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Jaime Lannister still cannot believe that this is happening. One moment, he is in King’s Landing, going about his usual business as a member of the Kingsguard, the next moment, he gets news that his little brother is held hostage at the Vale at the hands of Lysa Arryn.

While not surprising to hear about that woman having yet another moment where temper gets the better of her, it did strike even Jaime as odd that the Lady of the Vale went as far as to take his little brother hostage. A son of Tywin Lannister is no prisoner you make easily, because it inevitably leads for the wrath of the Lion of Lannister to come upon you, even high up in the Eyrie.

Once he received the news, Jaime had a horse readied for him at once, gathered some of his men, and off he was, past the gates of the place now his home without further prelude, without another thought on his mind other than getting to his brother as fast as possible.

Jaime just hopes that the news didn’t reach him too late. Ravens tend to take their time, and from the sound of the message written with hasty fingers, Lysa is more than eager to follow through with her threat, even if that means the lion will be biting at the roots of the Vale until the Eyrie rains down from the sky.

Just what would that madwoman want with Tyrion anyway? And what would enrage her so very much that she’d risk a war against the Warden of the West? Jaime cannot make sense of it other than that madness has gotten the better of her, but beyond that, he cannot figure just what would drive Lysa to do such a thing.

The Lord Commander knows he is bound to find out once he makes his way inside the great halls of the Eyrie now occupied by the widow of Jon Arryn. However, they barely got past the Bloody Gate some time back, the way ahead still a thin stripe on green grass, cutting through the landscape like a thread, no more. The way to his brother and his safety is still long – and Jaime hopes that it isn’t too long.

You better stay alive, little brother, or I will have to kill you myself.

Jaime gives his horse the spurs, shouting at his men to ride faster, frightening images of a small body lying dead in a corner, hidden away by the shadows. While he prides himself fearing no one and nothing, there is one thing that has Jaime break out in cold sweat – the idea that something may happen to his family. Because that is the only thing that remained over the years, is the one thing that will remain.

He gave up everything else when he took the White. There is just his service to the King, however much that is worth, and ensuring his family’s safety. That is all there is. That is the one duty worthwhile, the one he will gladly fulfill till his last dying breath. Thus, to only ever imagine what it would be like to have that vow broken, that promise taken away from him, chills Jaime to his bones, forcing him to move faster, to push his horse even harder, so not to give actual shape to his fears that mostly remain obscured, hidden away in those shadows that now spit out images of Tyrion’s small body dead in a corner out of his reach.

While the Arryn’s house word says As High as Honor, Jaime doesn’t count on Lady Arryn’s honor being high. Quite on the contrary, he tends to have a strange sort of faith in her spirits being high to make someone fly – and fall very, very deep.

“Stop that! Even a short man like me can fall deep!” Tyrion pouts when one of the guards escorting him to the great hall gives him another rough push in the back, which he is sure is bound to leave bruises.

Not only did they have the effrontery to lock him up in one of their wicked sky cells, which sound much more poetic than they are in reality, Tyrion may add, but now they continue with their game of humiliating the dwarf. He almost rolled out of the wondrous sky cell ten times throughout the night as Tyrion tossed around in his restless sleep, for they lack an entire wall, so that, perchance, some prisoners take care of their execution without further ado and just roll down the slightly slanted floor to the ground far, far below.

“You are free to take a leap,” the guard says with a grin tugging at his chapped lips.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Well, sadly for you, I hold my own life quite dear. And I am yet to find out why your dear Lady Lysa seeks to take that precious gift of life away from me,” Tyrion retorts, shaking his head as they go on.

“Maybe because you talk too much,” the other one says.

“I am short. I do not wield a sword. The only weapon I have is my mouth,” Tyrion argues.

Jaime is the one to fight those battles for me – but where is he?

“And you yet have to learn when to leave that sword sheathed,” the second guard points out to him, which has Tyrion chuckle back, “You may have a point there. Who could have guessed that wisdom awaited me, travelling past the lips of a man who is missing half of his front teeth!”

The guard looks at him, blinking, but the pulls the corners of his mouth into an angry grimace, making sure to hide his missing teeth now, which has Tyrion laugh ever the louder, no matter the push that gains him as a result.

That is very well worth the bruises.

They reach the great hall, their echoes following them. Tyrion looks around, noticing that quite a few people came to watch the spectacle, which shouldn’t really surprise him, Tyrion is aware. There is likely not much going on at the Vale, safe for some runaway goat that found its way up the hill every once in a while – or whatever or whoever the Lady means to toss through the infamous Moon Door. A dwarf awaiting trial is likely the most interesting thing that happened around here in years.

The guards push him forward so that Tyrion almost falls over, if not for him having anticipated the slight, which is why the dwarf only staggers forward by a few steps before he can catch himself. Tyrion looks up to see Lady Lysa on her throne, dressed in her finest robe, carefully arranged around the seat as though she was waiting to be carved out of marble, her son by her side, moving more like a monkey than a boy his age.

The youngest son of Tywin Lannister has heard the stories about how Lady Lysa still lets the lad suckle on her teats, which may be the one rewarding thing in this whole mess – to think that such madness exists in the world makes Tyrion feel much better about his own madnesses and disabilities. What is dwarfism compared to letting your well grown son still suckle on your teat as though that was the only milk he could drink?

“My soldiers have let me know that you are willing to profess your crimes, Tyrion Lannister,” Lysa says in a dramatic voice, gesticulating wildly, seemingly in a vain attempt to give more gravitas to her words.

“Yes, on that matter, Lady Lysa, you must excuse, but I seem to have little recollection of the exact happenings of the time. Thus, it’ d be most kind of you if someone were to do me the favor to repeat all of my heinous crimes so that I can profess them. I would not want to miss something in my tiredness that seems to come from almost falling out of your fancy cellars so many times.”

Tyrion wanted to wait for Jaime to come and rescue him, but the longer he was bound to stay in the sky cells, the more certain Tyrion grew that he was going to fall to his death before his brother ever set foot upon the Vale. Thus, the conclusion seemed rather straightforward to the youngest son of Tywin Lannister – he claimed that he wanted to confess his crimes to face punishment, if only to get out of the cellar at last.

“You and your friend set a barn on fire, you destroyed property an lifestock, your friend got into a fight with our good people, you drank and defiled our women…”

“Did we? The last I remember is singing bawdy songs with wine in hand, hoping for that one barmaid to open her front laces for me,” Tyrion argues with a grin. “But those women, for all I remember… did that professionally anyway. And as to the burning of the barn… I can’t recall any of that.”

“We have witnesses,” Lysa argues, being full of herself as ever.

“All of whom are people very much devoted to the Vale and its Lady, I assume,” Tyrion huffs. Anyone would bear witness to whatever crime there may be so long the price is right or the danger is great enough.

Every man for himself, Tyrion learned that lesson long time ago.

“As are all those living at the Vale of Arryn,” Lysa tells him. “In contrast to your family, we have good people here, who answer their deeds in best faith, and hold honor as high as it should be.”

“But what if they just believe that I did that? It’s entirely possible that they are just misinterpreting everything, Lady Lysa, for I have no recollection to verify or belie what those good people mean to testify in my stead.”

“Three people say that they saw you do it – I believe that this is… good enough reason to believe that they are speaking the truth,” Lysa argues.

“Why yes, but I also once saw my sister’s head mounted on a spike, the crows picking her pretty eyes out. Though sadly, I mean gladly, that was all but a dream,” Tyrion argues with a smile tugging at his lips.

“So, you mean to say that they all dreamed the same dream at the same time?”

“You cannot rule out that possibility, my lady,” he insists.

“We have proof. The barn, the women, the broken furniture. And we have witnesses, my good people of the Vale, who have seen you with your demonic work.”

“Demonic?” Tyrion repeats.

Now, that is new.

“How else would we explain it if not with the devils having their hands in this?” she retorts through gritted teeth, seemingly fed up with him already. “Will you now do as you said and confess your crimes? Or else the guards will be happy to escort you back to your cell, to put you to sleep.”

Tyrion always knew the woman had no patience whatsoever.

“I tend to think that I will remain restless in that place. So… sure, I will profess my crimes. All of them, I have done every single one of them. Your men, so very honorable and righteous beyond a doubt, have the rights of it, and had it all along. Oh, I am a vile, little dwarf who does heinous things, as befits his wicked nature. I confess it!” Tyrion shouts atop of his voice, giving it his best performance.

“So you confess yourself guilty of the crimes.”

“Yes, yes, yes!” Tyrion cries out, putting every effort into his act.

“Which means that you are to face justice,” the Lady of the Vale concludes, a smirk tugging at her lips.

“Speaking of that, Lady Lysa, I think justice can only be served if we go by the old rules made by the Gods, or am I wrong?” Tyrion questions.

“You mean to say?” she asks.

“I demand a trial by combat,” Tyrion calls out, now sure of his victory.

It only takes Bronn and his sword skills to get him out of this place, Tyrion is most certain of that – he’s seen the man fight for him before. Bronn talks dirty, thinks dirtier, but fights the dirtiest if need be. Which is also partly why he grew so fond of him after they ran into each other while he was on the road an got into a bit of trouble… only to find in Ser Bronn the kind of companion who doesn’t ask questions so long you have enough coin. And if there is one thing that the Lannisters don’t lack, then it is solid coin to pay for other people’s services.

And once that deed is done, Tyrion will treat his black-haired companion himself a flagon of wine, or two, or three… and then see about Jaime to tell him of this gruesome tale that will, by this point of time, already be part of history.

And we will laugh till we shed tears.

“You will receive no such thing,” Lysa retorts.

Of course she wasn’t going to make it easy on him, he was aware already back in the cellar, though Tyrion hoped that they could cut things short after all. He just wants to get out of this wicked place, and perhaps stay away from the wicked place called him home a while longer.

“Lady Lysa, you yourself asserted that justice needs to be served. And it cannot be served if you do not abide the old rules that we all live by, and I believe, no, I am most certain of it, that you would not mean to anger the Gods by forbidding what is good right to anyone who confessed his guilt before them,” Tyrion argues.

“The Lady has spoken, halfman,” the guard with missing front teeth hisses. Tyrion turns slightly on the heel, a smile on his face, as he replies, “But the Lady is none of the Seven the last time I checked, good man. I demand that I get at least a proper trial, if I am to be charged for crimes I actually did not commit, as is granted by the Seven.”

“You just confessed that you did it!” Lysa shouts.

“To get a trial, of course. I rather have a chance to prove my innocence than rot away in a sky cell. I do believe that this is a rather straightforward reaction,” Tyrion retorts, his patience wearing thin. The woman cannot be sincere.

“So you will not admit to having destroyed the property? The innkeep had to see you two urinate…,” Lysa means to say, but Tyrion gestures at her to stop, which she gladly does. Tyrion sucks the inside of his cheek into his mouth, contemplating.

“That… I may have done, I will admit it, but that other things of demonic nature you keep mentioning? I am as innocent as a newborn babe, suckling on its mother’s teat… well, in your case…,” Tyrion says, nodding at Robin. Lysa almost jumps up from her seat. She stands up, her wrists shaking as she speaks atop of her voice, “My good people. This mischievous creature is trying to fool you all, so do not listen to his lies, spoken with a forked tongue. He brought bad to the Vale, he brought the Curse here! The fire was only just a sign of the evil he bears in his wretched heart! And thus, it is up to us to make sure that the Vale stays a safe haven for its people as it has always been.”

“What curse now? Dwarfism is not contagious, in case you were not aware,” Tyrion huffs. “Neither does it catch fire.”

The guard with missing teeth grabs his arm, pulling back the sleeve roughly, to reveal the skin beneath. Tyrion frowns at himself.

The young Lannister man stares down on a greenish mark on his arm that he cannot remember having had the last time he checked. “Now, that is new.”

“That is the Mark of the Curse, my good people! That is the mark for those who are doomed, who bring about the Great Other threatening young and old, boy and girl, rich and poor! He came here, a stranger, and he brought with him not just his vile nature, but also the curse that may now wreak havoc upon you good people! And so, if we want the Vale to stay the safe haven it has been for centuries, we must rid ourselves of this pest,” Lysa declares, the people quickly catching up on the spirit. Their murmurs start to rise to demands to have him gone, to keep the Vale safe of the Curse that seems to chill them to their bones.

Though Tyrion would not know a thing of it. He has never heard of the Curse he now seems to bear, or how that mark came on his arm.

Maybe a little less wine next time… if there is such a thing…

“Oh, I would be on my way at once,” Tyrion argues, trying his best to conceal his growing nervousness. “Give me leave now and you will never see me again, Lady Lysa, I can assure you of that.”

“You do not understand, Tyrion Lannister,” the Lady of the Vale argues. “The Curse you brought, it need to be cut out, like infected flesh. We cannot just send you away, or else the Vale will suffer for it. That is the nature of the Curse.”

And the men and women agree with her, the murmurs full of approval for the madwoman’s words. Tyrion would love to curse them all, but now is not the time, he knows.

The youngest son of Tywin Lannister licks his lips. “But still, you must abide the Gods. If you don’t toss me through the Moon Door, you must at least grant me a chance to prove my innocence in trial by combat. Or would you mean to say that the Vale, as honorable as it is, would mean to break with such tradition, with the Seven?”

There is a moment of silence flitting across the great hall, only the faint sound of the wind whistling through the crevices of the stonewalls audible.

“He shall have his trial by combat,” Lysa orders. “He will not succeed. Who would fight for him anyway?”

Tyrion blinks. “Uhm, where is the good man who was with me? Because he would be my first choice…”

“In the cells, still,” the guard replies with a grin.

“I seem to think that he would like to best for me in battle. He is quite an enthusiastic fighter, I daresay,” Tyrion says, chewing on his lower lip. “So, if you were so kind to fetch him for me…”

“You are free to choose any of the good soldiers in this very room,” Lysa says with a self-certain grin. “No exceptions will be made. And I will not wait for someone to come to your rescue, halfman.”

“Well, I would rather have the one I know would fight for me,” Tyrion argues. “And he happens to be only… a few corridors away. I tend to think it’s not asked too much to have one of your good men fetch him for me.”

“With your clever tongue, I bet you can talk one of my men into your service,” Lysa taunts him. “You will have to choose one of them, now or never.”

“That is unfortunate…,” Tyrion mutters, looking around, breath hitching. He can feel beads of sweat running down his temples. That was not what Tyrion expected when he declared to profess his crimes. He thought he’d long since walk out of this place.

Jaime, where are you to save your little brother from his own wit? Now would be the time!

“Well, if no one wants to speak for the Imp and best for him...,” Lysa chimes, but that is when suddenly, a knight steps forward, cuts through the crowd of people like a sharp blade, all of whom are busy gaping at the tall man approaching with heavy footsteps chinking over the stony ground.

Tyrion tilts his head to the side as he watches the man approach, whose face lies behind his drawn visor, allowing Tyrion no single glance at the man who managed to get all attendants’ attention with just a single move of his feet.

All Tyrion can say about the man at present is that he is tall, even taller than Jaime, who is already considered very long in frame by some. While of course, anyone seems tall to a dwarf, that man exceeds that measure by far.

The dwarf’s irritation only grows when the man won’t speak a single word, for he expected a speech to follow that dramatic entrance, but no such thing happens. Instead, the mystery knight draws his sword, letting only ever the blade sing for him as it comes out of the sheath, and taps the tip on the ground before him, seemingly to indicate that he will best for him, only ever letting silvery steel sing the words he does not utter.

“Is he mute?” one of the guards asks, still stunned.

“I’ll take any knight, so long he bests for me in fight!” Tyrion shouts out jovially. “Good man, I am forever indebted to you – and be certain of that, a Lannister always pays his debts. Win for me, and you shall be greatly rewarded for your efforts.”

The mystery knight makes no indication of acknowledgment, but instead picks up his sword again, turning in Lysa’s direction, waiting for her to give the orders. The Lady of the Vale, still rather stunned, says breathlessly, “Ser Vardis – you have found your enemy.”

Ser Vardis Egen approaches, furnished in finest armor and silks. Compared to that, the mystery knight, despite his dramatic entrance, seems almost a comically poor example of his profession. The armor bulky and not very well fitted to the man’s frame, over with scratches, the metal lackluster, the sword as simple as it can be, the pommel no more than a plain disk, the visor and helmet over with smaller and bigger dents, making it seem very much out of shape already.

Jaime always prides himself in having a clean armor, indicating that he didn’t receive too many blows in battle. However, Tyrion knows better than to judge a book by its covers, or a knight by his armor. So long that man is willing to fight for him, Tyrion will cheer him on and believe him to be the next Arthur Dayne or Duncan the Tall.

“So, to be sure, Lady Lysa, if my knight wins for me, I will get to leave the Vale, along with my friend charged for the same crimes?” Tyrion asks, meaning to make sure. He is not taking any chances on that matter, and Tyrion knows that a single word, a single phrase, can make the difference between life and death.

“Yes,” Lysa declares. “But you will not win this fight, for Ser Vardis is one of the most able men of the entire Vale. And the men of the Vale are the best soldiers known in the Seven Kingdoms.”

“And I have your word?” Tyrion questions another time.

“Yes, of course,” Lysa retorts, clapping her hands together. “Let the fight begin!”

Though her son seemingly wants to have some say in it at last, too. “And do I get to send one of them whooshing through the Moon Door, mommy?”

Lysa strokes over his head. “No, my darling, maybe the next.”

“But I want to!” the child pouts, which has Tyrion only ever grimacing at this… show, let’s say.

“I know, my sweetling,” Lysa says, pulling him close to her chest, to which Tyrion has to try very hard not to laugh, not wanting to risk to have the Lady of the Vale change her mind now that she is finally moving the way she is supposed to in order to ensure his freedom.

The mystery knight seemingly doesn’t mean to waste anymore time, but comes charging at Ser Vardis, who has a hard time parrying the first blow sent his way, which has him staggering backwards already. Tyrion hoots in anticipation and growing hope – the knight proves to hold much more than the armor promises, thank the Seven.

Jaime could probably name all of the attacks, the cuts, the move, but Tyrion couldn’t care less so long his knight wins for him – and for what he can see, the man is doing the job outright, allowing Ser Vardis no single break as he keeps raining down on him without relent.

Though of course, Tyrion has to wonder why that many appeared to help him. He directly opposed the Lady of the Vale. If the knight were a local, that would likely get him discharged once that battle is over. So why would he risk a steady place, a home – in favor of a dwarf he doesn’t know, son to a family that is despised by most?

As glad as Tyrion is to know that someone is fighting that quarrel for him, as much irritated he remains at the man’s motivation to best for him in fight. Bronn would have done it, knowing the reward, but the mystery knight never asked for coin, never settled the price.

Just what makes you move? Tyrion wonders. What is that you truly want?

He is ripped out of his thoughts at a shout that does not come from Ser Vardis for once. The man of the Vale seemingly managed to cut through the knight’s defenses to slash down on the mystery knight’s shoulder. Tyrion winces as he can see blood trickling down the armor of where the blade struck flesh hidden beneath the joints of the metal plates.

However, the knight goes on anyway, either not caring, or not daring to care, raising the heavy sword with one arm, which still does enough damage to push Ser Vardis back some more. Tyrion watches with a grimace at the man’s arm limply hanging to the side. Two arms are better than one, so far even his understanding of battle strategies goes.

Ser Vardis manages to assault the injured side to gain some ground again, pushing back with as much force as he can muster, believing himself now in a clear advantage. The mystery knight staggers backwards, which was Tyrion worried that the man will land on his rear and end up like a turtle you turned on the back, but the man regains his footing after some side steps, seemingly letting Ser Vardis rain down on him, only parrying as much as is needed not to receive a blow, but making no attempt to cut back.

Tyrion listens to the other people cheering Ser Vardis on, Lysa’s spawn shouting over and over that Ser Vardis should push the “evil man” through the Moon Door along with the “evil imp,” which Tyrion would take offense in if not being a slight coming from a boy suckling on his mother’s teat.

“Get back at him! You can do it!” Tyrion shouts, not knowing what else to do but to offer some small encouragement. His eyes remain glued on the man fighting for his life, now pushed up against a statue of a weeping woman carved out of white, veined marble. The mystery knight gets pushed up against the statue as Ser Vardis gains more and more the upper hand in the battle, raining own on Tyrion’s contestant without relent or mercy.

Tyrion’s breath hitches, the air catching in his throat. This is no good. His mystery knight cannot lose now, or he will lose, too. And Tyrion doesn’t want to lose his life just yet – or any time soon, for that matter.

To his surprise, the mystery knight suddenly side-steps, which catches Ser Vardis off-guard the same way, resulting in him cutting the stone lady’s thigh instead. It has a moment of comedy to Tyrion as the two almost dance around the statue, Ser Vardis trying to get the better of the knight by cutting through, only to cut that poor statue instead. However, that is when Tyrion understands – the mystery knight is trying to wear Ser Vardis down by having him exhaust himself, seemingly counting on his own stamina to exceed that of the man of the Vale despite his injury.

Tyrion’s little hands ball into fists, praying to the Seven and the God of Wine and Tits that his mystery knight will have more endurance to spare than Ser Vardis, looking as formidable as a knight cut from marble the likes of the statue he keeps cutting against as he keeps raining down on Tyrion’s last hope of survival.

A slash to the weeping woman’s face has sparks fly high in the air, the mystery knight using the momentum to tackle and push Ser Vardis away, sending him staggering and, subsequently, on his rear.

“Now get him! Get him!” Tyrion shouts.

He has him! He saved my life! Gods be good! Gods be good!

But the mystery knight is now looking at the statue instead of Ser Vardis already scrambling to his feet. Tyrion keeps shouting at his contestant to leave the statue for later, though he can catch a glimpse of what seemingly got the knight’s attention – something shining beneath the stone that is most definitely no marble, revealed thanks to Ser Vardis’ blow to the poor woman’s face.

“Cut him down now! I will have that statue as a gift, but end it! End it now!” Tyrion shrieks, not knowing what else to do to bring his contestant to move.

The mystery knight remains transfixed on that bloody spot, like a magpie ogles at a piece of silver, though. Tyrion opens his mouth to scream in the vain hope to somehow snap the man out of it.

However, that is when the doors behind them burst open with a shriek of the wood and the hinges. All turn their heads in the direction. Tyrion cannot see who just moved inside thanks to tall people blocking his way – which is nearly always the case – which has him jumping up and down a bit to perhaps capture a glimpse at the more than welcome distraction.

Tyrion catches sight of a flash of white, and then of gold.

“Jaime!”

The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard turns his head towards the familiar voice, glad to spot his little brother healthy and alive, if a bit roughed up, for all he can judge, but alive no less.

“What is going on here?” Jaime demands to know, instantly assuming authority in the room. “Answer me at once!”

“She wants to kill me!” Tyrion shouts, pointing at Lysa, who stood up from her seat upon his entrance.  

Jaime glances at the battlefield before him in confusion, not yet knowing how to make sense of what is happening before him right at this moment. While he reckons that Tyrion somehow talked himself into a trial by combat, the scene itself is only ever irritating him – because that knight is by no means Bronn, and Jaime cannot imagine that anyone would fight for his brother for no more than good spirit and the faint chance of some gold only ever promised verbally.

“This ends right now,” Jaime declares, stepping closer.

“But I was about to win!” Tyrion argues vehemently, much to his older brother’s annoyance.

“You will shut your clever mouth now,” Jaime hisses, before he turns his attention to Lysa. “What is this madness about?”

“He confessed to be guilty of the crimes we charged him for. I granted him a trial by combat, until you interrupted,” the Lady of the Vale replies, her eyes no more than narrow slits.

“And you should be glad for it that I am, Lady Lysa,” Jaime replies. “You can likely very well imagine that my Father, Tywin Lannister, is not going to be pleased to hear that you hold his son hostage and mean to kill him based on some nonsense charges without proper trial.”

“He demanded a verdict by the Gods, not I,” Lysa argues, which has Jaime turning to Tyrion with a growl, “That was not nearly as clever as you thought it was.”

“I didn’t want to die falling out of a sky cell,” the younger man insists.

“You should have waited,” Jaime mutters.

How is he supposed to protect his family if they keep getting themselves into trouble all the while?

“Ser Jaime. It is my good right to have him charged for his misdoings, for they were committed in my realm. He admitted to his sins, and is to face trial,” Lysa argues, pulling attention back to herself.

“And what will become of him if he is to lose that trial?” Jaime demands to know.

“She wants to sacrifice me,” Tyrion shouts, glaring at the red-haired woman.

“Sacrifice you? To whom?” Jaime asks with a grimace, to which the younger man does no more than shrug at him, seemingly having no answer to that question yet either.

Jaime licks his lips. “Lady Lysa, we’d all do best to relieve this situation at once. Give my brother leave and all of that will be forgotten about, I vouch for it, by my honor.”

Jaime does his best not to turn his head at the chuckles rising behind him at the mention of his honor. He knows that it’s a common joke apparently spreading across all of the Seven Kingdoms that he is a man without honor after he slew his own king.

However, Jaime tries his best not to concern himself with the opinion of the sheep, his father should be proud of him, but instead focuses on the weapons he has, on the mission he is to achieve, and forget the rest.

“You seem to forget that I do not forget, Ser Jaime, and that I did not forget about the crimes your heinous brother committed,” Lysa argues vehemently.

“Just what did you do to her?” Jaime hisses.

Tyrion shrugs again, which does not necessarily help to raise Jaime’s spirits at this point.

“For a man who never shuts his mouth, you are rather mute now,” he grumbles.

Jaime wants to say something else to Lady Lysa, when suddenly, he can hear the sound of a sword connecting with stone. Jaime whips his head around to the battle scene that he left neglected for the moment, only to see a man with drawn visor having his foot on a Vale soldier’s chest, a sword right over his throat.

“Yield,” is the one word he can hear, the voice raw and strained, muffled through the visor, though higher than he expected it of a man that size. The soldier of the Vale beneath him whimpers and writhes as the man keeps pushing down on the breastplate, cutting off his air.

“I, I yield. I yield!” Ser Vardis whimpers pathetically.

“See, it worked!” Tyrion hoots.

“You shut your mouth,” Jaime snaps.

“Lady Lysa, your Ser Vardis has lost to my contestant. You gave me a promise!”

Lysa stares. “Ser Vardis! You said you would fight to death for me!”

The mystery knight removes his foot from the soldier, and helps him stand, giving a brief nod.

“We are waiting. Will you mean to deny the Gods, my lady?” Tyrion challenges her.

Lysa stammers something incomprehensible, before she gathers herself. “The Gods have spoken. Take your man, and all of you, leave the Vale, leave the Vale and never come back!”

She looks at the knight sternly. “I do not know you, Ser, but if you had any intention of ever dedicating your sword to me, you have forgone that chance. Be gone! BE GONE!”

“I think we should listen to what the lady says,” Tyrion chuckles, though to Jaime, this is truly no joking matter. He watches wordlessly as Bronn is tossed to their feet by the exit.

“What? And no kiss? And here I thought we became such good friends,” Bronn pouts, dusting himself off as he stands back up before turning to Tyrion. “You owe me for this.”

“You only had to sleep in a sky cell, stop complaining,” Tyrion grumbles, to which Bronn smacks him across the back of the head.

“I heard your complaining from my cell. For that alone I deserve a fortune,” Bronn tells him, looping his thumbs through his leather belt.

“Will either of you now explain to me just what you did?” Jaime hisses through gritted teeth, fear for his brother growing into fury very fast.

“We did nothing, in fact. We stopped by an inn, got drunk…,” Tyrion argues, and Jaime completes with a roll of his eyes, “As always.”

“As always indeed. And soon thereafter, I found myself being dragged to the Vale, by my feet! Imagine that! They said that we committed some crimes while we were drunk. I would not admit to them, of course, so they threw me into the sky cells without proper trial,” the younger brother explains, gesticulating wildly.

“We should better get out of here. Or else the Lady may reconsider another time,” Bronn argues, looking back at the gate.

“We really better should,” Jaime agrees.

That is the first sensible thing he has heard ever since he stepped into this madness his little brother somehow managed to create.

They make towards where they left the horses. Tyrion catches from the corner of his eye that the mystery knight, who has silently walked after them, is doing the same, though his horse is tied to a tree a bit further to the left.

“My dear mystery knight, I still haven’t properly thanked you for your services yet,” Tyrion calls out, hopping over to where the mystery knight is dragging his boots over the ground, the reins tightly embraced as he moves forward. “You fought marvelously, I may add.”

The man just walks beside him wordlessly, his footsteps slow and heavy as they drag over bare stone.

“Maybe you want to catch a break to see after your…,” Tyrion means to say, but the man pushes ahead of him, shutting down the conversation before it ever gets a chance to unfold, mounting his horse as swiftly as can be expected of a man of such physique.

“Reluctant, that one,” the dwarf comments, somewhat amused while at the same time also intrigued.

He loves riddles.

“Tyrion, with me!” Jaime orders sharply.

“What? I don't get my own horse?” the younger brother cries out as he whirls his head around to face Jaime.

“That is what happens when you get yourself into a trial by combat by getting dead drunk and somehow… forgetting where you left your horse,” the older man retorts, not in any way interested in arguing with Tyrion about the matter.

“This is so undignified,” the small man whines.

“I imagine that there was not much dignity when they got you at the inn,” Jaime huffs.

“I drink and pass out with much dignity,” Tyrion laughs, but his brother doesn’t seem to be in the mood for joking.

“If you want to believe that,” Jaime sighs. 

“He slobbered,” Bronn laughs.

“That’s what I thought,” Jaime huffs. “Now come, and don’t be difficult about it. We will see about a horse for you once we are out of here.”

Tyrion groans as Jaime helps him into the saddle, before mounting the steed himself.

Together, they make their way down the Vale, and eventually past the Bloody Gate, Jaime all the while lamenting about his brother’s foolery and risky behavior.

Only once they are past the gates does he dare to take a deep breath. For Tyrion, this might be a joking matter, a great story to tell once it is time, but it’s not to Jaime.

He spent that entire journey, fearing that he would come to collect a small corpse.

He spent every step up to the Vale fearing that he was coming too late.

He spent his time fearing that there was no way that Tyrion could protect himself, only to learn that if he had kept his feet still, he wouldn’t have been in such a trouble.

“I assume that we will not celebrate our freedom at an inn?” Tyrion asks, holding on to his brother’s back.

“You assume right, then,” Jaime replies drily, giving his horse the spurs.

He just wants to leave all of those unspoken fears behind, keep them far away, leave them to the Vale to consume.

They continue in silence for a long while, the only sound being that of horse hooves stepping over thick, wet grass or sharp pebbles.

Only once Jaime has the feeling that enough distance was put between them and the Vale that now contains all those fantasies of what could have been if he had come too late, does he allow for a break.

“And after that, we will see about finding ourselves an inn to stay the night at,” Jaime goes on as he dismounts his horse. “Preferably not the one from which they fetched you, Tyrion.”

“I don’t remember which one it was,” the younger brother shrugs as Jaime lifts him off the horse, rolling his eyes at him. However, then his attention is drawn to the stranger knight, who unmounted his horse to sit down on a big stone set right by the dirt road, stretching out his long limbs. The man looks beat, to say the least. Jaime noted earlier already that the man took an injury to the shoulder, but he reckoned the man wanted to get out of there as fast as possible, too, which is why Jaime did not press the issue, but now that they take their break, it seems like it is time to see about that.

Jaime steps over to the mystery knight, letting out a shaky breath. He doesn’t know this man, and yet, this knight was willing to risk his life to protect the fool of a brother he calls his.

It’s been quite some time since I last saw a true knight, Jaime thinks to himself. Far too long, actually.

“I think now is the time to properly thank you for risking your life on my foolish brother’s behalf,” Jaime begins, letting out a light cough. “While we don’t have a healer amongst us, I think any of us can manage to see about that wound you suffered in combat.”

He points a gloved finger at the man’s shoulder, though, to his surprise, the knight who has not yet removed his helmet once only ever shakes his head, the metal squeaking under every movement.

“Ser, that wound should be treated. I assure you that we won’t keep you for long, but it’s the least we can do for you. And of course, we still have to talk about what price to pay you for the debt we owe you and your act of bravery in times of dire need,” Jaime goes on.

The man waves at him with his good hand, signaling him “no.”

“Or we could take you with to the next town to see about a healer if that is what you preferred?” Jaime offers. “We would obviously cover the expenses.”

But yet again, the man only shakes his head. Jaime tries hard not to sigh. That man saved his brother’s life, but this is getting ridiculous. Jaime doesn’t like to owe people a debt. Not only because it’s part of his house’s motto, but because he doesn’t like the thought to be unable to repay the man who saved one of his family.

Because his family is the only thing Jaime cares about.

He is pulled out of his thoughts when the man stands up abruptly, motioning over to his horse, which was busily eating grass, but turns its head at once when its owner approaches.

Well trained steed, that is.

“Ser,” Jaime tries another time, but the man simply continues to mount his horse, his footsteps unsteady, but nonetheless resolute. Once steady in the saddle, the man taps his visor wordlessly to signal his departure.

The men all stare at the knight as he turns the horse. The man seems to take one more moment to look at them, then over at the Vale, but then ducks his head, gives the steed the spurs, and holds on tight to the reins as the horse starts in Eastern direction.

“Thank you!” the Lannister brothers call after the man as he rides off. They watch until the man has flitted away once he rides past the outskirt of a grove.

“So? I think we should seek out an inn. It’s getting dark and I need wine,” Tyrion says, still looking at where the mystery knight could be seen last.

Jaime gives him a stern look. “No wine for you.”

“Oh please, they aren’t going to get me again. Now you are here!” Tyrion argues.

“No drinking, no feasting. The only thing you will do is to explain to me just how you achieved to bring the whole Vale up against you to the point that they wanted to have you killed,” Jaime snarls.

“Not killed, sacrificed. I don’t know what that was about, I swear it, brother! Lysa kept saying that I was cursed and that I would be made sacrifice for the Vale. That is all I can tell you,” Tyrion insists, shrugging his shoulders.

Jaime blinks at him. “What?”

“You guys don’t travel around nearly enough to know shit,” Bronn says, shaking his head, arms crossed over his chest. The brothers turn to him with a grimace.

“What now?” Jaime asks.

“That’s what the folks do. They sacrifice other folks to the White Walkers,” Bronn tells them. “Of course they don’t teach you that at fancy lad school or fancy lordling school.”

“What? They don’t at the capitol,” Jaime argues.

He would know about that – and as Lord Commander, surely would have intervened.

“And not in Casterly Rock,” Tyrion joins in.

Bronn shrugs his shoulders. “Then that means you are lucky bastards, but elsewhere, the White Walkers get them all the while, or the folks give them to him, I don’t know. Though I always though it was fair maidens they took. Seemed more fit.”

“Well, I am hardly a maiden,” Tyrion argues, making a face.

“And you are hardly pretty, too,” Bronn huffs.

Tyrion glares at him, which leaves the sellsword more than unimpressed.

“So Lysa wanted to make him a sacrifice for the Vale?” Jaime questions.

“Seemingly,” the black-haired man replies, kicking at a pebble lying by his feet.

Jaime curls his lips into a frown. “Then why would she write to me?”

He was irritated, to say the least, that he received a message by the Lady of Vale. If she wanted to rid herself of Tyrion to remove the ominous curse, then why would she bother giving him a fair warning?

“I am past the point to question her choices. That woman is mad,2 Tyrion huffs, gesturing at his head.

“Sacrificing people to the White Walkers… Just what do they think will that achieve? As though that would keep them away from the Seven Kingdoms,” Jaime says with a grimace.

He heard that a few have been seen as they roamed on this side of the Wall, but seemingly just few in number, without attacking the towns, without trying to take over as the tales once foretold. When the matter was brought up to King Robert, he arranged for the next hunting trip, which hardly surprised Jaime as he stood vigil and heard the King’s advisors pushing him to take some measurements to at least investigate.

I might just as well have allowed the fat oaf’s Warhammer to rule and it would have been about as effective as Robert’s reign has proved to be.

“Well, what else is there?” Bronn argues with nonchalance. “If the White Walkers keep away as a result… what is one girl by comparison?”

“I guess you wouldn’t say that if that girl happened to be your daughter,” Jaime argues. “It’s always easy to say if it is someone you don't know.”

“I don’t have children,” Bronn replies with a grin.

“Not yet,” Tyrion argues. “Or rather… not that you know.”

Bronn waves around with his hand. “I will just make boys, easy as that.”

“They almost had my brother sacrificed,” Jaime tells him. “So that plan doesn’t seem too sound.”

“Because he is stupid and gets himself into trouble,” Bronn says.

Jaime smiles, a bit amused. “And you think you can keep the stupid out of your children?”

“I’ll tell them that either they are smart enough not to get themselves into trouble, or they are going to die and I am going to leave them there to do just that,” Bronn explains, puckering his lips.

“You will be a wonderful father, I am sure.” Jaime shakes his head.

“Let’s better hope I don’t,” Bonn snorts. “Into that shit world? I guess it’s actually an act of mercy not to bring children into.”

Jaime says nothing at that, just looks over the green plains, letting out a sigh.

Doesn’t he have a point, though?

A world where White Walkers roam around and take fair maidens and where highborn ladies may want to see a high lord’s son executed just to serve said monsters that should rather starve than be fed.

Though Jaime must say, he didn’t know it was that bad. Though that seems to be the issue if you only ever hear the echoes flitting across the Red Keep. You come out of touch with the world out there, with the people outside. Or maybe Jaime made it too easy on himself, not questioning what sounded more like distant rumors than anything else?

Jaime falls back into silence as they get ready to head out again, glad for it that neither Tyrion nor Bronn try to pull him into a more jovial conversation.

And so they make their way to the next best town that comes into sight, though the disappointment is ever so great, because the innkeep won’t give them shelter, seemingly having gotten the orders from the dear Lady of the Vale.

“I should have guessed as much,” Jaime sighs as they ready their horses, having been rejected at the last inn that was open to their choice.

He hoped that maybe the people didn’t yet hear about Tyrion’s supposedly great crimes, but one should not underestimate how far gossip can travel even in just a few days’ time.

As a result, even if Jaime may have succeeded to get them a room, they would not give shelter to Tyrion. Even Bronn’s suggestion to hide him in a bag did not turn out successful, particularly because Jaime’s younger brother resolutely refused.

“So what do we do now?” Tyrion asks, his eyes on his big brother the whole time.

“We will make camp for the night in the wilderness,” the older man says, gesturing at the forest framing the small town.

“The sky cells were perhaps not the almost bad,” the younger brother says with a grimace.

Jaime narrows his eyes at Tyrion. “We can very well arrange to have you back in one.”

“I think I will pass,” the younger man replies, wrinkling his nose.

Once the horses are readied and all are back in the saddle, they proceed into the woods as the light of day starts to be swallowed by the canopy. They eventually find a vacant clearing far enough away from the city so not to attract the attention of the people who’d likely like to use their pitchforks on them now that they know that “the little devil” is in their company.

Soon, a fire is lit, and bread and wine from skins are shared among the men huddled by the warm flame as the leaves dance in the wind.

“I want to wash off that cursed mark,” Tyrion grumbles, still furiously rubbing at the greenish stain spreading across his lower arm.

“You ain’t wasting wine or water on this. Find yourself some puddle to bathe in,” Bronn tells him.

“You are always so generous,” Tyrion grumbles, rolling his eyes. “That stuff itches.”

“I just don’t waste valuable resources on you, especially the liquid kind.”

“I think I saw some small pond over there,” Jaime says as he walks over to them, after unsaddling his horse. “C’mon.”

Tyrion hops off the log he sat on to hurry after Jaime, who already starts to walk ahead wordlessly.

“Are you just going to treat me with silence for the rests of the journey?” Tyrion questions after a while of quiet walking after his older brother, who doesn’t even seem to bother to look at him.

“It’s not like you would keep silent in turn,” Jaime huffs, not turning his head at all, but just keeps pushing past branches and twigs.

“If you have something to say, just say it, dear brother,” Tyrion sighs. “It does not take my apparent intellect to understand that you are… not particularly pleased with this little situation.”

“Little situation? Little situation!” Jaime snaps, only to walk a bit faster.

“We are all alive… we get to make camp under the stars… it could be worse,” Tyrion argue, trying his best to keep up with his brother’s speed. Normally, Jaime is mindful to keep his pace, but right now, fury seems to drive him forward so much that even what seems to be natural instinct for Jaime otherwise.

Oh yes, he is angry. Very angry, Tyrion thinks to himself as a small branch his older brother pushed away almost smacks him across the face.

“Jaime, please, if you want to be mad at me, do so, but don’t run away. I have the shorter legs,” the younger man sighs, and to his relief, his big brother slows down his pace at once, letting out a small growl.

“… I still cannot believe that you got yourself into such a situation. All the way to King’s Landing to here for this,” Jaime snarls.

It’s not bad enough that he had to fear for Tyrion to wind up dead, now he also has to come to terms with his little brother’s ignorance of that very matter.

You could have died, Tyrion, he wants to say, but does not. You could have died and I would have failed to save you.

“I am sorry for the inconvenience. Though I reckon a holiday does you good,” Tyrion replies, brushing some fallen leaves and dirt off of his shoulder.

“You consider that a holiday?” Jaime huffs.

“Well, you are not standing vigil as King Robert takes a shit or whores around. You are not at the capitol… To me, that is very much like a holiday,” the younger man replies.

“Having you almost die thanks to your own stupidity is not,” Jaime retorts.

“I am many things, dear brother, but not stupid.”

Jaime looks at him for a long moment, but then starts to walk ahead again. “Tells me the oh so smart man who almost got himself killed by getting drunk.”

“What a worthy death that is for those faithful to the God of Wine and Tits,” Tyrion laughs, gesturing around wildly.

“Your precious God of Wine and Tits better save you from drowning, or else I will do it in the next best puddle we find.”

Tyrion only ever smirks. “Do not humor yourself, brother dearest, you love me by far too much to do such a thing. Look at you, chasing across the continent only just to save that pitiful little dwarf. You must love him dearly.”

“I love him more than he seems to be deserving of it,” Jaime sighs, stopping in his tracks.

“Oh, such harsh words,” Tyrion laughs, meaning to push ahead o the older man, but that is when Jaime holds him back by the shoulder, his free hand travelling to his sword.

“What is…?” Tyrion asks, but Jaime cuts him off, “Shht.”

Tyrion looks around, wrinkling his nose, but then he can hear the sounds that seemingly got his brother’s attention, too. They sneak closer to where the noises come from, motioning closer and closer to the small pond Jaime wanted to take Tyrion to.

Both whip their heads around at a horse whinnying.

“I think I remember that horse,” Jaime mutters as he spots the animal tied up by a tree close to them. “That of your mystery knight.”

They step closer, but then stop when they spot someone by the lake, flaxen, unruly hair matted to the head from sweat, which seems almost silver in the dim light of the small fire in the back, tall in frame, cursing, prodding at the bloody shoulder. Tyrion already wants to make his big entrance by calling out to the mystery knight who took off before he could properly thank the man, but is held back when Jaime blurts out saying, “Is that… is that a woman?!”

And suddenly, the serenity of the moment is broken up as the mystery knight whirls around, grabbing the sword at once to lunge forward at whatever enemy may have come his… her way.

The Lannister brothers can do nothing much but stare as the mystery knight transforms to a freckled woman, mannish and tall in frame, but most definitely not one of their sex, in front of their eyes.

Nostrils flaring, but hands as steady as ever, the woman aims her sword at them, looking both furious and fierce in the dim light, Jaime notes.

The older Lannister brother is the one to overcome his paralysis first, giving his sibling a shove to step closer to the light. The woman’s eyes dart through them as they approach, but once she recognizes their faces, some of the tension bleeds out of her features.

“It’s us,” Jaime greets her, offering a crooked sort of grin. “We didn't know the pond was already occupied… my lady.”

“I am no lady,” is the one reply he receives as the mystery knight lowers her weapon, sheathing it with a shaky breath on her chapped lips.

“I believe there may be some matters to discuss now,” Jaime goes on.

“I don’t know what there is to discuss. Whatever business you have to do here, do it, and be quick about it, but other than that, I owe you no explanations, Ser,” the woman retorts defensively, shoulders hunched, breath hitched, seemingly much more terrified at the idea of being revealed to be a woman than fighting Ser Vardis in a duel that may have meant her own demise.

“I am aware that you owe us nothing. As we both said, we are indebted to you, but you may be able to imagine… well, our surprise,” Jaime argues, gesturing at her.

“Deepest apologies for not being the man who saved your brother, but the woman who did it. I imagine the shock must be nearly unbearable,” the younger woman retorts, her big blue eyes sparking at him as though they were on fire.

Quite a feisty one, Jaime thinks to himself, a bit amused.

“Have I done something to you, or why are you so infuriated with me?” he asks. The woman looks at him for a long moment, the muscles in her broad jaw flexing a few times, before she replies, “I… I would just like to be left alone. I still have things to do before I head back.”

“Such as doing a poor job at treating your injury, you mean?” Jaime laughs drily, pointing his finger at her injured shoulder, which is still more of a bloody mess than anything else.

And while he keeps his tone light, Jaime feels guilt creeping up his neck because the woman suffered that injury because he wasn’t there in time to get his brother out of this mess before it came to the duel.

“I have been treating my own injuries for quite some time, Ser. I know how to do this, thanks for the concern,” the blonde woman replies defensively.

“How about I tend to your injury while my brother washes off his cursed mark, and after that, you are free to head your ways? Hm?” Jaime suggests.

“What would you want in exchange for that?” she asks, her big blue eyes full of suspicion.

Just what have I done to her that she thinks I mean her harm already? Jaime thinks to himself, but then it dawns on him: He is the Kingslayer, after all.

“I… you did listen to what I said, yes? A Lannister…,” he means to say, but the tall woman is quick to cut him off, “… Always pays his debts, I am aware, but I am also aware that services do not come free of charge, especially after I refused the offer, and refuse it still. And as I said, I don’t need your help.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t use it,” he argues.

The woman lets out a huff, then a sigh, only to curse under her breath again.

“Just so that you know, my brother rarely takes ‘no’ for an answer,” Tyrion tells her with a small smile tugging at his lips, quite amused with the dynamic.

The blonde studies him for a longer moment. “Neither do I.”

“You see? You already have something in common!” Tyrion laughs.

The tall woman tilts her head to the side slightly as she looks at the younger man, then back at the older of the Lannister brothers. “Just what is the matter with you two? Are you mad?”

“Oh, to tell you everything that is wrong with us… you’d have to spend the night,” Tyrion snickers.

The woman lets out a shaky breath. “Seven Hells.”

“Is that ‘Seven Hells’ meant to be a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’?” Jaime asks with a grin.

The woman doesn’t answer, but sits down on the ground with a thud.

“Tyrion, wash up now,” Jaime orders.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t want to get an actual curse mark!” Tyrion agrees, giggling, as he proceeds towards the small pond, which shines mother-of-pearl.

Jaime slowly moves up to where the woman sat down as defiantly as one could, making sure not to upset the young lady with fiery eyes. She is not bad with the sword after all, and her reflexes are undeniably sharp.

“Did you already clean it?” Jaime asks as he takes a look at the rather deep gash.

“Yes,” she replies curtly, not daring to look at him for only just a second.

“That may need some stitches,” Jaime points out to her as he inspects the wound.

“It doesn’t,” she insists, already meaning to draw away if not for Jaime’s grip on her shoulder preventing her from it.

“Will you oppose me now on anything I say?” he sighs.

“I oppose you whenever I disagree,” she points out to him.

“So the answer is ‘yes.’”

The woman chews on the inside of her cheek. “Presumably.”

“That still needs stitches, though,” Jaime tells her, having no intention to back down. She snaps her head around to look at him, her eyes no more than narrow slits as she speaks, “Just wrap it up. I need to head out. I have lingered for far too long already.”

“Tyrion? Why don’t you work your oh so great convincing skills?” Jaime calls out to his brother, who is still busy scrubbing at his arm while at the same time being quite intent on watching his older brother struggle to talk reason into that stubborn woman.

“I am busy washing up! That stuff won’t come off at all!” Tyrion pouts, flashing the still visible green smear across his forearm.

“You just have to scrub harder,” the woman calls out over her shoulder.

“But I don’t want to rub my skin off!”

The blonde woman rolls her eyes, shaking her head as she turns away again.

And if Jaime is not mistaken, he can hear her mutter “pathetic” under her breath.  

“May I ask for your name?” Jaime questions.

“You may ask, but not expect an answer,” is the reply he receives, much to his growing irritation and confusion.

Just what is wrong with that woman?

They are trying to be helpful, and this is how she thanks them?

“What great secret may your name hide?” he huffs.

“One you’d never know,” she retorts with an edge of fury, but then looks at him coolly. “And in any case, as far as I am concerned, you of all people should know of the power of names.”

Jaime frowns as his fingers keep working on her wound with trained hands. “How so?”

“Well, you tell me, it impacts you to be known as the Kingslayer, does it not?” the woman answers. “So I tend to think that I have the rights of it by keeping the weapons blunt meant to strike at the name I call my own.”

Jaime sucks the inside of his cheek into his mouth wordlessly.

“As you will, then,” he says. “But don’t you complain if your wound reopens and you bleed to death.”

She legs out a sigh, looking at the dark woods ahead. “I don’t fear death anyway.”

“Only fools don’t fear death,” Jaime snorts, a bit surprised just how little the woman flinches against the odds of the deep wound she suffered in the battle.

“That’s always rich coming from you, dear brother!” Tyrion calls out, laughing.

“Don’t you have other to do than undermine me?” Jaime retorts.

“I am not deaf!” Tyrion answers. “And I am apparently able to scrub and listen to your verbal squirming at the same time!”

Jaime shakes his head as he focuses back on the task of wrapping the blonde woman’s broad shoulder as tightly as he can, hoping that it will do the trick to stop the last bleedings that have not yet subsided.

She should really better let me do some quick stitches.

“So, since I don’t know your name, may I still ask what you wish to achieve at the Vale?” Jaime asks as he pulls on the bandages.

“You may ask…,” she means to say, but he cuts her off. “We’ve been there before. No reason to repeat it.”

“It’s none of your business,” the woman hisses.

“Well, you will most likely end up getting yourself killed if you go back, or do you sincerely believe that they will welcome you with open arms after you defended my brother in front of the entire entourage?” Jaime argues. “Be reasonable, woman.”

“No, and I don’t wait for them to open their arms, unless to cut past their defenses,” she replies through gritted teeth. “With my sword.”

“Why risk your life that way?” Jaime asks.

“Well, I wouldn’t have to, if they hadn’t thrown you out of the Eyrie,” she retorts.

“Well, you bested for my brother on your own accord, so you don’t get to complain now. Or do you sincerely think they would have let you stay, had you slain Ser Vardis instead of just having him yield?” Jaime argues.

The woman says nothing in turn, which Jaime takes as a small victory for himself.

“And in any case,” he goes on. “If you are sincere about going back to the Vale, you should consider taking the offer I made before.”

She looks at him. “Which is?”

“That I help you,” Jaime answers simply.

“I am better off alone, have been for all my life,” she argues defensively. “I don’t need your help, Kingslayer.”

“Oh, how you wound me, wench.”

She glowers at him. “I am not a wench!”

“You damn well behave like one…,” he snaps, but then calms himself, letting out a shaky breath. “The point is this: You will get yourself killed without a doubt if you go back on your own.”

“I defeated Ser Vardis,” she insists.

“I’ll grant you, you may be able to sneak into the castle, but if they catch you, you are dead, woman. With that shoulder of yours, you cannot hold a shield to defend yourself. Three men is all it takes to take you down, and knowing their fancy, it will be down the Moon Door.”

“I have my right arm to wield a sword with, still,” the woman argues stubbornly. “That is all it takes, that and endurance.”

“Your endurance works in duel, fair enough, but not if you are getting outnumbered by a bunch of soldiers of the Vale. Be reasonable, wench, that is a fight you will likely lose. I assume that you want to go back to the Eyrie for some higher purpose, or at least, you see it as such. You will not be able to continue that purpose, whatever it may be, if you are torn into a thousand pieces by the rocks beneath the Moon Door.”

She says nothing yet again, the fingers of her right hand tightening around her left forearm.

Jaime lets out a weary sigh. It’s not just that this woman seems to be pig-headed stubborn, but he can see a fire burning in her eyes that seems far too familiar to him, having caught it in the looking glass a number of times while gazing at is own reflection, the will to go on even when everything seems torn apart already, consumed by fire, hopeless.

And yet, you somehow find the power to put on a golden armor, draw your sword, and slay a dragon, even though that inevitably leads to your shame, a strange sort of death that leaves the body alive, but always bleeding, open like a wound.

“Look, whether you want to get yourself killed is none of my business, whatever higher purpose you may see in your mission, it is not of my concern, but… I can only repeat it: A Lannister always pays his debts, and I owe you beyond a measure for saving my brother for no other reason but protecting his life when no one else would. Had you not stepped in, they would have killed him, and I would have had no other choice but to… to gather the remains of him, torn into a thousand pieces, to carry back home and put into the crypts beneath the Rock.”

Behind him, Tyrion stopped washing his arm, blinking at his older brother, seemingly getting an idea at last just why Jaime was so furious with him.

The young woman before the Lord Commander studies him for a long moment, but then tears her gaze back around, tightening her lips around the lower phalanx of her thumb, contemplating, battling with herself inside her mind.

“I have to go, there is no way around it,” the woman says, shaking her head, her lips still wrapped around her finger.

“Then I will accompany you. I still have two hands and two arms to spare. That’s still better than one,” Jaime offers.

She snaps her head around to him, eyes wide, blue almost pooling out of them. “No way.”

“I think I have to second that, dear brother,” Tyrion interrupts, walking over to them. “We barely made it out of that place last time. Do you sincerely believe that Lady Lysa will show mercy with you if she were to catch you a second time?”

“What better idea do you have? You can see as well as me that there is no way this woman can be brought to reason. So that she goes is inevitable. And you’d stand as little chance as me to convince the Lady of the Vale if were to use just words and threats. Even you with your golden tongue will not talk your way back into the halls.”

Tyrion shrugs. “I will admit it, yes.”

“So, the way I see it, she is either going to die, getting back into the castle, or I help her, granting her at least a chance of getting out of this alive, in return for your safety. If things go well, no one is going to see us flit in and out of the Eyrie anyway, but if we get caught, I am still a valuable hostage,” Jaime explains.

“Oh, I am quite sure that if Father got the news of your capture, he would learn to fly to rescue you,” Tyrion scoffs. “Not that he would do that for me, but… for you? Most certainly.”

“Precisely,” Jaime says, nodding his head.

He wished his father had the same devotion for his little brother, but Jaime knows it isn’t the case. To Tywin Lannister, his dwarfish son is no more than a stain in his family empire meant to last a thousand years.

“This is surprisingly reasonable of you. Daring, but not without reason, I have to grant you that. Well done,” Tyrion chuckles. “And I mean, that whole bodyguard idea seems to be not just part of your profession, but your vey nature anyway.”

Jaime rolls his eyes at Tyrion, but then turns his attention back to the woman whose answer he still needs to hear. “So? What do you say?”

“I do not wish to have anyone involved in my affairs,” she replies.

“Of course that had to come,” Jaime exhales wearily.

“It’s as you said: It’s dangerous, Ser. You are the brother of the Queen, son to the highest lord in the Westerlands. What will become of me if I am responsible for, say, your demise?” the woman points out to him, and Jaime must say, there is at least a reason behind her stubbornness.

“Well, you’d die this way or the other,” Jaime huffs.

Tyrion leans in his direction. “Your way of reasoning is hardly motivating, dear brother.”

“It’s realistic,” Jaime argues.

He is not fond of giving people false hopes. He built up enough himself to somehow disguise the ugly truth right before his eyes.

“Will you let go of the idea if I told you no?” she asks.

“Not really. I am known fairly well for my stubbornness,” Jaime chuckles.

She shakes her head. “I can’t believe this.”

“Stranger things happen every other day,” Jaime sighs.

“Such as sacrificing innocent little dwarves to the Seven will know what Lysa had in mind with me,” Tyrion agrees.

“Wouldn’t it be wiser to send one of your soldiers instead?” she argues. “If you insist on the matter of repaying your debt in that fashion no matter what I say?”

“They are drunk by now, and… fairly useless when it comes to such tasks. They were not trained for such missions,” Jaime replies. He just gathered those currently available and not needed to the King’s protection. That left him with a handful of young knights who have yet to earn their spurs in battle.

“And Bronn is not helping by any means,” Tyrion adds. “I don’t think we have enough gold on us to convince him to head back into the castle another time.”

“Understandable. See where it got him last time,” Jaime huffs, but then turns to the younger woman once more, “So, I assume we are to head out to our secret mission.”

“I will not convince you otherwise?” the woman asks.

“Let me tell you – once my brother has decided on something, he will carry out the task no matter how foolish it may seem,” Tyrion chuckles. “Foolery seems to run in our family.”

“Quite so,” Jaime agrees.

The woman studies them for a longer moment, but then shakes her head as she stands, only to begin to put her armor back on.

“I would tag along if I was of any use…,” Tyrion says, but his brother interrupt him with a faint smile, “Make up some passable lie to the soldiers in case they are not yet drunk enough. Or else they may get some foolish surge of heroism they mean to put to use by trying to rescue their commander.”

Tyrion nods his head. “I will.”

And thus, after the woman slipped back into her chainmail, with the help of Jaime and under much glaring from her side, the two set out, back to the Vale as the moon still stands high in the night’s sky.

At some point, Jaime asks himself if he has gone mad, tagging after a woman he barely knows, on a mission he doesn’t know the purpose of. He shouldn’t be here. He should be on his way back to King’s Landing, back home. Instead, he is walking into a death trap his brother barely escaped, if not for the mystery lady knight now in his company.

“… So, while I know that you would rather not share any information whatsoever with me, I suppose even you have to agree that I should know what exactly we are looking for up in the Eyrie,” Jaime says after a while of silent walking.

The woman blows out air through her nostrils, the reluctance bleeding out of her. Jaime tilt his head to the side, not breaking eye contact for only just a moment. She looks at him for quite some time, but then averts her gaze, glancing at her boots instead as she mutters, “It’s… it’s the statue. I only realized today as Ser Vardis kept striking it that something was off with it.”

“So you want to steal the statue? Then we should have brought another horse,” Jaime huffs.

This must be madness!

“No, not the statue, but what’s inside it. I have been searching it for ages, but I had already given up all hope of ever finding it until this very battle. It was the Lady’s tears all along. A woman’s tears…,” she mutters pensively as they carry on their way up to the Eyrie.

“So, you have been searching for this stony lady’s tears for years?” Jaime frowns.

“It’s complicated,” she replies, which is an unsatisfactory answer, to say the least.

“I would have guessed as much. No one who is quite sane would go back up there for some tears a statue shed,” Jaime snorts.

“I am no madwoman, if you mean to imply that, Ser,” she argues defensively.

“We are all mad, it’s just the intensity that varies amongst us. You are not nearly mad enough to give me a fright,” Jaime huffs, trying to sound amused when really, he is not as familiarly painful images flare up behind his eyelids, painted in nothing but green and red.

That was something only ever Aerys managed.

They go on stealing through the night, cloaking themselves in the blackness all around them.

“I still try to wrap my head around all this. Why Lysa took my brother in the first place, you know. Or why she bothered sending me a letter to inform me of it, as though she was betting on me making it in time to give it a dramatic quality. Foolish thing to do,” Jaime mutters as they start to climb, making sure to keep off the usual paths so not to be caught.

“… Are you sure that was a letter sent by the Lady of the Vale?” she asks, much to his irritation.

“You mean to say?” he questions with a grimace.

The woman says nothing as they go on.

“Now don’t tell me you have your hands in this somehow. It bore the Lady’s wax seal,” Jaime argues. He should know. He read the letter many times, gripped it tightly as he read the words.

“You are aware that there are ways to recreate such seals passably enough for the common eye not to catch any difference?” the tall woman replies, not looking at him as she speaks.

Jaime gapes at her. “You did it?”

She says nothing once more, though this time to confirm what he is saying. Jaime stares at her in utter shock. “So you mean to tell me that… that you stole a letter of hers, got a negative of the seal, and then made a stamp of your own?”

“… That is how it is done,” she mutters, her eyes firmly set on the ground.

“Why would you do that?” Jaime questions.

“I’d hope the message would have reached you faster and that your brother would not have dared the Lady of the Vale to a trial by combat. I was in good faith that we’d have more time… for you to arrive and demand your brother back,” she explains. “All would have worked out, had your brother not challenged her.”

“But why? How?” Jaime asks, still trying to wrap his head around this.

“I was certain that one of your family would move up to the Vale at once to retrieve your brother,” she answers. “She had no good reason to hold him, even less so with the threat of the Lannisters declaring war on the Eyrie. I don’t think she would have chanced it, had she known of your arrival.”

“So?”

“So that I wouldn't have to do it. You see, Lady Lysa only ever sought out the chance to have him be made sacrifice as a foolish attempt to outsmart the White Walkers. The seers have warned her that someone would be sacrificed soon, or so I have heard from the people of the Vale as I rode through,” she replies.

Jaime blinks. “You mean to say?”

“The actual marks don’t wash off with water, Ser,” the woman replies as they keep walking. “If the seers are right, then someone will bear the mark, someone of the Vale. And the Lady seemed convinced that she can prevent most harm by making a great sacrifice, such as a high lord’s son. She surely would have passed it off as a trial by justice somehow… though I don’t know for certain. The woman is without reason some many times, as far as I am concerned.”

“Marriage to the old Jon didn’t suit her well. Neither did it to be his widow. She wasn’t always like that,” Jaime replies.

She was full of chuckles once, as far as he recalls when he was there when he was still a squire, far more interested in her uncle’s stories than her braided her and self-sewn dresses.

“The point is… it was for that person I came to the Vale, but the mark did not appear yet, and then… your brother strode in, and somehow, the people grew convinced that they can fool the White Walkers by sacrificing your brother for it. To pay the debt they’d otherwise owe to the Others,” she tells him.

“So you hoped that Tyrion would stay imprisoned until I’d come in after receiving a letter to retrieve him on my own,” Jaime says, nodding his head slowly as he starts to understand her reasoning behind the matter.

“Lady Lysa would not have informed you until she would have carried out the task. She likely would have been advised to frame it as an accident of sorts to bypass the wrath of the Lion of Lannister to come upon her. Though in my experience, people do reckless things in the fear of the greater evils, such as are the White Walkers,” the younger woman tells him, her head hanging low as she speaks.

Jaime shakes his head. “Well, I suppose I am yet to thank you again for your support.”

“Do not thank me, Ser. No one deserves to die like that. No one deserves this destiny. I don’t make that difference others seem to make. But be certain of that, if your brother had gotten himself into trouble without having had the threat of being passed off as a sacrifice, I would have done nothing about it,” she replies resolutely, rather sure of herself.

“Do you think it’s smart to say that to his brother’s face?” he huffs.

“I don’t pride myself being smart, Ser, just honest. My purpose is another than rescuing lordlings from their own folly,” she argues. “And it was folly. The charges raised against him? The barn, the fire? That was all true. They just changed the reason for it to spin it into an even greater time. But if they had thrown him into prison for those wrongdoings? It would have been the Lady’s good right.”

“But rescuing fair maidens is more of your fancy?” he laughs.

“Not my fancy, Ser, but my duty,” she answers.

“You know, as we rode through the Vale, we heard some rumors in the common halls we stopped at every once in a while to eat, drink, and sleep, before riding on without relent. About a knight rescuing the fair maidens and carrying them to a better life, sweeping them off their feet, rescuing them from… well, the White Walkers. It’d seem to me that you are that man… well, woman.”

“People like to overpraise a name, and people like to blow a story out of proportion. Fairytales hold comfort in a world that offers none,” she tells him as the moon breaks through a wall of clouds to paint one side of her face in pale blue, whereas the rest of her freckled face remains hidden away in the shadows.

She has more to hide than she lets on, Jaime thinks. There is much more to her than a woman wearing armor, I am most sure of it.

“Well, they have no name to overpraise, do they? So they have to cling on to the story you seem to leave behind,” he teases.

“I long since stopped caring about whether or not songs would be sung in my honor. That I ever cared… was a long time ago, back in another life. For now, my one goal is what lies behind the walls of the Vale, beneath the Lady’s tears,” she says, letting her gaze wander upwards, determination flaring up in her big blue eyes.

“So am I right in my assumption that you will not give me your name, not even your first name alone? I mean, what would be lost?” he asks.

She whips her head back around to him. “What do you care for what I call myself or what others call me?”

“I like to have a way to address people, particularly if I am potentially bound to shout out to them in battle,” Jaime explains. “Though then again, perhaps I should just stick with ‘wench,’ it’s short and pointy, wouldn’t you agree?”

“You will not,” she grumbles, much to Jaime’s amusement. The faintest of blushes creeping up her cheeks almost feels like a reward.

“Then give me a name. Think about it, you could give me any name, you foolish thing. How would I be able to tell it true or untrue? I just want something to call you by, is that asked so much?”

“… Brienne.”

“Brienne it is, then. I am Jaime.”

“I know who you are,” she scoffs. “Everyone knows who you are.”

“In fact, only few people know me.”

Let alone understand me. There are no men like me, thus, there are no people who truly know me.

“Perhaps you should be glad about that…,” she answers. “The fewer people know you, the smaller the danger of people learning about your weaknesses, or knowing your strengths before you can put them to display.”

“To you, life seems to be one big battle, huh?” he huffs.

“Isn’t it just that, Ser?” she sighs.

Jaime shrugs. “Perhaps.”

They carry on in silence thereafter. Thankfully finding a way over dark corners and stones, past small passages creeping up the mount leading up to the great halls now owned by Lady Arryn until her son comes of age, goes without much trouble. They have to hide away as guards roam around with torches every now and then, pressed tightly between stone and themselves, holding their breaths so not to give away their location. But other than that? It almost feels too easy.

Though it may be owed to Brienne knowing some many secret passageways to use to keep off the usual paths, upon reflection. As she pointed out to him when Jaime asked the first time around, she spent a good amount of time observing the guards to know which way they moved.

“Just in case I'd have to steal inside.”

“To rescue maidens?”

“Something like that.”

Eventually, they make it into the empty great hall, which seems much bigger now that it is no longer crowded by people cheering for Tyrion’s death. Jaime watches as the blonde woman wordlessly steps over to the statue, transfixed by the woman cut from marble as she steps closer.

Though he still feels like scowling himself for agreeing to return to the Vale despite the ease with which they got all the way to here. His place is in King’s Landing, not at the side of this mannish woman who’d likely want him dead if not for her higher purpose making his life and death seem utterly insignificant to her.

Madness, nothing but madness. There is no other explanation.

He can see Brienne’s lips moving, muttering to herself as she removes her glove to stroke her fingers over the statue’s cheeks, which shine in the moonlight as though they were cut from a single pearl.

Jaime grimaces. This is the first time that he notes that there seems to be something beneath the marble, sleeping within the stone, but he cannot yet figure of what interest that may be, other than that some artist may have been fooling the lords of the Vale into a higher price, despite the lack of marble used for the statue.

“Do you have what you want?” Jaime urges her silently, keeping close to her so that he doesn’t speak too loud. Brienne shakes her head, her fingers pulling and pushing at a slit of silver bleeding out of the marble.

“Has it occurred to you that, perchance, there is no greater purpose to the metal than a cut of the costs?” Jaime mutters forcefully.

“Of course it has, but this is… different,” she replies.

“Different how?”

“It’s hard to explain.”

“And for such I risk my life?” he complains.

Brienne glowers at him. “No one’s asked you for it.”

Both are started by a sudden shriek ripping through the darkness. The two turn their heads, catching sight of the dark-haired son to Lysa Arryn, standing there in his sleeping clothes, about as pale as the statue they came here for.

“GUARDS! GUARD! EVIL PEOPLE IN HERE! GET THE EVIL PEOPLE! EVIL PEOPLE!” the boy keeps shouting at the top of his voice. For a moment, Jaime wants to wrap his hand over his mouth to stop him, but by the time he’d get a chance for it, it’s too late already, the boy’s shrill shrieks hurrying down the hallways without a chance for him to catch up to them.

“Come!” Jaime barks, pulling at Brienne’s good arm to make her let go of the statue. Maybe if they run fast enough, they can flit down the corridors and away before the guards will know what is going on, but for that, they have to go, and they have to go now.

“Brienne!” he shouts.

“Go! I’ll stay!” she cries out.

“Are you mad?!”

“Go!”

“I am not…,” Jaime means to say, but doesn’t get to the last part of his sentence, since the guards already flood the room.

Jaime should have stayed away, he should have left that stupid woman to her fate.

Seven Hells. Just why did I stay?

The men charge without prelude, leaving Jaime and Brienne with no other option but to unsheathe their swords and fight back.

Steel sings, steel cries, silver sparks fly through the air as the blades keep colliding, kissing and springing apart to the rhythm of the song of war, the one song that Jaime knows by heart.

Jaime lets out a howl of pain when he gets pushed against the statue, scraping his back against the rough edges the marble got over the course of Brienne’s and Ser Vardis’s fight earlier. Brienne gets tossed against the statue, too, letting out a howl of pain as here injured shoulder collides with the staggering statue’s face. Together, the two crash to the ground, though gladly, Brienne manages to roll over so not to be buried underneath the stone. However, Jaime can see the smears of blood across the statue and the ground, indicating that her wounds reopened after all.

As I told her! Foolish thing!

Jaime pushes against a man about to charge at Brienne, who is still gathering herself. Once he has a bit of space, Jaime holds out his hand to her to help her stand, and she takes it without opposing him for once. Her left arm is shaking, the hand balled into a tight fist, though it doesn’t seem to lessen her resolution as she starts to charge at the men of the Vale at once, ignoring the plitter-platter of the droplets of blood smacking against the ground whenever she turns too fast or too violently.

“If we get a chance to cut through, we have to take it,” Jaime tells her, standing in her back as he keeps slicing at one of the guards, who is missing half his front teeth.

Brienne seems to have another idea at this point of time, however, instead aiming for the stairs, though Jaime is relieved about the decision once he realizes the plan behind it – on the stairs, they no longer have the clear advantage of attack, because only two or three can stand side-by-side on the stairs, which gives them more of a chance to cut through.

The two feel as though they are finally gaining the upper hand, when suddenly, a gust of air catches around them. Jaime only ever sees a flash of light from below, only to get pushed aside by one of the guards.

“PUSH THEM THROUGH THE MOON DOOR! KILL THEM! WHOOSH!” is what he can hear from a young boy’s lips as Jaime staggers.

And that is when he understands – the boy opened the Moon Door for them to fall through when no one was paying attention. However, Jaime doesn’t get to contemplate the matter as he feels his feet suddenly no longer walking on wet stone, but air alone.

A silent shout drips from his lips as the world tilts over, disappearing into a flash of gray, which morphs into a blur of silver as moonlight engulfs him as he keeps falling.

Jaime only vaguely registers a resistance in his hand, something slippery, as the world keeps slipping away from him, keeps transforming into long threads, a gust of air, a single cry.

The last thought on his mind is a curse for his foolery, and that through the cold of the wind engulfing him as he is falling, there is a heat cutting through his palm.

Jaime turns his head to the side as much as the whipping winds allow him as he keeps coming closer to his sure end, cloaked in silver, tainted by it, only to capture a flash of blue.

Brienne.

He couldn’t believe it that his brother would get himself into such a trouble, but Jaime cannot believe it any more that he is now to die, that this is his end.

No hero’s death, but that of a fool.

Away from home.

Away from the Rock.

Away from King’s Landing.

Alone, bound to be torn into a thousand pieces on gray stone, painting it crimson.

Jaime closes his eyes, finding himself letting go.

However, his eyes are forced back open as a bright flash cut across the sky.

Silver blinds him.

Silver binds him.

Binds them.

And he falls deep.

And she falls. Foolish thing.

They keep falling deeper and deeper.

Very, very deep.

Awaiting the ground below.