At times, I felt discouraged. This happened at the moment when I started thinking about everything that lay ahead and what simply had to be done.
The ever-present threat that sooner or later someone would try to kill me again weighed heavily on me and created a kind of oppressive, unpleasant feeling. I even started having nightmares. In them, I was running somewhere, being chased, hearing screams, seeing flashes of flame, the clang of iron, and a viscous, sticky aura of doom…
The dreams brought no rest. I woke up exhausted, hollowed out, and set to work.
"Come in, uncle," I invited Jaime Lannister.
"Your Majesty," he bowed slightly and calmly entered my chambers, stopping in the middle of the room with his right hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He moved with great confidence and dexterity. From my modest experience with weapons in my past life, I still understood that such coordination was the result of long and painstaking training. But an iron hand can never replace a real one, no matter how you look at it…
It had been quite some time since I had met my entire family, but my relationship with Jaime still hadn't progressed much. Somehow, it was… difficult with him, I suppose. Both he and I subconsciously felt a certain barrier that hindered us equally. It seems that the knowledge of Joffrey's origins had left a significant mark on both of us. We didn't argue, but we couldn't talk normally either, stuck in some intermediate stage where you kind of know the person, but for some reason your relationship simply doesn't move forward.
In general, it wasn't easy with Jaime — just as it wasn't with Tywin and Cersei, though for completely different reasons.
"How's your hand?"
"My hand?" He hesitated for a moment and involuntarily glanced at the prosthesis. "Not bad, but it could be better."
"I'm very sorry that this happened," I expressed my belated attention. "I'm sure you fight just as well with your left hand."
"Not quite, Your Majesty," Jaime admitted. "But I'm working on it."
I didn't know if he was already taking lessons from Bronn or someone else, so I didn't pursue the subject.
"I would like to ask you to train me, Ser Jaime. Crossbows are beginning to tire me. It's time to take up the sword."
"Me?" His voice betrayed undisguised surprise.
"You, of all people. People consider you the best swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms. I think so too. So who else should I turn to but you? Not Oberyn Martell, surely?"
"Yes, he's not the one to turn to," Jaime agreed. He looked puzzled and seemed to be searching for the right words.
In general, I could guess what he was thinking. On the one hand, he was extremely pleased that his own son had finally taken notice of him and was asking him to teach him something. On the other hand, he was afraid to show that he was much less skilled with his left hand and now far from the ideal of a deadly, flawless warrior that everyone around him still believed him to be. In essence, he feared "losing face."
"The thing is, Your Majesty, that as Lord Commander, I have a tremendous amount of work to do. I'm sorry, but at the moment I can't spare any free time."
I suppose kings are obliged to take offense at being denied such an honor. But I did not take offense and simply asked:
"When will you be able to find the time?"
"In a month, Your Majesty," Jaime replied after calculating something in his mind.
"All right, then we'll start in a month. In the meantime, I'll work with Herald Orm."
I liked Jaime's answer. More than that — I was quite satisfied with it. My request would spur him to train more intensively so that in a month he could get into decent shape. And I had laid the first brick in our relationship by doing something nice for the man, asking him to be my teacher. After all, it is no problem for a king to find the right person — just announce your plans, and people will line up for the chance to fulfill them.
"Anything else, Your Majesty?" He looked around with a bored expression and pretended to pay attention.
"Where is your sword, Ser Jaime?"
"Which one?"
"The one Lord Tywin gave you. Why don't you carry it? And what did you name it, by the way?"
"I haven't come up with a name yet," Jaime admitted, clearly not expecting the conversation to take this turn.
"But you still have it?"
"Yes."
"I would like to see it on your belt," I remarked casually, and the Lord Commander nodded, taking note of my words.
I brought up the subject of swords for one reason only: I am a Lannister, and I have no desire to see family heirlooms — especially Valyrian swords — leave the family.
If Jaime doesn't need this blade or considers himself unworthy of owning it, then it would be wiser to put it away until the time comes, rather than hand it over to someone else, even if it is Brienne of Tarth. Such prestigious items should remain in the family. Tommen are growing up. And I expect that I will have children of my own in time. In any case, sooner or later, we will have someone worthy of such an honor.
So, I must try to keep the Valyrian sword in the family. Now I can only hope that Jaime will not part with the blade. However, knowing his character, I'm not sure my plan will work — no one can tell him what to do. Not his own father, not his son on the throne, not anyone else. He couldn't care less about anyone's opinion.
The next day, I found some time and began my first lesson. It was conducted by Herald Orm, who had already stocked up on everything necessary — blunt swords, quilted jackets to soften overly strong blows, and thick leather gloves. I could have done without all these excessive trappings, but let it be for the time being.
Among other things, I sent Robert to Tommen with an invitation to join.
Tommen arrived accompanied by two Gold Cloaks. He seemed both pleased and a little wary of his older brother's invitation.
(End of Chapter)
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