A white book sat on a white table in a white room.
The room was round, its walls of whitewashed stone hung with
white woolen tapestries. It formed the first floor of White Sword
Tower, a slender structure of four stories built into an angle of
the castle wall overlooking the bay. The undercroft held arms and
armor, the second and third floors the small spare sleeping cells
of the six brothers of the Kingsguard.
One of those cells had been his for eighteen years, but this
morning he had moved his things to the topmost floor, which was
given over entirely to the Lord Commander’s apartments. Those
rooms were spare as well, though spacious; and they were above the
outer walls, which meant he would have a view of the sea. I will
like that, he thought. The view, and all the rest.
As pale as the room, Jaime sat by the book in his Kingsguard
whites, waiting for his Sworn Brothers. A longsword hung from his
hip. From the wrong hip. Before he had always wom his sword on his
left, and drawn it across his body when he unsheathed. He had
shifted it to his right hip this morning, so as to be able to draw
it with his left hand in the same manner, but the weight of it felt
strange there, and when he had tried to pull the blade from the
scabbard the whole motion seemed clumsy and unnatural. His clothing
fit badly as well. He had donned the winter raiment of the
Kingsguard, a tunic and breeches of bleached white wool and a heavy
white cloak, but it all seemed to hang loose on him.
Jaime had spent his days at his brother’s trial, standing
well to the back of the hall. Either Tyrion never saw him there or
he did not know him, but that was no surprise. Half the court no
longer seemed to know him. I am a stranger in my own House. His son
was dead, his father had disowned him, and his
sister . . . she had not allowed him to be
alone with her once, after that first day in the royal sept where
Joffrey lay amongst the candles. Even when they bore him across the
city to his tomb in the Great Sept of Baelor, Cersei kept a careful
distance.
He looked about the Round Room once more. White wool hangings
covered the walls, and there was a white shield and two crossed
longswords mounted above the hearth. The chair behind the table was
old black oak, with cushions of blanched cowhide, the leather worn
thin. Worn by the bony arse of Barristan the Bold and Ser Gerold
Hightower before him, by Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, Ser Ryam
Redwyne, and the Demon of Darry, by Ser Duncan the Tall and the
Pale Griffin Alyn Connington. How could the Kingslayer belong in
such exalted company?
Yet here he was.
The table itself was old weirwood, pale as bone, carved in the
shape of a huge shield supported by three white stallions. By
tradition the Lord Commander sat at the top of the shield, and the
brothers three to a side, on the rare occasions when all seven were
assembled. The book that rested by his elbow was massive; two feet
tall and a foot and a half wide, a thousand pages thick, fine white
vellum bound between covers of bleached white leather with gold
hinges and fastenings. The Book of the Brothers was its formal
name, but more often it was simply called the White Book.
Within the White Book was the history of the Kingsguard. Every
knight who’d ever served had a page, to record his name and
deeds for all time. On the top left-hand corner of each page was
drawn the shield the man had carried at the time he was chosen,
inked in rich colors. Down in the bottom right corner was the
shield of the Kingsguard; snow-white, empty, pure. The upper
shields were all different; the lower shields were all the same. In
the space between were written the facts of each man’s life
and service. The heraldic drawings and illuminations were done by
septons sent from the Great Sept of Baelor three times a year, but
it was the duty of the Lord Commander to keep the entries up to
date. My duty, now. Once he learned to write with his left hand, that
is. The White Book was well behind. The deaths of Ser Mandon Moore
and Ser Preston Greenfield needed to be entered, and the brief
bloody Kingsguard service of Sandor Clegane as well. New pages must
be started for Ser Balon Swann, Ser Osmund Kettleblack, and the
Knight of Flowers. I will need to summon a septon to draw their
shields.
Ser Barristan Selmy had preceded Jaime as Lord Commander. The
shield atop his page showed the arms of House Selmy: three stalks
of wheat, yellow, on a brown field. Jaime was amused, though
unsurprised, to find that Ser Barristan had taken the time to
record his own dismissal before leaving the castle.
Ser Barristan of House Selmy. Firstborn son of Ser Lyonel Selmy
of Harvest Hall. Served as squire to Ser Manfred Swann. Named
“the Bold” in his 10th year, when he donned borrowed
armor to appear as a mystery knight in the tourney at Blackhaven,
where he was defeated and unmasked by Duncan, Prince of
Dragonflies. Knighted in his 16th year by King Aegon V Targaryen,
after performing great feats of prowess as a mystery knight in the
winter tourney at King’s Landing, defeating Prince Duncan the
Small and Ser Duncan the Tall, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
Slew Maelys the Monstrous, last of the Blackfyre Pretenders, in
single combat during the War of the Ninepenny Kings. Defeated
Lormelle Long Lance and Cedrik Storm, the Bastard of Bronzegate.
Named to the Kingsguard in his 23rd year, by Lord Commander Ser
Gerold Hightower. Defended the passage against all challengers in
the tourney of the Silver Bridge. Victor in the mêlée at
Maidenpool. Brought King Aerys II to safety during the Defiance of
Duskendale, despite an arrow wound in the chest. Avenged the murder
of his Sworn Brother, Ser Gwayne Gaunt. Rescued Lady Jeyne Swann
and her septa from the Kingswood Brotherhood, defeating Simon Toyne
and the Smiling Knight, and slaying the former. In the Oldtown
tourney, defeated and unmasked the mystery knight Blackshield,
revealing him as the Bastard of Uplands. Sole champion of Lord
Steffon’s tourney at Storm’s End, whereat he unhorsed
Lord Robert Baratheon, Prince Oberyn Martell, Lord Leyton
Hightower, Lord Jon Connington, Lord Jason Mallister, and Prince
Rhaegar Targaryen. Wounded by arrow, spear, and sword at the Battle
of the Trident whilst fighting beside his Sworn Brothers and
Rhaegar Prince of Dragonstone. Pardoned, and named Lord Commander
of the Kingsguard, by King Robert I Baratheon. Served in the honor
guard that brought Lady Cersei of House Lannister to King’s
Landing to wed King Robert. Led the attack on Old Wyk during Balon
Greyjoy’s Rebellion. Champion of the tourney at King’s
Landing, in his 57th year. Dismissed from service by King Joffrey I
Baratheon in his 61st year, for reasons of advanced age.
The earlier part of Ser Barristan’s storied career had
been entered by Ser Gerold Hightower in a big forceful hand.
Selmy’s own smaller and more elegant writing took over with
the account of his wounding on the Trident.
Jaime’s own page was scant by comparison.
Ser Jaime of House Lannister. Firstborn son of Lord Tywin and
Lady Joanna of Casterly Rock. Served against the Kingswood Brotherhood as squire to Lord Sumner Crakehall.
Knighted in his 15th year by Ser Arthur Dayne of the Kingsguard, for valor in the field. Chosen for the Kingsguard in
his 15th year by King Aerys II Targaryen. During the Sack of King’s Landing, slew King Aerys II at the foot of
the Iron Throne. Thereafter known as the
“Kingslayer.” Pardoned for his crime by King Robert I Baratheon. Served in the
honor guard that brought his sister the Lady Cersei Lannister to King’s Landing to wed King Robert. Champion
in the tourney held at King’s Landing on the occasion of
their wedding.
Summed up like that, his life seemed a rather scant and mingy
thing. Ser Barristan could have recorded a few of his other tourney
victories, at least. And Ser Gerold might have written a few more
words about the deeds he’d performed when Ser Arthur Dayne
broke the Kingswood Brotherhood. He had saved Lord Sumner’s
life as Big Belly Ben was about to smash his head in, though the
outlaw had escaped him. And he’d held his own against the
Smiling Knight, though it was Ser Arthur who slew him. What a fight
that was, and what a foe. The Smiling Knight was a madman, cruelty
and chivalry all jumbled up together, but he did not know the
meaning of fear. And Dayne, with Dawn in
hand . . . the outlaw’s longsword had so
many notches by the end that Ser Arthur had stopped to let him
fetch a new one. “It’s that white sword of yours I
want,” the robber knight told him as they resumed, though he
was bleeding from a dozen wounds by then. “Then you shall
have it, ser,” the Sword of the Morning replied, and made an
end of it. The world was simpler in those days, Jaime thought, and men as
well as swords were made of finer steel. Or was it only that he had
been fifteen? They were all in their graves now, the Sword of the
Morning and the Smiling Knight, the White Bull and Prince Lewyn,
Ser Oswell Whent with his black humor, earnest Jon Darry, Simon
Toyne and his Kingswood Brotherhood, bluff old Sumner Crakehall.
And me, that boy I was . . . when did he die, I
wonder? When I donned the white cloak? When I opened Aerys’s
throat? That boy had wanted to be Ser Arthur Dayne, but someplace
along the way he had become the Smiling Knight instead.
When he heard the door open, he closed the White Book and stood
to receive his Sworn Brothers. Ser Osmund Kettleblack was the first
to arrive. He gave Jaime a grin, as if they were old
brothers-in-arms. “Ser Jaime,” he said, “had you
looked like this t’other night, I’d have known you at
once.”
“Would you indeed?” Jaime doubted that. The servants
had bathed him, shaved him, and washed and brushed his hair. When
he looked in a glass, he no longer saw the man who had crossed the
riverlands with Brienne . . . but he did not see himself
either. His face was thin and hollow, and he had lines under his
eyes. I look like some old man. “Stand by your seat,
ser.”
Kettleblack complied. The other Sworn Brothers filed in one by
one. “Sers,” Jaime said in a formal tone when all five
had assembled, “who guards the king?”
“My brothers Ser Osney and Ser Osfryd,” Ser Osmund
replied.
“And my brother Ser Garlan,” said the Knight of
Flowers.
“Will they keep him safe?”
“They will, my lord.”
“Be seated, then.” The words were ritual. Before the
seven could meet in session, the king’s safety must be
assured.
Ser Boros and Ser Meryn sat to his right, leaving an empty chair
between them for Ser Arys Oakheart, off in Dorne. Ser Osmund, Ser
Balon, and Ser Loras took the seats to his left. The old and the
new. Jaime wondered if that meant anything. There had been times
during its history where the Kingsguard had been divided against
itself, most notably and bitterly during the Dance of the Dragons.
Was that something he needed to fear as well?
It seemed queer to him to sit in the Lord Commander’s seat
where Barristan the Bold had sat for so many years. And even
queerer to sit here crippled. Nonetheless, it was his seat, and
this was his Kingsguard now. Tommen’s seven.
Jaime had served with Meryn Trant and Boros Blount for years;
adequate fighters, but Trant was sly and cruel, and Blount a bag of
growly air. Ser Balon Swann was better suited to his cloak, and of
course the Knight of Flowers was supposedly all a knight should be.
The fifth man was a stranger to him, this Osmund Kettleblack.
He wondered what Ser Arthur Dayne would have to say of this lot.
“How is it that the Kingsguard has fallen so low,” most
like. “It was my doing,” I would have to answer.
“I opened the door, and did nothing when the vermin began to
crawl inside.”
“The king is dead, “ Jaime began. “My
sister’s son, a boy of thirteen, murdered at his own wedding
feast in his own hall. All five of you were present. All five of
you were protecting him. And yet he’s dead.” He waited
to see what they would say to that, but none of them so much as
cleared a throat. The Tyrell boy is angry, and Balon Swann’s
ashamed, he judged. From the other three Jaime sensed only
indifference. “Did my brother do this thing? he asked them
bluntly. “Did Tyrion poison my nephew?”
Ser Balon shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Ser Boros made a
fist. Ser Osmund gave a lazy shrug. It was Meryn Trant who finally
answered. “He filled Joffrey’s cup with wine. That must
have been when he slipped the poison in.”
“You are certain it was the wine that was
poisoned?”
“What else?” said Ser Boros Blount. “The Imp
emptied the dregs on the floor. Why, but to spill the wine that
might have proved him guilty?”
“He knew the wine was poisoned,” said Ser Meryn.
Ser Balon Swann frowned. “The Imp was not alone on the
dais. Far from it. That late in the feast, we had people standing
and moving about, changing places, slipping off to the privy,
servants were coming and going . . . the king
and queen had just opened the wedding pie, every eye was on them or
those thrice-damned doves. No one was watching the wine
cup.”
“Who else was on the dais?” asked Jaime.
Ser Meryn answered. “The king’s family, the
bride’s family, Grand Maester Pycelle, the High
Septon . . . ”
“There’s your poisoner,” suggested Ser Oswald
Kettleblack with a sly grin. “Too holy by half, that old man.
Never liked the look o’ him, myself.” He laughed.
“No,” the Knight of Flowers said, unamused.
“Sansa Stark was the poisoner. You all forget, my sister was
drinking from that chalice as well. Sansa Stark was the only person
in the hall who had reason to want Margaery dead, as well as the
king. By poisoning the wedding cup, she could hope to kill both of
them. And why did she run afterward, unless she was
guilty?” The boy makes sense. Tyrion might yet be innocent. No one was
any closer to finding the girl, however. Perhaps Jaime should look
into that himself. For a start, it would be good to know how she
had gotten out of the castle. Varys may have a notion or two about
that. No one knew the Red Keep better than the eunuch.
That could wait, however. Just now Jaime had more immediate
concerns. You say you are the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, his
father had said. Go do your duty. These five were not the brothers
he would have chosen, but they were the brothers he had; the time
had come to take them in hand.
“Whoever did it,” he told them, “Joffrey is
dead, and the Iron Throne belongs to Tommen now. I mean for him to
sit on it until his hair turns white and his teeth fall out. And
not from poison.” Jaime turned to Ser Boros Blount. The man
had grown stout in recent years, though he was big-boned enough to
carry it. “Ser Boros, you look like a man who enjoys his
food. Henceforth you’ll taste everything Tommen eats or
drinks.”
Ser Osmund Kettleblack laughed aloud and the Knight of Flowers
smiled, but Ser Boros turned a deep beet red. “I am no food
taster! I am a knight of the Kingsguard!”
“Sad to say, you are.” Cersei should never have
stripped the man of his white cloak. But their father had only
compounded the shame by restoring it. “My sister has told me
how readily you yielded my nephew to Tyrion’s sellswords. You
will find carrots and pease less threatening, I hope. When your
Sworn Brothers are training in the yard with sword and shield, you
may train with spoon and trencher. Tommen loves applecakes. Try
not to let any sellswords make off with them.”
“You speak to me thus? You?”
“You should have died before you let Tommen be
taken.”
“As you died protecting Aerys, ser?” Ser Boros
lurched to his feet, and clasped the hilt of his sword. “I
won’t . . . I won’t suffer this.
You should be the food taster, it seems to me. What else is a
cripple good for?”
Jaime smiled. “I agree. I am as unfit to guard the king as
you are. So draw that sword you’re fondling, and we shall see
how your two hands fare against my one. At the end one of us will
be dead, and the Kingsguard will be improved.” He rose.
“Or, if you prefer, you may return to your duties.”
“Bah!” Ser Boros hawked up a glob of green phlegm,
spat it at Jaime’s feet, and walked out, his sword still in
its sheath. The man is craven, and a good thing. Though fat, aging, and
never more than ordinary, Ser Boros could still have hacked him
into bloody pieces. But Boros does not know that, and neither must
the rest. They feared the man I was; the man I am they’d
pity.
Jaime seated himself again and turned to Kettleblack. “Ser
Osmund. I do not know you. I find that curious. I’ve fought
in tourneys, mêlées, and battles throughout the Seven Kingdoms. I
know of every hedge knight, freerider, and upjumped squire of any
skill who has ever presumed to break a lance in the lists. So how
is it that I have never heard of you, Ser Osmund?”
“That I couldn’t say, my lord.” He had a great
wide smile on his face, did Ser Osmund, as if he and Jaime were old
comrades in arms playing some jolly little game. “I’m a
soldier, though, not no tourney knight.”
“Where had you served, before my sister found
you?”
“Here and there, my lord.”
“I have been to Oldtown in the south and Winterfell in the
north. I have been to Lannisport in the west, and King’s
Landing in the east. But I have never been to Here. Nor
There.” For want of a finger, Jaime pointed his stump at Ser
Osmund’s beak of a nose. “I will ask once more. Where
have you served?”
“In the Stepstones. Some in the Disputed Lands.
There’s always fighting there. I rode with the Gallant Men.
We fought for Lys, and some for Tyrosh.” You fought for anyone who would pay you. “How did you come
by your knighthood?”
“On a battlefield.”
“Who knighted you?”
“Ser Robert . . . Stone. He’s
dead now, my lord.”
“To be sure.” Ser Robert Stone might have been some
bastard from the Vale, he supposed, selling his sword in the
Disputed Lands. On the other hand, he might be no more than a name
Ser Osmund cobbled together from a dead king and a castle wall.
What was Cersei thinking when she gave this one a white cloak?
At least Kettleblack would likely know how to use a sword and
shield. Sellswords were seldom the most honorable of men, but they
had to have a certain skill at arms to stay alive. “Very
well, ser,” Jaime said. “You may go.”
The man’s grin returned. He left swaggering.
“Ser Meryn.” Jaime smiled at the sour knight with
the rust-red hair and the pouches under his eyes. “I have
heard it said that Joffrey made use of you to chastise Sansa
Stark.” He turned the White Book around one-handed.
“Here, show me where it is in our vows that we swear to beat
women and children.”
“I did as His Grace commanded me. We are sworn to
obey.”
“Henceforth you will temper that obedience. My sister is
Queen Regent. My father is the King’s Hand. I am Lord
Commander of the Kingsguard. Obey us. None other.”
Ser Meryn got a stubborn look on his face. “Are you
telling us not to obey the king?”
“The king is eight. Our first duty is to protect him,
which includes protecting him from himself. Use that ugly thing you
keep inside your helm. If Tommen wants you to saddle his horse,
obey him. If he tells you to kill his horse, come to me.”
“Aye. As you command, my lord.”
“Dismissed.” As he left, Jaime turned to Ser Balon
Swann. “Ser Balon, I have watched you tilt many a time, and
fought with and against you in mêlées. I’m told you proved
your valor a hundred times over during the Battle of the
Blackwater. The Kingsguard is honored by your presence.”
“The honor’s mine, my lord.” Ser Balon sounded
wary.
“There is only one question I would put to you. You served
us loyally, it’s true . . . but Varys
tells me that your brother rode with Renly and then Stannis, whilst
your lord father chose not to call his banners at all and remained
behind the walls of Stonehelm all through the fighting.”
“My father is an old man, my lord. Well past forty. His
fighting days are done.”
“And your brother?”
“Donnel was wounded in the battle and yielded to Ser
Elwood Harte. He was ransomed afterward and pledged his fealty to
King Joffrey, as did many other captives.”
“So he did,” said Jaime. “Even
so . . . Renly, Stannis, Joffrey, Tommen how
did he come to omit Balon Greyjoy and Robb Stark? He might have
been the first knight in the realm to swear fealty to all six
kings.”
Ser Balon’s unease was plain. “Donnel erred, but he
is Tommen’s man now. You have my word.”
“It’s not Ser Donnel the Constant who concerns me.
It’s you.” Jaime leaned forward. “What will you
do if brave Ser Donnel gives his sword to yet another usurper, and
one day comes storming into the throne room? And there you stand
all in white, between your king and your blood. What will you
do?”
“I . . . my lord, that will never
happen.”
“It happened to me,” Jaime said.
Swann wiped his brow with the sleeve of his white tunic.
“You have no answer?”
“My lord.” Ser Balon drew himself up. “On my
sword, on my honor, on my father’s name, I
swear . . . I shall not do as you
did.”
Jaime laughed. “Good. Return to your
duties . . . and tell Ser Donnel to add a
weathervane to his shield.”
And then he was alone with the Knight of Flowers.
Slim as a sword, lithe and fit, Ser Loras Tyrell wore a snowy
linen tunic and white wool breeches, with a gold belt around his
waist and a gold rose clasping his fine silk cloak. His hair was a
soft brown tumble, and his eyes were brown as well, and bright with
insolence. He thinks this is a tourney, and his tilt has just been
called. “Seventeen and a knight of the Kingsguard,”
said Jaime. “You must be proud. Prince Aemon the Dragonknight
was seventeen when he was named. Did you know that?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And did you know that I was fifteen?”
“That as well, my lord.” He smiled.
Jaime hated that smile. “I was better than you, Ser Loras.
I was bigger, I was stronger, and I was quicker.”
“And now you’re older,” the boy said.
“My lord.”
He had to laugh. This is too absurd. Tyrion would mock me
unmercifully if he could hear me now, comparing cocks with this
green boy. “Older and wiser, ser. You should learn from
me.”
“As you learned from Ser Boros and Ser Meryn?”
That arrow hit too close to the mark. “I learned from the
White Bull and Barristan the Bold,” Jaime snapped. “I
learned from Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, who could
have slain all five of you with his left hand while he was taking
with a piss with the right. I learned from Prince Lewyn of Dorne and
Ser Oswell Whent and Ser Jonothor Darry, good men every
one.”
“Dead men, every one.” He’s me, Jaime realized suddenly. I am speaking to myself,
as I was, all cocksure arrogance and empty chivalry. This is what
it does to you, to be too good too young.
As in a swordfight, sometimes it is best to try a different
stroke. “It’s said you fought magnificently in the
battle . . . almost as well as Lord
Renly’s ghost beside you. A Sworn Brother has no secrets from
his Lord Commander. Tell me, ser. Who was wearing Renly’s
armor?”
For a moment Loras Tyrell looked as though he might refuse, but
in the end he remembered his vows. “My brother,” he
said sullenly. “Renly was taller than me, and broader in the
chest. His armor was too loose on me, but it suited Garlan
well.”
“Was the masquerade your notion, or his?”
“Lord Littlefinger suggested it. He said it would frighten
Stannis’s ignorant men-at-arms.”
“And so it did.” And some knights and lordlings too.
“Well, you gave the singers something to make rhymes about, I
suppose that’s not to be despised. What did you do with
Renly?”
“I buried him with mine own hands, in a place he showed me
once when I was a squire at Storm’s End. No one shall ever
find him there to disturb his rest.” He looked at Jaime
defiantly. “I will defend King Tommen with all my strength, I
swear it. I will give my life for his if need be. But I will never
betray Renly, by word or deed. He was the king that should have
been. He was the best of them.” The best dressed perhaps, Jaime thought, but for once he did not
say it. The arrogance had gone out of Ser Loras the moment he began
to speak of Renly. He answered truly. He is proud and reckless and
full of piss, but he is not false. Not yet. “As you say. One
more thing, and you may return to your duties.”
“Yes, my lord?”
“I still have Brienne of Tarth in a tower cell.”
The boy’s mouth hardened. “A black cell would be
better.”
“You are certain that’s what she
deserves?”
“She deserves death. I told Renly that a woman had no
place in the Rainbow Guard. She won the mêlée with a
trick.”
“I seem to recall another knight who was fond of tricks.
He once rode a mare in heat against a foe mounted on a bad-tempered
stallion. What sort of trickery did Brienne use?”
Ser Loras flushed. “She leapt . . . it
makes no matter. She won, I grant her that. His Grace put a rainbow
cloak around her shoulders. And she killed him, Or let him
die.”
“A large difference there.” The difference between
my crime and the shame of Boros Blount.
“She had sworn to protect him. Ser Emmon Cuy, Ser Robar
Royce, Ser Parmen Crane, they’d sworn as well. How could
anyone have hurt him, with her inside his tent and the others just
outside? Unless they were part of it.”
“There were five of you at the wedding feast,” Jaime
pointed out. “How could Joffrey die? Unless you were part of
it?”
Ser Loras drew himself up stiffly. “There was nothing we
could have done.”
“The wench says the same. She grieves for Renly as you do.
I promise you, I never grieve for Aerys. Brienne’s ugly, and
pighead stubborn. But she lacks the wits to be a liar, and she is
loyal past the point of sense. She swore an oath to bring me to
King’s Landing, and here I sit. This hand I
lost . . . well, that was my doing as much as
hers. Considering all she did to protect me, I have no doubt that
she would have fought for Renly, had there been a foe to fight. But
a shadow?” Jaime shook his head. “Draw your sword, Ser
Loras. Show me how you’d fight a shadow. I should like to see
that.”
Ser Loras made no move to rise. “She fled,” he said.
“She and Catelyn Stark, they left him in his blood and ran.
Why would they, if it was not their work?” He stared at the
table. “Renly gave me the van. Otherwise it would have been
me helping him don his armor. He often entrusted that task to me.
We had . . . we had prayed together that night.
I left him with her. Ser Parmen and Ser Emmon were guarding the
tent, and Ser Robar Royce was there as well. Ser Emmon swore
Brienne had . . . although . . . ”
“Yes?” Jaime prompted, sensing a doubt.
“The gorget was cut through. One clean stroke, through a
steel gorget. Renly’s armor was the best, the finest steel.
How could she do that? I tried myself, and it was not possible.
She’s freakish strong for a woman, but even the Mountain
would have needed a heavy axe. And why armor him and then cut his
throat?” He gave Jaime a confused look. “If not her,
though . . . how could it be a
shadow?”
“Ask her.” Jaime came to a decision. “Go to
her cell. Ask your questions and hear her answers. If you are still
convinced that she murdered Lord Renly, I will see that she answers
for it. The choice will be yours. Accuse her, or release her. All I
ask is that you judge her fairly, on your honor as a
knight.”
Ser Loras stood. “I shall. On my honor.”
“We are done, then.”
The younger man started for the door. But there he turned back.
“Renly thought she was absurd. A woman dressed in man’s
mail, pretending to be a knight.”
“If he’d ever seen her in pink satin and Myrish
lace, he would not have complained.”
“I asked him why he kept her close, if he thought her so
grotesque. He said that all his other knights wanted things of him,
castles or honors or riches, but all that Brienne wanted was to die
for him. When I saw him all bloody, with her fled and the three of
them unharmed . . . if she’s innocent,
then Robar and Emmon . . . ” He could not
seem to say the words.
Jaime had not stopped to consider that aspect of it. “I
would have done the same, ser,” The lie came easy, but Ser
Loras seemed grateful for it.
When he was gone, the Lord Commander sat alone in the white
room, wondering. The Knight of Flowers had been so mad with grief
for Renly that he had cut down two of his own Sworn Brothers, but
it had never occurred to Jaime to do the same with the five who had
failed Joffrey. He was my son, my secret
son . . . what am I, if I do not lift the hand
I have left to avenge mine own blood and seed? He ought to kill Ser
Boros at least, just to be rid of him.
He looked at his stump and grimaced. I must do something about
that. If the late Ser Jacelyn Bywater could wear an iron hand, he
should have a gold one. Cersei might like that. A golden hand to
stroke her golden hair, and hold her hard against me.
His hand could wait, though. There were other things to tend to
first. There were other debts to pay.
A white book sat on a white table in a white room.
The room was round, its walls of whitewashed stone hung with
white woolen tapestries. It formed the first floor of White Sword
Tower, a slender structure of four stories built into an angle of
the castle wall overlooking the bay. The undercroft held arms and
armor, the second and third floors the small spare sleeping cells
of the six brothers of the Kingsguard.
One of those cells had been his for eighteen years, but this
morning he had moved his things to the topmost floor, which was
given over entirely to the Lord Commander’s apartments. Those
rooms were spare as well, though spacious; and they were above the
outer walls, which meant he would have a view of the sea. I will
like that, he thought. The view, and all the rest.
As pale as the room, Jaime sat by the book in his Kingsguard
whites, waiting for his Sworn Brothers. A longsword hung from his
hip. From the wrong hip. Before he had always wom his sword on his
left, and drawn it across his body when he unsheathed. He had
shifted it to his right hip this morning, so as to be able to draw
it with his left hand in the same manner, but the weight of it felt
strange there, and when he had tried to pull the blade from the
scabbard the whole motion seemed clumsy and unnatural. His clothing
fit badly as well. He had donned the winter raiment of the
Kingsguard, a tunic and breeches of bleached white wool and a heavy
white cloak, but it all seemed to hang loose on him.
Jaime had spent his days at his brother’s trial, standing
well to the back of the hall. Either Tyrion never saw him there or
he did not know him, but that was no surprise. Half the court no
longer seemed to know him. I am a stranger in my own House. His son
was dead, his father had disowned him, and his
sister . . . she had not allowed him to be
alone with her once, after that first day in the royal sept where
Joffrey lay amongst the candles. Even when they bore him across the
city to his tomb in the Great Sept of Baelor, Cersei kept a careful
distance.
He looked about the Round Room once more. White wool hangings
covered the walls, and there was a white shield and two crossed
longswords mounted above the hearth. The chair behind the table was
old black oak, with cushions of blanched cowhide, the leather worn
thin. Worn by the bony arse of Barristan the Bold and Ser Gerold
Hightower before him, by Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, Ser Ryam
Redwyne, and the Demon of Darry, by Ser Duncan the Tall and the
Pale Griffin Alyn Connington. How could the Kingslayer belong in
such exalted company?
Yet here he was.
The table itself was old weirwood, pale as bone, carved in the
shape of a huge shield supported by three white stallions. By
tradition the Lord Commander sat at the top of the shield, and the
brothers three to a side, on the rare occasions when all seven were
assembled. The book that rested by his elbow was massive; two feet
tall and a foot and a half wide, a thousand pages thick, fine white
vellum bound between covers of bleached white leather with gold
hinges and fastenings. The Book of the Brothers was its formal
name, but more often it was simply called the White Book.
Within the White Book was the history of the Kingsguard. Every
knight who’d ever served had a page, to record his name and
deeds for all time. On the top left-hand corner of each page was
drawn the shield the man had carried at the time he was chosen,
inked in rich colors. Down in the bottom right corner was the
shield of the Kingsguard; snow-white, empty, pure. The upper
shields were all different; the lower shields were all the same. In
the space between were written the facts of each man’s life
and service. The heraldic drawings and illuminations were done by
septons sent from the Great Sept of Baelor three times a year, but
it was the duty of the Lord Commander to keep the entries up to
date. My duty, now. Once he learned to write with his left hand, that
is. The White Book was well behind. The deaths of Ser Mandon Moore
and Ser Preston Greenfield needed to be entered, and the brief
bloody Kingsguard service of Sandor Clegane as well. New pages must
be started for Ser Balon Swann, Ser Osmund Kettleblack, and the
Knight of Flowers. I will need to summon a septon to draw their
shields.
Ser Barristan Selmy had preceded Jaime as Lord Commander. The
shield atop his page showed the arms of House Selmy: three stalks
of wheat, yellow, on a brown field. Jaime was amused, though
unsurprised, to find that Ser Barristan had taken the time to
record his own dismissal before leaving the castle.
Ser Barristan of House Selmy. Firstborn son of Ser Lyonel Selmy
of Harvest Hall. Served as squire to Ser Manfred Swann. Named
“the Bold” in his 10th year, when he donned borrowed
armor to appear as a mystery knight in the tourney at Blackhaven,
where he was defeated and unmasked by Duncan, Prince of
Dragonflies. Knighted in his 16th year by King Aegon V Targaryen,
after performing great feats of prowess as a mystery knight in the
winter tourney at King’s Landing, defeating Prince Duncan the
Small and Ser Duncan the Tall, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
Slew Maelys the Monstrous, last of the Blackfyre Pretenders, in
single combat during the War of the Ninepenny Kings. Defeated
Lormelle Long Lance and Cedrik Storm, the Bastard of Bronzegate.
Named to the Kingsguard in his 23rd year, by Lord Commander Ser
Gerold Hightower. Defended the passage against all challengers in
the tourney of the Silver Bridge. Victor in the mêlée at
Maidenpool. Brought King Aerys II to safety during the Defiance of
Duskendale, despite an arrow wound in the chest. Avenged the murder
of his Sworn Brother, Ser Gwayne Gaunt. Rescued Lady Jeyne Swann
and her septa from the Kingswood Brotherhood, defeating Simon Toyne
and the Smiling Knight, and slaying the former. In the Oldtown
tourney, defeated and unmasked the mystery knight Blackshield,
revealing him as the Bastard of Uplands. Sole champion of Lord
Steffon’s tourney at Storm’s End, whereat he unhorsed
Lord Robert Baratheon, Prince Oberyn Martell, Lord Leyton
Hightower, Lord Jon Connington, Lord Jason Mallister, and Prince
Rhaegar Targaryen. Wounded by arrow, spear, and sword at the Battle
of the Trident whilst fighting beside his Sworn Brothers and
Rhaegar Prince of Dragonstone. Pardoned, and named Lord Commander
of the Kingsguard, by King Robert I Baratheon. Served in the honor
guard that brought Lady Cersei of House Lannister to King’s
Landing to wed King Robert. Led the attack on Old Wyk during Balon
Greyjoy’s Rebellion. Champion of the tourney at King’s
Landing, in his 57th year. Dismissed from service by King Joffrey I
Baratheon in his 61st year, for reasons of advanced age.
The earlier part of Ser Barristan’s storied career had
been entered by Ser Gerold Hightower in a big forceful hand.
Selmy’s own smaller and more elegant writing took over with
the account of his wounding on the Trident.
Jaime’s own page was scant by comparison.
Ser Jaime of House Lannister. Firstborn son of Lord Tywin and
Lady Joanna of Casterly Rock. Served against the Kingswood Brotherhood as squire to Lord Sumner Crakehall.
Knighted in his 15th year by Ser Arthur Dayne of the Kingsguard, for valor in the field. Chosen for the Kingsguard in
his 15th year by King Aerys II Targaryen. During the Sack of King’s Landing, slew King Aerys II at the foot of
the Iron Throne. Thereafter known as the
“Kingslayer.” Pardoned for his crime by King Robert I Baratheon. Served in the
honor guard that brought his sister the Lady Cersei Lannister to King’s Landing to wed King Robert. Champion
in the tourney held at King’s Landing on the occasion of
their wedding.
Summed up like that, his life seemed a rather scant and mingy
thing. Ser Barristan could have recorded a few of his other tourney
victories, at least. And Ser Gerold might have written a few more
words about the deeds he’d performed when Ser Arthur Dayne
broke the Kingswood Brotherhood. He had saved Lord Sumner’s
life as Big Belly Ben was about to smash his head in, though the
outlaw had escaped him. And he’d held his own against the
Smiling Knight, though it was Ser Arthur who slew him. What a fight
that was, and what a foe. The Smiling Knight was a madman, cruelty
and chivalry all jumbled up together, but he did not know the
meaning of fear. And Dayne, with Dawn in
hand . . . the outlaw’s longsword had so
many notches by the end that Ser Arthur had stopped to let him
fetch a new one. “It’s that white sword of yours I
want,” the robber knight told him as they resumed, though he
was bleeding from a dozen wounds by then. “Then you shall
have it, ser,” the Sword of the Morning replied, and made an
end of it. The world was simpler in those days, Jaime thought, and men as
well as swords were made of finer steel. Or was it only that he had
been fifteen? They were all in their graves now, the Sword of the
Morning and the Smiling Knight, the White Bull and Prince Lewyn,
Ser Oswell Whent with his black humor, earnest Jon Darry, Simon
Toyne and his Kingswood Brotherhood, bluff old Sumner Crakehall.
And me, that boy I was . . . when did he die, I
wonder? When I donned the white cloak? When I opened Aerys’s
throat? That boy had wanted to be Ser Arthur Dayne, but someplace
along the way he had become the Smiling Knight instead.
When he heard the door open, he closed the White Book and stood
to receive his Sworn Brothers. Ser Osmund Kettleblack was the first
to arrive. He gave Jaime a grin, as if they were old
brothers-in-arms. “Ser Jaime,” he said, “had you
looked like this t’other night, I’d have known you at
once.”
“Would you indeed?” Jaime doubted that. The servants
had bathed him, shaved him, and washed and brushed his hair. When
he looked in a glass, he no longer saw the man who had crossed the
riverlands with Brienne . . . but he did not see himself
either. His face was thin and hollow, and he had lines under his
eyes. I look like some old man. “Stand by your seat,
ser.”
Kettleblack complied. The other Sworn Brothers filed in one by
one. “Sers,” Jaime said in a formal tone when all five
had assembled, “who guards the king?”
“My brothers Ser Osney and Ser Osfryd,” Ser Osmund
replied.
“And my brother Ser Garlan,” said the Knight of
Flowers.
“Will they keep him safe?”
“They will, my lord.”
“Be seated, then.” The words were ritual. Before the
seven could meet in session, the king’s safety must be
assured.
Ser Boros and Ser Meryn sat to his right, leaving an empty chair
between them for Ser Arys Oakheart, off in Dorne. Ser Osmund, Ser
Balon, and Ser Loras took the seats to his left. The old and the
new. Jaime wondered if that meant anything. There had been times
during its history where the Kingsguard had been divided against
itself, most notably and bitterly during the Dance of the Dragons.
Was that something he needed to fear as well?
It seemed queer to him to sit in the Lord Commander’s seat
where Barristan the Bold had sat for so many years. And even
queerer to sit here crippled. Nonetheless, it was his seat, and
this was his Kingsguard now. Tommen’s seven.
Jaime had served with Meryn Trant and Boros Blount for years;
adequate fighters, but Trant was sly and cruel, and Blount a bag of
growly air. Ser Balon Swann was better suited to his cloak, and of
course the Knight of Flowers was supposedly all a knight should be.
The fifth man was a stranger to him, this Osmund Kettleblack.
He wondered what Ser Arthur Dayne would have to say of this lot.
“How is it that the Kingsguard has fallen so low,” most
like. “It was my doing,” I would have to answer.
“I opened the door, and did nothing when the vermin began to
crawl inside.”
“The king is dead, “ Jaime began. “My
sister’s son, a boy of thirteen, murdered at his own wedding
feast in his own hall. All five of you were present. All five of
you were protecting him. And yet he’s dead.” He waited
to see what they would say to that, but none of them so much as
cleared a throat. The Tyrell boy is angry, and Balon Swann’s
ashamed, he judged. From the other three Jaime sensed only
indifference. “Did my brother do this thing? he asked them
bluntly. “Did Tyrion poison my nephew?”
Ser Balon shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Ser Boros made a
fist. Ser Osmund gave a lazy shrug. It was Meryn Trant who finally
answered. “He filled Joffrey’s cup with wine. That must
have been when he slipped the poison in.”
“You are certain it was the wine that was
poisoned?”
“What else?” said Ser Boros Blount. “The Imp
emptied the dregs on the floor. Why, but to spill the wine that
might have proved him guilty?”
“He knew the wine was poisoned,” said Ser Meryn.
Ser Balon Swann frowned. “The Imp was not alone on the
dais. Far from it. That late in the feast, we had people standing
and moving about, changing places, slipping off to the privy,
servants were coming and going . . . the king
and queen had just opened the wedding pie, every eye was on them or
those thrice-damned doves. No one was watching the wine
cup.”
“Who else was on the dais?” asked Jaime.
Ser Meryn answered. “The king’s family, the
bride’s family, Grand Maester Pycelle, the High
Septon . . . ”
“There’s your poisoner,” suggested Ser Oswald
Kettleblack with a sly grin. “Too holy by half, that old man.
Never liked the look o’ him, myself.” He laughed.
“No,” the Knight of Flowers said, unamused.
“Sansa Stark was the poisoner. You all forget, my sister was
drinking from that chalice as well. Sansa Stark was the only person
in the hall who had reason to want Margaery dead, as well as the
king. By poisoning the wedding cup, she could hope to kill both of
them. And why did she run afterward, unless she was
guilty?” The boy makes sense. Tyrion might yet be innocent. No one was
any closer to finding the girl, however. Perhaps Jaime should look
into that himself. For a start, it would be good to know how she
had gotten out of the castle. Varys may have a notion or two about
that. No one knew the Red Keep better than the eunuch.
That could wait, however. Just now Jaime had more immediate
concerns. You say you are the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, his
father had said. Go do your duty. These five were not the brothers
he would have chosen, but they were the brothers he had; the time
had come to take them in hand.
“Whoever did it,” he told them, “Joffrey is
dead, and the Iron Throne belongs to Tommen now. I mean for him to
sit on it until his hair turns white and his teeth fall out. And
not from poison.” Jaime turned to Ser Boros Blount. The man
had grown stout in recent years, though he was big-boned enough to
carry it. “Ser Boros, you look like a man who enjoys his
food. Henceforth you’ll taste everything Tommen eats or
drinks.”
Ser Osmund Kettleblack laughed aloud and the Knight of Flowers
smiled, but Ser Boros turned a deep beet red. “I am no food
taster! I am a knight of the Kingsguard!”
“Sad to say, you are.” Cersei should never have
stripped the man of his white cloak. But their father had only
compounded the shame by restoring it. “My sister has told me
how readily you yielded my nephew to Tyrion’s sellswords. You
will find carrots and pease less threatening, I hope. When your
Sworn Brothers are training in the yard with sword and shield, you
may train with spoon and trencher. Tommen loves applecakes. Try
not to let any sellswords make off with them.”
“You speak to me thus? You?”
“You should have died before you let Tommen be
taken.”
“As you died protecting Aerys, ser?” Ser Boros
lurched to his feet, and clasped the hilt of his sword. “I
won’t . . . I won’t suffer this.
You should be the food taster, it seems to me. What else is a
cripple good for?”
Jaime smiled. “I agree. I am as unfit to guard the king as
you are. So draw that sword you’re fondling, and we shall see
how your two hands fare against my one. At the end one of us will
be dead, and the Kingsguard will be improved.” He rose.
“Or, if you prefer, you may return to your duties.”
“Bah!” Ser Boros hawked up a glob of green phlegm,
spat it at Jaime’s feet, and walked out, his sword still in
its sheath. The man is craven, and a good thing. Though fat, aging, and
never more than ordinary, Ser Boros could still have hacked him
into bloody pieces. But Boros does not know that, and neither must
the rest. They feared the man I was; the man I am they’d
pity.
Jaime seated himself again and turned to Kettleblack. “Ser
Osmund. I do not know you. I find that curious. I’ve fought
in tourneys, mêlées, and battles throughout the Seven Kingdoms. I
know of every hedge knight, freerider, and upjumped squire of any
skill who has ever presumed to break a lance in the lists. So how
is it that I have never heard of you, Ser Osmund?”
“That I couldn’t say, my lord.” He had a great
wide smile on his face, did Ser Osmund, as if he and Jaime were old
comrades in arms playing some jolly little game. “I’m a
soldier, though, not no tourney knight.”
“Where had you served, before my sister found
you?”
“Here and there, my lord.”
“I have been to Oldtown in the south and Winterfell in the
north. I have been to Lannisport in the west, and King’s
Landing in the east. But I have never been to Here. Nor
There.” For want of a finger, Jaime pointed his stump at Ser
Osmund’s beak of a nose. “I will ask once more. Where
have you served?”
“In the Stepstones. Some in the Disputed Lands.
There’s always fighting there. I rode with the Gallant Men.
We fought for Lys, and some for Tyrosh.” You fought for anyone who would pay you. “How did you come
by your knighthood?”
“On a battlefield.”
“Who knighted you?”
“Ser Robert . . . Stone. He’s
dead now, my lord.”
“To be sure.” Ser Robert Stone might have been some
bastard from the Vale, he supposed, selling his sword in the
Disputed Lands. On the other hand, he might be no more than a name
Ser Osmund cobbled together from a dead king and a castle wall.
What was Cersei thinking when she gave this one a white cloak?
At least Kettleblack would likely know how to use a sword and
shield. Sellswords were seldom the most honorable of men, but they
had to have a certain skill at arms to stay alive. “Very
well, ser,” Jaime said. “You may go.”
The man’s grin returned. He left swaggering.
“Ser Meryn.” Jaime smiled at the sour knight with
the rust-red hair and the pouches under his eyes. “I have
heard it said that Joffrey made use of you to chastise Sansa
Stark.” He turned the White Book around one-handed.
“Here, show me where it is in our vows that we swear to beat
women and children.”
“I did as His Grace commanded me. We are sworn to
obey.”
“Henceforth you will temper that obedience. My sister is
Queen Regent. My father is the King’s Hand. I am Lord
Commander of the Kingsguard. Obey us. None other.”
Ser Meryn got a stubborn look on his face. “Are you
telling us not to obey the king?”
“The king is eight. Our first duty is to protect him,
which includes protecting him from himself. Use that ugly thing you
keep inside your helm. If Tommen wants you to saddle his horse,
obey him. If he tells you to kill his horse, come to me.”
“Aye. As you command, my lord.”
“Dismissed.” As he left, Jaime turned to Ser Balon
Swann. “Ser Balon, I have watched you tilt many a time, and
fought with and against you in mêlées. I’m told you proved
your valor a hundred times over during the Battle of the
Blackwater. The Kingsguard is honored by your presence.”
“The honor’s mine, my lord.” Ser Balon sounded
wary.
“There is only one question I would put to you. You served
us loyally, it’s true . . . but Varys
tells me that your brother rode with Renly and then Stannis, whilst
your lord father chose not to call his banners at all and remained
behind the walls of Stonehelm all through the fighting.”
“My father is an old man, my lord. Well past forty. His
fighting days are done.”
“And your brother?”
“Donnel was wounded in the battle and yielded to Ser
Elwood Harte. He was ransomed afterward and pledged his fealty to
King Joffrey, as did many other captives.”
“So he did,” said Jaime. “Even
so . . . Renly, Stannis, Joffrey, Tommen how
did he come to omit Balon Greyjoy and Robb Stark? He might have
been the first knight in the realm to swear fealty to all six
kings.”
Ser Balon’s unease was plain. “Donnel erred, but he
is Tommen’s man now. You have my word.”
“It’s not Ser Donnel the Constant who concerns me.
It’s you.” Jaime leaned forward. “What will you
do if brave Ser Donnel gives his sword to yet another usurper, and
one day comes storming into the throne room? And there you stand
all in white, between your king and your blood. What will you
do?”
“I . . . my lord, that will never
happen.”
“It happened to me,” Jaime said.
Swann wiped his brow with the sleeve of his white tunic.
“You have no answer?”
“My lord.” Ser Balon drew himself up. “On my
sword, on my honor, on my father’s name, I
swear . . . I shall not do as you
did.”
Jaime laughed. “Good. Return to your
duties . . . and tell Ser Donnel to add a
weathervane to his shield.”
And then he was alone with the Knight of Flowers.
Slim as a sword, lithe and fit, Ser Loras Tyrell wore a snowy
linen tunic and white wool breeches, with a gold belt around his
waist and a gold rose clasping his fine silk cloak. His hair was a
soft brown tumble, and his eyes were brown as well, and bright with
insolence. He thinks this is a tourney, and his tilt has just been
called. “Seventeen and a knight of the Kingsguard,”
said Jaime. “You must be proud. Prince Aemon the Dragonknight
was seventeen when he was named. Did you know that?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And did you know that I was fifteen?”
“That as well, my lord.” He smiled.
Jaime hated that smile. “I was better than you, Ser Loras.
I was bigger, I was stronger, and I was quicker.”
“And now you’re older,” the boy said.
“My lord.”
He had to laugh. This is too absurd. Tyrion would mock me
unmercifully if he could hear me now, comparing cocks with this
green boy. “Older and wiser, ser. You should learn from
me.”
“As you learned from Ser Boros and Ser Meryn?”
That arrow hit too close to the mark. “I learned from the
White Bull and Barristan the Bold,” Jaime snapped. “I
learned from Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, who could
have slain all five of you with his left hand while he was taking
with a piss with the right. I learned from Prince Lewyn of Dorne and
Ser Oswell Whent and Ser Jonothor Darry, good men every
one.”
“Dead men, every one.” He’s me, Jaime realized suddenly. I am speaking to myself,
as I was, all cocksure arrogance and empty chivalry. This is what
it does to you, to be too good too young.
As in a swordfight, sometimes it is best to try a different
stroke. “It’s said you fought magnificently in the
battle . . . almost as well as Lord
Renly’s ghost beside you. A Sworn Brother has no secrets from
his Lord Commander. Tell me, ser. Who was wearing Renly’s
armor?”
For a moment Loras Tyrell looked as though he might refuse, but
in the end he remembered his vows. “My brother,” he
said sullenly. “Renly was taller than me, and broader in the
chest. His armor was too loose on me, but it suited Garlan
well.”
“Was the masquerade your notion, or his?”
“Lord Littlefinger suggested it. He said it would frighten
Stannis’s ignorant men-at-arms.”
“And so it did.” And some knights and lordlings too.
“Well, you gave the singers something to make rhymes about, I
suppose that’s not to be despised. What did you do with
Renly?”
“I buried him with mine own hands, in a place he showed me
once when I was a squire at Storm’s End. No one shall ever
find him there to disturb his rest.” He looked at Jaime
defiantly. “I will defend King Tommen with all my strength, I
swear it. I will give my life for his if need be. But I will never
betray Renly, by word or deed. He was the king that should have
been. He was the best of them.” The best dressed perhaps, Jaime thought, but for once he did not
say it. The arrogance had gone out of Ser Loras the moment he began
to speak of Renly. He answered truly. He is proud and reckless and
full of piss, but he is not false. Not yet. “As you say. One
more thing, and you may return to your duties.”
“Yes, my lord?”
“I still have Brienne of Tarth in a tower cell.”
The boy’s mouth hardened. “A black cell would be
better.”
“You are certain that’s what she
deserves?”
“She deserves death. I told Renly that a woman had no
place in the Rainbow Guard. She won the mêlée with a
trick.”
“I seem to recall another knight who was fond of tricks.
He once rode a mare in heat against a foe mounted on a bad-tempered
stallion. What sort of trickery did Brienne use?”
Ser Loras flushed. “She leapt . . . it
makes no matter. She won, I grant her that. His Grace put a rainbow
cloak around her shoulders. And she killed him, Or let him
die.”
“A large difference there.” The difference between
my crime and the shame of Boros Blount.
“She had sworn to protect him. Ser Emmon Cuy, Ser Robar
Royce, Ser Parmen Crane, they’d sworn as well. How could
anyone have hurt him, with her inside his tent and the others just
outside? Unless they were part of it.”
“There were five of you at the wedding feast,” Jaime
pointed out. “How could Joffrey die? Unless you were part of
it?”
Ser Loras drew himself up stiffly. “There was nothing we
could have done.”
“The wench says the same. She grieves for Renly as you do.
I promise you, I never grieve for Aerys. Brienne’s ugly, and
pighead stubborn. But she lacks the wits to be a liar, and she is
loyal past the point of sense. She swore an oath to bring me to
King’s Landing, and here I sit. This hand I
lost . . . well, that was my doing as much as
hers. Considering all she did to protect me, I have no doubt that
she would have fought for Renly, had there been a foe to fight. But
a shadow?” Jaime shook his head. “Draw your sword, Ser
Loras. Show me how you’d fight a shadow. I should like to see
that.”
Ser Loras made no move to rise. “She fled,” he said.
“She and Catelyn Stark, they left him in his blood and ran.
Why would they, if it was not their work?” He stared at the
table. “Renly gave me the van. Otherwise it would have been
me helping him don his armor. He often entrusted that task to me.
We had . . . we had prayed together that night.
I left him with her. Ser Parmen and Ser Emmon were guarding the
tent, and Ser Robar Royce was there as well. Ser Emmon swore
Brienne had . . . although . . . ”
“Yes?” Jaime prompted, sensing a doubt.
“The gorget was cut through. One clean stroke, through a
steel gorget. Renly’s armor was the best, the finest steel.
How could she do that? I tried myself, and it was not possible.
She’s freakish strong for a woman, but even the Mountain
would have needed a heavy axe. And why armor him and then cut his
throat?” He gave Jaime a confused look. “If not her,
though . . . how could it be a
shadow?”
“Ask her.” Jaime came to a decision. “Go to
her cell. Ask your questions and hear her answers. If you are still
convinced that she murdered Lord Renly, I will see that she answers
for it. The choice will be yours. Accuse her, or release her. All I
ask is that you judge her fairly, on your honor as a
knight.”
Ser Loras stood. “I shall. On my honor.”
“We are done, then.”
The younger man started for the door. But there he turned back.
“Renly thought she was absurd. A woman dressed in man’s
mail, pretending to be a knight.”
“If he’d ever seen her in pink satin and Myrish
lace, he would not have complained.”
“I asked him why he kept her close, if he thought her so
grotesque. He said that all his other knights wanted things of him,
castles or honors or riches, but all that Brienne wanted was to die
for him. When I saw him all bloody, with her fled and the three of
them unharmed . . . if she’s innocent,
then Robar and Emmon . . . ” He could not
seem to say the words.
Jaime had not stopped to consider that aspect of it. “I
would have done the same, ser,” The lie came easy, but Ser
Loras seemed grateful for it.
When he was gone, the Lord Commander sat alone in the white
room, wondering. The Knight of Flowers had been so mad with grief
for Renly that he had cut down two of his own Sworn Brothers, but
it had never occurred to Jaime to do the same with the five who had
failed Joffrey. He was my son, my secret
son . . . what am I, if I do not lift the hand
I have left to avenge mine own blood and seed? He ought to kill Ser
Boros at least, just to be rid of him.
He looked at his stump and grimaced. I must do something about
that. If the late Ser Jacelyn Bywater could wear an iron hand, he
should have a gold one. Cersei might like that. A golden hand to
stroke her golden hair, and hold her hard against me.
His hand could wait, though. There were other things to tend to
first. There were other debts to pay.