Chapter III
Chapter III
Daylight breaks to the east as the company stirs and prepares to depart the fortress. Sarella sees them off with loaves of bread and a few fresh horses (for which she has no need, she assures) and effusive thanks to Hermione, informing the latter that Chordelia slept peacefully for the first night in many moons. Jaime offers the young woman a look of deepening appreciation as she climbs aboard his newfound horse to sit behind him as they exit the premises and follow the alternate branch in the road. They plow onward through the morn until the path reaches the top of a high ridge, the forest thinning out ahead and the land growing increasingly uneven, the road narrowing and winding before them, and the company amasses weary and battered at the threshold of declination, their faces drawn and their gazes dull.
A collective reinvigoration, however, passes through them as they gaze upon the verdant genesis of the Reach.
Outstretched before them unfolds the vast expanse of a fertile grassland, reclining toward the horizon where a series of hillocks disappear into mist. A wide and languid river snakes across the plains, the waters sparkling, the banks thick with vegetation and trees, and the sky above extends blue and cloudless, the air warm and replete with the sounds of chirping birds and the whirring of temperate insects.
"We rest at the river," says Jaime, his voice carrying through the ranks, a light chorus of zeal drumming up in response.
A few miles later they spread out as they reach the river, the men dismounting and beginning to prepare food, and soon the smell of roasting meat fills the air. Hermione disembarks the horse to stretch her legs and check on Draco, Jaime leading the animal down to the riverbank and desaddling to tie the horse to a small tree. He walks then to the banks to kneel and refill his waterskin before leaning down and scooping up a handful of water to splash his face, and then he dips his hands and drinks deeply. He rises on satisfaction and wipes his mouth and then he removes his gloves and washes his hands in the water, his gaze distant.
Careful footsteps rustle in the grass behind him.
"May I join you, sir?"
Her voice is delicately hopeful, less tentative than at any point prior.
"Of course."
Hermione sits next to him, the sound of water gurgling, and she reaches her hand out and splashes water onto her face and wipes the water with the back of her arm and then reaches down and draws a handful and drinks it, and her hair is damp and her skin glistens and her eyelids are heavy, and her expression is serene, and she looks at him and offers a faint smile.
"I've never seen a river so clear."
He returns the smile. “I played in these waters as a child. We took vacation here on a few occasions after visits to the Tyrells in Highgarden in summertime."
"It's lovely."
"Indeed."
Hermione cocks her head. “Who are the Tyrells?”
Jaime leans back upon his palms. “The House that oversees the Reach.”
She worries her bottom lip. “And they are on good terms with House Lannister?”
“For the most part,” clarifies Jaime, letting his fingers knot in the grass. “They are the second wealthiest House aside from my own, which has made for squabbles here and there.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
He hums and then stands and looks off across the water, the wind ruffling his hair and his eyes distant, and then he glances at her and his lips quirk, and then his eyes shift over her shoulder, and she turns and sees Draco standing a few feet away, his hair matted and his clothes filthy, and she grins and beckons him over.
“Take a bath, Malfoy."
He gives her a look of half-hearted exasperation does not respond, staring at the crystalline water for a time before he trudges forward and wades his way into the river, his clothes soaking instantly, and then he reaches up and pulls his shirt over his head, and his body is lean and taut, his back is scarred and his ribs protruding, and he proceeds out to a waist-high area and then drops below the surface and comes back up, his face wet. Jaime walks to the horse and opens a saddlebag, fishing out a bar of soap and then returning to the bank with a whistle to Draco. The younger man's head swivels toward him as Jaime tosses the brick of brown to him, which the former catches with respectable grace and uses to start scrubbing the filth from his body, murmuring his gratitude.
Jaime distributes his voice. “It will be at least a few days’ ride from here to the Westerlands, but we should enjoy this place while we can. A little taste of the perpetual summer of the Rock. Gerimon received a missive from my father in the night—he has sent a party to escort us there once we reach Hornvale."
Draco's head shifts again toward him, his gaze searching.
"How far from Casterly Rock from Hornvale?"
"Less than a day."
Draco's expression relaxes, and then his eyes shift to the sky as the sun climbs and the heat beats down, and then he begins to walk toward the bank, and his trousers are sticking to him and the water is dripping from his hair, and Hermione is looking at him with an unreadable expression, her eyes darting from the scars on his back to the marks on his chest, and then her gaze alights on his face, his lips parted and his eyes bright and then she looks off to the edge of the world.
“What is your Father’s name?” she asks quietly like a petal detached by wind.
Jaime is watching her, his face a blank mask, and he speaks softly.
“Tywin.”
She nods, almost to herself. “I look forward to meeting him.”
"And I look forward to your appraisal of the Rock."
A smile wrinkles her lips, her gaze still averted.
He turns and walks to the horse and mounts it and makes to kick forward as he feels a slender hand upon his thigh, and he glances down to see her gazing up at him with an expectant mien. He grunts and extends his arm, and she takes his hand and swings up behind him and settles against his back, and he kicks the horse and it gallops forward, and the soldiers begin to scramble to mount their steeds, and he guides the mare along the path, the road narrow and winding, and the sun climbs overhead and the heat grows stifling, and the road is long and the landscape is lush and the grass is tall and the forest is dense, and they ride onward through the day.
They break for the midday meal, the soldiers and horses resting and the company eating, and then they remount and continue onward, the terrain becoming increasingly steep and the land becoming rockier, the forest giving way to grasslands and the land inclining, the temperature rising, and then the sun reverses direction and the sky is aflame with a molten vengeance.
Jaime bellows out over the men. “Ten miles to Hornvale. My father awaits. I expect an acceptable procession."
The soldiers raise their voices and the men kick their heels, and the company proceeds forward, their bodies sore and minds weary, and the road becomes a series of switchbacks as the land climbs and the earth grows steeper, and then the land flattens, the forest giving way to a vast open expanse, and the road runs through a large field that is filled with tents, the fabric of the structures billowing in the breeze, and dozens of soldiers and attendants and quadruple the number of animals, the cacophony of voices and livestock filling the air, and the men stare at the scene in shock as Jaime leads them through the camp, the people stopping and raising their limbs to hail the return of the Lion of Lannister.
Jaime inclines his head to the well-wishers as he hears Hermione’s breath catch against his back, and he cannot help but privately smirk.
He guides his procession along the camp’s designated thoroughfare until they come upon a gathering of its ranking members, an imposing and bearded man at the helm. The towering figure strides forth with intemperance and full regard for formality, his face gaunt and his expression solemn, and his clothing is regal and his demeanor authoritative and his gait arrogant, and he marches forward and halts a few feet away and looks down at Jaime and Hermione and Draco, his eyes shifting from one face to the next.
After what expired a lengthy spell the tall and aged man’s jowls softens, and he greets with a soft and resonant voice: “Jaime."
“Father."
Tywin quickly regains his resolute composure, his gaze flickering to Hermione and Draco, and he speaks again, his voice calm and commanding.
"These are the travelers?"
"Aye."
Tywin nods, his eyes moving between the two, and he speaks, his words clear and direct.
"I will be frank with you, because I am not a man of words nor a man of pleasantries, and my time is precious. Your refuge in the Rock rests entirely on my son’s estimation. He has said that the pair of you have a great deal to offer, and that it is in our best interest to welcome you, and that he would take personal responsibility for the consequences should he be proven wrong."
He pauses, his eyes flickering to Jaime and then back to the travelers.
"So, I welcome you."
Hermione's lips part but Draco steps forward, his expression calm, and he speaks, his words soft and even.
"Thank you, Lord Tywin."
Her gratefulness follows on its heels. “Yes, it is greatly appreciated, Lord Tywin.”
Tywin regards them both silently for a blip before his eyes shift back to Jaime.
“At least you did not take pity on a couple of ill-mannered insolents. Come, Jaime, we have much to discuss.”
Hermione and Draco assist in the deconstruction of the camp with their hands the following morning, the two and Jaime having agreed to conceal their magical abilities for as long as possible. Indeed, Jaime had paid visit to Gerimon's tent in the night, informing him of his desire for the man and his soldiers to keep a lid on what they had seen. The Lannister had been prepared to offer gold as inducement, but the man was surprisingly eager to acquiesce, claiming it his duty in return for their part in fending off the giant. And so, against the man’s protestations, Jaime had naturally promised his unit new weapons and as much wine as they could swallow upon reaching the Rock.
When the tents are packed and the animals loaded, Jaime and Hermione mount the former’s temporary horse and watch with smiles as Draco awkwardly clambers onto his own, a big mare with a beige coat and an even disposition, cursing to himself as he settles onto the saddle and attempts to place his feet in the stirrups with several misfires before success.
The ride from Hornvale to the Rock passes quickly, whether due to anticipation or easy conversation or pleasant conditions Jaime did not care to make attribution. His mind remains far too indolently preoccupied with his reunion with his beautiful sister and the luck that had presided over him since his renouncement of the Kingsguard, visions of grand futures blossoming between his ears. Presently, they reach the far edge of the field and pass under an arched gate and into a wide roadway lined with buildings, and the streets are packed with people, the voices and smells of the city overwhelming, and the men ride in formation, the people cheering and waving, and the street narrows and winds its way up a high ridge, and the company emerges onto a wide plaza at the peak, and a large structure looms over them, a colossal building made of stone, the walls soaring high and the ramparts towering, the building enormous and imposing and grandiose, and Jaime turns the horse and halts and the men pull up alongside, and they gaze up at the structure, the sun sinking behind it and casting the building in shadow.
Hermione’s voice quivers slightly when she speaks.
“Oh my god…” she murmurs, and Jaime turns his head over his shoulder to study her, a wide grin splitting his face on sight of her rapture at viewing the Rock.
“Rather ostentatious, hm?” jokes Jaime, easing his horse forward once again, following the train of carriages and carts as they roll along the streets of Lannisport toward Casterly Rock.
Hermione still stares up at the bastion. “Not in the slightest. Back home, we would probably consider this a Wonder of the World.”
His eyebrow raises, but he does not inquire after the statement, instead glancing to Draco, who appears to his surprise somewhat subdued.
“Not big enough for you, lord Malfoy?”
Draco says nothing, but a small smirk curls his features.
Ten minutes later they approach the gates of the Rock, the vast portals of stone parting as Jaime leads them beyond with the soldiers and attendants following. The party enters the courtyard and proceed through a minimal maze of streets and then emerge in a large square, the space bustling, and the men and animals dismount, and a host of servants and attendants and pages rush forward and lead the men and horses away, and Jaime turns and looks at Hermione and Draco, his gaze elated.
"Come, let me show you your quarters."
Hermione glances around the square and then looks back to Jaime and nods, and Draco steps forward and follows him as they proceed along a street, and the town is teeming with people, the sun now low and the shadows long, and the town is built on a high plateau that rises a thousand feet above the sea, and the streets are winding and narrow and the buildings are constructed of stone. They toss grains and tokens over them in celebration as they progress towards the Rock, the populace rejoicing and hailing their arrival like returning heroes, and Hermione and Draco are flummoxed by the spectacle and keep their eyes fixed ahead, and Jaime does not speak nor respond to the crowd but proceeds onward, his stride purposeful and his eyes steely, and the people are cheering and the voices are deafening, and then they round a corner and come to a wide thoroughfare that leads to a massive portion of the structure that sits upon a jutting precipice overlooking the sea. He escorts them to the eastern entrance, a side ingress, and they ascend a short flight of stairs and pass through a series of foyers, the corridors wide and the ceilings high, and the hallways are filled with servants traipsing about.
"This is the east wing, the main structure. The western wing is not nearly as populated. That is where you will find the library, among other areas of interest."
Draco nods, his face drawn, and Hermione is staring at the architecture, her eyes wide and her lips parted, and the floors are polished and the walls are whitewashed and the ceilings are high, and there are rows and rows of rooms on each floor, the doors carved and the decor both magnificent and imposing. Jaime leads them up a stairwell twisting upward, and the floors above are quieter and less populated, and they reach the fifth floor and turn down a wide corridor and come to a set of double-doors at the end, and Jaime produces a key and unlocks it and they enter.
The room is enormous, the windows tall and the floor made of wood, and there is a sitting area and a dining area and a bedroom, and a door leads to a balcony, the view expansive, and the sea is a mile away, the waters calm as the sun sets halfcut over the horizon.
Hermione's lips part, her voice hushed.
"This is incredible, sir."
He simply looks at her, his eyes dark, and he inclines his head and his voice is low.
"I shall leave you to rest."
He turns and leaves without another word, his footsteps receding.
The remaining two stand unmoving for a while before Hermione turns and looks at Draco, who is still as a statue, his gaze distant, and she steps closer until she is a foot from his side and looks at him, her eyes searching, and then she speaks, her voice soft and filled with emotion.
"Draco, are you okay?"
He does not answer, his face pale, his body stiff, his breathing coming labored and raw, and she leans close, wrapping her arms about him.
"We’re out of that desert, Draco. It's over."
He remains silent, his body trembling, and she pulls him tighter, her eyes glistening, and she whispers, her voice breaking,
"It's over."