Chapter Text
The room was painfully familiar.
Jaime sat up, hands reaching to stymy the flow of his tears unsuccessfully. His chest heaved and he hunched down onto himself. His feet were solidly planted on the carpeting of a room he thought he’d left behind.
Jaime cried, for a dream much too real. He cried for a love he thought he earned. The love of a woman brilliant and kind. A woman much stronger than himself.
He cried for the home which he’d found, perfectly imperfect. For the snow, for his half-feral almost-son, his beautiful wife, and her many wolves.
Jaime swallowed thickly, looking at the room around him dully. Empty it felt. He longed for fire warmed furs piled high on top of his coy little wife.
He caught sight of Kings Landing out his window and not for the first time he longed instead for dreary grey and falling snow. These dreams were always worse when he was here.
Finally, his eyes landed upon the gold cloak tossed haphazardly on his chair. He stood to his feet and approached to feel the fabric between his fingers. The material was familiar and grounding.
Rich red and gold to swathe himself, lest he forget for a second his duty as a Lannister lion. His gaze unfocused as he registered the rhythmic sounds of footsteps. When he stayed in the keep nowadays he was never given a second of reprieve. Guard rotations were doubled and he was sure his sweet sister instructed them to be as raucous as possible.
In his unfocused gaze the cloak could almost resemble the white of the Kings Guard. Fingers clenched as time blurred in his mind.
How long had it taken him to realize the curse that that cloak actually was? How long till he realized that he would find no honour or glory in serving? That the famed brotherhood was nothing more than glorified sell-swords in the pocket of the king? The king and any whim he may have, no matter its depravity.
Was that his life? Bound to an honour-less order guarding a worthless man and his crown.
A particularly loud step snapped him out of his daze. The cloak was gold again. A particularly vivid dream it must have been, to have his mind in such a state.
As he stretched his mind to remember, the memory of warm embraces and acceptance drifted away. Sand through grasping fingers, as his memories seemed to be these days.
He could likely guess.
His sister and her cruelty, his life and its aimlessness. And the North and its newfound allure. His mind drifted to an older version of himself, missing a hand, but undoubtably happier.
He donned the cloak reluctantly before leaving his room to break his fast. He paid no mind to the many people who attempted to engage him in conversation as he passed by swiftly.
He eventually found himself before the Queens apartments, knocking deftly and waiting patiently.
“Come in,” came the familiar voice. Jaime strode in and collapsed into a chair instantly.
Without preamble, he announced ruefully, “I despise this city.”
He didn’t raise his eyes from the table as he began filling a glass with water and a plate with meat. (He missed the eye rolls from everyone at the table).
“You would do well to mind your tongue around the Queen of this city,” came from his left, tone snide. He lifted his head, distantly surprised his sister was still coherent mid-day.
She sat regally at the head of the table—another slight at their father who was relegated to the opposite head, farther from the food spread unevenly. Her dress was Lannister red, her skin tanned and adorned with Lannister gold. Her hair was free save for a few twisting pieces tied away from her face. The style was almost.. Northern in its simplicity. He knew it intimately.
It could be a cruel jape for her King or could be she had yet to leave her rooms this day. Jaime stopped trying to read his sister long ago, much easier to worry about reacting rather than understanding her twisted mind.
When he met her eyes, the cruelty in her mouth untwisted, her flinty eyes softening into something almost playful and coy. A transition so sudden that he knows he must have surprised her with his attention.
Her mask was meant to pull him in, but Jaime’s mind and heart were torn asunder from the dreams and memories he’d just been ripped from. He couldn’t fathom the thought of any woman coming close to the vixen in his minds eye.
“Forgive me, your Grace,” he said not entirely convincingly, but admittedly much more than he’d usually offer.
“Enough,” was Tywin’s response, sounding as acerbic as Cersei now looked. He swivelled his head right, meeting his fathers gaze, nodded once, and returned to his meal.
Every visit was the same, there was hardly a point. They knew they were lucky that Jaime had even deigned to visit, but Jaime knows it is he that is lucky.
For this visit will soon be cut short by the untimely death of one Jon Arryn.
The journey was unpleasant—no surprise there. Even when fleeing Kings Landing the last time it was not a fun trek.
The Crownlands were not a particularly tough journey, but as they transitioned into the Riverlands, it was a wet one. The tents rested on moist land and the smell in the air resembled a horse or hound undried. The Kings road was better of course, than Greywater watch or any of those Godforesaken keeps, but it made little difference. The land was as it was, no amount of gold could make it pretty.
Admittedly, Jaime was used to a rough journey—as a solider—and the real reason for the miserable travels were the constant summons from Cersei. He had yet to allow himself to be alone with her. The closest he had gotten were the mandated meals with the whole of the Lannister family.
It has been perhaps years since he had allowed her any significant amount of his time.
As the days trudged on, Jaime kept himself near the front of the slow-moving retinue with his father. His mood was dour and that suited the Great Lion well, as he had no greater desire to chat than Jaime. Even in silence, the Great Lions reputation had him at an advantage—they remained mostly unbothered.
Regardless of this, the summons would come as surely as the King imbibed—which is to say constantly and without fail. It was easy enough to ignore when he was with his father, whose station may not be above his sister, but his authority surely was.
Lord Lannister is preoccupied with important matters and the like.
If Tywin was curious as to the division between the twins, he did not inquire. He was surely too grateful at the boon it had been and was amenable to aiding Jaime in his dodgy behaviour.
It was also his greatest advantage that he was no longer either in their employ or a part of their courts. He was beholden to the West and the West alone. Privately, he knew that he was also beholden to the Kingdoms he’d once played consort to (though no one could hold him to this, as it had not yet happened, or wouldn’t, he still was unsure).
There was less flexibility however, to ignore the summons of the little Princess and Prince’s. He was not in the business of ignoring Tommen and Myrcella, for they were undeniably sweet-natured even now. The crown Prince was an entirely different story.
He was worse than Jaime remembered. Perhaps, Jaime ponders with a smirk, he has inherited his fathers temperament.
Each day was spent staring out into the distance dispassionately, interspersed with mundane socialization. He felt the same deep pit of loneliness that he’d been accustomed to in his long—seemingly endless—lifetime.
The feeling had welled within his chest on the day of Cersei’s wedding to Robert, and grown exponentially each day since. He is able now, in his reflection, to recognize the feelings of isolation and despondence. It had clung to him like a cloak, only to be removed in the last chapter of his life. And then time repeated and there he found himself again, back to the day it began.
He thinks now of the indignity he had gladly allowed—when he was little more than a kept man who played babysitter to the man fucking his lover—and cringes. He is forever grateful that he is the only one to remember this future.
Alas, even with new choices made he lived with this same emptiness, although he finds himself at a disadvantage now. Previously, it had been all he knew; there was no remedy, it was a fact of life to feel as if you drifted though like a ghost.
Now, he knew how he could feel.
The distance ahead of him loomed larger as he thought of this. And of what may await him. His stomach turned with dread. Fear and uncertainty danced to the beat of his heart and his breath became heavy. The air escaped him quickly and it became difficult to gasp large enough mouthfuls.
Suddenly, a hand clasped his shoulder, startling him from his state. The shock helped his disposition and slowly he felt his heart calming.
To his left, his father withdrew his hand making no further move to engage. Jaime knew this nonchalance would not last and soon—once he was done collecting his data—he would be faced with quite an interrogation.
He put it out of his mind, tightening his hold on Honour’s reigns to pull himself forward and away from the scrutiny.
It had been many years now, since he’d felt like he could be himself wholly. Flaws and weaknesses were not something he was able to display, even retreating to the Rock was not safe with his father still holding the official title as ‘Lord Lannister’.
He had refused a wife most ardently, not allowing his father to force a match on him. How could he when he was already a man committed? before the Seven and the Gods of Old?
Perhaps it was the conviction in his eyes when questioned upon it, perhaps it was his evasive answer (‘In due time’). Regardless of what it may have been, he had not yet been dragged to a sept against his will.
Perhaps this was the reason Cersei still fancied herself an option. Her trips to the Rock had been few and far between for no reason other than his own vehement refusals.
He knew it made little difference in her mind, but he also knew it angered her thoroughly. She’d withdraw her attentions and leave to Kings Landing and in her head it was a punishment. In the past, it would have worked, but he was no greenboy who fancied himself destined to her. It was a relief and a reprieve from her slimy attentions.
Her manipulations held no strength and this itself had been a manner of concern for most which surrounded him. They were surely accustomed to this new reality now, but he remembers when he’d first woken in this time. It had been chaos.
He looked to this left and Gendry was no longer there, his battle axe discarded on the ground. He looked to his right and Brienne had fallen. He had no time to mourn as he realized the dead were closing a full circle around him.
He’d been leading the defensive battalion within the walls of Winterfell, but the Others were climbing the walls and attacking with a voracity that only a dead man could, apparently. It felt like only one moment had passed before he found himself overran by them. His troops were falling.
His friends had fallen. He looked up and it felt like the sky was falling. His mind went immediately to his wife and her wellbeing. He wasn’t sure it mattered any longer, there were surely to be no survivors from this massacre.
He adjusted his grip, straightening his spine and preparing to go faster. In one second, he blinked and suddenly he was no longer there.
He was in bed. He awoke violently, tumbling forward and away from the silk sheets and sweet aromas. He felt the impact on his hip and head as the ground met him solidly. The pain helped regulate his panicked breaths and finally, he opened his eyes.
The shift was jarring and he could only sit up and pant as he looked around fervently. the quarters of a royal guest in the Red Keep. His eyes scanned the room rapidly and saw the haphazardly decorated style. Black and gold, but more so red. Red sheets, red draperies, golden rug. His eyes returned to the bed that he’d launched himself from and saw a blonde head of hair, half tucked beneath the shiny silk.
She always did sleep like the dead.
He stood quickly and silently, biting back the instinctual gasp at seeing his young, lithe body and wholly flesh right hand. He redressed in a contemplative silence, watching Cersei’s prone form and praying she’d remain asleep.
He was young and these rooms had only been used…
He couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge it. It couldn’t be.
He slipped out of the door and found that the keep was silent, not a servant or even guard was present. Slowly, he made his way through the short hallway that lead to his rooms, he entered quickly and found himself staring at his bed. It sat there untouched, almost mocking.
He felt exhaustion, bone-deep, and collapsed into his bed.
He awoke eventually to his father storming into his chamber with thundering steps, his blanket being yanked from his body, and a heavy palm shaking him.
“It is well below my station to stoop to this level, but you seem keen on ignoring my summons,” he bellowed, voice carrying no small amount of authority and frustration.
Ah, yes. He remembers this.
Jaime slowly rose from his bed, shaking his head to move the curls away. He squinted at his father, noting how young he looked. Battle-worn, as he’d always been, but undeniably more lively than dead-on-a-privy.
Emotions welled up within him and he felt positively moronic that he was battling tears at the sight of his dour father. “summons?”
Jaime cringed at how disoriented he sounded. He does not remember this happening because he had never left Cersei’s chambers. As old as he may believe himself, he’s still the fool.
“I know you Jaime. This is a conversation you hope to avoid by hiding until you are once again inducted.” Tywin pulled his shoulders back, standing tall, “I will not have the future Lord Lannister stolen from me again, you cannot keep that cloak.”
Jaime blinked. Once then twice. Without a word, he threw his head back and laughed until he couldn’t any longer.
The decision had not been received well, the tantrum thrown by the newly minted Queen was one to be remembered for years to come. She had yelled and screamed bloody murder, looking at Jaime with such deep betrayal and possibly heartbreak. Jaime was still unsure if that was put upon.
It was the first move Jaime had cast on the cyvasse board. Consequential in its potential effects, but also a severe departure from his younger self. Even Tyrion had looked at him with such confusion that he wanted to explain himself.
He knew it was the correct move, he knew he couldn’t allow himself to father royal bastards, he knew he could not tie himself to Kings Landing and Cersei. He knew, but he wished he had a partner in this planning. He knew that he could have been less suspicious, more strategic, if he had his little wife who was much smarter than him.
They had settled now, a few days ride away from the Crossroads Inn. They had passed upon the God’s eye and Harrenhal, faces uneasy at the memories of battles passed. And as the camps were set up, Jaime had watched, unimpressed.
The journey was not quick on horseback, maybe a moons turn with no breaks. Adding the need to eat, shit, and rest your steed made it almost two moons turns.
That itself was quite long.
Now add in the frivolous additions to their procession mandated by the King and Queen both. Gratuitous luxury that made the trip easier only for the two, and harder for anybody else.
The Lannisters were said to shit gold, but even Tywin knew the folly of travelling heavy. There were luxuries, yes, but the several barrels of arbour red (which were quickly depleting) were ridiculous.
Elaborate tapestries and draperies, all of heavy fabric. Quilts of wool, silk, and velvet. Freshly feathered and fluffed beds. It was a miracle that their horses had not keeled over.
They had been on the road for seven and ten days, and just barely making it into the Riverlands. And he knew surely that this was the fastest they would travel. They would soon lose their steam when the luxuries dwindle and the land became unforgiving, and the pace would drop even slower.
What he wouldn’t do to break free and begin a sprint towards Winterfell. His impatience simmered within him, pushing his temper to the razors edge.
He snapped at any who came near him, happy to watch the crowds part before him, allowing a smooth walk towards his tent.
Inside his tent were the barest of luxuries. He was permitted quite a lot as the heir of Casterly Rock, but his disgust with the frivolity of the royal family had put him off to it. In truth, becoming accustomed once again to Lannister wealth felt insurmountable.
He’d spent his youth as the heir, to be sure, but since moving to the White Sword Tower his standing meant little. He lived as a soldier, a sentinel who was dedicated to his charges. Lannister gold meant little more than softer sheets or a cleaner cloak.
And then, the world began to slowly end. One play piece falling and knocking over the next. His life had gotten more and more uncomfortable until he found himself in a tent outside Winterfell’s walls. Even when he eventually moved to the family wing of the castle, it was no more comfortable because of circumstance.
So, the warm halls of Casterly Rock, reflecting the golden hues of the sunset sea. The gold veins spread throughout the walls, the warm breezes, and soft clothes. Surreal and jarring and perhaps not what he craved. Or perhaps it would be made better with different company…
The question of what awaited him at Winterfell was once again at the forefront of his mind.
He had tried to corral his hope before it rose too high, but he was sure something had changed.
He sat down, finally, in his tent and reached for the water. He had no obligation to leave his tent this evening and as such, he found himself reminiscing again.
The coronation of King Robert Baratheon, first of his name, was as grand an affair as possible. Even with a Lannister Queen, Westeros had been at war for years at that point. The King was triumphant, but somber. Most had lost first and second sons to the battlefield. Most weren’t even able to attend, forced to send representatives to bend the knee in the weeks that followed the event.
The Red Keep had gone through a large-scale redesign, the dragon skulls all removed and shunted off to storage. New black and gold tapestries adorned every spot where red once prevailed. In fact, despite the Lannister involvement, red had become a contentious colour.
Tywin was not swayed by those petty trends. He wore rich reds as bright and proudly as any peacock. And in becoming the official heir, Jaime was expected to do the same. He received many different looks, but he knew that the colour of his wardrobe was the least possible reason.
The event itself was boring. A coronation consisted of an exhausting level of intricate tradition—which Robert had ironically wanted to preserve. Perhaps a display of his avarice or lack of creativity, but the ceremony stayed largely the same, the only discernible difference being the house name and colours. Considering Robert’s ancestors, even that was unnecessary.
Once the official aspects had concluded, there was lovely feast which set a dent in the rationed supply for the infantries all currently holding the city. Not that they cared.
Jaime wanted to laugh and jape, but in this time he should not have such intimate knowledge of the city or its needs.
The real reason for his fixation on the day was during that very feast. Cersei had still been cross with him and attempting to punish him with her silence. Tyrion regarded him as some sort of mythical creature and his father was pleased but fearful he’d been tricked.
Jaime had long tuned his surroundings out. He was overwhelmed by the gathering of important people and his own new role amongst them. The coronation was essential in Robert securing his reign and power over the kingdoms so it had been rushed. He had nary been in the past for a few days before finding himself here.
That too without his north star. He knew not who would be best to forge connections with and he hadn't had the energy to try. So there he sat, ceremonially on the high table, ignoring his surroundings.
And then it had happened. The King rose quickly, thoroughly off-balance from his drinking. And wasn’t the sight of young Robert Baratheon quite a pretty one? Seeing where he’d started—the demon of the Trident in all his brutish glory—and where he’d end up was tough to wrap his head around.
“A toast!” Robert shouted, his voice remarkably clear despite the drink. He raised his flagon in one hand and used the other to hook onto lanky Ned Stark’s neck. The man—boy—was red in the face.
He looked so much like the bastard Snow it was jarring to take him in. Soon Ned would grow ever taller and his frame would fill out, but as of now he was sturdy, but willowy—much like Robb had been. He felt a pang in his chest at the sight of him. He thought of everything Ned Stark would eventually mean to him. It was disconcerting considering how the man felt about him and what his words had done to shape Jaime’s life.
Robert pulled Ned up by his neck, “Our boy Ned, with seed as strong as could be!” He squeezed him close in a side-hug. And wasn’t that an odd thing to do; hugging a man while discussing his seed.
“We’ve just gotten word that his wife, the lady Catelyn, has birthed whole and hearty twins, Robb and Sansa!”
Robert laughed merrily, Ned eventually joining in with joy on his face. “Quite a strong name for the new heir of Winterfell,” he added in a warmer voice, looking down at Ned. Ned looked redder still.
“A toast for the new Lord and Lady Robb and Sansa Stark!”
And with that, he chugged his flagon and tossed it on the ground, “Another!”
The whole room echoed his toast, becoming rowdier and rowdier. But Jaime? Jaime sat in stunned silence, his world having narrowed down to the one word that mattered. Sansa.
Jaime held onto that moment for the next five and ten years. He held strong that her earlier birth had to have meant something.
At the very least, it had reinvigorated his purpose. He remembers being nine and ten years old, the newly returned heir of Casterly rock. He remembers how difficult receiving any information regarding the comings and goings of Winterfell was. Ned Stark would scarcely choose Jaime as a pal to chat through raven with. He remembers being left to stew in his thoughts and hopes.
He looked to his right, eyeing the flagon of arbour red that was left on his table. Without any preamble he grabbed it and began pouring.
A large benefit of being whole and young again, Jaime found, was his resilience. He trained harder than ever, something his father found pointless—but he knew what he was training towards. And in this, he was able to recover rapidly, something which also extended to drinking wine or ale.
He did not choose to indulge often, but thoughts of the future brought him here. The future, the past, his future, his past, his wife, the northern girl of five and ten. They were all enough to tempt him, but he had no intention of becoming Cersei so he’d learned to restrict his thoughts, only pointing them towards constructive areas.
Which had its own host of problems. If he was being honest with himself, his plans hinges almost entirely on praying for his wife. He knew not what to do without her and her knowledge.
Jaime had spent the last five and ten years increasing his political knowledge and he felt himself adequate at best. Stratagem was no mystery to him and he could see the ways in which battle and conversation may overlap, but he did not have the same joy some did in verbal sparring. He’d much rather strike someone down with steel.
It was much of the reason Sansa completed him. He was her guard. Her shadow. She was a cause he’s commit his life to a million times over. She was a bright beautiful thing. Brilliant. His guiding light. His northern star.
If he should find himself without her, he knows that he will carry all she’s taught him and do his best. But he was unsure of all that he could accomplish or all of which he even had knowledge of. He tried to keep written record, but he had doubts of its security. He knew not what to do.
Sansa would probably know what to do.
The wine was tart on his tongue. It brought his attention sharply to the present. His tent was red. Red surrounded him; red walls, red tapestries, red, red, red.
On his bad days, it was all blood.
The blood of all that he had felled. All that he’d watched die.There were so many, they all blended and wether it was true or not, he felt the blame acutely.
On his worst days, he saw Rhaenys, Aegon, and Elia wrapped in their shroud of Lannister red—Gregor Clegane’s cloak. Even now he was to blame… the West had brutalized them twice now.
‘The cost of war’
How many times had his Lord father said that? But it was not a cost they paid.. it was a cost they charged the innocent. It was a point that Tywin was yet to concede and a true sticking point of their new relationship. He was no longer able to simply acquiesce to his father’s ideas of strategy. He had learned his lessons on honour and her would not allow himself to live by any other rule. What would his wife think of him?
How could he look upon her face knowing he had made the same errs he’d shamefully whispered quietly into her breast?
His father, as he always had, found his notions of honour to be childish at best, but had soon learned Jaime would no longer abandon them on his whims.
So caught in his mind he was that he hardly noticed the boy who entered holding his meal. “Just on the table please, I’ll be needing no assistance,” Jaime muttered as the boy seemed poised to stay near.
Hesitantly he left and Jaime was catapulted back into his contemplation. He was not surprised that his return to Winterfell would leave him feeling like a wild animal; too much energy, too close to feeling caged.
He’d done what he could to minimize Tywin’s action in the West, but he was 30 years too late to prevent his most egregious crimes.
The wind whipped his face as Honour sped from a trot to a canter. It was as if he could sense Jaime’s need for privacy.
The Lannister men he’d been riding beside part around him without a word, used to the moods of their melancholic Lord. He scowls to himself at the thought of being similar to the bastard Snow—but he still could not find it in himself to fix his demeanour.
At the front of the group he came upon Addam Marbrand, who was leading the charge of men.
Addam was present with his guards where ever the imminent Lord Lannister went, making him a constant companion. He had been so since Jaime’s childhood, having trained alongside him.
The man was someone who he had not spoken to during his tenure as Kings guard, another folly of his. In the past 5 and ten years, Addam had become close as kin.
It often shocked Jaime how different life at the Rock was in comparison to life at the Red Keep. He realizes that he had missed it much more than he’d thought. Being within his lands and amongst his people was greatly preferred to constantly swarmed by enemies.
He passed Addam with a nod. The man returned it instinctively before slowing to allow the separation. Ahead of his Lannister men were some Royal guards, who all surrounded the Queens wheel-house. Jaime had no interest of being near the contraption so he steered his stead to diverge from the Kings road and run along it on the mud.
The last time he ran this path he had one less hand, and significantly less allies. He was glad to acknowledge that life as Lord Lannister has taken him farther in that regard than Kings Guard ever had.
He had the respect of the men around, largely in part to his actions—a thought which shocked him to this day. Respect alone was not often granted, but for his actions and honour to be respected, it was not a familiar feeling.
Of course it helped that he cared little for the gold in the West, unlike his father who prioritized hoarding it.
Instead, he focused on remuneration. He invested in his lands, his people. He was responsible or the West and unlike what his father though, he was beholden to his vassals.
It was a lesson he had learned in the North. To be named liege lord was little more than the luck of his ancestors, he had little claim to that triumph. To bring honour to his position was his choice, however. To care for his lands and people. It was not menial and unnecessary it was the entirety of his job.
And he knew better than any how much the Lannister name was worth. When the chips fell and Tywin died, the respect scattered in the wind. The fear was not enough, it could be useful to be sure, but it would not build a lasting legacy.
It was for that reason that Jaime restarted the tradition of taking petitions. He was not above his people and he wanted them to know that.
It was a popular decision amongst most. And with time, the tides on peoples opinion on the Lannisters had shifted slightly. That was no simple feat and Jaime was tremendously proud of his work. I wonder what Sansa would say?
In all his choices he felt the weight her gaze and heard her opinion in his head. He felt remarkably close to her and found his adoration to grow ever-stronger.
He was unsure of how accurate his voice for was. but it had yet to steer him wrong. Begrudgingly, he even found himself considering the elder Stark and his ‘honour’. This he would never admit, however.
He was about to advance into a gallop before a whistle caught his attention. “My Lord!” came the call from a behind him. A Lannister runner approached rapidly, face pink in exertion.
“Lord Tyrion is calling for you my Lord,” he panted, trying desperately get his steed and breathing in control. Jaime smiled kindly, trying to ease the boys demeanour. He nodded swiftly and grabbed his reigns tightly to maneuver Honour back the direction they came.
One of the most fortuitous things had been his ability to spend five and ten more years with Tyrion at the Rock. He was able to be everything Tywin had refused to be. Tyrion was just one and ten when he returned to the Rock after Cersei’s coronation, and his young face had gave him a purpose renewed.
His brother would receive the upbringing he deserved as a Lord and he would never meet Tysha. Tyrion would not fall to the bottle or whores. He would grow and learn as was proper for his station. It mattered not that he was different, and Jaime ensured his brother knew that.
Tyrion now, was learned, charming, and funny. He was well-liked amongst the vassels, something Jaime ensured by bringing him to the petitions every fortnight. The West had taken his measure and he was gratified to find his own opinion reflected.
His brother was a good man. He was not embittered and downtrodden. Jaime had not let life shake his brothers confidence. It was perhaps one of his greatest achievement. Where he felt he made a tangible difference. He wishes his Sansa could meet him now.
Those last days in Winterfell had been difficult. He remembers the depths of his anger towards his brother had almost consumed him. He had freed him and it was his fault his father had died so dishonourably—though a darker side of him could see it fitting that the man with so little regard for honour found such a death.
Jaime let the unpleasant thoughts drift from his head as he approached the Lannister wheel house behind his retinue. By the time he’d righted Honour’s direction, the small window had opened and Tyrion stared out at him amused, “The guards say you’re in a mood.”
Jaime smiled, holding a laugh, “funny.”
“What is it now, Lord Lannister? Did someone offer you a lemon cake again?”
Jaime’s smile flattened, and he worked to suppress his grimace. He was not proud of some his more emotional reactions.
“Nothing of the sort, I’m simply adjusting to the weather north of the Neck,” he joked, trying to take focus away from the causes of his recurrent ennui.
“It is exciting, isn’t it? I’m quite excited to see Winterfell,” Tyrions smile could only be described as giddy as his head stuck out the window and he looked ahead. Winterfell was still a weeks ride away, but they were already seeing the light summer snows.
“I thought it was the Wall which you were most looking forward to?” Jaime asked curiously. The man couldn’t stop making the same joke of pissing off the edge of the world and being the worlds tallest dwarf.
Tyrion turned to settle back into the wheelhouse before looking at Jaime with a considering expression, “Perhaps, but your frequent mention has piqued my interest, I’d like to know what sort of Northern keep could captivate a Westerman so.”
Jaime looked forward resolutely, willing himself not to reveal too much. He always forgot how sharp his little brother could be, always noticing that which he wished he wouldn’t.
“Hardly,” Jaime murmured. “I regard it as a well-built and defensible keep. My research extends as far as what can be adapted for the Rock,” he explains, gaze still set forward.
A hum was the only response his brother offered for a brief pause.
“Do you think that a dragon could take Winterfell down?”
Jaime laughed then, startled. The memories were unpleasant, but his brothers fascination with dragons would always bring him joy.
“Let us hope we never find out, Tyrion.”