His knees felt weak. They wobbled as his hand moved to grasp the rail, his fingers curling amongst the metal. Watching as his twin lowered herself onto the Iron Throne was almost sickening.
Margery Tyrell, dead.
Loras Tyrell, dead.
Tommen Baratheon, dead.
Lowering his head into his hand, feeling the cool metal grace against his forehead, Jaime shuddered. His armor and his lungs felt constricting; he could hardly stand to breathe. Another child lay dead, now a pile of smoldering ashes. He had no body to mourn; no good memory of his remaining son to think of. Tommen had been so unhappy during those final days, especially so with his mother.
"My Lord," someone tried, but he waved them away with a sharp jerk of his remaining hand. His ribs felt as if they were collapsing upon his lungs, and he closed his eyes tightly, choking on his grief.
Breathe. Just breathe.
"Do you remember the first time you saw a dead body?" Her words sounded inside of his head, sounding sly and haunting. "Mine was mother. I kept wondering if her lips had peeled back from her teeth yet; if her hair had begun to thin; if she had begun to bloat."
An image of Myrcella passed through his mind, a pile of charred ash with a few traces of green liquid. An image of Joffery, in the same state, followed. But the image of Tommen? Oh, it differed gravely.
He could see his sons body upon the cobblestones, the side of his skull caved in, blood tricking from his wounds. Tommen's wide, azure hues would have been open, looking stark against the pool of red that stained his pale skin. His heart broke to picture the way his sons body would appear to be so broken, his limbs twisted and his skin beginning to bruise as blood pooled against the flesh.
Tears dripped down his cheeks, and they pooled against his waterlines; dripping down his scruffy chin. His sister seemed so . . . Empty. Not just empty; determined, mad.
