AEMON THE DRAGONWOLF
Part 2 - The Son's Song
Jon IV
Ignoring his council's advice, Jon headed to the dungeons after the midday meal. He was still unsure about Jaime Lannister and his sellsword friend. Had they done something worth a death sentence, or were their actions justified by the War of the Five Kings? If Jon executed them now, would that mean the war had never ended, and had six kings instead of five? He had no ready answer for this.
Ghost padded silently alongside his master, a white shadow following a black one. The guards stepped aside without a word as Jon entered, and took a torch to light his way. They hadn't spared more than a single tallow candle for the prisoners. It was barely enough light to identify the lumps on the floor as men.
Jaime Lannister lay on his bed of straw, fiddling with a loose thread in his doublet while Bronn of the Blackwater snored. The approaching torchlight gave Jon away at once.
"Ah, a visitor," drawled the Kingslayer. "And you've come to threaten me with your wolf, how quaint. I should tell you that I've already lived through this song and dance with your brother and his wolf."
"I'm sure you pissed your breeches then," Jon replied, impatience oozing from his every word. "Grey Wind wasn't even full-grown, and he would have killed you at a word from Robb. So will Ghost, if I ask him to. But who said anything about threats, Lannister? Perhaps I fancied a chat."
The blond man snorted. "Yes, the bastard King in the North is so lacking in interesting company that he comes to chat with the likes of me."
"Why are you here, Kingslayer? You must have known your reception would be cold up North."
Suddenly, the prisoner laughed, startling his companion into waking. "A cold reception indeed. I had to choose between fire and ice, you see, and I chose ice. Is that so strange?"
"I've heard the news of what your sister did in King's Landing," Jon acknowledged, hanging his torch from the nearest bracket. "A feat worthy of the king you slew."
"It will only get worse," Jaime confessed. "There aren't many Tyrells left, but those who survived have pledged their support to Daenerys Targaryen, who is coming to Westeros with an army and three dragons, or so say the rumors. The Dornish support her as well, and the Ironborn are split between Euron and Yara Greyjoy. There will be more fire to come."
"And you killed Daenerys Targaryen's father, so she wouldn't be pleased to see you," Jon added, shaking his head. "You're in a tight spot now, Kingslayer. You're lucky you didn't cut off my father's head, or I'd have killed you outright. The North remembers, and the man who passes the sentence swings the sword. In case you haven't heard, that's me, bastard and all."
For a moment, the man regarded Jon with a strange expression in his emerald eyes. He seemed to be waiting for an accusation that never materialized, and he shrugged.
"What will it be, then? Will the honorable Northmen take my head as vengeance for all the wrongs of war?"
"Do you deserve death, Ser Jaime?" asked Jon, curious to see what he'd say.
Jaime Lannister raised an eyebrow. "I thought Northmen didn't care for such questions. Your father believed my life was forfeit the second I stabbed old King Scab in the back."
"You didn't answer my question," Jon pointed out.
"Neither did you. If you're about to take a man's head, you could at least tell him. It's only polite."
Jon sighed. He had no idea what he'd expected from Jaime Lannister, but it hadn't been this level of irritation.
"I'm not my father," Jon said finally. "Look at me, Lannister."
Shivering in the cold, Jon untied his jerkin and slowly unbuttoned his shirt, exposing the ugly stab wounds that had ended his service to the Watch.
Jaime Lannister turned to look with uninterested eyes, and slowly went pale as he saw Jon's chest. Almost without thinking, the man edged closer, his mouth fallen open in shock. Next to him, the sellsword Bronn took a peek at the show and swore.
"How in the seven hells are you alive?" the commoner asked, shaking. "At least two of those are fatal, or I'm a septon, and I ain't no septon."
"Stannis Baratheon came to the Wall with a Red Witch," Jon explained, buttoning his shirt once more. "When my men stabbed me to death, she brought me back. I swore to die at my post, and so I did, but my oath was for all the nights to come. Does that make me an oathbreaker like you, Lannister? Even I don't know. Perhaps my father would have taken my head, along with yours."
Jaime Lannister said nothing, but he regarded Jon with an odd expression of pity. Jon had seen it before, usually on Sansa's face when she caught him half-dressed and saw his scars, or when he woke screaming in the night.
He hated that look.
"Why'd they do that?" asked Bronn, now immune enough to the spectacle to ask questions.
"The White Walkers are coming," Jon explained. "I saw them myself, at Hardhome. Any man they kill will rise again as a wight, so I negotiated with the Free Folk, to let them south of the Wall. The Night's Watch didn't like that; they'd much rather let the wildlings die and come back to kill us as undead monsters. I tried to save us all, and they murdered me for it."
"So you are reviled for your finest act," Jaime Lannister said, looking at him with a strange half-smile. "But you managed to do it without becoming the most hated man in Westeros, or gaining a spiteful new name. If I weren't so jealous, I'd congratulate you for a job well done, though you did die in the attempt. No one is perfect, I suppose."
Jon blinked in surprise. A compliment, from this man? Then what he'd said sunk in.
"You consider killing Aerys Targaryen your finest act?"
The Kingslayer sighed. "You showed me your scars, so I suppose I can tell you," he said slowly. "Aerys had filled all the tunnels in King's Landing with wildfire. He meant to burn the city to the ground, and everyone in it, rather than lose it to Robert Baratheon. The same wildfire my brother used to fight Stannis Baratheon's fleet, and the same wildfire my sister used to blow up the sept. It was hiding down there for almost twenty years, and no one knew of it but me, after I killed the pyromancers and the Mad King."
Jon's jaw had fallen open during this short tale. "But—you saved the city!" he cried, not comprehending. "Why didn't you tell anyone?"
"I swore to keep my king's secrets," the man replied, raising an eyebrow.
The King in the North made a wordless noise of disbelief.
"Your father wouldn't have cared," Jaime explained simply, and the bitter half-smile returned. He took a breath and went on. "In Ned Stark's eyes, I was the oathbreaking, backstabbing son of a child-killer who spent the war comfortable in his castle. Robert Baratheon was happy that I'd done the job for him, and Jon Arryn wanted to bring the Lannisters into his great rebel alliance. They asked no questions they didn't want answered."
For a moment, the King in the North and the Lion of Lannister looked at each other, sincere green eyes meeting serious gray. No one spoke.
"I told you I wasn't my father," Jon said finally. "I meant it. As much as I loved him, he was too honest and honorable for the world we live in. I've had to be more flexible to survive, and even then," he shrugged, pointing to his now-covered stab wounds, "it's not always enough."
Before Jaime Lannister or Bronn could react, Jon had unlocked their cell, and heaved the door open with a grunt of effort.
"I'll have guest rooms made up for you," he said, hardly aware of what came out of his mouth. "You're welcome to join me for supper tonight."
The two prisoners looked too stunned for words. Then, Ser Jaime Lannister gave Jon a perfectly proper bow, the bow a knight would give the southron king.
"As you wish, your grace."