Chapter Text
JAIME
The throne room was dark, save for the soft glow of flames. Ablaze braziers roared amongst the crowd of courtesans, sending shadows across the vaulted ceiling and bathing everything in orange, yet the fires did little to dispel the autumn chill that permeated the air. Even here, in King’s Landing, the first signs of winter were beginning to emerge, blown in by a gust of icy wind from the North.
Jaime Lannister hardly felt the cold. Striding through the doorway of the gallery, he found that the entirety of the Great Hall, with all of its lords and ladies, shrank until there was nothing but her. Cersei. His mind spun as he stared at her, his twin, his other half, the same thoughts circling over and over in his head until he thought he'd go mad. The High Sparrow is dead. Margaery is dead. All of Cersei’s enemies, demolished in an instant…
Earlier that evening, as his palfrey had crested the hill above the stinking cesspool that was the capital, his gaze had immediately been drawn to the smoking ruin of the Sept of Baelor, to the black, ashy serpents rising from the rubble. His first instinct was to feel confusion - Was there some sort of accident? How could the marble of the Sept burn? - but it soon gave way to anger as realization dawned.
...he had his pyromancer place caches of wildfire all over the city, beneath the Sept of Baelor, in the slums of Flea Bottom, under houses, stables, taverns...
Cersei’s trial. She had guessed or she had been told, and her foes paid the price for her discovery. No one could corner a lioness without getting clawed.
Rumors floated about in the streets, and Jaime sent a few of his men to bring back snippets of them as he and his escort made their way to the Red Keep.
“An explosion, green as an emerald…”
“...wildfire, they say…”
“And King Tommen was seen falling down to the ground like a stone…”
By the time Jaime arrived at the postern gate, he had surmised what had occurred while he was away, had seen the damage done to the city at close range, and his mood had proportionately plummeted. Hot, bitter rage simmered beneath his skin as he looked upon the two Lannister men at the gate.
“Where is my king? I must needs speak with him,” said Jaime through gritted teeth, holding onto a thin shred of hope that the gossiping peasants outside the brothel had been lying. That Tommen was alive. That Cersei had not killed their last remaining child with her stupidity.
The guard on the right, a young lad with smooth cheeks and a large, hook nose, turned to his companion for a brief moment, then looked at Jaime. The boy’s gaze landed somewhere past his head, Jaime noted, and his expression was one of awe laced with paralyzing fear. A look the Kingslayer was quite accustomed to receiving.
“I am loath to inform you, Lord Commander-”
“I am Lord Commander no longer,” spat Jaime.
“My apologies, S-ser Jaime. But I-I must tell you that… the king has… passed on,” sputtered the guard, swallowing audibly before continuing. “There was an unfortunate incident in the Sept, and his lady wife, Queen Margaery, was slain. I suppose King Tommen could not… bear to be without her, and he… jumped from his quarters. The Queen Regent is to assume the throne as Protector of the-”
“Enough. Let me through.”
And they did.
Now, as he came to stand behind the balustrade overlooking the Iron Throne, Jaime knew there was no room left for doubt. Tommen is dead. His mother glided down the center aisle towards that grotesque chair, her dark skirts trailing along the marble floor. The tension in the cavernous hall was palpable as she reached the top of the dais, but Cersei lifted her chin in defiance of them all, keeping her gaze locked on the huge bronze and wood doors at the opposite end of the room. Jaime could feel the heat of the crowd’s hatred burning against his skin.
Oh, how many enemies you have made, sweet sister.
Qyburn, the elderly, censured maester who had become Cersei’s most loyal servant since Jaime’s last return to King’s Landing, began to speak from his position to the left of the throne, his voice carrying loudly across the hall.
“I now proclaim Cersei of the House Lannister, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms.”
A crown was placed atop her head, thin and silver and decorated with the sigil of House Lannister, nestled within her golden mane. Then she sat on the Iron Throne, her lithe body engulfed by the twisting monstrosity of a thousand blades. In that instant, looking down at her kingdom, she was every bit a lion.
An insane thought came rushing to him then, the same thought that had been lurking for hours in the recesses of his mind and that he had suppressed for the sake of its very inconceivability. Impossible. Yet as Cersei turned her beautiful face to him, green irises black and glistening in the firelight, he could believe the notion for half a second, and his stomach lurched.
What is this woman capable of?
“Long live the queen!” shouted Qyburn, and the rest of the hall’s inhabitants echoed it.
Jaime watched a moment longer before turning away in disgust. Rather than go to his old quarters in the White Tower, Jaime made his way to Cersei’s chambers, the path so familiar he could walk it blindfolded.
The cavernous space was dominated by sheer drapes and arched doorways, and everywhere he looked he saw a memory of their passion. There, on the plush bed, or there, against that wall, or there, entangled in a corner of the floor, where they made love as they always had, since their days as children in the bowels of Casterly Rock.
Jaime paced the floor for a time, restless, until the recollections became too strong and he decided to use wine to dampen them. He was reclining on the cushioned bench of the balcony when Cersei entered the room some hours later, flanked by the monstrosity of a Kingsguard rumored by many to be a reincarnation of the Mountain. After all he had witnessed that day, Jaime was more disposed to entertain the idea than in the past, and found himself absurdly close to laughing at the madness of it all as he headed back inside.
“Leave me,” Cersei ordered the creature, and it turned on stiff legs and walked out the door, armor clanking. She moved to the ornate wooden desk near the terrace and poured herself a glass of blood-red wine from the carafe. “I didn't think you'd take so long to return, little brother. It appears you missed my trial.”
“It appears so,” said Jaime, unable to do anything but stand and watch as she drank deep from her goblet. The silver epaulettes of her dress were designed in great likeness to his golden hand, he realized, and her crown, while resembling a lion, was abstract, the mane tailored to evoke the Iron Throne.
“What is this dance we're about to play, Jaime?” asked Cersei, her words surprising him in their bluntness.
“What?”
“You're condemning me. I can feel it when you look at me.” She set her cup down on the table and sauntered over to his unmoving frame. He could smell her, all lilac soap and sweet Arbor red, and it took everything in him not to grab her round the waist and breathe in the scent of her neck, to push her up against the wall and take her in the candlelight, as he had done so many times before. Even now, after all that had happened, his mind struggled to relinquish her hold on him.
“Cersei, don’t,” he managed, despite the fact that her hands were already on the clasps of his armor and working to pull them loose.
“I want you inside me,” she whispered, lips brushing his earlobe before travelling down to suck on his clavicle. “You can be my king, Jaime. We can rule like Targaryens, side by side, you and me. Together. We’ll start our own dynasty.”
Cersei succeeded in removing his breastplate, and it fell to the floor with a clang. “Don't you want that?” She slid a hand into his breeches and squeezed, eliciting an involuntary groan from the back of his throat.
“Stop,” he said, although it was barely audible, even to him.
“You and me. We’re two halves of the same whole. I am you,” she purred, biting his lower lip until she drew blood, “and you are me.”
Suddenly, an image of Bran Stark’s face appeared in Jaime’s mind, cutting through the fog of lust. The boy’s eyes were wide and terrified as he began to fall from the abandoned tower in Winterfell. Is that what Tommen looked like when Cersei pushed him out the window?
“We're not the same,” Jaime growled, shoving his twin from him, knowing full well he was more angry at himself than anyone else.
Cersei glared at him, stunned, but her eyes were feral, not hurt. He could practically see her claws extending.
“You're right. We're not the same. I have both my hands, while it seems you've lost one.” Her insult stung, but somehow he was able to keep his face a mask. “I don't need a cripple. You aren't a Kingsguard anymore. You're nothing.” She began to laugh, a low, musical chuckle. “I am the queen.”
“Did you kill Tommen?”
Now it was Cersei’s turn to be taken aback, and as Jaime studied her face in the pregnant silence that followed, he saw a flicker of pain cross her porcelain features. But then her hand flew out and struck him, snapping his head to the side. Stars blurred his vision, and as they began to fade, a tingling sensation spread out from his cheek.
“How dare you!” screamed Cersei. “He was my son! Our son!” She hit him again, and again, until he heard her choke on a sob, the sound high and strangled.
She dropped her arms to her sides. “Get out.”
“As you say, Your Grace.”
Jaime bowed and went.
The days following the coronation dragged by in a wine-induced stupor. Jaime was not invited to sit in on any Small Council meetings, nor did he wish to. He supposed Cersei had been able to glean a large enough number of supporters to advise her, as he couldn't imagine she only spoke with Qyburn regarding important matters of the Realm, but knew they were few.
Her reign, as he had anticipated, was greatly detested, and he often heard servants about the Red Keep making japes, proclaiming her “Mad Queen Cersei” and “Queen Cunt”. They fell silent whenever he stumbled by, but he couldn't say he disagreed. His sister was far from a benevolent ruler.
Cersei’s decisions were rash and impulsive, destitute alike of foresight and concern for the greater good. Every judgement was based on pure emotion, made first and rationalized later, and the people suffered for it. Rather than attempt to make amends with the remaining Tyrells in Highgarden, whom she had scorned beyond repair (in an unfortunate accident, she claimed), she cut ties with them completely, leaving the population of King’s Landing without the bountiful harvest that had sustained them for years. Already food riots were breaking out across the city, but the queen simply sent gold cloaks out to squash them.
In many ways, Jaime’s twin reminded him of their firstborn son, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms until he was poisoned to death at his own wedding feast. Instead of rebuilding the Sept of Baelor, which had been the largest building in King’s Landing and its center of religious worship for the Faith of the Seven since the Targaryen dynasty, Cersei resolved to let the ashes settle, leaving the blackened pit a silent warning to those who dared threaten her power. Joffrey had been much the same, his desire for supremacy making an enemy out of everyone.
Jaime was beginning to wonder if madness ran in the family.
To pass the time between drunken blackouts, when he found himself sober enough to crave a good fight, Jaime went to the practice yard with Bronn. The sellsword-turned-knight had accompanied him from Riverrun, and Jaime was glad for it, if for no other reason than to have a sparring partner who understood his limits and pushed them accordingly. At times, however, as their swords clashed, his thoughts traveled to Brienne, to their duel in the woods on their journey to King’s Landing, blades kissing in a deadly, beautiful dance. He hoped the wench had returned safely to Sansa Stark.
Eventually the queen called upon him, requesting his presence in her chambers. Jaime obeyed, albeit hesitantly, and found Cersei at her desk, staring at a white piece of parchment.
“You wish to speak with me, Your Grace?” he said, and she flashed her green irises at him irritably.
“It appears the Starks have retaken their home. The bastard Jon Snow rode south of that bloody wall and defeated the Boltons in battle, aided by men of the Vale.” She swirled her hot spiced wine, perfuming the air with nutmeg and cloves. “And if the rumors are to be trusted, that murderous cunt sits as Lady of Winterfell.”
Jaime watched her knuckles go white around the bowl of her goblet, saw her gaze turn distant and cloudy, and his heart sank. Brienne. Cersei would not allow this news to go unanswered, he knew, and he also knew that Brienne would be too gods-damned loyal to ever leave her lady’s side during a siege. Stupid, stubborn wench.
“I need you to take five thousand of our best men and eradicate those frozen vermin from my kingdom, once and for all.”
Cersei’s statement hung in the air between them, heavy and thick, and the weight of it nearly crushed him. His body was so rigid he feared any movement would cause it to shatter into a million pieces.
“My place is by your side.” Even as he spoke the words, he was acutely aware of how untrue they were, of how much had changed.
Cersei’s eyes were sharp as they locked with his. “Your place is wherever I send you.”
“Winter is here. The traitors are like to die of frostbite before the snows even reach King’s Landing. If not, starvation will set in. They cannot possibly have enough provisions to see them through the season.”
The queen took a sip of wine. Behind her he could see the enormous crater where the Sept once stood. “Why so reluctant, ser? Did your sword hand contain all of your courage?”
“I swore an oath to Catelyn Stark to defend her daughters. Sansa Stark-”
“Is a treasonous, vile snake. And Catelyn Stark is dead. What, were you fucking that old wolf bitch?”
Her question was like another slap to the face. The implication that he could so easily lie with someone else, that he had been unfaithful to her, his sister, his lover, stole all utterances from his tongue for a full minute. Did she know nothing of his unwavering loyalty to her all their lives?
When Jaime did finally find his voice, it rang hollow and flat. “I will leave at once, Your Grace.”
Three days later, Jaime found himself in the stables, preparing for another journey throughout the Riverlands. They will think me a fish yet. Honor, his blood bay palfrey, was draped in a caparison of white, the color of the Kingsguard. Fifty knights and their esquires awaited his command, and he knew that beyond the city walls would stand thousands more; archers, cavalry, and outriders, along with the baggage train and maesters carting cages of ravens. His head began to throb.
“Bronn, you'll ride with me,” he said, and the upjumped sellsword joined him as he called the march forward.
The morning was cold and overcast, with promises of winter in every gust of wind. Jaime breathed in deep and tried to calm his mind as they made their way through King’s Landing and out the Dragon Gate. He had decided the night before that Cersei sending him to Winterfell instead of a groveling general was for the best; he would try to ensure a peaceful surrender as he had at Riverrun, and it could not be said that he had taken up arms against Sansa Stark, as some lickspittle was like to do.
Still, his gut twisted each time his thoughts traveled to Brienne. He highly doubted the Starks would willingly give up the home they just took back, and if the gossip was to be believed, Jon Snow was a formidable commander with the entirety of the Vale standing behind him. The wench had better escape before the fighting starts, if she knows what's good for her.
Thoughts of the coming siege circled round his skull, tumbling back and forth until he felt he'd go mad. “Distract me,” he blurted, turning to Bronn. “These marches grow rather dull after a while, don't you think?”
“Aye, Commander,” he replied. The man was middle-aged, with black hair and black eyes and a perpetually amused expression etched on his face. “Was just gettin’ used to them King’s Landing whores entertainin’ me again after the last one, but I guess camp followers’ll do me decent enough.”
“Not what I meant.” Jaime knew it had been unfair to rip Bronn away from the city’s brothels after months on the road, but he needed someone he could stand to talk to if he was going to keep his wits about him on the trip North.
“Heard that Stark bastard’s fought White Walkers beyond the Wall, and that he's been stabbed half a hundr’d times and come back to life,” said Bronn. “Not sure there's any truth to it, but I don't think he'll be as easy to crack as Edmure.”
“What makes you think I plan on negotiating a surrender?”
Bronn fixed him with a knowing glare, one that saw through every façade Jaime could possibly put up, and the sense of vulnerability made him bristle.
“Prick,” Jaime snapped, wheeling his horse around to trot down the line. He was beginning to regret bringing the knight along.
That evening they made camp along a brook that ran just west of the Hayford castle. A thousand tents popped up in the pale dusk, and after a tedious dinner hosted by Lady Ermesande Hayford, a babe no older than two, Jaime found himself alone in his pavilion, well on his way to getting drunk. Mayhaps his sweet sister was onto something, always being in her cups. It certainly took the edge off.
Eventually he felt the urge to relieve himself, and went outside to search for a decent tree. The sudden chill was enough to sober him some, biting through his thin cotton shirt and seeping into his bones. Even here, at the outskirts of King’s Landing, the changing of the seasons was evident. Gone were the purple twilights of summer, warm and earthy and alive with the songs of crickets. Now the air was frozen iron, the glittering frost holding the hills and fields in its icy grip.
Jaime watched his breath escape in puffs of white as he unlaced his breeches, and steam soon rose from the stream he sent into the roots of an oak. The night was quiet, save for the distant murmur of soldiers and the hissing of his own piss, yet he couldn't bring himself to enjoy the solitude. Every moment that passed was a reminder of what was to occur in the following weeks, and how utterly helpless he was to stop it.
Cersei would never allow him to return without Winterfell firmly in her grasp, that much was obvious. It was either his head or Sansa Stark’s. Or Brienne’s, a voice whispered. Unbidden, images began to swim before him, of her astonishing blue eyes widened in fear, of her broken body lying at his feet, her blood staining his hands. The slick red liquid glistened in her hair and bubbled from her lips, and her freckles burned against the pallor of her cheeks as the life slowly drained from her unmoving frame.
Jaime staggered forward and dug his nails into the bark of the tree, squeezing his eyes shut to banish the scene from his mind. But no matter how hard he tried, her frightened expression would not be extinguished, lingering behind his eyelids, branded into his consciousness. He knew it would haunt his dreams that night, and for many nights to come.
If he could find any sleep at all.