Chapter 7
Jaime felt like he must've been cursed sometime in life. Perhaps it was divine justice for all the terrible things he had done up to this point.
I admit it. I deserve to suffer, but haven't I suffered enough? He thought to himself, thinking of his stump which was painfully raw in the cold..
When he had initially passed Moat Cailin, the wind had suddenly whipped up and cut him across the face. At times it was so painful that he couldn't keep tears leaking down his face and that's when he decided to fashion a headscarf with his cloak. It was wound tightly so that the only exposed area of his face were his eyes. He struggled to keep the horse on track, because it too found the wind uncomfortable, but they needed to stay on the road. If it could be called that.
A path with noticeably less snow had been cut through the drifts, but the snow was still high enough that it reached the bottom of the horse's chest, so progress was slow as they forged a path.
Moat Cailin was still within view when evening fell, but Jaime kept the horse going through the night once more, stopping only for a handful of minutes to feed it and himself. Then he nudged it forward, but despite the cold he was having difficulty staying awake. His head would dip in exhaustion and then he'd snap back up only to find himself nodding off yet again in the next few minutes.
I only have a few more days to go. I can manage this, he urged himself. He fought back to wakefulness and pushed onward.
In the afternoon of the next day, when Jaime felt delirious from exhaustion, the snow started to fall and the wind seemed to pick up. He tried to keep going, but his good hand started to shake so badly that he finally had to stop. I have to get out of his before I get frostbite, he thought.
When he jumped down from the horse, he had to hold onto it to keep his knees from buckling. He was shivering so violently he was afraid to let go of the horse, but eventually he did and staggered to the edge of the road towards a drift that now easily towered over the horse. He hesitated, but then with both his regular and metal hand, he began to carve out a hole in the side of drift.
Jaime tried to ignore the pain in his left hand from continuing to handle the cold snow. If I don't get out of this wind, I really will die, he thought and pushed to keep going. The snow fell away easily and he was soon dripping with sweat as he continued to burrow further into the hole.
He had no idea how long he was clawing and pushing away snow, but his left hand screamed with the cold while the rest of his body simultaneously sweated and shivered. He pulled the horse in and the poor thing looked half-frozen to death.
"Don't you dare die on me, you stupid mongrel," he muttered. He unceremoniously pulled off the saddle bags, and horse blankets, and brushed the horse down. It was a way to keep it clean, but he hoped it would be enough to keep its circulation going. The very last thing he needed was to walk the rest of the way to Winterfell.
Once he hooked up a feed bag to the horse, he turned to himself. The most important part of staying alive in the winter was to keep dry, but Jaime was hesitant. Even out of the wind, he could see his breath cloud up in front of him, but his shirt was soaked through and it clinged to his skin. He pulled out the spare clothes that he had and decided to take everything off and replace it as he did so.
First to go were his multiple layers on top, which included a leather vest, tunic, and undershirt. The cold instantly caused him to curl up on himself, but he forced his left hand to grab a rag and wipe himself down, and then grab for another tunic and undershirt. Keep moving, keep moving, became a mantra. He was afraid if he stayed in one instance for just a second too long, then he'd simply freeze to death.
He made the changes. His feet were last and he decided to put on every single stocking he had, which numbered four so that his feet could stay warm and dry. He hung his gloves on the saddle so that they might at least drip dry of the snow he had shoveled with them. He practically flung his golden hand away from his body. It had started to create blisters of chill on his stump.
Finally, he laid down the canvas, then the horse blanket, and finally curled up under the bear pelt. He hugged himself and for the moment felt warm.
His exhaustion drags him under once more, but he is breathing to heavy. He thinks he falls asleep, but he's not sure. He becomes warm. Too warm. At some point he throws off the bear skin blanket given to him and his teeth instantly start chattering. It jolts him awake. He can tell it's night now. He can only just see the outline of the horse against the now gray of the snow. He tentatively steps over to the opening where he burrowed in, but snow has already covered it. It collapses instantly under his left hand when he tentatively pushes it, but the cold stings him like a viper and he instantly withdraws.
He can hear the howling of the wind and could see great big snowflakes swirling from the sky, continuing to bury him.
Jaime went back to his bed, feeling more than a little nervous. How long was this storm going to last? Blizzards could last for weeks!
I haven't got weeks, he thought mournfully as he glanced at his pack of rations. He hadn't eaten in sometime, so he took the opportunity to munch on the dried meats.
The tiny den he carved out wasn't terribly big, so he once again curled up under the bear skin blanket. He wasn't sure how long he lay there, but he thinks he fell asleep. He gets flashes of memory: he sits up and blinks at the horse blearily, just barely noticing that it must be day. He blinks and he sits up and plucks at the blanket curiously; Why is it covered in snow?
Once again, the den grows warm. He's panting and kicks off the bear skin blanket once more. His skin feels too tight. He wants to peel off every layer of clothing if it means cooling off, but in a dark part of his mind, he knows that's a bad idea. Instead he rolls in the snow.
He helps himself to rations again. He's really not sure how much he eats, but he swears he leaves the pack half full.
He throws himself back onto his makeshift pallet.
Jaime becomes afraid at one point when he snaps awake, again, and has no recollection of how much time had passed. I'm losing my mind. Once more, he tries to pace the cramped den, but he can't go more than two or three paces before he runs into the horse and has to turn back.
"Oh brother, I don't think I've ever seen you look more pathetic. Not even when you came back without your hand," Cersei sneers at him
"That's enough," Jaime hisses, clutching at his head. He knows she's not there, but it's as if they're having another conversation in the map room.
"You could be safe and warm in King's Landing. You never listen. You never learn. If I didn't think it was somehow impossible, I would say you've become as obsessed with your honor as old Ned Stark was and look where it got him. You'll follow him into his grave. Mark my words."
"He's more like to crawl out of his grave now and kill me himself for all the wrongs I've done to his family," he mutters. "This had to be addressed. We could never be safe as long as the dead walks."
"That's right, Ser Jaime. You know what's right. You've always known what's right. Don't let her twist your thoughts. Making the right choice can be hard, but knowing what the right choices is often simple. This is the simplest." Brienne's voice said to him.
He could swear for even a moment that she was standing in her black armor he had gifted her, smiling, looking at him with her blues full of trust for him.
"I will help King Jon and Queen Daenerys fight the Others in the North," he began repeating to himself. He had to keep focused. He was there for a purpose, a higher purpose, the highest purpose that he had ever been called for. He would be there. He swore he would.
He went to the opening of the den that had closed up behind the horse yet again. Instead of using his left hand, he used his golden hand to brush away the topmost layer of snow. It was daylight and the snow was no longer falling.
How long has the blizzard been done? Jaime thought to himself, but the clear weather - albeit gray skies - galvanized him into action. He began scrambling around to put his items back together. The blankets were a crumpled mess and he shook them out to get the snow off them. New holes had been carved out of his snow den that he did not remember making. They were shallow, but numerous and they were oddly at head height.
He snatched up the pack full of rations and felt a cold chill shiver through him as the flap fell open and revealed nothing. He still had several days to Winterfell. He checked the saddlebags and found that the meat he'd cooked up several days ago was still there, but not for more than two meals.
How much time am I missing?! A latent panic was beginning to settle in. He still had three or four days until he reached Winterfell. How the hell would he manage that without rations? There would be no hunting on this snowy plain.
I have to try. I will fight the Others in the north. He shoved his way out onto the road, if it could be called that with waist deep high snow.
He mounted the horse and booted it on its way.
I will fight the Others in the north.
/\/\/\/\
Jon Snow breathed a sigh of relief when he finally rode through the gates of Winterfell with Ser Davos at his side. He was at the front of a very long train that comprised entirely of Daenerys' forces. Though he had his doubts about them, the Doth'raki and Unsullied, were tougher than he had suspected. They did lose a few to the cold, especially when the blizzard stalled them on the road for two days, but not as many as Jon had initially feared and since Daenerys had offered her forces, she had put the seamstresses in the Doth'raki to work making fur coats for all of her warriors.
Everyone in the courtyard cheered at seeing their king and he grinned at them, but his smile fell away all too quickly. It was so easy to forgo duty when the people who put their lives in your hands were so far away. He certainly hadn't been thinking about them when he'd gone to the queen's cabin and made love to her. Didn't I swear I would never make a bastard?
Of course, she said that she was unable to fall pregnant again after a witch had cursed her, but hadn't he suggested that the witch was wrong? He internally shook his head, but externally kept a pleasant smile on his face. Duty required him to be confident in all of his decisions, even if they were made in the heat of the moment. After all, he still had to tell everyone that he had bent the knee. He was certain that Sansa would prefer to leave that to him.
"Jon!"
Ghost ran up to him, wagging his tail like an excited puppy. He gave the wolf a few pats, but his attention was particularly drawn to the three figures standing at the front. Arya couldn't contain her grin at seeing, but she stayed by their sister for the formalities. Her hand rested on the little sword that now hung openly at her belt. She looked almost exactly as she had been when they last parted
Bran sat in his wheeled chair on the other side of Sansa, with a placid expression, like he wasn't really sure if it was Jon in front of him. The baby fat from his youth had long given away to a much narrower jaw, looking just as much a Stark as him.
Jon stopped at Arya first and stooped to hug her. She really hadn't gotten much taller, but then neither had he.
"I can't believe you're here. I thought you were dead for so long."
"I know," Arya replied, but there seemed to be a slight hitch to her voice and her eyes had a peculiar shine. "I've missed you. I've always been thinking about you."
"You'll have to tell me of how you came to be at Winterfell."
"I will, but it looks like you'll be busy for a while," Arya said, nodding as Queen Daenerys' entourage stepped into the courtyard.
"Yes, later." He moved on from Arya and kissed Sansa on both cheeks in way of greeting.
"Welcome back, your grace," Sansa replied, as formal as ever, but she hardly bothered to conceal her wide smile.
"Thank you, Sansa. Look at you. I knew you could hold down the fort."
She blushed prettily, but nodded.
He moved on to Bran.
"Bran! It's so good to see you! Samwell told me he let you north of the Wall! I was so worried about you."
Bran nodded at him. "And I you. It's good to be back in Winterfell."
Jon was perturbed at the toneless way Bran spoke. His little brother's expression did darken a fraction and he said, "I must speak with you before the night's over. Come to the Godswood after dinner. Alone."
"Of course," Jon said to him, more than a little mystified. He glanced at his sister's and they gave him small, sympathetic smiles.
"You'll have to forgive Bran, Jon. He's...the Three-eyed Raven. It's...I - don't know how to describe. I'm sure he'll make everything clear when you speak with him tonight."
"Has he already told you what he wants to tell me?"
Both women shook their heads.
He continued greeting some of the other people in the courtyard, including Sam who was practically overflowing with joy to see him. Sam hurriedly told him that he hadn't been getting anywhere with the Citadel and had finally decided to run off with all the books he could find on the north, northern legends, and hopefully the Others. Jon felt a pang that his friend hadn't been willing to be patient to become a maester, but with the rapid way things were changing it was probably for the best.
Jon moved back to the center to where Dany, Tyrion, Missandei and Varys patiently waited, although they shivered.
"Queen Daenerys, please meet my sisters Lady Sansa and Arya of House Stark and also my brother Lord Bran of House Stark."
The Starks had small pleasant smiles frozen on their face. Sansa stepped forward and said, "Winterfell is yours, your Grace." She waved at two servants nearby carrying salt and bread. Tyrion, Jon, and Varys had informed Daenerys about the guest right and although she found it queer, she acquiesced to the bread and salt.
"It is wonderful to finally meet the family that King Jon so often speaks of," Dany replied.
He knew that his siblings were aware of the change in their relationship, but they blessedly held their tongues. Sansa ordered the servants to find the warmest rooms in Winterfell for their guests and everyone departed.
Arya instantly fell into step beside Jon. "We have news we'd like to share with you now."
"Can it not wait?"
"It's sensitive and it concerns one of our newest guests," Arya replied, trying to imply the meaning of her sentence through her eyes.
"You're starting to act like Sansa. Speak plainly."
Arya sighed. "Jon, I have never agreed with the flowery language in which everyone speaks, but the recent incident with Lord Baelish has taught me to be more careful. We have to control the flow of information."
"What happened with Lord Baelish?" Jon asked sharply. Then he glanced around at all the various faces and he met Arya's eyes again. "What happened?"
Arya grinned. "Why Sansa, Bran and I brought him up on charges of treason."
Jon gaped. "How did you manage that?! And without losing the Vale forces."
"Sansa deserves the credit. She handled the situation beautifully."
Jon blinked in shock. Never did he ever think he would hear Arya speak so highly of her sister. From the time Arya could walk and talk, she and her sister had been at odds, and as they grew older they tended to hiss and spit at each other like a pair of territorial cats.
"That still doesn't answer my question."
"After we tell you the latest news," Arya said and they entered the solar that Sansa was working in. Sansa immediately held a letter out to him, which he took tentatively.
To His Majesty King Jon Snow of the North:
I, Lord Howland Reed of the crannogmen, write to inform you that the Kingslayer has crossed the Neck. He has suffered serious injuries and my men say that he was attacked on the road north. A pack of wolves decimated his enemy. I can only assume that Lord Bran sent the wolves to assist in his travels. I have provided him with enough rations to reach Winterfell.
Before we parted, the Kingslayer said, that he 'comes bearing no ill will, save ill news.' He made no trouble during his crossing. I have assigned two of my men to follow him and ensure that he makes it to Winterfell.
Your loyal servant,
Lord Howland Reed of the crannogmen
Jon read it over a second time and glanced up at his sisters. "The Kingslayer comes north alone?"
They both nodded. "I saw him being attacked on the road when I was seeing through Nymeria. Queen Cersei wants her brother dead."
Jon's face darkened. "This must concern the north. Queen Cersei pledged her forces."
"Did she now?" Sansa asked, but it was more of a statement than a fact. "How many times do I have to tell you, Jon, Cersei is a snake who speaks out of both sides of her mouth. Never take her word at face value."
"I was so certain she understood the ramifications of not uniting under a single banner! I saw the way she flinched when the wight ran at her! She was terrified!"
"Maybe she was. But she is the Queen. She doesn't even have to visit the battlefield! All of her forces stand between her and the threat. She has only one love and that is for power. Especially now that she wants her own brother and lover dead."
Jon had never felt such a powerful impulse of anger sweep over him. He needed a practice dummy to hit. Now.
"Jon, what about the Kingslayer?"
"What about him?" He snarled back at Sansa. Normally he would have felt guilty for such a harsh reaction, but it was clear by the way she remained unphased that even his uncontrollable rage couldn't bother her anymore.
"We received this two days ago. He shouldn't be more than a few days out at best. What do you want to be done with him?"
"I'll hear what he has to say. It must be good for him to abandon his sister."
Author's Note: Thank you all once more for the reviews and support! It's very encouraging.
If this chapter is disjointed and confusing, it was meant to be. You're meant to be as confused as Jaime. Hypothermia can induce hot flashes and confusion/memory loss and he is much, much colder than he realizes.
There will be other view points, like Jon's on occasion, but this fic isn't about him and his troubles. Despite how big the recent revelations are, this story isn't about Jon, it's about Jaime.
