Early 285 AC – The Red Keep, King's Landing – The Tourney Grounds, Day After the First Nameday Feast
The morning sun cut through the chill mist over the tourney fields outside the city walls. The royal pavilion rose above the lists, draped in black velvet and crowned stags, banners snapping in the wind. Trumpets split the air, heralds bellowed names, and the crowd smallfolk crushed against the rails, lords in their boxes roared as the first tilts began.
In the royal pavilion, Queen Cersei sat straight-backed in crimson silk slashed with gold, Prince Lyonel bundled in thick furs on her lap. The one-year-old boy stared at the field with wide green eyes, tiny hands clutching the edge of his cloak as horses thundered past. Robert Baratheon sprawled beside her, already red-faced from ale, legs spread wide, one boot propped on the railing.
"Seven hells, woman, stop coddling the boy like he's made of glass," Robert growled, voice rough and loud enough for the nearby lords to glance over. "He's a Baratheon, not some simpering Lannister doll. Let him feel the cold builds character."
Cersei's lips thinned, but she kept her tone even. "He is only one, Your Grace. The wind bites."
Robert snorted, swigging from his flagon. "Bites? Good. Let it bite. My father threw me in the sea at three to teach me to swim. Look how I turned out." He laughed, a harsh bark. "Strong as an ox, king of the Seven Kingdoms, and I still fuck better than most men half my age."
Cersei's fingers tightened on Lyonel's cloak. She did not reply.
Robert leaned closer, breath sour with wine. "Don't give me that look, Cersei. You did your duty gave me a son. Soon you'll give me another one that's the role of a Queen that's all there is to it. Now let him watch real men fight instead of fussing over him like a wet nurse."
He turned away without waiting for an answer, bellowing down at the field. "Come on, you lot! Where's the blood? This is a prince's nameday, not a septon's tea party!"
The first few tilts passed hedge knights and minor lords splintering lances, one unhorsing another in a spray of wood and dirt. The crowd cheered, Robert roared approval, and Cersei sat silent, stroking Lyonel's dark curls.
Then Robert spotted the two white cloaks riding to the lists.
"Jaime! Barristan!" he shouted. "Get in there and give my boy something worth seeing! Kingslayer show these fools why Tywin's gold bought you that cloak!"
Jaime Lannister rode forward first, white armor gleaming, golden hair loose beneath his helm. He raised his lance in salute to the pavilion, offering Cersei and Lyonel a small, private smile before lowering his visor. Ser Barristan Selmy followed on a grey destrier, silver hair shining, posture rigid and impeccable. Barristan gave the royal family a solemn nod courteous, distant, his gaze sliding past Jaime with the same careful reserve he always showed the younger knight. The Kingslayer's white cloak was still a wound in Barristan's honor-bound eyes.
Robert slammed his flagon down. "Four hundred dragons on the Kingslayer! Let's see if that fancy sword arm can still swing a lance without a mad king to hold still for him!"
The crowd murmured some laughed, some shifted uncomfortably but Jaime only tilted his head in acknowledgment, smile unseen beneath the helm.
The herald called a different tilt first. Jaime was matched against a burly knight from the Stormlands, Ser Marlon Mooton's cousin, a man twice his bulk. Barristan waited his turn against a Dornish lance.
The first charge came.
Jaime's lance struck the Stormlander's shield dead-center. Wood exploded. The bigger man rocked back, then toppled from the saddle with a crash of armor. Jaime wheeled his horse, raising the broken stub of his lance in salute to the pavilion. The crowd erupted.
Robert pounded the railing. "That's it, Kingslayer! That's how you do it! My son's watching don't you dare look weak!"
Barristan's tilt followed. He met the Dornishman with perfect form lance steady, seat unmoving. One pass, clean strike, the Dornishman unhorsed. Barristan rode back without flourish, only a nod to the prince.
Robert guffawed. "See that, Cersei? Old Barristan still has it. Steady as stone. Unlike some who need to stab kings in the back to win glory."
Cersei's voice was ice. "Ser Barristan is an honorable man, Your Grace. As is my brother."
Robert waved a hand. "Honorable. Aye. And your brother's a kingslayer. Funny how that works."
He turned back to the field, shouting for the next pair.
Cersei leaned down to Lyonel, whispering so only he could hear. "Your uncle Jaime rides beautifully, doesn't he? Watch him. One day he might teach you if you would want that."
Lyonel's small hand reached toward the field where Jaime was riding back, helm off now, golden hair damp with sweat. Jaime caught the gesture, smiled soft, genuine and touched two fingers to his heart in quiet reply.
Inside the boy's body, the reincarnator felt the familiar warmth settle deeper.
Uncle Jaime for this past year he cared and spent more time with me then my own father who is too busy drinking, whoring and going on his stupid hunts. Not to mention putting the crown in a debt with those stupid tourneys and the way he spends coins.
Father might mock him , Ser Barristan might not trust and be cautious around him, but uncle Jaime was always there watching and protecting.
The tourney continued more lances splintering, more cheers rising, Robert's voice growing louder and cruder with every flagon. Prince Lyonel Baratheon, one year old, sat in his mother's arms and watched the man in white with eyes that remembered a different world.