Fell in battle at Visenya's Hill on 1.1.300 AC. Died in defense of King's Landing and its people during the Second Sack of the city.
At a white table in a white room, the new lord of King's Landing set down his quill in front of a White Book. It had taken three days of bedrest for Carl's fever to go down so he could do anything at all, and another three to practice writing two sentences. Writing with quill and ink was hard. So was writing with his left hand, while his broken right arm snugly lay in a plaster cast. When the two were put together, his writing looked barely better than Judith's childish scribbles. Some historian is gonna read this one day, he mused. What would they think of him, and what would they think of me?
"I've added my lines," he proclaimed to Brienne when the lady knight returned.
Brienne strode over to the White Book and frowned. Carl's penmanship certainly didn't seem to have impressed her. "You could have let me write the rest, my lord."
"I could. But it's the gesture that counts. We were on opposite sides in this war, but I owe it to the last of the Kingsguard for defending the city until we arrived." That was not entirely true. Boros Blount had yielded, while Arys Oakheart would be at Dorne with Myrcella. And Loras… "Lannister or not, he died a hero. Are the septons ready?"
Brienne nodded, her eyes red and puffy.
"Cool." Carl rose from his chair. He made to close the White Book, until he remembered that it would take a while for the ink to dry. "Let's go."
The small royal sept was overflowing with people by the time Carl and Brienne arrived. Most of them were Westermen, swapping their flamboyant doublets with mournful black. Far fewer crownlanders attended, perhaps hoping to curry favour with the city's new ruler. As if I would care, Carl mused. None of the Northmen attended, as he expected, but there was not a single Reachman in sight either.
Under the Stranger's feet, the Lannister twins lay side by side on the marbled altar. Their appearances could not have been more different. Jaime was armoured in his Kingsguard plates, the dents in his armour having been hammered out. His hands clasped the hilt of a longsword as if he were about to rise and do battle. The Silent Sisters had done well. When Carl saw Jaime die, the knight had so much blood on him that Carl couldn't even spot the wounds.
Cersei's corpse was dressed far more plainly. Black robes cocooned her body so that only her face showed, and none of the huge gashes where her body was run through the spikes. Even so, the Silent Sisters could only do so much about the massive hole in her forehead.
The murmuring abruptly dropped to a silence when Carl entered the sept with Brienne, half a dozen goldcloaks behind them. The Septon was busily dabbing away the sweat on his forehead.
"Why aren't any of the westermen paying their respects to the two?" Carl wondered aloud. The Maidenvault may be close to the Sept, but the mourners had made their way here after all.
"Some are here only out of courtesy." Brienne explained. "Neither Jaime or the late Queen were ever particularly popular, and the war diminished what little goodwill they had. Others are here because they harbor misplaced fears of Tywin's wrath, defeated though he may be. The Lannister name ran strong in the Westerlands after all. But they fear you too. They are afraid your men or Princess Arya might start taking names. None of them want to follow Ilyn Payne's footsteps."
"I won't kill someone just for paying last respects. Fuck, I'll do it myself if none of the cowards step up. Come on, Brienne. I know you miss the Kingslayer. Don't say you're scared of me too." He slowly paced towards the altar, fidgeting with one of the spent brass casings left from the battle almost a week ago.
A lone westerman stood up and walked towards the altar. Addam Marbrand, the knight who commanded the defense of Maegor's Holdfast during the battle. Tommen followed right after, clutching at Addam's cloak. Then another. And another. The Westermen finally came forth to mourn their dead countrymen.
When they arrived at the altar, Carl opened Jaime's clasped hand and lay the spent casing within. "My lords, my ladies. Will you let me say a few words?"
A few cries of 'yea', a few nods. Nobody dared say no.
"The first time Jaime Lannister saved King's Landing and its people was during Robert's Rebellion. King Aerys ordered the city to be burned down when the Targaryens were about to lose. Jaime chose the lives of innocent people over the whims of a mad king. So he slew the king, and all those who tried to carry out the king's orders. All these years he had been called Kingslayer, and cursed for it by those who didn't know why. And no one knew." When Carl asked about what she wrote in the White Book, Brienne told him the story Jaime had in turn told her. The story about why the Kingslayer slew the Mad King. "A week ago, he saved the city again during another Sack. He died with a sword in his hand, defending the innocent, protecting the weak. As a true knight would. Whatever his wrongs were."
"I cannot say anything flattering about Cersei. But she was the daughter of a grieving father, the mother of grieving sons." Carl looked down at Cersei's body. For a moment, he thought the woman's hair was black, her features more like Carl rather than the Lannister boys. Mom? His heart lurched. Would she be watching over him, Dad and Judy in this new world too? He blinked. When he opened his eyes again, all he saw was Cersei's golden hair. "I hope she will find closure and redemption in her next life, if there is one. Whatever her wrongs were."
"Thank you for allowing this funeral, my lord. By friend or foe, they still deserve a proper burial." Marbrand whispered.
"Never got the chance to bury my mom," Carl said softly. He wrapped an arm around the weeping Tommen. "Do you want their bones buried here? You could visit them if you want," he offered when the younger boy had finished crying into the sleeves of his leather jacket.
Tommen rubbed his eyes. "H-here?"
"You can go to the Westerlands after the trials are over. Ser Marbrand can go with you, and you can take Jaime and Cersei's bones back to Casterly Rock. Or you can stay in King's Landing. Do you think we were gonna throw you out after you've spent your whole life in this city?" Carl let out a bitter chuckle. The days when his group were constantly on the road after losing their home were long ago, yet sometimes Carl dreamt it was just yesterday. Cannibals, rapists, and those walkers who blurred life and death. "You can live in your room in the Red Keep for as long as you want. When you grow up, we Alexandrians and King's Landing will always need more good men-"
"Why did you raid our city?" Tommen sobbed. "Why did you kill my mother?"
"Because… she might not have told you, but your mother did a lot of bad things. So did your family, to the people of Westeros, and to the Starks. My people have allied the Starks. Do you know what allies are, Tommen?
"Friends?" the boy with golden curls answered.
"Yeah. Allies - friends - look out for each other, so their war is our war now. And the fastest way to end a war is by going straight for the enemy capital."
Tommen seemed unconvinced. "But why not be friends with us too? Why the Starks-"
Clank, clank, clank.
Flanked by goldcloaks, Tywin and Joffrey headed up the sept's aisle with bound hands and manacled feet. Tywin's face, ripe as a tomato, was a study of anger and grief. His mouth opened a few times, but no words came out. Joffrey didn't seem much happier either. Several times he bashed the iron chains against the floor, yet the chains held.
Carl did not want to deal with either of them yet. "Just think about what I said, okay?" He told Tommen, then headed to the back of the sept with Brienne.
The septon droned on and on. Septon Raynard, Carl dimly recalled. The Most Devout had been pressing for a meeting with the city's new lord ever since he could get out of bed again, been preaching for him to convert to the Faith of the Seven, been asking for this and for that. He avoided them as best as he could, but at last he relented and gave them one day for the Lannisters' funeral. One day only, and without the usual pomp. Not while the city still starved.
A goldcloak entered the sept and wormed his way towards Carl as the singing began. "Prince Oberyn Martell wishes to see you, my lord."
"Tell him to wait at my quarters-"
"Prince Oberyn is waiting outside the sept, my lord."
The Red Viper stood at the top of the serpentine steps, a bemused expression on his face. His black-bead eyes swept over Carl. Finally he spoke. "Congratulations for taking the city, my lord. A momentous achievement for one so young."
"It's luck, that's all." Truth be told, it really was. In the leadup to the battle he had been so confident, but if Tywin Lannister had arranged a few more crossbowmen at the wedding… If the westermen didn't break so soon in front of the Red Keep… If the Sept of Baelor fell before Carl and his men got there… So many 'ifs'. The plan was to hold the Red Keep only, but somehow it spiralled into taking the whole city.
And now Carl suffered for it. How would a twelve year old boy feed half a million people?
"I like praises, but I like food more. Do you have any food to feed the city, Prince Oberyn?"
The Prince sadly shook his head. "Dorne is little more than stone and sand. We plant some crops along the Greenblood, and we fish, but we have little to sell or give away, and the journey to Dorne will be fraught with danger this time of to the Lannisters, King's Landing will have to starve a bit longer. The Tyrells are who you should be asking."
"I'll think about it. Why don't we head back to the Tower of the Hand?" Carl offered. Maegor's Holdfast was more secure, but he thought the Tower could be held by fewer people, so the Alexandrians lived there for now. "And I got a gift for you."
"What a coincidence. I got a gift for you too."
Oberyn's gift turned out to be a bottle of wine. "A small token of our appreciation. Fine Dornish Red, for a fine warrior. If I knew that you would be here earlier, we would have brought far more."
Carl opened the bottle of wine and poured it into two clear plastic glasses he brought all the way from Alexandria. He had thought they would impress the Westerosi, seeing as how they were so strange and out of place, but Oberyn did not even ask when he raised the glass to his lips.
"Thanks. But what did I do to deserve this gift, or even more?" Three hundred miles from Alexandria, Carl could drink as much booze as he wanted, more than the small shots Dad let him sip from time to time. He nearly spat wine out the first time he tried it, but the taste didn't seem so bitter now, and all the adults seemed to drink beer and wine whenever there was a party. So Carl would have to drink too, if he were to grow up.
"What did you do?" Oberyn's thin eyebrows rose. "What did YOU do? You killed the Mountain. You killed Cersei. You toppled House Lannister right in front of Tywin's eyes. Dorne is avenged. Elia is avenged."
"It was nothing…"
Oberyn gulped down more wine. "Come to Dorne one day when you're a bit older, and tell that to our maidens. But not now. They may call me the Red Viper, but I'm not gonna throw a little boy into a viper's nest. How old are you?"
Carl blushed. The wine, perhaps, or Oberyn's slurry words. "Nearly thirteen."
"Twelve then. I was only a little older than you when my sister and I travelled around the Reach and Westerlands. Both of us were yet unpromised. We were close, as close as brother and sister should be, and I mocked Elia's suitors behind their back, every single one of them. I was a monster back then!" The prince's smile soon faded. "If I wasn't… she would still be alive. But the Mountain raped her. He murdered her. Then he killed her children."
Carl stood up and carefully lifted a nearby wooden box onto the table. "Here's my gift for you. The flesh was rotting, so I removed most of it, and the Silent Sisters did the rest. A… small token of friendship between my people and yours."
Oberyn flipped open the box's lid. His mouth spread into a wide grin as his fingers traced the jagged holes in the skull. "What were his last words?" The prince asked after he recovered his composure.
"Like this." Carl gargled the wine in his mouth and widened his eyes. "Oomph… Oomph…" Then he spat, and sprayed the wine all over the skull, narrowly missing Oberyn's clothes.
The Red Viper roared in laughter. "Good lad, good lad," he repeated. He patted Carl on the shoulder. "So long as my spear is not pointed at Dorne, I shall aid your cause, whatever it might be." Carl smiled. He had taken the head as a trophy of sorts, but now it had proved its worth as greater than its weight in gold.
Carl handed over Maester Aemon's parchment. Oberyn read. "You plan to go to Castle Black with a broken arm?"
"No. I'll wait here until my arm heals, then we'll go north to deal with the wildlings. I've sent a letter back to Harrenhal. When Dad gets it, he'll lead the army north. I know he will."
"I will write my brother Doran in Sunspear. With luck, he might send some Dornishmen. But only for you."
They drank a bit more. Oberyn started boasting of his adventures in the south and east, after he had been caught in the bed of another lord's paramour and killed the lord in an ensuing duel. To Oldtown first, where he forged a few links at the Citadel before he got bored. Then to fair Lys, where he bedded so many pearl-skinned-silvery-haired beauties in pillow houses that he had lost count. Service with the Second Sons as the Free Cities warred, then leading his own company before heading back to Westeros. Carl had little to boast of in return, though Carl's names were just as unfamiliar to Oberyn's as Oberyn's were to Carl. Fleeing from Cynthiana, his hometown, when the walkers rose from the dead. Wandering near Atlanta with Dad's group, until they thought they found a home in a prison, only to have it overrun by a tyrant. Then a long grueling journey to Alexandria, only to war not only the undead but yet another tyrant. This time they won, and there were a few months of peace, until they found themselves in this new world and warred another tyrant again. Everywhere the Grimes went, tyrants ruled, and every time Carl travelled, every time Carl fought, he lost a bit more of himself.
Finally the bottle was empty and Oberyn left, but not before leaving another bottle of wine. "Drink this with the Queen of Thorns," Oberyn advised when Carl said he would meet the Tyrells next. "Mace Tyrell may be the Lord of Highgarden, yet his mother Lady Olenna rules the Reach in all but name. She will know what this wine is."
Heeding Oberyn's advice, Carl brought the bottle to Lady Olenna's room. The Maidenvault was crammed with nobles, watched under the careful eyes of the goldcloaks and Northmen.
"Come in," the Queen of Thorns called in a soft voice when Carl knocked on the door. "Oh, Lord Carl. Pray you didn't come here to invite me to another wedding. They call this the Grey Wedding for the smoke, and since Red's already taken. At this rate we would run out of colors before the year's out."
"I'm not a wedding planner. I'm just here for a drink or two." Carl poured a glass of wine for Olenna, and another for himself.
The Queen of Thorns carefully sipped at the wine. "Dornish Red?" she asked. "The Red Viper strikes quickly, it seems. But not as quickly as your lot. One week we heard the Mountain was slain. Another week, and the Freys were broken at Riverrun. By the end of the third week, you Alexandrians are swarming all over King's Landing. You're here to discuss terms, I suppose."
"Kinda. But I'll let Dad do most of the talking when he gets here. I just want to talk about the captives and food. Before Kingslanders and Reachmen both starve."
"Captives and food? Go on then, Lord Carl."
"I will release your soldiers back to the Reach in hosts of five thousand each week. They will surrender all arms and armor. Then you will ship enough food to feed the city for the next week. When all your soldiers have gone home, the Reach will continue selling food to King's Landing at the same rate you were bringing food in before the… the Grey Wedding, if you will, at prices before the War of Five Kings began. Every Reachman who wants to stay behind at King's Landing will be allowed to do so, and shouldn't be stopped from bringing their families here." Maybe a few enterprising merchants or lords, blacksmiths who thought they could earn a better living at the Street of Steel. Or sailors seeking adventures abroad, to crew the many ships which would soon be launched into the Blackwater Bay. With hundreds of times more people than all the Alexandrians combined, King's Landing bustled with life. With hope. Carl was not his father, but he had a plan nevertheless. One that would doubtless be refined in the coming days, when he talked to Dad, Michonne, Maggie, Eugene along with many others.
Lady Olenna frowned. "Many swords are heirlooms that were owned by their Houses for centuries, passed down from father to son for generations. It would do little harm to let scions of our Houses to keep their swords, my lord. Swords can kill, but most battles are decided by spears."
"Fine. Every lord or knight can buy back one weapon of theirs for fifty gold dragons, so long as said weapon was not captured while fighting the Northmen or Alexandrians. If it's so precious to them, they will gladly pay. And if they don't, I won't mind having an extra sword or two. Maybe I will build a throne out of them like Aegon the Conqueror did."
"You are ever so kind, Lord Carl." She laughed, but her eyes did not smile. Was that mockery in her voice?
Carl reached for his glass but misjudged the distance and knocked his glass off the table. The wine spilled all over the floor, but the glass bounced once, twice on the floor before coming to a rest. It did not shatter. Olenna's eyes widened in surprise.
"Thank you," Carl said nonchalantly. He picked up the glass and poured himself more wine. "And sorry for that. I've never drank this much, and I've never felt so clumsy before. Anyway it seems taking castles with around two dozen men is all the rage these days. First Winterfell, now King's Landing. I hope your vassals aren't gonna revolt after you sent so many men up north, but if someone does and somehow seizes Highgarden, we'd only need to march an army to Tumbleton, and Highgarden will only be a short boat ride away. Twenty good men might not be enough to retake your castle though. A few more Dornish or Northern spears should be enough to help retake your castle and secure your food."
"Would my lord give me time to consider?"
"Of course. I'll need to clean up this mess anyway. Tell me when I'm done mopping. Should we go see Loras afterwards?" Carl left the room before the Queen of Thorns could answer.
It took ten minutes for him to find a bucket and mop, but only one minute to clean up the spilled drink. And another five minutes for Lady Olenna to finally nod her head.