Ser Barristan Selmy's brows knit tight, his gaze unmoored."A burden, Your Grace?"
Varys glided forward, smiling faintly. "Old ser, Her Grace means… you are relieved of your post as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard."
Barristan went slack, as if frozen where he stood."Your Grace," he managed at last, "a Kingsguard's oath is for life. Only death may release us from that holy charge."
Cersei Lannister's eyes flicked toward his blanched face."Whose death?" she asked softly. "Yours—or your king's?"
Joffrey's voice rang from the Iron Throne, sharp with accusation."My father is dead. You're too old to protect anyone!"
Barristan seemed to wither in an instant. He looked up to the boy on high."Your Grace, since first I took up a sword, a white cloak was all I ever sought. At three-and-twenty, I renounced my claim to Harvest Hall. I needed no lands, no issue—only service, all my life.
"When I swore, Ser Gerold Hightower—the White Bull, Lord Commander to Aerys the Second—stood witness. I vowed to guard my king with all my strength, until death."
"Before your father, I served King Aerys… and his father, Jaehaerys. I have kept watch for three kings—"
Varys sighed. "And all three are dead. How sad."
Cersei's patience snapped. "Enough, old ser. Your service ends here."
Barristan's lips moved, but no sound came.
"The Small Council has decided," Cersei went on, chin lifting. "Ser Jaime Lannister will take your place as Lord Commander."
She cast him a mocking glance. "My son needs strength at his side."
"The Kingslayer?" Barristan spat the epithet, then his voice steeled. "That false knight who stained his blade with the very king he'd sworn to guard? And now he is to stain the white cloak itself?"
"Mind your tongue," Cersei warned, anger threading her voice. "Ser Jaime is my beloved brother—and the king's uncle."
Barristan undid the clasps at his shoulder. His snowy cloak—symbol of his vow—slid to the floor."When the white is no longer pure, I need not cling to it."
Pycelle rose, peering toward the Queen's scowl."Barristan Selmy, you are no longer of the Kingsguard. Now you are an old man in the way—an empty show, a… counterfeit knight."
Laughter burst across the hall—even from five men in white.
The sound cut like knives. The old hero flushed to the roots and could not find his breath.
Steel hissed. Barristan drew his sword.
Shouts rose. Sers Boros Blount and Meryn Trant stepped in to face him—only to freeze under one razor look from the old lion.
"Ser Boros. Ser Meryn. Do not fear—your king is safe. Though not through any virtue of yours. Even now…"
His gaze raked the white line. "I could cut the five of you down like cheese. If you mean to serve a kingslayer, you are not fit to wear white."
With a ringing clatter, he hurled his sword to the foot of the throne.
He lifted his eyes to the boy above. "Boy—take it. Melt it, and set another blade upon your Iron Throne. It may serve you better than the swords in those five hands."
He turned and strode away. Lords and ladies flinched aside; his boots beat hard upon the stones, echoing through the vastness of the hall.
Only when the oak-and-bronze doors boomed shut did Joffrey's voice crack from the throne."He called me boy? Seize him! I'll have him in chains!"
Red Keep – A Tower on the Wall
Gawen Crabb lounged against the stone, arms folded, facing a pensive Jaime Lannister.
"You look," Gawen said lightly, "like a… lost child, ser."
Jaime cut him a sidelong look and said nothing.
"I hear you're to be Lord Commander," Gawen went on, nodding toward the throne room. "My congratulations."
"…"
Silence lingered.
Gawen sighed. "Ser, unless I misremember, you came to find me."
Jaime's green eyes turned back. "How did you know of my appointment?"
Gawen shrugged. "There are no secrets in the Red Keep. Those who oughtn't to know already do. Those who ought to know… often don't."
Boots clattered up the stair. A Gold Cloak appeared."My lord Gawen—Ser Barristan asks leave to depart the Red Keep."
While petitions were heard, no one entered or left; the gates stayed barred.
Gawen and Jaime traded a glance. Another Gold Cloak rushed up behind the first."My lord—by order of the Queen Regent: seize Barristan Selmy."
Gawen flicked a hand. "Let the old ser pass. And… tell him to beware our pursuit."
"As you command."
When they'd gone, Jaime said, "You risk Cersei's anger, Lord Crabb."
Gawen spread his hands. "I'm helping. I'll tell Her Grace you let him slip."
Jaime's eyes narrowed. "So you do mean to hunt Barristan—earnestly."
Gawen nodded. "I gave him the chance. Do not forget—he is Barristan the Bold."
Jaime exhaled and clapped Gawen's arm. "My thanks."
"Cheer up, Warden of the East—and Lord Commander."
Jaime only shook his head, looking far away."He never liked me. Still, I honor him. We were—were brothers of the cloak. And now… This isn't what I wanted. It isn't what I am."
Gawen's eyes glinted. Cersei's recent games had left the Kingslayer unmoored.
"Will you leave King's Landing, ser? Or at least… leave Her Grace's side for a time?"
Jaime turned, surprised. "No wonder Tyrion calls you and himself the two sharpest minds in the city."
"We know each other, ser. It wasn't hard to guess." Gawen lifted a shoulder. "Just don't call it 'finding yourself.'"
"…"
Bull's-eye again; Jaime had no answer.
He would leave—for space to search for the knight's heart he had misplaced. He had watched Cersei order slain brave men who had thrown down their arms when the Wolf spared him in the throne room. Had he been their deceiver?
He admitted he hated Robert Baratheon; still he had tried to stay Cersei's hand from killing Robert's bastards—the children were innocent. Why must she? He knew why.
Last night she told him he'd be Lord Commander—and Barristan would be driven out.
Why was she so eager to cast off a vow-true knight? Jaime knew why.
He was the Oathbreaker. The Kingslayer. What right had he to don the Lord Commander's white?
The Kingsguard—holy charge and highest honor—grew sullied, and he the stain.
What a jest he'd become. For love of Cersei… how many circles of hell must he descend?
His golden dream unraveled, strip by strip.
Leaving or running—no matter. He needed a far shore. He needed to think.
He gripped Gawen's shoulder hard and met his eyes. "Lord Crabb, I leave Cersei's safety to you. I ask it."
Throne Room
"The king will hear petitions!" cried the herald. "Those with business, speak; those without, be still!"
Quiet gathered—tightening Sansa Stark's throat with fear.
Give me courage, gods, she begged. I must do it now. I must save Father.
Now. She drew a breath and stepped forward.
She halted below the Iron Throne. "Lady Sansa Stark," the herald called.
"Your Grace," Sansa said, sinking into a curtsy.
She dared a glance up. Joffrey watched her, smiling. That smile steadied her heart.
"Those with business, speak!"
Sansa knelt and lifted her face. "Your Grace, I come to plead for my father, the former Hand, Lord Eddard Stark. I beg your mercy—spare him his punishment."
Pycelle's voice came first. "Child, your father has committed a monstrous treason."
Varys sighed. "Poor little dove. My lords, she is but a child; she cannot know what she asks."
Sansa trembled from head to heel. Lost, she turned her pleading eyes to the throne—toward the boy she loved.
Joffrey did not fail her. "Let her speak," he said at once. "I would hear her."
Sansa bowed her head, awash with gratitude. "As you command, my king."
Pycelle shook his head, dour as doom. "Treason is a poisoned weed. It must be pulled up, root and branch, else it spreads."
Varys inclined his head. "Lady Sansa, do you deny your lord father's crimes?"
Sansa had shaped her answer over days—a way to save him, or at least a reason to soften blame.
Carefully, she said, "Your Grace, Queen Regent, my lords—I do not deny it."
A buzz swelled at once.
"Silence! Silence! Be still!"
When hush returned, Joffrey said, "Then speak, my lady."
"I know my father must be punished," Sansa said. "I ask only a merciful path—spare his life.
"He must be wracked with remorse for what he has done. He was King Robert's dearest friend, and truly loved him.
"You all know, he never sought the Hand's chain until King Robert pressed it on him. He must have been misled—by Lord Renly, or by Lord Stannis—or else he would never have…"
Joffrey leaned forward. "He said I was no king. Why would he say that?"
Sansa had rehearsed for this. The words came smooth.
"He was deceived by those he trusted, Your Grace. Because he loved King Robert, he trusted the king's brothers."
Varys folded his hands. "A child's faith in her father—so simple, so pure. And yet, is it not said that truth oft falls from children's lips?"
Pycelle was adamant. "Whatever the cause, treason is treason."
Joffrey frowned in thought, then turned. "Mother? Your counsel?"
"If Lord Stark will confess," Cersei said after weighing Sansa with her eyes, "then we may judge him repentant. Let us hope he does not slight the girl's good heart."
Joffrey rose and let his gaze sweep the hall.
Sansa dared not speak further; in her heart she prayed—Please… please… You are my king—kind and noble and good… please…
Perhaps he heard that silent prayer. He tipped his chin to her."My lady, have you more to say?"
His gentleness filled Sansa with hope. "Only this: for the love you bear me—grant this boon, my prince."
He looked down at her, paused, then nodded slightly—all will be well, the gesture seemed to say."Lady Sansa, your plea moves me. I will grant your love this mercy—if your father first kneels and confesses, and acknowledges me as his king. Else, I cannot spare him."
.
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🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
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