A/N: Once again, I am sorry for the delay. I planned to have this published in April, but university duties didn't let me. I will soon be taking exams, so time is still limited, but I'm hopeful towards the dates for the next chapters.
I doubt this one will satisfy you in any way. Here and in the next one are scenes not featuring either Jaime or Brienne; hope you'll forgive me that, but I just had to write them. Thank you for sticking with me and this story, and, most importantly, enjoy!
VI
I See Fire
Tormund Giantsbane and Berric Dondarrion stood in the open doorway, both panting heavily, their clothes ragged, dirty and wet, their faces tired, bruised and pale.
"What happened?" Jon was the first to react. After a passing moment of shock, he hurried towards the Wildling and made him sit on the nearest bench. Daenerys watched them cautiously, but Tyrion could say she was more agitated than seconds before, already sensing some new dread hanging in the air.
Tormund needed a moment to be able to speak, and even when he managed to steady his breathing the words were coming in spasms, his voice quivering.
"They brought back your dragon." He looked at Daenerys, who stiffened immediately. "Their fucking king on its back. They destroyed the Wall."
Tyrion felt all air leaving him in an instant and he could tell he wasn't the only one. Jon straightened and slowly turned to look at the Queen, but Tormund grabbed him by the collar of his fur and pulled his face closer, insanity shining in the Wildling's eyes.
"They destroyed the Wall, Jon. The fucking Wall. And killed all my people. Every last of them. These fuckers will pay for it," he whispered in delirium, his grasp weak from tiredness.
"We will make them pay," Jon promised and gently disentangled himself from Tormund's grasp. "You can be sure of that."
"What is the dragon like now?" Tyrion asked, seeing that Daenerys wasn't really able to form any coherent inquiry. She was standing motionlessly, frozen to her spot, her eyes widened and fastened on Tormund.
"Dead," Dondarrion stated the obvious and sat heavily next to Tormund. "Breathing some blue fire."
"And the Night King mounts it?" Jon enquired further, wishing to be certain he hadn't misheard the information.
"Yes."
The terrible truth swallowed them whole. It might have been the worst of the things they had heard this day; it didn't bode well not only for them but the whole humanity as well. The future had seemed uncertain for quite some time already and now it became some elusive fantasy existing only in their most naive dreams.
They couldn't wallow in their misery for long, though. They were responsible for the North and maybe even for the whole humankind. They had to take some actions even if they were destined to fail.
"When was it?" Davos spoke up, looking at the map of Westeros. Jon would have asked the same thing if he could shake off the unpleasant feeling that was squeezing his heart. All the information they had received this day concerned the events from the past. Wasn't the past an open book for Bran? Didn't he gaze into it as he only saw fit? And if so, why hadn't he informed them about all of those events? Why hadn't he seen it fit?
Jon turned around and discovered his once-a-brother was looking at him, his eyes expressionless, but also at the same moment so dreadfully cold Jon felt a shiver running down his spine. There was something dire in this gaze and this situation in general. He quickly turned back to the newcomers, but still felt the cold stare on his back. Did the Three-Eyed Raven know what he had been thinking about?
The Three-Eyed Raven, because Jon wasn't able to call him Bran anymore. It was Bran no longer.
"Who the fuck knows?" Tormund burst, his gaze completely wild. "We ran our asses out for days and nights."
"We lost track of time," Dondarrion added calmly. "Might be days, might be weeks. The Long Night was almost there around the Wall, so it was hard to tell."
"If they're moving towards us..." Davos pushed one of the pawns on the board towards Winterfell, "...they could be here any moment now."
"We still have time," Jon disagreed vehemently. They couldn't lose their spirits or else they would be gone. "We need to defeat the dragon first. We won't stand much chance as long as it is a part of their army."
"We can make the weapon." Tyrion quickly picked up on the idea, no longer feeling so hopeless. "Like the one Cersei's army had in the Reach."
"And a dragonglass crossbow," Jon finished with something akin to excitement in his voice. It seemed like the only thing they could do to save the whole Westeros from breaking apart, or rather it seemed like the only thought that kept them on the verge of hope, enabling them to escape from the cruel truth they were already lost.
Sansa looked at them both, their eyes glowing like they had just found a dragon egg, and she just wanted to laugh. Weren't men able to face the undeniable truth? They were here alone, facing the dreadful undead power which had its own dragon. No one will come to their aid and the enemy will arrive much sooner than it had been expected, so there was no time left to truly prepare. The Wall had been broken, and the second point of resistance will soon succumb to the same fate.
Tormund lifted his head and gazed upon Brienne, hope shining in his tired eyes. Unwillingly, she met his glare for a quick moment. There was too much in her head at the moment to focus on expressing her distaste straightforwardly, so she just looked the other way. He might have become a messenger of some important and disastrous news, but it didn't mean her attitude towards him would change in any way.
"Bronn could give us the details," Tyrion added, looking like he was ready to break into a run after the already half-dead ex-sellsword to get the design of the weapon.
"We must make it our priority," Jon nodded.
"We could also try dragon versus dragon," Davos suggested but was quickly met with Jon vivid objection.
"No." Snow shook his head. "It would be too dangerous for Drogon and Rhaegal, and we cannot afford to lose any of them."
They needed Dany's dragons to stay alive; plus, Jon had already once or twice caught himself thinking they were no longer "Dany's dragons", but his as well. He would never let anyone hurt them, not now when he was very close to loving and treating them as his own.
As the men were exchanging ideas concerning the assassination of the undead dragon, only few people took a closer look at Daenerys. Missandei made a step towards her with visible concern, but the Queen stopped her with a gesture of her hand and spoke up, her voice cold as ice, cutting through the air like a knife diving deep into the living flesh.
"If I hear anyone speaking about killing my child ever again, I'll personally see to it that they burn."
Silence returned to the Great Hall as no one dared to utter a single word. Jon stared at Daenerys with shock and concern. He could see she was trying to maintain her stonecold composure and her usual strength, but the tears shining in her eyes were giving her away. He thought how tragic everything had lately been for her - she had lost the birthright to the Iron Throne and her allies, and now her dead child reappeared as a creature from the worst nightmares. Those events couldn't have been easy to cope with.
"Leave us alone," he said firmly, looking at the people around them.
"No." Daenerys' eyes met his and he found himself terrified with what he saw there. "I want to be alone."
It felt like a slap in the face. He just stared at her until her gaze shifted and landed on Tyrion. The words were directed to both of them, clearly indicating she had had enough of them and that they had disappointed her greatly.
Other people started leaving the chamber; only Missandei, Grey Worm, Jon and Tyrion didn't move an inch. Varys tried to wordlessly persuade his companion to follow him out the room, but Tyrion pretended he didn't see the Spider's insistent stares. His eyes were glued to Daenerys who lifted her head proudly and looked above the heads of the people, desperately trying to keep her emotions at bay.
"We need to kill him," Jon said vehemently, ignoring Davos the same way Tyrion had done with Varys. He was not going to be easily discarded. He was her family; it had to mean something, hadn't it? She should have at least listened to him. Because otherwise... Otherwise, he would be forced to act in a way he definitely didn't want to. He didn't wish to sit on the Iron Throne alone as the righteous king of Westeros, but if going behind Dany's back would prove to be necessary to save humanity, he will do what it takes. Even if a lot of hearts would have to be broken along the way, including his own. "He's no longer Viserion and you know that. He's a White... I don't know, White Dragon now. Viserion is gone. We have to kill him before he and his new master destroy the world as we know it."
His words hang heavily in the air as he was looking at her with hope, waiting for any sign of a positive reaction, of the slightest indication she at least heard what he had said. She didn't answer, gazing at him with superior defiance and unwavering power, yet he felt a thread of frailty in this facade; she had been strong when Viserion had died, but this... this might have been just too much.
"He's right," Tyrion spoke silently. Jon looked at him surprised; he almost managed to forget he and Dany weren't the only people in the room. "Viserion... he's not your child anymore. He's lost. You cannot save him now."
Jon frowned. He definitely hadn't thought she could see the dragon situation in such a way, it seemed just absurd. However, she hadn't dealt with the Others as long as he had been doing it. She didn't have his experience and maybe... maybe she just didn't know. Maybe she still had hope.
When Daenerys spoke again, her voice was different, more broken than before.
"Have anyone ever tried?"
She looked intently at Tyrion, visibly on the verge of breaking. It was like losing her dear child all over again, but this time to the enemy much worse than Death. Tears were shining in her eyes as her fists clenched in a desperate attempt to obscure the shaking of her hands.
"How would you even imagine it, my Queen?" Tyrion smiled at her sadly. "He will gaze upon you with his icy eyes and suddenly remember you once were his dear mother? It doesn't work this way, even though I truly wish it did."
She didn't break their eye contact, but she was no longer able to contain the tears. Not many people were around to witness them anyway - only her Hand, her lover and her two most loyal companions. She could allow herself a moment of weakness.
"We had a special bond. It doesn't change after death. It can't. It can't, because if it does, then it meant nothing, nothing at all. And it is not possible."
Jon felt his heart breaking seeing her in such pain, but he had to remain focused on the subject. They didn't have a choice but to kill the undead dragon; it was his task to convince her to let them do that.
"Daenerys..." He took a hesitant step towards her, reaching his hand in her direction. She gazed at him absently, tears staining her beautiful face.
"I am his mother," she said looking at him, but he felt like her stare went rather straight through him. When her eyes truly met his own, he saw a flicker of resignation there and thought she finally came to the right conclusions.
"We know it's difficult." He smiled comfortingly at her. "And we understand your pain. But it's something we have to do and you know it."
Her expression changed suddenly. Something in his eyes or his words made her retreat to her previous attitude. The tears dried out as the cold returned in her next words.
"Mothers fight for their children until their dying day. Mothers definitely do not help to assassinate their children. That is not what mothers do."
Tyrion caught himself thinking the three of them had no experiences of ever having a mother, so they didn't know what mothers did, but he managed to stop himself from saying it out loud in the last moment. Those wouldn't be the wisest words.
Jon released a quiet sigh, which enraged Daenerys even more.
"Look at you, my two faithful advisors." She smirked and approached Jon, who gazed up at her uneasily. He didn't like the tone of her voice. "You..." She reached her hand and in a surprisingly tender gesture caressed his cheek without looking him in the eyes. He almost allowed himself to lean into the touch, to lose himself in it; almost, because he knew it wasn't the beginning of something good, but of a thing rather opposite from such. When she gazed into his eyes there was no warmth in her irises whatsoever and it chilled him to the bone. "You are partially responsible for Viserion's death and yet you try to convince me my child dying and transforming into an undead creature that will wreak havoc next to the Night King is something I should just accept and without second thoughts end his new existence." She leaned closer to him, her lips barely an inch from his ear. "You can say you understand, but you do not and will never comprehend it. You're not a dragon. And you never will be."
As she took a step back her face was expressing the purest shade of distaste and nothing more. He knew she was deliberately trying to hurt him, but it still stung, especially the truth standing behind her words.
The Queen turned around to face Tyrion who decided to calmly await his fate. He knew it wouldn't be pleasant, but he wasn't going to interfere. The only thing he was anxious about right now, except for his brother's dreadful fate, was what Jon Snow might do if poked too deeply. The former King in the North could reclaim his power and authority any time if he just wanted to. The Northmen will never follow the foreign queen without his or Sansa's support and once again the army with a three-headed dragon on their banners will be left alone with no allies in Westeros. Tyrion couldn't let that happen. He had to be Daenerys' voice of reason in moments like this, when her own judgment was clouded.
"And you?" She scrutinized him with disdain. "You somehow omitted to tell me your sister will once again gain what I'll never have - a dynasty, even without your brother by her side, who, out of all people, turned out to be more honest than you. Get out."
They didn't move for a moment, just staring at her in silence.
"Daenerys..." Jon finally started, ready to tell her everything he thought, spill out all his heart; when she looked at him, though, her eyes once again lacking the coldness, but filled with sheer pain and nothing else, he lost all the words.
"Get out," she repeated, her voice quivering, and turned her back on him.
Jon gazed uneasily at Tyrion; the older man just nodded his head. They should have been going.
"Your Grace." Lannister bowed his head and moved to leave the chamber, gesturing to Jon to follow him. Casting one last glance at Daenerys' back, Snow did just that.
When the doors closed behind them, Tyrion looked at Jon with a sad smile. Snow reminded him of a lost puppy who was trying to play tough but failed entirely, revealing his soft side. They both probably needed some comfort right now.
"On a scale from slim to nonexistent, how do you estimate our chances?" he asked half-jokingly, trying his best to steer his thoughts away from everything that bothered him.
Jon gazed at him with concern in his eyes.
"I'm worried about her," he said, trying to reach the conclusion what his biggest concern truly was: the undead dragon, the army of the dead, the impending destruction of the whole Westeros, or his loved one's state of mind? Although his heart wanted to dictate him the right answer, he knew he couldn't allow himself that. He had to see the bigger picture, even if that might hurt both him and her in the process. People of Westeros, his people, were the most important thing and there had to be no doubt about it.
So why did it hurt so much?
"She just needs time," Tyrion answered with cheerful hope. Which we do not have, he added in his thoughts.
Jon nodded slowly, seeing nothing else but the pain he had noticed in her eyes.
"Come. Let's have a drink." Tyrion slapped him on the back as high as he could reach and started walking towards the dining room. "Everything will stop looking so gloomy after ingesting some wine. Or even better, after a lot of good wine. Frozen people of the North do have such luxury, don't they?"
"I suppose we do." After a momentary hesitation Jon followed him, his mind clouded. He doubted he would find any solace on a bottom of a glass, but who could know where the answers were hiding. Maybe wine will know.
The moment they left the chamber, Sansa moved quickly away from the crowd and Brienne followed her absentmindedly. She was thinking about dragons - both the one that got killed and then resurrected, and the one that Jaime had to confront - when she heard a well-known voice coming from behind her.
"You know it's the end, aye?"
She sighed, knowing all too well what was to come, so she didn't even turn around or stop her march. Tormund quickly caught up with her and started staring at her intently as she didn't grant him as much as a passing look.
Silence didn't work, as he followed her forward without ever breaking his intent stare.
"No one knows it," she finally answered, realizing she had to play this game for a moment if she wanted to get rid of him sooner rather than never.
"Still, it might be our last chance to get to it." She was walking quickly, so he had some difficulty keeping up with her considering he had been running for the last few days on end. Apparently, he was determined enough to be relentless this time and abandon his usual lusty stares in favor of words. "Just imagine that - having me inside you, our bodies joined as one in a dance of desire..."
She grimaced and looked at him briefly with disgust.
"I'm not interested," she answered simply, but it wasn't enough to drive him away.
"You and I, writhing in your bed, making each other warm... And we'll all be dead tomorrow, so hey, no regrets! Though I don't know why you'd want to regret having me in you."
Her cheeks started burning at the mention of "making each other warm" as she remembered the images her mind had conjured when she had last heard this phrase. There had been some writhing in bed involved, but the man being there with her definitely wasn't the red-haired Wildling.
"Not interested," she repeated, hoping he hadn't seen her flush; if he had, he definitely would interpret it in a completely wrong way. She scolded herself for having such a reaction, but sadly, she could do nothing about it.
"Listen..." he started and grabbed her arm to stop her, which ended her patience at last. She turned to him abruptly, threw him on the nearest wall and twisted his own arm the way it went through his neck, creating a considerable pressure on his airways and making him low on oxygen. She would have dealt with him with little difficulty was he in his full strength, not to mention now, when he was tired and hungry. He seemed almost powerless in her iron grasp, his eyes glistening morbidly, his mouth moving as he tried to take a breath.
"When I say I'm not interested..." she said slowly, her voice dangerously low, her eyes burning with anger, "...it means I'm not interested."
Despite his noticeable difficulties with breathing, Tormund managed to grin widely at her and from the awe in his eyes Brienne realized she had made a mistake. The sheer strength she had treated him with and the act of pushing him against the wall were probably parts of some twisted fantasy of his, and she had just made them all the more real.
"W-when I say... I-I take it as a... a challenge, i-it means I... won't... give up... till... I... get... there," he stuttered proudly, still grinning even though a few tears of exertion appeared in the corners of his eyes. Brienne growled and let go of him which made him fall forward and basically crash into the opposite wall; he couldn't care less, focused entirely on catching his breath quite desperately.
Sansa appeared next to them, her blue eyes analyzing the situation carefully.
"Is he bothering you, Brienne?" she asked, looking at Tormund with visible distrust.
"No, my lady." The Wildling was just an obnoxious fly buzzing around Brienne's head which she couldn't get rid of and nothing more; no reason for concern whatsoever and definitely not something worth worrying her lady with. "Tormund is just tired."
Tormund beamed at her in sheer contradiction of her words before he turned around and walked the other way. They watched him go, after which Sansa resumed her abandoned march with Brienne following her close behind.
"If you would wish for some protection, I can order someone to guard your room at night," lady Stark offered without looking at her knight. If she could do anything to spare Brienne some of her own experiences, she would definitely do that.
"I appreciate the offer, but it will not be necessary. I can assure you there is no need for concern." Brienne could handle Tormund any time of day or night on her own, without anyone standing for her protection. She also reckoned whether she won't be not-so-forced to share her room from this night on. She envisaged Tormund's face the moment he would sneak into her bedchamber and discover she wasn't alone there, and her lips curved into a satisfied smile.
Sansa didn't continue the subject, suddenly coming to a halt before the nearest window facing north, her eyes fastening on the white horizon without actually seeing it.
"If only the likes of Wildlings were our only concern," she said bitterly as Brienne stood next to her, watching the winter landscape, seemingly so calm and peaceful, in truth hiding a lethal hell that could turn on them any moment now. Brienne felt her heart jump at the thought of the fight: she wanted to do something constructive finally - it had been far too long since she had been able to use her fighting skills. She missed it. "They might come any second and we're basically defenseless."
"As long as we are alive, we still have a chance."
Sansa gazed at her briefly, unsure whether she believed the same thing, then just nodded slightly and resumed her march ahead. There were plenty of things to do before the fight, and she was the one to take care of them.
If only she could erase the image of a field of white covered with her people bleeding to death, crying in agony or transforming into a burning pile of ashes, everything would be much easier.
If only.
Jaime stopped feeling anything, both physically and mentally, about halfway through their journey to the dragon. Bronn, though trying hard to regain some of his strength, was still limp and too weak to walk, and soon his weight made Jaime's body numb. Once they had left the castle the cold welcomed them back with cheer; the knight blankly realized he still wasn't dressed appropriately to the weather, having left Brienne's chamber only in the remains of his old cloak and in one of her furs. Her fur. Did they know it was hers? Will she be in trouble for sympathizing with him and trying to stand for him? He had asked her not to protect him, but of course, she couldn't have listened. She wouldn't be her then. Still, anger and frustration were bustling in his veins. She wasn't supposed to sacrifice her good name for him, she wasn't supposed to sacrifice anything for him. He cursed her in his mind all over again; her golden heart that will be her ultimate damnation, her foolishly blue eyes, too trusting for her own sake, her head still filled with ideals, even though not so naive as those she had nourished until not so long ago. He was furious with her. If they punish her in any way, it will be her fault, not his. He had warned her.
The moment the thought crystallized he sighed deeply, piercing his lungs with frozen air. Even though she had acted the way she had, it was and will be his fault. He was to blame for everything that will become of her. She couldn't be responsible for the acts of her selfless heart, it simply was the essence of her being.
The thoughts of her fate, darkened by her vouching for him, made him feel numb mentally as the cold attacked his body with increased intensity. The element focused on his gloveless hand - his fingers started burning, the paradoxical fire spreading from the tips of his digits up his arm. He couldn't hide it into his clothes as it was the arm that held Bronn, so the only thing he was able to do was to repeatedly clench and unclench his fist in a desperate yet futile attempt to generate some warmth through the work of his muscles. Soon, way too soon, burning transformed into aching similar to the feeling of a thousand needles being stuck into his flesh. The same process was taking hold of his feet, although it was happening at a much slower pace. Walking seemed heavy, so heavy, and for a moment he felt like the whole day hadn't happened and he was still traveling with Bronn, closer to freezing to death than ever before. Maybe everything had been a bittersweet mirage created by his exhausted, dying mind.
The pain transformed into numbness as he was gradually losing feeling in his hand. It would be a real tragedy, he thought bitterly, to lose the only functional hand minutes before death. Death that was now the only certainty.
The whole road Podrick was sending him looks full of sorrow and pity; he didn't need it, so he fought hard to ignore his companion and focus on Mormont's steady steps ahead of him. Not once did the knight look back to check whether they were still behind him, but he probably heard the shuffling of Bronn's body as they dragged him through the frozen paths and Jaime's heavy breathing as he tried to convince his chest to resume its usual rhythmic movements. They followed Ser Jorah down the hillside path leading away from the castle and towards the Unsullied camp. Jaime gazed at the Queen's soldiers, gathered around their impromptu built shelters, and allowed himself a moment of awe. The eunuch warriors seemed unbothered by the cold as they were standing upright next to their tents or practicing their skills without any consideration of the falling snow and the chill that was eating Jaime from the inside. They didn't even stop their activities to notice the four passer-byes, barely glancing at their direction with no interest whatsoever. Jaime felt a sting of jealousy towards these men of steel and order; he wouldn't actually mind if someone offered him to exchange places with them right at this moment.
With such soldiers Daenerys was difficult to conquer; when added the fury and raw skills of the Dothraki, she should be unstoppable, if only the enemy was as alive as Cersei. He smiled to himself weakly; the notion of finally being on the right side, even though this side will ultimately be the cause of his death, brightened the darkness obscuring his thoughts. But soon the light got devoured by the flames that had been raging in his mind for quite some time. Death by incineration was the worst kind of all. The pain of own flesh burning while the victim was alive for dreadfully long, a smell of roasted chicken with the realization this chicken was their own body, the sound of the fire cracking and gnawing at them... For a moment he closed his eyes, feeling his heart skip a beat, but all he could see were flames: yellow, orange and red, they were feasting on his dead body, from time to time transforming into the beast he was about to confront... He quickly returned to the winter reality, his heart racing. Even though he was freezing, sweat covered his forehead where the snow couldn't reach his skin. As always, he was brave and unwavering. But as almost never, he was also terrified. Not of death, because it will just be the ultimate price for his sins, the one he deserved and had expected for quite a long time; he should have been grateful to his fate he had managed to reach Winterfell before that. Not of pain, because he was completely used to it. He was terrified of the beast and the fire of its breath and he could do nothing about it.
He was going to face the dragon with his head held high, with as much dignity as he could only muster. It didn't mean he wasn't frightened to death by this concept. Courage and fear often went hand in hand, even on a battlefield.
They were walking a windy path enclosed by trees when suddenly something changed: the snow started slowly dispersing and the air was getting warmer, more pleasant to breathe in. Soon there were no signs of winter any longer, but the burnt barks and bare bones of various animals lying on the ground signalized they were close to their destination. Jaime caught himself not breathing, so he forced his brain to focus only on this simple activity. The path went higher and suddenly opened to the substantial clearing, extending from the slight rise they were standing on to the foot of the hill some way up north. Here the temperature rose even higher, inducing sharp pain in Jaime's frozen limbs. He cursed the winter in his mind, but then his eyes caught the sight of the inhabitants of the glade and all of his coherent thoughts disappeared.
Dragons.
Mormont turned around and looked at the knights expectantly. Pod swallowed his saliva so loud Jaime could actually hear it and clung tighter to Bronn's shoulder. Bronn managed to utter a sound similar to laughter. Jaime stared at the bigger dragon, a large lump growing in his throat.
He had seen it before, in the field; it had been enormous back then, now it seemed even ampler in size. Its black scales shone in the winter sun to the point of being painful to look at, making the creature glow. Its teeth were bared as it feasted on its prey, tearing the pieces of meat apart.
It had to hear or smell them as it lifted its head and turned it towards them. Even from the distance that divided them, the orange of its eyes reminded Jaime of the sight of it just before Bronn had pushed him into the water. Did it remember them? Did it know what Jaime had tried to do back then?
"Drogon is the bigger one." Ser Jorah's voice reached Jaime's ears like through the mist, throwing him back into the reality.
He looked at Mormont and nodded his head in confirmation, then turned to Pod.
"You can go now," he said, which granted him a confused look.
"I'm not going anywhere." Pod shook his head vehemently, swaying Bronn's body in the process. The knight groaned in protest. "I'm staying here." Pod's voice wasn't steady, but he didn't look fearful. Jaime noticed the squire gazed everywhere but not at the dragons, and chuckled at him.
"Brienne will finish me off herself if I let any harm come to you. Go, Pod."
For a moment Podrick looked like he wanted to give a fight, his mouth opening to protest; but then the air flew out of his lungs and his gaze turned into a sorrowful one.
"I'll go," he said sadly, but still didn't let go of Bronn's arm. He dared a quick look at the dragon; as the orange eyes pierced his soul he immediately gazed back at Jaime, breath catching in his throat. "Good luck," he basically whispered and loosened his hold of Bronn. Jaime nodded his head in acknowledgment and fought hard to stifle a groan as the ex-sellsword's whole weight resided on his arm which was still painfully deciding whether it preferred to be half-frozen or slightly warmed up.
As Pod hesitantly turned away Jaime's attention returned to the dragon. It hadn't moved and was glaring at them hostilely.
Mormont cleared his throat, reminding the Lannister knight it was time.
"Any last word?" Jaime muttered to Bronn while he threw his friend's arm around his neck and took a step forward. Bronn's muscles were apparently resuming their function as he turned his head and gazed grimly at his companion.
"Is fuck you good enough?" he groaned, his voice hoarse.
Jaime smirked.
"Can be," he answered and pushed them further. They were covering the distance between them and the dragon at a painfully slow pace while the beast apparently didn't intend to move. Jaime didn't look at it, focusing only on walking. He could feel the eyes of both the dragon and Ser Jorah, who was still standing near the line of the trees. His heart was beating loudly as his brain was trying to persuade him it wasn't too late to get out of it alive, but he ignored it completely. Next step was all that mattered.
He almost didn't notice when they finally approached the beast, but he felt its breath on his skin and heard it in his ears. He dared a glance up at it, at this enormous figure made of heat.
Their eyes met and Jaime felt his heart jump to his throat. The blazing orange looked at him with pure hatred and rage. Its eyes were narrowed like it was assessing its potential prey. What could it have been thinking while it had been watching its two enemies going its way, looking entirely like easy snacks sent by its mother? What could it think now, when they were standing so close to it like soon-to-be victims? Only one thing. And what could they do or say to make it change its mind? We've come here with the most cordial intentions?
It was ridiculous. Dragons were animals, so there was no way they understood the Common Tongue. Still, they were supposed to be smart, even dreadfully so. Through the mists of the past, Jaime remembered young Tyrion raving about how wonderful and intelligent the dragons had been and that he would have done everything to own one of them. Their sweet sister hadn't missed any occasion to remind him the creatures no longer existed, destroying his childish hopes and dreams; it had always been Jaime's job to make his little brother's world whole again.
The bittersweet memory dissipated into thin air when Jaime blinked and looked at the creature in front of him in a completely different way. The reminiscence had lasted only a few seconds, but everything seemed to be transformed. There was no longer only fire and vileness in the creature. Jaime felt a substantial power radiating from the beast, power that his fear had made impossible to sense; he saw wisdom shining in its eyes, wisdom that his prejudices had hidden from his sight.
It... No, not it. He. The beast had a name.
Drogon.
He will understand.
Without further hesitation, acting on an instinct, Jaime drew Widow's Wail.
"What are you doing?" Bronn hissed, trying to maintain his balance once Jaime stopped supporting him. Drogon narrowed his eyes some more, a low growl coming deep from his throat. Jaime knew the dragon was ready to set them aflame, but curiosity was holding him back. They were both perfectly aware Jaime wouldn't manage to mount an attack before Drogon's claws reached him.
Jaime didn't answer and, without losing the eye contact with the dragon, knelt down on both knees, laid his sword on the ground in front of him and lowered his head in a sign of sheer submission. The act surprised both Bronn and Drogon; Jaime could feel Bronn's incredulous stare at his back while Drogon stopped growling.
"Fuck." Jaime heard resignation in Bronn's voice as the knight weakly copied his gesture. It was the moment of the truth, of life or death: will the dragon understand what they were trying to communicate to him or had Jaime severely overestimated his intelligence?
Jaime felt the rush of hot air on his scalp as Drogon lowered his head to inspect the sword. The knight's mind projected yet another memory - different war, different animal, different him. The brief confrontation with Robb Stark's direwolf seemed to be nothing more than a child's play right now. Drogon definitely belonged to a different league.
As the moment lasted and the knights' lives were hanging by a thread, Ser Jorah Mormont watched it all from afar. Despite himself he was feeling respect for both parties involved. It took a lot of courage to stand up to a dragon; even he wouldn't do it lightly, and he was with them from the moment they had hatched. He watched now as Drogon determined what to make of this strange offering he had been given. He had to know it was an offering because otherwise the two men would already be roasting and they were still breathing. His orange eyes scanned the clearing in search of his mother, wishing to seek her advice or orders; they didn't find her though, stumbling upon the knight standing under the burnt trees instead. As their gazes locked, Jorah as usual experiencing a peculiar sensation of katharsis, the man pondered whether Drogon associated him in any way with the dragon's younger years. Could it mean anything for this creature made of fire and blood if there was no shield of the Queen's protective presence?
Drogon stared at Jorah for a few seconds, then turned his head towards the knights on the ground in front of him. Jaime saw the flash of the beast's teeth above and closed his eyes, convinced he knew what was to come. Some calmness spread through him as he waited to feel the pain shattering his body and soul.
However, nothing like that happened. Drogon growled, but it was a different growl than the one they had heard before - it seemed to be more of a warning than a sign of gathering the spark to ignite the fire. Jaime dared to gaze up; he found yet another threat in the dragon's eyes, though it was not a threat of immediate death. Then Drogon turned around abruptly, his tail swinging above their heads, spread his wings and rose into the air.
Jaime stared at him until he disappeared from the knight's sight. He needed some time to realize they had been, in a way, forgiven. They had just managed to do something impossible.
They lived to tell the tale.
A/N: Just wanted to add that the accusations concerning Jon I put in Daenerys' mouth are partially my own. I do believe if he wasn't behaving so stupidly Viserion could still be alive and I was slightly angered by the fact no one even noticed that he acted like a fool.
And, by the way, I have no idea how to write Tormund... Which I think you have noticed already.
Till the next time!
