Chapter Text
A Storm of Swords
As Alysanne Lefford walked out of the Sept, the cold wind whipped against her hair leaving it a tousled mess. She stopped to fix it so she didn’t walk into her keep looking like a wildling. A deep rumbling of thunder rolled from somewhere east as if the Riverlands were warning her of a coming storm.
Alysanne looked up, brown eyes squinting against the glare. Clouds were gathering, dark and heavy. The Golden Tooth saw many storms, the wind was almost always sharp atop their mountain keep, even in the summer.
She began the walk to the courtyard thinking of everything that needed to be discussed in the Council today. Grain stores, tolls and the ever surmounting shepherd disputes.
As she entered the courtyard she was greeted by Maester Harrold.
“My Lady, the council is seated?”
“This early?”
“There has been,” he paused. “News,” he finished.
Alysanne exhaled, “very well.”
…
“My Lady there seems to be a disturbance in the foothills,” Ser Rollen, her Master at Arms offered.
“What sort of disturbance?” Said Alysanne sharply.
“A body was found.”
She paused, “where?”
“Near the old quarry road, my Lady,” Ser Rollen said. He continued “A mile east of the lower watchtower.”
“Were there any reports of disturbance from the watchtower?” Alysanne queried.
“A shepherd boy reported to them, he found the man half-buried beneath a wash of stones after the rain.”
Alysanne sat back into her chair. Of course the raiders had taken the shelter of the rains to do their work. Hoofprints became rivers of mud beneath a downpour, and screams carried poorly through thunder.
“Maester Harrold, prepare recompense for the man's family.”
She turned to Ser Rollen.
“Arrange a host,” Alysanne ordered.
“My Lady, the rains have begun?”
Alysanne looked up, “and?”
…
Alysanne led the party. Ser Rollen had turned to look at her as they left the Tooth’s looming gates. If he had thought to say anything, his stern face did not betray it.
They were accompanied by one banner, the inverted pile and golden sun against blue sky, almost comical on a day where the clouds and rains bore down on them.
…
They did not find a battlefield at first. Only the disarray of desperation as the Mummers lost all cohesion.
Some appeared to be scattering, some assembling.
“Contain them,” Alysanne commanded.
Her men circled, spreading out through the rain. Lefford swords and spears cut off movement. Driving them from the treeline. Closing space.
Steel broke the rain. One of her men shouted. Another fell.
Then she saw it, a figure bound against the wheel of an overturned cart.
"With me,” she said to Ser Rollen.
She was halfway across the road when one of the mummers saw them. He wasn’t fleeing. He was returning. This fool was not fleeing from an armed escort? Why was he coming back for this rag-clad captive? Thought Alysanne.
His eyes fixed on the captive. "Stop him!" She called out.
Alysanne dismounted near the cart. Sword already in hand. The Lefford sword was too heavy for her, it was kept atop a mantle in her solar. Useless ceremony. Her own sword was made of light steel, plain and practical. She knew how to use it. Not elegantly but well enough that no one would mistake hesitation for mercy.
Alysanne crossed the distance quickly as fighting surged around her. Rain hammered against her shoulders and dripped from the ends of her hair as she crouched beside him.
The man was half-conscious.Trying, absurdly, to force himself upright despite injury.
She knelt there in the mud, “you’re safe,” she said quietly.
Movement snapped behind her. A surviving mummer burst from the rain with a knife drawn, charging straight toward the captive. The man attacked with the desperation of someone who had already accepted death.
She reacted instantly, shoving the captive sideways and standing. Blade met blade, she felt her arm jar. The mummer pressed hard, desperate and wild.
Alysanne gave ground once.
The pressure against her arm eased. Then she corrected.She turned sharply into his reach and cut low across his thigh.
He staggered. The moment was enough. A Lefford guard drove his sword through the man’s back a moment later, sending him collapsing into the mud.
For a moment Alysanne remained standing over the captive, sword still raised, rain running down the length of the blade.
Letting out a short breath she looked back down at him.
His head was slumped forward. Wet, filthy hair covered his eyes. She knelt, the mud squelching beneath her knees, and peered at him. Slowly she reached forward, brushing the damp hair from his face.
Beneath the grime she caught a glimpse of gold.
One hand cupped his jaw while the other steadied his shoulder.
His eyes fluttered open.
Green.
There in her arms was the most valuable man in Westeros, Jaime Lannister.