In the end the choice was a simple one. You were not a diplomat or a negotiator; indeed the anger you were currently struggling to control would likely do little to help in such matters. Leave such things to your father and Lord Steffon.
You were a warrior. Would always be a warrior.
And so you had volunteered your sword to Ser Arthur's command, as Gerold and so many others had. Not one kingdom went unrepresented as you armed and readied to save the king. And Cersei, you thought to yourself. Beneath her beauty, Cersei could be capricious and even cruel, but she was a Lannister. No one fucked with your family. If even one hair on her head was out of place, you would see this scum die in as much agony as you could manage.
Joining the illustrious company were a small army of experienced hunters and woodsmen and no less than five hundred men from the various retinues of attending lords. The Kingswood Brotherhood had the advantage of knowing the terrain, but you had numbers and quality. You would scour the forest until nothing remained of them.
Filled with resolve, you had set out. At your side were your fellow Westermen Gerold and Lord Sumner Crakehall (along with his Frey grandson and squire). Other noteworthies such as Robert Baratheon, Brandon Stark, Harrold Arryn, Euron Greyjoy, Mace Tyrell, and Brynden Tully himself rode with you.
If the situation were less serious, you might have asked the Blackfish to recount a tale of the Nine Penny Kings. As it was, you and Gerold took up place in the Ser Brynden's outriders. Lord Crakehall and his men ended up with you as well. On more than one occasion you found him watching you, and that erased all doubt that your father had placed him there to watch over you, to protect you.
He wasn't Ilyn, but he would do. For now.
The first day's ride ended without incident or sight of the enemy.
As Ser Arthur called a halt to the march, strong pickets were set, and lookouts filed out through the surrounding woods.
"Ser Arthur," Merret Frey asked, as they settled in for the night. "Is it truly necessary to set such a strong watch against mere brigands?"
The Sword of the Morning's eye's flashed, and his jaw clenched. Merrett, often called Merrett Muttonhead, did not step back. Instead, he stood there waiting for a response.
"Frey, they took us unawares at the Tourney. I'll be damned to the Seven Hells if they take us again."
The Dornishman's voice was as cold as the grave, and Merrett, perhaps recognizing some fundamental survival instinct, stepped away. The rest of the night Ser Arthur remained aloof, save for the hours he spent in council with the likes of the Blackfish. His rage and wrath were almost palpable. All of the men stepped lightly around him, however the great knight made time to speak with you and Gerold.
"There was nothing you could have done to change any of this," he said, hand on Gerold's shoulder. "You served him well, better than most," he paused, and looked into the dark sky. "better than I."
Your brother seemed at a loss for words, his eyes downcast. He had been quiet, quieter than you had ever seen him. How many men that he admired had he seen killed in that one bloody hour? Afterwards, you had been plotting and committing treason, he had been mourning for his fallen heroes.
"You honor me greatly, Ser!" Gerold finally said.
The Dornishman remained silent for a long while.
"No, while I indulged in my rage and fruitlessly charged after the prince's killer, you and your brother honored and protected his corpse. You kept the vultures at bay. None of my brothers could have done more."
The older man lapsed into silence once more. Both Gerold and Dayne's melancholy stained the air.
You clapped your hands together to break the tension, "Enough dwelling on what might have been. I think it's time for practice."
"Right you are, young Lannister." Arthur said, and you and Gerold followed him from your fire.
And you found yourself in the middle of the encampment. A ring had been formed, and two dozen torches were placed around its circumference. Within the confines, a pair of armored men sparred. Fighting men of all ranks and stations stood nearby as they awaited their turn. The three of you settled near the edge, and you watched the men about you. This was a social situation. A situation you could use to your advantage. Power came in many forms.
"So what's this I hear between you and my sister?" said the heir to Winterfell with a wolfish grin.
Harrold Arryn's expression was distant, with dark rings under his eyes. Had his sister been among the maidens taken? You didn't recall seeing her among them at the time, nor any specific threat to House Arryn that might have unnerved him so.
"We plan to elope. While we are betrothed, vows said before a heart tree are no less binding than those before a septon."
Brandon let out a bark-like laugh at that. "Who would have thought Lya would be the first among us to wed? She was so excited to come to the City, but for the last few days she's barely said a word. Has left her chambers maybe once since the royal wedding. Maybe your mountain air will do her some good."
Harrold only frowned. "I only hope I can bring her some measure of happiness."
He fell silent, and Brandon clapped the younger boy on the shoulder. "See that you do. Never had a taste for grand ceremonies anyway."
You turned your attention elsewhere. The blooming alliance between Arryn and Stark was no secret, though that father would want to know of this elopement. His calculations had likely been accounting for a customary betrothal period rather than an oddly abrupt marriage. At the present moment there were somewhat more pertinent matters to focus on.
Ser Jon Fossoway approached you, distinguished from his cousins by the green apple of New Barrel. He had wed Janna Tyrell, you knew, not long ago. What sort of life would you have led, had father chosen her as your lady wife?
There was some part of you that wondered, perhaps was even a little envious as absurd as it sounded. You had just laid with the loveliest maid in the Seven Kingdoms and your betrothed would doubtless soon grow into a beauty. Janna Tyrell… well, she was rather impressive.
"Ser Jaime," he greeted with a respectful nod. "I had hoped we might have a word."
Why not?
Ser Jon was an impressive knight, that you knew well. His reputation was well earned in both jousts and melees. Though his branch was the lesser and junior of House Fossoway he had managed a match to a highly desired daughter of Highgarden, a feat that had already benefitted his House greatly. With time and diligent rule, perhaps they might rise above Cider Hall in prominence. Besides, it was always good to make contacts, even if the Fossoways were tightly bound to your rivals.
"Of course, Ser." you said easily, as you followed him a respectful distance away from the sparring circle.
"I am here," he said, "as you have likely surmised, on the command of my goodmother. Lady Olenna has asked that I both protect Lord Mace's back and that I keep an eye on you."
You raised an eyebrow. "A cunning tactic to so openly reveal your intentions. I dare say I won't notice a thing."
He laughed good-naturedly, though the more serious expression soon returned. "The game has changed with the death of Prince Rhaegar, and everybody knows it. Whether the King is found or not, and Gods be good he will, Aegon will be king and my niece his queen."
For half of a second you nearly protested, before you remembered that you weren't supposed to know or even suspect that Naerys might be pregnant.
Instead you merely met his gaze. "Perhaps."
"Perhaps nothing," he scoffed. "It was a gamble Lord Tywin made, and in a better world it might have payed off. That we are here now shows that it will not. If he threatens the sovereignty of House Tyrell now it will be in opposition to the throne, not as Hand of the King and grandfather to a future queen as he doubtless intended when he promised your sister to Robert Baratheon."
It was strangely liberating to have everything said so openly, the words uttered without a trace of deception or guile. This must be what people were like outside of politics. "You expect my Father to be removed from his position? The Kingdom would fall apart without his wise rule and firm hand."
"We expect him to resign in honor to Casterly Rock. There are others who could rule just as well. Lord Tywin is an exceptional man, but hardly unique."
You shook your head. There were no other men like your father.
"Ser, I do thank you for your frank words, but my father, the Hand will do what is best for the Realm. And should any oppose his wise and just rule, I think they will find out very quickly that the old lion still has his claws."
"My lord, just remember that there are many who do not want war. It would benefit no one, and cost more than lives." Ser Jon said after a momentary pause.
"Jon, never mind him," Lord Mace Tyrell said, as he ambled toward you. "The Lannisters are drunk with pride and ambition. You'd have better luck teaching an ass to talk than getting a Lannister to let go of a scrap of power, even when it's ill-gotten."
Your eyes narrowed. Mace Tyrell had the look of a man who'd recently lost a lot of weight, and you knew that owed to him recovering from a grievous wound taken during a spar. His eyes gleamed with malice, and he stank strongly of beer.
"Better drunk with ambition than wine on the eve of a march," you shot back.
He grunted in what might have been a laugh. "I can handle my wine better than a green boy." he spat noisily, "Young Lion my arse. How much did your father pay those bards? Half the gold in Casterly Rock?"
"A fine sum, I'm sure," you admitted with a cold grin. "Though I haven't heard them sing any songs about you, my lord. I didn't think your house so niggardly... or is getting thrashed and maimed by your own squire not worthy of a song?"
Your voice was sugar sweet, and you smiled benignly as the Tyrell patriarch flushed red. His hand went to the pommel of his sword.
"Lord Mace," said Ser Jon's voice, stern and clear. "Be the bigger man."
"He's quite clearly that already," you quipped before you could stop yourself.
The formerly fat flower's face flushed red and he drew his blade. "You dare-"
Ser Jon was between you in an instant. "Ser Jaime please. Go, and heed my words carefully."
[] You will do as he bids. It will do you no good to duel with live steel against the Lord of Highgarden. While he might be an imbecile it would reflect poorly on you.
[] Sorry Jon, but this tubby cunt is asking for it. Kick his ass, and remind everyone that the Tyrells are upjumped stewards.
[] You won't fight this drunken fool, but House Lannister cannot ignore a challenge. You will duel Ser Jon as Lord Mace's champion, and when you win force a public apology.
Charcolt's Alternate Ending
"A fine sum, I'm sure," you admitted with a cold grin. "Though I haven't heard them sing any songs about you, my lord. I didn't think your house so niggardly..."
"Whoa!" said Ser Jon. "Jaime you can't say that word!"
"Yeah, not cool," agreed Lord Mace.
"That's not… that's not what it means!" you said exasperatedly. "There's a Lannister king named Norwin the Niggardly-"
Lord Mace drew his sword. "Care you put your money where your mouth is, or is the taste of shit too strong?"
It was on.