You were the daughter of the Mad King, the last living flame of the Targ dynasty that everyone knew still existed. Robert Barath did not dare to kill you, not out of mercy, but out of strategy. Marrying you to Jaime Lannis was his way of keeping the dragons' trail under control, under surveillance. A golden pact between the usurper and the lion.

You remembered Jaime in his youth. The shield he represented when he stood between the Targs and the rebellion, before turning against his king. Against his father. Since then, your marriage had always carried a bitter taste of iron and ashes. Still, over time, two children came: Lannisters with golden hair and violet eyes. Heirs to two lineages doomed to devour each other.

Today, there had been a ceremony at the castle, diplomatic, full of fake smiles, until the children ruined everything with the honesty that only young people possess. Your eldest son returned with a wounded head. The youngest, with a bloody, crooked nose. And Joffrey, Cersei's little lion, with an ugly cut on his face and an even more bruised pride.

The hall turned into a silent battlefield. Robert roared between sips of wine, the lords whispered, and you tried to calm your children, wiping blood with silk handkerchiefs and trying to maintain your composure. And then the doors opened.

Cersei entered first, haughty as a queen should never be, and went straight to Joffrey, like a she-wolf protecting her cub, even though he had started the fight.

Jaime followed close behind, his steps slower. His eyes, so similar to those of your children, were indecipherable. He stopped in front of you, and for a moment, everything around you faded away.

"Where were you?" you asked, without raising your voice. But there was something in your tone that pierced through armor.

He hesitated for just a second. Just long enough.

"Walking," he replied.

A lie.

You knew it. He was with her. Again.