The deck of the Crown's Spear bustled with activity.
Across the 120-foot length and 20-foot width of the long, sleek, and imposing two-masted galley of dark oak and iron fittings, crewmates went about their daily tasks maintaining the ship. Ropes managing the sails were adjusted, the master-at-arms walked the length of the ship, always at the ready for a change in weather or sea—though both had heavily favored them so far on their journey. Members of lesser rank scrubbed the deck, except for one section along the starboard side, which held the brunt of Jaime's attention—and no small number of the crew's, too.
Pycelle stood in a half-crouched position, the starboard railing within grasping distance to his right. He wore simple, drab brown trousers, his feet bare, while his upper body was exposed to the warm sea air that gently swayed his neatly trimmed beard.
Though age had marked his body with deep wrinkles, fine lines, and visible veins, Jaime noted with approval that Pycelle had also acquired some muscle in his arms, back, and shoulders.
He'll need them all, Jaime thought with a hint of amusement. That log looks to be a heavy burden.
The large piece of wood weighed about half as much as Pycelle himself and was almost as wide as the Grand Maester's torso. It took no small amount of effort to lift and hold it in place.
It was an exercise Jaime had picked up from Lord Crakehall during his days as a squire. Lord Sumner would alternate between commanding them to lift even heavier pieces of wood, sprint with them to and from a predetermined spot, or simply hold them atop their backs for extended periods. A simple but effective training regimen, particularly once they had to do it in full armor.
For today, Jaime decided to see how well Pycelle could move with it.
"Keep your back straight," Jaime warned, circling the old man with folded arms, scrutinizing his form. "Don't let the weight fall on your back—keep it at your shoulders."
"Y-Yes," Pycelle huffed, his chest rising and falling irregularly.
"Control your breathing. Draw strength from it."
The Grand Maester did as he was told. His irregular pattern became a controller series of deep nose inhales until his stomach expanded followed by slow exhales through his mouth. For thirty heartbeats, Jaime watched him closely and nodded with approval when he saw no fault in stance or technique.
"Good," Jaime smiled. "Now comes the fun part. I want you to carry that from here to the bow and back again."
"How many times?" Pycelle asked, breathing heavily.
"Once, for now. Don't rush. Take it slowly and pause if you must, but don't tarry too long at any one spot. If the weight bears down on you, tell me and I'll get it off."
Wordlessly, the old man nodded, standing a bit straighter, his eyes—once glued to the floor—now fixed in a determined gaze.
"Very well. Now, go!"
And so, he did. First with slow, ponderous steps, judging his capacity to withstand the strain without breaking form or, gods forbid, his back. Soon enough, Pycelle found a rhythm, and his speed grew with his confidence. Jaime counted six runs to and from the bow, five without any pauses to catch his breath. By the end of the sixth, Jaime noted his face growing redder and heard the haggardness of his breathing. He walked over to his side.
"Seven hells," Jaime muttered just loud enough for him to hear, then helped take the log off his back. "You were born for this, Grand Maester. Half the squires at Crakehall would've lost all strength by now."
It was only a slight exaggeration. Jaime himself could manage as many as thirty runs under far greater strain, but no small number of squires at Crakehall struggled with the exercise for a long time, even if they excelled in other areas.
Pycelle nodded appreciatively as the weight was lifted. With a slightly shaking hand, he steadied himself on the railing, sweat running down his face and chest, aided by the midday sun scorching them from above.
Jaime saw Pycelle's mouth begin to form words, only for his question to die amidst a small chorus of cheers and claps. Jaime turned his head and saw several crewmates—those who had snickered at Pycelle's efforts just a few days ago—now openly showing their approval. The Grand Maester, surprise plain on his face, raised a hand in recognition of their praise before the master-at-arms shouted at them to move their arses and return to work.
"At this rate, you'll be popular enough to stage a mutiny before we reach the Wall," Jaime quipped.
"W-Wine," Pycelle wheezed, gesturing to his throat. "Wine…"
"As you command." Jaime said with a grin.
He set a small barrel of watered-down summerwine by the steps leading to the stern, along with a pair of wooden mugs. Turning the spigot, Jaime filled them both, watching with no small amount of amusement as Pycelle downed his in one go. Almost immediately, the fatigue from training seemed to dissipate, his eyes closed, and he looked ready to fall asleep.
"Don't get too comfortable," Jaime warned, taking a sip of his own wine and savoring the sweet taste of grapes. "We've still got a few more rounds of exercises to go today."
For a moment, he thought the Grand Maester might protest—brief flashes of disbelief and even anger crossed his face—but, as always, Pycelle quashed them, adopting a look of determination instead.
"Just a few more minutes' rest," Pycelle asked, before adopting another Witcher technique, a breathing practice passed onto them both by Geralt. In the span of a minute, no more than a handful of breaths, calming the body, quieting a thumping heart, and easing fatigue.
Jaime had heard Geralt explain the method more than once, using strange words like "system" and "biology," though Jaime could only half-follow the explanation. Still, the results were clear, and he had no argument with them.
At the thought of the Witcher and the journey that took him, Ser Oswell, and their vessel on a separate course, Jaime glanced to the southeast, as though he might still spot them far in the distance. Yet, as every time since their ships parted at Dragonstone, there was nothing but the vast blue of the Narrow Sea and its swaying waves.
I wish we hadn't split up.
It wasn't a wrath Jaime felt at this fact, as he might have six months ago. Back when he was a squire leaving Crakehall, eager and ignorant of what knighthood truly meant in equal measure, lesser things had darkened his mood with anger for days or even weeks.
Rather, Jaime likened it more to a longing for the camaraderie they'd shared amidst the ruins of Harrenhal. Days spent preparing and sparring, nights filled with stories of danger, monsters, and bravery. Danger had been present then, but not the same kind that now awaited their divided party.
Feels like something's ended. Geralt would have said every end is the start of something else, but… A tightness gripped his chest as his gaze lingered on the sea. I still wish the Harrenhal Five could've lasted a while longer. At least long enough to enjoy our victory before news of the bloody Others' return reached us.
"They should be in the Stepstones by now, if the winds favor them and no Free City war has waylaid them."
He was jolted out of his thoughts by Pycelle, who had turned his head to follow Jaime's gaze through the beams of the railing. The old man's complexion had improved, and much of his prior weariness had left him already.
Still, Jaime's thoughts lingered on their friends, now many leagues away. "Lord Varys said Lys and Tyrosh were on good terms when we left."
"The fickleness and pettiness behind the many wars for the Disputed Lands cannot be underestimated," Pycelle replied, adopting a familiar lecturing tone. "Resources and land alone do not dictate their motives, and haven't since before either of us drew our first breath. They've had centuries to amass rivers of bad blood. The possibility of renewed conflict between them at any moment is a fact of life. Even without a true war, the Stepstones are a breeding ground for pirates and sellsails. Criminals carving out their own little kingdoms and territories."
Jaime was about to respond when a familiar voice cut him off.
"And my good friend Oberyn has, proudly I might add, made no small number of enemies among said pirate lords."
Ser Arthur descended from the stern, stepping down the wooden steps to stand beside them.
During the voyage, both he and Jaime had largely set aside their armor for long-sleeved, knee-length tunics and breeches that did not hinder their movements at all, paired with sturdy, finely polished leather boots.
Jaime's attire, of course, was in the red and gold colors of his house, featuring lion's eyes embroidered in gold patterns around his shoulders, with subtle designs beneath that gave the impression of fanged teeth running down his chest. Ser Arthur's attire was comparably plain, lacking any decorations or trimmings, yet the simplicity of its white color often left Jaime feeling like a court jester next to the seasoned knight.
"Friends as well," Arthur continued, resting both palms atop the pommel of Dawn hanging down the side of his left leg. His gaze wandered southeast, too. "They can expect either a boarding or to be hosted like long-lost brothers, if they haven't been already."
A fine job you two are doing of making me feel better about our party splitting, Jaime thought, though he held his tongue.
"I understand your feelings," Ser Arthur said, seemingly addressing them both, though his gaze sought neither. "I, too, wish to be by their side, or to have them by ours. The dangers awaiting us before we reach our destinations are great indeed. Perhaps greater than anything Harrenhal threw at us. Lying to ourselves or each other about it does no good."
"...I know it doesn't," Jaime sighed. "It's just... I'm not used to this. Knowing danger's out there and not being able to do anything about it."
"I've stood on the sidelines most of my life," Pycelle added. "Watching others ride and rush into danger. It used to not bother me..."
"Nothing would gladden my heart more than to say there's something to banish that worry from your mind," Ser Arthur said. "But there isn't. These are natural feelings anyone must deal with, knowing a comrade or brother is facing danger far away. Rather, I ask you both to quell those fears with faith."
Jaime gave him a puzzled look. Ser Arthur had undoubtedly taken many vows to the Seven, yet in all their time together, Jaime had never seen him pray. Nor did he strike Jaime as particularly pious.
"I don't speak of faith in the Seven or the old gods, though if that helps, by all means," Ser Arthur said, smiling at both of them. "I speak of faith in our friends and their ability to survive. They are some of the most capable men the Seven Kingdoms could hope to have in these times. Surely, you don't believe some petty sea reaver will do more than delay them at worst?"
"Even if he did, he would likely regret it," Pycelle said, running fingers through his shortened beard. "Knowing the others, they'd likely escape and sink every vessel in his fleet before they were done."
"Aye, I can see it now," Jaime added, grinning. "Geralt using one of his Signs to burn through their bonds. Ser Oswell knocking down half a dozen men like they weighed nothing. Prince Oberyn making away with a pirate ship in a night escape."
"You're thinking too small," Ser Arthur replied. "Oberyn would set the bloody thing on fire, then ram it into the pirate's seaside home."
"You are poor at consoling people, Ser," the Grand Maester chimed in with a wry smile. "Now I wish to be by their side all the more."
The three shared a laugh at this, and Jaime felt more at ease. The longing did not vanish, but its hold over him was lessened. He would take note to remember Arthur's words should it arise again.
Mayhaps I was simply jealous at the thought of them having all the fun and not us. He considered wryly.
"Well, I'll leave you both to it," Ser Arthur said. "I've just spoken with the captain, and he expects we'll enter the Shivering Sea soon. He thinks the weather will turn a good deal colder—maybe as early as tonight—so enjoy the summer while it lasts."
The change came as soon as they passed the Fingers. Though the skies remained cloudless as far as the Grey Cliffs near Karhold, the wind took on an icy, biting quality that intensified the farther they sailed north.
Jaime, along with practically everyone else, changed their attire. Fur-lined, heavy cloaks, hoods, and boots became mandatory, as did quilted tunics, hand wraps, and thick leather gloves. Not that any of it seemed to help. With every strong gust of wind, Jaime felt a thousand icy knives cutting through to his bones, no matter what he wore. Ser Arthur perhaps took it the worst, coughing and sniffling as they sailed through the Bite, heading toward Widow's Watch.
The land to their left was snowy and dreary, much as Jaime had expected of the North. The sea, however, was anything but. On mornings before any sparring or exercises, Jaime found himself watching it closely.
Fish unlike any he'd ever seen swam near the blue surface or leaped through it with a dangerous grace. But it was the larger creatures such as walruses and narwhals that truly caught his eye. Often, they seemed to chase after the Crown's Spear, while others hunted their prey. His favorites were undoubtedly the sea lions, whose barks and demeanors reminded him of hairless, whiskered sea dogs.
Tyrion would love them, Jaime thought with a smile, resting his arms atop the wooden railing as tiny sea lions took their first swims from a nearby rocky coast. I can almost hear him begging us to catch one and make it his pet.
"So that's a sea lion."
The unexpected voice at his side made Jaime turn abruptly. He nearly stepped back in shock when he saw the reclusive greenman, Howland Reed. Reed was staring at the sea lions moving alongside the ship, his green cloak pulled back, wonder clear in his gaze.
It wasn't just Reed's sudden appearance that startled Jaime—it was how quietly he'd appeared. Jaime prided himself on being aware of his surroundings, and his Witcher training had sharpened that awareness. But apparently, not enough to notice a greenman.
It's fortunate for us he's not an assassin, Jaime thought. He'd make a damned good one.
"A-Apologies, Ser Jaime!" Reed blurted, clearly flustered. "I didn't mean to startle you. I only... the crew mentioned there were sea lions, and I wished to see them."
I'm surprised you could hear them, locked away in your chambers as you've been, Jaime thought. He could barely recall more than a handful of times he'd seen the crannogman since the voyage began. Reed spent most of his time in his chambers, where, according to the crew, strange scents and guttural noises often emerged.
More business with the three-eyed raven, Jaime surmised, trying to relax. "It's quite alright, it's just... you took me unawares."
"Ah, yes..."
An uncomfortable silence followed as they both looked back at the sea, neither sure of what to say.
Should I leave, or stay? Jaime weighed his options. Reed's portents of doom left have an impression, but the young lord himself? Not much of one. We'll be traveling together for a while still. It would be odd to ignore him... more than I and most of us have already anyway.
"So, I've heard tales you've a particular breed of lions in the Neck," Jaime said, breaking the silence. "Lizard-lions, right? Never seen one, but my Uncle Gerion tried to scare us by saying they were giant, scaled cats. Any truth to that?"
"Ah, no, certainly not," Lord Reed answered, momentarily surprised at being spoken to, from what Jaime saw. "They're reptiles of great stature, teeth like daggers, and bites that can cleave horses in two."
"Why lions, then?"
"They prefer to remain submerged in the waters and can stay still for hours, some for days, as they wait for prey to approach. Because of this, a great deal of bushes, branches, and especially moss stick to their scales. When they emerge on land, it almost looks like great tufts of wet fur."
"They sound formidable," Jaime said. He imagined a lizard big enough to snap a horse in two; it made him shudder almost as much as the cold breeze.
"They are," Reed answered with rare enthusiasm. "Most are quite ill-tempered, but some do not shy from the company of men. A few are accustomed enough to us that they let us ride them on land."
Jaime blinked, then stared in disbelief. "You've ridden a giant lizard?"
"Aye, when I was but five winters old. My cousins dared me to it, and—" Reed began, then halted. By the apparent embarrassment on his face, Jaime surmised this was not something he should've spoken of. "My apologies, it was just me being a foolish boy."
"As it so happens, I'm quite a fan of foolish boyhood stories," Jaime replied, intrigued beyond the capacity of words to describe. "Come, tell it all. It's not every day I get to hear of crannogmen using swamp lizards for mounts."
After a few more minutes of goading him, Lord Reed recounted the event. A tale as old as time: children getting together and daring one another into some mad, reckless thing. In this instance, it was Howland who rose to the challenge and approached the resting lizard-lion. The beast stared at him all the while, then huffed and seemed to shift its neck toward Howland. He mounted it moments later, and the lizard did not object at all to his proddings to go this way and that. Reed's cousins cheered him on—until Howland's father stumbled upon the scene and punished them until their arses were as red as peaches.
Jaime returned the favor and recounted tales of his own, most of which had left Cersei incensed and maddened in one way or another. After that, the little lord became a good deal less isolated, even joining them for lunches and exercises, to the surprise of Arthur and Pycelle at first.
Soon, the once clear skies gave way to a permanent expanse of twisting, dull grey clouds. Snow began to fall—first lightly, then in quantities that matched last year's. A select group of crewmates was tasked with clearing the deck, working in shifts both day and night.
The sea turned turbulent as they sailed past the Grey Cliffs and into the Bay of Seals. Sharp, jagged stones pierced the water's surface like spears through flesh. Some rivaled, or even dwarfed, the ship's 80-foot mast in size. Others, which the crew called more dangerous, vanished at times beneath the shifting waves, threatening to tear through the hull if not accounted for. Whirlpools spun too—great enough in size and strength to pull the ship dangerously close to the treacherous rocks, forcing the crew to adjust their speed and direction in haste.
The afternoon before they reached their destination, Jaime saw it for the first time. That day had been surprisingly clear, with little snowfall, and even the grey clouds seemed to retreat before the sun. He stood at the bow of the Crown's Spear, with the remainder of the party and stared.
The Wall—one of the Nine Wonders Made by Man. Even from a distance, Jaime knew it to be true. Its ice-covered exterior glinted like a gargantuan jewel rising above the ground, shining in many colors under the sunlight. The Wall stretched from the coast and far beyond the point he could see in the distance, straight as a sword.
"Three hundred miles wide, seven hundred feet tall," the Grand Maester muttered to Jaime's right. "It's little wonder the Others seek another means to bring it down. An assault or siege on that will cost them dearly."
The winter could cost us much more. Jaime always wanted to reply but held his tongue. He was never good at listening to many things, but war stories? Those he remembered by heart. All of them concerning winter said it was a bloody pain in the arse to deal with—crumbling supply lines, sinking morale, starvation, frustration at the cold gnawing at you day and night, just to name a few problems.
And the dead suffer from none of them. They'll keep trying to kill us as long as they can move and their masters command it. Jaime's hand reflexively tightened around the pommel of Steelfang. Then, he stopped and smiled to himself. Wonderful, I'm starting to sound like Geralt.
"The Wall has its faults," Ser Arthur said from Pycelle's right. "But it is also an incredible boon to us, and the lives of many will be saved thanks to it." He turned to address the entire party. "Now, let's make sure it stays standing for the coming battle."
"Much of the path for us remains clear," Howland replied. "The Ranger will meet with us in the Haunted Forest in two days' time, just as agreed."
"I'm more than ready to kill some more dead men," Jaime added, then patted Pycelle on the back. "As is my friend here. Look at him, he'll be ripping apart wights limb from limb."
"I'm quite willing and prepared to do anything at all that doesn't involve carrying around that log anymore."
At this, the four of them laughed and went below deck. There, they supped and, at Jaime's suggestion, gathered in his private quarters. They talked late into the evening of events to come and things that had passed.
The next morning, they reached Eastwatch at last.
Jaime was greeted on the upper deck by a gust of icy wind that cut through his many layers of clothing like steel. Clouds had re-gathered overnight, blotting out the sun and casting a dull, grey hue across the surrounding landscape. The sparkling of the Wall from yesterday had vanished, leaving naught but hundreds of feet of play grey, jagged ice. Snowfall had already covered a decent amount of the deck; the assigned teams dutifully went about removing it.
Walls of grey, battered stone marked by blue ice and white snow formed an outer defensive ring around Eastwatch. Towers of over thirty feet heights rose in pairs were built into the walls, and Jaime noted black cloaked sentries standing or making their rounds along the length.
The harbor was functional and naught else. Simple, long wooden piers that reached out into the nearby sea like the outstretched fingers of a great hand. Three ships were already docked, bearing the flag of the Watch atop their masts. One of them he noticed had long scrapes and dents running along its port side. The damage looked recent to his untrained eye.
Amidst the greys of the rocks, and the white of the snow, the gathered black brothers caught his gaze next.
Lyanna's father made it clear the Night's Watch had greatly diminished in strength. Jaime saw it even from the bow. By his initial estimate, the castle looked big enough for a few thousand men to live there. Jaime had seen about fifty thus far. A dozen or so waiting to greet them, others going about their work in the castle in the distance and perhaps twenty or so more along the outer ring of defensive walls.
I suppose I can't blame them for not having men. Jaime thought as he walked down the ships boarding ramp with the rest of the party. Hard for an order to remain useful in anyone's eyes when its enemies haven't been seen in millennia. The vow of eternal celibacy can't be helping them either.
From the assembled group waiting for them at the docks, one man stepped forward to Ser Arthur.
He was a head shorter than Jaime, yet even beneath the thick black fur cloak, it was clear he did not lack for strength. His face, already marred by several scars and a smashed flat nose, looked even rougher due to his grim expression.
"My lords, I am Commander Pyke." He bowed his head in recognition, his voice making Geralt's sound melodious by comparison. "On behalf of the Night's Watch, I welcome you to Eastwatch."
"It is a pleasure to meet you, Commander," Ser Arthur replied, mirroring the gesture, though with an added smile. "Though I wish it were under better circumstances."
"Aye, you've the right of it," Pyke said, then turned back to his waiting men, Arthur and the rest of the party trailing behind him. "But we'll speak more of this at lunch. Until then, my lords, let me get you settled and out of the cold."
As they journeyed into the castle proper, Jaime couldn't help but notice the black brothers' expressions darken with restrained fury or shift into nervous glances between themselves and the commander, particularly at the mention of poor circumstances.
Somebody has cocked something up, he realized, recognizing worry and even guilt when he saw it. Well, we won't be lacking for interesting conversational topics at lunch, at least.