Ashes in the Wind

"I want them dead."

The words were softly spoken, carrying upon the wind like the smoke that billowed off the pyre. It was a small gathering. Set five days after the Lady of Claw Isle had been returned to the city.

"All of them." Jacaerys repeated. "That blasted hedgeknight, every man that served him, every man who has ever breathed his name. The woman that birthed him. The village that raised him. The first man to put a sword in his hand and the last man to piss him off, I want them all, Borros. All of them. And I want them dead."

The Bear of Brune stood just behind his master, a few steps to the left as was his custom. Fully armoured in heavy plate, he cast an intimidating form -- or would have, were it not for the fifty other similarly armoured men standing in a ring around the pyre. The early morning light cast their features in a hollow cant, but that only added to the atmosphere of mourning. From their shoulders billowed cloaks of heavy cloth, each one a deep, honey gold; save for the black crenelations that lined the lower edge.

"As you speak, so shall it be done, Lord Hand." The Brune replied, dipping his mighty head. Jacaerys did not turn. Did not even look over his shoulder at the man who served him. He had eyes only for the flame as it rose, higher and higher, black smoke billowing into a cloudless blue sky.

He stood stock still for half a turn of the glass, his form-fitting black robe shifting slightly about his feet as the wind waxed and waned. A lesser fire may have been undone, but the flames of the pyre burned hot and true; constructed as it was from the wheelhouse Argella had been returned in -- bearing the weight of the Lady Baratheon one last time.

She'd have preferred to be buried. Jace knew that, he did. But he couldn't face the eyes of their son just yet.

"You will arrange the transport of the ashes, Josmyn?"

The steward, haggard and worried-looking, bent his head.

"Of course, Lord Hand. The Red Crab is already prepared for departure. She awaits you in King's Landing."

"Have this loaded and see it off. Have Bartimos accompany it; and remind him that he is not to inform my son."

"Did you....did you want to say a few words...?"

The Celtigar turned, slowly, to face his steward.

"Any words I have for my late wife shall be reserved for the gods; not you. Do as you are bid, Master Josmyn. Or I shall find a steward who can."

At once, the aged castellan bent at the waist.

"As you command, my Lord."

Jacaerys watched him till he was gone.

"Borros." He said at last, the pyre before them at last beginning to sputter out on its own accord. "How has the training been going. Are they ready?"

"Most of them are better than the common gold cloaks, aye, but I would not call them soldiers yet."

"Keep at it. I want them iron hard and unwavering. This is only the beginning."

The Brune peered at his master, who yet faced away, silvered locks tousled in the same wind that blew against the pyre.

"The beginning of what, my lord?"

"If you think my wife will be the only casualty of this war, old friend, you are sorely mistaken. Something caused that bastard to betray his word. I will know what."

"....and when you do?"

Jacaerys did not answer. There was no need to. Instead he turned upon his heel, taking the reins of his horse from a waiting member of the Gauntlet, and mounted.

"Summon the captains of the Blackhand, Borros." He told the mighty knight. "I would speak to them before this day is done."

The Hand cast one final glance towards the remains of his wife -- then turned his head, back towards the city, back towards King's Landing and his future and his plans. There was no point in dwelling. No use in wavering.

There was work to be done.