stuck with me (iii)

part onepart two

anon said: hey i’m loving the arya x reader fic, i’d like to request the third part, maybe with some interaction with jaime, yk discussing the fam

note: i have rewritten this four times, and now it’s back :) also i love dad jaime

There was some sort of poetic irony as you cradled your injured right hand to your chest. Your arm was wrapped and placed into a sling, only one of the injuries you acquired in battle. Another was a shallow stab wound in your thigh, now wrapped and bandaged and propped up with a pillow.

Your father had been up towards the front lines, whereas you never left the castle. You hadn’t fought with him, unable to find each other during the fight.

It lead to him searching frantically once it was clear your side had won. Jaime found you on the ground, bloody leg and barely conscious.

He hadn’t left you since.

You were brought to the room you were given, Jaime pulling up a chair while you were asleep. His only surviving child, his heart broke to see you in such a state.

“Father,” you stretch your left arm out, hitting his leg when you couldn’t reach his arm. You remembered passing out from blood loss and exhaustion as soon as Jaime had you in his arms. “Father,” you try again, louder. He’d fallen asleep in the chair he pulled up next to your bedside. “Jaime!”

“Hm?” His eyes open and he takes his left hand and rubbing his forehead. “Gods, that sounded like your mother.” You give him a half-smile, unsure of what to say. “You had some visitors, you know,” Jaime sits up in his seat, “I didn’t know you were so popular among the Starks.”

“Am I?” He nods, “what makes you say that?”

Jaime sighs, adjusting himself in the chair. “A few people asked about you. And the Stark girl, Arya, only left about an hour ago. The girl forced a maester to tend to you first; didn’t even let him check her own injuries.”

“She’s hurt?” Your words nearly blend together at how quickly you say them. Jaime gives a confused look, raising an eyebrow, but he doesn’t ask a thing. Your eyes scan over him, and he hasn’t changed into new clothes. There are slashes in the fabric and stains that have an equal chance of being dirt as they do dried blood. “Are youhurt?”

He shakes his head, “I’m alright.”

“You were on the front lines—”

“I’m fine, Y/N,” he takes his left hand and places it over yours. “I promise.” You bite the inside of your lip, deciding not to say anything else and just letting your father hold your hand. “There’s going to be a feast later,” Jaime says, “do you think you’ll be alright to go? I think some people would like to see you.”

Some people, you think you know who.

“Oh, that depends,” you smile, “can I have wine?”

Shaking his head, your father refuses to let go of your hand. Wine, you want wine. It’s hard to tell if he should compare you to your mother for that or your uncle. “Some,” he says, “but remember what happened last time.”

“In my defense: northern wine is different,” your voice is louder than it should be, and Jaime can’t help but laugh. Maybe he meant the time before then, but it didn’t matter. “This feast, is it a celebration or…?”

Jaime sighs, “it’s supposed to be,” he stops, “We burned the dead this morning; I don’t think people are necessarily in the mood to celebrate.”

You nod your head, looking away from him. You wondered how long you’ve been in this room, if the battle was only the night before or if there’s been a day in between. And in the very back of your mind, you wonder how long it is you’ve been away from your mother. Your mother who doesn’t even know if you survived. Cersei…

“Father?” The word isn’t foreign on your tongue, but it was odd for him to hear. He had always been Uncle Jaime until just before Myrcella died, and then father to you since he returned from Dorne. “What do you think will happen to us if Daenerys wins the war?”

Where the question came from, Jaime doesn’t ask. Your eyes too far away in thought, and a question he had himself. “I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “Your mother has men to outnumber her—”

“She doesn’t have dragons, though,” you think out loud. Your mother and grandfather had tried to shape your mind to think like them, but you were fortunate you never had to sit on the throne and make the decisions they made. You were your father’s daughter, after all. Meant for a sword and not a seat made of them. “She could still lose.” He doesn’t say anything, and you continue, “what happens to us if she loses?”

You wonder if she would strip you of all your titles and exile you, or if she would kill you. Your father, it was likely, and your mother… you knew if your mother lost she would lose her life as well. Never get to meet her youngest child, only have four children. Your uncle would remain the queen’s hand, but you? She said she wasn’t her father, and you had to hope she didn’t treat you like yours.

“I don’t know.”

Again, you think out loud, “what happens if she wins?”

Jaime shifts in his seat at the thought. If you went back to her, if he went back to her, he didn’t know how that would go either. He remembered the last time he saw Cersei, she had nearly ordered the Mountain to kill him—but he hadn’t told you. All you knew is your mother lied to him about sending your armies north and he needed you to come with him. He hadn’t told you she had no intention of marrying Euron Greyjoy and was debating offering your hand for the sake of their unborn child, he just whisked you away from the situation and to Winterfell once more.

“I don’t know,” he says, again, truthfully. In the back of his mind, however, something you said before repeating itself as a mantra. Why would I remain loyal to a family that causes so many problems? “Y/N?” You hum in reply, leaning closer to him, “at the trial, what did you mean when you said you didn’t want to be loyal to our family?”

Your lips twist into a frown, exhaustion keeping you from losing your expressions. You had never been as good at it as some of your family members, but you still tried. “That’s not what I said. I asked why I would want to be, she didn’t answer me,” you pause, swallowing and taking a moment to figure out what to say next, “it’s what they needed to hear.”

“Did you mean it?”

You want to say no. You do. You want to tell Jaime that nothing would stop you from fighting for him, your mother—your uncle, even—and your unborn sibling. But your mind goes back to Joffrey and how you weren’t truly loyal to him, even if you didn’t understand everything he did.

He takes your silence as an answer.

“I remember,” he starts, “when I came back from Dorne. With Myrcella… after what they did to her. I remember your mother was heartbroken, angry. You, though, you were furious.” The Baratheon words had never suited you until then, he thought, but he knew better than to say it. A lioness’s anger, he thought instead. A Lannister stolen from.

“She was my sister.”

“And she was my daughter.” Jaime swallows. The words don’t slide off his tongue easily, the truth he could never speak to anyone but Cersei. Your eyes flicker to him, and he looks far away. Jaime’s mind has drifted back to that day, when Myrcella listened to his attempted confession even as she knew the truth.

I’m glad you’re my father.

It isn’t hard to tell he thinks back to the first moment he had as her father, the only moment he had. You could see in his stature how heartbreaking it was to have that moment ripped away from him and his oldest daughter dying in his arms.

He then thinks of Joffrey, as do you. He died with your mother holding him and pleading for help; you saw from where your grandfather tried and failed to keep you behind him. You had always seen death whenever they tried to hide you from it.

And then Tommen, jumping out of his bedroom window after taking off the crown he didn’t want. The loss of a wife your mother hated, and blew up along with countless others in the sept where she should have been for a trial.

Gold their shrouds, the words haunted your mother and they haunted him too.

He won’t let you end up like that.

He can’t.

You forgot your hand was holding his until he squeezed it.

Trying to bring him back from his thoughts, you ask, “when is this celebrationlater?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, “in an hour, or so,” he looks back at you. “We can go whenever you want.” We,he says. He didn’t plan on leaving you at all.