The Worth Of Ash
Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Game of Thrones or any related titles, characters, plots, settings, etc. These rights are the sole property of George R.R Martin, HBO, and their various publishers and distributors. I own only the original elements of this story, the writing and publishing of which earn me no money.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Nearly a full week had passed since Kyren had landed on the Yangilash. She had fallen deeply in love with Braavos already - with such a rich tapestry formed by the interweaving of so many cultures, how could she not? - but its one true failing was an utter lack of Arya Stark. Kyren had traveled the streets every day in search of information, but she consistently found none.
Her efforts, however, were stymied on a daily basis as she could not search too openly for fear of exposing Arya's presence to any who might see fit to report back to the Lannisters.
In a last-ditch attempt to find the young Stark girl, Kyren wandered into a dusty caravan said to be owned by a soothsayer on an island in the outskirts of Braavos known simply as the Edge. The soothsayer in question was said to know things she should never have been able to discern without the help of the supernatural. Normally, Kyren shied away from consulting the spirits, but she was desperate for any assistance and Arya's life could very well hang in the balance.
Having been thoroughly instructed on how these things were typically conducted, Kyren tapped twice at the door and let herself in slowly. The boards of the floor creaked a loud protest as she crossed to a table with only one seat - a hooded chair covered in faded black upholstery, already claimed by a small pile of dark clothing. She remained on the side of the table closest to the door, setting a gold dragon in the space that had been cleared for such a thing, then waited patiently.
Kyren had been warned that the seeress could keep her waiting for quite some time, so she started rather violently when the pile of clothing shifted to reveal that it was in truth an extremely small person with an extremely large amount of dark curly hair. The soothsayer did not appear to be as small as Tyrion Lannister, but the impression of delicacy was aided by her slender form. She was a mere wisp of a person and Kyren vaguely wondered how she managed to remain sitting upright under the weight of her curls.
"You come to me so heavily armed. Am I truly such a danger?"
The hoarsely amused accent did not at all match what Kyren had expected from the woman and her answer required more than a single moment to articulate: "I come armed only with my wits and the single coin I have already given. There exists no threat toward you, not from me."
The 'complete' listing of her weapons was a falsehood, of course. Kyren wore one dagger tucked into the top of one boot while another rested in a daring holster she had purchased in a market on the far side of Braavos, one designed to be worn wrapped around the uppermost part of her thigh. Neither was visible.
The seeress's head tilted back as she seemed to regard Kyren. The newly-revealed lower half of her face split into a broad, lush-lipped smile. The even whiteness of her teeth and the deep tan of her skin prompted Kyren to subtract a few years from her mental estimation - a number which dropped even further when the woman reached across the table with a motion both swift and graceful to grasp the coin.
Kyren watched as the gold disc came to rest in the seeress's lap, turned several times and tapped by a considering fingernail.
"You offer me gold. What service may I offer in return, Westerosi?"
"I am in search of someone, a person from my past, but I cannot reveal the name."
"Most unusual," she commented.
Anger kindled in Kyren's belly and she struggled to keep her voice level. "Yes, it is, which is why I've sought such an unusual source for information."
Silence reigned for such a time that Kyren began to wonder if she had grievously offended the soothsayer, but the strange woman eventually revealed, "I know the one of whom you speak. She has escaped much and will face even greater odds in the future. You will see her again, but she will be greatly changed."
"I care little for the future. I wish only to discover her current whereabouts."
"You are stubborn, Westerosi," the seeress sighed with a shake of her dark-haired head. "I cannot change these events. They have already been put into place by the gods themselves and no other can be allowed to interfere."
"Fuck that," Kyren said crassly. "I will not allow her to undergo unknown trials while I wait for her to reappear with hopes that I am able to recognize her when she does! Where is she?"
"I understand that you cannot leave well enough alone. Perhaps that is why the gods have locked my lips as they have. You cannot know her location because you trust none other than yourself."
Kyren frowned over at the tiny woman. She had not been warned that the soothsayer would attempt to hold her for further coin, but she had heard of such things happening with others who claimed to know that which they could not. "I have given you my only coin."
The seeress laughed, a tinkling mirthful sound that would ordinarily have brought a smile to Kyren's own lips, had she not been so frustrated by the current turn of conversation. "Westerosi, no coin could unlock my lips, nor could the weapons so carefully concealed upon your person. The gods have deemed that you are not to find the one you seek and none shall be able to give you the information you seek."
Hoping her most ferocious glare could penetrate that curtain of curls obscuring the seeress's face, Kyren snarled, "And why should I believe that you know anything of the one I am attempting to find? You could easily be a fraud."
The woman leaned forward from the protection of her hooded chair, lush mouth set in a firm line. "Such accusations are painful, girl. I know for whom you search, know her face as I know my own. Her future is a certainty, one I would keep her from if it were in my power, but you and I lack the ability to do such a thing."
"So you have met her?" Kyren asked skeptically, though she needed only confirmation that Arya was indeed in Braavos before she began her search in earnest.
"No, I have not met her, but I will. In time, I will meet her. I have seen her, many times, and her future is unchanging. The gods have laid out her path and will allow none to alter it."
In her desperation for a plain answer, Kyren did as she had been advised not to and gripped the table, leaning across it and toward the obscured face of the seeress. "Enough riddles! You have seen her? She is here, in Braavos?"
The pile of curls had shifted away from Kyren's forward motion, but returned to its original position as she answered, "You must learn to listen if you hope to become a knight, Westerosi; I have not seen her, I have Seen her."
Before the red-haired girl could recoil into a safer section of the room, the seeress had reached up with a delicate, long-nailed finger and pressed into the center of Kyren's forehead. A searing pain accompanied the otherwise gentle touch and Kyren found herself unable to keep her eyes from closing. Darkness soon pulled her under.
When Kyren woke once more, she was resting on the bed in her rented room at a local inn. She struggled to sit upright, searching her brain for what had happened. She had woken in a normal place, yet she had sworn she had meant to rise early and try a different method of finding Arya. Judging from the light outside, it was late afternoon. Had she lost nearly a full day to sleep?
She stood gingerly and moved to the door. The inn was very small, merely a collection of single rooms all opening to a central room used as a parlor, receiving area, and dining hall all at once. Henosha, the female half of the couple who owned the inn, glanced over sharply as Kyren walked out.
"Alis!" she cried, as Kyren was still traveling under her assumed name. None thought twice of a King's Landing bastard staying in Braavos. "You were brought back some hours ago by a group of Edgemen with that horrid mark on your face. What have you done?"
Henosha's words took time to filter through the haze of Kyren's consciousness, and when they did, her hands flew to her face. Her fingers stroked and prodded until they encountered something strange on her forehead and she drew back with a hiss as a flash of pain ran through her.
"Yes, that mark," Henosha said dryly, though concern for Kyren still seeped into her words. "It appears to be a burn. I warned you the soothsayer was to be treated with the utmost respect. Why did you not listen?"
Between the pain and Henosha's questions, Kyren's memories of the morning were beginning to return. Certain specifics still refused to resurface, but a general sense of unease and dissatisfaction was clear, as was the sense that the seeress was utterly mad and thus unreliable.
"I did," Kyren defended. "...At first, though I did get frustrated further into the conversation. I fear little was gained by the encounter."
Henosha's face fell. "Then I apologize for sending you on such a fruitless venture, especially as you were injured by it."
Kyren shrugged. "In truth, I found it to be something of a necessary call to action. I now realize that the one I seek is not in Braavos. I must move on, return to Westeros, but how? I cannot afford passage back on any safe vessel."
The innkeeper nodded in commiseration. Ships were commonly terrible places for females, especially those traveling without escort. Even with Kyren's oft-proven skills in throwing daggers, she was hyper-aware that she had only remained unaccosted on the Yangilash due to Jaqen's quiet menace and Vogys's cheerfully voiced threats. Even with her abilities to defend her, killing members of a ship's crew could easily lead to being thrown overboard and left to drown. She remembered the offer Vogys had extended just before she and Jaqen departed and gave a sigh.
"If only I knew when the Yangilash was scheduled to return…" Kyren murmured, inadvisedly thinking aloud.
"The Yangilash?" Henosha asked, visibly brightening. "It will be running goods between Myr and King's Landing for some months to come."
Kyren stared at her, the beginnings of a smile on her face as Henosha blushed. "You wished to know, did you not? The captain of the Yangilash is a friend, he stays here whenever he is in port and shares his schedule quite freely."
After nodding along as though she believed Henosha's excuses, Kyren leaned on the narrow desk and grinned wickedly. "I am certain that Captain Syrar's good looks have nothing to do with your interests in the Yangilash's sailing schedule."
"Well, I never! To accuse me of such a thing…" Henosha defended hotly, blushing an even deeper red. When Kyren was quite ready to apologize, the innkeeper gave a guilty smile. "It is only that… In truth, Illiphos and I were wedded so long ago. And Captain Syrar is so dashing." She nodded once, firmly. "Keep it to yourself, yes?"
"On my honor," Kyren promised gravely, resting a hand over her heart. "Myr, you said?"
"Yes, Myr. It is south quite a few days journey and the road will not be easy, but it can be done."
"How?"
Henosha walked briskly to a map of Essos displayed prominently on the wall, beckoning for Kyren to follow. "As you can see, south of Braavos lie the Timetbre mountains, but there is a well-established road used by loggers and merchants. It is heavily traveled and thus as safe as one can expect. If you follow the road south, it breaks into many smaller roads when you reach the Rhoyne River, but they are easily traveled as well. You will pass the ruins of Ghoyan Drohe, then cross the Flatlands. Continue to travel south until you reach the Sea of Myrth. Myr is the only major city."
"Sounds simply done," Kyren commented, studying the map with care.
"The roads are simple, yes, but there are many dangers that haunt them. Dothraki khalasars have been known the patrol the interior Flatlands in search of settlements to sack. Pirates often pillage villages near the coast, so they are not safe, either. Thieves watch the roads in search of riches to steal, and they seldom leave witnesses alive. You must be careful, even more so because of your appearance."
"My appearance," Kyren repeated, frowning.
Henosha glanced over with a nod, then turned more fully when she realized that Kyren was on the verge of offense. "No, Alis, you misunderstand me. You are pale-skinned and red-haired, beautiful in your own way and utterly different from most Essosi women. You are exotic, a novelty, and that places you at risk for becoming a target for slavers. They say that there are three slaves for every free man in Myr, and the hunters for Slaver's Bay search as far north as Tyrosh for fresh bodies."
Fighting back a coldness emanating from the pit of her stomach, Kyren gave a faint nod. She had spoken so abstractly of slavery with Jaime Lannister so long ago and still considered it preferable to death, but did not especially wish to put her theory into practice. "I will take care, both in my choice of route and in my conduct on the road. I thank you, Henosha, for your kind concern."
"I shall pray to the Silent God for your safety on this voyage," Henosha vowed fervently, but ruined the effect with a small, girlish giggle. "And when you do reach the Yangilash, please tell Captain Syrar that he has never been far from my thoughts."
They had been riding for years.
Perhaps, Jaime's literal mind reasoned, it had not truly been such a length of time, but the rest of him swore that lives had started and ended since they last stopped in one place for more than a moment.
Every jarring step taken by the damnably spring-gaited horse aggravated his hand - or rather, the bloody, aching stump from which his hand used to protrude. He was somewhat impressed that the horse managed to bounce so with both Jaime's weight and that of Brienne on his back, but bounce he did. Was it just his own imaginings, or did Brienne's skin hold a rather unnatural coolness? He would hate for her to fall ill. After all, in such close quarters, he was likely to succumb as well.
"Why did you help me?" Brienne hissed. Bound backwards as he was, Jaime could not see her face, but he could hear the ire in her tone well enough. He had a vague idea that he had already answered, but her continued diatribe seemed to hint otherwise. "I am nothing to you, no one other than a captor and hated escort. Why would you attempt to keep me safe? To prevent… that?"
Jaime did not rightly know.
"How could you not know the reasoning behind your own actions?" Brienne asked harshly. Ah, so he did say that one aloud. It was difficult to keep track of such things.
Jaime's mind began to tumble down the path of his own twisted reasoning. Why had he helped her, though? Brienne of Tarth was nothing to him, just as she had claimed. He had certainly resented her at the start of their journey - and indeed, through most of the middle - but at some point, he had begun to admire her. With the odd clarity of one whose mind is no longer under his own command, Jaime realized with a start that she reminded him of another. When those men had dragged her away and she had fought, round face and round eyes set in a desperate semblance of bravery, he had seen another round face, though the eyes were somewhat different.
Would Kyren have liked Brienne? She had left the camp of Robb Stark before she had ever met the towering female, but they were similar in many respects. At the same time, Kyren was sensitive about her weakness and small stature while Brienne was uncomfortable with her own size and strength. Perhaps they would have hated each other. Being around another who is a constant reminder of one's perceived shortcomings was never easy. He should know; his own foils were common enough in the life he had led so long ago.
"Who is Kyren?" Brienne asked gently and Jaime swore - whether aloud or only in his mind, he was uncertain and no longer cared. There was no way to know how many of his thoughts had been spoken aloud, but the idea that Brienne knew Kyren's name, knew her importance to him, was a weakness. With only one hand and a body wracked with the brittleness of long captivity, Jaime could not afford yet another weakness.
"Kingslayer…" Brienne trailed, and though Jaime winced at the hated name, her tone held none of the usual hatred. "You must eat and drink. You must regain your strength."
Jaime scoffed at that. He had been given piss to drink and worse things to serve as food. With deliberate concentration, he managed to say aloud, "We both know that is no longer an option."
Brienne replied, but he could hear no longer as he had passed into unconsciousness against her broad back.
When Jaime's eyes opened once more, he found himself in the familiar, all-encompassing darkness of his phoenix dreams. There appeared to be no Weirwood tree and no nest, but he could not be certain, as there was certainly no phoenix to provide the soft glow to which he had become accustomed.
Weary in this world as he was in the real one, Jaime laid down where he had been standing and stared into the darkness. His mind taunted him with images of creatures stalking him in his blindness, but he could not bring himself to care. If he were lucky, something with large jaws would snatch him up and he would never have to face life without his sword hand - his one contribution to Westeros and the only justification for his knighthood which was not based in the purse of his father.
Thoughts brought back the recent trauma his body had endured, Jaime's intact left hand reached clumsily for the space his right had occupied once upon a time. He encountered no hand and battled back a wave of disappointment. The stump was painless and smooth, no raging fire of infection or rawness of a new injury, but Jaime was deflated. Even in this world inside his mind, he could never again be whole.
Dimly, he registered that his surroundings were growing lighter. They were still as black as if he was standing in an inkwell, but somehow, there was illumination. With wariness borne of his last experience with light in the shadowed world, Jaime brought his left hand up, poised to cover his eyes should the brightness grow unbearable.
However, the light slowly intensified until reasonable before leveling off. Jaime blinked several times, having become thoroughly adjusted to the darkness. It was only then that he noticed the figure.
She stood a short distance away and seemed utterly unmoved when Jaime stumbled to his feet, preparing to defend himself against an attack. Even if she had moved against him, however, Jaime would never have fought back. She was short, fine-boned and pale-skinned. Even as he braced himself for assault, she simply stared up at him with a small smile on her face and kindness in her dark eyes. Her hair was a mass of dark curls, and her hands rested comfortably on a belly swollen with pregnancy. Jaime could never harm a woman with child, even if she did mean him ill.
For some reason he did not understand, Jaime collapsed back to his knees. If this woman would kill him, he could do nothing but make it easier for her. At least she was a less horrid sight than some creature with large jaws.
With softness in her posture and compassion in her eyes, the woman rested a hand on his shoulder. "Oh, my son. Such suffering… Be at peace. All will be well."
Even as he fought to keep his guard up, Jaime felt his eyes well. "Who are you to promise such things? I have not had peace for as long as I have lived."
Regret filled her heart-shaped face and she squeezed his shoulder. "You have not been dealt an easy hand, that much is true."
"And what could you possibly claim to know of my trials?" Jaime asked, shrugging her delicate fingers from him as he stood.
There was no fear in her at his sudden movement, only a kind of sweet peace that called to his battered soul. "We have known you since the day of your birth, my son. I am the Mother. Do you not recognize us?"
Jaime's mind ground to a full stop as he struggled to process her words. The Mother? Was he in the presence of one of the Seven? Surely not. He had always assumed that, when he moved from this world, he would be cursed by the gods, not spoken to with love and compassion. Even the Mother, the member of the Seven known for mercy, could not be so kind. And yet, his soul cried out for the peculiar comfort he had taken from her touch and her words.
"I- I know not what to think," he hedged.
With a bittersweet smile, she stepped away from him and wrapped her shapeless cloak around herself. Even as she twisted away from him, her form grew taller and broader. When the cloak fluttered away once more, the Mother had been replaced by a man whose height, golden-hued skin, and black hair marked him as YiTish.
"You are one of my own, a warrior," he said sternly. "You survive only based on your instincts. You know the truth. Who else would have sent the dreams you've had of late, if not the Seven?"
At the words of the Warrior, Jaime's spine snapped back into a semblance of attention that only served to remind him of the gaping space his sword hand had once occupied. With newly-piqued anger, he snapped, "As a warrior, I would think you would know how to give a warning. You only revealed to me that something terrible was to happen after months of dreaming about a bloody bird! Charmingly cryptic and not at all helpful!"
The Warrior's gaze darkened into something pitying and full of disappointment, leaving Jaime feeling hollow. His words, when they came, were far worse. "I thought you one of mine, called to serve your country, your king, and your gods. Now I find an ungrateful child rather than the intelligent leader I expected. It seems I was mistaken. You fight a great battle, soldier. Do you truly intend to turn tail and flee rather than face the challenge directly?"
The Warrior's tone made it clear that he was prompting Jaime, commanding him to vow that he would do better in the future. Jaime laughed, the sound low and rage-filled. "And how would you expect me to redeem myself? I've lost my sword hand and likely my place in the Kingsguard."
When he finally looked back at the Warrior in expectant frustration, he had changed to another, the Maiden, if he was to go by her smooth skin, golden hair, and green eyes. She bore more than a passing resemblance to Cersei, but her gaze held joy and warm humor rather than censure and cold calculation.
Even as he wondered when he had begun to think of Cersei in such a way, Jaime heard the Maiden speak. "Why would your exclusion from the Kingsguard factor into your redemption?"
"Were you not listening?" Jaime asked, irritated. "My only talent is in wielding a sword and I can no longer do that. How else am I meant to perform any great deeds?"
Her freckled nose crinkled. "Whoever told you that swordplay was your only ability? The gods are not so creatively limited that every person receives only one innate talent. You have more potential than that. You simply need to work at honing other skills."
"Yes, you are correct," Jaime agreed, sarcasm dripping from his voice. "There are so many entries concerning great knights who laid down their swords and took up banner-sewing instead."
The corner of the Maiden's wide mouth quirked, though her wide eyes were filled with a sympathy. With a motion of the cloak, she too was gone, replaced by a wizened old woman carrying a lantern. She was depicted in a number of Septs, so Jaime had no difficulty in recognizing the Crone. Her hair was snow white and still thick. Her dark eyes were framed by deep wrinkles, but still held a keen intelligence.
With such a solemn appearance, Jaime was somewhat taken aback when she reached to slap at his uninjured arm and shoulder. His surprise was apparent in the confused sound he involuntarily loosed.
"Foolish child," the Crone spat. "You think always of great deeds, legends to keep your legacy alive when you've gone, but you are still so blind."
Jaime drew himself up, affronted by the old woman's words. "I am banned from fathering children as a member of the Kingsguard-"
The Crone cut him off with a loud cackle. "And you've let that vow stop you, eh? You have fathered children, you just cannot claim them as your own, and that is a problem unto itself. But we were speaking of great deeds."
"And how I have none to my name, yes," Jaime summarized briefly.
Her thin arms swayed as though she longed to hit him again. "Your perception of great deeds is narrow and incorrect, child. You have some to your name, though they doubtless mean little to you as they have earned you no great acclaim." Jaime arched a brow and she explained slowly, "Your protection of King's Landing by killing the Mad King?"
"Ah, so when they are called 'great' deeds, it is a farce. They truly mean 'deeds that will earn you scorn throughout all the Seven Kingdoms'. Forgive me for missing that. I learn slowly; it is my most constant detriment, as I am certain you well know."
The Crone gritted her few teeth and swung the lantern with menace. It was only after she was already gone that Jaime realized she had been wrapping herself in the cloak. A large man stood before him now, looking every inch the Wildling berserker who featured in so many poorly-told tales about life north of the Wall.
In contrast to his threatening appearance, the Smith appeared to be something of a gentle giant. At the moment, he seemed embarrassed, sheepish even. One hand rubbed at the thick apron protecting his clothing from the sparks that would emanate as he pounded hot iron into swords, his calloused fingers nervously smoothing over the fire-frayed fabric.
"What the Crone meant," he began, caution in his painfully deep voice, "was that all great deeds require a great sacrifice in return."
"Few of those detailed in the book required any sacrifice whatsoever," Jaime argued.
The Smith laughed, a chuckle that rolled like thunder. "We speak of true great deeds, not those farces celebrated by men in our name. You have now performed three deeds deemed by the Seven to be great. The first was killing the Mad King, for which you sacrificed your reputation. The second was accompanying Kyren Asheworth on her journey of healing after she was so grievously injured, for which you sacrificed your dearest relationship. The third was your protection of Brienne of Tarth, for which you sacrificed your sword hand."
"Unwilling sacrifices, each of them," Jaime grumbled ungraciously.
"Are they?" the Smith asked, peering at Jaime with curiosity in his eyes. "Deeds become truly great because they will be remembered with gratitude for all the days of the recipient's life. Take, for example, Brienne of Tarth. She is a noble servant of the Seven who has upheld every vow she has taken and you have saved her from suffering beyond reason. She is equally as important as you in the war that wracks Westeros and you have done us a great service in saving her, yet our gratitude cannot begin to approach that which she holds for you. Would you truly refuse to make those same decisions, should the situations be repeated?"
Jaime remained quiet for a long moment, weighing his response with care. The Smith allowed him time for thought, remaining patiently silent with only his expectant eyes warning that the subject would not be dropped.
"I believe," he admitted eventually, "that I would do much the same thing in each circumstance, though I am not saintly enough to pretend I would not attempt to spin them into one which falls further in my favor."
The Smith shook his head slowly, a rueful smile on his tanned face as he wrapped the cloak around his singed apron and twisted to reveal a man who was several inches shorter than the Smith, but no less powerful for the height difference. His aristocratic nose, stern mouth, and commanding bearing made him a figure that should have put Jaime on edge, but the wrinkles in the dark skin around his eyes and mouth spoke of a man who smiled often.
This was, no doubt, the Father. Jaime lowered his head in a slight bow, a sign of respect for the man who would one day judge his soul and likely find it wanting.
"Look at me, son," the Father said in a carefully-modulated voice. Jaime obeyed the clear instruction and was shocked by the warmth he found on that intimidating face. "You have done quite well for how little you were given. You were born into wealth and power, but lacked instruction on the correct way to utilize such gifts. In that way, you have lived a life of trial and experimentation until you reached a balance you could maintain."
"Father…" Jaime said slowly, shocked at how natural the title fell from his lips when with every address of Tywin, it had felt like poison drawn from a wound. "I must know... why? Why has such a sacrifice been asked of me? I feel as though I have been damned. The only tool given to me to use in order to save my soul has been taken from me. Why?"
To no one's greater shock than his own, Jaime found that he could not hold eye contact with the Father. Where the others of the Seven were easily spoken to, easily mocked and dismissed, the Father held his attention - and his respect.
The Father sighed. "My son, you are capable of things other than battle and violence. However, you are not entirely incorrect; you are indeed being punished."
"Why?" Jaime asked again, an edge of impatience creeping into his voice.
"You have broken nearly every vow you took in our name. Do you realize such a thing?"
Jaime's cheeks flushed dark, but he refused to look away again. "It has been brought to my attention."
"As you appear to prefer such a practice, I will speak plainly with you. The breaking of such a number of vows was forgiven with your first sacrifice. Siring three incestuous children, all illegitimate, was atoned for by the end of your relationship with your sister. The future atrocities you would have committed in our name have been negated by the loss of your sword hand."
"And killing the Mad King? Surely that should number among my sins?" Jaime asked caustically.
"You protected the residents of an entire city. I judge the souls of the dead - as is my duty - but I would not have relished weighing such a large number that day, especially so many whose lives would have been stolen before the proper time. Perhaps, with attention, you will realize that there is a reason your first sacrifice was the least painful…"
"But how do I carry on with this?" Jaime demanded, brandishing the stump of his arm in the Father's face.
"You must forge a new path, my son. The gifts which once came so easily will now cause you to struggle. You must hone other weapons, for your land is at war and you must continue in the battle. It is foretold."
"But how?" Jaime asked once more.
The Father merely smiled at him and wrapped the cloak around his shoulders. With a quick mental tally, Jaime realized that he had met all of the Seven save the last, the Stranger. Even as he thought it, the cloak - having fallen to the ground with the disappearance of the Father - gave a twitch. Jaime watched, enthralled in his eagerness to see the face of the Stranger.
He jolted back when the cloak exploded outward, catching sight of a familiar black beak and grey-tipped red feathers as the object flew past him. Jaime whipped around to find that the Weirwood tree had regenerated itself. The phoenix glided down until it was perched on an empty branch, a different one than that which held its nest. It peered down at him with intelligent yellow eyes.
"You? You are the Stranger?" he asked, stunned.
It came as no shock when the bird did not answer, but Jaime still fought with the familiar sense of rage that filled him at the very appearance of the creature. Of course, now that he knew the phoenix was actually the Stranger in a disguise, he was far less inclined to act on his anger than he had been in the past.
"You must live, Kingslayer," the phoenix told him in a human voice. It was a strange voice, straddling the line between gentle male and throaty female. He had heard the voice before, and chills marched down Jaime's arms at the recognition of the voice that he had last heard singing him the lullabye warning him of his own doom, removing even the hint of irritation he experienced at the Stranger's use of the hated name.
"So I have been told, yet I see not how. Even should I long for life, Locke will keep it from me. He ensures that I have little to drink and nothing to eat. Life itself flees from my deformity."
"A means will present itself. For now, the one you have saved holds a stake in ensuring your survival. Relay to her your newfound need to survive, but speak nothing of these dreams."
Jaime gave a sarcastic chuckle. "And have the entirety of Westeros believing that I have lost my sanity? I believe these dreams and resulting conversations will remain a most closely-guarded secret, unless they are revealed by you."
Had the phoenix's beak been capable of such a movement, Jaime believed it would have smiled. "There is little chance of such a thing. The Seven communicate directly with only a very remarkable few."
"And how did I earn such a right?" Jaime asked. The question was sharp, but his tone revealed it for what it truly was: a humble sort of wonder mixed with a firm doubt that he deserved such a thing. "As the Father told me only a moment ago, I have broken nearly every vow I have ever sworn in your name."
"That is true, but the circumstances in which you broke them partially protects you from the consequences of such actions. More importantly," the phoenix said, cocking its head to fix him with an impressive stare, "your future is entwined with that of Westeros itself. The fate of the living world hangs in a very delicate balance. Should even one factor fail before the correct time, all will be lost."
Jaime frowned and began to ask what any of the explanation was meant to reveal, but the phoenix spoke before he could. "Wake now, Jaime Lannister. There is much which must be done. Death approaches rapidly."
The tree, the phoenix, and the darkness of the surrounding world disappeared in a spiraling pinprick until Jaime found himself attempting to sit up with a gasp.
Brienne's familiarly ugly face was twisted into a gentle expression that gave her a shadow of beauty as she pushed him back down. He was lying on the ground with his head cradled in her lap and was taken aback by how comfortable he was - even with the renewed burning in the swollen flesh that formed the stump of his right hand.
"Water," he croaked, and fought a smile at Brienne's look of surprised pleasure as she allowed him to drink from the skin of water held between her bound hands.
Author's Note - Bless you, dear reader, for surviving this monster of a chapter! It's a full thousand words longer than the previous longest chapter and it is a beast. Wish I could say it'll be the longest one... Shout-out to Zaisha786 for the encouragement! Thank you for reading and please drop a review! I'll see you next week!