As his blade cleanly sliced through the pyromancer's clothes and through his body, Jaime thought about the blood that was tainting his white cloak. It was such a fine cloak, made of fine white silk, and until this day he had never spoiled it. But I suppose that none of that will matter, he thought, because I won't need it after what I'm about to do. Chaos and destruction reigned around him with the city erupting in riots and looting as the Lannister men, his father's men, banged on the city walls. People were running around everywhere, the smallfolk's screams were drowned out by the clang of steel on steel, and the battering ram kept on banging against the gates.

He rushed back to the Red Keep, his bloodstained white cloak of the Kingsguard billowing behind him. I wonder of what Ser Barristan would think of me now. Would he call me Jaime the Just? Or perhaps Jaime the Dishonorable? He hadn't really done anything explicitly dishonorable so far. His job was to protect the Royal Family, not the Hands. He hadn't spoiled himself. He would call that a pitiful excuse for a pitiful man.

Why do I care about that man? A-"A lion does not concern himself with the opinions of sheep," he muttered. He once thought himself his father's son, through and through. Even when he took up the White Cloak, he always remembered that he was Jaime of House Lannister, not just Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard. But would even the great Lord Tywin attempt what I am about to do? Would the great Lord Tywin forsake his vows, his honor, his countless nameless oaths to disobey his King? To do the right thing? He stopped himself there. He didn't know if he was doing the right thing. Bah. The gods can judge me later.

Strangely, as he prepared to end his career as a knight of the Kingsguard, he thought about how all this began. Why did he ever accept this vile position? Why did he ever choose to be near a crazed, deranged man? Why was he ever such a green boy, why did he not think, why did he not care—No. I did care. I cared too much. I loved. I did it for love. And that's how it all began.

He stopped running and stared at the great doors leading to the throne room. He supposed he should take a deep breath, to prepare himself for what he was about to do. But there was no time. Aerys, His Grace, might be getting the caches ready himself.

He pushed open the doors and strode in with his bloody sword in his right hand dangling loosely by his side. He walked towards his King, sitting on the most cursed chair in the whole world. His long pale fingernails curved at the edges and his long pale hair blocked one eye. Yet the other showed a world of madness, of utter insanity. He never looked more charming. He knew Rossart was there as well, underneath a trap door next to the Iron Throne, beneath the floor and next to a cache of backup wildfire, waiting for the King to order him to light it up and send half a million people to their deaths.

"Lannister. Why aren't they dead? Why aren't they burnt? I told him to BURN THEM ALL!" Spit whizzed out of his mouth and he raised a crooked finger at him, demanding answers.

Aerys' mad rambling always got on his nerves, but today he was not having any of it. He replied boldy, "I killed the pyromancers and the acolytes lighting the caches. I killed them all, Your Grace. Only Rossart remains."

The King's face went mad-well madder- with anger and he started shaking his arms and screaming, "You—you—AAAGH! I told you to protect them! YOU DISOBEYED YOUR KING! How dare you! AARGH! But if I can't be king, no one can! Not Rhaegar, not Tywin and not Robert! Rossart, LIGHT IT! BURN THEM ALL!"

"NO!" He shouted, running to the trap door, shoving Aerys out of the way, opening the latch, jumping down, ignoring the ladders, getting his sword ready. Rossart was right there, his disgusting and mad face lit up with a torch, ready to set fire to the wildfire. He leaned down with it and touched the rope leading to the biggest barrel of the substance. It ignited. Rossart started cackling, "It's too late! It's too late! This whole city will bu-" He was interrupted by a sword in his mouth. As the fresh blood ran down his blade, he pulled his sword out and tried to stamp out the fire travelling down the oiled rope, headed towards the wildfire. It didn't work. He figured he only had a few seconds before the substance ignited. He didn't know what to do. He didn't have time to rip out his cloak. The fire was going to ignite. He was going to burn the city. Everybody will die! Think! He was never going to see Cersei again. No! THINK! The fire was almost at the barrels. Any second now and the whole world would be green fire. Do something! He could not think of anything to do, his hands were frozen in place, his eyes and mouth wide and unmoving. Death was now certain. Yet he could not close his eyes and make peace with it because he would never see Tyrion again, he would never see the Rock again, he would never see home again, father, Cersei, family, Cersei, Cersei, Cersei—

Suddenly, the fire fizzled out. In front of his own eyes, the fire stopped travelling down the rope and pitifully died down. It was only an inch away from the wildfire barrel. He hadn't done a thing. The fire just…stopped. He was breathing heavily. His face was beaded with sweat. His hands were trembling. He didn't have time to think about that. He had to get Aerys.He climbed back out of the underground cellar through the trap door. Aerys was not in the throne room. Jaime looked everywhere, searching for his King. Aerys had lost the war, he knew, but Jaime didn't know what to do with him. The rebels would probably kill him, but it was not his place to decide. All he had to do was stay with the king, as he had been doing for so long now. And all I had to do was cut the rope with my sword. How could I have been so foolish? With the rope cut, the fire would have never reached the barrels! Why did he panic? He was a knight of the Kingsguard! He was not supposed to freeze when faced with danger. But no knight was ever faced with such danger as this. The lives of hundreds of thousands of people were at stake.

He was just lucky the fire died out when it did. And however it did.

He returned to the throne room, failing to find his King. Truthfully, he didn't want to find him, because he didn't know what he would have done if he did. Would I have killed him? Should I kill him? Gods know I want to. But right now, all he wanted…was to sit down somewhere. Well, there's a pretty big chair right there. As he walked up the steps to the seat, he questioned his decision. Look at this ugly thing. Its killed more men than anybody else in the entire world. Its destroyed more families and houses than the Black Dread or Vaghar. Its murdered more people than the Mountain. And yet here I am, getting a taste of it myself. As he sat on the uncomfortable thing, he could imagine what a sight he would make. He was wearing his white Kingsuard armour, but his cloak and sword were tainted with blood. His father was about to enter the city, and here he sat, on his father's enemy's throne. Piss on what anybody thinks. This chair is just a chair. If insane Aerys can sit on this, so can I. If this chair belonged to Mad Aerys, then this chair was foul. If this chair belonged to Maegor the Cruel, then this chair was foul. If this chair belonged to Aegon IV, then this chair was foul. And if this chair was foul, then who cares who sits on it? Why even have it? I don't think Robert Baratheon would like to hear that.

If he sat there any longer, he would've started to question society itself, but fortunately he was interrupted by…Eddard Stark?