Chapter Text
Nobody's going to recognise me, Jaime tells himself as he approaches the makeshift marquee the production crew have set up on this side of the Gods Eye, his microphone pack clipped to his belt.
Nobody's going to recognise me, he reiterates, as he greets Petyr Baelish – the Executive Producer – who has come all the way here from King's Landing to make sure this all goes off without a hitch.
Nobody's going to recognise me, it's been ten years, he thinks, as he tries not to regret what he has signed himself up for.
"Welcome, Mr Lannister," says Petyr, with a plastic smile on his face. "I assume my PA told you everything back at the hotel?"
"Err..." Jaime shrugs. He's not sure what everything means.
"Your car is waiting for you on the other side of this marquee. You won't be the only contestant in the vehicle – Weirflix hasn't given us a big enough budget for all our guests to be privately chauffeured – but see this as an opportunity to get to know the people you are going to spend the next week or so of your life with. It will help you to sus everyone out... to decide if you can spot any potential friends or allies."
"Do contestants usually piece everything together in the short car drive round the Gods Eye?" Jaime asks flippantly.
"Last year, it was a connection first struck on this very car ride that took Terrence Toyne and Bethany Bracken all the way to the final... before they were both stabbed in the back by a traitor, costing them the jackpot."
As Baelish snickers almost malevolently at that horrible memory, Jaime hears a car pulling up on the other side of the marquee. His ride is here, and he's glad he will soon be free of Baelish. Although he had always suspected slimy producers and untalented "talent" would be part-and-parcel of being on a reality show, Jaime hadn't foreseen that Baelish would be so unashamedly obnoxious.
"Ah, your car," says Baelish. In the distance, a door swings open, and Baelish extends a lily-white hand towards his fresh-faced contestant. Jaime feels himself tensing; he had thought he had more time to work out how to play it. "Well, it's been lovely to meet you Mr Lannister, I... oh."
Jaime tries not to flinch. Surely, he should now be immune to this horrible, sickly, sinking feeling every time someone reacts badly to his hand? It's not as if it happened recently – it's been ten years – and it is not as if he expects a cutthroat TV producer like Petyr Baelish to behave sympathetically anyway. Nevertheless, Jaime still finds it difficult to meet Baelish's eye when the latter withdraws his hand, reneging on the polite shake, then extends it towards the open tent flap.
"Please, Mr Lannister... your carriage awaits."
---
Jaime had hoped that he might start to feel a little more comfortable once he was out of Baelish's cool, cold gaze, but that wasn't to be. The car the production team have sent is a sleek black Jeep, and Jaime can just make out through the tinted windows that there are already three fellow contestants waiting for him in the back.
He sighs, then takes a deep breath.
This was your stupid idea, Jaime, no one else's, he reminds himself.
Standing here, just a few miles away from the ancient castle of Harrenhal, Jaime can't think what possessed him to apply for The Traitors, Westeros' biggest reality TV show. It is not as if he is an influencer wanting to draw people to his social media profile, or a fame hungry wannabe who will do anything to get on TV. Neither is he particularly interested in playing games: at Sevenmas, he always falls asleep – eggnog in hand – halfway through Monopoly: Westeros Edition with Tyrion. If he didn't really need the money, Jaime would never dream of making himself a laughing stock on national television.
Yet here he is.
"Hello! Hello! It's lovely to meet you!"
Behind the car door are three (well, two-and-a-half) smiling faces. The first belongs to an attractive redhead in her early forties, who had been the one to call out to Jaime. To her right, sits a young man half her age with deep auburn hair, and opposite him a solemn looking man, a contemporary of the woman. Given the way they are all intently staring at him, Jaime feels as if he has accidentally stumbled into a cult meeting, and he is soon to be unwittingly sacrificed to one of the Old Gods.
"Hi," says Jaime, climbing into the seat beside the solemn looking man as one of Baelish's lackeys shuts the door behind him. "Have you guys been waiting for long?"
The red headed woman shakes her head, a tentative smile on her face. "No, we haven't."
At that, the driver kicks the car into gear, causing the passengers to go jolting forward. Everyone immediately focusses on fastening their seatbelts, so much so that they miss the moment the car pulls away from the marquee and onto the main road. Back at the hotel, Baelish's assistant had told Jaime that the car ride to Harrenhal would only take ten minutes, but that – if necessary – the driver would take them round and round the Gods Eye until the contestants had produced a naturalistic introductory conversation that could be used in the first episode of the show.
"No," says the redheaded woman again once everyone is safely plugged in. It is clear Jaime's question hasn't been forgotten, and she's determined to give Baelish the TV goods he needs. "Not long. Only a few moments. We haven't even had a time to do names yet. I'm Catelyn."
"Hi Catelyn," says Jaime, extending his good hand for a shake. "I'm Jaime."
Catelyn's smile blooms. "Lovely to meet you, Jaime. What is it you do? I want to work out if we have any expert traitor hunters on our team."
At her question, Jaime lets out an awkward laugh, and tries not to blush. "Well... to be honest... I'm in between jobs at the moment... but I used to work for my father's company. It had interests in both mining and off-shore oil."
It's not a lie, Jaime reminds himself. Just not the whole truth.
Nobody's going to recognise me. Nobody's going to recognise me. It's been ten years.
Catelyn nods, clearly not sensing his omission.
"Well, I work at an art gallery in Winterfell, and am particularly involved in acquisitions. I'm good at spotting forgeries, but I'm not so sure about traitors." With that Catelyn turns to look at the young man beside her. "And what's your name?"
He blinks. "Err... Robb."
"And what do you do for a living, Robb?"
"I've just finished my degree at the Citadel in Oldtown. It's in criminology."
Catelyn seems excited by that, as she breaks into a mini-applause. "Wonderful! That's exactly the sort of skills we need to crack a traitor. And you are?"
It takes the solemn man a few moments to realise that Catelyn is talking to him. "Oh... I'm Ned."
"Ed?"
"No, Ned." He looks down at his hands for a moment before turning to meet Jaime's gaze. "I used to work in the Police Service up in Winterfell until a few years ago, when I retired."
Catelyn looks about to jump in with another inane comment about traitor hunting skills, but Jaime beats her to it and his raises eyebrows. "Oh? So, you and Catelyn are both Northerners? Do you know each other?"
Jaime had only asked that question as a joke, a casual icebreaker, but then there is a long, lingering moment in which Ned and Catelyn look at each other, gaze heavy. It is only broken when Catelyn lets out a tittering laugh.
"The North is a big place, Jaime. Of course we don't know each other."
"Yeah, of course we don't," echoes Ned. "The North is a big place. Cat and I definitely don't know each other."
After the strange intimacy of Cat, Catelyn fixes Jaime with a slightly pained smile. "And anyway, I'm from the Riverlands originally."
---
The driver of the car had clearly been told through their earpiece that they had got enough juicy content from the short car ride Jaime shared with Catelyn, Ned, and Robb, because after only about twenty minutes of spinning in circles they are driven up the long lawn of Harrenhal. Jaime is used to fancy estates – he grew up a Lannister, after all – but there is something about the dark, gothic brickwork of the restored castle that sends a shiver up Jaime's spine.
"Oh wow," says Robb, gawping with wide eyes as they pull up to the castle. "I've never seen anything like it."
As the car comes to a stop, Jaime gets a good view of his home for the next week or so. Just a few years ago, Harrenhal had once been dilapidated ruin, but ever since the Fisher King's throne had been found under a nearby car park, the Westerosi Government had pushed to turn it into a tourism centre. Within the castle's old crumbling walls, a luxury hotel and spa had been built, with scenic views over the Gods Eye. Jaime is sure that the choice would infuriate the historical purists, but to his untrained eyes the castle looks like a great place to stay.
It might be the highlight of my whole week, he muses.
Robb is still busy goggling when their car pulls up in front of the restored doors of the castle, but Jaime himself has his eyes on other prizes. It seems as if their car is not the first to make it to Harrenhal. There are already three people waiting on the drive, engaging in polite conversation with one another to avoid the intrusive glare of the cameras.
When they exit the car, Catelyn is already on the fresh meat, armed with her personable aura. She extends a hand to the young woman of no more than twenty waiting on the gravel, who returns her smile with a glittering grin of her own.
"I'm Catelyn. It's so nice to meet you. And you are?"
"Daenerys," says the young woman. "And this is Cleos."
The weak-chinned man beside Daenerys gives Catelyn a nod of greeting.
As Daenerys and Cleos begin to make introductions to Ned and Robb, Jaime turns his attention to the third man at this unknown gathering. He has shifty, narrow eyes, and a long goatee that he clearly enjoys fondling with his spindly fingers.
"Hi, I'm Jaime." He extends his good hand to the man in greeting. "Have you been here long?"
The man shakes his head. "Only a few moments. I doubt Baelish wants to lessthen the tension by giving us time to relax. The most exquisthite psychological torture can be drawn out in both hoursth of playing with one'sth victim and sthplit-sthecond evisthceration."
Jaime blinks, disturbed.
"I'm Vargo Hoat, by the way. What did you sthay your name was again?"
"Errr... Jaime."
The pair shake hands, and Jaime tries to ignore how cold Vargo's fingers are.
"What do you do for a living?" Jaime asks, trying to get Vargo off the topic of serial killing and towards something more congenial. "Do you have any skills that could help us find a traitor?"
"I work at an abattoir."
Jaime blinks again, almost out of routine rather than surprise. "An abattoir? As in..."
"Sthlaughtering livesthtock, yeth." There is something in Vargo's voice that sends a chill down Jaime's spine. "I don't know how the role will prepare me for hunting traitors, but it will make me perfectly capable of disthpatching a faithful should I need to."
Given that Jaime had precisely nothing to say to that, he's very glad that at that moment another car pulls up on the drive. Leaving Vargo – who has the approach of a depraved mortician – behind, Jaime turns his attention towards the new arrivals, who have a markedly jollier bedside manner. One of them is almost too jolly, as Jaime is almost crushed by a man in an expensive orange safari suit, who pulls him into a bear hug before even knowing his name.
"Ah, it's wonderful to meet you. My name is Oberyn, Oberyn Martell. And who are you?"
After Oberyn comes Ygritte and Theon, and then Jaime starts to forget everyone's names. Car after car arrives filled with two, three, and sometimes four people, all eager to be on TV and start playing the game. As new arrivals wend their way through the gathered contestants, Jaime finds himself trying to guess who looks trustworthy and who doesn't. Apart from the terrifying Vargo on one end and a female giantess with the softest, sweetest, bluest eyes he's ever seen in his life, Jaime has to admit to himself it is going to be hard to tell friend from foe.
But I've got to win this game, Jaime reminds himself as he shakes hands with yet another stranger. I need that money. I'll never be free without that money.
Being aware of that certainty, Jaime makes sure to be the most agreeable, approachable version of himself... which is a bit of a struggle, if he's being honest. Jaime's life in the last few years has mostly consisted of sitting in Tyrion's gaming room playing The Long Night II and drinking beer, so having to be bright and bubbly and sociable with people feels a little draining. However, he just about manages to keep it together until the final car pulls up on the driveway.
Oh shit...
He is taking part in a polite tête-à-tête with Ygritte when he spots her. Tall, blonde, and drop-dead gorgeous, she has hardly aged a day since he had last seen her. That day nine-and-a-half years ago had been one of the worst days of his whole life. He had thought she had come round to drop off anti-inflammation cream that would aid his recovery, but instead she had flipped her waterfall blonde hair over her shoulder and ended their engagement. It had been a Wednesday afternoon.
Cersei?
Her name becomes stuck in his throat as she floats across the drive towards him, the coquettish grin she had first adopted as a teenager still stretched across her face. It's like seeing a ghost, a dream, and a nightmare all wrapped in a faux-silk dress.
"Hello," she says, her voice light and sweet, to a brown-haired man Jaime has not yet spoken to. "My name is Cersei. What's yours?"
The man blinks, almost as if he is star struck. "H-H-Hyle. My name is Hyle."
"Wonderful to meet you, Hyle. And, you are?"
Like a sharpshooter at a rifle competition, Cersei picks off her opponents one at a time, aiming a question and a smile at each of them in turn. Jaime can only stare, his mouth agape. It's not that he is still in love with her after all these years – that would be preposterous considering the way she had treated him – but her callous demeanour is still so shocking. Once, her total disregard for everyone else had been a charming quirk, a woman getting what he wants. Now that he is able to see it for what it is, Jaime is wise enough to realise that Cersei is callous enough to be a deadly rival in this game.
Let's hope we are on the same team, he thinks.
"Hello, I'm Cersei. What's your name?"
Given their close acquaintance, it takes Jaime a few moments to realise that Cersei is speaking to him. She extends her hand towards him like she would a perfect stranger, as if that very same hand hadn't been wrapped around his cock, pleasuring him, half hundred times before. He stares at her, unblinking, before the realisation hits.
She's on a game show, just like I am. And I need to win.
"Hello," he parrots back, shaking Cersei's hand just as he had Ygritte's and Oberyn's and Jon's, as if he's never met her before in her life. "I'm Jaime. Are you sure we haven't met before?"
The corner of Cersei's smile curls up into a grimace. "Positive. You'd never forget a face like mine."
"Of course," he replies, before pulling her close and whispering in her ear. "Although, I have to say it looked better before all the Botox."
When he moves away from her, he is gratified to see the sunny visage cracking. Underneath her gemstone eyes, he can see all the rage, hate, and bitterness bubbling under Cersei's polished lacquer. Clearly sensing defeat, she turns her back on Jaime, and loops her arm through that belonging to a nearby model. He's so beautiful that he could almost be Cersei's twin.
"Aurane, did I just hear you say you had sailing experience? That might be useful for some of the challenges..."
As Cersei is submerged by the sound of her own, ceaseless chatter, Jaime turns his attention back to the other contestants. Going by his last mental headcount, Jaime figures there is probably around twenty-two of them now, which was the exact number of participants in the previous series of The Traitors. Most of the contestants have now broken off into groups and are having oversized conversations in the hope that one of them will be picked up by the watching cameras, but there are a few outliers. In particular, there is one contestant who is clearly not comfortable playing the game yet. She's the awkward looking giantess with big, dumb sapphires stuck into her sockets in place of her eyes he had noticed earlier, the only person who Jaime as clocked as somewhat trustworthy looking. While the others mingle and get to know one another, she is hovering – unspeaking – next to a young man who is hoovering up all her attention. Jaime had been introduced to him briefly but can't remember his name. What was it? Benjen? Renly? Benfrey?
Whatever the answer, Jaime doesn't care. He's more interested in finding a friend to counter the axis of evil (aka. Cersei), and the awkward giantess seems a good bet. However, just as he gets close enough to speak to her, the great oak doors of Harrenhal comes swinging open, heralding that the game is afoot.
"Welcome, my darlings, to The Traitors!"
As the contestants around him begin to whoop and applaud, Jaime begins to take in the sight of Varys. He is one of Westeros' most famous (and outlandish) television presenters, and swathed in his extravagant purple suit, he lives up to his reputation. Jaime can also tell by his composed expression that Varys is ready for this game, rehearsed within an inch of his life to read out the script prepared by Littlefinger. Varys is also clearly conscious of where the hidden cameras are around the castle, as he seems to know the stance to take that will show off his best angles, whereas Jaime has not yet managed to spot one.
"How do you find my little weekend apartment?" asks Varys, gesturing towards Harrenhal.
"It's amazing," says Robb, still gawping.
"I'm glad to hear it! I do like it when guests enjoy the gothic luxury." As his captive audience laugh again, Varys rearranges himself for the camera, which Jaime assumes must be off to his left somewhere. "But you must remember this is no holiday. You are here to play a game, and there is no guarantee it will be you who wins."
Right at that moment, Cersei speaks up, as if she is reading out a line in a pre-written script. "What is the game, Varys?"
Varys' eyes twinkle. "That game is The Traitors, and your task is simple. Each and every day, you shall all take part in challenges to build the prize pot, which stands at a maximum of a quarter of a million dragons. Teamwork is vital, as the challenges will test your skill, endurance, and stamina."
Several people around Jaime gasp at the mention of the money, but he has no such reaction. Given how life changing the jackpot would be, he doesn't want to get his hopes up.
"But that is simple part of the game," titters Varys. "Today, you arrived at Harrenhal as faithfuls... but that will not last long, for our game needs its villains. On entering the castle, a secret group of traitors will be selected from among your number and, over the coming days, it is their goal to 'murder' the faithfuls one by one while avoiding being identified. It is up to the remaining faithfuls to work out who they are. Each evening, the contestants shall gather at the Round Table to banish one of your number who you believe to be a traitor in a vote... but beware. Your suspicions about your fellow players could prove to be completely wrong. Whether you choose correctly or not, the traitors will have the chance to get their revenge."
The contestants let out a chilled oooh at that pronouncement, but Varys ignores them and continues.
"Each night the traitors will murder one of the faithful, and as the numbers are whittled down it will become more and more difficult to trust your fellow players. Is your closest ally a friend, or will they stab you in the back when you least expect? To win the game, the faithfuls must vote out all the traitors until there are none left, and, if they are successful, they will share the prize money at the final Round Table. However, if a single traitor remains, they will take the entire prize pot for themself."
At Varys' clear instructions, all the contestants begin to look around at one another, sizing each other up. Jaime tries to catch the giantess' eye, but he discovers she is too busy looking at Benjen or Renly or Benfrey. Lost in the crowd, he turns back to Varys, hoping for a bit of direction.
"But first," drawls Varys. "A little game. I want you to rank yourself from most likely to win, to least likely to win. You have had time to get to know one another, so surely you have some idea of each other's skill sets. If the most likely to win could stand to the left here, and everyone else follow in an ordered line, I would be incredibly grateful. You have one minute. Go."
Varys has barely had time to finish his sentence before an older man with crooked teeth has stepped forward and taken charge of the whole situation. "Right, my name is Jon, I'm from the Vale of Arryn, and I think I've had a good chance to talk to everyone, so I might be able to make some suggestions of who should go where. Daenerys, didn't you say you had worked in political polling?"
Daenerys blinks, clearly surprised at being picked on. "Yes, I did."
"Well, why don't you stand somewhere near the top? I think you would be very good at telling friend from foe."
Daenerys seems quite pleased with that analysis of her character, so she goes to stand at the head of the line. Jaime just rolls his eyes and tries not to get involved. He knows that this early in the game there is no point sticking your head above the parapet, so he moves to stand somewhere in the middle of the line. Luckily, the Big Friendly Giantess comes to stand next to him, so he decides to make a friend.
"Hi," says Jaime, almost looking into the sun so he can catch her eye. Gods she is so tall. "I'm Jaime. What's your name?"
"Brienne."
"Brienne..." He muses on the word, taken aback by its unusualness. "Is that a type of cheese?"
She gives him a withering look. "No. That's brie."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes." She gives him a stern look. "Why are you standing here next to me?"
Jaime shrugs, laughing at his own joke. "I don't know. I like you, Emmental."
Brienne's eyes narrow. "Don't call me Emmental."
"Why not? You are a type of cheese, aren't you?"
"No."
"Then I'll have to come up with something else to call you." He muses on it for a moment. "What about wench. You are a big strapping girl."
Brienne's face turns the colour of salted ham. "How dare you? How–"
"Okay, not Brienne. Too rude." He thinks again, enjoying how easy it is to get a reaction out of her. "What about Freckles? You have got an amazing amount of them?"
Somehow, that comment manages to calm her down a little, and she just stares at him with those big blue eyes of hers. Searching, questioning... confused?
"No, I know what I should call you. Bluebell. It's just perfect!"
"I–"
Fortunately (or unfortunately), before Brienne can respond to her new nickname, Varys claps his hands to get their attention. In the time that Jaime and Brienne have been bickering, it appears that the other contestants have got themselves into the required line around them. Daenerys is still at the top with Cersei in second place, while down at the other end of the line is Robb. Jaime is happy he is hiding in the middle somewhere.
"Thank you for your compliance," says Varys, a small smile on his face. "Now, Daenerys, do you think you are arrogant? Too sure of your skills?"
Daenerys furrows her brow. She clearly hadn't been expecting this question. "No, I don't... I'm just confident in my abilities, and believe I'll make a good player."
Varys nods, before scanning his eyes down the entirety of the line, only stopping on Robb. "And Robb, why have you put yourself last? Do you not have any confidence at all?"
Robb looks just as confused as Daenerys had and shakes his head to Varys' question. "Somebody had to be at the end of the line, Varys. I know that I'll do what I need to do in this game, whatever happens. This line doesn't mean anything to me."
Varys' smile grows, as if he has just eyed up a very juicy joint of beef. "I'm afraid, Robb, that it does. Neither arrogance nor meekness are useful traits for faithfuls or traitors... so I am going to have to ask you both to leave the game."
A gasp goes up along the line. Daenerys' eyes seem as wide as the moon, while Robb's face has gone white. Cersei is trying to suppress a smile. The only person who seems composed enough to speak is Catelyn, who steps out of her position in the line with horror in her eyes.
"But you can't! It's too early in the game! And there are... rules!"
"And one of those rules is that you must always obey the Game Master." Varys holds his hands out towards Daenerys and Robb, contorting his face into something that resembles a sympathetic expression. "Daenerys, Robb, thank you so much for your time. You have been banished. If you could please return to the cars, our people will make sure you have all your suitcases as soon as possible."
Despite looking a little shellshocked, Daenerys manages to hold her head high as she walks past the other contestants, giving a few of them a nod of farewell. Robb is not so composed, as his eyes keep darting between Varys, Catelyn, Ned, and back again. Eventually, he finds it within himself to follow to Daenerys towards the vehicles. However, unlike her, he does not say goodbye.
"Varys," says Catelyn, her voice strangely thin. "Are they gone permanently? Are they–?'
The Presenter does not answer Catelyn's questions. He gestures for her to step back in line, before giving them all a plastic smile that seems strangely reminiscent of Baelish's.
"Now then," he says, honey-sweet. "Why don't you all come inside? The Traitors is waiting for you."