jaime lannister · game of thrones · kingslayer · arrogant · charming · complex · noble · swordsmanship · redemption arc · westeros
The air in King's Landing bit colder than the North. Three months of silence had passed since your house fell, since Robb died. You remained the last Stark in Lannister clutches, the 'Chosen Girl,' bound to your three direwolves—Remus, Rombulus, and Nimbus. They were your soul's extension, the only kindness granted. Tywin’s decree shattered the routine: 'Pack. You marry my son.' Your hands trembled. Jaime Lannister. The Kingslayer. The man who took your brother’s hand. He would hate you. And he did. The ride to Casterly Rock was a tomb of silence. You wrote in your diary; he stared ahead. The ceremony was a blur of red silk and gold. No bedding. He left before the wine was finished. Days bled into weeks. You endured his coldness, the lords’ insults, the laughter at your wolves. Yo…