Day 1 – The Mother


(Ser Jaime's POV)

"I doubt she's still back there, Jaime," his friend commented, voice loud enough to be heard over the clopping of hooves as they rode down off the hill and onto the plain leading up to the packed grounds surrounding Harrenhal.

He pulled his head part around. "Hmmnn?"

"That odd crone. You keep looking back. We've ridden a mile on already. No way you can spy her from here," explained Addam rationally.

"No, I wasn't looking for her."

The youth riding beside him raised his eyebrows dubiously. "Well she spooked me. Thought she was a grumkin, going to grant me the one wish I shouldn't have." The heir of Ashemark gave an exaggerated shiver.

"I haven't thought of her since I changed into my breast plate and cape," the knight honestly told the squire. The heir of Casterly Rock gleamed in gold and crimson, outshining all the other members of their party in splendor.

"Then why in Seven Hells do you keep looking back?" Addam asked his childhood friend with an exaggerated aggrieved tone.

"Pox on you," Jaime snorted with equal faux passion. "I'm just keeping an eye out for Uncle Kevan."

The squire half giggled and half laughed out loud.

Jaime glared at him, this time with true anger.

Finally words came out of Addam's snickering mouth. "No wonder you've been on edge these last few days. I'd be worried too if my Uncle came galloping up with a betrothal agreement to that …" His mouth suddenly clapped shut and his eyes surreptitiously scanned about for Brynden Tully.

Now it was Jaime's turn to laugh at a friend's discomfort. One simply did not anger that particular knight. Especially by casting aspersions upon his family – Family, Duty, Honor. Fine house words.

Though, he did have to agree with Addam. While Lysa Tully and her thick auburn hair were attractive enough for a slip of a fourteen year old girl. Not that he nor Uncle Kevan had seen much of her in the five days he had lodged in Riverrun. A lingering illness of the belly the Maester and Lord Hoster had explained. As far as he remembered from his previous visit, the child had the personality of … her house's fish. Blah, he shuddered to contemplate marriage to that.

The chit's two year older sister, Catelyn; now, she was a different tale: prettier, curvier, more vivacious, yet suitably proper for a future great lady. The Wolves of Winterfell were gaining more of value there than just an alliance between two lords paramount.

Still, even that one was a far cry from Cersei; as beautiful as the moon might be, it was just a pale imitation of the sun. He burned for his sister. He must have her, no matter what others' plans would wind up in ruin. The longer Uncle Kevan stayed away, the greater the chance of a contract having been reached for him with the Tullys.

On the other side of the blade edge, the longer it took for his Uncle to arrive at Harrenhal, the better chances Cersei's plan would succeed. And they could be together … always ... somehow.

"I wonder if Harrenhal will have any more witches and fortune tellers?" Addam asked, pulling Jaime away from the day dreams that he suddenly noticed were causing his member to engorge.

"What?"

"Well that crone certainly didn't sound as if she was coming down to do business here. My father's tourney was too small to attract much in the ways of mummers and whores and jugglers and foreigners and jesters. They add spice to a good ... Ha, spice. That's the thing."

"What now?" Jaime smirked in irritation at his rambling friend.

"House Spicer; new blood. You remember, the daughter married Lord Westerling three or four years back."

"And?"

"The mother is old Maggy the Frog.

"How does that have anything to do with me?"

"Nothing really ... just, I remember at Lord Tywin's tourney for his Grace, she had a tent. Heard she scared the shite out of little Jeyne Farman. That was the night the Hetherspoon girl died from falling down the well. Wasn't Cersei with them too? Can't remember."

"She was," Jaime answered. How his sister had shivered and cried that night in his arms. She refused or couldn't tell him why. He had never seen her so afraid. Or overwhelmed with tears, at least not for another seven nights; when word spread that King Aerys had rejected father's offer to betroth Prince Rhaegar to Cersei."

"Well, they don't scare me," Addam proclaimed. "I'll find one and ask when Lord Lucion will make a knight of me. Just like you."

Jaime sent a silent prayer to the Mother that she gift him Uncle Kevan's continued delay. Then he would receive a knighthood of a different kind. And then Cersei. Forever.


A lightly tented area of moderate height was spied amongst the throngs of people, livestock, pavilions, booths, and other temporary structures put up to house, feed, drink, fuck, and occasionally wash what was now likely the fifth most populous spot in all Westeros. The intended destination was in fact shite with regards to not being located anywhere near the main entrance to Harrenhal, Harrentown, the waters of the God's Eye, or the tourney grounds.

The gorgeous colored, large tents of the most significant lords were ensconced close to the well situated giant banners of the earlier arriving Three Headed Dragon of the Targaryens', Falcon of the Arryns', the Direwolf of the Starks', the Stag of the Baratheons', the Golden Rose of the Tyrells', and the Spear Pierced Red Sun of the Martells'. Lord Tywin's and Lord Hoster's absence had left the houses of the Riverlands and Westerlands no agreed upon place to center their banner lords.

To accompanying gripes and laments by the lordlings and knights about their woeful plight, Lord Lucion paid out coin from Golden Tooth's coffers to free up the hillock for the party's own tents.

"Will you have your men pitch with us, Ser Brynden?" Jaime asked the renowned knight.

"A gracious offer, Ser Jaime. But after three weeks close quarters, perhaps you grow weary of this trout's company."

"Well I wasn't offering to share quarters again, good Ser," he laughed. "They wouldn't be that close."

Blue eyes gazed disconcertingly a moment into Jaime's soul.

"This is Lord Whent's tourney. I wouldn't want it said Lord Hoster's brother did anything to take away from his banner lord's glory. I shall have a tent pitched in anonymity somewhere over there," he gestured. Pointing halfway between the hillock and where white and grey banner of the Starks' flew.

'How diplomatic, if Uncle Kevan arrives with what I pray he does not,' Jaime thought. "Ser Brynden, anonymous?" he smirked by way of actual answer. "Do you not intend to add your name to the lists?"

"Ha, the lion purrs instead of roars," the Riverlander chuckled. "I will. I will. And if we meet, go easy on an old knight will you?"

"And the trout floats a lure to try and hook the lion. Nay, Ser. I shall not. And I believe you would be disappointed in me if I did."

"Aye, lad," he said fondly; the use of 'lad' not rankling Jaime in the least. "I would. You have a promising future. But for now, I think I shall bid my farewell. While the trout shall not try to outshine the bat these next ten days, it is dutiful that I go pay my respects to my former goodsister's cousins."

Both knights raised gloved hands in partying. Then, as Ser Brynden started to turn his piebald mount away, the knight paused. "Perhaps the son of Lord Tywin Lannister and the heir of Casterly Rock should come greet Lord Walter and Lady Shella as well."

"Inside Harrenhal?"

Ser Brynden nodded.

"Will his Grace be there?"

"In the castle? Most like. I think his pavilion will mostly be used for resting during the day between bouts." The largest tent, in the black and red colors of the king's house, was in fact beside the Grand Concourse for the joust. "But I doubt King Aerys will be with Lord Walter."

A step closer to Cersei. Cersei's raven had claimed it was arranged, but how it was arranged to unfold remained a mystery. Boldness and courage in the face of uncertainty mattered. "Then I shall gladly remain your companion, if only for a little while longer, Ser Brynden."


The cliff like walls made King's Landing's outer defenses seem almost modest by comparison. Depending on the position of the sun, they cast giant shadows. If the tourney were during the heat of summer, many more would have encamped close by them it to take advantage of the cool darkness they cast. With Spring only barely begun, lords and smallfolk alike were instead greedy for warmth. The multitudes dwindled to mere torrents as the pair of knights approached the main gate.

Some minor knight in charge of the half dozen men-at-arms wearing the livery of the bat recognized them by their livery and promptly bowed the pair of knights entrance. The tunnel passing through the thick walls was of a length and dimness to mind Jaime of Casterly Rock's under belly, lacking only the low, heavy hum of the ocean's incessant battle with the granite.

The return of light revealed an immense courtyard, interior walls, both active and ruined buildings, as well as the five mammoth towers whose tops had only been visible from without. The light also revealed a sentinel in a white cloak.

"Ser Arthur," both knights acknowledged; Jaime more fervently than Ser Brynden. The Sword of the Morning, reckoned the greatest knight in the Seven Kingdoms, had after all bestowed knighthood on Jaime. He smiled openly at the sight of him.

"Sers, word of your coming has reached the King's ear. His Grace would have words with the son of his Hand. Come, Ser Jaime, you are expected in the Kingspyre Tower," the Kingsguard commanded.

Jaime's heart quickened. The moment of truth must certainly be approaching fast.

"Might I accompany you there as well, Ser?" Ser Brynden asked courteously. "I wished to pay the regards of Riverrun to Lord Walter and Lady Shella."

Violet eyes, so often merry and warm around the campfire, remained those cold ones Jaime remembered from duty and battle. "Lord and Lady Whent have granted his Grace sole use of the Kingspyre for the duration of the tourney. The lord and lady reside in the Tower of Dread."

"And are they there now?" the older knight inquired.

"The lord is busy preparing for the opening of the tourney on the morrow. I have not kept track of his every movement," the Sword of Morning replied curtly.

Bushy Tully eyebrows twitched once. "A last, slight boon of information, if I may, Ser?"

Arthur Dayne nodded once for permission.

"Are all five of your brothers here at Harrenhal?"

"Yes."

Ser Brynden gave a short, tilted nod. Then, "Ser Jaime, if his Grace asks about your journey here, kindly relay to him the best wishes of House Tully. I shan't keep you any longer, Ser Arthur. Duty."

"Thank you, Ser Brynden," Jaime responded with heart. "For everything." For Cersei.

They parted, with Jaime Lannister shifting companions from one boyhood hero to another, even greater, one.

The new pair rode in silence for a minute or three. If the young knight's thoughts weren't in his dreams and hundreds of miles south in King's Landing, he would have taken more note of the castle's dilapidated glory and the bustle going on around him.

"You will have your wits about you when you meet the King," the Knight of Morning more commanded than asked when at last he spoke.

"Yes, Ser Arthur. So, I hear, that is … perhaps … his Grace might …" leaving a last pregnant pause.

"It is not for the likes of the King's humblest of servants to reveal undirected the royal wishes. That is a lesson you would do well to learn, Ser." The Kingsguard chastised neatly, yet mayhap with deeper meaning.

"I understand, Ser Arthur," he answered, not able to keep a cocky grin from his face.

"I was four and twenty when Ser Gerold raised me and clasped the white cloak about my shoulders. Already a knight near a decade, with fears from the Defiance of Duskendale still in the air. Do you truly understand, Ser Jaime?

Cersei, here I come.

"Your father would understand."

No. He would not. If he knew.


As he approached, sword already retrieved off his person by Ser Oswell, the slowly pacing figure of King Aerys looked both much better and much, much worse than when Jaime had last seen him just three months earlier.

The hair of head and chin were as uncut and unruly as before. Finger nails yellow, long, broken, and jagged. The crown sat as ill-fitting as ever atop the slender frame that never gained any weight. No muscle tone, so the rich clothes hung limply off his poor body.

The differences for good and for ill were subtler. Gone was King Scab. Two weeks away from the blades of the Iron Throne and his Grace's skin lacked the usual array of nicks and half healed sores. Under the grime of the infrequently washed body, the skin was taking on an almost healthy pallor; the air of the countryside serving him better than the fetid humors of King's Landing and the Red Keep.

He knelt the correct distance from the King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. "Your Grace? My Prince?" he added, for Rhaegar was present in the salon along with several others.

"Arise, Ser Jaime. Let me look at you," the king commanded in a rasping yet silky voice.

He did so. Green eyes stared cautiously into violet ones. Unlike Ser Arthur's, these where neither cold nor warm. They glowed with a burning desire. For what? He felt … uneasy. Had they always shown that way? He had seen much more of the King as a boy, when his father had served as Hand.

"You have become a man and a knight in your own right, eh, Ser Jaime? While your father is my greatest servant, it is good to see a young lion has grown fierce away from the den. What?" he chuckled softly.

Dutifully the room shared in the quiet mirth.

He bowed, in response. "I am ever at your service, my King," he swore. For a half a second he wished his father was there to shield him. But the Lion hadn't been there to protect him when he crossed swords with the Kingswood Brotherhood. Father would keep him from Cersei. Never again.

"Good. Good. Rhaegar, take your Griffin, Skull, and Salmon elsewhere. The Dragon and the Young Lion would speak without lesser creatures sneaking in to gnaw at our words."

"My royal father, if I may …"

"Bah, do as I command. I will not be henpecked by my own son. Practice your knightly skills, instead of your flattery. You'll need those soon enough when the jousts start." Aerys waved the long, cracked, yellow finger nails of one hand to emphasize the dismissal.

"Your Grace," all four announced and withdrew.

The door shut.

"Come, young Ser. Sit with me. Drink some wine."

Even into a regular cushioned wood chair, Aerys lowered himself delicately. Arms held up. Hot eyes darting back and forth to ensure nothing would ensnare him. Cut him. Harm him. "A fine Arbor. Sit. Drink." More command than request.

Jaime smiled and thought of Cersei. He did as ordered, though remaining very stiff and proper in doing so. "Yes, very fine, your Grace."

Aerys smiled, not saying anything. Jaime continued to smile, but remained mum. Likely a good skill to have as a Kingsguard. Finally the king carefully lifted the goblet to his own lips and took a small sip. "But not so fine as the sword work you did in my name. Sers Barristan and Arthur have relayed to me much of what you did in the Kingswood. I would hear it now in your own words. Was their fear? Excitement? Boast if you will, but speak to me the truth of it."

Hesitantly at first, in drips and drabs, Jaime spoke. An action here. Then the boredom of the search. A blaze of energy as they followed a hot trail. His first killing.

Aerys nodded along in seeming understanding. A pointed question here. A comparison there to his own experiences alongside Jaime's father during the War of the Ninepenny Kings. A request for clarification as he'd heard the encounter told differently from others. An hour or more passed pleasantly. Jaime, at one pause to accept a new cup of wine, noticed that some of the strange heat in the king's eyes had dulled.

"Ser Arthur says young Jaime has the talent to be a great knight. Ser Barristan agrees; however, the Bold points out he is not just young, but very, very young. You are only five and ten, aren't you?" his sovereign demanded quickly.

"Aye, your Grace," Jaime answered promptly, sitting up to his full height in the chair. He was already six foot and still growing. What's more, he was not a servant to be talked about as if he were not present.

"What is your opinion, Ser Gerold?"

"Ser Barristan earned his moniker while still in swaddling clothes, your Grace. Who is he to talk of youth?"

The king cackled in amusement.

"I was three and twenty when I swore my vows to you Old Bull," the Bold complained with little heat.

"We grow old in your service, your Grace. Ser Arthur vouches for him and the Knight of Morning is a decade younger than the next closest of us. I would not say you chose poorly if you decide upon this young blood."

"Ser Jaime?" the king asked.

"Your Grace," he answered cautiously, not wishing to upset the moment by misdeed or word.

Aerys scowled. "Tywin Lannister's son should not play the fool. Words were conspired to be whispered in the correct ears, Ser. You know why you are here." Statement, not question.

"Yes, your Grace." Somewhat abashed, he lowered his head for a moment.

"Will you renounce all worldly concerns to give me your sole allegiance?"

For Cersei. The promise of her touch on his lips. The irresistible urge she sent surging through his loins. He would live any lie to grasp that just one more time. His knightly vows meant nothing. "I will."

"Will you protect me from war and assassination? Will you stay the swords and arrows though they cost you your life in exchange for mine so I may see even just one more day or hour or minute?"

"On my honor, your Grace; if you will have me."

"Then tomorrow you will be anointed as the newest of my Kingsguard."

Jaime slipped out of his chair and grasped the thin, scaly skin of Aerys' hand and kissed it. He saw only Cersei's long flowing golden hair. He smelled only her perfume. He would kiss a thousand gangrenous dragons for her.

Aerys laughed coldly, then commanded, "Ser Arthur, take your protégé to the Sept and prepare him. He must know all the duties required of him by the morrow. And his soul must be pure as your cloak."