Warning: though they have been heavily adapted for an AU context, the chapters that follow contain book spoilers.


Having jolted his stump against a table first thing in the morning, Jaime spent most of Joffrey's wedding day quiet as a shadow by Tyrion's side; his arm smarting just painfully enough for it to be an annoyance; his head heavy with insomnia and anger and memory.

The last time Jaime had been in the Great Sept, his father had been the centre of attention; the iridescent reflections of the High Septon's crown doing nothing to abate the stench of rotting flesh.

The last time Jaime had been in the Great Sept, he had still had Cersei; the pain in his stump had been fresh and bloody and agonising; and Arya had been across the city trapped in the black cells, covered in blood and worse.

Today, Arya entered the Sept clad in crimson and gold, her sister beside her in cloth of silver, and she looked beautiful in a way that he had never thought she could be; that he had never wanted her to be. She was deathly pale and hollow-eyed, but that only seemed to make the crimson gown become her more.

What a pair we make. Sorrow becomes her, like it does me.

And he was angry that she was wearing crimson, and he was angry that she looked beautiful in it.

She also seemed to have succeeded in growing her hair overnight. Cersei's work, most likely. Arya would never have thought of wearing a bloody wig, or of changing her garb for a bloody wedding. If left to her own devices, she would probably have arrived in her usual sober black or grey, looking more like a septa or a mourner than a guest, and she wouldn't have cared a fuck what anyone thought about it. Jaime glared at his sister, who was holding court nearby.

How dare you try to change her? he thought, how dare you try to turn her into you?

Arya was straightening Sansa's hair net, her efforts only causing more coppery strands to escape their silver and amethyst prison, and as the sisters stood there together, squabbling about Arya's clumsy fingers; they looked like peace and war; like steel and blood. Arya paused as she sensed Jaime's eyes on her, and when they met his, bright and saddened and afraid, he felt the absence of weeks and weeks of dancing lessons and her face and her voice. He felt his inability to bring himself to drill alone no matter how hard he tried. And he felt her ridiculous, irrational, infernal loyalty that he hated and despised for the way that it reminded him of her father, and for the way that it made him love her more. He tore his eyes away from hers and fixed them someplace else.

You brought this on yourself, Stark. You can't complain now.

The wedding ceremony was a farce and a lie, and the feast even more of a farce and a lie; flattery, nonsense, empty words, absurdity; seventy-seven courses when half the country was starving; Tyrion saying little and drinking a lot; Uncle Kevan saying nothing at all and drinking nothing at all; Joffrey, Cersei, Tommen, Myrcella and half of House Tyrell transforming their table into an obscene, spontaneous tribute to Jaime's life that laughed constantly and mocked relentlessly.

Each new dish that was placed in front of him only made him feel more nauseous, and each time he pushed it away uneaten, Cersei would glare at him as though he were committing treason. Jaime glared right back at her, hoping she would read his thoughts in his face.

I can't believe I loved you once. For all that time; for all those years. I can't believe that I would have killed for you; that I tried to; that I wanted to. And I can't believe that I wanted to marry you.

Joffrey and Margaery's insistence on drinking from one cup and feeding each other from their plates did little to abate his nausea; and the seemingly endless parade of singers, all of whom seemed incapable of playing anything but The Rains of fucking Castamere, did little to improve his mood. By the time the tenth course was cleared away, it had been played three times, and he watched Arya down an entire goblet of red wine while Sansa looked on in absolute misery.

Keep it up, my love, Jaime thought bitterly, drink your Dornish red like a good Lannister. Father would be so proud.

That made him wonder what she intended to do with the twenty million dragons Father had left her. She certainly wouldn't keep them; that went without saying.

Hire a Faceless Man to dispatch my sweet sister. Go on. I'll even make up the difference if the bastards want more money.

Cersei was making a tremendous show of drying her eyes as the infernal fucking song began again, which naturally compelled the Lannister bannermen to engage in public displays of solemnity and reflection on the life of their beloved liege lord, who had been taken from them all too soon.

'I've never liked this song,' Uncle Kevan murmured, his face pale and hard like marble, 'I was there, you know. At Castamere.'

'I know, Uncle,' Jaime replied.

'There was nothing beautiful, or lyrical, or sad about it. We certainly weren't serenaded by the sound of silence and emptiness and rain. Not even afterwards. Not even when it was over. It was butchery. Absolute, unequivocal butchery. I stopped eventually, because I couldn't do it anymore. I drank myself into a stupor. And then Tywin came walking out of the Keep so covered in blood that he might as well have bathed in it.'

Jaime shivered, and glanced at Tyrion, who had taken on a healthy shade of pink and seemed to be staring at the elder Stark girl between liberal sips of wine.

I don't want the bloody Rock, Jaime thought, I never wanted it. Tyrion should have it. He'd put it to better use than me.

Perhaps I should announce it tonight. That should make Cersei have a fit.

Jaime smirked, and he could almost hear Father's voice growling at him.

'Do not be a fool. You are the eldest son. What if you should marry?'

Jaime glanced across at Arya, who was talking to her sister and refilling her wine glass.

I shall never marry.

Jaime jumped as the hall doors opened with a crash; and admitted a pig and a dog being enthusiastically ridden by…children?

Jaime's teeth clenched together so painfully that they hurt him.

No. Dwarves.

Jaime glanced at Joffrey and Cersei, who were already near-dead from laughter, and as the pitiful display commenced, the dwarves shouting a variety of insults at each other and driving the pig and the dog together like horses at a joust (this amidst much theatrical tumbling down and tangling of limbs), he felt Uncle Kevan's hand on his arm as the hall erupted with laughs, shrieks and applause.

I will kill you for this, you little shit, Jaime thought, watching Joffrey's face as it reddened from drink and merriment, for this, I will cut your royal throat myself.

He looked to Tyrion, expecting to see anger; and perhaps hoping for it; but his brother's face revealed nothing but pity…and a tiny, barely perceptible hint of vengeful iron in his eyes.

A roar of applause went up as the dwarves made one final tumble to the ground. Joffrey was demanding an encore, Margaery Tyrell was applauding politely and whispering what Jaime hoped was a discouragement of the idea, Cersei was smirking in silent pleasure, Tommen seemed confused, Myrcella looked enraged and Uncle Kevan's grip was tightening on his sleeve as Joffrey shouted out for a volunteer.

'Uncle Tyrion!' the King cried, 'you'll defend the honour of my realm, won't you? You can ride the pig!'

Jaime sat up in alarm and stared in disbelief as his brother began to climb onto the table.

This should be amusing.

'Tyrion!' Uncle Kevan hissed, 'get down at once!'

'Your Grace!' Tyrion proclaimed from his new position on high, 'I'll ride the pig…but only if you ride the dog.'

Jaime relished the confusion on Joffrey's asinine face, and at the table opposite, he could see Arya doing the same.

'Me?' Joffrey blinked with a prodigious slowness of wit, 'I'm no dwarf. Why me?'

Oh gods, Jaime thought.

'Tyrion!' Uncle Kevan hissed again.

Too late for that, Uncle.

'Why, you're the only man in the hall that I'm certain of defeating!' Tyrion announced, taking a long drink from his wine glass and making no effort to regain his seat.

The silence was painful and immediate, and for a few seconds, Jaime allowed himself to indulge in both Joffrey's expression, and in Cersei's, before bursting out laughing.

This turn of events rendered the Lannister bannermen as eager to laugh with their new liege lord as they had been to weep for their old one; and Uncle Kevan, and the Tyrells, and Tommen, and Myrcella, and Arya, and every other sensible person eager to diffuse the situation and avoid one of Joffrey's tantrums joined in, roaring with as much laughter as their lungs would permit them.

When the gales, but not the redness of Joffrey's face, began to subside, Arya stood up and demurely raised her wine glass.

'My dear brother,' she declared, 'I find I must congratulate you on your wit. It is dazzling.'

Jaime loved her fiercely for that, and joined the rest of the hall in laughing harder as Tyrion hopped to the floor and bowed to her in thanks. Joffrey, who was still on his feet looking at the dwarves, seemed entirely perplexed by the way that all the seriousness in the room seemed to have evaporated, and rather visibly looked in his mother's direction, pleading for guidance. Cersei's expression was impossible to misinterpret and declared that he should do nothing. So the king laughed along with his guests; his face and his voice rendered grotesque and twisted by the falseness of his mirth.

Perhaps the boy is not so very simple after all, Jaime thought as the hall began to quieten down again.

'Yes, your wit is quite dazzling, Uncle,' Joffrey declared, I've changed my mind, he's an idiot, 'and since you have such an exquisite sense of humour, you should have no objection to getting on the pig.'

Jaime almost intervened then, but Tyrion was there before him.

'I regret I am unable to, Your Grace,' Tyrion said, 'I'm feeling the most terrible call of nature. We wouldn't want my tiny dwarf cock to explode and drench the poor pig in piss.'

'Shall we begin the dancing?' Margaery suggested charmingly as more laughter followed, 'I'm quite overcome by the desire for a song! Music!'

The musicians struck up a lively jig immediately, couples began to move onto the floor with something like relief, and as Jaime reflected rapturously on Margaery's potential to be the most formidable queen since Alysanne, Tyrion took advantage of the brief cessation of hostilities to push out his chair, hop off the dais and head towards the door, leaving Joffrey looking both angry, put out and unsure of what to do.

After a moment's contemplation, he decided to ignore Margaery's request for a dance and to follow Tyrion.

Jaime leapt to his feet and dashed after the King, and was rapidly joined by Uncle Kevan, by Margaery and by Olenna Tyrell; Cersei remaining firmly where she was; Arya bristling in her seat and visibly restraining herself; Sansa looking dreadfully pale and on the point of fainting.

'You can't walk away from me without permission!' Joffrey was shouting as he tore after Tyrion, calling Jaime's attention back to their vicious idiot of a king, 'dwarf! I have not given you permission to leave! Dwarf! Dwarf!'

Jaime reached Joffrey at last, courteously took his elbow and turned him around, hoping that Tyrion would seize the opportunity to get out of the doors.

'Stop this at once,' Jaime growled softly, his fingers digging so hard into Joffrey's arm that his knuckles went white, 'you might be the fucking King of the Seven Kingdoms, but you're also a Lannister despite that revolting stag on your sigil; and you don't piss all over the Lannister name without asking my permission.'

'Your permission?' Joffrey shrieked as the Tyrells reached him, 'your permission?'

'Both of you will stop this at once,' Uncle Kevan commanded, his face the picture of courtesy, his voice like iron, 'are you children? My brother must be turning in his grave.'

'Come away, my sweet king,' Margaery urged pleasantly, gesturing to the musicians to play louder as though nothing in the world was the matter, 'you haven't danced with me yet, and I long for the feeling of your arms around me.'

'I don't want to dance!' Joffrey pouted, sounding and looking like a spoilt child as the musicians complied.

'A song, then?' Lady Olenna chimed in, 'perhaps another rendition of The Rains of Castamere? It's been an hour; I've forgotten how it goes.'

'An excellent suggestion, my lady,' Jaime complimented.

'Indeed,' Uncle Kevan agreed.

Joffrey seemed agonisingly conflicted between engaging in more shrieking and bursting into tears from sheer frustration.

'I don't want to – '

'If you'll permit me, Lord Jaime,' Margaery said courteously, firmly prising Joffrey's arm from Jaime.

'Come, Joffrey,' she commanded.

The King did not look happy.

'But – '

'Joffrey,' she growled, and the King's eyes fell to earth immediately with all the crestfallen disappointment of a child that had just has his bottom smacked.

As Margaery led the little shit to the floor and danced with him, Jaime returned to the dais with the Tyrells, filled his wine glass and drank the contents in one gulp, resolved that he would renounce Casterly Rock on the morrow and move somewhere very far away. Asshai sounded about right.

It was then that he noticed that Sansa and Arya's seats were empty, and he briefly felt the colour drain from his face before his eyes found them approaching the hall doors, Sansa looking whiter than summer snow.

Go, go quickly, for fuck's sake, just leave before Joffrey sees you.

But Joffrey was watching them from the centre of the floor, his arms still around Margaery.

'My dear aunt?' he called mockingly after them.

Arya turned around very slowly and looked at him with murder in her eyes, both her arms supporting Sansa, who looked very ill indeed.

'May I help you, dear nephew?' Arya asked in a flat, bored tone that struck Jaime to the core by its haunting resemblance to that of his father.

He is in her whether she likes it or not.

'Where are you going?' Joffrey demanded with frightening politeness.

Arya looked ready to strangle him.

'My sister is unwell; I am taking her to rest.'

'Nonsense! No one may leave the hall until the festivities are completed. Come back here.'

'Your Grace, please, my sister is – '

'Come here! Come here and lead a toast to my beloved grandfather's memory!'

Arya went white.

'You little shit,' Jaime growled.

'Is that truly necessary, Your Grace?' Uncle Kevan exclaimed at the same time.

Arya gave his uncle a small smile, her grey eyes tearing at Jaime's insides like teeth.

'It is indeed necessary, Ser Kevan,' Margaery said, before Joffrey could pronounce another word, 'the King has commanded it.'

'I have!' Joffrey declared childishly, 'I command it!'

The dancing and the music had stopped, and people were frozen where they stood, or sat.

'I doubt that your grandfather would much care for a toast from a traitor's daughter,' Arya stated coldly, her voice expressionless and dead, 'however… it that is your wish, Your Grace – '

'It's not a wish, it's a command!' Joffrey pronounced.

Jaime sighed and fought down the urge to bury his face in his hands as Joffrey escorted Margaery back to the dais, and Sansa refused to let Arya assist her in front of the entire court. She regained her seat unaided, and when Arya regained hers, she picked up her cup and raised it without hesitation.

'To Tywin, son of Tytos, of the House Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West,' she declared, 'may he ride forever through the Night Lands.'

Jaime did not understand the expression. Nobody did. But there was something in her voice that made silence fall, something between hate and love that was more terrible than either of them, something…

The hall murmured its assent and drank in silence, and for a moment, no one spoke; nothing but the sounds of the night and the city and the sea rushing in to fill the quiet.

Then Joffrey began to cough.

He didn't stop. He couldn't. His face grew redder and redder, and the wine was spilling out of his mouth like blood. The guests began to panic, and run, and trip, and fall over each other in their eagerness to get away; and as pandemonium wrapped the hall in a black shroud, sound was torn from the world. Lady Olenna was shouting madly, and Jaime felt himself rising from his chair and helping Uncle Kevan to rip Joffrey out of his seat and pound him on the back. Uncle Kevan pushed the King onto the floor and continued to pound his back, and every person at the table seemed to stand in unison while Margaery Tyrell sank down beside them, weeping at the sounds that wheezed up from Joffrey's throat; sounds that Jaime could see in the air in front of him, red and grey and red. Uncle Kevan was pounding on Joffrey's chest now, and Cersei had appeared by his side as the boy's hands clawed at the front of his own doublet; his eyeballs swelling to a monstrous size as he choked. Tommen and Myrcella were crying in each other's arms, and Cersei's face was white and terrible, changing at every flicker of Joffrey's face; her hands moving from his face to his shoulders and back again, her eyes black with tears. When the boy's face turned the same colour, Uncle Kevan stopped trying, and Cersei shoved him violently away with both her hands and gathered Joffrey up into her arms like a baby, weeping and weeping and screaming.

Jaime's hearing returned with Cersei's first scream, and the colour of her scream was red. She spat like a cat at anyone who came near her, defending her revolting son to the very last, and when Uncle Kevan finally convinced her to let him go; she laid him gently on the floor and stroked his hair as though he were sleeping. When her eyes met Jaime's, he saw the pain in them; and he felt it, for just a moment; her anguish disembowelling him and becoming his. Then he looked down at their son's body again; and suddenly he felt nothing; not the slightest stirring of feeling or despair or regret.

He stood up, leaving Cersei to her grief and the lords to their pandemonium, and looked across the room at Arya. She was sitting perfectly upright in her seat, her hands folded demurely in her lap; looking gloriously beautiful in her crimson, like a goddess of death. And he knew, somehow, that she had done it. She had killed him. Though he could not say how, or when.

Her head turned very slowly to the empty seat next to her, and she jumped so abruptly that Jaime almost jumped with her. His eyes remained fixed on her as she leapt to her feet; alarm and panic distorting her features; and her eyes were wild as they scanned the hall, and the area behind the dais, growing larger and more despairing with every passing moment.

'Sansa!' she shouted, calling to her absent sister, 'Sansa?!'