When dawn came, it was as if the battle during the night hadn't even come to pass- the ice and sleet had wiped the slate clean, burying the dead in a shroud of white.
The ride continued eastwardly, and Jaime could feel the energy draining from him with every second that passed. He felt his face growing gaunt, his beard a thick, wiry mass of silver and gold. His muscles ached from the last fight, and even his horse was growing thin, the poor creature's ribs digging into Jaime's arse through its coat. Jaime was afraid it would give out beneath him.
The ride was harrowing, the weight of loss and grief heavy on the group as they rode. Everyone was in pain, physically. They had been riding around eight or nine hours, silent except for the barking of orders. Jaime had only seen the silhouette of a dragon once, which he found strange since Daenerys had taken them to Winterfell and Castle Black earlier that day. Her grief was visceral for Jorah Mormont, so much that even Jaime could tell.
Grey Worm had told Jaime that morning that Daenerys had taken her dragons to Winterfell and Castle Black, to scour the areas. A raven had arrived from her telling them that a great battle was underway at Winterfell, and Jaime's stomach lurched when he thought that Tyrion may be there. He would be there, he knew deep down. His heart had wrenched when he saw Brienne's face, her concern for the girls and Podrick overwhelming her. Jaime had told her he had faith in their skills, similarly for Clegane's and Gendry's.
Gods, he worried for Tyrion, though. Even Bronn.
Jaime wished he was in Winterfell, fighting the dead in the place where they had thought would resist the creature's temptations. He felt useless here in the cold, empty middle grounds of the North. He wrapped his fur closer around him, looking around at his fellow soldiers. He found her immediately.
Brienne rode a few metres behind him, her face patched with dark red and brown misshapen dressings. She caught his eye for a moment, when suddenly the horde halted when a number of horses began to whinny and wicker, rearing up.
Standing on the stirrups, Jaime could vaguely see that two or three horses had collapsed with exhaustion and hunger, their Dothraki riders laying stunned, trapped beneath the poor beasts. There was some commotion as Wildings, who walked, attempted to lift the dead weights of the steeds off the riders, and continued on.
Beric Dondarrion appeared on his horse beside Jaime's, his furs as thin and sparse as his beard, which hardly covered a fresh cut from the fight. He barely seemed to notice the cold, Jaime noticed, as the man did not shiver in the slightest. Jaime had learnt that shivering was a constant for him this far North. "This is madness," Jaime shouted to him. "We won't make it to Eastwatch in these conditions. Didn't Snow predict this?"
Beric looked forwards, screwing his face up. "We're not going to Eastwatch, Kingslayer. They have plans," he shouted back. "They just haven't executed them properly." He nodded to ahead of them. "Look."
Jaime looked over the group and saw the grand silhouette of a stronghold, a beacon of hope in this dreary north. The Last Hearth, Jaime realised, and that sense of hope soon dissipated when Jaime realised this was where the White Walkers and their army had been predicted to be ransacking. The Seat of House Umber. When Jaime turned back, Dondarrion was gone.
The horde was still stationary, waiting, wondering. What's taking so bloody long? Jaime thought. He was a commander. I ought to be ordering this lot around if we're going to get anything done. Jaime's musings were interrupted by Jon Snow's voice. That surprised Jaime, since he hadn't seen him part from Daenerys Targaryen.
"We are going to attack them from all sides," he yelled from the front of the group. Jon Snow didn't ride a dragon today. Instead, he was mounted on a horse, his great white wolf looming beside him. His voice was overridden by the howling wind, and Jaime missed half the orders. He did not need to hear them, though. He knew what Snow would do, and as young as the bastard was, he knew battle very well, if not as well as Jaime himself.
"… once we have split, then we will enter the gates and kill as many of the fuckers as we can. There is a good chance that…" Jon paused, barely audible over the wind, "there is a chance that there won't be any living residents left."
The scattered bannermen and members of House Umber, usually as vocal as the Wildlings, were silent. "But we must needs keep fighting. This war is far from over. With me," shouted Jon, turning his horse around in the snow, headed for Last Hearth. "Weapons drawn! Archers, loose when Ser Davos gives the order!"
They inched towards the castle, its grey walls seemingly impermeable; a layer of shimmering blue ice covered the exterior of the castle. But all castles, really, besides the Eyrie, were permeable. Even Highgarden, Jaime thought derisively.
The ice and snow made it difficult for them to split, but into four groups they split still. "Lannister, you're in charge," Snow had told him. Jaime felt those familiar butterflies of pre-battle anxiety build in his stomach, more persistent than with human battles. That made Jaime laugh internally; there were now human battles and inhuman battles.
Bile rose in Jaime's throat when he realised Brienne wasn't in his group. He pushed the thought from his mind and led his group, comprising of a two dozen Wildlings, three Dothraki and two Unsullied, around the perimeter of the stronghold. Jaime reached out his golden hand to gauge how solid the ice covering the walls was- it was as hard as granite. They eventually came to the gates, and Jaime lifted his golden hand to stop them.
"Halt!" Jaime's group came to a standstill in front of the portcullis, which was wide open. The internal courtyards were easily visible, blanketed in ice, all built structures reflective beneath the thickest ice Jaime had ever seen.
"Fuckers are hiding from us," spat a Wildling woman, Val, from beside Jaime. Jaime had never met her before today, but she was headstrong, and a great beauty besides. Her blonde hair cascaded down her back, and her piercing eyes were as green as his own.
Jaime never wanted to look at her again.
"We'll have to smoke them out. Draw your weapons," he said instead. He kneed his horse and cantered forwards, over the portcullis and through the gates.
"We wait for the King in the North," boomed a voice from behind him. Jaime recognised it. He reigned his horse around and saw that another group had arrived at the gates. Tormund's group.
"You can," said Jaime cuttingly, turning his confused horse back around. Last Hearth's courtyard greeted him with mist and frost, silence and stillness. Still no sign of anything. We can't have missed them, thought Jaime. We can't have.
He heard a disgusted groan from behind him and heard horse hooves follow promptly behind him. Both groups were now inside Last Hearth's walls, and Jaime's heart was in his throat as he drew Widow's Wail. Anticipate the worst, he remembered his father telling him, then it won't seem as bad as it is.
The wooden battlements that lined the walls of the Last Hearth were similar to that of Winterfell's, but they hardly looked wooden anymore. They were positively cobalt. The grey and white stones were covered in thick, blue ice, and the stairs that led into the halls and chambers were shimmering and pristine, the ice on each step uncracked and as solid as stone.
Jaime realised now that all the fighters were now within the walls. He caught eyes with Jon Snow, whose dark eyes were grim as he clutched his giant longsword in his hand. He then searched for Brienne, and, ridiculously, felt himself panic slightly when he couldn't see her silver-blonde head towering above everyone else's. He eventually found her, and scolded himself for that moment of weakness. Bullheaded Wench, he thought, don't die today, either.
There were no sounds except the wind and the echoes of their horse's footsteps. It looked as if nothing had been touched in a millenia; hell, it looked like the Wall, if Jaime had heard right. Even when the Dothraki and Wildlings went and searched every hearth, hall and chamber, there were no dead men, or alive ones for that matter, to be found. They came back with confused expressions and clean arakhs.
"Empty," Jon Snow said, the word reverberating around them all.
Jaime looked around at the vast sheets of ice coating the parapets. "It looks like it's been empty for years," he said. The group murmured in agreement.
"It hasn't been." Jon Snow's voice was as icy as the walls. "I know it hasn't been."
"Where are… Umbers?" Greyworm, unflinching in the cold, asked flatly.
"They're gone," Jon Snow replied stormily. "The dead have already been through here. We've missed them."
The whole group erupted.
"We're useless here!"
"We should go back to Winterfell! Why did we even leave if the battle isn't here?"
"Where are they now? Are they all at Winterfell?"
"QUIET!" Tormund yelled, appearing beside Jon. Jon nodded in thanks. Jaime noticed Tormund's eyes searching eagerly for someone; Brienne, no doubt. Jaime's neck tightened unwillingly as he noticed Brienne flush and look down at her reigns.
"The dead that passed through here could have either gone to the Dreadfort or further south, or to join the battle at Winterfell," Jon Snow barked, but an undercurrent of patience softened his tone. "Daenerys will send a raven telling us what she sees, and that will decide where we will go tomorrow. I'd wager they've gone... Winterfell is under siege, aye, but they are seasoned fighters and I have a lot of my best fighters out there. We go where Daenerys says we go, and if it happens to be Winterfell where all the dead men have gathered, so be it, we return. If they are even further south, then we go further south. The people of Moat Cailin and the Neck are not going to be prepared, so we fight for them."
Jaime's stomach wrenched at the thought of them reaching Kings Landing. He would not let them get that far. He would not.
"I am sorry you have all come here for nought, but I can assure you, it will not be nought for long," promised Jon Snow.
Last Hearth's Great Keep was a frozen labyrinth. Jaime knew that somewhere within, Jon Snow was going over plans, and Jaime wanted a hand in it. They'd all scanned the Keep for danger, but all was clear. But plan they must.
Jaime was stuck in his own world of battle and logistics as he descended the stairs to the Great Hall, when he heard Brienne's voice from below. His shoulders felt lighter somehow. He followed her voice and there she was, standing with Jon Snow, Ser Davos, Grey Worm Tormund and standing around a large table in the dim hall. The Dothraki, Wildlings and Unsullied sat at tables, eating what supplies of dried mutton they had, the Wildling's treating the unaccustomed with their frostbite.
Jaime scanned the hall, his eyes falling on the Wildling woman, Val, her startling wild beauty a welcome sight. She caught Jaime's eye, nodding. Jaime looked away quickly, her blonde curls and pouted lips too pretty, too Cersei.
He walked up to stand beside Brienne. She turned her head and her eyes were pained. Jaime's heart sunk. What hurt you, he wanted to yell, who hurt you? Instead, he just gazed back at her, bewildered. When Jaime looked around at the group at the table, a still, empty sense of sorrow was tangible. Jaime looked back to Brienne, who was looking at her hands. Jaime could not bear to see that look on her face. Please look at me, he plead.
"Daenerys has sent a raven," said Jon Snow grimly. "Winterfell's attack is worse than what we've seen last night. She burnt what soldiers of the Night King she could see, but with it she had to burn a part of Winterfell as well. There were casualties. But the largest part of his army has gone even further south, as I predicted. Dany has attempted to take out as many of them she could find, but she fears that they have dispersed to cover a wide range."
Shit. Jaime took a deep breath. Tyrion somewhere near Winterfell, Cersei in the South… "So we follow them." A handful of people in this world Jaime cared about, and two were in danger. He thanked the gods Brienne was by his side.
"We follow them," said Ser Davos.
Night fell heavily. Jaime dragged his hand along the walls of a chamber, one he had allocated himself as Jon Snow had told them to do in what they assumed was the Great Hall. It had probably only been days since an Umber had slept in this room, breathed its cold, stale air, and it unnerved Jaime more than it should have. He'd slept in the King's bed and fucked the queen in it, for pity's sake.
His mind wandered to Brienne. That morning, he'd woken up before her, and she looked like a different person when she slept. The hard lines were softer, and Jaime had wanted to lie there for longer, just breathing and resting, but he had to wake her up. He had gotten too close last night, in the hysteria of battle. Had it been hysteria?
He conjured up her shocked blue eyes, her forehead warm against his, and he felt a stirring deep within his core. All these unfamiliar sensations were swirling inside him and it worried him because deep down, he still felt as if these thoughts were a betrayal to Cersei and that they meant nothing. She was still a part of him, even now.
He stood by the frosted window, and sighed, unbuckling his armour. When he was done, he sat on the edge of the feather-bed, and sighed heavily, revelling in the softness. He had been contemplating his love for Cersei for months. Do I even know what love is? He wondered, stretching his aching muscles. What I am without her? He examined his body, prodding the purpling bruises dappling his forearms and thighs.
His love for Cersei had been twisted, reckless, forbidden. But she had been his world. Everything he had done, he had done for her. And now he did not want her. But that didn't mean he did not care for her. A part of him would always love her, and he would not let her die. Never.
Jaime wondered if Brienne's wound was faring well. Jaime had been poring over his reactions last night; he had feared losing Brienne to the dead men more than he had ever feared losing Cersei. Seven hells, I went senseless when I thought she was dead, he thought. Jaime had gone mad with rage, cutting down as many wights as he could, and when he saw her standing, Oathkeeper in hand, he thought he could weep with relief. They had been through a lot, the pair of them. Bears, sapphires, chains, hands, scars, blood, Roose Bolton, Sansa and Arya, oaths, and now dead men.
He smiled tiredly, re-donning his breastplate and leg armour but not bothering with the arms, and left his chambers. Mayhaps he would find Brienne on his watch- they were on rotation once again.
The Hearth's halls were now lined with torches, and Jaime appreciated the luxurious warmth more now than ever. If Winter had not come so harshly, the Hearth would have lived up to its name. He wandered the winding corridors, passing heavy chamber doors that he could hear guttural Dothraki conversing tiredly behind, snoring behind others.
He passed Davos Seaworth as he was going up the stairwell, nodding in quiet acknowledgement. Jaime reached the door that led to the parapets and peered around, goosepimples rising on the nape of his neck.
"Lannister," he heard footsteps approach him from the stairs. Jaime turned and Jon Snow stood just below him, dark hair unkempt and loose, and Jaime suddenly remembered they had talked in the courtyard of Winterfell a lifetime ago. "You'll get some rest around midnight. You'll be on watch with Brienne until then. Beric and I will take over afterwards."
Jaime paused, eyeing the bastard up and down. "Good man. Why aren't you sleeping now, Jon Snow?" He realised he'd never addressed Jon Snow as anything. He had no idea what to call him. He was just Ned's bastard.
"I don't really sleep anymore." He walked up to Jaime's level, half out the door.
Jaime nodded, not really understanding. "Is Daenerys…"
Jon shook his head. "Without Mormont, Tyrion or Missandei by her side, she feels lost. I can only do so much. She's… struggling with Mormont's death." His tone suggested there was more, but Jaime didn't push it.
They both exited the door, walking along the walkway that lined the castle's exterior. It was slippery and the snow was coming under the cover sideways- Jaime felt his age when he held onto the glistening side rail. Jon led Jaime to where he'd be standing on guard for dead men- Brienne wasn't there yet.
"Didn't Mormont spy on her for Robert?" Jaime asked as they walked. Jon Snow nodded. "Well. I suppose we can all come to trust those who have wronged us. Losing a loved one is…" Jaime recalled Myrcella dying in his arms, Tywin's body on the stone slab, and Cersei, who was almost dead to him. "… it's difficult."
The darkness that arose in Jon Snow's eyes was bone-chilling. "Aye. It is."
A silence the shape of Robb and Eddard Stark hung between them. "If you are at all… dubious about my allegiance to fighting for the living, I need you to know that Cersei has lost me. Completely." Liar, her voice resounded in his head. Almost completely.
Jon regarded Jaime, his eyebrows pinched together. He had learnt how to walk on the ice without so much as a misstep- he may as well have been a Wildling. "Many of my fighters have tried to tear you out from the group. Say you're a liar. Tell me to send your head back to King's Landing for your sister to…" he trailed off. "… but I haven't listened. I could've. I wanted to for a damn long time."
"Tormund Giantsbane, I presume, is one of them?" Jaime asked. Jon Snow's face didn't flinch in the slightest. "I suppose I can understand it. What reasons do you have to trust me?" Jaime chuckled. He was appreciative, but could understand Snow's fighters' point. Jaime's father, in conjunction with Walder Frey, had ordered to kill Robb Stark. Cersei had kept Sansa captive. Jaime had led the coup of Eddard Stark, killing Jory Cassel in the process. His son had been the one to execute him following that incident. He had attempted to murder Bran.
"Trust is a strong word. You're an able fighter, and one who could help us end the Night King's army." Jaime bristled at the word 'able.' He'd been gifted, once. "Tyrion used his talent of convincing people, too. Trust me, he had to do a lot of that. And that… Ser Bronn," Jon Snow replied. "And Brienne." They reached the turret Jaime would be watching from, the torches flickering in the wind.
Jaime smiled. "The strange company I keep pays off, then. My protectors."
"Protector?" Jon Snow said in a questioning tone.
Jaime frowned slightly at Jon Snow, quizzical. "Of sorts."
"That's what Lady Brienne is to you, then."
Strange. "Well, not exactly."
"When Sansa told me that the woman who was protecting her wielded a Lannister sword and wore Lannister armour, I did not trust it for a second. Then I met her, and she is… so loyal, almost too honourable. Sansa told me you and Brienne had a shared history, and that was even more unfathomable to me. That she could be affiliated with someone so despic…"
Jaime accepted that blow. Heard worse, he thought, for doing less. Kingslayer. He was surprised to hear so many words from Jon Snow, habitually so sullen and of few words. "The lady Brienne and I were the oddest of travelling companions."
Jon paused. "Do you hit people with your golden hand who try to woo Bronn, too?"
Careful, boy. He didn't realise Snow had a side as snarky as Jaime himself. Jaime straightened, giving a hard laugh. "You'd better go and get some rest if you're going to remain King in the North."
"Sansa can handle the north better than I ever could." He looked out over the wintry wasteland that was the Last Hearth, and turned to leave. "Grey Worm will blow the horn if anything does happen, and I shouldn't have to tell you what to do. See you in some hours."
Jaime nodded, and Jon left.
The wind was no less biting than it had been, but the turret Jaime stood in had a roof, thank the gods. The moon was hidden behind black clouds tonight, but the torches gave enough light to be able to see coming threats. He thumbed Widow's Wail absently, ready to draw the blade at any given moment.
He stood on guard for a while, his beard crusting over with snow once more, trembling in the cold. Where are you, wench? He didn't want to leave his post, but he had been waiting long enough. He walked carefully along the wooden walkway, passing Grey Worm, Wildlings and others along the way and came to a halt when he saw an immense figure- no, two immense figures- standing across from one another, mere silhouettes. Undoubtedly Brienne and Tormund.
Jaime snorted, watching Tormund make ridiculous hand gestures. He never gives up, does he? Jaime felt his throat tighten nevertheless. He watched warily, hoping Brienne wasn't in any trouble. He thought of her injured face and the gentleness of her sleeping face; she was more vulnerable than she made out to be.
His eyes adjusted to the light of the torches along the walls and wondered if he should go and show Brienne their post. Might as well save her from his advances, he thought, but as he took one step forward, so did Tormund.
Jaime stopped in his tracks as Tormund's hand snaked around the small of Brienne's back- Brienne pulled away his hand, stepping backwards. A ball of heat pulsated inside Jaime's chest and throat as he strode towards them, and his anger hit a crescendo when Tormund hoisted Brienne towards him, pressing his lips to hers grotesquely.
The next thing Jaime knew he had Tormund pinned against the icy wall, his golden hand and flesh hand pressing hard into the skin of the Wildling's throat. "You just don't learn, do you, Giantsbane?" he hissed, bending Tormund over backwards into the gap between the parapets, his fiery hair and beard accentuating the ferocity on his face. He held Tormund's face over the edge of the wall, looking down from the height.
"I don't have my reputation for nothing. I could toss you over this wall without a second thought." He pushed Tormund quickly then pulled him back, a threat. "You have no idea what I could do," he purred, pressing his wrist harder on Tormund's throat. The Wildling's eyes bulged.
"Jaime, stop this!" Brienne ordered, her voice fierce, but her eyes said otherwise as Jaime looked at her for a split second.
She was terrified… of Jaime. Jaime felt something inside him snap back.
Oh, gods, had he become Cersei?
He faltered, and Brienne pulled him upwards with all her strength, forcing him backwards into the opposite wall. Jaime felt the air leave his lungs, coughing heavily.
Tormund heaved himself upwards with all his strength, taking Jaime by the furs around his neck and twisting. "You fucking cunt," he spat, "the only reason I haven't gutted you is because she would have my cock cut off and fed to Jon's wolf!"
Fool. You're a bloody fool, Jaime, he thought, staring into Tormund's wild eyes. He looked to Brienne, whose face was contorted in contempt, her wound's dressings crinkling. Jaime's dressings.
"The only reason I haven't gutted either of you is because you're both somewhat able fighters. Trust me, I would gladly throw you both over these walls if you don't stop this bloody nonsense right now!" Brienne shouted, her blonde hair dishevelled as she hoisted Tormund backwards.
"He forced himself on you!" Jaime shouted back, pointing his golden hand towards Tormund.
"And I told him to stop and he did! Honestly, gods be true," she looked between them, disgusted. "We could die at any given moment and you both believe you have some… some obligation, some ownership of me?" she laughed hardly, "this isn't a feast anymore. You are acting like green boys."
Jaime's shame arose quickly as he pored over his actions, done again without thinking. "Brienne…" his voice was on the verge of breaking. He didn't understand why he had acted so rashly yet again- it really was the feast all over again, but worse. Much worse. He had threatened to kill the man without any wine whatsoever.
"Don't," she barked, but her eyes were moist as she avoided his gaze, "There is NO time for this. You told me you knew I could protect myself. Don't come rushing to my aid, ser." She looked at Tormund, who didn't take his eyes off Jaime. "And you," she said, "never presume to touch me again, in any manner."
She pushed past them. "Men," she spat, leaving them to guard by themselves.