“Look at me.”It was no command.
At least not in the way Joffrey commanded.
From the boy, it might as well have been the most polite request ever uttered; perfumed with flowers and written with honey in the place of ink. Yet, the finger pointing at a servant who had just upended a silver pitcher promised no sweetness, the eyes tracing the dark stain of Arbor gold sinking into Myrish carpeting offering no perfumed pleasantries.
Jaime flexed the fingers on both his hands, the leather of his glove creaking softly in the morning heat of the Red Keep as he did little more than watch. His fingers moved without thinking, as they often did after so many moons of war; a ghost in his grip measuring the distance to the throat of every man in the room.
Three paces to the nearest armored Gold Cloak, seven to Tyrion sitting in the Hand’s chair to break his fast in silence, ten to the moving throat at the head of the table of long oak.
His swordhand remained strong as his body and his mind, even after what he had witnessed and been through.
Not that Father had cared.
The memory of a shattered Harrenhal still tasted like stale wine and the dust of the road as he recalled the sight of the Old Lion behind a desk, looking at his golden son — rescued from the hands of their enemies, alive and well — not with any relief in those hard green eyes.
No, all Jaime saw was the cold maths of a man assessing the worth of a supposedly sharp sword that had already failed him.
And would continue failing him.
Go back to your sister, boy. Thirty-three namedays and he was little more than ‘boy’, the quick dismissal back to King’s Landing all the care the man had to offer. Stand by your King. If his father had even a whit of Tyrion’s ‘wit’, Jaime wouldn’t have been surprised if he had followed those words with a parting: And try not to kill this one too.
He had ridden hard, his travel a near-constant brutal gallop down the Kingsroad — horse after horse left lathered in his wake as Jaime moved with a desperation tight in his chest. He had known not exactly what he would find in the capital upon his arrival; perhaps a city under siege, riots in the streets, or even Baratheon sails on the horizon.
It had been anything but this.
This was a nightmare of faces — each one familiar and unfamiliar in equal measure.
“Your king commands you look at him.”
Joffrey sat at the head of the table; the same truth Jaime had known when he left for war. With Robert dead, his son was king — all claims of illegitimacy dashed by the dead Stark and the fire-breathing fury that roamed the Red Keep and demanded scraps.
Yet the creature picking at a plate of cold honeycakes barely seemed the boy Jaime had once known as ‘nephew.’
“I…I a-am, Your Grace.”At fifteen, Joffrey was pretty in the cruellest Lannister way. Golden curls, fine bones and pale skin that fit both Jaime and his sister so perfectly he might have been staring at himself years past.
If it had not been for those eyes.
The Lannister green was nowhere to be found.
Yet unlike the purple of his younger brother, King Joffrey wore a sickly gold the same color as his crown — the same one that bore a light that drew all shadows and eyes its way, everything seeming to bend and arc toward the heavy crown resting upon his brow.
“Your eyes do not seek mine, and I find that worrying, servant.” Joffrey’s words had the winebearer freeze, shoulders hitching around the servant’s ears as he swallowed hard and dragged his eyes upwards. “Good.”“I… I live to serve, Your G-Grace.”“See that you do.” The words only helped the smile on Joffrey’s face. “Now, why did you drop the pitcher?”“Wh-why…” The man’s lips stumbled over the simple word. “Your Grace?”“Unlike you, I did not stutter.”
So, the Lannister wit does breed true. Jaime fought the urge to close his eyes at how power seemed to have changed the boy, well aware of what those changes were. It merely chose to pass over father.
"Beg pardon, Your Grace. Cup were near empty, is all." The servant’s vowels were Flea Bottom quick, tone scraped smooth by years of palace work. "Just... hands slipped. Didn't mean t'trouble the talk."“But you did trouble it.” Joffrey was still smiling as he turned his head, all the gathered courtiers and sycophants focusing their eyes on their meal to avoid his own gold gaze. “Do your nerves trouble you?”
"N-no, m'lord... Your Grace.” The winebearer’s mouth moved, his throat as well as he swallowed empty air. “Beggin' pardon."
“To bear nerves about serving your king?” Joffrey leaned forward in his chair, the light in his eyes flaring a brighter gold. “One should be overjoyed. Unless… this wine bears poison?” He tilted his head, that boyish smile spreading into something genuinely delighted despite the words that left those lips. “Is that why you shake so?”"I-I-! No! No, your Grace, I swear it by the Seven…” “Do you swear it to the Father?”
Joffrey’s interruption nearly stopped the man’s words but they still continued all the same. “I would, yes, Your Grace. But poison, never would I dare, I swear it. I just slipped, the silver was slick, I—"
“And yet the Father finds you wanting.” Joffrey sighed, leaning back into his heavy chair as that smile finally left him for another boyish look — simple boredom. “For your crimes…”The room held a breath. “I sentence you to die. Now.”The crown flickered brighter, and those eyes did the same. "A treacherous heart should not beat in the presence of a king."
The gasp of the winebearer brought sound back to the silent room as the man clawed at his own chest, nails tearing through the roughspun of his tunic. Knees shook and buckled, giving way beneath him as he met the stone floor with the dull thud of dying meat. The servant writhed with a final breath, mouth opening and closing like a landed fish, before the man went perfectly and permanently still.
If Jaime had known no better, he would have called it the finest mummery he’d ever witnessed.
No blood, no blade, just a simple bidding.
"Remove the traitor.”Joffrey’s hand closed around his fork as Jaime’s did the same over his pommel, the leather of his glove groaning. By the time his grip had relaxed again, two gold cloaks in full armor had stepped forward to grab the dead man by the ankles and drag him clear from the hall.
Not a single courtier, knight or noble at the table looked at the body as they broke their fast with the king. Eyes remained firmly on their plates as they knew better than to draw attention to themselves.
Even Tyrion was no different.Aerys. The name struck Jaime with all the force of Robert’s own hand. He is Aerys.
No. It was worse than that.
Aerys had needed the efforts of his pyromancers, the threat of hot iron and strangling ropes and the machinery of torture. Aerys had needed wildfire.
This boy had only his tongue.And was so much more the worse for ‘merely that.
Yet, despite all the power and more of the Mad King, all Jaime could see beneath those glowing golden eyes was the boy that had always been there.
Cersei’s boy.
His- "Uncle."
Jaime blinked, raising his gaze from the smear of wine that stained the carpet.“Yes, you, Uncle.” Gold eyes stared his way with a smile, looking past the bevy of sycophants hiding the sweat on their brow and a still-eating Tyrion sitting midway down the table. A mismatched gaze caught Jaime’s own, a dark warning in his brother’s face. "Stand there looking stupid if you like, or sit and break your fast with your king."
"I would prefer to stand guard, Your Grace." Jaime’s answer was as smooth and golden as Joffrey’s own, but with far more warmth to it. Truthful or not, it was the same flippant shield he had worn for eighteen namedays now. "Do forgive me. A white cloak is better off on its feet."
Unfortunately, Joffrey was not one to forgive as those gold eyes flared bright. "Sit down, Kingslayer."
Jaime opened his mouth, a gentle refusal on his lips with a dry little quip to go along with it.
It died behind his tongue as a hook caught him by the navel. Jaime’s right leg took a step he did not make, his chest seizing as his knees bent against his will. The world darkened as Jaime blinked and found himself falling into a heavy oak chair beside his brother, chest still drawing shallow frantic breaths as he stared at the wood grain on the table. His breaths came harder and with less calm as he found himself desperately searching his memory for anything between that first step and now.
"Isn’t that better, Uncle?” Jaime raised his gaze to meet his king’s smile, forced to swallow the bile in his throat. “Better than standing?”Hands unclenched beneath the table as sarcasm failed him and wit departed, leaving him a man stripped of blade and armor both. “...y-yes, Your Grace." Joffrey barked a laugh. “Surrounded by stutters. A funny day, this is.”The stutter was shame enough to redden his face, but Jaime had enough control over himself to smile back; a control he hoped wouldn’t be stripped from him. “Very funny, Your Grace.”“I do hope you’re comfortable, though.” Joffrey nodded, leaning forward as his chin rested atop pale knuckles. “One would think you would appreciate comfort far more after being held by those savages up North, no?"
"I... I suppose so, Your Grace.”Beside him, Tyrion shifted in his seat, the Hand raising a hand. “Pardon your golden Uncle, Your Grace. He’s only known the peace of the capital a few days n—”“I don’t recall allowing you permission to interrupt, Lord Hand.” Joffrey didn’t turn his head from Jaime as he spoke. “Silence for now.”Tyrion’s mouth snapped shut, yet Jaime felt no weight on the air as the dwarf’s eyes returned to his plate.
“So boring, Uncle.” Joffrey’s smile remained unchanged towards Jaime. “Your Grace this, Your Grace that… you reach for that adress a great deal, Uncle." The boy tilted his head. "I’m not sure it’s for you."
Jaime fought the urge to frown at those words. "I don’t understand, Your Grace."
Out of the corner of his eye, Jaime saw a still-silent Tyrion wince.
"A failure of a Kingsguard." The king’s knife came down to pierce a slice of boar meat. "A failure at war. Captured by the same sorcerer that stole my sister.” The knife rose again, only to fall even harder on the same piece of meat. “What good are you to me, other than my uncle? You might as well do like mother and cry all day."
The taste of copper filled Jaime’s tongue as his teeth met the inside of his cheek; anything to force down a flinch under the force of those golden eyes. His sister’s state was secret to none but the deaf and dumb and even they would be hard-pressed to miss the shattering of pottery and drunken screams from the Queen’s Chambers.
He understood, of course.
As much as his father liked to claim otherwise, he was no fool.
Cersei had always sought control over a life determined to be lived for her and she had long lost control of everything — Joffrey to this golden power, Tommen to the impossible beast in the gardens, and Myrcella…
He had spoken long of Myrcella with Tommen in the gardens, the boy worrying for his sister as he played with the creature the entire keep knew as Ser Pounce II — odd name for a dragon that, especially one the size of a large hunting hound now, but the will of a prince was the will of a prince.
He knew Myrcella had nothing to fear from the Northern army, the Starks too honorable and Robb Stark as much as his father. No, Jaime reserved his true fear for Tommen and what the future held for the boy.
The tales bleeding over the Narrow Sea were enough to still his heart. Rumors of a reborn Viserys in Myr aside, the Targaryen girl and her three dragons were the true story. Every sailor in the docks swore they were the size of ponies, the largest equal to a war destrier.
A terriying thought, to be certain, but even those tales paled in comparison to the beast of darkness Jaime had witnessed in the North.
Ash.
The Shadow of the White Blade.
It had been barely bigger than a maturing colt the last time Jaime had laid eyes on it, a terrifying amalgamation of bear and dragon, wrapped in pitch-black fur and jagged scales. But that presence...
The sheer weight of those glowing red eyes had left Jaime certain he was staring down a creature born of a nightmare, one that sought nothing but death and blood commanded by a boy in silver who wielded light like a butcher's cleave.
Any who could command a thing like that was powerful beyond the old rules of steel and strategy. It left Jaime less and less surprised that the Sorcerer had been able to infiltrate the Red Keep, walk right past the Kingsguard, and vanish with both princesses — Stark and Lannister.
Even still… Myrcella…
"Do you cry, Uncle Jaime?"
Jaime raised a golden brow as he forced a drawl back into his throat. "...not since I was a babe, no, Your Grace."
Another wince from his side told him his tongue would have been better off held.
The air thickened, a pressure against his eardrums felt as the crown began to shine as if it was the only light in the room; magic pooling on the boy’s tongue as he readied another command born from cruelty.
Yet, for some reason, it went no further.
The golden cast in the boy’s eyes dimmed as the smile fell away, replaced by a petulant droop of the lip. With a roll of his eyes, Joffrey tossed his fork onto the silver plate with a clatter enough to startle some weaker hearts. “...I’m bored.”Courtiers scrambled to stand as Joffrey rose from the table, knocking over chairs in their haste to bow. The boy-king ignored them all, sweeping out of the dining hall with a trail of armored guards following his crimson cloak.
“...you could have warned me.”“I did.” The dwarf’s words were as terse as he was short, a forkful of boar raised to his lips. “You chose to go seek out Cersei first rather than listen.”“...you could have warned me harder.”For the first time since the sun rose, a proper laugh was heard in the hall. “Welcome back to King’s Landing, brother.”