No. They don't exist. They're not real. They're not real. They're not real. THEY'RE NOT REAL.
But his daughter was before the heart tree, facing the monster, looking up into its eyes; her eyes turning white – like Arya's did each time she warged – then back to grey – then white again, flickering like a candle; flickering oh gods, my child, my Jo, Joanna, and he could feel her fear on the inside of himself; feel what she felt: an emptiness, an absolute desolation radiating from the evil facing her from the thing that thing.
He ran for her and it but it didn't move he ran and ran and tripped in the snow got up and ran it didn't move it didn't move while she stared at it she stared and stared with tears pouring down her face eyes flickering flickering flickering and it couldn't move it didn't it couldn't move.
It was only when Snow tore past him on horseback that he realised that somehow, she was stopping it; she was stopping it from moving before it killed her. He thought about his child inside the mind of such a thing as he saw; the deadened skin, the glowing blue eyes; the cold; the thought terrified him; horrified him; enraged him; he drew his sword he stalked forwards as Snow dealt it a terrific blow in the back; it reached out one-handed and yanked him from his horse as though he were a child.
Snow rolled to his feet like a cat like his sister.
Jaime reached Joanna and yanked her roughly around; seizing her chin and jerking her head upwards. She was sobbing as though she had a broken heart – sobbing and sobbing and sobbing – but her eyes were clear grey. Eyes like a storm like her mother's.
'Climb a tree,' he ordered; she dashed off; he went to help Snow; Snow who was fighting like a wild thing possessed; cutting and slashing at the walker in a frenzy; and Jaime thought as he joined him; as Snow's face lined itself in an agony of concentration with the grey eyes blazing with every blow:
He's good. But he wastes energy in the wrong places.
The thing had two blades. They whirled and sliced and cut and froze and tore the air asunder. Jaime danced wildly with Snow they both danced with the thing with the wielder of the blades; the bastard boy and the water dancer; the Stark and the Lannister; the enemies. He tried to hack its head off it was like trying to hack through steel; the two of them Jaime and Snow impaled and thrust and gouged and wounded gave wounds that were not wounds it didn't die didn't die wouldn't die.
It fought with a horrible kind of inevitability; as though knowing that it would win. It only fought quickly because they fought quickly – if left to kill alone it would kill slowly; fight slowly; because it would always win. Snow fought as though he did not know this, even though he must have.
Brave, idiot boy.
A burst of white fur knocked Jaime off his feet a burst of familiar yellow eyes that roared across his vision it was the wolves the wolves attacked they took it down they tried to tear its throat out Jaime stood Snow stood the walker threw the wolves it threw them off like rags like children Nymeria's body slammed hard into the trunk; he heard Jo scream.
She hopped down from her tree; sprawling in the snow; her little limbs too tiny to move in it; her hood off her hair golden she ran to the wolf; she cried; stroking Nymeria's fur and sobbing.
When Joanna's hands touched Nymeria's fur, the walker turned; it turned in almost-recognition; it flung itself towards her fast like an eagle how the fuck could it be so fast faster than the sun than death Jaime threw a knife tore after it Jon tore after it, tore it around, Jaime ran; it flung Jon to the ground like a sack of potatoes; sword in hand, sword throat throat –
The force of the blow against the walker's sword jarred Jaime's hand the steel reverberating from his sword to the walker's the thing's and its blade glanced off his with a clanging sound like the bells of a sept and buried itself in Jon's leg.
Jon bellowed in pain Jaime fought the walker fought it danced it was strong stronger than giants; from the corners of his vision Jaime saw Jon bleeding and cursing and trying to stand his blood staining the snow red he swears like she does like her from the corners of his vision he saw Joanna with Nymeria, stroking her fur but watching him and Jon; watching crying –
Jaime faced the thing again listened to his daughter's sobs smelt his good brother's blood his curses his unconsciousness Joanna was crying crying crying; and suddenly his vision began to blur his knees to unbend his feet to be wrong it was happening again his sword becoming Westerosi again concentrate don't let it happen don't let it happen Stark help me help me tell me what to do Stark but the water-dancing faded faded faded like droplets cascading between his fingers he backed off some and then more; he swung he fought with old useless parts of him woke up parts of him that had two hands not one he swung the walker swung it fought it knocked it knocked the sword out of his hand –
'NO!' Joanna screamed.
Ghost flew past him again took the walker down again the scream had been Joanna's his child's his child's who couldn't talk she was still screaming it hurt it hurt him he turned to face the thing again Ghost had it Ghost straddled it Joanna's scream became earthquakes tornadoes the sound of the very wind the thing was struggling the thing was screaming an acrid smell was filling the air the walker screamed; screamed into Jo's scream and cracked and dribbled and writhed like nightmare and shattered like glass like glass becoming dust becoming air becoming nothing dying disintegrating dying.
With a final scream, it was gone, and only dust was left. Ghost sniffed at the mess as though disconcerted; Joanna sprinted across the clearing on her tiny legs; leaping into Jaime's arms at the same moment that the white faded from her eyes, and he crushed her to his chest until his arms hurt; shushing her as she cried she cried as though her heart was broken.
What the – what the fuck – what the fuck just happened – happened –
'Father not go bye bye,' Joanna whispered; her voice small and high; her tiny fingers digging into his furs, 'Uncle Jon not go bye bye.'
Jaime looked up to where Jon lay. He ran to him with Joanna still weeping into his shoulder; her safe, warm, tiny, alive heat clutched in his arms; heat where around them there was only snow and cold and frost.
Jon was on his back in the ice in a steaming pool of his own blood; his grey eyes hooded; the fingertips of his hand buried inside the wound to stem the bleeding. His breathing was ragged, and perspiration dotted his forehead despite the cold; his eyes on Nymeria, lying where she had fallen; her eyes closed as Ghost licked tenderly at her face.
When Jaime knelt next to him, he smiled ironically.
'You're not bad,' Jon remarked, 'for an old man.'
Jaime beheld the weeping child in his arms, the bleeding man at his feet and the injured wolf at his side, and sighed.
Arya's going to kill me.