The sun bled out over the Blackwater Rush, plunging the Red Keep into the suffocating, velvet grasp of night. Shadows lengthened in the sprawling corridors of the castle, dancing wildly wherever the flickering light of torch sconces failed to reach.
Ser Jaime Lannister moved through those shadows with the predatory grace of his house's sigil. His white enameled armor caught the dim light, and his legendary golden hair looked almost like a halo in the gloom. Yet, there was nothing holy about the Kingslayer's intentions tonight.
The castle was buzzing, an agitated hive of gossip and relief. The King was still deep in his cups, roaring with laughter in the Great Hall, celebrating the birth of a son to secure his dynasty. The realm had exhaled a collective breath of relief. But Jaime felt a different, much deeper kind of triumph.
As he navigated the serpentine halls toward Maegor's Holdfast, a fiercely arrogant smile played on his lips. A son, he thought, his chest swelling with immense, secret pride.
Another lion masquerading as a stag. He was certain this child was his doing. He and Cersei had been inseparable in the weeks before Robert returned from his last hunting excursion in the Kingswood. He had planted the seed that had just saved Cersei from the Usurper's drunken wrath.
The pressure on his twin sister would finally evaporate. She had done her duty to the realm, and now, they could resume their dangerous, intoxicating game in the shadows. He had heard whispers from the passing servants—tales of a difficult birth, of a boy born with the strength of a dragon—and Jaime's pride only flared hotter.
He reached the heavy oaken doors of Cersei's private chambers. Ser Meryn Trant stood guard, his eyes drooping slightly behind the visor of his helm.
"Step aside, Ser Meryn," Jaime commanded smoothly, his tone leaving no room for argument.
"Ser Jaime," Trant blinked, straightening up. "The Grand Maester ordered the Queen not to be disturbed. She needs her rest—"
"I am the Queen's brother, and her blood," Jaime interrupted, stepping so close that Trant had to lean back. Jaime offered a smile that was all teeth and no warmth. "I have come to inspect the security of the royal heir and offer my sister the congratulations of House Lannister. Or do you intend to stand between the Lion and his kin?"
Trant swallowed hard, the veiled threat landing perfectly. "No, Ser Jaime. Of course not."
With a slight, forceful shove, Jaime bypassed the guard and slipped into the antechamber, quietly shutting the heavy door behind him.
The air inside was thick, smelling faintly of blood, burnt myrrh, and sweet perfumes trying to mask the scent of labor. A small cluster of young handmaidens were quietly gathering soiled linens and basins of water near the hearth. When they heard the clink of his armor, they jumped, turning to face him like startled fawns.
Jaime raised a finger to his lips. He flashed them his trademark, devastatingly handsome smile—a look that had melted the hearts of half the women in the Seven Kingdoms. A few of the girls flushed crimson, lowering their eyes and giggling softly behind their hands. One of the bolder maids offered a lingering, flirtatious look, parting her lips slightly.
Jaime merely shrugged his broad shoulders, his smile remaining perfectly charming but entirely dismissive. He gestured toward the door with a flick of his wrist.
Leave.
Understanding the silent command, the girls hurried out, bowing as they passed him, leaving Jaime alone in the dim, stifling silence of the Queen's inner sanctum.
He walked slowly toward the massive, canopy bed draped in Lannister crimson and gold. Cersei was lying there, propped up against a mountain of pillows. She was in a half-sleep state, her breathing shallow, her golden hair unbound and spilling like liquid sunlight over her shoulders.
Even exhausted, pale, and battered by the ordeal of birth, Jaime thought she was the most breathtaking creature the Gods had ever forged.
As his armored boots scraped lightly against the stone, Cersei's long eyelashes fluttered. Her emerald eyes opened, finding him in the gloom. For a moment, she looked guarded, but when she realized it was him, a genuine, exhausted smile broke across her face.
Jaime didn't waste a word. He stripped off his heavy golden gauntlets, letting them clatter softly to the floor, and leaned over the bed.
He captured her lips in a kiss that was desperate, hungry, and full of the dark, consuming passion that had bound them together since they were children in Casterly Rock. Cersei groaned softly, leaning up to return the passion, her fingers tangling in his golden hair.
For a long minute, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing, the taste of salt and wine, and the intoxicating thrill of their forbidden love.
When they finally broke apart, Jaime rested his forehead against hers, his heart hammering against his breastplate.
"You did it, sweet sister," he whispered, brushing a damp lock of hair from her cheek. "You gave the oaf his heir. Now he will leave you be."
Cersei's smile shifted into something strange—something fiercely possessive and entirely secretive. "Yes," she murmured, her voice carrying a hypnotic, velvety weight. "I have given the realm its king. But he is not what they think, Jaime. He is... he is everything."
She shifted slightly, pulling back the thick velvet blanket that had been nestled against her side.
Jaime shifted his gaze, eager to see the golden-haired mirror of himself. He looked down at the small bundle.
In a fraction of a millisecond, the Kingslayer froze. His heart slammed against his ribs so violently it felt as though it might crack his sternum.
The hair on the infant's head was black. Deep, midnight, undeniable black.
Time seemed to dilate, slowing to an agonizing crawl as Jaime's mind exploded with a barrage of terrifying, sickening calculations.
Black hair. Robert's hair. The Baratheon seed.
The realization hit him like a warhammer to the gut. An instant, suffocating wave of betrayal washed over him. He felt as though all the air had been sucked from the room.