Osmund Kettleblack
"Is there really no way to use the Wildfire?" Osfryd wiped his greasy hands on the hem of his cloak and looked at Osmund.
"No way," Osmund replied. "I told you already—by the king's order, they searched the entire Red Keep and found everything there was to find. After that, most of the wildfire was moved somewhere deep into the lower basement and surrounded with guards, as if they were protecting the most precious treasure in the world."
"And the rest?"
"No one knows where it is now. Looks like the Lannisters are planning another dirty trick."
"Seems like it." Osney stated it flatly. "Still a shame. Otherwise, we could've set the whole castle ablaze and sent everyone straight to the Stranger…"
One night, it finally happened.
Osfryd got a Gold Cloak uniform for his younger brother. Together, they slipped into the Small Hall, cut down several men, and set the building on fire. Killing the sleeping, effectively unarmed men proved no harder than slaughtering sheep. In the far wing of the Hall, there was another section where the cooks and scullery maids lived. They simply barred the door there—Osfryd found it enormously amusing that those people wouldn't get underfoot and would be nicely smoked in the process.
The fire did not take immediately. It needed time to spread properly. But once it did, it raged in earnest, and tongues of flame licked out from beneath the roof tiles. Dogs began barking in the kennels. The night watch horn sounded.
All this time, the Kettleblack brothers were hiding not far from the Hand's Tower.
The Red Keep woke up. Frightened shouts rang out, people began running.
Osmund Kettleblack—dressed, as always, in light gray armor and a spotless white cloak—approached the guarded doors of the tower. Two brothers in Gold Cloak uniforms accompanied him.
The guards at the doors did not abandon their post, but they cast anxious glances at the flames bursting out from under the roof.
"I must deliver the king's order to the Hand of the King," Osmund barked authoritatively. The Gold Cloaks recognized him and let him pass without resistance. His brothers followed close behind.
After climbing to the Hand's chambers, they came upon a door guarded by three men. They looked tense. The corridor clearly smelled of smoke, and with every passing minute, it grew thicker.
"Ser Osmund," the shift commander—a young, stocky officer—recognized him and stepped forward. "Why are you here?"
"The king has ordered everyone to evacuate the tower. The fire will reach this place any moment now."
The two guards behind the officer exchanged relieved glances, but the officer himself did not rush to comply. He studied Osmund carefully, with a heavy dose of suspicion. Osmund had seen these men before in passing—the Hand was guarded by his own men from Casterly Rock.
"All questions should be addressed to the king," Osmund tried to remain calm. "If you want to roast here like boars on a spit, that's your choice. Open the door. I'll relay the king's command to the Hand and then return to the Lord Commander."
"Very well," the knight nodded after a brief pause. He gestured to one of his men, who knocked on the door.
"Yes?" came a youthful voice from within.
"Patrick, inform the Hand that a guardsman is here with a royal order demanding that everyone evacuate the tower."
"I'll tell him," the reply came quickly. It seemed the guards had already warned the Hand about the fire. At least, there was no surprise in his voice.
The door opened.
Tywin Lannister stood on the threshold, fully dressed, staring coldly at the men before him.
"I'm listening," his commanding gaze slowly swept over every warrior present.
"My lord," Osmund stepped forward—and in the next instant drove his boot with all his strength into the Hand's stomach. "Fight!"
Tywin flailed his arms and was hurled backward as the Kettleblack brothers drew their swords. Three against three. The clash of steel filled the corridor.
Men snarled, shouted, and hurled themselves at one another with savage fury. The Kettleblacks held the advantage—they had struck first and were prepared.
In the opening moments, Osmund wounded one of the guards while his brothers kept the others at bay. He struck the man again, driving his blade into his neck, twisting it in the wound to finish him, then spun around with a shout.
Pouring all his strength and every skill he had learned in Essos into his blows, Osmund crashed in from the side and slashed another guard several times.
The man groaned and collapsed to the floor. The two younger Kettleblacks piled onto the last opponent—the officer.
Judging that they could handle it without him, Osmund stepped into the Hand's chambers. From deeper inside the room, a squire rushed at him from where Lannister lay on the floor, shouting something incoherent. Kettleblack took a light hit to the arm; the next strike skimmed his cheek, nearly costing him an eye. Osmund flew into a rage, shifted into defense, and parried several sharp, rapid blows.
The opponent was quick, ferocious, burning with hatred and a desire to die for the Hand. But he lacked experience—and strength, too. He was no match for a seasoned fighter. Waiting for the youth to lose his rhythm, Kettleblack changed tempo and, with several crushing strikes, drove the boy backward and smashed his breastbone.
Wiping blood from his face, Osmund turned.
Tywin Lannister, gaping like a fish thrown onto the shore, clutched his chest and tried to crawl deeper into the room.
"Don't think I've forgotten about you, old man," Osmund snarled as he struck him hard—again and again…
Green eyes flecked with gold stared back at him, cold and threatening. Not a single word passed the Hand's lips. He only groaned with each blow, his whole body convulsing.
(End of Chapter)
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