Mid December, 300 AC

Despite the hour, the plaza beneath the Great Pyramid hummed with activity. Horses neighed, donkeys brayed, and mules whinnied at the traces of more carts than he could count. There were casks of wine and piles of melons, bales of hay and cords of firewood, bushel after bushel of grain, and the gods only knew what else. Men shouted down below, and a flock of fattened sheep crossed the plaza. From their cloven hooves rose plumes of dust that shone pink in the first shy light of morning, swirling like the skirts of a maiden's gown as she danced.

A royal wedding was no trifling occasion. No sooner had the dragon queen announced her intent to wed on the last day of the year than the frantic preparations began. Beasts must be butchered, bread baked, banners sewn. There must be no doubt as to who ruled Slaver's Bay, especially when there was neither scale nor claw of a dragon to be seen.

Only Daenerys and Prince Aegon might venture beneath the pyramid to where the beasts were supposedly chained. Every sailor from Pentos to Meereen was convinced of the silver queen's mastery of her three dragons. Jaime, however, was not. Though he lacked Tyrion's abiding passion for dragons, even he knew that no Targaryen had claimed more than one dragon. The notion of a girl mastering three dragons was as absurd as a knight riding three mounts at once.

Or as absurd as a knight without a sword hand.

Jaime grimaced as a servant left him a platter of food to break his fast. Too long had he permitted his mind to wander, staring at the chaos down below. Locked away he might be, but his hours were his own, and the emptiness of his hours chafed worse than any shackle.

Routine had ruled Jaime's life since he before he could walk. His days as a page had revolved around his knight-master, Uncle Kevan, who served as castellan of Casterly Rock with Lord Tywin away in King's Landing. He helped his uncle dress, carried messages throughout the Rock, and listened as lords brought petitions to be heard. But there was no knight-master here, just as there was no Cersei to laugh at his japes.

Japing at the expense of others was one of the few ways to please Cersei after he became a page. When they were younger and spent their days learning from their mother, they were always together. Even when they grew a little older, old enough for half their day spent in separate lessons, they kept close by swapping clothes every few days so each could share the other's lessons. While Jaime recited prayers with the septa and practiced letters with the maester, Cersei learned falling with the master-at-arms and trick riding with the master of horse.

But after he became a page... his duties took him running all over the Rock, and she was locked up with Aunt Genna. Jaime didn't

want

to spend all day in a stuffy solar practicing embroidery and singing and dancing, not when he could be swinging a wooden sword and hearing tales of famous knights. His twin was less than understanding of his refusal to trade places anymore. Cersei sulked and pouted and once she even stole his sword after he reminded her that girls had no place in war unless they were holding their husband's keep.

It was almost a relief when he turned eleven and was made squire to Lord Sumner Crakehall. That golden summer was shrouded in mist, cloudless day after cloudless day where mornings were spent drilling and sparring and riding at quintain. Afternoons in lessons with the maester were more faintly remembered; for every hour learning of battles and siege engines there were four dedicated to courtesies and dancing and the tedious business of running a fief.

He saw Cersei rarely, for Lord Tywin had brought her to King's Landing when she turned twelve. Jaime raged at the thought of sharing her with the court, of her flirting and dancing with other men, but it was a rage he dared not speak aloud. Her beauty grew with every visit, their stolen hours made sweeter by their shortness. And when he first came to her a knight...

Jaime picked at his cold breakfast, absentmindedly rubbing a piece of flatbread between his finger and his thumb. To be a knight was all he ever wanted; to join the illustrious ranks of the Kingsguard an honor not countenanced in his wildest dreams. But his hopes were quickly dashed. Bards sang and poets wrote of glorious deeds in battle, not a third of a day spent standing silent guard, a third training, a third sleeping, every day the same on and on and on, the monotony only relieved by sheer terror at Aerys' latest mad fancy. Guarding Robert was much the same, but without the terror and with whores instead of wildfire. And, of course, he had an entirely new set of sworn brothers, except for the new Lord Commander, Ser Barristan Selmy. He'd seen the old man just once since his arrival, and oh, what a visit it had been.

"Kingslayer," the old knight said, striding through the door of Jaime's cell with one hand on the hilt of his sword. His hair was as white as his armor, his voice hard with contempt. "What did you say to Her Grace? What poison did you pour into her ears?"

"Poison?" Jaime smiled sharply, ignoring the low growl of his stomach. It was many long hours since Daenerys fled his cell, and the knight had interrupted his dinner. "You always did fear unpleasant truths. I wonder, was it difficult spending so many years deaf, mute, and blind?"

"The Kingsguard swear to obey," Barristan snapped. "Our duty—"

"Oh, of course! Yes, our duty to listen quietly while Rhaella shrieked to the gods for aid?" Jaime popped a grape into his mouth, savoring the look of outrage on Selmy's face.

"You

dare

." The old man's eyes were cold with judgment. "A man who sires children on his own sister—"

"She never shrieked to the gods for aid, I promise you. Shrieks of pleasure, on the other hand..." Jaime shrugged. "Well, she usually shrieked into my hand. Safer that way, with you or one of our sworn brothers always near." He laughed as the old man sputtered with rage.

"You did nothing for Rhaella," Barristan finally said, the words almost choked by his fury. "You talk of shame only to forget your own. The Father sits in judgment, ser, and you will find him less merciful than Queen Daenerys."

As if the old man had the right to speak of judgment. Ser Barristan had fought for Aerys until the bitter end, turned his cloak to Robert, and then let Robert kill himself in drunken pursuit of a boar. What feats had he to boast of, besides slaying a Blackfyre and rescuing a mad king? Jaime had saved an entire city from the flames, no thanks to any of his sworn brothers, pulled Elia of Dorne from the Mountain's clutches, and defended Brienne of Tarth from a bear, Sansa Stark from a raper, and Cersei from their father.

Crumbs covered the table; he had utterly shredded the flatbread. With a grimace Jaime forced down the rest of his breakfast, goat cheese and olives and salted fish washed down with a tart Ghiscari wine of inferior vintage. Enough of this useless melancholy. He had work to do.

Jaime began by dressing in the thickest clothing he could find. The silks and linens provided by Illyrio Mopatis languished in his chests; roughspun and wool were better suited to the task at hand. Without the benefit of armor, layers of cloth were his best attempt at forcing himself to grow used to the heat. Thus attired, he began the endless repetitions of exercises to strengthen his body.

The terrace was no training yard. Fig trees lined the long, narrow space, centered around a marble fountain. There were no heavy stones to throw, no ladders to scale, no men with whom he might grapple. Instead Jaime forced himself to run the length of the terrace, back and forth, back and forth, until his lungs gasped for air. Then he practiced tumbling, falling, and rolling, all of which were much more difficult with one hand missing. Next he danced, a cumbersome bronze statue clutched in his arms to mimic the weight of mail and plate. As the sun neared its zenith he jumped and twisted and lunged, the taste of sweat salty upon his lips.

Midday meant another platter of food, accompanied by a flagon of chilled sweetwater. Jaime drank every drop, fatigued by his exertions. When his belly was full he stripped down to his smallclothes, the sun beating down on his skin as he doused himself with water from the fountain on the terrace. Servants only brought him a copper tub every other day, and he did not fancy greeting his afternoon visitor with the ripe stench of sweat.

Even as a captive, I spend my days with royalty, Jaime thought wryly as he scrubbed the back of his neck. Prince Aegon was the most frequent visitor to his cell. The only visitor, really. The dragon queen had deigned to grace him with her presence thrice; Ser Barristan Selmy just the once.

Jaime dunked his head in the fountain. Thank the gods Ser Barristan was too wroth to return; Jaime was sick of his hypocrisy. Let him bury himself in his devotion to his girl queen; the man had forgotten how to live without a royal arse to kiss.

He was garbed in fresh roughspun breeches and tunic when the door to his cell swung open. The hedge knight entered first, as ever, his shaggy beard as mussed as his mop of orange hair. Brawny muscles strained the seams of his tunic; a look of grim satisfaction tugged at his thin lips.

"Duck." Jaime said, letting a hint of disdain creep into his voice. The big man flushed.

"Ser Rolly to you, Kingslayer."

Ser Rolly Duckfield, better known as Duck, had the honor of serving as Prince Aegon's knight-master. A few years younger than Jaime, Duck was blessed with the build of a Clegane, the loyalty of a Darry, and the wits of a Stokeworth. In other words, he was muscular, intensely devoted to his prince, and completely lacking for sense.

"Come now, Duck, no need to clap your beak. I'm sure he's only too eager for a bout," Prince Aegon chided.

At first Jaime found it difficult to see past the blue dye that still clung to the boy's shoulder-length hair. The face was only vaguely familiar, like a reflection in a pool on a windy day. But as the dye faded, Jaime found glimmers of the Prince of Dragonstone. The boy's eyes were blue-violet and full of fire, his skin just as pale, his voice just as determined as Rhaegar's.

Of Princess Elia Martell he could find nothing, but that troubled him little and less. Rhaenys had born no hint of Rhaegar; she was her mother's child entirely, with the dark hair and coppery skin of a thousand Dornish girls. Better that Aegon bear no reminder of Dorne upon his face; all men who looked upon him would see a true Targaryen in an instant.

Better, they would see a knight. The boy loved the song of swords almost as much as Jaime did. Reviewing the forms of the blade was enough to bring a grin to his face, much less drilling them against a partner, and the chance for a freestyle duel was met with the sort of giddy delight Jaime associated with Tommen catching sight of a new kitten.

Jaime supposed it was only natural that the boy had gotten the idea of testing himself against the Kingslayer; no amount of mockery could dissuade the prince from crossing blades. When Jaime lay on the terrace, bruised and bleeding, Aegon's look of disappointment was enough to tempt him to gut the boy. He was rising to his feet when the prince unthinkingly saved himself.

"I should learn to fight left-handed," the prince declared. "What if my right arm was to be injured in battle?"

Duck had scoffed at the very idea, but Aegon was undeterred. He could write with his left hand, thanks to spraining his wrist as a boy, and now he was determined to fight with his left hand.

And so, every other afternoon, the prince and his sworn sword visited Jaime's terrace. Duck was a capable fighter, but he was a smith's son, fled abroad after committing the crime of beating Lord Caswell's heir senseless. Jaime vaguely recalled hearing of the incident; it was not every day that a lord almost lost his heir to an enraged peasant's hammer. The very idea was so absurd as to be hilarious. Small wonder that the ignorant hedge knight had named himself after a field of ducks.

Duck had learned the sword from long years of practical experience with the Golden Company. Jaime had learned from the finest masters-at-arms money could buy, and knew dozens of forms and drills Duck had never even heard of.

As always they began with the seven blows of the sword, the simplest of forms taught to boys so small they were only fit to wield wooden swords. First came the two cleaving cuts from above, then the two rising cuts from below. Next came the two cuts across the middle, and finally the thrust. Duck watched, arms crossed, as Jaime and Aegon sweated their way through the form over and over, swords in their left hands.

Then it was time to review the guards of the onehanded sword. Aegon had learned most of them from Duck, though he had not known their proper names. They practiced the Iron Gate, the Guard of the Lady, the Stance of the Queen, and all the rest until the sun was dipping toward the horizon.

"A fine pair of pages," Duck snorted when they finally sheathed their blades. "The queen will be expecting you soon, and you need a bath or three." Aegon sniffed himself, grimaced, and promptly dunked his head in the fountain.

"A pleasure as always, Prince Aegon," Jaime drawled when the boy emerged, silvery hair plastered to his head.

"Kingslayer," the prince replied, not seeing how the corner of Jaime's mouth tightened. "Enjoy your evening."

"I shall," Jaime lied.

Dusk draped over the world like a maiden's veil. While Aegon dined with the queen, Jaime dined with the shades of the brother he had lost and the sister he had abandoned. He was not sure which loss cut more deeply.

Tyrion had always worshipped him, ever since he was born. When the wet nurse could not get Tyrion to stop wailing, it was Jaime who tickled him and poked his nose until he laughed. One of his little brother's first utterances had been

jay-jay

, for he could not yet manage Jaime. Busy though he was as a page, Jaime saw Tyrion almost every day, in the moments he could spare away from his duties and from Cersei. His little brother had wept openly when the time came for Jaime to leave to squire for Sumner Crakehall; Cersei had slapped the four-year old, which made him weep harder, but Jaime had hugged him close.

At first, things changed little when their paths crossed afterwards. Tyrion begged to hear of Jaime's adventures, babbled about whatever of his studies somehow related to what Jaime had been doing, and did his best to make even more japes than Jaime did. Then... then came the tourney Harrenhal. Lord Tywin and Cersei were not there, of course. His rage at Aerys was too great. But Tyrion was there to see Jaime kneel a knight and rise a kingsguard.

He could still remember how small Tyrion looked beside Sumner Crakehall, the old boar who had brought the dwarf as a last favor to his former squire. Tyrion was eight, too young to grasp why the lords of the westerlands wore such frozen smiles, but his mismatched eyes were troubled all the same when Jaime invited him to dine in the hall set aside for the Kingsguard. Tyrion had accepted, eyes wide with excitement at the honor— then Aerys summoned Jaime, and within the hour he was riding for King's Landing, his new white armor the chains that bound him to Aerys' whims.

That was the last he saw of Tyrion for three long years. After Robert's Rebellion his brother was older, wiser, yet still so single-minded in his determination to win Lord Tywin's approval. Jaime never had the heart to tell his little brother that he had set himself an impossible task. And after Tysha...

A sharp lesson, his father had said as he sent Jaime back to King's Landing a week early. It was years before Jaime learned what that meant, courtesy of a pair of red cloaks gossiping while Myrcella and Tommen played beneath the shadow of Casterly Rock. Robert was off bedding some serving wench; Cersei was busy dressing for the feast to celebrate the end of Lord Tywin's tourney. Lacking mother or father, they gamboled under the watchful eye of their septa, not knowing their true father stood before them in the guise of an uncle.

Prince Aegon promised no harm would come to Myrcella or Tommen. It was Jaime's third demand, after mercy for himself and for Cersei. It was a test Tyrion might have been proud of, a chance to weigh the temper of the Targaryen prince. Jaime had no interest of aiding the boy if it meant danger to the only family he had left. To his surprise the prince readily agreed, so long as Jaime leant his support when the day came for their return to Westeros.

It would be sweet to see Cersei again. He had not been parted from her for so long since the rebellion, when she was trapped at Casterly Rock with Lord Tywin, and he with Aerys in the Red Keep. When he traveled west to escort her to her wedding… their first lovemaking since their separation was a passionate blur. They kissed in a mad, silent frenzy, touching each other all over as if to make sure they were still whole. He pressed hard muscles against his twin's soft breasts, he buried his cock deep in her sopping cunt. Cersei had wept as she came, her teeth sinking into his shoulder to muffle her cries of ecstasy.

Someday he would hear those cries again. He had made and unmade kings before, after all. Once Jaime had sat on the Iron Throne, bloody sword across his knees, the lords of the Westerlands waiting for him to proclaim a new king. Then his thoughts had turned to Viserys and the infant Aegon. The chance to spite Stark and Baratheon alike was tempting, until he remembered that Aerys' blood flowed through their veins.

"Proclaim who you bloody well like," he told Roland Crakehall, lord now that old Sumner was dead. Only after Eddard Stark arrived and ordered him down from the throne, grey eyes hard, had Jaime thought of Elia and the children. He arrived too late, just as the Sword of Morning had.

Jaime wondered what Elia would think when she learned Varys had saved her son where Ser Arthur Dayne had failed. Even spiders, it seemed, could feel one drop of pity. Thank the gods that Aegon had his father's blood, not his grandfather's. Aerys would never have served as Rhaella's hand, never. Yet his grandson threw himself into serving Daenerys, eager to force order upon chaos. If Prince Aegon considered himself ill-used, Jaime saw no sign of it. Aerys would have sought the dragon queen's death, just as he had sought the death of Daenora Targaryen and her son.

Daenora was one of Daeron the Good's granddaughters, though Jaime could not remember which of Daeron's four sons had sired her. He did recall that the poor woman had been wed to Aerion Brightflame, the maniac who died in exile in Lys. Even for a Targaryen, imbibing wildfire in hopes of turning oneself into a dragon was remarkably stupid. No doubt his death was a relief to his poor wife, who bore a son shortly afterwards. When King Maekar died the next year, the babe— Maelor? No, Maegor — was one of the possible heirs to the crown, passed over for the man who became Aegon the Unlikely, Fifth of His Name.

All of this had happened long before Jaime's birth, when his grandfather Tytos was still a boy. Such dusty history mattered little to him, but it was of great interest to Aerys as his madness deepened. Even with all his little birds, it took the eunuch Varys years to track down what happened to Daenora after the Great Council ended and she fled to Lys with her babe. Jaime was guarding the king the day the news finally came; how Aerys had exulted at hearing of the deaths of his distant kin.

"Maegor died as a youth of three-and-twenty, struck down by plague," Varys said smoothly.

"He was no dragon," Aerys replied, baring his teeth in a terrible mockery of a smile. Lank silver hair fell to his waist; his beard was as tangled and twisted as his mind. "Petty illness cannot take a true dragon."

"Just so, just so," the eunuch nodded. "He left behind a Lyseni wife and newborn son. The wife perished in the same plague; Daenora raised the infant until she died of a wasting illness. The boy was taken in by a traveling mummer's troupe."

"What happened to the boy?" Aerys snarled. His hands clenched, those awful fingernails like yellow talons pressing against his wrists.

"A mere mummer boy poses no threat to Your Grace," the mace-and-dagger Hand protested softly.

"Boy? That mummer is now a man, and doubtless desperate to usurp my crown." Aerys stood, nicking his arm on the throne in the process. "I will not have it, I will not. This mummer must die; Rossart will show him the meaning of fire and blood."

"No need, Your Grace." King and Hand turned back to the master of whispers. Varys' bald head shone in the torchlight; Jaime could almost smell the reek of his lavender perfume. "The boy bled to death in an alley in Myr."

Lucky boy

, Jaime remembered thinking. Better a quick death than falling into Aerys' hands. The nameless mummer Targaryen's agony would have been prolonged and exquisite before Aerys let him die. Much as he distrusted Daenerys, he could not imagine her relishing the sound of screams. His appetite gone, Jaime abandoned his chair for the terrace.

It was a cool night, the sun long since set. With a groan Jaime lowered himself to the ground. The bricks of the terrace dug into his back as he lay down, but he paid them no mind as he looked up at the night sky.

As always he found the Sword of Morning first, its long blade pointing west at the Moonmaid.

Myself and Cersei

, he thought when he was young and foolish. Now he knew better, and turned away. The Crone's Lantern caught his eye next, hovering over the Rose and the wandering star sacred to the Maiden. There was the Stallion rearing, there the Swan with its long neck and the Galley with its masts and sails.

But it was the Ice Dragon's wings that shimmered brightest against the velvety sky, so remote and yet so near. He could still remember the grip of Rhaegar's hand upon his shoulder, the look of regret in the Prince of Dragonstone's dark indigo eyes. "When this battle's done I mean to call a council. 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."

The Ice Dragon's blue eye glimmered. Robert Baratheon and his warhammer had ensured that Rhaegar never spoke again, to Jaime or anyone else. But Aegon... Aegon would be all that Rhaegar should have been. He would wed his aunt in the Targaryen fashion, and never glance at some wild northern girl. Daenerys might be small, but she was strong as Elia never was; she would bear a ripe crop of silver-haired princes and princesses.

He gazed up at the King's Crown, at the luminous stars that formed its band and the faded stars that tipped its points. The wandering star sacred to the Father was brightest of all, gleaming in the center of the crown like a diamond. Did Criston Cole see such an omen before he chose to bend the knee to Aegon the Second?

Jaime smiled to himself.

Oh, how the realm will tremble when Kingslayer returns as Kingmaker.


Fun game- count how many times Jaime obliviously dunks on himself due to ignorance or lack of self awareness.

NOTES

1) Jaime thinks of Rhaegar 14 times in canon. His general opinion seems almost worshipful; when Rhaegar left for the Trident, Jaime begged to go with him. He never thinks of Lyanna in his own POV; he only thinks of Elia 3 times, once in reference to Tywin hoping she'd die so Cersei could marry her, twice in reference to Elia's location during the rebellion

2) Jaime's training comes from several places. For an original source, we have the Chronicles of Jean Froissart, which refers to the training of Jean II le Maingre, also known as Marshal Boucicaut.

"And now he began to test himself by jumping onto a courser in full armor. At other times he would run or hike for a long way on foot, to train himself not to get out of breath and to endure long efforts. At other times he would strike with an axe or hammer for a long time to be able to hold out well in armor, and so his arms and hands would endure striking for a long time, and train himself to nimbly lift his arms. By these means, he trained himself so well that at that time you couldn't find another gentleman in equal physical condition. He would do a somersault armed in all his armor except his bascinet, and dance armed in a mail shirt... When he was at his lodgings he would never cease to test himself with the other squires at throwing the lance or other tests of war."

I also took inspiration from SETTE COLPI: UNDERSTANDING THE SEVEN BLOWS OF THE SWORD IN ARMIZARE and from a translation of The Flower of Battle of Master Fiore Friulano de'i Liberi. Though most swordfighting in ASoiaF is onehanded, I took some stance names from the section on Sword in Two Hands.

Finally, when that got too overwhelming, I turned to Tamora Pierce's Tortall books, especially Alanna: The First Adventure, First Test, and Page.

3) Oh, Jaime. Writing him yelling at Barristan was such fun, but Jaime is such a damn hypocrite. Also casually racist about how lucky it is that Faegon doesn't look Dornish. Asshole.

4) Today in weird research tangents, constellations! Jon and Jaime name certain constellations in canon. While beyond the Wall with Ygritte, Jon lists seeing the Shadowcat, the Ice Dragon, the Moonmaid, the Sword of Morning, the King's Crown, the Stallion, and a red wanderer (a planet) sacred to the Smith. From the Riverlands during his captivity with Brienne, Jaime sees the King's Crown, the Stallion, the Swan, and the Moonmaid. In The Sworn Sword Duncan the Tall sees the Stallion, the Sow, the King's Crown, the Crone's Lantern, the Galley, the Ghost, and the from the Reach.

What constellations are visible varies by latitude (how far north or south of the equator you are). A rough estimate where fans arranged Westeros and Essos on a globe has both continents entirely north of the equator, so I arranged the constellations as follows:

Only visible north of the Neck: Shadowcat

Only visible south of the Neck: Swan, Sow, Crone's Lantern, Galley, Ghost

Visible everywhere north of the equator: Ice Dragon, King's Crown, Stallion, Moonmaid, Sword of Morning

Meereen is at a similar latitude to the southern Stormlands, so Jaime is seeing familiar constellations.