#perhaps a mild slay but hardly a murder

[dreadwulf]

Burning Down the House

(Ring of Fire part 4)

** part one ** part two ** part three **

There are multiple candidates for worst day of Jaime Lannister’s life. It is a competitive field. 

There is the day his mother died. The day he lost his right hand - and several days after that, which were all equally awful. The day he barely remembers when he and Cersei had so horrified their mother that she had separated them forever and he lost both his twin and any good memories of his mother. The day his brother Tyrion murdered their Father. The day Cersei married Robert. The day he slew Aerys and became forever the Kingslayer. 

Despite the crowded field, today is a strong contender.

After destroying Mace Tyrell’s forces the Golden Company has surrounded King’s Landing rather than infiltrate. They are dug in around the city to ensure he will not be able to break them, facing precisely the direction he is arriving. Clearly Tyrion has seen how one siege turned for this city when the Lannister armies arrived, and he has prepared for it. 

Yes, he can recognize his little brother’s fingerprints on this plan. Tyrion has plotted this invasion in full knowledge that Jaime would be his opponent, and he has held nothing back. Even knowing from the first that it would be the case, it still strikes him to the core to see it. Bad enough he had slain Joffrey and his own father, now he is trying to kill all the rest of them too. With a real army, even, where Jaime is certain to meet them in battle. Tyrion has no love left for him then, and he will never get his brother back. This is bitter medicine indeed.

The city gates are held by Targaryen banners, but the Red Keep still flies the colors of Tommen Baratheon, first of his name. That is Jaime’s one hope, that they are not yet invading the Keep. The best he can hope for is to save his sister and son from the headsman, by somehow rescuing them from a captured city surrounded by enemy troops.

Never before has Jaime Lannister looked out on a battlefield and known that he is going to lose. He has lost once before, but he had not looked upon the Whispering Wood and known he would be beaten and captured on top of it. He had been confident in their victory that day right to the bitter end.

Perhaps Robb Stark has taught him what that looks like. Defeat. When they crest the last rise before King’s Landing Jaime sees it spread out before him. It’s in the enemy’s position on the field, their greater numbers, the time he cannot spend to formulate an optimal attack formation when they might at any moment turn and sack the Red Keep. He knows their forces will lose the city, and that he will lose absolutely everything.

He attacks anyway.

In the end, when victory is so well out of reach that it is pointless to continue, he arranges the remnants of the Lannister army into an arrow, a battering ram, and punctures through to a minor gate. With a small squadron he enters the city, and arranges a slow leak behind him of troops, instructing all to protect the citizens wherever they can, and if they must, to shed their armor and join the citizenry rather than return to the field, which is lost. The city bells ring out behind his instructions, faintly but with increasing urgency.

Jaime leaves behind his Lannister colors with his soldiers, ducking into one of the secret passageways the Kingsguard had discovered after Father’s death. These tunnels run beneath all the city and throughout the Red Keep, dug long ago and forgotten about until his brother disappeared into one. They searched them thoroughly back then and he has personally beheld a map of their entrances and exits. This one empties out closer to the Keep, and if he has any luck left he can emerge unnoticed. He will have to move quickly and without attracting attention, and he hopes his regiments clashing in the streets will keep attention away from the Red Keep. 

He knows at the back of his mind that this is, at best, a mummer’s farce. He is Jaime Lannister the Swordsman no longer; he left that behind with his hand. Before that, he might have battled his way through the entire city and conducted a rescue fit for songs. Instead he is slinking through darkened tunnels, a knight with no sword arm, no plan, and no chance, with nothing left but his honor. And what good will honor do him now? Honor is a horse, and he left it in the Riverlands.

When Jaime crawls out of the passageway and back onto the streets, he hears the ringing of the bells a little louder now, mixed with the shouts and screams of the terrified residents of King’s Landing.

He manages to mingle into a crowded stream of people pushing towards the Red Keep, hoping to find shelter. The gates will be shut, he knows, but there is another passage nearby that he can follow inside. Engulfed by the mob, Jaime can relax a little. The mass of people will shield him well, assuming they continue to go in the right direction. 

Somewhere in the distance, a telltale sound is twinging at his memory. A sound and a faint smell, one he has not smelled for a very long time. He is trying not to acknowledge what that might be. It makes his heart beat a little bit faster just the same. 

The human flow is diverted not long after that by a man on a white horse, wearing golden armor. Harry Strickland, by Jaime’s estimation, a mild-looking and round-faced man whose voice is not quite loud enough to command the crowd.

“Return to your homes!” he shouts uselessly, as the stream diverges around him. “The transition will be peaceful if you will just…”

His plea dies out in the tummult. Jaime is swept past him, ducking his head to keep from being recognized. He looks up and down the streets ahead to see just what Homeless Harry is trying to divert them from, and spies a small contingent of Golden soldiers wrestling two large barrels towards the Keep. Soldiers, and one small figure in his own miniaturized version of the golden armor, observing their progress. 

Tyrion.

He would have stopped short, but is quickly shoved forward by unseen hands. His heart speeds even more the closer they come to this small party. 

The barrels. What are they doing with the barrels? 

He is tempted to pull his helmet back on, to escape detection, but that will make him only more conspicuous. And he needs to be able to see this. Are they bringing the barrels to the Red Keep? Wine, he hears in speculative snatches around him, from people who surmize the soldiers as looters and the dark wooden barrels their spoils of war. But they are not filled with wine. He has not seen those barrels in nearly twenty years, but he could hardly forget them. Their shape and size he remembers well, and they have that smell out of nightmares, the same one he has been detecting on the air ever since he entered the city.

His jaw goes slack as the smell washes over him, the acrid stench of wildfire. He stops in his tracks again and is pushed aside from the flow of people, closer to the barrels of wildfire that they are dragging up from under the city, and he is frozen a moment in their contemplation.

Worse, his brother turns his head and looks directly at him. 

He quickly turns his back and pushes his way into the crowd, but too late. A Summer Islander in a colorful feathered cloak catches his arm and drags him backward, and he is quickly brought face-to-face with Tyrion.

“Not here,” his brother says, looking from side to side. “Take him into the alley.” 

Jaime is dumped unceremoniously onto his knees on a side street, out of sight of the crowd and the other Golden Company soldiers. He briefly entertains the idea of drawing his sword and slaying them both, but he still, even now, cannot bring himself to draw his blade against his brother.

“So.” Tyrion stands eye-to-eye with him, his ruined face triumphant. “You’re here to concede defeat? Or are you coming for Cersei?”

Single-mindedly, he looks past his brother out to the streets where the barrels are passing by. “What are you doing with those? Do you know what they are?”

“Never mind about that.” Tyrion moves to recapture his gaze, but Jaime is stubbornly fixated. “If you must know, we mean to knock on the gates of the Keep. If they do not answer, we will knock a little more emphatically.” 

“You fool! There are dozens, hundreds of barrels of wildfire beneath our feet, spread for miles! The entire city will go up in flames…”

Tyrion’s knowing eyes bring his revelation shuddering to a halt. His brother knows this already. He knows about the wildfire.

His stomach drops as though he is falling, and the color drains from his face.

“You’re burning the city,” he whispers, shocked. He knew Tyrion was angry, but he had not known he would do something like this. Perhaps Cersei had been right about him all along. Tyrion is a monster.

“No.” Tyrion puts up his hands, his palms beseeching him. He looks rather more like the boy Jaime remembers, the way he once looked when he knew he had done wrong and was not yet ready to admit it. “This wasn’t the plan. We’re only going to use these barrels, and after bringing them up. It’s Connington, he’s set fires in Flea Bottom and they’re spreading to the tunnels below. We’ll put them out.”

“You told all your company of the wildfire stores? For gods’ sake, why?! For what?” 

Tyrion’s mouth tightens, his lips thinning, and Jaime sees that he is not nearly so triumphant as he would like. His brother has lost control of a situation that he had carefully planned out to the last letter, and he is worried.

Reluctant to show it, Tyrion’s hands make fists at his sides, and he raises his voice another notch. “Do not lecture me as though I am a child. I told you, it was Jon Connington. The man’s lost his wits. Keeps saying he can’t let Aegon down again, something about the bells ringing.”

“Oh, I suppose it’s not your fault then? You were only going to burn the Keep, and everyone in it, and that’s, what, a hundred people? And for what?” Jaime spits back at him angrily. “Aegon Targaryen is dead.”

Tyrion puffs up, happy to explain in this case. “Aegon survived. Varys secreted the babe away during the Rebellion, replaced him with another. He wanted to raise a perfect Targaryen, one without Aerys’s madness. And he has succeeded, as you will soon see.”

“No, Elia would never have let go of the babe, she was too afraid of Aerys. She would have realized a switch immediately. I thought you were clever.” Jaime shakes his head in wonderment. How could Tyrion have accepted such a transparent ruse? “I saw the babe. I saw him just-born and I saw him sleeping in his mother’s arms and I saw him with his brains dashed out by Gregor Clegane. He’s dead. You have a mummer’s dragon and a grudge, nothing more. And for that, you’re going to let the Golden Company murder everyone in King’s Landing?”

“That isn’t --” Tyrion tries to defend himself, and then stops short. “I don’t have to explain myself to you. You’ve been Father’s lackey all your life, undermining me, ruining my only chance at happiness. You pretend to be kinder than Cersei, but you’re just as cruel. And even more thoughtless. I don’t care what you think of me. You wouldn’t understand my plans if I drew them out for you in pictures.”

Jaime laughs at that. “I suppose this is an entirely noble cause for you, a Targaryen restoration, and it has nothing to do with wanting to kill me, and kill Cersei and all the rest of our House.”

Tyrion quickly adopts the same sardonic tone - one that in all likelihood he had learned from Jaime in the first place. “Of course. Bringing down House Lannister is merely a side benefit.” 

He sucks in air, suddenly winded, and closes his eyes briefly. This is a nightmare. This is all a terrible nightmare.

“Hate me if you must,” he pleads with his brother. ”Revenge yourself on me as you did our Father. Spit on our House and our legacy and give the throne back to the Targaryens. Avenge your country girl, but only spare Tommen. He’s only a boy. He’s never harmed you.” 

Tyrion is aghast, startled. Then his cheeks grow quite red. “You really think I would murder Tommen? A child? What kind of monster do you think I am?”

Tyrion had always been very fond of Tommen, of course, and Marcella too. Been a better uncle to them than Jaime had ever been, for certain. Jaime wants to relent for that, forgive him. He never could stay angry with Tyrion; he could never stay angry with any of them. 

He hardens his heart instead. Gestures harshly to the sounds of screaming in the streets. “I suppose your Golden Company are here to buffet the present king with pillows? Carry him on their shoulders to Casterly Rock and feed him sweetmeats? Surely you are not this great a fool. You’ve read the histories, tell me, what happens when the Red Keep falls? Do they not kill the king?”

Tyrion glares up at him with his mouth an angry twist. “Maybe you do, Kingslayer, but I do not.”

Had he not already mourned the loss of his brother he would have reeled back at the blow. Instead he is numb through and through, as from a sudden shock of cold water. 

Then he finds himself rising up to his feet, spinning on his heel and walking away.

Jaime does not run or even hurry, and he does not look over his shoulder. Let Tyrion see his back, and decide whether to insert the knife himself or call on his hired men. Let the Summer Islander draw his bow and launch an arrow into his heart. If the next thing he knows will be the fatal blow, at least this way he won’t see which of them dealt it.

“Jaime!” he hears Tyrion hiss behind him.

He waits for the blow to land with such certainty he is lightheaded with it. But one step turns into a dozen and then more, and he’s still walking. Even when he turns a corner, he expects the mercenaries will easily overtake him at any moment. But he walks on and the alleyway opens up again into the city streets and there is smoke in the air now, not merely a scent but a lingering cloud that hangs low above them, slowly blotting out the sun.

Averting his eyes, Jaime runs and pushes and shoulders his way to the abandoned storehouse that houses a secret passageway into the Red Keep. It takes long minutes of struggle and his heart pounds in his ears the entire time. When he catches a glimpse of green fire, he flinches as though struck. It is a scene from long-ago nightmares, and at times he is seventeen again, and afraid. Everyone will die, and it will be his fault. The air turns to ashes in his mouth and the foul taste is a steady distraction. It pulses in his mind, a harbinger of imminent death.

In the dark passageways he carries a candle and tries to collect himself. The shadows shake against the walls, but it is only his good hand trembling, and it slowly subsides.

Some feeling is bubbling up inside him. Or perhaps many feelings; he can’t sort them out when they’re this big. It’s something that makes him want to scream and scream until he’s got no air left in his body. But he can’t do that right now, he has to find Tommen. If he can hold that down a little longer, he might get out of this situation.

Sick. He feels sick. Sick not just in his guts but in his pounding headache, the wildfire-scented air he breathes, his skin, even his skin, now crawling and clammy. The king is only a boy and he is Jaime’s son and he left him undefended. He abandoned Tommen -- left him to Robert, to Cersei, to Westeros. He let them put that gentle boy on a throne and then he abandoned him. He went galavanting around the Riverlands pretending at diplomacy and chasing after a girl. Dreaming absurd fantasies about “Goldenhand the Just”. Now he is days late to his proper place guarding the king, too late to save King’s Landing. Absolutely everything is ruined, even his fruitless attempts to rebuild his honor. Honor is a wench, and she left him in the Riverlands. He has nothing left but himself, and by now that’s nearly nothing. 

Jaime gets moving again. Sometimes that makes things better, and if it doesn’t, at least he will be somewhere else. He rushes ahead in the darkness, faster and faster until he is nearly sprinting. Outracing the shadows. His candle wavers and flickers and threatens to go out, but he does not slow until he reaches the other end of the passageway and stands panting in the dark, fumbling at the door one-handed.

He emerges in the barracks of the Goldcloaks, thoroughly emptied, stilled again on the inside. Furtively crosses the lower bailey to the White Sword tower and rushes up the stairs. He grasps his Lord Commander’s cloak and throws it about his shoulders, picking up the helm of his office and carrying it under his arm. His sworn knights are nowhere to be seen. At his sweet sister’s side, perhaps. He had hoped to rally them, but perhaps he can follow them to where the royal family shelters.

Jamie hears a cough, and stops short. 

The small sound rings in his ears like an alarm. There was no one in this room when he entered. But the Red Keep is full of secrets, and hidden places. His eyes alight on a cupboard, questioningly, and he realizes he has never once opened it. He must have assumed some sort of supplies are in it, of the sort that he need not trouble himself with. But there was another passage from Maegor’s Holdfast that they had never tracked, one too small to follow. Could it lead to the White Sword Tower?

And what inside it might make that noise? A rat? A cat? Or a child, just small enough to squeeze inside?

Jaime crouches on the ground and opens the cupboard into a darkness deeper than the dimensions should allow. There is no back to the cupboard; instead there is an opening like a yawning maw that leads into the wall, and beyond it he cannot see a thing. 

He needs a light of some kind. Jaime starts to rise to look for a lantern, but the sound of something shifting inside brings him back down to his hands and knees, staring intently into the darkness.

“Hello?” a small voice says tentatively.

A curly towhead leans towards the light, with wide and fearful green eyes. 

Jaime’s heart stops for a moment. “Tommen?” he breathes, his mouth dry.

“Uncle Ser!” The boy brightens immediately, climbing out of the crawlspace. By the time Tommen has scrambled excitedly to his feet he sounds outright cheerful. Then he flings his small arms around Jaime’s neck and squeezes, exclaiming all the while.

“I knew you would come back! Mama said you would come.” At first, Jaime is gratified to hear it. But then the boy jabbers on. “She said you would crush all of the soldiers single-handedly.” 

“Did she,” he comments darkly. Did she laugh when she said it? The only one not hearing the joke is Tommen. He carefully detaches the boy from his neck and holds him out at arm’s length. “How came you to be hiding here? I thought you would be with your mother?”

Tommen’s open face closes slightly as he protests. “I was with Mama! I went in the King’s Tower with her like everybody said, to wait in the ballroom. But I couldn’t find Ser Pounce. He wasn’t anywhere in the apartments. I thought he might of gotten scared and run out into the bailey. I was only going out for a minute but there was…” The boy trails off briefly, and he hiccups and sniffles.

Jaime wipes at the boy’s tear-and-snot-streaked face. 

The King’s face scrunches up with exaggerated fervor. “There was smoke and noise and people everywhere. The door shut and these people were hitting it and shouting to be let in and they didn’t notice me, except one of them pushed me down. I tried not to cry and be a baby -- but all the smoke from the Wildfires, it makes my eyes itch. I wanted to ask a soldier for help but they were all busy. Then one of the Goldcloaks took my hand and said we had to go inside somewhere safe.”

Jaime pats his shoulder distractedly. “Why here?”

“To hide. We ran in the Tower and looked for a good hiding place and I found this. I can go way back inside and nobody can see me. She said I would be safe in here and to be very quiet and only come out if I saw the Lord Commander, because his job is to protect the King. And here you are! Can we go back to my room now?”

“I’m afraid not, your Grace.” Jaime looks to one side and another. Still not another soul in the Tower. If they can cross the Bailey without being seen, he can get Tommen out the very same way he came in. Then a thought strikes him. “Have you followed the passage back? Do you know where it goes?”

Tommen reddens slightly. “I followed it a little bit, but it opens up and it’s really dark and I got scared.”

“Do you think I could fit inside?”

The boy tilts his head and looks at him appraisingly. “If you kind of wiggled. You’re too tall, but you’re thin enough you could crawl through it.”

Getting stuck in a crawlspace is exactly the sort of useless death he’d like to avoid. But if his guess is right, and the passage ends at Maegor’s Holdfast, he has found a way inside. 

“Uncle?” Tommen’s baby face, still round and soft, looks up at him trustingly.

“What?” He says it warily. There are quite a lot of questions he can’t answer right now.

Tommen chews his lip a moment, then looks up. “I’m not the King anymore, am I?”

Jaime stares at him. That is a simple way to summarize the situation. “No. You’re not.”

The boy nods thoughtfully. “That’s all right. Someone else can be the King. I was getting a little tired of it.”

Jaime laughs, rising to his feet. His fingers dangle into Tommen’s golden curls. “That’s fortunate. Now, be quiet a moment, I need to think.”

Is there time to look for Cersei? A pang of anxiety ripples through him. The holdfast isn’t far. His lifelong instinct is to rush to his twin’s side and protect her, and even now a part of him is eager to find his way to her. But she has the Kingsguard, and Tommen has only him. He should protect their son. Surely his sister would agree that their son takes priority, or she should. 

Jaime has a sinking feeling that she would regard it as a betrayal. Leaving without her. But that only strengthens his resolve. Unlike the two of them, Tommen is an innocent. And a knight should protect the innocent.

“Don’t worry, Uncle.” The boy grasps his good hand suddenly, and squeezes it. “The lady knight will find Mama.”

Jaime looks down at him sharply. “What did you say?” 

“The Goldcloak who brought me back to my room. She said she would find Mama next.”

It hits him like a punch in the chest. She. The lady knight. Could it be?

Seven hells. What in the world would Brienne be doing here?

Jaime drops to one knee to grasp Tommen by the shoulders, focusing all his attention on the boy.

“The knight was a woman? Tommen, what did she look like? This is very important.” He’s trying not to shake him -- the boy already looks near tears -- but does he have to talk so dratted slowly?

“She looked like you, Uncle.” Tommen crinkles his face, thinking, and then elaborates. “She was big, wore armor, and she had a gold cloak, and she had a sword with a lion on it, like a Lannister.”

“Big how? Tall, broad? Did she have a homely face? With a big nasty bite in it?”

Tommen glares at him sternly then. “Don’t say that. She was nice.”

Jaime snaps back. “Of course she was nice. I know her. I know that woman. Where did she go, when she left you?”

“She said I should wait for you to find me, and she would find mama and bring her out. She was going back to the ballroom. Don’t worry, Uncle, she’ll find her. She’s very strong.”

“I know that.” Jaime closes his eyes. “Let me think for a moment. Just a moment.”

Back in the camp. He told Brienne the entire situation. Let her overhear exactly where he was going, to defend Tommen and Cersei. Return the sword to me and I will aid you, Brienne had said. 

He had turned down her help, he was sure he did. But like a great bloody idiot, he had given her the sword, when he let her go. Seven hells. Of course Brienne had done exactly what she had said she would. 

“Do you know the way to the Goldcloaks barracks? No, of course not. Think, dammit, think.”

“Uncle?” Tommen finally sounds worried. 

Jaime opens his eyes and studies him. His face is so pale, and he looks so small and so defenseless. He is only eight years old, and there is an entire army of men coming to murder him. 

But he is a Lannister, after all. And a King.

He regards the boy very seriously. “Tommen, can you stay here and not move or make a sound? Stay right exactly here and wait for me?”

“Yes.” Tommen nods seriously. “I can wait.”

“I won’t be long. I have to --” Jaime doesn’t know how to explain. He fumbles with the words. “The lady knight is my friend. I have to make sure she knows the way out. So she can help us escape.”

Tommen actually brightens a little. “And bring Mama too?”

“I hope so. If I can find her.”

Both Cersei and Brienne are somewhere in the Red Keep, and both in terrible danger. Brienne can defend herself, but she is alone, while Cersei has all the Kingsguard to protect her. The same Kingsguard may see Brienne as another enemy, certainly not an ally. But Tyrion will be targeting Cersei directly, her more than anyone. Who is in more danger? He may not be able to protect them both. He may not be able to protect anyone. 

A small hand pats his shoulder. “Don’t worry, Uncle,” Tommen says in a steady voice. “Here, take this with you.”

Somewhat clumsily, Tommen reaches around his belt and draws out a sword.

“The Lady said I should keep this to protect myself, but I think you need it more.”

Jaime knows it when it comes into his hand. Widow’s Wail, the twin blade to Brienne’s valyrian steel. A shortsword, smaller and lighter than Oathkeeper, but with the same clouded red steel as its mate, and as sharp and strong. He is still next to useless with his left hand, but this blade fits to it as though it were shaped for the purpose. 

“Thank you, Tommen.” He pats him on the shoulder again, awkwardly. He thinks to embrace him, but holds just back from it. “I’ll have something for you too.”

He gives Tommen his candle, and sheathes Widow’s Wail in place of his battered battle sword.

“If you hear anyone in the Tower, you will have to put it out. No one can see you, understand? Only come out when I return.” He leaves unspoken the danger that he will not return. Best not to put such ideas into the boy’s head - he simply must return, regardless of whether he finds either of the women he seeks inside. 

Jaime manages to shimmy inside of the tunnel ahead of Tommen, crawling on his belly. Slithering like a snake, more like. So much for his white cloak. He leaves the boy by the cupboard entrance, his candle burning feebly in the dark. For himself he has no light at all, and he has to feel his way along the dirt floor. It’s more of a hole than the other secret passages, a dirt hole, a mole run. With any luck it will not branch out into different directions where he will have no idea which way to go. Worse, he dreads the possibility that the tunnel will be a dead end. Backing out of this would be a lot more difficult than it was going in.

As Tommen predicted, the tunnel widens as he goes. Only enough that he can crawl on hands and knees, but that’s still considerably better. He can move somewhat faster, and the dreadful sense of all the city standing on your back is lessened by a degree. 

As he crawls in the dark his thoughts, undirected, go first to Brienne. He had never meant for her to attempt something like this, and it had never occurred to him that she would try. Now she’s in the middle of a city on fire, while it’s being invaded by Targaryens, and he has told her what happens when the Red Keep is conquered. There will be a slaughter. At any moment the wildfire caches beneath the city will explode. She could die twenty different ways, all of them awful, and none of them necessary. This isn’t her city, or her House loyalty, she has no family or friends here to defend.

She came anyway. She rescued his son, and now… now she is trying to find Cersei. Because she thinks he would want her to. The thought of that makes his throat tighten so that he can hardly breathe. 

He has been fumbling forward for a quarter of an hour when a sudden loud sound shakes the tunnel all around him, so much so he is flung against the walls harshly. Briefly he is convinced the passage will collapse around him, and he will be left to smother. When the shaking stills, and his hands confirm the tunnel is still open ahead of him, he starts moving again, faster this time.

That was a wildfire explosion. Tyrion has blown open the gates. 

Then the passage widens again and he can stand, crouching, and rush forwards fast as he can. This tunnel is much too long to lead to Maegor’s. If it does not lead him out soon, he will have to turn back and return to Tommen. Just a little farther. If it brings him out behind the holdfast he may be able to avoid the Golden Company and swim the moat. 

It feels like forever until his hands find a wall, and this time there is no door. There is a moment of panic until he thinks to drop back to his knees and feel along the ground, which is suddenly wood instead of dirt. It seems be a trap door of some sort. Eventually his fingers find a latch, and the wood panel opens out into more darkness. He has no choice but to tumble down into it, crashing down into a soft and sliding landing, in a huge mass of slippery grain.

He’s inside the granary. On the other end of the Keep. Jaime scrambles to his feet and breaks into a run. 

Outside the air is even more ruined with wildfire, the smoke burning into his eyes. The Outer Yard is a tumult of fighting now, white cloaks and gold cloaks and golden armor. Cersei must be nearby, if the Kingsguard are here. Did she leave the holdfast and make for the throne room? Without Tommen?

Then he sees Brienne, and nothing else matters.

He finds her fighting, of course. She’s fought her way up to the stairs, nearly to the great hall. Fending off two golden-armored opponents at once, letting them expend their energy avoiding each other and battering against the brick wall of her guard. Once she wears them out she will strike them down with a single mighty blow, one each, and the look of surprise on each of their faces to take that blow will outlive them. 

She wears the helm he had packed onto her horse. She had lost most of her armor during her misadventures in the Riverlands, and he had thought it a great joke to pass on the Hound’s helm, taken from the slain Brotherhood wretch who had worn it last. He has compared her to Sandor often enough in his mind, and it amuses him to see her in his famous hound-faced helmet. He does not have to see her face to know her.

It is no less satisfying watching the scene play out exactly as he had predicted. On the contrary. He is struck by the notion that Brienne has gotten better since he saw her last, and considerably better since they had fought each other in the Riverlands. It may be the valyrian steel in her hands, and it may be the battles she has seen since he sent her out from King’s Landing. She is young still, and had been grass-green when he had met her. How many opponents has she fought since? Whatever the reason, she moves faster now, more confidently, and she easily overpowers her opponents despite that she is still recovering from serious injury. He does not doubt for a single second that she will prevail. Wielding Oathkeeper she looks a knight out of legend, and not a patchy hedge knight either.

When the second soldier slumps to the floor, his mouth a round open “oh” of surprise, Jaime calls out to her. “Brienne!” 

She turns her head, her eyes enormous and blue and blue. Her sword arm drops, and the stone floor holds the weight of Oathkeeper for her. Her arm is still healing. It must pain her, swinging such a heavy sword. 

It occurs to him, very suddenly, how he must look. His armor would be bloodstained from battle, and his white cloak and helm would be caked with dirt. It’s a wonder she even recognizes him.

Strangely unbalanced, Jaime says the first thing to come into his head. “I offered you a golden cloak months ago. I thought you didn’t want it?”

“Ser.” She breathes heavily as he approaches, a faint sheen of sweat shining from her pale skin. “I called it a den of brigands and disreputables. I have not changed that opinion. But I find it suits me now.”

“What are you doing here?” He does not mean his tone to be so sharp. It cuts her just the same. “What business would bring you to King’s Landing, in the middle of a siege?”

“Oathkeeping.” She sets her mouth in a firm, stubborn pout. “I may not be deserving of this blade, but I will earn it.”

His own words thrown back at him. It gets his blood up.

“You swore me no oath.” Jaime pulls off his helmet and lets it drop to the ground with a loud clang. “Nor were you bestowed that golden cloak to defend this city. You shouldn’t have come!”

“I’m defending it now. The man I pulled the cloak from had no more use for it, and the Gold Cloaks needed the help.” Brienne gestures to the other end of the Keep. “I left the King in the White Sword Tower. I thought you would find him there.”

“I did. Then I heard about the very brave lady knight who rescued him, and I had to come to see for myself it was you.” He takes a deep breath to steady himself. “If I say I have been very, very stupid, will you leave off and come away with me?”

Brienne removes her own helmet, and her hair unfurls behind her like a yellow flag. His breath catches at the sight. Her golden cloak, her yellow hair. 

“I must keep my oaths. I swore to find the King and Queen Regent and bring them out alive.”

“You did not! You swore nothing of the kind, and I never asked it of you.”

“I swore it to myself,” she says stubbornly. “I failed you, and I failed Lady Catelyn. I have failed everyone. But I will not fail now. The little King is in the White Sword Tower, and the Queen --”

“Fuck the Queen,” he says sharply. “I will bring her out if I can for Tommen’s sake, but there is little time and less hope. The city is burning and she has made no effort to escape. It may be there is no way to save her.”

“And still you came after her, as I knew you would.” Brienne pounds against the door that leads to the Throne Room. He does not know her face so well as he would like. Her expression troubles him, but he cannot read its meaning. “Go back to the king, bring him to safety. I will find your sister.”

Why are we arguing? He wonders at it, but he cannot stop. He is nearly shouting at her. That feeling crawling up his throat, it must be anger. Or something very like it.

“I put you in chains and put a knife in you! And still you ride into my city, uninvited, to save my son and my twin. You are more of a glutton for punishment than I ever dreamed. If I’d had you whipped, would you rescue Tommen’s cats as well?”

“I suppose it would be too much to expect you to be grateful,” she snaps back. Now this face he understands: Brienne looks decidedly cross. She gives the door one last blow with her mailed fist. “Why did you leave the boy alone in the Tower? Why would you leave the King undefended? I meant you to take him and go!”

“We will go -- with your aid. Help me defend the King, Brienne. Two blades will be better.”

“I’m busy,” she growls. Then Brienne issues a sharp kick to the thick door, and it rattles in its hinges.

She kicks in the door on the second try -- a heavy door, thick and reinforced -- and her boot leaves an imprint in splintered wood as it gives way. She rushes inside without hesitation, and Jaime follows.

Inside, sitting the Iron Throne, is Cersei. She sits the throne much as Jaime once had: insolent, daring their disapproval, and awaiting doom. 

At her right side is a hulking figure, familiar and yet not. The Clegane shoulders, the massive bulk of him, seems somehow to have grown larger. He wears armor cobbled together from pieces, for no forged armor would fit his swollen frame. His face is hidden behind a helmet that reveals not even his eyes, but any man alive would recognize the terrible shape of him, the monstrously huge hands that have torn men and women and children to pieces.

The Mountain.   

Cersei stares uncomprehendingly at them for a long moment, before realizing they are not the invaders she was expecting. Neither does she look relieved at this realization. Strangely, her eyes narrow at him, upon recognition.

Her hair is shorn, her clothes are Lannister scarlet. She is thin and ghostly, pale as moonlight, her face gone angular and aged. Still beautiful - but a wild, wide-eyed beauty, newly brittle. 

Jaime freezes in place, startled. Again they are mismatched. He is cloaked in Kingsguard white, his golden curls lengthening in a lion’s mane. She is a scarlet dagger. And yet the doubling sensation is still there, that she on the throne is him, and he is somehow her. The sensation is only momentary -- it’s spoiled somehow, discordant; they are too different now. He sees himself in the broken mirror of her eyes and for the first time he has to look away in discomfort.

“You are late.” The Queen rises, her voice ice-cold and accusing. “You answered my call too late. And look what you’ve done.”

Before Queen Cersei can utter any commands, a strange croaking sound emits from her protector. It is a sound like someone who has not spoken in years, whose throat has corroded from disuse and creaks like rusted armor at the joints. A word, maybe two, or perhaps just a groan. Jaime does not at first understand what he says, and it sends a chill through him just the same.

He is involuntarily backing away from the throne, his hand reaching out to Brienne to pull her along. But she holds her ground, and when he looks up at her standing between him and Gregor Clegane wearing the helm he had given her, he understands suddenly what that wretched voice had been trying to say.

Jaime grasps at her arm tightly. “Take it off. Take the helmet--”

-- but the Mountain is lurching forward, his great lumbering steps closing the gap between them in seconds, long enough only to say again in his great creaking voice: “Sandor...”

And then he is upon them.

[abenthyadventures]

Day 18 (Pt. 1): Or A Coincidence of Fates

Over the last few weeks, traveling with Agnes, we have shared some stories of our lives so far. I have sensed there is something more to Agnes than I’ve seen thus far, but I can tell she is just and true—a paladin to the core. Today, I bore witness to her splendor in battle, and truly she is a force with which to be reckoned, but more on that later.     

Our contact in Phandalin, Sildar Halwinter, pointed us toward a group of adventurers in search of one Cragmaw Castle. He stated they had rescued him recently and been effectively dealing with a troublesome gang called the Redbrands who had been harrassing the town. The castle itself had apparently been overrun with a goblin tribe working along with Redbrands. I was shocked to learn that the leader of the Red-brands was actually a traitor to the Lords' Alliance. Sildar filled me in about Gundren Rockseeker, a dwarf who had gone missing and might have a lead on Wave Echo Cave. The adventurers were presently trying to locate Gundren; it was feared he may be in mortal danger, if not murdered already.     

We set out this morning, good portents in mind, and found them without much difficulty. Nolwë aided our efforts to locate the adventurers admirably, though her hunger struck at an unfortunate moment—I thought she might help me listen in on their conversation, but a murine delicacy appeared and caused her to reveal herself quite conspicuously as my familiar. One of their number, a female elf was quick to draw her bow as soon as she saw us; these are not the safest lands, so I understand it somewhat, but if we are to partner, I must encourage her not to be too quick to provoke potentially powerful enemies—although a showdown between her and Agnes would have been some spectacle. Nevertheless, three of the four were cool headed enough to first use words over weapons.     

We introduced ourselves as representatives of the Lords’ Alliance, Abenthy Laphroaig from Silverymoon and Agnes Aberlour from Waterdeep, and then learned their names as well, as I shall detail momentarily.  I should make a notation that they hinted at several interesting encounters recently. I do not have many details yet, but I was especially interested in their encounters with a green dragon they claimed to slay and a red-cloaked wizard apparently practicing necromancy, whom they left alone. I sense there may yet be a confrontation with that necromancer, whom the party believed to be a Red Wizard of Thay. For the time being there was other business which needed attending. After several exchanges of wit, we came to an agreement to cooperate and set onward toward Cragmaw Castle, which turned out to be a makeshift outpost of goblins and hobgoblins in the employ of a nefarious individual known as the Black Spider, as Glasstaff also apparently had been.       

  I do not know if the aforementioned aggressive elf would agree, but the halfling named Finnan seemed to me to be their leader. At the very least, he led the way in promoting discourse betwixt us. Finnan is a bard, and though he did not communicate to me his schooling, I suspect he has a connection to the Weave through the Feywild. He spoke of “The Great Stories” and suggested a frontal assault on the keep—not because it offered a strategic advantage but because, as he put it “so many great stories involve marching right through the front door.” I found myself involuntarily placing my hand to my forehead at this and muttering a mild oath under my breath. Despite this, he was the one who suggested we put the tactical options to a vote and he made no efforts to overturn the fact that four out of the six of us wanted to enter the side door we located. I found it intriguing to watch him when the fighting began. Without a doubt his songs were inspiring, and I found myself vitalized and more fleet of foot than usual. One might think it unwise to start playing a lute mid-battle, but magic can be a funny thing. My proposal of a stealthy approach had already been thwarted by this point, so using every available resource seemed wise. Lest I paint a picture that he entered the fray with naught but a lute, let me state he also had skill with a rapier; however, his compatriots seemed surprised when he unsheathed it.     

Another elf, much more soft-spoken, was also in this party. He introduced himself as Aief. I did not recognize his name as being typically elvish and he must have noticed a quizzical expression on my countenance, as he then provided an addendum: his name comes from the dwarvish language. I asked how he came to have a dwarvish name, but indicated that was a tale for another time. I respected this and did not push further. I trust I shall learn soon enough. Aief struck me as one who has trained religiously in the martial arts, both unarmed and with blades. He bore a quarterstaff and scimitar and wielded them effectively. I did not sense the same malice as I did in the other elf though. He moved with both measured steps and grace. One might have wondered why we so readily joined with this band of adventurers, especially when one of their number greeted us with hostility. In truth, seeing Aief amongst them played no small role, for you see I received a portent before we set off. In my dreams,I had clearly seen Aief striking a down a grick, though of course within the dream I did not know his name. Once I actually met Aief, the very elf I saw as I slept, I knew destiny awaited. Indeed, as foretold, Aief delivered a fatal blow to a grick within the keep, after I weakened it. I anticipate we will be able to work well together.     

Berien was the third to introduce himself. Berien had several elven features, but as he stood next to two elves, it was clear he was also half-human. I imagine it to be most challenging to straddle two such dramatically different worlds. To hardly age as your human family and friends grow old must be a heavy burden. But that is compounded with maturing at a much more rapid pace than pure elves, certainly creating a restlessness that must be difficult to contain. I can see why many half-elves gravitate toward a career of adventuring. Where else can they turn after all? But I digress. Berien was a curiosity, and not merely for his race. No, he was remarkable for his unpredictability. He reminded me of a pirate, with how he moved about and brandished a rapier. Hopefully he is of stronger moral character than the pirates about whom I have read. I do suspect there is some redemptive quality within him. I also noticed he seemed to have a certain respect for the halfling. In the midst of the fighting, he was rendered unconscious and I suspect he very nearly died, but the bard was able to reach him before it was too late. Perhaps this has been a recurring theme in their own adventures, accounting for his respect. I did not bear witness to how he managed to get himself hurt. What I do know is that he had tried to scout a room and as soon he entered it, debris came crashing down blocking his return. He later came screaming through a different entrance, bloodied and with tattered clothing. Finnan helped him revitalize, and again he was off like a bolt from a ballista, promptly screaming again once out of my sight. When Finnan and I were able to reach him, he was downed and in mortal danger from multiple hobgoblins. We were able to fight them off while Finnan stabilized him. As an aside, I noticed he seemed to have a sword imbued with magical properties, but he did not actually use it, opting instead for his rapier. I found this most curious.     

My initial impression is that these four adventurers are quite capable, especially if their claims of slaying a green dragon are true, though I’m concerned about the impetuousness of the elven woman, Lyria. Ostensibly a ranger, she is fierce and indeed today she was indomitable, but she is unlike any ranger I’ve known—rather she reminds me of a barbarian on a warpath. She was irrationally celebratory when faced with opportunity for battle against the goblins and hobgoblins; I do suppose hobgoblins are infamous for their cruelty, especially toward elves, so it was not entirely unmerited that they receive the wrath of her war instruments. Still, I worry she will charge forward at the wrong time and put not only herself in unnecessary peril, but also the other members of the party who might not be so sturdy. I found that there was one time she acted particularly irresponsibly. While the rest of the party had agreed to try a stealthy approach, she brazenly approached an arrow slit—which, mind you, I had obfuscated with an illusion so as to mask our approach—and started blindly launching arrows into it. Somehow, this did not alert the goblins who seemed more concerned about a cruel manager of a hobgoblin who was barking orders at them. Once the fighting began in earnest, she was a frontline soldier, alternating between using her bow and using her sword, both to tremendous effect. If she can be trusted—and perhaps convinced to work more tactically—she may prove a very valuable ally. One item I did notice especially: she wore a belt I readily identified as an arcane artifact that I believe gives her preternatural strength. When time allows, I must ask her how she came across such a wondrous thing.     

As for Agnes, my travel companion of the past few weeks, she was like a spring sunrise after a long winter, piercing the veil of night. She gallantly put herself on the front line, shield in one hand, sword in the other. Once, she commanded one goblin to stop in its tracks, and it had no choice but to obey. Another time, as I had seen in another vision, she delivered a blow so thunderous that it would have made Talos envious. She was restless at times and looked to press ever forward, but she was never reckless. While we were making acquaintance with the others, I overheard Lyria jest about me having a bodyguard. Agnes is certainly a guardian, no doubt, but not just of me. No, she has a great destiny ahead of her. She will undoubtedly be a mighty bastion standing firm against the tide of evil.     

After we cleared the kitchen and multiple hobgoblin patrols, we were able to take several minutes to process our surroundings. Returning to the chamber in which the grick had attacked Aief, we recognized that it had been a sort of shrine in the past. Berien located a small golden statuette which I noticed as having magical properties. I called upon my arcanabula to perform a brief ritual to identify the magic while the others kept watch. Interestingly, the statuette was enchanted with the spell known as augury. One can imagine why it would catch my particular interest. The statue bore the form of a sun elf. It might be a random treasure hidden here by one of the goblins, or I suppose it could be a remnant from when certain gods were worshipped here—namely Lathander, god of dawn—as Berien seemed to suggest. When time allows, I’d like to do some more research. At first, only I, Aief, and Berien knew about finding it. We resolved to discuss it with Finnan and Agnes when possible, but agreed it might be best not to include Lyria just yet for fear that she might, in her impatience, waste its magic.    

 <to be continued>