Chapter II
Chapter II
He stands outside their door as an infant morning light fills the inn’s upper corridor from below.
His feet immobile, he remains there for some time like a scared ungulate reluctant to board a vessel. It crosses his mind to knock. He dismisses the notion with a soundless huff as he grips the knob to rotate it swiftly and then push open the door and step resolutely into the chamber—witnessing little lord Malfoy comatose in a chair near a window with his acicular chin resting motionless upon his chest and Hermione nestled up into and betwixt the bedsheets like a slumbering seraph, her freckled and sculpted little nose wrinkling with each iteration of her fleeting and precious Dream.
She is the picture of tranquility, her long and curly hair framing her face like a curtain, her features relaxed, her eyes closed and her brow smooth as a golden sandhill.
Jaime clears his throat.
Her eyes spring half-open, bleary with sleep, and he watches her watching him, and her lips part and she speaks in a hoarse whisper.
"Are we leaving?"
He nods.
"Yes. We must get on the road. My father can get testy when kept in suspense, and there is still at least a day's ride to allied lands.”
Her lips quirk and she pushes herself upright and runs her hands through her hair and then rubs her eyes, and then she turns and rouses Draco by utterance of name, whose head jerks and his eyelids flutter.
“Huh?” Grey focuses indolently. “God dammit, already?”
He blinks, looking around the room, and his gaze settles on Jaime, who is standing at the end of the bed with his sword buckled at his hip and his arms crossed.
The Lannister almost chuckles. "We leave in an hour."
Draco yawns. “I’m getting up."
Jaime does not respond but turns and walks out, closing the door softly behind him, and he pauses to lean against it in spite himself to listen to Hermione and Draco converse within.
"We made it out that godforsaken desert, Malfoy. We're finally safe."
"For now. I’m not as hopeful."
"Why?"
“Because we still have no clue where we are! I don’t care if he has a hundred million grunts at his disposal, how do we know he’s taking us to the right place?"
"Draco, calm down. He seems sincere."
"Says you. You’re the most rational woman I’ve ever met, Granger. How does any of this make sense?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, think about it. He's a knight. He's a bloody commander of an army."
"So? What does that have to do with it?"
"Granger, it has everything to do with it. He says he has no influence on his family, but they gave him ten-thousand men to command."
"That doesn't mean anything. The intricacies of medieval politics are—,”
"I'm telling you, there's no way this guy is just helping us out of chivalry. His father is probably the biggest player in the whole damn world. If he means anything untoward, we're done for."
“Draco, stop. I get the apprehension, but Jaime isn’t going to kill us."
Silence stretches for a long while. “Jaime? Since when is he ‘Jaime’?"
"Oh, give it a rest. Do you want to stay here and rot?"
"Of course not."
"Then stop being a baby."
"I'm not a fucking baby, Granger.”
He hears a shuffling, and then he can hear them gathering their belongings. He departs the door then, proceeding down the hallways and descending the stairs to find the company of soldiers dressed formally and standing at ease awaiting him. The tavern-keeper stands behind the bar, his expression grim, and when Jaime reaches the foot of the steps the man's face brightens and he makes his way over.
"Ser, is there anything you need? Food? Drink? My humble services are yours."
“You’ve provided more than enough. The Lannisters owe you a debt."
"Please, it is no trouble. The honor of aiding the Lion of Lannister is more than I can ask for."
"Nevertheless, I appreciate your aid. You will be paid.”
The man's lips part and his eyes swell, and then he nods. He begins to gather bottles in a burlap sack as Jaime hears the footsteps of Draco and Hermione coming down the stairs. The tavern-keeper approaches and holds the sack out to Jaime, who takes it and slings it over his shoulder before dropping a small purse onto the bar that lands with a jingling and metallic thud.
Jaime shifts his head to gaze over Draco and Hermione as they draw near. “Have either of you ridden horseback?"
They both simply gape back at him, and Jaime curses beneath his breath.
Draco pipes up, his eyes still averted.
“Yes, but I won’t be riding."
Jaime’s jaw tightens. “Then walk, if you so wish.”
“I prefer to fly.”
The older man's face cinches further. “Pardon me?”
Hermione's face breaks into a little grin. “He can."
Jaime bristles. “I swear to the Seven, if you’re taken to the poppy—,”
Draco's expression does not alter. "I'm not."
With a swish of his arms, he lofts into the air unaided, his robes billowing behind him, and he hangs suspended above the floorboards a moment before settling back onto the ground. Jaime gawks, his mouth hanging open, and Hermione's grin is broad and her eyes shine bright.
“Admittedly, he can be an incredible asset when he wants to."
Jaime gawps at the young man, his mouth still hanging open, and then he shakes his head and rubs his forehead, and his features become stern once more.
“My lady, have you ridden?"
She shakes her head. “Only once, and I’m afraid it was very long ago.”
He sighs, his gaze moving between the pair, and then he gestures toward the door. “Then you will ride with me. And little lord Malfoy, take care to avoid the treetops as you flit about overhead.”
He leads them out the front door and into the street, the early morning sun casting the buildings in a dull orange light, and they walk down the lane and past the buildings and out into the open grassland beyond, the horses and men assembled in formation, and when they draw near Jaime raises his hand and the men halt their mounts and turn and stare, and then the man who had welcomed them the night before dismounts and approaches, his eyes darting from Draco to Hermione to Jaime, his features drawn.
"What is the meaning of this?"
"These two will be joining us."
He instantly relaxes at the resolution upon his face. “You know them?"
"Yes, Ser Gerimon," says Jaime, his expression unyielding as he gestures to Hermione. "We will be riding double."
"Very well, Ser Jaime. Your horse is ready."
He leads them to the rear of the group and pulls back the reigns of a mighty grey stallion and swings into the saddle and holds out his arm and Hermione climbs on behind him, wrapping her arms around his torso. Draco's face pinches, his expression aghast, and he opens his mouth to speak, but Jaime beats him to the punch.
“The road to the Reach will be treacherous,” he bellows to the party. “But there will be no rest until we have crossed the border. Come now—we ride!”
The men and horses surge forward as a single unit, and Jaime's eyes flicker to Draco and the latter’s severity morphs into grin, his face splitting, and then he cannot help the onrush of stupefaction as the little lord Malfoy leaps into the air and then ascends into the near sky above them completely on his own power, his arms extended and his robes fluttering in the breeze.
The riders below them fling their heads up and look, their faces drawn, and then Gerimon appears at Jaime's side and leans in and whispers in a hushed voice.
"My Lord, that is witchcraft."
Jaime nods.
"Yes, but a different kind than we've seen. And it is on our side."
Gerimon frowns and glances at Hermione, who is holding fast onto Jaime, and then he looks back to the sky where Draco is hovering overhead. A sagacious deference prevailing, the soldier whips his jaw headlong and cries out to his compatriots: “We have a mage carrying our banner, men!"
A loud cheer goes up and the riders raise their weapons, and Jaime laughs and kicks his heels into the steed’s flanks, and the destrier bursts forward at a gallop, the men following, and they race through the countryside, their faces shining with exaltation.
Draco absorbs the praise with a tiny smirk and then darts ahead to hover above them, his eyes searching the landscape ahead, and as they draw closer to the mountains he notices that the land begins to grow increasingly hilly and the trees doubly thicken, the vegetation denser and the earth softer and the rocks more frequent, and the road begins to curve around the edges of the hills and he can see that the terrain is gradually inclining and the forest is becoming denser, and then he notices that the land becomes very jagged, and he can see what looks like a mountain range ahead, the peaks obscured by the clouds and the valleys shrouded in fog, and the trees grow thicker and the hills grow taller and the land becomes much more rocky and steep, and he begins to feel a sensation in his core, a feeling like voltage or a tingling or a buzzing, and he begins to descend, flying down to pause in midair a few feet from Jaime, and the Lannister turns his head and looks at him with raised eyebrows, and Hermione raises her head and looks at him too, and he regards them a moment before speaking, his words coming out in a rush.
"Do you feel that?"
Hermione nods. “A presence. Rather unfriendly, I would say.”
Draco frowns, his eyes scanning the land, and then his gaze alights upon something in the distance, and he points. “There. Something approaches."
The company turns their heads and looks in the direction that Draco is pointing, and a low rumbling fills the air, and then a colossal figure emerges from the haze, hulking and three stories tall, its skin the color of moss, its mouth a gaping maw with rows upon rows of razor-sharp teeth, and it wears a ragged mantle and carries a makeshift scythe and drags a long chain behind it connected to a defunct shackle around its waist, and the men turn pale and begin to draw their weapons, and Jaime pulls the reigns and brings the company to a halt.
“Arch formation!” declares Jaime, and the men quickly assemble into a taut pincer with Jaime at the nexus, and he looks up at Draco.
"Can you fight, little lord?"
Draco nods, and his eyes narrow and his lips are twist. “Yes."
“Use whatever fucking thing you have available."
Draco gives a short nod and flies off, and Hermione is watching him, her eyes wide and her lips parted, and then she turns and looks at Jaime.
“I will fight, too."
Jaime nods, and then his eyes become distant, and he draws his sword.
"Mirror me, then."
Hermione draws her wand and Jaime urges his horse forward and the soldiers follow suit, and the giant approaches, the ground shaking beneath its footsteps, and it pauses a hundred yards away to abruptly undulate at the midsection and send its arm rocketing forth, its eyes burning with malice and its nostrils aflare, releasing its scythe and flinging it towards them. The reaping apparatus sings through the air and removes the heads of at least ten men as Jaime screams for Hermione to duck, the blade passing just overhead and narrowly missing shearing a few inches of hair from her tangle of locks, and then he roars and spurs his horse onward and the men follow suit and Draco is flying through the air and casting myriad spells, his eyes afire and his wand sweeping the air in rapid calculi.
Hermione offers a shriek of rage as she sits up upon the horse and begins to fire curses from her wand at the giant over Jaime’s shoulder, the air filled with multicolored flashes of light, and the men are screaming and firing arrows and slashing at the beast’s ankles as it reels beneath the hexes and sends its massive hands darting after its assailants.
Draco is swooping and slinking in and out of proximate airspace, his body twisting and turning, his face a mask of concentration, and then he raises his wand and shouts “Sectumsempra—!” as a huge gash opens from an unseen blade along the beast’s torso, and it roars and its mouth begins to glow as it inhales, and then the air fills with fire as the soldiers scream and the horses lament their own deaths in frenzied whinnies as the titan belches a spout of inferno to incinerate them where they stampede across the landscape, and Jaime jerks the reins and guides the destrier away at the last second, the flames shooting past them, and then he shouts for the men to form a line as the giant stomps towards them, the ground shaking with every footstep.
Jaime urges Hermione from the steed. Draco hovers over them, his lips moving, and the earth begins to rumble as huge rocks along the ridge start to shake loose and come crashing down the slopes to careen toward and slam into the giant, and it roars and swipes at them, sending shards of decimated boulders the size of carriages hurtling through the air. Jaime rushes forward, his eyes focused and his blade raised high, and his horse is charging at the beast as the titan suddenly flicks its hand out to grab him, but Jaime is faster, and his blade slices clean through the monster's palm and three of its huge digits, and the creature gives an anguished cry and rears back and slams its other fist into the earth in retaliation, and the ground erupts in an explosion, a couple soldiers sent flying into the trees as the shockwave falls short of Jaime, who leaps from the horse and rolls upon the ground and springs to his feet, his sword brandished and his body crouched as he sprints.
The giant is staggering backward, clutching its mangled hand as Jaime plunges on, his sword aloft and ready as he streaks on and leaps to drive it up towards the monster's belly, his features set and his body a blur, and the giant raises its good manus to smash him but shrieks in reflexive paroxysm as Jaime removes its hand with a single swing of his armament whilst midair, the earth shaking beneath its feet and the trees trembling as it sways and topples backwards to its knees.
“What right have you to deprive me of this paradise?”
Its annunciation goes unanswered as Jaime slashes its gut with a wild stroke, forcing it to hunch forward, and then he swings his blade in a clean arc to nearly decapitate the beast, the goldenhaired scion dancing to the side as the corpus careens to the ground. He rushes forth then to climb its nearest shoulder and then stand upon the center of its upper back to complete the disseveration, his sword held in one hand and the ungodly encephalic dome of the beast rolling across the earth and releasing torrents of murky blood.
Jaime's eyes are untamed and his chest heaves, and then he turns to see Draco land gingerly on the ground on one knee.
The grey-eyed young man regards him with a faltering composition of person.
“Good fucking Lord. He’s incredible."
Jaime does not hear it, only seeing Hermione’s illustrious smile.
The men have gathered themselves, their bodies and minds battered and their courage fractured, and a few of the horses have survived, though not many, and many who are injured to are too fragile to ride except in carts, and so the men abandon their dead and begin the trek toward the mountains, their faces drawn and their eyes dim, and Jaime walks with them, his sword sheathed and his steps slow and deliberate, and Draco and Hermione walk beside him, their heads lowered and their eyes distant.
It takes nearly four hours of trudging as the sun sets to west, the sky growing amber and the landscape dolled in shadow, and the company finally reaches the foothills, the forest dark and the terrain rough, and the men and their horses trudge onward, their faces streaked with dirt and dried blood and their eyes haunted, and the path they follow leads them into a narrow gorge between two sheer walls of stone, the rock jagged and black, and the company proceeds, their horses skittish, and the walls rise higher and higher as they go, the path narrowing, and the sky overhead is now blocked by the precipitous cliff-faces, and the company marches through the shroud of darkness, the torches carried by the soldiers flickering and casting a feeble orange light, and then the path opens onto a vast chasm, and the men and their horses enter, and the sky above is clouded and the walls of the mountains are sheer and the valley is shrouded in mist, and the men can see a bridge ahead, the timber rotten and the ropes frayed, and the path appears to branch thereafter, one section leading to a small fortress perched atop a jut of a precipice, its ramparts and its gatehouse formidable.
The men halt, and the company is silent, and the only sound is the wind whistling through the chasm, and then a figure emerges from the mist, a hooded apparition floating upon the bridge, and Jaime steps forward, his face calm, and he draws his sword and holds it up.
"Halt, creature. Show your face."
The figure slows to a stop, the mist swirling around it, and then it lowers its hood and Jaime sees a face of ebony, the features soft and the eyes large and dark, and the woman is tall and slender, her body covered in a strange robe.
"What is your business?" says the woman, her voice deep and resonant.
"We have come seeking refuge, my lady. I am Ser Jaime Lannister, Lord Commander of the Armies of the Westerlands."
"I know who you are."
She floats toward him, her body a few feet off the ground, and Jaime steps forward, his face steely, and Draco and Hermione are watching from behind him, and the men are holding their breath. She draws near, her expression blank, and Jaime keeps his sword up, his eyes flickering, and the woman halts a few feet away and looks at him, her eyes inscrutable.
"Who accompanies you?"
Jaime does not answer, and she moves her eyes and looks over his shoulder, her gaze settling upon Hermione, and her lips part and her eyes widen.
“Travelers. We are escorting them to Casterly Rock."
She floats past him and Draco and Hermione draw near, and the men behind them begin to whisper, and the woman stops in front of Hermione, her eyes searching the witch's face, and then she speaks in a hushed whisper, her voice almost imperceptible.
"Where do you come from, traveler?"
"England, a place far away from here."
The woman's eyes are still fixed upon her, and she continues speaking, her words soft and sibilant.
"I sense a benevolent spirit in you. Do you have the power to instill convalescence?"
Hermione nods, and the woman's gaze does not falter.
"Will you treat my daughter?"
Hermione's expression becomes hesitant. "Your daughter?"
The woman does not speak but turns and looks at Jaime, who is standing still as a statue, and the woman begins to float away and gestures for them to follow, and the company crosses the bridge and takes the road up to the fortress, the gates creaking open and the ramparts towering high, and Jaime leads the soldiers and the horses therein, the men and animals exhausted, and the gates slam shut behind them. Jaime orders his men to rest momentarily as the woman leads them through the large main portal, the courtyard silent and empty and the windows bare, and they proceed through the fortress and down the stone halls and past the rooms and chambers and dungeons, and the corridors are long and winding and the ceilings are high, and then they come to a large room with a wooden door that is painted black and is embellished with runes, and the woman pauses and turns to look at them, her expression somber.
"This is the sick chamber."
She looks at Hermione, her gaze penetrating, and then she raises her hands and the door swings inward, and the four proceed into the chamber, and the ceiling is tall and the floor is bare, and the walls are made of a strange stone, black and jagged and smooth, and the temperature of the room hangs warm and lulling, and in the middle of the room is a large wooden bed that is covered with furs, and in the center of the bed lies a child, her body frail and breathing shallow.
The woman hovers next to the bed and looks at Hermione, and her voice is hushed.
"She is very ill. Please, will you help her?"
Hermione nods and moves closer, her eyes darting to the child and then to Jaime, who nods. She leans down and places her hand on the girl's forehead and the child's eyes flutter, her face pale and her features drawn. “What ails her, ma’am?"
"Her lungs. They are weak and will not support her, and she is always tired. But we cannot take her outside."
"Why not?"
The woman's expression becomes troubled, and her eyes flicker to the child and then back to Hermione. “The air has become foul."
Hermione's eyebrows rise and she looks at the child again. Its face seems to shrink in present time.
The woman continues, her voice tinged with desperation.
"Please—bless her with recovery."
Hermione’s temples tighten. “Ma’am, I cannot ensure that she—,"
Jaime lifts his hand and places it upon her shoulder.
"Do what you can, my lady."
She stares at him, and then she nods.
She looks back to the woman.
"What is your name, ma'am?"
"I am called Sarella."
"Please, can you tell me more about this disease?"
Sarella stills, before she seems to shed some invisible yoke and speaks freely.
"She was born healthy and happy, but then, as she grew, she began to weaken. No Maester can trace the true origins of the disorder. It was like the world decided she wasn't needed. I would often find her wheezing, gasping for air. She had to be put into a separate chamber, for when we slept, she would struggle. One day, we woke and found her very cold, still. When we brought her back, we found out her lungs had nearly stopped working altogether. She has been sustained by serums since then, but the medicine is running thin. My husband has gone to seek a new remedy, but there has been no sign of him."
Hermione glances of all to Draco. “I'm guessing chronic pneumonia. Unnatural for one so young."
Jaime frowns and Draco nods, and the company looks on in silence. Hermione places her hand on the child's chest, the heartbeats faint, and then she turns and looks at Draco, her gaze steady.
"Draco, can you conjure a Wiggenweld draught that can stabilize her until we find a cure?"
His eyes widen and his lips part, and then he nods.
"I'll try."
Hermione smiles, her eyes glistening, and Draco moves forward and leans down and whispers a few incantations, his wand pointed at the palm of his hand, focusing intently. Moments later, a vial filled with an effervescent liquid appears in his grasp. He hands it to Hermione, who directs her own wand at the child's chest, and then a light glows, the color of amethyst, and the light grows and the child's body is covered in a purple haze, and her eyes flutter as Hermione steps closer and places the vial to her lips and dispenses a small amount into the girl's mouth.
Hermione steps back, corking the vial and handing it to Sarella.
"Give her a drop a day, and it should be enough."
"Thank you."
"What is the child's name?"
Sarella looks at the child, and her expression becomes solemn, and then she speaks in a soft voice, her words lilting. “Chordelia."
Hermione looks at her and smiles, and then she places her hand on the child's head, her fingers glowing, and she begins to sing a song in a soft and gentle voice, her eyes closed and her lips upturned, and her words are strange and foreign, a language the others cannot comprehend, but they watch and listen, the men silent and the woman and child both mesmerized, and then Hermione's hand fades, and she smiles at the little girl, whose face has regained a bit of its color.
"That should make you feel better, little one."
Sarella is staring at her, her eyes wide, and her voice is filled with wonder.
Jaime offers a respectful dislodge of the throat as he looks to the woman. “My lady, would you be willing to allow us to rest here for the night?"
Sarella nods without hesitation.
"Oh, yes, of course. Stay as long as you like, all of you."
Jaime nods. "Thank you."
Hermione looks to Sarella.
“The medicine will suffice for a good time. Do not hesitate to seek help if something arises."
The woman's expression is somber, and she nods.
"Thank you."
Hermione has no reply, her eyes moistening. Jaime catches her attention and gestures toward the foyer some distance away with his chin and the three proceed towards it, Sarella floating alongside. They exit the building, finding the soldiers tending to the horses or asleep on the ground, their faces grim and their movements stiff, and the four make their way across the courtyard, where Ser Gerimon stands near the gatehouse anxiously.
Jaime claps him on the shoulder. "We camp here for the night." He turns then to Sarella. "I thank you for your hospitality, Lady Sarella. We will be gone by the dawn."
"If there is anything you require, just let me know, Ser Jaime. Food will be brought shortly."
The woman turns heel and heads back to the small fortress.
Jaime's eyes shift to Hermione and she gives him small smile, and then they both swivel their heads to watch the outlandish woman as she drifts back toward the keep, her robes billowing and the mist swirling around her, and she disappears, and then the three rejoin the company to bed down for the evening.