Chapter Text
The further north he traveled on the Kingsroad, the more unbearable his golden hand became. The damned wrapping was freezing to the metal from his sweat, and any movement of the hand tugged on the sensitive scar tissue on the other side. His stump was beginning to blister from the friction, and he gritted his teeth when he felt moisture there as one popped.
Perhaps I should tie the cursed piece of metal on a strap and drape it around my neck like the last one, he thought. It’s apparently just as useful.
He’d been traveling hard for nine days and nights in an attempt to reach Winterfell and deliver the news of his sister’s betrayal. He had brought the bare necessities for his journey, and slept only when he felt as though he’d fall off his horse with fatigue. Despite the cold, the wind, and the snow that, at times, blew so hard he could hardly see, he continued on. His discomfort meant nothing compared to what he had seen lurch out of that crate in the dragon pit.
But, as the sun slowly waned, he sought shelter. The nights were becoming longer, and with it came all manner of uncertainties that could usually be prevented by a place to rest.
He dismounted when he found himself approaching a small home, probably part of a farm. There were no signs of life, but he just needed a roof for a few hours.
After knocking loudly on the door, he heard nothing but the cold blast of air. Wind, he thought. Only wind lives here.
The door opened easily enough, but he started when he saw that huddled in the corner were the frozen, perfectly preserved corpses of a man and a woman, clinging to one another. They were covered in blankets, a skin or two, and likely every item of clothing they owned.
His mind filled with questions as his heart sank. Had they starved to death? Were they robbed of their food? Their gold? Had they consumed all their livestock, only to freeze to death under the skins of the very animals they had used to make a living?
Glancing around, he noticed there wasn’t a scrap of food left in the place. So they had starved, then.
An alarming thought passed through his head; something Ned’s bastard had said as he killed the wight in the dragon pit.
Fire. They could kill them with fire.
He knew he had to burn them, wretched as they were. If circumstances were different, he would have buried them. At one time, it would have been the more honorable thing to do. But he remembered what Jon Snow had said about the corpses... How they would only become more soldiers in the army of the dead.
They were huddled so closely together, this man and this woman. They had bravely accepted their fate together; he’d be damned if they were torn asunder in death. Without another thought, he searched the dirt floor for a piece of flint. He found a chipped piece easily enough, but where would he find enough dry wood to start a fire in this weather?
“Looks like you could use some kindling.”
Jaime whirled around to see Bronn standing there, as inappropriately dressed as he was for the winter chill.
“Good to see you too,” he muttered. “But yes, kindling would be a better sight.”
Bronn chuckled at this.
“Here,” he said, extending his hand to Jaime. “Take these.”
In Bronn’s outstretched hand were a few sanded bits of wood that suspiciously looked like—
“Nabbed them off a banner I stole from some dumb cunt heading south for some house we’ve never heard of,” he said with a shrug. “Figured some dry wood might come in handy these days.”
Jaime tried to smile, and placed the broken poles against the bodies.
“Ever so resourceful, aren’t we?” he said lightly, casting a glance at the sellsword. “I still have nothing to light it with. Not with one hand, anyway.”
Bronn rolled his eyes and stepped forward.
“Seven hells...” he muttered, swiping the flint from Jaime’s hand. “Take off your glove.”
Jaime frowned, but suddenly grasped Bronn’s meaning. He took off the glove covering his golden hand, and held out his arm so that the hand was leaning against the wood. Without a moment of hesitation, Bronn struck the flint against the hand a few times, attempting to spark the poles. Each strike made Jaime flinch with pain, but within moments, the poles were alight.
They stood back and watched as the blankets caught fire first, then the skins, and finally, the corpses themselves.
“Time to go,” Bronn said, and he walked out of the house.
Jaime stood there for a moment, watching the fire grow. There had been a time when he would have believed that he and Cersei would have ended that way... Clinging to one another for warmth once all else had failed them. He had loved her that much. He had believed he loved her that much.
Now, he knew she would rather kill him, grill him, and eat him for survival than die by his side. The thought that he had given so much to someone who would do that sickened him.
He stared into the flames, noting how they reflected off his golden hand. It was scuffed from the flint, but he could still see the reflection of so many things in the metal. When he looked back up, the flames were catching on the wall, and he was tempted to stay within the burning structure. It was so warm, there, in the flames. It felt clean, somehow. Gods, he wanted to stay.
That’s when he saw it.
From the flames, a pair of twins sprung forth. A boy, and a girl, running and brandishing their parrying swords. Their smiles were contagious, and he saw them turn into adults in an instant, fighting side by side. They fought what looked like demons together, and when they had won the battle, they turned to look at him. His blood ran cold, and as they locked eyes with him, he was terrified. But then he saw the swords they held. Each pommel glinted with gold and rubies.
And one bore the head of a lion.
As a scorched plank fell from the ceiling, he bolted to the door, and looked back one last time.
They were gone.