"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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