<h2>35 years old. Kingslayer. The Westerlands. Nicolaj Coster-Waldau.</h2>
<h3>Kosm. 25. AST. Discord/Telegram/PM</h3>
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<div class="genhead">Hear Us Roar!</div>
<div class="gensmall">Sharp claws; sharper words</div>
Before you stands a man, his form both lean and muscular, on his hip a longsword gilded in Lannister gold. Jaime has been used to these embellishments, he has lived his life with them as the prodigal son and once heir to The Rock. His desire towards knighthood had never changed however. To be a knight was to be something more in this world of faithless darkness. Jaime was once that sort of knight, but now he looked out upon his follies, and the reality of the nature of the world with a sobered mind swept clean and tragically bare of such frivolities of his past. Where once stood a bold, swaggering youth who seemingly had taken the world by the horns, riding grinning into battle and relishing the thundering of his heart in sync with the beat of his destrier's hooves, now is a stoic figure. The Commonfolk used to say that gallant Ser Jaime's heart had been made of gold, but gold is a fragile thing and it seems that the harsh actuality of things has beaten some of the gleam from that pumping, gilded organ.
Despite all of this, the immense weight of his past and the unwanted duty of lordship that has fallen upon him he still cuts the near mythic figure that he always has. In public he plays still the part of that grinning youth, that prodigal child, inspiring a level of respect and boldness among Highborn and Commonfolk alike in a way that many of his status could only ever hope to achieve. Perhaps now there is more a tinge of fear to that respect however, for Kingslayer he is, and though pardoned for a crime so heinous as regicide it is not hard to imagine the hushed whispers that accompany his every move. For every adoring gaze and weeping mother thrusting their child into his arms to be blessed with a kiss on the forehead, there are still icy glares of judgement.
____ His Past ____
His past was a strange and rocky thing, growing up extremely close to his twin sibling Cersei and their grotesque albeit cleverly congenial younger brother, Tyrion, the three ruled the roost of their immense mountain home through mischief. In fact he and his sister had been overly close, even more so than twins are likened to be, developing a incestuous yet loving relationship with one another that was very quickly stamped out by harsh warnings from their mother. It is to be said that his love for Cersei has never since dwindled, yet duty and taboo have had a way of barring their path like some imposing giant keeping that gates. One thing that had always been a constant in Jaime's life was his desire to become a knight, his father having even suggested that his son squire for Prince Rhaegar himself, but the offer was denied, snuffed out in a contemptuous show that left the Old Lion seething. Instead at the age of eleven he was sent to squire under Lord Sumner Crakehall and spent four years in this training, taking any occasion he could get to visit his mountain home and see his beloved sister. Eventually Cersei was taken to Kings Landing alongside their father in an act that enraged young, lovesick Jaime to no ends. Needless to say from thereon out he placed his passion and anger behind his sword and though already renowned for his skill at such a wee age quickly rose in notoriety. Attempts were made to marry him off to Lysa Tully of Riverrun to no avail; Jaime only had eyes for his dear sister and the sword at his hip.
At thirteen he fought alongside mythic warriors when he was enlisted to participate in a campaign against the Kingswood Brotherhood, a band of outlaws whom had become quite the thorn in the side of the local nobility including the King himself. Not only did he save Lord Sumner Crakehall in these clashes, he even came steel-to-steel against the infamous Smiling Knight, further cementing his place as a prodigy as well as his natural sense for the art of battle. The Brotherhood shattered, Jaime was knighted then and there on the battlefield earning his spurs from none other than Ser Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning and sworn brother of the Kingsgaurd. To this day he remembers it as vividly behind his eyelids as if it had only happened yesterday, the sheen of Ser Dayne's legendary blade as he place it lightly down first on one shoulder and then the other and he had risen from the blood and mud no longer a boy but a man in earnest.
Afterwards attempts were still made to betroth him to Lysa, but it was the genius of his sister - whom he had set out to visit at her new home in King's Landing - who urged him to beg a place in the Kingsgaurd so he could no longer marry and they could be close always. A novel idea and Jaime took it to heart. He petitioned to take the place of recently deceased Ser Harlan Grandison and much to his surprise and his father's fury was granted his wish. Fate was ever not in the favour of these young lovers and Tywin promptly pleaded leave of his position as Hand of the King and departed back to Casterly Rock with Cersei in tow. In gaining his deepest dreams and desires thus began a spiral of terrible proportions. Given his white cloak and raised up to the brotherhood at a tournament in Harrenhal, Jaime was immediately dispatched back to King's Landing at the command of King Aerys leaving him unable to participate and it was then that he realized that the King had only granted him this great mantle not for his prowess but as a slight to Tywin himself, depriving the old Lion of his heir. Sharp claws of anger, a roiling feline of loathing had begun to develop beneath the skin of all Lannisters, hungry and waiting to lash out, for the Crown held no love for them and thus they were played about like pawns.
From his lofty position Jaime witnessed it all, the shrewd madness of his King, the fall of mighty Houses, the whispered plots of treason in the darkness. Disillusioned by all that had been slighted against himself and his own House it felt as though he was biding his time, watching the Seven Kingdoms go up in flame and drown choking in it's own blood and shit. Quiet, he waited - for what though he did not know. Aerys' madness grew in him like a poison, expanding to unthinkable bounds in this time, as rebel Houses took up their arms against him everyone seemed an enemy in the old dragon's eyes even his own allies. Rhaegar fled, battles raged all around but in the end it all came down to him. It was he who was kept closest to the King himself, required at all times to be with his King no matter if he was sleeping, sitting the throne or taking a shit. Aerys perchance perceived this as some sort of armour against Tywin, whom he somehow feared above all others. This came to fruition when Tywin's forces had shown up outside of the gates of King's Landing asking to be let inside, they had come in defense of the Crown. Upon being let in they began their betrayal and a bloody sacking began. It was then that Jaime was commanded to bring back the head of his father and things were a blur after that.
Keen enough to know the lunacy of his King the young knight knew there was something more up that insane man's sleeves. He slew Rossart, Alchemist and Hand of the King out of fear that the man meant to burn away the entirety of the city and holdfast with Wildfire. Upon returning to the Crown Aerys asked whether the blood on his sword was Tywin's. Jaime opened the King's throat then and there, another moment to relive behind his eyelids forevermore. He sat upon the Iron Throne and awaited for he who would claim it.
Ser Jaime Lannister, Kingslayer was not executed for his crime, he was dismissed from his place in the Kingsguard. Rhaegar Targaryen himself returned to claim his throne and the Young Lion sent back to whittle away his time back at Casterly Rock. The rest of his time afterwards was spent in short campaigns meant to mop up the dregs of the war, small pockets of loyalists and whole warbands who had broken off and gone rogue who had taken a liking to pillaging the countrysides unmolested. Jaime hunted them down one and all. All the more exhausting his sister was betrothed to Robert Baratheon, yet another slap in his face and still he weathered onward with dogged determination.
In the downtime after war that every soldier somehow dreaded he too was married off, to a beautiful woman the name of Lynesse and indeed he did love her in a queer way, but it was more out of tradition and fondness for her fair ways and respect. Of course she was a wondrous woman but Jaime's heart always remained with his sister, and so he was distant and only shared their bed out of duty. Even still his seed quickened in her womb and soon was born Jaime's firstborn son. Another memory coming through, the immediate rush in which he broke through the doors of the birthing room to see his first child, held in her arms speaking the name "Tybolt". Had he been kind then or cold? His memory did not stand to tell him, all he knew was the pride of his born blood. Cersei would come to visit often in these times, and in those times were nights of secretive yet raucous lovemaking. Tybolt was but a babe, and yet when Cersei came to the Rock again months later she was swollen with child and so was Lynesse in turn. They both came into labour alongside one another and where Cersei begat a twin girl and boy much like their parents Lynesse begat a stillborn. Jaime still knows not whether it was pity, love or strategy that led his sister to do such a thing, but when Lynesse awoke from her troubled birthing she was there to thrust the tiny baby girl into her hands and proclaim her Myrcella. The boy, Joffrey was swept away along with Cersei, a Baratheon and the only child ever birthed yet the siblings held on to their secret no matter the pain.
Lord Tywin himself was found dead not long ago, whether by poison or by age there was little in telling. All eyes had gone to Tyrion, so unsuspecting up until now, merely a mote in the corner of Jaime's gaze in all of this time. He knew whether it was true or not his brother must be sent away, off to some obscure corner of the earth no matter how much pain it brought to that fragile golden heart of his. Now he sits upon a loftier seat than ever, Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport and Warden of the West: One brother in exile, his twin and painfully beloved sister sharing the bed of a drunken stag. He has a wife now and Lynesse is a beautiful and caring creature, children even whom he can only adore yet there is an emptiness there. Sharing the catacombs of his mountain home with only them and his father's second wife and his own youngest siblings... Only recently has he learned of Tybolt's death in battle, a son who had taken so much after him, a true knight waiting to happen but his days had been numbered. Sick with grief he sits upon his throne of salt and sand just waiting to see what happens next.
Light spilled in through a tall, thin window carved through sheer stone, motes of dust dancing through these golden shafts. Outside the sky was a passive blue and the whimsical shrike of gulls mingled with an endless guttural rushing of the ocean far below, inside it was dark, lit only by burning sconces and the firelight caused a jittering jig of shadows that rose and fell casting monstrous figures across a strange room. Inhabiting the place chiseled out of the ancient bowels of this mountain stronghold was but a single table, an ornate chair, a smouldering hearth turned to embers and rows of shelves filled with ancient books. Seated at the table hunched over a mess of scrolls, maps and scraps of parchment sat the Lord of the Rock, shocking green eyes focused down upon a single parchment, quill in hand it hovered uneasily over the paper as if waiting for something to come. For the fifth time that day, Jaime crumpled up his missive and threw it carelessly aside to join the others on the floor. He emitted a low groan and drew a hand across his tired eyes, a sharp pain beginning to throb behind them from hours of thinking, rethinking and then rethinking again. He had been born to hold a sword not a quill, to judge over the court of battle not a court of squabbling nobles and needy Commonfolk.
'Cersei, what has become of me?' he thought, almost as a prayer. Even to this day he thought of her, mounted by the guilt of his own prospering family there were still things that could not be erased from his heart.
He reached for another parchment but his back cramped just below his right shoulder and Jaime leaned back in his seat defeated. Matters of his little slice of the realm would have to wait it seemed, for no words would come and his own handwriting was nothing more than chicken-scratch. It was somewhat uncommon for a Lord to write his own messages, that was normally left to the more capable hands of a Maester trained in such arts, but Casterly Rock was an uncommon place and Tywin Lannister before him had been an uncommon man preferring to write the majority of things of import himself in his own intelligent fear of tampering, so here Jaime was attempting to keep up that tradition in vain. A warrior set in the very pit of the earth attempting the game of politician, it was so funny that he could not even laugh.
A soft knocking from the door. Jaime frowned grabbing an urn of water despite the jabbing pain of his back and refilled a nearby goblet. "I said I was not to be disturbed," he growled, his voice clear and concise, the voice of a soldier could almost parody that of a Lord when need be, it was his best armour these days.
Muffled through the door a familiar voice. "My Lord I beg forgiveness, but I insist upon your presence. It is a message for you and only you." Recognizing the tone of Casterly Rock's young Maester Jaime brooded for a moment before grunting. "Come then."
Tentatively the door opened only a crack and the Maester darted in with the furtive speed of a rodent, closing the door quietly behind him. He then stood there hand wringing together anxiously in the depths of his great sleeves. Jaime might have thought the man nervous of him if it weren't for the fact that he was nervous of everything, jumping at the sound of every footstep, every twittering of birds, every strange gust of wind. With wry humour the Lord wondered how such a piteous creature had not yet perished at the very sight of his own shadow. The Maester's eyes fell upon the pile of crumpled parchment littered about Jaime's feet. "My Lord, the keep's scribes could ever be o-"
"The letter please!" he cut in sternly, in no mood today. The Maester bobbed in a fervent bow and produced a scroll from his sleeve placing it in Jaime's outstretched hand before shrinking back towards the door. Studying the the wax seal, gold with no embellishments of House livery Jaime's mouth was set in a grim line. "Where did this hail from?" The boy made a Maester gave him a plaintive look. "I know not, my Lord. A single rider came bearing no colors, he simply requested this into your hands and left immediately."
Jaime nodded. "Very well, you are dismissed." Relieved, still the Maester lingered shifting their weight from one foot to the other. Jaime looked up at him now fully. "What is it now? You hover over me like a hungry raven."
"We just wonder, your Lordship..." a pause as if weighing his own words. "Why is it you spend your time down here in the bowels of the mountain when there is a Study befitting one of your status in the castle above?" Anxious eyes regarded him with flinching curiosity, only then did Jaime give a hint of a smile, something in him growing soft in pity for this wreck of a human. He decided to cut clean with them. "That Study was my father's and sometimes what a father leaves to his son seems more like a prison than a gift. I've always felt more peace down here in the catacombs, ever since I was a child. Does that suffice your question?" The young man offered a brief smile in return and there was something like recognition in his eyes, he bowed his head again. "Yes, Lord, thank you." And then he was gone. As the door closed behind them Jaime found himself alone again and he crudely tore open the scroll. His eyes flickered over the words there and a shiver went down his spine.