Chapter Text
I wrote this back when I was bored, just a 'what if'.
The night breeze in King's Landing always carried the sharp tang of salt, mingled with the faint, underlying fetor of the city below. Yet here, within the Godswood of the Red Keep, the air tasted somewhat cleaner, though it hung no less heavy.
Jaime Lannister sat upon the gnarled root of an ancient tree, his white armor glimmering dully beneath the pale moonlight. He stared into the gloom between the trunks.
He raised a hand, studying the white leather glove that sheathed his fingers. This hand was strong, calloused in all the right places for a master swordsman. The muscles in his arms coiled with a memory that was not his own; the instinct to kill, to parry, to maim.
Yet within this skull, behind emerald green eyes, dwelt a weary soul.
Steven. The name tasted foreign now, like a fever dream slowly fading with the morning light. Thirty-three years. He had been a teacher in a world clamorous with machines and lightning. His hands were accustomed to holding chalk and books, not the cold hilt of a sword. He had died, only to awaken in the body of this sixteen-year-old boy but a few weeks past.
Jaime drew a long breath, the chill air stinging his lungs. To be Jaime Lannister might sound like a power fantasy to some, but the reality was a golden cage that strangled him. The white cloak upon his back was no badge of honor; it was a burial shroud for his morality.
The memory of the night prior crept in, unbidden and unwanted.
The cold corridors of the Red Keep. Jaime had stood there, still as a statue. On the other side of that thick oaken door, madness held court. King Aerys.
He heard sounds. Not heroic war cries, but the shrieks of Rhaella. The sound of flesh striking flesh. The shattering of objects. And Aerys's laughter, dry, sharp, and utterly bereft of humanity.
The Steven within him yearned to batter down that door. Yearned to scream that this was wrong. That to permit a woman to be tormented, even if the perpetrator was her husband and king, was a damnable sin. He wanted to retch. He wanted to flee.
But Jaime's body remained immobile. His feet felt nailed to the stone floor. Vows of knighthood, so exalted in this world, felt like iron chains about his neck. Jonothor Darry had been there with him that night, speaking in a flat tone, "We are sworn to protect him, not to judge him."
Protect him from what? From their own consciences?
Jaime closed his eyes in the Godswood, trying to banish the sound of Rhaella's screams that still echoed in his ears. He felt unclean. This armor could not hide the fact that he was merely a craven standing idle while atrocity unfolded five yards away.
...
The following day, the sun shone a little brighter, as if mocking the darkness that had shrouded the castle the night before. Jaime sought sanctuary in the inner gardens, far from Maegor's Holdfast.
He sat upon a stone bench, letting the sun's warmth wash over his face, hoping it might burn away the chill that had settled in his bones.
"Ser Jaime?"
The voice was soft, yet carried a quiet authority. Jaime turned and rose at once, his armor clinking softly.
Princess Elia Martell stood there. She looked fragile, as if a strong gust might shatter her bones, yet her eyes held a depth no one else in this court possessed. Beside her, little Princess Rhaenys was crouching, observing something in the shrubbery.
"Princess," Jaime greeted, bowing stiffly.
"You look as though you bear the weight of the Seven Kingdoms upon your shoulders today," Elia said, a wan smile gracing her pale face. She took the seat opposite Jaime and signaled for him to sit once more.
Before Jaime could reply, a black cat sprang from the bushes. The beast, Balerion, if Jaime's memory served, stalked haughtily toward him.
Instead of hissing or fleeing, the cat rubbed its flank against Jaime's sabaton, purring loudly.
Rhaenys laughed, a sound pure and clean as silver bells. "Balerion likes you, Ser Jaime!" she cried, trotting over to retrieve the cat, but the creature leapt instead into Jaime's lap.
Jaime froze for a moment. He stared at the small black beast resting against his plate armor. A stark contrast. Slowly, with a hesitation uncharacteristic of a Lannister, he peeled off his right gauntlet. The hand of bare skin touched soft fur.
Warmth. Something alive.
"He rarely takes to strangers," Elia observed, watching the exchange with a gentle gaze. "Perhaps he knows you have need of a friend."
Jaime stroked the cat's head, feeling the vibration of its purr through his breastplate. "Perhaps," he murmured.
Elia plucked a rose that climbed near the bench. It was red, like blood, but in Elia's hand, it looked only beautiful.
"These flowers are curious things," Elia said, twirling the stem. "They grow most lush, and then their petals fall one by one, as if to show that beauty is but a fleeting thing."
Jaime looked at Elia, then at Rhaenys, who was now trying to tempt Balerion with a blade of grass. They were so alive. So real. Steven's knowledge of the future struck him like a physical blow to the heart.
The tightness in his chest returned. This time not from rage at Aerys, but from a profound sorrow for the woman and child before him.
"They are beautiful," Jaime said, his voice hoarse. "The world... it ought to be more about flowers, Princess. Not..."
"Not swords?" Elia cut in gently. Her gaze met Jaime's green eyes. There was understanding there. "We cannot choose the world we live in, Ser Jaime. We can only choose how we tend to our own small part of it."
Jaime fell silent. He had been a teacher in another life. He was supposed to give advice, to impart moral lessons. But before the quiet dignity of Elia Martell in this pit of vipers, he felt like a dullard schoolboy.
"I hope..." Jaime began, then stopped. What could he hope for? I hope I can save you? I hope I am not a craven?
"I hope these flowers last a little longer," he said finally, a sweet lie to mask a terrible truth.
Elia smiled, a smile that did not reach her sorrowful eyes. "I as well, Jaime. I as well."
Rhaenys managed to capture the cat's attention again, and Balerion leapt down from Jaime's lap. The warmth vanished, replaced once more by the chill of steel plate.
Jaime sat there, in a beautiful garden within a rotting city, listening to the laughter of a child doomed to die, speaking of flowers with a woman whose fate was already written in the cruel stars.
And Steven, inside the body of Jaime Lannister, thought that, perhaps, just perhaps, he could change that.