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Chapter 61
Robb Stark
Examine.
"Thank ye, yer grace!" A man spoke through his tears. "Thank ye!"
Focus.
"My son!" A woman cried. "You saved my son!"
Heal.
A child giggled at the sight of the healing white leg, his mother's moans of pain ceasing in favor of the soothing light side.
Repeat.
After a few hours of tending to what he called the sick bay, Robb washed his hands off the blood and grime, ignoring the heat of the boiled water.
The great walls of Harrenhall were pertinent behind him, with white roots intersecting through black and white stone, it made for a very mystical sight.
"They speak your name with reverence." Daemon Waters blew a breath into an errant strand of hair, staring at the gaggle of men and women chanting his name behind a wall of Green Men. "Your healing light… it is something remarkable. I do not think I can muster the same."
"Force Healing has requirements that are more sentimental than power based." Robb looked back to Daemon from his crouch, an almost invisible smile on his face. "One should simply have the compassion necessary to reach out."
Robb infinitely enjoyed the prospect of healing others, and usually, it is not something that can be done in such scale or frequency no matter one's skill, as it uses ones own lifeforce. But with his new knowledge and bond, Robb is able to borrow said lifeforce from the weirwood network, straining for his will, but only a drop in the ocean compared to millions of roots crisscrossing across a continent.
It is a fly in the ointment that he does this more for propaganda reasons rather than altruistic ones, but he doesn't think people who had their lives or their loved one's saved would care one bit.
Plus, it was a necessary measure. Westerosi people would surely suspect magic rather than celebrate a miracle, so their ill will must be curbed before it even begins.
"Easier said than done…" Daemon smiled, then looked up at the sky. "It is close to midday; I wager you must get ready."
Robb stood up, slapping away the dirt from his trousers.
"Men to judge, then."
*-*-*
Jaime Lannister
Jaime Lannister moved in silence, the windowless cell wrapping him in dim stillness. The air smelled faintly of sap, a strange, pleasant note in the stale stone chamber.
His feet slid and pivoted across the stone, arms cutting empty air in sweeping guards and sharp counters. Between sets, he sank into deep squats, held his body rigid in planks, and drove his fists against the wall to strain every tendon.
Ever since whatever happened to this castle did, Jaime knew something was coming. Ever since the earth shifted and quaked, his usual rowdy guards changed with those queer men with the wooden antlers tied to their crowns and green robes hiding their armor.
He could only see them once he stuck his face to his bars, standing at the head of the tunnel leading to his quarters and turning their backs to him. They made no noise, reacted to no provocation, and only moved to change shifts or give him his food.
Something was happening, he felt it in his bones.
So, he spent his waking moment preparing for whatever came, perhaps another escape attempt is underway, or his father will attack the castle, but Jaime knew his family would not give up on him, that they would try to help him escape captivity. As Tyrion did in Riverrun.
All he has to do was prepare. Last time, if only he was a bit stronger, faster, closer to peak form, and lacked injury. He would have been able to strike his way out, escape from his prison, and-….
And see his family again.
Bootsteps scraped.
Jaime froze, breath heavy, and dropped to his cot.
A tattered cloak fell over his shoulders, hiding the tension in his frame. The sap-scent clung to him, mingling with dust, as he feigned restless sleep while the sound drew closer.
He heard the jingle of keys, and for the first time since he arrived in this damned place, the doors of his cell open.
The Green Man said nothing as he unlocked the cell, just gave Jaime a curt gesture with his head before turning on his heel. Jaime followed, half-expecting a sword to fall on his neck the moment he stepped out, but instead he was led through winding corridors that no longer stank of mold and rot.
The air smelled alive, sweet with sap and something sharper, like cold stone after rain. When the doors of the hall opened, Jaime froze mid-step. Harrenhall—ruined, blackened Harrenhall—was no ruin at all.
White roots as thick as warhorses wound through towers, their crimson veins pulsing faintly, knitting shattered walls into something whole again. Limestone gleamed against charred stone like scars made into marble, and above, the great hall's roof was no longer gaping sky but living wood, branches glowing faintly with soft light. For once, Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, found no words. He just stood there, slack-jawed, as if the cursed keep itself had risen from its grave to mock everything he thought he knew about the world.
The Green Man's hand was heavy on Jaime's shoulder as he was steered through the vast corridors. Every step echoed strangely in the living halls, stone and root humming together like some great heartbeat. He tried to keep his chin high, but it was hard not to gawk at the pale wood twisting up the walls and the way faint red light bled through them like veins.
The first jeers came when they reached the great hall doors. A gaggle of Riverlords and their sworn men stood waiting, their laughter sharp and cruel. "Kingslayer!" one spat, and another mimed stabbing his back, drawing chuckles from those gathered. Jaime clenched his jaw, forcing himself not to rise to it. Shackles jingling at his wrists betrayed him anyway.
The doors swung open, and the throne room yawned before him. It wasn't like the Iron Throne, jagged and cruel—no, this was worse. Roots had burst from the floor, white and coiling, wrapping into a towering shape that rose like a tree carved into a chair. Its bark glowed faintly in the dim light, the veins of crimson running through it pulsing like blood.
The courtiers lined the sides, jeering louder now that he was on display. Jaime forced his stride steady, eyes forward, though he caught glimpses of familiar faces—lords who wanted him dead, men who saw him as nothing more than a prize to mock. The noise washed over him, ugly and eager, like wolves circling a crippled stag.
And then his eyes found Robb Stark. The boy sat upon the weirwood throne as though he had been born there, back straight, Ice resting lazily by his side. The hall's pale glow caught the hard lines of his face, the set of his jaw, and the haughty look he gave down at Jaime.
It was that same cursed stare, the judgemental gaze of men who did not know.
'Yet he does.' His mind screamed at him, remembering that dreaded meeting.
Jaime crushed those thoughts in their infancy. His gaze—tunnel focused on the throne, had finally widened to cover the rest.
He stared at the two girls at Catelyn Stark's side, and his blood ran cold.
Sansa and Arya. The little wolf bitches, alive and guarded. Jaime felt his stomach drop as the pieces slid together in his head—Robb had them, and with them every ounce of leverage Jaime might have hoped for was gone.
'Cersei…' he thought, his jaw tightening.
Gods-damned, stupid, short-sighted Cersei. If she had held them, if she had kept her claws on the Stark girls, he wouldn't be standing here like a lamb about to be bled.
For a heartbeat, panic surged—sharp, breathless, the taste of iron at the back of his tongue. But then he forced it down, the way he always had. Panic was for squires and green boys, not for Jaime Lannister. Not for the Kingslayer.
If this was to be the end, then he would not crawl to it. He straightened his back, let his golden hair fall from his eyes, and met Robb Stark's stare head-on. The boy looked down at him with that cold, haughty gaze, and Jaime answered it with steel in his own.
Or, he tried.