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White and black, a contrasting sprawl, shot through with the occasional streak of blue- stretching, yawning-
Infinite.
As Jaime (once of House Lannister, now with nothing but the Watchman’s Oath to tether him to time or place) stares out into the snowy wilderness, watching his breath turn to plumes of vapor, he finds himself thinking of a boy who once stood where he stands. He finds himself wondering whether silks and velvets feel strange against Jon Snow’s skin, just as roughspun fabric and matted furs chafe Jaime’s own. He wonders whether the boy stares at his sallow face in some ornate looking glass, mouthing the name “Targaryen” again and again, trying to make it feel organic, trying to make it feel true.
It would be a futile exercise; no one knows that better than Jaime. For although he can easily recall the words of his oath (thanks to their similarities to another oath, taken a lifetime ago), he cannot make them a part of his being. He cannot elevate them, cannot imbue them with purpose, cannot turn them into anything more than words.
He paces along the sheer edge of a cliff, thick woods behind him and a shadowy ravine below. The snow fills each footprint in mere moments, and he’s struck by the impermanence, this clear reminder that nothing is forever.
These are the moments when he’ll see colors again- flares and pinpricks of gold and green. But they don’t last. They never stay long.
Lately, he’s taken the westward post in the early evenings, just as the sun begins its descent below the horizon. From his vantage point in this still and silent place high above the world he once knew, he sees the sunset, clear and unobstructed, flooding the sky with oranges and pinks-
And bright, bright reds.
He thinks of her in the snow, white flakes melting into russet locks, icy eyes sharp and alert and alive. He remembers her tiny hands, warm in spite of the air’s bitter chill, how they would trace his cheeks and jaw as if trying to memorize him, as if trying to etch him into the grooves of her fingertips. Even now, he can feel the press of her lips against his, the way they trembled when last they kissed, the way she turned her face away and refused to watch him mount his horse and ride northward.
“Black is not a color that suits you,” she’d said when he first revealed his intentions- the statement was ridiculous, and the earnestness of her tone should have amused him, but he could not bring himself to smile.
Lost in recollections, Jaime misses a step and slips, tumbling onto his knees. His golden hand collides sharply with the frozen ground, and he curses at the harsh twist of his wrist. He pulls up his inky sleeve and nestles the bare skin of his forearm in the snow, letting the cold do what it does best: numb the pain.
He moves slowly, as if gliding through water, rolling his body until he splays in the snow, legs and arms outstretched. The flakes catch in his lashes, and the sky is white, bright, blank.
The chill seizes every muscle. It stings, but only for a moment. Then everything stops, everything stills- there is nothing to hurt, nothing to feel.
“Black is not a color that suits you.”
The thought of her voice is the soft ringing of bells, clarion clear, echoing echoing, a memory crystallized-
Jaime smiles.