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Year 300 AC
Bitterbridge, The Reach
The pavilion at Bitterbridge was a monument to House Tyrell's diminished grandeur. Golden roses adorned every surface, silk hangings rippled in the warm breeze, and servants moved with practiced efficiency between tables laden with wine and fruit. It was all very proper, very correct, and utterly hollow.
Olenna Tyrell leaned on her cane and surveyed the arrangement with a critical eye. The pavilion stood at the heart of their encampment, surrounded by perhaps five thousand men. Once, the Reach could have fielded ten times that number without straining. Now, between Cersei's wildfire and Euron's krakens, they were reduced to this.
Still, she thought, better five thousand loyal swords than thirty thousand corpses.
Garlan stood near the entrance, his armor polished to a mirror shine despite the road dust that clung to everything else. He looked tired. Her grandson had always been the dutiful one, the capable one, the one who did what needed doing without complaint. Now he carried the weight of their house on shoulders that had already borne too much.
Margaery, by Garlan's side, her hands folded in her lap with the perfect composure of a queen. The burns on her neck and arms were still visible, angry red marks that no amount of silk could hide. But Olenna had not survived seven decades of court intrigue by failing to read what lay beneath surfaces. The girl's knuckles were white where they pressed together. Her smile was painted on, beautiful and brittle as porcelain.
"Grandmother." Garlan's greeting was warm, but his eyes held questions. "Your journey was swift."
"I am old, not dead." Olenna crossed to the nearest chair and lowered herself into it with more care than she cared to admit. "Though this damned weather makes me question the difference."
Margaery rose and crossed to her, movements careful. The burns still pained her, clearly. "I hope you received the raven. About Father."
Olenna looked at her granddaughter, at the careful control in her face, and then at Garlan, who stood with the rigid posture of a man holding himself together through sheer will. Her son was dead. Mace, for all his faults and vanities, for all his foolishness and his preening, had been hers. And now he was ash.
"Sit, child," Olenna said quietly. "Both of you. Sit."
They obeyed, and for a long moment, silence filled the pavilion. A servant entered with wine, poured, and retreated without a word. Olenna studied the cup in her hand, watching the light play across the surface.
"Your father was a fool," she said finally. Her voice was steady, matter-of-fact. "He was vain and pompous and entirely too pleased with himself. He could not tell a flatterer from a friend, and he thought himself a general because he wore fine armor."
Margaery's breath hitched. Garlan's jaw tightened.
"But he was my fool," Olenna continued. Her voice cracked, just slightly, on the last word. "My son. And that Lannister bitch burned him alive like he was nothing. Like all of them were nothing."
The dam broke. Not dramatically. Olenna was too old, had seen too much, to collapse into hysterics. But her hands trembled as she set down the cup, and when she looked up at her grandchildren, her eyes were wet.
"Eleven thousand men," she said. "Eleven thousand of our people. The flower of the Reach, gone in an instant because Cersei Lannister is mad and we were too slow to see it."
Margaery's composure finally shattered. A sob escaped her, then another, and then she was weeping openly. Garlan moved to her side, his own eyes bright with unshed tears, and pulled his sister into an embrace.
Olenna watched them for a moment, then rose. Her joints protested, but she ignored them. She crossed to her grandchildren and placed a hand on each of their shoulders.
"We will mourn him," she said. "We will mourn them all. But we will do it later, when we have the luxury of grief. Right now, we have a realm falling apart and a house to save."
Garlan looked up at her, his face wet. "How do you do it, Grandmother? How do you keep going?"
"Because someone must." Olenna's voice was gentle. "Because if I fall apart, this family falls apart. And I will be damned if I let that happen after everything we have sacrificed."
She gave Margaery's shoulder a squeeze, then returned to her chair. The moment of vulnerability passed, replaced by the iron will that had kept House Tyrell standing through decades of intrigue and war.
"Now," she said, "I have news from Highgarden. And none of it is good."
Garlan wiped his eyes and straightened. "What has happened?"
"Euron Greyjoy happened." Olenna accepted a fresh cup of wine from a servant. "The Ironborn attacked Oldtown. Lord Leyton's fleet engaged them in the Whispering Sound."
"And?" Margaery's voice was hoarse from crying.
"And Euron Greyjoy summoned a kraken from the deep. A creature larger than any ship, with tentacles that crushed galleys like kindling." Olenna watched their faces. "It destroyed a third of our fleet. Gunthor Hightower and his brother Garth both died in the attack."
Garlan leaned back in his chair. "A kraken. You cannot be serious."
"I wish I were not. Lord Leyton's own maester wrote the report. Dozens of survivors confirmed it." Olenna sipped her wine. "The Ironborn ransacked the Citadel, emptied vaults that had stood sealed for centuries. Whatever dark magic Euron possesses, it is real and it is terrible."
Margaery's hands trembled as she reached for her cup. "The world has gone mad."
"The world has always been mad, child. We are only now seeing it clearly." Olenna set down her wine. "Willas has ridden to Oldtown to organize what defenses remain. Lord Leyton is old and grief-stricken. Someone must coordinate the response."
"And Highgarden?" Garlan asked.
"Your mother holds it with what remains of our household guard. The smallfolk are restless. They hear tales of wildfire and krakens, and they wonder if the gods have abandoned us." Olenna's voice was dry. "I assured Alerie that the gods abandoned us long ago, and we have managed well enough without them."
Despite everything, Garlan almost smiled at that.
"There is more," Olenna continued. "Loras is on bound to return to Highgarden."
Margaery sat up straighter. "Is he well?"
"The last raven from Paxter Redwyne confirmed Dragonstone's fall, but the assault was costly. Many good men died taking that rock." Olenna paused, watching her granddaughter's face carefully. "Loras was wounded in the fighting."
The color drained from Margaery's face. "How badly?"
"The raven did not specify. Only that he lives and that the maesters are tending him." Olenna kept her voice steady, though she saw the fear bloom in her granddaughter's eyes. "Paxter writes that he will bring Loras home once he is fit to travel."
"Once he is fit to travel." Margaery's hands trembled as she set down her cup. "That could mean anything. It could mean days. It could mean moons. It could mean never."
"It means your brother is alive, which is more than can be said for many who took that cursed rock." Olenna's tone was firm. "Paxter Redwyne is no fool. He will not risk moving wounded men before they can survive the journey."
"And if he worsens? If the wounds fester?" Margaery's voice broke. "We lost Father. I cannot lose Loras too."
Garlan moved to his sister's side, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Loras is strong. He will survive this."
"You do not know that." Margaery looked up at him, tears threatening to spill. "None of us know that."
Olenna watched her granddaughter struggle with yet another blow, yet another fear added to the mountain she already carried. The girl had endured wildfire and madness, had watched her father burn, and now faced the possibility of losing her beloved brother as well.
"I know Paxter Redwyne," Olenna said quietly. "I know he would not write that Loras lives unless he believed it to be true. I know the maesters on Dragonstone are skilled, and that your brother is young and healthy. These things count for much."
"But not for everything," Margaery whispered.
"No. Not for everything." Olenna would not lie to the girl, would not offer false comfort. "But they count for enough. Loras will come home, child. You must believe that."
Margaery wiped at her eyes, composure slowly reasserting itself through sheer force of will. "How long?"
"The raven did not say. A fortnight, perhaps. A moon at most." Olenna sipped her wine. "Paxter knows we need every sword we can muster. He will not delay longer than necessary."
The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken fears. Olenna understood them well enough. Another member of their family in danger, another uncertainty in a world that had become nothing but uncertainties.
One more thing to worry about, she thought grimly. As if we did not have enough already.
"So we are besieged on all sides," Garlan said. "Cersei to the north, Euron to the south and west, and this Targaryen boy to the east."
"Which brings us to the matter at hand." Olenna fixed her gaze on Margaery. "Tell me of your arrangement with Aegon Targaryen."
Margaery straightened in her chair, queen once more despite the burns and the tears. "We have agreed to support his claim to the Iron Throne. In exchange, he will deliver Cersei Lannister to justice for her crimes."
Olenna counted to five before responding. It was an old trick, one that gave her time to master her fury and let the other party realize their mistake. By three, Garlan had the grace to look uncomfortable. By five, even Margaery's composure had begun to fray.
"Let me see if I understand," Olenna said, her voice pleasant as poison. "You gave him our swords and our grain, the two things he needs most to take King's Landing, and in return you asked for a head."
"Cersei murdered Father," Margaery said. "She killed eleven thousand of our men. She deserves to die."
"I am not disputing what she deserves, girl. I am questioning what we received in exchange for everything we possess." Olenna turned to Garlan. "And you, the man with a sword at his hip, you let her make this bargain?"
"Margaery speaks for House Tyrell," Garlan said carefully. "She is Queen."
"She is Queen of a boy who sits in the Red Keep under his mother's thumb, assuming the wildfire did not consume him as well." Olenna's cane struck the ground. "She is Queen of ashes and empty titles. What she is not is the head of this family. That would be me, until I am dead and your mother has joined me."
Margaery flinched as if struck. "I did what I thought was right."
"You did what you thought would ease your pain." Olenna's voice softened, just slightly. "I understand the desire for vengeance, child. Truly, I do. But vengeance is cold comfort when your house lies in ruins."
"Then what would you have me do?" Margaery's voice broke. "What would you have any of us do? Father is dead. Our army is burned. We have nothing left but this bargain."
"We have more than you think," Olenna began.
"Do we?" Margaery's composure finally shattered completely. "I have been Queen to three kings, Grandmother. Three. Renly, who was kind and gentle and never wanted me in his bed. Joffrey, who was a monster that made me watch him torture animals and servants for his amusement. And Tommen, a sweet boy whose mother killed our father and burned thousands alive while I stood helpless."
The words came faster now, tumbling out like water from a broken dam. "I have smiled and curtsied and played the perfect queen while men decided my fate. I have been a piece moved across a board by players who care nothing for the game's cost. And what has it brought us? What has any of it brought us?"
She looked up at Olenna, and her eyes were raw with pain. "I am tired, Grandmother. I am tired of the crowns and the titles and the marriages that mean nothing. I do not want to be Queen anymore."
The confession hung in air as Olenna studied her granddaughter. The girl she had shaped and molded, the perfect rose she had cultivated to bloom in the viper's nest of King's Landing. And now that rose was wilting, petals falling one by one.
I did this, she thought. I sent her into that pit three times, and each time I told her it was for the good of our house.
"You truly mean that," Olenna said quietly. It was not a question.
"I do." Margaery's voice was barely a whisper. "Father died because I was Queen. Because we reached too high and Cersei struck back. How many more will die before we learn that some crowns are not worth the cost?"
Garlan shifted uncomfortably. "Margaery, you cannot simply stop being Queen. The realm does not work that way."
"The Faith can annul my marriage to Tommen. They have done it before." Margaery wiped her eyes. "Let someone else play at queens and kings. I want no more of it."
Olenna leaned back in her chair, her mind working through the implications. Part of her wanted to argue, to remind the girl of duty and obligation and all the things she had been taught since birth. But another part, the part that had just buried her son, understood all too well.
"Very well," she said finally.
Margaery looked up, startled. "What?"
"Very well. If you do not wish to be Queen, then you will not be Queen." Olenna's voice was gentle. "I will not force you into another marriage, another crown, another cage. You have earned the right to choose your own path, child."
"Grandmother, are you certain?" Garlan's voice held surprise. "The alliance with Aegon—"
"Can proceed without wedding vows." Olenna cut him off. "We have swords and grain to offer. That is alliance enough for now."
Margaery stared at her grandmother, disbelief warring with hope on her face. "You mean it? Truly?"
"I mean it." Olenna reached across and squeezed her granddaughter's hand. "You have sacrificed enough for this family. More than enough. If you wish to step back from the game, then step back."
The relief that flooded Margaery's face was almost painful to witness. She sagged in her chair, as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders.
For now, Olenna thought privately. But the game is not done with us yet, and you may yet choose to play again when the wounds are less fresh.
She did not say this aloud. Let the girl have her moment of peace. The world would intrude soon enough.
"What are you proposing, Grandmother?" Garlan asked. "If not a marriage alliance, then what?"
"I am proposing we honor our word to the letter. We will provide support to Aegon Targaryen. We will give him every sword and basket of grain we can spare." Olenna smiled thinly. "Which, given that we are fighting a war against the Ironborn on our own soil, is considerably less than he hopes for."
"You mean to use Euron as our excuse," Garlan said.
"I mean to use reality as our excuse. The Ironborn are ravaging our coasts. Our fleets are destroyed or scattered. Our forces are depleted." Olenna sipped her wine. "These are facts, not fabrications. If Aegon Targaryen wishes our full support, he will need to help us deal with Euron first."
"And if he refuses?" Margaery asked, her voice steadier now.
"Then he marches on King's Landing with what he has and sees how far it gets him." Olenna set down her cup. "Either way, House Tyrell survives. That is the goal now. Not crowns. Not vengeance. Survival."
A servant appeared at the pavilion entrance. "My lady, the Targaryen delegation approaches."
"Good." Olenna straightened in her chair, adjusting her shawl. "Margaery, dry your eyes. Garlan, look imposing. We have a prince to negotiate with."
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They came with all the pageantry of a royal procession. Aegon Targaryen rode a white destrier, his silver hair catching the sunlight. Beside him, Jon Connington sat his horse with the rigid posture of a man who had something to prove. Behind them, a column of Golden Company officers in polished armor completed the picture.
Pretty, Olenna thought. But pretty does not take castles.
She remained seated as they entered the pavilion, a calculated insult softened by her age. Let them think her feeble if they wished. Underestimation was a weapon she had wielded for decades.
Aegon dismounted with practiced grace and approached the table. Up close, he was indeed handsome, with the classic Valyrian features that had seduced half the realm once upon a time. But Olenna had known Rhaegar Targaryen, had seen him at tourneys and feasts, and this boy lacked something the prince had possessed. Weight, perhaps. Or simply the certainty of belief.
"Lady Olenna." His bow was correct, neither too deep nor too shallow. "Thank you for agreeing to meet."
"Your Grace." She inclined her head. "Please, sit. We have much to discuss."
Jon Connington remained standing, his hand resting on his sword hilt. Olenna ignored him and focused on Aegon.
"I understand congratulations are in order," she said. "Storm's End is a formidable prize."
"The lords of the Stormlands have been welcoming." Aegon accepted wine from a servant. "They remember my father."
They remember his father was murdered by Robert, Olenna thought. Which is not quite the same thing.
"As do we all," she said aloud. "Prince Rhaegar was much beloved. His loss was a tragedy for the realm."
Connington's jaw tightened at that, and Olenna filed the reaction away. The griffin still carried guilt over his failure at the Battle of the Bells.
"Lady Margaery has informed me of your arrangement," Olenna continued. "House Tyrell's support in exchange for justice against Cersei Lannister. A fair bargain, on the surface."
"We are grateful for the Reach's aid," Aegon said. "With your forces and ours combined, King's Landing cannot stand against us."
"Ah." Olenna set down her cup. "That is what I wished to discuss. You see, circumstances have changed somewhat since my granddaughter made her generous offer."
Connington stepped forward. "Changed how?"
Olenna met his gaze without flinching. "The Ironborn have attacked Oldtown. They destroyed a third of our fleet, killed two of Lord Hightower's sons, and ransacked the Citadel. Even now, Euron Greyjoy's reavers burn our shores and raid our coastal villages."
"You gave your word," Connington said.
"And we will honor it." Olenna smiled. "We will provide every sword and basket of grain we can spare. However, given that we are fighting a war on our own soil against an enemy who commands krakens from the deep, what we can spare is considerably less than what we might wish to provide."
"Krakens." Connington's voice dripped skepticism. "You expect us to believe sailors' tales?"
"I expect you to believe the reports from Lord Leyton Hightower, a man of impeccable reputation who watched such a creature destroy his fleet with his own eyes." Olenna's voice hardened. "I expect you to believe the testimony of dozens of survivors who saw the same. And I expect you to understand that House Tyrell faces an existential threat that takes precedence over your ambitions, however legitimate they may be."
Silence fell over the pavilion. Aegon studied her with eyes that were older than his years.
"How many men can you spare?" he asked.
"Eight thousand, perhaps ten. And grain enough to feed your current forces for a moon's turn." Olenna watched his face. "It is not what you hoped for, I know. But it is what we have."
"The Reach can field a hundred thousand men," Connington said. "You are holding back."
"The Reach could field a hundred thousand men before Cersei burned eleven thousand of them alive." Margaery's voice was cold. "What remains must defend a coastline that stretches from the Arbor to Oldtown. Or would you have us abandon our people to the reavers while we march on King's Landing?"
Aegon raised a hand before Connington could respond. "I understand your position, Lady Olenna. Truly, I do. But I must ask: will you honor your commitment? Even with reduced numbers, will House Tyrell stand with me?"
There, Olenna thought. The real question.
She could say no. Could withdraw entirely and leave this boy to his fate. But that would burn a bridge she might need later.
"We will stand with you, Your Grace. House Tyrell does not break its word." She paused. "But we must be realistic about what we can provide. The world has grown strange and terrible. Dragons have returned to the east, and krakens destroy our fleets in the south. This is not the realm your father knew."
"Which is precisely why it needs a strong king to unite it," Aegon said.
"Perhaps." Olenna rose, signaling the end of the meeting. "Or perhaps it needs several strong leaders, each defending their own people against the threats they face. Time will tell."
Aegon stood as well, and Connington reluctantly followed suit. The young prince studied Olenna for a long moment.
"I thank you for your honesty, Lady Olenna," he said finally. "And for whatever aid you can provide. When Cersei falls, the Reach will be rewarded for its loyalty."
"We seek no reward beyond justice for our dead." Olenna's voice was firm. "But we thank you for the sentiment."
As they turned to leave, Olenna allowed herself one final move. "Your Grace, a moment."
Aegon paused.
"You have your work cut out for you. Conquering a kingdom is one thing. Ruling it is another." She let the words hang for a heartbeat. "You will need a queen, eventually. Someone who understands the game, who can navigate the court while you command armies."
The implication was clear. Margaery sat at the table still, beautiful despite the burns, tragic and unavailable. A prize dangled just out of reach.
Aegon's eyes flickered to Margaery, then back to Olenna. "I will keep that in mind, my lady."
"See that you do."
They departed, Connington's anger evident in every line of his body, Aegon's expression thoughtful. When they were gone, Garlan released a breath he had been holding.
"That was dangerous, Grandmother."
"Everything is dangerous now." Olenna returned to her chair. "At least this way, we control how dangerous it is."
Margaery looked up, her eyes still red but her voice steady. "You used me. Dangled me like bait."
"I reminded him that we still have value beyond swords and grain." Olenna met her granddaughter's gaze. "You said you do not wish to be Queen. Very well. But that does not mean we cannot use the possibility of you being Queen to our advantage."
"And if he calls our bluff?"
"Then we will deal with that when it comes." Olenna sipped her wine. "But I do not think he will. He is too busy trying to prove himself. By the time he realizes he needs a queen, circumstances may have changed again."
Garlan moved to the pavilion entrance, watching the Targaryen delegation depart. "You are gambling, Grandmother. With all our lives."
"I have been gambling all my life, boy. The only difference now is that the stakes are higher." She looked between her grandchildren. "But we are still in the game. And as long as we are in the game, we have a chance to win."
Outside, the sun beat down on the Reach encampment. The world had indeed grown strange and terrible. But House Tyrell endured, as it always had, by bending without breaking.
The thorns remained, even if the rose had wilted.
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The Neck, The North
The fire crackled between them, a small defiant thing against the vast darkness of the Neck. Aemon sat with his back to one of the ancient, twisted trees, his eyes fixed on the flames. The heat did nothing to ease the bone-deep exhaustion that had settled into him after the transformation. He could still feel the ghost of wings between his shoulder blades, the phantom weight of scales on his skin.
Behind him, the crates shuddered. A dull thud echoed through the swamp, followed by another. The wights inside were restless tonight. Aemon did not turn to look. He had grown used to the sound, the way one grew used to the howling of wolves or the crash of waves. The dead were his companions now, his proof for the realm that refused to believe.
Across the fire, Jaime Lannister sat on his own bedroll, his golden hand resting on his knee. The Kingslayer had said nothing for the better part of an hour, which suited Aemon fine. He had no desire for conversation, no patience for the man who had crippled Bran. That Brienne of Tarth had pleaded for his life, that Bran himself had remained silent about Jaime's arrival, these things gnawed at him. But they did not change the fundamental truth: Jaime Lannister was an almost child-killer, an oathbreaker, and the last person in the world Aemon wished to share a camp with.
He poked at the fire with a stick, watching sparks rise into the night. The Neck stretched around them, all black water and croaking frogs. Tomorrow they would reach Raventree Hall. Tomorrow he would begin the work of bending the Riverlands to his will. Tonight, he wanted only silence.
"You know, you have his look about you."
Aemon's hand tightened on the stick he had been using to prod the fire. He did not look up, did not acknowledge the words. The fire popped, sending embers dancing into the dark.
"Why would you mention him to me?" His voice was low, a warning growl.
Jaime shifted on his bedroll. "Because I knew him. And because you deserve to know what manner of man your father was."
"You knew him." Aemon's laugh was bitter. "You stood a loyal Kingsguard. You swore to protect him and his. And when the time came, you were not there."
Silence fell between them, broken only by the crackling fire and the distant sound of something buckling against wood from the crates.
"No," Jaime said quietly. "I was not there. I was in the throne room, watching his father, your grandfather, go mad. Watching Aerys order the city burned." His voice was steady, matter-of-fact. "But that is not what I meant. I knew Rhaegar before that. Before everything went to shit and blood."
Despite himself, Aemon felt his attention sharpen. He stared into the flames, fighting the hunger that rose in him. He had never spent much time wondering about Rhaegar Targaryen. But now... Father had never spoken of him, not truly. Howland Reed's tale had given him facts, but not the man. And here sat Jaime Lannister, who had served in the Kingsguard, who had stood beside the Silver Prince.
Who had failed to save his children.
"I was a fool not to see it before," Jaime continued. His tone was reflective, almost gentle. "The eyes are your mother's, Stark without a doubt. Grey as a winter sky. But the rest... the way you carry yourself, that quiet intensity. The solemnity. That's Rhaegar."
Aemon said nothing. His jaw clenched.
"He had a way of looking at you," Jaime said, speaking now to the fire, to the darkness beyond it. "As if he could see through you, down to whatever truth you were hiding. He was always reading, always thinking. The other Kingsguard used to joke that he had more in common with maesters than with warriors. But gods, he could fight when he chose to. At Harrenhal, I watched him unhorse four men in a row. He made it look effortless."
The crates shuddered again. Thud. Thud. The wights were listening too, perhaps. Or simply moving in their mindless way, drawn to the warmth of living flesh nearby.
Aemon's hands had stilled. He was listening despite himself, drinking in every word like a man dying of thirst.
"He was kind," Jaime said quietly. "That was the thing people forget. They remember the madness, the war. But before all that, he was kind. He would walk through Flea Bottom and give coin to beggars. He played his harp for children in the streets. Once, I saw him spend an hour teaching a stableboy how to read, because the boy had asked." Jaime paused. "Your mother loved him for it. For that kindness. I saw them together once, at Harrenhal. The way they looked at each other... it was not abduction. It was not madness. It was love."
Something twisted in Aemon's chest. Love. His parents had loved each other, and that love had drowned the realm in blood. Thousands dead. Elia Martell and her children murdered. The Targaryens cast down. All for love.
"He trusted me to keep them safe," Jaime said, and now his voice had changed. The reflection was gone, replaced by something raw. "His children. Elia's children. I was a knight of the Kingsguard. That was my duty. And when the time came... I wasn't there. I was in the throne room, stabbing his father to end his madness. And while I sat on the Iron Throne, Gregor Clegane was murdering babes in their beds."
Aemon's eyes snapped up. Jaime was staring at his golden hand, his face drawn.
"I dream of him sometimes," Jaime said. "Rhaegar. He's standing in the throne room, looking at me. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to. The disappointment in his eyes says it all. I failed him. I failed his children. I failed every oath I ever swore."
The silence stretched between them, and eventually Aemon rose slowly from his bedroll, his exhaustion forgotten. He turned to face Jaime fully, his expression unreadable. The Kingslayer looked up, meeting his gaze.
For a long moment, they simply stared at each other. The fire cast dancing shadows across both their faces. The wights thumped in their crates, a steady, ominous rhythm.
"And yet he'd still be right about one thing," Aemon said, his voice cold as the Wall. "You are the man who pushes children from towers."
Jaime flinched as if struck. He looked down, his shoulders sagging. The golden hand gleamed in the firelight, a mockery of what he had lost.
"Yes," he said quietly. "I am."
He did not offer excuses. Did not try to explain or justify. He simply sat there, bearing the weight of it.
"Love makes fools of us all," Jaime said after a moment. His voice was hollow. "I was blind. Blind to everything except Cersei. Just as your father was blind to the war his... affections... would start." He looked up, meeting Aemon's gaze again. "I cannot undo what I did to your brother. I cannot bring back Elia's children. I cannot make Rhaegar's disappointment disappear. All I can do now is try to make my family see. To make them understand the war that actually matters."
He gestured toward the crates, toward the thumping, shuddering dead.
"That is why I agreed to come south with you. Not for redemption. I am past redemption. But because if I can stop Cersei, if I can make her see reason before she burns the world... then perhaps I will have done one thing right. One thing that matters."
Aemon held his gaze, searching for deception, for manipulation. But all he saw was shame. Genuine, palpable shame. And beneath it, a grim pragmatism that he recognized. It was the same pragmatism that had driven him to spare Theon Greyjoy, to offer Asha a place in his service. The same cold calculation that said: use every tool, every weapon, every broken man if it means survival.
Jaime Lannister was a monster. But he was a monster who understood the stakes.
Aemon let the moment stretch, let the silence speak for him. Then he turned away, moving back to his bedroll.
"Get some sleep," he said, his tone flat and final. "We reach Raventree Hall tomorrow."
It was a command, not a suggestion. The voice of a king to a subordinate. Jaime said nothing in response, simply nodded and lay back on his own bedroll.
Aemon settled himself, pulling his cloak tighter. He stared into the fire, watching the flames dance and shift. The wights thumped in their crates, a constant reminder of what was coming. But his mind was not on the dead. It was on a silver-haired prince who had played harp for children in Flea Bottom. A man who had loved his mother enough to start a war. A man whose kindness had been real, whose dreams had been noble, whose failure had been absolute.
Would he would be disappointed in me too? Aemon thought.