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POV: Jaime Lannister
The Red Keep was unusually quiet that morning, though Jaime could sense whispers threading through the corridors. He sat at the small table in his chamber, the clatter of a meager breakfast sounding hollow in his ears. Each bite felt mechanical, each swallow a ritual to steady his nerves. At seventeen, he had been called the youngest Kingsguard in memory, yet here he was, expected to demonstrate the pride of his house against a boy from the North.
Father would have roared with impatience and fury if he knew Jaime's heart even wavered. Tywin Lannister had never hidden his contempt for the decision that had set Jaime apart: the Kingsguard.
"A son of mine, sworn to protect a king who will never care for our name. You've thrown away your birthright chasing foolish glory. A Lannister does not waste himself like this."
Jaime's jaw tightened at the memory. He could not falter now. Not today. Not before the King.
Cersei's concern hovered like a shadow, wrapped tightly around her own fear. She had always hated Tyrion — as had their father — blaming him for their mother's death during childbirth. Yet somehow, she worried silently for Jaime, and perhaps even a little for Tyrion, though she would never admit it.
"Be careful, Jaime," she had whispered once, "and god forbid… do not let that imp stir trouble while you are away."
Tyrion, the only sibling who had ever truly cared for him, flickered through Jaime's mind next. The rest of their family despised him, yet Jaime had always protected Tyrion, even from Cersei's icy glares and Tywin's disdain.
"Don't get yourself killed before I return," Jaime imagined Tyrion saying, sardonic grin in his tone. "Though if you do, I suppose it would make family dinners more bearable."
Even Uncle Kevan's measured advice drifted like a shadow of reason:
"Control your fear. Let discipline be louder than courage."
Jaime knew it meant hiding every flicker of doubt, even from himself. Yet duty demanded a display of skill that might spill blood, and Jaime wondered if the Northman boy truly understood what he had wandered into.
"The boy is too young for this," Jaime murmured, pacing the room. "Thrust into a game he cannot hope to win. He deserves a sword master's guidance, not a Lannister's blade."
The echoes of Cersei's voice lingered fragile and sharp:
"Come back to me… and make sure the imp doesn't ruin everything here."
Jaime's chest tightened. Father's disapproval, Cersei's fear, Tyrion's trust — all converged into a single certainty: he could not fail. Not today. Not ever.
He flexed his fingers, letting the weight of his own sword, polished and gleaming, remind him of hours of drills and maneuvers. Rumors of Arthur Snow had reached him, some exaggerated, some believable. Jaime had faced men and boys claiming similar whispers. He was curious, yes — but still certain of his strength. A boy could not match a Lannister, especially not him.
The summons came with little fanfare. King Aerys II's manic grin was already in Jaime's mind, imagining the performance he craved: a spectacle of steel, the proof of a young Kingsguard's worth, the Northman's test.
Jaime strode through the Red Keep, the stones slick with morning dew, sunlight glinting off the high walls. Every step sharpened his senses. One by one, the court assembled, each glance and whisper magnifying the weight of the moment.
Then he saw him.
The Northman boy was calm, almost unnervingly so. No arrogance, Jaime noted, only quiet confidence — a predator waiting to spring. His posture was perfect, every movement precise. Jaime's stomach tightened, the first ripple of unease he had not anticipated.
Arthur Dayne stood slightly apart, white cloak flowing, Dawn at his side. Jaime had only heard stories, yet even from this distance he felt the weight of the man's mastery. Dayne's gaze flicked briefly to the boy from the North, subtle acknowledgment in his eyes — interest, caution, respect.
Jaime's breath caught. The duel would be more than just a test of skill; it would be a reckoning.