Chapter Text
From the moment he crosses the gates of Highgarden, he senses something is wrong. It's all eerily quiet; as if there is nobody around. It must be a trap, he thinks as he walks to the castle, as silently as his armor allows. Someone gave us away, and Olenna placed soldiers in strategic places to slaughter us as quickly as possible.
His careful watch borders on paranoia as he goes upstairs, a pair of Lannister soldiers trailing behind him. This is madness. What does Cersei want with an empty castle of an extinct house? He knows, of course; his sister wants to instate someone loyal to her as Lord Paramount of the Reach and Warden of the South. If only there was someone loyal to give this to… but even if there was, would the rest of the Reach accept them without a fight? Cersei did kill their overlord family in cold blood. If roles were reversed, I'd raise banners in the blink of an eye.
He shakes these thoughts off his head. It's no use to dwell on them on enemy territory—and that's where he is, for any enemy of Cersei's is his by default. He was always all too keen on digging his grave right beside hers, and now he has to lie on it with her, even if it's clear as day to him they are no longer two halves of the same soul. (Were they ever?)
He reaches the last floor without noticing any human presence. Perhaps all soldiers are gathered on the high balcony, waiting for him with open arms and readied crossbows. For a moment, he thinks this might be a better fate than going back to King's Landing and stand by as his sister does gods know what else to keep herself as queen of a realm that hates her.
His soldiers are as quiet as he, but he still signals for them to stay that way when he opens the door to the balcony. A brief glance tells him it's as empty as the rest of the castle. He whispers for the soldiers to stay by the door and enters. For a short while, he sees no one. Olenna must have fled. That's why this place is empty. Someone still betrayed us to alert of her presence, but at least my army won't suffer for it.
It is only when he turns to the right corner that he catches sight of someone standing in the shadows. As he walks in their direction, the figure becomes clearer. He first notices their height; they are as tall as him. Then a slim shape with womanly curves. There is something emerging from her back, but he can't tell what. Then she steps ahead and lets herself be illuminated by daylight coming from the window.
He stops on his tracks. She has blond, curly hair, much like Cersei's in her youth. Her skin is as fair as his sister's, and her face is shaped like his own, although her nose doesn't resemble anyone in his family. It's not any of these features that draw his attention, however; it's her eyes.
They are impossibly blue. For a split second, he's reminded of Brienne, but quickly he realizes this woman's eyes are nothing like the wench's. While Brienne's eyes are astonishing and calm, hers are unsettling and cold. He'd never think a human being could possess eyes like these.
She walks to a table stationed between them and rests her hands on a chair. She grins, reminding him once again of Cersei. "Jaime Lannister, right?" Her voice is gentler than he expected, given her eyes. He nods. "Pleasure to meet you, my lord."
He frowns. "Pardon me, am I supposed to know who you are?"
She shakes her head. "You may call me Alysanne. Alys for short, if you prefer."
No surname? He honestly expected to hear a 'Hill' from her mouth; her looks can make her pass up as a Lannister bastard easily. "Well, Lady Alysanne, mind telling me where can I find Lady Olenna Tyrell?"
He doubts she will give the old woman's location away; if she's the only person present in Highgarden, she must be Olenna's spokesperson. Her answer still catches him by surprise. "She's been taken care of," she says dismissively. "I was waiting for you, Lord Lannister. I hoped we'd have a little talk."
Her cold eyes shine with mischief, but there is still no warmth there. "Why would I?" He asks, feeling annoyance creeping in.
Her grin widens. "I could give you many reasons… but what about a deal?" She reaches for her back, and only too late she realizes she carries two swords there. She draws one, and he immediately draws his in turn. "If I defeat you, we talk. If you defeat me, feel free to kill me and go back to your queen."
She sounds way too confident for a young woman. He may not be the fighter he once was, back when he had his sword hand, but his decades-long experience still counts for something. "I accept. If you yield, I'll take you as a prisoner instead of killing you."
"I thought your queen didn't take prisoners," she replies, sounding way cockier than the situation allows. "Shall we dance, my lord?" Before he can wonder why her words sound so familiar, charges at him.
He raises his sword to meet hers. It takes less than an instant to figure it out that her sword is made of Valyrian steel. Where did she find it?, he wonders as they meet blow by blow. The fight proves harder than he initially thought; she goes for all his weak points with certainty, as if she knew them all already. Who has she spoken to? Her style is familiar, though I can't pinpoint why.
Suddenly, faster than one could blink, his sword flies to the other side of the room. Her sword hits his chin gently, and he turns to see her smirking at him. "Yield?" She asks teasingly.
Seven hells, who is this woman? He wants—needs—answers. "I yield. We can have your talk."
"Great!" She exclaims, looking like an excited child. He goes to retrieve his sword and glances ahead to see his two soldiers creeping inside. He signals for them to wait outside, everything is fine. "Feel free to take a seat, my lord. We have a few things to discuss." She sits down on the chair she was gripping not so long ago. Seeing her relax, he decides he can afford to sit across her. "Before I begin… Do you have any questions?"
Many, he wants to say, but settles on, "Do you have a surname?"
The mischief is back on her cold yes, and she grins. "You think me a bastard, don't you?" A chuckle. "You're not wrong, though I was legitimized by royal decree shortly after my birth." Her grin remains, but it no longer reaches her eyes. "My parents didn't get the chance to marry in time for me to be a trueborn child, but my mother insisted on having me carry both his surname and hers. However," her grin widens, "the question of my parentage is one I can't answer. I may only disclose it to those who guess it right at first try."
His immediate reaction is to tell her she's a Lannister bastard, but she raises a finger. "Calm down, my lord. I know you have a guess on the tip of your tongue, but that's not the guess that will give you the answer. You have to guess both of my parents first and last names, so, if I were you, I'd wait a little bit. Ask more questions, look more closely."
Irritation bubbles inside him. Why is even giving her his time of the day? She defeated me too fast for someone so young, and she carries at least one Valyrian steel sword. He notices two sword hilts emerging from her back, so he decides his next question to be about them. "Are both of your swords Valyrian steel?"
As if by instinct, she raises her hands to touch them. "Yes. Would you like to see them?"
He nods, and she draws both swords to place them at the table. He has half a mind to grab them and run, but something tells him she'd catch him anyway. Besides, this is clearly a demonstration of trust, even if minimal, and he'd hate to break someone's trust so soon after earning it. Instead, he inspects the swords up close.
Something inside him twists. He's never seen them before—no one he knows ever has—but both hilts are undoubtedly Targaryen ones. The red amongst the black, the dragons… it's fairly obvious. Is she a Targaryen bastard, as well as Lannister? He is tempted to ask, but he can't think of any possible Lannister-Targaryen pairing in recent history. He briefly considers the rumours that his brother is Hand of Queen Daenerys, but the woman in front of him looks a bit too old to be his niece with the Targaryen girl.
"How did you get these swords?" He asks finally. "They look to be Targaryen ones."
She grabs the swords and places them on her back again. "They are," she confirms. She's no longer grinning. "Blackfyre and Dark Sister."
He straightens his back, alarmed. "Blackfyre has been lost in Essos since the last Blackfyre Rebellion," he replies, recalling his history lessons. "And Dark Sister was lost beyond the Wall with Bloodraven."
"True", she replies. "I guess that's where I start to tell madman tales." At his frown, she smiles sadly. "I promise you, though, they are the truth."
"Well, then, feel free to start."
Her smile falls as she inclines herself. Her abdomen touches the edge of the table. "Blackfyre has been in possession of the Golden Company for decades. Wielded by its commander, usually, or by its best fighter, if the former is unable, which is currently the case. No, I'm not a sellsword. I retrieved the sword from the hands of the last Golden Company fighter as he died… nineteen years from now."
He nearly falls off the chair. "Beg your pardon, what?"
She chuckles, but it's not a pleasant sound. "I told you. Madman tales, but trust me when I say this: I'm not from here and now, my lord. I am from 21 years in the future, and I came back in time because said future is lost to humanity. I was the very last human being standing then, and I'm here to prevent this doom from falling upon the world again."