How good it is to be free.
Jaime Lannister stands tall, back straight, in the open air for the first time in over a month, ever since his failed attempt to challenge Ned Stark for his brother's kidnapping. He may still be clad in the tattered old robes of the lowest of servants, but here, now, in the sun, he feels dressed as fine as if they were cloaks of solid gold. The ever-present stench of the city has never smelled so sweet, or the dirty air tasted so clean.
He has tried to comb his hair, though it is still dirty and matted, and his beard scratches his face. But he can see clearly, breathe freely and, most importantly, has a sword at his side once more. He is himself, once again. But now what? He turns back behind him, to where his liberators wait. Varys has scurried off to whatever machination he needs next set in motion, but his uncle Kevan remains, and with him the three Swyft knights he had brought with him from the West – Patrek, Humfrey and Addison.
"It sounds as if the battle has started without us," Jaime peers over the edge of the parapet from which he watched his former squire's departure. The sounds of men rushing to arms can be heard, though the men in question not yet seen.
"The alarm has been sounded," Kevan notes. "Renly's men are mounting their defense of the parapets. Ser Guyard Morrigan will have the command, no doubt."
"And who would you have me kill first? As far as I can tell, nuncle, our army is out there, and we are in here. They will not do us much good with these great walls between us. Unless you plan on overwhelming the Baratheons with just us, three Swyfts and the eunuch."
"Did you think I would be so foolish as allow all the entire City Watch to be on patrol today? No, at least two score remain in the barracks. The Tyrells barricaded them inside, once they learned of Slynt's betrayal, but Varys is seeing to their release as we speak. I have also sent word to our loyal swords in the Kingsguard that it is time to defend their queen. As for us, we have a rendezvous to keep."
"What?" Jaime is confused. Loyal swords? My own sworn brothers, on Father's payroll all along? And I was never told? But Kevan is already walking away. He hurries to follow, looking perplexed back over his shoulder to the sound of rising battle. "With who?"
"Slynt and the loudest of our men will keep the Tyrells focused on the main gates. However, our best men will be moving quietly to a side gate. Where we will be waiting."
The shouting has also risen up to the open window of the Maidenvault, where Prince Joffrey stands precariously, leaning out to try and catch a glimpse of what is happening.
"Be careful, you're going to fall!" Myrcella scolds him.
"No I won't!" Joff snaps back.
"What is all that noise?"
"The castle is under attack!" Joffrey jumps down from the ledge.
"Don't say that, you're scare Tommen! Who could be attacking us?"
"I don't know! But it's true! I said it, didn't I? And Tommen should be scared, we're not safe here, not safe enough! We should be in Maegor's Holdfast! Or, you two should be, at least," he marches towards the door. "I'll be defending the walls with Father."
"They won't let us leave," Myrcella sighs.
"What's Joffy saying?" Tommen looks up at her, confused.
"Nothing," she hushes him, then covers his ears. "Joffrey, come back!"
But he is already opening the door and yelling into the hall. "Dog! Come here!"
Instead, Ser Thaddeus Oakheart appears. "Your grace, please stay in your chambers," the knight insists, blocking his path. "I've sent men to investigate all that ruckus in the yard, I assure you that I will let you know as soon as…"
"Dog!" Joff yells again, his voice cracking as he tries to force his way around Thaddeus. This time, his call is answered by the heavy, clanking footsteps that can only belong to one man. Thaddeus grabs hold of the prince's wrists, attempting to force him back inside and close the door. "Unhand me, you oaf! I'll have my dog tear your head off!"
Ignoring his protests, Thaddeus shoves Joffrey back into the room, just as The Hound rounds the corner. Towering over two heads taller than the Reach knight, Sandor looks down disdainfully. Thaddeus reaches for his sword, but isn't fast enough. Before he can draw, Sandor has him by the shoulders, slamming him head first into the wall – once, twice, then onto the ground. He doesn't get back up. With an amused snort, Sandor ducks to enter the solar.
"What do you want?" he growls, looking irritably at Joffrey.
"Are you deaf as well as stupid, dog?" the prince points to the window. "We're under attack! We aren't safe here, you need to take us to Maegor's Holdfast. Now!"
With a sigh, Sandor clunks to the window. The shouting has grown louder and he can see men on the parapets, armed for battle. He looks back at the children.
"They won't let us leave, I tried to tell him," Myrcella throws up her hands.
"They should have a merry good time trying to stop us, then," Sandor cracks his neck and lurches back to the door. Weeks of boiling frustration trapped inside, guarding his imprisoned ward are at an end. He looks at Thaddeus Oakheart, unconscious on the ground. Or dead, he doesn't care. He's been waiting to bash in the skulls of the sniveling Reach knights for too long. "Grab whatever things you can carry and follow me!"
Myrcella knows better than to protest now, instead hurrying to throw her clothes and Tommen's together onto a sheet torn from her bed, wrapping it up and slinging it over her shoulder as she grasps her little brother's hand and pulls him out into the hall, nearly tripping over the fallen knight in the doorway. Joffrey and the Hound are already on the move. They hurry swiftly through the strangely empty hallways; the handful of servants they encounter scurrying quickly out of the way. A heavy feeling of wrongness bares down on Myrcella, and she clutches Tommen's hand tighter.
"What about Mother?" she asks.
"She's the reason we're locked up in the first place," Joffrey grumbles without turning around. "She can take care of herself."
Knowing there is no use arguing now, Myrcella silences herself and shushes Tommen, who has begun to cry. They're almost to the entrance, now, and surely the guards will be waiting… But instead, as the round the corner into the foyer, they only find Peremore and Maris Hightower waiting – Maris with dagger in hand and Peremore with an arrow notched in his bow.
"Seven hells?" Clegane comes to a jolting halt, nervously scanning the room as if expecting Tyrell men to come crashing down from the rafters, swords drawn. "Where are they?"
"Called to the parapets, no doubt," Peremore answers, his voice emotionless as ever. "The City Watch have turned their cloaks and freed the Lannisters. The Keep is under attack."
"How did you get in?" Myrcella asks, now even more confused.
"There's no one on guard," Maris shrugs. In disbelief, the Hound pushes past them and kicks open the heavy doors, drawing his sword as he steps outside. But sure enough, the Kingsguard are gone. All the guards are gone. Only the distant sound of battlecries remain. He looks back to the five children now waiting behind him.
"You, Hightower, guard the rear!" he barks. "The rest of you, stay close, keep pace, don't cry and for your own sake, don't make me fucking carry you!"
The yards of the Red Keep are in chaos as Lyman Darry and Ser Arys Oakheart sprint from the Tower of the Hand to the White Sword Tower. The guards are rushing battle-ready onto the walls. Why, he doesn't know. No one will answer them, only rush on. One particularly brusque knight slams into Lyman, sending him stumbling to a halt. Arys keeps moving, but he hesitates to follow, instead looking back to the stair leading inside the keep.
"I need to go to the king!" he shouts.
"We should find the Lord Commander!" Arys shakes his head. "He'll know what to do!"
Lyman frantically looks back and forth between the stairs and the knight, unsure who to follow… until he sees another suit of white armor storming across the yard towards them. "I think he found us first!"
Ser Barristan Selmy is upon them in moments, already barking orders – "Ser Arys, where are your sworn brothers? I cannot find a single white cloak!"
"We were at the Tower of the Hand, ser!" Arys reports. "Sending off Edward! We came straight here, I haven't seen anyone. What's happening?"
"The Goldcloaks freed the Lannister men we'd imprisoned in the city. They're storming the front gates, demanding the release of the queen and her children."
"Does the king know?" Lyman blurts out.
Barristan turns to look at the squire, glaring through his visor, still seeing not the king's chosen servant nor the heir to Harrenhal, but the brash, reckless squire he had expelled from his own service. But now Lyman is all he has.
"Tell his grace all that I have told you. He will be in the Small Council Chamber. Ser Preston and Ser Borros should be with him." He points up the great red steps, and Lyman quickly bows and runs off. "I fear that there may be traitors within our own ranks, Arys."
"Inside the Kingsguard?" The young knight's jaw drops. "Impossible."
"They would not be the first to dishonor their cloaks. Not even the first to sell them for Lannister gold."
"Ser Jaime is still in the cells."
"Unless one of our brothers has freed them. You must be ready, we know not who our enemy truly is. Come, we must go to the Maidenvault." He turns, but Arys stops him.
"Are you ready, ser?" he asks, concern for the old man clear on his voice.
"I have to be. It is my oath," Barristan turns back and starts up the steps, only to stop once more when he sees another white-clad knight running down towards them – Ser Preston Greenfield. "Preston, what are you doing here?"
"The king sent me!" Preston pants, out of breath. "He demands a report!"
"Where is Ser Borros?"
"I haven't seen him since this morning, ser…"
The door to the Small Council chamber stands unguarded. Within, King Robert sits in his chair, alone save for Maester Gaheris, who is pacing the floor behind him.
"This isn't right!" Robert slams his fist down hard. "I should be out there, defending the walls of my own castle! Not stuck here!"
"Your grace, were your leg healed, the men all know it would be you out there leading the fight," Gaheris attempts to soothe him. "Was it wise, to send Ser Preston away?"
"I need to know what in the Seven Hells is going on!" The King lurches to his feet, crutch tucked heavily under his right arm. "And you were late! I am the king! My men are rallying for battle and no one has told me why!"
"Please, your grace, you should stay seated. Your leg…"
"Should be healed by now, damn it! What are you here for if you can't make me walk again and you can't tell me what's happening in my own bloody castle?"
"Your grace…" Gaheris holds up his hands. "I do not know for certain. But I believe that the Lannister men may have freed themselves in an attempt to release the queen and her children."
"Queen! Don't call her that! She is my queen no longer!" He stomps towards the door, masking his grimacing pain behind his fury. "Damned Lannister dogs! Fools to think they can breach the Red Keep! They want the whore so badly, I'll throw her down to them from the top of the walls myself! Aye, and Jaime too!" But he stops, hand on the door, slowly turning back. "But why now? Why today? They've waited so long? And not a single plea from Lord Tywin?"
"Your grace…" Gaheris hesitates. "Lord Stark is dead."
"What?" Robert freezes, his face turning from rage to grief to rage again. He lurches forward, dragging his crippled leg along the floor behind him. "Why was I not told?"
"I meant to present the news to the council!"
"How! What happened?"
"At Stone Hedge… The Mountain's men lay a trap… There was a second host!"
"Damn! Damn! Damn them all!" Robert lifts one of the great council chairs, hurling it against the wall with destructive force. Balance offset, he crashes forward onto the table and begins to savagely punch down onto the heavy wood, again and again until his knuckles begin to bleed. Spittle flies from his mouth as he rages, his eyes burning red with tears of wrath. "Lannister dogs. I'll kill them all! Every last one! Jaime and Cersei now, then… then I'll drag Tywin here and make him watch as I wring the necks of every blonde bastard he thought he could hoist upon my throne!"
"Even the little children?" Gaheris asks, his voice eerily calm. Slowly, Robert looks up from his bleeding fists to see the maester standing beside him. "Just like Rhaegar's?"
"You know I had nothing to do with that!" Robert scoffs. "That was Tywin's work, too. Just like this. He sent his whore daughter to deceive me and murder me, to put a Lannister abomination in my place! But he misjudged my strength."
Again, Robert turns to the door, a murderous rage in his eyes. But before he can take two steps, a sharp kick slams into his right leg, shattering the splint and sending him crashing to the floor in a scream of pain. His hands catch his fall, leaving bloody handprints on the floor as he rolls over, staring up in confusion as Gaheris pulls a long dagger from within his robes.
Robert's eyes open wide in shock, at first not believing what he's seeing, but then the knife is plunging down, all too real. He raises his hand in time, but the long, gleamingly sharp blade pierces straight through his hand. With a bellow of pain, he heaves up, wrapping around Gaheris' side with his unharmed arm and throwing him to the floor. Rolling over, he pins the maester and clinches his good fist. He lands one, two nose-shattering blows until the knife, free again, finds the side of his belly.
"Preston!" Robert shouts in pain, falling off of Gaheris and attempting to stand, but without splint nor crutch he crashes back down in a heap. But the crutch is just out of reach. "Lyman!" he bellows, louder, for his squire, stretching out his right arm as his left hand trail blood. Gaheris stands, shakily, wiping the blood from his face onto the sleeve of his robe.
"There's no one there," he snarls. "Your kingdom falls apart around you." He lunges forward, but Robert has reached the crutch, slamming it up under his attacker's chin with a loud crack. Gaheris reels backwards, clutching his jaw, while Robert desperately attempts to prop up his girth on the splintered crutch, his rage for the moment overwhelming the pain of his wounds and unprotected leg.
"Who in the Seven Hells do you think you are?" he shouts as he hobbles towards the door.
"Exactly who I say I am." Gaheris quickly regains his focus, following Robert methodically, un-rushed, as the king makes slow, gasping progress across the floor. Finally, losing patience, the maester grabs him from behind with surprising strength and throws him to the floor. He lunges down, but Robert swats the knife out of his hand. Yet Gaheris is not yet unarmed. His maester's chain still hangs around his neck. He lifts his heavy collar from his shoulders and grips the chain firmly with each hand. Robert writhes beneath him, pummeling his chest and shoulders, but Gaheris remains unperturbed and each blow grows weaker than the last, as the king's blood pools out from his side onto the floor.
With a violent thrust, the chain comes down onto Robert's throat. Realizing what is happening, he desperately wraps his own fingers around it, pushing back up with all his waning might even as his former advisor grunts and forces it back down, the links, each a different metal, crushing the king's windpipe all the same.
"I want you to know that I never lied to you." Gaheris states, coldly, pressing down harder and harder. His face is unreadable, his mouth a straight line. Robert's bleeding hand has made the chain slick; his own fingers slip, but the maester's do not. "I am a bastard, born in Oldtown to Floris Hightower, old Lord Theomore's youngest and fairest child. But it is not their blood who I have lived my life to be worthy of. No, your grace, because the year before I was born, King Jaehaerys came to Oldtown. He brought with him his son, the young prince Aerys. Before his madness, you know, he was a handsome young man with purple eyes and golden hair. Surely you saw the portraits, before you had them burned?" Robert can only gasp in response as the chain sinks deeper into his throat. "You cannot blame my mother for letting him into her bed.
"I did not inherit my father's hair, your grace, but at night, when my mother would whisper to me the truth, she swore to me I had a bit of his eyes in me. What do you think?" It is then that Robert sees it, as the last vestiges of strength fade from his hands, dropping away from the chain – He had always known there was something familiar about the maester. It was the eyes. Pale blue with flecks of violet – cursed eyes, eyes he had closed forever once before. Rhaegar's eyes. "When I left for the Citadel, I dreamed that one day I would serve my father alongside my brothers here in the Red Keep. And I did make it here. But by then, you had stolen everything from us – My father and his wife, Rhaegar and his little children, now young Viserys slain on the other side of the world! But you were right. While any dragons still hold breath, your line will never be safe.
"My brother's daughter will sit upon the throne you soiled and set this great land back to right! My only regret is that she will not get to kill you herself. Good-bye, usurper!"
With a final push, the maester drives the chain down one last time, with no resistance left. Robert wheezes with one last rasping breath before his body goes limp. "Ned!"
His muscles go slack. The storm is vanquished.
Gaheris leans back, allowing himself a few deep breaths. He slowly rises back to his feet, pausing to hover his hand over the dead king's mouth to ensure that indeed no life remains. Then, without a flicker of emotion, he retrieves the dropped dagger, kneels by the body, and begins to stab it, each wound precisely placed. After three strikes, satisfied, he places the slender edge of the dagger along Robert's throat, blackened by bruising; imprinted with the mark of his chain. It is as he makes the final cut that the doors burst open and Garrett Flowers comes crashing in, with six Tyrell guards behind him.
As he dashes headlong through the halls of the Keep towards the Small Council chamber, Lyman is all too aware that he is practically unarmed and unarmored. He had needed no sword nor plate to bid farewell to Edward, and there has been no time to retrieve any in the chaos since. He has only the small knife tucked into his belt, hidden beneath his doublet. There is nothing to fear, he assures himself. The castle is not breached. Get his grace to Maegor's and lock the door behind us. Don't open it until Barristan and Renly and the rest have put down the revolt.
But his heart stops, rounding the corner into the long hall leading to the Small Council room, when he hears shouting and sees the heavy wooden doors swung open, the entrance blocked by several Tyrell men at arms. Throwing caution to the wind, he tears free the knife, ripping his fine new shirt down the side.
"Your grace!" he shouts, reaching down deep in his gut to find the strength to somehow run even faster. The two men closest to him turn and raise their hands, bidding him to stop, but Lyman will not, cannot stop now.
"You there, squire, halt!" the first guard shouts, but Lyman ducks under his arms. The second stands firmly in the center of his path, and Lyman collides with him at full speed. The two crash into the room and onto the floor. Lyman hurries to pick himself up, but freezes when his hand touches the ground. It is wet. Sticky. They are lying in a pool of blood.
His heart catches in his throat as he slowly looks around him, dreading what he will see – two more guards huddled in the corner, horrified looks on their faces; a chair shattered against the wall; a man in fine clothes hunched over on the edge of the table; and another two guards holding Maester Gaheris up against the wall, his face bloody and beaten, nearly unrecognizable.
"What did you do?" Lyman asks, first to the stunned guard still lying beneath him, then to the silent, uneasy men surrounding him. "What did you do?!" And then he does what his brain has willed him not to do. He looks on the floor, following the trail of blood he now lies in until it comes to a stop at the cold, lifeless body of King Robert Baratheon, First of His Name.
For a moment, Lyman is frozen in time. Renly wants to be king… the whisper passed from ear to ear ever since Robert's first fight with the boar. But he wouldn't, he couldn't…. Could he? He stares up at Garrett Flowers as the Tyrell bastard slowly turns to face him, his green jacket stained brown with streaks of blood.
"Don't do anything rash, boy. I can explain."
With a scream, Lyman raises the knife and plunges it down into the throat of the guard beneath him, sending a burst of warm, bitter blood spouting up into his face. He looks up, eyes crazed, ready to kill every Tyrell man in the room. Instead, he only sees a boot kicking into view, and then pain and blackness.