Low, rumbling growls came from behind him. Jaime spun in the muddy field. A pack of four direwolves crept slowly from the woods, moving on silent paws, hot breath steaming in the frigid air. One with dark fur snapped its teeth mere inches away from his body. Another, as white as the snowdrifts surrounding the woods, eyes glowing like rubies, hung back, lips curled back from his fangs, staring warily at him. Vicious snarls thrummed on his other side. Jaime reached for his sword, the fingers of his right hand closing around the hilt. He drew the Valyrian steel sword his father had given him, the blade singing with bright sweetness as it left its scabbard. A large lion, contempt emanating from it, marched slowly across the clearing, followed closely by a lioness. The lion stopped in front of Jaime and regarded him with icy disapproval. He opened his jaws wide and roared, ruffling Jaime’s hair, the scent of blood heavy on his breath. The sword dropped from his suddenly nerveless fingers. He was going to die, trapped between his family and his oath. ‘Get behind me.’ Brienne appeared next to him, her armor the brilliant deep blue of sapphires.
‘I will not!’ Jaime rasped in indignation. ‘I can fight.’
‘Can you?’ Brienne’s eyes were sympathetic as they flicked to his right hand. It was bloodless and white and so cold that Jaime thought it might shatter if he touched it. ‘Give me a sword, Ser Jaime. I will protect you.’ The lioness bared her teeth at Brienne. Jaime knelt and took up his sword and pressed it into Brienne’s waiting hand. She took it without taking her gaze away from the lions. Brienne stood in front of Jaime, and as she lifted the blade, flames as bright as the sunbursts on her sigil spiraled up the blade. The wolves retreated, but the pale grey direwolf with amber eyes regarded the pair of them thoughtfully before bounding away into the woods.
That left the lions.
The male sat back, while the female sprang at Brienne. Brienne swung the sword, and it sliced through the lioness’ pelt, leaving crimson streaks on the golden fur…
[...]
‘Ser Jaime?’ The squire stood at the foot of Jaime’s bed and cautiously shook one of Jaime’s feet. He knew better than to stand next to Jaime and wake him. Not after the first squire to do so after Jaime returned to King’s Landing ended up careening into the armor stand when the Lord Commander punched him. ‘Ser Jaime…?’
Jaime’s eyes flew open and he groggily sat up, the dream shredding into wisps of memory and mist. ‘Is it the king?’
‘No, m’lord. Her Grace would like to speak with you.’ The squire moved about the chamber lighting candles. He shook out the clothing that had been laid out for the morning and held out the smalls. Jaime had managed to master the art of tying the laces one-handed, albeit clumsily, but he was damned if he would let the bloody squire dress him like some sort of doll. By the time the squire wound the burgundy scarf around Jaime’s neck, and helped him shrug into the leather doublet, Jaime was fully awake. He gave the golden hand a look of pure loathing, but donned it nonetheless. Cersei had made her feelings quite plain regarding the stump. Jaime finger-combed his hair. The squire moved to the armor stand, but Jaime waved him off. ‘I don’t think it will be necessary. It’s late. Go to back to bed.’
The squire nodded, pausing to straighten the bedding on Jaime’s bed. Once the boy had left, Jaime ran a fingertip over the bedpost. It had been carved from a weirwood tree decades ago -- perhaps in the time of the first Aerys or Jaehaerys. His dreams had grown more and more vivid the longer he slept in the Lord Commander’s chamber. Some felt so real, he had to spend more than a few moments upon waking to convince himself it had only been a dream. His eyes lit on the Valyrian steel sword, sitting serenely on a stand, gleaming in dimly lit room. The flickering candlelight shimmered on the edge, creating the illusion of flames dancing over the blade. In his dream, he’d had both his hands, but the right one was useless. He lightly touched the hilt, staring at the armor hidden under the swaths of one of his spare cloaks. If he couldn’t wield the sword in a way that would honor it, perhaps Brienne could. ‘No,’ he murmured. ‘She will.’ He shook himself from his reverie and walked out of the chamber.
The night air was cool and redolent with the aroma of herbs and flowers over the more odoriferous aspects of the city. Jaime made his way to Cersei’s chamber and knocked perfunctorily, then opened the door. ‘Your Grace,’ he said, with a just-barely correct bow. Cersei sprawled elegantly over a chaise, the diaphanous fabric of her bedgown rippling in the breeze wafting through the window. She held a goblet full of a rich, dark wine. ‘We have installed a taster, who will test every morsel and drop intended for the king. We’ve added Lannister guards to supplement the Kingsguard who guard the king’s bedchamber…’ Jaime strode to the carafe sitting on the table, intending to pour himself a cup. He passed the mouth of the carafe under his nose, and his eyes widened. Dornish strongwine. Jaime set the carafe down, and eyed the goblet in his sister’s hand. She brought it to her mouth and took a swallow. How much has she had already? Jaime wondered with a growing sense of unease. Dornish strongwine was supposed to be served in small glasses and savored, but Cersei drank as if it was a common Dornish red or the spiced honey wine served in Lannisport taverns and alehouses.
Cersei swung her feet to the floor and stood, draining the goblet. She crossed the room to the table and refilled her goblet. ‘Did you fuck her?’ she asked without preamble.
‘What?’
‘That great shambling beast of a woman you insisted on installing in a chamber in the Red Keep,’ Cersei added, as she lifted the goblet to her mouth. ‘Did you fuck her?’ she repeated.
Jaime forced himself to respond with a laugh, albeit a decidedly hollow one, while his blood ran cold. ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘She’s called the Maid of Tarth for a reason,’ he told Cersei. ‘There is nothing about her that could possibly entice me.’
