At Skyreach.
Cersei Lannister knelt in prayer before the altar of the Mother, her head bowed low.
Her son Joffrey's coffin rested under the Stranger's altar—the deity responsible for guiding souls to the other world.
The heavy scent of incense permeated the air, and hundreds of candles bathed the hall in a flickering, golden glow.
Standing behind her was Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer. His gaze was unfocused, his right arm ending in a stump at the elbow. His hair was unkempt, his clothes disheveled, as though he'd long given up caring for his appearance.
"The convoy is ready," Jaime said, his voice rough. "Let's bring little Joffrey back to King's Landing for his burial."
Cersei rose slowly, stepping up to her son's open coffin.
Tradition dictated that a dead King be dressed in gilded armor.
The golden light gleamed from Joffrey's armor, its radiance reminding Cersei of the prophecy the Frog Witch had spoken over her childhood years ago:
"You will wed a King, and bear him three children, golden will be their crowns, and golden their shrouds."
No!
It couldn't be true.
Cersei's heart seized with terror.
Years ago, the Frog Witch had drawn blood from her fingertip and foretold her fate.
She had always refused to believe the prophecy, but now it had begun unfolding, piece by piece.
She had indeed married a king, and she had borne him three children.
Joffrey had worn a golden crown, and now he lay enshrouded in golden armor.
Tommen would soon wear the crown as well—and one day, would he also be laid to rest in golden armor?
And what of Myrcella?
No, that would never happen!
"... You will be queen, until another, younger and more beautiful, comes to cast you down and take all you hold dear…"
No! I won't let it happen!
Cersei's body trembled.
Yet the Frog Witch's eerie, chilling words echoed in her mind—
"... On the day when tears drown you, your brother shall wrap his hands about your pale throat and choke the life from you."
"No! Never!" Cersei cried out.
"Cersei, what's wrong?" Jaime moved forward, taking her shoulders.
She turned to him, her eyes blazing red with anger. Her voice was a desperate hiss:
"Jaime, promise me! Promise me you'll kill him, avenge little Joffrey!"
Jaime lifted his severed arm with a bitter smile, as though showing her the obvious: "How am I supposed to kill anyone like this? And besides…"
The Kingslayer's face twisted with pain and fear. "Even with both hands, I wouldn't be a match for him. You saw it yourself—he took Joffrey down with a single stroke…"
"Are you just going to let him get away?" Cersei's voice grew shrill. "No matter how powerful he is, he can't stand against an army! Has your brain stopped working with your hand? Can't you lead men into battle? Don't forget, Joffrey was your son too!"
Almost my son, Jaime thought to himself.
He tried to recall Joffrey's face, but it was strangely blurry.
Yes, he was his son, his blood—but at that moment, Jaime felt an odd calm.
If the Seven had granted him a choice—Joffrey or his right hand—he knew, without hesitation, he'd choose his hand.
Joffrey had been his son, but he had never truly been his father.
He'd never held him, not even once.
Once, he had asked to, but Cersei had refused, saying their resemblance would make people suspicious.
In the end, he had wanted only Cersei. The children were merely a consequence, and bore the name Baratheon.
When Eddard Stark revealed the truth to the realm, Jaime had felt no fear; instead, he'd felt strangely free.
In his mind, he could picture himself taking Cersei and the children back to Casterly Rock, leaving the Iron Throne to whoever wanted it.
But his father wouldn't relent, and neither would Cersei.
"I'll avenge Joffrey," he told her, not wanting to see her suffer. "I promise."
He looked down at Joffrey's open coffin.
There was no denying it—Joffrey's face in stillness held an undeniable strength and grace. The boy had inherited the best features of House Lannister's golden twins.
But every time he had opened his mouth, Jaime had wanted to cover his ears.
"Then go now!"
Cersei's demand took him by surprise. "Now? But father has already ordered the army to retreat…"
"No!" she shrieked, cutting him off. "Take a force to Eagle's Nest and hang the murderer of my son—our son!"
Jaime sighed, feeling her anger and desperation. "With what army? The Northern forces left with Eddard Stark, Mace Tyrell may be friendly, but he's preparing to withdraw the Reachmen troops. And the nobles of the Crownlands—why would they follow a Lannister?"
"Then go with Mace Tyrell. He's promised to marry his daughter to Tommen, yet Margaery has been taken by Samwell. Go with him to Eagle's Nest, bring her back, and kill that kingslayer, that kidnapper!"
Jaime's face remained unreadable.
Cersei clenched her teeth, but knowing him well, she shifted her approach. She stepped closer, gently stroking his face.
"Jaime, my heart aches so much…"
She rose on her toes and pressed her lips to his.
His whole body trembled, and then he wrapped her in a fierce embrace, returning her kiss hungrily.
"No…not here…" she whispered, half-heartedly resisting.
But Jaime paid no mind, roughly tugging at her clothes, unable to contain himself.
Just as they were about to become one, the door swung open.
"Damn it! Who told you to come in!" Jaime hastily struggled to dress, cursing as he turned around.
But when he saw the intruder, he froze.
"Kingslayer, Cersei." Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, stood in the doorway, coldly staring at the entwined siblings. "Eddard Stark was right not to exonerate you."
"Get out! Get out now!" Cersei shrieked.
"I'll leave," Barristan replied, his voice cold. "Far, far away."
Jaime managed to get his trousers on with his one hand and asked, puzzled, "What do you mean?"
"It means my duty here is over." Barristan reached up and unclasped his shoulder piece. His snow-white cloak fell to the floor in a pile.
A moment later, his helmet followed with a resounding clang.
"I, Barristan Selmy, hereby renounce my position as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard." The old knight's voice rang out firmly as he undid his chestplate.
"No!" Jaime objected instinctively. "Kingsguard duty is for life! Barristan, you swore an oath—you serve until death!"
"Whose death?" Barristan retorted, removing his armor. "I've served four kings already. I should have died on the Trident. But Robert Baratheon's honor swayed me, so I pledged myself to him. But that boy…that abomination Joffrey…"
"Kill him!" Cersei screamed, looking at Jaime. "Kill this old man!"
Jaime didn't move.
How could he kill Barristan Selmy?
Even setting aside the question of skill—
This was Barristan the Bold, after all.
Commander of the Kingsguard, hero of the Blackfyre Rebellion, a White Knight for four decades, and a man who had served four kings. He was practically an icon of royalty itself, a legend sung by Westeros' bards. In the hearts of the Seven Kingdoms' people, he stood alongside heroes like Serwyn of the Mirror Shield and Aemon the Dragonknight.
Killing him would ruin House Lannister's reputation.
So Jaime stayed still.
No matter how much his sister screamed.
With a look of disdain, Barristan unbuckled his sword belt and tossed his blade to the ground. He muttered as he stepped back:
"Once, the Kingsguard was an honor to bear. In my time, they were legends, each one. Gerold 'the White Bull' Hightower, Arthur Dayne the Sword of the Morning, Prince Lewyn Martell, Oswell Whent…even you, Jaime Lannister—
Before you soiled your blade with the blood of the king you'd sworn to protect, becoming the Kingslayer.
But now? The Kingsguard has become a den of filth! Scoundrels under white cloaks, a disgrace to the title! Dirtier than the gutters of King's Landing!"
With a look of contempt, Barristan turned and strode out.
Cersei's shouts grew louder, but Jaime remained silent, his gaze lowered.
Yes, once, the Kingsguard had been an honor.
Jaime himself had once been proud to wear that white cloak.
Back then, the world had felt simpler, brighter. The people around him had been like freshly forged blades—sharp, gleaming, and pure.
Now, they were all dead and buried.
And what of himself? Jaime wondered. The young man who had once dreamed of becoming the greatest knight in Westeros—when had he died? Was it when he slit the Mad King's throat?
The boy who had wanted to be Arthur Dayne since he was a child, somehow, his life took a turn and he ended up being the Kingslayer.
The footsteps of Barristan Selmy were fading away.
Only the white cloak, white armor, and the white swords were left on the ground... pure white like snow, like clouds, and like an untainted oath.
(End of this chapter)