The Dragon's Cold War

by HouseLannister558

In an alternate ASOIAF world, Robert Baratheon dies at the Trident, slain by Arthur Dayne. Rhaegar Targaryen wins the rebellion and marries a resentful Lyanna Stark. The North, hating the Targaryen Dynasty, becomes a hotbed of espionage and assassination attempts, leading to a tense cold war between the North and South. Rhaegar's rule over the Iron Throne is fragile!

4. Jaime I

JAIME

Flea Bottom reeked of piss and dung, the foul stench of humanity mingling with the heavy promise of war coming to their doorsteps. The alleys were clogged with filth, yet the streets themselves were eerily bare, save for the ragged figures of the desperate fleeing their doomed city. King's Landing had always been a city of contrasts—the splendor of the Red Keep perched high above the slums, as if mocking the wretches below—but now, even the golden spires seemed tarnished by the weight of their impending doom.

Jaime Lannister's steed navigated through the muck-strewn streets, his white cloak trailing perilously close to the filth. He cursed under his breath, though not for the first time that day. It had been Aerys, in all his madness, who had insisted on this absurd venture. The King had demanded his Kingsguard and dozens of the cities Gold Cloak, escort him into the heart of Flea Bottom.

The Mad King, as Jaime had come to think of him more often than not, had spoken of treason again, his voice quivering with fervor. He claimed his dragon dreams had shown him the truth—visions of Wolves, Stags, and Trouts stalking through the cobbled maze of Flea Bottom, their shadowy forms cornering a mighty dragon in the filth and grime of the streets. Jaime had stood motionless as Aerys recounted the dream to the small council, his tone veering from a whisper to a near-scream.

"In my dream, I was the dragon!" Aerys had hissed, his eyes glinting with fevered light. "The wolves snapped at my flanks, the trouts darted in to slash at my belly, and the stag came with its antlers, driving them deep into my breast. They thought me beaten, broken—but they did not know what they faced. I rose," he said, his voice climbing to a triumphant crescendo. "I spread my great black wings, blotting out the sun! Fire and blood poured from my maw, and the wolf burned, the trout flopped and sizzled, and the stag was naught but a charred carcass. I was reborn in flame, and they perished!"

The King's laughter had filled the chamber then, an unholy sound that echoed off the stone walls. Jaime had stood silent, his face a mask of neutrality, as the Mad King described the carnage with almost childlike glee. None dared to speak, not with the King seated before them, his violet eyes alight with madness. Once, they might have argued or pleaded for reason, but those days were long gone.

To speak to the King was to tempt his flames.

Now, as they trudged through the fetid streets of Flea Bottom, Jaime could see how Aerys' dream had consumed him. Every darkened corner, every suspicious face seemed to confirm his delusions. The common folk scattered as the King's retinue passed, their faces etched with fear. Yet in Aerys' mind, every fleeing soul was a traitor, a conspirator plotting to fell the dragon.

Jaime had heard the orders Aerys had given before they set out: the gates were to be barred, the people contained. If the wolves, trouts, and stags would come for him, they would find a city packed with bodies—human shields to slow their advance. That was the King's plan, his grand design to halt Robert's rebels. He would line the gates and streets with his own people, pawns in his delusion. And when the flames consumed them, when their screams rose to the heavens, Aerys would be born anew, a dragon to smite his enemies and claim his vengeance.

But Jaime knew the truth. The King's vision wasn't one of salvation—it was a prophecy of annihilation. Aerys didn't see ash and ruin; he saw glory. If he believed himself the dragon reborn, then he would burn them all to prove it.

As they moved deeper into the bowels of the city, Jaime's hand drifted instinctively to the hilt of his sword. The common folk scattered at their approach, wary of both the King's madness and the swords of his protectors.

"Poor wretches," Jaime thought grimly, watching a mother clutching her barefoot children as she darted into an alley. They fled the city in droves, fearing the wolves and stags that howled in the distance. But they did not know the truth. It was no rebel army that would be their end—it was the madman clad in silk and red velvet riding at Jaime's side. Aerys had no intention of sparing his subjects. To him, they were fodder, nothing more—a living wall to be thrown against his enemies when the gates fell.

The King's ranting filled the air, unbidden. "Close the gates!" he cried. "Let no one leave! The people are mine! Their flesh, their bones, their very blood—mine to command!" His command was shrill, a blade cutting through the heavy air.

Jaime clenched his jaw. He had known what Aerys intended the moment the order had been given to shut the gates. No one would escape now, not the beggars, not the merchants, not the whores. The city was a trap, and its people were its bait.

And yet, Jaime rode on, his white cloak as sullied as his honor, following the will of a king who would gladly burn them all.

The memory came unbidden, as vivid and sharp as the blade at Jaime's hip.

It was in the small council chamber, months before the streets of Flea Bottom had filled with the stench of despair and death. Jaime had stood behind the Mad King then, a silent sentinel cloaked in white and gold, his armor gleaming in the dim torchlight. The air in the chamber had been thick with tension, laced with the sour tang of spilled wine and lingering wildfire.

He could still see it: Qarlton Chelsted, the King's fanatical follower, pale and trembling with rage as he delivered the grim tidings. "Your Grace," Chelsted had said, his voice quivering with anger. "The Martell-Targaryen forces… they have been crushed at the Battle of the Bells. Robert Baratheon… he escaped."

Aerys' rage had erupted like wildfire. His goblet, brimming with red wine, flew from his hand, shattering against the stone wall in an explosion of crimson droplets. "Burn them!" he had screamed, his voice raw with fury. "Burn them all! Wolves, Falcons, Stags, Trouts—traitors, every one of them! Let them die screaming, their banners consumed by fire!"

Jaime had remained still, his face a mask of neutrality, watching the unfolding chaos with the detachment of a man who had seen too much already. Aerys turned his wrath on Jon Connington, the disgraced Hand of the King.

"Connington failed me!" Aerys had hissed, his eyes blazing. "A traitor, like all the rest! Drag him to King's Landing! Let him be paraded as a coward, then burned alive by my champion!"

No one had dared to argue, though Jaime had seen the unease in the eyes of the small council. Then Aerys' tone shifted, his fury softening into an unsettling sweetness as his gaze landed on Qarlton Chelsted.

"You," Aerys had said, his lips curling into a cruel smile. "You are my most faithful servant. You will be my Hand. You will see to it that my enemies burn, won't you?"

Chelsted had dropped to one knee with practiced ease, his forehead nearly brushing the stone floor. "It would be my greatest honor, Your Grace," he had murmured, his voice trembling with devotion. "Your justice will be swift. Fire and blood will cleanse the realm of treachery."

Jaime had watched, his lips tightening into a grim line. Aerys' choice of Qarlton Chelsted as Hand was no surprise; the man was as mad as the King himself, though he wore his madness with a veneer of control. Chelsted worshipped Aerys with a fervor that bordered on the grotesque, his loyalty as blind as it was dangerous. Jaime could still picture them in his mind's eye: the two of them, heads bent close together, whispering of flames and traitors in dark corners of the Red Keep.

The memory left a bitter taste in Jaime's mouth. He had known then, as he knew now, that their whispers would soon grow into shrills demanding blood.

The sun dipped low over the Narrow Sea, its golden light streaking across the city as Jaime and the royal retinue continued their exhaustive search through Flea Bottom. From dawn to dusk, they had scoured the streets and alleys, the King driven by his unrelenting paranoia. "Traitors," Aerys muttered under his breath, "spies in the shadows, whispering Stark treachery." Jaime doubted they would find any such thing. The Starks did not dabble in the craft of covert arts; their honor demanded they face their enemies head-on.

As the group wound their way through the dismal streets, they came upon a brothel, its weathered façade marked by a crude sign that read A Maiden's Pleasure. The sign swung lazily in the evening breeze, its paint cracked and faded.

"Stop here," Aerys commanded abruptly, his voice cutting through the silence of the city. The order was met with confused glances from the Gold Cloaks and King's Guard alike, but no one dared question him. The King dismounted, his movements frenetic, almost manic. He stared at the brothel with a gleam in his eye that Jaime recognized all too well—an unsettling mixture of excitement and madness.

"It's here," Aerys muttered. "The blood of the dragon tells me… it is here."

The brothel's creaking door swung open under Aerys' hand, and Jaime followed, his sword hand resting uneasily on the hilt of his blade. The interior smelled of flowers and stale perfume, a cloying aroma that clung to the air. Though the brothel no longer bustled with activity, it was not as abandoned as Jaime had expected. A handful of women lounged on silk-draped beds, their languid postures betraying their boredom.

When the King entered, however, they scrambled to their feet, the loose silks of their clothing slipping suggestively over their bodies. The King's Guard remained stone-faced, but Jaime noted the hungry gazes of the Gold Cloaks, their discipline faltering in the face of temptation.

It was not the Gold Cloaks who would act, though—it was Aerys. His gaze swept the room, and Jaime saw the shift in his expression, the precarious balance between lust and madness. The King's eyes landed on a woman with flowing metallic silver hair and dark steel eyes, her beauty almost ethereal.

"You," Aerys barked, pointing a trembling finger at her. She stepped forward confidently, her smile one of knowing charm. Jaime considered her for a moment. A Blackfyre descendant, perhaps? Or the bastard daughter of some Targaryen noble.

"Yes, my King," she purred, her voice smooth and honeyed. She moved with deliberate grace, clearly aware of her beauty and intent on using it to her advantage.

But Aerys was not a man swayed by mortal lust. His desires were twisted, shaped by his fractured mind and his unquenchable paranoia. When the woman drew close, Aerys' hand shot out with sudden violence, closing around her throat. She gasped, a sound of shock that quickly turned to a strangled cry.

"You were in my dream," Aerys hissed, his grip tightening. His eyes glazed over, that familiar glint of insanity overtaking him. "You, with your silver hair and traitor's eyes. Telling the Starks our secrets. You would see the dragon fall, wouldn't you? But the dragon does not fall. The dragon rises."

The woman's initial confidence gave way to panic. "Your Grace?" she stammered, her voice trembling as her hands clawed at his grip. "I—I don't understand—"

Jaime's hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, his instincts screaming at him to act. But he held back, his body a taut line of tension. To interfere would mean death—or worse, fire. He glanced at the other King's Guard, but they remained still, their faces masks of impassive obedience.

The woman's panic grew as Aerys' grip did not relent, and Jaime knew that what came next would not be sweet love-making. It would be madness, unbridled and cruel.

"Kill the rest of the whores. I must teach this one what it means to cross the dragon," Aerys commanded, his voice a rasping growl, sharp with menace and a promise of madness.

Jaime did not move. None of the King's Guard did—it was not their place to act unless the King himself was threatened. But the Gold Cloaks, only moments ago leering at the women with hunger in their eyes, now looked to one another in stunned hesitation. The weight of the order hung heavy in the air, freezing them in their tracks.

The uneasy silence broke when one of the Gold Cloaks, his hands trembling, unsheathed his sword. His blade came down in a brutal downward swing, splitting the skull of a young Dornish woman. Blood sprayed across the fine fur carpets, splattering the cobblestone walls. The remaining women screamed in terror, scattering like frightened deer, but the sight of blood seemed to ignite the rest of the Gold Cloaks. One by one, they drew their swords and descended upon the fleeing women.

Jaime stood unmoving, his face an impassive mask, but his stomach churned. The massacre unfolded before him, a symphony of screams and steel. Blood pooled on the floor, dark and glistening in the flickering light of the torches. It was over quickly, the screams silenced, the women's lives snuffed out at the whim of a madman.

Aerys surveyed the scene with a twisted smile of satisfaction. His eyes gleamed as he turned to the silver-haired woman, her body trembling, her grey steel eyes wide with terror. "You, my dear," he said with sickening sweetness, gripping her hair and dragging her forward, "will learn the price of treason."

He hauled her into one of the pleasure rooms, pulling the silk curtains shut behind him. Jaime shifted uncomfortably in his place, his hand placed on the hilt of his sword. He knew what came next—knew it all too well.

The screams began soon after. High, desperate, and filled with a pain that Jaime could not bring himself to imagine. Aerys' voice rose above them, incoherent and deranged, a vile litany of accusations and delusions. "Stark eyes," he shrieked, "traitors in Targaryen blood! Summerhall! Summerhall!" The words twisted and tangled, senseless fragments of the chaos in the King's mind.

The Gold Cloaks, unaccustomed to such hideous displays of brutality, exchanged uneasy glances, their eyes flickering toward the curtained room. But none dared intervene. Jaime's gaze remained fixed forward, his expression stoic, though a cold fury churned beneath his calm exterior. The screams of the woman clawed at his resolve, but he knew better than to act. This was the King's will, and the King's Guard were sworn to obey.

When the screams subsided, replaced by muffled sobs, Jaime exhaled slowly through his nose. He had seen horrors in his young life, but few left him as hollow as this. There were fates worse than death, he knew. And tonight, that truth hung heavy in the bloodstained air.

Jaime had nearly broken once. It was his first week in the White Cloak, a position he had hoped for with boyish eagerness. At the time, he had seen it as an escape from the burdens of being Tywin Lannister's heir—a chance to be a knight, to fight, and to serve a king in the stories. He had not realized how bitter the cost of those stories could be.

That night, Jaime had been assigned to the night watch outside Queen Rhaella's chambers. The novelty of the White Cloak still clung to him then, its weight a symbol of pride and purpose. He had stood tall and vigilant, imagining himself a stalwart protector of the realm. But the illusion shattered when King Aerys appeared at the far end of the hall.

Aerys' eyes gleamed with an unsettling combination of anger and disdain as he strode toward the queen's chambers. Even then, Jaime had heard whispers of the king's cruelty—dark tales dismissed by the crown as exaggerations by those who resented House Targaryen. Yet, the vacant, fevered look in Aerys' eyes as he passed confirmed what Jaime had been too young and too foolish to accept.

Aerys did not knock. He shoved open the door, his voice a growl of incoherent fury as he disappeared into the chamber. At first, Jaime stood still, unsure of what to do. Then he heard it—the muffled sound of Queen Rhaella's protests, rising to cries, then screams.

Jaime's hand went to his sword, drawing it halfway from its scabbard. His pulse thundered in his ears, his training and instincts warring with the oaths he had sworn. This is wrong. I am a knight. It is my duty to protect her.

He was one step from the door when Ser Jonothor Darry's hand clamped onto his arm.

"No," Darry said, his voice flat and cold. He pushed Jaime's sword back into its sheath with a firm, practiced motion.

"But why? It is our duty to protect the queen," Jaime whispered fiercely, his voice trembling with indignation and youthful righteousness.

"Aye, but not from him," Darry replied, his gaze hard as steel. He stepped back to his post on the other side of the door, his expression unmoved even as Rhaella's screams echoed through the hall.

Jaime froze, his hand falling limp at his side. He remained rooted in place, listening to the cries that no knight should ever ignore. Aerys' voice grew louder, his ranting incomprehensible, punctuated by the queen's sobs. Jaime wanted to move, wanted to act, but his legs felt like stone.

When the door finally opened, Aerys emerged with the air of a man who had tired of a task, his expression vacant, already detached from the horrors he had inflicted. "Come, Ser Jonothor," the king said dismissively, and Darry followed without hesitation.

Jaime did not look at Rhaella as she wept softly within the chamber. He could not bear the sight of his failure. Instead, he closed the door and resumed his watch, the coward that he was.

By morning, Queen Rhaella was regal as ever, issuing commands about Flea Bottom's orphan crisis as though nothing had happened. But Jaime saw it—the faint marks on her collarbone, dark and barely hidden by the fine fabric of her gown. The scars of the night were there, even if she hid them well.

The nightly visits became a grim routine. Each time, Jaime stood outside the door, his anger growing heavier, harder to contain, though he learned to keep it from his face. The boy who had donned the White Cloak with dreams of honor was gone, replaced by a man who understood the bitter truth of his oaths.

Jaime's thoughts returned to the present as Aerys emerged from the pleasure room, his robes hastily adjusted, his expression one of unsettling satisfaction. The Mad King's pale lips curled into a grotesque grin as he glanced back at the room, the muffled sobs of the silver-haired woman barely audible now.

"Darry," Aerys barked, his tone laced with a venomous glee. "Take the traitor. Slit her throat and feed her to the fish. I will have no Northern blood sullying my city."

History never changes, Jaime thought darkly. Ser Jonothor Darry, ever the dutiful shadow of the Mad King, stepped forward without hesitation. There was no horror in Darry's eyes, no flicker of sick gratification, only the cold resolve of a man resigned to his duty.

Ser Darry would always be there to clean up Aerys' sexual depravities, his sword as much a tool for silencing witnesses as it was for protecting the realm. Jaime had seen it before—Darry dragging broken women to their deaths, their lives snuffed out to preserve the king's delusions. The grim ritual had become routine, an unspoken task that neither knights nor lords acknowledged aloud.

It was a grotesque cycle Jaime had grown to hate, but one he was powerless to break. Darry bore it without question, his loyalty to House Targaryen an unshakable chain that bound him to Aerys' depravity. Jaime wondered how much longer Darry could endure it—or if, perhaps, the older knight had ceased to feel anything at all.

The silver-haired woman was dragged from the pleasure room, her broken body a portrait of Aerys' cruelty. Bite marks marred her pale skin, her right arm hung limp, blackened with bruises from whatever punishment the king had inflicted. Her eyes, once filled with the confidence she had used to lure men, were now hollow, staring through the world as though it no longer existed. She was naked, stripped of her dignity, as Darry led her outside. Jaime knew the deed would be done by the bay, where the city's filth met the water.

Aerys turned to Jaime, his wild eyes glinting with a deranged triumph. "You see, Ser Jaime," he said, foam gathering at the corners of his mouth, "your father may think I'm mad, but I have found the traitor. I gave the bastard Stark bitch the seed of the dragon. Cleansed her of her sins in the eyes of the Seven. The dragon dreams reveal all to me."

The king's voice grew more frenzied with each word, his twisted smile spreading as he recounted his depravity. Jaime felt his stomach churn, a bitter bile rising in his throat, but his face remained impassive. Any sign of disgust, even a flicker, could mean death by fire.

"She got what was coming," Jaime said evenly, forcing his voice to remain steady. "The Targaryen blood in her could not mask the treachery of her Stark lineage."

The words felt like ash in his mouth, but they had the desired effect. Aerys' laughter rang out, manic and unhinged, as he reveled in the illusion of his righteousness.

Inside, Jaime bitterly laughed. The idea of a Stark bastard so far south was absurd, a fabrication born of Aerys' paranoia and the poison of his so-called dragon dreams. Jaime swallowed the bitter laugh threatening to escape, burying it alongside the ever-mounting disgust he felt for himself.

This is what the White Cloak has brought me, he thought grimly. Not honor, not glory. Only silence in the face of horror.

Aerys was going to leave, return to the Red Keep and sulk, Jaime thought, but no, the Mad King had other plans.

He stared at the inside of the brothel for a few moments, his mind lost in the twisted labyrinth of his own delusions. Then, with a flicker of some half-formed thought, he beckoned the Gold Cloaks forward. Some of the King's Guard stiffened at the proximity of the Gold Cloaks to the King, distrust hanging in the air, but Aerys waved them closer, oblivious to the tension around him.

In a maddening whisper, as though the Stark army was already at the city gates and would hear him, he whispered to the Gold Cloaks, "Burn this brothel to the ground. Matter of fact, burn this square to the ground. Let the rats come running out of their hiding places. I will be known as the dragon that cleansed this land of its sins."

The Gold Cloaks, once bold in their drunken swagger, now stood solemn, their faces hollowed by the weight of yet another of King Aerys' commands. They nodded without hesitation, their movements mechanical as they grabbed wooden planks and set them ablaze. The flames flickered wildly, casting eerie shadows across the cobblestone floor. With torches raised high, ready to obey their king's whim, they prepared to carry out the madness.

Aerys, his face a twisted mask of excitement, turned toward Jaime and the other King's Guards. "Escort me back to the Red Keep. I want to see the cleansing from my chambers," he commanded, his voice a cold hiss that seemed to grate on the ears. Jaime had no doubt the sight of flames would excite him, that it would fuel the madness, a perverse kind of pleasure in watching a part of Flea Bottom burn.

As the Kingsguard galloped in tight formation, their white cloaks snapping in the wind, Jaime could hear the screams. They pierced through the clatter of hooves and the clang of armor, rising like a chorus of despair. Women, children, men—all trapped in homes that had been set ablaze by the spreading chaos.

Jaime didn't dare look back. He couldn't. He feared that if he did, the sight of such brutality would be the final thread that snapped his sanity. The King's madness had already poisoned the city, and Jaime knew—he feared—that Aerys was beginning to poison him as well.

The screams did not fade; they only grew louder, echoing in his ears like an accusation. Yet the King rode ahead, oblivious or indifferent, his mind already consumed with grander fires to come.

When they reached the Red Keep, Aerys sprang up the flight of steps to his chambers, the excitement in his eyes more akin to a child on his way to a tourney than a king about to witness the destruction of a portion of his city. He was eager to feast on the chaos he'd wrought, to watch the flames consume the poor district while he indulged in his madness. The madness that only he could see as justice.

Jaime, dismissed from the king's presence, stood in the hallway as Ser Jonothor Darry returned, his hands still stained with the blood of the woman he had executed at Aerys' command. Darry's face remained impassive, betraying no emotion as he passed by.

Tonight, Jaime's duty was the same. He was to guard Queen Rhaella's chambers. A prayer to the Seven fell from his lips, though he knew it was in vain. He prayed that Aerys' dark lust would be sated for the night, that Rhaella might get even the smallest reprieve from his madness, if only for a few hours.

Rhaella entered her chambers shortly after, a sad smile tugging at her lips despite the weariness in her eyes. She was heavy with child, swollen with her third pregnancy, and yet still somehow carried herself with grace. "The city is ablaze tonight, Ser Jaime," she murmured softly, her voice thick with resignation.

Jaime nodded, his face etched with sorrow. "Aye, my Queen," he answered quietly.

She closed the door softly behind her, retreating into the quiet sanctuary of her chambers. Jaime remained at his post, the sounds of Aerys' maniacal laughter and the distant screams of Flea Bottom's inhabitants echoing through the walls of the Red Keep. It was a sound that would haunt him long after the flames were gone.

Two weeks had passed before the ravens came from the Trident, bearing news that troubled Jaime Lannister. The rebellion, it seemed, was over. The Targaryens would live to see another day.

Rhaegar Targaryen had managed a decisive victory, breaking the rebel forces at last after a string of five crushing defeats. Worse still, Robert Baratheon, the rebellion's figurehead, was dead, slain in the chaos of battle. Without him, the rebellion had no spine. The realm's great houses—Arryn, Tully, Stark, and what remained of Baratheon—had bent the knee. The war was over.

The parchment bearing the news came signed by Rhaegar himself, addressed to his father, the king. In measured tones, it spoke of peace. It advised against sending forces beyond King's Landing, warning of potential invasions. Jaime, no commander of armies, could read the truth beneath the prince's careful words. Rhaegar was stalling, feeding his father's delusions to keep him and those loyal to the King pinned within the capital's walls. The last thing anyone needed was Aerys unleashing his madness on the Riverlands or the Stormlands in an act of vengeance.

The parchment was read aloud in the Small Council chamber, and Aerys was beside himself with glee. He clapped his hands like a child, his laughter shrill and grating. "They cannot stand in the face of a dragon!" he screeched, his words twisted with a triumph that was not his own.

Fool, Jaime thought bitterly. It was your son, not you, who won this war.

Rhaegar Targaryen. The man Jaime admired. Noble, just, and one of the finest swordsmen Jaime had ever crossed steel with—Rhaegar was everything Aerys was not. Jaime had once pleaded with the prince to let him ride out and fight at his side when the war began.

"No," Rhaegar had said, his tone firm but not unkind. "Do not ever speak of this again. If my father hears of it, he will have your head, and Tywin will march on King's Landing without hesitation. You're a fine swordsman, Jaime. Perhaps the finest I've seen. But here, you are not a knight. You are a hostage." The words had stung, but Jaime had understood.

Jaime suspected Rhaegar would take the crown if he could end the rebellion. But now, with victory won, Jaime wondered if Rhaegar had the men to do what must be done. The rebellion had been a bloody affair, the sort of war that left its mark not just on the battlefield but on the hearts of men. For every soldier lost in Robert's camp, two had fallen under Rhaegar's banners. It was a victory paid for in blood, and the scars ran deep.

"My son did not do half badly," Aerys mused aloud in the council chamber, a rare flicker of clarity piercing the haze of his insanity. "I thought him dead by now. Weakling that he is, soft as a maid. Never took what was his with fire and blood."

Aerys' madness flared again as quickly as it had faded. "But we will not listen to my son's decrees!" he declared, pounding his fists on the armrests of his chair. "No surrenders, only fire and blood! I'll have the Stark's snowy lands burned, the Tullys drowned, the Arryn's wings clipped, and the Baratheons flayed. Their castles will be torn down, their names erased. I'll name new lords for every house that rebelled!"

His gaze snapped to Jaime, and there was venom in his smile. "Then I'll march to Casterly Rock. I'll take Tywin's head for his insolence, and your sister—" Aerys' lips curled cruelly. "Cersei Lannister will be my men's consolation prize. The whore of Casterly Rock, they'll call her."

Aerys leaned closer, watching Jaime's face, searching for a crack, a flicker of outrage. Jaime gave him nothing. His golden face remained cold, his eyes hard as the steel of his sword. This seemed to bore the king, who waved him off with a distracted gesture.

Aerys' momentary lucidity flickered back like a guttering candle. "Mace Tyrell," he spat, his face twisting with contempt. "That bumbling fool nearly cost us the war. Instead of bolstering my forces to crush the rebellion outright, he squandered time and men laying siege to Storm's End for over a year! A year!" Aerys' fist slammed against the armrest. "I should burn him for that incompetence."

The council sat in uneasy silence, their gazes carefully averted. Aerys' temper was too volatile to interrupt. His thoughts leapt to new vindictive heights, and his tone became dreamlike. "But no, I'll let him prove his worth. I'll summon his forces to King's Landing to march against our enemies. We will not listen to my son's decrees. There will be no peace, no submission. Only fire and blood."

The king's ramblings turned back to the war-torn Crownlands, the region he believed could still yield an army strong enough to capture enemy lands. Aerys' delusions were as grand as they were impossible. Most of the Crownlands lay in ruin, its towns and keeps sacked by Lady Ravenclaw and her marauding forces. Though her name was whispered in the capital, her deeds were loudly proclaimed in the sept of Baelor. Moving with a speed and cunning that outpaced the royal army, she had left ash and devastation in her wake.

He spoke of summoning reinforcements from the Reach and Dorne, convinced that his loyal bannermen would flock to his cause. Jaime doubted it. The Crownlands were broken, their lords defeated or disillusioned. The Reach and Dorne had their own battles to win. The king's vision of resurgence was little more than the desperate dream of a man blind to the reality of his diminishing power.

"Lady Ravenclaw," Aerys sneered, his lips curling into a thin line. "A woman playing at war. I'll burn her alive, hang her charred skin over the gates of her own castle. But first…" His eyes glimmered with a manic light as he looked to Jaime once again. "We'll deal with Tywin. I'll march on Casterly Rock myself when this is done."

Outside the council chamber, the city was already showing signs of unrest. Since the burning of Flea Bottom, the air in King's Landing had grown tense, thick with smoke and whispered dissent. The streets were restless, the people emboldened by desperation. Riots and looting had begun to creep closer to the Red Keep. Cracks were forming in the city's fragile order, and even the Gold Cloaks could not hope to keep them contained for long.

At first, it was murmured prayers for justice, hushed words exchanged in the shadows. Then the prayers turned to curses, and the whispers became shouts. By now, looting and riots had broken out in the poorer districts, spreading like wildfire. Angry mobs had taken to the streets, smashing carts, breaking into storehouses, and setting small fires of their own as if trying to answer the king's flames with their own rebellion.

The Gold Cloaks were overwhelmed, too few, and too demoralized to quell the unrest. They patrolled with visible reluctance, their spears more often used to keep the angry mobs at bay than to restore order. Many simply turned a blind eye, unwilling to risk their lives for a king who thought of them as expendable.

The unrest had even begun creeping inside the Red Keep. On the previous night, Jaime had heard the distant sounds of shouting and breaking glass drifting through the Keep's high windows. Some whispered of an organized uprising, though Jaime doubted the people could rally behind any single leader. Their anger was too scattered, too raw. But the cracks were forming, and he knew they would only widen with time.

Still, Aerys remained blind to it all, or worse, he welcomed it. To him, the growing chaos was just another excuse to stoke his beloved flames. "Let them rise," he had said with a mad glint in his eye. "Let the rats come out of their holes, so I may cleanse them with dragonfire."

As the small council shifted to the matter of imposing punitive taxes on the Crownlands' lords—those who had failed to protect their holdings—Aerys abruptly changed the subject, his face twisting with rage. "And what of Rhaegar's wretched children?" he spat, his voice rising to a shrill crescendo. "Surely they can return to the capital now. The rebellion is over!"

Jaime stood rigid, though he had been quietly relieved when he first learned Rhaegar had sent his children far from King's Landing. It was another brilliant ploy from the Crown Prince, a decision that spared them from the Mad King's wrath. Varys, of course, had orchestrated the escape. There was no doubt about that. The spymaster had vanished the very night Aegon and Rhaenys were spirited away from the Red Keep. Aerys' fury had been boundless, his screams of treachery echoing through the halls as he declared his son a failure unworthy of the dragon's name. A hefty bounty now hung over Varys's head.

"It was the right move," Arthur Dayne had whispered to Jaime the next evening, his voice low and laced with grim certainty. "The children have no mother to shield them, and their grandmother can scarcely protect herself. They would be at the mercy of the king's whims."

Jaime had nodded, knowing Sir Arthur spoke the truth. Aerys' hatred for Elia Martell and her children had been no secret. They were too Dornish, too unworthy in his eyes to carry the dragon's blood. The safety of Aegon and Rhaenys lay far from the Red Keep, far from the unpredictable whims of their grandsire.

Now, as Aerys railed about his "traitorous" son and "disloyal" heirs, Jaime wondered how long it would be before the king's paranoia turned elsewhere. The rebellion may have been over, but the real battle—the one within Aerys' own mind—was far from finished.

Lord Chelsted, the ever-loyal Hand of the King, merely shrugged as he responded to Aerys' outburst. "Prince Rhaegar has hidden them well, Your Grace. Perhaps in Dorne, though the Martells reveal nothing. Or maybe across the Narrow Sea, somewhere in Essos. Without a Master of Whisperers, it's impossible to say."

His words carried a measured calm, but Jaime noticed the faint weariness in Chelsted's tone. The Hand's pragmatism defused the king's ire for the moment, and Aerys' mind, ever restless, flitted to another subject before long. The council meeting dragged on, with the Mad King alternating between fits of shrill laughter and sudden bursts of fury as more ravens were read aloud. The news of the rebellion's aftermath seemed to delight and enrage him in equal measure, and each new raven read was met with an unpredictable reaction.

Later that day, Aerys summoned the commander of the Gold Cloaks with a sudden declaration. "I will ride through King's Landing," he proclaimed, his voice echoing through the Red Keep. "A royal parade to celebrate the death of Robert Baratheon! The people will shower us with flowers and praises as we proclaim the usurper's end!"

Jaime exchanged a glance with Ser Jonothor Darry, who stood as impassive as ever, though his silence spoke volumes. Aerys' perception of the city was a delusion. Flea Bottom had been simmering with unrest since the burning of the square two weeks ago. Any such parade would be met with anything but celebration, but no one dared to challenge the king's decree.

And so, preparations began for the "royal parade," though Jaime felt the pit of unease in his stomach deepen. He had seen too much of Aerys' madness to believe this could end in anything but chaos.

The royal procession wound its way through King's Landing, descending into the labyrinthine streets of Flea Bottom. The bustling crowds thinned, replaced by sullen, silent onlookers. The air reeked of waste and smoke, but the stench of resentment was stronger still. Ragged faces stared at the Targaryen escort with hateful gazes, their contempt unmasked.

Aerys, ever blind to the mood of his people, sat atop his horse with an unsettling grin, waving at the gathered poor as though they adored him. His violet robe shimmered in the pale sunlight, but there was no cheer in the streets, no voices raised in gratitude. The king's wave met only unbroken silence.

Behind him, Queen Rhaella endured the farce in pained silence, her swollen belly making every bump of the carriage a torment. She had not protested when Aerys demanded she join this parade, though her pale face betrayed her suffering. Jaime knew the queen had learned long ago that defiance only fed the king's rage.

Jaime rode a few paces behind the royal carriage, his senses on edge. Something was wrong; the air felt heavy with unspoken tension. He scanned the streets, noting the absence of usual Flea Bottom activity. The chaotic noise of the slums—the cries of merchants, the clamor of children—was replaced by an unnatural quiet.

When they turned a narrow corner, the truth of it struck Jaime like a dagger. The road ahead was empty, abandoned save for discarded rags and broken barrels. His hand instinctively went to his sword. He caught sight of the Gold Cloak commander at the front of the procession, his raised hand signaling the column to halt.

But they were too late.

From the shadowed alleys and rooftops, men poured forth like a flood, their armor mismatched and poorly made, their weapons crude but sharp. They screamed as they charged, their war cries echoing off the narrow walls. Jaime's sharp eyes counted dozens, maybe a hundred, as they closed in from every side.

Chaos erupted. Horses reared and whinnied, hooves striking the cobblestones in panic. Jaime unsheathed his blade, the steel catching the dim light as he spurred his mount into motion. Aerys, frozen in disbelief, sat atop his horse unmoving, his mad smile replaced by a stunned shock.

The first rebel slammed into the royal guards, and blood spilled on the muddy streets of Flea Bottom.

Jaime recognized the men immediately—Flea Bottom folk, driven by desperation and fury. As he struck down three assailants charging toward the queen's carriage, their cries filled the air.

"Death to the Dragon!" one screamed.
"For Flea Bottom!" bellowed another, their voices raw with anguish.

The Gold Cloaks, many of whom were more accustomed to the lax discipline of patrolling the city's taverns and alleys, were caught completely unprepared. In the chaos, the front lines were overwhelmed, their formation shattered as the peasant mob surged forward. The Lord Commander of the Gold Cloaks fell swiftly, his head severed and held aloft like a grim standard, spurring the attackers into a bloodthirsty frenzy.

Jaime fought tirelessly, his sword flashing in the dim light as he cut through the untrained but numerous rebels. Blood sprayed, soaking his gilded armor, painting him in the anguish of a city pushed to the brink. He lost count of the lives he took—fifteen, perhaps more—before the tide began to ebb. The last of the attackers, realizing their rebellion had failed, scattered into the alleys like rats fleeing a sinking ship.

By the end, Jaime stood amidst the carnage, his sword gleaming red, his stomach heavy with disgust. The blood of peasants, driven to this madness by the king's cruelty, coated his boots. For the hundredth time since donning the white cloak, Jaime cursed himself for what he had become.

"We ride back to the Red Keep now," Ser Jonothor Darry commanded, his voice steady despite the chaos. Ser Jonothor had assumed control of the battered Gold Cloaks, rallying what few men remained to form a protective cordon around the king and queen.

Jaime approached Queen Rhaella's carriage, peering inside to check on her. She sat silently, her face pale but resolute. Her eyes, tired and unflinching, met Jaime's.

"I am fine, Ser Jaime," she said softly.

Jaime nodded and remounted his horse, riding close to the carriage with his sword still drawn. The surviving guardsmen formed a tight, defensive line around them as they began the desperate ride back.

When Darry suggested placing Aerys in a carriage for safety, the king erupted. "I will not hide like a coward!" Aerys shrieked, his voice cracking with rage. "I am the king! They will burn for this—all of them will burn!"

His ranting ceased abruptly as a volley of arrows rained down upon them from the rooftops. Makeshift archers, men with crude bows and burning vengeance in their eyes, unleashed their fury. The arrows fell like deadly rain, piercing shields and flesh alike.

"Ride!" Darry commanded, his shield raised to shield the king from the assault. The formation tightened, the horses driven hard as men fell behind them, crying out in pain. Jaime's sword stayed in his hand, ready to fend off any new attackers, but the relentless pace was their only salvation.

"Why aren't you killing them?!" Aerys screeched as they passed the edge of Flea Bottom, arrows still whistling past them from behind.

By the time they reached the gates of the Red Keep under the full moon, the city itself seemed alive with chaos. Fires burned in the distance, and the Gold Cloaks stationed at the gates whispered of looting and unrest spreading through King's Landing.

Jaime escorted Queen Rhaella within the safety of the castle walls, his bloodstained hands gripping his sword tightly. Aerys dismounted, his face twisted in rage, his body trembling with fury.

"Burn them!" he screamed as he stormed toward the throne room. "Burn them all! The commoners, the rebels—every last one of them! I will not suffer treachery in my city!"

Jaime followed in silence, his stomach churning. The Red Keep was safe—for now—but the city was aflame, and its king was madder than ever.

"Lord Chelsted!" Aerys shrieked, his voice echoing like the screech of a dying hawk through the grand hall of the throne room. His face was a mask of crimson fury, veins bulging at his temples. "Find the Pyromancers! Bring them to me at once! We cleanse this city with the Dragon's justice—tomorrow!"

The king's trembling hands gripped the armrests of the Iron Throne, and the jagged blades of Aegon the Conqueror's chair bit into his flesh. Blood trickled down his fingers and dripped onto the cold stone floor, yet Aerys seemed oblivious to the pain, lost in the tempest of his rage.

Jaime stood beneath the looming shadow of the throne, silent and unmoving. He had seen the king enraged before, but never like this—not when Lord Tywin refused to call his banners, not even when Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark raised their armies. This fury was different, hotter, more unhinged, and more dangerous.

Aerys' bloodied hand slammed against the throne's arm, leaving a smear of red on the dulled steel. "They dare rise against me? Against their rightful king? They will burn for their insolence!" he hissed, his voice cracking with each syllable.

Lord Qarlton Chelsted, the Hand of the King, stepped forward hesitantly, his face pale but composed. "Your Grace," he began cautiously, "we must consider the consequences. The people—"

"Silence!" Aerys roared, his eyes wild with madness. "The people are traitors, each and every one of them! They dare strike at me, their king, the blood of the dragon? I will see their corpses smoldering in the streets! Bring the Pyromancers!"

Chelsted may have been a sadist, reveling in the madness that bound him to Aerys, their shared love for fire and destruction fueling each other. But even the Hand of the King knew a full onslaught on the smallfolk of Flea bottom was a step too far. The consequences were too great, even for someone like Chelsted. Yet, he said nothing, his silence betraying his internal struggle.

"Do you defy me, Lord Chelsted?" Aerys spat, rising from the throne. The movement caused more blades to bite into his skin, fresh rivulets of blood staining his robes. "Perhaps it is you who wishes to burn next!"

The throne room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the king's labored breathing. Jaime's hand tightened on the pommel of his sword, though he made no move to draw it. He could feel the madness radiating from the throne like heat from a forge, and he knew then that Aerys was beyond any semblance of reason.

Lord Chelsted bowed stiffly, his expression grim. "As you command, Your Grace."

The Hand of the King turned and walked from the room, his footsteps echoing in the silence. Aerys slumped back into the Iron Throne, his rage replaced with a sickly grin. Blood stained his teeth as he chuckled, a sound that sent a shiver down Jaime's spine.

"Tomorrow, the Dragon's fire will purify this city," Aerys whispered, his voice barely audible. "And I shall rule over their ashes."

"I have called a small council meeting, Your Grace," Lord Chelsted had returned an hour later, his voice strained, though he hid it well. Even the ever-loyal Hand of the King seemed taken aback by Aerys' madness.

The pyromancers, summoned at Aerys' command, huddled in the shadows of the throne room, whispering in their usual low tones, their faces obscured by the flickering torchlight.

Inside the small council room, Aerys' rage was palpable. He threw parchments across the table, scattering them like feathers in the wind, and hurled lit candles with careless abandon, their flames dancing wildly as they clattered across the floor.

"Flea Bottom must be put to the sword for their transgressions against His Grace," Chelsted said bluntly, his words cold and final. He's finally on board, Jaime thought darkly. Yet, despite the familiar venom in Chelsted's voice, something was missing—there was no gleam of fanaticism in his eyes, no hint of the sadistic pleasure that often accompanied the Hand's words. For the first time, it seemed, even Lord Chelsted understood the depth of the madness in the king's orders.

Aerys, his fury still simmering beneath the surface, nodded in agreement, his eyes flickering with the same madness that had overtaken him in recent days. His smile was twisted, but there was something almost satisfied about it, as though he had been waiting for this moment to feel in control again. Rebirth through destruction, Jaime thought, but it made no sense.

Aerys wiped his hands across his sunken cheeks, smearing the grime of the day's chaos across his pallid skin. His long, cracked nails left bloody trails as they scraped over his face, but the Mad King paid it no mind. His violet eyes burned with a feverish intensity, gazing at something only he could see—a vision of fire and glory, perhaps, or a nightmare of his own making.

"Aye, Lord Hand," Aerys rasped, a twisted satisfaction curling his lips. "Make the preparations. Tomorrow, the city will burn in my fury. It will be reborn, like fire from ash."

Jaime's stomach turned at the words. What was Aerys planning? To burn the Flea Bottom? The people would surely rise up. He glanced at Lewyn Martell, his white cloak untouched by the chaos outside, his expression unreadable. Their eyes met, and for a fleeting moment, Jaime saw the same concern in the Martell's gaze. But there was nothing they could do—not here, not now.

The meeting dragged on, filled with more cryptic declarations from Aerys and shared looks between Chelsted and the king—words only they seemed to understand. Finally, the king's madness seemed to subside, and with a satisfied, almost gleeful smile, he rose from his chair.

Jaime followed behind, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Aerys' demeanor had shifted in the space of moments, from fiery rage to a disturbing contentment. The king was waiting for the moment when he could let his madness loose without restraint.

Something was wrong. Jaime could feel it in his bones.

The very next day, the day Aerys had promised would be the ultimate reckoning for the city, arrived. Jaime stood by the window of the Red Keep, staring out at the crystal-clear blue skies, so eerily serene in contrast to the bloodshed that the king was about to unleash. It's as if the Gods themselves mock us, Jaime thought bitterly, his mind heavy with foreboding. Aerys had promised destruction, and Flea Bottom was set to be his target.

Jaime donned his white cloak and hurried to the throne room, where Ser Lewyn Martell stood in quiet conversation with the new Gold Cloak commander. As Jaime took his place beside the king, Lord Qarlton burst into the room, interrupting the current planning with a message that made every eye in the throne room turn.

"My lord," Qarlton gasped, his voice tight with urgency. "A raven comes from outriders near the Iron gates—knights loyal to House Targaryen. Tywin has called his banners and has been marching toward King's Landing for the past three weeks, bringing the might of Casterly Rock with him. The bulk of his forces are only a few hours march from King's Landing walls"

Aerys, for once, was silent, his hand paused mid-air. His eyes narrowed as he processed the news. Father has finally made his move, Jaime thought, but Aerys was too far gone to see the nuance. He simply spoke with a venomous sneer, his voice filled with mad certainty.

"Tywin means to take my throne," Aerys muttered, his lips curling into a twisted smile. "No worries, he won't have a city to take."

The words rang with madness, and the air in the room thickened as everyone waited for the king to continue, explaining the cryptic words. But it was Grand Maester Pycell, the ever-loyal sycophant of House Lannister, who spoke next, his voice trembling with false reverence.

"Your grace, Tywin would not betray you," Pycell's words were pleading, though they were laced with a sense of calculated urgency. "He is loyal to House Targaryen. He may believe Robert won at the Trident, he comes to provide us with the men we so direly need in this time of crisis. Lord Tywin would never let the city fall to Northern savages and Robert's men."

Jaime furrowed his brow, his instincts bristling with suspicion. Pycell is lying, he thought, feeling the weight of deception in the air. Pycell's loyalty had never been to Aerys or even House Targaryen—his allegiance was to Tywin, to Casterly Rock. So why was he now so eager to convince Aerys that Tywin was still loyal?

"Tywin is a traitor who will lose his head," Aerys muttered dismissively as his voice held no real concern, only a twisted satisfaction in the chaos he anticipated. "But so be it. Let him into the city. We will need his men anyway once we start our campaign to burn the lands of our enemies."

Jaime watched the exchange with growing unease, feeling a knot of tension tighten in his chest. Pycell was playing a dangerous game, convincing Aerys that Tywin still stood by him when in reality, the Lannisters had long been preparing to take what they could for themselves. And yet, Aerys' mind had become so warped, so consumed by his own delusions, that he failed to see the truth behind Pycell's manipulation.

Lord Qarlton looked ready to protest, his brow furrowing as he clearly weighed the Grand Maester's plea. His lips parted, perhaps to speak, to offer a rebuttal, but Aerys was beyond reason. His mind was set. His enemies must burn, and if Lannister forces could help him achieve that, so be it.

"Enough," Aerys snapped, waving his hand dismissively before Qarlton could protest. "We will allow Tywin's men in the city."

Pycell's face was a mask of sickly relief, but even his eyes betrayed a certain wariness, as though he knew the danger of playing into Aerys' delusions.

With a wave, Aerys silenced the chattering throne room. "Withdraw my men from Flea Bottom," he ordered curtly to the newly appointed Gold Cloak commander. "Tywin will march through Visenya Hill, Flea Bottom will be mine to deal with." A dangerous glint danced in the king's eyes, and his lips curled into a thin, satisfied smile as he spoke.

Jaime's pulse quickened at the command. Withdraw the men? That made no sense. What could the king be thinking? If they pulled all the Gold Cloaks back, the city would be left vulnerable, its streets ripe for chaos. Jaime's suspicions deepened. Aerys has lost it completely.

His confusion was answered when the Gold Cloak commander departed, and the Pyromancers—those treacherous, mad men—were ushered into the throne room. The air was thick with tension, as though every soul in the room held its breath, waiting for the storm to break. Aerys stood at the heart of it all, his eyes alight with a sick, gleaming anticipation, his voice quivering with a twisted thrill.

"Is it ready?" he asked, the words dripping from his lips like honey, laced with cruel delight as he turned to the pyromancers.

Jaime understood the grim truth. Flea Bottom would be put to the sword, the entire wretched slums—its walls, its streets, its very soul—would be reduced to nothing. All in the name of vengeance, madness, and a king who no longer cared for anything but the destruction of his enemies and his kingdom alike.

Jaime's heart sank, his stomach turning over in dread. There was no stopping this now—not with the pyromancers already at their command. Perhaps the pyromancers would use fire contraptions as a decoy, a smokescreen for a full assault to scour the slums clean of rebellion, killing anyone who still lingered. Jaime prayed this was the truth of it.

"Yes, my king," the elder pyromancer said, his voice thick with sick glee. "The city will light up with beautiful spectacles, just as you command." His face was scarred with a nasty burn, and his eyes gleamed with a madness Jaime had seen before—a madness that reminded him all too well of the moments when Aerys would toy with his life for his own twisted amusement.

Jaime stood there for what felt like hours, his mind racing as the preparations for the "fireworks" pressed on, each moment dragging them inexorably closer to the point of no return.

The door to the throne room groaned open, and Lord Qarlton entered once more, his face pale and drawn, as though he had aged years in the few short hours since first learning of the Lannisters' march. "Your Grace," he began, his voice quivering with urgency, "Tywin's forces are near Visenya's Hill. Something was indeed wrong—I knew it!"

The weight of his words hung in the air like a blade poised to strike. "The Lannister forces are slaughtering what's left of the Gold Cloaks and Targaryen loyalists throughout the city. They mean to sack the capital!" His tone cracked with panic, each syllable driving home the grim reality.

Jaime froze, why would his father sack King's landing when Rhager had won the war? Surely ravens would have reached the Lannister camps by now.

Jaime watched as Aerys paused, his wild eyes darting about the room. Then, a grotesque smile split the king's face, his expression shifting from confusion to elation. "Good," Aerys hissed, his voice dripping with malice. "Let the lions come. They will see the true fury of the dragon before the end."

Aerys leaped off his jagged Iron Throne, his robes fluttering like dark wings as he stormed out of the throne room. Jaime followed swiftly, his mind racing, trying to piece together the madness that was unfolding before him. As they stepped out onto the balcony, the city stretched out below them, bathed in the golden glow of the setting sun.

Jaime's gaze snapped to the banners fluttering in the wind. The proud sigils of House Lannister, crimson and gold, rippled ominously over the streets. His heart clenched as he counted maybe—twenty thousand men, already inside King's Landing. His father's army was here, and they had no intention of retreating.

The sight made Jaime's stomach churn. Father is already inside the city... His mind raced with the implications. His lord father had brought an overwhelming force into King's Landing, but why? To seize the Red Keep? To take the throne? Or something far worse?

Aerys, oblivious to the gravity of the situation, stared out at the chaos with fevered eyes. The mad king's thoughts were already elsewhere, lost in delusions of grandeur. Jaime watched him, torn between the man who had once been a king and the monster who had consumed him. Would Tywin be able to stop Aerys before everything was put to the sword? Would there be anything left to save?

If Tywin seized the throne, surely Rhaegar would be furious. The Prince had the backing of three kingdoms behind him—how could Tywin possibly stand against that? Tywin had no allies, no army to match what Rhaegar had already gathered. The Lannister army might be formidable, but Rhaegar's mustered forces would be infinitely stronger.

Jaime's thoughts were interrupted as Aerys began shouting, his words incomprehensible, swirling together into a whirlwind of madness. "Summerhall... ice and fire... Aegon's dreams... wildfire…" The king babbled like a madman, his eyes wide and frantic, his mind lost in visions of destruction. There was no sense to his words, only the ramblings of a man who knew his time was running out and was bent on dragging everyone down with him.

The gold cloaks, barely numbering a thousand men, had no chance against the Lannisters. If Jaime's father intended to take the Red Keep, he would have no resistance.

The throne room was empty now, stripped of the lords and highborns who once crowded its walls at the King's demand to witness his farcical trials. Only Jaime, the three pyromancers, and Aerys himself remained.

The Mad King had dismissed the remaining Kingsguard, insisting that only the heir of Tywin Lannister accompany him to his destiny. The rest were ordered to man the walls, a futile gesture in Jaime's mind. Aerys had also commanded that the Red Keep's gates remain shut until the Lannisters stood at the threshold. Only then would the gates be opened, unleashing a doomed charge as his men fought to the death against Tywin's forces.

The commander of the Gold Cloaks had begged Aerys to reconsider, urging him to use the formidable defenses of the Red Keep to withstand a siege. But the king would hear none of it.

"I am the blood of the dragon!" Aerys shrieked, his pale face flushing an unnatural red. "The dragon will not cower before a lion! We fight to the death!"

Aerys paced the throne room like a caged beast, his steps frantic and uneven. His shrill voice echoed against the cold stone as he barked orders to the pyromancers. "It is almost time to burn them all!" he cried, his eyes wild with fevered conviction. "I'll burn anew in the flames of wildfire, be reborn a dragon! First Casterly Rock, then Winterfell—they will all burn! Everything will burn!"

Jaime's blood ran cold as the pieces of Aerys' madness fell into place. The king's ranting, the frantic preparations, the cryptic orders—it all made a horrific kind of sense now. Aerys had no intention of sending his men into Flea Bottom to root out rebellion. There would be no precise strike, no calculated retribution.

The Mad King intended to unleash wildfire across all of King's Landing. Every street, every home, every life within the city walls would be reduced to ash and molten ruin. He would destroy the capital, collapsing it in on itself in a cataclysm of fire and fury.

And Aerys? The King didn't care that he would burn along with it. No, he welcomed it. The flames were not his enemy—they were his destiny. He would be consumed and reborn, a dragon made flesh, as his deluded visions promised.

Fool, Jaime thought bitterly, the word echoing in his mind like a curse. When Aerys spoke of burning his enemies, he hadn't been speaking in metaphor, in the lofty rhetoric of kings. No, the Mad King meant it literally—fire, death, and ash.

"There will be no Iron Throne, Tywin!" Aerys screamed to no one in particular. "You'll sit on ash and rubble!" He giggled madly, his voice high-pitched and hysterical as the pyromancers began scurrying about, readying themselves for a horse ride, no doubt.

Jaime stood frozen, his heart hammering in his chest. Aerys had lost all reason, and the entire city—the gleaming gold capital—was about to burn.

Jaime sprang into action, his heart pounding. This madness had gone too far. He would not stand by and let Aerys burn King's Landing to the ground. Hundreds of thousands of innocent lives would not be lost for a madman's delusions. Jaime had already lost his honor long ago, so what was one more stain on his bloodied cloak? One more betrayal to set things right.

Without hesitation, he drew his sword and cut down the two pyromancers who were nearest to him. Their eyes, wild with madness and fanatical devotion to their work, went out in an instant as Jaime's blade found its mark. Their deaths were swift, and they made no sound, their twisted smiles vanishing as they crumpled to the floor.

The third pyromancer, however, was more cunning. He had thrown his companion at Jaime, buying himself a moment to flee. Jaime cursed under his breath, his gaze shifting to Aerys. The king was watching him now, his eyes burning with rage, yet there was no fear in them. He charged at Jaime with a small dagger clutched in his hand, hidden among the folds of his many robes.

Jaime sidestepped easily, grabbing the king's arm and knocking him to the floor. The dagger went skittering across the stone as Aerys tumbled forward. Jaime pressed his advantage, knocking the king's weapon from his grasp with a swift kick, his sword drawn and ready.

"It doesn't matter, Jaime," Aerys spat, his face smeared with blood and twisted into a deranged grin. "The city will burn, and I will rise anew!" His voice was shrill, echoing in the throne room.

Jaime's breath caught in his throat as he looked down at the madman, still writhing on the floor, smiling as if he welcomed the end.

Aerys scrambled to his feet, moving with surprising agility for someone so deranged. He darted toward the pyromancer who had fled into the shadows of the throne room, ready to issue the order that would doom the city.

Jaime, unwilling to let the king give the command, sprinted after him. The two figures moved like shadows through the darkened hall, Aerys at the head, Jaime in pursuit.

With one final burst of speed, Jaime caught up to the king. Without hesitation, he plunged his sword into Aerys' back. The mad king did not scream, nor did he even flinch. He merely grunted, his breath shallow, his lips curving into that same sickening smile.

"Burn them all," Aerys rasped, his voice barely a whisper. "Burn them all... my champion..." His last words trailed off into a breathless laugh, directed at the fleeing pyromancer.

Jaime stood frozen, the weight of what he had just done settling over him like a dark cloud. His sword still lodged in Aerys' back, he cursed softly, knowing that the king's final order had already been given. The city was already doomed.

As the life drained from Aerys' eyes, Jaime let his body slump to the cold stone floor with a thud. For the first time in years, the mad king seemed peaceful. Only in death could he find that elusive peace.

He turned sharply, his boots echoing in the empty hall as he strode toward the throne room doors, the weight of urgency heavy on his shoulders. There was no time to waste. The last pyromancer was still free, and the city was hanging by a thread. Jaime pushed through the soldiers who were hurriedly arming themselves within the Red Keep, their faces tense and wide-eyed with fear, preparing for a suicidal charge against the Lions of Casterly Rock. He shoved past his brothers in arms, past the King's guard, to the gates of the Red Keep. His heart sank. The pyromancer had found a secret way out. Jaime had seen him slip through the shadows, and now, he could see the man's retreating figure just beyond the gates, riding toward the city.

"The gates are sealed for now, Ser Jaime. King's orders," the newly appointed Gold Cloaks commander said, his voice laced with uncertainty. But then his eyes caught Jaime's figure—the blood smeared across his armor, splattered across his face like a grim banner.

"Ser Jaime?" the commander repeated, his tone hesitant, wavering between deference and suspicion.

Jaime did not hesitate. "The king is dead," he snarled, his eyes flashing with a fury that could not be contained. "Killed by that fleeing man." He pointed, his arm stiff with the weight of his words, to the distant brown horse galloping toward Flea Bottom.

A murmur rippled through the men, disbelief flickering across their faces. Jaime could feel the hesitation, the doubt, but he had no time for it. He stepped forward, and without another word, the gold cloak stepped aside, allowing Jaime to pass. Only the death of the King could open those gates.

Once outside the Red Keep, Jaime raced through the courtyard, his eyes fixed on the horizon. He seized the reins of a horse from a young squire, whose face was pale and wide-eyed. With a swift motion, he swung into the saddle, unsheathing his bloodied sword as it gleamed in the dwindling sunlight. "Get inside, lad," Jaime called to the boy. "War is at our door."

He spurred the horse into motion, galloping out of the gates, the wind whipping through his hair. Behind him, the sounds of the Red Keep seemed to fade into the distance, swallowed by the urgency of the chase. Flea Bottom was ahead, and the pyromancer had a head start. The city lay in the distance, a maze of darkened streets and crumbling buildings, but Jaime pushed on, faster, faster.

They rode for what seemed like hours, but soon the chase would end. The pyromancer's horse, spooked and wild, stumbled over a corpse left in the street, its hooves crashing into the stone before it fell onto its side. The pyromancer scrambled to his feet, his eyes wide with panic, and then, he ran.

Jaime's mouth went dry, his teeth gritted. "You can't run forever!" he shouted, his voice hard as steel. He kicked his horse forward, eyes narrowing in pursuit, sword drawn and ready.

The pyromancer skidded to a stop in the middle of the street, hands raised in a last, desperate gesture of surrender. His back was pressed against a decaying building, a cart laden with wildfire jars behind him—hidden, deadly.

"It's too late, Lannister," the pyromancer hissed, his voice a strange mixture of exhilaration and fear. "The king's command has been given. You think you can stop it now?"

Jaime's jaw tightened. His sword was steady in his hand, his heart cold. "I've already killed two of you. You're next."

The pyromancer's grin widened, his eyes wild. "You think killing us will stop it? Three caches across the city, each of us were prepared to die for the flames. It was the king's final command. Alas, only Flea Bottom will burn, but it is enough. A cleansing fire to purge this land of its sins."

Jaime's heart skipped a beat. Three caches? The magnitude of the destruction the pyromancers had planned was staggering. He could still hear Aerys' voice echoing in his mind: Burn them all.

Jaime's eyes went wide as the pyromancer flicked a spark to the fuse. "No!" Jaime shouted, but it was too late. The fuse was already burning, and the green fire began to curl around the barrels of wildfire, dancing with an almost predatory hunger.

"You'll never stop it," the pyromancer sneered, his voice trailing off as he stumbled back against the crates.

Jaime could feel the heat in the air, the terrifying heat of wildfire beginning to spark around him. But he wasn't finished yet. With a guttural roar, he lunged forward, stabbing the pyromancer in the stomach, the sword sinking deep into his gut.

The man's eyes widened in shock, but before he could speak, Jaime twisted the blade, tearing it free. The pyromancer crumpled to the ground, blood pooling around him, his eyes still wide with madness.

Jaime wiped his blade clean as quickly as he could, his mind racing. The fuse was still burning. He had to act. He turned, sprinting toward the barrels, knowing the flames would soon take over. If he didn't stop it now, everything would be lost.

With a growl, Jaime tore a nearby sack of sand from its perch against the wall. Its weight was reassuring in his grip, its grains coarse and cool against his skin. He hefted it quickly, tearing it open with his hand as he dashed toward the creeping flames. The fire danced and hissed, alive with hunger, licking ever closer to the barrels. The fuse sparked like a serpent's tail, trailing toward catastrophe.

"Not so fast," Jaime muttered through gritted teeth.

He tipped the sack and poured the sand over the fuse. It sputtered and spat as the grains smothered the flames, slowing their advance. The fire did not die entirely—it flickered stubbornly, curling through the gaps in the sand, but its pace faltered, crawling instead of racing. The foul scent of burning still filled the air, mingling with the earthy tang of heated sand, but Jaime pressed on, spreading more and more of the coarse grains along the fuse's length.

When the sack was empty, he dropped it with a curse, stomping down on the scattered embers to smother any stray sparks. His hands thudded against his thighs as he stepped back, chest heaving. The fuse smoldered faintly beneath its sandy covering, like a beast lurking just out of sight, but for now, it was tamed.

Jaime turned toward the barrels and the jars of wildfire that gleamed with an eerie, taunting light. The green liquid within seemed to shimmer, waiting for its moment of ruin. He ran a hand through his damp hair, his fingers trembling. The spark was slowed, but not stopped. It still crept forward beneath the sand, inch by inch, an ever-present threat.

He exhaled sharply, forcing himself to think. I've bought us time, but how much? An hour? Less?

"Not today," he muttered, though his words sounded hollow against the oppressive silence. Around him, the jars of wildfire seemed to mock him, daring him to find a way to snuff the danger out entirely, or watch the city burn.

His trick would not hold, he knew. The sand would slow the fuse, but it would not stop it. The fire would find its way, as it always did, creeping beneath the grains, seeking air, hungry for destruction. It was a fragile reprieve, a fleeting moment borrowed from a ticking doom.

But if he could just save one life, maybe two—he had to. He had to.

With a curse, Jaime turned and ran to his steed, leaping into the saddle with practiced ease. He galloped through the winding streets of Flea Bottom, shouting desperately for anyone who could hear. "Run! Seek shelter! Wildfire is here, it will explode!" His voice rang out, but the common folk who had gathered barely stirred at first.

"Run! The wildfire's here! The king means to burn everything!" The words echoed in the streets, but still, the people were too stunned to move. Then, the dam broke, and the mass exodus began. Mothers clutched babes to their chests, men grabbed whatever possessions they could carry, and whores pulled at the silken threads of their gowns, clutching them tightly as they ran. Thousands surged towards the Iron Gates.

Jaime spurred his horse to the front of the line, pushing through the chaos until he reached the Gold Cloaks stationed at the gates, their swords and spears raised, trying to maintain order.

"Open the gates now! It is your King's command," Jaime lied, barking at the two Gold Cloaks blocking the path, their faces a mix of fear and disbelief.

"The King said these gates remain closed, Ser Jaime. Let Tywin and his men go through Visenya Hill, his grace commanded" one of the guards stammered, still unsure of how to respond.

Jaime had no time to waste. The cries of the crowd behind him were growing louder, and the pressing weight of panic threatened to crush him. Without another word, he leapt from his steed, his sword flashing with deadly precision. He cut down the first Gold Cloak with a swift strike, his blade moving so fast the other spearmen had no chance to react before his own head was split open. The boy he killed could have been no older than ten and four—his youth gnawed at Jaime's conscience, but there was no time to dwell on it.

Disgusted with himself, he wiped the blood from his blade and, with the help of three burly men—likely blacksmiths or laborers—he opened the Iron Gates.

"Move, move!" Jaime shouted, his voice barely carrying over the clamor of thousands flooding out of the gates. Hundreds rushed through, trampling those smaller and less fortunate in their wake. The surge was relentless—those who made it out of the gates leaped into the Blackwater Bay, others scrambling desperately for nearby ships. A few ran toward the distant shore, seeking the first patch of safety they could find.

For what felt like hours, thousands of smallfolks continued pouring through the gates. Men, women, and children stumbled forward, their cries rising into the air, a chorus of fear and despair. Jaime watched them pour out, their hurried steps kicking up dust, their ragged breaths filling the chaos settling in the thick air. He dared to hope, for just a moment, that his gamble had paid off. That the wildfire would not ignite, that Aerys' final vengeance would remain unkindled.

But hope, like wildfire, was a fleeting thing.

The explosion came with a deafening roar. The earth itself seemed to tremble beneath him, and the shockwave hit like a fist. Jaime was thrown from his saddle, his body flung forward into the Blackwater Bay with a sickening splash. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, and he sank beneath the surface, the dark waters swallowing him whole.

Through the haze of smoke and fire, Jaime's vision blurred. He could hear distant screams, the frantic cries of those who were still inside the city's walls. His body was too heavy, his limbs too sluggish. The world spun around him as he sank deeper, and his mind scattered like the embers in the wind.

The fire roared in his ears, and his thoughts grew hazy. A fitting end for a Kingslayer, he thought bitterly as the cold darkness crept in, swallowing him whole.