Warning: Violence and blood. Not very graphic but a bit more than implied.
Chapter 25: King's Landing: Two
Brienne
Bronn gets them lost in the lanes of Flea Bottom, taking them to places where, he tells them, it's worth more than a person's life to take notice of anyone or anything. By the time darkness falls—"Too early," Brienne hears Sam mutter—they're half-way up Rhaenys's Hill. Sam is panting heavily as they climb but makes no other sound until they're deep within the ruins of the Dragonpit, huddled round a small fire carefully hidden from any who might look from the outside.
The fire does little to warm them and Brienne shivers, her broken nose and aching head paining her as she does so.
"Is it safe to speak?" she quietly asks Bronn.
Bronn shrugs as he hones his sword's blade. "Is it ever truly safe to speak, m'lady, in these troubled times?" He glances round the inky darkness and smirks. "But then think of those poor souls who haunt these ruins. Who would believe any that might overhear us?"
Brienne scowls and winces, then nods. She turns to Sam. "You are here much more quickly than we expected, my lord," she says. "You must have left Oldtown as soon as you received our raven."
Sam looks startled. "You sent a raven, my lady? I received no message. I left Oldtown as soon as I heard the news weeks ago."
"You heard of the Queensguard before we did?" she asks, surprised.
Sam blinks. "Queensguard? No. Haven't you heard?"
"Heard what?"
"The Wall has fallen. The Others are on the march."
Brienne's eyes widen. She's aware of Bronn's scowl but her gaze is focused only on Sam. She searches his face and sees that, whatever the truth of his words, he believes them.
"What of the armies of the North?" she asks slowly. "What of the Watch?"
"They are doing their best, but they have no hope of holding out against the Others." Sam shivers, holding his hands close to the meagre flame they've allowed themselves, here in this darkened ruin where dragons once dwelled. "The North is united behind Jon Snow as King, but their Houses are decimated, their armies a fraction of their former strength. Winterfell is in ruins, even if once again under the rule of a Stark." He shakes his head. "They have no choice but to fall back against the advance of the Others, and they have resorted to setting the land on fire as they go. It pushes the Others back for a time, time that allows the living to put some distance between them and the dead." Sam stares sightlessly into the flames, then says, almost dreamily, "Have you noticed how the days seem to lengthen and shorten at random? I think it's a sign that the Others edging further south. It's getting colder, too."
"Well," Bronn drawls, "winter is here."
Bronn's skepticism seems to penetrate Sam's fog because Sam gives him a fearful look even as he shakes his head. "No, it's colder than usual in the Reach, and it's tendrils are even creeping into Dorne. Besides, even when winter lasts for years, the days steadily shorten, hold for a time, then steadily lengthen again; they do not lengthen and shorten on a whim!" He shivers again. "Some legends say that winter brings the Others. Mayhaps it's the other way round."
Brienne stares, her nose throbbing, her head aching, her mind whirling. There has been too much happening this day and it has slowed her wits even more than usual, it seems. She finally asks the only question she can think of at this moment: "How do you know all this, Sam?"
"The glass candles are burning," Sam mutters. "When I was at the Citadel, I went to Archmaester Marwyn's study, where his glass candle cast light so bright it like to blinded me." He shudders. "I saw and spoke with Melisandre—the red priestess who is never far from King Stannis' side—as well as Jon Snow. King Jon, now, I suppose, although how odd that is to say." He shakes his head at his own distraction and says, "Melisandre found a small glass candle in Maester Luwin's rooms in Winterfell and took it with her when they left the castle's ruins behind them. Jon—King Jon—told me about the Wall."
Brienne says, "If you never received our message, then what brings you to King's Landing and carrying a Valyrian steel great sword?"
"I've been struggling to make my way north. I stopped at Horn Hill to warn my—my family and decided to take Heartsbane with me. The fact my father left it behind while he faced the Targaryen pretender was a sign, I thought." He shrugs sheepishly. "I hoped stealing it would force my father to send at least some men after me to retrieve it and we could use those men to stand against the Others. However, there was no glass candle in Horn Hill. I'm hoping Grand Maester Pycelle had one and since he hasn't been replaced, I planned to slip into his quarters and search for one."
Both Bronn and Brienne stare at him in disbelief.
"And just how would you have managed that?" Bronn asks.
Sam's eyes are terrified but his jaw is set. "I will think of something," he says firmly, "I can not afford to fail—there is no time left for it. Melisandre's using her god's magic to set fire to the whole of the North as they retreat. The flames hold the Others at bay for a time but I fear what will happen when they reach those areas of the North where more dead are buried."
"They can raise the bones of even those centuries dead?" Brienne asks in shock.
Sam shakes his head. "No one knows for sure. Mayhaps." He laughs, a sudden harsh sound. "Why not? Dead is dead, isn't it?"
"Except now, when it appears death has no meaning," Brienne mutters.
Bronn groans as he viciously stabs the tip of his sword into the dirt and uses it to push himself to his feet. "I don't know how I got caught up in all this," he growls. "If I were still a sellsword, I would have been in the Free Cities months ago, leaving the rest of you to live or die as it pleased you." He angrily shoves his sword into the scabbard hanging at his waist. "Instead, one way or another, I'm destined to die battling undead abominations, whether I will it or no. No amount of gold and titles is worth this shit!"
"Where are you going?" Sam asks, alarmed.
"To fetch the Kingslayer," Bronn snaps. "If I'm going to die fighting these creatures, I'm taking whichever Lannister I can find with me." He stomps off into the darkness, muttering, "I should have let that fucking Imp die in the Vale."
*/*/*/*/*
Jaime
Jaime wakes early the morning after Cersei's coronation, knowing only two things: he must do whatever it takes to remove his sweet sister from the Iron Throne, and he needs to do it with as little loss of life as possible. He's amazed the city is still standing after the bloodbath in the Great Sept and he fears it may take just one more nudge to have the smallfolk revolt in full force against the Crown.
Once bathed and dressed, he joins Cersei for breakfast. She eats little, her skin almost as green as her eyes and Jaime wonders if she will ease her drinking now that she has finally achieved her heart's desire. Jaime eats heartily, hiding his amusement at Cersei's obvious discomfort at the sight even as he meekly agrees to send a raven to Casterly Rock requesting Brienne to make her way to King's Landing as quickly as possible.
He leaves Cersei struggling to keep her own small breakfast in her stomach and strolls to the training yards. They're disturbingly empty; the only men there are young squires, hedge knights and sellswords and Jaime wonders exactly who was in the Great Sept when Cersei had it set aflame.
He wonders how many Houses have no more male heirs.
He watches the sparring for a few minutes, brooding on the question, before he calls for his horse and leaves the Red Keep to go to Visenya's Hill.
He paces round the ruins of the Great Sept and wishes he could pray.
*/*/*/*/*
The next day he makes his way to the small council's rooms and finds them empty and chill, as if they have not been used for weeks or months. He stands by the table and wonders who sits there now.
Qyburn bustles into the room and stops short when he catches sight of Jaime.
"My pardons, my lord," Qyburn says. "I didn't realize someone was here."
Jaime finds that difficult to believe but says, "Simply wondering who is on the small council now. You, I understand. Still Master of Whisperers?"
Qyburn nods. "And I speak for the Lord Commander of the Queensguard, Ser Robert Strong."
"Who is the Grand Maester?"
Qyburn shifts uncomfortably. "Ah, the Queen has yet to accept any of the candidates proposed by the Citadel."
Jaime raises an eyebrow. "It's unlike the Citadel to allow the Queen—or King—to determine which archmaester will be sent to advise the Crown."
Qyburn gives him a tight smile. "The Queen makes her own rules."
Jaime thinks of the burning ruins of the Great Sept and turns away to pace the room. "So she does," he murmurs. "Lord Mace Tyrell is dead, I understand. Who is Hand?"
"No one, yet. I expect that to change now you have returned to King's Landing, Ser Jaime."
Jaime grimaces but says nothing. "Lord Harys Swyft?"
"Unfortunately, Lord Harys was attending the little Queen's funeral when the Great Sept burst into flame."
Jaime feels a flash of sympathy for Lady Dorna. That shy and gentle woman is still mourning the loss of her husband and now she's lost her father—Jaime catches his breath on a sudden thought.
"My cousin, Lancel?"
Qyburn spreads his hands and shrugs. "He was a member of the Faith Militant. He was attending the High Sparrow during the little Queen's funerary rites."
Jaime's heart sinks. The foolish boy should have stayed at Darry, he thinks bitterly, and hopes his gentle lady aunt will be able to weather this double blow.
He scowls off into the distance then says, "Nymeria Sand?"
Qyburn's eyes slide away from his then return.
"She set off for Dorne several weeks ago. Foreign guests have arrived from the Free Cities, she said, and Prince Doran requested her presence."
"I see," Jaime murmurs. "Lord Randyll Tarly is still in the field at Storm's End...so...that leaves...you as the Queen's sole advisor."
Qyburn smiles. "Only until she can name more to the small council, of course."
A harsh laugh bursts from Jaime's lips. "Who is left to be named?" he demands. "If they haven't already done so, the Tyrells will declare themselves at war with the Crown now that most of their family is dead by the Queen's command. Lord Randyll Tarly will follow his liege lord, and I would not be surprised if they are already on their way back to King's Landing to forcibly remove Cersei from the throne!"
"And what of the Lannister forces who are with them, sweet brother? Will they not stand to defend me?"
Jaime turns to see Cersei standing in the doorway, clad in another snug, black gown made of rich fabric. She looks healthier than the last time he saw her.
"Ser Addam is loyal, Your Grace," he says, "but they are surrounded by the Tyrell and Tarly armies. They are unlikely to escape from their midst when friends turn foe."
"What happened at the Great Sept of Baelor was a tragedy, Jaime," Cersei says and glides into the room, "and a tragic accident. No one is to blame."
"Queen Margaery's death was no accident," Jaime grates out. "Nor were the deaths of your children. You were having the little Queen arrested for treason—or did you provide a different story to Lord Willas when you informed him of the deaths of most of his family?"
Cersei shakes her head, her lip lifted in a sneer. "I am better at the game of thrones than you, Jaime. Of course I provided a different story, and ensured no messages left King's Landing without being intercepted by Qyburn first. Lord Willas was told Queen Margaery died as the result of an unfortunate fall from a horse." She gives him a bitter smile. "Lord Willas has not even enquired about the fate of the Rose Bitch's fluttering hens. Nor will he, now that so many were so unexpectedly taken from us when the Great Sept was destroyed. I'm sure most are taking it as a sign from the Seven against the preachings of the High Sparrow."
Jaime's not certain if he's struck with admiration at Cersei's cunning or stunned disbelief at how blinded she is to reality.
"None I have spoken with believe it to be an act of the Seven," Jaime finally says, "and ravens are not the only way for news to travel. There are also still the deaths of Tommen and Myrcella to explain. If you ever left the Red Keep, you would know the smallfolk are fleeing the city and taking tales of what has happened here with them."
Cersei shrugs. "Let them go. They are obviously cowards and we don't need them here. Besides, it is no bad thing to have the rest of the realm fear us."
"You have seven Queensguard, the Gold Cloaks, those remnants of the Lannister army that are not in the Stormlands, and what few untrained forces we can muster from the Westerlands. What is there about us to fear?"
Cersei and Qyburn exchange a glance and Jaime catches his breath.
"You have more than seven," he whispers.
Cersei and Qyburn exchange another glance then Cersei says, "If you agree to be my Hand, Jaime, Qyburn will show you the black cells and tell you all that we have planned."
And Jaime realizes he's caught.
He bows his head. "As you command, Your Grace," he growls and curses himself for a fool.
*/*/*/*/*
Jaime returns to his room that evening exhausted and worried and missing Brienne more with every moment they're apart. He's desperate to send her a message and bitterly regrets leaving all their squires behind in Casterly Rock. Right now, he wants to beg her to leave King's Landing as soon as she can get to a gate, but he has no one he can trust enough to send to her. He suspects his every move is being watched by Qyburn's eyes and ears and it would not bode well for either of them if Cersei were to learn Brienne is in King's Landing and that Jaime knows of it.
He readies for bed and is relieved that at least Cersei is easily plied with wine to distract her from the bedchamber. Although he now understands she doesn't truly want to fuck him; she just wants to feel she still has the power to command it from him if she chose. It makes him wonder how much of their past relationship had been because she enjoyed the control she wielded over him rather than because she truly loved him.
The question saddens more than angers him as he slides beneath the blankets to stare pensively at the ceiling. When had it changed, he wonders. When had that innocent love they shared turned not-so-innocent? When had it stopped being love at all on her part and why had he never realized it?
He doesn't think on it for long; he knows he will not be pleased with the answers if he were to discover them.
He sighs, rolls to his side and places his hand on the bed where Brienne should be. He needs must think of a way to get a message to the wench before she takes it into her stubborn head to come looking for him.
He smooths the empty sheet and imagines the feel of Brienne's skin beneath his fingers, the taste of her on his tongue, and when he sleeps, he dreams of her glorious eyes.
*/*/*/*/*
Jaime busies himself the next day with trying to understand the state of the realm. Without a small council to help him—or anyone he can trust—he finds it tediously slow going. By mid-day Jaime has learned the granaries for King's Landing are almost empty and with Bronn vanished from sight, there have been no regular shipments from Stokeworth and Rosby for the last several weeks. The Crown has also stopped paying for shipments from the Reach and those, not surprisingly, have slowed as well. Jaime expects there will be no food at all from the Reach once the rumors of what truly happened in the Great Sept reach Lord Willas' ears.
He sends a raven to Casterly Rock, asking Damion to determine what stores the Westerlands can spare for King's Landing and to send all he can as soon as possible. He also directs his castellan to settle the outstanding debt to the Reach and then Jaime sends another raven to Highgarden. Their warning to Olenna about the Queensguard was far too late, he thinks bitterly, but mayhaps the effort will at least cause Lord Willas to think somewhat kindly of him—mayhaps enough to at least prevent the complete starvation of the smallfolk living in the city.
He isn't hopeful, but he needs must make the effort.
*/*/*/*/*
Jaime's in the small council's room late that afternoon, listening to the royal armorer delicately requesting payment for the Queensguard's new armor when Cersei and Qyburn storm in.
Jaime takes one look at Cersei's irritated face and quickly dismisses the suddenly terrified armorer. The man is only too happy to scuttle away and leave them alone.
Once the door closes on the man's back, Jaime says, "What's happened?"
Cersei gives Qyburn a disgusted glare. "It appears my invincible Queensguard is not near as invincible as promised."
Jaime's jaw drops. "What?"
Qyburn's forehead gleams with sweat as he says, "The whispers say there were many against one, Your Grace. Even my...erm...found knights cannot hope to stand against a hundred men!"
"What has happened?" Jaime asks sharply.
"We sent Ser Simon Strong to deal with several merchants who have been cheating the royal kitchens."
Or they were too vocal in demanding payment, Jaime thinks cynically, but only says, "Yes? And?"
"Onlookers took offense at the Queen's justice and attacked Ser Simon!" Cersei snaps, angrily pacing round the room.
"I've been told the knight was killed," Qyburn says. He spreads out his hands in a helpless shrug. "It may well be true. Ser Simon has not yet returned and we have found no trace of him."
Cersei turns on them. "These—these—smallfolk have attacked a member of my Queensguard! I will not stand for it! I want these people located and I will have all their heads on pikes!"
"I have already given the other Queensguards the task of hunting for those who participated, Your Grace," Qyburn says, his voice soothing.
"And how will they do that?" Jaime asks drily. "'Tis difficult to ask questions to discover the guilty parties when none of the Queensguard will speak."
"That's why we're here," Cersei snarls. "You will take the Gold Cloaks and escort the Queensguard on their search. I will not have this city laughing at me, do you understand?"
More than you know, Jaime thinks as he bows his head and says, "I understand, Your Grace."
*/*/*/*/*
Jaime gives strict orders to the Gold Cloaks that they are to question all smallfolk out of earshot of the Queensguard. He has no doubt the knights have been ordered to kill any person who even hints at being involved in the disappearance of Ser Simon.
The Gold Cloaks—all strangers to him—appear relieved to have him telling them what to do. As they ride through the city, the Queensguard on their flanks, Jaime converses with their commander, a sellsword named Tristan, and learns that most of the men, including the commander, are new to the city and even more new to the city guard. Tristan may be new to the ways of King's Landing, but he knows enough to be cautious and says little about the Queen or her knights or her orders.
By the time they reach the market where Ser Simon disappeared, Jaime decides that, surprisingly enough, given the state of the city, if Tristan can stay alive long enough, he might actually be a competent leader of the city guard.
*/*/*/*/*
As Jaime expects, no one admits to seeing or knowing anything about the missing Queensguard, and Jaime suffers through Cersei's angry tirade when he tells her they have, as yet, found nothing. He grits his teeth as she casts slurs on his intelligence and his manhood until she finally dismisses him with an angry—and drunken—wave of her hand.
Jaime opens the door to his bedchamber with deep relief—a feeling that disappears when he finds the candles have not been lit and the fire is dying in the hearth, leaving the room chill and dark. He pauses on the threshold, his hand still on the door as he glances round. His skin prickles as he peers at the deep shadows cloaking the far corners of the room.
He draws Widow's Wail and takes a step inside.
"Is that any way to greet an old ally?" a voice whispers.
Jaime relaxes with relief as he kicks the door closed, but he doesn't sheath his sword.
"I was wondering when you would crawl out of whichever whorehouse you've been hiding in, Ser Bronn," Jaime says.
Bronn emerges from a darkened corner and says, "I've missed you as well." He smiles a little. "My pardons for the dramatics but I locked the door to guard against any of the servants happening inside."
Jaime frowns.
"I unbarred it a long time ago," Bronn says. "You keep late hours, Kingslayer."
"The Queen needed much soothing tonight," Jaime says, and wine, he thinks cynically.
"Soothing? Is that what you call it now?"
Jaime's hand tightens on the sword hilt in his hand. "Have a care, Bronn," he growls. "I've had a taxing day and I have been too long away from my lady wife."
"Ah, yes, the Lady Brienne. She's why I'm here."
Jaime's eyes widen and he takes a step closer. "Why? What has happened?"
"She's mostly unharmed, Ser Jaime, although she looks much the worse for wear. You may have noticed one of the Queensguard has gone missing?"
Jaime closes his eyes and groans. "Why am I not surprised?" he mutters and finally sheaths his sword. "Where is she?"
"I've come to take you to her," Bronn says. "There is much you must learn."
Jaime scowls. "I fear I am never unwatched." He glances round at the shadows that surround them. "Or unheard."
Bronn's smile is thin. "Well, then you should be grateful your brother was such a lusty bastard. I've found more secret ways in and out of this castle..." he shakes his head then turns to his darkened corner and gestures for Jaime to follow him.
Jaime raises an eyebrow and hurries to obey.
*/*/*/*/*
Brienne
"Do you think Bronn will think to bring back some food?" Sam asks wistfully.
Brienne glances at the boy then says, "Mayhaps he has something hidden here."
Sam nods without much hope.
"Your friends—" Brienne says, then stops, uncertain of what to say.
"They still live," Sam says firmly, "else the Others would already be here. Melisandre's magic seems strong enough to keep the land burning behind them and that gives them some relief—but the cost is high."
Brienne tries to imagine it: black and bare trees, scorched castle walls, entire towns and villages and all the farms in between, destroyed to their foundations.
"The smallfolk?" she asks.
"They will have joined the retreat or died in the flames."
Brienne stares at Sam's matter-of-fact tone and he has the grace to look ashamed.
"Else they've fallen prey to the Others and been raised to join the enemy," he mutters.
Brienne scowls and pokes at the flames of their tiny fire.
"The smallfolk always suffer," she says bitterly, and Sam glumly nods.
A pebble rattles in the darkness and they're on their feet in an instant, swords in hand.
"The Kingslayer is about as stealthy as a drunken auroch," Bronn complains, stepping into the small circle of firelight, and Brienne's limbs go liquid with relief when she sees the familiar figure behind him.
"Jaime," she murmurs and quickly sheaths her sword.
Jaime hurries to her and stops close, frowning as he peers into her face. He lightly grasps her chin so he can study her more carefully.
"By the gods, wench," he says, "why is it that every time I leave you alone, something happens to you?"
She scowls and opens her mouth to respond but her words are stopped by his very gentle kiss. She still winces at the touch and he quickly ends the kiss when she makes a small, pained noise against his lips.
"Forgive me, Brienne," he whispers against her ear, "only I've missed you these last few days."
"And I, you," she whispers in return. He gives her a slight smile then releases her and turns to the others.
"Sam," he says, "I would say I'm pleased to see you again if we weren't standing in a decaying ruin and my lady wife looks as if I've finally managed to defeat her in a fight."
Brienne snorts and gives a tiny yelp from the pain, and Jaime gives her a fond look.
"Have a care, my lady," he says, and although he's amused, Brienne hears true concern beneath the words.
"I'm fine," she says. "Sam has much to tell you."
Jaime nods and turns to Sam with an expectant look.
Sam quickly tells Jaime all he knows of the happenings in the North. When he's finished, Jaime stares at him with an expressionless face.
"Well," Jaime finally drawls, "at least I now know the days truly are different lengths and it is not simply my mind playing tricks."
"What are we to do?" Sam asks.
Jaime doesn't reply but instead turns to Brienne. "One of the Queensguard failed to return to the Red Keep this afternoon and Bronn claims you are all responsible. Tell me what you know."
Brienne touches her broken nose and tells him all that happened that day. "I realize how mad it sounds, Jaime," she finishes, "but I swear there was no head in that helm."
"The entire world has run mad," Jaime replies, "and you cannot lie to save your soul. I believe you, Brienne." He sighs and turns back to Sam. "We have few men to spare for the North and must deal with our own creatures who will not stay dead. And, assuming, of course, that they have not already done so, I also fear the Tarly and Tyrell armies will bend the knee to the Targaryen pretender once they learn the magnitude of my sweet sister's betrayals against House Tyrell."
"So it wasn't an accident?" Sam asks sharply.
Jaime gives him a thin smile. "Wildfire was once placed beneath the sept by the Mad King but it was found years ago and removed. It was no accident."
"Are you saying we do nothing?" Bronn demands angrily.
Jaime gives him a glimmer of a smile. "I'm telling you all the truth of the situation. Besides an enemy army on the march to our gates, the city is also teetering on the edge of starvation and winter has barely begun."
"You truly think my father will turn on Queen Cersei?" Sam asks.
"She murdered more than half of House Tyrell in one blast of wildfire," Jaime says drily, "and you know your father. What do you think?"
Sam gulps and pales.
"This is all well and good," Bronn snaps, "but what are we to do? About any of it?"
Jaime says, "Sam, you will return to the Red Keep with me tonight. We will say you are an emissary from the Citadel, sent to gather Grand Maester Pycelle's things—if any are left—and return them to Oldtown." He turns to Bronn and Brienne. "Do you think you two can gather some sellswords or even smallfolk brave—or foolish—enough to take on the Queensguard?"
Bronn cracks a laugh. "All six of them at once? And one of them the revenant of the Mountain that Rides? Are you mad?"
"If I have them separated so you're facing only one at a time?"
Brienne scowls. "They don't tire, Jaime, and if they are all without heads, the only way to kill them is a blade through the heart. That takes skill." She frowns, thinking. "Or simple brute force once the creature's disabled enough. The happenings in the market this afternoon proved that."
"The smallfolk may still love you, Brienne. You stood champion for the little Queen and prevailed, and she was a favorite with the smallfolk. Mayhaps they will be willing to follow you for that reason alone."
"I'm not certain—"
"What if I can bring the Gold Cloaks to assist?" Jaime asks.
"And how will you convince the city guard to turn on the knights sworn to guard the Queen?" Bronn demands.
"As Hand to the Queen, I've been granted access to the black cells whenever I have time to see them. I don't know yet what exists there, but I somehow suspect that any who look there will do whatever it takes to stop these abominations." He glances round their small circle. "If I were to give you a day to rally whoever may be brave enough to stand by your side?"
"A day?" Bronn sputters but Brienne carefully nods.
Jaime grins but she sees the worry in his eyes. "And try not to get found out by the city guard before I have a chance to get them on our side, all right?"
*/*/*/*/*
When it's time for Jaime and Sam to leave, Jaime draws her away from the others so they can say their farewells.
"Let me go to the Red Keep with you, Jaime," Brienne says, desperately afraid for him.
He shakes his head. "I need you out here, rallying as many smallfolk and sellswords as you can. When I send out the Queensguard, they need to be met quickly and with as much force as you can muster."
"What about you, Jaime? What if the Gold Cloaks turn on you instead of follow you?"
"Then you will need to battle them as well." She sees his grim smile even in the darkness of the Dragonpit. "Take comfort in the fact that they, at least, still have heads."
He carefully pulls her into his arms, their armor lightly clanging as they hold each other.
"I love you, Brienne," he whispers in her ear.
"I know," she says. "I love you, too."
"I know," he replies and she ignores the pain in her face and kisses him.
*/*/*/*/*
Jaime
Jaime prowls round Qyburn's room in the black cells and remembers the last time he was here, when he threatened the disgraced maester in order to ensure Brienne's safety—temporarily, at least. Judging from the other man's nervousness, it seems safe to assume Qyburn remembers it as well.
Jaime listens to Qyburn chattering about the Queensguard, weaving his mummer's tale that the creatures wearing the white cloaks are living knights who have been enhanced through methods Qyburn has discovered through experimenting on prisoners under his care. Jaime wishes Tyrion were with him, because his sweet brother would have been able to understand more than half of what the man was saying.
"But I am boring you with all the technicalities of my work," Qyburn finally says.
Jaime shrugs. "Tyrion was the scholar, I'll admit. I have always been more comfortable with a sword than a pen."
Qyburn visibly relaxes and he chuckles. "You will wish to see the soldiers I have prepared for the Queen."
"Eventually, yes," Jaime says and continues strolling round the room. He wonders if Tristan and the other two Gold Cloaks gained their positions outside the door early enough to hear all that Qyburn has been telling him.
He wonders if he can truly trust them not to turn on him instead.
Qyburn gives him a knowing smile. "Ah! You first wish to learn how I can give you back your sword hand."
Jaime blinks, startled. In truth, he had forgotten about that.
Qyburn says, "I know our Queen wishes me to do all I can for you. Simply say the word, my lord, and I will be most pleased to restore you to your rightful place as the best swordsman in Westeros."
"How could you possibly do such a thing?" Jaime asks, honestly curious. "Is it simply a more realistic false hand, fashioned to fool all into believing I am a whole man once more?"
"Oh, it will be a true hand, my lord, from a skilled swordsman. Who is your most skilled enemy? Speak his name and his hand shall be yours."
Jaime chuckles. "And have my enemy's hand near enough to slit my own throat? I think not!"
Qyburn's smile turns sly. "Then mayhaps a friend's hand would suit better—mayhaps that of your sweet wife? She is skilled, is she not?"
Jaime freezes. "What is your fascination with the Maid of Tarth?" he asks and is pleased his rage is not evident in his voice.
"I need subjects who have a great deal of...erm...vigor to inform my work, and the Maid of Tarth is the most vigorous female I have ever seen. I'm curious to see if she is as other women or if there is something different about her. I also feel I will be able to extract much—hmm—fuel from her for my...experiments. I have no doubt I will learn many invaluable lessons from her."
Aye, Jaime thinks, and the lessons would be even more invaluable if she has a sword in her hand.
"So you would offer to attach her hand to the end of my arm?" Jaime asks.
"She is a skilled warrior, woman or no. You could do worse for a swordhand. However, we do have a need for a new member of the Queensguard and she has sworn herself to Kings before. Mayhaps when I am finished with her, she will...erm...agree to guard the Queen."
Jaime's eyes are cold. "Will she have a choice?" he asks.
"Trust me, my lord, when I finish with her, choice will not be a concern," Qyburn says and chuckles—and Jaime draws his dagger and drives it into Qyburn's neck in one smooth motion.
Qyburn howls and his blood is hot as it spurts out over Jaime's hand. Jaime pulls out the dagger and drags it across the man's throat, and Qyburn's screams turn to gurgles as he slumps to the floor.
Jaime glances round as Tristan and his two companions rush in to the room. He glares at the Gold Cloaks as they gape from him to the body at his feet and back again.
"Did you hear all that?" he growls and knows he will have no time to draw Widow's Wail if they decide to turn on him.
"Aye," Tristan says a little shakily, "but I don't believe half of what I heard."
Jaime wipes his dagger on Qyburn's shirt and returns it to its place on his belt. He unsheathes Widow's Wail and faces the door that leads to the black cells themselves.
"I fear we will not believe half of what we find," Jaime says, and nods at one of the Gold Cloaks to open the door.
*/*/*/*/*