Jaime Lannister private thoughts.
Jaime Lannister leaned against the cold stone parapet above the courtyard, arms folded, the evening wind curling gold strands of his hair across his cheek.
Below, he watched Aeryon Rayder walk with the quiet confidence of a man who had just won something important.
That alone irritated him.
Most men in Winterfell trudged through the cold.
This one glided.
Something about that bothered Jaime more than it should have.
He didn't take his eyes off the boy — if he could even call him that. Aeryon carried himself like someone twice his age, someone who'd learned early how to hide teeth behind a polite smile.
And worse—his silver-blond hair glimmered in the torchlight.
Too much like another man Jaime remembered.
A man whose ghost had walked the halls of Cersei's heart for far too long.
Aeryon disappeared through a door leading to the guest chambers.
Jaime's jaw tightened.
He had seen the queen leave the same place only minutes earlier — cloak drawn, head held high, cheeks flushed with heat no northern fire could explain.
He'd followed her from a distance, quiet as a shadow on stone.
Robert slept heavily after drinking himself into a snoring stupor — a blessing, if Jaime felt like calling anything a blessing tonight.
But the queen?
Her steps had been too careful.
Too deliberate.
Too… satisfied.
That alone made his stomach knot.
The door behind him creaked open.
"Ser Jaime?" a guard asked, shifting nervously. "His Grace is still asleep. Should I—"
"Keep your mouth shut and your eyes forward," Jaime said without turning. "The king doesn't need tending. He needs a miracle."
The guard swallowed audibly and walked off.
Jaime exhaled, long and slow.
His eyes returned to the door Aeryon had vanished behind.
Rhaegar's face.
That's what struck him first.
He hadn't wanted to acknowledge it — the resemblance, the color of the hair, the stillness in the eyes.
Too familiar.
Too unwelcome.
Cersei had looked at that face once before.
She'd wanted it more than she'd ever wanted him.
And now that same face walked Winterfell's halls wearing calm confidence like a cloak.
Jaime tapped a finger against the railing.
Something was wrong.
Aeryon wasn't just handsome.
He wasn't just polite.
He wasn't just clever.
He was dangerous.
Or at least, he was dangerous to the peace Jaime fought every day to maintain — the fragile, ugly equilibrium he shared with Cersei.
He pushed off the parapet and walked along the battlements, boots crunching on the cold stones.
He thought about the way Cersei had looked earlier. Not angry. Not irritated. No — worse.
She looked alive.
Alive in a way she hadn't looked in years.
Alive in a way she didn't look with him anymore.
That stung — deep.
Jaime reached the next tower, leaning against the wall, breathing slowly through his nose.
He wasn't jealous.
No, that wasn't it.
He was… wary.
Protective.
Because if Cersei had gotten too close to this northern boy — if she'd let something slip, or let herself be seen, or let herself be discovered…
It wasn't just her neck on the line.
It was his.
And Robert Baratheon had a long, ugly memory when it came to silver hair.
Jaime clenched his jaw.
He needed to understand who Aeryon really was.
Where he came from.
What he wanted.
What game he was playing with Cersei.
And why, gods help him, he looked so damned much like the man Jaime had killed to save the realm.
"Rhaegar," Jaime muttered under his breath. "If you could see this shit now…"
He pushed away from the wall.
And quietly, carefully, Jaime Lannister began planning how to watch Aeryon Rayder without being seen himself.
Pov change from Jamie to aeryons.
Aeryon reached his chamber door, just lifting the latch when a quiet voice behind him said:
"Going somewhere in a hurry… cousin?"
He didn't jump — he refused to give Jaime the satisfaction — but he turned slowly.
Jaime Lannister stood a few steps down the hall, arms loose at his sides, posture casual in the way only a man who had killed a king could be casual. His golden armor caught the torchlight and threw it back like captured sunlight.
Aeryon had the distinct impression the man had been waiting there.
"Ser Jaime," Aeryon said with a polite nod. "I wasn't expecting company."
"Mm." Jaime stepped closer, his boots soft on the stone. "I noticed. You move like a man who hopes no one sees where he's coming from."
Aeryon offered a faint smile. "Or where he's going."
Jaime's eyes sharpened — catching the returning blow, amused despite himself.
He stopped an arm's length away, head tilted, studying Aeryon in a way that felt like a blade sliding between ribs.
Up close, the resemblance to Rhaegar was even more damning.
Jaime saw it — Aeryon knew he saw it.
Jaime's voice lowered.
"You look like him, you know."
Aeryon didn't pretend confusion. "So I've heard."
"You smell less like poetry," Jaime said, though his tone carried no humor. "More like ambition."
Aeryon held Jaime's gaze. "Is that a compliment?"
"Not really. Poetry rarely gets people killed." Jaime folded his arms, leaning against the opposite wall. "Ambition usually does."
Aeryon opened his chamber door halfway — not as dismissal, but as a statement:
I'm not trapped here. You don't scare me.
But he didn't step inside.
"You're very interested in me, Ser Jaime," Aeryon said. "Should I be flattered?"
"Interested?" Jaime scoffed softly. "No. Curious, maybe."
Aeryon waited.
Jaime's jaw flexed once.
"I saw the queen leave this hall earlier."
His tone was calm — deceptively so.
"As though she'd found something worth warming her blood."
Aeryon didn't blink. "And you followed her?"
Jaime's eyes narrowed at the boldness of the remark.
Aeryon watched the reaction — the slight tightening in his mouth — and filed it away.
"So," Aeryon continued quietly, "you're not curious about me. You're curious about her."
That landed.
Jaime spoke through a tight, quiet breath. "Be careful what you suggest, boy."
Aeryon stepped closer — just a fraction — enough to steal one inch of space from Jaime Lannister.
"I don't need to suggest anything," he murmured. "I can see it in your eyes."
Jaime's stare hardened into something colder, more dangerous.
This was a man born of steel, polished by rage, honed by secrets.
He leaned down until his face was inches from Aeryon's.
"I'll say this once," Jaime said softly — too softly. "Whatever you think you're doing here… whatever game you're playing… don't involve her."
Aeryon smiled — a slow, controlled, devastating curve of his lips.
"But I'm not playing with her, Ser Jaime."
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"She sought me."
Jaime went perfectly still.
For one heartbeat, the world felt carved from ice.
The torch crackled.
The hall breathed.
Jaime's hand twitched — as though it wanted a sword.
As though it wanted a throat.
But he didn't reach for either.
He exhaled through his nose, sharp. "You're bold for someone who doesn't know how the game works."
Aeryon stepped back, not retreating — simply reclaiming his space.
"And you assume too much for a man who's already lost."
Jaime stiffened. "Lost what?"
Aeryon tapped his chest lightly. "Her attention."
A muscle in Jaime's jaw jumped so violently Aeryon almost smiled.
Almost.
Instead, he bowed his head the slightest inch — a gesture that could be respect or mockery depending on the mood.
"Good night, Ser Jaime."
Aeryon entered his chamber and closed the door softly.
Behind it, Jaime Lannister stood in the torchlit corridor, jaw clenched, eyes burning, every instinct screaming that this silver-haired stranger was not merely trouble.
He was danger.
Real danger.
And for the first time in years, Jaime didn't know if he could protect Cersei from it — or if she even wanted to be protected.
He goes straight to Cersei.
The torchlight in Cersei's private chamber flickers against the carved wooden door when Jaime pushes his way inside without knocking.
Cersei stiffens near the window, one hand wrapped around a cup of wine. Her cloak is still on—she clearly just arrived. Her breath is slightly fast, a hint of adrenaline still lingering from her meeting with Aeryon.
Jaime sees it.
His jaw flexes.
"Explain."
Cersei exhales impatience through her nose.
"Explain what, Jaime?"
He shuts the door behind him with a soft thud that sounds far more dangerous than a slam.
"Don't play with me."
His voice is low, tight.
"I saw you."
Cersei's eyes narrow like a cat's.
"Saw me do what, exactly?"
Jaime steps closer, closing the distance between them until he can smell the wine on her breath.
"With him."
She doesn't blink.
"Define 'with.'"
Jaime's face twitches with a flash of jealousy he can't hide.
"Cersei."
Her lips curl slightly, not quite a smirk, but something close.
"You sound jealous."
"I sound concerned."
His voice sharpens.
"You don't know him. No one does. He appears out of nowhere, looks like—"
She cuts him off with a soft, dangerous whisper.
"Say it."
Jaime's throat works once.
"…like him."
Rhaegar.
The name neither of them speak because saying it would be admitting too much.
Cersei turns her back to him deliberately, gazing out the narrow window slit toward the torches below.
"So he resembles a dead prince. That doesn't make him a threat."
Jaime stares at her back, jaw clenching.
"You took him into the tower."
"I take many things into towers."
His nostrils flare. Cersei doesn't need to face him to know.
He steps closer until he's just behind her shoulder.
"He's not safe."
Cersei laughs—not loudly, but with that low, velvety, mocking amusement only she can manage.
"I decide who is safe."
Jaime grabs her arm—not roughly, but firmly enough to demand attention. She turns, eyes flashing with sudden heat.
"Let go."
He doesn't.
"Tell me what he is to you."
Cersei leans forward, lips nearly brushing his ear.
"He is useful."
Jaime stiffens.
"…and that's all?"
Her hand trails up the front of his armor, fingers gliding over the lion sigil as if smoothing the mane.
"Why, Jaime? Afraid he'll take something that's yours?"
Jaime's voice breaks into something rawer than he intended.
"I'm afraid he'll take something that's ours."
Her eyes flicker—briefly—betraying a hint of conflict.
Just a hint.
Then it's gone.
Cersei pulls away, walking toward the bedside table and setting down her wine.
"You worry too much."
He watches her, jaw tight.
"He's hiding something."
"Everyone hides something."
Jaime stops in front of her, lowering his voice.
"He looks at you."
Cersei smiles faintly.
"Many men look at me."
"But you look back."
A beat of silence.
Cersei steps closer, face inches from his. Her voice turns soft, almost affectionate—almost.
"Jaime… trust me."
He studies her. Truly studies her.
And sees something he doesn't like:
interest
intrigue
possibility
In another man.
"You're playing a dangerous game."
Cersei's smile widens just enough to be wicked.
"I always have."
Jaime's anger flickers into something colder.
"If he harms you…"
Cersei cuts him off with a raised hand.
"He won't."
Jaime wants to argue.
But she's already turning away, dismissing him as easily as she dismisses a servant.
He hesitates at the door.
Hand on the handle.
"Cersei."
She doesn't face him.
"What?"
"…You won't tell me the truth, will you?"
She sips her wine.
"When do I ever?"
Jaime leaves.
The door shuts.
Cersei exhales, finally letting the mask slip.
She presses two fingers against her lips.
Remembering Aeryon's last words.
The way he looked at her.
The danger wrapped in beauty.
The way he felt like a story returning from the dead.
Her eyes darken with a mixture of calculation and something more dangerous.
desire