DISCLAIMER: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire, HBO's Game of Thrones nor any of the characters plots or ideas involved in either, which are credited to George R.R Martin and HBO respectively.

This fic borrows elements from both the books and the TV series. Major SPOILERS follow for A Game of Thrones, A Clash of Kings and A Storm of Swords, while several plot points from A Feast for Crows and A Dance with Dragons also ages from the show approx. 2-4 years older than characters in books.

Author's Note: I don't really know how I started writing this. It was probably during one of my writer's blocks for my original fiction, when I decided that it would be easy to do some practice writing in the ASoIaF universe. This was supposed to be a fairly simplistic fic centered around House Lannister and Tyrion after the PW, but one thing turns to another, and then another… and before you know it, you have 300,000 words to write.

Right now, I'm not sure if this will ever actually end. There's meant to be three instalments in this series, and if they average 250,000 words each that's still 750,000 words. If I write 500 words a day, that's enough to last me until 2019…

So, um, yeah…

January 2016

Also, to those of you who may have seen pairings or the like on AO3, I don't really write stories based around relationships, so don't expect to see a lot of shipping here.

PROLOGUE

The cool light of dawn made the sept seem colder than it really was, while the pale golden light filtering through the stained glass windows and falling across the dead king's face made him seem strangely angelic. More so than he ever had been in life… though more angelic than Joffrey was drier than the sea, Jaime Lannister supposed.

He does not deserve it, Jaime thought. All of this… any of this. Perhaps a father ought to feel something looking down on the cold corpse of his son, but the boy had never been anything more to him than his seed. He had never held Joff as a babe as he had his siblings; nay, the boy had lusted for Cersei's breast, and nothing more than that…

…perhaps we are not so different, he and I, he mused, and rubbed the stump of his hand. The other five Kingsguard knights were standing at different corners of the royal sept, statuettes in golden scaled armour and white cloaks. Jaime's golden hand weighed uncomfortably against his side, and when he moved it against the hilt of his sword, metal scraped on metal, and a dry screech filled the air. Cersei's head whipped round in reaction to it, but only for half a second before she went back to staring down over the body. Jaime felt that ought to do something; he had a duty to comfort his sister.

His footsteps rang out heavy and loud on the stone steps as he went down to where she stood. He wanted to take her hand, to embrace her, to kiss her and comfort her and tell her that it would be all right, but he could not. Not here. Not while all of his Sworn Brothers were looking on, watching and waiting in silence. And he could not lie to her either.

"I came here when Robert died," said Cersei, her voice cracked and oddly strangled. "I never thought I'd have to come here again. To see another king laid out on his bier… it hurts, Jaime, truly. It does."

"I know," he said. It was a lie, but one that was kindly meant. He did not feel anything at all, save for the empty void that he knew ought to be filled with emotion.

"No," she replied, without even looking at him. "No, you don't. How could you?" For a moment he thought she might be cry, but then he remembered: Cersei did not cry. She was a lion, as much as he was.

I am a lion with one hand, Jaime thought gloomily, and no claws.

"He looks like you," Cersei said quietly. "He always has."

Joff's body had been dressed in black silk and golden armour, the hole in his throat that Pycelle had cut stitched back together, a splendid black velvet cape thrown over one shoulder. His hair gathered around his head, a pool of golden ringlets, but his green eyes were closed to the world, covered with smooth grey stones.

My son, Jaime thought, but that failed to inspire any emotion in him. How could a night of passionate lovemaking have ended in something so… lifeless, so… dead?

Cersei's resolve seemed to harden then, as she swallowed down the tears that threatened her. "It was him…" she said, in barely more than a whisper. "He did this. He poisoned our son."

Jaime had a cautious look round at the other Kingsguard, but none of them seemed to have heard. Trant and Blount wouldn't know the truth unless he battered them over the head with it, Ser Osmund Kettleblack was busy picking at his nails, and the Knight of the Flowers was standing resolute, eyes raised to the sky. "Who?" he asked, but he already knew.

"The Imp," she said. "The monster."

"Tyrion."

Cersei did not even bother to give that a proper response, nor did she give their brother any respect. "The monster," she repeated, her face lined like stone. "Call him what you will, but to me, he is always the monster."

There are no monsters here, Jaime thought, only memories. How long had it been since he had stood in this sept to beg the gods for forgiveness for his being unable to prevent the deaths of Elia Martell and her children? How long had it been since he had repented the sin of driving the sword through Aerys's back?

Never, he thought. I never repented that.

Cersei turned away and gave a ragged half-sob that seemed to come from nowhere. "You won't kill him, will you? You won't avenge our son?"

"I am the Kingsguard," Jaime said, all cool courtesy. "And thus, I live to serve the king."

Her voice was measured and surprisingly calm. "And if your king orders you to murder your brother? What then?"

Then they would name me Kingslayer twice over, he thought. "Cersei," he said. "Don't-

"Go, ser." This time she spoke in barely more than a whisper. "Leave me to my grief."

The words stung a little, but by then, he was already leaving. And he did not once look back, not even when the sept was far behind him.

And for the first time since he had returned to King's Landing, he was free to do as he pleased… and it confused him, in a strange way. The Kingsguard are never free, he remembered old Ser Barristan Selmy saying. Our duty is eternal vigilance to all those we serve. We are bound by oath, always.

His next thought was of Tyrion, whiling the hours away in some cramped cell beneath the Red Keep awaiting trial or some news from the world above. Jaime had not been able to see him since the wedding, and now seemed like the time, only…

You have waited a long while, little brother. I pray you will not mind waiting a little longer.

He heard footsteps on the cobblestones behind him, and he heard a pair talking loudly as they walked. "Ser Jaime!" a man's voice called. He turned round, unsure of what he was expecting, and was met with Ser Garlan Tyrell, in a black doublet with the sigil of his house worked a hundred times upon the sleeves in golden thread. His pregnant wife Lady Leonette clung to his arm, also dressed in suitable mourning clothes which had the unfortunate effect of making her look extremely bloated.

Jaime nodded curtly in greeting. "Ser. My lady."

Lady Leonette made a small curtsey, before her face seemed to crumple a little. "I am sorry for your loss, ser. Of your nephew. King Joffrey… he was beloved by the people of the Seven Kingdoms. And by Lady Margaery-

"Of course," Jaime said. "We will miss him… ah, greatly."

Ser Garlan cocked his head curiously to one side. "I do hope his murderer is found sooner than later."

"Indeed," said Lady Leonette. "I find it quite preposterous that Lord Tyrion has been-

Her husband held up a hand to hush her, and rightly so. Most people in the Red Keep would never have dared to speak a word against Cersei and her accusation, no matter how transparent it might be. "His Grace had insulted Lord Tyrion," said Ser Garlan. "He had a right to be angry with King Joffrey, I suppose, and perhaps his belittlement was too much for him. He is short of stature, my lady, and there was no chance for him to defend himself with sword and shield."

"But you must admit, Garlan, that Lord Tyrion does not seem the sort to do such a thing," said Lady Leonette. "Suppose he were-

It was only then that Jaime realised that this might be some sort of ploy for them to find out his own opinion on the matter. Not so gallant now, are you, ser? "I think it unlikely," he muttered, "but I have been away from King's Landing for a long time; mayhaps Tyrion has changed somewhat. The last year cannot have been easy for him."

Sure enough, Ser Garlan suddenly seemed disinterested. "I was rather… aggrieved to hear of your injury, ser. I had hoped to practise against you sometime." Jaime held up his golden hand. The Tyrell knight shrugged. "I can fight left-handed," he said.

Gallant as ever, Jaime thought. "We could, but I'm afraid you'd win, ser."

Ser Garlan laughed, loud and booming. "We had best be on our way, ser," he said. "Come, Leonette. Our horses will not wait forever." And they went, chattering to one another in hushed voices. Jaime did not have to guess what they were talking about.

The Tower of the Hand had never seemed so tall as when he began to climb up towards his father's chambers. He had made this ascent before, but Tywin Lannister was an imposing presence; he always had been. At Casterly Rock, his father's chambers were in the highest part of the castle, and the trek to them was gruelling – but at least he could take the longest way possible to get there and think up excuses for his behaviour. The Hand's tower was a singular, dull, drab staircase, winding up and up and up, with nothing to cheer his way but the tapestries on the walls. Lannister lions. So many Lannister lions. In a coat of gold or a coat of red, a lion still has claws…

"Ser Jaime," said Captain Vylarr when he had reached the top. "I hope you are well."

"So do I, Vylarr," Jaime muttered, "so do I."

He pushed softly on the oaken door and stepped inside, and met at once with his father's icy gaze. Lord Tywin Lannister was not a particularly large man, but he more than made up for it with his impressive reputation.

For the longest time they only stared at one another, neither daring to speak. Lord Tywin's mouth was a firm line, his face stubborn as stone, unwavering. "Jaime," he said at last.

"Father."

"I did not send for you." Lord Tywin picked up his pen and began to scratch meaningless numbers onto a parchment scroll. They blurred before Jaime's eyes.

"And yet I came all the same."

"Yes." His father did not look up. "Why?"

Jaime took a breath. "Tyrion," he said. "I want my brother back."

Lord Tywin gave a short snort of derision, then looked up from his work. "You want him back? Back where, may I ask?"

"You know what I mean, Father. I want to see him freed from imprisonment."

"And so you shall. After the trial, if he is proven innocent."

He sighed. "And if you find him guilty?" Or rather, if Cersei finds him guilty…

His father's face was expressionless, with not a moment's consideration for his younger son's fate. "Then he shall be punished accordingly-

"Death, you mean."

"Accordingly for a Lannister, I mean. The Night's Watch always has need of good, noble men."

"You'd send my brother to the Night's Watch?" Jaime's voice was surprisingly quiet, even to his own ears. "Despite the fact that he did not kill Joffrey."

"Oh?" Lord Tywin raised his eyebrows in feigned surprise. "He didn't, you say?"

"Of course not."

"Do you have any evidence to prove that?" When Jaime opened his mouth to protest, his father held up a hand. "No matter. This is why we have a trial, after all."