hard enough, they might have touched on the other side.

"Who else have you told?" he demanded.

"N-no one," Lancel croaked. "Only the H-high Septon."

"It had better stay that way," Jaime hissed, squeezing. "Or I will finish this."

He stormed away then. Blinded by rage, he might have wandered through the Red Keep twice over, it did not matter. It did nothing to cool his anger.

Perhaps he should have simply finished it then. The feast had last seen them together, but who would suspect it? Cersei? She wouldn't dare confess.

Kinslaying was the worst of offenses, he had been told once, but what if it was for the sake of other kin? What was a cousin next to a daughter or a son?

Myrcella and Tommen, they would be ruined by the truth. The rumor that Stannis had brought down upon them would resurface, and what further proof would they need than Cersei bedding their cousin? Kevan once said Lancel almost looked like him from a certain perspective. Clearly his sister thought the same.

Gods, how many weeks, months had he fought to get to her? How often had he dreamed of being in her embrace again? Her memory had gotten him through many nights. Before Myra, there had only been Cersei.

He did not love her anymore; he could say that in confidence. His anger was for the poor fool who had, who firmly believed they were meant for one another, the other halves of the whole.

How sweet the words had sounded, and how sour they were now.

Somehow, Jaime managed to return to the feast. The first person he spied was Cersei. She was speaking with the Stokeworths, and not enjoying a single moment; he still knew that much about her. Her hand gently rested on the arm of one of the Kettleblacks, and he could not help but wonder…

No, it no longer mattered. None of it did.

It was only the waste of over half his life…

A glowing beacon of distress, Myra was at his side in an instant, her face flushed from drink. She'd been attending to Tyrion, no doubt.

"Jaime, what is it?" his wife asked. His beautiful, loving wife. Myra would never take another man, or so he told himself. For now, at least, the cripple satisfied her.

He caught Cersei's gaze, and even she flinched at the rage in his.

"Jaime."

He blinked. "Find Lady Brienne. Tell her to meet me in the armory."

When he stormed back out, Myra followed, grabbing his good hand and pulling him back.

"You will go nowhere until you tell me what has happened," Myra spoke, sounding much like the woman he had come to love while on the run, when she'd grown fed up with this antics. If only they were there now. "What is wrong, Jaime? You're trembling."

Was he? He could not feel much anymore.

"It's nothing. It's…" he sighed, taking in Myra's disbelieving gaze. No more lies. Not with her. "We're safe, I promise. I just...learned something."

"Something from Lancel? What was it?"

"I can't tell you, not now," he said, grabbing her shoulders. "You won't like it, and I don't want to say it in the wrong way. When we are free of this place, I'll tell you everything."

Myra nodded once. "Alright."

He kissed her on the forehead quickly, and turned to step away, but once again, his lady wife was too quick for him. She grabbed his face with both hands and held him there, staring at him with those round, gray eyes of hers, before kissing him properly.

"I'm yours. Remember that."

Even when she did not know, she knew. The neverending wonder that was Myra Stark.

Sansa

For days, she'd watched the wedding party slowly trickle into King's Landing. Knights adorned with feathers in their helms and silks across their armor, ladies with dresses of Myrish lace and fine jewels from Lys. Squires and pages had run amongst them, no older than her brothers would have been, wearing fine, bright colors that clashed with the simple clothes of the common folk, yet the people always shouted in awe and sang praise. By day, they would throw petals over their fine visitors and by night, they would dance in merriment.

It sickened her.

She knew how these people lived, the worst of the worst, and yet they still found it within themselves to praise those so high above their station, as if the finery and pomp was specifically made for them.

This was the life she had dreamed of living, and now she could scarcely look at it.

She didn't dream of anything now. Dreams were too fine a thing, too valuable to guarantee. She had ideas and plans, maybe even hopes, but Sansa Stark no longer dared to dream.

Oberyn and Ellaria had gone to a feast for the upcoming wedding, leaving her alone again. It seemed all of King's Landing had somewhere else to be. Even the brothel had fallen quiet. It began to unnerve her, hearing next to nothing so late in the evening. She even jumped when a light knock fell upon her door.

"Might I enter?"

Littlefinger had returned.

Though they had not spoken since that day, Sansa knew something had passed between them, an agreement of sorts, though she had not uttered any such words. He had spoken to those small plans and hopes she had buried in her heart, but she did not yet wish to take that final step. There would be no going back, and she was not certain where it would lead, or when she may be able to stop.

If she was able.

She might have stayed in Dorne, waited for word from her sister. They would have traveled to Casterly Rock together, lived happily with whatever they had. Myra would have found her a suitable husband, a good lord from a good family, who would treat her well and care for the children she bore him. The scars from the war would fade, the pain would dull, and the nightmare of her youth would be just that.

It sounded more a dream than anything else set before her.

Sansa crossed the room, unlatching the door and allowing Littlefinger entry. He entered quickly, glancing about the place with an inquisitive eye before turning to her. There was something about his stance that made him seem excited. She almost ventured to say giddy.

"My lady, you look lovely this evening," he said upon turning to her. She thought to dismiss his words, but thought better of it.

"Yes, I thought to attend the wedding in this gown," she replied, watching the corner of his mouth rise.

"Would that you could, but you may find yourself the fortunate party. Weddings can be such dull affairs."

"Is that why you're avoiding your nuptials?" Sansa questioned. "Is my Aunt Lysa so terrible a bride?"

"Far be it from me to say anything about my intended, but there are affairs I must conclude first, and then I shall be away to the Eyrie," he said, taking a step toward her. "Preferably with you at my side. King's Landing holds nothing for you here."

"And the Eyrie does?"

"Impregnable, untouched by the War of the Five Kings. It's not the Reach, but the Vale is as good a place to start as any."

"To start what?"

"The climb."

She watched him carefully, more wary of Littlefinger than she ever had been. There were no lies here - as he had said before - only the honest truth: he had a goal, and he was well on his way to achieving it.

"Come with me," he said abruptly, giving her no chance to reply. "The brothel is empty, and I have something to show you."

Had it been any other time, she might have hesitated, but Sansa had been confined to her room for far too long. Fears of discovery had kept her within those four walls. Had Jaime brought her to court, she might have been spared, but Cersei and her men would not be so kind. Anything to hurt her sister; anything to harm her family further.

Even Littlefinger's whores were nowhere to be found in his establishment, the air almost clean for once. She spied curious, overturned goblets, as if they had fled suddenly, but not once had she heard anything of the sort from her seat by the window, her only solace since arriving.

"It occurred to me that my words may mean nothing to you, as honest as they were. After all, who would dare work with a man such as myself, especially after the wrongs I have committed against you."

They stepped beside an unassuming door, the dark wood barely catching the light of the candles frequenting the place.

"Allow me to rectify that," he continued, pushing the door open.

Sansa remembered the woman, a memory from an age ago. She lived in Winter Town. Theon had ridden with her on the back of his horse one day. He'd said something she had not understood, and Robb's face had turned as red as her hair.

And now she was dead, like all the rest of them.

"I sent her to entertain the king for the evening. A fine wedding gift."

She could tell. Ros bore the bruises befitting a cruel child such as Joffrey. She also bled. Small wounds on the skin, yes, but also from her nose, her eyes, her ears…

"They call it The Long Farewell," he whispered just behind her ear. "Here is your truth, Sansa. Like I said, this is not about trust, but here is the beginning of everything. Imagine where it might end; imagine what you could accomplish."

She felt her lip twitch. "I thought you told me weddings were a dull affair?"

He actually laughed.

.

.

.

Actually, the idea of Littlefinger genuinely laughing is really terrifying to me.

Questions: (yeah, remember these?)

Bookipedia: I have a question, will you try to humanize Cersei in the story?

I do agree with you, the show humanized Cersei much more, made her far more sympathetic and a much more loving mother. Which is fine, I guess, but I personally love using her evil side. I'm not going to make her purely a villain. You will (hopefully) understand her motivations behind what she does, but I also don't want to sacrifice how utterly vile she can be in order to make her relatable.