Author's Notes: Good day, everyone! Thank you so much for continuing to stick with and give your support to this project. It makes writing this so much easier than it would've otherwise been. You're all champs!

If you were wondering whether TDR will see a change in schedule as a result of this quarantine happening all over the world, it is currently going to keep the same schedule of 1 update every 2 weeks.

As always, I would like to thank Catzrko0l for providing editing on this project. She makes your reading experience just that much better.

Chapter 70

Jaime XXI

He stayed hidden behind the side door for as long as he dared, listening to the chattering of the crowd and longing to block out the color that streaked and faded before his vision like fireflies. His heart felt like a caged rabbit in his chest and his very being trembled with rage. He struggled to regain control of his anger, but it burned like wildfire. He was itching for a fight, but he was expected at court.

Jaime reached up and clenched a hand around the leather strap that held the key to the wight's cage in place. Knowing it was secure brought him some relief. He itched to ensure it was still in its chest, but refrained for fear of drawing more attention to it. So far, few seemed interested and the soldiers he had placed there remained loyal to him. Had they informed his father? Would his father even care? He noticed at night that he had a tendency to grab the key in his sleep and hold it close as though he were afraid someone would try to cut it away from him. Perhaps it was a deceptive hope, but it was one of the few things he hadn't heard much interest in.

Brienne had just had her duel against the loathsome Ser Osmund Kettleblack for her hand in marriage. She won, but only just. And then the gutless worm had aimed to kill her behind her back. Were it not for Jaime's cry of alarm, she would've been run through. Dead. Beyond his reach once more.

Her own voice had screeched in an alarming orange and Jaime feared that he had been too late. It took everything in him to stab Ser Osmund only once. It was a potentially fatal skewering, but Jaime had been in no fit state to be delicate. He had plainly been defending someone against dishonorable intentions, so whether the man died or not mattered little to him.

Jaime had never experienced the feeling of panic. Dread, despair, doubt, sadness, and even fear, but never panic. Not even when the Night King had been closing on them. Especially not then. All he had wanted then was to find his death however it was to be. He thought he'd be free, but he had found himself imprisoned once more. His body was whole and healthy, young, still untouched by the ravages of war, but subject to the torture of being in Cersei's presence. The only thing that had kept him mildly hopeful was the promise of seeing Brienne's freckled face once more.

It hadn't been enough. Living for better than a decade without a friend in the world had worn him down more thoroughly than he had ever imagined and his hope had twisted into despair. Brienne is better off without me. What could she want with an old kingslayer like me, he had lamented. Brienne was tough, she was strong. She would have found her way in the world, with or without him, and then she would've been a true knight, untainted by the cynicism of a murderous oathbreaker.

But the Gods had had other plans. Yet they continue to mock me, tease me, he thought as he clenched his teeth. He had been so patient. Nearly two decade's worth. He had never waited so long for anything in his life, yet he had been forced to keep Brienne at arm's length even after meeting her in the fear that she'd mistakenly draw his father's ire. Yet his attention to her meant she had caught other eyes as well. Unworthy eyes. They hadn't deserved her, her courage and forthrightness. You don't deserve her either, he mocked himself but put it to the back of his mind. He didn't deserve her, but he wasn't about to let her slip through his fingers again if he could help it.

When she had stayed by his bedside after his seizure, the desire to pull her close had been overwhelming, but he had been forced to stay his hand. Would she have stayed so long if she hadn't felt something for him in return? Was she kept there merely by his authority? He was certain there was something to the small smiles she gave him when he had approached her for a morning spar. He couldn't be sure, but he would have to take the first step. She would not, not least out of propriety. But that first step couldn't be taken until he was certain his father wouldn't be a threat to her.

Jaime had taken for granted how undesirable she had been to all but that wildling, Tormund Giantsbane. Now that Brienne was in the Red Keep, training in front of nearly the entire kingdom of lords and their sons, they had started to take notice. If the duel with Ser Osmund Kettleblack demonstrated anything to Jaime, it was that he was running out of time. Aemon had to return if he wanted to focus his attention on winning over Brienne once more.

I'd be in a much better position if I hadn't just yelled at her, he thought sourly and he felt his face heat from a mixture of his anger and shame. If he wished for the Gods to supplant him to another time, it would be right before that moment so that he could control his response. It hadn't been Brienne's fault that a knight had once more proved himself unworthy of the title. If he survived his stabbing, Jaime was going to make the effort to strip him of his title.

"Lord Jaime, it's time," Podrick gently reminded him. The poor boy looked uneasy and worried about him. It almost sickened him at the amount of trust Podrick seemed to place in him. Poor, stupid boy, he thought viciously to himself. I am not worthy of the devotion of a boy like him.

Dread pooled in the pit of his stomach but Jaime raised his head and walked out. Silence immediately fell as he strode to the chair that still stood in front of the Iron Throne. When he sat down, he kept his back as straight and stiff as a board and peered at the audience. A few men and women appeared to flinch as his eyes passed over them; undoubtedly, the rumor of his outburst had already made the rounds.

Once the petitioning began, Jaime could feel his anger leak away. The tension eased from his shoulders and his heart finally slowed as he sank into the routine. For once, he was grateful for the distraction. Finding a way to win Brienne was a pressing problem, but it had to wait. Since he didn't see her among the audience at court, he presumed she was still being treated by a maester. She wouldn't hide from him; she had too much courage for that.

He spotted his father standing in his usual spot with Ser Kevan at his side. Although his father never smiled, Jaime could tell by the way he was holding himself—upright and at ease—that he was brimming with smug self-assurance. Jaime felt his ire peak once more and he clenched his jaw, willing himself not to sneer at his own father.

Jaime's thoughts were jarred when the Master of Ceremonies called out, "Ser Edmure of House Tully."

He wrenched his eyes back to Ser Edmure who was looking as grave as Ned Stark. He nearly snorted at the dark gray attire, with a Tully blue sash and red trimming. As Ser Edmure strode down the carpet, he carried himself with such an air of majesty, that Jaime couldn't be certain he wasn't about to declare himself king. Even his kneeling seemed overwrought.

"Lord Hand, I request that the Riverlands' forces be allowed to depart back to our homes. I have received word that Lords Mallister and Blackwood have each suffered raids by the Ironborn within the last week. Our people are suffering; we must be allowed to defend them," Ser Edmure said with a pleading expression, his voice a wavering yellow in his anxiety. "As you know, my father has been ill for some time and is unfit to lead a force to their defense. It is my responsibility to lead in his stead."

Jaime dragged his eyes over to Robb Stark and found Theon Greyjoy attempting to ineffectually hide behind Robb. Theon froze when he caught Jaime's eye. He was the very picture of terror. Jaime doubted he'd had a role to play in this renewed harassment. He ground his teeth at this new element of chaos. As soon as Aemon left, it felt like Westeros had jumped off a cliff. Varys had reported the same news a few days prior. It had gone against every fiber of his being not to act, but he had managed. He and Aemon could not afford to let any more of his allied forces—those who were loyal through Lord Stark—to simply depart. It left far too many unfriendly soldiers in the Capital.

He allowed himself time to ponder and his eyes fixed to a point on the ground as he dwelled on the problem. Blackwood's land was on the west coast, right near where the Iron Islands were located, so they were a natural target. If he looked at a map, he was certain he'd find Blackwood Vale right on the border of the Westerlands. Lord Mallister's lands were higher up the coast and while the castle was located on a cliff, the lands around it were at ground level. No doubt at Ser Edmure's call-to-arms, Lord Mallister and Lord Blackwood had left minimal guard which led to easy pickings.

Jaime's eyes roamed the hall and right near the front, his eyes fell on Ser Stevron Frey. The man had been standing with his chest puffed, as he usually did and he paraded around the grounds like the king had entrusted him with his greatest secret. He wilted now at the small smile that lifted the scowl from Jaime's face, but he kept a brave front.

"Ser Stevron Frey!"

"Yuh-yes, my Lord Hand."

"I recall you've spoken highly of your feats in battle, dispatching bandits on the King's Road in Frey lands, is that correct?"

Ser Stevron's face twitched, but he nodded and said, "Yes, Lord Hand."

"The Ironborn are the equivalent of bandits. You should have little problem dispatching them."

Ser Stevron Frey pursed his lips in dismay and gave a short nod. "Yes, my Lord Hand. I shall leave at once."

He turned to leave, but Jaime's voice stopped him. "Not so fast. The area that the Ironborn are raiding is quite vast. You will need more than just your men to secure the coastline." Jaime's eyes drifted over to where his uncle and father stood. "Uncle Kevan."

Although there was no visible change in expression, the demeanor of his father shifted from being at ease to stiff as a stone pillar. Jaime imagined that if he were to speak, there would be a dangerous red tone to his voice.

Kevan was stunned by the address, but then he too stepped forward. "Yes, Lord Hand?"

"The Ironborn are raiding on the edge of the Westerlands. I want you to take your contingent and go with Ser Stevron Frey to secure the coastline from The Crag to Seagard. I will leave it in yours and Ser Stevron Frey's capable hands as to how you intend to distribute your soldiers."

For a moment, Kevan stood staring at Jaime as if he had been asked to join the Night's Watch. "As you command, Lord Hand, so it shall be done," Kevan replied.

"Very well. You are dismissed to start preparing for your march," Jaime ordered.

His uncle gave his father a questioning look, but turned to march off. Tywin narrowed his eyes at Jaime but otherwise continued to stand as if rooted to the very spot. Jaime turned back to Ser Edmure. "Does that satisfy you?"

He gaped at him in confusion and shock. He moved his mouth as if he intended to speak but thought better of it each time. Finally, he said, "Yes, uh, yes, that is satisfying, my Lord Hand."

"Good. You're dismissed," Jaime replied.

When Ser Edmure walked away, his shoulders were hunched as though he had been scolded by his father. There were a few more petitioners, one of which included a merchant airing his grievances without the other party present. Jaime had him tossed for wasting his time—"I don't settle for half the story!"—and then a musician who wished to sing a song about the Bloodless War. Jaime attempted to turn him away by suggesting he return once King Aemon had, but the musician insisted. He strummed his lute and bored everyone with a tune that didn't even rhyme. Jaime searched for Lord Cyrus in the crowd and found him cringing with every broken note.

Then the Master of Ceremonies called out, "Ser Lyn Corbray."

Jaime wished he had raised his voice quickly enough to end court, but he refocused his attention. He narrowed his eyes at the knight that came striding down the aisle. He was dressed in his full armor and the telltale herald of a Falcon and a Moon adorned his chest. Ser Lyn kneeled quickly, but he kept his head down and was silent.

"You may speak, Ser Lyn," Jaime commanded.

"My Lord Hand, I come from the Eyrie with dire news. Lady Arryn continues to struggle with her health and remains resilient, however she has grown concerned about the danger to Lord Robyn Arryn. Our patrols have thinned since the army was brought here to King's Landing and the Mountain clans have grown bold again. Merchants are no longer safe to drive their wagons up to the Bloody Gate to replenish our supplies. Lady Arryn has bid me to ask that you return her forces to the Vale to secure our lands once more." His voice showed the deep purple of lying.

Jaime felt the muscles tighten in his shoulders again and he surveyed the man cautiously. The Blackfish was in charge of the Bloody Gate. Had he sent this man in his place? If he had, wouldn't Ser Lyn be invoking the Blackfish's name instead? But there was no getting around the color of his voice. No one, not even Baelish himself, had managed to manipulate his voice to the point where their true intentions couldn't be sussed out by him.

It was long known that the Mountain Clans were a constant hindrance to the travelers that dared to climb to the Bloody Gate. His voice had been close to blue and Jaime wondered for a moment if this is what a half-truth looked like. Although he had seen blended voices before, Baelish tended to speak in straight lies only, never once attempting the truth, whether he knew it or not. But what was he lying about? That Lady Arryn had sent him or that the situation in the Vale was far different than he suggested?

Has the quarantine broken? Jaime thought and he felt himself break out into a cold sweat. If that was the case, then Littlefinger knew they had been lying about the reasons for Lady Arryn's imprisonment. Aemon had deliberately used Littlefinger's name to inspire her confession, so Baelish would know that he was suspected in Lord Jon Arryn's murder. If that were the case, the knowledge would have reached Littlefinger weeks earlier, but he had seen no change in his voice or demeanor during their small council meetings.

Varys hadn't said anything, but was that something Varys would mention? He had been Kingsguard to Aerys and Varys had not been quite trustworthy even then. Jaime didn't have enough to hang over his head other than vague threats and he knew better than to menace from a position of ignorance because otherwise Varys might feed him information that he liked but was not necessarily true. That had happened more than once with Aerys.

"My Lord Hand?" The man was brave enough to interrupt his musings and he felt a grudging respect for him.

Jaime cocked his head as he weighed his answer, studying Ser Lyn carefully. Should I play it coy or bold? His gut suggested coy, but his heart begged to be bold. He never had been good at being coy anyway.

"If the situation is so dire, Ser Lyn, then why must you lie about it?"

Ser Lyn Corbray froze and paled under his glare. "Forgive me, my Lord Hand, but I do not lie."

"Yes, you do," Jaime replied in a quiet, measured tone. But his voice was a deep, dark red. "You are not telling the whole truth. It's a simple enough request, typically granted. Why must you lie about the circumstances?"

The knight flushed over the scrutiny. Where others might look ashamed or terrified, he instead gritted through clenched teeth, "I am not lying."

"Yes, you are. Lady Arryn is in quarantine and, for her own health, has been banned from communicating with the outside world. The Blackfish is in charge while she recovers."

"The Blackfish isn't there," Ser Lyn roared, coming out of his kneeling. His voice was a bloody red.

The color caused Jaime to pause again. His statement would have remained purple were it not the truth. Where in Seven Hells is the Blackfish? He was supposed to be there to safeguard the Eyrie in its quarantine and few dared to challenge as accomplished a fighter as he.

"Is that so? Then where is the Blackfish?" Jaime asked.

"He's seeing to Lord Tully who lies on his deathbed," Ser Lyn replied. His voice was still sickeningly red with anger.

Jaime hoped the darkening glare was taken as further anger at Ser Lyn for his impudent tone. But he was certain now that the Blackfish had been lured away so that the quarantine would be cracked open. With his resources, Littlefinger had to know the false nature of the quarantine. Jaime's heart was pounding as he tried to think of what his next move should be. Ideally, it'd be cornering Baelish, trapping him. But how? As far as he knew, Ser Lyn wasn't one of Baelish's accomplices. Or is he?

"You're fortunate I don't have your tongue. Your request is denied for your continued lies. Court is over," Jaime declared. He made to stand.

"I do not lie!" Ser Lyn screamed. "You dare impugn my honor?!" His hand ghosted over the hilt of the sword at his waist.

"Your voice says differently, Ser Lyn. Now banish yourself from my sight before I have you flogged for your impudence," Jaime replied with a sneer.

"That's rich coming from an oath-breaking kingslayer such as yourself!" Ser Lyn pulled out his sword and leveled it at him. "I challenge you to a duel!"

The Lannister guard immediately pulled their swords and stepped up. Jaime couldn't keep the smirk from his face as he looked down at Ser Lyn.

"I've skewered one person already today. You dare try me?" Jaime asked, but he was grinning. The blood roared in his veins and he felt his fingers twitch with the need to fight.

Ser Lyn sneered, "I fought Prince Martell to the death. You're nothing special."

"So be it. Tomorrow morning after breakfast," Jaime said.

The crowd waited with bated breath as Ser Lyn sheathed his sword and started back down the aisle. Jaime watched him leave like a predator stalking his prey.