Heavy, Lies the Crown
Author's Note: Refer to previous chapter for disclaimer. Hope you enjoy!
Chapter 2-A Wounded City
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"The individual has always had to struggle to keep from being overwhelmed by the tribe. If you try it, you will be lonely often, and sometimes frightened. But no price is too high to pay for the privilege of owning yourself."
~Friedrich Nietzsche
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Jaime Lannister
Jaime still had difficulty believing he had escaped the clutches of the Starks. But here he was, atop a white steed, slowly ambling his way back to the Capitol, alongside the Frey man and a few others whose names he did not care to learn. He only cared to get back to King's Landing, back to Cersei. He wondered how much she had thought about him, in the darkness of her bedchambers when the sun left all alone and cold. Loneliness had been the biggest demon of his captivity. He hated it more than the taunts, more than the beatings. The very prospect of never being able to see the few he loved ever again haunted him in the shadows of his pen more than anything he had ever encountered in his three-and-thirty years.
It had been two weeks since his surreptitious departure from the Stark camp, and he had been surviving on bread and the thought of the Red Keep alone. They had encountered scarcely anyone along the road, save for a couple bandit parties they easily dispatched, bedding down usually off the causeway and in the wood. If there were any Stark search parties, none had managed to catch up with them. Never did they stay in one place for too long, as Jaime's homebound thirst drove them ever onward.
One night, Cleos Frey said something to him that made his insides burn like he had met the ends of a thousand white-hot pokers.
"So, Ser Jaime, have you heard the rumors? Of you and your sister?"
He had blanched slightly, but no one seemed to noticed.
"No," he lied, slowly, voice low and dark. "Tell me, what do they say?"
"Well, the Starks have begun a sick and treasonous rumor about your sister and you. They…" he trailed off momentarily, unsure of himself.
"Go on," prodded Jaime.
"Forgive me, Ser Jaime, but they claim you and your sister share a bed. That you have committed incest."
Jaime simply stared into the fire. For a long spell, he said nothing, before he jumped to his feet, drawing his sword and grabbing Cleos Frey by the front of his garb. His tall form dwarfed the thin man, and he leaned in very close, putting his head right beside Frey's. The man trembled like a child in a storm.
"If anyone speaks of this monstrous lie again," he growled, loud enough for all to hear. "I will personally carry your head back to the Capitol and fling it from the highest point of the city. Is that clear?"
It was clear that he had terrified them all. They nodded fervently, and Cleos Frey begged forgiveness. Jaime let him go with a meaningful shove, and the man tumbled to the ground before scurrying away like a frightened rodent.
No one even mentioned Cersei for the remainder of the trip.
They continued on the following morn, Jaime's head tumbling full of formless nuggets labeled treason and Cersei and Starks. His stomach turned to ice when he thought of the seeds of truth of he and Cersei sown by the Starks throughout Westeros. If anyone ever found out Joffrey, Tommen, and Myrcella's legitimate paternity, he would die a horrible and ignominious death. His father would probably spit upon his disembodied head. Jaime Lannister, Kingslayer and Sisterfucker. No one in the Seven Kingdoms would carry more of an ignoble charge than he.
They drew close now, and after a day's ride King's Landing was finally in sight. Night was falling, but Jaime insisted they push on. A few hours in the dark mattered naught to him for the sake of Cersei's arms. He had dreamed of this return for months, the golden beard upon his face a visceral reminder of the time lost between he and those he loved. The woman he loved, above all. Cersei was his everything; if he were the sun upon the earth, she was the moonlight that followed. She had always told him that they shared the same heart and mind and had since the day had entered the world, Jaime holding on to her foot. The fact that he believed her was evident in that he always did everything she ever asked of him. No one understood what they had been through.
"My lord," someone said to his right, voice a whispered tremor. "Look."
Jaime's gaze followed the line of the man's arm and turned his head to the city. He squinted, trying to bring it into better focus, before it hit him. Something was very wrong.
The city was burning.
He dug his heels into his weary horse's sides and in response the beast flew into a wild gallop. Jaime's head swam with a panic, terrible images filling his mind's eye. He and his men raced as fast as their quadrupedal mounts could carry them. As they approached the gate, a gatekeeper called out to them. Even in times of near certain death, men cling to their duty.
"Halt! This city is under lockdown! State your name and business!"
"Open the gates now fool!" Jaime bellowed. "I am Jaime Lannister, Commander of the Kingsguard!"
The man shouted back a quick apology, before ordering his men to open the gates. The giant wooden doors swung open, and in a flash Jaime was galloping frantically through the streets of King's Landing.
I have to find Cersei.
He led his horse to the Red Keep and dismounted, his prisoner's legs buckling a moment as he hit the ground. He whipped out his sword and scanned the area, before entering the building in a stealthy crouch.
I'm coming, Cersei.
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Sansa Stark
She had said a hundred prayers. She had sat in reverent silence. She had wept and wept and wept.
But the city still burned.
She did not want to die like this, surrounded by enemies, next to a drunk Cersei and run through with the sword of the man who killed her father. The thought was almost too much to bear, and she fell to her knees, her shoulders wracking with sobs like tree branches fighting the wind. Cersei laughed beside her.
"Foolish girl. The city is lost, and we are all going to die!"
Sansa hugged her knees to her chest while Cersei continued on, snipping at her and all the other women in the room. She worked herself quickly into a rage, throwing her wine glass to an untimely demise against the wall across the chamber. In what Sansa hoped was her final act, she spat on her and stormed out, fleeing into the night that spelled death in the name of Stannis Baratheon.
Sansa sat there for a moment, helpless against the torrent of emotions that ripped through her, a little red-haired Stark heap in the midst of a thousand Lannisters. She suddenly wished to be in her room; death there would at least be comfortable, she thought grimly.
As Ser Illyn Payne was distracted looking out the window at the battle raging below, Sansa slipped from the room. A chilly breeze nipped at her pale skin as she walked from the Red Keep back to her chambers, her mind acutely aware of everything as the fear sent her senses into overdrive. She was a hallway away from her sleeping place when a voice slurred behind her.
"What are you doing out here all alone, Lady Stark?"
Sansa was instantly seized with a black terror. Slowly, she turned to meet the voice and found Ser Meryn Trant standing there, his armor awash with blood and swaying slightly. To her own amazement, she managed to find her voice, though it was so small and weak she wondered if he'd even heard it.
"Ser Meryn? What are you doing?"
He took a lumbering step forward, his body wavering like one of the great trees of the North. His mouth broke into a disturbing and toothy smile.
"Why, Lady Sansa, I'm here to protect you," he coaxed, his words running together and jumbling. She wondered if everyone was intoxicated that night, trying to escape into the bottle. "I won't let Stannis hurt an inch of that…wonderful little body of yours."
She gasped, her face breaking into color despite the situation. "Ser Meryn, please, let me go to my room!"
Meryn Trant staggered forward in response, his arms outstretched and groping, but she deftly sidestepped him, and he lurched and fell straight to the ground.
"You little bitch!" he spat, his eyes alight with fury. "You dare refuse a member of the Kingsguard?"
Sansa couldn't get a word out as Meryn was abruptly on his feet, his hand around her throat in a vice-grip. The Kingsguard member pinned her against the wall, his other hand binding her wrists together. She tried to scream, but the fingers around her long, graceful neck were so tight they suffocated any attempt.
"That's right, little wench," he hissed, burying his grizzled face in her neck just below her ear. "No one can hear you. No one will hear you as I take you right here on this stone floor."
Sansa's grip on consciousness began to falter, her vision blurring and refocusing like a bad telescope, her head feeling light and disconnected from her body. The man swung her down, his legs kicking hers out from under her, and straddled her on the floor, his hot, malodorous breath against her neck causing her stomach to threaten to revolt. Momentarily, he let go of her neck, fumbling with the laces on his breeches, and she took what she thought to be her last opportunity to plead for help.
"Please, someone help me!"
No sound came back to her. Meryn laughed, his spittle flying into her face and decorating her cheeks and chin like spots of ice. He swung with his free hand, and her head snapped sharply to the right as his open palm connected with the side of her head. Pain blossomed like a blinding light in her skull. Involuntarily, she began to sob, her choked cries filling the hall.
"Please…someone…help…"
Meryn cackled again, and she looked down and caught sight of what was to defile her. She felt the impulse to retch again. He began to tear at her gown, and she retreated into the depths of her mind, searching for a place far and away. She thought of her mother, and Jon, and even Arya, all together and happy under the roof of Winterfell. She thought of Lady, of her father, of everyone that was powerless to help her. She began to shatter.
"Alright, bitch, are you ready? I certainly can't wait another-,"
Meryn's voice suddenly faded, and she felt a hot spray of liquid across her face and midsection. She sputtered, blinking away the wetness, and looked up.
Ser Meryn Trant stared down at her, eyes stretched open like snowballs, a glistening blade jutting from his chest. The sword suddenly disappeared from view, and Meryn tipped to the side, his lifeless body hitting the stone floor with a dull thud. Her savior knelt down.
And Jaime Lannister's jade eyes found hers.