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JAIME was given a sling for his stump. Not a pretty, nicely made one – more like one made from the dirty linen of another man's shirt.
Laila was grateful for the nighttime air. She found herself repeatedly squinting at the sun during the day, and it would make her eyes water. The Bolton men actually gave them dinner this night, something Laila's starving stomach was happy for. It was only a small bread loaf, but it was something.
Her, Brienne, and Jaime sat around a small fire, listening to Locke and his men laugh and sing along to tunes unheard of. Laila and Brienne had already scarfed down their bread, but Jaime's still sat beside him.
Laila sighed, watching Jaime stare at the flames in the middle of them. "Are we just going to sit in silence?" She asked in a low voice, receiving no response. Laila looked between Brienne and Jaime. They both had sad expressions. Laila then nudged Jaime, who she sat closest to. "You should eat."
Jaime didn't do anything. He acted like she were a ghost, as if she weren't even there. Laila became insulted at him ignoring her. Brienne lofted a brow. "What are you doing?" She asked.
"I'm dying," Jaime croaked.
Laila's pity turned to annoyance. She tried to wipe the snot seeping from her nostril, and then rolled her eyes. A man loses a hand, and suddenly, his whole world is turned upside down. What a bunch of horse shit. Laila would've liked to see Jaime Lannister witness his family abandon him, leaving him fortuneless.
"You can't die," Brienne replied. "You need to live ... to take revenge."
Jaime blinked slowly. "I don't care about revenge."
Brienne's mouth curled in disgust. "You coward. A little misfortune and you're giving up?"
Jaime glanced to Laila, who – to his surprise – nodded her head in agreement. "If we all gave up after a small occurrence, then we'd all be dead," she mumbled.
"Miss ... misfortune?" Jaime stuttered.
"You lost your hand, Jaime." Laila spat, her eyes going narrow. "You're not dying. You're depressed. Welcome to the real world."
Jaime stared at the handmaiden in disbelief. "My sword hand," he clarified. "I was that hand."
Brienne chuckled in pity. She shook her head. "You have a taste – one taste – of the real world, where people have important things taken from them, and you whine and cry and quit." Brienne scoffed at him. "You sound like a bloody woman."
"You've had ... everything," Laila continued, staring at her hands. "You have everything I've ever wanted. And now that you've finally lost one thing –" she looked up to stare at him angrily "– you say that you're dying. Wake up, Kingslayer. This is how life really is."
Jaime shifted in his spot. He swallowed down a lump in his throat. "You're pestering me for crying and whining, when just hours ago, you were crying at my hardship." Jaime's eyes formed into slits toward Laila. "Why?"
Laila frowned. "Because I'm a normal human being with emotions," she snapped. "You were downtrodden and depressed. That made me cry."
The three became silent. Laila stared at the fire, allowing the tension in the air to make her uncomfortable. She blew out a sigh, and her breath formed in the midnight air. The laughter of the Bolton men was starting to become overwhelming. They were out there, jesting with each other, while their prisoners sat in shit with stale loaves of bread.
Jaime grabbed for the bread he was given. He struggled with reaching for it, but as soon as he got it in his hands, he tore through the bread. He chewed through the stale substance, making the most noise out of the three. The fire crackled before them, sending sparks into the sky.
"You helped us yesterday," Brienne muttered, daring not to meet Jaime's eyes. "You told them who Laila was, and what the Starks would do if she was harmed. You told them Tarth was full of sapphires. It's called the Sapphire Isle because of the blue of its water. You knew that."
Laila viewed up, realizing that Jaime was staring at them. He pursed his lips, but didn't say a word. She leaned her back against a rock, quirking a brow upwards. "Why did you help us?" She asked.
Jaime sniffed, rubbing at his noise. He continued to stare at the fire and gave no answer.
•••
Cersei Lannister stared at her father from across the table. She rested her hands on it, clasping them together. Tywin was ignoring her, obviously, but she wouldn't be ignored easily. Cersei cleared her throat, but Tywin continued to scribble his large quill across a sheet of parchment. She leaned back in her chair with a sigh, but still – his attention remained on that bloody paper.
Tywin tapped his quill in the ink again. His daughter's persistence was becoming dreadfully annoying, but he knew fully well why she was here. "You wanted to speak to me," he said, his eyes not leaving the parchment.
"Yes," Cersei answered. She paused, setting her lips in a fine line. Her hands began to shake, growing nervous about the oncoming debate she'd have with her father. She watched him sign his name gracefully. "About Jaime."
Gods, just saying his name made an immediate pain plunge through her heart. Her mouth recoiled back at the sting, but she tried so hard not to show it. She wondered how he was being treated right now; if he were being fed. Her heart pained her to think about the women and handmaidens that must be around him, and if his eyes wandered. Did he forget about her? Could he? What other woman could he possibly want? They had been together – tangled in each other's souls and arms – since they had reached puberty.
Cersei's mind ran in different directions, though she knew it was her own paranoia. She was the only woman for him, surely he knew that. She was beautiful; everything he wanted. But ... was she? What if everything he wanted was the exact opposite of her?
Petite. Brown-haired. Tanned skin. Hollowed cheeks. Dark eyes. Full breasts. Short legs. Everything she was not.
Tywin finally responded, "What about him?"
"I wanted to make sure we're doing everything to get him back," Cersei said, shifting in her chair.
Tywin's eyes met her own. He frowned before allowing himself to stare at the parchment again. "When Catelyn Stark took Tyrion prisoner, what did I do in response?"
Cersei rolled her eyes, knowing her father was trying to win the conversation, when all she did was give him a reminder. "You started a war," she replied.
"And if I would start a war for that lecherous little stump," Tywin said, pouring wax onto the folded letter in front of him, "what do you think I am doing for my oldest son and heir?"
Cersei swallowed hard. "Whatever you can."
As Tywin looked up at his daughter, he saw the anxiety in her blue eyes. He stamped his seal into the wax, watching the crest of House Lannister form in the liquid, and repeated, "Whatever I can."
