Blackwater Bay- 295 AC
The Fury plows through the waves of Blackwater Bay, unimpeded in its journey towards Dragonstone. At its prow stands Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Dragonstone and brother to the current king. Always a sturdy man, he cares not for the spray of the sea nor the cold salty winds, for something else is eating away at his mind.
Just before departing for his castle, Stannis spoke with Lord Varys the Spider, the Master of Whispers. He never trusted the man for the Spider has stuck around ever since Mad King Aerys, but Stannis can't deny his skills and reach in the matter of whispers. He can only hope then that whatever information the Spider will provide him, it'll be useful in the near future. He had followed the Spider deeper into its lair in the Red Keep, entering tunnels that he wasn't even aware had existed. The darkness of their meeting place only sharpened the terrifying whispers and rumours he had imparted.
He once believed that in all of the lords and ladies Westeros, none could match his knowledge in magic and prophecies. Unlike his older brother who enjoys fighting and combat, or his younger who likes to take fancy to colourful knights, Stannis delved deeper into the strange. It was by his own seclusion and choice that he brought the Red Priestess Melisandre into his service. He knows better than to fully trust a pyromancer or maegis, but he's sure that she won't make a fool out of him.
But now he has a contender. No, more than a contender: an enemy. The enemy. "Ainz Ooal Gown."
The Red Priestess, ever so skilled in the art of prophecies, has spoken to him of things to come. She had the flames whisper to her of the encroaching darkness, threatening to plunge the Realm of Men into an everlasting night. Of how the dead shall rise from the earth and lay claim of all the living. When he had first heard of the prophecies, his mind immediately thought of the tales of the Others beyond the Wall. The demons made of ice that once plunged the realm into a generation-long night. Perhaps all those fairy tales told by his septa were coming true after all.
He didn't expect to see such darkness emerge from Harrenhal, least of all in such a strange skeletal form.
The whispers from the Spider told him of demons prowling the Riverlands, wreathed in black steel and flying high in the sky. It's no doubt in Stannis' mind that those things are demons, but that's not the true source of his worries. As the Red Priestess had predicted, they possess strange magic as well. Though unsure if they're able to raise the dead, it wouldn't be out of the question. And he knows that the demon had used their sorceries to entice and trick the Lord Paramount of the Trident, ruler of the Riverlands. Millions of Rivermen's lives hang near a precipice threatened by the betrayal of their liege lord. That wasn't foretold by Melisandre. Did she misinterpret the flames, or do I have to figure it out all by myself? What is that R'hllor intending?
Stories of betrayal have happened before. The Night's King is a famous one in the North, with the story of their unholy union with the Others to commit atrocities beyond imagining. He has heard tales of men making pacts with demons and paying the blood price for their foolishness. Isn't that what's happening here? And so far South of the Wall as well; it wouldn't take long for them to storm King's Landing.
And that thought brings up another issue entirely: the King's heirs. One of the prophecies foretold by Melisandre is the tale of how his brother's children are not his own. When he dies, golden usurpers will wrench the throne away from the rightful ruler and turn the Realm into chaos. To confirm his suspicions, he stayed at King's Landing for an extended period of time. Strangely enough, the King's Hand Jon Arryn also holds similar suspicions to his. With that, they worked together to find Robert's bastards and compare them to House Baratheon's own history. But in the middle of their search Jon Arryn came down with a sickness. So sudden and unnatural it was that Stannis decided to leave King's Landing and investigate at another time; he already has everything he needs. All he needs to do is plan on how to execute them.
"My lord, is something wrong? You look quite pale."
Stannis turns to look at the ship's current oarmaster: Ser Davos Seaworth. Or the Onion Knight as some might call him. "I'm just pondering the matters at hand, Ser Davos. Nothing more."
"No need for a bucket? You look sick."
"Is that how you see it, Ser Davos?"
"I've enough experience of men painting the deck with their sick, my lord. Always trying to keep the deck clean, that's all," Ser Davos jests. Stannis doesn't reciprocate his humour. "Well, my lord, we should be arriving at Dragonstone soon enough. Look, I can see the mountain's peak at the horizon."
Looking into the distance, Stannis spots the rising sharp mass of Dragonstone peering from the sea mist. It's been a while since he'd been home; he's not really the best lover to his wife nor father to his daughter. In fact, him spending time in King's Landing is partly due to wanting to be away from his family for he views his duties as a lord far more important than family.
The sun is still high in the sky and the wind is strong, so they should arrive at the coast by nightfall. One day, the night will not end... "Ser Davos," Stannis calls, interrupting the knight from his duties. "What do you know of faith?"
Davos looks perplexed at the question. "Pardon, my lord?"
"Faith, Ser Davos. Who do you worship, and why?"
"Faith, well..." Ser Davos brushes back his hair with his shorter left hand. "I'd call myself a follower of the Seven, but I'm not a devout. In my eyes, they've helped me, yes. The Mother in giving me strong sons, the Smith for keeping the ships sailing, and the Crone for having wizened me to stay alive. They've kept me safe during my times of smuggling."
"Kept you safe enough to lose your fingers?"
Davos closes his eyes and rubs the pouch at his neck before answering Stannis. "Aye, my lord. Perhaps it's fate that I am to lose my fingers, a punishment from the Seven. But if it wasn't for that, I wouldn't have come to your service. The good you've done for my family and I far outweighs the cost of a simple hand, and for that I owe you my life, my lord," Ser Davos bows.
Stannis eyes the Onion Knight, and can only see honesty and devotion from him. It's clear that the man is a follower of Stannis, a true follower unlike other petty lords or knights who are sworn to him. A smuggler he may be, but he's far better than any of his brothers. Someone I could trust... "If that's how you see faith, then I shall ask you for some counsel. Tell me, what do you think of the Red Priestess and the fire god she so fervently worships?"
Davos hesitates on his words. "Well, my lord, I-"
"And I ask for your honest opinion, Ser Davos. Lest you want me to cut the tip of your tongue as well."
The Onion Knight eyes turn hard and his smile disappears beneath a frown. "I do not trust her, my lord. I have no problem with her fire god or their worship, but all of her talks of sorceries and prophecies... They're not healthy for a man's mind, turning them mad for a future that was promised to them. With her around, I fear she might play tricks on you and all of us."
So he still mistrusts her. But with most of my men converting their faith, perhaps it'll only be a matter of time. And he does not know of what I've seen, does he? "Do you believe in Melisandre's prophecies of the coming darkness?"
"Winter comes and goes, my lord. It'll be dark and then summer will come. Besides, I owe the darkness to hide me in the night for smuggling," he chuckles.
"It's best to refrain saying that in front of her, Ser Davos. I don't think she'll take kindly to your comment."
"Yes, my lord."
A thought comes into Stannis' mind, a plan slowly forming inside him. He asks Davos to follow him to the captain quarters, wanting some semblance of privacy. "Ser Davos," he asks, "what if I tell you that I've converted my faith to R'hllor? What would be your opinion of me then?"
"I can't question your faith, my lord. I only ask you to be careful."
"Seems that you trust me quite closely. Surely, a smuggler must be a good judge of men."
"Aye, my lord. I've survived so far, so I must have picked up something along the way."
"Good." Stannis pulls out a map from a shelf and displays it on a table. "Then I have the perfect task for you."
Crownlands - 295 AC
Ser Jaime Lannister, also known as the Kingslayer, is the youngest person to ever be knighted as a Kingsguard. His skills in sword combat are second only to Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, thus many hailed him as one of the deadliest men in all of Westeros. But all of that renown and skills are for naught when he's faced with the greatest challenge in his life so far: pulling a heavy wagon out of a quagmire. In heavy rain.
His white armour and cape are caked with mud from repeatedly slipping and falling. Even his hair, which once shone like golden cloth, looks like a dirty rag in this downpour. "Pull!" he commands the other Lannister men. With another heave, he can feel the thing budge a little. Or is he dragging himself backwards? He doesn't know.
"Ser Jaime!" shouts one of his men. "How about we leave it here til' the rain's gone, Ser? It's damn full o' books, not our supplies anyway."
"A book from there's worth more than your arms and legs combined," says Archmaester Marwyn, holding up the blue flame with his Valyrian steel staff. With dark clouds overhead, the strange flame is the only thing that helps them see in this situation. Jaime does note how strange for the flame to stay lit even in this torrent.
"You heard the mage. Keep pulling!"
With another heave and groan, they can feel the wagon slowly loosen itself from the muddy hold. A few more pulls and slip-ups are done before the thing could be dragged into a grassy knoll. Once out and on secure ground, the Mage pushes past them to check on the books in the wagon. "A little thanks is appreciated," Jaime sighs, wiping away the mud from his face. "Couldn't you just tell your acolytes to help us out? Rather than have them snicker and watch us fall?"
Marwyn finishes checking the books and jumps back onto the wagon, settling himself on the wet seat. "Those sheep don't have any muscle on them unlike you Lannisters. Besides, they're not my acolytes. They're someone else's. If any of them gets hurt then they blame me for it."
"Why not have your acolytes be here then?"
"Don't have one," Marwyn smiles. "Now, where's the horses? We should get somewhere dry for the day."
Jaime shouts for the acolytes to bring the horses. Sure enough, they have trouble in tying them to the wagon. Jaime, upon closer inspection, does agree with the Mage's assessment of the acolytes. "You maesters don't do much training, do you?"
"We train our minds, Kingslayer. A book is like a whetstone for us, keeps our mind sharp and ready for anything. Well, anything that's not physical labour that is," Marwyn snickers. He pulls on the rein, getting the horses to walk on the soft ground. "You don't read much do you, Kingslayer?"
"I have an actual sword to train with, Archmaester. I'm not like my brother."
"The Imp? Didn't know him as a studious one. I thought he only learned the art of whores."
"That too. A man can be two things at once, and more if fate permits i- ACHOO!" Jaime sneezes, the cold from the rain starting to seep into his bones. He's now adamant on getting somewhere to dry up. "Oy men! Did any of you see a place to set up camps?"
A Lannister soldier, who's nowhere near caked in mud like Jaime, answers him. "We sent some men ahead and they said that there's a grove just north of here. It's dry enough to set up camp."
"Good," Jaime replies, getting back on his horse. "Lead the way then."
The grove itself is only a league away from where they stand, meaning that it should only take an hour at most. However, in the effort of trying not to sink into a different patch of mud, they take a less direct path and stretch their journey to four hours. It's made worse by the constant downpour and now strong winds.
By the time they reach the small grove, most of the rain has subsided into nothing more than a drizzle. The sky starts to clear, revealing the setting sun on the horizon. Most of the mud on his armour has been washed off by the rain, but now he's wet, cold, and in a dire need of some warmth. He sends some Lannister men ahead, making sure that the area is clear of vagrants and bandits. The acolytes are preparing some materials to make a fire while the Archmaester... Just sits there on top of his wagon, looking into the fire. For a smart man, does he not know that looking in fires for too long damages your eye? Even Maester Creylen reminded me of that in my youth.
After the Lannister men return from their scouting, the main group enters the area and settle themselves on a dry patch beneath several oak trees. Well, relatively dry anyway. The ground is still damp from the rain. Jaime takes off all of his Kingsguard armour and places it on top of some tree roots to dry. He then replaces his drenched tunic and breeches to a slightly damp one, not wanting to catch a cold for the night. He keeps his sword by his side; his training as a knight has hammered in the need to be cautious.
Several bonfires are being piled up, though he can see that the wood they're using are all wet. The acolytes and soldiers don't have much success with their flint and tinder. "Come on men, it's getting dark here," Jaime groans. Of course, they still have the Mage's flame to light up the area. But that blue light is uncomfortably bright.
"Ser Jaime, would you mind passing to me one of those branches?" asks Marwyn. Jaime hands him one and the Mage puts the end of it into his blue flame. The wet piece of wood crackle and pops before bursting into a bright orange flame. He then throws it into their bonfire, lighting up the area. The other Lannister men grab their own piece of burning wood from there and light their bonfires.
Jaime sits right near the bonfire, setting down his supplies next to him. He's comforted by the warm embrace of the flames. "Ahh... Thank you for your help, Archmaester Marwyn."
"Don't mention it," the Mage croaks. "They don't have much brain between them, trying to set wet wood alight."
"Not much here in terms of dry wood," Jaime replies. He unfolds his supply and takes out his metal pot. He fills it with water before putting in the various meats and vegetables into it. "Here, take a bowl. The meat stew is not much so forgive me for that."
"Heh, it beats the dry meats and bread the Citadel packed for me."
As Jaime places the now full and spiced pot over the flames, he sees the Mage's acolytes eating with the soldiers. None of them approach the two. "Not a popular man back in the Citadel, Archmaester Marwyn?"
"I could ask you the same thing, Kingslayer."
"I wear that title with pride," Jaime huffs, stirring the pot. "If you'd seen what the Mad King was capable of, you would have done the same thing."
"Would I?"
"If you have a heart, yes..." But even then, I didn't have the courage to save the Queen. His mind wanders back to his time in service to the Mad King. He remembers the horrific sights he saw of burning people, but even more so are the painful wails and screams of the Queen etched in his mind. And the sword at my hip. I could have ended it all much sooner, then the late Queen and Ser Arthur Dayne may have survived.
"Ser Jaime."
"Hm?"
"I'm sorry, I must have reminded you of a terrible thing. You got a scary look on your face."
Jaime rubs his cheeks. "Did I now? Well, no matter. What's done is done," Jaime smiles at Marwyn, though there's still some bitterness in his thoughts.
"If you don't mind me asking, Ser Jaime, how experienced are you in these kinds of excursions?"
"Both Kings always wanted me to be close to them so I never had much of a chance for any missions. Well, other than the thing with the Greyjoys. Spent far too long standing around in King's Landing, same with those men," he points at the Lannister soldiers. They're having a merry time, singing and drinking. "Must be liberating to be out of that stinking city. How about you, Archmaester Marwyn? You're one to talk, sitting on your ass all day at the Citadel."
"Me? Unlike you, I've been out of Westeros before."
"Really?" The statement piques his interest. The Mage nods, so Jaime asks him a question he's had on his mind. "So Essos and the like... Have you been to Valyria? My uncle tried to go there once."
"And how did that turn out?"
"Once."
"Exactly. That place is forbidden even for me; only fools dare cross the Smoking Sea, and I'm no fool. However," Marwyn takes the glass candle off the Valyrian steel staff, "this here is a part of Old Valyria. Watch the stew."
"Oops!" Jaime lifts the pot off the fire, realising that the contents are going to burn. He puts his share into the bowl before filling up Marwyn's. He puts the pot to the side and begins eating. "So," he speaks with his mouth full, "that's from Valyria? Doesn't look like steel to me."
"Not everything from Valyria are weapons, young man. Back in the citadel, we have a Valyrian steel candle stand as well."
Jaime cringes at the thought. Valyrian steel, being used as a mere stand, how wasteful. "How... Extravagant."
"You'd rather have it as a sword?"
"Gods, yes! Don't they know how rare it is?"
"Of course they do, that's why they kept it as a candle stand," Marwyn chuckles. "Now, this here isn't steel, so keep your mind at ease. This is dragonglass."
"Dragonglass?" Jaime finishes about half of the bowl. He pauses for a moment before coming to a realisation, pointing at the Mage with his spoon. "Oh, yes! I've heard of those before. My brother used to show me one of them from the Lannister treasury. Never thought them as more than a trinket, but turns out they work as I can see now." Tyrion, oh how you would spend so much time in your books. You really need to get out more, and not to whorehouses. Maybe for your nameday I shou-
"Wait," Marwyn interrupts his thoughts. "the Lannisters have glass candles? How?"
"Old stuff from before Aegon apparently. My brother kept them in his room since they looked interesting. They're not lit though, unlike yours," Jaime replies, finishing his bowl and taking another portion from the still-warm pot.
"They weren't lit beforehand. But all glass candles in the Citadel were lit at the same time. The ones with the Imp..."
"...Oh shit." Jaime nearly drops his bowl at the Mage's comment. "That... Yeah, Tyrion would definitely be surp- Yeah. Huh... Well, not really my problem. But I would've loved to see Tyrion's reaction to that spectacle," Jaime chuckles.
"Would you like to?" Marwyn smiles at him.
"We're not even at Riverrun, Archmaester Marwyn. No need to divert your attention to Casterly Rock."
"No no no, not that. Listen," Marwyn looks side-to-side, as if trying to confide to Jaime some forbidden secret. The man leans forward, one hand still clutching at the glass candle. "I want to show you something, but we need to get away from your men and the others. How about we take a walk a bit deeper into the grove?"
Jaime eyes him cautiously. This sounds dangerous, but he doesn't look that strong so I might be able to overpower him. And that staff isn't a blade, so he can't do much harm with it. Ah, truly a waste of Valyrian steel. "How about your food?"
"Forget the damn food, this is far more important." Marwyn stands up and grabs his staff, urging Jaime to follow. He complies, making sure that the sword by his side is securely attached. Jaime takes one last look at the group behind them, making sure that none are following. With that, they enter deeper into the woods.
As they walk, Jaime can feel his joints and muscles scream in exhaustion, the muddy trek from before having taken a toll on his body. He yawns, but covers his mouth so that the Mage doesn't see his tiredness. It's not helped by the fact that the air is filled with the soothing sounds of crickets, accentuated by the clinking of the Archmaester's chain links. They stop in an area surrounded by bushes, only lit by the strange blue flame. Perfect spot for an ambush, Jaime reckons. Or a hostage. Jaime's grip on his sword tightens. What did the Mage mean by seeing his brother? Has he been kidnapped and that the Mage is the one behind it? If he tries anything, I should just move ahead and slit-
"Ser Jaime, would you please look into this flame?" asks Marwyn, holding out the candle to him.
"Why?"
"You said you wanted to see your brother's reaction, didn't you? Just hold the candle and stare into the flame."
Still suspicious of the circumstances, Jaime grabs the candle, making sure his fingers aren't cut at the edges. His hand feels... Strangely cold, not at all feeling the heat of a flame that could burn wet wood. It's hard for him to look at bright blue light as it stabs daggers into his eyes. "Now what?"
"Look deeper into it and think back to your brother the Imp. Think of Casterly Rock, and you shall see it in the flame."
"Archmaester Marwyn, are you alright?" Jaime's concern shows through. "Has the cold rain gotten to your head?"
"What? I'm the finest I've ever been!" the man smiles, not at all quenching the Kingsguard's worry.
Wow, I really need to steer Tyrion away from this path. But Jaime decides to indulge the man's commands anyway. There's no hurt in doing so; well, maybe it'll be a bit harder to sleep away his tiredness. He moves the flame closer to his face, taking a step away from the Mage as to prevent the man from pushing him into it. Jaime imagines his time playing with Tyrion in Casterly Rock all those years ago, before he became a Kingsguard. How he always liked to recite his recent reading to Jaime's receptive ears, the fighting he often had with their father, the sight of his brother reading, reclining on his bed at their castle...
No, this isn't his imagination anymore, is it? He's seeing things, not just an image in his mind. The blue shivers and gives way to something else. Something rocky and tall, something familiar. ...No, it can't be! He can see the flicker of torches and a flight of birds in the distance. It's a vision. The moon shines over the sea, the waves breaking against the Rock. Casterly Rock, the home of the Lannisters, stands proud within the flame.
It changes again. With a flicker, now what he sees before him is a familiar room, decorated with a shelf full of books and an armour designed for a dwarf. The candles are lit, but everything seems to be bathed in a golden glow. Tyrion is asleep on a recliner, a book covering his face and a bottle of brandy spilling onto the floor. He recognises the title as one that explores the nature of magic, the one Maester Creylen always forbade them to read.
"What do you think, Kingslayer?" He turns to look at Marwyn who's now looking quite jolly. "You're a natural, you know that? Even I took some time in trying to conjure up any images, let alone speak through one."
"...What?"
"Call out to your brother, Kingslayer. Focus on the flame and send your voice through it."
He looks back into the vision of Tyrion, still unsure of what to do. "Tyrion. Tyrion," he whispers. No response.
"No, not like that," the Mage rubs the bridge of his nose, frustrated by Jaime's lack of understanding. "He's sleeping, so shout through it!"
"A-Alright. TYRION!"
The shout causes him to jolt awake, sitting up on his recliner and dropping his book. He looks around, looking somewhat confused at the situation. Tyrion frowns in some direction. "Damn ghosts," Jaime can hear him grumble. "Always interrupting me in the good parts." It's so strange for Jaime, hearing Tyrion as if he's right in front of him. And it sounds so clean as well, no crackling of burning nor flames.
"Tyrion, can you hear me?"
Tyrion looks around again, more fearful this time. He gets down from the recliner and steps in the puddle of liquor, realisation dawning upon him. "And now I'm hearing things. Shouldn't have drank the liquor before reading this shit."
"I'm not a ghost, brother."
"Jaime?" He looks around again, seeing only himself in the room. "Have... Have I gone mad?"
"If you drink more of that liquor you might."
Tyrion now lays his eyes on him, staring directly at Jaime. No, more accurately he's staring at the glass candle burning in the room. "W-Wait, Jaime is that you? How-How are you inside a candle!? Wait," Tyrion gasps, "don't tell me you're dead and have come to haunt me? Please, haunt my father instead!"
"I'm not dead you half-wit," Jaime laughs. He sorely misses his brother; how long has it been since he had last seen him? One year? Two? "I'm alive, Tyrion. Tired, but alive."
"H-How are you talking through this thing!?" Tyrion carefully grabs the glass candle and lifts it up to his face. "And how can you hear me?"
"Sorcery!" says Marwyn looking over Jaime's shoulder. He's as excited as both of the Lannisters. "That thing you're holding wields the magic of Old Valyria once thought lost in time."
"And who are you?"
"Archmaester Marwyn at your service, Lord Tyrion. And may I say, you don't look anything like the tales told of the Imp."
"Sorry to disappoint but I'm only an Imp in bed, Archm- Wait, are you saying that YOU'RE Archmaester Marwyn? The one who travelled all over Essos? The one who wrote all those books?" Jaime can see the twinkle in his brother's eye.
"In the flesh," the Mage answers with no small amount of pride.
"You bastard, I've read your books!" Tyrion laughs. The joy in him reminds Jaime of days long past. "Are you the one who lit up the candles? Because if you are, you owe me golden dragons."
"Wait, what happened?" Jaime asks.
"I was just minding my business one day, ready to sleep, when this thing burst into golden flames and nearly burnt down my room. I mean, just look at the walls!" Jaime moves the flame, still unsure on how it actually works, and sees the burn marks all across the walls and shelves. "Father scolded me for it and nearly gave me a beating for it, but I've convinced him that I was not at fault. Well, I think I convinced him; you never know what that man's thinking."
A beating... Father, you're far too harsh on my brother. Ever since Jaime took the white cloak, his father had been nothing but a thorn on Tyrion's side. Actually, it was even before then, wasn't it? His hatred had stemmed from their mother's death during Tyrion's birth; Tywin laid the blame on Tyrion ever since. And now, with him as the legal heir of Casterly Rock, the Old Lion's anger is increased tenfold.
"How do you actually work this thing, Archmaester Marwyn?" Tyrion asks through the flame.
"First off, don't touch the flame or else your hand will melt off."
"Noted." Tyrion places back the candle on a candle holder. "What's next? Do I have to recite something in High Valyrian? I must admit that my tongue is not deft in that language."
"No need for such complexities, Lord Tyrion. Now, while peering into the flame, try to remember a certain memory in your mind. The flame shall give you a vision of it."
"Alright. Let's see... How about that time I-" Tyrion's voice abruptly fades and the vision in Jaime's flame changes back to Casterly Rock. He looks at the flame confused and turns to the Mage.
"Don't worry, that means your brother succeeded in conjuring it. Try remembering something yourself. Some important memory, something impactful. That way it's far easier for you to conjure them."
Alright. Memories. Jaime's mind immediately wanders to a certain event that made him the man that he is now. The flame changes again, now showing the throne room of the Red Keep. But there's something odd about it. The light shining through the windows show that it is daytime, not nighttime like the Casterly Rock vision. Dragon skulls hang from the walls, peering at him like ghosts of the Valyrian past. And the banners...
It's just like how he always remembered it, but even more so. Though he hears no speech, he remembers clearly what they were shouting. The fires, the burning, their clattering on the steps of the iron throne. And the blade, thrust between the Mad King's throat. Jaime watches the younger version of him kick the body down the throne steps, letting it bleed onto the marble floors. He can't help but to break a smile at the sight.
"So that's how you earned your name," Marwyn comments. "Such cleanliness and precision, I thought it'd be more a violent and passionate act."
It shifts again, this time the scenery changes into night. They're in a room, but not any room: it's the royal quarters. He sees the large snoring mass of his King, Robert Baratheon, on the bed, but he doesn't see his sister anywhere. The image moves to the side of the bed. On the floor, sporting golden blond hair, two bodies writhi-
Jaime drops the candle, cursing himself for remembering such lewd memories. It's been a while since his last tryst with his sister Cersei, and he doesn't have the indecency of hiring a whore like his brother; it would feel like cheating to him. And just when I thought I would have a break from duties, I'm dragged into this quest. He picks up the candle, brushing the dirt off of it. What strange sorcery...
...
With fearful eyes, Jaime turns around and meets the gaze of Archmaester Marwyn. He's forgotten the man is even here. The Mage's face shows no emotion, just an ever-permanent scowl. "Marwyn," asks Jaime, his voice slightly shaking. "What did you see?"
"Ah, Ser Jaime, I think we should go back to your stew," the stout man slaps his own belly. "I haven't eaten anything for the whole day. What do you say?" he smiles at Jaime.
The Kingslayer clenches both the candle and the hilt of his sword with such strength that he draws blood from his hands. He grits his teeth, realising his extremely stupid mistake. If the Mage did see that image, then he feels that the best action should be... "Yes, let's finish our meals, shall we?"