TALES OF SPRING

Warning: this story contains heavy spoilers for my own Present!Blackfish saga. I suggest that you first read the previous stories first, especially the "Family, Duty, Honour", "What Strange Hell or Heaven" and "The Stark in Winterfell" trilogy, regarding the Brynden/Barristan developments.

Timeline of my Present!Blackfish - Future!Blackfish stories (AFFC-ADWD timeline):
- MOURNING, posted
- ALLEGIANCE, posted
- FAITH, posted
- FAMILY, DUTY, HONOUR, posted
- WHAT STRANGE HELL OR HEAVEN, posted
- THE STARK IN WINTERFELL, posted

- TALES OF SPRING, posted

The first structure that opened in the village outside the ruins of Winterfell was, as often happens, a tavern. Mere hours after the joint forces of Daenerys Targaryen and the North had routed Bolton's army from the castle, weary soldiers were able to find a warm fireplace, decent food and excellent drink. The supposedly ruined crypts of Winterfell had provided a good hiding place for many. The innkeeper had quickly shored up the burned remains of his old inn, painted a hasty name on a wooden board - "The Three Dragons" - and opened the premises.

A few days later, the place looked even better to Jaime Lannister's tired eyes. Grateful patrons had provided it with a more luxurious sign, each dragon painted in shiny black, green and white. Long benches and tables bustled with people returning home and retelling without pause how Daenerys' "children" had been spectacular executioners for the enemies of the Starks.

Jaime, however, was alone, and feeling empty.

Bringing Sansa Stark to the North had been harrowing. He still had no news of Brienne, who had remained behind to cover their escape, instead of the other way around as it should have been. He still hoped she would turn up. His sister Cersei was lost to him too; maybe she had survived the Second Sack of King's Landing, but he doubted she would look for him. He prayed she had saved Tommen; Myrcella was somewhere in Dorne. And his brother Tyrion, bless him, seemed to have found his calling in the East.

He entered the tavern, and no heads turned. He wore common travelling clothes. His blond hair did not stand out among all those soldiers from all parts of Westeros and beyond. Nothing marked him as a Lannister anymore. As for his missing hand, some patrons missed half of their body and celebrated with the other half.

Jaime was not sure where he stood. There had been endless talks, with the Queen, with Sansa, with the Northern lords, his life hanging by a thread. Finally Sansa had managed to convince everyone that Jaime had done good by her and kept his promise to her mother, the late Lady Catelyn. The other surviving Stark siblings were still missing, but Daenerys had promised she would spare no effort to find them. Ages ago, Jaime had thrown Sansa's little brother out of a window, crippling him; now the older sister, aware of this, had saved his life. Damn Starks. A Lannister could never hope to understand them.

So Jaime had been pardoned, if not officially. Nobody had condemned him, but nobody had told him what he could or should do, either. He was not a Kingsguard anymore. He had nobody to come back to. He supposed he was Lord of Casterly Rock... was he? Daenerys had been too busy to work out his current status. Sansa was awkwardly grateful to him and hinted at employing him to restore Winterfell's garrison. But he supposed he would go South. Sooner or later.

One table towards the back of the packed tavern was half-empty. Jaime made his way there. Then he realized that probably people did not want to get too close to the grim figure sitting at the end of the bench in the corner.

Jaime's lips tightened. He was tired of confrontations. Still, this one made him curious. Sometimes lions are nothing more than big cats. He sat down in front of the dark-garbed man and waited.

It could have been just a common drunk, fingers curled loosely around a flagon's handle, forehead resting on the other hand, shaggy grey hair hanging over his face. When he looked up, however, a beam of blue from his eyes pinned Jaime where he was.

"Blackfish," Jaime greeted him, before Brynden Tully could taunt him with his customary "Kingslayer".

But the Blackfish said nothing. He looked at him with utter lack of interest, then bent his face again to stare into the depths of his flagon.

Jaime knew the older man had been badly injured in his fight with Barristan Selmy. It had been less than a fortnight before, and the maesters had despaired to save him. Yet here he was, up and about. And that rumour among the bravest soldiers who dared mention her name - Lady Stoneheart was no more, and if Lady Stoneheart had been once Catelyn Tully-Stark, who could have ended her unholy life?...

"You should be in bed," Jaime pointed out.

No answer.

"Possibly with some Northern warrior lady, from what I hear. By the gods, that was a surprise. I thought..."

This time only one blue eye peeked out from the silver strands, but if looks could kill, Jaime Lannister would have turned to ashes.

Jaime tried a different approach. He nodded at the flagon. "Good stuff?"

No answer.

Undeterred, the younger man raised his left hand. "Innkeeper! I'll have what he's having."

After a while, a full flagon made its way to Jaime through the bustle. He expected small beer - the Blackfish had never looked like a man of unruly appetites - but it was strong mead, herb-flavoured. Jaime took a sip and his eyes almost popped. "Seven hells," he swore hoarsely. "How much of this have you downed?"

No answer.

Jaime took the flagon from Brynden's unresponsive hand. It was empty.

"The Blackfish would be quite stupid to kill himself with mead, after surviving so many hardships," Jaime commented casually.

The word "stupid" came through. Brynden lifted his head, pushing his hair back to reveal in full his gaunt shaven cheeks and the deathly tiredness in his gaze. He was sombrely dressed and well-groomed, his black trout pin shone on his shoulder, and nobody called him stupid without consequences. He lifted his arm and snapped his fingers, never taking his eyes from Jaime. The tavern boy was there in a flash, and Brynden's empty flagon turned into a full flagon.

"Oh well, then." Jaime grinned. Daring death, he touched Brynden's flagon with his own. The Blackfish did not kill him, and they both drank.

Brynden brought his flagon down fast on the table, and some mead slopped over. Thoughtfully he ran his finger around the rim and wiped it with the other hand. "You brought Sansa back," he said finally in a low rough voice, engrossed in his fussing. That was probably the only reason he had not killed Jaime on sight.

"As I had sworn. Arya Stark has vanished without a trace... the rumours that she married Ramsay Bolton are untrue, luckily."

The Blackfish showed his teeth in distaste. "Some say she was bound for Braavos. They'll find her."

"You might discover she's very changed. The last time I saw her, and it was a long time ago, she was learning to fight with a sword."

Brynden's lips curved up dangerously. "Good." He drank some more, and Jaime felt compelled to do the same. A column of fire shot down and blossomed into his stomach.

"Aye, she'll be changed," Brynden went on. "Last time I saw her, she was a baby." Some warmth crept into his eyes. "She looked like her father. Sansa was older, and was..." The warmth disappeared.

Sansa was the spitting image of Catelyn, Jaime knew. He had seen Lady Stoneheart only from a distance, and she did have the last word with him; that vision would haunt his nights forever. But who had Brynden really killed? The undead monster who had decimated the Lannisters, or a beloved niece the older man had never forgotten?

The Blackfish let his hair hang over his face again. He locked both hands around the flagon. "Why are you here," he said.

"Negotiations are deadly dull," Jaime replied, emboldened by the scorching mead. He had waited to say that for a long time. "I wanted to see the man who beat Barristan Selmy and won freedom for the North."

Brynden leaned back against the wall, looking Jaime up and down with a sick humour. So he remembered his own words, on the drawbridge at Riverrun, during the siege. "And I would still welcome the chance to kill you, Kingslayer. You always disappoint."

Rage grew within Jaime. "I brought Sansa back!" he exclaimed.

Brynden's eyes were dull flint. "Just a few moments too late."

"Your own sentries held us up!"

"Feeble excuses, again."

"Are you looking for someone to blame, Tully?" Jaime took a swig of mead. It blazed within his chest, but he was getting really angry. "Look closer than me. Are you sure you were speaking for Sansa Stark when you tried to stop Daenerys?"

"I was speaking for King Robb Stark."

"Robb was very different from Sansa. Also, he's dead. Why don't you ask her? She's here. Thanks to me, incidentally. Ask her if she would have sanctioned the sacrifice of the whole North - or even of one man in single combat - on a point of honour."

Brynden drank with his eyes closed. "You still have no idea what honour is," he said at last.

"Have you? What about your conscience, Blackfish?"

"You have some gall to talk about conscience, Kingslayer."

"That's not an answer."

The flagon's bottom hit the table, sounding like they had another casualty on their hands. This time the boy did not even wait for the Blackfish to snap his fingers. Jaime hastily ordered too, and tried to finish his first one in one bout. He did not make it. Sweat began to form along his hairline. By the Warrior, that damn Tully was drinking him under the table, and he looked cool as a trout. Cool as a trout. Soon you'll be making jokes about trebuchets if you don't stop this. Let him kill himself and go back to Casterly Rock with the first convoy. Go home, Kingslayer. You've done enough.

Brynden watched as Jaime spluttered and looked blearily at his two flagons. He waited patiently for the younger man to finish the first one. He let him catch his breath. Then he leaned towards him, touched flagons with Jaime's full one and smiled. This time Jaime felt a shiver of real fear. He drank quickly to chase it away.

Brynden drank leisurely and leaned back again, looking like the most satisfied man in the world. "You know what," he said, very clearly. His naturally smoky voice was not that of a drunk man. "I shall do exactly this. I shall ask Sansa whether Barristan truly needed to die. And I am sure she will answer No. Direct as her mother, that one is. She knows I do not want anyone to spare my feelings. I shall carry this knowledge to my grave. I pray the gods to give me a long life yet, so I shall pay for what I have done with every single day of it." His eyes bore into Jaime's for a few breaths more, then returned to his abysses of mead.

Jaime had much less control over his own voice. His head seemed clear, actually clearer than it had ever been, but he felt as though his tongue had grown fur. "I think," he began slowly, looking for a surer footing, "I think you just like being better than anybody else."

The Blackfish frowned, in a bizarre amused way. He leaned forward with his elbows on the table and asked calmly: "What the hell are you talking about?"

Jaime nodded assuredly. Now he felt in complete control of the situation. He swallowed another mouthful of molten lava. "The things you've done - the bad things - are so heavy. Heavier with every passing day. Every passing year. You sh- shoulder them. Sooo bravely. You ASK to be punished for them. So the rest of the world will know how valiant and noble you are." He grinned his best Lannister grin. Let us show this laughing Tully bastard how WE smile. "But sometimes you just embrace it. People think you're an asshole for what you've done? Very well. Prove them right. Be an asshole for the rest of your fucking life."

He suspected he had said too much. The older man looked straight into his eyes, but Jaime could not focus on him. He was past caring whether it was Brynden or his own sight that swayed. Brynden drank again, then said abruptly "I need to take a piss." He got up with remarkable elegance for one who had downed several flagons of hard mead, and strode away through the crowd.

Jaime leaned on the table. What remained of his second flagon was both inviting and revolting. He rubbed his stubbly face, then ran his fingers through his short blond hair. He was not used to getting drunk; Cersei had not liked it - too much like her husband Robert, she said - and it looked bad in the Kingsguard. Now he also remembered he was a sad drunk.

Cersei.

Ghosts from all sides besieged him. She might be still alive, but he knew the truth. It was better for both, even though it hurt more than losing his hand. He thought of Brienne, possibly dead. He thought of Sansa, fierce little thing, twenty years younger than him. He thought about his children - Joffrey dead, Myrcella and Tommen lost - and himself as a father, an incestuous one but still a father, never able to enjoy fatherhood, to feel pride for them, to show how much he loved them, to mourn them...

He dashed tears from his eyes, angrily. He took another swig of something that tasted like nothing and just sent his brain reeling so fast the bad thoughts spun away. This time he did sway. There was no wall behind him, and he barely avoided the indignity of toppling backwards.

He leaned over the table, covering his lower face, and let the tears spill out and drench his fingers. He did not care who was watching.

As long as it is not the fucking Blackfish.

When the tears had taken the edge off his sorrow, Jaime felt more like himself. He was not able to tell the time, but the candle amidst the group of revellers nearby had almost burned itself out, and they were asking the innkeeper for another one. Jaime thought the old man was taking a very long time to make water.

Who cared? If Tully passed out, if he was sick, he was surely able to get back on his feet. He was the legendary indestructible Blackfish, after all. Otherwise, Jaime would just be glad if those fucking Northerners found him dead the next day, drowned in his own vomit.

He finished his mead. No reason to leave it for someone else. He stood, walked unnoticed through the crowd - maybe he supported himself on a shoulder or two with his good hand - and reached the innkeeper. He was reasonably sure he had consumed two flagons, and the boy supported his claim. The innkeeper did not mention the Blackfish's bill. Jaime paid for himself and went out.

The cold air helped revive him. Night had fallen. The ruins of Winterfell above him shone with new lights. I was not responsible for this destruction. By now they know I was not responsible for the Red Wedding. And I brought back the lady of the castle, to rekindle the fires of home. What else do they want from me?

Jaime stumbled behind the inn to empty his own bladder. As he came back, with one less ache but the same old sorrows, he noticed the lone figure sitting on an outcrop of rock, looking South.

The Blackfish sat with his cloak drawn about him. He did not react when the younger man sat beside him.

"Hoped you were dead," Jaime said. His head was beginning to ache.

Brynden did not turn. "What. Do. You. Want."

It occurred to Jaime suddenly. "It's not really about you," he mused, staring at the snowy plains under the moon. "I met you once as a squire. You won't remember."

"I do."

"Do you?" Jaime felt unreasonably proud. "You told such tales."

Brynden shot him a glance. "They did not do you much good."

"So I think back and feel that maybe it was the happiest time of my life." He was rambling. "I miss that time. Memories hurt."

"Says the one who could be my son."

"Those were my spring days," Jaime went on, undeterred. "I loved a girl who loved me back." He swallowed tears. The Blackfish chose not to point out that the girl was his twin sister. "I was not a Kingslayer yet. I was content to sit there and listen to you."

Brynden nodded slowly. Jaime could not see his face, but the older man's eyes glinted in the reflected moonlight upon the snow.

"So those days were real," Jaime said. "I haven't made them up, have I?"

Brynden shrugged, lost in recollecting what that time had meant to him. "More real than anything that came after. That's the trick of the past."

Jaime remained in silence for a while, wondering whether the Blackfish was just rambling to shut him up, or if there was some deep wisdom in his words. He was supposed to be the wise one, the clever one.

Clever.

"How in seven hells did you escape Riverrun, anyway?" Jaime burst out.

This time the Blackfish threw back his head and laughed, a full-throated Tully laugh.

"What's so funny?" Jaime asked, miffed.

"Everything."

Probably they were getting cold to their bones and could not feel it because of the mead. They would feel it the next morning, all right. "Rumours say you just swam out," Jaime insisted.

"Aaaah." Brynden drew a deep breath of Northern air. "You think it's that easy? The waters around Riverrun are deep, so deep that if you lower a jar of ale to the bottom with a very long rope you get it back icy cold, just right for the dinner table - unless you find the rope has snapped and something is munching on your jar. A large sturgeon or carp, or the dreaded catfish that sinks boats... or something else. Do you seriously believe I took that chance?"

"You tell me."

Brynden leaned towards Jaime with a menacing grin in his voice. "My ancestors built the castle well. Even ships with deep keels can come and go, our great ships that patrol the deep waters of the Trident. Your men were guarding the doors, of course, but could not notice one portcullis, just one, way back inside the Water Gate, being pulled up a couple of feet - we kept our chains well-oiled, and the night was as silent as a grave. I've swum those waters since I was three summers old, lad, to and fro and up and down..."

Jaime had made it. He had baited the Blackfish into telling him one more tale. Back then he had been just a newly-made squire, a boy in love, and everything was in front of him. Now there was nothing.

Or everything once again.

"So I strapped my sword tight to my back, took a handful of deep breaths and plunged into the cold dark water. As I swam I perceived the light of the torches recede behind me. I had to hold on to the bars for the last few feet. At last I felt the muddy spikes, and with one last effort pushed myself underneath without snagging my sword belt into them. Can you imagine such a ludicrous death? My lifeless body hanging from the spikes as your men pulled it up? Nay, not I. But even when I was on the other side, I had the rest of the way up to go. I climbed through water, wondering whether my breath would last..."

Jaime nodded to himself and smiled ruefully. He had not baited the Blackfish into anything. The accursed old man was enjoying the yarn, embroidering it for all it was worth.

Right then it suited Jaime just fine.

THE END