#100kfic

Jaime had not seen his sister show fear many times. More often than not they'd been separated whenever the very worst was happening. When Stannis Baratheon had sacked King’s Landing and Cersei had almost been driven to suicide, Jaime had been ambushed and taken for ransom by Robb Stark. When Jaime had lost his hand as a captive to Boltons , Cersei had been safe from harm and assisting their son, King Joffrey in the running of the Seven Kingdoms. When Cersei had been imprisoned by the Faith Militant for crimes of carnal sin, Jaime had been sent to retrieve their daughter Myrcella from enemy hands in Dorne. As Cersei was paraded naked through the streets in an act of atonement, their daughter had been poisoned and died in Jaime’s arms. Returning her body to King’s Landing, Cersei had spoken of how as a child she’d wondered often about their beautiful mother’s face decaying. Though Jaime had tried to comfort her, she’d rambled on about a prophecy and fate, how what had happened to their children had been written in stone. “Fuck prophecy” Jaime had vowed, “Fuck fate. Fuck everyone that isn’t us. We’re the only ones who matter, the only ones in the world and everything they’ve taken from us we’re going to take back and more. We’re going to take everything there is.” Now Jaime wished he'd never said it.

Stumbling along beside Euron, despite her new gown and his tight grip on her arm, he kept her chained, dragging her along a dimly lit street. Crowded with people talking in foreign tongues, at first Yara assumed she was too full of the Evening to discern anything. Then she began to recognise words, the overpowering scents of citrus and the very best lemons, bread stuffed with olives and sundried tomatoes, fresh clams and rich vintage wines. Faces of all shades swam before Yara’s eyes, their own pupils glinting in blue, brown, green and violet. Men in dark waistcoats and billowing blouses gripped the pommels of thin blades. Leaning over beautiful women, naked but for embroidered waistcoats and tassel skirts, Yara had been to this street before. One of many in the labyrinthine free city of Braavos, Yara tried to keep track of the twists and turns their path took: the canals and bridges, narrow passageways and back alleys. Were she to make an escape, Euron would have trouble finding her again. All I have to do, she thought,   is find the weak link in this chain…Cut off his hand and feed it to him. A hook would only add to his villainry . A stump too? An eye patch? No tongue? Flaying? Where was Ramsay Bolton when you needed him? “Lord Greyjoy.” A thin older woman, more skin showing than was hidden, greeted the pair of them at the green door of a shadowy establishment. “Lady Greyjoy.” Yara opened her mouth to reply, but Euron cut across her. “This is no lady,” he said, rattling her chain and causing all eyes to turn upon them. The madam bowed her head, smiling. Euron pulled Yara into his arms and gripped her chin. “This is a beast . Look at these jaws. It spits and hisses, bites and claws. Expect you’ve got plenty more wild ones need breaking in.