Chapter 91: ' Six years ago... '

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POV: Duncan;

Promontory Encounter, Allied Camp.

About two seconds after Jaime was called 'Hero'...

Jaime slightly widened his eyes after my statement.

He remained silent, scanning my expression and pondering for a few seconds. I kept my gaze convinced.

"Why do you call me 'Hero'? Are your words serious or are you just making fun of me?" Jaime.

"Not at all, Ser, no deception or wordplay...

I firmly believe that your actions six years ago were heroic. Nothing more and nothing less." I replied in the same tone of voice.

"... I find that hard to believe, my lord. Most of Westeros considers a Kingsguard stabbing their King's back a dishonourable act and worthy of the worst infamies." Jaime.

"And indeed it was, Ser... 'A truly dishonourable act'... On the other hand, sacrificing one's honour for the lives of more than half a million innocent lives, I find a very heroic act. Worthy of praise in my opinion." Me.

"You... "I interrupted the knight anticipating him.

"Yes, I know about the Wildfire. Thousands of cruets placed in all the key points of the city... " Jaime had a surprised, confused look that expressed uncertainty about what to do.

After a few seconds of silence, the knight asked:

"So it was you who told Ned Stark this story. Am I right? Who else did you tell?" Jaime.

"Yes, Ned Stark should have been informed. I found his prejudice and resentment toward you inappropriate and unfair. Fear not, Ser... Very few people know about this. Only the necessary men." Me.

"Necessary?... Necessary for what?" Jaime was genuinely uncomfortable.

"You may have killed all the alchemists, Ser, but those cruets filled with a highly unstable and dangerous substance still lay hidden somewhere... One spark or overly hot day and... 'Boom'... Aerys' madness would only be postponed for a few years." Jaime paled.

"I... I warned Varys... He..."

"Yes, and Varys followed your advice, Ser Jaime... But... Only the Alchemists' Guild is capable of safely handling and disposing of Wildfire.

There are currently only eight Guild members left in King's Landing. Four of them are very old. So far, they've only managed to clean up the Red Keep, The Steel Road, The Silk Road, and a couple of other spots. Not to berate you, Ser Jaime, but it would have been a much easier and quicker task if you had spared at least one of those six key alchemists who knew where the cruets were placed.

King's Landing has tens of thousands of buildings and tens of miles of tunnels, sewers, and drainage pipes...

I am currently working with the Guild to help them with the task. I hope that the team of aspiring alchemists in the North can contribute significantly to this delicate task." I explained calmly.

"I didn't think King's Landing was still in danger... You're right... in hindsight, I would have locked one of those arsonists in a black cell." Jaime said, clenching his fist to find an outlet for some memory.

Then he continued.

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

"... Mmm... There is, Ser Jaime. It would help enormously if you could... say... 'advise' the Lord Commander of the City Guard to keep half of the stretch of Sisters Road to the Guild Headquarters clear after midnight until dawn for... say at least eight moons... Only in that building can the alchemists safely dispose of the unstable substance. And it would be better if no fire or drunken ruffian came near those highly unstable barrels during transport." I said.

"It will be done. You have my word. I will personally ask Lord Commander Manly Stokeworth to stage a curfew on that stretch of road for as long as it takes." Jaime promptly replied.

"And you have my word that I will not divulge this story to anyone else. The choice to keep your deeds concealed is yours alone, Ser Jaime." We both nodded in tacit agreement.

"May I ask how you found out?" Jaime asked.

"... I too have secrets I would prefer to keep, Ser. But I will gladly exchange more urgent ones concerning you.

First, though, take your time with the sword." Me.

Jaime respected my answer, and at that moment seemed to remember that in his hand he held a weapon considered by many to be 'Legendary'.

He didn't have to repeat it twice and drew his blade. I helped him by taking Red Rain's scabbard, which was in the way of one of his own.

The small promontory we set up for the private meeting was well lit. The ripples undulating along the dark-purple metal of the blade seemed to dance with the reflections of the burning fires.

Jaime remained spellbound for a good minute as he admired every inch of the blade from multiple angles.

"Magnificent... The edge was off the blade sharper than a razor and shows no sign of chipping. Never wielded a lighter sword-bastard than this." Said Jaime trying to cleave the air with slow, fluid movements.

I let the knight enjoy that moment for as long as he wanted. I watched in silence as he analyzed and admired the style of the Young Lion, believed by many to be the deadliest sword in the Seven Kingdoms.

About fifteen minutes later...

"Thank you, Lord Duncan... Forgive the wait, I got carried away at the moment losing track of time." Said Jaime returning the sheathed sword as I returned his.

"I fully understand what you mean. The first time I tried Longclaw, lent to me by Lord Jorah for the duel the day before, I indulged in a very similar dance for almost three hours... It felt like half an hour at most had passed." I replied, laughing lightly. Jaime, for the first time in this peculiar encounter, also allowed himself a small genuine smile.

"Is it true that you and my Uncle Gerion are planning an exploratory expedition into the ruins of Valyria?" Jaime.

"Yes, it is. Barring unforeseen circumstances, we should be leaving about two years from now.

If we succeed in our endeavour, I'm sure you too will wield a weapon worthy of your hand someday, Ser." I replied with jovial sincerity.

"You are both fools...and perhaps Tyrion and I are more so than you. Every night we discuss the subject sober we mock you would-be seekers of certain death... And after a few wineskins of red, we always end up raising our glasses toasting our heroic choice to join the expedition." Jaime admitted.

I laughed profusely, imagining the scene.

After a few moments of honest mirth, sarcasm and lightheartedness had passed, the would-be Paladin restored his original look and asked:

"Shall we move on to more serious topics?" Jaime.

"Yes... I'd say it's time to begin the fair exchange of information."

End POV.

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POV: The Kingslayer.

Promontory Encounter, Allied Camp.

About five minutes after the laughing and joking ceased...

"So I'm a Paladin?.... A warrior 'blessed by the gods'?

You mean the Seven Gods?" Jaime asked not even believing the words he spoke.

He kept wondering why he was worthy of such a 'gift'. He still couldn't find an answer.

"Not of the Seven, Ser, at least I can rule that out. If you were, the predominant colour would be Rainbow... I still can't give you an answer as to the 'predominant Deity' that represents your silvery-white...

But with a little more time and your help, we can find out." The boy.

"... So we're destined to fight each other? A war of faith?" The knight asked rightly, remembering the recently passed events of the Paladin and the Cleric of the Drowned God.

"No, not necessarily. Victarion and Aeron Greyjoy's initiatives were personal decisions... No god has commanded me to come into conflict with other chosen gods. The decision remains in our hands, Ser, not other entities." The Paladin replied.

Though Jaime had never been a genius at the art of speech, he was born to fight. Sword and battle were his domains where he exalted his valour, but even he, a hot-blooded man who would have been eager to answer with steel to any offence suffered, remained reluctant to seek unnecessary conflict. He would never be a proponent of a conflict in which he did not believe right.

"I will not fight you for reasons of faith, if that is what you ask, Ser." The Paladin of the Ancients.

"... The same for me, Young Lord," Jaime replied firmly and sincerely.

"Do you have any information regarding my counterpart? The... 'Cleric' if I'm not mistaken?" Jaime asked.

"Perhaps... but it is still too early to reveal it to you. Trust me, Ser, for now 'he' would be of no use to you. For now, I can tell you that the 'Cleric' definitely knows less than you do." Ambiguously replied the boy.

Jaime was content with that answer. He would have liked to know the name for sure, but he was in no position to demand too much.

"You can use magic are you not? Could you show me?" The Paladin of the Ancients asked.

"I... Sure." Jaime still didn't trust the individual in front of him. From an early age, he had been taught to trust only his family.

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The bond of trust between him and his twin was the deepest of all, and yet... Jaime had yet to confess anything to Cersei.

The man drew the stiletto on his belt and lightly lacerated a strip of gold velvet from his sleeve. Then he naturally recited a Cantrip that he had tested many times in secret over those six years.

The tear was stitched back together in a few seconds, returning to its original form.

"I see... you can use [Mending] magic... A very useful minor magic, Ser Jaime. It should be able to repair even small dents, holes, and cracks in your equipment. By any chance, have you tested this property on your sword? Can it restore the edge of the blade as well?" The Paladin of the Ancients.

"Yes... With each use, up to about a foot in length, the blade returns as good as new." Jaime also knew the name of the magic. He had not revealed it to test his interlocutor. And the boy had passed that test.

"Until now, you've never heard a voice in your head calling to you?" The boy.

"No. No voice at all. Why do you ask?" Jaime.

"For the empowerment ritual, Ser. Both I, and seven other for now confirmed 'chosen ones' went through a ritual process that raised our power levels. I will now explain the details..."

About ten minutes later...

"So the circles around your number symbolize that!....

I'm pretty sure I've never sensed a call, yet... I've been able to get experience.

What could it mean? That I am not worthy?" Jaime asked in a slightly dejected tone.

"... No. I don't think it's due to that.

It's just a hypothesis for now, but I still think it's the closest to the truth.

I think you don't have 'an Altar' or 'holy place' nearby that could trigger such a process." Explained the boy.

"An Altar?" Jaime.

"Yes... In my case, it would be the Godswood or more specifically a heart tree consecrated by the Children of the Forest. For the Chosen of the Seven, I think it is a chapel or place of faith for such deities.

The reason why you haven't heard a voice yet may be explained by the fact that the distance between you is too great...

I will investigate the matter and help you get to the bottom of it. You have my word, Ser." Duncan.

Jaime was not used to this mammoth amount of kindness and favour in his regard. First Ned Stark and now heir Tallhart...

It was as if overnight the sun began to rise in the west and set in the east.

"Thank you, Lord Duncan. I would not know how to repay you..." Jaime replied, giving a formal knightly bow.

"Oh, but you have the opportunity here and now...

Take up your training sword and face me, Ser." The boy replied, stripping off his belt and preparing to pick up the blunt blade they both agreed to carry.

Jaime's blood was also boiling with the excitement of the coming challenge.

Jaime mimicked his sparring opponent's gestures and reached for him with his blunted sword in hand.

"Ready when you are, my lord." Jaime felt a quiver under his skin. It was his warrior instincts warning him of the danger not to be underestimated in front of him.

There were few moments of exhilaration and joy in the humdrum life of a Kingsguard...this was one of those moments.

"First move to you, Ser Jaime. Communicate to me any possible changes in my green symbol... I need to test some theories.

Only you can help me. Do not be afraid of possible pre-battle injuries.

Don't hold back, 'Kingslayer'." The boy.

Jaime exulted inwardly discarding the thought 'it's just a training sparring with a kid Jaime, don't push it.'

"Show me the authenticity of the Hero of the North, 'Bloody Snow'."

End POV.

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POV: Ser Barristan 'The Valiant';

Isle of Pyke, Allied Camp.

The morning after two swordsmen faced each other without holding back...

It was a cold but sunny morning. The salty taste that hovered in the air was more subdued on land than at sea. Even though the knight took care of his enamelled armour every night before going to sleep, there was always a slight salt layer forming on the plates. The sea winds inevitably left their mark.

The knight, who had recently turned fifty-one years of age, had arrived along with five ships and four hundred escort men to the Isle of Pyke to deliver enemy war banners to his king.

Ser Barristan's expedition had come to a successful conclusion.

Lord Blacktyde had surrendered before they could lay siege to the Isle's fortress. There had been a small skirmish in the harbour in which only seven of King Robert's loyal men lost their lives. A score of wounded on both sides, plus a dozen fallen ironborn, and House Blacktyde's rebellion had ended.

The old knight did not even have to draw his sword. There were less than two hundred men-at-arms and a few battered longships left on that island. The battle was lost before it even began.

Lord Blacktyde voluntarily surrendered himself to the crown to beg the King's forgiveness.

Barristan did not doubt that Robert would grant that pardon.

His squire, a scion named Tybeon Lannister, the nephew of one of Lord Tywin's cousins, had just finished filling him in on all the relevant events that had occurred over the past few days.

Barristan felt in his bones that, perhaps, this war would be the last one he would participate in. He felt the need to show his worth to the world one last time.

He had served four kings and had failed in his duty three times already.

At first, Barristan had wanted to stand by King Robert's side in the main assault unit at the fortress. But now... he had heard of another attacking unit. A small squad of fewer than fifty men who were tasked with a key mission for a quick victory.

The forces were already deploying. Catapults would break down the first walls and the vanguard would begin the attack at the breach of the first tower.

The ancient fortress of Pyke stood on a promontory and two high cliffs.

Three towers are connected by two bridges. A bridge of solid stone between the first two, and one made of hemp and wood ropes between the middle one and the last.

The special unit had the task of infiltrating between the enemy lines to guard the last bridge. A bridge that could have easily been knocked down to isolate the last tower from any possible assault.

With sufficient supplies, the occupants of the last tower could have held out for months, forcing the enemy forces into a starvation siege.

But if someone had prevented the thick hemp ropes from being cut until reinforcements arrived, the royal forces could have easily conquered Pyke today.

Barristan wanted to join that unit of which, according to his squire, Ser Jaime Lannister, Thoros of Myr, Ser Balon Swann, but most importantly, 'Bloody Snow', were also part.

Barristan looked for that group of warriors who were supposed to be gathering near the camps of House Tallhart.

The knight eyed a few dozen paces away from a young man who appeared to be in charge. He was clad in exquisite studded leather armour with steel shoulder straps, armbands, and chaps. Decorative ornaments symbolized a higher rank than the men around him.

For a moment Barristan thought that even the face, at first glance ordinary and well-groomed, looked familiar.

That young commander seemed to recognize him immediately and squared Barristan as if he had seen a ghost.

The knight turned back to make sure his gaze was on him.

'He seems to be frightened... or even some grudge against me... but who is he?' Barristan didn't back down and faced the small challenge that was about to stand in front of him.

"Forgive me, Ser..."

"I am not a knight, Ser Barristan... You may call me Peter. Or Vice-General Peter if that suits you better." The young man replied in a tone that was polite but had a hidden thread of resentment and bitterness in his voice.

Now that the two men were within six feet of each other, Barristan had a chance to peer more closely at the young commander.

At least six feet and two inches in height, broad shoulders, good musculature. Slender but also rugged, brown eyes, wavy raven black hair, slightly square jaw and face, a small scar on his right cheekbone.

Barristan's eye did not fail to notice the fluid but firm bearing of those movements. The boy, looking in his early twenties, certainly knew his way around a weapon.

The man's veteran intuition from hundreds of confrontations never failed him.

'Peter... both the face and the name ring a bell...' Thought the knight, straining to remember. He decided to solve the mystery by asking the man directly.

"Forgive me, Vice-General Peter... Have we met somewhere before?" Barristan asked.

"Yes, Ser.

Six years ago at the Trident.

I foolishly chose to cross my sword with yours. You were one step away from slicing away my life before my father stepped in to stop you.

His name was Tom..."

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