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Chapter Forty-Three: The Worth of Honour

It was past mid-afternoon by the time Jon awoke from a nap. Already the sun was fading beyond his windows as the days grew shorter and shorter in the face of winter's early onslaught. Still half-drugged from sleep, he stretched himself out and yawned expansively. He had been King for barely two months, but it had left him exhausted and drained. It seemed there simply weren't enough hours in the day to do all he wanted to do. Any unexpected leisure time was a luxury he spent on his wife and siblings, if it ever happened at all. That left sleep coming in stolen pockets of time between meetings with his small council, sessions with diplomats and the hours he spent hearing petitions from his small folk.

Get up now, he urged himself. But his body refused to comply. All he yearned to do was roll over and sink back into a deep sleep. Only the sound of stifled sobs from outside drew his attention, compelling him to sit up and look sharply towards the closed door of his bed chamber. Senses heightened, he listened intently for a moment. Silence … then another hiccough and sniff. Slowly, Jon eased himself off the large, four poster bed and tiptoed to his door. Teasing it open, he peered from a narrow aperture, to where Gwynne stood by the hearth and ran his forefinger down the silver harp sitting on the mantelpiece. The silver harp that had been his father's.

Although curious, Jon got the feeling he was looking in on something he was not meant to be seeing. He was about to silently close the door again, then pretend he hadn't seen anything. But Gwynne suddenly realised he was there, hastily wiped his eyes on his sleeve and bowed low so Jon could not see his tears.

"Your grace," he said, overly firm to disguise any tremor in his voice.

Having fallen asleep fully dressed, Jon merely checked his shirt was tucked in before crossing into his privy chamber.

"I didn't mean to catch you at unawares," Jon assured him. There was little point in pretending he had not seen. "They say it was my father's. Did you ever hear him play?"

Gwynne smiled then. A natural and bright smile that made the crow's feet around his blue eyes crinkle. When he replied, his voice was distant, almost dreamy. "Often. Prince Rhaegar was a singularly gifted musician, Your Grace. He made your mother cry, once."

Jon laughed. "My uncle Brandon teased her for it, so she poured a jug of ale over his head."

Reaching up for the harp, he cradled it carefully in both hands. The silverwork was delicate, but the instrument was still heavy. Setting it down on a nearby table, it still shone in the fading light despite its age and the years it spent buried in a crypt. But the strings were old now, dirty and sounded dull and discordant whenever he accidentally brushed against them. For all that, he could not bring himself to have them changed or tuned. He wanted it preserved exactly as his father had left it.

"Do you play yourself, Your Grace?" Gwynne asked.

"No, I wasn't taught music as a boy," Jon replied, regretfully. "At that age I'd have been far more interested in swordplay anyway. Music was for girls."

"That is a shame," Gwynne said, softly. "Forgive me, I grow maudlin here. Do you need to change your clothes before your next appointment?"

Jon shook his head. "No, thank you. I'm only going to the dungeons to speak with Jaime Lannister. After that I'll need something clean to wear to dinner with the Queen and her family."

"Understood, Your Grace. Although, if I may, I would caution you against listening to the weasel words of any Lannister, especially the Kingslayer," Gwynne advised, as he was wont to do. "Remember what he did to your beloved grandfather."

Raising a wry smile, Jon replied: "And I remember what my beloved grandfather did to my other beloved grandfather and my uncle. Thank you for your counsel, Gwynne, but I know how to handle the likes of Jaime Lannister."

Barely an hour later he was being led into the bowels of the castle by a turnkey bearing a lit torch. The air was hot and damp, making his shirt stick to his back. It was so dark that even the flame of the torch barely penetrated the blackness all around them. All Jon could see were the few steps in front of him, slowing his progress as the turnkey – seemingly intimately familiar with the stairwell – went ahead of him on more than one occasion. Behind him, Ser Loras and Eddard Karstark followed, even their white cloaks smothered by the pall of darkness.

Eventually, the turnpike stair wound down to an even floor. Fired were lit in sconces set at regular intervals along the sandstone walls. Most of the cells were empty; their previous occupants having been donated to the Night's Watch after a wandering crow turned up at the coronation feast. Jon would always be a Northman first and proved himself generous. It seemed Jaime had the whole floor to himself. Or at least he would, had he not been in chains, crouched at the back of a cell.

"The Kingslayer, Your Grace." The turnkey held the door open for him.

When Jon looked inside properly, he was hit by the smell of waste, dirt and sweat. The floor was lined with dirty rushes that had matted together and a lavatory bucket nearby was overflowing. Jon struggled not to recoil.

"If you don't mind, ser, I think it time he was transferred to a clean cell."

While he issued the command, Jaime raised his head from his arms, still huddled in the corner. "A royal visit and new chambers. Aren't I the lucky one."

"The king did not permit you to speak, ser!" Loras snapped at the hunched figure.

Jon held up his hand, placating him. "It's all right, Loras. I can handle this." Looking over his shoulder at the two Kingsguard he added: "You can wait at the foot of the stairs. I will call if I need you."

They both hesitated, Eddard looked as if he would protest but soon thought better of it. A second later, they both did as commanded. Meanwhile, the turnkey was opening a new and fresher cell. Still, it was a humble affair with a table that had uneven legs, in the middle, with a half-burned away candle of tallow fat on it. Jon lit it again by the flame of one of the wall sconces.

"You may leave us," Jon said to the turnkey, once he and Jaime were settled at the table in the new cell.

They sat facing each other, their faces up-lit by the flickering tallow candle. He could see how gaunt the Kingslayer was, his cheeks were hollow despite being dark with a thick growth of beard covering most of his face. His golden hair was matted and looked brown in the poor light. His feet were shackled in heavy chains, that clanked whenever he moved his feet. The scraping of the metal against the stone slab floor reverberated down the empty chambers.

"So, it's to be a private audience is it?" asked Jaime, his voice hoarse from lack of use. "I wish I could receive Your Grace in surroundings more fit for a king- "

"Spare me the small talk, Kingslayer," Jon cut over him. "Lord Tyrion told me something I would have the truth of it- "

"Yes, I pushed your brother from the tower," Jaime cut over him. "Are you going to take my head now? I know how you northerners love to do it yourself, for some perverse reason or other."

Confirmation of the unimaginable made his stomach fold in on itself. "Why? Bran was a child."

"He saw us," the other man replied, tonelessly.

"You mean he saw you fucking your sister, so he had to die for it?" Jon asked, askance.

Jaime scowled at him incredulously. "If he had told Robert what he saw I would be dead, Cersei would be dead and so would our children."

Already sickened, Jon drew back his chair as if trying to put as much distance between himself and Jaime. "That's no excuse!"

Jaime remained impassive despite his anger. "I hear you're about to become a father, Your Grace. I offer my congratulations. Once that baby is born, you come back to me – if I'm still alive – and you tell me what you would not do to keep babe safe."

Jon's retort was choked off as the breath caught in his chest. Margaery had begun to show as the babe grew strong inside her. The night before he had felt a kick for the first time and, already, he knew the answer to the question Jaime had asked him. But Bran was still his brother and he was still an innocent caught up in Lannister deceit.

"Don't you have any honour at all?" asked Jon, scathingly. "How did you even get to be Kingsguard in the first place? All you do is lie and deceive people, grasping for everything you can get- "

"Don't you presume to know me, boy!" Jaime cut over him, anger flashing in his brilliant green eyes.

Equally livid, Jon shot back: "I am no boy; I am your king!"

The Kingslayer was on a roll. "Oh, really? You've had your scrawny arse on that iron chair for all of five minutes and, remind me, how old are you? Sixteen? Seventeen?"

"I'm eighteen!" Jon snapped back. In a self-conscious undertone he added: "nearly."

Jaime let out a dry bark of laughter. "Nearly eighteen makes you seventeen. Gods, boy, I own wines older than you and cheeses that are more mature. You can do many things to me now that you're king, but do not lecture me on my own history."

Jon was laughing now. "What gives you the right to scold me, Kingslayer? I've seen your entry in the White Book. Ser Barristan has a whole chapter of heroic deeds to his name. What have you? Barely a paragraph and that only details how you slew my grandfather, the king you were sworn to protect." He paused for breath, to calm his gathering temper before laughing once more. "Still, at least we can add another sentence to that one paragraph now: 'Ser Jaime tried, but failed, to kill an innocent boy of seven after said boy caught him fucking his own sister.'"

There was a sonorous clanking of chains and a simultaneous scraping of wood against stone as Jaime leapt to his feet in a towering rage. His clenched fists pounded the table top, near frothing at the mouth as he stormed back at Jon: "How dare you, you little shit! At least your uncle had more class than to gloat over a fallen man. Do you think poor old dead Ned is currently in the heavenly hereafter cheering you on? If he were here now he'd take you over his knee and see to it you couldn't sit your saddle for the next week, you insolent little brat." Jaime virtually fell back into his chair, quietly adding: "I had a gutful of this shit from Joffrey, then your uncle and everyone else in this god forsaken realm. I am not about to take it from some up-jumped child about to snip me a head shorter."

Although seething, Jon fixed his face into a permanent scowl and glared across the table at Jaime. After that explosion of fury, Lannister soon calmed and seemed to deflate before his eyes. Smaller, thinner, more worn. Inwardly, he acknowledged the grain of truth in what Jaime had said: that Eddard Stark would not be proud of him for gloating over a condemned man. Not that he could admit that out loud.

"You did not know my uncle, Kingslayer," Jon stated, flatly. "You know nothing of any of us Starks."

Jaime sat back in his chair then, arms folded defensively across his chest and smiled at Jon with all the warmth of a cat stalking its prey. "Oh, but I did. I knew Ned Stark. I knew your other uncle, too. Brandon. And Lyanna, your mother. I only met your grandfather once, though, sadly. Do you want to hear about it?"

Although he knew this would be unpleasant, Jon found himself nodding. "Please do."

"Old Rickard Stark. He came here, to the Red Keep, after Brandon had been arrested- "

"I know all this," Jon tried to cut in.

Jaime was having none of it. "You northerners hear the final words of the condemned so you'll never take killing for granted. So hear me now, boy. I watched as your grandfather was burned to death in the throne room. I watched as your uncle was slowly strangled to death, trying to reach a sword to save him. Rickard had demanded trial by combat, you see. Aerys chose fire as his champion and your grandfather was cooked to death inside his own armour. The throne room was packed, and do you know what we all did to help?" Jaime paused, as if Jon would answer the rhetorical question. "Nothing, is what we did."

Jon felt himself turning rigid as Jaime relayed his version of events. More than once, he wanted to shout at him to stop. But the words stuck in his throat and he was compelled to listen.

"Aerys used to get turned on by burning people. Sexually, I mean," Jaime continued, his expression soft as he seemed to vanish into the past. "Hands who disagreed with him had it the worst. Jon Connington managed to get away but only because he was leagues away fighting, and Aerys didn't get a chance to burn him before he fled into exile. The man after him was Qarlton Chelsted. Let me tell you about what happened to him.

After the Battle of the Bells, Aerys finally woke up to the fact that Robert was beating him in the rebellion. So instead of surrendering the city to Robert, he had pyromancers working around the clock to produce this wildfire. There were tons of the stuff, all rigged up around the whole city. All those people." Jaime broke off, gesturing around the cell but referring to the entire population of the city. He then drew a deep breath and affected a deeper tone of voice. "Burn them all!" he shouted. "Burn them all!"

Jon was transfixed, knuckles white where he gripped the edge of his seat. Sansa had seen the wildfire; he knew Jaime spoke true. "They would all be killed."

Jaime nodded. "All of them. Anyway, Qarlton Chelsted was disgusted by this. I remember him ripping off his chain of office and throwing it to the floor. So Grandpa Aerys had him burned, too. Later, do you know what he did?"

Jon's stomach knotted and he shook his head. "No."

"He went up to Queen Rhaella's chambers and raped her like a Dothraki savage. I remember it now, her screams as he took her echoing all around the outer chamber, where we stood guard." Jaime paused, looked Jon square in the eye and asked: "Have you ever stood by, listening helplessly, as a woman you know and respect is violently raped by a fire-crazed lunatic?"

Repulsed, Jon answered: "I'd have put a knife through his heart."

Jaime smiled, but Jon could see that his hands were shaking. "I was there with Ser Jonothor Darry, and I said to him 'we're sworn to protect her, too.' He just turned back to me and said, 'but not from him'."

Jon tried to swallow, but found his mouth dry. He had never heard any of this before. He'd not heard much beyond "Aerys was mad, so forget about him." Now he felt himself grow small, like he was shrinking inside himself. But when he lowered his head, Jaime noticed.

"Look at me," he snapped. "The day after that, your father rode out of the Red Keep to meet Robert Baratheon in the field. I begged Rhaegar to let me come with him, but there was nothing he could do. You see, Aerys was holding me hostage as surety for my father's cooperation. But before he left, Rhaegar said to me that things would be very different when he returned and that changes would be made."

Jon hadn't dared wondered where his father was while all the burning and wife raping was going on. He couldn't bring himself to believe Rhaegar would just let it happen. But what Jaime had said emboldened him.

"Are you saying my father would have killed Aerys?" he didn't realise how pleading he sounded.

Jaime softened again, drawing a deep breath before answering. "He didn't say so in as many words. But it was heavily implied that Aerys, no matter what happened, was not long for this world."

"But you killed him," Jon stated, all anger and recrimination gone from his tone now.

"I killed him," Jaime agreed. "It was after your father was killed at the Trident, when Aerys actually was going to slaughter every man, woman, child and beast living within these city walls. Burn them all! Burn them all! Gods, I can hear his voice even now. So, I stuck my sword in his back."

At the end, he was so matter of fact about it all. The sword went in, ending a reign of tyranny. Jon's mind was in turmoil as he tried to process it all. All he knew was that, had it been him, he'd have stopped Aerys long before.

"Why didn't you tell anyone any of this?" he asked, voice shaking with emotion.

Jaime's answer was as hollow as his armour. "The Lion is accountable to no one, according to my father. We seek no praise; we offer no explanations. So we spend our lives being judged by wolves. Gods, you people may not be a bad sort, but you're bloody judgemental bastards!"

"If my uncle were here now, I'd bang both your heads together!" Jon retorted. "So a lifetime of vilification endured because of some puffed up pride from your father prevented you from defending yourself?"

Jaime heaved a sigh. "As well said as anyone else who had truly never met my father. And why should I have explained myself to Ned Stark? He already knew full well I wasn't trying to claim that throne for myself? But no, he just could not let it go. You people really need to learn the difference between honour and principles."

But Jon understood, so long as he ignored the insults directed at his Uncle. He still didn't know what to do, but he understood. Hangdog and deflated, he rose to his feet, exhausted by the encounter. "I'm having you transferred to quarters in Maegor's Holdfast-"

"Your Grace," Jaime was on his feet, chains clinking loudly. "Tell me now, do I live or die? Stringing out this sentence is a torture surely no man deserves."

The truth of it was like a kick in the gut. He had never intended it to be this way. Still he was torn; even more so by the look of desperation in the other man's eyes. But every time he thought he had made a decision, he felt his resolve weaken and he began to doubt yet again. Weak and vacillating, even Jon wanted to kick himself.

"I need more time," he stated. "I cannot make this decision alone. In the meantime, I will see to it that your conditions improve."

Before he could buckle again, he called for his Kingsguard and left Jaime standing there, still in chains.

"Uncle Tyrion!"

Tyrion whirled around just in time to see a flurry of pink and yellow silks swirling all around him. Myrcella had grown, it seemed, and he was soon wrapped up in her embrace. Embarrassingly, she almost had to kneel to kiss his cheek. However, the sight of her lifted his heart.

"Mine own darling niece! How are you? I'm so sorry for your recent losses."

They were in the Water Gardens, not far from Sunspear itself. A pleasant spot, full of sparkling fountains that glittered in the hot Dornish sun. Even now, as winter closed in on the rest of Westeros, the Dornish basked in a summer sun. As ever, Myrcella had all of her mother's beauty and none of her bitterness.

"I was sad to hear of mother and Joffrey," she said, but not overly convincing. Realising he saw through the lie, she added: "Well, mother at any rate. Joffrey, I don't think anyone will miss, but that in itself is sad, I think."

Tyrion shrugged. "Perhaps. How have the Dornish treated you?"

"Very well," she replied, smiling brightly. "Trystane is wonderful and I love him already. Please, speak to the new King and ask him if I can stay? He will have no trouble from us, ever. I remember him from when we were in Winterfell and I know he's honourable."

He was quick to assure her. "King Jon has already told me he's happy for the union to go ahead, just so long as Prince Doran agrees."

In response, she threw her arms around him and hugged him again. "Thank you, uncle! Thank you!"

Not long after that, Princess Myrcella was giddily introducing him to everyone. The Sand Snakes, the gardeners, the vegetable growers and cooks… She knew everyone, to his relief, she seemed to love and be loved by them all. By the time they made it back to the Water Gardens, however, Bronn had stripped naked and was about to plunge into the depths of a fountain. Horrified, Tyrion steered his niece back toward the place where Prince Doran was sitting in his wheel chair. The gout was on him again, making the Prince's ankles swell purple and agonising. Tyrion winced at the sight of it. Areo Hotah looked on, watching over all the Martells with a stony-faced diligence.

For all the running sores caused by the rape and murder of Elia, Doran seemed unmoved by his recent taste of vengeance. Oberyn, however, reclined with his paramour, Ellaria, happily and reminisced about his sister's youth. It wasn't until several days after his arrival at Sunspear that they finally got to talk business. They walked the ramparts, away from prying eyes and slowly relaxed in each other's company.

"King Jon begs forgiveness that he deprived you of your opportunity to kill the Mountain yourself," Tyrion stated, even though Jon had said no such thing. "Alas, it turns out that Sandor Clegane had a few old bones to pick with him, too."

Oberyn seemed almost philosophical about it. "Either way, it was his own evil that caught up with him in the end. Who else from those days is dead?"

"My father, Amory Lorch, Vargo Hoat, my uncle Kevan, Cersei…" he trailed off as he lost track of the names. "Apparently, one of Princess Elia's children bucked the trend, though."

Oberyn smiled, his dark eyes glinting. "I wondered when that would come up."

"Well?" Tyrion asked. "I can understand, your love for your sister, wanting this boy to be her son. But what do you feel, in your heart of hearts."

"Don't look to us, Lord Tyrion. It was Myrcella that we wanted to sit the iron throne. We are happy to have her here in Dorne, though. If that's what you're also worried about."

"You read my mind," he replied, honestly. "I hope you understand, she's a good girl with none of our family's trademark cynicism and greed and all that other bad business. She and Tommen, they're sweet things. But no, it's Aegon that worries us the most. The Prince of Pisswater Bend."

"I see you are not to be diverted from that," Oberyn sighed. "If it is him, I am sure your Stark king will understand that Dorne must pledge to him. He would be my nephew."

"Of course!" Tyrion replied. "Jon Stark means nothing to you, I get that and so does he. But what proof is there that he is Aegon?"

Oberyn shrugged. "None, but the word of Varys and the Pentoshi cheese merchant. I have met the boy, though. His hair is dyed and he carries with him an old exile and the Golden Company."

Tyrion remembered his history. "The Golden Company. Set up to sit a Blackfyre on the iron throne, if I remember rightly."

"Even so, they're still sellswords at heart," Oberyn reminded him. "Anyone can buy them, for a price."

"And our Pentoshi cheese merchant has more than enough money," Tyrion pointed out. "It seems he's been clearing Aegon's path to the throne, too. He sold Daenerys Targaryen to a Dothraki horselord in hopes she'd die in the Red Waste. Turns out, she thrived in the Red Waste, collected her own Khalasar and hatched three dragon eggs while she was at it. She bought an army, stole a few ships and helped conquer the realm with her nephew. So much for that plan!"

They reached a dead end in the route they walked. The way ahead blocked by a large privet hedge that was slowly dying in the Dornish heat. It was a sorry thing, out of place among the rest of the splendid gardens. Instead of finding another route, they stood and lost themselves in their own thoughts.

"So, they tried to remove Daenerys even though she would be no threat to a true born son of Rhaegar," said Oberyn. "Which suggests she was a threat, because Aegon is a pretender."

"I'm afraid my King is looking for assurances, rather than suggestions," Tyrion stated, glumly.

Oberyn looked apologetic. "I can offer no assurances, other than that we will cause him no trouble. However, Lord Tyrion, I might make you one more suggestion: when you go to meet Aegon, make sure you take Ser Barristan Selmy with you."

Tyrion was intrigued and craned his neck to look up at Oberyn. "Ser Barristan Selmy?"

The Viper smiled again. "It's just a hunch I have, but I think he would come in useful, shall we say."

"Enigmatic bastard!" Tyrion muttered, before turning away to the sound of the other man's laughter.

"Before you go, you should know that your King has an uninvited guest in his court."

Tyrion stopped dead in his tracks. "Who?"

That night, Jon failed to sleep despite his exhaustion. He lay beside Margaery, one arm draped protectively over her swelling belly. It had been days since he spoke with Jaime, and still the decision tore him apart. Restlessly, he turned to the other side and then back again. Soon, Margaery was stirring, her eyelids fluttering as she came back around.

"Jon," she murmured, drugged with sleep. "What's wrong."

He leaned over and kissed her brow. "Nothing. Go back to sleep."

But, she was awake now. "Nothing is keeping you awake all night?"

He nodded. "Jaime Lannister."

"Ah, that kind of nothing," she replied, coming too a little more. "You must do what you think is right. Whatever that may be."

"But that's just it, I don't know what's right!" he groaned.

Margaery soothed him with a kiss. "I think you do, but you're just too scared to admit it to yourself. Otherwise, you wouldn't be losing so much bloody sleep over it."

Before long, she was drifting back to sleep, leaving him to his prevarications. If he pardoned Jaime, Robb would never forgive him. If he did it, he would never deserve Bran's forgiveness. All the same, he knew he needed to do it.

Thanks again for reading. Reviews would be very welcome, if you have a minute. Thank you.

So, Jon and Jaime kind of stole the chapter. But Robb, Dany and the others will be back next time. I promise.