Chapter Two: He Weighs Our Lives, the Short and Long

The Iron Throne loomed over the gathered crowd. Seated in the center was King Aerys Targaryen, the Second of his Name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm… who was utterly, undeniably mad.

Blood dripped from a fresh cut on his cheek. Countless scars littered his arms. His stringy, unkempt hair lay tangled among the throne's blades, and his equally-long beard was as dirty as King's Landing itself. Aerys pressed one hand against his chin, his long, gnarled nails nearly reaching his eyes. The other hand tapped an incessant pattern against the side of the throne.

Ned stared at the man. That is not how a king should look, he thought with disgust. Lord Tywin looks more kingly than him.

"My… friend," hissed the King. The crowd quickly quieted. "My friend, Lord Tywin Lannister. How kind of you to grace us with your presence." He giggled, high and tittering.

Tywin remained kneeling. "Of course, your grace. I am always at your service."

"Oh, of course!" he shrieked. Abruptly, the king smiled. "And how is your wife, dear Joanna? My wife has sorely missed her at court. As have I."

Jaime stiffened, and Cersei grasped her gown tighter. Tywin, however, seemed unaffected. "She passed away two years ago, your grace." His words were polite, distant, as if he was discussing the weather or the hall's decorations.

"Oh yes, of course," he drawled. "It must have slipped my mind. Not much does, as you are aware."

"Very much so, your grace."

Ned's eyes wandered to the crowd as the king and Lord Lannister exchanged barely veiled pleasantries. He could see the colors of every major house and even more minor ones. Then, he saw the pure white cloak of the Kingsguard, and Ned's eyes widened. Standing to the side of them was a young man with silver hair and violet eyes. A slight frown marred his handsome features as he looked at the king.

That must be the crown prince. He, at least, looks princely.

Ned's attention turned back to Lord Lannister; the king had finally given him permission to rise. Unfortunately, that permission didn't extend to Tywin's children or Ned. The three of them remained kneeling—or curtsying, in Cersei's case.

"So this is your heir?" Aerys grinned, though it looked more like a snarl. His yellowing, decaying teeth contrasted greatly with his pale skin. Like a corpse. "He has your looks. But none of your intellect, from what I hear." His eyes settled on Cersei. "And the girl." The king tilted his head. "She looks like Joanna."

Cersei's knuckles turned white, and Jaime's hands went to his hip, reaching for a sword that wasn't there. Tywin gazed at the king, entirely impassive.

"Your ward is here, I see." The king's violet eyes seemed to grow darker. "A Stark. How odd to see one here. I hear more and more tidings of wolves in the south."

Ned carefully studied the bottom of the throne. Do I answer? Silence seems like a better choice.

Moments passed. The king seemed to lose interest in him. "Leave me," he announced.

Ned was only glad to do so.

Even after a year at the ostentatious Casterly Rock, Ned couldn't help but be impressed with the Red Keep. It wasn't particularly large—Winterfell was at least thrice its size—but every inch of it exuded authority. The rooms held finery from across the realms, from Dornish silk to Riverland carvings and even pelts from the North. The Targaryens had wanted no one to forget that they ruled all the seven kingdoms.

In nowhere was it more evident than the Library Tower. Every inch of the walls was covered in books, old and new, written in every language imaginable. Ned marvelled at the sheer variety. Before he'd been sent south, Ned had never been a devout reader. He'd read what he'd had to, but he'd always been more interested in riding through the woods or mock-fighting with his brothers. But in Casterly Rock, Ned didn't have his three siblings to keep his attention. Jaime was the only one who voluntarily spent time with him, and Jaime wasn't always there. So he'd frequented the library, reading historical accounts of past lords.

Though Jaime had complained about his new habit, Lord Tywin had tacitly approved, going as far to recommend a few books. And tacit approval from Lord Lannister was the equivalent of a command. Cersei seemed ambivalent about his reading, though she had forced Ned to read a few of her favorite romance novels. Ned had found them laughable, and he'd told her as much—Cersei had stormed off in a huff, refusing to talk to him for several days. (Which had been a relief, frankly.)

Ned paused upon seeing a thin, leather-bound book among the giant volumes. On its spine, inscribed in gold, were three words: Conquest of Dorne. Ned pulled it from the shelf. Lord Lannister had suggested this book, earlier. I assumed it'd be bigger.

Ned opened it to the first page and was immediately enraptured by the tale. His mind reached to desert battles and kings, war and bloodshed. He read the first part, and then the second, and the third—

"Conquest of Dorne is a favorite of mine, as well." A low, iron-toned voice interrupted his reading.

Startled, Ned nearly stumbled over his own feet. After standing in one spot for so long, his legs had become numb. He turned to see the speaker and froze.

"My—I mean, your grace," he fumbled, managing to regain his composure and bow neatly. "I did not mean to intrude."

With his flowing hair, dark violet eyes, and aristocratic features, Rhaegar Targaryen looked every bit like the hero of Cersei's infamous novels.

The prince smiled. "No, I was the one who intruded on your reading. Forgive me. I was simply curious. Rarely do I find another lover of books in the Red Keep."

"Oh," replied Ned awkwardly. "Well… I am Eddard Stark of Winterfell."

"Lord Rickard Stark's second son, I believe. And you are currently the ward of the Hand?"

"Yes, your grace."

The prince's expression became enigmatic. "Indeed. It was a pleasure, Eddard Stark. I will leave you to your book. Do tell me your thoughts on it after you finish." With those parting words, Rhaegar left as suddenly as he arrived.

Eddard stared after him. The prince knows who I am.

Somehow, Rhaegar always seemed to know when Eddard had finished a book. He'd appear right after and rope Eddard into a conversation about the writing. And Ned was more than a little flattered by Rhaegar's attention. The prince seemed to actually value his opinions, always listening thoughtfully to what the Stark had to say. Ned began looking forward to Rhaegar's conversations—the prince was the smartest person he'd ever met, save for perhaps Lord Lannister.

They didn't always agree, of course. Rhaegar was more idealistic than Ned, and their discussions usually ended up becoming friendly arguments.

"You believe that King Viserys the First should have named an heir sooner?" Rhaegar frowned.

"Of course." Ned shook his head. "Half the war was caused by his dallying. Queen Rhaenyra was trained to be queen, and neither of her half-brothers had the inclination or aptitude to rule." He scoffed. "The Dance of the Dragons had to be the most pointless war in the Seven Kingdoms. In the end, the descendants of both factions married and took the throne. The loss of loyal bannermen, the slaughter of the dragons, all for what?"

"Indeed," mused Rhaegar. "Or, had the king simply married Rhaenyra to Aegon II, then the war would not have happened. Perhaps that would have been the best solution."

Ned grimaced. I will never understand how the Targaryens marry siblings. "I suppose." He set his book aside and looked at the shelves. "Still, the war started all because of one man's foolish actions."

Rhaegar looked thoughtful. "I suppose it did."

Prince Rhaegar was the most incredible person Cersei had ever seen. No poem or ballad could depict his grace or charm. Handsome, kind, and intelligent, he was perfection made reality. Cersei couldn't help but blush (prettily, of course) whenever she was near the violet-eyed man. Even Jaime paled in comparison the Rhaegar Targaryen. What good was a lion cub when you could have a dragon?

But despite her best efforts, the prince never seemed to notice her. She wore the loveliest dresses, said the wittiest remarks, and always made sure to be around Rhaegar when she could. But the prince seemed to care more about the Stark than her. Oh, Cersei knew that she'd marry the prince one day. She would become queen. Silver and gold belonged together. Cersei would find a way.

And as much as she hated it, that 'way' was Eddard Stark.

"You," she said imperiously.

Eddard looked up from that dusty tome his nose was stuck in. "My lady. I assume you need something."

Cersei sneered at the mockery in his tone. "Indeed I do. Prince Rhaegar seems to find something in interest of you. Perhaps he's been on the search for a new court jester." She paused to examine the new ring her father had bought. Cersei held it at an angle to allow the Stark to see it as well. It was likely more finery than he had witnessed in his life. "Regardless, I want you to tell me what you know of the prince."

Understanding and amusement flickered in his gray eyes. "You wish for me to aid you in your romantic endeavors? They've been the talk of court. Surely you don't need my help."

"Your advice," she said, teeth gritted, "would be much appreciated." How dare he mock me? Me, the daughter of Tywin Lannister, the King's Hand and the lord of the Westerlands! Future queen of Westeros!

The Stark made a show of considering her words. "In that case, my lady, I might offer a few words. The prince appreciates intellect, understanding, and knowledge. While you may have other… assets, I think you have much to improve before you can catch Prince Rhaegar's attention." He gave an exaggerated bow. "If you'll excuse me."

Cersei snarled as he took his leave. "You bumbling savage!" With a stomp of her foot, she cursed Eddard Stark to the seven hells and back. "You just wait. You'll pay when I become queen! The dungeons will suit you just fine!"

She flounced into her chair and crossed her arms. Slightly more calm, Cersei mused over Eddard's words. The prince does like to spend time reading… She glanced at the book Eddard had left behind. Sighing at the thought of reading historical drivel, Cersei flipped open to the first page. Maybe Rhaegar will come to the library. Then, I can finally charm him. He'll love me. He has to.

Since coming to the Keep, Jaime had thrived. He had sparred against squires and knights and warriors, and he loved every moment of it. Unlike Casterly Rock, the Red Keep had fighters that could actually challenge him. The weapons-master of the keep had even praised him, saying that Jaime had more talent than any boy he'd seen.

Still, Jaime made sure to spar at least once a week with Ned. Though Jaime had long outpaced him, Ned surprised him from time to time. And Ned was his friend—the closest one he had. Bantering with him was simply fun. Despite his efforts, Jaime had seen less and less of the unbelievably stiff Stark. For some reason, the library had caught Ned's attention. Whenever Jaime questioned him, the Stark gave vague answers about improving his knowledge.

And it wasn't just Ned. Even Cersei had avoided Jaime. She was too busy frittering with her ladies or swooning over that Prince Rhaegar. He scowled. Ever since they'd come to the Red Keep, Cersei hadn't bothered to meet with him at all. A man had his needs, thought Jaime darkly. Aren't I enough for her?

Jaime polished the sword and sheathed it into the rack. The weapons-master had given him permission to use live steel to practice, but since Jaime didn't want to cut off Ned's hand, he pulled out two wooden practice swords instead. Ned was late to their scheduled spar, which almost never happened. Is something wrong? Or did Ned get his head stuck in a book? His fears were put to rest when Ned walked into the courtyard with a carefully blank expression.

"Hey, Ned! What took you so…" he trailed off when Prince Rhaegar and a Kingsguard walked after him. The prince and Ser Jonothor Darry? Why the seven hells are they here? Jaime bowed and flourished salute with his wooden sword. "Your grace." He nodded to the knight, trying to keep the excitement off his face. "Ser Jonothor."

"You are Jaime Lannister, son of the Hand." Rhaegar peered at him with violet eyes.

Jaime stared back. The prince seemed rather womanly; Jaime didn't understand Cersei's infatuation with him. "Right." He tossed a sword to Ned. "Come on! I've been waiting for hours!"

"Twenty minutes," Ned corrected. He caught the weapon and grinned. "Ready?"

"As ever!"

Jaime, who devoted far more time to swordsmanship than Ned, had improved exponentially. And he was far more used to having people watch his spar. But Ned was no weakling, either. Though caught off guard by their audience, Ned fought admirably. Their spar lasted a decent amount of time before Jaime managed to disarm Ned with a twist of his sword. Both Rhaegar and Ser Darry seemed impressed by the display—Ser Darry more than the prince.

Ned laughed. "Is that a new trick?"

Jaime twirled his sword mockingly. "Of course. One that worked quite well, I think. You always think too much when you fight." He did his best not to look at the prince or the Kingsguard. "Another?"

"I will join you."

Startled, Ned and Jaime turned to Rhaegar. "What?"

"I want to spar with you." Rhaegar looked unperturbed, as if he habitually walked in on people's sparring sessions. Well, considering that he's the prince…

Ned was half-frowning, something he only did when thinking particularly hard. "Here, your grace," he said. Ned handed the wooden weapon to the older boy, who took it hilt first. Jaime shot Ned a glare. He's leaving me to fight the prince alone? With a last glance at Ser Darry, Jaime raised his sword.

"If that's what pleases you, your grace. I'd be glad to spar."

Rhaegar mirrored his gesture, gracefully going on guard. He inclined his head and struck. The prince's swordsmanship was classical and flawless. Each parry was perfect, and each strike left no opening. Jaime tested the prince with feints and tricks he'd picked up along the way, but nothing seemed to phase Rhaegar.

Jaime could feel a trickle of sweat edge past his eyebrow, trailing down to the corner of his eye. The grip on his sword was a hair too tight, and the endless clack of wood on wood jarred his elbow. He could feel his boots chaff against his heel as he stepped back to avoid the prince's lunge. Burning with fatigue, his arm responded slower and slower to each attack. The prince had all the advantage.

Until Jaime used a maneuver he'd learned from Ned. Rhaegar struck back, leaving a gap in his defences, and all Jaime would need to do was slash down, but he hesitated just too long, thinking about what his father would say if he defeated the prince—

Rhaegar pushed past his sword, resting the wooden point on Jaime's neck. "Yield."

The exhilaration melted away and soured into a crushing sense of disappointment. Jaime closed his eyes to prevent the prickle in his eyes from developing into tears.

"I yield," he said in the ghost of a whisper.

Years later, Jaime would smile and think of this spar as the moment he began hating Rhaegar.

Lord Steffon Baratheon laughed loudly, slapping his hand against the desk as his chuckles faded. Tywin allowed himself a smile at his old friend's familiar joke about whores and maesters.

"Oh, you've always been a difficult one," sighed Steffon, leaning back. "My son reminds me of you. The second one, I mean. Stannis seems to always have a frown on his face. I suppose he takes after Cassanna."

"And the elder one takes after you, I suppose." Tywin swirled his glass of wine while Steffon downed his fourth.

"In more ways than one. Energetic, friendly—"

"Loud," muttered Tywin.

"—charismatic, with a wicked arm. He'll be a great warrior, I tell you!" Steffon smiled fondly, and his handsome features became far less intimidating.

"Just like his father, then." Tywin tipped his glass slightly in acknowledgement.

"Yes, yes." Steffon sighed as his friend poured him another glass. "I should have brought Robert with me to King's Landing. He could have become good friends with your son. I think they'd have gotten along well." The Baratheon hesitated before taking another sip. "Though I hear that the Stark boy, the one you're warding, what was his name…"

"Eddard," Tywin supplied.

"Ah, yes! The second Stark. I hear that he's very close to your son. Perhaps they would have been another trio, just like you, me, and Aerys."

"Perhaps." Tywin's words were carefully neutral. Steffon always displayed a boisterous personality, but underneath all his bluster, he had a keener mind than one would expect.

"Yes, indeed…" Steffon's blue eyes became pensive. "Interesting, how there's been more Starks south of the Neck. Rickard's third son is in the Vale, isn't he?"

"From what I've heard." Tywin raised an eyebrow. "I've also heard rumors that you plan on sending Stannis there. Interesting, indeed."

Steffon's laugh was wry. "Perhaps," he said, echoing Tywin. "But alliances make us strong."

"They can also force us to act, and not always in ways that benefits us."

Steffon raised his glass in a mock salute. "Indeed. And they may cause certain others to become suspicious."

The Baratheon was, of course, referring to the king. Aerys had started seeing assassins in every shadow, schemes in every conversation, traitors in every friend. An unfortunate amount of that paranoia had been directed towards Tywin, lately, and Rickard's aggressive actions certainly didn't help.

"Which why you haven't sent your second son to the Vale, yet." Tywin set his glass down. "Hedging your bets?"

"Of course." Steffon grinned. "You taught me that. You always did beat me at cyvasse."

"Yes, I did." Tywin smiled back. "It's fortunate that we're on the same side, Steffon."

The unspoken question hovered between them, thickening the air: fortunate for who?

Both knew better than to answer it.

Jaime stormed through the Keep, wooden sword slapping against his thigh. The prince, the prince, the prince. No one ever shut up about him! He couldn't even get through a sparring session without one dolt or another mentioning his name. The next time someone says his name, I'm going to punch them in the face.

"Jaime?" the low voice of Eddard interrupted his thoughts.

"Ned!" Jaime grinned, previous irritation forgotten at the sight of his closest friend. "How rare to see you outside of the library, without your face plastered to a book! What brings you from your cavern?"

The Stark looked rather sheepish. "Er, I was looking for Prince Rhaegar. I finished the book he suggested, and I wanted to ask him about it. He's usually sparring with Arthur Dayne and Jon Connington, about now."

Jaime's dark mood returned in full force. "Is that so?"

"Yes…" Ned's solemn face became concerned. "Jaime, is something wrong?"

"No, no." Jaime gave a mock, exaggerated bow, complete with a flourish. "Lead the way to your Prince Rhaegar."

"He's your prince, too," corrected Ned mildly, nonetheless guiding his friend through the convoluted passages of the Red Keep. "You should be careful."

"I'm always careful." The Lannister's smile had a sharp edge that belied his jest.

"There you are!" the shrill voice of Cersei Lannister caused both to stop. Though they each reacted with surprise, Eddard's expression also had a distinct tint of horror.

"Stark, how dare you leave me in the library without an escort!" She stamped her feet as she barrelled towards the boys, crimson skirts flying behind her. "You said that you'd take me to Prince Rhaegar!"

"I said nothing of that sort." Ned's voice had just enough cold condescension and outrage to give the twins pause. Jaime knew he was lying, and from her reddening face, Cersei did too—but what startled them was how eerily similar Eddard had sounded like their father. More than the tone, Eddard's self-possession and unperturbed expression were hallmarks of the Lord Lannister.

Cersei recovered first. "Yes, you did! You did! Now, take me to him! I know you're going there yourself!"

For one, long moment, Eddard visibly grappled with his decision. Jaime rolled his eyes and sighed. Really, Cersei and Ned are like hounds and cats. They'd get along if they tried, but they seem determined to hate each other.

"Come on, Ned." He nudged his foster brother. "Don't give Cers any trouble. The sooner this is over with, the better."

Eddard glared at the Lannister girl, but he finally relented. "Fine."

The prince's favorite sparring grounds weren't far from their position, but Ned and Cersei's squabbling made it feel like they had walked all the way to the North. Jaime wasn't sure whether to be thankful or angry when they shut up. On one hand, they were quiet, but on the other hand, they'd shut up because of the prince.

"Prince Rhaegar!" giggled Cersei, swishing her skirts. "Did you miss me?"

Said Targaryen was in deep conversation with Jon Connington, but after a few moments, he finally deigned to turn his attention towards the blonde. Jaime bristled at the look Rhaegar gave his sister: thinly veiled contempt covered by a smile.

"Lady Cersei," he said, voice neutral. The prince's voice barely changed when he addressed the two younger boys. "Lord Eddard. Lord Jaime."

Ned bowed, and only the jab of his elbow reminded Jaime to do the same. "Prince Rhaegar." Ned's greeting was courteous but unusually cheerful. Jaime tried not to scowl.

"Is there something you wished to ask me?" Rhaegar and Jon Connington exchanged a look that made the rage in Jaime's stomach grow.

"Ah, yes, it's about the book—"

"My apologies, Eddard." The prince brushed past the three, Jon Connington following close behind. "I have something urgent to attend to. Perhaps some other time?"

Ned's disappointment was palatable. "Yes, of course."

It took every iota of Jaime's self-control to avoid stabbing Rhaegar in the back. Sure, all Jaime had was his wooden sword, but he'd manage. How dare Rhaegar treat Cersei and Eddard like that! He had no right.

As Jaime watched Rhaegar leave, he couldn't help but feel his stomach curdle with resentment. One day, the prince would pay.

Like clockwork, Ned would go to Tywin's solar for a game of cyvasse. Once week, exactly midday. Skipping the meet had consequences. Arriving late had consequences. Even being distracted had consequences.

Which is why Ned was surprised to see Lord Lannister sitting at his desk, writing something down on parchment. No cyvasse board was in sight. Eddard approached with his head high, taking care to hide his confusion. He stopped a few steps from Lord Lannister and waited.

Several minutes passed, and the lord had either not noticed him, or he was simply unconcerned. It was likely the latter. He kept his silence, though enough time had passed to make Ned restless. Finally, his patience was rewarded, and the scratch of quill against parchment stopped.

"Eddard," said Lord Lannister, looking at his ward. His green eyes were as dispassionate as the stone they resembled. "Why have you entered my solar?"

"Well, m-my lord," fumbled Ned, his composure cracked. Lord Tywin hadn't actually forgotten, had he? He recovered quickly, striving not to attract the Lannister's ire. "I assumed that, well, that we'd be playing a cyvasse match…" he trailed off, though he managed to keep his gaze steady.

Lord Tywin set his quill down. "I am the Hand of the King. I do not have time for games."

Eddard glanced to the side. Lord Tywin had said again and again that looking down was a symbol of weakness, and Eddard struggled to keep that weakness from showing in his eyes.

"Eddard, do you understand?"

He forced himself to look at the Hand of the King. "Yes, my lord."

"Very well." The lord resumed his writing. "Do not slacken in your studies. I shall know if you do."

"Yes, my lord."

Eddard hurried from the room, ignoring the prickling feeling in his throat. He turned from one hallway to another, the faces in the elaborate tapestries staring down, further reminders of his isolation. He paused, closed his eyes, and continued to his room.

In some ways, King's Landing was more treacherous than the Northern winter. Here, Eddard was a lone wolf, long since separated from his pack, and the lone wolf always died. His quarters here were larger and finer than the one's in Casterly Rock, but Eddard would rather be in the mountain fortress than in this gilded cage. He'd rather be in the sparse, cold rooms of Winterfell, where people actually cared about him and talked to him instead of treating him like an illiterate savage.

Well, neither was entirely true. Not everyone in King's Landing treated him like a savage. Rhaegar sought him out and valued his opinion, though only when it was convenient for the Prince. And not everyone in Winterfell actually cared about him.

His siblings, for one. Their letters had slowed in frequency—Benjen was in the Vale, Lyanna had lost interest, as she always did, and Brandon was too busy preparing to be a lord.

Too busy. Too busy. How Eddard despised that phrase. Jaime was too busy playing at being a knight, Lord Lannister was too busy running a kingdom, and his siblings were too busy living their own lives.

So, there Eddard was, the second son of House Stark, stuck in the south where he didn't belong.

With bitterness, Ned mused that he wasn't important enough to command the time or attention of anyone significant.

As Lord Kevan Lannister had said, second sons were the spare, and it was best that they remain that way. The shadow of Lord Tywin by choice, Lord Kevan managed Casterly Rock when his older brother was otherwise occupied. Eddard had dined with him before, and the memory of that meal only made his mood darker.

Lord Kevan was fonder of the wine glass than his brother, and when enough wine had been imbued, he was eager to impart his wisdom. He always held his ruby goblet like sword, in front of him and to the side, letting the gems catch the light.

"Second sons must be cunning, but not too cunning. Charming, but not too charming. Courageous, but not too courageous—"

"Competent, but not too competent?" Ned had interrupted.

"Competent enough. Just enough. Careful, now." The gleam in his eyes had reminded Eddard that Kevan Lannister was a lion, just like his brother. "Any more, and you become a threat. Any less, and you become a liability." Kevan had drawn his goblet closer, like a knight about to parry. "But there is value in being overlooked. No one notices you… until it's too late."

Yet, as Eddard ran over Kevan's words in his head, he came to a sudden realization. Eddard didn't want to be overlooked. Not forever. Oh, he'd wait, and he'd be patient. Ned was good at that. But one day, Eddard would step from the shadows, and everyone would know his name.

And no one would be too busy for him.

After Queen Rhaella gave birth to Prince Viserys, the king flew into a rage. The birth of a son had driven a wrench into his plans of securing a Targaryen bride for Prince Rhaegar, but the king's anger dissipated as quickly as it arrived. Soon after Viserys was determined to be a healthy boy, King Aerys' paranoia grew tenfold. He burned every gift offered to the newly-born prince, thus managing to insult every lord in Westeros at once.

A pall of fear and gloom fell over the Red Keep, affecting everyone from the serving smallfolk to the highest Lord. The king descended further and further into his madness, seized by his terror for his newest son's survival. The tourney held in honor of Prince Viserys' birth, arranged by Lord Lannister, brought the entire realm closer together and drove it further apart.

Tywin looked over the stands of the Red Keep. Smallfolk and nobles alike screamed as Prince Rhaegar threw Tygett Lannister from his horse. By all measures, the tourney was a great success. But the Lord of Casterly rock felt nothing but cold, a feeling that had nothing to do with the approaching winter. King Aerys had given Tywin the responsibility of organizing the tourney, and the King's Hand had taken it first as an honor. Foolishly, futilely, Tywin had hoped it was a sign of further reconciliation. A sign that his old friend had returned.

I should know better. His thoughts were more bitter than the poisons Aerys feared. Targaryen madness has sunk its claws into the king.

King Aerys had used the tourney as an opportunity to belittle and slander his Hand at every opportunity. No decision Tywin made, from the color of the banners to the type of horse oats, was good enough for the esteemed Targaryen on the throne.

The cheering grew louder as Prince Rhaegar unseated another nameless knight. Though it was no great feat, the prince seemed saner than his father. By all reports, Rhaegar was intelligent and sensible. Perhaps Westeros isn't entirely doomed. With Cersei as his queen, Rhaegar's reign should be prosperous and stable.

Tywin glanced at the king, seated far above the other lords. Aerys scowled down at everyone, looking as if he wanted to burn the whole stands down. No, Tywin couldn't speak to him now. Judging from screams of the serving girls, Aerys was in one of his foul moods. Tywin would approach the king after the tourney. Then, Cersei would be betrothed to Rhaegar, and the future of his family and his fortune would be secure.

The feast was the largest and most sumptuous that Ned had ever seen, but he had no appetite. At the head of the table was Prince Rhaegar and his retinue, which Eddard wasn't a part of. Then again, what was he part of? Eddard had wandered through the tourney, unnoticed or disdained, doing nothing but watching. Jaime had been with his knight companions, and Rhaegar had actually fought in the tourney, so neither of his friends had bothered with him.

Jaime made some inane jest, and Ned didn't bother to even smile. Right now, his thoughts were enough company.

"And I backhanded him with my sword!" finished Jaime. He frowned when Eddard didn't respond. For some reason, the Stark seemed gloomier than usual. Before Jaime could inquire about his friend, the king stole attention of everyone in the hall. The raucous sounds of conversation quieted as Aerys raised a trembling hand.

"Lord Lannister," he said, voice keening but pitched to carry. "I believe you wish to discuss the matter of your daughter's betrothal."

And Jaime's world shattered.

Anger, followed by suspicion. Tywin had been careful to avoid all mentions of his daughter's marriage prospects, but somehow, the king knew. And Aerys had forced his hand, especially by doing so in such a public place.

"Perhaps we can discuss at a later time, after the feast in honor of Prince Viserys, the third of his name. Today should be celebrating your son, and your son, only."

Tywin's unsubtle deflection was summarily ignored.

"Is that so?" Aerys' rheumy eyes glistened as he peered at his former friend. "Is that so? No, let's get on with it. Tell me who you wish to betroth your daughter to, though we both know what you seek."

From the sitting lords to the jesters to the serving smallfolk by the doors, not a single one made a sound.

But Tywin's thoughts were anything but quiet. The king knew. Despite his raging thoughts, the Lannister Lord remained impassive. "I wished to betroth my daughter to your son, your grace."

The silence grew more fragile.

"Of course you do." The king's head lolled to the side. "Tywin, you have long been a loyal and faithful servant."

"Thank you, your grace." The years had accustomed Tywin to the king's moods and tells—the glint in Aerys' eyes was undeniably, familiarly cruel. Tywin had to tread carefully.

"When Rhaegar takes the throne, I'm sure that you will serve him equally well."

"Of course, your grace." They had reached the precipice, but Tywin was unwavering.

"There lies the problem!" Aerys' laugh was shrill, though it petered into a hiss. "My son cannot marry the daughter of his servant."

And the silence ended.

AN: What's this? An update? Yeah, I'm as surprised as you are. Thank you for all your reviews! I'm really glad you enjoyed it. I'll do my best to respond to each review, though I'm a bit behind...

Of course, special thanks to Duesal Bladesinger for being my awesome beta, and thanks to Igornerd for looking it over.

[8/1/2018]: I doubt I'll continue this story. I've had a lot of fun writing it, and I hope you liked reading!