Book II – Chapter 11: Ghosts

The Raven

"Alright, you stupid Raven! I want some answers! Who are you!? How can you talk like a person?! What are these powers, and how did we get them?!"

Arya had spent two full days asleep once she rescued her brother and the girl he totally didn't have a crush on (honestly, the doe eyes were pathetic). Now, she was very much awake, and the talking bird was going to explain itself.

The Raven perched on a branch as Arya folded her arms beneath her breasts and gave it her best death glare. Bran and Ysilla were standing slightly behind her, holding hands. Blurrgh! The chirping of the birds in the trees overhead dyed off in an instant, and the wolves circling the camp all froze in place. Even Nymeria and Summer, the silver wolf Bran had named.

The Raven simply stared back at her.

Arya blinked.

The clearing and the forest vanished. There was no accompanying sound or feeling. It was there, and then it wasn't.

"What's going on?!" Ysilla cried, and Arya drew her knives, sinking into a combat stance. Everything outside of Bran, Ysilla and herself was just… empty. An endless sea of white smoke.

"You wished to know what I am? I am this." The Raven's voice crashed all around them, twisting the fog into a frenzy and pushing against Arya's skin like a torrent of wind or a harsh current. A figure emerged from the mist, a man in robes pitch black, with hair long and white, beard stretching from his chin down to the very floor. A third eye sat in his forehead, without iris or white. Just inky obsidian blackness.

"You know that's really creepy, don't you?" Arya snapped, stamping her foot on… on whatever she was standing on. It didn't even have the decency to make a good sound.

"I am the Three-Eyed-Raven, The Last Greenseer, Protector of the Children, Voice of the Old Gods, Bloodraven. You will speak to me with some respect, girl. The gift you were given can just as easily be taken away."

The old man glowered at her, so Arya poked her tongue out at him.

"Why are you sending me these dreams?" Bran demanded, pushing up to stand shoulder to shoulder with Arya.

"I sent you nothing, Brandon Stark. You are a Greenseer. One who can enter the realm of dreams and see there glimpses of the past and future. The dreams are a warning: this war your family fights is pointless! You both are needed elsewhere. The real war is coming! Faster than anyone knows!"

The old man raised his hands, and a tumultuous hurricane erupted around them. The fog was blasted away, the whiteness clearing as Arya, Bran, and Ysilla desperately held their ground. They were standing in a forest once again, icy wind blasting all around them. Snow and ice-covered everything as far as she could see, enormous pine trees almost collapsing under the weight of it.

"Come on, Tarly, you aren't dying here. I won't let you!"

"Uncle Benjen?!" Bran exclaimed, and Arya followed his gaze. A man with jet black hair to match his heavy cloak, a sword that seemed to flare with golden light in his hand, charged across the snow and grabbed a figure collapsed on the ground: a fat man also dressed as a man in the Night's Watch. Another man appeared behind them, a tremendous hulking figure with white hair and an enormous hammer in his hands.

"Stark! Get out of there!"

"That is Lord Commander Mormont of the Night's Watch," the Raven said. "He lives, thanks to your Uncle."

"What is this?!" Arya shouted.

"The past; barely a moon turn ago."

Uncle Benjen pulled the Night's Watchman to his feet and shoved him towards the Lord Commander. A new figure emerged from the winds; a bitter cold rippling out from it seemed to penetrate even here.

"Benjen! Behind you!" Arya screamed, despite knowing he couldn't hear her.

"Stark! It's coming!" Mormont growled.

Benjen turned to face the approaching… thing. It had the shape of a man, but a man it most certainly was not. Its skin was carved from blue-white ice, clothes mere rotten rags. Hair like crystalline snow, a sword of winter frozen solid in its hand. And those eyes, a harsh blue that glowed so cold and menacing it could rip apart your soul with just a glare. Arya started shivering; uncontrollably, horribly. Ysilla fell to her knees in the snow, face pale enough to match. Only Bran remained steady, face set in a grim line, but his hands were trembling so much Arya feared they may shatter.

"Go!" Benjen shouted, charging towards the creature. He swung his sword overhead… and it collided against the blade of ice. Mormont and Tarly ran.

"What is it?" Ysilla whispered, teeth chattering, lips a bitter blue.

"It's an Other," Bran answered, looking to the Raven. And Arya could instantly tell that the Raven had shown him these images before.

"Yes. The Others are awake. And they are coming. They know I am weak and powerless to stop them. I had hoped to bring you to me, hoped that the threat of two of us would be enough to distract them. That, fearful of our combined strength, they would seek to build their army of dead things in the North before risking an attack against the Wall that bars their passage."

Benjen ducked beneath the sword of ice, then rammed his glowing weapon into the Other's heart. Its joints locked rigid, then its entire body exploded in chunks of ice, blasting Benjen back where he was buried in the snow.

"What is that sword?" Arya whispered, the howling wind still whipping all around them.

"It is the material you call Valyrian Steel. A weapon forged in the very heart of the Fourteen Flames, during the brief time when the deep magic of the cosmos flowed through the caverns of fire. Here, in the dream world, you can see it for what it truly is. Magic given solid form. Only magic can undo magic. Your uncle is lucky the Old Bear bestowed the weapon upon him before he left the Wall."

The Raven waved his hand, and the scene rearranged. The wind faded slightly, and the frozen expanse receded into the distance. Now, Arya could see… see the whole world. Mountains and forests and plains covered in snow and ice, reduced to the size of her hand, the clouds like tiny wisps of vapour. They were standing on solid ground once more. Or, no. Solid ice.

The Wall.

Even as they watched, a clamp of iron dug into the surface, and a burly man with a great red beard pulled himself over the top. He barked out a great hearty laugh, then reached down over the side to help pull up another person.

"This is the present day."

A red-haired woman in mismatched furs rolled over the wall, a bow and arrows slung across her back. She immediately reached back over, and then Benjen was there. Dressed as a Wildling, but still very much alive.

"The Wall, like Valyrian Steel, is magic made physical. Cosmic power drawn from the heart of the world through the combined arts of the North, the South, the East and the West. The Others have no mortality left to them. They are a relic of a bygone age, magic with purpose, wearing the corpses of the dead just as you wear clothes. So long as the Wall stands, they cannot pass it. Magic, bound by magic. But the enemy is clever and sly, and to its anger and envy, a thousand years is but the blink of an eye. They know I am too weak to force them back to sleep on my own, as the Ravens before me have done, and given the pace of their march south, I fear they have guessed my plan."

"We did it," Benjen whispered. Then he was pulling the red-haired girl into a hug, just like mother and father had used to hug Arya. Unable to watch, she turned back to the Raven, wishing she could go back in time take back her demand for answers.

"What plan?" Bran asked, but from the look in his eyes, Arya thought he already knew.

"You. There is a weapon hidden at the God's Eye by the Children. They used it before against the First-Men, and in their war against the Windfinders of the West. It lies there even now, waiting for someone with the power of Greensight to lift it. You, Brandon, are the only seer left south of the Wall who can do it."

"Why can't I do it?" Arya asked, grabbing Bran's arm as Ysilla took his hand from the other side.

"A powerful Skinchanger you may be, Wolfsister, but the Hammer would not move for you. The magic is not the same."

The Raven frowned suddenly, then turned as if looking far, far away.

"What? What is it?" Ysilla asked. The Wall, and Uncle Benjen, faded away. And Arya, Bran and Ysilla were left back in the clearing, wolves unfrozen, bird song returned. As if they'd never left at all.

The Raven cawed, then lurched into the air and flew towards the north.

'East!' The Raven called in their minds, words sliding into Arya's thoughts unbidden and unwanted. 'The God's Eye. You must hurry. Time runs short. Even now, your brother marches towards the Wall, and I will not be able to protect him should he dare to venture beyond it.'

The voice retreated, the Raven disappeared, and all three of them collapsed to the grass, utterly exhausted.

In the morning, they started the trek east.

Towards the God's Eye.

Old Bear, Young Wolf

It took Robb and his company longer than he would have liked to reach the Wall, but when they did, it took his breath away unlike anything he'd ever seen before. It was just… just inconceivable that men had built such a thing, a towering barrier of ice and rock so tall it blotted out the sun, stretching the entire length of the horizon.

Magic. That was the only answer. Brandon Stark must have wielded some magic lost to time.

That was the only explanation Robb could come up with.

Two horn blasts called out over the frost-covered land as Robb's company approached a castle that had clearly seen better days. From a distance, Robb could see at least three towers in disrepair, a former outer defence replaced with a rotting wooden palisade, and the only guards on duty looked no more than boys. Without thinking, he pulled his cloak tighter, fox pelt resting on his shoulders. Jon had nearly come here.

A king, wasting away in this forgotten place. Now that was a crime.

The gates of Castle Black swung open, and Robb, Lord Karstark and the Greatjon rode through at the head of a force near five-thousand strong.

It was thanks to Karstark and the Umbers that Robb had taken so long in getting here. First, he'd had to swing out to the east and pick up Karstark – who refused to travel through "Wildling infested" lands alone – then ride all the way to the Last Hearth only to find the Greatjon departed on a raid. They'd waited awkwardly for two days before he returned, embarrassed at having been called to a false alarm. In the end, a trip that should have taken two weeks ended up wasting near an entire turn of the moon. He tried not to get too annoyed. But now he was here, and it was finally time to get some answers. The Others returned? A Wildling army? What of Robb's uncle?

Robb and his lordly companions dismounted as two figures emerged from the castle's keep. Maege Mormont in her furs and mail he recognised, and the broad-shouldered man in the black of the Night's Watch must be her brother, Jeor: the Lord Commander. It appeared Maege had arrived before him. Not exactly hard.

Grey Wind padded through the gates silently as they approached, and unsurprisingly, their eyes were drawn straight to the enormous direwolf. The wolf was the only part of the journey north Robb had enjoyed. He practically never left Robb's side, much to Dacey and Harrion's amusement, and was a better guard and scout than any man.

Robb didn't understand his connection to Grey Wind, not really. But he could give commands, and the wolf would do as instructed without hesitation, and more than once, he'd guessed Robb's intentions before he even had to. And his dreams had grown so much clearer since he'd met the wolf. Instead of blurred images and vague thoughts, now it was almost as if he could see vividly clear through the wolf's own eyes.

Dacey had called him the 'Young Wolf' once as a joke. Unfortunately, the Greatjon had been within hearing, and that was that. Could be worse.

"Lord Commander. It's an honour to meet you. My father spoke of your often and believed you a man strong of both sword and will," Robb stated, stepping forward to grip the Old Bear's arm as the two Mormonts reached them, finally tearing their gaze away from the direwolf at Robb's side. At least the image left little doubt as to who Robb was.

"Aye. I heard about your father, Lord Stark. My, uh, deepest sympathies, to you and your kin."

He had an odd way of speaking, a slow cadence he interjected with small pauses for breath. He looked over Robb's shoulder, face slackening at the sight of the men trailing behind him.

"You… you brought a force?"

"Of course," Robb said, frowning. Why wouldn't he? "Your report of the Wild folk gathering beyond the Wall reflects the claims of both the Lords beside me. You may not be my bannerman, Lord Commander, but you are still in the North and the North Remembers. We've seen Wildling armies before, I intend to be prepared for this one. Furthermore, I wish to know more about… what you believe you saw beyond the Wall, and what happened to my Uncle Benjen."

Mormont stared down at Robb with a bewildered expression – the man was a good head taller than him – until Maege elbowed him in the gut and started laughing.

"Ha! Told you he was a straight-talker, but you wouldn't bloody listen, Jeor!"

The Lord Commander grunted, then turned towards the Night's Watchmen slowly gathering in the courtyard behind. They were a far cry from the stories of noble heroes Robb's uncle had spoken of. These men… they looked utterly defeated. Shoulders sagged, equipment old and cloaks threadbare. A depressed and lonely garrison for a cold and desolate place.

These men were all that stood between the north and an entire host of Wildlings?

Not on Robb's watch.

"Lord Glover, prepare a roster of men to join the sworn brothers in their watch atop the Wall. Just make it clear they aren't swearing any vows, alright? Don't want anyone deserting because they're more scared for their cocks than their heads."

"HA!" the Greatjon barked, slapping Robb across the back of his shoulders. "Bloody right. Can't say I'd blame 'em!"

Robb rolled his eyes.

"Lord Karstark, get the men to start setting up camp. I want a full defensive perimeter. Barricades, trenches, the works. The Wildlings have proved they can and will climb the Wall. I wouldn't put it past them to sacrifice a thousand lives to get a hundred men at our rear, and I don't fancy having Wildlings up our asses."

Karstark nodded, face etched with harsh lines. Then he turned away and started barking orders for the camp to be built outside the walls. Harrion and Dacey dismounted behind Robb.

"You really did bring soldiers…" the Lord Commander muttered, before shaking himself back to the present.

"Right then, my lord. I'll have my people prepare a meal, and I'll tell you all I've seen…"

An hour later, Robb and the company leaders were packed into the Lord Commander's study with the man himself, his second – a sour-faced man named Alliser Thorne – and a rotund and baby faced steward who'd hidden himself in the corner and not introduced himself. Robb wasn't sure how anyone could be fat up here, but there he was.

"Alright, Mormont," the Greatjon said, placing his ale on the table and staring at the Lord Commander with narrowed eyes. "What's this about a Wildling army? Wildlings don't have armies. They hate each other near as much as they hate us."

"Usually, I'd say you were right, Glover. And I'd wager many of 'em still do. But right now, they're working together. Something I'd never thought I'd see in my life."

"But why?" Robb asked, leaning forward with his arms folded on the table. "Why would they work together? There has to be some reason."

"Or some person maybe," Dacey interjected. "When people start working together without explanation, look for the person making it happen."

"That person is Mance Rayder," Thorne spat. "And he used to be one of us."

"Great," Karstark muttered. "An army of savages led by a turncoat. Just great."

"When you say army, how many do you mean?" Harrion asked. "Are we talking a couple of hundred, a thousand?"

That there, that's the moment, Robb would realise later. The moment he realised this was not going to be a simple ride north to smash the Wildlings and save the day.

"Try ten-thousand, at minimum, and that's just the fighters. Our scouts reported more coming by the day. Before they stopped reporting at all, that is. Mance has managed to unite near every clan from Hardhome to the Frostfangs."

The entire room fell silent, and Robb's stomach sank deep down into his gut.

"So you went Beyond the Wall to see this army for yourself, brother? Foolish," Maege snapped, smacking him across the back of the head. Apparently, she'd only arrived two days before Robb and his host, and the Lord Commander hadn't been inclined to brief his sister independently. A raven perched on the solar window cried out at the sound.

"Corn! Corn! Corn!"

"Oh, piss off, you stupid shit," Thorne muttered, grabbing an empty mug and throwing it at the bird, which retreated in a burst of feathers and squawking.

"No," the Lord Commander said softly, voice low and full of dread. "I led my men north of the Wall because of this. Tarly, bring the box."

The steward took a thick metal box from a nearby shelf, then placed it upon the table. The Lord Commander withdrew a key from his furs, then unlocked the chest, pulling the lid open.

It was an arm. Pale as snow and emanating a frigid cold that made no sense.

"We found that just north of the Wall, with the dead body of one of my rangers. We brought it back into the castle to find out what happened to him. And that night, he got up and tried to kill me."

"What?"

As if in answer, the arm moved. The fingers began to twitch, then reach towards the edge of the box. The steward yelped, slamming the chest lid closed. Robb's heart stilled, and he dug his fingers into the flesh of his leg. A terrible reminder that he was indeed awake, and that had been very, very real.

"What in the Seven Hells was that?" the Greatjon whispered.

Robb swallowed and took control of the conversation once more.

"This is what you meant in your letter? You think this thing is an Other?"

"No. This is what the Others do to men they kill. They kill you, then they raise up your corpse and make it fight for them like some sick nightmare of old days. The Others… I saw them. And if I hadn't watched your uncle kill one with my own gods-damned eyes, I'd believe them invincible."

Jeor gestured towards the closed box with a trembling hand. "Mance is part of it, I'm sure, but if I were a betting man, I'd say that thing is what's got the Wildlings running scared. They're coming south for one reason and one reason only. Because we've got a big fucking wall, and they don't."

"My uncle?" Robb asked, desperate to keep his voice steady even though he wanted to go somewhere quiet and vomit.

Mormont sighed.

"I don't know. We were attacked at the Fist of the First Men. Lost Benjen and half my rangers. They could all be dead men walking, rotting in the ground, or maybe some of them survived. No way to know. Those of us that did escape barely made it back to the Wall…."

"Lord Commander!" a voice cried, then the solar door was shoved open, a brother of the Night's Watch panting in the opening. But the glee on his face was unmistakable.

"It's the first ranger! It's Benjen! He just rode through the south gate!"

"The south gate?!" Thorne exclaimed, but the Lord Commander was already rushing for the door – shoving Karstark and his own niece out of the way without a care. Robb chased after him, relief mixed with terror spinning in his mind.

Others, dead men… all real… Uncle Benjen is alive! But why would he come from the south?

Robb didn't like any of the answers his mind supplied.

The Red Ghost

It took Jaime longer than he would have liked to bring his strength back up to a level he considered acceptable. His recovery would have been much faster if he'd had a steady diet of food, but he had far better and far more regular meals than most in the Blackwater Filth, so he wouldn't complain. That being said, the steady work of moving people and beds, chopping firewood and stopping brawls in Mistress Almeara's temple/hospital did wonders for restoring his strength. Two weeks had passed since they'd escaped the abyss, and he was now ready to journey into the ruined city. Tyene was asleep, the worst of her illness past, and in the after-midnight hours, few were likely to see or challenge him in the Filth. Especially if they realised where he was going.

With light feet, he 'borrowed' Lan's longsword – a sleek and elegant weapon adorned with a heron at the hilt but no other ornamentation – packed a water skin, shrugged on a canvas poncho, and made his way out into the city.

During the two weeks, Jaime had kept his ears and eyes open for news and information, but he learned precious little Lan and the Mistress hadn't already told him. There was the usual rumour-mongering about the three armies and which one would come and either save them or butcher them (it tended to vary, depending on who the person supported personally). Then there were more local tales. Something about a strange blue box spotted near the docks, a woman who'd set herself on fire yet survived without a single burn, a hound racing ring active on the eastern side, hushed whispers about the seven forsaking them, and, perhaps the most stupid, a recurring story about a grey-haired wizard with a metal wand and his brown-haired female apprentice getting swallowed by a mud-puddle. A mud-puddle. Honestly, what was the world coming to? But the one story that had any meaning to Jaime was the tale of the Red Ghost.

Supposedly, the people living closest to the city gates had reported hearing strange wailing sounds coming from the direction of the Red Keep during the night, spectres stalking the crumbling streets beyond the wall.

Jaime didn't believe in spectres, but Cersei had spent years hammering into him that most fanciful stories had a grain of truth to them. Cersei must be in the Red Keep; Jaime just had to find her.

The haze that lay over the Filth was harder to spot at night, but the smell was ever-present, and the headache the fumes tended to induce didn't take long to re-emerge once he left the temple. But he made it to the edge of the Filth and what had once been the Mud Gate with only one incident. A group of thugs had tried to jump him.

It hadn't ended well for them.

Mud Gate stood wide open when he reached it, moonlight bathing the blackened streets beyond in an eerie gloom. The actual gates themselves appeared to have been ripped away and salvaged for their metal – a valuable commodity in the Filth. But where the outside was full of tents and mud and people, the insides of the once-bustling and great city lay utterly silent, and no one dared disturb it.

Except Jaime.

With determined steps, he crossed beneath the wall, hand on Lan's sword hilt, eyes scanning the ash-covered landscape. He could understand why everyone was terrified of the place. It honestly did look like something from the Seven Hells had ripped through the city and unleashed utter desolation. 'The Burn' didn't do the damage justice. Gaping holes rent in the earth, puddles of sewerage gathering in dips and bumps in the roads. Homes reduced to the foundations sitting next to other buildings left entirely untouched. Roads that just ended; cobbles falling away into nothingness the torch Jaime carried couldn't illuminate.

The path to the Red Keep was lined with potholes and drop-offs, and he needed to test each part of the ground before he dared put his weight down on the cobbles. More than once, the stone cracked or crumbled beneath his foot, and he had to retreat or go around.

But he arrived at the keep's main gates before dawn, and they were hanging wide open, dried blood stains on the stone. Somebody had been here, but not recently.

Drawing Lan's sword and holding it out ahead of him (it was surprisingly light, for a broadsword), Jaime advanced down the familiar pathway and up the marble stairs leading to the keep's main doors. The ground here was still stable, for the most part, but the recurrence of the spattered blood was near as haunting. If Jaime had to guess, he'd say someone had been dragged up the stairs. Though, whether that person was alive or dead, he wasn't so sure. But the man doing the dragging couldn't have been overly muscular, because why wouldn't they just carry the bleeding person rather than dragging a body all the way here?

He reached the top of the stairs, letting out an unsteady breath. The doors were hung open, unleashing a frigid breeze from deep within, the sharp whistling of air setting Jaime's already fragile nerves on edge. Bloody handprints outlined the doorway, staining some of the carvings of Westerosi history that covered the door in red.

Careful not to touch the blood, Jaime pushed the door open enough to pass through with his shoulder, dissipating the sound as he slipped into the darkness beyond.

Gods… it's just like…

Like the final hours of the Rebellion. When Jaime's father sacked the city outside, Jaime had been in these very lightless corridors, following the steps of an old man with no sanity left.

Trying, and failing, to shove the memories into the back of his mind, Jamie continued through the corridors. Heading for the great hall and the empty Iron Throne. The darkness was all-encompassing, and though he knew the way, he retrieved a torch from a sconce on the wall and set it ablaze with flint from his pocket. Just in case.

The blood spatters were larger here, proper drag marks on the flagstones leading deeper into the castle, in the same direction Jaime was headed. Could it be Cersei? But why would someone bring her here wounded? There was nothing here. Unless Cersei were the one doing the dragging, and in that case, who? Somehow, whoever it was, Jaime didn't like the odds of finding them alive.

Only when his torch caught on a torn tapestry did Jaime realise the stones weren't the only decorations disturbed. Any banners bearing the heraldry of House Baratheon or depicting Robert himself had been ripped to shreds. Sharp, imprecise, and jagged cut marks reducing the expensive decorations to rags. Not that Jaime cared much – the things had always been garish in his opinion. But it was creating a bleak and unsettling picture, one he wasn't so sure he wanted to reach the ending of.

He rounded a corner, torch in one hand, sword in the other, and entered the throne room.

"Cersei?" he called, voice bouncing around the enormous and very empty room. "It's me. It's Jaime… I survived. I came back…."

He trailed off, words echoing back on themselves in the silence. A host of screeching joined them, and Jaime put his back to a pillar, scanning the ceiling. Bats. Dozens of bats were flying around the room, screeching and flapping their pathetic little wings.

Gods, but this place wasn't a castle. It was a fucking mausoleum.

He edged away from the pillar, heartbeat pounding in his ears, breath as short and light as he could make it, and followed the trail of blood towards the other side of the room.

Jaime froze in the dead centre of the room, legs rooting themselves to the flagstones, jaw slackening.

Someone had… had brought out a dining table and placed it in front of the throne. Actually… it was the table from the Small Council chamber… and it had been loaded with food? No, decaying food. He could smell it, mould and rot and faeces. He approached warily, holding the torch out in front of him. There was an entire chicken, covered in green lichen, a cheese platter blackened with mould and grot, and… oh hells, those were definitely maggots feasting on the insides of that boar platter.

What the actual fuck?

He backed away, holding his sleeve over his mouth and nose in a vain attempt to block the stench, and his gaze fell on the Iron Throne itself.

Someone was sitting atop it.

"Hello? Who are you? Cersei?"

The bats stirred and shrieked once more, flying low in a swarm of foul stink and vermin, then soared back into their dens in the rafters. But the figure atop the throne did not answer. Jaime rushed around the table and approached the foot of the monstrous chair of melted swords, holding the torch out to get a better look.

A corpse sat still on Aegon Targaryen's mark of conquest, bloated and burned skin clinging limply to the bones of a child, dressed in a golden tunic with the Lannister lion emblazoned across the chest. Thin blonde hair clung to one side of its head, one leg twisted and misshapen, bones protruding from flesh. The second leg was just… gone. Its eyes… a dull, lifeless green, propped open above puffed purple lips, thick with dry and crusted blood.

Jaime threw himself backwards at such a speed he crashed into the table, falling ass over tip over the wood, narrowly missing a platter of potatoes with white flowers growing from dirty brown skin. He crashed into a chair, falling to the flagstones, and the bats went wild, shrieking and tearing through the Throne Room as if they'd just escaped from the seven hells. Tiny misshapen creatures swarmed the Iron Throne, darting around the corpse, making the already horrid smell of the food even worse. The sword and torch clattered to the ground, sliding and rolling away, and Jaime groaned as his tail bone stung from the impact.

What… what in all the motherfucking seven hells…

A very human shriek echoed through the dark, and a person flung itself out of the dark, bleeding hands and razor-sharp nails searching for Jaime's neck. He lashed out and grabbed flailing arms, his strength making short work of this… this thing. He threw it aside, and the body tumbled away before rising to a crouch, and Jaime's heart stopped.

"Cersei?"

The woman froze, and Jaime knew it was her. Skin covered in black burn blotches, right leg twisted at an odd angle, not a hair adorning her head, and green eyes fevered and bloodshot. But it was her. Jaime could never forget the shape of her face or the swell of her breasts, bulging in the delicate dress she wore over her decaying body.

"It's me… It's Jaime."

Some of the rage seemed to fade, and red-painted lips quirked into a smile. Gods, what had happened to her?

"The Kingsguard returns…" Cersei wheezed, voice hoarse and grating, "You didn't bow! You must bow to the King!"

Jaime glanced to the corpse atop the Iron Throne, barely able to process just what was happening.

"Gods… Cersei, what did you do? Who is that?"

Cersei's smile morphed back into a blood-curdling sneer. "You LIAR! You're not Jaime! Jaime would know his son!"

Joffrey…

Cersei pounced, and Jaime tried to dive out of the way, but she was too fast, throwing her entire body weight atop him, his head slamming against the flagstone. His eyes watered as Cersei brought her fists back, and he tried to deflect, but his timing was off, and Cersei's fist flew true. Jaime's head crashed against the stone once more, sending his already twisted and muddled thoughts spinning wildly, and Cersei wracked her cracked and blood-stained nails across his face. Jaime screamed, striking back with a fist of his own, knocking her away. He shook his head, trying to clear it and the water in his eyes, but she recovered and threw herself forward again. Jaime raised an arm to block, unwilling to hurt her…

And Lan's sword sliced clean through Cersei's outstretched arm.

"AHHHHHHHHHH!"

The arm and Cersei herself flew in opposite directions, and Jaime rolled out of the way. Head spinning, legs shaking, brain refusing to accept the reality of what was happening all around him, he tried to rise but slipped on his torch, stumbling back. Soft hands caught him and pushed him upright, and Jaime's vision finally cleared.

Tyene.

"Let's go!" She snapped, grabbing Jaime's arm with her right hand and pulling him towards the exit, Lan's sword outstretched in front of her in her left. Cersei was shrieking, holding the stump of her arm still gushing streams of blood, bats descending from above to circle around her, joining in her cries.

"We can't just leave her!" Jaime yelled, reaching for the sword. Tyene shoved him back with a single strike of her elbow.

"We can and we will!" Then she turned on her heel and sprinted with Jaime's arm tight in a vice back the way Jaime had come.

"JAIME!"

The screams of the woman Jaime had loved haunted each step they took in their mad escape and the blood dripping down his face from her nails joined Joffrey's stains on the floor.

Authors Notes:

So, that was unsettling. Sorry, Cersei lovers, that can't have been fun.

I've tried to keep the timeline as linear as I can, but it isn't always possible, and sacrifices need to be made for pacing sometimes. Arya and Bran's storyline is obviously about a week ahead of Robb's.

Next up, Margaery and Stannis have a conversation about what it means to rule, Jon gets an abrupt awakening, and we see what those pesky Lannisters have been up to in the Riverlands.