At times like these, Jaime wonders why he didn't ask to be sent to the Night's Watch the second they found him with Aerys' body bleeding out at his feet.

He hates it, the gallantry, having to forcefully put on a front to everyone. He tries to act like he's courageous, like he's a true knight and that someday, perhaps, he could be as deadly as the Sword of the Morning — but Seven's sake, he'd never be as great as Arthur Dayne ever was.

Because Cersei, once again, begs and pleads for him to put on his best face of kindness when the wolves find out their son 'mysteriously' fell whilst climbing an old tower. Poor boy, broken and asleep, and still alive in the very end, what a curse and a miracle at the same time.

Jaime doesn't say anything at first, because he's quite aware of the wolf sleeping at your feet, far larger than a dog, and he's not sure if it belongs to you or one of Ned's children. You're one of them, of course you'd have one of those beasts.

Then, he takes a deep breath, steels on his best face and strides inside the room, feeling the warmth from the hearth and the hot waters that, miraculously, ran inside Winterfell's walls.

"My apologies if I'm interrupting," He starts, his lips twisting up in a smile before dropping back down. "I just wanted to give my condolences and best of wishes to little Brandon. A terrible thing what happened to him, isn't it?"