Chapter I
Chapter I
When she comes to him in the middle of the night, he does not expect it. He lays with his eyes closed and his head upon his arms, his mind adrift somewhere between dreaming and wakefulness, and when she approaches him and kneels beside him, he opens his eyes and sees her there and does not say anything, only waits for her to speak. She stares at him, her brown eyes large and glistening like ponds, and he does not know what she is thinking or why she has come to him, only that she is very close and that her presence is both a comfort and the tiniest bit a torment.
He has not fully cast off sleep when he acknowledges her. “What is it, sweetling? Is there danger?"
Her face wrinkles in slight confusion but she shakes her head slowly, her eyes never leaving his.
"No. Not at the moment."
He does not ask her anything else, only staring back at her with a questioning gaze, and she lowers her eyes a moment before raising them back to his.
“It’s Draco. He’s having nightmares."
He can hear the young man now, muttering fiercely in his sleep. Jaime cocks his head and keeps his gaze upon her, his own mind adrift in a haze of irritation and weariness. “And that involves me how?”
His insensitivity rolls off her. “Why did you call me that?"
Her question startles him, his eyelids fluttering as if a breeze had just brushed them, and he frowns a little before speaking.
"I beg your pardon?"
“‘Sweetling.’”
He hesitates. “I…I do not know. My apologies."
She watches him, her expression thoughtful.
“Do you know how to soothe someone in his state?"
"No," says Jaime flatly.
She curses, and the muted exclamation is almost rattling. "Damn."
He says nothing.
She looks at him, her expression anxious.
"He won't wake. I'm worried he might hurt himself."
Jaime's features twist and he turns his head to the side and speaks quietly, his words coming out a little muffled. “Is he apoplectic?"
"He's been thrashing a bit," Hermione confirms with a nod. "He's had these fits for as long as I’ve been…traveling with him, but it's never gotten this bad."
"Do you know what he dreams of?"
"The Dark Lord," answers Hermione almost in the instant.
Jaime snorts. “Does he read children’s tales?"
"The Dark Lord was real, sir," she replies, her voice taking on a seriousness that is not quite stern but ventures close enough. “He was a despot and bloodthirsty monster. It was his will that drove us to war, drove Draco’s family to commit atrocities and many friends of mine to their deaths.”
She stops talking and lowers her gaze to the floor of the cave, and he stares at her for a long moment, and then he says, "My lady, please tell me more."
"Sir?"
"Tell me about this war."
"It would take much longer than the night, sir."
“My lady, please,” he repeats, his face sincere and oddly captured.
She looks at him a moment before she sits down crosslegged on the ground beside him, her knees touching the side of his thigh, and he can feel the heat from her body radiating into his own, and then she begins to speak, tone grim and withdrawn.
“The origins of the Dark Lord lie in the persecution of magical persons hundreds and hundreds of years ago. Like many tyrants, he took inspiration from crimes well before his own existence, those driven ultimately by ignorance and historical condition. But unlike others of his ilk, the Dark Lord was not the son of a king or emperor or ruler. He was not born a prince or an aristocrat or a nobleman, nor even the son of a wealthy man. He was the son of a wizard and a Muggle—a non-magical person, if you will—and his father was a drunkard and a beast and his mother suffered greatly under him. He was not raised in the lap of luxury or surrounded by finery. Nothing of the sort. His early life was marked by poverty and hardship and pain, and his mother was helpless to raise him in the face of such cruelty, though he demonstrated an affinity for and developed an extraordinary mastery of magic from an early age."
Hermione pauses, her brows knit together and her eyes distant, and Jaime listens intently, his own mind working to form a picture of this peculiar story.
"His unforgivable transgressions aside, his life was not an easy one. He grew up feeling the sting of rejection from his peers and from his own parents, and when he eventually left his childhood home, he spent much of his youth at the same school Draco and I attended, secretly learning the ways of dark magic until eventually he found a group of men and women who welcomed him and offered him guidance, and they lent him their devotion and their knowledge and their livelihoods, and in return he enabled them to manifest a terrible purpose. These are the circumstances under which hatred sprouts and blossoms. Destitution. Abuse. Perceived inadequacy. And under the auspices of his new cohort the Dark Lord rose to inordinate power and soon enough made revelation of his true intentions: the massacre of all non-‘Pure’ beings. The war began, and he gathered an army of witches and wizards and set them to the task of cleansing the world of anyone who was not one of them."
She pauses again, her expression becoming distant once more, and Jaime shifts uncomfortably, the heat from her body growing too strong for him to bear.
"What happened?"
Hermione's face twists slightly.
"They lost," she replies, her voice a little rough. “But it came at a great price."
"Did you fight in this war?"
"I was a soldier, yes,” says Hermione, her voice growing softer.
The thought burns the base of his skull. "Were you wounded?"
“A few times,” she says, her voice still soft, and he can see a glint of something like sorrow in her eyes, but then it vanishes, and she looks back at him, her eyes bright once more. “I only bear scars, now."
"We are all lucky to survive."
"I fought," she says simply, and he can see that her eyes are wet. "And I would do it again a thousand times over."
"I’ve been a soldier my whole life,” he returns slowly. “A combatant and brother-in-arms since I was a boy. I’ve fought against men who were no better or worse than I, and for a time I enjoyed it. But all veneers wear off, my lady, and I began to question everything in the service of Aerys. I view things far differently, now."
Hermione's brow tenderizes, her eyes slackening. “I don’t blame you."
Jaime looks at her, his expression solemn, and then he sighs, his features ruminative.
"I suppose I should not, either. Get some sleep, my lady. We depart at dawn."
She holds his gaze for a long and strangely tight period before nodding and rising and heading back to where his borrowed bedroll is spread, his eyes lingering for a moment before he rolls over onto his side and stares into the recesses of the cave, his thoughts a kiln of emotions and images and memories, and after a while he falls asleep.
He wakes to the rustle of a cold wind across his clavicles. Casting aside his spare blanket he sits up and sees the sunbreak eclipsing the horizon, the sky a wash of purple and crimson, and rising to his feet he rolls out his sore shoulders and neck and then turns and looks at the other two, who are sleeping on their sides with their backs to each other and Hermione facing him, her breathing deep and automatic. He dons his armor as quietly as possible and then walks over and stands over them to observe her a few moments, her hair fanned out around her head in a mess of tangled locks, and then punctures the quietude with firmness.
“An inn awaits you. Up, come on."
The pair stir and Draco rolls over and looks at him with bleary eyes and then turns his head away, sitting up and rubbing his face and looking out at the rising sun, and Hermione pushes herself up and stretches her arms, her mouth open in a wide yawn, and Jaime is watching her, his eyes appraising her pleasantly elegant face and the curve of her neck and the way the fabric of her shirt stretches across her chest, and when she sees him looking she smiles decorously, and he quickly averts his gaze, standing and then moving forward to lean against one side of the cavern’s entrance as Draco and Hermione rapidly gather their scant things.
Jaime gazes into the distance, his mind wandering, and then Hermione appears in front of him, drawing his eyes.
"Are you ready?"
She nods as she hands him the bedroll, spun up neatly.
"Yes."
He holds her gaze a blip before he takes it and ties it to his pack and then turns and leads them out across the malpais, their shadows trailing behind them elongated like phantasms craft of a supernatural brain as they make their way over the rocky terrain and up the incline, and when they crest the rise he pauses a moment and looks back at them, and they stand there beside him and look out at the sprawling plains and the mountains beyond, their faces bathed in the light of the sunrise.
Hermione takes a deep breath and releases, her eyes scanning the vista before her.
"It's actually quite beautiful here."
Jaime does not speak at first but turns and looks in the direction they had been heading, the land stretching out for miles before them.
“If memory serves, the inn is about seven miles ahead."
Hermione smiles, irises condensing toward Draco.
"That's a long way. You could probably get a decent run in, Malfoy."
Draco shoots her a wilting look.
"Ha, ha. Decided to start working on your stand-up, Granger?"
"Comes naturally, believe it or not," Hermione replies, her smile broadening, and Jaime glances at her and his own lips turn upward before he turns his attention back to the road.
"We should make it before noon. Let us not delay."
Hermione falls into step beside him and Draco follows suit, and they continue their trek along the edge of the ridge as the sun climbs higher in the sky and the morning grows brighter and warmer, and when the first hints of civilization appear some mileage later in the distance they walk a little faster, their legs carrying them swiftly across the terrain, and as they draw closer Jaime can see that the settlement is composed of several stone buildings and a stable, with a few horses and people moving about in the distance, and they further pick up speed, closing in rapidly.
He leads them past the indistinct genesis of the town and into the streets, the fingers of his right hand resting atop the pommel of his sword, and they move through the place without speaking, their pace quickened, and then a few minutes later they approach a squat building with a sign out front bearing the image of a goat. Jaime leans his head toward the establishment before leading them inside.
The tavern is dimly lit and reeks of smoke and ale and sweat, and as they enter they see a few men seated at a table in the center of the room playing dice, their faces drawn and their clothing ragged, and they turn and look at the newcomers, their expressions going rigid.
Jaime blinks. They wear…Westerlands colors?
One of them, quite drunk and listing, roars aloud as he stands.
“Ser Jaime! We are at your command!"
The others follow suit, rising if able, and Hermione and Draco look at Jaime with puzzled expressions as he strides up to the men to stand before them.
“Did my father send you?”
The man hiccups as he nods. “Right on target, my lord.”
Jaime is silent for a brief period as he inspects the men. Despite their inebriation, they seem a respectable force, and he notes they number twenty-five strong with perhaps more elsewhere about town.
He shifts his attention back to the man who had hailed him. "We will need rest and sustenance. Are there any rooms available?"
"Of course, my lord. We made sure the innkeep left a couple empty."
Jaime glances about the coterie of soldiers and then raises his voice loud enough for all to hear. “If my father has not proclaimed it yet, allow me to do so here and now. The King is an enemy of the Westerlands. I expect you to act accordingly."
To his relief, they appear only roused by the declaration. "Aye, ser, aye,” they say in unison.
"I have been away in Dorne for some time. What news do you have for me?"
"There isn't much to report, ser. The Crown's men have not yet begun to march."
Jaime frowns, his eyes narrowing. “So you drink ale as if it were your nameday?"
The man's satisfaction absconds him and he looks stricken, his eyes growing wide.
"Forgive us, ser. We’ve been marching a long way."
"What of the other Houses? Have they moved against us?"
"No, ser. Your Lord Father has already secured an alliance with the Tyrells, and I assume the Dornish, now. Rumor has it that the Greyjoys, too, have bent their ears. The king will not prevail."
"Good. That will be all."
The men nod in unison, and then Jaime looks to Draco and Hermione and gestures toward the staircase.
"Rooms should be upstairs. I will call for something to eat."
Hermione nods and begins climbing the steps, followed by Draco, and Jaime turns and orders one of the soldiers to locate a meal before he trails them up, the three of them heading to the end of the hall and entering an ajar door on the left, where a simple bed and a small table and a few wooden chairs adorn the space. Hermione walks to the bed and sits down, her eyes fixed upon the wall, and Draco stands in the middle of the room, his head bowed, and Jaime watches them a moment before closing the door.
It is Draco who speaks first.
“Who really are you?"
"Nothing's changed; I'm Jaime Lannister," replies Jaime, his voice steady. “I command ten-thousand men of Lannisport and beyond, and my Lord Father rules the Westerlands from Casterly Rock."
Draco turns his head to the side, his eyes still lowered. “Jesus Christ.”
Jaime does not reply, but Hermione is watching him, her gaze searching.
"You mean to rebel against the King?"
"Yes," says Jaime, his face stony. “I serve my House first, and thereafter the people of the West. The King stands an obstacle to both.”
Hermione looks at him a moment, her expression contemplative, and then she stands and walks toward him, and he moves back until he is standing nearly against the door.
"You have not betrayed your word, sir. I thank you for bringing us here."
A sudden lump of the throat threatens his breathing. "And who really are you, my lady? How did you come to the realm?"
"Just a soldier, sir. Like you. I will tell you what I can when we are somewhere more amenable, I promise."
He stares at her, his face a blank canvas, and she looks up at him and smiles, her eyes glimmering.
“Let’s try and close our eyes for as long as we can," he says quietly. “I will return in the morning.”
She nods and reaches her hand out to gently touch his before she turns and glides to the bed, and Jaime watches her placid movement the entire way before making for the door to rejoin his subordinates, his head an electric jumble.