Chapter Text
The fire snapped and hissed, sending smoke into the air as the men crammed together around the campfire telling tales of war and tourneys past. Orange light illuminated the space between them and cast long shadows across the grass and dirt at their backs. King’s Landing was just a day’s ride from their encampment, and a half day beyond that they’d reach the frontlines.
Jaime sat cross-legged on the ground with his helm resting beside him and a dagger across his lap. The blade was well-polished and he gave it a final inspection before sheathing the weapon. Despite trying to appear relaxed and unaffected, his heart beat wildly from exertion and excitement.
Only moments before, Jaime had trained with the Blackfish. The sweat dotting his brow was earned in victory, and Brynden Tully, the Brynden Tully, had complimented his skill.
“Incredible. You fight like a young man I once knew,” he had said, his own breathing labored.
Jaime prayed the man referenced wasn’t dead or poorly perceived. “Did the man become a great knight?”
The Blackfish laughed as if in on a jape that Jaime lacked knowledge of. “He became the greatest Kingsguard these kingdoms have ever known.”
The reply hadn’t been what Jaime expected. “Duncan the Tall?” Brynden certainly wasn’t old enough to know the Dragonknight.
Brynden’s gaze had darted towards their encampment to where Barristan was seated beside Daemon speaking in hushed tones. “I once thought Duncan the Tall was the greatest, but he was unhorsed by the very white cloak I have in mind.”
Now they were all seated around the same fire - soldiers, squires, Kingsguard, and legendary knights. A few had tankards of ale in hand while others passed a skin of Arbor red between them. They laughed low, their voices hushed to avoid disrupting the sleep of those already in their bedrolls.
“…and I tell you, the fool lost his axe in the muddy banks, slipped in after it, and still came up with the sellsword’s head!” one of the older Riverlands knights said, pounding his knee with a calloused hand. “He lost a few teeth for the effort!”
Shared laughter filled the space between them, and though Jaime chuckled politely, it was Ser Brynden’s war stories he longed to hear. As a boy growing up in the shadow of the White Sword Tower and raised by the greatest knight, Jaime had begged for tales of war. While Barristan had gladly offered stories of knighthood, he rarely told tales of war, at least not tales of himself in battle.
Barristan had instead told tales of other heroes from that war, Ser Brynden among them. Perhaps that was why Jaime had been in awe of the Blackfish, for Barristan was humble and often gave accolades to others, even those who disliked him like the young Arthur Dayne.
Jaime glanced across the fire at his uncle. Unlike most in their group, Barristan was not laughing. Neither was the Blackfish.
Both men sat at a slight distance from the others and sharpened their swords methodically. There had been several quiet exchanges between the pair since Daemon’s contingent left Riverrun, but those conversations were always out of earshot and Jaime wondered what they were discussing. Whatever it was, it seemed to bring Barristan peace.
Two knights who Jaime admired sat shoulder-to-shoulder, and in two days time Jaime would fight beside them. The thought made him giddy.
“You’ve gone quiet, Ser Brynden,” the Riverlands knight called out. “You were there that day. Tell these untested, young knights how you gutted your own sellsword captain.”
Brynden paused polishing the blade mid-stroke. “I’d rather not,” he said.
Jaime leaned forward. “Sellsword captain? Was it Nine Eyes? I grew up on those stories.”
Brynden looked at him then, not unkindly, but tired. Before he could reply, an old knight with greying hair scowled and spat on the ground.
“Stories,” the aged knight muttered. The man had a twisted nose and a long scar across his neck. “That’s all they are. You youth like to polish ‘em till they shine pretty.”
“But the tales are true, aren’t they?” Jaime challenged.
Brynden sheathed his sword and sighed. “The outcome, perhaps,” he said. “You think a man’s memory of war is the enemy’s blood on his sword or the thrill of victory?”
“Isn’t it?” Jaime hesitated, glancing at Barristan for reassurance or affirmation that he didn’t misunderstand how victory felt. Who wouldn’t wish to receive accolades and hold their success in high regard?
Barristan sat silently beside Brynden and said nothing, and the laughter around the campfire faded.
“No,” Brynden replied. “What I remember is the way my hands wouldn’t stop shaking once the field went still. I remember the raw fear in the eyes of dying men calling out for mercy. Worse, I remember the silence once the Stranger came.”
The old knight across from Jaime spat in the dirt once more. “They call it glory because that’s easier than calling it what it is.”
Jaime felt his face heat. He had earned his knighthood at a tourney, but he had never killed a man nor made an attempt. Just days ago he had turned six-and-ten, but he felt more like a boy of six being chastised.
“Perhaps,” Jaime said slowly, testing each word. “But you survived the war and protected the realm in the process. Even if you were frightened, you were brave.”
Brynden’s head cocked to the side and he gave Jaime a long look. “Your uncle has shared too many bedtime tales, but I’d wager you requested rather than he offered?”
Light laughter shook Jaime’s chest. “How else was I to fall asleep at night?”
“I told you those tales so that I could sleep.” Barristan huffed. “You pestered me into submission.”
A chorus of laughter filled the air once more, and some of the men returned to sipping their ale or wine.
“Did your uncle tell you how he killed Maelys?” Brynden asked. The group went quiet once more.
For years Jaime had begged Barristan for tales of that battle, but the only time Barristan spoke of his own role in the war was when Joanna died and Tywin made Jaime feel weak for crying.
“I even cried in battle once,” Barristan had offered. “I watched my brother die. I couldn’t get to him in time.”
Instead of sharing tales of his own role in the war against the Blackfyres, Barristan had preferred to speak of tourneys or other men’s glory. On rare occasion he shared tales of jousting with Prince Duncan or Duncan the Tall, and while Jaime enjoyed those stories, he longed for tales of battle.
Glancing again at his uncle, Jaime shook his head in refute and answered Brynden. “I only know that he killed the man, but I was deprived of the details.”
“ Spared of the details, more like,” Brynden said, crossing his arm. “It’s easier to praise other men’s deeds than accept your own actions. Easier still to not be haunted by the blood on their hands. Blood from killing… blood from not getting to a fellow soldier in time. No matter how hard you scrub at the skin, the stain never leaves.”
All his life Jaime had never once considered that Barristan avoided telling the tale of defeating Maelys because it reminded him of the brother he couldn’t save.
Brynden let out a sigh that turned to fog in the night air. “I pray to the Warrior for all of you with unsoiled blades. There is nothing so awful nor glorious as battle, and it will haunt you for the rest of your days. You’ll never forget the face of a man whose eyes roll back when your blade ends him.”
Daemon lifted his tankard high and spoke falsely. “To the Blackfish, a man whose outlook is as dark as his moniker.”
The men laughed, and even Brynden struggled to withhold a smirk. “I did say awful and glorious.”
“To glory then,” Daemon said. “For I don’t wish to be haunted by the sight of my crown atop Rhaegar’s head. It would be a tragedy for all of you really, for I make a much prettier king than my cousin.”
Ser Gwayne chuckled and raised his own tankard. “Between your appearance and self-praise, your Grace, it’s a small wonder we can tell you apart from our youngest sworn brother.”
Daemon’s elbow gave Jaime a nudge. “Well that’s why I had to drape him in white. Can you imagine if we were both draped in gold? You fools would protect him instead of me.”
The remark made Jaime glance up at the House Targaryen banners. Like many before him, Daemon had altered its styling. The proud banners boasted a red dragon and a golden field; a stark contrast to the banners Rhaegar’s men were said to carry.
“Do feel free to protect me before the king in the battle to come,” Jaime teased. “The alternative is my father refusing to die without an acceptable heir.”
A chorus of jest-filled boos rang out, provoking a small smile from Barristan. “Fair enough. Protect the Young Lion first, then the king. We must fight with some semblance of self-preservation.”
Daemon snorted and threw his bread roll at Barristan. “To seven hells with you, goodfather.”
The men soon cleared out for the night, but Brynden lingered. “Young lion,” he said, his voice gruff. “Come here.”
Jaime didn’t need asking twice. He took the seat that Barristan previously occupied and awaited whatever wisdom Brynden wished to impart.
“I wager you know what that uncle of yours lost in the last war against pretenders?”
Jaime nodded once. “I do.”
For a moment, Brynden only appraised Jaime. Then his head tipped back and he glanced up at the star-splashed sky. “I was with him when he killed Maelys. I’ve never seen a man fight with such rage as your uncle. Only the day prior his brother’s innards were spilled onto the field, and I knew then that any man coming within five feet of him would meet the Stranger in the most painful of ways. Several of us were mounted and coming around a mountain pass,” Brynden said, his hand gesturing through the air as though carving out a map.
“Our foot soldiers were going to press in from the other side and we from the other. We had ridden all night to get into position, roughly one hundred of us. When we came upon the enemy’s rear lines, we saw him. Maelys was more than a monster. His body looked like something that crawled from the deepest of the seven hells. Any man challenging him in single combat was a man who chased death, and your uncle broke rank. He charged straight at the monster as if trying to leap into the Stranger’s arms. Several of us shouted at him to stop, but you’d have better luck preventing storm clouds from dropping rain.”
Brynden looked deep into Jaime’s eyes and his words were a warning. “I’ve never met a knight more skilled than your uncle, but it wasn’t skill that won that battle, it was blind-rage and little regard for self-preservation. In battle, the man you’d be wise to fear is the man who has lost something cherished to him and thinks he has nothing left to lose.”
Jaime had experienced loss and could understand such pain. The feel of his mother’s cold skin still haunted him, and the sight of Cersei’s lips turning blue was seared into memory.
Perhaps he never cherished Cersei, but there had been a time when she led him in all things. Jaime remembered the innocent girl before she was overcome by jealousy and hatefulness, but not even Cersei deserved the death she was given.
“Rhaegar killed my sister,” Jaime whispered, glancing around to ensure no one was near. “I don’t wish to bring my uncle pain, but Rhaegar must be stopped.”
Brynden scratched at his stubbled chin. “Did he? I’d wager on another.”
“Who?” Jaime huffed. “Varys? Serra? It matters not when they all support Rhaegar.”
“Is it Rhaegar they’re supporting or is Rhaegar as much a victim of their lies as my brother nearly was? I told Hoster years ago that I didn’t like the look of that Essoi woman, but he called me a madman. Told me that my hauntings from war clouded my vision.”
Jaime shuffled closer and whispered. “What do you mean?”
“I fought the Blackfyres, lad. I know their look and I’d wager anything she’s one of them.”
“My uncle fought the Blackfyres too,” Jaime said. “He never mentioned anything, but the Blackfyres are Valyrians. Wouldn’t it make sense that Serra have the Valyrian look if she’s from Lys and born of Targaryen descent?”
Brynden waved him off. “You sound like my brother.”
“Oh? I hadn’t noticed Lord Hoster was also wise beyond his years,” Jaime teased.
“Fuck off with you,” Brynden huffed and shoved Jaime, but there was jest in his eyes and Jaime couldn’t help but smile.
“Only if you tell me another story.”
“Seven, your poor, long-suffering uncle.” Brynden stretched out his legs and yawned. “One more than leave me be.”
One was fair, but two was what Jaime got. Like Barristan’s own tales, Brynden’s were about other knights who performed great deeds. When Jaime went to bed that night, he dreamed of battle, of trying to find Rhaegar amongst the sea of men. Before he confronted the man in dreams, Jaime was shaken awake roughly.
“Up, quickly.” Gwayne threw Jaime’s armor at him and left the tent in a hurry.
After slipping on his mail and armor, Jaime grabbed his helm and rushed towards Daemon’s tent where men had assembled. The king was pacing and his face red with rage. There was a missive clutched tightly in Daemon’s hand, and in the corner of the tent, Barristan appeared pale as death.
“What happened?” Jaime asked.
“A rider came,” Daemon said. “Word from the Keep.”
His hand extended and Jaime took the missive. Opening it, he scanned the contents.
Daemon,
Aelora has been missing since the day you left, and days ago Arstan was taken from the Keep in the dead of night. The guards say it was Rhaegar and Ser Jonothor with a group of men. They’ve killed Ser Allec and a dozen gold cloaks. I fear they intended to come for the rest of us, but the guards noticed blood on the bridge.
Please, send Barristan home. If Rhaegar found his way in once, he could do it again. I can’t lose more of my children. Your little brother and sisters.
Mother
The color drained from Jaime’s face. Arstan . “We need to send more Kingsguard to the Keep,” he said.
“Don’t you think that’s what the enemy wants?” Gwayne challenged. “We must guard the king.”
“You must guard my wife, heir, and family,” Daemon said sharply. “Take my goodfather and Ser Jaime to the city.”
Jaime’s eyes went wide. He and Barristan answered at the same time. “No!”
“No!?” Daemon’s gaze darted between them. “I am your king and you must do as I command.”
Barristan charged forward and stood a hairsbreadth from Daemon. “They have my son and I’d wager they have Aelora too!”
“ They! ?” Daemon scowled. “You mean Rhaegar!”
“Rhaegar wouldn’t harm Arstan and I doubt he went there looking for him . No doubt this madness was Varys’ idea and I’ll not be sent back to the Keep while my children are endangered!”
“Arstan is as much my brother as he is your son,” Daemon corrected. “I’m as angry as you, but someone needs to guard my wife, unborn child, and mother. Someone has to guard my little brothers and sisters. I’ll not have Rhaegar strolling in and out of my Keep as if shopping the market!”
“I am not going to the city,” Barristan said. “Rhaegar is a puppet in this and Varys the puppeteer. Gods only know what Varys will do to Aelora and Arstan and I’ll not cower at the Keep while they’re out there.”
“I agree,” Jaime said. “We need to fight to get them back. Send the rest of the white cloaks back to the city, but I’m not leaving.”
Ser Gwayne was aghast. “Ser Allec is dead and now we have five Kingsguard remaining. Five . I had advised we delay riding out to cloak a knight worthy of filling Ser Harlan’s boots, but now our numbers dwindle before we’ve seen battle. We cannot leave the king with only one Kingsguard!”
“He’ll have two,” Barristan said. His voice was steel and his eyes filled with determination. “Perhaps I’ve no cloak, but I can assure you that no sword will come within arm’s length of him.”
The two brothers behind Gwayne shuffled on their feet. Hearing the truth of Barristan’s circumstances had caused a change in their attitude towards him. Where once they were leery and uncomfortable, they now looked to him as if he were the new Lord Commander. Gwayne stammered at that, but shook his head in refute. “Even still, this is war and two Kingsguard is…”
“Not as good as three,” Brynden said, stepping forward. “I’ll take the cloak, though I’m not fond of the color.”
Jaime’s eyes went wide. “You’re Lord Hoster’s brother. If anything happens to him or Edmure…”
“And you’re Tywin Lannister’s golden child,” Brynden drawled. His gaze darted to Barristan before appraising the other Kingsguard. “I do believe you’re all lordly knights wearing the white. This one is even meant to be heir to a Great House.” He pointed at Jaime. “Admittedly the order has never been to my taste, but it would vex my brother and further ruin his efforts to find another match I’ll reject. I would prefer to forgo wearing the cloak as Ser Barristan did, but I don’t imagine that’s an option.”
Daemon stepped forward and gave Brynden a long look. “My goodfather’s appointment was false, a cruelty of my grandsire’s, but he thought it true and he has never stopped playing the part. Any appointments I make from this day forward must be true, Ser, though I appreciate your intent.”
“Family. Duty. Honor,” Brynden said. “Those are words that I live by. If I swear to you before gods and men and take that bloody cloak, I’ll wear it till my last breath.”
Jaime knew Daemon wouldn’t find a better knight to take one of the two available positions, though Jaime considered that even his own cloak was false and they were secretly without three. There was a tense silence in the tent as the king considered Brynden’s offer.
Like Barristan, Brynden was still in incredible physical condition for a man in his early forties. Even without looking, Jaime could feel the bruises lining his sides from their spar the night prior.
“I’d be honored to name you to my seven,” Daemon said, “though somehow I doubt this is what your brother had in mind when he sent you to fight for me.”
Brynden chuckled at that. “I’ve never done things to my brother's liking. Why start now?”
And so they had a sixth, but three rode hard for the city to protect their queen, heir, and the royal family. Much to Daemon’s annoyance he found himself surrounded by two false white cloaks and the newest white cloak. All three men were pigheaded, and Daemon knew it.
For a day they rode hard to reach the frontlines and join the men attempting to hold off Rhaegar’s army. The clang of distant steel filled the air before they reached the riverbank, and smoke rose in thin black strands, coiling toward the sky. The scent of brine and blood was strong in the wind, mingling with the stench of wet leather and sweat.
From the saddle, Jaime could just make out the clash of wooden oars and shields as the enemy reached the shoreline on poorly constructed rafts. The battle had been raging for days, that much was evident if the bloated bodies in the river were any indication.
"They’re pushing hard from the eastern bank," someone called from the front. "More rafts, dozens of them."
Daemon raised his hand to halt their contingent, and from the rise they appraised the battle while their horses stamped impatiently. Leaning forward, Jaime squinted through the haze. The crown’s armies had destroyed the two wooden bridges to prevent a crossing by foot. Any man wishing to cross would need to come over on a raft or travel much farther downstream into the Westerlands.
A day’s ride west, the Westerlands army had the advantage of familiarity and awaited the enemy at points where the river narrowed. Before Jaime’s group, the water frothed where it met the salt from the bay. The river was foul-smelling and choked with reeds, broken rafts, and drifting corpses, but beyond the wreckage was a jagged stretch of rock that jutted from the riverbed like fangs; the Spears of the Merling King.
Days prior Barristan had spoken of them. Sharp grey pillars thrust up from the water like spears catching ships as if fish. Currents rippled between them in chaotic surges, swirling and snapping like the dragons on Daemon’s sigil. No sane man would willingly cross there, but Barristan wanted to force the enemy’s hand.
Most had scoffed when they first heard Barristan’s plan.
“Let them come,” he had said. “But we force them to cross here.” His finger had pointed to the map. “Let the enemy raft their men across and then funnel them into the Spears where their own weight would drag them down. The river would do the killing for us.”
It took the better part of two hours, but Barristan’s plan became reality. By aiming their catapults to force the enemy rafts towards the Spears, the crown’s armies watched as rafts were sucked into the dangerous currents and soldiers drowned. It was evident that the enemy soldiers were unfamiliar with the river as only those living in the Crownlands or making the crossing for trade had familiarity with the dangerous current.
Few enemy soldiers managed to make it across, most half-drowned and gasping for air, but they received a harsh greeting. The river went red with blood, and wood from the crushed rafts soon drifted ashore and bumped against dead bodies. The plan was working, but not all of the enemy’s rafts failed.
"Archers!" Ser Brynden commanded, pointing to the shallows. “Loose at will!”
The crown’s archers did as commanded and their arrows looked like a black dragon soaring through the sky. Slowly arrows began to find their mark. One man on a raft dropped with a shaft through his throat while another arrow pierced the body of a drowning knight.
For the better part of an hour the battle carried on that way until an opposing officer, Lord Randall Tarly, chastised his men and ordered them down the river. The western shoreline to Jaime’s right erupted in shouting. Enemy soldiers were making the long journey downstream to force a crossing.
Daemon took half of their newly-arrived contingent down river, their gaze lingering on the men making the same journey across the water. Soon they reached another crossing point.
“Quickly!” A knight of the Westerlands shouted. “Shields!”
Despite Barristan’s protest, Daemon insisted on joining his men. The king landed a blow before Jaime could stop him. The first enemy soldier Jaime encountered rushed at him with a raised war hammer and wild eyes. Jaime stepped aside, his boot sinking into the mud and nearly sending him off balance, and his sword caught the man under the arm.
Jaime staggered from the force, and the man let out an agonized cry. Desperation caused the man to swing again wildly, but Jaime saw the counter. He pivoted away and cut across the man’s exposed neck. Immediately Jaime felt the warm spray of blood upon his face, startling him, and when he glanced into the man’s eyes, he saw the raw fear described by Brynden the night prior.
Jaime blinked, his mind and body momentarily frozen, but he couldn’t stop. Shaking himself from the stupor, Jaime rushed forward to protect his king.
In battle, there was little grace or dazzling display of swordsmanship. Skilled swordsmen like Barristan were reduced to brawling in the muck with the enemy, and Jaime quickly became overwhelmed by the chaos.
The endless screaming, danger of mud anchoring feet, and sight of soldiers falling overwhelmed Jaime’s senses. He was breathless and moving on adrenaline alone, and all lessons learned at the Red Keep were cast by the wayside as Jaime fought for survival.
The river swirled red and brown, washing over bodies and weighing down men’s legs. Jaime slipped as he ran west, landing hard on his side and lifting his shield to catch a killing blow that nearly split his head in two.
“Jaime!” someone shouted, Barristan it seemed, but Jaime was already scrambling to his feet.
Another rush of enemy soldiers came, but Jaime was quickly surrounded by allies. Jaime stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Brynden, their boots sinking into thick mud, and together they cut through the enemy with little regard.
Brynden caught one man in the gut while Jaime shielded the Blackfish from a killing blow. Driving up his dagger through the enemy’s jaw, Jaime let out a loud cry and beckoned for more. He was born to fight and he felt it in his veins, but as he took appraisal of the field, he realized there were too many.
Then came the blast of a horn, and from the crown’s rear lines appeared a fresh contingent of soldiers. Brandon Stark’s contingent had arrived and begun to beat the enemy back into the water.
Some of Rhaegar’s army turned in fear and dove for the water. The crown’s archers would not relent and pierced many, but some managed to escape by raft while others swam east or west. Those trying to swim away made little progress and were overcome by the river’s current and weight of their armor. More men drowned.
Abruptly, two projectiles passed overhead and smashed into the water. A large ripple effect sent the enemy rafts end over end, and another projectile struck a man attempting to leap from a raft. The boulder crushed his head before knocking him into the water. It was a hard, merciless death, but that meant fewer men to fight in subsequent battles.
By dusk, it was over. Rhaegar’s army had retreated south, limping east towards the Kingswood or venturing south to neighboring villages in search of healers. Only smoke and silence remained along the southern shoreline of the Blackwater.
Jaime stood beside Daemon and Brynden along the muddy shore as the water lapped at their ankles. Flies buzzed over dead, floating bodies, and splintered rafts knocked against rocks jutting up near the shoreline. The air was foul with the scent of decay, blood, and brackish water.
Jaime’s sword was covered in blood and filth, and his limbs ached like he’d competed in a dozen melees. He scanned the area to their left and right, his nose scrunching as the foul-smelling air filled his lungs.
Several feet away, Barristan walked among the dead with quiet steps. He said nothing, but stared in the direction of the Kingswood as if Arstan and Aelora were there, just out of reach.
Brandon Stark joined them and dropped to the ground with a grunt. His arm had a long gash bound tightly with a blood-stained cloth. “We won,” he muttered.
“Today,” Daemon said quietly.
A vision flashed in mind and Jaime thought of the first man he killed. They had locked eyes as Jaime opened the man’s throat, and Jaime shivered recalling the way the man’s eyes rolled back and his body slumped to the ground.
They had won that day, but Jaime feared that in another battle someone he loved might end up like that man. Brynden’s voice echoed in mind.
“There is nothing so awful nor glorious as battle, and it will haunt you for the rest of your days. You’ll never forget the face of a man whose eyes roll back when your blade ends him.”
Ser Harlan had once offered a warning, and so too had the Blackfish. Jaime was built for knighthood but fashioned for love. He wondered how he might react if anyone he loved was killed before him in battle. Perhaps he’d make his uncle’s aggression against Maelys the Monstrous look sane.