In the fireplace, the letter from Casterly Rock had become a handful of unrecognizable ashes.
But every word of that letter seemed branded into Jaime's mind with a hot iron.
Break his oath again?
His life was a joke that kept repeating itself!
He staggered to his feet and pushed open the door. Cold night air rushed in, but it could not disperse the fire burning in his heart.
He needed an answer.
Or rather, he just needed someone to tell him whether he had truly gone mad.
Without thinking, he headed toward Tyrion's room.
In all of Winterfell, perhaps only the dwarf brother he had always looked down on could understand the absurdity of his situation.
Tyrion's door stood ajar, spilling dim yellow light and the strong smell of wine.
Jaime pushed it open.
Tyrion sat before a disorderly pile of parchment, a wine cup in his hand and his brow furrowed, apparently studying a map of the North.
At the sound, he looked up. When he saw Jaime, a barely perceptible glimmer of understanding crossed his mismatched eyes.
"So late, my dear brother. What brings you here?"
Tyrion swirled the wine in his cup.
"Have you come to share what you've learned from sparring with those Wight Warriors, or have you finally discovered that being a hero isn't quite so entertaining?"
Jaime ignored his mockery. He simply walked over, poured himself a cup of wine, and drained it.
The sharp liquid burned his throat, but did nothing to clear his confused mind.
As Tyrion took in his brother's shattered expression, the smile gradually faded from his face.
Few things could make Jaime Lannister look like this.
"Has Father written?" Tyrion asked tentatively.
Jaime stiffened and said nothing.
But that was enough.
Tyrion sighed inwardly and refilled his own