| Chapter 14: The Kingslayer’s Dilemma |

| Author's Note: Time for a change, no? |

× × × ×

. . .

. .

.

| Jaime Lannister - 1st Person Pov |

.

. .

. . .

The throne room in the Red Keep was as cold as ever, despite the heat outside.

Even the warmth of the evening sun, streaming in through the high windows, couldn't chase away the chill that clung to the stone walls.

It seemed fitting, somehow. This place had always been cold to me, no matter who sat on the Iron Throne.

I leaned against one of the massive pillars that framed the hall, watching the empty throne from a distance.

It looked just as I remembered it from the day Aerys died,— sharp, jagged, a twisted monument to power. I'd always hated that throne.

I'd always hated what it stood for.

But I hated myself more for what I had become because of it.

The great doors at the far end of the hall creaked open, and I caught sight of Robert Baratheon, the so-called King of the Seven Kingdoms, lumbering into the room, flanked by a small entourage of his closest advisors. Varys, with his soft, whispering steps.

Pycelle, ancient and wheezing as always,— though I knew it to be an act.

And of course, Littlefinger, his eyes gleaming with that familiar mixture of cunning and ambition.

They made their way toward the Iron Throne, their footsteps echoing through the vast space, but it was Robert's booming voice that filled the room.

"More rumors, Varys?" Robert grumbled, waving a dismissive hand. "I swear, these damned whispers are more trouble than they're worth."

Varys smiled his smooth, oily smile.

"Whispers are the heart of any kingdom, Your Grace. They keep us informed of threats before they strike."

"A threat?" Robert snorted. "You call that boy a threat?"

I frowned slightly, shifting against the pillar.

That boy.

Robert didn't need to say more for me to understand who he was referring to. The Targaryen.

Rumors had been swirling for months now, whispers of a young dragon in the East, a boy who might be the son of Rhaegar Targaryen,— Aegon. The babe who was supposedly killed by the Mountain during the sack of King's Landing, but now... perhaps not.

I stayed where I was, listening closely, my arms folded across my chest.

Pycelle hobbled forward, his hands clasped in front of him. "Your Grace, if the boy is alive,— if he is indeed the true son of Rhaegar Targaryen,— then we must take the threat seriously. The Targaryens still have supporters in Westeros. Dissatisfied lords who might see a Targaryen claimant as an alternative to your reign."

Robert's face darkened, his eyes narrowing as he glanced at the old maester.

"Supporters, eh? You think I don't know that half the lords in this kingdom would turn on me the moment they smelled a chance for rebellion? Let them come, Pycelle. I'll crush them the same way I crushed Rhaegar."

The mention of Rhaegar's name sent a cold shiver down my spine. I remembered that day on the Red Keep, when we received the news of Rhaegar's death at the Trident, the rumours of Rhaegar's armor crushed beneath the weight of Robert's hammer, the river turning red with blood.

I remembered the cries of those who loved the prince. And I remembered what had come after.

The sack. The fire. The screams. My failure.

My fingers twitched unconsciously toward the hilt of my sword, but I forced them to still.

Those memories were not for now.

"Your Grace." Varys purred, stepping forward with his usual unctuousness, "It would be unwise to dismiss these whispers. A Targaryen boy, with even the faintest claim to the Iron Throne, could rally discontented forces. You may crush one rebellion, but if the right alliances form in Essos, the next rebellion could be much harder to defeat."

Robert's scowl deepened. "The boy is nothing. I've got bigger concerns than some silver-haired brat hiding across the sea. Daenerys and her brother are the ones we should be keeping an eye on. They've been biding their time in the Free Cities for years already, and our assassins have failed every time."

I kept my face impassive, though my mind raced. Aegon was just one part of the puzzle, yes.

But he wasn't nothing. A boy with Targaryen blood, a boy who could stir old loyalties, was never nothing.

Robert's arrogance had blinded him before, and it seemed to be blinding him again.

"Aegon Targaryen could still be alive, Your Grace." Varys said, his voice a gentle, calculated hum. "The rumors have been persistent, and my little birds have heard whispers from Yi Ti to Braavos. There are those in Essos who would see a Targaryen returned to the Iron Throne. The Golden Company may be one such ally."

The mention of the Golden Company piqued my interest.

They were the most formidable sellsword company in the world, loyal to no one but their contract.

But their history was steeped in loyalty to House Blackfyre,— a bastard branch of House Targaryen. If the Golden Company backed Aegon… that would change everything.

Robert let out a grunt of frustration. "The Golden Company? They'll sell their swords to the highest bidder, just like the rest of the scum in the East."

"Perhaps so." Varys murmured, his eyes narrowing slightly. "But there are some who fight for more than gold."

Robert waved a hand, as if brushing the thought aside. "I won't be losing any sleep over it, Varys. If the boy dares to set foot on Westerosi soil, I'll send him back to the hell he came from,— although you could send some spies and assassins after the rumours."

The conversation shifted then, moving toward matters of the treasury and grain stores, but I had heard enough. I pushed off from the pillar, moving toward the door at the far end of the hall. My armor clinked softly as I walked, the familiar weight of it grounding me, keeping me steady.

But inside, my mind was a storm.

.

.

The corridors of the Red Keep were quieter now, the flicker of torches casting long shadows against the stone walls.

I walked with purpose, my thoughts still racing from what I had overheard.

Aegon Targaryen.

The boy was supposed to be dead. I had seen the bodies, after all,— Elia Martell, her children. The Mountain had left nothing but carnage in his wake, and I had never questioned the story after that.

But now? Now, it seemed there were whispers of something more. And if the boy was alive,— if Aegon Targaryen had somehow survived,— it would be more than just a threat to Robert. It would be a threat to everything.

I turned a corner, my boots scuffing lightly against the stone, and my thoughts drifted to Cersei. She would know about this soon, if she didn't already.

Cersei always had her own sources of information, her own ways of hearing things before anyone else. I wondered what she would think,— whether she would see the boy as a threat or as an opportunity.

Cersei.

She was never far from my thoughts, even when I didn't want her to be. My twin, my lover, my curse. The bond between us had always been a complicated one, tangled in the web of our family's ambitions, our shared history. I loved her,— I always had. But lately, I had begun to wonder if that love was a cage, trapping me in a life I no longer wanted.

I came to a stop by one of the high windows, the cool evening breeze brushing against my face. Below, I could see the flicker of lanterns in the streets of King's Landing, the sounds of the city rising up in a soft murmur. It seemed so far away, so distant from the world I lived in. A world of politics and power, of duty and blood.

I had never wanted to be the Kingslayer.

I had never wanted to be the man they whispered about behind closed doors, the man who killed his king. But that was who I had become. That was the role I had played for so long, and there was no escaping it.

And now, the game was shifting again.

Another Targaryen, another pretender to the throne. Another battle waiting to be fought.

But what did I want? What did I, Jaime Lannister, truly want?

I had spent so long being what others needed me to be,— Cersei's lover, Tywin's son, Robert's Kingsguard. I had done everything for them, for the ones I thought I loved, for the ones I thought I owed.

But standing here now, in the cold corridors of the Red Keep, I began to feel the weight of that life pressing down on me.

The Targaryens…

I had hated them once. I had hated Aerys for what he had done, for what he had become.

But Aegon...

This boy who had been a child during the fall of King's Landing, hidden away in some distant corner of the world,— Yi Ti, according to the rumors,— wasn't Aerys. He wasn't Rhaegar either.

He wasn't the one who had set fire to men or declared war on Robert.

This wasn't the same fight.

Yet, it was always the same fight in the end, wasn't it? The Iron Throne, with its jagged edges, cutting anyone who tried to sit on it.

I turned away from the window, my mind racing with the implications of what I had heard.

Aegon Targaryen could be alive, and if that was true, he would come for the throne.

Men like Varys wouldn't mention his name unless they believed the threat was real. The pieces were already moving, even if Robert couldn't see it.

I moved deeper into the Red Keep, toward the quieter, more shadowed corridors where fewer eyes watched. The flicker of torchlight against the stone walls cast everything in shades of gold and black, but my thoughts were far from here.

Why did it bother me so much?

I should have walked away from that conversation and dismissed it as easily as Robert had.

Aegon's claim was tenuous at best. He had no army, no fleet, no dragons. Just whispers and a bloodline that had already been severed once.

But something nagged at me, a memory that refused to stay buried.

The day I had killed Aerys, the day the city had nearly burned,— those were the days I had tried to forget.

Days when the world had crumbled, and I had taken a single step that had damned me forever. And yet, every time I thought of that throne room, of the blood on the floor, my thoughts drifted to the Targaryen family I had once also loved.

The weight of the past was always there, a shadow trailing behind me.

I had killed a king, and though that act had saved thousands of lives, I would always be known as the Kingslayer.

It didn't matter that Aerys was mad, that he had deserved to die. The name would follow me until the day I drew my last breath.

And now another Targaryen might rise. A boy, barely more than a child, but with the blood of kings in his veins. Would I have to kill him too, if it came to that? Was this fate, or was it the same cursed cycle, spinning endlessly around me?

The torch flames flickered as I passed, casting long shadows along the walls.

The Red Keep was quiet, but my thoughts were loud. I could feel the weight of my armor, the familiar press of steel against my shoulders and chest, but it felt heavier than usual tonight. It always did when I thought of the past.

I stopped in front of a set of wooden doors,— the Kingsguard's chambers. A place where duty and honor were supposed to live. I let out a quiet breath and pushed the door open, the hinges creaking softly in the silence.

Inside, the room was dimly lit by a single candle on the table in the corner. The white cloak of the Kingsguard hung on the wall, pristine and untouched. My white cloak. The symbol of duty, loyalty, and protection. I had worn it for so many years, but it had never truly felt like mine. Not since the day I had killed the king it was meant to protect.

I moved to the table, letting my fingers trail across the surface of the wood. The candle flickered, the flame dancing in the slight draft from the door, and I could feel the weight of my sword at my hip. It was a constant reminder of who I was.

What I was.

"Kingslayer." they called me. And they were right.

But now, the ghosts of the past were stirring again. A Targaryen boy across the sea—across the far, far east in Yi Ti,— threatened to bring the legacy of fire and blood back to Westeros.

And if he did, what would that mean for me?

For my family?

For everything we had fought for?

I could hear Robert's laughter in my mind, dismissing the boy as nothing more than a nuisance.

But Robert had always been a man of blunt force, a hammer for every problem. He didn't see the subtleties, the way a whisper could turn into a storm.

And Aegon, if he was anything like the prince I once enjoyed protecting, wouldn't fight like Robert. He would fight like a dragon, clever and ruthless.

I sank into one of the chairs, leaning back as I closed my eyes for a moment. I could still hear the distant sounds of the city outside, the murmur of life continuing beyond the walls of the Red Keep.

But here, inside these walls, was where the real game was played. The one I had grown to hate.

The one that never ended.

My thoughts drifted again to Cersei.

What would she do if she knew? She had always seen the Targaryens as enemies after marrying Robert, as threats to everything she and our father had built.

But lately… lately, I wasn't sure if her ambitions were only for the Lannisters.

Cersei had her own plans, her own desires, and sometimes, I wondered where I fit into them.

If Aegon was alive,— if he came for the Iron Throne,— it would change everything. The balance of power would shift. And in a world where the Targaryens returned, what role would I play?

The Kingslayer.

The man who had betrayed his king.

Would I betray another for the lost legacy of the family I both loved and loathed?

.

.

The door to the chambers creaked open, and I looked up to see Barristan Selmy standing in the doorway, his white cloak flowing behind him.

His face was calm, though his eyes were sharp as ever.

Selmy was a relic of the old world, a man of duty and honor. He had served Aerys, and now he served Robert, but I could see in his eyes that he still carried the weight of the past as much as I did.

"Ser Jaime." he said quietly, his voice steady. "I thought I might find you here."

I straightened in the chair, my gaze meeting his. "Barristan. What brings you here at this hour?"

Selmy stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. He moved with the grace of a man half his age, though his years of service showed in the lines etched into his face.

"I overheard the council meeting this morning." he said, his tone measured. "The Targaryen boy."

I nodded slowly, my fingers tapping lightly against the arm of the chair. "What do you make of it?"

Selmy's eyes darkened slightly, his expression hardening. "If the boy is Rhaegar's son, then he is the rightful heir to the Iron Throne."

I raised an eyebrow at his bluntness. "You really believe that? After everything that's happened?"

Selmy's gaze didn't waver however. "Aerys was mad, but Rhaegar was different. He was a good man, a just prince. If his son lives, then he deserves a chance to reclaim his birthright."

I let out a quiet breath, leaning back in the chair. "And what if that birthright brings war? What if Aegon is as ruthless as his ancestors?"

Selmy was silent for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly. "That remains to be seen. But I will tell you this, Jaime,— Westeros has never been without its wars. If Aegon comes, he will come with more than just blood in his veins. He will come with a claim."

I stared at him for a long moment, my mind racing with the possibilities. Aegon's survival, the Golden Company, the two brothers in the free cities. A storm was coming, one that could tear the Seven Kingdoms apart.

And what would I do when that storm arrived?

"Selmy." I said slowly, my voice quiet but steady. "Do you still believe in the honor of the Kingsguard?"

Selmy's gaze softened, and for a moment, I saw the weight of years in his eyes. "I do, Jaime. I always have."

I looked away, my thoughts drifting back to that throne room, to the blood and the fire that I once believed in so surely.

"I'm not sure I do anymore."

× × × ×

| Author's Ending Note: How I loved writting Jaime's Pov. Jaime and Barristen... perhaps they will play quite the part, huh? |