Chapter Text
In a month, four years will have passed since his sister’s death. Not a day has gone by since then that he has not relived her last, desperate moments, has not thought of her, dreamed of her, yearned for her. Jaime never truly liked King’s Landing, it already held too many dark memories for him by the time Robert was crowned, but without Cersei it is nearly impossible to find any part of the place he does not find ugly, and it only grows uglier with every passing day. It infuriates him whenever he hears someone declare the Red Keep has brightened since the new queen was crowned, as if Ned Stark’s insipid, blushing maiden of a daughter is somehow superior to his fierce, lion-hearted sister.
It is not uncommon for Jaime Lannister to think on how Sansa Stark is a poor replacement for his sister. Such thoughts usually come to him when he is made to stand guard outside her bedchambers at night. It is far more difficult to declare her an unworthy queen in the light of day when she has nothing but kind words for Cersei’s (his) children, when she sways her oafish husband toward the path of mercy instead of vengeance, when the smallfolk look upon her with barely concealed worship while she hands out golden dragons on the streets of Flea Bottom, and when her hair shines in the sun like red gold, making her look like the Maiden reborn in the winter blue and gray gowns she favors.
But outside her chambers at night it becomes clear to Jaime that Queen Sansa doesn’t have the same fire as Queen Cersei, that she doesn’t have it in her to survive this horrid place or her even more horrid husband much longer. It is obvious to anyone with eyes that the Queen has little if any love for her husband. While she attends Small Council with her father, Robert enjoys his whores in all corners of the Red Keep, sometimes not even having the grace to hide his infidelities behind closed doors. The young Sansa he remembers meeting at Winterfell loved songs and pretty things and looked at his nephew (his son) as if he was the golden knight she had been waiting for her entire life. Even in her worst nightmares, Jaime doesn’t think she ever imagined she would end up with a bitter, drunk, licentious old man like Robert Baratheon who grows fatter by the day and now looks upon her gray-eyed little sister with shameless lust. And, yet, when the King stumbles drunkenly to her chambers at night, the Queen does nothing. The only noises Jaime ever hears through the door are Robert’s grunts and complaints that she’s never wet enough for him, and he can just picture the girl, lying dutifully back, reciting prayers in her head as she waits for it all to be over. Cersei would have fought. Cersei always fought. Cersei was going to kill the bastard.
The queen’s second pregnancy has granted her a brief respite from her husband’s unwanted attentions. He wonders if the little queen had been clever enough to make that happen by claiming it was best for the baby, just as Cersei had done each time she grew full with child. In the early months of this pregnancy, Queen Sansa had glowed in a way that left even him in awe of her. But as her stomach grows larger and the birth draws nearer, her face grows darker and her eyes seem further and further away. It seems not even her smiling, blue-eyed son Rickard can cheer her up anymore. In all the years he’s been guarding her, they’ve hardly said more than a few words to each other, but her increasing misery wears on him until sometimes it’s all he can concentrate on.
The honorable Lord Eddard Stark should have run his best friend through with that ridiculous longsword of his years ago for the way Robert treats his precious daughter. But Jaime remembers the way the solemn man looked at him with disgust when he found the Mad King’s corpse at his feet and knows Ned doesn’t have it in him to be a Kingslayer.
He always assumed Queen Sansa Baratheon was just as much a martyr for duty as her father. That is why it comes as a shock when he opens the door to his chambers, more than ready to divest himself of his heavy armor after a long day of sparring with Ser Loras, to find the Queen sitting at the edge of his bed, hands folded primly in her lap. It is dark in the room and for a moment he mistakes her for Cersei, thinking she has come to him for a quick, passionate tryst before the King will start to question where she has gone. But even in the darkness, Sansa’s auburn hair manages to catch the faint light of the single candle she has lit and shine in a way that makes his breath catch.
“Your Grace—”
“No one can know I was here,” she says, before he can ask her what the hell she is doing in his chambers. “Especially the King. Can you promise me that, Ser Jaime? Or should I just go?”
Jaime has kept plenty of secrets from kings and lords and the entire the realm for that matter, is still keeping them to this day, so without a flicker of hesitation he answers with, “Certainly, Your Grace. What troubles you?”
He moves closer to have a better look at her face and finds a twisted, bitter smile there that reminds him painfully of his sister. “A great deal troubles me, Ser Jaime,” she answers, voice soft as a whisper. “But I think you might be able to help me. I’ve seen the way you—you look at my husband, and I know you have no more love for him than I do.”
“I swore to serve him not to love him, Your Grace.”
“As did I,” she murmurs, and he thinks he can see the glistening of tears in the corners of her pretty blue eyes. “But I also vowed to be a good and just queen when they placed the crown on my head, and I think I let my kingdom down by continuing to allow Robert to rule them.”
Jaime’s heart begins to thump violently against his chest. Surely she can’t truly mean what he thinks she means. Surely he misunderstands her. If nothing else the Starks are dutiful creatures. They are the kind of family that would never dream of slaying a king, the kind of family that prefers to look down their noses at the likes of him for that very reason. “Your Grace—?”
“Call me Sansa, if you will, while we speak of this at least,” she requests, as her hands move from her lap to rest over the roundness of her belly. “I fear if you keep reminding me I’m the Queen, I will lose the nerve to say what I am about to say.”
“I’m listening, Sansa.” The feeling of her name on his tongue is so foreign and yet so familiar at the same time. The hiss it starts and ends with reminds him of a different name, a name he still whispers into his pillow every night.
“Sit, Ser Jaime,” she orders gently, patting the spot next to her. It has been so long since he has been with a woman that their mere proximity to each other when he eases down on to the bed causes his cock to twitch. “Please do not be frightened or overreact to what I am about to say. I did not come here with any intention of threatening you."
“Well, that’s a comforting way to begin a conversation,” he quips, annoyed by the nervous tremor in his voice. The assurance does little to quell the panic now building inside him. He is a man of many dangerous secrets; he wonders which of them Sansa has stumbled upon, as he silently prays to the gods he doesn’t believe in that it’s not the worst of them all. When she gives him a sharp look, he sighs and relents, “I will do my best.”
She nods and places one of her tiny, delicate hands over his sword hand, as if afraid he might reach for his weapon. The touch of her palm feels impossibly hot against his skin. “I have discovered—I have discerned—” She pauses and takes a deep breath. “I know that Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen are not Robert’s trueborn children. I know they are yours.”
He lunges from the bed to pace on the other side of the room and almost does reach for his sword. If he’s killed a king, certainly he can kill a queen just as easily. It occurs to him that he ought to deny the accusation first though, ought to pretend he’s enraged and act like the very thought of bedding his twin sister disgusts him before he resorts to killing the Queen, but the calm, almost sad way Sansa watches him pace makes it clear enough nothing he could say would convince her of his innocence. With a hand pressed to the pommel of his sword, he begins, “And what do you intend—?”
“I don’t care,” she interrupts, waving one of her hands at him. “You two loved each other, I imagine, and Robert is not a kind man, not anymore at least. I think he must have been once, to have earned my father’s love. But I—I, well, I understand the choice you two made, in a way. I’d rather lay with Robb or Jon than have Robert ever touch me again.”
The unexpectedly embittered confession hits him like a punch in the gut, knocking the breath of out of him and leaving him speechless in front of her. After a moment of silence, she sighs and says, “I’m not the only one who knows the truth, so kindly let go of your sword. Killing me will do you no good. Jon Arryn was on to your secret before he passed away, and it seems he might have shared some of his suspicions with Lord Stannis. Petyr Baelish knows as well and possibly Varys. Lord Petyr has been nudging my father along Jon Arryn’s trail toward the truth for a while now, and soon—”
“He might never realize,” Jaime interjects. “Your father is not exactly the sharpest man in the Seven Kingdoms.”
She scowls at him, and he’s once again reminded of Cersei, of her glorious anger and that scornful way she would look upon him when he declared that they ought to marry and let the kingdom be damned. “My father is just as intelligent as you, if not more so,” she snaps. “But he is a good man, too good for this dreadful place. His mind does not jump to the scandalous conclusion first, but it will eventually, and I cannot distract him from it forever.”
“You’ve been distracting him? And why is that? If this comes out, your children will be the heirs to the Iron Throne instead of Cersei’s, and Joffrey hasn’t exactly been chivalrous toward you since Robert broke your betrothal—”
“I’m not doing it for your vile son,” she hisses, narrowing her eyes at him in a way that makes him wonder how he could have ever thought this girl meek. “But Tommen and Myrcella are lovely children, and it would break my heart to see harm come to them because of this. And you—I see the way you look at Robert when he gropes me at supper or pulls a whore on to his lap in front of the entire court, like you want to run him through with your sword right then and there, and for that I cannot bring myself to wish you harm either.”
That anger wasn’t for you, he almost says. It was for Cersei. Everything is for Cersei. “He doesn’t deserve you,” he says instead. He isn’t sure why he says it, but when the words leave his lips they feel right.
“No, he doesn’t,” she agrees. “Ser Jaime, I’m not sure how to say this, so I’m just going to be blunt. I want you to help me kill the King and then I want you to take Tommen, Myrcella, and Joffrey across the Narrow Sea and never look back.”
He snorts. She’s gone mad, is his immediate thought. Part of him wants to laugh at her and tell her to leave, but she is not the first queen to inform him she means to kill her king, and the proposal doesn't shock him nearly as much as it should. “And do you have any notion of how we are going to accomplish this?”
“Baelish tells me your sister had a plan to murder the king before she died,” Sansa says. The way she wrings her hands together as she speaks reminds Jaime of just how young this girl is, too young to look so jaded, too young to be resorting to this. “He claims she meant to have your cousin Lancel feed him wine more potent than he is accustomed to so that he might die of a hunting accident. His current squire is really rather stupid and between the two of us, I think we could manage it.”
“And you don’t think Lord Littlefinger will be suspicious if the plot he just told you about suddenly comes to fruition?”
Sansa smirks, with a dark look in her eyes that Jaime has never seen her wear in all his years of guarding her. “He won’t say a word.”
“You would do well not to trust him, Sansa,” he warns. “He’s charming enough, but—”
“Of course, I am not the fool I once was, Ser Jaime. But once you know what a man wants, you can control him. Lord Petyr taught me that,” she answers cryptically. “Don’t worry about him. You’ll be across the Narrow Sea long before he comes into play anyways.”
“And how do I know your father won’t just send men after me if I leave?” he challenges. “Or one of Robert’s brothers?”
“Father wouldn’t. He would offer you the same mercy,” she answers. “As for the others, I will still be their queen, and I won’t let them. You have my word.”
“And what is your word worth to me?”
“Everything,” she declares with a ferocity that compels him to take a step back from her. As she stands from the bed and stretches to her full height, he’s surprised to find she reaches just above his shoulder now, remarkably tall for her age. Sometimes he forgets she’s not that girl from Winterfell anymore, that she’s a woman grown. “They will find out about your children, Ser Jaime. All the plotting in the world won’t be able to bury that secret forever, so don’t even think about trying to betray me because I promise I will destroy you. But if you help me with this, I will give you the chance to start over somewhere far away from this godsforsaken place with enough coin to begin a new life, a better life. And I will give you the chance to kill the man that hurt your sister before you leave it all behind. I will grant you vengeance and freedom.”
She moves closer to him with every word until they’re so close he could reach out and pull her into him if he wanted. It crosses his mind to do just that, to kiss her breathless, to run his hands through her silky mane of auburn locks, and to cuckold Robert for a second time. Part of him doesn’t think she’d push him away. The idea makes his cock more than twitch this time, but he resists because there are far more important things at hand than the way her full breasts push against her gown or the way she smells of lemon and sweet honey or the fact that talking about killing Robert Baratheon is bizarrely arousing.
“Using your sister’s own plan for him on the anniversary of her death will be a nice tribute to her, don’t you think?”
Jaime can’t believe those words are coming from sweet, pious Sansa Stark’s mouth, but she has the right of it. He can think of few gifts Cersei would appreciate more than this one. “If you can get the wine, I can ensure it ends up in his personal cask,” he says, knowing the words have officially entered him into a pact with the Queen. “And then—?”
“Tomorrow I will announce my intention to temporarily release you from your duties at the end of the month so that you may bring her children to Casterly Rock to properly mourn their mother on the anniversary of her passing. That way no one will question it when you board a ship with them after Robert’s death, and I’ll make certain that ship brings you to Pentos or Braavos or wherever it is you wish to go.”
“How? How can you manage that?”
“I have my ways.”
A smirk spreads across her lips again, a smirk that he’s seen plenty of times on Lord Littlefinger’s lips but never hers. “This could end with all of our heads on spikes, you know, and I happen to have grown rather fond of mine.”
“I know, but even that seems a far better fate than the one I am living now.”
The statement breaks his heart, and it is all he can do not to wrap his arms around her and comfort her in the way he used to comfort Cersei when she came to him like this. Though Cersei would have never allowed such a vulnerable statement to pass her lips; he likes that Sansa does not share the same fear. Her eyes lock on his and the smirk disappears, leaving the fragile, lovely face of the girl from Winterfell he remembers in its place. He’s suddenly struck by the urge to protect her, to be the knight she always wanted, as if he were even remotely qualified for such a task. “True knights protect the innocent above all else, and that is all I am asking you to do, Ser Jaime.”
The thought that he, the fucking Kingslayer, of all people is a true knight strikes him as so preposterous he almost laughs, but she is looking up at him like he’s Aemon the Dragonknight come again, and he can’t find it in himself to let her down, not like he let Cersei down. “Then that’s what I’ll do. And when will we carry out this murderous little plan of yours?”
“The babe will be born in no more than a month’s time,” she says, stroking her full belly again. “Robert will go hunting when the labor starts, like he did with Rickard and all of your sister’s children. You will accompany him on that hunt and make sure our plan is carried out properly. Perhaps you can goad him into taking an unnecessary risk once he’s fully in his cups. He’s not one to step down from a challenge. When you return, I will make sure the ship is waiting for your trip to the Rock. You must leave immediately, so I suggest packing your things the night before the hunt.”
He feels the smile stretch across his lips and is powerless to stop it. “You are nearly as devious as my beloved sister, Seven bless her soul,” Jaime laughs, reaching forward to run a tentative finger along the sharp slope of her cheekbone. “I didn’t think you had it in you. My sister certainly didn’t think so either. Stupid little dove, she used to call you.”
“I never wanted to be devious,” she sighs, as she leans into his touch, like a child starved for attention. “I wanted to be a dutiful wife, a doting mother, a good and merciful queen, but I fear this place brings out the worst in all of us.”
It has brought out the best in you, little wolf, he wants to argue but holds his tongue, knowing she won’t appreciate the sentiment. While he can’t think of killing Robert as anything but noble, he’s sure Sansa and her father wouldn’t agree even now, even after all he’s done. “After Robert is gone you’ll be free to be all of those things,” he assures her, and he’s rewarded with a small smile and a chaste kiss to his palm that sends a jolt surging through him. “And how shall we seal our agreement?”
He’s pleased when a blush spreads across her cheeks. “With a kiss, I should think.”
The answer surprises him, and his eyes immediately drop down to her lips. They look soft and sweet and red. He wonders how they would feel against his, but Cersei’s are the only lips he has ever kissed, and the mere thought of pressing his to Sansa's fills him guilt. It comes as a relief when instead of leaning forward, Sansa holds out her hand. He smirks and places a soft kiss to her knuckles.
“I’m sorry I will not be able to keep you with me,” she admits, still holding on to his hand. “I’ve come to admire you.”
Jaime snorts again. “I killed a king, I’ve just agreed to kill another, and I slept with my own sister behind the King’s back for years, helping produce three false heirs to the throne. What exactly is it about me you admire?”
“You did it all for love,” she sighs, releasing his hand and stepping away. “I should like someone to love me like you loved her someday.” She straightens out her skirts and then moves for the door, pausing when her hand touches the knob. “We must not speak of this outside of this room; the walls have ears. If we need to discuss anything further, I will find a way for us to meet, but you must wait for me to come to you. In a month’s time,” she adds. “A month.”
“A month,” he echoes. She begins to turn the knob, but he realizes he can’t let her leave without asking a question that has plagued him for years. “Sansa, just one more thing before you go.” When she turns back to him, he continues, “Did you or your father have anything to do with my sister’s death?”
Sansa’s expression is unreadable to him, but she shakes her head. “With the intent of making me the Queen in her place, you mean? No, my father didn’t want me to be Robert Baratheon’s queen any more than I wanted to be. I never wanted the power that came with being a queen, Ser Jaime, I just wanted to marry your son and give him a dozen beautiful, green-eyed, fair-haired babies. And I rather admired your sister back then. My father is not that sort of man, and I think you know that. Roses are far more opportunistic than wolves.”
The meaning of her last statement isn’t lost on him. “The Tyrells then?”
“It might have simply been a sudden illness as the maester suggested. I certainly don’t have the evidence to refute him, but on the road to King’s Landing, I overhead Lord Renly asking my father if Margaery Tyrell bore any resemblance to my late Aunt Lyanna, the only woman my husband ever truly loved. I will let you work out the rest.” Jaime only nods, wishing her words came as more of a shock. “I’m sorry, Jaime,” she adds softly, and with that, she disappears through the door, shutting it behind her without a sound.
Part of him doesn’t want to leave Westeros after he kills Robert Baratheon. Part of him wants to stay and kill Renly Baratheon too and as many Tyrells as he can manage before they finally cut him down. But Sansa certainly wouldn’t thank him for it and neither would the children he has never allowed himself to think of as his own until now, now that that Cersei is gone and they need him. He hopes Cersei would want him to see her children to safety rather than strike down her killers. What she’d really want you to do is scheme a way to still have Joffrey sit the Iron Throne someday, he thinks, but he believes Sansa’s warning, that this is a secret that simply won’t remain buried forever, and the idea of leaving his white cloak and this place behind is too tempting to resist.
Finally, he strips off his armor and stretches himself out across his bed, feeling alive for the first time since Cersei passed away in his arms. Many years have gone by since he stabbed Aerys Targaryen in the back, and he knows watching Robert die will be just as satisfying. When he takes himself in his hand, imagining the hungry look in his sister’s eyes when she declared Robert would die, he thinks, yes, it’s about time I killed another mad king. And if a flash of auburn hair and wide blue eyes sneaks in while his strokes grow faster and more desperate, he pretends not to notice.