Nerd In the North: 3-22 (Patreon)

III-22: PromiseMyrcella stood at the far end of the hallway, her hands clenched into fists, shaking.

The air burned.

Smoke curled through the shattered corridor, thick and stinging, the acrid green haze burning her eyes, her throat. Each breath tasted sharp, laced with something worse than fire, something clinging and wrong. The heat still licked at the stone, at the walls—at her skin. It crawled beneath the surface, pressing into her bones.

Her ears rang, muffling the voices, the movement, the grief.

The explosion had rattled through the Red Keep like a living thing, shaking the very bones of the castle even as the damage itself remained limited to one hall..

She could still feel it.

Dust and smoke swirled together, thick and choking, and somewhere beneath the rubble—

No. No, she would not think it.

Yet she could not deny it all the same. Her brother was gone.Tommen was gone.

The thought scraped against the walls of her mind, clawing to be let in. Her little brother—the boy she had promised to protect, to keep safe from Joffrey’s sharp words and sharper cruelties—was gone.

Her chest locked.

The hallway smelled of death.

She stared at the wreckage. At the jagged stones, the blackened beams, the green fire flickering against the ruined tunnel entrance, unnatural and unyielding. The heat still pressed against her skin, even as the flames dulled.

Mother will hate me. She could already hear the words, sharp and cold, slipping through clenched teeth. You were supposed to watch him. A slap, hard enough to leave bruises no one was allowed to see. You were supposed to be his sister.

She had failed.

“Mandon Moore!”

Her head jerked up at the sound of her mother’s voice, raw with fury and grief, the sound of a woman unraveling.

Ser Mandon stood down the hall, stiff-backed, his white cloak stained with soot. His armor was dented, his face streaked with ash, but he was otherwise untouched. The kingsguard looked somehow both solemn and passive all the same, his head turned down in silence as he made no defense of his lapse regarding his charge.

That was not enough.

“You failed him!” Cersei shrieked, voice like a blade’s edge. “You failed your queen!”

Uncle Jaime held her back, arms locked around her middle as she fought. Her golden hair hung loose, tangled, streaked with soot and sweat, her face terrible to behold. She thrashed, clawing at the air in Ser Mandon’s direction, nails curling like she could tear him apart with her hands alone. “You let my son die! I’ll have your head! I’ll have your family’s heads! I’ll—”

“Enough!” Jaime snapped, his own voice hoarse. He was struggling—her mother was not weak, never weak, and she was volcanic now, grief and rage bursting without end.

Her nails dug into his arm, leaving red welts, but he held her back.

“He’s gone, Cersei!”

The words were a blade to the heart.

For a moment, the golden queen stilled.

Just a moment.

Then she twisted in his grip, her breath coming in ragged gasps. “No, he’s not! He’s my son, my little boy—he can’t be gone!”

A sob tore from her throat, raw and unrestrained, and her body sagged against Jaime, all fight draining away. Her fingers curled weakly into his tunic as if holding on for dear life.

He murmured something Myrcella couldn’t hear, his jaw tight, his hand trembling as he held his sister together.

The air was thick, heavy, poisoned with grief and smoke.

The wildfire’s glow painted the walls an unnatural green, its flickering light turning the shadows wrong. Myrcella could feel it pressing against her chest, tight and unrelenting, making it hard to breathe as the flames seemed to jump and flicker in time with her frantic breaths.

She wanted to move. To do something. To scream.

But her feet would not listen.

She had never felt so small.

Behind her, the guards whispered, shifting uneasily, unsure whether they should step forward, offer comfort, or simply wait for their queen’s next order. The few nobles nearest had fled the moment the explosion had rung through the halls.

Their lives were worth more than loyalty.

Only Myrcella remained.

She had been told to run.

She hadn’t.

Her feet had stayed planted as Mother wailed. 

As Uncle whispered. 

As Mandon Moore stood silent, head still down, as the scant remaining flames crackled, green and hungry.

“...”

Her green eyes blinked.

The sound came faintly at first, swallowed by the heavy silence that followed her mother’s cries. Myrcella almost thought she had imagined it—a trick of the ear, a desperate hope given false form by grief.

Then it came again.

Soft. Muffled beneath the weight of stone and smoke.

“Mama?”

Her breath caught.

She turned too fast, vision blurring, feet nearly slipping on the soot-streaked marble. A sharp, strangled noise pressed against her throat, caught somewhere between a gasp and a sob.

Uncle Jaime heard it too. His head snapped toward the wreckage, body going rigid, one hand instinctively reaching for the sword at his hip. Even Mother—wild-eyed, barely restrained in Uncle’s grip—froze, the fury and grief halting upon her face like a sculptor’s unfinished work.

Then, louder now, clear and unmistakable—

“Mama!”

The ruins shifted.

Myrcella’s heart lurched into her throat.

A pile of scorched stone trembled, dust and soot cascading down in soft clouds. Then—beneath it—a small, chubby hand thrust free, fingers flexing weakly against the debris.

A hand she knew.

The air rushed from her lungs as a tangle of golden curls surfaced next, streaked with ash, and then, with a determined push, Tommen pulled himself into view, blinking through the haze of dust.

He was disheveled, cheeks smudged with soot, tunic torn at the shoulder—but he was whole.

And smiling.

“Mama!” His voice rang out, bright and clear, as if he had simply wandered in from rolling in the grass, as if he were still that same carefree boy who laughed at beetles and begged to see the kittens in the kennels.

He shouldn’t be smiling.

He shouldn’t be—

The wildfire licked at the edges of his boots. The green flames flickered, curling near his ankles, creeping along the broken stone—and yet, they did not touch him.

The fire should have devoured him.

It should have left behind blackened flesh, curling skin, the raw scent of burnt meat—

Instead, it dimmed.

As if bending to some unseen will.

Her knees buckled.

The relief was too sudden, too crushing, her vision swimming, her breath coming in sharp, desperate gasps. She clutched at the wall beside her, fingers digging into the stone, as tears spilled freely down her cheeks.

Mother let out another scream.

Not grief this time.

Something else.

Something raw, something desperate, something too powerful for words.

“Tommen!” Mother gasped, voice cracking as his name left her lips, her hands trembling, reaching.

But Tommen was not alone.

Something bright slithered from the wreckage behind him, winding over his shoulder with a slow, fluid grace.

At first, Myrcella thought it was a shadow—a trick of the flickering green light.

Then, she saw the glint of crimson against soot.

The gleam of scales catching the fire’s glow.

A creature clambered onto Tommen’s head, perching there with the casual ease of a cat.

It was small, no longer than her forearm, with smooth, polished scales that shimmered like freshly-spilled rubies. Its wings—wings—were tucked tight against its sides, the delicate membranes fluttering faintly as it surveyed the ruined hallway with keen, intelligent eyes.

A long, whip-thin tail curled snugly around Tommen’s neck, draping over his shoulder like a lazy scarf.

Then it hissed.

A small, high-pitched sound—nothing like the deep, terrible roars that filled stories of old.

A dragon.

A dragon.

Myrcella’s breath came in short, stuttering gasps, her vision swimming as her mind fought to reconcile what she was seeing. She knew of dragons, of course.

She had heard the old tales whispered in court, scribbled in the histories, spoken in reverence and fear.

But that was all they were now. Stories.

Dragons had died with House Targaryen, their last embers snuffed out long before she was born. And yet…

There it was.

Draped over Tommen like a cloak, unbothered by the flames, its bright, gleaming eyes filled with something ancient, something knowing.

Mother had gone silent. Her face—

Her face was wrong.

The anger, the grief, the wild desperation had collapsed into something else, something unsteady, something fragile.

Shock.

Fear.

Relief so sharp it threatened to break under its own weight.

Uncle Jaime had stilled too, his usual composure shattered as his green eyes refused to shift from their current fixed onto the thing atop Tommen’s head.

The silence was suffocating.

Then Tommen beamed.

Bright, boundless, oblivious.

His entire body thrummed with triumph, radiating pride from every soot-streaked inch of his small frame. He pointed one chubby finger at the creature nestled against his golden curls, his grin stretching wide enough to show the gap where he had lost a tooth just weeks before.

“Mama!” he declared, voice bright, utterly delighted. “This is Ser Pounce, Second of His Name!”

Silence.

The ruined hall lay still, save for the faint crackle of dying wildfire and her little brother’s cheerful voice. Neither guard nor kingsguard nor servant deigned to so much as utter a word.

Jaime made a noise.

Something caught between a laugh and a cough, something uncertain, bewildered, as if his tongue had forgotten how to produce words.

The name alone sent Myrcella’s thoughts scattering. Ser Pounce.

Ser Pounce was dead.

Joffrey had kicked him weeks ago.

He had claimed it was an accident as he walked, his eyes too high off the ground to have seen it as he passed by. That Tommen was too soft, that it was just a cat.

Tommen had cried himself sick that night.

But now—

Now he stood atop the dying embers of wildfire, his tunic torn, his cheeks streaked with ash, but his joy untouched.

The dragon—Ser Pounce?—tilted its head, studying them, its long red tail flicking lazily against Tommen’s half-burnt tunic.

Mother took a shuddering breath.

She lifted a trembling hand, as if to touch him, to pull him close, to assure herself that he was real.

Uncle had let her go. There was nothing holding her back now but her own will.

“T~Tommen…”

Her mother’s voice wavered.

She never wavered.

Her little brother blinked up at her, still grinning, his eyes bright—Purple.

Her breath caught.

Her stomach twisted.

Purple. A color neither Baratheon nor Lannister had ever worn.

Her vision swam.

The hall tilted.

She tried to take a step forward, tried to find her balance, but the floor was gone, the world spinning out from beneath her as the heat of the wildfire overwhelmed her, the green all she could see now..

Something cracked against her skull.

And just before darkness claimed her, she heard her mother scream.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

The night passed. Morning came.

Jaime Lannister leaned against a gilded pillar in the Small Council chamber, his fingers tapping idly against the pommel of his sword. The chamber was half-empty, but the air was thick—parchment, ink, and the cloying perfume Cersei had taken to wearing in heavier doses since the explosion.

She stood before the council now, back straight as a blade, her emerald eyes flashing with the heat of wildfire.

“Tommen’s protection is now the highest priority,” she declared, her voice slicing through the uneasy silence. “Double the guards. Triple them if you must. I won’t risk another lapse in judgment like Ser Mandon’s.”

The tension in the room tightened like a drawn bowstring.

Varys, seated nearest to the king’s empty chair, shifted ever so slightly, his silken sleeves rustling as he folded his hands atop his stomach. The others—Grand Maester Pycelle, Ser Axell Florent, and even Littlefinger—watched Cersei with the wary attention one might give a caged lioness.

She had been a storm since the explosion, tearing through the Red Keep like a force of nature.

Queen Cersei’s fire burns hotter than wildfire, the smallfolk whispered. Jaime believed them now.

Her paranoia was not without reason.

Tommen’s survival had been nothing short of miraculous. Any other child would have been crushed beneath the rubble—cracked ribs, shattered skull, reduced to ash before the fire even had its fill. But Tommen had walked out of the smoke untouched, a crimson-scaled creature curled around his shoulders, and eyes as purple as the dragonlord he apparently now was.

It had caused an uproar, to say the least.

Septons muttered of omens. Maesters whispered in hushed corners. Courtiers tiptoed around the subject with all the grace of a man crossing thin ice.

Jaime did not care for omens.

He had seen his nephew—his son—alive and well, and that was all that mattered to him.Cersei, however, was clinging too tightly.

He could hear it in the way she spoke now, her words snapping like a whip, an iron band tightening around the court.

She is walling us off, brick by brick.

Her gaze turned to Ser Axell Florent.

“The Baratheon guards are to be relocated immediately. I want only Lannister men at Tommen’s side.”

Ser Axell bristled. Wisely, he did not object outright.

The Florents have not fled yet, Jaime thought, watching the man’s mouth tighten into a thin line. But they will soon enough if this continues.

The Baratheons were already splintering.

Renly had vanished south. Stannis brooded on his dreary rock, gathering what few loyalists remained. And Robert—

Robert remained in his great bed, lost to the waking world. His body stubbornly clung to life while the rest of the realm held its breath.

“Your Grace,” Varys began, voice smooth as silk, “a delicate hand may serve us better than a heavy one. With Stannis gone and Renly absent, what remains of House Baratheon’s support grows thin. Perhaps it would be wise to—”

“Robert will understand,” Cersei cut in, chin lifting. “He is my husband, and I speak with his authority while he recovers.”

Jaime arched a brow.

Do you?

Across the table, Littlefinger smirked, his fingers idly toying with the hem of his doublet.

“And if anyone objects,” Cersei continued, voice cold, “they can join Stannis in his grim little hole on Dragonstone.”

Jaime exhaled through his nose.

And here I thought isolation was a Stark specialty. Silly me.

The chamber fell into uneasy quiet.

Pycelle muttered something about the king’s health, about the need for rest and patience, but Cersei did not hear him.

Or rather—

She did not care to listen.

Whenever Cersei had truly made up her mind, the amount of people that could truly stop her or turn her aside could be counted by a smallfolk on one dirty hand.

“You have your orders,” she said, casting one final glance around the room before turning her gaze on Pycelle. “Pycelle, you are to accompany me. We must speak about my daughter.”

The council dispersed soon after.

Littlefinger lingered, offering Jaime a sly nod before slipping away. Varys drifted into the shadows, a specter of silk and whispers, and Ser Axell left in silence, his jaw tight, his pride stung.

Jaime did not move at first.

He watched his sister sweep from the room, golden hair catching in the torchlight, her presence filling the space even as she left it. Pycelle shuffled after her, his robes whispering against the stone.

His fingers flexed idly against the hilt of his sword.

I should speak to Tommen.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

It took some time, but Jaime found the boy exactly where he had expected—tucked away in the gardens, crouched beneath the shade of a tree.

The Red Keep’s courtyards were empty this time of day, many not interested in braving the outside where dozens of guards stood posted around the young prince, their red and gold livery worn proudly. The air hung thick, heavy with the scent of sun-warmed roses and damp earth, the distant trickle of a fountain the only sound aside from the occasional chirp of sparrows hidden in the hedges.

Tommen was oblivious to all of it.

The boy held his red-scaled pet in both hands, giggling as the creature nipped playfully at his fingers. It was curled in his palms like a lazy cat, its long tail winding around his wrist, wings flickering as it chittered in some secret language of its own.

The scene might have been charming—a boy and his pet, tucked away in his own world of innocence—but Jaime knew better.

His nephew—his son—had walked out of a wildfire explosion without so much as a singed hair. He had stood atop burning rubble, untouched by the green flames that had devoured stronger men whole.

And now he sat here, laughing, as if none of it had ever happened.

"Careful, lad," Jaime said, his voice warmer than usual as he stepped closer. "If that thing grows any bigger, it might start gnawing on more than your fingers."

Tommen looked up—

And Jaime stilled.

His eyes. Gods above, his eyes.

They gave him pause even now, even after having seen them a few times since the past noon of the dragon’s birth. Not Lannister green. Not even the bright blue of his supposed Baratheon blood.

Violet.

Deep, rich, impossible—like crushed amethysts, like polished glass catching the first light of a bright summer’s day. It had been unmistakable before, but here, in the soft dappled shade of the garden, they stood out in a way that made something cold coil in Jaime’s stomach.

They were Targaryen eyes.

And yet—

The boy’s face was open, untroubled.

Unburdened by the weight of his own strangeness, while bearing a soft roundness to his cheeks that Jaime had never seen in his own reflection, nor in Cersei’s. Tommen smiled at him, bright, unshaken, filled with that same easy trust he had always given Jaime.

Completely unaware of what he was.

"Ser Pounce wouldn’t do that," Tommen said firmly. He held up the creature, beaming. "He’s a knight, aren’t you, Ser Pounce?"

The beast—if it could even be called that—let out a shrill, almost laughing hiss, its forked tongue flicking between needle-sharp teeth.

Jaime chuckled despite himself.

"A knight, eh?" He crouched beside the boy, resting his arms on his knees. "Should I expect him to take my place in the Kingsguard?"

Tommen giggled but clutched the creature closer as it hissed again, the sound almost gentle as small fingers curled protectively around the red scales. "He’s brave, like you, Uncle Jaime." His voice was softer now, like a secret. "I want to be brave too."

Jaime felt something tighten in his chest. "You are brave, Tommen. You proved that when you survived."

It was the truth.

The boy had faced something that should have killed him. Yet he had not only lived—he had thrived.

Jaime had seen grown knights crumble at the mere sight of wildfire. He had smelled the charred flesh of men who had screamed until their lungs melted from the heat.

And yet, his son had walked away from it, laughing.

Bravery, Jaime thought.

Or something else entirely?

Tommen smiled, but the light in his face dimmed at the edges. His little fingers stroked absently over the creature’s crimson scales.

"Mama says I have to be brave for her. And for Joffrey."

Jaime kept his face still, though something twisted low in his gut at the words.

He could see it too clearly—Cersei at Tommen’s bedside, whispering in that honey-sweet voice of hers, smoothing back his curls as she poured every ounce of her fear into him.

You must be strong for me, my love. For your brother. For the realm.

She had always been good at that.

Shaping things. Molding them. Pressing her will onto soft places until they could not help but bend beneath her hands.

And now, she was shaping Tommen.

Jaime exhaled through his nose, slow and steady.

"And what do you think of that?" he asked carefully.

Tommen bit his lip, hesitated, then spoke with quiet honesty, the kind only children possessed.

"I don’t want to give Joffrey my bravery."

Jaime stilled.

It was a small thing, a simple confession, but something about it sent a shiver of unease curling down his spine.

Joffrey was their king—or so the world believed. He was heir to Robert’s throne, to all the might of House Baratheon and House Lannister combined. And yet, here was Tommen, barely ten years old, already sensing something wrong, something unworthy in the brother he was expected to follow.

Jaime had known it for years.

Gods know, I’ve seen what Joffrey is.

But Tommen—sweet, kind, trusting Tommen—was beginning to see it too.

And those words of his… they bore far more weight with a dragon backing them.

"Then keep it for yourself," Jaime murmured, giving the boy’s shoulder a squeeze. "Bravery isn’t something you can give away, lad. It belongs to you. No one else."

Tommen looked up at him, violet eyes searching, as if weighing his words.

Jaime let him.

The boy was still so young, still soft-cheeked and wide-eyed, yet something about his face felt off. A shape to his jaw, a roundness to his features that did not quite fit.

Something that—

No. Jaime brushed past the thought before it could settle.

Tommen nodded, slow and solemn, then curled his arms around his strange little beast, pressing it to his chest as if it could keep his bravery safe.

Jaime forced himself to smile.

"Come," he said, rising to his feet. "The cooks will have honeycakes by now, and I’ve heard a rumor that knights—especially dragon-knights—eat at least three before supper."

Tommen laughed, scrambling to his feet.

"Ser Pounce too?"

"If he doesn’t eat me first."

The boy grinned, cradling the creature close as they started back toward the castle.

Jaime walked beside him, letting the warmth of the midday sun push away the cold lingering in his chest.

It was a simple thing, really.

A child and his pet. A walk through the gardens. A conversation between uncle and nephew.

And yet—

He glanced at Tommen once more.

His nephew.

His son.

His little prince.

And a growing question in his heart that he dared not give voice to.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

The king’s chamber was silent, save for the slow, rattling drag of Robert’s breath.

The great stag of House Baratheon lay sunken into his grand bed, his mighty frame diminished, swallowed whole by weeks of stillness. Even in the dim candlelight, Jaime could see the pallor of his skin, the slackness of his jaw, the way his beard had grown wild in his slumber, creeping down his throat like ivy overtaking a ruined keep.

Jaime stood at the foot of the bed, one hand resting idly on the carved bedpost.

And studied him.

This was the man who had once crushed Rhaegar Targaryen with a single swing of his warhammer. The man who had roared his fury to the sky as he drowned the Rebellion in rivers of blood.

And now here he was.

Beaten, not by a war, not by a blade—but by a pig.

Jaime scoffed.

"The mighty stag brought low by a boar," he murmured, the words sitting strangely in his mouth. "Ironic, isn’t it? You always liked irony, didn’t you, Robert?"

Robert, of course, did not answer.

He lay as still as the dead, his chest barely rising beneath the silk sheets, his lips parted slightly as though he might, at any moment, stir and bellow for more wine.

Jaime’s eyes flicked toward the bedside table. A flagon of wine sat untouched beside a goblet, the deep red liquid catching the candlelight.

The one thing you loved most in this world, and now you can’t even drink it.

"If you woke now, would it even matter?" Jaime asked, more to himself than to the king. His voice was quiet, thoughtful in a way that unsettled him. "Eddard Stark rots in your dungeons. His men bled out on these very stones. Your brothers have fled, and your wife—"

He stopped.

His jaw tightened.

"Your wife is more queen than you ever were king," he finished, his voice touched with something bitter, something raw.

It wasn’t meant as praise for Cersei, a damning statement more than anything.

Robert had never been a king, not truly. He had worn the crown, carried the title, but the kingdom had always been someone else’s to manage, someone else’s burden to bear.

Jon Arryn.

Stannis.

Even Ned Stark, for all the good it had done him.

And now, Cersei.

Jaime exhaled through his nose, the thought sitting uneasily in his chest.

Once, he might have cared.

Once, he might have even wished for Robert to wake, to rise from his sickbed and shake the castle with his laughter, to pull him aside with a drunken grin and clap him hard on the back with an overly strong blow that had some level of simmering rage to it, and even his bellow of "Kingslayer", as much as Jaime despised the title.

But that had been a long time ago.

Jaime let out a slow breath and looked down at the sleeping king, at the way his broad chest barely seemed to rise, at the wine-stained sheets, the unshaven jaw, the swollen fingers curled loosely against the coverlet.

The kingdom had already moved past him.

If he ever woke from this slumber, it would be to a world that no longer had need of him.

Jaime Lannister turned, his white cloak trailing behind him as he strode to the door.

He did not look back.