The tears had run down on the hand he had left. He had lost his cape on his way to the Red Keep, leaving only his beard to dry his hand. It was shaking, however, and didn't listen to his mind. Funny, how he seemed to have more control over his hand of gold than his real one. At least that managed to punch her. It was much easier to have his fake hand do that job – that way, he didn't feel how her cranium was breaking and shattering behind its beautiful facade. But it was his real hand who had to end it, the real Jaime.
The body lied stiff on the ground, the warmth being replaced with the cold bitterness of the unknown. Jaime did wonder whether the body had ever been warm, despite having been inside more times than he could count.
When she first saw him, she probably mistook him for some peasant rapist who had found his way to the Queen. He knew this to be her nightmare, embodying what she hated the most; men and the poor. When they had been young, he never understood those hates. As time passed and his beard grew, he realized they were simply born from jealousy and fear. As she initially screamed at his presence, he was disappointed to see nothing of that younger her had changed.
Her belly had grown as a result of both age and excessive amounts of wine. Jaime wasn't surprised to find that her drinking habit hadn't diminished over the years. It was her favourite practice, second only to showing whatever power the Lannister name had given her.
Jaime took a look at the pool of blood and tears by her body and closed the door behind him.
The night silence of King's Landing was quite unlike that of the North. Here, you'd always hear some distant noise, someone walking about, blabbering down corridors. The silence in the nightly hours of the North was intense – there was nothing to disturb you, the feeling of calmness and rest overwhelming your mind and limbs, commanding you to sleep.
But this particular night was an exception. Jaime couldn't hear noise from the city, no chanting from drunken guards in other halls. It was deafening - and he knew exactly why. It wouldn't be long before the bells began to ring and shouting would run through the halls, and soon after, the silence would be complete.
Standing on some balcony he had forgotten the name of, Jaime viewed the city with conceited tranquillity, satisfied with the distance now between the city and him. The entirety of it could have been in ruins, had he not saved it that fateful day. In return, it had given him only an abysmal reputation, and for many years, he fought to regain what he once had as a member of the Kingsguard – respect and honour. It had been a futile battle.
"I should have let Stannis kill you all."
The words of his brother had stuck with ever since they were spoken. He had felt regret of stopping the fire too. Tyrion was the hero of the Battle of the Blackwater, yet no one wanted to recognise him as such. The only difference between his brother and him, though, was that Tyrion seemed to actually mean it – at least in the moment. But who wouldn't?
He continued to walk through the castle, the moon and the torches lightening up his path. The age of his body was taking its toll, audibly panting. Slight wrinkles had formed on his brow as on his sister's, but probably more to her dismay than his. Her appearance seemed to be more important to her than almost everything else.
The rustling of armour and the tramping of boots could be heard in the distance. The scream she made before he put his hand on her throat had gained traction. Soon, they would find the body of their Queen and then go on to kill the last of the Lannisters. Hardly what Father had dreamt of.
There was no pity in Jaime for the old man, though he was long deceased by now. He was right, of course, that it would only be the family name that lives on. The House of Lannister would enter the history books a prominent family, until it met its decline, beginning with the children of Tywin, all of whom were miserable and sad failures; a scheming bitch, a traitorous, kinslaying knight and an evil dwarf. The pages would tell of their deeds and how they all contributed to the end of the house. Future maesters would scoff at the "mistakes" they made, and the incompetence they possessed. There was no winning the judgement of history, and if there was, it was far too late to attempt now.
The guards had begun shouting – the body had been found. It was a peaceful confirmation for Jaime, securing and rounding it all up. Ever since she had exploded the Sept, this had been the only way it was going to end. He went outside into the gardens, wanting to see the docks where Myrcella had sailed off to Dorne. It had been an eventful day, he'd since heard, with riots and rapes and massacres, most of it the fault of Joffrey, ultimately making it Jaime's.
It wasn't hard getting there. The bells began to ring, making every guard run into the castle. He only had to hide behind a few bushes and be quiet in order to get there. But it was hard to think of, that this had been the last place his daughter had ever planted her feet on land north of Dorne. She had died in his arms, scared, frightened, afraid, pleading and begging. And there was nothing he could have done – not just there, but in the long run. He and Cersei had sealed the fate of their offspring with their carelessness. That was why he was here, after all, to end their mistakes.
He had often wondered what the last thoughts of Ned Stark had been when he stood before the ignorant mass of plebs, hands tied, neck bent. Was he scared? Did he hate Joffrey, Cersei; King's Landing as a whole? Maybe he was disappointed in himself, or maybe he just prayed for it to be over quickly.
After he had learned the truth of Jon Snow, along with the entire realm, things became a tad clearer. Jaime's conscience had always rested on the fact that the honourable Ned Stark, the man who had slandered him for being a coward and traitor, was morally unclean himself – so that in some weird, tangled way, Jaime could still see himself as superior. Truth was, however, he had never really believed that old Ned had been unfaithful to Catelyn. It simply didn't add up.
The deceased Stark was still viewed with disgust in the south, everybody saw him as a traitor equal to Jaime. It should give him pleasure, to see the high and mighty Lord Stark fail at the one thing he was great at, but it didn't. Against his own will at the time, he unavoidably had felt sorry. With his head, the last drop of honour had been squeezed out of Westeros, leaving despair and war to sack the continent at their leisure.
Truth was, Ned was more honourable than he literally could have imagined. He had kept a promise, borne the mistakes of his family on his shoulders, taking the blame no matter the consequences. It was admirable, more so than any sword technique Arthur Dayne or Barristan ever produced. It was an honour Jaime could only hope to gain a fraction of. For when it all came down to it, honour had nothing to do with reputation or the love of people. Joffrey, at least for some time, had had the love of his, while there was nothing to like about him. People loved Renly Baratheon, even though he was incompetent and naïve. They never took the moment to piece the puzzle together, to see the true intentions and deeds of those brave. But such is honour, that much he had learned by now.
On his way back to the keep, he was spotted. Their screaming accusations were muffled inside of Jaime's head, their hateful glances as indifferent to him as a brick wall. Swords and spears were pointed at him, and he figured he probably was on some death list Cersei had made over those she disliked. Jaime raised his arms and dropped to his knees. He dried the remaining wetness off in his beard and awaited the sword.