Jaime rubbed at his temples. “Why can’t I just walk out and say ‘I’m back’ and be done with it?”

I stopped pacing the room and turned his way, looking at him as I would a cockroach. “I’m honestly surprised no one found out about you and mother if that’s the kind of planning that went on in your escapades.” It had been a quarter of an hour of muttering ideas to myself and trying to bounce them off of him, and he still didn’t seem to get it. “Everyone saw your dead body. Gods, Ser Lyle carried you here himself. You were dead, Jaime. Cold to the touch and turning blue. Forgive me if I don’t feel like being denounced as a necromancer and burned at the stake for this.”

I sighed and leant back against the wall. Soon, Ser Lyle would be knocking on the door, even if only to make sure I was okay inside. Sometimes the Kingsguard had to protect the king even from himself, I would imagine. And although he was sworn to keep my secrets, this seemed like too big a’one to just spring up on him on his first week in the job.

“Well?” I prompted. “If you don’t have anything to say, then ask her again. She’s been quiet for a while now.”

Jaime sighed. “She had told me she’s adjusting to the change.” He stopped, then shook his head. “Gods, but she’s obsessed with fire,” he said, scrunching up his nose. “She said I should just burn down the house and escape into the night. Dye my hair, grow a beard. Become someone else. A wandering red priest, she says, like Thoros of Myr.”

I clicked my tongue. For a centuries-old sorceress she had very little in the way of creativity. While the thought of Jaime getting as fat and drunk like Thoros was droll enough to almost make me laugh, the idea was still stupid beyond belief. He would still be a dead man, by all accounts. What use was a dead Jaime Lannister to me?

Then my eyes widened as a crazy thought popped into my head. Thoros... yes, that was it.

Chaos is a ladder, I thought to myself. And I was recently considering building myself a cult, no?

“You’ve spent so long staring at the fires of your god, my lady, that your mind can’t imagine anything beyond the edges of its light,” I said, addressing the witch directly. “There’s opportunity in every crisis. You need only be daring enough to grasp for it. Jaime doesn’t need to flee or hide his identity. What we need to do is very simple,” I said, grinning as if the answer was obvious for all to see. “I’ll need her help with a few tricks, and then… then we legitimately bring Jaime Lannister back to life.”

xxxxxx

Lyle I

Ser Lyle ordered the man to start preparing when the screams stopped and the square had turned silent. He had initially struggled with the king’s decision to burn the bandits. In his mind, it was the noose or the headsman for outlaws, or the Wall to the brave ones; but it only took him a second look at the line of bodies to push that thought to the back of his mind.

Perhaps King Tommen had the right of it. Men who would do something like that to women and children didn’t deserve the privilege of a quick death.

The night had grown cold by the time the men were ready to go, and for the first time Ser Lyle missed his cloak. It was a bothersome piece of cloth by all accounts, but the white cloak did more than warm his bones on a chilly night. He had noticed that men squared their shoulders as they passed by him, and a nod on his part saw them lift their chins up with pride.

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The Kingsguard was the pinnacle of knighthood in the kingdoms, an extension of the king and his right to rule. Every boy grew up dreaming of wearing one, thinking of them as death-defying when it came to protecting the king. And yet how many of their brotherhood were left now? Ser Jaime was dead, Ser Balon had yet to return to his duties, Ser Osmund and Ser Arys had yet to come back from Dorne, and Boros the Belly had been lost at sea in a mission for the king.

Lyle sniffed into the night air. Good riddance, that. That man was not suited to stand guard over a flea bottom brothel, much less the King of the Seven Kingdoms.

It was only him and the kid for now. And even if Ser Loras had acquitted himself well that night, a band of outlaws meant nothing against what was to come. The Tyrell flower would wilt like a rose in a desert in the face of Lord Tywin’s colossal rage.

He was not excited by the prospect of facing Tywin Lannister with his dead son and heir on his horse. If it were up to him, he’d scuttle back to his room, close and lock the door, and watch the Lord of Casterly Rock bring about a level of decimation to the world that would make an Other proud. Except he’d donned the cloak and said the words, and this day the white swords just might have to save the king from his own grandfather.

Ser Godric rode up to him and broke through his thoughts. “The men are ready to go, Ser Lyle,” he said, two horses ready at his side. His and the king’s.

And indeed, the knights had all gathered astride their horses on the square. Even a litter to carry Ser Jaime had been prepared while he had his mind elsewhere. Lyle cleared his throat. “I will inform the king then. He’ll wish to have you back with your families as soon as possible.”

“We shall wait the whole week if the king commands, ser,” Ser Godric said, and the knights within hearing distance grunted their assertions.

Ser Lyle nodded back at them. He could respect that kind of devotion. A man didn’t need a white cloak on his shoulders to prove himself loyal. He swiped a hand through his long black beard and made for the house.

“Father!” The king boomed from inside the house, stopping Lyle where he stood. “I pray you grant this man the honor of your justice, so he may rest or rise according to your wishes. Mother! I ask that you give him the mercy of your love, for it knows no bound, heavens or earth. Warrior! I pray you welcome this man into your halls, as a knight most honorable who died in defence of his king.”

Suddenly, white light flooded the house whole, spilling beneath the doors and past the gaps in the shuttered window like liquid silver. Ser Lyle hissed, hurriedly covered his eyes with an armored arm. Pained grunts sounded all around him. It felt like the sun itself had risen inside the house.

As a kingsguard, he knew he should rush through the door and stand by his king whatever may come. But could a mere knight interfere in the work of Gods? For surely, that was the only explanation he could think of.

“Smith!” Tommen Baratheon’s voice came again. It rang loudly all across the village square, as if coming down from the heavens above. “I ask you to heal this man of the ills of mankind, to mend him with your hammer of righteousness. Maiden! I ask that your benevolent gaze fall upon him, and that you embrace him in your loving arms. Crone! I pray you guide him on his way, guide him to where you, in your infinite wisdom, needs him most. And Stranger! I light this white candle for you! Lead him to his death—or to his life. As is the Seven’s will, so it shall be.”

The blinding light blinked away as soon as the king finished his prayer. For a stunned moment, Ser Lyle simply stood there, black spots dancing in his vision. Whatever happened had been so surreal that he wondered if it hadn’t all been a dream. But when he could open his eyes long enough to squint around him, he saw that every knight in that courtyard had been affected the same.

Before he could think of moving, the door to the house creaked open, and Lyle Crakehall would never in his life forget what he witnessed.

Ser Jaime Lannister was kneeling in front of King Tommen Baratheon, like a warrior swearing fealty to his liege. A sword of pure light was laid across his knees, white and pleasing to the eyes.

He felt himself drifting towards the ground. And all across the square, following his own actions, men dismounted and fell to their knees.