Riverrun (Jaime)
Ser Cleos Frey did not have an easy death.
Missing for three days — most of which had heavy rain — what's left of him has been found tied upside-down on the trunk of a redwood tree alongside three other men. Knights, footmen, Jaime doesn't recognise them as little remains of their heads. It must have been the wolves first, then the maggots, the rats, the crows…
Ser Emmon Frey recognises his son at a glance.
The Frey knight is not known for his resoluteness or strength. But even Jaime feels pity as the older man falls to his knees, whimpering with wet eyes before the corpse. He only wishes Aunt Genna to be away, but she insisted; "He's my son as well," was her words, back at Riverrun when a rider brought the ill news.
She mourns all the same.
The rider approaches Jaime, both men cowled from the evening drizzle. He'd taken care to drive off birds from the corpse. "Same as before, Ser. Even t' same scent o' honey slathered on 'em."
"How many does that make? Twenty? Thirty?"
"Four-and-forty."
Forty-four men — some younger pages and squires — strung up dead in the Northern hills of the Riverlands. It's been happening since their conquest of Riverrun. Judging from the scratches on the rope and wrists, they were alive when the beasts came to feast. Jaime's sword hand itches for his blade and from the wound. "And no doubt a dozen are kept alive for ransom." A coward's method, fearing the lion yet daring to pluck its hairs when it sleeps. "They must have come and gone. Your rangers spotted no one?"
The rider lowers his head. "Forgive me, Ser."
"Then pick better rangers."Even if you did, could you stop them? Ser Cleos was last sighted going to the privy at Riverrun. If the men took him then, then they must have familiarity of the castle's schedule and layout, brazen enough to enter the lions' domain. No doubt one of the Tully bannermen our good Ser Emmon had forgiven, Jaime determines. Though Tyrion and he had urged for the garrison's executions — something their father would've done — the Frey was filled with haughtiness and hot air by prostrating soldiers. It's as much your fault as the attackers, Emmon.
"AWOOOoooOOOO!"
A wolf's howl gives everyone pause; war has made the beasts bolder. "Take down Ser Cleos and bury the others, we're returning to Riverrun."
In their silent march back to the castle, Jaime wonders: who was it that strung them up? The Mallisters? The gaggle of men at Harrentown in the South? Or perhaps that Lightning Lord Beric Dondarrion, the remnants of Eddard Stark's commands? No doubt some remnants of the Tully men as well, he scans the campfires of the Lannister camp. The pitter-patter of the rain against his cloak gives no comfort, nor does the folded letter in his breast pocket.
The castle soon comes into view, its red walls melding with the red banners of the Lannisters. Unlike Casterly Rock or Winterfell, Riverrun is far too small to host their army; most remain outside in tents. With the sun kissing the horizon in the West, the riding party disperses in the yard: Ser Emmon and Lady Genna follow the silent sisters to the sept with Ser Cleos' body, the riders and scouts break off in search of a good supper at camp, and Jaime lets his squire Jaan unclasp his armour. "Fetch the Maester and supper, I'll be dining in my room."
The room is located in the Southernmost tower, its balcony facing the placid Red Fork. It once housed a knight more learned than Jaime, Ser Brynden 'Blackfish' Tully, but that had been decades ago. If the words of that Stormcrow are true, then the knight perished at the Bloody Gate.
A disappointing death for a knight like you, he thinks, but rarely can we control our ends.
Whatever the case, it's his room now. The sheets and bedding are new, yet he can still smell the mildew in the bed frame. Brushing his finger on a decorative shield brings a decade's worth of dust. The moth-eaten clothes in the cabinets have been replaced with his own. Did the Blackfish ever take a serving girl on the bed, or were the vulgar rumours of his proclivities with men true? Cersei wouldn't like it here, he thinks, changing his clothes to a comfortable maroon doublet and white cotton, but I've taken her in worse places. That crumbling tower in Winterfell, for instance.
A knock comes to the door, and Jaime's squire enters bringing the Maester and the food… And Daven Lannister, dressed for supper. "Skipping a meal, coz?"
"I could ask the same of you," says Jaime, seating himself on the bed. His squire gathers the wet clothes as servers set down tonight's meal: a healthy serving of baked trout and onions, with a side of nuts and a sour-bread trough. His stomach rumbles. "What brings you here?"
"Is it wrong to visit family once in a while?" Daven chuckles, brushing his beard as he eyes the trout. It's grown longer, Jaime thinks,it suits him. "No, I've gotten enough of table talk."
"Of our good Ser Cleos?"
"Dead Ser Cleos. The weasel's not much for fighting anyways, but the way they talk of him it seemed he died a hundred-and-one deaths, each gorier than the last." Seating himself, Daven digs through the trout with a fork, devouring it with the nuts. "Never plan to see his body in the sept, don't want confirmation of the captains' talk. Maybe better for the man, definitely better for my stomach. Of course, the talks turned to hushes when Aunty Genna and her husband Emmon entered the hall. Red-eyed, that one. You know what he promised?" He turns to Jaime expecting an answer only to cringe away at the sight. "Mother… Here?" he burps. "In front of supper?"
"You invited… yourself, coz," Jaime strains a smile as the Maester unwinds his bandage.
Tytos Blackwood's parting gift was a piercing wound through his sword hand, a black cut no wider than a fingernail. At least, that's what it was initially. The wound has now festered to stretch across his palm, the black flesh tough and dry as leather, with its surrounding skin melted pink with pus; a black smile's grown on his hand. Whatever salves the Maester uses only dulls the pain, and even then it feels as if a thousand ants are slowly eating their way through his arm when he wields a sword for too long. Only before sleep does he drink the poppy milk in fear of rolling over his hand at night. "It is poison, Ser, I am sure," says the Maester.
"The Blackwood did not seem the man who'd act so cowardly, he and Eddard Stark kept their foolish honours." Jaime downs a cup of warm wine before continuing: "Mayhaps you're witholding some finer potions."
"O-Of course not, Ser! The Order of Maesters serve-"
"-The castle, no matter the House. If you're so sure it's poison, you're free to question Tytos' skull." His hand bandaged, Jaime waves away all except Daven. The Maester's a Tully, no matter how much his chain collars him. Then, and only then, can he enjoy the meal. "You eat quick, coz," eyeing the half-eaten bread trough.
"A lion hungers," Daven laughs. "You ought to have him replaced."
"Tyrion's of the same mind, which is why he left with a letter for the Citadel to be sent by boat."
"Aye, letter…" his cousin's expression goes dour, his voice a hush. He takes a deep swig of the watered-down wine. "It's true then, our king…"
"Is alive and well." Jaime pulls out the letter from his doublet, the broken red wax signifying his father's sigil. Daven reads it again, as he did yesterday, in disbelief.
Robert lives.
Few are aware of this: Tywin, their aunt Genna, no doubt their uncle Kevan, and the two in this very room. Tyrion would've been made aware had he stayed a week longer. "If the Riverlords know of this, they'd be incensed to act. Petition to the King for a larger army."
Daven looks to him. "Wasn't there a letter proclaiming Robert's death? With the Royal stamp? How do we not know that this Black Brother's heart isn't full of lies?"
"My father would've found out," Jaime sips his wine. There was a letter, a royal decree, proclaiming Robert's untimely death. But if it's untrue, then who sent it? It reads like Pycelle's handwriting — if a little neater — so did Cersei push him to? That man was ever my father's creature, maybe he's taken to be Cersei's too. Gods, my sweet Cersei, what have you done?
Tyrion had confided in how Eddard's and Robert's deaths are too close and coincidental; "It reeks of our dear sister's perfumes," was his words. Jaime has no love for either men, but through something as unreliable as a boar attack? If it were him, he'd driven his golden blade hilt deep through the King's heart. What's another King to the Kingslayer? At least the honourable Lord Stark is dead, or is that another lie? Did the Black Brother lie to us? Jaime sighs into his cup; it's too late at night to consider such matters. "This is why the march to Harrenhal is postponed."
"Men are already asking questions, Jaime."
"They're free to disobey the Lion of the Rock to their graves. They're not the only ones eager to spill blood," Jaime refills his cousin's cup. "Maybe tell them that the roads are infested with those fairy-winged children creatures," he waves his hand. "You know what I mean, yes?"
"Saw the one that Tyrion's sellsword tied up. Well, tied for a little while until one of Lord Crakehall's men shot it with a crossbow," Daven says before realisation comes to him. "Which means all those times I've set up posts and my men complained of flying children-"
"-Were true."
"Bleeding hell, I punished a few for that," he laughs. "Guess I owe them an apology."
"And a few coins."
Their talk continues through the night, with the squire returning as a cup-bearer. Some of the queer stories like that demon child Rumia or the many strange tales of sorcerers from Tyrion scares the squire well enough that he asks to leave for the privy, much to Daven's drunken laughter. Then they talk of the future of Riverrun, jesting about how their Aunt is the true ruler here. Should they let the beetles eat Lord Hoster or send him on his funeral boat once he dies? Maybe let Edmure marry some Lannister Hill once Tyrion's carried him back to the Rock? Who should Daven marry and who should he bed before marriage? On and on the night goes, and Jaime's forgotten the pain of his hand.
"Hey Jaime," Daven kicks his swordbelt, leaning against the table. His face's a little red from the drink. "Mind a little spar?"
"Now?" Jaime finishes his cup. "Where, may I ask? The yard?"
"Too far, too far. Boy, open up the balcony, will you?"
"The balcony?" Jaime smirks. Still, he fetches his scabbard all the same.
Jaan opens up the balcony and sets alight the outside wall sconces, allowing in the cool Autumn breeze. They shiver and laugh, feeling the cold creep up their stomach and neck. To the South, beyond the Red Fork, Lannister campfires dot the landscape like grounded stars, and above the red comet smiles upon them. "Being a Kingsguard must be some tough work," says Daven, hopping from one foot to another, "scratching the fat King's arse. Hope his shit didn't dull yer claws."
"At least I spar often with Barristan the Bold, coz. Who's there to challenge you at the Golden Tooth?" Jaime leans against the parapet, smiling.
"Should I fetch the tourney swords-"
"No need, boy, we keep the scabbards on," Daven snorts, tying it to the sword's hilt. "Ready, Ser Jaime?"
"Whenever you aaAAGH!" Jaime falls backwards, ass to the stone floor. "Seven hells…" he curses beneath Daven's laughter. Something's against his leg: a length of rope is pooled around him like a coiled snake. One end by his left hand, the other… Too much to drink, he thinks, seeing that the other end stretches far up into the night sky as if hanging from the clouds.
"Must be rope from the banners," says Daven. "Let your squire clean that up, there's no lucky trips to have against me."
Jaime gives the rope a little tug.
And it all goes taut.
Like a waiting serpent, the rope pulls up, curling and twisting around his limbs and body. Not a scream leaves his lungs before he's tied and hoisted up and up into the night like a caught trout. "JAIME!" he hears Daven scream, but his voice recedes with the light of Riverrun, soon no more than pinpricks in the black.
Jaime too is screaming, his voice melting into the fury of the Autumn wind. But the air thins and he finds himself harder to breath. He's flying- no, he's being carried off like a hare between an eagle's talons.
Calm, calm! He's upside down. The world is spinning, the stars and comet a flurry of lights below — or above? — his feet. Blood's rushing to his head. Lightheaded, he vomits chunks of undigested trout. But the Gods bless him; his sword hand remains free and clutching his gilded blade. The winds batter and needle his skin. A dream, a dream, a drunken dream. The scabbard falls into the dark, and for a moment he sees reflections of the stars in the rivers and brooks below. "Fall and I'll awaken," he mutters, cutting through a cord to free his left arm. "Fall and…"
"You'll be dashed against the trees," a voice — a woman's voice? — cackles from above. He cannot see his captor, even beneath the red comet's light.
Has a demon come to devour him? Was this the fate of those forty-four men? Then he remembers a tale from Tyrion of a black-winged fiend who sought to bring misery to the Lannisters. Jaime points his sword at the sky and demands: "Unhand me STORMCROW!"
"Who's Stormcrow?"
*CRACK*
A tree branch smacks him on the face, then another, and another. We're descending! A bough of young branches leave bloody scratches on his cheeks and lips. He saws his sword, cutting through another cord and feels the rope loosen-
*SPLASH*
-before falling into muddy waters.
Sword in hand, Jaime hacks another cord and kicks his legs free from the restraint. Water fills his nose and mouth, smelling as rank as the effluence of Flea Bottom. With a good push, he breaches the surface and drags himself ashore, coughing out what he's swallowed.
Laughter surrounds him.
The first thing he notices is torchlight, then the men wielding them. Some in mail, some in furs, some holding axes and spears. Rivermen, he thinks, then he hears them speak: "Lookit this one's clothes, must be some Southron Lord." Northmen? So close to the Riverlands? "A bath in the privy ought do you good." Another chorus of laughter; white sunburst, flayed man, white wolf…
The largest of them — near as tall as the Mountain — approaches with a drawn and terrible greatsword. His right hand's encased in a metal gauntlet. "This one's no Lord," his voice booms like thunder, "this' a Lannister."
"Some Lannisters' a Lord, like Tywin," Jaime spits a pebble from his mouth and sits up. Six men in a semicircle, more behind them, most armed though lightly. Many don't bother to wear proper armour. Get a little closer. He clutches his sword hidden in the mud, gritting through the pang of pain shooting up his arm.
"Not you," the Greatjon laughs before rising and proclaiming: "You've outdone us, oh Lady Momiji. You've caught the Kingslayer!"
Hoots and the stamping of muddy boots resound through the night. A hundred- no, more than that. Where are we? All around him are the dark tops of trees, tall pines and gnarled oaks and ash. Then he sees someone jump down — no, float — from the branches.
Tyrion described the Stormcrow as having wings and hair as black as the night, but this one's white-haired with no wings in sight. Instead, a wolf-like tail swishes behind her, and a pair of wolf ears twitches atop her head. She wears plate and brigandine, armed with a small shield strapped to her left arm and the handle of a sword on her back. The torches gives a glint of her sharp teeth and red eyes; she's laughing, too. Goosebumps crawl up his arms — inhuman, like that demon child.
But someone else approaches, someone he recognises from a year ago now, swaddled in furs with his direwolf beside him. He's scowling like his father. "An odd way to greet a knight of the Kingsguard, Stark."
"Lord Stark," the boy Robb corrects. His youthful face betrays his height. "And your presence makes a mockery of the white cloaks." Jaime laughs at that, bristling the men around him. The direwolf growls. Closer. "What's amusing, Kingslayer?"
"You. What's a boy like you know of knighthood? Play lordship all you want, but you're no more a man now than back at Winterfell. Delegating my capture to a woman?" he smirks, noticing their growing anger. "Did you tame the bitch like that dog of yours? Tell me, when you rut with that she-wolf, did she take you from behind?"
"Enough of your tongue, Lannister," a man walks over with a readied axe, but Jaime is faster. With a lunge, he thrusts his blade into the white sunburst surcoat and past the links of mail, straight to his heart. Snatching the axe, he cuts it onto the head of another man. Two down.
"Protect Lord Stark!" shouts one, forming up around the boy. Even in the North they fear my prowess. Arrows fly past, inaccurate in the dark. "We need him alive," shouts another. More and more gather from tents and behind trees.
One man thrusts his spear before Jaime pulls him close and beheads him; his sobriety's returning. Too many. They say in King's Landing's rat pits, even a bear can be devoured to the bone with enough rats. If there's men ahead of him and the unknown woods behind, then he'll-
"Kingslayer!" the Greatjon roars, cleaving a wide arc with his greatsword. The knight barely checks the blow — he grunts in pain as the impact shoots up his sword-hand — before making a shallow cut to the Greatjon's arm. The large man flinches and slips on the mud, falling into the soiled water.
No time to finish him. And so Jaime turns tail and run. I will not die covered in shit and piss in the middle of nowhere!
Careful and sure-footed, Jaime walks across tree roots and the few dry land. Arrows fly past, each aiming low for his crotch or legs. All of them miss. Looking back, he sees multiple torches trying to make headway through the… "Am I in the Neck?" It would explain the reeds that grow near an apple tree's height here, the queer calls and trills of birds, and most worryingly the splashes and groans from bodies of water. Why is the Stark here? To avenge his father? A foolish notion; an unbloodied Lord like him will break like tinder beneath Lord Tywin's-
*SPLASH*
He swings around, expecting the scaled face of a lizard-lion, but no. It's the she-wolf standing in his way, torch in hand, an unsheathed sword in the other; an arakh-styled grey blade with gilded runic writings on its broadside, near as long as she is tall. She stands balanced atop a buttress root on her stilt-like sabatons. "Do lions wander about in swamps?"
"No. Neither does a wolf nor a Lady," Jaime levels his blade; aim low, she's shorter than Eddard Stark. He tries to hide his shaking hand, each heart beat pulsing pain through his arm. "Stand back and you can return to the Stark with your ears and tail intact."
She snorts at that. "And rob myself a hunting trophy?" Her narrowed eyes remind him of a bloodhound. "I've never seen a lion before, but this one's on two legs and not maned," she crosses the tree roots. "Your meat would be wasted for the lizards here."
Hide in the night, wait until morning in the trees, approach the Stark camp and steal a horse under the cover of darkness, return and report to father… That will be his plan after losing his pursuers; at least the soldiers are nowhere to be seen. Just one more. What was her name? "Lady Momiji, I ought not to strike a-"
Her blade's a blur of grey as it nearly smashes through his legs; he leaps into the water just in time. But what strength! The blade bites deep into the base of a tree trunk in an explosion of splinters, cleaving it. His eyes go wide. "You mean to take me alive?"
"Alive, yes," she wrenches her sword free, and the tree crashes into the waters below. Something large slithers away beneath, and the splash washes over Jaime's face. "In one piece?"
The lion runs, and the wolf gives chase.
North, East, West, he doesn't know which direction he's running in, but her laughter surrounds him like the braying of wolves. The moon and comet give little light beneath the swamp canopy. Branches crack above him, something splashes to his left, every sound alerting his senses. Past a bog, a nest of small lizard-lions, a break of cattails- Another flash of steel. He ducks and a branch above him is lopped off; he spots her for a moment, a grin of sharp teeth before dashing back into the night. "COWARD!" he shouts.
*CLINK*
Another check, her blade scraping against his as she pushes him off his feet and against a dead tree; his back aches, a warm trickle running down his spine. The wind howls around them, then she's gone again. His heart's beating in his ears, blood seeping through his bandages. IT HURTS. "Scared to face a single man in combat!?" He swivels around and sees the flicker of her torch moving between the trees. A single thrust of gilded steel down your throat. "I've seen pages-"
"Quiet now," and she's on him.
Jaime Lannister trained under the most gallant and skilled knights the Realm could offer: Ser Barristan the Bold, Ser Arthur the Sword of the Morning, the White Bull… Skilled men, steeled men. Dead men.
None so far has fought with as much ferocity and power as this she-wolf. A gust of wind accompanies every swing, each one capable of bisecting his torso. Dodging left, right, left gives him some time to plan and think, but the mud is thick and he can't escape the next slash.
*CLACK*
"Gaah!" Jaime checks her blade — its weight must be at least two stones — and pain shoots up his arm as if the blade had struck true. His hilt is slick with blood and pus. Change hands, change hands… He's on the backstep, climbing up some hill with the bitch's laughter following him. Clambering from root to loose stone, his clothes are torn, hair sticking to his eyes with sweat, his right arm pained and useless, his left untested. A cool gust blows against him: she approaches.
"The lion's fearful!" He can see her torchlight, jumping from one root outcrop to the next. Jaime takes a defensive stance. In three seconds she lands to his left, blade raised for an execution-
*Clack*
-but the stone beneath her is loose.
Her aim off, Jaime twirls around and parries the blow before clutching her neck with his right hand. The spinning wind jostles and pushes them both down the hill, rolling against rocks and thorns before landing in the bog. The torch goes out, only the moon and comet illuminating the two combatants.
The world's spinning around Jaime, the bitch pinned beneath him, his sword still in hand. Like a proper knight, he moves the blade to her throat-
But she grabs the blade and his sword hand. Her muddy clawed gauntlets feel cold. "Excellent work, lion knight," her exclamation is as bright and proud as her smile; one of her canine's broken and bleeding. He tries to thrust, but her grip is unrelenting. "You too would make a fine Tengu, but perhaps another place, another time. For now…"
With strength enough to bend steel, she squeezes.
"Goodnight."
Jaime's world fills with blinding white pain.