The clanging of blades kissing in the dark. The moans and cries of men born to fight dragged unwillingly from life. The smell of sweat and blood, heavy even on the frozen air. This, Jaime knew. He knew pain, fighting, and surviving. In his years on the Kingsguard for Robert, all he'd seen of combat was in the training yard and tournaments and while his skill remained sharp his spirit had withered.
Westeros had known peace during those years, but he hadn't.
He'd sated a restless heart with his twisted love affair with Cersei, secret vengeance on a king who'd turned him into a mockery.
It wasn't until he went to war against the eldest Stark boy, the young wolf, that he'd realized he'd been sleep walking through his life. During the years of prosperity, Jaime had known nothing remotely close to peace.
Even when Brienne, on Caitlyn's orders, returned him to King's Landing, the relief of home was quick to wane in the exposure to the corrosive elements there. Courtly life. His father. Cersei.
It had been a relief to be sent away, to be sent back to battle.
He'd never found peace without a blade in his hand.
Never found peace in the arms of the woman he loved.
Until that woman was no longer Cersei.
It was much easier to charge into battle with no fear of death when the loss of life did not seem like a great loss. But now… Now he felt a thrill of fear, fear he'd never known even has he charged a dragon straight on with nothing but his own idiotic courage to push him forward.
Jaime cut down a white walker and looked around for his next assailant. The peaceful woods had shifted to chaos as the white walkers attacked. Unlike the wights, these creatures were an actual enemy. Where the wights were a mindless attacking horde seeking only to spread death, the white walkers where in possession of some form of intelligence. He could see it in each set of icy eyes as their blades crossed. He saw the glimmer of intelligent, the thinking and planning that he'd seen in the eyes of every other soldier he'd ever faced. Perhaps not the same intelligence as man, but that didn't mean it was any lesser.
His heart lurched to his throat at the sight of Pod in combat with another of the men of ice. The white walker was stronger and drove Pod back with easy. Technique meant very little when placed against brute force.
Pod's boot caught on a root and he toppled back onto the smooth ice of the frozen pond, sliding several feet as the white walker stalked after, raising its sword to finish the squire.
Jaime didn't care much for the boy, he'd never been overly generous with his affections, reserving them almost entirely for his immediate family, until Brienne. But he knew what the young man meant to her. Though she didn't show it, he knew she cared deeply for the squire he'd granted her so long ago now. And he knew she might not have made it through all her trials without the Payne boy. And that meant a great deal to him.
He charged across the icy battlefield, shouldering those in combat out of his way to reach the squire.
He let free a cry as he leapt forward, driving Widow's Wail through the back of a White Walker. The strange, icy man made an unholy howl and shattered, shards of ice spraying over Pod.
Pod looked up at Jaime for a long moment, pale from the stress of battle, and then gave a small nod of thanks, which Jaime returned, sheathing the dragon glass sword to free a hand to help the squire to his feet.
"She'd never forgive you if you let me get myself killed." Jaime said by way of explanation, a smirk slipping out. He'd spent too many years leaning into the role of villain and scoundrel that had been put upon him by others to admit the truth, that he was desperately afraid that Brienne would never forgive him if he'd let the boy die.
The hairs on the back of Jaime's neck prickled. He whirled around, searching for the next threat. Instead, he saw the wildlings drawing back to the Weirwood tree, not a single white walker in sight.
"Come on," Jaime pulled Pod after the retreating wildlings.
Jaime shouldered his way past the wildlings until he could see the Stark boy. His heart jolted at the sight of Arya Stark's body sprawled on the snow beside his chair. She was as pale and still as death.
Jaime took a step toward her, but Bran raise a hand.
"Leave her. Hers is a battle unseen."
"What's happening?" Jaime asked.
"She's understanding." Bran said, as though that explained everything, which it didn't.
"And the White Walkers?"
"Clearing the path." Bran said. "Their king has come."
The slow, ominous beat of unseen swords being banged against shields broke the quiet.
"The Night King." Pod whispered, his voice cracking.
Dread seeped into Jaime's gut as he slowly turned to look into the darkness. A lone figure strode slowly across the snow, his steps in time with the banging of shields.
"He has come for me." Bran said.
Jaime heard a flicker of fear cut through the boy's words and was reminded for the first time that despite the years he was still little more than a boy. Whatever else he might be, he was still the ten year old boy Jaime had thrown from a window.
The things I do for love.
Kingslayer.
Oathbreaker.
Bran had told him that he would receive his justice before the long night ended. But what justice could be had for a man like him? A man who stabbed a king in the back to save thousands. A man who fathered four children by his own sister but sacrificed his sword hand to preserve the maidenhead of a good woman. A man who threw a child from a window to protect his secrets, but send away the one bright spot in his existence so the woman he'd grown to cherish could find that same child's sisters and guide them safely home. What other man could be said to be made of equal parts good and evil? What other man was too tainted for redemption and to good for damnation?
He was not a good man.
Nor was he an evil one.
"You're a man of honor, Jaime Lannister." Bran said.
Jaime looked back at the boy, meeting his gaze and feeling seen by the boy for the first time since his return to Winterfell. His hammering heart slowed.
Bronn had once asked him how he'd like to die and he'd known without thinking that there was only one way he'd choose. In the arms of the woman he loved. Even then, as much as he'd wanted to convince himself that woman was Cersei, it was not his sister that his thoughts drifted to in his most private moments.
If he had his choice, he'd die in the arms of the giant blonde fool with all her honor and naivety. But maybe that was the justice.
Maybe the justice was to live for one brief moment as a good man. And die for all the wrongs he'd done.
Jaime drew his dragon glass blade and raised Widow's Wail, stepping in front of the boy he'd crippled.
This would be a good way to die. Not the one of his choosing, but good.
"Flank out." He said to the Wildlings. "They'll attack again. But they don't get to the Starks."
His gaze met the great redheaded oaf's and Tormund's face split in a wide grin.
"Whatever you say, King Killer."
Jaime glanced at Pod, "Stay with Bran. Keep him safe. Nothing else matters." The squire nodded. "And if you see Brienne… Tell her… Tell her…" Jaime glanced back at the Night King, who'd come to a stop, waiting, for what Jaime wasn't sure. "Tell her something."
"Yes, Ser." Pod said.
Jaime turned his full attention to the Night King.
Then he knew in his bones what the man of ice was waiting for, so he took a step forward.
The great man drew his sword from the forge and looked over the blade. The valyrian steel rippled and glimmered in the low light of the burning coals, the red hot steel looking like living flame.
Arya instinctively took a step toward the weapon. There was something about it, something familiar.
"Who is he?" She asked.
Bran stepped up beside her. "Don't you know?"
She tilted her head, studying the man's face. It was not a face she'd seen in life, but that sword… she knew the blade.
"Husband?" A woman entered enter the forge. Even in her simple brown smock she was the most beautiful woman Arya had ever seen. Her dark hair fell in loose waves and wild flowers were woven among the strands.
The man turned at her voice and an expression of pure adoration graced his face.
The woman, however, did not seem to notice. Her gaze instead turned to the great blade.
"You've finished it." She stepped closer, her expression bright with excitement.
"Almost." The man amended. "I still must temper it."
"And do you know what you must do?"
His eyes darkened and he looked down. The woman reached up and caressed his bearded cheek.
"And do you know what you must do?" She pressed again, though this time her words carried far more weight.
"I do."
"Then do what you must."
She sank to her knees before him and he raise the blade. He closed his eyes, tears flowing free. With an anguished cry that mingled with a cry of pain and ecstasy, he drove the blade through her breast.
Arya gasped in horror, unable to move as she watched the man gather his wife in his arms, holding her as her life force pulsed through the blade in her chest.
"Lightbringer." Bran said.
But Arya shook her head, her gaze drawn to the hilt, a hilt she'd seen many times in her father's hands.
"Ice."
Sorry for the wait! Life has been a bit crazy but I'll continue to update as quick as I can get the next chapter ready.