A Soldier Adrift: Captain Westeros

The Son Who Would Be More II

The fighting was still spreading, and the chaotic edges of it were starting to draw near to the barracks. Most folk knew to keep their heads down and hope for the storm to pass them by, but the desperate and the unlucky had little choice in the matter. They could only flee. Flee, and pray.

From the walls of the barracks, Robin looked out over the city, face grim as he watched smoke rise from his neighbourhood. He spared a thought for his old neighbours, but there was no time to dwell on what could be happening to them. Not when that same horror was coming to them.

He wasn’t the only one on the walls, not nearly - their best slingers were spread out along it, and those who preferred the bow were up there too, his Da and brother amongst them. Walt was below, barking orders and not just at the company. The people Robin had escorted to safety were being put to work, moving and carrying. He could hear the sound of stones being broken down with hammers, and the two merchant’s daughters were carrying buckets of arrows up to the wall. Walt was acting like they were expecting an army to wash over them, and the closer the signs of battle and skirmishing got to them, the more Robin couldn’t help but think he was right.

Robin plucked at his bowstring, unable to suppress the nerves. Riding through the city had been one thing, he’d had a goal, but now that his family was safe and there was nothing to do but wait…he plucked at his bowstring again, one foot tapping. To distract himself, he looked out over the streets. Around the barracks there was a wide space - too small to be called a square, but much wider than the streets - that would normally see constant flows of people going this way and that. On that day, though, it was empty, and Robin’s mind kept conjuring images of Dornish or Westerland soldiers swarming across it to attack them. He knew why Steve had decided to take the barracks, agreed with it even, but he couldn’t help but wish they were all back at the gatehouse with Beron.

Movement across the way caught his eye, a figure rushing out from a side alley, almost falling as they sought to turn, something heavy in his arms. It was a child, clutching tightly at the shoulders of the man carrying them, face buried in his neck. The man was sprinting on down the street now, heading towards the barracks, and a breath later Robin saw why.

Three men emerged from the same alley the first had come from. They were soldiers, wearing the tabards of some noble or another. They were fixed on the man and his child, and despite the armour they wore, they were gaining.

Robin had nocked and drawn an arrow before he realised what he was doing. For a moment he paused, but only long enough to be sure of what he was seeing. The fastest soldier was wearing a gorget, so he shot him in the face. He collapsed bonelessly, tumbling along the dusty stone ground.

“Open the gate!” Robin hollered down. “Quickly!”

At the sight of the opening gates, the man found new strength, legs pumping as he clutched his daughter to his chest. He was out of the street and into the open space around the barracks, eyes wide and nostrils flared, feeling his pursuers gaining.

Down the wall, a slinger - it was Willem - was spinning their sling, and the redhead let their rock fly. It hit the next man in the shoulder, sending him staggering as he clutched at it. Already the two men were skidding to a stop as they realised what they had stumbled into, not wanting to be anywhere close to the open killing ground before the barracks. It was already too late.

“Don’t kill them, Harwin,” Robin said to the knight nearby. He was standing over the gates with his own bow drawn, next to Ren. “Just wound them.”

There was the buzz of an arrow, and Dale shot the already wounded man in the shoulder, the uninjured one this time. A moment later there was another twang, and Harwin put his arrow through the other man’s thigh, for all that his maille stopped it from going all the way through. Their screams echoed over the street.

Harwin shot him a questioning look.

“If there are more of them, their friends have to look after them,” Robin explained, watching as the two men hopped and struggled away, trying to get out of their reach. “That’s at least one man who can’t do anything else and we don’t have to shoot.”

“You enjoy the Captain’s lessons too much,” the tall knight said, clucking his tongue, like it was a bad habit. Robin only grinned at him.

Below, the gate was being closed, father and daughter safely inside. The man tried to collapse, sucking in great breaths, but another of the folk they’d rescued guided him out of the way of the company members gathered below, and into the shade of the barracks proper, hand on his shoulder. The helper didn’t linger, heading inside the barracks building. Shortly after, they returned with Ed, the blond villager having been helping Corivo to set up a triage room, and the doctor’s assistant began to check on the newcomer.

A murmur on the wall drew Robin’s attention back to where it should have been. From the alley that the trouble had come from, there was a knight peering out, clearly inspecting them despite his closed helm. His head shifted, back towards the alley, as if he was speaking with someone there.

“That would be the friends,” Harwin said, seeing the same thing.

“I think I could dome him from here,” Osric said, from Robin’s other side. He was rubbing at the faint scruff on his cheek, considering.

“No you couldn’t, cousin,” Ren said. Her tone turned leading. “I could, though.”

Friendly jeers rose in response, but Robin didn’t join them, not after what he’d just seen. Further along the street that led towards them, the same street that the man and his daughter had fled down, the same street that the alley with the knight was on, a group of folk had emerged. They were scurrying along, hunched, some carrying planks of wood, others hammers. Some bore injuries, and they were fixed on the barracks - they didn’t seem to notice the knight pulling his head back into the alley, only hurrying along carried by what had to be a desperate hope for sanctuary.

Robin looked back down into the yard; Walt wasn’t anywhere in sight. He looked back outside just in time to see the group of people pass by the alley entrance and realise it was occupied. There was a moment of shock and fear, a stutter of hesitation going through them. Then they were running. “There’s people coming!” he called in warning to those below who couldn’t see.

For a moment it seemed they would be let be, not worth the trouble, but then the knight reappeared from the alley, and a beat later his men followed, over a dozen of them, all with shields. It seemed they would swiftly catch them, forcing those on the walls to watch - but then the soldiers slowed, and Robin realised their goal.

The knight was too well armoured, his red and gold tabard covering plain but well made plate, so Robin turned his attention to his men, shooting one in the neck. Shields were raised and they sped up, closing on their prey so that they were chasing almost at their heels, using them as cover but not seizing them. The people kept fleeing, too panicked to realise or just uncaring that they were being used. He knew full well what the foes would do if they pinned them against the gates and they didn’t open.

Robin felt his jaw set. “Let them in!” he shouted down. He strung another arrow, the mob close enough now that the soldiers couldn’t hide behind them.

“They’re bait!” Harwin protested, even as he loosed an arrow of his own.

“What would the Captain say?!”

“Fuck!”

The men below hadn’t hesitated, and the doors began to swing open just in time for the small mob to reach it and rush through. The group of enemies were right on their heels, bearing naked steel and a hunger to use it. They slowed only enough to tighten their group as they passed under the walls.

An old man stepped out from the cover of one side as they did. He had a sword at his hip and a brick in his hand, and the brick cratered the visor of the knight’s helm, dropping him like a sack of flour. The pack of men behind him switched their attention mid stride from the fleeing smallfolk to the old soldier, but that only left them off balance when Humfrey, Hugo, and Henry emerged from the other side and bodily tackled them. The three men who had spent a year wrestling a super soldier broke the wave of men, leaving them easy pickings for the lunging spears of Humfrey and Henry’s squads. Rondel daggers flashed red as the ambushed and unprepared men were swarmed and brought down, utterly taken off guard. They might have fancied themselves a match for the Gold Cloaks that should have been present, but what they found was a different beast.

Walt had finished beating the knight with his brick, casting the bloodied thing aside as he rose. He spat down at the dead knight, disgust and contempt on his face, and then turned to the newcomers. “Drag these bodies out of the way, and then find a way to be useful,” he said, casting a gimlet eye over them. “If you’re proper hurt, we’ve got a healer in the building.” He headed for the stairs that led up the wall.

The group looked to be labourers, tough men who would work all day and then drink well into the evening before doing it all again the next day, the kind of men that Robin wouldn’t have made eye contact with when he used to run errands for his Da. As one, they nodded at Walt’s orders and set about the bodies, dragging them away.

It didn’t take long for Walt to join them on the wall, looking out over the city. “Your call, Longstride?” he asked.

Robin nodded, feeling a shiver as his pulse slowed after the fight. “Yeah. Lucky you had Henry and Humfrey’s squads at the ready.”

“Lucky for that lot, aye, or you wouldn’t’ve been able to make the call,” Walt said, after a moment. “If there’s any more-” he paused, squinting as he looked across the way. “The fuck’s this, then.”

From another street, a figure emerged, looking this way and that. It was a knight, and he was hurrying towards them, spurs jingling with every step. He was missing his helm, and something about him was familiar, but Robin struggled to place him as he came to a stop below the wall, glaring up with a face that was red from either exertion or fury.

“Let me in you lowborn fucks!” the man screamed up at them. “I am Lord Longwaters! Open the gates or I’ll have you all flogged!”

Robin felt his lip curl; now he remembered. He was one of the nobles that had thought so highly of themselves at Harrenhal, who had confronted them at the feast before Steve taught them better.

“Longwaters, you say?” Walt asked. Something about his tone had Robin’s ears prick up.

“Yes!” Longwaters screeched back, his silver blond hair slick with sweat and plastered against his face. “In the name of the King, let me in!”

Walt gave the signal, already making for the stairs. There was a moment of hesitation from those below, of uncertainty, but they quickly set about it, moving to the gates. When Longwaters pushed his way through the still opening doors, Walt was already down there waiting to greet him. His polite look of attention had those nearby who knew him sharing wide eyed looks and doing their best to split their attention between the outside and the scene unfolding below.

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“The name’s Walt. I’m a smallfolk from a small village in the Vale,” he said, companionable as he led Longwaters through the gates.

Longwaters gave him a contemptuous look. “Where is your lord? I will speak with him.” He strode forward, chin held high.

“Of course, m’lord, of course,” Walt said, nodding as he fell in beside the noble. “Before I fetch him, I just wanted to let you know that you’re a pissy pants little bitch from a long line of men who get hard for pigs and spread their cheeks for horses.”

For a long moment Longwaters didn’t respond, just kept striding along beside Walt as his brain struggled to accept what he had heard. He stopped suddenly. “What did you say to me??”

“I said you look like the kind of man who would spend a week as a Lyseni brothel boy just for the chance to suck at Aerys’ taint,” Walt said easily. “I said I can still smell the seed on your breath from the Dornishmen you serviced so they’d spare your life. I said-”

Longwaters howled, swinging wildly for Walt’s face, but the old soldier was waiting for it. He turned, letting the blow breeze by, and in the same moment, kicked the noble in the knee. Longwaters staggered back, cursing in pain. His sword rang free from his sheath, and he pointed it at Walt.

“You’ll die painfully for your insults,” he tried to growl, though it was lessened by the way he was trying to keep his weight off one leg.

Walt answered by drawing his own sword, the steel seeming to flow as it cleared its sheath. “Mine’s bigger,” he said, grinning now, a mirthless, taunting thing. “You’d be used to hearing that though, yeah?”

Longwaters gaped at the Valyrian steel blade, more stunned by the dark grey rippling on the metal than the insults that had been thrown at him.

“Come on then, Lord Bitchwaters,” Walt said, tone friendly and expression encouraging. Robin wasn’t alone in feeling a shudder at how out of place it looked on him.

Longwaters let out a howl that he might have thought intimidating, leading with a cut at Walt’s throat. Awkwardly, Walt parried it, his sword cutting into the blade, and that was the end of any swordplay. Using the bitten in blade, Walt twisted Longwaters’ weapon from his grip, a dagger already in his free hand. Then, he set about brutalising the Crownland knight.

“Seven Above, Walt,” someone murmured.

“Does he have a grudge against knights?” someone else asked, alarmed.

“Longwaters was rude to Toby once,” Robin said faintly. He looked back over the wall, but there was no movement, and he turned back to the scene below, unable to look away as Walt bore Longwaters to the ground. “But I don’t think-”

A shrill scream cut him off as Walt cut Longwaters’ ear off, before it was cut short by the grizzled soldier shoving it down his throat.

“You won’t remember me,” Walt said, conversational as he leaned over the downed nobleman, holding his jaw closed, “and truth be told, you never wronged me. But I know what you got away with during the war, an’ I always regretted not telling you how I felt about that.” Pained moans were abruptly cut short by a dagger through the throat, replaced by frantic choking. “Anyway, you won’t be missed. You gobshite.”

Walt spent a moment to catch his breath, then got back to his feet, wiping flecks of blood from his face, but mostly succeeding in staining his salt and pepper beard further. Something made him look up, and he saw most of the wall looking back down at him. “What?” he asked.

There was a pause, as no one seemed to want to be first to speak. Even those down on the ground with him were hesitant.

Harwin was the one to do it. “Hey Walt, why don’t we just call it even on that latrine duty you owe me.”

Scattered laughs rose over the walls.

Walt scoffed as he stepped away from his still weakly twitching victim. “And let you lord it over me forever? Not likely,” he said.

“It wouldn’t be forever,” Harwin said, something in his tone suggesting that it very much would be.

One of the labourers came over to drag Longwaters away as he finished dying, adding his corpse to the others.

“Uh huh,” Walt said, giving Harwin a stink eye. “Back to work you lot, eyes front. Don’t you know there’s a battle going on out there?”

Those on the walls turned back outwards, wary of the empty streets, but Robin watched as Walt picked up the sword that he had been entrusted with from the dirt. Henry had to help him wrench it free from Longwaters’ blade, and they shared some joke that had those close enough to hear it wincing, even as they laughed.

Ren made a sound, pointing across the way - Robin didn’t know how Longwaters had missed the banner she held - and he followed her finger. The door to a house was slowly opening, and a moment later, a man peered out, still half hidden by the door. He looked back over his shoulder, and then back to the barracks - to the banner flying proudly over it.

He seemed to come to a decision, and a moment later, he was hurriedly crossing the way, someone closing the door behind him. He was middle aged, and near skittish as a deer as he approached, but his mouth was set in a hard line. When he arrived before the walls of the barracks block, he peered up at them.

“Is that the America banner?” he called, half turned, as if he could flee should his approach prove to be a mistake.

“Aye, it’s the white star of Lord America,” Ren answered. The banner pole was held steady against her shoulder.

“And…and does…” he hesitated, wetting lips that had gone dry with nerves. “Will you-”

“Yeah,” Robin said, leaning over the crenellations. “We will. No matter who tries to get at you and your family.”

The man nodded, losing some of his skittishness. “I’ll just-” and then he was hurrying back to his family, already gesturing towards his home for them to come.

There wasn’t a man or woman on the wall that day that didn’t feel proud to fight under the white star, seeing the scared and defenceless look to them for protection. The Captain wasn’t there with them, but they knew that he would be proud, and not a one of them would want to serve anyone else, no matter the king or great lord who offered.

The Boy Who Would Be a Knight II

Jaime stalked through stone halls, each step echoing in a way that surely spoke of his intent. If he had crossed paths with any guard or knight, they would know what he had done as quickly as looking at him, he knew it as surely as breathing. Even the eyes of the portraits seemed accusing.

The side passages that connected the larger structure of the Red Keep to the Great Hall lacked twists and side passages, but in exchange were full of stairs and corners. Few liked to use them unless duty or inclement weather forced them to, and Jaime had to strangle a sudden laugh at the thought that from a certain point of view, it was duty and the threat of inclement weather that drove him, too. He increased his pace. Even with the lead that Rossart had on him, he couldn’t be that far behind. On he went, taking the next narrow staircase three at a time, slowly but surely gaining.

Then he came to an intersection.

A lantern hung from the ceiling, casting a dull orange light on the red stone walls. He looked both ways, but there was no glimpse of a white cape swishing out of sight. He closed his eyes, but there was no distant sound of a faint footfall. He would have to guess.

Both paths would eventually lead outside. One was faster, but with more stairs. The other slower, but less arduous. He knew which one Rossart would choose - the alchemist spent more time poring over scrolls and brewing concoctions for Aerys than he did moving - but he also knew which one Arthur would always choose when he walked these ways. Would Arthur take the faster path, or would he allow Rossart to choose the slower? Would he want to carry out the King’s command as swiftly as he could, like all good Kingsguard, or do anything to delay what Jaime feared was coming?

Jaime had already spent too long deciding. He turned left, taking the easier path, and tried not to linger on his choice to trust in a man who had stood outside the royal apartments, who had heard what he had heard, but done nothing.

Down the halls he went, preceded by the echoes of his footsteps. Long minutes passed where he had no company save for his thoughts. He kept his mind on his goal, and tried not to think what might happen if he didn’t stop a pyromancer who had been given an order by the king to ‘burn them all’. He had seen what wildfire could do to a man when Aerys was only paranoid. He had no wish to see what Aerys had schemed when he felt threatened, but he could only imagine- he cut that line of thought off, trying to think of better things. He thought of simpler things, hunting bandits and training in the yard, of the cove below the Rock where he and Cersei could still swim together without fear of being seen or of censure.

He was almost startled when he caught up. Arthur had heard him coming and was turned to face him, hand on sword and blocking the way to Rossart in another intersection, this one a meeting of four paths. The tension in his face faded when he saw it was Jaime, but only for a moment, and he frowned.

“Jaime?” Arthur asked, looking past his shoulder as if expecting to see Aerys. “You have left your post.”

“His Grace changed his mind,” Jaime said. The fear and the nerves fell from his mind, stripped by the moment. His pulse was steady. “He commands that you join him in the royal apartments. I am to escort the Lord Hand.”

Arthur’s frown deepened. “The Holdfast? Who guards him now?”

“He took a hidden passage behind the throne that I have never seen before,” Jaime explained. He held out one hand, revealing the signet ring on his palm. “He bid me show you this as proof.”

“I see,” Arthur said, frown easing as his hand slipped away from the hilt of his sword. “Then…I will go to the Holdfast.” Despite his words, he gave no indication of leaving, only looking at Jaime. He opened his mouth to say something, only to close it a beat later. Behind him, Rossart shifted, impatient, and that seemed to spur him on. With a nod he was leaving, following the path that would lead deeper into the Keep.

“Come now,” Rossart said, beckoning him with a finger in the way a lord might a servant, already turning to continue on. “You must guard me as I carry out His Grace’s will.”

Jaime fell in beside the man, not because the upjumped smallfolk could command him, but because he needed to. He could simply kill him the moment he was sure they were out of Arthur’s earshot, but he wanted to be sure. “It’s wildfire, then?” he asked.

Rossart’s thick face fell into a disturbing smile. “The substance will cleanse all.”

A shudder worked its way up Jaime’s spine. He would face a battle without fear, but something about the green liquid that would burst into unholy flame at the slightest spark…it unnerved him. “His Grace planned for the arrival of the rebels,” Jaime guessed. “The gatehouses are trapped.” He knew too well how terribly wildfire burned. It would consume more than just the gatehouses.

“The gates, yes, but so much more,” Rossart said, almost dreamlike. “All will be cleansed.”

A terrible feeling began to brew in his stomach. “Where will I need to escort you?” he asked. Somehow, his pulse remained steady.

“There is a house near the Great Sept, and then to the Gate of the Gods,” Rossart said. He seemed to come back to himself, losing whatever aspect that made him so unnerving, reducing him back to a plain, yellow toothed man. “We had the luck to come across Wisdom Belis on our way, and he will see to the Dragonpit and the northern gates.”

The feeling in his gut bloomed into horror. So much wildfire. “And he’s the only other one you’ve told?” Jaime asked, somehow keeping his voice even. They were leaving the linking passages behind now, starting to pass into the higher levels of the Keep.

“Yes, I-” Rossart cut himself off, almost missing a step. He was staring at Jaime with a look of dawning terror. “No, I mean-”

Jaime took his head with a single clean stroke. A line of blood splattered along the wall as the Hand collapsed, his head bouncing along the floor, expression frozen in fear. “Belis,” he murmured to himself. If he was quick, he could catch him before he could leave the Keep. He couldn’t have gotten far. He looked down at the corpse he had made, and felt his lip curl with contempt.

There was movement in the corner of his eye, a shift of white, and Jaime turned to see the man who had knighted him, stopped still back the way they had come. His white armour was unmarked, his cloak pristine. He looked every inch the Kingsguard, the ideal that Jaime had once looked up to so much.

That time had passed.

The moment stretched out as Arthur continued to stare at him. First he didn’t understand, then he realised, then he denied. “What have you- why, Jaime?”

“Because I am a knight of Westeros and I swore an oath,” Jaime said, lifting his chin, ignoring the way his heart was threatening to jump out of his chest. His pulse was the farthest thing from steady. “And I will not let this cloak sully that.”

“The king didn’t give you his ring, did he.”

“No.”

Arthur finally accepted the proof before his eyes. He said nothing, Dawn speaking for him, and the famous white blade sang as it was pulled from its sheath.

Jaime didn’t try to persuade him. The time for words had passed. There was only one thing that mattered - not his honour, not his white cloak - and no one, not even the Sword of the Morning, would stop him from seeing it done.

The knight turned and fled.