JAIME II

"The snow lay in flecks of white on the grey-green grass, moss and pine needles of the forest floor. The woods was beginning to grow gleaser, more sparse, as the northerners called it, as they had come out upon a resemblance of a path, but then they seemed to be nearing a thickening of it all over again. Jaime felt as though they were finally getting nearer their goal now, as he scratched the snow from his blonde beard and clasped his moleskin gloves together, tapping slightly at the hilt of his sword to feel that it was still at his side, as it thankfully always was.

They had set out in the afternoon, at the sun's braving the Wall from the southern side, as Jaime felt the cold northern winds already setting him on. He was well used to it, but all the same, he felt as though summer was already nearing its end, and it was made clearer and clearer for each day...

They were to look after Fergyn the Frozen this time, around the western and northwestern parts of the Haunted Forest, near the easternmost reach of the Fangs.

They were six in the ranging party this time. Dywen was with him, and Hake the steward, and Bedwyck, the short but grey-haired senior ranger jokingly called Giant for his stature, as well as the wise and steady hand of Ser Forley Prester, and the twenty-year-old Perwyn Payne and his younger bastard brother of seventeen, Parston Hill, all three of them westermen. Normally he rode with a bigger party, and with at least two outriders, but as the wildlings they were tracking this time were themselves so few in number, Jaime had deemed it enough with only the sixofthem and theirhorses.

Perwyn was an angry and fretting youth, a third son not particularly glad to have been forced up to the Wall by his father, whereas Parston was a younger and much more blue-eyed boy, who still seemed to think it all exciting somehow. And he never did complain, the poor lad. Perhaps that was why he had been told to carry the packing, and readily agreed. Hake the cook and Parston the porter, Jaime mused to himself.

He should have been made a steward, in truth, like Hake, but the prestigious name of Payne from his trouser-flailing father and the company of his older brother had dealt him a place alongside Jaime to be taken under his wings as an apprentice to the First Ranger. If only I could have some more worthy recruits, he thought, but the boy seemed at least eager to learn from his naivety. That was far better than nothing, Jaime supposed. A bit of youthful energy was always needed up here.

His thoughts soon turned back to the wildling they were after. Fergyn the Fair-haired was said by the last rangers who had gone after him, including Squire Dalbridge and Ebben's party at the Shadowtower, to have survived jumping into an ice cold river just a mile or two northeast of the Gorge, along the southwestern part of the Wall, and then fled northeast into the forest to regroup with his few remaining men and women, most of them feisty spearwives, but apparently some milder mothers among them as well.

They had apparently been together for only two or three moons, by the guess of it, as the women surely could not have travelled far while pregnant, and one of them held a newly born babe, as they had chanced upon making it south to Bear Island to raid, but been caught by the Watch at the Shadowtower and driven back from whence they came. Fergyn had managed to lead them all on their way for many miles after that, fleeing the reach of Squire Dalbridge and the others and taking them somehow across the western arm of the great River of Ice, and keeping them safe all the way until they had been spotted halfway in the forested middle between Craster's Keep and the Fist.

As Fergyn seemed a capable leader, however, that had not been proven enough, and it had now been up to Jaime as First Ranger to track him down. Or, rather, he had suggested as much himself to Lord Commander Mormont, for such a man as Fergyn was surely at least a somewhat worthy foe for him to face head-on.

He only liked those fights; they were the only ones he truly enjoyed, when on rare occasions he gave fight towards a man who was as close as equal as any man north of the Last Hearth could be said to be. The rest of their job was mostly gloryless slaughter by the standards that he held for himself. The cutting down of rabbles of rough wildlings only armed with spears or bronze axes, and not well-trained at that, only having their strength and speed but no particular coordination nor practice at true sword-fighting, whereas Jaime had his [golden?] sword and the sharpest hand to wield it in all of Westeros. To that, which wildling would dare oppose him...? The Lion clad in Black, Ser Jaime Lannister, First Ranger of Castle Black? … As it turned out, most of them did, in fact. They were stupid in that way as well, among all the rest ways that wildlings were.

Dywen had been the first one to smell the smoke coming from the small campfire, and then after that the fresh dung coming from either one or two of the wildling's horses, and now they had finally found the place, it seemed. They had tied up their horses next to a grove of birches half a mile back and went the rest of the way by foot, to be more silent, and to not risk any injury to their mounts.

Jaime made a signal for Parston and the others to his right to stop moving and stop up. Ser Forley did not need to be told. He had always had good jugment, and he was older than Jaime, at that. The very best type of man to have by one's side on a ranging such as this, Jaime thought gratefully.

They all stood watching the abandoned camp for a good long moment, their eyes angled forward.

"There is someone there", Dywen said.

Jaime spied where he was looking, beyond over the ridge where the campfire lay.

"No...", he said, as he strained his eyes at the woods. "There's not."

Dywen understood what he meant then.

"You saying they left already?"

"I'm saying so, yes. … We shall see in a little while if I'm right. … Stay on the alert."

He walked over around the bush, pareseing to the right and cresting the small slope, as he bent slightly down and intensified his gaze, making sure to not let his vision leave the small point where he was looking at for even a single moment, all the while also seeing if anything was moving, or indeed coming in from the trees to the sides.

But all seemed still for the moment, as he angled himself further forward, and slowly waved with his gloved hand for the others to follow behind him.

They all spread out, making a broad and loose formation, as Jaime took to the right and Dywen and Hake went out to the left, with Bedwyck in the sparse but broad and ever broadening middle. They walked forth, closer and closer towards the edge of the woods, now seventy-five feet away, now seventy feet away, now sixty-five feet away, spreading out like a net beginning to stretch...

Say what you would about the wildlings, Jaime thought, but they could be clever at times. Oftentimes an attack would come not from straight ahead, but from the sides. Jaime would have no such troubles now, he decided. He pointed for Dywen and Hake to go further left, into the snoars of the woods, and Parston and Ser Forley to take the right as he himself strode forward, and felt Perwyn following just behind him. Sour and bitter at being here or no, the young man certainly was ambitious. Jaime had been much the same once, long ago...

He heard not a single sound, as he edged closer, and closer, to the small semblance of a camp. There were some chopped tree branches tucked like a crude windshelter by two pines. It had some blankets and leaves tossed up on it, forming a slanted roof. Next to the windshelter was some more brought-down grane branches, standing up like a simple wall, also used for cover for the cold, most like, and two large brown leather bags that had been left there seemingly unguarded. Strange, no doubt... One did not leave such fine and usable bags – or any small piece fabric, for that matter – up here for nothing. Either the wildlings were still close by, or they had been forced to leave suddenly.

In front of it all was the campfire, which still smoked slightly with grey whisps trailing up longingly at the sky high above.

Jaime went forth to look at the bags. They were full and enormous, the size of two small cows almost, being propped up towards a tree to the right. They held something inside of them, it seemed. Jaime went up to them suspiciously, half-expecting two spearwives to come hopping up with spears or daggers in their hands, but instead the bags stayed calm where they were put in place. They were still, as he made his way forward, slicing with his sword at the air on the top of one of the bags. No reaction.

He went forward to look down and reach into them, as he did so carefully. They were stuffed with hay and old dirty brown rags, the soiled clothings of the young children, no doubt, Jaime thought. But why had they left the hay? Surely that would be good food for their horses? They had had either one or two, according to Squire Dalbridge's party, small wildling garrons, rare and few and far in between in any place Beyond the Wall, treasured possessions to be sure, which had helped them to traverse for so long from the River of Ice all the way to the forests up here.

"There!" Dywen called out.

"First Ranger!" Hake shouted as well.

Jaime turned around, quick as lightning towards the sound. And indeed it was the wildlings.

Fergyn the Fair-haired, a skinny, outmargled wrinkly man with long greyish hair and beard, looking to be older than forty, and yet still with the fire of battle and determination in his grey-green eyes, sat on a small horse, accompanied by two young boys, his sons, Jaime guessed, and three or four older raiders as well. Beside them were three spearwives, and a couple of milder-looking women as well, sitting on another horse wrapped up in pelts and with a babe and young children in their arms. There was something else, as well. Their own horse. Dywen's black courser was by their side. The wildlings had managed to find the small group of the birches, where they had put their horses, only less than an hour earlier, and steal it away. That was an ill sign. Perhaps they were cleverer than most, Jaime thought again.

"Right on, brothers!" Jaime called. "Take the men and spearwives, but leave the women and children be!"

Dywen and Hake charged first, their spears and shields put up towards Fergyn and the other men.

The wildling garron seemed to stand its ground at first, but then as Dywen ran up screaming towards it with his spear high up in the air, the little wildling mount steagred up and made to turn, almost throwing its rider off in the process.

Fergyn dismounted, hopping down into the snow and landing on snow shoes which looked to be fashioned from shadowcat or snowbear, Jaime had time to reflect, before Dywen and Fergyn went into close battle. Jaime took charge to beat at the others meanwhile, thundering forth and

slashing forth with his sword at a brown-haired, curly-bearded wildling of middling height with a rusty sword. He looked to be strong, strong enough for a wildling, but Jaime took him down easily. He took the raider out with a clanking and parrying of three and then four, hopped back from a kick and then delivered a slice to the man's neck as clean as ice.

The wildling fell down dead on the ground, his body slumped. He looked strong indeed, and burly, almost fat in his furs, Jaime thought.

Then came the next one, with long black hair, more straight and with greyish blue eyes that stared right into Jaime's with a maddening look to them. He charged forth with his axe, but Jaime hopped away in time, all the while slashing his sword at a third one that came behind him shying away from Dywen's blade, shearing a red portion of his back with a slice, and then back towards the mad-eyed one's side with one fell sweep.

It was not enough, however, as the man screamed and hopped up towards Jaime, almost toppling him over from the shock of it, but then he pivoted around and brough his sword up in a swift and deadly arch.

In his younger days, he would have laughed at his opponent, but up here was no place for laughter, and neither was Jaime much anymore. Yield, he might have also said, but wildlings did not know how to yield, nor how to kneel before their betters. That was why they were wildlings. And so, instead, he simply let his blade slice right through the neck of the mad-eyed man's neck, and yet cursed within himself and without, as he noticed that the wretch's vile eyes were still wide-open even as he fell and his head landed on the ground by his side.

Jaime kicked away at the head, trying to close his eyes before it, and then stabbed his sword through the man's heart as well, holding his heavy body up with his right leg before letting it drop down.

There you go. Rest on the ground tonight, you vile ugly bastard, instead of in Mormont's halls, drink ice instead of his ale and wine, and stare at the cold hard ground instead of on me.

He looked around.

The two young boys had met different fates. One of them had been killed by Dywen, and the other had hopped up on his father's horse along with the last raider. Jaime could not blame Dywen for having done it so. A boy up here beyond the Wall was a man sooner than most, and they had followed their father into battle, for raiding and riches, he thought. If they had not been killed at the hand of Dywen, they themselves would have killed some poor farmers on Bear Island. In short, He did not pity the wildling boys on account of their age. Sandor Clegane, Cersei's household guard at Winterfell, the younger brother and heir of the Mountain, had only been twelve when he'd gone to war and killed his first man in the Sack, Jaime recalled vaguely.

Ser Forlyn was still fighting with a spearwife to Jaime's right, his sword against her long spear. It was good fortune that he was heavily armoured and had his thick shield, as the woman was truly fierce. Jaime considered whether to interfere, but it looked like Ser Forley had it under control.

Finally, he managed to slice through the wood of the spear with his sword and as the woman charged blindly forward into his shield and armour with it, she fell closer, allowing him to put his sword around her neck.

"Yield!" he screamed.

"I'll no yield to no fuckin' crow!" The woman shouted, wheezing her teeth at him in a scrawl.

Ser Forley took one single look at her, and then inside his own heart, and then he sliced her ugly head clean off.

Her trusseled hair landed in the snow beside her, and Ser Forley swore and spat out. Then he sighed, cleaning his sword with his swatch of cloth, and his visure and composure returned, as ever, to that of a steady innkeep's tired gaze. Jaime was ever grateful for having old Ser Forley being by his side.

The two unarmed women were fleeing on the back of the second horse, along with the young babes wrapped in their furs. Jaime saw no point in going after them. With only one man of fighting spirit left, and the boy, they would not have the strength to go raiding south of the Wall anymore, and to leave the women without a protector was cruel, even if they were wildlings. He let them ride.

"Leave them!" He called, just as Perwyn was about to set after them with his sword. "They're harmless now. Let them live or die as they see fit. They won't trouble the realm anymore. Count on that."

"What about the children?" Perwyn said. "You don't think those children will grow up some day, and learn to hate crows and fight against us?"

He learns fast, Jaime thought.

"If they survive through the winter, perhaps, in another ten years", he said. Then he joked. "We should hope for it. You wouldn't want to be put out of a job, and forced to clean the pots and pans at Castle Black by then, would you?"

His flashing smile cut through his blonde beard, already frosted by the snow and his beard spotted red with the blood from his enemies, as he could feel the warmth of it. He wiped it off casually with the handkerchief from his belt and then picked up the wildlings' weapons, the rusted sword, the axe and the woman's spear, one after the other. They would make sure to take it all with them back, so that no other wildlings passing by could find and use them after they had left the place.

...

The fighting, as a concluding finale after three days' travel had made all of them sweaty, and even Jaime found that he was somewhat tired, as he took the bridles to his horse and clapped its neck.

"How many hours of daylight remains to us, do you think?" He asked Giant. "Two?"

"Aye, two perhaps, if we're lucky, I'd say", Giant mumbled, looking at the greying sky above.

"We'll turn back to the small lake we crossed earlier", Jaime said. "Perhaps we can find some fish before the night has come."

The others seemed to agree with the idea, though Perwyn Payne still had a question in mind.

"What about the women and the horses? They took Dywen's horse, First Ranger. Shall we not go after them?"

"We can do so in the morning", Jaime said. "I don't believe that they will stray very far. These are wildling horses, Perwyn. Garrons. They are built for endurance, not speed."

The glowering youth seemed to accept that as fact, even though his visure said little, and then they turned back.

They walked more or less in silence at first, as their horses clopped on silently through the same round marks in the snow from before, but that only lasted for a few hundred feet before Parston Hill shot up in glee and fascination from what had just transpired.

"I can't believe we actually managed to kill them!" Parston said. "We were slaying bloody wildlings! I can't believe it. Only wait until I can write back and tell Father about it!" The boy was saying, as his blue eyes grew even larger than before.

"And when do you reckon that will be?" said Perwyn sourly.

"What do you mean, brother? When we return to Castle Black, of course", Parston answered.

"Aye, but when will we return there? I am sure that Ser Jaime has some more great plans for us."

The speech was almost a threat to his authority, both as his former liege lord by blood, and, more importantly, as First Ranger, but for some reason, Jaime let it pass. I will make you heel, soon enough for a lowly Payne in my side, Jaime thought. If you are angry at your own father, or mine, for having sent you here, I assure you that you will find other foes to thrust your anger at soon enough, mylord... He scoffed inside himself. Perhaps it would be worth another pair of broken ribs to go after Bowen Marsh and the others again, after all. First Ranger ought to mean First Ranger, instead of handling the greenest piss his own lord father and the Westerlands could send up to them.

If you are not grown to be a true man of the Night's Watch by the time we go on our next ranging, in another six moons or so, I'll toss you in the lake and fish you up for quell supper instead, Jaime thought, but said nothing of the sort. He had been with far worse, after all, and managed it allsame.

As they began riding back, Dywen sharing horse with Hake, their caravan of horses making its slow way towards the river to fish, he thought of Cersei again, seeing her golden shape before him, as the sky slowly turned dark around them all.

He had come down for the Winterfell feast, for the King's, yes, for Eddard Stark's welcome feast, and as First Ranger he had been allowed to leave the Wall for a visit. She had already known that he would come. He had written to her, and to Benjen, making the dark passage into Maester Aemon's chambers as usual, writing on the parchment and putting the letter on the bird himself, as Aemon watched from beside him. Cersei was abound with longing, as always when they had the chance to meet, perhaps once in a year, or oftentime, less.

They had only spent another good two or three days after the bloody fool boy, the prince, King Eddard's completely mad climber son, had found them out, and then he had taken his leave, travelling with Tyrion to go and show him the Wall.

Tyrion had found it all fascinating enough, and the King and his party had apparently lingered there for long enough, waiting for the boy to wake up, to let Tyrion have the time to go and see the Wall and Castle Black and return to their Joffrey in time. Jaime was unsure if Cersei had spent any more time with the boy, but he supposed that she had not.

She had told him that they would be careful, and she was always one to be. And so, to his relief, was he.

If only the boy did not wake... For otherwise, he guessed, there would be more stirrings up on the Wall, and in the North, than there had already been, and the horse-stealing wildlings and the two Payne boys in his side, and the steady arrival of winter, would surely be the least of his concerns."