Chapter Text
He’d always thought of his father as larger than life.
Tall as a warhorse and strong as an ox, loud to the point his booming voice could be heard throughout the entire castle, overwhelming everyone else nearby even without meaning to - Robert Baratheon made all others feel small by his mere presence, whether he was cheerful or furious.
But in his nightmares, Tommen only ever saw his father withered, slumped in a bed and covered with red-soaked bandages. And with that mighty form felled, another shape rose up, a rising curtain of gold and crimson that blotted out the sky, embroidered with stags fleeing and falling before a pride of lions, and Tommen never knew if he was meant to join the hunt or run from it.
Then the stags were all gone or eaten, and the lions turned on each other, and his chance to escape was gone.
Tommen woke with a start.
He struggled upright, shoving the bedding aside, one hand coming up to check his throat and the other reaching until it found a shoulder, a wrist, a beating pulse. By the time he’d gotten his breath under control, the bed’s second occupant awoke and reached back.
“Another dream?” Shireen asked, her voice soft in the dark. Tommen let himself sink back down and curl into her hold, their foreheads pressed together as he nodded. Thinking marginally more clearly, he felt for her belly, for the gentle swell that had become his touchstone in the past two months. Shireen waited long enough for his racing heart to slow, before she murmured, “That’s every night this week.”
More than usual. More than he’d suffered since the earliest days of living in Storm’s End. Tommen swallowed. “I know.”
They didn’t need to speak of it further. Shireen already knew his usual nightmares, and they both understood all too well what caused the resurgence.
In less than a month’s time, Tommen’s brother planned to put their uncle to death.
And Tommen was going to try and stop him.
To act as if there couldn’t possibly be any spies within their home would truly be the height of folly, so the plan needed to be arranged in small, careful steps: a handful of highly trusted servants vetted and spoken to one by one. Each given an easily concealed, coded message, to be carried directly across the Stormlands. All the recipients were either bannermen who’d stayed loyal to Shireen’s father throughout his failed rebellion, or proven friends of the woman herself. When she and Tommen worked out the particulars, they decided to take a page from Robb Stark’s book, and arranged for small groups of men-at-arms led by a knight apiece to travel to prearranged points along the road to King’s Landing.
When the time came, and Tommen went, he would move fast, picking up further men and supplies along the way, hopefully too quickly for Joffrey to do anything but try and shut the city gates on him. And even that wouldn’t be enough - the whole reason they’d decided to dare risk it was a letter from Lord Varys, whom Tommen still thought of as something of a friend, or at least an ally: I fear the King has turned down the darkest possible road he could have found, the brief note read, and it will take a swift storm to prevent the rest of the land from falling after him. If and when that storm arrives, there will be those who stand aside to let it enter.
Tommen didn’t dare let himself think of their plan as for the good of the kingdom. Large scale thinking tended to make him anxious at the best of times, so he kept his goal simple and short-term: get to King’s Landing. Stop Joffrey from murdering Uncle Jaime. Ask Jaime what to do next.
Simple.
Very short.
And then, with luck, Tommen could get back out of King’s Landing, and return home to his wife’s side, where Shireen ruled Storm’s End and the court was significantly more manageable and no one made him feel a fool every day.
And so long as Tommen kept insistently holding onto that vision, other thoughts of what would happen after didn’t intrude, and he could actually eat more than two bites of his meals.
When the day arrived, a dozen knights and gamesmen assembled in the central courtyard, all of them maintaining the pretense of Tommen leaving for a few days of hunting. He kept up a warm smile all the while, acting cheerful, light-hearted, as though he weren’t about to commit to performing an act of treason, against the brother who terrified him more than any living soul.
Only when Shireen drew him close and ducked their heads together did the mask falter, just slightly. “Be careful,” his wife murmured, gripping his hands with a fervent strength. “Above all else, come back to me.”
“I will,” Tommen swore, holding onto her fingers just as tightly. They looked into each other's eyes, the true Baratheon and the lion with antlers tied to its head, with the same unspoken sense of understanding as two years before, when Tommen traded a moment of courage for everything else he’d ever known.
She’s our cousin, Joffrey, and your son’s betrothed!
So what? She’s ugly, good for nothing besides her cunt. Is that why you’re in here whining? You want between her legs instead?
If you’d talked like this in front of Grandfather-
Then it’s just as well the old man’s finally dead, isn’t it? And if you say one more word, I’ll have my men send you to join him.
...you never should have become king.
Most of the beating afterward eluded Tommen’s memory, though sometimes flickers of it would slip into his dreams, white cloaks stained red with his blood, the cobblestones outside the castle gates swiftly rising up to meet him. The next thing he’d truly been able to recall was waking in a rolling horse cart, Shireen and two of her handmaids tending to his wounds.
He’d not been back to King’s Landing since.
He’d not seen nor communicated with his brother, either.
And now, there was a not unlikely chance, Tommen would next be seeing Joffrey in order to-
To-
Well.
Tommen would figure it out when he got there.
A swift rider, stopping only briefly to change horses along the way, could get from Storm’s End to King’s Landing in little under a week. As Tommen’s force gradually picked up men and supply along the way, they couldn’t go nearly so fast, but still made decent time. Twelve days out from home, perhaps three days of forced marching to go, he could practically see the three hills rising ahead, the Dragonpit and Great Sept and Red Keep looming in his mind’s eye.
Three days to reach his brother, and his uncle, and the uncertain future beyond them, when a massive shape swooped overhead, splitting the sky with an unholy shriek.
The men gathered up and sent by loyal lords to potentially overthrow a king were among the most steadfast Tommen had ever met, more of them grim than not, a few cheerfully morbid around camp each night, but every single one willing and determined to see their dangerous task through to whatever end. And yet, a single dragon tearing through the air above them, practically close enough to touch, proved nearly to be too much. Horses reared with panic, shouts and fearful cries rang out; Tommen’s own mount tried to bolt away from the head of the narrow column, held more or less in place only by his desperate hauling on the reins.
A second shriek, as the dragon curved round, served to cause even more pandemonium. But rather than fly another pass, or perhaps blast them with flame, its great wings flapped once, twice, the huge body slowing and shifting, until clawed feet large enough to carry off a warhorse apiece caught and braced against the rocky surface of the nearest hill.
Tommen could only catch a glimpse, still struggling with his horse, of a solitary figure with silver-white hair. If it hadn’t already been racing, his heart would’ve leapt into his throat.
After a few minutes more, he and others managed to calm their wary mounts, the line of men slowly coming back together on the road. When a knight with better control of his steed gave Tommen a hand with his own, he chanced another look, and saw that solitary rider still perched upon her dragon, obviously looking down and watching them.
But he also spotted a second rider, smaller, dressed in red with hair of gold, clambering down off the massive beast, and Tommen’s heart did leap into his throat, for an entirely different reason.
He kicked free of his stirrups and slid off his horse entirely, ignoring the startled shouts as he bolted across the open ground. With significantly longer legs, Tommen got to the base of the small hill even before the second rider, far more diminutive than he recalled from his childhood but just as welcoming with his embrace.
“Who said you could go and grow into a proper man while I was away, hm?” Tyrion asked, gently patting the back of Tommen’s head when he pressed close. “Bad enough you kept getting taller after your fifth name day, this is quite unacceptable.”
Tommen choked on a laugh, earlier fear and current gratitude mingling into near hysterical relief.
After a few moments more, his uncle added, “You can’t possibly have gotten this far from Storm’s End in four days,” just as Tommen started to say, “You’re going to help us save Uncle Jaime, aren’t you?” and Tyrion pushed on his shoulders until he sat back and saw the baffled look in the smaller man’s face.
Then the look cleared, replaced by alarmed clarity, and with obvious hesitation Tyrion told him, “Jaime doesn’t need saving. Joffrey is dead.”
An unknown assassin in the night. A quick-thinking servant with access to the dungeons. A city in chaos, until three dragons descended from the sky, and abruptly everyone shut up and listened when Jaime Lannister and Daenerys Targaryen both agreed that sixteen year old Robert Baratheon, second of his name, would be given the Iron Throne.
Tommen needed to sit with both hands pressed against his face to keep from breaking down into tears.
Still. He told the Baratheon knights they still needed to press onward to the city. Word of their passage had beaten them to King’s Landing, prompting Queen Daenerys to take one of her dragons out to try and deter an assault, Tyrion accompanying her in case the approaching army turned out to be one meant for assistance. With so many of the smallfolk on edge and the City Watch only reluctantly obeying out of fear, they couldn’t afford any lords rising up to cause trouble before the crown was crammed onto Robbie’s head.
So, despite his initial goals being rendered null and void, Tommen rallied his men and set off once more.
(He didn’t think about the gold and crimson curtain coming down, burned up at one end and shattered into frozen shards at the other. He didn’t. He didn’t.)
Half a day’s march away from the city, close enough they actually could see the three hills, Queen Daenerys returned with a different passenger.
Robbie flowed down off the dragon’s back far faster than Tyrion, and Tommen only just managed to dismount and open his arms before the boy plowed into him, taller, heavier, broader in the shoulder than he used to be. Which could of course be ascribed to the two and some years since they’d last seen one another, but- but it felt like more than that.
His nephew bore a sword on his hip, his body clearly used to compensating for its presence. He wore clothes that leaned more towards practicality than fashion, few sewn-on jewels in favor of elegant (if understated) embroidery, the greaves on his shins and bracers on his forearms actual armor rather than decorative imitations. Then Robbie pulled back, granting Tommen a proper look at his face, and there it was: a new light, a lack of weight that Tommen recognized all too well.
A monster gone, the path up out of the dark that it jealousy guarded suddenly open.
Someone fetched a spare horse, and as Daenerys made circling passes overhead, Robbie rode the remaining distance to the city with Tommen and his men, eagerly sharing updates on their family, stories of the North and the Starks, tidbits of what he’d been doing since returning to King’s Landing on dragonback to press his claim for the crown.
The Baratheon banners went up as they approached the outer wall, and cheers began from gathered smallfolk as Tommen and his nephew rode into the city proper at the head of the column. Robbie promptly shifted to making requests for where men needed to be sent, places throughout the lower reaches of the city where their presence would be of benefit to keep the peace, and Tommen didn’t hesitate to pass them along to appropriate knights. Just as when he’d gathered up the groups of men along the journey, they peeled away in similar fashion, the column dwindling until only a few score remained to arrive in the Red Keep’s courtyard.
Riding through the gate, Tommen got his first glimpse of Margaery, healthy and glowing, standing arm in arm with a Dornish woman on one side, and Sansa Stark on the other.
Dismounting, Robbie didn’t hesitate to hand off his borrowed horse’s reins and go straight to his mother. Tommen followed, slightly more cautious, though he tried to fix a smile on his face as he knelt before the ladies.
“None of that now, my good-brother,” Margaery said, taking one of his hands and pulling Tommen back upright. “It’s been far too long, and I refuse to stand on ceremony when you were coming to our aid even before you knew it. May I present Lady Nymeria Sand,” oh, there was a name to make him twitch, and Prince Oberyn’s daughter clearly saw it if her sudden sharp grin was any indication, “And Lady Sansa you know, of course.”
“Of course,” Tommen echoed, inclining his head to the woman with at least half a head of height on him. It had been one thing, several years past, to travel to Winterfell for Jamie and Brienne’s wedding and witness the young woman expertly manage her duties as Hand of the King at least as well as Tommen’s own grandfather, if not better. It was quite another to see her standing in the heart of King’s Landing, apparently utterly unconcerned with the change in scenery, staring down at him with a cool expression. An expression which only lasted until Robbie offered his arm, and she took it with a small, warm smile.
The Red Wolf had gained a score of stories about her, over the years. Between those, and the clear affection she’d gained for his nephew during his time in the North, the choice was easy: whatever Sansa came to do, with regards to helping Robbie secure his position or otherwise, Tommen would do his best to stay out of her way.
Their small group hadn’t gotten more than ten steps inside the castle proper when Jaime came limping around a corner, Brienne on his heels, and Tommen nearly stopped in horror.
His uncle looked thin, hair trimmed shorter than it should’ve been, and even though he was scrubbed and clean-shaven, there was a sallowness that made it seem like he’d just been let out of the black cells only an hour before. And- and there was a bandage, at the end of his right arm, where there should’ve been a wrist and a hand.
“Looks worse than it is,” Jaime rasped, when he saw where Tommen’s eyes were locked. But he slowed, hesitating, until Tommen took the last few long strides and grabbed the man in a tight embrace.
He’d never realized, but somewhere in the past decade, enough inches had crept into his height that they were the same size. It felt like the whole world shifted to another angle, wrapping his arms around Jaime, his uncle, the man his mother once loved more than any other, and feeling as if Tommen was the strong one.
Perhaps he held on longer than could be considered proper, in an open hall before observing eyes, but no one else attempted to interrupt or comment. Even Aunt Brienne turned away, speaking softly to the trio of Baratheon knights who’d come into the keep with Tommen, thanking them for their haste and dedication to justice and a few other sentiments thrown in for good measure.
Finally, Tommen managed to make himself let go. He kept a grip on his uncle’s shoulders, though, even as he eased half a step back, peering into tired green eyes.
Jaime offered a small, lop-sided smile. “Tyrion said you were coming to rescue me, like a damsel in a fairy story.”
Try as he might, Tommen couldn’t quite muster a smile of his own. “I- I couldn’t just- I couldn’t let him kill you.” His gaze dropped again to the stump where his uncle’s sword hand should’ve been. “I’m sorry- if we’d come sooner-”
“Ah, no, none of that,” Jaime cut him off. “This happened when they arrested me. Joffrey decided at the last moment he’d wait for the proper execution, give it time to build a real show, but he wanted at least a little blood to tide him over.” He shrugged, acting at nonchalance, but Tommen could see the pain at the corners of his eyes and mouth. “Probably could have gotten away with just losing a finger or two, if I’d begged, but that’s never exactly been my strong suit.”
“Mockery is more your strong suit,” Brienne said, coming back to them, briefly cupping Tommen’s head in welcome before standing where her husband could lean against her steadfast form. “Most people with silver tongues turn them towards theater or song; you turned yours into an extra sword.”
“My tongue is only silver?” The mock outrage in his uncle’s voice helped ease some of the tension from Tommen’s shoulders, and he gladly followed both Jaime and Brienne deeper into his childhood home, listening to their good-natured bickering.