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JAIME III
Things weren't exactly going according to his plans.
It was difficult to gather the passing of time from the windowless room he had been confined in, but Jaime supposed at least half a day had passed since he and his troops came knocking on Winterfell's front door; he wouldn't imagine that moving his army to the North would cause so much trouble.
What was supposed to be his grand entrance through the castle's gates, applauded and cheered on like a true hero for bringing Arya Stark home again, along with a more than generous dowry of ten thousand men, turned out to be a complete disaster and source of utter embarrassment.
Passed out, tossed sideways on a horse's neck like a sack of oat, then unceremoniously thrown on his ass into the damp, straw-covered dungeons floor, where he'd woken up some time later, smelling of piss and shit, with a ghastly headache threatening to split his head in two, his curses only barely drowned out by the ominous, grim howling of the hounds in the nearby kennels…
Because of his head concussion, he had faint recollections of those first moments, but he remembered clearly the two guards wearing the bear sigil of House Mormont, jeering and taunting him, while they removed and took away his Valyrian sword and his golden hand: 'Lord Bolton was torn to pieces by those same dogs, after he lost the Battle of Winterfell. Maybe the King will grant you the same special treatment. D'you remember the Boltons, Kingslayer? Your father's best friends?'
My father's never got any friends, you morons. Only subjects and pawns, he would've wanted to answer. But he could only grit his teeth and silently lick his wounds.
The Lion of Lannister. What a sight to behold!
He had almost expected a queue outside his cellar: men, women and children laughing and pointing at the maimed, former Kingsguard, the tired, mangy lion resigned to his cage as everyone threw stones and quips at him.
Instead, for a while, nobody came.
He waited in the darkness, trying to keep time counting the drops of condensation rhythmically falling on the floor, somewhere on his left, until another couple of guards came, forced him on his feet and jostled him up the stairs, to a more spacious chamber, with an actual sleeping cot, a chamber pot and a single burning candle placed over a nondescript piece of furniture. It was a little more than a storage room: a mansion, if compared to Riverrun's cells.
A maester was sent to check his head, courtesy of Lady Arya. He suspected the wolfling to be behind his more recent relocation to the safety of the warmer inner walls of the Great Keep, too, but his theory was bound to remain unconfirmed, because, no matter how hard he tried, the few people coming to see him were stubbornly giving him the silent treatment.
What have you done with my men?
What's going on?
Where's your King? Let me speak to him!
He had asked those questions to the guards, to the young attendant who had brought him a stale vegetable broth and emptied his chamber pot, to the maester… Jaime had jested, charmed, made promises; then he had snarled, insulted and threatened. None would talk to him.
This pointed, mute indifference was worse than torture and was driving him up the wall; he had lost count of all the times he'd asked to see Brienne. But the wench never came, and somewhere along the way, he had started to doubt his own mind and wonder if perhaps he hadn't dreamt the whole thing: her, standing under the falling snow, Oathkeeper assuredly held in her big hands, its hilt glistening red and golden; a vision of ethereal white and blonde, and glittering sapphire blue, emerging from the ice, like the work of a sculptor conjured up by the cold wind and the pulsing in his head.
She had looked so striking, so perfectly confident in her element that for a moment he forgot where he was and hadn't been ready to par the blunt side of the axe aimed at his head.
That redheaded, fierce-looking wildling… Jaime would personally see that he got what he deserved; in the meantime, though, he couldn't do anything else but wait.
He didn't doubt that Brienne would've wanted to speak to Jon Snow and make a case for him; she wouldn't let him rot in a cell without at least inquiring about his intentions.
Why hasn't she come yet, then?
A sudden realisation hit him. Perhaps no one had informed her about what happened on Tarth. Perhaps…perhaps she believes me at fault for her father's death.
It was an intolerable thought, which, for a moment, sealed his throat with unease and misery.
With his dark moods even more burdened, he started to pace, seriously considering the possibility of a break-out, alliances be damned. The feeble light of the candle hardly illuminated the space around him: there wasn't anything Jaime could use as a weapon, but he had worked with far less, in the past.
I still had two hands, back then, though.
But before he could form a plan, the locks and chains bolting the door clattered and the shadow of an armoured man stretched on the wall in front of him, enormous and foreboding.
"I'm at the end of my patience," he seethed, facing the wall. "If you've come again to bore me with your silent stares, I'll crush your head against one of these stone walls."
"I'd like to see you try."
Jaime held a breath and turned.
And there she was. Holding a torch in one hand and his possessions in the other. He barely noticed the guards and the shape of another man waiting outside; the door closed again and they were alone.
Heart pounding madly in his ears, he took his time to size her up, and noticed with a jolt of thrilled delight and amusement that she was rooted on the spot, doing precisely the same.
The Maid of Tarth seemed even taller and more imposing than he remembered, but that was probably due to the wolf pelt covering her from neck to heels. In the dim light, the blue armour underneath shone with silvery ripples.
The armour she had worn in Riverrun, too.
The armour he gave her.
Suddenly a mad, overwhelming impulse of grabbing and stripping her of all those offending layers, until only her true, bare self would stand in front of him, flooded his senses.
Only her, in the magnificent fairness of her skin, just like she did, when she rose from the steaming waters of Harrenhal, all toned muscles and glorious outrage. So that he could leisurely map out each and every scar that had damaged her body since then.
By his side, his fist clenched powerlessly. It wouldn't do to let his greed have the better of him now, with soldiers at the door. Besides, Oathkeeper was strapped to the wench's side. She would probably give me another concussion, if I try anything.
He let out a shaky breath in the attempt to quell the heat simmering in his lower belly and with some reluctance settled for the parts of her his eyes could freely, and properly, roam over.
Her hair was a little longer, and although this didn't make her face's features softer, nor more feminine or pleasant to the sight, the slight curl of the tips just below the ears was downright endearing.
The torch spilled a grotesque light all over her face: her broken nose was too big, her forehead too large, her cheekbones too prominent, her lips too wide and a little chapped for the cold, but her eyes still held all the beautiful, bewitching innocence that had him wonder more than once how such a gentle soul could belong to such a graceless beast of a woman.
She looked surer of herself, too: her presence, her whole bearing spoke of a self-assurance he seldom had linked with her in the past, as though she finally felt comfortable in her own skin. Brienne blushed a little under his scrutiny, but nonetheless held his gaze with a tilt of her chin so fierce and proud he felt a smile tugging at the side of his lips.
Flustered, she huffed impatiently and put the torch in the sconce; the narrow space was instantly filled with light.
"How's your head?" she asked, facing him again.
"Still thick. Still attached. Although, to be greeted with a broken skull is not what I envisaged in the first place."
"Maybe you should've thought about it twice, before showing up with a whole army of Lannisters soldiers."
His brows shot to his hairline.
"I had Arya with me!" his voice rose, incredulous. "And to be perfectly honest, your King's men attacked first!"
"They believed you were leading the Queen's men against us!"
Memories of Riverrun assaulted his mind: he shut his eyes and bit his tongue, before he said something he could regret later.
"Could we just…not?..."
This was ridiculous: the whole routine where they met and almost immediately ended up fighting about politics was becoming awfully stale and annoying, by now. Why is everything always so difficult with her? Couldn't she just be happy to see me?
She stared, guarded, self-conscious and on edge like a doe caught in a clearing, and Jaime briefly wondered if she shared his same frustration at not being able to say what truly was in their hearts.
A million japes and inappropriate confessions flocked in his mind.
I've missed you.
I've left Cersei and I don't intend to ever look back.
I don't care about Arya Stark, the bloody North and its fucking King! I came here for you, you obtuse, blind cow!
"It pleases me to see you in such good health, my lady," he lamely said instead.
Her shoulders fell a little; she tried to mask her disappointment by walking to the small table on her left, and placed his golden hand and Widow's Wail there. His brows furrowed: why was he, a prisoner, allowed to wear weapons? Was it perhaps the last considerate concession before he was to be executed?
"Have you come to escort me to the gallows?" he quipped, only half-jokingly.
"Don't be absurd. The King wishes to have words with you in the Great Hall."
A public audience, then. Jaime drew in a breath through his nose as he clasped the golden hand and fumbled with the straps around his stump.
"The King," he scoffed. "Ned Stark's by-blow born in the south, now sitting on the ancient throne of the Winter Kings."
For sure, the lad had come a long way, from the sullen boy barely out from his wet nurse, brooding alone in a corner of the Great Hall with the younger squires, while everybody else was enjoying the feast.
"The last time I saw him he looked angry at the whole world. But then again, I suppose it's hard not to be, when you're fifteen, and a bastard."
Brienne smiled a little at that.
"He's done remarkably well since then, all things considered. He's a good leader, a fine commander."
Good, ol' trustful Brienne. Winning a battle doesn't make you a leader.
Jaime gave a final jerk to the straps and grunted as he felt the metal fall into place around his forearm's skin. He took the sword's scabbard next.
"Who else will be there?"
"Ser Davos Seaworth, Hand of the King. Lady Sansa. Lady Arya."
Both our charges, safely home. Not bad for a man without honour and a lady knight. Despite the dire situation, the thought brought a small, pleased grin on his lips.
He tightened the leather belt around his waist with fast, by now accustomed, movements.
"And you. You'll be there, too, right?" he eagerly asked, seeking reassurance, sounding less sure and more worried than he meant.
Brienne looked at him and took a deep breath.
"What in the Seven Hells are you doing here?" she sighed, and, despite the half-worried, half-exasperated tone of her voice, her eyes were full of expectation.
She truly is as thick as a castle wall.
He straightened his spine and stared. How easy would it be, now, to tell her the truth.
The words were already on the tip of his tongue.
After the siege at Riverrun, he had returned to King's Landing only to find even his last son dead and his sister crowned Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and yet he stayed. And he stayed when Cersei threatened, almost on a daily basis, to burn the rest of the city to the ground. He stayed despite the growing distrust and uneasiness between him and his twin, as Cersei started to follow only Qyburn's advice and further isolated herself, alienating even the few houses still loyal to the Lannisters. He should have left a long time ago. But, in truth, the last straw had been what his sweet sister did to Evenfall Hall.
"I couldn't stay in King's Landing any longer, not after –
Tell her, you craven!
"She attacked Tarth," he blurted, avoiding her eyes.
Brienne recoiled and when he ventured a glance in her direction again, she looked pale and shocked as though that was the last thing she had expected to hear.
Jaime took two steps ahead and his right hand rose, lingering in the space between them before he could realise what he was doing. When he spoke, his voice was fierce and thick with emotion: "I'm begging you to believe I haven't had a part in any of this!"
"I know that!" she promptly said, just as vehemently, the blush on her cheeks bringing an eerie quality to her stunning blue eyes. Not for the first time, that shimmering, intense stare gave him pause. He saw such an unaltered, unfaltering faith in him that it took all of his willpower not to fall on the floor and embrace her knees like a supplicant would do in the presence of the Warrior. Or the Maiden. She was both, to him.
After all the things he had done, she still trusted him, no question asked. She still believed he could be saved.
"I went to the camp, earlier," she explained, quietly. "I've talked to Ashlynn. She said you've claimed back the island in my name and left a garrison there, in case Cersei changed her mind."
The skin touching the golden metal itched painfully and he wanted to rip the damned thing off.
Guilt burned in his throat like poisonous bile.
"I was too late."
Her eyes, so clear moments ago, clouded with the weight of loss and mourning.
His words worked around the lump in his throat: "I should have known. Please, forgive me."
He hated this, he hated to see that look on her face. He knew Cersei, and what she was capable of, if miffed, and yet he had underestimated her. The crown hadn't changed her nature, it had only revealed it. Her heart had always been hateful and merciless and completely blinded by vengeance. Whereas this brave woman in front of him, still standing after losing everything she had held dear…
"None of it is your fault, Jaime."
She doesn't hate me.
"I'm grateful, for what you did for my people."
No, she didn't hate him: she simply was returning his honour back to him for the umpteenth time, piece by piece. And each time, it was a little bit cleaner, and whiter.
Dear Gods, is she even real?
He swallowed, stunned, and speechlessly nodded to the door, not trusting his own voice.
But Brienne hadn't taken two steps toward it that he frowned, suddenly remembering something that's been irking him since he put foot on the Great Hall of Tarth.
"Brienne?"
Her hand paused on the doorknob as she turned.
"What are your family words?"
Her eyes became impossibly tender and sad. "Our Beauty Never Dies," she said, and in that moment Jaime thought she truly could be the Maiden reincarnated.
The short walk to the Great Hall was made in strained silence; to escort him, besides Brienne and his four dour guards, there was Ser Davos Seaworth: it was the first time the two met, but he recognised the Hand of the King by the little sack he held around his neck, which, Jaime knew, carried the fingers Stannis had cut as punishment for his years as a smuggler. He had also heard that the knight had fought valiantly in the Battle of the Blackwater and had lost a son to the wildfire.
My brother did that.
When they reached the gallery, Brienne tensed next to him.
"Don't say or do anything stupid!" she said with a hardened look that brooked no argument.
Clear as day, memories of him tied to a tree screaming 'Sapphires!' at the top of his lungs and jumping into a bear pit stormed his head… Don't say or do anything stupid…right…
Despite the situation, a laughter bubbled inside his chest.
This woman doesn't know me at all!
He watched as she swiftly left his side and disappeared beyond a secondary back door. One of the guards behind him gave him a hard push as the Onion Knight opened the double doors.
He stepped in.
Even though the huge stone hearth was merrily crackling, the Great Hall of Winterfell was still unbelievably cold.
His mind conjured up that same room, all decked out for the feast and lightened up by hundreds of candles on the candelabra, the air thick with music and the delicious smell of roasted pork, freshly baked bread, garlic and herbs, and amidst the smoke and the laughter, Robert, completely drunk, with that hated stag crown on his stupid, empty head…a disgrace of a king, only interested in mingling at the tables of the lesser lords and Stark bannermen, stuffing his mouth with stew, pudding and ale. He should have kept his arse glued to the chair next to his Queen, while he spoke of politics and dynastic marriages with Ned Stark. Instead, even then, in front of his best friend and his family, Robert had insulted Cersei, groping and fondling each and every maidservant and table wench who had appeared to be within grabbing distance, for the whole evening, right in Cersei's, and Jaime's, face.
No wonder he had easily consented to Cersei's wishes, when, the following morning, she had asked him to stay in the castle, while everyone else was busy with the hunt.
And what a perverse satisfaction I felt when she whispered in my ear that she was mine, only mine, as I filled her.
Jaime looked around himself: the hall was austere back then, and even more so now.
The tables were gone, as well as the magnificent tapestries showing the direwolf and the heart tree in the Godswood: a single banner with the white direwolf of the new King was gracing the bare walls and, at the far end of the room, there was a simple dais from which Jon Snow waited, one half-sister sitting on each side, and, standing right next to him, a redheaded man Jaime recognised as the wildling hitting the side of his head with an axe.
His left hand clutched his sword's hilt, just as Brienne reappeared in the hall and positioned herself on the dais next to Sansa. She shot a warning glare to the bearded bear and made a point to completely ignore him.
Lord Snow stared down with a scowl on his scarred face and his unsheathed longsword leaning on the chair.
Jaime remembered as if it were yesterday the first time they spoke to each other; a green lad barely out of boyhood, checking the new, polished sword he meant to give to his sister before setting off for the Wall. That same sword which now hung proudly from Arya's belt. The boy had been young and inexperienced, then, and Jaime had his fun teasing him and exploiting his doubts and insecurities with his usual sarcastic cruelty and smugness. He was the best swordsman of the Seven Kingdoms, after all, the firstborn son of Westeros' most powerful family talking to a bastard, and he gladly took the opportunity to assert all his superior nobility and greater prestige and status. The boy had squirmed under his aggressive scrutiny and Jaime had basked in his embarrassed discomfort, while he made a show of talking about the Night's Watch as an elite force just as distinguished and respected as the Kingsguard and not like the receptacle of the filth and scum of the realm like both of them privately knew it was.
His own words still resounded loud and stark in his mind, but now they were veiled by a disappointed bitterness: it's only for life.
Jaime realised now, for the first time, that, behind the flippant remarks, there was also a warning, albeit somehow unintentional, buried deep in his words.
It's only for life.
Yes. Jaime would know. He knew exactly what it meant to forsake everything else and bargain his future, his life, his honour, his own soul, for a damned cloak, whether it be white or black.
"Come closer, Ser," Jon Snow instructed him.
Jaime's lips twitched in a sour smile. Ser. Too much kindness.
"I must thank you, I suppose," he started without preamble, and without a bow, "for returning my sword and hand. I'd be lost without them. May I enquire about my men and my captains' wellbeing?"
"Your army is faring well and has been quartered outside the gates. You'll be allowed to return to them once we're done here."
A suspicious brow rose.
"You're not a prisoner, my lord, despite what the first impressions may tell."
"Yes," his eyes flashed with vicious contempt as they moved to the sour-looking wildling, "I was wondering what happened to the famed northern hospitality."
"It died when you pushed our brother from the Broken Tower," Sansa glared at him like a true Queen of the North, in act if not in name, stiff and frosted like a block of ice. But her hands, grabbing both armrests of her chair until her knuckles turned white, were betraying her inner turmoil.
Jon shifted his sword between his knees and leaned out with both his palms resting on the direwolf-shaped pommel: "Is it true?"
He gravely nodded.
"Why?"
Jaime let out a distressed sigh. Lord Snow could very well take an educated guess about the reason why, but he gathered that there would be no point whatsoever in being tight-lipped right now.
I might as well come clean about all my wrongdoings and speak some uncomfortable truths: everyone seems to already have an opinion about it, anyway.
He looked up to Brienne, standing there with her sapphire eyes bereft of judgment, fearless for truth, her strength shining even against his sins.
How he envied that sureness!
"He saw us," he admitted, more to her than Jon. Brienne did not react, but for a slight pinch of her lips, as though bravely bracing herself for what was to come. She's already carrying in her heart the burden of my other secrets, what's one more crime to atone for?
His eyes moved again to the boy sitting in front of him.
"Me and Cersei. Fucking. I've pushed him because I feared he might tell somebody. If the fact had reached Robert's ears… you've made Robert's acquaintance long enough to draw your own conclusions… his nature had never been much inclined to forgiveness. He would've had my sister's head on a pike, and the children's too."
"And yours."
"And mine," he conceded with a tip of his head. "I'm not that virtuous a knight to deny that I did what I did to save my own skin, too."
Not his most shining hour, clearly.
Cersei was there, frantically clutching her gowns, trying to cover her nakedness, panicking, pleading… He saw us. He saw us.
He acted.
It was done, there was no point in brooding over the matter now.
"You're admitting to the crime, why should I spare your life?"
"Because, as absurd as it might seem to you, I've already paid the debt in full."
He raised his golden hand and gave it a slight shake.
"You've attempted to murder a child whose only fault has been not listening to his mother's bidding. Do you think that losing your sword hand is restitution enough?" Jon uttered, with more than a hint of disbelieving scorn in his tones.
"How many deaths the war between our families has sowed?" he fought back. "My firstborn executed Lord Eddard, and then he got poisoned shortly after. Robb and Lady Catelyn have been murdered at the Red Wedding. My own father was shot to death by my Imp of a brother. Myrcella and Tommen were good, decent kids and they died anyway! If it's any consolation for you, yes, I think that's enough retribution for the deaths and the maiming my family caused, directly or indirectly, to yours."
"We're not keeping score, here, my lord," Sansa said. "I was saddened to hear about Tommen and Myrcella, I've never wished them ill. They've always been nice to me."
Her eyes were cold, but there was a sympathetic frankness in her voice. Jaime found himself unable to speak.
She looks a lot like Cat.
"None of us wishes for the innocent to die to balance the scales. We're not in the South, where children's death is a way like another to extort vengeance."
"Oh, and what is the North's way?"
"Justice," Jon Snow answered.
"Justice," he snorted. More like hypocrisy. "Wait to have children of your own, if you're lucky, Lord Snow, then we will have this conversation again."
This, mercifully, shut him up, if only for a moment.
"Arya told me what happened in the Westerlands," he resumed, his jaw working nervously. "She also said you swore an oath to Lady Catelyn to protect her daughters and never raise arms against Stark or Tully again."
Jaime paused and looked up to Brienne: she watched him expectantly and gave him an almost imperceptible nod of encouragement.
"Do you trust Lady Brienne?"
"Lady Brienne's actions has always been beyond reproach," he acknowledged, regarding her with warm eyes. "I'd trust her with my life. She's family."
The wench seemed oddly touched by this admission; the lines of tension on her face loosened and relaxed as she shared with Jon a little, private smile of gratitude.
"Then you also know that honour compels her to tell the truth," Jaime said. "She can confirm everything Arya told you about me."
"We both swore that oath to your mother," Brienne took his hint and pressed on, her hand proudly gripping Oathkeeper's hilt. "Ser Jaime gave me this sword: 'You'll be defending Ned Stark's daughter with Ned Stark's own steel', he said when he charged me to find you."
She craned her neck to address Arya too: "Both of you!"
The sisters exchanged sheepish looks and Jaime had to conceal a smirk, for he recognised very well that forceful tone. It was the same tone the wench used with him any time she pestered him with talks of honour and duty.
"You know the story," Brienne said to Sansa. The girl took a deep breath and turned her crystalline eyes on Widow's Wail's gold and cherrywood scabbard.
"That sword, Oathkeeper's sister, was forged from my father's greatsword. Joffrey used it to cut down books," she sounded disgusted.
I don't blame her; Joffrey was a demented cunt.
"Hopefully, now that I've returned it to you, it can be put to better use. These swords belong to the North. They're supposed to be wielded together."
"And the army you've led here?" Jon inquired.
"The North is not at peace, yet. You rule over a land as big as a small continent and you currently don't have the numbers to secure it. Daenerys Stormborn has landed in Dragonstone and my sister would love nothing more than to crush all of you like beetles: divided you won't stand a chance against both enemies. You need these ten thousand men."
"So, in short, that's an alliance against the Iron Throne you're offering."
"An alliance? To you?" he sneered. "No. I'm just providing a blunt force. I'm still not sure if you're worth my pledge."
Jon's discontent was palpable.
There was something, in the way he pursed his lips, oddly familiar, but Jaime couldn't put his fingers on it.
"My father oft talked about you. My sisters and I have heard the story many times… How he found you sitting on that throne…your sword still dripping with your king's blood."
Jaime's mouth contorted in anger.
"Yes, you know everything, do you?" he cut sharp and deep.
But, in truth, what would this kid know?
He had sat down on that blasted chair because he had been fucking tired beyond words. He hadn't been sleeping for three days straight and he had just killed his king, the king who ordered him to bring him his father's head and who with his last breath still invoked the city's destruction: his legs simply weren't supporting him anymore.
"I know a pretty funny story too, since we're sharing tales about honour, or lack thereof; weren't you a sworn Brother of the Night's Watch, Lord Snow? How was it again? 'I shall wear no crowns and win no glory'? Yet, here you are, the King in the North! So, as far as oathbreakers go, you're not that better than me, after all."
Jon narrowed his eyes at him. "I died, murdered by my own men. My watch has ended."
Jaime had caught some snippet of gossip about it, while travelling North… the betrayal of his fellow brothers, the return to life thanks to some Red Priestess' dark spell… Jaime wasn't exactly up-to-date with the details, he would have to ask Brienne about it, but he still couldn't quite bring himself to believe it, although the man was right there in front of him, alive enough to confirm the tale and be a pain in the ass.
He grimaced, his head tilting ironically from one side to the other.
"Technicalities."
"If it's not an alliance you're seeking, why are you here? I'm still not quite clear on the concept."
He glanced down at his fake appendance. The hand that pushed Bran out of a window, the hand that had gripped his sister's ankle when they were born, had been cut away, as payment for Brienne's maidenhead. For a long time, he couldn't see what was left behind, beside the gaping, empty space when once there was his glory. And his shame. For a long time, he had been wondering who he was, short of that hand… Kingslayer, Oathbreaker, man without honour, sister-fucker… these names still belonged him, maimed or not, but, of late, he oft caught himself striving for new possibilities. New names.
Goldenhand the Just.
He still had a long way to go, but somewhere he must start.
He raised his eyes again.
"Lady Stark, I'll make another oath, to you and you alone."
Sansa squared her shoulders.
"Speak up, I'm listening."
"Robb and Rickon are dead. But you're still one brother short: what is the last news you've got of Brandon?"
"One of my brothers in the Watch saw him at the Nightfort," Jon said. "He was heading north of the Wall with Hodor, Summer and Howland Reed's son and daughter. Sam helped them go through the Black Gate. That was two years ago," he added with a discouraged breath.
Jaime held his gaze and deliberately said: "He might be still alive."
The lad survived when nobody expected him to, was it that far-fetched to think that he might have gotten through the cold and whatever menace was lying beyond that Wall unscathed for so long? If Jaime were a man who believed in such trivial things as fate and happenstance, he would go as far as to admit that everything had already been written in the stars, as some Volantene merchant would poetically claim, and he would gladly sit back and wallow in acceptance of a necessity predetermined by an external force, call it Gods or fortune.
But he wasn't a thinker like Tyrion was.
He was a man of action. And so act he must.
I can't change the past, but I can do something about the present time.
He took a step toward Sansa: "I pushed Bran out of a window, I made him a cripple. Now let me try and get him back to you."
Brienne flinched and threw him a stunned, fretful look.
So much for not doing stupid things.
"You want to ride north, go beyond the Wall and hope to find a crippled boy, a simple-minded half-giant, a direwolf and the Reeds siblings lost in the Land of Always Winter?" Ser Davos asked, astonished.
"I was hoping I wouldn't have to venture that farther north. I didn't come here to have the fingers of my only hand falling off for the cold."
The wildling barked a laugh and jeered at him: "Do ya hear that? He jests! The pretty boy doesn't even know what he's talking about!"
I truly dislike you.
"Have you ever fought a wight, my lord?" Davos stepped in. "A white walker? Have you ever had eyes look at you so blue that your insides turn to ice just by staring?"
He almost gave himself away by throwing a fleeting look in Brienne's direction. I had blue eyes staring at me, all right, but usually when that happens, my insides turn up in flames, not ice.
"Davos is right. You won't survive an hour beyond the Wall," Jon stated, and then he stood up –
"That's why I'm coming with you."
"What?"
"Jon!"
"Your Grace!"
Lord Snow ignored the outraged cries from his sisters and Ser Davos and stepped down the dais.
"I've been idle for far too long. And now that even Arya has returned… I must know what happened to Bran, too. I already had in mind to arrange a search party with rangers months ago, but I couldn't ask the Night's Watch to sacrifice able men for such a personal matter."
"You're the King!" the Onion Knight stressed. "If anything happens to you, Winterfell…
"Winterfell will be left in my sister's more than capable hands. As long as Bran is missing, Sansa is the true Wardeness of the North and rightful Lady of Winterfell. She will rule in my stead. He is my brother, Davos," he added, putting a hand on the older man's shoulder. "If he still lives it's my duty to bring him home safely. If he's dead…I only hope I won't have to kill him again. I have to try, to at least find his remains so that he can rest here, where he belongs, with our father."
An almost impossible task, Jaime mused. If the kid is truly dead, there won't be anything, not even a split hair, to bring back home. Yet, the roots of a newfound respect for this young man sprouted deep inside him and, without knowing why, the realisation warmed his heart.
He had guts, Jaime would grant him that.
"Go back to your camp, my lord," the King addressed him, tough and resolute, "speak with your men, get as much rest as you can. At first light, we ride to the Wall."
"This is a suicide, plain and simple!"
"You don't even know where to start looking for!"
"The boy is most certainly dead!"
What had started like a cheerful supper with his captains, all of them pleased to see him still alive and mostly unscathed, turned into a heated argument as soon as Jaime expressed his intentions to ride to the Wall, in search of Brandon Stark: Lord Serrett, Ser Lothar Banefort, and the Brax brothers all voiced their strong disapproval and objections.
"You don't owe anything to the Starks, my lord! That boy's fate does not concern us!" Ser Flement complained hotly. The twinkle of the amethysts over his silver breastplate was irritating.
"I'm not commanding you to come with me, Ser Flement, if that's what troubles you! We wouldn't want to expose your fair skin to the merciless northern winds."
The younger Brax brother flushed with anger. Jaime hadn't the time, nor the patience, for stupid brawls with his own men.
"Get out," he curtly ordered. "All of you! Ser Lyle, stay."
One by one, all his captains left the tent, except Bronn, who, for some reason, thought he could ignore his commands almost on a daily basis.
Strongboar stomped to the table, where plates and bowls of hot stew had been set aside, and now a map of the North, detailing the disposition of the nineteen fortifications guarding the hundred leagues of the frozen barrier, was spread out.
"Jaime, I'll be honest with you," the burly knight started in a surprisingly soft, respectful voice, concern etched in his scarred, broad forehead. "Your father was a cold-hearted, self-entitled dickhead and, by the Gods, I could never stand the sight of him, but I was fond of your mother. A true Lady, Joanna was. When she died, I've made a silent vow to help protect her children, all three of them," he breathed deeply. "Cersei is too far gone, I fear. I can't fail you either. I beg of you: reconsider this mission, or, at the very least, take a part of the army along with you."
Jaime leaned both his hands on the table and perused the map in front of him.
"I won't move men up north until I know exactly what we're up against. I've got to see for myself what's going on beyond that thrice-damned piece of ice."
If what they say it's true, may the Gods protect us all.
"I'll take Bronn with me. In my absence, the Lannister army is yours, Ser Lyle. You have your orders: set our base of operations here in Winterfell. Lord Snow will soon need to strengthen his hold on Torrhen's Square and the Dreadfort, which currently don't have any ruling lordship and have been practically deserted, so be ready to send garrisons there, if need arises."
Once I'll have a clearer picture of the situation north of Last Hearth, I'll know what to do with the rest of the army.
"What if we are to receive news from King's Landing?"
He chewed on his bottom lip. Cersei would have been made aware of the army's defection, by now. There would be no turning back.
"Burn anything with my sister's sigil."
Ser Lyle exhaled loudly, but didn't comment any further.
Alone again, Jaime fell heavily on a chair, massaging the side of his head, where a lump had formed. Bronn had stayed in the background, strangely quiet, during the council, and now was pouring a goblet of wine for both of them.
"My brother told me you went beyond the Wall," he said as the sellsword sat down across him.
"Aye, but it was years ago, in the summer. And the only things I needed to worry about were wildling's raids and bear attacks."
"Do you believe these rumours?"
"Northerners have a wild imagination, but if even dragons are back on the continent…" Bronn shrugged, "who really knows… Either way I warn you, if it's too much cold out there, I'm going to bury myself deep inside some whore's thighs in Mole's Town and wait for your return there. There was this pretty girl… white teeth, wonderful hands… Aemma, I think her name was. I wonder if she still remembers me."
Jaime laughed. "You wouldn't make a very good Brother of the Night's Watch, I'm afraid."
"Believe me, that will never be an issue. You Lannisters have spoiled me too well. And black isn't a good colour on me, anyway."
Snapping his knees with a loud groan, Bronn stood up, took his still half-full goblet, and with a last friendly pat on his shoulder, retreated to his own tent.
I should rest, he brooded, as he lied down on his cot, but sleep eluded him.
Too many thoughts in his throbbing head, and soon, dawn was upon them.
Jaime scrubbed away the weariness with a basin of frozen water, donned his hand and armour and sat back on the table, waiting for breakfast to be served.
He was about to tuck in his black pudding when Bronn showed up, looking well rested and freshly shaved. And he had the wench with him. He immediately scrambled to his feet.
"Which part of 'don't do anything stupid' exactly you didn't understand?"
She was angry. Bronn hid a snort and retreated with a cocky bow.
Jaime grinned at her and gave a short, noncommittal shrug.
"I thought you found my reckless exuberance youthful and charming!"
Her big mouth set into a straight line. Oh, if looks could kill! He threw her an apologetic smile and gestured for her to sit down and share the meal with him. The wench wasn't having any of it.
"Have you come to wave goodbye?" he quipped, piercing a piece of bacon with the knife.
"I've been granted permission by Lady Sansa to ride off with you."
The cutlery clattered on the plate; it was his turn to be incensed. He stood up.
"You shouldn't have!"
"Oh, so you can be all reckless and exuberant, riding off with the rescue party as it pleases you, but I can't?"
The stupid cow was purposefully mistaking his meaning.
"We don't know what we could find beyond the Wall!"
"That's precisely why I'm coming with you! Our swords are meant to fight together, side by side, you said that!"
She was turning his own words around: he never meant for her to risk her own life to follow him.
Why would she, anyway?
He clenched his jaw, his appetite lost.
"You're even more annoying than I recalled!"
"Supposing that you find him, what do you think will happen?"
Jaime didn't have a reply to it. He didn't think that far ahead. For sure, to say sorry would not give the boy back the legs he had taken away.
He doubted that Bran would ever forgive him.
Why should he?
If I will ever meet Locke again, I surely won't thank him for cutting my hand off.
Brandon asking his brother for my head is certainly more likely.
He looked up to her and suddenly the answer was fast on his tongue.
"Everything started when I've pushed him from that blasted window. I have to try."
What was in those blue eyes that held the power to rip unwilling confessions out of him every time?
She moved closer.
"The man you're trying to make amends for… that man doesn't exist anymore. Perhaps he never did."
Oh, stubborn wench!
"You really believe that, don't you?"
But Brienne stood her ground, unflinching. He shook his head.
"What would you say if I told you that less than eight months ago I've threatened Edmure Tully to put his firstborn, his only son, into a trebuchet and send him flying inside the walls if he wouldn't surrender Riverrun? Am I a reformed man?"
She paused, studying him.
"This happened before or after our meeting?"
He frowned in confusion, sensing a trap.
"After, but I don't see how…"
A shy smile and a blush blossomed on her face.
"You just proved my point, then. You've promised not to raise arms against Tully or Stark, and you haven't. You've promised to take Riverrun without bloodshed, and you did. You've threatened Lord Edmure because you knew you wouldn't have to follow up."
"I don't make idle threats."
"I know you don't," she hastened to add, "but Edmure…I think it's fair to say he's a weak man. You know it as well as I do. You played on his insecurities and his love for his family and you knew he would yield. You're a good judge of character, after all, and as much as it annoys me to admit it, you're a master at pushing buttons."
Her cheeks flared up when she said that, and he knew she was remembering those first days of their acquaintance, when he took any chance he got to debase her, as a woman and as a knight, playing easily with her feelings of inadequacy and the guilt she bore for Renly's murder.
But Brienne didn't seem to hold any grudge against him for his past stupidity and blindness, if the light dancing in her eyes were any indication.
She was daring him to refute her and he contemplated to kiss her, just to wipe that smug smirk over her ugly face.
"You're hopeless, wench," he muttered, the moniker sounding more tender and intimate than he had intended.
The smirk now became a full-force smile that showed her crooked teeth and made the astonishing sapphire of her eyes shimmer even brighter.
"And you're a good man," she whispered back, and he was lost.
In a few moments, they would be battling against the cold winter, surrounded by snow and death.
He didn't want to leave this tent, yet.
Ever.
She wasn't wearing gloves and Jaime couldn't resist the temptation any longer: he took her right hand in his, turning its palm up so that he could trace the lines and the callouses with his thumb. Brienne's breath hitched.
"I've always wondered…how can your hands be so strong when wielding a sword and feel so gentle at the same time? It's a conundrum."
Flames were spreading across her cheeks and neck, but she didn't retract her hand. Her eyes shone like a pulsing star, by the light of the brazier.
She has pretty eyelashes; how come I've never noticed before?
Her pulse spiked up madly when he closed his hand around her shaking wrist.
And then the bloody tent flapped open again and the spell broke.
I will kill Bronn, slowly and painfully, I swear it by all that's holy!
But when he turned, it wasn't Bronn standing at the entrance.
"Who let you in?" he growled.
The redheaded oaf's burning stare shifted from him to Brienne: if her face was red before, now it had turned a commendable Lannister crimson. She looked delectably guilty, as though she had just been ravaged.
How he hoped for the stupid wildling to come to this same conclusion!
"Jon has sent for you," the bear said to her, disdainfully ignoring him. "We're leaving."
Jaime moved between them, the lion's claws ready behind his fake smile: "I haven't got the chance yet to thank you for the kind welcome I've received yesterday's morning."
The wildling's eyes glared at him with open hostility.
"Why don't ya just do it now, pretty boy? Let's see what ya can do with yer bare hands. Well," he looked down and his teeth flashed behind a nasty smirk, "hand, anyway."
Blood rushed to his head and, in a blur of red, Jaime took a fast step toward him, but Brienne was faster. She stepped in and separated them before they could come to blows.
"Stop it! Stop it right now!"
She put her hand on his breastplate and pushed hard; he barely heard her words beyond the loud hiss in his ears.
"Break it off, or I swear I'll knock both your asses in the dust! Tormund!"
His nostrils flaring, the wildling lifted his eyes to her: there was a fire in them that didn't have anything to do with the heat of the fight.
Everything clicked together.
Jaime snapped his head back to Brienne, incredulous.
Brandon Stark, the winter, the Wall, the white walkers…all forgotten…
Tormund puffed up his chest and with a last deadly look at him stomped out.
He at once turned to her: "That wildling?! Are you fucking serious?"
"What are you talking about?"
"You…Did you…Are you…"
The Gods be merciful, he was babbling!
She was staring at him uncomprehendingly, a deep frown between her eyes. Then she spun on her heels, and, without even deigning him of an answer, exited the tent.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
He ran, literally ran, after her.
"Brienne!"
He clutched her shoulder when he reached her.
Usually they tried to keep touching to a minimum, if not necessarily required. It simply wasn't a thing they did. Personal boundaries, et all. Now in less than five minutes he held her hand and grabbed her arm. That was more contact than the last three years combined.
Personal space be damned! This is bloody serious!
"What's going on?" he asked resolutely.
"With what?"
"You and that ginger thug!"
Brienne furiously blushed, then blanched almost immediately.
"This is hardly your business," she said, deadpan, disentangling her arm. "Get your horse. We'll leave right away."
She dumped him in the middle of the camp, with his mouth stupidly agape, and panic and irritation spreading out of him in waves. Jaime looked around, not really paying any attention to the sounds of the camp slowly waking up, and spotted Podrick chatting amiably with Lynn next to the barracks.
He marched to them and grabbed the lad by the scruff of the neck, spun him around, almost lifting him up in the process, and without preamble he hissed: "Your lady-ser and that Tormund fellow: spit it out! Now!"
"There's nothing between them, my lord," Pod hurriedly replied. Jaime's hand dropped.
"I mean, apart from the fact that he's clearly, completely smitten with her. He always tries to beat her during sparring sessions, often calls her beautiful in public and a couple of times he has even attempted to steal her."
"Steal her?"
"Aye, my Lord! For the wildlings that is pretty much a declaration of love."
His face fell.
"What does Lady Brienne say about this?"
Pod just shrugged.
"Podrick! Tell me!" he sounded so desperate that he wanted to punch himself.
"I don't know! She is flattered, I guess? It's not like my lady confides in me with matters of the heart!"
"Yes, but you're her damn squire, aren't you, you're with her for the most part of the day, you sleep in the room next to hers!"
Pod's brows knitted in confusion. "What does my lord mean?"
He was about to lose the last bit of patience and self-control he possessed.
Do I really have to spell it out for him?
"Did she…have they…"
And again with the blabbering. Gods, what was happening to him?!
Podrick's eyes grew the size of saucers as the meaning of his enquiries became obvious.
"Oh, that! Of course not!" he exclaimed, nonchalantly dismissing the thought with a wave of his hand. "Lady Brienne always said that if someone ever tried to get near her chambers unsolicited, they would leave with some of their parts missing."
The tension Jaime felt marginally loosened, and he finally drew a breath he didn't notice he was holding.
Unsolicited…what about the solicited ones?
At least the wench did not do anything irreparable. Yet.
It was a good thing they were to hit the road presently.
Pod was staring at him, with a knowing, deeply amused look; brilliant, now even the squire was making fun of him.
He smacked him on the nape of his neck, not hard, but enough to leave a red mark. As a warning.
"Stop smirking and go get your lady's horse ready!"
Podrick trotted to the gates, muttering under his breath, his smile obliterated, but Jaime held no hope: come nightfall, all the camp would know about his little outburst.
He headed toward his horse; Bronn was already there, breaking fast with an apple.
"Well, that was a love scene worthy of the Mummer's Ship in Braavos."
"Don't!" he held up a finger. He wasn't in the mood for Bronn's japes too. The sellsword snickered quietly.
"You know, Jaime, women like her, no matter how homely they look, never die virgins."
He flashed him a meaningful look: "Bronn, I warn you, be careful of how you speak, if you care for your teeth."
"I meant no disrespect for the lady! I was complimenting her! I like her! But you, my lord, need to get your head out of your golden ass, respectfully speaking. She won't wait forever, you know? And from the way some of the other soldiers look at her, I think it's fair to say there's not only, how did you call him?, 'that ginger thug" vying for her virtue."
Goodbyes were quietly exchanged at Winterfell's north gate. The King hugged and kissed both his sisters; in spite of her many complaints and protests, Arya wasn't allowed to leave with them, but Jon agreed to at least take Nymeria. Jaime thought it a smart move: if Brandon was still alive, the direwolves would help them track him. If not…well…he hoped the beasts at least would prove useful against all sorts of enemies.
Mounted on his gelding, Jon rode to the head of the small group, Bronn and the stupid wildling following up close.
Jaime purposefully lingered behind and waited for Brienne who closed the column with Pod.
They travelled in comfortable silence along the Kingsroad, across the Wolfswood and toward the Long Lake; the journey to the Wall would take around twenty days, if the Old Gods of the North granted them an accommodating weather.
Plenty of time to talk about many interesting topics.
He put the spurs to his white courser and moved closer to Brienne's black mare.
Her hands tightened around the reins.
"So," he cleared his throat, "you and that red-bearded bear…"
She scowled.
"There's nothing going on between him and me. And I'll thank you if you call him by his name."
"Tormund!" he spat the name as though it were an insult. "What kind of name is it, anyway? Does he have a family name?"
"His people call him Tormund Giantsbane."
"Well, that is a battle name sure to instil a sacred fear of the Stranger in the enemy."
"I'll have you know that he's actually a pretty remarkable warrior, and he makes a striking figure on the battlefield!"
He snorted. Now she was just trying to make him jealous.
"You fancy him!"
She took a deep breath and stared back at the road ahead of them.
"I do not."
"You do!"
His mind evoked a flashback of himself, younger, more stupid and with more hands walking through the woods of the Riverlands, while she tried to deny her feelings for Renly, failing miserably at it.
They were back to square one, it seemed.
Only, Renly was a funnier topic and a rival positively a lot less daunting.
"I like him…just not in the lecherous way you're making it sound."
"Oh, I see. It's all pure and spiritual. A marriage of souls. I bet he thinks about it precisely on the same line as you," he grumped.
Peeved, she rolled her eyes, not really getting the point of the conversation, and sputtered: "What…why do you…Tormund is well respected, he's honest and honourable, he has a good heart and if you think that –"
"Has he been courting you?" he looked pointedly at her. She blushed and gave herself away by clutching the hem of her cloak.
Of course. The oaf with the stupid beard wouldn't court a maid with flowers and sweets.
"He gave you that wolf pelt, didn't he?"
She squared her shoulders and averted his eyes.
"This conversation is over."
He chuckled.
"And here I thought that a new armour and a sword of rare Valyrian steel would've been enough!"
From the corner of his eyes, he saw Brienne gaping at him.
Grinning, he spurred his courser to a trot and left the mulish wench to her own conclusions.
And they're finally together again!
While I was writing this, I realised with horror that in the TV-Show Jaime pushes Bran with his LEFT hand, not his right. Luckily, in the books, Martin leaves this detail more open to interpretation, so I've worked around this ambiguity. If any of you notices any incongruity with it, let me know!
Jealous!Jaime, everyone! What's not to love?
A last moment of frivolity before we plunge into action and I start killing off beloved characters.
Kiddin'.
(Sort of)