Just once, Jaime would have liked to ride into King's Landing without a festering sense of dread. While the smell and the sights along the road were no treat, the city itself should have inspired something in him, made him feel a sense of purpose, something. But it seemed only fitting that melancholy struck him whenever he came to this city, because every time he'd come, something more was taken from him. First he'd lost his sense of honour and prestige, learning what his duties to Aerys required him to permit, and that the Mad King viewed him not as a knight of skill but a hostage to hold against his father. Then he'd lost his sister to the Usurper, lost his dignity and his hope that things might improve without a Targaryen on the Iron Throne. The last time, he had marched into the city to find he'd lost his sister for a final time, and that she'd taken their children with her.
Now, he entered the city knowing full well that the place would take more from him.
He and his father, and their attendants and hangers-on, had begun to see the city the previous evening, just as the sun set. Tywin suggested, and Jaime agreed, that they should make camp outside the city walls with the other groups, rather than try to press onwards and into the city after long and wearying days of travel. Not to mention, making camp in the outskirts would allow them more space than whatever limited facilities the King could offer at that moment. It would also allow them to make a dramatic entrance in the morning sun, as they were doing now, and Jaime didn't have to wonder very hard at all if that was part of his father's plan as well.
Through the Lion's Gate, because of course we would, Jaime sighed, he and his father made for the Great Sept with a small cadre of men. It didn't take long to ascend Visenya's Hill, and there they entered the Sept of Baelor, finding inside practically every highborn family of Westeros being represented. Indeed, it was easier to notice who he didn't see; Jaime's Aunt Genna and her husband Emmon were the only Freys in the entire city; a few Crownsland houses had sent only a marriageable daughter and a sworn knight to defend her, rather than show up themselves and face genuflecting to the King; Garlan Tyrell was the only one of his family to attend; and the lonely figure of unfortunately-named Dickon Tarly brought to mind his brother and father, sworn to services far from home. More graceful in their defeat and reconciliation were the houses of the Vale, chief among them House Royce with their runes and bronzed decorative armor. Idly, Jaime noticed the absence of House Arryn, but they were the only Vale house he knew of that wasn't in attendance.
Mingling a bit, Jaime separated from his father, finding his own path through people who weeks or months ago he might have run through with a sword instead of gliding past with a smile and nod. Who would want to be polite to people you'd just been planning to kill, wear these silly clothes that would get in the way when you wanted to fight, drink these shitty wines and listen to such boring people as though they were worthy of the tiniest bit of interest? Any man who willingly chooses this life must have been kicked in the head, he thought. He wandered into a group of Northmen, all looking quite out of place among southron silks and perfumes, and a very small part of him despaired at the fact that he felt much safer and at home here than he did standing near his father. What have the last few years made of you, a voice that painfully sounded like Cersei asked in his head.
Distracted, he barely paid any mind to who he went past in the Northern contingent, moving past men he distantly recognised as Manderlys, Forresters, and Karstarks with their outlandish beards, until an especially odd group made him crawl out of his thoughts. Namely, by stopping those thoughts dead with the sheer unreality of it all. A less-mad Euron Greyjoy, a less-boring Ned Stark, a less-bored Roose Bolton and a less-balding Mormont stood before him, and their true names took him more than a moment to find. The Mormont girl, without the beard or baldness that marked her uncle, was the first to step forward. "My Lord Lannister," she curtsied properly, "it's a privilege to meet you in person at last."
Now he heard his father's voice in his head, exasperated and tired, Dacey Mormont, you fool. "My Lady Mormont," he bowed in turn, "the pleasure is mine." Dacey Mormont was rather tall, not quite his own height but much closer than most women got, and she was much lovelier than her more rough-and-tumble reputation suggested. She smiled and laughed, as polite a laugh at him as he'd heard recently (laughs with him were certainly more polite, though they had been less authentic of late).
"I told you he'd be nice, Dom," she gave the young Bolton a gentle swat on the chest, "when will you learn I can tell instantly about people?" The less-mad Euron let out an undignified snort at that, and now it was not his father or sister but his very drunk brother Tyrion once mentioning the name Theon Greyjoy in his mind.
"When your successes are more than one in three," the man teased back, and Jaime recalled the name Domeric Bolton without the help of a mental family member this time, younger and livelier than his father (in every sense of the word, Jaime wisely kept to himself) as the young lord introduced himself moments later. He recalled seeing this young Bolton at the Trident, but hadn't interacted directly with him. "My wife is the equal of many men on a horse or holding a sword, but recognising good men remains a terrible flaw. How else could one explain our travelling companions?" He smiled warmly to numb any burn of rebuke to the two other young men, and Jaime struggled to imagine how a barely-living icicle like Lord Roose could be related to this man.
The young Greyjoy introduced himself next, exuding a personality that seemed a bit too lively for one of Ned Stark's wards, but not nearly murderous enough for one of Balon's brood. A strange young man, Jaime thought before turning slightly, and this must be the infamous bastard of Ned Stark, and sized up the man that Theon introduced as though he were a brother, Jon Snow. On closer inspection, though, the boy puzzled Jaime; he looked nothing like Ned Stark. The same eyes and hair and I want to be anywhere other than here presence of Stark in the city, certainly, but his face was … almost familiar to Jaime, in a strange way, and not at all like Lord Stark's. This continued to niggle at him for some time, and a tiny part of him was grateful to his father for the renewed lessons in enduring the small talk highborn enjoyed, which instinctively took over and went through the motions while Jaime continued to wonder at it. It wasn't long before he parted ways with the strange Northerners, but this new distraction lingered, so much so that he very nearly bowled over a blond, greying man in Northern clothes, and didn't recognise the man for longer than he'd care to admit.
Gerion Lannister wore a grey cloak with a red lining and subtle bronze lions-head clasps over fine yet practical clothes, and were it not for his colours and the cloak fasteners he could have easily passed for a Manderly instead of a Lannister. He looked healthier and happier than Jaime ever remembered seeing him. Gerion's ever-present smile broadened at seeing Jaime, and he quickly found himself pulled into a firm hug from the Northern lord.
"It's good to have you back in the city, lad," Gerion gave Jaime a not-especially gentle thump on the back, and as his spine ached slightly, Jaime wondered if he'd been spending time with the Umbers in addition to House Stark. His uncle briefly turning to a bear of a man with the red giant of House Umber on his breast and giving him a similar embrace seemed to confirm the impression. Coming back to Jaime, Gerion asked, "Does the Lord of Casterly Rock think he might take any time to travel North, see his favourite uncle and his little cousins?"
"Unfortunately, being Lord of Casterly Rock is proving to be a role that consumes every spare second," Jaime said. "Sending ravens, going over reports, holding meetings, reading messages from other ravens...it's almost enough to make me miss standing around doing nothing outside the Usurper's door."
"Myself, I've found it all far less taxing without my brother breathing down my neck," Gerion admitted, "but I suppose you'd dislike the work even if he was as far away from you as he is from me -- lordship always seemed a cloak that would fit you ill, my boy." Jaime tilted his head a little in not-quite-agreement. "Speaking of brothers, though, yours always struck me as well-suited to a lot of the work, so you could always pass off some of it to him. Your father did so with Kevan, even me once in a while." His uncle added with a light tone, "You could also send him to see his favourite uncle and cousins. I'm sure he'd find plenty to like, even marvel at, in the North."
"Oh?" Jaime smirked. "Are the whores and wine that good beyond the Neck?" He thought he saw Gerion's face twitch a little, but decided not to remark on it. "And isn't your keep yet unfinished?"
Gerion waved a hand. "Minor details," he said warmly. "And with the war over, we'll have River's Roar finished in no time. It's going to be quite a sight when it's done."
"It's quite a site already," said a voice behind Jaime, and while Gerion's smile remained fixed on his face, a frost as cold as any winter's night had passed over his eyes. "Although I'm given to understand it is still only a site, with no structures deserving of the name," Tywin finished as he came around Jaime's side.
"You once advised me to be more skeptical of what one is at first presented with." Gerion's smile didn't move, but even Jaime could sense the slide into biting mockery behind it. "Do you suppose that I never listened to you or took lessons from you, brother?"
"I haven't dared to hope otherwise for thirty years," Tywin answered, tone as dry as the Red Wastes.
"Maybe you don't know your family as well as you think," Gerion said to Tywin as he gave Jaime a quick, pointed look. "For a man so sure of himself, you do seem to be surprised by us rather a lot."
"Indeed," Tywin replied. "Whenever I find myself believing one of you has finally reached the final depths of your own foolishness, you never fail to bring forth mining tools and a defiant attitude." Such a comment might have stung Jaime once upon a time, before he spent as much time as he had around Viserys, and Gerion had bore them before he'd even been born. So it struck him as odd that Gerion's face twitched again, and apparently Tywin had noticed, too. "...ah. You've been mining more than stone in those mountains, hmm?"
"You saw the Northern forces on your way into the city," Gerion remarked icily. In fact, Tywin had idly remarked upon the unexpected quality of what he'd seen in their gatherings as he and Jaime had made camp the previous night. "Their arms and armor had to be made and paid for, after all, and the king didn't provide all the silver and steel for it." Jaime had held his suspicions to himself, but Gerion had just confirmed them.
"And now the silver of your new banner," Tywin said without even trying to hide his contempt for the cadet branch's arms, "is illuminated. And here I thought it just one more attempt to spit in my face."
"Father, you promised me that we would be civil and present a united front," Jaime warned.
"Why, to any man who looks at the three of us, this looks perfectly civil and united," Tywin answered.
"I honestly don't know what more you expected, Lord Jaime," Gerion sighed. "This is more civility from Tywin than I expected to receive. And no, brother," he turned his head to slightly glare at Jaime's father, "the silver was not meant as a taunt. Not everything I do is to spite you."
"I suppose that, because you could have gone with a red lion, I should be contented that you merely chose silver and a red hill instead?"
"The red hill is about remembering how Joy began, and how we ended up where we did," Gerion said in a voice that most people would take to be diplomatic, while those who knew the family would recognise the tone as a subtle taunt itself. "If that story or the manner of its depiction happens to gall you, Tywin, well ... life does occasionally have its little bonuses," Gerion smiled, now genuine and mean and Jaime wished his uncle could for once in his life restrain the impulse to pull the Old Lion's tail.
"Does your wife consider her handmaiden one of life's little bonuses?" Tywin asked. "Or do you?"
Jaime had no idea what that meant, but it seemed that Gerion did, because his face paled. Tywin's face took on a genuine and mean smile of its own. "I care little either way, Gerion, so long as the whore stays in the North."
All mirth had vanished from Gerion's face, and Jaime thought he'd never looked more like Tywin's brother than he did in that moment as the dangerous man he'd met in the Doom returned to life. "Do not call her that."
Tywin was unimpressed. "Handmaid or chambermaid or whatever you call her, I care not, so long as that is all she is called. She is nothing else and will be nothing else."
"The Faith disagrees." Jaime's eyes bounced back and forth, feeling more lost than usual in a familial battle of wits, and this one felt far more tense than any he'd experienced before. He found himself hoping that, Seven willing, things would become clearer soon.
Gerion continued. "It turns out that when you can't bribe or bully a septon into telling you what you want to hear, the Seven quite clearly hold that only the married parties in question can seek divorce. It can't be undone by another man's coin or his threats. So until and unless one of them asks for it, she remains and has always been Lady Lannister. That is all she will be called in my presence."
Jaime's eyes fixed onto his father, questions answered. Really, he needed to learn how to be careful what he wished for -- the gods were vicious cunts, as Tyrion liked to remind him, and when they bothered to answer prayers they had a habit of doing so with a backhand more often than a boon. The crofter's girl, Tysha? That's what this is all about?
Tywin's lip curled into a sneer. "The Seven aren't here to say otherwise. I am. And I think you'll find the High Septon to be a malleable man to the right pressures -- as the worldly voice of the Seven, he'll say as I tell him. Now I am telling you, Lord Gerion," and dimly, Jaime thought he'd scarcely in his life heard more derision packed into the word 'lord', "nothing is going to change." To an outside eye, the grip that Tywin placed on Gerion's shoulder might have looked friendly, conciliatory, even the nasty smile his father wore could be mistaken as genuine. Not for the first time, Jaime was reminded that Tywin Lannister held power whether he held a seat or not. "You will remain in the North and so will she. If she stays with you or goes wherever whores go, it matters not. But should she set one foot beyond the Neck, should I hear a word breathed of Tyrion planning to visit your keep or you dreaming of visiting the Westerlands with your household, I will make an end to it."
Jaime had a nasty feeling about what he meant by that, and likely so did Gerion, but nonetheless his uncle pressed. "You aren't the Lord Paramount, Warden of the West or Lord of Casterly Rock anymore. You only have as much power and coin as that man allows you to have. All you have of your own are words."
"I didn't need anything more to deal with Roger Reyne. I don't need anything more to deal with you." Tywin's smile vanished. "You can have a silver banner under a lion and build a keep over your mines, near a river, if you really want to invite such comparisons. I already know how to handle such a place and such a man, so for once you would spare me some trouble. Now," he turned, "things will begin soon, and Lord Jaime wants us to present a united front." And with that, he stepped to Jaime's other side, and began to engage with Aunt Genna.
Jaime, for his part, refused to look at his father, instead taking notice of Gerion. His uncle was as pale as snow, and it took him a long time to snap out of his fugue state. When he did, Jaime leaned in to whisper, "You found the girl?" A nod. "And took her with you?" Another nod. "Why?"
Gerion's mouth worked in the air for a moment before he found his voice. "I wish I could just say to protect her, or to make amends to Tyrion for not protecting him more. And they would be the truth, just not all of it. I also took her to make sure I couldn't lose my nerve and try to turn back, get Tywin's forgiveness." Gerion shook his head. "And it worked. From the moment I brought her into our wagon I never looked back or reconsidered what I was doing. But maybe I should have."
Jaime frowned. "Why would you ever think that?"
"Because the girl's life wouldn't be in danger," Gerion hissed. "Because my brother probably wouldn't have threatened to drown my entire household and family just to hold onto an old grudge."
"Does Tyrion know?"
"No, and apparently never will," Gerion said bitterly.
Jaime hesitated, hardly daring to ask. "Does ... does the girl still care for him?"
His uncle didn't answer directly. "The first few months were rough. The last year and a half, though, she's been better. Asking me, sometimes, for stories of Tyrion as a boy. Always trying to hide a smile while she listened. Even asked for stories about you, occasionally." Jaime felt something in his neck pop from how quickly he turned his head to Gerion. "She only remembers you as the knight all in white. Didn't believe anyone who said 'Kingslayer' in her presence, not even when I confirmed it. Believed every word I told her of the Doom, though, even when no one else did." Gerion fell quiet, then, and Jaime quickly noticed why -- the Royal Family was beginning to make their way into the Sept.
As the coronation went on, all pomp and circumstance and dreadfully boring for Jaime at the best of times, he found himself back inside his own head. He had been instrumental in what happened to that girl. If he hadn't gone along with his father's commands, hadn't been cowed and bent to Tywin's will ... maybe nothing would be different. Maybe still she would have been brutalised and thrown into the cold, Tyrion would be forever changed and the Westerlands would gain two more broken souls. But that sounded much more hollow than it used to. Less so than any time since that ... calling it a 'dream' feels cheap, a 'visitation' feels silly, a 'vision' feels dishonest, but something in that family must fit, he thought, perhaps a 'glimpse'..., ugh, fuck, Rhaegar was the poet. And me the sword that failed him. Whatever it was, however he'd found himself on those ruined shores walking with Rhaegar's ghost, Jaime knew that had changed him. He just hadn't considered that it would be like a stone in a pond, sending ripples out into the future but also into his past. It had been years, but he could still conjure her face, the sad eyes and brown hair of Tysha. Another person he'd failed, someone lost to his father's wrath in no small part because of his own mistakes. His own weaknesses.
In the blink of an eye, somehow the ceremonies had concluded and people were mingling again. His reveries were broken when a black-gloved hand gently took his arm, and he started, before a likewise gentle voice asked, "Are you yet well, my lord?"
Jaime turned, and took in the young man. Prince Aegon wore much more formal attire than normal for a goldcloak, minimally armored and wearing black silks instead of leathers, and (mercifully, in Jaime's opinion) absent the ridiculous helms the City Watch wore. However, anyone who'd spent even a day of serious time in sparring would recognise the young prince as sharply attentive of the crowd and wholly prepared to draw his steel if needed. He gave Aegon a nod. "I'm well, Your Grace. You've only pulled me from my thoughts, and I didn't expect it. No harm done."
Aegon offered an awkward smile. "You'll forgive me, Ser Jai – sorry, Lord Jaime –"
"It's alright."
"Force of habit, you know?"
"I do," Jaime gave the prince a lopsided grin, hoping to put him at ease.
The awkwardness remained in the prince's smile, though. "Well. Okay. You'll forgive that. Would you also forgive if I wasn't asking about startling you?"
Jaime tilted his head slightly. "I think I would. If I knew what it was you were asking about."
"I was, erm," Aegon shuffled a bit, and sighed. "Shit. This is so much more nerve-wracking than it used to be." The prince met his eye, then. "I was asking about where you'd gone in your head. Your body was still here, but your mind looked to have wandered afield, and you looked … I don't know. You looked … troubled? I guess?"
Jaime offered some mercy. "You can relax, Lord Commander. We're still the same people, just under different titles." Aegon did as he was told, tension almost melting off of him. "I was thinking about the past. Thinking about mistakes, poor decisions. Weak moments."
"Really? You?" Aegon looked surprised, and Jaime said as much. "It's just, well, you don't come off as someone who thinks about their decisions for too long, especially not after making them. Not that I don't think you think," he said hastily, and Jaime tried very hard not to laugh at Aegon's slightly panicked expression. "It's that, you know, you, erm. You're a man of the moment. Not someone who broods over the past or the future."
"I used to be," Jaime admitted. "I still give into the impulse every once in a while. But being a lord requires different things than being a knight or a soldier. I'm sure you're coming to find that, too," he gave a pointed look, to which Aegon nodded. "I probably should have been that person long before being a lord, too. Could have seen some things go very differently."
"Would you still have killed my grandfather?" Aegon asked suddenly, and Jaime stiffened. "If you were someone who thought about things more, worried about mistakes before acting?" Unlike almost every other person in King's Landing, the prince had no insinuating tone, no backhanded insult or something else clearly going on behind his eyes. All Jaime saw in meeting Aegon's gaze was a young man who asked honestly, and so he answered honestly in turn.
"Yes."
Aegon nodded. "Good." Jaime blinked once. Then twice. "I don't need to remember anything about him to know he was a deranged and dangerous shit, and I don't need anything else to know you did the right thing."
"I didn't, though," Jaime sighed. "I didn't save your mother, or your sister. But I could have. I should have."
"And you might have, if you weren't that person then?"
Jaime nodded, warm tendrils of shame licking at the back of his mind like flames. Not the burning malediction they once were, but he knew he'd carry that forever.
"But you aren't that person now?" Aegon asked, and Jaime shook his head. "Good. Then you'll save the next one, won't you." This time it wasn't a question, and the prince worked to find Jaime's eye again. "I don't blame you for what happened to them. But you won't make that mistake again. I know that."
"I might make all different mistakes by not making that one," Jaime grimaced. "The problem with these things, the problem with being a lord who thinks about the past and the future, is seeing what other things might happen because of what I do or don't do."
"I'm beginning to find that out as I get older, as well," Aegon said, and Jaime barely held back the urge to swat the prince who was half his age talking about 'getting older'. Viserys likes me more than him, I can definitely get away with it, he thought.
There's a lot of lords and ladies who'd be unhappy with it, a voice not nearly strong enough in his head offered. The queen and the princess among them.
Everyone would live through it, Jaime argued with himself, unlike other things I've done.
You know it wouldn't really be worth the trouble, for you or your king, the voice answered, and he hated that the voice was probably right, unconvincing as it was.
Oblivious to his struggles, Aegon continued. "You want to know something that's helped me, the last month or two?"
Jaime nodded, trying to make his palm stop itching, hoping the boy might actually earn a reprieve.
"I try to find what answer, what option will let me sleep through the night," Aegon said. "Anything that happens past that, I can work with it or try to fix it later, but I need that before anything else."
Jaime's hand stopped itching.
"If it makes life harder, makes things messier, I still know I did the right thing in the moment." He shrugged. "I can't ask anything more from my men, how could I ask more than that from myself."
"I see your point," Jaime acknowledged.
"Was that helpful, my lord?"
"It was some help," Jaime sighed, "and that'll probably have to do for me." He looked out over the mass of people, seeing that many lords were departing for celebrations elsewhere, but the king and a few others were still remaining, apparently hoping to talk with fewer eyes and ears around. A good thirty goldcloaks were littered about the sept, some in twos and threes, and he knew that a dozen or two more stood outside the sept. His gaze returned to the young prince. "If I planned on making a choice like that, if there was something that needed to be done, would the City Watch be in a position to help see it through?"
Aegon's jaw set, his eyes firm. "The sixty men here today are the ones I trust the most. Some are veteran goldcloaks, but most of them came from the Company." His eyes went to a smaller set of doors to one side of the sept, and Jaime followed his gaze to see a few septas walking around the aisles there. Lesser men would miss it, and Jaime would be very shocked indeed if more than ten men in the entire gathering hadn't done so, but the septas were wearing boots instead of simple sandals. And their robes hung just oddly enough to make him think that weapons were hidden underneath. Aegon added in a whisper, "My cousins also came, in the event there could be trouble."
"There could be." Jaime felt Aegon's eyes settle on him, but he was busy looking to see where his own men had gone to. They'd also been carefully selected, but this was no time to be too trusting. Coming back to meet Aegon's gaze, he continued, a casual tone to his voice. "A cautious man might ensure that a house's sworn swords couldn't interfere. A clever man might have his closest allies standing with him if something were to happen."
Aegon nodded slowly. "A careful man would wait for a signal. If he knew what it was."
"Trust me, you won't miss it," Jaime said, grim and certain. "There's time yet, but I don't mean to be wasting it. You probably want to start talking to some people that aren't me."
"Understood," Aegon looked to the ersatz septas, and ostentatiously twisted his head around to crack his neck. "Lord Lannister," he gave a nod as the septas began to move towards them.
"Lord Commander," Jaime returned it, and left the prince to his devices. It didn't take much looking for him to find King Viserys, standing with Princess Daenerys and Lord Stark. Jaime began to make his way through the thinning crowds to try and ensure that they were likewise informed that events were going to take a turn. It was hardly the place or the time, Jaime knew, but after the things he'd heard today he was resolved to not wait any longer or take any more chances. He'd alert the other royals, perhaps even get Lord Stark's aid in addition to Aegon's, and then speak to--
"Jaime," his father took his arm and broke his focus. "We have business to attend to before we move on to the celebrations tonight." His mind still working away at his other, more pressing task, it took Jaime a moment to catch on that Tywin held a wooden box not much larger than a war helmet. His father misread Jaime's expression, and sighed before he elaborated. "Come with me; we must meet with Prince Oberyn."
He only just managed to restrain a humourless laugh at the irony. Yes, he did need to meet with the Dornishman, but not about this. Disguising it as a light cough clearing his throat, Jaime nodded. "I agree. I last remember he was talking with Lord Strickland, over by the chancel."
Tywin looked that direction, and nodded. "You're right. The balding head is rather difficult to miss," and began to stride that way without another word. If Tyrion were there, he might have shared a private look with his brother about the casual hypocrisy on display, but instead he turned to follow.
Just one more uncomfortable conversation, Jaime told himself. Then we'll make an end to it.
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AN: Every time I wanted to put finishing touches on this, more conversations ended up happening -- originally, there was no meeting with the Northerners, and no conversation with Gerion either, but they insisted and it kept growing in length. 1.5K words became 3K, became 4.5K. As I was writing, I thought I was finally reaching the end point that I'd originally intended, when all of a sudden Tywin decided that he wanted a chat with Oberyn. And I can hardly deny that it's in fact necessary for the narrative arc, so this is actually (irritatingly) part one. The unintended but apparently needed part two will follow in a few days, once the Old Lion and the Viper square off a bit, and I rework the narrative's perspective and tense. And I pray to who-or-whomever necessary that there aren't any more people who interrupt the process to poke their heads in and say "oh, we want a moment in the spotlight!" ... although I certainly wouldn't bet the house.
Can you please just restrain yourself for once?
