Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The prince had left the Tower shortly after the Battle of Summerhall to join with the Tyrell host. For all of the honeyed words that Lannister's were known for, Jaime had been unable to convince Rhaegar to take him with him. What joy.

"Joy..." Jaime said bitterly under his breath. That was the Tower's name, yet it seemed to Jaime that joy had never been involved in its short time in existence. Underpaid workers had to drag stone uphill then assemble the tower in the scorching Dornish sun for weeks. Then, once the Prince had arrived with the Wolf Maid, they spent three weeks doing little but fucking like rabbits, but seeing as how Lyanna hadn't been with child, it was clear that she wasn't taking much enjoyment from the process. And then, Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, Lord of Dragonstone and Heir to the Iron Throne had told Lyanna the day he left that his father, that bastard Aerys, had burned Lyanna's father alive and hanged her brother, before taking her one last time. Her tears still dampening the pillow as he rode off.

And now the Tower was home to the four of them. Ser Gerold Hightower, Ser Oswell Whent and Ser Arthur Dayne had gone with the Prince, leaving only Jaime, Lyanna, some maester of unclear origin and a house Dayne wet nurse, Wylla as the sole residents of the Tower of Joy.

Jaime stared out over the open desolation that was stony Dorne. He pondered quietly to himself about why Nymeria had bothered to come to this country. From Jaime's brief experience, Dorne's days were too hot, and it's nights too cold. He considered asking the Maester before he heard a sweet voice call to him from inside the Tower.

Jaime paused. "Cersei" he whispered under his breath. Jaime had heard of those who had imagined things in the desert, yet still, the prospect of his sister made him curious. At least until the voice called again. He listened closely this time. The voice was deeper then Cersei's, with a northern accent. The dream had faded, but his duty had not.

The wind licked at his face, with rain pelting him like stones. His white cloak was now soaked and heavy, weighing down the knight. He was glad that he had put the babe to sleep before coming to brood on the deck. Despite the child's northern blood, he figured this rain would be enough to freeze him solid.

The Swan Ship had been hired out of Oldtown, costing more then Jaime would ever have believed. Being a Lannister had skewed his perception of money, he brooded. He had sold the white plate and mail he had been given, along with his surcoat and everything not bolted down from the Tower, but he had kept his blade and cloak.

He was the last surviving remnant of the Kingsguard. Oswell Whent had died at the Battle of the Bells, killed by some squire looking to become a knight. Ser Arthur Dayne and Gerold Hightower had died protecting their prince, with Jonothor Darry being killed in the battle on the Trident. Ser Barristan and Ser Lewyn Martell had been in King's Landing at the time before they themselves met death. Ser Lewyn had died protecting Princess Elia from knights sworn to Jaime's Father, and Barristan had died in the fire that consumed Maegor's Holdfast

I am the youngest, and I am the last. Jaime mused under his breath. Lyanna had assured him that her brother would protect the child, and so Jaime was taking the child there. Sailing from Oldtown to Braavos, before going on to White Harbor

"Yes, my Lady?" Jaime said with a cool grace. Jaime had spent the better part of a month in the tower but had yet to hear Lyanna speak to him. He hadn't fully grasped her age before now. She was young, younger than he was, yet she had already been through so much, the death of three in her family, and the realization that her prince wanted her for nothing more than sex. 

Lyanna seemed tired when she spoke to him. "I'm lonely, Ser." Wylla was not in the room with her, nor the maester. It seemed she was, in fact, alone. Cersei had always talked about having bedmates. Jaime guessed that Lyanna had spent barely seven nights alone her entire life. Jaime's voice was more hoarse then he expected, "I could grab Wylla for you or..."

"No," Lyana said not unkindly. Her face softened slightly when she saw his quick look of shock after being told no, "No, no thank you. I want to hear about the Prince. About Rhaegar."

"Well, he..." despite Jaime swearing his life to the man, he still knew practically nothing about him. "He's very, uh, gallant. And he plays the high harp-"

"I know that," Lyanna snapped, "Do you truly know nothing more of the man?" So that's why she's called a she-wolf. "No, my lady, I don't. He's an enigma among mysteries"

"Then tell me something, tell me about you."

Jaime regarded her cooly. She knows about Cersei, she must have known, Jaime thought, his glare intensifying, no, a fifteen-year-old would not be so cunning to lure me into a trap like this.  He broke his stare and sat down of the Bed's edge. "Well, I was born to Ser Tywin and Lady Joanna, before Tywin had been made lord..."

And so he spoke, and so he spoke, that knight of Lannister.

Chapter Text

Lyanna was a decent conversationist, Jaime supposed. Not as loud or forward as Strong Boar, not as fawning as Melara Heatherspoon and not near as sweet as Cersei, yet Lyanna had her own conversational talents. She was quite brusk, something Jaime was not used to for the women he had met, and something he preferred. For all of Cersei's positives, she had a habit of assuming she was the smartest person in every room, and that if she said enough words quickly enough, you would agree to whatever she said. The thought of Cersei made Jaime stop speaking for a moment. Her face is too long, her hair too dark and eyes to cold, and yet...

Jaime took a sip of the wine. Lyanna was engrossing, and when it became clear that the two of them would be speaking for an extended period of time, Jaime had made himself more comfortable, including pouring wine. Rhaegar had specifically refused Lyanna being given any wine in what Jaime guessed was a misguided attempt to reduce the chance of a miscarriage, yet as Lyanna eloquently put it, "Fuck that bastard," and so he did as he was commanded to. And here they were, drinking the sweet earthy taste.

"So, m'lord," Lyanna said, her speech slightly slurred, "You said that Dayne stopped the whole bloody duel so that smiling arsehole could grab a new sword, instead of lopping off his head, right there?" Jaime rewarded Lyanna with a deep thumping laugh. "I do suppose that it was... not the shmartest posshible plan, but it was an honorable one."

Lyanna leaned up in her bed, her silver eyes regarding his green carefully, "What kind of honorable knight doesn't kill the monster the first chance he gets?"

The question had not surprised Jaime. He himself had considered it at the time. The Smiling Knight in the Kingswood Brotherhood was infamously cruel and bloody, leading a swath of crimson wherever he went. Jaime would have killed the Knight once his sword had been so chinked he could barely swing it, yet Dayne had explained afterward. Jaime repeated those words back to Lyanna, "It would be greatly dishonorable to kill a man without a fight," Jaime spoke slowly, attempting to limit the slur from his voice. 

Lyanna seemed quiet, before taking a draft of her wine, "Do you think my brother and father were given a fair fight?" Jaime was, for once in his life, without words. "Rhaegar had only told me that they were... were dead. He... never said how or why," Lyanna's voice wavered, thick with sadness and world-weary grief as tears silently streaked her cheek. "I... I do not know." Jaime said. The conversation had shifted, and Jaime decided that now would be a good time to return to his post. 

"Ser Jaime?" Lyanna called before he had made it three paces from her bed. "Will you stay with me? Please?" 

Jaime looked at her. A sad, tortured girl, barely flowered yet raped like a whore and abandoned in the desert in near isolation. She was a pitiful thing, and Jaime could not stop himself. "I will, my lady." He took off his breastplate before joining Lyanna on the right side of her bed. It didn't feel right to Jaime. Lyanna was not Cersei, and Jaime was not Rhaegar. And yet...

"Gallant Knights protect innocent women in the tales, do they not?" Lyanna asked quietly. Jaime gave a slow nod, thinking in his head what that could possibly lead to. "Then promise me, Ser Jaime, that you'll protect me. And if by some cursed luck I am pregnant with Rhaegar's child, you'll protect the child too. Promise me, Jaime."

"I promise," Jaime said. He stood, quickly to open the window before he blew out the candle on the dresser. When Jaime turned back around, she was sleep. He kissed her on the cheek and got on top of the covers.

She is not Cersei. She does not know you, and she does not love you. And yet... 

Chapter Text

On the fifth night of their ritual, Wylla had made a joke about how little Jaime is in his own room, she should take it. Jaime, Lyanna and her all laughed at the joke, yet later found Jaime moving his own few possessions up the tower steps, to Lyanna. 

They talked of many things, very few of which seemed genuinely important, but they talked all the same. About horses, Jaime preferring blood bay corsairs and Lyanna's preference to gelded destriers, and even the rudiments of armor. For a girl who never wore plate, she seemed to know an awful lot about armor and jousting.

It took them two weeks to talk about the elephant in the room. The Tourney of Harrenhall. Jaime remembered it bitterly, "Lyanna, it was to be the crowning moment of my life, the youngest man to ever join the Kingsguard, but do you want to know the weird part? I don't even remember the vows. I don't remember who was sitting there in the crowd. None of it. And then it turns out the king was mad and the prince a stoic entitled arsehole who gives the most beautiful prize to a woman who isn't his wife, yet Rhaegar's the one remembered there. Not for his honor, or skill with a blade, but because of his one split-second decision," Jaime had stopped to take a small swig of wine, "Do you know why he gave you the laurel?"

"Aye, I do," Lyanna looked shaken, and Jaime internally scolded himself for bringing the memories of Lyanna's rapist back to the forefront. "Do you recall the Knight of the Laughing Tree? Who defeated a knight from Haigh, Blunt, and Frey?" Jaime nodded. Like everyone who had been to the tourney, he had seen the laughing tree on the shield of the mystery knight. "No one knows why he did what he did. But I know. One of my father's bannermen, a Reed from the crannogs, was being beaten by three older squires. A squire from Haigh, Blunt, and Frey. I came at those boys on a palfrey with a broom handle. You'd think it was a sword, the way they ran off." Jaime chuckled at that. He had known a Frey once, a vile bully of a boy who was given a concussion in the Kingswood. Lyanna continued, "So that night my brother said it would be a good idea if someone jousted for the boy's honor, to make the knights punish the squires. They laughed about it, no one expecting that it would actually happen. And then I did."

Jaime did not meet Aerys for any extended length of time, but he did remember the madness in him and his hatred of the Mystery Knight. "You're lucky he never caught you," Jaime said as a form of response. Jaime was somewhat dumbfounded if he was being honest. The infamous secret knight was none other than the Queen of Love and Beauty. Lyanna had given him a sad smile then, "You're wrong, Jaime, I'm not lucky. Because Rhaegar found me. And that's... that's what started this," she gestured around the tower, "And I'm all the worse for it."

They were silent for a moment.

"Jaime," she said quietly, almost a whisper. "I don't want to die only knowing one vile, evil person. I don't want to have Rhaegar's child. I truly don't."

 "I'm sorry," he said, his voice low and silent, "I'm so sorry for you."

Silence for a moment.

"Jaime?"

"Yes?"

"You are sweet and polite, honest and brave. All of my life I have been told to love men otherwise. A whore and warmonger, a cheater and a rapist. I want to love someone good. Someone who can love me back."

She is not Cersei, a voice in the back of his mind whispered, and yet... another responded. Cersei has known other men, I can know other women. "Are you sure, my lady?"

"I am, ser."

For once, the Tower of Joy was filled with joy.

Jaime looked at himself in the mirror. He hadn't shaved in a fortnight, at Lyanna's request, and already his stubble seemed as golden and bright as his hair. Jaime personally found it annoyingly itchy, but Lyanna liked it. Jaime chuckled to himself in the pre-dawn light. He had spent years doing everything Cersei said, doing what Cersei liked, even when he was at Crakehall, he always kept himself shaved for her. But Jaime had changed that. For her. For Lyanna. 

He looked at her, laying on their bed, her arms grasped tightly around the pillow he had placed in his spot. 

He closed the curtains and shutters in their room and climbed back into their bed. And he slept, soundly and warm.

Chapter Text

Rhaegar had made several specific commands; No riding away from the tower, No alcohol, No letters to other castles, etc. But Jaime had reasoned that sleeping with the Crown Prince's "wife" was already a large enough of breakage that the others did not matter. Besides, Lyanna had always talked about the horseback riding her and her older brother, Brandon, had done in Lyanna's youth. So Jaime had ordered Haldon, the maester in the tower, to send a letter to High Hermitage, ordering a horse and enough wine to drown a small party of men. Lyanna and Jaime had drunk the wine they had in the tower. It had been prepared for three months, yet here they were, 4 months later, with no alcohol. 

"Ya wanna know something about Rhaegar?" Jaime had said in an overdrawn western accent. Lyanna smirked. She had made the joke, after all. It had begun with an offhanded jape to Lyanna about how she must have truly been a wolf, with how her Northern Accent made it sound like a growl when she moaned at night. And Lyanna had responded that Jaime's western accent made him sound like a bumpkin. And, since then, whenever they made a jape, they used a ridiculously overextended accent. Although Lyanna often had often cheated, slipping in words in that garbled Old Tongue of hers. "Rhaegar is the second largest bore I know."

"Ist das so? Was ist the groß 'bore?'" Lyanna asked, her voice more akin to crumbling stone then the common tongue.

"It is only due to Strongboar being over 6 feet tall."

The two of them laughed. It wasn't a particularly creative joke, Jaime knew. He never would have said a joke like that with Cersei, she was always one to point out flaws to make her seem superior. But Lyanna wasn't like that, she enjoyed jokes, even the stupid ones. Their laughter echoed in the small valley, within two miles of the Tower. It was a good day, the sun was setting, the Red Mountains being capped by the red light from the setting sun. Their horse's where the swift Dornish sand steeds were smaller than both Jaime and Lyanna were used to, but they could canter for hours without a minor of lathering. 

"My knight?"

"Yes, my lady?"

"How about a race? To our Tower?"

"My lady, there is no point in competition without love or stakes. Which will it be?"

"Why not both? When I win, which I will, I shall select an Arbor Gold, while you below ready our horses for the evening."

"Already then, my lady. On my mark, prepare, and- Oh you bloody She-Wolf!" Jaime yelled to Lyanna's dust, her horse already speeding away.

And so Jaime had to take the saddle off the horses and walked up the stairs. He opened the door, finding her lying on their bed naked and asleep. He blew out the candle and placed a blanket over her. And so they both fell asleep.

Jaime awoke before the light of the sun had broken to Lyanna poking him angrily in the stomach. "Stop tickling me, Jaime, and stop pretending to be asleep. I know you're awake."

Jaime leaned up slowly, rubbing the sleep out of his eye, "Lyanna, why are you waking me up now? Do you know how early it is? Because I sure as all seven hells don't. Why'd you wake me?"

The gloom covered most of Lyanna's face, but Jaime could clearly see the confusion on her face. Her eyes moved around as if she was analyzing a battle map, connecting details she had never seen in this light before. Her expression was shock, joy, and fear all at once. "Oh no."

"What?" Jaime said, feeling stupid as he said it.

"My moon blood. Haven't you noticed it hasn't come yet? And then a tickling in my stomach at night."

Jaime smiled. When he put on the cloak, he gave up all dreams of holding his own children in his hands. And yet... "Well," Jaime said in his obnoxious accent, "Now we know why you can't drink any of that wine."

Lyanna and he both laughed, their voices echoing off the wall. 

Chapter Text

Haldon and Jaime were in the room that had once been Jaime's. Lyanna and Jaime had tried to keep the pregnancy secret for as long as they could, but once Lyanna started showing, Jaime had no choice but to tell him. Haldon was, after all, their maester, and he was clever enough to know that Lyanna hadn't been pregnant when Rhaegar left five months ago. Everyone in the tower knew about Lyanna and Jaime, it was difficult not to, but for their own reasons, they had kept the affair out of their sight. Wylla was dornish, so she didn't care who slept with who, while Haldon was sworn to the Tower of Joy, not Rhaegar or House Targaryen. 

"It's not safe," Haldon said, a slight wavering undermining his calm demeanor, "If Rhaegar wins, he'll find you impregnated Lyanna and broke your oath to him. If Robert wins, he'ss accuse you of raping and kidnapping Lady Lyanna. Once this babe is born, I would say we should leave" Jaime did not miss that Haldon had said "we," not "you." Haldon, that bastard, was trying to save his own skin just as much as he was trying to save Jaime's. Jaime decided to take the rest of the man's words highly salted,

"And do what?" Jaime asked incredulously, "Move to the Reach and open a Vineyard? Become a wandering sellsword? Run a damned pole boat? I can't leave. There is nowhere safe for Lyanna and I. At least here we are comfortable, and we can watch the sun rise and set over the mountains of Dorne."

The maester looked at the map before him, showing all of Westeros, the northernmost of the Summer Isles and Essos. His eyes kept squinting and his hand was moving along the map like an arrow. They stood there like that for a long while, with Jaime's foot tapping in boredom while the Maester's chain rustled on the desk before Haldon finally said "North, through Essos," as if it was the most logical thing in the world. "Every Westerosi looks the same to them, so no one could report you to the war's winner. If you got here," the maester pointed to two red splotches, separated by what must have been a river, "up the Rhoyn to Norvos, you could join a caravan to Braavos," the maester pointed to a black mark between a jaggier landscape, before pointing to the northwesternmost point of Essos, "then hire a ship to White Harbor before finishing at Winterfell. That way you would avoid the Royal and Vale fleets completely. There is the threat of Pirates in the Stepstones, but if we hire a Swan Ship, we could-"

Jaime cut him off not unkindly, "Why would we go North?"

"Well, they are far nicer to their bastards there. Maege Mormont has three daughters and no husband, yet they all carry the Mormont name, same as your bastard could in the North. I assume you didn't marry Lyanna before you too produced your bastard."

Bastard. Something about that word felt like a knife twisting in his stomach. Jaime didn't know what he was doing until he had already done it. He lifted his left hand to snatch at the chain around Haldon's neck, twisting the metal and the man in Jaime's grasp. Haldon let out an almost pitiful screech, a horse bleeding before Jaime brought the goblet he had been drinking from hard on the man's copper link.

I shouldn't be doing this, Jaime thought as the goblet's fulcrum made the first contact, a shudder ringing throughout the room. The child is a bastard, why should I care if he says this? Another bang, almost a crack as the chain seemed to gouge. I am an oathbreaker, and a father to a bastard as well; I have no right to anger, and yet... The third strike gouged enough of the soft material that Jaime was able to bend the round ring out of shape. The loose cord of many linked metals fell to the floor, no longer attached. "Never call him a bastard," Jaime said, his hands clenched menacingly, "You are not fit to be a maester, speaking about Lyanna like that. As if you didn't serve the man who raped her."

Haldon had seemed to shrink when the chain had been broken, looking more like a whipped dog then the smooth-talking young man he had been. He seemed almost pitiful, and Jaime almost felt pity. Almost. "You are half a man, Haldon."

"Not half a man, Ser. A half Maester."

Haldon left the room, his eyes wet with shame and embarrassment.

Not even a moon and a half later, Haldon had come to Jaime with news from the war. Lord Robert Baratheon was now styling himself as King Robert Baratheon, after his victory over the Lord Hand, Jon Connington.

Something was going to happen in the war, Jaime knew it. His Father had not risen from the Rock, it had seemed, but it was only a matter of time till he did. And then, for better or for worse, the war was going to end before the year did.

Chapter Text

He had delivered the letter to Rhaegar himself. He himself had not opened it, but judging by the calligraphy, it was Dornish. Arthur had considered it could have been the death of Elia, but if that was the case then the letter would go to Lewyn, and the Dornish Troops would have already left the field. No, it couldn't be Elia, that much was clear.

The second thought Ser Arthur had was Lyanna's death or some dornish lordling finding her in her tower. Sunspear was furious about the kidnapping of Lyanna and the disrespecting of Elia, and if Lyanna had been found... Arthur did not want to consider what could have happened to the girl. She was young and clearly impressionable, and Arthur was sure that if Rhaegar would have asked her, she would have jumped into the sea, and it was cruel to treat her like Rhaegar had. That much was clear.

"Do you know what this letter says?" Rhaegar said after a beat of silence. He had always been an intelligent man.

"No, your grace."

"It's from Dorne, if you couldn't tell," Rhaegar began, his face flat and unreadable, "from High Hermitage. Your relatives, correct?" Arthur nodded, "I thought so. Glad to see they are still loyal to us." Arthur heard the slight buried in the phrase but chose to ignore it. Ser Gerold Hightower had once joked that the Kingsguard shouldn't get white cloaks, but white beeswax to block their ears. Rhaegar continued, "Haldon had ordered horses and wine from High Hermitages. The castellan there did as he was bid, before also sending a scout to watch the tower. Where he saw Lyanna and Jaime riding over a mile from the tower."

"And?" Arthur was not scared that the castellan would inform Sunspear of Lyanna's location, he was Arthur's own kin, but the Eunuch had sent out his webs to cover the whole of the south. As far as anyone knew, that was the one thing in the world Varys did not know. No one knew where Lyanna was. No one except for those who retrieved her, and Arthur did not forget why he had done it. He and the other Knights of the Kingsguard had been told that Lyanna was the Knight of the Laughing Tree and that Aerys wanted her dead, which was true, and that he was sending men to arrest and try her, which was also true. Arthur had not, however, agreed to kidnap the poor girl, and seeing as how Rhaegar assumed that issue with Aerys wanting to burn Rhaegar's new fling alive would just blow over, she wasn't safe.

"She's pregnant, Arthur."

"That's fantastic, your grace."

"And the scout also saw the two of them share a kiss."

"Oh."

"Yes, Arthur," Rhaegar's face was tight and thin, "Oh. I started a war for this girl, and yet, she is not faithful."

"You also raped her, Rhaegar."

Arthur had not meant for his words to get out and regretted them immediately. But it was true. He had. "You will lead the Vanguard well tomorrow," Rhaegar said, leaving the small tent.

Chapter Text

Jaime's finger lightly brushed the curve of Lyanna's stomach, feeling the child's movement underneath his warm hand. "So," Jaime asked, "how about Joanna for a girl? It's my mother's name, it's got the Lannister J and sounds northern enough, doesn't it?" 'Would the child be raised southern or northern?' had been an important conversation for the two of them, which is why Jaime had put the details of contention off. Jaime himself had not cared much for the Seven in his life, so he was fine with the Old Gods reigning over the babe's life, but he had also insisted that the child be knighted if it was a boy. That, along with the first name of the child, was the thing they had avoided the most. But seeing as how Haldon said the child would be born within the moon, Jaime figured that an exhausted Lyanna would be the best time to press his luck.

"What if it's a boy, hmm?"

"Just remove the As and an N, Jon. That's a northern name, right?"

"It certainly is. Can I go to sleep now?"

"Sure, just give me a moment. Wylla! Come up here!" Jaime heard the steps quickly up the stairs, "I want you as a witness. Joanna if it's a girl, Jon if it's a boy. Write it down!"

"Yes, Ser!" Wylla said, seeming genuinely pleased that someone thought she was important. 

"Jaime?"

"Yes, my lady?"

"I'm going to sleep now."

"Good night, Lyanna."

"Goodnight, Jaime."

He sat there in silence for a moment, stroking her hair, the shock not having worn off yet, I am a father. It was a simple Joy, but it was joy. 

The Tree was cold, somehow. The whitebark was almost blinding, except for the red holes in the tree, creating a face. Yet, when Lyanna and Jaime touched it, the bloody amber and bleached bark was freezing. 

Haldon's words had touched him. He didn't want the child to be a bastard, and Jaime would rather be an oath breaker then ruin his child's life. He had met bastards in his time. They were abused, sullen and lonely children, with only an option to be a member of the Night's Watch, Maesters or Septons. 

Jaime wanted the child to be legitimate. A Lannister and Stark child has more power than a bastard. And so, Jaime and Lyanna were wed under the gaze of a Weirwood. He would do anything for the child, even break his oath. "Father no children."

Oops

Chapter Text

Jaime had seen terrible things in his life. He wasn't even 15 when he killed his first man, fighting the Kingswood Brotherhood. Then, he crossed blades with one of the most infamous mass killers in Westeros, the Smiling Knight. After that, he was forced to stand guard while Aerys raped and ruined Rhaella, and later fighting against the King's men to save Lyanna, only for Rhaegar end up kidnapping her.

But none of that compared to this.

It was early one morning when Lyanna began labor. Since that moment, almost twelve hours ago, he had done one thing.

Plant himself like a tree, and clutch her hand like it was the one thing he could do to live.

Haldon had mentioned how her hips weren't wide enough, and that there was a chance for her injury or death, especially with Lannisters being so tall and Lyanna's mother dying in childbirth. Since he heard those words, his knuckles matched his white teeth. Jaime had heard the death rattles of boys and men, but Lyanna's cries of pain whenever she pushed broke Jaime. It was odd, he mused, he had never wanted to be both so far away yet so close.

He hated feeling like he was useless. Wylla and Haldon had done everything they possibly could have wanted to. They had Milk-of-the-Poppy and Dream Wine, Sterilized equipment and a heavy cleaning liquor, fresh water and lemons, which supposedly helped in pregnancy if the Rhoynish were to be believed. The only thing Jaime could do was stand there. Just like he did in King's Landing. And it made him sick.

But then Lyanna looked at him with her sweet, grey eyes. Full of love and trust and pain in equal measure. And Jaime remembered that he wasn't there for himself, or some half mad man he never knew, but for her. And for their child.

It was near the full day, when Lyanna's gasps and wails finally ended and were taken up by a small, high pitched choir from the small, red child in Haldon's arms. Already it was being washed and cleaned and swaddled. Wylla had the less enjoyable task of disposing of the Placenta. 

But Jaime had a far more important job.

He let go of Lyanna's hand and drew himself into a hug. And he froze.

He could not feel a pulse.

Jaime didn't remember what happened next. Only that the baby in swaddling was thrust into his arms, and he was forced to leave the room. He went to the top of the tower, and sat, softly cooing to the warm bundle in his arms. He could have sat there for days and nights and he wouldn't have noticed. Jaime had built his life on pillars. His Father, cold, rigid, and trusted. Cersei, warm, loving, and familiar. Tyrion, jesting, foolish wit. Jaime had always thought that those were the only pillars he needed.

But Lyanna was one of those pillars now. And he felt like it had just collapsed.

Wylla eventually came to him. Her arms covered in crimson up to the shoulders. Whether she had been like that before, or always, Jaime could not say. He only stared at her face. And then he saw a smile on them.

"She's safe?"

"She is."

Jaime had never been so happy in his life. The little bundle in his arms cooed when he felt Jaime's excitement. "Come on little fella," Jaime said, smiling at his son, Jon Lannister, rightful Lord to the Westerlands, Son of Winter, Blood of Lions and Wolves.

Chapter Text

"He has your ears," Lyanna said, pointing at the ears in question, "and your jaw," she added, stroking Jon's jaw, making him giggle, "and the cheekbones too." With that, she poked the baby's cheek, enticing a giggle from the little bundle. Despite only being two months old, Jon was constantly vocal. Whenever you cooed at him, he'd laugh. Whenever you ignored him, he would call out. And whenever he was hungry, he would cry. All and all, Jaime thought the little bugger was very endearing. He responded equally well to both Jaime and Lyanna, which Wylla told him was rare. 

"But," Jaime said, "He has your long face, nose, and chin." Jaime wasn't entirely sure if that was true or not, in regard to the baby so young and squishy, but he figured that the face length and nose weren't going to change too much. 

"His eyes, though, are emeralds," Lyanna rubbed around the eye of Jon.

"But they're grey and cold, like a Stark of Winterfell," Jaime took Lyanna's cheek and positioned her head so he could see into those eyes, "those beautiful grey eyes."

"I love you, Jaime."

"I love you, Lyanna"

And they kissed. Jaime himself was looking to go a bit further and was already unlacing his pants when Jon started loudly gurgling. Lyanna broke off the kiss and went over to Jon's crib, before picking him up. "Now I know how Robert feels, having my woman taken from me by some man they've barely meant," Jaime spoke in an overly dramatic western voice.

"Jaime, I love you. But shut up, please," Lyanna cooed, "Besides, I knew this little guy for nine months. Now, come over here and hold our son while I get something to drink." Jaime did as he was commanded.

Jaime figured this was how peasants lived their lives. Peaceful days and nights with a bundle of joy, broken up by three meals a day and a helpfully large amount of wine. Of course, Jaime had never spoken to a peasant at length before, so that most likely wasn't the case, but he was happy enough regardless. It didn't matter to him what other people had, because he had something good. And so did Lyanna, Jaime thought. And so would Jon, as long as either Jaime or Lyanna drew breath, that boy would have anything he could ever need. 

Jaime's happy musings were ruined when a disheveled Haldon barged through the door. Out of all of Jaime's decisions, he regretted breaking Haldon's chain the most. Before, Haldon's coming was always announced by an annoying amount of clacking and clinking, giving Jaime enough time to brace for the blunt, uninteresting slowness of Haldon's words, whereas now, Haldon was upon them before anyone knew he was still alive. Of course, Haldon was also their only window into the outside world, so Jaime considered himself lucky that he wasn't stuck with a maester as dull as Pycelle.

"Ser, My Lady, I have news," Haldon paused for what Jaime only assumed was supposed to be a dramatic effect, "of the war." He stood there like he had just dropped wildfire and was waiting for everyone to gasp, as if 'news of the war' was his main job. Lyanna cut through the waste, "And?"

"Rhaegar is dead."

"Oh."

"Robert has won the war, and he's marching south now. For either King's Landing or Storm's End, or..." Haldon let the ending hang in the air. Everyone in the tower knew what Haldon was refering to. He had even warned them about it. But it had never seemed like a close possibility that either Rhaegar or Robert would come to the Tower. But now, it wasn't a possibility, but an inevitable guarantee. 

"We need to leave. Lyanna, can you ride?"

Chapter Text

The seven of them had crossed through Prince's Pass less than six hours past when Theo Wull announced that he saw the tower. The company, who had been riding in various stages of undress due to the Dornish summer heat, had to stop to equip properly for battle. Ethan Glover had told him that when Rhaegar departed the Red keep to the Tower of Joy, he had explained his actions and future plans to the boy. That Lyanna went willingly with Rhaegar, and that Rhaegar had sent men to protect her. Seeing as how Jaime Lannister was the only kingsguard knight unaccounted for, Ned assumed that Jaime Lannister and some attachment of guards were left guarding the tower.

Ned was wrong, for the first time in a long series of errors.

Suspiciously, the tower was small. Even the abandoned towers in Winterfell were large in comparison to this tower. Not only that, it seemed no guards had been set. Even though the fighting was thousands of miles away, an unpatrolled keep might as well not even be guarded. And third, the door to the keep was left wide open. 

Ned and his band dismounted, donning their helmets. The tight quarters of a tower's spiral staircase meant that the men all had to ditch their weapons of halberds, axes, and mauls for their shorter messers and arming blades. Ned took the point, followed by Mark Ryswell and Willam Dustin, with the rest of their party forming behind. Solemnly and silently they entered the lowest room, bare except for the broken pottery in the corners, which could have only been the remnants of a Maester's jars of oils and salves. That and the empty cage covered with raven droppings meant this was most likely the Maester's room.

The next room up was similarly vacant and smaller than the one below. This room contained a single bed and a dividing wall, which housed a modest kitchen, again, empty of all herbs, spices, and foods and three casks of wine, two of which were empty. The wine marks on the floor and the noticeable grooves in the rushes made it clear that someone had dragged out another wine cask, most likely when they left the tower.

The room above was, shocking no one, empty of almost all worldly possessions save three empty beds, two of which looked as though they had never been used. In addition, the scraps of wood on the floor, as well as the torn curtain and missing bedsheets seemed to suggest that someone had done some crafting to create a cart? Eddard wasn't sure, but Howland, who was good with his hands and had worked with the common folk, said he recognized the wood shavings in the corner to have come from filing wood into a round wheel. So the small hanza had agreed that they had made a cart. Ned personally found the debate a waste of time, but the boys were both stressed and anxious, and Eddard was doing everything he could to delay the inevitable. 

Lyanna would have sent a raven if she could, and the fact that she didn't cause him great concern. All in all, Eddard was afraid he would find her corpse in the room above. And yet, the men had come here for Lyanna, if only her bones were left, they would take those back home, to the North. The room above was empty. Candlesticks, goblets, any piece of finery was gone. The bed was empty as well, it's linen sheets seemingly disheveled as though two people had used them recently. 

But the room had three letters.

Two were in the thin, tall handwriting of Lyanna, marked "Ned" and "Robert" while the other was marked in a sloppy, flowing writing that looked as though it could have been little more than a scribble. Eddard could only make out a 'C' at the start and an 'I" at the end. Eddard used his saex to open the letter addressed to him

Dearest Ned,

Robert was a whoremonger and Rhaegar, for all of his promises, was worse. But I have found something in this tower. I found Jaime. Robert started a war for me, Ned, if he learns I was in someone else's marriage bed willingly, he would fall into a rage. I'm coming North soon, but I had to go a roundabout way. I couldn't let Robert get his hands on Jon or Jaime. I hope you forgive me, Ned. 

Warmest Regards,

Lyanna Stark of Winterfell.

The letter was marked with a grey Direwolf seal and Lyanna's handwriting was impossible to forge. The letter confirmed what Ethan had said, but the letter also raised new questions. What could Rhaegar have done to Lyanna for her to hate him so? Why did Lyanna fall for Jaime? And above all else, who in the seven hells was Jon?

Chapter Text

Cersei had arrived in the capital almost three months past after they got the fire under control. Most of Maegor's, the White Tower and the rest of the inner-east section of the Red Keep had gone up in emerald flames the day King's Landing fell to Cersei's father, and it took them almost a week to finally put them out. After that, Cersei had been placed in her wheelhouse and sent East.

But Cersei didn't care about any of that. No, she cared about Jaime. And Jaime was missing.

The second Lord Tywin had reappeared in King's Landing, he went about reforging old friends. He checked on Pycelle, ordered ornate steel from a qohorik blacksmith, ordered a ship from a master carpenter, and gave Varys a thousand or so gold dragons to get his web looking for Jaime. And yet, despite everything Lord Tywin did, there was no news of Jaime.

Rumors, of course, had been in no short supply. Some say he fled with Rhaegar's son, despite Rhaegar's son being paste against a wall, or that he had fallen in love with Ashara Dayne and threw himself into the sea when she did, or that he was killed at the Battle of the Bells, or he got a chill in the Prince's Pass. Cersei found all of these preposterous, Jaime can't die. He wouldn't die. Not without me, she told herself. But that left her with three unsavory possibilities. That he was captured by an unknown third party who had made no demands or calls for gold, or he was dead, or worst of all, he had betrayed her. No, he wouldn't. He couldn't but...

Jaime had always been a terrific warrior. No one short of a legend could kill him, of that she was certain. Yet all the remaining legends were accounted for, and none of them claimed to have killed Ser Jaime Lannister. These questions frustrated her to no end.

Until Eddard Stark arrived one afternoon with a letter addressed to her.

It was Jaime's hand, of that there was no doubt. He had always been skilled with gross hand movements, but the finer prints always seemed off when it came to spacing and sureness. Not even the greatest thief could copy Jaime Lannister's terrible handwriting. The words on the paper were near illegible, but that was Jaime's style. No, the thing that made it most difficult to read was the message, that he had married and produced a legitimate child with someone, and was going on a hiatus for his, his child's, and his wife's safety. Reading the words had felt like a bunch from a mailed hand, sending pain crashing throughout her body. Jaime hadn't died or been captured, he had abandoned her for some slut. And she was furious.

Eddard had his squire, a Glove, or something of the sort, to put the letter in her chambers in the Maidenvault. Although the name seemed to have lost its value, as his grace Robert Baratheon had moved into the tower while Maegor's was being restored. Cersei wished Eddard had been present when she had read the letter so that she could have someone to place her blame onto, yet Lord Eddard had left shortly after visiting Robert's chambers in person. The chambers directly below Cersei's, which was creating a large booming sound. Cersei was intrigued and went to investigate.

Cersei Lannister was never one for knocking, and so she simply entered the room. The rushes, which had been haphazardly thrown in a corner seemed to be in need of replacing, as did most of the shelves and furniture in the room. Of course, the smell of the rushes had been somewhat diminished by the burning parchment to Cersei's left. "So that's the cause of this raucous," Cersei said to no one in particular.

At that moment she noticed something, or more specifically, a lack of something. She hadn't noticed it when there was the banging, but like a tooth when it is loosed, it's absences is near insanity causing. Cersei had heard a low, drawn out sob under the sound of smashing furniture. A sob which had ended when she had spoken. She bit her lip in regret, eyes narrowing in consideration. Robert? Crying? The Demon of the Trident wouldn't cry over a letter, would he? The massive hulk of a dresser in the corner cast a long shadow, a shadow which uprooted it's self when Cersei spoke. Pitch black hair with electric blue eyes rimmed in red. The six and a half foot giant wore a fine linen shirt in the gold of his house, embroidered with the Stag of his house in jet, tight across his massive chest and arms. His close-cropped beard barely covering his strong jaw and massively muscled neck. "My Lady," he said, his voice sounding like thunder echoing off of the stones of Casterly Rock, "I didn't know you were there. Come, have a drink with me," he gestured towards the surviving table, covered in the ashes of a burned parchment, and at the wine chalice placed on it.

Cersei slowly closed the difference, grabbed herself and her husband-to-be a goblet before she poured them both classes. In her right hand, she hoisted up her skirts and jumped onto his bed. It seems I must find another warrior to protect my honor if Jaime can't. Oh how that will drive him mad. "How could a parchment drive a king so mad?" she purred, gesturing to the table. 

Robert looked almost broken when he grabbed his goblet and joined her beside the bed. he looked as though he would cry again, but instead, he asked: "Do you know why I started that damned war?"

Before Cersei could consider she spoke, "Because Aerys wanted yours and Eddard Stark's heads after he horrifically murdered the Stark Scions?" No, stupid Cersei! she internally cried. From all she knew, Robert was driven by his emotions and thoughts of romance, not practicality. I must remember, I am no longer the only predator. I must do and think what Tywin would do or think.

"Oh, that was only the flame-arrow which lit the blaze. No, the real cause, the spark that started this whole damn mess was Lyanna.  She... she was," Robert's voice was wavery, and he stopped to steel it before continuing, "She ran off with Rhaegar, and he raped her like an animal, and I started a war to free her. I thought the worst case was that she would die but I was wrong. No, there was an even worse option, told to me by that damn parchment. She found someone else."

Oh was all Cersei would think. Pieces to an overly complex puzzle began to fall into place. Jaime had been sent south with the Kingsguard and never came north or that was clear, yet somehow, Eddard Stark was able to find a letter from Jaime in what must have been the same place as he found a letter from Lyanna. Both letters telling of how they had both found love and runoff. Cersei didn't want to play her hand, and it seemed like Robert wasn't finished talking. 

"All my life, I've had men to love. I had Jon Arryn, who I loved as a father. Donal Noye, the blacksmith of Storm's End, which forged my hammer. Ned, who I was closer to than any other. Ser Courtney Penrose taught me arms, and even Stannis I love the same with Dawn loves dusk," He stopped to take a deep swallow of wine, his impossibly large hand almost surrounding the entire goblet. "But women? I haven't had a woman truly love me since my mother died." 

It seemed to Cersei that there was more they had in common than she originally thought. She had always had bed maids, but Melara Heatherspoon and the others had been empty-headed fools, all of whom had seemed like a torch compared to the sun that was Joanna Lannister. Cersei had always been loved, from a distance, but no one had ever loved her for her, not just her beauty, but for her personality. Except for Jaime, but even Jaime had left her. She was alone.

"So I turned to whores," Robert continued, "to feel loved. But I could never tell what they loved. I never knew if they loved my name, my reputation or my gold. It was always a constant question of whores love. But then, I had hoped that Lyanna would be different, that with her I would find something with a woman. Something with value. But that," he spat, "that damned letter showed me how wrong I was. She didn't love me. Not my gold, my name or reputation. In fact," Robert began to laugh, a laugh strained with sadness, cracking with sorrow, "My reputation seemed to work against me. Did you know I have a bastard in the Vale? According to that damn letter, Lyanna wrote, everyone knows. Everyone knows I've stuck my cock in more women than I've stuck my hammer in men. She, she said I would never stay faithful, and so she left me."

"Then prove her wrong."

"What?" Robert looked up, his face mixed with confusion.

"Prove to her you can be faithful. That you can be a good husband, by being one to me," Cersei eyed Robert to see his reaction, "we are to be wed, regardless. We might as well spite them as well." She hadn't meant to say 'them.' She cursed the stupid wine.

"Cersei, you know nothing of abandonment."

It was Cersei's turn to monologue. "We are more alike than you think, Stag. My brother and I, we... we're two parts of a whole. We've always been together. Hell, Jaime joined the Kingsguard to be with me," Cersei again cursed the wine. It was far stronger than she knew, yet she was too far to stop now, "we had always promised we'd stay with each other but... but he's left me. Alone."

She hadn't felt the sob rising until it finally came. The tears streaked her kohl and ringed her eyes with smudged black makeup. She wasn't sure what she had expected, but a hug wasn't it. Yet Robert Baratheon gave her a hug none the less. His massive arms surrounded her, and he seemed to effortlessly lift her up. He carried her up the stairs as if he was carrying a baby like she weighed nothing at all. The Maidenvault was in silence, save for the occasional sniffle, although who's sniffle remained obscured to them Robert placed her down on her bed softly and almost delicately before he turned to leave. 

"Than we will love for spite."

"So we shall," Cersei replied, already drifting off to sleep. Alone, together.

Chapter Text

After being becalmed for four days within eyeshot of Tyrosh, and then being tugged by a massive Pentoshi galley for the next two days, Jaime Lannister was sick of ships, and even more sick of Tyrosh, a city he had not even been to yet.

Lyanna, Haldon and himself had also survived the journey without feeling the slightest bit ill. Wylla, however, had taken to life on the open waves like Wildfire to a field. Amusing for everyone at a distance, not very fun for anyone nearby. Lyanna, being burdened by the child and Jaime refusing to soil the last remaining kingsguard cloak left Haldon, and Haldon alone, to deal with Wylla's illness.

Of the Summer Islanders, very little negative things could be said of them. They all spoke the common tongue well enough for japes and jests, and their open disposition when it came to matters of sex, was hilarious for Jaime. Not so much due to their nudity or openness, but because of Haldon's reactions. It seemed that whorehouses weren't as commonly visited by maesters as his cousin Theormore claimed. 

But all the feathered capes and open love could make up for the sheer boredom Jaime felt in a Swan Ship with no wind. 

Their captain, a large bulky man with the personality of a drunk mummer, told them that the Archon of Tyrosh wouldn't send any ship to tow them, due to the risk of Lysenni spies, Jaime was close to drowning himself in wine. A gurgle from Jon changed that, though.

Eventually, a ninety oared trader pulled upon them, and after much debate between the two captains in the disgusting blend of words called 'Trade Talk,' it was decided that the galley would, in fact, pull them the rest of the way to Tyrosh. At the cost, Jaime did not know, but seeing the pentoshi lear at Lyanna and Wylla, Jaime made sure that they had left the boat the second they were within jumping distance of the warf. 

Haldon proved useful, knowing enough High Valyrian to understand the mongrel 'tyroshi' tongue well enough to find two rooms overlooking the fountain of the Drunk God. And for once, Jaime and Lyanna were alone. Of course, they still had Jon with them, and Jaime wouldn't change that for all the gold of Casterly Rock, but it still meant they couldn't enjoy each other in a carnal sense. But they still enjoyed each other's conversational habits.

"So, Tyrosh? Never thought you'd show be here?" Jaime stroked Lyanna's neck when he said it, "Many, many leagues away from Winterfell."

"True enough," Lyanna nestled closer, laying her head across Jaime's chest, "but not much further than Dorne."

"Sure, maybe not further south, but Tyrosh is a good way further east. We are much, much further than the Red Mountains." Jaime replied.

Lyanna straightened herself and turned so she could look Jaime in the eyes. Anger or surprise was not the correct way to describe the look, but more of a mix of them both. She seemed almost like Cersei, shocked that she had been wrong about basic geography, "Jaime, I swear to the Seven. We aren't that far from Dorne! We can't have gone that far east!" Lyanna had raised her voice slightly, enough that Jon, who was snuggled tightly in Jaime's right arm began to start babbling in confusion. 

"Lyanna," Jaime tried to stay calm and keep the sharpness out of his voice, "You know Dorne is almost as long east-to-west as the North is south-to-north, right? And, how fast do you think boats go? Lyanna, we were at sea for near a month, how bloody slow do you think we were going?"

Lyanna looked abashed, her cheeks running flush with the revelation, "Well, you see, my maester was more worried about politics than maps, I suppose."

"No no no," Jaime said quickly before she could start her next point, "this part is basic map reading. Lyanna, have you ever seen a map of Westeros?"

She was silent for a bit, biting her lip, a telltale sign that she was thinking, "Once or twice, I suppose."

"Good gods!" Jaime shouted, fully waking Jon, who began to cry out. "Oh, damn it. Lyanna, can you please fix this? I don't have the nipples for it."

"Not unless you meet my conditions," Lyanna said, straightening herself up, folding her hands on her thighs so that she looked every bit a queen. Well, every bit save for the fact that she was completely naked. Jaime thought that kings would be far less feared if they were in the nude, and was about to share his lovely proposition with a laugh and a kiss when Lyanna spoke again, "I want your apologies for bullying me."

"Lya, if you think that was me bullying, you should see me with Merret Frey. But alas, our son's loud screaming is giving me quite the headache. So, my dear wife Lyanna, I am sorry." Lyanna made good on her vow and picked up their bundle, and pulled Jon to her breast. The child began to suck and stopped crying near instantly. 

Lyanna shifted onto her back, her head of Jaime's chest. Jaime moved his left hand to wrap around her, slightly cupping her right breast. Jaime inhaled deeply, smirking to see Lyanna's chestnut hair rising a half inch when he did so. "Jaime?"

"Hmm?"

"How are we going to go home?"

"I don't know Lyanna."

"I'm scared, Jaime."

"So am I. So let's enjoy what we can."

They sat in silence, with only the sounds of a foreign city coming in through the slightly opened windows to comfort them. 

Chapter Text

Lord Myles Toyne had once been told by Maelys the Monstrous that when there is a war in Westeros, the best place to be is Tyrosh and Pentos. If someone wanted to move from southern Westeros heading east, they need to pass Tyrosh. If you're from central Westeros, then Pentos is the first place you'll want to be. But the war's losers were all Southerners. Tyrell, Martell, Tarly, and Redwyne were all going to be heading towards Tyrosh, so Myles placed himself in their route. But what he hadn't thought of was seeing a Lannister and Stark walk into the Merchant's house. In other words, somehow a member of the winner's side found themselves exiled.

Well, he wasn't sure she was a Stark, at least at first, but he was a Lannister. He was tall, almost six and a half feet tall, and hair with such a high luster it was near blinding in its gold color. And that was when Myles began to connect dots. A Lannister young man and a Stark young woman, somehow in Tyrosh with enough gold to rent a higher room in the Merchant's House. Myles damned the groud stopping him from reaching the man. Lannisters would always be useful.

So, Myles spent half the night waiting for the golden-haired youth to come downstairs. Myles had sent some page to grab Lysono Maar, the company spymaster. He wanted to know who this Lannister was, and why he had left the west. And then, the pale lyseni gave him a titillating little secret. "Ser Jaime Lannister had abandoned his white cloak," his lilac eyes seemed to sparkle with malice, "and then Lyanna and Jaime were caught riding together. Some High Hermitage outrider saw the two, with a pregnant Lyanna approaching a Weirwood." His lips parted as he whispered the next line, causing Myles to lean closer so he could listen, "Rhaegar was wroth, it seems. The Daynes are not nearly as secretive as they wish. Half the Targaryen knights knew, but..." he grinned, "they're all dead." He laughed then.

"My gods Lysono, I know you have a reputation to keep as a terrifying puppet master, but can you stop that?" Myles sounded flabbergasted, which he was, "I mean, what's even the joke there? Do you think it's Ironic? My gods, you should bloody well stop that."

The red-haired Connington, a new recruit who raised in the ranks due to being a Hand of the King, laughed at that. Lysono, on the other hand, did not laugh, only folding his arms and nodding, before backtracking quickly into the corner. "This, Jon," Myles said, "Is why we need more Westerosi. We don't need anyone as queer as Lysono."

They drank the rest of the night away, waiting for a Lannister who didn't come. Instead, they talked. About the Golden Company, about war and strategy, and eventually Lord Tywin Lannister. And that was when the mood changed. 

"Lannister," Jon spat, "We don't want filth like that in the Golden Company."

"Oh, is it we all ready?" Myles had thought about that. Connington loved Rhaegar and his family, and a Lannister ordering the death of that family was an open wound, and still raw to Jon. Blackheart attempted to undercut him before he could lay his point. 

Connington snorted, "Of course it is. I've been exiled, same as your family, and every other Peake, Flowers, and Waters in the company was."

"Then why, Jon, do you think this Lannister is here?" Myles said cooly.

His pale blue eyes narrowed at him, and seemed to consider his words carefully, "He was... exiled, I suppose."

"He was exiled by the Baratheon King then, no? The Baratheons who indirectly ordered Aegon, Rhaenys and Elia's death."

"Yes, that's already clear. What are you getting at, Blackheart?"

"Well, he could only be exiled if he was against the Baratheon. Against the order, then."

"Hmm..." the Griffin Knight seemed to consider, "then I guess he truly is one of us. Against Baratheon." Connington spat again.

"Glad that is settled," Toyne said happy to avoid that fight, "now, will you start writing up that contract for some Lion Lord and that babe in his arms?"

Chapter Text

"I don't trust him," Lyanna said, pacing back and forth across Haldon's room.

"Nor do I," said Haldon, his hand's gripping the large table by its sides while staring at a map. Haldon's laser focus on the map was mildly amusing to Jaime as if staring at the parchment could take them to their destination. But it couldn't. But Toyne could. 

"Good!" Jaime cried in frustration, "As you should! He's a sellsword and exile leading an army of foreigners and failures. I don't trust him either, or that Summer Islander and the Griffin Lord. We shouldn't trust any of them. But we don't have a choice."

"Ser," Haldon said, not looking up from his map, "we do have a choice. the Second Sons and Windblown don't know of who we are yet, and they could just as easily take us north. Hell, the Red Viper even served in the Second Sons for a time. We can choose them just as easily."

"I'm not asking you to trust Toyne, I'm asking you to trust the Golden Company," Jaime said exasperated, "Haldon, what do they say? 'Writ in Gold?' Something with gold, I'm sure."

"'Our Word is as Good as Gold,'" Haldon said, clearly unhappy with the situation, "but also 'Beneath the Gold, a Bitter Steel.' Even if we do trust the Company, which I don't, your own lord father fought against the Golden Company is the fifth Blackfyre war. Toyne squired for the man, I doubt he'll be happy to see you."

"But," Lyanna interjected, "Connington might be happy to see me."

Jaime looked at her confused, "Why?"

"When I ran off with... you know," she slowed her breath a bit, "Connington was with us. He knew that I willingly went with Rhaegar. If he saw Jon, then maybe..."

A sly smile formed on Jaime's face, "Cold green eyes look near grey, don't they?"

A smile, a twin to his own, appeared on Lyanna's face, "And Targaryen princes for generations have had hair that looks like both parents. When you mix silvery golden and brown, you get gold, wouldn't you? But curly, like a Targaryen."

"And of course, the last of the Kingsguard would have to flee with the true-born king, wouldn't he?" Jaime loved his wife and her cleverness. 

"Why of course you would, my White Knight." Lyanna's eyes sparkled like a lion that has caught its prey. No, he thought, A Lion.

"Haldon!" Jaime's voice broke the air like a whip, "Go tell Connington that I want to speak to him. And tell Wylla that I need Jon."

The niches around the Merchant's House were tight and open, whilst also surprisingly private. Jaime wasn't surprised that sellswords made their recruitment halls in these Niches. They gave a commanding view of the whole common hall, whilst allowing secrets to be shared. Jaime thought that Varys would rather like this place. Which meant Jaime liked it even less then he had originally.

He sat on the southern wall, with Lyanna to his left and Haldon on the far left, adjacent to the heavy myrish curtain that cut them off from the outside world. Opposed to them was a man with a square cut jaw with dark hair who would have been handsome if not for a scar that ran down the left side of his face and the large, misshapen ears he had. Simon Toyne's reputation had preceded him, and Jaime had recognized him easily enough. Next to him was a portly man who had a large bald spot in the middle of his head that was covered poorly by hair combed over, but nonetheless, he seemed amiable enough. He claimed to be Harry Strickland, Company Paymaster. And finally, there was the red-headed young knight that was comely, save for his shrewd blue eyes and near-constant grimace. But Jaime was hoping that Connington wasn't as displeased as he publicly showed. Their plan was relying on him.

Strickland had taken the news as if he was catching flies, his mouth agape. Toyne's face showed no change, but his eyes began darting back and forth from Jaime to Jon and again to Lyanna. Similar to his master, Connington's only noticeable change was his eyes narrowing even more. "Hmm..." Connington began to noticeably say under his breath.

"And you promise the Lannisters will support us?" Toyne said as if learning that a true born king wasn't in front of him.

"Only if you take us North, unseen," Jaime replied, his gaze not breaking the Griffin's. 

"Then sign." Connington yanked the parchment Strickland had in his hands before throwing it at Jaime. Harry responded by politely pushing the ink and quill forward.

He'll be easy to control, Jaime silently noted as he signed his signature. Lyanna signed after him, and Haldon signed as a witness. The ink pot was then given to the Golden Company's representatives, who in turn, signed.

"Although," Toyne's voice was thick with mockery, "We already have a Targaryen princeling."

"What?"

"Aegon the VI Targaryen, smuggled out by the Royal Spymaster, Varys of Lys. And we have the boy, so you know," Toyne said with a cool, venomous voice, "And we know that he isn't a Targaryen. A Dornish spy with a myrish lens was able to peak into your tower."

Jaime, Haldon, Lyanna and surprisingly Strickland as well seemed shocked by what Toyne was saying. "But, when the time comes to take back his throne, Aegon will have need of Lannister Swords."

Jaime made to leave before he could be made more of a fool when Toyne said: "See you in thirteen years, Lannister."

Jaime stopped and turned, "I'm sorry, what?"

"The Contract," Toyne said, pointing at the parchment, "said that, as a condition of taking you to White Harbor unknown, your boy would squire with the company. When he was thirteen."

Haldon spoke up when Jaime didn't say anything, "Gods damn you, Jaime. Didn't you read it?"

"You knew?!" Lyanna shot back, her rage clear.

"I thought you knew too!" Haldon retorted.

Jaime pinched the bridge of his nose as Toyne laughed behind him, "Seven save us..."

Chapter Text

Jon Arryn was to his right, as Robert always liked. Jon was a comforting angel on Robert's shoulder. He was a calming influence on him, the mountain that the storm yields to. Normally Ned would be to his left, but the two hadn't spoken in, gods near three months.

Ned had given him a letter, signed with Lyanna's signature and with her seal, claiming she loved another and that Robert would never be loyal to her. Then Ned had the gall to defend her actions. He loved Ned as a brother, more so than his true brothers, but he was ice, through and through. He never yielded, never compromised, and his face was frozen and humorless. Robert had loved that about him, and he still did, but he needed something new. But where his old left hand had Ice in his eyes, his new one had Wildfire.

Cersei Lannister was all the things a good woman should be, Robert supposed. She seemed witty enough to be interesting but not witty enough to be cruel; she was lively at near all hours; she was authoritative to the point where she wasn't a sycophant; she seemed to always know what to say to excite him; she knew her place, and she was comely. Oh so very comely. Lyanna had always had a fierce, almost feral look to her. But Cersei was an archetypal queen. Her long golden hair shone in the light and fell in thick ringlets to the small of her back. Her eyes seemed to always be accentuated with kohl and other essosi face paints that made her eyes stand out. And her dresses, thick with either a corset accentuating her open cleavage. Northerners seemed to stay bundled at every moment, but Robert had always favored the southern dressings.

But there was one thing Cersei had done that neither of the two Stark children had done. She pleased him. That first time they spoke, they had both spent themselves numerous times, of that Robert Baratheon was certain. His tongue had gone between her slit, and she moaned so loud he imagined that those in the gatehouse could here, while he spent himself in her mouth. Despite being a "maiden," she seemed to know an awful lot about sex. Not that Robert minded. He didn't want a virgin with no experience in the carnal arts. He wanted someone as vigorous as he was. And, so far as he could tell on their wedding night, she was.

He felt her hand grasp his hand as he went to motion for another flagon of wine. Her fine, soft fingers traced from the middle of his center finger down to his elbow, sending a pulse to his cock. He loved open sexual teasing. Half the great lords of Westeros were in the Great Hall, feasting and drinking in his honor, and Robert was getting an erection in the visible sight of them all. Cersei leaned to whisper into his ear, "Now now," she said in a voice near a purr, "I don't want you drunk tonight. You've heard the songs. Neither of us wants a floppy fish." She bit his ear lobe softly as she pulled away, stiffening him even more.

"Good gods, woman," Robert spoke with clear lust in his voice, "We still have another forty servings before the bedding. You don't want me to be worn out by then, do ya?"

"My grace," she whispered in a soft, husky voice, "I thought you had more vigor." Her hand drifted down when she spoke, and she squeezed his cock when she said "vigor." Robert felt his blood rushing to his groin.

"You're cruel to me, you know that? I'm like to break by britches." Robert wasn't sure if it was the heat, the wine or his wife that was making him so warm.

"Then I'll relive it." Before he had time to tell her no, she had already unlaced his pants and reached down to grab him. She placed her long finger on its head, poking before dragging down his shaft. All of him stiffened like a lance as Robert struggled to keep his breathing regular as Cersei grabbed him with one hand and began to slowly pump up and down, up and down, up and down. Every time she reached the tip, she would circle around to entice him further.

"Gods," he whispered as he felt himself release, "wherein the Seven Heavens did you learn that?"

"Robert," she said, "I was expensive to you. I cost the whole realm. The least I could do is please you. Now, if you want more of that, stop drinking tonight. I want you sober."

He nodded.

Since that night, he had spent every following night with her. For hours at a time, if he was to give any choice. Neither he nor she would fall asleep before both of them had cum seven times. "To match your seven victories in the war," she had said. He was not one to disagree with his queen.

But during the days she whispered to him Take part in council meetings, she said, we need to know it all. To be frank, Robert found near all the council meetings to be worthless wastes of time, with one and four being worth leaving his chambers. So they compromised, Robert went to half of them with Cersei. It suited him well enough, and she always rewarded him afterward.

But Robert was not oblivious to what she wanted. Ned had been ice. He wanted the same, he fought a war so he could go back home. All of his advise had headed caution and mercy. Preserve the Status Quo. Cersei was wildfire. She wanted power, reform, changes. And quickly. Everything quickly. She had once boasted in her cups that she was Tywin Lannister with tits. But from what Robert knew, Tywin Lannister had never been so impatient. Impatient was a good word to describe Cersei. She wanted a lot, and right then. Which is why he wasn't surprised with her reaction to learning of dissonance in the Reach.

"Sow their fields with salt and sulfur, and they'll never bother us again," Cersei said on house Osgrey's lack of allegiance to Robert, "The Osgreys bothered my great grandmother for near forty years, and if we don't rip them out like the Reynes and Tarbecks they'll do worse to use, I can assure you." Her beauty reached its peak when she was passionate, but her words did not fall on deaf ears. She wanted to destroy them, for no reason other than a perceived threat.

Stannis, who had not stopped grinding his teeth since being given the seat of Robert's heir, Dragonstone, miraculously stopped grinding his teeth to say "The punishment for treason, my grace, is death. Osgrey is doing little but treason. Not the whole family, but the lord, aye. And take his son as a hostage for good measure."

Ser Barristan, who was weakened from the Trident near a half year past, looked revolted, "House Osgrey was a good friend to my predecessor, Ser Dunkan the Tall. I do not consent to see their whole line extinguished for a slight, not even a moon old."

Jon Arryn locked eyes with Robert, "my boy, Grandison, and Cafferen fought against you at Summerhall, but you gave them mercy. Mercy that bloomed to friendship. Grandison and Cafferen both lost kin on the Trident because you showed them compassion. Go to Coldmoat yourself, and they shall bend to you."

If looks could kill, Jon Arryn would be dead by Cersei's hand, "at the bearest of choices, tell them to send their heir to King's Landing. We always need more cupbearers and pages."

Robert rubbed his temples, "Gods be good, I feel like I'm being torn in seventy different directions! What am I to do? Show mercy to the son, kill the father? Kill the son and show mercy to no one? Gods, things were easier when we knew who the good guys were."

Pycelle began the long process of raising his head to speak, "Mayhaps," he said in a thin, whistly voice, "we should challenge Osgrey to a Trial by Combat, to test his mettle. Let no man see that the Crown is above the law, says I!"

Robert grinned at that. "God's be praised! A fight! Lord Hand, prepare the preparations for an entourage south. Pack my helm."

Chapter Text

Ser Willem Darry had met few Westerosi in Braavos. He'd met half a hundred in service of the Sealord, of course, but those didn't count. No, Darry wanted good men. Loyal men. Men he knew. Of those, he had only the one. But a Viper didn't count.

Luckily, he never met men of the unfaithful variety. He'd met Westerosi men he didn't trust, but none that sided with Robert, only sellswords and exiles. The Sealord was a good friend to the Golden Company, hiring them to intimidate Ibenese or Lorathi, so Darry had met more Toynes, Bastards and Peakes then he would have preferred. But the Sealord gave baby Daenerys and young Viserys a warm bed and food, so Darry had forgiven it.

The Essosi didn't use Ravens, using a queer multicolored bird from the Summer Isles in southern Essos, and using massive condors in areas bordering the Shivering Sea. But the bird that came today was blue, so the letter was southern. The bird landed right in the Sealord's window while Mero Otherys, Willem, and Oberyn were hammering out a marriage contract. Mero, whose mother was a well known Summer Islander courtesan, spoke the summer tongue to the bird, inciting a high pitched quark from the bird. Oberyn, always one to trailblaze, whipped the scroll from the bird's left leg and read allowed. 

"'Friends coming north. One man and two women with a child. Lannisters.' writ in gold," Oberyn grimaced when he read the last words, and it matched Willem's own thoughts. "No Lannister is a friend of Dorne," Oberyn said with a chilly rage like to freeze the lagoons. 

Mero Otherys spoke with a voice attempting to warm the dornish prince, "But Toyne is a friend of mine, as are the whole of the Golden Company. But if you don't trust this Lannister, stay in my house if you fear these lions would slay the hatchlings. But know this," his voice deepened slightly, "if you shed blood in my halls, this contract is null and void."

"I'm a snake, not a monster," Oberyn said in a gruff offended tone, "Guest right is still respected in Dorne, I promise that."

But I don't, Willem thought to himself. Lannisters killed Rhaegar's children, and I will have to kill him too. 

Chapter Text

The Sealord's palace was near half as wide as Casterly Rock, but less than an eighth height from the highest spire. But it had its menagerie, lemon trees and paint so vibrant it looked like it belonged on a tapestry. All the doors were painted in red. "Lannister Red," he had told Lyanna. "Targaryen Red," Lyanna had corrected. Jaime hadn't quite liked that, though he couldn't say Lyanna was wrong. If half the things he had heard from the Golden Company was true. Targaryens in exile, pierced suns, and worst of all, exiled and desperate Knights.

The Targaryen children, those didn't make him afraid half a wit, but other men. The Merryweathers, Conningtons and half a thousand others had been exiled by Robert, and Jaime didn't doubt that many of them would seek favor through the death of those consorting with Dragons. And Jaime wouldn't let that happen.

But the Sealord was one of the most powerful men in planetos. Half a thousand war galleys were under the Sealord's power, and he had enough money to make a Lannisport Lannister hunger for it. But he wasn't the most powerful man. The most powerful man in the world was Tywin of House Lannister. So Jaime figured he was safe enough. His last name granted him protection, and the Sealord would help him even more.

Willem thought it was completely unfair.

Jaime Lannister was the most comely man in all of Westeros. Calling him pretty would be an insult to Jaime. His beauty made the Maid look like some washerwoman. If Willem hadn't known better, he would have guessed that Jaime Lannister was a pretty rich boy who didn't know which side of the sword to hold. But Willem did know better. He had seen the boy training with Arthur Dayne and Barristan Selmy, and he was their match before he had even reached his manhood. Willem could only imagine what two years and war could have done to Jaime Lannister's skill at arms.

He had skill and beauty, but he had something more important than all of that he had a name. And gold. Oh, how he had gold. Jaime Lannister could have been the most talented warrior in all of Westeros, but a mob could kill him just as quickly as they would any man. But with his name, that was impossible.

Willem hated him for it.

But Willem had hated that Jaime had betrayed his cloak, more than anything else. If what the letter had said was true, he had abandoned the Targaryen family and his duties as a Kingsguard, he had broken his vow by taking a wife, and he meant to return to Westeros, to leave the Kingsguard and live as Warden of the West.

Willem would speak to him. He hoped that he might even convince Jaime to join Daenerys and Viserys. But if not... he didn't intend to let the traitor live.

The Sealord was a slight man, near 5 and a half feet, if Jaime was to guess, but that still made him tall compared to his first Sword, an even smaller man named Syrio. "A warrior you are, yes?" He asked in a pitchy voice. "The warrior," Lyanna replied with a smile. She took a great form of pride in Jaime's skill of arms, and he was not one to doubt some praise.

"Oh ho ho!" The small Braavosi trumpeted, "Is that a challenge, boy?" Jaime raised his eyebrow in a mocking grin. Jaime gave a snort at that. "Me, a boy?" he asked incredulously, "I stand over six feet tall, and you less than a foot of that. But if you want to die child, then you can. On the morrow."

Syrio gave a small chiding click with his teeth, "We shall see, my yellow friend," his heels clicked loudly on the floor, or his teeth, Jaime wasn't sure. The small man gave four quick knocks, in the door swung open.

"Snake?" Jaime asked.

"Wolf?" Oberyn replied.

"Farmer?" Lyanna said looking at the stranger's surcoat.

"Traitor?" The farmer that Jaime remembered as Willem Darry.

"Syrio!" The Sealord yelled happily.

"Why are we yelling?!" Syrio replied, also yelling

"Ser Jaime," Willem Darry spoke, "We need to speak. Privately" The Sealord, and Oberyn left, with Oberyn giving an angry grumble with Syrio following behind. Darry glared at Lyanna as well. "Really?" she asked angrily, "I've crossed half the damn world, and you're making me walk more?"

"Yes," Darry replied.

"Bastard," Lyanna mumbled, kissing Jaime on the cheek as she left the room, with Jon at her breast.

"You've turned your cloak, Lion"

"Aye, I have."

"And abandoned your post in Dorne."

"Aye, I have." Jaime did not like the way this conversation was turning. Darry had fled Westeros just the same. Darry had been a simple man, loyal and jolly, with crinkles around his eyes. But the man he saw before him had sunken, dark eyes. He looked tired, sad and broken. And angry.

"The punishment of treason is death," Darry said with the sweetness of a salt.

"Good thing I haven't committed any treasons." Jaime saw Darry's reaction, and he knew that he had him. Darry was simple, and a soldier, not a leader. It was in his nature to obey commands and the concept of a dragon who wasn't his own interested him. Jaime knew what Darry was thinking. He could finally remove the heavy burden from his shoulders and move it to a high lord.

"What?" Darry sounded like a fool.

"I was one of Rhaegar's closest friends," Jaime lied, "And he trusted me. While we were in Dorne, we talked." Jaime had rehearsed these words the entire trip north, "His son had been smuggled east, to men he trusted. And I was named his protector." Darry moved his mouth like fish, up and down, "And I'll protect yours as well."

"You'll take Viserys and Daenerys?" Willem asked.

"Oh, not the boy. He's too old and recognizable. Send him to Simon Toyne and Jon Connington in the Golden Company, and he will be seasoned to be fit for the Lord of Summerhall," Jaime grinned, he had won and he knew it. "But the girl... if I dye her hair gold or brown, I can pass her off as my daughter. Or that of a relative."

"But, her eyes are purple," Darry finally had brought up an important point. "Lilac," Jaime replied, "Like grey meeting blue. My good brother is wed to Catelyn Tully, who has blue eyes. Mayhaps I can say she is the welp of Tully and Stark? Few southerners view Winterfell."

Darry gritted his teeth, furiously. "No," he said.

Jaime laughed, "we'll work out the details tomorrow."

Chapter Text

If there was silence, then Tywin could be justified in sending men all across the south to find his son.

But the Eunuch hadn't sent silence, he had sent whispers. A cacophony of conflicting sources made it so that not only could Tywin do nothing, no one could do anything with the information Varys had given the council. And it annoyed Tywin. If his forces were still in the city, then he could threaten the new council with violence. Not that he actually would, he intended for his daughter to be queen, after all. But Cersei had told Tywin that she had Robert wrapped around her finger, but she had no control over Arryn.

Jon Arryn was probably the most respectable member of the council, with only Stannis as a competitor. Obviously, Tywin would have been a better choice for Hand, but if not him, then Jon Arryn was good enough. Mainly due to the fact that he recognized that Tywin was a force to be reckoned with. If Stannis was Hand, then he'd make a demand of Tywin, and either Tywin would do it or Tywin would "be destroyed." Jon Arryn was a mediator and was probably the only person keeping Westeros from splitting apart further. But with someone flexible, Tywin felt like he could comfortably be flexible as well. So when Jon Arryn asked for Tywin to send his troops home, he only sent seven-eighths of his men. Lannister was the most powerful force in the city, but the dynamic was changed.

Over a year had passed, and Tywin had felt his grip loosening. Robert Baratheon had his power set in stone, Cersei Lannister was comfortably married and in power, the coffers had begun to fill and the harvest was successful. And now, Tywin was at the whim of the King. And he hated it. He had lived most of his life serving under fools who attempted to lasso the Lion. But then they had all died. All that remained was Tywin.

There were four quick knocks on his door. Tywin looked up from the candle he had been glaring at. "Hmm, come in," he all but growled. If the man had been let through by his guard, then he must have been someone in his own household. But then the door opened, and he didn't recognize him. He thought for a moment it was that young sword that Cersei had taken on, some Clegane boy. But while the man in his doorway matched the young Clegane in width, but he was significantly shorter and less muscular. He couldn't see the man's eyes, but he had a round face offset by a curly brown beard and a disgustingly active pox mark. But the real thing that caught Tywin off guard was the smell. Tywin was about to grab his dagger and yell to his guards before he heard the voice. "My Lord Hand Lannister," the man bowed surprisingly smoothly.

"Varys." Tywin glared at the Eunuch. Tywin had learned that a strong glare would silence even the bravest of men, and Varys wasn't the bravest of men. The man tittered, a thing Tywin had always hated before Varys responded. "I'm sorry for the disguise, my Lord, but secrets need secrecy. I'm sure you understand, my lord." Tywin glared harder, not responding. Tywin assumed that his meaning would be understood, and he was not disappointed. "I have news of Ser Jaime." Now that was a shock. 

"Where?"

"White Harbor, my lord. At least that was the last whisper. Mayhaps they're even further west by now," Varys giggled, "We were all looking in Dorne for the Stark girl and Ser Jaime, but they're on the other side of Westeros. Ironic, isn't it?"

"Very," Tywin said cooly, "Why?"

Varys sat down across from Tywin without Tywin's permission, and Tywin felt his left eye flicker slightly. "My lord, I have good news for you. You're a grandfather."

"What?" Now that was even more of a shock.

"Now, under Northern Law, the Kingsguard vows aren't quite valid without a Heart Tree in attendance, so all his vows are null in the North. Jaime Lannister and Lyanna Stark appeared in White Harbor with a small child with dark gold hair. We don't know if it's your Grandson, but we are all but certain."

"Leave me, and send Kevan, Tygett, and Gerion to my chambers." The eunuch left quickly thereafter. Tywin Lannister opened a bottle of Lannisport Red, and he smiled. 

Wyllis Manderly was kind enough, Jaime supposed. Lyanna and Wyllis had gotten along well when they were younger, so much so that they had almost been betrothed, and for that Jaime trusted him. So he was trusted, so much so that he and his father had promised to not tell King's Landing. Westermen had been loyal to Tywin Lannister, but the Lannister's weren't loved. Tywin was feared and respected, but the way Wyman spoke about serving and loving the Starks was ridiculous. 

But the Manderly's seemed to have done it. They told no one and sent them to Winterfell. Well, they were going to send them on with new horses, but Wyllis refused to allow Rickard's little girl go on by herself. It was slower progress than both Jaime and Lyanna wanted, but Jaime enjoyed being back around soldiers. Having knights to talk to again was nice, and Lyanna was glad to speak with more Northmen.

Winterfell was impressive. Not compared to the Rock, of course. The Rock dwarfed mountains, being over thrice the size of the wall and three miles across. It's wall's were smaller, Winterfell's keep was squat as well but its heart tree made the castle truly special. Casterly Rock had a heart tree, but it was a small, twisted thing. But Winterfell's weirwood seemed larger than castles in Westeros. Jaime found himself gaping at the tree when Lyanna rode up to his side. "It's an impressive home, aye?"

Jaime grinned, "Aye it is."

Chapter Text

Ned Stark looked much like his sister, although less than his other family members. Benjen had more of her slight frame, and Brandon had her darker hair, but all the Stark's had the same eyes. It wasn't blue that looked a little grey, no, they were grey. As grey as stone. And now, he saw those grey eyes stare at him. Eddard's honor was famous throughout the Seven Kingdoms, and it seemed that staring at the oathbreaker before him filled Eddard with cold rage. Jaime leaned back so that the front legs were off floor in Eddard's solar. 

Jaime had always used sly smirks and calm confidence to hide insecurities. The Crakehalls had thought it was charming, as did Lyanna. Ser Arthur thought it was humorous and childish, but accepted it while Ser Barristan grumbled about his age. But it didn't work for Ned. Ned slit his eyes even further when Jaime gave a small yawn. Lyanna cleared her throat and a small candle began to flutter. It seemed to Jaime that the silence had stretched on for hours before Jaime decided to finish that nonsense before them. "Would you like to meet your nephew? My little son is a strong lad," Jaime gave himself his brightest grin.

"Ser Jaime, will you leave us for a moment?" Eddard Stark's voice was cold.

"You are the Lord here," it was a half bow, and so Jaime leaned to pick up Jon. "No, leave him with us, please," Eddard replied. A curt nod and Jaime strode out of the Solar.

Once the door was closed, Ned began to melt, and his thin mouth widened into a grin. Around his eyes, small crinkles appeared to show a true smile to his sister. "Lya, bring me, my nephew, please," his body was different than the one he had at the tourney. He was much different then he had been. War had thinned his face and made his jaw and arms more harsh and strong looking. His body had been tanned slightly, and his face had been windburnt. But his voice was the same one she had remembered. And she felt warm, but she hadn't realized it was a tear.

She was crying, softly at first but harder as Eddard moved to hug her. "Father," she had whispered, "Brandon." A sob had begun to pierce her at that point. When Rhaegar was with her, Lyanna had no choice but to harden herself and to hide her emotions. Later she had cried to Jaime, but he had been near a stranger then and she had kept her guard up. Then she had grown closer with Jaime, and then she had been pregnant, and she never had time to cry. But the proverbial moon door was opened and all of her emotions flowed out of her. "I know, Lyanna, I know," Eddard said as he gave Lyanna a tight squeeze. She would have been contempt to finally grieve with her family, but a small wail from Jon had distracted her, and she loosened herself from Ned's hug. She removed the strap of her dress off of her left shoulder to free a nipple for Jon.

"We need to grieve, sister, but first we need to talk about your son," Eddard had tried to sound reassuring, and Lyanna appreciated the effort, but she could tell he was disappointed. Whether in her or in Jaime or both, she couldn't tell. Lyanna chewed her lip before she lied "Jaime almost killed the last person to call Jon a bastard. You may be kin now, but I wouldn't test it."

Eddard had arched his eyebrows in surprise, "How? Jaime's sworn to the Kingsguard to take no wife, you were betrothed to Robert, and Rhaegar, well Rhaegar did..." Ned trailed off when he saw Lyanna's reaction to the word Rhaegar, and her eyes teared up again. She quietly damned herself for her sudden weakness. But instead, she began to speak.

"The Kingsguard are southern ways. We wed under a Weirwood, just as legitimate as your own, if not more so if only the Seven gazed over you," she looked at her big brother in the eyes, "The Old Ways had always beaten the New north of Moat Cailin, and that hasn't changed. But there is something else."

Eddard seemed to process that information in mute silence, "What else?"

"From what I know," Lyanna gave her brother a feral smile, "the Old Lion of the West wants his grandson. If I say he's trueborn, Jaime says Lord Tywin would freeze all seven hells and burn all seven heavens to protect his Grandson. And, Jon is his Grandson"

Eddard sat heavily in their father's chair and sighed, the weight of the North already on his small set shoulders. "Okay," he had said slowly, "Okay. I'll show you your nephew and sister in law."

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Lyanna, Jon and he had originally intended to stay in Winterfell for a month. Then a month turned into two, and two into four. And before they had known it, the spring harvest had come in and then naught would do except to stay for that as well. Lyanna was ecstatic about being at her home, no doubt she would have preferred staying at Winterfell until the seas froze solid. Jon and Jaime had begun to grow a bit restless.

Well, restless wasn't the right word for Jon. He was a baby who had grown to the point where he was no longer content to be held at his mother's breast for all of his days. Ned's whelp, a child named Robb, was constantly at Jon's tiny side as the two of them wandered through the Godswood. Lyanna was one to sit in the Godswood watching them, or doing needlework while sitting on an old stump. Catelyn Tully had seemed wary of the place to Jaime, often sitting in the room above or overlooking the Godswood, not entering it. Jaime hadn't even known she was watching the godswood until Robb tripped on a root in the ground. Jaime and Lyanna had been sharing a cheese plate when that had happened, the kid's knee had barely scuffed the ground before Tully had sprinted as fast as she could in a skirt. Robb hadn't seemed to notice his scabbed knee until his mother began wiping the blood off with her skirt. Only once Robb was back to his little wandering did she seem to notice that Jaime and Lyanna were watching her. 

Jaime laughed, naturally. Lyanna followed his lead as well. Catelyn didn't look embarrassed per se, more of ashamed that the two had seen her so, so unladylike. "My Lady," Jaime had said in between a laugh, "Would you like some Cheese? Dairy has always been good after a drill."

"I suppose so, Ser Jaime." She gave a nervous laugh and sat opposite Jaime on a small rock. Jaime looked her in her eyes. Jaime had learned how to read a man's soul through his eyes back in King's Landing. Catelyn's was rather strange. Not fear, but a constant nervousness in her eyes, Jaime noted. Whether it was because of him, Jon and Lyanna or the small injury her son got were unclear. "Is your lad well?" Jaime asked innocently enough.

"Just a small scuff, no true injury," she took a small bite of the cheese. Jaime gave a mocking smile, "Ah, so you can speak," Jaime gave a bark of laughter, "it seems I have lost my dragon."

"Do tell, is there a jest I am missing?" Catelyn seemed to be more surprised than upset about the mocking joke. Catelyn seemed to have barely aged than the Catelyn he had met at Riverrun. At least her face hadn't changed, only her body had grown more womanlike, smaller in the hips then Lyanna and Cersei both, but larger of breasts then Lyanna. The big change about her, however, was how she acted. She had once been lively, from what Jaime noticed, although she barely spoke to Jaime.

"I thought Lord Stark had cut out your tongue, based off of how you've hosted me and my wife," the happiness had left Jaime's voice, "Spoken to me and my wife less than thrice." Cat gaped, her mouth opening and closing like the fish on her arms. It was a rather ridiculous sight, truth be told, but laughter is the end of seriousness. 

Jaime couldn't say how long they were there, with Catelyn saying nothing, while Jaime gave his best Tywin Lannister impression and Lyanna ran off to play with a stick with Jon. All he knew was that a page had run to grab him before the sun had reached its summit. The boy had a light, lusterless hair and was entirely unimpressive if Jaime was being honest. But his message was anything but: Jaime was needed in the War Room of Winterfell. Jaime used his hand to prop himself up before wiping his hands clean on his pant leg.

Compared to the Rock, Winterfell was rather quaint, not even half the labyrinth it was in the mine section of the Rock, but the unfamiliarity of the castle made it take far longer then he wanted it to. When he entered the war room, he saw the master of Arms, a man with monstrously long whiskers, another mousy brown-haired man who looked much like the Page that had grabbed him and a variety of other people Jaime had only seen in passing. "Ser Jaime," Eddard said in a cool, hard voice, "Sit, we have much we need to tell you."

Jaime put on his best smirk and sat on one of the chairs, leaning back slightly. All the men in that room seemed scared, whether of Jaime or the news, he couldn't tell. Eddard seemed to be melting, drops of perspiration falling methodically onto his map with a drop, drop, drop. "Have I grown fangs and a mane? Is that why I frighten you so?" the bristly man gave a light titter by was silenced when no one followed suit. "We don't have much time for japes," Lord Stark said, "If you wish to make jokes, I can call in my fool to the Great Hall and send you there as well, but if you want to be part of this, I need you to be serious."

Jaime was rather shocked, but only let it stay on his face for a moment before putting back on his smile. "I'll be silent, good-brother." Jaime could see the rage boiling in Stark's eyes, and Jaime didn't break eye contact. "Your fleet has been destroyed."

" My  fleet? Someone ought to tell my father! I've near doubled our naval power if I have  my own  fleet!" Stark seemed unamused, though Bristle Beard and brown hair seemed to think it at least deserved a smile. Stark seemed annoyed, "Your father's fleet. All of it has been burnt."

Now  that  was a surprise.

No accident would let the Lannister fleet be burnt, thus it had to be a declaration of war. "By whose command?"

"Balon Greyjoy."

"I think, Lord Stark, I need to make myself known."

Chapter Text

He couldn't wear his red and gold as of yet, he was waiting until he was safely back into his lands to do that. Nor could he wear the white of the kingsguard, as that would cause the previous problem as well as having Eddard glare daggers into his back every step of the way. Certain maesters could argue that he had a right to wear Lyanna's colors but that would only make Eddard even angrier.

Instead, he wore an old set of dull steel plate, unrusted but scratched. Under it was steel mail that looked as if a moth had been at it and a gambeson that was attacked by a moth. All in all, it was shabby fare, barely fit for a Hedge Knight. And he hated it. He had never considered himself to be a vain man, but it was just insulting. Most of Eddard's men-at-arms were dressed even better, and they didn't even have horses. At least he got a horse, albeit an old grey gelding. Jaime thought he would never be happier to see one of the weaselly faces of a Frey. 

The seas weren't safe to the west and the east required a visit to King's Landing. It was far simpler to simply head south through the Neck, stop at the Twins, and take a boat south down the Green Fork and then west on the Red Fork. It also allowed Stark's Bannermen to catch up to his slow trip south. To be honest, he always thought of the North as a rather small place, with no heavy horse to speak of. It was closer to two thousand mounted men, and well over twenty thousand infantry. The men wore leather jerkins and gambesons with round steel shields and conical half helms. Most were green boys, although the career soldiers, such as a thin lithe man in formidable steel greaves, had far better hauberks over their gambeson with great helms and chest plates. But men like that were few and far between. At most one in ten, though one in hundreds seems more accurate for Jaime.

The Lannister army would chew something like them to shreds. The West has more infantry, more knights, more men at arms and career soldiers. But Lyanna claimed them to be the greatest army in the world. Jaime wasn't impressed, truth be told, but you never get to choose your army. But they were good enough to march him south in friendly territory, so Jaime had no cause to complain. And they were certainly better than the Freys.

He didn't know any of their names, except for Merret, but he was normally hidden away somewhere, drunk off of his ass. The rest all looked like rats to Jaime. The ones that met him were small and thin, the one in front being stouter then the others though thinner then Jaime. He looked to be an older man, well over his fifties with an amiable smile. The other was a man with a warmer smile than any genuine smile that Jaime had ever seen. The smile never reached his eyes, though his leg was the far most noticeable thing about him. It was twisted at the knee in a half rotation at his thigh and a complete rotation at the knee so that his foot faced forward, if not more inward-facing. Lame Lothar Frey's reputation preceded him. The other man looked to be Hosteen, who looked like an overly large rat. Jaime thought it was Merret for a moment, before noticing that the man seemed more muscular and wasn't wobbling in his saddle.

Lothar urged his horse ahead to meet Eddard, Lord Bolton, Glover and one of the rotund Manderly lads. The five of them before the front of the column after entering the land south of the Neck and Lothar went about the lords, introducing his brothers, Stevron and Hosteen, and taking names and numbers of troops. Jaime was ignored succinctly by all the Frey men until Jaime spoke up, "Is Genna Lannister here?"

Stevron's eyes perked up with a look of anger. "It is 'Lady Genna Frey,' boy. Not Genna, and not Lannister. Lord Eddard, who is this man?" Eddard glared at him in a look that was, amusement? He moved to respond, but Jaime beat him to it, "I think I can call my aunt whatever I chose to, Stevron."

Stevron and Lothar shared a look while Hosteen, oblivious to his brother's, looked at Jaime in the eyes, "Ser Jaime?" He gave the Frey's his best grin, "I'm so glad to be recognized, ser," he winked at Stevron, "Now, where is my aunt?"

"She is staying at the Rock, ser. It isn't safe right now to be on the roads or rivers," Lothar replied, "Ser, I need a moment, am I excused my lords?"

The Manderly began to speak, but Jaime cut him off, "no need,  ser  Lothar." He emphasized the ser and he saw the man wince at the name. "Simply give me a day, a river galley and a bed." Before anyone could say anything else, he sped his horse ahead to the Twins, surprising him with Lord Eddard rode up to his side.

"The Frey's are prickly, ser Jaime," he said in the closest thing to a grin he had ever seen on Lord Stark, "And powerful too. Such words, while amusing, aren't exactly wise."

Jaime gave a mocking grin, "Lord Eddard, my father is Warden of the West, my sister is Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and my brother-in-law is Warden of the North. No one would dare hurt me."

"One day, Ser Jaime, you are going to be proven wrong and remember those words. The pride before the fall and such." The slight amount of warmth was gone now. "Mayhaps, Lord Stark, but someone would have to beat me to kill me first. I don't think Lothar or Stevron could beat me in a duel, do you, Lord Stark?"

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that, Ser. I'd hate to see my nephew as an orphan and my sister as a widow."

"And the sight of my mangled corpse wouldn't bring you to tears?"

"No." His voice was colder than the Wall. 

Jaime looked at him sidelong, "Why is it that you hate me so? Same with you and your wife as well. What crime have I committed to offend you as such?"

Eddard glared at him with eyes like a storm cloud, "I won't speak ill of my wife, ser, but I don't trust you. You're an oathbreaker and a scoundrel. You made an oath that you would protect the royal family and take no wife and father no children. In your own words, you've married Lyanna and fathered a child on her as well. You're no better than Lucamore the Lusty, Terrence Toyne, Criston Cole, and Quentyn Ball."

Jaime couldn't help but laugh, "Truly, Criston Cole and Quentyn Ball? Those two men started wars, and Fireball wasn't even in the kingsguard! Lucamore had three wives! I have one." Before Eddard could respond, he spurred his horse ahead to the gates of the fishy-smelling Towers.

Chapter Text

It was an awful trip, from Robert's perspective. The climb into the gold hills was cold for the supposed spring, while the uneven and frankly embarrassing roads made it difficult to travel. But Cersei was insistent that they visit Lannisport. He'd never seen the gold coast in his life, so he had agreed to go. Jon Arryn was well enough to rule back home, so why shouldn't Robert go on a lord's tour? He'd been on one around all of the south-east of Westeros, all lands he controlled were visited. 

The only interesting moment on the entire trip was when a thick, plume of smoke rose into the sky, black as pitch and solid as stone. Robert called a halt on top of a taller hale overlooking Lannisport. Or, at least he thought it was Lannisport. He seemed to think that it was, well it wasn't a quarter blackened. 

He could see a large port grappling the coast, the whole city arcing downwards with great chains and cages to transfer cargo from the docks to the open plains three hundred feet above. But now the north port was blackened, two and twenty iron cages and pulleys hung open in the air, with naught but blackened stone and the wreckage of ships, still barely burning in the pre-dawn light. Mace Tyrell rode up hard to Robert's side. "Good gods," was all the fat man could say. 

Tywin Lannister was not at Casterly Rock, much to Robert's chagrin. But neither were the more interesting Lannisters. The missing boy Jaime wasn't there, nor was the swordsman Tygett or the Laughing Lion Gerion. But no matter who he liked or didn't like, he needed Tywin Lannister.

Robert was briefed about the attacks by a Ser Lan-something or other. All of them had 'Lan' in their first names, annoyingly. It was rather annoying if he was frank, but he wouldn't say such to a Lannister, Lannetts, Lanntell or Lanny. 

Iron Man trading ships had pulled into the harbor near dusk, trading a niggardly amount of iron and buying more pitch, lamp oil, and wood than anyone would have fought. Forty or so ships sailed out with the wood while the others stayed in port. No one seemed to notice that the fleet numbered well into two hundred and that they were all crewed by men in chain mail and steel plate wearing long saex knives and axes. Nor did any of the guards notice the iron men carrying their pitch and oil to the Lannister ships.

No one noticed anything was wrong until flame licked up the fleet glowing and half the ships ablaze.

"You're fools, you all know this, aye?" Robert said to the knights present. "Fools," he continued, "near three hundred ships and men with weapons and armor, and none of you thought to make question of it?"

All the Lanns gathered looked down in shame, with only the small shrewish Lanny looked up, "M'lord-" he said like an ignoramus. "Be quiet, you idiot. You look at a torch and claim it the sun. So close to low born you speak 'M'lord' not 'My lord!' Two words! Not one!"

The boy looked down, but Robert still glared into his soul, "And it would be 'my grace.' I just fought a war for that word between my name, and I mean to keep it." The boy looked near to tears. "All of you must know my name, and all of you must know that an army of men with weapons and the tools to burn are there  to  burn things and wage war. Do you all understand?"

Only the sound of the crackling braziers filled the air. That, and the tears of the Lanny and his quiet sobs.

"Raise yourselves like me and help me, damn it. I just forged this realm with fire and hammer, now help me hold him still. Maester!" A man in a grey robe ran up to him, "Write to Hoster, Tully, and all the other holdings. Tell them it is war."

"War?"

It wasn't the Lanny, Gods be praised, but it was difficult to tell one of those with Lannister blood from another. It didn't matter, however. They were all fools. "Would you prefer it if I gave the Iron Men a good hug? We are going to knock down the walls of Pyke and drown their damn rocks."

He hated to think about it but he needed to. To not be firm would show weakness to all of Westeros; and perhaps beyond. His brother had failed and the dragon spawn could use this as an opportunity, an opportunity to return madness to the realm. Cersei was right. A heavy hand and a heavier hammer. 

"I need my fleets. Vale, Royal and Reach, damn you," he spat as he left the room, "And what little fleet you have left."

"I did not care for it if I am to be straight with you." Speaking with Cersei after they had both spent themselves had become a rather regular form. Mainly due to the fact she would never let him in her bed if he smelled of wine. Though Robert knew she was less like to follow through on her threat if she was drunk as well.

"Oh come now Robert," She was laying on her stomach, feet swinging over her large, bare rear. "Tywin Lannister was all but the king for twenty years. A firm hand, a quiet realm."

Robert grimaced, "Oh yes, Aerys' madness and the defiance of Duskendale were all firm and quiet, weren't they?" He chuckled and she began to giggle loudly as though they were both children laughing at a crude joke. She looked lovely, her blonde hair in a loose tumble of ringlets and curls, her cheeks red and flush while her eyes sparkled with passion. When she laughed and smiled, she rivaled the Maiden herself in beauty. He leaned across the bed and kissed her lightly on both cheeks, causing her to laugh further. 

"I love you, Cersei Lannister."

"I married you, remember? You meant to love you, Cersei Baratheon.'"

He smiled. "Gods, I wish for a child."

She moved to pour the flagon into a cup but stopped only to drink it all by herself. He went to grab only for her to shrink up, pressing the silver to her bare breast, a smile on her face. "Oh no, I need more wine if I am to do this again. Such a slob!"

Robert laughed "Oh, you are a bold one, Cersei Baratheon."

"Of course I am, I'm the Queen. Now, would you like to get to it?"

Chapter Text

Stannis never wore the horned helm that his brother did, nor did he wield a massive hammer. Stannis was still larger than most men by near a hand. Except, of course, for his brother. Robert overshadowed Stannis in all he tried, Robert had done it earlier, better and faster. He also, quite literally, overshadowed him, well taller than Stannis was.

It'd be wrong to say that Stannis didn't love his brother, but he never quite learned how to like him. But he did know how to do his job. And his job was to use the fleet he'd constructed. Since his brother's glacier "Lord's Progress" across all of Westeros, Jon Arryn and Stannis had been made to rule the realm. Stannis did his job the way he did everything, very well, but all it took was for Robert to touch one thing for all of it to begin to fall apart.

That touch was a letter from Casterly Rock, writ with Robert's own seal, along with the seal of half a hundred other Lannisters. Commanding him to raise the banners and march. Stannis' own letter, however, was brisker. A comment about how the fleet allowed the Targaryens to escape, a comment on the size, and an order. To meet the Iron Born on the open ocean. Stannis did what he always did, grind his teeth and do it. 

Paxter Redwyn could always tell there was enmity between him and Stannis. Not that he blamed Stannis, of course. Less than five years ago Paxter had been trying his damnedest to make Stannis starve to death. It made hosting Stannis extremely difficult. Redwyn's own fleet was larger than the Royal Fleet, which was down eighty or so ships since the war, including 6 galleys, but the massive ship Fury made up for it. And that it was a fleet of Warships one could not help but see. All of Stannis' ships were armed with scorpions, rams and one or two had a trebuchet. And then there was Fury. One could not forget Fury. With enough time to reach full speed, no force on earth could stop that ship, Lord Redwyn was certain.

Lord Stannis had asked to speak in Paxter's solar, a subject he couldn't help but agree to. "Your ships," Stannis spoke bluntly, "I require them to destroy an insurrection."

Of that Redwyn knew. He'd gotten the letter about the Iron Men invading before Stannis had arrived, with orders to prepare his ships for war. And he had. All two hundred warships, most single decked with open rowers, were ready to sail. "They are yours to command, my lord. We've been waiting for you, all of them are docked and ready for war."

Stannis exhaled loudly in a move that could be considered a laugh if it came from any other man, "That lot? That's not even half of what you used to trap me in my castle. I'll require more."

"More?"

"Wine cogs, carracks, trading galleys," Stannis spoke as if it was the most obvious thing ever said. "Do you know anything about the Iron Fleet, Paxter?"

Paxter Redwyn figured that it would be wiser to ignore how Stannis forgot his title, instead of speaking. "The Iron Fleet is longships. I have half a hundred longships, they're small, rather quick and shallow. Half my ships could sink their entire fleet!"

Stannis' jaw was clenched so hard Paxter was afraid his teeth may shatter. "You're a fool."

"Beg your pardon?" Paxter was beginning to regret not starving Stannis to death. 

"Iron Born longships are thrice the size of yours. That means they're faster, with broader sails, more rowers, and they can hold the seven hells in their holds. The Iron Fleet holds near to Nine and seventy ships, all of them larger than yours. But the Iron Fleet aren't you standard Longships, are they?"

Paxter wasn't quite sure if it was a rhetorical question or not. Stannis didn't give him enough time to shink before he started speaking again. "Most Longships, even being larger than yours, are primarily trading galleys. Just as likely to carry fruits as they are to carry men with axes. The Iron Fleet, however, is another beast." Stannis paced to the window, "all of them are double-decked, at the least, with many having more. All of them hold rams as well. And unlike your open skiffs, their rowers are too high off the water for an easy arrow to find purchase. Even one Iron Fleet ship could take ten times its own number. And that's before we count the other hundreds of ships the Iron Men control. You do recall they have ships instead of horses?"

"Yes, my lord."

"So you understand that I need  all  of your ships?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Good. We sail on the evening tide tomorrow.

Chapter Text

Sebaston spat blood, and his jailer laughed. In their short (and thoroughly unpleasant) time together, the smaller of the two men had laughed often, frequently at the larger.

"You are the lord of this island pisspot, you know how many coves there are?" The eyepatched man dropped his laugh in half an instant, and his one blue eye was cold and filled with malice. "And once you tell us, you're free to go."

The man (no, men, he mustn't forget the tall one) was a terrifying presence, but Sebaston had served under Tywin Lannister for years. It took a lot to break his courage. But the two men were close to doing it. "Victarion," the short one said.

The tall one grunted, and picked up a wooden cudgel, and wacked. He heard a crack and assumed it was his rib, judging from the incredible pain he felt. He wailed loudly and felt a stabbing in his lunges. 

"Oh brother, it seems our friend Sebaston is in pain," he smiled, his bruised lips curling, "I can give you milk of the poppy... if you tell us where your secret coves are. Or..."

Victarion, the big one, grabbed a hatchet. And before he could be told else wise, he brought it down on Sebaston's hand. He screamed. And the shorter one laughed. 

"You... you bloody bastards!" If he wasn't chained to his chair, he would have curled up. He could feel the blood flowing out of his missing finger. With every beating of his heart, he could feel blood oozing out of his hand, tingling his missing thumb. 

"Dear brother, how is he supposed to write on our map where his ports are?" he tsked. "Give the good man something for that."

"I'm not a maester, Euron. You fix him."

"I thought you told good Balon that 'Fire and Seawater' was the old way, not Maestership," the man, Euron, sighed. "I suppose I shall do it."

He stood, Sebaston's long sable cloak hung to his feet. He reached, almost lazily, for the iron poker in the fire. "No... no!" Sebaston squirmed in his seat, but his manacles limited his movement. Euron placed the white-hot iron against his thumb. He screamed. "Oh, seven say me-"

"Drowned God save you, Euron"

The eye-patched men twisted, "I was trying to relate to our prisoner, Vic. Let me speak." The big man grumbled. "As I was saying, I do hope you forgive me. I got the wrong thumb!"

"I'll... I'll tell you."

"Will you say that again?"

"I'll tell you."

"My brother is slow of thought and hard of hearing. Say it louder. Say it aloud that you have betrayed her liege lord."

"I've betrayed my lord, Gods forgive me!"

"And where are these coves?"

Sebaston licked his lips.

The booming tower of Seagard hadn't been rung since Dagon Greyjoy sat the Seastone chair. It was rung this morning, Jaime saw. The tower he stood on was shorter than the booming tower, but even still he could see the longships. Forty, maybe fifty, he couldn't tell. 

He didn't know much about Ironmen's coat of arms. He knew the Greyjoy flag, as any decently intelligent man could. He saw maybe one or three Greyjoy banners, but most were from the other islands, he guessed. Seagard was a good target, Jaime knew. The source of the Blue Fork was south of Seagard, and with the Blue Fork was all of the Trident. If the Greyjoys took Seagard, all of the Northern Riverlands would be theirs. The Mallisters were formidable, but they were not a naval power. It would be a battle on land. Jaime smiled. He knew the song of swords far better than he did the creak of wood. Jaime recalled the conversation he'd had with Jason Mallister.

"The Ironborn are raiders, not soldiers. They'll try to storm the castle, not starve us or use trebuchets, and that'll be our advantage," the Mallister smiled. "Men are never so vulnerable as they are when they first land. But if they regroup, they may be able to take the castle."The Mallisters were lucky. They knew ahead of time what would be coming, so they'd called their men. Some, at least. They had five hundred heavy horse and another twelve thousand men-at-arms on foot. And, of course, the Northmen reinforcements, around twenty thousand pikemen. But those reinforcements were stuck, slowed down by their baggage trains and difficult terrain of the Neck. No, they couldn't be relied on.

But each longship could hold almost a hundred fighting men, and their proper warships, like those used by their High Lords, could hold over two hundred. Five thousand, Mallister had assumed. Five thousand warriors. "We'll have five sorties, each with five hundred knights, and we'll try to catch them on the shore."Jaime had volunteered to be in the first rank. He still wasn't in Lannister red, nor his gilded plate, but he felt comfortable in clothes better than Stark's loaners. He was wearing a silvered steel plate from the Mallister armory, wearing the surcoat of one of Jason's bastard cousins, the purple eagle bleached. He looked Kingsguard-ish, but he wasn't entirely sure he was a Kingsguard. He'd have to remember to send a letter to have his plate sent.

He jogged down the steps to the armory where a courser was waiting for him. He mounted quickly, and say his men following him. Due to his rank, he'd been given the honor of leading the first charge. He was excited. He loved Lyanna, but love was... complicated. Being a father was complicated. He barely had managed to adjust to marriage before sudden fatherhood before being a refugee. All of it was complicated. But fighting was simple, he understood it. And he was excited.He took up a longsword and placed it in his sheath, strapped a mace to the side of his horse, and took up a lance in his right hand. He didn't want to take up a shield, he wanted a hand free to punch Iron Churls. 

Harooooo! A trumpet went off, cutting through the dinging of the bell. "Notch... draw, loose!" Jaime heard, and a volley of arrows were launched.

Harooooo! Another trumpet sounded, and more arrows were notched and launched. "Open the gates!" a cry went up, and the clinking of chains opened the gate slowly. A loud thump from the ballistas (there was not enough time to prep a trebuchet or catapult).

Harooooo! The third trumpet was the sound for Jaime. "We ride!" More arrows were fired, and he led his troops in a canter. He would charge when closer, but he wished to wait until he was closer before exhausting his mount. More projectiles were launched from the walls, but the archers were not alone.

A chant from the raiders began rising in a language Jaime didn't know. The Iron tongue? Is there an Iron tongue? He supposed that would have to wait. But he thought the other sound was more relevant. Tha-FUNK! A flaming projectile flew overhead from one of the ships. They brought a bloody trebuchet. Or rather, a flaming one. Jaime didn't turn around, he had to focus on his foes, but he heard screams of dying men and the crashing of stone. He lead his men forward still "Do not turn!" To turn would be to lose focus. He couldn't do that. 

The first longship had landed on the shore, and already men began to file out, and that is when he gave up a shout. "CHARGE!" He dug his spurs into the horse's side, and he rode faster. To the Ironman's infinite credit, none of them ran. A heavy short spear was raised toward's Jaime's horse, but his spear was shorter than Jaime's lance. That was dishonorable, he thought before the lance made contact. Jaime stood in his stirrups, leaning forward and stabbing forward. The main's shoulder exploded outwards, his lance head punching clean through, shattering his collar bone.  The spear fell down, not striking anything. 

Jaime had no time to brood, spurring his horse forward, swinging his lance around, not terribly effectively. The lance was incredible on the first contact, but it's usefulness faded quickly. He pulled out of the throng, and turned, riding in again. He targetted a man jumping from the boat, a long axe in hand. Jaime charged, braced for impact, and stabbed out with the lance, going through his bowels. But the man, rudely, had strong enough intestines to lock his lance in place. He dropped it and reached for his mace.

His men joined up with him, crashing into the ironborn. "Follow!" he yelled to his men, charging towards the second boat. His men would be wasted waiting for squids to jump from the boat. "You!" he pointed at a knight, "keep twenty knights and men-at-arms with you. Push the boat if you can, kill if you can't." Without waiting to see if his order was followed, he charged off.

His mace was heavy in his hand, but he held it stoutly. These men had time to form up, if slightly, but he turned his horse to their left and rounded on their flanks. An archer aboard the ship noticed and tried launching a volley at his horse, but the barding and his plate blocked it. The Ironmen, most of whom were waiting for the charging wedge of knights, didn't notice Jaime's band until it was too late. He swung his mace hard and got a man in his helm, a spike crashing through but his helm caved in quickly. Jaime pulled it out as quickly as he could before giving a terrible backswing to another man before another knight stabbed him through the throat. Jaime wheeled his horse, the iron-shod hooves kicking outwards. A horse was just as much a weapon as the man who rode him. 

He caught another man with his mace, then another. He wasn't sure how many he actually hit, but his arm grew tired. Through the din of battle, he heard a swarm of trumpets. What is a group of trumpeters called? He rode back as quickly as he could. That was a signal for more archers. "RIDE!" He swung hard with his mace and charged back to the castle. His men followed him. He turned to see his first group of men follow him, each split into groups of around a hundred men. Three of the longships were already drifting back out, being shoved by his men. He shouted though he doubts they could hear him and rode back."

Ser Davos felt honored. 

A year ago, he had been the captain of a small smuggling shift. A year before that, he had been knighted, and a year before that, he fled from warships. And now Davos, of the newly made House Seaworth, was a captain of the royal fleet. His new ship had been put into the advance guard, Lord Stannis claiming that he wanted his smuggler's eyes. He had avoided Lannisport, for the most part, but he was familiar with the western coast. There was Hellcove, Mermaid's Harbor, the sleeping lion just south of Lannisport. He didn't know it as well as Blackwater Bay and King's Landing, but he was familiar enough. 

Until... he saw a sail.

Davos would not be surprised if half a hundred smugglers were scattered between the coves between Fair Isle and Lannisport, but none would be so stupid to approach warships, or so he thought. But... maybe they weren't smugglers. He gestured to his navigator to look towards the cove. The younger man, Addam, had better eyes than Davos and was able to see the sails far better than his captain. "What is that device, on that flag."

"It looks to me to be a... uh, I think it's a horn. A red horn on black." A red horn on black... Davos didn't know that sigil. Lord Velaryon no doubt did, but his Master of Tides was far ahead of Davos' ship. "Is that a Westerlands house, ser?"

"I'm not sure... not from Lannisport or Fair Castle, but maybe from another-"

"What's that captain?"

"Gods be good, get down!"

A flaming projectile flew overhead, before rebounding with a terrible crash in the water. Davos stood their mute. They just shot us! He stood there as another launched, then another, and another. A splash rocked the boat, and Davos regained focus. "Oarmaster! Beat out a charge! Hold the line!"

His ship, Onion Eater, was in the second of three lines, with three ships to his starboard and another, Squall-Eater, to his port side. Dum-dum, dum-dum, dum-dum, the drum sounded. He heard a trumpet blast to the bow, as Velaryon sped to battle. He heard a shout bounced from ship to ship "Silverfish! Return!" He joined the shout, yelling at the stern. Silverfish was a modified carrick, equipped with a hundred oars. The wind had been blowing south-east, so the incredible speed of Silverfish would be slowed due to tacking. But she was given orders to sail back as quickly as possible if combat was met. 

But when Davos turned to watch Silverfish, he saw more ships. Mayhaps as many as forty longships were spilling south of them from coves off of Fair Isle. And more flaming balls were launched from the south, though he thought that only one in seven could launch. Still, that was more than enough to cripple the advance guard. 

Jaime watched as another volley of arrows launched towards the shore. He'd had, six, maybe seven sorties, but gods be good, they kept coming. The strand, for almost three miles, was covered with the wrecks of longships and dead bodies. More arrows flew, this time he watched as they struck men, their legs simply giving out. Jason Mallister had ordered the sorties to stop, with the sun setting the Rivermen could barely see ahead when they charged, now it was for the archers and ballista to do damage. He held the pommel of a longsword and noticed that the hilt was different.

When did I get this sword? It was shorter than the one he had started the day with. When did I lose my first sword? He didn't have his mace either. The ironborn drums had stopped though, which was nice, he had begun to get a headache. He rubbed his chin, prickling his fingers with his short beard. I should probably shave... it'd piss off Lyanna though. "Lord Mallister?"

Lord Jason, who had been staring intently out at sea, turned to look at Jaime. "Ser?"

"How many Ironborn are there?"

He chewed his lip as his brow crinkled. "Maybe sixty, seventy thousand on the islands, less than twenty thousand soldiers. Why?"

Jaime grimaced, "I feel like we've depopulated them a great deal."

Mallister exhaled in a way that meant he was amused. "I fear not, though we've done our damndest. Do you see that large ship?" Mallister pointed out towards a large ship out at sea. "That's Drowned Demigod, a war dromond. I saw a similar one in my youth, Iron Victory. Four levels, over two hundred oarsmen, each one with an 8 hour shifts. That means about six hundred oarsmen, with even more warriors. When that ship sinks, we've won." There was a silence, before Jaime spoke up. "Than let's sink it."

"Beg your pardon?"

"Ships sink, my lord. And they burn too. And I know sailors, they like to drink. And strong alcohol burns."

The craggy face of Jason Mallister smiled. "What's your plan?"

"My lord, the Lord Velaryon hasn't returned."

Stannis grit his teeth. "I am aware." He couldn't wait another day. "Command lord Redwyn to prepare his lines for battle. He'll come after mine. We'll sail at dawn."

Chapter Text

The Ironborn had stopped their raids a little after twilight, and the sea was silent. Well, as silent as it could be. Waves still thundered against the closed Seagate, but all Jaime could hear was the muffled sound of the oars. They sailed past a series of ruined ships. He could count five from his view, but he knew there were more. He hoped no one on there could see them.

Not that he expected them to see, even if those ships were populated. Their little skiff was painted black and heaped with driftwood and broken wooden boards. The skiff looked like little more than another driftwood bundle. Which was the goal, after all. Even still, Mallister had been careful. A smuggler from Mallister's dungeons was given command of the little skiff, and it had been his idea to add the driftwood covers. 

Jaime had only four men with him, ignoring the smuggler. One was a northern Men-At-Arms, half-mad by all accounts. Another was Hosteen Frey, an idiot though strong, who'd brought one of his men-at-arms with them. The last was Patreck Mallister. He would've preferred to not bring him, but he had insisted. He had told Lord Jason that Patreck was too young, still a squire, and not even sixteen. But he'd relented, stupidly. 

The little ship moved slowly, more drifting than rowing, now that they were between ships.  Drowned Demigod  was easy to find, however. It towered over the ships around it, with its two decks of oars. No oarsmen were present, however. Though the battle was not won, he could hear the sounds of music and feasting from atop the boat. 

"They think they've won," he whispered to the young squire. "let's show them how wrong they are." The little skiff drifted closer until they were directly beneath where an oar would be, though it was pulled in for the night. "Hosteen," Jaime gestured, and the bigger man grunted. He bent near the edge, allowing Jaime to clamber into the ship. 

It was dark, illuminated by a single shuttered lantern. It rocked with the ship, sending shadows about. Jaime looked around, not seeing anyone in the room with him. He reached back, lifting in Patrek, than the two men at arms, and last, and certainly least, Hosteen. "Stay here," he whispered to the smuggler, tossing him a golden dragon, "there are more coming."

Hosteen unhooked the lantern, holding it above his head to spread light in the room. There were seats for oarsmen, fifty on both sides, and two ladders, one leading up and tother down. And a drunk sailor passed out on a stool, his halberd across his knees. Jaime held a finger up to his lips and crept forward.

The man snored loudly, his eyes never opening, not even when Jaime's dagger went through his throat. But in his final death twitches, his axe clattered to the ground. Jaime froze, and he could feel Patreck suck in his breath. They stood still, hardly daring to breathe.

But no sound of alarm was raised. Only the playing of a lute and the banging of the drums could be heard. Jaime gestured to go down, and lead the way down the ladder. 

This floor was guardless, no doubt the captain didn't trust his crew. Hosteen held the lantern down, the laughing lion leading the way down. He found casks of ham, wine, and... "gods be good."

Patreck moved up behind him, "what is it?" The squire was trying to look over Jaime's shoulders but too short to do so properly.

"Wildfire. How in seven hells do they have wildfire?"

"Doesn't matter," the northern man at arms said, "we're here to burn this ship, and pyromancer's piss makes it better. Now how do we set this up so we don't all burn?"

Before Jaime could respond, the squire responded, "ropes covered in tar, they burn. And there should be some down here." 

"Good on you, lad," Jaime clapped him on the shoulder, "let's find some."

Jason Mallister thought the plan was stupid. Destroying the flagship would be instrumental, but not certain. But Patreck was fond of the plan, and his master at arms had concurred, even still-

He could see a thin line of fire out in the bay, beneath the hulking shape of  the Drowned Demigod.  And seconds later, that line began traveling up. Less than twenty seconds later he heard, even from the booming tower, a  woosh.

And seconds later, a torrent of jade flame. A flaming barrel careened into the sky, smashing into the water with a high blast of water, followed by the barrel smashing and launching flame logs into the air. The emerald flame spread across the water, touching the other ships nearby, and they two caught flame. 

And soon, half the fleet was ablaze. The ships closest to the shore were stuck, as the tide pulled the burning hulks closer to them. The others furiously attempted to sail away. And, moving swiftly, there was a small skiff with burning deadwood, before being tossed into the sea.