A Vow Without Honor

The Capture

Jaime

It was raining. Again.

His armor, once polished and pristine, was covered in mud, blood, dents, and scrapes. It looked duller somehow, but not so much that he did not look like an enormous, glittering target every time they attempted to hide in the brush. Tyrion and Bronn had taken to staying away from him altogether during those phases of their journey. He had thought to take the damn thing off, but his underclothes were poor protection against the weather of the Vale.

And he was, as Bronn so eloquently put, their fucking way out of this mess. A king's man on the king's business. So, it was best to look the part.

Not that the mountain clans had cared whose armor he wore.

Thunder clapped overhead. He could feel its rumble in his chest. They had discussed seeking shelter at some point, but had quickly decided being struck by lightning and hail both would be preferable to another hour in the Vale.

Tyrion was right. Their father should set the whole damn thing ablaze.

Burn them all!

Jaime blinked, and fought the urge to grab his sword.

"Well, this should make for an interesting story," Tyrion grumbled from somewhere behind him. "The Lannister brothers walking into the encampment. Father will be so pleased. 'Lannisters don't walk. We have people to do that for us.'"

This one-sided conversation had gone on for nearly an hour, starting somewhere with a joke about a jackass and a honeycomb, before spiraling into nonsense and mockery. His brother always did love the sound of his own voice, especially when he was bored or nervous. The Vale had provided them with an abundance of both.

Bronn shuffled over, looking no worse for wear, though he might have sprouted another deep line on his face. "You going to attack me if I run your brother through with my sword?"

"I'll pay you to do it," Jaime replied.

"Bronn, how could you?" Tyrion asked, mockingly wounded. "I thought we were friends."

The sellsword shrugged. "Well, you know what they say about friends."

"That they can't be bought?"

"Oh...is that how it goes?"

He was going to kill both of them.

There was another rumble. The rain came down harder.

Somewhere in King's Landing, Cersei was waiting, warm and dry and everything else he could ever need. Thinking of her was a better motivation to get through the muck than vengeance. Lysa Arryn could rot alone in her tower if that meant he would get to see King's Landing faster.

But that was not where he was headed.

He never could think clearly when angry.

Cersei was alone with Robert while their father was on the warpath. If the king was smart, he'd use her as leverage and stay behind his walls. But Robert Baratheon was not smart. He was barely functional; he was a drunk, prideful man who would face his father on the open field, if only for the chance to say once and for all that Tywin Lannister had one man to fear in Westeros.

The thought of him actually attempting to defeat the Lannister army might make his father almost smile.

Almost.

A proper Hand would advise against that course of action, but Ned Stark was a different story. They were all traitors to him. He'd probably join Robert on the battlefield, their broken trust healed by the unifying power of hating his family.