Game of Thrones: Paladin of Old Gods

POV: Author

Private rooms, holiday estate of House Lannister, Silk Road.

Three days after the events of the Great Melee.

****

The pangs of hunger forced Jaime to open his eyes. It was the fifth or sixth-time voracity had taken over sleep. Never in all his life had the Young Lion felt such a craving for food. They could have served him horse hay or swine feed on the tray, and Jaime would have willingly devoured it all, along with the plump, succulent hands of the servants.

"Feed me! Feed me! Food! What the fuck are you waiting for!" Jaime grumbled to the two attendants near the trays. An elderly voice intruded.

"S-ser Jaime, my lord... Before you eat and go back to sleep, tell me how you feel? Do you feel pain, my lord?" He was some northern maester or in his father's employ.

Jaime rose from that prison of goose feathers and skins and peered at the bald old man adorned with the standard grey tonic and the long chain hanging around his neck, scrutinising him with murderous glances.

"Tired and hungry... 'Hungry' first of all. You have your diagnosis, old man. Now, feed me, you two! That's an order!!!" The two valets snapped, overriding the healer's authority.

A wooden tray was placed and secured on the doors of the canopy. A bowl of broth and a cream of peas were the two usual courses -approved by the healers-to feed the possible dying man.

Jaime disregarded them and gobbled the contents voraciously as if the fate of the Seven Kingdoms depended on that gesture. The hot broth flowed down like water. The flavour of the beef, onions, beets, carrots and various flavoured herbs was a riot of ecstasy. It was the best broth in the world. Then, it was the turn of the cream of peas... The nutmeg, savouriness and creaminess were sublime. The stuffed bowl was empty in less than a minute.

"I want those chicken legs and that ham...! And bring me that bread." The murderous lust for survival had subsided slightly. But it was not enough. The hungry Lion demanded more. Jaime pounced first on the crispy fowl meat. It might not have been chicken but duck, but the jaws and palate didn't give a shit what kind of bird it was.

Jaime devoted all the energy and attention in the world to the food served to him. The maester's face looked sweaty and worried at the unhealthy and disturbing spectacle. The old man seemed reluctant to approach the patient, as if he believed the Lion might maul living flesh nearby.

"M-my lord Jaime... I note that you no longer require assistance in eating. That is good, ser... good indeed. It means you are regaining your strength... P-perhaps..." Jaime ignored the harassing buzz, concentrating on chewing and swallowing that mouthful of white bread and sliced ham faster.

After a couple more futile attempts, the maester approached the edge of the bed, poking his left leg with a wooden chopstick. "Do you hear something, my lord?" Fury took over. No one was to disturb the Lion while he ate!

Jaime sprang to his feet, knocking over skins and victuals and then grabbing the old pest by the collar.

"And do you feel anything if I squeeze here! What if I pull here?" His right hand gripped the mushy shoulder while his left pulled on the chain. "Argh...! No! No, milord! Please!... Coff...!"

Regaining seconds of lucidity, the knight noticed the wrappings and bandages covering his naked body. A gross linen codpiece was wrapped over his private parts, like swaddling bandages for babies who could not shit or pee alone.

Jaime let go of the poor wretch who was only trying to fulfil his duties.

"Don't disturb me while I eat anymore, maester... Do what you must while I sleep. Without waking me." The knight approached the serving table, deciding and serving himself delicacies.

***

Twenty minutes later...

Jaime finished draining an entire jug of milk. Finally, that insatiable sense of emptiness was filled but was soon replaced by exhaustion. The body still demanded rest. Finally, muscles and joints seemed to synchronise with the mind again. The first day Jaime opened his eyes again, he could not control his fingers properly... As if arms, hands and fingers did not belong to him.

'I'm almost healed... I just need to sleep and continue training.' The very thought itself seemed like a contradiction. But not to Jaime. Not for the man who had taken refuge in the world of dreams for more than three nights. The swordsman couldn't wait to re-enter that world.

Without asking anyone's permission, the Lion slumped back into his personal nest of mattress, pillows and furs, falling asleep again.

In the twilight and waking phase, the visions and voices returned.

"Yes... I can"... "I'm sorry, boy. I'm to blame... Hang on still."

That strange warmth remained, and together now, the horrid sound of broken bones and screams. That scratchy feeling inside, the thousand needles that seemed to want to stitch up skin and skinned organs... And that deafening heartbeat. ...Those two unnatural crestfallen eyes stared at him, piercing his skull like searing needles. And that conviction that kept flashing and repeating: {The Dayne Legacy is yours}.

The nightmares were the pawns to be paid to re-enter the land of dreams. Terrifyingly realistic nightmares, but, this time, too, Jaime resisted.

The Young Lion catapulted himself back into the training yard: the training yard of Casterly Rock, the most familiar and safe place of his childhood.

"Pick up the sword." Said the darkened-faced figure in armour, there waiting for his return.

A Jaime clad only in breeches, boots, and tunic obeyed the command.

Jaime tried to ask, "It is you, is it not? I recognise your voice, ser!" before the imminent assault.

The knight-at-arms responded by unsheathing both blunt blades, charging without hesitation.

Jaime defended himself by raising his guard. The two-handed broadsword was not his favourite weapon, but the swordsman tried his best to adapt his fencing style.

In less than five exchanges, Jaime ended up on the ground immediately after suffering an impossible sweep to parry.

"On your feet." The knight did not repeat himself and plunged his blade towards the target. Jaime rolled away and stood up, suffering the second relentless assault of the master swordsman a moment later.

*Clang! Stuff*.... "On your feet!"

*Sskiin, clang, stuff!* "Again!"

... "Again!"

The training continued and continued without any respite, without mercy. What he wanted from the knight Jaime most admired and had been let down... No Mercy.

****

The Lord of Casterly Rock stood and gazed in icy silence at the figure lying on his son's bed. Jaime continued to lie recovering, gripped by sudden short convulsions and muscle spasms.

Tywin squared Maester Lorence with glacial, expectant eyes. After all, the maester had sent for him for 'Glad News', but Jaime's condition seemed unchanged.

"It is not as it seems, my Lord! I assure you that your son, ser Jaime, is on the fast track to recovery! See for yourself..." Maester Lorence displayed the chaotic remains of a table filled with consumed or spilled foodstuffs. Tywin waited impatiently for further polish.

"M-less than two hours ago, ser Jaime stood up to eat! He was strong, full of energy and appetite, my Lord! He... he did not wish to be disturbed. He specifically ordered me not to disturb him during the meal. I h-have witnesses..." The two valets nodded without looking up.

"If my son is on the mend, as you claim, maester... Why does he continue to suffer between fevers and convulsions?" Tywin asked, in the same tone of voice that preludes a death sentence.

"Gulp... A-after careful analysis and findings, I have drawn that those are not common convulsions, my Lord Tywin... Convulsions are accompanied by foam, drool, and possible jaw spasms. But Ser Jaime shows no such symptoms. His breathing, though laboured, is regular." Replied the sweaty, shivering healer.

"And so? What would they be?" Lord Tywin.

"They are... they are 'unusual muscular contractions'. Contractions that, in my humble opinion, help the body stimulate blood flow and tone the muscles. A kind of unconscious exercise or rehabilitation... In fact, more than once, ser Jaime spoke in his sleep. As if gripped by a realistic nightmare or dream for the mind, slurring or quoting actual expressions of...mmm: 'confrontation' if we may say so." Old Lion arched an eyebrow as a sign of incomprehension. Maester Lorence attempted to clarify further.

"I have had a match with my colleagues: Maester Wallick of Castle Cerwyn and Maester Luwin of Winterfell; though very rare, such cases have been found in the citadel's records... Simply put, my Lord, ser Jaime... he... " the maester seemed hesitant to utter the last statement. But his father's inflexible and commanding presence left no choice.

"... Ser Jaime trains in his sleep."

****

The day before. In a private room of a holiday resort not far from the temporary home of House Lannister...

The twelve-year-old representative remained impassive, firm in his iron stance and unwilling to yield in the silent struggle of glances. The air was filled with hostile intent.

Duncan Tallhart broke the silence first.

"Yes. I know of Podrick Lann and the legacy of Valgudryel that House Hightower most fears..."

The veil lifted; it was Leyton who spoke, advancing a step with negligible animosity.

"You seek Brightroar, the scourge of my dynasty. You wish to see the menace of House Lann resurrected, a crime for which you and every member of your House deserve to be legitimately dispelled from history like ashes..." Leyton.

"You speak of 'legitimacy'? I yearn for a possible ally who can counter the most pressing threat to my people, Lord Leyton. I don't care if this ally has armies, resources, fleets, blood of kings, sorcerers or magical artefacts... If he will have the power my people need to survive and have a more prosperous future, why should I feel accused of a possible crime? What right does House Hightower have to make such an accusation, if not the mere power to destroy and annihilate?" Duncan released massive, austere flushes of will. A pressure of resolve and menace that could have cowed even the steadiest of steeds. But the Old Man of Hightower did not allow himself to be intimidated or impressed, advancing further.

"You do not even imagine the magnitude of the powers you are provoking and awakening, boy. The World you do not know will have no mercy on you and all those you care for." The Sorcerer.

"You may be right... But if this World -which I do not yet know- should ever have a problem with me, my lord, it is not because of what I have done so far, but because of What-I-Will-Do." The Paladin.

The Great Wizard of Old Town could not use mind magic to frighten or test the boy further. The ancient bond of protection in the name of the three great powers was uncompromising towards any sort of attack. But the veteran warrior-wizard's instincts pealed not to test the mental will of that Twelve-Year-Old-Calamity-Anomal that the North had spat out of -the Seven only knew- what icy, dark abysses.

Leyton had always had an innate talent for identifying an individual's true potential, and now that the source of all his impending trouble was right in front of him, he knew for sure that Duncan Tallhart might one day become a menace that not even the union of The Watcher and The King in the Yellow could match.

The Old Man lowered the levels of hostility, and the environment slowly changed back to its original state.

"The alliance between the West and the North will not hold. Oldtown will not allow it." Affirmed Leyton in a calmer tone after he sat back down and allowed himself a sip from the cup.

"Perhaps... That is why the North seeks other possible alliances. If the First Men cannot rely on the Lion, the Dragon at the head of a Rhoynars army will be a more viable alternative." Bloody Snow continued, "But, from what I know, Oldtown will not only have to worry about the North over the threat of the Lion's Return... It seems the Titan has also just entered the race to win the friendship and support of Casterly Rock."

"A mere assurance by Braavos to force Oldtown into a more 'advantageous' cooperation for the Iron Bank, nothing more. Braavosians are known for shrewdness and profit-seeking, not recklessness." Leyton replied, not taking the bait.

"An alliance not too reliable for a potential war on a global scale, my lord." Bloody Snow.

"An undoubtedly fragile partnership, should it be only the North to destroy. However, it would become a solid and lasting alliance should the First Men team up with the Rhoynars or Magicians.

Dorne would be a passable nuisance to Oldtown; I do not deny that, but not a threat. The Dornians are famous for their 'Bite and Run' guerrilla strategy over the long haul, strong and resilient as cockroaches in their desert of rock and sand. But in the open field...? The armies of Dorne wouldn't stand a chance on the green plains and hills of the Reach, and unless they wished for a heavy defeat, House Martell wouldn't even dare utter the words 'Siege' and 'Oldtown'.

As for the Magicians... The Confederacy would withstand pressure in the Far East... but the North? Here in Westeros? In the domain of Oldtown and with the presence of the Titan less than three hundred miles from Widow's Head? The Witch-King's armies and fleets would have to get past the Dothraki Khalasars, armies of slavers and mercenaries in our pay, and, at the very least, two thousand Braavosi ships to travel the three thousand miles necessary to give you a firm hand on the battlefield... The wait for your 'vital allies' would be 'long', to say the least, Ser." The Old Man of Oldtown.

"I get the impression that you are overlooking another dangerous and, to say the least, 'underestimated' ally of House Tallhart, Lord Leyton." Duncan.

"Be realistic, boy... Even if, and I say 'if', the North were to succeed in gaining the unlikely full support of the Fourth Organisation, we both know that that order is nearing its twilight. The Spider Queen and The Watcher no longer have long to live, and the foundations of that empire rest on those two indispensable pillars. With Madame Zishua gone, her Vice, Zoldhak No Dua, would barely be able to support a third of the Spider Queen's cloth, and the Nine Demons follow and will only ever answer to one individual: your Wretched-Master... How many years does the Guardian of Love have left to live? Four? Perhaps five?" Leyton.

"You are right..." Duncan turned towards the flames of the fireplace, concealing in time his eyes stained with sadness and regret at the bitter truth. However, seconds later, the voice resumed, "But I was not referring to The Watcher and the Fourth Organisation, my Lord..."

The 12-year-old pronounced the name proudly, "House Stark."

Leyton kept his gaze solid as those iron green eyes with silvery undertones assaulted him with renewed vigour.

"I refer to the power of the dynasty of the Kings of Winter, the descendants of Garth Greenhand's legendary son, Brandon of the Bloody Blade... The Most Powerful, Ancient and Dreaded dynasty among the First Men that Westeros has ever known. The only legacy that the Blood of Andalus has failed to dilute and suppress as it would wish. The only House capable of repelling and halting the Andalus invasion... And we both know, 'Old Man', that it was not only due to the Neck and the impervious climate of these lands, as history would have us remember, that Andals armies, strong in their own steel and ten times as numerous, were decimated again and again by a barbarian herd equipped with furs and bronze." Bloody Snow sang his evil tune and then awaited the spectator's judgement.

"... That power the Starks no longer possess. The dynasty of the Kings of Winter has been buried and frozen for millennia. Torrhen Stark laid the final stone on the tomb of that legacy three centuries ago." Countered The Old Man of Oldtown.

"Everything that can be built can be destroyed. Just as everything that has been buried can be exhumed... Brandon the Builder left a legacy, not just a mound of stone and mortar. As long as Winterfell stands and a Stark king stands there to defend it, the North shall not fall." Bloody Snow.

"A war can never be won by remaining on the defensive. The Starks have no power in the south, and the High Tower rises far above Winterfell. The armies of Winterfell would not even be able to see the green flames of my tower before they were blown away like ashes by the winds of Summer...! I suggest you don't put too much faith in worn-out spells and past prophecies, boy. The High Tower and the Titan now hold the power to bring down and annihilate Brandon's legacy and all the North! And Torrhen's Square would be the first to prove it!" Leyton Hightower.

"You have the power and resources for such a feat, no doubt about it, but not without 'Inestimable Sacrifice'. Why do you think Thorren's Square, Barrowton and Winterfell waited so long before revealing themselves to the World...? Braavos and Oldtown would suffer losses so significant as to dispel millennia of hard-fought and long-suffering hegemony in any punitive invasion.

Ten Andals or any invading foreigners will fall for every First Men able to wield a weapon!

I swear by the name of the Old Gods and by the name of the Three Great Powers, Leyton of the Hightower dynasty, if it is to be Our End, I will ensure that the North has a 'Great End': that it will be remembered until the end of time! Blood will be shed willshall intrigue the Snows of the North until history capitulates and names an entire cycle of seasons as: {The Crimson Winter}!"

The Demon of the North released a murderous aura so icy and filled with bloodlust that it was able to arouse shivers and turgid hairs from the arms to the mouth of the Great Sorcerer's Neck; a war veteran who had experienced the manifestation of the Seven Hells.

Only one other unnameable entity had been capable of this. The name 'Bloody Snow' was not a nickname dictated by chance....

Silence reigned in the hall for over a minute. Then Leyton Hightower resumed speaking.

"There are worse hells than 'Crimson Winter', Duncan Tallhart. If this remains the only path, House Hightower will walk it without looking back..." Promulgated the Protector of the Council Andalus in an authoritative tone but with a look polluted by unwanted resignation.

"Nevertheless, I came to you, the one whom the Council First Men appointed as its representative, in good faith and with the hope of building a different path together."

Bloody Snow replied, in a much more assertive tone: "What else does Council Andalus require to build this path?"

"Only two last demands that, compared to the others, cannot be negotiated..." Leyton continued, "When The Watcher passes away, you are to pick up the duties of the Guardian of Love, sealing your neutrality towards the Known World and its sovereign factions on the same terms accepted by the predecessor..." The boy seemed to expect such a request.

"And the second?"

"... Jaime Lannister."

****

End Chapter.