The Golden Oath (to Decide)

The Golden Oath (to decide)

- Summary: The lion falls in love with the daughter of the Mad King, which starts a domino effect that eventually collapses the realm onto itself.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Jaime Lannister

- Note: This story doesn't have a place in my schedule, as it's still being written. But, I may continue to drop a new chapter here and there unexpectedly. Thank you everybody for your support. ❤️

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: to take a chance

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @howtodisappearcompletely3 @joyfulyouthlover @viyannaiya @mortallyblueninja @nestvrn @wuluhwuhmaster @loafersrs @annoyinginfp-t @simpsonsam @barnes70stark @angel6776 @mrsnms @butterfl1ies @lordofthunderthr @idenyimimdenial @jsprien213

The road narrowed as the procession climbed the last hill, the sun now high above them, its light muted beneath a veil of thin cloud. Dust rose from the hooves of their horses, and beyond the crest of the hill, the ruins of Summerhall slowly came into view—a broken crown of stone and ash, half-swallowed by creeping vines and the passage of time.

Jaime had heard the tales, of course—whispers passed between pages and knights of the court, stories of fire and madness and the fall of a dream long dead. But no telling had prepared him for the solemn quiet that blanketed the ruins like a shroud. Even the birds had stilled their songs, and the air held a heaviness that pressed into the lungs, as if it remembered everything that had happened here.

He rode close to Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Barristan Selmy as they descended the last slope, the guard fanning out behind them. Crumbled columns reached skyward like fingers of a dead god, scorched stone blackened from old flames. What had once been a great hall now lay in splintered ruin—arches collapsed, hearths hollow and cold, no roof to shelter what remained.

Jaime said nothing as they dismounted, the leather reins firm in his grip. His gaze swept over the shattered remnants of the palace, noting where the fire had burned deepest—walls half-fallen in on themselves, the marble tiles cracked and blackened beneath moss and decay.

Ahead of them, Rhaegar and Y/N walked side by side, the prince’s hand light on her back as they passed through what had once been the grand entrance. There was no ceremony in the way they moved, no announcement of their intention to separate from the group. They simply passed beyond the threshold of the ruins, the pale folds of her cloak disappearing behind the stone arch with graceful finality.

Jaime’s brows drew together as he watched them go. He remained where he stood for a long moment, eyes lingering on the dark space where they had vanished.

He shifted slightly, then turned to Ser Barristan, who was tightening the strap of his vambrace, his expression unbothered as if this had been expected.

"Shouldn’t someone follow them?" Jaime asked, his voice low but firm. "It’s not safe. These ruins—"

"They will be fine on their own," Barristan said, cutting him off gently but with the steady weight of authority. He didn’t look at Jaime as he spoke, merely adjusting the leather binding with practiced ease. "They’ve come here before, and they come for their own reasons. We are here only to ensure they return."

Jaime frowned, glancing toward Ser Arthur, who stood beside a jagged pillar with one hand resting casually on the hilt of Dawn. The Sword of the Morning gave Jaime a glance, then nodded faintly.

"Summerhall is sacred to the prince," Arthur said. "And to her."

Jaime’s jaw clenched. "And what is it to you?"

Arthur tilted his head slightly, as if considering the question. "A ruin. A reminder. Nothing more."

But Barristan, older and less inclined to philosophical detachment, gave Jaime a longer look, his eyes unreadable beneath the line of his brow.

"You care for her," he said quietly.

It wasn’t a question.

Jaime’s breath caught, just for a heartbeat, before he set his jaw and looked away. "I respect her," he said simply.

Barristan’s mouth twitched, just faintly, before he turned his attention back to the guards dispersing among the trees.

"You’re not the first."

Jaime blinked, caught off-guard. "What?"

The older knight’s tone remained neutral. "To see her. To want her. To wonder if what you see in her eyes is meant for you."

Jaime stared at him, something unsettled curling low in his chest.

"But you must understand something," Barristan continued. "She is the king’s daughter, yes. But more than that—she is his."

He didn’t say the prince’s name. He didn’t have to.

Jaime looked once more toward the ruins, now silent and still beneath the rising sun. He could almost imagine their voices echoing within the blackened halls—hers low and warm, his soft and distant like a harp played in an empty chamber.

And suddenly, Jaime felt as though he were standing outside something he had never truly been invited into.

He said nothing more, only stood there beside the stones, waiting for a glimpse of silver and violet to return from the ruin of dreams.

The light dimmed as you stepped beneath what remained of the old stone arch, the world outside muffled the moment you and Rhaegar entered the hollow shell of what had once been a palace built for joy. Vines crept along the broken walls, their green fingers winding through cracks left by fire and time, and shattered marble tiles crunched under your boots as you moved further inward. The air here smelled of ash and earth, of something old and buried, something that clung to the bones of Summerhall like a final breath that refused to leave.

Rhaegar walked just ahead, his footsteps slow and careful, not out of fear, but reverence. He did not speak at first, and neither did you. This place had always demanded silence when you came together, silence not out of respect, but of understanding. It was as though the stones themselves remembered the cries that had risen here the night it burned—Aegon’s last dream, kindled in fire and ended in smoke.

You followed him through the collapsed doorway that once led to the hall of the fountain, or what remained of it. The basin was cracked and blackened, half-swallowed by moss, and the marble dragons that once spiraled around its rim had lost their heads to time and heat. You stepped beside him, your cloak brushing the crumbling stone, and you looked not at the ruin, but at Rhaegar.

His expression was distant, his eyes tracing the outlines of what had once been. His hands, usually so steady, hung at his sides, his fingers twitching now and again like a man playing invisible strings. The silence had stretched too long, so you broke it first, your voice soft.

“You’ve grown quieter here.”

His gaze didn’t shift. “It’s quieter here,” he answered, though it wasn’t truly an explanation.

You glanced around, the ruins swallowing you both in shadow and memory. “You used to say this was where you felt closest to what came before.”

Rhaegar nodded slowly. “I still do.”

You watched him for a long moment. His face looked older today. Not from time, but from weight. From thought. You could see it in the lines that hadn’t been there last year, the deepening shadows beneath his eyes. He looked like a man who had already lived through the prophecy he was meant to fulfill.

He finally looked at you. His eyes were strange in this light—flickering between indigo and stormcloud. “Do you believe in destiny?” he asked you, quietly, as though afraid the ruins might answer for you.

You drew in a breath, letting it settle before answering. “I believe we shape it,” you said. “Even when it’s written.”

He turned from you again, his jaw tight, the tension spreading through his shoulders. “Mine is already written. In scrolls, in books, in flames.” He shook his head slowly. “And every step I take, I feel it binding tighter around me.”

You moved closer, your voice barely above a whisper. “But not alone.”

Rhaegar went still, and for a moment you thought he might close off again like he always did when the subject crept too close to his heart. But instead, he turned toward you fully, his eyes burning now—not with rage, but with something deeper. Fear.

“I’m afraid,” he said. “Not of what I must do. Not of what I will become. I’m afraid I’ll have to walk it without you.”

His words hung there, suspended between ruin and memory. You had heard his fears before, but never so plainly. Never so bare.

You reached for him, your hand settling gently against his chest, where his heartbeat pulsed like the soft rhythm of a distant drum. “You won’t.”

He swallowed, and for the first time, his posture seemed to break. “The future takes things,” he said, voice hoarse. “Even when they’re not ready to be taken.”

You let your forehead rest against his shoulder, your fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic. “Then we will make the future yield.”

He exhaled shakily, his arms coming around you slowly, as though afraid you might vanish if he moved too fast. He held you against him, and you could feel it now—the quiet tremble beneath his stillness. Rhaegar, the silver prince, the one who carried songs and sorrow alike, was simply a man here. A brother. Yours.

“Don’t let go,” he whispered.

“I never have,” you answered.

And in the stillness of Summerhall, surrounded by what had burned, you held onto one another like the last unbroken thing.

The sun had crept higher into the sky, tracing shadows across the broken stone and brittle grass of Summerhall. The ruins lay still, undisturbed save for the occasional gust of wind that whispered through the hollowed walls and stirred the remnants of a palace long dead. Jaime stood near the edge of the old courtyard, arms crossed, his eyes fixed on the scorched archway where the prince and princess had disappeared nearly an hour ago.

He was growing restless.

His horse had long since cooled beneath the shade of a tree. The guards lounged or kept idle watch. Ser Arthur, patient as ever, sat with his back to a blackened pillar, his head tipped downward as he thumbed through a small leather-bound book, utterly unbothered by the passage of time. But Jaime… Jaime was coiled tight.

He didn’t realize he was scowling until a voice beside him stirred him from his brooding.

“Patience is a virtue for knights,” Ser Barristan said lightly, walking toward him with his helm tucked beneath one arm. His hair was tousled slightly from removing it, but his eyes were focused and clear beneath the weight of years. “Though I find fewer and fewer of the young possess it.”

Jaime didn’t look at him at first. His eyes remained fixed on the ruins. “It’s been too long,” he said flatly.

“They’ve been here before,” Barristan replied, as if that answered anything. “And they’ve always returned.”

Jaime shifted his stance, fingers drumming against his arm. “She’s not just some wandering lady from the Reach,” he said. “She’s the king’s daughter.”

Barristan raised a brow. “And you think the prince would let harm come to her?”

Jaime glanced at him then, just briefly. “I don’t think anything. That’s the problem.”

For a time, they stood in silence, the breeze rustling the scorched grass around them. Then Barristan spoke again, this time more carefully.

“You train like a knight. You fight like one. But your thoughts, Jaime…” He paused. “They’ve drifted elsewhere, haven’t they?”

Jaime didn’t respond.

“You asked me once,” Barristan continued, “what it felt like to wear the white. To take the vows. You were only twelve, and you looked at me as though I’d been made of stories.” A faint smile ghosted his lips. “But now you hardly speak of it at all.”

Jaime turned to him, slowly. His jaw was tight. “I haven’t stopped thinking about it.”

“But not the same way,” Barristan said quietly.

Jaime exhaled through his nose, staring at the blackened stones beneath his boots. “I never wanted Casterly Rock. That was meant for Kevan’s son. Even when I was a boy, I knew my father would see me as a sword first and heir second.” He glanced up at the sky, his voice lower now. “But I never imagined I’d want anything else.” He looked toward the archway again, his gaze distant. “Now I do.”

Barristan regarded him, his expression unreadable. “You would give up the Kingsguard. Give up your name. Your legacy. For her?”

Jaime didn’t hesitate. “For her, I’d try.”

The old knight was quiet for a long time. Then, he stepped closer, his voice dropping.

“I have seen many men fall in love with dragons,” he said. “Some from afar. Some from within. It rarely ends well for any of them—especially the ones without wings.”

Jaime turned to him, meeting his gaze evenly. “I don’t care.”

“You should.”

“I don’t.”

Barristan sighed, the weight of experience settling in his shoulders. “Then pray, for both your sakes, that this fire does not burn you alive.”

Jaime said nothing. His eyes drifted once more to the ruins.

And still, you did not return.

The solar in Maegor’s Holdfast was stifling despite the breeze that whispered through the high windows. The red and black tapestries, embroidered with dragons in flight and fire, hung heavy on the walls, absorbing the heat and amplifying the sense of confinement within the chamber. The air smelled of warmed parchment and perfumed oils, a rich, cloying mixture that clung to the skin. But it was not the heat or the scent that unsettled Tywin Lannister—it was the man seated on the carved wooden chair beneath the Targaryen crest, idly turning a jeweled ring around his finger, his violet eyes glittering with something between amusement and disdain.

Aerys Targaryen had not yet descended fully into the madness that would one day consume him, but the change had begun. It was there in the long silences between his words, the sudden flickers of suspicion behind his gaze, the way his mouth twisted when he smiled, as if the act required effort. And yet, he was still shrewd. Still cunning. Still dangerous.

“My king,” Tywin began again, his voice measured, every word deliberate. “You’ve made your views clear regarding my daughter. If you will not entertain the match between Prince Rhaegar and Cersei, then I ask you to consider—”

“You ask,” Aerys interrupted abruptly, his tone light but edged like a blade. “You, Tywin Lannister, who once served as Hand of the King, who now returns with gifts and golden children in tow, asking for my blood to be mixed with yours.”

Tywin didn’t flinch. “It would strengthen both houses.”

Aerys’s laugh was brittle, too loud for the small room. “Ah, yes, strength. That is always your language, isn’t it? Not honor, not duty—strength. Power. Gold.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened. “Jaime is a capable boy. More than capable. And he is your daughter’s equal in birth, if not in name. I merely ask that you consider the benefit of promising her to him.”

The king’s fingers stilled against the ring. His gaze narrowed, lips curling slightly. “Your son is a squire, not a prince. And she is not yours to have.”

“She is the daughter of the dragon,” Tywin reminded him calmly. “And Westeros is watching. It would do your House good to remind the realm that alliances can be made outside the bloodline.”

“Outside?” Aerys repeated, his tone suddenly biting. “You would dilute the blood of the dragon with lion’s blood. Do you think me a fool?”

Tywin met his gaze without blinking. “I think you a king who must preserve more than his name. Isolation breeds weakness. The other Great Houses grow in power with each generation. Your own family grows thinner.”

Aerys stood then, his movements sudden, graceful despite the long folds of his black and red robes. He moved to the window, his back turned, his posture tense.

“They speak of me in whispers,” he said, voice low, almost musing. “They say I’ve grown strange. That I fear shadows and keep to myself. That I hoard wildfire between the walls.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Do you believe these things, Tywin?”

“I believe your enemies want others to believe them.”

The king turned slowly, his expression twisting into something smug. “Let them believe what they will. Let them fear. They have always feared Targaryen fire. That is how we keep the throne. Not with Lannister gold.”

Tywin remained silent, letting the pause settle between them before stepping forward.

“And what of your children?” he asked softly. “What of the girl? Will you have her remain unwed while the world speculates? Or will you—” he stopped short, letting the weight of his next words hang unspoken.

Aerys’s eyes narrowed. “Speak plainly.”

“You mean to wed them,” Tywin said. “Your son and daughter. That is why you refuse all other matches. You’ve planned this.”

The king’s silence was answer enough.

Tywin’s mouth tightened. “You would close the Targaryen circle again.”

“As it has always been,” Aerys said, chin lifting. “As it must be.”

“You will isolate your House,” Tywin warned, voice low. “Already the smallfolk whisper that your line is touched by madness. You think to silence them by marrying your children? You will only make it worse.”

Aerys smiled slowly. “Let them whisper. So long as they kneel.”

Tywin’s eyes hardened, but he said no more. The game had been revealed. The king had made his choice—years ago, it seemed—and now he merely waited for others to fall into place, like pieces on a board whose moves only he could see.

But Tywin Lannister had not come this far to play someone else’s game.

He bowed stiffly. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

And with that, he turned and left the solar, his steps echoing through the stone hall, the cold realization settling in his chest like a knife: he had brought his son here hoping for a crown.

And found a dragon’s den instead.

The sun had long since set below the hills, and the pale orange glow that had lingered in the sky gave way to the violet hush of evening. Summerhall, in twilight, seemed quieter still—its broken walls softened by the dark, its jagged lines blurred into silhouette. The stars stretched wide above the ruin, scattered like shards of glass across a velvet dome, and the moon had begun to rise, thin like the edge of a blade.

You lay beside Rhaegar in what remained of the old courtyard, your cloak spread beneath you to keep the cold of the earth at bay. The moss beneath your fingers was damp and fragrant, tinged with the scent of ash that never seemed to leave this place. Beside you, Rhaegar lay silent, one hand behind his head, the other resting lightly between you both. His silver hair spilled across the ground like a halo of light, his profile illuminated by moonlight that caught the delicate line of his jaw, the quiet slope of his brow.

You watched the stars in silence for some time. Here, without the press of court or the ever-watching eyes of nobles and lords, the world felt still. The only sounds were the rustling of the wind through crumbling stone and the occasional call of a nightbird far off in the trees. It reminded you of your childhood—of stolen moments in the city when your brother played his harp and you sat cross-legged at his side, dreaming of nothing but the sound of his music and the warmth of his voice.

Now his voice came again, softer than the breeze. “They’ve been speaking of Dorne again,” Rhaegar said.

You turned your head toward him. “The council?”

He nodded slowly. “I heard Lord Mooton speaking with Grand Maester Pycelle before we departed. They believe Elia Martell would be a suitable match. That Dorne’s alliance could stabilize the southern houses.”

Your chest tightened. For a moment, you said nothing, listening to the distant sigh of the wind moving through the hollow halls. Then you reached over, gently brushing your fingertips against his sleeve.

“They speak,” you said quietly, “but they do not decide. Father does.”

Rhaegar did not look at you. His eyes were fixed upward, toward the stars. “And what if they begin to turn Father against himself? You’ve seen it too. The way they whisper about his temper, about his judgments. They speak as though his mind is already slipping.” A pause. “They will try to take the choice from him.”

You sat up slightly, leaning your weight on your elbow as you looked at him fully. “Rhaegar. He will never allow them to dictate your match.” You touched his hand. “And he will never give me to another. He’s made that much clear.”

He turned to face you now, his indigo eyes shining faintly in the starlight. “Sometimes I fear that Father’s devotion to us is the very thing they resent most.”

You didn’t deny it. You knew well how the lords of the realm watched you both—how they saw your father’s favoritism not as love, but as danger. But you also knew that no one could pull the reins from Aerys Targaryen’s hands—not yet, not while fire still clung to his voice and his will remained unbroken.

“He may be many things,” you said, gently, “but no one tells him what to do. No lord in Westeros, no whispering maester, no cautious courtier. Not even Tywin Lannister.” You smiled faintly. “Especially not him.”

Rhaegar exhaled through his nose, something like amusement breaking the tension in his brow. “Tywin would flay himself before bending to Father’s whims. And yet he still came to court with two golden offerings.”

You laid back down, folding your hands over your stomach, your voice thoughtful. “He must be desperate, to think you’d marry Cersei.”

“She speaks with all the charm of her father,” Rhaegar muttered.

You laughed softly, your breath a cloud in the air above you. “And Jaime?”

He was quiet for a moment. “He watches you too closely.”

You said nothing, though your smile lingered. Then you reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his, the pressure light but warm.

“Let them speak,” you said. “Let them scheme and guess. At the end of it all, it is you and me. And it has always been.”

He turned to you again, his gaze softening. “And you’ll stay with me, even when the road darkens?”

You nodded without hesitation. “Always.”

A moment passed. Then Rhaegar sat up slowly, brushing dust from his sleeve. “We should return,” he said. “They’ll be wondering.”

You rose with him, adjusting your cloak against the chill. “Barristan will pretend not to be concerned. Arthur will say nothing at all. But Jaime…” You looked to him sidelong. “Jaime might have been counting every minute.”

Rhaegar offered no response, but his eyes narrowed faintly in the dark.

Together, you turned from the courtyard, walking side by side through the broken halls of Summerhall, leaving the ashes of dreams behind you.

Night had fully claimed Summerhall by the time you and Rhaegar returned to the camp. The ruins behind you seemed to sink deeper into shadow, their scorched stones swallowed by darkness, leaving behind only the cold scent of ash and old earth on the air. The clearing where the retinue had made their camp was quiet, lit by low-burning fires ringed with coals, their flickering light casting soft amber hues across the edges of the tents and the faint glint of polished armor.

You walked beside your brother in silence, your cloak drawn close around you, the night wind tugging softly at your pale hair. The firelight caught in his profile as you stepped into camp—the quiet set of his mouth, the unfocused distance in his eyes. Yet there was a stillness in him now, a quiet centering that had not been there when you arrived. Whatever had weighed upon him earlier in the day had eased, if only slightly.

The guards took notice of your return without fanfare. They moved as soldiers often did—observing everything, commenting on nothing. But as you approached the central fire where Ser Barristan stood speaking quietly with Ser Arthur Dayne, the old knight lifted his head, and the conversation stilled.

“My prince,” Barristan said with a slight bow of the head. “Shall we begin preparations to ride at first light?”

Rhaegar gave a small nod, pulling his gloves tighter. “Yes. We return to the capital tomorrow.”

“Very good,” Barristan replied, his gaze flickering toward you for the briefest moment, his eyes unreadable. “The men will be ready.”

You inclined your head to them both and turned to step toward your own tent, the warmth of the fire briefly brushing against your skin as you passed it. But you could feel it—a gaze lingering—not from Rhaegar or the knights, but from the edge of the firelight.

Jaime.

He was crouched beside his tent, working a leather strap between his gloved fingers, pretending to busy himself with tying down the flaps, though they had long since been secured. His brow was furrowed, a deep crease between his eyes that suggested concentration, but his posture betrayed him—too still, too tense, his head lifting slightly with every soft step you took.

You paused by the water basin outside your tent, letting your fingers brush the cool metal rim, and for a moment, neither of you moved. You didn’t look directly at him, but you felt the shift of his gaze—the flicker of green eyes that never strayed far from where you stood.

He had barely spoken since you and Rhaegar left, but the weight of his silence was louder than words.

Behind you, the camp settled further into quiet. The guards rotated shifts, and Ser Arthur began checking over the horses tethered nearby. You heard soft conversation in Dorne-accented Low Valyrian between two of Rhaegar’s retainers, muffled by distance and night.

You turned slightly toward your tent’s entrance, then paused and glanced back—Jaime was still watching.

Not openly. Not boldly. But in that careful, cautious way of a young man who wasn’t sure if what he felt was allowed to become anything at all.

And you—you were no stranger to being watched.

But something about the way he looked at you was different. Not hungry, not proud, not with the entitlement so many lords’ sons carried when they gazed upon a princess.

His gaze held wonder.

And perhaps, quietly, a question.

You turned your head and disappeared into the dark canvas folds of your tent, saying nothing.

But even then, behind your closed eyes and the rustle of your cloak as you unfastened it, you could still feel him watching.

The canvas walls of Jaime’s tent creaked softly in the night wind, the faint rustle of fabric barely louder than the rhythm of his breath. He lay flat on the modest cot, boots pulled off but the rest of his clothes still clinging to him, his cloak bundled beneath his head in place of a proper pillow. The air was cold against his skin, and despite the small brazier burning low in the corner, the warmth did little to reach him. He stared at the sloped ceiling, its folds of cloth illuminated faintly by the dying glow of the coals. Outside, the camp was quiet—sleep had claimed most of the men, the guards walked their rounds in silence, and the sounds of the forest beyond Summerhall’s broken stones whispered with night creatures.

But Jaime could not sleep.

Not for the cold. Not for the discomfort. But because of you.

Every time he shut his eyes, he saw you standing in the starlight—your hair pale and soft, trailing like light down your back as you passed beneath the old archway with Rhaegar. He saw the way you looked when you returned: calm, but distant, as if your mind had not yet followed you back from the place the two of you had gone. You hadn’t spoken a word to him. You hadn’t needed to. Your silence had done more than any conversation might have.

And yet he couldn’t shake the image of you standing near the water basin, pausing just long enough to let him see that you knew. That you had always known.

He shifted onto his side, drawing the cloak closer to his neck, staring at the shadowed flap of the tent’s entrance. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could bear keeping his thoughts caged. Rhaegar had claimed your time, your attention, your closeness, but Jaime couldn’t allow himself to be silent forever. He didn’t know if what he felt was foolish. He didn’t know if it was dangerous. All he knew was that it was real.

And that he wanted more.

Tomorrow, they would leave Summerhall. Return to King’s Landing, return to the games of court and whispered alliances, and you would vanish back into the castle’s halls, where you moved like a ghost no one dared reach for. If he didn’t speak now—if he didn’t try—then he would lose whatever slender chance he had to be near you.

He sat up slowly, running a hand through his hair. The fire in the brazier cracked softly, casting long shadows against the canvas walls. He breathed in, the scent of smoke and dust heavy in his lungs, and exhaled through his nose.

“I’ll speak with her,” he said aloud, his voice low and certain in the darkness. “Before we ride.”

Even if it led nowhere. Even if it only confirmed that her thoughts lay with Rhaegar, as he feared. He had to know. He had to offer more than stolen glances and half-smiles over firelight. You were not a dream he could afford to let drift further away.

The wind picked up outside, tugging gently at the corner of the tent. Jaime lay back once more, closing his eyes not in sleep, but in resolve.

Tomorrow. Before the sun rose high and they turned their horses north. He would find you.

And he would speak.

The first whispers of dawn spilled pale across the landscape, turning the edges of Summerhall's ruined stones from charcoal to ashen gray. Mist still clung low to the ground, curling between the hooves of restless horses and coiling around the boots of squires hurrying to break down camp. The metallic clatter of buckles, the flapping of canvas, and the murmured commands of men folding their tents into neat piles filled the air with the quiet energy of morning.

You stood near your tent, your cloak drawn close against the chill that came before the sun. The ruins behind you were dark and still, but the sky above had begun to shift—faint streaks of rose and amber blossoming at the horizon. The fire had gone out some time ago, leaving only a cold ring of stones and scattered embers, but you hadn’t moved far from it. There was something peaceful in these last quiet moments before the ride began. Something final, too, as if Summerhall, in its silence, was saying farewell.

And then you heard footsteps behind you—deliberate, hesitant.

You turned your head slightly, and there he was.

Jaime Lannister approached with his cloak thrown loosely over one shoulder, his golden hair slightly tousled, his sword strapped at his hip. He wasn’t in armor yet—just the traveling leathers, scuffed and dusted with the ash and soil of yesterday’s ride—but somehow he still looked the part of a lord's son, every inch the lion trying not to stalk too loudly.

“Good morning,” he said, his voice softer than usual. Hesitant, but not unsure. “Did you sleep well?”

You offered him a faint smile. “As well as one can in a ruined palace.”

That drew a small chuckle from him, and he took a slow step closer, as if gauging how close he was permitted to stand. He looked out toward the morning haze with you, his eyes catching the first hints of yellow that filtered over the hills.

“This place,” he said after a moment, “it reminds me of somewhere else. Somewhere I haven’t thought about in years.” He glanced at you. “When I was a boy, I used to sneak out of Casterly Rock with Cersei. There was an old watchtower at the edge of the cliffs. Crumbling and forgotten, like this. We’d pretend we were dragonlords there—two brave warriors building a kingdom out of sea stone and wind.”

You looked at him, surprised by the honesty in his voice. “Did you take turns being the dragon?”

He smiled, sheepish. “No. Cersei was always the dragon. I was whatever she told me to be.” He laughed to himself, then rubbed the back of his neck. “But it was quiet there. And for once, no one expected anything of us. No father, no maesters, no banners. Just salt and air and... her laughter.”

He seemed to catch himself then, the softness in his tone drawing back slightly. His gaze returned to you, and something shifted behind his eyes—a vulnerability poorly hidden behind his usual ease.

“I never thought I’d come to like a place like this again,” he admitted. “But I do.”

You tilted your head gently. “Because it reminds you of home?”

Jaime hesitated, then shook his head. “Because of you.”

You felt the breath in your lungs pause, just slightly.

He cleared his throat, not looking at you now. “Forgive me, I’m… not particularly good at this sort of thing. I’ve never had to… speak this way. Not to anyone.” He glanced at you again, briefly, and then away. “I never had to try.”

Your brow arched faintly, amusement glimmering behind your eyes. “That sounds like something someone says when they’re used to being adored.”

He smiled, a little crooked now. “That’s just it. I’ve been flattered before. Admired. Not… seen.” He gestured vaguely toward the ruins, toward the day beginning around you. “Not like this. Not like here.”

You studied him, the way he stood half in shadow, half in light, fighting the urge to retreat into something easier. Something more familiar. But his voice was honest. His words clumsy, yes—but sincere.

“You don’t need to charm me, Ser Jaime,” you said gently. “You only need to be yourself.”

He met your eyes then, and for the first time since you’d known him, there was no trace of performance.

“I’m trying,” he said.

You nodded, then turned your gaze back to the horizon. “Then try walking with me. The day waits for no one.”

Jaime stepped beside you, falling into stride as you moved toward the others, the low light stretching long across the earth ahead.

And for the first time, you let him walk beside you.

The soft crunch of grass and soil beneath your boots was the only sound between you and Jaime as you walked back toward the center of the camp. The sky had begun to blossom with the full colors of morning—rose, amber, the faintest tinge of lilac streaked across the eastern horizon. The chill of night still lingered in the air, but there was movement all around now. Squires moved briskly with saddles and gear, guards were tightening straps, checking bridles, and shifting into the formation that would carry the procession back to the Red Keep. Horses stamped the earth impatiently, their breath curling in the morning light, and the scent of fresh leather mixed with the familiar tang of steel.

Your mare, Moonveil, was already saddled and waiting, her dappled coat gleaming with dew. She nickered softly at your approach, ears flicking toward you, and you reached out instinctively, brushing your fingers along her neck. Jaime’s stallion was tethered nearby, his chestnut coat well-brushed and gleaming, already restless under the weight of his light armor.

Rhaegar stood just ahead with Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Barristan, his back partially turned as he spoke quietly with the two Kingsguard. His hair caught the rising light and glimmered like frost, his profile calm as ever—still, poised, as if he belonged not to the world around him but to some dream yet unfolding.

As you and Jaime approached, his voice paused mid-sentence, and his gaze lifted—not to you, but to the young lion walking a step behind you.

Rhaegar’s eyes settled on Jaime for only the briefest of moments.

Not a glare. Not a challenge. Just a look—cool, unreadable, assessing.

And then he looked away, disinterested.

If Jaime noticed the dismissal, he didn’t show it. He stepped ahead and moved to his horse, checking the girth himself even though the stablehands had already seen to it, clearly needing something for his hands to do. His jaw tightened for only a moment, just enough for you to notice, before he composed himself and turned to mount.

Rhaegar’s voice drifted toward you a moment later, soft but audible.

“We’ll take the south road through Bramblebend,” he said to Ser Arthur, mounting with effortless grace. “It’s quieter. And I would not have my sister ride through the capital’s filth upon our return.”

Barristan nodded. “It will add time, but not much.”

You moved to mount Moonveil, and as you swung into the saddle, you felt Jaime’s eyes on you again—brief, searching. He said nothing as he settled onto his stallion beside you, but the silence that hung between you now was different than it had been days ago. It was not the quiet of uncertainty, but of something beginning to take shape, fragile and unnamed.

Rhaegar rode at the front of the procession as always, Ser Arthur flanking him at one side, Ser Barristan falling into position near the rear. You remained near the center, Jaime keeping close, though now with a careful distance—never too near, never too far.

The ruins of Summerhall receded behind you, swallowed slowly by the trees and the mist.

None of you looked back.

But you felt the shift beneath your ribs—that this ride home would not be the same as the ride here.

And the lion at your side was no longer watching you as an outsider might.

He rode with the intent of a man who had made a decision.

And was waiting for you to see it.