AEMON THE DRAGONWOLF
Part 2 - The Son's Song
Jaime III
Jaime had never been so glad to see a king in his life.
He'd watched from a distance as the council of Northmen dispersed, joined by Lady Brienne and the king's enormous direwolf, but their frozen faces revealed nothing. It was impossible to tell if Jon Snow had made his confession, or if he'd saved it for later. Jaime had seen a maester rush in with news, so mayhaps the old man had stopped the boy from throwing away his life.
When the king finally emerged from the solar, he nearly walked into Jaime.
"You again," sighed Jon Snow, taking a step back.
"Well? Do they know?" asked Jaime, unable to stop himself. Rhaegar's son looked almost amused at the Kingslayer's anxiety.
"They know," he answered simply. "And they won't let me abdicate."
Jaime caught a small, proud smile on Lady Sansa's face.
"Well then, I must congratulate you, your grace," the Kingslayer told her, feeling almost giddy with relief. "You predicted their reaction better than your cousin or I. But that won't save your king from Cersei's assassins, or from Varys, if the good-for-nothing eunuch ever resurfaces. I expect he's gone to grovel at Daenerys' feet."
"I'm prepared to listen to your recommendations for my Wintersguard," King Jon replied. "We might as well do that now. Come in," he gestured, motioning for Jaime to follow him into the solar. "Sansa, will you join us?"
"Of course," she replied. "But I'll have the servants bring us some luncheon first. Ruling is hungry work."
"Aye," sighed the King in the North, taking a seat at the head of the table. There was a wooden chest on it, next to the king's place. It had skillful carvings of direwolves all around the sides, and a single wolf on top.
"This is the proof Lord Reed brought me," the king explained, having noticed Jaime's curious look. "My mother's glory box, recovered from a tower in Dorne. Have a look inside, if you wish."
Jaime did not wait for a second invitation. He opened the chest, and carefully removed the Crown of Winter that lay on top of some folded garments. Once he'd removed those, he swallowed hard at the sight of the Targaryen dragon, ruby-encrusted and glimmering in the winter sunlight. It looked just like the cloak Rhaegar had given Elia Martell on his first wedding day. The gray direwolf of House Stark followed, embroidered carefully on a white cloak trimmed with fur.
He withdrew the cloaks, and Jaime's breath caught at the sight of the silver-stringed harp. He hadn't seen it in almost twenty years, but he knew it at once. Even if he had not, the tiny dragons adorning the neck of the instrument were a dead giveaway.
With trembling hands, Jaime took the harp from the box, and placed it atop the folded cloaks. That left just the letters on the bottom of the Stark chest. Jaime recognized the Silver Prince's handwriting, along with his Lord Commander's. Gerold Hightower's letter proclaimed the truth for all to read—that the young king in front of Jaime was Aemon Targaryen, rightful ruler of Westeros from the tragic day of his birth.
Before Jaime could open his mouth, the king interrupted him.
"I'm not fighting for the Iron Throne," he said brusquely. "I don't care that my claim is stronger than my aunt's, and I don't want to reunite the Seven Kingdoms. I want the North to survive the next winter, and my family to return home, that's all."
"You could be the best king to sit on that throne since Jaehaerys the Conciliator," Jaime told him, feeling strangely wistful. "Do you know how many of us wished your father had lived to become king? He would never have squandered six million gold pieces on parties and whores, or sired six-and-ten bastards in every corner of the kingdom; I'm sure you wouldn't, either."
"My father started a war by taking another man's betrothed while married, so I wouldn't hold him up as the golden standard of kingship," Rhaegar's son answered, frowning. "Besides, I belong in the North. Do you really think I would survive in that den of liars and backstabbers? Sansa did, but Sansa wore her courtesies like armor. I have no such protection."
"If you can make wildlings play nicely with knights of the Vale and lords of the North, I don't see why you couldn't bring order to King's Landing," Jaime shrugged.
"I'll remind you that I was murdered by my own men, for a start. The knights and Free Folk are only playing nicely because there's a worse enemy coming," Aemon Targaryen replied, brutally honest. "For now, that's enough. And the age of Targaryen dominion over the Iron Throne is over. Mayhaps my aunt will restore it," he admitted, tilting his head to one side, "but if she does, it will be her throne. The North chose me to rule them because they think I'm the man for the job. What gives me the right to rule the South? I've never even seen it!"
"What gave your grandfather Aerys the right, or Jaehaerys, or Aegon the Unlikely? What gives your aunt the right to rule a South she has never seen?" Jaime shrugged. "Why did the Starks rule the North for centuries? Conquest or tradition, your grace."
Lady Sansa re-entered the room, followed by a pretty maid carrying plates of steaming food and mugs of ale. Once they'd set everything down, Sansa dismissed the maid and took her seat next to her cousin.
"Have I missed anything of import?" she asked quietly.
"Not at all," King Aemon replied, after taking a drink. "I showed Ser Jaime the chest Lord Howland brought."
The Stark girl's bit her lip in frustration, then spoke. "Father showed Cersei Lannister a paper, remember? She ripped it to pieces and had him arrested."
"Well then, it's a good thing I'm not Cersei," Jaime shot back, annoyed. "Do you see any ripped papers here, Princess?"
They always did this. As soon as Jaime thought common ground had been reached, and the Starks understood him, they'd have a fresh barb to get under his skin.
"Lady Brienne was Kingsguard to Renly Baratheon," Sansa told her royal cousin, cutting her meat into small pieces and watching Jaime with unwarranted suspicion. "We could have asked her instead, Jon."
Jaime narrowly avoided choking on his food. "Why don't you ask her how long that lasted? Renly's Rainbow Guard was a mummer's farce. They wasted their time playing at war instead of waging it, and he only appointed her because she bested his best knights. Is that the Kingsguard you wish to replicate?"
"Oh no, I'd rather replicate the Kingsguard that stripped and beat little girls to amuse a smirking, inbred little shit," Aemon snarled, a sudden rage burning in those gray eyes. Now that Jaime knew to look for it, he did not see Ned Stark's righteous fury, but Rhaegar's. The Silver Prince had been furious when he'd seen his mother's bruises and scars, and powerless to stop Aerys from hurting her further. "The Hound had plenty to say about that when he passed through here."
"Then you should know that I was nowhere near King's Landing when that happened," Jaime interjected swiftly, before the boy decided to remove his head after all. "I was your brother's prisoner at the time, and you know it, your grace."
"It wasn't him, Jon," Lady Sansa admitted, resentful but honest. "It was mostly Meryn Trant and Boros Blount."
"I never liked them either, for what it's worth," Jaime told them over a mouthful of meat. "Blount was a craven and a windbag, and Trant was repugnant. I never meant for you to replicate the Kingsguard of today; none of those curs are fit to wear the white cloak."
"So according to you, the Rainbow Guard was useless, and the Kingsguard is no better; what, then, am I to do with my sworn protectors?" asked the King in the North, looking at Jaime with a raised eyebrow.
"You take the Kingsguard I joined as a model, your grace" Jaime replied. "The Kingsguard of Aemon the Dragonknight, Ser Duncan the Tall, Barristan the Bold, and Ser Arthur Dayne. If any of those men could see what became of their noble order, they'd be spinning in their graves."
Jon Snow—Aemon Targaryen, the Dragonknight's very northern namesake—was hooked.
Jaime fought the urge to laugh. Was there a boy in the kingdom that hadn't dreamed of becoming Aemon the Dragonknight or the Sword of the Morning? Even the king's gray eyes had lit up with interest.
"You do realize that none of my guards are sworn knights?" he said, hesitating. "And that they won't serve for life?"
"That hardly matters," Jaime answered, shrugging again. "How many men do you know that were not worthy of the title ser, and how many brave men—and women, I suppose—that were never knighted? If they fight with honor and skill for their liege lord, protect women and children and dispense justice, then they're as good as knights."
"That's an interesting way to look at it, from an anointed southron knight," the king thought aloud. "But very well, Ser Jaime. You've been Lord Commander of the Kingsguard; what duties ought we give to Lady Brienne in that capacity?"
"The Lord Commander is part of the small council," Jaime said immediately. "A boring but necessary job. The commander is also the one who assigns the other guards to their duties, unless the king should overrule those orders. He updates the entries in the White Book, where the deeds of the Kingsguard are written. He is responsible for the everyday business of maintaining the brotherhood in armor—buying horses, repairing breastplates, approving squires and spending money for knights that must travel in the service of the king."
The king nodded, chewing on a piece of bread. As Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, Jaime supposed he was familiar enough with those duties.
"The primary duty of any Kingsguard is to lay down their lives for the king if needed, but that goes without saying," Jaime continued. "One of the seven must be with the king at all times, or at least, standing guard outside his chambers. Another member must guard the small council chamber, especially if the king attends. The others may be divided between the king's family members. Should the king fight in a war, the Kingsguard follow him into battle or guard his family as ordered."
"If there is a rogue threat in the kingdom, such as the Smiling Knight, or Gregor Clegane," Jaime finished, "the king may send some of his Kingsguard to take charge of local soldiers and destroy the threat. Or he might send his Kingsguard to infiltrate enemy castles and rescue damsels, like Ser Barristan's rescue of Lady Swann."
"That will do," sighed the King in the North. "I doubt the rules of the Kingsguard have anything about fighting White Walkers or wights."
"No, I can safely say they do not," Jaime replied, spearing a carrot.
"Well, we haven't done badly for our first day," King Aemon decided. "Six of our twelve will leave for a rescue mission, and our Lady Commander is already on the council, thanks to Sansa," he said. "I suppose I'll have to make the rest of them follow us like lost puppies, standing guard in shifts while we sleep and train and piss—"
"Jon!" chastised Lady Sansa.
"Did you have to follow King Robert to the privy, and to the brothels? He was clearly a frequent visitor to those places," asked King Jon, sounding disgusted.
"Of course," replied Jaime. "We follow the king everywhere."
The King in the North made a wordless noise of revulsion.
"If you were hoping for a discreet tumble with a winter town whore, I'm afraid that's no longer possible, your grace. The Wintersguard will keep your secrets, but it is harder to hide a man with twelve shadows."
The boy's gray eyes flashed angrily, piercing Jaime through. "That's not funny, Lannister. I swore I would never father a bastard when I was five years old, and I mean to keep that promise!"
For a moment, Jaime thought he'd go into a rant. For one wild, extraordinary blink of an eye, he was reminded not of Ned Stark or Rhaegar, but of Aerys. You woke the dragon, he thought, stunned. You found the ice dragon hiding deep inside the direwolf, and you prodded its weak spot until he snapped.
But then, before Jaime's eyes, the dragon disappeared, leaving only the cold, even-tempered White Wolf.
"Oh," the king exhaled, forcibly calming his rage. "I keep forgetting."
"Jon?" asked Sansa, looking confused.
"I'm not a bastard anymore. Well, I never was, really, unless you ask the septons," he said, sheepish. "That changes little enough; I still won't sire one myself."
Jaime caught Lady Sansa's pained glance at her cousin. He knew why the so-called Bastard of Winterfell was so opposed to fathering bastards; she had worn the Tully trout sigil, kidnapped Tyrion, and disliked Jaime almost as much as the king seated next to him.
"An admirable sentiment," he said lightly. "Your uncle would be proud, I'm sure. In fact, your father would be as well. But as you said, I didn't come here to reminisce about Prince Rhaegar, though I knew him better than anyone in this castle. Now that you've confessed all and retained your crown, what is to become of me, your grace?"
Jon Snow tapped his gloved hand absently against the table.
"You did not keep your oath to my aunt," he thought aloud, "but you sent Lady Brienne in your stead. That was well done, in the end. I ought to send you to find Arya, but she's more likely to kill you than follow you home," he added, a tiny smirk adorning his solemn face.
The King in the North shrugged inelegantly. "If you truly wish to go to the Wall with your men, be my guest. I don't suppose you brought a Valyrian steel weapon?"
Jaime blinked at the change in questioning. "I did."
"Father's sword," muttered his brother's former wife.
Jaime admitted this with a nod. "Half of it, anyway. Ice will protect the North once more. I hope that comforts you."
"It's small consolation for everything your family did to mine—both of mine—but I will take it."
Jon Snow changed the subject before Lady Sansa could object.
"Now, the men leaving today will garrison six of the empty forts along the western Wall," he told Jaime. "You and your men may choose a fort or two along the other side, between Castle Black and Eastwatch. If you agree, I will send a raven to Lord Commander Tollett."
The king stood quickly, energetically as a man of his tender years ought, and walked to the bookcase against the far wall. After digging through some old, dusty scrolls, he removed a small box and the scroll he wanted and returned to the table, unrolling what turned out to be a map of the Wall and its surrounding territories, the Gift and the New Gift. The box held markers, such as battle commanders used to mark troop positions.
"The Night's Watch holds these three forts, barely," King Aemon said, placing plain black markers on the Shadow Tower, Castle Black, and Eastwatch. "While I was commander, I sent small groups of men, mostly stewards and builders, to garrison these," he went on, placing smaller tokens on Westwatch-by-the-Bridge, the Nightfort, Queensgate, and Woodswatch-by-the-Pool. "Lord Wull is taking full garrisons of free folk and Northmen for each of these." He added six red tokens to the western forts from Sentinel Stand to Deep Lake, skipping over the Nightfort.
"You may choose any of the empty or undermanned castles," he offered Jaime. "I'd given Oakenshield to Tormund, and Long Barrow to the spearwives, but they followed me to Winterfell for the battle against the Boltons. Those castles are empty again."
Jaime knew enough about the Watch to know that none of them would be comfortable, and some not even habitable.
"Which fort is in the best condition? I brought no stonemasons or woodworkers, just soldiers."
The king pointed to Rimegate and Woodswatch with a black-gloved finger.
"Very well, I'll take them to Rimegate, if it please your grace."
"Good. Our people are very sparse along that part of the Wall. Edd will send a few brothers to show you the ropes, I'm sure. I'll ask him to send Satin with them; he was my steward until the mutiny, and he knew all the plans I had for these castles."
"How is the Kingsroad north of Winterfell?" asked Jaime, already planning the journey in his mind.
"Little more than a dirt track, I'm afraid," answered Aemon. "A blizzard at the wrong time will make it impassable for weeks."
Lady Sansa winced and closed her eyes. She looked to be in pain.
"Jon, is it truly so bad?" she asked in a small voice.
"Yes, of course. You must not remember much from our ride south, since you slept most of the way. It's winter in the North, and no road is certain," her cousin answered, then froze. "Oh, Sans—"
"Bran survived his fall and the sacking of Winterfell; we cannot lose him to the cold of all things! We are Starks!" Sansa cried, interrupting her king.
Jaime's meal turned to ashes in his mouth.
"Your brother is alive?" he asked, sure he must have heard wrong. His voice sounded unsteady even to his own ears. "The crippled one?"
"Yes, we received word from Castle Black that he's there," the king answered, sounding as close to happy as Jaime had ever seen him. "We're sending men to bring him home tomorrow, but they'll have to brave the Kingsroad."
Jaime's stomach churned. It was all over. His half-formed, unnamed quest to salvage his honor and die with dignity would be over the second that boy appeared, and pointed an accusing finger at the man who had thrown him from a tower. They wouldn't just behead him; Rhaegar's son would have him hanged, drawn, and quartered, and feed his remains to the wolves. And he would deserve it.
"Who is fetching him?" Jaime asked at last.
"Lady Mormont and Lord Royce offered some men, and Lady Brienne will choose from among the Wintersguard. I wouldn't be surprised if she chose herself and Pod as part of the rescue party," the King in the North told him, unaware of Jaime's inner turmoil. "Why? Do you mean to follow them north? It would be a good idea; none of you southrons are familiar with the road, after all."
He really had no idea. Jaime almost laughed, but the shame and dread he felt were too much to allow it. He wished he had not eaten so much.
"Oh, I'm sure the wench will be first in line to rescue another Stark," he said, failing to speak with his usual flippant tone. Luckily, the king and his cousin were too preoccupied to notice. "I'd expect nothing less from her. If that's all, your grace, I will prepare my men to depart on the morrow. I only hope the Northmen let us pass unmolested."
"It is difficult to tell friends from foes these days, especially when they ride up wearing Lannister armor," King Aemon said, his lips twitching as though he'd hidden a smile. "I'll do you a favor, Ser Jaime. Since you're riding to the defense of the Wall, I will give you my personal banner for your standard-bearer to carry. A gray direwolf would be suspicious; you might have stolen it from one of Robb's battlefields easily enough. But the white direwolf is new, and any northman you come across will know you ride under my authority."
Jaime thanked him with all the good manners he could muster, and fled as soon as he could excuse himself. Under his false golden hand, his missing fingers throbbed.
He had to find Brienne.
Knowing she would be leaving on the morrow, Jaime raced to the stables. There he found the woman, supervising Pod as he packed her saddlebags. Five of the Wintersguard were with her, packing their own belongings for the journey. They looked like ducklings beside their blonde giantess of a mother.
"Lady Commander, may I have a word?" he asked politely, the title foreign but not unpleasant on his tongue.
She stood, bracing her hands on her muscled thighs and pushing up. Bright blue eyes met his own.
"What is it, Ser Jaime?"
Jaime led her outside, where the fresh snow muffled their steps.
"I hear you're going to Castle Black to find Brandon Stark," he said, watching her carefully.
"I am," she replied easily. It was shocking to find her so comfortable in her own skin; the North had been good to her. "As a member of the Wintersguard, Prince Brandon is under my protection, and I've traveled to the Wall before."
"King Jon has given me and my men leave to go north under his own banner, and we will," Jaime explained, "but he doesn't know what I did. The second that boy sees me, or talks to his royal cousin, my life is forfeit."
Brienne's blue eyes widened in understanding.
"He might not remember," she offered weakly. "He didn't when he first woke."
"But he might do," Jaime argued, shivering in the cold. He couldn't look in her eyes for long; they were too guileless.
"Ser Jaime," she said slowly, softly. "You are not the same man who hurt that boy, all those years ago. I will testify of it to the king, if I must."
Jaime snorted, finally looking up. "Would you thwart justice, then? I hear you chased Stannis into the woods to avenge Renly's murder; what's to stop the Starks from getting their vengeance? Do theft or murder become less severe if years pass between the crime and the sentence?"
The wench said nothing, but her eyes spoke loudly enough.
"Perhaps I am merely trying to escape an inescapable fate," Jaime said, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. "My father is dead, Uncle Kevan is dead, the children are dead, my brother is a murderer, and my sister is mad. I have nowhere left to run. It is time to act like a Lannister and pay my debt, even if it means dying in disgrace."
"I cannot believe they will order your death," Brienne protested, and her voice caught. For a moment, Jaime thought she would weep for him. The notion was oddly touching.
"I would have liked to die saving the realm from ice monsters, just as I once saved the realm from wildfire," he confessed, feeling wistful but resigned. "It would have been a poetic end for me, worthy of at least one song, I'd wager."
"You may yet, Ser Jaime," his companion answered softly. "Don't give up now."
"My men and I will follow you north," Jaime told her firmly. "Brandon Stark and I will meet again, and as Wintersguard, the prince will order you to seize me. Seize me you must, if you wish to keep your vow to the King in the North. And I've done enough oathbreaking for us both, don't you think?"
He paused, looking around the yard. Though it was barely after noon, the departure of Lord Wull's men had left Winterfell quieter than Jaime had ever seen it. It was as pretty as a picture, but Jaime was in no mood to appreciate the sight.
"Now is not the time to hope, Brienne. I am only sorry that the duty will fall to you; the king told me that northern lords dispense their own justice, but thanks to my actions, Brandon Stark cannot even stand, much less cut off my head. You must be his sword arm when the time comes, and let no one doubt your loyalty. I will trust you and your Oathkeeper to make my end swift."
A fat tear trickled down Brienne's ruined cheek. The maid would never be pretty, but no fairer woman had ever inspired him to honorable deeds like this one. When she looked at him with those honest blue eyes, Jaime felt like the Dragonknight, not the Kingslayer. Mayhaps it was the icy cold muddling his wits, but now he understood Jon Targaryen a bit better. As the last dragon prince had faced his council of Northmen with unflinching courage, so would Jaime face his death sentence from the boy he had crippled.
"I must tell my men to prepare," he said, willing his legs to move before he went completely mad and kissed the wench. The urge was stronger every time he saw her.
"I look forward to seeing you take command of Vale knights, Northmen, and wildlings, my lady," Jaime added, smiling weakly for her benefit. "If the North had a Book of Brothers, your entry would be impressive indeed."
She said nothing, but looked at him, stricken. Snowflakes gathered in her blond hair and on her broad, fur-covered shoulders.
"I thank you for your time, Lady Commander. I will see you on the road."
He bowed, and left for the Lannister tents without another word.