Thank you all for the comments! Really glad to see people are enjoying the story. Another chapter is below!
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Jaime had never seen this much snow. During the winter of his youth, it had snowed a few times at Casterly Rock, though never more than dagger's length in any one storm. It was different here. Even from his narrow tower window he could see the curtains of heavy snowflakes covering the North in thick white blankets. The sole window, more an arrow slit in truth, faced eastward in order to capture the dawn's light, though Jaime had not once seen a proper sunrise since he had been escorted up into his new chambers. Each morning was greyer and bleaker than its predecessor.
Yet morning had come and gone. This one had been as dull as all those before it. Jaime had been given books and trinkets to amuse himself, but nothing more. Now evening's dim light was settling in amidst the shadowy towers and white capped walls of Winterfell. He could not mark the hour at which the sun sank below the horizon as he could not see either.
Not that views mattered with everything buried under several feet of snow. The normally sharp angles of the crenellated battlements and tower roofs opposite his own were shrouded with heavy white hoods. He could not see much farther than the outer wall, but he assumed the Daenerys' camps were near buried as well. Men labored in the yard below to pathways clear of snow, but the efforts were mostly in vain. Even as they added to the massive snowbanks against the walls, new powder covered the ground they had just cleared. We can't even fight the snow, he mused as he watched a team of Stark men, spades in hand, battle the elements for control of the castle yard.
A bitter cold wind blew from the east. The gust forced Jaime to retreat from his perch by the window as a thousand heavy flakes invaded his sanctum. Thankfully, the fire that the servants kept blazing in his hearth melted the flakes quickly enough while Jaime swung the window shut and latched it tight with his hand.
Winterfell was certainly different now. The last time he had traveled North had been as a knight of Robert Baratheon's kingsguard. Their column had stretched back almost a mile along the kingsroad. Jaime remembered the sight of wagons and horses snaking their way through the summer hills and farmsteads of the North. Winterfell had seemed familiar then, the castle cast in the dark greys and greens one might find in any southern keep. Now winter had come.
Everything is different. When Robert had been king the realm had been whole. Was it I who broke it? When I pushed the boy from that broken tower window? That had been the been the first arrow loosed. He knew that now. Blaming Tyrion, Lady Stark had taken his brother captive and Lord Tywin had burned the Riverlands in retribution. Then Robert had died, his old friend Ned following him swiftly to the grave. Then, bit by bit, the realm has fallen to pieces. Everything is different now. Everything is broken… Even me.
Jaime moved to sit upon a fine cushioned stool by the hearth. Reaching near the crackling flames, he picked up the iron prod and stoked the fires, pushing the spent logs aside to make room for fresh ones. The prod felt strange in his hand, weighty and uneven. It had been years now, yet still nothing felt proper or right when he grasped it, not even his Valyrian steel sword.
He reached to the side of the hearth where a dozen or so split dry logs were piled. The wood felt rough in his hand. Taking care to avoid the flames, he placed the fresh bit of wood atop the others, lurching backward as its weight broke the blackened log beneath and sent up a cloud of fiery embers with a threatening crack.
Jaime looked into the brightening flames as they consumed the fresh sacrifice. He could smell the scents of burning pine as dark smoke wafted from the hearth and dissipated in the air around him. But no, it was not just pine he smelled. It was ash, dirt, and blood. Burning flesh and boiling water and melted steel. He could still taste them in his mouth. He heard the screams of burning men echo in his mind.
The commander of the Lannister armies had been haunted by his experience on the Blackwater. It had all seemed so easy until then: outwitting the Blackfish for control of Riverrun; convincing Lord Tarly to join their cause; sacking Highgarden. But that day upon the river had left a burning scar in his memory. The screams… those terrible screams. The Dothraki had been terrifying to behold in their own right, but the dragon? That great black menace of despair had turned hundreds of good Lannister lads into cinders. Fire was power. Fire was death. How do you win a war against that?
Yet now they faced something equally as terrifying, if the Stark bastard, Targaryen girl, and Tyrion were to be believed. One hundred thousand dead men marching down upon the realm out of the frozen lands Beyond the Wall. Or what had been beyond it. As far as he understood it, these ice demons of legend had shattered the ancient barrier, or else found their way past it. Ordinary steel was no use, they had said. Only dragonglass and fire could vanquish these dead men. I suppose fire is life too.
And what have I brought to help? A sword and one hand to wield it. The thought lit a fire inside him, a slow burning rage that started in his heart. I could have brought more, could have brought five thousand men from the capital and the Westerlands. Maybe more. Food and supplies too. It had been his sister who had promised their forces to the Starks and Targaryens, and it had been his sister who had forsaken their honor and reneged on her oaths to the realm.
Do I hate her? He was not sure. Jaime remembered his shock at seeing the ruins of the Sept of Baelor upon his return from Lord Walder's victory feast at the Twins. His rage had burned low and constant like the smoldering embers atop Visenya's Hill. And our son… Tommen had thrown himself from his royal chambers in shock and grief. Jaime had not even had a chance to see his child's body before Cersei had burned it and scattered the ashes about the shores of the Blackwater Rush.
Not that he wanted to see his second son's broken body. He had watched Joffrey choke during his own wedding. And Myrcella… His only daughter, sweet and beautiful and kind. She had been poisoned even before they left the shores of Dorne and died in her father's arms mere moments after learning the truth. No. Tommen's body would have been too much.
Was she to blame? Perhaps. His sister's claiming the explosion as some treacherous act of fanatical Sparrows was a farce. Lords and smallfolk alike had seen through that as they might a toddler's first lie. He had thought to remove her when he had learned the truth, to escort her back to Casterly Rock. It would have been for the protection of the people of King's Landing, yes, but also for her own. How many lords had she killed in that tragic accident? How many families in the Reach and Crownlands now plotted against her? Fear and shock had kept them silent, but that was no way to rule.
It had taken him months to speak with the various lords and gain their support. Politicking had never been his forte. In the end, it did not matter. Not three moons after his return Qyburn had delivered them a scroll from the east, rolled parchment sealed with a crimson elephant. "A message from Malaquo Maegyr," the man had explained, "Triarch of Volantis and friend of the crown."
"Friend of the crown?" Jaime had almost laughed out the words. They could not rely upon the lords of the Crownlands to support them. How had they managed to befriend a rich Volantene half a world away?
"In a sense, yes. Maegyr has lost much in Daenerys Targaryen's liberation of Slavers' Bay and his ships do good trade in Lannisport and King's Landing besides," Qyburn prattled in his wispy voice. "He writes that hundreds of ships have docked in the harbor of his Free City to take on water and fresh foodstuffs-"
"Ships," Jaime spat out the word sarcastically and caught a vicious look from his sister in return, "who cares about some ships?"
"Ships, my lord, boasting the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, the golden rose of the Tyrells, and speared sun of the Martells of Dorne," the former maester had finished with a queer look.
"Traitors all," Cersei had lowered her glass of wine to utter a silent curse. "We must prepare our armies to march on Highgarden and Sunspear. Qyburn will send word to the Freys to prepare the Riverlands for war as well."
And that had been the end of it. End of any plans he had set for his sister's removal were irrelevant in the face on imminent invasion. It had not been for any great love of Cersei or his own house that he had stayed in the capital. No. It was about survival. He had known that even then. Daenerys Targaryen sailed for Westeros to retake her family's throne. I killed her father. What will she do to me should she win it back?
So, Jaime had remained in King's Landing, rallying the Lannister armies and readying the kingdoms for war. He was comfortable in that regard, commanding men and preparing for a fight. Perhaps he had been too comfortable. Only a week after they had heard the news of the Targaryen girl's journey westward, Jaime had fallen back into bed with his sister. And now she is with child. My child.
To say it had been easy to leave her would have been a lie. Jaime loved her still, or else still felt some attachment to his sister. He wanted nothing more to see another child of his blood born into the world. And yet she betrayed me. He had stood by her side when Sandor Clegane had kicked over that crate and loosed that blue-eyed corpse upon the Dragonpit. One hundred thousand, Tyrion's queen had claimed. How could she deny that?
Yet she had. Cersei had denied the truth and denied the realm the aid of the Lannister armies. Jaime had tried to reason with her, to make her see the sense in sending their men north to fight. One way or another, a powerful foe would sweep down through the Neck and Riverlands and onto the capitals. Dead men or dragons, the remaining forces of the southern armies stood little chance. Their unborn child would stand little chance. How had she not seen?
Of course, some southern men had made their way north to Winterfell. Ryn Hill and two dozen other Lannister men-at-arms and gold cloaks from the capital. He did not recognize the name of the so-called captain, but he was thankful nonetheless. Two dozen swords were useful and gaze his own appearance at least some legitimacy. He had neither seen nor spoken to the men, but Tyrion had told him of their arrival.
Indeed, Tyrion had told him of many goings on in Winterfell. Whereas his chambers only had a window that pointed eastward, Jaime's little brother gave him news from the west, south, and rest of the North. He came with food and drink at least once a day, normally with old, bitter wine near enough spoiled and some heavily salted beef and veal alongside warm brown bread from the kitchens. Jaime had spit out the wine when he drank from a silvered goblet, but soon enough the northmen had brought fresh supplies from White Harbor and the two Lannister brothers had enjoyed a good earthy brown ale instead.
Each visit brought with it a different conversation. They had of course discussed politics and warfare and the future of the realm. They had discussed Cersei: her betrayal and unborn child. They had discussed father, and mother, and minor branches of House Lannister still tied to the queen in King's Landing. Yet the conversations that Jaime enjoy most were the foolish ones, where he and his brother could act like they had the last time they had been in Winterfell together.
It was last night that Tyrion had walked in with a cask of wine he claimed to have pilfered from the cellars, though Jaime knew it was equally likely he had simply threatened some poor spit boy or serving girl with dragonfire in order to procure the drink. Clever as Tyrion was, Jaime still knew his tricks. His brother, clearly already drunk, had cracked open the cask and poured himself a healthy measure of sour red. "Last sour we're like to taste for years," he said as he raised his goblet and sat back on a low cushioned chair.
"Last sour we're like to taste ever," Jaime had replied as he grasped the small barrel's top with his hand and tilted the wooden tap toward his own cup, the dark red liquid splashing wildly as it hit the bottom of the goblet. Tyrion had raised another mocking toast to that. Jaime joined him and drank deeply. The wine awakened something inside him, a long-buried memory that seemed not entirely his own.
"Do you remember," he began as he set the wine aside and leaned toward his brother, "the Maiden's Slumber?" Tyrion sat upright at the mention, a curious look upon his face. It had been years since they last joked about it.
"A fine ship," his brother said.
"Not as fine as the wine it carried, though," Jaime replied. A grin broke across his brother's face. Maiden's Slumber had been a fitting name for the ship, for its crew had been either woefully innocent or all asleep when the two Lannister boys, together with a squire being hosted at the Rock, had snuck aboard the great cog and stolen away with two casks of Arbor gold from the captain's own quarters.
"My very first taste of Lord Redwyne's finest vintage," Tyrion said wistfully.
"Your very first taste of wine at all, if I recall," he corrected his brother. That was not entirely true, of course. Lord Tywin had permitted his children a glass or two of wine at dinners and feasts, but never more than that. He would not suffer his sons and daughter to act like fools.
"I spent the entirety of the next day retching into my bedpan," he laughed, "two casks, was it? And I had more than half of one myself! Who was it that was with us on that daring mission?"
"Darl Crakehall," he reminded Tyrion.
"None So Fierce!" he spoke the Crakehall words as he raised his cup again in a salute to the Lannister bannerman and forgotten squire. "What even happened to dear old Darl?"
"Knighted, I think. Then slain when Robb Stark fell upon Uncle Stafford's host at Oxcross," Jaime replied, the memory of the wars past making his own wine seem ever more bitter.
"Ah…" the single syllable slipped from Tyrion's mouth slowly, tumbling from his lips like water from a cliff. Or wine from a cask, Jaime mused as he finished his drink, placed his empty goblet upon the stone floor, and clumsily poured himself another. "That's a pity."
They sat in silence for a moment, both lost in waking dreams of the past. Jaime watched his brother pour himself another measure of red and grasped at a subject to discuss. "What news of Winterfell and the North?" The words came unbidden to his lips. It always comes back to this, doesn't it?
"Of Winterfell? There is not much to discuss. Some grumbling over food. Some concern over pilfered maester's stores."
"Stolen stores?"
"Oh, nothing too exciting. Some mushrooms gone missing and some healing herbs as well. Enough smallfolk have fallen ill and medicines are in short supply," he explained.
"I see. Anything else I should know?"
"Of the wider world? I wish I knew," Tyrion had sighed, "no ravens can fly in this storm and Bran has seen nothing of note in his visions," he finished simply. Brandon Stark… Tyrion had told him of the boy's visions. It seemed incredible, even though he did not truly understand what it meant. Can he see me even now? Can he see that it was I who placed him in that chair?
"I see," he offered his brother little in response, "so just snow, snow, and yet more snow."
"Some ice and wind, here and there," Tyrion retorted, "and problems with Snow to be sure." He smiled. Jaime had never had his brother's wit, but he still understood the meaning there from the faint twinkle in the man's eyes. Jon Snow had come to speak with him only once, the evening of his arrival in Winterfell. The young lord had thanked him for coming north and delivering the news of Cersei's betrayal in person and had assured him he would be well fed and treated properly, as befit a man of his station. Jaime had thought he seemed distracted as he delivered the assurances.
And the last time I saw Lord Eddard's bastard… He could recall the conversation clearly enough, though it now brought a deep sense a shame when called forth. He had mocked Jon for his decision to join the Night's Watch. He could still hear the venom in his voice as he thanked the bastard boy for his service protecting the realm from the perils Beyond the Wall. Look at us now. Jaime had abandoned everything save his sword to ride North and fight beside the man against those perils.
"How do you mean?" he asked, grasping at Tyrion's obvious bait.
"Our Lord of Winterfell is not all he seems," Tyrion said cryptically, his speech beginning to slur as he reached for the cask and poured himself another goblet. "His…. brother's tree visions… well." He gathered himself and looked at Jaime, his mismatched eyes meeting Jaime's own light green ones. "I need your help."
"With Jon?"
"With both of them," Tyrion said softly, taking another deep gulp from his goblet.
"Both of…?" Jaime raised his hand and stump in unison, inviting his brother to explain himself. What is he talking about? His brother was thoughtful and clever to be sure, but most of the time Jaime knew him well enough to catch his meaning. This time though…
"Jon and Daenerys," he sighed, "I need you to convince the boy to wed the queen." Wed the queen. What's stopping him? Daenerys is beautiful. Is the man an even bigger fool than he proved himself to be at the Dragonpit? Jaime had guessed the two were attracted to each other, if not already in love. Younger folk often thought themselves sly and subtle in matters of love, but one look could tell all. Jaime had seen that look from Daenerys at King's Landing, a flash of desire from behind a regal mask. And Jon? Well, Jaime knew men well enough to see where Jon's heart was bound to lead him.
"And what will I tell him? What's stopping our young Lord of Winterfell from following his heart and taking the queen to bed?"
"Well, she's his aunt, for one," Tyrion said dryly. Jaime spat out his wine. Aunt? He struggled to understand his brother's meaning.
"The boy's a bastard. Eddard's son," Jaime responded, challenging his brother's pronouncement.
"Rhaegar's son, it would seem," he raised an eyebrow, "Brandon Stark saw the 'Last Dragon' wed Lyanna Stark in his visions. Jon Snow is their son. Taken north by dear old Ned at the rebellion's end." Jaime raised his own goblet to his lips and drank slowly, pondering Tyrion's revelation. Was it true? He remembered Rhaegar well enough, though the prince had been away from the capital for the short time Jaime had served as a member of Aerys own kingsguard.
Why not? Jaime laughed. This is ridiculous. Secret Targaryens and dragons and dead men on the march. "And you want me to convince him to agree to a wedding? To make sure he takes the Targaryen girl to bed? Why?"
Tyrion sipped from his goblet as he considered Jaime's words. "Not to bed, he's already taken care of that bit," he shook his head as he spoke. He disapproves, thought Jaime, so why are we talking of this? Then he rose from his seat and stood as tall as he could, looking directly at Jaime. Tyrion's legs and eyes wavered. The wine had gotten to him. "Strange at it may seem, it's the truth. Jon Snow is Rhaegar's son and heir. He's having some trouble accepting that. Sullen morning rides through the wood and all."
"And you'd like me to lead him and the girl before a septon, is that it?" Jaime responded, growing impatient.
The shadow of a grin crossed Tyrion's face. "You, dear brother, are rather adept at keeping certain family secrets, well, secret." Jaime inhaled sharply. Of course, Tyrion knew. He had for years. Yet not once had he addressed the issue so openly. Perhaps the thousand odd leagues between he and Cersei made things different. His brother continued to explain. "The realm shall continue to see Jon Snow as Eddard's bastard son and Lord of Winterfell. Jon and Daenerys will wed, joining north with south and securing our queen's claim to the Iron Throne. I would see it happen soon, before this war with the dead comes to our gates. Should Snow fall in battle, we would still have the support of the North."
"I'd imagine you'd have their support anyway, given its our sister you mean to march against next." Tyrion nodded in agreement.
"Be that as it may… should his true identity become common knowledge, we must have his claim supporting hers through marriage," he finished simply. "It need not be a heroic speech. Just give the lad a shove in the right direction," he mimicked a pushing gesture with his hands, almost losing his balance in the process. Jaime's temper flared for a moment. Shove, is that it? It's always some game with you.
"Very well." He would speak with Jon, he owed Tyrion that at least. But what do I say? How to pull aside the lord and speak of secret lineage and marriage? Would he even listen? Tyrion nodded in thanks as he unsteadily resumed his seat. "How am I to go about speaking with him? I've sworn to keep to these quarters."
"On the morrow, Jon intends to hold a war council in the lord's solar. A small group. I'd imagine we'll be discussing what to do once this storm has passed. I will ensure your attendance and you might find time to talk with him then," Tyrion explained. Jaime simply nodded and spoke no more. Tyrion understood the gesture and made his way to the door.
Thus, a night and a day had passed with snow continuing to fall and Jaime considering what he might say to the Lord of Winterfell. In truth, he did not really know. His aunt… he thought. Why does that bother him so? My own father married a cousin. He was sure Jon's Stark lineage contained similar matches. And the Targaryens… Well, he was all too familiar with the sort of relationships that Aegon's heirs had kept.
Jaime spent the day suffering through dull boredom, once more looking out into the yard from his tower window. In the morning, a serving girl had entered his chambers and lit a fire in the hearth. The guards had brought him a hot morning meal and half a chicken near midday. At least it had felt like midday; the sun was nowhere to be seen. Tyrion had left him a number of books and scrolls to read, but Jaime had never been interested in such.
After what seemed like hours, a knock jarred Jaime from his thoughts. "Enter," he called out over the muffled thuds of someone's fist against the thick oaken door. A Stark guardsman pushed the door open and walked forward into the orange glow of the hearth. The man was massive in all the wrong ways. His torso sloped downward from fat chin to rounded belly in a way that made Jaime want to laugh. If this is what we're working with, we may consider surrender instead.
"You were wanted in the lord's solar, m'lord," the man said. Jaime nodded wordlessly as he stood and gathered himself. He looked to the bedside table where his golden hand sat, straps hanging from its sides. He looked from it to his stump and back again before deciding against the gesture and following the man out of his chambers and through the grim grey halls of Winterfell. They passed the lord's chambers on the way. Jaime was surprised to see Daenerys' own sleeping quarters were so close to his own. Perhaps they trust me more than I thought. Or else they're just fools. He prayed it was the former.
Yet as he entered the lord's solar through the opened entryway, he was met with a wall of distrusting stares. The gathering was small, as Tyrion had said it would be. He saw Ser Jorah Mormont far to the left-hand side of the room, laying out a sheepskin map of the North across a low table. The knight raised his head and looked right into Jaime's eyes.
I remember those eyes. He had seen Mormont's northern blue-grey eyes twice before. Once on Pyke, when they had fought as allies against the rebellious Greyjoys. Then once again as foes during the victory tournament at Lannisport, where Jaime had broken nine lances against the man to no result. King Robert had awarded Jorah the victory. Jaime looked at the knight and nodded before breaking his gaze and surveying the rest of the room.
Next to Jorah there stood two copper skinned figures garbed in black leather and furs. The man was clean-shaven a near bald, though he wore a fine, silver dragon brooch upon the center of his upper chest. An Unsullied, perhaps the commander, he thought. Jaime had learned much of the fighting prowess of Unsullied over the years. They were vulnerable as individuals, lightly armored and not equipped for single combat. But rank upon rank of the slave soldiers were near impossible to defeat. Their discipline was legendary.
A woman stood next to him, her skin the same darker tones as his but her hair far different, thick black curls that seemed frozen in the air. Definitely not Unsullied, he mused. Perhaps one of the queen's advisors from the east? He had seen her at the Dragonpit but could not place the name.
His own brother stood directly across from him, garbed in a fine woolen doublet and a small black sable cloak that had no doubt been made special for him. Jaime matched gazes with him for a moment before taking in the rest of the scene. He saw Ser Davos Seaworth and Varys seated in cushioned chairs made of some dark wood. The old smuggler grasped a white and grey horn of ale in his good hand. Varys had nothing to drink. Ever plump in the Red Keep, he now seemed more gaunt and hollow than before. His grey woolen robe was lined with furs on the inside, but even the thick material could not hide the diminished look the eunuch wore upon his shrunken face.
To his surprise, Jaime saw the two Stark girls huddled in the corner of the solar. Sansa wore a black woolen dress and cloak while Arya was garbed in grey furs and brown leather. The younger daughter of Eddard Stark met his gaze for a moment, her eyes an impassable wall of cold emotion. He saw her right hand drop to fiddle with the pommel of a thin sword that hung at her side. Jaime could not rightly say why Jon or Tyrion wanted to the two girls at a war council, but it was not his place to question such decisions.
Finally, Jaime set his green eyes on Daenerys Targaryen. The queen was robed in a thick woolen dress of the deepest black. He could see grey and black furs stitched into the interior for warmth. She turned and looked at him in turn; her violet eyes flashed with anger and suspicion. Rightly so, he mused, I killed her father. I tried to kill her. He recalled their brief argument in the yard the morning he had arrived at Winterfell. He had taken and knee and sworn his sword, yet was met with harsh glares and harsher words. He hoped this meeting would ease the tensions though that remained to be seen.
Jon remained to be seen as well. Rulers and advisors had assembled in his solar yet the young lord was nowhere to be found. Jaime looked around the room once again and found an open seat next to his brother. He awkwardly crossed the room whilst dodging the glares of the others and sat himself down upon a wooden chair with thin black cushions upon its seat and armrests. Jaime sat back. This is as comfortable as I'm like to get.
Another moment went by in relevant silence as the Stark girls murmured to each other and Ser Jorah rustled with the maps. He sat back and looked past the assembly to take in the details of the solar. The change in location was a welcome one after days spent in the dreary confines of his own chambers. Grey light filtered in from the large chamber's windows, struggling through layers of ice and snow that were piled outside the glass panes. A large hearth stood at the end of the solar where Jorah stood, though Jaime could feel its warmth from his seat. The fires cast orange and scarlet light upon the long, faded tapestries that hung about the walls.
All eyes shot upwards as voices echoed from the hall. Jaime leaned right, his elbow pressing again the soft woolen coverings of the armrest. A stabbing pain shot through his as it so often did, but he ignored it. Down the hall he saw Jon walking beside a figured being pushed forward in a large wooden rolling chair, its wheels clacking loudly against the uneven stones on the hallway floor. Jaime froze where he sat. He knew who it was, though he could not yet see the face. It had been years since he had last seen Bran Stark.
Is this why they've brought me here? Has the boy told them the truth? Panic froze him in his leaning position for a moment, his eyes flashing between the other people in the room to see if some plot was afoot. No one looked his way as Jon, fur cloak billowing behind him, swept into the room. A large man dressed in blacks pushed Bran into the solar and set his chair beside the long table that Jorah had covered with maps and wood figurines. The door closed behind them.
Jaime looked at Jon and he at Jaime. His own green eyes flashed between the two Stark men, still wondering what trap had been set. "Ser Jaime," Jon addressed him, "I'm glad you could join us." Cordial enough. He rose briefly and gave Jon a deep, courteous nod. Jon turned to Daenerys, an odd look in his eye. Ah… there it is. Tyrion was right. Jaime could see it all too well now. That desire simmering under a hardened, emotionless mask. How many times had he worn that face when looking at Cersei in the Red Keep?
He turned his head toward Daenerys to catch her reaction, but the moment had passed. Jon opened his mouth to speak again. "We've had no word of the enemy since the return of the Umber men from Last Hearth," he began, moving around to the map covered table and gesturing at the far edge of the sheepskin.
"Forgive me if I'm mistaken," Tyrion began, rising to his feet, "but Lord Bran can, well, see these things, can he not? Is there no way to track the dead through these visions? He once sent us a raven when he saw the dead near Eastwatch."
"No," the broken boy's voice was cold and bloodless as he answered Tyrion's question. He provided no explanation. Jaime caught Jorah's eye as the small assembly looked around in confusion. The old northern knight wore a confused grimace on his face.
Jon sighed as the large man beside him spoke, "it's… well… I suppose it's like two swordsmen at odds. You can swing your sword, but the other man can just as easily parry the blow," his voice quivered with his jowls. Visions as swords. This is all starting to make sense, Jaime mocked his own ignorance.
"Sam is right," Jon continued, "Bran's visions may have their uses in the war to come, but right now we need to know where the enemy is and where he is headed."
Jorah cleared his throat and moved to stand by Jon. "It would seem the Dreadfort would be the next target, no? Unless this Night King means to march against Karhold."
"Dead men aren't interested in castles and keeps," Sansa spoke from the corner of the room, "they attacked Lord Royce because he was escorting thousands of people to safety. They'll go wherever people are." Jaime raised his hand to his chin in a ponderous gesture. That makes sense. He was surprised. Sansa Stark the strategist. He would not have expected as much from the timid girl who had arrived in the capital so many years ago. So much had changed.
"Which is why we have the men preparing Winterfell for siege," Jon responded. Jaime had heard the hammering and shouts day in and out during his confinement. It was his understanding that the southern men who had marched north were assisting the preparations. "There's more, I'm afraid. Sam tells me we've had no word from the Wall or the Watch. I had hoped the brothers might have joined their strength with ours, but by now there's no hiding what this means."
Silence overtook the room for a moment as some bowed their heads in acceptance of lives lost. Jaime felt a renewed guilt rush through his mind as he thought again of his mocking words to Jon Snow so many years ago.
"This storm is almost over, but another approaches," Jon said, his tone grim but authoritative. "I mean to send out scouting parties. Swift riders and sure eyes who know the north and the enemy." Murmurs swept across the solar as the council took in his meaning. "I had hoped Ser Jorah would lead one party eastward to the Hornwood lands," he looked at the knight who nodded in acceptance. "I've asked Sandor Clegane to lead another party northward along the kingsroad…" he paused to draw breath, "and I will lead the last party toward the Lonely Hills south of the Last Hearth and Last River, near where the men say they were attacked," he finished.
"No," Daenerys spoke at last, her tone firm and cold, "I forbid it."
Jon sighed as he turned to face her. "Your Grace, we need to know where the Night King is-"
"-I will not have Ser Jorah and you riding off into the snows," Daenerys interrupt him. "Set one of your lords to this task, or else I shall ride on Drogon with Rhaegal by my side," she tried to reason. Jaime might have laughed then if the subject matter were not so serious. She'd prefer to risk herself flying into the snow than have her man ride beyond the castle walls.
"And I will not risk a dragon on such a mission," Jon responded. Jaime looked between the two. Daenerys' eyes narrowed in frustration but he could still see the tenderness shining there. Jon's own grey eyes were wide open. 'Will not risk a dragon' he had said, though Jaime was not sure whether it was the dragon clad in black scales or black furs to which the Lord of Winterfell referred.
"I must agree with Jon on this count, Your Grace," Tyrion threw himself into the fray, "your dragons are our most dangerous weapons, yes, but also our most vulnerable."
"Your Grace…" Jorah spoke softly from across the room, his gruff voice giving the honorific an oddly musical tone, "this must be the way of it. You saw what we saw Beyond the Wall. Riders are the best way."
"Then let us send out my bloodriders. The Dothraki are the finest horsemen in the world," she argued.
"On the plains of Essos and in summer, perhaps, but not in the North. Not in winter," Jorah's rebuttal was calm but commanding.
Daenerys relented. Jaime saw the queen's lips tighten in frustration. Her eyes shone with fire. "Very well," she spat out her acceptance. "What other matters have we to discuss?"
"News from the south, Your Grace," Varys stood from his cushioned seat to address the queen. "As Ser Jaime said some days ago, Euron Greyjoy has ferried the Golden Company from Essos. Some ten thousand seasoned fighters in full. My little birds report that she has made entreaties to the Windblown and Long Lances as well." He paused for a moment as hesitant to continue. "Cersei has also promised lordships and land to any man who brings her the heads of Your Grace, the Lord of Winterfell, and her two brothers," he finished ponderously.
Daenerys looked about the room. "She shall have them, in time. I will deliver them to the gates of King's Landing in she so desires, alongside the greater body of my armies. We will march south in strength once we defeated the Night King." She paused for effect and, for a moment, it was not a young queen that Jaime saw. A Targaryen, truly. She spoke again, this time to Jorah. "And we've dealt with sellswords before. How much gold would it take to convince the Golden Company to abandon the Lannister queen?"
"More than we're like t'have, Your Grace. The Golden Company has never broken a contract. Their word is good as gold," Davos responded before any other advisor could answer the queen's question.
"More heads for Cersei, then. One way or the other," Tyrion quipped. A sudden laughter from the darkened corner shook sullen air from the room. Jaime turned to see young Arya grinning beside her rather distraught looking sister.
"If that's all, then," Daenerys said sternly as she looked around at the group. No one else spoke. She nodded wordlessly at the two copper-skinned figures across the room and the three made to exit. Jaime watched the queen's gaze as she walked, her violet eyes fixated on Jon. He looked to Jon then and saw the young lord's grey eyes meet hers. Perhaps this is when I'll find the time to speak.
Jorah, Varys, and Tyrion followed their queen out of the solar. Jaime's brother paused at the threshold to glance back and give him a knowing look and a wink. The Stark sisters swept out of the solar next, the older one ignoring him entirely and the young glaring with an intent that felt all too familiar. Davos stood a moment later and left the room as well.
Then it was just Jon, Bran, Jaime, and the fat fellow Jon had called Sam. Now's like to be the best time I'll get. Jaime stood and looked to Jon, but was too late. "Sam, might I ask you see to Bran this evening? I've something else I'd like to attend to," he said.
"Oh, well," Sam's small black eyes shot toward Jaime, "of course Jon," he finished. Jon turned and swept out of the room before Jaime could even stand to address him. Pushing off the chair with his hand, he moved to follow the man, but was interrupted.
"Ser Jaime," Bran's monotone voice cut through his thoughts, "I had hoped to speak with you." He drew in a sharp breath and froze. Jon was walking away. Bran wanted to speak. He did not know what to do.
Jaime often acted without thinking. He had been a warrior, a knight. He charged into the fray without regard for himself. I did as much upon the Blackwater. In war, a heartbeats' hesitation might mean death. Better to swing at your foe than doubt the strength of your own arm. Doubt was death upon the battlefield. Yet now doubt clawed at him. Dread hung over him like a cloud of descending slowly arrows.
He turned to regard the Stark boy in his wooden rolling chair. Jaime took in the sight in full, his eyes wandering over Bran's pale, gaunt flesh and withered features. His furs had slipped off the side of the chair, revealing withered, useless legs; monuments to Jaime's sins.
"Alone, Samwell, if you would," Bran turned his head and regarded the fat man with a curious gaze.
"Right," he said nervously, "I'll be just down the hallway should you need me." He turned and left the room, his footfalls surprisingly light and swift for a man of his girth.
"My lord," Jaime began to address the boy.
"I'm not a lord," Bran corrected him, "not since I fell from that tower." Does he not know? Has he not seen it in his visions? Jaime breathed a silent sigh of relief, hoping that this conversation might concern other matters. "I don't blame you for what happened," he said simply. That fleeting sense of relief followed Samwell out the door. He remembers.
Jaime swallowed hard, wondering what he would say next. Northerners meet out justice harshly, he knew. It had been a northern man who had taken his hand. Perhaps Bran would have his men take the other in revenge. Best get on with it, then. "I… I'm sorry," he said meekly. The words felt odd in his mouth. Jaime had never apologized for anything. He did what he thought to be right and lived with the consequences.
Bran ignored the apology. "It's odd, isn't it," his voice was odd and airy, as if he was not truly sitting before Jaime in his family's own solar, "how maiming the body grows the mind."
Jaime cocked an eyebrow and looked at his own stump. "I suppose it is…" he wondered where this conversation was going. Not where I expected to be sure.
"I would never have become what I am had I not lost my legs. And you," he tilted his head and regarded Jaime with a piercing gaze, "well, the man who stands before me is not the same man who cast Brandon Stark from that tower window," he said again, as if speaking of long forgotten heroes' tale and not his own crippling. What sort of man is that?
"I crippled you, push you from a tower, and you're not angry?" he almost spat the words, angry that Bran was not angry at him.
"Once, but not anymore," his gazed off into the hearths' dying fire. Low flames struggled to break free of their blackened wooden cage. They seemed to gain strength as the cold air flowed across the room, like an old man's heart fighting for one final beat. "I wanted to thank you for riding north to join us," his blue eyes met Jaime's own. Thank me? "I know it was not easy."
"I did what I thought was right," he said. I always have.
"When the time comes, you must do it again," he offered cryptically, resuming his tilted view of the dying fire. Jaime accepted his silent dismissal.
Jaime had no words for the boy. He nodded, turned, and left the room. His thoughts raced ahead of him, down the passageway where he had seen Jon walk a moment before. I promised Tyrion that I would speak with him. Which way were his chambers? Down a few floors? Up? He did not know.
Jaime meandered about the upper reaches of the keep for a few moments, looking into quarters of various lords, hoping to find Jon. His efforts met with failure. Perhaps in the morning, then, he thought as he made to return to his own chambers. The keep was quiet at this time of night. The other inhabitants had returned to their own quarters. Outside, the snow absorbed any sounds that might come from beyond the grey stone walls, save for the howling of the vicious northern winds.
Jaime turned a corner, then another. He walked up a winding stone stair and got lost down a narrow corridor. He doubled back the way he came and recognized his own hallway from the different vantage point. Had I been given leave of my chambers beforehand this would not be so difficult.
Dull thuds echoed from around the corner, marching his own footfalls in rhythm. A fist on wood. Knocks. A visitor to my own chambers? He wondered. His answered turned and looked at him for a brief moment as he rounded the final chamber and beheld his own oaken door. Jon Snow stood down the hall, waiting patiently outside the queen's own chambers. Jaime stared back, meeting the lord's gaze and nodding simply.
He knew that look: shame and desire and longing all wound tight with thick cords apprehension. He silently wished the Lord of Winterfell well on his quest, knowing that he himself would play no part in it. Seems Tyrion has misread this situation entirely. I am not needed after all.
Then he entered his own chambers and latched the door shut behind him. Jaime walked across the carpeted floor and stopped for a moment by the fresh, roaring fire some unseen servant had lit in his hearth. The warmth felt good on his face and hand. He sat upon the edge of his bed, watching shadows flicker off the wall as the orange flames danced among the burning logs. Outside of his tower room, the snow continued to fall.
...
Fear not, for Daenerys is up next. The next "Act" in this story should have a higher concentration of Dany and Jon POVs simply because of the events that will unfold.
