A/N: Chap 20 review responses are in my forums as normal.
The conquest of King's landing presented a bit of a quandary for me. As some of you might have noticed, I've taken to doing limited character POV's per chapter in honor of Martin's original books. Most have been Taylor, but not all. But whose perspective for the main battle of the conquest? Nor could it just be one chapter. So, the next two chapters will be my Lannister chapters.
Chapter Twenty-One: What is Missed
Jaime's hand itched.
Of all the hurts and indignities that he had suffered since his capture in the Whispering Woods at the hands of Robb Stark, the loss of his hand had been the most profound. It was his sword hand; the hand he used to greet his comrades and caress his sister's body when she sought solace with him in the dim hours of the night.
It should have been done with after that fool Vargo lopped it off. But the gods were not content with him suffering the loss just the once. And so it itched, even though it existed no longer. As the Small Council raged around him, all he could think about was that his hand itched; and that his son was dead.
He knew it was going to be a bad meeting when Olenna Tyrell chose to attend in the stead of her son Mace, who was even then leading the majority of the Tyrell levies to relieve the sacking of Highgarden. Jaime personally thought the Pretender's move was a brilliant one. From the accounts of the ravens, she'd hired a Sellsword Company from Essos and sent them up the Mander.
With the Tyrell fleet scuppered in the night as they floated in the Blackwater Rush, and the Pretender's fleet controlling the seas, there were no longer any ships to contest her.
Unfortunately, that left the Crownlands almost undefended. Father had noted such three times now, and every time Olenna dismissed Lord Tywin's concerns.
"Really, my dear? Highgarden is feeding your city, and it was just sacked by mercenaries. You're damned right my son took our men to save it."
"You've played right into the Pretender's hands!"
Father is in rare form today, Jaime thought.
Lord Tywin wasn't sitting at the table. His anger and frustration was such that he stood, his hands clasped behind his back. The rest of the Small Council sat as if waiting for the explosion they all knew was coming.
"It isn't your home that is being sacked," the aged, waspish Lady Tyrell said. "Highgarden is the breadbasket of the Seven Kingdoms and winter is coming. We must relieve it, even if it means losing King's Landing. We can retake the capital; we can't magically recreate food when the snows come."
What Jaime found most admirable and frustrating about Lady Tyrell was that, more often than not, she was correct. It was the waspish way she dispensed with that wisdom which grated. Jaime expected his sister to riposte the elder matriarch.
Instead, Cersei sat at the table in a quiet daze, a crystal goblet of wine held to her chin as she stared into some unfathomable distance. The last time she looked alive was when the two of them…
He tried not to think of making love to his sister next to the dead body of their son in the holy Sept of Baelor. He knew for sure there were no gods, because if the gods existed then surely they would have struck him down for such blasphemy.
Pycelle was there, but had little to say. Varys was noticeably absent, but Tywin just commented on the man having other duties to attend to. Jaime, newly named Commander of the Kingsguard, made up the last member of the Small Council. His uncle Kevan was in the Riverlands, doing his best to press their interests against the Tullys of Riverrun and, now, the Twins.
The door banged open. Lord Tywin's eyes flashed in rage at the interruption, but no sign of it reached his mouth as he watched Lord Varys walk into the room. The eunuch's appearance was singularly less than presentable, given the mud on the hems of his silken robes and the filth he tracked into the polished tiles of the Hand's Chambers. There were even traces of filth on the man's cheek and bald head. More, he was panting and had a gleaming sheath of sweat on his bald head.
"My lord, I beg forgiveness for my tardiness and state," Varys said with a bow. "I bring grave and urgent news. The Pretender has landed a force of at least twenty thousand men."
Tywin's face went utterly blank. "Dragonstone?"
For the past few days, they'd been trying to guess where the pretender would come. Both Jaime and his father thought Dragonstone was the most logical location. It was, after all, where Rhaenys' supposed ancestors had conquered Westeros from.
"No, my lord," Varys said. "Storm's End. My riders report she seized the castle without contest, banished those within still loyal to Lord Stannis to the Dragonstone, and...and…"
"Out with it, man!" Tywin didn't yell, and yet his voice whipped through the air.
"My lord. She used her dragons to burn the remaining Tyrell garrison to ash. My man witnessed it and said there was no fight. Five hundred Tyrell men died in less than one minute."
Olenna Tyrell pulled her ring finger to her lips in silent prayer.
"She'll fortify before she marches," Jaime began. "To prepare for a counter attack."
"A counter attack with what?" Tywin snapped. "Our forces are in the Riverlands, and thanks to our allies, the Tyrell forces have left the city."
Varys shook his head. "My lord, she does not wait. She has already reached Kingswood. Bronzegate made a token resistance with the Lords of Haystack Hall and Felwood attending, but the fight was brief and decidedly one-sided. She marches on King's Landing itself."
Olenna Tyrell looked about the table before glaring at Varys. "What is the disposition of her forces?"
"Between the Pretender's Unsullied and the Golden Company, I estimate 17,000 infantry, five hundred knights and an equal number of mounted squires, two thousand bowman, and two dozen war elephants in heavy armor."
Jaime couldn't help himself. "And three dragons."
Varys bowed his head. "Just so."
"We have five thousand men in the city," Jaime said to his father, as if tallying his coins at a dice game. "Maybe a thousand gold cloaks as well. Those elephants-I've read how they're used in Essos. They're used as siege engines, to tear down doors and fortifications."
"I am aware," Tywin snapped.
Olenna stood. "Quit the city," she said. "What use is an Iron Throne if the rest of the kingdom denies you? We still hold the Reach, and I can have Mace raise fifty thousand levies easily."
A young Maester rushed through the still-open door, slipping around Varys.
"What now?" Tywin demanded angrily, no longer able to control his expression.
The young Maester ran to Pycelle and handed the man folded parchment. Jaime watched the old Maester's face, noting the widening of the eyes as he read, the gaping of the jaw, and how the blood fled from his cheeks as something of terrible import settled through the webs of his old brain.
"Do you wish to share, Grand Maester?" Tywin asked acidly.
The old Maester placed the parchment on the table. "My lord...I…. Lady Olenna, I regret to inform you that Lord Mace Tyrell is dead."
The old woman staggered as if struck. "What did you say?"
"Prince Doran Martell has openly declared for the Pretender," Pycelle said, stuttering as he spoke. "He has declared her claim to be true, that she is his long-lost niece and is rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. And he...my lords and ladies, twenty-thousand Dornishmen fell on the Tyrell van. None survived. Lord Mace and Ser Loras were among the slain."
"Well, that's that, then," Jaime said. He didn't even recognize himself as he spoke. "Now we know why Prince Oberyn left the city after the wedding. The Pretender now controls the Reach, the Stormlands and the Crownlands, and King's Landing is caught in a pincer between two armies of twenty thousand each. I believe, father, Lady Olenna is right. It's time to go."
Tywin's face went cold and stony. "I agree."
"And let them win?"
Jaime winced as Cersei spoke for the first time since the raucous meeting had started. She looked up at him, and just under the calm surface he saw a storm raging in her eyes. "My son is lying in a crypt below the Sept of Baelor, and you want us to just walk away?"
Tywin regarded his daughter with the type of cold calm he used whenever he was truly upset. According to Uncle Kevan, he had the same look when he slaughtered the Reins of Castamere.
"Your sister is distraught, Jaime," Tywin said. "Take her to her quarters until we're ready to leave."
"Don't you dare dismiss me!" Cersei screamed suddenly. She threw her crystal goblet across the room, where it shattered against the far wall. "I am the Queen of Westeros!"
"Not for long if you don't leave, you foolish girl," Olenna said.
"Remove her from this chamber, Jaime," Tywin growled.
"And what of my son's killer?" Cersei demanded, suddenly as calm as her father. The switch worried Jaime more than the rage. When she went cold, that meant she'd made a decision.
Tywin shook his head. "According to Varys intelligence, Lord Baelish absconded with Sansa Stark from the city, with the aid of a now dead Dontas Hollard within hours of the deed. I am inclined to believe your brother was a patsy for better minds. Until I know the truth of it, Tyrion remains our prisoner."
Jaime stepped to Cersei's side and gently took her arm with his good hand. Through the fine broccolade of her gown, he could feel her trembling. "I see," she said.
She spun around, pulling her arm free from Jaime's weak left hand, and strode from the small council chambers.
"Let her go for now," his father said. "We have much to do. Lord Varys, Jaime, strip the Red Keep of everything of value you can. Gold, silver, gems. Food. We'll need resources to raise sell swords and pay our levies. Lady Olenna, you are free to quit the city, though it appears you may wish to stay with us when you do so."
With no city to return to and only her daughter left in King's landing, the old matriarch nodded her assent.
"We need to be out of the city before sunrise if we have any hope of making it to Casterly Rock. Be quick, ladies and gentlemen."
~~Quintessence~~
~~Quintessence~~
Two hours before the appointed time of their departure, Jaime walked quickly through the Tower of the Hand. When he'd last seen his father, the man was burning records to ensure they didn't fall into the hands of the Pretender. Their scouts reported the enemy forces were only a day away, though the Dornish were a week away at best.
Twenty thousand or forty thousand, it made no difference. Tywin Lannister himself proved during Robert's Rebellion that King's Landing could not hold out long against a siege. There were too many people and not enough food; the walls were not high or fortified enough to hold long without significant forces. When they held at the Battle of the Blackwater, it was with a strong garrison of 8,000 men, over five thousand gold cloaks, 300 hundred knights, Tyrion's ridiculous mountain clansmen, and several hundred catapults, ballistae and scorpions manned by a veritable army of engineers, and his blasted wildfire.
With the losses during the Battle of the Blackwater and the repositioning of men to the Riverlands to try and undo the damage Robb Stark did there, they had a garrison of only five thousand, only a thousand surviving gold cloaks, and perhaps fifty knights.
And though Jaime's father and sister would never admit it, this time they didn't have Tyrion's clever mind to make up the difference. The more he learned about what his little brother did to save the city, the more astonished and proud he felt. And the more frustrated he became over their father's refusal to admit it.
He strode into the Hand's Chamber to make sure the man was ready, but stumbled in surprise as his mind struggled to catch up to what his eyes saw.
His father lay on the floor, turned partially such that both his arms reached imploringly toward the door. His sky-blue eyes were open but did not see. A little puddle of piss had stained the front of his woolen trousers and the Myrish rug below. Father had loved that rug, and taken it with him to anyplace he planned to stay in for more than six months.
Cersei leaned backward on his desk, her cheeks flushed with a passion he'd only seen before during their lovemaking. She stared at him as he walked in, and then smiled.
"We're free," she whispered. "Jaime, we're free."
"What did you do?"
He saw the goblet then, on the floor near Tywin's limp hand. Like the man's bladder, it too had spilled its contents over the rug. Jaime's missing hand itched horribly as he stared down at his unmoving father.
Cersei stepped over the body, unheeding. To his utter shock, she undid the laces of her evening robe to reveal the flesh below. "We're free," she said to him. "Free to love! Free to be who we were meant to be! Free to destroy our enemies!"
She pressed against him. One hand rubbed against his cheek as the other sought the drawstrings of his trousers.
She's just murdered our father, and now wishes to fuck me?
His hand itched. His cock, however, did not. Even as she reached into his trousers, her fingers felt colder than the body on the floor, and he could only stare at her in numbness as she fondled him over the dead body of their father.
Just like we fucked next to our son's body.
She was kissing his neck and gripping his manhood, and his missing hand itched. It was driving him mad!
"You will lead us to victory," Cersei whispered between her desperate kisses. She seemed completely oblivious to the lack of his response to her vigorous ministrations. "If Tyrion could lead us to victory over Stannis, you can do it over this harlot pretender!"
Tyrion had twice the forces I do, and twice the mind. He couldn't even put into thoughts the sheer hypocrisy of his sister naming anyone else a harlot while her hand in her brother's pants.
"You'll lead us to victory, and then we can live as we were meant to live," she whispered. "Husband and wife, just like the Targaryens before us. But you must win us the day first, Jaime. Win the day for us."
"If you want me to fight, then I must go," he said. His voice caught on the words, but he pushed them out anyway. "There will be much to do."
She was flushed with passion, as beautiful as always. "Then go," she said. "Save our city. Save our last son and return our daughter to us. I know you can, Jaime. You were always my knight!"
As he left his sister and father, struggling to tie his drawstrings one-handed, he did not understand at first why his vision blurred so badly. It wasn't until he wiped his eyes with his left hand that he realized he was crying. And only then, with the tears glistening on his skin, did he understand why he cried.
Around him, Lannister men, lackeys and the liege lords who attended them were running about in full panic. The fires of the enemy army could be seen in the Kingswood just south of the city. No doubt word of Dorne's betrayal had reached the streets-nothing remained a secret in King's Landing unless all those who knew the secret were dead.
A memory came to Jaime then, bringing his steps to a halt. He and his brother, speaking of the Stark boy that Jaime himself had crippled so badly.
"Even if the boy lives, he'd be a cripple. Grotesque. Give me a good, clean death anyway."
His brother shook his head. "Speaking for the grotesques, I'd have to disagree. Death is so final, whereas life, ah, life is full of possibilities. I hope the boy does wake. I'd be very interested to hear what he has to say."
Jaime stared at the obnoxious, heavy golden hand that replaced his old one. At how it itched, even though it should not have.
"My dear brother, at times you make me wonder whose side you're on."
"My dear brother, you wound me. You know how much I love my family."
"She's going to kill him," Jaime whispered.
Jaime ran. He ran from the Tower of the Hand into the Keep, ignoring the alarmed cries of those looking to him for leadership. He ran until he found the most unlikely of knights.
Brienne of Tarth stood as tall as a man, and almost as strong. She'd cut her blonde hair short, which did her no favors as a woman but served her well enough as a knight. He'd forged her new armor, and gifted her the Valyrian steel sword that his own father gave him in thanks for her saving his life. She was preparing her saddle for the departure, since she'd been trapped in the city like everyone else.
"Come with me!" Jaime shouted.
She stared, surprised. "What?"
"Come with me, I need your help. Please!"
Going to this woman, of all people, seemed the most natural thing in the world. After she stared at him in surprise for a few moments, she nodded and came after. "Where are we going?"
"The black cells," Jaime said. "My father is dead. The queen is going to try and kill Tyrion, if she hasn't already."
Brienne stumbled, but only for a moment. "Lord Tywin is dead? How?"
"Poison," Jaime said, unable to say who delivered the poison. The knowledge hurt too much to give words to. They started down the stairs into the bowels of the Red Keep until they reached the black cells. They found their way guided by rushlights along the walls, casting a dim glow over the black halls.
Ahead of them, a giant monster stood at the door of a cell staring in. Jaime pulled his own sword left-handed, knowing full well he might as well have been a paige in training for all the skill with which he could wield it. So he did not try.
Gregor Clegane, Cersei's pet monster, turned and stared with a confused expression as Jaime ran right into him and pushed his sword right through the man's plate and into his gut. The Mountain growled in pain and rage and back-handed Jaime with his gauntlet.
For a moment, all was lost in ringing and strange halos across his eyes. When his vision cleared, he saw a clash of warriors. Brienne's armor gleamed new in the rushlight-the steel polished almost to a silver sheen and her Valyrian sword flashing as she swung. Almost angelic, like the purist of all knights.
Opposite stood a giant monster in blackened armor and a bestial helm. He'd ripped Jaime's sword from his belly as if it were nothing but a scratch, and swung at the Lady Knight with terrifying strength. A man who had beheaded his own horse now tried to do the same to Brienne.
Though he out-massed her and had far more muscle, she was faster and more skilled. And Jaime had wounded him-a wound that would have killed a lesser man already. Rather than block his blows, she redirected and went for light counter-strikes that gave her time to retreat for him to bleed out. If he closed with her, she was dead, and both knew it.
The man's frustration built in an increasingly loud growl as he charged and swung, only to be met with light cuts around his armor. His arms, his legs. Always Brienne danced out of the way. In that moment, Jaime thought she was the finest of knights.
The mountain roared and spun faster than even she expected. She managed to lean back enough that the blow which would have removed her left arm instead removed her pauldon and left a respectable gash in the flesh of her shoulder. She cried out and stumbled back as the man charged at her.
Abruptly a small, bearded missile streaked out of the open cell door and slammed into the back of Gregor Clegane's knees. The giant stumbled with an angry roar, his hands out of place to halt the fall. Brienne nimbly stepped back from the falling sword as the giant hit face-first onto the bricks. Before he could regain his footing even in the slightest, or even spin away, she had her sword at the base of his skull.
She drove it through without a moment's hesitation. The Mountain jerked his legs twice before going still.
In the silence that followed, Jaime became aware of the swelling of his face. It didn't feel like anything was broken, but he'd look the mess soon enough.
On the floor, Tyrion Lannister lifted himself unsteadily to his feet, and then stared up at his savior. "You must be Lady Brienne," he said, as if meeting her on the street on a lovely day. "I do believe that makes two Lannister brothers you've saved."
"Though an explanation would be appreciated for why," the lady in question asked dryly.
Jaime struggled to regain his feet. He walked unsteadily until he was able to recover his sword. "We need to leave the city."
"Oh?" Tyrion took a deep, shaky breath. "You'll have to forgive me, brother. I seem to have missed the last few Small Council meetings. Why do we need to leave the city?"
"The Pretender is a day away with twenty thousand men," Jaime said. "And Dorne has declared for her and taken the Reach."
"Oh, I bet father is pleased," Tyrion said.
"Father is dead. I just left his corpse."
Jaime's brother stood perfectly still as he processed that. "Dead," he said. "Our father is dead."
"Poison."
Their eyes met. "Cersei," Tyrion whispered. "She killed him?"
"Yes."
"She sent the Mountain to kill me?"
"Undoubtedly."
Tyrion sniffed, and then wiped his eyes. "If I didn't know better, brother, I would think our sister does not care for me."
"Tyrion, did you kill Joffrey?"
He walked right up to Jaime and took his good hand. "As I am your brother, Jaime. For all the love you've shown me when no one else has, I swear to you now that I did not. I swear it."
"I believe you." Jaime looked over Tyrion at Brienne. "The Lannisters always pay their debts, Lady Brienne. And we both owe you our lives.. If you ride with us, you'll be well treated. I have it from our Master of Whispers that Sansa and Arya Stark are both well, if that's your concern."
"I'll ride with you for now," Brienne agreed.
They emerged from the Keep as a group. Jaime saw some of Cersei's loyal gold cloaks trying to impede the retreating Lannister and Tyrell men. Jaime found it saddening that his family's men were less loyal to the queen than the Gold Cloaks she'd been bribing for the past year.
They fell in with the train. He looked around for some sign of the other Kingsguard, but found none. He was in theory their commander.
It then dawned on him. Cersei would not let Tommen go.
"Lady Brienne, please see to my brother. I must attend the king."
"She won't let him go," Tyrion predicted, echoing his very thought.
"I have to try."
"Because he's your son," Tyrion noted calmly.
Brienne took a deep breath. Jaime just stared back over his shoulder. "Because he is my king," he finally said. "How many kings have I already failed?"
"Then go, brother."
Jaime went, running with all the strength his legs could grant him.