Boros I

The day had only just started and Boros’ head was already swimming. He’d indulged a bit too much after the king left the great hall, but it was hardly his fault if the servants kept coming back with tray-fulls of wine and ale. What was a man to do but drink?

He rolled off his bed, the wooden frame groaning and popping under him. That had gotten worse as of late, probably a loose nail somewhere. He would have to call someone to check on it. His room in the White Sword Tower was a tiny thing, but it had a basin and pitcher set over a dresser in the corner so he could wash his face, and he stumbled that way. He hadn’t taken a shower in almost a week, but with Meryn’s death, his schedule had been crazy recently.

Boros hoped that with the Strongboar and the girly-knight-he-had-forgotten-the-name-of added to the roster, perhaps he’d have some down time. How long had it been since he could just kick back and have some drinks?

After taking care of the essentials, Boros dressed and armored himself. It took him no more than an hour. Ser Jaime was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs, his face stormy. That was a man he wouldn’t forget the name of soon enough. He couldn’t believe a knight as infamous and dishonorable as Jaime Lannister was still allowed to serve as a kingsguard. If it were him, he’d have resigned from the shame of it alone, or maybe fall onto his sword. Some knight the Kingslayer was.

“You’re late,” the Kingslayer said by way of greeting.

Boros sighed. “Yes, Ser Jaime.”

The blond man shook his head. “Whatever. You’ll relieve Ser Lyle now. Just roll your way to the Tower of the Hand. The king is breaking his fast with Lord Tywin.”

He frowned. “Um, you mean... as a training exercise?” How would he go about rolling up the stairs of a tower?

The Kingslayer looked at him strangely. Ser Jaime was an oft-confused man when speaking with him. “Just… just go,” he said, shaking his head.

Boros saluted the Lord Commander and turned to leave. What else could he say? Sometimes, Boros felt as if his sworn brothers didn’t much care for him. But then again, he didn’t like them either. He didn’t even like being a Kingsguard. He hadn’t asked for the white cloak, and despite it being as pale as a maiden's bridecloak, it sometimes felt as confining as a black one.

But what was he supposed to do? He was chosen by the Queen herself, even if he had won no glory at tourneys nor made a name for himself in war. He couldn’t say no to her, especially when she batted those eyelashes at him, her smile a promise of sin.

He’d cried himself to sleep the day she was found dead. He had been saving himself for her for all those years.

Still, that just proved something to him. They were wrong, all wrong. He was the fifth son of a minor house in the Crownlands; from his very birth, he was destined for either the sword or the maester’s chain, or worse, the white robes of a septon. He’d chosen the sword, as at the very least he could still share a woman’s bed being a knight. And everyone knew the ladies’ loved a man in plate armor.

His family had laughed at him. They called him talentless and driverless, and had all but thrown him out their lands. He had made his way to the capital, and there he’d made his fortune. A Kingsguard, the highest honor in the Seven Kingdoms. His family had come begging to take them back.

He’d done it, of course. Turned out being a kingsguard didn’t pay at all, and the small incomes his father gave went a long way when Boros needed some ale.

He reached the Tower of the Hand after ambling around the gardens for a few minutes. He liked to stop and smell the flowers. It was the small things in life, for him. A few Lannister men pointed him the right way—up—and he finally stopped when he saw the Strongboar standing guard outside a door.

The big man seemed to be in a foul mood today, and he just shouldered past him on his way out after letting the king know they’d be changing. Rude. Boros almost called out to him, to tell him to stop by the gardens and enjoy the aroma of the primroses in bloom. He would bet all the coin he’d made as a Kingsguard that Ser Lyle wouldn’t be so testy if he would just do that.

Boros settled himself against the cold stone, readying himself for long hours of guard duty. Say one thing about being a kingsguard, say it was a damn easy job. It usually consisted of napping twice a day, with a down shift of eight hours where you could just sleep in your own bed. So long as you got the hang of sleeping while standing, you were golden. Boros was sure that was Ser Barristan’s secret to being such a legendary kingsguard knight.

He had dazed off at some point, and woke up hearing his name. The voice certainly had an imperious, Lannister-quality to it. Was it Cersei? Here to pick up where they left off?

“Ser Boros!” the voice called again, and his dream shattered when he realized it was Lord Tywin.

Boros groaned and went inside the room. If it were up to him, this room was the last place he’d ever willingly go to. He didn’t like the king and the hand at all. He missed the days where he’d have to guard Joffrey. Now, that was a king. Strong, fierce, commanding. This new one… Timothy, was just plain scary and creepy.

Men called him cowardly behind his back, he knew. But who could truly say they weren’t cowards, deep down? Just because he dressed in white he suddenly had to give his life for some scary kid with a toy crown on his head? Where was the logic in that?

He found Lord Tywin and the creepy king sitting across the room on a couple of plush chairs with trays of half-eaten food on side tables and a lit hearth in between them. Boros went over to stand facing them, and only just caught himself before he reached for a jam-stuffed tart.

“Uhm, how can I help you, Your Grace?” He asked Tywin. He heard someone groaning behind him.

The Lord of Casterly Rock stared at him. “Are you an idiot, Ser Boros?”

“No, Your Grace,” Boros quickly answered. He’d learned to always say no to questions like that.

Tywin clicked his tongue. “Very well. It seems you were correct in your assessment.”

Boros got the feeling that wasn’t meant for him, but he shrugged it off. “That’s often the case, Your Grace.”

Lord Tywin grunted. “I have a task for you, Blount. Suitable for your… competence.” He produced a parcel from inside his coat and handed it to him. “I need this delivered to Duskendale as soon as possible

He sighed. “Must I?”

“See!” a voice said from behind him. Boros almost jumped. “That’s what I have to deal with.”

Boros slowly turned. He’d forgotten the creepy king was there for a moment. When he looked down at the king, he swore his eyes pulsed with a brightness that did not belong there, and Boros just wanted to run—run as far away as possible. Suddenly, the idea of going on a boat ride to Duskendale seemed a wonderful idea.

He bowed profusely to the king. “I’ll go right away, my lord. Right away.”

King Timothy waved him away. “Yes, yes. Do you know the small quay at the bottom of the Keep?” Boros nodded. He’d gone there to throw stones at birds when he needed to think. “Yes? Good, then just be there tomorrow morning sharp at dawn. Don’t take your white cloak, but wear your armor. We don’t want anyone to know you’re a kingsguard. You’re dismissed, ser.”

Didn’t have to tell him twice. Boros went running out. The next day, he’d gone to the quay at midday like the king told him to. The boatman was properly angry for some reason, but he just ignored him. Some people just never stopped in life to smell the flowers.

As he settled on the bow of the small dinghy, he thought he noticed something familiar about the man. He had black hair that went down to his shoulders, a stubble of a beard, and steely dark eyes that hadn’t stopped staring at him. He also wore several knives about his waist.

All in all, he didn’t seem much like a boatman, but Boros wasn’t in the business of judging people by their threatening appearance.

The man had rowed for almost an hour before he stopped and couched the oars on the boat’s side. “This seems far enough,” he said.

Boros shrugged. They were in the middle of nowhere, the shore a distant thing in the horizon, and it sure didn’t look like Duskendale. But then again he wasn’t a boatsman, and the day was a beautiful blue with nary a cloud on the sky. He didn’t mind staying there for a while.

The boat swayed under him, footsteps tip-tapped on the wood, and suddenly he felt a push against his back, and he was off and diving into the ocean. When he fell in, the water was very wet. Wet and cold. The weight of his armor pulled him downward, and Boros just decided to swim deeper still. He did always want to know how deep the sea went.

Then it was turning dark, his limbs had stopped answering his commands, and Boros suddenly felt like taking a nap.

Very much a lighthearted chapter. Because… you know what happens in the next few. I was just going to kill Boros off screen, but I made so much fun of him in my own head that I needed to add a nice send off for him. This is basically how I imagined Ser Boros Blount saw the world. He was a very… special man.