Late February, 305 AC


Heat washed over him in shimmering waves. The coals in the brazier burned bright as rubies, attended by neither smoke nor flame. That would not do. It was near the end of second month, when the sun sank early and rose late. Outside the silk tent it was a cold, moonless night; the wind howled like a pack of wolves intent on slaughter.

Split logs had been left beside the brazier. With his good hand Jaime Lannister threw one atop the coals, his fetters clanking noisily. They had shackled him hand and foot; manacles wrapped around his ankles, just as they wrapped around the flesh wrist of his remaining hand and that of the iron hand strapped over his stump. Heavy locks dangled from each manacle, the metal glinting in the firelight.

When Jaime was but a boy, there was a dwarf in Lannisport, a mummer who earned his keep by striding across a bed of hot coals. He did other tricks, of course; he juggled, he tumbled, he told clever japes, but it was the fire walk that drew a crowd. Uncle Gerion had taken Jaime and Cersei to see him once, to get them out from under their mother's swollen feet. They had watched with rapt fascination, gasping and cheering like common children, their troubles briefly forgotten.

Neither of the twins were thrilled with Lady Joanna's pregnancy. They had each other, after all; a new brother or sister would just get in the way, trying to come between them. But it was Lady Joanna who had divided them, soon after that day in Lannisport. Jaime's separation from his sister had felt like an eternity, though it lasted mere weeks. Once their mother died birthing Tyrion, there was no one to keep them apart. How they had clung to each other, two little lion cubs garbed all in mourning black.

Jaime could not cry, but Cersei wept enough for the both of them, until her sorrow turned to rage. The next time Uncle Gerion took them into Lannisport, she had dragged them all over hunting for the dwarf mummer, her eyes blazing. What she meant to do, Jaime never learned; the dwarf mummer had vanished, and was never seen in Lannisport again. Nor were any other dwarfs, save his little brother, though Lord Tywin had preferred to keep Tyrion within Casterly Rock, the better to be forgotten.

Now everyone had forgotten Tyrion, it seemed. After his return to Westeros, Jaime had waited a long time before he heard his brother's name. No one spoke of him at Dragonstone, where he dwelt in an unsettlingly warm dungeon beneath the castle. Nor at the recently captured Stokeworth, where he had dwelt atop a drafty turret whose shutters creaked in the slightest wind. By the time his captors dragged him to Rosby, Jaime had given up all hope, distracted as he was by more pressing concerns.

For it was at Rosby that the retinue from Dragonstone rejoined with Aegon Targaryen. Whilst young Lord Olyvar Rosby, formerly Olyvar Frey, welcomed his guests alongside his lackwit wife Lollys Stokeworth, fatter than ever with the child she was carrying, there were no such courtesies for the Kingslayer. Jaime was flung into a cramped cell barely fit for a household knight, and left there to rot.

When he did have visitors, they were unfriendly. Lord Rosby came once, and smugly recounted Robb Stark's victory at the Battle of the Whispering Wood to his daughter Robyn, as if a child of three cared or understood. Annoying as that was, it was a break in the monotony, as was the unexpected appearance of Sansa Stark and her sister Arya a few nights later.

"You," the younger girl had said, her voice dripping with contempt.

"Me," Jaime drawled. "Were you expecting someone else?"

Arya Stark stared at him. The elder sister might look a Tully, with her mother's auburn hair and blue eyes, but the younger was all Stark, with nothing of Lady Catelyn in her. Dark brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing a long face; her eyes were as cold and grey as those of her father. But he had never seen Lord Eddard's eyes move so fast, darting hither and yon, measuring him from head to heel, missing nothing.

"You look different than I remembered," the girl finally said.

"I lost a hand," Jaime said wryly. His fetters clanked as he raised his iron hand in a mocking salute.

"That wasn't what I meant," the girl snapped.

"Oh?" Jaime stretched, his chains clinking. "Do tell; it grows tiresome up here, all alone."

He gave the girls a closer glance. Sansa Stark was buxom and beautiful, in a velvet gown that made her look every inch a queen. Arya Stark was almost flat-chested, boyish in a tunic and breeches with a thin, short blade at her hip. The girl might be called pretty, he supposed, but only if a man had never seen her sister. Robb Stark had named them both princesses, but Arya did not look the part, as he suspected she knew. And he had heard her betrothal had recently been broken... Jaime smirked.

"Though if you've come to take your pleasure of me, I'm afraid you'll be disappointed." Both girls tensed; sensing weakness, he made his thrust. "Even were it not for my devotion to Cersei, I have little interest in maidens other men found too ugly to wed."

Arya turned red with anger, but it was Sansa who spoke. "I told you there was no point in coming here," she murmured, calm as a windless day. "Are you satisfied?"

"No." Arya folded her arms. "I want to hear him admit what he did."

Jaime rolled his eyes. What offense could she possibly blame him for? He'd been imprisoned for nearly five years, and before that he'd barely met the girl. "You'll have to be more specific; what have I supposedly done to you?"

"Not to me," she scowled, incredulous. "I want you to admit what you did to Bran!"

"I flung him from a window," Jaime shrugged. "I could hardly let him run and tell everyone what he had seen. Robert would have had our heads, and those of Cersei's children, when the fool realized they were not his."

He had hoped for shouting, or weeping, or perhaps an attempt to skewer him with that thin blade. Alas, Jaime was sorely disappointed. Arya Stark's eyes narrowed, then she straightened, her face as smooth as summer silk.

"He's only a man, playing at being a monster," she said, dismissive. She turned to her sister. "I'm glad I came, but we have better things to do."

"Indeed." Sansa Stark gave him a cool look. "You have much to answer for, Kingslayer, and the time draws near when you shall."

Jaime suspected he had Sansa Stark to thank for the last visitor who had been inflicted upon him at Rosby. Septon Jonothor was a member of the Most Devout of Harrenhal, those who followed the High Dwarf rather than the High Septon in King's Landing. Jaime misliked him from the moment he entered his cell in a swirl of crimson robes, a chain of silver swords hanging about his neck, his arms laden with religious tomes. A long, pompous lecture on the Book of the Warrior and on knightly virtue sank Jaime's opinion even lower. He was contemplating strangling the man with his chains by the time Septon Jonothor finally stopped blathering and left, leaving the books behind.

After that, Jaime had seen no one. Bored out of his mind, he spent his days exercising as best he could in chains, using a long candlestick as a sword. When his body was too sore to continue, he flipped through the dull tomes. As he expected, they were a tedious slog, full of hypocrisy and contradictions. But hidden amongst the sermons and proverbs were a few useful nuggets, ones which made Jaime think long and hard. It was too bad Septon Jonothor would never know the role he played in those thoughts, which sprouted and blossomed into the makings of a plan.

The plan had been nearly ripe when they finally departed for King's Landing. They made Jaime ride in the midst of the column, flanked by knights and men-at-arms. Glad as he was to be back in the saddle, it had not been a pleasant journey. Brienne of Tarth continued to ignore him, saving all her conversation and shy smiles for Ser Deziel Dalt. The Dornishman had ridden ahead, catching up with them on the road a full day before the rest of the northern host with whom he'd ridden south from Winterfell.

The next day, Jaime had taken some small solace in conversation with one of his guards, a lean, rangy sellsword named Ser Bronn of the Blackwater. Formerly a household knight at Rosby, the man had once served Tyrion, championing him in his trial by combat when Lysa Arryn tried to take his brother's head. Ser Bronn's dry account of how Tyrion outwitted Lady Lysa was enough to make Jaime smile, until a familiar grey direwolf came loping up, frightening his horse so badly that he almost lost his seat.

"Nymeria, to me!"

A flash of white fangs, and the massive wolf was gone. The she-wolf sprinted to the head of the column, falling in beside the Stark sisters. They welcomed the monstrous beast with smiles, as did the young lady and the lady's maid who had ridden up beside them. As for Jaime, he spent the rest of the day fuming, vexed by a hazy memory of being treed by a pack of wolves led by the direwolf bitch who belonged to Arya Stark.

Jaime's mood had not improved by the time they reached King's Landing a few days ago. His sister's city was already under siege, thanks to Ser Garlan Tyrell and the host of Reachermen he'd brought up the roseroad, and to Prince Oberyn Martell and the host he'd brought up the kingsroad from Dorne. In summer the Blackwater would have kept them south of the city, at least until a bridge could be built. But now it was winter, a winter that had lasted over two years with no sign of it ending anytime soon. There was no need for a bridge, not when the river was frozen over. The ice was at least a foot thick, strong enough to bear the weight not only of mounted knights but of heavy wayns.

A grim smile tugged at Jaime's lips. Winter might have helped the besiegers, but it would damn them too. Supplying a host was difficult enough in summer, when there was plenty of forage to be had. They needed to take King's Landing quickly, else they would starve, dreaming of the full granaries within the city walls. If they didn't freeze to death first; one good blizzard would be enough to devastate the lesser knights and men-at-arms already shivering in their ragged, drafty tents.

Jaime was adding another log to the brazier when he heard the distant sound of tolling bells. Once, twice, nine times they rang, announcing the Hour of the Warrior. Chains clinking, he knelt, bowing his head in prayer. He needed the Warrior's strength now more than ever, though he would have preferred Tyrion's cunning. His little brother was the one with a gift for plots and schemes, not Jaime.

Still, Jaime was far from witless, and he had no intention of being executed, whether before a roaring crowd or a silent heart tree. That was no death for a lion, nor for a lioness. I am coming for you, sister. How lost Cersei must have been without him, how lonely, how scared. Small wonder she had bungled things so badly, once Uncle Kevan was gone and she had no one trustworthy to give her advice. Cersei might be brave, for a woman, and vicious when thwarted, but she lacked a warrior's instincts, the mettle to deliver the killing blow.

The Masked Massacre had been Randyll Tarly's notion, he suspected. Tarly was a soldier, stern and unyielding, not a man made to suffer amiable fools like Mace Tyrell. From what Jaime heard, Tarly proved a competent Hand, until his disastrous defeat at the Battle of Bitter Winds. Jaime had laughed himself sick when he heard how the proud lord had died, trapped beneath his horse, covered in filth. He hoped Tarly was suffering down in the seven hells; there was no excuse for losing when the gods were so good as to ground the damn dragon.

Of late, the winds had been calm. Aegon Targaryen had ridden Viserion nearly every day at Rosby, a sight Jaime could see from the tiny window of his turret. Yet when the retinue marched southwest for King's Landing down the snowy leagues of the Rosby road, Aegon had not joined them, instead flying away to the northeast. Thus far, he had not returned, though he was expected any day.

And when the white dragon returned... Jaime smiled thinly as he stood. The Warrior must have heard his prayers. Having finished with their own prayers, the guards who stood outside his tent were gossiping again. Listening to the witless gabble of men-at-arms was a poor way to gather information, but far better than the silence he had endured long ago when he was a captive at Riverrun.

Most of their chatter was useless. Bald Pate and Jon the Short argued for what seemed like hours over everything from which latrines were the closest and cleanest to whether or not there was any truth to a rumor that there had been a raven from King Aegon.

"Ravens fly t' ravenries, not army camps, lunk," said Jon the Short. "The maesters train 'em t' go from one castle t' another, and back again."

"I had it from Gap-toothed Tim, who had it from Burly Alys, who had it from Shirei of Harrentown, who serves the queen herself," Bald Pate said stubbornly. "Shirei were carrying blankets for Queen Sansa, who was to be giving them t' some men-at-arms who had none of their own, and t' bird lit on t' queen's shoulder right in front of her."

"Aye, and there were them cats that wandered into camp and made straight for Her Grace t'other day," Jon the Short replied. "Her Grace'll feed anything, animals know a soft touch, that's all it is. A waste, if you ask me."

"No one asked you," one of the other guards grumbled.

"I heard, back at Dragonstone, Her Grace were giving the ravens nuts and raisins, and such like," Jon the Short continued. "Soon they'll be no raisins left for our porridge, mark my words."

"I don't like raisins," Bald Pate muttered. "Chewy, sticky things."

"Raisins are well and good, but I'd rather have slivers o' almonds," interrupted Will the Red. "That's fine fare for a man's belly, not a raven's."

"Forget almonds, I'd rather have honeyed apples," chimed in Murch the miller's son.

A prolonged debate followed regarding the best accompaniments for a bowl of porridge. Every single type of fruit was considered, followed by every type of nut, then by the few spices they had been lucky enough to try at fairs or feasts.

"There's nothing like cinnamon," Murch the miller's son insisted. "I had it once, it warms you from top t' toes."

Will the Red snorted. "I'd rather be warmed by a woman. They say the brothels in King's Landing have the prettiest whores in the Seven Kingdoms."

"Not prettier than Freckled Alys," Bald Pate retorted. "She says she'll have me, if I can get a few hides o' land."

The other men hooted derision.

"Freckled Alys, really?" Jon the Short scoffed. "She has a plump arse, I'll grant you, but even Brienne the Beauty has bigger teats. Small wonder she's wedding a Dornishman; no one else was mad enough t' take the get o' a cow and a giantess, until she became one of t' queen's favorites. What was his name again, Davos Dalt?"

Ser Deziel Dalt, Jaime thought, fuming. A pitiful excuse for a knight, one who preferred gardens to the training yard. Were he a better swordsman, perhaps he would have won enough renown for his name to be remembered by this pack of fools. They agreed Ser Deziel's name was Davos, and moved on to discussing which camp follower had the comeliest face, whether teats or arse were better (Murch the miller's son did not care for either, preferring a fine pair of long legs), whether Sweet Nella's bed tricks were worth the coin she charged...

Jaime let the words wash over him, barely listening. There was no woman who could hold a candle to Cersei. Her golden curls were always fragrant with perfume, her green eyes bright, her lips soft and red and meant to be kissed. When he clasped her in his arms, nothing existed but the two of them, their love and passion beyond that of any song. Cersei had been made for him, as he had been made for her; his sister understood him as no one else could—

"—parley, on the morrow, if King Aegon returns," said Jon the Short, his gruff voice breaking Jaime's reverie.

"I'd rather have a battle, meself," laughed Will the Red. "The sort you hear about in songs."

"Aye," said Bald Pate. "There'll be no plunder if the city surrenders. King Aegon won't have it, not unless they choose to fight."

"I heard," Murch the miller's son butted in eagerly, "that the westermen got rich as lords when Lord Tywin sacked King's Landing—"

A flash of panic went through Jaime, sudden as a knife in the dark. For a moment he smelt roasting flesh; tasted the acrid smoke of wildfire; heard the thin high screams of the dying.

"The traitors want my city," hissed the voice of Aerys Targaryen, hoarse and cruel, "but I'll give them naught but ashes. Bring me your father's head, if you are no traitor." His armor, he needed his armor, the gold, not the white, where was it, he had to find it—

"Eh, Kingslayer, stop all that clanking and go to sleep!"

And Jaime came back to himself. His hands were trembling; he wrapped them in a blanket to stop the chains from rattling. He was in a tent, not the Red Keep. He had no armor; hostages didn't need it. Aerys Targaryen was dead; he'd slit his throat himself, with a slash that cut so deep he'd almost taken the king's head off.

It was so easy, killing a king. He wondered that no one had done it sooner. Dozens if not hundreds of knights had born witness to the Mad King's rages. Jaime had soon lost count of the petty lords Aerys had burned in the throne room, their alleged treasons as nonexistent as their trials. No one had done anything, or said anything, not even when Aerys grew so foolish as to burn Lord Rickard Stark of Winterfell, along with his son and heir, Brandon, and half a dozen other lords and their heirs. Yet the noble knights of the Kingsguard had remained loyal to the end, all of them, save Jaime.

The next morning dawned much the same as the one before. Bald Pate brought him porridge to break his fast, without even a hint of fruit or nuts to be seen. What was different, however, was the unexpected appearance of a tub, hauled in by Jon the Short, who was near six and a half feet tall and built like a draft horse. That done, it was time for the guards to change.

The rumors of a parley must be true, Jaime surmised. He could think of no other reason for his captors to grant him the luxury of a bath, unless it was to better display their prize hostage. He almost sighed with relief when Robin of Lockesly removed his shackles and his false hand so he could undress to bathe.

The tub was small, the water lukewarm, but that could not be helped, nor could the inferior soap. Jaime lathered it as best he could, and scrubbed every inch of skin from head to heel. Gods, he could not wait to have his sister in his arms. Ever since he left King's Landing, his skin seemed to ache for lack of touch. There was no Cersei to kiss him, to caress him, to clutch him close as he drove into her.

No one else dared touch the Kingslayer. Save Tyrion, who sometimes clapped him on the shoulder after a jape, or Robert when he was so drunk he needed a pair of Kingsguard to help him to his bed. If he only knew how many times Jaime had taken Cersei there, claiming the cunt Robert thought belonged to him alone. Adultery was a sin, all men agreed, but Cersei was his long before she was Robert's. How could it be sin, when all they did was for love? Jaime never felt so alive as when he was inside her, unless it was in battle. The septons said men were made for love and war, and he had been denied both for far too long.

When Jaime asked for a razor, that was also denied him. He got a barber instead, just as he had hoped. Cersei had always preferred him clean-shaven; he wanted to look his best. The barber even saw fit to allow him the use of a toothpick, though he was annoyed when Jaime dropped it and it could not be found.

"My apologies," Jaime said, smiling. He could condescend to be gracious; today was going to be a good day, he could feel it. Not that the barber appreciated the courtesy; he was still grumbling when he went out, leaving behind a guard to help Jaime get dressed.

They began with layers of hose and breeches and shirt, all made of good thick wool to keep the cold at bay. Over that went another pair of breeches, crimson silk with golden lions running up the seams. The tunic was crimson too, blazoned with the rampant lion of Lannister. Though the embroidery was clumsier than Jaime would have liked; the lion's snout was crooked, a paw was missing, and the mane was thin in places, as if it were not yet finished. Last was a cloak of pured miniver, white as snow, clasped with a golden lion's head brooch.

It was near noon when the guards escorted Jaime from his tent, once more in fetters. He jangled with every step, the locks glinting in the sun as they swayed. Snow crusted his boots as they walked toward the edge of the camp facing the city, men jeering and spitting and cursing him for a Kingslayer as he passed.

"Ser Jaime?"

The speaker was a young knight in purple and white chequy, with gold coins in the checks. Why was a Payne here? There were no westermen amongst King Aegon's host. Then the knight drew closer, and Jaime recognized his thin hair and skinny neck, and the sty under one eye.

"Podrick," he said, hiding his confusion with a knowing smile.

"Ser Podrick, my lord," the boy stammered. "I just- just earned my spurs last month."

"Earned them from who?" The boy had been Tyrion's squire once, then Jaime's, though only briefly. Who had taken him when Jaime was gone?

"Prince Oberyn," the boy said, ducking his head. "He- Ser Olyvar- I mean, King Aegon- we used to spar together, and—"

The rest of the story emerged in fits and starts. Lacking a squire, Prince Oberyn had decided to take on Podrick Payne, thanks to a sudden whim of either benevolence or, more likely, boredom. It sounded as though the Red Keep's master-at-arms had overseen most of his training, though he waited on Prince Oberyn as a proper squire would, tending his arms and armor and serving him at table. Perhaps the Red Viper had hoped to glean Jaime's secrets from his former squire, not that Podrick had any to share.

"I-I wanted to thank you, ser," Podrick stuttered as they left camp along the kingsroad, bound for an open expanse where a few of Aegon Targaryen's courtiers were already milling about. The snowy field lay between the camp and the Gate of the Gods, well out of range from the catapults and scorpions atop the city walls. A decent place for a parley, if neither side trusted the other enough to meet in the close quarters of a pavilion. As of yet, he saw no sign of the king or queen, or of any dragon.

"If- if you hadn't seen fit to, to—"

"I took you for Tyrion's sake, not yours," Jaime said, cutting him off. "At least you gave him the dignity of dying in a sickbed, not drowning at the bottom of the Blackwater."

Podrick hesitated. "Ser- Ser Mandon Moore drowned," he said. "He- he was on the bridge of boats, with, with Lord Tyrion. Queen Cersei, she-she- she asked him. Ser Mandon, I mean. She asked him to keep her brother as safe as he had kept her. Tyrion, not Ser Mandon. She-she- her arm—"

"Ser Podrick, what are you doing?" Ser Edric Dayne stood before them, his pale purple cloak flapping in the wind. "You're supposed to be with Prince Oberyn, you know that."

No sooner had Podrick Payne been shooed away than Jaime found himself standing amongst the courtiers. He barely glimpsed the peace banner, seven long tails streaming from seven rainbow stripes, before his guards closed in around him. In short order they checked that his fetters were secure, gagged him with rope, and pulled a canvas sack down over his head.

The indignity was almost more than he could bear. His only comfort was knowing Cersei would be here soon, their long separation finally at an end. What had he been thinking, letting Varys persuade him to flee? Lord Tywin's death could have been explained away; Jaime's place was with his sister, protecting her as he always had. Instead he had sailed across the sea, to languish in a cell when his sister needed him most.

But those years had not been a waste, not entirely. Jaime Lannister had endured trials and humiliation, he had fought to regain every bit of his former strength and skill. Simpleminded fools might call him a monster, but he didn't care for their opinion, he never had. All that mattered was Cersei, and Cersei saw him as a hero, just as Tyrion had. He had failed his little brother, but he would not fail his sister.

For now, all Jaime could do was wait, wait and listen. Banners flapped in the breeze; boots crunched on snow; courtiers murmured to each other. When the murmurs grew louder, he judged Aegon and his queen must have arrived, though he heard no flapping of wings. Where is the dragon? The parley was to begin at noon, and the sun was almost overhead.

Then he heard a sound so sweet he forgot all else. Hoofbeats, muffled by the snow; more than two dozen horses at least, coming from the city along the kingsroad. Strange; Targaryen must have known Cersei and her courtiers would be mounted. Yet before they pulled the sack over his head, Jaime had not seen a single horse on the edge of the camp.

To his surprise, it was not Aegon Targaryen, but Sansa Stark whose voice rose above the throng. She greeted Tommen Falseborn, Lady Cersei Lannister, and their court, welcoming them to this sacred parley beneath banners of peace and before the eyes of the old gods and the new.

Tommen's voice was deeper than Jaime remembered. That was to be expected; the boy was thirteen now. But he had never heard little Tommen speak his courtesies in such a wooden, empty tone, his words devoid of either warmth or nerves.

"Are you well?" Sansa Stark almost sounded concerned.

"It is nothing," Tommen answered dully. "There was an attack. Traitors, disguised as goldcloaks. Ser Addam and Ser Lyn slew them all. I was barely injured, thanks to my lady mother, the Queen Regent. Henceforth she shall speak for me; it is her wise counsel which I rely upon most."

"Good morrow," said Cersei, sweet as poisoned honey. Jaime turned toward the sound of her voice, clinging to it like a drowning sailor to a spar. "It has been too long, Lady Sansa. Dear child, are you well? It seems something has gone dreadfully amiss. It was your pretender who called this parley, and yet I do not see him here."

"My lord husband shall join us anon." He could almost hear her smile. "Never fear, my lady, King Aegon is prepared to accept your surrender."

"Surrender?" Cersei made the word crack like a whip. "You presume too much. I am here for Jaime."

"He stands before you."

A yank, a tug, and darkness gave way to blinding light. Burning stars danced across Jaime's eyes as he looked, looked upon his beloved Cersei. Like all of her party, she was ahorse, with Tommen almost hidden behind her. His sister met his gaze with eyes like wildfire, her cheeks flushed, her hair as golden as the setting sun.

"Jaime." Cersei made his name a caress, a prayer, a blessing all in one.

Jaime gnawed at his gag, desperate to say her name in turn. It was no use, the rope was too thick. His teeth having failed him, he willed his eyes to speak for him instead, but Cersei had already turned away, returning to exchanging civilities with Sansa Stark.

Unable to do aught else, Jaime could only look, drinking Cersei in with a thirst that could not be quenched. Both his sister and her son wore crimson and gold. A twin lion brooch clasped the king's cloak, as golden as the queen's crown, which gleamed with fiery rubies. Tommen's crown was made of golden antlers set with onyx; beneath his peace banner flew the stag of Baratheon halved with the lion of Lannister.

While he had known his sister and her son at a glance, most of Cersei's councillors were strangers. He recognized Lord Tybolt Crakehall, a big, brawny man wearing the chain of linked hands that marked him as the Hand of the King. There were a brother and sister in Tarly colors who must be Queen Talla and Lord Dickon; Lord Serrett and Lord Wylde he knew only by their sigils. He did not know the new Grand Maester at all, though the thick gold curls suggested he was some distant Lannister cousin.

Last and least were those at the back of the company. Jaime spied a pyromancer in green robes blazoned with tongues of flame, a half dozen Most Devout in their raiment, and perhaps a dozen patricians, dressed in humble garb. There was no sign of Varys, but then, the eunuch might be hidden amongst the escort of goldcloaks, watching from the shadows. The escort was queerly large, thrice the number he would have expected, with even more goldcloaks waiting in the distance beneath the Gate of the Gods.

And the queen appeared to have brought every sworn brother of the Kingsguard too. Ser Addam Marbrand, who kept closest to the king, the helm of his visor closed. Ser Lyn Corbray, with a smile as sharp as his sword, Lady Forlorn. Ser Balon Swann, sitting his horse with a stiff, careful posture that hinted at ill health. Ser Lyle Crakehall, better known as Strongboar, taller than his brother and even thicker, both of muscle and of wits.

There were two other men in white plate, knights that Jaime did not know, but try as he might, he saw no sign of a seventh. Cersei had not replaced him, then, even though the small council must have urged her a thousand times to give his white cloak to another man. His blood ran hot in his veins; his cock stirred; he would have taken her then and there, were he not gagged and chained.

To calm himself, Jaime made himself look to the side, at Sansa Stark, still stalling as she traded barbed courtesies with his sister. Her cloak was halved like her lord husband's sigil, with a screeching orange phoenix on blue and a three-headed scarlet dragon on black, over a damask gown of Stark grey and white. To either side of her stood Ser Daemon Sand and Ser Loras Tyrell, their white cloaks rippling in the wind. Just behind them stood Arya Stark, in chainmail under a surcoat blazoned with a direwolf holding a bravo's blade in its paws. The girl stood sideways, her eyes watching Cersei and her courtiers like a hawk, her stance somehow both graceful and motionless.

The other courtiers were less complacent. Ser Gulian Qorgyle stroked his dark beard, murmuring quietly to Jynessa Blackmont, who looked angry, and Perros Blackmont, who seemed worried. Brienne of Tarth shifted uneasily where she stood, ignored by Ser Deziel Dalt, who kept looking up at the sky, and by a dark-haired northern girl, who was fidgeting with her gloves. His eyes slid past her, past a dozen Most Devout, past Garlan Tyrell and his lords of the Reach, past a cluster of northmen, one of whom was pointing at the sun, past a tall, dark-haired brother and sister who looked oddly familiar, past a knot of Dornish ladies, until at last he saw the princess whom they served.

Elia of Dorne sat in her wheeled chair as if it were a throne. There were no tracks behind it; someone must have carried the chair to the parley, then carried her over and placed her in it. Jaime doubted she could have managed the distance herself. When he knew her, she had oft relied on a cane to walk. Now Elia's legs jutted stiffly into the footrest of her chair, barely moving even when a cough wracked her body. She must have felt his gaze; she turned with some difficulty, frowned, then looked back at the battle of pleasantries which were becoming less and less pleasant.

"Where is this dragon of which we've heard so much, and seen so little?" Cersei was asking. "I am told it was gravely wounded." She tsked. "How peculiar, that a Greyjoy should ride a dragon, with never a drop of Targaryen blood in his veins."

"Euron Greyjoy stole the dragon Rhaegal by fell sorcery," Sansa said, unbothered. "King Aegon's bond with Viserion is as true as his blood; they defeated Greyjoy without so much as a scratch." She smiled. "Never fear, my lady, my lord husband shall be here presently."

"Your new lord husband, you mean." Cersei's smile was all teeth. "So kind of him, to take a bride already used, and not a single babe to show for it. I know you've had plenty of seed; I'm told that Dornish bastard shared you at every brothel he visited in the Free Cities."

Cersei's councillors were as stone-faced as Aegon's, but Sansa Stark gave a laugh.

"Brothels? Someone has sold you a groat for a dragon. I know Prince Oberyn is fond of tall tales, but even he is not so inventive. I was a maid when I wed, and I have bedded no man save the lord husband you so kindly gave me."

"Which lord husband?" Cersei flared. Wait, did she not know? "What happened to Ser Olyvar Sand, pray? Did the pretender slay him, and take you as a prize? Or did you slay him yourself, in hopes of a better match?"

"You—"

Sansa abruptly fell silent. For an instant he could have sworn her eyes were white, but then he was distracted by the great screech that echoed over the world. A white dragon dove through the clouds, the sunlight shining on her golden crest and spines, her rider small upon her back.

Horses screamed and reared; Cersei nearly lost her seat, and several of her councillors and her goldcloaks were thrown. Lord Serrett staggered to his feet, clutching a broken arm; at least one goldcloak was not moving, his neck grotesquely twisted. Well, that explained why none of Aegon's company were mounted.

Viserion landed with a thud, some fifty yards behind Aegon's company. Aegon himself dismounted with ease, and made for his courtiers with long, sure strides. They parted to let him pass, lords bowing and ladies curtsying as their king went by. Aegon Targaryen could not hope to match Queen Cersei's splendor, but he had tried. The Valryian steel and ruby crown of the conqueror sat easily upon his brow; around his neck was a chain of gold and silver set with the icons of the Seven; the lifelike phoenix and dragon blazoned on his parti-colored regalia gleamed brightly in the sun.

When Aegon reached his lady wife, Sansa curtsyed so deeply that a less graceful woman would have fallen, and did not rise until her husband took her by the hand, raising her to her feet before pressing a kiss to her knuckles. Their eyes met; some private, unspoken knowledge passed between them, followed by Aegon wrapping a possessive arm about her waist, allowing Sansa to whisper something in his ear before looking up at him with a smile so sweet it made Jaime want to retch.

"My lady," she said, blissfully ignorant of the baffled fury in Cersei's eyes. "I have the honor to present Aegon Targaryen, the Sixth of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm." Her duty done, Sansa stepped back to stand beside her sister, yielding the field to Aegon.

"So good of you to finally join us," Cersei snapped, when she managed to draw her eyes away from the dragon. Some of her councillors were openly gaping; one of the Most Devout had dismounted, falling to his knees to pray, as had several patricians.

Aegon ignored them all, looking only at Tommen. "I would beg pardon for our tardiness, but it is only just noon."

Tommen blinked at him, dazed, as if surprised to be addressed. "Ser Olyvar?"

Cersei's eyes widened; her cheeks went from red to white.

"And the penny drops."

Aegon allowed himself the merest hint of a smile, as did Sansa. Arya Stark, less dignified, was grinning gleefully; Ser Deziel Dalt and half a dozen others gave a bark of laughter. For that Jaime could have cheerfully killed them all, and would have, were he not chained. Cersei was speechless with rage; her hands shook as she gripped her horse's reins tight.

"My thanks for the match you made me," Aegon continued, giving Tommen a nod. Tommen returned it vaguely, after a moment's delay. "I could not ask for a better wife. But then, you always were a generous boy. My sister Rhaenys said she had never met a more gentle, open-handed lad."

"Rhaenys?" Cersei almost choked on the name.

"You knew her as Lady Meria Sand." Aegon's smile grew. "Princess Rhaenys asked me to pass along her deepest thanks for taking her into your service, she was so disappointed she could not be here for your surrender."

Cersei looked as if she could spit blood. "There will be no surrender. Tommen is the rightful king, the trueborn heir of King Robert—"

"Enough." Aegon's smile vanished, replaced by a murderous mask. "We did not come here to be insulted with threadbare lies. Lords and ladies, gentles all, if you think to look upon the blood of Robert Baratheon, you will find no trace of it in Tommen Falseborn."

He beckoned behind him, summoning the dark-haired brother and sister Jaime had noted earlier. Both were in their early twenties. The boy was brawny, the girl lean, with different noses and different lips, but they shared the same coal-black hair, the same deep blue eyes, the same strong jaw. There could be no doubt how they had come by those features.

Whilst Aegon presented Mya Stone and Gendry Waters, Jaime cursed Robert Baratheon to the deepest of the seven hells. How many bastards had the man sired? And how had Aegon come by these two? He could have sworn Cersei had said something about taking care of all the little brats after Robert's death.

Once finished with the bastards, Aegon drew forth a folded parchment. Implacable, he read off a litany of crimes, beginning with adultery, incest, and treason, and ending with allegations of murder, black magic, and vile sorceries. Cersei said not a word, nor did her councillors, who listened with faces ranging from queasy to furious.

"Your misrule is done," Aegon concluded grimly. "If you defy us, we shall attack. There will be no quarter. You will be slain, your houses attainted, your ancestral seats given to worthier lords. Yet it is not too late. Yield the city, and there will be mercy. The boy Tommen will enter the Faith; there shall be trials for Cersei Lannister, the Kingslayer, and all others accused of taking part in their crimes. Those found guilty may choose between the sword and the Night's Watch; your heirs will keep your seats, though your lands and incomes shall be much reduced. This is no time to play at war; surrender, now, lest winter and the Others take us all."

Lord Serrett frowned as he shifted in his saddle, still cradling his broken arm. Lord Crakehall and Lord Wylde glanced at each other, then at the dragon, then at Aegon. At the back of Cersei's company, the Most Devout and the patricians buzzed like a hive of bees. Cowards.

"Absolutely not," Cersei began. "I- King Tommen requires time to consider your terms. A week, at least."

"Why? Stalling will not avail you," Aegon said, inexorable. "My army is at least twice the size of yours. There will be no reinforcements. Your allies in the Stormlands are almost vanquished, and Casterly Rock is besieged by Lord Lydden."

Jaime snorted into his gag. Lord Lydden could besiege the Rock all he liked, it would never fall. Even Lann the Clever had been forced to use cunning, not force of arms, tricking the Casterlys into slaying each other.

"You may have three days to consider terms. Further," Aegon continued, "we are willing to give you the Kingslayer, now, in exchange for my great-uncle, Lord Dagos Manwoody, and all the other Dornish lords and ladies who were in his company."

Cersei did not even pause to think. "Done. Give me Jaime, and once we return to the city we will send out your Dornishmen."

"Send you their bones, she means." Lord Serrett's mouth twisted in distaste. "They're dead, all of them."

Aegon flinched. Jynessa Blackmont gaped in stunned disbelief; her brother Perros clutched at her, his body shaking as he began to sob. The dragon Viserion gave a piercing screech, and spewed pale golden flames into the air. Alarmed, some of the patricians turned tail and fled, galloping back toward the city.

"Damn you," Aegon said, his voice a ragged whisper. "You have until dawn to open the gates. Get out of my sight, before I do something I shall regret."

After that, Jaime could hardly wait for dusk. To keep himself occupied, he practiced drills inside his tent, using a spare tent pole for a sword. Even limited by so cramped a space, chains jangling with every move, he could feel his old skill. Jaime would need it, if he was to succeed in his quest.

The sun was beginning to set when Bald Pate brought his dinner. Through the flap of the tent Jaime glimpsed gathering clouds, the sort that promised snow. He ate his dinner with relish, savoring every morsel. He would need his strength for the night that lay ahead.

Jaime did not see which guard came to take away the empty bowl and flagon of watered wine. He was already under his sleeping furs and blankets, his back turned. "Finally, some quiet," the guard grumbled, going out. Soon enough he heard the familiar strains of gossip.

That was the signal. With the ease of long practice, Jaime wrapped the corner of a blanket around the fetters fastened to his wrists. When he drew forth the golden lion's head brooch and the iron toothpick from his pocket, it was without a single clink or jangle.

Hugor of the Hill's grandson Artys had used the quills of a swan to free himself from the dungeon of a demon king. The lockpick Tyrion sent to free him from Riverrun had had a bit of wire and two good hands. As Jaime had only one, he clenched the lion's head brooch in his teeth, holding the pin inside the lock fastened to the manacle on his false wrist. His good hand held the toothpick, poking and prodding for long minutes until, with a soft click, the bolt came free.

Barely breathing, Jaime set to work on the manacle on his good wrist. The fingers of his false hand could be moved a little, just barely enough to hold the lion brooch. It was much trickier using the toothpick with his teeth; for a moment he feared the lock would never give way. When it did, he said a silent prayer of thanks to the Warrior, then turned to his ankles. When the last shackle fell on the bed with a quiet thump, Jaime felt as if he could fly.

It was snowing when Jaime emerged from his tent, having crawled underneath the back. All the men would be huddled in their tents or at the cookfires, save for those unlucky enough to stand guard. No one wasted torches or rushlights in winter; without the light of the moon, the night was dark as pitch. Against the snow, a man shrouded in a white cloak was no more than a shadow.

His boots were soaked through by the time Jaime reached the edge of camp. Here the tents were patched and dirty, much like the hedge knights to whom they belonged. Rather than risk a loud confrontation, Jaime waited until he saw a knight leave his tent. When the coast was clear, he slipped inside the empty tent. There was no sword, but there was a gauntlet for his good hand, knives for his belt, spurs for his boots, a gorget that fit and a suit of rusty mail that did not. Thus equipped, he stole back outside, to take his choice of the shabby horses picketed nearby.

As Jaime rode away from the camp, a wave of giddiness washed over him. What did it matter if the horse could barely find his way through the snow, and walked at a pace that would shame a turtle? For the first time in years, he was free. The air he breathed was cold and sweet; the night belonged to him alone, him and the Warrior who guided Jaime's steps. Not even the stars saw his escape; they hid behind a diaphanous veil of clouds, the snow falling light as a lover's kiss.

This was the glorious quest for which he was always destined, the moment when he rescued the princess from her tower and carried her away. Never again would they be sundered by capricious fate or cruel mischance; their love had survived every tempest, and never waned nor faltered, not since the moment they emerged from the womb together, Jaime clasping his sister by the foot.

Still, his nerves were sorely tested as he rode through the darkness, knowing any moment his horse might slip or stumble or step into a hidden hole. But the Warrior was with him, and Jaime reached the Blackwater Rush without mishap. There was no point trying the gates, and while scaling the walls with grappling claw and rope sounded well in stories, all it took was one halfwit fool to cut your rope or fling you to your death. No, Jaime had a much better plan. He had slipped from the Red Keep once before; he need only retrace his steps to find the way back in.

Or so he thought. The Red Keep looked quite different covered in snow, as did the rocky bluff upon which it stood. When at last he found the secret steps carved into the cliff face, they were much smaller than he recalled, due to being crusted over with ice. Damn the eunuch; Jaime had hoped Varys would have kept them salted. He would enjoy gutting the man like a pig.

Ascending the steps in winter took much, much longer than descending them in autumn. Clutching a knife in each hand so he could drive them into the ice helped a little, though it was still a precarious climb. His spurs were no help at all. When Jaime was halfway up he slipped, only catching himself at the last moment by dropping the knife in his good hand and grabbing onto a jagged rock that jutted from the cliff. His heart was racing when he finally reached the top, so fast that he had to pause to catch his breath. When he felt steadier, he pressed on, confident that the worst was over.

The hearth was cold, the bedchamber silent, when Jaime emerged from the tunnels beneath the Tower of the Hand. The boar of Crakehall hung upon the wall, but there was no other sign that time had passed since the night he slew his father. Stifling a laugh, Jaime took a sword down from the wall, where it had hung on display.

To his disappointment, there were no guards outside the door, nor in the passage which connected the Tower of the Hand to the Small Hall, nor in the outer yard. Only when he reached the throne room did he finally see a Kingsguard and a squad of goldcloaks, shivering in the cold as they stood watch outside the door.

"Kingslayer?" The Kingsguard asked, stunned.

"That's Lord Commander, to you."

And with that, Jaime shoved open the great oaken doors.

The Iron Throne loomed above the hall, a great beast of blades and barbs. A small red shadow sat in its mouth; a white shadow stood guard at its feet. And in the beast's jagged shadow stood the missing guards. There were dozens of them, goldcloaks and men-at-arms in the livery of the lords whom they served. All of their spears were raised, pointed at a cluster of redcloaks who surrounded a woman in black, defending their queen.

As if by fate, it was Cersei who saw him first. A glad cry burst from her lips; heedless of her danger, she pushed past her guardsmen. Jaime strode toward her, his heartbeat throbbing with every step, then suddenly his sister was in his arms. Her nose was red, and there was a cut on her brow and a spreading bruise on her cheek, but none of that mattered, not when Cersei clutched him as if she never meant to let go.

Still holding her, Jaime glanced around. The redcloaks were already being forced to give up their arms by the goldcloaks, while the lords of the small council stood assembled behind three knights of the Kingsguard and the remaining men-at-arms. Lord Crakehall was thunderous, Lord Wylde stunned. Talla Tarly clung to her brother Dickon's arm, her face wan; Hallyne the Pyromancer trembled with fright, whilst Lord Serrett was as stiff as the plaster cast on his arm.

"What, no words of welcome, my lords?" Jaime gave them his brightest smile. "And after all the trouble I took to be here."

"I told you he would come for me!" Cersei said, defiant. "Jaime will defend the city, if you are too craven—"

"For the last time, no one is defending the city," Lord Serrett snapped. "At dawn, we will open the gates; there is no other choice. Your Grace should go to the royal sept, and pray that at your trial you can refute these vile accusations which have come to light—"

"Vile accusations?"

Jaime winced; his sister had shrieked in his ear. He released her, letting her turn her fury on the small council who had already decided to betray them.

"The Targaryens wed brother to sister for centuries, and none dared say them nay. Jaime and I were wed in the womb; we were born sharing one flesh, one heart, one soul. He is mine, as I am his!"

Jaime's heart leapt into his throat. He had never loved his sister more. Cersei was magnificent in her rage, brazen and unashamed as she declared their love in the sight of gods and men. Although, come to think of it, none of the courtiers had twitched so much as a hair, save Talla Tarly, who looked queasy.

"And you knew," Cersei hissed, so viciously that Hallyne the Pyromancer took several steps back. "Stannis Baratheon and Robb Stark declared the truth to the realm, and none of you gave a damn until you decided to save your own wretched skins. Is this how you repay my generosity, with insolence and ingratitude?"

"With treason, rather," Dickon Tarly said coldly.

Jaime glanced up at the throne. Tommen sat in silence, forlorn and forgotten. No boy of thirteen was ever so listless, let alone a king whose councillors had just turned against his mother. Something was amiss, something that made Jaime's skin crawl as he looked away.

"Strongboar, Ser George!" Lord Crakehall boomed.

Steel shone as the two knights of the Kingsguard drew their swords, advancing with a squad of goldcloaks behind them. There were too many to fight, but even so Jaime's hand flew to the hilt of his sword. Cersei cried out to Tommen, but the boy's reply was so faint it could barely be heard. Nor did anyone heed it. Another moment and the twins were surrounded, Strongboar ripping Jaime's sword from its sheath before he could give it up.

"Get them out of my sight," Lord Crakehall growled. "We have much to do before dawn."

And with that, Jaime was a prisoner again. They were marched out of the throne room to the sound of Dickon Tarly volunteering to inform King Aegon of the Kingslayer's recapture and the imprisonment of the Queen Regent. There was not another word from Tommen, nor from Ser Addam Marbrand, who remained at the foot of the throne, a statue all in white.

The outer yard was deep in snow. Cersei shivered as she walked; they had not allowed her to fetch her pattens or her cloak. Jaime swept his cloak over her instead; he did not need it, not when battle fever made his blood run hot, his thoughts racing as he considered his next move.

"The white cloak suits you, Strongboar," Jaime ventured. Ser Lyle Crakehall bristled, looking rather like the boar's head that clasped his cloak. "But I don't believe I've had the honor of meeting our other sworn brother."

"Ser George Graceford," the knight said tersely.

That explained the constipated look on his face. The Gracefords were so pious they'd taken the Mother's face for their sigil, and were known for producing almost as many septons as knights. No doubt Ser George was beside himself at having to endure the presence of an adulteress and a Kingslayer.

"Where are you taking us?" Jaime asked casually as they crossed under a portcullis into the inner bailey. "Not the black cells, surely; that is no place for a highborn lady."

"Not the black cells," Strongboar grunted. "The queen's apartments."

Jaime hid a grimace. That would not do; there was no way out of Maegor's Holdfast, at least none that he knew of.

"I'm glad to hear it," Jaime lied. "I feared Lord Crakehall meant for you to lock us up in the Tower of the Hand. My sister's apartments are far more comfortable than the Hand's chambers."

Thank the Warrior that Strongboar was so predictable. Jaime was hard pressed not to smirk when Ser Lyle turned on his heel, making for the Tower of the Hand rather than for the serpentine steps they had almost reached. Alas, once they reached the Hand's solar, things took a turn for the worse. While Strongboar and the goldcloaks remained outside, Ser George Graceford had the gall to follow them into the room. Cersei was busy warming herself by the dying fire; it fell to Jaime to get rid of him.

"I'm surprised to see you here," Jaime drawled.

"I have no intention of letting you out of my sight."

"How diligent of you." Jaime bared his teeth in a mocking smile. "A Kingsguard is sworn to celibacy, but I suppose watching doesn't count."

Ser George's eyes grew narrow. "You swore to celibacy, ser."

Jaime had to laugh. "That never stopped me before." He tapped his lip, thoughtful. "I suppose it would be novel, having a witness. You could keep count of how many times—"

"Jaime!"

"Have you no shame, ser?"

Jaime shrugged, ignoring his sister to give Ser George another blinding smile. "Our days are numbered; why should we not lose ourselves in pleasure? They can hardly kill us twice. Besides, I've been away so long, with nothing to think of but all the depraved acts I should like to do to my sister."

To his delight, Ser George actually gagged, clapping a hand over his mouth before leaving the room.

"What are you playing at?" Cersei demanded when the door had slammed shut behind him. "Now is no time for bedding! You've trapped us—"

Jaime silenced her with a bruising kiss. For a moment she struggled, trying to push him away, trying to bite, but that only made his lust blaze higher. Another moment, and Cersei melted into his arms as she always did, pouring all her anger and despair into the kiss.

"We're not trapped," Jaime told her, when they finally broke apart. "Come on, we must hurry."

With that, he seized her by the hand, dragging her into the bedchamber. Cersei was talking again, but he didn't hear a word, too busy searching the hearth for the little bit of iron that would open the entrance to the tunnels.

"—absolutely filthy, what are you—"

A soft rumble, and there it was, the secret door.

"Bring a taper," Jaime ordered.

And with that, he dropped to his hands and knees, disappearing into the darkness before Cersei could waste their time with protests. Sure enough, the light of a taper soon appeared behind him, along with the sound of skirts rustling as his sister entered the tunnel behind him. Through the cramped silence they crawled, on and on until they came to the rungs of a ladder. When they reached the bottom, Jaime jumped down, landing on a mosaic of a three-headed dragon wrought in red and black tiles.

"Maegor's tunnels," Cersei said. She frowned, trying to brush the dirt from her black skirts, ignoring the dusty white cloak still clasped about her neck. "How did you know?"

"Varys. By the by, where is he?"

"Feeding the worms." In the light of the taper, her green eyes shone with triumph. "I discovered the eunuch's treasons, and dealt with him that very day. You should have seen it, Jaime; Ser Lyn Corbray gutted him like a pig."

So the eunuch has escaped my vengeance. Jaime was not sure whether to curse or laugh. For so long Cersei had dithered over what to do with Jon Arryn, with Robert Baratheon, with Eddard Stark, yet she had shown no such hesitation when it came to dealing with Varys. Perhaps she had learned something of the Warrior's instinct from her twin, enough to survive while he was away.

"Jaime?" The taper flickered as Cersei turned, looking at the five doors which surrounded the small round chamber in which they stood. "Which way do we go?"

He paused. They could not go out the same way he had come in; the cliff steps were far too dangerous. Jaime stared at the other four doors, one at a time, trying to judge which path to take.

"I'm not sure," he finally admitted. "The eunuch said the tunnels go all over the Red Keep, save Maegor's Holdfast, and there are several paths that lead outside the Red Keep, but I do not know all of them."

His mind made up, Jaime grasped his sister by the hand. Only one door had a passage that sloped downward, and he pulled her toward it, yanking when she hesitated. There was no light but the taper flickering in his sister's hand; the darkness swallowed them up, soft as a funeral shroud.

"Why did Varys kill Father that night?"

The passage twisted; two doors lay before them.

"He didn't." Jaime took the left, drawn by the scent of earth and water. "I did."

"You?" Cersei took a sharp breath, almost stumbling on the rough bricks. "Why?"

"Lord Tywin learnt of our affair. He meant to marry me off, and send you to the silent sisters, without the tongue which had led me astray. Varys found me with his blood still on my sword, and hurried me away before I knew what I was doing."

This time it was Cersei who kissed him, desperate and trembling. His cock was already stiff as he kissed her back, shoving her against the wall so hard she almost dropped the taper.

"Jaime, we have to go back," she gasped when he began to rut against her. "We have to- Tommen—"

"There's nothing we can do for Tommen," Jaime said brutally. "There are too many guards. He is already dead."

As he spoke, it came to him that his words were true in more ways than one. Jaime recoiled from the thought. Instead he kissed her again, this time tasting the salt of her tears. Mothers always grieved their children, but that was to be expected.

"We'll make another son together," Jaime soothed between kisses. "We'll go home, and fill our halls with lion cubs."

Cersei sniffled. "Home?"

"Where else?" He cradled her neck in his good hand, stroking her throat with his thumb. His sister shuddered, her pupils blown so wide that he could barely see the green in her eyes. "Fuck the Iron Throne; we shall be King and Queen of the Rock."

"But- the dragon- we shall be pursued—"

Jaime let go of her, exasperated. He offered her escape, and his sister gave him doubts.

"All we need is a distraction."

"I wanted to fight." Cersei rubbed at her throat, panting. "Ser Lyn Corbray thought we could hold the city long enough to starve them out, so long as the mob didn't open the gates." She shuddered again. "They nearly pulled me from my horse, when we returned from the parley. They were throwing rocks and snow and worse."

"Where is Ser Lyn?"

"Gone." Cersei's mouth twisted. "When the council began to talk of surrender, he slipped away. The Wall is not for him, nor the executioner's block. He'll go down bloody, and if the gods are good, he'll take Aegon and that little bitch with him. A pity; I was so looking forward to flinging wildfire at them."

"What?" Jaime backed away from her, suddenly light-headed. The air was stale, the passage far too cramped.

"How else would you fight a dragon?" his sister asked, as if he were a slow child. "After what Greyjoy did to Oldtown, I had scorpions and catapults placed atop the three high hills, and the Guild of Alchemists provided wildfire to defend the Red Keep, Baelor's Sept, and the Dragonpit."

"Are you mad?" Jaime demanded. "You might have burned down the Red Keep, and the Iron Throne with it!"

"Better that than let the usurper have it!" Cersei froze, her eyes wide. "That's it," she breathed. "Aegon thinks he's won. The traitors will let him into the city, and he will come to claim the throne. And when he does..."

Jaime could taste bile at the back of his throat. "You sound like Aerys."

Cersei scoffed, dismissive. "Have you a better idea? Or would you rather let his grandson claim his throne?"

The Red Keep swam dizzily up at him out of the dark, wreathed in green flames. Aerys licked his lips and laughed as men begged and screamed and died. Rhaella wept and pleaded for help that never came; Cersei lay in silence while Robert claimed his rights, the bed creaking and groaning as if it were giving voice to the anguish in her soul. And all the while, Jaime stood by, doing nothing, his white armor heavy upon his back.

"Let it burn," Jaime rasped. "But without Hallyne..."

"We don't need him. I have someone else who can help, once we get out."

If they could find the way out. The tunnels seemed to go on forever. Rats scurried across the floors, darting into passages locked by iron grates. One juncture boasted a cold brazier and piles of chicken bones; another boasted chests of motheaten costumes. Jaime found the sword, breastplate, gauntlets, and shield of a goldcloak captain, and took them for himself, whilst Cersei covered her jewels and velvet gown with a plain one made of wool. It was so large Jaime suspected it had been worn by Varys. Rather than remove her crown, she covered it with the hood of a ragged cloak, giving the white fur cloak back to Jaime.

After that, the passage twisted left, then began to descend more steeply. There was a faint stink of fish, one that grew more pronounced when they finally emerged near Fishmonger's Square. It had stopped snowing, but Cersei's taper flickered in the wind as they trudged up the Hook; barely a nub remained when she knocked on the door of a nondescript manse.

"Are you sure we can trust him?" Jaime asked in a low voice as they waited in the cold.

"He's proved his mettle a hundred times," Cersei replied, just as quiet. "I trusted him with my children's lives, and he did not fail me."

Jaime did not want to think about that. Nor did he want to think about the rumors that the man had lost his maester's chain for practicing necromancy. Thankfully, he did not have to. The door opened, letting out a rush of warm air and the soft yellow gleam of a lantern.

Qyburn looked much as he remembered. There were a few more lines around his brown eyes, a few less hairs atop his head, but that was all. He welcomed them with all the grace of a courtier, despite the pair of silent sisters who scurried away when they entered the manse, one of them naked save for her wimple. There were servants too, all of them queerly pale and noiseless, who stoked up the fire and brought refreshments at their master's command.

"Never fear," Qyburn said, catching his eye. "They are not very clever; nor would they think of breathing a word of your presence, my lord." Probably because they lacked tongues, Jaime suspected. "Now, how may I be of service to you and to Her Grace?"

Cersei had always been good at getting what she wanted. Whilst Jaime drained a cup of wine, she explained everything to Qyburn, who listened patiently, never interrupting. Only when Cersei finished did he ask a few questions of his own, to help him carry out her orders properly.

"Noon, then," he concluded. "Of course, Your Grace. I take it you wish to be gone from the city—"

A knock came at the door, loud and unexpected. When there was no answer, there was a second knock, then a third, followed by a steady pounding.

"Open up, in the name of King Tommen!"

Jaime rose to his feet, sword in hand. "Let them in," he said, sliding his arm through the straps of his shield, "before they wake half the city."

When Ser Balon Swann and a squad of goldcloaks entered the room, there was no one there but Jaime. One moment the goldcloaks were crying out in alarm; the next he was charging at them. They scattered like mice, abandoning Ser Balon to face him alone. A decent fighter, Jaime recalled, but his stance was weaker now, his movements slower.

"I don't suppose you would stand down?" Jaime asked as he raised his sword.

Ser Balon raised his shield. "Never."

"I was hoping you'd say that."

And the song of steel began. Ser Balon wore a helm and heavy plate, whilst Jaime had only a breastplate and gauntlet, but that made no difference. Jaime was a whirlwind; he was the Warrior; he was himself again. Slash, parry, high, low, driving the knight across the room whilst the goldcloaks watched in stupid awe. The sword was a part of him; his left hand was better than his right had ever been. When Ser Balon stumbled into a table, Jaime was ready, the sword darting between his legs to trip him and send him crashing to the floor. A heartbeat, and Jaime stood over him, driving his sword through the eyeslit of his helm.

After that, the goldcloaks proved a disappointment. None of them could hope to match Jaime; he might as well have been dueling with a flock of geese. The goldcloaks certainly squawked like geese when he barreled in among them, targeting the weak spots in their suits of rusted mail. Jaime hacked, he slashed, he tossed his sword in the air to flip his grip, using the crossguard to bash in a goldcloak's skull.

When the others returned, they found Jaime standing amongst his fallen foes, his face and his cloak splattered Lannister crimson. Qyburn licked his lips at the sight of the carnage, his smile wide. Cersei looked less pleased, though perhaps that was because she had exchanged her velvet gown for the robes of a silent sister, all of her beauty covered save for her eyes. There was a new disguise for Jaime too, a set of serviceable armor without the goldcloak insignia which would draw attention once outside the city.

There was a stable behind the manse, and it was there Qyburn led them, trailed by a pair of servants carrying heavily laden saddlebags. Soon they were riding down to Fishmonger's Square, where a bribe and a postern gate gained them passage through the city walls, out onto the Blackwater. They rode through the darkness south along the river, careful and slow lest they injure their mounts.

The sky was turning grey by the time they found an abandoned towerhouse, a ruin which had once belonged to some lowly knight. It had been Cersei's notion; she was already exhausted. Truth be told, Jaime was flagging too, wearied by a night of seemingly endless toil.

Yet when he picked the lock on the towerhouse door, Jaime suddenly found his strength renewed. He swept Cersei up into his arms, carrying her over the threshold and up the stairs to fling her on a dusty bed. Their coupling was as frantic as it was passionate, as if it were the wedding night they had been so long denied. Jaime claimed her every way he could, wiping away every trace of Robert, of their years apart, of every fool who had ever tried to come between them. Their flesh was the world, and through it their hearts and souls rejoined at last. When at last they finished, Cersei was weeping.

"From joy," she told him when he asked. "I never thought to see you again, and now..."

Jaime kissed her tears away, lest he start weeping too. Without a fire, the room was cold, but neither of them could bear to dress. Instead they held each other close, skin to skin, with the white cloak over them. Cersei soon drifted off, but Jaime was less lucky. No matter how he lay beside her, he could not feel at ease. Green flames danced before his eyes; he could almost hear Aerys laughing.

Aerys would have burned the whole city, he reminded himself. Thank the gods those caches of wildfire had been left to spoil in the darkness. A sword would have rusted away to shards by now, though he was not sure what happened to wildfire. Perhaps it dried until there was naught but dust, or separated like oil and water. Tyrion might have known.

The thought was like a blow to the gut; for a moment Jaime missed his brother so much he could hardly breathe. His eyes stung; he rubbed at them with the heel of one hand and the stump of the other. Tyrion might be lost to him, but he still had his sister. Besides, what happened to old wildfire did not matter, so long as Cersei's fresh wildfire was enough to reduce the Red Keep to rubble. With that comforting thought, he slipped into sweet oblivion.

When he awoke, it was midmorning, and it was snowing again. Whilst Cersei slept on, Jaime dressed himself. He did not bother to strap his false hand back on; he did not need it. It only took one good hand and a stump to fetch food from the saddlebags he had left on the horses picketed outside. That done, Jaime stripped naked before climbing back in bed to wake his sister with kisses.

It was only after they had broken their fast in bed that Cersei pulled away from him. Her teats swayed enticingly as she crossed to the window; when she flung open the shutters, he could see the love bites he had left all over her pale chest and thighs. With a groan Jaime rose from the bed; three strides and he was wrapping himself around her. His good hand clasped a breast; her arse pressed hard against his groin. It was enough, for now. Together they stood, looking at the three high hills, waiting for the glorious sight of blooming green.


God, planning and writing this chapter was fun!!! I happily await your screams in the comments :D

NOTES

1) Firewalking is an ancient practice which has been conducted by cultures all around the world. Basically, it works because the coals are relatively cool, only 1,000 degrees F, bad at conducting heat, and a brisk, confident walk is fast enough to get the person across before their feet have time to burn.

2) Jaime wouldn't know or care, so I couldn't fit it in, but FYI, Lollys Stokeworth's bastard child, named Tyrion Tanner in canon, was also born healthy in TWQ. He was named Pate Waters, and given up to the Faith after Cersei had Lollys married off to Gyles Rosby's ward (who Cersei did not realize was Olyvar FreyTruefaith, a Robb loyalist).

3) Some poor tailor and/or seamstress is so mad they didn't get time to properly finish Jaime's stupid tunic. Also they had a grudge against the Kingslayer and made it wonky on purpose. Note the details which are wrong, and then compare them to Jaime

4) Lockpicking is a thing in canon, based on this bit from ACOK, Catelyn V:

"They pledged me their peace and surrendered their weapons, so I allowed them freedom of the castle, and for three nights they ate my meat and drank my mead whilst I talked with Ser Cleos. On the fourth night, they tried to free the Kingslayer." He pointed up. "That big brute killed two guards with naught but those ham hands of his, caught them by the throats and smashed their skulls together while that skinny lad beside him was opening Lannister's cell with a bit of wire, gods curse him.

As per usual, I got curious and decided to research how Jaime would pick his locks. Turns out, lockpicking, in the sense of using two sticks or a bit of wire to manipulate a lock, was not really a thing in the medieval era. Apparently, the style of locks at the time, warded locks, required the use of skeleton keys to open. Darn. However, as I really liked the idea, and as pick-able locks exist in ASOIAF, I decided to handwave it :) But I thought I'd provide the historical context just for fun; the history of everyday objects is really, really neat.