A/N: Hey, so good to see you guys again, hope you're still sticking around! So thank you for all who favorited, alerted, and even better reviewed! Without you, I possibly wouldn't have put this chapter up. So please, keep it coming :)

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Jaime:

His dreams were filled with fire and blood, and burning flesh. The dragon, the monstrous beast's breath was dark molten lava with its thunderous roaring, but in his ears it was the Mad King's delirious screams that rang, burn them all…burn them all… Brandon Stark's image came before his eyes as he strangled himself to death while his lord father burned slowly in his armor. Around him in the camp his men were burning in their armor, too, cooking in their flesh and Jaime could not do anything but watch it. How one could kill a dragon? He asked himself. Dragon has three heads, a voice whispered, but he only wanted to kill one, this one… Standing in the middle of the carnage, he screamed, picking up a long spear of the white wood, crimson veins twirling inside it, and putting his spurs in Honor, he charged at the flying beast… How one kills a dragon?

His eyes cracked wide open, Jaime woke up with a jolt, his good hand tightened into a fist as if his fingers were still clutching the spear. He relaxed them as he forced himself at ease. They'd camped at the northern side of Kingswood for the night, close to King's Landing, close to home, but close to safety, Jaime did not know anymore.

They'd been on the road for the past week. He was circled with his personal honor guards, his sworn bannerrmen, and with a small but courageous force of fifty two riders. They'd camped for the night along a creek. Only one fire was lit in the middle where they slept under the open sky. The night watches were standing ahead a scant few feet away from them, their eyes squinted at the starless black sky, watching—listening for the monstrous screeching growl.

Fully awake, Jaime stood up. Sleep was unlikely to come again to him. He walked to the fire and revealed one of Lord Preston's sons, Ser Brian. He settled across the warmness of the campfire, huddling beneath his fur cloak against the chill of the night.

How one could kill a dragon, he asked himself again. How can I kill it? Dornish men killed the legendary Meraxes from her eye with an iron bolt from a scorpion, and Ser Serwyn with its polished armor and shield, and with a trick. During the Targaryen civil war, many were slain, but it was not done by the hands of men. As tales sung, only a few of the slayers had outlived to tell the tale. How one kills a dragon and still lives? He amended his question. He was not ready to die, not yet, nor was he ready to let his men die in vain.

Perhaps that was the reason Varys had come to him, trying to warn him. When she did, if there is no Targaryen seated on that throne, the Realm will bleed. The spider must have known that she was coming. The Lannister army had been drawing Golden Company back to the narrow sea, and they were so close to the victory…then suddenly, out of nowhere one night in the camp, in a dark starless sky like this night, they first heard the thunderous roaring, then the sky was lit, and fire rained upon them.

It was not easy to comprehend what happened at first. At the start, Jaime had thought it was some treachery, a notorious dark magic, then he heard the screams, and that thunderous roar started ringing louder as the flying monster flew past above their heads, its cavernous mouth open, breathing out flame. The line of wagons exploded with fire, and around him, in the frenzy he saw his men burning. The smell of the burned flesh filled into his nostrils, bones turning to ash, and screams… screams of pain and agony. It was the deepest of seven hells, his darkest nightmare coming alive before his very eyes.

Since that night, his dreams were full with fire and blood. He'd lost men, wagons, and Stormlands, and he had lost another cousin as well. Devan Lannister had fallen while trying to secure the supplies as they tried to retreat, burning to ash. Jaime had not shed any tear, had found his eyes gone dry. He had thrown up instead, heaving out his empty stomach, the smoke of burned flesh etched at his throat, filling up his nostrils… When did a Targaryen ever bring to the Realm anything remotely akin to peace? If he ever saw a Targaryen and lived, he was going to ask that.

They entered into King's Landing, their mounts slowly paving through snowy stone road, the Red Keep glowing crimson in the greyness. There was no cheers in the streets, not even curious looks from hidden corners; dark words traveled faster than them. The thuds of their mount's hooves clanked gloomily in the bleak silence, an eerie sound—haunting and chilling. Jaime pressed his lips, and rode on. In his nostrils, there was still burned flesh, on his own flesh there was smell of death.

Beside the gatehouse, in the midst of the madness that had become their world, Brienne was standing tall and firm in the breaking day. For a moment, Jaime thought of running away, taking her and running away where no fire or burned flesh could find them. The moment passed as he saw her trembling figure, tears shining in her wide blue eyes, her full lips moving silently as if in a prayer. She thought I was dead.

He should have been dead…if not for Devan… he could have been dead. Brienne rushed toward him as he climbed down from Honor, and threw herself at him, her tears wetting his darkened—burned armor. He wondered if she could smell the burned flesh off him. He tightened his arms around her, nested his head at the crook of her shoulder, and he wept.

The next day started with the urgent session of the small council, not so small any more as they were all seated around the council table, even Cersei taking a place across the table. Brienne seated next to his right at the head of the long table, as Lady Olenna took his left as his son was still absent. Lord Randyll Tarly was seated next to her, a bleak expression across his face. He'd lost his son, his only heir to the dragonbreath. His cousin's place was occupied by Ser Addam as he'd seated in council in their absence, and since he had lost Devan in the battle, he had given the command of the remaining host to his childhood friend. Not that there was much of a remaining host left to them. He sniffed, as if to take the scent of the burned flesh. Brienne had washed him tenderly last night, with scented oils and fragrances, kissing and caressing, and crying, but he could still smell of it on himself. I wonder if I ever will be able to forget the smell.

The young queen decided to stay with Tommen. His young boy did not understand what had happened, but he understood well enough something bad—something terrible had happened. In Margaery's stead sat Cersei, her leg still in plaster, and next to her there was Qyburn, their pitiful master of whispers.

"How many men did we lose?" Lady Olenna asked stiffly, her head in her adorned headdress bobbing, in her voice there was a timber of disbelief.

"Almost three quarters of the main host," Lord Randyll answered, "And we forsook a battalion to protect the retreat as well. The rest of our forces are regrouping in the north of Kingswood." He paused to let out a sigh, battered and weary, "But how many…? Only time would tell for true. There are men severely burned."

Ser Addam shook his head. "How did we not know it? A dragon… a dragon flew up to Westeros, but no one saw it?" He looked at Qyburn in question. "What was our master of whispers doing?"

Qyburn looked impassive with the accusation. "Dragons fly high and fast—"

"It was carrying a woman on its back," Ser Addam pointed out, cutting him off, "how high could it fly from all the way to Storm's End?"

"It was enough to fly faster than a ship, my lord," Qyburn quipped, "Besides, everyone thought her missing in the grass sea desert."

"Apparently not," Lady Olenna shot back. Jaime kept his silence. "Where is the rest of her army? I thought rumors said that she had an Unsullied army blindly following her steps."

"They did not come yet," Randyll answered, "Some say she came to wed that feigned brother of hers?"

Qyburn nodded. "So tell the whispers. Dragonstone has fallen, as well. They're to wed there."

Lady Olenna and Lord Randyll straightened in their seat. "My son? My grandson?" she asked.

Qyburn shook his head. "We know not," he answered, "I have sent a searching party for them."

A faint smirk passed over Cersei's face before it disappeared. She took her cup and drank slowly, then put it on the table. "How can we kill it?" she asked, "How can we kill the beast?"

Startled, Jaime looked at her. She is my twin. "Kill a dragon?" Ser Addam asked.

"Dornishmen slayed one," Cersei countered, as if bored, "as they so love to bloat."

Lady Olenna pursed her weakened lips. "Perhaps we should send them an envoy and ask them to kill it for us."

Cersei smiled tightly. "Dorne has bent the knee," Jaime finally spoke, informing them.

In the eyes of Tyrells Jaime saw the same question rising… Would we yield, as well? Every each of them would need to ask it to themselves at one point, but Jaime was not ready for the answer yet. "Eyes… eyes are their weakest point."

They all turned to look at him. "Only one dragon attacked us. When she was lost from Mereen, it was said that her dragon was wounded, and the others were chained. She kept them under chain because she could not control them," Jaime explained.

He had been thinking of that, all the way back, he had been thinking of that. He was not ready to answer that question, no yet, not before he had tried all of his chances. He had owed that much to his men burned alive in their armors, he had owed it to his cousin—who had given his life in order to protect him—his burned flesh filling in his nostrils. Later, he would mourn and weep for him, but first he would revenge his death. He turned to Qyburn. "We need scorpions, massive large scale scorpions and big thick iron bolts and sinewy muscles with good aim to fire them."

"And the big mirrored glasses—" Brienne spoke next to him, wheels turning in her mind, a scowl above her brows, "We put them on the battlements, use the sunlight to blind her aim. My father built a defense line like that at Tarth, to blind the fleets. It's even said one could burn a whole armada using the glasses if they're big enough."

Jaime nodded. "I want them prepared in a fortnight," he ordered, standing up. There was so much to do. He needed to plan, and there was still the possibility of an attack in the night. If only I knew where the bloody dragon is…

The rest of the small council followed his example, standing up, aside Cersei. Qyburn went to help her to stand up, but she pushed the weaseled man away irritated. "Your Grace," she called after him, "May I take a word with you?" she asked courteously.

Jaime glanced at Brienne who stared at the wall far ahead. He went to her side, and whispered at her. "Go to my chambers," he told her, "I'll be there shortly."

In her eyes, there was an unnamed emotion he could not place. "Brienne?" he asked.

She nodded crisply. "I'm waiting." She turned to leave.

Was that a jealousy? He was not sure. Brienne usually wore her emotions open in her face. It was something else. "Why did you not tell me why you killed Aerys?" Cersei asked from his behind when they were alone.

Startled, he whirled to her, and Brienne's reluctance became palpable. Why did you tell her, Brienne?

He gave a look at Cersei. "You never asked."

"Did she ask?"

She did not, not really, but Cersei could not understand what happened between them on the road, what had happened in the baths. He was high in fever, had lost his hand, and Brienne…those wide blue eyes… "What do you want, sister?" he asked instead.

Cersei looked at him directly in the eyes. "If she ever sets a foot inside this city, I'll leave her only ashes," she told him, as if in a warning, "Do not try to stop me."