Thank you TopShelfCrazy for help with language and logic.

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Jaime

Casterly Rock burned.

It had been burning for a sennight.

What good did it do, being a dragonrider, if he was never in time?

You're late because we were transporting the Prince of Dorne and his family back and forth like a common carriage with a coach, and not as their equals in birth and birthright. The House Martell is not higher than the other great houses just because they style themselves princes. His dragon pressured him with unwanted, erudite opinions.

Shut up. Jaime decided he preferred Viserion before his dragon had learned eloquence and began expressing his white and golden thoughts with frightening precision.

Next he would speak Pentoshi or Old Tongue.

At this moment, Jaime would trade Viserion for a new sword hand. Cutting into pieces the man who ordered the destruction of the Rock was far more appealing than just burning him.

Burning was for Asshai. For those who forced Brienne into the Shadow.

And how would you achieve that without me, Ser Jaime?

You have me there. My pardons, dragon.

Both his fathers laughed heartily at Jaime's helplessness from seven hells; Tywin, seated on a privy with a crossbow quarrel stuck in his bowels, and Aerys with a golden sword point protruding from his bony, mad chest.

"What happened?" he asked Tommen, forcing calm into his speech. Little tongues of fire danced behind his eyelids, hungrier than a famished lion.

Burn them all. Viserion commented on Jaime's hellish mood.

Shut up, now!

"We were almost ready to travel North. The fords of the Trident are ruined. I planned to sail from Lannisport and continue by land from the Stony Shore," his son replied. "Tyrells took the same route. They left in time and they should be in Winterfell by now. We were running late. The West has slowed down. Our appetites were greater in the War of Five Kings and so were our losses. Yet we would have made it to the wedding. I thought… I thought that I might have earned some respect of our bannermen as their new lord, if not their love… I didn't expect it would come to this."

"Why not send a raven after me immediately?"

"I did, Father," Tommen replied. "Several birds had returned before the last one that found you."

What did your hatchling think? He should stop whining. I fly faster than a mere raven.

Shut up.

"Your mother?" Jaime asked, trying to keep his heart out of the question, dreading and yet somehow knowing the answer...

"She was in her chambers. We never found her body, but that entire wing had collapsed… Only stone and ashes remain," Tommen lowered his head. "I was fortunate to have stayed in Lannisport overnight. The delay was accidental. Or I would have been with her… Whoever did this had studied the Rock and was aware of my plans, just not of the change. They knew where to begin the conflagration in order to make it spread too fast to be stopped."

Cersei sometimes claimed that Jaime and her would leave the world as they arrived; together.

So much for that, sweet sister.

Jaime hoped that she had died unawares, like she lived her last days, stark mad, plucking flowers… perhaps enjoying the sight of fire… Like Aerys.

Tommen had almost lost his boyish fatness. His shoulders broadened. In another few years he would resemble Tywin in build rather than Jaime. But his temper remained mild and he was still good-natured.

He would never inspire fear.

Jaime wondered if Tommen still had kittens. And perhaps he should. He could always find a new kitten when the old one died.

Or was annihilated by evildoing.

It wouldn't be the same with a woman...

Tommen was now of an age where he would notice girls, though he was still too young to marry in his father's opinion. Myrcella and Tommen played when they were children, just like Jaime and Cersei. So it was perhaps wise that his sister had stayed in Dorne, in love with Prince Trystane. Although she was also a hostage that could be killed, if Doran forgot Jaime's and Viserion's aid against the sellsword armies from Volantis…

The slavers had to run away empty-handed and return to the oldest daughter of Valyria when an unprecedented storm made the sea around Sunspear rise high as the mountains; shattering the ice-path between Dorne and Essos. The waves had shapes of trees, and eagles, and wolves, and giants armed with clubs…

The Arm of Dorne was broken again. It wouldn't refreeze anytime soon, despite that temperatures on land had turned unbearably and uncommonly low for the far south.

Jaime's brains turned slowly, faced with the progressive disappearance of Casterly Rock. Well, the rock as such remained. But the castle was gone. A new one would have to be built on that same rock, after the royal wedding.

Tyrion had wanted Lannisters to be the first to swear fealty to Rhaegar's son. If they did not, it was the same as declaring that they were changing sides, or at least rethinking their political position as soon as Rhaegar died. The same as saying they again followed an unknown cause of their own, like Tywin did in Robert's Rebellion; closing himself in the Rock, brooding over his decisions, and declaring for a side only at the end.

Whoever burned the Rock wanted the Lannisters to miss the wedding…

"We travel with one hundred," Jaime decided. "To match the Dornish in number. We're leaving right now. We'll find some cousins to finish putting out the fires and guarding the ruins until your return."

"Do you not wish to visit a sept, to light a candle for Mother?" Tommen asked shyly.

"No," Jaime refused with more violence than he intended to let slip in his voice, remembering his last reunion with Cersei in a sept, over Joff's dead body. She'd noticed he was crippled. It was the beginning of their end. He didn't want to recall the rest of it. It was in the past. Not even her death would change this.

The more he thought about his past, the more he owed sincere thanks to the late Vargo Hoat for divesting him of his sword hand.

And if he was to light a candle for anyone, it would be for Brienne…

Who must have met her end very much aware of what was coming, sword in hand. He just wanted… needed revenge before he could even begin praying for her. His loss was too fresh and raw to be expressed in words.

But his only son had no part in any of it. He had a wedding to attend. Jaime's coaching tasks were not yet over. Returning to Stokeworth for Tyrion would have to wait a bit longer.

Liar. Viserion accused him.

Yes. I am. I know.

Jaime could have collected Tyrion before flying West. The detour would cost him a negligible amount of time, less than half a day, or rather, half a night.

Day had become a wishful name for the less dark part of the night…

But Jaime had chosen not to go, fearing to find Tyrion dead. Tommen's desperate letter provided another excuse to postpone it.

Brienne was gone. Cersei was burned. Greyscale had probably killed or severely disabled Tyrion by now. His children were grown and he hadn't been their father when they needed him most.

Jaime was all alone.

"We will light a candle when we return," he lied to his son.

He did not think he'd ever return to the West. There should be plenty of opportunities to die on the Wall.

After he and Viserion paid a friendly little visit to Asshai…

Half a night later, Winterfell was as cold and as monumental as Jaime remembered it, with the difference that it was a hundred times more crowded than during Robert's visit.

Carpenters were busy constructing a roof over the main yard and a few adjacent ones in the light and heat of bonfires. A bunch of servants were composing tables and benches out of wooden boards. The Great Hall of the Starks, spacious as its name said, was far too small to receive all the guests. By the looks of the final preparations, there would be tables from the Hall to the main gates, spreading in all directions through various courtyards of the castle.

Only one path was left clear; leading from the Great Hall to the godswood, where the couple, their family and their most noble guests would pass when the moment came for Jon and Daenerys to say their vows.

The arrangements were impressive, Jaime had to admit. Probably the Northmen worked their arses off so that they wouldn't freeze.

A grim young man was standing behind the gates alone, clad fully in black, and uncloaked despite the cold. Tall. Cold as Jaime imagined death, at least on the surface. Rhaegar's son was a spitting image of his mother, except for his eyes, similar in expression and shape to the indigo pupils of his father; only darker, more haunted. His cheeks were pale as ice and his beard was growing; black like his hair.

Rhaegar's son. Jon Targaryen. The one they called Jon Snow.

Jaime barely remembered him from his first visit to Winterfell. He remembered only one of Ned's children with clarity from that time.

Brandon. Bran.

"Welcome, my lords," Jon greeted the Lannisters, not meaning it, long-faced and stone-calm. A foreign blade hung on his hip, wrapped in a scarf instead of a scabbard. It looked… intriguing.

Sharp of expression, Rhaegar's son assessed both Jaime and Tommen, passing an unfavourable, mute judgement as he did so.

His eyes said that he found them unworthy.

And looked so righteous as he came to this conclusion that Jaime wished to punch the expression off his face. His non-existent hand itched. A simple challenge would do. The sword of Aegon the Conqueror was on Jaime's back, too great to be hung on his hip. It was the first time that Jaime carried a true greatsword. He might as well use it before he gave it away as Jon's wedding gift from Varys, to see if it was still as sharp as its fame.

Valyrian steel did not have to be continuously sharpened.

But Jaime's left hand would never be good enough to wield it. He'd probably kiss the snow very soon, and give the young man a satisfaction of beating him.

Besides, he was here for Tommen and he would be reasonable. It was not as if he deserved a warm welcome to Winterfell. Some humiliation was to be expected.

"Thank you," Tommen answered Jon sincerely, ignoring or not seeing the enmity in their host. "I had not wished to be late, but we had trouble in our lands," he looked back at Jaime. "If Father did not return for us, we would have missed the occasion."

"It matters not," Jon cut him off curtly. "Though I must add that we did not expect you any more and offer my pardons for any shortcomings in your accommodation. The wedding is tomorrow at midday and the castle is full. You will be staying in Wintertown."

Jaime maintained his silence, deciding it was best if he left before he was tempted to speak and aggravate their position. Anything he might say would further damage Tommen's image, and the boy had already suffered enough for being Jaime's son.

He nonetheless thought of one announcement he should make, as it involved another mouth to be fed and another body in need of lodging, albeit small. "I should…" Jaime began lamely. "I should return south for Tyrion. He has been ill and staying with a friend. And he's also wished to attend the celebration."

Rhaegar's son brightened a little at the mention of Jaime's little brother. "It will be agreeable to see Lord Tyrion again," he offered acridly.

"I hope for the same," Jaime replied, wishing he would find his brother alive and well, miraculously resistant to greyscale. Not everyone falls ill.

"Tonight we will hold a modest feast for all our guests, before the main one after the wedding on the morrow," Jon finished informing the Lannisters about the proceedings, and then, to Jaime's utmost surprise, showed Tommen the way to Wintertown, clearly offering to accompany him in person instead of calling for servants. Perhaps he was truly embarrassed with the improper sleeping arrangements for one of the greatest families of Westeros. Or maybe he just wished to leave Jaime's company as much as Jaime longed to depart from his.

Before Jaime could find Viserion, as soon as Jon's shaggy black head and Tommen's golden curls were out of sight, he was approached by the lords Hightower, Tarly and Baratheon… With Brynden Tully lurking from behind the bunch of carpenters, wearing an even haughtier expression on his craggy face than the one exhibited by Rhaegar's son.

"My lord of Lannister," Hightower was apparently the spokesman of the little lordly embassy.

Jaime wondered about the purpose of it.

"Lord Hightower," he parroted. What in seven hells do you want?

"You will understand how everything has changed with Rhaegar's death," Hightower spoke with compelling wisdom and great knowledge, like a kind father. "Rhaegar could have tried to claim his father's throne. I say tried, for perhaps he would have failed. A man who had not known who he was for twenty years can only be labelled as mad. The realm cannot allow another ill-suited ruler like Aerys to take the Iron throne. That would be unlawful and harmful. Nor can this wolfling of dubious paternity claim to rule the Seven Kingdoms. He smells northern-"

"Princess Rhaenys had smelled Dornish to Aerys, may she rest in peace," Jaime reminded them.

"Princess Rhaenys was doubtlessly trueborn, but she is no longer with us. What do we know about this boy except what he and his mother are saying?" Hightower sounded like an embodiment of decency and prudence.

The invitations of King Jon had been a tad preposterous, Jaime could agree on that. Even Cersei would have liked the titles spelled on them in beautifully calligraphed letters.

"I trust that you have another man in mind, a better one," Jaime tried to guess where the conversation was going.

Stannis immediately made a step forward with pride. "My claim is greater than Lord Snow's. By blood, I am an heir to both Robert and the true Prince of Dragonstone. As a proof of the latter, I'm a dragonrider. The great black dragon answers to me since the death of the pretender, who claimed to be Rhaegar and crowned himself king for a day in King's Landing. I have never been fully assured as to this man's identity."

For a dour man, Stannis had also turned rather eloquent. Maybe it was due to keeping company with dragons.

"I understand," Jaime barely managed a simple articulate response, instead of a surprised and rude You a dragonrider? that came to mind first. He wished he was three feet shorter and endowed with Tyrion's mental abilities, feeling less and less capable of navigating the swamp of the freshly brewing intrigue.

"Lord Stannis enjoys the secret support of many law abiding houses, of those who do not put their trust in women and boys to rule us all," Lord Tarly said decisively. "We shall express it more publicly after the wedding."

"Blackfish," Jaime called with insolence. "Where do you stand in this? Do enlighten me. I missed the unique pleasure of your company since you attempted to hang me in the Vale."

"The Targaryens have almost ruined the realm," Blackfish stated, approaching slowly, avoiding looking at Jaime, standing between Hightower and Stannis. "Robert's Rebellion was not for naught. Rhaegar, if the pretender who took his name was him, must have been mad for twenty years or he wouldn't have lived as a septon. And then, when he supposedly remembered who he was, he was all of a sudden forgiving of crimes he should have never been able to excuse. His wife is but a woman, weak and proud, wishing to protect her son. We cannot trust her in this. Nor can we confirm as ruler a young man who spent his first adult years with thieves, rapers and murderers on the Wall. What does he know of kingship? We need someone steadfast and moral, with experience at court. Stannis has the right qualities for me. Edmure, my nephew, believes the same. And my great-nephew Robert Arryn will hopefully see the light before it's too late."

Edmure will always think the same as someone else, Jaime remembered. Having his own opinion in politics required too much time that Edmure might prefer to spend with his wife, or pretending to be a great battle commander.

Jaime's brain galloped to a terribly bright and unique conclusion. So Rhaegar was either an impostor, or mad and too forgiving. And this accusation for leniency most certainly included the fact that Rhaegar had not condemned Jaime and Cersei to death. Something Blackfish would have done.

And this is your reason to ask me to join your conspiracy, my lords?

There was only one answer Jaime could give to this, in his right mind.

"I say no," he stated with utmost calm. "Would that be all? I have another obligation before the wedding."

Hightower opened his mouth to utter something else, another learned argument, or maybe a simple threat, but Jaime had already sauntered off in the most arrogant gait he could muster.

Insolence never felt better.

Viserion disapproved of his choice. You should gain power. You're as good as any of them. I'm larger than my green brother. I can take him down for you.

Shut up. What is power?

Jaime remembered late Ser Arthur Dayne, knighting him.What's power without honour? What's the flavour of it?

It tastes of ashes, dragon…

Viserion seethed at Jaime's last remark, not convinced. Or perhaps finding ashes savoury.

Shut up. Jaime insisted, furious and frustrated in turns with the overwhelming unfairness of existence.

His dragon mercifully closed his great, white and golden mind to his rider.

Fed up with his dragon, instead of leaving, Jaime strolled mindlessly through the open spaces of Winterfell, until his legs took him to the broken tower, the place of his crime against Brandon Stark.

How could I?

It mattered little. He was able to do it and he had done it, after some hesitation. And he hadn't even done it for love as he'd told Cersei, not only. He did it for believing that it didn't matter what he did. After Aerys, everyone assumed the worst of Jaime behind his golden back, regardless of the truth. Why wouldn't he live up to everyone's expectation of having shit for honour? And save his children and Cersei from Robert's wrath in the process?

He had been wrong.

It always mattered what one did or didn't do.

There was no way around this terrible truth.

A thanks to the dead goat was truly in order. It took Vargo Hoat's kindness to make Jaime see that his actions could make a difference in the unfairness of existence. As well as to notice his future wife for all her virtues, love her and lose her.

Jaime stormed out of the castle and into the wolfswood, ignoring Viserion's urging that there was something important he should see, blue and scaled, and bright… A miracle of nature.

To think of anything blue provoked sharp, gnawing pain. It was Brienne's colour, Brienne's eyes.

He forced himself to consider politics instead. It looked as if there might be bloodshed at the wedding. If Stannis had a dragon… Jon had a dragon…They could dance.

Wait… I have a bleeding dragon. Jaime laughed heartily. That was obviously the reason that the great and noble lords sweet-talked the Kingslayer for their cause and not Tommen, young and susceptible of being a more malleable Lannister.

But even Blackfish with his superb honour intact must have seen a purely military advantage in having the second of the three current dragonriders on their side. Tyrion would have seen immediately why Hightower and Stannis didn't approach Tommen. Jaime was slow. He only figured it now.

His answer would still have been no.

On the other hand, Rhaegar's son honestly hated him, as he well should. The attitude was refreshing and more… natural. Less political. More understandable.

Fling Blackfish through the window, Viserion suggested merrily. He has lived long enough.

Shut up.

Jaime looked at his stump and smiled wryly.

This time, he would keep his meagre honour.

It was all he had left.

Horses, a party of men.

"How much longer?" a female voice asked impatiently, a dead one, a stubborn one.

Jaime ran through fresh snow, not feeling the cold. It couldn't be.

"Brienne!" he cried out, not caring who heard him and if some lost wedding guest thought him madder than Aerys.

Viserion! You told me she was dead.

No, Viserion was insulted in his dragon innocence. Gone into Shadow and the Shadow is death. You asked where she was and I told you. You never asked if she died.

Never mind, Jaime thought carelessly.

He laughed and cried at the same time. "Brienne!" he yelled. "Come over here, wench!"

His wife was more amazing than he remembered her, muscled and still sun-tanned from their short stay in Valyria.

Jaime pulled her out of the saddle and into his arms because she didn't dismount fast enough for his liking.

"Jaime," she was beet red when he kissed her before all, and her armour was annoyingly harsh and superfluous between them.

"So where have you been?" he asked tenderly. "How have you been? Good by the looks of you…"

She took his head between her large palms and murmured a short phrase into his ear, revealing another source of her blossoming embarrassment and tremulous giddiness. One he hadn't expected. Not at all.

He was not hearing well, he wasn't. It was too much joy, too much happiness. He was dreaming and he would wake.

"Are you certain?" he whispered back.

"Yes," Brienne confirmed. "I thought that I could not have children. But now all suggests that I will become a mother."

"And I will be able to hold my child in my arms and proclaim to the entire world that it is mine," Jaime said dreamily, realising that Brienne was stopping his tears with small kisses, administered as precisely as the blows of her sword

Blue. Pretty. Young. Viserion definitely sounded madder than Aerys, pondering the extraordinary speed of dragon growth, future eggs and tails and necks intertwined. He was as happy as Jaime.

Trust the dragon to spoil the moment.

Shut up will you?

The eloquence of dragons was obviously very limited. A more intelligent animal would have understood what Jaime wanted to know when he asked about Brienne's whereabouts. It wouldn't have left him in the dark.

His dragon's nature was extremely inconstant. At times he sounded like an enthusiastic toddler, like now, with his odd, egg-centred fantasies. But he could also act like a hardened old man, scarred by his existence more than Jaime had ever been, yearning for power and revenge.

Jaime gave a brief look to the rest of Brienne's party.

Mance Rayder. The sand snake who used to pose as a septa. A pretty wildling woman. A host of ironborn, alive for a change, apart from Euron Greyjoy, dead as ever.

A shadowbinder… with the face of a girl Jaime remembered.

"Gods," he choked, shocked and very afraid. "Where did you find her?"

Fear was something Jaime almost never felt. Even in his worst moments he had been brave. But now it seized his guts and made them tremble.

"Lady Tysha was among the Asshai'i who had captured us," Brienne explained softly.

Tysha looked at Jaime with more hatred than Jon.

So you know me. I guess you would.

What if she leaves before Tyrion can see her?

Jaime bowed his handsome head down, still holding his wife.

"I swear that I had no idea about the reach of our father's true intentions," he told Tysha without any introduction. "I'm so terribly sorry."

Tysha stared at snow. Her expression blank. Dead.

"They call it winter in the North," Jaime tried his charm. A woman originally from the West would not be used to this. He wondered how cold it could get in Asshai.

Predictably, his attempt at small talk was unsuccessful.

Anything he could say was insufficient.

"Could you please accompany my good-sister while I do a bit of flying?" he felt honour-bound to ask of his wife, for as much as he craved the sight and the touch of her to erase the loneliness and the despair of the past weeks. "Chain her if you must, like you did with me in the beginning," he murmured into Brienne's ear, so that the others wouldn't hear this part. "Just don't let her leave. I'll get Tyrion. We'll be back before the feast."

Which should be in a few hours. Making it back in time was perhaps an impossible feat, even for a dragon.

He needed to bring Tyrion right here, right now. If he ever wanted his brother's forgiveness. Just like Jaime, he would want to see his wife again, under any circumstances.

Speed was what a dragonrider was for.

Viserion, now!

To Jaime's surprise, his dragon did not arrive immediately.

And when he did, he was gliding in the air next to a very small blue dragon, barely able to fly on his own.

Her. Viserion was very adamant concerning the hatchling's gender.

"She was born after we passed through the Shadow," Brienne explained with wonder in her eyes. "I call her Beth. It's maybe not noble enough for a dragon's name, but she's so small."

Beth. Viserion approved.

"She stays here," Brienne admonished Viserion, and Beth landed obediently on her shoulder.

Hurry, dragon. To Stokeworth and back. Fly fast like the light travels. My wife is pregnant. She can't accompany us on this shaky ride. And I want us back before we're gone.

They found Tyrion walking restlessly on the battlements of the little castle in the crownlands, studying the starry sky, dressed as well as a dwarf could be, in a red and golden jerkin somewhat adjusted to his size, and a too long brown cloak; ready to fly away.

"I thought you forgot all about me by now, big brother," he scorned him, alive and lovably poisonous. "I nearly began walking to Winterfell."

"No grey limbs?" Jaime breathed out. They were in a hurry.

"Not one," Tyrion shook his head. "Just like on the Rhoyne. I was fortunate. Are you asking out of fear for your life or your golden looks?"

"Neither," Jaime refused the ridiculous notion. He'd never been afraid to take risks. "But there's someone else you'd not wish to contaminate.

"And that is?"

"You'll see," Jaime should probably tell him, but he could not. They didn't have time for painful discussions.

Speed up, dragon. Like the wind. Like the light. Now!

By the time they reached Winterfell again, Jaime only wanted to sleep, preferably with his head in his wife's lap. Flying faster than light proved to be devastating.

When he and Tyrion barged into the Great Hall, the feast had already begun in the light of many fires, torches and candles. At this pace, the wolfswood of the Starks would be deprived of trees before spring.

Rhaegar's son was there, on the dais. And his mother, all in black; grieving. And Daenerys, between them, queenly and prettier than ever, wearing dark blue and silver silk, with Beth on her shoulder instead of Brienne's. Her violet eyes shone with delight. The guests who did not know her gazed at her with awe. The Mother of Dragons was radiant, and a new child clung to her. If Jaime was in Stannis' shoes he would have doubts about the black dragon's allegiance. Drogon was hers before he followed Rhaegar. And Stannis… did not call Drogon by his name.

Stannis and his daughter were seated between Doran Martell and Willas Tyrell. Then came Ser Barristan Selmy. The Arryn boy. Hightower. Blackfish. Edmure. Tommen. Mance Rayder. Some bearded Northmen. A few other men and fearsome northern ladies Jaime could not place.

And finally the stern-looking, pretty shadowbinder in dark blue robes, seated next to Brienne, who wore a silvery doublet and breeches, courtesy of the Starks, no doubt.

"Lord Tyrion, welcome," Rhaegar's son said and walked down from the dais. "I am pleased to see you."

Jon took Jaime's brother and offered him a seat between himself and a very fat young man wearing a maester chain, consisting of only two links.

Tyrion coughed and said very politely. "Thank you, Your Grace. I am most honoured and happy to meet you after a long while. But, if I may, I would sit next to the lovely lady in blue robes over there. I ought to," He sounded as if his eloquence would fail him at any moment.

"Why?" Daenerys asked melodiously. Her eyes flashed purple with curiosity.

"My lords," Tyrion announced, waddling to Tysha as fast as he could. Which meant very slowly, clumsy and ugly-looking. "Allow me to present you," his voice broke off completely, "my lady wife."

Brienne stood up, as if on command, liberating the place next to Tysha, and went to Jaime.

Tysha seemed like a frightened, cornered animal for a moment. Then she smirked and looked away from the empty seat, allowing Tyrion to take it.

This meant Jaime and Brienne would have to sit under the salt, for there was no place left for two on the main table.

Jaime felt he should be offended by the outcome, but he wasn't. Or was it Viserion who was insulted again? Hurt dragon vanity aside, sitting farther down meant the opportunity to embrace his wife freely. Maybe feed her porridge or whatever passed for modest supper in the barbaric north.

Brienne elbowed Jaime. "Come," she said quietly when he didn't move fast enough, weary from the day's flight. On the way, Jaime noticed Tarly, Redwynes, Freys, and many other lesser nobles he knew from wiping the dirt with them in tourneys. Brienne soon made him sit down on a bench at the end of one of the trestle tables, faster and more concentrated than him in finding a place where they could both fit at ease; tall as they were.

Accidentally, they also had a good view of the main table. Tyrion carefully placed a slice of crisp, roasted bear meat and some sweet potatoes on Tysha's plate. She looked through him, ignoring him.

When Brienne and Jaime finished their soup, with the food typically arriving slower to the less important tables, Tysha's plate was still untouched and her gaze equally empty.

"Do you think she might forgive him?" Jaime asked with shy curiosity. If he were a woman, he wouldn't. To either of the Lannister brothers. Yet he found himself wishing for the impossible. For his little brother's happiness. As far as Jaime knew, Tysha was the only girl who ever saw past Tyrion being a dwarf, before her life was destroyed on that account.

Ruined for love, Jaime mused wryly, imagining he could say that about himself. That he had been a pure, innocent victim. He wasn't. He gave his own reputation a helping hand.

"She won't," Brienne judged bluntly.

Jaime's spirit fell.

"But if she had him in her heart before his sin," Brienne continued, "she might concede him another opportunity. To treat her with honour. I don't know her well enough to tell."

"Like you gave a chance to me, when I… when I sent you to find the Stark girls?"

"Well, that's what I told myself at the time," Brienne affirmed cautiously. "That I started seeing you in a more favourable light when you began making decisions I could understand. The truth is that, against my better judgment, I found you intriguing while you were still-"

"-Arrogant? Insufferable? Tall? Uniquely handsome? Incorrigible?" Jaime offered. His guts swelled from joy when Brienne lowered her bright blue eyes, probably undecided whether to be embarrassed, chastise him or elbow him harder. It felt incredibly good to be able to tease her again.

"You… you're not asking this because you've done something mad while I was away, are you?" She sounded troubled.

There it was. Her moment of doubt in him. Of fear she loved an unworthy man, who embraced his old ways as soon as she was out of sight.

"I was a soul of humility," Jaime said, smirking. "You can ask the Prince of Dorne that both Viserion and I were on our best behaviour. I haven't been near children or windows, not simultaneously. Nor did I cut any innocent soul to shreds or allow Viserion to burn things, despite that I thought you gone for good. I pondered returning to Asshai and burning it-"

"Wasn't Viserion afraid of the city of shadows?" Brienne interrupted. "It would be his death! And yours…" her voice dwindled.

"Viserion has grown, Brienne," Jaime said gently. "Haven't you noticed? The Asshai'i might not stand a chance to enslave him now."

"But then, then why?" Brienne couldn't quite formulate her question.

"Why didn't I go, reckless as I am?" Jaime guessed her meaning. "I had to attend to my duties first, few as they were. They kept me in check."

Brienne exhaled with relief. "You've always had honour in you," she concluded, looking every inch like the brilliant, stubborn wench she was. "I only sensed it later in our acquaintance, but you must have had it in you all the time. It just took you time to acknowledge the truth and act accordingly."

When Brienne uttered such terribly idealistic and manifestly untrue propositions about his person, they always sounded far less ridiculous than when Jaime dared think them through by himself.

"Whatever you say, love," he conformed himself to her judgement, kissing her soundly.

Jaime wouldn't have to be anyone's coach for the night, nor stand watch in white armour over any king. Thank the gods.

Viserion had gone to rest with the little blue she-dragon on his back, which provided a comfortable respite from his recent dreams of power. Dragons never exactly slept, from what Jaime had learned. Rather, they lay unconscious for indefinite periods of time and suffered from visions, as a man recovering from a heavy injury. They succumbed to this state both for brief moments or long days. Fortunately, unlike men, they didn't have a period of drowsiness after waking. They were ready to immediately breathe fire.

On the dais, Daenerys prompted Jon into making a toast to everyone who had gathered to witness their wedding on the morrow. Rhaegar's son performed it with education and grace, but his heart was not in it. Jaime wondered where it was. The high seat of the Starks gaped empty. Neither Jon nor his mother sat on it. Jaime was unsurprised, remembering the face of Ned Stark when he had found the Kingslayer seated on the Iron Throne. You wouldn't, would you? You'd not even consider usurping that holy place. You're waiting for Ned's children. Guess what, I would do the same. When I sat on the Iron Throne, I was waiting for a better man to come and take it. Not that you'd ever believe me...

Jaime wondered briefly why none of Ned's children was here. The invitation had been signed by the youngest one who should have been dead, so he must have been found alive at some point. And both girls should be around, the last thing he knew.

Stannis wore a moderately satisfied expression on his square face, happy to bide his time, if a man of his nature experienced happiness to begin with. Willas Tyrell talked to Princess Arianne and appeared more cheerful than usual. Not that she would ever look at him, with his crippled leg and not so young age.

Tyrion sat next to Tysha, shrunken and contrite. Neither of the two ate. She still faced away from him; her face pale and indifferent. But she didn't look for another seat nor ask him to leave. Occasionally she stared at Stannis with dark blue eyes that cried murder. Jaime's little brother, on the other hand, glanced at… Stannis' scarred daughter, more than once.

It was all very intriguing.

Pipes and drums suddenly intoned a merry tune at the open door of the Great Hall. The music thumped and flared, in stark contrast with the grimness of winter. The players wore grey and mud brown, but their performance inspired thoughts of orange and red heat, and careless recklessness. Jaime had dreamed of dancing with Brienne at Myrcella's or Tommen's wedding.

Why wait?

"You can dance while being with child, you know," Jaime told Brienne. Cersei could, at least.

Shut up, Viserion chastised him, suddenly awake and protective of his rider's steps, afraid that Jaime would hurt his wife by thoughtless talk.

I'd never tell her that, Viserion. I'm not dumb, just inflammable. You should understand this better than anyone. I love my wife. Go back to sleep. Rest. Whatever.

"You wouldn't want us to be the first..." Brienne was hesitating. "I'm not wearing a gown… Shouldn't one of the hosts-?"

"Why in seven hells not?" Jaime wondered. "Tomorrow we'll let the happy couple lead the dance, after their wedding. Besides, I have a reputation for causing scandals to maintain."

Brienne stood up, accepting his challenge bravely.

They initiated the dance, among whistling and cheering of the crowd. To Jaime's great surprise, Brienne was a good dancer. Her septa would be proud. She was probably more skilled with sword in hand, but she never stepped on his toes and the inch she had on him when they were flushed together was a source of indescribable and tremendous joy. Jaime was still strong enough for her.

Her stomach was flat. And unarmoured. And warm. Maybe… slightly rounded. Imperceptibly.

It would grow. His cheeks flushed from the thought.

She touched one.

"It is hot in here," he defended himself nonchalantly, grasping harder the small of her back.

Deep into the long winter night, they strolled to find the lodgings given to the Lannisters in Wintertown, drunk on music and rhythm.

"I always loved dancing," she shared with him on the way. "I just never had much opportunity."

"How about that different dance, my lady, the one we practiced a bit more?" Jaime slurred, expecting refusal.

To Jaime's surprise, when they found an empty bed, Brienne never claimed being unable to love him because she was with his child.

As Cersei always did, from the day she missed her moonblood.

"What's wrong?" Brienne asked then, vulnerable, noticing his hesitation.

"Nothing, wench," he chased her worry away. "It's been so long. I was just admiring your beauty."

Jaime began loving the occasion of the bloody royal wedding.

It would be a great adventure.

Xxxxxxx

Thank you for reading.

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