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The ravens from the North were dark as ever: the West is rallying, and soon they will march.
A bout in the practice yard hadn't been enough to beat the echo of Aerys' laughter from his mind (Let them come!, he'd cackled, fit to match the messengers, And let them know the meaning of our Words!), but the night's furies met a hard match in the shine of day. Jaime was never one for thinking more than necessary, and life in the Guard afforded too much time for it.
Any escape was a welcome one — and better to swing a sword than to stand there, silently, clutching useless to the scabbard of the thing like his own limp prick.
Ahead on the path, Viserys bandied about a wooden blade, engrossed in some private child's drama. As he leaped to chase away the passing doves, every new jump was punctuated with its own short shout. A kitchen cat tore off past him, hissing, and the startled prince fell back nearly a foot, a hot glare shot to the retreating scrap of calico fur.
Jaime hesitated, eyeing Selmy at his vigil by the gate. Lurking in wait, more like, the man ought to have taken the gargoyle for his sigil; but little matter now, he was too cautious about the prince to ever interfere, as though he thought the boy made of precious glass and not so much sniveling flesh. Viserys cried out, slashing wild loops into the air. The studious schooling of his face almost reminded Jaime of another, now leagues away.
Tyrion , He reflected, has more grace.
"That's not how you hold a sword." He stooped low, kneeling to put himself at a height. The young prince's lip pushed out, tremulous, before fascination finally twisted the chastisement from his face. Viserys glanced up from the dirt, those pale, purple eyes oddly hungry between their two fat cheeks.
"How do you do it?" Not a question, but a demand. "Show me."
Pausing, the boy continued, his manners fumbling awkwardly out from the memories of that morning's lesson.
"— Please."
Jaime laughed.
"Like this, Your Grace."
His grip was gentle, guiding: Jaime pressed his hand into place, smoothed the knuckles over and down. When the boy had the way of it, Jaime thumped his palm over Viserys', once, before pulling away. It was a marvel that Rhaegar — famed, formidable Rhaegar — had never shown his youngest brother so, but the elder Dragon was busy about the work of a new family and war; instructing a squalling five-year-old in the battle-dance of sticks was surely no priority.
"Fingers that wiggle about in battle are the first to be chopped off. You have fury," The crinkle of a smile. "But you must practice control, Your Grace. It is the disciplined man that becomes a great knight."
Viserys drank in the words like the Grand Maester at his wine, his tiny mouth hung half-gaping.
"Will I be a great knight some day?"
"Some day," Jaime considered. "Some day, you might be a king."