Jaime Lannister was no longer sure how long he had been in the darkness. In the Black Cells, time quickly lost all meaning. Tyrion had visited him on what he had said was the fifth day, promising to return the following morning. But how long ago had that been? A day? A week? Then again perhaps it had only been a matter of hours.
Jaime was not sure if he had been given food since then or not. That was how he had intended to keep track of his days, but he suspected the dragon bitch intentionally had the thin, bland gruel sent at irregular intervals to prevent such marking of time.
In truth, though, he knew it mattered little if she had. It was the nothingness of darkness and isolation that played tricks on one's mind, distorting time beyond all recognition and rendering the sequence of events unintelligible.
A strange consequence, he thought, considering the utter lack of events. Occasionally a silent hooded figure carrying a painfully bright torch would bring whatever the new queen had decided to pass off as food, and Tyrion had visited one time.
His brother had talked and then talked some more, explanations and apologies dripping meaninglessly from his tongue. Jaime had understood little of what was said and spoken even less in return, his throat dry and raw with the near constant lack of water.
The fifth day, Tyrion had said. Or had it been the fifteenth? Jaime could not remember the exact words. The only solid fact he held from the visit was the empty promise from his imp of a brother. He had not come back.
However, Jaime had dreamed of him, lack of sleep being one thing he did not suffer from. Tyrion returned in the dream with a message of hope, proclaiming a woman would soon come to the Black Cells, and if Jaime spoke the truth, she would know. And she would save him.
He thought he had seen her once. An ethereal figure with pale skin and dark hair had appeared. She spoke not a single word, only staring at him until he had felt his soul laid bare. In his mind, she was the Goddess of Death, beautiful and ageless. Jaime had been drawn to her as a moth to a flame, risking its life for the hope of light and warmth. He raised his left arm, reaching, wanting to feel her touch. If he had possessed enough strength, he would have stood and given himself over to her. Death at her hands surely would have been preferable to this living hell.
But then his eyes had faltered for a moment under her unrelenting gaze, and when he opened them, awakening from the dream, she had been gone. The realization she was nothing more than a figment of his imagination had left a sudden, painful void inside him.
The memory of the mysterious woman haunted him. The icy, steel grey of her knowing eyes. The sensuous curve of her lips. The flawless porcelain of her skin. The cascading waves of her dark brown hair. She was the opposite of him. She was the opposite of Cersei. And Jaime had never desired anything more than to see a vision of her again.