A Golden Path: Design 3.5 (ch. 28)

The view of Casterly Rock hadn't changed, and the lack of it almost felt like a betrayal in Jaime Lannister's mind, as he looked on from above at the training yard that was filled with knights teaching their squires. It was full day and night since the Royal Wedding, where the Westerlands had been amongst the first to be eliminated from the Melee and that was an unacceptable humiliation in the eyes of his father, Tywin Lannister. 

The knights and lords were compelled to drill and train, as if that could wash out the stain on their honor. Though, most didn't need to be compelled. Their early elimination and failure to place high in any of the main events of the wedding made many knights eager to prove themselves -- if only so that they could claim that things would have been different if they had participated in the Melee. 

It was an added sting that the North, the kingdom that all had dismissed, ended up sweeping the entire event. They won the Melee, the Archery, and the Duels. They didn't win the Joust, as they didn't compete in it, and that victory had gone to Prince Rhaegar. The Westerlands hadn't placed in the top three in any event, and the only mollification was that most of their fellow kingdoms hadn't either. 

There was an urge to go down there and join them. Yet, as it had been every time, the urge was quelled when his hand reached out to the empty sleeve that dangled where his arm had been. The stump ended just under his shoulder, where an ugly flap of skin had been peeled back and stitched over the stump. It was healing well, according to the Maester, so there was that, he supposed. It still itched like mad, though, and all too often, he found himself reaching for things with a hand he no longer possessed. 

“I didn't lose my sword arm,” Jaime reminded himself in a low whisper. He could still fight. He wouldn't be able to wield a shield, and many stances or flourishes would be denied to him, not to mention he would tire easier -- but he could still fight. He had enough talent to make up the difference. He just needed to put in the work to account for his… maiming and he would be as he was before. They would look at him and speak of him as they did before. 

Yet, his feet remained firmly planted where he stood, half hidden from those below that were too focused to look up to notice him. 

Or, at least he had assumed as much. One squire, a boy that he had once trounced so thoroughly that Jaime couldn't even remember his name, was thrown onto his back and looked up. Despite all the odds, their eyes met for a brief moment before Jaime found himself stepping back reflexively. He felt ashamed. Then anger at himself for feeling ashamed. 

A sound of disgust ripped itself from his throat as he turned away, though he wasn't sure what or who the disgust was aimed towards. He walked away from the balcony, his footsteps echoing down the halls of his family castle. 

Castlery Rock hadn't originally started out as a mine, as the stories went, with the halls and rooms carved out of the mountain as his ancestors dug ever deeper for gold. At some point, they mined enough of it that they could leave veins of it in the walls, untapped as common decoration. It also meant that the castle was a maze of tunnels and stairs, so only someone who had lived there their entire lives would be able to make sense of them. 

But Jaime let himself get lost, wandering aimlessly. His father would be angry with him for missing a lesson or something, but he'd be just as angry if he showed up. The past few months hadn't been kind to his father, Jaime knew. He had plenty to complain about. 

Being stripped of his position of Hand of the King. A position that he hated, but the only thing he hated more was something being taken from him. 

Apparently his bride, Lysa Tully, was despoiled by some lordling from the Fingers in Vale and went quite mad with grief. There was even a song about it. A catchy one too. 

Performing poorly in the Melee was troublesome, but to top it all off, his lovable son and heir loses an arm and becomes a cripple. 

His father had plenty of reasons to be angry, it seemed. So one more would hardly matter. Leaving him to walk the halls that he once strutted down with a sense of invincibility that he lost with his arm. The very worst part of it was that he didn't have anyone to blame but himself and his father. 

Robert maimed him, and as easy as it would be to blame him, getting angry at him for a fight that he provoked felt pathetic. He fought and he lost. That was that. It was just an arm. That's why the gods had the wisdom to give people two. 

Losing the arm itself wasn't Jaime's problem. It was… everything else that came with the loss. 

A servant turned the corner ahead of him, and she stopped for the briefest of moments. Hesitating as she stared for a beat too long before blowing her gaze. It was almost normal -- the smallfolk and servants would normally stop and stare at their betters, but the contents of her stare was wrong. Why she stared was wrong. It wasn't the quiet awe of seeing the heir of the Westernlands or a primer knight who would one day carve his name into legend. 

There was pity instead of awe. Revulsion instead of respect. 

It felt like he had lost some kind of glamor that had been cast upon him since the moment he was born, and while he found the smallfolk and lesser nobilities vapid attention tedious and annoying to deal with at the best of times… in its absence, he felt… unsteady. As if the ground had shifted under his feet and he was walking on legs as uncertain as a newborn fawn. 

“Jaime!” He heard a familiar voice call out to him, snapping him from his thoughts. He glanced over his shoulder, hearing a familiar gait approach from behind and he saw Tyrion's smiling face as he chased after him. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead, and Jaime felt his insides twist. Tyrion had been looking for him, he knew instantly, and the many steps of Casterly Rock weren't kind for dwarves. “Uncle Gerion is looking for you, but I found you first!” 

Tyrion was ten years old, but he looked younger. His hair was a pale gold, his eyes mismatched with one a Lannister green while the other was so dark it was practically black. Yet, he smiled as he grabbed hold of Jaime's remaining hand. Jaime had to force a smile, “Did he say what for?” 

“He called you a slacker who needs a kick square in the rump- he used a different word,” Tyrion added with a conspiral whisper. Jaime chuckled at that -- Tyrion had two loves in his life. One was books, and the other was gossip. Which was a challenge because he couldn't keep a secret to save his life. “What are you doing down here, though? Are you looking for something?” 

‘My self respect.’ The easy quip almost made it past his lips, but he swallowed it down. It was so easy to gripe about what he lost and to wallow in his bitterness, but never in front of Tyrion. Tyrion, who never even had what Jaime had lost. The stares and whispers he was forced to put up with were something that Tyrion had to endure for his entire life. 

As much as it might sting and as humiliating as it might be -- Jaime couldn't become a swordsman again. He might not become a knight, as he had always dreamed of, but he could still fight. Tyrion could only ever be a dwarf. 

“Just felt like taking a walk,” Jaime said instead. Tyrion had a strength that Jaime hadn't appreciated until he lost his arm. The stares bothered him in a way that he struggled to comprehend -- they were just different in a way that rubbed him wrong. People looked at him as if he had only ever been that arm, and didn't know what to make of him without it. And it hadn't even been his damned sword arm either. “Didn't fancy listening to whatever lecture Father had to give. Might have made an exception for Uncle Gerion, though.” 

Tyrion laughed, “Well, you can't get into any more trouble. Wanna see a secret?” Tyrion asked, the excitement in his eyes stating that there was only one right answer. 

“I'd love to see a secret,” Jaime replied, and Tyrion took off, dragging him behind as fast as his stunted legs could carry him. 

“I found it when I went to hide from Cersei- she and her friends were being mean to me,” Tyrion chatted casually, uttering a brutal truth that struck him like a fist to the gut. “Since then, it's been my favorite spot. No one finds me there.” 

Guilt churned in his gut like a poison. He had known, of course. Cersei never hid her hatred of Tyrion. She'd mock him to his face as freely as she did behind his back. He did what he could -- or at least, that's what it felt like at the time. But now, Cersei, she- 

Jaime crushed that line of thought until it was nothing. 

Instead, he focused on remembering the winding path that they had taken until Tyrion stopped before a cabinet. After making sure that no one was looking, he pushed it to the side, revealing that it was on wheels and a small door. Immediately, Jaime's eyebrows climbed up and Tyrion ushered him inside. He had to crawl on his knees to get in, but when he did, he found that the room was surprisingly spacious. 

Not massive by any means, but roughly half the size of his bedroom. It was currently cluttered with odds and ends, some looking absolutely ancient, telling Jaime that Tyrion wasn't the first to discover the secret room. It looked like many had over the centuries, a room where one could hide from their work or chores, each leaving behind something for the next person to find it. As for what Tyrion used it for… 

“I see where all the books in the library have vanished to,” Jaime remarked, amused as he picked one up from a pile that was as tall as Tyrion. He took a moment to puzzle out what the title said -- letters always looked like gibberish to him, but gibberish he managed to decipher due to painfully long tutoring sessions with his father. “You've been driving Maester Tyget crazy, you know that, right?” 

“He wouldn't let me read them,” Tyrion justified his theft easily. “So I took them. That makes me a conqueror, like Aegon," Tyrion half babbled as he pulled the cabinet back into place with a rope before closing the door behind him. They were plunged into darkness until Tyrion found a candle and lit it. “Do you like it?” 

“It's fantastic,” Jaime agreed. He hadn't known what to expect but this certainly wasn't it -- a genuine secret room. He wasn't sure if he ever wanted to leave. 

“You can come here whenever you want- just don't lead father down here,” Tyrion pleaded, taking a seat on the floor and grabbing a book. “Or Cersei.” 

“You have my word, Tyrion," Jaime swore, earning a relieved look from his little brother. Then an uncomfortable one. 

“It can be our place. Since Cersei is being mean to you too,” Tyrion added, and Jaime really wished that he hadn't. He didn't want to think about Cersei. He didn't want to think about anything she said. Because, if he did, then…

Cersei always said that they were two halves of the same person. They were twins, mirror reflections of each other, and when they were together, they were perfect. He never thought about the future much beyond the fact that he would probably become Lord of the Westerlands at some point and a knight, but Cersei had always been a permanent fixture in that vaguely defined future. 

He could put up with the others looking at him like he was different. Like he was a cripple. 

But what he hadn't been able to shake was the look on Cersei's face when she saw his missing arm with her own eyes. She looked at him with such… disappointment. Disgust. She looked at him like she had no idea who he was with all of the sweet words and whispered promises being tossed out like they were nothing. 

It took Jaime a moment to find his voice, “Yeah. She's being… mean to me too,” He uttered flatly. Then he grimaced, “Sorry.” 

It was heartbreaking that Tyrion looked at him like he had no idea what Jaime could be apologizing for. “For what?” 

“For being a bad brother,” he confessed. There was a part of him that felt ashamed that he was in such a state that Tyrion of all people was pitying him, but that was overshadowed by gratitude. That, in turn, was being overshadowed by guilt because he was forced to confront the fact that he hadn't done the same for him. “With you and Cersei… I tried to put myself in the middle of it. To… protect you from her. But I think I did a pretty bad job of it, so… sorry.” 

Tyrion shrugged, “It's Cersei.” he replied, like that was all that needed to be said. And the sad thing was, it might be. “She's going to marry that guy in the Vale, so we won't need to see her ever again. It's practically on the other side of the Seven Kingdoms!” He added excitedly, like he was counting the days until she left. 

He probably was. 

He wouldn't have to wait long. Cersei would be marrying Ecbert Arryn within a month. His own marriage may be delayed on account that his intended was a tiny bit insane at the moment, and Tywin Lannister would never accept damaged goods as Lady Lannister for his heir. He didn't particularly want to marry Lysa Tully, but it was still irritating to have such things decided for him. 

“You're right,” Jaime agreed. “A few more weeks and no more Cersei,” he mused, unsure how to feel about that. He should be heartbroken. Grieving. He should even be angry. Yet, every time he started, he saw that look in her eyes flash in his mind. And he was reminded of the fact that as much as he had been avoiding Cersei… Cersei had been avoiding him. “What will you do then?” 

“I dunno,” Tyrion replied honestly, shrugging at him. “Uncle Kevan says that just because I can't be a warrior like you are, I can still be helpful when you become Lord of the Westerlands. That's why I read books- I know you don't like to. So, I'll read them and tell you what they say!” 

Gods, he was such a shit. For a moment, Jaime wished he could reach back in time and throttle his past self. 

“I appreciate it, Tyrion,” Jaime said, though that wasn't what he appreciated. “But, I don’t know how good of a Lord I can be. I… never really cared about it, you know? I just wanted to be a knight. Now I can’t even be that,” he admitted, unable to keep the bitterness from leaking into his voice. 

The very worst part of it was that he agreed with them -- the pissant servants, Cersei, all of them. He had no idea who he was supposed to be without his ability to fight. He was meant to be one of the greatest knights of the age, but… 

“That’s why I’ll help you,” Tryion replied, as if it was obvious and he was being particularly dense. Jaime supposed he deserved that. “And you can learn to be a good lord, you know? That’s what Father is always trying to teach you,” he pointed out, and Jaime heard the bitterness that lurked beneath.

He felt like a right bastard the moment that he heard it. As much as he hated how the others looked at him, how Tyrion was looking at him almost felt worse. There were expectations in his eyes that Jaime didn’t know he could meet. Not when it came to being a lord- who respected a maimed lord anyway? He wouldn’t. He hadn’t respected anyone who couldn’t fight, and he knew there was no end to half-wits like him who would think the same. 

“I’m not sure something like that can really be taught,” Jaime deflected, his lips thinning as he looked away from Tyrion. To the book that he had picked up and rested in his lap. ‘Tale of Four Kings.’ It was an honest wonder how Tryion managed to sneak it out -- it was about as big as he was. 

“Jaime,” Tyrion started, a seriousness in his voice that made him look up. “You can’t just give up because you lost an arm. Just like I can’t give up just because I’m a dwarf. You have to try. And practice. Like you did with a sword- you can still practice with a sword too,” he added, the words coming out as a jumbled mess, but the intent was clear and it cut through Jaime like a knife. 

Because he wondered how much of that Tyrion had told himself. 

So, he closed his eyes and took a breath. And when he opened them, he spoke, “Okay. I’ll try. And between the two of us, the Westerlands will never have better.”

He didn’t believe the words he said. Not even close. He wouldn’t believe them if he ever did. But, he figured if he told himself that same lie, then eventually he would start to believe it. For now, though, Tyrion lit up like a candle, so thoroughly pleased with himself that his attempts at cheering him up had worked and he scooted over to Jaime’s side to crack open the doorstopper of a book, claiming that it was important to learn from. 

And that was enough for Jaime.