Chapter XI

Jon felt like he might be dreaming. It had all gone so badly, so fast, it didn't feel real. He expected to wake up in the morning and hear that their father wouldn't be coming to breakfast because the king had asked for him.

Somebody had taken Jon by the arms, and it was then that he noticed he had been struggling towards the king. Immediately, Jon stopped, going limp. He let his detainer drag him out of the bloody throne room. But he could not take his eyes off the body of King Robert, laid out like a sacrifice upon the dais.

He could not feel a thing, only the burning question which kept repeating itself in his mind like a brand. How had it ended up like this?

He could not sleep that night, nor the next. He did not attend supper with his family. He could not face them after failing—still failing. For five days he practically locked himself in his room, going over everything that had happened and trying to figure out what he could have done differently. Arya and Bran both tried to make him come out, but he could not be moved even by them, and eventually they both gave up. They were familiar with his broods and evidently decided that it would be best to wait for it to blow over.

Father was too busy attending to the matters of the realm to indulge the moods of a sullen son.

On the fifth day, he slipped out of his room and to the dungeons. By now the castle had mostly calmed. News had gotten out of King Robert's death and the people had enough time to become acclimated to it. People could acclimate to anything.

The guards let him into the cell he wanted without much question. He was the son of the Hand, and the realm was in the Hand's grip now.

The prison was a dank place, with only two small windows at the very end, not even big enough to fit a child's head through. Unlike Joffrey's and Myrcella's cell, this one did not open to the hallways, with freedom only barred by poles of iron. This room was entirely cut off from the rest of the keep. It smelt of urine.

Jon closed the iron wrought door behind him.

Jaime Lannister sat chained with his arms pulled back behind him, head bowed and breathing shallowly through his nose. Jon could tell that he was injured from the rise and fall of his chest, and the awkward angle he favoured his arm. Technically, no one was supposed to hurt a royal prisoner before their trial, but none had been too gentle in handling the kingslayer.

At the sound of the click of the door, he looked up. He did not look well. Where before he had shined in all his white and gold splendour, now he only looked washed out. His yellow hair hung damply across his brow, and his green eyes were glassy with pain. There was a large green bruise on his jaw, and his lips were smeared with blood.

"Why?" Jon asked—no, demanded. His fists clenched at his side. He felt no sympathy for the man, not after all that had happened. "Why did you come back?"

"Wha—Jon Snow?" Jaime asked, mouth half agape. Some recognition entered those hazy green eyes, and the kingsguard sat up straighter. "How are you—why are you here?"

"That's my question!" Some black emotion, different from the bleakness from the days before, swelled in his chest. He realized it was fury. He was furious at the Lannister. How dare Jaime question his place when it was Jaime who put everything at risk! How dare Jaime speak something that wasn't some incoherent apology. "You and Cersei were free! Your father would have protected you at Casterly Rock. Why did you have to come back and destroy everything?"

"You—" Jaime was staring at him in shock. Jon did not care. "You—you plotted with my brother."

Jon did not reply. He glared, because the knight had still not answered him.

Jaime slumped. Green eyes fluttered shut. His voice was quiet, defeated. "I thought it was strange how Tyrion suddenly wanted to go back to Casterly Rock and take Tommen with him. Cersei did too. It's why she couldn't leave him alone. I guess you two planned all that, huh?"

Jon stiffened. He did not need reminders of what he had done to Tyrion. "I'm not obliged to sate your curiosity."

"But I am?" Jaime chuckled. It was a rasp more than a sound. "Well, why not? Sweet Cersei heard about Joffrey being taken prisoner and rode back. I followed her of course. Tyrion tried to stop us but since when have we ever listened to the sensible brother? We were caught halfway through the kingswood. And then the rest… well, you saw it all."

Yes. Yes, he had seen it all. Shakily, Jon took a step back. His back slammed against the iron door, as if cutting him off from escape from this room, from escape of his mistakes.

"By the gods," Jon whispered brokenly. "By the gods, I thought you wanted to save people. Wasn't that why you betrayed King Aerys? Why have you doomed them now?"

Jaime let out a laugh. It was a bitter one.

"Why have I indeed…?" He murmured. And then he shook his head, and gave his old cocky grin again, except this time it was laced with something that might have been regret. "It's love don't you see? I did it for love."

"A poor excuse," Jon spat.

"Not an excuse." Jaime's eyes were haunted. "A warning. Love has ruined me. Take care Jon Snow, that it does not ruin you too."

Jon left the twice damned Kingslayer then, unable to bear looking at him any longer. Jaime Lannister had destroyed everything. In a single fell swoop of his sword, he'd destabilized Westeros again. No matter what explanation he offered, he deserved the executioner's block.

He began attending dinner again that evening. Arya and Bran were delighted to see him. Jon could only smile weakly, offering little input and allowing the conversation of his siblings to wash over him. Father was absent entirely. Supper was led by Septa Mordane.

When Septa Mordane stepped out for a moment to speak with the cook, Arya turned to him. Her eyes gleamed with a wild delight.

"Can you believe it Jon!" She exclaimed. "Joffrey turned out to be the son of the kingslayer, and not the king's at all! I bet now he feels dumb about all those times he went on and on about his station and how he's not beholden to anybody. He's in prison now, did you know?" She sniggered. "Serves him right."

Jon opened his mouth, and found that he could not reply. By instinct he almost agreed with Arya. Had he not thought, multiple times, that Joffrey was an underserving ass? But now he had gotten to know Joffrey, had seen him and his sister in confinement, and how could he agree with Arya after that?

Thankfully, or perhaps not so thankfully, Sansa interrupted him before he was forced to make an answer.

"It's all lies!" Sansa's grip tightened around her fork, knuckles turning white. "Joffrey isn't like that—he's the rightful prince! The king had to have gone crazy or—or maybe someone was plotting against Joffrey and planted the evidence and the royal advisors gave the king some bad advice, I don't know, but it isn't true!"

Arya gave her sister a look of such disgust that Sansa actually flinched back from it. In Jon's memory, Sansa had never backed down from Arya in any matter.

"You're being delusional," Arya spat. "Just because you want to be princess so badly you'll pretend that everyone else is lying? Do you think Father's wrong? The Queen herself admitted to all of it!"

Sansa seemed to shrink with every word, but then she drew herself up, sitting high and imperiously. Her glare seemed to challenge everyone, and she would have been the perfect picture of certainty, if her voice didn't come out so shrill. "The Queen hated the king, everybody knows that! She was just trying to make him angry, and the king fool that he was killed her for it, before she could explain it. It's probably why the king was struck dead just moments after! The gods were just punishing him for his crime!"

Arya stared at her incredulously, "Are you hearing yourself right now?"

Sansa stood up. Her plates clattered with her sudden motion. Her voice was as cold as the region in which they were born. "I'll be leaving now. I'm full."

Without giving them a chance to reply, Sansa turned and swept out of the dining room.

Arya let out a frustrated breath from her nostrils.

"It's like she's completely forgotten about Lady and Nymeria and Summer," Arya murmured as she viciously jabbed the food in her plate. "This is justice for Micah."

Jon found that for once, he did not know what to say to his little sister. But blessedly, he did not think she had meant for him to hear.

It was to this scene that the good Septa came back into.

She raised a brow at Sansa's absence, but waved off the occurrence when it was revealed that she had simply retired early. It only served to incite more grumbling from Arya, because she had always been given a severe tongue lashing any time she had run out on a family dinner in the past. Jon tried to cheer her, but in truth, his heart was not in it.

"I'm going to go practice with Tweedle," Arya muttered darkly to Jon after supper was finally concluded. "I really need to stick it to something." And then she grinned at him, quick and mischievous. "Wanna be my target practice?"

Father hadn't allowed Arya to practice with live steel until she had a better handle on her water dancing. Thus for their lessons with Syrio, Jon and Arya used wooden swords. Tweedle was the name the two of them had given Arya's sprig on a particularly asinine day, and it had stuck.

Jon shook his head with a small smile, reaching out a hand to ruffle the other girl's hair, "Wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of your wrath today, little sister. Seems dangerous."

Arya huffed, but seemed to understand, "Just as well, I guess. I wouldn't want to mess up that pretty face of yours just because of Sansa."

Bran caught him after Arya departed.

"I'm glad you're feeling better," Bran said shyly, eyes cast downwards and head bowed.

"Thank you," Jon gave a faint smile back. The twisted feeling in his gut from his visit to Jaime still had not yet dispelled, but he appreciated the sentiment.

"Is there—do you want to talk about it?" Bran asked hesitantly. His face lifted then, eyes wide as he hurriedly amended his statement. "Not that you have to or anything, just if you want to. I mean, I'm a pretty good listener. Old Nan always says so."

It was all Jon could do to refrain from gaping. "Bran…? What's this about?"

Bran shrugged weakly, shuffling his feet, "It's just, you helped me before. I wanted to help, too." Here, he blushed, but it seemed to stem more from anger than embarrassment. "It was a stupid idea, wasn't it?"

"Not stupid, never stupid," Jon said, touched. He reached out a hand to grasp Bran's shoulder. "Really, thank you for your concern. If it was anything that I thought you could help with, I would definitely share it with you. As it is, it's just your older brother's muddled thoughts."

Bran shook his head, "That's what I thought about the thing with Summer too, but you were able to help. So I might be able to help you, too."

Jon closed his eyes. Their situations were too different. Jon could not possibly confide in Bran about all his worries and what he'd done. Besides which, he didn't want to burden Bran with any of this. He thought about saying so, but knew that he could not. Bran had come to him, and if Jon were to brush him off now, he might damage all the trust they've developed so far.

And then, he supposed, to Bran the situations might not seem so different. How much courage had it taken Bran to make that leap of faith and entrust his secrets to Jon? Jon could not do the same but… but perhaps he could at least repay a portion of that trust.

"Alright," Jon said softly, opening his eyes. He smiled at Bran; a defeated, rueful kind of smile. "If you're really sure you want to hear my concerns. You don't have to do anything to prove your worth as a brother, you know. I'm the elder, so it's my job to worry about you, but it's not your job to worry about me."

"Even so, I want to help," Bran said determinedly.

"Then," Jon turned away, running a hand through his hair, "I'm afraid that this—King Robert's death I mean—will mean the beginning of a war. And we'll be mired in it, because our father is the Hand of the King." He shook his head, and hastily added an amendment, so as to not scare Bran excessively. "Of course, it might not come to that. The Crown's support is large and even Tywin Lannister cannot hope to win against all our forces."

For a long moment, there was silence.

When Bran spoke again, his voice was filled with uncertainty. "That… Jon, what if Tywin Lannister has already sent a letter, stating that he'll go to war if his son Jaime is not returned?"

Jon whipped around, shock lancing through him. "What?"

Bran jumped, looking a little scared, "I—"

Quickly, Jon calmed himself. He took a breath, and stared at his brother solemnly, "Bran, if you know anything, please tell me."

Bran gnawed at his lip, but gave a nod in one short, jerky motion. "I wasn't trying to eavesdrop or anything, but I was in the mind of a bird and it was near the window of some people who were discussing it so—"

"Wait, a bird?" Jon interrupted, unable to help himself. He stared wide eyed, because this was too incredulous.

"Well," Bran flushed. "You said that you could sometimes see through the eyes of your northern friend, right? So I figured that it wasn't just limited to our direwolves, whatever this is. So I tried—and it worked."

"That—" Jon couldn't exactly tell Bran that his partner was a direwolf too. He had a connection with Ghost, but he hadn't known others would be possible. Even Orell only had a connection with his eagle. Jon's stomach turned uncomfortably. "That's amazing, Bran."

Bran brightened with the praise. He became more animated. "Anyway, I was practising with the bird, and I overheard some people talking about Lord Tywin's letter. Normally I wouldn't have paid attention, but I heard Father's name and I thought I should make sure they weren't doing anything bad. They were talking about how Lord Tywin's sent a letter to the Hand asking for Ser Jaime's life, and threatening to go to war if he was executed."

Practising? They needed to have to have a conversation about Bran's powers, but at a later time. Tywin Lannister's letter was of more importance.

"Anything else?" Jon urged. "Did they say anything else? And do you have any idea who they were?"

Bran shook his head, "I've seen them around the castle, I think, but I don't know their lordships or positions." His shoulders sagged, "And sorry, they moved away after that, so if they said anything more, I didn't hear it."

Jon took a breath, "No, that's more than enough." A thought came to him. "Lord Tywin's letter, did it say anything about Queen Cersei's children?"

Bran wrinkled his nose, "I don't think so." He hesitated, "Jon—do you think they'll be executed?"

"No." It was ludicrous to think so. "Father would never allow it." And yet—and yet there were more powers in King's Landing than Father's. Jon's gut churned uneasily.

"Right, you're right." Bran slumped in relief. "I know where Arya's coming from. I can't forgive Joffrey either, but it's not like I don't understand Sansa. Tommen—he's my friend, and I'm sure Myrcella is very nice. I don't think they deserve to be executed."

"No," Jon whispered, "they don't."

When Jon left Bran his mind was awhirl. Was what his brother said true? Bran would not lie to him, but it was entirely possible that he'd misinterpreted what he'd heard. The bastard child found his feet carrying him without any focused command, and before he knew it he was at his father's solar.

Jory was standing guard. Jon heard himself ask distantly if his father was entertaining anyone. Jory replied that he was not. Jon knocked. He was let in.

His father was sitting behind the Hand's desk, dark shadows under his eyes and face pulled in a haggard expression. He had never looked older. He had been going through the realm's documents, if the stack of papers at his side was anything to go by, but he was now giving Jon his full attention.

"Is it true?" Jon demanded—though that wasn't what he really wanted to say. He wanted… he wanted… "Is Tywin Lannister threatening war if his son isn't returned to him?"

Ned's gaze sharpened, "How did you even—" He took a breath, slowly put down his pen, and gave Jon an acute, considering, look. "Should I even be surprised that you somehow know privileged information?"

Jon swallowed. So that part was true, then.

"My knowledge doesn't matter," Jon said softly. "The question is—how likely is Tywin to go through with this? His armies can't possibly win against the rest of Westeros combined."

Ned steeped his fingers together, his eyes cool as he looked upon his son. "That is a question for the council. It is not the concern of a boy of five-and-ten."

"That—" Jon heard more than felt himself stumble back a step. For some reason, he hadn't expected that. He should have, but he didn't. It was true, though. Why should the Hand trust a mere boy, and a boy who had already messed it up at that?

He opened his mouth to apologize. To excuse himself. To leave with some propriety intact.

"Please. Please, Father." Jon's voice was choked. "I can't—"

Something passed over his father's visage. Ned dragged a hand across his face, and sighed.

"Fine, fine," Ned said, tone gruff. He stood up, the motion sharp, sending a few papers fluttering to the ground. He walked towards the window, leaning against its side and gazing out into the courtyard. "I don't know what you could even do with this information. Tywin is not the type of man to back down. He will go to war. He will depend on the Martels and the Tyrells delaying until the main battles have already been fought. The Vale has been silent, and the North will take time to gather. But Stannis and Riverrun will be enough to stop Tywin for now."

Except that they wouldn't. Jon remembered Stannis' forces. They were well disciplined, which made the wildlings an easy opponent for them, but they were not large enough to match the armies of Casterly Rock. Riverrun would have its own problems being in the pathway between Tywin and King's Landing, needing to defend its own territories as well as attack. Victory was not so certain.

"What about Jaime Lannister, then?" Jon asked quietly.

"I knew you were going to ask that," Ned said in exasperation, finally turning back to look at Jon. "I will give him the King's Justice. It is what he deserves."

Jon swallowed. He felt like he was betraying everything they stood for. "Father—you can't."

Ned's eyes darkened to whirling pools of black. "What do you mean, I can't?"

"You can't kill Ser Jaime. He—"

"Ser!" Ned slammed his hand against the window sill. Jon tensed, but thankfully did not jump. "I know you've become friendly with the Lannisters, Jon, but open your eyes! He killed the king! I knew Robert shouldn't have spared him fifteen years ago."

That wasn't fair. Jaime had done wrong now, but back then, back then it hadn't been—He wished to tell his father, so badly. But what would it change? What difference would it make? "That was a different situation! This time… this time I know Jaime did wrong. But Tywin Lannister won't forgive you if killed him. You're the Hand now, so you have to think of the realm. To keep the peace—"

"Keep the peace?" Ned roared. "He killed my best friend!"

Jon took a step back, eyes wide.

Ned exhaled, lifting a hand to his face. "Sorry—I'm sorry for that outburst. It's been a stressful few days."

"I…"

"But you don't make it easy." Ned smiled wanly. "In any case, I cannot release Jaime. It would be a disservice to us all."

Jon was scared to continue. And yet he had to. He swallowed. "You would doom the realm to war."

"A short war. Do not think I enjoy the thought any more than you, but it the situation is not as dire as you imagine. Have some confidence in us, Jon."

"There's more than that," Jon pushed. "Tywin might not be able to raise allies, but Casterly Rock is a formidable force nonetheless. More importantly, do you really think Renly Baratheon would accept Stannis' rule? If the kingdom isn't united, it'll dissolve into chaos again!"

"And now you're pulling stories out of thin air," Ned said with an incredulous laugh. He held up a hand. "No, don't protest. It's alright, I'm a bit beyond anger now. In some ways I can almost be proud of you for going so far in trying to keep the peace."

Admirable, but not worth listening to. Jon's fists clenched at his sides.

He made a last ditch effort. "I got a letter, from Castle Black. The realm needs to be united right now, Father! The real threat isn't all these games in King's Landing or even Mance's army, but an army of the dead like in the stories and—"

"Old Nan's stories?" Ned's face was thunderous. "Is this what it's all about? All this time, I had thought—but it turns out you're just worried about fairy stories and hidden monsters. Lately, I've wondered what's gotten into you, but to think that it was this."

"But—"

A scowl on his lips, Ned raised an arm, pointing towards the door, "Get out!"

The angrier his father became, the less he showed. Jon could only stare for a moment, shocked. He had never seen his Lord Father like this. And then, trembling, he bowed, and left.

Jory gave him a concerned look as he passed, no doubt having heard the raised voices if nothing else. Jon couldn't even conjure up the effort to smile back weakly. His mind was awhirl as he made his way back to his rooms. His father had refused to even hear him.

"I tried," he said to the castle floors, "it might be as he's said, a short war. Maybe Renly won't defect after all."

The stone beneath his feet did not reply, but he saw it run with blood. Stark blood.

Jon sucked in a sharp breath, and the vision vanished. Shaking, he stumbled to the wall, and leant his head against the cool surface. His eyes squeezed shut of their own accord.

What should he do? What should he do?

He wished more than ever that he could seek Tyrion's counsel. But it wasn't fair to have such a thought, not when he had destroyed Tyrion's family.

He breathed in. Then breathed out. Slowly, the rapid staccato of his heart steadied into smooth calmness. Then he opened his eyes, and went to find Varys.

Jaime Lannister sat chained in his cell with his arms pulled back behind him, head bowed and breathing shallowly through his nose. His injuries had not been tended to, and the smell of urine wafted up from his clothing.

At the sound of a click of a latch, he looked up. But the iron door was still closed, still acting as the best guard against the Red Keep's prisoner. Blearily, Jaime looked around, muttering under his breath a question of whether he was truly going as insane as he felt. It was then that he seemed to hear the faint footsteps from his right. A wince crossing his expression as his neck twitched, Jaime turned his head, mouth opened no doubt to make a smart quip, when he saw who it was. His glassy green eyes widened with recognition.

"What are you doing here?" Jaime asked in shock.

Jon's face was twisted into a grim smile. "What else? I'm here to advert the war you're going to start."

A/n: Surprise! An update before Winds of Winter. On the other hand, I did say I would update 'next year' and since it's nearing the end of 2016 even with no Book Six in sight, you guys deserved it. Sorry that the quality of the second half went down, but I wanted to get this out. Merry Christmas everyone!

p.s. Bran's basically honest with Jon, but he's a boy who has a lot of curiosity and he does make his reasoning for eavesdropping sound a lot better than it actually is. I'm just putting it out there that what a character says to Jon is not automatically what they actually did, even if they love him. Also, I know the Bran overhearing thing seems a bit coincidental, but Varys would have eventually told Jon about Tywin's letter anyway, so I did it this way for the sake of story flow.