"Don't drag this out—find a proper knight already," I remarked, crossing one leg over the other and idly rocking my foot. After admiring my impeccably clean beige suede boot, I went on. "And one more thing—you promised you'd deal with Trant, Kettleblack, and the rest. So what do you think about them?"
"Bitch—nothing but a constant headache," Jaime said, pouring himself some wine, taking a couple of quick swallows, then getting up and pacing the room again. "As it turns out, Balon Swann isn't nearly as bad as I first thought. I've got no complaints about him, and I didn't find any rot in him either. Arys Oakheart also proved to be a perfectly decent knight. Besides, Myrcella has grown very attached to him, and he returns that attachment with absolute loyalty. But Meryn and Osmund—those are the ones I know damn little about, and they make me nervous."
"Can we solve the problem somehow?" I asked—more for form's sake than anything else, since I understood the situation perfectly well myself.
The Kingsguard is the kind of service where it is taken for granted that there is only one way out—feet first.
At all times, under any king, there were always enough skirmishes and wars in which the king's guards had ample opportunity to lose their lives. That was considered normal—at least, that was how people viewed it.
And then Joffrey broke a three-hundred-year tradition. While delving into his memories, I saw clearly that the decision to expel Ser Barristan the Bold lay entirely on Cersei's conscience. She wanted to free up the position of Lord Commander for Jaime—and she neither knew how nor cared to wait. It never occurred to her that Barristan was already an old man, that the realm was at war, and that within a couple of years he could quite naturally die anyway. Yes, patience was not among her virtues.
Joffrey himself never even considered dismissing Barristan. The idea was planted by his own mother—and since the underage idiot adored humiliating people and causing them pain, he seized on it with enthusiasm.
And what did we end up with? By driving Selmy out, Joffrey showed that he didn't give a damn about people, that he didn't give a shit about his father's decisions—his father who had pardoned Barristan—that traditions of the Kingsguard meant nothing to him, and that his rulings were guided by fleeting emotions.
That was exactly what I now had to live with. And if I once again simply throw Meryn Trant and Osmund Kettleblack out of the Guard without cause, I would finally bury the reputation of the institution—and once again prove that the current king was a despotic and foolish ruler.
I simply couldn't dismiss members of the Kingsguard without solid proof of their guilt. And I understood how dangerous the situation was. All I could do was wait… while Kevan Lannister, Harald Orm, and Asio Copin dug through their pasts, searching for anything that might stain their honor.
As for Meryn Trant, we managed to unearth some compromising material. We were waiting for Littlefinger to arrive in the capital—so we could sweep several pieces off the board at once.
So touching them right now would be dangerous—Baelish would inevitably grow wary. And we were doing everything in our power to prevent that.
And one more thing: when a king makes a decision—say, appoints a new man to the Guard—he must anticipate what may come of it in the future. A king must be able to live with his own decisions, unless he wants to earn a reputation as a short-sighted tyrant.
"If you want to smear the Kingsguard in shit for good, then go ahead—dismiss or arrest two more knights," Jaime said with a bleak smile, closing his eyes. His words only confirmed all my thoughts and suspicions. "For now, I see only one solution: those two need to die heroically in some battle, losing their heads for the glory of the king."
"You'll send them to the hottest part of the fighting?"
"Yes—to where the chances of survival are the lowest. If they refuse to carry out the order, you'll be able to strip them of both cloak and spurs. And if they agree, their odds of surviving will be slim."
"Good. But until the issue is resolved, keep them away from important matters—and from our family."
"Already done. Your wife is mostly guarded by the young Tyrell. Myrcella and Tommen—by Oakheart. You yourself—by me or Swann. And I plug minor 'holes' with Meryn and Osmund, entrusting them with nothing of importance."
"They're taking it calmly?"
"Of course they're unhappy, but so what?" he snorted. "Nobody gives a shit about them. Though Cersei did try to stand up for Kettleblack."
"And you?"
"I told her to finally learn to distinguish what matters from what doesn't."
"And she?"
"She flew into a rage," he sighed, not bothering to go into details. From his expression, I could tell they'd argued again—far from the first time, as far as I could remember.
"Alright, I'll be going. What about this evening—care to train?"
"Sure," Jaime smiled, clearly grateful for the distraction. I think our joint training sessions pleased him no less than they did me.
"Mind if I bring Tommen along?"
"Why not?"
I left his chambers, involuntarily looking forward to the evening. Buried under responsibilities, I had been physically unable to find time to train—but now, three days after arriving in King's Landing, I finally had a free hour.
***
The next day, ravens brought the long-awaited news: the garrison of Storm's End had laid down its arms, and Mace Tyrell had triumphantly taken the supposedly impregnable stronghold.
My goodfather went on to report the inevitable problems that had arisen in the meantime—the expenses, the army's morale, and the condition of the fortress itself. At the end of the letter, he expressed his intention to return to the capital and celebrate his victory.
Before he could depart the castle, I had to urgently convene the Small Council. There, it was decided to assign Tyrell a new task. Since both the fleet and the army were now in one place, and nothing threatened the realm at the moment, he was ordered to embark his men and sail south—to the island of the Arbor. From there, after replenishing supplies and giving the men a few days' rest, he was to proceed to Oldtown.
The raven carrying the order flew that very evening. In theory, everything was shaping up well—we were in time to forestall the inevitable strike by the ironborn, and we had the means to answer it.
What troubled me somewhat was that Tyrell hadn't had time to take Dragonstone. That had been Tywin's and my original plan, but Mace had lingered too long beneath the walls of Storm's End and squandered a great deal of valuable time. Now, if he were to move on Dragonstone, the entire western coast would be left virtually undefended.
Still, after thinking it through, I decided it wasn't all that bad. If nothing changed, the Boltons would sooner or later finish Stannis off in the North—and in that case, his men on Dragonstone would have no reason left to continue resisting.
(End of Chapter)
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