JEROME FLYNN SAVES WESTEROS
Part 2 - A WHITECLOAK IN GOLD ARMOR
He didn't exist as the horse rushed down the pitch towards the oncoming rider. His mind freeingly empty. Flesh simply a conduit between surging beast and the lance guided by instinct … to … there.
BAM! BAM!
Jaime came back to himself as the impact of the dual jolts of ashen shaft on steel reverberated up his lance arm and through his shield to shoulder and chest. His thighs clenched hard on the saddle as felt himself shifted by the force of the blows.
And … ?
CRASH!
The sweet sound of a foe tumbling to the turf reached his ears through the confining helmet. Unlike the morning's three hedge knights who had each fallen on the first crossing of lances, Jaime did not begrudge the four dragons he would be paying Ser Timeon; one for each pass ridden.
Stark's Tourney started on the morrow and the pickings for a quality opponent to practice his skills against were slim. Any semi-talented knight thinking he had a chance at winning his first joust, let alone fooling himself to believing he could win the grand prize of Robert's gold, refused to go up against him for fear of receiving an incapacitating injury.
Which left him the dregs. Mostly. He supposed Ser Timeon's meager showing deserved some small gesture. So as Lionchaser slowed to a walk at the end of the rail, he flipped up his visor and pulled the reins to come around to the other side. When a faint, rhythmic beat reached his notice.
clap. clap. clap.
He looked over to the edge of the turf for its source and spied a small bedraggled party on a bunch of nags applauding. And then a jaunty wave by its shortest member.
Warmth swelled through him.
"Tyrion!" he roared.
"Jaime," came back a pure smile of joy.
The servant Morrec and some sellsword by the looks quickly side stepped their horses to make room for him on his right side, lance dropped, so he could reach down to give his brother a hug.
"Enough, enough, you'll squeeze the life out of me."
"But Gods not the stench," he happily quipped, releasing Tyrion. "Are you just returned? Not even to a brothel just inside one of the city's gates?"
"Aye. I'd hoped to find you here."
That flat tone. Jaime's eyes darted about and his body subtly tensed. "Well, you found me," he casually responded as his other senses also automatically extended themselves in search of the threat.
"Hopefully there is a pint of something for me to drink in your pavillon as you change. So much to catch up on before we return to the Red Keep."
"A pint … or a horse trough to bathe in prior to court. Wouldn't want you to offend Robert … or Cersei … or Stark."
"Or the rest of the Small Council."
'The rest of the Small Council?' The helmet stopped him from scratching his head in confusion. There was only so much this game could tell him. "T'is a long time since I gave you a sound dunking. So come along, little brother," Jaime announced and started his mount moving again.
"You wouldn't dare?"
"Only one way to find out, isn't there?" he faux challenged.
"There is wine or beer?"
"Both," he called over his shoulder.
"I'll chance it then."
And Tyrion and his three companions followed him on the lazy, circuitous route to where Jaime's tent was pitched for those nights of the Tourney he wouldn't be attending the drunken royal oaf.
Dismounted, his brother murmured, "Ears." And Jyck, Morrec, and the sellsword moved to take up positions at corners of the pavilion. Then, beneath canvas, Tyrion ordered "Leave us" to the two squires within waiting to attend him. And a strong jerk of a thumb towards the entrance for emphasis.
Two sets of dubious eyes looked at him for confirmation and he nodded his head. They left.
"What in blazes is this about, Tyrion?" There were several possibilities that worried Jaime in general, but the fact that his brother had traveled safely through the North to reach King's Landing meant the worst of them couldn't have occurred.
"Sit down if you want your armor off. I remember how even if its been a while since I did it for you."
"Tyrion."
"And where's the wine?"
Jaime didn't know whether to laugh or shout. He plunked down on a stool and pointed towards a table. "There. And bring me a cup."
They looked at each other near level eyed and took sips.
Tyrion grimaced, "Truly you have atrocious taste."
"All I can afford, dear brother. My vows of poverty and denial as a Kingsguard," he smirked, causing them both to titter.
After another sour face swallow, Tyrion put down the wine, picked up the wrench, and went to work loosening the helmet from the gorget. Jaime patiently bit his tongue waiting for his clever brother to speak.
"You'll notice I picked up another guard. One I did not have when we said our goodbyes at Winterfell."
"He looks nasty enough to warrant a prime spot in the Night's Watch. Did you find him at the Wall?"
"No. On the porch of an Inn just the other side of the Trident. He convinced me to spend the night crossing the Ruby Ford instead of seeking a warm bed. It was raining."
"How did he convince you?"
"He said Lady Stark was within. A very angry Lady Stark."
"Lady Stark? But she … ?"
"She wasn't in Winterfell when I passed through coming south."
"And this fellow … this?"
"He calls himself Bronn. Do you know the name? Have you seen him about King's Landing?"
Jaime paused to think. He was very good with faces, noting small details, and remembering them. It came with the duty. "No," he answered certainly. "So how did this Bronn know she was there?"
"He won't say. But from the secrets he's spilled so far, he must have worked for Littlefinger."
Jaime shrugged. He couldn't give a shit for the smarmy Lord of Coins. "What of her anger? That is, beyond the boy, of course. We heard he woke up and remembered nothing."
Pop went the last bolt.
"Hold still." He did so, and Tyrion lifted the helm off his head.
"That's better." Jaime took another sip of the admittedly mediocre red. "Again, what of Lady Stark's anger? And was she truly at the inn or did you just take this scoundrel's word for it?"
"I am not so green, brother. Once our horses were ready to ride again, I sent Morrec back up onto the porch to peer in through the windows; and he saw a hooded lady with red hair spilling out at sup."
"Bah."
"But more importantly he spied Stark's Master at Arms in disguise."
"Ser Rodrik?"
"Yes." Tyrion next began unhooking the shoulder pauldron from the chest plate. "Shaven of his ridiculous beard, but Morrec swore it was him. And Bronn never mentioned his presence to us."
"Alright. So what brought them South?"
"Does Robert have a Valyrian dagger? One with a dragon bone hilt?"
"What does that have to do with anything, Tyrion? Yes, he does. He won it off Baelish at Joff's name day tourney. When Loras unseated me. Robert liked to boast of his winnings to my face," he grumbled. "Get back to Lady Stark. Your story drags miserably."
"An idiot assassin supposedly tried to kill her son Bran with it. Lady Stark slowed the fool long enough for the boy's direwolf to show up and rip his throat out. She came by ship to King's Landing ahead of Robert and her husband to try and discover who owned it. And Baelish told her that I had won it off him when I bet on Loras."
"As if you'd ever bet against me," Jaime scoffed.
"You and I know that. But Lady Stark? She sees Lannisters pushing her son from that damned tower."
'Dropped,' Jaime mentally corrected with only the slightest tinge of guilt.
"And then trying to finish the job in case the boy woke up and remembered our House's treachery."
"Ridiculous," he replied trying to keep any tension out of his voice.
"Exactly," his brother agreed; doing an equally mediocre job of controlling the truth from this voice.
"Forewarned is Forearmed. We shall be extra cautious around Stark to keep him mollified while we find a way to ruin Littlefinger. Both he and your Bronn have placed us in their debts," Jaime smiled evilly.
"Bronn's debt is even higher. He's told me much more about Baelish and others on the Small Council."
"Go on."
"Old Arryn and Stannis were looking for Robert's bastards before the Hand fell tragically ill."
"Really?" Jaime questioned; perfectly aware of the fact, remembering the enormous relief he and Cersei had felt at Arryn's fortuitous passing. And currently pleased that Tyrion was not looking him in the face at the moment.
"And now the new Hand is looking for them too."
He did not appreciate Tyrion's knowing tone. His little brother was exceptionally clever. And loyal … to him, but not Cersei. "Glad to hear Stark finds running the Iron Throne in Robert's drunken absences so easy he has the time to find the Stag's profligate fawns too. Perhaps he intends to repopulate the Wall with them, like he's done with his own bastard."
"Perhaps. Though according to Bronn there old Arryn should have been looking for a bastard spawned in the Red Keep not by Robert."
"Oh," he murmured, contemplating the need for killing this dangerously knowledgeable sellsword before he spoke to any besides Tyrion.
"In the Tower of the Hand itself. The Falcon may have been raising a cuckoo placed in that fragile Tully womb by none other than Littlefinger himself."
"Bwahahahahaha!" Jaime roared as his fear abated. Clearly, Baelish was far more dangerous than ever he had suspected. But a threat revealed was soon a threat removed.
