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Jaime Lannister
The mist off the coast of Blacktyde hung thick and gray, a wet shroud that clung to the rigging and dampened the sound of the restless sea. It tasted of salt and cold iron, a flavor Jaime Lannister was beginning to loathe.
He stood near the prow of the Night Walker, Rodrik Harlaw's flagship, his golden armor concealed beneath a heavy cloak of roughspun wool. He felt ridiculous, like a mummer in a bad play, hiding his lion's mane beneath a hood, his hand resting on a sword he wasn't yet allowed to draw.
Around them, nineteen other Harlaw longships cut through the chop, their silver scythe banners snapping listlessly in the damp wind. To any watcher on the cliffs, it would look like a defeated squadron limping home, a tail-tucked pack of dogs seeking the kennel.
Which, Jaime supposed, was exactly the point.
"They're signaling from the watchtower," Kevan Lannister said, his voice low. He stood at Jaime's shoulder, disguised in the drabs of a Harlaw steersman.
Jaime looked up. High on the jagged cliffs that guarded the entrance to Blacktyde's natural harbor, a brazier flared. Once. Twice.
"The challenge," Rodrik Harlaw murmured. The Lord of Ten Towers stood at the helm, his hands gripping the wheel so tightly his knuckles were white. He looked like a man walking to his own execution. "They want to know who approaches."
Tywin Lannister stepped out from the shadow of the mainmast. He wore no disguise, save for the positioning that kept him hidden from the shore's view. His crimson cloak was still dry, as if the sea mist dared not touch him.
"Answer them, Lord Harlaw," Tywin commanded. "Remember your daughters. Remember your library. Remember that my fleet waits in the fog behind us, and your twenty ships are the only thing standing between House Drumm and annihilation."
Rodrik Harlaw closed his eyes for a heartbeat.
"Signal the return," Rodrik ordered his captain, his voice hollow. "Tell them... tell them the Lion is hunting."
The Harlaw signalman swung a lantern in a specific arc. Friendly. Fleeing. Open the gates.
Jaime watched the exchange, his stomach tightening. This wasn't war. This wasn't the glory of the charge or the honest ring of steel on steel. This was a knife in the dark. It was efficient. It was brilliant. It was entirely Tywin Lannister.
"You don't like it," Tywin said, not looking at Jaime, his gaze fixed on the distant cliffs.
"It lacks poetry," Jaime replied, keeping his voice light to mask the churning in his gut. "And honor. I thought we were knights, Father, not actors in a farce."
"Knights die," Tywin said coldly. "Winners dictate the histories. We are not here for honor, Jaime. We are here for my son."
Your son.
Jaime's hand tightened on his sword hilt beneath his cloak. The thought of the boy...Adrian...had been a burr in his mind for weeks, scratching at him every league they sailed. He thought of Cersei's face, crumbling into that terrifying, raw hysteria. He thought of the soldiers' whispers about silver-gold hair and musical talent.
Rhaegar's ghost and Cersei's temper, Jaime thought. What are you, Adrian? A bastard? A prince? A mistake?
Whatever the boy was, he was six years old, and he had been in the hands of Euron Greyjoy for weeks. The thought made Jaime's blood run colder than the spray. He remembered Aegon's body. He remembered how fragile life was when monsters kicked down the door.
"They're lowering the chain," Kevan announced, breaking Jaime's reverie.
A great groaning sound echoed across the water, the screech of rusted metal on stone. Between the two guard towers flanking the harbor mouth, the massive iron chain that barred entry began to dip beneath the waves.
"They bought it," Jaime muttered. "The fools."
"Desperation makes men gullible," Tywin observed. "They know the Royal Fleet is days away. They know Harlaw has fallen. They want to believe their allies are coming to reinforce them."
The Night Walker surged forward as the wind caught the sail. The harbor of Blacktyde opened up before them. It was a bleak place, grey stone and black sand, dominated by the silhouette of Castle Blacktyde perched on the rocky promontory.
But the docks were alive. Dozens of men in Drumm colors, red and bone, were rushing to the piers to help tie up the incoming ships. They were shouting greetings, waving, their faces relieved.
"Prepare the men," Tywin said to Kevan.
Kevan nodded and stamped his foot on the deck, three sharp, rhythmic strikes.
Below them, beneath the planks of the deck, the hold was silent. But Jaime knew what waited there. Three hundred Lannister heavy infantry, crammed shoulder to shoulder in the dark, sweating in their mail, nursing their hate. And in the other nineteen ships, thousands more.
"Lord Harlaw," Tywin said, stepping closer to the Ironborn lord. "You have played your part. When we dock, you will remain in your cabin. If you attempt to warn them, if you give a signal, if you so much as sneeze with the wrong intonation, I will have Ser Gregor introduce your daughters to his men."
Rodrik Harlaw looked at Tywin with loathing and fear that was painful to witness. "You are a monster, Tywin Lannister."
"I am a lord getting back what is mine," Tywin replied. "The definition of monster depends entirely on where you stand."
The ship bumped against the wooden pier. Ropes were thrown. The gangplank thudded down.
A burly man in Drumm livery, likely a harbor master or captain of the guard, strode up the plank, a relieved grin on his bearded face.
"Lord Rodrik!" the man called out. "By the Drowned God, we're glad to see you! We heard the Westerlands fleet was—"
He stopped.
He had spotted Tywin.
The Crimson Lion of the Rock stood tall on the quarterdeck, the wind finally throwing back his cloak to reveal the gold-and-ruby armor beneath. He looked like a god of war descended upon a congregation of fishmongers.
The Drumm captain's mouth opened, but no sound came out. His eyes darted to Jaime, who had thrown back his own hood, the white enamel of his Kingsguard armor gleaming dully in the mist.
"Hello," Jaime said, and drew his sword.
"NOW!" Tywin roared.
The deck of the Night Walker erupted.
Hatches were thrown open with crashes that sounded like thunder. From the bowels of the ship, a crimson tide poured forth. Lannister soldiers, screaming their house words—Hear Me Roar!—surged up onto the deck and flooded down the gangplanks.
The Drumm captain didn't even have time to draw his weapon. Jaime vaulted the rail, landing on the pier with a heavy crunch of boots. His sword flashed—a golden blur—and the man's head toppled into the harbor water before his body realized it was dead.
"Take the docks!" Jaime shouted. "Leave none standing!"
Chaos consumed the harbor.
The twenty "Harlaw" ships disgorged their hidden cargo simultaneously. Five thousand Westerland soldiers flooded the piers. The Drumm defenders, expecting exhausted allies, were caught with their weapons sheathed and their guards down.
It was a slaughter. A butchery.
Jaime moved through the melee like a dancer. An Ironborn spearman thrust at him; Jaime parried the blow aside with contemptuous ease and drove his blade through the man's throat. Another came at him with an axe; Jaime stepped inside the swing, his armored elbow smashing into the man's face, shattering his nose, before finishing him with a thrust to the heart.
He wasn't fighting for the thrill today. There was no joy in this, no test of skill. He was cutting weeds. He was clearing a path.
Where is he? Where is the boy?
He looked up toward the castle. It loomed high above, its windows dark eyes staring down at the betrayal below.
"Sound the horn!" Tywin's voice carried over the screams of the dying.
From the deck of the flagship, a massive war horn blew—a deep, resonant blast that shook the very air.
And then, the mist behind them began to tear.
Like ghosts manifesting from the ether, the true Lannister fleet emerged. Hundreds of heavy war galleys, their oars beating the water in a terrifying rhythm, broke through the fog bank. Their catapults were already loaded, their decks teeming with thousands more men.
The defenders on the castle walls must have looked down and seen their doom made manifest. The twenty ships were a trick. The hundred ships behind them were the hammer.
"They're breaking!" Kevan shouted from the pier, pointing to a group of Drumm soldiers trying to retreat toward the castle gates. "Don't let them close the gates!"
"Clegane!" Jaime roared, looking for the Hound.
Sandor Clegane appeared from the press of bodies, his armor already slick with blood that wasn't his. He wasn't using a shield; he was wielding a greatsword with two hands, cleaving through leather and mail and bone as if he were harvesting grain. His burned face was twisted into a rictus of hate.
"The gate!" Jaime pointed with his sword. "Take the bloody gate!"
Sandor didn't answer. He just let out a roar that sounded more animal and charged. The Hound hit the retreating line of Ironborn like a battering ram. He took a spear to the pauldron and didn't even flinch, simply grabbing the shaft, yanking the wielder forward, and taking his head off.
Jaime ran after him, his breath coming in sharp rasps. He had to get to the castle. He had to find the keep.
If they know they've lost, they might kill the hostages. They might kill Adrian.
He fought with a desperate, frantic energy. A Drumm soldier blocked his path, raising a shield. Jaime didn't feint; he didn't duel. He battered the shield aside with sheer strength and drove his sword into the man's groin, twisting it as he pulled it free.
"Father!" Jaime shouted back toward the ships. "I'm going for the Keep!"
Jaime did not wait for an answer.
Jaime turned and ran. He sprinted up the cobblestone path leading from the harbor to the castle gates, slipping on blood and viscera. Sandor was ahead of him, a whirlwind of steel, keeping the gate from closing by the sheer volume of corpses he was piling in the way.
"Hold it open!" Jaime screamed.
The heavy wooden doors were beginning to creak shut, pushed by desperate men on the other side. Sandor threw his shoulder against the wood, groaning with effort, his boots sliding in the mud.
"Get in here, Kingslayer!" Sandor bellowed, his voice raw. "Unless you want to knock!"
Jaime reached the gap. He thrust his sword through the opening, feeling it bite into flesh. A scream. The pressure on the door eased for a second.
Jaime squeezed through, followed by ten Lannister heavy infantry.
Inside the courtyard, it was chaos. But Jaime didn't care about the battle anymore. He didn't care about the castle.
He looked up at the main keep, the donjon rising high into the grey sky.
I'm coming, he thought, gripping his blood-slicked sword. Hold on, little brother. I'm coming.
"Where are the dungeons?" Jaime grabbed a wounded Ironborn by the collar, slamming him against the stone wall. The man gargled blood, his eyes rolling back. "The boy! Where is the Lannister boy?"
The man just choked, dying.
Jaime let him drop. He looked at Sandor.
"He must be in the dungeons," Jaime said, panting. "Or a secure room. We search it all. Bottom to top."
Sandor wiped gore from his eyes. "If he's dead," the Hound growled, "I'm going to kill every living thing on this rock."
"If he's dead," Jaime whispered, the fear finally piercing his adrenaline, "then my father will leave nothing of this rock but dust."
Jaime led the charge toward the heavy doors of the inner keep. The "false flag" was over. The lie was finished.
Now came the fire.
Adrian Lannister
The world was red.
It wasn't just the color of the Lannister cloak he should have been wearing. It was the color of the sticky stuff on his hands, on his face, soaking into the rags that used to be his festival clothes. It was the color of the smell that filled his nose, copper and salt and something sweet that made his stomach do flip-flops.
Adrian stood in the corridor outside his cell. The door was open. Inside, two men were dead.
He didn't look back at them. Father said looking back was a waste of time. Tyrion said history was important, but history was just dead people, and Adrian had enough dead people right now.
He had the heavy iron dagger tucked into his rope belt. He had the fish bone, his needle, his secret, kept deep in his pocket. And in his arms, he held the crossbow.
It was heavy. So heavy. It wanted to point at the floor. Adrian had to lean back just to keep the front end up. It was loaded. He had checked. The bolt was black iron with a sharp tip, like a little finger made of hate.
Clang.
The sound came from outside, deep and loud.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
Bells.
Adrian flinched with every ring. They weren't the pretty silver bells of the sept in Lannisport. These were harsh, cracked iron bells screaming at the sky.
Alarm bells.
"Father," Adrian whispered. His voice sounded like dry leaves scraping together. "Father is here."
He knew it. He felt it in his bones, deeper than the cold from the dungeon stones. The Lannisters had come. The Lion had woken up.
I am Adrian Lannister, he thought. The words were a wall he built in his mind, brick by brick, to keep the screaming out. I am six years old. I live at Casterly Rock. My favorite food is honeycakes. A Lannister always pays his debts.
He had paid the debts to Toad and the other guard. He had paid them in red.
He needed to move. If he stayed here, more men would come. Euron would come. The thought of the blue-lipped man made Adrian's bladder feel weak. No. No fear. Fear cuts deeper than swords. That was something from a book. Or maybe Sandor said it. He couldn't remember. Where had he heard those words?
He started to walk. His bare feet made wet, slapping sounds on the stone. Slap. Slap. Slap. It sounded like the fish hitting the floor.
He had to get out. He had to find Father. Or Ser Jaime. Or Uncle Kevan. Or even Sandor, if Sandor wasn't dead.
The corridor stretched out, dark and damp. Torches sputtered in iron brackets, casting shadows that looked like grasping hands. Adrian walked down the center, the crossbow dragging at his arms. He felt small. He hated being small. Small things got hurt. Small things got stepped on. Small things got locked in dark rooms and touched by men with wet hands.
I will never be small again, he promised the darkness. I will grow big. I will be a giant. I will be a mountain.
He reached a junction. Left went down. Right went up.
Down meant the sea. Down meant ships. Down meant escape.
He turned left.
He hadn't gone twenty steps when he heard the noise. Shouting. Heavy boots thundering against stone. The clang of armor.
"To the harbor! Move, you dogs! Move!"
Soldiers. Dozens of them. They were rushing up from the barracks below, surging toward the noise of the bells. If Adrian went down there, he would be trampled. Or seen. And if they saw him—a little boy covered in blood—they would kill him. Or worse, they would take him back to Euron.
"Mommy is coming," Euron had said.
Adrian shook his head violently. No. Not Mommy. Father.
He backed away, pressing himself into a shallow alcove where a tapestry of a squid fighting a whale hung. He made himself as thin as a shadow.
The soldiers ran past the end of the corridor. They were angry. They were scared. Adrian could smell their fear. It smelled like sour sweat.
He couldn't go down. The lower levels were full of iron men.
"Up," Adrian whispered. "Lions climb. Lions go high."
He turned and went back to the right. The stairs were steep and spiraled upward. His legs burned. He was weak from the bad food, from the cold, from the fear. But he forced his legs to move.
One step. I am Adrian. Two steps. Son of Tywin. Three steps. Brother of Tyrion.
He climbed until his chest heaved and black spots danced in his eyes. He reached a landing. This part of the castle was quieter, but the bells were louder here, ringing through the arrow slits.
He turned a corner and froze.
A woman was there.
She was carrying a basket of linens. She was older, with gray hair and a face like a dried apple. She stopped when she saw him.
Adrian stood in the torchlight. He knew what he looked like. He was small, pale, his silver-gold hair matted with dark filth. And the blood. There was so much blood on his tunic, on his arms, splattered across his cheek like war paint.
The woman's eyes went wide. She dropped the basket. Linens spilled out like white ghosts.
"Seven save us," she breathed. "A demon."
She didn't see a boy. She saw a monster.
Good. Monsters were scary. Monsters didn't get hurt.
Adrian tried to lift the crossbow. It shook in his hands. He couldn't hold it steady. It waved around, pointing at her knees, then her chest.
"Do you..." Adrian's voice cracked. He sounded like a baby. He hated it. He swallowed and tried to make his voice sound like rocks grinding together. Like Sandor.
"Do you want to die?" he asked.
The woman stared at the iron bolt loaded in the weapon. She stared at the dead eyes of a child.
She didn't scream. She didn't try to grab him.
She turned and ran. She ran faster than Adrian thought an old woman could run, her skirts flying, her feet thumping away into the dark.
Adrian watched her go. He didn't lower the crossbow.
Power, a voice whispered in his head. It sounded like Tyrion, but colder. I am a child, she was a woman, yet she fled, because he had the power over her life, the power to end it. She believed he could kill her.
And he could have. He realized that with a jolt that was colder than the dungeon. If she had stepped forward, if she had tried to touch him... he would have pulled the trigger. He wouldn't have hesitated.
He stepped over the spilled linens. He wiped his bloody feet on a white sheet, leaving red footprints, and kept walking.
He needed to find a place to hide. A place to wait for Father.
The castle was waking up fully now. Shouts echoed from the courtyard. The sound of fighting—steel on steel—drifted up from the gates. The Lannisters were inside.
"They're coming," Adrian whispered. "Hear me roar."
He moved deeper into the keep. This must be the family levels. The floor was wood now, covered in rushes, not bare stone. There were tapestries on the walls, rusted weapons mounted as trophies.
He heard heavy footsteps behind him. Not a servant. A man.
Adrian ducked behind a large wooden chest in the hallway. He curled into a ball, hugging the crossbow to his chest. The metal was cold against his skin.
A soldier in leather armor and a pot helm ran past. He had an axe in his hand. He was heading for the stairs Adrian had just climbed.
"Where are they?" someone shouted from a room nearby.
"The gate! They've breached the gate!" the soldier yelled back.
Adrian's heart hammered against his ribs like a fist. The gate. That meant they were close.
He waited until the footsteps faded. Then he crept out.
He needed to go higher. The Great Hall. The Lord's Solar. That was where Father would go. Father always went to the most important room to claim it. If Adrian got there first, he could wait.
He turned a corner and ran straight into a pair of legs.
Adrian bounced back, falling onto his rear. The crossbow clattered to the floor, sliding a few feet away.
He looked up.
It was a man. Not a soldier, maybe a squire. He was young, pimply, with a wispy beard that looked like dirt on his chin. He wore a padded jack and held a shortsword.
The squire blinked, looking down at the small boy in rags.
"What in the Drowned God's name..." the squire muttered. He looked at the blood on Adrian. He looked at the crossbow on the floor.
Adrian scrambled for the weapon.
"Hey!" the squire shouted. He lunged forward. "You little rat! Stay still!"
Adrian grabbed the stock of the crossbow. It was heavy. He dragged it toward him.
The squire grabbed Adrian's ankle. His grip was hard. It reminded Adrian of Toad.
NO.
Panic, white and hot, exploded in Adrian's chest. The world narrowed down to a tunnel.
"Get off!" Adrian screamed. He kicked out with his free leg, his heel connecting with the squire's shin.
The squire grunted but didn't let go. He dragged Adrian across the floorboards. "You're the prisoner, ain't you? The one Drumm was hiding. Euron's prize." The squire grinned. "If I bring you to the Lord, maybe I'll get a silver."
Prize. Hostage. Victim.
"I am a lion!" Adrian shrieked.
He twisted his body. He wasn't strong, but he was small and he was slippery with sweat and filth. He rolled onto his back. He pulled the crossbow onto his chest.
The squire was leaning over him, reaching for his neck.
Adrian didn't aim. He didn't think. He just shoved the front of the crossbow upward, toward the looming face, and squeezed the trigger mechanism.
THWACK.
The recoil slammed the wooden stock into Adrian's chest, knocking the wind out of him.
The bolt flew.
It didn't hit the face. It hit the throat.
The iron point punched through the soft flesh of the squire's neck, just above the collarbone. It went deep.
The squire made a sound like a teakettle boiling over, a high, wet whistle. His hands flew to his throat. He staggered back, releasing Adrian's ankle.
Adrian scrambled backward, crab-walking on his hands and feet until his back hit the wall. He couldn't breathe. His chest hurt where the crossbow had hit him.
The squire fell to his knees. He clawed at the bolt. Blood, dark and frothy, bubbled out between his fingers. He looked at Adrian. His eyes were wide and confused. He tried to speak, but only pink foam came out.
He fell forward onto his face. He twitched once. Twice. Then he stopped.
Adrian sat there, panting. He looked at the dead squire. He looked at the crossbow in his lap. The string was loose now. The groove was empty.
He was safe.
No. He wasn't safe. He had one bolt. He had used it. Now he had a heavy stick.
Sandor had taught him about crossbows. They're slow, Sandor had said. Good for one shot. If you miss, you're dead. If you hit, reload immediately.
Adrian looked at the squire. The bolt was sticking out of his neck.
"I need it," Adrian whispered.
He forced himself to crawl forward. The smell of fresh blood was strong. It mixed with the smell of the old blood on his tunic. He felt like he was swimming in it.
He reached out and grabbed the fletching of the bolt.
"Sorry," he whispered.
He pulled.
It didn't come out. It was stuck in bone or gristle.
Adrian put his foot on the squire's shoulder. He gritted his teeth. He pulled harder.
With a wet suck, the bolt slid free. A fresh gush of blood followed it, pooling on the floorboards.
Adrian wiped the bolt on the squire's padded jacket. It was still sharp. Iron didn't care if it was clean.
Now the hard part.
Reloading.
Sandor was strong. He could pull a crossbow string back with one hand. Adrian was six.
He stood the crossbow up on its nose. He put his foot into the metal stirrup at the front. He bent down and hooked the string with both hands.
"Up," he grunted.
He pulled.
The string barely moved. The tension was immense. It felt like trying to lift a horse.
"Up!" Adrian cried. Tears pricked his eyes. His arms shook. His back screamed. "Come on!"
He closed his eyes and saw Father's face. Father looking disappointed. Weak, Father would say. A Lannister is not weak.
He saw Tyrion. Use your leverage, little brother.
Adrian straightened his legs, using his whole body weight, throwing his head back, pulling with his legs and back and arms and soul.
The string crept up the track. Inch by agonizing inch.
His fingers felt like they were being sliced off by the cord. He sobbed, a dry, hitching sound.
Click.
The mechanism caught the string.
Adrian collapsed backward, panting, his hands throbbing. He lay on the floor for a moment, staring at the ceiling.
He had done it.
He sat up. He placed the bloody bolt into the groove. He engaged the safety clip.
He stood up. He felt older. He felt a hundred years old.
He looked down at the squire one last time. "You shouldn't have touched me," he said. His voice was flat. Empty.
He turned away.
He had to keep going.
He moved through the corridors. The sounds of battle were closer now. He heard crashing wood. He heard the roar of a man who sounded like a bear. Sandor?
Sandor is dead, his mind whispered. Euron killed him.
No, another part of his mind argued. Sandor is too mean to die.
Adrian reached a pair of large double doors. They were carved with krakens. This was it. The Great Hall.
He put his ear to the wood. Silence. Or maybe just silence compared to the noise outside.
He pushed. The doors were heavy, but unbarred. They swung open with a groan of hinges that hadn't been oiled.
Adrian slipped inside.
The Hall was vast. The ceiling was lost in shadows high above. A long table stretched down the center, covered in maps and half-eaten food. A fire burned low in the massive hearth at the far end.
It looked empty.
Adrian stepped inside. He felt tiny in the huge space. He walked past the table. He wanted to curl up under it. He wanted to hide.
But hiding hadn't saved him on the ship. Hiding hadn't saved him in the cell.
He walked toward the High Table on the dais. Father would sit there. Adrian looked and saw a sword... a Red One attached to the wall. It was a decoration, it was beautiful. Red Rain, Adrian realised, but there was no point in getting it, the sword was a little too big for him, he knew Valyrian Steel Swords were lighter than normal ones, but he doubted he could do much with it against a fully grown man.
He repeated his list.
"I am Adrian Lannister," he whispered to the empty air. "I am the heir to Casterly Rock. I am not afraid."
He was lying. He was terrified.
"My best friend is Joy Hill. My pony is Moonbeam. My brother is Tyrion."
He reached the dais. He climbed the steps.
He turned to face the doors he had just entered. He sat down on the step of the Lord's chair. He rested the crossbow on his knees.
He waited
His hands were sticky. His hair was stiff with filth. He smelled like a slaughterhouse.
But he was alive.
Come on, Father, he thought. Come and find me.
He touched the pocket with the fish bone. He touched the trigger of the crossbow.
He was a little lion in a den of squids. And he had teeth.
Suddenly, a door behind the dais creaked.
Adrian spun around, bringing the crossbow up.
Someone was there.
Someone who wasn't Father.
Adrian's breath hitched. He wasn't safe yet. The nightmare wasn't over.
He tightened his grip on the wood. The dampness on his palms made it slick.
One bolt, he thought. Make it count.
"A Lannister always pays his debts."
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