Jaime I
The itch had been growing for weeks now.
It began as a faint restlessness beneath his skin, a prickling urge that no amount of could fully dull.
It whispered to him in the quiet hours before dawn, urging him to take up his sword and swing, not in the measured, disciplined forms of the Kingsguard, but wildly, savagely, until his arms burned and his breath came in ragged gasps.
He wanted to cut through haystacks, wooden dummies, and anything else that dared stand in his way until nothing remained but splinters and silence.
He was staring at the ornate ceiling of his chambers in the Red Keep. His calloused hands rested on his chest, fingers tracing the faint scars that crisscrossed his skin like a map of old battles.
He had slain many men in his life, madmen, fanatics in robes who cursed him with their dying breath, and quiet soldiers who never even realized death had come for them but this feeling was different.
It was not the hot rush of battle-lust or the cold satisfaction of a necessary kill.
This was something calmer, a calling.
So he answered it.
For the past month, he had spent nearly every dawn in the training yard, challenging the Kingsguard and any knight foolish enough to face him.
Most lasted less than a minute.
He disarmed them with contemptuous ease, sending swords flying and men sprawling into the dirt. Only one had ever truly tested him.
"What's gotten into you of late?" the bold knight had asked, standing over him after their latest bout.
He laid flat on his back, chest heaving, wooden training sword knocked from his grip.
"Why do you ask?" He replied, accepting the offered hand and rising to his feet with a grunt.
Barristan dusted off his tunic, his gaze drifting toward the long shadows cast by the setting sun. "A man loses his mind if he doesn't think. He loses his honor if he doesn't act. And he loses his blade if he begins to slouch."
The old knight's words had lingered with Jaime long after Barristan had walked away, his face grim and thoughtful.
'He speaks sense,' He had thought then.
"His death is very convenient for us," His sister murmured, shifting closer, the sheets pooling around her waist and exposing the elegant curve of her breasts.
Jaime closed his hand into a fist, staring at the canopy above.
"If it silences your worries," he muttered, "I had no part in it."
Cersei scoffed and sat up abruptly, clutching the sheets to her chest. "You don't think I know? You're too brazen to do anything subtle."
"As your brother," He said, rolling toward her with a lazy smile, "it is my duty to warn you, you worry too much. It's starting to show."
He pressed a soft kiss to her bare shoulder, tasting the salt of her skin.
She shook her head and stood swiftly, the sheets falling away as she moved to gather her scattered gowns.
"And you never worry about anything." Her voice was sharp, her temper flickering beneath the surface. "When we were seven and you jumped off the cliffs at Casterly Rock, do you remember that?"
He mused, lips curling. "Not that I recall."
"Of course you don't. A hundred-foot drop into the sea, and you were never afraid."
"There was nothing to be afraid of," He replied, watching her dress with open appreciation, "Until you told Father."
"We are Lannisters," He mimicked their father's stern voice, "and Lannisters do not act like fools."
Cersei smirked as she combed her golden hair before the silver mirror, tying it into an elegant twist, but slowly her chest rose and fell with a heavy sigh.
"What if Arryn told someone?" She asked quietly.
Jaime rose from the bed, pulling on his small clothes and breeches before approaching her from behind.
He placed his hands on her shoulders, thumbs gently kneading the tension there.
"But who would he tell?" He asked.
"My husband," Cersei whispered.
He scoffed, if that had come to pass, it would have been a bad day to be a Lannister.
"If he told the king, both our heads would already be skewered on the city gates by now." He leaned in and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "Whatever Jon Arryn knew or didn't know died with him. Robert will choose a new Hand soon, some dullard to handle the realm's business while he's off fucking boars and hunting whores."
He paused, smirking. "Or is it the other way around?"
She closed her eyes for a moment, deep in thought, when she spoke again, her voice was firm.
"You should be the Hand of the King."
He shook his head, already moving to collect the pieces of his white armor. "That is an honor I can happily do without. Their days are too long, and their lives are too short."
He donned the white cloak of the Kingsguard, fastening it with practiced ease.
"When do we ride for Winterfell?" Cersei asked, her voice laced with thinly veiled irritation.
"In ten days, if not sooner."
He reached for his white cloak, the heavy garment folded neatly across the back of a gilded chair.
"Would you?" he asked, holding it out toward her with a faint, almost boyish smile.
She moved behind him, taking the cloak from his hands, she draped the heavy white fabric over his armored shoulders and pinned it securely in place.
"What's so urgent that he wants to ride North and freeze his balls off?" she asked, stepping back.
He turned slightly to meet her gaze in the tall silver mirror. "Lord Stark and Robert were both warded in the Eyrie under Jon Arryn, they fought together in the Rebellion, perhaps he seeks to rekindle some foolish brotherhood."
Cersei scoffed sharply, the sound dripping with contempt.
"Robert is a fool, but he's not fool enough to ride halfway across the realm for a cup of wine and a shoulder to cry on." Her green eyes narrowed dangerously. "No. He intends to name a new Hand."
"The Seven save us from the northern savage then," He chuckled mockingly as he walked away, finally he turned on his heel and pulled the heavy oak door shut.