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JAIME II

With its snow-clad peak overlooking the Ancient Road across the mountains of the Westerlands, the Seal stood to his right, high and proud like a mountain lion: the old passage, now closed forever after an earthquake during the reign of Jaehaerys the Conciliator nearly caused the mountain to crumble on itself, meandered north of the actual Goldroad, unravelling between juniper and hemlock forests, half-frozen streams eroding the mountain's sides with their harsh waters and gorges so deep it was said monsters lurked from their darkness, ready to jump on lost travellers. Some even claimed Lann the Clever had reached the Rock through one of those openings.

Above him – enormous, tall and burly, like the body of a giant warrior sleeping sideways over the mountains – the Rock.

Jaime stared over the miles and miles of granite stone on which stood his ancient seat, feeling icy and remote: instead of bringing him a small measure of peace, a consolation from his woes, the familiar landscape was looming unforgiving and inhospitable.

"I can't even see the top. It's frightening," murmured the girl next to him.

Ashlynn had followed the host all the way from Tarth, in spite of his many refusals. She had concealed herself on the ship that brought them back on the continent and showed up once they had landed again in Board Arch, wearing a red jerkin, breeches and a new short haircut.

Jaime had yelled at her, losing completely his patience, threatening to send her back to her grandfather after a good spanking. He didn't have the time to tend to an insubordinate child.

She had defiantly stared back, arms crossed, and said, deadpan: 'I'll be your squire.'

He almost laughed at the absurdity of that.

'I don't need a squire,' he had answered, trying to keep a stern, straight face.

'Of course you do! Every knight needs one!'

'Do you have any idea of what happens to a young, pretty girl sneaking into a troops camp? At the very least, you'll be taken for a camp follower and treated as such!'

'I'll kick 'em in the balls!'

'Let her come, Jaime. You're never gonna win this bout,' Bronn had sneered. Jaime grudgingly relented.

Stubborn Tarth girl.

'If they start molesting you, or worse, don't come crying to me.'

But in truth, she had actually been valuable: she washed the laundry, cooked fairly well, was quick to follow orders and never complained once, not even when they got trapped for five days into a blizzard between Deep Den and Hornvale: she had never lost heart, but she had helped to keep the horses warm and to store as much fire wood and food as they could. Jaime had to admit that, during the long travel to Casterly Rock, her energy and high-spirited mood had kept him afloat.

Bronn had a soft spot for her, too, and had started training her, so she could defend herself, if need be. More than once he was lulled to sleep by her buoyant laugh just outside his tent, as the mercenary recounted some silly tale from the time when he was still in Tyrion's service.

During those nights he always dreamt of Myrcella.

"It's solid rock, how do we get in?" Lynn wondered, staring at the mountain with a mix of awe and terror. The Rock always had that effect on strangers. He gave her a crooked grin: "We'll politely knock at the front door."

They rode to the two enormous golden statues that had been guarding the Lion's Mouth for centuries. He dismounted, walked the steps to the oak-and-iron entrance, lifted the ornate door knocker three times and waited, while Lynn's jaw dropped in incredulity. Jamie snorted. She thought I was jesting.

After a few moments, the heavy door opened and they were granted access: the horses rode along a broad passageway through the natural cavern, lit by hundreds of torches; her mouth still open, Lynn couldn't stop staring at the high ceiling as though she feared the Rock would tumble down on them at any moment. Jaime could hear the ebb of the tide gently reverberating from the underground harbour; he inhaled deeply the familiar scent of salt impregnating these walls.

He was home, but the thought wasn't bringing him any consolation.

The host was led to the first of the many outer courtyards, where a bulky man with a leonine beard and formidable whiskers jovially patted his round belly and laughed cheerfully when he saw him.

"Cousin Jaime! I'll be damned!"

Daven Lannister was the only surviving son of Jaime's uncle Stafford: he was older than Jaime by ten years, but his hair was still as golden and lavish as a real lion's mane. He had been one of Jaime's first playmates, during their carefree childhood at the Rock and was also Joanna's favourite nephew: she had doted on him as much as her two twins; in return, Jaime was still fond of him, even though he believed him a frivolous, narcissistic ponce.

"You've grown old, mate."

"And you're on the fast track to becoming a succulent ham."

Daven guffawed.

"These fucking stairs are preventing me putting on too much weight, but just barely."

Although a head shorter, the cousin circled Jaime's shoulders with a big arm and squeezed affectionately.

"And how fares Cersei? I didn't know she was planning to send you to the Rock: no raven has brought us the news of your arrival," he said as he snapped his fingers at a stable boy, who promptly took the horse reins from Jaime and led his courser to rest.

"I came on my own, Daven. My sister doesn't know I'm here."

Daven's smiling face darkened. He grabbed his arm and took him aside, out of range from the other soldiers, squires, page boys intent on taking care of horses and quartering Jaime's men into the barracks.

"You show up here unannounced with a host of, I'd say, around two thousand men, Queen's men; and the Queen herself doesn't even know? Jaime, what the hell is going on?"

From where to start?

Jaime stared at the courtyard's buzzing comings and goings, his mind blank and burned out. When he turned to his cousin and opened his mouth to answer, Daven held up a hand to stop him: "Not here," he whispered, looking around suspiciously. "Later. At supper."

Jaime nodded gratefully and stepped inside.

He was tired beyond words and in dire need of a hot bath, but he had wanted to visit the Hall since he set foot on the Westerlands. It's been years since his last visit, and after everything that had happened in King's Landing and at Evenfall Hall he felt the need to see her.

Usually, only the knights and lords who had brought prestige and glory to the house name with their deeds were granted their resting place into the Hall of Heroes, their armours, swords and carved faces on display all over the walls; but, on the south side, right where the gallery opened into a terrace overlooking the sea, covered by a golden ciborium supported by four alabaster columns with rubies the size of walnuts engraved in them, rested the recumbent effigy of Joanna, last Lady of the Rock.

The pretty head was reclined over soft marble pillows, and the beautifully carved transparent veil couldn't entrap the ringlets which, even in death and stone, flowed freely over her chest and hips, wild, fair and comely. There were filigree threads soldered over the surface of the curls, so that the golden hair still glittered with the sun's kiss. It was a beautiful work of art, for sure, and Jaime wished he could say the lineaments carved in stone were the perfect copy of the soft, silky, scented skin against which he used to fall asleep, but the truth was he couldn't remember her.

The effigy looked like a perfect mix between Myrcella and Cersei, although his sister had never looked so peaceful and still, not even in sleep. The detail of the hands demurely folded over her breasts wasn't Cersei at all, as she wouldn't ever be so maidenly.

Beloved wife and mother; forever cherished, read the epitaph Tywin had the sculptor chisel up; Jaime would have wished to raise a prayer to the Mother and the Crone asking for mercy and wisdom, but nothing came out.

The words had died inside of him a long time ago.

I miss you, he thought somewhat lamely, despite the fact he wasn't even sure what he was missing, exactly.

Her hands, yes, he did miss those, though. The soft weight of a caress over his golden curls. Strong and gentle. If he closed his eyes and really concentrated, he believed he could still remember at least this, like a distant echo rippling in the recesses of his memory.

He put his own hand over the figure's cold ones as the impact of what had transpired in the Red Keep hit him at full force: I've beaten her, I've smacked her in the face with this hand.

The regret he felt didn't diminish the gravity of the act, or his own self-loathing. What would you have thought of me, Mother? Of us? Would you have forgiven us for what we've done? Would you have loved our children?

His mother saw darkness ahead and tried to save her foolish children. But with her gone, both he and Cersei had been left without guidance, spiralling out of control without even giving a thought about the consequences of their acts. Because who would even dare to hold a Lannister accountable for any wrongdoing? He had poured all the love, worship and devotion once addressed to his mother on his sister, while Cersei had grown more and more enraged, distant and manipulative, and when Jaime realised how dangerous that was, it was already too late. He had been so stupid and irresponsible, thinking he could save everyone – his sister, their children – from their enemies, not understanding that the true enemy was the insane lust that had eaten their souls and changed them both into blind, heartless beasts.

He was seeking a new path for himself, struggling to reach a new understanding and walk toward a future free of the invisible shackles he felt he had worn for many years, but the ghosts of his past didn't seem intended to leave him anytime soon. Cersei was still a looming presence in the back of his mind, beautiful and false, calling to him like a siren. Come back to me, brother! We'll forgive and forget. Sweet brother. My love.

It would have been so easy, to fall back into the old ways. Easy and comforting. But he couldn't forgive, much less forget.

I've been trying, Mother, I've been trying so hard, but nothing of what I do will ever be enough. Everything I touch turns to ashes.

The marble effigy stared at him, mute and accusing: no words of encouragement and absolution for him. He would need to find the wisdom inside himself.

And for the first time in his life, he felt truly alone.

Private dinner in Daven's solar was a boring affair.

While an excellent venison soup and pork pie with eggs and cheese were being served, Jaime, Bronn and Daven exchanged pleasantries and small talk about the management of Casterly Rock...well...he and his cousin exchanged pleasantries; Bronn just stuffed his mouth with second helpings and wine.

Daven had uncorked one of the Arbor red vintages from the Rock's cellars and the cup bearer, a boy with the reddish blonde hair of the Lantells, was careful to keep their three goblets always full to the rim.

Halfway through his third glass, Daven threw a cautious look at Bronn and pointedly stared at Jaime.

"You can speak in front of Bronn, coz. I trust him."

To his right, Bronn sucked soundly his fingers, just to rile him.

"What happened in King's Landing, Jaime? Is it true she has blown up the Great Sept?"

"Did you really think it was an accident?"

Daven sighed and rubbed a tired hand over his forehead.

"I don't know what to think anymore." His blue eyes bore into Jaime's emerald ones: "I'm sorry about Myrcella and Tommen."

Jaime fidgeted in his chair, suddenly uncomfortable. What did Daven truly know? How much did he guess? His ghost fingers itched.

"But whatever happened between the two of you, I don't want to be part of your personal wars. The Rock is loyal to the Iron Throne."

"The Rock is loyal to the Lannisters," Bronn said, picking his teeth with the point of the knife. "He is a Lannister," he added, cocking his head in Jaime's general direction.

"So that's the reason why you've come back? Now that you aren't Lord Commander of the Kingsguard anymore, you want to take your rightful place at home?"

"I have no interest in the Westerlands, Daven; it's thanks to you if the Rock is thriving even in these dire times: you've been doing an excellent job in keeping it out of harm's way, and for that you have my gratitude. You will be free to rule here as you deem fit, but I shall need a part of your military strength."

"How much?"

"Eight thousand."

Daven's eyes bulged out.

"Eight thousand?!"

"You can choose the men among Lannisport City Guard and the Lannister army stationed at the Rock."

"But, Jaime, how will we ever manage in case of an attack?"

"If someone will be so idiotic as to try laying siege to an impregnable fortress, you mean? You're going to have enough left to curb anyone from coming to bother the lions during winter. This is not a request, Daven, it's an order," he added, his green eyes flashing dangerously, "from now on you'll answer and report directly to me."

"What do you need eight thousand men for, anyway?"

Jaime and Bronn exchanged a look: they had never discussed further plans, beyond Casterly Rock, but, as strikingly beautiful sapphire eyes assaulted his mind, he realised he had already yielded to the inevitability of this choice weeks ago. Bronn's lips twitched knowingly. Bloody bastard. He knew from the start I would come to this, he thought, getting his irritation, and a slight blush, in check.

He stared back at his cousin, took a deep breath and plunged.

"I'm going North. I shall make a bargain with the Starks."

Daven's cup stilled in mid-air.

"Have you gone mad? If Cersei knew…

"Cersei can go hang herself!" he slammed his golden hand on the table, spilling red wine all over, and stood up, pacing like a lion in a cage, while the cup bearer tried to salvage the Myrish lace of the table cloth. "The Others take her! I'm done being her lapping dog. I'm not following her orders anymore, and neither should you!"

"She is the Queen, Jaime! We're talking about treason, here!"

There, the word he had been avoiding since he stepped out of the Red Keep, like a slap in his face. For the first time in his life, he was working against his sister's wishes, so technically, yes, that was treason. I truly can't keep my oaths to any of the rulers I've served. But she is not my Queen. She will never be my Queen, he considered ruefully.

"Speakin' of which..." Daven resumed, standing up. "I've got word from Tyrion."

Jaime's heart gave a lurch.

"The little fella is alive?" Bronn exclaimed, with a small pleased glint in his eyes, before raising his cup in a silent toast.

"Alive and faring exceedingly well," he handed to Jaime a folded parchment. "He has become Daenerys Targaryen's Hand."

Bronn choked on his wine.

Jaime stared at his cousin, aghast, then at the missive, where his brother's neat handwriting flowed easily, talking about dragons, an army of more than two hundred thousand men, and fire and blood over Westeros.

Then, at the bottom, next to a sealing wax in the shape of a three-headed dragon Jaime hadn't seen for almost twenty years, his signature.

Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the Queen.

Tyrion...back on the continent...serving a woman who probably wanted him dead...

So it's true. She really has returned.

His head was spinning with the knowledge that the hour of reckoning, for him, for his whole family, has finally come.

Bronn stood up and snatched the letter from his hand.

"He's asked for the Lannister army to go to Dragonstone and fight with this silver-haired Mother of Dragons to win back the Iron Throne..."

"Aye, and I've said no to him as I'm saying no to you, too."

"I'm not asking you to go against Cersei, Daven," Jaime said, chafed. "I'm just taking a small part of my army to move up North."

Daven flinched, the use of the possessive not going unnoticed.

"And once you're there? What happens after you strike an alliance with the King in the North?" he let out a thick, scornful laugh. "A lion parading with the wolves, that must be the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard!"

Jaime reached out for his glass on the table and gulped its content, a dark smile on his face.

"I've done many things more dishonourable than that, Daven; get my host ready, we'll be leaving in two days."

After making sure his men had been quartered in the barracks and that Cersei's old childhood bedchamber had been assigned to Lynn, just to see the girl's eyes sparkling with amazement at the stunning, princely opulence of it, Jaime retreated to his own rooms: Daven had wanted to arrange for him to sleep in his father's quarters, but he adamantly insisted that his own old bedchamber would do just fine.

It hadn't changed much, during the last twenty years: there was still the same Myrish carpet and tapestry hung on the walls and, everywhere, rampant golden lions on red field, roaring bravely.

Only the bed had been replaced, and for that Jaime was grateful: in that bed, he and Cersei had laid together countless times, and he had no intention to be reminded of it even in sleep.

All around him, there were too many bittersweet memories, already – stolen kisses, sleepless nights spent laying in each other's arms and talking in hushed tones about a future that never came – without adding the weight of his own resentment.

His head felt heavy and dizzy for the wine; he stepped outside on the balcony. The view from there had always taken his breath away: halfway between the heavens and the ground, from his terrace, on clear days, he could see with the naked eye Fair Isle and the ruins of Castamere, the playground of his and Cersei's many summer afternoons.

We played over the drowned and burned bones of our enemies. We played over a graveyard.

From the terrace, he could also see the cliff where he used to jump from, as a lad. Cersei never jumped with me; she ran straight to Father and tattled on me.

The only one who's been brave enough to follow him on the cliff was little Melara. He still remembered the dare he had agreed to: a kiss in return for a jump together in the water. A true kiss, like the one Florian the Fool had given to his Jonquil.

Jaime had pointed out that Florian took from Jonquil a lot more than a kiss.

'Then, next time we shall find a higher cliff,' she had said with a wink, before peeling off her dress. She boldly stood in front of him only in her smallclothes, which had revealed unripe, but already well-shaped breasts; and right after, she had jumped, and he had followed her with the same reckless abandon.

One hundred feet below, in the summer water, her soaked linen clothes did nothing to hide the hardness of her nipples. She had brazenly put her arms around his neck, pushed herself flat against his chest and kissed him.

A sweet first kiss: warm, wet and wonderfully awkward.

And after that, they had both laughed and tried to dunk each other beneath the surface, playing all through the joyous mirth of never-ending youth, until goosebumps had erupted all over their eleven-years-old bodies.

Melara was brave and lively and would have become a beautiful, passionate woman.

Instead, less than a week later, she was dead. A horrible death, according to the whispered rumours he had caught from Maester Creylen's young assistant and from the baker's son, who had been there where they pulled out the body from the well: the sixteen-feet fall had broken both her legs, but it hadn't been fatal. What killed her was the water. Melara had drowned when the high tide had filled the well; when Jaime had heard that her lungs were full of the sea he thought they were all lying to him, because, how could it be? She was a wonderful swimmer and he had seen her holding her breath under water for more than two minutes only a few days past. So he'd asked to see the body, to be really sure, but Maester Creylen had forbidden it: the accident had happened on the outskirts of Lannisport, where nobody at first had thought to go looking for the lost girl. The well was isolated and located over a patch of land that had been abandoned for years. When they finally found her, after almost two days, the corpse was in an advanced state of putrefaction, her freckled skin black and already falling off due to water and the abnormally hot weather of those days. When they refused to let him see her, Jaime had yelled, kicked, bitten, threatened to head to Father with his remonstrations. In the end, the only thing he could do was standing quietly like a good boy in the sept, his cheeks streaked with tears, while the septon and the Silent Sisters took care of the funeral rites.

Everyone was crying, that day.

Everyone, except Cersei.

At the time he didn't think much of it: his sister had lost one of her best friends, after all, and sometimes the shock and grief of losing a loved one would dry up the tears even before they could be spilled.

And after, he had simply forgotten about her, the memory of that first kiss buried deep down in his heart. Until his sister unlocked it with a well-put insinuation and a not-so-veiled threat.

Could she really have Melara's blood on her hands? Committing murder at one-and-ten, just out of spite and jealousy?

He tried to call to mind what Cersei did, during those days when Melara couldn't be found: she had been the last to see her alive, but was she helping the search party? Was she worried? Did she point the men to the right direction?

He couldn't remember.

It took hours for the well to fill up. With her legs shattered and the water level getting higher and higher, Melara had the time to realise she was about to die. A slow, inconceivable agony.

But, for some reason, even today, Jaime couldn't picture her scared and whimpering, not until the very end, at least. No, she was so fiercely attached to life that she would have put up a fight against the Stranger himself, screaming at the top of her lungs, breaking her nails and scratching her fingers bloody in the desperate attempt to find a handhold to climb out on her own, never surrendering to the cold, nor the pain.

Sister, could you really have been that cruel, even as a child?

Jaime pushed the palm of his hand against his eye, his temples throbbing with the early signs of a headache, and went back inside.

I can't really hold my liquor; Tyrion would laugh himself stupid at this.

He yanked his golden hand from his stump and fell heavily into the bed, still dressed, hoping for dreamless sleep…

He was chasing Melara…down, down… her laughter echoing through the labyrinthine passageways coiling inside the belly of the Rock: for some strange reason, she was wearing Cersei's wedding gown, the vaporous silky skirts kissing her bare ankles as she ran fast ahead of him.

Wait! Wait!

Melara stopped, shyly smiled at him from behind her shoulders and jumped into the darkness below. He tried to reach her, but he wasn't standing on the cliff at Casterly Rock. His feet were planted on the window sill of the Burned Tower in Winterfell: beneath him, the sea was raging, and two golden eyes were staring at him from the deepness. The things I do for love. He jumped and dived deeper and deeper, into the water…

…Under the sea there was a banquet table loaded with drinks and food and sitting there, across one another, were Robb Stark, his wolf head almost completely severed from his neck, and Tyrion, with three arrows stuck in his chest…he was crying all over a dragon's skull the size of a dog; and, from the opposite side, Lady Catelyn was kissing Rhaegar Targaryen, who was wearing a fool's crown with little bells and playing his harp. Jaime recognised Lady Catelyn only from her blue eyes, because her hair had turned white and the skin of her face had been completely eaten by fish.

His lungs were straining almost painfully, now; he needed to resurface soon, or he too would die at the bottom of the sea.

He used his feet and arms to propel him back to the water's surface, but he realised there was something holding him back.

A hand.

Cersei's hand, grasping his ankle, pulling him under.

He struggled to free himself from his sister's grip, but she was stronger: her face was beautiful and hideous, her eyes terrible to behold, cold and merciless like stone, and in her hair there were snakes…thousands of them…

He opened his mouth to call for Melara, to call for his mother…he tried to breathe, but he gulped only salt water.

Salt water that tasted like blood and decay…

An astonishing headache woke him up.

Three things were instantly clear: first, he wasn't in his bed anymore; for a moment he thought he was still dreaming: he was shrouded in darkness, but, from the heat, he had a fair inkling of where he was. He could sense the Rock weighting down on him: the Rock's underground caves, or more likely, one of the abandoned goldmines; mixed with salt, he could taste copper, quicksilver and the bitter almond-like smell of the concoction used to separate gold from ore.

Second, he was tied up, suspended like a ham, his useless stump and right arm left dangling to his side.

Third, he wasn't alone: someone was repeating a list of names, on and on, like an endless litany.

The Red Woman...Beric Dondarrion...Thoros of Myr...Theon Greyjoy...The Mountain...Queen Cersei...

The Red Woman...Beric Dondarrion...Thoros of Myr...Theon Greyjoy...The Mountain...Queen Cersei...

His head was splitting in two.

"What are you babbling about?" he slurred.

The wine...the wine was drugged...

"The Red Woman...Beric Dondarrion...Thoros of Myr...Theon Greyjoy..."

"Stop it. Stop it!"

He felt dizzy and wanted to throw up, but he managed to ask: "What are those names?"

A boy's voice answered from the dark: "These are the names of dead people."

"Cersei…she's not dead…"

She couldn't be dead.

"Oh, but she is…only she doesn't know it yet."

The sound of friction between flint and steel was followed almost instantly by a faint spark and then fire was erupting from the tip of a torch.

Jaime looked around.

Mines it is.

Next to him, Bronn was in his same predicament, and was still snoring.

"Bronn! Bronn!"

Although his own legs were tied up together, he managed to kick him hard in the shin; the sellsword gasped as he regained consciousness.

"Is it the war yet?" he yelled, disoriented; then, when he noticed the ropes, he added a colourful string of chosen swear words.

"Struggling will only tighten the ropes."

Jaime turned: in front of him, sitting on a chopping block and holding an axe, there was a lanky young boy of maybe two-and-ten, with hazel eyes and the Lantell trademark strawberry blonde hair.

The cup bearer who poured their drinks.

How did he manage, alone, to bring into the mining caves two passed-out, grown men? He must necessarily have had some kind of help. Jaime craned his neck, to see if there was somebody else, lurking in the shadows, but, with the exception of the tight circle of light surrounding them, he couldn't see anything else.

"Who are you?" he addressed the boy.

"I'm no one."

"What do you want?"

"I want you to choose...between your left hand..." at that, he pointed the axe's edge at his whole arm, "and the life of your lieutenant," he concluded, pointing at Bronn next, and, with a serious pause for dramatic effect, eagerly waited for their reaction.

Jaime gritted his teeth, not giving him the satisfaction to see he was actually struggling to think straight.

The boy let out a perfunctory, cold laugh and waved his hand, as though to dismiss them.

"Nah, I'm jesting. I only want the truth," he sat on the chopping block, the axe maliciously lying askew on his knees.

Absurdly, the gesture made Jaime think of himself, a little bit older than this boy, sitting on the Iron Throne with his bloodied sword held across his knees in almost the same way.

"I'm going to ask you some questions, and I want you to answer truthfully. I'll know if you're lying."

The silence that followed stretched, as the boy seemed to ponder the best way with which to breach the subject.

Then, finally, he pointed his axe to Jaime's stump: "How you got that?".

He furrowed his brow, not expecting that.

"Arakh. While I was a captive of the Bloody Mummers."

"And why were you prisoner of the Bloody Mummers?"

"Lady Catelyn…Catelyn Stark has freed me in exchange for her daughters. We've made an oath to her."

"We?"

"The wench…

My name is Brienne – Sapphires! – Is every word you say a lie, Kingslayer? – I only rescue maidens.

He shook his head; the room was swaying before him.

"The wench was with me."

"Did you find the daughters?"

The kid sounded mildly interested, although Jaime didn't really know where was the point of the conversation. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting with the sickly feeling at the back of his throat, and tried to clear his head.

"Sansa...was in King's Landing, married to my brother. We couldn't stop her...she went to the Eyrie with Littlefinger, and then Winterfell."

Or at least that's what Brienne had briefly told him, but he still didn't know the whole story.

"What about Arya?"

"Arya…" he let out a bitter laugh, "I don't know where Arya is."

"Arya's dead."

Jaime's eyes shot open; the boy was whetting the axe's double edges, his voice calm and bored.

"I've killed her. I've killed her a thousand of times."

He didn't know how to take the sudden, sharp pain and regret that followed this declaration; he held no hope that the girl would be still alive, yet, a part of him, the part closer to Brienne, perhaps, always urging him on, not letting him shy away from his duty, had whispered to him to have faith, to keep on trying.

"Who the fuck are you?" Bronn hissed; the boy ignored him and moved closer to Jaime: in this light his eyes had russet specks which made them look almost bloodshot.

"Did you push Brandon Stark out of a window with that hand?"

It took him two heartbeats to really understand.

"What?"

"Did you murder five Stark men on the streets of King's Landing and incapacitate Lord Eddard Stark, with that hand?"

"How do you..."

"Did you shake Lord Bolton's hand when you've planned together the Red Wedding?"

"No!" he almost yelled, at once, the rage somewhat sobering him up. "That wasn't me!"

That was my father's doing. He might have shit for honour, but this would have been too much even for a wretched soul like his.

"Did you kill the Blackfish during the siege at Riverrun?"

"Ser Brynden was a stubborn old goat and he died fighting, but he didn't fall by my hand!"

My hand was too busy waving goodbye to a wench, at the time.

"And I won't answer any more bloody questions if you don't tell me who you are!"

The boy snickered.

"You really don't recognise me? Let's see if this helps."

He put a hand under his chin and pulled, until the skin fell off. Jaime recoiled with a yelp: the boy's face changed before his eyes; gone were the red hair of the Lantell cup bearer; in his place now stood a boy of maybe five-and-ten, with pitch black hair and amber eyes. The stable boy who took his horse when they arrived at the Rock.

I must have finally gone mad. Aerys, are you laughing, in the deep hell where I've sent you?

The young lad chuckled at his discomfort: "You didn't recognise me at the Twins, either. I was wearing this face, then."

Another wave of his hand and next to him, Bronn exhaled loudly as they both recognised the young, pretty brunette serving tables at the Twins, who had made sultry eyes at Jaime for the whole evening.

"You were amiably chatting with Walder Frey. Exchanging tips on betrayal, perhaps. You stared at me, remember that?, and I smiled. And then, after everyone had left, I painted a bloody grin over the throats of Lame Lothar and Black Walder, I cut their limbs and put them in the meat grinder and I cooked a delicious pie. I guess it must have been good. Old Walder liked it so much he helped himself with seconds. And then I opened his throat too. He didn't recognise me, either, but, in the end, I let him have a peek behind the mask."

This girl, lean and lovely, had killed Walder Frey and his two heirs...there was a pattern here...his mind was still sluggish for the drug, but he could understand that there was something about the Red Wedding and vengeance...and the names he heard at the beginning...some of those names belonged to people who wronged the Starks...

"And before her, I was Arry, Weasel, the Ghost of Harrenhal, the Cat of the Canals, Salty, Mercy… for a long time I was a thousand different names, and I was no one for a lot longer."

"And who were you, before all those?" he whispered, dreading the answer.

She stood on the chopping block, so that their faces were almost on the same level: "Look into my eyes...and tell me what you see."

He stared and stared, until the brown, warm, liquid eyes started to change, the flecks of green shifting to gold and steel, as cold grey was staring back at him, like silver daggers in the dark. And all around it, the long face of a girl on the verge of womanhood, with high cheekbones and strong, square chin, framed by sleek dark hair.

Stark eyes. Stark hair.

"Do you remember me now, Kingslayer?"

His head was spinning.

"Arya...Arya Stark!"

She was there, she was really there. Bronn was seeing her too. He wasn't hallucinating, was he?

Or maybe he was still dreaming, maybe all his life had been someone else's dream...the dream of a child unconscious after a fall...

He must have truly lost his mind.

And in the middle of all this madness, his only thought was: I've found her! Brienne, I've found her!

She addressed Bronn, next: "I've heard you've got a very distinctive, beautiful singing voice."

Bronn looked at her like he wanted to rip her apart.

"Any requests, Lady Stark?"

Arya's lips quirked up malevolently.

"Sing The Rains of Castamere. That'll set the mood just right."

Her grey eyes turned up to him: two bottomless holes, dry and dead.

There is nothing there.

"Do you know that they were playing it, when Roose Bolton plunged a dagger into my brother's heart? Do you know what they said he told him? 'The Lannisters send their regards'."

Jaime paled. He had said those words to Bolton in Harrenhal, the morning he set off for King's Landing. But he never meant...he didn't think...He braced himself, the ropes so tight they were cutting off circulation in his legs and left arm.

"I didn't have any part whatsoever in your brother and mother's murders. I don't know what else you expect me to say, but that, at least, is the truth."

Truth was the only thing he could give her.

"Is it, now? I think you're going to tell me the whole truth, before you beg."

"You expect me to beg?"

"Everyone begs."

"I'm not everyone."

The smile she gave him was downright terrifying.

"Bring her!" Arya called.

From the shadows two other figures emerged into the torch's light. Lynn was still in her nightgown, a pretty robe trimmed with lace around the cuffs and the neckline he remembered Cersei wearing often. The Hound's black mass, hunkering behind her, his hands gripping her arms and smirching the sleeves, was somewhat comical, next to her, a fair, slim vision all in white. A ghost and a blackened soul the Seven Hells had just regurgitated.

When Arya yanked her by the arm, Lynn put up a fight, kicking and biting, until one of her punches reached her captor's face.

Arya seemed only amused by the struggle, and, although shorter and thinner than the Tarth girl, answered in kind, re-opening the cut on Lynn's upper lip which took more than a week to heal.

Bronn let out a ghastly howl.

"You little cunt! I'll fucking kill you!"

Threatening her with violence won't do; she's too far gone.

"Arya...listen to me," he said then, his voice even, despite the hot fury igniting at the sight of blood on Lynn's face, "This is between you and me. Let the girl go. I've sworn a sacred oath to your mother to bring you to safety, back to Winterfell. Your sister and half-brother are there, alive, and they're still waiting for –

White-hot pain erupted all over the right side of his face, where the Hound's punch had landed. Now Lynn and he had matching split lips.

"You don't have a fucking idea of how long I've been waiting to do that," Joffrey's former dog snarled, the light of the torch dancing all over his scars.

"Clegane, always a pleasure. You're running with the wolves, now?" he spat a clot of blood. "Don't you get tired of always wagging your tail to please deranged masters?"

The Hound raised his mailed hand to hit him again.

"Don't," Arya calmly said. "I want him awake for what comes next. Keep her down." The Hound complied with a grunt and pushed his knee against Lynn's back, positively pinning her on the block; Arya took her axe, as Clegane yanked Lynn's right arm out in front of her.

"Don't squirm, my dear, or this would become ridiculously messy."

Lynn was staring at him, shaking with laboured breaths, but her eyes were clear and unflinching.

Jaime panicked; memories of his time with the Bloody Mummers flashed in front of his eyes.

If I let this happen to Lynn, too, I will cut my other hand myself.

"Tell me what you want me to say, if it's not the truth you want to hear!"

He twisted his left wrist, attempting to slack the knots; the skin strained against the damp hemp, as blood trickled down his fingertips.

"I've pushed Bran, it's true! There is no justification for what I did. Do you want me to say I was behind the Red Wedding, too? If you want retribution for what my family did to yours, kill me, but don't hurt the girl. She's innocent!"

Her grey eyes, wolf eyes, chilled him to the bone.

"So were my good-sister and her unborn child."

She raised the axe above her head, ready to strike.

"Please!" he begged.

The axe never fell: a noise of rolling, skittering pebbles, bouncing from the farthest corner of the mine, distracted her; the Hound unsheathed his longsword and with a nod from Arya he went into the mine's shadows to give a look.

It happened very fast; Jaime saw a flash of silver steel in the semi-darkness, and the next thing he knew, there was a Lannister soldier in his full armour and helmet behind Arya, and the sharp point of a sword pressing under the wolf girl's chin until it drew blood.

"Drop it," he ordered, his voice muffled by the visor. "Drop it, now!"

The axe fell on the ground with a clatter, as Arya held both her arms up. Lynn took it and swiftly cut the rope which kept both Jaime and Bronn suspended in the air.

"I'm sorry, m'lord, I'm sorry, they crept up on me while I was sleeping," she said really fast, as though the whole predicament was her fault, while she helped him with the ropes around his chest. "I've tried to fight them off, but –

"Are you all right?" he interrupted her, grabbing her arm a little bit harder than necessary. The girl nodded decisively, brave and resolute, and he had to resist the urge to hug her.

"Watch out!" Bronn yelled. Jaime just had the time to free his legs from the ropes, as chaos erupted into the small space of cave: Clegane had crept up to the lad and was raining a shower of blows that would have easily incapacitated a less rapid and nimble opponent; Lynn had tackled Arya to the ground and was currently trying to disarm her of the sword she held tied on her waist, her nails scratching bloody wrinkles over the Stark girl's cheeks; Bronn was trying to free himself as quickly as he could. They were both without weapons.

The boy was strong, but the Hound was rabid: he delivered a blow on his head that would have certainly killed, were it not for Arya's axe he had instinctively grabbed. Clegane's longsword only brushed against the side of his head, enough to blow his helmet off, revealing a young man with thick, black hair Jaime had never seen before.

Or, at least, he hadn't seen him in a very long time.

The boy was Robert Baratheon's spitting image.

The Hound is going to kill him.

Recovering from the shock, Jaime acted on pure, reckless instinct and, unarmed, tackled the Hound, head first. Unbalanced, they both fell on the ground: Clegane had lost his sword in the scuffle, but he could easily slay him with just his bare hands.

Jaime loaded his punch and hit him on his right temple, where his awful damaged skin looked even worse than he remembered. When did he completely lost his right ear?

But the punch was sloppy and the Hound barely moved; if anything, the blow only got him angrier. He bared his teeth in a sneer and put his hands around Jaime's throat: "This is all you've got, pretty boy?"

"And you, Clegane? Still mistreating young, innocent girls? What would Sansa Stark think of it?"

He savoured with a wicked pleasure how Sandor's already deformed features contorted even more in hatred and revulsion, even if it cost him another beating.

Laughing hurt his ribcage and mouth; he couldn't bring himself to care.

I'll die here, buried in the warm depths of the Rock, like in a mother's womb. There was a certain amount of peace in surrendering to that thought.

Except...except for those two sapphires eyes flashing stubbornly, annoyingly beautiful in his mind...

His hand raised of his own volition, catching in an iron grip the Hound's closed fist ready to strike him again; Jaime was roughly the same build as him, although Clegane looked emaciated as if he hadn't had a good meal in months.

I'm stronger than him, Jaime realised.

Galvanised, he used his weight to push him off, and, without giving him the time to think of a countermove, leapt to his feet, grabbing the sword Clegane had dropped during the fight with the lad.

"NO! STOP!"

Arya's voice stopped him mere seconds before he plunged the tip of the sword into Clegane's chest.

He turned: Bronn held the girl firmly by the arms and neck, while Lynn was tying the ropes around her wrists. Arya seemed not to notice: her grey eyes danced from the Hound to the young man in Lannister garbs, and for the first time, she looked like the lost four-and-ten years old girl she was supposed to be.

She might be a killer, but she's still her. Arya Stark is still somewhere in there.

"Let the girl go, Bronn."

"What?"

"I've promised not to raise arms against Tully or Stark. She's both."

Bronn blinked twice, then shook his head in dismay and released her, giving her back her sword.

"I won't raise a finger to help you, next time she tries to kill you!"

The moment she found herself with her hands and ankles free, Arya ran past him without even dignify him with a look and threw her arms around the lad's neck.

"I thought you were dead."

"There's a lot of that going around, m'lady."

"Wait, you know each other?"

"I've met Lady Arya when she fled King's Landing, after her father was...we've travelled together, for a while."

He smiled down at her, and she almost smiled back, until she caught herself and pushed him away, anger and resentment colouring her cheeks: "Why in the Seven Hells are you wearing Lannister colours?"

"It's a long story. Why are you trying to kill Ser Jaime?"

Arya snorted, opened her arms and let them fall hard against her thighs with an exasperated huff that spoke Why not?; when her eyes found Jaime's again, gone was the elated tenderness he witnessed for a heartbeat only moments before.

"Because he deserves it! He's killed Jory Cassel, he's made my brother Bran a cripple!"

"I think he already paid for that, with interests, don't you think?"

"Don't talk about matters you know nothing about, Gendry. Stay out of this."

She is unforgiving, Jaime grimaced internally.

She has the right to it, a voice that sounded like Tyrion prodded at him from the depth of his conscience.

He took a step ahead.

"Arya."

The girl swiftly turned around, graceful like a dancer, and pointed her sword at his throat. He held both his arms up in surrender. "You said you know when somebody lies to you. Let me follow you North." The cold tip of the blade bit his skin, but Jaime didn't withdraw; if anything, he leaned even more on it, until he could feel blood trickling down his jerkin.

"Let your brother and sister decide what just punishment I will have to endure for my crimes. I won't run, I won't hide behind better people. I swear to you, when this will be over, if you still won't be satisfied, I'll let you take your vengeance."

Arya's eyes were assessing him, the grey weighing on his emerald ones; it seemed to him the sword was imperceptibly lowering, but before he could act on it, the ground under their feet shuddered and rumbled as though shaken by earthquake.

The Hound barked a laugher.

"A fucking natural disaster, that's all we needed right now!"

Another blast, more powerful than the last one, made some rock fall from the granite ceiling over their heads.

"The mines are collapsing. We must get out of here!"

Gendry took Arya's hand and pulled her out to the cave's entrance: "Come now, I don't fancy being buried alive."

"Shut up, everybody, and don't move!"

Jaime strained his ear, not in the entrance's direction, but on the opposite side, where the mines dropped in darkness for miles and miles, before ending on the western cliffs.

The ringing noise was stronger coming from the sea; a weird, dead sound, like a thunderstorm quickly approaching, or a riptide mounting and crashing against the rocks. And amidst all this, very faint, the echo of people screaming.

This isn't an earthquake, he thought.

"Jaime, what's going on?" Bronn asked.

His heart jumped in his throat and filled with both dread and the familiar thrill of battle as he said to his second-in-command: "The Rock is under siege."


This chapter is mostly wishful thinking on my part, because I'm dying for the books and show to move some of the action to Casterly Rock. I mean, come on, they have to show it, sooner or later, right?

Jaime is finally starting to get some agency back in his life choices, but he still has so many conflicting thoughts troubling his mind!

His actions and his own ghosts are catching up with him; he's in desperate need to have someone to make amends to, someone who will listen to his confessions the way Brienne did in Harrenhal, hence the scene in front of Joanna's mute effigy.

The whole Melara sub-plot is quickly becoming one of my favourites: Melara is the embodiment of the innocence of childhood and first love (and we all know how much Jaime likes innocence…), and for Jaime, I think, she'll always symbolise the road not taken.

As for Arya, I already know some of you will wonder, so I'll get out in front of it: Arya doesn't know exactly how Bran fell from the Tower, but she is smart enough to make her own assumptions, just as Ned and Cat did. Jaime pretty much does the rest in confirming it.

I know most of you don't like how I write her, but I hope this chapter, and the next one, will show that there are cracks in Arya's armour, even if she likes to play the tough girl. Any review, either positive or negative (as long as it's constructive criticism) is, as usual, more than welcome! ;)

Next chapter, a family reunion.

Sort of.