Chapter 63 – Jaime Lannister in Danger
Qarlton Chelsted's voice was low and sinister — the kind of tone that, in another world, would have made him a fine horror movie actor.
He fixed his gaze on the stoic Hand of the King, a faint, smug smile curving his lips.
Ever since that fool Symond Staunton had gone missing without a trace, what had once been a united front of three men against Tywin had crumbled into Qarlton and Velaryon barely holding the line.
And truth be told, no one could match Tywin Lannister's iron grip when it came to governance. Even the King, for all his stubborn pride, could not best him in political maneuvering.
Repeated defeats in the council had left Qarlton humiliated and frustrated — all thanks to that damned Symond Staunton!
So when this rare opportunity finally presented itself, he swore by the Seven that he would make the mighty Tywin Lannister lose face before the entire court.
"You are correct, Lord Chelsted," Tywin finally spoke, his tone measured. "Jaime has not yet been knighted. Two years ago, he entered the service of Lord Sumner Crakehall as a squire."
Just as I thought!
Qarlton nearly burst into laughter. The mighty Hand had walked right into his trap. Now he'd see how Tywin handled being publicly embarrassed!
But just as he rose to announce this revelation to the herald, a voice as cold and heavy as a lion's growl froze him in place.
"If you truly wish to prove yourself a man of courage, Lord Chelsted," Tywin said evenly, "then by all means — stride into the lists and tear the lance from Jaime's hands yourself. Rather than sitting here, quivering with excitement like a whore awaiting her next customer."
The smirk instantly vanished from Qarlton's face.
He turned stiffly, only to find a pair of sharp, green eyes staring straight into him — eyes like those of a lion roused from sleep.
"Go on, Lord Chelsted," Tywin murmured, his voice eerily calm. "Do this brave thing, and I promise The Rains of Castamere will be played in House Chelsted's hall for three days and nights."
Each word was spoken softly — and yet they struck harder than steel.
This was no threat. It was a death sentence dressed in civility.
"T–Tywin, my lord…" Qarlton stammered, his throat dry. He had seen Tywin angry before — in council debates, during disputes over royal finances — but never like this.
This was the man who had wiped entire houses from the map. The very man whose song, The Rains of Castamere, was sung as a dirge for those who defied him.
Anyone who doubted its meaning could ask the ghosts of the Reynes and Tarbecks themselves.
"Just a misunderstanding, my lord," Qarlton said quickly, forcing a laugh. "A harmless misunderstanding! You know how it is — Ser Jaime looks every bit a natural knight, but facing Ser Barristan the Bold is another matter entirely. I only wished to express… concern."
He gulped hard. "Yes, concern! I swear it by the Seven!"
Tywin didn't respond. He merely turned back toward the jousting field, his expression indifferent, as though Qarlton no longer existed.
Relief flooded Qarlton's chest. He discreetly wiped the sweat from his brow and sank back into his seat, vowing that if he ever saw Symond Staunton again, he'd throttle the man himself.
All your fault, you useless bastard. You vanish, and I end up nearly buried by the Lion of Casterly Rock.
He forced a deep breath, sitting up straight once more, though his rear barely touched the chair — and his nervous glances toward Tywin betrayed his fear.
Across the stands, a girl in a green gown sat watching the field. Her chestnut hair glimmered in the sunlight, and her violet eyes sparkled with amusement as she chatted with a Dornish princess.
But when her gaze drifted toward the red-armored knight below, a faint smile curved her lips.
Then, beside her, a familiar voice spoke softly.
"That's your brother down there, isn't it?"
Cersei looked up. Standing before her was a tall knight in shining white armor — Ser Lance, the handsome member of the Kingsguard, smiling down at her.
"Go away."
Her words were cold as ice.
Lance blinked. What in the Seven Hells? Last time they met, she'd been charming and bright — all laughter and warmth, as if they'd known each other for years.
Now she looked ready to bite his head off.
"Did I offend you somehow, Lady Cersei?" he asked lightly, still keeping his tone courteous.
Truth be told, he had no real desire to tangle with the Lannisters. He already had… other attachments.
But today's events — and King Aerys's strange behavior — had unsettled him deeply.
Since the day he had ridden with Aerys from Duskendale, Lance had devoted himself entirely to protecting the King. But this incident had reminded him of something crucial: nothing in this world was secure.
His rank, his reputation, even his title as a Kingsguard — all of it depended on the King's favor. And Aerys Targaryen, for all his trust now, could one day turn that same paranoid wrath upon him.
It was a dangerous thought, but he could no longer ignore it.
So, he began considering alternatives — allies beyond the Iron Throne.
And who better than the wealthiest house in all the Seven Kingdoms?
After all, the Lannisters were not just rich — they were wealth itself.
If he ever wanted to build power of his own, he'd need more than a sword and a title. He'd need gold.
And as that thought flickered in his mind, he realized — with a faint, self-deprecating smile — that he might have forgotten something very important.
Cersei's frosty tone softened just slightly. "You haven't offended me, Ser Lance," she said at last, her gaze flicking toward the field where her brother faced Ser Barristan. "But you may want to start praying for him."
Cersei had been ready to snap again — but when she met Lance's calm, ocean-blue eyes, clear and utterly unbothered by her harsh tone, the anger melted from her chest almost instantly.
And yet, the image she had seen days ago in the godswood still scratched at her heart like a thorn — that unbearable feeling of something precious being taken from her.
She drew in a slow breath, forcing herself to look away. Her emerald eyes flicked toward the lower stands, and she said with a touch of jealousy, "It seems your taste leans more toward Dornish wine."
At her words, Lance glanced over his shoulder. Sure enough, a certain Dornish maiden was glaring daggers at him from behind.
But he didn't flinch — instead, he smiled with effortless charm.
To Cersei's surprise, the white knight sat down right beside her, his movements as smooth and confident as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"Every man dreams of tasting the finest wines of the realm," he said lightly. "Each has its own unique flavor… and from time to time, I find myself wondering just how sweet the wines of the West might be."
Sip... sip... sip...
The teasing words, delivered with that disarming honesty and those clear, dangerous eyes, made Cersei's heart pound wildly.
In that moment, she remembered the night of the royal ball — the same man in white armor, standing beneath the chandeliers, his fingers gracefully plucking the harp strings.
Her pulse quickened.
In front of him, even the noble Prince Rhaegar — the man she once adored — suddenly seemed small and distant, like a memory fading into dust.
The anger that had burned within her moments ago dissolved completely, replaced by a confusing rush of warmth. Her gaze lingered on his tall, broad-shouldered frame, her green eyes reflecting his image — so much so that even her beloved twin, Jaime, seemed to vanish from her heart's horizon.
A radiant smile bloomed on her lips, and her fair cheeks flushed a faint, rosy hue.
Down in the lists, Jaime Lannister stood proudly astride his steed, lance in hand. The sunlight gleamed off his crimson armor, making the young lion look every inch the gallant knight.
He was only thirteen, but the golden blood of Casterly Rock had already gifted him a body stronger and taller than most grown men.
It was his first tournament. He had originally hoped to compete as a squire in the team events — but for reasons unknown, the King had decreed there would be no melee or archery this time. Only the purest, most brutal form of contest: the joust.
Jaime had resigned himself to merely watching… until he heard that the champion of the lists would be personally appointed by the King as Captain of the Kingsguard.
The title alone sent his blood surging.
Though he had no real interest in becoming one of those cloistered white knights, he had always idolized Ser Arthur Dayne — the Sword of the Morning.
And if this tournament could earn him the King's recognition, perhaps — just perhaps — he might be knighted by the King himself.
That thought alone ignited a fire within him.
So, with youthful audacity and a purse heavy with gold, he bribed a Gold Cloak officer to add his name to the roster.
But fate had a cruel sense of humor.
His very first match was against none other than Ser Barristan Selmy — "the Bold" himself.
Jaime stared at the veteran knight standing calmly across the field, silver-white armor gleaming like moonlight. Instead of fear, excitement coursed through him. His hands trembled — not from nerves, but from the thrill of the challenge.
"Barristan Selmy…" he murmured. "They say you fought your first tourney at ten, and even dared to challenge Prince Duncan— earning your name, the Bold."
The young lion's green eyes burned with determination. "Well then… I, Jaime Lannister, will not be any less bold than you!"
With that, he straightened his helm, eyes glinting with conviction, and leveled his lance toward his opponent.
"Watch closely, Father. And you too, Cersei."
"This will be the beginning — of the greatest knight the Seven Kingdoms have ever seen!"
He drew a deep breath, filled with pride and excitement, and glanced up toward the stands — searching for the familiar green dress that had always drawn his gaze.
But the moment his eyes found her, the smile froze on his face.
There she was — his sister, his beloved Cersei — sitting beside the very knight he had brushed shoulders with earlier. The two of them were leaning close, laughing together, her smile dazzling in the sunlight.
She hadn't even noticed him.
A jolt of raw jealousy tore through Jaime's chest. The world seemed to tilt.
Danger — deep, primal, and utterly irrational — surged in his heart.
And as he lowered his visor, the golden-trimmed crimson helm seemed to darken — its color deepening from red… to something far more perilous.
Peril indeed.