"Something troubling you, Jaime?"
"... What...? Oh, n-no, Father. I'm merely thinking..."
"We should send a raven to the Citadel at once, history is in the making before our very eyes."
Jaime's quiet consideration, not brooding, ended entirely with the remark of his dear, sweet sister Cersei. Sitting in the seat to Father's left, his twin was as lovely as ever. Glinting green eyes full of amusement with her own cleverness, a smile too friendly to be authentic and glowing, golden hair intricately woven into a braid running down her right shoulder. What a pity it would be if someone were to fling a piece of venison across the table into those meticulously cared for curls. If Father wasn't present, Jaime would've done so already, were his mood merrier, he might've done other things as well. Yet Father was there, and truthfully, Jaime's interests were occupied by other matters. Such as the question...
"Droll, dear sister, very droll," Jaime smiled, attempting to look and sound his usual self. "And here I thought you'd be proud of me for sparring a thought to a given matter."
Her eyes narrowed a fraction even as the smile persisted. "Of course, I'm glad, I merely wonder if you've taken this new habit too far already. Thinking is all you seem to do as of late when you're not fighting."
When you should pay heed to me was her unspoken point.
"If Jaime wishes to consider a matter of importance carefully, he should be allowed to do so," Father said, silencing Cersei with a glance. "I encourage it, in-fact. So long as it is a matter deserving of such scrutiny?"
"It is, I'm merely... Unaccustomed to approaching matters this way."
He very deliberately avoided looking at Cersei, focusing instead on Father. Not for the first or last time that day, he'd considered asking him for advice. If there was any man in the Seven Kingdoms known and feared for his... solutions to any and all issues, it was Tywin Lannister. Try as he might, however fancifully, Jaime could not imagine receiving the aid he so wished. Cersei, as dear as she was to him, would help him even less. She would try to emulate Father, providing the same useless solution or find the question too perplexing to bother thinking much at all.
Ser Gerold and Ser Oswell were two he'd also considered asking without ever doing so. They would speak of the duty of knights, to defend their king, their liege lord, the smallfolk, their family. This was closer to the truth, to a point. If a sixth Blackfyre pretender appeared the next day, invading the Stepstones or Westeros, Jaime would go out and fight them just as Father and his brothers did. Would duty alone spur him into doing so? A pretty thought to be sure, not one he believed entirely.
"Then learn," Father said as if it was nothing at all. "Once you are Lord of Casterly Rock, every action, great or small, will require careful consideration. A sword will only ever take you so far."
Once Jaime may have silently scoffed at the idea, now? Perhaps there was more truth to it than he realized. Once their family dinner for the evening passed, Jaime returned to his quarters, angering Cersei again when she suggested some elaborate attempt to sneak out of the Red Keep.
"Be mindful dear brother," She hissed on the steps separating the top and second floors. "I'll not take kindly to this new habit of yours for long."
Jaime could not help but laugh in her face, even after she struck him and fled down the steps. He had never much feared his dear sister, finding her anger more amusing than fearsome. It was doubly so now. What were the threats of an angry sibling next to the press of cold steel against one's throat? If nothing else, Cersei helped distract him from the past few day's events. He could not help but laugh on even as he laid down into bed. Unlike the past few nights, Jaime managed to sleep decently enough. An improvement over the rage-fueled half-dreams which plagued him during his madness against Geralt.
The next morning, the Young Lion took his time arriving at the next sparring session. Partly to buy himself more time for an answer and out of fear for failing this last test. Geralt awaited him in much the same way as before, sitting at the far side of the room on the terrace steps. A new book was in his hand, something concerning the Age of Heroes. Practice blades were there again, along with a thick piece of cloth.
"Good morning," Jaime said first, bowing his head.
"To you too," Geralt returned the gesture, setting his book aside. "Looks like you slept well."
"Well enough," He awkwardly answered, trying not to shift from place to place. "I've thought about it... What you asked me yesterday before we parted... What it is that I fight for..."
"Possibly overthought too."
"... Aye... I considered asking many people for aid and yet... I don't think they would've told me anything I hadn't heard before."
"You know them well enough to make such a judgment?"
"Father and Cersei? Yes, I'm certain. Ser Gerold and Ser Whent..." Jaime trailed off, feeling his mouth go dry. Was this some other part of the test? Did he just fail by acknowledging a possible failure on his part? Geralt didn't strike him as one to do such a thing and yet... He didn't know this man either, how could he be sure?
"Easy, kid, you're not in trouble for admitting fault. The fact you're starting to think these matters through tells me you've got some sense in that head of yours. Experience and practice will help you hone this skill out the older you get. Now, sit down before your legs give out."
"Thank you..." He crossed the distance, sitting some feet away to the Witcher's left. What he wouldn't do for some wine...
"Now tell me, what did you expect your father and sister to say?"
"Lecture, more so in Father's case than Cersei's though she dearly tries to be him. Long speeches about my duty to the family, how this should be enough for any man, much less the heir of House Lannister. Father has great plans for me, and Cersei, we're his golden twins. Meant to continue the great work he's done for the family line... On more than once occasion, he's told us he expects a dynasty to last a thousand years, one to guide not only the westerlands but all of Westeros. If not beyond."
"Fighting for one's family is more than enough."
"If my family came to harm, I'd be the first to come to their aid. There's nothing I wouldn't do for them."
"But it's not what drives you, is it? Makes you so dedicated to mastering the sword? What inspired you to pick one up in the first place?"
"...No..." Jaime answered truthfully and reluctantly, averting his gaze. "I don't care about fighting for some grand plan, I never have..."
"What about Ser Oswell and Ser Gerold?"
"They're heroes of the Kingsguard. Knights sworn and true, they would speak to me of duties aplenty to all the people of the Seven Kingdoms. To the king, to my Father, to the Faith, to the smallfolk..."
"True enough," Geralt almost sounded pleased by this assessment. "The duties and vows of a knight are easily spoken of yet rarely upheld. Even when one tries to adhere to them, contradictions and conflicts inevitably emerge. What does a knight do if his family and the king come into conflict, and he must choose? One part of his view will inevitably become broken, and neutrality," The Witcher shook his head. "Sometimes applicable, but when the stakes are too high, or too personal... Doing nothing leaves the bitterest taste of all."
Jaime stared silently, never considering this before, it was... an unpleasant thought. The idea of being stuck between two forces he was supposed to protect and yet could choose but one or none. Who would he decide if the Faith and smallfolk came to blows for any reason at all? What if Father and Aerys Targaryen did...? What would one of the Kingsguard members do if their House became enemies to the rest of Westeros?
"It's an impossible thing to find a clear, always correct answer for. If it was a simple matter, there would be much less bloodshed in the world."
"... How is one to know then...? Experience...?"
"That and depending on the kind of man that you are. Everyone's solution to these is different, sometimes marginally, other times profoundly. Often even the best solution will leave something foul behind for you to stomach. I suspect all of the Kingsguard have experienced this too. Yet they try to stay as true to their vows as they can. Sometimes aspiring towards a great ideal is enough, even if you can't always meet its criteria."
The hint of scorn in the Witchers voice was not missed by Jaime, now was not the time to ask him why. "I do wish to fulfill the oaths of a knight, more than I ever wish to rule Casterly Rock."
"Got a feeling we're still not at the heart of the matter."
"...Aye..." He replied, feeling sweat gather on his palms and brow. With all the other possible answers refuted, the true one became clear. Or perhaps Jaime had always known it and wished not to admit it. Compared to honoring a knights duties, a family legacy, or even personal glory, it seemed... Foolish under scrutiny. To put it lightly.
"The truth is... I fight because I'm good at it. I've excelled at swordsmanship like nothing else I've done since I first picked up a wooden practice blade near as tall as me. Reading, writing, ruling, I could never care for any of it unless fighting was involved. Nothing has ever made me feel alive like throwing myself at another warrior and besting them."
"That's about the answer I expected," The Witcher said, almost off-handedly. While Jaime stared at, Geralt tossed him one blunted sword and the thick cloth. "Go to the center of the room and tied that around your eyes. Your real training beginnings today."
"W-Wait! Are you not troubled by what I said? Angry? Disgusted? I had thought..."
"You thought well, Jaime Lannister. Fighting purely for the sake of self-gratification and because other things are too tedious or too difficult for you is worthy of criticism. The fact you were honest about it and genuinely felt ashamed as you admitted so tells me you're not a lost cause or some bloodthirsty lunatic. Were you either, I'd tell you to piss off and never waste my time again."
Jaime would not have believed anyone would speak such a way to any Lannister, not even Tyrion, without fear of reprisals. Now? He was starting to think Geralt could and would challenge even Father if a reason for it presented itself. He couldn't deny his interest in witnessing such a confrontation. Or his interest in something concerning the Witcher since he'd posed his question the day before.
"If I may, Master Geralt, what is it you fight for? You're a beast hunter, you've put yourself at risk dozens of times against fearsome creatures. There must be a reason you choose to do it."
"Just Geralt is fine," He rose to his feet, wrist spinning the blunted sword in slow, steady motions. "And there is a reason why I fight, though it's not what you might expect. There's no glory in it, the jobs are brutal, dirty, and Witchers aren't well-liked where I'm from."
The spinning motion intensified, turning into a gradually complex sequence of swings and dizzying rotations. "Coin? Yes, I've fought and killed monsters for gold. But only out of necessity, to stave off starvation, thirst, or to maintain my equipment."
The force behind his swings was such the air seemed to quiver with each blow across the empty space. "My reason is quite simple, some might even call it banal," Geralt concluded the sequence, turning back to Jaime, hands resting on the crossguard. In that stance, with the early dawn shining into the room, the Witcher appeared half a mercenary, half a God. "There are monsters out there, great and small, and someone must kill them before they kill the innocent."
There was no sound in the hall save for Jaime's slow, steady breathing. He tried to quiet even this as much as possible. The silence was thick enough to be welcoming at first and maddening once the moments spent in it stretched into eternity. The stillness did little to ease the tension in his heart or the anticipation for the strike to come. The attack he could not hope to see thanks to the cloth keeping his eyes closed. And with the silence of the Stranger, come it did. A thimble of a moment before it struck, Jaime heard the wind snap to his right and moved to halt it. The two practice swords thumped noisily, too loudly. He was unable to detect the next strike and so tried to do what Geralt wanted of him, let his body fight on pure instinct.
He blocked but one more strike amongst ten. "Seven... Hells... "
"You're improving, the last round you couldn't block any of them."
Jaime scowled, or attempted to with a blindfold on, in his general direction. "At this pace, I'll be ready to fight like this in a decade."
"The point isn't to fight blind."
"Aye,... I know," Geralt explained it on the first day they'd begun this practice. Witchers were taught to train their whole bodies, pushing them to their limits. One such path was to fight without one's eyesight. To sharpen all of their senses. A fighter had a far greater chance of hearing an attack from his blindspots coming than see it. Become good enough, and the training could allow one to fight almost without thinking, letting the body react faster than the mind ever could. Jaime saw the potential of this. From the way some of the Kingsguard described the War of Ninepenny Kings, it was very likely someone could be felled by a stray arrow. From friend and foe alike. Amongst many, many other things. Getting to this point of fighting prowess, however...
Before Jaime even knew what was happening, his hand moved to halt a thrust, then a swing before a blow to his shoulder got him.
"W-What was that?!"
"The end of your rest, now, get ready."
"Geralt?"
"Yes, Jaime?"
"Your swords, you told them the writings on them were done by Dwarfs?" He inquired on the steps to the terrace, drinking a flagon of water he'd brought with him. Geralt sat ten feet away, pressing his back against a nearby pillar as he ran a cloth against the length of his silver sword. The one sometimes, but not always, used for killing monsters.
"Dwarves," He corrected. "They're one of several species in my homelands. Renowned for their hardiness, skill at arms, and mastery of blacksmithing. Their runes have special properties, some of them useful for any fighter. Others moreso for Witchers."
Jaime stared, trying and failing to imagine a species of diminutive, awkwardly wobbling men perform any of the tasks he spoke of. He could not outright dismiss Geralt, either. The Witcher was one to put things bluntly, a man who spoke of things as they were, not what they could or should be. The other day, he spoke of his best friend Dandelion, some bard who'd made his reputation on countless songs concerning Geralt's Witchers' work. With frequent exaggerations. One of the worst was of a song of him, and Dandelion slaying some creature and receiving a royal welcome at a nearby noblemen's castle with food and gold aplenty as their reward.
A pretty tale, as Geralt put it. The truth of the matter was the beast was less than half of the size they expected it to be. When Geralt returned the head, the noblemen tried to underpay him despite signing a contract for a fixed price. In the scant few minutes Geralt and the noblemen argued over the reward, Dandelion successfully seduced the man's daughter, and the two were forced to flee the castle lest they suffered execution. If Geralt hadn't clarified which story was authentic, Jaime would've found the second story more fanciful.
"For example," Geralt spoke again, no doubt seeing Jaime's doubt. He was quite the observant one, eerily similar to Father in this regard. "If you strike an armored man in the chest with a warhammer, and he's very likely dead. Do it to a Dwarf of Mahakam, and he'll get back up, curse you well enough to offend every God you believe in before shoving his fist down your throat. If he's feeling merciful."
"... Could... Could my brother go to this Mahakam?" Jaime inquired, remembering the recent letter he'd received from Tyrion. "You've no doubt heard that he is a Dwarf by now, Lord Tywin's great shame among many other undeserving names."
"I have," Geralt looked at him, his rough voice sympathetic. "And I'm sorry, but your brother isn't the same kind of Dwarf as those of my homelands. Even if I could take him back, I fear he would not return some great warrior as you expect."
Asking what he meant by "the same kind of Dwarf" was at the tip of Jaime's tongue. But he did not speak it, or allow his disappointment to show or his anger to stoke itself. He stopped and considered what Geralt told him. Of course, they weren't the same, but what was the difference then?
"I'll try to explain it in the simplest possible terms, there's something called evolution that the... Maester's of my lands have spoken of across the centuries. It's the idea that species, those capable and incapable of thought and speech, do not remain the same through lengthy periods. Instead, they change and adapt to their surroundings."
"... Do you mean the difference between wolves and dire wolves?"
This seemed to please Geralt, who smiled. "Exactly, dire wolves live farther up north, where the conditions of living are far and way more treacherous south. They've grown larger, stronger, faster, with thicker furs to protect them against the cold. Wolves of more temperament climates, by your Westeros standards anyway, changed because their environment wasn't so dangerous."
"And this... Evolution, it exists even for people?"
"Without question. Mankind wasn't born with the knowledge of forging weapons of iron or steel. They didn't always know how to build great castles or even simple huts. They lived off the land in ages passed, exposed to the elements. A hardier humanity, most likely hairier, capable of withstanding greater injury and cold than what most can manage now. Yet, mankind can never overpower a bear, or outrun a wolf, and so they developed differently, up here," He tapped the side of his head. "With a superior mind, they could out-think their predators, and eventually do so much more."
"And these Dwarves developed the same... They are not as tall as humans, but they've other advantages we lack," Jaime sighed, unable to hide his sorrow this time. "A pity, I'd hoped... Perhaps if Tyrion returned a fighter, he would be less looked down upon..."
"The same is true of humans born of dwarfism even in my homelands. They're seen as freaks, abominations,... Mutants," The last word was unknown to Jaime, the disdain in Geralt's voice explained it well enough. "Your brother is fortunate to have been born in a noble family, at least. A peasant household..."
"... So I've been told..." Jaime turned his gaze to the sun shining outside, almost wishing he could see the Rock in it. "He sent me a letter, Tyrion. His name day was yesterday, and I missed it again. Tyrion tries not to say it openly, but he's lonely. Very likely has been since I began squiring for Lord Crakehall some years ago."
"You were his only friend."
"The only one always present for a time, yes. Our uncles and aunt all love Tyrion, truly they do. They begrudge him nothing and are always kind to him. But they are grown, with seats and families of their own. They cannot always be there."
"I sense it's not a sentiment shared by your Father," Geralt said, once again proving his insightfulness. "I noticed a dark cloud hanging over his head yesterday. He was scowling harder than usual."
Jaime smiled, appreciating his attempt at improving the mood. "My mother... She died giving birth to Tyrion when Cersei and I were but children. Father never forgave him for it, and neither has my sister. I fear their absence may be the best part of his name day."
He shook his head, letting out a long-suffering sigh. "Why does it happen, Geralt? Why are some children cursed this way? Do the Maesters of your lands know? Is it truly something from the Gods?"
The Witcher said nothing for a time, cleaning his gleaming, silver blade. "Gigantism and dwarfism are conditions with several causes. In the case of your brother, I would say it comes down to his... genetics."
Jaime raised an eyebrow at the queer word.
"Genetics is a part of every person, it determines everything about you: height, weight, hair, and eye color. It can determine the strength or fragility of your health, your capacity to learn... A person's genetics are determined by numerous factors, quite often by their parents. Sometimes, a thing that appears in a parent may appear in a child. Conversely, something that appeared in your ancestor may skip a generation or even several before appearing again."
Such as dwarfism, Jaime silently concluded. He'd never taken much of an interest in looking through the Lannisters of the past, save some exceptions. He momentarily wondered if there were any recorded dwarfs such as Tyrion buried in the family records. Likely not, if they didn't extend Father's courtesy to their own offspring. Regardless, Jaime decided to investigate the matter in the coming days. Perhaps Geralt could help, he and the Grand Maester were quite close.
"I've heard stories of incest resulting in dwarfism as well."
"Incest...?" He repeated, focusing back on the conversation.
"When people who's genetic material is too close together produce offspring, it can result in their children suffering from any number of possible defects. They can be born with poorer health, psychological problems, limited thinking capabilities. They can even inherit the inclination towards further incest. Don't look so surprised Jaime, one look at the Targaryen dynasty is all the proof you need."
He misliked where this talk was heading, for quite a few reasons, some he would not wish to share.
"If any other family performed continuous incest as they have, it wouldn't survive a century. Their members would devolve into drooling imbeciles held together by diseases and malformed flesh. Prince Rhaegar marrying outside the family was a wise move. They would do well to continue the practice moving forward."
"Surely cousins are... Acceptable?" Jaime inquired, trying his best to sound natural. "The practice of marrying cousins has been in Westeros for thousands of years."
"It's safer than marrying brothers and sisters, or uncles and nieces to be sure. But that only dilutes the risk, it doesn't eliminate it."
Jaime was dearly glad Father was not present for this talk. The idea he and Mother were responsible for what Tyrion did... He dreaded to think of it. Or the possibility he and Cersei were also born... Defective.
"... Fuck..." Jaime grunted in the privacy of his chambers, left-hand gripping tightly against his sword as he awkwardly executed another horrid swing sequence. He'd pushed back as many things inside as he could, giving himself enough space to practice. While he and Geralt spent their mornings improving his fighting instincts, Jaime was commanded to train another great matter: achieving ambidexterity. By Jaime's estimate, the far more challenging task of the two.
Fighting with the blindfold, while difficult was still done with his dominant hand. This? It was like every bit of his experience, training, and talent was snatched away by the simple change of a different hand wielding the sword. Even the most rudimentary of strikes were clumsy, woeful even by the most generous of estimates. Time again, his anger threatened to explode, forcing Jaime to apply some Witcher breathing exercises to keep himself calm. No doubt this was the other, unspoken point to the training, improving his self-control. What allowed the training to remain so, and not simply some gruesome exercise in torture was the Geralt's sound logic and his expectations.
"Your enemies won't hesitate to get any advantage they can, this includes cutting off or otherwise disabling your sword arm. Even if your left hand is never as good as the right, being mediocre is still leagues ahead of being useless. Not that I think you'll ever settle for mediocrity."
And he was right, Jaime was never one to settle for anything less than being the best he could be at swordplay. He wasn't about to start now. He would consider it a grave insult to himself and to his instructor who believed he could overcome this challenge. With this in-mind, Jaime kept practicing long into the night, step by step improving.