Osmund Kettleblack
Service in the mercenary company known as the Gallant Men had taught him two things: that only one's closest kin could truly be trusted, and that if fate ever offered a chance, you had to seize it with both hands—and hold on tight and gently, like a lover during bedplay.
He and his two younger brothers had more than their fill of the shit they had seen in the Free Cities: betrayal, sudden and vile murders, greed, blood, and pain. That time, though it had its rare bright moments, was remembered overall as a grim and burdensome period of life. The Gallant Men fought first for Lys, then for Tyrosh, then for Myr, and in that whirlwind of madness, universal cruelty, and violence, it was hard to remain the same. Everything became muddled—today's friend might gladly cut your throat tomorrow, while yesterday's bitterest enemy could suddenly prove loyal and steadfast as stone.
There, after one of the battles, he received his knightly spurs. They were bestowed upon him by Ser Robert Stone, a little-known bastard from Westeros.
Osmund had never suffered from sharp pangs of conscience, yet that episode of his life was one he did not like to remember. Spurs were among the most important milestones in a knight's life—his honor and dignity. They were a dream, a lifelong goal, a moral compass one clung to with both hands. And yet pride itself would not allow him to take pride in how he had received them. A paradox, really. But neither did he find the strength to refuse them.
After being knighted, Osmund rose in status and was admitted to some of the company's secrets. In doing so, he officially confirmed what he had previously heard from his father: the Gallant Men were heavily dependent on the Master of Coin in Westeros, Lord Petyr Baelish.
Then it so happened that Littlefinger invited him—and his two brothers as well—to King's Landing. Of course, this did not come about without the involvement of their father, Oswell Kettleblack, who had served Baelish faithfully for many years.
Osney, the youngest and sharpest of the brothers, once suggested—when they were sitting in some den, drinking wine—that it was precisely after their father's request that Littlefinger had arranged for Osmund to receive his spurs.
Well, it seemed there was a grain of truth in the younger brother's words. Osmund himself preferred not to dwell on it.
Then new changes came into the brothers' lives. Queen Cersei was in need of loyal men, and she asked Littlefinger to find them. And Petyr, of course, fulfilled the request with great enthusiasm, conveniently placing his own people.
Thus, all three Kettleblack brothers came to serve Cersei while reporting back to Littlefinger. Later, as a mark of favor, Cersei granted Osmund a place in the Kingsguard. Everything pointed toward him soon becoming her lover.
However, Tyrion Lannister—the accursed Imp—was not sitting idle. He knew how to manipulate people no worse than Baelish himself. Through deception and blackmail, the dwarf forced Osmund to serve him as well. And so, all at once, Osmund found himself with three nominal masters. Littlefinger found this exceedingly amusing. Osmund, on the other hand, increasingly felt that he had plunged headfirst into a very dangerous game—one that no one would simply allow him to leave so easily.
The brothers themselves, just like their father, could never understand how Queen Cersei could be so blind. Why had she turned specifically to Littlefinger with a request to find reliable men? It all looked stupid to the point of idiocy. Such mistakes usually came back to bite.
Osmund took no direct part in the Battle of the Blackwater, spending the entire time guarding the cowardly King Joffrey.
His two brothers, however, supported the sortie the Imp had managed to carry out. As a result, the very next day, both of them received their knightly spurs.
After that, Cersei arranged a position for the middle brother, Osfryd, as an officer of the Gold Cloaks. The youngest—Osney—remained free, a hedge knight unbound by service. He was not burdened by duty, which proved very convenient: he could move freely throughout the capital and beyond, meeting the right people and carrying out this or that errand.
From a certain point on, Osmund felt that everything had changed. Jaime Lannister, having become Lord Commander, swiftly imposed order and inspired the proper respect.
All the Kingsguard unexpectedly—and almost simultaneously—realized that with such a commander it was better not to open one's mouth without cause. Jaime knew how to command reverence. And quarreling with one's direct superior—uncle, perhaps even father to the king, brother to his mother, the favored son of the Hand—who the hell could even untangle all those relationships—was clearly a foolish idea.
Soon after, it became apparent that King Joffrey was casting suspicious looks at some of his guards. Disfavor fell upon Kettleblack himself, Meryn Trant, and Boros Blount.
Boros Blount soon died. No one hurried to appoint a new guard in his place, and the king himself, together with the Kingslayer, set out to take Riverrun. Osmund was among the knights who accompanied the king, though nothing important was entrusted to him. He was never left alone with Joffrey even for a moment, and was very often sent to the rear guard or the vanguard of the marching host, tasked with secondary, entirely insignificant orders.
The king no longer trusted him, yet tried not to let him stray too far.
To the surprise of many, Riverrun surrendered in a single night. They headed home and visited the Isle of Faces—but even there, the king went without him.
Upon their return to King's Landing, things only grew worse. The king and Jaime behaved as though they were deliberately trying to provoke him into an act for which he could be stripped of the White Cloak. The Imp—and even Cersei—began treating him with greater caution.
Osmund ground his teeth but endured it. After all, Littlefinger would never, under any circumstances, allow him to leave such an important post.
All three brothers constantly reported to Baelish on the situation in King's Landing. Most often, Osney wrote the letters, and he was the one who met with their father whenever the latter sailed into the capital.
And now, today, all three Kettleblack brothers had gathered on the beach beneath the walls of the Red Keep to discuss Littlefinger's latest order, delivered to them through their father: they were to kill the king's Hand, Lord Tywin Lannister—and preferably the king as well, or Margaery.
Osney built a small fire from driftwood thrown ashore and dried by the sun.
In the distance, near the rocks, a small group of children splashed in the water. From time to time, the wind carried bursts of especially loud laughter or the piercing, joyful squeals of the youngest.
The brothers had brought baskets of food and several jugs of wine. They knew they would inevitably be seen. Let the spies think they were merely taking a bit of leisure.
Today, Jaime Lannister had granted Osmund personal time until his night watch. Osfryd was likewise free from duty, and Osney was always free—like the sea wind itself.
"Littlefinger's completely lost his fucking mind," Osfryd muttered sourly, taking a deep pull from the jug. He sat on a large boulder polished smooth by sun and wind, his powerful legs spread wide. His Adam's apple, thickly overgrown with beard, bobbed up and down as he forced the wine down his throat.
(End of Chapter)
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