A Soldier Adrift: Captain Westeros

It took long moments for Arthur to react, and in that time Jaime gained precious distance. By the time the sound of his bootsteps began to sound out in pursuit, Jaime was already turning the corner ahead, skidding on the stone. His legs pumped as fast as he could make them, and he could feel his pulse hammering in his face. His bloodied sword was still out, hampering him, but he dared not slow to sheath it, and he couldn’t throw it away - he was going to need it.

Walls and doors and tapestries blurred past him, and a servant yelped as Jaime almost bowled him over, dropping the tray he was carrying. He offered up a prayer of thanks for the time he had spent exploring the Keep, hardly having to think about which path to follow as he got closer and closer to the exit that would take him to the main yard. Behind him, he heard a clatter, Arthur kicking the servant’s dropped tray as he sprinted. He didn’t bother to look back over his shoulder. He knew what he would see.

There was a suit of black and red armour ahead on display, and Jaimed slowed just enough to pull it over, sending it crashing onto the floor. A turn down a side passage and then he was cutting through a guard room - empty, he was lucky - when he heard Arthur vaulting over the armour, and he had to slow to unbolt and open the far door - faster, move move move - and there was a prickling on his back as he felt Arthur getting closer, could feel the sword rising behind him, but then the door was open and he was through to the outside. He burst from a side building into the main yard of the Red Keep, head on a swivel, eyes twitching from side to side as he sought desperately for his target.

There was a cluster of horses over by the main gate. Why they had been left out in the open and not taken to the stables he couldn’t say, but he had little time to care, not when he saw the figure struggling to mount one of them. Belis.

He was a tall, gangly figure, and despite his incompetence he was able to drag himself into the saddle just in time to see Jaime charging across the yard towards him, sword drawn and bloody. Pale eyes widened and the pyromancer flinched away - but then he remembered he was on a horse. Heels were driven into its flanks, and the horse began to move, clumsily turned towards the open gates, but no matter the quality of its rider, there was still no way Jaime could outrun it. Bile and fear began to rise in his throat at the thought of failure, and his free hand scrabbled desperately at his hip for his dagger, no matter that he was far too distant.

But then the horse stopped.

Belis kicked at his mount’s flanks, but it refused to so much as budge. The rising relief that the alchemist had been feeling turned to horror, and it was writ plainly on his face as he looked over his shoulder to see Jaime still charging towards him.

Jaime took no risks, not when the horse could change its mind at any moment, not when he heard the door behind him slam open again. The skill that Ser Sumner had chastised him for wasting time on proved its worth, and Belis let out a high, agonised yelp as his dagger sprouted from his back. The alchemist writhed in pain, trying in vain to reach for the knife, but that only made the pain worse. He jerked and fell from the saddle, landing heavily on the ground, but Jaime had no more time for the man. Not with Arthur already upon him.

Three exchanges rang out before Jaime could do more than turn, still bleeding off the momentum of his mad dash, sabatons sliding across the stone of the courtyard. Arthur’s face was still and grim as he pressed down at him, their blades locked at neck level. He said nothing, only pressed against his guard, but the darkness of his eyes spoke volumes.

Jaime gave ground suddenly, twisting to the side. Contesting Arthur strength to strength would just see him die tired, and he struck at his elbow as the larger knight pushed forward. It was met with ease, the sudden give not even making Arthur come close to stumbling, and then Jaime was on the backfoot, ducking under a cut that would have sent him reeling. It was all he could do to threaten a riposte, and the yard rang with the sound of steel on steel as the two knights in white dueled their way across it.

Steady breaths, steady footwork, and tightly leashed panic were all that kept him alive as he continued to retreat, turning aside thrusts and blows that would have meant the beginning of the end if even a single one had landed. The breathing he had been taught by Ser Barristan, the footwork by the very man trying his best to kill him, but the panic was all him, and it lent him speed as he parried a cut that sought his neck. He cursed Aerys, finding a petty reason to add to the high walls of his hate for the man; paranoia had seen him demand his Kingsguard wear open faced helms for fear of infiltrators, and in that moment he would have given all the gold of Casterly Rock for a visor.

Another high stroke meant to open his guard for a follow up, but this time Jaime was struck by inspiration. He ignored the form that his body sought to follow, instead parrying the stroke poorly and accepting the blow to his pauldron. Then, he locked Arthur’s blade against his gorget and used a move he had learned by being a practice dummy for a bastard girl. His palm hit the outside of Arthur’s elbow, seeking to break it.

Arthur moved like molten gold, flowing from his hard stance into something liquid, and Jaime found himself without leverage. He tried to step back, to gain space to find the rhythm again, but that was a mistake, and the last thing he saw was a white flash, and then he only knew blinding pain.

There was no escaping or ignoring it, and Jaime staggered back, sword held uselessly in guard as death came for him…but the heartbeats stretched out, and no killing blow came.

Jaime forced one eye open, head tilted back and to the side in a useless attempt to mitigate the pain, hands gripped far too tightly around the hilt of his sword. His mind was consumed by pain, a line from brow to cheek and through his nose driving all thought from him, all save for his focus on the figure before him. He couldn’t make out the expression on his face, but he could see the sword, red on white, held low and ready.

Arthur stepped forward, and Jaime skittered back, too quick, too tense, too distracted by the pain radiating out from his head. The other man stopped, doing nothing, only staring him down. Jaime felt a fury building in him, at the circumstance, at the delay, was it a taunt, he couldn’t get his other eye open why-

A pained wheeze interrupted the moment. “Help me,” Belis called weakly, still laying on the stone. “Please.”

Jaime couldn’t see him, one eye screwed shut with the feel of blood trailing over it and the other fixed on Arthur, but he could hear the pain in his voice. He hoped it was worse than his own, it was only deserved, why was Arthur still staring at him-

“Help me!” Belis shouted, demanding his time, his breath catching from the pain of the effort. “The King commanded you!”

“The King,” Arthur said, not even bothering to look at the man, “commanded me to escort the Lord Hand, and to cut down any who sought to stop him.”

The fury Jaime had felt before stuttered and faltered at the words. He stared, one eyed, at the man who had knighted him. Then it came roaring back, hot enough to drown out the pain he felt, even if only for a moment, and he felt his lips curling back from his teeth. “That’s your answer?” he asked. His voice surprised himself, strangled and harsh, but he kept going. “You’ve cut me down, so that’s your duty done?” Every word made the pain worse, but he forced it aside, intent on Arthur.

“I am bound to do as the King commanded.”

“Fuck you,” Jaime said. A laugh bubbled up from his chest, and there was nothing in it but pain. “Fuck you! You know that’s not what he meant. Do your duty, Arthur! Take up the torch! Burn them all!”

The Kingsguard leaned back, sword falling out of its low guard, but he said nothing. There was a splatter of red on his shoulder, Jaime’s blood staining the white cloak.

“This is where - you listen to Aerys rape the Queen and do nothing, but this is where - you fuck - I looked up to you!” Jaime was shouting now, making little sense to his own ears, frustration and rage and fear boiling out from where he had kept it all buried for so long. The pain was getting worse, his head throbbing unbearably, and his blade was growing heavy, too heavy to keep in guard. Its tip fell, and Jaime staggered, catching himself with it, forced to use it as support.

Still Arthur said nothing, and Jaime felt his hate sharpen, felt the need to make him hurt.

“Do you think Rhaegar is still alive?” he asked, even as he slumped further, knees hitting the stone heavily, hands held tight to the hilt of his sword. “Hightower always said how much worse city fighting is - how much time have you wasted here when you could have been going to him?”

For all that his vision was starting to blur from the pain, the way Arthur shifted couldn’t be missed, and Jaime twisted the knife. He could feel blood dripping from his chin.

“Do you think some Dornish smallfolk has beaten in his face with a rock yet?”

It was the final straw. Arthur turned for the horses nearby, intent plain, and Jaime watched him go. Arthur took the reins of the horses that Belis had thought to use, mounting up smoothly. He didn’t leave, though. He stopped, staring at the small herd of horses for a long moment. Whatever gave him pause Jaime couldn’t tell, and it didn’t seem to matter, because then Arthur was touching his heels to the mount and it was trotting away, out through the gates and into the city.

The fury was fading, and as it did the pain rose anew, drowning out everything else. Jaime sagged forward, shoulder pressing into his sword. He could hardly see the ground in front of him, and the only sound was his ragged breathing. The pain was too much-

The Woman Who Rides Like a Man II

The brute was strong, and he wielded his blade with a speed and ease that belied its size. Kel could see all too clearly how he had cut his way through Yorick’s squad and the false guards. She bent over backwards to avoid a sweeping blow, mirroring a move of Steve’s that no one ever expected. The swipe connected with the stone wall, clanging harshly and setting the foe’s hands to juddering. Glaive planted in support, she lashed out with a high kick, catching the villain in the chin - his sword still ringing in his hands, he walked right into it, the opening made by her unusual dodge a lie. By the time he had recovered, she was back on her feet, the blade of her glaive held forward and low.

The brute was strong, and on another day in another place she might be concerned, but on that day, in that place, she had faith.

He grunted at the blow, shaking his head. He touched his free hand to his chin, and his eyes widened as he saw red. “You tricky fucking-”

Kel didn’t deign to listen to him. Her grip was smooth as she slid one hand back along her glaive, making a short quarter cut across his wounded leg. It didn’t slice through the chausses, but it did hurt him, and animal instinct had him spring back. The stain on his tabard was spreading.

There was no distraction this time, rage pushing him forward, and even if each step was near a limp, Kel still had to move quickly to ward him off. She retreated down the hall, poking at his good side, forcing him to lead with his injured leg. A tapestry fell victim to a wide swipe, sword sparking as it dragged along the wall as he tried to batter her down. Kel was not in the habit of looking down on others, but she thought little of whoever had trained the man. She used the man’s own strength against him as she diverted it, leaving him open to another slash to his wounded leg.

Again he sprang back, and he glowered at her. He had finally learnt to guard his injury, but he only proved his inexperience. He was not used to being pushed in a fight, had likely never even fought at a disadvantage, and Kel punished him for it. A feint at his leg saw him set to meet it, but she was already stabbing out at his face.

Only the snap of his head to the side saved him, faster than a man his size had any right to be. Instead of lancing her glaive through the bridge of his nose she scored a line along one cheek and through his ear

“CUNT!” he bellowed, a stung beast. He lashed out again, one handed, even as his free hand was clapped to the side of his head.

The blow was turned aside with effort, but then she was backpedaling, the foe lunging towards her, ignoring the weakness of his leg or no longer feeling it through the rage. He began half swording, one hand on the hilt and the other part way up the blade of his sword, striking from above again and again. Each diverted blow set her arms to shuddering, and it was all she could do to lessen the abuse to her weapon, the chink in the blade left by Tarly’s Heartsbane lurking at the back of her mind. She could feel herself running out of hallway to retreat down.

He struck again, but this time he didn’t pull back for another, instead trying to turn it into a contest of strength. Kel locked her glaive in place with a foot at its base where it met the floor, but even with the extra leverage she felt herself straining. He grinned at her, almost face to face, and his breath was rank.

“My name is Gregor,” he said to her, teeth bared with the effort of pushing against her. “You’ll be screaming it soon.”

Kel gave him her best polite smile, one fit for any royal court of Yi Ti, and spat in his eye.

Gregor couldn’t help but flinch back, and Kel kicked him in the knee. The roar of pain he let out suggested it hurt, and he lashed out with a heavy fist, half blind. The blow would have knocked her senseless had it hit, but she was already stepping away, and it passed by harmlessly. The brute was blinking rapidly, trying to clear the spit from his eye, but even as he did so he was readying to half sword again, seeking to retake the advantage that would let him crush her. A quick glance showed her just how little room was left in the hall behind her. She set her stance, glaive poised and clearly ready to ward off his blows once more. Gregor grinned and obliged her, delivering a blow of such force that there was no lessening it, and her heart skipped a beat as she heard a sharp crack under the ring of steel on steel.

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But there was more to the glaive than its blade, and her plan would still work. She twisted, Gregor stumbling forward at the sudden give, her glaive spinning with her. Its iron shod butt struck true. Between her strength and the stumble forward, it hit his codpiece with enough force to leave it horribly dented, and a high keening shriek escaped from his throat. The blow had come at a cost, though, and now she was within arm’s reach.

He tried to grab her even as she pushed herself away. His face was a portrait of wrath and agony, veins bulging, face pale but forehead flushed. He abandoned his sword all together, stumbling forward with enormous hands outstretched and she scrambled back, avoiding his reach. He let himself fall against the wall, half bent in pain, and she took the chance to gain more distance - only to collide with the wall. They had reached the end of the hall. If he pinned her, she was dead.

She wouldn’t let him pin her.

There were paths open to her on each side, but she did not take them. The blade of her mother’s glaive was cracked, but she held it steady. The brute before her clutched at his groin, hateful glare promising pain, but she felt no fear. She turned side on, glaive set as if to receive a charge. Out of sight, one hand strayed to her rondel dagger.

The Soldier Who Would Save Them All III

The soldier stalked through the Godswood. Death and loss were no strangers to Steve, casualties a fact of war that he had long known. That knowledge didn’t make seeing the bodies of his men any easier, didn’t ease the pain that came with recognising corpses that he had joked with only that morning. What had brought them from the Sept to the Godswood he couldn’t know, but he could at least take some solace in the fact that they had fallen in a fight of their own choosing. He kept little Rhaenys held close, her head buried in the warmth of her cat; he was thankful at least that he had been able to bundle them up. The trail of death and blood that littered the woods wasn’t something she needed to see.

Nor was the growing darkness on his face. The trail of bodies, men he had taken up and trained and fought with over the war but also strangers in the black of the Targaryen guard, it all told a story - and a large part of the tale was the absence of any red embroidery on their uniforms, true or imitation. The open gates, the lack of Targaryen men, the two different groups of false guards - there were games being played, and it had cost Steve’s men their lives. He marked the players in his mind, even as he marked the fallen. They would not be allowed to hide behind thugs or deniable forces.

Many of the dead, his own and the false guards, had been cut down by the same large blade. Steve offered up a quick prayer, both for his men and for Elia, hoping against hope that they had bought her the time needed to escape from whoever had cut them down. He could only be thankful that he had chosen to bring Rhaenys to her mother - he would have been oblivious to it all until it was too late to make a difference. Maybe it already was.

Seeing Kai, Ric, and Yorick by the interior exit to the Godswood only made his jaw clench tighter. There was no time to stop and see to them, to give them some dignity where they had fallen, surrounded by the corpses of six false guards. He could only hasten his steps, following the direction that Yorick had given with his last breath.

Though the interior of the Keep was a maze no matter the section, bloody prints on the floor and the sound of combat in the air guided him on. He broke into a jog, and the sound of combat grew louder as his stride ate up the halls. Rhaenys whimpered softly, curling in on herself.

“No one can hurt you, Rhaenys,” Steve said to her, keeping his voice low. “I’ll stop anyone who tries.”

She didn’t look up, but she did quieten. Balerion licked at the tears on her cheeks, and Steve laid another charge at the feet of those who had sent their men into the Keep with ill intent. He’d be having words with them when all this was done.

A familiar shout amongst the clang and clamour had Steve start to run, slowing only to take corners and even then he used the walls to redirect himself rather than slow too much. When he reached the fighting, he took it all in with a glance.

It was Kel’s squad, fighting against another group of false Targaryen guards. They were holding the hallway, using their spears to keep the foemen back, but they were outnumbered, and already had wounded. They couldn’t hold forever.

It was Tymor who noticed him first, the stout knight standing at the rear of the squad, one arm clutched to his chest. He had a spear in the other that he was using to menace the enemy over the shoulders of his fellows. “Captain!” His face lit up with relief.

Steve was already moving towards them. With a child on his hip, he couldn’t afford to be gentle - but then Tymor’s next words stopped him.

“Kel went ahead, alone! She needs aid!”

Behind him, Ortys grabbed a foe’s spear, pulling him forward so he could be cracked across the head by Maynard, the strength of the once smith’s apprentice dropping him. The move cost Ortys, opening him to a stab to the shoulder that his armour only mostly blunted.

“We can hold them, Captain!” Tymor shouted, even as he tried to spear the enemy. “Go!”

If Kel had gone ahead alone, she would’ve had a good reason and known the danger - but he wasn’t going to follow after her without evening the odds for his men. He used his free hand to cover Rhaenys’ outer ear. “Make a hole!” he commanded, and his voice filled the hall.

There was no hesitation in following his order, the men squeezing against the walls even without knowing why. A moment later it became clear, as Steve pulled his hammer from its harness, cocked his arm back, and hurled it down the hallway like a javelin.

The quickest of the false guards was only just pushing forward into the apparent opening when the hammer took him in the chest, spike first. It pierced his cuirass, leaving it heavily dented, but it didn’t stop there. There was a crack as his head collided with the face of the man behind him, killing him, and then two more men were left battered and senseless as they were bowled over in turn. Shock and fear spread through the foe as they tried to comprehend what they had just seen, but they wouldn’t be given the time.

“FOR THE CAPTAIN AND THE WHITE STAR!” Tymor bellowed, hurling the spear he held and reaching for his war pick. His squadmates gave a wordless roar in answer, joining him in his charge.

Steve was already gone, rushing down the passage not blocked by fighting. The richness of the furnishings was a jarring contrast to the sound of fighting fading behind him, violence come to a place that was supposed to be too far above such things to be marred by it.

A great clamour of steel came from ahead, then a shout of effort and a wail of pain. Steve felt a fear take hold of his heart, and he turned another corner to find two armoured figures straining against each other. Both were unarmed - one was Kel, and she was pinned against the wall on the right by the other, a huge figure in poor armour. One hand was around her neck, outstretched so he could put his weight into it. There was a rondel dagger sticking out of his armpit, hampering him, and Kel had one knee raised high - not to get it between them so she could push him away, but so she could bring her sabaton down on his thigh, again and again. Kel’s own hands were at the man’s face, and Steve could see why he was wailing as he used his other hand to try and keep her from driving her thumb any deeper into his eye socket.

Half the distance was closed when Steve saw something come flying out of the passage behind the man who had to be Clegane. It was a glass vase, and it shattered against the back of his head, but it did nothing to distract him in the face of the digit rooting around in his eye socket. He gave up on strangling Kel, releasing his grip around her gorget, but only so he could punch her in the face. Her head snapped back, hitting the stone wall behind her, and Clegane drew back his fist to hit her again as her struggles lessened, dazed.

Steve got there first. With his precious cargo, his options were limited, but he was still able to kick the man in the side with the flat of his foot, sending him sprawling with a clang and a crunch of steel and bone.

A terrified cry came from his left. “Rhaenys!”

“Mama!”

The toddler started to squirm in his arms, desperate to see her mother, but Steve’s focus was still on the danger. Clegane was already trying to rise, despite all the punishment he had taken. Beside the bloody hole that was one eye, the dagger half buried in his armpit, and the crater in his side, there was a dent in the front of his chest piece, the snapped polearm on the ground hinting at how it happened, and the leg that Kel had been kicking was near soaked with blood.

Before Steve could hand Rhaenys off, Kel had pushed herself off the wall, turning unsteadily to stagger towards the rising enemy. She started to fall - but she wasn’t, only bending down to take up the half of her glaive that was closest, and then she was on Clegane, raising her broken glaive. It was the lower half, but that gave her no pause as she set about beating him with it, the ironshod half battering a raised arm out of the way before she started to bring it down on his head with brutally strong blows. It took three before the man collapsed, unmoving, but Kel gave him two more for good measure.

“Ser Steve?”

Steve turned to his left, taking in the woman who stood there properly. It was Princess Elia, dusky features wan with fear, but she seemed on the verge of lunging for her child, the armed and armoured man holding her be damned, and Steve was reminded of a mother at a small holdfast all the way back in the Reach when she had seen him holding her own child. He held Rhaenys out to her, and in an instant she was wrapped in her mother’s arms, bawling in relief. She had managed to free one arm from the blanket she was bundled in, and she was already clinging to Elia’s neck, her mother’s face buried in her hair. He gave them their moment, turning to Kel.

“Keladry, report,” he ordered. Somewhere, a baby was crying.

Kel was breathing heavily, hands resting on her knees and she raised her visor to reveal eyes wide and wild as adrenaline faded, but she straightened, stepping away from the still figure of Clegane as she answered him. “Enemies in the Keep. Yorick found their work in the Sept, sent word. We - we weren’t in time, but -” she paused to swallow, voice rasping. “I went ahead before he could get to the Princess.” She stilled, remembering. “My men-”

Rapid bootsteps came from behind him, and Steve turned with violent intent, but the men that rounded the corner were not foes. It was Jace that led the way, and Erik’s cousin Billy at his side, the courier and man-at-arms ready with their spears for any who got in their way, but relief quickly broke across their faces when they saw their captain and their squad leader. The rest quickly followed them, and a tension in Steve and Kel both eased as they counted and came up full, for all that Jace and Billy were the only ones without injury.

Steve turned back to his friend. “Did you get a name?” he asked.

“He called himself Gregor,” Kel said, a grimace crossing her face, like she had smelt something unpleasant.

“Think that’s his standard, or his lord’s?” Steve asked, looking towards the tabard on the corpse.

“If he was a knight, the one to make him was a poor judge of character,” Kel said. “He was…unchivalrous.”

The others had joined them, gathering around protectively. Their arrival had Elia draw back, wary, and Steve turned his attention to her.

“Princess Elia,” he said, “we are here to ensure the safety of you and your children. You will not be harmed.” She was wearing what probably passed for a casual dress amongst royalty, burnt orange cloth falling loosely to her elbows with slits in the sides, while the dress itself fell to her ankles.

“On whose word?” she asked, gaze flicking between them all, mistrustful.

“King Robert Baratheon,” Steve told her. She pulled back, half turning to put herself between them and her daughter. “Robert has given orders that none of you are to be harmed.”

“My son is Rhaegar’s heir,” Elia said. Her eyes were rimmed red, and an infant’s wail continued to echo down the hall.

“Your son is an innocent child, and I have made it clear where I stand,” Steve said. His tone left no room for doubt on his stance on the matter.

“Are the stories true?” she demanded. She was holding Rhaenys tightly, dark eyes suspicious.

“Which ones?” Steve asked. He couldn’t blame her for her fear, not when it was the lives of her children at stake and they had barely spoken to each other a handful of times over a year ago.

“They are,” Kel said before Elia could answer. “Steve may be the one man in this city you can trust.”

Elia watched Kel for a long moment, gaze flicking around the men gathered around them. She knew that it was not her choice that mattered, not truly, and she gave a bitter sigh. “It is surely not my husband,” she said, lips twisting. She took a deep breath. “I heard what you said. If not for you-” she stopped, shuddering, and bounced her daughter on her hip. “I will hold you to your word, Ser Knight.”

“We need to move,” Steve said. In another circumstance, he would have teased Kel over her reaction to Elia’s words. “The Keep is not secure, and there are at least two other factions with men here seeking your family.”

His words seemed to trigger something in Elia. “My uncle - when you found Rhaenys, did you-” she stopped, unable to ask.

Steve shook his head slowly. “Rhaenys had no guard when I found her.”

Grief crossed Elia’s face, but she pushed it away. “Where will you take us?”

“The Gold Cloak barracks closest to the Gate of the Gods,” Steve said. He checked the straps of his shield and found all as it should be. “My company is holding it, and whoever else is looking for you will have planned around the Red Keep, not the barracks.”

Elia nodded, swallowing. “I will fetch my son.” She turned and left, not letting go of her daughter.

“Injuries, sound off,” Steve ordered.

The men reported in, admitting to stab wounds and broken bones, but nothing that needed immediate attention. The foe had broken and fled rather than fight to the death, Steve’s intervention leaving them unwilling to fight on when the tide turned. Ortys had retrieved Steve’s hammer, and he handed it back, babying his shoulder, the spear wound bleeding only slightly.

“Something to outdo your brother’s,” Steve said to him, stowing his hammer back in its harness with a nod of thanks.

“He’ll say his is more handsome,” Ortys said.

“Yours was in defence of a princess though,” Steve pointed out. “Even a scar over the eye can’t match that.”

Ortys grinned, apparently agreeing. “Heh.”

There was one who hadn’t spoken up. “Kel?” Steve asked, looking over to where she was kneeling by the corpse.

There was a wet sound as she pulled her dagger free, then she looked up. She blinked at him, uncertain. “Yes?”

“Your injuries.”

“I am uninjured,” Kel said, but slowly, like she had to confirm it for herself.

“You took a nasty hit to the head,” Steve said.

“My helm protected me,” Kel said.

Steve eyed it. The visor was apparently undamaged despite the force of the blow, and he hadn’t seen more than a scuff on the back of it where her head had hit the wall. “Uh huh. No dizziness, no strange brightness?”

“No, ser.”

He would keep a close eye on her.

Elia returned, a child on each hip. “I am ready.”

“Would you like someone to…?” Steve asked, gesturing at her kids.

“No. I will hold them.” There was no give in her tone.

Once Kel had gathered up both parts of her glaive, there was nothing more keeping them, and they began to move. Elia was safely ensconced in their centre, giving directions to Steve as he led the way out of the Keep. They avoided the path they had taken on the way in as best they could. As much as he wanted to see to the fallen, getting the living out safely took priority. He would return once the battle was done and give them the burial they deserved, and heaven help anyone who interfered with them before then.

There were no more squads of false household guards to slow them, nor more knights searching for Targaryen children, and with Elia’s guidance they neared the exit to the Keep swiftly. Their horses were still where they had left them, but they were not alone in the yard. Two still bodies had joined them. One was a stranger, but the other was familiar, slumped and kneeling against his sword, and Steve felt a pit in his stomach as he hurried forwards, praying that he was wrong.

There was a deep wound carved across Jaime’s face, starting above one eye and finishing below the other, bisecting the bridge of his nose. The bleeding had stopped, but if it was because it had been staunched by the bloody cloak that now lay in his lap or because he was dead…

Steve put a hand on the kid’s shoulder. “Jaime?”

There was no response.

But then -

A rasping breath, and a jerk of a head. “Steve?”