Jaime gazed down at the lifeless form of the King, cradled in his mother's embrace. The King he was sworn to safeguard, his flesh and blood, now gone, snuffed out by treachery. Yet Jaime couldn't feign astonishment. Joffrey's proclivity for cruelty and violence had garnered him no allies, only adversaries.

During the wedding, Jaime found himself relegated to the distant end of the throne room, a consequence of his refusal to relinquish his white cloak until after the ceremony—an act he now regretted, though it's doubtful he could have intervened. By the time he waded through the throngs of guests, his son lay lifeless in Cersei's arms. Joffrey's countenance, a ghastly hue of purple, his eyes haemorrhaging as they gazed vacantly at the heavens, while blood trickled from his nostrils.

"You're to blame for this!" Cersei's accusatory shriek pierced the chaos, her trembling finger aimed at Tyrion. "You! It's your doing! Seize him!"

At her command, Lannister guards seized hold of Tyrion, hauling him away, likely bound for a cell.

"Bar the gates of the city. Seize every ship in the harbour. No one leaves the capital! Not one!" roared their father, as the crowd surged out of the throne room, and the spectacle abruptly concluded.

Jaime surveyed the scene before him. Margaery's mournful cries echoed through the hall, her grief comforted by the Queen of Thorns, yet Jaime couldn't shake the notion that her tears were shed more for dashed ambitions than genuine sorrow. In truth, she had dodged a lethal fate. Joffrey's brief amusement with her would have soon soured, his cruelty an inevitable revelation.

Unlike Cersei, Jaime saw the truth of his son's monstrous nature. He harboured a familial love for Joffrey, but it paled compared to the genuine affection he held for Myrcella and Tommen, good children, clear now as they wept for their fallen brother despite his past cruelties.

As Cersei continued to cradle Joffrey's lifeless form, all eyes turned to Jaime, pleading for him to persuade her to release her grip. The silent sisters awaited to prepare the body, though Jaime harboured doubts that even their prayers could spare Joffrey from the depths of the Seven Hells.

Bowing his head, Jaime approached Cersei, his touch gentle as he rested his hands upon her trembling shoulders. "Cersei, you must let him go. The silent sisters…"

"I care not for them," she spat through tear-stricken sobs. "My son is lost to me." Jaime's heart ached as he watched her grief consume her, her anguish palpable as she cradled Joffrey's lifeless form.

"Ahem, Your Grace," Maester Pycelle's unexpected interruption drew Jaime's attention, though he harboured no illusions that Cersei would heed the Grandmaester's counsel. True to form, she brushed him off, but Pycelle persisted. "If we are to seek justice for our fallen King, it is imperative we discover the poison used in his demise. Permit me to examine him and obtain a blood sample. Through careful analysis, we may uncover the likely toxin."

To Jaime's astonishment, Cersei glanced up, acknowledging the suggestion with a nod—a rare moment of agreement with the Grandmaester. She then turned her gaze to their father.

"We must identify the poison responsible," Tywin concurred.

Taking charge, Jaime gently grasped Cersei's shoulders, assisting her to rise. However, once on her feet, she shook off his touch, casting him a cold, accusatory glare, as if he bore responsibility for their plight. Jaime resisted the urge to sigh or roll his eyes. He knew she would lay blame at his feet as well—for his delayed arrival, for his failure to safeguard the King as he should have.

Observing Cersei's reaction, their father stepped in to attend to his daughter, leaving Jaime to console his niece and nephew. Jaime wasn't renowned for his skill with children, but his love for his son and daughter compelled him to be there for them in their time of need. Thus, he took on the responsibility of returning them to their chambers in Maegor's Holdfast and putting them to bed.

⸺⸺⸺◊◊◊⸺⸺⸺

The next morning, Jaime made his way to the Tower of the Hand, intent on having a word with his father before surrendering his white cloak. He harboured doubts about proceeding with the marriage arrangements and wanted to ensure Tywin was still committed to the plan. The summons for the meeting had come from Tywin himself, hinting at possible reservations. With Tyrion imprisoned and Cersei too distraught for such arrangements, the landscape had shifted. There was no chance Cersei would be sent off to the Riverlands, not with Tommen now King in the wake of Joffrey's demise.

Knocking on the door, Jaime awaited his father's invitation to enter. "Come in," Tywin's voice echoed from within.

Stepping into the solar designated for the Hand of the King, Jaime observed the modest confines of the room—a stark contrast to the power it represented. A simple setup: a desk, a few chairs, a hearth, and elaborate rugs. The papers were stored in separate chambers, a necessity given the volume of correspondence handled by the Hand.

Tywin remained engrossed in his writing, not bothering to look up as Jaime entered. "Sit," came his father's curt command. Jaime knew better than to protest, so he complied, patiently awaiting Tywin's attention.

Tywin returned his quill to its inkwell and reclined in his chair, his demeanour revealing nothing of his thoughts. Jaime awaited his father's opening remark, sensing the weight of the impending conversation.

"I see you're prepared to fulfil your duties to House Lannister," Tywin eventually spoke, breaking the silence. "Good."

Jaime seized the opportunity to broach the topic weighing heavily on his mind. "Do you still intend for me to marry Sansa Stark?" he inquired.

"Not at present," Tywin responded. "Our immediate focus is securing the loyalty of our allies. I have have just concluded a meeting with Prince Oberyn, who departs for Dorne this afternoon bearing a proposal: a betrothal between Princess Myrcella and Prince Trystane. Should Prince Doran consent, Oberyn will return with Trystane to King's Landing, serving on the small council to safeguard his nephew. Following their marriage, they will reside in Dorne."

Jaime furrowed his brow in concern. "Cersei will never agree to this arrangement."

"Your sister will adhere to my commands. I am the patriarch of this house, not her," Tywin asserted. "With Tommen's ascension, Myrcella becomes the heir to the Iron Throne, necessitating her marriage for the continuity of the line. The sooner the union occurs, the better."

"But Myrcella is still a child," Jaime objected, appalled by the idea of marrying off his daughter at such a tender age.

"She is thirteen. We will wait until she reaches womanhood before proceeding with the union," Tywin clarified. "As for Cersei, she will wed Loras Tyrell. It should appease the Tyrells for now."

"I doubt Lady Olenna will be content. She aspires for her granddaughter to wear the crown," Jaime interjected.

"And she may yet become Queen. She remains a contender for a match with Tommen. But for now, they both need time to mourn," Tywin asserted.

"And what of me?" Jaime inquired.

"I cannot afford to have you venture north. It would be foolish to display weakness by dividing the Lannisters. I am contemplating alliances with the Stormlands. I've yet to explore all potential matches, but it's imperative to integrate them into our fold. Once Stannis and his kin are dealt with, a new Lord of Storm's End will need to be appointed."

Jaime registered his surprise. "You still intend to execute the girl?" he questioned.

"She poses a threat to the realm and Tommen's reign. As a traitor, she will face justice within the week, alongside her parents," Tywin declared.

Jaime extended his cloak. "Should I surrender this today?" he asked.

Tywin sighed. "You may keep it until I've determined a suitable match for you. Seeking a replacement for the Kingsguard is a task I'd rather defer for now. Assisting Tommen in governing the Seven Kingdoms takes precedence."

"Is there anything else you require, Father?" Jaime inquired.

"No, you may depart for now," Tywin replied, retrieving a parchment, and began writing, signalling Jaime's dismissal.

⸺⸺⸺◊◊◊⸺⸺⸺

Donning his white cloak once more brought a sense of familiarity and comfort, even if it was only a temporary reinstatement. Jaime found solace in serving as a member of the Kingsguard, especially now with Tommen on the throne—a boy of genuine goodness, unlike many Jaime had witnessed ruling before. Still, he begrudged the weight of responsibility that now rested on his shoulders.

Deep down, Jaime harboured a wish that Prince Rhaegar had survived and ascended to the throne. Rhaegar's noble character would have likely ushered in a better era for the realm. Jaime's failure to save Elia and Rhaegar's children haunted him still. Had he known of the atrocities committed by the Mountain, he would have defied his father's orders without hesitation. Robert's indifference to the deaths of the Targaryen children only deepened Jaime's remorse.

Among Robert's companions, only Ned Stark shared Jaime's horror at the brutal slaying of innocents. Their bond nearly shattered in the aftermath, and only the tragedy of Lyanna Stark's death prevented further animosity between them. Jaime suspected that Ned's refusal of the role of Hand of the King and his arrangement of Sansa's marriage to her cousin stemmed from lingering resentment towards Robert.

As Jaime approached the Sept of Baelor for his duty to guard the fallen King's body, he found an assembly inside his father, Tommen, Cersei, the High Septon, and several priests.

As Tommen departed with Tywin, Jaime descended the steps leading to Joffrey's body, pausing a moment to stand beside his son. Placing a comforting hand on Tommen's shoulder, he inquired, "How are you holding up?"

Overnight, Tommen had left the carefree innocence of childhood, concerned only with his cats rather than affairs of state, and thrust into the daunting role of a king—a responsibility for which he was ill-prepared. Despite the weight on his young shoulders, Tommen's expression remained sombre yet resolute. "I'm managing," he replied, his voice steady.

Jaime nodded in understanding, offering a small, reassuring smile. "Of course you are. You're strong. You'll persevere. I'll see to that," he gave his youngest son a small smile before Tommen departed with Tywin.

Turning to the High Septon, Jaime requested hushed tones. "Please grant the queen a moment alone with her son," he implored, his words echoing in the vast chamber.

"Of course, my lord. All of you," the High Septon agreed. With a snap of his fingers, he signalled for the priests and silent sisters to depart with him, closing the doors behind them.

The Great Sept fell into a solemn darkness, illuminated only by flickering candlelight. The air was thick with the fragrance of incense, masking the scent of death. At the heart of the chamber, upon an altar draped in black and gold velvet shroud, lay Joffrey's body. Pebbles covered his sightless eyes following the customs of the Seven. Clad in black and gold, his crown still rested upon his golden locks. Gripped in his hands was the sword known as Widow's Wail—a gift bestowed upon him for his sixteenth nameday, its golden hilt and ruby pommel glinting faintly in the dim light.

Alone in the solemn chamber, Jaime approached Cersei. She was draped in mourning attire, her flowing golden locks cascading around her tear-stained face. Even amidst her sorrow, she exuded an unmatched presence.

Cersei didn't need to lift her gaze to recognize Jaime's presence. "It was Tyrion. He killed him," she declared, her voice heavy with accusation. "He told me he would. 'A day will come when you think you are safe and happy, and your joy will turn to ashes in your mouth.' That's what he said to me. You saw it. You saw Joff point at him just before..."

"I don't know what I saw," Jaime interrupted, his recollection clouded by the chaos of the moment. From his vantage point, he witnessed only Joffrey's humiliation of Tyrion before his sudden collapse. The events blurred into a haze.

"Avenge him. Avenge our son. Kill Tyrion," Cersei implored, her demand cutting through the air like a blade.

"Tyrion's my brother. Our brother," Jaime reminded her, a pang of discomfort piercing his heart at Cersei's immediate suspicion of Tyrion. Her disdain for their brother had always been clear. Regardless of Tyrion's guilt or innocence, Cersei's desire for his demise remained unyielding. "There'll be a trial. We'll get to the truth of what happened," he attempted to reassure her, though he knew his words held little weight.

"I don't want a trial. He'll squirm his way to freedom given the chance," Cersei's bitterness resonated with palpable intensity, causing Jaime to flinch. "I want him dead. Please, Jaime. You have to. He was our son. Our baby boy."

Unless irrefutable evidence emerged proving Tyrion's guilt in Joffrey's murder, Jaime refused to be complicit in his brother's punishment. Drawing Cersei into his embrace, he held her tightly, shutting out the world for a moment of solace. Regardless of Tyrion's innocence or guilt, he would inevitably be scapegoated for Joffrey's death. Jaime felt powerless to prevent it.

While he couldn't undo the tragedy that befell his son, Jaime harboured a determination to aid Tyrion, should his brother indeed be innocent. The first step was to confront Tyrion and find out the truth. Tyrion possessed a talent for deceit and manipulation, yet he always faltered in Jaime's presence. Perhaps because Jaime saw beyond his brother's stature, recognizing him as a man, not just a dwarf.

Jaime resolved to visit Tyrion later, but for now, his focus remained on Cersei. He owed her his unwavering support—as her brother, her lover, and the father of the child she had just lost.

⸺⸺⸺◊◊◊⸺⸺⸺

The day following Joffrey's funeral, and five days since his demise, Jaime was granted access to Tyrion's cell. Descending into the dungeons, Jaime was surprised to find the conditions tolerable, considering Tyrion's circumstances. He had half-expected his brother to be consigned to one of the infamous black cells, yet they were occupied by Stannis and Selyse Baratheon. Instead, Tyrion found himself confined near the cell of their daughter, Shireen.

The dungeons exuded an atmosphere of horror—dim, malodorous, and frigid. However, on this particular day, a new, more sinister scent lingered in the air—an odour of death. While it was not uncommon for prisoners to meet their demise within these walls, it struck Jaime as peculiar that the dead had not been removed.

Approaching the head guard, Jaime inquired, "What is your name?"

"Marok, Lord Commander," the guard replied, uneasy.

"What is that putrid smell permeating the air?" Jaime pressed.

"Which one?" Marok's brow furrowed. "I've grown accustomed to the various odours down here. I don't notice them anymore," he admitted.

Jaime felt a pang of almost sympathy for the man, but brushed it aside. Neglecting to notice the presence of a dead prisoner was inexcusable.

"One of your prisoners has died. I suggest you conduct a thorough inspection of each cell to find out the identity of the dead," Jaime instructed.

Marok hastened to comply with Jaime's directive, his nervous demeanour palpable as he retrieved the keys to the cells. "Of course, Ser Jaime, I mean Lord Commander," he stammered, scurrying off to begin his search.

"Before you proceed, I wish to visit my brother," Jaime interjected.

"Yes, Ser Jaime, I mean Lord Commander," Marok agreed, leading Jaime to Tyrion's cell without delay.

Moments later, Jaime found himself seated with Tyrion, who appeared composed considering his circumstances. Sobriety always lent Tyrion a semblance of clarity that contrasted with his usual drunken state.

Glancing around the cell, Jaime remarked, "Honestly, it's not as dreadful as I imagined. Four walls, a chamber pot. I've seen inns with worse accommodation."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" Tyrion quipped.

"Maybe a bit. I'm sorry I didn't come sooner," Jaime offered.

Tyrion sighed. "It's a complicated situation, to say the least. So, how is our dear sister?"

"How do you think? Her son died in her arms," Jaime responded with a hint of reproach.

Tyrion arched an eyebrow. "Her son?"

"Don't," Jaime cautioned, sensing the impending topic of discussion. "You know what's coming."

"Ah, yes. My trial for regicide," Tyrion acknowledged. "Yes, I know. I know the whole bloody country thinks I'm guilty. I know that one of my three judges has wished me dead more times than I can count. And that judge is my father. As for Cersei, well, she's probably working on a way to avoid a trial altogether by having me killed. "Tyrion lamented.

Jaime winced at Tyrion's words. "Now that you mention it, she did ask," he admitted.

"So, should I turn around and close my eyes?" Tyrion quipped.

Jaime offered a non-committal shrug. "Depends. Did you do it?"

"The Kingslayer brothers. You like it?" Tyrion's words dripped with sarcasm, like water from a leaky roof. "I rather fancy it. Are you asking if I murdered your son?"

"Are you asking if I'd kill my own brother? How can I assist you?" Jaime redirected the question back to Tyrion. Though not as sharp-witted as his brother, Jaime had his moments.

"Well, you could set me free," Tyrion suggested.

Jaime fixed him with a pointed stare. "You know I cannot."

Tyrion shrugged. "Then there's nothing more to discuss."

"What would you have me do? Slay the guards? Smuggle you out of the city in a cart? I am the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard."

"Apologies, I had forgotten. I wouldn't want you to engage in any inappropriate behaviour," Tyrion's sarcasm returned, beginning to grate on Jaime. Despite their strained circumstances, Jaime remained Tyrion's sole ally, longing for mutual respect.

"Inappropriate? You stand accused of regicide. Freeing you would be treason," Jaime retorted.

"Except I am innocent!" Tyrion declared vehemently.

"Which is why a trial is underway," Jaime argued, but Tyrion snorted in response.

"A trial. Even if the true culprit confessed before the Iron Throne, presenting undeniable evidence, Cersei would not be satisfied. She will not rest until my head is on a spike," Tyrion asserted with conviction. As much as Jaime wanted to argue against it, he knew Tyrion was right.

"At least you won't have to marry Lysa Arryn," Jaime attempted a feeble jest.

Before Tyrion could respond to the remark about Lysa Arryn, a sudden commotion erupted outside. "I wonder what that's all about," Tyrion pondered aloud.

"As soon as I arrived, I noticed the smell of death. I instructed the guard to investigate," Jaime informed Tyrion.

"Two corpses have been removed since my arrival. The stench has only worsened. Whoever it is, they've been dead for some time, yet their presence went unnoticed. And this level of disturbance is unusual," Tyrion observed. "Well, at least it adds some excitement to the day."

"I'll go investigate," Jaime announced, rising from his seat and approaching the door. "You stay here," he instructed Tyrion, who gestured toward his shackled wrists.

"I'm not planning to go anywhere, brother," Tyrion affirmed.

As Jaime emerged from Tyrion's cell, the guards were already ringing a bell. "What in the Seven Hells is happening?" Jaime inquired of the guard he had spoken to earlier.

"It's Princess Shireen, Lord Commander," Marok explained. "There's a corpse in her cell."

Jaime creased his brow and tilted his head in confusion. "Are you telling me the Princess is dead?" he queried.

Marok shook his head. "Come see for yourself."

Although this situation fell outside of Jaime's jurisdiction, as a prominent member of House Lannister and the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, he followed the guard to the cell in question. Inside lay the lifeless form of a young girl, her body swollen and the unmistakable scent of death pervading the air. Rigor mortis had likely set in by now, suggesting that some time had passed since her demise.

Marok gingerly turned the body over, and Jaime fought the urge to retch at the overpowering stench. Maggots writhed from what remained of the eye sockets and crawled down the discoloured nose. Two things became apparent: the girl had been dead for several days, and there were no signs of greyscale on her face. This was not Princess Shireen Baratheon.

"That's not Princess Shireen," Jaime declared grimly.

Marok's expression turned to one of sheer terror. "I-I know."

"We must locate her. I'll inform my father," Jaime stated, hastening back to Tyrion's cell.

"What's happening?" Tyrion inquired.

"Shireen Baratheon has vanished. Someone substituted her with a corpse," Jaime explained urgently.

"Brilliant scheme," Tyrion remarked with a grin. "All you need to do now is find a golden-haired dwarf, slay him, and swap him with me."

Jaime rolled his eyes. "I'm going to find Father. Whoever orchestrated this might be linked to Joffrey's murder."

"Best of luck finding them," Tyrion called out as Jaime dashed off to find his father.

News of Shireen's disappearance was likely to cause the Stormlands to rally to her cause, Jaime thought as he made his way to the Tower of the Hand. It then occurred to Jaime that every time his father plotted a marriage for him, an outside force seemed to thwart it. If it weren't so serious for the family, he would have laughed.