A Vow Without Honor

The Madness

Jaime

He had grown tired of staring at war tables, a thought that would have never crossed his mind in the folly of his youth. Strategy and tactics were familiar enough to him, though he had often chafed at the length of time it took to discuss them. At the time, he hadn't understood the necessity of ensuring everyone knew every detail. He was young, brash, and prideful, convinced that the swing of his sword alone could turn the tide of every ill-fated battle. The sooner the old men finished talking, the sooner he could soak the fields with the blood of a dozen others.

Now he had seen enough battles and blood, yet still he could find no peace. Whatever need for vengeance he may have possessed was smothered by grief and despair. The entirety of the castle wore mourning attire, even kitchen wenches slaving away over fires well beyond his sight. Mourners, paid or otherwise, had cried out from Lannisport until he could hear their calls in the dead of night. He had thought to put an end to it, but hadn't managed the strength to do so.

The only reason he'd made it to his father's solar was due to his wife. Myra had dressed him, and all but dragged him through the castle, pulling him out of whatever stupor he'd been caught up in. He recalled counting the ships that had flocked into the harbor, war galleys of every shape and size, flying sails of red and gold, with great lions fluttering in the breeze. It was a sight he'd not seen in a long time.

She stood beside him now, dutifully remaining at his side despite having no expertise in the realm of warfare. It was up to her to keep him from going away inside and shirking the duties he'd been given. She had done so thus far by subtly nudging his boot with her foot.

He only just realized she was doing so at that moment.

Jaime took in the eyes watching him from around the table. No longer was the gaze of his mother the thing he dreaded - though he had positioned her portrait behind him all the same - but the eyes of his advisors awaiting answers and orders. Kevan stood across from him, eyes filled with a sympathy that hindered more than it helped. Ser Addam was to his left, and Tyrion on his right, sober and silent. Neither his wit nor his anger had made their presence known. The Strongboar was present, and Ser Kennos had returned from his fruitless pursuit of the Blackfish. Quenten Banefort looked hale and hearty despite spending much of the war a captive, and Sebaston Farman had the weathered appearance of a man too often at sea. No more than two years must have separated them in age, yet he might have confused it for two dozen.

"We are certain beyond a doubt that the Ironborn are behind this attack?"

"It could not have been anyone else," Sebaston maintained, his gloved hand taking a swipe at the Iron Islands on the table. "The princess could have only disappeared by sea, and no pirates would dare an attack so bold, or so politically motivated."

Jaime was tempted to accuse Lord Farman of letting his house's infamous hatred of the Ironborn cloud his judgment. Political inclination was as much affiliated with the squid as it had been with Robert Baratheon, but once more, the presence of Euron Greyjoy gave him pause. His was a brand of madness that might lead to any outcome.

"And what of Littlefinger?" Myra asked, unexpectedly gaining the attention of the table. Her dress of mourning had left her pale yet resplendent in the candlelight. If she possessed any doubts about addressing the men before her, she showed no sign of it. "The queen accuses him of leading her astray. Might he have the answers we seek?"

Cersei accuses anyone but herself of the pain she has caused.

Jaime had to bite his tongue to keep the words from spilling out. Myra had read his father's letter to him the night before. He was surprised he had gone as far as locking Cersei away, but there were some grave sins even the great Tywin Lannister could not bury under mountains of gold.