Chapter 12: The Kingsguard

Jon

The barracks of the City Watch were cold at night. Jon shivered in his bed, wishing someone could start a fire, despite the need for secrecy. He'd come here some hours earlier, at nightfall, after declaring at dinner that he needed fresh air in the city below. An ironic statement greeted only by laughs, but hopefully it had served its purpose in disarming the others of their suspicions. He'd stolen away in here to join his soldiers then, after a servant who resembled him was sent out the gate in his place, bearing his heraldry.

"Do you think we should proceed?" Oberyn said, after counting seven thousand paces back and forth in the room. Jon sat up and looked around, rubbing his eyes. He'd drifted off a little. Myles Mooton brooded with the soldiers as they sat around tables in candlelight, playing at dice with hushed voices.

"You can go and have a look," Jon whispered. "But be quiet about it." Oberyn nodded and walked to the door, which thankfully did not squeak. Jon thanked himself for having the foresight to have the hinges oiled. He observed his breath fog in the air, before climbing out of bed. He rubbed his hands and breathed on them in an effort to get his stiff fingers warm. It was strange that Raymun Darry had ridden out of the city with a rushed story about his uncles wanting to keep him out of harm's way when they moved against the King, but Jon could hardly blame the elder Darrys for caring about their nephew like that, not when it was possible he would soon be the last living son of Symond Darry. If the conspiracy was indeed betrayed, the King would have long sent men to apprehend them. The Dornish knights, Lewyn Martell among them, had patrolled the entrances, and they'd reported nothing out of the ordinary, with Jonothor having told them the same before he returned to his post at the King. The castle had long gone to slumber, and the gates were only lightly defended.

Oberyn soon returned, drawing the eyes of those around him, none of whom were permitted to sleep. "All clear," he whispered. "My uncle says his men stand ready to secure the entrances for you." Myles stood up from his table at last, as the soldiers around him did likewise and looked at Jon expectantly.

Jon took a deep breath. This was it. There were three thousand men loyal to the conspirators. Most of the five thousand soldiers Tygett had brought with him were encamped outside the city, so numbers would hopefully not be a concern. "Let us to it," he said. "To arms."

Myles picked up his staff. He would be the signal, as arranged. If a man came limping with a staff to the gates of Maegor's Holdfast, the Dornishmen would subdue the guards and open the doors. The soldiers who'd drifted off to sleep on their bedrolls were quietly roused, as Myles walked into the courtyard. Jon kept the door ajar for the men to watch. Oberyn almost pushed him aside to have a better look. The moon shone over the harbor and over the Red Keep, a mere sliver of silver in the sea of darkness in the sky. Ser Myles slowly made his way across the courtyard to the drawbridge, and waited. For a long moment Jon feared something had gone wrong. Then the doors opened.

"Onwards," Jon whispered, picking up a shield and strapping it to his arm. Oberyn nodded eagerly. He waved the men forward.

"Be quiet!" he hissed. The men filed out of the barracks and into the shadows beneath the walls. Lewyn had instructed them to cover their helms with rags to conceal the glint, and and that paid off now as they all trailed through the dark to the gates. At the foot of the drawbridge the army split. Jon shook hands with Myles Mooton, before the knight waved men to follow him to the main gate, whereupon taking it, they would move through the rest of the citadel before any organized resistance could be mustered. It was essential that the Red Keep be swiftly taken in full, or lest Tygett's soldiers outside the city flood through to the aid of their comrades. It could take hours before this was finished, and such an interruption in that time could mean the downfall of the entire conspiracy.

Lewyn Martell strode forward to meet Jon and Oberyn at the foot of the drawbridge. "Follow me," he whispered, as the Dornish knights under his command filed out of the guardhouse. "To the royal chambers." Jon nodded, waving the soldiers to continue crossing over. "The time for silence is over. We may have already been seen."

"Lead on!" Oberyn told his uncle. Lewyn took one look at his nephew, perhaps wondering if he should give him a lecture about discretion. He shrugged, and obeyed, waving them and his knights to follow. Jon knew these corridors well. A few steps and around a corner, the stairs to the upper levels could be found, which led to the royal chambers near the top. Sergeants and minor knights led smaller groups of common soldiers down the side passages to comb the place for guards and perhaps loot as well. Jon had made it clear no pillaging would be permitted, but there was only so much one could do. The halls rang so loudly with their arrival that Jon winced, and almost missed the sound of a bell signaling a general alarm. Soldiers in black and red and gold swung around the corner by the stairwell and crashed into Lewyn and his knights. The Kingsguard-turned-conspirator quickly set about laying death around him with his men, and because there was no other way to their destination, Jon and Oberyn quickly followed. Curiously, the men barring their way were few in number, and soon by sheer weight of numbers they were forced back to the stairs, where unsure footing brought many to stumble and the rest to flee to the upper floors.

Soon they were at the royal level, where one curving way turned left and led around the holdfast. The royal chambers were near the end. The only way now was forward. After three they'd rounded three corners, the fourth issued forth a band of guards and redcloaks who barred the way, just short of the door to Rhaegar and Elia's chambers. They parted to let their wounded comrades pass, when Jaime Lannister appeared, looking over their shoulders. Only a handful of torches lit the hall, and they were not enough to see his expression. He opened the door to Elia's room, and bowed in, followed by ten men. Jon's heart raced. What was he doing in there? Was he going to kill her or her children? Hold her hostage? There was no time to guess. Rhaegar's children were in there! So Jon and his companions charged again.

The guards seemed surprised at the ferocity of the assault, and were forced back again almost immediately. Lewyn's skill aided much in this endeavor, striking true with almost every cut of his sword. One knight in grey with a burning tree emblazoned on his chest, challenged Jon at the threshold, mace and shield in hand. Jon pushed him back with his shield, searching blindly with his sword hand for the knob, until his gloved fingers brushed on the rounded brass. He flung the door open, as men surged forward to keep the enemy from retaking the door. Jon flung himself into the room, sword ready to kill whomever opposed him.

Candles lit the room, dimly. Three redcloaks turned to face him, extending their own swords to ward him off. The rest were dispersed through the room, four of them with crossbows in hand. Unloaded crossbows. Jon's eye darted where they were pointed. Jaime Lannister lay on a carpet atop a spreading stain of blood, a bolt embedded to the fletching in his side and another in his neck. Elia Martell stood over him, her daughter Rhaenys cowering behind her legs in a shift stained red with blood. Above her, clutched to his mother's breast, pinned to his mother's arm by a red-feathered bolt that had cut through bone and sinew to reach him, Aegon Targaryen hung still. Dead.

Jaime

"It has begun." The King sat in his bed beside his squirming pregnant wife, smiling, as the sound of conspirators meeting Lannister steel rang through the night. Ser Jonothor stood guard over him, nodding and looking solemnly satisfied, his white cloak draped over his shoulders like a funeral shroud. Jaime stood guard by the door, thinking of his sister. His uncle, Tygett, who would see to the castle's defense this cold night, stood beside him. The hearth was lit and whispering, tended to by Jonothor's brother Ser Willem, the master-at-arms and a captain of the Guard. All the servants had been sent away through a secret passage so they would not be caught up in the struggle.

The King shook Jaime out of his thoughts with a wave of his claws. "Ser Jaime," he said. "I have a task for you…" What was it this time? Surely the four burnings of the afternoon were enough for the day? Jaime stepped to Aerys's bedside and knelt. The King looked him right in the eye. "This will probably be the last thing I ask of you, boy." Indeed. He had signed a decree formalizing Jaime's departure from the Kingsguard that very evening. Though it was in secret, as Tygett believed it would be wise if all seemed normal. Aerys's gaze darted past Jaime's shoulder. "Tygett! Tell some men to accompany him to my vagrant son's wife, so she may be secured from Jon Connington and his rabble."

"Your Grace," Uncle Tygett said. "Would it not be better if I go myself?"

"He is a Kingsguard, for this night last! Is not the royal Dornish wife his concern?"

Tygett bowed. "Of course, Your Grace. Forgive me." He waved to Jaime. "Come, nephew."

"It is not a dangerous task in the slightest, Aerys said, smiling. Something dangerous glinted in his eye. "Take Elia and her brood and bring them to me. Tygett, stay. You are needed here."

Tygett turned around in the doorway, just as Jaime was about to pass through. "As His Grace wishes." Frowning, he blinked, and looked Jaime in the eye. "Hurry. And take some of the men outside with you. I doubt you shall need them, as Elia's chambers are close, but if the rebels manage to reach you… Well, Lewyn Martell is with them. So if they find you, do not be a hero."

"I won't be long," Jaime replied, squeezing past his uncle. Why was he making such a bother of it? Surely the men downstairs would hold the rebels well enough? Several redcloaks stood outside the door, speaking in hushed voices under the clamor of battle. Jaime stopped. It sounded closer. The redcloaks stood to attention, one setting the candle he'd been waving back into its alcove in the wall.

"I will need some men to come with me," he said. One of them stepped forward, a sergeant, judging by the crest on his helm.

"Yes, Milord," he said, as nine or so of the others came forward. "Lead on."

Ten is enough, Jaime thought. Soldiers rushed past to the stairway, and even more wounded came from it. Curious that there were so many. Had Jon Connington and his conspirators somehow already broken through downstairs? Jaime broke into a run. Just beyond Elia's door huddled a throng of redcloaks, braced to fight. If the rebels reach you, don't be a hero. He stopped at the door, looking over their shoulders, and sure enough, there was Jon Connington, with a good many Dornishmen behind him. At his side Lewyn Martell stood, clutching his silvery, bleeding blade. Lewyn's cloak remained white in some places, though the rest was soiled with red. Jaime was half a mind to join him, to make an end to the wicked king they'd been both hoodwinked into serving. But then he remembered that his uncle would not stand for it, nor his father. And he had not the heart to fight them.

Jaime hesitated as his hand brushed the doorknob. He could end this right now, surely? But Lewyn too was his brother, and had always been kinder to him than the rest. He opened the door.

"Hold them, he said, and stepped through. Some of the redcloaks followed him anyway, as the sound of battle returned in full force. Lewyn Martell no doubt was flinging himself at them hard to reach his niece. Elia Martell sat on her bed, cradling her infant son in her arms, Rhaenys at her side. A lone candle on the table beside her lit the gloom. My Lady, come with me." Jaime walked to her until she was within arm's reach, and offered his hand. She slowly looked up. "The King wishes you out of harm's way."

"As if I should believe that," she replied coldly. Rhaenys shivered. The room was getting cold. Elia stood up suddenly, eyes wide. "So you have come to kill us." She staggered to his side, as quarrels whistled through the air where she'd stood. Jaime looked back at the door, where five Lannister men with crossbows stood, four of them leveling their shots. The four others did nothing. Why? Jaime instinctively flung himself of Elia and her children. Then he felt a fire in his side and near his throat as his hands went to his sword, but his fingers fumbled at the hilt. He'd only managed to draw it by half before his legs gave way and he fell to the floor. A redcloak came rushing to him, while the others sluggishly moved to block the assassins' way to the door, which was flung open once more. It was Jon Connington again. A moment passed where the only sound that could be heard was Rhaenys crying in pain. Then the killings began.

Jon

The Lannister men stumbled back from him, clutching their swords. Jon brought his own to point and ran the first one through. He was in no mood for mercy. As he pressed his attacks, he vaguely heard Oberyn Martell scream his anguish. Lewyn Martell came to Jon's side and in silence methodically hacked the men before him apart. Oberyn finished off the wounded with his curved sword, shouting with every man he slew. When the killing was done, Jon strode to the wounded Kingsguard, and leveled his sword at the Lannister's throat.

"Did you order this," Jon demanded, blinking away his tears. "Did you!" Jaime shifted slightly but did not answer.

"Elia, come," Lewyn said gently, sheathing his sword. Jon saw her tearfully embrace her uncle in the corner of his eyes, before Dornish knights took her and led her away with her daughter and the corpse of her son. "We will avenge him."

"Shall we begin with this one?" Oberyn asked, pointing at Jaime.

"It was not me," Jaime murmured.

Jon and Oberyn knelt on either side of him. "Then who!" Jon said.

"I… do not know."

"It must have been the King." Lewyn knelt beside his nephew, who nodded, stood up, and followed Elia away. "And I have no doubt your father played a part," Lewyn continued, vainly trying to stem the bleeding with a corner torn from his cloak. "Why else would they obey such an outrageous order?"

"I did warn you that your father would betray you," Jon said.

Lewyn looked up from his work, as Jaime winced. "Leave him in peace, Jon. He is dying, you fool! Must you wound him even now, after he tried to—"

"Why did it have to be my own father that is the one to hold a son's life so lightly?" Jaime murmured. He coughed, and blood dribbled from his lips.

Lewyn put both hands under Jaime's arms, careful to avoid touching the quarrel, and pulled him to rest against a pillar. "Don't let it trouble you," he said. "If you die here, know that you die with honor, brother, among our forbears."

Jaime's face darkened. He gestured Lewyn to come closer, and whispered something in his ear. The elder knight nodded thoughtfully and whispered something back. Then he hung his head, as his brother's eyes trembled shut and became still. For a long moment, there was only the sound of battle muffled through the door.

"Now for revenge," he at last whispered. He looked Jon in the eye, as he stood up. "Tywin Lannister and the King… They will pay for this," he said, drawing his blooded sword once more, and in that moment there was no doubt he meant every word.