This is the second instalment in the series entitled THE CHANGING OF SEASONS, following A COAT OF GOLD. It is highly recommended that you read ACOG first, but everyone starts with the second part at least once in their lifetime, so…

In all honesty, I didn't think I'd be uploading this as quickly as I did. There's a story behind why I'm uploading now, but it isn't exactly interesting.

INFO FOR NEW READERS: A COAT OF GOLD is a story taking place in an alternate universe, where the point of divergence is Tyrion Lannister being freed from his trial for King Joffrey's murder. Though set in the universe from the books, younger characters are typically aged up about 4-5 years to their show counterparts, though this is not consistent for all characters.

DISCLAIMER: Sadly, I do NOT own A Song of Ice and Fire, nor the show Game of Thrones, which are the property of George R.R. Martin and HBO respectively.

Without further ado…

THE SUNSET KINGDOMS

The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing. - Edmund Burke

PROLOGUE

The night stirred with the cawing of crows.

A weirwood stood before her, its twisted limbs sticking out in all directions. Like as not, it had been dead for centuries. The cracked white branches were bare of leaves. A few sad dribbles of purplish sap spilled down the cheeks of the carved face and pooled in the snow at her feet.

Somewhere above a crow flapped its wings and cawed. Death, it said, turning to stare her in the eye. Death. Then it launched itself upwards, and disappeared into the night, black against the blackness.

Could the old gods still hear her, a dead woman kneeling before a dead weirwood? She had never known Ned's gods as she had known the Seven, and had never worshipped them with the same fervour.

Why should I? she thought. What have the gods ever done for me? They gave me my children, sons and daughters both, yet they stole them all away. Arya and Sansa, Bran and Rickon, Robb…

She didn't speak, but she remembered. Remembered the sound of steel twisting into flesh, of a pink cloak flecked with blood. "Jaime Lannister sends his regards," he said.

A crow cawed again. The wretched thing had chosen to roost here. Crows were evil birds, and she had never liked them. The Stranger's children, Septon Osmynd had told her. But that was long ago, when she had still been afraid of death…

She turned back to the tree. For the longest time she stared at the weirwood face, admiring the intricacies of those almost-familiar features. It is only a face. A face of some foreign god. Not my gods. She had no gods.

How long had it been since she'd stood in Riverrun's godswood, with a smile on her face as a solemn Northerner pressed his lips to hers and the septon said, "One heart, one flesh, one soul."

Oh, Ned.

Whatever heart she'd once had long ago turned to stone.

"My lady," said a voice. She ignored it for a moment, trying to discern what mystery lay behind the eyes of that face in the trunk, and only then turned to the speaker. He was all in grey mail, save for the lemon-coloured cloak that streamed down his back. The cloak was starting to fray round the edges, she noticed, and the bottom half was torn and patchy, spotted with mud and blood and time.

"My lady," Lem Lemoncloak repeated. "Ser Brynden is here. When you're ready…"

The hooded woman rose slowly, pulled her cloak around herself, and followed him out of the grove.

The camp was in a clearing beside a trickling stream, surrounded on three sides by trees. The stream ran south into a river, and that river ran south into the Blackwater, and that river ran east towards King's Landing. But this place could not have been further from the capital if it had tried. Instead of hovels and houses, there were tents, two or three dozen of them, arranged around a central campfire. Shadows flitted across the canvas roofs. There were more men than there were tents, but most of them chose to sleep under the stars. She could see some of them now, laughing and drinking and talking around the fire. They were so lost in themselves that they paid her no heed. For that, she was glad.

She saw Ser Brynden's shadow before she saw his face. He was leaning against a tall redwood, dressed in his familiar black chainmail and plate and a dark blue cloak that danced in the mounting wind. She knew the familiar line of his face, the shape of his jaw, the way he stood and the way he walked, all of it. She knew him as well as she knew herself, or better. As they climbed, Lem went away behind her, and they were both alone.

There were no cold courtesies here, no formal truths, no apprehensive silences. Only the names they had always called one another.

"I told them that I was riding to talk with Clement Piper at Pinkmaiden," he said. "They let me ride alone, to my surprise. Most unbecoming of Stannis Baratheon, but I insisted. Yet... this cannot continue forever, you know."

"Soon," she croaked, "We'll be riding closer to Riverrun. We can talk more easily there." She swallowed. "Does Edmure know?"

"Edmure?" Ser Brynden shook his head. "No… should I?... we can…"

"No," she murmured. "Edmure has enough to deal with. That Roslin girl looks apt to give birth any moment, you know." His voice dropped to a guarded tone. "As does Jeyne Westerling."

The hooded woman nodded. "She lives, then?"

"Aye. But the child…" He held his hands up, shrugging. "We do not know… Lady Sybell gave her moon tea, she says. We sent her back to Riverrun with Lady Roslin - the maester says maybe two moons before the time, and then—"

"How did Jeyne survive?" she asked.

"I haven't asked her," said Ser Brynden. "I figured that Sybell Spicer has something to do with it - she might have swapped her girls or something - but none of that makes sense. Why would she stay on our side?"

"The wedding." It always comes back to the accursed wedding. "They killed her son too."

A moment passed without a word, and then another. "Petyr still holds Harrenhal in young Robert's name," Ser Brynden said eventually. "Or in the name of the Lannisters, rather. He has sellswords with him, and some of the Lords Declarant." He smiled. "Likely we are riding there to relieve him of his lands soon. And then…"

"Justice." But there's no justice in this world. Not unless we make it for ourselves.

"And..." Uncertainty tugged at her. "My son?"

"Rickon is well," he said. "I wish I could—"

"No - he can't. Not like this."

Ser Brynden nodded. "Stannis wanted him as his squire, but I didn't want to subject the boy to that unwarranted torture, so I took him on myself. He's stubborn, but he learns well once you can get past his complaining and get him away from that bloody wolf. With luck, he will be a very good swordsman one day."

"He takes after his father." She tried to think of Ned's face, but when she did she only a saw a featureless, blind head, rotting on the walls of King's Landing. Oh, Ned…

"Stubborn as a Stark, aye," Brynden said. His voice softened. "But he has your look."

My look? she thought. She could feel the scars on her cheeks where her own nails had scratched them, and her hair had all but turn to white. No, she remembered thinking, as they put a knife to her throat, so long ago, no, not my hair, Ned loves my hair.

"There's another thing, though," the Blackfish said, licking his lips. "Rickon says… Bran is alive. They are both alive. They parted ways at Winterfell, he says."

She nodded and tried to smile, but the fact did not come as a shock to her. She knew that she would have felt some greater pain if he was dead, the pain she'd felt when Roose Bolton shoved his sword into Robb's heart. Jaime Lannister sends his regards… sends his regards… regards… regards…

The night had suddenly gotten a lot colder. She shoved her scarred hands deeper into her pockets. "It is getting late."

"Aye," Ser Brynden murmured. "It is. I must start back soon if I am to make it to Riverrun by week's end. When you want us to meet again, your red priest…"

"Thoros will know."

Ser Brynden stood there a moment longer, his mouth half-open as though he were about to say something. But the only word he said was "Farewell," and then he turned around and walked back into the trees.

Lem Lemoncloak was waiting for her at the foot of the hill. It was starting to rain again, as it had been raining on the day of the wedding at the Twins, she recalled. Grey Wind had kept howling and snarling and biting at any Freys who came near. We should have known, she thought.

But how could they have known?

"Lem," she said.

"My lady?"

"How far can I trust you?"

"To the ends of the earth, my lady."

The hooded woman frowned. We went beyond that a long time ago.

"Fetch him," she ordered.

"My lady?" Lem did not understand at first, but after a few moments sudden realisation dawned upon him. "My lady," he said again, bowing. Then he was gone as well.

She went and found a familiar place, a circle of tree stumps on the crown of the high hill. Mushrooms grew from between the bark, and the grass was damp. She could feel worms and dead leaves moving in the soil between her feet. The air smelled of rot and rain. I am rotted, the dead woman thought. A rotten, bitter husk with a thirst for blood. A crow cawed once more. I'm the Stranger's child, not you, she thought. That made her want to laugh, oddly, as she had when they'd slit her throat, and let her blood spill out all over the floor. She remembered every moment of it; the thrum of loosed quarrels, the warm wet rush of Jinglebell's blood all over her hands, Walder Frey licking his lips as he watched, the drums pounding, pounding, pounding, as the lutes played that terrible song. And who are you, the proud lord said, that I must bow so low…

Then Lem was back. He held another man by the scruff of his neck, his mouth curled in disgust. With a grunt, the man stumbled and fell into the dirt at her feet. His eyes were sightless as he stared up at her. His hair hung down in ragged strings matted with muck and mire, and his clothes were filthy. His torn white cloak had turned almost brown, and his roughspun was soiled. Yet his golden hand gleamed as ever, droplets of rain reflecting the moon in its polished surface.

Lem Lemoncloak went to haul the man back up to his feet, but she held up an arm and warded him off. "Leave," she told him.

He frowned. "My lady. This is the—"

"I know who he is. I know what he has done." I know better than anyone. "Five minutes," she croaked. "Then you come back. Bring Gendry. The Dayne boy. Jack and Jon o'Nutten. Notch and Beardless Dick. Mudge and Melly. Anyone else you see fit. Go."

He hesitated a moment, but in the end said nothing. Instead he bowed his head, turned away, and disappeared down the hillside.

"My lady…" came the hoarse voice of the man on his knees. "Lady Stark."

"Kingslayer," she replied.

"Jaime…" he said, "please… if… if you mean to kill me… call me… Jaime."

The world was quiet. The rain and the howling wind mingled to make a song among the tree trunks.

"I'm not going to kill you," the hooded woman said.

If Jaime Lannister felt anything at that, it never showed on his face. "You're not?" he rasped, before his voice trailed off into nothing.

"I'm not going to kill you," she repeated. The words felt strange in her mouth. "As we sin, so do we suffer. And that is what you will have, Kingslayer. Suffering."

His voice was thick. "We've both suffered enough."

"Not you," she replied. "Not you." Jaime Lannister sends his regards, he said.

He stretched out and grabbed her hand. His fingers were as cold and stiff as hers. "Look at me," he hissed. "Look. At. Me. You made me put a sword through my father's heart. I was always a Kingslayer, but you made me a kinslayer."

"I made you do nothing. I gave you a choice. Robb never had a choice." A rage went through her, sudden, inexplicable and violent. She tasted bile in the back of her throat. "Where is Sansa?"

The Kingslayer glanced at the ground, still gripping her hand in his. "In King's Landing, I assume," he said. "With my brother."

"Your brother is dead," she told him.

His fingers tightened in hers, and she could feel the bones cracking beneath the skin. "Tyrion," he whispered.

"Aegon Targaryen took King's Landing, and killed your brother. Our vengeance is equal."

"Aegon," Jaime muttered. "Rhaegar's son… oh, such irony, Lady Stark..." He bit his lip, so hard that it began to bleed. "If I told you the story I know of Aegon... well, all I did, I did it for the realm."

"You?" She gave a scornful half-laugh. "You acted for the realm? You dare to claim that?"

Jaime Lannister pulled her close, so that her hands were around his neck. She could feel his throat working beneath her palms, hear the ragged breaths close to her face. "For… the… realm," he whispered. "Always."

The hooded woman leant close to his ear and said a single word, colder and harsher than she had ever spoken it. "Bran. Was that for the realm?"

"Your son." Jaime swallowed. She could feel his throat bobbing as he breathed in. One movement of her hands, a locking of her fingers… but that was what he wanted, of course. "Bran," he murmured, and gave a slight nod. "I pushed your son out of a window, yes. And yes, it was for the realm, Lady Stark."

It took every inch of her willpower not to strangle him then and there. She had had so many chances to kill this man over the years, and she had thought about killing him hundreds, if not thousands of times. Yet here, now, with his fingers clutching at hers, him all but begging for death, she knew that she must relent.

She knew what she must do.

"Bran," she said again. "Why?"

Jaime Lannister twisted his lips into a smile and she hated him even more. "I have children too, Lady Stark," he said, "and a sister, whom I love dearly. But… the choice was your son or mine. Do you think my father would sit still and do nothing when young Bran reported his findings to the king? Robert would have wanted all our heads." A hacking cough took him. "Heads," he rasped. "Spikes. Walls." He grinned hideously. "Like I said, it was for the realm…" Then he let go of her fingers and collapsed into the mud.

She stood over him, and lowered the veil around her face, so that he could see what had become of her, every line of it, every pain and every wound. But the Kingslayer did not even flinch. "Know this," she whispered in his ear. "I pay my debts as well." Then she pulled up her hood and sat down on the stump. It was damp with rainwater, but she barely noticed the cold.

Jaime Lannister crawled onto his knees and scrabbled in the soil with his golden hand, then turned his gaze skyward to meet her eyes. "Tell me, Lady Stark…" he said, his tone bordering on amusement. "Do you think that I'm an evil man?"

For a moment, no words came to her. "Evil?" she hissed. "You, who…"

"Me," said Jaime Lannister. "The Kingslayer, who murdered his own father, fucked his sister, and threw a child from a window in the hope that he'd die. Me."

Something made her words stick in her throat. And before she could answer, the men had returned. The ground shook with each fall of their footsteps. There were far more than she had asked for, forty or fifty of them, or thereabouts, and Lem Lemoncloak leading them all.

Jaime Lannister coughed out a humourless laugh. "An audience to watch me die?" he asked her.

The hooded woman rose from the tree stump. "You don't deserve an easy death," she said. "Not you. Sansa is in King's Landing, you said?"

From the ground, Ser Jaime nodded.

"Ride, then," she hissed. "Ride for King's Landing. Find Sansa. Lem will bring her back. As for you… I'm sure the Targaryens will… be…" She forced herself to smile.

"I'm sure they'll be accommodating, my lady," said Lem Lemoncloak. He took Jaime Lannister by the scruff of his ragged white cloak, and dragged him backwards through the dirt, away from the hill, and all at once she was alone.

The hooded woman turned back to the circle of stumps and took her place. The question he'd asked nagged at her, insistent, an itch she could not scratch. Is he evil? The Kingslayer, the oathbreaker, the man without honour. Her fingers opened and closed.

He is no less evil than the rest of us, she realised. No less evil than I am.

"No less evil than I am," she murmured to herself. "And no more."

The moon was rising above the hillside. Bright silver dew speckled the grass. Somewhere up above, crows resumed their cawing, and the rain continued to fall. The droplets were salty as tears on her cheeks. The stars were coming out.

Catelyn Stark sat on her tree stump, and waited for dawn.

Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it. Reviews are, as always, very much appreciated. I'll be updating weekly at first, then more frequently as time goes on.