Jamie's fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword nervously. They had been in the throne room too long waiting and Aerys was growing more restless with each passing moment, even the idiot pyromancer, Rossart, that Aerys had made Hand could feel it in the air. Everyone was tense, from high lords and ladies and knights to the servants and squires. They knew what was to come. The king was the only one in a high mood today, perhaps anxious for the bloodshed to come, and was gripping the arms of the Iron Throne so hard that blood was running out between his fingers. The fool had cut himself twice already today on the damnable chair, but had hardly noticed that he was bleeding like a stuck pig. He rarely seemed to even feel the barbs that sliced him anymore, his arms so covered in scabs and dried blood that a new scratch went unseen more often than not.

Jamie's nerves reached their peak when the Lord of Winterfell was dragged into the throne room. He had been ambushed at the city gates, Jaime knew, lured to the capital by the arrest of his son. He was bound hand and foot, bleeding from a head wound at the top of his forehead, the blood trickling down into his eyes. His long, solemn face was closed, his grey eyes showing no emotion as he was dragged before the king. Aerys grinned down at Lord Rickard from atop his throne, looking all the world like a gargoyle.

"Stark. I hope you have heard the treason your son has committed. Would you like to see him? A father should see his son before he dies." Aerys barked for the Stark prisoner to the brought in, sending a group of guards scurrying for the door behind the throne.

Within moments, Brandon Stark was produced, shackled as his father had been, and forced to the floor beside Lord Rickard. His hair and clothes were filthy from his time in the Black Cells and his left eye was swollen shut from a blow he had taken when he had first come to the city three days ago. He walked like he had several broken ribs.

He had been so absorbed in watching Brandon be dragged across the hall that he hadn't noticed the girl at first. She had come in behind her father, unbound, with only a single guard holding her arm to keep her from running. Jaime understood why. She was clearly weak, the fine bones in her face stuck out sharply, dark circles marred the skin under her dark, haunting eyes. She was crying silently, too scared to make a sound, and Jaime saw that even her weakness had not spared her from the guard's cruelty. A dark bruise was already blossoming on her cheek and her lip was split open. If she had not been so gaunt, she would have been the exact copy of the girl Rhaegar had given the crown of winter roses to, the other Stark girl, Lyanna.

"I assume you know why I've brought you here, yes?" Aerys' voice broke Jaime's assessment of the girl.

Neither Stark man spoke, merely stared at the king with eyes filled with venom. The girl sobbed once before falling silent again.

"You are here to answer for the treason of your son, Stark. He threatened the crown prince, my heir. He deserves death for the insults he has said of my house. One cannot be permitted to insult the dragon! I am your king and you will answer me! Speak or I will have your tongues!" The king hissed through his tangled beard and yellowed teeth.

The hall was quiet as a tomb for long moments before the Lord Rickard spoke.

"You are no king of mine." He said, so softly that everyone in the hall had to strain to hear him.

"Then you will feel the dragon's flame! You will burn like an animal on a spit! Burn him!" The king screeched, pointing a claw-like finger at Lord Rickard.

The guards around the two men moved faster than Jaime thought possible, as if they knew what the king had wanted before he had even said it. Brandon fought so hard as his father was forced to his feet that half a dozen guard had to fight to hold him down. Lord Rickard did not struggle as he was forced into a suite of armor, but his cold eyes never left the king. The girl screamed aloud, a wordless cry that wrenched at Jaime's heart so strongly that he had to fight the urge to race across the marble and shield her from what was about to happen. He didn't understand why. The girl meant nothing to him. He didn't even know her name.

"You sister fucking son of a whore! I'll kill you myself! Give me a sword and I'll open you from balls to brains! I'll show you what is to suffer for what your fucking son has done to my sister!" Brandon bellowed from the floor.

"You will be the one who suffers. It is a death sentence to threaten the king, but I will not touch you, no," Aerys leaned forward on the throne, leering. "I'll let you kill yourself."

As wood for a fire was being placed around where Lord Rickard had been bound in his armor and hung a foot from the ground by a rope looped around a beam in the ceiling, Brandon was tied to a wall with a length of wet leather strung around his neck. A long sword was placed just out of his reach.

"If you can grasp the sword, you can save your father. If not, he will roast alive," The king cackled like a madman. "Bring the wildfire." The idiot pyromancer scuttled past Jaime to the same door from which Brandon had been brought, returning quickly with a rough clay jar in the shape of an apple. "The substance" was what the pyromancers called the green liquid that the jar held, but the rest of the realm knew it simply as wildfire.

Rossart broke the jar over the wood at Lord Rickard's feet. The green flames flared up immediately, kissing the dry wood like an incessant lover. Brandon, whom been struggling against the wet leather well before the flames began, threw himself against his bonds. His face reddened as the leather tightened around his throat, as Jaime knew it would. Aerys liked games that he couldn't be bested at.

The flames shot up in a green spire that licked up the left side of Lord Rickard's armor, leaving a black smudge on the steel. To his credit, the Lord of Winterfell did not scream for those first few seconds. The fire beneath him was gaining momentum, though, and soon the suite of armor had begun to shake as Lord Rickard tried in vain to free himself. The cry of pure agony that escaped from the armor seemed to tear the air in two. Brandon was cursing the king and Rhaegar and anyone else he could name with what he was unaware was his dying breaths as he continued to struggle to reach the long sword. The lords and ladies were too well bred to stare, averting their eyes to the floor instead, but the lower born gaped openly, expressions of horror and terror playing in equal parts across their faces. The laughter of the king, Lord Rickard's screams, and Brandon's curses were the only sounds that could be heard.

Lord Rickard's armor had turned an angry, bright red in places and white near his feet where the flames burned hottest. The cry ceased to have any variation, becoming one long wail that pierced Jaime's brain like a hot knife. He breathed through his mouth as the scent of burning flesh and hair reached him at the foot of the dais where the ugly, Iron Throne squatted. The girl, who had been submissive since her arrival yanked her arm away from her captor and bolted straight for her father. Straight for the wildfire.

Jaime was halfway across the hall before he even realized he had moved. He caught her around the waist, jerking her back from the inferno a moment before the hem of her dress brushed the green blaze. She struggled feebly against him as he dragged her away, but gave up quickly and let herself be led away from the driving heat. She fell back against his chest, burying her face in her hands, shaking as sobs wracked her body. Sweat ran down the back of Jaime's neck, but for a moment he was glad of his helm, despite the heat. If he hadn't had it, everyone in the hall would have seen just how terrified he was. He couldn't stop himself from imagining his own father burning, or his sister, or even Tyrion.

The flames under Lord Rickard burned for another hour, but his screams and Brandon curses stopped long before then. Brandon's face was black and all that remained of Rickard was the smell of burnt flesh.

"Cut them down and hang them from the battlements to show the realm how the dragon deals with traitors," Aerys shouted before turning his eyes on Jaime and the Stark girl. "I see you've found yourself a lady love, Ser Jaime. What is your name, Wolf Girl?"

"Lyra, Your Grace." The girl said quietly, her eyes trained on her feet.

"This wolf seems to know some manners. You look like the girl my son stole. Tell me, do all Stark women look the same? If they do, I might think to steal one for myself." The king grinned at her lecherously through his yellow teeth and Jaime felt himself bristle as the court laughed weakly. Aerys had trained his followers well.

"Lyanna is my twin sister, Your Grace." Lyra replied, still looking at her feet.

"Does it shame you that my son chose your sister over you? She is prettier, I must admit now that I see you more closely. But it seems that Ser Jaime has taken a liking to you. Very well. Ser Jaime can have my son's leavings. She is your ward now, Lannister, see to it that you don't despoil her. My son might want her after he's done with her sister and he prefers to do his own despoiling." Aerys cackled and the court laughed with him, louder now.

Jaime, who had not realized his hand still rested on Lyra's back, dropped his arm. He felt his face grow hot with a heat that had nothing to do with the smoldering wildfire. He cursed himself for not letting the idiot girl kill herself. Anything was better than the king's taunts.

"You can be her maid. Would your father like that, do you think? What would the proud Lord Tywin make of his eldest son taking care of a Stark girl? Find her a chamber, Maid Jaime, before I burn her like I burned her sire." The court laughed loudest at this and the louder they laughed, the safer they were.