Early March, 300 AC

Jaime grunted as he slashed at the tree. Sweat blurred his vision, and for a moment the tree was a knight clad in pale armor. Are you the one who killed my brother? With a curse Jaime hacked and parried, then made to thrust his blade through the knight's heart- only to find himself flat on his back, his left arm throbbing in pain.

The blade lay at his feet, the tip stained crimson. Puzzled, Jaime looked up. Red sap dripped from the spot where his sword had pierced the bark just above the weirwood's face. A chill ran through him as he looked, truly looked, at the face carved in the trunk. The weirwood had a maiden's eyes. In the name of the Maid I charge you to protect all women. A tree was not a girl, so why should he feel ashamed? The old gods had never done anything for Jaime. It was the Warrior who had seen Jaime through his battles, and the Warrior who had failed Tyrion.

If only Jaime knew who had slain his little brother. His left hand might be pitiful, but he was still strong enough to slash a man's throat. But what man? There had been hundreds on the bridge of boats, knights and men-at-arms and squires. Any one of them could have knocked Tyrion into the wildfire.

Podrick Payne might know, but Jaime doubted it. The stammering squire was afraid of his own shadow; it was miracle enough that a skinny boy of twelve had managed to drag Tyrion to shore. Jaime had taken Tyrion's former squire as his own, the act of some queer impulse that he had quickly regretted. His other squire was far more suitable, a boy of fourteen tall enough that he could look Jaime in the eye. Josmyn Peckledon had distinguished himself at the Blackwater by killing two knights, wounding a third, and capturing two more.

Jaime groaned as he rose to his feet. His squires would be in the yard with Ser Aron Santagar, and he really should check on them before he bathed. The small council would not meet for a few hours yet, so long as the gods were good and nothing urgent came up.

The yard rang with the echo of steel, a bittersweet sound. There were over a dozen squires practicing their skills, most paired against boys of similar size. As Jaime scanned the yard he caught sight of Peckledon first. His opponent was a frog-faced boy carrying a shield with a bloody spear. Whoever he was, Peck was much better, landing three blows for every one he received. I will make him a good knight, the knight I should have been. Perhaps then the shade of Ser Arthur Dayne would leave him be.

A yelp of pain drew Jaime's attention to the back corner of the yard. Pod lay on the ground, covered in dust. The squire standing over him had the copper skin of a Dornishman. As the Dornish squire leaned down to help Pod up, Jaime frowned. Pod was over a foot shorter than his partner; who had let them spar?

Before he realized what he was doing Jaime was striding across the yard, gaping squires parting to let him through.

"— didn't grow much until I was fifteen, and then I grew so fast everything hurt," the Dornish squire was saying. "But if you can knock a man down, it doesn't matter how tall he is."

"Thank you, ser." Pod winced, clearly remembering his opponent was not a knight. "I mean, Lord Sand. My lord."

"Olyvar is fine," the Dornish squire grinned. His smile fell when he saw Jaime.

"An odd pairing for a spar," Jaime drawled, forcing himself to look the Red Viper's bastard in the eye. The boy blinked and took a step back.

"He needed a partner, Lord Commander. I'm helping him."

Jaime eyed the boy's stance, the way he held his sword. Competent, but not naturally talented. He favors another weapon, I'll wager. Unsure of what to say, Jaime gave the boy a knowing smile. To his surprise, a flicker of fear shone in the boy's eyes, but when he looked again it was gone.

By the time Jaime gratefully sank into a hot bath the incident in the yard was already forgotten. As Jaime scrubbed his arms his mind wandered, thinking of Cersei and the gown she'd worn yesterday. It was one of his favorites, an ivory silk that made her hair appear even more golden than usual. He had been speaking with Pod when she paused to ask Jaime about Tommen's whereabouts. Pod had practically swallowed his own tongue when the queen gave him a smile and asked how he fared.

The boy was so occupied staring at his own feet that he didn't see Cersei rest a hand on Jaime's hip, her breast brushing against his arm as she kissed him on the cheek. It was the most she'd touched him since his return, and it only made Jaime want more. For a moment Jaime considered taking himself in hand, then he remembered his stump. Yet another task he never attempted with his left, another pleasure now denied him.

He dressed himself slowly, his five remaining fingers struggling with doublet and breeches. In war Jaime was now as useless as nipples on a breastplate, but he must still look the part of Lord Commander when facing the battles of the small council. His doublet was a fine white velvet slashed with cloth-of-silver, his new hand made of gold.

For once Jaime arrived in the council chambers early. Varys was already in his seat, shuffling through a pile of papers. Oberyn Martell lounged against the side table sipping wine. Even while slouching he held himself as gracefully as the ginger cat that crept through the rushes. When Jaime approached to pour himself a cup, the Dornishman straightened.

"Allow me."

The wine was poured before Jaime could even reach for the flagon. He accepted the goblet from Martell with a sense of unease. Even he is not so bold as to poison a man in the open, with his retinue in our hands and no Dornish host to defend them.

"Arbor gold," Jaime noted, bemused. He'd expected a Dornish wine.

"Lord Paxter's grape juice was already here," Prince Oberyn observed, lightly swilling the wine in his cup. He took a sip. "A taste I must become familiar with, it seems."

"Must you? I thought princes did as they liked."

He vaguely remembered the Dornish prince saying it once, when he and Elia visited the Rock. Jaime had been eight years old at the time, grieving his mother's recent death. He could only release his sorrow in the yard, and he had found himself unable to look away from the Dornish youth. The prince was quick as lightning with a spear in his hand, dark eyes shining and a wicked smile on his lips.

"Just so," the prince replied, draining his cup with another wicked smile. "Yet even a prince should be courteous to his good family."

A Redwyne and a Martell, betrothed? It was as likely as a Blackwood and a Bracken. To cover his confusion Jaime raised his cup in a mocking toast before taking his seat.

As each councilor came through the door, Jaime found his mood growing darker. Without his luxurious beard Pycelle looked like a plucked chicken, pink and helpless. Despite his increasing frailty, his dedication to kissing Lord Tywin's arse remained strong as ever. The Grand Maester's obsequiousness grated on Jaime's nerves. The High Septon was no better, a wrinkled flatterer of seventy with a shrewd smile. He looked rather unimpressive without his crystal crown, the one destroyed by the mob having not yet been replaced. Still, he seemed more robust than Lord Gyles Rosby, whose cough was a constant annoyance.

The Reachermen arrived next. Mace Tyrell was far too cheerful for a man gone to fat. Doubtless he would spend half the meeting hinting that Margaery and Tommen should be wedded sooner rather than later. His faithful bannermen were just as predictable. Mathis Rowan would ask questions directly, gruff and to the point. Paxter Redwyne would be the first to praise good news and the last to speak otherwise, preferring to wait in careful silence.

Finally Lord Tywin entered the room, Ser Kevan half a step behind. Cersei followed at their heels, her cheeks pink, her lips pressed tight. As she took her seat she forced her lips into a smile, greeting the High Septon with respectful piety, charming Mace Tyrell with praise of his brave son.

When Ser Kevan called the small council to order it proved as tiresome as usual. Lord Gyles coughed his way through the litany of expenses required to repair the damage from the Battle of the Blackwater.

Varys simpered and smiled through his report that Robb Stark had left Riverrun for his uncle's wedding at the Twins, his mother and sister by his side. Lady Catelyn was lucky old Walder Frey had a fresh young wife, or Jaime suspected she would have found that forgiveness required two Tullys instead of one. The damned woman had kidnapped Tyrion, was rumored to have murdered Renly, but even she didn't deserve to share a bed with a ninety year old weasel.

Much of Varys' news was old or dull. The ironborn had elected a new king at some farcical ceremony called a kingsmoot, and it seemed likely they would continue raiding the north. Lyn Corbray had taken ship from Gulltown, on his way to swear vows as the newest member of the Kingsguard, a hopeful sign that Lady Arryn was warming to the crown.

Down in the city the folk of Flea Bottom continued to show their discontent with treasonous songs in the taverns and pot shops. There seemed to be several of them, including one about Ned Stark. From the look on his father's face Jaime thought a few singers might be losing their tongues, but then Prince Oberyn smiled and asked if the rabble thought lions were frightened by the drunken caterwauling of sheep. Everyone laughed except Lord Tywin, and Varys moved on.

It was the report on Stannis Baratheon that proved most interesting. It seemed that despite Lord Randyll Tarly's best efforts to surround Storm's End, the Lyseni pirates supplying the castle had managed to retrieve Stannis and most of his men, leaving only a small garrison behind. Whence he had gone Varys could not say, to Lord Tywin's visible annoyance. Peace might reign until the end of winter with the North and Riverlands, but Stannis Baratheon was stubborn past the point of sense. Should the Vale or Dorne choose to back his claim...

Prince Oberyn laughed outright when Mace Tyrell raised the possibility.

"My brother is a cautious man," the prince said, one hand lazily stroking the stem of his goblet. "We would not throw away peace for Stannis Baratheon's pretensions. What could he offer us? Gold? The Stormlands alone cannot match the power of Casterly Rock." Prince Oberyn inclined his head toward Lord Tywin.

"As for food, why, every man knows that the Tyrells have the richest bounty in the Seven Kingdoms, and the Redwynes the finest wines, save for those we make in Dorne." Mace Tyrell nodded begrudgingly, while Paxter Redwyne glanced at his liege lord before doing the same.

"Our only other need is justice," the prince said, one eyebrow raised as he eyed Lord Tywin.

"And you have received what Robert denied you," Lord Tywin said with cold courtesy. "Ser Amory Lorch has paid for the deaths of Elia's children with his life."

"And Gregor Clegane?" The viper's voice was soft, almost gentle. The entire table watched the Lord of Casterly Rock and the Prince of Dorne, the room as silent as the grave.

"Was not involved."

The lie was so bold that Jaime almost choked on his wine. Elia Martell had said little in the aftermath of the attack, but she was neither dimwitted nor mad. Half of Casterly Rock knew that Gregor Clegane had smashed her babe's head into a wall before attempting to rape her, blood and brains still on his hands. Nor were they the only ones who knew. Lord Rowan looked fit to gag, and even Mace Tyrell looked discomfited.

A brother may believe a hysterical woman, but the realm will not, Lord Tywin had once said. His eyes had been hard as stone, and a terrible suspicion had fallen over Jaime. No, Jaime thought as he watched the two men. He prefers to keep his favorite dog, that is all. So why was his stomach twisted up in knots?

Yet Prince Oberyn nodded, seemingly satisfied.

"Let us talk of new beginnings, not old quarrels," Ser Kevan said amiably.

Mace Tyrell sat up, his expression reminiscent of a cat with a bowl of cream, while Cersei's smile turned brittle as glass.

"The crown is delighted to announce that King Tommen will wed Lady Margaery Tyrell as soon as arrangements can be made for a wedding worthy of the king and his bride."

"Hear hear!" said Paxter Redwyne.

"Joyous news indeed," Cersei added. She glanced at their father, who ignored her.

Once the rest of the table had made their congratulations, talk of the wedding began. The number of courses, the decorations, the entertainment, all seemed to be of utmost importance. Jaime sipped at his wine to cover the growing urge to yawn. He did not belong here, he belonged with a sword in hand.

Finally the meeting came to an end. Jaime was already on his feet when Kevan shook his head at him.

"I should like private words with my son," said Lord Tywin as the others rose to leave. "You as well, Kevan."

Obediently, the other councillors made their farewells. Cersei lingered longest, waiting until the door had shut behind Varys. With the chamber empty but for the four Lannisters, Cersei's smile dropped, replaced by anger.

"Prince Oberyn is no fool. He loves his feeble sister; he'll not be satisfied until he has Gregor Clegane's head on a spike. He plots against us, I know it; why else flatter the Tyrells and Redwynes?"

"Prince Doran is a cautious man," said Ser Kevan. "It was at his urging that Dagos Manwoody has betrothed his heir to Desmera Redwyne. The prince's father was a Manwoody; they are his most trusted bannermen. Even Oberyn Martell can see the sense of forging alliances."

"That may be, but he is devoted to his sister," Jaime said. "When they visited Casterly Rock he catered to her every wish. Prince Oberyn will not be happy until Gregor Clegane is dead."

"His happiness is not your concern," said Lord Tywin, "and the matter is closed. We have more important business at hand. Cersei, remove yourself."

Her cheeks reddened as if their father had slapped her again.

"I am Queen Regent. Any matters you must needs discuss with the Lord Commander concern me as well."

"You are my daughter, and you will do as I command."

Cersei left, barely clinging to the shreds of her dignity, and Jaime sat down, tired beyond measure.

"Sansa Stark must be dealt with," Ser Kevan said. Well, that explained why Cersei wasn't allowed to remain in the room. His uncle poured more wine into Jaime's cup and he took a sip, the Arbor gold sweet as syrup on his tongue.

"First Olenna Tyrell accosted Ser Kevan to accuse us of indecency over the girl's clothes," Lord Tywin said. "Then Prince Oberyn saw fit to approach the High Septon and inquire as to the girl's piety, since she seemed to show no interest in the giving of alms. We could hardly deny her permission after that."

Jaime frowned. He did recall seeing the girl ride out into the city several times, the Hound at her heels and goldcloaks all around them. One day as she returned a raven had landed on her shoulder, startling her half to death.

"The past few days," his father continued, "Lady Margaery has invited the girl to spend her mornings walking in the gardens, and they always seem to encounter Willas Tyrell and his hag of a grandmother."

"So?" Jaime did not care how the girl spent her time; he tried not to think of her at all. Unbidden the memory came to him of the girl kneeling in the sept, the blood dark against the pale skin of her wrist. Now that he thought of it, it was odd that the girl was still here with peace declared. "Shouldn't she be returning north?"

A glance passed between Lord Tywin and Ser Kevan.

"I did not see fit to inform Robb Stark of her capture," Lord Tywin said. "Only a fool surrenders such a valuable hostage. I will not have the Tyrells claiming her for their crippled heir. She must be wed to a Lannister, and quickly."

A dawning sense of impending doom swept over Jaime.

"No," he said flatly. In the name of the Maid I charge you to protect all women. "The Kingsguard serve for life."

"Casterly Rock must have an heir, a man grown who can rule the Westerlands while your father rules the realm," said Ser Kevan. "With Lancel gone..." he swallowed. "My other sons are too young, and I am tired, Jaime. Take up your birthright, as you were always meant to."

"I am a warrior, and that is all. Tyrion was the clever one. If he were here..." Jaime's throat was tight.

"Your brother had his uses, but he was not fit to rule in my stead. Even his wits failed him in the end when he charged into battle like a madman." Lord Tywin's eyes were cold as ice. "You will do your duty."

"I have a duty to my king," Jaime said, rising to his feet. "A duty to my sworn brothers, and to the realm. Let Cersei rule the Rock, or let it pass to Myrcella. Prince Doran would be honored to have his son serve as consort to the Lady of the Westerlands."

"A woman is not fit to rule."

"Myrcella is. She's as sweet as Margaery Tyrell, men would flock to serve her." He paused, wondering where he had found the nerve. "She reminds me of mother," he admitted softly.

Ser Kevan looked at his brother.

"Joanna was exceptional," Lord Tywin said in a tight voice. "But even she could never rule in her own right."

"Myrcella could. Father, I swear, she's as clever as Tyrion—" his father's face turned cold as Jaime realized his mistake too late.

"Sansa Stark is a child," Jaime said, hoping a different approach might have more success. "Has she even bled yet?"

Lord Tywin's stone face spoke volumes. He would wed me to a girl not even flowered? The girl was pretty, and her chest was as full as Cersei's already, but she could not be older than thirteen. In the name of the Maid I charge you to protect all women. Common men who touched girls her age were the vilest sort of rapers, gelded and sent to the Wall without mercy. Among the highborn, however...

Rhaella was her age when they forced her to wed Aerys, Jaime recalled, bile rising in his throat. Most men would not have consummated the marriage until a girl was older, but Aerys was never one to wait. He must have been cruel long before he was mad. Within the year Rhaegar had been born. The following year, Aerys had chosen to be knighted by Lord Tywin, his closest friend. Did father not see what he was?

"Why don't we revisit this matter once the girl has her moonblood?" Kevan suggested, interrupting Jaime's thoughts. "She is at the age where it should come at any time."

Tywin nodded stiffly, his eyes fixed on Jaime.

"It doesn't matter," Jaime said, surprised by his own daring as he met his father's gaze. "Robb Stark will hate whoever forces her to give up her maidenhead."

"Robb Stark is not your concern." There was a strange look in Lord Tywin's eyes. "Let the wolf run north with his peace treaty. There are always hunters in the woods."