He had gone to beyond the Wall to see if there was any truth to the rumours, to see if Tim Stone had any sense left but more so to prove that it was Wildlings and not the Others like he insisted. It was arrogance that led him out and he had done it under the nights moon but had not expected to see them. There was only one but he knew there was no chance of him winning the fight or beating it. It was tall, taller than he ever thought with, and gaunt with flesh as pale as milk and cold blue eyes as bright as stars but there was a coldness to it. Not the coldness of the Wall or the snow but a dead cold as if it was expelling all life from it.
The fight was short and it had wounded Jaime before day broke and Jaime fell. When he opened his eyes, it was gone. Relief flooded him as much as fear had and he started his way to the wall, red crimson drops flowing from him like rain against the white snow.
He was close the wall when he fell again. This time, he fell at the base of the Weirwood tree where so many brothers had said their oaths if they worshipped those gods.
Then the darkness came over him....
Naked and alone he stood, surrounded by enemies, with stone walls all around him pressing close. The Tower of Joy, he knew. He could feel the round bricks at the touch of his five fingers. It was cold. Cold and dark. He could feel his right hand, it was whole and still his.
He held his right hand up and flexed his fingers to feel the strength in them. Without seeing himself he knew that he was fifteen and could see his white cloak of the Kingsgaurd on the floor that was made of grass and for a moment he was not in the circular tower but back when he was made Kingsgaurd. He went dizzy and then the grass floor fell away with the white cloak.
Around him stood half a dozen dark figures in cowled robes that hid their faces. They were each different heights, two only looking the height of children. “Who are you?” he demanded of them. “What business do you have here?”
They gave no answer, only walked towards him. He had no choice but to descend. Down a twisting passageway he went, narrow steps carved from the circular stone, down and down. I must go up, he told himself. Up, not down. Why am I going down? Below the earth his doom awaited, he knew with the certainty of dream; something dark and terrible lurked there, something that wanted him. Jaime tried to halt, but they walked even closer to them still. If only I had my sword, nothing could harm me.
The steps ended abruptly on echoing darkness. Jaime had the sense of vast space before him. He jerked to a halt, teetering on the edge of nothingness. It was colder. Colder than the ice at the Wall and he could see the bright ice blue eyes creeping up from the edge. He shouted, but it was not heard.
This is my same darkness as the dream I dreamt after Harrenhal.
They started to leave but as they did, the ice blue eyes got closer. “Don’t leave me here alone.” But they were leaving. “Don’t leave me in the dark!” Something terrible lived down here. Then they stopped. Turning back towards him, he saw them move through the darkness but still could not make them out...
They make no sound, Jaime realised. No splashing, no clink of mail nor clop of hoof. He remembered Eddard Stark, riding the length of Aerys’s throne room wrapped in silence. Only his eyes had spoken; a lord’s eyes, cold and grey and full of judgment.
“Is it you, Stark?” Jaime called. “Come ahead. I never feared you living, I do not fear you dead.”
“Not all of us are dead,” a Northern voice called out. It was familiar to Jaime as if he had lived with it for years but it had also made him feel respect for it, as if it belonged to a leader.
The hooded figure, the tallest one, that was centred lifted up his hood and let it fall behind him. Crowned in mist and grief with his long hair streaming behind him, stood Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone and rightful heir to the Iron Throne. Prince Rhaegar burned with a cold light, now white, now red, now dark. “I left my wife and children in your hands." Jaime watched three cloaks changed black to a Lannister red with blood dripping, the smallest one from the hood and the other from the chest then the tallest one from the hood also. The tallest of the red cloaks was crying. He knew at once who they were but they removed their hoods and he winced away at the sight. Elia Martell was stood to one side of her royal husband, holding the hands of the children she bore him. Mother and son both had their faces bashed in so it was unrecognisable but he knew who it was. Still, she wept softly. The girl, Rhaeneys, was only three but she had tears of fear and grief and blood from fifty holes in her body spilling out making the red cloak a deeper colour.
"I never thought he’d hurt them.” Jaime was struggling to stand now. “I was with the king … ”
“Cutting his throat,” said Elia.
“The king you had sworn to die for,” said the Targaryen prince.
“He was going to burn the city,” Jaime said. “To leave Robert only ashes."
A voice came from one of the black cloaks, stood right to the prince but as closer than Elia had been. As it spoke, the cloak lightened to an ice white with specks of grey. The voice was young, sweet and feminine but with a sadness to it. “No,” it said quietly as a hand came up on Rhaegars shoulder, as the prince turned to face her, he saw her hood fall and a cascade of dark hair fell from it with winter roses at the crown of her head. “He would have died with or without Jaime. The same for your children.”
Why is she here? he thought but he did remember his closest friend. the sword of the morning, speaking vaguely about the girl. Seventeen and yet she had started a war because of her beauty.
“Not all of them.” The prince replied moving just a little closer to her touch. The last black cloak had turned the same cloak colour as the womans before changing as Rhaegars had but then back to black, a cloak Jaime had worn.
“He promised me.” And he knew she was not talking about anyone in the room.
Heart pounding, he jerked awake and found himself in starry darkness amidst a grove of trees and ice. He was had fallen at the Weirwood tree where the men of the Watch that worshipped the Old Gods swore their oaths. He could taste bile in his mouth, and he was shivering with sweat, hot and cold at once. When he looked down, he saw a gaping wound in his stomach and felt a coldness like no other.
Is this how I die? Cold, alone and so close to my Brothers in Black.
He had all but given up and was ready to die when he heard a single horn blast and not long after he heard the familiar voice of the few Brothers left at the Wall carrying him inside and putting him by a fire as a maester saw to his wound.
