White Cloak - A GoT Fan-Fiction

The White Servant

SER Merwyn Bramble steadied himself before making his presence known in the courtyard. It was with immense pride that he donned the suit of enameled scales and the famous white cloak. He felt untold honour at bearing the standard of Queen Cersei Lannister's silver crown on his breastplate; unspeakable duty at having Thorn sheathed at his hip, the most triumphant of accents to set off the newest member of the Queensguard.

Even so, he paused before declaring himself. He had heard much and more of Queen Cersei upon the Goldroad. Whispers had followed him on his ride east from the Westerlands; hushed mutterings that spoke of tumultuous unrest in the Red Keep. Of how Cersei, once a golden lion of unparalleled beauty, had become, somehow, more draconic than the very Targaryen she sought to end.

Steeling himself, Merwyn clunked forwardly loudly. The upper courtyard of Maegor's Holdfast was spacious and cold with winter air, bordered by floor-to-ceiling columns adorned with spiraling embellishments. The floor itself was given over to a huge battle map, one crafted to outline the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros and stippled with small flakes of snow. "You asked for me, Your Grace?"

Cersei turned shrewdly, the trailing hem of her crimson dress sweeping over much of the North as she did so.

All of the tales are true, Merwyn accepted, just as he had upon seeing the Queen again for the first time, four days previous. The years had twisted the girl he had known well as a child. Her famed locks were gone, her face weathered with acumen reserved for those who have been taught lessons against their will. Her eyes, supple and emerald green as Merwyn remembered them, had retained their colour, but lost any claim to innocence. They were sharp, like her poise. Like her temperament, by all accounts.

"Ser Merwyn," she said, "how are you settling in the capital?"

It stinks with the power of a thousand baked shits. "King's Landing is breathtaking as they say, Your Grace. It will be my life's honour to protect you."

"Will it?" Cersei offered a knowing smile. She glided across the map towards Merwyn himself. Then, and only then, did Merwyn notice Ser Gregor, newly appointed Lord Commander of the Queensguard. He stepped from the shadow of a column, monstrous frame looming over Merwyn as Cersei drew close. There had been a great many things said on the Goldroad about Ser Gregor, too, though Merwyn hadn't the stomach to believe half of them.

As a boy, Merwyn had feasted on tales of Prince Aemon, the Dragonknight; of Ser Duncan the Tall; of Ser Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning, and Ser Barristan the Bold. His heady lust for a white cloak had died only when manhood had shrunk his dreams down to what was practical, what was possible. And so, when the raven had come to Highbush, proclaiming that Queen Cersei had bestowed upon her childhood friend, Ser Merwyn Bramble, a place in her Queensguard, he had thought it some cruel jape. And yet here I am, a white cloak upon my shoulders and the Mountain That Rides as my silent Lord Commander. What peculiar times these are.

"I summoned you because I reside in a pit of vipers," Cersei continued, "loyalty is not as easily bought as it once was; trust a currency that has been frittered beyond even the Iron Bank's coffers." The Queen looked up at him, the doe-eyed beauty of her past all but sapped. "I see you, too, have changed, Ser Merwyn. The dark hair I recall is streaked grey, your pointed nose now squashed and broken."

She speaks the truth. The comely face the maidens used to weep for, from Casterly Rock to the Crag, has dried like old fruit.

"Tell me true, Ser Merwyn, what do you make of your new brothers?" Cersei motioned to Ser Gregor and a smirk found its way to her lips.

Merwyn imagined the six of them standing in the White Sword Tower. Ser Arys Oakheart, redoubtable but slow, Ser Boros Blount, relegated to royal food-taster, Ser Balon Swann, Ser Osmund Kettleblack, Ser Preston Greenfield. None of them a match for me, not one. A poor Queensguard indeed, but for the strength of Ser Gregor. "They are loyal, Your Grace." It was the most he could admit to.

"How very diplomatic of you," Cersei replied, "you will do well here."

"Your Grace." Merwyn tipped his head.

"I am troubled, Ser Merwyn. The Dragon Whore stews at Dragonstone over how to best usurp me. Ned Stark's bastard does the very same in the north. Beyond the wall, the dead gather and yet ..."

Ser Merwyn remained silent; unsure how he, a knight of the Queensguard, could quiet such fears in any regard.

"And yet ... When the Mad King lost King's Landing, it wasn't his enemies outside the city that did for him. Not truly. The seeds of treachery will grow wherever you allow them to take root. King's Landing is my garden and it must be pruned. You know of what I speak, Ser Merwyn?"

"The Sons of Balerion, Your Grace?" He didn't need her to confirm with words. The Sons of Balerion. Merwyn's first week in the capital had been rife with talk of the new Targaryen loyalists. They had appeared suddenly, as if born from smoke. Everywhere and nowhere. They have the attention of the crown now. Burning nobles alive in the streets will do that.

"I have allowed the poison to thicken long enough. I have a task for you; one that should both prove your mettle for my Queensguard and send a message to any and all who wish to incur my wrath. I want you to find these Sons of Balerion, these snakes that take to their holes when I stir, and I want you to give them cause to beg my mercy."

A white cloak ... hunting bandits? Merwyn merely tipped his head once more.

Cersei appeared to read the doubt on his face. "I no longer have faith in the gold cloaks, Ser Merwyn. Time has proven them fickle as it has unreliable. I need someone I know; someone removed from the taint of corruption."

Merwyn kept his gaze on the floor. He could recall Ser Arthur Dayne accepting a similar duty when he had brought down the Kingswood Brotherhood. "It shall be done, Your Grace."

"Good. I have hired swords to assist you; they wait for you in the Great Hall. Go, Ser Merwyn, and dispense the crown's justice to those who have forgotten what they say about Lannisters and debts."

Merwyn turned to leave. He felt the eyes of Ser Gregor fixed at his back, colder, strangely, than the pallor winter sky.

Cersei spoke once more, before he had left the courtyard, "Am I to believe the bards, Ser Merwyn? The Blood Rose, they call you now?"

Ser Merwyn inclined his head. "That they do, Your Grace."

The smile slipped from Cersei's face. "Show them why."