Jaime I
The sickening smell of charred skin and bone wafted upwards in the Red Keep. For days and days the entire throne room reeked of burnt flesh. Jaime could never seem to be rid of the scent. On his cloak, in his armor, on his bed, in his dreams, the smell of sacrifices to the mercurial whim of a mad king never seemed to depart from him. It was by his side, a reminder. Of the tortured screams of Rickard Stark as the hungry flames seared his skin. Of the last choking breaths of Brandon Stark as he tried to save his brother. Of the sound of the queen's quiet sobbing as Aerys defiled her. And what had he done? Stood silently beside him, guarding him, even as the king's pyromancer lit the pyres for countless men and women whose screams for mercy and cries of agony would be with him and in dreams, those screams and cries which fell on the deaf ears of a madman and the unhearing ears of the Kingsguard. Surely the blood had stained his hands as much as it had stained theirs.
He shook his head, ridding himself of those thoughts. It was in vain and fruitless to think on the past - or at least, so he told himself. Jaime stood like a statue, unmoving. I should have left with Rhaegar. How he had begged him to leave the king, to fight by his side. But the dragon, ever enigmatic, gave the same sad smile, and told him - ordered him to defend Elia and his children. And he intended to see that order through.
The courtiers and nobles kept to the edges of the palatial throne room, making sure to avoid the gaze of Aerys on his throne without giving off the appearance of avoiding him. Those men that were left in court, those who had not rallied to Rhaegar's banner, were largely lickspittles, sycophants, and cowards. And, perhaps one or two men who were honestly trying to serve the realm, the poor fools.
King Aerys sat on the throne unsteadily. While it was held that no king should ever sit comfortably on his throne, the king was more than uncomfortable. Rivulets of blood were already dropping onto the throne, king's blood. He cringed in fear of the metal monstrosity he sat his arse on, forged from the swords of the enemies of House Targaryen by Balerion the Black Dread. His long, grey beard was already tangled into knots and was hanging around him as if he was some wildling from the heathen north. His fingernails, long and yellow, twisted and curled longer then his fingers. And on his head, a golden crown.
How the crowds had cheered for Jaime during the tourneys. Not as loud as they cheered for Prince Rhaegar, of course, but it still made him swell with pride. When the Sword of the Morning knighted him on the battlefield, he was proud to be a called a knight. But a shadow had fallen over Westeros now. He expected that the Kingsguard would be a place of honor. The white cloak had brought him nothing but shame. He wished Cercei never asked him to do this. Not that he blamed her, of course. He had given up the gold of the Lannisters for the white of the Kingsguard. By the Seven, he had given up Casterly Rock for a chance to serve. The memory of her was his only anchor in this hell. They were one, after all. He tried to remember her face, it came easily to him. He knew every line, every lock of golden hair. When the smell of burnt flesh and the sound of tortured men and the sight of fire blackening skin and bone and Aerys laughing seemed too much to bear - he thought of them together, as they once were, at Casterly Rock. He went away far inside to escape the madman which haunted him on the outside.
The cavernous doors of the Great Hall yawned open. A messenger stepped inside the hall. He walked down the red carpet leading to the Iron Throne. He knelt before the throne, looking down at the floor, not daring to raise his eyes towards the King. He did not speak.
Aerys leered down at him from his high throne. "Are you from the pyromancers? Did Rossart send you?"
The messenger's head remained down. "No, your Grace. I come with news. Prince Rhaegar has sent a raven with a report of the victory at the Trident against the Barath-"
Aerys rose with a start, hissing, his hands tightening their viselike grip on the Iron Throne. "Do not speak that name in presence."
Jaime could see the messenger begin to sweat. The last messenger who had displeased Aerys was given to the pyromancers as a plaything. The king licked his lips.
"A-against the rebels, your Grace."
"You may speak." Aerys waved a hand at him. His moods were as fickle and passing as a summer storm.
"Prince Rhaegar reports that the rebels are routed. Ser Barristan was wounded on the field. Rhaegar's injuries are not as severe. Most importantly, your Grace, Lord Rob-, er, the leader of the rebel host, was slain by Rhaegar's own hand."
A whisper went up amongst the onlookers. Prince Robert Baratheon, dead?
"Rhaegar… Rhae-gar… Rhaegar…" The king murmured sing-song to himself, leaning forward and backwards. "So the dragon-whelpling has killed the stag, eh?"
"Yes, your Grace."
Jaime kept his expression as stoic as ever, but he turned and gave a questioning look towards the Kingsguard to his left. This meant - Rhaegar would be returning back to King's Landing! "When the battle's done I mean to call a council." Rhaegar assured him, as he left to put down Robert's revolt. "Changes will be made. I meant to do it long ago, but… well, it does no good to speak of roads not taken. We shall talk when I return."
He could only pray that he would return, and swiftly, to put an end to his father's madness. Jaime almost gave a sigh of relief. The young prince was, perhaps, the last hope of the realm.
The king lurched forward. Slowly, he began to hobble down the steps of the Iron Throne. Teetering forward and backward once or twice like a man too deep in his cups, Jaime was almost afraid he would fall crashing down onto the marble dais. He stepped off of the throne.
Lord Varys, the Master of Whispers, walked forward, the eunuch's violet robe swishing as he walked. A sickeningly-sweet smell of perfume followed him. His bald head reminded Jaime of an egg.
"King Aerys, your Grace." He said, going to his knees in an over-exaggerated bow.
"Varys. My true and faithful servant." While Aerys said this, no tone of affection entered his voice.
"The news of Rhaegar's victory is a joyous one, to be sure. The rebel dogs will soon be hunted down like the pack of beasts they are." He said with an effeminate giggle. He probably thought that was funny. "But my lord, the matter of Rhaegar is of great concern to the realm."
Aerys tilted his head slightly towards Varys. That bald-headed eunuch, though he was making quite a fool of himself in order to flatter Aerys, was far more dangerous then he betrayed. His prodigious talents for knowing things no man had a right to know was famed on both sides of the Narrow Sea. It was for this reason that, when he trusted no one else, he invited Varys to the court in King's Landing. The eunuch had been whispering in his ear ever since.
Varys continued in his light voice, with a hint of the lilting accent of the Free Cities. "Your Grace, I only desire good for this realm and its illustrious monarch. I have heard whisperings, your Grace - only whisperings, mind you - that some men think he should not wait to take the throne. Word has even come to me, my lord… that Rhaegar planned to call a Great Council during the tourney at Harrenhal to usurp the kingship. I have… been informed of this, I am sure of it."
The leeches and flatterers who surrounded Aerys as of late often spoke against the young prince. Lord Chested, the late Hand, often spoke ill of Rhaegar, claiming that he had ambitions to seize the Iron Throne from his father. But no concrete evidence was procured, and thus suspicions remained suspicions. Until now.
King Aerys practically frothed at the mouth with rabid rage. "My own son, a traitor to the crown. Is this how he thanks me? He thinks he can rule the realm in my stead? Does he think me weak? Decrepit? An old fool!"
That and more, probably.
In another of his fits of rage, Aerys took the crown on his head and threw it at his feet. It changed as it hit the floor, one of the rubies cracking. He tore at his beard, and his eyes were a furious bloodshot-red. "Rhaegar, curse his name! Seven curse the day that bitch ever gave birth to that whelp."
His eyes widened with fear. "Does he… mean to… mean to… betray me? He is marching at the head of a victorious army..."
Jaime swore he could see Varys' mouth twitch, the shadow of a smile. "Your Grace, I'm not sure…"
"He is a useful servant, but sometimes servants outlive their use. Kings…" His hand shaking, he took his crown off of his head and into his hand, looking deep into the rubies which adorned it. "Kings must do what other, lesser men, are unwilling to do. A king must be strong where other men must be weak. And I am no craven weakling."
Madness.
"Pycelle. The Maester. Bring me Pycelle!"
Scuttling like a crab, Pycelle meekly bowed before his king. "Get a parchment and ink." He ordered as Aerys began to pace back and forth in circles. A parchment and ink was brought, and Pycelle set pen to paper.
"Write. I, Aerys Targaryen, the Second of My Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by royal decree do forthwith banish Rhaegar Targaryen from all of the Seven Kingdoms and all the domains of the Realm for the high crimes of treason and conspiracy. Any man who harbors, aids, or abets him in his crimes will be brought to justice."
Aerys' face twisted into a cruel smile.
"This edict is enforced under pain of death. So be it. He fancies himself a dragon, eh? Dragons can be hunted. Dragons… even dragons die."
Jaime's head spun. Banishing his own son for nothing save the words of a faithless spider? Aerys was quickly losing his hold on sanity, if it wasn't already lost. Varys gave a sly smirk. "What you command shall be, your Grace. The ravens shall be sent." Varys said with an obsequious bow.
"Perhaps it is time for you to retire, your Grace." Varys said softly. "You seem… taxed by the duties of the realm. The crown is, after all, a great burden, and one that is not shouldered lightly…"
Ignoring the eunuch, King Aerys walked over to Jaime. His pale, gaunt face contorted into a sneer. His breath smelled of blood and wine, and the small of ash and fire was on his skin. His eyes seemed to pierce Jaime's own, his baleful gaze looking at him with hunger and fear.
"Lannister boy. Make sure your father behaves, eh? Like the good little house-cat that he is. I have his pup under my custody, after all. But I am a merciful king, yes? I do not think you are a traitor. You do not have the look about you.
Jaime tried not to retch before the sight of the king. Rhaegar already told him in truth he was only there as a hostage, to ensure the good behavior of the Lannisters, but to have the king himself tell him as much only added salt to the wound.
Stiffly, Jaime bowed his head, and said "Thank you, your Grace."
The king seemed to be satisfied with himself. "Too many men are traitors. Too many knives surround me. Is there no honest man in these Seven Kingdoms?" He accused the lords and ladies gathered in court, his suspicious eyes falling on each in turn. He saw assassins and conspiracy in every shadow, only inflamed by that eunuch's whispering.
Jaime let out a breath, trying to be anywhere else but here and doing anything else but serving the beast who fancied himself a king on his throne. Was all he could do stand here, helplessly, as the king spiraled further into his madness? I should just give up the white cloak. No. That was the one thing he couldn't do. He made a promise. He wouldn't betray Rhaegar's trust. He served the throne, not the king.
All that he could do was wait, and do his duty.