AEMON THE DRAGONWOLF
Part 2 - The Son's Song
Jaime II
The morning after the crannogmen's arrival, Jaime watched with great curiosity as the bastard king, Lady Sansa, and Lord Reed disappeared after breakfast. New ideas had been spinning in his ale-soaked mind, and a restless night had done him no favors. Instead of Cersei and the wildfire, the ghosts of Arthur Dayne, Gerold Hightower, and Oswell Whent had disturbed his sleep.
The more Jaime thought about it, the surer he became that Howland Reed was revealing the truth to the King in the North. As the newly-minted Kingslayer, he'd paid little attention to the tiny man at Stark's side when the Northmen had passed through King's Landing. He'd been shocked to hear that the Quiet Wolf had somehow killed the Sword of the Morning and his two other Kingsguard brethren, and amused by the so-called Honorable Ned's bastard boy, who looked so like him even as a babe, that no one would have doubted his parentage.
Well, not until now, at least.
How blind had they all been? Stark had ridden off to Dorne to save his sister, a healthy young girl by all accounts, and had returned with her bones and a newborn child, a babe that resembled her as much as he resembled Eddard. It was so painfully obvious now, especially when three Kingsguard had died defending Lyanna Stark and her son, the last Targaryen heir to the Iron Throne!
Jaime shook his head in disgust. Stark, a man with no talent for the game of thrones, had outsmarted them all. Yet he could not resent him for it. Eddard Stark had succeeded with Jon where the Kingsguard had failed with Aegon; he'd protected Rhaegar's last surviving son by sacrificing his own infamous honor.
Once he'd eaten his fill, Jaime wandered aimlessly around the ancient keep. Tyrion had spent most of his time in Winterfell's library, but that had never been of much interest to Jaime. Besides, the library had gone up in flames some time ago. Still, there were plenty of hallways and outbuildings to get lost in, and new people to observe. Jaime had never seen a wildling fight, and watching that lot train would be quite interesting.
A while after the king had disappeared into his solar, Jon Snow and Sansa Stark stepped out of the keep and headed straight for the crypts, confirming Jaime's suspicions. Of course the boy would visit his mother's tomb, now that he knew she was his mother and not his aunt. Jaime wondered how the king felt about it. It must have been a bitter pill to find out not only that she was dead, but also that she'd been Rhaegar's wife or mistress. What did the Northmen know of Rhaegar, except that he'd taken their liege lord's daughter in a fit of madness?
Jon Snow and his sister did not emerge for quite some time. To pass the time, Jaime amused himself by watching the wildlings and Northmen, two peoples that had despised each other for centuries, struggling to work together for the good of the realm. One of the loud wildlings that had volunteered for the Wintersguard, the one the king had hugged like a brother, drilled the others with spears, men and women alike, as men in Manderly, Glover, and Royce colors watched with ill-concealed disdain.
It was shocking to see so many Vale knights here, when they'd sat on their hands for most of the war, but Jaime supposed it shouldn't have been. After all, Jon Arryn had been foster-father to both Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon. The older knights had known dour old Ned since his boyhood, and clearly it was Lysa Arryn—and Littlefinger—that had kept them from aiding Robb Stark.
As a Royce man hollered insults at the wildlings, receiving rude gestures in return, Jaime spied a head of dark hair and a head of auburn sneaking out of the crypts and around the crowded yard. He lost sight of the two Starks behind a wall, but they reappeared closer to the keep. The Kingslayer noticed dark smudges on Sansa's dress around knee height, and the king looked no better. Even from this distance, their faces looked blotchy and red, as though they'd wept.
The newly-sworn Wintersguards in the courtyard never noticed them. Jaime decided he'd have to talk to Snow about it later, before Cersei got assassins into the castle and the new King in the North died like his predecessor.
Jaime wandered back inside, now chilled to the bone. He had only a vague idea of where the family slept, but it was enough to get him near the correct corridor. Just as he'd sat on a nearby windowsill, Jon Snow emerged from his small chamber (far too small for a king), dressed in fresh clothes and wearing a replica of the iron and bronze Crown of Winter. It was an ugly, utilitarian thing, made for hardened warriors with no use for frippery. Jaime had to admit that it suited Jon Snow better than the rubies his father would have given him.
"Lannister!" said the boy, surprised. "What brings you here?"
"I'd like a word, your grace. I noticed that your new guards are nowhere near you, making their vows from last night useless."
The king sighed. "I know, Ser Jaime. I haven't had time to talk to them yet. There were more important things to discuss."
"I imagine so," said Jaime lightly, knowing his face would give him away. "Your parentage is no small thing, your grace."
Just as Jaime had predicted, Jon Snow looked up at him in shock, then an icy cold anger that reminded him forcibly of a young Ned Stark.
"Have you been eavesdropping?"
"A time-honored and essential skill for any Kingsguard, to be sure," Jaime answered mockingly, "but alas; the doors in this castle are too thick for it. There was no need to try it; as soon as I heard you last night, I knew."
"Heard what?" asked the king, his frozen Stark face tense.
"Many years ago, your father used to leave the Red Keep with one of us at his back," Jaime told Jon Snow. "He'd cover his silver hair with a cloak, sit by a fountain, and play and sing until he grew bored. Maidens would swoon at the sound of his voice, your mother and my sister included."
The king's mouth twitched. Caution warred with curiosity in a silent struggle that was fascinating to watch.
"It doesn't matter who sired me," he said finally. "Eddard Stark was my father."
Jaime raised an eyebrow. "Are you so quick to dismiss half of your heritage? Rhaegar Targaryen was not the monster you think he was, and you're more like him than you think."
"How so?" asked the King in the North, flexing his right hand. Jaime wondered if the boy meant to punch him. Behind him, Sansa Stark appeared, freshly dressed and combed. The sight of Jaime standing so close to her cousin gave her pause.
"You certainly look like a Stark bastard at first, all cold and grim and long-faced. But the more I look at you, the more I see your true father. You have his build, for one," Jaime said. "And Queen Rhaella's nose. Rhaegar and Viserys had it too. And know this," he finished, letting a dark humor creep into his voice. "Prince Rhaegar could brood better than you ever will. Not that he didn't have reason, mind you, with a mad father that beat and raped his mother when the mood struck. Varys didn't help either, with his whispers that Rhaegar was plotting against Aerys."
"And where were the mighty Kingsguard," asked the boy, his fists clenching, "when the king raped his wife?"
"Standing guard outside, of course," replied Jaime. "I asked once, if we shouldn't help Rhaella. Do you know what my brothers in white told me?"
Jon Snow waited, silent.
"We protect the king. We don't protect the queen from the king." Jaime's self-loathing had resurfaced, and his voice rose as a result. "Do you remember what you were like, when you were young and stupid and thought the Wall would be a great adventure, and the black brothers your valiant companions?"
"I remember," Jon said slowly. "Your brother was the only one to tell me what the Wall was really like."
"Well, Tyrion was too young to advise me," Jaime continued harshly. "I found out all too soon that I was no valiant protector of maidens, but a hostage in a pretty white cloak. I was there to keep my father from doing anything that displeased Aerys. Under my watch, a queen was brutalized, countless men were burned alive or strangled, and I could do nothing. Well, I could—and did—pray for Aerys to die, and for Rhaegar to take his place sooner rather than later."
The Kingslayer's mocking smile reappeared. "But the gods never listened to me. So I killed King Scab, and then my own father slaughtered your half-brother and sister, and gave them to Robert as a coronation present. No wonder dear old Ned hid you as far from us as he could."
"Only a Lannister would give dead babes as a present," Jon Snow said coldly, strangely calm to Jaime's ears. "You couldn't even be humane about murdering children; you made them suffer, and made their mother watch."
"There it is," Jaime sighed. "There's that predictable Stark self-righteousness. My father's butchers did that, but you are very quick to attack me for it, just like your dear uncle. Old Ned taught you well."
"Can you honestly say that you were innocent?" the younger man asked, leaning forward, gray eyes glittering with anger. "You were the last Kingsguard in the city, and you'd killed the king. Why weren't you protecting the prince and princess from your father's dogs, instead of sitting on the Iron Throne?"
Jaime was reminded of his nightmares, where a sad Prince Rhaegar asked why Jaime had failed to protect his children. Now his son asked the same question, judging him unworthy with icy gray eyes instead of indigo. Hiding his shame and discomfort, Jaime raised an eyebrow. "Already thinking of them as your brother and sister, are you?"
"No," spat the Northman, "but you wouldn't like it any better if I asked you about Robb, and Bran, and Rickon. Where are they, Lannister?"
Jaime couldn't help but flinch. Robb Stark had been his enemy in battle, but Bran Stark had been naught but a crippled child, trapped in Winterfell for the Ironborn to slaughter, because of him. He couldn't deny it, and he wasn't sure how much Jon Snow knew of the affair. And Arya? Jon Snow had not mentioned her since last night, but his unfulfilled oath to Catelyn Stark still stung what was left of Jaime's battered conscience. The war-torn Riverlands were no place for a child to wander alone.
"What do you want, Kingslayer?" asked Jon Snow again, sounding exhausted. "You didn't come here just to suggest I start a Kingsguard or to chat about my father. Why have you come?"
"I'm here to fight, like I said before."
"Why?"
"If Cersei is as mad as I think she is, she will throw the South into a war she cannot win, and I refuse to send my men to die for nothing. I'd rather die fighting your White Walkers than sitting on my arse in King's Landing, or watching my bannermen get roasted alive by dragons."
"You don't even believe the Others exist! Why would you fight for our side?" the King in the North asked, growing visibly impatient.
Jaime met the boy's gray eyes with his green ones. "A long time ago, when being in the Kingsguard meant something, three of the best men I knew died protecting you in the mountains of Dorne. They knew the war was lost, and they gave their lives anyway. I want to see if you were worth their sacrifice, Jon Snow, son of Rhaegar."
The King in the North grimaced.
"Your brothers in white died for Prince Aemon Targaryen," he said, looking lost. "Not me. And once I inform the council of what I am, it's likely that they'll take my head or banish me, leaving your fate out of my hands."
Jaime's heart dropped into his boots. "Are you mad? These people went to war with the Targaryens! Why would you tell them anything?"
The boy looked at Jaime with naked disgust. "I accepted this title thinking I was the last living son of Eddard Stark, and only because Sansa agreed to it. I know better now, and I am neither a usurper nor a liar."
Sansa Stark's face was a picture of silent distress.
"And does your cousin agree with this decision?" prodded Jaime, nodding to his former goodsister.
"I told him it would make no difference," Lady Sansa replied firmly, but Jaime saw fear in those Tully blue eyes. "He is the White Wolf, their chosen King in the North, and he's just as much a Stark as ever, only he's Aunt Lyanna's son instead of Father's."
"You're as foolish as your uncle, that's certain," said Jaime, not comprehending how someone could be so rigid in their notion of honor. He'd expected better from the boy, especially after his visit to the dungeon, when he'd claimed he was more flexible than Eddard Stark. "How many people have died to protect you, and you would throw their sacrifice away like this? In the name of your tree gods, why?"
"Do you think such a thing could be kept secret forever?" cried the King in the North. "What if Daenerys Targaryen comes to visit with a dragon, and the dragon recognizes my father's blood? I'd rather reveal it on my own terms, come what may. If there is no place at Winterfell for the son of a dead prince, so be it."
Damn him to the seven hells! thought Jaime furiously. A suicidal King in the North should have been no concern of his, but Jaime was loath to let Rhaegar's third child die a second time, no matter how stupid.
"If I keep my title, which I doubt," Snow said finally, "we may discuss the Wintersguard later, Lannister. For now, Sansa and I must attend a council meeting."
He took his sister's arm, and led her away from Jaime.
"You stupid fool!" Jaime exploded, angry and worried beyond reason. "You'll end up like your uncle, beheaded with your own sword! You claim the Dead are coming, and you would leave your cousin to fight that war alone?"
Jon Snow turned back toward Jaime, wearing a small, sad smile that was hauntingly familiar. Jaime knew he'd seen it on Rhaegar's face, as well as Rhaella's.
"If the northern lords kill me for being the son of Rhaegar Targaryen, the war is lost either way. The Ironborn, the Boltons, and the Lannisters made sure of it. We'll never survive without dragons and dragonglass, and who will bring us those if not the other surviving Targaryen?"
Without another word, the King in the North left Jaime alone. Feeling twenty years older and full of dread, Jaime turned to head back to the White Sword Tower. Then he remembered that he was in Winterfell, not King's Landing, and he'd just said a final farewell to Aemon Targaryen, and not his silver-haired father. The realization didn't make him feel any better.