Even in the dilapidated, collapsed rooms of the ruined tower, a cold wind howled mercilessly.
Yet for the man kneeling on one knee—the regicide himself—cold sweat had already soaked his back the moment he relaxed even slightly. Moments ago, he had almost been killed by Karl Stone's sword. Only through extreme caution had he managed to survive.
Jaime Lannister dared not imagine what might have happened if he had shown even the slightest lapse of judgment. Perhaps, in that instant, the longsword Karl called "Pale Justice" would have pierced his chin and emerged from the back of his head. The lingering fear of death caused Jaime's muscles to tremble uncontrollably as he knelt, powerless. A chilling sensation washed over him, like a bucket of icy water poured over his entire body in the dead of winter.
Meanwhile, Karl Stone watched the Kingslayer with a predatory calm. The earlier merciless intensity in his eyes had softened slightly; now, he seemed more like a fox observing its prey, waiting, rather than pursuing. He sheathed his sword, standing silently, as if waiting for Jaime to regain his composure.
But silence did not mean forgiveness.
"What a pity," Karl finally said, a faint sneer curling on his lips, "my sword was just a hair's breadth away from tasting the blood of the third Kingsguard."
Jaime's mouth went dry. As a soldier trained to face death without flinching, he fully understood the magnitude of the threat before him. Karl's speed was astonishing, his strength unyielding. His range and technique gave an impression of shameless trickery—anyone who dared reach for him would likely lose their head. But it was not only Karl's physical prowess that intimidated Jaime; it was his uncanny combat intuition. He could anticipate intentions in a heartbeat and act with flawless timing, leaving even seasoned warriors struggling to react.
Jaime had felt this firsthand. His only successful strike had come from seizing a brief advantage in the instant of contact. Any slower, and he would have been dead in an absurdly swift, unceremonious way. Guided by his training under Arthur Dayne, the legendary Sword of the Morning, Jaime now realized just how terrifying Karl truly was.
Karl Stone—this "bastard" with a mysterious past—was no ordinary fighter. Jaime had once joked to his sworn brothers that Karl could "piss with his right hand and wield a sword with his left while cutting down five men at once." Now, Jaime saw that the joke had been an understatement.
The Kingslayer glanced at Cersei, who crouched behind a pillar, eyes wide with shock and disbelief. Then, slowly, he turned to Karl, speaking with a heaviness in his voice that only those who had stared death in the face could understand:
"Sir Karl Stone… may I ask if there is still a way for us to reconcile?"
Jaime's words sounded almost like a joke, but beneath the surface was a man stripped of pride, humbled by the sheer impossibility of his situation. He was willing to die if it meant saving the woman behind him. As a soldier, he had long prepared for death on the battlefield. But this—ensuring Cersei's survival—required a surrender far more humiliating: he had to beg.
Beg for mercy.
For all his pride.
Karl's expression darkened with a hint of disappointment. "I thought you would say something constructive," he said, shaking his head slightly. "Perhaps, like Tyrion often tells me about his proud brother, you would hold your head high in the face of death, defiant to the end…"
Jaime knew Karl's disappointment was justified. Karl understood him—everything about him, his choices, his motivations—better than anyone else in this world. Yet here, confronted by the force of Karl's superiority, Jaime set aside dignity for opportunity.
"I just want to know… what are some ways to achieve the scenario we all want to see," Jaime said, lowering his head further, "even if it costs me my life!"
Cersei, witnessing this transformation in her lover, realized immediately what was unfolding. Her eyes, wild with resentment and shock, softened as she comprehended Jaime's strategy. Though her pride remained, she understood she had no choice. The desperate opportunity to survive and protect her own position demanded sacrifice.
"Karl Stone," she said, her voice haughty yet tinged with desperation, "if you are willing to let us go and bury this secret, we will give you anything you want."
"Anything," she continued, gesturing toward herself and Jaime alike, "Money, land, honor—even me."
Her words carried the tone of a queen who had always believed she could command the world, yet now offered herself as part of a desperate bargain. She had become a loser, but a Lannister, she reminded herself, still wielded pride.
Karl, however, ignored her entirely. His gaze stayed fixed on the kneeling knight, the man who had dared to surrender his dignity. Slowly, deliberately, he shook his head.
"No. The Lannisters cannot give me what I want, Your Majesty," he said firmly.
"You… haven't even told me what you want! How can you say that?" Cersei exclaimed, panic creeping into her voice.
Jaime, observing Karl's unyielding stance, dared to look up once more. But Karl's focus had already shifted, and now it rested fully on the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms—Queen Cersei Lannister.
A faint smile appeared on Karl's lips, and his deep blue eyes seemed to pierce through the very soul of the Lannister queen.
"If what I want," he said, his voice ethereal and calm, "is the Iron Throne… to be King of Westeros… then can the Queen truly give it to me?"
Cersei froze. Hundreds of years of Lannister dominance, hundreds of years of calculated power, had led to this moment. Yet here was a man, an illegitimate child, standing before her with an audacity that both infuriated and terrified her.
Karl's laughter rang coldly through the ruined tower. "A Lannister has existed for centuries," he continued, mockery dripping from every word, "yet it remains timid, too afraid to reach out and seize victory."
The words cut through Jaime and Cersei alike, striking a cold, venomous chord. The wind outside whipped into the tower, biting their skin as if echoing Karl's threat. The chill was no longer merely physical—it crawled across their necks like a snake, whispering reminders of ambition, power, and the peril of pride.
The siblings, proud Lannisters, could only watch as Karl's ambition unfolded before them. For the first time, the world had shifted. Their status, their wealth, even their lives were secondary to the assertion of this one man's destiny.
Karl Stone had no need for gold, land, or favors. What he sought transcended material wealth—he sought supremacy itself, the crown that had eluded so many for centuries. And in this moment, in the shattered ruins of a tower battered by wind and history, that truth was undeniable.
Jaime, humbled to the point of kneeling, and Cersei, defiant yet powerless, could only listen. All the threats of armies, all the riches of Westeros, all the cunning and alliances forged over generations—none could sway the illegitimate son who had resolved, with steely certainty, to claim what he believed was rightfully his.
In the cold shadows of the ruined tower, a new ambition had taken form. And it was unstoppable.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)