JAIME
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NOTE: Here we see Jaime, who's been at the Wall ever since King Eddard sent him to the Wall after having killed the Mad King, and some of the first rumours and speculations about what happened to Gared and the potential speculations about the Others.
I decided to make Jaime First Ranger, and he has for some reason been angry with the other commanders at the Wall recently, but that is a relatively common occurrence for him, since he is Jaime Lannister, after all. Are there any problems or factual errors with the things at the Wall? Do you think that Jaime would not get into trouble since he is the First Ranger in this scenario? What other young knights or squires might have jointed Jaime out of sympathy, Lord Tywin's prompting or other reasons such as crime in the aftermath of Robert's Rebellion? I'm very grateful and happy for all reviews :)
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"Harwen woke him up early, just before the black of night had begun to wane and the white snow flakes still swirled in fluffy symphonies outside the door to the old Flint barracks.
He had taken a final mug of wine yesterday just before going to bed, though he did not know why. Perhaps because he was nervous at what they'd find, though Jaime had never been nervous, not ever, no, not once before since he came here, nor since he became First Ranger. But this was not before, of course. This was different. Something had happened.
The news they had all been waiting for would surely cause a stir, no matter what it was. The rumours were rife all along the halls and walkways of Castle Black, in the mouth of every black brother the talk of the Others, or the white walkers, as the wildlings called them, and their reanimated corpses under their control, called wights. Jaime had never been one to believe such ghost stories, even with what he had experienced during all his time as First Ranger, but the insistence of the northerners was finally starting to play its foul tricks on him up here. Fourteen cold years at the edge of the world, at a place like this, and even a Lannister of the Rock can lose his clever mind and start trusting in the bearing of snarks and grumpkins, he thought with a sardonic chuckle in his mind.
Harwen helped him up slightly, and they both went to their separate corners to get dressed. Jaime put on his best satin tunic of black velvet and silk, with a thick coating of hard boiled leather and chainmail, along with black velvet and wool breeches, a black jacket, his black magnificent cape and his pair of black moleskin gloves. The hall was still vaguely freezing, as ever it was in the morning, even now in late summer.
The rangers came returning at first light of day, as the horn blew in one long sound echoing off the vast white expanse of the Wall, seven hundred feet high and three hundred miles wide from east to west. For half a heartbeat it seemed almost as if it would start to crack slightly at its edges from the sheer sensation of the sound, though perhaps that was only in his own bones. His right rib was still aching from the night before, and he grasped his sword with his right hand to steady himself in his mind. It had been folly, of course, to go on Thorne and Ser Jaremy both, and Bowen Marsh, the great big prune of a man who seemed almost to purple in his rage, but Jaime had known that he could take them. He could take any man on the Wall, including Lord Commander Mormont himself, though the Old Bear was a tough and strong fighter to have for a foe, he at least admitted that much to himself. He had been locked in the barracks cell over night by order of him, though the Old Bear would let him out to see the news today, as long as he promised not to do anything foolish again. Jaime had agreed to those terms while still in half a rage, and then gone to aching sleep.
The wildlings had not particulary helped him to heal either. That was nigh on a fortnight ago now, but it still hurt. But it had been folly to take on four of them at the same time as well. Aye, four was more than enough, even for such a skilled swordsman as Ser Jaime Lannister, the Lion clad in Black. Two of the ugly buggers he could handle with great ease, three was only a challenge, and he enjoyed those, but four... No, there was simply something about the number four which gave him great trouble.
It was only the fourth one of the wildlings that had even had a sword himself, as well, whereas the third one had a spear, and the first two ones only had bronze axes, if even that. They were all pretty similar in appearance, though, with muddy brown hair the length down to their chests, thick beards or fuzzy moustaches of a similar color as that, and all clad in brown-and-grey, something which looked vaguely like sealskin. Jaime was not sure. It had all happened so fast, and after that, their leader, the big one with the red beard had come as well, the red-beard, who some said was Gerrick Kingsblood and others meaned was the legendary Tormund Giantsbane, though Jaime was unsure of that.
Could he truly have been the leader of such a small party, such a legend as himself? No, he wasn't sure. And Ser Nordyn had said and insisted time and time again upon telling the stories that Tormund was a relatively short man, strange as it seemed, though huge and strong with a stocky build, whereas this one seemed on the other hand, quite contrary, to be large and tall, with a fiery red long hair and beard as well as a row of skeleton parts alongside the fabric of his back and around his sides, slinging a two-headed chain of metal around him in a circle wider than he was tall.
Jaime had become slightly terrified at the sight of all that, and properly forgot about the two first ones when Ser Jarman Buckwell shouted devils and high horns at him to get back and retreat. Jaime should have been the one to give the order, of course, but he respected Ser Jarman well enough, as the man was a good brother and experienced ranger since several years back, and even Jaime himself could not hope to always be the one leading a battle or fight when they were outnumbered as they so often were. Castle Black, or more specifically the Wall, was still somewhat undermanned. He supposed that even a First Ranger sometimes lost his footing, but that was a painful and shameful lesson, one which still ached from his ribs and one which he would do everything to try and upright the next time he went out beyond the Wall, even if all the Old Gods would do their best to try and smite him down, a stranger to the land up here as he was.
His lord father had sent close to twenty men from Lannisport and the nearby ports and cities every year to the gates at Castle Black to keep up the numbers, and it had helped a great deal, though they were still nowhere close to their former numbers, Jaime understood. Some northerners, most of all including the Lord Commander, spoke of the Wall's greatness in olden days far gone, back when fifteen or more of the nineteen castles had been manned, compared to the three they had at present moment in time, and then the Starks had held court for Good King Jaehaerys and Good Queen Alicent Targaryen when they had went up and visited it. Queen Alicent had flown up with her dragon towards the Wall itself a number of times, how many Jaime was not sure, but his brother Tyrion would surely know, and then after that they had bestowed the New Gift to the Night's Watch to keep it better provisioned with food and materials. But to compare that to today, aye, that was sad to see, thought Jaime, as he buttoned his shirt.
Lord Benjen Stark had done some good work to keep it operational, and he himself sent perhaps thirty men up every year from Winterfell and Barrowton, even more so than Lord Tywin, but Jaime almost guessed that it had come from precisely that reason. His father had done everything he could to make sure Jaime did not feel abandoned up here, a golden Lannister all alone at the edge of the world, in the high and bitterly freezing high North, and done everything he could to fill the Wall with his countrymen. Ser [ ], [Ser Addam Marbrand?] and [ ]... Jaime was ever grateful for that. And he was sure that somewhere deep inside, whether he liked to admit it or not, perhaps Lord Stark was grateful for it as well. At least he should be, if he could forget his honourable hypocrisy, like his oh so noble and honourable brother the King. In truth, Jaime and Lord Tywin had more or less saved the Wall from the northerners' paralyzed hands to keep it from going entirely to ruin during these past eternal fourteen years, almost half of his life. There was no other particular reason other than a father's pride and sorrow for his son that anyone should care to bother anymore than they at present time did with the upkeep of the Wall. It costed a bloody great deal too much, as he understood, to keep all the men fed and clothed, money which they had gotten from Lord Tywin and the wealth of the Rock as well, and although the long summer which was now nearing its end had done its part to create more grain and food for the stores, there were still not that many farmers settled in the Gift, the old one nor the new. Rather, they seemed fewer for each year, mostly precisely on account of the sporadic wildling raids, even as few as they were.
But, as he had said to himself a lot of times before regarding the manning of the Gift and the rest of the North in particular, it was not his troubles, not in truth. If Lord Stark believed that they had it all under control, he supposed that he would have to trust in that long-faced fool of a third son. He only wished that he in turn could have entrusted Jaime a little more often with his sweet sister Cersei, who he had taken to wife and since then seldom kept out of the thick towers of his sight, locked in a bedroom which was only made for producing heirs, sleeping and sewing, though that was another story.
I thank you, Lord Stark, for entrusting me with the guard of the Wall. I shall keep it cold for you, he would like to say to him with a charming smile, one day if they were ever to meet again. And Benjen Stark would laugh, whether truly or falsely, as he always did, that young one, who pretended at everything he put before him, from what Jaime had heard, and he was almost as shy as the King had been in his youth, or more so. Or, well, not shy perhaps, only quiet and... cold and... Northern.
Jaime was far used to their ways by now. He had almost begun feeling half a northerner himself, though his brothers from the Westerlands did much and more to keep him remembering his roots. And then, when Lord Benjen had laughed his laugh to finish and its end, he would say a little more, and keep holding his arm in his arm, and add, with his sharply knowing smile: And I am sure that you shall keep Cersei warm for me once I return. And I shall be warm and hard for her until then.
And then Lord Benjen would take up his sword, or reach for it at least, and Jaime would cut him down in an instant, grab up Cersei from the ground, kiss her profoundly, kiss her passionately, kiss her deeply and kiss her all around her face and sweet body to his heart's desire, press his hands into her perfect lioness' hips and onto her butt and up her slender back and shoulders and put his hand on her head just behind her beautiful golden locks of sunlight shining hair, hear her moaning as he pressed himself further towards her and into her, returning to where he should always always have been and always forever be, and that would be it. He would have won.
The beheading would come a day or two later, perhaps. Or a fortnight, for all that they cared for their precious lord. The Starks were always slow like that, so slow and honourable and slow in their bodies and minds and hearts where such things of importance were concerned. Plenty of time for him and Cersei to either escape back to the Westerlands on a ship somehow, perhaps by passage via the Iron Islands on the way, or otherwise have a couple of days of dreamy lovemaking which would ensure that she bore him another son, an heir this final time, before she could be sent back to the Rock. Their lord father would thank him in his prayers, regardless of what he would feel about their union, if indeed he did still pray in his father's heart of slowly petrifying gold. Jaime was not sure.
But anyway, the future of the West would belong to them and theirs, regardless of what happened personally to him. He was quite sure that Lord Tywin might even try and overtake the crown if the King did not please him goodly enough with independence or something better after all that nasty business.
But no. Jaime shrugged off those wild thoughts, much like he had daydreamed of doing a thousand times before, each day in this dreary blackened dull place, and instead put his black cloak on with a pride that he had sensed for a long time. No, I will not make a betrayal of my oath. The Starks have done their own mistakes, and more so for each passing year. Let the people of the realm see it for themselves instead. Show them, don't tell it, he thought to himself.
It was not only Lord Stark's fault that the Wall had gone to mostly ruin for the past hundred years, of course. It was in all actuality a good sign that the superstition had started to slowly be waning up here, ever since the Targaryens visited them. And the wildlings mostly came across the Gorge and then on over to Bear Island and Deepwood Motte, small and sparse places of little importance as far as most people apart from the Lord Commander and some other dreary cold bears and wolves were concerned. There had not been any reason for it to be fully manned for hundreds of years, not ever since the last King-beyond-the-Wall. Not a single reason at all other than to keep its exiles and criminals from all across the realm and make them live out their lives in this godforsaken black shithole instead of with golden armour on and their own house color flapping proudly in red shining crimson from their back. No, Not a single reason at all, thought Jaime, adjusting his black cloak. Not until today.
They went quickly to the common hall and broke their fast with hardbread, fish and dark brown ale. Jaime was feeling hungry, but he was also too excited by the strange news to let anything slow them down before they had gotten a chance to approach. They gulped down the last of the dark ale hastily, letting it fill their still dry throats, nodded a short goodbye to Three-Finger Hobb by the stove/kettle/[ ] and left for the courtyard, with at least a dozen of the other rangers and some of the braver stewards following in their steps.
The courtyard was amassed with more than a hundred brothers, all shoving and pressing together in their black cloaks to try and get a better view and get close to the middle of the courtyard. Lord Commander Jeor Mormont, the Old Bear, was bellowing loudly at everyone to keep still and to each man to shut his mouth if he wished to be able to hear something. The Old Bear's raven was cawing and squawking like a mad bird, hopping up and down, from left to right on its master's shoulder screaming "Hear! Hear!" and "Man! Man!". Being a westerman from the south, from a tame land far away without talking black birds or blood-weeping trees, Jaime had been mistrusting of the bird when he had first seen it some many years back now, but like most others, he had grown accustomed to the black raven and considered it a living and essential part of Castle Black, almost as important for the soul of the place as the Lord Commander himself, although he was ironically often the one most fed up with his loudly squawking, feathery pet.
"Man! Man! Man!" Squawked the raven as loud as it could, with its raspy hoarse raven's voice coming from its sharp black beak, and hopping up and down on two legs on Mormont's shoulder. Lord Commander Mormont squinted with his eyes trying to get a better look at how many at present were gathered in the courtyard, and shouted out orders with his arm about where everyone should go and stand, to make way for the congregation in question, which would soon come out from the doors of the [ ] Tower/hall/[ ].
Jaime spied Halder and Dywen, with his clacking wooden teeth, amidst the mass of people, as well as Jace Strawneck, Alan of Rosby, Jafer Flowers, Pate, Redwyn, and many more. They all nodded to him, or most did, at least. After fourteen years at the Wall, he had risen higher than most as First Ranger, and as such enjoyed the deep respect and admiration of perhaps two thirds of his brothers. The rest were either still unimpressed with him, on account of his past crime, such as it was, or held enmity towards him out of jealousy or the rumors which still were whispered about on occasion regarding him and Cersei, his loving sister. Nigh on five years it had been since they last saw each other at a sneaky visit to Mole's Town when Lord Stark had been out hunting in the Wolfswood for three straight days, and he still missed her after it. The next chance would come soon though, somehow, he felt within his chest when he saw the summer snows circling down on the courtyard and burying the brown mud in pure fresh white snow, as fair as his sister's pale skin.
"Silence!" The Lord commander finally called, and at long last a vague silent murmur came into being. Then, suddenly, as swiftly as they had all fallen silent, their heads were turned all towards the doors of the iron gate of the Wall, and Jaime strained his Falcon eyes to get a better eye look at it himself. Six brothers soon appeared, two of them walking slightly first and the other four behind as some sort of guard. Jamie recognised all of them at first sight, though he had not spoken to two of the guards in the latter four; only nodded to them at times. Doston and Wiltham, they were called. They were newly recruited rangers charged with patrolling close to the Wall. The two which he knew some moments better and had spoken to were two stewards named Jyck and Sweaty Symeon, men of slightly more experience, some two or three or even four years perhaps, tasked with opening and closing the gates to the Wall, as they were, and the two brothers at the forefront who had seen the entire thing in question were Squire Dalbridge and Bannen, considered to be the best eyes and trackers on the Wall together, respectively. So they had seen it. He was not surprised. The Night's Watch was in a poor and lingering state, with only around a thousand at present manning Castle Black, and even less the other castles, though each man was always put to his best use. Clearly, Squire Dalbridge from the Shadowtower, with his legendary eyesight, had seen the deserter coming down from the Haunted Forest, and Bannen had been sent out to track after him. What was more uncertain was whether they had caught him or not. Jaime supposed they had not, judging by the look of them.
Finally, Jaime saw Ser Jaremy Rykker's face among the crowd. He seemed to have quieted down somewhat from the night before. He was hard to miss, even without his usual sardonic smile, with his large, sharp, aquiline noble nose and fine features standing out in the midst among the more commonborn men. Jaime sometimes felt as though Ser Jaremy was like a small and vexing shadow version of himself, equally joking and quick to fight, but with his hair a dark black and obviously nowhere near as good a fighter as Jaime himself was. Ser Jaremy was a decent swordsman, he supposed, though he had two inches to grow and about a hundred lessons to learn if he were to ever best Jaime some day. Small Paul had a better chance of taking him down, if he were ever given a warhammer, thought Jaime. The big man was one of the few brothers at Castle Black rivalling him in both length and strength. At any rate, Ser Jaremy was no threat to him now, most of all. He had most like forgotten the fight from the night before already, and how Othell Yarwyck and Bowen Marsh both came to his defence after the stupid jape. I will not shit gold when I see the Others, you japing ape, Jaime thought. You nearly shat yourself when my fist slammed into your chest last night, though. The bruise was still visible on Ser Jaremy's chin, a tinge of blue soon to go black. Pity, that.
Squire Dalbridge, who had travelled all the way from the Shadowtower to be present and tell what he had seen, took a step forward, and then another, so to be better seen, and Bannen did as well. All the brothers fell more or less silent at that.
Someone in the back shouted "Go on then, tell us!". A couple of murmured agreements. Silence again at that. Then Wiltham opened his mouth, his little weird lamprey-formed mouth with the fuzzy black whiskers of beard, and spoke.
"We did meet the deserter. And his name is Gared, as some of you might know him by. That much is true. And he did say what you all have heard, before he fled from us and made his way south."
"Say it! Is it the Others?" someone called out.
Jaime was almost sure that it was Hargon Stone, a middle-aged steward from House Royce, but it might have been Antlers Dyggen, or Karyl or Grebben also, or someone else entirely.
Strangely, everyone held mostly quiet at that, including Wiltham himself, whose mouth went to a strange sort of frown, as if to hold himself from either laughing, crying or trembling in fear. He tried to steady himself, and yet it was clear from the look in Jaime's eyes that the man was overcome with some type of very strong emotion in any case. Doston took over the speech, with his greying walrus beard parting before the words to come.
"He...", Doston began, but had a hard time continuing. "He sa-..."
"He said that he had seen the Others, aye", Sweaty Symeon said, crossing his arms, as if to mean and say "Come ye and fight me, ye who believe that to be wrong or Gared to be a fool for saying it and deserting the Wall, or if ye be doubting mine own allegiance to stay".
The black brothers broke up in an uproar of talk and scrambled reactions at that. Jaime looked back at Lord Commander Mormont again, and he was looking as tired and put together as usual, as if he was dealing with a roudy bunch of children. Though this was large enough news, and so he said naught, but only looked forward and let them all talk and scream and shit themselves to their hearts' content. Jaime himself felt almost light-headed inside for a brief moment at that, but still allowed himself the thinking mind of a southerner. He had still not seen or believed anything of the sort himself, in all the time that he had been beyond the Wall, and he would not start believing so today, unless something truly believable was presented to him. And yet... The look in Wiltham's eyes was strong, it was haunted, and it was real. That much could at least be sure.
"Aye, he did see them, and he did abandon his post, but if any of you had ever seen an icy white demon walking towards you, you dirty poxy fuckers would have done the very same, sword in hand or no!" Jyck shouted out. "He's no traitor, and more so neither are we for failing to stop him! He had a horse! We were standing right here on the ground. He was in no mind to stop and hop down from it when we told him to. What would any of you have done?"
Nobody answered at that. Until someone did.
"Shot him, no doubt!" said Ser Alliser Thorne, calling out with his gloved fingers curled up in a semi-circle around his tightly curled mouth and beneath his malicious onyx eyes. "Only a craven would ever leave his post. The Wall is a band of brothers, and brothers do not leave each other. He has forgotten his oath, which he swore before his own brothers, abandoning them to their fates while knowing how terrible it was, and so thus deserves death."
Some others agreed, shouting "Shoot him!" or "I'd have shot him too!". Ser Alliser looked to his side, seemingly encouraging the next man to speak and chime in with the same sentiment to prove him right. And a little large someone did then, of course, take the bait as soon as that.
"Aye, shot him right full of arrows for a deserter, I would! I stood my ground when the bleeding Hornfoots killed my brothers, and hacked them to choppings for their soup! He's a craven and he deserves to die! I'll go after him to prove it!" screamed Gernthor at the top of his lungs. The big man, who was almost as tall as Jaime himself, was clad in dark grey chainmail and a black woolen cloak, with a bald head, a pale shaven face with a broad frogs' mouth, slightly pointy ears and angry, decided, mindless yet somewhat daftly cunning green-blue eyes. He was a good ranger, and a brave one at that, though he could not even write his own name on a piece of parchment, nor count above twenty-and-nine.
"He speaks the truth", said Ser Alliser, more calmly now. "Thankfully Lord Stark will have a hold of him now, soon, and justice will be served down at Winterfell. Although the craven would have deserved more than just a quick beheading."
"We all know what you would have done, Ser Alliser", Jaime felt compelled to reply. "Castle Black is not Thorngallows, I'm afraid, nor the Dreadfort. With Stark's sword he will be given justice, and a nice, clean death, if that is indeed what he proclaims that he shall have."
It made Jaime twist and turn around inside his guts to speak about justice from a Stark, but he had to. Ser Alliser Thorne was one of the few men who he hated even more than the King or his lord brother. He was a mean-spirited, spiteful and humorless man, from the maddest Targaryen loyalists in the Crownlands, and had spread some of the worst tales about Jaime when he had first come here, as a young man of fifteen. Jaime had never forgiven him for that, and Ser Alliser did not seem to want it so either.
"Enough!" the Lord Commander said. "He got past down to the other side somehow, though we still don't know how, and now he will be taken care of by Lord Benjen. Any of you who want to fight over his fate is welcomed to join him on the chopping block for fighting amongst yourselves and weakening the Watch. We are all brothers here. But now we are one brother fewer, be it due to madness or fear, or whatever else he found up there. Go back to your rooms. This matter is ended."
A silence emerged once again among the brothers, and then they accepted, and started dissolving, as the six brothers stayed put with looks of [ ] and relief. Ser Alliser gave a lingering look towards Jaime, then looked the other way and went, along with the other ones in his group. Ser Jaremy Rykker disappeared as well, blending into the crowd, along with Alan of Rosby, Redwyn, Pate and all the others. Jaime was to turn and go back as well, but he suddenly found himself approaching the Lord Commander while the other black brothers dispersed, each to their separate ways. His steps went before him, making him tread closer and closer to the Old Bear's stand.
"Lord Commander!" Jaime called out after him, making his way toward the raised wooden platform where he, Bowen Marsh and Othell Yarwyck stood. The latter two looked apprehensive.
"Ser Jaime", the Old Bear replied calmly. "I thought you had gotten enough of a thinking time in the cell this night. But perhaps you'd like to stay there for another day or two?"
"Lord Commander, forgive me but is this man truly to be executed by Lord Stark?" he heard himself saying, unsure of why those words now escaped his mouth, other than for the anger he still felt towards Ser Alliser and all the rest. "Shouldn't he be sent back here and given a proper fair trial by his brothers? He has sworn his vows to us, after all, and not to House Stark or the North."
"If he would choose to go south, and flee from his brothers, then that is his choice, and Lord Stark will have the rest of the say in the matter", the Old Bear [ ]ed. "He made it through the Gift, the old and new alike from what I've heard, and so he belongs to the Starks now. Return to your barracks, unless you want to hold me here until my balls freeze off. Or yours, for that matter."
"Lord Commander, what if he's right? What if he truly did see something? Something ill in the Haunted Forest?" Jaime heard Samwell Tarly saying from beside him. That was surprising. The pale, fat, demure young man was shamefully shy, if not craven, almost always quiet, and had especially never spoken up to the Lord Commander without his approval before. Perhaps Jaime's sudden spur of emotion had enboldened him in this.
Jeor Mormont looked long and hard on the young steward's apprentice, his grizzled beard and wrinkly forehead giving no clue as to what he thought other than that he thought a great deal. Even the raven was sitting still, perched quietly on his shoulders for once, not making a word. Bowen Marsh and Othell Yarwyck were looking their way properly now, clearly waiting for what their lord commander would say.
And then the Lord Commander Mormont looked at young Tarly with severity in his voice and said, "Well then I guess that we had all better start preparing even more for the end of summer. Winter is coming, after all."