A Season of Vagaries

A Season of Vagaries

Prologue

Steadfast beneath a blazing sun roams an interloper across a vast stretch of scrubland.

For a lengthy interim he walks presently the wildgrowth domains of the northern hinterlands of that region, heaths of red and tawny sand intermixed here and there with stubborn varietals of florae, tufts of switchgrass and tanglehead accompanied by cacti and skeletal trees, struggling toward the heavens against multitudes of boulders that seem belched carelessly to the earth by the gods. The fiery orb reaches its terminus in the sky as he pauses to rest beside a particularly sloping escarpment and then extracts from his pack a waterskin weathered with the scars of frequent use.

Everywhere wallows a naked heat. Swollen and omnipotent like an open forge seeking to smelt all living creation into bullion. He rests loosely with his back to the rockface, gulping down the near-boiling liquid from the skin. His armor almost burns his flesh where it meets the stone, but he pays it no mind. Already he has trekked an inscrutable mileage, relying on depleted rations scavenged from his fallen retinue and the suggestions of an ancient navigational instrument to sustain his pilgrimage through this alien sprawl of wilderness. Before he resumes in earnest, he binds the waterskin shut and opens his pack and peers within its contents before he stows the container atop them and secures the bag tight, sweat dribbling down his brow.

The yawing of the wasteland washes over him and a decrepit path he tracks offers the promise of some sense of civilization in permissible time if his calculations are correct, but he avoids walking the road directly, his eyelids folded three-quarters shut amidst the gusts of sand swirling all around.

In an untold time he comes soon upon a garrison of leather tents near the ruins of an old well. There appears no conscious presence at either. He paces past the scene at a trot but makes no effort to investigate, pacing onward with only two or three glances cast in its direction.

Another impromptu shelter happens upon him in the form of a large upcropping and he stops to rest a few more moments. His head feels heavy as an anvil. His empty stomach turns. Looking out, he sees high above the overlay of scrub a hulking buzzard trawling the firmament, a twicebent vector camouflaged almost entire against the glare of the raging sun with the veil of sand squall obscurant, almost imperceptible save the languid flap of its wings. The deathbird soars evenly for a long spell before taking upwards in rapid acceleration and then splitting direction to the reverse and sailing downward in an earthbound blitzkrieg. Black limbs folded against itself, the baldheaded vulture plummets at incredible speed and then unfurls them mere seconds from impact to equalize the corpus and send it reaping over the ground in perfect parallel suspension like some mortal embodiment of the ekranoplan, carrying steady until swooping even lower to spear the corpse of a goat from below a spiny bush and thereafter returning to the atmosphere with the carcass dangling meekly upon its talons.

Twilight begins to descend in the short hours to follow. The man wrestles all the while with a gaining anxiety. Dwindling sunlight burnishes the vastness of the arid world as he encounters a small grouping of hills perhaps an additional hundred feet removed from the road. When he climbs them after considerable effort he stops and bends at the waist to bolster his heaving torso, placing his hands upon his knees and then surveying the large valley below through panted breaths.

He spots them in the immediate.

At the center of the basin stand two figures, a young man with platinum hair and a young woman with curly tresses the shade of chestnuts, arguing back and forth with a fervency that sends his eyebrows soaring. They wear bizarre robes the style of which he has never seen. He glances about the environs for a few moments and then continues observing them, a hand resting idly upon the pommel of his sword. He cannot discern any particular words at this distance, but their gestures suggest an unmistakable familiarity. He watches them for a while longer until the young man abruptly turns his back, and the young woman falls to her knees in the dust, sobbing. The goldenhaired man’s heart wrenches involuntarily, a raw ache welling up inside his breast. He clenches his jaw before he begins to move downslope toward them.

They do not see him come. The young man simply stares out in the opposite direction, his arms crossed as he seemingly attempts to present the most self-indulgent pose humanly possible, while the young woman keeps her head buried in the crook of her elbow, her lissome shoulders trembling. They remain situated this way as he erases the distance with urgency.

Clinks from his armor give him away as he draws close, the young woman lifting her head then to look straight at the man with cervine and chocolate-colored eyes going wide.

Jaime cannot help himself as he halts a dozen yards away and casts his head toward the young man. “If you have a penchant for abusing women, I suggest you confine yourself to the Citadel."

The young man whirls around, reaching into the pocket of his strange robes and pulling out a long stick tapered to a point and leveling it at Jaime.

“Fuck!” he hisses before taking a step in the young woman’s direction, his gaze and the stick still directed toward Jaime. “Back up, you blasted cretin."

Jaime laughs. “You would command me on threat of a twig?”

The young woman’s eyes dart to the young man. “Draco—stop! Put that away."

“That’s precious, Granger,” the young man apparently named Draco replies. “Your mercy knows no limits. The fucker has a sword."

Jaime withdraws the aforementioned weapon from his scabbard with lightning quickness, the blade whistling an echo in the valley. “Aye,” Jaime says evenly. "And I know how to use it, too."

The young man snorts, stepping forward, and then his angulate face condenses. “Stow that medieval bullshit back where it came from."

“Please,” says the young woman, rising to her feet swiftly and looking to Jaime with a flick of her chin toward her companion. “He has very crude imitations of manners.” She takes a deep breath before going on. “I am Hermione Granger. Who are you?"

The young man looks at her with a sneer.

“What the fuck, Granger?"

Jaime keeps his gaze upon Hermione. “Wildly understated, it would seem. I am Jaime. Forgive any unintended impertinence, my lady, but are you well?”

"I am," she says, her eyes softening a touch. "At least physically.” She pauses, seemingly wrestling with something internally before swallowing and going on. “I’ll be honest—we are lost, sir. And as it seems as if we have few other options, can I ask you to show us the way out of here?"

Jaime considers this for a moment. “Depends on where you’re going."

Draco interjects. “What’s it to you?”

Hermione frowns but keeps her gaze on Jaime. “We’re not from this place, sir. If there is a town or something nearby, we just need a place to rest."

“There’s not a town for miles."

Her face grows unnervingly despondent at Jaime’s comment.

“How far until one? Doesn’t have to be a town—anything, anywhere with walls will do."

He looks her over and then turns to look at Draco.

“Stop pointing that fucking piece of wood at me."

Draco looks at him with contempt.

"Or what? You might cut me? I’d drop you before you even managed a swing."

Jaime’s nostrils flare. “By perhaps poking me in the eye?"

Draco’s eye’s slit before he swishes his wand through the air, a stream of raging fire emitting from the tip and filling the air before vanishing.

"I wouldn't recommend testing me."

Jaime’s eyes expand but he does not budge an inch. “Seven hells."

Hermione shakes her head.

"Draco, there’s no need. I think he gets it."

Draco shoots her a glance. “We’re probably in the Middle Ages, Granger. The man can’t understand anything but primitivity."

Jaime snorts. “I understand enough to know you’re a scared little whelp in a foreign place. If you keep talking the way you are, you will find yourself without a tongue. Perhaps then you might find someone who can actually tolerate you."

"You have no idea what you're messing with."

“I’ve killed enough sorcerers, witch-boy."

Hermione takes a step forward.

"Stop. Please. This isn't going to help anyone."

She looks toward Jaime, her eyes beseeching as she continues. “Sir, we have found ourselves in a difficult…predicament. If this land is your home, it is quite beautiful—ruggedness and all. Please, can you guide us to someplace quiet for the night? We will compensate you, if need be."

His eyes hold her own for some time and then he nods.

"It isn’t my home, nor is it remotely pretty. And I doubt you carry anything of value to me. But very well—I cannot just leave you stranded. It's getting dark and this is not a good place to camp. We must get to the base of the ridge before the light completely fades."

Hermione looks to Draco, her kind face shockingly imperious, and he sighs before returning his wand to his robe.

"Fine."

She looks back to Jaime and smiles gratefully, her cheeks aflame from the intensity of the sun.

"Thank you."

She follows after him as he begins walking, her hand continually brushing her forehead and sweeping back tendrils of hair blown about by the wind, the two young adults falling into a procession behind him. They trek together in a line through the wastes and toward the looming crag of the distant hills, Jaime leading and Hermione and Draco following behind.

As they reach another small valley and begin to cross it, Hermione pipes up.

“If it isn’t an imposition, sir, might I ask where you’re headed?”

He turns his head enough to glimpse her out of the corner of his eye. “Home.”

“Is it far from here?”

“On foot, yes. But I do not plan on roughing it once I’m free of the desert.”

She gestures to the rocky badlands around them. “Does this place have a name?”

He nods. “It’s called Dorne. We are nearing its northern borders, however. Beyond them lies the Reach, and my home is couple days ride from there.”

“I take it you did not come here for holiday.”

Jaime gazes to Draco coldly. “Rather astute. No, I had a purpose to the south. If my men and I had not been ambushed by sand-dwellers, I’d be very far from here at this moment.”

Hermione enjoins. “I’m sorry to hear that, sir. Were you injured?”

“Thankfully not, but my horse lacked the same good fortune.”

“My apologies. It was probably quite a good friend to you.”

“Indeed.”

They lapse into silence as they continue on, and roughly an hour later the last vestiges of sunlight are swallowed entirely by the horizon.

The three of them have not gone very far. Perhaps only eleven miles or so. Jaime escorts them to the bottom of the ridge, where there is a large flat stretch of hard-packed soil, and then leads them in a circuitous path around the base of the escarpment before they arrive at a small cave. There is a fire pit just beyond the entrance and the remains of a dead roast and a small pile of logs and twigs beside it, but the cave itself is clean and well-appointed. A simple bedroll is laid out near the entrance and the floor has been smoothed flat, with a few items of clothing piled up at the far end. Hermione pauses at the threshold, looking about the place and feeling a little uncomfortable at the idea of intruding upon someone's living space.

Jaime notes her expression. “No one has lived in this hole for some time.”

Draco peers past the both of them, his features contorted.

"Is there no other option?

Jaime walks into the cave. “No, princess. And sadly, there will be no one to fluff your imaginary pillow, either."

Draco makes a face before Hermione reaches over and grabs him by the wrist, dragging him inside and letting go just as quickly, a little surprised that he had not resisted.

"It's better than being out there, Malfoy."

His slate eyes raze her, but he remains quiet.

She kneels by the firepit, her fingers running along the stones surrounding the edge of it.

"Do you mind if I build a fire, sir? It will be cold tonight."

Jaime turns to look at her, his hand resting idly upon the hilt of his sword once more but more in an absent manner than preparedness. “A few steps ahead of me, but sure. Granted you know how."

Hermione smiles at him and rises to her feet, withdrawing a stick similar to her counterpart’s and whispering something too quiet to decipher as the pit bursts into flames, the tongues of fire licking the air before settling into a low glow.

“Impressive."

Hermione turns her head toward him. “It’s nothing, really."

He says nothing. Minutes later, she pipes up once more. “You wear armor. Are you a knight?”

“I belong to House Lannister—though I expect that means nothing to you."

Hermione stands and brushes off her pants.

"House Lannister,” she repeats, her head cocked slightly. “You come from a noble House?"

Draco scoffs.

Jaime ignores him, his attention on Hermione.

"It is what the Westerlands are known for, though my father is the head of the household, not I. You know of nobility, my lady?”

Her face contorts with an odd sheepishness before she lowers her gaze to the fire. “I am no aristocrat, sir, but yes, I am familiar."

Jaime chuckles before turning his sight upon Draco. “But he is, isn’t he?"

"I'm a Malfoy. You’re damn right I am."

Draco glares at Jaime for a moment before looking back at the fire.

Jaime curls his lip. “I’m sure that terrible sound carries weight in whatever place you hail from, but it is a foreign name to me. Based on your position, I’m guessing you don’t have an ounce of gold on you—welcome to life as a peasant, Draco Malfoy."

Hermione purses her lips, looking at Jaime with a stern expression. “Please, sir. We’re both very tired and confused."

"I can tell."

Jaime reaches his left hand inside his pack and withdraws the waterskin and the last of his rations.

"If you are hungry, feel free to share this food. It's not much. There’s water, too."

He hands the vittles and skin to Hermione before walking over to perch on a sizable rock near the fire, his expression pensive.

Draco moves over to Hermione and takes the water first, removing the top and gulping it down, then reaching over and grabbing a piece of meat and stuffing it in his mouth, chewing furiously and then swallowing.

"Thanks," he mumbles before reaching for another piece, and Hermione digs into her portion as well, eating more slowly than her companion.

Crackles emit from the fire as Jaime stares into it and he speaks. “You seem quite proud of your nobility, Malfoy. My family has more gold than the most powerful bank in the known world. I can tell you that it is a sickness—little more."

Hermione glances at him curiously but he does not notice.

“I assume your family has high standing, prominence,” continues Jaime, lifting his gaze to Draco. “Probably only been denied a handful of times in your life, hm?"

Draco chews his food and says nothing, his expression stony, and Hermione takes a sip of the water before passing it over to him, and he takes it and gulps down some more, his eyes locked with Jaime's.

Jaime’s face remains stolid. “Have you ever marched to war, little lord Malfoy?"

Draco sets the water down, his gaze shifting to the fire.

"I’ve fought, yes," he says quietly, his voice even.

"Ah, a surprise. Then you have seen death, no doubt."

"Yes."

“Killed, even."

Draco hesitates, his face warping slightly. “When necessitated."

"I see."

Jaime sits silent for a while, watching the flames lick the air. “I’ve seen more death and wanton bloodshed to last fifty lifetimes. It is a hell I am fortunate to avoid in my dreams most nights."

Hermione is watching him, her own eyes a little sad, and he shifts his gaze to her.

"And you? You claim not to be of nobility, but you speak with enough grace."

Hermione blinks a couple times before turning her head away from him.

"I'm not," she replies quietly. “I’m Muggleborn. It is too complex to try and articulate fully, but we have not been counted amongst the upper classes of our world."

Draco snorts, glancing at her before looking away, and Jaime studies her face a moment before nodding his head.

“I have nothing but respect for the dispossessed."

Hermione smiles, the corners of her eyes crinkling a little. “Does your House employ bonded laborers, sir?"

Jaime frowns slightly. “Yes."

"Then perhaps not as much as you believe."

"I am a knight, my lady. Until very recently, I held little sway over the affairs of my family. Still don’t, comparatively.”

Hermione cocks her head a little, her brows drawing together, and he goes on.

“I was Kingsguard, stationed many miles from our ancestral home. It is an ancient institution that spans the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms and is composed entirely of men sworn to the defense of the king. Or queen, when there is one.” He looks away a moment. "Kingsguard serve until their deaths."

She is looking at him, her gaze gentle but privately incensed. “How is that fair?"

He returns his gaze to her, a little taken aback.

"Fair, my lady?"

She nods, her eyes never leaving his.

"Yes. How is it fair for a man to have to forfeit his entire life to a single entity? Especially so young?"

Jaime considers this for a long moment before heaving a sigh.

"Some things are simply unfair, my lady."

"Just because the world lacks complete order doesn't mean we shouldn't strive to make things better where we can."

He falters, his face going slack a moment before setting firm. “No, no it doesn’t."

Draco rolls his eyes and lies down beside the fire, his arms folded beneath his head.

"Good, then,” states Hermione. “You said you were Kingsguard. Does that mean you left the service?"

“Aye. A very recent development. The king crossed my family one too many times.”

“Who is this king?”

“Robert,” says Jaime in return. “A slovenly oaf and a boor."

“Then why did you serve him?"

"As you said: it is far too complex to try and explain without boring you, my lady."

Hermione frowns at this, her brow knitting together. “You might be surprised, sir."

Jaime’s eyes sharpen. "What is the point of discussing something that cannot be changed?"

She considers this and then nods, her lips pursed. “It can be changed—and it has."

"What do you mean?"

She hesitates a moment, her expression pensive. “In the world from which we have traveled, they fought wars to abolish the construct of bondage. There are still issues, of course—but the law forbids a man from being bound in perpetuity against his will. And we have eradicated kings and queens, though some still exist in a purely ceremonial capacity."

Jaime is quiet, his eyes unkinking but his mouth drawn still in a tight line, and then he says, “I have served two kings, but I did not join the Kingsguard out of entirely free will, my lady, though I had been optimistic about it in the beginning. The first king, Aerys, demanded my service to spite my father, and I had no recourse in the after when I realized what I had lost." He stops a beat and then goes on. "I won’t pretend to understand how your world operates, but I can hardly conceive of such an arrangement as little more than fantasy.”

“I’m sorry.”

Jaime gives a small smile. “Yes, well, it’s behind me now.” He pokes the fire with a blackened stick before speaking again. “What do you do in this strange land of yours, my lady?"

Hermione's lips part in a half-smile. “I am an investigator for the government, sir. Trained in healing, too. I have studied the ways of magic for some time now.”

He is still watching her. “And him?"

Draco stirs but does not sit up. “I can fucking hear you."

Jaime ignores him, his stare not wavering from her.

Hermione looks over at Draco, her head tilted. “He is a financier. Until we were…transported here, he was assisting me in an investigation. If you’re wondering about the ‘nobility,’ his parents are very wealthy, both from long-standing families of great influence. His father has an estate in Wiltshire. The Manor, we call it."

Jaime laughs, a quick rasp. “Didn’t I suspect it?"

“Once again, the subject in question is present.”

Jaime doesn’t look toward Draco, staring at the fire once more.

Hermione’s eyes soften. “He was misled for most of his life, though the veil has begun to crumble.  The circumstances of his birth largely dictated the path of his life thus far, but he’s a different person than he was years ago."

"You defend him?"

"We have a great deal of history, sir."

Jaime does not reply, and she goes on.

“His family once held membership to a cabal of blood supremacists. I am his antithesis in almost every imaginable way. It was his fate to despise me—but I am stubborn, and he has become less of an enemy than he once was. In truth, he is more of an ally than anything else, though he may deny it."

She is staring into the flames, her fingers interlaced and her arms wrapped around her knees.

Draco sits up, his sharpcut face sagging. “Granger?"

Hermione glances at him, a sad smile on her lips.

"We’re in this together, Draco."

He does not respond, his countenance blank, and Jaime looks from one to the other, his own expression unreadable. Draco’s shoulders quake only once as his eyes close, and then he lies down again and turns away from them.

Hermione watches him a long moment before looking at Jaime and speaking in a voice scarcely above a whisper.

"I will watch for the remainder of the night. Please, get some rest."

“You’ll do no such thing,” states Jaime evenly, his own voice rawer than at any point before. “I can go without sleep, my lady."

Hermione lifts her chin in protest but her voice is small, almost timid.

"I know you can, sir. But I also know that you need it."

He swings his head toward her but stills as she holds the wand aloft.

She smiles. “I can protect us, sir."

He looks at her a long moment, his jaw working.

"Very well, then."

Jaime rises to his feet and walks past Hermione toward the interior of the cave, where he pulls out his bedroll and unfurls it and paces over to lay it at the young woman’s feet before retreating and peeling off his armor and then laying upon the bare stone, and she keeps her gaze upon him until he is still, her heart pounding so loud that it makes her feel dizzy, and then she turns her attention back to the endless dark outspreading from the place and watches for any signs of life.