JAIME
The sun had not yet fully revealed its light, but the sky above King's Landing had transformed into a mesmerizing canvas. Deep purple slowly faded, mingling with soft sweeps of orange in the east, signaling a shy dawn. The morning air bit at the skin, cold and damp, carrying the salty scent of the sea.
Jaime Lannister walked through the Red Keep's inner garden, his footsteps light on the stone path. Around him, morning dew still sat on every leaf of the vines and the petals of unbloomed roses, glittering like fragile little jewels. He touched one of the leaves as he passed, feeling the cold water on his fingertip, a tangible sensation that helped him banish the remnants of sleep.
His eyes still felt heavy, his eyelids fighting against drowsiness. His body, though young and strong, protested at being woken before its time. However, Steven's mind within him knew that discipline was key. He could not let himself be lulled by the luxury of a featherbed, not when the world around him was in the midst of great change.
Though dawn was just breaking, the Red Keep was already awake. This castle never truly slept, especially now, approaching the King's funeral and the coronation of his successor.
Jaime passed through the busy stone corridors. Servants hurried here and there like hardworking ants. They carried stacks of linen sheets that looked soft and pure white, thick velvet blankets to replace dirty ones, as well as silver trays containing breakfast, warm bread with steam rising in the cold air, slices of fresh fruit, and pitchers of watered-down wine.
They walked with practiced caution, their eyes fixed on the floor or straight ahead, avoiding eye contact with any nobles who might pass. However, Jaime could see the exhaustion clearly etched on their faces. Dark circles under the eyes, shoulders slightly hunched, and dragging steps. The death of a King meant not only grief for the kingdom, but also endless hard work for those who served behind the scenes. Black mourning cloth had to be installed in every window, dust had to be cleaned doubly so, and food had to be prepared for the hundreds of highborn guests flooding the capital.
Jaime gave way to a serving girl carrying a stack of towels, who looked startled and almost dropped her load upon seeing a Lannister step aside for her. Jaime just gave her a thin smile and continued his stride.
He arrived at the training yard. The place was still quiet, there were only a few guards changing shifts in the distance, yawning widely. The ground in the yard was packed and sandy, the perfect place to spill sweat.
Jaime ignored the bone-chilling cold of the air. He walked towards the weapon rack, taking a heavy wooden practice sword. The wood was old, full of scratches from thousands of previous blows, yet the hilt felt familiar and comfortable in his palm.
He began to warm up. Movements rotating his shoulders, stretching his arms, feeling his stiff muscles start to loosen. Jaime Lannister's body was a biological miracle, Steven thought. In his old life, he had to struggle hard just to stay fit. Here, this body responded to every exercise with rapid muscle growth and sharp reflexes. This was a body created for war.
He stepped closer to the straw dummy standing mute in the center of the yard.
Hup.
He swung his sword. Wood clashed with dense straw.
Jaime struck again. And again. He did not do it with complex technique or full speed. He was not trying to show off his skills to the morning ghosts. This was just morning exercise, a ritual to wake his blood. A horizontal strike to the ribs. An upward parry. A thrust to the neck.
His movements were fluid, repetitive, and meditative.
His final blow was hard, making the straw dummy spin on its axis.
Jaime took a step back, his breath hitching slightly. A thin sweat began to coat his forehead and neck, a warm layer protecting him from the morning air. He wiped his face with his sleeve, feeling his strong pulse in his neck. His energy was drained a little, but his mind was clear.
He put the practice sword back on the rack. Then he walked again, this time towards the inside of the castle. Then he saw someone.
Arthur Dayne.
The Sword of the Morning looked... fine, at least physically. His body was sturdy, his posture perfect like an illustration of a knight in a storybook. An aura of quiet confidence radiated from him, a natural charisma that made people want to follow him into battle. However, Jaime, who had learned to read people better than reading books, saw fine cracks there.
Arthur's face had become more serious than the last time they met. There was a slight furrow in the center of his forehead, parallel to his brows, the sign of someone who frowned too much or thought too much. His eyes, though sharp, looked tired.
He wore white armor that gleamed clean, polished to brilliance, and a white cloak that fell neatly on his shoulders. Arthur was walking, seemingly about to enter the castle, perhaps to start his watch shift or having just finished it.
Jaime did not call him. He just stood there, leaning casually against a pillar. Waiting for the person to realize his presence.
A few seconds later, Arthur's eyes shifted. His gaze swept the yard, then stopped on Jaime's figure.
There was a moment of recognition. The tension in Arthur's shoulders lowered slightly. The corners of his stiff lips slowly formed an upward curve, a smile that was genuine though small. He changed the direction of his steps, walking faster towards Jaime.
"You look like a child lost in a crowd, standing alone here," Arthur greeted, his voice deep and warm. "When did you arrive?"
"A week ago," Jaime replied with a light joking tone. "I am disappointed that you guys did not notice. Joking. I just arrived yesterday. I spent more time in the bedchamber, passing out from exhaustion due to the journey."
Arthur nodded, accepting the explanation. He then took a step back, looking Jaime up and down with the assessing gaze of a veteran soldier.
"You are growing quite fast, apparently," Arthur commented, there was a tone of admiration in his voice. "What have you been eating these years at Casterly Rock? Gold?"
Jaime chuckled. "Maybe a cow every day? Who knows? The cooks at Casterly Rock are very enthusiastic." He straightened his body, trying to stand as tall as possible. "What is clear, I might surpass your current height in another year. And when that happens, I will call you 'Short Arthur'."
"Daydreaming is not good, Lad," Arthur snorted with amusement, shaking his head. "Height does not guarantee victory. But even if that happens, I will still kick your arse in the training yard anytime. Technique beats size."
"Well, about that I have no doubt," Jaime admitted with a laugh. "Dawn has a cheating reach."
Their laughter subsided, leaving a comfortable silence between two people who respected each other. Arthur gestured with his head.
"Come with me. We cannot talk in the middle of an open field."
They began walking side by side, towards the interior of the castle. They passed several servants and courtiers who bowed respectfully upon seeing the white cloak of the Kingsguard. Arthur's armor jingled softly, a constant metallic rhythm.
As they entered a quieter area, Arthur asked with a tone that sounded light but Jaime knew was serious. "Have you met Rhaegar?"
"No," Jaime answered honestly. "Besides my family, my father who is busy arranging the kingdom, you are the only one I know whom I have just met this morning." He turned to the side, looking at Arthur's face. "How is he?"
Arthur's pace did not slow, but his shoulders tensed. He let out a long sigh, a sound that sounded heavy.
"Physically healthy," Arthur replied. "He was not injured in Duskendale. But mentally?" Arthur shook his head slowly. "He is a mess, Jaime. A real mess."
Jaime was silent, letting Arthur continue.
"He has not smiled for these few months. Not once," Arthur continued, his voice lowering. "Since that incident... since he saw his father's corpse... he withdrew. He does his duty, yes. He signs documents, he plans the funeral, he meets the Small Council. But his eyes are empty. His mourning period has not passed, and I doubt it will happen anytime soon. Guilt is eating him alive."
"Losing someone precious would make anyone like that," Jaime said quietly.
His mind drifted for a moment. Jaime, or rather Steven, remembered the original memories of this body. The memory of Joanna Lannister. His mother's death. The memory of a small child losing his world was still imprinted on Jaime's brain, sharp and painful, even though Steven himself did not feel the same emotional grief because he never really knew the woman. But he remembered the emptiness little Jaime felt. He remembered how Tywin turned to stone.
"I have experienced it too," added Jaime. "Grief is like a fog. You can get lost inside it."
"True," Arthur agreed. "But Rhaegar is not just a son who lost a father. He is the King who will be crowned. And the kingdom... the kingdom cannot wait for him continuously like this."
They began to climb the wide stone stairs.
"The Lords have gathered," Arthur said, a tone of frustration starting to leak into his voice. "They are like vultures. They smell blood and weakness. They will not care whether Rhaegar is still mourning or not, they demand attention, decisions, and favoritism. Rhaegar must do his duty, or they will start eating each other."
Jaime looked at the hall they entered. On the walls hung portraits of past kings, oil-painted eyes staring at them arrogantly.
"Therefore," Jaime said, formulating his thoughts, "I think he must voice his thoughts more. He cannot keep everything to himself. He must ask for other people's opinions, discuss, argue. About kingdom matters, of course, but also about what he feels. Isolation is the worst enemy for a grieving person."
Arthur snorted roughly. "Many people have tried. Even Lord Commander Gerold tried giving him military advice to distract him."
Then Arthur turned to Jaime with a serious look.
"But as you probably know, and as you see yourself in this court... there are many people who care more about themselves. They do not want to help Rhaegar; they want to control Rhaegar. They want to be the voice in the new King's ear. Rhaegar knows that. That is why he closed himself off. He does not trust anyone."
"Except you," Jaime said.
"Except me," Arthur admitted. "And maybe Jon Connington. But we are soldiers, Jaime. We can protect him from swords, but we cannot protect him from his own thoughts. We do not understand his music, his books, or his complicated sadness."
They arrived at a long, heavily guarded corridor. At the end of the corridor was a large double wooden door. The Prince's room. Or now, the King's room.
Arthur stopped in front of the door. He turned to face Jaime fully.
"That is why I am glad you are here," Arthur said, his voice sincere. "You are different, Jaime. You understand that side of him. The artistic side, the feeling side. He needs a friend who can talk about things other than taxes and war. He needs someone who can remind him that there is still beauty in this world."
Jaime felt the burden of that responsibility. He was not a psychiatrist, but he had been a teacher. He knew how to handle children, and a few troubled adults.
"I will try, Arthur," Jaime said. "I do not promise miracles, but I will try to make him talk."
"That is already more than enough."
Arthur turned to face the door. Ignoring the other guards. He raised his hand encased in a steel gauntlet, then knocked on the thick wood with his knuckles.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound of the knock echoed in the silent corridor, a request to enter the fortress of grief.
The two of them entered the room which smelled of fragrant flowers, inside it was very tidy, and the faintly shimmering morning light, making it suitable to be a moment for a painting that would hang on the wall. Arthur walked first preceding Jaime, they walked a few steps before finding Rhaegar sitting on a sofa, on the table, there was a lot of food and also fragrant tea.
The Prince raised an eyebrow upon seeing Jaime, then smiled, although his eyes were a little tired, he stood up, opened his arms and embraced Jaime. Jaime was certainly a little surprised, but returned it and patted the Prince's shoulder gently a few times. When they separated, there, Rhaegar smiled.
"You've grown quite tall."
…
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