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The raven had arrived during the early morning hours, its black wings bringing darker news. Grand Maester Pycelle's hands trembled slightly as he shuffled into the Small Council chamber, the rolled parchment clutched in his gnarled fingers like a fragile treasure. The other council members were already seated around the great oak table.
"Your Grace," Pycelle began, his voice quavering with age and anxiety, "most troubling news from the Westerlands."
Robert Baratheon, six years into his reign and already growing soft around the middle, snatched the scroll from Pycelle's hands. His blue eyes narrowed as they darted across the parchment, his face reddening with each line. By the time he finished reading, his knuckles had turned white from gripping the message.
"The fucking squids," he growled, slamming his fist onto the table. Wine sloshed from his goblet, staining the maps spread before him. "Balon Greyjoy has the balls to call himself a king? King of the Iron Islands? King of Salt and Rock?" He threw back his head and laughed, a sound utterly devoid of humor. "I'll give him salt and rock when I bury him beneath them."
Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, reached for the message. "What exactly has happened, Your Grace?"
"The Ironborn have attacked Lannisport," Robert spat. "Burned the Lannister fleet in its harbor. Tywin's message says the attack came during some festival. Cowards struck in the night."
Lord Stannis Baratheon, Master of Ships, sat rigid in his chair, his jaw clenched so tightly a muscle twitched in his cheek. "How many ships were lost?"
"All of them," Robert replied, reaching for his wine. "Every last one."
"I fear there is more, Your Grace," came the lilting voice of Varys, the Master of Whisperers. The eunuch's powdered face was a mask of practiced concern as he leaned forward, hands tucked into the voluminous sleeves of his silk robe. "My little birds sing songs of black sails spotted off Crakehall and moving south. It would appear that half the Ironborn fleet now sails toward the Crownlands."
Stannis's eyes flashed. "They dare to threaten King's Landing?"
"Perhaps not the city itself," Varys replied. "But the coastal villages would make tempting targets. Ripe fruit, easily plucked."
Stannis rose to his feet, standing stiff as a sword. "Give me command of the Royal Fleet, Your Grace. I'll meet these reavers at sea and send them to their Drowned God."
Robert nodded, a gleam in his eye that hadn't been there in years. The prospect of war seemed to invigorate him, breathing life back into the warrior who had once smashed Rhaegar Targaryen's chest at the Trident. "Aye, brother. The fleet is yours. Crush these squid fuckers."
"There is... one more detail that may interest the council," Varys added, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper.
All eyes turned to the Spider.
"During the attack on Lannisport, it seems the Ironborn had a specific target beyond the ships and gold." Varys paused for a moment. "Young Adrian Lannister, Lord Tywin's heir, was taken captive in the chaos."
A moment of silence fell over the chamber.
Robert snorted, reaching for the wine flagon. "Well, the squids have dug their own graves now, haven't they? Tywin Lannister isn't a man who forgives. He'll want every Greyjoy head decorating the walls of Casterly Rock."
Petyr Baelish, the newly appointed Master of Coin, leaned back in his chair with an amused smile playing on his lips. "It seems our little lion cub has been tossed into a rather turbulent sea. One wonders if he'll learn to swim or sink to the depths."
Renly Baratheon, barely more than a boy himself at twelve, let out a chuckle. "Perhaps the fish will adopt him. A lion with scales—now that would be a sight."
Pycelle cleared his throat loudly. "My lords, I would remind you that the boy is still the Queen's brother. Such jests are... inappropriate."
Renly rolled his eyes. "Half-brother, Grand Maester. And I somehow doubt my sweet goodsister spends her days worrying about Lord Tywin's bastard, legitimized or not."
"Enough," Jon Arryn cut in, not wanting to hear such words. The old falcon's eyes were somber as he turned to Robert. "A child of six in the hands of the Ironborn is no laughing matter, regardless of whose son he is. The boy is innocent in all this."
Robert drained his cup and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "You know that better than most, don't you, Jon. 'All children are innocent,' Robert said with a look towards his foster father, who looked back at him. Then Robert sighed and drank more wine. "Aye, and he'll be returned—once we've crushed this rebellion and Balon Greyjoy is on his knees before me." He turned to Pycelle. "Send ravens to all the Great Houses. Tell them their king commands them to call their banners. Tywin will want blood for this insult, and I mean to give it to him."
"The North will answer, Your Grace," Jon Arryn said confidently. "Lord Stark's honor will demand no less."
A grin spread across Robert's face at the mention of his old friend. "Ned! Gods, it'll be good to see him again. Probably buried himself in snow up there at Winterfell, brooding and being honorable." He laughed, a genuine sound this time. "The wolves will come south, and the roses, and the lions are already roaring for vengeance. Let's see how Balon Greyjoy fares against the entire realm."
"The Tyrells will be eager to prove their loyalty," observed Varys. "Lord Mace still seeks to wash away the stain of fighting for the dragons."
"And a Tyrell girl for my son, no doubt," Robert grunted. "Mace Tyrell would marry his precious Margaery to anyone with a crown, even if it sat atop a pig."
Renly snickered. "In fairness, brother, Joffrey does rather—"
"Careful," Jon Arryn warned, shooting Renly a sharp look.
Baelish's fingers drummed lightly on the table. "The Ironborn are fierce, but they lack the numbers and resources for a prolonged conflict. One wonders why Balon would launch such a doomed rebellion."
"Because he's a fool," Stannis said flatly. "A proud, deluded fool who thinks the ironwood of his ships can stand against Valyrian steel."
Robert stood suddenly, his chair scraping against the stone floor. "I crushed one king already. I'll gladly crush another. Lord Arryn, see to the ravens. Stannis, prepare the fleet. When the banners arrive, we march north to meet the squids on their own islands."
"And what of the boy?" Jon Arryn asked quietly.
Robert paused, his hand on the door. "If he's Tywin Lannister's blood, he's made of sterner stuff than most. He'll survive until we get to him." His face darkened. "But if he doesn't... well, House Greyjoy won't survive to regret it."
The door slammed behind him, leaving the Small Council in momentary silence.
"War again," Pycelle muttered, shaking his head. "The realm has barely recovered from the last."
"War is an opportunity, Grand Maester," Littlefinger replied with a thin smile. "For those who know how to grasp it."
Jon Arryn's weathered face remained troubled as he rose from his seat. "Send the ravens, Grand Maester. And pray to the gods that the boy is treated well. I fear what Tywin Lannister might do if he is not."
Jaime Lannister
The Red Keep's western courtyard, shielded from the afternoon sun, had become a sanctuary of sorts. Laughter—a rare enough sound in these halls—echoed against the stone walls as Jaime Lannister, resplendent in his white Kingsguard armor, chased a dark-haired girl around a weathered fountain.
"You're too slow, Ser Jaime!" Rhaenys Targaryen called over her shoulder, her olive-skinned face alight with mischief. At ten years old, she moved with the nimble grace of her mother, darting between stone benches and flowering bushes.
"I'm carrying thirty pounds of armor," Jaime protested, purposely slowing his stride. "And Lannisters are lions, not cheetahs."
"Excuses!" Rhaenys laughed, spinning around a column. Her dark hair, braided in the Dornish style, whipped behind her. "My uncle Oberyn says knights who make excuses should surrender their swords!"
Jaime clutched his chest in mock offense. "Your uncle has a sharp tongue. I fear the niece takes after him."
For a brief moment, watching her laugh, Jaime could almost forget the weight that hung between them—the knowledge of that terrible day six years ago, when he had arrived too late to save her mother and baby brother. He had found Rhaenys trembling beneath her father's bed, had swept her up and barricaded the door against Lorch and Clegane. It hadn't been enough to save Elia and little Aegon, a failure that haunted his dreams. But Rhaenys, at least, had survived.
And for that small mercy, Jaime had endured Robert's rage and the whispers of "Kingslayer" with something like purpose.
"I yield, Princess," Jaime called, dropping dramatically to one knee and hanging his head. "The dragon has defeated the lion."
Rhaenys approached cautiously, suspicion narrowing her dark eyes—eyes so like her father's it sometimes made Jaime's breath catch. "Are you tricking me?"
"A Lannister never—" Jaime lunged forward, catching her around the waist and spinning her while she shrieked with laughter. "—plays fair!"
"That's not very knightly!" she protested through giggles.
"My sweet dragon lady," came a different voice, oily and unwelcome, "shouldn't you be at your lessons rather than playing in the dirt?"
Jaime set Rhaenys down, his smile fading as he turned to face Ser Meryn Trant. The knight stood with his hand resting on his sword hilt, his beady eyes fixed on Rhaenys with an expression that made Jaime's skin crawl.
"Ser Meryn," Jaime acknowledged coolly. "I wasn't aware the Kingsguard schedule required your presence in this courtyard."
"The King likes knowing where the dragon spawn spends her time," Meryn replied, his gaze never leaving Rhaenys. "Pretty little thing, getting prettier every day. Soon she'll be old enough to marry off to some loyal lord who'll keep her in line."
Rhaenys lifted her chin, meeting Trant's stare without flinching. "And you'll be disappointed, won't you, Ser Meryn? When I'm too old for your tastes? I've seen how you look at the servant girls—only the youngest ones. Do you find grown women too frightening? Perhaps they remind you that a real knight should fight grown men instead of terrorizing children."
Trant's face darkened with rage. "You insolent little—"
"Choose your next words with extreme care, Ser Meryn," Jaime interrupted, stepping between them. His voice was pleasant, but his hand had moved to his sword. "I'd hate to have to explain to our brothers why I was forced to separate you from your tongue."
Meryn scowled but took a step back. "You've been assigned her protector, not her playmate, Kingslayer. The rebellion you helped end might be over, but Robert hasn't forgotten whose blood runs in her veins."
"And yet here she remains," Jaime replied with a cold smile. "Protected by order of the Hand of the King. Speaking of protection, shouldn't you be guarding something? A door, perhaps? Or a particularly valuable chamber pot?"
"I'm preparing to guard our king in war, Lannister," Meryn spat. "Or haven't you heard? Your father's lands have been attacked. The Greyjoy fool has crowned himself King of Piss and Salt, burning Lannisport's fleet in its harbor."
Jaime's smile vanished. "What?"
"The Iron Islands have rebelled," Trant continued, clearly enjoying delivering the news. "And the King has called the banners. Every lord in the Seven Kingdoms will march to crush the squids." He smirked. "Even your golden father will have to bend the knee and ask for help."
Jaime's jaw tightened. "Balon Greyjoy should start digging his grave now. It would save everyone time."
"What is dead may never die," Rhaenys quoted softly.
Jaime's mouth quirked up at one corner. "Well, the Greyjoys have certainly ensured their own destruction now. They might as well have written their house words as 'We Who Are About To Die."
"The Small Council meeting just ended," Meryn said. "I'm sure you will be delighted to know you will reunite with your dear father."
Before Jaime could respond, a dignified voice called from the archway. "Ser Jaime. Ser Meryn."
Jon Arryn stood watching them, his lined face solemn beneath his silver hair. Despite his years, the Lord of the Eyrie still carried himself with the straight-backed pride of a much younger man.
"Lord Hand," both knights acknowledged in unison.
Jon Arryn's gaze settled on Rhaenys. "I need a word with the princess, if I may."
Jaime nodded, placing a gentle hand on Rhaenys's shoulder. "We'll continue our game another time, Princess. Try not to terrorize Lord Arryn with your speed."
A smile flickered across Rhaenys's face, though her eyes had grown serious at the news of war. "I promise nothing, Ser Jaime."
Jaime gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze before turning to leave. "Come, Ser Meryn. Let's find somewhere you can be useless without bothering the princess."
"Watch yourself, Kingslayer," Meryn muttered as they walked away.
Jaime merely smiled, though his mind was already racing with thoughts of Lannisport in flames and hoping Tyrion was fine. He glanced back once to see Jon Arryn guiding Rhaenys toward his tower, the old man's hand gentle on her back.
Whatever else could be said of Jon Arryn, the man had prevented Robert from murdering the girl after Jaime had saved her. For that, Jaime would always respect him—almost as much as he despised himself for not arriving sooner, for not saving them all.
As the white cloak fluttered behind him, Jaime wondered if the realm was truly ready for another war so soon after the last.
Rhaenys Targaryen
Rhaenys walked beside Lord Arryn, matching her small steps to his longer, slower ones. She liked the Hand of the King. Unlike the others at court who called her "dragon spawn" or "Targaryen leftover" when they thought she couldn't hear, Lord Arryn and Jaime always called her "Princess." It wasn't her real title anymore—she knew that—but it felt like one small thing that hadn't been taken from her.
The Tower of the Hand was one of the few places in the Red Keep where Rhaenys felt safe. The guards at the door nodded respectfully to Lord Arryn and even gave her small bows, which made her stand a little taller. Inside, servants were lighting candles against the approaching evening, their flames making the red stone walls look warm and alive.
"Would you care for some lemon cakes, Princess?" Lord Arryn asked as they entered his solar. "I believe Cook made a fresh batch this morning."
Rhaenys nodded eagerly. She loved lemon cakes almost as much as she loved her cat Balerion, who was probably hunting mice in the kitchens right now. As Lord Arryn instructed a servant to bring refreshments, Rhaenys settled into her usual chair by the window. It was higher than most chairs and let her feet dangle, which she liked. From here, she could see across the city to Blackwater Bay, where ships with colorful sails moved like toys in a bathtub.
"Is it true, Lord Arryn?" she asked when they were alone. "About the Greyjoy Rebellion?"
Lord Arryn sighed as he lowered himself into his chair. His joints made funny cracking sounds that reminded Rhaenys of twigs snapping. She quickly pushed away the thought—it made her remember other sounds, terrible ones from that night when the Mountain had come.
"Yes, Princess, I'm afraid it is true," Lord Arryn replied. "Balon Greyjoy has declared himself King of the Iron Islands and launched attacks against the mainland. He has gravely misjudged the situation."
"How so?" Rhaenys asked, though she already had some ideas. Lord Arryn liked to test her understanding of politics, and she worked hard to impress him.
"He believes the realm is divided enough that he can carve out his own kingdom," Lord Arryn explained. "He thinks the wounds from the rebellion that put King Robert on the throne are still fresh enough that the Great Houses won't unite against him."
Rhaenys nodded thoughtfully. "But he's wrong. The Westerlands will follow the King because Lannisport was attacked. And the Reach will join because Lord Tyrell wants his daughter to marry Prince Joffrey the Ugly."
Lord Arryn's eyebrows shot up, and Rhaenys immediately covered her mouth. She wasn't supposed to call the prince names, even if his face did look like he'd been sucking on lemons his whole life.
"I mean, Prince Joffrey," she corrected quickly.
Lord Arryn's mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. "Yes, well, continue with your analysis."
Rhaenys sat up straighter, pleased to be taken seriously. "Lord Stark will support King Robert because they're best friends. And Lord Stark is married to Lady Catelyn Tully, so that means the Riverlands will join too. And you're from the Vale, and you're Hand of the King, so all the Vale lords will come. The Reach will support because they want to 'atone' for the great sin of supporting House Targaryen, and Lord Tyrell has a daughter who is the same age as Joffrey, but the relationship between House Tyrell and the Royal Family is dirty, so he is hoping that supporting the King will clean some of that dirt from the water." She counted on her fingers as she listed each region. "That leaves only Dorne."
The servant returned with lemon cakes and sweet milk. Rhaenys took a large bite of cake, savoring the tartness that made her mouth water. Crumbs fell onto her dress, and she brushed them away, hoping Lord Arryn wouldn't notice her messiness.
"And what do you think your uncle will do?" Lord Arryn asked, his blue eyes watching her carefully. "Will Prince Doran support the King's call to arms?"
Rhaenys considered this while licking sugar from her fingers. Uncle Doran had visited only once, three years ago. He had wept when he saw her, holding her so tightly it hurt. She remembered how his hands shook when they weren't resting on the arms of his wheeled chair.
"Uncle Doran will send a small group of spears," she said finally. "Just enough to say Dorne answered the call, but not enough to truly help. Uncle Oberyn would rather eat his spear than help the Stag King."
Lord Arryn chuckled. "A most astute observation, Princess. Your understanding of the great game continues to impress me."
Pride bloomed warm in Rhaenys's chest. She took another lemon cake, feeling very grown-up and clever.
"I don't think House Greyjoy will survive this war," Lord Arryn said, his expression growing somber.
Rhaenys frowned, wiping money from her lips. "But that depends on the Stag King, doesn't it? Even if they attacked Lannisport, King Robert could show mercy if they surrender." She didn't think he would—the King was more like a wild boar than a stag, all rage and charging forward—but Lord Arryn had taught her that a wise ruler always considers mercy.
"Normally, you would be right," Lord Arryn nodded. "But there is another factor that complicates matters. During the attack on Lannisport, the Ironborn kidnapped Lord Tywin's heir, Adrian Lannister."
"The little lion cub?" Rhaenys asked, remembering whispers about Tywin Lannister's legitimized bastard. A small smile tugged at her lips.
Lord Tywin was the one who had ordered the Mountain to kill her mother and brother. The servants whispered that he had wrapped her baby brother Aegon in a crimson cloak to hide the blood when presenting the body to King Robert. Sometimes, in her nightmares, Rhaenys still heard her mother's screams, still remembered hiding under the bed, trembling as heavy footsteps approached. If not for Ser Jaime arriving when he did...
"Good," she whispered. "Let Lord Tywin know what it feels like to lose a child."
Lord Arryn's face grew stern. "Princess Rhaenys. That is beneath you."
Heat rushed to her cheeks. "But he—"
"Adrian Lannister is a child of six," Lord Arryn interrupted firmly. "A little boy who has done nothing to you or anyone else. He is innocent."
"But his father—"
"If we judge children by the actions of their forebears, then tell me, Princess—how should the realm judge you?" Lord Arryn looked right at her purple eyes as he said it. "Should you answer for your grandfather's madness? For the people he burned alive? For what happened to Brandon and Rickard Stark?"
Rhaenys looked down at her hands, shame replacing her satisfaction. She thought of her grandfather, King Aerys, whom she did not really remember—Lord Arryn had told her that near the end of his reign, he was just a thin man with long nails and wild eyes who had once made her mother cry.
"If everyone in this world is guilty of their parents' sins, their grandparents' sins, their great-grandparents' sins," Lord Arryn continued softly, "then everyone in this world is guilty, and no one is innocent."
Outside the window, the sun was setting, painting the sky in oranges and reds that reminded Rhaenys of fire. Somewhere across the narrow sea, her aunt and uncle were in exile. Somewhere in the Iron Islands, a little boy named Adrian was probably as scared as she had been that terrible night.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean it." The lie tasted sour in her tongue.
Lord Arryn's weathered hand covered hers, warm and reassuring. "You have a good heart, Princess. Don't let what happened to you harden it. That would be the greatest tragedy of all."
"What will happen to him?" she asked.
"Everything in our power will be done to bring him home safely," Lord Arryn promised. "Wars have been fought for less than a stolen child."
Rhaenys thought of the dragon skulls hidden in the cellars beneath the Red Keep. She had visited them once with Ser Jaime, touching their massive jaws with trembling fingers. "Fire and blood," she murmured, her house words coming unbidden to her lips.
Lord Arryn gave her a curious look. "Indeed. Though today, it is the krakens who should fear the lions."
Jaime Lannister
Jaime's boots echoed against the stone floors of the White Sword Tower as he climbed the spiral staircase. The day's heat clung to him beneath his armor, and after the encounter with Trant and the news of the Greyjoy rebellion, all he wanted was a moment's peace to gather his thoughts.
The common room was empty save for Ser Barristan Selmy, who sat at the white weirwood table, polishing his helm with methodical precision. The Lord Commander looked up as Jaime entered, his weathered face as stern as ever.
"Ser Jaime," Barristan acknowledged with a nod. "I've been waiting for you."
Jaime unclasped his white cloak and draped it over a chair. "Has His Grace already decided which of us gets the honor of sailing into the jaws of the kraken?"
"The King is still with Lord Stannis, making preparations," Barristan replied. "But I thought you should know—your brother was taken during the attack on Lannisport."
Jaime froze, his hand halfway to the water pitcher. "Tyrion? Tyrion was at Lannisport?"
"Not Lord Tyrion," Barristan clarified. "Your younger brother. Adrian Lannister."
"Ah." Jaime's tension visibly eased as he poured himself water. "My father's... heir."
He took a long drink, considering the news. Adrian. The legitimized bastard that Tywin had paraded before the court six years ago—a perfect little golden-haired replacement for the sons who had disappointed him. Jaime had seen the infant only once, bundled in crimson and gold, with unusually light hair for a Lannister. Somewhere between gold and silver, Jaime had thought at the time.
"The Ironborn took him during the chaos," Barristan continued, watching Jaime carefully. "A calculated move, by all accounts. They specifically targeted the boy."
Jaime shrugged, setting down his cup. "Then my father will be furious. He's spent years grooming the boy as his successor."
"You seem unconcerned about your brother's fate," Barristan observed, his disapproval evident in the slight narrowing of his eyes.
"Half-brother," Jaime corrected. "Whom I've met exactly once, when he was a squalling infant. I'm not unconcerned, Ser Barristan. I don't know the boy."
Jaime moved to the window, gazing out over the city. The sun was setting now, bathing King's Landing in golden light that reminded him painfully of Casterly Rock. Of home.
"Did your father never arrange visits? Never bring the boy to court to know his siblings?" Barristan asked, genuine curiosity in his voice.
Jaime laughed, a short, humorless sound. "My father isn't exactly sentimental about family bonds, Ser Barristan. Adrian exists for one purpose—to be the heir that I cannot be and Tyrion must not be."
"Surely there's more to it than that," Barristan frowned, setting his polished helm aside.
"My father needs an heir who isn't a Kingsguard and isn't..." Jaime hesitated, thinking of Tyrion. "...isn't how Tyrion was born. Adrian is simply the replacement. A convenient bastard from some Lysene whore, legitimized by royal decree as a wedding gift to my father."
A knock at the door interrupted them. A servant in Baratheon livery bowed low. "Ser Jaime, Her Grace the Queen requests your presence immediately."
Jaime raised an eyebrow. Cersei rarely summoned him so openly, preferring more discreet arrangements. "Tell Her Grace I'll attend her shortly."
The servant bowed again and withdrew.
"You should go," Barristan said, rising from his seat. "The Queen will want reassurance about her family's safety. This attack on Lannisport is a direct affront to her father's house."
"Indeed." Jaime refastened his cloak, adjusting the golden lion pins at his shoulders. "Though I expect she's already planning the Greyjoys' elaborate executions. My sweet sister never was one to forgive an insult."
Jaime walked the corridors of the Red Keep with measured steps, nodding to servants who scurried out of his way. The Kingsguard armor commanded respect, though he'd long since learned that the white cloak earned as much contempt as admiration in certain quarters.
As he approached Cersei's chambers in Maegor's Holdfast, the guards stationed outside straightened. Unlike most of the castle's inhabitants, these men didn't look at him with disgust or whisper "Kingslayer" behind his back. Gold cloaks were more practical than honorable—they knew which family paid the crown's debts.
"Her Grace is expecting you, Ser Jaime," one announced, opening the heavy oak door without further ceremony.
The Queen's chambers were dimly lit despite the remaining daylight, heavy curtains drawn against the setting sun. The air was thick with the scent of burning incense and Arbor gold. Cersei stood by the window, a silhouette against the gap in the drapes, wine cup in hand. She didn't turn when he entered.
"Leave us," she commanded the handmaidens who hovered nervously in the corners. The women bowed and withdrew, the last pulling the door closed with a heavy thud.
"Sweet sister," Jaime greeted her, removing his helmet and tucking it under his arm. "It's still day, this is a little unusual."
Cersei turned then, and Jaime felt the familiar twist in his gut—part desire, part concern. She was beautiful still, perhaps more beautiful than ever, with her golden hair elaborately styled and her crimson gown embroidered with prowling lions. But there was a hollowness to her beauty now, as though something vital had been carved away, leaving only the perfect shell.
For six years, she had been like this—a ghost dressed in Lannister crimson. The passionate, fierce girl he had loved his entire life had vanished somewhere during Robert's Rebellion, replaced by this cold, distant queen who wore his sister's face.
"Is it true?" Cersei asked, her voice brittle. "About Lannisport?"
Jaime set his helmet on a side table and moved closer to her. "Yes. The Ironborn attacked during some festival. They burned Father's fleet in the harbor."
"And our family?" There was a tremor in her voice that surprised him. Cersei rarely showed vulnerability, even with him. Especially with him, these past years.
"Safe, as far as I know," Jaime assured her. "Father's message to the Small Council mentioned casualties among the guards and smallfolk, but our family is unharmed."
Relief softened her features momentarily. "Thank the gods."
Jaime raised an eyebrow. "Even for Tyrion? I didn't think you'd spare a thought for our little brother."
"Don't," Cersei warned, her jaw tightening. "I'm in no mood for your jests."
She moved to a table laden with wine flagons and refilled her cup, not offering him any. Her hand trembled slightly, spilling drops of red on the polished wood. Jaime frowned. Cersei could usually drink Tyrion under the table without showing the slightest unsteadiness.
"When do you leave?" she asked, her back to him again.
"Soon, I expect. Once the banners begin arriving." Jaime leaned against a bedpost, watching her. "The King is eager to crush another rebellion."
"He would be," Cersei muttered. "Nothing makes Robert happier than killing."
"Except drinking and whoring," Jaime added with a bitter smile.
Cersei turned, her green eyes flashing. "Do you think I need reminding of my husband's appetites?"
Jaime held up his hands in surrender. "Peace, sister. I'm not your enemy."
"No," she agreed, her anger subsiding as quickly as it had flared. "You're not."
An uncomfortable silence stretched between them. Once, they would have filled such moments with caresses, with whispered conspiracies, with the wordless understanding of twins who had shared a womb. Now, they stood on opposite sides of the room like cautious strangers.
"Who will remain to guard the city?" Cersei asked eventually. "Surely Robert won't take all the Kingsguard to fight a handful of squids."
"Ser Barristan will stay, I expect. And perhaps Ser Meryn." Jaime's lip curled at the thought of leaving Rhaenys with only Trant for protection. "I could arrange for additional guards for Prince Joffrey and Princess Myrcella while I'm away, if you wish."
And for Rhaenys, he thought but didn't say. Cersei had never hidden her hatred for the Targaryen girl, the last living reminder of the dynasty that should have made her Rhaegar's queen instead of Robert's.
Cersei shook her head. "The Red Keep has walls enough." She hesitated, then added, "Jaime, I need to ask you for a favor."
"Anything," he replied automatically, though they both knew it wasn't true anymore. There had been too many requests he couldn't grant, too many wounds he couldn't heal.
Cersei took a deep breath. "When this war is over, when the Greyjoys are defeated... you'll likely fight alongside Father."
"Presumably."
"When it's done, I want you to visit Casterly Rock. Spend time with Adrian."
Jaime blinked in surprise. "Adrian? Father's... heir?"
"Yes." Cersei's knuckles whitened around her wine cup. "I want you to get to know him. As his brother."
Of all the requests he might have expected, this was perhaps the last. Cersei had never once mentioned the boy in all the years since his legitimization. Not once had she expressed any interest in their father's replacement heir.
"Why the sudden concern for our half-brother?" Jaime asked, genuinely puzzled. "You've never seemed interested in him before."
"He's a Lannister," Cersei replied, too quickly. "He'll rule Casterly Rock someday. He should know his family."
Jaime studied her face, trying to read the truth behind her words. There was something strange in her eyes.
"Well, that might be difficult," he said slowly, only now remembering what Barristan told him. "Given recent developments."
"What do you mean?"
"Adrian was taken during the attack," Jaime told her, watching her reaction carefully. "The Ironborn kidnapped him. Apparently, they specifically targeted him during the chaos."
The change that came over Cersei was immediate and shocking. Her eyes widened with pure horror, the color draining from her face so rapidly that Jaime thought she might faint. The wine glass slipped from her fingers, shattering on the stone floor in a spray of crimson, like blood spatter across the rushes.
"No," she whispered, the word barely audible. "No, no, no."
Jaime moved toward her instinctively, alarmed by her reaction. "Cersei—"
"They can't have him," she gasped, her breath coming in short, panicked bursts. "Jaime, they can't—"
She stumbled forward, her legs giving way. Jaime caught her against his chest, feeling her body shake with sobs—real, gut-wrenching sobs that he hadn't heard from her since they were children.
"Cersei, what—"
"You have to save him," she clutched at his white cloak, her nails digging into the fabric. "Promise me, Jaime. Promise me you'll bring him back. They'll hurt him, they'll kill him—"
"He's Father's heir," Jaime said, bewildered by her hysteria. "Of course we'll try to recover him. The entire might of the Seven Kingdoms will—"
"You don't understand," Cersei pulled back, her face transformed by a desperate, wild grief that shocked him to his core. Tears streamed down her cheeks. For a moment, he thought she might tell him something—something important, something that would explain the ghost she had become these past six years.
But then her face crumpled, and she collapsed against him again, sobbing with such raw despair that Jaime could do nothing but hold her, stroking her hair as he had when they were children and she had scraped her knee or broken a favorite toy.
What is going on?
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