Jaime: Shadows of the Past on the March in the Riverlands
Snowflakes in the Riverlands struck Jaime's metal hand, glinting coldly. He reined in his warhorse, looking at the winding procession ahead—the red uniforms of the Lannister remnants stood out starkly against the snow. Tyrion, riding a pony, was in the middle of the column, conversing with several Unsullied centurions, a parchment map rustling loudly in his hand, whipped by the cold wind.
"Still thinking about the past?" Tyrion's voice came from behind him, carrying a hint of imperceptible teasing. Jaime didn't turn around, his gaze still fixed on the distant ruins of a village burned by wights—half of the roofs had collapsed, tattered cloth hung from charred beams, and several frozen civilian corpses were vaguely visible in the snow, their fingernails bluish-black, a sign of infection by the cold mist.
"I'm wondering if none of this would have happened if I hadn't pushed Bran back then," Jaime's voice was soft, his metal hand unconsciously stroking the lion crest on his sword hilt. He had brought that sword from Winterfell; the scabbard still bore the nicks made by Ned Stark, like a scar that would never heal.
Tyrion was silent for a moment, then rode up beside him, pulled a leather pouch from his Huai, and poured out two roasted chestnuts—given by a Winterfell handmaiden, still warm. "You always do this, taking all the blame on yourself." Tyrion handed a chestnut to Jaime. "Cersei's madness, the Night King's invasion, it's not all your fault. But the fact that you can stand here now, stopping her from slaughtering the city with wildfire, is already more than many others have done."
Jaime took the chestnut but didn't eat it, just held it in his palm. The warmth of the chestnut seeped through his hand, reminding him of that afternoon fifteen years ago—he was in a tower in Winterfell, watching Bran lean on the windowsill, holding a wooden Direwolf carving. He had just finished a tryst with Cersei, and in his panic, he only wanted the child to shut up, so he reached out his hand.
"I never told anyone why I pushed him that day," Jaime suddenly said, his voice trembling slightly. "Cersei said that if Bran told anyone about us, Father would kill us, and Lannister Family would be disgraced. I was young then, and I thought if I just silenced him, I could protect everything. But I never imagined he would fall, and I never imagined that one push would become a lifelong burden for me."
Tyrion looked at him, his eyes devoid of their usual teasing, filled only with complex emotions. "You should find a chance to talk to Bran." He patted Jaime's shoulder. "That child is more perceptive than we imagine; he may have already let it go, but you, yourself, have never forgiven yourself."
Jaime looked up towards Winterfell; in the snowy mist, the outline of the castle was already blurred. He knew Tyrion was right; he needed a chance, a chance to face the past. And that chance might come very soon—scouts sent by Illyrio had just returned, reporting that Arya and the Blackfish's forces were waiting at the ford ten miles ahead, and Bran was also approaching Riverrun with Daenerys's follow-up troops.
Jaime: Confession and Reconciliation in the Ford Tent
Pine wood fires burned in the tents at the ford, their warmth dispelling the chill of the Riverlands. Bran sat in his wheelchair, Lyra helping him arrange a wool blanket, a weirwood shard amulet hanging around his neck, glowing faintly green. Jaime stood at the tent entrance, his metal hand clenched white, his boots scuffing the ground with a faint sound, as if he was hesitating whether to enter.
"Come in, Jaime," Bran's voice came from inside the tent, calm and unruffled. Jaime took a deep breath, lifted the tent flap, and walked in, his gaze falling on Bran's legs—covered by a thick blanket, yet still revealing the outline of an inability to stand.
"I..." Jaime opened his mouth, but found his throat tight, a thousand words stuck in his chest, unable to find a starting point. He walked to Bran, slowly knelt, his metal hand on his knees, his posture extremely low. "In the tower at Winterfell that year, I was the one who pushed you. I know a 'sorry' can't make up for anything, but I still want to tell you, I regret it very much."
Bran looked at him, his eyes devoid of anger or resentment, only a worldly calm. "I know." Bran's fingers gently tapped the armrest of his wheelchair. "I saw it in my Greensight, I saw your panic then, I saw your guilt later—you once banged your head against the wall in a dungeon in King's Landing, calling yourself a 'coward'; when you were fighting in the Riverlands, you once saved a boy my age, because you said he reminded you of me."
Jaime suddenly looked up, his eyes full of surprise—he had never imagined that his unknown guilt would be seen by Bran. His metal hand trembled slightly, and he suddenly remembered Bran saying "already let go" in the Godswood at Winterfell; at the time he thought it was comfort, but now he understood it was true forgiveness.
"I pushed you down, ruining your life," Jaime's voice choked slightly. "Yet you are still willing..."
"My life was not ruined," Bran interrupted him, a faint light flashing in his eyes. "Because of that fall, I became the Greenseer, able to see the past and the future, able to help everyone fight the Others and the cold god. Perhaps, this is fate's arrangement." He paused, his gaze falling on Jaime's metal hand. "What you are doing now is more important than any apology—stopping Cersei, protecting civilians, that is true atonement."
Jaime stood up, his eyes a little red. He walked to Bran, gently patted his shoulder, his movements careful, as if afraid of breaking something precious. "Thank you." Jaime's voice was soft, yet it carried an unprecedented sense of relief. "I will not disappoint you, nor will I disappoint those who trust me."
Illyrio's voice came from outside the tent; he was directing soldiers to build a temporary watchtower, preparing to welcome Arya and the Blackfish's forces. Jaime lifted the tent flap and saw Tyrion standing in the snow, waving at him, a familiar smile on his face. Sunlight streamed through the snowy mist, falling on Jaime's metal hand, glowing warmly—he knew that the shadows of the past had finally dispersed, and on the road ahead, he would walk with this forgiveness, firmly.
Jaime: Old Comrades and Intelligence in the Night
After nightfall, the camp at the ford gradually quieted down, with only the footsteps of sentries and the crackling of bonfires echoing in the cold night. Jaime changed into a black leather armor, hid his metal hand under a wide cloak, and quietly walked out of the camp—he had arranged to meet his old Lannister comrades in a nearby ruined temple. These men were once his squires and knights, and dissatisfied with Cersei's cruelty, they had secretly deserted the King's Landing forces and hidden in the mountains of the Riverlands.
The temple door was long decayed; Jaime gently pushed it open, dust dancing in the moonlight. A small fire burned inside the temple, and five people dressed in black sat around it. When they saw Jaime, they immediately stood up, their eyes filled with excitement and reverence—leading them was Cleo Frey (Jaime's distant cousin, who had fought with him in the Riverlands), holding a familiar longsword, Jaime's name engraved on its scabbard.
"Lord Jaime!" Cleo walked forward quickly, kneeling on one knee. "We finally waited for you! That madwoman Cersei, she had Qyburn use dark magic to modify soldiers, and even made us kill civilians for practice; we really couldn't stand it anymore!"
Jaime helped him up, his gaze sweeping over the other four—all familiar faces: Ser Ellyn Tarbeck (who had once blocked a sword for him in a tourney), Tom the squire (only twelve years old then, now a tall young man), Benn the archer (a master marksman), and Grey the blacksmith (who had forged three longswords for him). These men were all his most trusted subordinates back then.
"I need your help." Jaime sat by the fire and pulled out a blank parchment from his Huai. "Cersei hid the wildfire in the Red Keep's dungeon. I need to know the exact location, the number of guards, and Qyburn's defensive arrangements. Some of you served as guards in the King's Landing dungeon, so you should know these things."
Ellyn immediately took the parchment and began drawing on it with charcoal: "The Red Keep dungeon has three levels. The wildfire is mainly hidden in the lowest level, the Black Cells. It's guarded by Qyburn's personal guard, about fifty men, all modified by dark magic. They are not afraid of ordinary swords; only valyrian steel and dragonglass can harm them." He paused, drawing a red circle on the paper. "The entrance to the Black Cells has two iron gates. The first requires Cersei's blood to open, and the second requires Qyburn's key—however, I know there's a secret passage from the Red Keep's kitchen directly to the Black Cells' ventilation shaft. I secretly discovered it when I was a dungeon guard back then."
Tom pulled out a small iron tag from his Huai and handed it to Jaime: "This is a dungeon guard's ID tag. I secretly kept it back then; it has my name and number on it, and it might help you get past the first check."
Benn added: "Qyburn goes to the Black Cells every night to check on the wildfire. He brings two personal guards, one with a great axe and one with a crossbow, both very skilled. Also, Cersei placed 'alarm runes' in the Black Cells; as soon as anyone approaches a wildfire jar, the runes will glow, and King's Landing guards will arrive within fifteen minutes."
Jaime carefully put away the parchment and ID tag, his heart filled with gratitude. He looked at his old comrades before him, knowing they risked their lives to deliver this intelligence because they trusted him, trusted him to stop Cersei's madness. "Thank you all." Jaime's voice was firm. "When we take King's Landing, I will ask Queen Daenerys to allow you to rejoin the Lannister forces, to fight for the protection of Westeros, and not to die for Cersei's ambition."
Everyone nodded, their eyes full of anticipation. Jaime stood up, preparing to return to camp—he needed to quickly relay this intelligence to Illyrio and Tyrion to formulate a plan to raid the Red Keep. The moonlight outside the ruined temple was exceptionally bright, illuminating Jaime's path forward. He knew that with this intelligence, the chances of success for the Red Keep raid had increased by several points.
Jaime: Ambush on the Return and Fierce Battle with the Mountain's Squad
Walking back to the camp on the small path, Jaime's steps were exceptionally light—the wildfire intelligence for the Red Keep was in hand, and his old comrades were willing to join the alliance. Next, once he rendezvoused with Arya and the Blackfish's forces, they could all head south together, towards King's Landing. As he was thinking, he suddenly heard faint footsteps behind him, not the rhythm of a sentry, but deliberately light, like a predatory beast.
Jaime immediately drew his longsword and turned to look—in the moonlight, six figures in black armor stood not far away.
Their armor bore no insignia, and iron masks covered their faces, revealing only cold eyes.
The leader was tall, almost a head taller than an ordinary man, holding a massive battle-axe whose blade was stained with dark red blood, clearly having just killed someone.
"Mountain's men." Jaime's pupils contracted slightly—he was too familiar with this armor and these weapons: Qyburn's modified "Mountain's Squad," specifically tasked with eliminating Cersei's enemies.
These men were all enhanced with dark magic, impervious to blades and possessing immense strength.
The giant leader raised his battle-axe and brought it down towards Jaime, the cold wind from the blade stinging Jaime's cheek.
Jaime quickly dodged, and the battle-axe struck the ground, sending snow and gravel flying, leaving a deep pit.
He seized the opportunity to thrust his sword into a gap in the giant's armor, but heard only a sharp clang as the blade was repelled, leaving his hand numb—this armor was forged by Qyburn from special metal, impenetrable by ordinary swords.
The other five masked figures charged simultaneously, their weapons varied: short swords, long spears, crossbows.
Jaime dodged left and right; though his metal hand was inconvenient, it could block spear thrusts, and his longsword glinted in the moonlight, striking sparks against the enemies' weapons.
"Lord Jaime! We've come to help you!" Cleo's voice came from afar, as he arrived with Elin and Tom, gripping longswords and bows.
Ben and Grey circled behind the masked men, preparing to ambush.
With the support of his old retainers, Jaime's pressure eased considerably.
He focused on the giant leader, observing his movements—though the giant possessed immense strength, his movements were somewhat sluggish, with a brief pause after each axe swing.
Jaime seized this opportunity, entangling the giant's battle-axe with his longsword, then forcefully pushed his metal hand against the giant's chest, forcing him back two steps.
"Shoot his eyes! The mask's slit!" Jaime shouted, and Ben immediately drew his bow, aiming an arrow at the eye-slit of the giant's mask.
With a whoosh, the arrow pierced the slit, and the giant let out a pained roar, dropping his battle-axe.
Just as Jaime thought victory was in sight, the sound of hooves suddenly echoed from afar, and more masked figures rushed towards them—Qyburn had clearly known about the old retainers' contact and set up an ambush.
"You all, go quickly!" Jaime shouted to Cleo and the others, "Deliver the intelligence to Illyrio, tell him about the situation in the Red Keep! I'll hold them off!"
"We're not leaving! We go together!" Cleo stubbornly stood by Jaime's side, gripping his longsword tighter.
Jaime looked at his loyal old retainers, his heart filled with emotion, yet he knew he couldn't let them sacrifice themselves in vain.
He suddenly remembered the dragonglass fire oil Illyrio had given him, tucked in his cloak's side pocket—it was meant for the Others, but perhaps it would also work on these modified men.
Jaime pulled out the fire oil jar and hurled it at the masked man leading the charge.
The moment the tinder ignited, a greenish-blue flame shot up half a zhang high, and the masked man let out a piercing shriek, his skin beneath the armor scorched by the flames, emitting thick black smoke.
"Go!" Jaime shouted again, pushing Cleo and the others backward, while he himself brandished his longsword, blocking the pursuers.
Just then, an arrow flew from an angle, striking Jaime's left shoulder with precision—it was shot by a masked man who had just arrived, the barbed arrow deeply embedded in his flesh.
Jaime grunted, almost dropping his longsword, as blood streamed down his shoulder, staining his black leather armor.
"Lord Jaime!" Cleo tried to return to save him, but Elin held him back, "We can't let his sacrifice be in vain! Take the intelligence and go!"
Jaime watched his old retainers disappear into the night, a sigh of relief escaping him.
He gripped his longsword, preparing for a final stand, but then heard a familiar dragon roar from afar—it was Rhaegar!
Daenerys had sent him to support the camp at the crossing!
Rhaegar's dragonflame streaked across the night sky in an orange-red arc, flying towards the masked men, as screams and the crackle of flames echoed in the cold night.
Illyrio's voice came from afar: "Jaime! Hold on! We're here!"
Jaime turned, seeing Illyrio leading a squad of Unsullied charging towards them, their dragonglass spears glowing faintly.
His vision gradually blurred, the pain in his left shoulder growing more intense, yet he still struggled to stand—he knew he couldn't fall, there was still much he needed to do, many people he needed to protect.
When Jaime awoke again, he was in a tent in the camp, the arrow in his shoulder had been removed, and a healing salve from The Citadel had been applied, significantly easing the pain.
Illyrio sat by the bed, holding the map of the Red Keep's dungeons, discussing the raid plan with Tyrion.
"You're awake." Illyrio saw him open his eyes and immediately handed him a cup of hot mulled wine.
"The wound didn't hit bone, but the arrowhead carried Qyburn's 'corrosive poison,' so it will need salve for three days to reduce the swelling.
No more fighting during this time."
Jaime took the mulled wine, took a sip, and the warmth spread from his throat to his heart.
He looked at the red circles on the map, remembering the intelligence brought by his old retainers, and asked, "Cleo and the others... are they safe?"
"Safe.
They've brought back the intelligence and are resting at the other end of the camp." Tyrion sat on his other side, a relieved smile on his face.
"You've rendered a great service this time; without that intelligence, our raid on the Red Keep would have been much more difficult."
Jaime shook his head, his gaze falling on his metal hand: "I only did what I had to do."
He paused, then looked at Illyrio, "Cersei's Mountain's Squad is formidable; their armor is impervious to blades, only dragonglass and valyrian steel can harm them.
And Qyburn has also put corrosive poison on them, so be careful next time you encounter them."
"We are ready." Illyrio pointed to the secret passage on the map.
"According to the intelligence, we can send an elite team through the kitchen's secret passage into the Black Cells, use dragonglass fire oil to destroy the alarm runes, and then use valyrian steel weapons to deal with the guards, thus covertly destroying the wildfire jars."
He paused, looking at Jaime, "Once your wound heals, we will still need you to lead the way, as you are familiar with the Red Keep's layout."
Jaime nodded, his eyes filled with determination: "As long as I can stop Cersei, even if my wound isn't healed, I will go with you."
Arya's voice came from outside the tent; she was discussing the marching route after the troops converged with Blackfish, preparing to set off for King's Landing early tomorrow morning.
Jaime lifted a corner of the tent and saw Arya holding her familiar needle, checking weapons with Blackfish's soldiers, a confident smile on her face.
In the distance, Rhaegar circled above the camp, his dragonflame occasionally sweeping across the snow, leaving orange-red traces.
Jaime gripped the mulled wine in his hand, his heart filled with resolve—he knew the journey south would be long and dangerous, but he was no longer the "Kingslayer" who lived only for himself and Cersei, but a warrior fighting to protect Westeros and atone for his sins.
As long as he could stop Cersei's madness, as long as he could protect the innocent commoners, he would gladly pay any price.
Moonlight streamed through the tent's seams, falling on Jaime's metal hand, glowing with determination.
He knew that when the sun rose tomorrow, a new battle would begin, and he was ready.
It was late, the campfires gradually diminished, and only the footsteps of sentries echoed in the cold night.
Tyrion hadn't left; he sat by Jaime's bed, pulled a deerskin pouch from his bosom, and poured out two treasured raisins—they were brought from Dragonstone, said to replenish strength.
"Remember when we were little, exploring the dungeons of Casterly Rock?" Tyrion handed a raisin to Jaime, his eyes full of memories.
"You always said I was short and could crawl through tunnels faster than you, but that time you got stuck in a crack, and I was the one who pulled you out."
Jaime took the raisin, put it in his mouth, and the sweetness spread across his tongue, reminding him of his days in Casterly Rock—back then, Father was still alive, Cersei hadn't gone mad, and though the three siblings often argued, they also had simple joys.
"I remember," Jaime's voice carried a hint of tenderness, "Later, Father found out and confined us to the castle for a month.
You even secretly hid mulled wine in a book, but Father discovered it and extended your punishment by another half-month."
Tyrion laughed, a trace of nostalgia flashing in his eyes: "Back then, I always thought we'd stay in Casterly Rock forever, you'd be your knight, I'd be my maester, and Cersei would marry some noble, living a peaceful life.
But I never imagined how quickly things would change."
Jaime was silent for a moment, looking at his metal hand: "I used to think that honor and family were most important, and for them, I could do anything.
But now I understand that what's more important than these is protecting those you care about, doing the right thing, even if there's a price to pay."
"You've already done that." Tyrion patted his shoulder, "You've let go of past obsessions, chosen atonement, chosen to protect the common folk; that's enough."
He paused, his gaze directed towards King's Landing, "Once we deal with Cersei, I want to return to Casterly Rock, repair the castle there, and let the homeless commoners live in it.
What about you? What do you want to do?"
Jaime looked up at the moonlight outside the tent, his eyes full of longing: "I want to find Brienne and tell her I didn't betray her trust.
Then, I want to return to Riverrun, where I guarded the castle, where I know people, and I want to plant a wheat field there and live a peaceful life."
Tyrion nodded, his eyes full of relief: "You will, we will all achieve our wishes.
As long as we work together, defeat Cersei, defeat the cold god, Westeros will usher in peace, and we will be able to live the lives we want."
Jaime looked at Tyrion, a long-lost smile appearing on his face—he knew that no matter how difficult the road ahead, as long as he had his brother by his side, and those who trusted him, he would not be alone.
The campfire outside the tent gradually died down, and moonlight shone on the two of them, radiating a warm glow—they were both looking forward to the day peace arrived.