Around the same time...
Jaime was lying on his bed, having retired early from the festivities but he had not done so alone. After naming Brienne a knight, officially, the two of them went for a walk and eventually chose to retreat into his chambers.
One thing brought the other, the small talk led to a spontaneous kiss and eventually, the two of them took it to bed. Usually, Jaime would not be a man to disrespect a woman by taking her maidenhood outside of marriage but Brienne had insisted.
Now that she was a knight, sworn to protect Sansa until her last breath; she was not going to get married and thus she would not sleep with a man. Perhaps that was what had reassured him or the feeling of him actually wishing to sleep with the woman he had started to truly harbour feelings for...
Feelings that were different from the ones he once had for Cersei. Those feelings had long been gone, as did any sexual interest he had for his twin.
Now, he was on his back and Brienne was asleep on his chest. The flames in the fireplace were alive and bright, keeping the room warm as did the warmth coming from the warm springs beneath the castle.
His good hand was wrapped around her upper back, keeping her close and his green eyes lazily looked ahead; unable to fully sleep but he could slowly feel his body relaxing and so was his mind.
The familiar song of Castamere reached all the way to his chambers and he felt the need to scoff upon listening to it. It felt like an ironic thing to happen, a shadowy reminder of his proud Father who would have his other hand cut off if he were to find out that he slept with Brienne.
It did threaten to ruin his good mood and he tried his hardest not to think of the Old Lion, who could never truly be happy for his son. He tried to mute those thoughts but his lips moved on their own accord as he slowly whispered the lyrics to that damned song he had heard so often, one would even question whether he would ever be lucky enough to forget it.
At the other side of Winterfell...
Trystan sat on a wooden crate along with the Free Folk and some young sons of Northern Lords. They had all taken their drinks outside around a small fire since the Great Hall was becoming too overcrowded.
The Half-Lion had also wished to leave, for he knew if he were to stay he would not be able to stop sending looks at Sansa. It was too risky now and he did not wish to make her uncomfortable or put her into a tough position, so he had chosen to leave first.
Much to his luck, Tormund had spotted him and forced him to join them.
Ygritte had long left with Jon for his chambers and the Free Folk leader wanted company, while also refusing to let the Half-Lion retreat into his chambers and try to read a book or get some early sleep.
He remained silent, hearing their stories and Tormund's jokes that made him crack a smile here and there. If someone had told his younger self that he would feel more at home surrounded by Northerners and Free Folk from beyond the Wall, he would not have believed them.
Yet, here he was slowly getting to know them better. Even some Northern Lords seemed to appreciate his presence, especially after seeing him sparring with their sons or hanging around with them; being nothing but a respectful young lad.
Eventually, the Castamere song reached them and Trystan pulled a face at the haunting but familiar tone. Because of his reaction and the favouritism of the song, his companions asked him the story behind it.
So, he summarized what inspired such a song and how the cruelty of his Father somehow became the most popular thing soldiers sang the night before the big battle.
"...that is some new level cruelty..." Tormund commented as he sat next to the Half-Lion. "I have seen that old man of yours. With that face, I am not even surprised he acted that way."
Trystan pressed his lips until they formed a thin line.
"Try being his heir," he said and let out a heavy sigh, golden-flecked green eyes staring into the fire. "Now those are some big shoes to fill..." he saw that a few people were confused by his words. "When he passes, I will become the next Head of our Family. It will be up to me to keep our House name at the top and match what my Father did before me."
Although he would never be as cruel as to kill innocents by drowning them, Trystan knew that he would have to put his foot down or else risk becoming a second Laughing Lion like his grandfather.
Yet, the Half-Lion did not truly wish to become someone like his Father but neither his Grandfather. Something he had trouble believing sometimes when he would look himself in the mirror and all he could see was a younger version of his Father; something that many had told him as well.
He tapped his fingers against his thigh at the rhythm of the song. No matter how much he had grown tired of it, the words were imprinted into his mind because it was what truly made them the sons of the Ruthless Lion of Casterly Rock.
On top of the Western Wall, Winterfell - At the same time
Visenya had spent quite some time just standing there, watching over the walls at the camps spread unevenly around the castle. The red banners with the Golden Lannister Lion were the ones closer to her.
Her gaze was distant, her mind preoccupied with a lot of things while in the background she could hear the men singing and enjoying their last night. Something about them coming closer, even if it was for a single night was an interesting but also reassuring sight for her.
She was dressed in her usual riding/sparring clothes and had ditched the usual furred cape she wore. She did not truly find a reason for it and she did enjoy feeling the faint cold wind against her cheek.
She was not cold; rather she was normal; by her standards. Sure, she was not the same hot she felt in King's Landing but she was not shivering or feeling the need to dress warmly. Something about the very faint feeling of the cold wind and the melting of the snowflakes against her clothes soothed her, a reminder of the beauty existing around her and offering her a unique sensation she knew she would never be able to repeat.
After she had gotten the sword from Bran, she had given it to Trystan. Her son was hesitant to accept it but then took it with honour, promising to make his ancestors proud by wielding it in battle.
Valyrian steel, after all, was also lethal for the undead.
That revelation was what led Visenya to her next decision and that was to give some of her daggers to those that truly mattered to her.
She gave Oberyn the dagger of Arrax like she had given him for his fight with the Mountain. It only felt right that the god of law and justice was to be given to him after he spent all those years planning and waiting to get justice for his sister.
To Kevan, she gave the dagger of Caraxes, the God of the Sea. Her good-brother was always one who enjoyed the sea and travels, ironically, and he was one of the few Lannisters that truly needed the sea by their side.
One might say that he was the influence on Jaime and mayhap had also been the man that showed him the secret path to climb the cliff to Casterly Rock, allowing the young Lion cub to jump into the sea and then return home without anyone seeing him.
One of her daggers had gone to Tyrion as well, specifically the dagger of Syrax. Perhaps that was the most fitting of all since that was the God of wine, parties, drunkenness, and ecstasy; to name a few.
For Daenerys, she gifted her the dagger of Meraxes, Goddess of the Sky; a representation of how she got the skies with her dragons; being the first to do so after so many years.
She was not even going to ask for them back after the battle was over, for she felt there was no reason for it. Somehow, she felt those daggers were eventually meant for them to have.
She could still remember when she first had them made, for a sacrifice had to be given for them to be created. She had cut her hand and had given quite a bit of blood for their creation, for she refused to personally offer sacrifices like it was usually asked.
If she was anyone else, it would not work but she had the Blood of the Dragon as the Warlocks at Qarth had told her. Valyrian magic was running through her veins, the marking on her chest was proof that she was not like most of her family.
Her blood had been the key to making those daggers, although one might question the amount she gave for them. All one would ever know of it, were the scars she bore where blood had been drawn; a permanent faint reminder of what she had done. Yet, those blades had been her companions across the years and had served her faithfully.
They protected her when she needed them the most and now it was their turn to protect her loved ones from impending doom. It was not certain it would make a big difference but she knew she would fight better, with the knowledge that her loved ones had a second weapon on them; in case their dragonglass one could not help them anymore.
Her focus went to the present as the soldiers changed the song and chose to sing The Rains of Castamere instead. She could not help but smile faintly at the familiar song that she had long memorized, even before she married Tywin.
She mumbled the lyrics along with them, rather quietly like a prayer but she knew them all too well. Her hands kept stabilizing her body, naked palms pressed into the snow in front of her.
Yet, by now the snow around and beneath her hands had long melted and her skin was touching the cold stone of the castle wall. The heat from her body seemed to work against the snow for even the snowflakes landing on her did not survive for long, for they melted rather quickly and slowly made her clothes wetter and wetter.
Tywin climbed up the wooden steps one by one, always confident and with not a single rush behind his actions. He had avoided the celebrations altogether and had rather spent his time looking for his wife, who had also chosen not to be present anywhere.
He did not bother searching for any of his sons, choosing not to ruin his mood by seeing what kind of company they had chosen to surround themselves with. After the battle would be over, they would all return to King's Landing and all of this would long be forgotten.
He heard the familiar song reaching his ears, his soldiers singing it with pride; a sign that they also took pride in carrying the Lannister Lion on their banners, armours, and shields. They always did and not a day passed without proving it to others.
He did not react to it but instead focused on his target, finally finding her on top of the wall. She seemed to have a preference for tall isolated places, one that he had never understood even after all those years.
Golden-flecked emerald eyes fell on her form, once again seeing her dressed in thin clothing and not the proper warm ones she should have.
He did not really care if she was unbothered by the cold, for there was no room for games or unnecessary risks.
As he approached, he noticed the melted snow around her hands; arching a single eyebrow at the sight but did not question it. He had seen enough supernatural things and he was not going to start thinking about them now, there was no need.
Her voice singing with the soldiers reached his ears as he closed the distance between them, although the tone was rather low. Visenya did not have the best voice like some other women, for she had never bothered working on it.
She had exchanged the embroidery needle for a sword, and the poetry books for history ones. She had never taken an interest in singing but rather in how to deliver a good speech to her army before a big battle.
She had done the opposite of any other woman of her status and had favoured skills that eventually proved to be her strongest weapon in her arsenal. Even then, her voice was not horrible compared to some others but it was untrained.
He came to a halt by her side and took off his warm heavy cape before wrapping it around her shoulders, a move he had done all those years ago in Casterly Rock; as ironic as that sounded.
Unlike her, he wore warmer and thicker clothes that allowed him not to feel the cold; whether he wore that fur cape or not.
The gentle and passively caring move made her focus from the endless tents spread across the winter plains to him. She offered him a soft smile as her hands moved to grab and position it better across her shoulders.
"Thank you," she said, feeling a sense of déjà vu and for a moment she thought they were back at Casterly Rock all those years ago. "There is no need. I am fine."
He stood next to her, hands by his sides and eyes gazing forward as the song came to an end.
"I know you are but there is no reason to chase your luck, more than you already have," he said in a slightly stern but caring way.
She rolled her eyes faintly and her attention went to the tents and the soldiers once again.
"It is almost time," she said, a little bit unclear if she was talking to herself or also to him.
He glanced at her from the corner of his eyes.
"It is not too late to change your position. You can still remain with the others by the underground tunnels."
She kept that smile upon her lips, her gaze soft as she turned her head faintly to look at him better.
"I know but I will not. You should know by now, I am not a woman that watches as her men fight on the front lines."
Tywin let out an audible sigh but she could see the amusement on his face.
"No, you are not. It was worth a shot in the end."
His little confession amused her, chuckling ever so faintly that she barely made a sound. Yet, the sight was always one Tywin enjoyed and cherished for it was not one he witnessed often.
"It was a good try, my love," she said and she could see the corner of his lips turning upwards faintly, giving her a ghost smirk at being called that by her. "I have something for you... for tomorrow."
She moved her hand and had to bend her knees slightly, to grab the dagger from its place by her thigh; once again wearing the dagger belts she had personally requested to be made and rarely left behind.
She then spun it in her hand once so she could grab the edge of it while the handle was left in the air, for him to take it; which he eventually did.
He arched an eyebrow but observed the dagger, being familiar with all fourteen of them that she possessed. Ironically, his very first glimpse of one was the morning after their wedding; when both used it to draw some blood for the white bed sheets, to prove that the union had been consummated and that Visenya was still a maiden.
His eyes fell on the name engraved on it and he narrowed his eyes, trying to remember what that specific use of High Valyrian letters meant.
She did not help him, for she knew he wanted to test himself and so she watched him.
In the end, he seemed to get it.
"Aegarax," he said and stole her way a quick glance, only to see her nodding her head; a sign that he had read the name right. "Hmmm," he exclaimed. "The Creator of the First Dragon and of every single creature that walked, flew, or swam."
Once their eyes met again, he could see the prideful smile she was giving him. Her eyes seemed to almost shine with a supernatural glow.
"You remember," she said, her gaze soft and passionate.
He scoffed faintly, trying not to get offended.
"I might be getting older, Visenya but my memory is not affected by age," he reminded her, keeping his ghostly smirk on his face.
"No, it is not," she agreed and then her face turned serious once again, a face he had seen when she was talking business. "Keep it with you, at all times. Don't hesitate to use it if things become too hard."
He felt the need to argue, finding no need to use it and would have much preferred if she was the one to keep it on her. Instead, he nodded his head.
"Very well."
The small blade felt odd in his bigger hands, being more used to using a heavy sword but he could still make it work if worse things were ever to come. He held it in one hand and merely turned to face ahead at the endless sea of tents that was spreading as far as their eyes could see with the limited light given to them.
His free hand moved to be placed on top of hers, a very subtle but still sweet move that made her smile faintly.
None said anything else and instead remained where they were for a little while longer.
They stood proud, their chins held high and from afar they looked like the true rulers; like a true Queen and King, even though they never truly carried that title and they knew they never would.