A/N: This chapter ended up longer than I had hoped, even after the editing but I didn't want to cut this off anywhere. If you are enjoying this story, please leave a review! Thank you :D
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Year 300 AC
Winterfell, The North
Aemon stood upon Winterfell's battlements, watching the courtyard below transform into organized chaos. He hadn't witnesses this many banners in Winterfell since the Greyjoy Rebellion. The various armies prepared for departure, banners furling and unfurling in the morning light. Northern lords gathered their men, shouting orders that carried up to where he stood. The Vale knights assembled in their neat formations, silver and blue catching the weak sun. Even Stannis's remaining men moved with purpose, their discipline unshaken despite their king's death.
So many leaving. So few truly understanding what they march toward.
Below, Iron Emmett stood beside Grenn and Pyp, supervising a group of mixed soldiers. Night's Watch brothers in black, northern men in grey and brown, even many of the Vale knights who had volunteered. All heading north to man the Wall's abandoned castles. Aemon had sent word to Denys Mallister to come to Winterfell so that with Glendon Hewett and Sam, they could represent the Watch. The Great Council would need the Watch's voice, even if that voice carried little weight against the great houses. Well, not anymore.
The prisoners shuffled in chains toward wagons. Theon Greyjoy moved among them, his head down, shoulders hunched. Aemon's jaw tightened. The man who had betrayed Robb would take the black, would stand the Wall until the darkness claimed him. It was more mercy than he deserved, but Jeyne's tears had stayed the executioner's blade.
I am become something that grants mercy to kinslayers and oathbreakers. What would Father think?
A memory surfaced, unbidden.
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She had come to him after breakfast, when the hall still smelled of porridge and bacon. Sansa had brought her, the tall woman in armor who moved with a grace that belied her size. Brienne of Tarth. The Maid of Tarth, they called her, though there was nothing maidenly about the sword at her hip or the determination in her eyes.
"Your Grace." She had knelt before him in the solar, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "I would speak for Ser Jaime Lannister."
Aemon had felt the fire stir beneath his skin, the dragon blood responding to his anger. "The man who crippled my brother? Who pushed a child from a tower to hide his sister-fucking?"
"Yes." No hesitation. No flinching from the truth. "That man. I would speak for him."
Sansa had stood beside her, silent but present.
"Then speak." He had kept his voice level.
Brienne had risen, met his eyes. "I swore an oath to your aunt. To Lady Catelyn Stark. To find her daughters and bring them home safe."
"It appears that you could not keep that promise." The words came harsh. "Sansa found her way to Winterfell on her own and Arya… is still missing. And my aunt is—" Aemon briefly looked at Sansa before looking back to Brienne, "—is dead."
"She was," Brienne's voice had cracked, just slightly. "And then she was not. But before... before the Red Wedding, she gave me a task. Ser Jaime gave me the means to complete it."
Brienne unclasps her sword and hands it to Aemon. Aemon couldn't hide his surprise as he unsheathes it.
"Valyrian steel." Aemon replied as he hands the sword back to her. "What is the swords name?"
"Oathkeeper." Brienne's voice carried across the hall, steady as stone. "He gave me that sword. Gave me gold, armor, supplies. Sent me to find Lady Sansa when he could have kept me prisoner or killed me."
Aemon's jaw tightened. "Oathkeeper." What an ironic name. "A fine name for a sword. Where did Jaime Lannister find Valyrian steel to forge such a gift?"
Brienne's hands clenched at her sides, knuckles whitening. "He didn't forge it. His father did. Lord Tywin—" She drew breath. "Lord Tywin melted down Ice. Your uncle's greatsword. Made two blades from it. Oathkeeper and Widow's Wail."
For a moment, nothing. The silence was like a glass wall, ready to shatter.
Then Aemon's palm slammed down on the oak table.
The crack split the air—wood splintering beneath his hand. The sound echoed through the hall, sharp and final as breaking bones.
Men stepped back. Sansa's breath caught. Even Brienne flinched, though she held her ground.
Heat rippled off Aemon in waves. The torches along the walls guttered and flared, flames dancing higher, brighter. Shadows writhed across the stone.
"He melted Ice." The words came low, dangerous. Smoke seemed to curl at the edges of his breath. "The ancestral sword of House Stark. That stood for Stark justice for four hundred years." His fingers curled into the cracked wood. "Tywin Lannister melted it down like common steel and gave the pieces to his children."
"Your Grace—" Brienne began.
"And Jaime." Aemon's voice cut through hers, sharp as dragonglass. "Jaime, who would have killed a child to hide his crimes, calls it Oathkeeper." A bitter laugh scraped from his throat. "What oaths has Jaime Lannister ever kept?"
"He saved my life at Harrenhal." Brienne's voice remained steady, though her face had gone pale. "Jumped into a bear pit, knowing he would die, to protect me. That is the man who gave me Oathkeeper. Not the Kingslayer. Not the man who pushed Lord Brandon from that tower. A man trying regain his honor."
"You are more eloquent than I expected." Aemon had circled her slowly, the way he had seen Ned Stark circle men he was judging. "What is Jaime Lannister to you, that you would defend him before a king?"
She had flushed then, color rising in her cheeks. "He is... he was my captor. My companion on the road. The man who told me the truth about King Aerys and the wildfire beneath Kings Landing."
"What truth?" Aemon's voice had gone quiet, dangerous in its stillness. The fire popped behind him, casting shadows across his face. "What did Jaime Lannister tell you about King Aerys?"
Brienne's throat worked but her fingers still trembled. "The wildfire. Beneath King's Landing. King Aerys had ordered the Alchemists' Guild to place caches throughout the city. Thousands of pots. Enough to…"
"To burn half a million people." The furious words came from Aemon's lips instantly. His stomach had gone cold. "The Mad King meant to burn them all."
"Yes, Your Grace." Brienne's voice remained steady, though her eyes held something raw. "And when Lord Eddard came with Robert's forces, when the city was about to fall, Aerys commanded Ser Jaime to bring him your father's head. Then he told Rossart, his pyromancer, to light the caches. All of them. The whole city would have—"
"Burned." Aemon could see it. Could smell the wildfire in his mind, as a city screamed in despair. Could hear the screams that would have echoed. "And Jaime?"
"Killed Rossart first. Then the King." Brienne's hands had curled into fists at her sides. "He saved half a million people that day. Smallfolk. Nobles. Children. Everyone. And when your uncle found him on the Iron Throne, when Ser Jaime tried to explain, Lord Eddard..." She trailed off.
"Called him Kingslayer." Aemon sighed. "Judged him without hearing the truth."
The silence stretched between them, as Aemon's mind churned. Ned Stark, the most honorable man he knew, had looked at Jaime Lannister sitting on that throne and seen only treachery. Had never asked why.
"It doesn't erase his other crimes." Sansa's voice cut through the quiet like a blade. She had been so still in her chair that Aemon had almost forgotten her presence. Now she leaned forward, her blue eyes hard as winter ice. "Saving the city doesn't undo what he did to Bran. Doesn't make him less of an oathbreaker. Doesn't wash the blood from his hands."
Aemon turned to look at his sister. Her face held no mercy, no softness. Just the cold truth of the North.
"No," he said slowly. The word felt heavy in his mouth. "It doesn't."
"No." Brienne had met his eyes without wavering. "Nothing can undo that crime. But vengeance is not justice, Your Grace. Ser Jaime could serve the realm. Could fight the dead. Could become the knight he always should have been, if you would allow it."
"And what would you have me do? Pat his head and send him forth to redeem himself?" The fire had crept into his voice. "He crippled Bran. He would have killed him to keep his secret."
"He would have." Brienne had not looked away. "And for that, he should answer. But answer to what purpose? A quick death serves nothing. Let him live. Let him fight. Let him earn his redemption with every breath, every battle, every day he serves something greater than himself or his sister."
Aemon had studied her face, seeing the truth written there. Not just duty. Not just honor. Something deeper, more personal. "You care for him."
"I..." She had hesitated, and in that hesitation, everything had been revealed. "He is capable of honor. I have seen it. I have seen him choose the right thing when it cost him everything."
"You love him." The words had fallen like stones between them.
Brienne had straightened, her face a mask of dignity despite the tears gathering in her eyes. "What I feel is not relevant to his worth, Your Grace."
"It is relevant to your judgment." Aemon had turned away from her, staring out the window at the snowy landscape. "You ask me to spare a man who destroyed my brother's life because you have feelings for him."
"I ask you to spare him because he can still serve the realm. Because justice is not the same as vengeance. Because you were raised by Eddard Stark, who believed that good men could fall and rise again." Her voice had strengthened. "I ask you to be the king your uncle would have wanted you to be."
The words had struck deep. Aemon had closed his eyes, feeling the heat beneath his skin, the constant simmer of dragonfire that never quite went cold. "Get out."
"Your Grace—"
"Out." He had not turned to face her. "Before I say something we will both regret. I will allow you to hold onto that sword as long as it is used to defend my sister. But don't expect anything else."
Brienne nods her head and bows as she leaves with Sansa, their footsteps echoing in the solar. Aemon had stood alone, hands gripping the windowsill until the stone grew warm beneath his palms.
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The memory faded as footsteps approached along the battlement. Heavy, measured steps that spoke of a large man moving with care. Aemon did not turn.
"Your Grace." Wyman Manderly's voice carried the wheeze of exertion. "You sent for me."
"I did Lord Manderly." Aemon gestured to the courtyard below. "Throughout the brief war with the Boltons and even now, a question has been revolving in my head. Tell me, Lord Wyman. Why did you scheme for the Starks when all seemed lost? When the Boltons held Winterfell and the realm thought us broken?"
A long silence stretched between them. Aemon could hear the Lord of White Harbor's labored breathing, could almost feel him choosing his words with care.
"There are two answers to that question, Your Grace. Which would you prefer? The one I would give in open court, or the truth?"
"Both."
Wyman moved to stand beside him, gripping the battlement with thick fingers. "The political answer is simple. The North will not be ruled by Boltons or southerners. We bent the knee to Aegon the Conqueror because he had dragons and the strength to unite the realm. We followed the Targaryens for three hundred years. But the Boltons?" He spat over the wall. "They are flayers and traitors. Their rule would have been a cancer on the North."
"And the truth?"
"The truth is simpler still." Wyman turned to face him, and Aemon saw the weight of years in those shrewd eyes. "House Manderly owes House Stark a debt that can never be repaid. A thousand years ago, we were driven from the Reach. We came north with nothing, refugees begging for shelter. The Starks gave us White Harbor. Gave us a place to rebuild, to prosper, to become something more than exiles."
He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice had softened. "We are kin to House Stark through marriage and through the bonds of a thousand years of loyalty. When the Freys murdered your brother, they murdered my king. When they slaughtered my son, they declared war on everything House Manderly stands for. I would have seen every last Frey dead if it took me the rest of my life."
Aemon studied the older man's face, seeing the truth written there. "You plotted for months. Played the fool at Winterfell."
"I did." No shame in the admission. "Baked three Freys into pies and served them at Ramsay's wedding feast. Though I must confess, Your Grace, your dragonfire rather circumvented my more intricate plans for Frey vengeance. I had a whole list of creative deaths planned. Pies were just the beginning."
Despite himself, Aemon felt a smile tug at his lips. "You are a dangerous man, Lord Wyman."
"I am a loyal man, Your Grace. Dangerous to your enemies, perhaps. But never to members of House Stark."
The words settled between them, as Aemon turned to face him fully. "I need someone I can trust at my side. Someone who understands the North, who knows how to move pieces on a board without letting the other players see the game and is solely focused on the coming war."
Wyman's eyes widened slightly. "Your Grace?"
"I name you Hand of the King." The words came easier than Aemon had expected. "You will serve as my chief advisor, my voice when I cannot speak, my hands when I cannot reach."
For a moment, Wyman Manderly simply stared. Then, with surprising grace for a man of his size, he lowered himself to one knee. "I am honored beyond measure, Your Grace. I will serve you as faithfully as I served your brother, as my house has served House Stark for a thousand years."
"Rise." Aemon helped him up, feeling the older man's weight. "I have your first task as Hand."
"Name it."
"Begin the Great Evacuation." Aemon turned back to the courtyard, watching the organized chaos below. "Every civilian in the North, starting with the coasts and the islands. Skagos, Bear Island, every fishing village and farming community north of Moat Cailin. They all move south of the Neck before winter truly comes."
Wyman's breath caught. "Your Grace, it will be done... but the logistics alone..."
"Monumental. Desperate. Necessary." Aemon's voice hardened. "The Wall will fall within the year. When it does, the dead will pour south like a tide. I will not have them find easy prey in scattered villages and isolated holdfasts. We evacuate everyone we can, establish defensive positions south of the Neck, and prepare to hold the line there."
"Even with all the Northern Lords already cooperating, the people will resist as they have lived in these lands for thousands of years. They have bled for this land."
"Then you will convince them." Aemon met his eyes. "I need Sansa's help as well. She understands people, understands how to organize and coordinate. Between the two of you, you will make this happen."
Wyman was quiet for a long moment, his mind clearly working through the implications. "We will need supplies. Food, wagons, shelter for tens of thousands of refugees. The North's stores are depleted from years of war."
"The Iron Bank has pledged their support." Aemon pulled a folded letter from his belt, handed it over. "The Sealord of Braavos and the keyholders have sent word. They will provide whatever supplies we need."
Wyman read the letter, his expression growing more cynical with each line. "How generous of them. And what do they expect in return?"
"They expect Westeros to field the men and fight the war." Aemon's smile was sharp.
"You are not going to Braavos to demand they follow through on these promises."
It was not a question. Aemon nodded slowly. "You understand why."
"I do." Wyman folded the letter carefully. "If you go to Braavos, you leave the realm without a king at a time when every moment counts. The Braavosi want us to bleed for them, to stand as a shield between them and the darkness. They will keep their promises because it serves their interests, not because you fly across the Narrow Sea to threaten them."
"You have a gift for reading people, Lord Wyman."
"I have had many years to practice, Your Grace." Wyman tucked the letter into his robes. "I will coordinate with Lady Sansa. Between us, we will make this evacuation happen, though it may break every cart and wagon in the North to do it."
"I have faith in you." Aemon clasped his shoulder. "Both of you."
Wyman bowed, then paused. "May I ask where you will be while we undertake this task?"
"South." Aemon's voice went cold. "I will have to fly to each of the great houses and force them to see reason. One way or another, the realm will unite. I will make them understand that their petty wars and ambitions mean nothing against what is coming."
"These Southerns are a fickle lot."
Aemon did not answer immediately. He looked down at his hands, remembering how they had gripped Longclaw as he took thirty-eight heads. Remembering the purple fire that danced beneath his skin, always ready, always hungry.
"Then they will learn what it means to refuse a dragon."
Wyman studied his face, and whatever he saw there made the corners of his mouth tighten. The lord's small eyes, half-buried in the flesh of his cheeks, held something that might have been approval—or warning.
"If I may offer counsel, Your Grace." Wyman's voice dropped lower, meant only for Aemon's ears despite the wind that whipped across the battlements. "Begin with Raventree Hall."
Aemon's brow furrowed. "The Blackwoods?"
"Aye." Wyman shifted his bulk, the motion causing his chains to clink softly. "Lord Tytos yet holds his seat, and they were the last great house to drop their banner for your brother, the very last, Your Grace. Even when the Freys had opened their gates and the Boltons had shown their true colors, the Blackwoods stood firm."
Aemon could hear the distant ring of hammer on anvil, the shouted orders of men preparing to march.
"They lost much for that loyalty," Wyman continued. "Tytos's heir fell at the Twins. His grandsons died holding the Ruby Ford against Lannister men three times their number. The Brackens burned their fields and salted their wells while Walder Frey's get sat in the Twins and laughed." The lord's jowls quivered with barely suppressed anger. "If any house in the Riverlands will remember what it means to keep faith with the Starks, it is them."
Aemon turned back to the battlements, his hands gripping the cold stone. Below, a company of Free Folk were breaking camp, their harsh laughter carrying on the wind. He watched them work, thinking of all the southern lords who would see them as savages, as the enemy.
"And if the Blackwoods stand with us," he said slowly, "others will follow."
"Just so." Wyman's breath came heavy, misting in the cold air. "The Riverlands are a nest of vipers now, Your Grace. Even with the Freys dead at the Twins, they still hold Riverrun, the Lannisters garrison Harrenhal, and every petty lord with a keep and ten men-at-arms thinks himself a a great lord."
"It seems I have even more work to do." Aemon turned away from the battlement, toward the stairs that would take him down into the castle proper.
He descended the worn stone steps, his mind already moving to the next task, the next problem that needed solving. Behind him, Wyman Manderly remained on the battlements, watching the armies below prepare for their journeys.
The dungeons waited. And in them, a man who had pushed a child from a tower. A man Bran had wanted kept alive for reasons Aemon did not yet understand.
What game are you playing, brother? What do you see from your cave that I cannot?
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Jaime sat in the corner of his cell, as far from the adjacent iron bars as the cramped space allowed. The wights stood motionless in their own cages, chained at wrist and ankle, their glowing blue eyes fixed on him with an intensity that never wavered. They did not blink. They did not shift. They simply stared, silent as the grave they had crawled from.
He had tried not to look at them. Tried to focus on the rough stone wall, the rusted iron rings set into the floor, the pattern of moisture that seeped through cracks in the mortar. Anything but those eyes.
But sleep would not come regardless. Every time he closed his own eyes, he saw other faces. Rhaegar's handsome features twisted in disappointment. Elia Martell's screams echoing through the Red Keep. Her children, small and broken. And then, inevitably, his thoughts circled back to Jon Snow.
No, Aemon Targaryen.
The name still felt impossible in his mind.
Jaime leaned his head back against the cold stone, his golden hand resting uselessly in his lap. How had he not seen it? When he had ridden into Winterfell all those years ago with Robert, he had looked at Ned Stark's bastard and seen nothing but another reminder of honorable Ned's one moment of weakness. A boy with a long face and grey eyes, sullen and silent.
He had never looked closer. Never saw how the boy's features, beneath the Stark coloring, held an echo of something finer.
Rhaegar's son. The prince's last child.
The memory of violet flames consuming Aemon's body in the great hall made Jaime's stomach turn. He had watched those flames dance across skin without burning, had seen scales begin to form along the young man's arms before that wildling woman had calmed him. The dragon made flesh.
His gaze drifted back to the wights despite himself. They continued their vigil, those dead eyes never leaving him.
"Seven hells," Jaime muttered to the darkness. "What world is this?"
Spontaneous magical flames. Walking corpses. The dead rising to fight the living. It was all so far beyond the realm of politics and warfare he understood. So far beyond the games he and Cersei had played, the careful maneuvering of houses and alliances.
He shook his head, a bitter smile touching his lips. None of it would matter soon enough. Rhaegar's last son would take his head, and perhaps that was justice. He had broken his oath to Catelyn Stark. He had pushed a child from a tower. He had fathered bastards on his sister and called them princes.
The footsteps came as a surprise, echoing down the stone corridor. Jaime straightened, his heart beginning to pound despite himself. The wights' heads turned in unison toward the sound, their chains rattling softly.
Aemon Targaryen stepped into view, flanked by two guards with drawn swords. The young king wore simple northern garb, leather and wool in Stark colors, but he moved with a coiled tension that reminded Jaime of a drawn bowstring. His eyes found Jaime immediately, grey and cold as winter ice.
The wights stared at Aemon now, ignoring Jaime entirely. Their blue-flame eyes tracked the king's every movement with an intensity that made Jaime's skin crawl.
He pushed himself to his feet, his legs stiff from sitting on cold stone. "Your Grace."
Aemon said nothing for a long moment, simply studying Jaime through the bars. Then he spoke, his voice flat and hard.
"There is something you should know about your lover, Kingslayer." He paused. "Your sister burned the Great Sept of Baelor. Thousands dead. The High Sparrow, the Faith Militant, half the Tyrell army and she used wildfire to accomplish this."
The word hit Jaime like a avalanche. Wildfire.
His knees weakened, and he gripped the bars to steady himself. "No. She wouldn't. Cersei would never—"
"She did." Aemon's voice cut through his denial like a blade. "Your sister did what the king you once served only dreamed of doing."
Jaime could not breathe. The cell seemed to spin around him. All those caches he had kept secret, all those hidden stores of wildfire that Aerys had placed throughout the city. He had told no one. Had let the pyromancers die with their secrets, thinking it safer that way.
"I didn't know," he whispered. "I couldn't have known she would—"
"Couldn't have known?" Aemon's voice rose, sharp with anger. "You couldn't have known your insane sister would use wildfire caches after everything else she has done? After she armed the Faith to destroy the Tyrells? After she murdered Robert Baratheon? After she birthed three golden-haired bastards and called them Baratheons?"
Jaime had no answer. The truth of it settled over him like a shroud. He should have known. Should have seen what Cersei was becoming, what she had always been beneath the beauty and the lies.
He looked up at Aemon, really looked at him, and the words came unbidden.
"How could I have missed it?"
Aemon's brow furrowed. "Missed what?"
"You." Jaime's voice was hoarse. "Your father. Prince Rhaegar rarely got angry, you know. He was always so controlled, so measured. But I saw him lose his temper once, when Aerys said something particularly vile about your grandmother. The look on his face then was exactly the same as the one you're wearing now."
The young king went very still. Something flickered across his face, too quick to name, and then his expression shuttered. He stood there in silence, brooding, and for a moment Jaime saw both Rhaegar and Ned Stark in the set of his shoulders.
"I learned why you killed King Aerys," Aemon said finally, ignoring Jaime's observation entirely. "About the wildfire, and about the pyromancers. About how you saved the city."
"Brienne." The name escaped Jaime's lips like a prayer. Of course she had spoken for him. Of course she had tried to save him, even after everything.
Something in his chest cracked at the thought.
"I respect what you did that day," Aemon continued, his voice carefully controlled. "You saved hundreds of thousands of lives when you killed Aerys. You did the right thing, even knowing it would cost you your honor." He paused. "But that doesn't erase the crimes you've committed since. It doesn't undo the boy you pushed from that tower. It doesn't undo the oaths you broke."
Jaime laughed, a broken sound that echoed off the dungeon walls. "Then take my head and be done with it, Your Grace. I'm tired. Tired of oaths and honor and all the rest of it. Just make it quick."
"No."
Jaime looked up, confused.
Aemon stepped closer to the bars, his grey eyes boring into Jaime's. "I'm not going to execute you, Lannister. I'm going to give you a choice."
"A choice."
"You're going south with me. To King's Landing." Aemon's voice was hard as iron. "You're going to deal with your sister. I don't care if you convince her to join Silent Sisters, to sail across the Narrow Sea in exile or if you put a blade through her heart yourself. But Cersei Lannister will not sit the Iron Throne any longer."
Jaime stared at him. "And if I refuse?"
"Then you die here, in this cell, and your sister continues to burn the realm until I'm forced to do what you should have done years ago." Aemon's eyes flashed. "But if you succeed, if you remove her from power, then you'll take the black. You'll go to the Wall and fight the dead when they come. You'll die with honor, defending the realms of men, instead of rotting in a northern dungeon as a kinslayer and oathbreaker."
A path. After all these years, after all his failures, Aemon was offering him a path toward something that might resemble redemption.
Jaime thought of Cersei, of the golden-haired girl she had been before the madness took root. He thought of their children, dead now, all of them. He thought of the Sept burning, green flames consuming thousands because he had been too weak to stop her.
"I'll try," he said quietly. "I'll try to make her see reason."
"You don't need to say try.'" Aemon's voice was flat. "We both know what happens if you fail."
Jaime nodded slowly, his throat tight. "Yes, Your Grace." He paused. "When do we leave?"
"Now." Aemon turned to the guards. "Bring him out."
The cell door swung open with a screech of rusted hinges. The guards moved to flank Jaime, but they did not bind his hands. They led him up the narrow stairs, away from the wights and their unblinking stare, toward the grey light of morning.
The courtyard was full when they emerged, packed with more people than Jaime had expected. Northern lords and their men, wildlings in furs and leather, knights from the Vale in their polished armor and the boorish Stormlanders. All of them turned to watch as Jaime was led across the frozen ground. But Lady Catelyn was nowhere in sight.
Aemon walked beside him, his face set in hard lines. "I want the other half of Ice," he said, his voice pitched for Jaime's ears alone. "The sword your father stole and melted down. You'll retrieve it for me."
"I will, Your Grace." Jaime's voice was steady. "I promise."
He scanned the courtyard, noting the organized chaos of an army preparing to march. Columns of men were forming up near the gates, supplies being loaded onto wagons. His tactical mind assessed it automatically. Even with Aemon's strange… flames, the young king would need protection. Kingsguard, or something like it.
His gaze found Sansa Stark standing near the castle entrance, her auburn hair bright against her grey dress. Beside her stood young Rickon, wild-haired and restless. Aemon moved toward them, speaking words Jaime could not hear.
Then he saw Brienne.
She stood apart from the others, but near Sansa Stark, her blue eyes finding his across the crowded yard. The relief in her expression was unmistakable, and something in Jaime's chest tightened at the sight.
She crossed to him, her long stride covering the ground quickly. The guards had removed his chains, and his hands were free when she reached him.
"Brienne." He met her eyes. "Thank you. For speaking on my behalf. For everything."
Her jaw worked, and when she spoke, her voice was rough with emotion. "I can't do any more for you, Jaime. This is as far as I can go."
He smiled, and meant it. "You've done enough. More than enough."
"Where will you go?" The question came out almost reluctant, as if she feared the answer.
Before Jaime could respond, Aemon's voice rang out across the courtyard, clear and commanding.
"Ser Jaime Lannister will accompany me south. He will deal with his sister, and when that task is complete, he will take the black and join the Night's Watch."
A murmur ran through the assembled crowd. Jaime could see the conflict on their faces, the disapproval barely held in check. But no one spoke against their king's judgment. No one dared.
Pride stirred in Jaime's chest, unexpected and strange. The boy had them well in hand, these proud northern lords. They might not like his decisions, but they would follow.
Rhaegar, you would be proud, Jaime thought. If you could see what your son has become.
Aemon moved through the crowd, speaking briefly to various people. Lord Manderly, massive and shrewd, wearing an iron pin that marked him as Hand of the King. Ser Davos Seaworth, the Onion Knight, looking older and more weathered than Jaime remembered. A slender figure in Night's Watch blacks who might have been a woman, though it was hard to tell. Several wildlings, their faces hard and suspicious.
And finally, the wildling woman who calmed Aemon down before, unmistakably beautiful despite her rough furs and practical leathers. She had golden hair and grey eyes, and when Aemon approached her, something in his expression softened.
What happened next shocked Jaime.
Aemon kissed her. Not a chaste brush of lips, but a deep, claiming kiss that left no doubt about their relationship. The wildling woman's hands came up to grip his shoulders, and when they broke apart, her eyes were bright.
Murmurs rippled through the crowd again, but Aemon ignored them. He began removing his boots, waving away offers of help with visible annoyance. He handed his cloak to the wildling woman, then pulled his tunic over his head.
The crowd fell silent, giving him space. A wide berth opened around the young king as he walked toward the castle gates, barefoot and bare-chested in the cold.
Jaime blinked, his gaze sweeping across the courtyard. Every face turned toward Aemon, as if expectant. The wildling woman stood with Aemon's cloak draped over her arm, her expression unreadable. Even the Night's Watch brothers seemed to be waiting for something.
What in the seven hells are they expecting?
Aemon turned to face them, his grey eyes sweeping across the assembled crowd. Then he closed his eyes.
Violet flames erupted from his skin.
They did not stop this time, did not fade after a moment. The fire grew and grew, consuming Aemon's form entirely, rising higher than the castle walls. The heat of it washed over the courtyard, making Jaime stagger back.
When the flames finally subsided, a dragon stood where Aemon Targaryen had been.
Jaime's legs gave out. He fell to his knees on the frozen ground, unable to look away. The creature was enormous, its scales black as obsidian, gleaming like polished glass and its eyes burned like two suns.
This is cant be real, Jaime thought numbly. I am dreaming. I have to be dreaming.
The dragon's head swung toward him, and when it spoke, its voice resonated in Jaime's chest like the tolling of a great bell.
"Come, Lannister. The South waits."
Jaime could not move. Could not think. Could not decide what terrified him more: that Aemon Targaryen could become a dragon, or that the dragon was speaking directly to him, commanding him to climb onto its… hands.
Slowly, on legs that felt like water, Jaime Lannister rose to his feet and walked toward his fate.