The Red Keep felt different when one wore a white cloak. Like a mummer’s play, the curtains were pulled back to reveal what went on in the depth of Targaryen power. Some of the more vacuous nobles might have thought it to be a relief, to be taken into the King’s confidence and no longer walk on eggshells, but Jaime knew better. To wear the white cloak under Aerys was to stand at the edge of a yawning abyss, precarious footing tilting forward with every heartbeat.

At first, things had been bearable. He had ridden hard for King’s Landing, and been welcomed by Ser Darry. He had been shown what he needed to carry out his new duties, and had begun settling in. For a time, he had even managed to muster some optimism, as the Queen spoke with him about his mother, tales he had never heard before. Then, the King returned.

The first night was the worst.

Jaime’s hand was on his sword and he was reaching for the door to the royal apartments at the first cry of pain. His mind was full of assassins and saboteurs, but before he could do more than react, a heavy hand grasped his shoulder and held him in place. He looked up at Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and his watch partner for the night.

“We guard the King,” Hightower said. “We do not judge him.”

It took a moment for Jaime to understand. Another faint whimper of pain sounded through the door. His sword hand went slack with disbelief.

Gerlod took his reaction as assent and removed his hand from his shoulder, turning his back to the door.

Jaime felt like a passenger in his own body as he turned his own back. Behind that door, his King was abusing his Queen, and he could do nothing but listen.

The first night was the worst...until the second night, when he had to stand there and do nothing all over again.

The next morning, Aerys woke in the throes of paranoia, and refused to let anyone but Hightower and Ser Arthur enter his presence. Jaime found himself watching over the Queen in the godswood as she held court amongst her ladies.

It was more accurate to say he was guarding her than watching over her, as he found himself unable to look at the woman who had told him stories of childish adventures with his mother only days earlier.

“Ser Jaime,” a voice called.

“Queen Rhaella,” Jaime said, turning to her. “How may I serve?” He glanced at her ladies; they were gathered by a small pond and chatting just outside of earshot.

“Walk with me,” Rhaella commanded.

Jaime made to fall in behind her, but found himself pulled to her side by a hand hooked in the crook of his arm. He didn’t stumble, he was too well trained for that, and allowed himself to be pulled along.

The Queen set a sedant pace around the godswood, apparently happy with taking in the mid-morning birdsong, and the way the sunlight filtered through the trees. Her silver hair almost seemed to shine, and for a moment, the shadow behind her eyes lessened.

It was just as Jaime started to share in some of Rhaella’s serenity that she spoke. “I’m told you’ve been guarding my husband’s door these past nights.”

Jaime tensed, enough that it could be felt through his armour. “Your Grace, I can-”

“No,” Rhaella cut off whatever he was about to say. “Do not speak words you cannot take back.”

He himself didn’t know what he had been about to offer. To speak to his father? To spirit her out of the city?

To kill the king?

“No true knight can stand at my door and hear what you hear and feel unsullied,” Rhaella continued.

‘We guard the King. We do not judge him.’

Jaime wasn’t feeling much like a true knight. “I understand.”

Rhaella looked to him sharply. “Do not mistake my words for censure. Joanna would climb from the grave and strangle me if I got you killed here. After she dealt with my brother, of course.”

“Yes, your Grace,” Jaime said. He fought down a hysterical laugh. On the scant occasions his father had mentioned his mother, he’d never used a tone anything like that.

“I will see about reassigning you to Viserys,” Rhaella said. “My son could use a good role model.”

“No,” Jaime said, before he could think twice.

“No?”

“I am not a craven,” Jaime said. “I will not flee.”

Rhaella sighed. The lines on her face seemed to deepen. “I would not have you torture yourself. This is not a battlefield for a man to face.”

“I will not flee,” Jaime repeated.

“Your mother was very dear to me, Ser Jaime,” Rhaella said. “She would have been proud of the man you’re becoming.”

Jaime found himself unable to muster a response, his tongue leaden, and he allowed himself to be guided back towards the Queen’s ladies. He fell back into a guarding position, shadowing the group as they returned indoors. Unbidden, a conversation he’d had back at Harrenhal came to him.

‘It’s not why you were given the white cloak that matters, it’s what you do with it.’

He might not be a warrior on par with Lord America, able to slay monsters with a single punch, but he was still a Lannister, and Lannisters had been kings through their own cunning long before the Targaryens arrived in Westeros. He had work to do.

X

He was already passingly familiar with the Red Keep, but Jaime made it his mission to learn every nook and cranny of it. He made a nuisance of himself poking his nose into the day to day business of the staff, irritating the chefs, annoying the stablehands, and frustrating the washerwomen. Over the next week, as Aerys’ paranoia ebbed and flowed, he made himself familiar with every level of the Keep and who worked there. His white cloak gave him access to anything he wanted, save for the king’s presence.

From the Grand Maester’s ravenry, to the black cells, Jaime inspected it all. He even managed a short conversation with a bread thief in the dungeons.

Only one person stopped him to ask what he was doing. As he gently bullied a group of servants, idly asking after their schedules, one of the few people who had his respect interrupted him.

“Ser Jaime,” Barristan Selmy said, coming to a stop down the hall from him, cloak fluttering at his back. He cast an eye on the four servants, laden down with sheets and bedding. “You may go.”

Jaime watched as they shuffled past, not meeting his eyes. “Ser Barristan,” he drawled.

“You’ve been traipsing hither and yon across the Keep,” Barristan said. “May I ask why?”

“You may,” Jaime said, before he could think better of it.

Barristan sighed. “Why are you sticking your nose into every part of the keep?”

“It is my duty to protect the king,” Jaime said. “I should at least be familiar with his home.”

“Why am I hearing that you have been terrorising the servants?”

“They are easily terrorised?” Jaime offered.

Barristan looked very much like he wished he could rub at his temple, but didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. “The servants have enough trouble without you adding to it.”

“I will endeavour to be less terrifying,” Jaime said, sweeping his blond locks away from his face.

“You have the duty of guarding the King tonight,” Barristan said, “alongside Arthur. He has recovered from his...malaise.”

Jaime sobered at the information. “I see. Thank you.”

Barristan turned to leave, but paused. He put a hand on Jaime’s shoulder. “Duty can be difficult, I know. But we must remain true to our oaths.”

“Aye,” Jaime said, nodding stiffly. “Our oaths come first.”

“Just so,” Barristan said. He seemed relieved somehow, and he departed without further conversation.

Watching as he left, Jaime considered the man’s words. Somehow, he didn’t think they were talking about the same oaths.

That afternoon, the bread thief Jaime had talked to was burned alive before the court for his crimes. That evening, Jaime stood guard outside a door again, and this time, the knight he admired most in the world stood to his right. He tried not to think about what it meant that Arthur had been a Kingsguard for so much longer than himself. He had been guarding Rhaegar all that time, he told himself.

It did not take long for the sounds of pain to filter through the door. Jaime shifted from foot to foot, body thrumming like a harp chord. He glanced left and froze, as if seeing something.

“Intruder,” Jaime said. Then, louder, “Intruder!”

“Where?” Arthur demanded, sword ringing clear of his sheath.

“He fled around the corner!” Jaime called, already running. “Guard the king!”

From the royal apartments, the pained sounds stopped, but Jaime was gone before he could discern more. His boots pounded against the stone floor as he ran, cloak billowing behind him. He rounded the corner that the intruder had disappeared down, hand on his hilt and ready to draw - but it was empty. There was nothing but a dead end and an open window, looking out over the bay.

X

Within Maegor’s Holdfast, the Queen’s Ballroom was stifling with the heat of too many bodies. Moonlight filtered in through tall glass windows, as servants and guards tried to avoid stepping on each other’s toes, many still in their sleepwear. Some few braziers had been lit, throwing back the darkness, but they only cast looming shadows on the walls and increased the sense of claustrophobia of those within.

At the head of the hall, Aerys Targaryen stood, glaring out at those assembled and gnawing at his thumb. He was flanked by three of his Kingsguard, Arthur, Hightower, and Darry, but his Queen was nowhere to be seen. In his hastily thrown on robe, he looked like a thin old man a decade older than he was.

Before him, in an empty space between the servants and the king, stood Jaime. They held themselves back from him as much as they did the king, as if afraid to draw his attention or be associated with him.

“Lannister,” the king rasped, after staring out at the crowd for far too long. “Tell me again what you saw.”

Jaime bowed. “Your Grace. I saw a face peering around the corner of the passage as I stood watch outside your room. I did not recognise them. When they realised they had been seen, they fled.”

“You pursued them, yet they escaped you,” Aerys said. His purple eyes bored into Jaime’s green.

“There was no trace of them when I rounded the corner, Your Grace,” Jaime said. “The only way they could have fled is out the window.”

“Unless they were allowed to escape,” Aerys said, as much to himself as to Jaime. “That window leads to a sheer cliff.”

Jaime held his breath.

“Well?” Aerys demanded. “Explain yourself.”

“I could not say how they achieved it, Your Grace,” Jaime said. “Unless there was a secret passage in that hall I do not know of, they must have gone out the window.”

Aerys’ eyes bulged in outrage. “There are no passages in my holdfast!”

“As you say, Your Grace,” Jaime said, bowing.

The king’s brow furrowed in thought. “Fetch me a chair,” Aerys demanded of no one in particular.

There was a moment’s pause, before a servant in the front row began to move, slowly at first, but faster when nothing was said. Jaime recognised him as a baker from the kitchens who had always seemed to be nearby when he was questioning the women servants.

“Stop!” Aerys said suddenly. “Darry, go with him. Watch him.”

The servant swallowed heavily but continued on, Darry at his back. They left the ballroom, and silence returned. The only sound to break it was the tapping of Aerys’ foot.

It wasn’t long before the two returned, the servant carrying a tall backed chair. He placed it before Aerys, and stepped back with a bow.

Aerys looked at the chair, before turning to the servant. “Sit in it,” he demanded.

The baker hesitated in confusion for a bare moment, long enough for fury to begin to build in the king’s eyes. He almost hurled himself into the chair, hands clenching the arm rests.

“Hmmm,” Aerys said. “Well enough. Get out.”

The servant rose quickly, hurrying back to his place with the others.

The sound of nails drumming on wood echoed through the hall of people, most scarcely daring to breathe. Jaime swallowed, his throat dry.

“Lannister,” Aerys said. “Would you recognise the intruder if you saw them?”

“I would, Your Grace,” Jaime said.

“Every servant in the holdfast is gathered here,” Aerys said. He leant forward in his chair, the tap tap-tap-tap of his nails ceasing. “You will inspect them. You will find who doesn’t belong.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Jaime said. He turned to face the rest of the room. They were clustered tightly together, but it was more as if for protection than from any real need. “Spread out. Form lines.”

Reluctantly, the crowd of servants and guards did as he said, allowing him to pace along between them. He started from the front, with the baker. The man could hardly meet his eyes; the same man had given him what could almost be called cheek the other day, and now he was trembling in fear.

Down the line he went, slowing with each person to inspect them properly before continuing on. Few would meet his gaze for more than the barest instant, some silently pleading, others blank with terror.

Slowly, he cleared the hall. His heartbeat steadied as he went, more and more servants ‘cleared’ of being intruders. He hesitated on a guard for a moment, and he swore he saw the man’s breath stop, but he remembered seeing him standing watch on the battlements and moved on.

It was at the last line that things went wrong.

A young man, more a boy really, was staring at the ground, refusing to look up, and Jaime did not recognise him. He stopped, and wracked his brain. He had met every servant in the Keep. He was sure of it. So why could he not recognise this one?

“Lannister,” the king called, stretching out the name. “Have you found an intruder?”

“I - I do not recognise this man,” Jaime forced himself to say. “But he is not the man I saw by your chambers.”

“An accomplice then,” Aerys said, musing. “Check the rest.”

Jaime moved on, unable to look at the man he had likely sentenced to death. None of the remainder were unknown to him, and he told the king as such.

“Bring him.” Tap tap-tap-tap. Tap tap-tap-tap.

Jaime took the man by the arm and guided him to the front, through his fellow servants, the man not resisting. He could feel dozens of accusing eyes on his back, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

“Your Grace.”

Aerys smiled. It was a horrible thing, full of yellow teeth and scabbed lips. “The truth is out. We know the truth of your treachery...Ser Lannister.”

He felt the ground fall out from beneath him. “Your Grace?” he heard himself asking.

“Perhaps we should say your lack of treachery,” Aerys said. “You may go,” he said to the servant, flicking his hand at him. The young man rose to his feet and hurried off, not looking back. He glanced back at Jaime. “A dragon must be cunning to avoid the plots that would see him dead. I put my own man amongst the servants, to sniff out the truth of your loyalties. Would you be loyal to me, or to Tywin,” he said, hissing the last word.

“I am a loyal Kingsguard, Your Grace,” Jaime said. He could feel his heartbeat in his face.

“So you are,” Aerys said. “My Kingsguard…” he trailed off, expression distant.

The hall waited in silence, the tension not yet lifted.

“But there is still the matter of the intruder,” Aerys said. “How did they get in, where did they go? Will they come again? Varys!”

From a darkened corner, a man emerged, startling Jaime. He had not seen him at all.

“Your Grace,” Varys said. He was bald, and had the frame of a man who had been fit but was beginning to gain pudge. His voice was soft.

“Why did I not hear of this attempt before it was made?”

“My birds cannot hear whispers if there are none to be found,” Varys said. He allowed the silence to stretch just long enough to make an implication. “Perhaps the assassin was working alone.”

“He must have known your schedule,” Jaime said, deciding to chance a little - little! - risk. “He knew to strike when you would be in your chambers. Had it not been for Ser Arthur and myself, he would have found you at your most vulnerable.”

Aerys glanced to the knights at his side, as if reassuring himself they were still there. “He would have, yes…” He picked at a scab on his arm. “Varys, how did this assassin know when I would be vulnerable.” It was phrased a question, but it clearly wasn’t.

“I could not say, Your Grace. I will find out.”

“Servants know my schedule,” Aerys muttered to himself, staring out at the still silent crowd of people. “No, kill them all and I have to find new ones, easy to slip spies in, that’s what they want.”

Without warning, Aerys rose from his seat and stormed from the room, the three Kingsguard by his side following with the ease of practise. Jaime followed a heartbeat later, leaving the room behind.

“Not safe, never safe, can’t let my guard down…”

He listened to the mutterings of a mad king, and he gave a rare prayer that his efforts tonight would be enough. For the Queen’s sake, he could only hope.

X

In a dark room, lit by embers, there sat a hammer, handle pointed to the sky. On a bed of coals atop a rounded altar it rested, red light illuminating its head. In the room beyond, chanting could be heard, rhythmic and low. As the unseen figures chanted, the triquetra on the hammer pulsed, as if in tune with a heartbeat.

Bloodstains surrounded the altar, left with little care, but there were no bodies.

The sole door to the chamber opened, spilling light in briefly, and a pair of figures stumbled in, as if pushed. The door closed, returning the room to darkness.

Hesitantly, the two figures approached the hammer, stepping over the bloodstains while doing their best to avoid looking at them. For a small eternity, they stared at the weapon.

Outside, the chanting grew louder.

The two took each other’s hand, holding one another tenderly. One of them began to reach for the haft.

Before they could take it, the other slapped their hand away, and seized it.

There was a bloodcurdling scream, and the chanting stopped.

In a dark room lit by embers, there sat a hammer.