Jaime
He was ten. A son had just been borne to the king and Father sought to hold a splendid tournament to celebrate the occasion- and, Jaime suspected, to impress upon the king, Prince Rhaegar and the realm at large House Lannister's grandiosity, its wealth, its power. All but screaming to the world he seeks Cersei's bethrothal to Prince Rhaegar. The knights poured into Casterly Rock and Lannisport beyond, packing both to the rafters to say nothing of their retinues. There was too much to look at, even after spending sunup to sundown on his feet with Addam Marbrand and the other boys, running all about the place trying to take account of all who'd come. No doubt some lords will do their best to parade their daughters in front of Father. Jaime knew it was a fool's hope. He's more like to take the black than wed again. He watched the carpenters slowly, painfully slowly to Jaime raise the stands from which the gathered highborns would watch the riders tilt.
"Who will win, d'you think?" Addam asked.
"Today? The prince, probably. Or a Kingsguard. Tomorrow, I'll win. I'll be better than anyone in Casterly Rock, in Westeros, too." Jaime answered, having thought of nothing else all day. It was more than joy. Jaime could see his life's purpose unfurled before him, waiting only for him to run at it with both arms outstretched. I want this. I don't care about anything else, anyone, even me. That night his revelation vanished at the look on Cersei's face.
"You were gone all day." she complained in a childish huff.
"I was looking at-"
"Who cares? None of them's the prince, he and the king won't arrive until the day before the tourney starts." Cersei dismissed the world coming to their doorstep as she would a course at dinner she misliked. It was always this way. It was why we never drifted apart. We saw in each other what we cared for most. In you, I saw my better half. In me, you saw yourself. She was his reflection, the vital part that the womb had sundered. A cracked glass, warped to twist and bend the bearer. Tyrion might be an ugly child and grow into an ugly man, but he would be able to face his reflection in a mirror. Jaime knew his place, even with all of Cersei's pouting, but what would Tyrion's place be? Nobody will ever look at him twice but for his ugliness and his name. Father will no doubt shuffle him off to some nobody family just to be rid of him if even he lives to manhood. Cersei hates him already, she blames him for Mother's death and so does Father, in his way. How could a babe be blamed for being born? How could I be blamed for Cersei? The gods knew what she was from the off, that's why they bloody sent me after her. "You did not have to do it, though." The Cersei of ten said, Joff's crossbow thrumming and a lance burying itself in Jaime's gut. If I'm dead, why does it still hurt?
He was fifteen, a new-made knight, surrounded by men twice his age and size and yet it was he who intimidated them. The white cloak came at Cersei's suggestion, so that Father could not pair him off to Lysa Tully or some other girl. At least, I thought so. Tyrion ever suspected it was because Cersei wanted one less body between her and what she considered hers. The rest had been a mummer's farce. Father returned to the Rock with Cersei and Jaime had been given orders to go to King's Landing from Harrenhal to guard the queen and Prince Viserys. From there he saw the man beneath the crown. Aye, and the men beneath the cloaks. Barristan the Bold, the White Bull, Jonothor Darry… Each blind at best to the madness of the king they guarded. Slaves to what they called their vows, their honor. No wonder it was me the gods put in that throne room instead of one of them. It was that blindness that inspired Jaime's own toward Queen Rhaella and her half-remembered lover, that deafness to men's screams that inspired his toward a woman's grateful sighs and whispered sweetness. The thought of Jonothor Darry's reaction to it made Jaime smile. Darry had died on the Trident with his prince and hundreds of better men without a stake in the game of thrones who wanted only to go home at war's end. How do you like that, Ser Jon? Or you, Ser Barristan, Ser Gerold? Prince Lewyn, Ser Oswell? Or you, Ser Arthur? Without me, there would be no Daenerys Targaryen. No Mother of Dragons, no dragons proper, no restoration of House Targaryen. So take those white cloaks of yours red with the blood of burned men, grey with ash, black with bits of bone, and wipe your arses with them.
"You did not have to do it, though." The six of them replied, standing over Aerys' body, voices a hollow echoing chorus.
"You sound like fucking sheep. Each bleating his duty to the next, each blind and deaf as any statue while your queen suffered nightly at her husband's hands. You put a white fleece 'round my shoulders, Ser Gerold. No doubt I looked a proper sheep as well, until I could no longer pretend my hunger was for grass instead of hot red meat. While the flock was bleating elsewhere, I roared so loud it killed a dragon." The shades disappeared and there was nothing left to do but sit on the throne and wait for someone to come. The Iron Throne had oft sliced Aerys to ribbons but Jaime was clad in plate and quite proofed from any injury. When it was Ned Stark to find him seated there, possessed of the same unthinking unfeeling honor as the blessed White Sheep, it was all Jaime could do not to scream Aerys' madness into the man's face. He left instead, intent on stopping his father's men from savaging what remained of the Red Keep's inhabitants. Only, when he went through a door it was the tower in Winterfell in which he found himself, the one he'd flung the Stark boy from. I had two hands then. No better than Ser Gregor, with prince's brains still on his gauntlets when he raped and killed Princess Elia. Or Amory Lorch, who killed a girl of three with who knew how many dagger thrusts. The wrong person fell from that window. I would have done better to leap out with Cersei in my arms, straight past Stark and into legend. Another blow caught him higher in the chest like a lance at full tilt.
Jaime surged forward and instantly felt as though he'd been trampled flat by a runaway horse. His scream was drowned in the torrent of mud and water he coughed up, to say nothing of the mess of his own making. I'm on fire, was his first dazed, panicked thought, for a half-moment thinking that he was too late in ridding the realm of Cersei. He tried to move, again panicking at his body's lack of response, only to realize they felt as though someone had tried to pull them off him. His head pounded worse than any wine could cause. Or woman for that matter. He stewed in agony another few moments before remembering one in particular. Cersei. His eyes shot open and the handless arm that held her reached out but there was nothing and no one to find, only a sea of cold mud and the sound of waves lapping against a shoreline. Dawn, he thought, bleak and colorless though it was. A voice called out from further inland, sounding uncertain. Jaime tried to answer, tried to rise, but what air he could take in scarce kept him alive and he still couldn't move. His nose woke up and it was hit by an oily fishy smell, making him gag all over again. There was a low gurgling croak. He blinked the stars out of his eyes to behold perhaps the ghastliest thing he'd ever seen. A bulging pair of yellow eyes stared madly out of a pointed head, twin combs of needly teeth poking out from the mouth that cut across it. Jaime gave a yell and flopped ineffectually, only further aggravating his back. Another face, puckered with scars yet unquestionably human and in a state of pure astonishment, appeared across from the hideous creature. It gave a wet gulpy sound, one the burned man returned.
"Stop that thrashing. Your back may not be broken, but it will be some time before you can stand unaided."
"Who the fuck are you?" Jaime gasped out finally after coughing up a fourth Fork. Someone I've heard of, but where? "The poor fool you next to landed on." He tried to remember what had happened. I don't remember hitting the water. Only the sapphires.
"By rights you should be on the bottom of Blackwater Bay. As it stood, I was close enough to stop you drowning and drag you to shore." Aye, but which shore? "We're near the Rosby road." The burned man squinted as he looked out at something. "It looks like an army's on the way, riding from the northeast." Duskendale. He looked back down at Jaime, face a disdainful puckered frown. Fuck you too, you ugly bastard, Jaime thought in reply. The man turned to leave and his fishy companion with him. Jaime was content to be rid of them and lie there until the tide came in and buried him with Cersei when he remembered the dragon queen's task for him. Casterly Rock. The Rills. Winterfell. He wanted nothing more than to let the waters take him, to lie there until his injuries did for him or the animals did. Instead he found himself moving, agony though it was. "It's a miracle you're alive as is. Your insides may be ruptured from the fall-"
"Then there's nothing can be done for me in any case." The sounds of men ahorse and on foot grew nearer. "I don't suppose you managed to save the woman I leapt out with?" Jaime asked, unsure what answer he wanted. The man's disdain faded, if slowly.
"I'm sorry, Ser Jaime."
"Where is she now?"
"About a hundred yards nearer the city. We left her in the Spider's care."
"Lord Varys?"
"He was flushed out of the sewers by the rains. In fact, he may well be searching the riverside for you right now."
"And the wildfire?"
"Look for yourself, ser." Jaime turned to the river, to the bay beyond. The green piss had already begun to dilute into the water proper. He found himself giving a long, slow sigh. In a day, it will be as if it never was. The boil of Aerys's madness lanced, the pus drained away. All the wound needs now is binding and time to heal.
The sounds of the approaching army grew still closer.
"You'd best be off." Jaime said, standing aright and unaided. Never mind it hurts like seven hells. "They're crownlanders, most of them, so might be they've heard of your lot before but seeing you up close is a bird of a different plumage." The burned man didn't seem overly disappointed by Jaime's words but when he turned to leave Jaime stopped him. "I was talking to your fishy friend."
"I don't belong up here any more than he does."
"Horseshit. I remember you now, I've heard tell of your meddling from here to Dragonstone." The burned mouth shrank to an angry red line just visible in the scarred face. That must have hurt like seven hells, too. Maybe he and Clegane will meet someday and compare notes if no one's killed him yet.
"You don't know the first thing about me, Kingslayer."
"I know your father was the only voice in Stannis' camp worth listening to, one all the Florent fools the red god could throw his way couldn't turn false. Truly, that's something. I know you went overboard on the Blackwater, though true enough what you got up to before you found that Greyjoy fool in your lap I don't know. No matter, you'll have plenty of time to tell me the story on the trip west."
"Do I look about to leave sight of the sea?"
"No doubt you're fond and more of it, but you belong up here with us." The fish-thing gave a noisy gulp. Matthos Seaworth answered, evidently translating Jaime's words.
"A thing breathes water, seems to me that's where it ought be."
"Whales breathe air and yet they own the seas." Jaime countered, remembering one of Tyrion's rambles as a boy. "Besides, I've been hearing stories of mermaids from fishermen in Lannisport all my life. Might be without your brother nearby stealing all the gazes you could find a fishwife if your own."
"Half-brother, and his affairs are his own."
"Aye, but you follow his mother as devotedly as once you followed Stannis' red witch." Water now, instead of fire.
"She pulled me from the brink of death, Kingslayer. Is homage not her due?" Matthos' scars flushed red in incense.
"Homage, perhaps. You'd do better to save your reverence for the woman who gave you life, though, and not every mysterious beauty who crosses your path. The way I hear it even with you surviving the wildfire more Seaworths sank on the Blackwater than not." Talk of his mother made Matthos' anger, the sort Jaime had seen on a thousand young men's faces regardless of station from peasant boys to Loras Tyrell, drain away. A look I'm sure I never gave my elders. I never had a mother to disappoint. For all his scars Matthos couldn't hide his thoughts and it was clear he was thinking along similar lines. "Think of the push towards Lannisport as getting your land legs back. Getting used to eating, sleeping above the waves again, of breathing air more than a few minutes at a time. Listen to soldiers talk, complain, congratulate each other, drink with those as can stand the smell of fish-"
"It's them that smell, not me."
"I'm covered in mud and gods only know what else and still I can smell you through it, Seaworth. If nothing else, snap up a bath whilst up here." Jaime smirked, for a moment forgetting just what had led to him standing on the banks of Blackwater Bay. "Two bits of driftwood we are, landing far from where we began."
"Aye." Matthos said, mind somewhere else. He turned to the man-fish, giving a guttural gulp. Jaime didn't know what to expect, but the thing simply turning on its finned feet and waddling back into the surf wasn't what he pictured. Matthos let out a long breath. "They are not men."
"Indeed. I hear water's wet, as well." The lad shook his head.
"There's no…" He seemed to be trouble finding the right words. I know well that struggle. "Life is different down there. There are no songs, no smiles, precious little light even."
"Hold on, what about the mermaids?" Matthos snorted.
"Believe it or not, I once looked even worse. Boiled red, eyes puffed near shut and stumbling around, I was a right pathetic thing. Stood next to him, my father's son, well…to put it bluntly, I was not a rival for their affections." Jaime nodded.
"The lady ironborn were quite taken with him." Matthos looked up.
"I missed the sun." he said after a time.
"Well, you'll miss it at least a little longer. No doubt you've heard all the talk about up north."
"More wars to fight. I didn't miss that much, at least." There are always more wars to fight, Jaime thought.
He didn't feel like sobbing himself stupid in front of an army he himself had assembled, so Jaime headed toward the shape of King's Landing at the end of the bay. At least I'll never have to set foot there again. He thought he'd spot Varys sooner, but his bald head was nowhere to be seen.
"A little further on." Matthos spurred him gently. Finally, Jaime found Varys seated on a rock, ready as ever for him. The man looked an even sorrier sight than Jaime. A smellier one, too At least I've only got mud on, he thought, for once feeling truly sorry for the Spider.
"Ser Jaime." Varys greeted him as he stood, even favoring him with a bow. As if we were in the small council chamber again. As if we were anything more than what we are.
"Where is she?" Varys turned and nodded toward the treeline.
"I thought perhaps you'd want privacy." Jaime did not answer, making at once for the copse of drooping elms. Drowned or nearly so, he saw. Even fifty paces from the shoreline, a hundred, his feet still squelched in the mud. The rains must have swelled the bay, he thought, before he reached the trees. He found what he was looking for at the base of the lone elm that seemed to have weathered the water's rise. I wonder what I'm supposed to feel, he thought, staring at the prone body. His phantom hand rand across his chest, where the quarrels had struck him. Almost unthinkingly he simply tore away his tunic, letting it fall into the mud. If a crossbow did for Father, why not me? The wounds were there, of course, but smaller than he expected. I stewed on the shoreline for who knows how long. I ought be dead of fever, surely. Qyburn had numbed the bolts without her knowing, though. Perhaps he did more than that. There was all the force behind the quarrels a crossbow ought have had, but the heads…they had been smaller, and without barbs. Perhaps it was his aim to make my survival as likely an outcome as possible. Or Cersei's death before she could light the caches. Jaime wondered at the creature responsible for what the Mountain had become as well as for his own standing in the elms. A man so able, reduced to tending corpses at Harrenhal until fate brought me to him. Perhaps it was our swapping stories over my rotting stump that so ingratiated him to me. Then he was closer and Qyburn was gone from Jaime's mind, replaced by the person who had scarcely ever left his thoughts for as long as he could remember. Varys had closed her eyes but Jaime didn't have to see their glassy stare to know Cersei was dead. Even through the mud the gashes in her dress were visible, dark dry blood staining the silk as it had in the days when it was Aerys the throne was cutting to ribbons. He bent over, stiff and wincing, having to get on his knees to slip his arms around her. The noises of the army drew nearer, so Jaime made as much haste as he could muster to bring Cersei back to the shore. Varys started when he caught sight of them. "Ser Jaime, we could perhaps build a cairn but the logistics of bringing her back to Casterly Rock…" Jaime didn't answer, letting the water carry Cersei at least as much as he was. Only when she was too heavy to hold without his head going under did his fingers loose from around her foot, letting the tide pull her out. He went under then, using seawater to wash away the mud. Perhaps her touch as well. Jaime tried to find what power within had kept him standing aright in the throne room but it was long gone. He tried to make himself feel anger, relief, to summon any of that hot temper he was so known for. Instead he felt only sadness, only a great tired emptiness. Even now we're the same. She was what the world made her, he thought. I'm what the world made me, too.
By the time he got back to shore, the hand that remained to him wiping the water from out of his eyes, men he half-recognized were massing wherever they could find solid ground. He saw Rogyr talking to some of the lads Jaime had fetched from King's Landing's cells. Urchins and orphans with no reason to go near a horse save when they hide in the stables to avoid the city guard.
"Horses aren't so hard, once you work out what goes on in their heads." he was saying, running his hand down his own mount's deep brown head. "Toward food and away from aught with teeth or claws. Toward calm and away from noise." No wonder he made such a good horse thief, Jaime thought. Had he been born to different circumstances he'd be a wealthy stablemaster. He stepped gingerly toward the gathered men with Varys and Matthos Seaworth close behind, only noticed when one of the squires gave the three of them a double take. Joss Stilwood. The Mountain's own squire. No doubt Ser Gregor had precious little need of him after dancing with the Red Viper, he must have answered the rally from somewhere in the capital. Closer still, Jaime could see the boy's dead eyes, his mouth unmoving as if it had been sewn shut. Likely he's seen no end of horror serving Clegane. He knows the value of keeping quiet, keeping small. Stilwood's silence distantly reminded Jaime of Ser Ilyn, whose own fit better than his jerkin. I could do worse for a squire, no doubt he's at least serviceable or he'd not have lived long.
"Who's in charge of this shambles?" Jaime asked, Joss only turning toward the trees in answer.
"Come with me." Jaime said as he passed, ignoring the looks the men were giving him. Under all the mud and without my pretty golden ball-scratcher, I'm not like to be recognized. At least, until I run into someone I know well. That someone happened to be Renfred Rykker, looking singularly unhappy to be away from Duskendale and his family. What in seven hells is he doing here? "Lord Rykker." Jaime announced himself. Renfred turned wearily, ready it seemed to hear another complaint from one of his captains, stopping cold at the sight of Jaime.
"Hurry up, Rykker, we haven't time to lout about-" Bronn likewise froze in his tracks. You're supposed to be going north with Tyrion. Someone has to keep an eye on him. "Fucking hell…" Bronn muttered, squinting. "Any gold left under all that mud?"
"Gold enough to knock you on your ass."
"Fuck that, you haven't even got a golden hand to do the trick proper with." Bronn for once seemed genuinely stunned Jaime had resurfaced. "Uhh…Did you make it to the red castle, then?"
"I did. Everything's been taken care of, we're free to move on west." Rather aptly in Jaime's estimation, Bronn didn't ask the particulars. He doesn't want to spread any rumors amongst the army, such as it is. He may make a lord yet.
"Right. Uh, well, you'll need a drying off. Each day colder than the last, it's a wonder you haven't caught your death already." Were I not just now dead to feeling I might well have bloody noticed as much.
"Is the army marching in good order?" The men looked at each other.
"Fuck are you on about, Kingslayer? You're the one who sent the raven."
"Even with two hands, I was never one for letters." Jaime said, utterly mystified.
"Then who in balls sent this?" Bronn asked irritably, pulling what looked like a raven's scroll out of his surcoat and handing it to Jaime. He wiped his hand on his pant leg and dried it as best he could before taking the parchment, opening it with his teeth. Gods, if I never get it right but once, let me read this now without the letters tumbling all about. The first part looked like a standard command to maneuver, in this case ordering the First Army of King's Landing to proceed from Duskendale to the capital, but Jaime spotted an independent bit of writing further down.
Ser Jaime, if you're reading this, I must assume you are still alive and have succeeded in our enterprise. I suspect very few men would have seen our task to its conclusion. I hope you'll excuse my going over your head in regard to the army, but I suspected you would want it near rather than languishing on the coast and so here it is. As for your wounds taken during our enterprise, worry not. My experience has taught me well how to keep a weapon from killing a man, even a crossbow. I may not be there when you read this, either elsewhere or…unavailable. In such a likely case, I'll take this opportunity to commend the plan conceived on Dragonstone. Proceed west with all haste and set the westerlands to order if need be, rally them as best you can. Truthfully, my only regret is that I may not be permitted to research the goings-on in the north, you are fortunate that you will see them firsthand. I wish you good fortune in the wars to come.
There was no name. Jaime looked up, befuddled, to see Bronn holding up a piece of black glass. Taking it, Jaime saw it was a link, one of a number a maester might have worn.
"Anyone else besides you and your bald friends?" Bronn asked pointedly, nodding to the pair behind Jaime.
"No." Jaime said. "Aside from finding a horse of my own, all that needs doing just now is getting to the Rock in time to matter against whatever is marshaling from the lands beyond the Wall."
"That and getting you a proper wash. You look like you woke up in a pigsty, Lannister. If this lot is going to march all the way west, we'd best give them something shiny to follow. Besides, it wasn't exactly a quick stroll from Duskendale."
"Half a hundred inns and hamlets lie between here and Casterly Rock, the goldroad is well-traveled." Jaime replied, awkwardly getting atop a gray courser Stilwood brought forth. "We can press on west and worry about stopping later." He remembered the army's push on toward Harrenhal, even in the hellish rain. They're hardier than given due. Varys could have been anyone so filthy was he, so Jaime was unsurprised when he put on the air of an unlettered guardsman, pulling on a leather cap and getting on a horse as well, leaning heavily to the left to suggest deafness in his right ear. Matthos was more of a concern, but the man stiffly managed his way into the saddle as well, slipping on a jerkin Stilwood tossed him. "It's hellish easy to get snowbound when you're camped." Jaime said loudly, both giving the order to those around him and leaving the rest up to Bronn and Rykker to hear. That's what you say when the men complain that they're not getting a chance to camp. He rode out of the clearing, more and more men hurrying to join him when word of who he was filtered down from the officers on down. There was still the matter of passing 'round King's Landing to reach the goldroad proper and Jaime found himself deliberately looking north rather than south. Don't look at it, he told himself. Don't look at it. Eventually, you'll pass it by and then you'll never have to lay eyes on it again. That thought so filled him with resolve that soon the trot became insufferable and Jaime gave the courser his heels, spurring the beast on. The others were hard pressed to keep up save Rogyr who, even with a head start, Jaime could not outride. He knew he was being reckless, knew he ought be in the midst of the army rather than at its head like some hero from a song, but there was no enemy to espy and no danger save the cold. His phantom hand twitched, as if searching for reins to hold. Jaime could feel the mud stiffen in his clothes, clumping in his beard. That's two now, Kingslayer, he told himself. When word gets out, they'll do you better and call you Kinslayer. Crippled, freezing, leading a rabble on to nowhere. The pace and rising wind hid his exhausted sobs, and he played off thumbing the tears in his eyes as trying to flick away the mud. I fell further than you did, Stark, Jaime thought ruefully. I win.
He did not turn even to watch King's Landing vanish over the eastern horizon. He kept on until he felt like to fall from the saddle, the wide sodden path easy ground for his courser to cover. Swift, Jaime thought. Only when his taps and mutters could get not another step from the hooves beneath him did Jaime stop, the sudden call from twenty yards behind calling those who could keep up to a halt. Bloody hell, my horse thief can ride. By the time those on foot caught up, night was falling and Jaime could not hear his own voice for the gasps of air, the groans and sounds of bodies collapsing to the ground. Bugger it, he thought, slipping out of the saddle himself as Stilwood got about setting up a tent. Not exactly what the Lion of Lannister would be expected to sleep in. Then again, I'm not exactly Tywin Lannister's golden son anymore. He looked at his stump. Now where am I going to get another hand? It was a moment before Jaime realized he was thinking in terms of steel, not flesh. Bronn may jest but it was shield and sword both. At the very least it knocked the teeth out of that Frey fool's mouth at Riverrun. He supposed just them it might well be on the bottom of the Narrow Sea, or even washing onto Dragonstone's shores at that very moment. In that case, I may well see it again, even if in a few years.
"Milord misses the hand he used to whet his sword?" A rough voice chuckled. Jaime looked up to see a grizzled man with a crumb-filled grey beard grinning at him, every tooth yellowed and stained. Speaking of the siege at Riverrun… "I remember when you showed that Frey cunt what for. I laughed so hard I near to shit meself."
"Aside from Stilwood, you may be the one among the Mountain's men still alive, Shitmouth."
"Aye, could well be. T' rest all ran off in the riverlands eager to find gold to make up that as was promised by Ser, but I've not seen a one since they left Harrenhal."
"You're a lucky man, then, to have missed the rains."
"Miss 'em? Ser, I was soaked to shit all night and all day, I just had stone walls around me while I did it. Might've stayed in that giant's cunt of a castle too, but Holy Hunnerd and all them didn't want those as rode with Ser as hangers-on." He idly scratched his nose, ignoring the steady fall of flakes as they began to cover the mass of tents.
"What are you doing here, then?" Shitmouth looked taken aback.
"Milord took me off those star-wearing twats' hands when he rallied men in Harrenhal."
"You might have made yourself known then." Shitmouth frowned.
"Eh. There was lots to do, and pardon me milord, but you looked in no mood to hear a man-at-arms ask for gold."
"As it happens, I'm still not. House Lannister is no likelier to give you whatever the Mountain promised than before. What I promise, though, you may count on receiving, if in due time." Shitmouth chewed on that awhile, running his tongue over his teeth.
"Eh. Sits better than the block or the rope, sure."
"What are you going to do with gold anyway? There's nothing out in the country to plunder, no war to fight." Yet, anyway.
"Gold opens doors, milord. A lot of gold opens a lot of doors. I'm not getting any younger and I don't plan on spending what time as I've got left living off my sword. Gold enough to keep my cup and bed full both each night, maybe right in that there lion port next to your Rock." He gave a sudden wheeze, coughing wetly into his fist. "Aaagh, this cold's done and fucked me. I'm off to fill a tent before it's a cold hole I'm filling."
"The ground's too hard to dig a grave anyway." Jaime said, looking away from the man and toward Varys and Matthos, getting about finding tents of their own. How did I end up in such company?
"Ser!" he heard a voice cry, saw a short figure all but dash over in marked contrast to the men nearby, some already asleep. Freglyn looked ecstatic to see Jaime, the way he often saw lost soldiers running toward friendly banners.
"Good to see you too, lad. I don't suppose you'd fancy leaving King's Landing behind after this? Not going back, like?" Freglyn spat in the mud.
"I'm not going back there, not for nothing, ser. I heard tell about the dragon, how it flew up to the red castle and crushed the roof in before the dragon queen had him burn the throne in front of all them lords!" Jaime's weariness vanished and he heard Rykker cough up a gulp from his waterskin.
"She what?" Varys asked, gaping at the boy. Rykker was at Duskendale and Varys gods only know where, they wouldn't have seen it for themselves, but Freglyn here was in the city if not the throne room. He told them everything, how Daenerys Targaryen had told the lords assembled who her father was, that she had no right to call herself their queen. How the lords in turn more or less tossed her reasoning aside and went ahead with her anyway, almost as a 'why not?'. Because they know without someone minding them, they'll fight each other on and on. Easier to have another giving the orders.
"I heard it from a horn-of-plenty knight, he was up there with his lord when it happened." Freglyn said.
"Where's the beast now?" Jaime asked, while Varys continued to gawp unhelpfully, looking so much like a round-faced pink man-fish. The lad shrugged.
"After he destroyed the throne he shot back up through the ceiling and flew west. Might be someone will have spotted him, aye, the way we're going." he answered, seeming to make the realization on the spot. There are mountains in the west, the selfsame ones we'll have to cut through to reach the Rock. The forest by Crakehall, too, where a dragon could hide for years and never be found. At least, by men living to tell of it.
"What's in the westerlands a dragon could want?" Matthos' sharp voice broke Jaime from his cluttered thoughts. They all turned to him.
"Shit, you're an ugly fucker." Shitmouth said. "Eh. Not so overdone as Ser's brother, though." He prodded Seaworth with a stick, sniffed it, said "Eh," once more, and tossed it over his shoulder. He seemed not to care a bob one way or another. Probably another one of Clegane's men dulled to the fear of death. If the dragon finds us he finds us, and that's the end of that.
"What do you mean?" Jaime asked, as Stilwood got to building a fire with Freglyn's enthusiastic help.
"He's a dragon. Unless you fear he plans to crack open your rock and brood over all the gold inside, there's not much west to entice a dragon."
"I'm not worried on that front. The Rock's good and empty of gold." Jaime replied wryly. "I've heard he came to the fighting pits in Meereen, perhaps attracted by the noise." Varys said, more to him than to the rest.
"Mee-where?" Shitmouth asked, looking up from having sat on a log.
"A slave-city in the east. Or was, I suppose, before the dragon queen did to slavery what her pet monster did to the Iron Throne." Jaime informed him.
"Eh?" Jaime ignored him, wishing for nothing more than Tyrion at their little fire to defer to. What does a dragon do when there's no silver cunt on his back spurring him on?
He looked to Varys, as knowledgeable a man as any save his brother. The Spider only shrugged.
"I've not the first guess as to where he might be."
"Did you hear any tales from the east about the dragons themselves?" Varys' abashed face hardened into a sullen look.
"The other two were chained up beneath the Great Pyramid when it was found that Drogon killed a child. They grew particularly truculent, even with the queen, and were not receptive to her unless given food."
"Eh? No shit, pardon my saying, ser. Cunt locks me up in a hole somewhere, I'd not be up for being patted like a dog either." Shitmouth opined, now trying to spit-polish the mud from his boots.
"Who was the poor soul who had to let them out for the voyage to Dragonstone?" Rykker asked, giving Varys a suspicious look. Either Varys is showing his cards or Rykker's made him for more than a hedge knight. The spider looked in turn to Jaime.
"Your brother. He was bothered by reports that the dragons weren't eating, and with the queen vanished on Drogon's back he took it upon himself to make sure they would."
"How did he manage that?" Jaime asked. Tyrion, you fucking idiot.
"Quite despite my many misgivings, he went down into the catacombs where they were kept and pulled the bolts from their collars. I suppose it was unnecessary, they would have pulled the chains from the walls sooner or later, but still." Varys' eyes were cold, his gaze sharp and appraising. Lord Tywin's Bane, indeed. He remembered the rumors and the names the westermen had for Tyrion as a misshapen infant, each wilder and more fanciful than the last. Well, Father was blind to Cersei and I. If he missed us, he'd have missed anything. He remembered too, Tyrion's fascination with dragons, how he knew all their names before even those of his own ancestors. That irritated Father to no end. The ugly little boy would go on about Balerion the Black Dread, Vermithor the Bronze Fury and all the rest to anyone who'd listen and more than one other Lannister who soon grew weary of the endless prattle. Only Uncle Gerion ever humored him. Jaime could still see the smile that never left Lord Tywin's youngest brother's face, still hear the laughter that was never withheld. Lost beyond the Narrow Sea, no doubt sunk with his Laughing Lion. Thinking on the past had soured Jaime's mood and so he found himself heading for his tent soon after. The Rock holds too many ghosts for me, he thought as he lay on his sleeping mat, staring at the cloth above. Claim or no, should I live to war's end I'll not spend my days roaming its halls as Cersei roamed the Red Keep's. Forgetting gold and crimson for a moment he surprised himself with how quickly sapphire blue took their place. Perhaps I'll find out what's become of you Brienne the Blue, Brienne the Beauty. At the very least, I can take you back home to Tarth, to the safety of your father's lands. That was easier to think on than all the ill fortune had befallen House Lannister, and he fell asleep with their last meeting in his mind. Even from Riverrun's ramparts, I could still see the blue in her eyes.
A frigid cascade woke him sharply and Jaime found himself thrashing under his tent, collapsed by snow. After a bit of wriggling and no shortage of foul utterances he wormed his way out, made all the more difficult by his maiming. Popping his head free of the snow, he peered about to see the stuff had fallen nearly to knee-height, making his spirits sink ever lower. Winter is Coming, he thought blackly. On my fucking face. The other tents he could see were but pointed ridges in the snow and everywhere he looked the world had become a white map, free of every feature. The horses aren't going to like this. By the time his companions were woken and in turn the officers, Jaime saw the snow wasn't about to leave their company. We'll be trudging in this mess from here on to Deep Den. It was midday when they began moving again, and at not even half-time. The horses had to be led carefully lest they lame themselves with a wayward step, and it was devilish hard to keep the sun, small and wan, in their sights as they followed it due west.
"Forget castles and dragons, you're more likely to find your golden hand than the goldroad." Bronn grumbled, breath a white cloud that smelled of ale. Shitmouth had gone to tying cloth about his face to keep his nose and mouth warm, which made Jaime distantly wonder if the smell of his own breath was like to kill him. A funny story at the least.
"We don't need the road, truly. We'll keep west until we hit the mountains and follow them further in until we find Deep Den."
"To think I could have followed that lovely vicious bitch to Dorne." Bronn said, almost sighing.
"Without me to pull you out of every pit of snakes you'd be dead within a day."
"I've saved your arse, and your dwarf brother's, more times over than you two have mine put together." Jaime turned from leading his horse to see how the rest were doing, and the army behind them. Varys seemed most interested in being briefed on Matthos' time beneath the Narrow Sea, while Freglyn and Joss tried valiantly to keep Jaime's spare horse from stepping right into a snowbank. Renfred Rykker was little better, shivering beneath his hood. We're not set for winter weather, Jaime thought. Not for this lovely gift of white from the old gods, anyway. No winter clothing, no spare food, and far from any great source of wood or shelter. We could walk right over the bloody Blackwater Rush and not realize it but for the slipping on the river's icy surface.
The days were much the same, Jaime leading his army through the snow that had so quicky caught them out. At first, he hoped that it had been a sudden storm of intense strength but piddling size, then as they pressed on he could see the countryside had been blanketed as far as he could see. After managing to find not the goldroad but the Blackwater Rush and to Jaime's amazement losing not one horse to its hidden icy grasp, they had to slow further and make sure the army in its entirety got across the treacherous span. To check his count, he asked Bronn and Rykker what count each had made. Neither man's estimate much pleased him. Perhaps a thousand. Not a tenth of them mounted, not a tenth of them true soldiers. Rabble they might have been, but they did not let it show. Men died, either of cold or hunger or sheer exhaustion, but not so many as Jaime supposed might. Food was scarce, but not so much they needed to consider eating the horse (as yet). Well, sudden snows have treated men a deal worse, he supposed. When he told Rogyr that at least a week's more travel laid between them and the foot of the western mountains to say nothing of Deep Den, the man only gritted his teeth and nodded before going back down the column to spread the word. "We'll be rather spectacularly late to Winterfell I suppose, but it's not as if it's our doing. Mayhaps we'll ride up only to discover the rest have done for the Others already." Jaime muttered. Or maybe I'll be called the Late Jaime Lannister in addition to Kinslayer and Kingslayer. Spotting Stilwood and Freglyn off to his right, muttering to one another in the way boys hoping not to be overheard only did, Jaime put the journey out of his mind and went to see what they were up to. "Oh! Pardon me, ser." Freglyn said at once, turning red and looking at his feet while Stilwood only nodded. Commoner and highborn, if barely. Yet snow slows one sure as t'other, cold chills one sure as t'other.
"Scheming to try and dig a rabbit out of the ground?"
"Ah, well, actually, ser, we were talking about the snow." I shouldn't be surprised. Damn little else to talk about! Still, Jaime humored them.
"The snow?"
"Aye." He looked to Stillwood. The lad shifted.
"Well, reminds me of something, is all." That did surprise Jaime.
"It does?" A nod.
"Once in the riverlands, we were stuck up in an abandoned house trying to keep out of the rain while Lord Tywin and the rest looked for the Young Wolf. The place was infested with rats, see." he said, as if that explained the first thing. When Jaime gave no sign of understanding, he continued, though slowly. "Well, the other men, those that run with Ser for years, they got to getting rid of them. Last building standing in the village, we weren't about to find a roof and four walls again any time soon. They stopped up every hole and nook they could find, leaving plenty of crumbs and such near the one they made a point not to. Weese kept his dog near at hand and every time a rat was bold enough to come out for a bite of cheese or a nibble of a corpsy finger, that spotted bitch caught it in her teeth. Over and over again, until the walls stopped skittering and the dog's whole head was dripping red. Weese hated rats." He looked at his feet. After awhile, squeaking rats may well sound like screaming men. If anyone's lost the difference, it's Gregor Clegane's squire.
"The fuck does that have to do with anything, boy?" Bronn barked over Jaime's shoulder when the silence drew awkward. Stilwood started at his tone, shaking himself.
"Just, it wasn't snowing when we went to sleep that night." He thought it over. "Well, it was, but not as like to cover the army while it camped. Wasn't snowing hard enough to do either when we woke up caught sure as a mouse in a bag of flour." That image drove the lad's point home to Jaime.
"Instead of chain shirts, steel sabatons and the like, it's snow doing the stopping up. Forcing us one way and one only, straight to the dog." Jaime said, Stilwood nodding while Bronn laughed.
"It just reminded me is all, ser." Stilwood said, turning away from the sellsword. "It just reminded me is all."
Only when Jaime could just see the mountains did the snows begin to shallow. Still, the sight of them filled him with relief. The sky showed no inclination toward burying them again and with the snow easier to move through, they could be on Deep Den's doorstep in only a few days. Not before time either, Jaime thought. In the mountains there will be wood to burn and perhaps even game to hunt. Just now, I'd like to get the army into cover and fed more than press on to the Rock.
"We may get luckier still," Jaime said one morning as camp was struck. "Further from the riverlands and the fighting proper, we might find a village or two before we make the castle proper."
"Whose seat is this Deep Den anyway, Ser Jaime?" Rykker asked.
"The Lyddens, Lord Lewys in particular."
"Oi, I know him. White badger on green, is it? He rode with your father when they were chasing the Stark boy." Jaime nodded.
"He was in the honor guard that saw Lord Tywin's body returned to the west." To the Rock. Free of the specter of the Rush lurking beneath the snow like a viper under hay, Jaime felt reasonably confident that the horses could be pressed harder and go further from the column. After one such sortie over a large hill, Rogyr returned red in the face and out of breath.
"A town, ser! Walled in palisade as well, not some hamlet!" Despite the man's exciement there was nothing about the situation that seemed remarkable to Jaime. We must be near the goldroad after all. Frequented by wealthy passers-through, small wonder a town might grow larger and organize some manner of defense. When Jaime got over the hill he could indeed see several buildings nestled in a ring of wooden stakes, the whole town standing squarely in their way. Last stop before the mountains. Whoever owns the inn here is likely to be rather wealthy for a lowborn. Only when he turned to congratulate the men nearby on their perseverance did he see the look on Stilwood's face. Jaime spent the next day fretting over just what to do next, the town looking more and more welcoming the closer they got. No doubt the rats thought the finger just as tempting. The night before they were due to make the wooden walls, Jaime stunned the others.
"We go around." he said, in a tone that brooked no argument. Every face save Stilwood's gaped in dismay. If anything, the boy looked as relieved as Jaime had ever seen him. That means this is the right decision. The rest voiced every reason to fill the town's every building and let the men recuperate, even taking a day to rest at the cost of not eating. "And if another snow traps us there? We'll be eating each other before the week is out. At least skirting the mountains, even going over its toes, we'll be free to build fires of an abundance of wood and no doubt bring down at least some game. I'm no ranger but I don't see so much as a rabbit track just now."
"How much does it add to our little walk?" Bronn said, already despairing of talking Jaime out of his course.
"Another day. A day and a half at most."
"Seven save us." Rykker muttered from between his gloves. Mutter all you like, my lord, Jaime thought. I have had my fill of Whispering Woods, and your lady will thank me and young Stilwood here too when you return to her at journey's end.
