Though an older man, it could not be denied that the Lord of Winterfell looked truly formidable as he strode into the throne room. He was girded as for battle, silvered steel decorated in whorls of gold scrollwork along his plate, while upon his surcoat the direwolf of the Starks snarled its frozen jaws. His helmet, itself shaped into the visage of a slavering wolf, was tucked under one arm revealing a long, solemn face to the packed court. At his hip he wore a longsword as cold and hard as his eyes, which stared up at the King, steadfast and unflinching. In truth, Jaime could not but help see the faintest reflection of his father in those features, which made him all the more anxious. If he saw Tywin Lannister, then no doubt the dragon-king saw him also. Jaime had no doubt that no matter the result of the duel, Lord Rickard Stark would not leave this hall alive.
The cause of this farce knelt chained, gagged and bloodied before the King, his eyes wild and accusing, and they proclaimed a thousand treasons. Or so the King declared. Or so Varys whispered. Jaime could see the eunuch safely ensconced in the crowd, between the fat, florid Lord Dunstan Rosby whose constant sweating had earned him the moniker Damnably Damp Dunstan from Aerys's poor late fool (whose last jape had been that surely the Lord Rosby thought to be safe from the King's justice by staying soaking wet at all times), and dour handed Ser Percival Sand, the bastard of Skyreach, called the Fowl Bastard when out of his hearing and to the great amusement of Aerys.
Damn him, thought Jaime, that eunuch and Stark both. The fool wolf cub had ridden for King's Landing on a well-lathered horse, in such haste that his silver spurs dripped crimson. The poor beast had to be put down by the groomsmen and screamed so loudly as to wake the young prince in Maegor's Holdfast. The Stark boy had leapt from it in front of half the city, waving naked steel and demanding Rhaegar's head, as well as some other choicer appendages as proper solatium. When the youth stormed into the Red Keep, his grievance with the crown as plain as a bloody glove, the King had not even needed Varys to sniff out treachery. Within moments Brandon Stark's party was surrounded in a ring of steel. Stark had tried to make a fight of it, but Ser Oswell quickly put paid to thoughts of resistance. Jaime had to suppress a wince as he remembered the crunch of blade on mail where Whent had caught the pup between plate and helm. Now the old wolf had rushed South to rectify his son's mistake and profess his loyalty.
It was too little too late, Jaime knew. On a good day (although admittedly these were increasingly few and far between) Aerys's council could perhaps persuade him to show mercy to the boy, keeping him as a hostage for his father's good behaviour. In fact there were days Aerys might even be pleased by such a show of hatred for his despised eldest son and go as far as to condone such infamy. What was plain to Jaime was that the boy had not doomed himself by his actions, but his choice of companions. Oh, they made a fine spectacle no doubt, fair Elbert Arryn, who looked like an Andal king stepped from a septon's history, with pale blue eyes, white-gold hair and fine high cheekbones, Red Kyle Royce, whose soft voice belied his imposing frame, with hair the hue of his bronze armour in the torchlight. And most damningly Ser Jeffory Mallister of Seagard, practically a twin to Elbert, though fiercer in speech and eye and jaw, giving the impression that he was always looking to tear out the nearest liver and eat it. The King had been unusually silent in recent days, for which Jaime would ordinarily be grateful, but now he could not but help but smell the poison that pumped between the royal ears. Great houses of the North, Riverlands and Vale united in treachery, Brandon betrothed to Lord Tully's daughter, Robert Baratheon betrothed to this northern wench and fostered in the Eyrie, the Dornish slighted and Rhaegar out of the King's grasp. Plots and schemes wound around the hilt of a bloody dagger, steadying the leathern grip of the shadows that clasped the blade. And one shadow most of all, the puppeteer of all treachery, girded in rock and gold, looming all like a mountain.
Jaime knew the King's mind. He will command me to fight and I cannot refuse. I must kill this old man. I swore a vow. In truth it would be a mercy to die by Jaime's blade than to be left to the tender caprices of the throne. I will make it quick, he decided, I swore to defend the King not to entertain him. Yet the thought did little to assuage the weight that had settled on Jaime's chest. I swore a vow, I am sworn to defend, not judge. I am the King's sword, bound to him by oath and honour. A sword does not decide how the knight uses it, it cannot be dishonoured by good service, this evil is his doing. I swore a vow.
This mantra ran through Jaime's head, even as the Lord of Winterfell walked step by stately step towards the throne. Each footfall scuffed gently in the silence, but to Jaime it was the tramp of an army of ghosts, deafening and distant. A bead of sweat ran the length of his spine. The faces of the court seemed to lose all distinction, becoming a sea of silks and velvet worn by pale featureless dolls. Jaime's right leg began to tremble uncontrollably, he prayed to the Warrior to still it, or at least for his armour to cloak the movement. He saw Selmy turn slightly towards him, and knew he had been seen. Step. And again. And again. And silence.
The voice that shattered it seemed inadequate to the task, yet the old chuckler Hand nonetheless stood beside Ser Arthur Dayne, with five further members of the Kingsguard arrayed before the throne, a wall of white separating Brandon from his father. Ser Jonothor Darry was the only brother absent, as he stood guard over the Queen and young Prince Viserys. Jaime was grateful that they were not commanded to witness what occurred here today.
"Lord Rickard Stark, your house stands accused of treason, sedition, adultery, the fomenting of rebellion, and conspiring to murder our beloved Prince Rhaegar-", Jaime did not need to turn his head to know the King twitched at these words. "Once your guilt is established your house shall stand attainted and will be stripped of all lands, rights and honours for all time, and your lives forfeit." Here Lord Merryweather straightened himself to his full diminutive height and looked self-importantly down upon the silent champion. "You have protested both the charges and sentence; however it is the view of the King and council that they are commensurate with the heinous actions committed against the dignity of the throne. No seed of treachery shall be given stewardship of one of His Grace's kingdoms. We have spoken." Lord Merryweather moved to sit at the elaborate oaken chair at the right hand of the throne, shaped in the style of a cornucopia with ebony fruits forming the legs and arms. "Lord Stark has chosen to represent himself in the field of combat. Your Grace, who does the Crown bring forth to represent the justice of the Gods?"
All eyes turned toward the creature that sat upon the throne, only the Kingsguard remained still. Jaime had quieted the tremors of his body, but his mind still raced. He will make me a killer when I was made to be a knight. Jaime did not have to look behind to know what the court saw, a hunched man surrounded by a barbed iron cage, who shook and spasmed, who screamed through bloody, chapped lips and a long and dirty silver-gold beard. The nails that burst from his fingers like jagged claws formed the end of spindly arms covered in half healed scabs and scars. Jaime did not need to look at his King to see the worst feature, those eyes. The lilac eyes that flitted from place to place, never still for a movement, they blinked and twitched unpredictably and saw only treachery and deceit. He could feel the weight of the madness of those eyes upon his neck and shivered. Cersei, I must not balk, she would never forgive me if I refused. He focused on their last night together in the bowels of Lannisport, remembered the candlelight pale next to the radiance of her hair, the softness of her skin and the sound of her laugh. She would love him as a killer but never for a craven Jaime knew.
As always the King's voice shattered these dreams, the high croaking voice with its strange intonation and syncopated rhythm that too often intruded upon Jaime's sleep. "The justice of the gods is scarce meet for these traitors. You are a traitor my lord and your denials only credit this, the serpent before me is but one of your venomous brood. You are a lesser reptile Rickard Stark. No lord, no man, and no faithful servant as you profess. You are a cowardly snake that hides in your frozen wasteland plotting, always plotting. What did you promise my son to take that bitch of yours? Is she and her bastard curs to rule my Seven Kingdoms? Look you fool, you scaled scavenging dog, see at what you challenge! I am the dragon of Westeros, the last flame of Valyria, look at the skulls look at them, I AM the dragon! When you are done I will melt the frozen waste you call home to be forged into a new land, settled with loyal men, good men who know their king who obey their king who remember what they swore, I will burn your trees and piss on their ashes! DO YOU REMEMBER?". This last utterance was more keen than shout, the King Aerys had slammed his fist against the throne in his wroth, cutting deep into the flesh of his hand. Pycelle scurried over to tend to His Grace while the court remained in utter silence. The eyes of the worthies of the realm gave no hint as to their thoughts, they stood as the Kingsguard. Still and silent as ghosts.
As Pycelle worked, prepared as he was by painful experience for such an occurrence, Jaime once more tried to think of his sister. She would be in Casterly Rock growing ever more beautiful and frustrated in the cavernous keep, thinking of him and teasing Tyrion. He could not focus as he was used to however, something prevented him from sinking into that watchful peace he normally reserved for such occasions. It was not the King - he was weeping and cursing as Pycelle applied bandage and poultice to the wound. No it was other eyes, countless black eyes that watched Jaime and knew. The dragons see me, Jaime thought, and they grin. Balerion's skull, immense and watchful sat above the throne, Vhagar and Meraxes were to Jaime's left and right respectively, with more bones beside them in a line that stretched to the shadows at the very rear of the hall. Even the tiny skull on the table beside the throne, misshapen and fragile, saw from black embryonic pits. The last dragon always stared at him with the accusing eyes that had never truly known life.
"The North remembers Your Grace. As do the gods."
Jaime could not say who was most surprised by Stark's words, in fact he scarcely believed he had heard them. The silence in the court thickened to ice and the world seemed to stop upon its hinges. Even Aerys Targaryen was speechless, he who had never lacked the words to answer defiance.
For the first time in two years, Jaime Lannister felt the burden of the King's fury lift from his shoulders, as if he had been carrying a suffocating pack which cut into the skin, and finally laid it down to rest. All this was done by the calmness in which Lord Rickard Stark had spoken to the throne, and so had taken unto himself the charge of weathering the King's attention.
"The gods?" Aerys finally choked, "what do you know of the gods? What right do you have to appeal to their justice, you who pray to gods made of wood, gods that feast on excrement and dirt, who stare with blind eyes at the savages who worship pale twigs and rut the forest floor like the bristled hogs they are?" To his left Lord Merryweather chuckled, joined in the more easily impressed lackies of the court, who competed in their guffaws like tourney knights for the King's favour. Jaime marked them all, Lords Rykker, Rosby and Chelsted at the fore, with lesser lordlings and knights doing their part to show their appreciation for the flaccid wit. This seemed only to encourage Aerys further, as he proceeded rapidly in his rant:
"No my Lord, do not presume to call upon the justice of the gods, for your own gods are not here. What right does a heathen have to claim trial by combat it this holy court? Nay, you will have none here. You have slighted my person, and since you do not worship nor acknowledge the true gods of Westeros, I am as close to them as you will ever know. I am your god my Lord, and yet you have neither the wit nor reason to beg for my mercy and forgiveness. I am the blood of Old Valyria, the god of cleansing flame upon this earth." Here he gave a sick smile. "You will face the god's champion. Me."
It was as if a hornet's nest had been dropped in the court, the White Bull Ser Gerold Hightower and Lord Merryweather moved with more alacrity than Jaime could have believed, rushing up the steps to reason with His Grace. It was as if Jaime's wildest hopes had come to life, the end of the dragon-king in just combat and Jaime free from his duty to defend him. He felt so lightheaded as to be almost giddy, ignoring the shouts and frightened squawks that whirled around the hall. For the first time that day Jaime risked a look behind to see Ser Gerold and Lord Merryweather pleading with the King, the latter waving his hands comically as he did so as if to waft the His Grace away from Lord Stark, who waited motionless and expressionless in front of Ser Barristan. He also saw the firm shake of the royal head, long silver locks swishing, with one knotted strand catching on the razor edges behind - so sharp it cut through the tangle without Aerys noticing. Let it end, Jaime prayed to the Warrior, the Father, even the Stranger. Please let it end. As Jaime turned his head swiftly back, he could not but notice the fell grin visible even through swollen face and gagged mouth of young Brandon Stark.
"SILENCE, SILENCE, SILENCE!", screamed Aerys, sending Lord Merryweather stumbling back down the stairs. "If I wish for your counsel Lord Commander, I will ask for it, now return to your duty." The White Bull bowed stiffly and returned to his position at the head of the Kingsguard.
"I am pleased to witness the love you all feel for me my lords" Aerys continued in a calmer voice than Jaime had thought possible, as if this latest act of insanity had somehow jarred him back to lucidity. "The fear you express for my life is a great comfort in this time of falsehood and rebellion. Indeed I feel you all to be children who care most earnestly for their father, and I thank you, knowing too well the wounds of filial betrayal. Yet I am resolved in this. The dragon shall represent himself, and all the realms shall again be instructed in what it is to oppose House Targaryen."
Aerys took a deep breath as if to steady himself, and then another. One of the queer silences that had become so common at court once again struck, as if the King were in another place, another court where the dragon skulls were clothed in flesh and the lords but cattle.
Then he began to laugh, first a high, screeching laugh that sent a shiver down Jaime's spine, a laugh which suddenly dropped in pitch to a low strangled giggle that was almost a sob. This was somehow worse. The laughter carried on longer than Jaime would have liked, even the most enthusiastic of the tittering jackals in the hall were at a loss as how to respond. Finally it came to a shuddering stop and Jaime liked that even less.
"Make room in the hall!", His Grace cried, surging to his feet and opening his arms as if to embrace his vassals. The sleeve of his arm caught one of the thirsty barbs, yet this was a wound the King did not seem to feel. Jaime moved with his brothers to make space at the foot of the throne, moving the court back perhaps twenty feet. Those at the rear of the hall were forced out cursing and protesting by those in front, but the space was made nonetheless. Once done, the six brothers turned their backs to watch their King as he remained, stock-still in that manic pose, with eyes that looked far away into another time, as if listening to a whisper that none else could hear. Ser Rickard placed himself in the middle of that empty square and waited, hand on his longsword, its hilt set with jade and black diamond in a grey scabbard veined with silver, waiting for the King to call for blade and armour.
Yet he heard no such command for the King's sword, in fact His Grace only spoke only one quiet word. Jaime heard only: "Noose." As if prepared, several men-at-arms sprang forward: four men led by Ser Alliser Thorne seized Rickard Stark before he had the chance to bare his steel, and for the first time that day Lord Rickard lost his composure as he struggled beneath their blows, cursing them, cursing the King and all who stood witness. Meanwhile Ser Martyn Riekling roughly pulled Brandon to his feet and dragged him to a nearby pillar, shoving him so powerfully against the cold stone as to render the boy unconscious.
"Rossart!" Aerys called in the purring sing-song voice he reserved for his pet, the master of the now venerable guild of pyromancers. The Wisdom stepped forward, a scrawny man taller even than Jaime, bedecked in the silks and jewels Aerys had lavished upon him. That he was now a permanent fixture of the court caused no end of irritation to the lords who must stand beside him, only Jaime, Ser Gerold and Prince Rhaegar could muster hatred enough to surpass them; the White Bull's attempts to disguise his contempt for His Grace's favourite minion were as determined as they were transparent.
The guildmaster gestured for the acolytes hidden in the shadowed corners of the throne room to approach; there was no need to call for materials, the King and his servants found it more convenient to keep such tools at hand. Within the hour a pyre had been built and hooped ropes hurled over the great rafters of the hall from the gallery. Jaime could feel the blood roaring in his temples as he watched, a throbbing doom, doom, doom, that echoed with each beat of his heart. He had not moved a muscle through the preparations and stared out with empty eyes that saw all and remembered nothing. Jaime did not bother to scan the faces of the crowd behind; he knew none of the court dared to stich their thoughts upon their faces, let alone leave, lest they themselves experience the weight of the King's displeasure.
When it was done, Halleyne turned to Aerys, who sat fidgeting upon the Iron Throne. "All is prepared Your Grace."
Doom, doom, doom.
"Has the Eunuch done as ordered?", Aerys whined, his voice plaintive and almost childlike.
"The device is prepared and tested Your Grace; it should function as requested". The pyromancer's face split into a hideous grin, his sourleaf stained teeth giving him a grim cast. The dragon and the dragon's maw.
The King nodded his approval, and the evening's entertainment was brought forth, Brandon wrestled against his bonds but was nonetheless held against the same pillar that bore the blood from his ministrations at the hands of Riekling. His eyes were unfocused, the left bled freely to drip red melancholy down the length of his face. His father was led towards the pyre like a lamb to the block, still armoured with his sword hanging uselessly at his hip, his head high and shoulders square. He looked brave, but as the ropes were secured beneath his arms and he began to be hoisted into the air, Jaime saw the unmistakable dread in his eyes. Jaime tried to muster anger towards the old fool; another coward, and it shows. Tywin Lannister would never be afraid. Indeed, were he playing this role Tywin Lannister would never have come here at all, not without twenty-thousand swords at his back - and would never have left without Aerys Targaryen's head waving on a pike.
Doom, doom, doom.
As Lord Rickard was bound, so too was his son, an oddly woven noose was draped loosely around his neck, though not so much that it could be pulled off. The threads seemed to collapse into one another without any continuity and the thin material had a slight sheen as if lacquered. Once done, the boy was forced to kneel, the bonds around his hands were cut, his gag removed, and the end of the noose was affixed to an iron ring set on the pillar.
"Ser Barristan", Aerys cooed.
The white knight approached and knelt before his king.
"I shall have need of your sword"
Ser Barristan hesitated for a moment, but nonetheless pulled out his blade and laid it gently at the foot of the throne. "It is yours to command Your Grace."
"Not there Ser. Approach young Brandon and lend him your steel."
Ser Barristan did as he was bid, but barely had he begun to proffer his sword to Brandon Stark when the King began to chortle.
"Not there good Ser, place it at your feet."
Again Ser Barristan paused and looked to his King for a moment with a quizzical slant of his helm as if wondering whether he was being mocked. But once more he did as ordered, the sword placed on the ground scarcely more than four feet in front of where Brandon knelt. And thence he turned his back, to resume his place beside his brothers.
Jaime could not even hear the beat of his heart anymore, he merely felt it as a great shock throughout his body with each new drum.
"My good lords, my dear friends and my beloved foes," Aerys announced to the hall at large. "We stand here today to witness a trial in the eyes of the gods. Lord Stark shall face the greatest champion of house Targaryen. He will face our fire, and should he defeat it, the whole realm will know of his innocence. If he is overmatched, why, he may face the King's Justice on the morrow."
The King cackled with the court as Rossart and the acolytes approached, each carrying a brand of sickly green flame.
Jaime closed his eyes as the screams began. As Brandon shouted, reaching, reaching for the sword just beyond his fingertips. He tried to ignore the stuttering, chocking breaths as Brandon attempted to stand to gain better vantage toward the sword as the noose about his neck tightened. He could almost hear above the sound of shrieks and cackles fingernails scrabbling at the rope, gouging into skin and bold tendons. He did not look to see the King wriggling upon his high seat, arousal plain to all who could bear to look. The mad joy in Rossart's eyes. Melting steel, salty blood and tears and snot running down one face fast turning purple and another caked black with soot. He closed his nostrils to the smell of hot metal and cooked flesh (the lies the lies, it smelled nothing of pork), a smell that would linger for days, weeks and the long years would Jaime serve at that court. The stunned silence of the court was nothing to him. The horrors that he knew he must soon hear from outside the Queen's chamber were nothing. He closed his eyes and dreamed of Cersei. For hours.