Early 282 AC
"Ser Jaime." Gerold Hightower's voice cut through Jaime's thoughts, the older knight's face impassive despite the screams of Queen Rhaella that they had heard through the night from the Royal Chamber. "You are dismissed for the night. Ser Oswell will relieve you."
Jaime nodded stiffly, his golden hand moving to his sword hilt by instinct rather than necessity. The white cloak felt heavy on his shoulders, a constant reminder of vows that seemed increasingly hollow with each passing day.
As he walked through the dark corridors of the Red Keep, Jaime's mind wandered to Casterly Rock. He had received a letter from Tyrion just that morning, Tyrion had written of his progress in the forges, and of various other inane matters. He had promised to send a present congratulating Jaime on his induction into the Kingsguard at the earliest.
"Ser Jaime." A soft voice interrupted his thoughts. He turned to find Princess Elia Martell standing in the shadows of an alcove, her dark eyes luminous in the torchlight. "I did not expect to see you here."
"Princess." Jaime bowed his head respectfully. "I was just finishing my watch."
Elia stepped closer, her movements graceful despite her evident frailty. She had grown thinner since Harrenhal, her face drawn with worry. The rumors of Rhaegar's actions had spread through the court like wildfire, each telling more vicious than the last.
"Your brother," she said softly, her Dornish accent more pronounced in her distress. "Tyrion. He sent me a gift."
Jaime's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Tyrion? What did he send you?"
"A pendant." Elia's fingers moved to her throat, where a small golden charm hung from a delicate chain. "He said it would bring comfort in troubled times. I find it... oddly soothing."
Jaime studied the pendant, recognizing his brother's craftsmanship.
"Tyrion has always had a gift for such things," he said carefully. "He sees what others miss."
Elia's smile was sad. "Like his brother. You see things too, Ser Jaime. That is why I sought you out."
The princess glanced around the empty corridor before continuing in a whisper. "Rhaegar is gone again. He left seven days ago with Arthur and Oswell. No one knows where."
Jaime felt a chill run down his spine. After the scandal at Harrenhal, Rhaegar's disappearance could only mean more trouble for the realm.
"The king grows more unstable with each passing day," Elia continued, her voice barely audible. "His obsession with wildfire increases with each day."
Jaime's hand tightened on his sword hilt. The Mad King's obsession with fire was well known, but it was increasing in depravity. Just the other day, a servant who had spilt a glass of wine had been burnt to death by wildfire by the King. Alchemist Rossart, a slimier character Jaime had never seen, had wormed his way into the King's good books and fed the King's every desire.
"I should not burden you with these worries," Elia said, stepping back. "But you are a knight of the Kingsguard now. Your duty is to protect the royal family, is it not?"
"Yes," Jaime replied, though the word felt hollow on his tongue. Protect them from what? From each other? From the king's madness? From the prince's foolishness?
As she departed, Jaime walked toward the White Sword Tower. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, the white cloak draped across his shoulders seeming to mock him with its pristine purity. His golden hair caught the moon's light, making him look every inch the knight from the songs, but his eyes told a different story. They were haunted, shadowed with sleepless nights and the weight of secrets too terrible to voice.
It had been three moons since his knighting at Harrenhal, three moons of listening to Queen Rhaella's screams echo through the corridors of Maegor's Holdfast while the other Kingsguard said nothing. Three months of pretending not to see the bruises on the queen's arms when she appeared at court, of watching King's Aerys's madness deepen with each passing day.
Jaime's hand moved to the hilt of his sword, the blade Tyrion had forged for him. The steel seemed to hum beneath his touch, as if it recognized his turmoil.
The memory of Cersei's face when he had told her his decision flashed before him. She had been radiant with triumph, believing they would be together forever in King's Landing. She had not understood that the white cloak would bind him to the king, not to her. That their stolen moments would become rarer, more dangerous, as his duties consumed him.
And now she was gone, returned to Casterly Rock with their father, while Jaime remained trapped in this gilded cage.
A soft knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. "Enter," he called, straightening his shoulders.
Ser Barristan stepped into the chamber, his white cloak immaculate as always. The Bold regarded Jaime with those calm blue eyes that seemed to see through every pretense.
"You're struggling," Barristan said. It wasn't a question.
Jaime looked at the floor, the white tiles reflecting the flickering torchlight. He couldn't face the old man's eyes - they saw too much. "I'm fine."
"None of us are just fine, Jaime."
Barristan's voice was quiet, lacking the sharp edge of a command. He looked at Jaime with a tired, heavy empathy.
"We all carry things that would break other men," he said. "But to be a Kingsguard means we aren't sworn to a man's character. We don't have the luxury of a conscience, Jaime. We serve the Throne, not the man sitting in it. We are the shields, not the judges. It isn't our place to decide who is worthy, only to stand where we are told until the end."
"But what about our vows of knighthood?" Jaime demanded, his voice cracking with the frustration he had bottled up for months. "We swore to protect women and children! To protect the innocent!"
Barristan's expression hardened. "We swore to obey the king. To protect him from harm, even from himself."
"Even when he harms others?" Jaime's hand tightened on his sword hilt. "What honor is there in standing by while a woman is brutalized?"
The older knight's face remained impassive, but Jaime saw the conflict in his eyes, the same battle between duty and morality that raged within his own heart.
"Honor is a complicated thing, Jaime. Sometimes it requires us to endure what we cannot change."
"Change?" Jaime laughed bitterly. "We are seven of the greatest knights in the realm. We could stop him with a word, a gesture. But we do nothing."
Barristan gripped Jaime's shoulder, his fingers like iron. "And what would happen if we did? The king would name us traitors. The realm would tear itself apart. The smallfolk would suffer in the chaos."
"So we sacrifice the queen for the realm?" Jaime's voice rose. "Is that the lesson you would teach me?"
Barristan's hand fell away. "I would teach you that sometimes the hardest battles are fought not with swords but with patience. That sometimes we must endure the darkness to protect the light."
Jaime turned back to the window, looking out over King's Landing. The city sprawled beneath him, a maze of streets and alleys where thousands lived and died without knowing the corruption that festered in their king's heart.
"I was a fool," he said quietly. "I thought the white cloak would make me a hero. Instead, it has made me a witness to evil."
The silence stretched between them, heavy and stifling. Barristan didn't offer a platitude or a defense; he simply stood there. Finally he turned to leave. At the threshold, he paused, his silhouette sharp against the torchlight of the hall.
"Get some sleep, Ser Jaime. You're on the door at dawn."
Jaime didn't answer. He stayed by the window, watching the flickers of distant campfires across the Blackwater.
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Two weeks later
The yard was quiet, the air broken only by the sharp whistle of steel. Jaime moved through his forms with a mechanical, desperate focus. Lunge, parry, pivot. In the arc of the blade, the world finally narrowed. There were no duty here. There was only the weight of the hilt and the heat in his lungs. It was the only peace he had left.
"Ser Jaime."
Jaime finished a final, jagged strike and lowered his sword, chest heaving. Ser Gerold Hightower stood at the edge of the dirt. The White Bull looked grimmer than usual, his cloak a stark, blinding sheet against the morning sun.
"The King has news," Gerold said, his voice a gravelly baritone. He didn't move, but his eyes tracked the sweat stinging Jaime's face. "He's summoned his Kingsguard."
The door opened again, and Ser Gerold Hightower entered, his face grim. "The king requires our presence in the throne room. He has received news from the north."
Jaime exchanged a glance with Barristan, both wondering what fresh madness awaited them.
The throne room was filled with courtiers when they arrived, their faces a mixture of fear and curiosity. King Aerys sat upon the Iron Throne, his taloned fingers drumming an impatient rhythm on the arms of the chair. His eyes burned with that maddened fever.
"Ah, my white knights," the king cackled as they approached. "Come, come! I have news that will shake the realm!"
Jaime took his place beside Ser Gerold, Ser Barristan, Prince Lewyn Martell, and Ser Jonothon Darry.
"The Starks," Aerys hissed, his voice carrying to every corner of the hall. "The wolves of the north have shown their true nature!"
A herald stepped forward, unrolling a scroll with trembling hands. "Your Grace, we have received word that Brandon Stark is riding to King's Landing with a company of his father's bannermen. He demands justice for his sister, and claims Prince Rhaegar has kidnapped her."
The king's laughter echoed off the stone walls. "Justice! The pup demands justice from the dragon! How amusing!"
Jaime felt a chill run down his spine. Brandon Stark. The same man who had nearly come to blows with Rhaegar at Harrenhal when the prince had crowned Lyanna instead of Princess Elia. The same man whose sister had been the subject of whispers throughout the court since Rhaegar's mysterious disappearance.
Did this have anything to do what Princess Elia was mentioning to me? Why Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell have disappeared with Prince Rhaegar.
"Your Grace," Lord Chelsted, the new Hand of the King, spoke up cautiously. "Perhaps we should hear what Lord Stark has to say before—"
"Silence!" Aerys shrieked, rising from the throne with surprising speed. "The wolf comes to threaten the dragon! He demands the head of my son, my heir! This is treason!"
The court fell silent, the tension in the room so thick it could be cut with a knife. Jaime's hand moved to his sword hilt by instinct, his heart pounding in his chest. He knew, with the certainty of a man who has seen too much of the king's madness, that this would not end well.
"Bring me the wolf," Aerys commanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Let Brandon Stark come. Let him see the fire of the dragon."
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The week that followed was a blur of tension and whispered conspiracies. The Red Keep became a place of shadows and secrets, as courtiers and servants alike spoke in hushed tones of the approaching Northern party. Jaime watched it all with growing unease.
When Brandon Stark finally arrived at the gates of King's Landing, the city seemed to hold its breath. The heir to Winterfell rode at the head of a company of powerful Northern nobles, their faces set in grim determination, all bearing the same righteous fury in their eyes.
Jaime stood guard in the throne room when Brandon Stark was brought before the king. The Northern lord's face was flushed with anger, his dark hair wild from the journey. He did not kneel.
"Your Grace," Brandon's voice carried through the hall, strong and unafraid. "I demand justice! Your son has kidnapped my sister Lyanna. I demand that Prince Rhaegar return her immediately!"
The court gasped. Such bold words had not been spoken to the king in years. Jaime felt his hand tighten on his sword hilt, his eyes darting between the furious Northern lord and the increasingly agitated king.
King Aerys's face contorted into a grotesque mask of rage and amusement. His laughter, when it came, was the sound of madness given voice.
"Demand?" the king cackled, rising from the Iron Throne with his taloned fingers extended. "You demand of the dragon? How amusing the wolf has become!"
Brandon's jaw clenched. "I speak for House Stark and all the North. Return my sister, or face the consequences."
You brash fool. Jaime closed his eyes. This would not end well.
Aerys's laughter died as quickly as it had begun. His eyes narrowed.
"Arrest them," he commanded, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "All of them. The wolf and his sheep."
The Kingsguard moved forward, though Jaime noticed how some looked conflicted. Jaime himself felt a moment of hesitation, this was not justice, this was madness, but duty compelled him forward alongside his sworn brothers.
Brandon Stark did not go quietly. He fought with the fury of a man who believed himself wronged, his sword flashing in the torchlight. But one man against the Kingsguard was poor odds, even for a warrior of Brandon's skill. He was subdued and dragged away, his cries for justice echoing through the throne room as his companions suffered the same fate.
A raven was sent to Winterfell the next day, bearing the king's command. Lord Rickard Stark was summoned to King's Landing to answer for his son's crimes. Similar messages went to the fathers of the other imprisoned heirs, demanding their presence at court.
For a moon, the Red Keep waited in tense anticipation. When Lord Rickard Stark finally arrived, he came as a lord seeking justice. With him rode other Northern nobles, men who had traveled far to stand beside their liege lord in his hour of need and petition for the return of their sons.
Jaime stood guard as the Northern party entered the throne room. Lord Rickard was a tall man with the same dark hair as his son, his face weathered by years of ruling the harsh North. However, unlike his son, he kneeled.
"Your Grace," Lord Rickard's voice was calm, controlled, but Jaime could see the anger burning in his eyes. "I have come as commanded. I demand to see my son."
The king's smile was a thing of nightmares. "Your son is a traitor," he hissed. "He threatened the crown prince. He demanded the head of my heir. These are not the actions of a loyal subject."
"These are the actions of a brother seeking his sister's return," Lord Rickard replied. "Where is Lyanna Stark? Where is Prince Rhaegar? Answer these questions, and we may yet find a peaceful resolution."
Aerys rose from the throne, his movements jerky and erratic. "Peaceful? There will be no peace for traitors! You will answer for your son's crimes, Lord Stark. You will all answer."
Jaime felt his stomach clench as the king's words echoed through the hall.
Rickard Stark's eyes narrowed at the king's words. He rose slowly to his feet, his dignity unbroken despite the dire circumstances.
"Your Grace," he said, his voice steady as winter ice, "I demand a trial by combat. Let the gods decide the truth of these accusations."
A murmur rippled through the assembled courtiers. Trial by combat was a sacred tradition, one that even a mad king might hesitate to deny. Jaime watched as Aerys's face contorted with rage, then with something darker, more calculating.
"A trial," the king whispered, his taloned fingers tapping against the arms of the Iron Throne. "Yes... a trial. The gods will decide, as you say."
A cruel smile spread across Aerys's gaunt features. "Prepare the throne room. Tomorrow, at dawn, we shall have our trial."
The night that followed was the longest of Jaime's life. He stood guard outside the king's chambers, listening to Aerys cackle with Rossart and the other pyromancers. The word "fire" echoed through the door repeatedly, each mention sending a chill down Jaime's spine.
When dawn broke, the throne room had been transformed. Great braziers lined the walls, their flames casting dancing shadows across the faces of the assembled courtiers. The air was thick with anticipation and fear.
Rickard Stark entered in full armor, his greatsword strapped to his back. The Northern lord moved with the confidence of a man who had seen battle, who trusted in his strength and the justice of his cause. Behind him walked Brandon, bound but unbowed, his eyes burning with hatred.
"The gods have chosen their champions," Aerys announced from his perch upon the Iron Throne. "I, Aerys of House Targaryen, Second of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, name fire as the champion of House Targaryen."
The court fell silent. Jaime felt his blood run cold. This was not a trial by combat. This was murder.
"Fire," the king continued, his voice rising with manic glee, "the legacy of Old Valyria. The power of the dragon. Let it judge the traitor Stark."
Jaime watched in horror as pyromancers moved forward, their robes emblazoned with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. They carried chains and hooks, their faces hidden beneath hoods. Rickard Stark was seized before he could react, his armor clanking as he was dragged toward the center of the room.
"What is the meaning of this?" Lord Rickard demanded, struggling against his captors. "This is not a trial by combat!"
"It is my trial," Aerys hissed. "And I have chosen my champion."
Chains were thrown over the rafters, hooks attached to Rickard's armor. The Northern lord was hoisted into the air, suspended like a side of meat, his sword clattering to the floor far below.
Brandon Stark roared in protest, lunging forward despite his bonds. Guards seized him, forcing him to his knees. A noose of silken cord was placed around his neck, its end secured to a heavy stone pillar. A sword was laid before him, just beyond his reach.
"Watch, wolf pup," Aerys commanded. "Watch as your father tries to fight fire."
The pyromancers built their fire beneath Lord Rickard, the flames licking at the steel of his armor. At first, nothing happened. Then the metal began to glow, to heat. Rickard Stark's screams filled the throne room, echoing off the stone walls as he cooked alive within his own armor.
Jaime stood frozen, his white cloak suddenly feeling like a shroud. He was sworn to protect the king, to obey his commands. But this - this was madness made flesh. This was evil.
Beside him, Ser Gerold Hightower's face was a mask of stone, but his eyes betrayed the horror he felt. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard had seen many terrible things in his service, but never this.
Brandon Stark thrashed against his bonds, his fingers straining toward the sword that lay just beyond his grasp. The noose tightened with each movement, cutting into his throat as he struggled to reach the blade, to save his father from his agonizing death.
"Father!" Brandon's voice was a strangled cry as the noose tightened further. His face turned purple, his eyes bulging as he fought against the inevitable. The sword remained tantalizingly out of reach, a cruel mockery of hope.
"Justice," Aerys whispered, his voice carrying in the terrible silence that followed. "The dragon's justice."
The other Northern nobles were brought forward next, one by one. Men who had ridden south seeking justice now found only death. Some begged, others cursed the king with their dying breaths. None were spared, save for Ethan Glover, who was dragged away to the black cells, his fate uncertain.
When it was over, the throne room reeked of death and burning flesh. Courtiers fled, unable to bear the horror of what they had witnessed. Only the Kingsguard remained, standing vigil as servants were summoned to clean away the evidence of the king's madness.
Jaime's hand trembled on his sword hilt. The blade Tyrion had forged felt heavy at his side, as if it too were ashamed of the oath that bound him to this monster.
"You did well, my white knights," Aerys said, his voice suddenly calm, almost rational. "You have witnessed the power of House Targaryen. The power of fire and blood."
Jaime could not speak. The words caught in his throat, choking him as surely as Brandon's noose had choked the life from him.
As they escorted the king from the throne room, Jaime caught Ser Gerold's eye. The older knight's face was ashen, his usual composure shattered by what they had witnessed.
"This was not honor," Jaime whispered, his voice barely audible.
The White Bull had no response. He squeezed Jaime's shoulder softly and walked in the other direction.
That night, Jaime did not sleep. He sat in the White Sword Tower, staring at the white cloak that lay across his bed. The symbol of his honor, his vows, his life's purpose. It had been sullied beyond redemption, stained with the blood of innocent men.
The door opened quietly. Ser Arthur Dayne entered, his face drawn with exhaustion and grief. He had returned from wherever Prince Rhaegar had taken him, only to find the realm on the brink of war.
"Jaime," Arthur said softly. "You were there."
It was not a question. Jaime nodded, unable to meet the Sword of the Morning's gaze.
"Tell me," Arthur commanded, his voice gentle but firm.
Jaime did. He described the trial that was no trial, the fire that was no champion, the deaths that were no justice. When he finished, Arthur's face was pale with horror.
"The king has gone too far," Arthur said finally. "The North will rise. The Riverlands will follow. Robert Baratheon..."
"Will call his banners," Jaime finished. "The realm will bleed."
He stepped forward, his eyes searching Arthur's face for a glimmer of hope. "But the Prince? Where is he, Arthur? Has Rhaegar returned to the city? He can stop this. He has to."
Arthur turned his head slowly, a profound sadness softening the hard lines of his jaw. He reached out, resting a heavy hand on Jaime's shoulder.
"No, Jaime," Arthur said softly, his voice thick with a terrible weight. "The Prince has not returned. And I will shortly join him where he bides."
Arthur moved to the window, looking out over King's Landing.
"And what of us?" Jaime begged of him. "What of our vows?"
Arthur turned to face him, his violet eyes burning with an intensity that made Jaime flinch.
"Our vows are to protect the innocent," he said. "Rhaegar has a plan. He will not stand by, while they burn."
The words hung in the air between them, dangerous and forbidden. Yet Jaime felt a weight lift from his shoulders at the thought. Perhaps the Prince had a plan to depose his father.
"Rest now, Jaime," Arthur said, moving toward the door. "Keep Elia and the children safe."
War was coming. Fire and blood would consume the realm. And Jaime Lannister, the youngest knight of the Kingsguard, would be caught in the storm.
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