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Chapter Text

How did one prepare for life in the Kingsguard?

It was a question he still pondered even as he knelt in the dirt and he spoke the words. When the pristine white cloak had been draped over his shoulders, anointed by the White Bull himself, as Ser Barristan Selmy had been decades before, he still lacked an answer. The colour of their armour and cloak a reflection of purity. A colour usually seen on young noble ladies as they attended Maiden's Day celebrations in the Sept.

Perhaps that was why they chose white. As pure a white as the waters of the Sunset Sea were blue. A constant reminder in their every step of what they were to uphold. The pinnacle of the knightly order. They were peerless, clean, brave and just.

If only that were true.

Sometimes still as he walked the halls he wondered if he might be trailing a cloak of brown and grey, soaking up the shit and ash that pervaded King's Landing. But no courtiers stopped him to warn him that his cloak was anything but the cleanest of white.

They looked upon him with awe.

Of something that they wanted for their own son but it would never be.

There was no way to compete for a position as one never knew when a spot would open. Most Kingsguard died doing their duties. During times of peace one might expect an illness or old age to end them. Young knights were preferred. Men who could serve for decades whilst in the prime of their lives. Luck, it seemed, played the greatest part. There were countless great knights across Westeros. They had the best arms and armour money could buy. They had great fighting prowess, were trained by masters-at-arms that saw war and battle, were of significant rank and title, swore vows to protect the innocent; and yet they were not given the honour as he was.

Honour.

One spoke of honour in the same breath as glory and duty. Of serving ones father, their master, lord, liege and King. To swear in the sacred oils of the Faith, to uphold the law and defend the innocent, protect those who could not protect themselves, to never steal nor rape, to be brave; to obey, always. In service came livelihood, the duties thrust upon them, the honour that they carried in their hearts, and through good service they would be richly rewarded.

Young boys acting as pages and squires saw knighthood as a goal that would signal to their friends and family that they were a man.

There were few places that men could make a name for themselves. Some were tourney knights who showed their prowess with their horse and a lance at the quintains. Others won the archery and found a place in the household guard of some lord. Others still cheered for the prospect of war. They desired fame and fortune, glory or honour, while few only wished to provide good service. True knights were the rarest of all.

Men who had been great knights in their day were remembered while the rest forgotten. Most had seen war. They were shaped by it and so too was the rest of Westeros' perception of their deeds. They became the focus of children's stories, of the pages and squires for the generations that followed. Serwyn and his Mirror Shield, Ser Ryam Redwyne, Prince Aemon the Dragonknight and the still living Ser Barristan Selmy.

They all aspired to be as great a knight as he.

When they were still boys of summer, green as grass, their blade free of blood or tears.

He could scarcely believe that the boy kneeling in the dirt that inducted him into the most famous order in the Seven Kingdoms would be him. That the crowds roaring their celebration was for him. It was meant to be the greatest moment of his life. He would have everything he ever wanted. To be recognized as a great knight and to be with Cersei. Only to be denied glory, his moment, and sent back to King's Landing with the Queen, out of sight and forgotten whilst the greatest tourney of an age carried on without him. She was a lovely woman, shy with her fair hair and dresses that boasted high necklines, a fashion trend he found did not exist at court. She squeezed his cheek, telling him that he reminded her of his mother, the eagerness and easy confidence was something he wore well. That he was a welcome sight on her long trek home even if he did not wish to be there. He did not understand then the pity she looked upon him with. He did his best to smile and say it was he who was honoured.

Privately he thought mayhap that as the youngest in the order he would get the jobs no one else wanted. That the Kingsguard preferred to guard the King above all others for it was in their name. It was to break him in. To deny him.

He longed for a world where that might be true. Where he might continue to guard the Queen, to truly guard her, in ways that he was denied.

The King did so out of spite.

Not to him, for the King did not truly know him, but his Father. The honour, the moment, the King had sullied it all; for his accomplishments meant as little and less than those hundreds of nameless and faceless knights. He was a means to an end. Nothing more.

His new brothers betrayed no knowledge of such though they must have known. He did not deserve the cloak he wore and yet each day he tried to live up to the oaths he had sworn. Even when it pained him. Those he saw at court were perfect in their courtesies as they offered their congratulations with heaps of undeserved praise. They spoke of his Father, the former Hand, and his actions in the Kingswood fighting the Brotherhood there. At their side, their daughters gave him forlorn expressions. Dreamy in the way only a child could. They waxed about his change in status, that it was so terrible that he was denied the opportunity to marry, but Jaime could not find it in himself to care. Cersei was gone with their Father back to the Westerlands; out of his reach. She was all that he had ever wanted.

He was left with duty. Protecting the royal family. Observing the hundreds of nobles that flocked to the keep to petition the King or otherwise exist in his orbit.

Somehow in the presence of royalty men fell over themselves to please. To prostrate themselves before the throne. To claw the scraps they might be thrown from another’s cold dead hand. They would turn a blind eye to the gravest of sins if they might come out ahead, give endless excuses as to why they could not intercede, bargain, or otherwise try.

Royalty was a mythical beast that men could not move past.

The Targaryen's certainly thought themselves above the rest of them. They were all peasants beneath them. With their silver hair and lilac eyes so different to the Andals and the First Men. The dragons they rode may have existed in story and song but the reminders of them crowded every surface. Carved in stone or hung on the walls of the Throne Room. Those who rode dragons were above the laws of the Andals and the First Men, their gods, their counsel. The last vestiges of Old Valyria with their fledgling empire in Westeros, reduced to but a few members after Summerhall, they carried on, haughty arrogance intact. No matter what the Queen nor the other members of the Small Council cautioned, the King did as he liked, and they did their best to quell the fires as they came, so that the realm might see another day of peace.

It was not to be - it could not. Eventually those fires could not be stopped. Not with a King who so loved fanning them.

With the greatest Rebellion since Daemon Blackfyre in full swing, the King regained some lucidity and had sent Ser Gerold to return Rhaegar to the Capitol. How the man knew where to find the Prince, Jaime hadn't been able to ask, as the knight had failed to return with him, much to Aerys' dismay. Nevertheless the Prince offered placating words to calm his father and set out with the Royal Army to dispose of the Rebels. Letters had been sent to his Father demanding that he raise his banners against the Rebels but no word had come.

Instead, the Prince and Lord Lannister quietly joined with the Rebels, rising in revolt against Aerys' rule.

It was a blow. For he and the King both.

To be so thoroughly abandoned. They were a sworn brotherhood and yet he was excluded. Six of the Seven were with Rhaegar while he was left with Aerys as he raged. Court was never a place for humour yet any who's lips so much as upturned were unceremoniously dragged before the throne and burned alive. Aerys always had the last laugh.

As the last of the Kingsguard in the city, Jaime dogged Aerys' heel every moment of his day. Aware of all his plans, thoughts and actions, he made himself appear as a tapestry, watching and hearing but never reacting. He acted as Ser Gerold would've wanted. Even when it was hard. So that he might not burn with them even as Aerys planned to burn them all. For all that the King despised his Father, somehow he trusted Jaime, mayhap recognizing as he did that he had been abandoned. In his mind, that Jaime was not included in the plot meant that he was safe, and when the rebels came it would be Jaime that was in the first line of defenders - that Aerys would witness with pleasure as Tywin's son was cut down, never needing to fear for his own imminent death - for his plan would surely see him rise again as a dragon while the others were reduced to ash.

The pyromancers may have bought into his words about rising as a dragon but he was no sycophant nor a Valyrian with surreal notions about the magic within his blood. He was but a man and none of those he'd seen burn turned into anything but charred husks. It terrified him, to be aware of the plans yet forbidden by all laws, honour and tradition to act against them. Were Aerys a rambling man in an alley, he might be taken to a poorhouse or knocked about the head, but he was the King and his word to be obeyed without question.

In the end as Rhaegar's army descended upon the city and Aerys ordered the gates closed he found himself betrayed again. This time it was the Gold Cloaks. Aerys' decision to burn many of the gate commanders left their order leaderless and so many had revolted. When one gate fell another quickly followed, until only the Red Keep stood in the Rebels way.

The King's last great act to secure his position - to undermine Tywin - was his downfall.

Were another in his place the city might've been no more. Ser Gerold told him not to judge the King. Ser Jonothor told him not to protect the Queen even when his knightly vows demand he do so. The rest turned a blind eye where it suited them and enjoyed the prestige of the white cloak. Comfortable in their ignorance. The honour he had cultivated all his life made worthless by an honourless liege.

And so when he'd sent the messenger to the walls of the Keep with the order, "Bring me Rhaegar's head." Jaime had set off.

He wished to intercede with Rhaegar as he advanced upon the Red Keep, to warn him of his Father's plans, to say that he had kept his vows even when they were tested beyond limit. When he'd seen Rossart running for the postern gate however it gave him pause as he knew what it meant. He could not continue on knowing that if he did so, he would fail in his final order, and there would be no one left to hear.

'Protect my family, Ser Jaime.'

His cloak swirled around him as Rossart fell, the white long gone as it turned an ashy grey, a splotch of red the only spot of new colour in weeks of burnings. Entering the throne room with a bloody sword he was greeted with the sight of the King stood at the base of the throne. He turned, cackling upon sighting the drawn sword, excited for the prospect that vengeance was his; but like so many of Aerys' plans they failed in ways he could never anticipate.

It was too easy to slit his throat. The King fancied himself a dragon but his neck wasn't made of dragonhide or valyrian steel. It opened as any others. As the body crumpled to the floor, the choked gurgles on the King's lips as his lifeblood seeped into the stone, to blend in with the melted flesh and ashes of hundreds that died in the preceding moons. Jaime heaved a sigh.

They would be safe, now. His work was done.

The moons of terror and loathing caught up with him all at once. The taut muscles in his shoulder ached something fierce. He'd scarcely taken the armour off. Sleeping in it, standing for long hours without reprieve, and the constant need to protect, protect, protect. The weight of responsibility had rested upon his broad shoulders for far too long. The end of the sword he carried tipped down, the bloodied end clanging against the floor even as heavy boots rushed into the room behind him. He dare not turn for he did not know who had come. Yet they would see. There would be no squirming away from this.

All those vows he had sworn, and he had broken them so easily, yet when he broke the final most sacred one, it was as if nothing mattered anymore. Relief flooded through his veins, a sense of renewal and peace, that what came after would be worth it. The promise of something better. If he was to serve a King let it be Rhaegar.

That relief carried him around and fled him almost as instantly.

Stood in the door to the Throne Room was Prince Rhaegar, accompanied by Ser Barristan and Ser Lewyn. His brothers were dressed for battle but none of it had touched their arms or armour. The only blood that had been spilled was upon his own blade. Their gazes were fixed upon the body at his feet, their own hands resting on the pommels of their swords, stayed only by the Prince's outstretched arm. Rhaegar stared at him as if he were some puzzle he had to figure out. The mercurial look that was present upon his face in his study or the library of the Red Keep now affixed upon him. As Jaime's vision flicked over to the open door where yet more men streamed in, the bald head of his Father appearing past the banners of Lannister and Crakehall, Rhaegar's brows furrowed further, a familiar look he had seen upon Aerys too many times; it spelled nothing good.

If they're all here, where is Elia? he wondered.

He would go to them, if he could. As it was he found his eyes fluttering, out of tiredness or a way of masking a flinch he did not know. Rhaegar looked far too much like Aerys for his liking and the silence in the Throne Room belied the number of men present. What would the new King demand? A trial by battle? Would his champion be fire?

No, Rhaegar is different. He will be better. Anyone must be.

Barristan was speaking, he could see, but the words did not reach his ears. Why was that? The deep baritones of his voice could scarcely be concealed in the hallowed hall.

Finally as his Father broke through the ranks, Rhaegar's head turned and he spoke with animation, gesturing to the body of his own Father and once-King at his feet. His Father made to protest but was held back by Ser Lewyn who pushed past him, joining Ser Barristan and Rhaegar as they sauntered forward. Concern marred the Dornishman's brow while the others were more familiar in their disgust.

Jaime found he could not move. Neither to bow nor kneel. Instead of demanding either, the Prince's long fingers reached out and grasped his gauntlet, pulling the sword from his grasp. He followed the blade as the Prince inspected it, seemingly finding what he was looking for and then the blade was on his shoulder, as it was when he took his oath of knighthood.

"I believe my command was that you were to keep my family safe. What am I to make of this, then?" the Prince's soft voice carried.

They are safe. He will not torment anyone again. Not Elia. Not Rhaenys nor Aegon. They will not be hostages... and-

"Your... family?" he croaked. He did not understand.

Rhaegar's gaze flicked downwards. Aerys' neck was a ruin and his jaw hung open in an unnatural position, the lilac of his eyes dull and unseeing.

"Yes, he was my family too, in case you had forgotten," Rhaegar answered.

"I'm sure there is an explanation-" his Father tried to speak up only to be interrupted by an unlikely source.

"What explanation is needed? He killed the King!" Lord Royce boomed.

Jaime opened his mouth to speak but one look past Rhaegar at the countless faces that looked upon him heavy with expectation brought his words to a screeching halt. They did not know the danger that lurked. That pyromancers yet remained who knew of the plot and could see it through. The men who ought to support him, his brothers, instead judged him; despised him. As all the others did. No words that came from his lips would change that. Worse, it might induce a panic, and the caches would be set off anyway. With luck the surviving pyromancers would go into hiding and he would have time later to hunt them down, unburdened by the many armies that surely now rested inside the walls.

He could not tell them here. Not now. Not while the danger was at its greatest.

"You condemn yourself. You are no brother of mine." Ser Barristan added as Rhaegar handed him his bloodied sword.

With a single nod, Ser Lewyn moved forward and slumped an arm around his shoulder, prompting him to turn away from the wall of scorn, walking back past the Iron Throne and into the many corridors of the Red Keep. The Red Keep was practically barren. No guards greeted them through the doors and there existed no courtiers as they moved through the many halls. Despite the seeming privacy they spoke no words, for there was nothing to say, and he knew not where they intended to go. Vision fixed down he saw that the floors here looked too pristine. They carried scuff marks from many a noblemans foot but where dragons lay on the walls there was no red on the floor, nor the scorch marks from the many fires the dragons blew, nor the ash of the countless men and women that burned since Rhaegar's final departure.

Above all he wanted a rest. To escape the heavy burden placed upon him so that he might breath easy again. As he did as a boy with the Sunset Sea before him. Lewyn tried to comfort him with murmured words but Jaime barely heard them. They were too little, too late, and Barristan had shunned him for all to hear.

In the recesses of his mind he knew he must tell them. But not now. Not while so many armies were within the city.

Not while Varys lived.

The eunuch knew all. He found so many traitors surely he knew of the plot. Mayhap he would save Jaime the trouble and tell Rhaegar himself.

As they walked down the corridors an unfamiliar smell reached his nose causing his feet to stop. Ser Lewyn stumbled once before turning back with a glare before following his gaze inside the Royal Sept. The incense still lingered, even if it had been abandoned when the Septons fled sennights prior. There was a comfortable familiarity to the scents. Of times in the past praying before the statue of the Warrior for strength, for bravery, of kneeling for a day and night before Dawn was tapped upon his shoulder and he said the words.

A squeak had his eyes shifting again, to see the thin form of the Princess Elia, clutching Aegon at her breast and Rhaenys toddling behind her with her cat near her ankles. She was pale and sunken, trepidation in her every step but she was feeling as he did; a sense of relief that was heavy with anticipation. It would be unseemly to celebrate when it could easily go so wrong.

The tentative smile that graced her lips trembled as she adjusted Aegon in her grasp, nodding to her Uncle at his side. Beside her, Ser Jonothor had sweat upon his brow, as if he ran through the whole keep to retrieve her; the lack of a scowl spoke volumes. He did not yet know.

"Ser Jaime. How does a Kingsguard misplace his sword?" Ser Jonothor remarked in earnest.

With the incense in his nose and all that lay behind him he longed for bed. To be done with his once-brothers who found obeying far too easy. Was it in the nature of the Kingsguard to wear white to conceal the blackness of their hearts? He should've killed Aerys at the first, when he heard him raping the Queen, and the knight across from him forbid he act; forbid he obey the vows he had sworn first.

'In the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave...'

"It found its way to where it always belonged." he blurted in answer.

Beside him Ser Lewyn gasped and Elia's brows rose, an unspoken question upon her lips, tears forming on the edges of her eyes; the promise that her torment might yet be over. Before he could say anymore Ser Lewyn grasped him by the collar and dragged him off, whispering furiously that his arrogance would see his head roll, but Jaime was beyond caring.

Elia was safe. Her relief was his own and he could rest now, sorting out the rest later.

Chapter Text

283 AC. - Red Keep

Princess Elia Martell

Waiting was the hardest.

Lord Yronwood always said when he spoke of war to the young and ambitious boys who thought it a game. Memories of the War of Ninepenny Kings were a constant in Sunspear for their proximity and the number of veterans that settled there in the aftermath. She'd heard all the stories. Wading through swamps, sat at sea among the muck, mosquitoes, salt and stars. Others had little more to do than play cards or dice.

Now she joined them. Sitting in her rooms with naught to do but watch her children and think. Her knitting needles lay nearby but there existed no desire to create a new gown or blanket when her heart was in disarray.

Everything seemed to go on forever. Days turned into weeks and then moons. Before long she could not remember a time before the war. All the way to the days she had taken up the role of Princess to the Crown Prince; of having tea with quiet and sullen Queen Rhaella, the two finding shared belonging in their joined family and loneliness. Elia had had many lady companions join her in King's Landing as her ladies-in-waiting but an off-hand comment from Rhaella left her reeling.

'One day they will be wed and gone.'

It was said in such a wistful way, and then her good-mother brightened and spoke of her mother. Queen Rhaella was a natural at disarming her guests and drawing them in. She could speak at length on the history of her family, the highs and lows, and about the fashion of the Narrow Sea, for which she claimed great expertise. Most did not acquaint themselves with her beyond pleasantries. If one did then it didn't take long for the scars to become visible underneath the facade. The way she sunk within her chair, wrapped herself in her dresses, courtesy and easy smiles. Most were riveted by her ethereal beauty and grace and in doing so they missed her pain.

It was not the life she had anticipated leading.

Dorne was bright and sunny and full of life. Merchants from all the Free Cities came to the docks bearing goods of all shapes and sizes. She rode to greet them upon her horse and sample their wares before they'd get to market. The Captains were all too happy to make her acquaintance, demonstrate their superiority or try to attain favour, or otherwise she would descend into the depths of the Shadow City with her guard, the bakeries and taverns alike. The smells, tastes, sights and sounds, they were a thing of beauty. In the dark of night Sunspear came alive, lanterns lighting the way while the guard toiled in the shadows, unseen but dutiful in their craft, ever vigilant to threats from outsiders. Few could withstand the sun.

She had thought she might marry within Dorne. Countless nobles visited the Water Gardens and some even struck her fancy. Lady Ashara had become a good friend and her elder brother Symon was charming with his dark hair and laughing purple eyes. He bore no jealousy for his youngest brother's prowess with a blade and was every inch a maiden's fancy. Ser Ryon Allyrion was another, while most ladies were enamoured with the rough Quentyn Qorgyle. Elia had chased after and played with the best of them; always chaste, for her mother's words of warning were always there.

King's Landing was meant to be better; grander even. She was promised a bright future, to shine as the sun in the court of the dragon and instead there had been nothing but clouds. Some days rain threatened to fall and in others they merely hung around, the freedom and joy lay just beyond but forever out of her grasp.

If the spear cannot pierce the sun, what am I? she often found herself wondering. Is this what it feels like to be broken?

Elia looked out her windows upon the bay. No ships were on the horizon. The Master of Ships had assured the King that the rebels would not find their entrance to the city from the ports. It appeared he was correct. Instead, as her handmaiden Senelle had reported, they had surrounded the cities gates and begun to siege them. That was a sennight past and she had not seen the girl since.

From that point on she had been sequestered in the Maidenvault as befit her status as a hostage. It had one entrance and despite her many attempts on the long boring days to find the hidden ways that Daena and her sisters used to break out, she could never find them. Mayhap they had already been found and sealed. Elia tried not to think of it but her heart ached; she knew she would find her end here.

Rhaegar was coming but so many of his plans had amounted to nothing. Too little too late. Now he was outside the city while she remained trapped within it. A hostage. One the King would see dead before ceding any victory to his rebellious son.

If he had attempted to rescue her, none knew, as surely the King would parade her before whoever still remained at court and make her answer for it. Mayhap she would be strung up on the rafters as Lord Rickard had. Her Uncle Lewyn was with Rhaegar and surely advocating on her behalf. He had always been solid and in her corner. Now she felt his loss most keenly. Dreams of her Uncle appearing covered in sweat and soot, wrapping her in his cloak and swearing that she was safe kept her company at night, but when she awoke he was not there. Her dreams had been dashed day after day.

And the only feet that wandered down the corridors had been Ser Jaime's. Bringing food, news, and seeking rest of his own.

By her bed Aegon lay within his cradle. He was a small babe, with thatched silver hair so much like his Father, and a smooth fair face. He was a quiet babe and she let out a prayer to the Mother that it was so. Rhaenys was a bundle of energy, constantly moving from one place to the next, holding her cat and playing catch, or giggling and tugging on the cloaks of the nearest guard. Since her Uncle Lewyn had left to command the Dornish forces, Rhaenys had been lonely, and the guards distant; untrustworthy.

Her daughter sat upon the floor and stared at the ceiling. She disliked the quiet games but they were necessary. Each breath that left her body and the ringing silence that followed was a reminder that they were safe. If only for a moment longer.

Looking out the open window again she heard the sounds of the city below. An hour ago there had been some rousing among the guard and shouting but nothing had come of it. No clash of swords, no shouts for pitch or oil, no screams nor grunts of pain. She had thought it another drill. They were doing more of late, after many of the Gold Cloaks had been pulled back to the Red Keep; they were short on men as it was. Most of the talented men left with Rhaegar for his feigned advancement on the Trident, only to turn around and join with the rebel forces as they marched on the Capital.

The day is not yet over. It will be hours yet before Jaime returns and shares what he knows.

The thought of the young Kingsguard brought her mind to an altogether different figure.

She hadn't seen Oberyn since the Tourney of Harrenhal where it had all gone so wrong. Another one of Rhaegar plans so thoroughly upended. She'd convinced her brother to stay his hand, for it was better to suffer an impulsive fool than a madman. Still, he had relented, but could not return to Dorne on account of his exile. Instead he expressed his intent to sail the Free Cities. How she wished to join him and escape the madness of her good-father and depressive moods of her good-mother. The sycophants and leeches of the court were little better.

Youthful and brash, he changed his manner and style with the waning of the sun. One morn he might jaunt out in tight fitted leather and others he favoured a long flowing silken robe tied at the waist with myrish lace. So carefree with his love, conversation and japes, he was her best friend and fiercest advocate. Doran might've been her elder brother and Prince but there had always been a quiet distance and courtesy between them.

He had been the one to warn that those north of the Red Mountains may have followed the Seven but men were men, north or south, and she must always carry her blade close. A man's eyes might wander but if his hand joined it then he would lose it. More, if it were Oberyn's dagger.

But her brother was traveling. Enjoying his life and exile. It could be that he did not yet know of the war Westeros found itself in. The danger that dogged her every step. Her hand drifted and rubbed against her bodice where the jewel encrusted dagger that he had gifted her lay. It had been recently wiped on rotten meat. Any man who would take her from this world would not live long.

Mayhap when all this is over we can travel. See the Free Cities. See Dorne and the Water Gardens again.

Jaime might even go with her. She longed to see the light return to his eyes, how he might dance and sing or play a merry tune. Elia saw brief glimpses of it when they would see each other again. Where they might both let their guards down and rest, until the world came crashing down upon them again. Occasionally when they would sit and talk in hushed whispers he would recount his youth, of his younger brother Tyrion and his books, of his Uncle Gerion, of happier times.

They had met once years prior but he displayed no interest in her, a fiery youth so alike with her brother, his only wants were swords and horses; he had not yet matured to want more. To see more.

The Young Lion they called him. He had grown up so fast.

There was no rousing desire in her heart for him. She felt like she knew him through others in her life that reflected his qualities. Oberyn with his impulsiveness and love of the sword, Arthur with his great endeavours towards upholding honour and the chivalric code of knighthood, her Uncle Lewyn for his protectiveness. In a few short moons he had become her sworn shield in all but name. They suffered through the same hurts, fears and pain, all while trying their best to appear strong for those who depended upon them.

She could barely contain her eye roll as she watched the way hundreds of noble ladies wept and blew into their handkerchiefs when the white cloak was draped upon his shoulders. How they mourned for him and their own chances to marry the Young Lion while he expressed none of that; his grin so wide his face might split open. The vanity they displayed to overshadow his accomplishment. He carried a certain rugged beauty to be sure with his sharp jaw and handsome features but her pregnancies had left her bedridden and near death. Love and all that came with it was the last thing she wished to entertain.

Still, when it was just the two of them, holding strong so the other would not fall, she could not help but wonder what it might be. The safety he offered was something that a husband ought to; that Rhaegar failed utterly in. Even now, she held little hope for Rhaegar rescusing her, the thoughts drifting to her Uncle Lewyn who had always been there. Yet there was guilt too. Jaime would come to her, to bring food, share news and rest, but should another come, it was up to him to defend three; four if he thought of himself. Elia doubted he did. He could never truly unwind. In the end he would be exhausted and exposed while an enemy rested and ready.

Shouts from below roused her from her thoughts. Across the room, Rhaenys babbled in her own way, speaking to her cat Balerion that he too must remain silent, though the purrs told another story. Elia could not make out what was spoken, and before she had even taken three steps there was the sound of plate boots running on marble. How many men were coming she did not know as she raced to scoop Rhaenys into her grasp, and pulling her back behind the bed.

"Hide beneath it and count to a hundred." she instructed before standing to face the door.

Rhaenys did as she was told and her feet disappeared beneath the bedding as the door flung open to crash against a wardrobe. The handle disappeared through the hard wood such was the force while the hinges shuddered and groaned. She took a breath and braced herself. A man stepped through, his arms and armour familiar and free of blood, but not upon the man she had hoped.

"Princess. The Red Keep is ours. I am to escort you to the Throne Room." Ser Jonothor ground out his greeting, all formality. His palm lay on the butt of his sheathed sword, eyes glancing through the room for threats, and once more out into the hall before he righted the door.

"Who shall guard the children, Ser?" she retorted. Behind her, she fingered the dagger at her waist, no matter the orders she would not leave her children behind. Not while she could not be assured of their safety.

"Bring them with us," the Kingsguard answered, "I shall wait without." he turned and strode from the room, pulling the door closed but not far enough to latch. The inside handle was a ruin and split in two, while her wardrobe stood cracked but defiant.

Elia bent down and peered under the bed to where Rhaenys lay. Her eyes were closed as her mouth moved in a silent whisper, the numbers she was to count, and Elia smiled.

"That's enough sweetling. Time to come out." Elia called gently, giving her daughter a reassuring smile as she opened her eyes, her elbows and knees working in reverse. Moving over to the cradle Elia picked up Aegon at the waist and balanced him against her chest, the babe not waking even in the midst of battle, mayhap Rhaegar would think it fitting for a song. "There, there," she patted her son's back, "You two will be good now, won't you? Let us go on a walk. Fresh air will do us good." she lowered a hand to Rhaenys' and led her towards the door.

Ser Jonothor was there, then, guiding her out and down the silent hall of the Maidenvault. The marble floor was strewn with dust, ash, wax and leaves. Unclean from the many servants who had fled the keep or been burned on suspicion of aiding the enemy. No other guards were stationed. Most were likely on the Walls if not in the Throne Room. It was as if the Red Keep were deserted. When they came to the end of the large corridor she exited and circled around the Royal Sept.

It was where she saw her Uncle again - and in the company of Ser Jaime. They were stood peering into the Sept with wide eyes, incense hung on the air between them and both men looked so tired and drawn that she could not help but wonder when they had last slept. Ser Lewyn had his arm draped about Jaime's shoulder as if to assist in his standing. A pang struck her heart. She hoped that he had not been injured.

Jaime rested the night before but I know not for how long. He can rest now and heal. The war is over.

She did not know where the noise came from but suddenly both men's heads turned sharply towards her. Elia sent Jaime a small smile and a nod in greeting to her Uncle. She did not trust her voice. Nor her feet not to run into their arms and cry with relief that is was finally done. Aerys would be imprisoned and live out his days on Dragonstone. Away from the court, from her children, from where he might cause the most harm. Beside her, Ser Jonothor betrayed no interest in the reunion, not even deigning to greet his injured brother.

"Ser Jaime. How does a Kingsguard misplace his sword?" Ser Jonothor inquired, his voice tilted in disdain.

The Young Lion seemed to pale at the question while her Uncle grimaced. It lasted but a moment before he regained his colour, her Uncle's arm still draped heavily over one shoulder, their white cloaks brushing near their feet.

"It found its way to where it always belonged." Ser Jaime said in a rush.

Her Uncle reared back as if struck before he scowled, dragging Jaime off and past them, whispering incoherent words as he breathed hard and moving down the serpentine stairs to another part of the castle. She had been so shocked by the answer she had not breathed. It was only when Ser Jonothor meant to move on that he called her name and she followed, her mind working over what was said.

There was no need to wonder for long.

Not when the evidence lay for all to see.

Hundreds of nobles poured through the Throne Room door to witness the body of King Aerys II lying dead, his neck a bloody ruin, and a sword of gilded steel in Ser Barristan's hand; while the knights own sword remained sheathed. Lord Tywin was present near her husband in his glorious black plate metal that she had last seen in use when he rode at Harrenhal. Voices rose and fell allowing her to hear pieces of the conversation.

"Lord Lannister must've sent word!" a Lord claimed.

"I would never." Lord Lannister denied, his brow curled in anger.

"Why else would Ser Jaime kill the King moments before we were to come? You were late to our cause. Mayhap treachery yet remains in our ranks." A man in the colours of House Bracken spat.

"Please, my lord, peace. I know my Lord of Lannister and-"

The conversations continued in much the same vein while her husband tried to play peacemaker.

Ser Jonothor made no move to interrupt the King nor the nobles. Elia did her best to shield Rhaenys from her Grandfather's body and Aegon still remained asleep upon her shoulder. Glancing at the body of her good-father once more, she could not help but feel glee for his demise, and how fitting that the son of Lord Lannister would do so.

Even so, some of the Lords had justifiable questions, and it was one she wanted to know as well.

Why?

Why now?

-x-

"You have many duties. See to them." he dropped his head and picked up his quill to resume his writing in quick jerky movements.

His fair face that had been awash in anger, now smoothed over as if nothing were amiss, her voice raised not a few short moments ago; now dulled to naught but a whimper. Nothing that he would ever hear.

The scratch of the quill dragging across parchment far outpaced the slamming of her heart in her chest. To be so thoroughly ignored was unlike him. Even while he worked. There was three stacks of parchment awaiting his signature and seal, the pile that was completed small in comparison, yet he always had time for her. Where had the kind, attentive, if at times absent-minded husband gone? He hadn't even graced her with a peck on the cheek or asked how she had fared. Whether Aegon was feeding well or what games Rhaenys got up to with her devil of a cat. What they had was never true love but an acquired fondness for their children. It was better than what his parents had and neither disliked the other. Now, however, Elia ached, the support she thought she had gained was little more than a mirage.

Rhaegar was fully focused on establishing his reign. So much so he did not wish to hear what she had gone through in the city, the fact her handmaiden Senelle who had been with her since she was a little girl had vanished like so many others, nor did he wish for her to mention the Stark girl. Elia had confronted him after Harrenhal. To humiliate her before the realm when he had meant to use Harrenhal as a pretext to gather the support necessary to overthrow his Father. His explanation was full of flowery words and prophecy that made little and less sense. At the time she supposed his head was in the clouds. Lost in some story he had read in the library, that he was honouring the maiden and saving her from a villain of his own creation.

Once the girl had disappeared in the Riverlands she thought there might've been more to it than fairy tales.

Still, her husband denied it. He claimed to have no idea where the Stark girl went and was offended at her distrust in him. Did she not recall that he was traveling in secret to gain support for their cause? Did she not think that someone might've used that to blame him? To cast him in a bad light and undermine his cause? She had relented. It all sounded so plausible. Besides, he had returned with half the armies of the Reach; and somehow Ser Gerold knew where to find him. That must've been it. The Reach was not the Riverlands and House Hightower was ever loyal.

Elia had backed off after that. The army he departed with was far larger than the Rebels were meant to be. It should be easy to bring them to a parley. She hoped he would return and that he had a better explanation for the Rebels who fought to keep their own heads and avenge the deaths of their kin at his Father's hand.

Now, however, she knew that he did know where Lyanna Stark was holed up. Where was Lord Commander Hightower, Sers Whent and Dayne? They did not appear with the other three at Rhaegar's side and were off on their own mission. What could've possibly been so important that they were not recalled to the Capital as soon as it was taken? And why had Lord Stark looked upon him with such disdain and left the city at the soonest possible moment? She was sure he had learned something and that the two were connected.

Did he read a story about a Lady making a Princess into a fool? Something in the writings of Mushroom no doubt.

Giving a wooden curtsy she moved to the door just as the quill snapped. She paused and expected a barbed retort but none came. Only a short breath followed and soon another quill was scratching on the parchment as if nothing happened. Elia slipped through the door and out into the hall where Ser Jonothor Darry and Ser Lewyn Martell awaited.

With a quick nod to her Uncle they departed for her rooms. Elia walked faster than usual and brushed past countless courtiers who looked upon her with curiousity or thinly veiled pity. How many knew of her shame? What had he announced? She moved so fast in the corner of her eye, her uncle was jogging to keep up, concern marring his lined face.

Once she entered her rooms and the door as closed she rounded on him, her finger pointed in accusation.

"Where is Lyanna Stark?"

Ser Lewyn raised his hands and opened his mouth as if to say he was unaware but the words never emerged from his lips. The fury writ across her face taking him aback and only drove it further.

"It's been a sennight," she pressed, pushing his white enameled breastplate against the door, the silver clasps of his cloak bending upwards and threatening to remove it, "Your brothers remain missing and no one has spoken of their return. Rhaegar forbids I bring them up. Rhaegar forbids I speak of the Stark girl but denies absconding with her. So? Where are they?"

At that, her Uncle deflated, eyes raking the floor as he glanced over to the table and chairs near the hearth. It was still lit. The faint embers of breaking her fast alone while carrying out her new duties with little help. With reluctance she joined him, moving away from the doors and any who might eavesdrop. Sitting, she waited on bated breath while Ser Lewyn seemed to gather himself, wetting his lips several times as he blinked. His eyes never met hers. It was so unlike him.

"I only learned before we took the city," he began haltingly, finally looking at her face but flinching not a second later, paling, "I... I don't know the precise spot. Somewhere between the Reach and Dorne, south of Ashford but before Kingsgrave."

Fury rolled in waves off her. He had lied. Worse, he had taken her to Dorne. If Doran knew he would've surely sent word. The army of Dornishmen that Aerys had demanded would've scoured the lands until the three knights were found. Talented they may be but three men could not withstand the might of a hundred or more. Rhaegar's wishes be damned. If Elia and her children were meant to be hostages then the Dornish would extract hostages of their own.

What sort of Dornishman is he to take this lying down? To not come to me? To not confront him sooner? Her Uncle had always had her back. He'd been the one who had her best interests at heart. Who warned her of the dangers of the city when she'd first stepped foot in it. Who ensured that her wishes were carried out, even when most would defer to her husband or the King. Now it seemed she'd lost him too.

"And you asked no questions about this?"

"I-" he started, his face regaining some colour, the bookshelf opposite her vanity inspired far more bravery in him than the one who would suffer her husband's poor choices, "I did and do. I have been reminded time and again that I swore to obey."

Elia hummed.

"And asking unwanted questions is disobeying." she remarked quieter than before.

Her Uncle nodded.

Glancing away to the embers in the hearth she wished to speak further. To share all that she had gone through. Her Uncle would listen, comfort and console her, but then what was the point? The Prince was no longer the Prince; he was now King. The relationship between the Kingsguard and her husband was forever changed. No longer could he advocate on her behalf. Not like he had. Not when he would be reminded to keep silent and watch.

Watch, see nothing, hear nothing; do nothing.

At once she wished to see Ser Jaime. He would listen. He had been there. He would know without her saying any words. He would understand and it would be sincere.

But then she remembered all too well how the last few attempts to visit him had gone. Ser Barristan barring the door, forbidding she enter for it was not safe to be alone with him, that they'd had to lock the door from the outside and chain him so he did not attempt to break out again. Elia found that hard to believe. Most like they were afraid he might throttle them or demand answers of his own. Rhaegar could send her away but the other knights could not so easily dismiss their brother.

I'd been alone with him for weeks and nothing came of it. We were never improper. Not that I can have anymore children. Not like... but it didn't bear to think of. She had been lying to herself for too long. It was a comfort to think him still loyal to her, that the Starks had been misled; innocent.

Elia stood and made for her vanity. Someone had delivered fresh flowers stuck into a vase. Pretty but like so much else in the city; without point and purpose. If Rhaegar meant to give her flowers he might do so himself. A sincere gesture and one that would beg forgiveness. No, Rhaegar would not, it would be tantamount to admitting he made a mistake. In the mirror she saw her Uncle slumped over in defeat, his gauntlet rubbing circles over his brow. Once she might've asked what was on his mind but now Elia found she didn't care.

"Very well. If your new role is to be a stump in white, then surely you will find no trouble accompanying me to visit Ser Jaime." she mused, turning around to lean against the hardwood.

"You know I cannot do that." he said on reflex, glancing over at her.

"Oh?" Elia stared back at her Uncle who almost cringed.

None of them understood this newfound bond she had with the fallen knight. Before she had little to do with the newest Kingsguard, preferring her Uncle and Ser Whent for their kinship and good humour, but now they understood one another more than most. None had sympathy for his hurting and pain. They thought him weak. Like the Broken Men who became robber knights. It baffled them that a woman of her stature and title would advocate for a 'poor excuse of a knight' almost as much as his Father did. Lord Tywin accepted her aid easily enough, but there too was a glimmer in his eye as he considered what her angle was. None of them were very interested in his reasons or motivations.

The present line of thought had Jaime trying to please Rhaegar in some childish way. To ensure his reign started smoothly without the need to imprison his father. As if Jaime knew what Rhaegar wanted when he had never let him in on his plans and neither had Elia shared them; too aware of the Spider's spies.

"Ser Barristan's only trying to pro-"

"A pox on Ser Barristan! The Kingsguard never cared much for protecting the Queen before. What changed?" she raised her voice to a shout.

"We could not disobey him." her Uncle mumbled the tired excuse.

She rolled her eyes and stepped away into the next room. The cribs and beds were empty but the bedding dipped from their weight and presence. They had been here a scant few hours prior but now both Aegon and Rhaenys were with nursemaids brought from Hayford. She had new duties now and little time to chase after young children. Besides, Rhaenys needed to interact with others, to learn to play again.

Elia could only hope that Senelle would be found soon if not make her way back to the castle. As the days wore on however she found the hope that her friend would return fading, and the ache in her heart growing. They had met in the Water Gardens when she was nine and the girl five. The daughter of servants in Sunspear, she'd been a close friend and confidante, so much like Ashara but more chaste. Senelle doted upon Rhaenys and carried Aegon when her arms grew weak. There were few people in this world Elia trusted more, and now she might've lost her too; only Senelle had no one to advocate for her. No one who cared. Only her.

And no one was listening to her.

Rhaegar visited the children before he left for the Trident but he has never done so since his return.

He hadn't attempted to mount a rescue either. She'd found that piece of information out almost as soon as she reunited with Lewyn. An informant had shared with their camp that she was in the Maidenvault with two score guards posted and none knew of paths that went there. It was deemed too risky. Even so, despite the forty knights supposedly guarding the path, only a single Kingsguard was sent to save her.

Mayhap he was thinking of his Queen of Love and Beauty even then. They spent moons together uninterrupted and I am all that stands in the way of his ability to remarry. Should Aerys have killed me... he could blame him and continue on with his new wife.

Elia never had cause to question her Uncle's loyalties before. Now, however, he had failed her. Once might be an accident. Twice might be forgiven. But so many in quick succession...

Turning back she stopped in the doorway and leaned against its frame. Her Uncle had moved from the chair by the hearth to guard the inside of the door. His eyes were open and affixed upon a point in the distance, unseeing of all around him, yet aware always.

"You could not disobey him for it was too risky," she started and Ser Lewyn's blank stare faded, his eyes closing as he breathed deep, "Yet you could undermine him. Do so from afar where you might be safe from retaliation, promised a pardon by the new King you chose, but where you could do nothing to protect me from the King you knew was behaving rashly. Is that the way of it?"

There was never an answer to the most uncomfortable questions. When one tried to dig into their oaths. The placating words that he would offer sounded less and less genuine, falling off to a murmur and then little more than a whimper. Great knights, all of them, reduced to a mute babe when they were demanded to think for once in their lives.

Aerys proved that the Kingsguard was rotten and its members blind. The greatest lies they spoke were the ones they told to convince themselves that they were right and good and just; when they were anything but.

Eventually when the silence grew too long she sent him away. Outside to the guard the door where she might not suffer his dull face and his silence. Where had his pride fallen away to? When had he become bowed, bent and broken?

'When Rhaegar comes everything will be right again. You will be safe and secure, Princess, I know it.' Jaime's words hit her like a ton of bricks.

Crumpling to the floor she thought of the knight. The way he sat with his cloak splayed out beneath him. His back against the door only paces away from her, his sword drawn and placed between them, like in the stories. Guarding her when no one else would. How his brow would smooth over and in the throes of his rest he would murmur the vows he had taken as a knight, to be just, protect the innocent and weak, to be brave.

His soft snoring was a comfort. Now she had nothing but silence.

Tears ran freely down her face but no one was there to hear.

Chapter Text

283 AC. - Red Keep

Ser Jaime Lannister

It seemed that the moment the King fell dead at the base of the Iron Throne would be when he would be free from his torment. That the waking hell would collapse around him and the rays of sunlight would peek out from behind the ashen cloud of King's Landing to shine upon him through the stained glass windows once more. The war was over and soon the court would reassemble itself under the new King. Rewards for good service would be given out, Jaime would remain on the Kingsguard, and with his Father as Hand, Cersei would return to court so they might be together. It was all they ever hoped for.

Alas, the cloud remained, and he stepped out of one of the Seven Hells and emerged into another, deeper and darker, with no light to guide his way. With Aerys there had never been enough time. To eat, to rest, to use the privy, he was always needed somewhere; and no sooner had he arrived at one destination than his mind nagged him to be in another. In the Throne Rooms, on the walls, the few moments he spent consoling the Princess Elia as she kept her strength up for Rhaenys and Aegon who knew little of what was going on. The Princess radiated warmth and Rhaenys was a delight. Far better than being with the King but those precious moments were too few.

Now he had nothing but time. To rest and quietly contemplate of all he had seen and heard. Or so Ser Lewyn had suggested he do while he no doubt enjoyed the Princess' company.

The new King as the knight had pointedly reminded him, would be seeking him out in the days to come, to answer for all that had gone on in their absence.

Jaime hadn't bothered to give that a reply.

'When you donned that cloak you promised to obey.'

Oh, he had obeyed. He had imitated the best of them. To see and hear what was convenient for him and to bask in the glory of the cloak and title. It was all a lie. So when he turned his back on his brother and closed the door in his face he thought that answer enough.

His sleeping cell in the White Sword Tower was sparse. Knights needed few possessions. Arms, armour and horse for most, but Kingsguard also got a bed, trunk, and water basin. Seeing the bed again for the first time in weeks he did not even bother to undress as he threw himself upon the feather mattress and sighed as his head hit the pillow. The sweet release of rest a promise too good to delay.

It was not to be. No sooner than he closed his eyes did all he left behind rear itself to the forefront of his mind.

"You're hurting me!" Rhaella's choked cry emanated from behind the closed door.

He did not flinch. His eyes were merely tired. That's all it was. Stood just outside the door with Ser Darry at his side as was custom. The other knight did not even react though he surely heard the same words. How many years had the knight stood by? Did he go away inside as Jaime found himself doing? Think of other times, better memories? Jaime could do nothing but fist the frayed edges of his cloak in his hands and pray that it would be over soon enough.

Minutes passed, or had it been hours? The long shifts stood in deserted corridors with few windows left him wanting for a distraction. Lord Crakehall had him doing hundreds of different tasks that kept his mind and body busy. A knight's work was never done. Now, however, the knight had nothing to do, and nowhere to go.

He wished to be anywhere else. Guarding the Princess with her newborn son, Aegon, but Ser Lewyn often took that shift accompanied by Ser Oswell. They left him the poor jobs. The ones no one wanted.

'No one wants you either, Jaime, nobody but me,' Aerys' voice taunted, his disembodied head emerging from smoke that poured in thick tendrils down the corridor, 'We will be together forever!'

He gasped awake.

The stammering of his heart echoed in his ears as he threw himself upright. The darkness that surrounded him was disorientating and Jaime found himself with a dagger in hand, retrieved on reflex from his boot, pointed at a foe that wasn't there.

Instead the wind greeted him. A cool breeze drifting off the Blackwater and through the narrow window of his cell. His hair was matted and clung to his sweat-stained scalp as he remembered.

It was over.

Wasn't it?

-x-

Days passed in a blur. Had Ser Lewyn not been the one bringing his meals and attempting to coax him to speak while his jaw worked on the dried mutton and undercooked potatoes he may not have noticed the coming and going of the sun. He learned much but retained little. The meals tasted of nothing on his tongue. No sooner than Lewyn left did the memories return.

There were so many characters in the Red Keep that brought it to life. It was not so at Casterly Rock. His Father and Uncle Kevan ran the Westerlands with a closed fist. Military order was of paramount importance. Entertainment and humour found itself wanting in the world that Lord Tywin wanted to build. The only minstrels they had played varying renditions of the Rains of Castamere and he found that deadly dull. Lord Crakehall was better but ever in his Father's shadow. Mindful not to create another Tytos. It had him longing for anywhere else.

The Red Keep was so much more interesting. So full of life. There were people there from all over Westeros and even across the Narrow Sea. When his Father had come of age he had done a tour of the Free Cities; and Jaime thought he might as well, but that was no longer possible. Now it did not matter. He would meet all that and more in King's Landing. Even so, there was too much going on for any one person to see it all. Not the King. Not the Hand. Not the spymaster nor the many other councillors. Jaime had been at court for barely a year and yet he had only scratched the surface of those he could have met. It made what came later all the more devastating.

The stableboy who loved to comb through the mane's of the Dornish Sand Steeds.

The kitchen girl with the pale blue eyes and long blonde hair.

The page that always had a button missing on his tunic.

The fool who danced and sang with drums and whistles.

The squire that had been newly appointed to Ser Aron Santagar.

All were suspected of aiding and abetting treason. All were paraded before the Iron Throne and made to confess their sins before the assembled court; growing less numerous by the day. All burned for it.

'I didn't do it!' they would wail, the wildfire licking its way up the pyre to consume them, their words growing more and more incoherent, 'I live to serve!' some said.

In a way they had.

The image of servants burning alive gave way to other memories.

The knight took a knee, his head bowed in respect for his lord.

'Ride out at once and rid us of these bandits. Show them that we are not to be trifled with.' Lord Crakehall had boomed.

'I live to serve.' the knight answered, rising when prompted and climbing atop his steed, leaving Crakehall with a score of others. They would descend upon the bandits with a whirlwind of steel and show the outlaws that the Westerlands were no place to ply their trade. None were more fierce.

It was what he wanted for himself.

"In the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave... In the name of the Maiden I charge you to protect all women."

Most boys knew the words to the vows of knighthood before they could walk. Perhaps it was done that way on purpose. Practice for later when they would trample all over them.

Sat upon his bed in his smallclothes, Jaime stared out over the city of King's Landing. Another day was coming to a close. Below the city bustled as if nothing were amiss. Were he to exit and enter the common hall, he might even fool himself into believing that nothing had happened, it was all a bad dream. The King wasn't mad and the Prince wasn't planning to overthrow him. Elia was safe and sound and Rhaella was in the gardens with her ladies having tea, reminiscing about the days with Joanna and the former Princess of Dorne.

But then he had his armour and weapons removed from the room not a day after he had fallen asleep with them and they had not been returned. Jaime hadn't bothered asking for them back. Not after manacles were clasped onto his wrists. He wasn't going anywhere as it was.

The sun was setting far in the distance and in Casterly Rock it would light up the halls and caverns in the most beautiful translucent orange glow.

Burn them all!

No, no it hadn't happened, he reminded himself once more. Aerys' voice lingered in his mind. The muttering. The madness. The glee. He oscillated from gleeful to enraged in an instant without an indication what set him off. It was better to sit perfectly still. As a statue might and merely observe. He couldn't get to him then. Mayhap it was why when the door flung open he did not blink and only waited for the orders to come.

"Come with me. Now." the voice demanded.

Jaime stood and followed. His limbs protested the move, lame as they were from being idle for too long. No one would see his weakness. He would serve well.

Why was that? He had been so active. Moving from place to place. To protect. Protect. Protect.

His eyes saw all but retained nothing.

Where were they going? He wouldn't ask. No sense in it.

They descended the steps of the White Sword Tower. The man in front leading with another picking up the slack behind. He did not recognize the man in front but had caught the faintest glimpse of hard flinty eyes. A Northerner? What would one be doing in the Red Keep?

The corridors were deserted and seemed to shine as they hadn't before. Jaime's eyes began to water and he sought to wipe them free, but the chains that bound his wrists prevented much movement, and the jostling alerted the guard behind him to grasp his arm in a tight grip. On instinct Jaime pulled away, wrestling for a sword he was not holding to protect himself.

Protect, I need to protect.

"Relax." Ser Lewyn's voice drifted into his ear.

He stiffened for a moment before he recognized the Dornishman. Craning his head to the side Ser Lewyn looked different but Jaime couldn't determine why. Instead he nodded dumbly and carried on.

Before long he was led into another room that was richly furnished. Tapestries of dragons in battle covered the walls, thick curtains shielded the sunset from his eyes and beside them were half a score of bookshelves filled with dusty tomes and scrolls. A disused desk had a map unfurled across it, the paperweight the wax stamp of a three-headed dragon. Sat arrayed around a lit hearth and desk were a set of grim downcast faces with hard judging eyes.

If only they too were a tapestry on the wall. Only one was worth watching, Elia of Dorne, hale and hearty, and whole. The only light in the city after Queen Rhaella's departure for Dragonstone. He might have smiled and said hello to her but for the King at her side that demanded his attention.

He looked like a clean shaven and groomed Aerys. Mayhap it was a jape and the Mad King would give a wide smile before launching a cruel attack upon those he cared for. Make him watch as he destroyed them, tearing them apart piece by piece, reminding him of his oaths to stand by, watch; and do nothing.

"Please sit." The new King's voice rang out, so unlike Aerys, the kindness even had a ring of sincerity to it, and gesturing with an open palm to a chair set in the middle of the room. Away from the desk. Away from everyone.

Behind the King stood Ser Jonothor Darry. His glare intensified when Jaime's eyes flicked past his. Hard and unyielding. His Father was present on the King's left, scowl a permanent fixture upon his brow, and Uncle Kevan at his side, carefully neutral but for a slight nod of the head. On the King's right was his wife, her pale skin showing its first healthy glow in moons, and her answering smile lit a faint ember in him, the reminder of all he had fought to protect.

Protect. Protect.

His Uncle coughed as Rhaegar repeated the request. Jaime sat.

"There are those who say this meeting is not worth having for it is undeniable what you did," the King's eyes remained fixed to him but Jaime knew to whom he referred, "However regicide is no simple crime. We've questioned those who guarded the Red Keep on the night you killed my Father. They report that you left the Throne Room unattended, and were upon the walls organizing the defense of the Red Keep from those who would take it. Just as we arrived you abandoned your post. You were seen murdering a man running to a gate, but rather than return to the walls, or even order a surrender, you entered the Throne Room and dispatched the King; our soldiers mere steps behind you." Rhaegar's voice held no accusation in it but the faces of those present told the rest.

Nearby the logs crackled and sent sparks flying. Where they landed the bright material sizzled before dying out. Jaime watched them with mute fascination. The way the flames danced and moved along the logs. Did the fire know it was trapped? Did it accept that? Did it wish to spread across the floor, to consume the wood and stone, to choke them with the smoke that was created as living material wasted away to ash? Or mayhap it was as mindless as the knights around them. A virus that spread where subservience and cowardice festered.

"So, why then?" the King continued, oblivious to his turmoil.

"T-t-.." he sputtered, his voice hoarse from disuse.

They said nothing of a messenger? he wished to shout. Did they know what order Aerys had given?

"Even now he cannot explain it." Ser Jonothor cut in.

Rhaegar looked apoplectic.

"Continue, Ser Jaime." Elia prompted with a small smile.

He gathered himself to speak but found he could not. Few knew that Rossart had been appointed as Hand or even who he was. The Alchemist's Guild was wrought in secrecy. At the end, Aerys trusted no one. Only those on the council knew but had they spoken? Were they even alive? No one brought him word. Darkness had been his cloak since he returned to the tower.

'We're always together.' Aerys' voice lingered, Bring the light; bring the fire. Burn them.

As silence reigned the King's brow twitched.

"Very well, if you have nothing to say, then there is another matter." the King continued.

"On this, you are wrong, husband mine. Ser Jaime did all he co-" Elia interrupted.

Rhaegar's hand slammed the table, silencing the room, and Elia reeled back as if struck.

"He was seen to leave the Throne Room and return without regard for the King's safety! He could've gone to you but he did not," Rhaegar glared at his wife, "What was so important that you would fail to protect my family; even act against them?"

'You're hurting me!

'You remind me of your mother so much.'

'Jaime, my dear, a friend of mine is coming from Dorne. She's bringing two of her children. I hope you'll be great friends just as we have been.'

"-know what he was doing. Look at him. He does not react to words as you or I do. This is not the boy I knew." his Uncle Kevan spoke while his Father glowered.

Weak. he could hear it now, Weakness. You will not serve.

Under scrutiny Jaime opened his mouth to speak again. Instead he sucked in a large breath and a glob of saliva caught in his throat. He choked, coughing once, then twice, and again, collapsing forward off the chair as he struggled to regain his dignity. No one moved to assist him. As his chest heaved he could feel the weight of armour upon him. All the armour, all the expectations, heavy and pressing. His Father's boots near his eyes, the leather a light brown caked with mud, blackened with ash and-

The man stood before the Iron Throne in riding leathers. Sweat caked his brow and mud his cloak. He had ridden hard for justice and through the squeaks and muffled cries of those assembled, along with the King's taunts and jibes, soon realized he would find none here. Jaime wanted to plead with the man to leave. To return from whence he came, but the man could not hear his silent plea, nor understand the look upon his face. Hope was fleeting.

'I demand a trial by battle.' the voice of Lord Rickard carried through the Great Hall of the Red Keep.

Silence reigned until the King cackled out of his stupor. Laughing until he slipped upon the throne, cutting his arm but not deep enough to be concerning. Below, Lord Rickard shot daggers at the King, waiting for an answer.

'Very well, Stark. Prepare yourself.' Aerys stuttered out between giggles.

Stark returned not long after. He was dressed in fine steel with not a scratch to dull its surfaces. The Direwolf proudly displayed across his surcoat, chain mail around his exposed neck and silver clasps as straps on the waist, armguards and shoulder. Lord Stark was no southron knight but he was made of true steel to stand before the throne and speak as he did. Far more than the hundreds of others that simpered pretty words but proved spineless. When his helm was on, the opening allowing a full frontal view of his face; his steel and shield in hand as his flinty eyes scanned beside the Throne, where Ser Gerold stood at attention, and the other side where he was. Which one would the King choose as his champion?

The Gods of the Andals were not of Old Valyria and Aerys did not feel the need to adhere to their customs. Fire was to be his champion.

He would never forget the way Stark's face grew pale with shock. He did not resist as Gold Cloaks surrounded his frame to tie chains about his body and suspend him from the rafters, his sword and shield taken, nor did he scream his undying loyalty for all to hear, instead he hung as a silent witness, judging the King in his final moments. The fire was lit below his knees and through the haze and smoke Jaime saw the moment the man broke, when his son who had been brought out screamed his name, the only voice in the Great Hall aside from the crackling flames and Aerys' laughter; promising vengeance and hellfire upon them all. Both fell silent with nary a whimper.

And later - much later - when he wished to close his eyes to the truth, when he wished to forget the way the skin and muscle sloughed off his bones, falling through the open slit of the helm to pool upon the floor like liquid silk, the white skull beneath the former Lord of Winterfell's bearded face so similar to all the others before it too crumbled to dust - he remembered what he needed to protect.

If he had to choose between saving those he had sworn to protect on one hand, and obeying his King on the other, which would he choose?

There would be no choice.

There was never a choice.

Aerys always got what he wanted.

Burn them all. Burn them all! The King's voice screamed with delight as Jaime coughed, You swore to guard the King, not to judge him. the smoke and smell of human flesh as it cooked too strong for him to overcome, as light gave way to darkness once more.

-x-

When next he woke Jaime knew not where he was. Beneath him the bedding was overwarm while the room was cool and still. No breeze blew off the Blackwater. Was he still within his cell in the White Sword Tower? Or had they moved him elsewhere?

Blinking himself awake he sat upright. His joints and muscles protested the movement. They were comfortable in his laziness and confinement.

Stay still. Do not move. Else Aerys will see. How else can I protect them then? he reminded himself.

An image of Elia flashed in his mind. She had been strong. Stronger than he had seen her in moons. Before she had been worn down. Jaded from years in the Capital enduring Aerys taunts and jibes while her husband shielded her as best he could; but then he was gone. Run off with Lyanna Stark, or so Lord Brandon had claimed in his fit of rage. None so much breathed a word of her. The wolf maid may well have not existed at all. For Rhaegar, for the Kingsguard, for all of them - a woman meant nothing to a man.

"We swore to protect her too."

"Aye, but not from him."

No one who hadn't seen Aerys towards the end would take heed. They knew him to be mad... but not how much. Throwing himself back onto the bed he decided he was better off staying where he was; where ever this was. The others could protect her now, her Ser Lewyn would be there, as he had before they'd left for the Trident. Elia did not need him anymore. Aerys' presence no longer haunted the Red Keep, only his dreams, his memories; where he thought himself safe.

'Jayyy-me, play?' the eager eyes of the Princess peered up from his boots.

'My sweet, leave Jaime to his duties.' Elia reminded her daughter.

Rhaenys pouted, her bottom lip hanging out, turning and threw her toy snake as far as she could where Balerion would run after it.

He shared a private look of thanks with Elia before she too followed after the dawdling Princess. Would that he could play with Rhaenys, but a Kingsguard must be ever vigilant, and he was not family. Not yet.

The memory came and went as the air shifted. Through the haze of darkness it felt warmer somehow and yet there was no light.

'Ser Jaime. Don't you wish to play?'

The voice rang high and sweet. He startled as he recognized the speaker, filthy and unkempt, all sharp teeth and grinning eyes raking over him. Jaime felt naked in his presence. The mask he carefully crafted at court having slipped off in the safety of his chambers.

'Play with me, won't you? My pyromancers are so lonely without us.' King Aerys' shade tittered, hands folding over into his long flowing robes, concealing his bleeding wrists and fingers.

The reminder of the still living pyromancers, Garigus and Belis, who knew of the plot had Jaime scrambling upright again. - He hadn't told them yet. They needed to know. - Aerys' hand stayed him, however, his heavy breathing not rankling the King. Jaime's vision blurred and Aerys no longer stood before him but another, far brighter, and happier.

'Now, now. My son, get yourself ready, my dearest friend is coming. You want to be ready for her don't you?'

"Yes, mother." he slurred.

The vision dissipated before his eyes and in the darkness Jaime recognized the familiar layout of his sleeping cell. In the corner remained the wash basin. Rolling out of bed he crawled on hand and foot over to it, splashing himself with water that ran in rivulets down his face and soaking into the hairs that were forming on his chin. How many weeks had it been? When would he escape this hell?

How can I protect them if I cannot protect myself? he wondered.

'You can always burn them.' Aerys' shade reminded him once more.

"Aye and it worked so well for you." he mused, shifting to sit perched against the wall opposite his bed.

'Oh, but it did,' Aerys' shade stood before him once more, peering down with foreboding eyes full of promise, 'They feared Tywin but they didn't fear me. In the end, all feared me,' Aerys knelt and threaded his fingers through Jaime's, one long finger outstretched to pull his chin upright, forcing him to be unable to look away as he spoke, 'Don't you remember? They all watched. As you did. They came. They saw. They died. And I won.' hissing each word.

Jaime could not deny it. They had seen as he did. In his memories it was easy to focus upon Ser Gerold words of admonishment in the moments after the Starks died their gruesome deaths. That he was to protect the King, not to judge him. Perhaps it was meant to be beneath his notice that the hundreds of nobles present saw it all as he did. Yet they were not bound as he was. Why hadn't they said anything? Stood up against the King's edict? Trial by Combat was enshrined in the Seven as a sacred ritual meant to determine the guilt or innocence of two parties. Fire had no place there. It was unnecessary in its cruelty, for the Starks, and for the customs the south had lived by for thousands of years. Mayhap they feared for their own lives. Justifiable, in a way, as Aerys' hold on reality grew fainter, and his desire to see the flames replaced it. If Aerys might burn his Warden of the North for a slight, what was the Lord of some keep with no vassals to do?

Unlike Jaime however those nobles did not need to linger. They did not need to see. They fled King's Landing in small trickles. Pleading illness, a death in the family, or later, to assemble their banners for war to fight by the King's side. All turned their eyes and their backs but they could no more unsee what transpired in the Throne Room than he did, nor was it so easy to forget, as Jaime dearly wished it was.

If he could have joined them and ridden back to Casterly Rock he would have. Even if Cersei did not come with it.

Now those same cowardly faces would stand in judgement of him. All those noblemen in the Throne Room who came upon Aerys' body at his feet. They had chosen the son over the Father. Forsaken their oaths to the King and chose a different one, but they would place themselves above him, as Ser Barristan had. They heard his proclamation. They knew, as Barristan did, what the King had been doing; what he was capable of. Yet they scorned him, when they had the freedom to act but chose not to.

Not until it was safe.

Not until they were shielded by their liege lord.

Not until they were sure they picked the winning side.

He who had kept his Kingsguard vows... despite all reason to the contrary, while his brothers trampled over theirs where it suited them.

Protect the King. Defend the King. Obey the King.

What King needed protecting in the Riverlands?

What King were they defending as they marched upon the Capital?

What King were they obeying when they followed Rhaegar's orders?

Ser Gerold was always quick fall in line and ensure others did the same. He had been commanded to retrieve Rhaegar from whatever hole he was in and somehow, despite the Prince being missing for moons with not even Varys able to locate him, the Lord Commander found him in short order; and then failed to return. The King's orders were clear and yet somehow the Prince's superseded them. Aerys, in a break from the norm, hadn't raged upon Rhaegar's return, satisfied with the assurances that his son would annihilate the rebels. The alliance that the Arryn's, Baratheon's, Starks and much later, Tully's, posed to the realm was too great to ignore. Aerys even acceded to the request that Rhaegar be allowed to write to Lord Tywin to demand he join with them.

The King had been giddy in the days after Rhaegar's departure for the Trident. Tywin had written back promising he would join them. It was all but assured that the rebels would be crushed and with it - the prisoners they would gain. Of the bloodlines the King might burn. That he would prove once and for all that the Targaryen's held the only magic in Westeros. The Starks, for all their storied history, died the same as those of common birth when the flames consumed their flesh and bones.

The King's good mood had lasted but a fortnight.

Closing his eyes he could still see the moment that Varys slunk into the Throne Room. His lightfoot steps and his soft powdered face, so unremarkable in its plainness, seeking permission to speak, while his arms and motives were carefully concealed within his long flowing robes. He walked in a way that Jaime could never pin down. Foreign and yet not. The strut of a confidence filled nobleman, the spoken airiness of a merchant and yet for all his posturing he boasted no name and no bloodline. He was lower than low. No man would dare address a knight, never mind a Lord or King, with such brashness. The eunuch was confusing.

The news he brought led to the King sending him away in a fit of rage. For the first time there was fear in Varys' eyes, but was it for himself, or another? The King still had use of the spymaster's services and utilized them greatly in the days after learning of Rhaegar's betrayal; of Tywin's betrayal, of the final assurance that his reign was to come to an end, yet Varys did not flee. Not like the rest. He was committed to Aerys beyond sense.

Knights offered services for livelihood, for duty and honour; yet what honour did a eunuch have? What loyalty to Westeros or its people did he carry in his heart? What did he gain?

Would he judge me as they do?

Leaning against the white wall of his sleeping cell Jaime imagined Essos. The stories oft spoke of the splendour. The colours of Qarth, the silks of Lys, the glass of Myr, the Dothraki bred horses and countless others. Thousands upon thousands of years in endless sun, boundless plains, civilizations whose histories made Westeros look like it was a babe still on its mothers breast. They were a continent that had yet to grow into itself while Essos boasted scores of cities that had risen and fallen, their names lost to history but for the ruins that mark their location and the bones that lay in their streets. Doubtless, the greatest still living city of Essos was Volantis, but even she was a faint echo of what had come before.

Aerys waxed and waned about the majesty that had been Valyria. How paltry Westeros was in comparison. Not fit for a dragon. With their spired towers that pierced ten times higher than the Hightower or Casterly Rock, where dragons made their perches and looked down upon the rest of man, their volcanoes and flames, lava and brimstone. Magic was ever-present and limitless. He imagined it as Braavos with its many waterways and arched bridges. Buildings perched on the waterfront, where a wave might break through into your sitting room, or interrupt a meal; but it was fire, not water, that flowed in Valyria.

Dragons never feared fire. They reveled in it. They defied man, their gods, their conventions; and made life bend to their rules.

It is what Aerys wished to recreate. A great sacrifice to recreate the greatest empire the world had ever known. A mass of fire and blood.

Shivers ran up and down his spine. As he closed his eyes he could see it, feel it, taste it. An explosion of green fire from the docks all the way to Rosby and beyond. Nothing would again live in the Crownlands as it surrendered itself to grow the massive beast that was bound beneath the green flames, its wings covered in the choking ash of the life it had extinguished. All the water of the Blackwater would never be enough to quench its thirst for more. Only home, the Land of the Eternal Summer, would give the dragon peace. When the crater stopped forming and the dragon grew restless it would rise up from the place that had been its egg and womb, shriek its glorious cry and announce itself to the world; taking off in a heap of flame and awe inspiring power and all would tremble before their might.

But the dragons were gone. Aerys' dream dying with his choked gurgles as it had been for Aerion Brightflame before him.

Jaime found himself back in the Great Hall of the Throne Room, Aerys striding towards him as the flames licked at their feet, his hands outstretched as Baelor's often were. His lids were heavy and he felt himself being pulled down, down, inexorably down, towards the fire and flame, yet there was no heat and no pain, only a comforting familiarity.

'Fire and blood are the key, Ser Jaime. Burn them all and light the way.'

-x-

A tap on the shoulder had him starting. Jaime's eyes flew open and he bolted upright, regretting it almost at once as he felt something solid slam into the back of his head.

"Careful now," a voice trembled, "I... I didn't mean to frighten you."

Jaime blinked thrice to regain his senses. Still he saw double. His legs were splayed out before him and his bed across the way, the bedding hanging half onto the floor, the pillow nowhere in sight. While he tried to gain his bearings he instantly felt the pain flare in his back. It ached something fierce yet his breathing was not laboured nor did he feel injured. The fire hadn't cleansed him as Aerys oft said it did.

Preposterous. he scowled.

But even as his vision cleared he could see he was not alone. There was another in his rooms and they were knelt before him. He stilled for a moment as he looked upon the unfamiliar leg. It was unlike Aerys to wear orange, let alone be on his hands and knees. No, never his knees, whoever came to visit him was surel-

"Jaime." Elia's voice, so familiar and warm, dragged his gaze upwards.

The Princess' dark eyes were staring at him impossibly close. Her brow was rigid, crow's feet pulling at the corners of her eyes, and her outstretched hands upon his shoulders to steady him. Stuttering out a breath he could feel his head roll to the side, where his door lay ajar, and the heel of a plate boot lay without, but it was Elia he found himself drawn back to. The Princess turned Queen looked exquisite in a dress of orange and yellow. It sat loosely upon her frame but seemed warm for the cool winter weather that had clung after the false spring. It was strange to see her without the tiara that marked her as the Princess Consort but then Elia forewent much formality when the court could not see.

"'m sorry." he muttered as his eyes lost focus again.

Sorry for not rising to greet you. Sorry for not being there. Sorry for the false assurances. Sorry for failing to protect you. Protect, protect, prote-

The corners of her lips upturned, "Don't be. It is natural to be unwell," she smiled, always one to give comfort and seek little herself, selfless and caring, even in the face of grave danger, "Has no one come to see you?" she tilted her head to one side, nodding to the open door, the black ringlets spilling down over her shoulder. If he looked close enough there seemed to be a tinge of gray.

"No." he struggled to speak, until Elia produced a flask that he downed in short order, the wine burning as it descended through his throat, warming his body unlike anything in the preceding days, "No," he said again, stronger, "Not since the last."

Elia hummed.

"Not even Lord Lannister?" she mused, her eyes glancing between the door and Jaime as she considered him.

He shook his head and settled it back against the wall. A lump was already forming, he could feel it.

"Lord Tywin has been pressuring the King to pardon you. He claims that your mind is addled and your inability to form sentences proves that you cannot comprehend your actions or their effects. The council is proving hard to sway, though the Grand Maester seems to think that he is correct," Elia spoke rapidly, her eyes on the knight outside the door who turned to face them; Ser Lewyn, but he stared her down without comment as she continued, "It is strange that neither has seen you yet they claim great knowledge of your condition."

The knight outside the door sighed. "Your Grace. You mustn't share council knowledge with... the prisoner." Ser Lewyn said with exasperation.

Prisoner. I suppose that is what I am.

Elia ignored her Uncle and turned back to him, her hands pulling back from his shoulders to cup his fingers in her hands, her eyes taking on a wet sheen as she stared down at her thumb tracing over his own; the callus' on each wearing away from days... or weeks, of languishing in silence, alone but for the voices and his memories. How soon would it be before he failed to recognize himself in a mirror? Would anyone?

How can I protect her if I cannot wield a sword?

Weak. Was he ever worthy or had he always been weak?

'Weak. You will not serve.' his Father's face seemed to say. Yet he would see him free all the same. To return to the Westerlands and rule. He could do no such thing.

"I know... I know you're still in there. They say I should mistrust you but I cannot. What knight kills his King? But they weren't there. And those that were... they stood by, I will not admire them for it or sing their praises. They did not protect me as you did," the tears fell then, huge droplets that ran down to rest on her delicate chin, threatening to fall further still, he wished to wipe them away and assure her of her strength, but his arms remained lax, trapped as they were in her warm hands, "This morn Rhaegar informed the council that the Lady Lyanna Stark shall return forthwith to the Red Keep, along with Sers Hightower, Whent and Dayne."

Jaime stopped breathing. Outside, Lewyn made a noise of complaint but Elia seemed not to hear.

"Rhaegar intends to have the Lady at court as his mistress, as Aegon IV did. I will not participate in this charade nor give my implied consent to it with my continued presence and so I intend to retire to Dragonstone with Rhaenys and Aegon, where we might spend time with Rhaella, away from King's Landing. I wish that you could come with us but... the Lord Commander means to decide your fate upon his return."

He nodded.

"I understand," he nodded again, "It will be good. To heal. Rhaella... could use your company, and Viserys a friend." he whispered, the movement of his lips seemed foreign, and without the warmth of her hands in his Jaime could not be certain she wasn't another apparition come to haunt him.

Elia's eyes rose to meet his again. She had endured so much for so little. The pain of childbirth twice over, Aerys' court and all that came with it, Rhaegar and his frivolities, only to be replaced the moment the Prince could not sire another child upon her, or so the Grand Maester claimed; she was too weak. Her health and body had always been frail but her spirit was stronger than most any.

What is the greater shame, to knowingly lead her to death in childbed or break your marriage vows before the whole of the realm?

To save countless lives... or murder the man you swore your life to defend?

"You gave me hope even when all was lost. I'll never forget that." she choked out, pulling him forward to wrap her arms around his neck.

Jaime rocked into her as he stared off unseeing. The warmth pressed against his chest was like a fire. So achingly familiar and yet not. When was the last time he had been rocked? Was it in his cradle, with the mother he barely remembered? Mayhap his Aunt Genna had done so when he'd been hurt. Cersei would've never done so. She did not lower herself to display weakness. She would not even weep. She would not embrace him, or thank him, for all that happened to her was her right.

She will see the Stark girl and think to have Rhaegar for herself. Who better than a Lioness?

Elia did not deserve any of it.

Mayhap he would need to slay another King.

He pulled his hands around and wrapped them over her back, across the warm wool fabric, and squeezed to let her know he was there. Elia murmured into his shoulder, incomprehensible words that had her shaking, a wet spot forming upon his shoulder. Jaime did not care. For weeks the only safety they had was with one another and now they would be apart. He would enjoy the moment, savour it, for surely they would never see the other again.

-x-

When next he woke he was on his bed again.

Weeks prior the Princess had departed for Dragonstone, taking her children with her. Jaime had heard little word but knew from the voices that occasionally spoke within the White Sword Tower that Ser Lewyn had remained behind. Mayhap Elia was more angry with her Uncle than she let on.

Who is protecting her now? he oft wondered. But Elia was strong. She could look after herself and Dragonstone was a fortress that none had ever taken.

Since she'd left none had come to visit. He expected mayhap that the King would try again. To learn of the day. Elia had never mentioned Varys. Mayhap he had escaped. Or been found. Jaime wasn't sure which was better. Still, each day that he awoke meant that the wildfire remained safe. Sometimes he could convince himself that it was all a bad dream. At least until Aerys reappeared to spell out his plans and dreams. Without the burden of a Crown and Rebellion the former King had a great deal of time to plan and few to share them with.

Jaime found himself the captive audience.

Outside his rooms, men were speaking, but Jaime hardly paid them any attention. That is - until he heard a different voice.

"-to be decided." Gerold Hightower was saying.

"He was too young to bear our burden. He'd earned his spurs but they were gilded and not yet worn. He hadn't even been a knight for a year. A squire's mind is too easy to mold and Lord Crakehall did well to shape Jaime into a Lord, but not a Kingsguard, not the knight he needed to be; he could not turn away." Ser Lewyn added.

"We all had a choice. Jaime's made his bed." Jonothor Darry said with derision, the ever-serious knight could hardly be expected to be sympathetic. A loyalist through and through.

"Isn't that what he's been doing?" Oswell added as other voices groaned.

"Enough. I shall bring word of our decision to the King." Ser Gerold spoke with finality.

There was the shuffling of feet then. Chairs scraped against the floor and plate boots moved in every direction. Most moved further and further away, until it seemed like none remained. Jaime lay stared up at the ceiling of his sleeping cell, with the realization that with the Lord Commander back as Elia had promised, he would be judged. Whatever magic his Father thought to work upon the King had failed. The reckoning had come and he would have to see it through alone.

It wasn't until he realized the true reason he was chosen for the Kingsguard that he gave thought to why the others were chosen. Most thought that only those of the greatest skill and honour were chosen for the Kingsguard. Now, however, he wondered what other plots existed that he was not aware of. Why was Ser Oswell chosen with his dark humour, why was Ser Darry chosen with his serious mein, or Ser Hightower? They were all fantastic swordsmen but they had served so long that mayhap they had grown into the role from sparring with the others.

Did they deserve the honour? he thought, Would they pass judgment upon me after they fled the vows they swore, preferring to guard the Prince whom they knew plotted to overthrow his Father?

Outside the door, murmured voices rose once more.

"I believed in him. He held such promise for the future. A young knight unlike any other I'd seen in many a year, but like so many things Aerys did, he snuffed that light out, and what remains?" Ser Arthur's voice carried.

A man hummed in response as their footsteps faded away. The Tower was quiet once more.

Inside him, white hot anger coursed through his veins, threatening to strain the pulse upon his forehead. Never in his life had he seen as clear as he did now. The vows of knighthood were sacred but flawed only in that those who ruled over them demanded those vows be set aside to fulfill their whims and wishes. Aerys was hardly the first but he was the final authority. If Aerys could abuse his power and make egregious demands then the Lords that followed him could too.

That the remaining Kingsguard planned to pass judgment upon him when their own failings would be swept away, ignored, while they were celebrated and he was blamed, it wasn't something he would abide.

'They mean to make a show of you. The White Lion brought low.' Aerys' shade appeared in the window, making furtive glances out over the Blackwater.

"It won't be so easy." he swore.

'The King holds all the power and now he is the one they follow. They don't understand and never will... but you want to make them see, don't you?' Aerys looked at him with interest as he stood up, striding over to Jaime to take his hand in his once more.

It felt strong. Like Elia's before it. He could be strong. For himself.

"I do." he answered.

'Then listen well.' Aerys' mouth upturned into a ferocious smile, his eyes alight with the promise of fire.

Chapter Text

283 AC. - Red Keep

Ser Gerold Hightower

Hundreds of bodies pushed and shoved through the doors of the Great Hall. All were present to watch the trial of Ser Jaime Lannister.

Nearly all the Great Houses were represented and most of the rest had bannermen within the city. Some had remained from the armies that stormed it with Rhaegar and others came later, returning from campaigns afield, or seeking a place within the service of the new King. Aerys had ruled for a long time and his council was robust and unchanging. Now they were scattered to the winds and only the Kingsguard remained solid; save one.

With so many present the security of the Red Keep was paramount. All the knights of the Kingsguard were on hand for the trial as a show of strength and unity but more guards had to be pulled from the Gold Cloaks and the garrisons of Crownland houses. They were worried. So many servants had fled in the chaos after Rhaegar had announced his intentions to the realm and his Father that they'd already borrowed hundreds to get the Red Keep functional again. Any of them could carry ill intentions. So far they'd gotten lucky but Gerold was expecting a knife in the dark any day now. It was a tight squeeze but they managed. Another King would not be dying in this hall while he lived.

Lord Lannister stood with his brother Ser Kevan near the front in a position of honour and privledge. His court clothes were pristine with the Lannister Lion displayed in cloth of gold across his doublet. Gerold knew that he would protest the sentence the most for nothing but an unconditional pardon with a red cloak being adorned upon Jaime's shoulders once more would satisfy him. It could never be. Tywin's chosen heir was lost to him the moment King Aerys chose Jaime for the order and no word or deed would change that.

Though that did not mean he was blind. House Martell was furious with Rhaegar, no matter that Elia was now Queen while Rhaella relegated to Dowager; they would not so easily forget that Rhaegar chose to secret his mistress away in Dorne or that Elia had been shamed before the realm. Even the usually good-natured Lewyn gave the Lady Lyanna a frosty reception, unable to muster a proper greeting, remaining as dour as Darry did when his sleep was poor. With the Queen in self-imposed exile on Dragonstone, Lewyn had been anxious to join her and nearly raised his voice at Rhaegar when denied.

He understood their positions. Rhaegar regretted the shame brought upon Elia and felt that she would see Lewyn as a spy in her midst. He represented conflicting loyalties at a time when Elia wished to be assured of herself and her safety which Dragonstone provided in spades. For Lewyn, he wished to be away from court, away from the hovering of others, where he might explain his own support of Rhaegar and act as Elia's confidante once more. The knight would be granted such a privilege as soon as the trial concluded and Gerold expected even were he summoned back, the raven would inexplicably go missing.

It was improper for a Kingsguard to have such relationships but unavoidable given their kinship. Even so, it was practical to send him away. The Queens and Crown Prince had no Kingsguard with them and he could never truly trust Lewyn to risk his life for the Lady Lyanna. The Kingsguard could not afford to be split. Not now when they were in peril as they hadn't been since the Dance of Dragons.

In the center of the hall a wooden stand had been set up with railings on three sides. Chains were attached to a hold in the floor where the prisoner could not get away. The boy had languished in his cell for moons, failing to react to sight and sound, often staring off into space at nothing and mumbling to himself with incomprehensible words. Gerold had not been convinced it was real until he'd addressed him himself. Where before Jaime had stars in his eyes, nodding too vigorously and hastening to obey, now it was as if he were a tree dead but not yet felled. No man, no knight, would collapse in such a way were he worthy to bear their burden.

They were the Kingsguard and they did not surrender.

A herald slammed a staff thrice upon the marble floor. Two more echoed it and the clamour slowed to a simmer. Gerold stepped forward and the Kingsguard fanned out around him like an arrowhead at the base of the Iron Throne. Behind him, far above, sat the King wearing the crown of Daeron II, and further down in a place of prominence was the Lady Lyanna.

Lord Arryn and Tyrell stood side by side. Lord Baratheon was missing, the elder brother dead from a festered wound, the younger half-starved and recovering, under guard. Yet more prisoners to deal with before peace could shine again over the Seven Kingdoms. Lord Stark had long since returned to Winterfell, relieving Storm's End as a promise to his dying friend, before meeting them at the Tower to confer with his sister. Gerold had not heard the words but he'd seen her tears, and later, Stark and his companions left alone for the North without a glance back to the sister he intended to save, but found needed no rescue. The Lady had been discomfited and angry but pulled herself together, shedding the delicate skin as she rode her horse, baffling Whent and pushing Dayne's skill to the limit; before she reunited with the King and was all smiles again.

When the door to the Great Hall opened, no light shone through the great doors, nor did the sun emerge from above. It was a cloudy day in King's Landing and Gerold found it fitting. There would be no glory here, no shining lion, for Jaime was a man bloodied and beaten.

He dragged more than carried the chains on his wrist. His hair was unkempt and ragged, the beard that grew onto his face long and uncut with thick clumps stuck together with flecks of brown and white intermixed with the blonde. His eyes were downcast and sunken, lined with black spots and unseeing as they had the dozens of times that food and drink had been delivered to him. Mayhap he did not even know where he was. Once the Gold Cloaks had him tied to the stand, Jaime seemed to shed some of his skin, as he peered around at all present. Some reeled back, their shock at seeing the once golden lion a shell of his former self too much to bear, others sneered and spat, while yet more turned away, from the shame or smell he could not tell.

They had told him where he would be going and why. Gerold had not be there to see that he understood. Clearly, he had not, and if he did, then Jaime did not care.

A knight who cannot cleanse himself, cannot stand on his own two feet; cannot protect another. A disgrace.

Behind him the King's voice commanded the hall. Jaime spun around and looked up with all the rest. From the side Gerold could see through the arm holes of his sleeves to the small husk of a man he had shriveled into. Dangerous still for his name and unpredictable nature. The calmness that Jaime displayed despite the furor of the crowd unnerved him. The hand that rested on the hilt of his sword tightened for but a moment.

"Ser Jaime of House Lannister. You stand here to account for regicide. What do you have to say on the matter?" the King's voice rang strong and true.

He had not be there at the first nor the second but he'd heard the stories. Shock and silence, losing control of ones mobility and collapsing, incontinent, and screaming until silence. One might've thought the man dead were he not breathing still. It became easy to forget that Jaime was even within the White Sword Tower, the presence that existed beyond his door barely made a murmur.

Except this time Jaime did not fall into a stupor. His eyes fell upon the King and drifted down, but not to his brothers who stood in judgment and protection of their liege, but to the place of prominence meant for Her Grace. The knight's mouth opened to speak but no words came out as they did not need to. The wrinkling of his brow, the curled lip, the choking glare spoke all that he thought of the matter. Feet shuffled behind him though no one moved forward. The Lady Lyanna had not yet grown used to court, mayhap men staring at her, but never with hatred; they would not dare.

Jaime would. Of course. He is in there. It is as Lewyn said.

"You have witnesses?" Jaime's voice was weak, and beneath his helm Gerold barely heard him.

"Must we, Ser Jaime?" the King all but sighed, "Hundreds saw you. There is no denial that can save you. I've heard counsel on the matter and while some believe your investiture into the Kingsguard to be without merit, there is no precedent to claim such. The King chose a worthy knight to be added to his Kingsguard and so the knight swore vows, which he defends and obeys the King, keeps his secrets, counsels him when requested but otherwise remains silent, except in the matter of defending his name and honour; you broke the first and most sacred vow."

Despite the King's words, Jaime did not relent his staring. Two spaces to his right he could hear Lewyn fidgeting with his gauntlets. He prayed that no one else saw the weakness his sworn brother was displaying. Lewyn wore his heart on his sleeve and that was a weakness ripe for exploitation.

Rhaegar paused as the hall seemed to hold its breath, "In light of prior rulings, I have decided to sentence you to the Night's Watch," there were sharp gasps of surprise, and the rapidly darkening feature of Lord Tywin, "where you might join the likes of Lord Bloodraven who swore his vows and Ser Aegor Rivers who did not; if Kinslayers can find life and honour in the Night's Watch then so too can Kingslayers. You shall leave on the morning tide for Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. Best of luck to you, Ser." Rhaegar finished.

Histories of the Seven Kingdoms spoke of Bloodraven in hushed whispers and all agreed he served the realm loyally even when his bastard half-brother rose against their trueborn kin, but when he did an unforgivable act, he took the Black to restore honour to the Iron Throne; and so too would Jaime. Else he would take a page from Bittersteel's book and become an exile, wanted dead or alive, the executioner's axe always hanging above his head.

There was a cacophony of noise then that the heralds did not attempt to stop. Few expected such a harsh verdict given Lord Lannister's unexpected entry into the Rebellion. Most thought he had secured a guarantee for Jaime's safety. Mayhap Jaime's actions had prevented that from taking place but the Great Lion always found a way. This time, however, he had not. Jaime seemed stunned for a moment before he regained some colour, the familiar smirk upon his face returning and he blinked, as if seeing where he was for the first time.

"It is rather lenient, I would think," Jaime answered, his voice more powerful than before, silencing the voices nearby and straining the others further back to listen, "that I would be remembered for my stain upon the floor. Is it not a mistake to have me join the likes of Lord Stark and Lord Chels-"

"Enough!" The King's voice boomed, silencing the hall faster than the heralds could dream, "I am not my Father," the King began again, "I am a King of the people, and in this hall, men who come for justice shall find it." he said with a voice that carried, continuing quieter as he mused, "However, if you'd prefer to make a spectacle of yourself, a simple beheading will suffice. We might place your head beside Varys on the Traitor's Walk."

Jaime's brow rose, his voice tilting in disbelief and turned to awe, "Varys dead? How unfortunate. I thought the eunuch more capable than that. He might've been an asset to your rule for his talent at weeding out traitors. They are everywhere." Jaime's eyes sparkled with mirth, a joke only he was privy to.

No one liked Varys.

No one but Aerys.

Neither would be missed. Least of all by him.

"But a King of the people," Jaime continued his pondering, adjusting his stance and pulling the chains back until they were taut, unable to spread his arms wide in a grand gesture, "If I might ask, have the servants returned? The ones that fled the Keep during the siege?" the non-sequitur seemed to catch the King off-guard, but Jaime continued after a few moments, the grin that spread across his face half manic with glee, a sight Gerold was used to seeing on an altogether different man, "These new servants aren't as good as the old. Why, I can see clumps of ash gathered around the chins of Meraxes, Vermithor and Syrax. I believe those are the ashes from Jeyne, Pale Wylla and Hothur's burnings. I rather liked their pies but even they would agree one does not cook their food until it collapses to dust and ash."

A few beats of silence was all it took for a wave of heaving to spread through the assembled crowd. Despite his deep breaths, Gerold felt dread take root for a moment before he willed it away. Aerys was terrible, he needed no reminder of that, and he had sworn a vow.

I shielded as many as I could.

"You do not need to remind me of the crimes my Father committed, Ser." the King said without humour.

"No, I suppose not," Jaime ceded, his demeanour changed in a blink and gone was the shade of his once King, "I wish you well with your reign, your Grace. I can only hope that the man who next dons the white cloak remembers that his Kingsguard oaths are in addition to his knightly ones; they do not replace them."

Crass to the end.

"Court is concluded." Rhaegar finished, his voice tight.

Gold Cloaks surrounded Ser Jaime once more. He did not resist. No more than he had at the start. However this time when he left the court it was with his head held high.

-x-

Ser Jaime of House Lannister. Firstborn son of Lord Tywin and Lady Joanna of Casterly Rock. Served against the Kingswood Brotherhood as squire to Lord Sumner Crakehall. Knighted in his 15th year by Ser Arthur Dayne of the Kingsguard, for valor in the field. Chosen for the Kingsguard in his 15th year by King Aerys II Targaryen. During the Storming of King's Landing, slew King Aerys II at the foot of the Iron Throne. Arrested and placed on trial by King Rhaegar I for regicide. Sentenced to leave his white cloak behind and join the Night's Watch.

Gerold tapped the page twice and put the quill away. There was so much of the page left blank. So much potential wasted.

Leaning back in his chair he looked out over the round table in the common hall to the window. The clouds had dissipated with the setting sun to let thousands of stars out. They twinkled like so many lights from above. Far to the south in the Prince's Pass they had numbered in the tens of thousands. It was the one thing he would grant the Dornish did better than the Reach. Their skies were the stuff of envy. Mayhap one of those thousands of stars is what Dawn was comprised of. Arthur was tight-lipped on his blades storied history.

Lewyn had left on the evening tide. He hardly spoke after the trial but Gerold could see he was holding back. Jaime's silent reprimand for Rhaegar's mistress' presence plain enough but the knight would not compromise his going. Gerold hoped that his brother would come around. Rhaegar was no Aegon the Unworthy and Elia no Naerys. Duty existed between them and that's all it needed to be.

Still, he had hoped that the transition to Rhaegar's rule would've gone smoother. Varys had mucked up their plans for too long. His interference ruined the Great Council and they suspected his hand in rumours of the Rhaegar's reason for borrowing the Lady Lyanna being received as it had. There was never any proof since Aerys had burned away the loose ends but it stunk of his plots. They were glad the man was caught and dead so they might rest easier.

Standing he left the book behind to dry and made his way to the King's chamber. Upon his arrival he found Ser Jonothor and Ser Barristan. The former was weary and grateful to depart for his night's rest, while for Gerold, his evening was only beginning.

"Any news?" he inquired.

"No. All has been quiet," Ser Jonothor said, "The King and Lady have retired." he added as an afterthought, glancing to Ser Barristan who made no comment, stood stone faced and unmoving.

It is to be a quiet night then.

Taking his place by the door Gerold settled in. If things went to plan then the next moon would be frantic as they tried to arrange all the pieces in place for Rhaegar's reign. The long moons of instability would come to an end and peace would reign once more. The long peace since the War of Ninepenny Kings had been a great boon for Westeros and with the exception of the short Rebellion, Westeros hadn't seen a true war in decades.

It was said that in times of peace men turned to plotting, and from those plots war followed. Gerold was determined for that not to happen but as the moon shifted in the sky to mark the hour of the wolf, there came the scurrying footsteps of a man in simple black and brown woolen clothes. A messenger among the servants who would otherwise pass by without notice. He ran towards them from the far end of the hall Gerold knew his hopes had been dashed.

"Lord Commander. An attempt is underway to free Ser Jaime from the Black Cells. He has escaped his rescuers and is being chased in the tunnels." the messenger reported.

He nodded, "Thank you my good man, inform any Kingsguard you come across, but discreetly," he said as the man hurried away. Gerold shifted towards Ser Barristan, "It is time."

Ser Barristan nodded once before departing for Lord Lannister's rooms. He would be placed under arrest and made to answer for freeing his son. The Lannister manse had been surrounded earlier in the day with covert soldiers and any who made to escape would be captured or killed. Lord Tywin, however, was a guest within the Red Keep and it would not be so easy for him to escape; nor to explain why he chose to attack their guards if he did try to fight his way out.

He had hoped that it would not come to this. That they would not be so brazen as to try and intercept Jaime within the Red Keep. Like Bittersteel before him, the ship he was carried upon might be intercepted, but they had contingencies for such an event already in place. Lord Lannister lacked patience. It was passing strange.

Knocking upon the door to the King's chambers he let himself in after a few moments.

No candles were lit within the sitting room but the drapes were pulled open as they blew in the wind. Their translucent material wrapped around the King who stood in his robe, a glass of wine swirling in one hand as he seemed to contemplate the city and its countless inhabitants below him. Gerold cleared his throat to warn of his presence but Rhaegar said nothing, merely turning his head a bit and nodding, acknowledging him for the first time. To his left, the door to the bedroom was ajar but no sound emerged; the Lady present but alone.

"My rest is paramount, I know, you do not need to remind me," the King spoke airily, his wisps of silver hair blowing around his ears and shoulder, "I cannot rest while she sees her father and brother dying their gruesome deaths. In a place where she is meant to feel safe, all she can see is their pained cries, their hurt and betrayal, of her brother's blame given. Ser Jaime's careless remarks brought it all back and now I know not what to do."

Ser Gerold listened but said nothing. He did not have the answers for the pain of a woman. Knights who lost a companions or friend on the battlefield from wounds of arrow, spear and sword, those were what he knew. And though he had been there that day - nothing he said would bring the Lady comfort. His presence as a silent protector against ills might. When Rhaegar turned away he tried to focus beyond the door and he did hear slight whimpers when the wind grew calm.

"Ser Jaime is on the run." he said with deep tones after a time.

The King lay a hand on the railing and turned around to lean back as he eyed him. The robe he wore spilled open but the King did not seem to care. He had appeared in the nude often enough in Dorne. It wasn't until he gave a sad smile that the lax attitude shifted.

"You disagreed, I know, but we need to catch Lord Tywin in the act. It is the only way." the King reminded him.

'My Lord of Lannister is crafty and dangerous but blind in certain matters. His loyalty to his family is paramount and he expects the same in return. No matter that he despises weakness and sees Ser Jaime as a disappointment, he believes he can right the ship, but this ship has long sailed. It will not be a matter of letting him see for himself; we must make it. I have not yet settled into my reign. He will think me weak, as he did when I served as regent, and that is where he will be wrong. It will be his last mistake.'

"It is not for me to disagree," he demurred, "Ser Barristan is seeing the pieces put in place."

"Very well. Help me with my armour so we may see this bloody business through." the King moved then, striding to a nearby settee where his discarded smallclothes lay.

-x-

Descending into the dungeons of the Red Keep they passed by the cellars fit for the highborn. Few were occupied and none bore their interest even if the hurried movement within and shouts of 'Your Grace' at the flash of silver hair moving past gave the prisoners some measure of hope. It was not to be. Further down and down they descended, Gerold carrying the torch in his hand to guide the way, where they came upon the ruin of their guards, cut down by sword and treachery, and later, down the frosty corridor they found the what was left of the red cloaks.

Crowded against a far wall and around three cells lay the bodies. Their armour remained intact but a cursory examination revealed missing pieces. A clasp of gilded steel, a gauntlet and helm, sword and two daggers, as well as other pieces where it was unclear whether anything was stolen or slashed apart in the fighting. They were near two score in total and it must have been a great fight indeed. Gerold could not withhold his grimace as he beheld the scene, waving the torch to and fro, so he, Arthur and his Grace might see all.

Close quarters. Little light. A massacre where no one knew who was fighting who.

And the cell where the prisoner had sat lay perilously empty.

"Have we found where he went?" Rhaegar asked the men standing around the scene.

The King wore blackened chainmail over thick leather and a dark cloak that hung to his knees displaying the Red three-headed dragon across it. A set of armour which was not as ostentatious as that which he'd worn at Harrenhal but allowed for movement in tighter places without compromising his safety. A work of brilliant blacksmithing. He would have to commission a set for himself for times where his Kingsguard armour proved too cumbersome.

At once they saluted and looked to each other for who would step forward to address the King. Before anyone could do so a new voice emerged from the darkness.

"We have," Ser Arthur answered, his white cloak trailing in his wake as he slowed to a light jog, sweat caked his brow as he breathed deep, "He wandered away and killed two gaolers who tried to follow after him. The blood from his sword proved the key. We've cornered him in a series of winding cellars and sealed their exits. For all his time in King's Landing he doesn't know the Red Keep as we do."

They were fortunate. Jaime had not been a member of their order long enough to reveal truly dangerous secrets should he choose to do so. It was why the preferred method for dealing with treasonous Kingsguard was execution; dead men told no secrets. The King however would not be swayed.

The King nodded and followed after Arthur who led them onwards. Gerold led up front while the King followed closely behind. To his right, Arthur seemed on edge, whether for what was to come, or the situation he did not know. It was a good thing they had caught Jaime as early as they did. But now they must see to his death. It was thought that the knight who honours a man by knighting him bears a portion of responsibility for the actions he carries out; and though no one had accused Ser Arthur to his face, the reminder that Jaime had slain his King in a most egregious way and then looked upon their way of life with contempt; it spelled nothing good for the Sword of the Morning and his reputation.

At present few had said anything but there were always whispers around court. It would emerge sooner or later and the Kingsguard had to remain above reproach.

"Are you prepared for what is to come?" he murmured to his brother, the voice echoing in the dark passages as they descended narrow crumbling steps, wary for pressure plates and false walls.

"I am." Arthur answered, his voice was strong as steel, the unwavering stare sealing his words with a silent oath.

Gerold nodded in assent. In the past he had squires that he had grown attached to for one reason or another. They were family, distant kin, or proved otherwise likable. While the formality had never existed between Ser Arthur and Jaime, there was camaraderie from battle, brotherhood and youth. The young knight often had stars in his eyes, while in Arthur's there was pride and a hopefulness for the future that they all felt. Since returning from Dorne, Arthur was morose, mourning for the boy he had known and his part, however small, in the events that lead them here.

And now the man Arthur knighted for valour would die on his sword. Jaime's dying breath would expunge the stain upon Arthur's honour.

When they reached a large open aired chamber they halted in the doorway. Arthur hung his torch on a nearby sconce while he waved his to check for threats. The King remained a few steps behind them, Gerold could feel his presence but he was not close enough to grab, and they were sure they were not followed. The winding tunnels too complex for any but the most experienced or well and truly lost.

In the darkness faint outlines began to appear. A unmoving mass was in the center of the room. Flat circles some four feet high were arrayed in a rectangular formation and towards the outsides on the periphery were scores of jars. All were made to perfection and stacked side by side, their contents sealed. The air was musky and cool. A cold cellar, mayhap, where wine and ale was stored in thick oak barrels. On either visible wall were shoddily made wooden doors. Mayhap it was other entryways. More direct paths for the servants who came and went.

Passing strange. I'd never heard of such a large cellar being so deep. What do the servants store here?

He did not make it another step before sputtered growling rang through the darkness, choked and cloudy, their quarry found at last.

"That's far enough." Jaime warned.

Ser Gerold stopped and narrowed his eyes. Atop the barrels was a man. He wore none of the fine silk of the noblemen and instead was covered in loose fitted and ragged woolen smallclothes. They were torn in countless places with blood smears across the shoulder; stains that were not the knight's as they came from a sword leaned against his chest. The point dug into the barrel he sat upon. A beard adorned Jaime's face and his features were alit with glee, so feral and intrigued, had he not looked like a mangy kitten he might pass for a true lion.

"You have nowhere to go, Ser Jaime. Surrender." he called.

"Ser, ser.... ser." Jaime answered back, his words slurring as he whipped his head around in choppy movements, looking for threats that were not there, "Why did you disobey your King, Ser?" Jaime drawled, his head falling back against another barrel with a deep clunk.

He is drunk, he thought, noting that a barrel directly in front of the fallen knight was open, its lid lay useless upon the stone floor. Even in the end he disgraces himself.

"How can we forget?" Jaime continued, heedless to any sense, "Ser, ser, ser, they say, each and every day, yet the vows we swore to be called Ser are the ones we broke first."

"I do not follow your meaning." Arthur answered and Gerold bit back a curse.

"The King commanded Ser... Ser Gerold retrieve Rhaegar," Jaime said, the slurring slowing to a halt and an altogether different tone emerged, far more mercurial, "but then he failed to return himself. Aerys raged for days after and when Rhaegar rose against him believed that his own Lord Commander was in on it. Mayhaps all his servants were. Dozens burned in the days after while the rest of us stood by and watched. Was it right?" he addressed him once more, "Should I have watched?"

He did not revel in death as some did. He did not take pleasure in men dying upon the battlefield, of women in the birthing bed, from wasting illness or fever. Those who had fought in a war would say that most deaths had no purpose at all. They just happened. A good man might be japing and playing dice one moment and dead of a burst belly the next. That the servants, lucky enough to have a comfortable place within the Red Keep might find themselves burned to death was regrettable, it was a risk when accepting the boon to one's station. Any gutter rat in Fleabottom would swoon at the opportunity to serve in a castle where safety and food was assured. All they asked for in return for their service was loyalty.

It was a lesson Jaime had not yet learned.

"You did as you were commanded. There is no shame in that." he answered.

"Isn't there?" Jaime quirked his chin in challenge.

He could almost feel the gaze of the King upon his back and Arthur at his side. The Kingsguard had not suffered through Aerys' reign without complaint. Jaime's youth and inexperience as a knight had soured him faster than most and he had not seen Aerys in his early reign nor the gradual changes he had undertaken, nor had he experienced their storied history and varied members. The order they had now would not be the Kingsguard of a century in the future just as they weren't the Kingsguard of Baelor I; and neither would the Kings those Kingsguard served. Aspects of their order had to remain immovable even as they tried to act around the frayed edges of their oaths.

"Aerys was an outlier among the Kings we have served. Few would have acted as he did. Consider this: the guards in your Father's keep obey his commands, keep his secrets, and protect him against threats. What would happen to our way of life should those guards get it in their heads that they had the right to intercede on a Lord's business? To say that they will not abide by their commands, and to turn their sword on their liege when rebuffed? The Kingsguard are not Kingmakers. Power must reside in specific places. The Kings and Lords run the Seven Kingdoms; not the guards and gaolers. Else we'd have a thousand Kings and tomorrow a thousand new ones. With no peace and no security. The Kingsguard must never be allowed to take matters into their own hands."

At that, there was silence. Whether his words meant anything to the disgraced knight it meant little. He would answer for his sins in the Seven Hells. Still, he couldn't help but goad the man after he judged him.

"You have never denied it. I wonder, did Aerys order you kill him?" he found himself saying.

Arthur's head swung around and his eyes shot wide. It was uncharacteristic of him mayhap, but Gerold was tired of the excuses bandied about on Jaime's behalf. Across from them on the barrels, Jaime was taken aback, his eyes drifting downwards as he blinked and then shrugged.

"Aerys' last order would have led to his death anyway, so in a way, I did follow it; but not in the way he intended. Now I have a chance."

Gerold's brow rose but before he could answer Arthur jumped in once more.

"Why were you not forthcoming with this before?"

Jaime chuckled without mirth. "We are sworn to keep the King's secrets but neither are we fishwives prone to gossip. I never swore an oath to Rhaegar, not as you all clearly did, else how did you reason that following the son whilst the Father lived to be upholding your vows?" Jaime shook his head, "What I did was tantamount to making your newly sworn vows binding. You are all Kingmakers. Only I am not. How fitting that I would be discarded whilst the trash remained."

From behind came scuffed footsteps. There was a flicker of recognition in Jaime's face and his wide grin returned.

"My Father's last order, what was it?" Rhaegar asked, bringing the point back to his impulsive question.

Jaime watched him for a time. The torch in his hand was overwarm and when he switched hands, Gerold's eyes narrowed on the way that Jaime seemed to follow the flame. Had he been watching it that whole time? Those who dwelled in the Black Cells were known to go mad but it never happened in a single day. Deprivation of light did curious things to a man.

"Why would you disobey your Kingly Father? Placating him with false promises, when you were a usurper all along?" Jaime asked instead.

Rhaegar was not deterred.

"My Father needed to be cast aside for the good of the realm. When dealing with honourable men one might deal in honour, but when dealing with those who are deceitful..." the King said with practiced ease.

"I was given a white cloak, not a grey one, the distinction means little as I was not meant to see anything. Obedience was what was demanded."

Rhaegar's head tilted forward and brow rose. The unanswered question hung between them. Finally Jaime seemed to relent as he took a deep breath, reaching into his pockets to fist something. When it was drawn out and held in the disgraced knight's hand it looked to resemble a piece of flint. Gerold was relieved it was not one of the daggers that was missing. Still, when Jaime's gaze alternated between the torch and the flint, it was as if he could not parse how one became the other.

The dragons are not alone in their madness. Aerys' claws are in him. He cares not for his own imminent death.

Jaime made a motion to strike the flint across the sword but halted, his hand hovering a hair's breath above it, his shuddering breath blowing droplets of sweat off his nose to plop into the open barrel. After a moment he chuckled and with his sword hand drew the hilt into his palm, fingering the bloodied sword as his eyes flicked between the blade and the King. Gerold grasped the blade at his side in anticipation. Instead of attacking, however, Jaime lay the far edge of the blade across the opening of the barrel, hilt still in hand and flint in the other.

"Do you know why Lord Chelstead was burned?" Jaime asked yet another question. Gerold grit his teeth. He wanted to order Arthur to attack, to dispatch with the knight, but so much of what went on in the Red Keep in the moon preceding Rhaegar's ascension remained unknown. So many men had fled and those that hadn't were either traitors or dead. The King had wanted answers and even the half-truths from Jaime's lips would be a great boon.

"No doubt my Father thought he gave poor counsel." the King answered.

They'd already sent men across the Narrow Sea to return the Griffin Lord and others who had been exiled for their failings during the war. It was not hard to believe that those within the King's grasp would not be given a fortunate fate.

"Indeed. He disapproved of Aerys' grand plans. The King resented all those 'loyal' men who were fit to tell him no. That he could not have his new Wall, his irrigation system to Dorne, his new city across the Blackwater. Years of being denied. This - this was his own - and his new Lord Hand, the wisdom Rossart, not only agreed but was rejoiced to lend his assistance to help."

Gerold felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as silence reigned. He dare not breathe lest he miss a word.

"The substance would be created and moved in barrels and pots," Gerold's eyes flicked away to the scores of pots surrounding them, he hoped they were just wine and ale after all, Jaime continued heedless of his thoughts, "Only the highest of their order were entrusted with the task such was the secrecy. They were placed everywhere. Under gates, thoroughfares and gathering places. Aerys did not want it set off too soon. Only when the armies of his son rode through, triumphant in the glory and great victory, would the plan be enacted; the fire, flesh and blood of half a million souls would coalesce into a flaming pit where it would simmer and merge into a single mass. Aerys' body would be reborn into that of a dragon, green and red and unstoppable, to turn all those who opposed him to ash."

"You killed Rossart and then returned for the King." The King whispered from behind them to complete the tale.

Madness, and yet... he felt the torch in his hand, the flame licking the coal near its head. How it could've spelled doom for them at any time within the tunnels. How it still could. He tossed it away behind them, past the King who was illuminated in its glow, and saw it fall apart and smolder at a safe distance.

"You fool! Why did you not tell anyone?!" he demanded as he spun back, his chest heaving with dread.

Jaime gave him a flat look. "Now who needs reminding of our oaths?" he laughed then, pointing at each of them as if their shock and dawning horror were the greatest of japes, "I learned well in King's Landing. You taught me that the worst crime a Kingsguard can commit is to possess a conscience. You may have stripped me of my white cloak but I have not yet donned a black one. While I remain, so too do Aerys' orders, and it is the gravest of crimes to disobey your King, no?" Jaime said with manic glee, the face of Aerys contorted upon the young lion.

With lightning speed Gerold drew his sword but Arthur was faster. He watched in slow motion as the knight raced towards Ser Jaime, the flint rising and falling to crash against the flat of his blade. No light emerged and for a beat he thought them safe as Arthur jumped, lunging to impale Jaime with Dawn.

Arthur making contact made him breath easy. He turned to face the King and come up with a plan to deal with all they had learned. Before he could utter a word, his eyes narrowed on the way the King's hair fluttered, an unknown force pulling it forward, before he knew no more.