*cough* Hi! It's me again. Been kind of absent, I know. Also might have given up on previous stories. My apologies. However, I cannot keep away from Game of Thrones. Just bought Season 3 today and Season 4 is premiering soon. It's driving me insane! Anyway, I've had this idea for quite some time now, at least a year, but I finally managed to crank it out with all my excitement.

This prologue is a flashforward. All following chapters will go back to Season 1. And yes, my OC is an added Stark sibling, if you don't get that from the reading.

Everything belongs to George R. R. Martin. Also, any similarities to other stories is completely coincidental.

EDIT 5/21/2018: I have corrected some continuity issues due to changes in the plot of the story. Just some wording changes, nothing extreme, but they do have quite the effect on the story as a whole.

Enjoy!


The painful warrior famoused for fight,
After a thousand victories once foiled,
Is from the book of honour razed quite,
And all the rest forgot for which he toiled.

-William Shakespeare
Sonnet 25


Prologue
The Twins

Jaime

Jaime Lannister had never been a patient man. He was not one to stand on formalities; he preferred the straightforward approach, although that often involved his sword and a good deal of blood. Considering the recent events at The Twins, his method may not have even been regarded as unconventional. Run of the mill maybe. A kingslayer could fit in well with this lot.

Standing in the middle of the dining hall with Brienne, Jaime watched a handful of Freys argue amongst themselves. Edwyn Frey had introduced himself when their caravan had first approached as the rightful Lord of the Crossing, but near an hour later, a Walton, an Emmon, and several other Walders had jumped in claiming their own importance. Their argument had reached extraordinary levels, echoing so loud through the empty chambers that dust had begun to fall from the rafters above. Jaime had stopped following it a long time ago, lost from the moment that he was told the Late Walder Frey was no longer in command.

"Yes, Ser Jaime, it is true." Lothar Frey had spoken solemnly. The beady eyed steward of The Twins, he seemed to be the only Frey who had a good grasp upon what was actually going on. "Not four days past, our Father departed. It was a gruesome sight, to be certain."

Jaime had pressed him on the matter, but got no other answers save for curses and bad luck.

He observed the hall while the Freys bickered. It was dark and dank, like so much of the Crossing, and if he squinted, Jaime could still make out the stains of pooled blood across the floor. So this was the place where The King in the North had lost the war. No, that was not right. He had lost it the moment he married that foreign girl and broken his oath to Walder Frey.

You Starks always spoke of your honor, but you never did have much when it came to your women.

Robb's queen had been murdered along with him, stabbed in the belly with her babe, and his mother had her throat slit after doing the same to Walder's wife. All of his forces were slain and his was family gone, save for two: one safely tucked away in the south and one here, but not for much longer if he had his way.

"This is getting us nowhere," Brienne mumbled. She stood straight and tall in her armor, as usual, and looked twice the knight that he did at the moment. His armor scarcely fit him anymore. His hair, while cleaned and brushed, still had a sort of dull look to it and his face had yet to be shaved, much to Cersei's disappointment. Strangely, he had found himself not giving a damn about that.

And then there was the matter of his missing hand.

His ghost fingers itched. They longed for the cold feel of steel and the weight of a well-balanced sword. If only he could oblige them. Instead, the scabbard hung on the wrong side. The hand that grasped the hilt was feeble and fumbled in its motions. To just hold the sword in his left hand might tip him over on the spot. That would certainly make things interesting.

"What are you doing?" Brienne hissed. She almost sounded concerned. Maybe he was growing on her after all. "Your hand…they'll know you've no skill with it."

"Speak a little louder and they might," Jaime retorted, though they could have been yelling and the Freys would have been none the wiser. "This lot couldn't tell a swordsman from a wench, though I suppose in your case that doesn't matter."

On any other day, the look on Brienne's face would have entertained him, but his mind was elsewhere at the moment. There was someone waiting for him in the dungeons, a lone wolf, a vow waiting to be fulfilled. He'd be damned if they had come through this much only to be held up by the bickering of old men.

"You like to call me Kingslayer, now let the title do its work."

He strode toward the dais, cool and confident as was his way. His left hand remained secured to his sword, though holding it across his body felt awkward as he moved. The stump hovered over the hilt as well. It must have made for an odd sight. He ignored the thought, determined to portray the Kingslayer once again, even if he had forgotten how.

Had they taken his hand or his mind?

Jaime stopped just behind…Walder was it? Frankly, he couldn't tell, and he didn't care to. They were all equally ugly and weasel-like.

"As interested as I am in your familial matters, would someone show me the kindness of promptly shutting up and showing me to the dungeons?" There was an edge in his voice, sharp and cold as ice. It brought a swift end to the argument, though the silence lasted longer than his patience cared for. "I'm more than happy to look for it myself, even if I have to tear this place down brick by brick."

One gulped. "Well, you see, Ser Jaime…your, uh…"

"Your Lord Father promised us the prisoners," Edwyn finished, giving the other Frey a hard look.

"I don't want all of them, just the Stark."

"She's a prisoner, same as the others. She was to be our father's new bride."

So he could call himself King, no doubt. Jaime felt his ghost fingers clench.

"Now Bolton wants her for his bastard."

Emmon snorted. "Too fine a deal for the wolf bitch."

Suddenly, the Frey found a sword to his neck. Jaime did not realize it was his until he felt the full weight of it on his outstretched arm. It had moved with the dexterity of his right, efficient and deadly, though if asked to repeat the motion, Jaime knew he would fail terribly. There was something about blinding rage that made the impossible happen.

"Speak of her like that again and Lady Joyeuse won't be the only Frey with a slit throat."

Edwyn paled. "You would dare draw against us in our home? Have you lost all sense?"

"No, just my hand and my patience. Now take me to the girl."

One of the Walders narrowed his eyes. "Might be we throw you in with her."

"I'm certain my father would be overjoyed to hear that. Tell me, how long do you think the Twins will last against the entire might of the Lannister army? A week? A month? Hard to tell really, but you will all die, that much I can promise." It was not a card he liked to play, using the power of his father, but he needed to get somewhere. Maybe if he were whole he might have tried something else, but he wasn't, and never would be again, not unless she was waiting for him with a new hand. "Take me to the girl, now."


Jaime hadn't thought any particular part of the Twins could be darker or danker than the last, but he supposed the dungeons would find some way. There were torches, but the continuous dripping from the walls and ceiling had all but snuffed them out, choking the air with smoke and leaving it difficult to breathe. Jaime had to squint to make sense of anything in the environment.

The cells were filled with Northmen. They all coughed and wheezed and looked far more terrible than he ever had in captivity, and half the time he'd been dragged through the mud. They, however, had been dragged through blood and bodies. Their clothes were sticky with the red stuff, and what wounds they received had gone untreated and were beginning to fester.

This is no place for her. Kind souls do not last long in this ruin.

He had to wonder how much of her soul was even left.

Lothar Frey pointed to the far cell. It, too, was filled with many bodies. They all looked up when he approached, some hissing 'Kingslayer,' a great many others simply staring with a look that could skewer a boar. Jaime ignored them as he searched for her.

A body stood in his way. It was none other than Edmure Tully, looking as distraught as all the rest. What a wedding night he must have had.

"You'll not have her."

Jaime almost laughed. Even without his sword hand, he could take the young Lord of Riverrun without even breaking a sweat. He almost said as much until a small, but commanding voice interrupted his thoughts.

"It is alright, Uncle."

A slim figure near the back rose to its feet. In near unison, so did the Northmen. The dungeons filled with a sound of shuffling as men in other cells did the same. Even while imprisoned, wounded, and at the losing end of the war, they would all stand for their Queen. Even he had to admit, there was something admirable about the stubborn loyalty of her men.

She crossed the cell silently, taking the place Edmure vacated. Behind her, the Greatjon stood, her silent, looming guardian. Though she was tall herself, she was dwarfed in comparison.

Small, pale hands appeared and removed the hood of her cloak.

"My lady," Brienne breathed, her voice a shocked whisper. It was still loud enough to cover Jaime's sudden intake of breath.

There was blood on her face still, though it appeared to have been wiped, even possibly clawed at. A small cut on her cheek was the only visible wound, but it was not the physical marks that bothered him. It was her eyes. Even the dead looked more alive than her. All the light had gone out of them, leaving naught but a deep black. Her face was tense, frown set to never move.

Myra Stark looked as cold as Winter felt.

"This is the Queen in the North, traitor, and you should address her as such," the Greatjon growled. Brienne, thankfully, said nothing. He supposed she was too shocked to. That would be a first.

Jaime never looked to neither the Greatjon nor to Brienne. His eyes never left Myra's. They couldn't.

"What are you doing here?" she asked him, voice as sharp as the sword he carried. "Have you come to mock the Queen in the North as well? To wed her and bed her and call yourself King?"

"You of all people ought to know that's not in my nature." He was beckoning the softer side of her to return, the side that had listened to him and understood despite all the circumstances surrounding them. It was the side of her that had forgiven a man who had been deemed unforgivable. It was the side he feared was as dead as her brother.

Her eyes narrowed, cool, calculating, too much like Cersei's. "No, it is not. You're only in the business of killing kings."

There had been a time when he would have shrugged off such insults, after all they had been spat at him for over fifteen years, but her words made him wince. She had not spoken to him like that, not in a long while.

"My brother was a king."

"Myra, I didn't-"

"Jaime Lannister sends his regards!" Myra spat, her voice elevated, unrecognizable. "That was what Bolton said as he plunged his sword through my brother, as they killed my good-sister, and my mother! Do not tell me you played no part, Kingslayer."

The room became deathly silent. The wounded would not cough and the living forgot to breathe.

He looked into her eyes then, truly, deeply, but even in her anger, there was no flame amidst the darkness of her irises.

Jaime sighed. "Then I won't."

Myra took a deep, ragged breath, her eyes scanning him over, not even pausing on the stump that had not been there last they saw each other.

"You have no honor, and you have no heart."

No, he did not.

He'd lost his honor all those years ago when he sliced the throat of Aerys Targaryen.

But his heart he had lost to the woman before him.


*nervously twitches* I hope you guys liked it! Feel free to comment below!