Worldbuilding note: because the theology of the Faith of the Seven is rather sparse in both show and book, in this chapter, I've turned to Dante's Inferno as inspiration for the seven hells.
It was a forsaken mix of fire and ice, the night Jaime had died. The only light to see by had been dragonfire and the enemies surrounding him had hands of ice. He had fought at Brienne's side until he hadn't, until the cold hands dragged him down and out of her reach.
And then he had jolted awake, with Bran Stark's voice ringing through his head: Fulfil your oaths.
Jaime stared around the empty room. It was warm, unreasonably so. Jaime reached up to rub at the back of his neck, still feeling the ghost of a wight's grip, and then stopped short.
He was using his right hand.
Jaime stared at his hand for a long moment, before lurching out of the bed and to the window. He dragged the curtains open and stared out over the vista of King's Landing, the first streaks of dawn piercing through dark sky.
"What the fuck?" said Jaime, with a great deal of feeling.
King's Landing was almost the same as he remembered it. It still smelt of piss and shit and if he strained his ears, he could just about hear the sound of waves rolling into Blackwater Bay over the noise of the small-folk beginning their days. There was one major difference, though: the Sept of Baelor still stood, as it had done for a hundred years before Cersei got to it.
Jaime turned and sank down on to his bed, burying his face in his hands. Even that action was enough to bring on a fresh wave of panic and confusion and he jerked his right hand away from his face.
What the fuck? he thought again. If there was some sort of afterlife, and he had ended up in it, he would have at least hoped it didn't smell like King's fucking Landing. Or maybe this was one of the seven hells. But if it was, Jaime had sat through enough services to know that King's Landing wasn't anything like the hell he was meant to end up in. He was meant to be encased in ice, deprived of the warmth of the gods and other humans forever after, the cold eating its way into his skin forever after… (Dante's Ninth Circle)
Jaime shivered. He might not have been in that hell right now, but the description felt too close to the very real hell he had just awoken from.
For most of his life, he had hoped he would die in Cersei's arms, and thought that he would die in battle. He had died by Brienne's side, fighting against an impossible enemy. He supposed that it wasn't the worst way to go out. Had Brienne died? It seemed impossible that she could have lived, and even if she had, for how long? If three dragons and the combined forces of the North, Vale, Dothraki and Unsullied were unable to prevent the onslaught of the Others, it seemed impossible to him that Cersei would be able to withstand them. And what then? Would the Night King have been content with all of Westeros as shambling corpses under his thumb? Would Brienne have been safe even in Essos?
What about Tyrion in the crypts? Had the dead risen there, too? Tyrion and Sansa Stark and all the others, unsafe in the crypts… I promised her mother that I would return her safely to Winterfell. What would Catelyn Stark say if she knew what became of her daughter within the walls of Winterfell?
Jaime looked back out the window, at the Sept of Baelor, standing tall and undamaged. He stood and dressed, still marvelling at the use of his right hand. As he went to leave the room, his hand hovered over the white cloak. It was that white cloak that soiled me, not the other way around, he had told Brienne once.
He left the cloak.
"Tell me, brother," said Tyrion. He was lazing on a chair across the room from Jaime, next to the fireplace, a book open but abandoned on his lap. "What, exactly, has gotten into you today?"
"What makes you think something's gotten into me?" asked Jaime.
"You haven't made doe eyes with our dearest sister even once today," said Tyrion, wryly. "Don't tell me that you've finally realised the monster lurking behind our sister's fair façade."
A quarter of the city had lain in ruins because of Cersei. The continent was ready to be overrun with the dead and demons of ice, and she had sat back and done nothing. In fact, she had done worse than nothing; she had organised to overrun any survivors remaining. Not that there would have been any.
His thoughts must have shown on his face, because Tyrion slammed the book shut and sat up, amazed. "You have," breathed Tyrion. "You have!"
"You can't tell anyone," hissed Jaime, crossing the room to kneel by Tyrion's chair. "Swear it, Tyrion. On anything that you think matters. Swear it."
The glee slid off Tyrion's face. "Jaime, what's going on?"
"Swear it," demanded Jaime.
"I swear it! I swear it on all the gods and every book I've ever read," exclaimed Tyrion. "Jaime, what's happening?"
Jaime sunk down. "I don't know," he admitted. "I was in Winterfell, fighting against an enemy that could never be stopped. Then I woke up, in my own bed, and the Sept of Baelor was still standing, and the white cloak was still in my room, and the King's Guard's armour still has a stag on it."
"Still -?" sputtered Tyrion. "You aren't making any sense."
"What year is it?" asked Jaime. "It can't be any later than 301 After Conquest, not with you in King's Landing."
"It's 297," replied Tyrion, warily. "Do I need to get your head checked? Pycelle might be useless, but I'm sure he can do something for you."
Jaime sank into a seated position, limp with relief. "Eight years, then. We have eight years."
"Eight years until what?" questioned Tyrion.
"Until the end," said Jaime. He rose to his feet, checking that the doors to the solar were closed and that they were completely alone. "I need your help," he decided. "I don't know who else I can trust with this."
"Jaime, I need you to sit down and explain to me what is exactly going on," said Tyrion, his words slow and carefully enunciated.
"I died," said Jaime. "I died in battle, defending Winterfell from the Army of the Dead. Cersei refused to send our armies north, but I went anyway, alone, and joined the North and the Dragon Queen's forces. I died, and I think the world might have very well ended. And then I woke up, here in my bed, with Brandon Stark telling me to fulfil my vows."
Tyrion's mouth opened, then shut, then opened again. "I'm going to need you to explain all of that in significantly more detail."
"It doesn't matter right now," hissed Jaime. "What matters is that the Seven Kingdoms is about to descend into civil war, and we need to stop it because we need every soldier possible to stop the Night King."
Tyrion rubbed at his forehead, and said, "How did the civil wars start?"
"Joffrey executed Ned Stark, so the North rose in revenge. Stannis and Renly Baratheon both tried to take the thrones for themselves after Robert died, and Balon Greyjoy took advantage of the entire mess to start raiding the coast," explained Jaime.
Tyrion rested his face in his hands. "We're doomed."
"And then, after the dust had just about settled from that civil war, Daenerys Targaryen sailed across the sea with the Tyrells, Martells, Unsullied and Dothraki at her back," continued Jaime.
"So doomed," groaned Tyrion, voice muffled.
"With three full-grown dragons," finished Jaime.
Tyrion jerked his head back up. "Dragons?"
"Dragons," agreed Jaime.
"Dragons and the White Walkers," muttered Tyrion. He stood up, filled his glass with wine, drank it all down in one go, then filled it back to the brim before sitting back down.
"I think I would prefer it if you're sober for this conversation," said Jaime, mildly.
"I don't think I'm capable of having this conversation sober," said Tyrion, taking a long slurp from the wine. "Now. Why did Joffrey kill Stark, and why weren't Cersei or Robert around to stop it? I assume they have enough sense to see why killing a Lord Paramount is a bad idea."
"Robert was already dead," said Jaime. "And not even Cersei can control Joffrey."
Tyrion grimaced. "And what was the logic behind Stannis and Renly challenging Joffrey for the throne?" Jaime levelled Tyrion with a look, and Tyrion sighed. "Ah. Not much we can do on that front, then."
"So what do you suggest we do?" asked Jaime.
"Well, I suppose we have two options at the moment," said Tyrion. "The first is that we go to war fast and hard, and we win." Jaime's lips twisted. They had won, at least for a time – but Tywin had sent forces to the Riverlands very early on, put down Dornish opposition, and had consolidated power in the Crownlands and Westerlands, and allied with the Tyrrells. The war had still taken years to win. Tyrion nodded slightly at Jaime's expression. "The other is that we keep Robert and Jon Arryn alive for as long as possible. That will curb any revolutionary sparks until Daenerys Targaryen makes landfall, at least."
"But war will still break out when Daenerys invades," said Jaime. "At best, we're delaying war."
"Well, I presume that Robert and Joffrey placed a price on her head in – in the other time," said Tyrion. "What else would you have us do, from this side of the world? Perhaps we can arrange for the Unsullied to be purchased by somebody else. Perhaps we can keep Dorne and the Reach allied with us – and keeping Dorne on side will no doubt be nearly impossible – but there's nothing we can do about the dragons and the Dothraki."
"Perhaps we can destroy the eggs," said Jaime, desperately. "No one will be guarding the eggs as closely as they're guarding her."
Tyrion leant forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and looked at Jaime intently. "Brother, we will be fighting a war against ice demons. I should rather think we will need those dragons." He took a long sip from his wine. "But perhaps," continued Tyrion, jiggling the glass so the wine sloshed against the sides, "we can find a way to delay her a while. Do you know anything of her campaign in Essos?"
"Not as much as I should," admitted Jaime.
"A pity," said Tyrion. "We'll have to rely on the Spider."
"Varys sided with her," said Jaime. "We can't rely on his reports."
"Ah," said Tyrion. "Again, a pity. I'm not sure I can cultivate little birds nearly so effectively as our Lord Varys, but I suppose I could try my hand at spymaster."
"You're going to help me?" asked Jaime, barely daring to hope.
"Of course I am," said Tyrion, wrinkling his nose as if he couldn't believe Jaime would ask such a ridiculous question. "Either you've gone mad, and I've got to help Robert from dismissing you entirely, or you're telling the truth and the apocalypse is coming. You're going to need my help either way, brother."
It didn't take long for Cersei to notice his absence and summon him. Tyrion had sent him a pitying look as Jaime focused on taking deep, even breaths to keep himself calm. Then, dire as a funeral march, Jaime followed Arys Oakheart to the queen's chambers.
It wasn't the same chambers that she had lived in when he had left her for the last time, when she had refused put together her ambitions and her anger for the common good of humanity. Those had been what were now Robert's chambers; it hadn't taken long after Tommen had died – had killed himself, because of what Cersei did – for Cersei claim them as her own. Just as she had done the crown.
She was standing by the window, staring out to the sea, when the door opened, but as Jaime entered, she turned, her gold-spun hair flowing around her as she did so. "Jaime," she said, smiling. It was enough to make his heart ache. She waited until the door was closed behind Jaime before she continued. "You've been quiet today."
Jaime shrugged, but he could already tell that his movements were too stiff to come across as nonchalant. "Just one of those days, I'm afraid."
Cersei began pouring wine out for them both. "You would tell me if there was something wrong, wouldn't you?" she asked, picking up a goblet and offering it to him.
He took it, forcing a smile on to his face. "Of course. Why wouldn't I?"
"You've been strange today," said Cersei, and made a face. "Spending far too much time with the little imp, for one."
"He is our brother," cut in Jaime. "Am I not allowed to spend time with him?"
"Of course you are," said Cersei smoothly. "I would never say otherwise. But he's not the best influence; surely you can admit that."
Tyrion wasn't the bad influence. He never had been. It had always been Cersei and the gods-damned white cloak that was still lying in his chambers. It had been them that had made him believe that any act of kindness, of goodness, was worthless at best and pointless at worst. Tyrion took his queen and her army north to stop the end of the world; you only sat on your throne and watched the world freeze around you.
"Is there anything you wanted from me?" asked Jaime instead of answering.
Cersei's eyebrows furrowed for half a moment and she shifted her head slightly to one side. "Do I need a reason to want to see you?" She held her wine close to the chest and stepped closer to him, tilting her head up so her hair fell backward and left her face clear. Her lips parted slightly as reached out to place her hand on his arm.
Jaime swallowed. "No," he said. "No, you don't."
Cersei smiled. She never looked so much like a lioness as she did when she smiled: when she showed her teeth, it could have just as easily been a snarl as a smile. He knew that she could pretend, and be the kind and beautiful queen when she wanted to be – she had certainly lured in Sansa Stark easily enough. But she didn't pretend with him, not really.
Tyrion had been right. He had always known what she was, and he had loved her anyway.
"Good," she said, stepping closer again. The world's going to end, and it was all your fault. She was so close.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," said Tyrion. "You had literally just told me that she had abandoned the entirety of Westeros to a wintery death."
Jaime had several regrets about how he had handled seeing Cersei for the first time. Tyrion was more than happy to outline every one of them in exquisite detail.
"She destroyed half the fucking city," continued Tyrion, gesticulating wildly in emphasis. "She drove half of Westeros into the arms of the Dragon Queen! She abandoned Westeros to the White Walkers. She caused Tommen to commit suicide!"
"Technically," said Jaime, "she hasn't actually done any of that yet." Tyrion speared Jaime with a withering stare, and Jaime shut his mouth.
"Please tell me you didn't actually tell her anything," said Tyrion.
"No," said Jaime. "Contrary to popular belief, I am not completely stupid."
Tyrion raised his eyebrows and muttered, "Could have fooled me."
"I know what she would use it for," continued Jaime, like Tyrion hadn't spoken. "I know what she is. But she needs to trust me, remember? I can't suddenly start refusing her."
"Don't pretend," said Tyrion. "Don't pretend that's why you fucked her today."
"I've spent my entire life believing that I was nothing more than half of Cersei," said Jaime, his voice low. "I've spent it believing I was only whole when I was with her. That doesn't just disappear, Tyrion."
Tyrion sunk into a chair and rubbed his forehead, exhaustion bleeding from every pore of his body. "Please say that you understand how bullshit that is, Jaime. You are your own fucking person, and that person is and always has been far better than Cersei has ever dreamed of being."
"I once pushed a child from a tower," said Jaime, not looking at Tyrion. "I never even thought twice about it, because it protected Cersei."
"But you went north," said Tyrion. "Cersei didn't. For everything else that you've done over the years, for every oath you've broken and for all the people you've hurt – when the end came, you went north. Cersei didn't. Look at me, Jaime." Jaime looked. Tyrion was leaning forward in his chair, staring at Jaime intently. "You might have believed for your whole life that you were only one part of Cersei, but now you have the chance to be something else. You were given a second chance. Do you know how many people get those?"
"Just the one, apparently," muttered Jaime. He smirked, bitterness eating at his very bones. "And what a one to give it to."
"You think Robert Baratheon wouldn't leap at a chance to save Lyanna Stark? Or that our father wouldn't give anything to trade me for your mother?" asked Tyrion. "People spend their entire lives wishing they had a second chance to make better decisions – to save the girl, to earn more gold, to have one more adventure. To be a better person than they were. You are living their dreams. Don't waste them."
"Unfortunately, I can't save Lyanna Stark," said Jaime, inspecting his nails lazily. "Nor do I think Robert would have been particularly happy if he did. Nor would I wish to trade your life for anyone, even Mother's."
"Then who would you save?" questioned Tyrion. "There must be one person. One person in the whole world who you love enough to want to save."
Jaime stopped, his heart seizing in his chest. Brienne, he thought. He stared at the door that led down the halls, towards the chambers of the royal family. Myrcella. Tommen. A shifting in weight brought his eyes back to Tyrion.
What had it been like, in the crypts? At least Jaime had been able to fight. If the dead risen in the crypts, then Tyrion and all of the women and children would have been utterly defenceless against them.
"There's nothing I can do," said Jaime. "Not me alone. Not even the two of us alone. Do you really think we can stop the War of the Five Kings? Stop Daenerys Stormborn from hatching her dragons and burning the continent?"
"I don't know if we can stop all of it," said Tyrion. "But maybe we can save one person. Then there's one less soldier in the Night King's army, and one more person in ours. Just focus on that, for now. Just save one person."
Jaime looked up. "I know who that one person has to be."
Jon Arryn had never liked Jaime. There were three certainties to life: death, taxes, and that Ned Stark and Jon Arryn would always be too fucking honourable to give the Kingslayer the time of day.
Jon Arryn was also not terribly fond on Tyrion. Tyrion Lannister, after all, was the Imp. Jaime didn't know if Arryn distrusted Tyrion for his reputation alone, or if it was for all the drinking and whoring. If it was the drinking and whoring, it was right hypocritical of him, being foster father of Robert fucking Baratheon, but that didn't change the fact that Jon Arryn did not like either of the Lannister brothers.
All in all, it presented a bit of a problem.
"How the fuck are we meant to convince Jon Arryn his life is in danger?" hissed Jaime. "We don't even know who killed him."
Tyrion sighed. "Half the people in court have their spies. We can suggest that there has been threats to his life. Surely he has enough enemies out there to warrant a bit of concern."
Jaime grimaced. "He's investigating Cersei and me."
Tyrion closed his eyes for a long moment, his eyebrows scrunching together like he was in pain. At last, he sighed. "So if we tell him there have been threats to his life, he will receive it as us threatening his life for investigating."
"And because he's from House 'high as honour' Arryn, he'll probably just redouble his efforts to expose us," finished Jaime.
"I don't suppose we can just bribe him," said Tyrion. "Everyone has a price, and we have the biggest goldmines in Westeros."
"Again: his house words are as high as honour," said Jaime. "He raised Ned Stark."
"Ned Stark has a bastard," pointed out Tyrion.
Jaime rolled his eyes. "Somehow, I don't think he was paid for that – or do we have to have another little talk about how babies are made?"
"I'm just saying that Ned Stark's honour is far from impeachable. Jon Arryn is surely likely to have a price," said Tyrion. He pursed his lips then added, "But bribing him to keep his mouth shut about your affairs still does nothing to save his life, even if it does help the two of you."
"He has to have more enemies than House Lannister," said Jaime. "Well, more that he knows of, I suppose. If we could arrange a meeting with one of them within hearing of one of Varys' little birds -"
"How do we know that it wasn't Varys who poisoned him in the first place?" asked Tyrion. "It's hard to plan with such little information. You really could have paid more attention in your last life."
Jaime groaned, burying his head in his hands. His voice muffled, he said, "What if we plant false evidence that the children could be Robert's, and then warn Jon Arryn once he's off the scent?"
"We can try," said Tyrion, his voice dubious. "I'm sure I can find a few blond-haired bastards in Fleabottom who'll claim their mother was a whore that slept with the king for a few coin."
"But?" prompted Jaime, lifting his head from his hands.
"But I think that Jon Arryn is on the scent now, and you and Cersei aren't discrete enough to properly dissuade him," said Tyrion. "Like you said – he raised Ned Stark. He's not the sort to let go if he thinks something that he considers to be wrong is happening right under his nose."
Jaime snorted. "Is that why the Small Council is so incorruptible?" he muttered under his breath.
Tyrion sighed. "Have you considered that saving Jon Arryn might mean condemning yourself and Cersei?" Jaime ran his hand through his hair – his hand, the one he'd lost, the stump that Cersei had refused to look at – feeling bile rise in his throat at the thought.
Cersei was a monster, and so was Joffrey. So was Jaime. But Myrcella and Tommen weren't. Myrcella had loved and had laughed and had so much of her mother in her but so little of Cersei's worst traits; Tommen had tried and tried and tried to keep the kingdoms stable, to keep the Sparrows from igniting a rebellion and to please his wife. Condemning Cersei and Joffrey meant condemning Myrcella and Tommen in the same breath.
Jaime licked his lips nervously. "What if we discredit him?"
Tyrion blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"Letting him die now will spark a war," said Jaime. "But if we work on discrediting him, just in little ways, so when the day comes, Robert doesn't believe him, and maybe neither will Stark, if we can play our cards right. Ned Stark won't search out the evidence, and Cersei won't feel the need to have Robert killed quite so soon, and Joffrey won't execute Stark. The realm remains mostly stable."
"That's a hell of a gambit," said Tyrion.
"Do you have any other ideas?" snapped Jaime. "Ones that'll keep Tommen and Myrcella alive and safe? Because I don't."
Tyrion raised his arms up in surrender. "Alright. Alright. We'll do it your way."
Fleabottom stunk. There wasn't really any way of sugar-coating it. Tyrion, for the most part, had gotten used to the smell of King's Landing when cloistered away in the Red Keep, held back by perfumes and burning candles. Here in the alleyways of Fleabottom, there was nothing to block it.
Tyrion still wasn't certain if he'd been the best one suited for the task. The question had been who would be more memorable – the Kingslayer, or the Imp? They had decided it was Tyrion who was to enter Fleabottom to bribe some of Robert's bastards into denying all connection, and bribe some more bastards to claim any connection possible. It was a lot easier to brush off Tyrion entering Fleabottom; everyone always assumed the Imp was up to something.
Unfortunately, it was going to be the first of many trips as they tracked down the bastards Robert did have. This one Tyrion was only able to make so early because Jaime had remembered a bastard that had been in Winterfell, just before the dead came.
Tyrion stopped before the blacksmith, hoping that this was finally going to be the correct smithy. Anything to get out of here sooner.
There was someone just inside the blacksmith's, just on the cusp between boy and man. Looking at the grime on his face and the muscles in the boy's arms, Tyrion knew that this had to be an apprentice blacksmith – but was he the apprentice blacksmith?
"I don't suppose you're Gendry Waters," said Tyrion, before the boy could greet him.
The boy's eyes widened then narrowed at him. "Is there anything I can do for you, Lord Tyrion?" he asked.
Tyrion took the coin bag from where he had concealed it in his clothes and tossed it to the boy. Gendry caught it without difficulty. "You'll be getting some visitors, soon enough. If they ask if you know who your father is, you say 'yes, he was a poor sailor that had been saving up for months to fuck my whore of a mother,' and then you get more money from me."
Gendry raised an eyebrow. "And why should I be protecting your nephews, m'lord?"
Tyrion jerked his eyes up to meet Gendry's. The boy knew. He had to. "You won't be protecting my nephews," he said. "You'll be protecting the realm. Or do you want war to break out?"
"Joffrey's rule will ensure a war either way," said Gendry. "You never lived with the people, m'lord. Joffrey was the Mad King come again, and we all knew it. Someone will rebel eventually. And even if the Starks or Stannis Baratheon don't rebel now, the Queen will come eventually."
The Dragon Queen. Of course. Apparently, she was one to inspire loyalty.
"I'm surprised that you're trying to protect your family," said Gendry, throwing the coin bag back to him. "After all, you were her Hand before Tommen was dead."
"I was what?" demanded Tyrion. Jaime hadn't mentioned that.
Gendry's eyebrows scrunched together in confusion. "Her Hand." Gendry hesitated. "Do you understand what I've been talking about, Lord Tyrion?"
"I know that you're talking about a future no one else has lived," said Tyrion. "Well, no one except for my brother."
Gendry let out a low hiss of air between his teeth. "The Kingslayer."
"Unless I have another brother no one has told me about," said Tyrion. "All he wants – all the both of us want – is to keep the realm stable so we have some semblance of a chance when the Night King comes south."
"And he's planning on doing it the one way that'll keep his bastards on the throne," said Gendry, shaking his head like he was somewhere between exasperated and furious. "What a surprise."
"Exposing Joffrey means exposing Myrcella and Tommen," said Tyrion. "Would you have two innocents put to death, just so your queen can sweep in?"
"If Joffrey sits on the throne, then there will be more innocents killed than just two," snapped Gendry. "When Robert Baratheon died, I had to flee the city because he ordered the King's Guard to slaughter all of the king's bastards. Children died. Not just children, babes in their mother's arms." Gendry paused and looked back to Tyrion, but before Tyrion could come up with an argument, he continued, "You were Daenerys' Hand – the Hand to the Breaker of Chains. I would have thought you'd care more for the small folk – well, more than most of your class, anyway."
"I care for the small folk," said Tyrion, "but I also care for my niece and for my younger nephew, who have done nothing more than been born to a particularly vicious mother. And I think that preventing a war – for as long as is possible – will do more to protect the small folk than exposing my sister will."
"You know what I think would protect the small folk?" asked Gendry. "Warning them. The Army of the Dead is coming, and you can do something to prepare for it. You can send criers to every corner of the Seven Kingdoms, telling them to arm themselves with dragonglass and to be ready."
"The rest of court would think I was insane," said Tyrion.
Gendry shrugged. "There are some who think I'm mad, but not everyone – and I'm just a blacksmith."
"Not everyone?" repeated Tyrion. He didn't bother pointing out that Gendry wasn't just any blacksmith: he was a blacksmith that looked just like the king, which had to have some effect.
"I don't care for the Red Priests, but they've listened," said Gendry. "I don't trust them – haven't for a long time – but so long as they're helping, I'll put up with them."
Jaime had mentioned a Red Priest – no, Priestess. She had been there for the last battle, Jaime had said, lighting fires to help protect them. He'd called her Stannis' witch. They certainly seemed to like the Baratheon bloodline, that was for certain.
"I'm not going to lie to protect Joffrey," said Gendry. "I've seen enough lives torn apart by him – mine, Ar – a baby that lives not far from here, the length of the Riverlands that was torn apart by Lannister knights before war was even truly declared. I'll do nothing to help him do it all again."
Weeks had passed since Jaime first woke up in the past, weeks spent seeking out as many of Robert's bastards as possible, bribing as many blond-haired bastards as possible, and – perhaps most importantly of all – keeping Cersei from becoming suspicious. Because regardless of what Tyrion thought or said, Jaime knew one thing for certain: if Cersei felt her grip loosening, she would do what any lioness would do – attack. If there was one thing that Jaime didn't need, it was Cersei after him.
The weeks were turning to months quickly. It would be Joffrey's name day soon, and after Joffrey's name day, time would be rushing upon them until Jon Arryn would die. Arryn had to be deep in to his investigation by now, and Jaime hoped that enough small folk had been sufficiently bribed to throw Arryn off the scent. But just in case –
"Where the fuck is my Hand when you need him?" grumbled Robert as he sat at the Small Council.
"You did call this meeting rather suddenly, Your Grace," pointed out Renly.
"I believe he's in the city," said Jaime. "He has been visiting the lower town regularly of late." It wasn't exactly the most graceful political manipulation, but no one at the table reacted.
Robert sniggered at the thought. "Finally discovered the brothels, has he? Can't say I blame him. Brothels would be much preferable to this." He glanced down at the table they were seated at in disgust.
"Perhaps we should start without him, Your Grace," suggested Littlefinger, his voice smooth. "I'm sure that the Lord Hand won't be too much longer."
"I've received word from Winterfell," said Robert. Jaime frowned – he couldn't remember any messages from the North the last time round that would have been enough to draw Robert Baratheon to the Small Council. "Lord Eddard Stark has formally requested reinforcements for the Night's Watch."
Out of the corner of his eye, Jaime could see Renly rolling his eyes and slumping in his chair. No one else in the room seemed to take it with much more gravity than Renly, thought most masked it better than the youngest Baratheon brother. Jaime, however, did not. In his corner of the room, standing guard over the pit of vipers that was the Small Council, the world seemed to tilt on its axis.
I'm not the only one.
I can't be, realised Jaime. There had been no requests to reinforce the Wall – not this early, at least. The Wildling forces would still be gathering, not yet a serious concern for the Night's Watch, let alone House Stark. Somehow, the Starks knew that what was coming was a bigger threat than the information currently available suggested. But who? It couldn't be Eddard himself, or his wife and youngest and eldest sons – they had all died well before the Others had become a serious threat. The Stark sisters, or the bastard, or Brandon Stark himself, perhaps – though Jaime expected if it was any of them, then Stark's next request of Robert would be Jaime's head on a spike.
It didn't have to be a Stark, either. The bastard in Fleabottom proved that. Anyone could have remembered ridden north to warn the Starks – Beric Dondarrion, one of the Wildlings, even Moonboy for all Jaime knew. Even Brienne, maybe.
Varys cleared his throat. "If the Night's Watch was to seek recruitment here in King's Landing, then I expect they would find many volunteers," he said. "There appears to be a great deal of anxiety about the coming winter, and what comes with it."
"What comes with it?" echoed Renly.
"Several priests and priestesses of the Lord of Light are preaching a return of the White Walkers in this coming winter," explained Varys. Renly scoffed in disbelief, and even Littlefinger couldn't contain a disbelieving snort. "Their religion seems to be gaining more support by the day within King's Landing. It seems to be localised for now, but it may yet reach further."
Jaime couldn't help looking at Stannis. He was nodding along to the information, but he didn't seem to be particularly disturbed or elated at the news – strange, considering his pet priestess.
"I'm told that this coming winter will be longer than any on record," continued Varys. "While the Others are obviously an impossibility, their anxiety over the changing seasons isn't entirely unfounded."
"We've had reports that the Wildlings have declared themselves a king," said Pycelle. "There are some Maesters that believe the tales of the Others were originally about a particularly aggressive Wildling tribe from the far north beyond the Wall. Perhaps they will be fighting the Others, as it were." Jaime only just kept himself from rolling his eyes. No one was paying attention to him, not the silent King's Guard at the edge of the room, but it was still better to be safe.
"Ned asked for reinforcement to deal with the Wildlings," agreed Robert. "It'll empty our cells, too, sending all the scum north to man the Wall – makes Renly's job a little easier." He nodded at Renly, who jerked to attention and nodded in agreement.
"Is that wise, your grace?" asked Stannis. Robert turned to look at him, his eyes narrowing. "If we give all people the same sentence – a sentence we have previously used as an alternative to death – then the smallfolk may be less likely to cooperate with bringing criminals to the king's justice."
"And what do you suggest?" asked Robert pointedly.
"Lord Varys says that there may be an upswell in volunteers," said Stannis, nodding at Varys. "Allow us to see how many of the smallfolk volunteer. It may be enough without giving life sentences to every petty thief that crosses the path of a Goldcloak."
"What does the Master of Laws have to say?" asked Robert, turning to Renly.
Before Renly could answer, the doors opened. Two guards stepped in, bowed quickly, then made way for Jon Arryn to enter behind them. Robert stood to greet him, and the rest of the Small Council hurried to follow suit.
"I apologise for my tardiness, your grace," said Jon Arryn, with a quick bow of the head. He gave the room a quick sweep with his eyes before he continued. "I was commissioning some jewellery for my lady wife in the town."
It wasn't terribly subtle as far as excuses went, but Jaime was willing to bet that there would be a jeweller somewhere in King's Landing that had an order from the Hand of the King. Arryn had not spent years as the Hand of the King without gaining some ability for political intrigue.
"Word from the North," said Robert, sitting back down. "Ned needs reinforcements for the Wall. Sounds like there's a new King beyond the Wall."
Arryn nodded. "I have received some reports of Wildling raids from the Wall, your grace, though they did not indicate such urgency."
"I say that we should send all criminals to the Wall, if they're needed so desperately," said Robert. He cast a dark look at Stannis. "My Master of Ships says that will make the smallfolk resist us."
"Not resist us," cut in Stannis. "But if your brother is going to be sent to the Night's Watch where he would have previously spent a day in the stocks, I imagine some families would be more willing to let certain acts slide, as they were."
Arryn nodded thoughtfully. "I'm afraid I have to agree with Lord Stannis, your grace. Not to mention, criminals might decide they may as well be hung for a dragon than as a sheep, so they'll commit worse crimes."
"Ned needs more men," said Robert sharply. "I intend to give them to him."
"Perhaps eventually, when things get more dire, we can send more criminals to the Wall," soothed Arryn. "For now, we should look at increasing volunteer numbers for the Wall."
Robert glowered, glancing between Arryn and Stannis. "Very well," said Robert. "But if Ned writes me again -"
Arryn nodded. "Of course, your grace. I believe you wanted to hear updates about the tourney for Prince Joffrey's name day?" And with that, the conversation moved on, the tension forgotten. Jaime kept his attention on the conversation, waiting for something relevant to be said. There was nothing, however, and Jaime found his thoughts wandering. The council was putting the final touches on the tourney, but once it passed, Arryn was as good as dead. Jon Arryn still hadn't shaken his suspicions, but it was too late for Jaime to wait any longer. He needed to be warned.
Gendry sighed as he stored the finished sword away. The sun was high in the sky and the day was hot enough without the fires of the forge adding to it. Sweat rolled down his back in beads, but he still did not long for winter.
Jon Arryn had been round again, asking questions. Gendry had warned him again. He wasn't particularly fond of Arryn – it wasn't like his time as Hand had done much for the smallfolk of Fleabottom, spending more time throwing tourney after feast after tourney than he ever had helping the needy – but he didn't deserve to die. And keeping Arryn alive meant Lord Eddard Stark would never come south, and he didn't want Arya to lose her father. Or Jon, for that matter, and he didn't know Lady Sansa well, but she still deserved to see her father die of old age, peaceful and grey-haired, just the same as her siblings did.
It might take longer for him to meet Arya, this way, but in time he would earn enough money to begin the long journey north, warning anyone who would listen the whole way. Tyrion and Jaime Lannister didn't seem to have done anything to warn the people of Westeros what was coming, but Gendry would, the best that he could as a blacksmith's apprentice.
At least he wasn't the only one. When he'd started talking about what he had seen and done and how a dead man had dragged him to the ground and torn him to pieces, everyone had thought he was a madman. But the red priests hadn't. There weren't many of them in the city, but one by one, they were noticing how Gendry's stories of the Night King echoed their beliefs of the Great Other.
Gendry still didn't trust them one bit. He kept his parentage close to his chest and tried to avoid any depiction of Robert Baratheon that existed in the city, so none of them would see him by a statue or painting of the king and realised he had king's blood. Maybe them thinking he was some kind of prophet would offer some protection – but remembering the Red Woman, Gendry suspected they'd believe that would only add more power to the king's blood. Lunatics, the lot of them. Helpful lunatics, though.
Someone cleared their throat behind him. Gendry turned, expecting to see Tobho Mott. Instead, he nearly grabbed the sword back out at the sight before him.
The Red Woman strode towards him. She held his gaze the entire way, and Gendry couldn't help but feel as if he was being evaluated. He tried to step out of her way, but she reached out and grabbed him by the chin, holding him fast and forcing him to meet her eyes.
"A Baratheon bastard," mused Melisandre, moving her hand so that she could look at the side of his face. "I can see something of your father in you, and your uncle."
"How are you planning to bleed me, my lady?" asked Gendry, a bite to his voice. "Will it be leaches, or a knife this time?"
"You know me?" asked Melisandre. "Did you see me in your visions?"
"They weren't visions," hissed Gendry.
"But you know me," pressed Melisandre.
"You wanted to bleed me dry for my king's blood," said Gendry, wrenching his face from her grasp.
After half a moment, Melisandre nodded to herself. "I have no desire to do that again."
"Somehow, I find that difficult to believe," snapped Gendry. He slid out of where she had trapped him between her and the swords, but couldn't quite trust her enough to turn his back and walk away.
"The Lord of Light spared you," said Melisandre. "He brought you back here, to warn the people of the Great Other's advances. If he does not mean for you to die, then I will do you no harm."
"Comforting," said Gendry, his voice dry. "How did you even know about me? Aren't you meant to be on Dragonstone?"
"I have contacts in the city," said Melisandre. "I am not the only servant of the Lord of Light in this strange land. When I was told about you, I requested that Lady Selise pay her lord husband a visit." She dragged her eyes up and down his frame, making Gendry want to cover himself, despite already being fully clothed. "I had to meet the man they were calling Azor Ahai."
"I'm no prophet," said Gendry. "And I've nothing to do with your Lord of Light. I don't want anything to do with him, not if you're his servant."
"Azor Ahai is no prophet," said Melisandre. "And it does not matter what you want. We all do his bidding, whether we know it or not."
Gendry threw his arms wide in exasperation. "If I'm not meant to be a prophet, then what am I?"
"When the Great Other last covered the world in darkness, the Lord of Light chose Azor Ahai to fight the Demon of the Night, the Great Other's champion," said Melisandre. Her eyes glinted in the light of the fire, reverence driving her voice into a lyrical tone, like she was reciting something she had memorized long ago. "He had to forge himself a hero's sword to slay the beast, trying first to temper it in water, then fire, then – finally – in the lifeblood of his wife, Nissa Nissa. With the sword Lightbringer, he was able to drive back the Night."
"I don't have a wife, and even if I did, I'd never kill her," snapped Gendry.
Melisandre continued as if he hadn't spoken. "Azor Ahai will come once more when the Great Other rises again. He will be reborn again under smoke and salt, and draw a burning sword from the fire once again, and he will once more drive back the night." Her gaze shifted to the swords.
"Oh, no," said Gendry. "That is a normal sword. I didn't forge a single damn one of those with the blood of a person."
"For some time, I believed Lord Stannis Baratheon to be Azor Ahai," said Melisandre. "But you. You have been reborn, just as Azor Ahai was promised to. Was there fire? Was there salt?"
"I am not the champion of the Lord of Light," cried Gendry. "I am no one's champion but my own. If I am trying to save us all from dying terrible deaths and being risen again as wights, then it is of my own will."
"Tell me," said Melisandre. "What happened to Lord Stannis in your visions?"
Gendry pursed his lips. "Went north to fight the Wildlings," said Gendry. "Never came back south. I think he died trying to take Winterfell from the Boltons."
"He fell to a human foe, then," said Melisandre. "He cannot be Azor Ahai. You, though – you were born of the same line as Stannis -"
"I'm a bastard -" attempted Gendry, but Melisandre ignored him.
"You make your living amongst the flames and the heat, forging swords," she continued. "It will serve you well when it comes time for you to draw Lightbringer from the flames. And yet you are a prince: you are the son of the king, no matter who your mother was. You are of two worlds, that of the future in your visions and the one we stand in now, and you are of both noble birth and low birth. You can unite the people."
Gendry opened his mouth to protest, but Melisandre cut him off before he could. "Hail Azor Ahai, the prince that was promised, the last hero."
It wasn't as easy to catch Jon Arryn alone as Jaime would have liked. His duty, after all, was to the royal family, not the Hand. It was not Arryn he had sworn oaths to protect.
But it wasn't impossible; very little was in the Red Keep. If anything was impossible, it was a member of the King's Guard carrying on an affair with the queen for years on end – the queen who was the knight's sister, at that. If Jaime could get away with that, he could find an opportunity to speak with Arryn in private.
He was making excuses. He knew he was. Every time Jon Arryn walked away from Jaime, he heard Brienne's voice in his head: "Are you such a bloody craven?"
It was only days before Joffrey's nameday that Jaime caught Arryn by the arm, after the rest of the Small Council had taken their leave. Left alone in the room, Arryn turned to stare at Jaime.
"What is it, Ser Jaime?" he asked, voice even and polite.
"Be careful with what you eat," said Jaime, his voice quiet. He let Arryn's arm drop and went to leave the room.
"Ser."
Jaime stopped at Arryn's pointed tone. He turned back to face Arryn. Arryn's eyebrows were raised. "You are the third person to warn me that my life was at risk," said Arryn. "What do you know?"
"I've heard rumours," said Jaime, fighting to keep his voice lazy and sardonic. "If you die, we'll likely get Stark as Hand, and all the gods know we don't need him in the Red Keep."
"You're aware, no doubt, of what I have been investigating," said Jon Arryn, eyeing the sword that was on Jaime's hip. "One of the people who have warned me had also heard rumours of a dwarf paying off people in Fleabottom to lie to my face about it."
I didn't realise you were quite so suicidal, Lord Arryn. Jaime bit back the words before they could escape him. It would only be taken as a threat. Instead, he said, "I'm sure there are other dwarfs in the world."
Arryn's expression didn't waver. "Quite."
"You'll find nothing," said Jaime. "Nothing that will convince Robert, anyway. You'd be best to look to your household first, Lord Hand." With that, Jaime spun on his heel and walked out the door before Arryn had a chance to respond.
Tyrion was going to kill him for going to Arryn without Tyrion there to keep the peace. For perhaps the first time since he found himself back in King's Landing, Jaime couldn't help but feel a surge of relief that it was Cersei, rather than Tyrion, who he was joining.
He was to spend the rest of the day guarding Cersei, but he had never spent the time guarding his sister standing by her door. As always, he found himself lazing on her bed as she paced in circles before him.
"Jon Arryn has been spending too much time in Fleabottom," seethed Cersei. She whirled around to face him, her hair flaring out around her as she did so. "He knows something, Jaime. We need to be rid of him before -"
"He doesn't know anything," soothed Jaime. "If he did, he'd have gone to Robert and both our heads would be on spikes."
"This is serious," snapped Cersei. "This isn't just our lives – our children, Jaime; Joffrey and Myrcella and Tommen. Arryn threatens all of them."
Jaime breathed out slowly through his nose, carefully considering his next words. "Would Robert really hear any accusation that he was cuckolded? Is it not possible that he will hear any accusations against us as an insult against him, and fail to hear the truth?"
"Can we risk that?" asked Cersei. "He knows I hate him as well as I know he wishes he had that Stark whore instead. What wins out – his arrogance, or his pride?"
"He's hired a food tester," hissed Lysa. Her eyes were large and rimmed with red, and her hair was askew despite her handmaidens. In that moment, she looked too wild and too desperate to look anything like her sister.
"For every meal?" checked Petyr.
"Everything he eats," said Lysa. "He's even having mine and Sweetrobin's food tested, too."
Petyr stroked his chin thoughtfully. "And has he said why he has such an interest in self-preservation?"
"Not to me," said Lysa. "But he never tells me anything." She raked her fingers through the loose ends of her hair, her breathing rough. "He can't take Sweetrobin from me. I'll die before it happens. I'll burn this whole gods-forsaken city to the ground before he does it."
"He won't," promised Petyr. "I won't let him hurt you or Sweetrobin. I'll take care of everything." Lysa's breathing evened out and she smiled at him, hope sparking in his eyes. He smoothed her hair down and pressed a kiss to her forehead, so that all he could see was red hair. Yes, Petyr would take care of everything.
Whatever it was that had caused Lord Arryn to take such an interest in his continued existence was problematic. What information, exactly, had he heard that had caused him to hire a food tester? Surely one of Varys' little birds hadn't overheard him and Lysa, or his head would be on a spike by now – or, at the very least, he would no longer be welcome in King's Landing, let alone controlling the economy of the Seven Kingdoms. But Petyr's own spies had yet to report to him any other active plots against the Hand of the King.
Perhaps Jon Arryn had decided to protect himself after he began to investigate the parentage of the princes and princess. The Lannisters murdering Arryn before he had a chance to tell Robert of his suspicions was far from unlikely – indeed, all of Petyr's plans rested on them being the obvious suspects.
But that was a point in and of itself. Petyr wasn't the only one who had a vested interest in seeing Jon Arryn's mouth closed forever. It would take precision, yes. He didn't want the Lannisters to see him as too large a threat. But was it ever really chaos if there was no risk involved?
It was several more hours before he found himself allowed into the Queen's solar. Cersei was seated behind her desk, and Jaime Lannister hovered behind her ominously. A solar for the queen was highly unusual, but Cersei had never been subtle about her utter dissatisfaction with her lot in life as a woman.
"Your grace," said Petyr, sweeping into a polite bow. "I come bearing a message from Lady Arryn, a message she sends at great personal risk to herself."
"What is it, Lord Baelish?" asked Cersei, giving him a charming smile.
"I'm not entirely sure how to start," said Petyr. "I fostered in Riverrun with her, remember. She trusted me with her concerns above all others -"
"And what are those concerns?" interrupted Cersei, before Petyr could ramble too long.
"She says -" He made a show of hesitating before he ploughed on. "She says that her lord husband is plotting against the crown." Cersei's smile dropped off her face, but he could still see the pleased glint in her eyes.
The ball was rolling. It won't be long now, Cat, he promised.
"Littlefinger," groaned Tyrion. "It has to have been Littlefinger."
Jaime quirked an eyebrow. "Obviously. He just came to Cersei and offered Jon Arryn up on a silver platter."
"No, I mean last time," said Tyrion. "He fostered with Lysa Tully; if anyone was able to sneak past House Arryn's defences, it's Lady Arryn's childhood friend. And he's gone further in pursuing Arryn's death in this timeline than anyone else, which suggests he was also the most determined last time."
"Then we know who we have to take out," said Jaime, simply.
Tyrion frowned. "I'm not so sure. Cersei will never stop now that she's caught the scent, and besides, Littlefinger is Master of Coin. Preparations will need to be in place to have him replaced when he goes down." Tyrion started pacing before where Jaime was lazing in a chair. "It's an incredibly ambitious move from a man with so little connections or allies. Yes, he might be a member of the Small Council, but he must know every single one of them would abandon him if he was ever discovered."
"Maybe he has less sense than a grumpkin," suggested Jaime.
"No," said Tyrion, shaking his head. "A minor lord like Petyr Baelish doesn't rise to Master of Coin without sense. He has insurance, somehow."
"Perhaps he's relying on Lysa Arryn to protect him," said Jaime. "Catelyn Stark, too, since he would have grown up with her as well. They're not bad allies to have."
"Catelyn Stark is on the other side of Westeros," said Tyrion. "And even if she was regent of the Vale after Arryn's death, Lysa would have a difficult time rallying the Knights of the Vale to rescue Littlefinger, of all people." Tyrion gritted his teeth and added, "I don't know what it is, yet. Give me time. Everyone reveals themselves eventually."
"So what now?" asked Jaime.
Tyrion grimaced. "I'm not sure what can be done. We've spent the past few months discrediting Jon Arryn at every opportunity – if we've done our jobs right, then we've effectively doomed him to death."
"Do you really think we've swayed Robert enough to have him believe us over the man who fostered him?" asked Jaime. Days ago, he would have wished for it; now, he could only feel nausea swirling in his stomach at the thought.
"With his wife testifying against him?" said Tyrion. "I don't know. Perhaps."
Jaime buried his face in his hands. "Shit."
"Quite," said Tyrion, helping himself to a large glass of wine.
"You lectured me about having a second chance," said Jaime. "About saving just one person. And all I've gone and done is made everything worse!"
"Not worse," said Tyrion. "The same. Better for the children, mayhaps, since Robert might be less likely to hear they're bastards if the idea has been linked to Jon Arryn's treason."
"But this time, the Vale will be up in arms about Arryn," said Jaime. "They stayed out of everything, last time. They won't be so forgiving, this time." The Vale would join with either Stannis or with the Starks. Either made for a formidable force. The entire northern half of the continent under Stark control if they joined with Winterfell, or one of the most powerful armies in Westeros under one of the most successful generals in the Seven Kingdoms if they fought with Dragonstone.
"I suspect they would join with the Starks," speculated Tyrion. "The new young lord will be cousin to the heirs of Winterfell, and although Stannis is the rightful heir, I'm not sure the Vale would be willing to fight under the banner of the Lord of Light."
"The Starks don't follow the Seven, either," said Jaime.
"Catelyn Stark does," said Tyrion. "She may well have taught her children the same." Tyrion sighed. "It doesn't matter, I suppose. Ned Stark might yet live, and if he does, he might yet make a different decision to his son and join Stannis. With the North, Riverlands and the Vale at his side -"
"It's almost the same coalition that took down the Targaryens," realised Jaime. "Gods, we really are fucked, aren't we?"
It had been an odd few days for Gendry Waters.
Melisandre seemed to be the Red Priestess in Westeros. Ever since she had declared him Azor Ahai, more and more people had come to his smithy. Tobho Mott had not been impressed by all the new traffic through his store. He was yet to kick Gendry out, purely because more traffic still meant more work, but he wasn't at all pleased with the amount of people ambling into his store without any intention of buying something.
Gendry didn't want to be Azor whatever. He wasn't a hero. He would do the right thing – his mother had been able to raise him long enough to instil that in him, if nothing else – but he had never been the leader of the fight. That had been Jon, or Queen Daenerys – even Arya had contributed more to the war than he had. Gendry had made weapons out of dragonglass. Arya had sat in on the war council and helped to decide how they would best withstand the Others' onslaught.
The smithy wasn't the hero. Hell, Azor Ahai couldn't have been a smithy – any reasonable blacksmith would have realised from the start that blood was useless for tempering a blade. Honestly, had the Red Priests never preached to another blacksmith? Or were they all just so blinded by faith that they ignored any problems with their stories?
It didn't really matter. What mattered was that the Red Priests believed it, and with every passing day, they converted more and more smallfolk to their faith. Gendry's name was starting to pass around town. People were beginning to look to him for answers, and Gendry didn't know what to tell them.
The Others were coming. They had to be ready, but – how? Without the nobles helping, it was near impossible to truly prepare. The smallfolk didn't have the money to buy enough dragonglass or Valyrian steel to arm themselves against the dead. Even if they were able to raise enough, if the Goldcloaks got wind that the peasants were arming themselves, there would be hell to pay. Any ordinary forms of defence and fortifications were useless against the dead. There was fire, of course, but as Gendry had seen the night he died, simple lines of fire weren't enough when the enemy had no sense of self-preservation. What they needed was money, to buy the weapons they needed, and dragons. Dragons that hadn't been born yet. Dragons that might never be born, because two miracles happening seemed too much to hope for.
Arya will listen, he promised himself. And her father, too. Arya had never had anything but good things to say about Lord Stark, and he had raised Arya and Jon Snow – Lady Sansa and Lord Bran, too, who had both taken the threat seriously. The Starks were a powerful and wealthy noble House themselves, and they had a better chance at influencing the other Houses than Gendry could even dream of. He could help prepare the smallfolk, but the Starks would prepare the rich.
That would still take time, though. First, he had to find a way to speak to Arya. She wasn't a princess, yet, but as the daughter of the Warden of the North, she was just as impossible for a blacksmith's apprentice to speak to as Princess Myrcella. And that wasn't even mentioning that she and the rest of her family were on the other side of the continent. They would come south if Jon Arryn died, but Gendry had already warned him: he couldn't bear to have the man's death on his conscience when it might be avoided. If it came to it, Gendry would find a way to ride north.
It was all weighing heavily on his mind as he hammered another chest plate into shape, going round and round in circles as Gendry considered his options. Stay in King's Landing, with his people, and achieve what might be very little, or ride north and enlist the help of House Stark, praying that he would be able to find a way to speak with one of the daughters of Winterfell. Neither was a particularly appealing option: both seemed to be giving up something.
"Gendry?" called Mott. Gendry put down his hammer and answered his summons. At the entrance to the smithy were two Goldcloaks, standing straight and watching him carefully.
Shit, though Gendry. He had brought too much attention to himself. They thought he was fermenting a revolution, and they were here to put a stop to it -
"We need to ask you about Lord Arryn," said one of the Goldcloaks, dark hair falling around his shoulders. Gendry's thoughts skidded to a halt. He hadn't been expecting that angle.
"What about Lord Arryn?" asked Gendry, then belatedly added, "Ser."
"We have reason to believe that he has been visiting you often," said the other Goldcloak, this one with greying brown hair. "We want to know what you spoke about."
Gendry frowned, glancing between them. "Nothing treasonous, if that's what you're worried about."
The dark-haired man's lips thinned. "I don't believe I said anything about treason."
"He's been meeting with your bastards," raged Cersei, snarling into Robert's face. "Isn't it obvious what he's doing? He wants to install another fucking puppet king for him to control -"
"Another?" said Robert dangerously. "Watch your mouth, woman."
"Well, you've never exactly disagreed with him, have you," hissed Cersei, the sharpness of her voice showing that it wasn't a question. Robert raised his hand and slapped her across the face with the back of his hand. Cersei spat at him. "You're blind to the truth. When are you going to do your duty as a king and as a father and execute the traitor who wanted to kill your children?"
"Jon Arryn would never harm my children," snapped Robert.
Cersei threw her arms out wide and shouted. "Look around you! His own wife has testified against him! What will it take you to admit that he isn't who you thought he was?"
"He's a good man," insisted Robert.
Jaime stood against the edge of the room silently. The argument had been going in circles for what felt like hours. Robert was cracking under the pressure. His voice was more high-pitched and frantic than it had been when the fight began. He didn't want to believe Arryn was capable of plotting against him – which, to be fair, Robert was probably right about – but Cersei was driving nearly to the point of buckling. Jaime still didn't know what to do: let Arryn take the fall and drive the Vale into enemy hands, or attempt to exonerate him and sacrifice Tommen and Myrcella.
That was if Jaime was even capable of preventing this from going any further. This had all the makings of an avalanche – a few stones slip, then the entire mountain. No doubt that was what Littlefinger had been waiting for. If Littlefinger could not simply have Arryn poisoned, then perhaps he had waited for the tipping point where an accusation would run away from them all, facts be damned. Tyrion was right: it was a risky move, what Littlefinger had done. The kind of move that one had to be certain of before you made it.
"Would a good man want your children dead?" said Cersei. She shook her head in disgust. "If you won't act, then I will. You owe my father many debts, my lord." She bit out the last two words with bitter sarcasm.
"Are you threatening me?" asked Robert, his voice low.
"No," said Cersei, with a toss of her long hair. "I am not threatening you. I am protecting my children. Do you want to see what a lioness will do for her cubs, your grace?"
Robert let out a frustrated snarl, and Jaime knew it: the deal was done. Robert probably wasn't even aware of it himself, yet, but Jaime was certain of it. They had wormed enough doubt into Robert's mind and now, with the threat of the entire economy being bankrupted – well, the writing was on the wall for Jon Arryn.
Tyrion was waiting for Jaime when they finally emerged from Robert's solar. Tyrion's face was grim, expecting the worst. At the sight of Jaime's face, he dropped his head into his hands.
"What next?" asked Jaime.
"Now?" said Tyrion. "I suppose now we start preparing for the long ride north." Robert Baratheon had already been persuaded to give up on one person he loved. He would not be swayed from the other, and certainly not from the brother of Lyanna Stark.
Cersei would rage on. She would insist that Tywin Lannister be made Hand of the King, but Robert had already given her too much, Jaime knew. Eddard Stark, Warden of the North and now Hand of the King, would be making his way south once more.
As they rode north, rumours kept funnelling down into the king's retinue. A meeting of all the houses for the North – supposedly an early harvest festival, but Jaime remembered enough of the last time round to know it had to be something else. Then, a week or two later, came another rumour: the execution of Ramsay Snow, the Bolton bastard, and a growing rift between Winterfell and the Dreadfort.
"Is that new?" Tyrion asked under his breath.
Jaime nodded. "Ramsay Bolton was legitimised by Tommen." He grimaced, and added, "From what little I heard of him, I can't say I regret this particular diversion."
"There has to be someone up north who knows," said Tyrion. "Someone who can convince House Stark to anger their most powerful and dangerous bannerman. Someone who can convince House Stark that grumpkins are real."
"Not Eddard," said Jaime. "He was dead well before any of this. Robb and Catelyn Stark, too, were both dead before the White Walkers became a threat."
Tyrion started listing the other Starks off on his fingers. "So that leaves the two daughters, the remaining sons, and the bastard."
Jaime had almost forgotten there was a third trueborn Stark boy. Rickon, he remembered. "Not Rickon. He was dead too, I believe. There's Sansa and Arya, Brandon, or Jon Snow." He paused, thinking of the four that were left. "The bastard was briefly King in the North before he knelt to Daenerys. It could be him."
"If he got told the same thing you did, wouldn't he have tried to convince his family to declare for the Dragon Queen?" asked Tyrion. "Unless they're biding their time, there's no evidence of that."
"Brandon was the one who told me to fulfill my vows when I woke," said Jaime. "It could be him. It's probably him. If anyone would have been capable of sending himself back in time, it would be Brandon Stark. It's just…"
"What?" asked Tyrion.
"If it was Brandon Stark, why send me and a blacksmith?" asked Jaime. "Me, of all people. Why not his siblings?"
Tyrion didn't have an answer for him, and Jaime had to leave to relieve Arys Oakheart as the guard outside the King's tent. Cersei was already inside, and Jaime could hear them through the flap in the tent. They were arguing, because of course they were. They did little else.
"How can you trust Stark?" demanded Cersei. "Arryn has already shown that he couldn't be trusted, so why would the man he fostered be any better?"
"I trust Ned Stark with my life," said Robert shortly.
"You trusted Jon Arryn with your life," shot back Cersei. "My father would be a far better option."
"I will tie Ned to the throne so that he will have no interest in betraying me, even if he were inclined that way – which he is not," said Robert. "He has a daughter -"
"Sansa Stark?" interrupted Cersei, cackling with laughter. "You've heard, haven't you? Heard all about why the Bolton bastard was executed? Because she opened her little legs to him -"
"It was a lie," said Robert insistently. "The boy was just a bastard, not worth listening to."
"The Seven Kingdoms will never accept a queen who has been fucked by anyone other than the King," said Cersei. "Joffrey will not accept another man's seconds, nor should he. The girl's a whore." Jaime could almost hear the part that Cersei no doubt was only just containing herself from adding: just like your precious Lyanna Stark.
"She hasn't been fucked by anyone else," snapped Robert.
Cersei reigned herself in. "But people believe she has been," said Cersei. "You know as well as I do that the people won't accept her as queen because of it. Besides, they say she's been betrothed to the Greyjoy boy."
"Sansa isn't the only Stark daughter," said Robert. That, apparently, was the one point that he would listen to: Sansa Stark was already betrothed.
"A second daughter isn't good enough for the heir to the Seven Kingdoms," said Cersei at once.
"No, but she is good enough for the second son," said Robert. "Tommen is second in line to the throne until Joffrey has a son of his own, and even after that, he will still have his own keep and, as brother to the King, will be one of the most powerful men in the Seven Kingdom's. Ned isn't a fool."
"My father would still be a safer Hand," said Cersei.
"For all the gods, woman, I can't escape the Lannisters as it is," snapped Robert. "I go to bed with the Lannisters. I eat with the Lannisters. No doubt if you had your way, I'd fucking shit with the Lannisters, too. I'm not bringing another fucking Lannister to court when I can have Ned."
They kept riding north. The air grew colder, and Jaime started having nightmares again as the temperatures dropped to freezing during the night. The cold was too familiar. Waking to ice instead of the stinking warmth of King's Landing sent him spiralling back to Winterfell and a wight shoving a broken sword through his stomach. Each morning, he found it harder to look at Cersei without thinking You caused this, you could have fought and changed everything. Each morning, he looked at Tyrion and wondered what had happened to him in the crypts.
Winterfell dawned on the horizon after a month of riding. He had been relieved to see it, the first time, because it meant he could finally spend a day off his horse. Now, his heart sat in his throat as they rode through the walls that he had died in.
The Starks were all assembled in the courtyard. Brandon Stark looked like a child again, and Jaime didn't know if that relieved him or made him hate himself a little more. Sansa Stark stared at Joffrey with love-struck eyes, ignorant of how her brothers and betrothed stared daggers at the prince. Beside her, Arya Stark was glancing around the riders curiously, inspecting each one of them in turn. And Jon Snow – Jon Snow wasn't anywhere in the crowd. Interesting. Perhaps it had been him, after all, and he had gone after his Dragon Queen.
Then Jaime's eyes caught on someone two rows back, just behind Theon Greyjoy. She was staring at him with wide, hopeful eyes. Brienne.
He had hoped for it, when he first realised someone at Winterfell had to have remembered. But he hadn't expected the tidal wave of relief that crashed over him at the sight of her, so strong and fierce that his knees almost buckled. Brienne of Tarth no longer had Oathkeeper at her hip, but she had kept her oaths all the same, riding north to protect the Stark girls who likely hadn't even remembered her.
Fulfill your oaths, Brandon Stark had told him. Brienne had. Had Jaime? He didn't know. Gods, he had needed Brienne, needed her to tell him when he was being a coward and when he was just doing the right thing. He trusted Tyrion, but he had needed Brienne in a way that he hadn't realised until the sight of her.
He was so caught on Brienne that he barely noticed that the crowd in the courtyard were breaking into smaller parties. Robert headed for the crypts with Ned Stark, and the Stark children took the royal household to their separate chambers. Cersei was led into the keep by Sansa Stark. It was Brienne that Jaime followed, though, away from the courtyard and into the depths of Winterfell.