Jaime had never seen the throne room so packed with people since the days of the Mad King. Every square inch of floor and gallery was occupied by noblemen and rich commoners alike, clamouring for a glance at the loss of poor little King Tommen's political innocence, but when the boy entered from the back of the hall, he looked as much a king as it was possible to be at the age of twelve. The crown was striking and magnificent against his golden hair, his fine leather doublet was the colour of red wine, and his kitten was small, white and purring in his arms; a newly-proclaimed symbol of the oath that he had taken to protect those that could not protect themselves (Tyrion's idea, most likely. There was no end to his cleverness). In contrast, the small council that accompanied the king looked much as it always did: Varys golden, perfumed and bald; Pycelle shrivelled-up and obsequious; and Tyrion towering over them all in presence rather than stature; his face pale with exhaustion, but his eyes burning with intelligence, and protectiveness of the young king.

As Jaime joined the rest of the hall in bowing his respect for the king's Grace, Arya's hand seeming to grow warmer and stronger in his as she curtseyed beside him, euphoria and fear and determination blazed feverishly within him as he looked at her, and thought of her, and thought of them and thought of their child, and how right it felt; how right: a child that would really be his child; a child that could and would call him Father…but above all a child that he would have with her; with Arya; with everything she was, and could be; his flesh and hers made one; made something…someone…new, and different, and alive.

And yet she is so young, still, Jaime thought, looking sideways at her, little more than a girl, really, despite the sadness she has known. We should have waited a few years.

I should have thought. She should have thought. But then neither of us is really the thinking kind. More like the reckless, impatient, hot-headed kind. Not that one could tell, looking at the little wolf today.

Arya's high-cut gown was made from fine velvet so deeply crimson it was almost black; and she wore no jewels at all save the sword and dagger that hung gleaming and powerful at her waist. Thus attired she looked both lady and warrior, and as Jaime glanced about him at the crowds of noblewomen wearing sword belts and daggers, his chest swelled with pride at its being the latter quality that they had chosen to imitate. The latter was who she truly was. The latter was why he loved her.

Arya was looking at him with a soft piercing wrought iron silver gaze; the gaze of a person who carried a secret, and he smiled, bent over and softly brushed her lips with his; smiling as she did likewise with absolutely no thought for the seven hundred other people in the room. As kisses went, it was hardly scandalous – a peck on the lips and a peck in return – but when a chorus of titters and tut-tuts erupted around them, Jaime glared at the lot of them and was only prevented from rolling his eyes by the sure and certain knowledge that the Lord of Casterly Rock could not be seen to be rolling his eyes, in company or out of it, if he was to be taken seriously.

'Can't I even kiss my own wife in public?' he growled, his lips brushing Arya's ear.

She grinned at the feeling, then hurriedly shushed him as Tommen spoke for the first time; his voice steady and dignified, but ringing, as he bade his uncle Kevan approach the throne from his place in the second row.

'I, Tommen of the House Baratheon, First of My Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, do hereby declare my uncle, Ser Kevan Lannister, Lord Regent and Protector, until such time as I do legally come of age.'

When Uncle Kevan reached the foot of the stairs, he bowed simply and unassumingly, before looking up at Tommen and smiling at him; affectionate, but dignified.

'Thank you, Your Grace.'

'You may approach, Ser Kevan.'

Uncle Kevan climbed the stairs and took his seat beside Tyrion, the Kingsguard moved to their traditional places before the stairs, and Tommen gave the signal for court to begin.

The most important matters were discussed first, and Tommen addressed them with a precision and enlightenment that gave every promise of early brilliance – or of an excessive amount of time spent discussing each of them beforehand with his uncle Tyrion. A representative from the Iron Bank of Braavos begged permission to put himself at King Tommen's disposal for the promised satisfaction of certain debts incurred by the late Queen Regent (granted); a messenger from Ser Daven Lannister asked that more troops be deployed to the siege of Riverrun (refused), and some or other bannerman of Roose Bolton's (Arya would know him, no doubt – and try to kill him, if she got the chance) beseeched King Tommen for coin to help fortify the Dreadfort against those who would seek to punish Lord Bolton for his part in the Red Wedding.

'I imagine the whole of the North wants him dead after the Red Wedding,' Arya whispered, 'shouldn't he have thought about that before getting involved?'

'That would imply that Lord Bolton has an honourable bone in his body,' Jaime replied, thoroughly enjoying her smile when Tommen professed himself to be of similar opinion, and declared that Lord Bolton had been rewarded quite adequately already for his services to the Crown.

Jaime's lightness of spirit promptly disappeared when a discreet clattering of armour announced the late arrival of Princess Myrcella and her guards. She looked glorious, if pale; the alabaster of her skin a beautiful shock against the vivid emerald green of her gown and the shining coronet of her golden hair.

'I beg pardon, Your Grace,' she intoned, curtseying to Tommen.

'It is given,' Tommen replied; making a reverence and bidding her take her place.

Myrcella swept to a place in the gallery only a few feet away from where Jaime and Arya were standing, and when her eyes met Jaime's, they bore that look again; that inner death; that anger and desolation. When she looked rapidly away from him, her jaw began to tighten in emotion, just like mine does, and Jaime fixed his eyes firmly on the throne and determined not to look at her again; his destruction of her, and Cersei's, still raw and terrible in his eyes and in his heart; still clawing at him each time he looked at her.

The importance of those matters being brought before King Tommen seemed to have dwindled considerably during Jaime's introspection, for Ser Meryn was now dragging forward a painfully-thin singer with a broken nose and a blood-stained harp, flinging him to his knees, and declaring to the court that the song he played might be of interest to His Grace. Tommen cocked an eyebrow in amusement at Ser Meryn's candour, before signalling to the singer to begin. He sighed audibly when the song turned out to be The Whore That Killed King Robert.

The courtiers began to bristle in anxiety, excitement, anticipation and memory at the screaming and ripping-out of tongues that Joffrey had commanded the last time a singer was caught playing the song's illustrious predecessor. The unfortunate musician obviously had this in mind too, for his voice shook and warbled in a manner so pitiful that it was almost impossible to hear the words; turning Jaime's amusement to anger.

Kill the poor bastard and be done. Why torture him?

The entire hall clearly expected Tommen to imitate his brother by forcing the singer to perform the entire bloody song before passing sentence. There was a universal groan of disappointment, therefore, when the boy king did not even allow him to finish the first verse.

'Ser Meryn, explain yourself!' Tommen barked, making every head in the room turn towards him, 'why are you wasting my time with this nonsense?'

Ser Meryn, resplendent in his white cloak and armour, looked taken aback.

'Your Grace, this song has been banned by royal decree of your late brother King Joffrey, blessed be his memory,' he declared, bowing, 'since Queen Cersei's…death, however, it has been sung with impunity all over the city. The gold cloaks have made several attempts to capture those caught singing it, but have each time been thwarted by the efforts of other citizens to protect the singer in question. Last night I was passing a tavern while returning from some…necessary business, and I was shocked to hear this filth being roared at a most obscene volume within the establishment itself. I entered the tavern, and was able to apprehend the singer before he escaped, in the expectation that an example might be made of him, and thus prevent such things from being spread any further.'

Tommen's lip curled disdainfully.

'You were returning home from a brothel and sought to curry favour with the Crown, do you mean?' he enquired pleasantly.

'Your Grace,' Ser Meryn stammered, gaping like a fish out of water, 'I assure you –'

'What is your name, singer?' Tommen asked, ignoring the knight completely as he turned his attention to the thin man in front of him.

The singer stared at the ground and did not dare meet his eyes.

'Robert, if it please your Grace,' he mumbled.

Tommen smiled sadly, and stroked his kitten.

'Rise, Robert,' he said, his high voice echoing gently across the hall.

The singer pulled himself up, hugged his harp to his chest and shuffled his feet, looking terrified.

'You have a fine voice, Robert,' Tommen complimented.

'Th – thank you, Your Grace,' Robert stuttered.

'It is a pity that you should put it to waste playing such things,' Tommen continued, 'I'm sure you would do very well if you applied yourself to more canonical material.'

Robert looked blankly at the boy king.

'To more – Your Grace?'

'Ballads, art songs, Valyrian love lyrics, that sort of thing,' Tommen explained patiently, 'they're much prettier than songs about whores, don't you think?'

'They is, Your Grace,' Robert agreed, 'but they doesn't bring in as much money.'

The courtiers roared and howled with laughter, until Tommen began to stare them down with such spectacular disdain that their guffaws faded to silence in a matter of seconds, and when Tommen looked down at the singer once again, Jaime's eyes fell on Tyrion. His brother was leaning forward, gripping the arms of his chair, and observing the scene with a degree of intensity that was most unusual in a Westerosi court.

This must be the moment when he sees what he has created, Jaime thought, let us hope that it pleases him.

'Do you have a family, Robert?' Tommen was asking.

'Yes, Your Grace,' the unfortunate singer replied, now looking more confused than terrified, 'a wife, and…and five little ones. I brought 'em to see the kittens one afternoon, but we couldn't get anywhere near you.'

Tommen laughed, sweetly and boyishly, and when the court laughed with him; their mirth bore no trace of the malice that they had shown only moments earlier.

These people make me sick, Jaime thought, the sooner we can return to Casterly Rock, the better.

'Are your wife and children in good health, Robert?' Tommen enquired, as though he were one man addressing another while queuing up for turnips.

'Yes, Your Grace,' Robert answered, still confused by the king's interest in him, 'the little ones get sick very easy, is all.'

'And when was the last time you had a square meal?' Tommen continued.

Silence erupted across the hall, the singer gazed at the ground without replying, and as Jaime once again took in the appalling thinness of the man; the singer's emaciation rendered all the more terrible by the injuries that Ser Meryn had inflicted on him; he saw, he knew, that the provenance of the singer's silence was shame…or a genuine inability to remember the last time he had eaten.

It's probably both, Jaime thought, gazing at Tommen, come now, boy, you must be able to see it; anyone with eyes could see it –

'Your Grace,' Robert stammered, still staring at the floor and evidently struggling to contain himself, 'with five children, I – I aren't always able to –'

'That is quite enough, Robert,' Tommen said quietly, 'I understand completely.'

He looked away from the singer and out towards the courtiers.

'Is there a steward present?'

A large man in Baratheon livery stepped forward and bowed wordlessly.

'Take this man to the kitchens and feed him,' Tommen commanded, 'afterwards, give him a bushel of apples and a sack of potatoes and arrange for him to be escorted home. We don't want the potatoes disappearing the moment he leaves the Keep.'

As the steward bowed and approached to show Robert the way, the entire court began to jabber away with an indignation so violent that it unquestionably called for adult intervention of some kind.

'Such kindness!'

'Such weakness!'

'What a soft little fool!'

'A proper battle will be the death of him!'

And yet despite all this, Tyrion said nothing; staring at his nephew and transfixed by the scene as though his life depended on it.

What is he waiting for? Jaime thought.

'And Robert,' Tommen added grimly.

Ah.

Silence fell as the singer paused in his tracks and once again looked towards the throne. Tommen was frowning at him with iron in his eyes; his earlier kindness only just visible.

'The next person caught singing that song will be hanged,' Tommen declared, 'please be so good as to spread the word.'

Robert bowed shakily.

'Yes, Your Grace. Th-thank you, Y - your Grace.'

The singer was led from the hall, the side door clanked loudly in his wake, and Tyrion sat back in his chair as though he'd been winded.

By the time he'd straightened up again, he was calling for wine, and smiling.

Arya was trying (and failing) not to bounce on the balls of her feet in excitement; her face and eyes like light as she watched the boy on the Iron Throne.

'He is –'

'Magnificent,' Jaime finished, and when Arya grinned widely at him in response, he knew that the word had been both his choice and hers.

'Who is next?' Tommen asked, sweeping on with the proceedings as though nothing had happened.

'Your Grace,' a familiar voice rumbled from within the crowd.

'Come forward, my lord,' Tommen beckoned, making a reverence as the herald stood at attention and announced:

'The Lord Mace of House Tyrell.'

As Lord Tyrell made his way to the foot of the stairs before the throne, a sudden instinct caused Jaime to glance once again at his brother. Tyrion's face had fallen and reddened slightly, and a sudden anger was glowing menacingly in his mismatched eyes. Arya had also tensed up in her place at his side; her fingers painfully clutching his; and as Jaime watched her glaring at Margaery, Olenna and Loras Tyrell with enough venom to wilt an entire summer's worth of harvests; he could only imagine that Lord Tyrell was about to do something incredibly stupid.

'What is it?' Jaime whispered.

'The Tyrells would never make a request of the Crown without discussing it with the small council first,' Arya whispered back, her left hand clutching the hilt of her dagger, 'they're too well-connected to the Crown to have to do that. Why bring a petition to the throne room when you can do it in the small council chamber?'

'So I take it from the look on Tyrion's face that no such discussion has taken place?'

'Tyrell must be trying to take advantage of Tommen's youth and inexperience in order to get what he wants.'

Lord Tyrell had reached the foot of the stairs, and Tyrion's eyes had turned from coal to steel.

'You don't think he wants to protest Uncle Kevan's being named Lord Regent?' Jaime murmured.

'What else can it be?' Arya replied.

Jaime looked at her in amazement.

'He's a fool if he does that.'

'You've sat at war council with him,' Arya whispered, 'has he ever appeared particularly intelligent to you?'

'Your Grace,' Lord Tyrell loudly declared, causing Jaime and Arya to look towards the throne once more, 'my House has served the realm long and faithfully.'

'Indeed you have, my lord,' Tommen agreed, the soul of courtesy despite the questionable truth of the boast, 'were it not for Highgarden's generous and invaluable assistance, half this city would be dead of famine; and the other half would be rotting at the bottom of the Blackwater. Not to mention the fact that the spikes on the dry moat would be decorated with an unprecedented number of blond heads.'

Tyrell concealed any confusion he might have felt with a deep bow.

'We did no more than was our due, Your Grace, and we remain deeply honoured at Your Grace's decision to take our daughter Margaery to wife after the death of the late King Joffrey, blessed be his memory.'

'It is the Lady Margaery who honours me with her hand, my lord,' Tommen interjected, 'no man who was not out of his wits could refuse such an accomplished and dignified bride.'

The poor boy sounds a hundred years old, Jaime thought, growing bored with the endless exchange of compliments.

'House Tyrell is most anxious,' Lord Mace plunged on, 'to continue to serve Your Grace in whichever way we can –'

'Indeed?' Tommen interrupted, 'why then did you decline my offer to serve as master of laws on the small council? This very morning, my uncle Tyrion was quite despairing of finding anybody to compare with you.'

Lord Tyrell smiled in a manner that he clearly thought enigmatic.

'Your Grace's offer honoured me beyond words,' he sweepingly said, 'I only declined it because I, in my eagerness, had already conceived a way in which my House might better serve Your Grace and the realm; one that would not require so simple a man as myself to burden the small council with his ignorance.'

The court laughed politely. Neither Tommen, nor Tyrion, laughed with them.

'You underestimate your talents, my lord,' Tommen remarked, 'but by all means let me hear this plan of which you speak.'

Lord Tyrell cleared his throat theatrically.

'My son Willas remains at Highgarden, Your Grace,' he declared, 'he may be a cripple, but he has a fine mind for warfare and for politics; and he will inherit Highgarden after I die; regardless of his condition. He remains unmarried, however, and would be hard pressed to continue my line unless certain changes were made to his situation.'

'My lord,' Tommen replied testily, raising his voice slightly as the crowd laughed again, 'if I understand you correctly – and I think that I do – then you are on the point of proposing that my royal sister Myrcella –'

'Not at all, Your Grace,' Lord Tyrell interrupted hurriedly, 'I would not be so vain as to expect a royal match for both Margaery and Willas. No, Your Grace. What I meant to propose – what I wished to propose – is that my son Willas be wed to the Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell: that he rule over the North in both her name and yours; and in so doing, pledge us further to Your Grace's service, and to the service of the realm.'