Chapter 46: Jaime V

The Lord of Riverrun looked better than when Jaime had last seen him, in spite the paleness of his complexion and the thinness of his frame. His hair had been properly cropped and washed clear of all the filth that had gathered during his time as a captive, his beard shorn, and he once again wore clean clothes emblazoned with the sigil of House Tully. Sat calmly in his chair like that, he looked more lordly than Jaime felt.

Down besides Jaime was the Blackfish, caught trying to slip the siege lines under the cover of darkness, on his knees, still damp with his hands bound about his back. Tommen's predictions had, yet again, been vindicated. The men had caught him in the dead of night, trying to slip beneath one of the booms blocking the rivers.

"I thought we had a deal, Edmure," Jaime said.

"We did," he replied. "I promised you my castle, not my uncle."

"I suppose you did," Jaime said with a tired sigh. In the confusion and chaos spawned by the surrender of Riverrun, he had not yet been spared a moment to sleep. "Not that it matters now. Turns out trout are not as slippery as they seem."

"So what now, Kingslayer?" Brynden spat. "You caught me. Will you kill me?"

My name is not Kingslayer. Jaime scowled, letting his irritation seep through. "I'd like to. But regrettably I gave my word of honour to your niece that I would never again take up arms against House Tully."

"Your word of honour?" Ser Brynden lifted an unimpressed eyebrow at that. "Spare me, Kingslayer. Your word is meaningless to me. Hells, do you even know what honour is?"

"You should consider yourself lucky that I am allowing you to take the black, ser. Ned Stark's bastard is Lord Commander."

"Lannister work?" Brynden questioned. "Catelyn never trusted the boy, as I recall."

"This pettiness of yours serves no purpose, ser. This war is done."

"Ended in breach of all the sacred laws of hospitality," Ser Brynden pressed.

"Frey treachery, not mine."

"Undoubtedly," Brynden agreed. "Yet it reeks of Tywin."

Jaime felt his jaw clench. The Blackfish had once been a hero of his youth. Part of him still felt the urge to impress, to win the older man's approval. He felt the words bubbling on his tongue - the truth of what was soon to become of House Frey, an offer to allow Brynden to join in the coming slaughter - but Jaime swallowed that truth deep down in exchange for another: "I would have slain Robb Stark in the Whispering Wood, had I reached him. But some fools got in the way. I will agree with you, ser, that the Young Wolf's end was ignoble. But it was not in any doubt. His kingdom never would have survived long, and nor would he. So what does it matter how he perished?"

"You would have slain him, eh?" Ser Brynden's gaze drifted down to Jaime's golden hook. "But you never had that fight, did you? So I suppose we'll never know." The old man tutted and shook his head. "Such a shame. That would have been a battle worthy of song. Though, if you'd slay me in open combat here and now, it would put any questions to rest. You were once held up as the next Barristan, Kingslayer. But now that you've lost your hand..."

On a younger, bolder Jaime, such goading might well have worked. "You know of my oath, ser. You know I can't accept such an offer."

"How convenient," Ser Brynden said. "Yet what's one more broken oath to you, Kingslayer? Take up arms and prove your mettle. You can keep one of my hands bound, if you'd like. If you think it'd even the odds."

The scorn in Ser Brynden's voice made Jaime scowl. "You'll take the black, ser. And you'll consider yourself lucky I don't have you drowned in one of your precious rivers instead. And though the minstrels may not know of my martial strength, hence they will certainly know my mercy."

With that, Jaime turned and left the Tullys, sending in Lannister guards after to have the Blackfish taken to one of the dungeons for the rest of the day. He wasn't about to take any chances with one such as Ser Brynden. Jaime stalked through the halls of Riverrun, heading in no particular direction as he let the scowl fade from his face. From the windows, the light of a bright autumn day flooded in. Noon had already come and gone. The morning frost had since faded from the surrounding fields.

And now Jaime's little army was slowly falling apart. The Frey host had begun their departure almost as soon as dawn had broken the day after Riverrun had fallen. Lord Walder's banners had gone first, heading fast for the Twins. Evidently, there were some outriders lurking around the roads to the north, picking off stray members of Lord Walder's brood. And the newly-made Lord of Harrenhall was naturally eager to get to his seat. He left with Genna and as many of the Freys as would follow him soon after. And so only a few Freys were left, almost none of which would be accompanying Jaime onwards.

Mooton, Vance, Goodbrook, and Piper went next. Each was eager to get back home, to make what few preparations they could before the winter snows began. "All relations of yours that Lord Walder holds captive at the Twins will be returned to you, my lords," Jaime promised as he granted them permission to go. "I'll go and make sure myself." He got a few words of gratitude for that, and then his warcamp shrunk again.

Next went Lord Westerling with his wife and daughter. The poor girl was thin, willowy, withdrawn. She sported red rings around her eyes from crying. But though she might have carried her love for the Young Wolf in her heart, Jaime knew that she didn't carry him in her womb. She hadn't been with child to begin with - not so far as he could tell - but he'd had her drink a good dose of Moon Tea to make sure. Even still, he felt a pang of pity for her as he watched the freshly-pardoned Westerlings mount their horses and set off, the poor young thing trailing her parents, riding forlorn with her head bowed in mourning.

He stood and watched them ride west over the horizon, trailed by a guard numbering almost two-hundred. If Jeyne ever escaped Lannister custody, she could prove dangerous indeed. The Young Wolf's widow might serve as a powerful symbol for rebellion if she wound up in the wrong hands.

In two or three years time, the girl would be wed again. And in spite her mother's best efforts, Jeyne Westerling was not likely to land someone better than a second son. No matter. Once she was away, the girl was no longer Jaime's concern.

And so, by the following morning, the size of Jaime's retinue had almost halved. In the wake of a departing host's worth of men, a small fortune's worth of siege equipment had been left behind.

"We should take it with us," Daven recommended. "Use it to break Lord Tytos's defences."

"No," Jaime said, shaking his head. "I won't need such things to deal with one like him. Siege towers and trebuchets will just slow us down. Burn it."

Daven nodded and set about making the preparations. With all Riverrun's garrison accounted for, Jaime started the tedious process of releasing the men he'd captured during the surrender back into Edmure's service, swearing them one-by-one on a copy of the Seven-Pointed Star to never again take up arms against the crown or House Lannister. He did not expect these men would all hold to their oaths - most of them likely did not even mean to keep their word - but even a few would help to curtail any rebellious notions brewing in the young Lord Tully's mind.

By the end of the day, the only people left in the dungeons were those obstinate fools who'd refused to swear outright, and would soon share Ser Brynden's fate.

That night, Jaime took a moment to relax and watch the siege equipment the Freys had built go up in flames. He watched the gallows burn, watched the trebuchets and towers and ramps crack and collapse in on themselves with some of the finest vintage red from Riverrun's stores in his hand, his cousin sat beside him. The tongues of the flames leaped up high into the sky as the darkness descended.

"So what now?" Daven asked.

"Now that Riverrun's fallen, only Raventree Hall stands. Lord Blackwood will surrender quick enough."

"And onto the Twins," Daven drank. "That'll be one tough siege, with our numbers diminished like this."

"We'll rally some more men at Raventree Hall. And even if we don't, the way I see it, it won't be much of a siege at all," Jaime said.

"How come?"

Jaime shook his head and sipped his wine. "The time for that is later."

Daven frowned, but accepted Jaime's words with a quiet nod.

Jaime sat in silence, following a stray ember from the fire with his eyes as it caught the wind and floated away. "These bandits roaming the Riverlands need to be dealt with. I hear they've grown bold enough to launch attacks within a day's ride of the Twins."

"Ah," Daven nodded. "Ser Beric's sorry lot."

"Ser Beric and Lady Stoneheart," Jaime corrected him.

"Who's she?" Daven asked.

Lady Catelyn's corpse. "The woman behind the wolves," he said. Jaime misliked the name, but he could hardly deny it fit. He'd heard it around camp after another band of foragers left and failed to return. Only a few had been found, their bodies hanged from the branches of a tree. A singer had come up with it, as far as Jaime could tell. A bard. Formerly a Frey man, now in Jaime's employ. Tom of Sevenstreams. The same name as in Tommen's letters.

The man had tried to sell himself with a rendition of the 'Rains of Castamere'. Jaime'd stopped him right quick, in spite his obvious talent. The thought of his father's crowning achievement sat heavy in his mind, threatened to turn his stomach. Will the Twins be my Castamere? he wondered.

Daven winced. "Nasty bastards, those wolves. Dozens in each pack, stalking men in leathers and mail and even plate. Somehow fearless." Daven shook his head. "Unnatural, that. This Lady Stoneheart, she a witch?"

Jaime shrugged. "She may as well be."

Daven sighed. "So the seemingly unkillable bandit's found himself a witch bride. How many blades do you think we'll need to kill Beric Dondarrion? A dozen? Two?"

"Just the one," Jaime said. "And a thousand witnesses. Though Beric would be better sent to freeze at the Wall than burn in the Seven Hells."

"Hmm."

That night Jaime dreamt he was back with Cersei, with her lying spreadeagled before him, flat on her back. They were fifteen again, Cersei's kisses tender in a way they had not been in years. Her moans filled his ears, urging him on, begging for him. His hands wandered her flesh as she held him close, legs wrapped tight around his back, her hips bucking, pulling him deeper and deeper within her. He felt his right go to her neck, watched her yelp in delight as he applied a little pressure to her throat. Her fingers groped his shoulders, his neck, pulling him close for a kiss.

Then his hand became a hook, and her milky flesh grew stale beneath his fingers, marked by splotchy brown tendrils of rot. The green of her eyes and the gold of her hair had both turned white, the blush of her cheeks gone, her face shredded. Around her neck a deep gash appeared, seemingly raw yet somehow not bleeding. Jaime attempted a retreat but her legs refused to move, keeping him prisoner inside her, Catelyn's haunted face now staring up at him.

"Let me go," he groaned as he struggled to escape, his head pounding as her fingers tightened around his neck.

"I already did," she said, though only the slightest rasp emerged from her mouth, lips twisting into an ugly smile that revealed rotted teeth beneath.

Jaime awoke in the dark, shivering, sweating. Dawn had not yet come. His chambers seemed as cold as ice. The fire outside had long since died, as had the flames in his hearth. Yet there were still a good few hours left till first light. Jaime picked up his sword, donned his mail, and headed for the yard. There Ser Ilyn dutifully answered Jaime's call, and the two crossed swords till the sun arose. Almost three hours, all told. By the end Jaime was breathless and his arms felt leaden, but his shivers were gone.

Normally in their bouts Ser Ilyn beat him soundly enough at least a half-dozen times. But today had been different. Jaime had only faltered twice, and had even managed to sneak in a victory, ending a bout by holding the sharp edge of his hook to the tongueless man's throat.

Jaime went and bathed soon after, feeling strangely content, and let Pia scrub him for the first time since Darry. He thought again of pulling her into the bath with him, but the memory of his dream served well enough to smother his lusts. Once he was dressed again, this time in proper mail and plate, Jaime emerged out into the rain to the sight of his men preparing to depart. Daven hurried the men on, leading them to pack away any last pieces they had not done the day before.

From his retinue, Jaime chose a small band of Gregor's men to take the prisoners to the nearest port in Maidenpool, to send them off to the Wall. "See to it the men all make it unharmed," he warned Rafford. "Or else I'll do to you a dozen times worse than Gregor ever could."

Across the yard, Ser Brynden shot him a poisonous look as he was led into a wagon with his hands bound behind his back. Jaime ignored it as he turned to see Edmure approaching.

"You will never know how much I despise you, Kingslayer," Edmure said.

Jaime could only shrug. "I have been despised by better men than you, Edmure."

"In any case, I'll be glad to see you gone."

"And I'll be glad to be gone," Jaime agreed. "But before I leave, I'll offer a few parting words. The king has offered you clemency. A golden chance to rebuild your house, your name. Don't spoil it with some petty rebellion. Don't let your resentments and regrets spoil your future, the future of your children. You might hate me, and you might well hate my father. And I do not doubt you have good reason to. But soon you will have to venture south to swear fealty to the king. Take my advice: bend the knee gracefully. Tommen is a kind-hearted lad. Too clever to nurse petty grievances. Too clever to turn to swords when words will suffice. He is neither me nor my father. So long as he thinks you are sincere in your vows, he won't think twice of welcoming your house back into the fold."

Edmure scowled briefly in suspicion. Then a more sober look crossed the young lord's face; his lips pursed, his brow furrowed, features heavy with thought.

Jaime rounded his mount and climbed into the saddle. "Think on it, Tully."

After a second the young lord reluctantly acceded. "I will, Kingslayer."

Jaime shot Edmure a dirty look. "My name is not Kingslayer."

"I'm not calling you 'ser'," Edmure said.

"Then don't," he replied as he gathered his mare's reins in his good hand. "Just Jaime will suffice."

"Well enough, Lannister," Edmure said, insolent.

Jaime could not help but roll his eyes at Edmure as he turned his gaze towards the rest of the yard. The men were mostly ready to depart; the wagons loaded, the horses saddled, the armour donned, the packs filled to bursting with provisions. Before long Daven would declare their preparations done, and they would depart.

But of all the places Jaime could have looked, it was Ser Brynden who caught Jaime's gaze, sat calmly waiting as he absorbed the sight of his ancestral home. His last, in all likelihood. Once Brynden was away, the chances were low that he would ever return.

It's against Tommen's instructions, Jaime knew. Ser Brynden was a determined foe. Were he to manage an escape, the consequences would likely be dire. Yet Jaime could not help but feel tempted. He'd been raised hearing tales of the Blackfish, of his bravery against the Band of the Nine in the War of the Ninepenny Kings. How could he send such a warrior to go waste away without satisfaction? I would want revenge if it were Tommen or Myrcella, Jaime reasoned. And the Blackfish will not try for an escape for fear of endangering Edmure. So what does it matter if he gets to spill a little Frey blood before he spends the rest of his life freezing his balls off?

Jaime dismounted from his horse, and rounded the yard to approach Ser Brynden's wagon. The older man shot him a dirty look, sat calmly besides other members of the Tully household in plain garb, bereft of blade and plate, grey hairs thinning on the venerable knight's head.

"Get up, ser," Jaime said.

Brynden obeyed without complaint, stepping out of the wagon and squaring his shoulders as he stood to face Jaime. "You still want that duel, Kingslayer?"

Jaime did not quail from Ser Brynden's gaze. He let the silence linger a moment in indecision as he observed the Blackfish, searching in vain for some semblance of certainty that he was about to make the right decision.

Ser Brynden's eyes drifted down to Oathkeeper's hilt. "Or do you mean to cut me down where I stand, here and now?"

"Do you pray for justice? For Catelyn and Robb?" Jaime asked in a low voice, careful to not let anyone overhear.

Brynden blinked in confusion. "I would love nothing more than to see their deaths avenged. Yet what would you know of justice, Kingslayer?"

Your beloved niece isn't dead, Jaime wanted to say. "I know enough."

Brynden stood stone-faced, almost hesitant, sceptical eyes flicking intently over Jaime's face, studying it for signs of deception.

"The rest of your days await you at the Wall, ser," Jaime declared. "But they can wait. For these next few weeks, you ride with me."

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P.S. May be subject to a partial rewrite or edits in the future