Tommen's coronation stretched on, a tedious affair that held little of the grandeur it once did for Jaime. This was the third such event he had borne witness to, and the spectacle had lost its lustre. Instead, it was a procession of monotony: the High Septon droning on, anointing the new king with oil, placing the crown upon his head, and then the obligatory gathering at the Red Keep. There was no joy in the air, no celebration; the memory of the deceased king still lingered, casting a pall over the proceedings. For Jaime, there was a bitter truth to it all, more so than in any previous coronation.
No matter the atrocities committed by Joffrey, Jaime couldn't help but love him. He was his son, albeit one he regarded more of a nephew. Yet, beneath that familial bond, Jaime couldn't ignore the truth of what Joffrey had been—a cruel and capricious ruler, despised by many, and perhaps deserving of his fate.
Tommen was a different matter. He was undeserving of the weight of the throne thrust upon him at such a tender age. Jaime's youngest son deserved better than to be burdened with the responsibilities of kingship before he had even come of age. Jaime struggled to comprehend the fervour of those who coveted the power of the Iron Throne, for he saw it as a curse, a burden that corrupted those who sat upon it. He had witnessed first-hand the toll it took on those who coveted its power, and the tragic outcomes it wrought.
Jaime's foremost desire was to keep his children as far away from the corrupting influence of the Iron Throne as possible. Regrettably, in the eyes of the world, he was their uncle. Both his father and Cersei were caught in the treacherous machinations of the Game of Thrones, heedless of the needs and safety of Jaime's offspring. Though his lordly father may entertain notions of Jaime relinquishing his position in the Kingsguard, Jaime remained steadfast in his resolve to stay by Tommen's side until he felt assured of his son's security on the throne.
As the muted festivities drew to a close, Jaime retraced his steps back to the White Tower, the quarters designated for the Kingsguard. While the accommodations were Spartan at best, even cramped for the average member of the Kingsguard, Jaime, as the Lord Commander, enjoyed the privilege of a fourth-floor apartment. It boasted his personal sleeping quarters and solar, affording him a semblance of privacy and comfort amidst the rigours of his duty.
Ascending the stairs, Jaime felt the weight of exhaustion settling into his bones. The past few days took their toll, with the impending trial of Tyrion weighing on his mind. Lost in thoughts of how to protect his brother, Jaime finally reached his chambers and pushed open the door. As he stepped inside, his gaze fell upon a stray piece of paper lying on the floor. Stooping to retrieve it, he unfolded the parchment and read its contents.
I have it on good authority your brother will be found guilty, despite his innocence. I know the identities of the murderers, but my testimony would be ignored. If you wish to save your brother's life and get revenge for the death of your son, meet me on the morrow, at the hour of the Nightingale in the gardens behind the ivy trellis. I know you are not on guard at that time. I am working on behalf of a friend.
No One
Jaime surveyed his surroundings with a furrowed brow, bewilderment gnawing at him. He distinctly remembered securing the tower doors upon his return from the coronation. Yet, despite his precautions, someone had breached the impenetrable defences, leaving behind a cryptic message. The implications of this intrusion weighed heavily on Jaime's mind, sparking a flicker of unease that refused to be extinguished.
However, amidst the worry caused by the unauthorised entry, Jaime grappled with a far weightier concern—the looming spectre of Tyrion's trial. Despite his deepest desire to believe in his father's sense of justice, Jaime couldn't shake the nagging suspicion that Tyrion's fate had already been sealed. The prospect of his brother's exoneration seemed remote, leaving Jaime grappling with a profound sense of helplessness and resignation. Deep down, he knew that placing his faith in his father's fairness was futile—a bitter truth he struggled to accept. This left him no alternative but to meet with the mysterious person.
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As the hour of the nightingale approached, the final star disappeared with the last remnants of the night, yielding to the gentle blush of dawn as the sky transformed into shades of pink, and the early birds were waking. Jaime stood amidst the tranquil beauty of the Red Keep's gardens, positioned beside the ivy-laden trellis where he was slated to rendezvous with the enigmatic author of the letter.
Not content to rely just on his sword for protection, Jaime had armed himself with a dirk, due to his lingering suspicion that the mysterious correspondent might pose a threat. One could never be too cautious, it might be a trap, the author could be an assassin, Jaime mused, with his senses alert for any sign of danger.
Yet, as the minutes ticked by with no sign of the letter's sender, Jaime grew restless and sceptical of their intentions. It was then that a voice, soft and innocuous, shattered the stillness of the morning air, causing Jaime to start in surprise.
"Ser Jaime," came the voice, belonging to a child.
Turning on his heel, Jaime's eyes fell upon a young boy with mousy brown hair, only ten years of age, emerging from behind the trellis. Bewilderment etched across his features, Jaime couldn't help but question how the boy had approached undetected.
"How did you...?" Jaime began, only to be interrupted by the child.
"For you," the boy declared, extending two letters in his outstretched hand. Jaime's brow furrowed in confusion.
"What's this?" he queried, eyeing the letters with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity.
"Read it," the lad urged, his demeanour cryptic.
"What's your name, boy?" Jaime inquired, a note of suspicion creeping into his voice.
"Tom," the boy replied. "I would suggest starting with this one," he continued, gesturing to one of the letters held aloft in his grasp. "Or shall I read it aloud for you?" With a slight push, he pressed the letter into Jaime's hand, a subtle challenge gleaming in his gaze.
Jaime scrutinised the boy before him, taking note of his grimy appearance, tattered clothing, and emaciated frame. It seemed inconceivable that such a ragged urchin could possess the ability to read unless he served as an agent for another. Jaime sighed and turned his attention to the letter, noting the crimson seal emblazoned with a spider's imprint. A hallmark of Varys, the spymaster who was somewhere in the North. Intrigued by the unexpected missive, Jaime's curiosity surged, as he opened the letter.
Ser Jaime,
During my recent travels northward, I stumbled upon invaluable intelligence in Gulltown. An acquaintance of mine, in collaboration with another party, has devised a nefarious plot to eliminate our esteemed King. To obfuscate their involvement, they intend to frame your brother, Lord Tyrion, for the regicide. A move driven by their ulterior motives. I have dispatched this message post-haste upon uncovering this grave revelation.
You may wonder why I am conveying this information to you. As the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, it is your solemn duty to safeguard the King. Should this missive reach you in time to thwart the impending assassination, I implore you to alert the Lord Hand without delay.
May this letter reach you before any harm befalls our beloved monarch.
Varys
Tom then presented Jaime with another letter, this time sealed with pink wax adorned with a spider motif. Jaime wasted no time in breaking the seal and perusing its contents.
Ser Jaime,
Building upon the information in my previous correspondence, this letter should serve as a lifeline for your brother, one not meant for the eyes of your esteemed father.
Should Tyrion find himself accused, I am certain he will be condemned by the conspirators orchestrating his downfall. To spare him from the hangman's noose, counsel him to plead guilty. By doing so, he will be sent to the Wall. However, it is imperative that you first ensure your father's compliance with this arrangement and agree to resign your post as a Kingsguard and allow me to continue to find you a bride.
While securing the hand of Sansa Stark may prove challenging, many other Northern ladies could be wedded to further the interests of House Lannister.
I have stationed my network of "little birds" at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. Upon Lord Tyrion's arrival, he will be escorted to Castle Black. Along the journey, he will appear to be intercepted by wildlings and disappear.
In reality, one of my trusted associates in Pentos stands ready to provide him with temporary refuge until more permanent accommodations befitting his station can be arranged.
In Pentos, Tyrion will find sanctuary and the freedom to live as he chooses. Once he is settled, I will furnish you with an address should you wish to visit him.
With Lord Tyrion's safety secured, one of the conspirators will face justice at my hand. The identity of the other will be divulged by my "little bird," Tom. You must refrain from seeking this information until after Lord Tyrion has departed, lest you imperil his safety.
Regardless of the true perpetrator of King Joffrey's demise, Queen Cersei will remain steadfast in her belief of Lord Tyrion's guilt, as there is no concrete evidence to support the assertions of the murderer. An argument would be futile. It will be for you to exact revenge for the death of King Joffrey.
Varys
Jaime regarded the young boy with curiosity. "Why would Lord Varys extend his aid to Tyrion?" he queried, unable to fathom the spymaster's sudden benevolence.
Tom offered a nonchalant shrug in response. "Perhaps he owes him a debt. Lord Varys has a way of repaying such obligations," he ventured.
"And do you know the name of the conspirator?" Jaime pressed, his tone edged with urgency.
Tom shook his head. "There is yet another letter, reserved for you once the trial is concluded. I am not at liberty to disclose its contents beforehand," he explained with a solemnity that belied his youth.
Frustration bubbled within Jaime. His desire for answers warred with the realisation that Varys' caution was warranted. Even if the true perpetrator were to emerge during the trial, offering damning evidence of their guilt, Cersei would still ensure Tyrion's condemnation.
"Thank you, Tom. I shall speak with my father and Tyrion," Jaime replied with a sense of resignation. "And how might I reach you after the trial's conclusion?"
"You need not worry about that, Ser Jaime. I will be the one to seek you out," Tom assured him with a mischievous smile. "Good day, Ser Jaime."
With a swift farewell, the boy darted into the foliage, disappearing before Jaime could react. Jaime gave chase, but the child had vanished without a trace, leaving Jaime alone with the weighty burden of Varys' letters clutched tightly in his grasp.
Resolved to heed the spymaster's counsel, Jaime set off towards the Tower of the Hand, the seal of Varys serving as a silent reminder of the precarious path ahead.
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Despite the early morning sun shining through the windows, the Hand of the King's solar was a sombre chamber. Its walls draped in tapestries showing off the Lannister accomplishments, yet the shadows covered their most impressive images. Standing tall opposite his father, Tywin Lannister, who was sitting behind his desk, Jaime was angry. He had come to plead for the life of his brother.
"Let me guess, you are here to plead for your brother's life," Tywin surmised with a sigh.
"You would condemn your son to death?" Jaime's voice cut through the silence, his disbelief tinged with a hint of desperation. How could his father, the man he had admired and feared in equal measure, be so blind to the injustice unfolding before them?
"I've condemned no one," Tywin replied coolly, his gaze piercing as it met Jaime's. "The trial is not yet started."
But Jaime knew better. The letter from Varys was all the confirmation he needed. This was no trial; it was a charade orchestrated by Cersei, a grotesque mockery of justice that threatened to tear their family apart.
"This isn't a trial. It's a farce. Cersei has manipulated everything and you know it," Jaime insisted, his frustration boiling over. How could his father stand idly by while Tyrion, his own blood, was railroaded into a guilty verdict?
"I know nothing of the sort," Tywin countered, his tone as cold as the stone walls that surrounded them.
"You've always hated Tyrion," Jaime accused bitterly, his words laced with the bitterness of betrayal.
"He killed his king," Tywin retorted, his voice devoid of emotion.
"As did I," Jaime reminded him sharply, the memories of his infamous act flashing vividly before his mind's eye. "Do you know the last order the Mad King gave me? To bring him your head. I saved your life so you could murder my brother?"
"It won't be murder. It'll be justice," Tywin asserted, his voice cutting through the tension like a sword through flesh.
"Justice?" Jaime scoffed, disbelief colouring his words. Was this truly what his father considered justice? A farcical trial, with Cersei pulling the strings from behind the scenes? If it weren't for the love Cersei bore Joffrey, Jaime could have sworn she might have set it up herself.
"I'm performing my sworn duty as Hand of the King," Tywin stated firmly, his resolve unshakable. "If Tyrion is found guilty, he will be punished accordingly."
"He'll be executed," Jaime protested vehemently, his heart heavy with the weight of impending loss.
"No, he'll be punished accordingly," Tywin repeated, his tone unyielding.
But what of the consequences? What of their family's legacy, their name, their future? Did his father not see the folly in sacrificing all that they had built for the sake of blind vengeance?
"Once you said family is what lives on. All that lives on," Jaime reminded him, his voice tinged with desperation. "You told me about a dynasty that would last a thousand years. What happens to your dynasty when Tyrion dies? I'm a Kingsguard, forbidden by oath to carry on the family line."
"I'm well aware of your oath," Tywin acknowledged, his gaze unwavering. "You are supposed to be resigning from your duties to marry Sansa Stark. Or did you forget? Hmm?"
"Sansa Stark is by all accounts a married woman, and the marriage is likely to have been consummated. Murder Lord Whitestark and you start a war with the north. Unlike you, Ned Stark cares about his children, including his bastard nephew."
"Careful," Tywin warned.
"If I keep my white cloak, what happens to your name? Who carries the lion banner into future battles? Your nephews? Lancel Lannister? Others whose names I don't even remember?" Jaime pressed, his frustration boiling over like a tempest in his chest.
"What happens to my dynasty if I spare the life of my grandson's killer?" Tywin countered, his voice as steely as Valyrian steel.
"It survives through me," Jaime declared, his resolve hardening with each passing moment. "I'll leave the Kingsguard. I'll take my place as your son and heir if you let Tyrion live."
"Done," his father agreed, his voice cutting through the air like a thunderclap.
Jaime was speechless, his mind reeling at the magnitude of what had just transpired. But there was no time for hesitation, no room for doubt. The die had been cast; the path laid before him.
"When the testimony's concluded and a guilty verdict rendered, Tyrion will be given the chance to speak," his father continued his words echoing in the recesses of Jaime's mind. "He'll plead for mercy. I'll allow him to join the Night's Watch. In three days, he'll depart for Castle Black and live out his days at the Wall. You'll remove your white cloak the moment the trial is over and he has pleaded guilty. You will leave King's Landing to assume your rightful place at Casterly Rock. You will marry a suitable woman and father children named Lannister. If not Sansa Stark, then another who is of good breeding. And you'll never turn your back on your family again."
"You have my word," Jaime vowed solemnly, the weight of his decision settling upon his shoulders like a crown of thorns.
"And you have mine," his father affirmed, his gaze unwavering as he held Jaime's gaze. "I would recommend you inform your brother of our conversation."
Jaime nodded. "I will, father." This was the best Jaime could do. At least Tyrion would be alive and well, and serving the realm in some sort of capacity. His only problem would be trying to convince his brother.
As the tolling of a distant bell echoed through the chamber, Jaime turned and silently exited the room, the weight of his father's expectations heavy upon his shoulders. But amidst the turmoil and uncertainty, one thing remained clear: he would do whatever it took to protect his family, even if it meant sacrificing the life he held dear.