A Lion Cub
You are Jaime Lannister of the House Lannister, first son of Tywin Lannister, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, Warden of the West, Hand of the King, and Joanna Lannister, his cousin and lady wife. Born in the year 266 AC, you spent much of your early years exploring Casterly Rock, the greatest Castle in the world. One day you will follow in your father's footsteps and rule the Rock and the West, but as of now, the time to be a page draws near as your sixth year approaches.
Woo Jaime quest. Time to hit people with sharp objects, attempt to make Tywin Lannister proud, and the most difficult of all...
avoid sexing our sister.
Jaime is a character with one of the higher levels of potential ever born in Westeros. A father who is the second most powerful man in the kingdoms, handsome, martially skilled, and decently intelligent. If certain pitfalls are avoided he can go quite far, especially with the current shakiness of the Targaryen rule due to Aerys. He probably can't become king but with the right level of manoeuvring he could secure the Lannisters as the most powerful family in Westeros, even without the throne.
The first six years of your young life pass by in a blur, and your developing mind cannot form distinct memories. Instead, you are left with only vague recollections and deeply held feelings.
Your castle stands out in your mind. A playground with a thousand places to explore. A shining golden hall full of the revered kings and lords of the Rock, all dead but not forgotten. This place is in your blood. It is as much apart of you as your hands. But, the greatest castle in the world only serves as a backdrop, a tableau for your memories...
Family.
Solid time skip, gets us past the less interactive early years. Family time, avoid Cersei!
The shining smile and the delicate caress of your golden haired mother when she sings a soft lullaby. How soft her lilac scented hands are when she wipes tears from your eyes. The graceful way she speaks, so that even father listens to her. In father's absence, she rules both Casterly Rock and your life. All with a gentle smile that lingers in your thoughts and provokes a strange bittersweet sentiment that echoes with ever-present love and sadness to come.
Awww, she's so nice and kind, and Jaime loves her. That kind of thing won't stand in this setting, death incoming. The influence that she had and could have had on all of the different Lannisters is so substantial, I'd actually really like more insight into her at some point. Does she just exude "I'm going to die" vibes or something?
The stern gaze and suppressed smile of father as you two watch the sun rise from the tallest tower in Casterly Rock. The strength of his arms as he holds you close to his chest. His relentlessness in teaching you to read, and his refusal to let you fail or give up. The proud gleam in his green gaze when you show him how good you are with your makeshift practice sword. He is oft gone running the King's kingdom, but when he is home, he makes time to be with you.
Tywin actually seems like a pretty good father so far, solid, dependable and loving.
You and your twin sister, your other half, Cersei, drift apart as she is taught feminine pursuits and you are indoctrinated into more masculine pursuits. You want to be with her always, but something holds you back. Regret fills you as a Septa takes her by the hand to lead her away, and you are led off to your own lessons with the maester. When she is gone, the gaping jagged chasm feels like you've lost a hand. You cry out, but eventually it becomes a dulled calloused pain. Never forgotten, but overcome nonetheless.
Phewww, we've avoided the first step towards crazy incest mode, likely to always be a problem but at least things started out right.
Helping you to overcome the Cersei shaped hole in your heart is your brother, Gerold.
Gerold is an infectious bundle of energy. You two play with one another happily, and leave your sister to boring girly things. The Rock is your world, and you explore it. As boys do, you scuffle back and forth, but your fights are forgotten as quickly as they begin. The two of you vie for dominance in whatever you do, and somehow you always seem to come out ahead. He watches you with a strange intensity, which makes you want to be better. He is always full of questions, and his inquisitive nature rubs off on you. More than just your brother, he is your best friend.
Another brother, Jason, three years younger, fills a spot in your young life. He is a happy boy and still a baby, but you love him all the same. Sometimes, when you and Gerold are exploring, you carry young Jason along with you. And then he laughs and laughs at some jape Gerold makes or cheer you on whenever you get in a scuffle.
Solid, loving bond with our brothers. Fairly unusual in quests so far, I like it. You can never underestimate the power of having people who you know you can depend on, and will always have your back. This is probably going to strengthen the Westerlands pretty heavily too, Tywin will be able to get a few extra alliances from having more children.
The tales of the your legendary ancestor, Lann the Clever, ignite your burgeoning imagination. He took Casterly Rock not by force of arms, but through trickery and guile. You are a straightforward sort but you come to understand that some problems are better solved through a clever mind, not a strong arm. After all, the Casterlys had the greatest fortress in the land, and Lann took it without so much as raising a sword. Or so mother said. This lesson imbeds itself deep down and something in your blood welcomes it.
Trickster Jaime seems like a fun route to take. He'll hopefully be able to avoid some basic pitfalls, and this is likely to help with Tywin appreciating him more.
Lessons.
Outside your family, you spend time with Maester Creylen and other members of the household. The maester teaches you many things as is his duty, but two subjects stick indelibly to you: Geography and Warcraft. The stories and locations of Westeros and beyond sink their claws into you and don't let go. The second is the long list of martial victories House Lannister has won over the millennia, and this gets you musing about the actual craft behind war.
This last leads you to watch the guards, knights, and men-at-arms, and to emulate them in secret with Gerold. Their gleaming armor and shining swords awaken an unquenchable flame in your soul, and the Warrior, one of the Seven whom septons and septas preach about, finds fertile ground in your heart. You know you are a warrior born.
Some war spec for Jaime, fairly typical and follows along with his character. I like the idea of Gerold and Jaime running around the Rock re-enacting battles, it's both cute and probably fairly practical as far as basic training goes.
This one's for you!
Okay, minions. Tywin, your lord father, will be choosing whom you marry. However, I know how much you LOVE your waifus, so as a kind and benevolent dictator, I will offer you some input. Choose one of the regions below, and papa Tywin will choose your betrothed from the winning group. This is a VERY IMPORTANT decision going forward. Betrothals are an absolute bitch to break. Choose wisely. (In the spoiler tags are the associated waifus for a region. Tywin only takes the best!)
Obviously due to the sheer importance of this matter it deserves its own section here. I do like this method of avoiding drawn out waifu debate/campaigning. Crazy Targaryens, crazy Starks, most of them probably fall into the good section of the hot/crazy scale though. Janna Tyrell certainly had large points in her favour though. Would have been interested in the Dayne interactions, the Tarth superhumans, or the Tarly murderlady, although almost any of these women would have been interesting.
Your sixth name day is marked by a tournament in Lannisport. All of the chivalry of the west assembles outside the towering walls of the port city, and you squeal with delight as the shining knights atop their barded steeds face off against one another. A thousand different stories roil through your young mind, as you gasp and applaud at the skill and bravery of the knights.
When your uncle Tygett stands victorious, you know one thing: You want that. More than anything in your young life you want to be a knight, to go out and have daring adventures, and to slay dragons. For days after, you and Gerold and little Jason play the knight and dragon. Of course, you're always the victorious knight who slays the terrible two headed dragon.
You take up the duties of a page within Casterly Rock. On the rare occasions your lord father is in residence, you attend on him personally. More regularly you serve your Uncle Kevan, the Rock's castellan. He is a sure hand with a sword, and faithful and attentive to his duties. You find him to be a good man, but he's so boring. Still, you attend him without fault. Your lord father would hear of it if you did not, and he was always so creative with his punishments. Or worse you'd get a disappointed frown from your mother.
Along with the more tedious chores expected from a page, you also begin your formal martial training. Your tutors and trainers push you hard, and you spend long days running laps around the training yard, learning the proper way to draw a sword, how to fight with fist and foot, and a million other tiring things. Even tired, you did not fail to note that you were progressing faster than the other boys your age.
Fairly typical Jaime stuff. He's enjoying knightly, martial things, and he's showing his superiority over his peers early. I like the typical older brother situation of getting the good role in the games. Father is stern and Jaime doesn't want to disappoint him, but his mother is revealed as the true power in the household. A disappointed frown from Joanna is worse than a creative punishment from Tywin himself, that says a lot about how much Jaime loves his mother.
The routine is interrupted in your seventh year when your mother becomes fat with a baby.
"Yes, my little lion, it's going to be your little brother. Or maybe a sweet sister." Lady Joanna had answered your question with a bright smile and a tight hug. The sweet smell of lilacs drifts off her. Her luminous blonde cascades down over you. She didn't let you go for long moments, and as you scampered off, you caught a pained expression flit across her face. It's gone before knew it, and you ran along.
That's the last time you see her. Alive. She is confined to bed for months.
Tyrion, your misshapen little brother, is born, and your mother dies abed. Your lord father's smile dies with her.
Nooooooo.
Expected, but the most likeable Lannister is dead now and that's going to have a massive effect on Jaime and the entire family. Tywin's love for Joanna is kinda beautiful, he's not a nice guy, but she brought out the best in him and her loss basically removed the joy in his life.
Whispers spread through the castle that Tyrion is a little demon. Cersei loudly declares as much. So, you and Gerold and Jason sneak into Tyrion's nursery late at night. In the candlelight, the babe in his frilly cradle looks stunted and ugly. Nothing like a Lannister. As if sensing your presence, the babe awakens. His mismatched black and green eyes stare up at you, and he remains utterly silent.
"Come on, Jaime." Gerold pulls on your sleeve. "We'll get in trouble if we get caught."
You shake free of your younger brother's grasp.
"No. Go if you're so afraid."
That stops Gerold cold.
Without breaking eye contact, you put your hand in the cradle, and his little hands grasp your forefinger. Tyrion gurgles and smiles happily, and a wave of shock reverberates through you. He's not a demon. For a moment longer you both stare at one another. Little Jason clings anxiously to you, and the spell is broken.
Tyrion wails.
"Come on!" Gerold says urgently. "Celia finds us in here. We'll be doing chores for a month!"
You shake your head, and stoop to carefully pick the baby up. Careful to support the overlarge head you picked up the tiny infant, and bounced him comfortingly in your arms. After a moment of bawling, he falls comfortably silent.
The sound of the door opening brings your head whipping around. Celia, the wet nurse. She is an old hag with a toothless grin. Her gnarled old hands are held out towards you.
"L... lord Jaime," She says, "Give me the baby, and you can go back to bed. Your father need never know you were out when you should have been asleep."
He cries out, and you instinctively clutch him tighter to your chest.
"No, he's my brother."
The fierce words come without thought, and you feel the visceral truth of them. Twisted and malformed he might be, but he is a Lannister. Even during the punishment that follows, that fact never leaves your heart. Gerold grouses about getting caught, but you just shake your head and clean out another particularly disgusting pot.
Jaime is both a curious child and a solid brother here. I really like the way he's developing to hold family as extremely important, it's probably the closest you can get to being a good guy in Westeros without getting your face kicked in.
Casterly Rock without mother is a much changed place. Aunt Genna tries to fill in for mother, but it's not the same. Ser Kevan runs more of the household when father is away. Father is much sterner, and does not allow Tyrion into his presence. You can practically feel father's disdain for the babe, and it doesn't waiver over the years. He is not the only one to treat the babe with disdain. You can see it in the servants' eyes.
Worst of all was Cersei. And her poor treatment of the babe finally came to a head not long before your eighth nameday. Celia scuttled by, and her old face flashed with terror. The old servant fears Cersei. You walk quickly to Tyrion's chamber, and find Cersei standing over the crib
"Stop that!" You shout as you enter the nursery. Your voice cuts through the pained cries of your baby brother, and the awful things Cersei is saying to him. Startled, your twin whirls away from the crib. "He's our brother. He's a Lannister. Don't treat him that way."
You move to the cradle and pick him up. You try to soothe him, but his crying won't stop.
"A Lannister? He's a twisted little demon. A kinslayer. He killed our mother." She smirked as her green eyes flashed. "You're not father. You can't tell me what to do."
Poor Tyrion, everyone treats him badly and he's really done nothing wrong. Another interaction with Cersei that needs careful managing to avoid her going full nutso on us, she is really high maintenance even when Jaime is not sleeping with her.
You look at the smirk twisting her features, and the defiantly crossed arms of your twin, and bite back sharp words. An argument is what what she wants. Cersei thrives in such arguments. She always seems to come out the better in a war of words, and you decide not to stoop to her level. Instead, you hug little Tyrion tighter, brush past her, and start walking for the nursery's oaken door.
"Where are you going?" Cersei asks as you pass by.
"Away from you." You say simply, as you smoothly walk across the room. "Figured I'd show him around the Rock."
"Why?" Her voice carries a mixture of confusion and hate. "Jaime, he's an abomination! Don't you care that he killed our mother?!"
Your back stiffens at that, face ripples through you, and only Tyrion's incessant cries keep you moving forward . There were a dozen responses on the tip of your tongue, but only one felt right.
"He's our brother."
Your fierce words halt her following footsteps. You don't break stride. You don't look back. Cersei is your sister. You love her, but you aren't blind to her faults. Out of all your siblings, she took mother's death the hardest. Tyrion, the babe in your arms, is the scapegoat for her anger and fear and loneliness. However, you will not permit any member of your family to be so abused.
More solid brotherness from Jaime. Cersei is just a child trying to cope with her loss, but someone really needs to smack that out of her before it can fester too much. Someone needs to release a Cersei management simulator game, it seems to happen a lot in quests.
When you make out into the hallway, and realize Cersei hasn't followed, you take a deep breath. You know what you are going to do, but tattling will make Cersei hate you. At least for a while. But, grownups were meant to fix these kinds of things. Aunt Genna is the first idea that comes to you, and you immediately head towards her chamber. Your aunt is one of the smartest people you know, and she'd get Cersei to treat Tyrion more nicely.
Her husband Ser Emmon Frey is out hunting, so she should be in her solar.
The path through the winding corridors of the Rock is a familiar one, and as you walk, Tyrion finally calms down. He stares up at you with mismatched eyes, and the anger in your heart dissipates like smoke in the wind.
You arrive at aunt Genna's solar, and she's nowhere to be found. After interrogating a stuttering servant, you are pointed to a little used corner of the castle. A few minutes later, you find yourself in an unfamiliar hallway staring at an oaken door. From beyond the door, you can hear muffled moans and grunts.
Go aunt Genna, I mean she's doing a bad thing, but when she's married to a Frey, who could blame her? I like the fact that Jaime respects women's intelligence quite a lot so far, first with his mother and now with his aunt.
You look at the thick oaken door for a long moment, and the strange sounds from within the room do not abate. If anything, they get even louder. You can almost make out the occasional word, but the heavy door muffles them beyond recognition. What are those sounds? Is Aunt Genna alright? Does she have company? Is she playing a game? Those questions and a million more flood furtively through your developing mind.
You raise your hand to knock, but it freezes a foot from the door. No one would hurt Aunt Genna here. Grownups like their private time sometimes. Maybe this is one of those times, and you don't want to bother her. When angered, she could be scary. You did not want to be on the wrong side of one of her infamous tongue lashings.
Shaking your head, you turn to leave. Your talk with aunt Genna will have to wait. Tyrion's light snores pull you from your thoughts. The tiny babe weighs almost nothing, and even in sleep his features are ugly. Men and women, great and small, gushed over how handsome and strong you were, how beautiful and graceful Cersei is. No one would ever say those nice things about Tyrion. People could be mean.
Still, you smile proudly, lovingly down at your napping brother. He had not killed your mother. The Stranger had taken her to be with them amongst the Seven Heavens. Mother loved Tyrion as much as she loved the rest of her children. In your blood, you know that.
You will protect him.
Avoided the mental scarring for young Jaime, slightly disappointed, but probably the wisest move here. Unfortunate that with this course of events Cersei was never taken to task for her treatment of Tyrion but there's not much that can be done about that.
Despite your resolve, the days pass by in a blur. You have little time for your infant brother, and less for aunt Genna. Your page duties steadily increase as you grow older, and you can find no time to speak with aunt Genna. She's always busy with women duties or seeing to Cersei's education or a thousand other things. Your aunt steps in to fulfill much of mother's previous role, and that leaves her little free time.
During your time as a page, you are surrounded by other boys from across the Westerlands. Noble children sent to foster at the Rock, sent to increase their ties to the Lannisters, and thus further their standing. Many fall all over themselves to be friendly to you, and are often in naked competition for your favor.
Rank your fellow pages in terms of friendship. 1 = Closest friend. 9 = ??????
-Addam Marbrand- Heir to Ashemark and closest in age to you. Genuine, confident, and a natural subordinate. The other boys all respect him and he respects you. Has a bit of a crush on aunt Genna's daughter Jeyne.
-Tybolt Crakehall, heir to Crakehall. Quiet and kind of introverted, but very strong and tall. He is fierce in the training yard. Spends a lot of time in the Sept, and the Septons and Septas often point to him as an example to follow.
-Flement Brax is the second son of Andros Brax. Flashy and bold, he appreciates the finer things in life and is ambitious for a second son. He has a crush on Cersei.
-Gregor Clegane- Son of a landed knight. Quiet. Huge and incredibly strong for his age. Rather dull witted. Prone to fits of anger and severe headaches. Often quarrels with the other boys, but is deferential to you, as both his superior by blood and the only one who can overcome him with any frequency in the training yard.
-Alyn Frey- Your cousin and aunt Genna's oldest son. Blonde haired and green eyed, he looks like a Lannister. You don't see any of uncle Emmon in him. Not very able in the training yard, but he's very shrewd with finances and has a knack for ferreting out secrets.
-Titus Peake is heir to Starpike in the Reach. He's ashamed of his family's actions in the past and wants to redeem them through his own honor. He is the only boy who spends more time practicing in the yard than you.
-Arthur Banefort is the younger brother of Lord Quenten Banefort. He has a calm head in tense situations and a silver tongue. He also has a great love of and skill for the courtly arts. Music, poetry, dancing, he excels at them all.
-Alan Garner is a son of House Garner. He's the only boy in a family of six sisters and several aunts, and can be a bit headstrong. A prankster. Excels with a morningstar. Despite his small stature he is fierce and skilled in the training yard.
-Antario Jast is betrothed to one of your cousins, Lanna Lannister. He's the heir to House Jast of Lionshead Hall. Charming and popular with the girls. People often mention him in the same breath as you when it comes to good looks.
Now we move into the proper development for Jaime as a leader. Who are his closest friends? Who does he hate? Having a giant, super strong friend like Gregor could have been useful.
"Shhhh! You're going to get us caught." With your forefinger pressed to your lips, you glare at your best friends. Addam might as well be a Lannister for his blonde hair and green eyes, and he glowers at your other companion, Titus Peake. The Reachman is dark of eye and hair, and he smirks glibly at Addam in turn.
Neither pay your command any mind as they stare daggers at one another.
"I mean it. Tygett will skin us alive if he finds out we're trying to sneak out." You continued. Of all your kin, you like Tygett the least, and if he catches you he will see you and your friends punished severely. Not three months ago, he had ordered you to clean dishes for being out of bed after curfew. Tygett Lannister was the best fighter in Westerlands (though to be sure there would be some who would disagree) but quite clearly the man had never been a child.
A moment later Addam and Titus fall silent.
Nodding with satisfaction, you lead them through the Rock. You three were on a mission. Tales had spread through the castle staff about a witcher woman, a grotesque from across the Narrow Sea who lived not too far away from the Rock. Cersei and her flock had been sternly rebuffed from going there. After all it isn't proper for a highborn lady to consort with the low type.
Your curiosity was aroused at the idea of the strange tales and unknown old woman, of what secrets she might hold. You could not stand being stymied. So, the three of you hatched this plot. Sneak out of the castle by way of a secret passage, visit this Maggy the Frog, and return with no one the wiser.
All is quiet as you and the two other pages thread your way silently through the castle. The castle is as familiar as your training sword, as the back of your hand. Ahead, all seems clear, but behind you in the dimly lit hallway, you hear shuffling footsteps. You instinctively flatten against the stone wall, and both Addam and Titus do so as well.
For long moments, your heart thuds in your chest. Then there's movement. A golden-haired figure dressed in a black cloak much like your own appears. You let out the breath you had been holding.
"Gerold." You whisper angrily. He had been busy with his lessons when you had planned this adventure, and you didn't want him to get in trouble if you got caught. You don't wonder how he found out. There are very few secrets between you two.
He approaches with a defiant grin. If he were a few inches taller, he might have been your twin.
"I'm coming with you," he said flatly.
You stare at one another for a long moment, and he doesn't break eye contact.
"Okay, but be quiet." You shake your head in acceptance. "Don't blame me if you get in trouble"
Gerold had a mind of his own, and when he had that look, that stubborn set to his jaw, nothing short of Father could put him in his place quickly. And you didn't have the time nor the inclination to try. Besides, he is your brother
Now, with another Lannister in tow, you and the other pages make your way into the depths of Casterly Rock, and toward the secret passageway. The passage is in one of the old abandoned mines. A clever mechanism keeps well it hidden, and the passageway itself is narrow. A full grown man in armor would not be able to pass through.
Luckily, you were only nine.
You easily fit through, and the only complication is getting the sword you filched from the armory free as it occasionally becomes wedged in the rough and uneven stone walls.
Silence reigns until your group moves out of the passage and into a dense stand of redwoods. The sun is setting, and it paints the sky in hues of purple and blue. You've used this passage before, so you know exactly where you are.
"The witch's hut should be an hour north of here."
Your friends and brother trundle out behind you.
"Peake, you ought bathe more often." Addam shot. He fanned his hand in front of his face. "You been playing in the cisterns?"
"Bugger off, Marbrand." Titus returned.
Both you and Gerold issue identical long suffering sighs. Addam and Titus made sport of one another. They fought endlessly, but also forgave quickly. That didn't mean it was any less tiresome for everybody else.
The trek to the witch's hut takes a little over a hour and a half, and the sun is fully set by the time you reach your destination. Halfway there, you light torches, and the open flames dance in the cool night air casting twisting shadows about the road and the grass and the trees.
You come upon the ramshackle hut in a forested area of your future demesne, and let out a little whistle. The air smells of spices and cooked meats and other things. Altogether it is an unpleasant aroma. Peasant's homes were often crude, but this hovel looked like one stiff wind would knock it over.
"How can someone live here?" Gerold asks, echoing your thoughts.
Before you can answer, Titus breaks in, "You gonna ask the witch if little Jeyne will be your wife."
Addam stiffens. It's common knowledge that Addam fancies Aunt Genna's daughter, Jeyne, and Titus did not shy away from picking at him for it.
"Better than marrying some Dornish slut." Addam shoots back.
"Peace." You command. Your voice is not as deep your lord fathers, but it works well enough. The pair look at you. "We're not here for you two to fight. We see what this Maggy is about, and then we get back to the Rock."
They acquiesce.
Time for an adventure and quality foreshadowing. A prophecy is only good if it is incomprehensible but can be made sense of as soon as an event happens. Jaime is a fairly natural leader here, his friends certainly defer to him even when they seems to have a fairly conflict heavy relationship with each other. Gerold our best bro has come along too, I like the inclusion of him.
You raise your hand to knock, but a thin old voice filters through the door, "Come in. Come in."
and the quartet enters the shack. An open flame with a bubbling pot sits in the middle of the room, and skinned game hangs openly in the air. The strange, pungent stench intensifies. Vials of unknown liquids sit here and there.
All of that passes you by as you find your eyes riveted to the old woman, Maggy. The squat witch watches you with crusty yellow eyes, and offered a toothless smile in return.
"I'm Jaime Lannister, and we've heard tell that you can divine secrets, that you can see the future." Under her unblinking stare, you pull out a bag of silver stags and gold dragons. "We can pay."
Her head cocks sideways, and she stares at you as if she were trying to figure out a puzzle. She pays no heed to your companions, and you feel uneasy under her intense study. No I am a Lion of the Rock!
You stand tall and do not waiver, "Can you do this thing or not?"
She laughs loudly, and spittle flies from her lips. You clench your hand upon the sword. Madwoman.
You grunt in annoyance, and make to turn away.
"No, no." She weezes out. "I'll take your gold, but I'll need a drop of blood to see the future. Be warned, my lordly lion: You may not like that which I have to say. The future can be a terrible thing. I'll see to you last Lord Lannister."
"I'll go first." Addam, pale faced and shaking, stepped forward.
He offered his hand to her, she pricked his finger, and sucked on the blood.
"Will I be a good lord?" His voice shook.
"You will be a lord of ashes. Golden flames will bring all you build to ruin."
Snatching back his hand, he said, "Can I stop that?"
"Put aside your dreams, little one, and look to the east. Your salvation is far from these lonely hills."
Addam sidled away. Shaken.
Next was Titus. Pale green jowls shaking, Maggy took his hand in her own, and accepted his blood.
"Will I bring honor to my family?" His voice quivers with emotion.
"You must lose one family to honor another. One will be your blood and the other your end. I see tears falling from the walls of Starpike, and a brave man drowning in them."
Then Gerold stepped forward.
"What's my destiny?" Gerold asks quietly.
"Your destiny is glory and shame, little lion. I wonder which you will choose, the horns or the fires? So much blood staining those golden hands. Wither in shadow or flourish in war."
Your brother staggers back as if struck, and then it's your turn.
"Lord Lannister, you may ask three questions." She cackles and smiles her toothless smile.
Time to speak to the crazy lady whose prophecies will drive people to distraction with worry, should be fun times.
Addam's prophecy: First part is fairly ambiguous, everything is gold in the Westerlands. Maybe something to do with Lannisters and Targaryens, too hard to say. Quality foreshadowing of the fact that Jeyne is his sister in the second part.
Titus' prophecy: Also hard to interpret, reflects a change in his loyalties from House Tyrell to Lannister? Will he bring honour to his married family instead of his own?
Gerold's prophecy: Seems to be a choice between someone and the Targaryens. Not really sure what horns could represent. Could be Jaime's shadow here, a war would allow Gerold to stand on his own.
I like the not choosing to hear a prophecy from her as we're not worried about some nebulous future, although that knowledge could have been useful.
Okay, minions. Jaime's a growing boy, and his time as a page is coming to an end. Because you are playing as a quest protagonist you get more say than would normally be the case. All five options below would be IC for Tywin to choose for his heir's fosterage. You get to choose, so choose wisely!
Included this because I liked the options here and wanted to discuss them.
Storm's End: Steffon is pretty impressive, it would have built ties with the Baratheons into the the next generation, and Jaime would have been able to go on a trip to Essos.
Crakehall: Possible adventures, and a closer link to Jaime's future bannermen.
Oldtown: Reach politics and influence, could further House Lannister's power. Helps bond with Jaime's future wife and has opportunities for knowledge at the Citadel.
King's Landing: Fairly self explanatory, big players, father is there, King's Guard etc.
The Eyrie: Bonding with Ned and Robert, would probably have influenced Jaime into being a better person even if that would probably have wound up being a bad thing.
All in all, Oldtown was probably my favourite pick here, especially with how much of a bro Baelor ended up being. Lots of good choices though which is always great to see instead of one obviously superior choice.
The morning sun streamed through the thick clouds as it shone into the courtyard. The tall stone walls of the Rock loomed about you. Your retinue was gathered for the trip. Both Addam and Titus would be your companions alongside a strong contingent of hand picked guards. Ser Ilyn Payne, the head of your personal guard, loudly barked orders to his men behind you. Before you, stood your family lined up to say their goodbyes.
Little Tyrion, not content to wait his turn, bolted forward, his stunted legs carrying him swiftly into your waiting arms.
"Jaime, don't go! I'll be good! I swear! Just don't go." he sobbed out.
"You're a good boy, and I love you." you smiled soothingly. " But, I've got to go. It's my duty. Remember what I said about duty?"
He nodded hesitantly, "Lannisters always do their duty, and they always pay their debts."
You smile proudly. Tyrion was the smartest little boy in the Westerlands.
"It'll be alright, next time we see each other I should be a knight and you'll almost be a man grown!"
Tears began to well in his eyes. Wrong tack.
"We'll write to one another, and maybe we can visit sometimes." you said gently, as you held Tyrion in your arms. Tears were freely pouring from his mismatched eyes, and you gently wiped them away.
He looked entirely unconvinced.
"I'll make sure of it." Jaime said. "Even Gerold will visit from King's Landing when he can."
Gerold and Cersei had accompanied father to the capital not a fortnight ago. You already missed Gerold, and some part of you missed Cersei as well. Father's absence was nothing new, but it still gnawed at you.
"Promise?" the Five year old asked in between sniffles.
"My word as a Lannister." you assured him, as you ruffled his blonde hair. That dried his tears, and he gave you one of his ugly lopsided grins, which you happily returned.
After you set Tyrion down, Jason rushed forward and offered his hand with the air of seriousness. The nine year old was doing a better job of holding back his tears, but losing both you and Gerold must have been terribly hard on him. For as long as you could remember, he had tagged along after you. His absence would be keenly felt.
Ignoring the proffered hand, you pulled him into a tight embrace.
Then you brought him to arm's length. "You're my brother, you are a lion of Casterly Rock. You'll do well."
"Take care brother." He said, and you separated with fond farewells.
Aunt Genna hugged you tightly, as she had her own departing son. "I think you will be taller than your father when I see you next," she had said, and you had promised to write and made her promise to watch over Jason and Tyrion in your absence. Tyrion especially would need love and support. Life was hard for a dwarf.
Uncle Kevan had clasped your shoulder and given you a warm smile. "You are every bit Tywin's son," he had said. Highest praise that uncle Kevan could give "I know you will make us all proud."
Your uncle had not yet married, never had children of his own. Perhaps you and your siblings were the closest he would ever know to that. It was not a thought you had considered before, and you made sure to hug him tightly. He ruffled your blonde hair affectionately.
"Perhaps I will see you soon," Uncle Gerion had offered with a smile, "for my journeys often take me as far as Oldtown. Next time we meet, I'll bring you a present from across the Narrow Sea."
You smiled at that. While your youngest uncle was rarely at home you had a fondness for him and his stories of adventure and far-off places. The Rock was always a livelier place when he was home. Perhaps when next you met you would have some of your own to share.
More being a great brother to Tyrion. He's seriously adorable at this point in time. Jaime certainly values his family highly, but they're all spreading out now. His aunts and uncles minus one have all been good influences on him and he seems to quite like them.
Lastly you had sought out Uncle Tygett. Whatever your feelings for the difficult man he was family and father had always said family meant more than anything.
You had found him deep in conversation with a group of nobles. Ser Burton Crakehall, Lord Quenton Banefort, Lord Harwyn Jast, and Ser Rodry of Redpools. All save the last were a good deal older than you. You squared your shoulders, and took a deep breath as you approached.
The men's conversation cutoff as you drew near.
"Uncle Tygett," you offered hesitatingly, and his lips twitched downward as he regarded you, "I came to wish you farewell before I departed."
"Well, goodbye," was his dismissive response, and a flash of irritation rose in you. He was Castellan of the Rock and a busy man.
There was a reason that despite his martial skills, Tygett remained your least favorite kin. Quick tempered, contrary, mirthless, and uncompromising. The same qualities that made him a fearsome warrior also made him a poor companion. When you were older, when you were Lord of Casterly Rock there would be a reckoning.
Ser Rodry had let out an easy laugh. "Come now, Tygett. You will not see your nephew for a long time indeed. What harm can there be in some courtesy?"
Now Uncle Tygett's glare was on the grinning knight, and his hands were clenched so tightly they were nearly shaking. What was wrong with him?
"Farewell nephew. I pray that your time in Oldtown will be happy," he had said at last through clenched teeth before storming away across the courtyard.
"He can be a bit of a handful," offered the knight to you, "though I suppose you'd know better than I."
You cast a baleful look at your uncle, and then favored the knight with a smile, "Indeed, I do ser."
Tygett is a dick. Don't really know what his problem is but there's certainly something going on with him, and he's got a nice group of followers hanging around. Jaime, at least so far, is turning out to be a good warrior but one not plagued by the antisocial tendencies that his uncle has.
The hustle and bustle of Lannisport's waterside engulfed you as you and your retinue came to a stop at the docks. Merchants sold their many wares. Sailors rigged their ships. Dockhands loaded and unloaded goods from across the world, from as far away as the Jade Sea.
"There she is, Jaime!" Addam said in an awed tone, as he indicated a massive galleon from atop his own pony. "Mighty fine ship Lord Tywin has gifted you."
"It is at that." you agreed with a grin. Before you sat one of the greatest ships in the entire world. Your father commissioned the Joanna's Pride, especially for you. It dipped four hundred oars, and towered over the other lesser ships in the harbor. The crew, gathered from the best sailors the Westerlands had to offer, stood at the railing awaiting your arrival. It was a match for any ship anywhere.
"A Lion must show his strength. The Hightowers, the Tyrells, and the other houses of the Reach are powerful and rich. But, they aren't lions. When you go to Oldtown, all will know you for a Lannister. And they will know that you are not to be trifled with. They will know that lions are to respected. If given cause, feared as well."
The memory of your Lord Father's fierce words, and the pride evident in his eyes made you sit up straight in your saddle. Many of the smallfolk of the city were staring at you, and you put on your most charming smile and waved in acknowledgement. A small cheer went up from the smallfolk, and your grin split.
Father said the love of the commons was a fickle thing, that it was better to be feared and respected. But, you loved the rush of the cheering crowd all the same.
Soon thereafter, you and your retinue were aboard the ship, and the ship was pulling out of the harbor. As Casterly Rock, your home disappeared over the horizon, you solemnly said your final farewell, and resolution welled up in your chest.
Tywin gave him a bloody great ship as a present for fostering. That's quite a big gift, but also a powerful status symbol and demonstration of the Lannister's power.
The mighty ship lurched through the churning sea, bile rose in your throat, and you emptied your stomach for what felt like the thousandth time.
Ser Ilyn let out a bark-like laugh, as he had every time. "Thought you'd at least be empty by now. I remember my first time on the sea. That was back in your grandfather's day and…"
You let out a low rasping groan and drowned out the blabbering knight as you spat out the foul taste in your mouth and wiped the remnants on your coat's sleeve. A knight errant, traveling across the realm in search of maidens to rescue and villains to slay, that had been the plan. But, it looked like any traveling you did in the future would be by land.
"...and that's why I can never return to Blacktyde. You be needing another bucket, my lord?" asked Ser Ilyn, and you nodded your head feebly.
Titus at least had the good grace to stay quiet about how well he was taking to the sea. The Peakes were marcher lords, but their lands bordered the River Mander where they had once squabbled with the Manderlys over spilled blood, broken oaths, and access to the river and its riches. In the end the Manderlys had been driven from the Reach, but you couldn't help but view them as the winners in that particular squabble when looking at how things had gone for Titus' ancestors.
His father had been a ward (or hostage) of the Hightowers, the last Peake left living in Westeros after the rebellion that had killed King Maekar. It was while sailing with Ser Baelor that he had met Lady Marlene Chester, Titus' mother. Titus had been born there on Greenshield and remained for two years before the new Lady Peake became aware of her husband's nightly visits to the brothel and the two departed for Starpike without her.
All that amounted to the simple fact that Titus could run about the deck without misplacing his last meal and you couldn't.
Your one consolation was that Addam was as miserable as you were. He had not left his cabin for anything but meals since his first time adeck claiming illness, though Titus insisted that his heart was broken instead.
"This is a lovely ship it is," continued Ser Ilyn, clearly not appreciating that you were both dying and deep in thought. "Your grandfather had one like it when I was a lad, a real beauty. Named for his mother, the Red Lady it was. Ended up loaning it out to some merchant company and never saw it again. People didn't fear the lion back then, not like now."
You sighed. Ser Ilyn was one of the finest blades in the West and loyal to the point of absurdity, but he had clearly not learned the value of silence from his sworn sword tutors.
"You two, what are you still doing up here?" shouted one of the crewmen, "get below!"
You were happy to comply, but Ser Ilyn seemed discontent with the simple instructions, standing between the two of you with a cautious look to him. "Why? This is the lad's ship after all."
"Look to the skies, fool!" yelled the pockmarked man, and as the rocking of the ship sent another wave of nausea through your stomach, your gaze leapt upwards.
The skies were grey and turning black, and it had begun to rain. A storm.
Panic began to rise inside of you before you forced it down. Being afraid would do you no good and your father would not approve of losing your head. The best thing to do would be to get to safety and let the sailors do their jobs.
"Ser Ilyn," you said in your best commanding voice, "we should go."
At that your sworn sword had nodded and led you down to your cabin. "Don't worry milord," the sailor said as you passed him, "We'll make port and wait the bastard out."
Maximum seasickness. Jaime is not having a great time here. First time Ser Ilyn shows up, he's no Mandon (the Mango) but he's pretty good.
"Young Lannister," said your gracious host, "be welcome in the Arbor."
"Thank you for your hospitality, Lord Paxter," you replied as you had been trained, accepting the offered bread and salt. Behind the lord and his main table, a scene of two fleets clashing was depicted in a large stained glass relief. Rain fiercely beat against the windows, and you felt the chill from your wet clothing seeping into your weary bones.
Your tired eyes roved took in the Arbor's great hall. It was not so large or as grand as the Rock's, and the castle itself was a dwarf in comparison to your home. However, few of your bannermen could rival the strong walls, the fine architecture, and rich decor.
"It is our pleasure to welcome a son of Casterly Rock for as long as we are able, and one who will soon be family at that."
You eyed Lady Redwyne at that, remembering the lineages your maester had made your memorize. Lady Malora was Lord Leyton Hightower's eldest daughter and had wed Paxter Redwyne after his first wife (a sister of Mace Tyrell) had died childless. When you wed the Lady Aelinor she would be your aunt by marriage, her children your cousins.
She was not much older than you, nor was her husband for that matter. You flushed slightly as golden brown eyes regarded you with a warm comely smile. Silvery blonde hair framed her face and cascaded down her back. Your cheeks flushed, and the back of your neck felt like it was burning under the midday son.
She was very pretty.
Their children were present as well, a girl at her mother's breast who could not be older than a season and a boy clutching at his mother's hand. He looked, you realized with a slight start, worse than you did. His skin was too pale and his green eyes unfocused as if from sickness. He sniffled and Lady Malora tightened her grip, though her expression did not change. The third boy was closer to Jason or Tyrion in age, too old to be Malora's, and after a moment of thought you placed him as Lord Paxter's brother Desmond.
"It is a fine thing that you were so nearby," offered Lady Malora, and you could not help but smile back as her eyes met yours. You wondered if Aelinor would look like her. "Such a sudden storm, and on such a calm night."
Lord Paxter nodded absently. "It seems your travels have been hard. I'll have you shown to our guest chambers. In the morning we would be honored to have you join us breaking your fast."
"And my companions," you added before you could help yourself, "for they will be hungry as well."
Lord Paxter had paused for a moment before a grin emerged on his face. "Indeed. Let us feast your whole crew, young lion, for it is a fine day the Arbor plays host to our Lord Hand's brave men and his noble son."
Jaime really hates the ocean and storms at this point. His weakness for pretty girls is already showing through, just smile at him and he gets all flustered. Poor kid, probably should be dead already.
You rose from bed with a groan, your stomach growling in anguish. Outside, your chamber's window the storm still howled through the pitch black night.
You would need to add islands to the list of places never to visit. The Hightower was on Battle Island. Was it too late to squire for Prince Rhaegar or Lord Steffon Baratheon?
Well, there was no point in sitting here with windchill and the occasional dry heave. It might be improper, but perhaps a walk through the castle would do your head some good.
It took only a minute to dress yourself and then you were off. The Redwynes were an ancient house and a rich one, surely they had some interesting tapestries. Not that you were a huge fan of tapestries, but you'd find a plain stone floor or watching paint dry on a wall interesting, if it kept your mind well off of the ocean.
You are Jaime Lannister, son of Tywin and Joanna, heir to Lann the Clever and a bloodline thousands of year old back into the mist of the Age of Heroes. You can do this. You will do this.
With that comforting thought you marched onward.
"Father Above, I'm lost."
Really, who would have thought hallways could all look so alike? Was this how visitors felt when they tried to navigate the labyrinthine halls of Casterly Rock. The occasional tapestry might have helped if the Redwynes weren't universally red haired and green eyed. How could every member of one family have the same look for generations? You shook your head tiredly as you remembered the blonde hair and green eyes of your own lineage.
Well, there were worse ways to die than alone and forgotten in the depths of a foreign castle. In the maw of a great dragon. Or worse... drowning.
You shivered as a low rhythmic mumbling caught your ear, and you turned toward it. A voice? That was rather anticlimactic. You would probably be in a bit of trouble for wandering, but that was a concern for later.
You made your way toward the voice. It sounded like… singing? But, in a tongue you had never heard, a tongue that pulled at your senses. At your very mind. The tongue was unfamiliar, but the voice, conjured up a heart shaped face, which tugged at your chest.
"Lady Redwyne?" you said as you walked through the door and your heart froze in your chest.
Malora Hightower reclined in a hardwood chair, her sheer purple dressing gown stained red with blood. Her son nursed at her breast, while the dead bound man at her feet left a bloody pool on the floor. Strange chalk markings etched into the stone floor surrounded her, her babe, and the corpse.
You forced your eyes from the floor and to the beautiful blasphemer.
"Hello Jaime. Please come in." her voice was light, as if she were discussing the weather over tea.
Even as your mind screamed at you to run, you felt yourself step forward. Running would do you little good with your allies sleeping and your ship uncrewed. Lions didn't run. If she wanted to kill you, well, she would not find you easy prey. You had not spent countless hours in the training yard to be overcome by a mere woman. No matter how stunning… or mad.
You eased into the room. Your feet slightly apart, knees bent, and callused hands ready for violence.
"A pirate," she remarked coldly, gesturing at the corpse below. "The Ironborn glorify their parasites and prey on those who cannot defend themselves. 'Each man a king on his own ship' they say, 'and a king may take what he desires'."
"You killed him? Why?" your voice shook slightly.
"Why?" she asked, and a hint of something mad shone in her eyes, "because I am desperate. Because my son clings to life by the faintest thread and it is all I can do to hold him close. Look."
And you looked. Harrold Redwyne giggled innocently under your gaze, the color restored to his skin and eyes.
"You're making him stronger," you whispered, "using blood magic to cure his sickness."
"I am. But it will not last. Each time I buy him but a few months. A more potent solution is necessary."
"Like what?" you asked cautiously. Each time. If she moved you would make a grab for the dagger and damn the consequences. The gods would understand.
"You, Jaime. Your blood is the blood of heroes and kings. Of Corlos and Lann and all who followed them. In you is the strength that could save my boy. All I would need is a few drops to save him forever. Please, Jaime, help me."
It was blood magic, everything that you had run from with the witch woman and her damnable prophecies. Everything the septons and septas preached against. And yet… could you leave a child to die when it was within your power to save him? A child that was kin to your betrothed? Standing tall, and wary of any sudden movement, you met her desperate, pleading gaze. Green bore into brown gold. You measured her, measured the babe, measured the dead pirate.
No. Not while you drew breath. Not when you had a choice.
"I'll help him," you promised. Her smile lit up the room, but you still felt cold.
She rose, cradling her son in her arms. She proffered a rune carved knife, but you shook your head slightly. Your hand found the blade you always kept on your person. "Never get caught without a knife," Ser Ilyn's words echoed through your head. "Can never have enough good knives."
Taking the knife in your hand, you ran the cold clean steel across your palm, wincing slightly. Malora took her son out of his swaddling. A small rune carved into his chest still oozed blood, and pressed your palm to it.
A feeling of vertigo overcame you as Lady Redwyne whispered nonsense words under her breath. And then it was over.
"It is done," she said, her eyes wide. "He will live. He will be strong. Thank you. Thank you." She pressed her full rosy lips to your forehead and she laughed. The sound filled you with joy, it was light, airy; it was the sound of pain and fear of two years abandoning her. Washing away like so much filth down the cistern.
"We should get you back to bed, my little lion. It wouldn't do for you to be found at this hour."
For a moment you considered asking what she planned to do with the pirate beginning to stink on her floor. You smothered it. You really didn't want to know, and you made sure she led the way back to your chambers.
After barring the door, you didn't sleep a wink that night.
Yeah Jaime has a really weak stomach when it comes to the sea. Time for some extreme creepiness though, blood magic is seriously disturbing. Jaime already shows he's willing to bend his morals, for both a pretty girl and a child. At least the child will live and there doesn't seem to have been much of an effect on Jaime himself.
That morning you broke your fast with House Redwyne and all your crew. The commons sat along the great hall's lower tables. The skies were clear and the sea was calm, and you would be departing later that day.
"Is everything alright?" asked Addam, a concerned look on his face. "I'm fine," you assured him, clenching your fist beneath the table. Malora beamed at you, and Lord Paxter seemed a little more brisk this morning. Both her children, now hale and healthy, sat on either side of her. Little Harrold's bright green eyes never left you.
Before you left the hall, Lady Malora pulled you to the side and pressed something into your hand. "A token of my gratitude," she said, and then she leaned forward and whispered in your ear, "A shield to keep you safe from harm. Wear it and no poison shall harm you. It will burn on your hand should you drink such a foul concoction, and you will know your enemies are at work."
You eyed the silver ring warily. There were strange runes worked into the metal, and the ruby set at its center blazed with an inner fire. Meeting her brilliant smiling eyes you slid it onto your finger. If she meant you harm, well, now was hardly the time. It felt warm. Safe.
"Thank you, my lady." you said politely.
Pleased laughter and another kiss on the cheek met your words.
"Unfortunately, my young lion, you won't get drunk with that ring on your finger. Not ever." Malora chuckled lightly. Her ample breast pressed against your hard muscles, and you wondered how you had ever thought her mad. "But, that's for the best I'm sure. You're such a delight. We wouldn't want you muddled by drink."
Hours later, you gazed out at the ocean, Joanna's Pride rocking gently beneath you as Oldtown emerged on the horizon.
Ser Ilyn approached, bucket in hand and mouth wide open, but you waved him off absently, rotating the gemstone around your finger.
Well as long as the Lady isn't crazy then Jaime has earned himself a life long ally, plus if Harrod's gaze is anything to go by there is a second ally too. A very high quality and useful trinket as long as no one knows we have it, I'm glad magic didn't wind up as a central theme to the quest but there's no denying its usefulness in certain situations. A further demonstration of Jaime's weakness towards women though, that could grow into a serious problem.
The Joanna's Pride pulled into Oldtown and you smiled in delight. The High Tower located atop Battle island loomed large before you, and the ancient port city nestled about it. The Starry Sept gleamed in the midmorning sun. Orderly streets teeming with sailors, merchants, and craftsmen branched through the city. You were strongly reminded of the times you'd visited King's Landing. At least Oldtown didn't smell. Much.
"Must feel good to be back in the Reach, eh? Missed all the flower nonsense." Addam said from your side. The Marbrand heir wore chainmail and plate with a grey and orange tabard. For your part you wore finely crafted chain and plate as well. On your left, Titus was similarly armored. You didn't expect violence, but a noble never went unarmed or unarmored..
"It does. Perhaps, some lovely flower will capture your attention," Titus said with a sly smirk. Addam reddened, but the Peake continued as if he hadn't noticed. "Keep you from moping about and day dreaming about Lions and maidens."
You had to admit that he had been poor company since leaving Lannisport; since leaving Genna's daughter, Jeyne.
"Peake," Addam's voice had an edge to it now. "it's no fault of mine that only Margot will even look at you. Perhapsthey have lower standards here in the south."
"Watching you fight like cats and dogs is always amusing, but now's not the time." You said, a clear edge of annoyance lacing your voice.
The pair stared daggers at one another and then fell silent.
You supposed this might be a time to be nervous, meeting your future betrothed and her family, arriving in what will be your new home for the next few years, but right now you're a bit too awed. Is this how foreigners must feel when they first see Casterly Rock?
The gangway was lowered to the docks, and Ser Ilyn motioned to a handful of your guards, "Right, you lot. Go and have a look about. Make sure everything is secure for our young lord and his noble companions."
Without another word the detachment, clad in Lannister colors and fine armor, filed off the ship.
Peering out at the bustling docks, you rolled your eyes. Ser Ilyn was more than a bit overprotective, but you couldn't really blame him. If something were to happen to you under his watch, father would likely have the talkative knight's tongue out of his head. You could sooner imagine fish flying than Ilyn being silent, so you let him and his men carry about their business with minimal fuss.
Several minutes later, you left the Joanna's Pride, and when the unmoving docks were under your feet, you said a silent prayer to the Seven. You had been blessedly unaffected by seasickness after leaving port at the Arbor, and the sailors said you finally found your sea legs. Still, the stomach churning voyage from Lannisport to the Arbor made you leery of long voyages ever again.
More ribbing between Jaime's friends, but he's clearly the leader and it shows. Oldtown is quite impressive, and Jaime is at least humble enough not to immediately think of Casterly Rock as superior. A good demonstration of the ring's power already, seasickness that bad would not have gone away that easily without some sort of assistance.
The sight of a dozen armored men clad in the dark grey and white of house Hightower pulled you from your thoughts. They stood at the ready, and the guards eyes scanned the busy docks. Before the guards stood a tall handsome man in full plate. The man, about ten years your senior if you judged rightly, strode forward and offered his hand with a wide smile.
"I'm Ser Baelor Hightower," Baelor said as you shook his hand politely. "Allow me to welcome you and your companions to Oldtown, young Jaime."
"It's a pleasure, Ser." you responded with a matching smile. "This is Addam Marbrand, heir to Ashemark, and you already know Titus, I imagine."
As the handshake ended, you noted the ornate sword handle at his waist. Vigilance. You thought enviously. Brightroar had long been lost to your family, and you pondered what fighting would feel like with such a legendary blade in your hand.
Baelor's smile widened as he looked at your companions.
"Of course, it's been several years, but I'd be remiss if I forgot a son of Starpike. Good day to you too young lord Addam. The three of you look like you'll be proper warriors before long. I hope your voyage was pleasant enough."
You laughed goodnaturedly.
"Took me a while to find my sea legs, but otherwise, it was enjoyable enough. I met your lovely sister, the Lady Malora. Her and Lord Paxter's hospitality was beyond reproach." You said with a genuine smile as you ran a finger along the bejewelled ring. A trinket you would wear out of friendship.
The slightest flicker in his golden brown eyes, and a momentary dimming of his bright smile.
"My sister has eccentric ways about her, but she wrote glowingly of you." Baelor shook his head slightly. "Truly rare for her to take to a guest so readily. Well, let's get you to the High Tower. You must be tired and hungry, and we have food and drink aplenty. Besides, my lord father, little Aelinor, and the rest of my family are eager to greet you."
With that said, you made good time through the city, though you had to force yourself not to study every building you passed. You could only imagine what Oldtown would be like to someone not already used to the (admittedly lesser) opulence of Lannisport.
What could all the wealth and power of the Lannisters and Hightowers accomplish when united? You supposed father had pondered the same thing before making his choice. Such an alliance was worth waiting a few years to marry.
"We'll cross to Battle Island up ahead," offered Ser Baelor relaxedly. Your future goodfather seemed like a good-hearted man, but perhaps that heart had never truly been tested.
Addam looked queasy. "We don't to ride need a ferry, do we?"
Baelor had chuckled lightly at that. "Not to worry lad. It would hardly be convenient to do so every time I wished to leave or return home. We'll cross the bridge."
The crossing appeared as your group turned another corner, stopping for a brief moment to behold the Hightower in all its glory. It made your neck hurt to tell you the truth, but it must be wonderful to look down upon the city from its highest window. Like looking down from the towers of Casterly Rock.
The bridge was… How exactly can a bridge look elegant? The Hightowers had ruled Oldtown for thousands of years, and unlike your family they had rarely drained their accumulated wealth on acts of war. They were one of the few houses in Westeros that may have predated your own bloodline, though who could tell for sure?
"It was constructed by Lord Ulf Hightower after his father drowned with the collapse of the previous crossing. Later on Aethan the Artist made it less of an eyesore to look upon, but it's still solid underneath. Completely safe lad," Baelor offered to Addam. "It has stood enduring all for over two thousand years."
Time to meet Baelor for the first time, he seems like a nice guy so far. A nice demonstration of most of the nobility's opinion on magic here, they tolerate it, if only just, but certainly do not want to be associated with it if it can be avoided. Hightower is impressive, and an alliance between the Hightowers and Lannisters is going to be good for both of them. Jaime's sword envy shows up for the first time.
And with that you rode onward to the Hightower and your new home.
You could not resist the slightest apprehension. Marriage might be a while into the future but these people would be your foster family, your kin by law after that. What kind of people would the Hightowers be?
Welcoming, as it turned out. Baelor had greeted every guard you passed by name, leading you through the great doors into the entrance hall of the castle that would one day be his.
They were a handsome family, though you noted with a hint of confusion that out of the dozen Hightowers present none of them looked old enough to be Lord Leyton.
"My father will recieve you in his chambers," Baelor explained. "Our apologies, but his health is not what it once was and he prefers the isolation of the tower."
You nodded, but your mind was racing. Perhaps Baelor would be Lord of Oldtown sooner than any had expected. Would that change anything of your fostering?
"Where's the imp?" came a tiny voice, and you bristled. Tyrion was not some beast to be stared at or insulted, even by children who knew no better. Twisted and stunted though he might be, he was a Lannister. More he was your brother. You had almost spoken when a woman who could only be Lady Rhonda had sternly regarded the young girl and hissed "Don't be rude, Alysanne."
She regarded you then, her smile a bit tempered now by weariness and embarrassment. You suppressed the urge to show irritation. It would be doing yourself and Tyrion no favors to cause an incident on your first day. Besides, Tyrion had once expressed a dream to see the splendors of Oldtown and its Citadel and you would not be the one to deny him that chance with rash actions.
Baelor quickly stepped in with a slight frown that had left his daughter's gaze downcast and upset. "May I present my lovely wife, Rhonda, and my heir, Roland?"
Lady Rhonda boasted the golden curls and emerald eyes that might have marked her for a Lannister back home. Here, he knew them as the signs of a Rowan of Goldengrove. Her features were lovely and young, too young perhaps to already be showing signs of a fourth child on the way. Holding her hand was a handsome toddler. Roland gurgled up at you happily.
The Reachmen are a fertile lot. you thought.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, my lady." you took her proffered hand and kissed it.
"My you're a courteous lad." Lady Rhonda responded with a beatific smile. "Allow me to introduce my dear Aelinor."
She motioned to a young girl, and your eyes followed her hand. Silver blonde hair, golden brown eyes, and a cuteness that hinted at future beauty. Not even six, and she held an air of true nobility about her. I'll be damned if she isn't the finest lady in the Seven kingdoms when she gets older. you thought happily.
"Greeting, my lady." you swept a fine bow.
The little girl studied you intently.
"He'll do, mother." She said imperiously.
There was silence in the High Tower's Hall for a long moment, and then Titus laughed. Ser Baelor followed, and then everyone else laughed as bread and salt were exchanged.
It isn't home, but I think I'm going to quite like it here!
The Hightowers turn out to be pretty great people, I'm glad Jaime is going to marry into this family. More demonstration of just how strongly Jaime feels about his family, I pity the first person to actually hurt one of them. Aelinor is cute, already striving to be a proper lady while still being strong willed, hopefully she'll make a good match for Jaime by the time she grows up.
I feel like the discussion that was held about the votes for this chapter summed up my thoughts on them well enough.
Ser Baelor's training sword smashed heavily into your shield, and you grimaced as you desperately fought to keep your guard up. As you tried to back pedal, the Hightower knight didn't give a moment's reprieve. With strong overhand and sweeping diagonal cuts he forced you across the yard.
Your breath came in greedy gasps as you tried to halt his rapid advance. The older man's superior speed, strength, and skill battered you, and every effort at shifting the pace was stymied. For long moments, you struggled vainly against the more experienced man.
"I yield!" you said finally.
Ser Baelor froze mid-swing, and a moment later his blade had found its home in his sheathe.
"Well fought lad," he said, grinning as if not moments before he had been handing you your ass like a green boy.Well, I am a green boy. you thought ruefully.
"Not too well," you muttered with a hint of bitterness lacing your words.
He chuckled lightly.
"You've already surpassed where I was at your age. Mark my words, you'll be a match for my great-uncle or any knight of the Kingsguard when you're a man grown."
As you pulled your helm off, you smiled, but somehow the praise felt less invigorating than it normally might have. Probably the bruises. It was not all bad really. You were already beating Titus and Addam in near every fight and you had even pushed Ser Garth to a draw once. He was three years older and a knight besides. On that day your companions dragged you to a tavern in the city, and drunk far more than you'd ever have in your short life. The mere memory gave you the shadow of a headache.
"I must agree with my brother," offered Garth, who had been watching expressionless from the sidelines, "You have a true gift for swordplay Jaime. You only need time to grow into it."
"I'd rather sooner than later," you remarked dryly, and Ser Baelor laughed.
"Wouldn't we all. I fought your uncle Tygett in a melee when I was not much older than you. The man put me on my back in five moves as if I had never held a sword before that day. I spent the better part of a year preparing for our next fight."
"What happened?" you asked, grinning at the thought of your least favorite uncle meeting his match.
"I went down in one. You fight like he does, you have that same fire inside of you. You just need to master it, instead of letting it master you."
The older knight sighed and gently clasped you on the shoulder. "That's enough for today, I think. You're more than ready for the squires melee tomorrow, and I imagine your father can hear your stomach roaring even in the capital."
Martial training montage time. Some good male bonding here, insert appropriate innuendos.
It was hard not to share in Ser Baelor's good cheer as you made your way to the dining hall. Though you had only known it for a few months, Oldtown quickly made itself a second home to you. Casterly Rock had not been so bright and welcoming since… well, since mother had died.
"You could use a bath," your young betrothed commented as you took your seat at the table.
"And miss my chance to show off my new battle scars? Never!" you said with mock horror.
She giggled at that, though her nose was still wrinkled. "Alysanne wanted to come and watch you fight. But, she's helping me make you a favor to make sure you win next time."
"Not for your father?" you asked with a grin.
She shook her head. "He has mother for that. And he won't be fighting tomorrow, it's for the children."
Were you a more sensitive man you might have bristled at being called a child by a girl of six. Despite the ease with which Ser Baelor handled you in the training yard, you were three-and-ten, practically a man grown!
Instead you merely chuckled. Aelinor was not going to be some quiet trophy when she came of age. You thought you preferred it that way, and you were momentarily reminded of Aunt Genna before you exiled that image to the Night's Watch on pain of death.
"In any case, I'd be honored to wear your favor, my lady." you said repressing your grin with mock solemnity.
"Of course, you will." She nodded firmly, as if it was never in doubt.
It's nice that Jaime feels at home at Hightower, the fostering is certainly working out well. More bonding between Jaime and Aelinor, it seems to be going well. She's reminding Jaime of one of the women he likes most in the world.
"Lord Tarly, it's a pleasure to see you again." your warm greeting was met by a nod. For the prickly Randyll Tarly that proved the equivalent of a warm smile. In that regard, he reminded you of your Lord Father. Distant. Cold. Controlled.
"A pleasure as always, Jaime Lannister." The man looked every inch the warrior he was purported to be.Tall and strong with dark hair and dark eyes, the head of House Tarly was dressed in plate mail with a red and green tabard. The jeweled hilt of the Valyrian greatsword Heartsbane remained visible over his shoulder.
One day-
"You're riding in the lists tomorrow, my lord?" you asked, as you tore away from the thought.
Lord Tarly was never one for small talk, so you did not mince words.
"That I am, though the competition will be strong." Randyll admitted. Then he sized you up. "I expect you will do well today."
"I'm going to win." you said instantly.
Sharp black eyes measured you, perhaps searching for bravado, for overconfidence. But, you felt none of those things. You were a natural, you had an instinct for the martial pursuits, but more than that you worked harder, worked longer than your peers. This melee would see your hard work pay off. You felt it in your bones.
After, a long moment he nodded.
"Confidence is to be commended, but the Reach is filled with skilled fighters. Might be one or two squires who surprise you." Tarly said.
He motioned to the numerous other nobles who walked about the Tourney grounds. Standing slightly behind Tarly was his own squire, Hyle Hunt. Addam and Titus were several yards away speaking with Daryn Roxton and Duncan Lowther. The conversation between the four heirs seemed tense, at least from this distance Perwyn Osgrey, Benfred Rowan, Talbert Serry, and Jon Fossoway, all noble heirs and squires, engaged in jovial conversation further away. Other squires moved about the grounds on one errand or another.
"That they might," you agreed. "but I've done all I can to prepare. Ser Baelor and Ser Garth have seen to that, and they said I've made excellent strides. But, I'll fight as well as I'm able, and the gods will sort out the rest."
Tarly nodded in ascent.
"We shall see, and speaking of our hosts: How do you find your betrothed? A good wife can make for a great lord."
"I find her very well. She will be a great beauty one day, and already she has displayed noble bearing and a spark. I don't imagine our marriage will be boring by any means."
Then you realize this is Randyll Tarly you're talking to. He would not inquire about your Aelinor without purpose.
Bonding with Lord Tarly, he seems to respect Jaime and will be a good mentor. More sword envy from Jaime, and another confirmation that he likes his betrothed. Jaime making his first real political move here, it's a bold one but if it pays off he has secured a good ally for himself as well as House Lannister.
You considered your next words carefully, and then spoke, "My lord, lady Rohanne Lannister, my youngest aunt on my late mother's side, is unwed. A pretty women of one-and-twenty years, with the comely features of a proper Lannister. Quiet and dutiful, she carries with her a handsome dowry." you said, and then smiled widely, "She would make a good wife for any lord."
"I should very much like to make the acquaintance of the lady Rohanne." Tarly replied evenly, as if you were talking about the weather and not his future wife. "Though I'm curious why she hasn't been matched with another."
"Not for want of suitors, my lord." you assured. "My lord father hasn't found a suitable husband as of yet. I shall write him shortly to remedy that."
Lord Tarly almost cracked a smile as he wished you well and departed.
Confirmation.
With Randyll gone, you turned towards where Titus and Addam were arguing with another pair of squires.
"-would dishonor her?" Addam said as you approached.
"Dishonor?" Daryn Roxton scoffed. "We aren't even wed yet. And what business is it of yours, Marbrand?"
Addam's jaw tightened, and his hand came to rest on the pommel of his sword.
"Jeyne is a dear friend of mine, and cousin to Jaime. She is far better than you deserve, Roxton!"
The Roxton squire snorted. "Better? For all her Lannister blood my betrothed is still a daughter of the Crossing. House Roxton has ruled the Ring for almost three thousand years."
Roxton paused, and then a sly grin slipped across his features. "Perhaps you simply desire what you will never have."
Addam reddened, his hand shaking on the hilt of his blade. Titus stood firmly at his side. Though they argued like cats and dogs, when faced with outsiders they always found solidarity. "Addam has more honor and nobility than the whole of your bloodline. All of the nobility of Westeros remembers how your sword earned its name."
And what a name it was. Orphan-Maker had been earned in royal blood, through the killing of three Gardener princelings and a king and queen so that their youngest brother might usurp their children. Many a line had ended on the valyrian blade's deadly edge.
Now Roxton looked ready to bring things to blows, but his companion, the Lowther squire, took his arm firmly. "Leave it, Daryn," he said urgently. There was a ghost of a nod in your direction.
Daryn's brown eyes measured you, and his brow knit in a frown at your approach. The boy was a couple years your senior, and if it weren't for the fury written on his face, he would have been considered handsome.
You frowned and met his regard evenly. You had known that father and Aunt Genna had been looking for a match for Jeyne in the Reach (doubtless with Ser Emmon sitting quietly in the corner), but not that it would be heir to House Roxton. Addam had desired her hand, whatever he said to the contrary, but his own father had refused to make the match.
The Roxtons were powerful lords, strategically placed on the border between the West, the Crownlands, and the Reach. Father doubtless had good reason to seek blood ties to them. Addam was your friend, but would it be wise to form a rift when you had only moments ago possibly overstepped your authority as heir to Casterly Rock?
Boys arguing over girls and the size of their "Houses". Only important due to the fact that it settles how Jaime will react and try to settle conflicts in the future.
Shit.
Addam was one of your closest friends and you knew that his strong feelings for Jeyne ran deep, though his father and Aunt Genna had both refused to accept the match, even when Addam had made his wishes known. Jeyne was a sweet girl, undeserving of a husband who would ignore her in favor of a mistress before even bothering to meet her.
But the Roxtons were important lords, both in the politics of the Reach and evidently father's plans if he had brokered such a match. Allowing blood to be spilled, a feud to break out… he would be far from pleased, with Addam or yourself.
Father had once told you that sometimes a lord was faced with two bad choices and simply had to choose which one hurt his house, his family the least. When they tried to do more that was when they started to make mistakes. And yet…
"Addam!" you barked, and the sound of arguing stopped as all eyes turned to you, "Dare I ask why you threaten to draw steel over the honor of my beloved cousin."
Addam seemed rather thrown. "Roxton is to have the Lady Jeyne's hand when she flowers," he snarled, and gestured towards the Reachmen with a broad sweep of his arm, "Yet he gallivants around with Lowther's sister despite knowing the dishonor it brings upon his betrothed, your cousin!"
Your green eyes were chips of ice, and your jaw set firmly in conviction.
"A cousin not yet wed," your eyes shift from Addam to Roxton, "I know that Daryn would not think of dishonoring sweet Jeyne when she will soon take his cloak and name. To shame a daughter of Casterly Rock, the Hand's own niece, in such a manner would not be looked upon kindly."
Now it was Roxton's turn to appear sheepish. "Of course, my lord. I would not dream of dishonoring the lady Jeyne. Though we have met only once, she is already dear to my heart and I long for the day when I can call her my bride and you my cousin."
"Good," you said with the same cold authority and lordly voice that father had always used, neither smiling nor blinking, and without another word you turned your back on him and left, Addam and Titus following behind you.
"What in the seven hells was that?" asked Titus the moment Roxton was out of sight. "How did you do that?"
You did not take your eyes off of Addam.
"How could you take his side?" asked Addam, his face red with anger and a hint of hurt on his face and in his voice.
"I'm not," you sighed, and ran a hand through your blonde hair. "But you need to calm down. He's a cunt, but my father arranged that marriage along with Aunt Genna. You were about the start a blood feud that could have ruined his plans and your house."
Addam looked frightened and furious both. "He's talking about her like she's nothing but an alliance with tits! He won't treat her right, he won't-"
"He will," you said firmly. "Because if he harms a hair on her head, if word comes to Casterly Rock of a single tearful night, he'll learn that a Lannister always pays his debts. This is one debt I'd be all too glad to collect. Personally."
Time to go semi-Tywin on this situation, less child killing but equal amounts of veiled threats and scary smiles. Jaime shows here that he values the way his father reacts to and solves problems, while still demonstrating his loyalty to his friends.
The nobles and commons of the Reach screamed their approval as you and the other squires moved about the tourney grounds. The sun burned high in the sky, and encased in steel, sweat coated your body. Tourney blade held steady in your right hand, and shield in your left. Titus and Addam flanked you.
Across the field you met Ben Rowan's eyes and gave him a nod. You would not seek him out, nor would you go easy on him if your blades met.
The melee was in full swing, and squires clashed.
Roxton and Lowther were side by side, an impressive pair with shields and tabards of dark and light blue. Daryn was a fierce fighter, but the dull sword in his hand was no Orphan-Maker, as you would show him.
Others clashed with flashing steel and loud battlecries burst from their throats. Hyle Hunt was not far from your party, perhaps hoping that your ties to Lord Randyll would keep him safe. Jon Fossoway and Talbert Serry both stood alone, with the skill and ease of experienced fighters. Sigils flashed past you: Florent, Willum, Tyrell, Beesbury, Cuy.
But, you paid them little mind as Gerold Grimm's grey and white spotted shield slammed into your own. The squire was a big lad, but slow. Too slow. You pivoted, feinted low, and brought an overhand strike slamming down on his helm. He fell to the ground, and moments later he yielded.
Then it became a blur as you and your two companions fell into the rhythm of battle. The three of you knew one another, knew how you moved, knew weaknesses and strengths. The squires of the Reach fell one after the other before your combined might. You led the spearhead and broke your opponents, while Addam and Titus kept your flanks protected.
None could stand against you until Talbert Serry and Jon Fossoway came against you. The older boys boasted skill and strength of arms, but the three of you would have defeated them in short order had Addam not broken formation to seek single combat with Roxton.
The two squires fought fiercely against one another with powerful strikes, but Serry consumed all of your attention. He stood half a head taller, and was clad in red and white. As you engaged with him, you felt yourself pressed.
He was as good as any squire you'd ever faced, as good as some knights.
I will win.
Your world shrunk. The burning sun faded away. The roaring crowds disappeared. The other squires sank into the back of your mind. There was only his sword and yours. Only glorious victory and shameful defeat.
Blood set alight with battlelust, you struck. Parried. Riposted. Sidestepped. Lunged. Feinted. With lightning fast movements, you and he danced and struck at one another. He fought well, very well in fact, but he could not match the skill or ferocity of your trainers.
As he launched a flurry of strikes, you fell back deflecting the blows with both your shield and blade. Your breath came in great gasps, but you were not quelled. Serry brought his blade down in a vicious diagonal cut. He overreached, and a clever twist of your wrist sent his blade flying from his grasp.
Then a shoulder check sent him sprawling to the ground.
Sweat soaked, you turned from your defeated foe. Only Roxton remained standing. At his feet Addam lay prone on the ground, and the Reachmen stared down at your best friend. You could fairly feel the squire's glee.
I will win!
A wordless roar tore itself from your throat, and you were on Daryn. The squire was dangerous. Skilled. Fast. Strong. You could see how he defeated Addam. None of it mattered. All traces of tiredness seeped out of you, and a great fire burned through you. Consuming all weakness. Demanding retribution. He broke under your onslaught.
You brought a high strike towards his helm. His parry was a hair's breathe too slow, his head cocked sideways unexpectedly. Your blunted blade slipped into the slit in his visor. A scream of shock followed by a squelching sound.
Roxton collapsed to the ground bonelessly. Blood poured out of his helm.
You looked down...
Tournament time, Jaune finally gets to wave his sword around in a non-training situation. Things are going pretty well, Jaime works well while leading his friends, shows off the fact that he's pretty skilled martially. Quite an unfortunate accident though, killing someone who you've just argued with is not really the most fortuitous of events. Will probably have consequences in the future.
The oppressive silence of the crowd washed over you. Hammered down on you harder than any of your foes in the melee. Your armor felt too heavy, too tight. The summer sun seared down upon you. Blood ran down the blunted tourney sword. Your gauntleted hands shook.
As you looked down at Roxton, at the blood pooling on the tourney grounds, your blood sang with the heady rush of battle; you had never been overly religious, but the Warrior is with you now, you feel Him, and his is a road paved with the dead... but Roxton's death would be most problematic. House Roxton was not without allies and friends.
You must prepare for the consequences of your actions, and attempt to alleviate them as best as you could.
All of this you knew, but your eyes remained fastened on the dead squire. Duncan Lowther rushed passed you without a word to kneel next to his dead friend. His sobs pulled you out of your stupor.
Mechanically, you let the tourney sword fall from your grasp. Both Titus and Addam ushered you away to Ser Baelor's tent. The fleeting, wrathful gaze of Lord Robert Roxton burned bright in your mind as your friends guided you away.
"That was finely fought, Jaime," Ser Baelor said, as he entered tent. His gold brown eyes met yours steadily, "A right shame about the Roxton boy though. Accidents do happen."
It wasn't a question, but you nodded in affirmation.
Baelor continued with a tired sigh, "Lord Roxton is a prickly bastard at the best of times. I think he may not see it that way. Their bloodline is thin, and you've just sent his only son and heir to the Stranger. You may have made a powerful enemy, and the Lannisters aren't the only ones who pay their debts."
"Before the Seven, I swear not to pursue a feud with them," you promised solemnly, "What happened out there was pure happenstance, but if Lord Robert comes for me, I'll break him and his House. I am a lion of the Rock; I am my father's son, and the bards may yet find another song to sing."
Jaime enjoys battle, but has a very pragmatic reaction to this occurrence. Not too fond of the fact that he essentially feels nothing about accidentally killing a man, it's probably the best response but it makes him a bit too uncaring for me.
One year later.
"Jaime," greeted your Uncle Gerion, "you look more like my brother every day."
"Thank you uncle," you said, and he laughed.
"It was not a compliment, lad. You'd best keep an eye on your hair. And learn to smile." his wide grin took any bite out of his words. Your uncle's eyes twinkled mischievously, "I brought you a little surprise."
"Hello," said Tyrion, his misshapen head and smiling face popping out from behind Uncle Gerion as he rushed forward to wrap his stubby arms around you.
You hugged him back without hesitation. It had been too long since you had seen one another, despite the frequency of your letters. Though he had Uncle Gerion and Aunt Genna to care for him, you understood that things had not been easy for your youngest brother since you left. Particularly since Jason spent far more of his time with Lyonel Baratheon, your father's ward.
"I've been reading a lot," he informed you excitedly, "About Oldtown and the Hightowers and the Reach so that I'd know everything that I want to see! You must take me to the Citadel. They've got the greatest library anywhere!"
The seven year old fairly bounced with energetic anticipation, and for a moment, you regretted not spending more time at the Citadel. The call of knowledge had been difficult to hold at bay, but your duties as a squire and other social obligations kept you more than busy.
"I will. I promise." you said with a grin.
Tyrion nodded happily.
"Now come here," you said, as you bent down and hoisted his giggling form atop your broad shoulders. With your brother happily situated on his high seat, you and your retinue made your way through Oldtown.
"Jaime is that the Starry Sept?" Tyrion asked.
You saw his little hand pointing at the ancient sept high arches, large windows, and black marble walls.
"Yes. It's over a thousand years old." you answered.
Apparently, unsatisfied with your response, he began rattling off question after question. For the first few minutes you were happy to answer them, but eventually they got shunted to Ser Ilyn. The guard captain met the younger Lannister's questions with enthusiasm. A match made in the Seven Heavens.
As Tyrion ogled the great city and interrogated Ser Ilyn, you shot a suspicious glance at Gerion, "Does my father know you are both here?"
"He knows I'm set on making a voyage to Essos, and that I'd be stopping here," he answered.
"Uncle, I'm not twelve anymore."
He laughed fondly, "Like your father indeed, but, yes, he knows now," At your look, the older Lannister continued, "We sent word back to the Rock as soon as we were at sea. I thought a little sea air and seeing his favorite brother would do Tyrion some good."
"You snuck him out of the Rock?" you said disbelievingly.
"Now that Kevan is castellan again, it wasn't too difficult. He's not quite the tyrant Tygett was. If I hadn't brought Tyrion, they might have had him studying the cisterns or some such rot. Better to ask forgiveness than permission, nay?" Gerion winked.
You sighed. No putting wine back in a broken jar. Father would not be pleased, but you would not let his displeasure ruin the day.
"What's done is done," you said after a moment, "Now what's this about Essos?"
Gerion's smile went even wider.
"Brightroar," the one word sent a shock through you. King Tommen II had lost the blade in an ill-fated voyage to Valyria, and ever since your house had sought after it. "I'm going to find it. I've got a ship and a crew, though I'm hoping to pick up some more seasoned sailors here."
You stopped, and stared at your uncle. You were not a scholar, but you were pretty sure sailing into the Doom of Valyria in search of a sword at the bottom of the ocean was a bad idea.
More antics with Tyrion, he's still as cute as ever. Quality work by Gerion avoiding asking Tywin permission to do something like this, that will definitely have angered him. Sailing off to look for a sword at the bottom of the ocean probably isn't the brightest idea, the Lannisters would probably be far better off going to Essos and attempting to buy or steal one. Could be a fun adventure to go on but I don't think it would work with Jaime's character, he's far too much like Tywin now even with his desire to be a travelling knight.
"A journey to Valyria." you muttered.
Uncle Gerion nodded in affirmation.
"And how exactly do you plan to find Brightroar uncle?" you asked with a quirked eyebrow. "If I recall correctly, it's at the bottom of the sea. A sea that boils every ship which dares sail it."
"I have a rough idea where King Tommen's ship crashed, and with the aid of brave and skilled sailors and a little luck, I can present your father with Brightroar. The sword that was lost shall be found."
His green eyes gleamed brightly, and his enthusiasm was almost contagious. But, no. Such a voyage was sure to be extremely dangerous. Any voyage through that cursed sea was pure folly.
"Old Valyria is not the only place to find glory and riches. The Jade Sea is famed for its splendor. Take a few vessels on a trip there and back, and your name will be written in the history books. Better Corlys the Sea Snake than the Lion King."
Gerion remained silent, and you could see he was in deep thought. You continued, "I have friends who may be willing to help. I could write the Lady Redwyne, and ask for some of her lord husband's most experienced sailors. Or perhaps the Hightowers would be willing to help. They deal with these mercantile concerns on a regular basis."
"I don't-" Gerion began, but you spoke over him, "A Lannister's life is worth far more than any sword, even one of Valyrian make."
As you finished, you held your uncle's gaze steadily. The moment stretched for what felt like a hour.
"Tywin indeed," he muttered, and then with a laugh said, "But, my boy you've given me much to think about!"
With the matter addressed, you happily guided your family to the High Tower.
No matter what Uncle Gerion decides, he would not drag Tyrion along with him.
Jaime is looking out for his family as best he can, and continuing to emulate Tywin.
The next day saw the arrival of Prince Oberyn Martell and his retinue. The Red Viper was accompanied by Essosi sellswords and his paramour. From what you had gathered, the Dornish exile was here to arrange betrothals between his house and the leading families in the Reach. After leaving his ship, he had been greeted with great hospitality, and here you sat at a feast in his honor. Lady Naomi was clutching his arm, her dress a sheer yellow with the black adder of House Wyl around her face. She brushed the scarlet hair from her eyes and offered you a disinterested smile.
The rest of his retinue was a mixture of Dornishmen, young knights and guardsmen who had doubtless joined him in his exile after the killing of Lord Yronwood, and silver or blue-haired Essosi armed with curved swords and spears. There were women amongst them too, half-naked and relishing in the slackjawed stares of the Reachmen they passed. Though all were grinning or laughing, none struck you as particularly friendly.
Fucking Essosi.
"Jaime Lannister, son of Tywin," he greeted you with a raised eyebrow and a grin. You bristled. You weren't sure why but you got the impression you were being mocked. He continued with a sweeping bow, "It is a great honor. I've heard a great deal about you."
You bowed in return, but only the precise amount owed to the dornishman. As unimpressive as his retinue was, the prince had an air of gravity and sheer vitality about him.
"Greetings, Prince Oberyn, Lady Wyl. It must be wonderful to be back in Westeros after so long." you said with a half-smile.
"Essos isn't as bleak or as isolated as the maesters would have everyone believe. Word of the Young Lion's martial prowess has even reached me there."
He's talking about Roxton.
"The Young Lion?" you say, as if tasting the words, "A bit grand and unoriginal for my tastes, but a good deal better than the Red Viper I should think."
Seemingly unphased, Oberyn took a sip of his wine as Lady Wyl silently watched you from his side.
"Ah, Arbor Gold," he smiled, "The one thing I do miss from Westeros. Perhaps you will join me and your master as we discuss matters of family and state. We'll have need of a talented and experienced cupbearer."
"I'd be honored," you said, easily returning his smile, "Lord Leyton may need someone to watch his drink with you around."
The Red Viper's black eyes narrowed. "Clever boy, but it's to Ser Brightsmile I'll be speaking. Lord Hightower has given him authority in this matter." Oberyn paused and smiled brightly, "He and I are old friends, and it will provide us ample time to catch up."
"My answer still stands. Ser Baelor is a worthy knight, and I am honored to serve him." you said after a moment.
"Oberyn, do stop teasing the handsome little lord." Lady Wyl said. Her red hair shone in the candlelight. The yellow and black dress she wore left little to the imagination.
"I'm not a 'little lord'," you said, as you frowned at the petulance in your voice, "I'm almost a man grown."
"Have you ever had a woman?" Naomi Wyl asked bluntly, and her full lips quirked in a knowing smile.
Wha-
"That's a 'no' then." Naomi said. Then her pale green eyes were measuring you, and she looked to her lover, "Perhaps we could bring him along?"
They couldn-
"He's betrothed to Baelor's little girl," Oberyn answered automatically.
She pouted. "Then it will be years. He could die a maid, if he waits to wed her. Show the poor boy a kindness, for the love your mother bore his if nothing else."
Oberyn was silent for a long moment, then he turned back to you and smiled. "Well Jaime Lannister, what do you say? Would you care to join us as a fellow customer of Oldtown's oldest profession? If so, I know an excellent establishment called the Longtowers. They surely won't disappoint."
Lots of posturing with Oberyn the Impossibly Smug. Semi-important decision on whether to go to the brothel, probably not a wise decision in the city ruled by his betrothed's family...
"Um, alright," you said at last in a quiet voice barely recognizable as your own, your face turned a rather vivid shade of Lannister red. Your stomach did an odd backflip, and you felt oddly reticent. This wasn't you. That wasn't the son of Tywin Lannister. Finding the steel in your spine you said, "Lead the way, Prince Oberyn."
Oberyn laughed, and unvarnished amusement shone through his dark eyes, and clapped your shoulder happily. "Wonderful! I was not much older than you are now when I first visited this fine place. I am glad to have reason to return, and they'll make a man out of you."
As the feast continued, you paid little attention to the party or your friends. The upcoming sortie loomed large. This was a political choice. Father would approve of your efforts to befriend a Prince of Dorne. You were making the Lannister name proud. The Hightowers would not mind. Aelinor was only seven, and it wasn't like you'd lay with a proper lady.
When the feast came to an end, your eyes remained firmly fixed ahead of you, your back straight with head held high the entire way there, even as Oberyn and Lady Wyl did their best to embarrass you further. There jibes were easily recognized, but the obvious good nature behind their comments took all edge away.
"Oh dear," remarked a mature looking woman as the three of you entered. She had the look of a woman who had once been stunningly beautiful, but the years had robbed her of youthful beauty. Still, she remained attractive, and the smile on her lips accentuated that, "and I had just made this place respectable again."
Oberyn laughed, and kissed the woman's hand as respectably as if she was a noble maiden. "I simply could not stay away, Madame Marlenna. You and yours have ruined me for all others."
He turned to you. "You know my business here, but I wished to purchase a gift for my young friend here. I believe Kiera's daughter is near his age, no?"
Madame Marlenna nodded. "Wendy, she's called. She's a pretty one. Fathered by that old Lord Hewett her mum's always saying."
You blinked at that. Lord Hewett was Ser Baelor's uncle, brother to his late mother. He had a bastard daughter living in a brothel? Did he even know?
"A fine choice," Oberyn said with a grin. "Only the best for my new friend of Lannister."
You shot Oberyn an incredulous look as Madame Marlenna took your hand and led you away from him. He gave you a wink, and laughed when you replied with a rather obscene gesture.
"Wendy will be with you in a moment dear," she informed you, and then she too was gone, leaving you in the room. It was richly decorated, with curtains drawn to conceal you from the rest of the world.
A moment later she entered the room, smiling. "Hello, my lord,"
Her voice was honeyed, and her eyes gleamed in the candlelight.
"Good evening, m-my lady," you said feeling a bit awkward. There was a moment of awkward silence, and then you blurted out, "I like your hair."
I like your hair? Real smooth, you mentally kicked yourself.
She brushed a fine blue strand of hair from her eyes, her smile grew seductive.
"Thank you, my lord of Lannister."
The thumping sound of your heart beat as the door closed was the loudest thing you'd ever heard.
Brothel time, the hair colour was very important.
"Lannister, more wine." Ser Baelor's sharp words pulled you out of your daydream. You shook your head to rid it of the blue haired beauty's voluptuous smile and then rushed forward clumsily.
"Sorry, Ser Baelor." you apologized as you spilled a bit of Arbor Gold.
"If you had gotten a full night's sleep last night, perhaps you wouldn't be negligent in your duties." Ser Baelor said coldly.
You winced. Today had been the most uncomfortable day at the High Tower since your arrival. Ser Baelor, who was unerringly cheerful and polite, had worked you harder than ever in the training yard. Meals had been quiet and awkward affairs. All of his usual good humor had been entirely absent.
And now you found yourself serving wine to the older men in a finely decorated antechamber, and the Hightower's foul mood put the conversation on edge.
"Jaime," he said stiffly, and you moved to refill his glass.
Oberyn frowned slightly, turning to meet your eyes. "How was your night?"
Baelor snorted, and the irritation lifted from his face in an instant. He turned to regard you with a growing smile. "We're fucking with you, Jaime."
A rush of confusion and indignation ran through you. "What? You're not angry at me?"
Baelor shrugged indifferently. "I would hardly have sent you to greet Oberyn if I wanted you as chaste as a septon. My daughter will be your wife one day, but asking you to shy from a woman's touch for the next ten years would be too cruel. You've got a man's needs. Despite what the septas and septons say, there's nothing wrong with that."
You let out a sigh of relief, as the two older men shared a laugh at your expense.
"I'd rather you not bring any bastards into my daughter's household, but that is all. Rhonda asks no more of me, and in that understanding we've found happiness." Oberyn tsked from his seat, and Baelor turned to the dornishman, "We can't all be you, old friend. Rhonda would skin me alive if I pulled half of your stunts, let alone bringing the whore's daughter into your home… Obara, was it?"
"Obara, yes," Oberyn answered, and you recalled the young girl who had silently accompanied you and Oberyn from Longtowers, "Some men are better off as bachelors, Brightsmile."
"I'll drink to that," Baelor said as quaffed his glass.
From there the atmosphere turned jovial as wine flowed freely. The men spoke at length about a great many things. Oberyn spoke of Essos, and his mercenary company, the Long Lances. Baelor told of the bandits in the Kingswood, and how they harried travellers.
Huh Baelor Hightower is a bro. Very lucky that he was so forgiving about whoring, although it was to be expected with him having set up the meeting with Oberyn in the first place. I'm not completely convinced that this is a realistic set of events, but with the way these kind of moves get debated is probably the best way to get it out of the way.
Then after a great many cups, it turned to talk of marriage again.
"You will have to take a wife eventually," remarked Baelor as he finished another drink. "If only that you might have children to hold what lands your brother grants you."
Oberyn frowned. "The love of another, the gift of children, I enjoy all of these and more. Why limit myself or my children with the gift of a noble name. Bastards are treated differently in Dorne, my friend. Why bring home a noble wife who might deny me all that I find pleasurable? How much joy has your marriage brought you?"
Baelor frowned. It was an unpleasant and unfamiliar look on his face. "Four beautiful children," he said at last. "And Rhonda has been good to me."
Oberyn scoffed. "Good to you is less than you deserve, old friend. Elia would have given you her heart as well as her children."
Baelor took a long sip. "His Grace disagreed."
"And the dragon king may take what he desires," spat Oberyn. "And damned be he who disagrees, be they her betrothed, her brothers, or the warnings of a Maester."
They were quiet for a time. You felt a bit cold. You knew that your father had arranged the match between King Aerys and Queen Elia at the king's behest, traveling to Dorne to meet with Princess Loreza after the death of the first Queen Rhaella.
Whatever King Aerys' reasoning, the decision had brought the men before you now nothing but grief.
A sullen silence fell over the chamber, and they drank for another half hour with only small talk to fill the void. As you fulfilled your duties, you ruminated over the impact of the choices of the powerful. One day your decisions would carry the same weight. Then and there you swore to make wise decisions; to have a care who was affected by your decree.
"We've put it off long enough, and I'm expected at the Arbor within the week for more of Doran's negotiations," Prince Oberyn said bluntly, and you didn't fail to note the drunken edge to his voice, "What do you think about your Roland marrying my niece, Arianne?"
Some fairly important stuff is being discussed here. Dorne is upset with the King, and is setting up to make some sort of manoeuvre towards more alliances.
At Oberyn's words, you gave a start. As insular as Dorne was you didn't know much about them, but one thing you did know: they rarely married outside their Kingdom; King Aerys marrying Princess Elia took everyone by surprise when your father brokered the match.
"Prince Oberyn," you interjected, and swallowed when both older men turned to look at you. No time for meekness or prevarication, you continued, "Dorne is well known for standing apart from the rest of the realm. If I may ask, why break with tradition now?"
"My brother," the older man smiled. "He's got plots within plots, much like your honored father I should think."
He took a deep draft of his wine, and you realized he would say no more. Not like you expected him to. What noble would so easily betray the confidence of his family?
"Then where will you go next? You mentioned the Arbor."
He nodded tiredly. "To the Arbor to partake in its many hospitalities, and then Sunspear again, for as long as Doran will tolerate my presence."
You waited for him to continue, and after another half glass he did. "Arianne's twin Mariah for the Redwyne boy and perhaps a match for the sister in Starfall."
You did your best to keep your face blank. If the Dornish did intend to gain influence in the Reach, then your friendship with Lady Redwyne might be your strongest tool to prevent it. Perhaps a match with House Lannister for Harrold and little Desmera-
"I have already dealt with the fat flower in Highgarden," he continued with a snort. "He near peed himself when I offered the elder of my sister's boys for one of his daughters. With his Grace's approval of course."
He scowled. "And his youngest brother for the Yronwood heiress. My brother wishes to water the blooms of Highgarden with sand and stone it would seem. I say too many Martells have died away from home already, but alas, I am merely an exiled second son."
After Oberyn spoke, you nodded, and fell silent. The older men continued talking, and you retreated inwards with your thoughts going a mile a minute. By the time Ser Baelor had begged off to think on the matter, you had the beginnings of a plan in place.
When you were dismissed, you made for your room, and by candlelight you wrote a pair of letters. One to Lady Malora urging her to deny the Dornish entreaties. The second was to your lord father. He was the greatest man in the kingdom, and he would know better how to act to stem the tide of Dornish influence.
The next day before you broke your fast, you spoke to Ser Ilyn in your rooms.
"Ser, I have something that you must do," you said, and you met his brown eyes solemnly, "It's vital for my father's plans here."
The knight stood ramrod straight, and his eyes shone with fanatic loyalty, "Anything, my lord. The Seven take me if I fail House Lannister. Until my last breath, my sword and shield are yours to command."
"There is a man that needs to die…" you began, and quickly outlined the fate of Andio the fiftieth of the Long Lances, most obnoxious of Oberyn's Essosi retinue. You got the distinct impression the young mercenary could speak fluent common, but during the previous feast he had spoken the most broken common you'd heard in your life. This was not why he would die.
"It must look like he provoked you, and it must be done in public."
"I understand, my lord." Ser Ilyn said with a bow. "Whatever you need-"
"You are dismissed, Ser." you gave him a curt look, and he bowed his head and left.
More information on plots, need to counter Dorne a bit more. Another Tywin-esque move, decided to kill a man to further Jaime's own goals, a bit less likeable at this point. Ser Ilyn is a very loyal man though, he should probably be rewarded at some point.
"Well met, Ben." you said to the Rowan heir with a bright smile crossing your handsome features.
The shorter boy smiled in recognition. Over the last half year and several tourneys, you had become friends of a sort. He was a capable fighter, and a friendly rivalry had sprouted.
"Morning, Jaime, " Benfred Rowan said, "Are you here to watch the tourney? Or do you plan to enter as a mystery knight?"
The tourney was a small one. A score of knights from across the Reach would be attending to celebrate Ser Garth's nameday, some notable, some seeking to make their name here and win a place as a household knight. Lord Mace Tyrell's youngest brother would be attending, along with Ser Igon Vyrwel from the Highgarden guards. Three brothers Fossoway had ridden into Oldtown not a week before alongside Ser Vortimer Crane, Ser Michael Roxton, Ser Frederick Varner (known as the Weasel Knight), and Ser Arthas Oakheart (the Heir to Old Oak).
You shook your head. Any other time the thought of entering a tourney would set your blood alight with excitement.
"Not today. Today I have weightier concerns."
"Such as?"
"Alliances."
***
A great cheer came out as Ser Baelor raised his brother's hand high. Traditionally one was not expected or encouraged to win their own tournament, but Garth had always been a favorite of the crowds. His dedication of the floral crown to his mother's memory had resulted in the near deafening of the stands as they rose to celebrate the Greysteel knight.
From there the noble procession led to the High Tower, where the servants had prepared a great feast for all of Oldtown's honored guests and champions. Prince Oberyn sat at Lord Leyton's left, Baelor on his right. The Dornishman would be leaving the next day, and looked oddly chipper for a man whose mission was incomplete. The scandal of his man, Andio, dying after picking a fight with your own Ser Ilyn, and the ensuing arguments and adjudications had not helped in his efforts to betroth his niece with Roland.
Garth took his own seat at your side, offering Ben a nod.
"The champion descends to share a drink with the lowly squires," you teased.
He laughed good naturedly, and flushed slightly. While few could match him with a blade or lance, Garth had never been the most comfortable man with crowds or praise.
"The Seven smiled on me today," Garth said humbly, "I'm sure that in the years to come you'll win countless tourneys."
"You're too humble, Garth Greysteel. You're a famous knight not a bloody septon," you japed, and Garth blushed, "By the by, have you spoken to my uncle?"
A new bottle was brought to the table, and you poured a glass for both yourself and Garth.
"Aye, I have," he said, as he accepted the cup. "A most interesting man. A voyage to the Jade Sea sounds like a capital idea."
You took a sip of your wine-
The liquid turned to fire in your throat, and the ring on your hand blazed like the sun. Bile rose from your throat, and you vomited violently. Your eyes watered as you looked about the great hall.
"A shield to keep you safe from harm. Wear it and no poison shall harm you. It will burn on your hand should you drink such a foul concoction, and you will know your enemies are at work."
Lady Malora's words rang through your mind as you instinctively lunged forward. Ser Garth's goblet clattered to the ground, and the hall quietened.
A move towards more alliances, Jaime is playing the Game more and more lately, hopefully it will work out. That ring proves its usefulness, poison is extremely effective in these kinds of situations. It was fairly obviously coming though once Oberyn was introduced, I don't think he ever turns up without someone getting poisoned in quests.
Your gaze rose, meeting Baelor's golden-brown eyes as he stared at you and his brother in confusion from the high table. And then they widened in sudden understanding as you silently mouthed one word Poison and pointed at the wine bottle, which you quickly grabbed to keep from others grasp.
He abruptly rose from his seat.
"Guards!" he roared in a harder, harsher tone than you had ever heard him use. His eyes cut across the hall sharply, coldly. Gone was the mirthful and goodnatured knight. In his place, stood someone far more terrifying. His command cut through the party, "Seal the hall! Poison!"
He made a sweeping gesture in your general direction.
"None shall leave until we find the one that would dare poison my squire and brother both."
There were disbelieving gasps at that, and a sudden buzz of whispering voices. Armed Hightower guards moved through the hall. More than one of the guests turned to regard Oberyn, who was still sitting, black eyes darting across the room.
You met his gaze for a moment. Had the Red Viper sought to remove an obstacle in his brother's plans? Surely he knew that any poisoning would immediately cast blame on him, given his reputation.
He looks as shocked as the rest, you mused. Either he was a very good actor... or the true poisoner might be relying on just Oberyn's reputation to hide their own guilt. Or perhaps the poison was meant to mimic sickness, slowly spreading through your body for days.
Too many options. Who here wanted you gone? Had you even been the true target?
The last door had been closed, surly looking guards in the grey and white of House Hightower at every entrance, hands clenched around their swords. Their faces looked like death. Others had begun to round up the servers and kitchen staff for questioning.
You made your way to the main table, where Baelor and Oberyn were speaking in hushed tones. Baelor extended his hand, and you offered him the bottle.
He eyed it uncertainly, giving it a sniff. His scowl grew slightly, and he handed it to Prince Oberyn. The Dornish exile drew it close to his nose and inhaled slowly.
"Morgon's Kiss," he said at last. "It is extracted from a lovely flower that grows only in our young lion's native land. Note the slightest hint of lavender in the smell. Two days after drinking this your flesh would rot from your bones."
He turned to you directly. "You were lucky. Very lucky. How did you know?"
"Lucky guess," you said in a low voice, Malora's gift itching against your skin. Your fingers unconsciously moved over the ring, and Baelor's eyes followed the motion. Then something like understanding lit upon his features, and he nodded ever so slightly. You continued, "Who was it?"
Oberyn chuckled at that. "Who was the poisoner? Me, no doubt! Who else but the Red Viper of Dorne would commit such a dastardly crime before fleeing back to the Free Cities of Essos? Tell me, young lion, who else here has good cause to want you dead?"
You frowned. That list was probably a good deal longer than you were comfortable considering. Your eyes passed over the knights present. Vyrwel, Fossoway, Crane-
"Milord," said a grizzled looking guard as he stepped forward. "This is the one that served the wine."
His thick arm yanked forward a sobbing man in servant's clothes. "You attempted to poison my future goodson and my brother?"
Oberyn scoffed. "Let us not waste time when we may have so little. Who paid you to do this?"
The servant was quaking with fear, his eyes were wide, his face pale. "It was the falcon knight, milord, brown and black. He paid me to bring a special vintage to his friend. Didn't ask no questions, not to a highborn. Please milord!"
Your mind raced even as Baelor questioned the man further. Falcon knight? Had an Arryn tried to murder you?
Baelor nodded to the guard, and the begging server was dragged away. "The colors of House Took," he said quietly, "sworn to-"
But that answer was not necessary, for across the room a cry came out as Ser Michael Roxton rose from his seat and before any man could stop him pulled Orphan-Maker from where it had been hung on the wall.
"Guards!" cried Baelor, but Roxton was already moving. The Valyrian Steel blade went through the throat of one guardsman and the gut of another. Frederick Varner moved to grapple with the runaway and lost an arm for his trouble. Five heartbeats later Roxton was out the door.
The Roxtons. Of fucking course they couldn't let it go. Catch him now, and then you could write them their own little song.
You took off in a sprint. You weren't wearing your sword, not here, but you didn't need it. Baelor's kitchen knife would do.
"Jaime!" your future goodfather cried after you in a panicked tone.
Poison! Far too obvious for it to have been Oberyn, and a move from the Roxtons was to be expected. Ser Michael was surprisingly competent in his escape though, I doubt he was expecting to get immediately found out. Magic saving his life may effect Jaime's opinion on it at least a bit. A fairly pivotal point here, Jaime would almost definitely take the give chase option.
Blood sang through your ears, and you gave chase. You would hunt Ser Michael Roxton down personally. He had tried to end your life with poison. Now you would end his, and use his bared steel to do it. You might keep his famed sword afterwards. After all, Roxton was of middling skill with the blade, and a poisoner was hardly a worthy wielder of such a blade.
You sped through the great hall. The stunned faces of the guests blurred together. Tyrion still sat next to Aelinor and uncle Gerion. Ben Rowan gaped next to your Osgrey cousin. Garth began to move as you sprinted past him. The knuckles of your fist turned white as you held the knife's handle in a vice grip.
All thoughts of the guests fled from your mind. You burst out of the Great Hall. The heavy steps of armed guards followed hard on your heels. Leading the contingent you burst through the familiar hallways. Roxton was out of sight, but you knew he could only have one destination in mind. So, you did not hesitate.
After several more moments of your blistering pace, you left the High Tower proper. Cool evening air swept across your glistening brow as the courtyard. Before you in the Courtyard, Roxton was already mounting a large horse amidst a dozen of his guards.
With a confident smile, you loosened the grip on the knife. Well balanced. You didn't break stride. Breathe deep. Your arm reared back. Release.
The knife left your hand in the finest throw you'd ever made. It slammed into the stallion's eye. The horse felt no pain before it died, and it collapsed to the smooth black stone of the courtyard. Roxton fell with it, but he managed to roll clear.
For a moment all eyes rested on you, and stunned silence filled the courtyard.
"Close the portcullis!" you roared. Your voice didn't sound like your own. It sounded like some demon from the Seven Hells laced with authority and wrath. It broke the sudden stillness.
Roxton ambled to his feet with Orphan-Maker in his hand. The portcullis came crashing down.
"My lord," one of the Hightower guards said, "let us take care of these curs. There is no need for you to put yourself in danger."
"Sword," you would brook no argument.
A sword was pressed in your hands. You and the Hightower men rushed forward to meet the desperate Roxton men. Out of all present you were the only combatant not wearing armor. Your fine clothing would offer no protection here. Likewise, you were the youngest present. Perhaps, you would meet mother today? The thought did not bring fear. Fiery resolve flooded through your soul. Not today!
"For Greysteel!" the Hightower men shouted angrily.
"ROXTON!" you screamed, and your voice carried hatred and fury and pure unadulterated bloodlust. As the lines closed, your green eyes fairly glowed with determination.
Then you were in sword range, and the sound of armed men clashing surrounded you. Roxton had sought you out. He was moving slower than normal owing to his fall. Orphan-Maker came from high and you parried. You were faster and more skilled and uninjured, and that was the only thing that kept you from dying. Several of your strikes clattered uselessly against his breastplate, and Orphan-Maker was biting into your sword, threatening to sheer it in two as the two of you fought back and forth.
Men screamed in pain and steel rang through the courtyard. As so often happened in the midst of battle, your blood surged, your mind cleared, and your world shrunk. Even moreso than your evening with Wendy, you felt trulyalive.
Cut. Parry. Strike. Riposte. Feint.
More Hightower men were pouring into the courtyard. Roxton fought desperately, but that left an opening. You flashed in. Your damaged sword pierced through a gap in his armor. He began to fall. His counterstrike, an overhand strike, cut into your brow over your left eye, and dragged down.
Pain licked out of the wound. As he toppled to the ground, some cold, distant part of your mind registered that it wasn't deep, that it wouldn't threaten your eye. As blood filled your vision, you scrambled forward. Knocking Orphan-Maker from Roxton's weak grasp.
"Sonuva-" he began, but you cut him off fiercely, "When you want to kill a man, you do it like THIS!!!"
You brought the pommel of your sword down into his face. Once. He screamed and tried to shift away. Twice the fight went out of him. As you brought the sword up to strike again, Orphan-Maker glinted in your periphery.
A bloodstained smile crossed your features, and you grabbed the Valyrian Sword.
"Give Daryn my regards." your words were cold and cruel.
The blade cleaved his head from his body.
Thereafter, the Roxton men were killed to a man, and Ser Baelor bade you kneel. Amidst the gore covered courtyard, you were named a knight.
"Rise Ser Jaime Lannister," he said as he sword touched your shoulders. "Rise a knight of the realm, and let your deeds be known."
Full hotheaded charge, to be expected from a teenager like Jaime who is highly confident in his abilities. Extremely lucky throw though, being able to pull that off when needed was amazing. A thrilling fight with a forgone conclusion, Jaime couldn't lose here, he was blessed by the Warrior obviously. Killing a man with his own sword may have been getting a bit too vicious, nice and symbolic though. Knighted on the field of battle, quite an achievement at Jaime's age.
Baelor was scowling as you joined him and Prince Oberyn in his father's solar, his face twisted with anger.
"Poison. Treachery. All done under the protection of guest right. Did Roxton truly believe he could escape suspicion?"
You shrugged almost impassively. Hate could make fools of anyone it seemed. You would remember that, moving forward.
"Doubtless he hoped to be long gone by the time our young warrior felt the effects," offered Oberyn. "The blame could then safely be placed on myself, as revenge for your unintentional meddling in my brother's schemes."
"I knew Michael Roxton for years," retorted Baelor. "He was a singularly unpleasant man, but he did not have a mind for plotting. He may have acted as a tool for his family, but I fear the Roxtons may not have been acting alone in so bold a scheme."
You frowned. Too many people wanted you dead. "You think he had allies? Who?"
Baelor offered you a sympathetic look. "We cannot be sure. Perhaps if he had lived- but it is no matter. The poison he used suggests an ally in the Westerlands, but the true depths of this conspiracy may only be discovered with time."
Your hand gripped Orphan-Maker's hilt and you turned the blade, enjoying the way the light reflected off of the rippled steel.
"A fine blade," offered Oberyn. "More than I've ever had from a man trying to kill me. I imagine your father will not be satisfied with that alone as blood price."
Baelor spat. "Nor will I. Ser Michael came into my house as a guest and plotted to murder my brother, murder my daughter's betrothed. His schemes have made him an enemy of the Hightowers, of Casterly Rock and Sunspear both. And his will pay in blood for that."
You brow furrowed in thought. Your father had made his name through the annihilation of House Reyne and Tarbeck. Would this be the start of your own bloody reputation?
A decently thought out plan, but unlikely to have been masterminded by the Roxtons. It speaks of a certain level of cunning to set up a plan that would have set Dorne and the Westerlands against each other in such a big way. I'm really not sure who it could have been though. Jaime's choice here will define his position, he's been emulating his father and taking the same choice as Tywin would here would mean he was very similar in personality by this point.
"As fine a choice as any," said Oberyn with a grin. "And so I take my leave from Westeros yet again. I think we shall meet again, Ser Jaime Lannister. I expect many great things from you."
He offered you his hand, and you took it. And then he was gone.
Baelor was silent for a time. "Your father has long desired a blade of Valyrian Steel," he said at last. "I do not believe he will wish to leave any Roxton in condition to dispute your hold on it."
His golden-brown eyes met yours. "For better or for worse Orphan-Maker is yours. It is a dread blade, with a bloody past. Perhaps a fresh start is warranted?"
You frowned. "I don't quite follow."
"I dare say we have a Qohorik smith or two of sufficient skill to work that blade into something better suited to your hand. A new name, a new beginning. What do you say?"
Jaime can finally get over his sword envy.
"Jaime," greeted Gerold as you took his hand. "Or should I say Ser Jaime. It's been far too long."
Clad in a fined crimson and gold doublet, your younger brother was near your mirror, if an inch or so shorter. His broad smile, so reminiscent of your own, brought warmth to your heart.
The Red Keep loomed around you, and the various visitors and inhabitants rushed about.
Jovially you pulled him into a hug, and he returned it gladly. "You've certainly been busy," he said, gesturing at the ornate blade hanging from your hip.
You drew Lionheart from its sheath, offering it to him by the lion's head hilt. The red-black blade caught the sun, and the beautiful steel gleamed. "I never thought I'd have a chance to wield Valyrian Steel. Father might have actually smiled when he heard about that, if he wasn't too busy raising an army to kill the fools that dared try to poison you."
"Their loss is our gain, in more ways than one. Uncle Kevan sends his love. He expects it will be some time before his newfound seat is secured."
"A Valyrian Steel sword, a new lordship for House Lannister, and I even hear they're writing songs about you. Are you trying to make me look bad, or does it just come naturally?"
"Well I hardly have to try," you said, and he laughed. You had almost forgotten how easy it was, how it always had been. Just the two of you, until Jason and Tyrion had come along.
"Father Above," Gerold sighed in mock despair, "I don't know who the bards love best: you or our beloved crown prince."
"I've only just started, little brother," you boasted.
And just like that all the years, all the distance disappeared. You shared brief stories as he led you to your rooms in the Red Keep. Gerold spoke in an awe filled tone of Barristan the Bold, Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, and the White Bull, Ser Gerold Hightower. You told him of the many wonders of Oldtown, and your adventures in the Reach.
He left you to bathe and refresh yourself.
Family time, nice to see Jaime still has a close bond with his brother, even after all this time apart.
You were still toweling yourself off when Cersei barged into the room.
For a brief moment you struggled to respond to this, before the appropriate words came to you. "Ah!"
She was a vision in red and gold. Expensive, but tasteful jewelry adorned her neck, wrists, and fingers. Her gold hair fell freely about her shoulders. Her dress showed her womanly curves… and you averted your eyes, suddenly aware that you only had your trousers on.
"Hello brother," she said, a warm smile growing on her full lips. Her voice sounded like honeyed wine, like a distant thunderstorm. Then she frowned slightly, "I thought you would come and find me once you were in the keep."
You thought you felt her eyes roaming over your bare muscled torso, but you blinked and she stared squarely into your eyes. Just my imagination.
"I-I wanted to make myself... presentable," you stuttered like a fool.
She laughed. Her bright green eyes gleamed with mirth. Your heart thudded, and your stomach plummeted.
"You look quite presentable to me," Cersei said lightly. Your face reddened until you were blushing like a maiden on her wedding night. "Seems the Hightowers have been feeding you well enough."
Her words hung in the air. You felt like a stoneheaded fool. She was just your sister.
You nodded, "The Hightowers were gracious hosts. They're like a second family to me." You cleared your throat, "How about your mistress, Princess Naerys? Has she treated you well?"
"Oh, the princess is the picture of nobility. She's beautiful and charming. You're not like to find a finer lady in the whole world, though I hear tale that your little Aelinor may surpass her."
She finished with a sly smile.
"She's certainly willful and well-formed. Father made a good match." you paused, and licked your dry lips, "Though I'm not the only one. You'll be Lady of Storm's End soon enough."
She grimaced, "More like wed to a whoremonger. He's already got a bastard in the Vale." You hesitated recalling the blue haired whore and several others you had bedded since. Did you have a bastard? Did it matter? She continued, "I've seen him, and he's handsome enough. But, he's a coarse, uneducated, ill-mannered brute. Nothing like-like a proper gentleman."
To that you had nothing to say, and after a few more moments she withdrew after extracting a promise to see you later. She left in a whirl of gold, and your nostrils flared at the smell of springtime, of freshly bloomed flowers. Your mind reeled as you were left alone. Surely, your mind was playing tricks on you. The Seven abhorred such relationships, but why then would Cersei, your beautiful sister, not leave your mind?
Cersei time, joy... She's obviously attracted to Jaime and Jaime is both attracted to her and pretty weak when it comes to beautiful women, not a great combination to avoid the incest.
"I should like to see it," Tywin said, as you stood in the office of the Hand.
Wordlessly, you unsheathed Lionheart.
"Magnificent," he said with a genuine smile gracing his lips. Your heart soared with pride. With elation. That was the first smile you'd seen on father's lips, since before mother died.
"Sit," your father commanded. You took a seat across from Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King, Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport and Warden of the West. The linked chain of office sat comfortably about his neck. Powerfully built, he looked much like he had the last time you had seen him years ago aside from a few more lines about the eyes.
Those piercing green eyes measured you, and you sat up straight with your head held high. For long moments, silence reigned. You found yourself unable to hold his gaze for long, so you briefly examined his spartan office. Papers and ledgers were neatly stacked. A pitcher of wine and two cups sat next to father, almost certainly watered.
"You've done well, my son," Tywin said, as he poured the wine into cups for both of you. "You have won House Lannister a great victory."
"Thank you, father," you responded, as you took the proffered cup.
He paused for an instant. "Of course," he said, "I left no survivors when I broke the Red Lion."
You blinked. Was he… joking? No, of course not. The great Tywin Lannister never joked. Still, your heart soared, and you felt a bit of your usual glibness returning.
"Well," you replied, "you were also a few years older than me. Can't blame you for being overzealous, after such a late start."
He barked out a laugh. It sounded strange, and a bit unnatural coming from father. But, genuine mirth shone in his green eyes. Then he stopped, as if recognizing what he'd just done. He cleared his throat, and took a deep drink from his cup.
When he next spoke, it was with his usual dignity and solemn nature.
"Harras Roxton is being hunted. My agents believe he's holed up with the outlaws in the King's Wood."
"Bandits?" you said incredulously, "Father, give me a detachment of men, and I'll see him and the lawbreakers dead within a week."
Tywin shook his shaved head, and his whiskers bristled.
"These are not common bandits. They're organized and well supplied," he paused, and looked at you. Then he continued, "Not many know this, but you are my heir. I trust my words will not go further than this office."
"Certainly father, you may rely on my discretion."
"I know," Father took a sip of his wine, "I believe they are being given funds and supplies and information.
"By whom?"
"I am unsure or their head would be decorating King's Landing's walls. By the quality of their arms and armor, it must be some wealthy benefactor." Tywin said, as his manner became contemplative, "Not only are they wealthy, but they are very well informed. They must be to have evaded the king's men for so long. These 'bandits' have disrupted commerce, and made a fool of the crown for too long."
A heartbeat passed, and understanding dawned on you.
"And you have something for me to do?" you asked, but it wasn't a question. Not really.
"I have agents seeking this traitor, but there are places they cannot go, circles that are denied them." His green eyes drilled into you, and it was all you could do to meet his implacable stare, "You are my son, you are a famed knight. The sorts of people who could back these partisans will all be in King's Landing for the wedding and the tourney. I want you to get close to these families, and if you are able, ferret out our enemy."
Silence fell heavily over the room, and you knew just what kind of people he was talking about. Powerful. Rich. Connected. Royalty or one of the Lord Paramounts.
Tywin finally has a Valyrian sword in the family, and a son who was capable of acquiring it when he had failed to get one himself. This is probably the happiest he has been in years. I like the awkwardness that Tywin's happiness brings to this interaction, no one expects him to be happy and it is probably very unnerving. Jaime has also been given his first true responsibility by Tywin, this is probably the highest praise Tywin would ever give.
"Prince Rhaegar, Princess Naerys," you said, bowing smoothly as your instructors had taught over the years, "it's an honor to make your acquaintance."
The Prince sat on the step just below the Iron Throne, the throne forged by Aegon the Conqueror and Balerion the Black Dread. It was easy to see why the Crown Prince garnered so much love from both the commons and nobles alike. The Targaryen radiated an air of regality, and he was so handsome that it bordered almost on the feminine.
His sister, dressed in a form fitting black and red gown, hovered next to him. They looked like the blood of Old Valyria come again.
In another life the heir to the Iron Throne might have been your knight, one of his sisters your lady wife. Here and now… you found yourself at a loss for what to say. Both the royals were beloved by the commons, and were your social superiors. Normally, others tried to court your favor, but here and now the boot was on the other foot.
"Ser Jaime," said a lovely melodious voice, and you turned to regard the future queen. Her beauty was a different sort than that of your sister, but no less stunning. Silver-gold hair hung over her shoulder in a simple braid, framing a heart-shaped face. Large amethyst eyes shone with intelligence, and you thought they missed very little indeed. "We thank you for your presence and are honored that you are to attend our wedding. Word of your heroism against the dishonorable Roxtons has already been proclaimed by the bards of court."
There was another awkward pause. The subject of a Targaryen marriage still made you uneasy. By the teachings and precepts of the Faith, it was an abomination, but the Targaryens considered themselves above the laws of gods and men.
Perhaps noticing your discomfort, her lovely face twisted into a subtle frown for a half second. Prince Rhaegar, if possible, looked more melancholic and formal than he did from a distance. Together they were the very picture of what royalty should be, and you felt more than a bit overwhelmed.
"Yes, well, they tried to poison me and Ser Garth, my princess" you said at last. Shit, this was not going as you had pictured it in your head.
The future king of Westeros's frown grew somewhat. His sister looked at him, then at you, and burst into a fit of giggles.
The two of you stared at her. "I'm sorry," she said at last. "We've been greeting Lord Turtlefisk or Ser Somethings all day. You're the first actually interesting person we've had a chance to see in what feels like weeks and neither of us can think of anything to say!"
You let out a breath that you had not realized you were holding, and the tension eased out of you.
"It's quite alright, my princess," you smiled tiredly, "I can only blame the travels for my poor manner. I'm normally much more charming."
"Oh, I don't doubt that," Princess Naerys' brilliant smile lit up the room, and you felt buoyed by her good humor. "Let's move this to a less formal venue."
You followed the royal siblings to an antechamber next to the throne room. Drinks were poured, and the three of you sat on comfortable chairs. A white brother stood guard next to the door.
Once you were settled, you spoke, "Well, I know that you are both busy with preparations, so I'll cut to the chase. My father sent me to speak with you about a matter of utmost importance."
You glanced meaningfully at the white clad knight standing at attention by the door and at the princess.
"Anything you have to say to me can be said before my sister and Ser Arthur," Prince Rhaegar said, and his tone left no doubt that he trusted the Kingsguard knight implicitly. Tales of the Sword of the Morning's martial prowess and chivalry had rippled through the Reach, but you would withhold judgement until you knew the man better.
Still…
"Very well," you said, "my father suspects that the Kingwood Brotherhood has a secret patron amongst the mighty. He's charged me with trying to uncover this party and bring them to justice."
Prince Rhaegar was silent for a moment as his violet stare scoured you. Underneath the royal scrutiny you did not blink.
"I've had the good fortune to work closely with your father, and I've never met a more capable man," Rhaegar said evenly, "I share his suspicions, and my agents have founds whispers of a link to the Darklyns of Duskendale. I have no hard evidence… yet."
A fairly standard introduction to Rhaegar and Naerys. They seem fairly nice and competent, but it's hard to tell when it comes to Targaryens, especially after such a short meeting.
"Duskendale?" you said aloud, "My prince, perhaps it might be better to look more closely at the capital rather than looking elsewhere. Exhaust all avenues before moving outwards."
Rhaegar stroked his chin thoughtfully, "You think they would be brazen enough to bring their treason into the capital itself?"
"In a city as vast as King's Landing, yes. What better place to hide treasonous plots?"
From what you had seen of the capital, even in the short time you had spent, few even bothered to hide them. King's Landing was poisonous, a cesspool of ambition and deceit. In a festering hive like this, even the darkest of deeds could be hidden in plain sight.
The Crown Prince fell into a contemplative silence, and you continued as a darker thought sprouted in your mind, "The capital is the main port in the Seven Kingdoms. Besides, if the Lord Darklyn is involved, would he not be more bold acting against you in Duskendale than in your seat of power?"
"Brother, Ser Jaime's words have the ring of wisdom," Princess Naerys advised. She offered you a soft smile as you shot her a brief look of appreciation.
Rhaegar nodded in acknowledgement, "Ser, my sister is no man's fool. I count her amongst the wisest and most learned in the realm, even at her young age. I'd be a fool to ignore her counsel. Perhaps, scouring King's Landing a second time will uncover something, especially if you are in charge of the investigation."
The princess flushed slightly at her brother's words, and you looked at her with new eyes. Was she as intelligent as she was beautiful? Looking at her amethyst eyes, which seemed to glow in the candlelight, you found it hard to believe. In any event, Cersei had not written about the princesses' intellect.
"You do me a great honor," you said with a steely resolve surging through you, "I won't fail, my prince."
You wouldn't. You couldn't, after all. Not if House Lannister was to remain in the crown's good graces for generations to come. Father had trusted you with this task, and you would see it done. And though you had just met them, you also found the idea of letting the royals down distasteful.
"I know," Rhaegar assured, "I'd like to undertake the mission myself, but alas the upcoming nuptials dominate my time. In my absence, Ser Barristan shall accompany you as our representative."
You hid the shiver of excitement at the thought of working with the legendary knight, and bowed low, "I'd be honored."
Rhaegar nodded, turning to some paperwork, "I'll want regular reports on your progress, Ser."
You didn't miss the dismissal in the prince's tone, so you bowed and left.
Still not too much knowledge about these two, Naerys seems nice, almost too nice... Impossible for Jaime to avoid helping out here, as long as he is successful then he'll be further House Lannister quite well.
The next day you, Barristan the Bold, and a contingent of fifteen guards rode through the stinking, crowded streets of King's Landing. Unlike Lannisport or Oldtown, the city brimmed with filth. Juxtaposed next to your gilded armor and the shining white Kingsguard the grubby smallfolk of the city looked more like animals than men and women. Where you rode, their whispers and awed stares followed.
"Your name has spread far and wide, Ser," Selmy said from atop his steed, a stallion of the purest white.
"Not nearly as far as yours, Ser Barristan. I've heard tale of your deeds with my mother's milk," you said without shame. Ser Barristan was the greatest knight alive. Amongst his many acts, had ended the Blackfyre pretenders with a cut of his blade.
"Bards love to prattle on," he said easily, as his sharp blue eyes flickered to Lionheart, "However, sometimes they do get a thing or two right. That was bad business with Roxton. I met the man once at a tourney, and I never thought he'd sink to using a coward's weapon."
You simply nodded, and fell into silence. The escape of Ser Harras Roxton felt like a sore tooth, and for the thousandth time, you vowed to see the man dead.
"Revenge is a terrible thing," the famed knight said after a moment, "it can hollow a man out. Make him lesser than what he should be. I've found it useful to prepare to slay my enemies, but not to live for it."
His eyes met yours knowingly, and you found it impossible to hold his eye.
Only a fool or a madman ignores good advice, father's words rang through your mind.
"As you say, Ser," you did a half-bow from atop your own horse.
That day and three more days afterwards you rode through King's Landing. Your inquiries led to little and less. Nobody knew anything. The usual scum had nothing to say and neither the threat of force nor the promise of gold loosened tongues. What few leads you dug up, ended up being wild goose chases.
Until today.
"My lord," Ser Ilyn stood next to a young man dressed in sailor's garb, "this man says he knows something."
The short man's brown eyes darted between you and Barristan nervously, and his brow was wholly wet with sweat.
"What do you have to say, then?" you asked.
"Milord," he licked his lips, "I'm a good king's man. Long live King Aerys!" you waved your hand, and he hastened to continue, "Your man here says you're looking for something to do with them bastards in the Kingswood, may they rot in the Seven Hells! And there's a reward. I gotta family to think on."
"Get to the point," your green eyes cut into him. Dealing with smallfolk was always such a chore.
"Of course, milord. Well, y'see I was part of a barge's outta here down to a little cove on the Kingswood. Didn't see who picked up the cargo, but I'd swear on my mum's bones that it was those cunts you're looking for."
You kept your face carefully neutral, but within you felt a flicker of excitement.
"Who hired you?"
"He called himself Olver, but I don't reckon that was his real name. Him and his lot were all very secretive. But, I like to know where my gold comes from, you understand, milord. Well, I followed them to a tavern in the Street of Steel called the Four Dustpans. Him and his twenty men drink there."
You let father's smile, cold and threatening, play across your features.
"What is your name?" you asked.
"O-Ogg, m-milord," the sailor stuttered.
"Well, Ogg, for your sake, I hope you aren't playing me false. I reward well those who serve me well," your hand rested on Lionheart's pommel, and Ogg's eyes went wide as saucers, "but those who cross me… well, you don't want to find out."
"I-I live to serve," Ogg's words tumbled out.
And you found yourself trusting Ogg's terror. Either the man belonged to a mummer's troupe or he was telling the truth.
A few lessons on life from Ser Barristan while working on this task are pretty great. He is essentially the best knight ever so learning from him is both a dream come true for Jaime, and an extremely valuable opportunity. More usage of Tywin tactics when conversing with people, they do seem to be extremely effective.
"Ser Barristan," you said, "you are the senior knight here. I'm inclined to bow to your experience. How do you wish to proceed?"
It felt odd deferring to anyone. You had been trained and groomed to lead. You were clear sighted enough to recognize that you were good at it, but if there was one person you would allow to take charge, it would be the greatest knight alive. The Living Legend certainly knew what he was about.
The Kingsguard nodded thoughtfully. "We cannot risk the chance that any escape with information that could make a difference. Two men to cover each entrance and the rest of us enter. The men we take prisoner can be interrogated after the fighting ends."
It might have sounded risky with anyone else, storming into a tavern likely filled with bloodthirsty cutthroats and bandits. Less so when it came from the lips of Ser Barristan the Bold.
"What of the gold cloaks? Should we bolster our numbers with them?"
"Many of the men have their allegiance for sell. We cannot trust such men nor can we take the chance that we'll tip off our targets in any way."
You nodded your assent, and your men moved into position. Thirty seconds later Ser Barristan opened the door and casually strolled inside, sword in hand. You followed in his wake with Lionheart held in your gauntleted hand.
For a moment there was only stunned silence as the various patrons eyed the shining white armor of a Kingsguard knight. At the far end of the room, a man stood up. He was almost plain in appearance, with a mop of brown hair and pale blue eyes. But as he rose he began to smile, and you felt your blood turn to ice. It was a horrible thing to behold, too wide by far and filled with murderous intent.
"Ser Barristan," said the Smiling Knight. He seemed caught between amusement and nonchalance. "We were not expecting you."
Twenty men drew swords and daggers as they stood, and the air filled with the clashing of steel and violence. Blood roared within you, and you charged in. The press of battle was everywhere, and a burly man with a thick black beard came at you.
Slow, you thought, and Lionheart cleaved the man's head in twain. Another brawler came at you with a cudgel. You pivoted, and passed him with a horizontal slash to the stomach. He fell to his knees clutching his guts.
Then the Smiling Knight was before you. You struck. He parried. His blade cut against your breastplate and left a trail of sparks.
"That's some fine armor and a magnificent sword, baby Lannister!" He laughed, even as you tried to skewer him. He faded away, and it was all you could do to turn aside the blow. Then he was on you. A rain of blows rained down upon you. Despite his mad smile, the Smiling Knight's speed, strength, and skill pressed you. Your every strike was countered, every feint ignored. Never before had you fought a man of such skill. Never before had you been so outclassed.
Fear nipped at your mind. The Valyrian Steel shook in your hands, and then a crafty cut sent Lionheart careening through the melee. Then a kick sent you sprawling to the floor.
"A magnificent sword," he chuckled, "It's a shame you're not its equal."
You would never forget the dead look in his eyes as a lethal overhand cut struck down at you. You were pinned down as fear sank into you.
The ring of steel on steel sounded through the tavern like salvation.
Ilyn!
"Jaime-" Ilyn said. The guard captain's blade had caught the Smiling Knight's deadly stroke. They engaged as you rolled away. Then you found your feet, pulled a dagger, and made your way towards where Lionheart had fallen. You slit one bandit's throat, and his blood sprayed over your battered armor.
Ser Barristan was cutting a swathe through the scum, and the day would be yours. Near three quarters of the bandits had been killed or otherwise defeated.
You picked up Lionheart, and turned to face Ser Ilyn and the mad bandit. Only to see Ilyn impaled by his opponent. The Smiling Knight's laughter pierced through the din and echoed through your mind.
"You FUCKER!!!" your hoarse scream ripped from your throat, and anguish, fury, and hatred welled up within. For as long as you could remember Ilyn had been with you. His tongue wagging even when it shouldn't. The man had been as close to you as any, and taught you much and more. This lowborn piece of filth would pay.
The Smiling Knight gave a mocking bow, and fled through a nearby door. As you made to follow, you hesitated. Ser Ilyn was groaning in pain. Still alive.
Thank the Seven!
The fighting came to an end. Three bandits had been taken prisoner. Ser Barristan was leading a trio of men to the door. It was heavy oak. They picked up a table and used it as an impromptu battering ram. Once. Twice. Thrice.
Then the door smashed inwards. A fire was blazing in the room.
The Smiling Knight was nowhere in sight.
Deferring to Ser Barristan was probably the best move here, Jaime is very inexperienced. The Smiling Knight is a pretty impressive, Jaime certainly stood no chance and Ser Ilyn proved his worth yet again, he's really quite a great guy to have on your side. As far as Jaime goes, at least he got a lesson in true combat against someone far better than him without actually suffering a permanent injury or death. I quite liked the level of emotion Jaime felt here, whether he tries to emulate a Tywin emotionless mask or not, he still feels things very strongly and reacts to situations based on his feelings.
Your heart thudded in your chest. Then you did the only thing you could do.
"Help me carry him out of here!" you ordered one of your guards as you gestured at the prone form of Ilyn. The man wordlessly obeyed, and soon you had your guard captain laying on the cobblestones of the street outside. Chaos reigned on the street as the denizens of the Street of Steel rushed about trying to extinguish or escape the spreading flames.
As you removed Ilyn's breastplate, the guard went running for a maester. So much blood. It poured out of a wound on his side. Gathering some cloth, you pressed it against the wound as your old maester had taught you.
Ser Barristan had taken charge of the scene. Injured were being evacuated, the tavern was being scoured, and a line of peasants with buckets of water were being assembled. Fire was one of the greatest enemies of any cities.
One rather buxom tavern wench ran from the Four Dustpans screaming, she was covered in blood from the earlier battle, and her hair had been set aflame. A pang of pity rang through you, but it was soon washed away as Ilyn's pale facade took all of your attention.
Time inched by until the maester, a fleshy man with reddened cheeks arrived, and you stepped back.
The tavern had collapsed, but the fire had been successfully put out. A half dozen other maesters were seeing to the other injured guards. Barristan stood over the three captured men, and he nodded as you arrived.
"Ser Jaime, is your man going to be alright?" the older knight asked.
You shrugged, and tried to put all of the blood, all of Ilyn's blood out of your mind. "The maester says nothing vital was hit, but Ilyn's lost a lot of blood."
You shook your head. "What about this lot?"
"They say they're new recruits. Never been to the King's Wood. I'm inclined to to believe them, but they'll be questioned more thoroughly at the Red Keep."
At that the gagged and bound would be bandits moaned wordlessly. The questioners were not known for their gentleness.
"So, we have nothing?" you asked, and you couldn't conceal the frustration in your voice.
The legendary knight thumbed through a small book. "Perhaps not. I saved this from the fire."
He passed the book to you, and you glanced through it. The book was filled with non-sense.
"A code?" you wondered aloud.
"Might be, though it's beyond me."
"Do you know anyone who might be able to make heads or tails of it?"
Barristan smiled fondly. "I just might."
Ilyn lives! And a few extra interactions with Barristan. Next time Jaime meets the Smiling Knight, he's going to make him...
Feel the Payne.
You found Princess Naerys seated in an isolated corner of the library, a thick and illegible tome balanced precariously on her knee.
As the two of your approached her eyes rose and a welcoming smile came to her face. "Ser Jaime, Ser Barristan."
The Kingsguard knight offered her a sweeping bow, a tired smile on his face. "My princess, I don't believe I've seen that one before."
Her eyes lit up. "Oh it's a Sarnori account of Mazor Alexi and his defeat by the Dothraki on the Field of Crows. There are so few copies left but Septon Barth purchased it from a Norvoshi trader. It's the saddest tale, but so beautifully written-"
She laughed, and you felt rather unseemly as her musical voice washed over you. "You're certainly not here to listen to me ramble on for hours." Her eyes roamed over your bloodstained armor, and concern bled into her voice, "Are you both unharmed?"
"Thank you for your concern, my princess, but I am unharmed," Barristan said, and the princess nodded absently, as if she had expected no less.
Her worried gaze fell upon you.
"Besides my pride, I am whole and healthy," you said with a forced grin. Several of your men had died, but luckily the maester said that Ilyn would make a full recovery.
The worry melted from her lovely features, and she asked, "Is there some way I can help the both of you?"
Ser Barristan smiled, an easy and relaxed air coming over him. You didn't think you had seen him so at ease since he had been stabbing bandits in the tavern. Truly, the man was an artist with the blade.
Was his gaze lingering on Naerys a hint longer than was expected of a mere diligent guard? You supposed you could hardly blame him by being so enthralled. The Princess was no more lovely than your sister, but there was a genuineness, a gentleness to her that Cersei could never hope to quite match. It shone even more in this less formal setting.
Barristan produced the book, and handed it to the princess. "We found this in the possession of the bandits. It's in some strange code or cipher that neither I nor Ser Jaime can make out."
The familiar light of curiosity filled her large amethyst eyes, and soon she was immersed in the book. The way she bit her lip in concentration was perhaps the cutest thing you'd seen in your life.
After a few moments of analyzing the book, she looked up. "The code is complex. Similar to something I've seen used in Essos, but I'll need to do some research before I can get to the bottom of it. May take several days."
"Then we'll leave you to it, my princess," Ser Barristan said.
"I know you have important duties to see to, Ser Barristan," Naerys said with a smile, and then her eyes flickered to you. A bright smile spread across her features. "However, Ser Jaime you may stay, if you'd like."
You felt Ser Barristan's gaze upon you like a lead weight, but all of your attention was fastened on the beautiful princess.
Danger alert! The princess is comely, intelligent and kind, there must be something wrong with her!!! Jaime has been making a lot of observations on her attractiveness though.
"I think," you offered cautiously, "that I might be best served on the training grounds for a time. The Smiling Knight might have killed me if not for the bravery of my Ser Ilyn and Ser Barristan. I may have been slacking on my training, and he's shown me that must be rectified immediately. And after that… perhaps I might rejoin you?"
Naerys smiled distractedly, her eyes were already darting hungrily across the bandit ledger. "I would like that, I think. No need to rush, Ser. I'll be quite busy searching out the proper books."
Once you'd mastered not getting skewered by bandits, perhaps you could start learning how to not completely fall apart at the sight of a beautiful girl. You had been quite comfortable around the ladies of the Reach, but next to Naerys … and Cersei... they looked dull.
That said, the Smiling Knight and his so-called Kingswood Brotherhood still harried the lands, and you owed them a debt. Luckily, they were much less pretty, and much less complex. Clenching your jaw, you left the princess, and made your way to the training yard.
You had not been certain, but as you neared the practice ground and the sound of clashing swords reached your ears your heart began to race.
You considered yourself a fair hand at swordplay, if a bit humbled by recent events… but a chance to train with the Kingsguard might be exactly what you needed to push yourself to new heights. Ser Baelor and Ser Garth were wonderful teachers, but the knights of the Kingsguard were renowned throughout the world.
Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning, met his opponent's warhammer in a sweeping arc that sent it swinging from the larger knight's hand. Before his foe had time to move it was over, Dawn, an ancient greatsword made of fallen meteor in the Age of Heroes, hovered a mere inch from his padded throat.
And then Ser Arthur lowered his sword and laughed good-naturedly. "Well fought Ser. Were I not afraid of stealing you from your lord father I might recommend you for a white cloak now that Ser Harlan has joined the Seven."
A great booming laugh issued from the tall knight, and he tossed his helmet and massive warhammer aside. You recognized the coal-black hair and stormy-blue eyes at once. Robert Baratheon, Cersei's betrothed.
"And swear off women? Perhaps the cooler climate has addled your wits Dayne, to condemn me to such a fate."
On the outskirts stood two other figures, each with Robert's hair, each standing half a foot or more taller than you.
The older man, more than a hint of grey beginning to spread through his mane, could only be Steffon Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End and your father's closest friend. The younger boy, teeth clenched and a cold unwelcoming scowl marring his features, could only be one of Robert's brothers.
"Ser Dayne!" you called out, attempting and utterly failing to hide your eagerness. "Might I have this spar?"
"Of course, Ser Jaime," Ser Arthur said.
***
Damn it all…
Your muscles burned, your body ached, and your mind swam. The last three hours had passed in a blur strikes, parries, and ripostes. You'd sparred with everyone present, and you now understood why Ser Arthur was hailed as the finest swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms. Beyond that, he was a masterful and chivalrous teacher.
The Sword of the Morning was fast, strong, and above all else supremely skilled, though without Dawn in his hands, you would not be able to tell the difference between he and Ser Barristan.
Barristan the Bold had joined for a time. And you had more than one bruise attesting to his skill. The older man had been surly, and attacked with ruthless efficiency. He has breezed through your defenses as if they weren't there.
Ser Robert's strength and ferocity caught you by surprise. He was a man grown, and while you won three out of ten bouts, his laughter and good nature never abated. His father and stoic brother, Stannis, both strong and fought well, but you were able to defeat them regularly.
As tired as you were, you still felt that you had gained something. Sparring with the greatest knights of the realm had shown you many of your flaws, and just how far you had to go. Still, Ser Arthur had seemed impressed with your progress, and readily agreed to spar with you on the morrow and afterwards.
As the white brother's withdrew, you turned to the loitering Baratheons, and Lord Steffon spoke, "For a time your father spoke of fostering you at Storm's End. Perhaps of even wedding you to a daughter should I have been blessed with one. I cannot say you would have been better off, seeing you on the training ground. Oldtown has been good to you, young Lannister, and I've heard tale that your future bride may be a true beauty in time."
You smiled at Lord Steffon's words. The man towered over you and looked as if he could have broken your sword between his hands, but there was a calm deliberation to his words and movements.
"Ser Baelor is a good man, and will rule wisely one day. I was honored to squire under him, though it would be a fine thing to see the fabled walls of Storm's End some day."
Steffon smiled. "Any son of Tywin's will always be a welcome guest in my house, and doubtless long after that when my son becomes your goodbrother."
If he noticed your smile dimming somewhat he showed no sign. His eyes drifted to his sons, and you followed his gaze. Robert and Stannis were watching each other with naked hostility. While you had been absorbed in sparring, you hadn't noticed the ill-humor between the two, but now… now they didn't look far from coming to blows.
"Robert, Stannis," Lord Steffon said, and his deep voice echoed through the training yard. The brothers glared at one another for a moment longer, and then they turned to their father. "I'll leave young Jaime here with you. He's newly arrived in the capital. Perhaps, you'd show him around the capital?"
They nodded in unison, Steffon clapped you on the shoulder, and strode out of the training yard.
"I don't see any claws or fangs," Robert said seriously, as he looked you up and down.
"And I don't see any antlers," you returned.
For a moment, you looked up at him solemnly, and then in the next moment you and he chuckled. The heir to Storm's End smiled widely, and you found yourself smiling back. Next to Robert, Stannis' jaw clenched tightly, and you wondered that the entire castle hadn't heard his teeth grinding.
"Well met, Ser Jaime," Stannis said, "not all bard songs are full of lies it seems. You fight well."
You nodded in reply. Lord Steffon's second son was the King's own squire and, from what you heard, a rather controversial figure for his ties to the pyromancer's guild. And of the two Baratheon brothers, he certainly seemed the more serious.
Robert's voice cut through your thoughts, "My brother will doubtless be occupied for the next few hours. I myself had planned to enjoy what King's Landing had to offer. I could use some company, and I'd be happy to show my future goodbrother to all the best places in King's Landing."
"Best places in King's Landing?" Stannis scoffed, his blue eyes hard, "You mean the best bars and brothels."
"Don't be such a stick in the mud," Robert said glibly to Stannis, and then he turned to you, "Don't mind him. He's got a sword up his arse. Always has. Always will, I imagine. So, will I be drinking alone or not?"
It was a tempting offer, as was the prospect of getting to know Stannis and see what he had to offer. And you had a several hours to kill before returning to the Princess...
Time for another manly training montage. Jaime needs to get better, and he has access to the best warriors in the kingdoms. Arthur Dayne is very impressive. Time for some extra bonding with our future goodbrother, drinking contests when you can't get drunk may be a bit rigged though. Nice meta references with the Mannis and Bobby B though.
With a few courteous words, you left Stannis Baratheon grinding his teeth at the Red Keep, and instead chosen to go drinking with Ser Robert Baratheon. He seemed like a jovial sort, an adept warrior, and a man of sufficient status and breeding to marry your sister.
As you, he, and your combined retinues prepare to leave the Red Keep for the city at large, he speaks of the many taverns and beauties he will acquaint you with. As you ride from the Keep, you run your fingers over the ruby ring on your finger. With it on your hand, you would not even feel the effects of any drink brought to you.
After a moment's thought, you left the ring on. There was no reason to put yourself at risk just to get drunk with your future goodbrother. You well remembered how the ring safeguarded you from Roxton's poison. And King's Landing was renowned as a nest of vipers. Surely there were those here who would like to see you dead. Doubtless they'd resort to the coward's weapon if they thought it would be useful.
"Welcome to the Red Sword, my lords," the elderly matron, a woman in the garb of the Free cities, said with a smile.
"The Red Sword?" you asked, your eyebrow quirked questioningly.
The matron nodded, a kind smile on her wrinkled face. "Named for the chosen of R'hllor, god of the Free Cities. And of us who sought our fortune in Westeros."
You remembered your old maester's lessons.
The Free Cities alone had a hundred faiths, but none so prevalent as worship of the Lord of Light. They believed in R'hllor and his eternal enemy the Great Other, and that they held all other gods to be demons.
From the tales of drunken Oldtown sailors you had imagined a congregation of red-cloaked priests and priestesses housed in a temple far grander than the Starry Sept or Baelor. Tales of magic and burnings came with the tide.
Was there any truth to those tales of fantastical powers? You could not know. Their way was not your own. And any faith that embraced magic was antithetical to the Seven. Not that you were in any position to talk. Lady Malora's trinket had saved your life, and given you a more nuanced view of magic. It could be useful.
"We didn't come here to talk about religion," Robert laughed. "Come, let me introduce you to my kind of priest."
He led you further into the establishment, the patrons were all well dressed, and coin flowed as freely as wine. A bard played the Bear and the Maiden Fair. Then you saw a man in a bedraggled red cloak and chain mail.
Robert warmly clasped hands with the man. "Jaime, this is Thoros of Myr, Red Priest of the Red God. Thoros this is Ser Jaime Lannister, the Young Lion."
"Well met, Ser Jaime," Thoros said, and his breath smelled greatly of wine. He turned to a pretty tavern wench, "Esmi! Get my noble friends some drink!"
Soon drink was supplied, minstrels and courtesans surrounded the table. Robert and Thoros tore through more drink and gold in a hour than you would've thought possible. You drank with them, and if it weren't for your ring, you had no doubt you would've been under the table already. Robert proved generous with his coin, and soon the Red Sword was a carnival of laughter and song and debauchery.
From there, the party crawled to the Twisted Star to the Laughing Crown to the Lusty Lass. More and more revellers joined the party, and Robert became more merry and popular.
When you finally left Robert to his revelry, the older man gave you an incredulous look.
Typical Robert things. It seems to have gone fairly well, they must think Jaime has the highest alcohol tolerance ever though.
You found Princess Naerys much as you had left her. She sat at her desk, and a dozen candles illuminated her dark study.
"Ser Jaime," she greeted with a brief look upwards as you entered. Her Valyrian features looked alien in the flickering candlelight.
"I trust you found my cousin Robert a personable sort, given the scent of brothel on you."
You smiled somewhat sheepishly. "I think I may have disappointed him somewhat, but he seems a decent fellow. I hope my sister will be happy with him."
She raised an eyebrow and her goose feather quill moved furiously as she scribbled another illegible line. "What has happiness ever had to do with marriage, Ser? She will be Lady of Storm's End, perhaps even mother to a queen."
You must have looked rather perturbed, for she sighed and looked up from her work. "Forgive me, Ser. It has been a long night. Cersei is a dear friend and a wonderful companion. I wish nothing but joy for her."
"It is kind of you to say so, your highness."
She waved it away with a delicate gesture. "Come, sit. You said you wanted to learn something of ciphers and codes."
With a nod, you sat next to her. She handed you an ancient scroll and said, "This book's code appears to be based on a code widely used in Old Valyria. Some of the Essosi might still use it. There are enough changes to render it illegible, but it gives us somewhere to start."
And start you did. Under the princesses' direction, you began pouring over yellowed parchment and tattered scrolls. She showed you how codes could be used, and some part of you, a part that had seen little exercise in recent years rejoiced at the mental challenge.
You and Naerys stopped your work after midnight, and after a fitful night of sleep and a rousing bout in the training yard, you returned to work beside her. By midday, you felt frustration welling up. After the progress the last night, it had become slow going.
"Perhaps, it is time for a break?" Naerys said smoothly. "I would like to stretch my legs. Perhaps a walk through the gardens."
"I'd be honored, my princess," you said, as you rose and offered your arm.
You and the princess made your way through the corridors of the Red Keep with a grim faced Ser Barristan trailing after you. The royal gardens turned out to be lush with bright red roses and a thousand other flowers gave the grounds a fragrance that contrasted sharply from that of the city beyond the walls.
Soon Naerys led you along a winding path, and you spoke at length about things of little consequence. Finally, you came to a stop at a beautiful fountain. A mature woman with a half dozen little children surrounding her stood at the top of the fountain.
"The Fountain of the Mother built by Baelor the Blessed," she said, as her silver dress flowed behind her as she took a seat nearby. Her amethyst gaze fell on the fountain, and such was the intensity about her, you found yourself unwilling to speak. There was something weighty, almost sacred about the moment.
After long moments, she turned to you, "You and I have a similarity, Ser."
"What would that be, my princess?" you asked, and it was impossible to look at anything other than her.
A sad smile flitted across her features. "Both of our mothers died in childbed. Lady Joanna giving birth to your youngest brother, the one they call the Imp, and the Queen with me."
A flicker of annoyance echoed through you. Imp…, you did not like when anyone called Tyrion that, and if it were anyone other than a princess, you'd let them know that in no uncertain terms.
"I-I did not mean to give offense. Your father and your sister hold no love for him, and I-" Naerys said quickly.
"No, it's alright," you assured her with a raised hand. You took a couple deep breaths to reign in your temper. Then the thought of Tyrion rummaging through the vast library at the Citadel brought a smile to your lips. "The Seven made my brother as he is, and though you are a far lovelier companion, I'd wager you'd like him well enough. He's kind and witty and loves books more than any maester I've ever met. You won't find a more clever boy in the seven kingdoms."
She sighed, and averted her gaze. "If only all siblings could be so well disposed." At your curious look, she continued, "Rhaegar is a great man, but distant, aloof. Then there are my younger siblings. There are those who would see them usurp Rhaegar's claim."
You bit your lip. "But, he's the Crown Prince."
"And he and I are 'abominations born of incest'." There was no mistaking the bitterness in her tone. "Elia's children would be far more palatable for many."
"Targaryens have wed brother and sister for hundreds of years."
She scowled. "And what has it won us? No cousins to secure our line, no alliances to defend our hold on the Seven Kingdoms. Kingdoms that even now seek to exceed our power through marriage. The pattern is easy enough to see."
Martell and Tyrell. Stark, Tully, and Arryn. Baratheon, Lannister, and Hightower. You wondered if the Greyjoys were feeling left out.
Her eyes met yours. "The heir to Casterly Rock could be a very good friend to me." She paused, and you felt yourself measured by her perceptive gaze. "I have many false friends here. Many sycophants populate my father's court. They pour poison into the King's ear and only offer empty words to me. But, I don't think you are such a man."
"No, my princess. My father has ever served the crown well, and I should like to show that I am no less loyal. Or capable."
She was silent for a moment more, and then she spoke, "Since I'm speaking to a friend, I don't mind confiding in you that a prominent member of House Chelsted, one of the foremost sycophants in my father's court, has been particularly loud in his support for dear little Aegon."
"Clap him in irons, and send him to the headsman or the Wall." you suggested immediately. This was nothing less than treason.
"He speaks with a forked tongue, and my father values him. Besides, if I were to remove him, a dozen more might rise to take his place. However, if the heir to Casterly Rock were to publicly confront him… then the plotters and schemers may have to revise their calculations."
Only the sound of the fountain's water splashing about filled the deep silence.
Bonding moments with the Princess, fairly dangerous territory. And there's the catch, she wants a fairly public display of personal loyalty from Jaime, not a risk free move but possibly one that can be lived with.
For a moment you remained silent and met her gaze evenly.
"I'll need to consider the best course of action to resolve the situation."
She smiled, and for a moment you almost forgot that she was openly using you for your political influence.
"Of course. It is no small thing I ask of House Lannister, to throw their support openly behind myself. And Rhaegar, of course. Remember that there's much that we can offer to our friends."
She paused to smile more widely, and her beautiful eyes gleamed in the garden.
"Of course, you'll need to speak with Lord Tywin first."
You hadn't intended to mention speaking to your father, but you supposed there wasn't exactly a way you could hide it. There were eyes and ears everywhere in King's Landing.
How many had already noted your friendship with the Princess?
You would speak to father, and determine the best choice for House Lannister.
Still risky, especially with people taking notice but Tywin will have an answer. Jaime is super weak to her smiles though.
"Jaime!" called out a familiar voice, and you turned to regard the younger Lannister.
"Little brother! I haven't seen much of you these last few days."
"Prince Rhaegar keeps me busy. Though not nearly as busy as you if word about the keep is true. Did you truly force the Smiling Knight to flee and save Ser Ilyn's life?"
Your smile froze in place. You hadn't had an opportunity to speak to Gerold since the skirmish in the city.
You shook your head. "Ser Barristan… he's- I've never seen a greater warrior, and it was Ser Ilyn who saved me from the Smiling Knight."
"Are you alright?" Gerold asked.
"Besides my pride, I'm unharmed. Though I do owe that Madman and his ilk a debt."
A fierce light filled Gerold's green eyes, so like your own, and he said, "Lannister always pay their debts."
"That we do, but if you ever come up against the Smiling Knight… be wary. For all his madness, he was skilled. I've never fought a more skilled or fiercer opponent."
After a moment, he nodded. "I'll keep that in mind, if you promise to be wary around the princess. You've been spending a lot of time with her, and in her own way she might be more dangerous than a band of brigands."
"I'm getting that feeling."
"Well, in any case Cersei is throwing a party this evening for many of the Westerlanders, and she wanted me to invite you."
Gerold is a good brother, and his warning should definitely be taken to heart. More time with Cersei, that's bound to go well.
After agreeing to attend the party, you left Gerold behind, and ascended the steps of the Hand's Tower towards your father's office. Again you found your father busily at work behind his desk. Taking your accustomed seat from across him, you waited for him to acknowledge you.
He didn't make you wait long. After he finished writing on a parchment, he said, "Jaime."
"Father," you replied. "I've just returned from attending on Princess N-"
He raised a hand, and you fell silent. "I am well aware. As is much of the city, though our future queen does a better job than most at ensuring the privacy of her conversations. She wishes for us to openly throw our support behind Rhaegar and herself. Does she not?"
You nodded, feeling a bit stupid. Had you already tied your name to hers beyond easy separation? There had to be a reason father had not already done so.
"It is a complicated situation we find ourselves in. It is true that both Prince Rhaegar and House Lannister could benefit greatly from an alliance. At the same time, there is danger of so openly aligning ourselves with King Aerys' son."
"I don't quite understand, father."
He nodded. "When Aerys made me his Hand I had his trust and friendship entirely. Now… our king is surrounded by sycophants and poor councillors. As they and his envious nature turn him against me, so do they turn him against his eldest son and the good of the kingdom. The commons and nobles alike adore and respect Rhaegar as they never did his father. The king knows it and fears it. For the Lannisters to show our support… Aerys may suspect that we intend to act against him."
A wave of horror and anger shot through you. King Aerys suspected your father of treason. He suspected his own heir? Was the man mad or so surrounded by vipers that he couldn't see what was right in front of him?
"But, father, you've ever been King Aerys' friend and most capable advisor." you said with incredulity.
"Some mutter that it is I and not our good king who rules, and Aerys has ever been capricious," he said, as he took a sip of his watered wine. "But, what would the princess have of you?"
"She would have me deal with Ser Jermayne Chelsted, and I thought it better to speak to you before I acted in haste."
"Chelsted," Lord Tywin said after a moment of contemplation, "Ser Jermayne is bold, some might say belligerent. He is not shy with slandering the princess or myself. Naerys was ever a clever girl. But why now?"
He trailed off for several moments, and then he spoke, "I see." Before you could say anything further, your father continued, "Yes, I think it best if Ser Jermayne troubles us and our friends no more. The question is how best to dispose of this nuisance."
Plotting with Tywin time, and he reveals some pretty important knowledge about Aerys and the state of things in King's Landing. Tiptoeing around a madman is probably pretty difficult.
You paused for a moment to mull over your thoughts. How would you handle this? Chelsted was a middling swordsman, and it'd be all too easy to defeat him in a duel. With Lionheart in your hand, he'd be no match for you. No. Too overt. Too predictable.
What then?
Economics? The strength of House Lannister had always been in gold. A few words to some merchants and friendly lords and you could reduce House Chelsted to beggars. One glance at your father's measuring green gaze told you that wasn't the option. This needed to be handled with a deft hand. Everyone knew of House Lannister's wealth.
Any fool could calculate, could plan for what was seen, but what about the unseen?
You cleared your suddenly parched throat, and said, "Father, perhaps a situation such as this calls for precision, instead of brute force. Might we find some way to humiliate the man in front of the entire court?"
"Interesting decision, my son." Lord Tywin said, and then he took a moment to take another sip of wine. Buying time to think. You wondered how you didn't hear his mind churning with thoughts. "Yes, that'll do."
The ghost of the smile that played on your father's lips sent a shiver of fear down your spine. Your father had begun scribbling on a fresh sheet of parchment, and despite everything you felt a sliver of pity for Ser Jermayne Chelsted.
Probably the best method for destroying this man.
The court had assembled. All of the members of the Kingsguard, the Small Council, and the other nobles from the capital were all here.
Your brother and sister both in crimson stood amidst a crowd of Westerlander nobles. Confusion was written clearly upon their faces, and it was an exercise in control to keep your face carefully blank.
Prince Rhaegar in shining plate, princess Naerys wearing a glorious jade dress, and even the reclusive king upon the Iron Throne remained silent as Jermayne Chelsted made his accusations. An air of incredulity filled the throne room. Even King Aerys, Ser Jermayne's patron, had an expression of utter disbelief on his face, one eyebrow raised as the knight of House Chelsted accused the Hand of the King of treason.
"-And after Prince Rhaegar would be killed, he planned to break his son's betrothal and wed him to Princess Naerys. After that he would have the little Princes murdered while his daughter won over Lord Steffon's son."
The King stared. Flabbergasted. Everybody was staring actually. It wasn't every day the Hand was accused of conspiring to murder the Prince of Dragonstone and usurp the throne.
Lord Steffon Baratheon rose from his place beside both his sons, and there was a look of skeptical amusement and sheer amazement on his face. "And where exactly did you come across this most ingenious scheme, Ser Jermayne? This is high treason you speak of."
The Crownlander knight's eyes were wild with glee and outrage as he spoke. "Two of my loyal knights overheard Lord Tywin meeting with a Faceless Man. The fool proclaimed his entire plan to his assassin, and was willing to beggar himself to see the deed done. It was this last night, after sunset in a tavern in Fleabottom!"
Your father's face was cold as he regarded his accuser. Disdain was writ clear across your father's leonine features. "This is news to me."
Lord Steffon was actually laughing now. The harsh sound reverberated through the deathly silent hall. "Last night. Last night Lord Tywin was meeting with His Grace, Prince Rhaegar, and myself to discuss matters of state. The Lord Hand is a very busy man you understand."
You could actually see the moment the color drained away from Ser Jermayne's face. "I-I... have witnesses. Dohn, Qyle, come and tell His Grace what you told me?"
A pair of knights stepped forward, their rank low enough that you could not recognize their sigils. You thought you'd seen them both in tourneys, though neither had particularly distinguished themselves.
Your father was resourceful indeed, to have loyal men in the employ of his enemies.
"Your Grace," said Ser Dohn. The man possessed a bushy beard and a balding head, which glistened with sweat. "I don't know what my Lord's brother speaks of. Me and Qyle here spent the night with an old lady friend of ours. Think I'd remember some sort of treason."
Ser Qyle, a short and stocky man with a pug nose, only snickered. "Faceless Man? How's he supposed to kill a Prince when he doesn't have no eyes or ears."
Up until this point I was actually quite amused, it was a very cunning and Tywinny way of dealing with the problem, and it did make the man look like a fool. Exile or The Night's Watch would have been fitting punishments here but my views on this section were soured pretty hard by what came after.
Jermayne's face went through a number of transformations, shifting between confusion and fury before settling at last on horror.
The King rose from the throne and the jeering crowd hushed. Aerys Targaryen looked a hard figure, the anger evident in his eyes. His right hand was clenched and pale, you noticed. Had he cut himself upon the throne?
"You accuse my Hand, one of my oldest friends, of treason, bring blatant lies before me in the guise of truth, and seek to deceive your king. Guards!"
Ser Jonothor Darry seized the cowering man and hauled him before the throne, where Aerys Targaryen and Tywin Lannister looked down at him. Had he realized, even considered who he was slandering? Now he would learn.
"Your Grace I- I only- mercy!" he spluttered. "I have been deceived and misled. I beg your mercy!"
The King's eyes were a pair of amethysts, hard and unyielding. "There is no mercy for treason in my kingdom."
Terror splashed across his features. He visibly shook. You forced yourself to watch the spectacle.
Lord Qarlton looked to move forward, but Ser Lewyn drew his blade and held it to the Master of Coin's throat.
"The Wall, your Grace," Charlsted pleaded as he stared at the king. "Allow me to serve in the Night's Watch. P-please let me re-regain my honor with the Black brothers."
"No, no." the king wagged his finger and shook his hed in contempt. "I shall give you Fire in place of Ice." said the king cryptically. The monarch fairly bounced with energy as he held his --cut-- hand.
Ser Jermayne looked as if he wanted to say more, but he fell silent. He straightened held his head high. You could see the look of resignation in his eyes. However, there was also courage. He would face his death with honor. Would you do as much in his place?
The king gave a few hushed commands, and a brazier was dragged before the throne. The faces of the assembled nobles was pale and anticipatory. What the hell was happening? As the king's orders were carried out a few muffled conversations, and the scant words you caught left you in a stupor.
"There is only one punishment fit for traitors." Aerys said solemnly, but there was an undercurrent of excitement, of glee to the Targaryen's voice.
While your mind still processed the impossible, the brazier was lit and Ser Jermayne's sentencing began. The condemned man let loose a horrific, inhuman screech and the scent of burning flesh filled the throne room as the flames began licking at him.
Over a hundred people, and none said a word. Not the great lords assembled. Not the greatest knights of the realm. Were it not for Chelsted's agonized screams you would have thought you were in a tomb.
Your father's gaze was fixed and emotionless, though you could read the small telltale signs of surprise. He had not expected this. You were sure of it. Lord Steffon was stony-faced, but his hands were pale and clenched.
And the King on the Iron Throne stared at the burning knight, his eyes alight with hunger and... pleasure. What madness was this?
You removed the horror from your features, and took several deep breaths. The smell of charred flesh filled your nostrils. He writhed as the flames engulfed him. The sound of Ser Jermayne's pained animal screams echoed through your ears. King Aerys' gleeful, terrible laughs were the only other sound in the throne room
This was wrong. You felt it in your bones, but there was nothing you could do for this man who was your enemy. Instead of pleading for a quick death or just taking immediate action on your own, you remained silent and followed your father's example.
It took torturous minutes for Jermayne to die, and you did not take your eyes off him. You owed him that much at least.
Afterwards, when court was dismissed. A pale faced Naerys, who avoided your eye, and the sharp-eyed Rhaegar retired. The king giddily escorted an uneasy Queen Selina, a beautiful woman of Volantene stock, from the throne room, and you thought he looked more taken with her than ever. When he left, you felt a tightness in your chest disappear, and along with it the rest of the gathered nobles fled the throne room without so much as a word.
The rest of the day passed in a haze. You kept playing the ghastly tableau over and over again. It did not matter if you trained in the training yard or studied with an aged maester you could not purge the poison from your mind.
Aerys is a bloody psycho, if I was a Lord in this kingdom I would definitely be plotting to get him removed however I could, there's no way I'd feel safe with a man like this with so much power. The sheer horror of these two scenes is really well done, the feeling of helplessness is palpable. How should the characters react to this situation? Even Aerys' closest friends have no idea how to react and they certainly didn't expect something like this.
However, the world moved on, and you soon found yourself at the party. For the first time in years, you found yourself surrounded by members of your family and fellow Westerlanders. Your eyes were drawn to Cersei. She wore a glorious golden dress that hugged her generous curves, and a full lipped smile graced her features as she greeted new arrivals.
Forcing your eyes from your sister, you stepped into the large ballroom that had been reserved for the gala.
Young Lord o' the Ring was felled he was,
By the Golden Lion's claws.
So Lord o' the Ring came down he did,
To clip the Lion's paws.
A bard's rich voice, like rolling thunder, sang The Young Lion's Claws, and instead of the normal smile that would have slipped across your features, the memory of Ser Jermayne cut across your mind. You closed your eyes, and tried to shake thought away...
Party time, probably the best way to get your mind off that amount of horror. Casual attraction sister is casual.
They were strangers to you, but one day you would be their liege as Lord of Casterly Rock, and it would behoove you to know them. If you didn't, how could you call yourself a man of the Westerlands, or expect their loyalty?
With that in mind, you got to mingling.
It would have been easy to cling to familiar faces, father and your siblings or even Aunt Rohanne who you knew better through her marriage to Lord Randyll than any ties to the Rock.
But no. Those bonds were of blood, and not so easily broken by greed or ambition. There were banners present you only knew from your lessons, and men who might question the worthiness of a Reach-raised boy to rule over them. You would show them that you were a Lannister, and Lord Tywin's son.
The Marbrands came first, friends of old. You didn't see Addam with them, but Lord Damon greeted you warmly and introduced you to his daughter and one of his younger sons. The Marbrands had near-Lannister features, but for their copper hair. Your grandmother had been of Ashemark, and that was a connection you could not forget. Or, allow them to forget.
After that you spoke to Houses Brax and Lefford, who shared their borders with the Riverlands. Lord Andros greeted you a bit stiffly - his daughter had been one of many girls rejected by your father in favor of Aelinor, you recalled - but soon he was laughing at one of your japes.
Lord Leo was not much older than you, a late in life child whose much older sister had wed your moron uncle Stafford. She was still his heir, as she had been to their father for many years. If he did not cooperate with your rule… well, the Lannisters could always call another seat home. But you needn't think in such terms, not until shown true disloyalty.
Lord Philip Plumm was a tall, broad-shouldered man with three sons to match him. Was there any truth that Viserys Plumm had been a bastard of Aegon the Unworthy's? You couldn't see a hint of Rhaegar and Naerys' aquiline features in his crooked nose and hard eyes. The younger sons could be useful, strong knights always were.
The Farmans greeted you warmly, but you recalled a warning father had given you. Fair Isle had considered rebellion once, only silenced by the Reynes of Castamere played by father's envoy. That their daughter had been fostered with Cersei might be of some help, or a source of bitterness. The island was rich and well-placed, and it would be an important asset when you assumed Casterly Rock.
And there were others, so many others. Baneforts, Doggetts, Paynes, Westerlings, Lydens, and Swyfts. Half the Westerlands had turned up for the royal wedding it seemed.
Better for you perhaps. How many of these men and women would not have seen your face for years otherwise? How could you rule over them as an outsider.
Very important to Jaime's future rule that he bond with his vassals, a personal relationship will always engender more loyalty than one of duty.
Perhaps there was some time for family as well. Emmon Frey was off brooding in a corner while his sons took turnsdancing with cousin Margot and Aunt Genna-
Where was Genna? She had been there only a minute before. It was likely nothing, but… still. An old memoryreturned. She wouldn't, would she? Not here, not with half the kingdom a room or so away. It would probably bewise to look into things.
Sidestepping your Uncle Tygett, who appeared to be in the middle of a heated rant to some of his retinue, you made for your cousin Alyn.
"Alyn," you said, tapping him lightly and then yanking him off of the dance floor.
"Hello Jaime," he said brightly, his face a little flushed. "Something I can do for you?"
Maybe being the only sober person at the party wasn't a great idea. Then again, it was nice to have your wits about you. "I needed to talk to your mother. Did you see which way she went."
He turned, blinking in confusion. "Think she was heading to the privy, but that was ages ago. Maybe in herchambers? They're separate from father's."
Well, that would probably be it. "Thanks Al."
He ran a hand through copper hair and grinned, already turning away. "Don't mention it. Margot, don't tell meyou'd forgotten about me!"
You made for the door. Aunt Genna's chambers were not far from your own. You didn't intend to intrude on her privacy (and really, it was none of your business if she did have a lover), but it would be bad for the family if anyone else found out.
A very soft hand reached out and grabbed your arm, and her delicate hands on your forearm felt like fire. You turned to regard a lovely face flushed red and a very low-cut dress.
"Jaime," said Cersei, eagerness in her voice, "come dance with me!"
A tempting offer, and one that gave you more than one unhealthy thought. "I'd love to Cersei, but I forgot… my shoes. I just need to go get them, alright?"
She nodded happily and released your arm. With that, and a silent apology to your sister, you were off.
Family time, Genna is missing and she is Jaime's favourite aunt so spending time with her is logical. Here's Cersei; Jaime using the single greatest excuse ever, "I totally didn't remember to wear shoes to this party, whatever you do don't look down."
You hadn't made it far before you stumbled over two intertwined bodies. Oh Seven, please let her not be doing it in the hallway-
Oh, that was Addam and Jeyne.
Still, that was a minor scandal. You were reasonably sure Addam was betrothed to some girl, and Jeyne to… shit, someone who wasn't that dead Roxton fellow.
Your best friend eagerly met your eyes, and Addam's breath fairly stank of wine. "Jaime! We're in love."
Jeyne it seemed shared his enthusiasm. "We're going to get married before our parents say we can't! Would you like to come?"
Oh dear. "I'd love to. But maybe the two of you should wait until…" you paused, looking for words, "until tomorrow, when the weather is better. You wouldn't want your happy day to be ruined by rain."
Both of them looked horrified at the thought, thought he sky had been clear all day. "And I'd recommend not doing literally this right outside the door if it's supposed to be a secret. Good luck you two."
They waved goodbye absently, and returned to kissing before you had even left the hall. Yes, you couldn't wait to be Lord over these people.
A few more turns and you were at Aunt Genna's chambers. You had never been, but it was easy enough to recognize from the sounds coming from behind the door. Hadn't this been an educational night? What sort of heartless, obviously blind woman would have an affair when wed to Emmon Frey, notorious tomcat?
The mind wondered.
Your knuckles rapped against the door and the room fell silent. "Auntie," you said in a bored tone, "I do hate to interrupt but people can hear you in the hallway and are going to talk."
There were a few more moments of silence and the door opened. Aunt Genna had a rather frustrated and embarrassed expression, and that was as low as you were willing to let your eyes sink. Good for her though.
"Hello dear. How has your night been?"
You smiled. "Quite well, Auntie. I simply overheard your absence being noted, and with your Frey still attending thought it wise to give you warning before anyone else thought to play detective."
She reached out and ruffled your hair maternally, which was not something you needed to make this less awkward. "Thank you darling. I think I let myself get a bit carried away. Give me a moment and I'll make myself nice to make a few more appearances."
The door slammed, and you stood there in blissful solitude for a minute, face as red as your doublet.
Then it opened, and Aunt Genna stepped out in a different but equally magnificent gown to the one she'd been wearing earlier. "I think a costume change is excuse enough."
She turned back to her companion and called out playfully, "I think it best if we stagger our exits, don't you agree love? Keep an eye on him, will you?"
Please no. "I could come with y-"
A moment later she was off, and you were standing awkwardly in the doorway waiting for someone to dress themselves and return to the party in your company.
Alright, maybe you were a little bit curious. Five minutes passed as you twiddled your thumbs. You could have been dancing with Cersei or getting drunk right now, but you just had to think of family…
The door opened once more and a disheveled, red-faced Damon Marbrand stepped out.
"I, er, appreciate your discretion in his matter Jaime. You'll be a fine Lord one day, I'm sure of it."
Kill you now. It was going to be a very awkward walk back to the party. You had… found him attempting to ignite a bush to recreate his sigil and rescued him. That was somewhat convincing. And you were too tired for much else.
Wait. If he was Aunt Genna's lover (and likely the father of her children). And he was Addam's father. And-
Well. Fuck.
Drunk Addam and Jeyne, great place for them to be kissing, seems fairly harmless... A very nice way of protecting Genna from scandal, and I wonder who she's been having her affair with? Oh, Addam's father, well that's good for them. Wait a second... Well that certainly needs to be dealt with.
I was laughing hard when I read this part, quite an entertaining turn of events and planned out with foreshadowing from the start. Bravo.
Addam! Jeyne! The thought slashed through you, and you were already moving when you said, "Sorry my Lord, have to run. You'll thank me later!"
Your last words were shouted as you rounded a corner, and left the confused lord behind gaping like a dumbstruck fish. The corridors flashed by, and soon you approached where you'd left them. The pair hadn't moved an inch, and they were still kissing when you arrived...
Definitely needs to be dealt with.
After you left Addam and Jeyne behind, you rejoined the party. A quick glance about the gala showed that only the guards and your lord father were as sober as you. The rest of the Westermen present were ambling about with drinks in hand. Many lordlings loudly sang along with the bard as he played yet another rendition of your deeds. Upon the hall's great floor, the heart of the West's chivalry danced about.
Amongst them Cersei sparkled like a jewel. As she whirled about with this knight and that lord, you felt the breath catch in your chest. With her flowing golden hair swaying alongside her every move, she looked like the Maiden given flesh. The rest of the party seemed to gravitate around her unconsciously.
Her eyes lit up, and a bright smile graced her beautiful features when she caught sight of you. She breathlessly pulled away from dancing, and took your hand. "Come on, Jaime. Don't be a stick in the mud. Dance!"
Her impish smile was contagious, and before you knew it, you were whirling about the dance floor. All eyes were on you and your dazzling sister as you waltzed, but their measuring stares fled from your mind. This felt natural.
Time seemed to lose meaning, and you danced and danced. You often exchanged partners, but always you came back to one another. Cersei moved in perfect tandem with you. You'd never been a master dancer, but here, now you moved as precisely as any Braavosi waterdancer.
Now back to Cersei, she just fits with Jaime so well, it's as though they are two halves of a whole...
Then one of Robert's younger brothers, the one that served as your father's squire was there, and escorting you to his table. Many lords surrounded Lord Tywin, and were promptly dismissed. The cold look in your father's eyes was in sharp contrast to the levity of the night.
"Jaime. We must speak."
Something serious had happened. Was the ghost of Jermayne Chelsted haunting the Iron Throne? Had Casterly Rock sunk into the sea, carrying all of the family and gold with it?
Mind racing somewhat, you followed him silently to the tower of the Hand. Lord Tywin set a brisk pace, and you dared not to ask any questions.
When you reached his office, he took his seat. He did not give you leave to sit, so you stood there while he regarded you with a look you had rarely seen on his face. It was an unpleasant one. You had seen your father cold, had seen him utterly ruthless, but he'd never behaved thusly with you.
The moment hung for what felt like an eternity. Then the Lord of Casterly Rock said, "Sit."
After a moment's hesitation, you obeyed.
"I have just spoken with one of my men lately from Oldtown, regarding certain rumors that had reached his ears. Rumors of a whore claiming a Lannister bastard."
Oh. Oh. You remembered the bastard maiden Wendy Flowers quite well, though there had been others since. A child? Could you have a child?
"My man found this child, and confirmed its features. I had not thought there a need to explain to you the reckless stupidity of such matters, but it seems my expectations were too high."
Lord Tywin's disappointed tone stung, far worse that any physical blow could have. "Father-" you began, and then you stopped. Father would not be interested in excuses or you babbling.
"You are fortunate, more than you know, that I discovered this before it spread far, and that Ser Baelor is an understanding man with a half dozen of his own bastards. Were he less so our alliance with the Hightowers might have been threatened. The family might have been threatened."
You were silent for a moment. Only father could make you feel this small. Face burning with shame you nodded. "I understand."
Cold green eyes regarded you for a tense minute. "Good. If you insist on gallivanting around with baseborn women in the future you or men you trust will personally witness her drinking moon tea."
"I understand."
Lord Tywin's face could have been carved from stone, and you felt your chest tighten.
"Now then. I've imparted a rich sum upon the woman to keep her silent, but she raised a considerable fuss regarding the wellbeing of her son. You have some thoughts on the matter?"
Definitely a rookie mistake by Jaime here, and one that was bound to upset Tywin. The sheer amount of things that could have gone wrong with what he did here, he's very lucky that a bastard and Tywin's disappointment are the only real consequences.
What to do?
"The child is innocent and… he is mine, whatever else. A Lannister in blood. We could have him brought to Lannisport, where a trusted family can care for him. No son of mine will be raised in a whore house."
Lord Tywin's eyes betrayed nothing. "And the whore?"
You hesitated, but only for a moment. "She knew what she was doing when she didn't take moon tea. I'd say to pay her off and be done with her, but she's already shown herself willing to talk. She won't be talking, will she?"
There was a tense moment of silence. "Perhaps you are my son after all."
You honestly didn't know what you thought of that, didn't particularly want to think about how father had ensured her silence. She had just been a girl, and given you a wonderful gift…
And she had threatened the name of House Lannister. Wendy Flowers was no longer your concern.
You sat in silence as father wrote, his attention elsewhere. No matter how many fights you faced or victories you earned, you always felt like a green boy sitting across from him. At last his focus returned to you, eyes lifting as he stamped his seal into the letter's red wax.
"Kevan has agreed to raise the bastard," Lord Tywin said finally. "Bastards are oft made for war, and your mother's bastard sister Lynora was loyal unto death... in time, your bastard may be a sword you can call upon. You saw Aerys as well as I. Swords might be more necessary than we thought."
A dreadful pause.
"I understand father."
"Good," Tywin said, as he turned to his work. "Go to bed. You have a long day ahead of you. Even if you aren't the one being wed, weddings are exhausting."
More development towards the Tywin 2.0 method of living life in Westeros. I'm not sure I like where this is heading very much.
Father was right. Weddings were exhausting. Many great nobles from across the Seven Kingdoms gathered in Baelor's sept. Arryns, Baratheons, Greyjoys, Lannisters, Martells Starks, Tullys, and Tyrells were all in attendance amongst hundreds of lesser nobles.
You spent a great deal of time being introduced to the various nobles.
The eldest Stark girl seemed distracted and melancholy. Lord Rickard was absent, but his eldest son, Brandon, cut a dashing figure. They seemed ill at ease in the sept, and well they might. The Starks, like the rest of the distant North, kept to the Old Gods.
Lord Arryn was there, with his wife and five children. The eldest boy, Harrold, had his father's golden hair, but seemed more fragile somehow. Sharra and Godric, twins of an age with you and Cersei, seemed boisterous and charming.
Both Lord Steffon and Robert greeted you happily, and laughed with great aplomb. It didn't escape your notice how Cersei shied away from the Baratheon heir or how Gerold stared coldly at the Stormlander.
The Tully sisters, of whom the eldest, Catelyn, was by far the more beautiful and charming. In another world, you may have been betrothed to one of them. You would wait a lifetime to get married if it meant you did not face the peril of marrying Lysa.
You avoided the Tyrells like the plague, and they reciprocated in kind. Your actions and those of House Lannister in the Reach had made relations tense between your two houses. Today was not the day for hostilities.
The bookish and sickly Prince Doran seemed kind enough, though you knew of the hidden tension between his sister's children and the soon to be couple. You did not miss that the Dornishman gravitated towards the Tyrells.
Most of the Greyjoys stood apart despite Lord Quellon's courteous behavior. That was fine with you. Ironborn scum.
Then the ceremony started. Naerys looked like a vision in a red and black dress that shone in the light, a hundred rubies glistened brightly. Rhaegar seemed every inch the prince. And if anyone felt ill at ease watching siblings marrying, they hid it well. Rhaegar placed his cloak upon Naerys' shoulders, and they were wed.
There was a brief pang of regret, but you stifled it at once. She could never have been yours. Perhaps if her older sister had survived to wed Rhaegar in her stead, but alas the gods had different plans.
Lots of people to meet, Lyanna is upset about something, I wonder what that could be? Huh, Jaime is quite attracted to Naerys, it's too bad he doesn't have a shot with her now...
And then you were mounted, stallion beneath you charging forwards as you couched and aimed your lance.
Thump!
Another nameless, faceless knight went tumbling out of his saddle to the tourney ground. You held back a triumphant laugh. A Lannister was not petty in victory.
Maybe you simply had some aggression to work out. It was unsettling, being cooped up in this city with its lies and intrigues behind every corner. You missed the battlefield, and even Oldtown where you could trust that the man shoeing your horse wasn't selling your secrets as well. Sometimes, you thought the horrid stench of the city came from all the rotten secrets rather than the wretched smallfolk who called it home.
This place… well, you would be well rid of it soon enough, and a happier man for it. No wonder father never grinned.
At the very least they had given you an opportunity to indulge in one of your favorite pastimes: jousting. All the greatest knights won acclaim in the lists, and you would be no different.
So loudly did the crowd cheer that you barely heard as your next opponent was announced. Who would you name as your Queen of Love and Beauty, you wondered, when the day was yours? Would Cersei expect the crown? Princess Naerys? Or another of the comely noble born girls.
Your horse charged forwards once again and you positioned yourself. Wait, who? Barristan the Bold?
Three seconds later you were on the ground groaning, a throbbing pain in your ass. Well, so much for that.
You had a long way to go, you supposed, before you would be claiming the victor's purse in a tourney of the realm's greatest knights. At the very least you hadn't been unhorsed by some no-name landed knight.
With a sigh you took Ser Barristan's extended hand and allowed him to help you to your feet. Was he squeezing a bit hard as he raised your hand up, every bit the graceful victor? You could imagine the older knight's blue eyes and triumphant smile behind his visor.
Just smile for the crowds.
You had not performed so badly, for a very young knight in his first serious tournament. There was no wound dealt to House Lannister's reputation, only to your pride. There was little you could do but work to better yourself.
Next time you would do better. Eventually you would win, and when that day came you would never stop winning. All the knights of the realm would fall before you. You felt the truth of that as if it were prophecy.
Still, that didn't ease the annoyance or irritation that suffused you. You paid scant attention to Gerold as he assisted his knight, the Crown Prince, as he reined his horse at the list to joust with a mystery knight identified only by a frowning lion on his shield. Idly, you wondered if the sigil was mocking your lord father.
But you pushed away the thought as you went over the joust again and again. Where could you have done better? Was there any weakness to Ser Barristan's form? Some flaw you could take advantage of?
Your ruminations were interrupted as the crowd shrieked as one. What? You shook yourself and turned to the list. Rhaegar had fallen from his horse. His prone form lay on the well-trodden earth, and a length of tourney lance stuck from his visor.
The air felt heavy with stunned silence. Moments passed as if through a fog. Then Gerold wearing the livery of House Lannister, was next to the fallen prince, and his voice rang out, "The Prince is dead!"
And chaos broke out in the stands. Nobles and commons alike began to panic. More blood flowed as a white brother reached for the mystery knight's bridle. A flash of steel cut the knight's arm off at the elbow. He fell to the ground with a howl of pain, and laughter-insane laughter- reverberated through the lists as the mystery knight, no, the assassin turned his horse and fled. As he drew out of sight, the sound of more bloodshed, more battle could be heard from his direction.
Taken down by Barristan the Bold, that's not so bad. The tournament has progressed in a fairly decent manner, wait Rhaegar's what...?
The bloody Smiling Knight, of course it is, someone really needs to institute some more security regarding mystery knights at tourneys.
I wonder who set this all up, it's a pretty massive conspiracy now. A prophecy might have been useful at this point.
There was no time to think things over, to concern yourself with politics, only to act. The Prince of Dragonstone had just been murdered and your brother was right there in the middle of it. You needed to keep him safe.
"Gerold!" you roared as you thundered to his side, shoving several people out of your way. Your brother met your eyes, his face confused and scared. He was only a year younger than you, but here and now he seemed a babe.
Ser Jonothor Darry was screaming, clutching at his severed limb as blood gushed out over his famous white cloak. Ser Arthur Dayne had already mounted a horse and ridden in pursuit of the fleeing killer, Ser Barristan and a group of gold cloaks not far behind him.
You took Gerold's arm. "We need to get out of here. Now."
He didn't move, simply staring at the fallen prince's body, now oozing blood from its broken face. "Gerold!"
That snapped his attention back to you, and you pulled him close. And gestured to a fallen sword. The younger Lannister quickly picked it up, and held it at the ready.
"Let's go," you repeated.
"No, I won't leave him." Gerold replied. And you heard that cursed stubbornness enter his voice.
"Don't be a fool. Listen to me. We've got to move!"
"I won't! You go! This is my duty as his squire."
"If you want to be a fool, then fine! We'll both be fools together."
He nodded solemnly, and you shook your head in despair. Why were you cursed with a headstrong little brother?
Still, you could see what was going on elsewhere. Where were father and Cersei?
Your eyes scanned your surroundings. The crowd churned with chaos, and a great clamour rose up. In the royal box, you saw your father barking orders. Armed men circled their location. The noble ladies, including Cersei, were under a strong guard. Safe.
Then a pale faced King Aerys finally leapt to his feet, and even from this distance you saw madness in his eyes, the fear.
"Go! Get the murderers! Bring them to me! Burn them! Burn them all!" the King commanded, and his subjects obeyed. Moments later only the hulking form of the White bull and a handful of guards remained to protect the royal box.
Your attention was torn away as a group of scared and panicked men approached. Men and women were running everywhere. Most took one look at you and turned the other way. These did not. They had likely fled to the tourney field to escape the tumultuous crowd. Still, they looked wild-eyed, and more than one held an improvised weapon.
"Gerold, be ready." you barked out.
"They're not with the bandits," Gerold replied. "They're just afraid."
"Fear makes men do strange things." you said to Gerold. You noted the strong smell of drink on them. Then to the men you said, "Go another way. Our prince is dead, and you shall not profane his body with your presence."
Lionheart eased out of it's sheathe.
A man as big as any you'd ever seen spat, and said, "Boy, I-"
His words were cut off as you flowed forward, and Lionheart's red black blade cut into his throat. The man went down holding his throat. Crimson blood spurted around his meaty fingers. You didn't give them time to react. You cut at a man holding a cudgel and smelling as if he bathed in a sewer.. He tried to block your strike, and the blade sheered through the wood. Lionheart cleaved his head in twain.
There was a moment of silence, and then the rest of the rioters turned tail and fled. They left their fallen fellows to die in the dirt of the tourney grounds. You did not sheathe Lionheart as you looked about. The rioting was getting worse, and you had to kill another man who encroached too closely to the dead prince's body.
The surrounding gangs gave you and Gerold a respectable distance, and you took the moment to look back up at the stands. Pandemonium reigned. Throughout the crowd mail clad cutthroats were slaughtering indiscriminately. Bundles of weapons had been smuggled in, and the bandits used them to deadly effect.
The Royal box. The weakened guard had been taken advantage of the chaos. The White Bull's figure was pinned against a wall by a dozen quarrels. A man with a huge belly had a dagger to King Aerys' throat, and he was backing away slowly while surrounded by a dozen of his men.
A terrified Naerys was likewise held hostage. Dread began to fill the pit of your stomach. Would they take both royals hostage?
There was a glint of steel, and the bandits dropped to the ground bonelessly. A dagger stuck out of his eye. As Naerys bolted to safety, your eyes automatically found Ilyn next to father. So used to seeing the verbose guard in plate were you, that the knight looked like a stranger in a tunic, but he had a grin of triumph on his face. You whooped for joy. Ilyn had been tirelessly practicing throwing knives, since your miraculous throw at the High Tower. Obviously, his practice had paid off.
"Where's Cersei?" Gerold's panicked outburst cut across your thoughts.
"What?"
You scanned the royal box and the rest of the crowd. No sign of your lovely sister. For that matter many noble maidens had been abducted. What the fuck was going on?
Defending Gerold, and Rhaegar's body by extension, was definitely the best plan here, he would certainly have been overrun by the mob. Ser Ilyn is amazing, he definitely deserves to be rewarded massively, a castle or two is probably fair.
In the aftermath of the 'Red Tourney', as the smallfolk had come to call it, Lord Tywin had cracked down hard on the rioting that had spread and engulfed the capital city. Hundreds had died as the gold cloaks crushed all looters and dissenters. Riots that could have stretched out for weeks were halted by your father's iron will. Now was not a time for weakness.
The remaining Kingsguard had returned from their pursuit of the Smiling Knight empty handed to find their king kidnapped along with a score of highborn maidens, and easily over a dozen lords or prominent knights butchered. Those bandits that were captured were tortured and then killed.
The king was gone and his heir stolen. Aegon Targaryen was now Prince of Dragonstone, and under heavy guard day and night along with his brother and sisters. In truth you were not even sure who had taken up command of the white cloaks, nor who would replace Ser Jonothor or Ser Gerold in their roster. The five that remained were grim-faced, and the normally congenial Ser Arthur Dayne radiated wrath and fury. As soon as Prince Rhaegar had been buried, the famed knight had called for an expedition to both rescue their monarch and punish the assassins. There was no shortage of voices to second his call.
It was strange. A few nights before Rhaegar Targaryen had been a future king, believed by many to be on his way to one of the greatest of them all. Now he was simply ashes.
You had not known him well, but the melancholic tension of the city had afflicted you as it had all others. What would be the future of the kingdom should King Aerys be lost? Would there be a child king, or indeed an infant one if Naerys whelped?
And they had Cersei. Sweet, beautiful Cersei who had been so beautiful, so full of the fire of life as you danced. Your sister, your twin, your other half.
If they had touched her-
You would save such thoughts. Bottle them up, and hold them tightly within you. The rage they inspired gave you more than enough strength to see the Smiling Knight flensed. Let your little brother rage openly, and Ser Robert bellow his fury for all to hear. Let your father coldly rule over the Seven Kingdoms. Your rage, your will would see Cersei returned, and everyone of these bandits, no, these rebels dead with their head on a pike.
The lords that remained in the capital (and none had been permitted to flee) were angry and frightened, hungry for blood. The retinues and knights they had brought would be more than enough to scour the Kingswood until nothing living remained.
On the morrow you would join the offensive. Now, it was time to rest. Or it would be if you hadn't found a letter from the princess in your rooms. The letter was in one of the codes she'd taught you, and thus its authenticity was beyond question. So, you did as asked. You went to the godswood after sixth bell and waited.
An hour passed and the sun had begun to set before you had company. Ser Barristan Selmy with his gleaming armor swept into the glade alongside princess Naerys. Barristan's blue eyes were cold and hard, and they were locked upon you.
"Ser Barristan, leave us," Princess Naerys said softly. The older knight's gaze did not waiver an inch. "It'll be alright. Besides yourself, Ser Jaime is the man I feel the safest with."
The older man's face could've been carved from stone as he withdrew. You paid the great knight little attention as the gorgeous princesses' presence washed over you. She wore black as was proper for a widow in mourning, however it did not dim her beauty. And her eyes looked as sharp as ever, red as they were from tears.
Long moments passed, and then you and her were truly alone. A light breeze ruffled the leaves, and swept your blonde hair lightly.
"Princess, it is good to see you, but I have many preparations for tomorrow's march…" you said quickly.
She smiled, and you steeled yourself.
"Then let us cut to the point. I am a maiden." Naerys said bluntly.
You blinked in surprise. "Rhaegar didn't…"
"No, my husband still saw me as a sister, and on our wedding night he did not perform his marital duties, even as I insisted."
"Oh."
What else could you say? She had lost everything in that joust. With Rhaegar gone and his marriage childless the Iron Throne would pass to Aegon, exactly as she had feared. What would become of Rhaella Targaryen's daughter now? How would your family fare with the Tyrells so tightly knit to the Iron Throne?
"You're wondering why I'm telling you this." It wasn't a question. "This morning I spoke to a maegi that I discreetly keep in my employ." Remembering Maggy from years gone by, you made your face go blank."Ah, you know of them. Well, she is as far as I can ascertain, a witch of the highest quality."
You looked at her skeptically, but she continued quickly, "She spoke of many things, but concerning you and I she said one thing: If you and I make love this evening, a son will be born from our union. He will have the face and colors of Aegon the Conqueror come again, with my wit and your courage. A babe who will grow into a king."
You froze in place at her words, your face feeling like it was on fire. "A bastard, not a true king." you said cautiously.
Her amethyst eyes stared at you unblinkingly, "A bastard in truth, but aside from you and I, he'd be known to all as the trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen. Perhaps, Ser Barristan would suspect, but the old man loves me far too much to ever betray me. I know the Red Keep's tunnels well enough to evade notice entirely, and it is soon enough after Rhaegar's death that it would be easily accepted."
"Thus, you'd remain queen, and wield enormous power until our bastard reached his majority."
She nodded unashamedly. "Your father would remain Hand of the King, and the Tyrells would remain at arm's distance. After your father eventually steps down, I can think of no better successor than his son. And if my half-brother becomes king instead and weds his Tyrell bride…"
She let the implication hang in the air, and you considered her words.
Things are so screwed up after this, the kingdoms are teetering on a knife's edge. A war looks extremely likely.
Wow Naerys is making a bold offer here, this is probably the single biggest act of treason Jaime could commit beside becoming the Kingslayer in this universe. It's so massively risky, if the child has any Lannister features at all, how likely is it that the Lannister who recently started spending an awful lot of time with the Princess will be suspected?
For a moment, you remained silent. The princess wasn't just asking to make a son, she was asking you to commit treason, but she'd be lined up for the headsman's block with you if the plan came to light.
Still, the thought of your blood sitting on the Iron Throne as King, the thought of the grasping Tyrells being slapped down, the thought of Naerys' in your arms...
"I'll do it," you finally said.
She rushed forward and gave you a hug and ghosted a kiss on your cheek. Your world would never be the same.
"You won't regret this, my lord," Naerys said with a bright smile. She whispered, "Wait for me at the eleventh bell."
You nodded, she quickly left the godswood, and the sun set.
***
The next morning you woke up refreshed and relaxed. The night's activities had been... vigorous. Though obviously still a maiden Naerys had been an enthusiastic partner, as sweet and tender as you had once imagined.
Whatever books she had learned from, you would make sure they were available to Aelinor a few years down the road. Though with her future fostering with her aunt, the Lady Malora, you thought she would learn more than enough.
It might have been a truly wonderful experience, if not for the knowledge that she was using you. You supposed you could live with being used by beautiful women. And it wasn't like you weren't using her in turn. At least both of you had seemed to enjoy the arrangement.
After a quick bath, Gerold helped you to put your gilded armor on, and you cinched Lionheart into the sheathe. Then you helped the younger squire into his armor. He'd be riding with you, and you'd damn well make sure he was armored and armed properly.
A grim expression cut across your features as you and Gerold stepped out into the Red Keep's courtyard. Two groups, small armies really, were preparing to ride out.
So be it. Jaime has made an extremely risky decision here, but it was rather telegraphed by his previous weakness towards women. It's even possible that a rescued Aerys might marry Naerys to Jaime anyway, it depends on how his madness develops during his capture. I really hate this decision from a moral standpoint though. There's being pragmatic, ruthless, and calculating, and then there's a move like this. This might even be one of the few actions Gerold would never forgive us for, he seems to have looked up to Rhaegar massively.
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.
Riding out to fight was the obvious Jaime choice here. This is probably the most well armed, and well trained, group to ever hunt bandits in Westeros. Gerold and Jaime did perform quite a useful duty, and it should leave them above reproach for the foreseeable future, so long as Aerys' madness doesn't strike. More training with amazing fighters is at least a small bonus of this situation.
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."
Ahh, the Tyrells, of course. Someone really needs to do something about them, like wipe them out and split their kingdom into a shark and a cock perhaps.
You stared at Mace Tyrell, a look of utter contempt planted firmly on your face, and nodded at Fossoway as he adroitly guided his liege lord away.
Robert Baratheon shook his head, a clearly disappointed expression on his face. "You should have kicked his ass."
"He's not worth it," replied, eyes fixed on the staggering Lord Paramount. Never Kings. "Just a limp flower begging to get plucked. No honor or sense in that victory."
"No honor," agreed Robert with a snort, "but plenty of fun. You need to loosen up, or you'll get all puckered tight like Stannis. You can certainly hold your liquor, and it'd be a shame if we don't go drinking after this."
You paid him little attention. There was something far more spectacular than anything Robert Baratheon was saying occurring before you.
Ser Lewyn and Ser Arthur circled one another. Their plate shimmered in the torchlight, and the greatsword, Dawn, seemed to glow in Dayne's hand. All eyes were fastened on them. The members of the Kingsguard were amongst the greatest knights of the realm, and both Dornishmen upheld the martial reputation of their order.
"They're amazing," Gerold breathed beside you.
You nodded, "Especially, Ser Arthur."
When you'd seen Ser Barristan fight against the bandits in King's Landing, you thought he was undoubtedly the greatest fighter you'd ever seen in your short life, however the Sword of the Morning seemed a match for his paramount skill. The deftness of his parries, the speed of his ripostes, the precision of his cuts was like watching something out of a story book. Only in your dreams had you fought that well, and the way he was beating the Martell across the sparring circle bespoke of a startling ferocity.
Gerold turned you, his expression uncertain. "Do you… do you think that could be me one day?"
Robert snorted from your other side, "And give up women for a fancy white cloak? You're young still, boy. You don't know what you'd be giving up."
You remained silent for a moment…
Mace Tyrell is a fat fool unworthy of our time.
The King's Guard is not a safe place for Gerold currently, whether Aerys comes back mad, or Aegon is crowned and a civil war breaks out, a White Cloak would only bring danger to Gerold. He could become a King's Guard at a more stable time in the future if that is truly his desire at that point in time.
The next day you rode out with Lord Crakehall and his grandson Merrett at the head of a detachment of scouts.
"You were wise to avoid giving too fierce a scolding to Tyrell," offered the towering lord. "Makes the man look like twice the ass, to pick a fight with a boy ten years his junior, and for the younger to look the greater."
You nodded tiredly. Crakehall had come along on your father's orders. To be certain you had disappointed him somewhat with the fathering of little Owain, but you definitely weren't in need of a babysitter.
The thick-faced Frey boy mumbled something under his breath, and his grandfather gave him a swift clout behind his ear, sending him near tumbling from his horse.
"Speak openly or don't speak at all boy. No man of my blood will be known as Merrett the Mumbler!"
The Frey boy nursed his bruising ear and shot you a venomous glare, but in the end said nothing. Crakehall snorted. "It's been too long since I was on the march. All day in the saddle makes my arse hurt. It's a young man's game. Like that business with Roxton. Fine work, that."
You opened your mouth to respond, but whatever you had planned to say was drowned out by a great cry from behind you. Then several more cries followed, and you turned around in your saddle.
Many of your men had arrows jutting from their bodies, and a handful had fallen from their mounts. More arrows shot from the surrounding foliage. The men of the scouting force pulled out swords and other weapons. Then they charged out of the clearing towards their hidden attackers. Before they met the treeline, they were met by a sizeable force armed with castle-forged steel and armored in fine mail, and wearing the green and brown of the Kingswood Brotherhood.
They clashed for long moments. Metal rang through the forest. Men died. Some well. Some badly.
More arrows rained down from within the treeline, and the royalist forces looked as if they were going to break.
"None so Fierce!" Lord Crakehall roared, and the ground quaked as he led his charger into the fray. You and Merrett were only a half stride behind him, and then you plunged into the traitorous scum. Your lance felled two men before it snapped and you found Lionheart in your hand. You laid about you. Your horse reared up and smashed a bandit wielding a glaive with its iron shod hooves.
You fought and you fought and fought. Blood stained your gilded armor, and your arm was getting tired. Still, they came.
An arrow crashed into your mount's head, and the stallion went down bonelessly. Instinctively, you rolled free, and came to your feet. A diagonal slash cut a burly man cleanly in two. An arrow clanged uselessly off your shield.
The towering form of Lord Crakehall was suddenly next to you. The man fought furiously, and each blow of his two handed axe shattered a shield, a sword, or a foeman.
"My lord, go!" Crakehall said, as he gestured at his mount.
Crakehall is a badass. Horses heads seem to attract weapons in this universe though. Any option here could be the right one, there is simply too little information to know which choice is best.
