Jaime III

The King was not amused.

Lord Merryweather had cajoled, flattered and deflected for hours, yet His Grace looked on without comment, his only input being the slow, drip, drip, drip, of royal blood flowing from the torn silk of his stockings to pool on the floor beneath. Jaime watched soundlessly, a white ghost still behind the Iron Throne, as the court jester kept up a steady stream of half-truths and lies, naming names and condemning friends with unhesitating speed and unremitting spinelessness.

" - Varys, your Grace this is his work, no doubt you see in your wisdom. Ever he plotted with Rhaegar, surely you must see he is the cause of our present woes. The Spider is not to be trusted: where were his little birds when this rebellion was in its infancy, when it could have been smothered in the cradle? Heed not the eunuch sire, he would have you distract yourself with the petty movements of bandit lords and their vainglorious brats." The Hand wiped his face and marked the spot he had struck so often to move his fearful king.

"Lord Robert is a distraction don't you see? Your Grace was wise from the start, and should not be cozened by the Spider's warmongering. Has he brought news of Rhaegar? Of course not, yet he would have us believe his network stretches across the realm. So it is either treachery or simple incompetence, his failures must be rectified – and punished. There are many here in this very hall, I am sure, who could tell you where the Prince is to be found and know of his plots. That foul Dornishman for one, bastards are treacherous by nature. Rhaegar was a poor son, yet still was able to recruit all manner of grasping friends to watch you in his absence. Wilt please you for me to order Ser Percival's interrogation, or Ser Arthur's? I shall act, Your Grace knows I am his strong right hand, I will discover what they know. For one, I have reports that Fowler's bastard had travelled to Casterly Rock as escort for Princess Elia and her brother. I shall act, for the realm, for you, I…"

The Hand was finally brought to a halt as his king doubled over in pain, treating the court to the unsightly view of the Royal head bobbing over its own lap as Aerys examined the deep wound he had carved behind his knee. He poked the long gash with one taloned finger, and did it again, each time eliciting a sound half growl, half giggle. This was the King's newest habit, ever since the fall of Gulltown he had begun to scratch at his wounds like a beast. No longer was Pycelle permitted to treat them, much less approach with needle and gut – the sight of the smallest steel had sent His Grace into hysterics since, well, his time spent in a town whose name could not be uttered without driving Aerys into new mania. The list of things one can do without upsetting the royal infant grows painful and short.

The King straightened again and affixed his attention on another half-healed scab on his hip, made the week before when he had tripped ascending the throne. The now red nail of his index finger approached and scratched at it, pulling off the scab and flicking it away it one deft swipe. And again, although this time His Grace picked at the flesh beneath, burying his clawed finger deeper and deeper, like an itch he could not quite scratch.

Blood poured freely as Merryweather resumed, his face pale as the King continued to mutilate himself. Jaime saw the desperation on Lord Owen's flaccid cheeks as he spoke, no wonder, the King was scarcely listening. The court arrayed before them as hostage spectators were silently incensed, many and more had been denounced in the Hand's long meandering speech. Only Varys seemed unconcerned, patiently waiting on soft slippered feet as the man who spoke with the King's voice poured denunciation and thunder upon the good name of the Spider. Only Varys, and the knights of the Kingsguard. The Kingsguard feared nothing.

It was an amusing thought. Jaime felt he should be living in fear, yet in truth he had never felt so free. Word at court was Lord Owen had written a dozen letters to Tywin Lannister, demanding to know why he had called his banners if he was not coming to pacify the Riverlands. In each letter, Jaime knew, was an unspoken threat, one that had simmered since the day Ser Gerold Hightower had swept a white cloak across his shoulders and mocked Jaime with an honour he had craved since boyhood. We have your son. Take arms against us and he will burn. Plot against us and he will die. Disobey us and we will deliver him to your own man Ser Ilyn. We will break him, rape him, flay him if you do any thing we do not like. The dragon is not mocked. The dragon is not ignored.

Yet so far cold silence was all Lord Tywin had sent in return. It may be he has abandoned me, and expects me to die whatever he does, Jaime reflected. Or at least he has reconciled that Tyrion might very well be his heir. It was an unlikely notion. Jaime knew his father would never accept that his deformed son might one day sit the golden seat of the Rock, no matter how able the colossal head that sat upon his twisted shoulders, a head which had recently began hurling itself beneath the sheets of practically every whore in Lannisport. Yet the Warden of the West would be equally loath to name Cersei in his place, for not only did she lack the requisite cock, but Tywin had not entrusted her with any of the responsibilities she might well have been entitled to as the sole lady of house Lannister present at the Rock. No, father wants me alive, his inaction must be some plan. Lord Tywin is as patient and implacable as his mountain, and knows his former friend well. Father knows what he is doing - after all, that I'm not being sent in pieces to motivate him is proof enough. Or perhaps Aerys was yet sane enough to withhold losing an excellent swordsman from his Kingsguard.

The King had finally noted Lord Merryweather's presence as he gazed around as if awakening from deep sleep. Seeing so many faces staring up at him caused another spasm, and another shallow cut along his forearm. Jaime had to suppress a laugh as the King cursed, and Merryweather trailed off into silence. "My lords," the King muttered wearily, "my lords, my lords…" Aerys' head drooped as his words slurred over one another languorously. Is he well? Jaime almost laughed aloud at the ridiculousness of the thought.

"What a fine line it is," the King spoke quietly, "between treason and stupidity. Such a thin stretch between loyal foolishness, and poisonous council." He gave Lord Owen the full brunt of those disconcerting lilac eyes, pale and dreamy. Snot ran down his chin to a slack mouth, and his face was grey. Aerys twisted into his hip again, burrowing deeper without expression as the bud of his finger gently stroked bone. "Any good king – nay, any great king – must recognise one for the other, and render chastisement, or punishment. Another thin line. Another." The head fell, and the finger continued to roll and twist and pick like a burrowing wyrm, tearing at itself from within. Jaime actually chuckled quietly to himself as he imagined Aerys "chastising" Lord Merryweather as he did his Queen. What is wrong with me?

"Welcome to King's Landing my lord." The king told a frightened Owen. "Where is Tywin? He will give you audience; the Hand speaks with the King's voice. A good man and true my lord, he will see to your needs. Ser Gerold, fetch Lord Tywin if you would be so good, he will need to sit the throne today. Pray forgive me, but I am wearied from my journey to Lannisport. Such a wedding it was. Such a bride! Truly a remarkable man. They will call him Tywin the Great, Tywin the Wise a thousand years hence, you will see. You will. Alas my lord, I would speak with you more, for I have enjoyed your company, but my Queen has suffered a great loss. I should be with her. And Aegon, poor sweet Aegon taken for my sins. Through my fault, I gave his body to the flames myself. The line between greatness and foolishness, yes. So many lines."

Ser Gerold Hightower approached the throne and spoke so none of the crowd could hear. "Your Grace, Ser Jaime and I can escort you to Maegor's Holdfast, if it please you."

But the mention of Jaime's name had done its work. The King sat bolt upright as he looked frantically for his white knight, finding him guarding the door to the Small Council chamber in the shadows behind the throne. "Lannister," he spat. "What are you doing there? Why are you skulking about? You're the Kingsguard, have you forgotten, stand where I can see you. Don't creep behind me, I've had enough of people going behind my back, but I'll catch them, I'll catch you." The King looked about as Jaime did as he was ordered, trying not to smile. If I wished to kill you, Your Grace, I would not stab you in the back. I'd wrap my hands around your throat and watch those horrible eyes die. But in truth why bother? Aerys could not order Jaime's death it seemed, even in the depths of his madness he remained just so afraid. Jaime was a knight of the Kingsguard, and he was not afraid, nor would he break his vows to make true the deliriums of a mad beast. Besides, stabbing someone in the back while they sat the throne was impossible, but Jaime was willing to forgive His Grace's oversight.

"You have my apologies, my dear lords, I have been wearied by managing the realm in these troubled times. Still, let all men know the throne still does its duty to those who remain loyal. Lord Owen, step forth." Merryweather did so, no doubt still hoping to receive a condescending pat on the head. It was not meant to be. "Lannister, while you are there, you may as well tear that badge from Owen's breast. I fear the heart that beats under it is too frail to bear the burdens of rule as I do." The king peered down on Merryweather as the old man shrank into himself, a formidable task given there was so much of himself to hide. "Or, it is too full of black lies, I do not know. A crueller king would have your head, but I find that I have little use for yours."

Lord Merryweather gave a weak chuckle, probably out of habit. But the King was not amused. "Ser Jaime, do as I have asked." Jaime walked towards the old Hand as Merryweather fumbled at the golden hand's clasp. But Jaime knew what the Aerys wished to see – after all, a good servant anticipates his master's wishes. He pushed the fool, hard, sending Owen tumbling painfully onto his back, hard enough for the air to rush from his lungs, which drew delighted laughter from the throne and many in the court. With that, Jaime reached down and pulled the golden hand from its silk doublet with a loud rip. Lord Owen had added small emeralds around the rim, Jaime saw. As he walked up the steps of the throne to pass the badge to his king, he saw Aerys twitch.

"Shall I give it to Ser Gerold to hold Your Grace? Or lay it on the floor?" Jaime asked politely. Aerys saw the hidden mockery where hidden mockery was intended. "Give it to me, boy," he said, snatching the pin out of Jaime's open hand. Jaime walked back to his place, feeling Ser Gerold's silent reproach and Aerys' fury upon him as he did so. The court still laughed, Jaime could count their teeth.

Aerys' gaze lingered long on Jaime, until he reluctantly drew it to where his former Hand was laying, unable to rise of his own strength. Unbidden, Ser Arthur had stepped forward to aid him, gently lifting Lord Owen to his feet and offering him an arm with which to steady himself. "As for you my lord…" Inexplicably his Grace turned towards Varys where he stood, his bald head shining amidst the great and good of the kingdoms. "One you would see happily dead has asked me to be lenient, in light of your long service. You may keep what remains of your life, and I shall spare you the black cells." The King sniffed as Lord Owen showed minute relaxation. The man was a fool, but he had watched the King's leniency in action before; His Grace was often of the position that burning his subjects alive was not truly murder. A complex man was King Aerys II Targaryen. "But my father, may his soul rest peacefully, could well tell you that mercy is often confused for weakness by lesser men. With the rebels you spawned haunting the realm I may not be as merciful as I might wish. So go my lord."

"Go?" Lord Merryweather choked stupidly.

"GO!" The King thundered. "Leave my lands wretch, for you have served them poorly. I'll not suffer you in them. A wise king, a wise king, yes heh, yes would not allow one such as you to serve him. No I would not, yes. My leal lords of Highgarden also deserve better servants methinks, so your lands shall stand under attainder. You may leave them behind on your way."

Lord Merryweather had never looked so aged, yet Jaime saw him as he was now, a weak man, near eighty, faced with banishment. "Go where?" he whispered, ashen-faced.

The king waved him away. "To whichever hell needs a Hand. Dayne, see him out."

Ser Arthur led the stunned Chuckler by the arm and walked him through the hall, past ranks of lords and knights who had fawned over him for his power, his wealth, his influence over the king. None said a word, though no doubt many would regret the absence of such an easily swayed man. All knew he would never return, if he survived a trip across the Narrow Sea at all, or even made it to the gates before Aerys changed his mind. A braver man might attempt to make common cause with Jon Arryn and his lads, but Owen had done them injury enough to earn execution on the spot. For now then, opportunity was in the air.

Pycelle doddered forward, looking benignly down his luxurious grey beard, well peppered with white. From one of his voluminous sleeves he pulled a colourful parchment and raised himself onto the dais to look down at the assembled loathing of lords, as such a group were termed in King's Landing. "It is the view of the Small Council that war is an opportunity to advance those who provide leal and able service to our beloved kingdoms." The Grand Maester cleared his throat self-importantly, a process which took an age. "In addition to the favour of the crown, the rich lands and great keep of Longtable shall be awarded to Lord Mace Tyrell, Warden of the South, in recognition of the valour he demonstrated by routing the vicious rebels at Ashford. Further, the Crown gives unto him the title, the Shield of Dragons, a mark of honour to be held by his house as a mark of their loyalty. Lesser tracts have been set aside for his good lieutenants, among them, Lord Wilbert Crane, Ser Dunstan Mockridge and Lord Randyll Tarly. All shall receive a pension amounting to six thousand dragons a year from the throne, an honour that shall be inherited by their heirs to the third degree."

The King joined with the applause of the court enthusiastically, keeping the clamour alive for minutes longer than necessary, and eliciting cheers from the assembly who wondered at and envied the generosity of the throne. The court finally quieted as Pycelle removed a longer, plainer parchment, announcing prisoners taken, acts of valour by lesser knights and men-at-arms, commoners sons taken as squires by grateful lords, silver-banded spears gifted to bravely wounded men, and promises of acreage and oxen to the men who had turned back the rebels. Finally the list came to its long-awaited end with the Grand Maester bowing before the King, who had clearly become bored by lesser minutiae of magnanimity. "The Small Council begs His Grace to take up a new Hand to aid us in our labours, so he may finally disperse the rabble that rape these peaceful kingdoms, and end the blight of bandits, savages and robber knights that contest the rule of law."

Aerys nodded sagely down at them; they all knew who he must pick. Rhaegar was fled, the court's lackies had failed. Jaime suddenly felt he glimpsed the mere edges of his father's plan. He knew Aerys would destroy the kingdoms. He will recall Lord Tywin to rebuild them, and weep bitter tears the whole while.

Such a course would have been far too sensible, or perhaps the King was too cunning. He knew that if Tywin Lannister were to assume his place in King's Landing, the war would soon be ended, and the King would be made a prisoner in his own chambers. Still, Pycelle looked practically constipated as the King called forth "Jon Connington, Lord of Griffin's Roost, and beloved to me as a son."

The man did as he was bid, as proud and energetic a knight King's Landing could boast. Jaime knew Connington by sight. His hair flamed true red, and his pale skin and blue eyes were much admired by the maidens at court. Moreover, from what he had seen in the yard, Lord Jon was one of the few men in the city Jaime thought might be able to test him. Connington was fast, and had a vicious streak most knights found difficult to develop as they became used to blunted swords and sparring strength. However Jaime was certain he could beat him. The feint was alien to Connington, and he despised long bouts.

An able man, Jaime thought, as Connington stalked forth, and almost a wise choice. Lord Jon was of the Stormlands, but bore little love for his liege lord – his castellan was currently besieging Crow's Nest and would thereafter join Mace Tyrell. He was certainly more of a warrior than his predecessor, and most importantly was known to be close with the Prince of Dragonstone, signalling to all that remained of Rhaegar's friends that they might well be in favour at court. The King had just sent up a beacon summoning his heir home.

It was moments such as these Jaime wondered whether the Aerys was truly mad, for there was a certain intelligence behind that sick veneer. Still, he knew his father would disapprove. Connington was too young, too prickly. Contemptuous of his lessers, almost fawning over those he deigned to adjudge superiors (That was, Prince Rhaegar and nobody else), and foolish enough to remain a Prince's man in the Prince's absence. Yet the king arose all the same, and gently blessed his new Hand with a touch from that bloody finger. Poor fool, this might even be an honour if he were not being touched by a monster. At least it was only blood – the King had not yet begun playing with his shit. Although it was only a matter of time.

"Arise, Lord Connington and know my love goes with you. Serve me well, and you shall be rewarded and honoured above all others. I vow to give you a boon unheard of in the history of the Seven Kingdoms; to you I give Storm's End, to reign over its lands and vassals in perpetuity." Aerys smiled down on his new pet benevolently. "The castle will soon fall, and the banners of griffin and dragon will rise above all others." The King turned his back on Jon Connington and settled himself of the throne, resuming his fidgeting with the wound at his side. "I know you will not fail me, for the love you bear me and my son."

Jon Conington arose, his head high and his back straight. "Send me against Arryn and Tully my lord. I will bring you back their heads, my lord I swear it."

"Absolutely not." The king leaned forward, to glare down at Connington. "You're to ride against Robert, him first, do you understand? Robert is the key yes, Varys says. He could become a threat, he cannot be allowed to challenge the dragon." Once more the king was seized by a spate of stammering garble where only moments before he had been courteous as a septa. "Bring me his head. You hear me? You will, you must. I should give you Storm's End? Well earn it pup!"

Connington nodded stiffly, and took his place to stand the King's side, pointedly refusing to sit in the monstrous cornucopia Lord Merryweather's prodigious cheeks had once so competently filled. The court filled with silence once, more, the King's interest was clearly nigh exhausted. Only the faint sound of click. Click. Click. Click. could be heard. The heroic labours of the King were completed, and Aerys' long jagged nail picked at the bone of his hip, each time eliciting a judder. Jaime knew there was a secret wager amongst many of the lords as to how long the King would force them to stand in stasis until he had preoccupied himself with more important matters. The pot was dominated by the Dornish party, and the Princess' sworn shield Ser Marion Santagar would seem to be winning thus far; for the sun had begun to dip beneath the high windows of the great hall and still Aerys plucked at himself like a demented chicken. Jaime also knew Marion would not live to collect – the eunuch had informed Aerys of all this last night.