Jaime I

"Kingslayer!" bellowed Robert jovially at the changing of the guard. Ser Jaime longed for a helmet to mask the rolling of his eyes, though none was at hand. They usually didn't wear them in the castle itself.

His grace had just risen, though it was the hour of the horse, and most had already broken their fast. Outside the chamber window, he could observe the sun climbing high. It would be noon in a few hours. Ser Boros brushed past him with a curt greeting and a whore with a Dornish look trailing behind. Her dark eyes showed not a lick of shame as she admired him in passing, as well she might. After a night spent under that ox, Jaime thought just about any man would compare favorably. Then again, mayhaps the whore didn't care, so long as she was paid. What is cock compared to gold, however comely the owner?

Jaime supposed he ought to be glad the king was wasting his seed in whores, yet another part of him couldn't help feeling vexed at Cersei being dishonored so. Is my sister not good enough for you, Baratheon?

"Your Grace," he inclined his head with polite deference and placed one hand upon the hilt of his sword, ready to guard this man against any attacker. He had considerable experience guarding men he despised. Robert, of course, took no notice, oblivious cuckold that he was.

The man was still half drunk, groping ineffectually for a winesoaked doublet cast aside in the night. Those were powerful arms still, Jaime had to admit. Though our Robert had grown a belly that jutted out over his belt like a feastday ham, his shoulders and chest were still corded with muscle enough to see to old Balon Greyjoys pretensions at independence.

What a jolly little war that was, he thought. Father was still cross about his fleet being burned at anchor, but losses are inevitable in battle. As a nice bonus, he'd had Cersei all to himself for far longer than usual. They lived almost as true husband and wife, the dream of his boyhood.

At a signal from the king, the doorward entered to help him dress, and another servant was sent off to bring food. Jaime watched to make sure nothing untoward happened, not that it ever did. The people, such as they are, loved their warrior king. They took the long summer that set in after his ascension for a sign from the gods, and they'd had years of peace and plenty, saving that short diversion to the Iron Islands, whose ripples never reached this side of Westeros in any case.

Watching Robert eat proved a trial, yet Jaime persisted manfully. The light meal he'd had with Cersei, Tyrion, and young Joff rumbled unpleasantly as the king did his best impression of a pig in a trough, but Ser Jaime Lannister managed to keep it down. He was a knight, after all.

"Right, Kingslayer, with me," Robert ordered after rising from his bed. He'd left quite a few crumbs of bread and cheese and bacon upon the coverlet, and upon his Royal Person, yet Jaime knew better than to say ought over it. Rather, he fell behind wordlessly as the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms quit his chambers after some business or other. A herald from Jon Arryn, the Hand, tried to catch his attention, but Robert brushed the lad off with a curse.

They continued down spiral staircases and past the dry moat of Maegor's Holdfast, and Jaime couldn't resist looking down at the spikes below.

An unpleasant end for any fellow who loses his wits on this drawbridge, he thought, envisioning Robert spitted upon one of them like those boars he was so fond of hunting. No, mustn't imagine the death of the king, he castigated himself. He was a knight of the Kingsguard and must be about his duties.

Servants and court functionaries of every description threw themselves out of the way as the king walked with long-strided purpose. He was, after all, six and a half feet tall. Matching those longshanks would be impossible for any save for perhaps a Clegane. Men bowed, ladies curtsied, yet Robert took no notice. They passed from one tower, walking along the curtain wall into another, and started descending.

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The small hall is in the other direction, Jaime thought in confusion. Wherever could they be going? King Robert oft shirked his duties, but this was passing strange. Anything he might wish, whether whores, food, or drink, could be brought to him, for he was the king. What brought him hence? The blond knight puzzled over these questions as they descended one of the lesser towers. Even with the high walls round them, the stench of Fleabottom could be smelled upon a breeze out of Blackwater Bay. Surely, this was no place for a king.

"Brother! Fancy seeing you here!" young Tyrion greeted him in passing, before bowing to the king. "Your Grace, it is an honor. Here to see the boy?" Mismatched eyes danced in merriment when the king grunted in affirmation.

"The boy?" Jaime asked, forgetting himself. Typically, it was not the province of the Kingsguard to speak unless directly questioned. His duty lay with shadowing the king, always ready to draw a blade in his defense, nothing more.

The three of them continued down to the base of the tower, exiting into an elevated walkway above the Red Keep's training yard, a familiar enough sight, yet altogether puzzling. Did Robert want to fight today? He hadn't trained in quite a while.

"Prince Joffrey's attendance upon his swordship has been exemplary of late," Tyrion explained.

Now that Tyrion mentioned it, Jaime seemed to remember remarking upon the same. Every morning after breaking his fast, Joff would be off like a quarrel from a crossbow, with no signs of slowing. He knew because Cersei complained of it for months on end. Women, he laughed internally. Is she surprised her son takes to swords? What boy wouldn't?

"What in Seven Hells is the boy doing?" Robert demanded gruffly.

With a keen eye, Jaime speedily scanned the field, spotting the lad at once. Joff, clad in a plain padded gambeson, was stepping in a queer way, lowering his knee to the ground with every stride.

"Walking lunges, he calls them," Tyrion offered helpfully. "Our Prince told me it helps to warm him up before training begins."

"Eh, there's no harm in it, I suppose. Ser Aron Santagar told me the boy showed promise, at last. Mayhaps it's too much to hope that one clout on the ear set him straight, but a father hopes all the same."

"Ser Aron said that himself?" Jaime asked in interest. Even though he was bigger and faster, Ser Aron could still score hits on him from time to time. Why make him the master-at-arms elsewise?

"Yes, that tricksy old Dornishman wouldn't bullshit me," Robert replied, his eyes fixed on the lad.

"Oh, yes," Tyrion added. He'd climbed upon the short wall to get a better look. "Ser Aron said much the same to me. Young Joffrey can even best lads a year or two older, already."

"Is that so?" Something approaching pride crept into the king's voice.

"Just so. See there? He circles his arms like that to 'warm up' as well. Our prince is ever so particular about 'warming up'."

"Mmm," Robert grunted. "Knights do any number of queer things before battles, so I'll say nought against it." Then he ducked down suddenly; the king's prodigious height made the act as comical as a dancing bear. "Stay low, you two. I want to see how he fights when he doesn't know he's being watched."

Tyrion grinned at Robert's bent form. "I believe your grace is in for a real treat. There is a nice concealed alcove to watch from, just follow me."