A/N: I haven't been so nervous before publishing a fic for years. But here I am, doing it anyway. I am probably the last person that should try to write a lengthy GoT fanfiction, because I'm not as familiar with it as I usually am when writing a story, plus I don't really remember the seasons I didn't manage to rewatch yet (5&6). But the love for Jaime & Brienne together and the joy of writing this piece brought me here, and I wanted to share it with you. Yes, it's yet another story of "what will be after s7" (you probably already read dozens of it). But I hope you'll check it out anyway.

Allow me to dedicate this little something to my amazing GoT family. I've met so many amazing people during last few weeks and I love you all!

Okay, I'll stop talking now. Hope you'll enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing! Leave me a review and tell me what you thought even if you didn't like it, and whether you want to read more of it or not.

Disclaimer: I do not own "Game of Thrones". The image is taken from a wallpaper made by chiaratippy from deviantart.

I

The Weight of My Heart

The winter was here, that fact was undeniable. As Jaime and Bronn made their way north the weather was deteriorating rapidly, in the sharp contrast to their slow pace of movement. They weren't in a hurry, although they maybe should have been. The farther north they were, the slower their horses were moving. Maybe it was the cold that was slowing them down; or maybe it was the weight of one man's heart.

"We'll fucking freeze here before we get to Winterfell," Bronn used to murmur every time the white fluff covered his cloak thoroughly and he had to shake it off, which worked only for a few minutes.

"Maybe it'd be for the better," Jaime muttered as an answer every single time.

He wasn't sure it was the best idea to go to Winterfell and join the other side. He wasn't sure about anything at all right now, except for the fact that the winter was here.

Immediately after leaving King's Landing, he had been certain there was no other way. Staying meant death, one way or another - if not at the hands of the Mountain, then some other time, by someone else. It was death. He had to leave. Or at least that was what he was telling himself during their long journey away from King's Landing.

Away from her.

He had been ready to leave it all behind - to hate Cersei, to fight the White Walkers with the Targaryen's girl, to tell Brienne he had followed her advice and fucked loyalty. He had been ready for all that and at the beginning even somewhat excited for all the new prospects and the freedom he had suddenly experienced.

Until he wasn't ready at all.

It was few days after he had reunited with Bronn that the cries of his heart became too loud to ignore. And once he let them in there was no turning back.

The heartbreak. Emotion so strong it sometimes overwhelmed him and crushed his chest in a lethal grip until he practically couldn't breathe. Love denied, despised, rejected, broken. Love that had defined his entire life, dictating his acts, words, thoughts. Dictating his wrong acts, most cruel words, morally improper thoughts. Love that once had been the only thing he had felt. It was gone, thrown into garbage alongside his devotion by Cersei's contempt. But though it had to be gone, it could not be forgotten, as it left a burning hole in his heart that will never truly heal, even given time he didn't have. His heart was empty.

The pain. The heart could ache, itch and burn almost unbearably, evoking sensations too strong to describe; but other things hurt as well. Like lost pride or rather lost remnants of it. Like the realization he had been the most stupid and naive Lannister to ever tread this soil, the blindest and the most unwilling to learn from his own mistakes. Like the memories embedded in his mind, constantly laughing at him. They should have meant nothing now, but they did mean a lot. And it hurt even more.

The disappointment. For a few hours he had been so proud of her. She had finally left all the enmities behind and was willing to put an end to at least one war, for the common people's sake. He had been proud, not suspecting it could have been a lie even for a single moment. But she was stubborn and ignorant, and she wouldn't listen. Not to reason, choosing a certain death at the hands of whoever will win the war with the dead. Not to the other side, because they represented everything she despised. And definitely not to him, barely a pawn in her game she didn't need anymore, a broken toy that stopped entertaining and became easily disposable. Replaceable, even. Redundant. A liability, maybe. Many fancy words for a simple, yet how dreadfully painful thing.

The anger. He was furious at her. Damn you, Cersei, he thought, wishing to stop seeing her face in his mind, in his dreams. If she could just put someone else's well-being before her own, if she could for once listen to someone or something else than her own deranged mind, everything might have been different. But she didn't care, did she? They could have been happy, or at least die happily, as a family with the child he no longer believed even existed. They could have had it all.

The hatred. Despite everything, he didn't hate her. He hated himself for ignoring the warnings, for blindly following someone who had definitely earned the name of the Mad Queen by now, who had been manipulating him for gods know how long. He hated himself for the heartache he experienced because of that. He hated the world for making her who she was now. He hated their father for the same thing. But maybe Tywin and the world weren't to be blamed here. Maybe only she herself was responsible for her own character. Maybe.

Once the emotions settled in, he stopped seeing sense in anything at all, and definitely not in their journey north. What were they trying to prove? What was the point of this destination, if not ultimate and untimely death? On the other hand, what was the point of carrying on if everything he had ever believed in had turned out to be a lie?

There were times, during the dark and long winter nights, when he was just lying with his eyes opened and stared in the space, remembering. Remembering his love for her, his foolish devotion and his joy when she had told him he would finally get to be a father, for once. A sweet illusion she had created to keep him with her until she no longer needed him. A lie, and nothing more.

The only point of going further was to keep his oath to the living. Keep the oath because it was the right thing to do, the only honorable thing. Because there was the slightest hope that in the far North two people still believed he was capable of keeping his oaths. And although he wasn't so certain about it after his last encounter with Brienne, he didn't let himself doubt both she and Tyrion will welcome him gladly. If he allowed a single thought that would deny that hope, he would be lost forever.

So instead of doubting he chose to run away from what was making his heart so heavy, both literally and figuratively, and cling to the memories of the only two people in the world who might still care what will happen to him. It was either that or the dreadful black emptiness that had once held his heart.

And so they were, two dark figures slowly moving their way north. The farther they got, Bronn was becoming more and more irritated.

"I don't even know what I'm doin' here with you," he exclaimed one morning when it already became too cold to stop shivering. Their cloaks weren't good for the winter. Sewed for the colder nights of King's Landing, they didn't protect against the freezing atmosphere of this dark, icy period. The awful truth was, they weren't prepared for this journey. They had left King's Landing in a hurry, knowing full well any moment of delay could put their lives in serious danger, so there had been no time to lose. Although, even if they had had time to get ready, they probably wouldn't have predicted how cold exactly it will be and therefore how many supplies or cloaks will they need. The weather was deteriorating way too quickly for their understanding - their bodies weren't accustomed to such temperatures, their horses weren't familiar with it either, having survived no winter in their short lives. Future looked now even gloomier than before. "We're going to fight the fucking dead, with the fucking dragon queen, next to the fucking King in the North, while the only thing I wanted from you was a fucking castle!"

Jaime sighed, thinking how sweet the world would be if his only concern was to get a fucking castle.

"Of course that all would happen if we ever got there, which we won't, 'cause we'll freeze right here and right now!" Bronn added, raising his voice in irritation.

They were tired, hungry and cold. They had had to visit taverns every second night; now they were traveling without a break for the last twenty-four hours. It probably hadn't been wise to skip the break considering the weather was far worse now. They were too cold and too hungry already, and it was barely morning.

"You are free to go," Jaime answered, wishing nothing but for Bronn to stay. He didn't want to stay alone, not now. If, or rather when, the cold took away his senses, he would want to have someone with him to point him in the right direction. But he had to give his companion a choice. "I'm not going to give you a castle anytime soon, so there is nothing keeping you here."

Bronn snorted and Jaime could hear his teeth chattering.

"You can always go back to the inn I found you in and wait for Cersei to have you dragged before her mighty throne, charged with treason and beheaded. Sadly, I won't attend your funeral, so I have to pay you my most honest condolences right now." Jaime smirked, trying to think about anything else than his body slowly freezing, piece by piece.

"You Lannisters, so convincing with your sleek tongues and your money," Bronn muttered with contempt in his voice without looking at Jaime. "You got a death wish and take everyone along for a death ride. And you're not even paying well enough for that."

"I'm not paying you anything right now."

"Aye, I noticed."

They were silent for the rest of the day, saving their strength for the journey. They had to be close, or that was just what they hoped; the people passing them were as scarce as everywhere else, but these ones were dressed in a much warmer way.

The whole travel north they had tried to stay away from the local people, except for when they had had to sleep somewhere warm - it was way too cold to camp outside. They had been choosing less visited roads, everything to avoid the Kingsroad. Unfortunately, the journey lasted longer than it should have had were they traveling the normal road. Therefore, the worse and worse weather was disastrous for their scarce food supplies, both for them and their horses, their clothes and their bodies. Too cold.

When it came to people though, it wasn't any safer or more dangerous now than down south. There was a smaller chance of encountering any Lannister soldiers and the bigger possibility of avoiding the chase if Cersei had arranged any. Common people out here were much less likely to visit King's Landing or even have the general knowledge of what was going on in Westeros, so they wouldn't recognize the two men dressed casually in black. On the other hand, the farther north they were, the chances of encountering some Starks loyalists grew and Jaime suspected that the Northerners, even if they heard about the alliance, wouldn't be as likely to put their sins behind as seemingly was Daenerys. The North Remembers, wasn't that what they used to say? Furthermore, there was also a higher chance of robbery. Winter had always brought the worst in humans - people exposed to severe cold and hunger were more prone to attack others, and even though they were clad in a way that didn't indicate possessing any riches, they could still seem like a good target for a robbery. They would surely handle some thieves, but killing any Northerner now would be counted as a severe minus on their already not so clean charts. They had to be careful.

Although, Jaime suspected that soon they wouldn't be able to handle even a single northern thief, considering their bodies will arrange a mutiny any time now.

"If we ain't goin' to eat something warm soon, we'll bite the dust," Bronn stuttered in the evening. He was embracing himself tightly, but it didn't do much good. "If there is any under that snow."

Jaime didn't answer, unable to think clearly. He knew Bronn was right; they were too weak to continue their journey, but if they were to stop now, would they ever make it to Winterfell? They were so close... probably... it would be a shame...

He was so tired and so heavy he felt he will fall from his horse sooner rather than later. The animals were also barely walking. The grass was covered with snow even a few miles from King's Landing; now there were heaps of white death everywhere, hiding unknown dangers beneath and obscuring the road. The horses had been treading carefully, but without knowing and finally without seeing the path they had been constantly stumbling. Having to raise their legs very high to take a step had drained them of energy much quicker than the normal walk would do. Plus, the only things they had eaten since leaving King's Landing were some dried herbs and a little hay a host of one inn had offered. Their muzzles were covered with foam and they seemed to be on the brink of exhaustion.

"We... we have to stop," Jaime uttered, coming to a halt. Bronn turned around and looked at him incredulously.

"You want to stop here?" he asked, his voice slightly breaking from cold and tiredness. Still, he seemed to handle it all better than Jaime, maybe because he had had a one-day stay in the inn near King's Landing, the liberty of which Jaime couldn't have afforded. "We can't stop, we'll freeze in a second! And then the wolves will eat us, which definitely doesn't fit the epic demise I imagined."

"Bronn... Just..." Jaime felt like his lips had already frozen, every word coming out with severe difficulty. "Go... and tell them..."

Bronn huffed.

"You think you dragged me all the way up here so I'd just leave you to die? That'll be the day!" And with these words he made his horse step back, grabbed the reins of Jaime's stallion and pulled it abruptly. The horse neighed weakly in protest, its legs barely bending in time to step forward and prevent it from falling. "We're goin'. I won't be killed by some fucking weather."

He moved forward, holding the reins in his hands and looking back from time to time to check if Jaime was still seated on his horse. Struggling with his consciousness, Jaime tried his best to fight, but he was slowly starting to feel the bliss of fading away. The cold, the hunger, the thirst, all of it accumulated creating an unbearable challenge for an unprepared organism.

"You there!" He heard Bronn shouting and snapped back from his slumber. "Is there any inn somewhere near?"

Jaime saw a man dressed in thick fur standing at the edge of the road and suddenly thought he would kill for such a cloak.

"You're nigh," the man answered. "Just a few miles west."

"Thank you, good sir," Bronn answered kindly and turned their horses into a side path on their left. "Did you hear that? We're close."

"I did," Jaime managed to answer before burying his face in his horse's mane and embracing its neck tightly. The animal was cold, the same as he was, but the close touch of flesh somehow made him warmer.

He had no idea how long it took them to reach the inn, but the next thing he noticed with full awareness was sitting near the fire covered with a thick blanket and holding a cup of something warm in his hand. Bronn was sitting next to him with the same equipment and stared at the flames like they were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his entire life.

"We're alive," Jaime noticed, feeling the pleasant warmth spreading through his body. It evoked all the wrong sensations - pain, itching, burning - but it was pleasant nonetheless.

"Aye, that we are." Bronn didn't look away from the fire. "The host said we're an hour away from Winterfell."

"Oh." That would be truly disappointing to freeze an hour from the destination. "So it's good we're alive then."

Bronn looked at him grimly and took a sip from his cup. Jaime followed his example; the liquid had a unique taste of something slightly fermented and possibly rotten, but it was warm and truth be told, it was all that mattered.

"It's dark already," Jaime spoke after a moment. "We should spend the night here."

"That's the first good idea you had since leaving that cunt," Bronn answered and stood up, apparently already warmed enough to feel steady on his feet. He walked up to the host and put his mug on the counter with a loud thump. "We'll stay the night. By the fire."

He thrust a few coins in the man's hand and nodded his head. The innkeeper returned the gesture and then looked at a group of men sitting by the wall. Bronn followed his gaze and found himself staring at a bunch of lads clad in various furs, every cloak completely different from the other. One look at their scarred, cruel faces and he knew two lonely, famished and exhausted fugitives from King's Landing were now facing a threat that could bring them death much sooner than the cold.

Sansa strode through the long, empty corridors, deeply moved by what she had just heard. The rumors were really disturbing and hard to grasp. She chose not to believe people of the North could ever descend to such a level of deprivation until proven otherwise, but still she had to check the truth behind those words. She needed to find Jon.

The road to the Great Hall was long and she found herself quickly irritated by the enormousness of their castle. In the times of war, the distances should be little, because how else would any information reach its destination in time?

Though truth be told, she was irritated at everyone and everything; the castle was not to be blamed. She was irritated at Jon, whose mind was all over the place, but not where it should have been in her opinion. She was irritated at Daenerys for taking away all of her brother's common sense, for taking away her brother in general and replacing him with someone he was not. In spite of herself, she was also irritated at Tyrion for not coming to talk to her and for his and everyone else's apparent naivety. They all seemed to focus on the bigger picture, or rather one of them, forgetting that there were also smaller ones, almost equally important. Like Northerners coming to Winterfell, searching for protection and food. They could give them neither, in fact - when it came to the White Walkers, Winterfell was probably the worst location ever to take for a shelter, while the food would be enough for a long time for the inhabitants of the castle, but not for the whole North.

She remained the one to listen to people and their complaints, reigning over the North as the lady of Winterfell, which didn't mean much. All they could talk about was the battle with the dead, the alliance with Cersei and Jon's heritage. The last revelation had seemed to change everything; of course it had been a shock for Sansa as well, but after a day or two she had come to her senses. If their primary concern was now the battle with the dead, they should stick to that and nothing else. Yet the two Targaryens couldn't figure out their current relationship, which created cracks in their supposed-to-be-common ruling. Sansa thought Petyr would probably have the greatest fun right now, watching them trying not to fight, seeping the sweet words of poison into Sansa's ears. Though she did miss him in some morbid and peculiar way she had decided that from then on she would do exactly the opposite of what he would have her do. And so she had chosen not to care about Jon being a Targaryen and she had even told him that for her he will always remain her older brother. But she couldn't not care about the fact they weren't listening to her yet again. She had told them it was foolish to believe a single word that had come from Cersei's mouth. She had told them their supplies were shrinking. She had told them what the common people from around Winterfell were saying to her. They didn't listen.

Her fate was slipping through her fingers yet again, not even in her possession, and she couldn't do anything to stop it this time. She had thought she would finally be free, but maybe in this wretched realm one could never be a master of one's fate. Maybe it was just a dream of naive young girls. But she wasn't a naive young girl anymore, was she?

She finally reached the Great Hall and as usual found there a meeting of the Queen's people. She had been invited only once after which they had stopped noticing.

"Your Grace, my lords." She curtsied before Daenerys and without wasting time looked at Jon. "I need to speak to you."

Jon nodded, his absent gaze lingering on Daenerys for a moment. Then he turned around and followed Sansa out of the Great Hall and into the corridor.

"What is it?" he asked, his voice tired and resigned. That was not the Jon she had known and had finally come to love.

"I've heard some dreadful rumors," she started, trying to get his attention and feeling her irritation grow. "I thought I would discuss it with you before doing anything about it."

"You are the lady of Winterfell, Sansa," he answered sadly, his eyes finally truly meeting hers. They bore deep sadness that didn't fade away when he smiled weakly at her. "I'm not even a Stark."

"You've never been one formally," she answered without hesitation.

"But now I'm even less of a Stark than before. I'm a Targaryen. I have no right to this castle, these people or any title in the North. North is yours and I'm sure you will rule it much better than I ever would." He sounded broken beyond the point of return. Did he lose faith in himself, his fate or everything in general? Where was the ruler who had been willing to jump into fire for his people?

Sansa stared at him for a moment trying to see through him, but finally gave up. It was probably better to come straight to the point now as any further discussion seemed pointless.

"People are starving," she said firmly and looked him sternly in the eyes. "They are coming to Winterfell, but we cannot feed them. We don't allow everyone in, which I think you probably know, so they are angry. And hungry. There are rumors that some of them..." she hesitated slightly before continuing, "...discovered a different source of food."

Jon frowned.

"What source?"

Sansa felt her heart was much heavier than usual when she finally answered.

"The travelers."

Jon needed a moment to grasp the meaning of these words. When he finally did there was only shock on his face.

"Northmen are eating people?" he asked incredulously, his eyes wide open.

"That's what I heard."

John laughed heartlessly after a moment of silence.

"What's so funny?" Sansa asked with indignation.

"Nothing, I just..." Jon shook his head and then looked at her with something akin to melancholy in his eyes. "Where are those days when you could focus on detesting me? When I was only Ned Stark's bastard and you were a soon-to-be princess? Why do the kids from back then have to deal with things like cannibalism, Night Kings and Iron Throne?"

Sansa sighed. Was the past his one and only escape nowadays?

"I don't know, Jon, but I do know we have to do something about it. Or at least check if it's really true."

"Of course. I think you should check it."

Sansa waited for any continuation, but it never came.

"And?" she asked finally, barely able to contain her irritation.

"And you don't have to go through me with such issues. I trust you'll make good decisions."

She stared at him for a while with deep disbelief in her eyes, then finally spat: "Fine, don't bother. I'll handle it myself."

She turned on her heels and walked away quickly, angrily.

Jon watched her for a moment. It was for the best, for the people of the North. They were already distrustfully inclined towards Daenerys; once they found out that he was a Targaryen as well, they would turn their backs on him. They will stop listening, respecting, looking up to him. But if they had a Stark that didn't disappoint them as far, who always did her best to keep them safe and sound, they will know who to turn to. Sansa had to earn their deepest devotion and there was no other way than letting her rule all by herself, to let her be the Queen in the North in her own right, although without the title itself.

There was no other way.

Sansa disappeared from his sight, turning right into another corridor. She was infuriated and agitated, practically fuming. Bursting into a dining room, she didn't even look at the people around before commanding: "I have a task for you."

Looking at five men staring at him Bronn sighed and put his hand on a hilt of his sword. He was certain in the normal circumstances he would take care of them on his own, but now, not completely defrosted, with his hands shaking from the long ride and the dreadful cold that still didn't leave him entirely, he suspected it would be a quick combat.

Sensing the weird silence that fell Jaime turned around from the fire and looked at the men that were staring hostilely at Bronn.

Fuck.

He stood up and walked up to Bronn, so he was now facing the thugs as well. He quickly assessed the situation and calculated their odds; they still had a chance to get out of it without killing anyone or getting killed themselves.

"There is no need for a bloodshed," he said calmly, looking at the men solemnly. "We can give you anything you find worthy and we'll just go our way. How does that sound?"

The men smirked. Bronn and Jaime exchanged anxious glances; they both felt the situation didn't look good.

"We ain't interested in yer gold." One of the cutthroats stood up and spat some sticky saliva onto the table. He was a muscular youngster of approximately twenty-two years and looked like there was nothing he would fear. His accent was northern, although much stronger than one could usually stumble upon.

"So what are you interested in?" Bronn asked, trying hard to keep his hand steady on the hilt. He didn't like this situation in the slightest.

The man's face distorted in a grimace resembling a crooked smile.

"Winter came. We need food," he answered.

"We'll give you money to buy some," Jaime offered, feeling like there was a need for a bloodshed after all.

"There is no to buy," the man snapped. "Winter took everything and those who still have it ain't willin' to share. Gold's shit now. And the fuckin' highborn cunts don't want us into them walls. We need usin' what we can."

Jaime and Bronn processed the information for a moment until they understood the meaning of it.

"From all the possible misadventures we had to find cannibals." Bronn's voice was filled with disbelief and heartless laughter as he pulled his sword out from its sheath. "Guess your non-killing policy can go fuck itself."

"Agreed." Jaime nodded and drew his own sword.

The other men also stood up and revealed their various weapons - knives, daggers, hammers, small axes. In the meantime, the host managed to hide behind the counter. Jaime thought the innkeeper had to cooperate with the cannibals to stay alive, but apparently didn't approve of their actions enough to join them now.

"And I thought the Dothraki were barbarians," Bronn muttered, ready to strike his sword any time now.

"We're all barbarians in certain circumstances." Jaime watched the men bare their teeth in gruesome caricatures of a smile.

"That's not especially comforting," Bronn grumbled.

"You want comfort? Here it is - we have a great chance of dying here and now. And if we die, they will never know the truth."

One of the men jumped onto the table and in the next moment charged at Bronn with two knives in his hands. Bronn shielded himself with a sword and punched his opponent's face with his free hand. The man staggered and his jaw turned red, but it was all. Bronn realized they truly were dreadfully weak now as his blade slid down the knives, its tip quickly making contact with the floor. He cursed loudly, knowing he will have to use both hands to take control over his sword. It was no joke now.

"That's all you're worried about?" he hissed, grabbing the sword firmly and pushing it towards the thug. In normal circumstances, he would hit him under the sternum, but now he barely scratched his side. In the same time, another man appeared to Bronn's left and stormed at him with an ax, forcing him to duck to avoid being sliced. Using his bent position the first fighter knocked him out of his feet. The sellsword fell heavy on the ground and had to stifle a moan as both his bones and the wooden boards creaked in protest.

Two other men charged at Jaime with a force of wild beasts. His sword now seemed much too heavy to hold it in one hand, so he made a support of his right arm, holding it beneath his left forearm. His first blow was successfully blocked by the Northman's hammer; the two metals clashed with a sound that resonated in his head for moments to come. The force of the collision almost made him drop his sword. His other attacker tried to swing at him with a sharpened tusk, which Jaime saw in the last moment and barely managed to avoid it. The weirdly looking weapon scratched his cheek and he felt the stinging pain there, combined with a stream of blood running down his face. Trying to take advantage of his momentarily lack of concentration, the tusk-man struck again, this time with a knife; Jaime wasn't sure where exactly he aimed, but the knife landed on the golden hand, cutting the glove and stopping at the metal with the clashing sound. The attackers froze for a moment, completely dumbfounded. With a good dose of morbid satisfaction, Jaime managed to throw the knife out of the man's hand and thrust the sword into his body. The steel cut through the tusk-man like a knife through butter. With a bewildered expression he looked down at the blood escaping his body and then at his companion, who quickly managed to compose himself and was already swinging his hammer at Jaime with a wild roar.

In the same time, Bronn succeeded in swiftly getting on his feet and making a surprise attack on the first opponent, slicing his abdomen open. Blood spurted on the floor while the man's insides fell out even though he desperately tried to keep them where they belonged, clinging to life. Bronn smiled smugly at the remaining attacker, which turned out to be a mistake; their leader came out of nowhere and punched him in the face with such a strength that for a moment his vision turned black. He felt hot blood filling his mouth. He needed some time to recover, knowing full well that will be his end. In the next second, he received another blow that hit him under the ribs. He didn't see the attack, but he suspected it wasn't performed with bare hands as he doubled from the pain that seemed to be too much to handle. Another struck from behind and he found himself on the floor again, this time facing the wooden boards. One of the men sat on his back, pinning him to the floor and making him unable to move. That was the end, wasn't it?

Jaime managed to dodge the hammer twice or thrice, trying to mount an attack himself and failing every single time. The adrenaline pulsing in his veins kept him alive as far, but now the tiredness began to overwhelm him once again. The sword was even heavier than before and while he focused on avoiding the hammer, the weighty blade made his movements slower. Soon he didn't manage to duck entirely and the weapon came into contact with his right forearm. It didn't crush the bone, barely nicking it, but it was Jaime's sensitive spot and for a moment the pain took his senses away. He had known pain much worse than this one, but not in a middle of a fight when he was already exhausted, too exhausted to get over it, even though any moment of delay in coming back to combat could cost him his life. Back when he had lost his hand he had been broken and damaged beyond the point of return, but Locke's men wouldn't have killed him as he had been too valuable to them. Now he knew he was going to die being nothing more but the flesh the cannibals desired.

The man laughed hoarsely, threw the hammer away and kicked him in the chest. Jaime doubled over, fighting for a breath, desperately wishing he had his armor now. There was no air in his lungs as he struggled to breathe; he forgot about everything else until the man grabbed him by his hair and soon his face came into contact with the attacker's knee. Then, the thug let go of him and he fell on his knees, sticky blood flowing down his face from all over. His vision went red as his mind focused only and entirely on the pain. There was nothing else but pain, exhaustion and a lack of air. For a moment he wished to die, to finally be freed from it all.

Bronn tried to struggle using the remains of his strength, but to no avail. Unable to move, he felt the cold and sticky touch of the floor that was covered with blood, blood that attacked his eyes, ears and mouth. There was also pain, the weight of the man straddling him, tiredness, cold, hunger. Something in him begged to give up, to come back to what the winter had offered them already - some sweet oblivion, a blissful death. He hadn't been the one to give up, but this fight was already lost and there was nothing he could do to change it. Focusing on the sounds coming to him from behind, he realized Jaime stopped struggling as well. Suddenly, a gasp escaped his mouth as he felt a sudden, sharp pain piercing his right hand. He looked at it and froze. There was a knife sticking from his hand. A fucking knife that went right through it.

"How'd you like our bloodshed?" the leader of the pack hissed in his ear, but Bronn didn't even hear him, focused only and entirely on the blade in his hand. His mind was slowly getting foggy and he started wondering how Jaime had felt when his hand had been cut off. Maybe soon Bronn will know it as well.

The other man stood above Jaime waiting for him to finally succumb to the floor. When he didn't, the thug decided to use the weakness seen before - he twisted Jaime's right arm all the way to his back and in one swift movement detached his golden hand, then kicked him roughly and examined the shining loot. Jaime fell on the ground which was now a pool of blood, his whole arm limp and unable to move. Paradoxically, it awoke a part of him that still wanted to fight, that still didn't want to give up. He forced himself to lean on his left arm and managed to slightly lift himself from the ground. When the thug noticed his attempts, he just laughed again and punched him with the metal hand, although much harder than Bronn had done it years ago. Or maybe Jaime was just too beaten up to bear it. The floor welcomed him yet again. Another blow coincided with a sudden outburst of piercing cold; the freezing air embraced him tightly and greeted him like an old friend, enabling him to escape into numbness. Everything went dark.

Bronn noticed the door being opened; he saw a tall figure standing there, but his vision was red and blurry, so he couldn't distinguish any features. The cold crept to his body and he felt like coming back home. There was another sharp pain resulting from a withdrawal of the knife from his hand. Bright blood sprang from the wound and he lost consciousness.

Brienne opened the door to the inn and came to a halt in the threshold. She definitely didn't expect to see a slaughter, but apparently that was it. The whole floor of the small room was covered with blood, in which four bodies lay. Three men were still standing; they looked at her wide-eyedly, resembling some wild animals much more than human beings.

"I come here on behalf of the lady of Winterfell," she announced, scrutinizing the men. "She demands..." The words halted in her throat as she saw what one of the men was holding in his grasp.

A golden hand. Bloodied golden hand.

Her eyes swept the floor and soon it was not only words that stopped suddenly.

The men didn't wait any longer for her to finish the sentence, charging at her with fury. When the opponents' weapons collided with her sword all she saw was an image of Jaime Lannister lying lifeless on the floor in an ocean of blood.