Chapter Text
WINTERFELL I
high summer, 298 AC
JAIME LANNISTER
He is not a man normally given either to self-pity or complaining, but Jaime is now thoroughly sick of being on the road. The King’s host left the capital nigh on three weeks before, and Winterfell has only just come into view on the horizon; a great grey-white castle high on a green moor. It is high summer; but that means nothing here in the North; it is cold during the day and colder still at night, colder than Jaime had ever imagined it could possibly get.
But all these things are only trifling annoyances, really. What really sets his teeth on edge is King Robert Baratheon. After Prince Joffrey’s sudden death Cersei had been inconsolable. She had been with child at the time; and grief combined with the King’s utter indifference to Jaime’s sister’s feelings added to the abuse Robert Baratheon hurled at her for the crime of not being Lyanna Stark, there had only been one way the tale would end. Cersei had died in the childbed, screaming and bleeding in the Red Keep as Robert Baratheon drunkenly whored his way through another day’s hunting.
Jaime wishes the boar the King had proudly carried into the Throne Room that day had skewered the King instead, and that Cersei had lived. He has no words for the ache he feels. His twin, his sister, his lover, his life has been ripped from him, and if it would not seriously endanger the Princess Myrcella’s claim he would have thrust his sword into Robert Baratheon’s chest.
And now Robert Baratheon rides north to claim another Stark bride. Jaime hopes the Lord of Winterfell will refuse his oldest friend, but he does not think it likely.
Can he not stop this infernal singing? He’s been roaring The Bear and the Maiden Fair ever since we passed Moat Cailin, dear Gods. Jaime forcibly unclenches his jaw and makes himself relax.
“Kingslayer!” Robert Baratheon crows, swaying precariously on his monstrous mount - the horse must be a good seventeen, eighteen hands high, in order to be able to support the man’s incredible weight. “D’you want to hear about that boar? Gods, it was a hellish beast, tusks bigger’n my arm… no, the mighty Kingslayer thinks himself above hunting! Seven hells, Lannister, you’re as uptight as that cunt of a sister of yours…”
Jaime ignores the rest of the diatribe, staring straight ahead at their destination far in front of them, for the moment no bigger than the gap between his horse’s ears, and willing, for the hundredth, the thousandth time, that the journey were over. Beside him ride the King’s brother Lord Renly and Jaime’s fellow Kingsguard Ser Loras Tyrell, and Jaime is thankful that he will no longer have to listen to Loras servicing Renly in the next tent, as has been the case on multiple occasions on this trip.
And then something jolts him from his concerted focus. It’s subtle, a pricking at his nape, the increased flickers of his horse’s ears, a few more light chomps on the bit, and the odd quiver down his mount’s shining white flanks. He grips the pommel of his sword, and his eyes begin to scan the surrounding terrain.
Nothing. There’s absolutely nothing. Nothing except the endless green of the moors, dappled here and there with the odd tree or patch of snow, but nothing moving.
No - there.
On the moor nearest to Winterfell, two, no, three riders coming towards the King’s host. But what are those shapes moving at their sides? One is black, one brown, and one grey, blurred, the size of horses. Jaime tenses in his saddle, and then fights to regain control of his mount entirely as the horse snorts and rears, eyes rolling.
The air is suddenly rent by what Jaime instinctively understands to be the howling of wolves.
Robert Baratheon begins to laugh uproariously. “Seven fucking hells, Ned,” he wheezes to himself. “You’ve set your wolves on us - what a welcome. The North indeed!”
Jaime watches, curious despite himself, as the three riders and their wolves approach, and when they are close enough, he cannot help the sharp intake of breath if he tries.
Approaching them at a swift, flying canter upon a proud white horse, is a lady who can only be Ned Stark’s daughter, her loose hair a russet waterfall in the wind, and her dark sapphire eyes sparkling as though at some private joke, accompanied by a youth and a boy who can only be her brothers.
Jaime had thought Ned Stark’s daughter a child, but the lady riding with direwolves at her heels is quite clearly a woman full-grown. She is close enough for Jaime to hear her as she laughs at something the youngest brother says, reaching over to ruffle the dark curls, and this at a full canter.
He looks over at the King, who is drooling and practically rutting into his saddle, to the marked annoyance of his mount, and feels something inside himself clench and then sink, heavy as a stone.
It looks as though the King will have his Stark bride after all, regardless of the lady’s inclinations.
The lady stops her mount, but lets it prance around as she speaks, and her voice is polite, though colder than Jaime would have anticipated. “On behalf of my father, welcome to the North, your Grace, my lords.” She inclines her head to the King, Lord Renly, Jaime, and the rest of the Kingsguard in turn. “If it pleases you, my brothers and I will escort you to Winterfell proper.”
“Of course, Ned’s too busy readying the castle, I’ll wager, always so concerned with the right way of doing things. Come, my lady, ride with me.”
“As you say, your Grace,” Ned Stark’s daughter’s voice has virtually no inflection in it as her eyes narrow fractionally. Jaime knows, somehow, that she is less than impressed.
“Sansa,” the boy says, and Jaime estimates that he cannot be more than eight at the very most, “should we not send the wolves ahead to warn Father?”
“Our approach will be seen from the walls, Rickon, but yes, good, idea.” The Lady Sansa replies gently, and Lord Rickon motions at the direwolves. “Go and tell Father, Shaggy.”
The black direwolf peels away silently and races towards the castle at this command.
“Fearsome pets,” the King slurs as the King’s host starts to move once more and Jaime sees the Lady’s lips tighten and her eyes freeze to ice.
“They are far from pets, your Grace. They are not tame.”
“They’re direwolves,” Rickon says spiritedly, with the tone of one explaining something to the particularly stupid, and Jaime can’t stop the sudden burst of laughter.
King Robert grunts but turns his leering gaze on Ned Stark’s daughter (she stares determinedly at the road ahead, Jaime notices) once more, leaving Jaime to reply to the curious looks the Stark boys are giving him. “Direwolves indeed,” he answers, amused.
Impulsively, he offers the boy his right hand to shake. “Ser Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard, at your service.” The boy’s grey eyes widen before he collects himself and lays his small gloved mitt in Jaime’s.
“It’s an honour to meet you, Ser Jaime,” Rickon grins. “This is my brother Brandon, but everyone calls him Bran.”
“And I can speak for myself, Rickon,” Bran replies, playfully cuffing his little brother, before bowing fluidly from the saddle, as Rickon casts his eyes down.
“Sorry, brother,” he mumbles.
“Oh, don’t take it too personally, little brother,” Bran grins, before raising his voice to speak to his sister. “Sansa, may we ride next to Ser Jaime?”
Sansa turns in her saddle, a mischievous smile on her face. “My little brothers quite admire you, Ser. When they learned you would be accompanying the King, it was all they spoke of for a week.”
Jaime raises an eyebrow, smirking. “Indeed?”
“Sansa!” Bran exclaims, cheeks flushing.
“Hush!” Sansa grins back. “As your elder sister, it is my prerogative to embarrass you both as much as possible.”
“Please, sister - I’ll let you have my lemon cakes,” Rickon pleads dramatically.
The Lady Sansa laughs, and again, despite the cold, his hatred for Robert Baratheon and his grief for Cersei, Jaime cannot take his gaze from her lithe form, the teasing glint in her eyes, the way her hair, only held back from her face by the crown of russet-red weirwood leaves she wears, ripples down her back as she laughs.
“Of course you may, so long as Ser Jaime agrees?” She raises a sculpted brow in question.
“How can I refuse such a graciously worded request?” Jaime answers playfully, and is gratified to see the barest hints of colour appear on the Lady’s cheeks before she looks away. He turns his attention to the boys properly. “Why don’t you both tell me of Winterfell?”
EDDARD STARK
He sits in his solar with his eldest child, who, at seventeen, is no longer a child, and his good-brother Ser Arthur Dayne as the cold Northern sun begins its ascent in the clear sky. The three break their fast together every morning at dawn, discussing either the petitioners that have come to call or else talking of Sansa’s mother. His gaze is solemn and sad as he gazes upon his eldest daughter and heir; his sole reminder of his first wife. Oh, Ashara, he thinks. Would that I could spare our daughter this.
“We both know this is not a request, Sansa,” he says wearily, sipping at his ale. The King is due at Winterfell by nightfall, and then there will be nothing to be done.
His daughter, his kind, beautiful, clever daughter, sinks to her knees in her dark grey dress, and grasps his warrior’s hands in her own delicate ones. “Father, I beg of you, please, I beg of you, don’t make me marry the King.” Her voice is tight, and though her deep blue eyes never leave his grey ones, he knows she is near tears. “I know he is your old friend, and I know you have no great love for the Lannisters, but I know you believe, as I do, that Cersei Lannister did not deserve to die as she did.”
“He wants a Stark bride, Sansa.” He replies gently, with the sickening knowledge that he is about to break his sweet daughter’s heart ripping at his insides. “He was denied Lyanna, and little Arya is still only a baby at six. Giving her to Robert would destroy her.”
“And it will not destroy me?” Sansa chokes out desperately. “Father, please.” She leans her forehead on their clasped hands, and he feels her tears burn his fingers as though they were acid. He listens to her sobs, and he has never before felt as powerless as he does in this moment.
She wrenches herself away, stumbling away, angrily swiping at her tears. “I’ll run. I’ll take Lady and my horse and I’ll run.”
There is a note of hysteria in his daughter’s voice which scares him more than her tears.
“If you ran,” Arthur says quietly, but firmly, “you would be running all the days of your life. Robert Baratheon would see it as the gravest of insults, and he would tear the Kingdoms apart in his quest to find you.”
“But he does not know me! He has never set eyes on me - ” Sansa whirls around to look at her uncle.
“That won’t matter to him. It didn’t with - with Lyanna, and it won’t matter with you.” Eddard laughs without humour.
Arthur echoes the sentiment bitterly. “What Robert Baratheon wants, Robert Baratheon gets, and woe betide those who stand in his way.”
“But I am not Lyanna, any more than Cersei Lannister was.” The hysteria is gone, and only quiet despair remains.
“No, you are not. You are the Heir of Winterfell. You are the only daughter of Lady Ashara Dayne and Lord Eddard Stark, and you have more courage, more heart, than any man I’ve ever met.”
There is ice (the blood of the North) in her eyes and she comes to sit at her father’s feet and leans her head against his knees, the way she used to when she was very young. “I know we’re trapped, Father,” she says eventually, her voice quiet. “I know I have to marry him, or the whole North will pay in blood and death for my refusal. I won’t run, you have my word.” She lifts her head and looks straight at him. “But I have no illusions about what I am walking into. Robert Baratheon will pay for ripping out my heart, for thinking that I am his property - ” she is snarling now, his elegant daughter with her hair the colour of the weirwood tree leaves so revered in the North, a direwolf for true, and she collects herself with difficulty - “when the time comes, will you fight for me? Will you both fight for me?”
He hates the way her voice cracks on the last word, and there is only one reply to be made. “When the time comes, daughter, I will raise the banners and I will march south and I will fight for you.”
Then Arthur kneels at Sansa’s side and takes her hands in his own. “One serves on the Kingsguard for life; though I have been presumed dead these past fifteen years by most, for you, dear niece, I shall take up the white again and accompany you to King’s Landing, where I shall stay and protect you as best I can, and this I swear all days of my life.”
JAIME LANNISTER
Lord Stark’s hospitality is generous, Jaime finds; his chamber is comfortable and large, though having furs instead of sheets does take some getting used to. There had been meat and mead aplenty at the welcoming feast, and spirits had generally been joyous, though Robert Baratheon had been his usual drunken, womanising self, and he had seen Lord Stark’s face become grimmer and the Lady Sansa’s become more impenetrable as the night went on.
He sees a light flurry of snow falling through his window, but he dresses quickly anyway, strapping his sword to his waist, and makes his way through the castle, intending to find some quiet corner of the courtyard and shake the sleep from his mind and limbs by means of a brisk, early morning sparring session. As he expects, Winterfell is asleep, and the very great majority of inhabitants are still abed, though he sees some movement of the servants in the halls.
The cold is a slap to the face; but invigorating, and he grins to himself, walking to the centre of the principal courtyard with his boots muffled on the snow. He’ll warm up soon enough, he knows, and he breathes in once, twice, as he draws his sword, the rasp of the steel a song he knows well in the winter silence. He lets his mind wander free as he goes through the forms he has practiced ever since he was a young boy, achieving that relaxed, focused state of mind that is his aim. Some soldiers say fighting heats the blood; is a way of losing control, but in Jaime’s experience berserkers don’t live to fight another day. Jaime knows he’s good at killing; he has the titles to prove it, but killing has never attracted him, has never been something he enjoys. Rather, it is the sense of clarity that descends upon him, that incredible sense of instinct, the enjoyment and challenge of pitting his skills, his elegance and his strength against another, that he seeks. It is the only thing that makes him feel alive.
And so he fluidly goes through the forms, again and again and again until he is breathing harshly with the exertion, the cold air biting his lungs, until his mind is utterly clear and relaxed, almost as though he were in a dreamlike state, and yet he is utterly alert.
“You’re even better than I remember.” The voice cuts sharply through his consciousness, and he whirls around, disbelieving.
“But to be expected, I think, considering I haven’t seen you in fifteen years.” Ser Arthur Dayne continues dryly.
“Ser Arthur… I…” Jaime gasps out.
He might have been squire to Ser Barristan Selmy, but Ser Arthur Dayne has always been first his inspiration ever since he was a little boy at Casterly Rock, and then both mentor and elder brother since he first sparred with live steel at the age of twelve. The last time they’d seen each other was before the Trident; before Rhaegar’s death and before Jaime killed King Aerys.
“I thought you dead… we all did.” Jaime continues, a lump in his throat.
“Come here, lad,” Ser Arthur smiles, and pulls him into an embrace before Jaime has time to do anything. The tears are already running down his face before he realises, remembers that he is a grown man and a Lannister at that; but he has always hero-worshipped Ser Arthur Dayne, and he realises how much he misses this open, easy affection; he is the Kingslayer, and that means the rest of the Kingsguard, though they would not dream of provoking him, have no wish to trust him.
Jaime lifts his head from the elder man’s shoulder, and is unable to keep the wondering, hesitant joy from his tone. “How did you survive - what are you doing in Winterfell, of all places?”
Ser Arthur gives his familiar, mysterious half smile, but it is another who answers him.
“He’s my uncle, Ser Jaime,” Lady Sansa says softly from behind.
Jaime stumbles to address her, running a hand hurriedly through his hair. Though he wears his cream leather surcoat, he is still acutely aware of how disheveled he must appear. “Forgive me my disarray, my lady, I was not - I thought the courtyard would be quiet at this time.”
“Oh, it is quite normal for my father, my uncle and I to be the only members of the household awake at this time,” the Heir to Winterfell replies easily, a playful smile dancing on her lips, and her direwolf ever present at her side. She is dressed for the outdoors rather than for court, in a white dress with split skirts that show the embroidered grey wool and the toes of her black leather riding boots beneath, and a grey cloak hemmed in the northern style with white fur. “So you need have no fear of sparring in front of a crowd, my lord.”
“Despite my fearsome reputation, I don’t believe I am in possession of flower-enamelled armour, nor do I twirl my sword around for the amusement of the masses.” The teasing retort is on Jaime’s tongue before he realises, and for a moment he fears he has offended her, but she surprises him by laughing, and the sound gives him a bittersweet joy. Such a marvellous creature should always laugh and be happy, but he fears (he knows) it will not last (like Cersei - he cannot help but see the parallels in their fates, and he hopes the Lady Sansa will not be as bitter and spiteful as Cersei was when she bled to death) and that thought makes him sick to his core.
“Uncle, Ser Jaime, cider?” She holds out her offerings, two steaming mugs, and the knights accept them gratefully. “I was on my way to the Godswood if you would care to join me?”
The Lady Sansa is silent as she leads the way; and Jaime enjoys the sense of stillness that exists in a sleeping castle. The Godswood is like nothing he has ever seen; the trees are ancient and silent; and devoid of wildlife; the hot spring pools they walk past in their quest for the heart tree in the centre of the wood are black glass that perfectly reflect the dark green of the leaves, though pale steam rises from some. Their boots crunch upon fallen leaves, and Jaime starts as he sees the white tree at the pool’s edge, a great face carved into the bark and dark red leaves rustling in the branches. There is a weight to the air here, and he feels no little sense of awe when he thinks that these trees have stood such for tens of thousands of years.
The three sit at the water’s edge in appreciative silence until the Lady Sansa decides to speak, her direwolf’s head in her lap, and her cadences musical and kind and utterly without the guile and double meanings Jaime has grown used to in the capital. “I am sorry for your sister her Grace the Queen, ser Jaime.”
“Thank you, my lady,” he responds thickly, before continuing without really understanding why he does so. Something about the place in which he finds himself loosens his tongue. “She had her flaws, and she could be bitter and cruel to those she did not care for by the end, but she was my sister, my twin, the other half of me and I loved her. Conceiving a world in which I lived and she did not was something I thought to be impossible.” He stills, aware that he has perhaps said too much; but he perceives neither disgust nor hatred in either of his audience, and something within him eases just a little, though he wonders sardonically how long it will last.
The Lady Sansa smiles sadly. “What did the King do to her?”
Jaime does not know how to reply. “My lady, I cannot - I -” he closes his eyes helplessly, fighting the grief and the rage that swells up inside of him at the thought of what the King has done to his sister.
“Will he do the same to me?”
“Sansa!” Ser Arthur interjects.
“No, uncle, I will hear this. I must know. I might be young, but I am no fool. I must know.” Lady Sansa retorts with a hotness, a ferocity Jaime can see is born of despair.
Jaime stares at the dark, grassy ground. “I do not know, my lady. You are a Stark, so perhaps…” he trails off, and he knows he disbelieves his own words even as they leave his mouth.
“But I am not Lyanna Stark.” Lady Sansa replies, her voice small with resigned melancholy. “I will not be Lyanna Stark,” she continues more fiercely. “And I do not think that the image of Lyanna Stark he has in his head bears any more resemblance to the real Lyanna Stark than your sister did, or indeed myself. Father has always said he admired her wildness, but I -”
“Sansa, stop torturing yourself.” Ser Arthur says firmly. “What use is all this? What will more knowledge do to help you?”
Lady Sansa sighs miserably, wrapping her arms about her body. Her direwolf whines gently. “I don’t know.” Her voice is meek and tiny, and Jaime grits his teeth at the sheer wrongness of it.
“My lady, you have my word as a knight of the Kingsguard; I will do what I can for you. I do not know how much this will help, but you have my word and my sword, such as they are.” Jaime offers.
Ned Stark’s daughter looks straight at him then, and he thinks vaguely that her eyes, their dark blue, the colour of the Sunset Sea, are enough to drown a man. “Thank you, my lord.” The slightest of smiles tugs at her lips.
“Now, Jaime, I believe I owe you a tale or two,” Ser Arthur says.
Jaime inclines his head. “I would be honoured to hear them.”
Ser Arthur sighs. “Where to begin?”
“Harrenhal?” the Lady Sansa suggests.
Ser Arthur nods, taking a gulp of cider. “Harrenhal… after the King sent you back to King’s Landing, Jaime, my sister Ashara came to my chambers and said she wished to marry Eddard Stark. I’d seen them talking, dancing, but I admit I was surprised nevertheless. So permissions were asked and duly granted by both Rickard Stark and my father the Lord of Starfall, and the two married in a ceremony there. And then Rhaegar Targaeryen crowned Lyanna Stark the Queen of Love and Beauty in front of Elia his wife… the sense of foreboding I felt then is something I find quite difficult to describe; some choking, roiling sense of doom…” he shakes his head. “The tourney ended, and Ashara returned to Starfall to pack her affairs in preparation for a trip to Winterfell. I have no need to detail what happened next; Ned and I found ourselves on opposite sides of the war, and Ashara was heavily with child… it was a mess, an utter mess.”
“Why were you at the Tower of Joy?” Jaime asks.
“I knew Ned would keep looking for his sister, so I volunteered myself. I had no wish to fight my good-brother; but the rest of the Kingsguard and Ned’s men were more sanguine. Lord Stark’s good friend Howland Reed; the man we agreed would claim to have killed me, took Lyanna’s child back to the Neck, in the chaos of the end of the war, and raised him as his own natural child - he is now a man of the Night’s Watch.”
“Gods above, Arthur…” Jaime whistles, reeling. He glances at the Lady Sansa, who does not appear surprised in the slightest. Arthur does not notice, but stares blankly into his now finished mug of cider.
“But then - Ned and I made for Starfall, only to find that Ashara had thrown herself into the sea, believing, according to the note she left for my youngest sister Allyria, that not only that both of us were dead, but that we had died at the hands of the other.” Here Arthur’s voice breaks, and the Lady Sansa takes over the tale.
“It is my earliest memory, my mother’s death.” She says softly, hands gently tangling in her direwolf’s fur. “I was no more than two years old; but I remember how she raged and wept, and the sudden silence when she fell.”
“Ned and I found Sansa sitting by the window railings of Ashara’s rooms, a garland of white starflowers on her head, staring silently out to sea. It was the first time your father saw you, niece, and I don’t think I will ever forget his expression - somewhere between heartbreak and awe.” Arthur swallows, and Jaime reaches out to squeeze his mentor’s shoulder in sympathy. “I don’t understand how it happened - there must have been a spy who’d forged the note to Ashara.”
“Who would do such a thing?” Jaime frowns.
“Hoster Tully, or someone connected to the family - with Lords Rickard and Brandon Stark dead, not only was Ned now Lord of Winterfell and the North, but Catelyn Tully also now found herself without a husband. I have thought on this for years, and it is the only explanation that makes sense.”
“How did you come to Winterfell without gaining King Robert’s notice?”
“I took ship from Starfall to White Harbour with Sansa, and Ned made certain my name was never mentioned south of the Neck, and there we have it.”
“That is quite a tale, Arthur.” Jaime breathes, eyes wide, before continuing as another thought occurs to him. “My lady, forgive me, but many believe you to be Catelyn Tully’s daughter, not Ashara Dayne’s.”
The Lady Sansa smirks. “It’s the hair, isn’t it? But my eyes are my uncle Arthur’s, and my hair, well, look at the leaves of the heart tree. I am a child of the North, and had the Lady Catelyn and I ever been standing side by side, it would have been immediately apparent that I was not in fact her daughter, but she never liked me very much.”
Jaime raises an eyebrow, perplexed. “I’m the Heir of Winterfell, not my half-brother Robb,” the Lady Sansa explains wryly. “Lady Catelyn never forgave me that; but it was apparently made explicit in my parents’ marriage contract; my mother insisted on their children inheriting in the manner of Dorne - which meant that the eldest child, regardless of sex, inherits.”
“Robb… he is squiring for Ser Garlan in Highgarden, is he not?” Jaime asks.
The Lady Sansa nods.
Jaime snorts. “He’s a great favourite of the King’s, don’t you know?” He says, a wicked, teasing glint in his eye. “Never shuts up about him. Gods, I still remember the feast the King threw in King’s Landing when he heard his oldest friend had had a son named after him. A more disgusting display of excess I have never seen, well, except perhaps when Joffrey was born.”
“I can see how that would be the case,” Sansa drawls, a wry, amused smile on her face, and all three of them laugh.
“I suppose you want to know why I killed the King, do you not, Arthur?”
“The choice is yours, Jaime.” Arthur replies gently. “If you wish for me to hear your tale, I shall.”
The Lady Sansa rises and her direwolf with her. “I will leave you to your storytelling, my lords,” she says, brushing her skirts free of leaves.
“No!” Jaime replies forcefully. “My lady, I - ” he trails off, a wild desperation in his eyes, but he does not know how to tell her, how to ask her - he has come to care for her opinion of him, come to trust in her kindness, he realises, and suddenly the thought of the lady thinking him nothing more than an oath-breaker, a man without honour, (he knows he has lost his honour, but, but-) makes him sick to his stomach. “Stay. Please.”
She looks at him for a long moment, and Jaime wonders if she will simply sweep away as everyone else has done (and the Gods know, he would not blame her in the slightest if she did.) “You wish for me to stay?” she queries softly.
“I - yes, I do, my lady.” He forces out thickly, sincerely. Gods, what is it about her that makes him so tongue-tied in her presence?
“Then I shall,” the lady says simply, seating herself again. He looks at her, slightly stunned that she has accepted his request.
“The Mad King,” Jaime begins eventually, voice hollow as he stares out at the pond, eyes scanning over the reflection of the trees in the water; a perfect mirror. He cannot bring himself to see the revulsion on their faces as he explains why he is known as the greatest oathbreaker of the age. He has never considered himself a coward, but in this he is infinitely cowardly.
“My father was marching on the capital with the entire Lannister host… it was a siege like none other; it was as though the very walls of the Red Keep itself were infused with this-this madness, this kind of desperate, foolish if-I-can’t-have-the-capital-no-one-else-can mentality… Aerys had no intention of surrendering the city, believe me.” He swallows unsteadily. “Instead, instead… he planned to blow King’s Landing to smithereens. I knew, everyone knew he was a rapist, cruel and paranoid, but this - he asked his pyromancers to store caches of wildfire all around the city. Burn them all, he kept saying. There was a feverish glint in his eyes, I remember. Burn them all. Burn them in their homes, burn them in their beds, men, women and children alike. So I killed him. I took my sword and killed him, and his pyromancers too.” He laughs, a hollow, humourless sound. “Men call me the Lion of Lannister to my face, but behind my back they whisper oathbreaker, Kingslayer, man without honour. It’s strange; the act I consider to be my finest thus far I am utterly reviled for.”
His tale finished; he is slightly embarrassed, a pale flush on his cheeks. He’s never been good at storytelling, never been a wordsmith like his brother Tyrion, but he would have liked this recounting to be more eloquent than it was. He chances a glance at Arthur and the Lady Sansa. The latter’s sapphire eyes are shining with unshed tears, and they are so expressive he feels burnt by them.
“To have saved hundreds of thousands of lives, yet to say nothing against the scorn and derision, the insults you are met with; it is an admirable thing.” She dares lay her dainty hand on his forearm. He stares at the white skin, the elegant fingers, with something akin to awed despair. “You are admirable, Jaime Lannister.”
“Arthur,” he turns hopelessly towards his old mentor, yet he cannot bring himself to shake his arm from the lady. He might castigate himself, self-loathing roiling in his stomach, but he wants this meagre comfort (call him selfish, vain, arrogant) from her. Deep inside himself, he still wants to be the gallant knight, the defender of those who cannot defend themselves, the warrior against evil, the way he wished to be, the way he thought was entirely possible and achievable, when he was still a young boy at the Rock, his head filled with courtly tales and songs. “Arthur…” he rasps. He desperately wants absolution, but he is frightened; some part of him thinks it better not to ask, because then there is not the possibility that it will be denied; something which he knows he will not be able to live through.
“Jaime my lad,” Arthur says, gripping both his shoulders, pinning him still, “I will not say I forgive you,” he continues, and Jaime suddenly feels sick, dizzy and ashamed to the core, “because there is nothing to forgive.”
Jaime looks up sharply at that, scanning his mentor’s blue eyes with a desperation born of agony, and when he sees only kindly compassion and even a glint of pride twinkling in those eyes, it takes everything he is to prevent him from collapsing into Arthur’s arms and bawling like a boy for the second time that morning.