DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN GAME OF THRONES
|TEN YEARS LATER|
Cersei Lannister, queen of the Seven Kingdoms, stood tall and stiff, staring at the door to the great hall. The muffled sound of voices came from behind its thick door, punctuated with frequent bursts of laughter.
"Should I go now, mother?" asked the girl at her side, whose blonder hair she was twisting nervously with her slender fingers. "I know children aren't allowed in the Small Council meetings."
"This isn't a gathering of the Small Council, Myrcella," Cersei replied, looking down at her only daughter and smiling. "Lord Varys has brought word of your brother from across the Narrow Sea. He has news for me, and I have questions for him."
"Then it is true, mother. Tommen is coming home?"
Myrcella looked at her mother and the Queen caught a sudden glimpse of Tommen in her clever green eyes. It made her catch her breath and the only way she could prevent the swell of tears was to avert her gaze to the gloomy, torch-lit corridor that led away from the Throne room.
At ten years old, her youngest son had won the archery contest at her father's tourney in Casterly Rock and decided that he did not want to live in the shadow his older brother would cast from his seat on the Iron Throne. Instead, he would take his winnings and set sail across the Narrow Sea on a ship bound for the Free Cities. Cersei had objected fiercely. She had shouted, and she had raged, but it was all for naught. Robert loved the idea of having a sellsword as a son and gave his blessing.
Cersei pushed the door open and together they walked into the great hall. Oil lamps burned brightly casting a vigorous orange glow that fought against the encroaching shadows. Their light revealed colorful banners flowing across the walls where the skulls of Targaryen Dragons once hung.
The men stood as Cersei entered.
All of them but her Lord Husband. "Sit down," Robert ordered, as she circled the table to the chair that had been left for her.
The men waited for her to sit before lowering themselves into their own chairs. Last of all, Myrcella settled in the chair next to her mother, her inquisitive eyes roaming the faces of the Small Council. Cersei laid a hand on her arm, drawing comfort from the softness of her skin, as she, too, looked at the seated figures.
Robert was to her left, his fatty bulk so tightly packed into the high-backed chair that it seemed the arms would snap off at any moment. Once upon a time, he had been a handsome, clean-shaven man, with rough and hard hands. He was strong and powerful and muscled like a maiden's fantasy. She had been ready and more than willing the night of their wedding, but that was the only night she was ever aroused by him. Years of excessive drinking and feasting had turned him into a fat disappointment of a man, always red-faced under his beard and sweating through his silks.
To her right was Ser Barristan Selmy's empty seat. Ser Barristan Selmy had been Tommen's private master-at-arms and under her orders had been sent to Essos to protect her son.
From the moment he could talk, Tommen had talked of nothing but becoming a great swordsman. Jaime should have trained him, Cersei thought bitterly. She knew Jaime could never claim their children as his own, it would put their entire family in danger. And when she realized that Robert was going to grant her sweet boy his wish she cast aside her pride and begged and pleaded for him to allow Jaime to train Tommen.
Only for Tommen to deny her. Her sweet young boy had proclaimed that Jaime could not be the one to train him, because one day he was going to best his uncle in a tourney and take his title as the greatest swordsman in Westeros.
Jaime had been amused and promised their son he would make sure not to lose the title until Tommen came to take it from him. Robert, half in his cups had laughed and named Ser Barristan Selmy as Tommen's master-at-arms.
"If the boy wishes to best the Kingslayer, Barristan the Bold is the only one who can teach him how."
Cersei turned her gaze to the other members of the Small Council. They were the men who were supposed to help her Lord Husband rule the Seven Kingdoms, but she could hardly believe the useless simpletons before her were the men her Lord Husband chose.
Varys, seated next to Littlefinger, was the Master of Whispers. A title Lord Varys had held during the Mad King's reign. Robert was a fool not to have the cockless spy's head put on a pike.
Next to the bald eunuch sat Renly. Her Lord Husband's youngest brother, and Master of Laws. Cersei could hardly keep from laughing whenever she thought of the irony. A pillow-biter like Renly as the Master of Laws?
The rest of the Small Council was nowhere to be seen. Grand Maester Pycelle were elsewhere in the Red Keep, and Stannis Baratheon the supposed Master of Ships had skulked back to Dragonstone.
"Lord Varys, I was informed that your little birds have brought news of my son?"
"Yes, wonderful news I'm glad to say, Your Grace." Lord Varys replied, looking around at the table. "While we are all deeply saddened by the passing of Jon Arryn, there is a light in this dark hour. Prince Tommen will be returning home."
Hands clapping together brought all the eyes in the room to Myrcella. It had been three years since she'd seen her younger brother. Cersei smiled, only for her good mood to plummet as her Lord Husband's booming laugh filled the room.
King Robert had joined in the clapping, as did the rest of the Small Council, following their king dutifully. "Three years in the Free Cities!" the king was grinning. "They're going to sing songs about my son! A Prince of Westeros taking a ship bound for the Free Cities with nothing but his horse and sword. Sacking Mereen and smashing the Golden Company! Spending his time warring and whoring!"
Cersei glared at her Lord Husband. She stood up and grabbed Myrcella's hand pulling her from the room. He poisons everything good to me, she thought, hatefully.
Her son was coming home to her. A moment that should have been filled with nothing but joy, soured by her bastard of a husband. Warring and whoring? Tommen was only thirteen, hardly even a man.
That won't stop a whore from spreading her legs for him, a foul voice whispered in her ear. She'd heard enough maidens giggling about her youngest son around the Red Keep to know that as fact. If his exploits could make Westerosi noblewomen wet between the thighs then she could just imagine how the extravagant tales affected Essosi whores.
Cersei shook her head. Tommen wasn't Robert's son. A true lion would never lay with a whore.
"Send word to my son, Spider!" she heard Robert order from outside the room. "Tell him to meet us in Winterfell!"
Cersei pursed her lips. Jon Arryn had been asking questions that he shouldn't have, and she was glad the man was dead. Yet as always, Robert had once again ruined her happiness by declaring Ned Stark as his next Hand and planned to ride north to offer his friend the position in person.
Dragging her and her children with him. Gods do I hate that man.
At least her sweet Tommen was finally coming home.
#-#-#
The afternoon air was thick with dust and screams, blood and war cries, flashing blades, and piercing arrows. So much blood had already been spilled that in places the desert sand had turned to red mud.
Tommen had long since lost his formation and it felt like he was alone with nothing but his sword and shield. The smallest person on the battlefield, He was of average height, though well-muscled. His tanned skin was caked in blood and dirt.
He was the youngest soldier on the battlefield, and today's battle was only serving to strengthen his reputation.
A desperate sellsword lunged at him with his spear, but Tommen was faster; he was always faster. The shield in his left hand knocked the spear away and the tip of his sword passed through the sellsword's neck.
Before the spearman's headless body collapsed to the ground, Tommen sent another sellsword to whatever god they prayed to by slicing him cleanly in half at the waist. The four swordsmen left out of the half dozen that had first surrounded him, rushed with their shields raised, their weapons flailing. Tommen charged at the closest man, ducked under his swinging sword, and crashed into the man's shield with such force that the sellsword's feet left the ground.
It was a moment's work to cut the other three down. He sliced at the knees of the first, cut through the torso of the second, and cleaved off the head of the third.
Tommen's hands and arms were covered in his enemies' blood. There was a cut on the upper right arm of his tunic, a clean slice through the fabric. He didn't recall receiving it and didn't care. The chainmail covering his skin was Valyrian steel. No sword could cut him when he was wearing it.
From the east came a low rumbling sound. Tommen didn't waste time to see what had caused the sound—it was all too familiar. He snatched up two of the dead sellsword's bodies and ducked down behind them.
Moments later the sky darkened. Like rain, hundreds of arrows fell on the battlefield.
Protected behind the flesh of his enemies', Tommen grinned. Only a truly foolish or desperate leader would order his archers to take such action at this stage in the battle.
As the last of the arrows thudded into Tommen's meat shields, he dropped the bodies and began to run. For as far as a human eye could see, the bodies of the dead and dying littered the sand. The air was laced with the metallic tang of blood, and filled with screams and cries and panic-filled prayers.
He jumped over bodies, skirted around dead and dying horses, and—without slowing—slaughtered every member of the Golden Company in his path, regardless of whether the man was fit enough to hold a weapon.
Another rumble, another barrage of arrows was loosed.
Tommen took shelter behind the corpse of a half-dead elephant, tucking himself against its bronze armor plating. The stench of the animal was almost strong enough to block out the smell of human blood, and the ground shook from its desperate pain-filled roars.
A massive arrow, fired from one of Qyburn's scorpions stuck out of its chest. The Golden Company hadn't been ready for that, Tommen thought imagining the look on Harry Strickland's face when the Captain-General saw the line of miniature and mobile ballista pointed at his famed war elephants.
Then the arrows fell, and the elephant shuddered, bellowed one last time, and was still.
Harry Strickland would be already planning the Golden Company's retreat, Tommen knew. The coward would flee from Mereen and hide behind the walls of another Free City.
In terms of numbers, the Golden Company had already won. They were remarkable warriors, highly trained and well-equipped, but the Golden Company had been greatly outnumbered and was unprepared to face such a large force.
Tommen's army had excellent fighters, but not enough to stand against the ten thousand men that marched beneath the Golden Company's solid gold banners.
No, this battle had been decided by the waves of freed slaves who would rather die free than return to a life of bondage. They had evened the odds and overwhelmed the Golden Company.
He didn't know for certain how many of his men had fallen, but Tommen strongly suspected that by now more than a few thousand had walked the short agonizing path to the afterlife.
But whatever Gods ruled the afterlife would have to wait a long time before they greeted Tommen again. He would not die this day.
And the Golden Company would not survive to fight another day, not under Harry Strickland's command.
Tommen broke his cover and raced to the enemy's encampment as his motley army pushed forward. A frenzied cry rose in the air, and the Golden Company archers began to shoot at will, no longer waiting for orders.
Again, this was a good sign. An arrow bounced off his armor and less than a minute later he was too close to the Golden Company's pikemen for their archers to fire.
Half a dozen sellswords rushed him. Tommen tensed his muscles and lifted his shield. He was knocked to the side as a colossus of a man barged past him, bull-rushing the Golden Company.
"Bad fighting, good dying!"
Tommen watched as Belwas, a gap-toothed eunuch with a huge chest and a massive belly lashed out with his fists crushing the heads of two pikemen. He wasn't surprised by the show of strength, Belwas was three times his size and had to weigh more than twenty stone.
The Golden Company came at him with swords, and Belwas attacked them with a speed and fury the sellswords could have never imagined from a man his size.
Now desperate and mindless of their own men, the archers unleashed another thick cloud of arrows, and Tommen moved in front of Belwas. He held his shield up and covered the giant pit fighter as best he could.
"That's all they get!"
Tommen glanced behind him. An arrow was stuck in Belwas's massive belly. Then it fell out and revealed a small wound. Must've been a ricochet, he thought as Belwas slapped his belly and charged forward again.
The sellswords of the Golden Company—with their "word as good as gold"—launched themselves at the pit fighter with swords and spears. Tommen knew that they were almost broken. They were tired, terrified, and weak.
Just a little more...
Then a loud voice bellowed, "Enough!"
Tommen stopped, his body drenched in sweat and spattered with blood. He heard the voice boom out once more as the sound of drums filled the air.
"We yield! Enough!"
Tommen turned in a slow circle. There was so much destruction and death around him that the fields outside Mereen looked like a dense field of scarlet flowers. Around the battlefield, the Golden Company's bannermen lowered their golden banners and raised white flags.
The remaining sellswords encircled Tommen, their weapons at the ready. They were out of reach of his sword, four or five men deep.
He knew they would not attack. If they did, they would die. He knew it, and more importantly, they knew it.
"Your commander has ordered a surrender."
Tommen's felt his shoulders sag as Ser Barristan Selmy appeared at his side. They had been separated during the fighting and the old knight looked just as tired as he did.
"Lower your weapons," Ser Barristan ordered.
Then a parting appeared in the crowd, and a portly man, with a big round head, grey eyes, and thinning grey hair brushed sideways to cover up a bald spot strode through.
"I am Harry Strickland, captain-general of the Golden Company—"
"Kneel," Tommen said, pointing the tip of his sword at the dirt between the captain-general's feet. "And tell your men to drop their weapons, or we'll kill the rest."
With only a moment of hesitation, the leader of the Golden Company dropped to his knees and lowered his head. Then he looked around at the men still alive.
"Drop your weapons."
The sound of spears and swords hitting the ground was almost deafening. Kal-El pointed to one man at random, an archer.
"You. Water. Now."
The archer stumbled backward into his colleagues, then pushed through them and ran.
"Raise your right hand, sellsword," Tommen told Strickland. "Spread your fingers."
Trembling, the leader of the Golden Company did as he was told. Tommen's sword flashed, and Strickland's left thumb fell to the ground. The man screamed and doubled over, cradling his wounded hand to his chest. A red stain appeared on his tunic—
"Prince Tommen!"
Tommen's eyes opened to knocking on his room's thick wooden door. He lay naked on a large bed in the corner of the room, looking at the door through bleary eyes. "Be with you, Ser Barristan!" he called out before the pounding on the door could persist.
"My prince, Missandei is here and begs urgent audience."
"You told her I had left orders not to be disturbed?"
"Yes, my prince. She insists."
"Very well. Send her in."
Tommen grimaced wryly as he sat up, inhaling deeply. That's the third night this week, he swallowed heavily and ran a shaky hand through his hair.
The door opened and Missandei was let in, holding a silver tray with duck eggs, bacon, and wine.
She waited until the door had closed behind her before she spoke. "My prince," she said, bowing her head to Tommen. "pardon for disturbing your rest. I have a message from King's Landing."
Tommen rose up on his elbows and looked at her. He had one hell of a blistering hangover and he rapidly blinked his red-rimmed eyes to ease the blur. "What happened?" he asked, despite already having a good idea of what was going on. It was 298 AC after all and Jon Connington was dead.
"The king rides for Winterfell, my prince. He would like for you to join him there instead of sailing for King's Landing."
Shit...so it begins, Tommen turned over to get up and his bare legs nudged another pair of bare legs. The woman beside him was young, tall, and slender, her nut-brown tan skin glistened even in the morning shadows of his bedroom. She groaned and turned over on her belly with her bare but in the air.
He threw the covers off his naked body and climbed from the bed. "Did you inform Ser Barristan?" he asked.
"There was a message for him as well, my prince," Missandei said, not bothered by his nudity. "Would you like to break your fast on the terrace?"
"Please."
Tommen wasn't exactly starving, but he knew this was probably going to be one of his last meals before he set sail. And as he learned on his voyage across the Narrow Sea to Essos, even Lannister gold only went so far when it came to food on a ship.
He walked to the bathroom, which was merely a stool and a large bowl of water in front of a mirror. Splashing water on his face he grimaced at his reflected image in the mirror and he licked his pale lips, feeling the lines where they had cracked again and again under a ruthless foreign sun.
Three years of that same sun had tanned his skin to the point that when he smiled his teeth were white against his deeply tanned face. With his long blonde hair—usually combed back and tied in a ponytail—he looked more like a savage than the handsome prince he had once been. And perhaps he was a savage, there was little modern humanity in Westeros.
Drying his face, Tommen cast a quick look back at Kayal. She had turned over again on her back and lay with her legs spread. Walking back over to the bed, he threw the covers over her naked body before following Missandei who was setting the tray of food down under a persimmon tree that grew in the terrace garden.
As a cool blue dawn broke over the city, Tommen walked out to the terrace and looked out at the city. To the west sunlight blazed off the golden Temple of Graces, and etched deep shadows behind the stepped pyramids of the mighty.
The Great Pyramid shouldered eight hundred feet into the sky, from its huge square base to the lofty apex where Tommen ket his private chambers surrounded by greenery and fragrant pools. Meereen had a score of lesser pyramids, but none stood half as tall.
From where he stood he could see the whole city: the narrow twisty alleys and wide brick streets, the temples and granaries, hovels and palaces, brothels and baths, gardens and fountains, the great red circles of the fighting pits.
Up here in his garden he sometimes felt like a god, living atop the highest mountain in the world.
But I'm not a god.
Which was fine with him, there were enough gods in the world already.
Missandei had told him of the Lord of Harmony, worshipped by the Peaceful People of Naath; he was the only true god, she said, the god who always was and always would be, who made the moon and stars and earth, and all the creatures that lived upon them.
Westeros had its seven gods.
The red priests believed in two gods.
The Dothraki their horse god.
The drowned god of the Iron Born and so and so forth.
Five percent, Tommen reminded himself. The gods of Westeros were plentiful and confusing and remembering what he'd heard in the afterlife helped. Religions only guessed five percent right.
"Missandei, have Strickland inform the captain that we're sailing for Westeros as soon as possible."
Huge time skip I know! One day I might add more chapters with a whole backstory but for now, I'm just gonna use flashbacks.
PS: I'm using the aged-up Tommen from the show. Television shows aren't allowed to show sex scenes with characters younger than 16. This means that's how old he was when he married Margaery he would have been 13 in Winterfell.
Next chapter: WINTERFELL
THANKS FOR READING!