When Jaime died wrapped in Cersei's arms, crushed under half a castle of stone, he opened his eyes alone, in a bed… and cold.

But he knew the stone walls surrounding him as well as any of the castles he'd lived in, no matter how briefly. How in seven hells had he gotten from King's Landing back to Winterfell?

It didn't matter. Jaime reached to pull back the covers, swinging out of bed.

He froze.

The sheets grasped firmly in his hand.

His right hand.

There was nothing he could do but stare down at it, at the flesh and blood he'd missed so dearly. "By all the gods…"

He was dreaming. He must be. The rocks had hit him so hard that he was dying, of course he was, and the gods had granted him one last vision before the endless dark.

That had to be it.

Jaime stepped out of his room, surprised by the changes he saw in the castle, the lack of damage, the heartiness, the happy Northerners…

And striding down the hall towards him was his sister. Her hair was long and lovely, her face free of the lines from fear, from pain, from the loss etched so deeply into her soul. The bitterness was still there – tempered with love, with desire. When she stepped close to whisper, "That broken tower in the west," he knew without a shadow of a doubt that he would be there.

He hoped he'd never wake from this dream, this last snatch of a time before everything fell to ruins.

She felt so good in his arms as they writhed together, this dance they danced so well. So familiar and yet…

Jaime knew. Somewhere deep down, he knew. She'd never been his. She'd only ever been her own – not even truly her children's. And nothing he could do would change that.

But that didn't mean that he couldn't enjoy the pleasure of the moment. Gods, he'd missed her love so much.

Until a scrabble of rock fell from their window.

They turned. Wide brown eyes in the young Stark's face stared back.

Cersei rushed to cover herself. Before Jaime had a chance for thought, he stepped to the window, the Stark's tunic rough in his grasp as he held the boy's shirt.

"He saw us!" Cersei pleaded. "He knows!"

Jaime knew what she wanted. Knew what he had done before, knew how stupid he was for exposing them yet again, knew whatever creature Bran would become wouldn't care that Jaime had done this – would, in essence, forgive him.

But a boy's terrified eyes stared back at him.

"What's your name, boy?" Jaime said.

Cersei cried behind him, "He saw us, Jaime! He–"

"I know!" Jamie cut her off, finally harsh. He knew. The Mother have mercy, he knew.

The boy didn't look any less terrified. Jaime smiled at him. "Your name?"

He didn't need the boy to tell him, of course, knew the name of every gods-cursed Stark that had led the fight against the Night King.

But the question gave the boy something easy to focus on, something he could get right. Bran swallowed. "Brandon," he whispered.

Jaime's smile widened. "Brandon. Called Bran, right? A real talent for climbing."

Hesitantly, Bran nodded.

Jaime patted the boy's shoulder. Bran stumbled with the action, fingers scrabbling in air to clutch at the window– But Jaime's other hand locked around his arm, keeping him firmly in his grasp.

"What do you want to be when you grow up, Bran Stark?" Jaime hoped his smile looked friendly, not like the pain of a man naming a lamb before he slit its throat.

"Jaime," Cersei hissed, but said nothing more.

Jaime remained silent, waiting for Bran. He prompted, "Can't be a lord; your brother's already taken that one. A traveling minstrel? A scholar, a maester, a–"

Bran shook his head, finally settling the edges of his nerves. "A knight."

Jaime felt as if his blade had missed the lamb – and hit himself. "A knight?" he whispered.

Determination filled Bran's face. "Fierce and honorable. A Kingsguard."

And Jaime couldn't breathe, his eyes squeezed shut in pain.

The boy was everything Jaime had ever been. And Jaime was now everything his own boyhood self would have revolted against in horror.

"Jaime," Cersei pled again. "You have to. You can't–!"

Agonizingly slowly, Jaime opened his eyes. The boy no longer looked scared, simply nervous as he looked at Jaime's hand still holding his arm. "What did you see here, Brandon Stark?" Jaime asked, knowing the boy's answer would damn Jaime, knowing no matter how Jaime regretted this action the last time around, he would never, never be able to rid his conscience of repeating the searing act.

He might toss himself out the window after the boy.

Bran's gaze darted between Cersei and her brother. "I'm not…" He swallowed again. Jaime counted his own heartbeats. Bran continued, "I'm not sure."

Jaime blinked. It couldn't possibly be an option, he wasn't that young, not that naive… but he faintly remembered a war almost destroying his family because the Lannisters all forgot that Starks weren't always as stupid as they looked.

"How not sure?" Jaime asked again.

"Very," Bran replied.

All he could do was ask another stupid question worthy of the first: "What were you not sure that we were doing?"

"Hugging," Bran quickly replied. "More hugging than I'd like to do with my sisters."

Jaime closed his eyes, letting out a breath. From the speed of his answer, the boy was likely lying. But yet…

The gods had seen fit to gift him another grant at life. If he could change his mistakes, right his wrongs, by all the old gods and the new, he'd start with this one. Weren't there other ways to make sure secrets didn't get out?

Stepping to the side, Jaime pulled Bran down into the room. Cersei opened her mouth – and Jaime shot her a glare so fierce that she snapped it shut again.

Standing there next to him, the boy looked so small, so fragile. Like a little dove with its wings clipped in this great stone cage of a tower.

"If you want to be a knight someday," Jaime started. "You'll have to be a squire first. Have any knights offered?"

Bran turned those wide brown eyes up at him, shaking his head.

Jaime smiled. "I think you showed a lot of bravery and a lot of promise, climbing this tower. Why don't you run and tell your father that I'd like you as my squire?"

Bran's eyes went even wider. "Really? I'd get to train with you with swords and lances and fight in tournaments and jousts and everything?"

Jaime's smile twisted in amusement. "Mostly, it's carrying tack and polishing armor. But yes. If King Robert gets his way, your father will be coming down to King's Landing, too. You'd get to see your first real tournament alongside your family."

"You're…" Bran hesitated, looking to Cersei before his gaze came back to rest on the infamous knight. "You're not teasing? You really mean it?"

"I really do," Jaime replied. "If your father allows it, that is."

"I'll go ask him!" Bran darted away down the stairs, his feet pattering on the descending stone, not even remembering to say a thank you.

The moment he was gone, Cersei stalked over. "What the devil has gotten into you?" she hissed. "The boy's not an idiot. He'll tell his father, or he'll get older and know what it means, what leverage he can wield if only he whispers his little secret in the right ear. There are a million ears he could tell in the capital, Jaime. A million and you think–!"

Jaime stared at his sister, waiting out her tirade.

Cersei let out a huff, looking away. "We can't risk being seen together. The whole month's ride back to the capital, I won't be able to come within ten feet of you without jogging that boy's memory. Maybe never again."

And finally, the last of the scales fell from Jaime's eyes. So. This is what it feels like to be used.

"Alright," he said instead.

Cersei spun towards him. "What?"

Jaime shrugged. "You're probably right. We can't risk it. Not ever again."

Cersei blinked, stunned by how badly she'd miscalculated. "But… we're two halves of a whole. Inseparable, bound together in life, in death–"

He never should have gone back for her. Should have left her to rot in the grave she'd dug for herself in King's Landing. Should never have thrown away the future he'd fought so hard to carve for himself, with people who actually cared for him, who trusted him, who mattered.

People. He was kidding himself. There was only one 'people' who mattered; he wouldn't dare defile her name by thinking it in the same room as his unclothed sister.

Instead, he smiled sadly at Cersei. "For your sake, I hope you heal from the halving far more quickly than I ever did."

With that enigmatic parting, Jaime set off down the steps of the tower.

He'd been called the dumbest Lannister, but the beginnings of a plan were taking shape. If he could get Ned to agree to make the boy his squire (difficult, to be sure), then whole worlds of possibilities opened up.

It was a great honor to be squired to a Kingsguard. But for a Kingsguard stationed at the capital, forced to guard the door to the king's chambers day-in, day-out, being a Kingsguard could be excruciatingly… boring.

Bran would loathe it.

Ned loved his children.

Ned would loathe it.

Ned would be Hand of the King.

Robert couldn't give a shit about Jaime. But he adored Ned. Needed Ned.

All it would take would be a suggestion to Ned, perhaps passed through Bran himself, that Jaime and his squire could be sent somewhere more interesting on the king's business.

There were always pirate raids around… oh… Tarth, was it?

Jaime sauntered through the halls of Winterfell, whistling a jaunty tune.

...

"You think you can squire my son?" Ned had all but snarled at him the next day. "Without bothering to ask me?"

"I am asking," Jaime calmly replied, wishing the honorable Ned Stark were even a hair less aggravating. "This is me, right now, asking you."

"No," Ned fully snarled. "Out of the question, Kingslayer."

Jaime fought not to roll his eyes. Unsuccessfully. Perhaps the notion of Stark stupidity had always come entirely from their father. "Do you think it's contagious?"

Ned's eyes narrowed. "Do I what?"

"Think it's contagious," Jaime slowly clarified. "My lack of honor. Do you think the boy will catch it?"

"I don't know what you'll be teaching him," Ned said. "Nor why you'd want to."

"Swordplay, mostly," Jaime replied. "Jousting, especially, since he said he wanted to learn and I've yet to see a single quintain in Winterfell."

Ned studied him, formulating a response. Silence was better than a barb, and Jaime continued.

"As to why I'd want to, your daughter will be marrying my nephew. Let's just say I know there's some bad blood between the families of Lannister and Stark and I'd like to put it behind us."

"To have me in your debt," Ned summarized.

Jaime shrugged. The man wasn't wrong. Though for an entirely different reason than he suspected.

"The answer's still no, Kingslayer." With that final word, Ned stalked away.

But when Ned Stark went south with his daughters, Bran went, too.

A/N: This is completely written and will post weekly on Mondays for the next 5 weeks until it's done. Please let me know if you liked it!